“Well then, goodbye, papa,” the girl said after a reflection on this that had perceptibly ended for her in a renunciation of further debate. “Of course you understand that it may be for long.”
Her companion, hereupon, had one of his finest inspirations. “Why not, frankly, forever? You must do me the justice to see that I don’t do things, that I’ve never done them, by halves—that if I offer you to efface myself, it’s for the final, fatal sponge that I ask, well saturated and well applied.”
She turned her handsome, quiet face upon him at such length that it might well have been for the last time. “I don’t know what you’re like.”
“No more do I, my dear. I’ve spent my life in trying, in vain, to discover. Like nothing—more’s the pity. If there had been many of us, and we could have found each other out, there’s no knowing what we mightn’t have done. But it doesn’t matter now. Goodbye, love.” He looked even not sure of what she would wish him to suppose on the subject of a kiss, yet also not embarrassed by his uncertainty.
She forbore in fact for a moment longer to clear it up. “I wish there were someone here who might serve—for any contingency—as a witness that I have put it to you that I’m ready to come.”
“Would you like me,” her father asked, “to call the landlady?”
“You may not believe me,” she pursued, “but I came really hoping you might have found some way. I’m very sorry, at all events, to leave you unwell.” He turned away from her, on this, and, as he had done before, took refuge, by the window, in a stare at the street. “Let me put it—unfortunately without a witness,” she added after a moment, “that there’s only one word you really need speak.”
When he took this up it was still with his back to her. “If I don’t strike you as having already spoken it, our time has been singularly wasted.”
“I’ll engage with you in respect to my aunt exactly to what she wants of me in respect to you. She wants me to choose. Very well, I will choose. I’ll wash my hands of her for you to just that tune.”
He at last brought himself round. “Do you know, dear, you make me sick? I’ve tried to be clear, and it isn’t fair.”
But she passed this over; she was too visibly sincere. “Father!”
“I don’t quite see what’s the matter with you,” he said, “and if you can’t pull yourself together I’ll—upon my honour—take you in hand. Put you into a cab and deliver you again safe at Lancaster Gate.”
She was really absent, distant. “Father.”
It was too much, and he met it sharply. “Well?”
“Strange as it may be to you to hear me say it, there’s a good you can do me and a help you can render.”
“Isn’t it then exactly what I’ve been trying to make you feel?”
“Yes,” she answered patiently, “but so in the wrong way. I’m perfectly honest in what I say, and I know what I’m talking about. It isn’t that I’ll pretend I could have believed a month ago in anything to call aid or support from you. The case is changed—that’s what has happened; my difficulty’s a new one. But even now it’s not a question of anything I should ask you in a way to ‘do.’ It’s simply a question of your not turning me away—taking yourself out of my life. It’s simply a question of your saying: ‘Yes then, since you will, we’ll stand together. We won’t worry in advance about how or where; we’ll have a faith and find a way.’ That’s all—that would be the good you’d do me. I should have you, and it would be for my benefit. Do you see?”
If he didn’t it was not for want of looking at her hard. “The matter with you is that you’re in love, and that your aunt knows and—for reasons, I’m sure, perfect—hates and opposes it. Well she may! It’s a matter in which I trust her with my eyes shut. Go, please.” Though he spoke not in anger—rather in infinite sadness—he fairly turned her out. Before she took it up he had, as the fullest expression of what he felt, opened the door of the room. He had fairly, in his deep disapproval, a generous compassion to spare. “I’m sorry for her, deluded woman, if she builds on you.”
Kate stood a moment in the draught. “She’s not the person I pity most, for, deluded in many ways though she may be, she’s not the person who’s most so. I mean,” she explained, “if it’s a question of what you call building on me.”
He took it as if what she meant might be other than her description of it. “You’re deceiving two persons then, Mrs. Lowder and somebody else?”
She shook her head with detachment. “I’ve no intention of that sort with respect to anyone now—to Mrs. Lowder least of all. If you fail me”—she seemed to make it out for herself—“that has the merit at least that it simplifies. I shall go my way—as I see my way.”
“Your way, you mean then, will be to marry some blackguard without a penny?”
“You ask a great deal of satisfaction,” she observed, “for the little you give.”
It brought him up again before her as with a sense that she was not to be hustled; and, though he glared at her a little, this had long been the practical
