Mr. Henley's telegram arrived at the inn the next morning.
He was willing to receive his daughter, but not unreservedly. The
message was characteristic of the man: "Yes--on trial." Mountjoy was
not shocked, was not even surprised. He knew that the successful
speculations, by means of which Mr. Henley had accumulated his wealth,
had raised against him enemies, who had spread scandalous reports which
had never been completely refuted. The silent secession of friends, in
whose fidelity he trusted, had hardened the man's heart and embittered
his nature. Strangers in distress, who appealed to the rich retired
merchant for help, found in their excellent references to character the
worst form of persuasion that they could have adopted. Paupers without
a rag of reputation left to cover them, were the objects of charity
whom Mr. Henley relieved. When he was asked to justify his conduct, he
said: "I have a sympathy with bad characters---I am one of them
myself."
With the arrival of the dinner hour the doctor appeared, in no very
amiable humour, at the inn.
"Another hard day's work," he said; "I should sink under it, if I
hadn't a prospect of getting rid of my practice here. London--or the
neighbourhood of London--there's the right place for a man like Me.
Well? Where's the wonderful wine? Mind! I'm Tom-Tell-Truth; if I don't
like your French tipple, I shall say so."
The inn possessed no claret glasses; they drank the grand wine in
tumblers as if it had been vin ordinaire.
Mr. Vimpany showed that he was acquainted with the formalities proper
to the ceremony of tasting. He filled his makeshift glass, he held it
up to the light, and looked at the wine severely; he moved the tumbler
to and fro under his nose, and smelt at it again and again; he paused
and reflected; he tasted the claret as cautiously as if he feared it
might be poisoned; he smacked his lips, and emptied his glass at a
draught; lastly, he showed some consideration for his host's anxiety,
and pronounced sentence on the wine.
"Not so good as you think it, sir. But nice light claret; clean and
wholesome. I hope you haven't given too much for it?"
Thus far, Hugh had played a losing game patiently. His reward had come
at last. After what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning
card safe in his own hand.
The bad dinner was soon over. No soup, of course; fish, in the state of
preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that
rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said,
"stranger, don't eat us"; pudding that would have produced a sense of
discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous English
cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the United States, and
stings us vindictively when we put it into our mouths. But the wine,
the glorious wine, would have made amends to anybody but Mr. Vimpany
for the woeful deficiencies of the food. Tumbler-full after
tumbler-full of that noble vintage poured down his thirsty and ignorant
throat; and still he persisted in declaring that it was nice light
stuff, and still he unforgivingly bore in mind the badness of the
dinner.