‘No; I’ll have a churchwarden.br Why, father, do you think I’m a baby to put up with a doll’s head like this?’ looking at the carving upon it.
The squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to show it. He only said,‘Osborne brought it me when he came back from Germany. That’s three years ago.’ And then for some time they smoked in silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was very soothing to the squire, though not a word might be said.
The next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed his words were always a transparent medium through which the current might be seen.
‘A deal of a man’s life comes and goes in three years—I’ve found that out;’ and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was turning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the squire again stopped his smoking and spoke. ‘I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of Wales being made regent, I read somewhere—I dare say it was in a newspaper—that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad terms.
‘Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding with me on White Surrey; you won’t remember the pony we called White Surrey’
‘I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days.’
‘Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know I had seven horses in the stable then—not counting the farm-horses. I don’t recollect having a care then, except—she was always delicate, you know. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in black velvet—it was a foppery, but it wasn’t my doing, and it was all right, I’m sure. He’s a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has gone out of his face.’
‘He’s a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has given you,’ said Roger, rather taking his brother’s feelings for granted.
‘Not he,’ said the squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and hitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces. ‘There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He’s none troubled about the money. It’s easy getting money from Jews if you’re the eldest son, and the heir. They just ask, “How old is your father, and has he had a stroke, or a fit?” and it’s settled out of hand, and then they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber and land—Don’t let us speak of him; it’s no good, Roger. He and I are out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could put us to rights. It’s thinking of how he grieved her at last that makes me so bitter with him. And yet there’s a deal of good in him! and he’s so quick and clever, if only he’d give his mind to things. Now, you were always slow, Roger—all your masters used to say so.’
Roger laughed a little—
‘Yes ; I’d many a nickname at school for my slowness,’ said he.
‘Never mind!’ said the squire, consolingly. ‘I’m sure I don’t. If you were a clever fellow like Osborne yonder, you’d be all for caring for books and writing, and you’d perhaps find it as dull as he does to keep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I dare say, they think a deal of you at Cambridge,’ said he, after a pause, ‘since you’ve got this fine wranglership; I’d nearly forgotten that—the news came at such a miserable time.’
‘Well, yes! They’re always proud of the senior wrangler of the year up at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate.’
The squire sat and gazed into the embers, still holding his useless pipe-stem. At last he said, in a low voice, as if scarcely aware he had got a listener,—‘I used to write to her when she was away in London, and tell her the home news. But no letter will reach her now! Nothing reaches her!’
Roger started up.
‘Where’s the tobacco-box, father! Let me fill you another pipe!’ and when he had done so, he stooped over his father and stroked his cheek. The squire shook his head.
‘You’ve only just come home, lad. You don’t know me, as I am nowadays! Ask Robinson—I won’t have you asking Osborne, he ought to keep it to himself—but any of the servants will tell you I’m not like the same man for getting into passions with them. I used to be reckoned a good master, but that is past now! Osborne was once a little boy, and she was once alive—and I was once a good master—a good master—yes! It’s all past now.’
He took up his pipe, and began to smoke afresh, and Roger, after a silence of some minutes, began a long story about some Cambridge man’s misadventure on the hunting-field, telling it with such humour that the squire was beguiled into hearty laughing. When they rose to go to bed his father said to Roger—
‘Well, we’ve had a pleasant evening—at least, I have. But perhaps you haven’t; for I’m but poor company now, I know.’
‘I don’t know when I’ve passed a happier evening, father,’ said Roger. And he spoke truly, though he did not trouble himself to find out the cause of his happiness.
CHAPTER 24
Mrs. Gibson’s Little Dinner
All this had taken place before Roger’s first meeting with Molly and Cynthia at Miss Brownings’; and the little dinner on the Friday at Mr. Gibson’s, which followed in due sequence.
Mrs. Gibson intended the Hamleys to find this dinner pleasant; and they did. Mr. Gibson was fond of the two young men, both for their parents’ sake and their own, for he had known them since boyhood; and to those whom he liked Mr. Gibson could be remarkably agreeable. Mrs. Gibson really gave them a welcome—and cordiality in a hostess is a very becoming mantle for any other deficiencies there may be. Cynthia and Molly looked their best, which was all the duty Mrs. Gibson absolutely required of them, as she was willing enough to take her full share in the conversation. Osborne fell to her lot, of course, and for some time he and she prattled on with all the ease of manner and common-placeness of meaning which go far to make the ‘art of polite conversation.’ Roger, who ought to have made himself agreeable to one or the other of the young ladies, was exceedingly interested in what Mr. Gibson was telling him of a paper on comparative osteology1 in some foreign journal of science, which Lord Hollingford was in the habit of forwarding to his friend the country surgeon. Yet every now and then while he listened he caught his attention wandering to the face of Cynthia, who was placed between his brother and Mr. Gibson. She was not particularly occupied with attending to anything that was going on; her eyelids were carelessly dropped, as she crumbled her bread on the tablecloth, and her beautiful long eyelashes were seen on the clear tint of her oval cheek. She was thinking of something else; Molly was trying to understand with all her might. Suddenly Cynthia looked up, and caught Roger’s gaze of intent admiration too fully for her to be unaware that he was staring at her. She coloured a little; but, after the first moment of rosy confusion at his evident admiration of her, she flew to the attack, diverting his confusion at thus being caught, to the defence of himself from her accusation.
‘It is quite true!’ she said to him. ‘I was not attending: you see I don’t know even the ABC of science. But, please, don’t look so severely at me, even if I am a dunce!’
‘I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to look severely, I am sure,’ replied he, not knowing well what to say.
‘Cynthia is not a dunce either,’ said Mrs. Gibson, afraid lest her daughter’s opinion of herself might be taken seriously. ‘But I have always observed that some people have a talent for one thing and some for another. Now Cynthia’s talents are not for science and the severer studies. Do you remember, love, what trouble I had to teach you the use of the globes?’
‘Yes; and I don’t know longitude from latitude now; and I’m always puzzled as to which is perpendicular and which is horizontal.’