Part 16

Roger leaned toward the unhappy man distracted by his own torturings of himself. “Will you believe me, sir,” said he earnestly, “when I say I am deeply sorry that I have been the innocent cause of a breach between you and your daughter. Perhaps it is just as well that she has gotten away from you. It may result in her developing into the really fine person God intended her to be. Still, I wish to do all I can to heal the breach.”

“That sounds like a man, Mr. Wade!” cried Richmond, all eagerness.

“I’ve been putting up with you this afternoon,” pursued Roger, apparently not much impressed by this certificate of his virtue, “because I hoped to do something toward ending the quarrel between you two.”

“You can end it,” interrupted Richmond. “You can end it at once.”

“Tell me how, and I’ll do it,” said Roger.

“She believes you wish to marry her.”

“I am confident she never told you anything like that.”

“She thinks you’re afraid to marry her unless she brought the money to keep her in the style she’s been used to.”

“Impossible,” said Roger.

“She tells me you refused her. But she still hopes.”

Roger had become red and awkward. “Your daughter is something of a coquette,” he stammered. “But I assure you you are wrong in thinking she-- It’s impossible for me to discuss this.” He rose impatiently. “Your daughter does not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry her. That’s the whole story, sir. I must ask you to let me continue my work.”

“If you _mean_ that,” urged Richmond, “you will go to her and tell her so. She’s at the Wolcott--in New York City. You will tell her you do not love her and would not marry her--and she’ll come home.” The father’s voice had grown hoarse and quavering, and in his face there was a piteous humility and wretchedness--such an expression as only a dethroned tyrant can have. “If you knew how her conduct is making me suffer, Mr. Wade, you’d not hesitate to do me--and her--this favor.” That last word of abasement came in little more than a whisper.

Roger seemed to be debating.

“You must realize she is not a fit wife for you--she, brought up to a life of fashion and luxury. And she will never have a cent from me--not a cent!”

Roger had not been listening. “Can’t do it,” he now said. “Sorry, but I can’t.”

“You wish to marry her!” cried Richmond in the frenzy of impotence struggling at its bonds. “You hope!”

Roger, too full of pity for resentment, regarded the old man with friendly eyes. “Mr. Richmond,” said he, “I repeat I do not wish to marry anyone. I have made up my mind, with all the strength of what little good sense I may have, never to marry. I do not believe in marriage--for myself--for people who are doing the sort of thing I’m trying to do. You might as well accuse a Catholic priest of intending to marry.”

“Fudge!” snorted Richmond.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. “This interview was not of my seeking. I wish it to come to an end.”

“You refuse to tell her you will not marry her?”

“I refuse to make an impertinent ass of myself. If you wish your daughter back, sir, go and apologize for having outraged her finest feelings and ask her to come home unconditionally. I could not say to her what you request--for obvious reasons of good taste. If you had a sense of humor you’d not ask it. But I don’t hesitate to give you my word that you need not have an instant’s uneasiness lest your daughter and I marry.”

“On your honor?”

“On my honor.”

Richmond gazed at him with eyes that seemed to be searching every corner of his soul. “I believe you,” said he at last. “And I am content.” He had abruptly changed from suspicion and sneer and hardly veiled insult to his most winning friendliness and geniality. It was amazing how attractive his wizened and usually almost wicked face became. “It’s been my experience,” he went on to explain, “that human beings are at bottom exactly alike--in motives, in the things that appeal to them. Once in a while there is an exception. You happen to be one, Mr. Wade. I think you’ll forgive me for having applied my principle to you. Where exceptions are rare it’s most unwise for a practical man to consider them as a possibility.”

Roger smiled amiably enough. “No matter,” said he. “I hope you’ll make it up with your daughter.”

Richmond’s face clouded, and once more that look of anguish showed deep in his eyes. “It’ll just about kill me if I don’t,” said he.

“Go to her--like a father who loves,” said Roger gently. And once more the impulse came, too strong to resist, and he dropped the cover from the painting. But this time he did not look at the picture--at Beatrice Richmond as incarnation of a spring morning; he fixed his gaze upon her father. And the expression of that sad, passion-scarred face made him glad he had yielded to the impulse.

“I must have it!” said Richmond. “Name your own price.”

