Part 38 (1/2)
He recollected telling the same story to the other woman he loved, and he shrank in sudden dread, lest his daughter should say what Alicia had said, ”To me it is--horrible!” The words echoed in his brain. ”Ah, I can't speak of it,” she had cried, and the gesture of her hand as she repelled him lived before his eyes again. Surely Daisy would not do that to him!
”I should be like Lear--without a grievance,” he said to himself, with a wry smile. ”The very height of tragedy!”
It was near midnight before he put away his work. Norburn had left him alone two hours before, and he rose now, laid down his pipe, and went to look for his daughter in her little sitting-room. His heart was very heavy; he must make her understand now why a man who made love to her should be hastily sent away by his friends, what her father had condemned her to, what manner of man he was; he must seem to destroy or impair the perfect sweetness of memory wherein she held her mother.
He opened the door softly. She was sitting in a large armchair, over a little bit of bright fire; save for gleams suddenly coming and going, as a coal blazed and died down again, the room was in darkness. He walked up to her and knelt by the chair, his head almost on a level with hers.
”Well, Daisy, what are you doing?”
She put out a hand and laid it on his with a gentle pressure.
”I'm thinking,” she said. ”Do you want a light?”
”No, I like it dark best--best for what I have to say.”
Suddenly she threw her arms round his neck, drawing him to her and kissing his face.
”I'd do the same if you'd killed him yourself,” she whispered in the extravagance of her love, and kissed him again.
”But, Daisy, you don't know.”
”Yes, I do. He told me. He's been here.”
”Who?”
”Jack Norburn. He said you would hate telling me, so he did. You mustn't mind, dear, you mustn't mind. Oh, you didn't think it would make any difference to me, dear, did you? What do I care? Mrs. Puttock may care, and Lady Eynesford, and all the rest, but what do I care if I have you and him?”
”Me and him, Daisy?”
”Yes,” she answered, smiling boldly. ”He's asked me to marry him--just to show he didn't mind--and I think I will, father. We three against the world! What need we care? Father, we'll beat Sir Robert!” and she seized his two hands and laughed.
In vain Medland tried to tell her what he had come to say. Mighty as his relief and joy were, he still felt a burden lay on him. She would not hear.
”Don't you see I'm happy?” she cried. ”It can't be your duty to make me unhappy. Jack doesn't mind, I don't mind!” Her voice sank a little and she added, ”It can't hurt mother now. Oh, don't be unhappy about it, dear--don't, don't!”
They were standing now, and his arm was about her. Looking up at him, she went on,
”They shan't beat us! They shan't say they beat us. We three, father!”
He stooped and kissed her. There is love that lies beyond the realm of giving or taking, of harm or good, of wrong, or even of forgiveness.
With all his faults, this love he had won from his daughter, and it stood him in stead that night. He drew himself up to his height, and the air of despondency fell from him. The girl's brave love braced him to meet the world again.
”No, by Jove, we're not beat yet, Daisy!” he said, and she kissed him again and laughed softly as she made him sit, and herself sat upon his knee.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE TRUTH TOO LATE.
By four o'clock the next afternoon the Club had gathered ample materials for fresh gossip. The formalities attendant on the change of government, the composition of the new Cabinet, the prospects of the election--these alone would have supplied many hours, and besides them, indeed supplanting them temporarily by virtue of an intenser interest, there was the account of the inquest on Benyon's body. Medland had gone to it, almost direct from his final interview with the Governor, and Kilshaw had been there, fresh from a conference with Perry. The inquiry had ended, as was foreseen directly Ned Evans' evidence was forthcoming, in a verdict of murder against Gaspard; but the interest lay in the course of the investigation, not in its issue. Mr. Duncombe, a famous comedian, who was then on tour in New Lindsey and had been made an honorary member of the Club, smacked his lips over the dramatic moment when the ex-Premier, calmly and in a clear voice, had identified the person in the photograph, declared the deceased man to have been Benyon, and very briefly stated how he had been connected with him in old days.