Half a Hero Part 22

So the Governor did the right, the prudent thing, the only thing, the thing which he could not doubt was wise, and which all reasonable men must have seen to be inevitable. Nevertheless when he met Daisy Medland that afternoon in the Park, he felt much more like a pick-pocket than it is comfortable to feel when one is her Majesty's representative: for d.i.c.k was with him, and Daisy's eyes, which had lightened in joy at seeing them, clouded with disappointment as they rode past without stopping. Thus, when d.i.c.k turned very red and muttered, "I _am_ a beast," the Governor moaned inwardly, "So am I."

It is perhaps creditable to Man--and Man, as opposed to Woman, in these days needs a word slipped in for him when it is reasonably possible--that these touches of tenderness fought against the stern resolve that had been taken. But of course they were only proper fruits of penitence, in d.i.c.k for himself, in Lord Eynesford for his kind, and it could not be expected that they would reproduce themselves in persons so entirely innocent of actual or vicarious offence as Lady Eynesford and Eleanor Scaife.

"I think," said Lady Eynesford, "that we may congratulate ourselves on a very happy way of getting out of the results of d.i.c.k's folly."

"I can't think that d.i.c.k said anything really serious," remarked Eleanor.

"So much depends on how people understand things," observed Lady Eynesford.

It was on the tip of Eleanor's tongue to add, "Or wish to understand them," but she recollected that she had really no basis for this malicious insinuation, and made expiation for entertaining it by saying to Alicia,

"You think she's a nice girl, don't you?"

"Very," said Alicia briefly.

"The question is not what she is, so much as who she is," said Lady Eynesford.

"I expect it was all d.i.c.k's fault," said Alicia hastily.

"Or that man's," suggested the Governor's wife.

A month ago Alicia would have protested strongly. Now she held her peace: she could not trust herself to defend the Premier. Yet she was full of sympathy for his daughter, and of indignation at the tone in which her sister-in-law referred to him. Also she was indignant with d.i.c.k: this conduct of d.i.c.k's struck her as an impertinence, and, on behalf of the Medlands, she resented it. They talked, too, as if it were a flirtation with a milliner--dangerous enough to be troublesome, yet too absurd to be really dangerous--discreditable no doubt to d.i.c.k, but--she detected the underlying thought--still more discreditable to Daisy Medland. The injustice angered her: it would have angered her at any time; but her anger was forced to lie deeply hidden and secret, and the suppression made it more intense. d.i.c.k's flighty fancy caricatured the feeling with which she was struggling: the family att.i.tude towards it faintly foreshadowed the consternation that the lightest hint of her unbanishable dream would raise. And, worst of all--so it seemed to her--what must Medland think? He must surely scorn them all--this petty pride, their microscopic distinctions of rank, their little devices--all so small, yet all enough to justify the wounding of his daughter's heart. It gave her a sharp, almost unendurable pang to think that he might confound her in his sweeping judgment. Could he after--after what he had seen? He might think she also trifled--that it was in the family--that they all thought it good fun to lead people on and then--draw back in scorn lest the suppliant should so much as touch them.

In the haste of an unreasoning impulse, she went to Medland's house, full of the idea of dissociating herself from what had been done, only dimly conscious of difficulties which, if they existed, she was yet resolute to sweep away. Convention should not stand between, nor cost her a single unkind thought from him.

She asked for Daisy Medland, and was shown into Daisy's little room. She had not long to wait before Daisy came in. Alicia ran to meet her, but dared not open the subject near her heart, for the young girl's bearing was calm and distant. Yet her eyes were red, for it was but two hours since d.i.c.k Derosne had flung himself out of that room, and she had been left alone, able at last to cast off the armour of wounded pride and girlish reticence. She had a.s.sumed it again to meet her new visitor, and Alicia's impetuous sympathy was frozen by the fear of seeming impertinence.

At last, in despair of finding words, yet set not to go with her errand undone, she stretched out her arms, crying--

"Daisy! Not with me, dear!"

Daisy was not proof against an a.s.sault like that. Her wounded pride--for d.i.c.k had not been enough of a diplomatist to hide the meaning of his sudden flight--had borne her through her interview with him, and he had gone away doubting if she had really cared for him; it broke down now.

She sprang to Alicia's arms, and her comforter seemed to hear her own confession in the young girl's broken and half-stifled words.

"Do come again," said Daisy, and Alicia, who after a long talk had risen to go, promised with a kiss.

The door opened and Medland came in. Alicia started, almost in fright.

"I came--I came--" she began in her agitation, for she a.s.sumed that his daughter had told him her story.

"It's very kind of you," he answered, and she, still misunderstanding, went on eagerly--

"It's such a shame! Oh, you don't think I had anything to do with it?"

He looked curiously from one to the other, but said nothing.

Alicia kissed Daisy again and pa.s.sed by him towards the door: he followed her, and, closing the door, said abruptly,

"What's a shame, Miss Derosne? What's the matter with Daisy?"

"You don't know? Oh, I've no right----"

"No; but tell me, please. Come in here," and he beckoned her into his own study.

"Is she in any trouble?" he asked again. "She won't tell me, you know, for fear of worrying me, so you must."

Somehow Alicia, unable to resist his request, stammered out the gist of the story; she blamed d.i.c.k as severely as he deserved, and shielded Daisy from all suspicion of haste in giving her affection; but the story stood out plain.

"And--and I was so afraid," she ended as she had begun, "that you would think that I had anything to do with it."

"Poor little Daisy!" he said softly. "No; I'm sure you hadn't. Ah, well, I dare say they're right."

He was so calm that she was almost indignant with him.

"Can't you feel for her--you, her father?" she exclaimed. But a moment later she added, "I didn't mean that. Forgive me! I can't bear to think of the way she has been treated!"

He looked up suddenly and asked,

"Was it only--general objections--or--or anything in particular?"

"What do you mean? I don't know of anything in particular."

"I'm glad. I shouldn't have liked--but you won't understand. Well, you've been very kind."

She would not leave her doubt unsettled. His manner puzzled her.

"Do you know of anything?" she found courage to add.

"'The fathers eat sour grapes,'" he answered, with a bitter smile. "Poor little Daisy!"

"I believe you're hinting at something against yourself."

"Perhaps."

He held out his hand to bid her good-bye, adding,

"You'd better let us alone, Miss Derosne."

"Why should I let you alone? Why mayn't I be her friend?"

He made no direct answer, but said,

"Your news of what has happened--I mean of your friends'

att.i.tude--hardly surprises me. You won't suppose I feel it less, because it's my fault--and my poor girl has to suffer for it."

"Your fault?"

"Yes."