Aunt Laura had resolutely combated this idea. His profession was a dignified and honourable one. She was sure that he would make his name at it and rise very high. It seemed unfair that the country should pay so badly for such important work, but it was an undoubted advantage in these radical days to have men of family serving their country, and she supposed that if diplomacy was a career out of which money could be made it would be thrown open to everybody. It was better as it was, and at any rate if his father had not been willing to provide for him he would not have put him where he was. She saw nothing for it but a frank opening up to him. He could not possibly intend that Humphrey should never marry. He was of the age to marry, and the marriage he proposed was satisfactory in every way.
Humphrey had again acquiesced, but lukewarmly, and had said no more at the time.
Later on the reason of his lukewarmness and air of depression had come out, not without pressure on Aunt Laura's part. "Well, I'll tell you how it is, Aunt Laura," he had said, "as you are so kind and have listened to everything I've told you. One likes unburdening one's self occasionally, as long as one knows it doesn't go any further."
Of course it would go no further, Aunt Laura had told him, and then came his story. He had been extravagant. He was in debt, rather heavily, and not for the first time. He blamed himself very much, especially now he wanted to make an alteration in his life altogether, and saw how important it was to keep strictly within one's income. His father had been good about it—over the other two crises—but she would see that when a thing like this had happened twice, with promises of amendment each time, which he must confess had not been kept, the third time there was likely to be a considerable disturbance. She knew what his father was. He would be much upset—naturally—he shouldn't blame him. He would most likely pay his debts and start him again, but he would not be likely to pass immediately from such an undertaking to the discussion of a large increase in Humphrey's allowance, such as would enable him comfortably to contemplate married life with a wife who had a right to expect as much as Susan. He thought his father would not be displeased with the marriage and not averse, eventually, to make it possible for him. If only these wretched debts had not been hanging round his neck like a millstone—if he were a free man—he would go to him at once. As it was—well, he was in a mess, and, frankly, he funked it.
Aunt Laura, listening to this rigmarole, and gathering from it only that the poor boy was in trouble, not of a disgraceful sort, but in the way that young men of good birth and necessarily expensive habits did get into trouble, felt a warm pleasure rise, increase, and spread itself in a glow all over her. She had been deemed worthy of this affectionate confidence, which in itself would have caused her joy. How much more so when she felt herself capable of putting an end to it! With a flush on her withered cheeks and a light in her old eyes she had said, "I am so sorry for you, dear Humphrey. Could you tell me—do you mind—how much money your debts amount to?"
"Oh!" Humphrey had said in an offhand manner, "I suppose about seven hundred pounds—no, more—nearer eight hundred. It's a lot, I know, considering that I was whitewashed a couple of years ago; but—oh, well, I won't make excuses. I've been very extravagant, and now I've got to pay for it."
Then Aunt Laura had offered to pay his debts for him, and he had at first refused, laughing at her, but expressing his surprise and deep gratitude at the same time, then, taking the offer a little more seriously, said that it was out of the question, because his father would be annoyed, and finally when she had told him that his father need not know, that it would be a little secret between them two, had accepted with the most heartfelt expressions of gratitude, which touched her, now, whenever she thought of them.
She had written him a cheque there and then—for eight hundred pounds—and he had joked with her in his amusing way about her having such a large sum at her immediate disposal, asking if she was quite sure that the cheque would be honoured, because it would never do for a Clinton to run any risks of that sort. He had seemed, she remembered, really surprised that sheshouldbe able to draw a cheque for so large a sum, without ever, as he had expressed it, turning a hair, and she had explained that for the past two years she had not spent half her income, and that a large balance was lying in the bank to her credit, which young Mr. Pauncey had lately written to her about investing. "I have not been quite well enough to want to talk business with him for some time," she had said, "kind and considerate as he is, and I think it must have been ordained that I should not do so, for when I did say that I should be able to see him on such a morning—oh, I suppose now a fortnight ago, or perhaps three weeks—he was not well himself and went away afterwards, and so it got put off. I shall tell him now there will not be so much to invest as he had thought, knowing as he does about what my expenditure is, and I need not say, dear Humphrey, how glad I am that it is so, for I do not want a larger income, and Idowant to help those who are dear to me."
So that little episode was over and had been most agreeable to all parties concerned. Humphrey had not yet told his father about his matrimonial projects, because, as he had explained to her, his debts would take a week or two to settle up, and he did not want to make a move until he was quite clear. But he had come down to Kencote again in the meantime, and had amused and pleased her by his accounts of his debt-paying experiences, and of how he had told Susan of what she had done, and of how grateful Susan was to her—for they had fixed it up between them now. "Whatever the governor does for us," Humphrey had said, "we shall be able to get along somehow.Youhave made that possible, Aunt Laura. We may have to be very economical, but with a clear run ahead of us we don't mind that. She is just as keen now to keep out of debt as I am."
And the end of their talks so far had been on a note of still further possibility. "I should like to know," Aunt Laura had said, "exactly what your dear father is prepared to do for you, Humphrey, when you tell him. When I know, I should like a little talk with him. For I may be able to help matters."
Mrs. Clinton reached Kencote in the dusk of the January afternoon and found the twins on the platform awaiting her. With the station staff and the other passengers in the train as audience, they gave her an all-embracing and, indeed, somewhat vociferous welcome, and led her to the carriage, one on each side of her, with little squeezings of the arms and continued expressions of joy.
"We shan't let you out of our sight again, mother," said Joan as they drove off. "It has been perfectly awful without you. We haven't known what to do at all."
"I hope you haven't been getting into mischief," said Mrs. Clinton, with an indulgent smile.
"We have been as good as gold," said Nancy. "You would hardly have recognised us. Haven't you noticed our gardenias? Humphrey gave them to us. He said they were the white flowers of a blameless life."
"Is Humphrey still at home?" Mrs. Clinton asked.
"Yes," said Joan; "and something has happened, mother; we don't quite know what, but we think he has got engaged."
"Engaged!" exclaimed their mother.
"Yes. Of course you know who it is."
Mrs. Clinton thought for a moment. "What has put the idea into your heads?" she asked.
"Father is very pleased with him," explained Joan. "And that is the only thing we can think of to account for it. But we have seen it coming for a long time."
"Well, for about a fortnight," corrected Nancy. "It's Susan Clinton, of course. Do you like her, mother?"
Mrs. Clinton did not reply to this question, and Joan said, "We are prepared to give her a sisterly welcome."
"If she treats us well we'll treat her well," said Nancy. "And we like the idea of Mr. Humphrey and Lady Susan Clinton. It's so Morning Posty."
"I think you are running ahead a little fast," said their mother. "Don't you want to hear about your new governess?"
"Oh yes! What is she like?" exclaimed the twins in one breath.
"She is very learned, and rather severe," said Mrs. Clinton. "You will have to work very hard with her."
"We are quite ready to do that," said Nancy. "Is she ornamental?"
"Not at all," replied Mrs. Clinton. "And her name is Miss Phipp. She is coming in ten days, so you must make the best of your holidays until then."
