“Come,” said Lady Geraldine. “You are proud of her. You know you are.”
“I am not. I have refused to see her. I have disowned her. If I caught one of her sisters coming to witness this indecent French play of which she is the life and soul — what would it be without her, Lady Geraldine? Tell me that.”
“It would be the dullest business imaginable.”
“Hal ha:” cried Brailsford, with a triumphant gesture: “I should think so. Dull as ditch-water. Her voice alone would draw all London to listen.
Perhaps you think that I taught her to speak. I tell you, Mrs. Herbert, I would have slain her with my own hand as soon as trained her for such a profession. Who taught her then? Why — ?”
“I did,” said Jack. Mr Brailsford, who had not noticed his presence before, stared at him, and stiffened as he did so.
“I believe you are already acquainted with Mr Jack.” said Lady Geraldine, watching them with some anxiety.
“You see what she has made of herself,” said Jack, looking hard at him. “I helped her to do it: you opposed her. Which of us was in the right?”
“I will not go into that question with you, sir,” said Mr Brailsfod, raising his voice and waving his glove. Ï do not approve of my daughter’s proceedings.” He turned from Jack to Mrs Herbert, and made a brave effort to chat with her with a jaunty air. “A distinguished audience, tonight I think I saw somewhere in the house, your son, not the least distinguished of us. Painting is a noble art. I remember when painters did not stand as well in society as they do now; but never in my life have I failed in respect for them. Never. A man is the better for contemplating a great picture. Your son has an enviable career before him.”
“So I am told.”
“Not a doubt of it. He is a fine young man — as he indeed could not fail to be with such an inheritance of personal graces and mental endowments.”
“He is very like his father.”
“Possibly, madame,” said Mr. Brailsford, bowing. “But I never saw his father.”
“Whatever his career may be, I shall have little part in it. I did not encourage him to become an artist. I opposed his doing so as well as I could. I was mistaken, I suppose: it is easier than I thought to become a popular painter. But children never forgive such mistakes.”
“Forgive!” exclaimed Mr. Brailsford, his withered cheek reddening faintly. “If you have forgiven him for disregarding your wishes, you can hardly believe that he will be so unnatural as to cherish any bad feeling towards you. Eh?”
“It is not unnatural to resent an unmerited wound to one’s vanity. If I could honestly admire Adrian’s work even now, I have no doubt he would consent to be reconciled to me in time. But I cannot. His pictures seem weak and sentimental to me. I can see the deficiencies of his character in every line of them. I always thought that genius was an indispensable condition to success.”
“Ha! ha!” said Jack. “What you call success is the compensation of the man who has no genius. If you had believed in his genius, and yet wanted success for him, you might have opposed him with better reason. Some men begin by aiming high, and they have to wait till the world comes up to their level. Others aim low, and have to lift themselves to success. Happy follows like Mr Adrian hit the mark at once,being neither too good for the Academy people nor too bad for the public.”
“Probably you are right,” said Mrs Herbert. “I should have borne in mind that worse painters than he enjoy a fair share of toleration. However, I must abide by my error now.”
“But surely,” said Mr Brailsford, harping anxiously on the point, “You do not find that he persists in any little feeling of disappointment that you may have caused him formerly. No, no: he can’t do that. He must see that you were actuated by the truest regard for his welfare and — and so forth.”
“I find that his obstinacy, or perseverance rather, is as evident in his resentment against me as it was in his determination to make himself an artist in spite of me.”
Mr Brailsford, troubled, bit his nail, and glanced at Mrs Herbert twice or thrice, without speaking. Lady Geraldine watched him for a moment, and then said: “There is a difference between your case and Mrs Herbert’s.”
“Of course,” he said, hurriedly. “Oh, of course. Quite different I was not thinking of any such—”
“And yet, continued Lady Geraldine, “there is some likeness too. You both opposed your children’s tastes. But Mrs Herbert does not believe in Adrian’s talent, although she is glad he has made a position for himself. You, on the contrary, are carried away by Magdalen’s talent; but you are indignant at the position it has made for her.”
“I am not carried away. You entirely misapprehend my feelings. I deeply deplore her conduct. I have ceased to correspond with her even, since she set my feelings at defiance by accepting a London engagement.”
“In short,” said Lady Geraldine, with goodhumored raillery, “you would not speak to her if she were to walk into this box.”
Mr. Brailsford started and looked round; but there was no one behind him: Jack had disappeared. “No,” he said, recovering himself. “Certainly not. I cannot believe that she would venture into my presence.”
The curtain went up as he spoke. When Madge again came on the stage, her business was of a more serious character than in the first act, and displayed the heartless determination of the adventuress rather than her amusing impudence. Lady Geraldine, admiring a certain illustration of this, turned with an approving glance to Mr. Brailsford. He was looking fixedly at the stage, no longer triumphant, almost haggard. He seemed relieved when the actress, being supposed to recognize an old lover, relented, and showed some capacity for sentiment. When the act was over, he still sat staring nervously at the curtain. Presently the box door opened; and he again looked round with a start. It was Jack, who, returning his testy regard with a grim smile, came close to him; stretched an arm over his head; and pulled over one of the curtains of the box so as to seclude it from the house. Mr Brailsford rose, trembling.
“I absolutely refuse—” he began.
Jack opened the door; and Madge, with her dress covered by a large domino cloak, hurried in. She threw off the cloak as soon as the door was closed, and then seized her father and kissed him. He said with difficulty, “My dear child,” sat down; and bent his head, overpowered by emotion for the moment. She stood with her hand on his shoulder, and bowed over him in a very self-possessed manner to Mary, whom she addressed as “Miss Sutherland,” and to the others.
“I have no business to be here,” she said, in a penetrating whisper. “It is against the rules. But when Mr Jack came and told me that my father was here, I could not let him go without speaking to him.”
Lady Geraldine bowed. She and her companions had been prepared to receive Madge with frank affection, but her appearance and manner quite disconcerted them. They recollected her as a pretty, petulant young lady: they had actually seen her as one only two minutes before on the stage. Yet here she was, apparently grown during those two minutes not only in stature but in frame. The slight and elegant lady of the play was in the box a large, strong woman, with resonant voice and measured speech. Even her hand, as she patted her father’s shoulder, moved rhythmically as if the gesture were studied. The kindly patronage with which Lady Geraldine had been willing to receive an impulsive, clever young girl, was forgotten in the midst of respect, disappointment, and even aversion inspired by the self-controlled and accomplished woman. Mary was the first to recover herself.
“Madge,” she said, “ — that is, if one may venture to call you Madge.”
“Indeed you may,” said Madge, nodding and smiling gracefully.
“You are a great deal more like yourself on the stage than