A while back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round
Little Fittledean. Of one I said but little, of the second I spoke
at length and to the tune of one whole chapter. It now behoves me to
mention the third gentleman, who chose his site on the outskirts of
the village, some two miles from Jettan's Pride, and to the east. To
reach it you must walk along the main street until the cottages grow
sparse and yet more sparse, and the cobblestones and pavement cease
altogether. The street turns then into a lane with trees flanking
it and grass growing to the sides. A few steps further, and the
moss-covered roof of Sharley House peeps above a high holly hedge which
screens the place from the passer-by.
There lived Mr. Charteris, and his father and grandfather before him.
Mr. Charteris was the happy possessor of a wife and a daughter. It is
with the daughter that I am most concerned.
Her name was Cleone, and she was very lovely. She had thick gold curls,
eyes of cornflower blue, and a pair of red lips that pouted or smiled
in equal fascination. She was just eighteen, and the joy and despair of
all the young men of the countryside. Particularly was she the despair
of Mr. Philip Jettan.
Philip was head over ears in love with Cleone. He had been so ever
since she returned from the convent where she had received a slight
education. Before her departure for this convent, she and Philip, James
and Jennifer Winton, had played together and quarrelled together since
any of them could walk. Then Cleone went away to acquire polish, and
the two boys thought very little more about her, until she returned,
and then they thought of nothing else but her. The romping playfellow
was gone for ever, but in her place was a Vision. Philip and James
began to eye one another askance.
Delighted by the new state of affairs, Cleone queened it right royally,
and played one young man against the other. But it was not long before
she found herself thinking far more about Mr. Jettan than was seemly.
He began to haunt her dreams, and when he came to visit the house her
heart fluttered a little and showed a tendency to jump into her throat.
Cleone was stern with her heart, for there was much in Mr. Jettan that
did not meet with her approval. However masterful and handsome he might
be--and Philip was both--he was distressingly boorish in many ways.
Before her return to Sharley House Cleone had spent a few months with
her aunt, who lived in Town. Several men had made very elegant love to
her and showered compliments about her golden head. She had not cared
the snap of her fingers for any one of them, but their graceful homage
was very gratifying. Philip's speech was direct and purposeful, and his
compliments were never neat. His clothes also left much to be desired.
Cleone had an eye for colour and style; she liked her cavaliers to be
_à la mode_. Sir Matthew Trelawney, for instance, had affected the most
wonderful stockings, clocked with butterflies; Frederick King wore
so excellently fitting a coat that, it was said, he required three
men to ease him into it. Philip's coat was made for comfort; he would
have scorned the stockings of Matthew Trelawney. He even refused to
buy a wig, but wore his own brown hair brushed back from his face and
tied loosely at his neck with a piece of black ribbon. No powder, no
curls, unpolished nails, and an unpainted face--guiltless, too, of even
the smallest patch--it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep.
Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have
made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip
must be reformed, since she--well, since she did not dislike him.
At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he
had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business
concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might
succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret
purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir
Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked
for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast
his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was
content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the
apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He
loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship,
but--"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!"
At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his
nose, only to relax again as he smiled.
"Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough."
Sir Maurice's mouth quivered responsively.
"What's that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?"
"Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I--am I."
"So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in
love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to
be left disconsolate."
Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the
sentence left him frowning.
"What mean you, sir?"
The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly.
"Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an you fail to mend your
ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with
a raw clodhopper like yourself?"
Philip answered low.
"If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is
worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau."
"A man! _Sacré tonnerre_, 'tis what you are, _hein_? Philip, child, get
you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig."
"No, sir, I thank you. I shall do very well without a wig."
Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards at the floor in exasperation.
"_Mille diables!_ You'll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish
the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!"
Philip nodded.
"That I will do, sir, since you wish it."
"Bah!" retorted his father.
* * * * *
He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to
his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see
him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware.
He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to
glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his
presence.
Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House,
sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in
anticipation.
Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window,
embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her
own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the
window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her
at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house
in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse
and bowed to her, hat in hand.
Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden
curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.