Nancy sighed. "Our happy childhood is over," she said. "No more will the house ring with our careless laughter. In ten days' time we shall become fevered students."
"I hope it won't be quite so bad as that," said Mrs. Clinton.
The Squire was waiting at the door. He had never before kissed his wife before the servants, but he did so now. If they liked to go away and talk about it they might. "We'll have no more of this gadding about," he said jovially. "We want you at home, don't we, children?"
"Rather," said the twins, renewing their embraces; and Mrs. Clinton felt that there was nothing lacking in the warmth of her welcome.
They went into the morning-room where the tea-table was already set and the kettle boiling over its spirit-lamp. "I told 'em to bring up tea," said the Squire; "I want a word with you. Now run along, children. You can talk to your mother afterwards."
The twins obediently retired. "He's full of it," said Joan. "What a childish pleasure he takes in a piece of news!"
"If it is as we believe," said Nancy, "we mustn't call her Silky Susan any more."
"She's all right, really," said Joan, "if you get her away from her awful old mother."
The Squire, left alone with his wife, took up his favourite attitude in front of the fire. "I've got a piece of news for you, Nina," he said. "What would you think of another marriage in the family?"
Mrs. Clinton, busy with her tea-making, looked up at him.
"I'm pleased about it," said the Squire, who, warming himself in the Englishman's citadel, and keeping away the fire from his wife, who was cold after her journey, looked thoroughly pleased. "She's a nice girl, although I can't say I took much to her mother, and don't want to see more of her than is necessary. It's Humphrey, Nina—Humphrey and Susan Clinton. It seems they've taken to each other, and if I can make it all right for them, they want to get married. I'm quite ready to do my part. I'm quite glad that Humphrey wants to settle down at last. And if things are going wrong in other quarters, as unfortunately they seem to be, this will make up for it a little. They can have the dower-house, and if an heir to Kencote comes from this marriage—well, it will be a very satisfactory arrangement."
This was going ahead with a vengeance. Mrs. Clinton thought of Dick. Was he, then, to be finally shouldered out of his place, and Humphrey installed in it, securely, instead? "Would he give up his profession?" she asked.
"We haven't talked about it yet," said the Squire. "But that is my idea. I want somebody here to help me, and if Dick has decided to cut the cable, then we had better face facts and arrange matters accordingly."
His face changed as he mentioned his eldest son. That wound still rankled, but it was plain that the salve was already working. "I have done my best," he said, "and it has all been no good. Now what we have to do is to forget all about it and do what we can in other directions. Walter's a good boy, although a bit headstrong and obstinate. Still, he's made his own life and is happy in it, and I will say for him that he's never given me any serious trouble. I've had that with Humphrey. He has been extremely tiresome about money matters, and I own that I thought there was another storm of that sort blowing up, and haven't been quite so friendly towards the boy as I might have been. I'm sorry for it now, and I'll make up for it; for he tells me he doesn't owe a single penny."
Mrs. Clinton looked up in surprise. "Did he tell you that definitely?" she asked.
"Why, don't you believe him?' asked the Squire rather sharply.
"I should believe him if he said it plainly," she replied.
"Well, he did say it plainly. 'I don't owe anybody a penny,' he said, 'although I can't say I have much of a balance in the bank.' I never supposed he would have that. If the boys keep out of debt on what I allow them, that's all I ask. But I'll own it surprised me, as it seems to have surprised you, that hehaskept out of debt since the last time, and I put it to him again. 'If there's anything to settle up,' I said, 'you had better let me know now. You don't want to begin married life with anything hanging over you!' And he said again, 'There's nothing at all. I don't owe anybody a penny.' So there it is, Nina. The boy's a good boy at heart, and I'm pleased with him. And as for the girl, I think she'll turn out well. Get her away from all that nonsense she has been brought up to, and settle her down here, in a pretty place like the dower-house, with a good income to keep things going as they ought to be kept going—I'll do that for them—and I believe she'll turn out trumps, and I hope we shan't be wanting a grandson long. That's what pleases me, Nina"—his face beamed as he said it. "I'm an active man, but I'm getting on a bit now, and I should like to see my grandson growing up before I have to go and leave it all. That's been at the bottom of half I've felt about this wretched affair of Dick's; and it made me more annoyed than perhaps I need have been about Walter settling down in a place like Melbury Park. To see a boy growing up at Kencote, as I grew up, and taking to it from the time he's a baby—that'll be a great thing, Nina, eh?"
He was exalted by his rosy dream. He saw himself leading a tiny child by the hand, very tender with his littleness, showing him this and that, hearing his prattle about familiar things, putting him later on a pony, and later still teaching him to shoot, watching him grow, sending him off to school, perhaps as an old man hearing of his doings at the University or in the service,—a fine, tall, straight young Clinton, fortunate inheritor of generations of good things, and made worthy of them, largely through his own guidance. So he had thought about Dick, years before, sitting before the fire, or pacing his room downstairs, while his wife and his little son, the centre of all his hopes, lay sleeping above, or out of doors as he had followed his favourite pursuits, and found new zest in them. But in those days he had been young, and his own life stretched immeasurably before him, with much to do and many things to be enjoyed. His own life was still strong in him, to hold and enjoy, but what should come after it was far more important now than it had been then, and he desired much more ardently to see its beginnings. And Dick had foiled his hopes. This was to be a new start, out of which better things should come. He wanted it keenly, and because he had had most things that he wanted in life, it seemed natural that it should be coming to him, and coming from a quarter whose signs he had not previously examined. "Nina," he said again, "I want to see my grandson grow up at Kencote."
She paused a moment before she said quietly, "As you saw Dick grow up years ago."
His sunny vision was clouded. He frowned. "We must make up our minds to do without Dick," he said; "he won't come here. He has practically thrown us off."
"No," she said. "I have seen him, and he is coming here on Friday."
He stared at her, the frown still on his face. He was moved by her news, but not altogether to pleasure. His mind was running on new desires, and it was an effort to adjust it to old ones.
"You've seen him?" he said. "What did you say to him? You didn't make him think that I was going to give way?"
"No. He does not expect that, or, I think, hope for it now."
"Ishegoing to give way, then?"
"No. Not that, either. He is going to be married very soon."
"Then what does he want to come here for? I won't receive that woman, whether he marries her or not. And if he marries her I'll disinherit him as far as I'm able to. I don't go back from my word. If he thinks he's going to turn me—if he's coming here with that idea—he'd better stop away."
"He doesn't think that," said Mrs. Clinton. "I don't think he will want to speak of anything that has been between you. He knows, and he has made up his mind to it. Don't you want to see him, Edward? He is coming because he wants to see you."
The Squire's face showed a flush, and he looked down. "I shall be very glad to see him," he said, and went out of the room.
The next morning at breakfast time a note was handed to the Squire from Aunt Laura, asking him if he could make it quite convenient to come and see her during the day, as she wished to consult him upon matters of business.
"Matters of business!" he echoed, reading out the note. "Now it's a remarkable thing that none of the old aunts has ever wished to consult me on matters of business before, though I should always have been ready to do what I could for them. I wonder what the old lady wants."
"I think I know," said Joan.
