“That may be very true; but there they are, and can’t be done away with; and I do want money, as it happens, more now than I shall want it a year hence, or, perhaps, even six months hence.”
“Most people do,” said Mr. Copperhead, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, and placing his elbow tightly against the orifice of that very important part of him. “It’s the commonest thing in the world. I want money myself, for that matter. I’ve always got a large amount to make up by a certain date, and a bill to pay. But about Clar, that’s the important matter. As he seems to have set his mind on it, and as you assure me there’s no danger—mantraps, or that sort of thing, eh?”
The colour came to Mr. May’s cheek; but it was only for a moment. To have his own daughter spoken of as a mantrap gave him a momentary thrill of anger; but, as he would have applied the word quite composedly to any other man’s daughter, the resentment was evanescent. He did not trust himself to answer, however, but nodded somewhat impatiently, which made the millionaire laugh the more.
“Don’t like the mantrap?” he said. “Bless you, they’re all alike, not yours more than the rest. But as I was saying, if it’s warranted safe I suppose he’ll have to stay. But I don’t stand any nonsense, May; and look here, your music and all that ain’t in the agreement. He can have a master for his music, he’s well enough able to pay for it; but I won’t have a mistress, by George, to put folly into his head.”
“I am to forbid him the drawing-room, I suppose, and take his fiddle from him! I have no objections. Between ourselves, as I am not musical, it would be very agreeable to me; but perhaps he is rather over the age, don’t you think, for treatment of that kind?”
Clarence had come in, and stood watching the conversation, with a look Mr. Copperhead was not prepared for. Those mild brown eyes, which were his mother’s share in him, were full a-stare with sullen resolution, and his heavy mouth shut like that of a bulldog. He lingered at the door, looking at the conversation which was going on between his father and his tutor, and they both noticed him at the same moment, and drew the same conclusion. Mr. May was in possession of the parole, as the French say, and he added instinctively in an undertone,
“Take care; if I were you I would not try him too far.”
Mr. Copperhead said nothing; but he stared too, rather aghast at this new revelation. What! his porcelain, his Dresden figure of a son, his crowning curiosity, was he going to show a will of his own? The despot felt a thrill go over him. What kind of a sentiment love was in his mind it would be hard to tell; but his pride was all set on this heavy boy. To see him a man of note, in Parliament, his name in the papers, his speeches printed in the Times, was the very heaven of his expectations. “Son of the famous Copperhead, the great contractor.” He did not care about such distinction in his own person; but this had been his dream ever since Clarence came into being. And now there he stood gloomy, obdurate. If he had made up his mind to make a low marriage, could his father hinder him—could anything hinder him? Mr. Copperhead looked at his son and quailed for the first time in his life.
“May,” he said, hurriedly, “do the best you can; he’s got all his mother’s d⸺d obstinacy, you can see, can’t you? but I’ve set my heart on making a man of him—do the best you can.”
Mr. May thought to himself afterwards if he had only had the vigour to say, “Pay me six months in advance,” the thing would have been done. But the lingering prejudices of breeding clung about him, and he could not do it. Mr. Copperhead, however, was very friendly all the rest of the day, and gave him private looks and words aside, to the great admiration of the Dorsets, to whom the alliance between them appeared remarkable enough.
XXXIX
A Catastrophe
Mr. May left the Hall before dinner, notwithstanding the warm invitation which was given to him to stay. He was rather restless, and though it was hard to go out into the dark just as grateful odours began to steal through the house, it suited him better to do so than to spend the night away from home. Besides, he comforted himself that Sir Robert’s cook was not first-rate, not good enough to make it a great temptation. It was a long walk to the station, for they had no horses at liberty to drive him, a fact at which he was slightly offended, though he was aware that Sir Robert’s stable was but a poor one. He set out just as the dressing-bell began to ring, fortified with a glass of sherry and a biscuit. The night was mild and soft, the hedgerows all rustling with the new life of the spring, and the stars beginning to come out as he went on; and on the whole the walk was pleasant, though the roads were somewhat muddy. As he went along, he felt himself fall into a curious dreamy state of mind, which was partly fatigue perhaps, but was not at all unpleasant. Sometimes he almost seemed to himself to be asleep as he trudged on, and woke up with a start, thinking that he saw indistinct figures, the skirt of a dress or the tail of a long coat, disappearing past him, just gone before he was fully awake
