IN WHICH THE MOUNTAIN COMES TO MAHOMET
MR. PHILIP found an imperious mandate from Grosvenor Square had been
laid beside his silver cigar-box when he returned to the Albany at a
quarter past two by the morning. It ran:--
“Dear Philip,--Your father desires to see you most particularly upon
important business at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.
“Your loving Mother.”
“She means this mornin’, and I shan’t be up if I don’t go to bed soon,”
said the heir to the barony, sitting down before the remains of the
fire to consider the situation in all its bearings.
The melancholy consequence was that not all the King’s horses and not
all the King’s men, including the young man’s body servant, were able
to wake him until a few minutes before eleven, in spite of the fact
that a special messenger had been round from the Home Department.
If, however, Mahomet declines to move, it is time for the Mountain to
be up and doing. Therefore, just as Mr. Philip, enveloped in a sky-blue
dressing-gown, was pouring out his coffee with an uncertain hand,
something rather portentous was ushered into the presence of the wicked
young prodigal.
The white eyebrows of the great Proconsul were a triumph of brushwork;
the set of the tie was stern uncommonly; indeed, the whole paternal
aspect was enough to strike awe in the heart of the beholder.
The evidence that it did so, however, is not altogether conclusive.
The young waster buttering his toast at a quarter-past eleven in a
sky-blue dressing-gown, rose and offered his hand in an easy and
leisurely, but withal in a manly and unaffected fashion.
“I was just comin’ round, father,” said the young man.
Father declined a cup of coffee and a cigarette without any
effervescence of gratitude.
“Take a pew, won’t you?” said the young man, returning to his toast and
butter.
Cool and off-handed young fellow, perhaps, thus to receive a great
Proconsul, still his tone was not without deference, even if his air
was casual.
Father took a pew.
“You don’t look very comfy in that one. Take the one with the arms to
it.”
“Do quite well, thanks,” said Father, in a deep bass voice.
A state of armed neutrality?--ye-es, it did seem rather like it. Father
didn’t seem quite to know where to begin: Son knew better than to
provide assistance.
“See in the paper that Van rather got across old Balsquith last night?”
said Son conversationally.
Father had heard the debate from the Peers’ Gallery.
Son wondered what would win the Coronation Vase--havin’ forgotten that
Father didn’t go racin’.
“Philip,” said Father, in tones of deep emotion, “it seems to me that
you--” And Father paused.
--Are going to the Devil as fast as you can, is really what your
distinguished parent desires to say to you, but he is trying to say it
without treading on your feelings, which is more consideration than
you deserve, you blighter!--thus the Twin Brethren for the personal
information of the Green Chartreuse.
No business of his if I am, was the very unfilial rejoinder of the
latter.
“Philip,” said Father, after a pause, “your mother is very upset.”
Young fellow was sorry to hear it--very, but the weather is always so
full of surprises in February.
Mother had not yet recovered, it appeared, from the most painful scene
last Sunday afternoon with the grandmother of the Person.
As the occurrence had been reported to the great Proconsul, the
Person’s venerable relative had not behaved as nicely as she might have
done.
Son was awfully cut up about it, but he didn’t quite agree. With all
respect to Mother, he could not help thinking that Miss Caspar’s
venerable relative had been in receipt of provocation.
White eyebrows erected themselves archwise.
“But we won’t go into That,” said Father.
Perhaps it would be better not, said the Green Chartreuse in an aside
to Messrs. Crosse and Blackwell’s marmalade.
Very disagreeable, though, thought Father, and very serious, too. There
was nothing more painful to a right-thinking parent than to see a
son--and an Eldest Son, too--making hay of his prospects.
Didn’t quite agree again with his father. The Green Chartreuse was
suffering evidently from an attack of valor this morning.
“But there are the facts, my dear boy. Let them be looked in the face.”
“I wish, father, you would consent to meet Mary. She’s an absolute
nailer, you know.”
Father was so disconcerted by the behavior of Son that he kind of
began to clothe his thoughts with language. A singularly unfortunate
entanglement; people would be shocked; family interests would suffer;
such unions never turned out well--how could they? Besides, Warlock
was so sensitive. In fact, with all the conviction of which he was
capable--and a Proconsul is capable of a good deal--Father urged Son to
pause and reflect.