Humphrey looked at her sharply from across the table. "You can't possibly know anything about it," he said.
"She wants to keep guinea-pigs," pursued Joan, unmoved. "She told me about some she had when she was little, and said she should like to have them again."
"Humphrey might give her a hutch for a Christmas present," suggested Nancy.
"Don't talk nonsense, children," ordered the Squire. "You might run down to her after breakfast and say I will come and see her at eleven o'clock."
At the hour mentioned he marched into Aunt Laura's parlour, bringing with him into the rather close atmosphere a breath of the cold bright winter day. "Well, Aunt Laura," he said in his hearty voice, "you want me to help you settle your affairs, eh? What about Mr. Pauncey? Shan't I be making him jealous?"
Aunt Laura, with thoughts of "refreshment" filling her mind, did not reply to this question until he was sitting opposite to her with a glass of sherry and a dry biscuit by his side. Then she said, "It will be a matter for Mr. Pauncey by and by, Edward. It is about Humphrey. I wished to consult you about doing something for dear Humphrey and the nice girl he is going to marry."
"Oh, you've heard about that already, have you?" exclaimed the Squire. "Good news travels fast, eh? Well, it isn't a bad thing, is it? Another young couple settling down—what? Who let you into the secret, Aunt Laura?"
"Dear Humphrey has told me all about it," said the old lady, with some pride. "I was the first to know. And he brought the nice girl to see me when she was here at Christmas time, and she came by herself afterwards. I liked her very much, Edward, and I hope you do too."
"Oh yes, I like her," said the Squire. "It's an engagement that promises well. So you want to give them a wedding present, eh? Well, now, if I might suggest, and you cared to spend the money, how about a smart little pony dogcart, with harness and everything, and a pony, which I'd look out for you and take some trouble about it?—very pleased to. That would be a very handsome present. I don't know whether you'd care to go up to it. It would cost you about—about——"
"Thank you, Edward," Aunt Laura interrupted him. "I think that might be a good idea for one of my presents, and I will think it over and very likely accept your very kind offer. But it was not exactly a wedding present that I had in my mind when I asked you to come and see me, which you have so kindly and promptly done. As you know, I have an income far above my needs, and there is a considerable sum of money belonging to me which will go to the children after my death. How much it is I could not tell you exactly without consulting Mr. Pauncey, which I propose to do when I am better and he is better. But what I should wish to do is to make Humphrey an allowance to supplement what you yourself propose to allow him, and in my will I should like—but this I will not settle upon against your wishes, not by any means—I should like to—well, if you understand what I mean—to make Humphrey, as it were, more my heir, perhaps, than the other children."
Probably Aunt Laura had never before addressed a speech so long to her nephew without being interrupted, but his surprise at the disclosure of her wishes had kept him silent until she had finished.
"Well, that is certainly a generous proposal of yours, Aunt Laura," he said; "the allowance, I mean. As for the other——"
But it was Aunt Laura who interrupted now. "You see, Edward," she said eagerly, "it is like this—I have thought it over carefully—Humphrey seems to me to want the money more than the others. Dick, I take it—but of course I do not want to pry in the very least into your concerns—will be so well provided for that any little extra sum I left to him would be more in the nature of a compliment." She went on through the others, explaining why she thought Humphrey might fairly be preferred to them, and emphasising the fact that they would all getsomething; but the Squire was not listening to her. He was thinking about Dick. Dick, if he carried out his intentions, would not be well provided for. He would be, as the Squire thought, a poor man. Here were complications. He did not want Aunt Laura to make Dick her heir to the exclusion of the rest; but the weight of his own apparently now fruitless threat to disinherit him was always growing heavier on him, and he certainly did not want her to deny him his share under a false conception of the true state of affairs. He regretted now that all news of what had been happening lately with regard to Dick had been kept from Aunt Laura. Must he give her a hint as to how the land lay? He could not make up his mind, on the spur of the moment, to do so. He shirked the laborious explanations that would be necessary, the surprise, and all that would follow. And even when she had adjusted her mind to the news, he did not know what he should advise her to do.
"As far as that goes," he said, "—making Humphrey your heir, as you say,—I should like to think that over a bit. Of course, you can do what you like with your own money, but——"
"Oh, but I should not think of acting against your wishes, Edward," said Aunt Laura.
"No, you're very good about that," he said kindly. "I've always known you would do what was right, and I haven't interfered with you in any way, and don't want to. But let's leave that for a bit. Don't make any decision till we've had another talk. As far as the allowance goes, I'm going to treat the boy generously. I haven't made up my mind yet about the exact sum, but of course I needn't say it wouldn't be altered by anything you liked to add. That would be an extra bit of spending for them, and I've no doubt they would make good use of it. What was it you thought of, Aunt Laura?"
"Well," said the old lady slowly, "I think, Edward—if you don't mind—you won't be offended with me, I do hope—I have no wish in theleastto make it conditional—but I should take it as a great compliment if you would tell me first—when you have made up your mind—what allowance you yourself had thought of."
The Squire stared at her, and then burst out laughing. In an unwonted flash of insight he saw what she would be at, the diffident, submissive, gentle old woman, to whom he and everything he did or said were above all admitted criticism. "Well, if you must push me into a corner, Aunt Laura," he said, "I may as well settle the figure with you now. I'll start them with fifteen hundred a year and a house. There now. What are you going to put to that?"
"I will put to that," replied Aunt Laura, equally prompt, "another five hundred a year, and the dear young people will be very well off."
The Squire stared again. "By Jove!" he said in astonishment, "I'd no idea you meant to do anything of that sort."
"But you said it would make no difference to what you would do," she said a little anxiously.
The Squire leant forward in his chair and touched her knee. "Aunt Laura," he said, "you are a very clever old lady."
"Oh, Edward," she expostulated, "I hope you don't think——"
"Oh, you knew," he said, leaning back again in great good-humour, "you knew well enough. If you had told me you were going to that figure at first, you knew that I should be thinking that twelve hundred a year from me instead of fifteen would do very well. And that's just what I should have thought, by Jove! Any man would. However, I have no wish to save my pocket at the expense of yours, and we'll let it stand at what I said. But I say, are you sure you can manage it all right? It's a good deal of money, you know. You won't be narrowing yourself, eh? I shouldn't like to feel that you weren't every bit as comfortable as you ought to be—what?"
Aunt Laura assured him that she would remain every bit as comfortable as she ought to be, and finally he left her and walked home, whistling to himself every now and then as he went over the points of their conversation, and once or twice laughing outright at his memories. "By Jove! she had me," he said to himself, after he had gained the comparative seclusion of his park and could stop in the road to give vent to his merriment. "Who'd have thought it of old Aunt Laura?"
As the time came near for Dick's visit the Squire's mood changed from one of genial satisfaction to a nervous irascibility, which, as Joan said to Nancy, made him very difficult to live with.
"I know," Nancy agreed. "It is really rather degrading to have to try and keep him in a good temper."
"Good temper!" repeated Joan. "It is as much as one can do to keep him from snapping off one's head for nothing at all; in fact, one can't do it."
