Mr. Ogilvie was one of those who carried away an incipient indigestion.
He was not accustomed to truffles nor to Château Yquem. But he did not
spoil his dinner--for as they were in the habit of dining rather early,
and it was now nearly seven o’clock, his wife promptly decided that a
cup of tea when he got home would be much the best thing for him, and
that no dinner need be served in Gilston House that day. She said, “You
must just look a little lively, Robert, till we get away. Don’t let
strangers think that you’ve been taking more than is good for you,
either of meat or drink.”
“Drink!” said the good man. “Yon’s nectar: but I might have done without
the salad. Salad is a cold thing upon the stomach. I’m lively enough if
you would let me alone. And he’s a grand fellow the father of them. He
grudges nothing. I have not seen such a supper since my dancing days.”
“It was no supper; it was just a tea party. I wish you would wake up,
and understand. Here is Mr. Dirom with Effie coming to put me into the
carriage. Rouse up, man, and say a civil word.”
“I’ll do that,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “We’ve had a most enjoyable evening,
Mr. Dirom, a good supper and a capital band, and---- But I cannot get it
out of my head that it’s been a ball--which is impossible now I see all
these young ladies with hats and bonnets upon their heads.”
“I wish it had been a ball,” said the overwhelming host. “We ought to
have kept it up half through the night, and enjoyed another supper, eh?
at midnight, and a little more of that Clicquot. I hope there’s enough
for half-a-dozen balls. Why hadn’t you the sense to keep the young
people for the evening, Fred? Perhaps you thought the provisions
wouldn’t last, or that I would object to pay the band for a few hours
longer. My children make me look stingy, Mrs. Ogilvie. They have got a
number of small economical ways.”
“And that’s an excellent thing,” said the lady, “for perhaps they may
not have husbands that will be so liberal as their father--or so well
able to afford it--and then what would they do?”
“I hope to put them beyond the risk of all that,” said the man of money,
jingling his coins. He did not offer to put Mrs. Ogilvie into the
carriage as she had supposed, but looked on with his hands in his
pockets, and saw her get in. The Ogilvies were almost the last to leave,
and the last object that impressed itself upon them as they turned round
the corner of the house was Mr. Dirom’s white waistcoat, which looked
half as big as Allonby itself. When every one had disappeared, he took
Fred, who was not very willing, by the arm, and led him along the river
bank.
“Is that the family,” he said, “my fine fellow, that they tell me you
want to marry into, Fred?”
“I have never thought of the family. Since you bring it in so
suddenly--though I was scarcely prepared to speak on the subject--yes:
that’s the young lady whom in all the world, sir, I should choose for my
wife.”
“Much you know about the world,” said Mr. Dirom. “I can’t imagine what
you are thinking of; a bit of a bread-and-butter girl, red and white,
not a fortune, no style about her, or anything out of the common. Why,
at your age, without a tithe of your advantages, I shouldn’t have looked
at her, Mr. Fred.”
If there was in Fred’s mind the involuntary instinctive flash of a
comparison between his good homely mother and pretty Effie, may it be
forgiven him! He could do nothing more than mutter a half sulky word
upon difference of taste.
“That’s true,” said his father; “one man’s meat is another man’s poison.
My Lady Alicia’s not much to look at, but she is Lady Alicia; that’s
always a point in her favour. But this little girl has nothing to show.
Bread and butter, that’s all that can be said.”
To this Fred, with gathering curves upon his forehead, made no reply at
all.
“And her people are barely presentable,” said the father. “I say this
with no personal feeling, only for your good; very Scotch, but nothing
else about them to remember them by. A sodden stagnant old Scotch
squire, and a flippant middle-class mother, and I suppose a few pounds
of her own that will make her think herself somebody. My dear fellow,
there you have everything that is most objectionable. A milkmaid would
not be half so bad, for she would ask no questions and understand that
she got everything from you----”
“There is no question of any milkmaid,” said Fred in high offence.
“Middle class is social destruction,” said Mr. Dirom. “Annihilation,
that’s what it is. High or low has some chance, but there’s no good in
your _milieu_. Whatever happens, you’ll never be able to make anything
out of her. They have no go in that position; they’re too respectable to
go out of the beaten way. That little thing, sir, will think it’s
unbecoming to do this or that. She’ll never put out a step beyond what
she knows. She’ll be no help to you if anything happens. She’ll set up
her principles; she’ll preach your duty to you. A pretty kind of wife
for the son of a man who has made his way to the top of the tree, by
Jove! and that may tumble down again some fine day.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Fred. “You might add she will
most likely neither look nor listen to me, and all this sermon of yours
will go for nought.”
“I didn’t mean it for a sermon. I give it you in friendship to warn you
what’s before you. You think perhaps after this I’m going to forbid the
banns: though there’s no banns wanted in this free country, I believe.
