This continued on a second day, and Rose began to
suffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father's
strange behaviour with the secret which tormented her heart.
Had something happened? Had her friend seen Mr. Whiston, or written to him?
She had awaited with tremors every arrival of the post. It was
probable--more than probable--that _he_ would write to her; but as yet no
letter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himself
again; plainly she had mistaken the cause of his perturbation. Ten days,
and no letter came.
It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Whiston reached home at tea-time. The first
glance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. She
trembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves.
'I find myself obliged to speak to you on a very disagreeable
subject'--thus began Mr. Whiston over the tea-cups--'a very unpleasant
subject indeed. My one consolation is that it will probably settle a little
argument we had down at the seaside.'
As his habit was when expressing grave opinions (and Mr. Whiston seldom
expressed any other), he made a long pause and ran his fingers through his
thin beard.
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