The Argosy — page 199: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

182 Lady Valena. end of his ammunition, held out the pamphlet to his father, whose only reply was to plunge forward and strike it down, while an impious ejaculation, the first that had ever escaped those respectable lips, came crashing forth with vigour, making Elsie start and shiver and Sammy feel that things were getting serious indeed. Mr. Paramount sank back in his chair panting and glaring, as much in horror at his own profanity as anything else. ‘‘ You’re driving me mad between you!” he broke out again wrathfully. “ What have I done to bring this on my old age. I that have toiled and slaved to keep you all respectable! My boy turns from me to herd with the scum of the earth, and my girl sides with him against her poor old father !” The poor old man’s voice dropped into a shaky, miserable quaver. Elsie’s tears had been quietly falling into her untasted tea for some moments, and now she sobbed aloud, rending Sammy’s affectionate heart to the core. “Don’t cry, Birdie. I'll give it up. There,” tossing the obnoxious pamphlet into the fender, “that’s at an end. And now for Vaux and Vidler’s.” He gave himself a shake, half-sullen, half-desperate ; and while the old man brushed his shabby hat with trembling hands: “It’s what it must come to, dear, if I’m to be good for anything in this world,” he whispered as he kissed her. Day after day passed and Mrs. Beltran made no sign. Elsie knew she was there, and wondered a little, but was content. She never felt lonely now. She had fine company of her own who used to come to visit her in the long still afternoon hours when the work of the house was done, and kind motherly Mrs. Ridge, who sometimes looked in to help her, had said good-bye. In the window stood her invalid couch, Mrs. Damien’s gift, the only one of any value she had ever ventured to bestow ; and, once laid on its elastic springs with her aching limbs supported at the easiest angle, Elsie used to feel each day as if lifted by the mighty arms of some strong angel into another world. Her great work-basket stood beside her, and endless lengths of plain sewing passed between her fingers, but the real Elsie was not there. She was off and away to her real home, in the fine air-built castle that stood in Fancyland ; that wondrous land where all the knights are brave and all the ladies fair; where she was no longer lame, awkward, or. shabby ; where she loved and feared, suffered and dared with the best of them, till some stroke of the clock or a neighbour’s voice, or maybe a twinge of pain brought her suddenly back to Lavender Row, to be poor little Elsie Paramount again. There was a new face amongst her dream heroes now, a new presence that made all beside him show faint—colourless—unreal. “¢ A true knight sworn to vows of utter hardihood, utter gentieness, and loving, utter faithfulness in love,’ ” quoted Elsie to herself. ‘‘ He is Sir Galahad—no, Sir Geraint ” (possibly reflecting that amongst the CORnNIELOOOKS.E@) m