No, Fred, that’s not it; I’m not going to interfere. If you like
insipidity, it’s your own concern: if you choose a wife in order to
carry her on your shoulders--and be well kicked while you do it: mind
that.”
“I think, sir,” said Fred, who had grown very red, “that we had better
drop the subject. If you mean to oppose, why, of course, you can
oppose--but if not, this sort of thing does little good. It can never
alter my mind, and I don’t see even how it can relieve yours.”
“Oh yes, it relieves mine,” said his father. “It shows you my opinion.
After that, if you choose to take your own way, why, you must do it. I
should have advised you to look out for a nice little fortune which
might have been a stand-by in case of anything happening. No, nothing’s
going to happen. Still you know---- Or I’d have married rank (you might
if you had liked), and secured a little family interest. Things might
change in a day, at any moment. Jack might tire of his blue china and
come and offer himself for the office. If he did, you have married
against my advice, and Jack being the eldest son---- Well, I don’t need
to say any more.”
“I quite understand, sir,” Fred said.
“Well, that’s a good thing; but you need not go too far on the other
side, and think I’m going to disinherit you, or any of that rubbish.
Did I disinherit Jack? I bring you up in the best way, spend no end of
money on you, teach you to think yourselves twice the man I am, and then
you take your own way.”
“Indeed, sir,” cried Fred anxiously, “you are mistaken. I----” But
though he did not think he was twice the man his father was, yet he did
think he was a very different man from his father, and this
consciousness made him stammer and fall into confusion, not knowing what
to say.
“Don’t trouble yourself to contradict me,” said Mr. Dirom. “_I_ don’t
think so. I think your father’s twice the man you are. Let each of us
keep his opinion. We shan’t convince each other. And if you insist on
marrying your insipidity, do. Tell the stupid old father to communicate
with my lawyers about the settlements, and get it over as soon as you
please.”
“You are going a great deal too fast, sir,” said Fred. He was pale with
the hurry and rapid discussion. “I can’t calculate like this upon what
is going to happen. Nothing has happened as yet.”
“You mean she mayn’t have you? Never fear; young fellows with a father
behind them ain’t so common. Most men in my position would put a stop to
it altogether. I don’t; what does it matter to me? Dirom and Co. don’t
depend upon daughters-in-law. A woman’s fortune is as nothing to what’s
going through my hands every day. I say, let every man please himself.
And you’ve got quiet tastes and all that sort of thing, Fred. Thinking
of coming up to town to look after business a little? Well, don’t;
there’s no need of you just now. I’ve got some ticklish operations on,
but they’re things I keep in my own hands.”
“I don’t pretend to be the business man you are,” said Fred with a
fervour which was a little forced, “but if I could be of use----”
“No, I don’t think you could be of use. Go on with your love-making. By
the way, I’m going back to-night. When is the train? I’ll just go in and
mention it to your mother. I wanted to see what sort of a set you had
about. Poor lot!” said Mr. Dirom, shaking his heavy chain as he looked
at his watch. “Not a shilling to spare among ’em--and thinking all the
world of themselves. So do I? Yes: but then I’ve got something to stand
upon. Money, my boy, that’s the only real power.”
Phyllis and Doris met their brother anxiously on his way back. “What is
he going to do?” they both said; “what has he been talking to you about?
Have you got to give her up, you poor old Fred?”
“I shouldn’t have given her up for a dozen governors; but he’s very good
about it. Really to hear him you would think---- He’s perhaps better
about it than I deserve. He’s going back to town by the fast train
to-night.”
“To-night!” There was both relief and grievance in the tone of the
girls.
“He might just as well have gone this morning, and much more comfortable
for him,” said Phyllis.
“For us too,” said her sister, and the three stood together and indulged
in a little guilty laugh which expressed the relief of their souls. “It
is horrid of us, when he’s always so kind: but papa does not really
enjoy the country, nor perhaps our society. He is always much happier
when he’s in town and within reach of the club.”
“And in the meantime we have got our diamonds.”
“And I my freedom,” said Fred; then he added with a look of compunction,
“I say, though, look here. He’s as good to us as he knows how, and
we’re not just what you would call----”
“Grateful,” said both the sisters in a breath. Then they began to make
excuses, each in her own way.
“We did not bring up ourselves. We ought to have got the sort of
education that would have kept us in papa’s sphere. He should have seen
to that; but he didn’t, Fred, as you know, and how can we help it? I am
always as civil to him as it’s possible to be. If he were ill, or
anything happened--By-the-bye, we are always saying now, ‘If anything
happened:’ as if there was some trouble in the air.”
“It’s all right; you needn’t be superstitious. He is in the best of
spirits, and says I am not wanted, and that he’s got some tremendous
operation in hand.”
