Puck — April 1877 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

chair with every appearance of intense astonish- ment. . “Whether or not, I shall marry her.” “You are not nineteen.” “I suppose I shall grow older.” BS ro sir, I must ask you not to consider yourself, but this poor girl. Suppose that in a couple of years’ time you should marry her, what kind of happiness could you give her ex- clusive of your companionship? You must have observed that few married People retain their romance for many years of their united life. Society is necessary to both. To you, who may | at any moment become the possessor of this large property, the society of the neighboring gentry will be indispensable. But your wife, what friends can she have? Only parvenus, who will overlook the fact that her father keeps a neighboring ale-house. Better men and women, whilst they appreciate you, will slight her, and her life will be a misery. Wealth is a curse to a man so united. You would find, too late, the awful and, allow me to add, the wicked error you had made. Were you no more than an artist, I would not say a word, for the girl may be educated to your own standard; but heir to thousands, I tell you, in defiance of my | own interests and regardless to the conse- quences, you are acting unwisely and un- holily!”” “Have you anything more to add?” asked Hugh. “Nothing.” Without a word, Hugh turned about and left the room. Once more smiles lit the face of Mr. Fox. The following morning Mr. Blake put on his best velveteens, polished his boots, and trudged up to Riverford. He had not spoken to his daughter since the expression he had given his feelings on the preceding evening, and the preparations for his visit to Gregory Biron were | conducted in a silence only broken by a low whistling, and were watched by poor Mattie with terror. He went off whistling, and she sat down to cry. Gregory Biron listened to the recital of his grandson's philandering with delight. “And this is haow things stands,” concluded Mr. Blake; “my gal, she throws away the best chance she’s ever had, and jilts her lover for your grandson.” “ Shocking!" knees. “She flies in my teeth.” “Most undutiful.” Gregory rubbed hands. “She goes out the whole day a-sweethearting in the woods.”” “Young hussy!”” “She offends my best customers. have anything teu say t’ ’ fair way of ruinin’ herself for ever.” “Oh, this is very shocking!” said Gregory, trying to look as if he meant it. “‘ Well, Blake, I Suppose you want a check or something, hey?” X Nao, 1 don’t want nao check nor no money o’ yours; I want you to have your boy in and say to him, afower mé, as how you won’t have nao moare of it.” Gregory agreed, and Hugh in answer to a message presently entered the room. “Sit down in that easy-chair, you young ras- cal,” said Gregory cheerfully; ‘‘I am ashamed of you, sir. Here is this good man come to tell me that you are ruining his trade, perverting his daughter’s filial affections, and playing the deuce with his business, and the girl and all that, And I have called you before me now to reprimand you severely. Do you understand me, you wicked young Turk, you? If I hear of your repeating this, I shall—I shall—well, I don’t know what I shall do with you.” “But I know what I shall deu,” said Mr. said Gregory, slapping his his Won't ‘em, and stands in a | PUCK. | Blake, extracting his hat from the legs of the chair ‘and rising. ‘If I catch you making a | fool of yourself and my daughter, I shall just hit you with this stick; and I shall give my | Mattie a taste of the strap—she’s not too old to learn; and I shall pack her off to London as a domestic servant; that’s what I shall do, and so | good-mornin’.” “Curse his impudence!” cried Gregory, when Blake had slammed the door. ‘‘If he hits you, you hit him, Hugh, my boy. But you must give the girl up-—that’s only moral.” “T cannot give her up,” said Hugh firmly. | “Why, you young Don Juan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" “T ought if I were to give her up after having won her love. I must marry the girl, sir.” “Marry the daughter of a pothouse man! | screamed Gregory. “T have told her I will, and I must and shall.” “Don't be a fool, Hugh! Well, I suppose I might as well say don’t be a young man, don’t have hot blood’in your veins, don’t be my grandson. You don’t mean to marry her yet awhile, I suppose?” he said, with sarcasm. “ Miss Blake is willing to wait three years.” “By George, I should think she was! Well, three years in an officer's quarters may alter your matrimonial views.” “They might; but I have resolved, sir, not to be a soldier.” “What?” Hugh bowed in silence. “What do you propose doing?” “TL intend to get my living by painting.” | The old man’s lips worked vainly for some | moments to utter the crowd of imprecations | and reproaches that struggled for supremacy in his thoughts; and then, with something like a howl, he snatched up his glass of port and flung it at his grandson. Hugh went up stairs, packed his portmanteau, and sent it to the railway-station. Then he re- turned to his grandfather, and in a few calm words repeated his determination of getting a living