Morris, for whom the day never seemed long enough, was a person whobreakfasted punctually at half-past eight, whereas Colonel Monk, towhom--at any rate at Monksland--the day was often too long, generallybreakfasted at ten. To his astonishment, however, on entering thedining-room upon the morrow of his interview in the workshop with Mary,he found his father seated at the head of the table.
"This means a 'few words' with me about something disagreeable," thoughtMorris to himself as he dabbed viciously at an evasive sausage. Hewas not fond of these domestic conversations. Nor was he in the leastreassured by his father's airy and informed comments upon the contentsof the "Globe," which always arrived by post, and the marvel of itsdaily "turnover" article, whereof the perpetual variety throughout thedecades constituted, the Colonel was wont to say, the eighth wonder ofthe world. Instinct, instructed by experience, assured him that thesewere but the first moves in the game.
Towards the end of the meal he attempted retreat, pretending that hewanted to fetch something, but the Colonel, who was watching him overthe top of the pink page of the "Globe," intervened promptly.
"If you have a few minutes to spare, my dear boy, I should like to havea chat with you," he said.
"Certainly, father," answered the dutiful Morris; "I am at yourservice."
"Very good; then I will light my cigar, and we might take a strollon the beach, that is, after I have seen the cook about the dinnerto-night. Perhaps I shall find you presently by the steps."
"I will wait for you there," answered Morris. And wait he did, for aconsiderable while, for the interview with the cook proved lengthy.Moreover, the Colonel was not a punctual person, or one who set an unduevalue upon his own or other people's time. At length, just as Morris wasgrowing weary of the pristine but enticing occupation of making ducksand drakes with flat pebbles, his father appeared. After "salutations,"as they say in the East, he wasted ten more minutes in abusing the cook,ending up with a direct appeal for his son's estimate of her capacities.
"She might be better and she might be worse," answered Morris,judicially.
"Quite so," replied the Colonel, drily; "the remark is sound and appliesto most things. At present, however, I think that she is worse; alsoI hate the sight of her fat red face. But bother the cook, why do youthink so much about her; I have something else to say."
"I don't think," said Morris. "She doesn't excite me one way or theother, except when she is late with my breakfast."
Then, as he expected, after the cook came the crisis.
"You will remember, my dear boy," began the Colonel, affectionately, "alittle talk we had a while ago."
"Which one, father?"
"The last of any importance, I believe. I refer to the occasion when youstopped out all night contemplating the sea; an incident which impressedit upon my memory."
Morris looked at him. Why was the old gentleman so inconvenientlyobservant?
"And doubtless you remember the subject?"
"There were a good many subjects, father; they ranged from mortgages tomatrimony."
"Quite so, to matrimony. Well, have you thought any more about it?"
"Not particularly, father. Why should I?"
"Confound it, Morris," exclaimed the Colonel, losing patience; "don'tchop logic like a petty sessions lawyer. Let's come to the point."
"That is my desire," answered Morris; and quite clearly there roseup before him an inconsequent picture of his mother teaching him theCatechism many, many years ago. Thereat, as was customary with his mindwhen any memory of her touched it, his temper softened like iron beneaththe influence of fire.
"Very good, then what do you think of Mary as a wife?"
"How should I know under the circumstances?"
The Colonel fumed, and Morris added, "I beg your pardon, I understandwhat you mean."
Then his father came to the charge.
"To be brief, will you marry her?"
"Will she marry me?" asked Morris. "Isn't she too sensible?"
His father's eye twinkled, but he restrained himself. This, he felt, wasnot an occasion upon which to indulge his powers of sarcasm.
"Upon my word, if you want my opinion, I believe she will; but you haveto ask her first. Look here, my boy, be advised by me, and do it as soonas possible. The notion is rather new to me, I admit; but, taking herall round, where would you find a better woman? You and I don't alwaysagree about things; we are of a different generation, and look at theworld from different standpoints. But I think that at the bottom werespect each other, and I am sure," he added with a touch of restraineddignity, "that we are naturally and properly attached to eachother. Under these circumstances, and taking everything else intoconsideration, I am convinced also that you will give weight to myadvice. I assure you that I do not offer it lightly. It is that youshould marry your cousin Mary."
"There is her side of the case to be considered," suggested Morris.
"Doubtless, and she is a very shrewd and sensible young woman under allher 'dolce far niente' air, who is quite capable of consideration."
"I am not worthy of her," his son broke in passionately.
"That is for her to decide. I ask you to give her an opportunity ofexpressing an opinion."
Morris looked at the sea and sky, then he looked at his father standingbefore him in an attitude that was almost suppliant, with head bowed,hands clasped, and on his clear-cut face an air of real sincerity. Whatright had he to resist this appeal? He was heart-whole, without anykind of complication, and for his cousin Mary he had true affection andrespect. Moreover, they had been brought up together. She understoodhim, and in the midst of so much that was uncertain and bewilderingshe seemed something genuine and solid, something to which a man couldcling. It may not have been a right spirit in which to approach thisquestion of marriage, but in the case of a young man like Morris,who was driven forward by no passion, by no scheme even of personaladvancement, this substitution of reason for impulse and instinct wasperhaps natural.
"Very well, I will," he answered; "but if she is wise, she won't."
His father turned his head away and sighed softly, and that sigh seemedto lift a ton's weight off his heart.
"I am glad to hear it," he answered simply, "the rest must settleitself. By the way, if you are going up to the house, tell the cook thatI have changed my mind, we will have the soles fried with lemon; shealways makes a mess of them 'au maitre d'hotel.'"
Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies Page 6