Son had already done so.
Was it conceivable?
Oh, yes, quite, if Father didn’t mind his saying so. He had a private
income, and she was the nicest girl in London; an opinion, he was sure,
in which Father was bound to concur, when he’d seen her.
But...!!
Yes, but people were getting so much broader-minded, weren’t they?
Father had heard that that was the case; but in his opinion excess of
breadth was an even more serious menace to the Empire--being a great
Proconsul, of course, Father always thought Imperially--than to err a
little on the other side.
If you looked at things in that way, thought Mr. Philip.
Don’t cheek your father and a proconsul, too, you young bounder, said
the Twin Brethren.
Don’t let those eyebrows overawe you, my son, said the Green
Chartreuse.
How else could one look at things? the Proconsul inquired in tones of
pained expostulation.
“This is the way I look at things, father,” said Mr. Philip, “if you
don’t mind my goin’ into details.”
“Pray do so, my boy. I shall welcome them.”
“Well, this is my feelin’ on the subject. You are sort of shot here,
don’t you know, without anybody askin’ you whether you wanted to come.
You are sort of dumped here, don’t you know, and told to make the best
of a pretty bad mix-up. Well, I don’t mind tellin’ you, father, I’ve
been gettin’ rather fed up with the whole Affair lately.”
An idle and selfish course of life leads invariably to that state of
mind, said Father in effect, though his language was politer. It was a
great mistake ever to have left the Second.
Son had got just as fed up there, though. It seemed such a silly
arrangement for grown men of five-and-twenty.
Father was pained at This.
“Fact is,” said the Green Chartreuse, who was a veritable Swaggering
Companion this morning, “a chap is bound to get fed up unless he can
find a real nice girl to take him on, and give him an interest in
things. And I reckon I’ve found her, although I haven’t persuaded
her yet; but, father, if you’ll be so kind as to go and talk to her
grandmother, a real good sort who has played Bean with Lady Macbeth,
and put in a word for me, I’m sure it would straighten things out a
bit.”
Father was constrained to remark at this point that he was afraid the
Eldest Son of the House was hopeless. It was truly unfortunate that he
could not be brought to realize the gravity of the issue.
Mr. Philip seemed willing to concede that from one point of view it
would be quite right to marry Adela. But suppose you were not built in
that way?
Father, however, found not the least difficulty in making a rejoinder.
“Marry Adela, my dear boy, whatever way you are built in, and you will
never regret it. You will have done your duty in a manner becoming to
the sphere to which it has pleased Providence to call you. Your mother
will be pleased; I propose to double your present income; Warlock is
prepared to be generous in regard to Adela’s settlement; I am sure
High Cliff will view the arrangement favorably; the little house in
Grosvenor Street can be had on a short lease on reasonable terms;
Mr. Vandeleur is inclined to think it would do no harm to the Party;
most agreeable, accomplished, and charming girl; what could any young
fellow--but why labor the point?”
Son rather agreed that it might be taken as read.
Still the fact remained that if you are not built in that way you are
bound to be up against it.
The Proconsul had no pity for such weakness of fiber, such general
infirmity of character.
“Do you suppose, my dear boy, that when I married your dear mother I
had no qualms?”
It may have been that this important truth was wrung from the great
Proconsul before he realized its imminence. It was a period of
considerable emotional stress just now, you must please remember.
“Do you suppose I did not realize that my life was not going to be
altogether a bed of roses at first? But I am proud to say I was
ambitious, and I can look all the world in the face and say I have
never regretted my action. Our life together has been exceedingly
harmonious; your mother is a most estimable and a thoroughly _good_
woman; and I should have been guilty of the greatest error of my career
had I allowed any infirmity of purpose to frustrate a union which has
been so abundantly blessed by heaven.”
Seldom had the great Proconsul been moved so deeply.
“Let us beware, my dear boy, lest the weakening of fiber of the present
generation does not undermine our Empire. Pray do not think for one
single moment that you will ever regret a union with Adela Rocklaw. As
for this other step, I assure you, my dear boy, it is unthinkable.”
Having thus unburdened his mind, the Proconsul rose, and, still the
prey of deep emotion, swayed majestically forth of the Albany B4.