Mr. Paulton was anything but a fogey. He did not forget that he had been once young, nor did he forget that, when young, a pretty face and a fine figure had seemed extremely bewitching things. He was liberal in all his views, except in the matter of betting. To that vice he would give no quarter whatever. He never once sought to restrain his son's reading, and Alfred had a latchkey almost as soon as he was tall enough to reach the keyhole. Although he did not smoke himself, he saw no objection to others, his son included, smoking in suitable places, and with moderation. He did not exclude shilling whist from his code, although he never played. He rarely went out after dinner now, but when he made his mind up to move, he did not think there was anything unbecoming in his visiting a theatre--the front of a theatre, mind you, sir. He supposed and believed there were many excellent men behind the scenes, and he did not feel himself called upon to say that the majority of the ladies were not all that could be desired; but--ah, well, he would be very sorry--it would, in fact, break his heart if either of his daughters--Madge, for instance--went upon the stage.
With the latter part of this somewhat long-winded speech Jerry heartily concurred. He felt furious and full of strength when he fancied Madge behind the curtain, subjected to dictation and uncongenial associations, not to speak of anything more disagreeable still. There were nasty draughts and nasty smells, and nasty ropes and nasty dust, and sometimes the carefully-attuned ear might catch a nasty word. It was blasphemy to think of Madge in such an atmosphere, amid such surroundings. And then fancy any "young man" of fifty-six putting his arm round Madge, and administering even a stage kiss to his darling! The thing was preposterous, and not to be entertained by any sane mind.
Coffee was sent into the dining-room, and the whole household retired early.
Alfred's reflections that night were the reverse of pleasant. He had that day seen the woman he loved. She had come before his eyes as unsought as the flowery pageant of summer. She had filled his heart with tropical heat, had set fancy dancing in his head, and restored strength and vigour to his invalid body. He had, before the moment his eyes rested on her that day, been satisfied with the hope of seeing her in weeks, months. She had come voluntarily, no doubt, without special thought of him, to their home; she had once more accepted their hospitality, and he and O'Brien were to accompany her to Ireland. They would not travel together, but he should know she was near--know she was in the same train, in the same steamboat; they should meet frequently on the journey, and, crowning thought of all, they had one common destination!
He had that day spent some delicious minutes in her company. While she was by he had forgotten his late illness, his present weakness. The immediate moment had been filled with incommunicable joy, and the future with splendid happiness.
What had befallen all this dream of enchantment? Ruin--ruin complete and irreparable! She was, owing to some secret and mysterious cause or other, no longer rich. In her own estimation she was a pauper. That was little. If that was all, it could be borne with a smile--nay, with gratitude; for riches would act as a lure to other men, and he wanted only herself and, if it might come in time, her love.
She had determined to go upon the stage. That was bad--entirely bad; but if this evil resolve stood alone, it might be combated. If she had determined merely with herself to follow the profession of an actress, she might be persuaded to abandon her design. But the unfortunate course she had made up her mind to follow had been suggested by Blake, by an old lover who years ago was dear to her, and now was absolute in her counsels. This put an end to every hope that she could ever be his.
Oh, weary day, and wearier night!
If he could, he would back out of going to Ireland; but that was now impossible. Under the pressure of his great joy, he had told O'Brien of his love for Mrs. Davenport, and all arrangements had, at his request, been made for their setting off to-morrow. She must go to-morrow. While there is life there is hope. He was hoping against hope; but accidents did happen in many cases, and might happen in this one. No man was bound to despair; in fact, despair was cowardly and unmanly. It was the duty of every man to hope, and he would hope. He would go to Ireland to-morrow; he would put his chance against Blake's. If this disappointment were to kill him or drive him mad, he might as well enjoy the pleasure of being near her until his health or mind gave way finally.
When he came to this decision he fell asleep.