Part 23 (1/2)
”I don't understand,” she murmured.
”I hope you never need,” he answered earnestly, holding out his hand again.
This time she took it, but, as she did, she looked full in his face and said,
”I will believe nothing against you, not even your own words.
Good-bye.”
Her voice faltered in the last syllable, and she ran hastily down the stairs.
Medland stood still for some minutes. Then he went in to his daughter and kissed her.
But even that night, in spite of his remorse and sorrow for her grief, his daughter was not alone in his thoughts.
CHAPTER XIV.
A FATAL SECESSION.
The sudden departure of d.i.c.k Derosne was, according to Kilshaw's view of it, a notable triumph for him over his adversary; but he was not a man to rest content with one victory. He had hardly achieved this success when a chance word from Captain Heseltine started him in a new enterprise, and a hint from Sir John Oakapple confirmed him in his course. He made up his mind not to wait for the slow growth of disaffection in c.o.xon's mind, but to accelerate the separation of that gentleman from his colleagues. The Captain had been pleased to be much amused at the cessation of c.o.xon's visits to Government House: Eleanor Scaife's contempt for her supposed admirer was so strong that, when playfully taxed with hardness of heart, she repelled the charge with a vigour that pointed the Captain straight to the real fact. Having apprehended it, he thought himself in no way bound to observe an over-strict reticence as to c.o.xon's ”cheek” and his deserved rebuff.
”In fact,” he concluded, ”love's at a discount. With c.o.xon and d.i.c.k before one's eyes, it really isn't good enough. All a fellow gets is a dashed good snubbing or his marching orders.” And he added, as if addressing an imaginary waiter, ”Thank you, I'm not taking it to-day.”
His words fell on attentive ears, and the next time Kilshaw had a chance of conversing with c.o.xon at the Club, he did not forget what he had learnt from Captain Heseltine.
”How d'you do, c.o.xon?” said he. ”Haven't seen you for a long time. Come and sit here. You weren't at the Governor's party the other night?”
c.o.xon, gratified at this cordial greeting, joined Mr. Kilshaw. They were alone in the Club luncheon-room, and c.o.xon was always anxious to hear anything that Sir Robert or his friends had to say. There was always a possibility that it might be very well worth his while to listen.
”I wasn't there,” he said. ”I don't go when I can help it.”
”You used to be so regular,” remarked Kilshaw in surprise, or seeming surprise.
c.o.xon gave a laugh of embarra.s.sed vexation.
”I think I go as often as I'm wanted,” he said. ”To tell you the truth, Kilshaw, I find my lady a little high and mighty.”
”Women can never separate politics and persons,” observed Kilshaw, with a tolerant smile. ”It's no secret, I suppose, that she's not devoted to your chief.”
c.o.xon looked up quickly. His wounded vanity had long sought for an explanation of the cruel rebuff he had endured.
”Well, I never put it down to that,” he said.
”It can't be anything in yourself, can it?” asked Kilshaw, in bland innocence. ”No, no; Lady Eynesford's one of us, and there's an end of it--though of course I wouldn't say it openly. Look at the different way she treats the Puttocks since they left you!”
”It's highly improper,” observed c.o.xon.
”I grant it; but she's fond of Perry, and sees through his gla.s.ses. And then you must allow for her natural prejudices. Is Medland the sort of man who would suit her? Candidly now?”
”She needn't identify us all with Medland?”