Poor Angela!  It was hard both to lose her lover, and to suffer daily from the persecutions of her hateful cousin, which were now pushed forward so openly and with such pertinacity as to fill her with vague alarm.  What made her position worse was, that she had no one in whom to confide, for Mr. Fraser had not yet returned.  Pigott indeed knew more or less what was going on, but she could do nothing, except bewail Arthur’s absence, and tell her “not to mind.”  There remained her father, but with him she had never been on sufficiently intimate terms for confidence.  Indeed, as time went on, the suspicion gathered strength in her mind that he was privy to George’s advances, and that those advances had something to do with the harsh terms imposed upon Arthur and herself.  But at last matters grew so bad that, having no other refuge, she determined to appeal to him for protection.

“Father,” she said, boldly, one day to Philip, as he was sitting writing in his study, “my cousin George is persecuting me every day.  I have borne it as long as I can, but I can bear it no longer.  I have come to ask you to protect me from him.”

“Why, Angela, I should have thought that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself.  What is he persecuting you about?  What does he want?”

“To marry me, I suppose,” answered Angela, blushing to her eyes.

“Well, that is a very complimentary wish on his part, and I can tell you what it is, Angela, if only you could get that young Heigham out of your head, you might do a deal worse.”

“It is quite useless to talk to me like that,” she answered, coldly.

“Well, that is your affair; but it is very ridiculous of you to come and ask me to protect you.  The woman must, indeed, be a fool who cannot protect herself.”

And so the interview ended.

Next day Lady Bellamy called again.

“My dear child,” she said to Angela, “you are not looking well; this business worries you, no doubt; it is the old struggle between duty and inclination, that we have most of us gone through.  Well, there is one consolation, nobody who ever did his or her duty, regardless of inclination, ever regretted it in the end.”

“What do you mean, Lady Bellamy, when you talk about my duty?”

“I mean the plain duty that lies before you of marrying your cousin George, and of throwing up this young Heigham.”

“I recognize no such duty.”

“My dear Angela, do look at the matter from a sensible point of view, think what a good thing it would be for your father, and remember, too, that it would re-unite all the property.  If ever a girl had a clear duty to perform, you have.”

“Since you insist so much upon my ‘duty,’ I must say that it seems to me that an honest girl in my position has three duties to consider, and not one, as you say, Lady Bellamy.  First, there is her duty to the man she loves, for her the greatest duty of any in the world; next her duty to herself, for her happiness and self-respect are involved in her decision; and, lastly, her duty to her family.  I put the family last, because, after all, it is she who gets married, not her family.”