“Eh!” was his only reply for quite a long time—an “eh!” incredulous, indignant, and yet not wholly combative—a long, sonorous exclamation. “Personally I like you, Wynne—could not like you better; but”—and he paused—“Madeline is my only child; she is remarkably handsome—was, I should say for the present—and created quite a sensation in town. You are a very good fellow, and a gentleman, but don’t be offended if I confess that I am looking higher for her. I expect the man she marries to place a coronet on her head, and you must admit that she will grace it!”
Laurence Wynne said nothing, merely nodded his assent, and his companion—who loved the sound of his own voice—resumed volubly.
“Besides, Wynne, you are a widower! And she does not like you; it’s all very well when she is ill and helpless, and tolerates you; it’s truest kindness to tell you—and, indeed, you must see it yourself! You have no idea the iceberg she can be. I often wonder who she is waiting for, or what she expects?”
“Look here, Mr. West, I can quite understand your views. Mad—I mean Miss West—would, of course, grace a coronet, as you say, but let me tell you that we Wynnes, of Rivals Wynne, have bluer blood in our veins than any of the mushroom titles of the last two hundred years. You will see, if you look in Burke, that we were at home before the Normans came over. We were Saxons, and still a power in the land. Our family title is extinct; but it only wants money to restore it. I have relations who—like some relations—turned away their faces when I was poor; but were I to become rich and successful, they would receive me with open arms, and introduce my wife and myself to circles as exclusive and as far beyond the stray third-rate noble paupers who prey on your—your good-nature and—pardon me—your ignorance as the moon is above the earth. I speak plainly.”
“You do, sir, and with a vengeance!” said Mr. West, a little overawed by the other’s imperious manner, for Mr. Wynne had said to himself, why should he be timid before this man, who at most was a bourgeois, whose father—best not seek to inquire into his history—whose forefathers had gone to their graves unwept, unhonoured, and unsung, whilst he, Laurence Wynne, though he boasted of no unearned increment, was descended from men who were princes at the time of the Heptarchy!
“You value good birth, I see, Mr. West,” holding out his hand as if to convey the fact that he had scored a point. “And you value success. I am succeeding, and I shall succeed. I feel it. I know it—if my health is spared. I have brains, a ready tongue, an indomitable will; I shall go into Parliament; think what a vast field of possibilities that opens out! Which of your other would-be sons-in-law aims at political life? Look at Levanter, the reputation he would bring you.” Laurence shuddered as he spoke. “Do not all honest men shun him? What decent club would own him? Look at Montycute, what has he to offer, but his ugly person, his title, and his debts? He and others like him propose to barter their wretched names and, as they would pretend, the entrée to society—not for your daughter’s personal attractions, of which they think but little, but her fortune, of which they think a great deal!”
“Young man, young man!” gasped Mr. West, inarticulately, “you speak boldly—far too boldly.”
“I speak the sacred truth, and nothing but the truth,” said Wynne, impetuously. “I offer myself, my talents, my career, my ancient lineage, and unblemished name for your daughter. As to her fortune, I do not want it; I am now an independent man. Give me your answer, sir—yes or no.”
Many possibilities floated through Mr. West’s brain as he sat for some moments in silence revolving this offer. Levanter and Montycute were all that this impetuous young fellow had described. He had good blood in his veins; he was handsome, clever, rising, whilst they were like leeches, ready to live upon him, and giving nothing in exchange but their barren names. This man’s career was already talked of; he could vouch for one success, which had agreeably affected his own pocket, and, with the proverbial gratitude, he looked in the same direction for favours to come. He had an eloquent tongue, a ready pen, and a fiery manner that carried all before it. He would go into the House, he would (oh! castle-building Mr. West) be one of the great men—Chancellor of the Exchequer—some day. He shut his eyes—he saw it all. He saw his son-in-law addressing the House, and every ear within its walls hanging on his words. He saw himself, a distinguished visitor, and Madeline among the peeresses.
Laurence Wynne, keen and acute, was convinced that some grand idea was working in his companion’s mind, and struck while the iron was hot.