“Oh, about Maurice I don’t know,” she said quickly; “it was in my talk with her about it that I saw her dislike—and only inferred his.” She felt that she had dogged all sorts of funny, half-hidden little dangers—Maurice’s aroused enmity was the plainest of them—and what was she racing towards? what her object? She could not see. Felicia took all from her, would share not a jot or tittle of her rich possessions; well then, she would keep what came. Besides, Felicia was in peril. Yes, there was the object. She heaved a sigh as it emerged once more before her.
Mr. Merrick, after a silence not without its dignity, forbearing further comment on the revelation, went on: “Yes, loneliness is the lot of age. Youth is narrow. I don’t complain; one can’t when one understands. Before her marriage Felicia was my complaisant little echo. I filled her mind with all it owns. Now other interests have pushed me out.”
The object, the beneficent object, was now so clear, that the dubious meaning of that sudden dodge was comfortably obscured; with one’s eye on a beacon one could no longer glance at these wayside mishaps. She had a look of quiet homage for his generosity, as she said, “As to interests that push you out I hardly care for one. Your daughter’s feeling about your essay could hardly have been spontaneous in your complaisant echo; it’s the rarest women, the strongest only, who do not echo some one; I imagined that in this case she echoed her husband, but I see the larger influence. My Cousin Geoffrey was with your daughter when I came this afternoon. I hoped to see her alone—to see you; but I felt that I was interrupting. He admires your daughter greatly. The dewy rose attracts after dusty, practical life; it’s pleasant, after turmoil, to inhale the perfume. As I say, frankly, it is an influence that I regret.”
“He is Maurice’s most intimate friend,” said Mr. Merrick quickly.
She felt his involuntary clutch at the answer to an intimation he hardly recognized.
“Yes, he is,” she assented, “but not the friend I would have chosen for Maurice either. Maurice wants an ideal in life, an impetus away from dreams and dilettante dawdling into noble action. Geoffrey is pinned to activity, indeed, but hardly in its noble forms; pinned rather to the practical, the expedient, the continual compromise of political life that tends, I think, to eat away all sense of moral responsibility. Not a good influence for either of your nestlings. I am very frank, Mr. Merrick, but I have known both these men so well, since boyhood. Geoffrey is strong, and Maurice, with all his charm, is weak; the contrast must tell. Geoffrey predominates over Maurice and will, I fear, over your daughter. Already we have found his influence working. Women echo the strongest. Here I am, at home. It was so good of you to come with me. I am so glad of our talk. Won’t you lunch with me and my father on Friday? Lord Challoner is to be with us—a clever man; he will be delighted to meet you. You and he will talk while papa and I listen. I love to watch minds striking sparks. You will come?”
“With pleasure.” Mr. Merrick’s varying emotions culminated for the moment in gratification. Lord Challoner was a very clever man; Lady Angela well known as a very clever woman. The responsibilities of his recognized worth wrought in him as he walked homeward.
CHAPTER VII
THE talk had been as suave as the ascent of a rocket; and once its destined height attained its transformation into successive explosive shocks swiftly followed. Felicia, shortly after her father’s return, burst into Maurice’s dressing-room. She had known a tormenting doubt of her own distrust; now her indignation was sure of itself, her distrust was justified; there was almost a relief in the fulness of her anger.
“Maurice, what do you think has happened?” she demanded.