George Grafton got up one morning in August at six o'clock, as was his now almost invariable custom, and went to the window. The rain, which had begun on the evening before, was coming down steadily. It looked as if it had rained all night and would continue to rain all day. Pools had already collected in depressions of the road, the slightly sunken lawn under his window was like a marsh, and the trees dripped heavily and dismally.
He was greatly disappointed. For nearly a month now he had been hard at work on the rock-garden and the stream that had been led into it. It had been a fascinating occupation, planning and contriving and doing the work himself with no professional guidance, and only occasional extra labour to lift or move very heavy stones. He had worked at it nearly every morning before breakfast, with Caroline and Barbara, Bunting, and Beatrix when she had been at home, and Maurice Bradby, Worthing's pupil, as an ardent and constant helper both with brain and with hands. They had all enjoyed it immensely. Those early hours had been the best in the day. The hard work had made him as fit as he had ever been in his life, and he felt like a young man again.
As he stood at the window, Bradby came splashing up the road in mackintosh and heavy boots. He was as keen as the rest, and generally first in the field.
"Hallo!" Grafton called out to him. "I'm afraid there's nothing doing this morning. I don't mind getting a little wet, but this is a bit too much."
Bradby looked round him at the leaden sky, which showed no signs of a break anywhere. "Perhaps it will clear up," he said. "I didn't suppose you'd be out, but I thought I might as well come up. I want to see what happens with the pipes, and where the water gets to with heavy rain."
"Well, you go up and have a look, my boy," said Grafton, "and if you're not drowned beforehand come to breakfast. We might be able to get out afterwards. I'm going back to bed now."
He went back to bed and dozed intermittently until his servant came in to call him. The idle thoughts that filled his brain, waking and half-sleeping, were concerned with the rock-garden, with the roses he and Caroline had planted, with other plantings of flowers and shrubs, and the satisfaction that he had already gained or expected to gain from them. The garden came first. In the summer it provided the chief interest of the country, and the pleasure it had brought was at least as great as that to be gained from the sports of autumn and winter. But it was not only the garden as giving these pleasures of contrivance, expectation and satisfaction, that coloured his thoughts as he lay drowsily letting them wander over the aspects of thelife he was so much enjoying. It was the great playground, in these rich summer months, when he had usually shunned the English country as lying in its state of quiescence, and affording none of the distractions to be found elsewhere. Lawn tennis and other garden games, with the feeling of fitness they induced, the companionship they brought in the long afternoons when people came to play and talk and enjoy themselves, and the consequent heightening of the physical satisfaction of meals, cool drinks, baths, changing of clothes; the lazy hours in the heat of the day, with a book, or family chat in the shade of a tree, with the bees droning among the flowers in the soaking sunshine, and few other sounds to disturb the peace and the security; the intermittent wanderings to look at this or that which had been looked at a score of times before, but was always worth looking at again—those garden hours impressed themselves upon the memory, sliding into one another, until the times of rain and storm were forgotten, and life seemed to be lived in the garden, in the yellow sunshine or the cool green shade.
The influence of the garden extended itself to the house in these summer days. This room in which he was lying—it was a joy to wake up in it in the morning—to be awakened by the sun pouring in beams of welcome and invitation; it was a satisfaction to lie down in it at night, flooded with the fragrant air that had picked up sweetness and freshness from the trees and the grass. The stone hall was cool and gratefully dim, when one came in out of the heat and glare of thehottest hours of the day. The long low library between the sunk lawn and the cloister court, whose calf-bound treasures, which he never looked into, gave it a mellow retired air, was a pleasant room in which to write the few letters that had to be written or do the small amount of business that had to be done; or, when there were men in the house, to give them their refreshments or their tobacco in. The long gallery was a still pleasanter room, facing the setting sun and the garden and the trees, with a glimpse of the park, and nothing to be seen from its deep-recessed windows but those surrounding cultivated spaces. All the rooms of the house were pleasant rooms, and pervaded with that sense of retired and gracious beauty which came from their outlook, into garden or park or ancient court.
The rain showed signs of decreasing at breakfast-time, and there were some ragged fringes to be seen in the grey curtain of cloud that had overhung the dripping world. Bradby had not put in his appearance. Although he was now made as welcome as anybody when he came to the Abbey, and had proved himself of the utmost assistance in many of the pursuits that were carried on there with such keenness, his diffidence still hung to him. Perhaps the invitation had not been clear enough; he would not come, except at times when it was clearly expected of him, or to meals, without a clearly understood invitation.
Young George clamoured for him during breakfast. His father had announced a morning with letters andpapers, too long postponed. Young George wanted somebody to play with, and Bradby, after his father, and now even before Barbara, was his chosen companion.
"He has work to do, you know, Bunting," said Caroline. "He can't always be coming here."
"He may be going about the estate," said Young George. "I shall go down to the office after breakfast."
"Why don't you go over and see Jimmy Beckley?" asked Barbara. "You could ride. I'll come with you, if you like, and the Dragon will let me. I should like to see Vera and the others."
Bunting thought he would. It would be rather fun to see old Jimmy, and it would be certain to clear up by the time they got to Feltham.
"I believe it is going to clear up," said Grafton, looking out of the window. "Shall you and I ride too, Cara? I must write a few letters. They're getting on my mind now; but we could start about eleven."
So it was agreed. They stood at the hall door after breakfast and looked at the rain. Then Grafton went into the library, and was soon immersed in his writing. Even that was rather agreeable, for a change. It was so quiet and secluded in this old book-lined room. And there was the ride to come, pleasant to look forward to even if it continued to rain, trotting along the muddy roads, between the hedges and trees and fields, and coming back with the two girls and the boy to a lunch that would have been earned by exercise. Everything was pleasant in this quiet easy life, of which thepresent hour's letter-writing and going through of papers was the only thing needed to keep the machinery going, at least by him. It was only a pity that B wasn't there. He missed B, with her loving merry ways, and she did love Abington, and the life there, as much as any of them. He would write a line to his little B, up in Scotland, before he went out, and tell her that he wanted her back, and she'd better come quickly. She couldn't be enjoying herself as much as she would if she came home, to her ever loving old Daddy.
The second post came in just as he had finished. Caroline had already looked in to say that she was going up to change. He took the envelopes and the papers from old Jarvis, and looked at certain financial quotations before going through the letters. There was only one he wanted to open before going upstairs. It was from Beatrix—a large square envelope addressed in an uneven rather sprawling hand, not yet fully formed.
Caroline waited for him in the hall. The horses were being led up and down outside. He was usually a model of punctuality, but she was already considering going up to see what had happened to him when he came down the shallow stairs, in his breeches and gaiters.
