Mr. Mayne spoke fast and nervously; but d.i.c.k was quite cool,--at least, outwardly so.

"There is no 'of course' in the matter. I can only read for my degree on one condition."

"And what is that, may I ask?" with rising choler in his voice.

"That you will have Nan down to Longmead, and that you and my mother sanction our engagement."

"Never, sir! never!" in a vehement tone.

"Please don't excite yourself, father. I think it is I who ought to be excited; but, you see, I am quite cool,--perfectly so. I am far too much in earnest to be otherwise. When a man's future prospects are at stake, and his own father seems determined to thwart him, it is time to summon up all one's energies. I hope you are not serious in what you say,--that you do absolutely refuse to sanction my engagement with Nan?"

"There is no engagement. If there were, I do absolutely refuse; nay, more, I am determined actively to oppose it."

"I am sorry to find you have not changed your mind; for it makes all the difference to me, I a.s.sure you. Very well: then I must go in for a City life."

"Do you threaten me, sir?"

"No, father, I would not be so undutiful; but it is a pity your throwing all that money away on my education if I am not to complete it. If I had taken a good degree, I might have turned out something; but never mind,--it can't be helped now. Then you will be kind enough to write a letter of introduction to Stansfield & Stansfield?"

"No, sir; I will write no such letter!" thundered Mr. Mayne; and d.i.c.k put his hands in his pocket and whistled. He felt himself losing patience; but, as he said afterwards, his father was in such an awful rage that it was necessary for one of them to keep cool. So, as soon as he recovered, he said, quite pleasantly,--

"Well, if you will not, you will not. We may take a horse to the water, but we can't make him drink. And the time has not come yet for a son to order his own father, though we are pretty well advanced now."

"I think we are, d.i.c.k."

"I confess I am rather disappointed at not getting that letter. Mr.

Stansfield would have attached some importance to it; but I dare say I shall get on with the old boy without it. I may as well tell you that I shall accept anything he likes to offer me,--even if it be only a clerkship at eighty pounds a year. After all, I am not worse off than you were at my age. You began at the bottom of the ladder: so I need not grumble."

"Do you mean to say," demanded his father, in a tone of grief, "that you really intend to throw me over, and not only me, but all your advantages, your prospects in life, for the sake of this girl?"

"I think it is you who are throwing me over," returned his son, candidly. "Put yourself in my place. When you were a young man, father, would you have given up my mother, if my grandfather had wished you to do so?"

"The cases are different,--altogether different," was the angry response. "I never would have married a dressmaker."

"There are dressmakers and dressmakers: but at least my _fiancee_ is a gentlewoman," returned his son, hotly.

d.i.c.k meant nothing by this speech more than his words implied: he was far too good-natured for an _arriere-pensee_. But his father chose to consider himself insulted.

"You insolent young fellow!" he exclaimed, fuming. "Do you mean your mother was not as good as Miss Nancy, any day? I never did believe in those Challoners,--never, in spite of the mother's airs. I tell you what, d.i.c.k, you are treating me shamefully; after all the money I have wasted on you, to turn round on me in this way and talk about the City. I wash my hands of you, sir. I will have nothing to do with introductions: you may go your way, but you will never see a penny of my money." And he walked on with a very black look indeed.

"All right," returned d.i.c.k. But he was not quite so cool now. "Thank you for all you have done for me, and for letting me know your future intentions. I am thinking it is a good thing Nan has learned her business, for, as we shall be tolerably poor, it will be handy for her to make her own gowns."

"Very well, d.i.c.k."

"I shall go up to Mr. Stansfield to-morrow; and the day after I suppose I had better write to the Dean. You may not believe me, father,"--and here d.i.c.k's lip quivered for the first time,--"but I am awfully sorry to cross you in this way; but my heart is so set on Nan that I could not possibly bring myself to live without her." But to this Mr. Mayne made no reply, and they walked the remainder of the way in silence.

Mrs. Mayne's heart grew sick with apprehension when she saw their faces at dinner.

d.i.c.k looked decidedly cross. To do him justice, the poor fellow was thoroughly miserable; but his aspect was cheerful compared to that of her husband.

