THE GUNS AND THE LADIES
Nancy stood with her uncle, as she had announced her intention of
doing. Sir Herbert, in a Norfolk jacket of voluminous tweed and a
green Tyrolean hat, would hardly have been recognised by those who had
only seen him in his Judge's robes. He asked Nancy as they were
waiting whether she thought he was properly attired. "I like to do the
thing thoroughly while I'm about it," he said. "I notice that nobody
but myself is wearing these buttoned things--spats I think they call
them. I think you might have written, Nancy, to tell me they had gone
out of fashion. Do you think I could take them off and throw them away
presently? I don't know what good they are. It is only a passion for
being correctly dressed that induced me to put them on."
"I think they look very nice," said Nancy. "And as for your hat, Uncle
Herbert, I'm sure it's the very latest thing, because Humphrey has got
one just like it. But it wants a woodcock's feather in it."
"Oh, does it? Thank you for telling me. I shall direct my attention
to-day to shooting a woodcock if one turns up, and robbing him of his
feather. It is very unpleasant and takes away your conceit of yourself
not to have everything exactly right. With your intelligence you no
doubt understand that."
"Joan understands it better than I do," replied Nancy. "She likes to
be well dressed. I don't care about it one way or the other."
"Ah! but that's such a mistake," said Sir Herbert, "especially for a
female, if I may call you so. When your body is well dressed your mind
is well dressed. You should look into that."
"I have," said Nancy. "It's all a question of buttons."
What she meant by this aphorism did not appear, for a shot from the
right of the line made Sir Herbert spring to attention, and immediately
after, with a sudden whir, a high pheasant shot like a bullet over his
head, and flying straight into the charge from his gun, turned over in
the air and fell with a thud on the grass far behind him.
"Glorious!" exclaimed the Judge. "I'm in form." But although he fired
many barrels during the next few minutes, in which a hot fusillade was
going on on the right and on the left, and birds were falling, clean
shot, or sliding to the ground with wings outspread, or continuing
their swift flight unshaken, he brought only one down, with a broken
wing, which ran off into the shaugh at the top of the hill.
"Now that is most disappointing," he said, when the tap-tap of the
beaters' sticks could be heard, and they began to emerge from the wood
one by one. "I really did think I was going to shoot well to-day.
Life is full of such delusive hopes."
"I'm glad you didn't shoot too many," said Nancy. "They're such pretty
things, and I like to see them get away."
"So do I, in theory," said Sir Herbert. "In practice, no. Do you
think it is the lust for killing, as some people say?"
"Oh no," said Nancy. "I have thought about that. If it were, I
shouldn't want to come out. It is the skill."
"I think you're right, Nancy. That, and what remains of the primitive
instinct of the chase. You had to kill your food, and you kept your
health by doing so. You killed two birds with one stone."
"And now you don't even kill one bird with two barrels," said Nancy,
with a side-glance at his eye.
He met her mischievous gaze. "Nancy," he said, "if you had said that
on the bench they would have put it in the papers--with headlines; as
it is, I've a good mind to commit you for contempt of court."
The divided groups began to congregate. The Squire came round the
corner very well pleased with himself. In spite of his preoccupation
he had shot quite up to his form. And his good-humour was confirmed at
the discovery that Hammond-Watt could be classed as a doubtful no
longer, for he had killed more birds than anybody, and killed them
clean, and that Bobby Trench had also given a fair account of himself.
The day had begun well, and the fact that Sir Herbert had only shot two
pheasants, one of which had got away, and George Senhouse had shot
none, although, as is the unaccountable way of driven birds, they had
come over him more thickly than over any one else, did not avail to
dash his satisfaction. He led the way to the next stand, down a
woodland ride, in high good-humour, walking with great strides, which
Lady Birkett, who accompanied him, found some difficulty in keeping up
with. "I hope Herbert will pick up," he said, laughing good-humoredly
at his brother-in-law's misfortune. "Now I'm never very much away from
my form, either above or below. Funny thing--form! Even when I'm
worried to death about things it don't seem to make much difference to
my eye."
