At the sudden thought of the
rope--so ignominious, so hateful--he shuddered. But the shame of it was
for his wife, who had dissipated a certain selfish and envious strain in
him. Jessica had drawn from him the Puritanism which had made him self-
conscious, envious, insular.
CHAPTER XXI
AN UNTOWARD MESSENGER
A few days after this, Jessica, at her home in Boston,--in the room where
she had promised her father to be George Gering's wife,--sat watching the
sea. Its slow swinging music came up to her through the October air.
Not far from her sat an old man, his hands clasping a chair-arm, a book
in his lap, his chin sunk on his breast. The figure, drooping
helplessly, had still a distinguished look, an air of honourable pride.
Presently he raised his head, his drowsy eyes lighted as they rested on
her, and he said: "The fleet has not returned, my dear? Quebec is not
yet taken?"
"No, father," she replied, "not yet."
"Phips is a great man--a great man!" he said, chuckling. "Ah, the
treasure!"
Jessica did not reply. Her fingers went up to her eyes; they seemed to
cool the hot lids.
"Ay, ay, it was good," he added, in a quavering voice, "and I gave you
your dowry!"
Now there was a gentle, soft laugh of delight and pride, and he reached
out a hand towards her.
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