“I do not suppose you would make much difference, dear Fred, even if you
were wanted,” said Miss Phyllis sweetly. “Of course if he were ill we
should go to him wherever he was. If he should have an accident now, I
could bind up his arteries, or foment his foot if he strained it. I have
not got my ambulance certificate for nothing. But keeping very well and
quite rampant, and richer than anybody, what could we do for him?”
“It’s the sentiment of the thing,” said Fred.
“As if he ever thought of the sentiment; or minded anything about us.”
They returned to the house in the course of this conversation--where
already the servants had cleared the dining-room and replaced it in its
ordinary condition. Here Doris paused to tell the butler that dinner
must be served early on account of her father’s departure: but her
interference was received by that functionary with a bland smile, which
rebuked the intrusion.
“We have known it, miss, since master came,” a little speech which
brought back the young people to their original state of exasperated
satisfaction.
“You see!” the girls said, while even Fred while he laughed felt a prick
of irritation. Williams the butler had a great respect for his master, a
respect by no means general in such cases. He had served a duke in his
day, but he had never met with any one who was so indifferent to every
one else, so masterful and easy in his egotism, as his present
gentleman. And that he himself should have known what Mr. Dirom’s
arrangements were, while the children did not know, was a thing that
pleased this regent of the household. It was putting things in their
proper place.
All the arrangements were made in the same unalterable imperious way.
There was no hurry with Mr. Dirom. He dined and indulged in a great many
remarks upon county people, whom he thought very small beer, he who was
used to the best society. He would not in London have condescended to
notice such people.
But in the country, if the girls liked, and as there was nothing better
to be had--“From time to time give them a good spread,” he said; “don’t
mind what’s the occasion--a good spread, all the delicacies of the
season; that’s the sort of thing to do. Hang economy, that’s the virtue
of the poor-proud. You’re not poor, thanks to me, and you have no call
to be humble, chicks. Give it ’em grand, regardless of expense. As long
as I’m there to pay, I like you to cut a figure. I like to feed ’em up
and laugh in their faces. They’ll call me vulgar, you bet. Never mind;
what I like is to let them say it, and then make them knuckle under. Let
’em see you’re rich,--that’s what the beggars feel,--and you’ll have
every one of them, the best of them, on their knees. Pity is,” he added
after a while, “that there’s nobody here that is any good. Nothing
marriageable, eh, Phyll? Ah, well, for that fellow there, who might
have picked up something better any day of his life; but nothing for you
girls. Not so much as a bit of a young baronet, or even a Scotch squire.
Nothing but the doctor; the doctor won’t do. I’m very indulgent, but
there I draw the line. Do you hear, mother? No doctor. I’ll not stand
the doctor--not till they’re forty at the least, and have got no other
hope.”
The girls sat pale, and made no reply. Their mother gave a feeble laugh,
as in duty bound, and said, “That’s your fun, George.” Thus the
propriety of Doris’s statement that they ought to have been brought up
in papa’s sphere was made apparent: for in that case they would have
laughed too: whereas now they sat silent and pale, and looked at each
other, with sentiments unutterable: fortunately the servants had gone
away, but he was quite capable of having spoken before the servants.
After dinner they waited with ill-restrained impatience the hour of the
train. _He_ had rarely made himself so offensive; he went on about the
doctor, who would probably be their fate as they got near forty, with
inexhaustible enjoyment, and elicited from their mother that little
remonstrating laugh, which they forgave her for pity, saying to each
other, “Poor mamma!” Decidedly it is much better when daughters, and
sons too, for that matter, are brought up in their father’s sphere. He
went away in great good humour, refusing Fred’s offer to drive him to
the station.
“None of your dog-carts for me,” he said: “I’ve ordered the brougham.
Good-bye girls; take care of yourselves, and try to rummage out
something superior to that doctor. And, Fred, you’d better think better
of it, my fine fellow, or, if you won’t be warned, do as you like, and
be hanged to you. Good-bye, old lady; I expect to hear you’ve got
screwed up with rheumatism in this damp old den here.”
“And when will you come back, George? They say the weather is fine up to
November. I hope you’ll soon come back.”
“Not for some time--unless I should have worse luck,” said the rich man.
He was at the door when he said this, his wife accompanying him, while
Fred stood outside with his hair blown about his eyes, at the door of
the brougham. The girls, standing behind, saw it all like a picture.
Their father, still with his white waistcoat showing under his overcoat,
his heavy chain glittering, and the beam and the roll of triumphant
money in his eye and his gait--“Not soon, unless I have worse luck,” and
he paused a moment and gave a comprehensive look around him with sudden
gravity, as he spoke.
Then there was a laugh, a good-bye--and the carriage rolled away, and
they all stood for a moment looking out into the blackness of the
night.
“What does he mean by worse luck?” they said to their mother as she came
in from the door.
“He means nothing; it is just his fun. He’s got the grandest operations
in hand he has ever had. What a father you have got, girls! and to think
he lets you do whatever you please, and keeps you rolling in wealth all
the same!”