MR. MAYNE ORDERS A BASIN OF GRUEL.
On the following morning Mr. Mayne did open his lips to address a word
to his son:
"I shall be obliged to you, Dick, if you will postpone your intended
visit to town, for this day at least;" for Dick had an "ABC" beside
him, and was picking out a fast train while he ate his breakfast.
"All right," replied Dick: "I can wait another four-and-twenty hours."
But though he yielded the point graciously enough, he did not look at
his father, or say anything more on the subject; and as soon as his
appetite was satisfied, he took up the "Times," and lounged into his
den. Shortly afterwards they heard him whistling to his dogs, and knew
that he would not appear until luncheon.
Mrs. Mayne wished that her husband would follow his example; but he
had put on his slippers, and showed no inclination to leave the
fireside. He read his paper and dozed a good deal, and snapped up
Bessie if she spoke to him: so, on the whole, Mrs. Mayne had rather a
dull morning. When the luncheon-bell rang, he chose to put on invalid
airs, and ordered a basin of gruel to be brought to him in the
library. Mrs. Mayne who knew he was not ill, and that his
indisposition was purely mental and imaginary, was yet wise enough to
fall in with his whim.
"Your master would like his gruel nicely flavored, James," she said to
the footman. "Please ask Mrs. Simpkins to prepare it in the way he
likes." And then she placed his favorite little table beside him, and
stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze.
"Your father does not feel himself well enough to come in to luncheon,
Dick," she said to her son, probably for the benefit of the servant,
who was waiting to remove the covers; and Dick, for the same reason,
testified a proper amount of sympathy.
"He takes too long walks for a man of his age," he said, applying
himself vigorously to the dismemberment of a chicken. "Mother, I will
trouble you for some of that game-pie." And then he told her another
anecdote about Vigo.
After luncheon Dick again disappeared, and Mrs. Mayne, who dreaded an
afternoon's _tete-a-tete_ with her husband in his present mood, went
up to her own room, for some feminine business, or to take a nap. Mr.
Mayne, a little mollified by the gruel, which had been flavored
exactly to his liking with a _soupcon_ of rum, was just composing
himself for another doze, when he was roused by the loud pealing of
the hall bell, and the next moment the door was flung open by James,
and Sir Henry Challoner was announced.
It was a dark wintry afternoon, and the library was somewhat sombre:
the fire had died down, owing to Mr. Mayne's drowsiness. In the dim
light Sir Harry's big burly figure looked almost gigantic. Mr. Mayne,
with his little lean shoulders and sharp face, looked beside him much
as a small gray-hound would beside a mastiff.
"How do you do?" began Sir Harry, in his loud voice. "I must apologize
for my intrusion; but I think my name is well known to you, and needs
no introduction. I have often heard of Mr. Mayne, I can assure you."
"You do me too much honor," returned that gentleman, stiffly; and he
glanced at the card in his hand. There it was, "Sir Henry Challoner."
"But what the----" And here his favorite expletive rose to his lips.
"We can scarcely see each other's faces," observed Sir Harry,
cheerfully. "Will you allow me to take the liberty, though I have not
known you for seven years--and hardly for seven minutes!" And then he
seized the poker, and broke up an obstinate piece of coal.
"Actually, in my own house, and before my own eyes," as Mr. Mayne told
his wife afterwards.
"There, now! I have made a glorious blaze. These are first-rate coals.
Now we can have our talk comfortably together. You do not know me
personally; but I dare say you have heard of my father,--Sir Francis
Challoner? Poor old fellow! I am afraid too many people heard of him
in his time."
"Yes, sir: but, as it is hardly becoming of me to say to his son, I
have never heard much good of him. If I remember rightly, he did poor
Challoner a bad turn once."
"Hush, my good friend!" And Sir Harry's ruddy face looked a little
disturbed. "I thought no one but myself and Aunt Catherine knew that
story. It is rather hard on a man to have this sort of things brought
up. And the poor old governor is dead now: so, if you will permit me
to observe, bygones had better be bygones on that subject."
"Oh, by all means, Sir Harry; but you introduced the matter
yourself."
