Her father dropped in on her for a little talk before dressing for dinner. He had never been so attentive—and no man could be more fascinating than Richmond, when he wished. “I’ve got to make a tour of the Northwest,” said he. “I must start not later than the twenty-second of May—and be gone a month. I wish you’d either put off the wedding till I get back or have it before I go. When Peter comes down to-morrow you and he can talk it over. You know I’d rather you married before I go. I’m not as young as I once was, and there’s an element of uncertainty in these journeys. But it shall be just as you say.”
“It’ll have to be put off,” said Beatrice.
“Don’t forget that Peter has made arrangements for you to be presented at court the tenth of June.”
“I simply can’t get ready.”
“Your mother thinks you can,” said Richmond, showing his keen disappointment, but altogether in regret, not at all in anger or reproach. “Still, do the best you can. Think it over. Talk with Peter.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” said Beatrice. She had protested more strongly to him than she had in her own heart, for she was now sunk down into indifference. Nothing seemed to matter. The cold had left her physically below par; her mental state was therefore blackly pessimistic. Roger’s lack of response seemed profoundly discouraging; she began to doubt whether she loved him—whether she ever had loved as she had fancied. We should get very much nearer to the truth about human adversities and disasters—the truth about their real causes—did we but know exactly what was the state of health of the persons chiefly concerned. Beatrice well and Beatrice ill were two absolutely different persons.
“Yes—I know you’ll oblige me if it’s possible,” said her father.
The next day happened to be a Sunday. Richmond himself motored down to meet Peter, who was arriving in time for lunch.
As the young man descended from the train it took no skill whatever at reading faces to discover that he was out of humor—had been brooding over Beatrice’s treatment of him, and in the brooding had lost nothing of the grouch he had taken away with him. A weak man never looks so weak as when he is out of humor; accordingly, Peter was showing his true character, or lack of character, with a distinctness that irritated Richmond even as he reflected how admirably it fitted in with his plans. Peter was not to blame for his weakness. He had not had the chance to become otherwise. He had been deprived of that hand-to-hand strife with life which alone makes a man strong. Usually, however, the dangerous truth as to his weakness was well hidden by the fictitious seeming of strength which obstinacy, selfishness, and the adulation of a swarm of sycophants and dependents combine to give a man of means and position. Richmond, for all his reverence for Peter’s lineage and wealth nearly two centuries old, had not for an instant been deceived as to his personal character. One reason why he felt so satisfied with him as a son-in-law was his belief that Beatrice could be happy only with a man she could rule; and on this Sunday of Peter’s arrival with his weakness stripped naked to the most casual eye by his bad humor, Richmond was better pleased than ever with his selection for his high-strung daughter.
“Peter,” said he sharply, when he had him in the limousine.