The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 27 (2/2)

“Yes, papa; you wanted me, my mother told me.”

“I wanted you. As I came along the corridor, I began to ask myself whether I was doing right in wanting you. Perhaps I ought to have let you hear what I am going to say from⁠—someone who might have made it more agreeable, Edith.”

“Oh, let me hear what you want, please, from yourself, papa.”

He took her hand, which trembled in his hold, and looked down on her with fatherly eyes⁠—eyes which were tender, and admiring, and kind. Could anyone doubt that he wished her well? He wished her everything that was best in the world⁠—wealth and title, and rank and importance⁠—everything we desire for our children. He was not a bad man, desiring the sacrifice of his child’s happiness. If he had, perhaps, made something of a mistake about Carry, there was no mistake here.

“Edith, I want to speak to you about Lord Millefleurs. He came here, I believe, on your own invitation⁠—”

At this Edith started with sudden alarm, and her hand trembled still more in her father’s easy clasp. She had an indefinite pang of fear, she could not tell why.

“He has been here now for some time. I was glad to ratify your invitation by mine⁠—nothing could have pleased me better. I like his family. His father and I have always thought alike, and the Duchess is a most excellent woman. That your mother and you should have taken him up so much, was very good for him, and quite a pleasure to me.”

“I don’t know why you should say we took him up very much,” said Edith, with some confusion. “He took us up⁠—he came to us wherever we were. And then he was Robin’s friend. It was quite natural⁠—there was nothing⁠—” She paused, with a painful eagerness to excuse herself: and yet there was nothing to excuse. This changed the position for the moment, and made everything much more easy for the indulgent father, who was so ready to approve what his child herself had done.

“It is perfectly natural, my dear⁠—everything about it is natural. Lord Millefleurs has been quite consistent since he first saw you. He has explained himself to me in the most honourable way. He wishes⁠—to marry you, Edith. I don’t suppose this is any surprise to you?”

Edith was crimson; her temples throbbed with the rush of the blood, which seemed to rise like an angry sea. “If it is so, he has had opportunity enough to tell me so. Why has he taken so unfair an advantage? Why⁠—why has he gone to you?”

“He has behaved like an honourable man. I see no unfair advantage. He has done what was right⁠—what was respectful at once to you and to me.”

“Oh, papa⁠—honourable! respectful!” cried the girl. “What does that mean in our position? Could he have been anything but honourable⁠—to me? You forget what kind of expressions you are using. If he had that to say, it is to me he ought to have come. He has taken an unkind⁠—a cruel advantage!” Edith cried.

“This is ridiculous,” said her father. “He has done what it is seemly and right to do⁠—in his position and yours. If he had gone to you, as you say, like a village lad to his lass, what advantage could there have been in that? As it is, you have your father’s full sanction, which, I hope, you reckon for something, Edith.”

“Father,” she said, somewhat breathless, collecting herself with a little effort. The wave of hot colour died off from her face. She grew paler and paler as she stood firmly opposite to him, holding fast with her hand the cool marble of the mantelpiece, which felt like a support. “Father, if he had come to me, as he ought to have done, this is what would have happened⁠—I should have told him at once that it was a mistake, and he would have left us quietly without giving you any trouble. How much better that would have been in every way!”

“I don’t understand you, Edith. A mistake? I don’t see that there is any mistake.”

“That is very likely, papa,” she said, with returning spirit, “since it is not you that are concerned. But I see it. I should have told him quietly, and there would have been an end of the matter, if he had not been so formal, so absurd⁠—so old-fashioned⁠—as to appeal to you.”

This counterblast took away Lord Lindores’s breath. He made a pause for a moment, and stared at her; he had never been so treated before. “Old-fashioned,” he repeated, almost with bewilderment. “There is enough of this, Edith. If you wish to take up the role of the advanced young lady, I must tell you it is not either suitable or becoming. Millefleurs will, no doubt, find an early opportunity of making his own explanations to you, and of course, if you choose to keep him in hot water, it is, I suppose, your right. But don’t carry it too far. The connection is one that is perfectly desirable⁠—excellent in every point of view.”

“It is a pity, since you think so, that it is impossible,” she said in a low tone.

Lord Lindores looked at her, fixing her with his eye. He felt now that he had known it all along⁠—that he had felt sure there was a struggle before him, and that his only policy was to convince her that he was determined from the very first. “There is nothing impossible,” he said, “except disobedience and folly. I don’t expect these from you. Indeed I can’t imagine what motive you can have, except a momentary perverseness, to answer me so. No more of it, Edith. By tomorrow, at least, everything will be settled between you and your lover⁠—”

“Oh, papa, listen! don’t mistake me,” she cried. “He is not my lover. How can you⁠—how can you use such a word? He can never be anything to me. If he had spoken to me, I could have settled it all in a moment. As it is you he has spoken to, why give him a double mortification? It will be so easy for you to tell him: to tell him⁠—he can never be anything to me.”