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayne," rather haughtily, "I introduced myself. I am
the son of Sir Francis. Well, if you know so much, you will understand
the sort of interest I take in my cousins and how I consider it my
duty to make up to them for what they have lost."
"Very proper, I am sure."
"As to that, duty is a pleasure. They are such awfully jolly girls,
and so uncommonly plucky, that I am as proud of them as though they
were my own sisters. Nan is so confoundedly pretty, too. I don't
wonder at your son's taste. He must be a lucky fellow who gets Nan."
"Sir!" vociferated Mr. Mayne; and Sir Harry immediately changed his
tactics:
"That is a tidy place opposite you,--Gilsbank, I mean. I have been
over there settling about the purchase. I am afraid Crauford is rather
a screw: he wanted to drive too close a bargain. But I said, 'No; you
shall have your money down, right and tight, but not a farthing over.'
And I insisted on my right to change the name if I like. I have half a
mind to call it 'Challoner Place.'"
Mr. Mayne was wide awake now; his astonishment knew no bounds.
"You are going to buy Gilsbank!"
"I have bought it," was the cool response; "and I am now in treaty for
Glen Cottage. My aunt has a fancy for her old home; and, though it is
not much of a place, it is big enough for her and the girls; and
Ibbetson has done a good deal to improve it. You look surprised, Mr.
Mayne; but I suppose a man must live somewhere!"
"Of course it is none of my business; but I thought Sir Francis was as
poor as a church mouse. Mrs. Challoner was my informant; and she
always led me to suppose so."
"She was perfectly right. The poor old man never could keep money in
his pocket: it always seemed to slip through his fingers. But that is
not my case. I have been a lucky fellow all my life. I roughed it a
bit in the colonies at first; but it did me no harm. And then we made
a splendid hit out in Sydney,--coined money, in fact. I would not like
to tell you what I made in one year: it seems blowing one's trumpet,
somehow. But I soon got sick of making it; and here I am, with a tidy
fortune,--plenty for myself, and enough to set up my aunt and the
girls comfortably without feeling the loss. And now, Mr. Mayne when
they are back at Glen Cottage, I want to know what you will do about
your son."
To do Mr Mayne justice, he was far too perplexed to answer off-hand;
in fact, he was almost rendered dumb by excessive astonishment. To
borrow his own forcible expression, used to his wife afterwards, "he
hardly knew where he was, things were so topsy-turvy."
In the old days, before Dick had produced that wonderful moustache
that was so long in growing, Mr. Mayne had been very partial to his
neighbors at Glen Cottage. It is always pleasant to a man to patronize
and befriend a pretty woman; and Mrs. Challoner was an exceedingly
pretty woman. It was quite an occupation to a busy man like the master
of Longmead to superintend their garden and give his advice on all
subjects that belong to a man's province.
But for the last year, since Dick had so greatly developed in mental
culture, his father had been growing very weary even of the name of
Challoner; it had become a habit with him to decry them on every
possible occasion. "What is in a name?" he would say, when some person
would lament the dead-and-gone glories of Challoner Place. "There is
not a soul belonging to them, except that disreputable Sir Francis;
and he is as good as a beggar."
But since Glen Cottage had given way to the Friary, and the
dressmaking scheme had been carried out, his opposition had become
perfectly frantic: he could have sworn at Dick for his senselessness,
his want of pride, his lamentable deficiency in ambition. "Never, as
long as my name is Richard Mayne, will I give in to that boy," he had
vowed inwardly.
And now there had suddenly started up, like a piece of gilded
clap-trap, this amazing man of inches, calling himself their cousin,
Sir Henry Challoner; a man who was absolutely tired of making
money,--who called Gilsbank, a far finer house than Longmead, a tidy
little place, and who could throw in Glen Cottage, that bijou
residence, as a sort of dower-house for widowed Challoners; a man who
would soon be talked about in Hadleigh, not because he was rich,--most
of the Hadleigh families were rich,--but because he was restoring an
ancient name to something of its old respectability.
