He saw matters with rather more reasonable eyes when he awoke after six
hours of very refreshing sleep--more than his poor mother had during the
whole night. He saw that all that passionate longing for her which had
taken possession of him in the early night was of no effect. He could
not possibly have her with him inside twenty-four hours, as was his
desire.
In the new light that came to him he saw a good many things. He saw
that there were such elements as delicacy and decency which were highly
respected by all respectable young women, and that in his case the
amalgamation of the two meant delay. Was she a girl, he asked himself,
who would be likely to fall in love with such a fellow as he? He could
not bring himself to answer this question without a certain sinking at
heart. All the conceit had been knocked out of him with the broadening
of the light of day. He no longer felt himself to be a conqueror. The
brazen bucklers of the Trojan heroes were not for him. He felt that he
was not brave enough even to be a suitor. He feared her eyes--they were
beautiful eyes, but they were capable of expressing a pretty fair amount
of derision when occasion arose, and he could not imagine them wearing
any other expression when he thought of his standing before her and
asking her if she would consent to love him.
What chance would he or any other man have with that particular girl?
Even if she were well disposed in regard to him, what would that amount
to in the face of the experience which had been hers? Had she not had
enough experience of men, and of marrying, to last her for some time at
any rate, if not for the rest of her life? And was he, Jack Wingfield,
the sort of man who would tempt that girl into a second adventure? In
spite of his recent successes--at tennis and in his own Augean dairy--he
had not got out of his old habit of thinking slightingly of himself and
the possibility of his reaching to any high level of attainment. What he
had achieved the day before he had achieved through her. He placed it to
her credit without any reservation--he did not deduct even the customary
commission which should have accrued to him as an agent.
And when she had shown herself to be strong enough to make him do all
that he had done, was she likely to be weak enough to listen to his
prayer?
All this form of reflection was very disheartening to him. He was a
very different man indeed from the one who had taken part in those fancy
flights on the terrace before the dawn, when he had put his cheek down
to that cushion where he had pictured her head to be lying.
“Lord, what a bounder!” was the thought that came to him from that
reflection now.
In the course of his reflections he did not even get so far as his
mother had gone, when she had thought that, let the worst come to the
worst--the best to the best was how he would have put it--a full year
was bound to pass before he could have her with him. There was no need
for him to draw upon so distant a source of uneasiness when there were
so many others to supply him close at hand.
His mother never came down to breakfast, but he invariably went to her
room to bid her good morning. He thought that now she looked at him
narrowly, and he had an intuition that by some means she had come to
know of his late hours on the terrace, so like a sensible man, who
confesses when he knows he has been found out, he said cheerily:
“I had rather a bad night. I went out upon the terrace when you left me,
and, by George! it was dawn--almost daylight--before I got to bed.”
“That was very foolish of you, Jack,” said she. “But I suppose you were
thinking about--about--something of importance.”
“That was it,” he assented, with the glibness of the accomplished liar,
though he was not a liar but only a lover. “That was it: I was wondering
if I had not been a bit too hasty with Verrall. Perhaps I should give
him another chance. Well, well; a chap doesn’t like starting life at
home by kicking out a man who has been about the place for so long as
Verrall has been. Oh, yes; I had a lot to think over. Well, wish me
luck.”
“Wish you luck, dear--how?” said the mother.
“How? Don’t you know that I am down to play some giants to-day, and
won’t you wish your little Jack--Jack the giant killer--the best of
luck?”
“With all my heart--with all my heart--the best of good luck,” said she,
and he kissed her, and went away whistling like a successful dissembler.
And then there happened the best thing that could befall a man who is
inclined to be weak-kneed and who stands in great need of a stiffening.
Mr. Dunning, the agent whom he had taken over from the trustees when he
had entered into possession of the estate, had had things his own way
for something like eleven years; there had been no voice of authority
but his own on the estate, and the result of two or three interviews
which he had with Mr. Jack Wingfield had been of so pleasing a character
that he felt that his voice would continue to give the word of command
from the Dan of Dington at one end of the property to the Beersheba of
Little Gaddlingworth at the other. He had communicated his estimate of
young Wingfield to his enquiring wife by a shrewd shake of the head and
a smile. He thought precious little of this young Wingfield.
He was therefore all the more surprised when he received a visit the
previous day from Farmer Verrall, whom he had installed at the home
farm, to acquaint him with the fact that young Mr. Wingfield had
practically kicked him out of the place. Mr. Dunning felt that it would
never do for him to stand such an insult from a fellow who was nothing
more than the owner of the property. He saw clearly that now was the
time for him to strike. If he were to submit to such high-handed action
without protest he should have no end of trouble in the future. The
owner might even go so far as to exercise some authority over his
estate. Yes, he would show this young man what was his place.
