“He has a small competence—left him by an aunt,” pursued Richmond, tranquil now. “I’ll wipe it out. I’ll make him a beggar, and then I’ll see that he is driven from the country.”
Beatrice turned round. “You—would do—that!” she said slowly.
“Just that—and probably more,” her father assured her genially. “I think I have a little power—despite the belief of certain members of my family to the contrary.”
“But he has done nothing!” cried she. “I’ve told you he refused me—again and again. He has done everything to discourage me. He has wounded my pride. He has trampled on my vanity. He has told me plainly that in no circumstances would he burden himself with me.”
“Then why do you persist?” said her father shrewdly.
She did not answer. Her head drooped.
Richmond laughed. “You see, your story doesn’t hold together. This is Rhoda and Broadstairs over again. They conspired together to bleed me out of more than he had asked in the first place. I let them do it. But I knew what they were about. This is a different case.” White and shaking, he waved outstretched arms at her. “You and your vagabond will never get a cent out of me, living or dead. And he knows it. I told him.”
“You saw him?” said Beatrice eagerly. “What did he say?”
Richmond grew fiery red at the recollection of that interview, thus brought vividly back to him. “No matter,” said he roughly. “You’ll find that he wants nothing more to do with you. And when I get through with him he’ll be glad to hide himself in some dark, cheap corner of Paris. He’ll have to beg his passage money.”
“Father, I told you the truth,” said the girl with passionate earnestness. “He has never sought me. I have no hope of marrying him. I persisted—persist—because”—she drew her figure up proudly—“I love him!”