DICK LEAVES KENCOTE AND MAKES A DISCOVERY
There was not much pleasure for the Squire that day, although they
found a fox without delay, and with one check hunted him across the
best of the South Meadshire country and killed him in the open after a
fast run of forty minutes. The hounds got him out of the spinney where
he was known to reside, in no time, but he immediately took refuge in
another and a larger one half a mile or so off. The hunt straggled
after him, those who had been on the wrong side of the covert when the
music of the hounds first announced their prompt discovery riding hard
to make up for lost time, the carts and carriages streaming along the
road. Then there was a pause while the hounds worked to and fro
through the wood, and the groups formed again and waited for what
should happen. The Squire, more by instinct than design, for his
thoughts were on far other matters, edged down the skirts of the wood
to where he could see the fox break cover if he behaved as his
experience told him most foxes would behave in like circumstances, and
keeping well under cover he soon saw the cunning nose poking out of the
brushwood and the furtive red form steal out to cross the road and make
a bold bid for freedom. Just at that moment, as he was preparing to
give the view-hulloa when my gentleman should have taken irrevocably to
the open, a cart drove smartly round the opposite corner of the wood
and pulled up, but not before the fox had seen it and slunk cautiously
back into shelter. The Squire smothered a strong exclamation of
disgust, but gave it vent and added something to it when he recognised
the cart and its driver. If Lady George Dubec had come into the South
Meadshire country to head the South Meadshire foxes, as well as to
annoy him grossly in other ways, then good-bye to everything. But she
should be told what she had done. With rage in his heart and a black
scowl on his face he cantered along the strip of grass by the roadside,
and lifting his hat and looking the offending lady straight in the
face, said in an angry voice, "Would you mind keeping behind the
hounds, madam? You have just turned the fox back into covert." Then
he turned his back and rode off, leaving Virginia and Miss Dexter
looking at each other with horrified faces.
However, Reynard's caution did not save him long. He was bustled out
of shelter again within ten minutes, and realising that his only chance
of escape was to run for it, run he did and gave the hounds all they
knew to catch him. The Squire was away with the first, and, riding
hard and straight, did for what would have been otherwise a blissful
forty minutes succeed in losing the sharp sense of his unhappiness,
although black care was perched all the time behind him, and when the
fox had been killed, seized on him with claws so sharp that he had no
heart left for anything further, and leaving the hounds to draw a gorsy
common for another fox turned his horse's head round and rode off home.
Humphrey, not far away at the start, had been in at the finish, with
half a dozen more, but he had seen nothing of Dick, and no one who had
set out to follow on wheels had been anywhere within sight for the last
half-hour. The Squire felt a grim satisfaction in the thought of Lady
George Dubec left hopelessly out of it, but he also thought of Dick
missing the best run, so far, of the season to keep behind with her,
and his satisfaction turned into sad disgust. His long ride home was
the most miserable he had ever taken, and he wished before it was ended
that he had seen out the day, on the chance of another burst of
excitement which for the time would have eased his pain.
He reached Kencote about three o'clock, and expected to find the house
empty, for he knew that Mrs. Clinton had been going to lunch at
Mountfield and he did not expect her to be back yet. But she met him
in the hall and said, "I thought you might be home early, Edward, so I
did not go out."
Now the Squire was never home early. He always saw out the day's
sport, however bad it might be, and the number of times he had returned
from hunting before dark during the last thirty years might have been
counted on his ten fingers. He looked at his wife apprehensively and
followed her into the morning-room, where she turned to him.
"Dick has gone," she said.
He stared at her, not understanding.
"He came back about twelve," she went on, "and changed his clothes.
His servant was out, but he left word for him to pack and follow him to
Blaythorn. He wrote you a letter before he went."
"Where is it?" asked the Squire. "Didn't you see him before he went?
Didn't you speak to him?" He went out of the room and into his own,
and Mrs. Clinton followed him.
"I did see him," she said, as the Squire went to his writing-table
where an envelope was lying on the silver-mounted blotting-pad. "He
said that you had made it impossible for him to remain at home, and he
bade me good-bye, but he did not tell me anything more."
But the Squire was not listening to her. He turned the page of the
letter and then put it into her hand. "Read that," he said.
"Dear Father" [it ran],
"I had hoped at least that you would have consented to meet the woman I
am going to marry. If you had you would have seen how unlike she is to
your ideas of her and that I am doing myself honour by my choice. You
have made the situation impossible now, and I cannot return to Kencote
until you consent to receive my affianced wife with the respect due to
her.
