Chapter IV.
FATHER AND SON.
The dinner set before Captain Vyell comprised a dish of oysters, a fishchowder, a curried crab, a fried fowl with white sauce, a saddle oftenderest mutton, and various sweets over which Manasseh had thrown theelegant flourishes of his art. The wine came from the Rhone valley--aHermitage of the Collector's own shipment. The candles that lit therepast stood in the Collector's own silver candlesticks. As an oldRoman general carried with him on foreign service, packed in panniers onmule-back, a tessellated pavement to be laid down for him at eachcamping halt and repacked when the troops moved forward, so did CaptainVyell on his progresses of inspection travel with all the apparatus of agood table.
Dicky, seated opposite his father in a suit of sapphire blue velvet withbuttons of cut steel, partook only of the fried fowl and of a syllabub.He had his glass of wine too, and sipped at it, not liking it much, butencouraged by his father, who held that a fine palate could not becultivated too early.
By some process of dishing-up best known to himself (but with the aid,no doubt, of the "dam scullion") Manasseh, who had cooked the dinner,also served it; noiselessly, wearing white gloves because his masterabominated the sight of a black hand at meals. These gloves had afascination for Dicky. They attracted his eyes as might theintervolved play of two large white moths in the penumbra beyond thecandle-light, between his father's back and the dark sideboard; but hefought against the attraction because he knew that to be aware of aservant was an offence against good manners at table.
His father encouraged him to talk, and he told of his purchase--but notall the story. Not for worlds--instinct told him--must he mention theword he had heard spoken. Yet he got so far as to say,--
"The people here don't like us--do they, father?"
Captain Vyell laughed. "No, that's very certain. And, to tell you thetruth, if I had known you were wandering the street by yourself I mighthave felt uneasy. Manasseh shall take you for a walk to-morrow.One can never be sure of the _canaille_."
"What does that mean?"
Captain Vyell explained. The _canaille_, he said, were the common folk,whose part in this world was to be ruled. He explained further that tobelong to the upper or ruling class it did not suffice to be well-born(though this was almost essential); one must also cultivate the mannersproper to that station, and appear, as well as be, a superior. Nor wasthis all; there were complications, which Dicky would learn in time;what was called "popular rights," for instance--rights which even a Kingmust not be allowed to override; and these were so precious that (addedthe Collector) the upper classes must sometimes fight and lay down theirlives for them.
Dick perpended. He found this exceedingly interesting--the more sobecause it came, though in a curiously different way, to much the sameas Miss Quiney had taught him out of the catechism. Miss Quiney hadused pious words; in Miss Quiney's talk everything--even to sittingupright at table--was mixed up with God and an all-seeing Eye; and hisfather--with a child's deadly penetration Dicky felt sure of it--wascareless about God.
This, by the way, had often puzzled and even frightened him. God, likea great Sun, loomed so largely through Miss Quiney's scheme of things(which it were more precise, perhaps, to term a fog) that for certain,and apart from the sin of it and the assurance of going to hell, everyone removed from God must be sitting in pitch-darkness. But lo! whenhis father talked everything became clear and distinct; there was no sunat all to be seen, but there was also no darkness. On the contrary, ahundred things grew visible at once, and intelligible andcommon-sensible as Miss Quiney never contrived to present them.
This was puzzling; and, moreover, the child could not tolerate thethought of his father's going to hell--to the flames and unbearablethirst of it. To be sure Miss Quiney had never hinted this punishmentfor her employer, or even a remote chance of it, and Dicky's goodbreeding had kept him from confronting her major premise with theparticular instance of his father, although the conclusion of thatsyllogism meant everything to him. Or it may be that he was afraid. . . . Once, indeed, like Sindbad in the cave, he had seen a glimmeringchance of escape. It came when, reading in his Scripture lesson thatChrist consorted by choice with publicans and sinners, he had beenstopped by Miss Quiney with the information that "publican" meant"a kind of tax-collector." "Like papa?" asked the child, and held hisbreath for the answer. "Oh, not in the least like your dear papa,"Miss Quiney made haste to assure him; "but a quite low class of person,and, I should say, connected rather with the Excise. You must rememberthat all this happened in the East, a long time ago." Poor soul! theconscientiousness of her conscience (so to speak) had come to rest uponturning such corners genteelly, and had grown so expert at it that shescarcely breathed a sigh of relief. The child bent his head over thebook. His eyes were hidden from her, and she never guessed what hopeshe had dashed.
It was a relief then--after being forced at one time or another to putaside or pigeon-hole a hundred questions on which Miss Quiney'steaching and his father's practice appeared at variance--to find a pointupon which the certainty of both converged. Heaven and hell might bethis or that; but in this world the poor deserved their place, and mustbe kept to it.
"That seems fine," said Dicky, after a long pause.
"What seems fine?" His father, tasting the mutton with approval, hadlet slip his clue to the child's thought.
"Why, that poor people have rights too, and we ought to stand up forthem--like you said," answered Dicky, not too grammatically.
"They are our rights too, you see," said his father.
Dicky did not see; but his eagerness jumped this gap in the argument."Papa," he asked with a sudden flush, "did you ever stand up to a Kingon the poor people's side, and fight--and all that?"
"Well, you see"--the Collector smiled--"I was never called upon.But it's in the blood. Has Miss Quiney ever told you about OliverCromwell?"
"Yes. He cut off King Charles's head. . . . I don't think Miss Quineyliked him for that, though she didn't say so."
The Collector was still smiling. "He certainly helped to cut off KingCharles's head, and--right or wrong--it's remembered against him.But he did any amount of great things too. He was a masterful man; andperhaps the reason why Miss Quiney held her tongue is that he happens tobe an ancestor of ours, and she knew it."
