Volume Three—Chapter Three.
Beginning Again.
And how about Laura? Well, she loved him, and it was his father’s wish. He had committed himself to it now, too; and if he were to marry, why not her as well as any other woman?
So mused Charley Vining, weakly enough; but he is here held up as no model—simply as a weak erring man, whose passions had been deeply moved. He had been, as it were, in a fearful life-storm, to be left tossing, dismasted, and helpless, now that a calm had come. Here, too, was the friendly consort offering her aid to lead him into port—the port that he had hoped to enter gallantly, with ensign flowing. But now, as this was impossible, he would let matters take their course.
He met Sir Philip Vining at dinner; and though the old gentleman studiously avoided all allusion thereto, yet he marked the change in his son, and was inwardly delighted thereby.
“Father,” said Charley, as they sat over their wine, “I’m about tired of town. When shall we go back home—home—home?” he said, repeating the word. “How pleasant that seems to sound!”
“My dear boy, when you like; to-morrow, Charley, if you wish.” And the old gentleman spoke earnestly, for of late his heart had pricked him sorely; and had his son now brought Ella to his side and said, “Father, I shall never love another; this must be my wife,” he would have struggled with himself, and then given up and blessed them. But now it seemed that there was a change; the attentions to Laura had been marked; and, hushing his conscience, the old man told himself that matters would soon come right after all, and he spoke cheerfully.
“Well, let’s go back to-morrow, then,” said Charley. “I want to see the old place again.”
“You are not ill, Charley—you don’t feel in need of advice?”
“Ill?” said Charley, “not at all! I want a change, and to see the old place.”
“By the way, Charley, Bray called here to-day; he wanted me to dine there again, but I declined, as you said you would be back. I said, though, that I would go up in the evening. We are discussing the drainage question of Holt Moors. You will not mind my leaving you. I thought, too, that perhaps—”
“I would go too,” said Charley smilingly. “Well, yes, I’ve no objection; little Nell is come back. Do you know, dad,” he said cheerfully, “I should like to give that girl a nice little well-broken mare? She would ride splendidly. Couldn’t we pick up something before we go down, and let it be for a surprise? A nice little thing that would hunt well, without pulling the child’s arms off.”
“My dear Charley, you give me great pleasure, you do indeed. We’ll see about it first thing in the morning. My dear boy,” exclaimed the old man, rising, and crossing to his son’s chair to rest his hands upon his broad shoulder, “Heaven bless you, my dear boy! Are the old times coming back?”
“I hope so, father,” said Charley, smiling; but there was something very sad in his tone.
“Not in that way, my dear boy,” said the old man tenderly. “Indeed, indeed, Charley, my every act and desire has been for your good.”
“Father,” said Charley sternly, “do you see that?” And he made a mark on the white cloth.
“My dear boy, yes.”
“That must divide the past from the present. All on that side is to be forgotten. Let it be as if dead. Now for the clean blank page of the future.”
He held out his hand, which was eagerly taken by Sir Philip, and then they were silent for some time; when, in quite changed tones, Charley said, looking at his watch, “Eight o’clock, dad! Shall I ring for a cab?”
Sir Philip did not speak; he only bowed his head, and then wringing his son’s hand, he left the room.