Stella Fregelius by H. Rider Haggard (no david read aloud .TXT) 📕

“She? Who?”

“My daughter, Mary; and—so—why shouldn’t they—you know?”

“Really, John, I must ask you to be a little more explicit. It’s no good your addressing me in your business ciphers.”

“Well—I mean—why shouldn’t he marry her? Morris marry Mary? Is that plain enough?” he asked in desperation.

For a moment a mist gathered before the Colonel’s eyes. Here was salvation indeed, if only it could be brought about. Oh! if only it could be brought about.

But the dark eyes never changed, nor did a muscle move upon that pale, commanding countenance.

“Morris marry Mary,” he repeated, dwelling on the alliterative words as though to convince himself that he had heard them aright. “That is a very strange proposition, my dear John, and sudden, too. Why, they are first cousins, and for that reason, I suppose, the thing never occurred to me—till last night,” he added to himself.

“Yes, I know, Colonel; but I am not certain that this first cousin business isn’t a bit exaggerated. The returns of the asylums seem to show it, and I know my doctor, Sir Henry Andrews, says it’s nonsense. You’ll admit that he is an authority. Also, it happened in my own family, my father and mother were cousins, and we are none the worse.”

On another occasion the Colonel might have been inclined to comment on this statement—of course, most politely. Now, however, he let it pass.

“Well, John,” he said, “putting aside the cousinship, let me hear what your idea is of the advantages of such a union, should the parties concerned change to consider it suitable.”

“Quite so, quite so, that’s business,” said Mr. Porson, brightening up at once. “From my point of view, these would be the advantages. As you know, Colonel, so far as I am concerned my origin, for the time I have been able to trace it—that’s four generations from old John Porson, the Quaker sugar merchant, who came from nobody knows where—although honest, is humble, and until my father’s day all in the line of retail trade. But then my dear wife came in. She was a governess when I married her, as you may have heard, and of a very good Scotch family, one of the Camerons, so Mary isn’t all of our cut—any more,” he added with a smile, “than Morris is all of yours. Still for her to marry a Monk would be a lift up—a considerable lift up, and looked at from a business point of view, worth a deal of money.

“Also, I like my nephew Morris, and I am sure that Mary likes him, and I’d wish the two of them to inherit what I have got. They wouldn’t have very long to wait for it, Colonel, for those doctors may say what they will, but I tell you,” he added, pathetically, tapping himself over the heart—“though you don’t mention it to Mary—I know better. Oh! yes, I know better. That’s about all, except, of course, that I should wish to see her settled before I’m gone. A man dies happier, you understand, if he is certain whom his only child is going to marry; for when he is dead I suppose that he will know nothing of what happens to her. Or, perhaps,” he added, as though by an afterthought, “he may know too much, and not be able to help; which would be painful, very painful.”

“Don’t get into those speculations, John,” said the Colonel, waving his hand. “They are unpleasant, and lead nowhere—sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.”

“Quite so, quite so. Life is a queer game of blind-man’s buff, isn’t it; played in a mist on a mountain top, and the players keep dropping over the precipices. But nobody heeds, because there are always plenty more, and the game goes on forever. Well, that’s my side of the case. Do you wish me to put yours?”

“I should like to hear your view of it.”

“Very good, it is this. Here’s a nice girl, no one can deny that, and a nice man, although he’s odd—you will admit as much. He’s got name, and he will have fame, or I am much mistaken. But, as it chances, through no fault of his, he wants money, or will want it, for without money the old place can’t go on, and without a wife the old race can’t go on. Now, Mary will have lots of money, for, to tell the truth, it keeps piling up until I am sick of it. I’ve been lucky in that way, Colonel, because I don’t care much about it, I suppose. I don’t think that I ever yet made a really bad investment. Just look. Two years ago, to oblige an old friend who was in the shop with me when I was young, I put 5,000 pounds into an Australian mine, never thinking to see it again. Yesterday I sold that stock for 50,000 pounds.”

“Fifty thousand pounds!” ejaculated the Colonel, astonished into admiration.

“Yes, or to be accurate, 49,375 pounds, 3s., 10d., and—that’s where the jar comes in—I don’t care. I never thought of it again since I got the broker’s note till this minute. I have been thinking all day about my heart, which is uneasy, and about what will happen to Mary when I am gone. What’s the good of this dirty money to a dying man? I’d give it all to have my wife and the boy I lost back for a year or two; yes, I would go into a shop again and sell sugar like my grandfather, and live on the profits from the till and the counter. There’s Mary calling. We must tell a fib, we must say that we thought she was to come to fetch us; don’t you forget. Well, there it is, perhaps you’ll think it over at your leisure.”

“Yes, John,” replied the Colonel, solemnly; “certainly I will think it over. Of course, there are pros and cons, but, on the whole, speaking offhand, I don’t see why the young people should not make a match. Also you have always been a good relative, and, what is better, a good friend to me, so, of course, if possible I should like to fall in with your wishes.”

Mr. Porson, who was advancing towards the door, wheeled round quickly.

“Thank you, Colonel,” he said, “I appreciate your sentiments; but don’t you make any mistake. It isn’t my wishes that have to be fallen in with—or your wishes. It’s the wishes of your son, Morris, and my daughter, Mary. If they are agreeable I’d like it well; if not, all the money in the world, nor all the families in the world, wouldn’t make me have anything to do with the job, or you either. Whatever our failings, we are honest men—both of us, who would not sell our flesh and blood for such trash as that.”