"Oliver Cromwell?" Dicky repeated the name slowly, with awe.
"He was my great-great-grandfather, and you can add on another 'great'for yourself. I am called Oliver after him. They even say," addedCaptain Vyell, sipping his wine, "that I have some of his features; andso, perhaps, will you when you grow up. But of your chance of that youshall judge before long. I am having a copy of his portrait sent overfrom England."
For a moment or two these last remarks scarcely penetrated to the boy'shearing. Like all boys, he naturally desired greatness; unlike most,he was conscious of standing above the crowd, but without a guess thathe derived the advantage from anything better than accident. Hisfather had the good fortune to be rich. For himself--well, Dickywas born with one of those simple natures that incline rather todistrust than to overrate their own merits. None the less hedesired and loved greatness--thus early, and throughout his life--andit came as a tremendous, a magnificent shock to him that heenjoyed it as a birthright. The repetition of "great"--"he was mygreat-great-grandfather;" "you can add another 'great' for yourself"--hummed in his ears. A full half a minute ticked by before he grasped atthe remainder of his father's speech, and, like a breaking twig, itdropped him to bathos.
"But--but--" Dicky passed a hand over his face--"Miss Quiney said thatOliver Cromwell was covered with warts!"
Captain Vyell laughed outright.
"Women have wonderful ways of conveying a prejudice. Warts? Well,there, at any rate, we have the advantage of old Noll." The Collector,whose sense of hearing was acute and fastidious, broke off with a sharparching of the eyebrows and a glance up at the ceiling, or rather (sinceceiling there was none) at
the oaken beams which supported the flooroverhead. "Manasseh," he said quickly, "be good enough to step upstairsand inform our landlady that the pitch of her voice annoys me. Shewould seem to be rating a servant girl above."
"Yes, sah."
"Pray desire her to take the girl away and scold her elsewhere."
Manasseh disappeared, and returned two minutes later to report that"the woman would give no furdah trouble." He removed the white cloth,set out the decanters with an apology for the mahogany's indifferentpolish, and withdrew again to prepare his master's coffee.
At once a silence fell between father and son. Dicky had expected tohear more of Oliver Cromwell. He stared across the dull shine of thetable at his parent's coat of peach-coloured velvet and shirt front offrilled linen; at the lace ruffle on the wrist, the signet ring on thelittle finger, the hand--firm, but fine--as it reached for a decanter orfell to playing with a gold toothpick. He loved this father of his withthe helpless, concentred love of a motherless child; admired him, as allmust admire, only more loyally. To feel constraint in so magnificent apresence was but natural.
It would have astonished him to learn that his father, lolling there soeasily and toying with a toothpick, shared that constraint. Yet it wasso. Captain Vyell did not understand children. Least of all did heunderstand this son of his begetting. He could be kind to him, evenextravagantly, by fits and starts; desired to be kind constantly; couldrally and chat with him in hearing of a third person, though that thirdperson were but a servant waiting at table. But to sit alone facing theboy and converse with him was a harder business, and gave him an absurdfeeling of _gene_; and this (though possibly he did not know it) was thereal reason why, having brought Dicky in the coach for a treat, hehimself had ridden all day in saddle.
Dicky was the first to resume conversation.
"Papa," he asked, still pondering the problem of rich and poor, "don'tsome of the old families die out?"
"They do."
"Then others must come up to take their place, or the people who do theruling would come to an end."
"That's the way of it, my boy." The Collector nodded and cracked awalnut. "New families spring up; and a devilish ugly show they usuallymake of it at first. It takes three generations, they say, to breed agentleman; and, in my opinion, that's under the mark."
"And a lady?"
"Women are handier at picking up appearances; 'adaptable' 's the word.But the trouble with them is to find out whether they have the realthing or not. For my part, if you want the real thing, I believe thereare more gentlemen than gentlewomen in the world; and Batty Langton saysyou may breed out the old Adam, but you'll never get rid of Eve. . . .But, bless my soul, Dicky, it's early days for you to be discussing thesex!"
Dicky, however, was perfectly serious.
"But I _do_ mean what you call the real thing, papa. Couldn't a poorgirl be born so that she had it from the start? Oh, I can't tell what Imean exactly--"
"On the contrary, child, you are putting it uncommonly well; at anyrate, you are making me understand what you mean, and that's the A and Zof it, whether in talk or in writing. 'Is there--can there be--such athing as a natural born lady?' that's your question, hey?"The Collector peeled his walnut and smiled to himself. In othercompany--Batty Langton's, for example--he would have answered cynicallythat to him the phenomenon of a natural born lady would first of allsuggest a doubt of her mother's virtue. "Well, no," he answered after awhile; "if you met such a person, and could trace back her familyhistory, ten to one you'd discover good blood somewhere in it.Old stocks fail, die away underground, and, as time goes on, areforgotten; then one fine day up springs a shoot nobody can account for.It's the old sap taking a fresh start. See?"
Dicky nodded. It would take him some time work out the theory, but heliked the look of it.
His drowsed young brain--for the hour was past bedtime--applied it idlyto a picture that stood out, sharp and vivid, from the endless train ofthe day's impressions: the picture of a girl with quiet, troubled eyes,composed lips, and hands that beat upon a blazing curtain, not flinchingat the pain. . . . And just then, as it were in a dream, he beat of herhands echoed in a soft tapping, the door behind his father openedgently, and Dicky sat up with a start, wide awake again and staring, forthe girl herself stood in the doorway.
Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman Page 4