“A lot of pride you’ve got,” sneered her father.
“Yes, I have,” replied she. “I love him so much that I’d not be ashamed for the whole world to know it. I’m not one of those milk-and-water, cowardly women who have to wait till they’re loved before they begin to give what they call love. I love him because he is the best all-round man I ever saw—because he is big and broad and simple—because he’s honest and sincere—because he—because I love him!”
Richmond was silenced. She looked fine as she said this—the sort of woman an intelligent, appreciative man is mighty proud to have as a daughter. He was moved so powerfully that he could not altogether conceal it. But that was an impulse from a part of his nature deeply sepulchered and almost dead—quite dead so far as influence upon action or practical life was concerned. “You’re stark mad, Beatrice!” he cried. “This has got to be cured at once. Come home with me!”
“Father,” she pleaded, “you never denied me anything in my life. And this I want more than all——”
“I thought you said you had no hope,” cried her father, encouraged to see weakness in the feminine pathos of her tones. “Now, drop this nonsense! Come with me and marry Vanderkief or I’ll beggar that artist and drive him out in disgrace. Take your choice. And be quick about it. I’ll not make this offer again, and I’ll not stop the wheels once I set them in motion. In two days I can have him made penniless.”
Beatrice looked at her father; her father looked at her. She laughed—a quiet, cold laugh. “You win,” said she. “I’ll go.”
And five minutes later she, having passively submitted to Allie’s and Mrs. Kinnear’s farewell embraces, descended to enter her father’s automobile. Richmond took the seat beside her with an expression of mere tranquility upon his shrewd, dangerous face.
He had accomplished only what he felt assured in advance he would accomplish. Whenever he played trumps they won.
XI
PETER VISITS THE PRISON
We may hesitate, back and fill, creep forward with trembling caution, in matters affecting our own affairs. But we show no such nervousness when it comes to interfering in the affairs of another. There we are swift and sure. We give advice freely; we say “ought” in authoritative tones; we even enforce judgment if we have the power. Why not? If matters do not turn out well the fault will lie not upon our advice, but upon the blundering way our advice was executed. Besides, we shall not be called on to pay the bill; destiny never settles its accounts in consequences vicariously. Richmond had given far less thought to his daughter’s affairs than he habitually bestowed upon the small details of a small business deal. He felt he did not need to think about them; he knew what was good for her. Was he not her father?—and was it not a father’s duty and privilege to know what was best for a daughter? So, the obstacle to the fulfillment of the destiny he had ordained for her must be swept away.