Every night for a week I have cried like a child. I put my handkerchief under my head to prevent the tears from wilting my pillow and revealing my secret to them as they keep the death-watch on me. Last night I groaned so loudly that my valet rushed in, turned on the electric lights, and drew back the curtains of my bed. When he saw me blazing at him in fury, he shrank and stammered: “Oh, sir, I thought——”
“Get out!” I shrieked.
I knew only too well what he thought.
On the following day—or was it the second day?—Gunderson Kuyper came to see me. Deaths in my family and in his, and other matters, chiefly—at least so I had imagined—my unwillingness to have Helen go away for a wedding trip, had delayed the marriage of my daughter and his son. Then, too, there had been some attempt on the part of his lawyer to find out my intentions in the matter of an allowance for Helen. But, feeling that this was a true love match which ought not to be spoiled by any intrusion of the material and the business-like, I had waved the lawyer off with some vague politeness.
I was completely taken by surprise when, with an exceedingly small amount of hemming and hawing for so aristocratic a despiser of commercialism as Gunderson Kuyper, he flatly demanded a joint settlement of five millions on his son and Helen!
It was particularly important that I should not be excited. The doctors had warned me that rage would probably be fatal. But in spite of this I could not wholly conceal my agitation. “You will have to excuse me, Mr. Kuyper,” said I. “You see what a nervous state I am in. Discussion about business would be highly dangerous. I can only assure you that, as Helen is my favourite child, she and, of course, her husband will be amply provided for. I must beg you not to continue the subject.”
“I understand. I am sincerely sorry.” The oily scoundrel spoke in tones of the most delicate sympathy. “We will postpone the marriage until your health is such that you are able to discuss it.” He rose and came toward me to take leave.
“Instead of quieting my agitation, you have aggravated it,” I said. “These young people have their hearts set on each other—at least I have been led to believe that your son——”
“And you are right, my dear Galloway,” he said—he patronises me, drops the “Mr.” in addressing me, and makes me feel too distant with him to drop it in return. “But as my son has less than fifteen thousand a year, he could not think of marriage with a woman brought up as your daughter has been—unless there were assurance of some further income. I am not in a position to make him an adequate allowance—I can only double his present income. He will, of course, inherit a considerable fortune at my death. But I feel it is only just that you should do your share toward properly establishing the new family.”