We live in a world of generalisations, which the wise never tire of
telling the foolish to mistrust and with which the foolish never tire of
pointing the failures of the wise. There is one, for instance, that lays
it down that a bad conscience is a sorry bedfellow. Yet Mr. Maturin,
whose conscience could not have been but in the blackest disorder,
immediately went to sleep in the car: to awake only when, the car having
stopped, the young chauffeur flung open the door of the tonneau and
said:
“If you please, sir!”
Mr. Maturin found himself before the doors of a mansion of noble
proportions. From the head of the broad steps he looked about him and
recognised the long narrow park of trees as that of Eaton Square. A
voice said:
“Come in, Mr. Maturin. A wretched night.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Maturin. “It is.”
Within, in a vast hall floored with black and white marble, he found
himself faced by an old gentleman who, as the small seedy man had said,
was even taller than himself. Mr. Maturin bowed. The tall old gentleman
said:
“It is good of you to have come, Mr. Maturin. I thank you. I must
confess, however, that I expected you would.”
“It is a rare pleasure for me, Sir Guy, to do what is expected of me,”
smiled Mr. Maturin.
“You know me then! You recognised me to-night at your--your club?”
Mr. Maturin smiled at that. It was, let’s face it, a low club. But, what
with one thing and another, he had had to resign from all his others. He
only said:
“Naturally. Who does not know you, Sir Guy!”
The deep old eyes seemed to pierce the younger man with a savage
contempt. “In coming here to-night, Mr. Maturin,” said old Sir Guy, “am
I to understand that you are serious? You have, as you may know,
something of a reputation for having made an art of misbehaviour.”
Mr. Maturin delayed answering while he thoughtfully considered the
ceiling of the great hall, which was so high as to refuse itself to
exact scrutiny. At the gaming-club that night he had immediately
recognised the formidable old gentleman; for the great lean height, the
sabre-wound across the left cheek, the mass of loosely brushed white
hair and the savage blue eyes under bushy white eyebrows, were the
well-known marks of Sir Guy Conduit de Gramercy, a _seigneur_ of a past
century who made no secret of the fact that he disdained any part in
this. For a passing moment Mr. Maturin had wondered what the proud old
gentleman was doing in those depths; but now, revealed as the donor of
the magnificent note, he could not but suspect what had brought Sir Guy
down from his contemptuous seclusion. Sir Guy’s descent, however, was
far from pleasing to Beau Maturin, for it always offended that man as
much to see pride humbled and the mighty fallen as to watch the lowly
being exalted and the humble getting above themselves. Mr. Maturin was
not a religious man; but he was decidedly one who had what he called
“let’s face it, a code of ethics.”
“Why, I’m serious enough,” said he at last. “I take your gift----”
“Ha!” snapped the old gentleman.
“In the spirit in which you give it, Sir Guy.”
“And what the devil can you know of that, sir?”
“Nothing, nothing!” said Mr. Maturin peaceably, and without more ado old
Sir Guy led the way into a wide, dim room lined with many books in rare
bindings, for here was a small part of the famous de Gramercy library.
From the shadows a lady emerged. Very beautiful this lady must have been
in her youth, but she was no longer young and now a sad, gentle dignity
was the flower of her personality, half hiding, while it half revealed,
the lovely dead graces of her youth. It was plain to see, however, that
she was not in her best looks this night, for her eyes were as though
strained with some pitiless anxiety; and, distantly acknowledging Mr.
Maturin’s bow, she retired again into the shadows of the room, for it is
only in the East that vanity dies with youth.
Said old Sir Guy: “I believe you have met my daughter-in-law. She and my
granddaughter are staying with me for a few days.”
From her shadows Mrs. de Gramercy spoke swiftly, almost breathlessly, as
though she would at all costs and quickly be done with something she
must say:
“Mr. Maturin, I have tried my best to dissuade Sir Guy from taking this
step. I feel there _must_ be a way of effecting our--our wish other than
one which must offend you so deeply----”
The voice of the old gentleman fell like a bar of iron across the poor
lady’s swift light speech. “Eleanour, you will kindly leave this to me,
as you promised. And Mr. Maturin is, I fancy, past taking offence at the
truth.”
