The Eldest Son Part 10

THE SQUIRE PUTS HIS FOOT DOWN

Kencote was three hours' journey from London by a fast train, and it had always been the custom of the sons of the family--those of them whose avocations made it necessary for them at any time to live in town--to come down whenever they pleased, to spend a night or a few nights, without announcing their arrival. Their rooms were there ready for them. Kencote was their home. d.i.c.k or Humphrey, and, in the days before he was married, Walter, would often walk into the house unexpectedly and go upstairs and dress without any one but the servants knowing they were there until dinner-time. The Squire liked them to come and go in that way. It seemed to give him, in his retired, bucolic life, a tie with the world. He would always give them a hearty welcome, even if he had to object to something they had done, or had left undone, before they left again.

It was Humphrey who arrived on this Sat.u.r.day afternoon, reaching Kencote by the half-past four train, and walking up from the station and into the morning-room, for his cup of tea. The Squire's greeting was a shade less hearty than it would have been in the case of his other sons. Humphrey had given him a good deal of trouble in the way of money. It is true that there had never been any big catastrophe, no sudden demand for a large sum to meet a debt of honour, from racing or cards, as fathers were sometimes confronted with by extravagant sons.

Humphrey was too cautious to run those sorts of risks. The Squire, perhaps, would have preferred that the demands upon him should have come in that way rather than from the constant, rather cold-blooded exceeding of an allowance which he told himself, and Humphrey, was as large as any younger son had a right to expect, and a good deal larger than most of them got. Humphrey did not deny this. He simply said, whenever he did ask his father for more money, that he had not been able to do on it, but if his father would clear off his debts for him and give him a fresh start, he would try to do on it for the future.

He had made the endeavour three times, and each time with less success than before, for the debts had been bigger. And now the Squire was getting angry about it. It had always been the same. Humphrey's debts after he had left Cambridge had been about twice as large as d.i.c.k's, although d.i.c.k had been Master of the Drag and had had expenses that Humphrey had not. Walter had left Oxford with no debts at all. And since their University days, Humphrey had actually had more money than either of the others, although d.i.c.k was the eldest son and a considerable sum had been paid to buy Walter his practice.

Now it was not the Squire's way to bear malice or to let any annoyance rankle when once it had been met and dealt with. In the ordinary course he would have expressed himself very strongly and felt very strongly on the subject when one of Humphrey's periodical crises of debt was disclosed to him, but when he had so relieved his mind he would have paid up and forgotten all about it. He had done so the first time, and even the second, after a rather stronger explosion. It was the third, now nearly two years ago, which had rankled; and the reason was not only that Humphrey, as seemed quite obvious, was living in just such a way as had brought him to exceed his income and get into trouble before, with the consequence that a new crisis and a new demand would probably arise before long. It was so much in the air that the Squire was continually calling the G.o.ds to witness that _he_ was not going to pay any more of Humphrey's debts. But he would not have felt so sore, when he did think about it, if it had not been for Humphrey's att.i.tude towards him in particular, and towards Kencote and all that it represented in general.

The fact was that Humphrey, from the serene heights of his career as a very smart young man about town, patronised them. It is to be supposed that he could not help it, that it was an att.i.tude which he would have corrected if he had been aware of it, for it was quite certain that, when once his father became aware of it, it would not help him in any plan he might have to make for further pecuniary a.s.sistance. The Squire merely had a feeling of irritation against Humphrey, which slumbered while he was away and always became sharper during his somewhat rare visits to Kencote. It was not yet formulated, but was nearer to getting to a head every time they came together. The young man, if he had had an adviser, might have been told that if he acted in such a way as to bring it to a head, it would be time for him to look out.

Humphrey walked into the morning-room with a cool air, as if he had come from another room in the house instead of from London. He was the only one of all the Clintons who was dark. He was not so good-looking as d.i.c.k, but he was well set up, and his clothes were always the perfect expression of the requirements of the moment. So were d.i.c.k's, but d.i.c.k wore old clothes sometimes, Humphrey never. He was a young man of the highest fas.h.i.+on, whenever and wherever he appeared.

The Squire was standing in front of the fire, as his habit was, Mrs.

Clinton sitting behind her tea-table and Mrs. Graham near her. The twins were on the sofa on either side of Cicely. Humphrey kissed his mother, shook hands with his father and Mrs. Graham, and sat down by his sisters. "The frost is going to break," he said.

"Is it?" said the Squire. "Well, that's the best news you could have brought. Look here, we were talking of Lady George Dubec. Do you know anything about her?"

"Virginia Dubec?" said Humphrey. "She is a very beautiful lady."

"Well, but who is she? Who _was_ she? An American they say. Is she all right?"

"She was an actress. Musical comedy, or something of the sort. But that was some years ago. Old George Dubec married her in New York, and led her an awful life. She used to hunt with the Quorn. Went like a bird, and didn't care how she went or where she went. People used to say she wanted to break her neck and get away from George Dubec. But d.i.c.k knows her better than I do. He'll tell you all about her."

Mrs. Clinton looked up from the teacups, Mrs. Graham arched her brows and her mouth twitched, the twins caught the sense of surprise and gazed open-eyed at their father.

"d.i.c.k knows her!" exclaimed the Squire. "Then why on earth----! Does he know she has settled down here?"

"_Has_ she settled down here?" asked Humphrey. "Where has she settled, and what for?"