“It is not for sale.”

“I tell you I must have it.”

“No--you can have her. I shall keep this.”

Roger was gazing absently at his creation. Richmond, struck by some subtle accent in his words, glanced quickly at him.

“I’ll take it with me--back to Paris,” said Roger, talking aloud to himself.

“When do you go?” asked Richmond abruptly.

“Next week.”

“For the summer?”

“For good,” said Roger, covering the picture.

“I wish you every success,” cried Richmond heartily. “You are an honest, sincere man.”

The meaning of Roger’s quizzical smile escaped him.

XVII

RICHMOND TRIES TO MAKE PEACE

It would hardly have been possible for anyone to hold crow in lower esteem as a repast than did Daniel Richmond; and, long though his career and many its ups and downs, seldom had he been called upon to eat it. But on those few occasions he had eaten like the wise man he was--as if it were a delicacy, as if it were his favorite dish; as if he were afraid some one would snatch away his portion should he linger over it. The vicissitudes of fortune had now swung crow round to him once more. He lost no time in setting about dispatching it.

At ten the next morning, when Beatrice descended to the parlor of the Wolcott in response to her father’s name brought up to her in his hasty scrawl on one of the hotel’s blank cards, she was greeted effusively. He did not give her a chance to be uppish and distant. He met her in the door, took her in his arms and kissed her fondly.

“It’s been an age since I saw you,” cried he, twinkling with good humor. “I’m amazed to find you still young.”

She was quite taken aback, but succeeded in concealing it and in accepting his suggestion as to the dominant note of what she had assumed would be a trying interview. “How’s mother--and the boys?” inquired she. “Much changed?”

“All well. Your mother holds together wonderfully.”

There was no jest, however, but a moving earnestness in his eyes as they fixed upon her a hungry, devouring expression. And her own look at him strongly suggested the presence of a veil of tears. Neither had until now realized how much they cared about each other, how strong was the sympathy through similarity of character. He abruptly seized her and kissed her again, his fingers trembling as he passed them over her yellow hair. “I’m mighty glad to see you,” said he. “Mighty glad.”

“And I you,” she replied, taking his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. And then she kissed him and openly wiped away her tears.

This outburst of nature on her part was a grave tactical blunder--for, in dealing with men of his sort, the guard can never be dropped; their habit of seeing and seizing advantage is too powerful ever to relax. Upsetting to him though his agitation and delight were, he did not cease to be himself. The instant he saw how moved she was, how she was meeting his advances half way at least, if not more, he began to hope he could spare himself the hated dish of crow. So, although his napkin was tucked under his chin and his knife and fork were in air, eager for the festal attack, he did not proceed. He had intended his next words to be a sweeping apology. Instead, he said:

“I see you’ve been thinking things over, just as I have.”

“Yes,” replied she.

“We were both hasty. You inherit my disposition--and it’s a rather difficult one.” He was hesitatingly caressing her hand. “I wanted a boy with my sort of brain,” he went on. “But it didn’t turn out that way. You inherited, instead. Just as well, perhaps. I’d have broken with a boy like myself. But the feminine in you saves the situation. We can forgive each other without pride interfering.... I’m sorry for what I did, and I’ve no doubt you are. Let’s forget it all and go home and begin again.”

“You mean that, father?” cried she, tears again welling into her eyes. “Oh, you _do_ love me! And I thought you didn’t.”

“This business has aged me ten years,” said he, thinking rapidly as he was still further encouraged by those tears. “I saw it myself when I shaved this morning.”

Beatrice hung her head. For the moment she felt guilty. She--_she_ had aged this loving, always-indulgent father!

This further evidence of feminine softness and affection encouraged him to the point of believing himself once more master. He said, in a forgiving tone: “But you didn’t realize what you were doing. Well, you’ve had a valuable lesson, my dear, and you’ve got the intelligence to profit by it. How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Oh, not long. I’ve got some things to attend to, but I can do it at Red Hill just as well as here, I think.”

“Go up and pack, and I’ll come back in an hour.” He rose. “What a weight this lifts off me!” And his appearance confirmed his words. “But I’m gladdest of all because it vindicates your good sense. I knew my daughter would see I was doing what was best for her, would see it just as soon as her intelligence regained control.”