Mr. Mayne would not speak; neither would he eat. And even the footman, who took away the untasted viands, looked at his master with fear and trembling, his countenance was so gloomy.

d.i.c.k did not seem to notice his father's failure of appet.i.te; but Mrs.

Mayne was one of those women who are given to fancy that if a man refuse his dinner there is something serious the matter with him. And as the meal proceeded she cast piteous looks at her son, but d.i.c.k totally ignored them.

As soon as the servants had handed round the fruit, and had left the room, Mr. Mayne rose from the table, leaving his claret untasted, and shut himself into the library, first banging the door behind him, a sound that made his wife's heart palpitate.

"Oh, d.i.c.k, what was happened to your father?" she asked, turning to her boy for comfort. But d.i.c.k was unusually sulky, and refused to answer.

"You had better ask him, mother, if you are anxious to know," he replied, in a voice he very seldom used to her. "As for me, I am so sick of the whole thing, and feel myself so badly used, that I would rather not open my lips on the subject."

Then Mrs. Mayne sighed, for she knew d.i.c.k had one of his obstinate fits on him, and that there would be no further word spoken by him that night.

Poor woman! She knew it was her duty to go into the library and speak a word of comfort to her husband. It might be that d.i.c.k had been contumacious, and had angered his father, and it might be her task to pour in the balm of sympathy. Even if he had been hard on her boy, she must not forget that he was her husband.

But as she opened the door she forgot her doubts in a moment. Mr.

Mayne's face was so pale, despite its blackness, that she was moved to instant pity.

"Oh, Richard, what is it?" she said, hurrying to him, "My dear, you must not take it to heart in this way." And she took his forehead between her hands and kissed it with the old tenderness she had once felt for him, when they, too, had lived and worked for each other, and there was no Master d.i.c.k to plague them and rule over his mother's heart.

"Bessie, that boy will be the death of me," he groaned. But, notwithstanding the despondency of these words, the comfort of his wife's presence was visibly felt, and by and by he suffered her to coax the truth from him.

CHAPTER XLIV.

MR. MAYNE ORDERS A BASIN OF GRUEL.

On the following morning Mr. Mayne did open his lips to address a word to his son:

"I shall be obliged to you, d.i.c.k, if you will postpone your intended visit to town, for this day at least;" for d.i.c.k had an "ABC" beside him, and was picking out a fast train while he ate his breakfast.

"All right," replied d.i.c.k: "I can wait another four-and-twenty hours."

But though he yielded the point graciously enough, he did not look at his father, or say anything more on the subject; and as soon as his appet.i.te was satisfied, he took up the "Times," and lounged into his den. Shortly afterwards they heard him whistling to his dogs, and knew that he would not appear until luncheon.

Mrs. Mayne wished that her husband would follow his example; but he had put on his slippers, and showed no inclination to leave the fireside. He read his paper and dozed a good deal, and snapped up Bessie if she spoke to him: so, on the whole, Mrs. Mayne had rather a dull morning. When the luncheon-bell rang, he chose to put on invalid airs, and ordered a basin of gruel to be brought to him in the library. Mrs. Mayne who knew he was not ill, and that his indisposition was purely mental and imaginary, was yet wise enough to fall in with his whim.

"Your master would like his gruel nicely flavored, James," she said to the footman. "Please ask Mrs. Simpkins to prepare it in the way he likes." And then she placed his favorite little table beside him, and stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze.

"Your father does not feel himself well enough to come in to luncheon, d.i.c.k," she said to her son, probably for the benefit of the servant, who was waiting to remove the covers; and d.i.c.k, for the same reason, testified a proper amount of sympathy.

"He takes too long walks for a man of his age," he said, applying himself vigorously to the dismemberment of a chicken. "Mother, I will trouble you for some of that game-pie." And then he told her another anecdote about Vigo.

After luncheon d.i.c.k again disappeared, and Mrs. Mayne, who dreaded an afternoon's _tete-a-tete_ with her husband in his present mood, went up to her own room, for some feminine business, or to take a nap. Mr.

Mayne, a little mollified by the gruel, which had been flavored exactly to his liking with a _soupcon_ of rum, was just composing himself for another doze, when he was roused by the loud pealing of the hall bell, and the next moment the door was flung open by James, and Sir Henry Challoner was announced.