Part 15 (1/2)
The question took him unawares. ”I--I don't remember.”
”I do. I should think you would. The trial was in all the papers. It was the Gray estate. He was Mrs. Gray's trustee. He ruined the whole Gray family.”
”Possibly.” He did his best to speak airily. ”In the matter of estates there are all sorts of hitches that can happen. Some are worse than others, of course--”
”I've seen his wife, Ada Berrington, once or twice, when I've been in Paris. She lives there, waiting for him to come out of Singville. She avoids her old friends when she can--but I've seen her.”
”I think I remember hearing about them,” he said, for the sake of saying something; ”but--”
”I should like to go and talk with my father. Would you mind waiting?”
She made as though she would pa.s.s him, but he managed to bar her way.
”I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Guion. If he's not well it'll only upset him. Why not let everything be just as it is? You won't regret it a year hence--believe me. In nine things out of ten you'd know better than I; but this is the tenth thing, in which I know better than you. Why not trust me--and let me have a free hand?”
”I'm afraid I must go to my father. If you'll be kind enough to wait, I'll come back and tell you what he says. Then we shall know. Will you please let me pa.s.s?”
He moved to one side. He thought again of the woman in the English law-court. It was like this that she walked from the dock--erect, unflinching, graceful, with eyes fixed straight before her, as though she saw something in the air.
He watched her cross the hall to the foot of the staircase. There she paused pensively. In a minute or two she came back to the sitting-room door.
”If it should be like--like Jack Berrington,” she said, from the threshold, with a kind of concentrated quiet in her manner, ”then--what you suggested--would be more out of the question than ever.”
”I don't see that,” he returned, adopting her own tone. ”I should think it would be just the other way.”
She shook her head.
”There are a lot of points of view that you haven't seen yet,” he persisted. ”I could put some of them before you if you'd give me time.”
”It would be no use doing that. I should never believe anything but that we, my father and I, should bear the responsibilities of our own acts.”
”You'll think differently,” he began, ”when you've looked at the thing all round; and then--”
But before he could complete his sentence she had gone.
Having seen her go up-stairs, he waited in some uncertainty. When fifteen or twenty minutes had gone by and she did not return, he decided to wait no longer. Picking up his hat and stick from the chair on which he had laid them, he went out by the French window, making his way to the gate across the lawn.
VIII
Finding the door of her father's room ajar, Miss Guion pushed it open and went in.
Wearing a richly quilted dressing-gown, with cuffs and rolled collar of lavender silk, he lay asleep in the chaise-longue, a tan-colored rug across his feet. On a table at his left stood a silver box containing cigars, a silver ash-tray, a silver match-box, and a small silver lamp burning with a tiny flame. Each piece was engraved with his initials and a coat-of-arms. On his right there was an adjustable reading-stand, holding an open copy of a recent English review. One hand, adorned with an elaborately emblazoned seal-ring, hung heavily toward the floor; a cigar that had gone out was still between the fingers. His head, resting on a cus.h.i.+on of violet brocade, had fallen slightly to one side.
She sat down beside him, to wait till he woke up. It was a large room, with white doors and wainscoting. Above the woodwork it was papered in pale yellow. On the walls there were water-colors, prints, photographs, and painted porcelain plaques. Over the bed, for decorative rather than devotional purposes, hung an old French ivory crucifix, while lower down was a silver holy-water stoup of Venetian make, that was oftenest used for matches. It had been the late Mrs. Guion's room, and expressed her taste. It contained too many ornaments, too many knickknacks, too many mirrors, too many wardrobes, too many easy-chairs, too much embossed silver on the dressing-table, too much old porcelain, wherever there was a place for it. Everything was costly, from the lace coverlet on the bed to the Persian rugs on the floor.
Olivia looked vaguely about the room, as on an apartment she had never before seen. She found herself speculating as to the amount these elaborate furnis.h.i.+ngs would fetch if sold. She recalled the fact, forgotten till now, that when the Berringtons' belongings, purchased with reckless extravagance, pa.s.sed under the hammer, they had gone for a song. She made the same forecast regarding the contents of Tory Hill.
Much money had been spent on them, but, with the exception perhaps of some of the old portraits, there was little of real intrinsic value. She made the reflection coldly, drearily, as bearing on things that had no connection with herself.
Her eyes traveled back to her father. With the muscles of the face relaxed in sleep, he looked old and jaded. The mustache, which had not been waxed or curled that day, sagged at the corners, the mouth sagging under it. Above the line of the beard the skin was mottled and puffy.