"I think," said Nancy reflectively, "that a time will come when we shall have to take father in hand and teach him how to behave. That's darling mother's mistake—that she's never done it. My view is that a woman has got to keep a man in order, or he will tyrannise over her. Don't you think that is so, Joan?"
"From what I have observed," replied Joan—they were sitting on the big sofa before the schoolroom fire—"I should say it was. And it's a bad thing for men themselves. Of course, we know quite well that father is frightened to death of what Dick will say to him when he comes, but if we were old enough—and mother cared to do it—to make him hide it up when he's with us, it wouldn't have nearly such a bad effect on him. He would have to forget it sometimes; now he never does."
Whether or no the Squire was frightened to death of what Dick would say to him when he came, he was certainly upset at the idea of what lay before him. Although he had as yet taken no definite steps, he had come to the decision that Dick, as far as was possible, should be disinherited, if he made the marriage that now seemed inevitable. The news of Humphrey's desirable engagement had made the other look still more undesirable, and it had taken off the edge of his strong aversion to act in a way so opposed to all his life-long intentions. It seemed almost to have justified his decision, and it had certainly softened to himself the sting of it.
But it was one thing to allow his mind to dwell on the unhoped-for compensations of his decision, when Dick by his own choice had cut himself off from Kencote and remained away from it, and it was quite another to contemplate his coming back, before the decision was made irrevocable, on a footing so different from the one he had hitherto occupied. The Squire was made intensely uncomfortable at the thought of how he should bear himself. He did now want to see his eldest son again, and to be friends with him. That desire had been greatly weakened while his mind had occupied itself with Humphrey's affair, but he saw, dimly, that it had only been sleeping, that he would always want Dick, however much he might have reason to be pleased with Humphrey, and that he was laying up for himself unhappiness in the future in working to put Humphrey into Dick's place, as he had rashly promised himself that he would do.
Humphrey, perhaps unwisely as regards his own interest, had announced his departure for London soon after it was known that Dick was coming down, and the Squire was left to turn things over in his mind with the distraction of Humphrey's affairs and Humphrey's presence withdrawn from him.
The twins went in the carriage to meet Dick at the station. They squeezed in on either side of him and made their pleasure at seeing him both vocal and tangible.
"Dear, darling old Dick," said Joan, trying to seize his hand under the bearskin rug, "it is very wrong of you to stay away from home. We've missed you awfully."
"You seem more of a fluffy angel than ever now we have got you back," said Nancy. "How true it is what the old Starling used to say, that we don't know our blessings till they have left us."
"Thanks very much," replied Dick. "What's this I hear about Humphrey being engaged? But I suppose they wouldn't have told you yet."
"Told us!" echoed Joan.
"We toldthem!" said Nancy.
"Oh, you did! Trust you for nosing out a secret."
"It wasn't much of a secret," said Joan. "Silky Susan—oh, I beg her pardon, we mustn't call her that now—I mean sweet Sue, was all eyes—big round ones."
"And she took a great deal of trouble to ingratiate herself with us," said Nancy. "We're not considered worth it as a rule, and of course we see through it in a moment, because we're not really her sort."
"But we're going to be," said Joan. "Humphrey told us that we ought to copy her in the way we behave, and we said we would."
"Jolly glad to get the chance," added Nancy. "We want to be sweet girls, but nobody has ever shown us how, before."
"Oh, you're all right," said Dick. "You needn't try to alter."
"Thank you, dear Dick," replied Joan. "You are blind to our faults, and it is very sweet of you. But there is room for improvement, and what with Miss Phipp to train our brains and sweet Sue Clinton to improve our manners, we feel we're getting a tremendous chance, don't we, Nancy?"
"Rather!" acquiesced Nancy; "the chance of a life time. We lie awake at night thinking about it."
Dick let them chatter on, and retired into his own thoughts. He would have liked to know how his father had taken the news of his coming, but was unwilling to question them, and he had never allowed them to exercise their critical faculties on their father before him; so they were not likely now to volunteer enlightenment. As the carriage rolled smoothly over the gravel of the drive through the park, he too, like his father, felt some discomfort at the thought of the meeting that lay before him.
Except that he had come out of his room and was waiting in the hall to receive his son, which had not been his usual custom, there was nothing in the Squire's greeting which could arouse comment amongst the servants who were present at it. This was always a great point at Kencote. "For God's sake, don't let the servants talk," was a phrase often on the Squire's lips; but he himself, in any crisis, provided them with more food for talk than anybody else.
"How are you, Dick?" he said, shaking hands. "We were beginning to think we should never see you again." (This was for the benefit of the servants.) "The meet's at Horley Wood to-morrow, but I'm not going out. I've got a touch of rheumatism. Come in and have a cup of tea."
They all went into the morning-room. "Mother, can't we begin to have tea downstairs now?" asked Joan. "We're quite old enough. We don't make messes any more."
Thus by a timely stroke a long-desired concession was won, for the only obstacle hitherto in the way had been the Squire's firm pronouncement that children ought to be kept in their proper place as long as they were children, and the proper place for Joan and Nancy at tea-time was the schoolroom. But he was now so greatly relieved at having them there to centre conversation on that he said with a strong laugh, taking Joan by the shoulder and drawing her to him, "Now, there's impudence for you! But I think we might let them off the chain now, mother, eh?"
"In holiday time," acquiesced Mrs. Clinton, "and on the days when they're not at lessons."
"But if they get sticky with jam," said Dick, "they lose their privilege for a week."
"And any one who drops crumbs on the carpet must have tea with us in the schoolroom for a week," said Nancy.
The subject was discussed at some length on those lines until Mrs. Clinton sent the twins up to take off their hats, when their elders still went on discussing them.
"So you've chosen the blue-stocking, mother," said Dick.
"Yes; she is coming next week," said Mrs. Clinton.
"Mother didn't want anybody dangerously attractive about the house," said the Squire, hastening to take up that subject, which was continued until the twins returned, when they were allowed to dominate the conversation to an unusual degree.
But at last the time came when the Squire had always been accustomed to say, "Well, we'll go into my room and have a cigar," or to go out without saying anything, with the certainty of Dick's following him. He could not now go out of the room without saying anything, for that would have amounted to a declaration made before the children that he did not want Dick's company, and he shirked the usual formula which would precipitate the "talk" that he dreaded.
Dick relieved him for the time being. "I'll go into the smoking-room and write a few letters," he said.
"Ah, well, I'll go into my room and smoke a cigar," said the Squire, making a move.
Mrs. Clinton asked Joan to ring the bell. "They may not have lit the fire in the smoking-room," she said.
The Squire looked back. "Eh? What!" he said sharply. "Of course they've lit it, if one of the boys is at home."
But it appeared that they had not lit it, and "they," in the person of a footman, were instructed to repair the oversight immediately. It was a disturbing episode. Dick had used the smoking-room less than the others, having usually shared the Squire's big room with him as if it were his own, and they had probably omitted to light the smoking-room fire when he only of the boys was at home, on occasions before, without the omission being noticed. But it looked as if differences were beginning to be made, as if the dread "they" had begun to talk; and the Squire hated the suspicion of their talk like poison. At any rate, it drew attention to Dick's announcement that he would write his letters in the smoking-room instead of in the library, and that would be food for talk. He said with a frown, "Hadn't you better come into my room? You can write your letters there. You generally do."
