No Name (A Thriller). Уилки Коллинз
followed her father into the hall.
“Papa,” she said, “I want to speak to you this morning — in private.”
“Ay! ay!” returned Mr. Vanstone. “What about, my dear!”
“About — ” Magdalen hesitated, searching for a satisfactory form of expression, and found it. “About business, papa,” she said.
Mr. Vanstone took his garden hat from the hall table — opened his eyes in mute perplexity — attempted to associate in his mind the two extravagantly dissimilar ideas of Magdalen and “business” — failed — and led the way resignedly into the garden.
His daughter took his arm, and walked with him to a shady seat at a convenient distance from the house. She dusted the seat with her smart silk apron before her father occupied it. Mr. Vanstone was not accustomed to such an extraordinary act of attention as this. He sat down, looking more puzzled than ever. Magdalen immediately placed herself on his knee, and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder.
“Am I heavy, papa?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear, you are,” said Mr. Vanstone — ”but not too heavy for me. Stop on your perch, if you like it. Well? And what may this business happen to be?”
“It begins with a question.”
“Ah, indeed? That doesn’t surprise me. Business with your sex, my dear, always begins with questions. Go on.”
“Papa! do you ever intend allowing me to be married?”
Mr. Vanstone’s eyes opened wider and wider. The question, to use his own phrase, completely staggered him.
“This is business with a vengeance!” he said. “Why, Magdalen! what have you got in that harum-scarum head of yours now?”
“I don’t exactly know, papa. Will you answer my question?”
“I will if I can, my dear; you rather stagger me. Well, I don’t know. Yes; I suppose I must let you be married one of these days — if we can find a good husband for you. How hot your face is! Lift it up, and let the air blow over it. You won’t? Well — have your own way. If talking of business means tickling your cheek against my whisker I’ve nothing to say against it. Go on, my dear. What’s the next question? Come to the point.”
She was far too genuine a woman to do anything of the sort. She skirted round the point and calculated her distance to the nicety of a hairbreadth.
“We were all very much surprised yesterday — were we not, papa? Frank is wonderfully lucky, isn’t he?”
“He’s the luckiest dog I ever came across,” said Mr. Vanstone “But what has that got to do with this business of yours? I dare say you see your way, Magdalen. Hang me if I can see mine!”
She skirted a little nearer.
“I suppose he will make his fortune in China?” she said. “It’s a long way off, isn’t it? Did you observe, papa, that Frank looked sadly out of spirits yesterday?”
“I was so surprised by the news,” said Mr. Vanstone, “and so staggered by the sight of old Clare’s sharp nose in my house, that I didn’t much notice. Now you remind me of it — yes. I don’t think Frank took kindly to his own good luck; not kindly at all.”
“Do you wonder at that, papa?”
“Yes, my dear; I do, rather.”
“Don’t you think it’s hard to be sent away for five years, to make your fortune among hateful savages, and lose sight of your friends at home for all that long time? Don’t you think Frank will miss us sadly? Don’t you, papa? — don’t you?”
“Gently, Magdalen! I’m a little too old for those long arms of yours to throttle me in fun. — You’re right, my love. Nothing in this world without a drawback. Frank will miss his friends in England: there’s no denying that.”
“You always liked Frank. And Frank always liked you.”
“Yes, yes — a good fellow; a quiet, good fellow. Frank and I have always got on smoothly together.”
“You have got on like father and son, haven’t you?”
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Perhaps you will think it harder on him when he has gone than you think it now?”
“Likely enough, Magdalen; I don’t say no.”
“Perhaps you will wish he had stopped in England? Why shouldn’t he stop in England, and do as well as if he went to China?”
“My dear! he has no prospects in England. I wish he had, for his own sake. I wish the lad well, with all my heart.”
“May I wish him well too, papa — with all my heart?”
“Certainly, my love — your old playfellow — why not? What’s the matter? God bless my soul, what is the girl crying about? One would think Frank was transported for life. You goose! You know, as well as I do, he is going to China to make his fortune.”
“He doesn’t want to make his fortune — he might do much better.”
“The deuce he might! How, I should like to know?”
“I’m afraid to tell you. I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me. Will you promise not to laugh at me?”
“Anything to please you, my dear. Yes: I promise. Now, then, out with it! How might Frank do better?”
“He might marry Me.”
If the summer scene which then spread before Mr. Vanstone’s eyes had suddenly changed to a dreary winter view — if the trees had lost all their leaves, and the green fields had turned white with snow in an instant — his face could hardly have expressed greater amazement than it displayed when his daughter’s faltering voice spoke those four last words. He tried to look at her — but she steadily refused him the opportunity: she kept her face hidden over his shoulder. Was she in earnest? His cheek, still wet with her tears, answered for her. There was a long pause of silence; she waited — with unaccustomed patience, she waited for him to speak. He roused himself, and spoke these words only: “You surprise me, Magdalen; you surprise me more than I can say.”
At the altered tone of his voice — altered to a quiet, fatherly seriousness — Magdalen’s arms clung round him closer than before.
“Have I disappointed you, papa?” she asked, faintly. “Don’t say I have disappointed you! Who am I to tell my secret to, if not to you? Don’t let him go — don’t! don’t! You will break his heart. He is afraid to tell his father; he is even afraid you might be angry with him. There is nobody to speak for us, except — except me. Oh, don’t let him go! Don’t for his sake — ” she whispered the next words in a kiss — ”Don’t for Mine!”
Her father’s kind face saddened; he sighed, and patted her fair head tenderly. “Hush, my love,” he said, almost in a whisper; “hush!” She little knew what a revelation every word, every action that escaped her, now opened before him. She had made him her grown-up playfellow, from her childhood to that day. She had romped with him in her frocks, she had gone on romping with him in her gowns. He had never been long enough separated from her to have the external changes in his daughter forced on his attention. His artless, fatherly experience of her had taught him that she was a taller child in later years — and had taught him little more. And now, in one breathless instant, the conviction that she was a woman rushed over his mind. He felt it in the trouble of her bosom pre ssed against his; in the nervous thrill of her arms clasped around his neck. The Magdalen of his innocent experience, a woman — with the master-passion of her sex in possession of her heart already!
“Have you thought long of this, my dear?” he asked, as soon as he could speak composedly. “Are you sure — ?”
She