"Your affectionate son,
"RICHARD CLINTON."
The Squire's face was purple, but he controlled the violent expression
of his anger. "His affianced wife!" he exclaimed scornfully. "So now
we have it all, and I was right from the beginning. Well, if he waits
till I receive her he may wait till I'm in my coffin. I told him this
morning I would not recognise her, now or at any time, and I'll stick
to my word. He has chosen to fight me, and he will find that I'm
ready." He spoke bitterly, but firmly, and as if he meant everything
that he said.
Mrs. Clinton laid the letter on the table. Her face was serious, and
paler than its wont. "Have you seen her, Edward?" she asked. "Is she
so impossible?"
"Seen her! Impossible!" echoed the Squire, with a return to the
unbridled violence he usually showed when he was disturbed. "Yes, I've
seen her, and she's as impossible as a wife for the heir of Kencote as
any woman on the face of the earth--a painted hussy, hand in glove with
the worst sort of vicious loafer, puffing cigarettes in the face of a
whole crowd of respectable people, shamelessly breaking up sport--oh,
I've seen her, and seen enough of her. To my dying day I'll never
willingly see her again, and if that means breaking with Dick I'll
break with him till he comes to his senses. I mean it. If she is
going to stay here to hunt with the South Meadshire, then I'll go and
hunt somewhere else until she's gone; or I won't hunt at all. Yes,
she's impossible. You've spoken the right word. I shouldn't be doing
my duty if I left any stone unturned to put an end to Dick's
unaccountable folly. He'll thank me for it some day, and I'll put up
with all and every unhappiness until that day comes."
He had calmed down during the course of his speech, as he often did,
beginning on a note of unreasonable violence and ending on one
completely different. But he did not usually end on a note of strong
determination, as now, and Mrs. Clinton looked at him as if she hardly
recognised him, with lines of perplexity and trouble in her smooth,
comely face. She did not ask him what he was going to do, such
questions being apt to provoke him to impatient anger and seldom
bringing a direct reply. She said hesitatingly, "If he says definitely
that he is going to marry her----" and left him to supply the end of
her sentence.
"I shall not let him marry her," he said quietly. "He can't marry on
his pay, and I shall stop his allowance from to-day."
This statement, revolutionary of all fixed notions that had their rise
in Kencote, affected Mrs. Clinton as nothing before in her married life
had affected her. It showed her her husband as she had never known
him, bent on a course of action, not ready to take advice about it, but
prepared to turn his back on the most cherished principles of his life
in order to carry it out. She had nothing to say. She could only look
down and wonder apprehensively what her world was coming to.
"I don't think I should have thought of doing such a thing," the Squire
admitted. "It gives me more pain to take a course like that than
anything else could have done. It was Humphrey who suggested it. He
said, quite truly, that none of them could marry unless I saw them
through. And I won't see Dick through this. I'll do anything to stop
it, however much I suffer by what I have to do. Don't you think I'm
right, Nina?"
This was more what Mrs. Clinton was accustomed to. She could not say
that she thought he was right, nor that he was wrong. She could only
say, as she did, that such a proceeding would be distressing to him.
"I know that," said the Squire, with a new simplicity. "I'm not
thinking of myself. I'm thinking of Dick. I love the boy, Nina. He's
got himself into trouble and I've got to help him out of it."
"Do you think this is the best way?" was all that she could find to say.
"It's the only way. If there were any other I would take it. If it
doesn't bring him to his senses at once, I shall keep the money for him
till it does. God knows _I_ don't want to touch it."
"He will have to give up the Guards," said Mrs. Clinton.
The Squire had not thought of this, and he digested the statement.
"He's not an absolute fool," he said, "although he has lost his head
over this. As far as the service goes, I shouldn't mind if he did give
it up. I never meant him to go on soldiering so long. Still, if he
does give it up, what's he to do, poor fellow, till he comes round? He
wouldn't have a penny. I shall tell him that I will continue his
allowance as long as he remains unmarried." He brightened up as this
idea struck him. "Yes," he said, "that will be the best way, and just
as effective. I couldn't bear to think of Dick hard up. I'll write
now."
He sat down to his table, muddy boots, spurs, and all, and Mrs. Clinton
left him, a little relieved in her mind that he saw a gleam of light,
but otherwise solicitous for his sake and unhappy on her own. She
loved her firstborn too, although it was very long since she had been
able to show it. She would have liked to have helped him now, but he
had not asked for her help, had told her nothing, and had left her with
scarcely more than a formal word of farewell.
