Chance - Page 108/275

He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take

anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low

mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but

he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when

de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having "looked after" (as

he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes,

such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even

from his wife.

I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air

while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she

had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by

treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive

aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough

to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any

sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by

one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of

Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had

cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly

free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The

indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny

but not humorous.

As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the

justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to

London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch

with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to

sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would

come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put

himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne.

I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said:

"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian."

Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?"

I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a

girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress

or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the

captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for

it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously

unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you

to think that I am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she

failed decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I

believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that an angel would have

failed likewise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state

that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes' door.