Her father had loved them, and she had
loved her father; all the more passionately the more the world disowned
him. She sat in spirit beside his crushed and miserable old age, finding
her only comfort in the memory of how his feeble hands had clung to her,
how she had worked and starved for him.
Yet, when Felicia came to her, she cried and blessed her. And Felicia,
softened by happiness, knelt down beside her, and begged and prayed her
to get well. To please them all, Netta made her nurse do her hair, and
put on a white jacket which Victoria had embroidered for her. And when
Tatham came in to see her, she would have timidly kissed his hand had he
not been so quick to see and prevent her.
Meanwhile Victoria, still conscious of the clinging of Felicia's arms
about her, was comparing--secretly and inevitably--the daughter-in-law
that might have been, with the daughter-in-law that was to be. Now
that Fate's throw was irrevocably made, she found herself appreciating
Lydia as she had never done while the chances were still open. Lydia
had refused her Harry; Felicia had captured him. Perhaps she resented
both actions; and would always--secretly--resent them. But yet, in
Lydia--Lydia with her early maturity, her sweet poise and strength of
nature, she foresaw the companion; in Felicia, the child and darling of
her old age. And looking round on this crooked world, she acknowledged,
now as always, that she had got more than she deserved, more--much
more--than her share.
Pages:
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497