The Squire, left to himself, wrote quickly, and sealed up his letter
after he had read it over once, as if first thoughts were best, and he
was uncertain to what second would lead him.
"My dear Dick" [his note ran],
"I can only repeat that nothing will induce me to give my consent to
the marriage you propose. If you marry in a way to please me I shall
provide for you handsomely, as I have always intended to do, but if you
persist in the course you have begun on I shall withdraw your allowance
entirely. It will be paid to you for the present, but only as long as
you remain unmarried. I am very sorry to have to take this course, but
you leave me nothing else to do.
"Your affectionate father,
"EDWARD CLINTON."
When he had closed and directed the envelope an unpleasant thought
struck him, and he leant back in his chair and looked out of the window
while he considered it. "I suppose she must have _some_ money," he
said to himself; and then after a time, "But Dick would never do that."
The note was taken over to Blaythorn, as all notes were that were
despatched from Kencote, by a groom on horseback. The Squire was
impatient of the workings of the penny post, except for distances
impossible for a horse, and he would not ask if Dick's soldier-servant
had yet left the house with his master's belongings. "Tell one of the
grooms to take that over," were his curt instructions, and so well was
the letter of his orders always obeyed that a groom rode off with it
within a quarter of an hour, although another one was already
harnessing a horse to the cart that was to take Dick's servant to
Blaythorn as soon as he should be ready. But having got safely outside
the park gates he dawdled till his fellow caught him up, and the three
of them then continued the journey together and discussed the situation.
Dick's servant was loyal to his master, but it was not in human nature
that he should have refrained from speculating upon what was doing, and
between them they managed to attain to a fairly clear idea of what that
was, their unanimous conclusion being that if the Captain had made up
his mind to marry the lady the Squire might take what steps he liked,
but he would not stop him. In this way began the rumours that
presently spread all over the county and thence all over England, or to
such of its inhabitants as are interested in the affairs of its Captain
Clintons and Lady Georges.
Dick and Virginia were alone together when the note was brought in, the
mounted groom having ridden on when he got within a mile of his
destination. "That means war," said Dick, laconically, when he had
read it; "but I didn't think he would use those tactics quite so soon.
I wonder who put him up to it." He thought for a moment. "Humphrey
wouldn't have done it, I suppose," he said reflectively.
Virginia's eyes were serious as she looked up from the note written in
the Squire's big, rather sprawling hand on the thick white paper. "I
wonder why he hates me so," she said a little plaintively. "Is it
because I headed the fox, Dick?"
Dick took her chin between his thumb and finger and his face grew
tender as he looked into her eyes. "You were a very foolish girl to do
that, Virginia," he said. "I should have thought you would have known
better."
"I didn't know there was such a sharp turn," she said. "I pulled up
the moment I got round the corner."
"Oh, well! never mind about that," said Dick. "It was unfortunate, but
it wouldn't have made him want to disinherit me. He can't disinherit
me, you know. It's just like him to go blundering into a course like
this, which he hasn't got the firmness to keep up."
"That letter doesn't look as if he lacked firmness," Virginia said.
"Dick dear, what shall you do?"
Dick did not answer this question directly. He had his father's habit
of following out his own train of thought and ignoring, or rather not
noticing, interruption. "He must know perfectly well," he said, "that
I can raise money quite easily on my prospects. I dare say he hasn't
thought of that, though. He never does think a thing thoroughly out.
He wouldn't be happy if I threatened to do it."
"Oh, Dick, Dick!" exclaimed Virginia, "why do you want to worry about
money? I have plenty for both of us."
"My dear, I've told you that's impossible," said Dick a little
impatiently. "Don't keep harping on it."
It gave her a thrill of delight to be spoken to in that way--by him.
She had been used to being ordered to do something or not to do
something by a man, but not by the man she loved. She kept obedient
silence, but gave Dick's arm a little squeeze.
"I'm not going to do it, though," he went on. "I should hate it as
much as he would. Let's sit down, Virginia. I'll tell you what I'm
going to do."
They sat down on the sofa, and Dick took a cigarette out of his case.
Virginia held it open. "Couldn't I have just one?" she pleaded.
"No," said Dick, taking it from her. "You promised you would give it
up when you came down here."
"So I have," she said. "I think you are very cruel."
Dick put the case back into his pocket. "Of course I'm not unprepared
for this," he said, "though I hoped it wouldn't come to it. I shall
have to give up the service and get some work."