"What a time you've been!" she said.
He did not reply, and had his back to her as old Jarvis helped him on with his raincoat and handed him his gloves and crop. She did not notice that there was anything wrong with him until they were mounted and had set off. Then she saw his face and exclaimedin quick alarm: "What's the matter, darling? Aren't you well?"
His voice was not like his as he replied: "I've had a letter from B. She says she's engaged to Lassigny."
Caroline had to use her brain quickly to divine how such a piece of news would affect him. But for his view of it, it would have been only rather exciting. She knew Lassigny, and liked him. "I didn't know he was there," she said lamely.
"She hadn't told me that he was," he said. "I suppose he went up there after her—got himself an invitation. He's staying in the house."
"I don't think he'd do anything underhand, Dad."
"I don't say it would be underhand. If he hasn't done that he must have been invited with all the rest, and she must have known it. But she never said so."
Caroline was disturbed at the bitterness with which he spoke, and did not quite understand it. He had made no objections to Lassigny as a friend of hers, nor to her having asked him to Abington at Whitsuntide. He seemed to have liked him himself. What was it that he was so upset about? Was it with Beatrix?
"Do you think she ought not to have accepted him without asking you first, darling?" she said. "I suppose she does ask your permission."
"No, she doesn't. She takes it for granted. She's engaged to him, and hopes I shall be as happy about it as she is. He's going to write to me. But there's no letter from him yet."
"I think she ought to have asked your permission.But I suppose when that sort of thing comes to you suddenly——"
"Heought certainly to have asked my permission," he interrupted her.
"Oh, but darling! You hardly expect that in these days, do you? He's seen her everywhere; he's been invited here. It would be enough, wouldn't it?—if he writes to you at once. Francis didn't ask you before he asked me; and you didn't mind."
"Francis is an Englishman. This fellow's a Frenchman. Things aren't done in that way in France."
'This fellow!' She didn't understand his obvious hostility. Did he know anything against Lassigny. If so, surely he must have found it out quite lately.
"Why do you object to the idea so much, darling? I think he's nice."
"Oh, nice!" he echoed. "I told you the other day that I should hate the idea of one of you marrying a foreigner."
He had told her that, and she had replied that Lassigny hardly seemed like a foreigner. It was no good saying it again. She wanted to soothe him, and to help him if she could.
"What shall you do?" she asked.
"I'm going to wire to her to come home at once—send a wire now."
He turned aside on to the grass, and then cantered down to the gate. Caroline would have wished to discuss it further before he took the step he had announced, but, although she was on terms of suchequality with him, she had never yet questioned a decision of his when he had announced one. His authority, so loosely exercised over his children, was yet paramount.
They rode into the village without exchanging more words, and he dismounted at the Post-Office, while she held his horse.
Worthing came out of the Estate Office, which was nearly opposite, to speak to her. She found it difficult to chat to him about nothing, and to keep a bright face, but he relieved her of much of the difficulty, for he never had any himself in finding words to pass the time with.
"And how's Beatrix getting on?" he asked. "Heard from her since she's been up on the moors?"
"Father had a letter from her this morning," she said. "He wants her home." This, at least, would prepare the way for the unexpected appearance of Beatrix.
"Oh, we all want her home," he said.
Grafton came out of the office, still with the dark look on his face, which was usually so smiling and contented. It cleared for a moment as he greeted Worthing, who had a word or two to say to him about estate matters. Suddenly Grafton said: "I should like to talk to you about something. Give me some lunch, will you? We shall be back about one. Send young Bradby down to us. I'll eat what's prepared for him."
When he had mounted again he said to Caroline, "I'm going to talk it over with Worthing. One wantsa man's opinion on these matters, and his is sound enough."
She felt a trifle hurt, without quite knowing why. "If you find it's all right, you're not going to stop it, are you?" she asked.
"How can it be all right?" he asked with some impatience, which hurt her still more, for he never used that tone with her.
"I mean, if they love each other."
"Oh, love each other!" he exclaimed. "She's hardly out of the nursery. A fellow like that—years older than she is, but young enough to make himself attractive—heknows how to make love to a young girl, if he wants to. Had plenty of practice, I dare say."
It was an unhappy ride for Caroline. His mood was one of bitterness, chiefly against Lassigny, but also against Beatrix—though with regard to her it was shot with streaks of tenderness. At one time, he ought not to have let her go away without seeing that there was somebody to look after her and prevent her from getting into mischief—but he had trusted her, and never thought she'd do this sort of thing; at another, she was so young and so pretty that she couldn't be expected to know what men were like. Poor little B! If only he'd kept her at home a bit longer! She was always happy enough at home.
To Caroline, with her orderly mind, it seemed that there were only two questions worth discussing at all—whether there was any tangible objection to Lassigny as a husband for Beatrix, and, if her father's objectionsto her marrying him were so strong, what he proposed to do. She had inherited this orderliness of mind from him. As a general rule he went straight to the heart of a subject, and all subsidiary considerations fell into their proper place. But she could not get an answer to either of these questions, though with regard to the latter he seemed to consider it of great importance to get Beatrix home and talk to her. This would have been very well if it had simply meant that he wanted to find out whether she had pledged herself lightly, and, if he thought she had, do all he could to dissuade her. Or if there had been anything he could have brought up against Lassigny, which might have affected her, other than his being a foreigner, which certainly wouldn't. He never said that he would forbid the marriage, nor even that he would postpone it for a certain period, both of which he could have done until Beatrix should come of age.
Longing as she did to put herself in line with him whenever she could, she allowed his feelings against Lassigny to affect her. There was nothing tangible. He knew nothing against him—hardly anything about him, indeed, except what all the world of his friends knew. With an Englishman in the same position it would have been quite enough. From a worldly point of view the match would be unexceptionable. There was wealth as well as station, and the station was of the sort that would be recognised in England, under the circumstances of Lassigny's English tastes and English sojourns. But that side of it was never mentioned.She had the impression of Lassigny as something different from what she had ever known him—with something dark and secret in his background, something that would soil Beatrix, or at least bring her unhappiness in marriage. And yet it was nothing definite. When she asked him directly if he knew anything against him, he answered her impatiently again. Oh, no. The fellow was a Frenchman. That was all he needed to know.
They were no nearer to anything, and she was no nearer to him, when they arrived at Feltham Hall. When they had passed through the lodge gates he suddenly said that he would ride back alone. She would be all right with Barbara and Bunting.
He turned and rode off, with hardly a good-bye to her.
