Part 51

“Fill up.”

The servant filled, screwing up his mouth.

Old Heythorp drank, and put the glass down empty with a sigh. He had been faithful to his principles, finished the bottle before touching the sweet--a good bottle--of a good brand! And now for the souffle! Delicious, flipped down with the old sherry! So that holy woman was going to a ball, was she! How deuced funny! Who would dance with a dry stick like that, all eaten up with a piety which was just sexual disappointment? Ah! yes, lots of women like that--had often noticed '.m--pitied 'em too, until you had to do with them and they made you as unhappy as themselves, and were tyrants into the bargain. And he asked:

“What's the savoury?”

“Cheese remmykin, sir.”

His favourite.

“I'll have my port with it--the 'sixty-eight.” The man stood gazing with evident stupefaction. He had not expected this. The old man's face was very flushed, but that might be the bath. He said feebly:

“Are you sure you ought, sir?”

“No, but I'm going to.”

“Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Heythorp, Sir?”

“If you do, you can leave my service.”

“Well, Sir, I don't accept the responsibility.”

“Who asked you to?”

“No, Sir....”

“Well, get it, then; and don't be an ass.”

“Yes, Sir.” If the old man were not humoured he would have a fit, perhaps!

And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. He felt happy, his whole being lined and warmed and drowsed--and there was more to come! What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No, they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his hands: “Port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!” And a very good death too--none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale--he had never missed the nights when she was singing--Jenny Lind!

“It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?”

Ah! The ramequin!

“Touch of butter, and the cayenne!”

“Yes, sir.”

He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better. With cheese--port! He drank one glass, and said:

“Help me to my chair.”

And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell on the little low table by his side, he murmured:

“Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes.”

To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had finished. As old Horace said:

“Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem.”

And, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two, shutting his eyes.