"Taken old Marsh's rectory at Blaythorn," said Mrs. Graham. "Going to hunt with the South Meads.h.i.+re."

"That seems an odd proceeding for one of the brightest ornaments of the s.h.i.+res," said Humphrey.

The Squire knit his heavy brows. "We can show her very good sport," he said, "if that's what she wants. But I should like to know why she came here, all the same."

"There's more in this than meets the eye," said Nancy, very unwisely, for she and Joan were instantly sent out of the room.

"What are you children doing here?" asked the Squire sharply. "Why aren't you with Miss Bird? Run along now; you've got lessons to do, or something."

"We don't have lessons on Sat.u.r.day. Can't we stay with Cicely, father?" asked Joan.

"I must be going directly," said Cicely, rising. "But I'll come with you and pay a last farewell to the dear old Starling."

So the three of them retired, and directly they got out of the room Joan fell upon Nancy. "What an idiot you are!" she said. "If you had kept quiet we should have heard everything. When you get hold of a new speech you must always be poking it in. We've had enough of 'There's more in this than meets the eye.' I wish you'd get hold of a new one."

"I own it was foolish of me," said Nancy. "I'm at the mercy of a phrase. Still, it was quite true. We know who d.i.c.k is in love with now. Of course he got her down here. Humphrey said she was very beautiful."

"You are not to talk like that, children," said Cicely. "You know nothing about these things."

"Darling!" said Joan, squeezing her arm. "Don't be so frightfully grown-up. We are not children any longer, and we know a good deal more than you think."

"We are a force to be reckoned with now," said Nancy, "and it's no use trying to keep family secrets from us, sending us out of the room, and all that. It's too transparent, and makes us talk all the more."

There was a pause in the morning-room when the three sisters had left.

Humphrey's quick brain was adjusting many things. He knew d.i.c.k admired Virginia Dubec, although it had not hitherto occurred to him that that admiration betokened anything serious. He suspected also, that since somebody must have suggested to the lady that she should spend a season hunting in Meads.h.i.+re instead of in Leicesters.h.i.+re, that somebody was probably d.i.c.k. But if his brother had not seen fit to disclose that fact at Kencote, not even the fact of his acquaintances.h.i.+p with Lady George Dubec, it was not for him to do so. Therefore, when his father asked him whether d.i.c.k knew that she had come to Blaythorn, and why she had come, he said, "I don't know in the least. He'll tell you if you ask him."

The Squire bent his brows on him. "You said he knew her very well."

"I didn't say he knew her very well. I said he knew her better than I did. Lots of people know her. She goes about everywhere in London."

"She was an actress, you say?"

"Well, that's what I've heard. It may not be true."

"It is true," said Mrs. Graham. "Virginia Vanreden. I remember quite well now. I saw her when I was in New York with my husband ten years ago. And a lovely creature she was. I shall go and call on her at once."

The Squire frowned again. "What sort of an actress was she?" he asked.

"Was she a chorus girl?"

"It was a play called _The Flower of Florida_," replied Mrs. Graham, "a very silly play with catchy music, only it didn't catch me, because I hate music, and I was bored to tears. No, she wasn't a chorus girl, and she wasn't the Flower of Florida either--I remember the Flower, an exuberant lady with gold teeth, who seemed to be very popular, but I should have said she was past her job. This girl danced--oh, I remember her very well; she was the best of the bunch, and the Flower grinned at her with her teeth and scowled at her with her eyes while she was performing. When we got back to New York on our way home she had caught on, and all the richly gilded youth was crowding to see her.

The Flower had departed, mad with jealousy."

"A dancing girl!" said the Squire. "Of course! Just the sort that George Dubec would have married. Well, you may call on her if you like, Mrs. Graham, but----"

"Oh, I shall," said Mrs. Graham. "Perhaps she will dance for me. I liked her immensely. She was certainly beautiful, and I like beauty.

She was quite young too. She can't be very old now."

"What I want to know is what brings her to Blaythorn," said the Squire, which closed the discussion, for Cicely's carriage was announced at that moment, and the welfare of the Mountfield horses being of paramount importance it was not many minutes before she and Mrs. Graham had driven away.

d.i.c.k returned shortly after six o'clock, and when he had changed his clothes, came into the library where his father was sitting at his big writing-table looking over papers, his gold-rimmed gla.s.ses perched on his straight nose.

"Oh, here you are," he said, looking over them at his son. "I say, what's this about Lady George Dubec taking the rectory at Blaythorn?"

d.i.c.k took a cigarette out of his case and went over to the smoking-table by the fire to get a match. "I've just been to see her,"

he said; "she's a friend of mine."

"Well, but----" The Squire was puzzled, vaguely uneasy, though he could not have told why. "What on earth has she come _here_ for? Who brought her? You didn't, I suppose?"

d.i.c.k sat down with rather elaborate unconcern in one of the big easy-chairs facing his father, who had turned round sideways in his seat. "I suppose you may say I did bring her, in a way," he said.

"She wanted to do a bit of mild hunting somewhere, and I told her she'd better try the South Meads.h.i.+re."

"But they tell me she's well known with the Quorn and all that sort of thing."

"Now I should like to know who told you that," said d.i.c.k to himself, but he did not ask. "She hasn't hunted there for two seasons," he said. "She wanted something a bit quieter. I said I'd see if I could find her a smallish house, and I wrote to Wylie, the agent at Bathgate.

Blaythorn Rectory was the only place he could get hold of, and the stables there aren't much."

"I should think not."