Worthing lived in comfortable style in an old-fashioned farmhouse, which had been adapted to the use of a gentleman of quality. The great kitchen had been converted into a sitting-room, the parlour made a convenient dining-room, and there were four or five oak-raftered lattice-windowed bedrooms, with a wider view over the surrounding country than was gained from any window of the Abbey, which lay rather in a hollow. As Grafton waited for his host, walking about his comfortable bachelor's room, or sitting dejectedly by the open window looking out on to the rain, which had again begun to come down heavily, he was half-inclined to envy Worthing his well-placed congenial existence. A bachelor—if he were a bachelor by temperament—liveda life free of care. Such troubles as this that had so suddenly come to disturb his own more elaborate life he was at least immune from.
He was glad to have Worthing to consult with. Among all his numerous friends there was none to whom he would have preferred to unburden himself. Sometimes a man of middle-age, whose friendships are for the most part founded on old associations, comes across another man with whom it is as easy to become intimate as it used to be with all and sundry in youth: and when that happens barriers fall even more easily than in youthful friendships. Grafton had found such a man in Worthing. He was impatient for his arrival. He was so unused to bearing mental burdens, and wanted to share this one. Caroline had brought him little comfort. He did not think of her, as he waited for Worthing to come in; while she, riding home with Barbara and Bunting, and exerting herself to keep them from suspecting that there was anything wrong with her, was thinking of nobody but him.
He told Worthing what he had come to tell him the moment he came in. He remembered that fellow Lassigny who had stayed with them at Whitsuntide. Well, he had had a letter from Beatrix to say that she was engaged to him. He was very much upset about it. He had wired to Beatrix to come home at once.
Worthing disposed his cheerful face to an expression of concern, and said, "Dear, dear!" in a tone of deep sympathy. But it was plain that he did not quite understand why his friend should be so upset.
"I never expected anything of the sort," said Grafton. "He ought to have come to me first; or at least she ought to have asked my permission before announcing that she'd engaged herself to him. I suppose she's told everybody up there. I'm going to have her home."
"She's very young," said Worthing tentatively.
"I wouldn't have minded that if he had been the right sort of fellow. How can I let a girl of mine marry a Frenchman, Worthing?"
Lunch was announced at that moment. Worthing took Grafton up to his room to wash his hands, and he expressed his disturbance of mind and the reasons for it still further until they came downstairs again, without Worthing saying much in reply, or indeed being given an opportunity of doing so. It was not until they were seated at lunch and the maid had left the room that Worthing spoke to any purpose.
"Well, of course, you'd rather she married an Englishman," he said. "And I suppose it's a bit of a shock to you to find that she wants to marry anybody, as young as she is. But do you know anything against this chap? He isn't a wrong 'un, is he? You rather talk as if he were. But you had him down here to stay. You let him be just as friendly with the girls as anybody else."
He spoke with some decision, as if he had offered enough sympathy with a vague grievance, and wanted it specified if he was to help or advise as to a course to be taken. It was what Caroline had been trying to get at, and had not been able to.
"Can't you understand?" asked Grafton, also with more decision in his speech than he had used before. "You don't go abroad much, I know. But I suppose you've read a few French novels."
Worthing looked genuinely puzzled. "I can't say I have," he said. "Jorrocks is more in my line. But what are you driving at?"
"Don't you know how men in France are brought up to look at women? They don't marry like we do, and they don't lead the same lives after they're married. At least men of Lassigny's sort don't."
Worthing considered this. "You mean you don't think he's fit for her?" he said judicially.
Grafton did not reply to his question in direct terms. "He's three or four and thirty," he said. "He's lived the life of his sort, in Paris, and elsewhere. It's been so natural to him that he wouldn't affect to hide it if I asked him about it. It wouldn't be any good if he did. If I liked to go over to Paris and get among the people who know him, there'd be all sorts of stories I could pick up for the asking. Nobody would think there was any disgrace in them—for him. What does a fellow like that—a fellow of that age, with all those experiences behind him—what does he want with my little B? Damn him!"
This was very different from the rather pointless complaints that had gone before. Worthing did not reply immediately. His honest simple mind inclined him towards speech that should not be a mere shirking of the question. But it was difficult. "I don't supposethere are many fellows, either French or English, you'd want to marry your daughters to, if you judged them in that way," he said quietly.
Grafton looked at him. "I shouldn't have thoughtyou'dhave taken that line," he said.
"I don't know much about the French," Worthing went on. "I've heard fellows say that they do openly what we do in the dark. Far as I'm concerned, it's outside my line of life altogether. I've had all I wanted with sport, and a country life, and being on friendly terms with a lot of people. Still, you don't get to forty-five without having looked about you a bit. I believe there are more fellows like me than you'd think to hear a lot of 'em talk; but you know there are plenty who aren't. They do marry nice girls, and make 'em good husbands too."
Grafton looked down on his plate, with a frown on his face. Then he looked up again. "That doesn't corner me," he said. "The right sort of man makes a new start when he marries—with us. Fellows like that don't pretend to, except just for a time perhaps—until—Oh, I can't talk about it. It's all too beastly—to think of her being looked upon in that way. I'm going to stop it. I've made up my mind. I won't consent; and she can't marry without my consent."
Beatrix's answer to his telegram came that afternoon.
"Don't want to come home yet. Please let me stay. Am writing much love."
This angered him. It was a defiance; or so it struck him. He went down to the Post-Office himself, and sent another wire.
"Come up by morning train will meet you in London."
The rain had ceased. As he walked back over the muddy path that led through the park, the evening sun shone through a rift in the clouds, and most of the sky was already clear again. How he would have enjoyed this renewal of life and sunshine the evening before! But his mind was as dark now as the sky had been all day, and the relenting of nature brought it no relief.
Barbara and Bunting were out in the park with their mashies and putters, on the little practice course he had laid out. He kept the church between himself and them as he neared the house. They already knew that there was something amiss, and were puzzled and disturbed about it. In his life that had gone so smoothly there had never been anything to make him shun thecompany of his children, or to spoil their pleasure in his society, because of annoyance that he could not hide from them. He must tell them something—or perhaps Caroline had better—or Miss Waterhouse. He didn't want to tell them himself. It would make too much of it. Beatrix was going to be brought home; but not in disgrace. He didn't want that. She would be disappointed at first; but she would get over it, and they would all be as happy together as before. His thoughts did lighten a little as they dwelt for a moment on that.