“That depends on the truth,” said Mr. Maturin in a reasonable way. “So
far, I am quite mystified.”
“You lie, Mr. Maturin. You are not mystified.”
“Very well, sir. I lie. I am not mystified.”
Said Mrs. de Gramercy in distress: “I think, then, I will leave you,
since I can do nothing----”
“You will kindly stay, Eleanour. Surely you see that the occasion needs
the authority of your presence!”
“Yes, please stay, Mrs. de Gramercy,” Mr. Maturin begged. “For if I am
called a liar by my host while you are present, Heaven only knows what I
may not be called when you are gone. Please stay. And, if I may, I would
like to congratulate you on a very beautiful and talented daughter.”
Quivering with passion, the gigantic old man raised an arm. Mr. Maturin
did not move. He was lazy, and disliked moving.
“Mr. Maturin,” the old man whispered just audibly, “you are an
unbelievable cad! You are the--sir, you are the ace of cads!”
“Father, _please_!” the lady begged from the shadows, but in return Mr.
Maturin begged her not to be distressed, protesting that the insult was
not so pointed as it first appeared, whereas it would certainly be
provoking to be called the deuce of cads, which in the degree of
degradations must take a place near that of being run over by a Ford
car. “But please continue, Sir Guy. Your last words were that I am the
ace of cads. I would beg you not be constrained by any such small
consideration as my presence in your house.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said a _hidalgo_ to a hound, but it was Sir Guy
himself who sat down, while the other remained standing before the
fireplace. Mr. Maturin, for all his forty odd years of self-indulgence,
had still a very good figure, and he liked to be seen at his best. He
has, in point of fact, the best figure of any man in this book, and
should therefore be treated with some respect. Mrs. de Gramercy, a
shadow of distress, sat in a deep chair away in the dimness of the
room. And the thousands of books around the oak walls lent a fictitious
air of dignity to an occasion which must have embarrassed any but a
_grand seigneur_ and an ace of cads. Sir Guy, with a perceptible effort
at calm, addressed Mr. Maturin:
“As you may have gathered, sir, I want you to do me a service----”
“Only a great brain like mine could have divined it, sir.”
“Mr. Maturin, would you not provoke my father-in-law!” spoke the lady
sharply, and was as sharply told:
“This is men’s business, Eleanour. Now, sir! My son, this lady’s
husband, was killed in the war, as you may know. The best men _were_
killed, Mr. Maturin. Fate is not very generous to fine men in time of
war. You, I believe, were years ago cashiered from the Brigade for
drunkenness in a restaurant?”
“I assure you, sir, that the provocation was more than I could bear,”
Mr. Maturin explained with a gravity becoming in one faced by such a
misdeed. “I am, you must know, very musical. Perhaps you would hardly
think it, but I undoubtedly have a musical _flair_. And in that wretched
restaurant the orchestra would insist on playing Mendelssohn’s _Spring
Song_! Now I put it to you, Sir Guy--and to you, Mrs. de Gramercy, if I
may--could a man bear Mendelssohn’s _Spring Song_ over dinner? Yet I
bore myself with a fortitude which some of my lighter friends have since
been kind enough to think remarkable. I begged the conductor to cease,
once, twice, and thrice; and then, you know, I wasted a bottle of wine
over his head. I was hasty, let’s face it. But the provocation!”
Dimly spoke Mrs. de Gramercy from the shadows:
“Father, I believe Mr. Maturin has a D.S.O. with a bar.”
“Mr. Maturin,” the old gentleman said, “I apologise if I have seemed to
reflect at all on your courage. Such men as you are, I believe,
frequently very courageous----”
“Only when drunk, Sir Guy. In which such men as I are very much the same
as other men. Were you, may I ask, ever in a trench before an attack?”