“Edith, take care what you are saying! He is to be your husband. I am not a man easily balked in my own family.”

“We all know that,” she cried, with bitterness; “but I am not Carry, papa.”

He made a step nearer to her, with a threatening aspect. “What do you mean by that? Carry! What has Carry to do with it? You have a chance poor Carry never had⁠—high rank, wealth⁠—everything that is desirable: and a man whom the most fantastic could not object in any way to.”

There is scarcely any situation in the world into which a gleam of ridicule will not fall. It takes us with the tear in our eye⁠—it took Edith in the nervous excitement of this struggle, the most trying moment which personally she had ever gone through. Millefleurs, with his little plump person, his round eyes, his soft lisp of a voice, seemed to come suddenly before her, and at the height of this half-tragical contention she laughed. It was excitement and high pressure as well as that sudden flash of perverse imagination. She could have cried next moment⁠—but laugh she did, in spite of herself. The sound drove Lord Lindores to fury. “This is beyond bearing,” he cried. “It seems that I have been deceived in you altogether. If you cannot feel the honour that has been done you⁠—the compliment that has been paid you⁠—you are unworthy of it, and of the trouble I have taken.”

“I suppose,” said Edith, irritated too, “these are the right words for a girl to use to any man who is so good as to think she would suit him. I was wrong to laugh, but are not you going too far, papa? I am likely to get more annoyance by it than honour. Please, please let me take my own way.”

She had broken down a little when she said this, in natural reaction, and gave him a pitiful look, with a little quiver of her lip. After such a laugh it is so likely that a girl will cry, as after a sudden self-assertion it is to be expected that she will be subdued and humbled. She looked at him with a childlike appeal for pity. And he thought that now he had her securely in his hands.

“My love,” he said, “you will regret it all your life if I yield to you now. It is your happiness I am thinking of. I cannot let a girl’s folly spoil your career. Besides, it is of the highest importance to everybody⁠—to Rintoul, even to myself⁠—that you should marry Millefleurs⁠—”

“I am very sorry, papa; but I shall never⁠—marry Lord Millefleurs⁠—”

“Folly! I shall not allow you to trifle with him, Edith⁠—or with me. You have given him the most evident encouragement⁠—led him on in every way, invited him here⁠—”

Edith grew pale to her very lips. “Papa, have pity on me! I never did so; it was all nothing⁠—the way one talks without meaning it⁠—without thinking⁠—”

“That is all very well on our side, but on the other⁠—I tell you, I will permit no trifling, Edith. He has a right to a favourable answer, and he must have it⁠—”

“Never, never! if I have been wrong, I will ask his pardon⁠—”

“You will accept him in the first place,” said Lord Lindores, sternly.

“I will never accept him,” Edith said.

Her father, wound up to that pitch of excitement at which a man is no longer master of what he says, took a few steps about the room. “Your sister said the same,” he cried, with a short laugh, “and you know what came of that.”

It was an admission he had never intended to make⁠—for he did not always feel proud of his handiwork⁠—but it was done now, and could not be recalled. Edith withdrew even from the mantelpiece on which she had leant. She clasped her hands together, supporting herself. “I am not Carry,” she said, in a low tone, facing him resolutely as he turned back in some alarm at what he had been betrayed into saying. He had become excited, and she calm. He almost threatened her with his hand in the heat of the moment.

“You will obey your parents,” he cried.

“No, papa,” she said.

He remembered so well, too well, what Carry had done in the same circumstances⁠—she had wept and pleaded. When he demanded obedience from her she had not dared to stand against him. He recollected (too well for his own comfort sometimes) every one of those scenes which brought her to submission. But Edith did not weep, and was not shaken by that final appeal. She was very pale, and looked unusually slight and young and childlike standing there with her hands clasped, her steadfast eyes raised, her little mouth close⁠—so slight a thing, not stately like Carry. He was confounded by a resistance which he had not foreseen, which he could not have believed in, and stood staring at her, not knowing what next to say and do. Matters were at this point when all at once there arose a something outside the room, which not even the solid closed doors and heavy curtains could keep out⁠—not positive noise or tumult, but something indescribable⁠—a sensation as of some unknown dread event. Ordinarily all was still in the well-ordered house, and my lord’s tranquillity as completely assured as if he had been Prime Minister. But this was something that was beyond decorum. Then the door was hastily opened, and Rintoul ghastly, his face grey rather than pale, his hair hanging wildly on his forehead, came into the room.