He called for Caroline when he got into the house. He felt some compunction about her. He had taken her into his confidence, and then he had seemed to withdraw it, though he had not meant to do so. Of course he couldn't have told her the grounds of his objections to Lassigny as he had told them to Worthing, but he owed it to her to say at least what he was going to do. She had been very sweet to him at tea-time, trying her best to keep up the usual bright conversation, and to hide from the children that there was anything wrong with him, which he had not taken much trouble to hide himself. And she had put her hand on his knee under the table, to show him that she loved him and had sympathy with him. He had been immersed in his dark thoughts and had not returned her soft caress; and this troubled him a little, though he knew he could make it all right.
She came out to him at once from the morning-room, with some needlework in her hand. He took her facebetween his hands and kissed it. "I've sent B another wire to say she must come to London to-morrow," he said, "and I'll meet her."
She smiled up at him, with her eyes moist. "That will be the best way, Daddy," she said. "It will be all right when you talk to one another."
He put his arm round her, and they went into the morning-room. Miss Waterhouse was there, also with needlework in her hands. "I've told the Dragon," said Caroline in a lighter tone. "You didn't tell me not to tell anybody, Dad."
He sat down by the window and lit a cigarette. "You'd better tell Barbara and Bunting too," he said. "B ought not to have engaged herself without asking me first. Anyhow, she's much too young yet. I can't allow any engagement, for at least a year. I shall bring her down here, and we'll all be happy together."
Caroline felt an immense lightening of the tension. He had spoken in his usual equable untroubled voice, announcing a decision in the way that had always made his word law in the family, though he had never before announced a decision of such importance. Responsibility was lifted from her shoulders. It had seemed to be her part to help him in uncertainty of mind, and she had felt herself inadequate to the task. But now he had made up his mind, and she had only to accept his decision. Beatrix also, though it might be harder for her. But she would accept her father's ruling. They had always obeyed him, and he had made obedience so easy. After all, he did know best.
Miss Waterhouse laid down her work on her lap. "I'm sure it will be the best thing just to say that there can be no engagement for a certain fixed time," she said. It was seldom that she offered any advice without being directly asked for it. But she said this with some earnestness, her eyes fixed upon his face.
"Yes, that will be the best way," he said, and she took up her work again.
He did not revert again to his gloomy state that evening. He and Caroline presently went out and joined Barbara and Bunting. They played golf till it was time to dress for dinner, and played bridge after dinner. He was his usual self, except that he occasionally lapsed into silence and did not respond to what was said. Beatrix's name was not mentioned.
He went up to London early the next morning, spent the greater part of the day at the Bank, and dined at one of his clubs. He played bridge afterwards until it was time to go to the station to meet the train by which Beatrix would come. So far he had successively staved off unpleasant thoughts. He had not been alone all day, for he had found acquaintances in the train going up to London. He had wanted not to be alone. He had wanted to keep up that mood of lightly poised but unquestioned authority, in which he would tell Beatrix, without putting blame on her for what she had done, that it couldn't be, and then dismiss the matter as far as possible from his mind, and leave her to get over her disappointment, which he thought she would do quickly. He was not quite pleased with her,which prevented him from sympathising much beforehand with whatever disappointment she might feel; but his annoyance had largely subsided, and he was actually looking forward with pleasure to seeing her dear face again and getting her loving greeting.
Unfortunately the train was late, and he had to pace the platform for five and twenty minutes, during which time this lighter mood in its turn gave way to one of trouble almost as great as he had felt at first.
He had had no reply to his second telegram, although he had given instructions that if one came it was to be wired on to him at the Bank. Supposing she didn't come!
He had not yet heard from Lassigny; but if he had missed a post after Beatrix had written, his letter would not have reached Abington until the second post. But suppose Lassigny was travelling down with her!
What he had been staving off all day, instinctively, was the ugly possibility of Beatrix defying his authority. It would mean a fight between them, and he would win the fight. But it would be the upsetting of all contentment in life, as long as it lasted, and it would so alter the relations between him and the child he loved that they would probably never be the same again.
This possibility of Lassigny being with her now—ofhisundertaking her defence against her father, and of her putting herself into his hands to act for her—had not actually occurred to him before. The idea of it angered him greatly, and stiffened him against her.There was no pleasure now in his anticipation of seeing her again.
But he melted completely when he did see her. She and her maid were alone in their compartment, and she was standing at the door looking out eagerly for him. She jumped out at once and ran to him. "My darling old Daddy!" she said, with her arm round his neck. "You're an angel to come up and meet me, and I'm so pleased to see you. I suppose we're going to Cadogan Place to-night, aren't we?"
Not a word was said between them of what they had come together for until they were sitting in the dining-room over a light supper. The maid, who was the children's old nurse, had been in the car with them. Beatrix had asked many questions about Abington, and had chattered about the moors, but had not mentioned Lassigny's name. If she had chattered even rather more than she would have done normally upon a similar meeting, it was the only sign of something else that was filling her mind. She had not been in the least nervous in manner, and her affection towards him was abundantly shown, and obviously not strained to please him. If his thoughts of her had been tinged with bitterness, she seemed to have escaped that feeling towards him.
He supposed she had not understood his hostility towards her engagement. His telegram had only summoned her. It would make his task rather more difficult. But the relief of finding her still his loving child was greater than any other consideration. If he hadtaken refuge in bitter thoughts against her, he knew now how unsatisfying they were. He only wanted her love, and that had not been affected. He also wanted her happiness, and if it was to be his part to safeguard it for the future, by refusing her what she wanted in the present, it touched him now to think that his refusal must wound her. He had not allowed that consideration to affect him hitherto.
"Well, darling," he said, "you've given me a shock. These affairs aren't settled quite in that way, you know."
She looked up at him with a smile and a flush. "I was so happy," she said, "that I forgot all about that. But I came when you wanted me, Daddy."
Yes, it was going to be very difficult. But he must not allow his tenderness to take charge of him, though he could use it to soften the breaking of his decision to her.
"Why didn't he write to me?" he said.
"He did," she said. "Didn't you get his letter?"
"I haven't had it yet. If he wrote, I shall get it to-morrow, forwarded from Abington. He ought not to have asked you to engage yourself to him without asking my permission first."
"Well, you see, darling, it seemed to come about naturally. I suppose everybody was expecting it,—everybody but me, that is," she laughed gently—"and when it did come, of course everybody knew. He said he must write to you at once. He did think of coming down at once to see you, but I didn't want him to. Still, when your second telegram came, he said you'dexpect it of him; so he's coming down to-night, to see you to-morrow."
Lassigny, then, seemed to have acted with correctness. But that he should have done so did not remove any objection to him as a husband for Beatrix. It only made it rather more difficult to meet him; for Beatrix's father would not be upheld by justifiable annoyance at having been treated with disrespect.
