Читать книгу The Giant's Strength - Basil King - Страница 7

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He strode in with his characteristic air of command, and Paula, springing up, threw her arms about him. The two were always expressive in their affection for each other, but this morning there was in Paula's "Oh, papa!" a variety of emotions of which she herself could have given but a confused account. It was as if she had received him back again after the nightmare of having lost him. He clasped her to him, looking down at her with that kind of impressive tenderness for which very strong faces alone have the capacity.

If was no wonder that she was proud of him—this handsome giant of over six feet three, before whom all the fast-barred gates of life had yielded. Even age seemed powerless to lay more than the lightest hand upon him. His sixty-five years had deepened the lines on his rocklike face, and brought a little gray into the mustache that curving upward revealed the set of the close lips, but they had done little more. The hair was scarcely silvered, and the eyes still had the vivacity of an eager, stern-faced boy's. They were the Trafford eyes—blue with black lashes, and, in his case, with heavy, overhanging brows.

Paula slipped from his embrace, and they exchanged the usual morning greetings. Trafford kissed his niece, and inquired for George and little Paul. It was clear to the two women, accustomed to observe the slightest signs of his wishes, that he had come on some special errand; so Laura, after reminding Paula that she and the Duke were to lunch with George and herself at Ciro's, made some excuse for running away.

Paula resumed her seat, while her father moved about the room with unusual restlessness.

"That's a pretty thing you've got on," he observed, coming back to her side. "Aren't you looking a little pale to-day?" he continued, stroking her cheek "What's all this?"

He turned over, with a toss, the letters of petition she had opened, and, with characteristic attention to small details, ran his eye over them.

"You might send something there," he advised, "and there. I wouldn't pay any regard to that. You might inquire into this one; and, of course, you must see that that poor little French girl has what comfort you can give her. I'm going to Vienna," he finished, abruptly. "Oh no, papa!" she pleaded. "Not now! Not just now!"

"I must, dear. I've tried to get out of it, but there are very large interests at stake, and I'm obliged to go."

He drew a small chair towards her and sat down. With his arms folded on the table, he looked across at her. Before that gaze her own glance fell. It was as though the mingling of strength and adoration in it were too much for her to support without flinching. The roselike color came and went in her cheek, and stole up into her white, blue-veined temples, while Paul Trafford wondered, as he did ten times every day, how it was that, out of his sheer force and his wife's mere buxomness, there had sprung this exquisite flower of a child.

"Yes, dear, I'm obliged to go," he repeated. "I'm sorry it has to be now—just now. You know why, don't you?"

She lifted her eyes and let them fall again.

"I suppose I do, papa."

"I don't want to hurry you," he went on, with what, for him, was curious timidity, "and I wouldn't on my own account—not for a second. But, darling, we ought to think of—of him, oughtn't we? Don't you think he's been very patient? It's over a month now."

"I find it very hard to decide, papa."

"Could you tell me why, dear? I might be able to help you."

"You'd like it very much, wouldn't you, papa?"

"Yes; but that isn't a reason for you," he answered, promptly. "I want my little girl to marry to please herself, not me."

"And yet I can't help taking what pleases you into consideration—into deep consideration. And I've wondered a little papa," she continued, looking up at him, "why you've been so anxious about this one, when you've been so indifferent, if not opposed, to the others."

"I'll tell you, darling. I'll give you my point of view. But, mark you, it can't be yours; it mustn't be yours. From the very nature of things, you and I approach this subject from different angles. First of all, I have to remember that I'm no longer a young man, and that I have a great treasure to leave behind."

"But, papa, darling, I'd rather not think of it in that light."

"No, but I must. There's the difference of angle at once. If one of your brothers had lived, or even one of your sisters, perhaps, I shouldn't feel so keenly about it as I do. But you're all that's left to us—"

"Then why not keep me with you as long as possible?"

"We're not going to lose you. We shall never be far away from you, at any time. Your mother and I have quite made up our minds to that. Life wouldn't be worth anything to me if I couldn't see my little girl when I wanted to; that is, within reason."

She leaned across the table and laid her hand on his, smiling into his face with shining eyes.

"And so, dearest, since my treasure is so great, it would be a comfort to me, as I go downhill, to know that it was in safe, in very safe, hands."

