A DAY WITH PHILIP CLEEVE.
When Philip Cleeve opened his eyes the morning after his visit to The
Lilacs it took him a minute or two to collect his thoughts, and call
to mind all that had happened during the previous evening. In the cold
unsympathetic light of early morn his overheated fancies of the
preceding night seemed to have little more substance in them than a
dream. He could not quite forget Margaret Ducie's liquid black eyes,
or the fascination of her smile; but the glamour was gone, and he
thought of them as of something that could never trouble his peace of
mind again. "It was that champagne," thought Philip. "I had more of it
than was good for me."
There was, however, one very tangible fact connected with the doings
of the preceding night which would not allow itself to be forgotten.
He had gambled away Mr. Tiplady's twenty pounds, and it would have to
be his disagreeable duty this morning to ask his mother to make good
the loss. Mentally and bodily he felt out of sorts, and out of humour
with himself and the world. Very little breakfast did he eat. Lady
Cleeve only came down when it was getting time for him to set out for
the office. She asked a little about his visit of the previous
evening, and also after Freddy Bootle, who was rather a favourite of
hers.
"Bootle has promised to dine here tomorrow," said Philip. "This
evening I dine with him at the Rose and Crown." He left his seat and
went to the window. The disagreeable moment could be put off no
longer. Going behind Lady Cleeve's chair, he leaned over and kissed
her. "Mother, I am going to ask you to do a most preposterous thing,"
he said.
"Not many times in your life, dear, have you done that," she answered.
"But what is it?"
"I want you to give me twenty-five pounds."
"Twenty-five pounds is a large sum, Philip--that is, a large sum for
me. But I suppose you would not ask me for it unless you really need
it."
"Certainly not, mother. I need it for a very special purpose indeed."
"Can you tell me for what?"
"No," said Philip, in a low tone. "It--it is for some one," he rather
lamely added.
"You are going to lend it! Well, Philip, if it is for some worthy
friend who is in want, I will say nothing," said Lady Cleeve, who had
implicit confidence in her son. "You shall have the money."
Philip's face was burning. He turned to the window again.
"Do you know that next Tuesday will be your birthday, Philip?" asked
his mother. "You will be twenty-two. How the years fly as we grow old!
Your asking for this money brings to my mind something which I did not
intend to mention to you till your birthday was actually here; but,
there is no reason why I should not tell you now. Can you guess,
my dear boy, what amount I have saved up, and safely put away for
you in Nullington Bank? But how should it be possible for you to
guess?"--Philip had turned by this time, and was staring at his
mother.
"I have saved up twelve hundred pounds," continued Lady Cleeve. "Yes,
Philip, twelve hundred pounds; and on the day you are twenty-two the
amount in full will be transferred into your name, and will become
your sole property."
"Mother!" was all that the young man could say in that first moment of
surprise. Then he took her hand and kissed it.
She smiled, and stroked his curls fondly.
"I need hardly tell you, Philip, that the hope I have had, all along,
was that my savings might ultimately be of use in advancing your
interests in whatever profession you might finally choose. You have
now been two years with Mr. Tiplady, and I gather that you are quite
satisfied to remain with him. I have had a little quiet chat with Mr.
Tiplady: you know that he and I are very old friends. I named to him
the amount I had lying by me in the bank, and hinted to him that he
might do worse than take you into partnership. His reply was that he
had never hitherto thought about a partner, but that the idea was
worth consideration, more especially as he had some thought of
retiring from business in the course of a few years. There the matter
was left, and I have had no talk with him since, but I think the
opening would be a most excellent one for you."
"Twelve hundred pounds seems a lot of money to hand over to old
Tiplady," said Philip, with rather a long face.
"Why 'old' Tiplady, dear? He is younger than I am," said Lady Cleeve,
with a faint smile. "His business is excellent and superior, as you
know; one in which, if you join him, you may rise to eminence. Mr.
Tiplady seemed to doubt whether twelve hundred pounds was a sufficient
sum to induce him to take you into partnership. And of course it seems
ridiculously small compared with the advantages. But I suppose he
thinks your connections would go for something--and he is too well off
for money to be an object with him. At first you would take but a
small share."
