“Everything is fair in love and war,” he said: “I’ll play a game. The cause is good. Yes, Jack Mackenzie, my open-hearted, frank, brave boy, you shall marry Gerty. I have said it—you—shall.”
He laughed aloud next minute at his own enthusiasm.
“What a capital actor I should have made!” he thought. “How beautifully I could have done heavy fathers!”
Still waters run deep, and Richards was astute, though perhaps he did not look it. So he began at once to shuffle his cards for the game he was about to play—a game which he rightly judged was to be one of life or death. For he shuddered to think of the living death to which the selfishness of her miserly, ambitious father intended condemning Gerty.
“My baby, bless her sweet face,” he added, “shall never marry that bleach-eyed old Digby.”
Then he shut his ledger with a bang, and went for a walk in the park, where he could think. But the Mackenzies would lose the fine old house and property called Grantley Hall. Keane would assuredly foreclose. Then the place would be Keane’s or Gerty’s, it was much the same. Keane really meant it to be Sir Digby’s and Gerty’s, while he, Keane, should live and be honoured and respected there—his son-in-law a lord. Richards thought he must try by hook or by crook to prevent his partner from foreclosing, if only for the following reason: if Grantley Hall once passed into Keane’s hands, much though Gerty and Jack loved each other, the latter, being a Mackenzie and a Scot, would be far too proud to propose marriage, seeing that in doing so his desires might be misconstrued, and people would naturally say he was simply marrying back his own property.
The general had told his children that Keane was his only creditor. Yes, because in order to make sure of the estate, the old lawyer had bought up all the others. He could thus come down upon the brave but reckless Scottish soldier, like an avalanche from a mountain’s brow.
The day had almost arrived for Keane’s foreclosing. The family had already left Grantley Hall, taking little with them save the family jewellery, pictures, and nick-nacks. Flora had gone to Torquay, Jack was in town, and his father preparing to resume his sword, and once more fight for his country. The eventful morning itself came round. Keane was early at his office. He was in an unusually happy frame of mind. Yet perhaps he had a few slight “stoun’s” of conscience, for over and over again he talked to Richards, bringing up the subject next his heart, and excusing himself.
“I had to do it—I had to do it,” he said. “Pity for the poor Mackenzies. But the general was so improvident, and what could I do?”
“Most improvident,” replied Richards, smiling quietly over his ledger nevertheless.