“It is not always the convenient that happens, however,” rejoined the old gentleman. “And convenience itself may sometimes, on some accounts, be less desirable than an acceptance of facts. If Sir Francis Bendibow, let us say, had been suspected of a grave indiscretion in early life, and had in consequence disappeared from society, leaving his family behind him—”
“His family would probably, in the course of time, become reconciled to his absence,” interrupted Perdita, coloring slightly. “Human relationship is not so rigid and important a matter as romancers and sentimentalists try to make it out, Mr. Grant. As long as my child, or my husband, or my father continues to live within my sight and reach, I acknowledge myself the mother, wife, or daughter, and conduct myself accordingly. But if they vanish from my knowledge and remembrance, I learn to do without them, and they have no further concern with me. If they die, I shall not weep for them, and if they return, I shall not care for them. If I were more imaginative, or more inclined to feel my emotions to order, it might be otherwise. But it is my nature to feel my own emotions, and not other people’s, and to see things as they are, and not as poetry pretends. My father, sir, is not the man who brought me into the world and then abandoned me, but—on the whole,” she added, suddenly and completely changing her tone and manner, and speaking smilingly, “I prefer to say that I have no father at all, and want none.”
Her speech had been more like that of a frigid and saturnine man, than like the utterance of a beautiful and youthful woman. Mr. Grant had listened to it attentively. He appeared to meditate for a few moments after she had ceased, and then he said, “I too have felt the force of circumstances, and should be the last to underrate it. Ambassadors, you know”—here he smiled a little—“are less deaf to the voice of reason than principals might be. I am intrusted with plenary powers, and may relinquish my side of the discussion definitively. I should regret my mission, were it not that it has obtained me a charming and valuable acquaintance”—here he bowed ceremoniously—“which I trust may continue. If I have annoyed you, be satisfied that I shall never subject you to the same annoyance again—nor to any other, I hope.”
“I have made no disguise of my selfishness, you see,” said the Marquise, with gayety in her voice, but with a somewhat contradictory expression about her eyes and mouth. After a moment she went on as if impelled, despite a certain reluctance, “But I am unselfish too, as you will find out if you come to know me better. You will find out that I am not a daughter whom any parent with a sense of prudence and self-respect would put out his hand to reclaim.” And hereupon the Marquise laughed, while tears sparkled for an instant on her eyelashes.
“What says our fair hostess,” called out the voice of Sir Francis Bendibow, from the other side of the table, where he was conversing with the other two ladies, while his eyes and thoughts were elsewhere; “Should a man who loves two women give up both of them, or settle upon one? Come, ladies, the Marquise shall be our umpire—eh?”
“It is not a question for an umpire to decide,” replied the Marquise. “Let the man put his case before the two women, and leave them to settle it between themselves.”
“But we are supposing him to be an ordinary man, not a hero.”
“Then he would not find more than one woman to be in love with him.”
“And it might turn out,” remarked Marion, “that he was deceived in supposing himself capable of being really in love with anybody.”
“If he were a hero, I’m sure he would not love more than one,” said Mrs. Lockhart, gently.