THE SQUIRE FEELS TROUBLE COMING
Dick went out of the room angry with himself, angry with his father,
and still more angry with his brother. He wanted to meet Humphrey and
have it out with him, and he knew that Humphrey at that hour--about
seven o'clock--would be in the smoking-room. But he went upstairs, not
because he wanted a bath before dinner as he had told his father, and
certainly not because he was stiff after trotting a dozen miles or so
along the roads, but because he knew that it was not wise to have
anything out with anybody unless you had complete command over
yourself. So he went into his big comfortable bedroom, where a bright
fire was burning, lit some candles, and threw himself into an
easy-chair to think matters out.
That his father would give way, that he was already in process of
giving way, he was well assured. He knew how to work that all right,
and he had taken no false step, as far as he could remember, in dealing
with him. But that little fact of Virginia's having once danced on the
stage, of which she had told him in the early days of their friendship,
as she had told him everything else about her varied, unhappy life, he
had never thought that he--and she--would have to face. If it had not
been for that, his father, so he told himself, would have given way
already. Knowing it, it was surprising that he had left anything to be
said on the subject at all. He need never have known it; so few people
did know it, even in London, where Virginia was beginning to be well
known, or in Leicestershire, where she was very well known indeed. Of
course, Humphrey knew it--he knew all that sort of gossip about
everybody--and Dick's anger against him began to burn as he imagined
the way in which he would have let it out. He was like a spiteful old
woman, fiddling about in drawing-rooms, whispering scandal into other
old women's ears and receiving it into his own in return.
At this point Humphrey came into the room. "Hullo, old chap!" he said.
"What on earth are you doing up here? It isn't time to dress yet."
Dick got up quickly out of his chair and faced him. He had better have
gone to him in the smoking-room at once before he had begun to think
things over. "What the devil do you mean by meddling with my affairs?"
he said angrily.
Humphrey stopped short and stared as if he had held a pistol to his
head. He and Dick and Walter had been closer friends than most
brothers are. Their ways for some time had begun to diverge, but they
had remained friends, and since their boyhood they had never
quarrelled. Such a speech as Dick's was in effect more than a pistol
held to his head. It was a pistol shot.
"I suppose you mean what I told them downstairs about Virginia Dubec,"
he said.
"Virginia Dubec? Who gave you the right to call her Virginia?" said
Dick hotly, and could have bitten out his tongue for saying it the
moment after, for of course it told Humphrey everything.
But Humphrey was too deeply astonished at the moment to take in
anything. He thought he knew his brother; he had always rather admired
him, and above all for his coolness. But if this was Dick, passionate
and indiscreet, he did not know him at all, and it was difficult to
tell how to deal with him.
But Humphrey was cool too, in his own way, hating the discomfort of
passion, and he certainly did not want to have a row with his elder
brother. "I don't know why you're up against me like this," he said.
"I should have thought we knew each other well enough by this time to
talk over anything that wants talking over, sensibly. I'm quite ready
to talk over anything with you, but hadn't we better go and do it
downstairs? They'll be up here putting out your clothes directly."
"We'll go down to the smoking-room," said Dick, not sorry to have a
minute or two in which to pull himself together.
So they went downstairs without a word, and along a stone passage to a
big room which had been given over to them as boys, because it was
right away from the other rooms, and in which they knew no one would
disturb them.
Neither of them spoke at once, but both took cigarettes from a box on a
table, and Humphrey offered Dick a match, which he refused, lighting
one for himself.
"Lady George Dubec," said Dick--"Virginia Dubec, if you like to call
her so--I've no objection--is a friend of mine, as you know. She
wanted a quiet place to hunt from for a month or two, and I said I
would try to find her a house here. Of course I told her that they
would make friends with her from here. I went to see her this
afternoon, and I come back to find you have been talking scandal about
her, and giving the governor the impression that she's an impossible
sort of creature for respectable people to know. Upon my word,
Humphrey, you ought to be kicked."
Humphrey grew a shade paler, but he asked quietly, "What scandal do you
accuse me of spreading about her?"
"Well, it isn't scandal in the sense that it's untrue; but I don't
suppose a dozen people know that she was ever on the stage. It was
only for a few months, and the circumstances of it did her credit. But
if it gets about, it will do her harm. As far as the governor goes, of
course, it puts him up on his hind legs at once, and here am I in the
position of getting this quite charming lady, against whom nobody can
say a word, down here, and my own people refusing to go near her. It's
too bad. If you happened to know that about her, which, of course, is
just the sort of thing you would find out and remember and talk about,
out of all the other things you might say about a woman like that, you
ought to have kept it to yourself. And you would have done if you had
had a spark of decent feeling."