"I'm glad he didn't come down with you," he said.
"I wanted him to," she said simply. "But he wouldn't. He said you might not like it. Heissuch a dear, Daddy. He thinks of everything. I do love him." She got up and stood over him and kissed him. "I love you too, darling," she said, "more than ever. It makes you love everybody you do love more, when this happens to you."
He couldn't face it, with his arm round her, and her soft cheek resting confidently against his. He couldn't break up her happiness and her trust there and then. Better see the fellow first. By some miracle he might show himself worthy of her. His dislike of him for the moment was in abeyance. It rested on nothing that he knew of him—only on what he had divined.
"Well," he said; "we'd better go to bed and think it all over. I'll see him to-morrow."
"He's coming here about twelve," she said, releasing herself as he stood up. "If you are in the City I can tell him to go down and see you at the Bank."
"No," he said, "I will see him here. And I don't want you to see him before I do, B. We've got to beginit all over again, in the proper way. That's why I made you come here."
His slight change of tone caused her to look up at him. "You're not going to ask him to wait for me, are you, darling?" she asked. "We do want to get married soon. We do love each other awfully."
He kissed her. "Run along to bed," he said. "I'll tell you what I have decided when I've seen him to-morrow."
When they met at breakfast the next morning the atmosphere had hardened a little. Beatrix was not so affectionate to him in her manner as she had been; it was plain that she was not thinking of him much, except in his connection with her lover; and as the love she had shown him the night before had softened him towards the whole question, so now the absence of its signs hardened him. Of course her love for him was nothing in comparison with this new love of hers! He was a fool to have let it influence him. If he had been weak enough to let her go to bed thinking that he would make no objection to her eventual engagement, and only formalities stood in the way, it would be all the harder for her when she knew the truth.
"Have you had a letter from René?" was the first question she asked him when she had kissed him good-morning, with a perfunctory kiss that meant she was not in one of those affectionate moods which he found it so impossible to resist.
"Yes," he said shortly. "I'm going down to the Bank this morning, B. I'll see him there. I've toldWilliam to ask him to come on to the City when he comes here."
"Can't I see him first, Dad," she asked, "when he comes here?"
"No, darling. Look here, B, I didn't want to bother you last night. I was too pleased to see you again. But I don't want you to marry Lassigny. I don't like the idea of it at all."
She looked up at him with eyes wide open. "Why not, Dad?" she asked.
"I hate the idea of your marrying a Frenchman. I've never thought of such a thing. I wouldn't have asked him down to Abington if I had."
She looked down on her plate, and then looked up again. "You're not going to tell him we can't be married, are you?" she asked.
"I don't know what I'm going to tell him. I want to hear what he has to say first. That's only fair."
She seemed puzzled more than distressed. "I thought you liked him," she said. "I thought you only didn't like our getting engaged before he had spoken to you. You did like him at Abington, Dad; and he was a friend of Caroline's before he was a friend of mine. You didn't mind that. Why don't you want me to marry him? I love him awfully; and he loves me."
He was sorry he had said so much. He hadn't meant to say anything before his interview with Lassigny. But the idea that by a miracle Lassigny might prove himself worthy of her had faded; and her almost indifference towards him had made it not painful, as itwould have been the night before, to throw a shadow over her expectations.
"You're very young," he said. "In any case I couldn't let you marry yet."
"I was afraid you'd say that," she said quietly. "René said you wouldn't. If you let us marry at all, there would be no reason why we shouldn't be married quite soon. How long should we have to wait, Dad?"
Her submissiveness touched him again. "I don't know, darling," he said. "I can't say anything till I've seen him. Don't ask me any more questions now. Look here, you'd better go round to Hans Place this morning and stay there to lunch. Aunt Mary's in London, I know. Go round early, so as you can catch her. I shall go straight to the station from the City. Meet me for the 4.50. I'll take your tickets."
"But what about René?" she asked. "Aren't you going to let him see me, when you've talked to him?"
He was in for it now. His tone was harder than he meant it to be as he said: "In any case, B, I'm not going to let him see you for six months. I've made up my mind about that. And there's to be no engagement either. He won't expect that. You must make yourself happy at home."
"Daddy darling!" Her tone was one of pained and surprised expostulation. She seemed such a child as she looked at him out of her wide eyes that again he recoiled from hurting her.
"Six months is nothing," he said. "If you can't wait six months, B——"
He couldn't finish. It seemed mean to give her to understand that this would be his sole stipulation, when he was going to do all he could to stop her marrying Lassigny at all. But neither could he tell her that.
She was silent for a time. Then she said with a deep sigh: "I was afraid you'd say something of the sort. You're a hard old Daddy. But I made up my mind coming down in the train that I wouldn't go against you. I love René so much that I don't mind waiting for him—if it isn't too long." Another little pause, and another deep sigh. "I've been frightfully happy the last two days. But somehow I didn't think it could last—quite like that."
She saw him out of the house later on. As she put up her face to be kissed, she said: "You do love your little daughter, don't you? You won't do anything to make her unhappy."
He walked to the end of Sloane Street and took a taxi. His mind was greatly disturbed. B had behaved beautifully. She had bowed to his decision with hardly a word of protest, and he knew well enough by the look on her face when she had asked him her last question what it had cost her to do so. It was impossible to take refuge in the thought that she couldn't love this fellow much, if she resigned herself so easily to doing without him for six months. She had resigned out of love for her father, and trust in him. It was beastly to feel that he had not yet told her everything, and that her faith in him not to make her unhappy—at least in the present—was unfounded. Again he felthimself undecided. But what could he do? How was it possible that she could judge of a man of Lassigny's type. Her love for him was pure and innocent. What was his love for her?
Well, he would find that out. The fellow should have his chance. He would not take it for granted that he had just taken a fancy—the latest of many—to a pretty face, and the charm and freshness of a very young girl; and since she happened to be of the sort that he could marry, was willing to gain possession of her in that way.
Lassigny was announced a little after twelve o'clock. His card was brought in: "Marquis de Clermont-Lassigny," in letters of print, all on a larger scale than English orthodoxy dictates. His card was vaguely distasteful to Grafton.
But when he went in to him, in the old-fashioned parlour reserved for visitors, he could not have told, if he had not known, that he was not an Englishman. His clothes were exactly 'right' in every particular. His dark moustache was clipped to the English fashion. His undoubted good looks were not markedly of the Latin type.
The two men shook hands, Lassigny with a smile, Grafton without one.