“My fighting days were over before Omdurman, sir----”
“Oh, dear, dashing Omdurman! Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville! You
will agree with me that one didn’t need the stimulus of alcohol to turn
machine-guns on to a lot of septic-looking niggers without even a
water-pistol between them, even though they were devils with assegais,
darts, catapults or boomerangs. But the Germans needed fighting. I
remember----”
“That will do, Mr. Maturin. Your modesty takes as singular a form as
your manners. My son, I was saying, was killed in the war, and his son
and daughter were left to the charge of their mother. My grandchildren,
Mr. Maturin--heirs to an ancient name and a fortune which must, by
decent people, be taken as a responsibility rather than as a means for
self-indulgence. I have never agreed with that principle of privilege
which demands respect for ancient lineage and great fortune: such
things alone are merely baubles; and without the dignity of some office
and the ardour of some responsibility they can be of no value, but
rather of grave detriment, to serious minds.”
“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Maturin.
“I wished my grandchildren to be brought up to a lofty conception of the
duties of their station. My son had, quite rightly, a great regard for
the strength and good-sense of his wife, and left her as their sole
guardian. I, who have a no less regard for my daughter-in-law, was
content with the situation; and, with my mind at rest, continued to lead
the very retired life to which my years entitle me, even had I been able
to endure the manners of a generation of which, Mr. Maturin, you are
such a polished example. Thus, it was only lately that I heard of my
grandson’s folly. My grandson, Mr. Maturin! Or must I call upon you to
strain your imagination before you can realise that there are still some
men in this world to whom the honour of their name is dear!
“I was as displeased as I was surprised when I heard that my
daughter-in-law had lately met you at a ball at Lady Carnal’s. The
Carnals of my day were more discreet in their introductions. In my day,
sir, such fine gentlemen as you were not so easily enabled to corrupt
youth by your companionship. Such men as you, sir, used not to be
received in decent houses. Nor had good people yet become inured to the
habit of going to balls in the houses of _parvenu_ Americans and
grotesquely rich Jews, to mix with bankrupts, card-sharpers, notorious
adulterers and Socialist politicians. In some such house you must have
met my grandson; and, Mr. Maturin, I must grant you the quality of
attraction, little though I myself may be privileged to feel it, for
with your good looks and casual airs you seem to taint every child you
meet. You corrupted my grandson, Mr. Maturin! You flattered him by
treating him as a grown man, you taught him to gamble, to dissipate,
and, worst of all, to think uncleanly. Both my grandson and my
granddaughter, as you were aware, have fortunes of their own from their
mother’s father--and by God, sir, you played the devil with that
wretched boy’s money, didn’t you!”
“Why,” Mr. Maturin smiled, “the boy _enjoyed_ money for the first time
in his life! Until he met me, Sir Guy, he had only worried about what he
was going to do with it.”
“And did he, Mr. Maturin, _enjoy_ the money he lost to you at cards? It
is not for nothing, I have gathered, that you are spoken of as the best
_picquet_ player in London. That wretched boy would, I am sure, give you
a certificate----”
“I should be even better pleased, Sir Guy, with a cheque for what he
owes me.”
“You shall have it. Eleanour, my cheque-book! A flower in hell, Mr.
Maturin, would not be more lonely than a debt of honour on your person.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Maturin, thoughtfully folding the cheque. “Thank you
very much.”
“I have dealt with the boy,” old Sir Guy went on in a low voice, “as you
are no doubt aware; and he is now expiating his folly and, I hope,
regaining his health and self-respect, with some hard work on my
Canadian property. At our last meeting he defended you to me. He
remained, you understand, a gentleman even after his connection with
you, and he couldn’t but speak up for one who had been his friend.”
“He was a good boy,” said Mr. Maturin softly. “I liked that boy.”
Sir Guy rose to his full lean height. The two men faced one another.
“Mr. Maturin,” the old gentleman said, “you have corrupted my grandson.
You have plundered the best years of his life. Have you anything to
say?”
Mr. Maturin said: “If you don’t mind, sir, I will reserve my defence.
Isn’t there still worse to come?”
Sir Guy stared, as though he was seeing him for the first time, at the
elegant figure who stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands.
