A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr. Thomas Jettan's house with some
vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.
"Where's your master, Moggat?" demanded the visitor abruptly.
Moggat held the door wide.
"In the library, sir. Will you step inside?"
Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked
to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not
often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.
"By the way--" Sir Maurice paused, looking back. "My baggage follows
me."
"Very good, sir."
Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.
* * * * *
Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he
turned.
"Why, Maurry!" He sprang up. "Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye,
lad?" He wrung his brother's hand.
Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table.
"What the devil's the meaning of _that_?" he demanded.
"Why the heat?" asked the surprised Thomas.
"Read that--that impertinence!" ordered Sir Maurice.
Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he
smiled.
"Oh, Philip!" he remarked.
"Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than--than a
cock-robin!"
Tom sat down.
"Oh, yes it is!" he said. "I recognise his hand. Now don't tramp up
and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!" He glanced down the sheet and
smothered a laugh.
"'My very dear Papa,'" he read aloud. "'I do trust that you are
enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter
winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will
observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most
barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to
remain I cannot tell you, but after the affinity of Paris and the charm
of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present
I remain, _malgré tout_. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not
come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this
season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father,
that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I
have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I
can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of
my _chef_ are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one
who has tasted the wonders of a Paris _cuisine_ will easily descry.
I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Château-Banvau and
others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode.
Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient
son,--PHILIPPE.'" Tom folded the paper. "Very proper," he
remarked. "What's amiss?"
Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.
"What's amiss? Everything's amiss! That Philip--my son Philip!--should
write me a--an impertinent letter like that! It's--it's monstrous!"
"For God's sake, sit down, Maurry! You're as bad as Philip himself for
restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter."
"Dutiful be damned!" snorted Sir Maurice. "Has the boy no other
feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see
me?"
Tom re-opened the letter.
"The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What's
wrong with that? You have said the same."
"I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared
for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I'm more
like to break my stick across his back!"
"Not a whit," said Tom, cheerfully. "You sent Philip away to acquire
polish, and I don't know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely
that, being what he now is, he'll fly back to the country? What's the
matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your
behests?"
Sir Maurice sank on to the couch.
"If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him," he began,
and checked himself. "I am well served," he said bitterly. "I should
have been content to have him as he was."
"So I thought at the time, but I've changed my opinion."
"I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and--a
mere fop!"
"'Twould be your own fault if he were," said Tom severely. "But he's
not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy."
Sir Maurice grunted.
"It's true, lad. That letter--oh, ay! He's a young rascal, but 'twas
to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when
you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He's still hurt that you
should have done it. I can't fathom the workings of his mind, but he
assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he
wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving
to you"--Tom laughed--"but that letter is a piece of devilry--he has
plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you'd be as angry as you are and
wish your work undone. There's no lack of affection."
Sir Maurice looked up.
"He's--the same Philip?"
"Never think it! In a way he's the same, but there's more of him--ay,
and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes"--he glanced at the
clock--"he'll be here. So you'll see for yourself."
Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed.
"An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter."
"Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw
the like of our Philip!"
"Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you.
There'll be a reckoning between him and Cleone."
"Ay. That's what I don't understand. The pair of them are playing
a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she
hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with every man who
comes--always under Philip's nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I'll swear
he means to have her. I don't interfere. They must work out their own
quarrel."
"Clo doesn't hate Philip," said Sir Maurice. "She was pining for him
until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite's letter. Was it true
that Philip fought over some French hussy?"
"No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told,
I believe it's because he has had _affaires_ in Paris, even if that was
not one. He's too dangerously popular."
"So it seemed from Satterthwaite's account. Is he so popular? I cannot
understand it."
"He's novel, y'see. I'd a letter from Château-Banvau the other day,
mourning the loss of _ce cher petit_ Philippe, and demanding whether he
had found his heart or no!"
Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards.
"By Gad, if Philip's so great a success, it's--it's more than ever I
expected," he ended lamely.
"Wait till you see him!" smiled Thomas. "The boy's for all the world
like a bit o' quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he
opens his mouth, and--here he is!"
A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the
library from the hall.
"_Mordieu_, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed
enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, _vieux
crétin_, for the love of God!"
"Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him,
he'd leave me," remarked Tom. "With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now
what's to do?"
"_Doucement, malheureux!_ Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms
off with the coat? _Ah, voilà!_ Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care
not to crease it. Yes, that is well!"
Then came Moggat's voice, very self-conscious.
"_C'est comme moosoo désire?_"
There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh.
"_Voyons, c'est fameux!_ Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where's
my uncle? In the library?"
Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room.
"Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain--" He broke off. The
next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice's thin
hands pressed to his lips. "Father!"
Tom coughed and walked to the window.
Sir Maurice drew his hands away. He took Philip's chin in his long
fingers and forced his head up. Silently he scrutinised his son's face.
Then he smiled.
"You patched and painted puppy-dog," he mimicked softly.
Philip laughed. His hands found Sir Maurice's again and gripped hard.
"Alack, too true! Father, you're looking older."
"Impudent young scapegrace! What would you? I have but one son."
"And you missed him?"
"A little," acknowledged Sir Maurice.
Philip rose to his feet.
"Ah, but I am glad! And you are sorry you sent him away?"
"Not now. But when I received this--very." Sir Maurice held out the
sheet of paper.
"That! Bah!" Philip sent it whirling into the fire. "For that I
apologise. If you had not been hurt--oh, heaven knows what I should
have done! Where is your baggage, Father?"
"Here by now."
"Here? But no, no! It must go to Curzon Street!"
"My dear son, I thank you very much, but an old man is better with an
old man."
Tom wheeled round.
"What's that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I'm as young as
ever I was!"
"In any case, it is to Curzon Street that you come, Father."
"As often as you wish, dear boy, but I'll stay with Tom." Then, as
Philip prepared to argue the point, "No, Philip, my mind is made up.
Sit down and tell me the tale of your ridiculous duel with Bancroft."
"Oh, that!" Philip laughed. "It was amusing, but scandalous. My
sympathies were with my adversary."
"And what was the ode you threatened to read?"
"An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion.
They took it from me--Paul and Louis--oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They
do not like my verse."
Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down
his cheeks.
"Gad, Philip, but I wish I'd been there! To hear you declaim an ode
of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible
Philip?"
"Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!"
Sir Maurice sat up again.
"Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?"
"That," said his son, "is on the knees of the gods."
"I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?"
"_Parfaitement!_" bowed Philip. "I play now--a little game."
"And Cleone?"
"Cleone ... I don't know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady
Malmerstoke stands my friend."
"Trust Sally," said Tom.
Philip's eyes sparkled.
"Ah, Tom, Tom, art a rogue! Father, he is in love with her ladyship!"
"He always has been," answered Sir Maurice. "Even before old
Malmerstoke died."
Tom cleared his throat.
"I--"
"Then why do you not wed her?" demanded Philip.
"She would not. Now she says--perhaps. We are very good friends," he
added contentedly. "I doubt neither of us is at the age when one loves
with heat."
"Philip, how do you like Paris?" interrupted Sir Maurice.
"I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is
beyond all words."
"Ay. I thought the same. But in the end one is glad to come home."
"May it please heaven, then, to make the end far, far away," said
Philip. "When I go back, you will go with me, Father."
"Ah, I am too old for that now," answered Sir Maurice. He smiled
reminiscently.
"Too old? _Quelle absurdité!_ M. de Château-Banvau has made me swear to
bring you. M. de Richelieu asked when he was to see your face again. A
score--"
"De Richelieu? Where did you meet him, boy?"
"At Versailles. He was very kind to me for your sake."
"Ay, he would be. So you went to Versailles, then!"
"Often."
"Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted
you to Versailles?"
"Many things," parried Philip.
"Female things?"
"What curiosity! Sometimes, yes, but not _au sérieux_."
"Little Philip without a heart, eh?"
"Who told you that?" Philip leaned forward.
"Satterthwaite wrote it, or something like it."
"_Le petit_ Philippe au _C[oe]ur Perdu_. Most of them would give their
eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!"
"Is it still Cleone?" Sir Maurice looked sharply across at him.
"It has--never been anyone else," answered Philip simply.
"I am glad. I want you to marry her, Philip."
"Sir," said Philip superbly, "I have every intention of so doing."