Beatrice had risen; at this last sentence she sat down again with a dazed expression. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, father,” said she, hesitatingly. “I’m afraid I misunderstood you.”

Richmond saw he had gone too far--probably not much too far, but still beyond where her mood of penitence had carried her--as yet. “Let’s not discuss disagreeable things,” said he hurriedly. “Do your packing and let’s get home. Once we get there everything else can be settled easily.”

But Beatrice, after trying in vain to arrest his evading glance, kept her seat. “No, we must understand each other first,” said she decisively.

“Now, Beatrice,” protested her father at the door into the hall, “don’t spoil your happiness and my own!”

“Listen to me, father. I’ve not changed my mind about Peter--not in the least.”

“Oh--bother Peter!” exclaimed he good-humoredly.

“Do you still expect me to marry him?”

Richmond saw there was no dodging the issue. He met it squarely. “I’m sure you’ll want to marry him. But I’m not going to force you--or try to.”

“But listen. I haven’t changed my mind about Roger, either.”

“Well--well,” said Richmond, still good-humored though not so easily. “It’d be foolish for us to quarrel about him. You say he has refused you.”

“Yes--but I haven’t given him up.”

“That isn’t a very nice way for a girl to talk--is it now, my dear?” said Richmond, laughing with some constraint.

“Why not?” said she.

“It’s the man’s place to do the courting and the proposing. And if the man doesn’t want you I’m sure you’ve got too much modesty and pride to----”

“I don’t know whether I have or not,” interrupted Beatrice. “I’ve got a lot of you in me. I can’t imagine anything I wouldn’t do to get him if I thought it would help. And I haven’t thought of much else but of different schemes to bring him round. I’m like you are when you see a railroad you want.”

“But there’s nothing you can do, Beatrice,” remonstrated her father.

“No--it seems not,” she assented despondently. “Oh, how it enrages me to be a woman! When a man sees a girl he recognizes as the very best for him, one he can’t and won’t do without, he goes after her--straight out--and everybody applauds. It ought to be so with a girl.”

“God forbid!” cried Richmond, laughing.

“Oh, the men wouldn’t be bothered as much as you seem to think. Not many of them are tremendously worth while. The women feel about most of them like----”

“Like they do about mashed potatoes in Indiana--don’t care whether they’re eating ’em or not?”

“Just so,” laughed she.

Once more he was at the hall door. He turned for a last look and smile. “I’ll be back in an hour, and out home we’ll plan something to take your mind off this unappreciative man.”

Beatrice looked disappointed. “I thought you were going to say plan something to bring him round. That’s what we must do.”

This was the fatal one prod too many at the leashed temper of Richmond. “Don’t irritate me, Beatrice,” he said sharply--a plea verging on a rebuke. “Please try to be a little tactful with me.”

“I see you haven’t changed at all,” cried she, tears in her eyes again--hot tears of a very different kind from those before.

“I thought you wanted to go home,” cried he, struggling with his temper.

“I do--if you are willing to grant me the dearest right a woman has--the right to select her own husband.” She came closer to him, clasped her hands and laid them against his shoulder. And into his eyes gazed hers, innocent, anxious. “Oh, father, won’t you be sensible--reasonable? I’ve got to live with him--not you.”

“I’d do almost anything to please you, my dear. If he were in your class----”

“But that’s just why I want him,” cried she. “Do you think a man like that could grow up in my class?”

“There are lots of clever painters about--lots of ’em.”

“I don’t care anything about his painting,” exclaimed she impatiently. “I don’t know anything about it. I’m speaking of him as a man. A woman doesn’t marry a talent--or a family--or a fortune. She wants a _man_. Of course, if she can’t get a man, why, one of the other things is better than nothing. But _I_ can get a _man_, father--if you’ll help me!”

“Peter’s almost as tall--and quite as handsome--and much more like your sort of looking man.”

“Father--father--how can you! And you have a sense of humor, too!”

“It’s fortunate for you, my dear, that Wade has the good sense to see he would be ill at ease out of his own class. If he were willing, and I were foolish, and you married him--how wretched you’d be when the awakening came!”

The girl turned sadly away. “You don’t believe in love,” she said with bitterness. “You don’t believe in anything but money.”

