"Of course it's queer. That's why I'm telling you. That's what makes it
so remarkable--such a--tribute--to me, I dare say that sounds fatuous,
but--"
"It doesn't sound fatuous so much as--"
"So much as what?"
The distress gathering in her eyes prepared him for her next words
before she uttered them.
"Papa, I shouldn't think you'd take it."
He stared at her dully. Her perspicacity disconcerted him. He had
expected to bolster up the ruins of his honor by her delighted
acquiescence. He had not known till now how much he had been counting on
the justification of her relief. It was a proof, however, of the degree
to which his own initiative had failed him that he cowered before her
judgment, with little or no protest.
"I haven't said I'd take it--positively."
"Naturally. Of course you haven't."
He dabbled the spoon uneasily in his tea, looking downcast. "I don't
quite see that," he objected, trying to rally his pluck, "why it should
be--naturally."
"Oh, don't you? To me it's self-evident. We may have lost money, but
we're still not--recipients of alms."
"This wasn't alms. It was four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
She was plainly awe-struck. "That's a great deal; but I supposed it
would be something large. And yet the magnitude of the sum only makes it
the more impossible to accept."
"Y-es; of course--if you look at it in that way." He put back his cup on
the table untasted.
"Surely it's the only way to look at it? Aren't you going to drink your
tea?"
"No, I think not. I've had enough. I've--I've had enough--of
everything."
He sank back wearily into the depths of his arm-chair. The glitter had
passed from his eyes; he looked ill. He had clearly not enough courage
to make a stand for what he wanted. She could see how cruelly he was
disappointed. After all, he might have accepted the money and told her
nothing about it! He had taken her into his confidence because of that
need of expansion that had often led him to "give away" what a more
crafty man would have kept to himself. She was profiting by his
indiscretion to make what was already so hard for him still harder.
Sipping her tea slowly, she turned the subject over and over in her
mind, seeking some ground on which to agree with him.
She did this the more conscientiously, since she had often reproached
herself with a fixity of principle that might with some show of reason
be called too inflexible. Between right and wrong other people,
especially the people of her "world," were able to see an infinitude of
shadings she had never been able to distinguish. She half accepted the
criticism often made of her in Paris and London that her Puritan
inheritance had given an inartistic rigidity to her moral prospect. It
inclined her to see the paths of life as ruled and numbered like the
checker-board plan of an American city, instead of twisting and winding,
quaintly and picturesquely, with round-about evasions and astonishing
short-cuts, amusing to explore, whether for the finding or the losing of
the way, as in any of the capitals long trodden by the feet of men.
Between the straight, broad avenues of conduct, well lighted and well
defined, there lay apparently whole regions of byways, in which those
who could not easily do right could wander vaguely, without precisely
doing wrong, following a line that might be termed permissible. Into
this tortuous maze her spirit now tried to penetrate, as occasionally,
to visit some historic monument, she had plunged into the slums of a
medieval town.
It was an exercise that brought her nothing but a feeling of
bewilderment. Having no sense of locality for this kind of labyrinth,
she could only turn round and round confusedly. All she could do, when
from the drooping of her father's lids she feared he was falling off to
sleep, leaving the question unsettled, was to say, helplessly:
"I suppose you'll be sorry now for having told me."
He lifted his long lashes, that were like a girl's, and looked at her.
The minutes that had passed had altered his expression. There was again
a sparkle of resolve, perhaps of relief, in his glance. Without changing
his position, he spoke drowsily, and yet reassuringly, like a man with a
large and easy grasp of the situation. She was not sure whether it was a
renewal of confidence on his part or a bit of acting.
"No, dear, no. I wanted to get your point of view. It's always
interesting to me. I see your objections--of course. I may say that I
even shared some of them--till--"
She allowed him a minute in which to resume, but, as he kept silence,
she ventured to ask:
"Does that mean that you don't share them now?"
"I see what there is to be said--all round. It isn't to be expected,
dear, that you, as a woman, not used to business--"
"Oh, but I didn't understand that this _was_ business. That's just the
point. To borrow money might be business--to borrow it on security, you
know, or whatever else is the usual way--but not to take it as a
present."
He jerked himself up into a forward posture. When he replied to her, it
was with didactic, explanatory irritation.
"When I said that, I was legitimately using language that might be
called exaggerated. Hyperbole is, I believe, the term grammarians use
for it. I didn't expect you, dear, to take me up so literally. It isn't
like you. You generally have more imagination. As a matter of fact,
Davenant's offer was that of a loan--"
"Oh! So it was--that man?"
"Yes; it was he. He expressly spoke of it as _a loan_. I myself
interpreted it as a gift simply to emphasize its extraordinary
generosity. I thought you'd appreciate that. Do you see?"
"Perfectly, papa; and it's the extraordinary generosity that seems to me
just what makes it impossible. Why should Mr. Davenant be generous to
us? What does he expect to gain?"
"I had that out with him. He said he didn't expect to gain anything."
"And you believed him?"
"Partly; though I suppose he has something up his sleeve. It wasn't my
policy to question him too closely about that. It's not altogether my
first concern. I need the money."
"But you don't need the money--in that way, papa?"
"I need it in any way. If Davenant will let me have it--especially on
such terms--I've no choice but to take it."
"Oh, don't, papa. I'm sure it isn't right. I--I don't like him."
"Pff! What's that got to do with it? This is business."
"No, papa. It's not business. It's a great deal more--or a great deal
less--I don't know which."
"You don't know anything about it at all, dear. You may take that from
me. This is a man's affair. You really _must_ leave it to me to deal
with it." Once more he fell back into the depth of his arm-chair and
closed his eyes. "If you don't mind, I think I should like a little nap.
What have you got so especially against Davenant, anyhow?"
"I've nothing against him--except that I've never liked him."
"What do you know about him? When did you ever see him?"
"I _haven't_ seen him for years--not since Drusilla used to bring him to
dances, when we were young girls. She didn't like it particularly, but
she had to do it because he was her father's ward and had gone to live
with them. He was uncouth--aggressive. Wasn't he a foundling, or a
street Arab, or something like that? He certainly seemed so. He wasn't a
bit--civilized. And once he--he said something--he almost insulted me.
You wouldn't take his money now, papa?"
There was no answer. He breathed gently. She spoke more forcibly.
"Papa, you wouldn't let a stranger pay your debts?"
He continued to breathe gently, his eyes closed, the long black lashes
curling on his cheek.
"Papa, darling," she cried, "I'll help you. I'll take everything on
myself. I'll find a way--somehow. Only, _don't_ do this."
He stirred, and murmured sleepily.
"You attend to your wedding, dear. That'll be quite enough for you to
look after."
"But I can't have a wedding if Mr. Davenant has to pay for it. Don't you
see? I can't be married at all."
When he made no response to this shot, she understood finally that he
meant to let the subject drop.