The savage old man was, so far as it was possible for him to be,
nonplussed. Always a great reader of those memoirs and _belles-lettres_
that tell intimately of the lives of gentlemen of more careless and
debonair times, the anatomy of _galanterie_, scoundrelism and coxcombry,
as exemplified in the Restoration gallants and the eighteenth-century
fops, had interested old Sir Guy’s leisure; but never had he thought he
would be faced by one so completely unashamed, so bad, by one who could
wear the evil _dandysme_ of his soul as nonchalantly as a monocle. Sir
Guy again sat himself at his long, burdened writing-table and played
thoughtfully with a paper-knife. For the first time in his life he was
faced with the humiliation of not knowing what to do: for here before
him was a man, an incredible man, to whom such ancient words as honour,
loyalty, betrayal, were without meaning. Beau Maturin would take such
words, distort them with a slanting smile, put false feet to them, and
send them tripping away on the wings of a merry laugh. Merry, for what
could shame such a man from his gaiety? And Sir Guy realised now that he
had made a mistake in sending Capel Maturin the bank-note. He had sent
it to arouse the man’s curiosity, thus to ensure his presence at this
interview, from which the old gentleman still, though grimly, expected
the best issue; but, more particularly, he had sent that bank-note as an
earnest of what he might be prepared to do for Mr. Maturin if he would
help the de Gramercys to bring about that blessed issue. But now Sir Guy
realised his false step. A thousand pounds more or less did not matter
very much to him; but did they matter so very much, he could now
reflect, to that pretty, penniless gentleman? Money, to be sure, could
not be of the first importance to so complete a cad as Capel Maturin: he
had spent his own considerable fortune quickly enough, and, they said,
generously enough: it must, thought Sir Guy, be the little cads to whom
money really appealed.
The old gentleman’s voice, when he continued, was more subdued, less
proud. And has it not been already remarked that Mr. Maturin did not
like to see the descent from pride to humility? which, had he had any
part of virtue, he should have taken for a sign of grace, even as it is
written in the Scriptures. But maybe he did not notice the slight
tremor that played in that proud old voice before it could be subdued,
for at the moment he was intent on examining his patent-leather shoes,
which were exquisite examples of Lobb’s later manner.
Sir Guy was saying: “My grandson, you corrupted. My granddaughter, you
have sed----”
“Dear!” cried Mrs. de Gramercy.
Mr. Maturin was quite silent, examining his shoes.
“Perhaps that was too harsh a word,” the old gentleman conceded--he
conceded!
“It was,” said Beau Maturin softly. “Much.”
Now Sir Guy’s voice was so low as to be barely audible, while his eyes
were as though enchanted by the monogram on his paper-knife.
“I was carried beyond my intention, Mr. Maturin. I apologise, to you and
to the child’s mother. But I have had a day that I would not wish for my
bitterest enemy. I am very old, Mr. Maturin. Peace, comfort, heart’s
ease, have lately assumed an importance which only a few years ago I
would have disdained to allow them. Was it essential to you, Capel
Maturin, to pilfer my granddaughter from me?”
“But why do you say ‘pilfer,’ sir? Am I not allowed to be like any other
man, to make love?”
“Men,” said old Sir Guy, “did not, I thought, make love to young girls.
Bankrupts, I am sure, should not. And a man who has been a corespondent
in two notorious divorce cases--he _cannot_! Mr. Maturin, it is not that
I wish to insult you wantonly, but----”
“I quite understand, Sir Guy. Let us, after all, face the facts.”
“Yes. My granddaughter has just come of age--and, incidentally, into her
fortune. You, I believe, are forty or so----”
“Ah, those confounded facts! Forty-seven.”
“I must say they become you very lightly. But, even so, there is a grave
disparity of age between you and the child; and, Mr. Maturin, there is
an even graver disparity of everything else. By Heaven, man, how could
you, how could any man like you, have so blinded yourself to all the
decencies of life as to put yourself in the way of a girl like my
granddaughter!”
“I’m positively damned if I know!” murmured Mr. Maturin. “But these
things happen. They just happen, Sir Guy.”
Sir Guy at last looked up from the shine of the paper-knife; and
pressing down with his knuckles on the writing-table as though to steady
himself, said: “Mr. Maturin, to-day I have had the greatest shock of my
life. My granddaughter told me she was going to marry you.”
“A brave girl!” said Mr. Maturin softly.
The old gentleman’s voice trembled. “Man, you cannot be serious!”
“I can be in love!” said Mr. Maturin coldly.