So Dick followed him, and the door was shut on them.
The spurt of annoyance had brought the Squire up to the point of "tackling the situation." After all, it had to be talked out between them, and it was useless to put off the moment and pretend that things were as usual.
"I suppose your mind is still made up?" he said, with his back to his son.
"Yes," replied Dick. "We needn't go over all that again."
"I don't want to," said the Squire. "Only we had better have things plain. I won't receive her, either before marriage or after."
Dick put constraint on himself, but his face grew red. "If you are going to talk like that," he said after a pause, "I had better not have come."
The Squire turned and faced him. The frown was still on his face, but it was one of trouble. "Oh, my dear boy," he said, "I'm glad enough to see you. I wish you had never gone away. I wish to God you'd drop it all and come back, and let us be as we were before. But if you won't change, I won't change, and if we're to be comfortable together these few days, let's know at the beginning where we stand. That's all I meant."
"All right," said Dick rather ungraciously. "But I should like to know how I stand in other matters as well. You've sent me messages. You're going to make me pay pretty heavily for marrying the woman I've chosen. I'm not complaining and I'm not asking you to change your mind. But I think I've a right to know exactly where I stand."
"Well, then, sit down," said the Squire, "and I'll tell you."
They were confronted in a way neither of them had been prepared for. Certainly Dick had not come home to ask for explanations, nor had his father meant to open up the now closed dispute. Some underling in the back regions, with his mouth full of bread and butter and tea and his mind relaxed from his duties to his own insignificant enjoyments, was responsible for what was now going to be said in his master's sanctum. A match struck and put to the smoking-room fire would have altered the course of affairs at Kencote, perhaps only for an hour or two, perhaps for Dick's lifetime. Now, at any rate, there was to be a discussion which would otherwise have been deferred, and for their own future comfort neither the Squire nor Dick was in the most tractable mood for discussion.
"You know how the property stands and what goes with it?" the Squire began.
"Yes, I know all that," said Dick. "There's about eight thousand acres, and a rent-roll in good times of perhaps a couple of thousand a year. Then there are a couple of livings to present to, a house which might be let with the shooting by a fellow who couldn't afford to live in it for, let's say, a thousand a year. So I shall be fairly comfortably off somewhere else as long as I do let, and I dare say there won't be much difficulty about that. There are plenty of rich manufacturers who would like to take a place like Kencote."
Although his mind had been on other plans, and he had no sort of intention of living anywhere but at Kencote after he should have succeeded his father, still, in the background of his thoughts there had lain great bitterness at this preposterous punishment that his father was preparing for him; and the bitterness now showed plainly enough in his speech.
It aroused in the Squire a curious conflict of emotions. The picture of a rich outsider settled in the house which had sheltered none but Clintons for unnumbered years appalled him, and, if Dick had presented it for his inspection without heat, must have turned him from his purpose then and there; for that purpose had never been examined in its ultimate bearings, and would not have been formed except with the view of bending Dick to his will. But, already ruffled, he became more so at Dick's tone, and his uneasiness at the fearful idea which had been evolved, although it was rejected for the moment, translated itself into anger.
"You've no right to talk like that," he said hotly. "If you would come to your senses you could be as well off living here as I am."
"I know I could," said Dick more quietly, "if I were blackguard enough to give up a woman for the sake of money. But there's no use at all in talking about that. I'm quite prepared for what you are going to do, and I haven't come here, as I told you, to ask you to change your mind. It's your affair; only if you haven't looked what you're going to do in the face yet, I'm interested enough to say that I think you ought to."
"You'll have enough money," snapped the Squire, not at all mollified by this speech, "to make it possible for you to live at Kencote—you'll have much more than enough money, as I told you—if you give up this marriage. You say you won't give it up. Very well, then, you can go and live somewhere else and Humphrey can take your place here."
Dick's astonished stare recalled him to his senses. He had spoken out of his anger. He had never meant to go so far as this. But having gone so far he went on to make his position good.
"Now we won't beat about the bush any more," he said judicially. "As far as I'm concerned—what I'm going to leave him, I mean—Humphrey couldn't afford to live at Kencote. I'm not going to rob others to put him in your place, although I tell you this, he's going to be put in your place as soon as you get married, until my death. I dare say you have heard he's going to be married himself, and it's a marriage I'm pleased with. She won't bring him much money, I dare say, but that will be put right in another quarter. He'll be well off from the first, and I shouldn't wonder if he weren't better off still before long. He'll live at the dower-house and work with me at the management of the place, just as you have always done. And when you succeed, you'll probably find him a richer man than you are."
Dick rose from his chair. "Thank you," he said. "I know where I stand now. And as there doesn't seem to be much more to stop here for, I'll get back to London."
It was the Squire's turn now to stare. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "You're not going!"
But Dick had already left the room.
The Squire remained sitting forward in his chair looking into the fire. His face, which had been red and hard, gradually changed its colour and expression. He looked a tried and troubled old man. He had burnt his boats now. He had allowed his anger to dictate words which he would not have used in cold blood. He had insulted his son, as well as injured him. Dick was going out of his father's house in anger, and he would not return to it. As long as he lived he would not see him again.
These thoughts were too much for him. His own anger had disappeared. He could not let his son go away from him like that. He had not meant what he had said—at least, he had not meant to say it in that way. He rose quickly and went out of the room.
When Dick had left him he had gone into the smoking-room, where the belated fire was burning briskly, summoned his servant and ordered his cart. His intention was to drive straight over to Bathgate and wait there for a train to London. Virginia was not at Blaythorn, or he would have gone there. He had told her that he was going down to Kencote to make one last effort at reconciliation with his father, and she had said that she would pay an overdue weekend visit at the same time, so that he should not complicate matters by coming over to see her from Kencote. "For I'm sure you won't be able to keep away if you are so close to me," she had said, holding him by the lapels of his coat and smiling up in his face. It had been an old engagement between them that he should have spent this particular week-end with her at Blaythorn, and he now wished heartily that he had not changed his plans. "Kicked out of the house within ten minutes!" he said to himself, standing in front of the fire, when he had given his orders. He was consumed with anger against his father, and had an impulse to get away from the house at once, to start on foot, and let his cart catch him up. But it was raining hard, and there were a couple of notes that he had to write for the evening post. He might as well write them now, and he sat down at the table to do so.
The door opened, and Mrs. Clinton came in. "Dick dear," she said in her quiet voice, which hardly betokened the trouble that could be seen in her face, "you are not going to leave us like this!"
He turned in his seat and faced her. "I'm going in a few minutes," he said, "and I'm not coming back again. It's good-bye this time, mother."
"Oh, why can't you be a little patient with him?" she cried. "He wanted so to see you here again. If he has said anything to offend you he will be very sorry for it. Dick, don't go like this. It will be the end of everything."
