“You have no sentiment,” pursued the Marquise laughingly. “It will be an affecting scene, if you think of it! Lovers’ reconciliations are worth the quarrel it costs to have them. Our friend Philip will be happier than ever, and he will give us a beautiful poem, inspired by his new experience; something that will make ‘Iduna’ seem crude and cold! There will be no drawback to his contentment!”
Something ironical in Perdita’s tone struck Fillmore’s ear, but he did not understand it, and remained silent.
“Too much happiness is dangerous,” she went on: “it would be the part of friendship to abate a little of it. What do you think?”
“I am no friend of Mr. Lancaster’s,” said Fillmore, shortly.
“You are very dull, sir!” exclaimed the Marquise, giving him a sparkling glance. “If you are no friend of his, think how much reason I have to be his friend! When he was a youth, whom no one knew, he formed the acquaintance of the Marquis, and came to our house, and read me his first little poems, which I praised, and encouraged him to write more, so that his first book, the ‘Sunshine of Revolt,’ was my godchild, and at that time I was its only reader. I saw that he had intellect; but his nature was timid, suspicious, self-conscious, and cold; he dissected himself and mistrusted others. He had the poetic gift, but wanted the courage and vigor of the heart to use it: his fear of ridicule made him prefer criticism to creation: he could imagine himself to be so much that he was content to become nothing. His ambition made him vain, and his vanity made him indolent. He needed a stronger and more active spirit,—something to make him plunge into difficulties and struggles, and not to care if fools shrugged their shoulders. I thought I could supply what he lacked,—that I could give him the blood and the warmth to render his great faculties practical. He ought to have understood the value of such companionship as I offered him!” said Perdita, speaking with more intensity. “But what he says is not like what he is; he is a man who has fears and hesitations,—the kind of man that I despise! What right had he to marry? Was not I better than marriage? But really, Mr. Fillmore, these poets are great fools: they promise a great deal, and some of them write very charmingly; but a lawyer is more of a man!”
Fillmore’s face indicated that he was beginning to recover from his dullness. Still, he dared not hope too soon; it might be that Perdita’s words, as well as Philip’s, could imply more than she meant. He waited to hear more. But she recommenced at an unexpected point.
“I have read those papers,” she said, rising and going to a secretary, from a drawer of which she took Grantley’s packet. “Sir Francis knew when to die: here is what would have made it impossible for him to live. He was false, cowardly and selfish beyond belief! And my father—Charles Grantley—was as noble as the other was base: too noble! I have no sympathy with such generosity. Let a man be as true as steel, but as hard and deadly, too, when there is need! But he was my father: I know that now, and I’m going to act upon it!”
“In what way?” asked Fillmore.
“To have my rights,” answered Perdita, lifting her head.
“Who has deprived you of them?”