CHAPTER XXVI
It would seem that this marriage was to cause sad feelings to more households than one; for not many days after Carrie and Sebastian had settled matters after this sad fashion, Phil and his father also came to an understanding on the same point.
‘Philip,’ said his father, ‘I wish you would get married one of these days; ’tis a good thing for a young man to marry early: it settles him for life.’
Far from wishing Philip to marry, there was nothing his father was less anxious for; but he thought this a skilful way in which to discover whether his son still hankered after Caroline Shepley—a direct question was the last method ever employed by Richard Meadowes. He was therefore not a little taken aback at Phil’s reply:
‘Well, sir, that is exactly what I intend to do, if so be you will make me a sufficient settlement to marry upon.’
‘And—the lady?’ asked Meadowes. He looked down as he spoke, and twirled the ring he wore round and round upon his finger.
‘Is Caroline Shepley, as you cannot doubt, sir.’
‘Caroline Shepley! I thought, Phil, you had forgot all that nonsense long ago. Let me see: two years ago, is it not, since you first saw her? And since then you have not seen much of her, unless I mistake strangely.’
‘Nothing. I promised her father to see nothing of her for two years.’
‘You saw—Sebastian Shepley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And have you had no communication with his daughter since?’
‘I as good as promised him, sir; and I am in the habit of keeping my promises.’
‘Of course—of course,’ said Meadowes hurriedly; ‘but in two years’ time that handsome young woman must have found plenty other men to adore her charms. You make too sure of yourself, Phil, if you suppose she hath waited these two years.’
‘I do not fear that I shall find myself supplanted,’ said Phil.
‘And should she think of you, are you in earnest in your intention of marrying her?’
‘More in earnest than ever before in life.’
‘You cannot expect me to provide you with the means for a marriage of which I disapprove?’
Philip leaned forward, fixing his bright eyes on his father’s face. He held him captive while he spoke.
‘Yes, sir; I do not see how you can do otherwise; for you are my father, which makes you responsible for me. You have brought me up in luxury, but you have not educated me for any profession. You could not suppose that I would always do exactly as you desired just because I happened to be dependent upon you instead of having a profession such as most men have? I may be dependent on you for money, sir, but I am so only on condition that I am entirely independent of you in the conduct of my life. ’Tis your duty to give me the fortune you have always led me to expect; but if you refuse it because I intend to marry Caroline Shepley, I must then ask you to support me for a few years more till I can learn to support myself and her. If you refuse me this money it will not keep me from marrying her—nothing will; but I must repeat again that if you educate a man to expect a fortune at your hands, you cannot blame him for calculating upon it.’
Meadowes rose and paced up and down the room.
‘What you say is true, Phil,’ he said at last; ‘the money is yours.’
‘Thank you, sir! I trust you will not regret the decision.’
‘Philip,’ cried his father suddenly, crossing over to where the young man stood, and laying his hand on his arm,—‘Philip, as you love me do not marry this girl!’
There fell a short silence before Phil spoke:—
‘But the plain fact is, sir, I do not love you!’ he said.
The whirlwind! the whirlwind! How it swept now over the man, who, for half a lifetime, had been sowing the wind! It came up and smote the four corners of the house of life where he feasted at his ease, and before the inrush of the blast he trembled and was afraid.
‘Have I not done everything for you, Philip?’ he said, in a hard, cold voice.
‘Everything, sir. Do not misunderstand me; I am quite aware of all I owe you.’
‘What more can I do, Phil, that I have not done?’
‘Nothing, sir!’
‘Then why do you not love me?’
‘Because I cannot trust you—never have and never can,—though ’tis brutal of me to say so.’
‘I think you may go, Philip,’ said his father. He did not speak angrily, nor indeed did he feel any anger at Phil. But the end had come. His last chance for love in this world had failed. He had dreaded this for long. Year by year, as Phil grew older, the separation between them had been gradually widening, an estrangement which the very similarity of their natures, in some respects, seemed to emphasise. Now the breach was open. And Phil had, without doubt, the right of the matter. ‘I scarce know how I looked that he should trust me,’ thought the unhappy man, ‘but I have renounced so much for the boy’s sake,—I have renounced marriage even, lest another son should supplant him; and I doubt if Phil hath ever realised all this, else surely he had not spoken with such cruelty to-night. For the rest of it, youth is sharp to notice, and, when I consider, do I ever speak or act straightly now? Once I did surely? I cannot now. My whole nature leans sidewise, like the tower of Pisa, toppling but still standing. . . . I’m rotten through and through, and Phil knows it,—and—— Oh, forsaken, forsaken!’
He sat forward with his head bent on his clasped hands.
‘A sword shall pierce thine own heart,’ he said.