CHAPTER XVI
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.