He got up from the table and put his arm round her shoulder, leading her up to the hearth. "You and I will see each other," he said kindly. "It isn't the end of everything between us, mother. But with him, and with Kencote, it is. There's no help for it. He's definitely against me now. He's told me he's going to put Humphrey in my place—straight out. I can't stand that, you know. If he's going to say things like that—and do them—what's the good of my staying here?"
"He can't mean it," she pleaded. "He is pleased with Humphrey now, but he has always loved you best of all his sons. It isn't in his power to put any one in your place."
"I dare say he'll be sorry for having done it," he said, "but he's going to do it, all the same. I can put up with the idea, mother, as long as I'm not at Kencote, but it's a bit too much to stay here and have that sort of thing said to you."
He dropped his arm and turned round sharply, for the door had opened again, and now it was his father who came into the room.
"Dick," he said, shutting the door and coming forward, "I said too much just now. For God's sake forget it!"
There was a moment's pause. Then Dick said in a hard voice, "What am I to forget?"
The Squire looked at him with his troubled, perplexed frown. "Can't you give it up, my boy?" he asked.
Dick turned away with an impatient shrug of the shoulders.
"God knows I don't want to make any changes," said his father. "It's worse for me than it is for you, Dick. Humphrey won't be to me what you have been. If you would only meet me half-way, I——"
Dick turned suddenly. "Yes, I'll meet you half-way," he said. "It is what I came here to say I would do, only you went so far beyond everything that there was nothing left for me to say. If you are going to set yourself to make Humphrey a richer man than I, as you said—well, that is beyond anything I had thought of—that you should be thinking of it in that way, I mean."
"Dick, I've never thought of it in that way," said his father. "And you must forget that I said it."
Mrs. Clinton spoke. "You have heard of Humphrey's engagement," she said. "Your father's idea is that he shall live here, at the dower-house, and help him with the estate management."
"That's it," said the Squire. "It was either that or getting a regular agent in the place of Haydon. I can't do it all myself. But if you would only come back, Dick——"
"I can't do that," said Dick, "at least, not now. I'm tied. And I can't object to your getting Humphrey in, if you think he'll take to the job. It isn't that. And it isn't that I mind much your leaving money to the others instead of to me—as long as you don't leave it all to one of them."
"I told you I wasn't going to do that," said the Squire. "I'd never thought of it. What I said about Humphrey I said on the spur of the moment, and I'm sorry for it."
"Oh, all right," said Dick; "we needn't worry about that any more. Do what you like for Humphrey. I've no wish to put a spoke in his wheel, and I wish I thought he felt the same about putting one in mine. I'll tell you what I told you at the beginning—I've more or less reconciled myself to the change you're going to make. At any rate, I shan't grumble at it. It'll only mean doing a bit more for myself instead of looking to you for everything."
The Squire did not like this. "You couldn't do much," he said, "to make up for the loss of the unsettled property, if I left it away from you."
"I could do something," replied Dick, "and I'm going to."
"Let us sit down," Mrs. Clinton said. "Dick, if you have anything to tell us, if you are going to meet us half-way, as you say, let us hear."
They sat down, and Dick considered for a moment, and then looked up at his father. "Neither of us has given way an inch yet," he said.
The Squire frowned. "There can be no giving way on the point of your marriage," he said.
Dick was about to reply, but Mrs. Clinton put her hand on his knee. "Let him tell us what he has in his mind, Edward," she said.
"I was going to say," said Dick, with a gulp, "that I am quite prepared to give way on the question of the property. I wanted you to receive Virginia, and to give me everything you were going to give me. I don't ask that now. Do what you have said you would do. I shan't grouse about it. I shan't let it make any difference between you and me. I promise you that. That's where I'll give way."
The Squire felt very uncomfortable. Conciliation was in the air, and he was prepared to be conciliatory. But how was he to meet this?
"What do you want me to do, then?" he asked, "short of——"
Dick took him up. "I'm going to marry Virginia Dubec," he said decisively. "That is settled, and you can't stop me. You haven't been fair either to me or to her about it. You have never given her a chance to prove to you, as she could prove, that she is as unlike the woman you take her for as any woman on earth could be. And you have gone to greater lengths in trying to stop me doing what I'm going to do than I think you were justified in going."
The Squire broke in on him. "Oh, if you're going to open up——" he began; but Mrs. Clinton said, "Edward, let Dick finish what he has to say"; and Dick went on quickly, "It's the last time I need mention all that. I'm ready to forget it, every bit of it, and you'll never hear a single word more about it, if—if——"
The words that rose to his lips were, "If you'll undertake to behave yourself from now onwards," but since he had to find other words to express his meaning, and paused for a moment, the Squire put in, "Well, if what? I'm waiting to hear."
"You can't stop my marriage," said Dick. "The only thing you can do is to recognise it now, unless you deliberately choose that this shall be the last time we are to see one another."
The Squire's frown of perplexity became a frown of displeasure. "If those are your terms——" he began; but again Mrs. Clinton interrupted him.
"When Dick has been married some time," she said, "you will not want to keep him at arm's length. You will make the best of it. It is senseless for either you or him to talk of an estrangement that will last a lifetime. Such a thing could not happen. There would be no grounds for it. Edward, you have done what you could to prevent Dick from following his will. Now you must accept his decision, and not go on to make further unhappiness."
He turned on her a reproachful eye. "What, you on his side, against me!" he exclaimed.
"As long as there was a chance of your having your way," she said, "I would not act in any way against you. But now I say that I have seen for myself, and I do not believe that you have anything to fear. Dick has chosen for himself, and we ought now to respect his choice."
Dick put out his hand and pressed his mother's. The Squire, faced with decision, almost with authority, from a quarter in which he had hitherto expected and obtained nothing but submission, showed neither surprise nor resentment. He sat looking on to the ground, his frown of displeasure now once again changed into a frown of perplexity.
In a moment or two he looked up and spoke, but without indignation. "You want me, now, after all I've said and done," he said, "to give in altogether and receive this Lady George Dubec as my daughter-in-law?"
"I think," said Mrs. Clinton, "that the time has come when you must."
"Oh, for God's sake, let's have an end of it, father," said Dick. "Give her a chance. It's all I ask of you. Let me bring her here. If you haven't changed your mind after her visit—then both of us will have done what we can for each other—and you need never see her again as long as you live."
The Squire sat without replying for a long time. Then he got up and turned to leave the room. "Very well, Dick," he said, "you may bring her here."
Humphrey went from Kencote to Thatchover, where Lady Aldeburgh was for the time being residing with her numerous family. This did not include her husband, who preferred to play a Box and Cox game with her in respect of his two houses; but on his way through London Humphrey called on his prospective father-in-law to gain formal authorisation of his suit.
