“Don’t be a fool, Sebastian,” advised his father suddenly; “Come, what’s it all about?”
The quick change from levity to kindliness, touched the boy almost to the point of explaining what were the ideals that had induced him to strip himself so dramatically of the world’s goods. And yet—how to put into words that uncomfortable stinging creed which he hated, and which yet held his brain as in a sort of vice, fascinated his thoughts to the exclusion even of Letty? And then that weak longing to impress Heron, prove that he understood his doctrines to the point of sacrifice—damn Heron! perhaps now he would condescend to talk to his disciple, instead of making polite enquiries re Letty’s health. And, finally, that glimpse of an after-dinner hour in the well-furnished, well-warmed, well-appointed smoking-room—conflict of winds carefully shut out—doors that would not bang—waiters who walked noiselessly—conversation on stocks and shares and politics, carefully calculated not to excite the torpid brain.... Oh, Lord! would he grow, or rather dwindle, thus, if he went into his father’s business and accepted chunks of his father’s income? Was he started on that way, the night he had prattled so absurdly of his happiness to Stuart?... Damn Stuart! always the point swung back to that imperturbable gentleman. And how could a fellow explain to Levi, of The Stores, High Holborn, the bewildering and topsy-turvy morality of the shears? Sebastian plunged—fatally:
“It’s just because of myself, father. It isn’t that I feel in the least that I oughtn’t to be enjoying my income because other people have less. But I think—I know I’m better without your money.”
The effect of his speech was electrical. Quite suddenly, Ned Levi began to bellow.
“So that’s it, is it? And I’m to sit here and thank you for the honour, am I? Well, you can go—anywhere; do anything; I don’t care. I’ve done with you. If my money isn’t good enough, you needn’t touch it. Want a purer sort of gold, do you? I knew this was bound to happen some day. That’s what one has a son for.” And still muttering incoherent commands to Sebastian to get out of his sight, the agitated old man himself lumbered from the room, his hand trembling, his grey eyelashes stiff with rage. Sebastian’s unfortunate phrasing had hit his father on a dread quite unsuspected; dread that one day his only son, born to the best of everything, would be ashamed of the way the Levi wealth had been amassed; ashamed of trade; ashamed of his humble parentage.
—“But it seemed to me the boy was all right, when he got engaged to Johnson’s girl. No la-di-da notions about him then. And now he’d rather do without money, than touch mine that was made in honest trade. Suppose he thinks I cheated it out of people’s pockets; sold inferior stuff, and got swollen on it. Well, it don’t matter—it don’t matter...” brooding on to-night’s culmination of all his fears. If his wife had been alive—he could have had it all out with her, all his bitterness and disappointment; and she would have said in her sensible way: “Never mind, Ned; the boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about; he’ll come round all right,—he’s a good lad, really.”... But his wife was dead. And his two daughters—he had heard them flippantly remarking to visitors that they were “bringing up dad in the way all parents should go!”—not much consolation to be had from Editha and Ivy. Ned Levi, in his loneliness, wondered if it ever struck the strange hard young people of modern times, how very little fun it was to be a parent.
Sebastian had no idea that his thrice-twisted motives could have been misconstrued by his father to aught so simple as a shrinking from wealth earned in trade. He was even unaware that he had hurt his father—thought he had merely made him angry. He determined, standing on the hotel steps, and letting great gusts of clean air lift the hair from his heated forehead, that both Letty and her father were entitled to hear without delay what he had done. Then, and then only, would he allow himself to tell Stuart—and his heart raced madly for an instant, as it struck him he might still have time to get over to the Haven this very night.
“Do you want the small car, sir?” queried the liveried porter respectfully.
“Yes—no——” Sebastian remembered that a too frequent use of his father’s automobile was hardly compatible with his recent hotly spoken resolutions. He walked a few quick steps along the sea-front ... then returned, and ordered the two-seater. There would be no possibility of reaching the Haven unless he drove. And, after all, “once more doesn’t count.”
—“We needn’t ask who that is!” chirped the Cabbage-rose, when the throbbing of an engine was heard outside the Farme. “I don’t suppose it’s a visitor for us, do you, Mrs. Strachey?”