Phoebe, Junior · Chapter 2 (2/2)

Mr. Copperhead laid down his paper, and looked at her. I suppose, however little a man may care for his wife, he does not relish the idea that she married him for anything but love. He contemplated her still with amused ridicule, but with something fiercer in his eyes. “Oh‑h!” he said, “you don’t like other people to interfere? not so much as to say, it’s a capital match, eh? You’ll get so-and-so, and so-and-so, that you couldn’t have otherwise⁠—carriages perhaps, and plenty of money in your pocket (which it may be you never had in your life before), and consideration, and one of the finest houses in London, let us say in Portland Place. You don’t like that amount of good advice, eh? Well, I do⁠—I mean to interfere with my son, to that extent at least⁠—you can do what you like. But as you’re a person of prodigious influence, and strong will, and a great deal of character, and all that,” Mr. Copperhead broke out with a rude laugh, “I’m afraid of you, I am⁠—quite afraid.”

Fortunately, just at this moment his brougham came round, and the great man finished his coffee at a gulp, and got up. “You look out for the baronet’s daughters, then⁠—” he said, “and see all’s ready for this ball of yours; while I go and work to pay the bills, that’s my share. You do the ornamental, and I do the useful, ha, ha! I’ll keep up my share.”

It was astonishing what a difference came upon the room the moment he disappeared. Somehow it had been out of harmony. His voice, his look, his heavy person, even his whiskers had been out of character. Now the air seemed to flutter after the closing of the door like water into which something offensive has sunk, and when the ripples of movement were over the large handsome room had toned down into perfect accord with its remaining inhabitants. Mrs. Copperhead’s eyes were rather red⁠—not with tears, but with the inclination to shed tears, which she carefully restrained in her son’s presence. He still continued to eat steadily⁠—he had an admirable appetite. But when he had finished everything on his plate, he looked up and said, “I hope you don’t mind, mamma; I don’t suppose you do; but I don’t like the way my father speaks to you.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried the mother, with an affected little smile, “why should I mind? I ought to know by this time that it’s only your papa’s way.”

“I suppose so⁠—but I don’t like it,” said the young man, decisively. He did not notice, however, as after second thoughts he returned to the game-pie, that his mother’s eyes were redder than ever.