Mr. Mayne was essentially a shrewd, far-sighted man. Like other
self-made men, he attached great importance to good blood. In a moment
he realized that Nan Challoner of the Friary was a very different
person from Nan Challoner of Glen Cottage, the cousin of Sir Henry
Challoner. Under the latter circumstances she would be received on
equal terms at Fitzroy Lodge and at the other houses of the
aristocracy. In marrying her, Dick would be at once on an intimate
footing with those very people who only just tolerated his father.
"Well," observed Sir Harry, after a lengthy pause, "what do you say
about the matter, eh? Though I have accumulated a pretty sum of money,
I do not pretend to be a millionaire; and of course, as I may settle
down some day and have a family of my own, I must not treat my cousins
as though they were my sisters. I think of allowing my aunt a
sufficient income during her lifetime to keep up Glen Cottage, and I
do not mind paying the girls three thousand pounds down on their
wedding-day just for pin-money; but more than that cannot be expected
of me."
"Of course not," returned Mr. Mayne; and then he hesitated. Three
thousand pounds was not much of a fortune. Why, the girl he wanted for
Dick had fifteen thousand, at least; but then Dick would not look at
her; and even three thousand was better than nothing. "I had hoped
better things for my son," he went on, stiffly. "I always meant Dick
to marry money."
"Oh, true, money is very good in its way; but then, you see, young
fellows are not always to be coerced. I believe there is a very strong
attachment between your son and my cousin Nan."
"It has cost me a great deal of vexation," replied Mr. Mayne very
testily,--all the more that his resolution was wavering. "I do not
wish to hurt your feelings, Sir Henry, but this confounded dressmaking
of theirs----" But here Sir Harry stopped him by a most extraordinary
facial contraction, which most certainly resembled a wink.
"Hush!" he exclaimed, in a very loud whisper. "It does not matter to
me, of course; but if I were you, I would not mention this little fact
to any one else. Girls are girls, and they will have their fling. A
good steady husband, that is what they want, the best of them, to
sober them when the right time comes. I mean to put a stop to this
nonsense; but after all, a little bit of larking like that with a lot
of high-spirited generous creatures, what does it matter in the long
run? You just settle things with me off-hand, and I will come to terms
with the young ladies. I am the head of the family, as they know." And
Sir Harry threw out his big chest with a sudden movement of importance
and pride. "I am the head of the family: they will be pleased to
remember that," he repeated pompously.
It was just at this moment, when victory lay within his grasp, that
Dick sauntered lazily into the room.
Dick was in an execrable humor: he was tired and worried, and his
boots were muddy. And what was the use of being still contumacious,
unless his obstinacy were to be a spectacle to men and gods,--unless
he were to flaunt his ill humor in the face of his tyrant, and make
his father's soul wretched within him? Such is youthful reasoning,
that hates to veil its feelings unobserved.
Dick had not perceived Sir Harry's card, so he stared at the intruder
a little coolly. Sir Harry returned his look with a glance of mingled
surprise and amusement.
"Is this the young gentleman in question?" he asked, in a tone that
roused Dick's ire. To tell the truth, he was a little disappointed by
Nan's choice. It was not so much Dick's want of good looks, but in Sir
Harry eyes he appeared somewhat insignificant; and then a scowl is not
always becoming to a face. Dick's bright genial expression was
wanting; he looked a little too like his father at this moment for Sir
Harry's taste.
"Do you mean me?" observed Dick, in a magnificent tone. "Is it I who
am the young gentleman in question?--Father, will you have the
goodness to introduce me to this gentleman with whom you have been
talking me over?" And Dick twirled his moustache angrily.
Mr. Mayne looked at his son's moody face, and his feelings underwent a
sudden revulsion; but before he could speak Sir Harry stepped in
nimbly before him:
"Well now, I like spirit--no one cares to be talked about behind
one's back. Supposing we shake hands, you and I, as we are to be so
nearly related. I am Nan's guardian, her next of kin,--Sir Harry
Challoner, at your service; and Nan sends her love and you are a lucky
fellow, that is what you are!" exclaimed Sir Harry, genially, as he
struck Dick a sounding blow on his shoulder. But Dick did not wince;
and, though the diamond ring cut into his hand as they exchanged that
grasp, no expression of pain crossed his face, which became all at
once quite radiant.
Sir Harry hailed the metamorphosis with delight. Here was the real
Dick emerging like a young sun-god from the clouds.
