Unavoidably he kept glancing towards
Kirkwood. He knew that Sidney was no longer a free man; he knew
that, even had it been otherwise, Clara could be nothing to him. In
spite of facts, the father kept brooding on what might have been.
His own love was perdurable; how could it other than intensify when
its object was so unhappy? His hot, illogical mood all but brought
about a revival of the old resentment against Sidney.
'I haven't seen him for a week or two,' he replied, in an
embarrassed way.
'Did he tell you be shouldn't come?'
'No. After we'd talked about it, you know--when you told me you
didn't mind--I just said a word or two; and he nodded, that was
all.'
She became silent. John. racked by doubts as to whether he should
say more of Sidney or still hold his peace, sat rubbing the back of
one hand with the other and looking about the room.
'Father,' Clara resumed presently, 'what became of that child at
Mrs. Peckover's, that her grandfather came and took away? Snowdon;
yes, that was her name; Jane Snowdon.'
'You remember they went to live with somebody you used to know,'
John replied, with hesitation. 'They're still in the same house.
Pages:
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547