LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Rupert, dear,” said Meg, “don’t fuss. It’s so bad for you.”

      They were in. The car started with a jolt, for it was an old one and the Rector was not a very good driver.

      VI

      VI

      Father and Daughter

      Renny Whiteoak was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. Even though his mind was firmly fixed on circumspection in the planning of a marriage between young Philip and Adeline, try as he would to keep himself from urging it on her, he did not succeed. Sooner or later, she was bound to discover how ardently he hoped for it. Better speak now and exert his influence in the open. He was sure that Philip was agreeable to the union. Never a day passed but he came to Jalna on one pretext or another. Alayne had remarked this, but supposed he was drawn by the tennis court, the stables, and his affection for Renny as much as by the charms of Adeline. Though Renny had dropped hints to her of his desire, she had thought of it as fantastic and even dangerous. Both of Piers’s older sons (one in Paris, one in Ireland) were more congenial to Alayne than Philip. She would have preferred either, if she had been consulted, as a son-in-law.

      No one knew what were Adeline’s feelings toward Philip — least of all Philip himself. He held himself aloof from sentiment, with adolescent aloofness. Yet in solitude he never ceased to toy with the idea of marrying Adeline, of sometime being master of Jalna. He never took Archer into account as a rival in its possession, dismissing him as one whose sole ambition in life was to pass examinations with the highest marks possible. He was immensely flattered by Renny’s choice of him as a husband for Adeline and by Piers’s optimistic agreement.

      On this particular July morning Renny, discovering his daughter leaning on the fence of the paddock where a pair of two-year-olds were being schooled, took her by the hand and said, “Come into the office for a bit. I’d like a word with you.”

      Indolently she turned with him. “How muggy it is,” she exclaimed. “The colts are lazy. I’m lazy. The rain last night didn’t clear the air. All it did was to beat down the hollyhocks and delphiniums. Mummy is mourning over them.”

      “Is she?” he returned absently and, still with fingers interlaced, they entered the little room, next the tack room in the stables, that was his office — the scene of many a deal in horseflesh, of much perplexity in the squaring of accounts, of interviews where privacy was important. Adeline loved this room. She could look back to the days of early childhood, when to sit opposite Renny in his shiny swivel chair, with the littered writing table between them, filled her with pride. She never tired of admiring and comparing the points of their most distinguished horses, the framed photographs of which covered the walls.

      Renny offered her a cigarette which she refused.

      “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve given up smoking — for the time being.”

      “Self-discipline?” he asked.

      “No. Self-indulgence. I’m tired of it.”

      “I find it very comforting,” he said.

      “I don’t need comforting.”

      She studied his face. His expressive eyebrows told her that something was in the wind. To help him out she asked, “What is it, Daddy?”

      “I’ve been thinking.”

      “How extraordinary.”

      “Don’t laugh. I was thinking seriously about you.”

      Her eyes were earnestly on his, as without again speaking, she waited. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeated, “how hard it was on you — that disappointment in your Irishman, Fitzturgis, I mean.”

      She tried to speak lightly. “For goodness’ sake, what put that into your head? It’s all in the past. I never give him a thought now.” But the quivering of her lips, the darkening of her eyes, rejected this quick denial.

      “That’s well,” he said. “I admit I have been pretty anxious on that score.”

      “That sounds as though I’ve been acting the part of the jilted maiden.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” he said testily. “You’ve been so natural, it’s seemed too good to be true.” He paused, picked up a small bronze horse that was a paperweight, and considered it. This had been a birthday present to him from Adeline and Fitzturgis. “As for him,” Renny went on, “he never could understand or appreciate a thoroughbred — horse or woman. It simply wasn’t in him. He was too damned self-centred.”

      “Why do we have to talk about him?” Adeline broke out.

      “We don’t. What I’ve been wondering is whether the thought of marriage — in the future — ever comes to you. You’re young, healthy, good-looking. It would be natural.”

      “I never give it a thought.”

      “Never?”

      “I have enough in my life, as it is. I have you, Daddy. I have Jalna and the family. Why should I want another man hanging about?”

      “Not if he were the right man?”

      She turned to him squarely. “Don’t imagine,” she said, “that I can’t guess what’s in your mind. I know you too well.”

      So flabbergasted was he by this remark that he was speechless for a space. Then he got out, “But why — how?”

      “I should have been pretty dull,” she said, “if I hadn’t guessed.” She laughed, almost derisively, it seemed to him, and he felt his well-laid plan had fallen through.

      “Poor darling,” she said, and came and sat on his knee. “Poor darling.” She toyed with his dense unyielding hair.“What a disappointment for you.”

      He caught her hand and held it. “This is no joke,” he said angrily. “It’s a very serious affair. It’s your future — if you will consent — and it’s my dearest wish.”

      “Do you expect me to consent? How can I consent to anything so vague?”

      “It isn’t vague in my mind,” he said eagerly. “It’s solid. It’s as real as flesh and blood. It’s the very heart of all I hold most dear.”

      “What about Philip and me?” she said, bringing their two names out into the open. “We don’t hold each other dear. We’re just two cousins. I’ve had experience. I’ve loved and been disappointed. Philip is just a boy.”

      “I’m sorry,” said Renny, “that you should have guessed what I have in mind, because I wanted to tell you of it in my own way.”

      “You think you could persuade me, Daddy?”

      “I’d never try to persuade you to acquiesce in any plan of mine unless I were confident it would make you happy.” He tried not to sound high-flown.

      “I suppose,” she said, seriously now, “Philip and I have a right to be happy.”

      “And that’s what I want,” he exclaimed, “above all things! The pair of you are cut out for each other. It would be a perfect match.”

      She had got off his knee and was walking nervously up and down the little room. Even in that restricted space it could be seen how graceful was her walk. In truth the grace of her walk, the musical quality of her voice, were her greatest charms. Now she demanded:

      “Have you spoken of this to Philip?”

      “Yes.”

      “You shouldn’t!” she cried. “Not before you spoke to me.”

      “I thought it should be first in the mind of the man.”

      “The man! The boy — only twenty! How did he take it?”

      “Calmly. Seriously. Like the nice chap he

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