“I dare say you think me strange,” she continued. “Most people do, because I speak the truth. It’s the easiest way of concealing one’s feelings. I can, for instance, talk quite openly about Mr. Peyton under shelter of your inference that I shouldn’t do so if I were what is called ‘interested’ in him. And as I am interested in him, my method has its advantages!” She ended with one of the fluttering laughs which seemed to flit from point to point of her expressive person.
Mrs. Peyton leaned toward her. “I believe you are interested,” she said quietly; “and since I suppose you allow others the privilege you claim for yourself, I am going to confess that I followed you here in the hope of finding out the nature of your interest.”
Miss Verney shot a glance at her, and drew away in a soft subsidence of undulating furs.
“Is this an embassy?” she asked smiling.
“No: not in any sense.”
The girl leaned back with an air of relief. “I’m glad; I should have disliked—” She looked again at Mrs. Peyton. “You want to know what I mean to do?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can only answer that I mean to wait and see what he does.”
“You mean that everything is contingent on his success?”
“I am—if I’m everything,” she admitted gaily.
The mother’s heart was beating in her throat, and her words seemed to force themselves out through the throbs.
“I—I don’t quite see why you attach such importance to this special success.”
“Because he does,” the girl returned instantly. “Because to him it is the final answer to his self-questioning—the questioning whether he is ever to amount to anything or not. He says if he has anything in him it ought to come out now. All the conditions are favourable—it is the chance he has always prayed for. You see,” she continued, almost confidentially, but without the least loss of composure—“you see he has told me a great deal about himself and his various experiments—his phases of indecision and disgust. There are lots of tentative talents in the world, and the sooner they are crushed out by circumstances the better. But it seems as though he really had it in him to do something distinguished—as though the uncertainty lay in his character and not in his talent. That is what interests, what attracts me. One can’t teach a man to have genius, but if he has it one may show him how to use it. That is what I should be good for, you see—to keep him up to his opportunities.”
Mrs. Peyton had listened with an intensity of attention that left her reply unprepared. There was something startling and yet half attractive in the girl’s avowal of principles which are oftener lived by than professed.
“And you think,” she began at length, “that in this case he has fallen below his opportunity?”
“No one can tell, of course; but his discouragement, his abattement, is a bad sign. I don’t think he has any hope of succeeding.”
The mother again wavered a moment. “Since you are so frank,” she then said, “will you let me be equally so, and ask how lately you have seen him?”
The girl smiled at the circumlocution. “Yesterday afternoon,” she said simply.
“And you thought him—”
“Horribly down on his luck. He said himself that his brain was empty.”
Again Mrs. Peyton felt the throb in her throat, and a slow blush rose to her cheek. “Was that all he said?”
“About himself—was there anything else?” said the girl quickly.
“He didn’t tell you of—of an opportunity to make up for the time he has lost?”
“An opportunity? I don’t understand.”
“He didn’t speak to you, then, of Mr. Darrow’s letter?”
“He said nothing of any letter.”
“There was one, which was found after poor Darrow’s death. In it he gave Dick leave to use his design for the competition. Dick says the design is wonderful—it would give him just what he needs.”
Miss Verney sat listening raptly, with a rush of colour that suffused her like light.
“But when was this? Where was the letter found? He never said a word of it!” she exclaimed.
“The letter was found on the day of Darrow’s death.”
“But I don’t understand! Why has he never told me? Why should he seem so hopeless?” She turned an ignorant appealing face on Mrs. Peyton. It was prodigious, but it was true—she felt nothing, saw nothing, but the crude fact of the opportunity.
Mrs. Peyton’s voice trembled with the completeness of her triumph. “I suppose his reason for not speaking is that he has scruples.”
“Scruples?”
“He feels that to use the design would be dishonest.”
Miss Verney’s eyes fixed themselves on her in a commiserating stare. “Dishonest? When the poor man wished it himself? When it was his last request? When the letter is there to prove it? Why, the design belongs to your son! No one else has any right to it.”
“But Dick’s right does not extend to passing it off as his own—at least that is his feeling, I believe. If he won the competition he would be winning it on false pretenses.”
“Why should you call them false pretenses? His design might have been better than Darrow’s if he had had time to carry it out. It seems to me that Mr. Darrow must have felt this—must have felt that he owed his friend some compensation for the time he took from him. I can imagine nothing more natural than his wishing to make this return for your son’s sacrifice.”
She positively glowed with the force of her conviction, and Mrs. Peyton, for a strange instant, felt her own resistance wavering. She herself had never considered the question in that light—the light of Darrow’s viewing his gift as a justifiable compensation. But the glimpse she caught of it drove her shuddering behind her retrenchments.
“That argument,” she said coldly, “would naturally be more convincing to Darrow than to my son.”
Miss Verney glanced up, struck by the change in Mrs. Peyton’s voice.
“Ah, then you agree with him? You think it would be dishonest?”
Mrs. Peyton saw that she had slipped into self-betrayal. “My son and I have not spoken of the matter,” she said evasively. She caught the flash of relief in Miss Verney’s face.
“You haven’t spoken? Then how do you know how he feels about it?”
“I only judge from—well, perhaps from his not speaking.”
The girl drew a deep breath. “I see,” she murmured. “That is the very reason that prevents his speaking.”
“The reason?”
“Your knowing what he thinks—and his knowing that you know.”
Mrs. Peyton was startled at her subtlety. “I assure you,” she said, rising, “that I have done nothing to influence him.”
The girl gazed at her musingly. “No,” she said with a faint smile, “nothing except to read his thoughts.”
—————
VI.
Mrs. Peyton reached home in the state of exhaustion which follows on a physical struggle. It seemed to her as though