"But there is no hurry, papa. Let us wait. I do not intend to marry

yet."

Doctor Walker looked disappointed. "Well, Clara, if you can suggest

nothing, I suppose that I must take the initiative myself," said he.

"Then what do you propose, papa?" She braced herself as one who sees the

blow which is about to fall.

He looked at her and hesitated. "How like your poor dear mother you are,

Clara!" he cried. "As I looked at you then it was as if she had come

back from the grave." He stooped towards her and kissed her. "There,

run away to your sister, my dear, and do not trouble yourself about me.

Advertisement..

Nothing is settled yet, but you will find that all will come right."

Clara went upstairs sad at heart, for she was sure now that what she had

feared was indeed about to come to pass, and that her father was going

to take Mrs. Westmacott to be his wife. In her pure and earnest mind her

mother's memory was enshrined as that of a saint, and the thought that

any one should take her place seemed a terrible desecration. Even worse,

however, did this marriage appear when looked at from the point of view

of her father's future. The widow might fascinate him by her knowledge

of the world, her dash, her strength, her unconventionality--all these

qualities Clara was willing to allow her--but she was convinced that she

would be unendurable as a life companion.

She had come to an age when

habits are not lightly to be changed, nor was she a woman who was at

all likely to attempt to change them. How would a sensitive man like

her father stand the constant strain of such a wife, a woman who was

all decision, with no softness, and nothing soothing in her nature? It

passed as a mere eccentricity when they heard of her stout drinking,

her cigarette smoking, her occasional whiffs at a long clay pipe, her

horsewhipping of a drunken servant, and her companionship with the snake

Eliza, whom she was in the habit of bearing about in her pocket. All

this would become unendurable to her father when his first infatuation

was past. For his own sake, then, as well as for her mother's memory,

this match must be prevented. And yet how powerless she was to prevent

it! What could she do? Could Harold aid her? Perhaps. Or Ida? At least

she would tell her sister and see what she could suggest.

Ida was in her boudoir, a tiny little tapestried room, as neat and

dainty as herself, with low walls hung with Imari plaques and with

pretty little Swiss brackets bearing blue Kaga ware, or the pure white

Coalport china. In a low chair beneath a red shaded standing lamp sat

Ida, in a diaphanous evening dress of mousseline de soie, the ruddy

light tinging her sweet childlike face, and glowing on her golden curls.

She sprang up as her sister entered, and threw her arms around her.




Most Popular