Philip shrugged his shoulders and whistled under his breath.
"We can talk of that another time," he said. "How can I thank you
enough, mother mine, for this wonderful gift? You are a veritable
fairy queen."
In truth, he could not think where so much money had come from. Twelve
hundred pounds! He knew the extent of his mother's income and what
proportion of it, of late years, had found its way into his own
pocket; but he did not know that his mother, in view of some such
contingency as the present one, had begun to save and pinch and put
away a few pounds now and again even before her husband's death--many
years before. The magic of compound interest had done the rest.
Philip Cleeve carried a light heart with him that morning as he set
out for the office, and the twenty-five pounds given him by his
mother. He had not only got out of his present difficulty easily and
without trouble, but in a few short days he would be a capitalist on
his own account; he would be one of those favoured mortals, a man with
a balance at his banker's, and a cheque-book of his own in his pocket.
He could hardly believe in the reality of his good fortune. As for
handing over _in toto_ to Mr. Tiplady the sum that was coming thus
unexpectedly into his possession--it was a matter that required
consideration, very grave consideration indeed. But he would have
plenty of time to think about that afterwards.
As he crossed the market-place, he stopped to look in the window of
Thompson, the jeweller. There was a gold hunting-watch lying in it
that he had often admired. In a few days, should he be so minded, he
might make it his own. And that pretty signet ring. The price of it
was only five guineas, a mere bagatelle to a man with twelve hundred
pounds. Hitherto he had never worn a ring, but other young men wore
such things, and there was no reason now why he should not do the
same. A minute or two later he passed his tailor.
"Good-morning, Dobson," he said with a smile. "I shall look you up in
a day or two."
Having to pass the Rose and Crown Hotel on his way to the office, he
thought he might as well look up Freddy Bootle. But that gentleman was
not yet downstairs, so Philip set out again. As he passed Welland's,
the florist, he saw two magnificent bouquets in the window. All at
once it struck him that it would not be amiss to pay a morning call at
The Lilacs and present Mrs. Ducie with one of the bouquets. Without
pausing to reflect, he entered the shop. He was waited on by pretty
Mary Welland, the florist's lame daughter, by whose deft fingers the
flowers had been arranged. After a little smiling chat, he and Mary
being old acquaintances, he chose one of the bouquets and had it
wrapped up in tissue paper. The price was half a guinea, but to
Philip, in the mood in which he then was, half a guinea seemed a
matter of little moment.
Philip had started on his way again, when he encountered Maria Kettle.
They both started as their eyes met, and a guilty flush mounted to
Philip's brow. Maria at once held out her hand, and her glance fell on
the bouquet in its envelope of tissue paper. All in a moment it
flashed into Philip's mind that to-day was Maria's birthday. There was
little more than the difference of a week between their ages.
"Good-morning, Philip," began Maria. "Papa and I have been wondering
what had become of you. You have only been to see us once since we got
back."
"The fact is," said Philip in a hesitating way, very unusual with him,
"I have been much engaged--Bootle is here now, too, and he has taken
up a good deal of my time. But I have not forgotten that this is your
birthday, Maria, and----" here he paused and looked at the bouquet.
"In fact, I was on my way to----" then he hesitated again and held out
the bouquet.
"You were on your way to the vicarage," said Maria, with a smile, "and
these pretty flowers are for me. I know they are pretty before I look
at them. It was indeed kind of you to remember my birthday."
Philip felt immensely relieved.
"Accept them with my love, Maria," he whispered, and at that moment he
felt that he loved her very dearly. Then he pressed one of her hands
in his, and spoke the good wishes customary on such occasions. A
bright, glad look came into Maria's eyes, and her pale cheek flushed
at Philip's words. He turned and walked a little way with her, and
then they parted.
Philip sighed as he turned away. What an air of quiet goodness there
was about Maria! How sweet and saintly she looked in her dress of
homely blue, with the sunlight shining on her!
"If she had lived five hundred years ago, her face would have been
painted as that of some mediæval saint," muttered Philip to himself.