by his exertions, and regretted that he was unable to do so without offending. Gregory replied with entreaty and threats, and finally bad him go to the devil in a few words. When he was gone he called for Mr. Fox, and bade him send for the lawyer at once: “The beggar shan’t have a penny of mine!” said he, nibbling his nails furiously. “You will surely change your mind, relent, | forgive him.” “Get out of the room, Fox! May I die be- fore I change my decision!” “I hope you will,” said Mr. Fox to himself as he left the room. | CHAPTER V. | It is doubtful if Gregory Biron was justified | in cursing his stars for the disobedience of his grandson. It was vexing, no doubt, to have his | authority disputed and his schemes thwarted; but then to a mind constituted as his was vexa- ' tion itself is a pleasure, and the means by which | he strove to assuage it afforded a mental ex- citement that he needed. An American had a thirst which he would not have parted with for five dollars. There is certainly as much pleasure in giving kicks as halfpence, if your tempera- | ment is bellicose. | For some months there had been nothing to provoke Gregory's anger seriously, and attribut- | ing this drowsy inactivity to decay of his na- | tural parts, he became low and despondent of spirit. The disaffection of Hugh at once re- stored to him his wonted vigor and energy. He sent for his solicitor and canceled the will which he had made in favor of Hugh, wrote a | | dozen others and canceled them seriatim, ‘The | disposition of his money troubled him. Could | he have regarded money as in truth a curse and Ir the root of all evil, he would have jueathed it readily enough; but holding it ina less phi- losophic estimation, he found it impossible to avoid conferring an advantage contrary to his inclination. He would have left all to the State but that he disliked the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Public charities he objected to. The only private individual he could tolerate was Mr. Fox, and it seemed probable that to him Gregory Biron would finally will all he had. It gave the old gentleman much pleasure at this time to make a will in favor of Mr. Fox on Monday, and cut him off with shilling on Tues- day, thus keeping his unhappy secretary in a state of constantly fluctuating hope and fear lest his tormentor should die suddenly on the wrong day. But this was not the only anxiety which Mr. Fox had to bear. One morning there came to Riverford a thin paper-letter, addressed to Gregory Biron in an angular hand and bearing a French stamp and postmark. There were but few letters came to the house, and Mr. Fox read them ail. For the postman never quickened Gregory's pulse with hope or fear. ‘There was something almost pathetic in his apathy in this regard, so differ- ent to ordinary men, so significant of utter friendlessness and unsympathetic relation with mankind. He was content that Fox should read and answer his letters, and bother him as little as necessary with their contents. They all re- lated to business or begging. And Mr. Fox prided himself upon knowing Gregory Biron’s affairs better than he himself did; but this letter perplexed him. He held it before him for some minutes in doubt; and then broke the envelope with a foreboding of evil. He took out the neatly-folded paper, opened it delicately, and read: “* MARSEILLES, “Rue de la Savaterie, No. 12 (3me etage). “Dear Grandpapa,—” Mr. Fox dropped the letter with a moan, then turned to the signature, pursed his lips, and dilated his nostrils, as one preparing for the worst, and read again: “Dear Grandpapa,—My darling papa, your son, Roger Biron, is dying in the miserable hospital here. They will not let me see him;, no, not for one moment, my poor kind father, He has been ruined by the cruel floods, quite ruined; and he was carrying me to England to beg your forgiveness and charity, when now, lo! he is attacked by the fearful malady. And what am I to do—I, who may not see my father, to give him one last, last kiss? I have not the sous to buy immortelles or flowers for the coffin of my dearest. O my sac if from you my papa has inherited his sweet kindness and gentleness, then I know you will pity us, you ~ will send help at once. You will come to weep over your son's grave, and be a comforter to your*poor granddaughter, Rene Biron.” Mr. Fox read the letter again, then folded it slowly as he planned an, answer. After a few moments of deep thought he rose, put the letter in the fire, returned. to his seat, and wrote a brief but emphatic letter. He was pleased with his composition, and closed the envelope as if he were at the same time closing the whole affair. He took a pen, and found that he could not recollect the address in the letter he had imprudently burnt. He was mad with vexation, yet not a syllable of the address could he recall, so presently his own letter had to follow poor René’s. ‘Two days later came another letter, in a different hand, from Marseilles. Mr. Fox retired to his room and tore open the letter, trembling. ‘The address he recognized at once, wondering however he could have failed to re- member it, The contents.ran thus: