After his first glance at Sir Timothy, Francis' only thought was for
Margaret. To his intense relief, she showed no signs whatever of terror,
or of any relapse to her former state. She was entirely mistress of
herself and the occasion. Sir Timothy's face was cold and terrible.
“I must apologise for this second intrusion, Mr. Ledsam,” he said
cuttingly. “I think you will admit that the circumstances warrant it. Am
I to understand that you lied to me this morning?”
“You are to understand nothing of the sort,” Francis answered. “I told
you everything I knew at that time of your daughter's movements.”
“Indeed!” Sir Timothy murmured. “This little banquet, then, was
unpremeditated?”
“Entirely,” Francis replied. “Here is the exact truth, so far as I am
concerned. I met your daughter little more than an hour ago, coming out
of a steamship office, where she had booked a passage to Buenos Ayres
to get away from me. I was fortunate enough to induce her to change
her mind. She has consented instead to remain in England as my wife. We
were, as you see, celebrating the occasion.”
Sir Timothy laid his hat upon the sideboard and slowly removed his
gloves.
“I trust,” he said, “that this pint bottle does not represent your
cellar. I will drink a glass of wine with you, and with your permission
make myself a pâté sandwich. I was just sitting down to luncheon when I
received the information which brought me here.”
Francis produced another bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled
his visitor's glass.
“You will drink, I hope, to our happiness,” he said.
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Sir Timothy declared, helping himself
with care to the pâté. “I have no superstitions about breaking bread
with an enemy, or I should not have asked you to visit me at The
Sanctuary, Mr. Ledsam. I object to your marriage with my daughter, and I
shall take what steps I can to prevent it.”
“Why?”
Sir Timothy did not at once reply. He seemed to be enjoying his
sandwich; he also appreciated the flavour of his wine.
“Your question,” he said, “strikes me as being a little ingenuous. You
are at the present moment suspecting me of crimes beyond number. You
encourage Scotland Yard detectives to make asses of themselves in my
stream. Your myrmidons scramble on to the top of my walls and try to
bribe my servants to disclose the mysteries of my household. You have
accepted to the fullest extent my volunteered statement that I am a
patron of crime. You are, in short--forgive me if I help myself to a
little more of this pâté--engaged in a strenuous attempt to bring me to
justice.”
“None of these things affects your daughter,” Francis pointed out.
“Pardon me,” Sir Timothy objected. “You are a great and shining light of
the English law. People speak of you as a future Chancellor. How can you
contemplate an alliance with the widow of one criminal and the daughter
of another?”
“As to Margaret being Oliver Hilditch's widow,” Francis replied, “you
were responsible for that, and no one else. He was your protegé; you
gave your consent to the marriage. As to your being her father, that
again is not Margaret's fault. I should marry her if Oliver Hilditch had
been three times the villain he was, and if you were the Devil himself.”
“I am getting quite to like you, Mr. Ledsam,” Sir Timothy declared,
helping himself to another piece of toast and commencing to butter it.
“Margaret, what have you to say about all this?”
“I have nothing to say,” she answered. “Francis is speaking for me. I
never dreamed that after what I have gone through I should be able to
care for any one again in this world. I do care, and I am very happy
about it. All last night I lay awake, making up my mind to run away,
and this morning I actually booked my passage to Buenos Ayres. Then we
met--just outside the steamship office--and I knew at once that I was
making a mistake. I shall marry Francis exactly when he wants me to.”
Sir Timothy passed his glass towards his proposed son-in-law.
“Might one suggest,” he began--“thank you very much. This is of course
very upsetting to me. I seem to be set completely at defiance. It is a
very excellent wine, this, and a wonderful vintage.”
Francis bent over Margaret.
“Please finish your lunch, dear,” he begged. “It is perhaps just as well
that your father came. We shall know exactly where we are.”
“Just so,” Sir Timothy agreed.
There was a queer constrained silence for several moments. Then Sir
Timothy leaned back in his chair and with a word of apology lit a
cigarette.
“Let us,” he said, “consider the situation. Margaret is my daughter. You
wish to marry her. Margaret is of age and has been married before. She
is at liberty, therefore, to make her own choice. You agree with me so
far?”
“Entirely,” Francis assented.
“It happens,” Sir Timothy went on, “that I disapprove of her choice. She
desires to marry a young man who belongs to a profession which I detest,
and whose efforts in life are directed towards the extermination of a
class of people for whom I have every sympathy. To me he represents
the smug as against the human, the artificially moral as against the
freethinker. He is also my personal enemy. I am therefore naturally
desirous that my daughter should not marry this young man.”
“We will let it go at that,” Francis commented, “but I should like to
point out to you that the antagonism between us is in no way personal.
You have declared yourself for forces with which I am at enmity, like
any other decent-living citizen. Your declaration might at any time be
amended.”
Sir Timothy bowed.
“The situation is stated,” he said. “I will ask you this question as a
matter of form. Do you recognise my right to forbid your marriage with
my daughter, Mr. Ledsam?”
“I most certainly do not,” was the forcible reply.
“Have I any rights at all?” Sir Timothy asked. “Margaret has lived under
my roof whenever it has suited her to do so. Since she has taken up her
residence at Curzon Street, she has been her own mistress, her banking
account has known no limit whatsoever. I may be a person of evil
disposition, but I have shown no unkindness to her.”
“It is quite true,” Margaret admitted, turning a little pale. “Since I
have been alone, you have been kindness itself.”
“Then let me repeat my question,” Sir Timothy went on, “have I the right
to any consideration at all?”
“Yes,” Francis replied. “Short of keeping us apart, you have the
ordinary rights of a parent.”
“Then I ask you to delay the announcement of your engagement, or taking
any further steps concerning it, for fourteen days,” Sir Timothy said.
“I place no restrictions on your movements during that time. Such
hospitality as you, Mr. Ledsam, care to accept at my hands, is at your
disposal. I am Bohemian enough, indeed, to find nothing to complain of
in such little celebrations as you are at present indulging in--most
excellent pâté, that. But I request that no announcement of your
engagement be made, or any further arrangements made concerning it, for
that fourteen days.”
“I am quite willing, father,” Margaret acquiesced.
“And I, sir,” Francis echoed.
“In which case,” Sir Timothy concluded, rising to his feet, lighting a
cigarette and taking up his hat and gloves, “I shall go peaceably away.
You will admit, I trust,” he added, with that peculiar smile at the
corner of his lips, “that I have not in any way tried to come the heavy
father? I can even command a certain amount of respect, Margaret, for a
young man who is able to inaugurate his engagement by an impromptu meal
of such perfection. I wish you both good morning. Any invitation which
Margaret extends, Ledsam, please consider as confirmed by me.”
He closed the door softly. They heard his footsteps descending the
stairs. Francis leaned once more over Margaret. She seemed still dazed,
confused with new thoughts. She responded, however, readily to his
touch, yielded to his caress with an almost pathetic eagerness.
“Francis,” she murmured, as his arms closed around her, “I want to
forget.”