But when the next drive was over, and he had only shot two pheasants,
neither of them clean, and a rabbit, he said, "It's all this infernal
worry. No man on earth, I don't care who he is, can shoot straight if
he's got something weighing on his mind."
Lady Birkett was consolatory. "My dear Edward, don't think about it,"
she said. "It will all come right."
"I wish I thought so," said the Squire. "I think if I had that woman
here I'd put a charge of shot into her."
During the course of the morning the twins came together to compare
notes. "Humphrey is shooting quite well," said Joan, "but, all the
same, if he had fallen in with my suggestion we should have scooped
twenty-four shillings. I reckon it up after every drive and tell him
the result. I am hoping that he will be so pleased with himself that
he will offer to settle up at the end of the day of his own accord."
"Don't make it too much," advised Nancy. "Ten shillings in our pockets
are better than twenty in his."
"Bobby Trench offered to take over the arrangement," said Joan.
Nancy threw back her fair hair. "It's a pity to waste an opportunity,"
she said, "but of course you can't accept a tip from him."
"My dear, as if I would!" exclaimed Joan. "But he's very pushing.
It's difficult to keep him at a distance. I think I shall go and stand
with Mr. Wilkinson. He's a dear old thing, and I think he'd be
flattered."
"Oh, don't forsake Humphrey, for goodness' sake, if he's in a good
temper," advised Nancy.
"Well, Bobby Trench is such a nuisance. He comes over and talks to us
while we're waiting."
"If you stick on till lunch-time I'll change with you after. Uncle
Herbert is shooting very badly, but he's full of conversation. And I
didn't tell you--he asked after the camera fund. I don't know who can
have told him--Dick, I suppose. Dear old Dick; I wish he was here!"
"So do I," said Joan. "Did Uncle Herbert show any signs of
contributing?"
"I expect he will. But I didn't want to appear too mercenary; I
skilfully changed the subject."
"That ought to do the trick," observed Joan. "I don't mind a bit
taking it from relations. They ought to be encouraged to do their
duty."
"All old people ought to tip all young ones," said Nancy largely. "You
might convey that truth delicately to Mr. Wilkinson."
"I might, but I'm not going to."
"Or Colonel Stacey. Why not try him? He's old enough."
"You can do your own dirty work," said Joan, preparing to leave her.
"Colonel Stacey is very poor. He lives in a tiny little house. I
shall sit next to him at luncheon, and see that he gets a jolly good
one."
The Squire shot worse and worse as the morning went on, and through
over-anxiety and confused instructions the birds were not driven
properly out of High Beech Wood, which ought to have afforded the best
drive of the day. They streamed away to the right of where the Squire
was standing, where there was neither a gun nor a stop, or went back
over the heads of the keepers. Humphrey had suggested placing a gun
where those that were got out of the wood eventually came over, and
because he had pooh-poohed the suggestion the Squire was furious with
him. Dick would have put a gun there without asking him. But Humphrey
now could do nothing right. After this fiasco he suggested sending to
the keeper's cottage, where luncheon was to be served, to tell them to
set the tables outside. There was a warm grove of beeches at the back
of it, where they sometimes did lunch earlier in the season, and to-day
it was fine and sunny enough to have made it more pleasant to sit in
the open than in a crowded room in a cottage. But the Squire said,
"For God's sake, don't be altering arrangements now, and throwing
everything out," so Humphrey had retired and told Bobby Trench that his
governor was like a bear with a sore head.
"I thought he seemed rather passionate," said Bobby Trench pleasantly.
"Not pulling 'em down, I suppose. It does put you out, you know."
"He'd better manage for himself," said Humphrey sulkily. "If he likes
to make a mess of it, let him."
Joan, who was with them, grew red at this discussion. "Father has had
a lot of worries," she said. "I think you ought to help him all you
can, Humphrey."
Humphrey stared at her, and Bobby Trench said, "Bravo, Miss Joan, you
stick up for your own."
"I'm going to," said Joan, and turned back to join Beatrice Senhouse,
who was just behind them. At the next stand, the last of the morning,
she went up to her father and said, "I'm going to count your birds,
daddy, and I'll give you a kiss for every one you let off."