"And you think his are the best?"

"They are the best I know. I can't think of any man I've ever met of whom I should feel sure, with so few reserves—without any reserves at all. Listen to me," he pursued, in another tone, patting her hand, which still lay out-stretched towards him on the table. "Listen to me, and I'll expose my whole reason to you in a way you will understand. I repeat, that it is the reason which guides me, but it's not to guide you. Yours must be a different motive and a surer one. Still, it may help you in making your decision, if you know what has enabled me to come to mine. In the first place, he loves you. Of course, you know that."

She nodded and let her eyes fall again.

"Then, I think my little girl has, to say the least, a very sincere regard for him."

She nodded again, still with eyes downcast.

"And then, he's not a man who would love to-day and forget to-morrow. He is essentially good, kind, loyal, and devoted. Your mother and I would have none of that wretched uncertainty of parents who say to each other, 'Oh, I hope he will be good to her!' We would be sure of that beforehand. You see, dear, we've protected you so, we've got so strongly the habit of protecting you, that it's like pain to us to think that any wind of unkindness could ever blow on you."

"Papa, darling," she broke in, with a choking of the voice, "couldn't I stay with you always, and not marry any one?"

"Certainly, dear. There's not the slightest reason why you shouldn't be an old maid, if you want to. But, in the mean time, let me go on. Wiltshire is not only a good man who loves you, but he's a very rich man."

"I shouldn't think that mattered," she said, lifting her head suddenly.

"Only in this way, that in our position it's a guarantee. He's one of the rich men of a rich country. There's no possible reason why he should marry any woman for any other object than herself. Mind you, I'm far from saying that if you married a poor man it might not be for love, love on both sides. But I'll go as far as this: there's no poor man you could marry for whom, however much he loved you, your wealth would not be an overpowering consideration. The very change it would bring into the daily circumstances of his life would oblige him to give his mind to it, perhaps more than to you. I must keep repeating, dear, that that's a point which weighs with me, though I shouldn't expect you to give it undue importance."

"I don't think I could," she said, with a wistful smile.

"All right. So much the better. Now for one thing more. Wiltshire is not only a good man, and a rich man, but he's a man of very high rank. He can give his wife one of the best positions in the world, as the world counts positions."

"I thought our own was very good as it is."

He raised himself and laughed.

"You're quite right," he returned. "It is a good position. But it's rather like that of the Bonapartes—good as long as you can keep it. It's a position that depends upon a strong man, and requires a strong man to maintain it. And I want my little daughter to have the best of everything without the hardship of the struggle. If you were a boy, I should feel differently; but as it is, I want to see you in a place that will be based on something broader and solider than the mere possession of money. I want you to be where criticism and accusation can't touch you. You've never known to what an extent I've been assailed by them—and not only I, but every one with whom I have had much to do. We've kept you out of it as far as possible, but we couldn't do so always. They've struck at your mother and George and Laura, and even at my friends. Very soon they will begin to strike at you, simply because you are my child."

"I should be proud of it," she declared, throwing back her head with something of his own flashing of the eye.

"You wouldn't be proud of it long. The press of our country is perfectly pitiless on those who rise an inch above the general mediocrity. It spares no feeling and respects no sanctuary. The mere fact that you are Paul Trafford's daughter will make you a target to that great section of the public that has never ceased to pursue me with the most relentless hostility."

"But what could they say against me?"

"Nothing against you, darling—nothing against you. They could only rifle the privacy of your domestic life, and besmirch you with a hundred vulgarities. You might not perceive it, but it would be madness to me. It's only over here that we have some respite from that kind of thing, and, therefore, it's over here I should like to see you find a refuge. If you were like some women—like Laura, for instance—I mightn't hesitate to expose you to it; but, being what you are, I should like to see you so far removed from it all that even the echo of slanderous curiosity couldn't reach you. There," he broke off, "I think I've had my say."

She rose from her place, and came slowly to him, round the table.

"Thank you, papa," she said, simply, slipping her arm over his shoulder and bending down her cheek against his brow. "Whatever I do, you'll love me just the same, won't you?"

For answer, he drew her slim white fingers to his lips. It vexed her that, at that very instant, George's words of last night should have returned to her memory like the refrain of some hideous song:

"Your father was obliged at last to club her down."