Part 21 (2/2)

”I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

”Yes,” she answered slowly. ”You had rather misconceived the situation.”

Harry felt that her silences were the most eloquent that he had ever known. He began to be very frightened, and, for the first time, conceived the possibility of not securing the letters at all. The thought that his hopes might be dashed to the ground, that he might be no nearer his goal at the end of the interview than before, sharpened his wits. It was to be a deal in subtlety rather than the obvious thing that he had expected--well, he would play it to the end.

”I beg your pardon,” he said again. ”I have been extremely rude. I am only recently returned from abroad, and my knowledge of the whole affair is necessarily very limited. I came here with a very vague idea both as to yourself and your intentions. In drawing the conclusions that I did I have done both you and your daughter a grave injustice, for which I humbly apologise. I may say that, before coming here, I had had no interview with my son. I am, therefore, quite ignorant as regards facts.”

He did not feel that his apology had done much good. He felt that she had accepted both his insult and apology quite calmly, as though she had regarded them inevitably.

”The facts,” she said, looking down again at the fire, ”are quite simple. My daughter and your son became acquainted at Cambridge in May last. They saw a great deal of each other during the next few months.

At the end of that time they were engaged. Mr. Robert Trojan gave us to understand that he was about to acquaint his family with the fact.

They corresponded continually during the summer--letters, I believe, of the kind common to young people in love. Mr. Robert Trojan spoke continually of the marriage and suggested dates. We then came down here, and, soon after our arrival, I perceived a change in your son's att.i.tude. He came to see us very rarely, and at last ceased his visits altogether. My daughter was naturally extremely upset, and there were several rather painful interviews. He then wrote returning her letters and demanding the return of his own. This she definitely refused.

Those are the facts, Mr. Trojan.”

She had spoken without any emotion, and evidently expected that he should do the same.

”I have come,” he said, ”on behalf of my son to demand the return of those letters.”

”Demand?”

”Naturally. Letters, Mrs. Feverel, of that kind are dangerous things to leave about.”

”Yes?” She smiled. ”Dangerous for whom? I think you forget a little, Mr. Trojan, in your anxiety for your son's welfare, my daughter's side of the question. She naturally treasures what represents to her the happiest months of her existence. You must remember that your son's conduct--shall I call it desertion?--was a terrible blow. She loved him, Mr. Trojan, with all her heart. Is it not right that he should suffer a little as well?”

”I refuse to believe,” he answered sharply, ”that this is all a matter of sentiment. I regret extremely that my son should have behaved in such a cowardly and dastardly manner--it has hurt and surprised me more than I can say--but, were that all, it were surely better to bury the whole affair as soon as may be. I cannot believe that you are keeping the letters with no intention of making public use of them.”

”Ah,” said Mrs. Feverel, ”I wonder.”

”Hadn't we better come to a clear understanding, Mrs. Feverel?” he asked. ”We are neither of us children, and this beating about the bush serves no purpose whatever. If you refuse to return the letters, I have at least the right to ask what you mean to do with them.”

”Here is my daughter,” she answered, ”she shall speak for herself.”

He turned round at the sound of the opening door, and watched her as she came in. She was very much as he had imagined--thin and tall, walking straight from the hips, giving a little the impression that she was standing on her toes. Her eyes seemed amazingly dark in the whiteness of her face. She seemed a little older than he had expected--perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

She looked at him sharply as she entered and then came forward to her mother. He could see that she was agitated--her breath came quickly, and her hands folded and unfolded as though she were tearing something to pieces.

”This,” said Mrs. Feverel, ”is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr.

Henry Trojan.”

She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer.

He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.

Mrs. Feverel rose. ”I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell you for what he has come.”

She moved slowly from the room and Harry drew a breath of relief at her absence. There was a moment's pause. ”I hope you will forgive me, Miss Feverel,” he said gently. ”I'm afraid that both your mother and yourself must regard this as impertinent, but, at the same time, I think you will understand.”

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