“And what about the property?”
“Of course my marriage will not affect your interests.”
“I should say not. It would be very odd if it did. As it is, your income is much larger than mine.”
“I don’t know how that is, sir; but I suppose you will not refuse to give me a helping hand if you can do so without disturbance to your own comfort.”
“In what sort of way? Don’t you think anything of that kind can be managed better by the lawyer? If there is a thing I hate, it is business.”
Gerard, remembering his promise to Lady Chiltern, did persevere, though the perseverance went much against the grain with him. “We thought, sir, that if you would consent we might live at Maule Abbey.”
“Oh;—you did; did you?”
“Is there any objection?”
“Simply the fact that it is my house, and not yours.”
“It belongs, I suppose, to the property; and as—”
“As what?” asked the father, turning upon the son with sharp angry eyes, and with something of real animation in his face.
Gerard was very awkward in conveying his meaning to his father. “And as,” he continued—“as it must come to me, I suppose, some day, and it will be the proper sort of thing that we should live there then, I thought that you would agree that if we went and lived there now it would be a good sort of thing to do.”
“That was your idea?”
“We talked it over with our friend, Lady Chiltern.”
“Indeed! I am so much obliged to your friend, Lady Chiltern, for the interest she takes in my affairs. Pray make my compliments to Lady Chiltern, and tell her at the same time that, though no doubt I have one foot in the grave, I should like to keep my house for the other foot, though too probably I may never be able to drag it so far as Maule Abbey.”
“But you don’t think of living there.”
“My dear boy, if you will inquire among any friends you may happen to know who understand the world better than Lady Chiltern seems to do, they will tell you that a son should not suggest to his father the abandonment of the family property, because the father may—probably—soon—be conveniently got rid of under ground.”
“There was no thought of such a thing,” said Gerard.
“It isn’t decent. I say that with all due deference to Lady Chiltern’s better judgment. It’s not the kind of thing that men do. I care less about it than most men, but even I object to such a proposition when it is made so openly. No doubt I am old.” This assertion Mr. Maule made in a weak, quavering voice, which showed that had his intention been that way turned in his youth, he might probably have earned his bread on the stage.
“Nobody thought of your being old, sir.”
“I shan’t last long, of course. I am a poor feeble creature. But while I do live, I should prefer not to be turned out of my own house—if Lady Chiltern could be induced to consent to such an arrangement. My doctor seems to think that I might linger on for a year or two—with great care.”
“Father, you know I was thinking of nothing of the kind.”
“We won’t act the king and the prince any further, if you please. The prince protested very well, and, if I remember right, the father pretended to believe him. In my weak state you have rather upset me. If you have no objection I would choose to be left to recover myself a little.”
“And is that all that you will say to me?”
“Good heavens;—what more can you want? I will not—consent—to give up—my house at Maule Abbey for your use—as long as I live. Will that do? And if you choose to marry a wife and starve, I won’t think that any reason why I should starve too. Will that do? And your friend, Lady Chiltern, may—go—and be d⸺d. Will that do?”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Gerard.” So the interview was over, and Gerard Maule left the room. The father, as soon as he was alone, immediately lit another cigarette, took up his French novel, and went to work as though he was determined to be happy and comfortable again without losing a moment. But he found this to be beyond his power. He had been really disturbed, and could not easily compose himself. The cigarette was almost at once chucked into the fire, and the little volume was laid on one side. Mr. Maule rose almost impetuously from his chair, and stood with his back to the fire, contemplating the proposition that had been made to him.
It was actually true that he had been offended by the very faint idea of death which had been suggested to him by his son. Though he was a man bearing no palpable signs of decay, in excellent health, with good digestion—who might live to be ninety—he did not like to be warned that his heir would come after him. The claim which had been put forward to Maule Abbey by his son had rested on the fact that when he should die the place must belong to his son;—and the fact was unpleasant to him. Lady Chiltern had spoken of him behind his back as being mortal, and in doing so had been guilty of an impertinence. Maule Abbey, no doubt, was a ruined old house, in which he never thought