“Love!” cried the lady in the shadows.
“More,” said Mr. Maturin, “I can love. I did not know that until quite
lately. I did not know that when I was young. I get quite rhetorical
when I think of it. I did not know, Sir Guy, of this beautiful thing
lying in wait for me, Capel Maturin--to love, without fear, without
shame, even without hope, without desire----”
“Without desire!” cried Mrs. de Gramercy. “Mr. Maturin, aren’t you
exalting yourself?”
Mr. Maturin suddenly looked old and very tired. He said: “I did not
speak the exact truth a moment ago. I knew when I was young that I could
love. I suspected it. I have awaited the moment for many years. Of
course, I have had to kill time meanwhile. I must inform you, Sir Guy,
that when I was born a sunflower looked over a wall in Elm Park Gardens.
All the gardeners in the neighbourhood were astounded. No sunflower has
ever before looked over a wall in Elm Park Gardens. It could only have
meant that I would love--one day. And the day has come, I love.”
Sir Guy said: “You blaspheming _poseur_!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Maturin, “for speaking the truth about
myself. People are not used to hearing others speak the truth about
themselves. It shall not occur again.”
The voice of Mrs. de Gramercy rose bitterly from the shadows: “Love!
What, dear Heaven, do you mean by ‘love,’ Mr. Maturin?”
“Love,” said Mr. Maturin, “is one of the few diseases of the liver which
cannot be cured by temperance or an apple a day. That is merely a
suggestion.”
“A vile one!” said old Sir Guy.
“Sorry,” sighed Mr. Maturin.
“Mr. Maturin,” cried Mrs. de Gramercy, “how dare you, you of all men,
talk so glibly of love! For you were right just now, when you spoke in
jest. For men like you love is no more than a fine word for a physical
distemper.”
“Mental,” said Mr. Maturin. “Quite mental, I assure you.”
“It’s a passing mood, it doesn’t last! Oh, the lives that have been
crucified in the name of love! And now you would crucify my little
Joan’s!”
Sir Guy said with savage calm: “Come, come, Eleanour, not so dramatic!
You will make the man shy. Mr. Maturin,” Sir Guy went on with a
perceptible effort, “I cannot stop the girl from marrying, as you know.
She came of age to-day, and from to-day has her own fortune. But, man,
is there no way in which we can appeal to your--your generosity! I pay
you the compliment of thinking that you are not intending to marry Joan
primarily for her money. Am I right?”
“I don’t know. You see,” Mr. Maturin rose to explain seriously, “these
things get awfully entangled. To-night, as you saw, the cards ran very
badly against me. And as I came away from the place I was so annoyed
with myself that I emptied my pockets of the last penny I had. I was
intending to begin life entirely afresh from to-morrow. With your
daughter, madam, if I may say so. For I am like any other Englishman,
Sir Guy, very sentimental about money when I haven’t any and not in the
least romantic about it when I have. And so I thought I wouldn’t bring
the taint of what money I had to my life with Joan. You must allow me,
Sir Guy, and you, Mrs. de Gramercy, to respect and love Joan.”
“And I almost believe you do!” said Sir Guy savagely. “After your
fashion. But fashions change, Mr. Maturin.”
“And so do the moon, the stars, the clouds and dancing; yet, let’s face
it, they are eternal and everlasting. Sir Guy, I would wish to marry
your granddaughter if she were penniless. Why should I not marry her
because she is not penniless? What is this spurious humbug about honour
that covers the middle and upper classes of England like verdigris: that
a poor man may not with honour marry a rich woman, that a poor girl can
only “sell” herself to a rich man? Can a man or woman not be loved,
then, because he or she is rich? Is that what our religion means when it
says that a rich man shall not enter the kingdom of heaven? Was it for
that, then, that the late Charles Garvice devoted his life?”
“A moment!” Sir Guy begged wearily. “I am to understand from this
rigmarole that you hold Joan to her promise?”
“Mr. Maturin, please!” sighed, as though involuntarily, the voice from
the shadows.
Mr. Maturin lit another cigarette and inhaled it. “Wasn’t Joan,” he
asked, “at all swayed by your arguments against me? They must have been
cogent enough, I fancy.”
