“Well, Mr Brailsford, said Lady Geraldine, smiling. “Dare I congratulate you?”
“Not a word — not a word,” he said, as if he were half-suffocated. “I beg your pardon for coming into your box. I am a broken man — disgraced by my own daughter. My favorite daughter, sir — madame — I beg your pardon again. You can tell this young lady that she was my favorite daughter.”
“But you must not take her brilliant success in this way,” said Lady Geraldine gently,looking at him with surprise and pity. “And remember that you have other girls.”
“Psha! Whish-h-h!” hissed the old gentleman, throwing up his hand and snapping his fingers. “They arc all born fools — like their mother. She is like me, the only one who is like me. Did you ever see such impudence? A girl brought up as she was, walking out of a house in Kensington Palace Gardens onto the stage, and playing a Parisian — a French — God bless me, a drab! to the life. It was perfection. I’ve seen everybody that ever acted — years before your ladyship was born. I remember Miss O’Neill, aye, and Mrs Jordan; Mars, Rachel, Piccolomini! she’s better than any of them, except Miss O’Neill — I was young in her time. She wouldn’t be kept from it. I set my face against it. So did her mother — who could no more appreciate her than a turnip could. So did we all. We locked her up; we took her money from her; I threatened to disown her — and so I will too; but she had her way in spite of us all. Just like me: exactly like me. Why, when I was her age, I cared no more for my family than I did for Buonaparte. It’s in her blood. I should have been on the stage myself only it’s a blackguard profession; and a man who can write tragedy does not need to act it. I will turn over some of my old manuscripts; and she shall show the world what her old father can do. And did you notice how self-possessed she was? I saw the nerves under it. I felt them. Nervousness always played the devil with me. I tell you, madame — and I am qualified to speak on the subject — that she walks the stage and gives out her lines in the true old style. You don’t know these things, Miss Mary: you are too young: you never saw great acting. But I know. I had lessons from the great Young: Edmund Kean was a mountebank beside him. I was the best pupil of Charles Mayne Young, and of little Dutch Sam — but that was another matter. No true lady would paint her face and make an exhibition of herself on a public stage for money. Still, it is a most extraordinary thing that a young girl like that, without any teaching or preparation, should walk out of a drawing room onto the stage, and take London by storm.”
“But has she not had some little experience in the provinces?” said Mary.
Certainly not,” said Mr Brailsford impatiently. Strolling about with a parcel of vagabond pantomimists is not experience — not proper experience for a young lady. She is the first Brailsford that ever played for money in a public theatre. She is not a Brailsford at all. I have forbidden her to use the name she’s disgraced.”
“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