"You had my letter?" Lassigny asked.
"Yes," said Grafton, motioning him to a chair and taking one himself.
"It ought to have been written," said Lassigny, "before I spoke to Beatrix. But I trust you will understandit was not from want of respect to you that it wasn't. I have come now to ask your permission—to affiance myself to your daughter."
"I wish you hadn't," said Grafton, looking at him with a half-smile. He couldn't treat this man whom he had last seen as a welcome guest in his own house as the enemy he had since felt him to be.
Lassigny made a slight gesture with shoulders and hands that was not English. "Ah," he said, "she is very young, and you don't want to lose her. She said you would feel like that. I shouldn't want to lose her myself if she were my daughter. But I hope you will give her to me, all the same. I did not concern myself with business arrangements in my letter, but my lawyers——"
"Oh, we haven't come to talking about lawyers yet," Grafton interrupted him. "Look here, Lassigny; Beatrix is hardly more than a child; you ought not to have made love to her without at least coming to me first. You wouldn't do it in your own country, you know."
He had not meant to say that, or anything like it. But it was very difficult to know what to say.
"In my own country," said Lassigny "—but you must remember that I am only half French—one makes love, and one also marries. The two things don't of necessity go together. But I have known England for a long enough time to prefer the English way."
This was exactly the opening that Grafton wanted, but had hardly expected to be given in so obvious a way.
"Exactly so!" he said, leaning forward a little, with his arm on the table by his side. "You marry and you make love, and the two things don't go together. Well, with us they do go together; and that's why I won't let my daughters marry anybody but Englishmen, if I can help it."
Lassigny looked merely surprised. "But what do you think I meant?" he asked. "I love Beatrix. I love her with the utmost respect. I pay her all the honour I can in asking her to be my wife."
"And how many women have you loved before?" asked Grafton. "And how many are you going to love afterwards?"
Lassigny recoiled, with a dark flush on his face. "But do you want to insult me?" he asked.
"Look here, Lassigny," said Grafton again. "We belong to two different nations. I'm not going to pick my words, or disguise my meaning, out of compliment to you. It's far too serious. You must take me as an Englishman. You know enough about us to be able to do it."
"Well!" said Lassigny, grudgingly, after a pause. "You asked me a question. You asked me two questions. I think they are not the questions that one gentleman ought to ask of another. It should be enough that I pay honour to the one I love. My name is old, and has dignity. I have——"
"Oh, we needn't go into that," Grafton interrupted him. "We treat as equals there, with the advantage on your side, if it's anywhere."
"But, pardon me; we must go into it. It is essential. What more can I do than to offer my honourable name to your daughter? It means much to me. If I honour it, as I do, I honour her."
"I know you honour her, in your way. It isn't our way. I ask you another question of the sort you say one gentleman ought not to ask of another. Should you consider it dishonouring your name, or dishonouring the woman you've given it to, to make love to somebody else, after you've been married a year or two, if the fancy takes you?"
Lassigny rose to his feet. "Mr. Grafton," he said, "I don't understand you. I think it is you who are dishonouring your own daughter, whom I love, and shall always love."
Grafton, without rising, held up a finger at him. "How am I dishonouring her?" he asked with insistence. "Tell me why you say I'm dishonouring her."
Lassigny looked down at him. "To me," he said slowly, "she is the most beautiful and the sweetest girl on the earth. Don't you think so too? I thought you did."
Grafton rose. "You've said it; it's her beauty," he said more quickly. "If she loses that,—as she will lose it with her youth,—she loses you. I'm not going to let her in for that kind of disillusionment."
Lassigny was very stiff now, and entirely un-English in manner, and even in appearance. "Pardon me, Mr. Grafton, for having misunderstood your point of view. If it is a Puritan you want for your daughterI fear I am out of the running. I withdraw my application to you for her hand."
"That's another thing," said Grafton, as Lassigny turned to leave him. "I wouldn't let a daughter of mine marry a Catholic."
Lassigny went out, without another word.
Beatrix and her maid were already at the station when Grafton arrived. He had only allowed himself ten minutes, and was busy getting tickets, finding a carriage and buying papers, until it was nearly time for the train to start. Then he found somebody to talk to, and only joined Beatrix at the last moment.
She had given him rather a pathetic look of enquiry when he had first come up to them waiting for him in the booking-office. Now she sat in her corner of the carriage, very quiet. They were alone together.
He sat down opposite to her, and took her hand in his. "My darling," he said, "he isn't the right man for you. You must forget him."
She left her hand lying in his, inertly. Her eyes were wide and her face pale as she asked: "Have you told him he can't marry me at all?"
He changed his seat to one beside her. "B darling," he said, "you know I wouldn't hurt you if I could help it. I hated the idea of it so much last night that I couldn't tell you, as perhaps I ought to have done, that I didn't think you'd see him again. I wasn't quite sure. He might have been different from what I thought him. But he isn't the husband for a girl like you, darling. He made that quite plain."
Her hands lay in her lap, and she was looking out of the window. "Did you send him away?" she asked, turning her head towards him. "Isn't he going to see me again—or write to me?"
"He won't see you again. I didn't tell him he wasn't to write to you, but I don't think he will; I hope he won't. It's no good, darling. The break has come; it must make you very unhappy for a time, I know that, my dear little girl. But I hope it won't be for long. We all love you dearly at home, you know. We shall make it up to you in time."
He felt, as he said this, how entirely devoid of comfort such words must be to her. The love of those nearest to her, which had been all-sufficing, would count as nothing in the balance against the new love that she wanted. She had told him the night before that the new love heightened and increased the old; and so it would, as long as he, who had hitherto come first with her, stepped willingly down from that eminence, and added his tribute to hers. Opposition instead of tribute would wipe out, for the time at least, all that she had felt for him during all the years of her life. The current of all her love was pouring into the new channel that had been opened up. There would be none to water the old channels, unless they led into the new one.
She turned to him again. There was a look in her face that he had never seen there before, and it struck through to his heart. It was the dawning of hostility, which put her apart from him as nothing else could have done; for it meant that there were tracts in heras yet unexplored, and perhaps unsuspected, and there was no knowing what arid spaces he would have to traverse in them. "I can't understand it at all," she said quietly. "Why did you send him away, and why did he go? Iknowhe loves me; and he knows I love him, and forgive him anything that was wrong. Whatiswrong? You ought to tell me that."
He stirred uneasily in his seat. How could he tell her what was wrong? She was so innocent of evil. If he felt, as he did, that Lassigny's desire for her touched her with it, he had diverted that from her. He couldn't plunge her into it again by explanations that would only justify himself.