"I _should_ have kept it to myself if I had had any idea it was through
you she came here."
"You ought to have kept it to yourself in any case. You know her, you
know what she is, and the first thing you find to blurt out about her
when you hear she has come down here is the very thing that you know
will put everybody against her!"
"Look here, Dick, there's no sense in you going on blackguarding me
like this. I hadn't a ghost of a notion she was anywhere near here
when I told them what I did. The moment I came into the room the
governor said, 'We've been talking about Lady George Dubec. Do you
know her?' I said, 'Yes, she's a very charming lady.' That was the
very first thing I said. Then I said, 'She was an actress once upon a
time.' There's nothing in that. You say very few people know it.
You're quite wrong. Lots of people know it. Why, even Mrs. Graham
knew it, and had seen her. Nobody thinks anything the worse of her for
it. Why should they? And anyhow it wasn't until afterwards that they
told me that she had come down here. Then I said, 'Dick knows her
better than I do; he'll tell you all you want to know.' Really, old
chap, you're a bit unreasonable."
Both of them had been standing so far, but now Humphrey, feeling
perhaps that the crisis had been disposed of, threw himself into a
chair.
So it was, on the surface. Dick stood for a time looking down on the
floor. If it was as Humphrey had said, and he had not known that
Virginia Dubec was in the neighbourhood until after he had let out that
fact about her, it was impossible to carry the attack further. But
Dick was no more satisfied with him than before. The hostility he had
felt remained, and was destined to grow. From that moment the common
ground of easy, tolerant brotherhood upon which they had both stood for
so long was left behind. Dick had begun to criticise, to find cause
for dislike; Humphrey had received an affront, and he did not easily
forgive an affront.
But the cement of their years of frictionless companionship still held,
and could not be broken in a moment. Dick also took a chair. "Well,
if you didn't know----" he said rather grudgingly.
"No, I didn't know, and I'm sorry," said Humphrey; "the governor won't
hold out, Dick; he's only got to see her."
It was the best thing he could have said. Dick was inwardly gratified,
and some of his resentment departed. "You needn't say anything unless
he opens the subject," he said. "But----"
"Oh, I know what to say if he does," said Humphrey. "I say, Dick, old
chap, is it a case?"
Dick was not at all ready for this--from Humphrey, although if Walter
had asked him he might have admitted how much of a case it was, and
gained some contentment by talking it over. "I like her, of course,"
he said, somewhat impatiently; "I've never disguised it. I suppose one
is permitted to make friendship with women occasionally?"
"Oh yes," said Humphrey, with rather elaborate unconcern. Then Dick
said he was going up to dress, and left the room without further word,
while Humphrey sat a while longer looking at the fire and turning
things over in his mind.
Over the dinner-table that evening there was talk of the forthcoming
Hunt Ball, and the one or two others which made the week after
Christmas a short season of gaiety in South Meadshire. The Birketts
were coming to stay for them, the Judge and his wife and unmarried
daughter, and his other daughter, Lady Senhouse, with her husband.
These were the only guests invited so far, and the Squire, who liked a
little bustle of gaiety about him now and again, said that they must
ask one or two more people.
"We shall be unusually gay this year," he said, "with the ball for
Grace at Kemsale, which is sure to be well done. We must take a good
party over from Kencote. Who can we ask?"
It was a somewhat extraordinary thing that a question like that could
not easily be answered at Kencote. The Squire very seldom left home,
Mrs. Clinton practically never, and in the course of years the families
from whom they could draw for visitors had dwindled down to those of
relations and county neighbours. The Squire was quite satisfied with
this state of things. There were plenty of people about him with whom
he could shoot, and who would shoot with him; and an occasional dinner
party was all or more than he wanted in the way of indoor
sociability--that, and this yearly little group of balls, the Hunt
Ball, the Bathgate Ball, and whatever might be added to them from one
or other of the big houses round. Kencote had never been one of those
houses. Its women had never been considered of enough importance to
make the trouble and expense of ball-giving worth while, and the men
could get all the balls they wanted elsewhere. Before Cicely was
married her brothers had generally brought a few men down for these
local gaieties, but for the past two years there had been no party from
Kencote.