"Come, that is first-rate; I like the look of you better now," he
said, with an appreciative nod.
"Father, what does this mean?" faltered Dick.
"It means," growled Mr. Mayne, for he could not get quite amiable all
at once, though his heart was lightening in his bosom, "it means that
I am an old fool, Dick, and that you are a young one."
"No, father,--not really,--does it?" And Dick beamed still more.
"And it means that you are not to plague me any more about the City.
But there! though you have behaved so badly to me, Dick, I forgive
you. Sir Harry and I have been talking over things, and if you will
work hard for your degree your mother shall ask the girl down here,
and we will see about it, and that is all I can say at present. And so
we may as well shake hands upon it too."
But Dick did more than that; he threw his arm over his father's
shoulder with a movement that was almost caressing.
"Thank you, pater; you are a brick and no mistake!" was all the
undemonstrative Briton's tongue could say. But Mr. Mayne, as he looked
in his boy's face and felt that pressure on his shoulder, thought them
sufficiently eloquent.
"There! get along with you, and have it out with your mother," he
growled. But, in spite of his surly tone, Mr. Mayne felt an amount of
relief that astonished himself: to see Dick's face happy again, to
have no cloud between them, to know that no domestic discord would
harass his soul and render gruel necessary to his well-being, was
restoring him to his old self again. Sir Harry longed to throw back
his head and indulge in a good laugh as he witnessed this little scene
of reconciliation.
Mrs. Mayne, who was sitting somewhat sadly by her own fireside,
thinking over that day's discomfort, was quite taken aback by hearing
Dick coming upstairs in his old way--three steps at a time--and then
bursting into the room after a hasty knock at the door.
"Mother," he cried, breathlessly, "Sir Harry Challoner is in the
library--and pater wants you to come down and give them some tea--and
Sir Henry is going to stop to dinner--and the woodcock is to be
cooked--and you are to get the best room ready. But first of all--like
the dear, darling mother you are--you are to sit down and write a
letter to Nan."
But the letter was not written then; for how could Bessie keep her
husband and his guest waiting for their tea after such an urgent
message? And had she not first of all to listen to Dick's incoherent
story, which she heard better from Sir Harry afterwards, who took
great pains to explain it to the poor bewildered woman?
Mr. Mayne thought he had never seen Bessie look so handsome since the
days he courted her, as she sat smiling at the head of the table in
her velvet gown. And Sir Harry, too, was quite charmed with the soft,
comely creature.
Later on, while the two elder gentlemen were chatting confidentially
over their cigars and whisky-and-water, she did manage to write a few
lines to Nan. But it was not much of a letter; for how was she to
construct a decent sentence with that torment Dick hanging over the
back of her chair and interrupting her every moment? But Nan was not
ill pleased by the missive when she received it.
* * * * *
"My own dear girl," it said,--"my dearest girl,--for no daughter could
ever be so dear to me as you will be, Nan, for my boy's sake, and
because he loves you so." ("You are right there, mother!" struck in
Dick, in a tone of ecstasy.) "Everything has come right, through Sir
Henry's intercession and my Richard's goodness." ("Humph!" coughed
Dick. "Well, it is not for the like of me to contradict you.")
"You are to come to us--at once--at once,"--underlined,--"for Dick
will be going back to Oxford, so there is no time to lose; and you
have not got any good of your engagement yet." ("Only just at that
last moment," muttered her son at this.)
"My precious boy looks so happy that I could cry with joy to see him."
("Oh, shut up, mother! Nan knows all that.") "And his dear father
looks as pleased as possible, and he sends his love." ("He did indeed,
Dick," as an incredulous sound broke from his lips), "and he says
bygones are bygones. And you are on no account to feel yourself
awkward as regards him, for of course Dick's _fiancee_" ("Are you sure
that is spelt right, Dick?") "will bring her own welcome. Is not that
a sweet speech for my Richard to say? So you will come, my dear, will
you not? And I remain, just what I always was, my Nan's loving
friend,
"Bessie Mayne."
* * * * *
And then the letter was carefully consigned to Dick's pocket, and in
due course of time was delivered into Nan's fair hands.