"She is far away too good to be the wife of such a shuffling,
weak-minded fellow as I am."
When he reached the florist's shop on his way back to the office, the
remaining bouquet was still in the window. He hesitated a moment, and
then went in.
"I will take that other bouquet, if you please, Miss Welland," he
said: but Mary noticed that there was no smile on his face this time,
as she tied up the flowers. Philip set off in the direction of The
Lilacs. He was dissatisfied with himself for what he had done, there
was a sore feeling at work within him, and yet his steps seemed drawn
irresistibly towards the roof that sheltered Margaret Ducie.
He had got half-way to the cottage when he was overtaken by Captain
Lennox in his dog-cart.
"'Morning, Cleeve," called out the Captain; "where are you off to in
such a hurry?"
"I didn't know that I was in a hurry," said Philip as he faced round,
while that wretched tell-tale flush, which he could not succeed in
keeping down, mounted to his face. "The fact is, I was on my way to
the cottage," he added. "I thought that I might venture to call on
Mrs. Ducie and ask her acceptance of a few flowers."
"And she will be very pleased to see you, I do not doubt," answered
Lennox. "I am on the way home myself; so jump up and I will give you a
lift."
When they reached the cottage they found Mrs. Ducie practising some
songs which she had just received from London. She wore a dress of
some soft, creamy material embroidered with flowers, with ornamental
silver pins in her hair and a silver snake round one of her wrists.
She accepted Philip's flowers very graciously.
"How charmingly they are arranged," she said; "and with what an eye
for artistic effect. I must try to paint them before they begin to
fade."
Philip begged that he might not interrupt her singing; so she resumed
her seat at the piano, and he stationed himself behind her and turned
over the leaves of her music. Now that he was here and in her
presence, and so near to her that he could have stooped and touched
her hair with his lips, the infatuation of last night crept over him
again with irresistible force. He was like a man bewitched, from whom
all power of volition seems stolen away. She looked even more
beautiful this morning in the soft cool twilight of the drawing-room
than when seen by lamplight yesterday evening. Nowhere had he seen a
woman like her, or one who exercised over him such a nameless but
all-powerful charm. By-and-by she persuaded him to sing too.
At last Philip remembered that he must go. The office was not pressed
for work just now, and Mr. Tiplady had given him a partial holiday
during Bootle's stay: but Philip felt that there was reason in all
things. Moreover, Tiplady was away himself to-day.
"When the cat's away," laughed Captain Lennox, upon Philip's saying
this.
"I can drive you into the town if you like, Mr. Cleeve," said Mrs.
Ducie, who had just reappeared, dressed for going out. "My ponies are
at the gate."
Philip accepted the offer gladly.
"I shall see you later in the day," were Lennox's last words to him as
he was driven away.
Mrs. Ducie was an accomplished whip, and had a thorough mastery over
her high-spirited ponies. Very few minutes sufficed to bring the party
to Nullington. They had slackened their pace a little while a load of
timber drew out of the way, when Maria Kettle stepped out of a
chemist's shop just as they were passing the door. She saw Mrs. Ducie
and Philip, and at the same moment they recognised her. A look that
was partly surprise and partly trouble came into her eyes; but she
bowed gravely and passed on. Mrs. Ducie smiled and bowed; Philip,
colouring furiously, greeted Maria with an awkward nod, and then
turned away his head. How thoroughly ashamed of himself he felt!
"What a charming young lady Miss Kettle is," said Mrs. Ducie, a minute
later.
Philip gave a keen look at his companion's face, but there was nothing
to be read there.
"I was not aware that you knew Miss Kettle," he said a little stiffly.
"I have had the pleasure of meeting her three or four times since her
return, and Ferdinand and I attend church regularly. I never met
anyone who with so much goodness was so entirely unaffected."
It was like heaping coals of fire on Philip's head for him to have to
listen to these words. Nothing more was said till the carriage drew up
for Philip to alight. Mrs. Ducie held out her hand.
"I hope we shall see you at the cottage again soon, Mr. Cleeve," she
graciously said. "I assure you that both to my brother and myself your
visits will always be a pleasure."