Lord Aldeburgh had fitted himself up a suite of bachelor chambers on the top floor of his great house in Manchester Square, and had installed a lift, which no one was allowed to use without his permission, as its rumbling disturbed him in his chosen occupations. The chief of these was the collection of portraits of people and pictures of places, which he cut out of illustrated papers and magazines and pasted into large albums, indexing them up very thoroughly as he went on. He was also an ardent attender of plays and concerts and a persistent but indifferent bridge-player. He had found a club where the stakes were half a crown a hundred, and there was always a rubber to be had in the afternoon. So in the winter, which he spent mostly in London, his days were fully occupied. Early in the year he went to the Riviera or to Egypt, and about the time that his family came up to London for the season he installed himself at Thatchover and enjoyed his garden. In the autumn he went abroad again or travelled about England. He was not a rich man, but he was an entirely happy and contented one.
"His lordship is very busy this morning and I don't think he would like to be disturbed," said the servant who opened the door.
"Well, take up my name and say I won't keep him long," said Humphrey. "I'll come up with you."
"I don't think his lordship will see you, sir," said the man; but Humphrey climbed the four flights of stairs after him and waited in the hall of Lord Aldeburgh's self-contained flat until he was admitted to the presence.
Lord Aldeburgh was in what he called his work-room. It was a large light room furnished chiefly with deal tables, each devoted to a particular pursuit. One had paste-pots and scissors and knives and rulers and a sheet of glass and a pile of papers and albums. Another was for the making of jig-saw puzzles, a third for their elucidation, a fourth was for typewriting; and there was a reduplicating apparatus, and another table with materials for illuminating. The walls were covered with rubbings of monumental brasses, all ingeniously overlaid with colour and gilding. Lord Aldeburgh had hundreds more of these rubbings rolled up and put away in labelled drawers, and hoped before he died to have acquired one of every brass in England.
He was standing by his scissors-and-paste table when Humphrey went in, and there was a slight frown of annoyance on his otherwise amiable face. He was a big man, clean-shaven except for the rudiments of a pair of whiskers, and looked like an intelligent family solicitor, preoccupied with affairs of moment. His appearance had sometimes caused him to be taken for a serious politician and had caused him some annoyance. "I'm all for the constitution and that sort of thing," he was accustomed to say, "and my vote's safe enough when it's wanted. But I willnottake the chair at political meetings. It interferes with my work. Besides, if they interrupt I don't know what to say." He had on a voluminous apron with bib and pockets over his tweed suit, which rather detracted from his habitual air of weight; but paste was sticky, and Lord Aldeburgh was careful of his clothes, which it was his custom to wear until they were hardly worth passing on to his valet.
"Always pleased to see you," he said, shaking hands, his habitual courtesy struggling with his annoyance at being disturbed. "But if you hadn't come straight up I should have asked you to call again to-morrow. Friday is a very busy day with me. I have all these papers to get through, and there are so many of them now that if I don't clear them up at once the next week's are on me before I know where I am."
"I'm sorry," said Humphrey, looking with interest at the pile of cut-out pictures on the table and the pile of disjointed papers on the floor. "But I'm going down to Thatchover this afternoon and I had to see you first."
"Oh, you're going down to Thatchover!" repeated Lord Aldeburgh. "I wish I could get down. There's a good deal of replanting being done, and my gardener is such a fool that if I'm not on the spot something's bound to go wrong, though I type him out the most detailed instructions. But I really can't get away at present. I'll tell you what you might do. Just see whether he's put glass over the Androsaces and things in the rock-garden, will you? My wife's no good at that sort of thing; she don't care about it. I don't believe she knows the difference between a saxifrage and a sedum; and you can't trust to servants. If you'll do that, like a good fellow, I shall be very much obliged to you."
"Certainly I will," said Humphrey, taking out his pocketbook. "Better give me the name of the things."
"I'll type out a list from my garden book and send it down to you," said Lord Aldeburgh. "They're all properly labelled, and if you'll just go through them—— Thanks very much; you've relieved me of an anxiety. I very nearly threw everything up to go down for a day. But I'm glad I didn't now. Well, if you don't mind I'll get on with my work now that's settled."
He held out his hand with an engaging smile, but Humphrey said, "I haven't told you what I came about yet. I want to marry Susan. She's game, and Lady Aldeburgh doesn't object. But I wanted to know what you thought about it before we went ahead."
A frown of perplexity showed itself on Lord Aldeburgh's face. "Marry Susan!" he repeated. "Well, I don't see any objection, if you think she's old enough. But——"
"She's twenty-four," interpolated Humphrey.
"Twenty-four! Is she really? Well, it shows what I've always said, that time flies quicker than you think it does. Twenty-four! My goodness! Well, then, of course she's old enough, and I rather wonder my wife hasn't seen to it before. And what I was going to say was that my wife looks after all that sort of thing, and I'm much too busy a man to be worried about details. If I give my consent, which you're quite right in coming to ask for, I hope I shan't have any more bother about it. That's all I meant."
"I don't see why you should be bothered," said Humphrey. "There'll be questions of settlements, I suppose. But the lawyers will fix up all that."
"Oh, my goodness, yes!" said Lord Aldeburgh. "Thank heaven all that sort of thing was fixed up when I was married myself. I don't want ever to go through it again. It was sign, sign, sign from morning to night. I've forgotten what the girls were to have when they married, but I know it wasn't much, and I'm not in a position to increase it. The rock-garden cost me an infernal lot of money last year, and I'm going to enlarge it. I suppose you don't know where I can get good blocks of limestone fairly cheap, do you? I don't care much about the sandstone I've got. At least, I don't want any more of it."
"No, I don't know," said Humphrey. "You had better give me the name of your solicitors, and we can get on to them. I suppose I can settle all the other points with Lady Aldeburgh."
"Oh, my goodness, yes!" said Lord Aldeburgh. "I'm much too busy to attend to it. Look here, I'll show you an interesting thing. It just proves what we were talking about just now, how time flies. You see this picture of Miss Enid Brown, of Laurel Lodge, Reigate, who is going to marry this fellow, Mr. Bertie Pearson, of the Cromwell Road?"
"Yes, I see," said Humphrey. "I don't particularly envy Mr. Bertie Pearson."
"Oh, I think she's a very nice-looking girl," said Lord Aldeburgh. "But that isn't the point. Now twenty-two years ago, when I first began to make my collection, one of the first photographs I got was of a Mr. Horace Brown, of Petersfield House, Reigate, who married—here he is—I was just looking it up when you came in—see?—Miss Mary Carter, of Croydon—turn to the C book for her—it's all carefully cross-indexed—here she is. Now you've only got to compare these two faces—Miss Enid Brown and Mrs. Horace Brown—Miss Carter that was—taking Reigate into consideration—to make it quite plain that they are mother and daughter. You see it at once, don't you?"
"Yes," said Humphrey. "Same silly sort of simper."
"Oh, well, I don't know about that. But that isn't the point. The point is that this particular work of mine, which I just took up five-and-twenty years or so ago to amuse myself with, is developing into something that will be of the greatest importance to the nation by and by. When I die I've a jolly good mind to leave it to the British Museum; or if I could get some fellow to leave some money and have it carried on—why, there's no telling what it wouldn't come to. Here you're beginning to have an illustrated register of every single soul in the country that amounts to anything. If you're good enough to have your portrait in some paper you're good enough to go down to posterity in my collection. I tell you, it's monumental. Already I've got thousands and thousands of portraits—not only of people like ourselves that you can look up in a book, but of thousands of others—quite respectable people—and at all stages. Why, if I were to begin to publish the whole thing in parts I should make a fortune, and I've a jolly good mind to see some publisher and get it done. There isn't a soul whose name was represented who wouldn't buy it. I can tell you it's turning into a jolly big thing."
