Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room. The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening, and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively what he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took advantage of a momentary pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father commenced, and she now interposed with a faint protest that she was quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him, dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Perhaps I can guess, dear. I have noticed for months how often Mr. Bingham comes here, and I have seen you change colour when he comes in. Is it he, Carry? Do you love him, my child?”
Carry was still crying, but after a pause she said, very low,
“I promised not to tell you, father, but as you have guessed, I can speak. But please, please, do not let him see that you know. Yes, father, I do love Mr. Bingham, and he loves me. He has told me so, but he does not want anyone to know it, because he has no money of his own, and we must wait. He has a very rich uncle, a Captain Bradshaw, who lives in Lowndes Square, and who is going to leave Mr. Bingham a great deal of money, but he dares not offend him by marrying. He is very old, so we are going to wait. But I promised not to tell you about it, father. Please do not let him know.”