equally inscrutable and therefore wholly different from what he had been as he stood before her in the park. If he was to start on his career (with such a wife!—wouldn’t she utterly blight it?) he was already professional enough to know how to wear a mask.
Before they rose from table she felt herself wholly bewildered, so little were such large causes traceable in their effects. She had nerved herself for a great ordeal, but the air was as sweet as an anodyne. It was perfectly plain to her that her father was deadly sore—as pathetic as a person betrayed. He was broken, but he showed no resentment; there was a weight on his heart, but he had lightened it by dressing as immaculately as usual for dinner. She asked herself what immensity of a row there could have been in town to have left his anger so spent. He went through everything, even to sitting with his son after dinner. When they came out together he invited Beatrice and Muriel to the billiard-room, and as Miss Flynn discreetly withdrew Adela was left alone with Godfrey, who was completely changed and not now in the least of a rage. He was broken too, but not so pathetic as his father. He was only very correct and apologetic he said to his sister: “I’m awfully sorry YOU were annoyed—it was something I never dreamed of.”
She couldn’t think immediately what he meant; then she grasped the reference to her extraordinary invader. She was uncertain, however, what tone to take; perhaps his father had arranged with him that they were to make the best of it. But she spoke her own despair in the way she murmured “Oh Godfrey, Godfrey, is it true?”
“I’ve been the most unutterable donkey—you can say what you like to me. You can’t say anything worse than I’ve said to myself.”
“My brother, my brother!”—his words made her wail it out. He hushed her with a movement and she asked: “What has father said?”
He looked very high over her head. “He’ll give her six hundred a year.”
“Ah the angel!”—it was too splendid.
“On condition”—Godfrey scarce blinked—”she never comes near me. She has solemnly promised, and she’ll probably leave me alone to get the money. If she doesn’t—in diplomacy—I’m lost.” He had been turning his eyes vaguely about, this way and that, to avoid meeting hers; but after another instant he gave up the effort and she had the miserable confession of his glance. “I’ve been living in hell.”
“My brother, my brother!” she yearningly repeated.
“I’m not an idiot; yet for her I’ve behaved like one. Don’t ask me— you mustn’t know. It was all done in a day, and since then fancy my condition; fancy my work in such a torment; fancy my coming through at all.”
“Thank God you passed!” she cried. “You were wonderful!”
“I’d have shot myself if I hadn’t been. I had an awful day yesterday with the governor; it was late at night before it was over. I leave England next week. He brought me down here for it to look well—so that the children shan’t know.”
“HE’S wonderful too!” Adela murmured.
“Wonderful too!” Godfrey echoed.
“Did SHE tell him?” the girl went on.
“She came straight to Seymour Street from here. She saw him alone first; then he called me in. THAT luxury lasted about an hour.”
“Poor, poor father!” Adela moaned at this; on which her brother remained silent. Then after he had alluded to it as the scene he had lived in terror of all through his cramming, and she had sighed forth again her pity and admiration for such a mixture of anxieties and such a triumph of talent, she pursued: “Have you told him?”
“Told him what?”
“What you said you would—what
Godfrey turned away as if at present he had very little interest in that inferior tribulation. “I was angry with you, but I cooled off. I held my tongue.”
She clasped her hands. “You thought of mamma!”
“Oh don’t speak of mamma!” he cried as in rueful tenderness.
It was indeed not a happy moment, and she murmured: “No; if you HAD thought of her—!”
This made Godfrey face her again with a small flare in his eyes. “Oh THEN it didn’t prevent. I thought that woman really good. I believed in her.”
“Is she VERY bad?”
“I shall never mention her to you again,” he returned with dignity.
“You may believe
“Doesn’t know what?”
“That I said what I did to Mrs. Churchley.”
He had a momentary pause. “I don’t think so, but you must find out for yourself.”
“I shall find out,” said Adela. “But what had Mrs. Churchley to do with it?”
“With MY misery? I told her. I had to tell some one.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He appeared—though but after an instant—to know exactly why. “Oh you take things so beastly hard—you make such rows.” Adela covered her face with her hands and he went on: “What I wanted was comfort— not to be lashed up. I thought I should go mad. I wanted Mrs. Churchley to break it to father, to intercede for me and help him to meet it. She was awfully kind to me, she listened and she understood; she could fancy how it had happened. Without her I shouldn’t have pulled through. She liked me, you know,” he further explained, and as if it were quite worth mentioning—all the more that it was pleasant to him. “She said she’d do what she could for me. She was full of sympathy and resource. I really leaned on her. But when YOU cut in of course it spoiled everything. That’s why I
