been, as it were, petrified by her great grief. That mobility of expression which had distinguished her face so exquisitely before, was now wholly gone. In lieu of it, there was one fixed look of hopeless suffering—almost of utter despair. Now and then, when she closed her aching eyes—for even the poor light of the fire was a torture to them—there was quite a corpse-like look upon her face—it was so still, so lifeless. If she was a Madonna now, it was a Madonna carved in stone. The colour was gone from her cheeks, from her lips, and the light from her eyes. For some time she would remain almost motionless; it was only by the gentle heaving of her bosom, and perhaps now and then by a slight change of position of the thin white hands that were twined and woven round her baby, that it could be seen that she lived. Poor Violet! And she was schooling herself to support her hard fate. She was ousting, by her trust in Heaven, all repining at its decrees; and she was crushing down with all her might each impulse that prompted her to level a charge, or a reproach, against the man who had brought upon her all this dire trouble.
“He is my husband before God,” she murmured. But even the comfort of that thought could not overcome her dread of what Man would say of her, and, above all, of the poor little one in her lap; and her doom seemed to be harder than she could bear.
The door was opened softly, and her father entered. He looked very pale and troubled. The sad events that had come so recently to his knowledge—that had brought his daughter again to his house—seemed to have added several years to his age. He was much bent, his hair quite white, and he trembled as he walked. Noiselessly he advanced into the room; but Violet opened her eyes as he approached.
“Dear father,” she said, with a very sad smile, but a most kindly look in her eyes; and she put up her face to be kissed. It was the same action she had been wont to use years and years ago, when she had been quite a child, and they had all been happy, very happy! So it seemed, looking back into the past from that terrible present. The doctor turned away as this thought occurred to him, and for a moment would not trust himself to speak.
“I thought—I hoped that you were asleep, dear one,” he said, at length, stooping down and kissing her, as he smoothed her soft hair.
She shook her head, mournfully. “No, I cannot sleep.”
“You should try and follow baby’s good example,” he went on; and he moved the light muslin kerchief that half hid the rounded pink face of the little one, sleeping soundly—two small plump fists cuddled together under its chin. “See how soundly baby sleeps!”
She bowed her head over the child, hiding her face.
“How like it is to him!” she whispered, rocking herself to and fro.
A cloud passed over the doctor’s forehead. He frowned fiercely, as he said: “Don’t speak of him! I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to think of him even—and the cruel, cruel wrong that he has done to you, my darling. He is a villain—”
“No. No, father—don’t say that. I must not—I cannot bear to hear you speak so. Remember always”—and she placed her hand, with a solemn gesture, on the Bible at her side—“it is not for us to judge—and—and—he is my husband before God! I must not say—I must not hear—a single word against him.”
“You are an angel, Violet; and this man”—but he stopped himself. “How I trusted him! How fond I was of him—ever since he was quite a child—a baby in his grand cradle at the Grange. How I cheered his poor mother with good prophecies about her boy! I would have staked my life upon his integrity. I did more, my dear one—I staked your happiness! I am rightly punished. I would take no warning. The old man—whom I thought so hard and cruel and relentless—was right, after all. He knew his son better than I did. I see it all now—the cause of their quarrel, years ago—the reason why they never could be reconciled, and the old man took away the estates, and went down into the grave cursing his first-born. And I dared to set myself up in opposition to him—combated his opinions—disputed his judgment—took the son to my heart and home, and gave him my dear, dear daughter! This man who had made a low and scandalous marriage, and disgraced his family irretrievably. Surely that was enough! But to keep this marriage secret—and then to marry again, his first wife still living—to win my child from me by a cowardly falsehood and fraud—to bring shame upon our happy home here! Was that worthy of one of the Hadfields of the Grange? He does well to shrink from bearing that honoured name—he does well to try to hide the infamy he has brought upon his family history! Violet, I can never forgive myself that I brought him beneath this roof. I know not what romantic folly prompted me to do this. I am rightly punished—I am rightly punished.”
The old man moved about the room, trembling and in great sorrow.
“Father,” said Violet, “let us not repine! What is done is done. Let us bow our heads to Heaven’s will. Our burthen is very, very hard to bear, but strength will be given to us, or He will take us to himself. Let our trust be always in His infinite goodness and mercy. Let us not speak of this again; it is but to re-open our wounds and endure their agony anew. We have many things to think about—much to arrange. Come and sit down close to me, and let us talk as to the future.”
Nobly Violet tried to fight with and support the suffering of her position.
“You are very brave, my darling,” said her father, struck by some such thought; and, with a proud look in his face, he stooped down again and kissed her. She smiled sadly; perhaps he did not know how much of her firmness was assumed for his sake.
“For the future—” she began, but rather faintly.
“You still desire that the secret should be kept?”
