“Dear papa,” cried Madge, as she entered rapidly, and threw her arms around his neck, “what have you been doing here all day by yourself?”
“Writing,” returned her father laconically, as he gently removed her arms.
“Why, I thought you were ill,” she answered, looking at him apprehensively.
“No, dear,” he replied, quietly. “Not ill, but worried.”
“I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told you something to worry you. Who is he?”
“Oh! a friend of mine,” answered Frettlby, with hesitation.
“What—Roger Moreland?”
Her father started.
“How do you know it was Roger Moreland?”
“Oh! Brian recognised him as he went out.”
Mark Frettlby hesitated for a few moments, and then busied himself with the papers on his desk, as he replied in a low voice—
“You are right—it was Roger Moreland—he is very hard up, and as he was a friend of poor Whyte’s, he asked me to assist him, which I did.”
He hated to hear himself telling such a deliberate falsehood, but there was no help for it—Madge must never know the truth so long as he could conceal it.
“Just like you,” said Madge, kissing him lightly with filial pride. “The best and kindest of men.”
He shivered slightly as he felt her caress, and thought how she would recoil from him did she know all. “After all,” says some cynical writer, “the illusions of youth are mostly due to the want of experience.” Madge, ignorant in a great measure of the world, cherished her pleasant illusions, though many of them had been destroyed by the trials of the past year, and her father longed to keep her in this frame of mind.
“Now go down to dinner, my dear,” he said, leading her to the door. “I will follow soon.”
“Don’t be long,” replied his daughter, “or I shall come up again,” and she ran down the stairs, her heart feeling strangely light.
Her father looked after her until she vanished, then heaving a regretful sigh returned to his study, and taking out the scattered papers fastened them together, and endorsed them.
“My Confession.” He then placed them in an envelope, sealed it, and put it back in the desk. “If all that is in that packet were known,” he said aloud, as he left the room, “what would the world say?”
That night he was singularly brilliant at the dinner table. Generally a very reticent and grave man, on this night he laughed and talked so gaily that the very servants noticed the change. The fact was he felt a sense of relief at having unburdened his mind, and felt as though by writing out that confession he had laid the spectre which had haunted him for so long. His daughter was delighted at the change in his spirits, but the old Scotch nurse, who had been in the house since Madge was a baby, shook her head—
“He’s fey,” she said gravely. “He’s no lang for the warld.”
Of course she was laughed at—people who believe in presentiments generally are—but, nevertheless, she held firmly to her opinion.
Mr. Frettlby went to bed early that night, the excitement of the last few days and the feverish gaiety in which he had lately indulged proving too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his head on his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot in placid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours.
It was only nine o’clock, so Madge stayed by herself in the great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was then creating a sensation, called “Sweet Violet Eyes.” It belied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown on the table with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walked up and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint to Brian that he was wanted. If man is a gregarious animal, how much more, then, is a woman? This is not a conundrum, but a simple truth. “A female Robinson Crusoe,” says a writer who prided himself upon being a keen observer of human nature—“a female Robinson Crusoe would have gone mad for want of something to talk to.” This remark, though severe, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women, as a rule, talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a Miss Misanthrope, in spite of Justin McCarthy’s, is unknown—at least in civilised communities. Miss Frettlby, being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for some one to talk to, and, ringing the bell, ordered Sal to be sent in. The two girls had become great friends, and Madge, though by two years the younger, assumed the ROLE of mentor, and under her guidance Sal was rapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which brought together these two children of the same father, each with such different histories—the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and besmirched by the life she had led. “The whirligig of time brings in its revenges,” and it was the last thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing: Rosanna Moore’s child, whom he fancied dead, under the same roof as his daughter Madge.
On receiving Madge’s message Sal came to the drawing room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted, Mr. Frettlby very sensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his drawing-room. At the end of the apartment, where Sal and Madge were seated, there was a small table. On it stood a large lamp, with an opaque globe, which, having a shade over it, threw a soft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of semi-darkness. Near this sat Madge and Sal, talking gaily, and away on the left-hand side they could see the door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from the hall.
They had been talking together for some time, when Sal’s quick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and, turning rapidly, she saw a tall figure advancing down the room. Madge saw it too, and started up in surprise on recognising her father. He was clothed in his dressing-gown, and carried some papers in his hand.
“Why, papa,” said Madge, in surprise. “I—”
“Hush!”