"I don't quite understand you," he said; "these things are generally
considered matters for congratulation."

But for all he might say and all that he might urge in his mind to the
contrary, he did more or less understand what her outburst meant. He
could not but know that it was the last outcry of a broken spirit. In
his heart he realised then, if he had never clearly realised it
before, that this proposed marriage was a thing hateful to his
daughter, and his conscience pricked him sorely. And yet--and yet--it
was but a woman's fancy--a passing fancy. She would become reconciled
to the inevitable as women do, and when her children came she would
grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her trouble would be forgotten in
their laughter. And if not, well it was but one woman's life which
would be affected, and the very existence of his race and the very
cradle that had nursed them from century to century were now at stake.
Was all this to be at the mercy of a girl's whim? No! let the
individual suffer.

So he argued. And so at his age and in his circumstances most of us
would argue also, and, perhaps, considering all things, we should be
right. For in this world personal desires must continually give way to
the welfare of others. Did they not do so our system of society could
not endure.

No more was said upon the subject. Ida made pretence of eating a piece
of toast; the Squire mopped up the tea upon his clothes, and then
drank some more.

Meanwhile the remorseless seconds crept on. It wanted but five minutes
to the hour, and the hour would, she well knew, bring the man with it.

The five minutes passed slowly and in silence. Both her father and
herself realised the nature of the impending situation, but neither of
them spoke of it. Ah! there was the sound of wheels upon the gravel.
So it had come.

Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sunk and fluttered; her vital
forces seemed to cease their work.

Another two minutes went by, then the door opened and the parlour-maid
came in.

"Mr. Cossey, if you please, sir."

"Oh," said the Squire. "Where is he?"

"In the vestibule, sir."

"Very good. Tell him I will be there in a minute."

The maid went.

"Now, Ida," said her father, "I suppose that we had better get this
business over."

"Yes," she answered, rising; "I am ready."

And gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her fate.

CHAPTER XLIII