"Darling child," he said. "It's all wrong. You must trust me to know. I've made no mistake. If he had been what the man who marries you must be he wouldn't have gone away from me as he did, in offence. He'd have justified himself, or tried to. And I'd have listened to him too. As it was, I don't think we were together for ten minutes. He gave you up, B. He was offended, and he gave you up—before I had asked him to. Yes, certainly before I had said anything final."
She looked out of the window again. "I wish I knew what had happened," she said as quietly as before. "I can't understand his giving me up—of his own free will. I wish I knew what you had said to him."
This hardened him a little. He did not want to make too much of Lassigny's having so easily given up his claims. He was not yet sure that he had entirely given them up. But, at any rate, the offence to his pride hadbeen enough to have caused him to do so unconditionally for the time being. Beatrix had been given up for it without a struggle to retain her, and it was not Beatrix's father who had made any conditions as to his seeing her or writing to her again, or had needed to do so. Yet she would not accept it, that the renunciation could have been on the part of the man whom she hardly knew. It must have been some injustice or harshness on his part, from whom she had had nothing but love all her life.
"It doesn't matter what I said to him, or what he said to me," he answered her. "If he had been the right sort of man for you nothing that I said to him would have caused him offence. He took offence, and withdrew. You must accept that, B darling. I didn't, actually, send him away. I shouldn't have sent him away, if he had justified himself to me in any degree. You know how much I love you, don't you? Surely you can trust me a little?"
He put his hand out to take hers, in a way that she had never yet failed to respond to. But she did not take it. It wasn't, apparently, of the least interest to her to be told how much he loved her. There was no comfort at all in that, to her who had so often shown herself hungry for the caresses that showed his love.
She sat still, looking out of the window, and saying nothing for a long time. He said nothing either, but took up one of the papers he had bought. He made himself read it with attention, and succeeded in taking in what he read after a few attempts. His heart washeavy enough; there would be a great deal more to go through yet before there could be any return to the old conditions of affection and contentment between him and this dear hurt child of his. But all had been said that could profitably be said. It would be much better to put it aside now, and act as if it were not there, as far as it was possible, and encourage her to do so.
She was strangely quiet, sitting there half-turned away from him with her eyes always fixed upon the summer landscape now flowing steadily past them; and yet she was, by temperament, more emotional than any of his children. None of them had ever cried much—they had had very little in their lives to cry about—but Beatrix had been more easily moved to tears than the others. She might have been expected to cry over what she was feeling now. Perhaps she wouldn't begin to get over the blow that had been dealt her until she did cry.
He felt an immense pity and tenderness for her, sitting there as still as a mouse. He would have liked to put his arm around her and draw her to him, and soothe her trouble, which she should have sobbed out on his shoulder as she had done with the little troubles of her childhood. But that unknown quantity in her restrained him. He knew instinctively that she would reject him as the consoler of this trouble. He was the cause of it in her poor wounded groping little mind.
Presently she roused herself and took up an illustrated paper, which she glanced through, saying as she did so, in a colourless voice: "Shall we be able to get some tea at Ganton? I've got rather a headache."
"Have you, my darling?" he said tenderly. "Yes, we shall have five minutes there. Haven't you any phenacetin in your bag?"
"Yes; but it isn't as bad as that," she said. "I'll take some when I get home, if it's worse."
"Give me a kiss, my little B," he said. "You do love your old Daddy, don't you?"
She kissed him obediently. "Yes, of course," she said, and returned to her paper.
They spoke little after that until they reached the station for Abington. If he said anything she replied to it, and sometimes she made a remark herself. But there was never anything like conversation between them. He was in deep trouble about her all the time, and could never afterwards look out on certain landmarks of that journey without inwardly flinching. He would not try to comfort her again. He knew that was beyond his power. She must get used to it first; and nobody could help her. And he would not bother her by talking; just a few words now and then were as necessary to her as to him.
Only Caroline had come to meet them. Beatrix clung to her a little as she kissed her, but that was all the sign she made, and she exerted herself a little more than she had done to talk naturally, until they reached home.
Barbara and Bunting were in front of the house as they came up. After a sharp glance at her and their father, they greeted her with the usual affection that this family habitually showed to one another, and bothsaid that they were glad to see her home again, as if they meant it. Miss Waterhouse was behind them, and said: "You look pale, B darling. Hadn't you better go straight to your room and lie down?"
She went upstairs with her. Barbara and Bunting, with a glance at one another, took themselves off. Caroline followed her father into the library.
"It's all over," he said shortly. "I saw him this morning. He's what I thought he was. She's well rid of him, poor child. But, of course, she's taking it very hard. You must look after her, darling. I can't do anything for her yet. She's closed up against me."
"Poor old Daddy," said Caroline, feeling in her sensitive fibre the hurt in him. "Was it very difficult for you?"
"It wasn't difficult to get rid of him," he said. "I didn't have to. He retired of his own accord. Whether he'll think better of his offence and try to come back again I don't know. But my mind's quite made up about him. However she feels about it I'm not going to give her to a man like that. She'll thank me for it by and by. Or if she doesn't I can't help it. I'm not going through this for my own sake."
She asked him a few questions as to how Beatrix had carried herself, and then she went up to her.
Beatrix was undressing, and crying softly. She had sent Miss Waterhouse away, saying that she was coming down to dinner, and it was time to dress. But when she had left her she had broken down, and decided to go to bed.
She threw herself into Caroline's arms, and cried as if her heart would break. Caroline said nothing until the storm had subsided a little, which it did very soon. "I can't help crying—just once," she said. "But I'm not going to let myself be like that. Why does he make me so unhappy? I thought he loved me."
Caroline thought she meant Lassigny. All that she had been told was that he had given her up. Fortunately she did not answer before Beatrix said: "He won't tell me what's wrong, and what he said to him, to make him go away. Oh, it's very cruel. I do love him, and I shall never love anybody else. And we were so happy together. And now he comes in and spoils it all. I shall never see him again; he said so."
Caroline had no difficulty now in disengaging the personalities of the various 'he's' and 'him's.'
"Daddy's awfully sad about it, B," she said. "You know he couldn't be cruel to any of us."
"He's been cruel to me," said Beatrix. "I came down when he told me to, although I didn't want to, and I made up my mind that if he wanted us to put it off, even for as long as a year, I would ask René to, because I did love him and wanted to please him. And he was all right about it last night—and yet all the time he meant to do this. I call that cruel. And what has my poor René done? He won't tell me. Has he told you?"
