“You would not like him to be disloyal, not for twenty bank-notes? He might have swallowed the injury to himself of having that money flung in his face—”
“Injury!”—Mr. Rowland’s countenance fell.
She put her hand upon his, smiling—“Yes, Sir Stern Father. That’s not your rôle, James: you were born to be a most indulgent father, giving in to them in everything. And you must henceforward take up your right rôle, and let me be the repressive influence.”
He took her hands between both his. It was not a very strong support, so far as physical force went, and yet for the first time James Rowland felt their soft fingers close upon his in a way that expressed not their usual soft gentleness, but strength. He felt himself suddenly holding on to that hand as if it were his sheet anchor, which indeed it was.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I think perhaps I looked at them through what I supposed were your eyes, Evelyn, seeing how unlike they were to you, how little worthy to live with you, to have the rank of your children. It was that, at all events, made me hard upon poor little May. It’s not her fault if she is more like Jane Brown than she is like a lady, or anything that had even been near you.”
“Whom should she be like but the person who has brought her up? I am delighted to hear that they are so loyal. I would not have that changed for anything in the world.”
“I am not so sure about their loyalty,” said Rowland, recalling to mind Marion’s strict impartiality in respect to her aunt and detachment from her. But he felt sure that Evelyn would be able to explain that away also; and put his foot upon it. No need to make the child out worse than she was; and a rush of paternal kindness came over him now that the two were out of his sight. It was not their fault. He said, “I don’t doubt you’ll do wonders with Marion, my dear. The little thing is very quick. Even in the day or two I was with them, a change came over her. She kept her eye upon me, and without a word just adopted manners. No, I don’t think I am partial. Indeed I found that I was quite the reverse.”
I am afraid that a cold shudder, unsuspected by her husband, passed over Evelyn, in which, if there was horror, there was also a distinctly comic element. What sort of a wonderful creature must the girl be who “adopted manners” from good James, the most excellent man, but not a model of refinement. She could not but laugh, yet shivered a little as well.
“I am more afraid of Marion than of Archie,” she said, “for he will chiefly be your concern. I shall have only the consoling part, the petting to do with him. I hope your little May is a magnanimous little person, who will not mind being pulled to pieces for her good; for I suppose I shall have to do that—if you are right.”
She added these last words with a little quick awakening to possible danger. He had not been at all complimentary to his little girl. Yet was it possible that there was a faint little cloud, a suspicion of a cloud on his face, to be taken at his word, and to have even his wife express, nay repeat what was his own opinion? She was very quick to see these almost imperceptible changes of countenance, and with a little start and catching of her breath, awoke to a sense of risk, which she had never realised before.