‘Do you call mother a woman? You might be more civil,’ said Janet: but she did not contradict this assertion, which was not made for the first time. She, too, had always thought that the ideal father, the vague impersonation of kindness and understanding, who would never mock like Beau, nor look too grave like mother, was something to sigh for, in whose guard all would have gone well. But the portrait in the hall had daunted Janet. She had felt that those black brows could frown and those staring eyes burn beyond anything that her softly nurtured childhood had known. She would not betray herself by a word or even a thought if she could help it, but it could not be denied that her heart sank. ‘I wish,’ she said, quickly, ‘you’d leave off breakfasting, Tom, and come out with me for a walk. What is the good of pretending? One can see you don’t want anything to eat.’
‘Walk!’ said Tom. ‘You can get that little sap to walk with you. I’ve got to meet a fellow—Blackmore’s his name—away on the other side of the moor at twelve. Just ring the bell, Jan. In five minutes I must have Bess at the door.’
‘It’s twelve o’clock now. Don’t go to-day. Besides, mother——’
‘What has mother to do with it?’ cried Tom, starting up. ‘I’m going, if it was only to spite mother, and you can tell her so. Do you think I’m tied to mother’s apron-string? Oh, is it you, Beau? I—am going out for a ride.’
‘So am I,’ said Beaufort, entering. ‘I thought it likely that would be your intention, so I ordered your horse when I ordered mine. Where did you say you were going? I caught somebody’s name as I came in.’
‘He said he was—a friend of my father’s,’ said Tom, sullenly.
‘Ah! it is easy for a man to say he is the friend of another who cannot contradict him. Anyhow, we can ride together so far. What’s the matter? Aren’t you ready?’ Beaufort said.
‘He has not finished his breakfast,’ said Janet, springing to Tom’s defence.
‘Oh, nonsense! at twelve o’clock!’ said Beaufort, with a laugh. And presently, notwithstanding the youth’s reluctance, he was carried off in triumph. Janet, much marvelling, followed them to the door to see them mount. She stood upon the steps, following their movements with her eyes, dimly comprehending, divining, with her feminine instincts half awakened. Tom’s sullen, reluctant look was more than ever like the portrait, which Janet paused once more to look at as she went back through the hall. She stood looking for a long time at the heavy, lowering face. It was a fine portrait, which Torrance had boasted of in his time, the money it had cost filling him with ill-concealed pride. It was the first thing which had shaken Janet in her devotion to the imaginary father who had been the god of her childhood. Tom was not so big; he was not tall at all, not more than middle height, though broadly and heavily made. It was very like Tom, and yet there was something in it which made the girl afraid. As she stood gazing with more and more uncertainty upon the pictured face, Lady Car came quickly into the hall—almost running—in evident anxiety and concern. She stopped suddenly as Janet turned round, casting a half-frightened, shuddering look from the picture to the girl before it. There was something like an apology in her nervous pause.