"I don't think it's anything that he's done," said Caroline slowly. "He says he isn't——"
"Oh, I know," said Beatrix, breaking in on her."He isn't a fit husband for me. He told me that. How does he know? He says he only talked to him for ten minutes, and then he said something that made him go away. Oh, why did he go away like that? He does love me, I know. Isn't he ever going to try to see me again, or even to write to me, to say good-bye?"
Caroline's heart was torn, but she couldn't merely soothe and sympathise with her. "It's frightfully hard for you, darling, I know," she said. "But he wouldn't just have gone away and given you up—M. de Lassigny, I mean—if Daddy hadn't been right about him."
"Oh, of course, you take his side!" said Beatrix. "I trusted him too, and he's been cruel to me."
Caroline helped her to bed. Her heart was heavy, both for Beatrix and for her father. She tried no more to defend him. It was of no use at present. Beatrix must work that out for herself. At present she was more in need of consolation than he was, and she tried her best to give it to her. But that was of little use either. Her grievance against her father was now rising to resentment. As she poured out her trouble, which after all did give her some relief, although she was unaware of it, Caroline could only say, "Oh, no, B darling, you mustn't say that"; or, "You know how much he loves you; he must be right about it." But in the end she was a little shaken in her own faith. She thought that Beatrix ought to have known more. She would have wanted to know more herself, if she had been in her place.
Later on in the evening she and Miss Waterhouse satwith him in the library, to which he had taken himself instinctively after dinner, as the room of the master of the house. Caroline had told him, what there was no use in keeping back, that Beatrix thought he had been unjust to her, and he was very unhappy.
He talked up and down about it for some time, and then said, with a reversion to the direct speech that was more characteristic of him: "She's bound to think I've been unjust to her, I suppose. Do you think so too?"
Miss Waterhouse did not reply. Caroline said, after a short pause: "I think if I were B I should want to know why you thought he wasn't fit for me. If it's anything that he's done——"
"It's the way he and men like him look upon marriage," he said. "I can't go into details—I really can't, either to you or her."
"But if he loves her very much—mightn't it be all right with them?"
"Yes, it might," he answered without any hesitation. "If he loved her in the right way."
"Are you quite sure he doesn't, darling? If he had a chance of proving it!"
"He hasn't asked for the chance."
"It really comes back to that," said Miss Waterhouse, speaking almost for the first time. "You would not have refused him his chance, if he had asked for it?"
"I don't know. I don't think I should. If he had said that his loving Beatrix made things different to him—if he'd shown in any way that they were differentto him—I don't know what I should have done. It certainly wouldn't have ended as it did."
"Well, Cara dear," said Miss Waterhouse, "I think the thing to say is that M. de Lassigny was not prepared to satisfy your father that he even wanted to be what he thought B's husband ought to be. If he had gone ever such a little way he would have had his chance."
"It is he who has given her up. I know that," said Caroline. "You didn't really send him away at all, did you? Oh, I'm sure you must have been right about him. I liked him, you know; but— He can't love B very much, I should think, if he was willing to give her up like that, at once."
That was the question upon which the unhappy clash of interests turned during the days that followed. Beatrix knew that he loved her. How could she make a mistake about that? She turned a little from Caroline, who was very loving to her but would not put herself unreservedly on her side, and poured out all her griefs to Barbara, and also to Mollie Walter. Barbara, not feeling herself capable of pronouncing upon anything on her own initiative, took frequent counsel of Miss Waterhouse, who advised her to be as sweet to B as possible, but not to admit that their father could have been wrong in the way he had acted. "There is no need to say that M. de Lassigny was," she said. "Poor B will see that for herself in time."
Poor B was quite incapable of seeing anything of the sort at present. She was also deeply offended atany expression of the supposition that she would 'get over it'—as if it were an attack of measles. She told Mollie, who gave her actually more of the sympathy that she wanted than any of her own family, that she couldn't understand her father taking this light view of love. She would have thought he understood such things better. She would never love anybody but René, even if they did succeed in keeping them apart all their lives. And she knew he would love her in the same way.
There was, however, no getting over the fact that René, when he had walked out of the Bank parlour, in offence, had walked out of his matrimonial intentions at the same time. The fashionable intelligence department announced his intention of spending the autumn at his Château in Picardy, and there was some reason to suppose that the announcement, not usual in the way it was given, might be taken as indicating to those who had thought of him as taking an English bride that his intentions in that respect had been relinquished.
Grafton was rather surprised at having got rid of him so easily, and inclined to question himself as to the way in which he had done it. He told Worthing of all that had passed, and Worthing's uncomplicated opinion was that the fellow must have been an out and out wrong 'un.
"I don't say that," Grafton said. "He was in love with B in the way that a fellow of that sort falls in love. Probably she'd have been very happy with him for a time. But she wouldn't have known how to holdhim—wouldn't have known that she had to, poor child. I'm precious glad she's preserved from it. You know, Worthing, I couldn't have stopped it if he'd said—like an English fellow might have done—a fellow who had gone the pace—that all that was over for good; he wanted to make himself fit for a girl like B—something of that sort. Many a fellow has been made by loving a good innocent girl, and marrying. B could have done that for him, if he'd been the right sort—and wanted it."
"I bet she could," said Worthing loyally. "It's hard luck she should have set her heart on a wrong 'un. They can't tell the difference, I suppose—girls, I mean. I don't know much about 'em, but I've learnt a good deal since I've got to know yours. It makes you feel different about all that sort of game. It's made me wish sometimes that I'd married myself, before I got too old for it. What I can't quite understand is its not affecting this fellow in the same sort of way. I don't understand his not making a struggle for her."
"Well, I suppose it's as he said to me—what annoyed me so—that marriage is a thing apart with him and his like. He's got plenty to offer in marriage, and it would probably annoy him much more than it would an Englishman in the same sort of position as his, to be turned down. He may have been sorry that he'd cut it off himself so decisively, but his pride wouldn't let him do anything to recover his ground. That's what I think has happened."
"Well, but what about his being in love with her?That'd count a good deal with a girl like her, I should say—Frenchman or no Frenchman."
"He's been in love plenty of times before. He knows how easy it is to get over, if she doesn't—the sort of lovehe'slikely to have felt for her. It might have turned into something more, if he'd known her longer. Perhaps he didn't know that; they don't know everything about love—the sensualists—though they think they do. She hadn't had time to make much impression on him—just a very pretty bright child; I think he'd have got tired of her in no time, sweet as she is. Oh, I'm thankful we've got rid of him. I've never done a better thing in my life than when I stopped it. But I'm not having a happy time about it at present, Worthing. No more is my little B."