Janet hesitated as Donald turned away with Wainwright. “Aren’t you coming, Mr. McLean?” she called.
Donald turned and shook his head. “I may be needed here,” he said briefly.
Janet flushed to the roots of her dark hair and bit her lip in anger. She was not used to being thwarted in her desires.
Donald and Wainwright seated themselves on a bench under the willows and lighted cigarettes. Donald was ill at ease. The sound of Connie’s tragic sobbing was ringing in his ears. He could see her little figure writhing on the ground in a tempest of grief that had torn at his heart-strings. He sprang involuntarily to his feet and began pacing the ground with quick, nervous strides. Wainwright glanced up at him interrogatively.
Donald was in a welter of indecision. How should he broach this delicate subject? Although poor as the proverbial church-mouse, Connie’s father had the pride of Lucifer. There was natural dignity in his bearing, a certain aloofness in his manner, that in no way interfered with his unfailing courtesy, but had always precluded exchange of intimacies. He had resided in this wilderness for many years, but none could say that they had any more knowledge of his affairs at this moment than on the day of his arrival.
Donald decided to take the plunge. He sat down on the bench beside Connie’s father and related the scene he had witnessed that morning—of Connie’s preening before the mirror with the magazine page pinned to the logs; of the struggle with her hair; of the flour sack, and of the piteous sobbing of the heart-broken child.
Wainwright’s face flushed painfully. There was a look of poignant suffering in his grave eyes. Of all the races in the world, the English—especially of the better class—fight most stoically to hide their distress.
Wainwright leaned forward, his throat working convulsively as he struggled to regain composure.
“I hope you do not consider me presumptuous,” said Donald, a note of anxiety in his tone.
Wainwright’s hand reached forth to clasp Donald’s firmly. “No, I do not doubt your sincerity. An inordinate sense of pride has kept me in my present circumstances. This circumstance you have related has brought me to a realization that it is a selfish pride, as it has denied Connie the privileges to which she is entitled. There is nothing I can say,” he went on in bitter self-condemnation, “that can even partially condone or palliate my stupidity. I should have known that she would require proper clothing now that she is grown up. As a matter of fact”—he paused, his distress acute—“my finances are at a very low ebb.”