"I think Lady Aldeburgh would bring Susan Clinton if you were to ask
her," said Humphrey. "In fact, I'm pretty sure she would."
Now the Countess of Aldeburgh was a person of some importance in the
social world, and her husband was sprung from the same race as the
Squire, sprung, in fact, some distance back, from Kencote, and
represented, as the Squire not infrequently pointed out, a junior
branch of the family of which he himself was the head. He was
accustomed to speak rather patronisingly of the Aldeburgh Clintons on
that account, although not to them, for he did not know them, the
present Lord Aldeburgh having been a small boy at school at that period
of the Squire's life when he had been about London and known everybody.
"Are they friends of yours?" he asked, not displeased at the idea.
"Yes," said Humphrey. "I told Susan Clinton that she ought to see the
home of her ancestors--I was lunching with them--and Lady Aldeburgh
said they couldn't see it unless they were asked."
"No difficulty about asking them," said the Squire. "Very pleased to
see them, and show them what there is, although I dare say they won't
think much of it after the sort of thing they're accustomed to. They
must take us as they find us. Did you say anything about these balls?"
"Well, yes, I did--threw out feelers, you know. I think they would
come if mother were to ask them."
"Oh, write by all means, Nina," said the Squire. "Include Aldeburgh,
of course."
"Oh, _he_ won't come," said Humphrey. "He never goes where they do.
He doesn't like them."
The Squire frowned. He knew there were people like that, but he didn't
want to hear about them. According to his old-fashioned ideas,
husbands and wives, if they went visiting at all, ought to go visiting
together. Of course it was different where a man might have to go up
to London for a day or two. There was no necessity always to take his
wife along with him. Or he might perhaps go to a house to shoot. That
was all right. But for women to make a point of going about by
themselves--why, they had much better stop at home and look after their
household duties. "Well, ask him, of course," he said. "He can refuse
if he likes. We can do very well without him. Are either of you boys
going to ask any men?"
Dick had thought of bringing a friend, Captain Vernon, who had been to
Kencote before and would be very welcome. And Humphrey was going to
ask Lord Edgeware.
"What, that young fool who lost all his money racing?" asked the Squire.
"He didn't lose it all," said Humphrey, "and he's had a lot more left
to him."
"We don't want that sort of person here," said the Squire decisively.
"All right," said Humphrey. "But he's a very good chap all the same,
and has finished sowing his wild oats."
"He's an absolute rotter," said Dick. "I quite agree; we don't want
that sort of fellow here."
Humphrey threw a glance at him and flushed with annoyance, but he said
lightly, "I beg to withdraw his candidature. Is there any objection to
Bobby Trench? He hasn't spent money racing because he has never had
any to spend."
Dick was silent. The Squire enquired if Mr. Trench was one of Lord
So-and-so's sons, and being informed that he was, said that he had
known his father and should be pleased to see him at Kencote. So the
party was made up, and the men went on to talk about pheasants and
hounds, until the twins came in for dessert, when they went on talking
about pheasants and hounds.
The Squire and Dick went into the library to go over their farm papers
together almost immediately after dinner, leaving Humphrey with his
mother and the girls in the morning-room. When they had finished they
betook themselves to easy-chairs to talk, as their custom was in the
evening. They were very good friends, and had enough in common to make
their conversation mutually agreeable. Neither of them read much, and
when Dick was at Kencote they usually spent their evenings talking.
But Dick was rather silent to-night, and the Squire was uneasily
conscious of the shadow that had fallen on their intercourse. And when
he was uneasy about anything his uneasiness always found expression.
"I say, my boy, I hope you don't take it amiss what I said about this
Lady George Dubec this afternoon," he said. "You see my point all
right, don't you?"
"I see your point well enough," said Dick. "Only I don't think it's
much of a point."
He was accustomed thus to address his father on equal terms, and the
Squire liked to have it so. He was now only anxious, while having his
own way, to avoid the unpleasantness of leaving a grudge against
himself in Dick's mind.
"Well, we needn't go all over it again," he said. "I haven't made up
my mind yet. I don't say your mother shan't call and I don't say she
shall. I must think it over. Of course it's a bit awkward for you."
"It's more than a bit awkward for me," said Dick uncompromisingly.
"When you do think it over you might consider how particularly awkward
it is, after having helped this lady to a house here, to have to tell
her that my people don't consider her respectable enough to know."
