Alice Lorraine: A Tale of the South Downs

								

from the smiles of inferior members. Now, Hilary was not at all a fool;
only a young man of large mind.
Knowing that her father had not any bad news of Hilary, from whom
he had received a very affectionate letter that morning, Alice was
sorely puzzled, but scarcely ventured to ask questions; for in this
savage island then, respect was shown and reverence felt by children
towards their parents; and she, although such a petted child, was full
of these fine sentiments. Also now in her seventeenth year, she knew
that she had outgrown the playful freedoms of the babyhood, but was
not yet established in the dignity of a maiden, much less the glory
of womanhood. So that her sunny smile was fading into the shadow of a
sigh, when instead of laying her pretty head on her father’s shoulder,
she brought the low chair and favourite cushion of the younger times,
and thence looked up at him, hoping fondly once more to be folded back
into the love of childhood.
Whatever Sir Roland’s trouble was, it did not engross his thoughts so
much as to make him neglect his favourite. He answered her wistful gaze
with a smile, which she knew to be quite genuine; and then he patted
her curly hair, in the old-fashioned way, and kissed her forehead.
“Lallie, you look so profoundly wise, I shall put you into caps after
all, in spite of your sighs, and tears, and sobs. A head so mature in
its wisdom must conform to the wisdom of the age.”
“Papa, they are such hideous things! and you hate them as much as I do.
And only the other day you said that even married people had no right
to make such frights of themselves.”
“Married people have a right to please one another only. A narrow view,
perhaps, of justice; but--however, that is different. Alice, you never
will attend when I try to teach you anything.”
Sir Roland broke off lamely thus, because his child was attending,
more than himself, to what he was talking of. Like other men, he was
sometimes given to exceed his meaning; but with his daughter he was
always very careful of his words, because she had lost her mother, and
none could ever make up the difference.
“Papa!” cried Alice, with that appealing stress upon the paternity
which only a pet child can throw, “you are not at all like yourself
to-day.”
“My dear, most people differ from themselves, with great advantage. But
you will never think that of me. Now let me know your opinion as to all
this matter, darling.”
Her father softened off his ending suddenly thus, because he saw the
young girl’s eyes begin to glisten, as if for tears, at his strange new
way.
“What matter, papa? The caps? Oh no; the way you are now behaving. Very
well then, are you quite sure you can bear to hear all you have done
amiss?”
“No, my dear, I am not at all sure. But I will try to endure your most
heartrending exaggerations.”
“Then, dear papa, you shall have it all. Only tell me when to stop. In