"You needn't ask me that question again;
there is no other way; you can get me out of my difficulties if you
choose. I should never have been so venturesome as I was, if I hadn't
made sure my daughter would soon be a rich woman. You can save me if you
like, or you can hold-off and let me go to prison. There's no good
preaching about it or arguing about it; you've got the choice and you
must make it. Most young women in your place would think themselves
uncommon lucky to have such a chance as you've got, instead of making a
trouble about it, let alone being able to get their father out of a
scrape. But you're your own mistress, and you must do as you please."
"Let me have time to think," the girl pleaded piteously; "let me have
only a little time to think, father. And you do believe that I'm sorry
for you, don't you?" she asked, kneeling beside him and clasping his
unwilling hand. "O father, I hope you believe that!"
"I shall know what to believe when I know what you're going to do," the
bailiff answered moodily; and his daughter knew him too well to hope for
any more gracious speech than this.
She bade him good-night, and went slowly up to her own room to spend the
weary wakeful hours in a bitter struggle, praying that she might be
enlightened as to what she ought to do; praying that she might die rather
than become the wife of Stephen Whitelaw.
Pages:
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475