"Well, it is rather interesting," said Humphrey. "What have you got about the Clintons?"
"Oh, of course, I've got a separate book about the Clintons. Like to see it? You'll find some pictures of your little lot there."
"Well, if I may, some other time," said Humphrey. "My train goes in half an hour, and I must be getting off. Then you've no objection to my urging my suit? I believe that's the correct expression."
"Not a bit in the world, my dear fellow," replied Lord Aldeburgh. "I'm not much of a family man. I'm too busy. But from what I've seen of her I should say Susan would make you a good wife, and I'm sure you'll make her a good husband. So I wish you every sort of good luck. And now I must get to work again."
So, blessed with Lord Aldeburgh's approval, Humphrey went down to Thatchover, and found a party of considerable size assembled there, all bent on extracting as much amusement as possible out of the passing hours.
He arrived at dusk and found the family and its guests assembled in the big hall of the house. The men had been shooting, the women playing bridge, for the weather was too raw for them to care about leaving the warmth of the house. Humphrey received a somewhat vociferous welcome, for there was no one in the house with whom he was not on terms of intimacy, and felt cheered by the warmth of social intercourse into which he was plunged. "This really is rather jolly," he said to Susan Clinton, with whom he found himself presently sitting a little apart from the noisy central group. "I don't know that I ever want anything better than a big house in the country and to have it filled with jolly people."
"I shouldn't like to live in the country all the year round," said Susan. "You'd soon get out of touch."
"Oh, lor', yes," said Humphrey. "I didn't mean that. Look at my people at Kencote. It's jolly enough there every now and then in the winter when there's something to do, although it isn't exactly gay. But to settle down there year in and year out for ever—I'd just as soon emigrate. And that's what I want to talk to you about. Things are going all right for us. We shall have enough to get along on. I tell you, I'm in high favour. But the idea is that we shall set up in the dower-house, and——"
"Oh, but that will be delightful!" Susan interrupted him. "With all those jolly old things! And the presents we shall have! Humphrey, how ripping! And there's plenty of room to have people there. If we can afford to do things well——"
"Yes, that'll be all right," said Humphrey. "But the idea is that we shall cut all the rest. I'm to give up my job, which I don't care about either one way or the other, except that it keeps me about where I want to be, and I'm to be sort of head bailiff. That's the scheme, as it's shaping itself out. Question is whether it's good enough."
"Do you mean we shouldn't be allowed to go to London at all?"
"Oh, allowed! We could go up for a day or two now and again—though if I know my respected parent there would be black looks even at that, if we did it too often—but as for anything more than that—— No, it's meant and it's intended to mean that I join the governor in business. He's really, if you look at it properly, a farmer in a big way, and he's not very good at it, though he thinks he is. It's where I come in over Dick that he must have somebody to help him out of the muddles he makes, and that will be a pretty stiff job, and there won't be much running away from it."
"Then you mean we can't even pay visits?"
"Precious few of 'em. We shall be expected to stay at home and lead the domestic life. Are we cut out for it, Susan?"
She smiled at him, and slipped her hand into his. "I shan't mind very much, Humphrey," she said.
Humphrey returned her pressure. "Good girl!" he said. "I don't know that I shall either for a few years. But we'd better look it all in the face. We shall feel cut off, there's no doubt of it. But there's this to be said, it won't last for ever. If we're submissive now—well, in the long run we shall come off all right. Question is, can you make up your mind to stand it for as long as may be necessary?'
"I can if you can," said Susan.
"Oh, I shall be better off than you. I'm afraid there's no doubt you'll be dull at times. We'll have our own friends to stay with us, but there won't be much going on at home to enliven us. It isn't like other big houses in the country. Still, there are the kids. They're growing up, and they're pretty bright. You ought to get some fun out of them, and it'll be a godsend to them to have somebody like you about the place."
"I'm not certain that they care for me much," said Susan; "and I'm a little afraid of them. In fact, I'm rather afraid of all your family, Humphrey. Do you think Mrs. Clinton likes me?"
"Oh, of course she does," said Humphrey. "You'll get on well with the whole bunch of them. And as for the governor, you've only got to flatter him a bit and avoid treading on his corns, and you can live in his pocket—if you want to. I say, Susan, excuse my asking, but is your own papa all there?"
Susan laughed. "He has never grown up. That's all," she said. "But his tastes are harmless enough. Think what it would be if he had a taste for running after—well—er—you know—like Clinton. He doesn't really spend much money. There are worse fathers."
Humphrey digested this point of view. "Well, I think I would rather have mine," he said, "tiresome as he can be, and is, sometimes. Anyhow he's going to do the right thing by us. I needn't go into details, but you'll be able to have some pretty frocks, old girl; and you may find yourself in a big house before you've done, yet."
Their conversation was interrupted by the breaking up of the tea-party and the setting up of the bridge tables. Bridge was the serious pursuit at Thatchover, and it was only, so to speak, at off times that the household indulged in their tastes for romps. There was never any paltering with the valuable hours between five o'clock and eight o'clock in the evening, and there were few of the present party who showed any inclination to shirk their duty, even to the extent of sitting out a rubber. But as the total number of players was divisible by two, but not by four, two of them were obliged to sit out, and Lady Aldeburgh suggested to Humphrey that he and she should have a little talk and cut in later. "I hate doing it," she said, "because there's a certain sense of satisfaction in sitting down to begin, which you miss if you wait till everything is in full swing. Still, it would look well for me to appear self-sacrificing, and if you don't mind we'll get our little chat over now, for I'm dying to hear what you've managed to fix up."
Humphrey, sitting with her in a corner by the fire away from the green tables, put her in possession of the state of affairs. "There'll be at least fifteen hundred a year, and probably more," he concluded, "and that ought to make it good enough."
"If that were all, it wouldn't be good enough," said Lady Aldeburgh decisively. "You and Susan couldn't live on fifteen hundred a year or anything like it. I shouldn't consider it for a moment."
"Oh yes, you would," said Humphrey calmly. "Still, it isn't all. We're to have a house, for one thing—a house more than half furnished, and there'll be all sorts of perquisites. I'm to go in for the land agency business; and by and by, if I behave myself, as I mean to, and Susan behaves herself, asshemeans to do, we shall be very well off."
"What on earth are you talking about?" enquired Lady Aldeburgh, thoroughly bewildered. "The land agency business——'
"We are to live at the dower-house at Kencote," said Humphrey. "I don't think you saw it, but it's a topping little house. And I'm to help the governor look after things. That's the scheme."
"MydearHumphrey! What absolute nonsense!" exclaimed Lady Aldeburgh. "You and Susan burying yourselves in the country! Why, you'd be bored stiff in a week, and you'd get sick to death of one another in a month. You can't seriously consider such a ridiculous scheme."