"Oh, what a worry Mr. Wyndham is," said Valentine, rising from her seat and shaking out her muslin dress. "Everybody talks to me of his perfections. I'm perfectly tired of them. I wish he wouldn't come here so often. No, I was not thinking of any of his songs. I was humming some words Mr. Carr sings – 'Bid me to Live' – you know the words – I like Mr. Carr so much – don't you, dad, dear?"
"Adrian Carr – yes," replied Mr. Paget in a slow deliberate voice. "Yes, a good sort of fellow, I've no doubt. I heard some gossip about him at my club yesterday – what was it? Oh, that he was engaged, or about to be engaged, to Lady Mabel Pennant. You know the Pennants, don't you, Val? Have you seen Lady Mabel? She is one of the youngest, I think."
"Yes, she's a fright," responded Valentine, with a decided show of temper in her voice.
Her face had flushed too, she could not tell why.
"I did not know Lady Mabel was such a plain girl," responded Mr. Paget drily. "At any rate it is a good connection for Carr. He seems a fairly clever fellow. Valentine, my child, I have something of importance to talk to you about. Don't let us worry about Carr just now – I have something to say to you, something that I'm troubled to have to say. You love your old father very much, don't you, darling?"
"Love you, daddy! Oh, you know – need you ask? I was frightened about you a few minutes ago, father. When you were asleep just now, your face looked old, and there were lines about it. It frightens me to think of you ever growing old."
"Sit close to me, my dear daughter. I have a great deal to say. We will leave the subject of my looks just at present. It is true that I am not young, but I may have many years before me yet. It greatly depends on you."
"On me, father?"
"Yes. I will explain to you by-and-bye. Now I want to talk about yourself. You have never had a care all your life, have you, my little Val?"
"I don't think so, daddy – at least only pin-pricks. You know I used to hate my spelling lessons long ago, and Mdlle. Lacount used to worry me over the French irregular verbs. But such things were only pin-pricks. Yes, I am seventeen, and I have never had a real care all my life."
"You are seventeen and four months, Valentine. You were born on the 14th of February, and your mother and I called you after St. Valentine. Your mother died when you were a week old. I promised her then that her baby should never know a sorrow if I could help it."
"You have helped it, daddy; I am as happy as the day is long. I don't wish for a thing in the wide world. I just want us both to live together as we are doing now. Of course we will – why not? Shall we go up to the drawing-room now, father?"
"My dear child, in a little time. I have not said yet what I want to say. Valentine, you were quite right when you watched my face as I slumbered. Child, I have got a care upon me. I can't speak of it to anybody – only it could crush me – and – and – part us, Valentine. If it fell upon you, it – it – would crush you, my child."
Mr. Paget rose. Valentine, deadly white and frightened, clung to him. She was half crying. The effect of such terrible and sudden words nearly paralyzed her; but when she felt the arm which her father put round her tremble, she made a valiant and brave effort – the tears which filled her brown eyes were arrested, and she looked up with courage in her face.
"You speak of my doing something," she whispered. "What is it? Tell me. Nothing shall part us. I don't mind anything else, but nothing shall ever part us."
"Val, I have not spoken of this care to any one but you."
"No, father."
"And I don't show it in my face as a rule, do I?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no! You always seem bright and cheerful."
Her tears were raining fast now. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"But I have had this trouble for some time, my little girl."
"You will tell me all about it, please, dad?"
"No, my darling, you would not understand, and my keenest pain would be that you should ever know. You can remove this trouble, little Val, and then we need not be parted. Now, sit down by my side."
Mr. Paget sank again into the leathern armchair. He was still trembling visibly. This moment through which he was passing was one of the most bitter of his life.
"You will not breathe a word of what I have told you to any mortal, Valentine?"
"Death itself should not drag it from me," replied the girl.
She set her lips, her eyes shone fiercely. Then she looked at her trembling father, and they glowed with love and pity.
"I can save you," she whispered, going on her knees by his side. "It is lovely to think of saving you. What can I do?"
"My little Val – my little precious darling!"
"What can I do to save you, father?"
"Valentine, dear – you can marry Gerald Wyndham."
Valentine had put her arms round her father's neck, now they dropped slowly away – her eyes grew big and frightened.
"I don't love him," she whispered.
"Never mind, he loves you – he is a good fellow – he will treat you well. If you marry him you need not be parted from me. You and he can live together here – here, in this house. There need be no difference at all, except that you will have saved your father."
Paget spoke with outward calmness, but the anxiety under his words made them thrill. Each slowly uttered sentence fell like a hammer of pain on the girl's head.
"I don't understand," she said again in a husky tone. "I would, I will do anything to save you. But Mr. Wyndham is poor and young – in some things he is younger than I am. How can my marrying him take the load off your heart, father? Father, dear, speak."
"I can give you no reason, Valentine, you must take it on trust. It is all a question of your faith in me. I do not see any loophole of salvation but through you, my little girl. If you marry Wyndham I see peace and rest ahead, otherwise we are amongst the breakers. If you do this thing for your old father, Valentine, you will have to do it in the dark, for never, never, I pray, until Eternity comes, must you know what you have done."
Valentine Paget had always a delicate and bright color in her cheeks. It was soft as the innermost blush of a rose, and this delicate and lovely color was one of her chief charms. Now it faded, leaving her young face pinched and small and drawn. She sank down on the hearthrug, clasping her hands in her lap, her eyes looking straight before her.
"I never wanted to marry," she said at last. "Certainly not yet, for I am only a child. I am only seventeen, but other girls of seventeen are old compared to me. When you are only a child, it is dreadful to marry some one you don't care about, and it is dreadful to do a deed in the dark. If you trusted me, father – if you told me all the dreadful truth whatever it is, it might turn me into a woman – an old woman even – but it would be less bad than this. This seems to crush me – and oh, it does frighten me so dreadfully."
Mr. Paget rose from his seat and walked up and down the room.
"You shan't be crushed or frightened," he said. "I will give it up."
"And then the blow will fall on you?"
"I may be able to avert it. I will see. Forget what I said to-night, little girl."
Mortimer Paget's face just now was a good deal whiter than his daughter's, but there was a new light in his eyes – a momentary gleam of nobility.
"I won't crush you, Val," he said, and he meant his words.
"And I won't crush you," said the girl.
She