The Squire's worried face brightened. "I thought you'd forsaken your
poor old father," he said. "Well, I'm letting plenty of them off, but
we'll see what we can do this time."
Whether encouraged or not by his prospective reward, he acquitted
himself well during the ensuing drive, in the course of which he got
two high birds with a right and left, and another one going away with a
quick change of guns; and when the drive was over he handed his gun to
his loader, and put his hand on Joan's shoulder to walk towards the
cottage, with a face all smiles.
Mrs. Clinton, with Lady Aldeburgh and her daughter, met them at the
garden gate. "I have told them to put the table outside," she said, as
they came up, and the Squire said, "Capital idea, Nina, capital idea!"
and turning to Lady Aldeburgh twitted her on her late appearance.
"You've missed some good sport," he said. "But we'll see what we can
show you this afternoon."
Lady Aldeburgh, in a costume of Lincoln green with a short skirt bound
in brown leather, looked younger than her own daughter, and felt no
older than a child. "Oh, do let me stand by you, Mr. Clinton, and see
you shoot," she said, clasping her hands appealingly. "I'll promise
not to chatter."
"That woman's a fool," said Joan, who had withdrawn from the group to
join Nancy.
She sat next to Colonel Stacey at luncheon, as she had undertaken to
do, and was assiduous in attending to his bodily wants. He was of the
skeleton-like, big-moustached order of retired warrior, and looked very
much as if he suffered from a lack of nutriment, although as a matter
of fact he was accustomed to "do himself" remarkably well, shirking
nothing in the way of food and drink that other men of his age were apt
to look askance at. He made an extremely good meal, and Joan took
credit to herself for his doing so, although he did not repay her
attentions with much notice, being well able to forage for himself.
Mr. Wilkinson, who sat on her other side, was far more communicative
and friendly, in a sort of pleasant, grandfatherly way; and as the
three of them were standing together when luncheon was over, he took
half a sovereign out of his pocket and said, "Now if I know anything of
young women of your age, and I ought to by this time, I dare say you
and Nancy will find some use for that."
Joan accepted it with gratitude. Her mind was at ease; she had not
worked for it in any way. It was a most acceptable windfall. "Oh,
thank you so much, Mr. Wilkinson," she said. "Now we shall be able to
buy our camera. We have been saving up for it for a long time."
"That's capital," said old Mr. Wilkinson, patting her on the shoulder
and moving off.
Colonel Stacey, now that he had satisfied the claims of appetite, had
some attention to spare for his late neighbour, who was really a very
nice-mannered child, and not greedy as most children are, but
well-behaved towards her elders. He in his turn pulled out a well-worn
leather purse and extracted half a sovereign from it. Joan, seeing
what was coming, had a moment of panic, and turned quickly away. But
he stopped her and said, "There, take that; that makes one for each of
you."
Joan's face was scarlet. "Oh, thanks most awfully," she said
hurriedly. "But we've got quite enough now," and then she fairly ran
away, leaving Colonel Stacey, surprised at the curious ways of young
girls, to put his half-sovereign philosophically back into his purse.
Lady Aldeburgh accompanied the Squire during most of the afternoon, and
by a judicious use of flattery and girlish charm kept him in so good a
humour with himself that he shot much better than in the morning, and
fussed considerably less over details of arrangement than he would
otherwise have done.
He could not have told how it came to pass, although Lady Aldeburgh
might have been able to enlighten him, that as they were walking
together down a muddy country lane, with the rest of the party
straggling after them, he poured into her sympathetic ear the story of
what he was now accustomed to call Dick's entanglement.
Lady Aldeburgh bounded mentally over five-and-twenty or thirty years
and became matronly, even maternal.
"I have heard something about it, dear Mr. Clinton," she said, "and
have been longing to tell you how much I sympathised with you. But I
hardly liked to until you had spoken first. Of course one's children
do give one trouble in many ways, and an old married woman like myself
who has had a long experience can often help, with sympathy if not with
advice. So I am very glad you have told me."