"Why, sir, are you back already?" she asked, dimpling.
"Already!" he echoed. "It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!"
"Pooh!" she said. "Ten days--not a moment more!"
"Is that all it has seemed to you?" he said.
Cleone's cheek became faintly tinged with pink.
"What more?" she retorted. "'Tis all it is!"
Into Philip's eyes came a gleam of triumph.
"Aha! You've counted, then! Oh, Cleone!"
The roguish look fled.
"Oh!" cried Cleone, pouting. "How--how--monstrous--"
"Monstrous what, dear Cleone?"
"Impudent!" she ended. "I declare I won't see you!" As if to add weight
to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.
Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the
withdrawing-room, where she found Mr. Jettan paying his respects to her
mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her
fingers, and seated herself beside Madam Charteris.
Madam patted her hand.
"Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell
us of his gaiety!"
Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip.
"Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person."
"Tut-tut!" said her mother. "Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet
_one_ beauty to whom you lost your heart?"
"No, madam," answered Philip. "The painted society dames attract me not
at all." His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.
"I dare say you've not yet heard the news?" Cleone said, after a slight
pause. "Or did Sir Maurice tell you?"
"No--that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?"
"It remains to be seen," she replied. "'Tis that Mr. Bancroft is to
return! What think you of that?"
Philip stiffened.
"Bancroft? Sir Harold's son?"
"Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think--he has been away
nigh on eight years! Why, he must be--" she began to count on her
rosy-tipped fingers "--twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so
wonder what he is like now!"
"H'm!" remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. "What does he
want here?"
Cleone's long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes.
"To see his papa, of course. After so many years!"
Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort.
"I'll wager there's a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere
now."
"Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days
ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?"
Madam Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of
satin, content to drop out of the conversation.
"Yes. It seems that Henry--"
"Who?" Philip straightened in his chair.
"Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems
that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too
dreadful?"
Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.
"I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible,
I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor
Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some
great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he
fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in
time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do
_you_ know? Have you perhaps heard?"
"No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard,"
said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.
* * * * *
When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He
walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir
Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at
his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he
donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered
and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck.
He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright.
The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.
Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when
the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him,
he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some
time.
"Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?"
Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it
between his long, white fingers.
"I believe someone told me. What of it?"
"You said nothing of it to me."
The grey eyes lifted.
"Is he a friend of yours? I did not know."
"A friend!" Philip set his glass down with a snap. "Hardly, sir!"
"Now what's to do?" asked his father. "Why the scorn?"
"Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!"
"I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice.
"What's the tale?"
"The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This
time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!"
"Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?"
"I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?"
"I--er--knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?"
"As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand--"
Sir Maurice sighed.
"No. Of course not. Go on."
"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord
Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in
the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."
"Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?"
"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft
brings himself and his morals here."
A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips.
"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that
Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd
best have bought a wig, Philip."
In spite of himself, Philip laughed.
"Sir, you are incorrigible!"
"_Faute de mieux._ And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all
this--sordid information, oh my righteous son?"
"From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else."
"Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was
forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's
amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine."
Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were
twinkling.
"I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire,"
he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for
disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for
irreproachable conduct."
"It's a _piquante_ situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't
disinherit you."
"No?"
"Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to--ah--follow in my
footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though."
"Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my
unblemished reputation."
"Does it?" Sir Maurice was mildly interested. "Faith, I did not know
that."
"Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one
would be more aghast than yourself."
"You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps,
but in--let us say, Bancroft's. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust
me."
"Ah!" Philip leaned forward eagerly. "You admit that?"
Sir Maurice sipped his wine.
"Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an _affaire_." He watched Philip
draw back. "An _affaire_ of the heart should be daintily conducted. A
Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love;
the others," he waved his hand, "should be treated with the delicacy
that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no
woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the
world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures
of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the
exhilaration of your sword against another's; I would have you take
pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would
have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase;
above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the
world." He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. "Well? What have
you to say to my peroration?"
Philip answered simply, and in admiration.
"Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you
have a remarkably beautiful voice."
"Bah!" snapped Sir Maurice.