“I want to see my daughter happy,” said Richmond with a melancholy, reproachful dignity that made her ashamed of herself.

“Yes--I know you do, father,” said she. “But”--with a look of hesitation that might readily have been mistaken for weakness--“I see I must go my own way.”

Richmond reflected that this did not mean much, as Roger Wade was firmly set against marriage. So he said, with hypocritical resignation: “Very well, my dear. Do as you like. All I want is you to come home.”

Beatrice slowly shook her head. “I can’t go,” said she.

Her father stared, astounded; her expression made her words as far as possible from impulsive or careless.

“I see you haven’t changed at all. If I went back the same trouble would break out again--only worse. Besides, what chance would I have to get him? You’d work against me secretly if you didn’t openly. No--I don’t trust you. I must make up my mind to shift for myself.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” he ejaculated. “Are you stark mad?”

“No. I’m becoming sane,” said she quietly. “Won’t you sit down a minute?”

Richmond seated himself meekly. The fear that had brought him there to apologize was chilling his hot temper.

“I left home partly because of Roger Wade,” she proceeded to explain, “but not altogether. There was another reason--as strong--maybe stronger. You had opened my eyes to the truth about myself--to what a degraded position I was in.”

“Degraded?” echoed he wonderingly. Then, somewhat like an alienist humoring an insane patient: “But go on, my dear.”

“I had been imagining all along that I was free. I suddenly found that I wasn’t free at all--that I had to do what you said--even about the things that meant my whole life--had to do as you ordered or lose all the things you had made necessities to me--all the luxury and the enjoyments and the friends even. I saw I wasn’t anything in myself--nothing at all--and I had been going round with my head high, so proud and so pleased with myself! I understood why Roger Wade didn’t think me worth while. I understood why you could treat me contemptuously.”

“Is that all?” inquired her father, when she paused for a reflective silence.

“No--just a little more. So--I’m not going back home with you--not just now. I’m going on with the dressmaking.”

“With the--_what_?”

“Oh, I forgot I hadn’t told you,” said she with a smile. “Valentine and I--and Monsieur Léry, whom she is marrying--are starting a dressmaking shop.”

Richmond stood up straight, and his scanty hair and thick eyebrows seemed to be assisting materially in making him the embodiment of horrified amazement.

“Don’t be alarmed, father. The name over the door is not to be Richmond or Beatrice, but Valentine--though, of course, I’ll take part openly. I want everybody to know, because I intend to make loads and loads of money. You’ve no idea of the profits in fashionable dressmaking. Eighty--a hundred--a hundred and fifty per cent!”

“You are joking!”

She pretended to misunderstand. “No--fully that,” she cried delightedly.

“Beatrice! I forbid it.”

“But I’m not asking you to invest,” laughed she. “In fact, we don’t want any more capital or partners. Personally, I wish Léry were an employee instead of a partner. But Valentine would insist, I’m sure----”

“You will drive me mad!” exclaimed her father, throwing his arms about wildly. “This folly is worse than the infatuation for that artist!” And he started up, fumed about the room, sank exhausted and trembling into a chair. “You’ll be the death of me!” he gasped.

“Now, do be reasonable, father,” she urged. “Why shouldn’t I use my talents for business and for dress and make myself rich? Don’t talk to me about what people will think. I don’t care. I’ve found out what people are worth. Why, even my friend, Allie Kinnear, hasn’t been near me.”

“I forbid it! I forbid it!” her father cried, shaking his fists in the air. And off again he went into one of his paroxysms of fury.

“But I’m of age.”

“I’ll have you locked up as insane! I’ll have a commission appointed to take charge of your property!”

“When I showed them my plans for the shop I think they’d let me alone. We’ll make barrels of money. New York hasn’t seen such a shop as I’d run. The trouble with the dressmaking business is that no woman who really knows----”

He seized her by the arm, glared into her face. “This is an infernal scheme to bring me to terms! Has that artist put you up to it?”

“How absurd! I haven’t seen him. I doubt if he knows I’ve left home. Father, since I seem not to be able to get him I’ve simply got to do something--something that will keep me so busy I shan’t have time to think. For I’m not--as you imagine--the victim of a foolish girl’s infatuation. I’m really in love, father dear--sensibly in love.”

