Penhallow’s lips curled a little. “No harm done, then. If you do change, I shall be glad; if you don’t, it won’t have done either of you any harm to wait a while. You’re young yet.”
Bart got up. “I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly. “That’s right: you think about it,” said his father, with the utmost cordiality.
Chapter Eleven
When Bart had left the room, Penhallow settled himself, with a chuckle, more comfortably amongst his pillows. He thought he had Bart’s measure, and was fairly confident that he had averted the disaster of his marriage. It amused him to reflect how easy it was to disarm this most hot-headed of his sons. Bart had a tender heart; Penhallow did not think that Loveday would find it a simple matter to induce him to darken what he had been led to believe were his father’s last weeks on earth.
She made no such attempt. When Bart came out of Penhallow’s room she was awaiting him by the door into Clara’s garden. She saw at once that he was looking troubled, and directed an inquiring glance up at him. He took her by the wrist, and briefly said that he must talk to her. She went with him into the garden, without demur, though she should have been in her mistress’s room by that time, and let him lead her through it to the gate in the crumbling grey wall which led to the orchard. Here they sat down in their favourite place, out of sight of any window; and Bart, with his arm about her waist, told her what had passed between him and his father.
She was quick to see, and in a measure to appreciate, Penhallow’s cleverness. She thought that his appeal to Bart’s affection was pure artifice, but she did not say so, because she saw that Bart really did think that his father was nearing the close of his life, and was inclined to be distressed about it. For herself, she believed that Penhallow expected to live for many more years; and she felt certain that now that he was in possession of their secret he would never make Bart independent of him by handing Trellick over to him. She ventured to suggest this to Bart. He wrinkled his brow, considering it, and finally replied: “Well, if he doesn’t die, and won’t give me Trellick, we shall just have to cut loose. I’m not afraid if you’re not. I shall get Trellick in the end. He meant that all right. You know, Loveday, he’s an old devil sure enough, but it’s quite true that I’ve always been more or less his favourite. He’s been rather decent to me, one way and another, and it does seem a bit low-down not to agree to wait a bit before I marry. He knows I won’t give you up. And naturally I don’t mean to hang about for ever.” His arm tightened round her; he turned her face up to his, and kissed her, and fondled her cheek. “All the same, my girl, if you’re willing to take a risk with me I’m ready to burn my boats, and marry you tomorrow — today, if I could!”
She said: “No.” She was thinking, slowly, but acutely, realising more completely the hold Penhallow had established over them both. She discounted his assurance to Bart that no matter whom he married he should have Trellick in the end. He had known how to disarm his son, and would not, she thought, abide by his word an instant longer than it suited him to do. She was filled with resentment, but she concealed it. She tilted her head, which rested on Bart’s shoulder, so that she could watch his face, and asked timidly: “Am I to be turned off?”
“No! Good lord, no!”
She twined her fingers in his. “Did he say so, Bartlove?”
“No, he didn’t say so, but he knows damned well I’d walk out of the house tonight, if he sent you away!”