In Which Philip Finds That His Uncle
Is More Sympathetic Than His Father
Home went Philip, a prey to conflicting emotions. He was angry with
Cleone, and hurt at what he termed her fickleness, but she was very
lovely, and still wholly desirable. Never until now had he realised
how necessary she was to his happiness. She would not marry him unless
he reformed, learned to behave like Bancroft--that was what she meant.
She did not love him as he was; she wanted polish, and frills and
furbelows. Philip's lips tightened. She should have them--but he was
very, very angry. Then he thought of his father, and the anger grew.
What right had these two to seek to change him into something that was
utterly insincere, trifling, and unmanly? His father would be rejoiced
to hear that he was going "to become a gentleman." Even he had no use
for Philip as he was. Well, they should have what they wanted--and then
perhaps they would be sorry. In a wave of self-pity he considered how
dearly he loved these two people. He wanted neither to change, he loved
them for what they were; but they.... He felt very sore and ill-used.
Something else there was that troubled him. He had set about the task
of punishing Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Bancroft had ended by punishing
him. No pleasant thought, that. Bancroft was master not only of words
but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the
question, chafed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice.
He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice,
glancing up, observed Philip's sling. He said nothing, but his eyes
gleamed an instant.
Philip threw himself down upon a bench.
"Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met."
"I thought it would come," nodded his father.
"I'm no match for him. He--pinked me with some ease."
Again Sir Maurice nodded.
"Also"--Philip spoke with difficulty--"Cleone--will have none of me--as
I am." He looked across at his father with some bitterness. "As you
prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft."
"And so--?"
Philip was silent.
"And so Mr. Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine," added Sir
Maurice.
"Have I said so, sir?" Philip spoke sharply. "Cleone desires a
beau--she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her
until I am what--she thinks--is her desire! I will show her and you
that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing
better than"--he mimicked his father's tone--"to till the earth! I'll
learn to be the painted fop you'd like to see me! Neither you nor she
shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!"
"Now, here's a heat!" remarked Sir Maurice. "So you'll to London, boy?
To your uncle?"
Philip shrugged.
"As well to him as any other. I care not."
"That's the wrong spirit for your emprise," said Sir Maurice, a laugh
in his eyes. "You must enter into your venture heart and soul."
Philip flung out his arm.
"My heart's here, sir, at home!"
"It's also at Sharley House," said his father dryly, "or why do you go
to London?"
"Ay, it's there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares
not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes
sport of me for her amusement!"
"Tra-la-la-la!" said Sir Maurice. "Then why go to London?"
"To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!" answered
Philip, and marched off.
Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.
Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He
parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many
introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but
when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice's hand
very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for
Sir Maurice--well, he chided himself for a sentimental old fool, but
with Philip's departure had come a void which could only be filled by
Philip's return.
* * * * *
Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but
Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the
gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was
quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.
"Well met, Philip, my boy! What's to do now?"
Philip sank into a chair.
"I'll tell you when I'm fed," he grinned. "That sirloin pleases my eye."
"Not an artistic colour," said Tom, studying it, "but appetising, I
grant you."
"Artistic be damned!" said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. "H'm!
No, Tom, 'tis a displeasing blend--red and brown."
Tom looked at him in surprise.
"What's colour to you, Philip?"
"Naught, God help me," answered Philip, and fell to with a will.
"I echo that sentiment," said Tom. "How does your father?"
"Well enough; he sends you his love."
Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by
his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom
pushed back his chair.
"Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!"
Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat's reluctant back.
"I've--to learn to be--a gentleman," he said.
Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing.
"God ha' mercy, Philip, has it come to that?"
"I do not take your meaning," said Philip crossly.
"What! It's not a petticoat?"
"Tom, I'll thank you to--to--be quiet!"
Tom choked his laughter.
"Oh, I'm dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?"
"'Tis what I want to know, Tom."
"And I'm to teach you?"
Philip hesitated.
"Is it perhaps--a thing I can best learn alone?" he asked, surprisingly
diffident.
"What is it exactly you want to learn?"
"To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?"
"Odd rot, what are ye now?"
Philip's lips curled.
"I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless
clodhopper."
His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.
"Little vixen," he remarked sapiently.
"I beg your pardon?" Philip was cold.
"Not at all," said Tom hastily. "So Maurice has been at you again, eh?
Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God's
sake! What do ye want?"
"I want, or rather, they--he--wants me to learn how to dress, how to
walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women,
how to bow, how to--"
"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Tom. "I have the whole picture! And it's no
easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn."
"Why, I trust you're pessimistic, sir," said Philip, "for I intend to
acquire all these arts--within a year."
"Well, I like your spirit," acknowledged Tom. "Take some more ale, lad,
and let me have the whole story."
This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found
that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic
uncle. Tom forbore to laugh--although now and then he was seized by an
inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came
to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped
his teeth with one polished finger-nail and looked exceeding wise.
"My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but
that's neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home
don't appreciate your sterling qualities--"
"Oh, 'tis not my qualities they object to! 'Tis my lack of vice."
"Don't interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble--what was
the word you used?--clodhopper. 'Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your
ability to shine in society. 'Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken.
You must surprise them."
"I doubt I shall," said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.
Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew's form
appraisingly.
"Ye've a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?"
Philip extended them, laughing.
"Um! a little attention, and I'd not wish to see better. Like all the
Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome."
"Am I?" Philip was startled. "I never knew that before!"
"Then ye know it now. You're the spit of your father in his young days.
Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat," he added sadly. "But I
wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat--what's the girl's name?"
"I don't see why you should assu--"
"Don't be a fool, lad! It's that fair chit, eh? Charlotte--no, damn it,
some heathenish name!"
"Cleone," supplied Philip, submitting.
"Ay, that's it--Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye'll gain
a little polish and some style. What you must do is excel. Excel!"
"I doubt I could not," said Philip. "And, indeed, I've no mind to."
"Then I've done with you." Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of
finality.
"No, no, Tom! You must help me!"
A stern eye was fixed on him.
"Ye must put yourself in my hands, then."
"Ay, but--"
"Completely," said Tom inexorably.
Philip collapsed.
"Oh, very well!"
The round, good-tempered face lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was
again wrapped in thought.
"Paris," he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. "You
must go there," he explained.
Philip was horrified.
"What! I? To Paris? Never!"
"Then I wash my--"
"But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!"
"The more reason."
"But--but--damn it, I say I will not!"
Tom yawned.
"As ye will."
Philip became more and more unhappy.
"Why should I go to Paris?" he growled.
"You're like a surly bear," reproved Tom. "Where else would you go?"
"Can't I--surely I can learn all I want here?"
"Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from
what you are to what you are to become!"
Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.
"To Paris," resumed Tom, "within the week. Luckily, you've more money
than is good for you. You've no need to pinch and scrape. I'll take
you, clothe you, and introduce you."
Philip brightened.
"Will you? That's devilish good of you, Tom!"
"It is," agreed Tom. "But I dare swear I'll find entertainment there."
He chuckled. "And not a word to your father or to anyone. You'll
vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you."
This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed
heavily.
"I suppose I must do it. But--" He rose and walked to the window.
"It's all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love--does not
suffice. Well, we shall see." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets.
"The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable.
They--he--they--don't care what may be a man's reputation or his
character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly
compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else
is of consequence. Faugh!"
"Ay, you're taking it hard," nodded his uncle. "But they're all the
same, lad--bless 'em!"
"I thought--this one--was different."
"More fool you," said Tom cynically.