"What do you think of him?"
Ashley's tone indicated some uncertainty as to what he thought himself.
Indeed, uncertainty was indicated elsewhere than in his tone. It seemed
to hang about him, to look from his eyes, to take form in his person.
Perhaps this was the one change wrought in him by a month's residence in
America. When he arrived everything had bespoken him a man aggressively
positive with the habit of being sure. His very attitude, now, as he sat
in Rodney Temple's office in the Harvard Gallery of Fine Arts, his hands
thrust into his pockets, his legs stretched apart, his hat on the back
of his head, suggested one who feels the foundations of the earth to
have shifted.
Rodney Temple, making his arrangements for leaving for the day, met one
question with another. "What do _you?_"
"You know him," Ashley urged, "and I don't."
"I thought you did. I thought you'd read him right off--as a
cow-puncher."
"He looks like one, by Jove! and he speaks like one, too. You wouldn't
call him a gentleman? What?"
"If you mean by a gentleman one who's always been able to take the best
in the world for granted, perhaps he isn't. But that isn't our
test--over here."
"Then, what is?"
"I'm not sure that I could tell you so that you'd understand--at any
rate, not unless you start out with the fact that the English gentleman
and the American differ not only in species, but in genus. I'd go so far
as to say that they've got to be recognized by different sets of
faculties. You get at your man by the eye and the ear; we have to use a
subtler apparatus. If we didn't we should let a good many go uncounted.
Some of our finest are even more uncouth with their consonants than good
friend Davenant. They'd drop right out of your list, but they take a
high place in ours. To try to discern one by the methods created for the
other is like what George Eliot says of putting on spectacles to detect
odors. Ignorance of this basic social fact on both sides has given rise
to much international misjudgment. See?"
"Can't say that I do."
"No, you wouldn't. But until you do you won't understand a big simple
type--"
"I don't care a hang about his big simple type. What I want to know is
how to take him. Is he a confounded sentimentalist?--or is he still
putting up a bluff?"
"What difference does it make to you?"
"If he's putting up a bluff, he's waiting out there at Michigan for me
to call it. If he's working the sentimental racket, then I've got to be
the beneficiary of his beastly good-will."
"If he's putting up a bluff, you can fix him by not calling it at all;
and as for his beastly good-will, well, he's a beneficiary of it, too."
"How so?"
"Because beastly good-will is a thing that cuts both ways. He'll get as
much out of it as you."
"That's all very fine--"
"It's very fine, indeed, for him. We've an old saying in these parts: By
the Street called Straight we come to the House called Beautiful. It's
one of those fanciful saws of which the only justification is that it
works. Any one can test the truth of it by taking the highway. Well,
friend Davenant is taking it. He'll reach the House called Beautiful as
straight as a die. Don't you fret about that. You'll owe him nothing in
the long run, because he'll get all the reward he's entitled to. When's
the wedding? Fixed the date yet?"
"Not going to fix one," Ashley explained, moodily. "One of these days,
when everything is settled at Tory Hill and the sale is over, we shall
walk off to the church and get married. That seems to be the best way,
as matters stand."
"It's a very sensible way at all times. And I hear you're carrying Henry
off with you to England."
Ashley shrugged his shoulders. "Going the whole hog. What? Had to make
the offer. Olivia couldn't leave him behind. Anything that will make her
happy--"
"Will make you happy."
"That's about the size of it."
Having locked the last drawer and put out the desk light, Temple led his
guest down the long gallery and across the Yard to the house on
Charlesbank. Here Ashley pursued kindred themes in the company of Mrs.
Fane, finding himself alone with her at tea. He was often alone with her
at tea, her father having no taste for this form of refreshment, while
her mother found reasons for being absent.
"Queer old cove, your governor," Ashley observed, stretching himself
comfortably before the fire. The blaze of logs alone lit up the room.
"Is that why you seem to have taken a fancy to him?"
"I like to hear him gassing. Little bit like the Bible, don't you know."
"He's very fond of the Bible."
"Seems to think a lot of that chap--your governor."
A nod supposed to indicate the direction of the State of Michigan
enabled her to follow his line of thought.
"He does. There's something rather colossal about the way he's dropped
out--"
"A jolly sight too colossal. Makes him more important than if he'd
stayed on the spot and fought the thing to a finish."
"Fought what thing to a finish?"
He was sorry to have used the expression. "Oh, there's still a jolly lot
to settle up, you know."
"But I thought everything was arranged--that you'd accepted the
situation."
He stretched himself more comfortably before the fire. "We'd a row," he
said, suddenly.
"A row? What kind of a row?"
"A street row--just like two hooligans. He struck me."
"Rupert!" She half sprang up. "He--"
Ashley swung round in his chair. He was smiling.
"Oh, I _beg_ your pardon," she cried, in confusion. "I can't think what
made me call you that. I never _do_--never. It was the surprise--and the
shock--"
"That's all right," he assured her. "I often call you Drusilla when I'm
talking to Olivia. I don't see why we shouldn't--we've always been such
pals--and we're going to be a kind of cousins--"
"Tell me about Peter."
"Oh, there's nothing much that stands telling. We were two idiots--two
silly asses. I insulted him--and he struck out. I called him a cad--I
believe I called him a damned cad."
"To his _face_?"
"To his _nose_."
"Oh, you shouldn't have done that."
"And he got mad, by Jove! Oh, it didn't last. We pulled off in a second
or two. We saw we were two idiots--two kids. It wasn't worth getting on
one's high horse about--or attempting to follow it up--it was too
beastly silly for heroics--except that--that he--"
"Except that he--what?"
"Except that he--got the better of me. He has the better of me still.
And I can't allow that, by Jove! Do you see?"
"I don't see very clearly. In what way did he get the better of you?"
"In the whole thing--the way he carried it off--the whole silly
business."
"Then I don't see what's to be done about it _now_."
"Something's got to be done, by Jove! I can't let it go at that."
"Well, what do you propose?"
"I don't propose anything. But I can't go through life letting that
fellow stay on top. Why, considering everything--all he's done for
Olivia and her father--and now this other thing--and his beastly
magnanimity besides--he's frightfully on top. It won't do, you know. But
I say, you'll not tell Olivia, will you? She'd hate it--about the row, I
mean. I don't mind your knowing. You're always such a good pal to me--"
It was impossible to go on, because Mrs. Temple bustled in from the task
of helping Olivia with the packing and sacking at Tory Hill. Having
greeted Ashley with the unceremoniousness permissible with one who was
becoming an intimate figure at the fireside, she settled to her tea.
"Oh, so sad!" she reflected, her little pursed-up mouth twitching
nervously. "The dear old house all dismantled! Everything to go! I've
asked Henry to come and stay here. It's too uncomfortable for him, with
all the moving and packing going on around him. It'll be easier for dear
Olivia, too. So hard for her to take care of him, with all the other
things she has on her hands. There's Peter's room. Henry may as well
have it. I don't suppose we shall see anything more of Peter for ages to
come. But I do wish he'd write. Don't you, Colonel Ashley? I've written
to him three times now--and not a line from him! I suppose they must be
able to get letters out there, at Stoughton, Michigan. It can't be so
far beyond civilization as all that. And Olivia would like it. She's
worried about him--about his not writing--and everything. Don't you
think, Colonel Ashley?"