And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the
footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful,
hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't
she given herself to that man while he was locked up.
"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to,
but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her
gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you
know you have."
With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind-
eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be
addressing the universe across her reclining form. She would protest
sometimes.
"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me,
and tormenting yourself."
"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not
talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit
and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her
to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been.
"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't? You must have."
She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It
might have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her
father, the only human being that really cared for her, absolutely,
evidently, completely--to the end. There was in him no pity, no
generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things--it was for her, for
her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared. This
certitude would have made her put up with worse torments. For, of
course, she too was being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the
whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort of
conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist.
What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life,
the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They
wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals--and I
believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening,
especially at first. What frightened her most was the duplicity of her
father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his
persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her father was a
taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best--on the
Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover
whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn't fathom his
thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced
friendly smile as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not
being made to speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying
his hand so long that Flora had to recall him to himself by a murmured
"Papa--your lead." Then he apologized by a faint as if inward
ejaculation "Beg your pardon, Captain." Naturally she addressed Anthony
as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the acting that
was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at
every uttered "Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had sometimes
a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole stiff
personality.