He scarcely waited for young Wingfield to bid him good morning.
“Good morning. What’s this I hear about Verrall?” he said, all in a
breath.
“What’s what you hear about Verrall?” said young Wingfield, after a
pause.
“This about his being turned out of his farm at a moment’s notice?”
And then young Wingfield took the measure of his visitor, and saw with
great clearness what was the object of his visit.
“Look here, Mr. Dunning,” he said, “if you know all about the matter, it
seems hardly necessary for you to bother yourself coming to ask me about
it?”
“Mr. Wingfield, I’m not accustomed to be treated in this cavalier
fashion,” cried the agent. “I think an explanation is due to me.”
“Of course an explanation is due to you, Mr. Dunning. I was about to
send you a message asking you when it would be convenient for you to
drop in on me.”
“It would have been much better if you had sent for me in the first
instance.” Mr. Dunning’s tone was now one of forgiveness, tempered by
reproof. “So far as I can gather, you told Verrall to turn out of his
farm, neck and crop. That was a bit high-handed, and not just the thing
that one might expect, considering that you have scarcely found your
feet on the property, Mr. Wingfield. The tenants are not accustomed
to such high-handed treatment, and I must say that neither am I, Mr.
Wingfield.”
“I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dunning,” said Jack. “You see, I’m
new to this sort of thing, and you are not. What am I to do in the
future?”
And then Mr. Dunning felt that his little plan had succeeded.
Firmness--there was nothing like firmness with chaps like young
Wingfield. Give them to understand at the outset that you’ll stand no
dam nonsense. That was what he felt, and he spoke in the spirit of his
philosophy.
“You don’t know the mischief you may do--the difficulties that you may
place in my way,” he said. “In future you must leave these things to me.
In case you see anything that you think needs explanation, just acquaint
me with what you think should be done, and I’ll consider it.”
“That will be very kind of you, Mr. Dunning,” said young Wingfield.
“Well, I may as well begin now. What I think should be done is to get a
couple of first-class men from a first-class London accountant’s office
to come down here on Monday and go over all the books of the estate--all
the books, mind you; the farm books in particular. I suppose that
although you haven’t been near the farm for the past eighteen months
yourself, you know all about the expenditure, and will be able to say if
it was I who paid for the feed of those greyhounds of Verrall’s and what
has been done with the milk of that splendid herd of cows that I saw
at the farm. The game books and the timber books will be gone through
carefully by the accountants with me sitting at one side and you at the
other, Mr. Dunning. Now I have acquainted you with my intentions as you
told me I should, and I’ve no doubt that we’ll get on all right together
in the future.”
“What do you mean, sir?” cried the agent. “Do you mean to suggest that
I--that I--I have fallen under your suspicion? Do you suspect that
I--I----”
“Good Lord! Is it me--suspect--suspect--you? Mr. Dunning, you have risen
too early--you can’t be quite awake yet.”
“I think that your remarks can bear but one construction, Mr. Wingfield.
They suggest that you have unworthy suspicions in regard to my
integrity.”
“You never were further mistaken in your life, Mr. Dunning. All I
suspect is your capacity. One of the most important of the farms has
been vacant for over three years because you refused to allow a man who
understood his business a year’s grace to carry out a scheme which a
little consideration by a competent person would have shown to be a
first-rate one. That meant some thousands of pounds out of my pocket,
and you have shown your incapacity to judge character by allowing
Verrall to have a free hand with the home farm, though he wasn’t a
tenant but a paid manager. Wherever I go I see evidence of carelessness
and incapacity.”
“I did not come here to be insulted, Mr. Wingfield.”
“No, you came here to do the insulting, Mr. Dunning. You came here
thinking to browbeat me--assuming that I was a juggins--a juggins, Mr.
Dunning--in other words, a mug. I saw what you thought of me the day
you pretended to set before me the principles of the management of the
property. But all the same I took a note of those matters which you
waved your hands over, telling me that they were not in my line--that
I should not understand them. I daresay I led you on to think poorly of
me, Mr. Dunning, and to put your tongue in your cheek when I had gone
out of your office and you were alone with your clerk; but though I may
have been a juggins at heart I wasn’t one at head, you must know. Now
will you stay and have some breakfast?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Wingfield. I must consider my position, after what
you have said to me; I feel that it is necessary in justice to myself to
consider my position. I should be very unwilling to resign the position
of trust in which I was placed on the death of your grandfather.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Dunning. Pray don’t let anything that I have said
lead you to believe that I fail to appreciate how highly you value your
position. I have expressed myself badly if I have said anything that
suggested that to you. I think that Bacon and Tiddy are good enough
accountants for my purpose; but I know that Farside, Kelly and Ransome
have a big name for estate work. What do you think?”
