"How did you know?" The interest of this has made Sir Hamilton lapse his disciplines for the moment. He takes advantage of a pause, due to his son and daughter beginning to answer both at once, and each stopping for the other, to say:--"This would be the second time--the second time!
Something might come of this."
"You go on!" says Irene, nodding to her brother. "Say what you said."
Adrian accepts the prolocutorship. "To the best of my recollection I said:--'Stop Ply knocking Miss Scatcherd down again!' Because he did it before, you know.... Oh yes, entirely from love, no doubt! Then I heard you say:--'How do you know it's Miss Scatcherd?' And I told you."
"Yes--yes--yes--yes! But how _did_ you?... How much did you see?" The Baronet is excited and roused.
"Quite as much as I wished. I think I mentioned that I did _not_ dote on Miss Scatcherd." For, the moment a piece of perversity is possible, this young man jumps at it.
"Oh, Adrian dear, don't be paradoxical and capricious when papa's so anxious. Do say what you saw!" Thus urged by his sister, the blind man describes the occurrence from his point of view, carefully and conscientiously. The care and conscience are chiefly needed to limit and circumscribe a sudden image of a lady of irreproachable demeanour besieged by an unexpected dog. So sudden that it merely appeared as a fact in space, without a background or a foothold. It came and went in a flash, Adrian said, leaving him far more puzzled to account for its disappearance than its sudden reasonless intrusion on his darkness.
As soon as the narrative ended, perversity set in. It was gratifying, said Adrian, to listen while Hope told flattering tales, but was it not as well to be on our guard against rash conclusions? Even a partial restoration of eyesight was a thing to look forward to, but would not the extent of the benefits it conferred vary according to the nature of its own limitations? For instance, it might enable him to see everything in a mist, without outlines; or, for that matter, upside down. That, however, would not signify, so long as everything else was upside down.
Indeed, who could say for certain that anything ever was, or ever had been, right side up? It all turned on which side "up" was, and on whether there was a wrong side at all.
"All nonsense!" said Irene.
"Shut up, 'Re," said Adrian. "These things want thinking out. A limited vision might be restricted in other ways than by mere stupid opaque fog, and bald, insipid position in Space. Consider how much more aggravating it would be--from the point of view of Providence--to limit the vision to the selection of peculiar objects which would give offence to the Taste or Religious Convictions of its owner! Suppose that Miss Scatcherd's eyes, for instance, could only distinguish gentlemen of Unsound opinions, and couldn't see a Curate if it was ever so! And, _per contra_, suppose that it should only prove possible to me to receive an image of Miss Scatcherd, or her congeners ..."
"Is that eels?" said Irene, who wasn't listening, but getting out writing-materials. "You may go on talking, but don't expect me to answer, because I shan't. I'm going to write to Gwen all about it."
Her brother started, and became suddenly serious. "No, 'Re!" he exclaimed. "At least, not yet. I don't want Gwen to know anything about it. Don't let's have any more false hopes than we can help. Ten to one it's only a flash in the pan!... Don't cry about it, ducky darling! If it was real, it won't stop there, and we shall have something worth telling."
So Irene did not write her letter.
That evening the Squire was very silent, saying nothing about the long conversation he had had with Gwen's mother. His good lady did not come down to dinner, and if she asked him any questions about it, it was when he went up to dress; not in the hearing of his son or daughter. They only knew that their mother had not seen Lady Ancester when she called, and curiosity about the visitor had merged in the absorbing interest of Miss Scatcherd's sudden visibility.
But no sooner had Irene--who was the ladies, this time--departed to alleviate the lot of her excellent mamma, who may have been very ill, for anything the story knows, than Sir Hamilton told the pervading attendant-in-chief to look alive with the coffee, and get that door shut, and keep it shut, conveying his desire for undisturbed seclusion.
Then he was observed by his son to be humming and hawing, somewhat in the manner of ourselves when asked to say a few words at a public dinner. This was Adrian's report to Irene later.
"Had a visitor to-day--s'pose they told you--Lady Ancester. Sorry your mother wasn't up to seeing her."
"I know. We passed her coming away. Said how-d'ye-do in a hurry. What had her ladyship got to say for herself?" Thus far was mere recognition of a self-assertion of the Baronet's, as against female triviality. He always treated any topic mooted in the presence of womankind as mere froth, and resumed it as a male interest, as though it had never been mentioned, as soon as the opposite sex had died down.
"We had some talk. Did you know she was coming?"
"Well--yes--after a fashion. Gwen's last letter said we might expect a descent from her mamma. But I had no idea she was going to be so prompt."
