“By heavens, that’s cool!”
“I mean to be cool;—I’m always cool. The cab will be here to take me to dinner in a very few minutes. I hope you will not think I am running away from you?”
“I don’t mean you to go till you’ve heard what I’ve got to say,” said the Captain.
“Then, pray say it quickly.” Upon this, the Colonel stood still and faced his son; not exactly with a look of anger, but assuming an appearance as though he were the person injured. He was a thin old man, who wore padded coats, and painted his beard and his eyebrows, and had false teeth, and who, in spite of chronic absence of means, always was possessed of clothes apparently just new from the hands of a West-end tailor. He was one of those men who, through their long, useless, ill-flavoured lives, always contrive to live well, to eat and drink of the best, to lie softly, and to go about in purple and fine linen—and yet, never have any money. Among a certain set Colonel Marrable, though well known, was still popular. He was good-tempered, well-mannered, sprightly in conversation, and had not a scruple in the world. He was over seventy, had lived hard, and must have known that there was not much more of it for him. But yet he had no qualms, and no fears. It may be doubted whether he knew that he was a bad man—he, than whom you could find none worse though you were to search the country from one end to another. To lie, to steal—not out of tills or pockets, because he knew the danger; to cheat—not at the card-table, because he had never come in the way of learning the lesson; to indulge every passion, though the cost to others might be ruin for life; to know no gods but his own bodily senses, and no duty but that which he owed to those gods; to eat all, and produce nothing; to love no one but himself; to have learned nothing but how to sit at table like a gentleman; to care not at all for his country, or even for his profession; to have no creed, no party, no friend, no conscience, to be troubled with nothing that touched his heart;—such had been, was, and was to be the life of Colonel Marrable. Perhaps it was accounted to him as a merit by some that he did not quail at any coming fate. When his doctor warned him that he must go soon, unless he would refrain from this and that and the other—so wording his caution that the Colonel could not but know and did know, that let him refrain as he would he must go soon—he resolved that he would refrain, thinking that the charms of his wretched life were sweet enough to be worth such sacrifice; but in no other respect did the caution affect him. He never asked himself whether he had aught even to regret before he died, or to fear afterwards.
There are many Colonel Marrables about in the world, known well to be so at clubs, in drawing-rooms, and by the tradesmen who supply them. Men give them dinners and women smile upon them. The best of coats and boots are supplied to them. They never lack cigars nor champagne. They have horses to ride, and servants to wait upon them more obsequious than the servants of other people. And men will lend them money too—well knowing that there is no chance of repayment. Now and then one hears a horrid tale of some young girl who surrenders herself to such a one, absolutely for love! Upon the whole the Colonel Marrables are popular. It is hard to follow such a man quite to the end and to ascertain whether or no he does go out softly at last, like the snuff of a candle—just with a little stink.
“I will say it as quickly as I can,” said the Captain. “I can gain nothing I know by staying here in your company.”
“Not while you are so very uncivil.”
“Civil, indeed! I have today made up my mind, not for your sake, but for that of the family, that I will not prosecute you as a criminal for the gross robbery which you have perpetrated.”
“That is nonsense, Walter, and you know it as well as I do.”
“I am going back to India in a few weeks, and I trust I may never be called upon to see you again. I will not, if I can help it. It may be a toss-up which of us may die first, but this will be our last meeting. I hope you may remember on your deathbed that you have utterly ruined your son in every relation of life. I was engaged to marry a girl—whom I loved; but it is all over, because of you.”
“I had heard of that, Walter, and I really congratulate you on your escape.”
“I can’t strike you—”
“No; don’t do that.”
“Because of your age, and because you are my father. I suppose you have no heart, and that I cannot make you feel it.”
“My dear boy, I have an appetite, and I must go and satisfy it.” So saying the Colonel escaped, and the Captain allowed his father to make his way down the stairs and into the cab before he followed.
Though he had thus spoken to his father of his blasted hopes in regard to Mary Lowther, he had not as yet signified his consent to the measure by which their engagement was to be brought altogether to an end. The question had come to be discussed widely among their friends, as