“I shall have to consider my position, Mr. Wingfield. I shall have to do
so very seriously.”
“I will give you till to-morrow morning to consider it. If I don’t hear
from you by the morning I will conclude that you have sent me in your
resignation, and act accordingly. Six months’ notice, I suppose? But of
course you will go into the books with the accountants.”
“I shall have to consider that point seriously also. I wish a couple
of strangers luck if they try to make anything out of the books without
me.”
“Oh, you will not desert me--I think I know better of you than to fancy
that, Mr. Dunning. You must know what impression would be produced if
you were to clear off at such a time.”
“Sir, my position in the county--your grandfather--he was high sheriff
that year--he headed the subscription list for the presentation to my
father.”
“That was before I was born. Somebody told me that your father’s name
was in the county family list. I daresay the Dunnings were a power in
the land when the Wingfields were making money in the West Indies. You
are still a power in the land, Mr. Dunning, and you’ll let me know by
the first post to-morrow without fail.” Mr. Dunning went forth into the
sunshine without a word. He had an impression of awaking from a singular
dream. He scarcely knew how he came to be outside the house which he
had entered so jauntily half an hour before. He now felt not jaunty, but
dazed--queer. He could not understand how he had left the house without
saying what he had meant to say. He had meant to be very plain with that
young Wingfield and to give him to understand once and for all what
were their relative positions, but he had had no notion that it would be
necessary for him to take the extreme step of threatening to resign.
He had really no wish to resign. His position as agent of the Wingfield
estates was worth something over a thousand a year to him, but what
was he not worth to the property? Of course, juggins though that young
Wingfield was, he had still sense enough to recognize the value of such
an agent, and to know that without such an agent, he and his property
would be in the cart.
No, he never thought that he should have to play that trump card of
his--the threat of resigning; all that he meant to do was to bring the
young man to his senses and to let him know that when all was said and
done he was only the owner, and as such, he had no right to make such a
decisive move as the removal of Verrall behind his agent’s back.
And yet now he was walking away from the Manor House feeling that he and
Farmer Verrall were practically in the same boat--that they had both
got a shove off from the solid shore by the rude boot of a youth who was
really little better than an interloper, and that they were now adrift
on a choppy sea.
But how it had all come about he could not for the life of him
understand. He had not been in the house for more than ten minutes; and
surely he had brought the young man within measurable distance of
an apology to him for his high-handed conduct, and yet--what had he
said?--accountants from London--books of the estate--the farm--the
milk--the pheasants--the timber--the underwood--and with all this he,
Mr. Dunning, J.P., the agent of the estates, the man whose father had
received a presentation of plate--whose name was in the only authentic
list of County Families--was to make up his mind by the next morning
whether he would remain and give the accountants from London his help in
going through the books or clear off with Verrall!
The whole business was extraordinary and not to be fully realized in the
course of a morning stroll. He had reached the end of the paddock before
he was able to summarize his feelings up to that moment. His summary
assumed the form of an exclamatory sentence:
“Who the devil would have thought that the chap had it in him?”
As for young Wingfield, he was nearly as much puzzled by the issue
of his interview with Mr. Dunning as that gentleman was himself. When
Dunning had left the house Jack hurried to the breakfast-room, whistling
an uncertain air. The butler blew out the spirit lamp that heated the
breakfast dishes, and laid the latter on the table, with the coffee.
But the moment he had left the room, Jack Wingfield put his hands in his
pockets and walked away from the breakfast table to one of the windows,
and, standing with his legs apart, stared out, allowing his omelette to
get chilled and the coffee milk to get a surface on it. Jack Wingfield
was also puzzled to account for all that had occurred. Dunning had
always occupied in his mind a place of the deepest respect; and his
attainments he had been accustomed to think of with something little
less than awe. And yet he had been able within twenty-four hours to
discover his gross incompetence and, moreover, to tell him of it, and
to send him away with no more ceremony than he had thought necessary to
employ in clearing out Farmer Verrall and his greyhounds!
The whole thing was too wonderful to be grasped immediately by such an
intellect as his. It required a deal of thinking out; so he stood at the
window staring at the garden for several minutes.
At last he too thought that he might make a brief summary of the
situation and its development up to that moment. He whirled round
and gazed at the breakfast things. Then he removed his hands from
his pockets, and doubling up his right struck the palm of his left
vigorously, saying:
“By the Lord Harry! She has made a man of me!”