Mr. Rockley’s face passed through the phases of wild astonishment and strong disapproval before he replied. It had then relaxed into one of humorous enlightenment.
‘I see how it is. That monkey, Christabel, has enlisted you on her side. Well, I tell you both that I should have preferred Wilfred Effingham as my son-in-law. I am not going to hide my opinion on that or any other subject. But as she has made her choice, I will not—I say I will not—make her life miserable. Not that I have any objection to you, Bob, my boy, except on the score of that confounded horse-racing. It’s very well in its way. No man enjoys a race more than I do; but it’s not the thing for a young fellow who has his way to make in the world.’
‘I’ll never own another race-horse,’ quoth Bob, with desperate self-renunciation, ‘as long as I live, if——’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Mr. Rockley, with superior forecast; ‘but what I want you to do is to promise not to go head and shoulders into it for the next few years, when you’ll have all your work cut out for you, if you want to be a man and make a home for your wife and family. Well, it’s done now, and here’s my hand, my boy; you’ve got a good little girl, if she is a pretty one. But take my advice, don’t give her too much of her own way at the beginning. Show that you intend to be master from the start, put her down if she shows temper; when she gives in, you can be as kind to her as you like afterwards. Better that than for her to have the whip-hand. Women don’t understand moderation. That was always my way, wasn’t it, Bessie?’ he inquired, appealing to Mrs. Rockley, who having entered the room had come in for this piece of practical advice, delivered in a loud tone of voice. ‘I’ve been giving your future son-in-law—there he is; I know he is a favourite of yours; you needn’t say he isn’t—a useful piece of advice, which I hope he’ll have the sense to act up to. Supper ready in the next room? I fancy we’re all in want of a little refreshment; what do you think, Bob?’
That gentleman had private ideas upon the subject, but did not disclose them further than by looking over at Mrs. Rockley, and giving practical effect to the suggestion.
The partie carré enjoyed a cheerful but not very conversational repast. Wilfred and Bob Clarke felt more disposed to drink than to eat. Neither had much to say, so Rockley had it all his own way with Port Phillip speculations, advice to Bob Clarke of where to go for first-class cattle country, and how to manage economically for the first few years. Mrs. Rockley was tired, but found a few reassuring words for the anxious Bob, explaining that Christabel had a headache, but would be sure to be quite well in the morning. She also indicated her sympathy with Wilfred, and her approval of his generosity in backing up his rival’s claim. This, she assured him, she nor Christabel would ever forget.
Finally, Mr. Rockley looked at his watch in the midst of a suggestion to buy more cattle on Hampden’s account and take up two or three runs, inasmuch as it was all one trouble and not much more expense; when, discovering that it was past midnight, he broke up the parliament. Wilfred made his final adieus, and at daylight was fast leaving the town behind him, on his way to The Chase, accompanied by divers ‘companions of Sintram,’ in the guise of vain regret and dull despair, with also (though not unalloyed) a curious sense of relief.
Taking the most philosophical view of the subject, the after-taste of refusal by a woman is rarely exceeded in this life for corroding bitterness. The non-preference of oneself, to the average suitor, fills the individual, unless he be free from every tinge of vanity, with wrath and disgust. In vain the proverbial salve is applied by superficial comforters. The foiled fisherman will not be consoled. He will throw away his flies and burn his rod. Henceforth he and angling have parted for ever. Such in effect for a while is the lament of most men who have the evil hap to pin so much of their present and prospective happiness upon one cast—and lose it. The proud man suffers deeply, in secret. The selfish man mourns for the loss of personal gain. The true and manly lover is shaken to the centre of his being. The vain man is wroth exceedingly with childish anger; furious that any woman should disdain him—him! The susceptible, fickle suitor, who promptly bears his incense to another shrine, is to be envied, if not commended. But
To each his sufferings, all are men,
Condemned alike to groan.