She pulled her hand away, and used both it and the other to turn her father’s head, so that he should exactly see the very bit she meant. She was rather struck by his unusual silence.

“Have you heard from Miss Eyre, papa? How are they all? And this fever that is about? Do you know, papa, I don’t think you are looking well? You want me at home, to take care of you. How soon may I come home?”

“Don’t I look well? That must be all your fancy, goosey. I feel uncommonly well; and I ought to look well, for—— I have a piece of news for you, little woman.” (He felt that he was doing his business very awkwardly, but he was determined to plunge on.) “Can you guess it?”

“How should I?” said she; but her tone was changed, and she was evidently uneasy, as with the presage of an instinct.

“Why, you see, my love,” said he, again taking her hand, “that you are in a very awkward position—a girl growing up in such a family as mine—young men—which was a piece of confounded stupidity on my part. And I am obliged to be away so much.”

“But there is Miss Eyre,” said she, sick with the strengthening indefinite presage of what was to come. “Dear Miss Eyre, I want nothing but her and you.”

“Still, there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be with you; her home is not with us; she has other duties. I’ve been in great perplexity for some time; but at last I’ve taken a step which will, I hope, make us both happier.”

“You’re going to be married again,” said she, helping him out with a quiet, dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.

“Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick—you remember her? They call her ‘Clare’ at the Towers. You recollect how kind she was to you that day you were left there?”

She did not answer. She could not tell what words to use. She was afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger, dislike, indignation—whatever it was that was boiling up in her breast—should find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in raging words that could never be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solid ground on which she stood had broken from the shore, and she was drifting out into the infinite sea alone.

Mr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed at the cause of it. But he knew that she must have time to reconcile herself to the idea, and still believed that it would be for her eventual happiness. He had, besides, the relief of feeling that the secret was told, the confidence made, which for the last twenty-four hours he had dreaded making. He went on recapitulating all the advantages of the marriage; he knew them off by heart, now.

“She’s a very suitable age for me. I don’t know how old she is exactly, but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn’t have wished to marry any one younger. She’s highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnor and their family, which is of itself a character. She has very agreeable and polished manners—of course, from the circles she has been thrown into—and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a little brusque, or so; we must brush up our manners now.”

No remark from her on this little bit of playfulness. He went on—

“She has been accustomed to house-keeping—economical house-keeping, too—for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had, of course, to arrange all things for a large family. And last, but not least, she has a daughter—about your age, Molly—who, of course, will come and live with us, and be a nice companion—a sister—for you.”