“No one is sensible who’s in love,” said he in a far gentler tone. His rages had about exhausted his strength. He was feeling an ominous feebleness of limb and heart that alarmed him. “Nobody’s sensible who’s in love,” he repeated.

“Nobody’s sensible who isn’t--if they get half a chance,” replied she. “It’s the only thing in life.”

And his haggard face and the hungry misery of his eyes contained no denial of her confident assertion. “Is there _nothing_ that will induce you to come home, Beatrice?” he pleaded with the weakness of exhaustion. “I’ll never speak of Peter--of marriage--again. I’ll give you whatever income you want--in your own right.”

“And Roger?”

Richmond winced; but those inward reminders of oncreeping old age, lonely and loveless if this girl turned from him, forbade him to draw back. “You think you could get him if I were to consent?”

“Perhaps.” There was the ecstatic quiver of a newborn hope in her voice.

“That is, you would marry him, even though you were convinced he was a fortune hunter?”

“He might be afraid to undertake the support of as expensive a girl as I am. He doesn’t dream how inexpensive I could be.”

A long pause, he gazing at the floor, she anxiously watching him. “Well--I consent,” burst from her father. His tone suggested a false admission wrung under torture.

Another long pause, she eying him dubiously, he avoiding her gaze. “I don’t trust you,” said she. “It’s your own fault. You can’t blame me. I couldn’t ever trust you, after the thing you did against Roger--and your threats to Peter and to me.”

“I am an old fool--a weak old fool!” he shouted, seizing his hat. “I wash my hands of you! I’m done with you!”

And out he bolted, running squarely into a woman who was just entering the parlor. He did not pause to apologize.

* * * * *

In the afternoon Mrs. Richmond came--beautifully dressed and diffusing a strong but elegant odor of concentrated essence of lilies of the valley. “I’d have been here long ago,” she explained as she kissed and embraced her daughter and shed a few cautious tears, “but I didn’t dare. This was my first chance. Your father has absolutely forbidden me. And I had always thought he was rather partial to you. But then, I might have known. He cares for nobody--for nothing--but those schemes and plans of his. You’d never believe he was the same man as the one I married. And he isn’t. Success has turned his head.”

“He was here this morning,” said Beatrice.

“Here!” exclaimed her mother. “What for?”

“For me.”

Jealousy sparkled in her mother’s hastily veiled eyes. “Trying to get you into his power again,” she sneered.

“I suppose so,” said Beatrice. “Yes--that must have been it.”

“Then you are coming home?”

“Oh, no.”

The jealousy passed; the mother returned. “But, Beatrice--he has changed his will and has cut you off. He’s leaving your portion to Hector.”

Beatrice looked uncomfortable. “I shan’t say I like that,” said she, “for it’d be false. But I’m not coming home, just the same. There’s been a great change in me, mother.”

“You always were headstrong,” said her mother. “I used to feel, when you were a baby, that the day would come when there’d be a clash between you and your father.”

“Well--the clash is over. We’ll let each other alone after this.”

“But what is to become of you? Of course, I’ll have something; and as long as I have anything--” Mrs. Richmond checked herself, flushed. “In fact, I have got a little, Beatrice. I put by in case there ever should be this kind of trouble between him and the children. I can let you have a good income--enough, with what you’ve got, to make a showing you needn’t be ashamed of. Have you seen Mr. Wade?”

Beatrice put her arms around her mother and kissed her--tenderly, but with that carefulness which one woman never neglects in caressing another who has made a careful toilet. “If I need the money I’ll tell you, dear,” said she. “No, I haven’t seen him. Have you?”

“Late yesterday afternoon. He was striding along the road--didn’t see me.”

“How was he looking?”

“Anxious and depressed, I thought.”

Beatrice beamed. “You’re not telling me that--just to make me feel good?”

“No--no, indeed. He looked almost haggard.”

Beatrice kissed her mother again. There could not be the slightest doubt. Her mother, in the habit of siding with her children against their aggressive father and of protecting them from him, was moving in her direction. “Why don’t _you_ go to see him?” she boldly suggested.

“If your father should find out!”

“You’ve got the picture as an excuse. You know, father thinks we met Roger in Europe.”