The Squire found this attitude right, and soothing besides. "Well, of
course, it's an impossible idea," he said. "I shan't give in about it.
Have you seen this woman, by the by?"
"I saw her last night," said Lady Aldeburgh, "and of course I've heard
of her. She is not the sort of woman that I should care for a son of
mine to marry. She seemed to me an affected, underbred minx."
"You thought that, did you?" exclaimed the Squire, his eyes
brightening. "Now it's the most extraordinary thing that the people
round here can't see that. Even my cousin, old Humphrey Meadshire,
seemed to be quite taken in by her."
"Oh, well--men!" said Lady Aldeburgh meaningly.
"Ah, but it isn't only men," said the Squire. "It's the women too.
They're all ready to take her in as if she was one of themselves. Now
I saw at once, the first time I set eyes on her, what sort of a woman
she was. I don't profess to be more clear-sighted than other people,
but--but, still, there it is. You saw it, and of course you go about
more than the women do here, most of 'em, and know more of the world."
"I should hope I do, the frumps!" was Lady Aldeburgh's inward comment,
but she said, "I know your Dick--not so well as I do Humphrey, but
pretty well--and I say that he is much too fine a fellow to throw
himself away like that. Still, if he has made up his mind about it,
what can you do?"
He told her what he could do, and to some extent had done--withdraw or
threaten to withdraw supplies, and she commended this course warmly.
"That ought to bring him to his senses," she said. "And if it
doesn't--well, you have other sons."
The Squire did not quite like this implication. He had never yet faced
the question of what he would do after Dick got married, if he should
get married in spite of him. But certainly, the prospect of
disinheriting him had never crossed his mind.
"I have never met your second son, I think," said Lady Aldeburgh.
"He's a doctor, isn't he?"
"Oh, that's Walter," said the Squire. "You'll see him this evening.
He's the third. Humphrey comes next to Dick."
"Oh!" said Lady Aldeburgh, who had the same means of access to works of
reference dealing with the County Families of England as other people,
and used them not less frequently.
"You know we had to stop the same sort of thing with Clinton a few
years ago," said Lady Aldeburgh. "He was wild to marry one of the
Frivolity girls--pretty creature she was too, I must admit that, and
quite respectable, and it really went to my heart to have to stop it.
But of course it would never have done. And what made it so difficult
for a time was that we had no hold over Clinton about money and that
sort of thing. He _must_ come in for everything."
"Oh, well," said the Squire airily, "I couldn't cut Dick out of Kencote
eventually, whatever he did. But he wouldn't find things very easy if
Kencote were all there was to come into."
Lady Aldeburgh took this, and took it rightly, as meaning that there
was a good deal of unsettled property which the Squire could leave as
he liked, which may or may not have been what she had wanted to find
out. "Then you have an undoubted hold over him," she said. "Of
course, I know it must be very unpleasant for you to have to exercise
it, but, if I may say so, it seems to me that simply to threaten to
withdraw his allowance if he should marry against your wishes won't
stop him if he can look forward to having everything by and by."
"He wouldn't have everything, anyhow," said the Squire.
"Well, whatever he is going to have besides the place. You don't mind
my talking of all this, do you? I've not the slightest desire to poke
into affairs that don't concern me."
"Very good of you to take such an interest in it all," said the Squire.
"I don't mind telling you in the least--it's quite simple. Kencote has
always been entailed, but there's a good deal of land and a
considerable amount of other property which doesn't go with it. Dick
won't be as well off as I was when I succeeded my grandfather, because
there was nobody but me, except some old aunts, and I've got a large
family to provide for. Still, he'll be a good deal better off than
most men with a big place to keep up, and there'll be plenty left for
the rest."
"That's if he does as you wish," said Lady Aldeburgh.
"Well, I hadn't thought of it in that way," admitted the Squire.
"But, my dear man," she exclaimed, "you are not using your best
weapon--your only weapon. If he is infatuated with this woman do you
think he will be prevented from marrying her by your stopping his
allowance? Of course he won't. He can get what money he wants for the
present, and she has some, I suppose. He only has to marry and sit
down and wait."
