“The fellow’s such a cad, too,” complained Mr. Denison, mildly. “Not that I should think the worse of him for not being a gentleman,” he added. “His son is a nice lad, a very nice lad, and we get on together admirably. If he were only in one’s own class there might be a Montague and Capulet end to the business, I fancy; for if he were a little better educated I should almost fancy he was in love with my daughter Olivia. You may have seen Olivia?” he continued, naively, with a touch of paternal pride.
Yes, Mr. Fred Williams might have seen Olivia, but was wise enough not to own to more than this at present.
“Well, the use that young fellow has been to me—me, a man old enough to be his father—is something remarkable. In fact, I don’t mind telling you” (Mr. Denison didn’t mind telling anybody), “that if it hadn’t been for his hints, I should never have been able to carry on the farm at all. Why, if I give him—on the strict Q. T. you know, for it mustn’t come to his father’s ears—a commission to buy me a few sheep, or a well-bred shorthorn, and his father sends him to market for the same purpose, he’ll contrive to get me the best, Mr. Williams—me the best—I assure you.”
“Indeed!” murmured Fred, with a deferential courtesy entirely new to him.
“Yes, I assure you it is so. Now I am not one of those old fools who fancy that a young man will do such a thing out of friendship for a man of his father’s generation. I see there is something behind it,” continued Mr. Denison, astutely. “And I confess,” he went on, growing more confidential as his small friend, while listening more sympathetically than ever, linked his arm within that of the farmer, “that I almost wish my daughter hadn’t been ‘brought up a lady,’ as the saying is, when I see what a very good thing young Oldshaw and I could have made of it together—he with his knowledge of practical farming, and I with my—with my knowledge, my—er—my knowledge of the world, in fact.”
“A very good idea, sir—a very good idea,” assented Fred, enthusiastically. “At the same time you might find a son-in-law who could help you without looking so far beneath you. I say so far,” he went on, “because there is a something about you that—er—makes you sort of different from other people, you know; a dignity or high breeding or something; and perhaps your daughter may have a touch of it. I say perhaps, you know, because I scarcely know Miss Denison.”
“Well,” said Mr. Denison, swallowing the bait with all simplicity, “I suppose there is, as you say, a certain cachet about a man who has lived so much in town or near town as I have. And whatever is best about me my Olivia has certainly inherited. But whoever my child marries, it must be for her own good; not for mine.”
Simple, selfish Mr. Denison thought there was something rather praiseworthy in this declaration. Fred listened shrewdly.
“It must be much worse to be badly off, or—or not to be exactly flourishing, when one has a family to care for and provide for,” he suggested.
Mr. Denison seized his hand.