"Oh, Dick!" she said. "You don't want to give up the service."
"No, I don't want to. I should have got my majority next year, and I
wanted to go on till I commanded the regiment, though I never told
_him_ so. But it's got to be done, and it's no use grizzling about it."
"And you're doing this for me!" she said softly.
"I am doing a great deal more than that for you," he said. "I'm giving
up Kencote, at least for a time."
"Do you think I'm worth it?" she asked drily.
He looked down at her, and then took her hand in his. "You must get
used to my little ways," he said, with a kind smile. "I must be able
to say to you what is in my mind."
"Oh, I know," she said repentantly. "It was horrid of me. But I do
know what you're giving up, and I love you for it. I hope it won't be
for long--Kencote, I mean. I suppose if you give up the army you won't
be able to go back to it. I hate to think of that because it's your
career. And what else can you work at, dear Dick? Fancy you in an
office!"
"The idea of me in an office needn't disturb you," said Dick. "I don't
intend to go into an office. There are two things I know about. One
is soldiering, the other is estate management. If I'm to be prevented
from managing the estate that's going to be my own some day, then I'll
manage somebody else's in the meantime. There are lots of landowners
who would be only too glad to give me a job."
"Tell me what it means exactly, Dick. Have you got to be a sort of
steward to some rich person? I don't think I should like that."
He laughed and patted her hand. "You must get rid of some of your
American ideas," he said. "The 'rich person' wouldn't want to treat me
as a servant. And it isn't necessary that he should be very rich. I
might not be able to get a big agency all at once. I don't know that I
should want to, as long as there was enough work to do. As far as your
money goes, Virginia, I shouldn't have any feeling about using it to
help run the show. What I won't do is to live on it and do nothing.
There ought not to be any difficulty in finding a place that would give
us a good house, and enough money to run the stables on, and for my
personal expenses, which wouldn't be heavy, as we would stick there and
do our job. It would be just what I hoped we should be doing at
Kencote from the dower-house. With luck, if there happened to be a
vacancy anywhere, I could do better than that. But that much, at any
rate, it won't be difficult to get, with a month or so to look round
in."
"Then all our difficulties are done away with!" she exclaimed. "Oh,
Dick, why didn't you tell me before? I thought, if your father held
out, we should have a terrible time, and you would be as obstinate as
possible about my money. I'll tell you what I have. I have----"
"I don't want to know what you have--yet," he interrupted her. "I
didn't tell you before because I hoped it wouldn't come to that. I
didn't want to face the necessity of giving up the service, and still
less of having to give up Kencote. But now there's no help for it;
well, we must just let all that slide and make the best of things."
She still thought his scruples about using her money to do what he
wanted to do, and his absence of scruples about using it to do what he
didn't want, needed more explanation. But she gave up that point as
being only one more of the inexplicable tortuosities of a man's sense
of honour. She was only too glad that the question could be settled as
easily as that. But Dick must have felt also that it needed more
explanation, for he said, "When I said that I had no feeling about
letting you help run the house--of course, I really hate it like
poison. But there is just the difference."
"Oh, of course there is--all the difference in the world," she made
haste to reply, terrified lest they should be going to split, after
all, on this wretched simulacrum of a rock. Then she had a bright
thought. "But, Dick dear, you told me once how lucky your ancestors
had been in marrying heiresses--not that I'm much of an heiress!"
"You're not an heiress at all," he said impatiently. "I suppose
everything you've got comes from--from that fellow. Can't you see the
difference? I hate touching his beastly money. And I won't, longer
than I can help."
"But, Dick!" she exclaimed wonderingly. "Didn't you know? He never
left me a cent. He hadn't a cent to leave."
He stared at her. "Then where _did_ it come from?" he asked.
"Why, from pigs--from Chicago," she said, laughing. "My father was of
an old family, my mother wasn't, and one of her brothers made a fortune
in a bacon factory. Unfortunately, he did not make it until after she
was dead and I was married, or it might have stopped--oh, many things.
But he left it to me--the bacon factory--and I sold it for---- But you
won't let me tell you how much."
"Oh, you can tell me if it's yours," he said.
"Well, they told me I had been cheated. But what was I to do with a
bacon factory? And I sold it for as much as I wanted to live
comfortably on. I sold it for a quarter of a million dollars."
Dick's stare was still in evidence. "A quarter of a million!
Dollars!" he repeated. "That's--what? Fifty thousand pounds. By the
Lord, Virginia, you're an heiress after all."