"H'm! Ha!" grunted the Squire, at a loss how to meet this. Then he
made a clutch at his authority. "Well, I think you ought to have asked
me first, Dick," he said, "and not taken things for granted. If I'm
putting you in an awkward position now, it's because you have put me in
an awkward position first."
There was reason in this, perhaps more than the Squire usually
displayed in discussing a subject in which his feelings were already
engaged, and Dick did not want to go over the ground again until
matters had advanced themselves a stage.
"She will be at the meet on Monday--driving," he said. "You will see
what she is like, and that she isn't in the least like what you
probably think she is. I should like to introduce you to her, but that
shall be as you please."
The Squire did not reply to this. He sat looking at the fire with a
puzzled frown on his face. Then he turned to his son and said,
"There's nothing between you and this lady, Dick, is there? You hadn't
got her in your mind last night when you said that you did not want to
marry a young girl?"
Dick cursed himself inwardly for having made that unlucky speech. He
was not cut out for however mild a conspiracy, and he hated to have to
fence and parry. But he must answer quickly if suspicion, which would
be disastrous at the present stage, were not to rest on him. He gave a
little laugh. "Is that what you have been thinking of?" he asked. "Is
that why you don't want mother to call on Lady George?"
The Squire had only to push his question, and he would have learnt
everything, for Dick would not have denied Virginia. But he did not do
so. "No, of course not," he said. "But if it were so--if that's how
the land lay----"
Dick did not tell him that that was not how the land lay. He said
nothing, and the Squire relinquished the subject, not to open it up
again until he was alone with his wife that night. Then his
disquietude came out, for Dick's reply to his question had not
satisfied him, and putting two and two together, as he said, and
impelled towards dreadful conclusions by his habit of making the most
of vague fears, he had now fully convinced himself that the land did
indeed lie in the direction of Lady George Dubec, now settled within a
mile or two, at Blaythorn, and that, unless he could do something to
stop it, a most dreadful catastrophe was about to overtake the house of
Clinton.
Mrs. Clinton could do little to calm his fears. Privately she thought
that he was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, and that Dick was as
little likely as the Squire himself to marry such a woman as she
imagined Lady George Dubec to be. For she knew how much alike her
husband and her son were in all the essential aims and ambitions of
their lives, although she knew also that Dick had a far cooler head and
a better brain than his father's. For that very reason he was the less
likely to make a marriage which would be beneath the dignity of his
family. She said what she could to persuade her husband that Dick
might be trusted in a matter of this sort, but he was in that stage of
alarm when however much a man may desire to find himself mistaken he
resists all attempts to prove him so. "I tell you, Nina," he said,
"that he told me himself that when he did marry it would be a
middle-aged woman, or words to that effect. And he gets this woman
down here without saying a word to us about it, and they say she's
good-looking--you heard Humphrey say that yourself, and Mrs. Graham
too--and he goes over there this afternoon without mentioning it.--By
Jove! didn't he say he wanted to go and see Jim at Mountfield? Yes, he
did,--you remember--at luncheon. Nina, I'm afraid there's no doubt
about it. Can't you _see_ what a dreadful thing it would be, and that
we _must_ stop it at any cost?"
"I hope it will not come about," said Mrs. Clinton. "Dick is
level-headed, and he sees questions of this sort in much the same light
as you do, Edward."
"It would be intolerable," wailed the poor Squire. "And Dick of all
people! I'd have trusted him anywhere. And now I shall have to stand
up against him, and it will be one of the hardest things I have ever
had to do. But I won't let him throw himself away and drag the old
name in the dust if I can possibly prevent it. And, God helping me, I
will prevent it, whatever it costs me. Nina, you are not to go near
this woman. The only way is to keep her at arm's-length. If we stand
firm the affair will fade out, and Dick will forget all about it. He
has always been a good boy. I've been proud of my son. He will thank
me some day for saving him from himself. Good-night, Nina, God bless
you. There's a difficult time coming for us at Kencote, I'm afraid."
So night and silence fell on the great house. Its master, always
healthily tired after his day, spent mostly in the open, soon forgot
his troubles in sleep; its mistress lay awake for a long time,
wondering if trouble were really going to befall her first-born, who
had gone so far from her since she had first hugged him to her breast.
And in other rooms in the house there were those who lay awake and
wearied themselves with the troubles of life or slept soundly without a
care, some of them of account in the daily comings and goings, some of
very little, but one and all acting and reacting on one another,
concerned in some degree in a common life.