The old man waved his cane with a graceful flourish, placed it in the hand that held his snuff-box, opened the latter, and, after tapping it, took a pinch, as if it were a matter calling forth long study of deportment to perform, closed the box with a loud snap, and said, in a haughty, affected tone:
“Half an hour since, on a well-filled parade, I encountered His Royal Highness and a group of friends.”
He paused, and took out a silk handkerchief, embroidered here and there with purple flowers by his child.
“And then – ”
There was a flourish of the handkerchief, and the flicking away of imaginary specks from the tightly-buttoned coat.
“His Royal Highness – ”
“Yes, papa,” said Claire piteously, as he looked at her as if asking her attention.
At that moment Morton entered, looking weary and discontented; but, seeing his father’s peculiar look, he checked the words he was about to say, and watched his face as he gave his handkerchief another flourish, replaced it, and took his cane from his left hand to twirl it gracefully.
“His Royal Highness shook hands with me.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Morton, while Claire’s brow grew more rugged.
“Shook hands with you, father?” said Morton eagerly.
“And asked me for a pinch of snuff.”
There was a dead silence in the room as Claire clasped her hands together and trembled, and seemed about to speak, but dared not; while Morton screwed up his mouth to whistle, but refrained, looking half contemptuously at his father the while.
“Fortune has thrown a magnificent chance in our way.”
“I say, dad, what do you mean with your magnificent chance?”
“I have hopes, too, for Claire. I cannot say much yet, but I have great hopes,” he continued, ignoring the question of his son.
“Oh, papa!”
“Yes, my child, I have. I can say no more now, but I have hopes.”
Claire’s careworn face grew more cloudy as she uttered a low sigh.
“But look here, father; what do you mean,” repeated Morton, “by your magnificent chance?”
The Master of the Ceremonies coughed behind one delicate hand, brushed a few imaginary specks from his sleeve, then took out his snuff-box, and refreshed himself with a pinch in a very elaborate way.
“You are a man now, Morton, and I will speak plainly to you, as I have before now spoken plainly to your sisters. My only hope for the future is to see you both make good marriages.”
“Why, that won’t send you to heaven, father,” said the lad, grinning.
“I mean my – our – earthly future, sir,” said the old man. “This is no time for ribald jest. Remember your duty to me, sir, and follow out my wishes.”
“Oh, very well, father,” said Morton sulkily.
“But, papa dear, you surely do not think of Morton marrying,” said Claire anxiously.
“And why not, madam, pray? Younger men have married before now, even princes and kings, when it was politically necessary, at twelve and fifteen; my memory does not serve me at the moment for names, but let that pass.”
“But have you any fixed ideas upon the subject, papa?”
“My dear Claire! How dense you are! Did I not tell you about Morton’s providential rescue of Lady Drelincourt’s favourite, and of her impassioned admiration of his bravery? She saw him at great disadvantage then; but I am going to arrange with – er – one of the principal tailors, and Morton must now take his place amongst the best dressed bucks on the Parade. With his manly young person, and a few touches in deportment that I can give him, his prospect is sure, I will answer for it.”
“Ha – ha – ha – ha – ha – ha!” roared Morton, bursting out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
“Morton!” and the old man turned round fiercely.
“Why, you don’t want me to marry that old female Guy Fawkes, father!”
“Morton! my son! you grieve and pain me. How dare you speak like that of a leader of society – a lady of title, sir – of great wealth. Why, her diamonds are magnificent. I will be plain with you. You have only to play your cards well, and in due course others will be issued – Mr Morton Denville and the Countess of Drelincourt.”
“Why, father, all the fellows would laugh at me.”
“Sir, a man with horses, carriages, servants, a town mansion and country seat, and a large income can laugh at the world.”
“Oh, yes, of course, father; but she’s fifty or sixty, and I’m not twenty.”
“What has that to do with it, sir! How often do men of sixty marry girls of seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen?”
“But she paints, and wears false hair.”
“Matters of which every gentleman, sir, would be profoundly ignorant as regards a lady of title.”
“But, papa dear, surely you are not serious?” said Claire, who had listened with horror painted in every feature.
“I was never more serious in my life, child. Lady Drelincourt is not young, but she is a most amiable woman, with no other weakness than a love for play.”
“And little beasts of dogs,” said Morton contemptuously.
“Of course, because there is a void in her womanly heart. That void, my son, you must try and fill.”
“Oh, nonsense, father!”
“Nonsense! Morton, are you mad? Are you going to throw away a fortune, and a great position in society? Of course, I do not say that such an event will follow, but it is time you began to assert your position. You did well the other day on the pier.”
“Yes,” said Morton with a sneer. “I fished out a dog. Now Dick Linnell did something worth – ”
“Silence, sir! Do not mention his name in my presence, I beg,” said the old man sternly; and he left the house.
“Well, I tell you what it is, Sis,” said Morton, speaking from the window, where he had gone to see his father mince by, “the old dad hasn’t been right since that night. I think he’s going off his head.”
There was no reply, and, turning round, it was to find that he was alone, for Claire, unable to bear the strain longer, had glided from the room.
Volume One – Chapter Nineteen.
Miss Clode’s Hero
No one would have called Miss Clode pretty, “but there were traces,” as the Master of the Ceremonies said. She was thin and middle-aged now, but she had once been a very charming woman; and, though the proprietress of the circulating library at Saltinville, a keen observer would have said that she was a lady.
Richard Linnell entered her shop on the morning after the carriage accident, and a curious flush came into her little thin face. There was a light in her eye that seemed to make the worn, jaded face pleasanter to look upon, and it seemed as if something of the little faded woman’s true nature was peeping out.
She did not look like the little go-between in scores of flirtations and intrigues; but as if the natural love of her nature had come to the surface, from where it generally lay latent, and her eyes seemed to say:
“Ah, if I could have married, and had a son like that.”
It is the fashion, nowadays, for ladies to attempt a strong-minded rôle, and profess to despise the tyrant man; to take to college life and professorship; to cry aloud and shout for woman’s rights and independence; for votes and the entry to the school board, vestry, and the Parliamentary bench; when all the time Nature says in