"Then what ought I to do?" asked the Squire grumpily. He knew what she
meant, and hated the idea of it.
"Why, tell him that if he makes this marriage you won't leave him a
penny more than you're obliged to."
"If I said that I should commit myself."
"You mean if you threatened it, you'd have to do it. Well, I think you
would. Yours--ours, I should say--is one of the oldest families in
England, and you are the head of it. You can't see it let down like
that."
This was balm to the Squire, but it did not relieve the heaviness of
his heart. "I believe I shall have to do something of that sort," he
said, "or threaten it anyhow," and having arrived at the place for the
next drive, he turned with a sigh to the business in hand.
The short winter day came to an end, and at dusk they found themselves
on the edge of the park, after having shot the birds out of the last
covert. They strolled home across the frosty grass, under the
darkening sky already partly illumined by a round moon, merry or quiet,
pleased or vexed with themselves, according to their several natures
and the way they had acquitted themselves in the day's sport, and the
warm, well-lighted house swallowed them up.
Joan and Nancy went up to their room. "You haven't been near me all
the afternoon," said Nancy. "Here's half a crown from Humphrey. It's
disappointing. Did you do any business with Uncle Herbert?"
For answer Joan burst out crying. "I hate all this beastly cadging for
money," she said through her tears, "and I won't do it any more."
"Well, don't howl," said Nancy, "or you'll look awful when we go
downstairs. What has happened?"
"Mr. Wilkinson gave me ten b--bob," sobbed Joan. "I didn't ask him for
it. And then poor old Colonel Stacey thought he must do the same, so
he took out a sh-shabby old purse and offered me another one, and I
believe it was the only one in it. And I wouldn't take it."
"Do pull yourself together, old girl," entreated Nancy. "Well, if he's
so hard up, I think it was rather a delicate action."
Joan turned on her, and her tears were dried up by the heat of her
indignation. "You're always talking about your brains," she said, "and
you can't see anything. Of course, I should have felt a beast anyhow,
but I feel much more of a beast for taking Mr. Wilkinson's tip and
refusing his."
"Why?" asked Nancy.
"Because he'd know I thought he was too poor," said Joan, her tears
breaking out afresh.
Nancy considered this. "I dare say he didn't think much about it," she
said. "But why didn't you go and make up to him afterwards, if you
felt like that? Do leave off blubbering."
Joan took no heed of this advice. A physically tiring day and the
distress she had kept down during the afternoon had been too much for
her, and now she was lying on her bed sobbing unrestrainedly. "I
w-would have gone to stand with him," she said. "P-poor old d-darling,
he looked so lonely standing there all by himself, for no one went near
him, except m-mother, once. B-but I thought he'd think I wanted the
t-tip after all, so I d-didn't. Here's Mr. Wilkinson's half-sovereign.
You can take it. I don't want it."
"Well, if you don't, I don't," said Nancy, picking up the coin which
Joan had thrown on to the floor, nevertheless, and putting it on to the
dressing-table. "I don't know why you're always trying to make me out
more hard-hearted than you are. Shall I fetch mother?"
"N-no. Y-yes," said Joan.
So Mrs. Clinton was fetched, and heard the story, sitting on the bed,
while Joan sobbed on her shoulder. Nancy leant on the rail and helped
to explain matters. She now felt like crying herself. "We have a sort
of joke with the boys," she said. "They understand it all right, but,
of course, we wouldn't go asking everybody for money, mother."
"I think you are getting rather too old to accept money presents from
any one outside the family," Mrs. Clinton said, "although it was very
kind of Mr. Wilkinson to give you one, and I don't mind your having
taken it in the least. And I'm sure Colonel Stacey didn't think
anything of your refusing, Joan dear. So I shouldn't worry any more
about that; and I think you had better have some tea up here and lie
down till dinner-time."
So Joan's tender heart was comforted, and Colonel Stacey kept his
half-sovereign, which if he could not have afforded to lose he would
never have thought of offering.