The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

tone, touching his hand lightly. “I don’t see so much of you that I can let you off with half-an-hour’s conversation.”

      Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.

      “Very well,” he said in a low voice; “I shall stay.”

      “And now,” said Frettlby, in a brisk tone, as he sat down; “the important question of dinner being settled, what is it you want to see me about?—Your station?”

      “No,” answered Brian, leaning against the verandah post, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm. “I have sold it.”

      “Sold it!” echoed Frettlby, aghast. “What for?”

      “I felt restless, and wanted a change.”

      “Ah! a rolling stone,” said the millionaire, shaking his head, “gathers no moss, you know.”

      “Stones don’t roll of their own accord,” replied Brian, in a gloomy tone. “They are impelled by a force over which they have no control.”

      “Oh, indeed!” said the millionaire, in a joking tone. “And may I ask what is your propelling force?”

      Brian looked at the man’s face with such a steady gaze that the latter’s eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt to return it.

      “Well,” he said impatiently, looking at the two tall young people standing before him, “what do you want to see me about?”

      “Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want your consent.”

      “Impossible!” said Frettlby, curtly.

      “There is no such a word as impossible,” retorted Brian, coolly, thinking of the famous remark in RICHELIEU, “Why should you refuse? I am rich now.”

      “Pshaw!” said Frettlby, rising impatiently. “It’s not money I’m thinking about—I’ve got enough for both of you; but I cannot live without Madge.”

      “Then come with us,” said his daughter, kissing him.

      Her lover, however, did not second the invitation, but stood moodily twisting his tawny moustache, and staring out into the garden in an absent sort of manner.

      “What do you say, Fitzgerald?” said Frettlby, who was eyeing him keenly.

      “Oh, delighted, of course,” answered Brian, confusedly.

      “In that case,” returned the other, coolly, “I will tell you what we will do. I have bought a steam yacht, and she will be ready for sea about the end of January. You will marry my daughter at once, and go round New Zealand for your honeymoon. When you return, if I feel inclined, and you two turtle-doves don’t object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of the world.”

      “Oh, how delightful,” cried Madge, clasping her hands. “I am so fond of the ocean with a companion, of course,” she added, with a saucy glance at her lover.

      Brian’s face had brightened considerably, for he was a born sailor, and a pleasant yachting voyage in the blue waters of the Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was, to his mind, as near Paradise as any mortal could get.

      “And what is, the name of the yacht?” he asked, with deep interest.

      “Her name?” repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily. “Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change. At present she is called the ‘Rosanna.’”

      “Rosanna!”

      Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum.

      Mr Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian’s eye fixed on him with such an enquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassed laugh.

      “You are a pair of moon-struck lovers,” he said, gaily, taking an arm of each, and leading them into the house “but you forget dinner will soon be ready.”

      Chapter XXIII.

       Across the Walnuts and the Wine

       Table of Contents

      Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—

      “Oh, there’s nothing half so sweet in life

       As love’s young dream.”

      But he made this assertion in his callow days, before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, love’s young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. “A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy.” So said Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love—Brillat Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, I warrant you, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when, seated at an artistically-laid table, with delicately-cooked viands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. But there are men—alas! few and far between—who possess the rare art of giving good dinners—good in the sense of sociality as well as in that of cookery.

      Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals—he had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together—people, who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink-shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

      On one side of the dining-room were the French windows opening on to the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colours of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy glow of the twilight.

      Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter which was going on around him.

      Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the more so as Mrs Rolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view.

      Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb devil.

      Dr. Chinston and Peterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honour, on Mr. Frettlby’s right hand.

      The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green and fascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the Government of the Colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, and become a power in the political world.

      “By Jove, you know,” he said, with a wave of his hand, as though he were addressing the House; “the country is going to the dogs, and all that sort of thing. What we want is a man like Beaconsfield.”

      “Ah! but you can’t pick up a man like that every day,” said Frettlby, who was listening with an amused smile to Rolleston’s disquisitions.

      “Rather a good thing, too,” observed Dr. Chinston, dryly.

      “Genius