had written to Wilfrid a full account of her interview with her father. Wilfrid’s reply was laconic. “If you cannot stand a week of the brogue, give up Besworth, by all means.” He made no further allusion to the place. They engaged an opera-box, for the purpose of holding a consultation with him in town. He wrote evasively, but did not appear, and the ladies, with Emilia between them, listened to every foot-fall by the box-door, and were too much preoccupied to marvel that Emilia was just as inattentive to the music as they were. When the curtain dropped they noticed her dejection.
“What ails you?” they asked.
“Let us go out of London to-night,” she whispered, and it was difficult to persuade her that she would see Brookfield again.
“Remember,” said Adela, “it is you that run away from us, not we from you.”
Soft chidings of this description were the only reproaches for her naughty conduct. She seemed contrite very still and timid, since that night of adventure. The ladies were glad to observe it, seeing that it lent her an air of refinement, and proved her sensible to correction.
At last Mr. Pole broke the silence. He had returned from business, humming and rubbing his hands, like one newly primed with a suggestion that was the key of a knotty problem. Observant Adela said: “Have you seen Wilfrid, papa?”
“Saw him in the morning,” Mr. Pole replied carelessly.
Mr. Barrett was at the table.
“By the way, what do you think of our law of primogeniture?” Mr. Pole addressed him.
He replied with the usual allusion to a basis of aristocracy.
“Well, it’s the English system,” said Mr. Pole. “That’s always in its favour at starting. I’m Englishman enough to think that. There ought to be an entail of every decent bit of property, eh?”
It was observed that Mr. Barrett reddened as he said, “I certainly think that a young man should not be subject to his father’s caprice.”
“Father’s caprice! That isn’t common. But, if you’re founding a family, you must entail.”
“We agree, sir, from my point of view, and from yours.”
“Knits the family bond, don’t you think? I mean, makes the trunk of the tree firm. It makes the girls poor, though!”
Mr. Barrett saw that he had some confused legal ideas in his head, and that possibly there were personal considerations in the background; so he let the subject pass.
When the guest had departed, Mr. Pole grew demonstrative in his paternal caresses. He folded Adela in one arm, and framed her chin in his fingers: marks of affection dear to her before she had outgrown them.
“So!” he said, “you’ve given up Besworth, have you?”
At the name, Arabella and Cornelia drew nearer to his chair.
“Given up Besworth, papa? It is not we who have given it up,” said Adela.
“Yes, you have; and quite right too. You say, ‘What’s the use of it, for that’s a sort of thing that always goes to the son.’”
“You suppose, papa, that we indulge in ulterior calculations?” came from Cornelia.
“Well, you see, my love!—no, I don’t suppose it at all. But to buy a place and split it up after two or three years—I dare say they wouldn’t insure me for more, that’s nonsense. And it seems unfair to you, as you must think—”
“Darling papa! we are not selfish!” it rejoiced Adela to exclaim.
His face expressed a transparent simple-mindedness that won the confidence of the ladies and awakened their ideal of generosity.
“I know what you mean, papa,” said Arabella. “But, we love Besworth; and if we may enjoy the place for the time that we are all together, I shall think it sufficient. I do not look beyond.”
Her sisters echoed the sentiment, and sincerely. They were as little sordid as creatures could be. If deeply questioned, it would have been found that their notion of the position Providence had placed them in (in other words, their father’s unmentioned wealth), permitted them to be as lavish as they pleased. Mr. Pole had endowed them with a temperament similar to his own; and he had educated it. In feminine earth it flourished wonderfully. Shy as himself, their shyness took other forms, and developed with warm youth. Not only did it shut them up from others (which is the first effect of this disease), but it tyrannized over them internally: so that there were subjects they had no power to bring their minds to consider. Money was in the list. The Besworth question, as at present considered, involved the money question. All of them felt that; father and children. It is not surprising, therefore, that they hurried over it as speedily as they could, and by a most comical exhibition of implied comprehension of meanings and motives.
“Of course, we’re only in the opening stage of the business,” said Mr. Pole. “There’s nothing decided, you know. Lots of things got to be considered. You mean what you say, do you? Very well. And you want me to think of it? So I will. And look, my dears, you know that—” (here his voice grew husky, as was the case with it when touching a shy topic even beneath the veil; but they were above suspicion) “you know that—a—that we must all give way a little to the other, now and then. Nothing like being kind.”
“Pray, have no fear, papa dear!” rang the clear voice of Arabella.
“Well, then, you’re all for Besworth, even though it isn’t exactly for your own interest? All right.”
The ladies kissed him.
“We’ll each stretch a point,” he continued. “We shall get on better if we do. Much! You’re a little hard on people who’re not up to the mark. There’s an end to that. Even your old father will like you better.”
These last remarks were unintelligible to the withdrawing ladies.
On the morning that followed, Mr. Pole expressed a hope that his daughters intended to give him a good dinner that day; and he winked humorously and kindly by which they understood him to be addressing a sort of propitiation to them for the respect he paid to his appetite.
“Papa,” said Adela, “I myself will speak to Cook.”
She added, with a smile thrown to her sisters, without looking at them, “I dare say, she will know who I am.”
Mr. Pole went down to his wine-cellar, and was there busy with bottles till the carriage came for him. A bason was fetched that he might wash off the dust and cobwebs in the passage. Having rubbed his hands briskly with soap, he dipped his head likewise, in an oblivious fit, and then turning round to the ladies, said, “What have I forgotten?” looking woebegone with his dripping vacant face. “Oh, ah! I remember now;” and he chuckled gladly.
He had just for one moment forgotten that he was acting, and a pang of apprehension had caught him when the water covered his face, to the effect that he must forfeit the natural artistic sequence of speech and conduct which disguised him so perfectly. Away he drove, nodding and waving his hand.
“Dear, simple, innocent old man!” was the pitiful thought in the bosoms of the ladies; and if it was accompanied by the mute exclamation, “How singular that we should descend from him!” it would not have been for the first time.
They