Philip replied suitably, and went his way. He was grievously annoyed
at having been seen by Maria Kettle in the act of driving out with
Mrs. Ducie; yet he could not forget how charming the latter was, and
how kindly she had received his flowers.
Scarcely had he at length entered the office when Freddy Bootle came
in, asking him to take holiday for the rest of the day. The old clerk,
Mr. Best, manager in Mr. Tiplady's absence, was agreeable to it.
Philip was a favourite of his, and there was not much doing.
Away went Philip and his friend gaily, arm-in-arm. Philip's heels were
always light where pleasure was concerned. After eating some luncheon
at the Rose and Crown, they adjourned to the billiard-room. Only then
did it occur to Philip that the bank-notes his mother had given him in
the morning were in his pocket still. He ought to have handed them
over to Mr. Best: he had meant to do so, but other matters had put it
out of his head.
Lord Camberley and Captain Lennox came in to dinner, in answer to the
invitation of Mr. Bootle. Afterwards they all sat talking, over their
coffee and cigars. Captain Lennox, the thought striking him, inquired
of Bootle whether his lost watch had turned up.
"Not it," said Freddy. "It will never turn up, any more than your
purse will. It was an odd thing, when one comes to think of it, that
Mrs. Carlyon should have been robbed on the same night. Just as if the
same thief had done it all!"
Lord Camberley pricked up his ears.
"How was it?" he asked. "What were the robberies?" And Mr. Bootle
related them.
"Pretty good cheek--to leave the case under the curtains and walk off
with the baubles!" observed his lordship. "I suppose it was too big to
carry away?"
"Too big to carry away unobserved, and too big to be stowed away in a
coat, I take it," said Captain Lennox. "How large was it, Cleeve?--you
saw it, I think. The fellow must have disposed of the articles about
his pockets."
"How large?" repeated Philip, who was sitting with his chair tilted
and his head thrown back, puffing forth volumes of smoke in silence,
"oh--about _that_ large"--making a movement with his hand. "Just give
me my coffee-cup, will you, Freddy?"
Later, the party sat down to cards. They began by playing Napoleon, as
on the previous evening; but this was changed for the still more
dangerous game of Unlimited Loo. At neither one game nor the other was
Philip Cleeve anything like a match for those experienced players,
Camberley and Lennox, and he grew nervous and excitable. When the
party broke up Philip had not only lost the twenty-five pounds given
him in the morning by his mother, but fifteen pounds more, for which
Lord Camberley held his IOU. As for Freddy Bootle, he did not much
care for cards, and he played with a severe indifference to either the
smiles or frowns of fortune: if he lost, it was a matter of little
consequence to him; if he won, it was a few sovereigns more in the
pocket of a man who had already more money than he knew what to do
with.
Philip rose from the table with haggard eyes, flushed face, and
trembling hands.
"I will redeem my scrap of paper in the morning," he remarked to his
lordship.
"All right, old man: you will find me in the billiard-room about four
o'clock," answered Camberley. "Only look here, there's no need to be
in such a desperate hurry, you know."
He had a dim suspicion that Philip was not over well-off in money
matters.
"I shall be in the billiard-room at four," retorted Philip with some
hauteur.
He resented the implication in Camberley's words--that perhaps it
might not be convenient to pay the fifteen pounds so quickly. His
poverty was a matter that concerned no one but himself.
As he walked home alone under the cold light of the stars, and went
back in memory to the events of this evening and the last, they seemed
to him nothing more than a wretched phantasmagoria, in which only the
ghost of his real self had played a part. He was a loser to the extent
of forty pounds. And where was he to raise the twenty-five pounds for
Tiplady, or the fifteen for Camberley?
There was only one way--by applying to his friend Bootle. It was a
disagreeable necessity, but Philip saw no help for it. Bootle was rich
and generous, and would lend him the money in a moment. It would only
be needed for a few days. The very first cheque he drew, after coming
into that twelve hundred pounds, should be one to repay Freddy.
And, thus easily settling his difficulties, Mr. Philip finished up by
vowing to himself that he would never touch a card again.