“Like the boy,” Sir Guy said with sudden gentleness, “she defended you.
You have some magic for youth, it seems. They admit your faults, but do
not hold them against your character. But I have observed that it takes
grown-up people to condemn caddishness. Children will overlook it.”
“True,” said Mr. Maturin. “You see, Sir Guy, children like people for
what they are, not for what they do.” He turned to the dim lady. “I
fancy,” he said, “that you have both got hold of the wrong end of the
stick. I mean, don’t you see, that it’s not really much use persuading
me to give Joan up. I mean, it wouldn’t be much use if I did.”
“How, sir!”
“Mr. Maturin, I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, let’s face it, we must persuade her to give me up. Otherwise,”
said Mr. Maturin with an air of conviction, “if I were to break my
promise to her she would guess that it was at your persuasion--you might
indeed insinuate that you had paid me off, but she wouldn’t believe
it--and you would be faced for the rest of your days by an accusing
girl. And that would be beastly for you.”
There was a heavy silence: which fled sharply before a rattle when old
Sir Guy, with a gesture of distaste, flung his paper-knife on to the
table.
“Do I understand you to be caring for my old age, Mr. Maturin?”
“Neither your youth nor your old age are of any interest for me, sir. I
am merely suggesting that if I were to give up Joan without her consent
she would make a martyr of herself. Her very name will encourage the
idea. Mrs. de Gramercy, I am sure you understand me.”
“But,” the lady cried gladly, “does this mean that you _will_ give Joan
up? Father, I knew he would. Oh, I knew!”
Mr. Maturin said quickly: “You have misunderstood me. I will not give
Joan up.”
“Bah!” snapped Sir Guy.
“But,” said Mr. Maturin.
“Bah!” snapped Sir Guy.
“_But_,” said Mr. Maturin, “I will persuade Joan to give me up.”
“Oh, thank God, thank God!” breathed the mother.
“For,” said Mr. Maturin, “it is, as you say, a deplorable connection. I
see that. Besides, when the sunflower looked over the wall in Elm Park
Gardens nothing was said about my being loved, only that I should love.
And how much more fitting, Sir Guy, for a lady to disown a cad than for
a cad to disown a lady! Let us be reasonable.”
The taut old gentleman seemed almost to smile. “You are a dangerous
comedian, Mr. Maturin. And how will you effect this _finesse_?”
“Is Joan awake? Splendid! The practice of love grows easier every
moment. You ought to try it, Sir Guy. Do you mind if I now make a small
speech? It is about girls. Girls are by nature hero-worshippers. When
they are not they dress badly and write novels. There is, however, some
nonsense abroad to the effect that there is a ‘modern’ girl. How one
detests the word ‘modern!’ Disbelieve in the existence of the ‘modern’
girl, Sir Guy. Girlhood is an ancient situation, is exalted by ancient
joys, suffers ancient sorrows, reacts to ancient words. There is no
modern girl except on the tongues of certain silly people who find an
outlet for their own lewdness by ascribing it to other people.”
“And what is the point of all this, sir?”
“It is that no girl, Sir Guy, ancient or modern or what-not, will cease
to love a man because of any of the ordinary accusations you can bring
against him. There is only one which will destroy her love. You may call
her man a cad, and she will smile, and if you repeat it she will get
bored. He may be a burglar, but she won’t cease to love him, for is not
the world a den of thieves? A poisoner, and she may still love him, for
are there not many whom it would be good to poison? A coward, and she
may not despise him, for girls are not necessarily fools and brave men
can make uncommonly dull lovers. A card-sharper, and she may excuse him,
for does not God Himself play with loaded dice? But verily, I say unto
you, prove that man guilty of a deep disloyalty and at that moment her
love will be as distant as your youth, Sir Guy, and as dead as mine; for
disloyalty is the only bedfellow love will certainly reject. Will you
call your daughter in, Mrs. de Gramercy, and I will tell her a story?
Perhaps it will interest you, too.”
“Call her, Eleanour,” said old Sir Guy. “I fancy Mr. Maturin will have
no difficulty in persuading her of his ineligibility on those grounds.”
“True,” said Mr. Maturin. “True.”