"Try and forget what I said, about--about the past, Stafford," he said.
"Let us look at the future--your future. After all, we're not beaten!
It's a compromise, it's an alliance!" His voice grew more cheerful, his
eyes began to brighten with something of their wonted fire. "And it's a
bright future, Staff! You've chosen a beautiful girl, a singularly
beautiful and distinguished-looking girl--it's true she's only Ralph
Falconer's daughter, and that I'd loftier ideas for you, but let that
pass! Maude is a young lady who can hold her own against the best and
the highest. Falconer must be rich, or he would not have been able to
have managed this thing, would not have been able to beat me. With your
money and hers, you can go as far as you please!"
He took a turn up and down the room again, a flush on the face that had
been pallid only a minute or two ago, his finely shaped head thrown
back.
"Yes, Stafford, I should like you to have married into the nobility. In
my eyes, there is no one too high in rank for you. But no matter! The
title will come. They cannot do less than offer me a peerage. This
railway will be of too much service to the government for them to pass
me over. The peerage must come; there is no chance of my losing it.
Why, yes! The future is as bright as the sunlight on a June morning!
You will have the girl you love, I shall have the peerage to leave to
you. I shall have not lived and struggled and fought in vain. I shall
have left a name unstained, unsullied, to the son I love!"
There was a catch in his voice, and it broke as he turned suddenly with
outstretched hand.
"Why, God forgive me, Stafford, my boy! I'm talking of what I've done
for you and what I'm meaning to do as if I were forgetting what you are
doing for me! Stafford, a father often finds that he has worked for his
children only to meet with ingratitude and to be repaid by
indifference; but you have returned my affection--Oh, I've seen it,
felt it, my boy! And now, as fate would have it, you are actually
saving my honour, shielding my good name, coming between me and utter
ruin! God bless you, Stafford! God bless you and send you all the
happiness you deserve and I wish you!"
A silence fell. Into the room there floated the soft, languorous
strains of a waltz, the murmur of voices, the laughter of some of the
people in the conservatory. Stafford sat, his head still upon his
hands, as if her were half stupefied. And indeed he was. He felt like a
man who has been seized by the tentacles of an octopus, unable to
struggle, unable to move, dumb-stricken, and incapable even of protest.
Sir Stephen had spoken of fate: Fate held Stafford under its iron heel,
and the mockery of Fate's laughter mingled with the strains of the
waltz, the murmur of voices. Unconsciously he rose and looked round as
if half dazed, and Sir Stephen came to him and laid both hands on his
shoulders.