"She sent over to tell us, this morning. They took the letter up to your mother. I had gone over to the Hanger, to prevent Akers cutting down a tree. Man's a fool! I rather got let in for seeing her ladyship. Your mother arranged it."
"I didn't hear of it. I should have stopped. So would 'Re."
"Yes--it rather let me in for a ... _tete-a-tete_." Why did Sir Hamilton feel that this expression was an edged tool, that might cut his fingers?
He did.
"I should have been in the way."
Another time this might have procured a rebuke for levity. Sir Hamilton perceived in it a stepping-stone to his text. "Perhaps you might," he said. But he wavered, lest that stone should not bear; adding, indecisively:--"Well--we had some talk!"
"About?" said his son. But he knew perfectly well what about.
"About Gwen and yourself. That conversation of yours with the Earl. You remember it? You told me."
"I remember it, certainly. He was perfectly right--the Earl. He's the sort of man that is right. I was horribly ashamed of myself. But Gwen set me up in my own conceit again."
His father persevered. "I understood his view to be that Gwen was under the influence of ... was influenced by ... a distorted view ... a mistaken imagination...."
"Not a doubt of it, I should think. My _amour propre_ keeps on suggesting to me that Gwen may be of sound mind. My strong common sense replies that my _amour propre_ may be blowed!"
"Adrian, I wish to talk to you seriously. What did you suppose I was referring to?"
"To Gwen's distorted view of your humble servant--a clear case of mistaken imagination. That, however, is a condition precedent of the position. Dan Cupid would be hard up, otherwise."
"Dan Who?"
"The little God of Love ... not Daniel Anybody! Wasn't that what the Earl meant?"
"Not at all! I was referring to his view of ... a ... his daughter's view ... of the accident ... some idea of her making up to you for ..."
No wonder he hesitated. It _was_ difficult to talk to his son about it.
Adrian cleared the air with a ringing laugh. "I know! What Gwen calls the Self-Denying Ordinance!--her daddy's expression, I believe." He settled down to a more restrained and serious tone. "The subject has not been mentioned, since Lord Ancester's first conversation with me--in the consulship of Mrs. Bailey, at the Towers--not mentioned by anyone. And though the thought of it won't accept any suggestions towards its extinction, from myself, I don't see my way to ... to making it a subject of general conversation. In fact, I cannot do anything but hold my tongue. I am sure you would not wish me to say to Gwen:--'Hence!
Begone! I forbid you to sacrifice yourself at My Shrine.' Now, would you?"
The Squire was at liberty to ignore poetry. He took no notice of the question, but proceeded to his second head. "Lady Ancester has a strong opinion on the subject." He never said much at a time, and this being difficult conversation, his part of it came in short lengths.
"To the effect that her daughter is throwing herself away. Quite right!
It is so. She _is_ throwing herself away."
"Lady Ancester expressed no opinion to that effect. She considers that Gwen is not acting under the influence of ... under the usual motives.
That's all she said. Spoke very well of you, my boy!--I must say that."
"But...?"
"But thought Gwen ought to act only for her own sake."
"Of course she ought. Of course she ought. I see the whole turn out. Her mother considers, quite rightly, that Jephtha, Judge of Israel, ought to have been jolly well ashamed of himself. Perhaps he was. But that's neither here nor there. What does Gwen's mammy think I ought to do--ought to say--ought to pretend? That's what it comes to. Am I to refuse to accompany Gwen to the altar till she can give sureties that she is really in love, and plead the highest Spartan principles to justify my conduct? Am I to make believe that I cannot, cannot love a woman unless she produces certificates of affection based solely on the desirability of my inestimable self? I should never make anyone believe _that_. Why--if I thought Gwen hated me worse than poison, but was marrying me on high moral grounds to square accounts, I don't think I could humbug successfully, to that extent."
"Well, my dear boy, I am bound to confess that I do not see what you can _do_. I can only repeat to you her ladyship's conviction, and tell you that I believe it to be--what she says it is. I mean that she speaks because she is certain Gwen is under the influence of this--of this Quixotic motive. I can only tell you so, at her wish, and--and leave it to you. I tell you frankly that if I were in her place, I should oppose the marriage, under the circumstances."
"Why doesn't she tackle me about it herself?"
"H'm--well--h'm! I think if you look at it from her point of view ...
from her point of view, you'll see there would be many difficulties ...
many difficulties. Done your cigar? I suppose we ought to go and pay your mother a visit."
Yes--Adrian saw the difficulties! On his way upstairs a vivid scene passed through his head, in which an image of the Countess addressed him thus:--"My dear Mr. Torrens, Gwen does not really love you. She is only pretending, because she considers her family are responsible for your blindness. All her assurances of affection for you are untrustworthy--just her fibs! She could not play her part without them.