Mr Capes, like all men whose eloquence is natural and untaught, found transition in speech a very difficult matter. He began to repeat himself a good deal. He said twice that Mrs Capes agreed with him, and insisted at least four times that he did not want to make any unpleasantness. He uttered the profound truth, that his Hermione would never be the same again. And at each pause he still made it clear that he understood Cosmo’s position, he still maintained his attitude of respect, and he still came back to the only solution that had presented itself to his rustic mind. And still through this torture Cosmo was silent.
Mr Capes was not ignorant of affairs. He had often purchased young pigs for fattening, and would do, from time to time, a little horse-jobbing. He perceived that the matter of the bargain must be touched if this scene was ever to find an end.
“There are a few little things of hers, perhaps you have by you, sir. I know there was that pop’lar history of the war she lent you for the maps; a rug and a brooch she says you had—she does. Now if you send these back by me, why, it’ll be fitting like; and then I can bring you back some few things of yourn what she has; there was a pin, I know, and a book of something, and all your letters and all; if I bring all that back to you, sir, why that’ll be fitting too, so it will—and, of course,” rather more firmly, “such com-pen-sa-tion as is fitting also.”
Mr Capes was standing as though to go. Cosmo also stood, his eyes cast down and something like decision in his low voice.
“What do you want?” he said.
There is nothing in the world of business more difficult to estimate than the sum of ready money which the son of a rich man may have at his disposal at any moment. Legally he has often nothing; practically he may have anything at all. The problem is doubly hard for a father whose judgment is confused by the image of a beloved and injured daughter, and handicapped by grave imperfections of early training. Mr Capes had only one thing in his favour—he had made up his mind and he was free from hesitation. He had made enquiries some weeks ago of a tobacconist and an ostler, and his honest mind was too robust for indecision.
“Seven hundred and fifty pounds,” said he. Then he added, by way of rounding off the crudeness of the figures, “and not a penny less!”
Cosmo had been desperate for at least twenty minutes: there had rushed through his mind scheme after scheme. In the last resort an appeal to his father—flight, even, if nothing was left but to fly. He could not bear this interview a moment longer. He would dare anything.
“Come here, to this room, at eight to-morrow evening and you shall have it,” he said.
“To-morrow’s Sunday,” answered Mr Capes, with a touch of reproach in his hard breathing.