Pau, in August, being what no man could be expected to stand, Duplessis and his friend Lord Bramleigh went into Spain, and lounged at San Sebastian. Here on a blazing noon of mid-September, as they were breakfasting at leisure, a budget of letters was delivered. Lord Bramleigh, cheerful, wholesome, and round-faced, chirped over his, according to his wont. He read most of them aloud, with comments. “Old Gosperton’s shoot—will I go? I’ll see him damned. Why should I go and see old Gosperton shoot beaters? Not if I know it. Who’s this? Mary St. Chad, by the Lord! Now what does she want? . . . ‘I suppose you know that Bob Longford is . . .’ I’ll be shot if I know anything of the sort. I know he wants to all right; but you can’t marry a chap’s wife—at least I don’t think you can. . . . Oh, sorry! Fellow’s dead. . . . I say, Tristram, do you hear that? Old Bland-Mainways is dead, and Bob Longford’s married his relic—married her in a week, my boy. What do you say to that? You marry a man’s remains almost as soon as he’s remains himself. Pretty manners, what? . . .”
Duplessis took no heed; the babbler ran on. . . . “This is my mater—wonder what she’s got to say? I rather funk the Dowager. . . . Hulloa! By Gad, that’s rum. I say, Duplessis, did you know a chap called Senhouse at Cambridge? Pembroke, was he? Or King’s? King’s, I think . . . it was King’s. Did you know him? Jack Senhouse—John Senhouse—rum chap.”
“Eh? Senhouse? Oh, yes, I knew him. Used to see him about.” Duplessis resumed his letters; one, especially, made him frown—then stare out of the window. He read others but returned to that.
Lord Bramleigh went on. “I want to tell you about this chap Senhouse. Of course, I never knew him at the Varsity—ages before me, he was. Good footer—player—ran with the beagles—ran like the devil; rowed a bit, painted a bit, sang a damned good song: Jack Senhouse. Well, he’s mad. Rich chap—at least, his father was rich—alderman somewhere, I b’lieve—say, Birmingham . . . one of those sort of places. Well, Jack Senhouse chucked all that—took to painting, scribbling, God knows what. His governor gets cross—sends him round the world on the chance he’ll settle down by’n by. Not he! Gets up to all sorts of unlawful games—cuts the ship and starts off on his own across Morocco; gets hung up at Fez—row with a Shereef about his wife or wives. Foreign Office has to get to work—makes it all right. Senhouse goes? Not he. Stays there all the same—to learn the language, I’ll ask you. Language and plants. He collects plants in the Atlas. So he goes on. Then he gets back home. ‘Hope you’ll settle down to the office, my boy,’ says his governor. ‘No, thank ye,’ says Jack, and doesn’t. He was off again on the tramp somewhere—turns up in Russia—if Warsaw’s in Russia—anyhow he turns up where Warsaw is—talking to the Poles about Revolution. Still collects plants. They put him over the frontier. He goes to Siberia after plants and politics. More rows. Well, anyhow, he came back a year ago, and said he was a tinker. He’d learned tinkerin’ somewhere round, sawderin’ and all that—and I’m damned if he didn’t set up a cart and horse and go about with a tent. He paints, he scribbles, he tinkers, he sawders—just as he dam’ pleases. And he turns England into a garden, and plants his plants. He’s got plants out all over the country. I tell you—the rummiest chap. Up in the Lakes somewhere he’s got a lot—growin’ wild, free and easy—says he don’t want hedges round his things. ‘Let ’em go as they please,’ he says. So he turns the Land’s End into a rockery and stuffs the cracks with things from the Alps. He’s made me promise him things from the Pyrenees, confound him—you’ll have to help me with ’em. And irises on Dartmoor—from the Caucasus! And peonies growin’ wild in South Wales—oh, he’s mad! You never saw such a chap. And so dam’ reasonable about it. I like the chap. He’s all right, you know. He’s been turned out of every village in England pretty well, ’cause he will talk and will camp out, and plant his plants in other men’s land. I met him once bein’ kicked out of Dicky Clavering’s place—regular procession—and old Jack sittin’ up in his cart talkin’ to the policeman like an old friend. Admirin’ crowd, of course—the gels all love him, he’s so devilish agreeable, is Jack. I tell you, he learnt more than one sort of sawderin’. And as for his flowers—well, you know there’s a language of ’em. Well, now, what do you think? I’ve heard from the Dowager, and I’ll be shot if she hasn’t just turned old Jack out of my place! Found him campin’ in the park, with one of the maids boilin’ his kettle, and another cuttin’ bread and butter for him. Plantin’ peonies he was—in my park! Dam’ funny business; but the end’s funnier still. The Dowager, out driving, comes home—sees Master Jack waiting for his tea. Stops the carriage—sends the footman to order him off. Jack says he’ll go after tea. This won’t suit the Dowager by any means—so there’s a row. Jack comes up to explain; makes himself so infernally agreeable that I’ll be jiggered if the Dowager don’t ask him to dinner, and up he turns in evenin’ togs, just like you or me. After dinner—‘Good-night, my lady,’ says Jack. ‘I must be off early, as I’ve some saucepan bottoms waiting for me—and I’ve promised ’em for to-morrow sharp’—says Jack. Now—I say, I don’t believe you’ve heard a word of all this.”
Duplessis, I think, had not. He had been frowning at the glare outside, biting his cheek; in his hand was a crumpled-up letter.
“Look here, Bramleigh, I must get out of this,” he said. “I want to go home.” Lord Bramleigh, never to be surprised, emptied his tumbler.
Then he asked, “What’s up? No trouble, I hope?”
He had a gloomy stare for his first answer, and for second—“No, I don’t say that. I don’t know. That’s why I am off—to see.”
A man’s pleasure is a matter of course to your Bramleighs: the moral and social order must accommodate itself to that.
“That’s all right,” said Lord Bramleigh, therefore. “When do you go? To-morrow?”
“I go this evening.” The effect of this was to raise Lord Bramleigh’s scalp a shade higher.
“We swore we’d go to Madame Sop’s to-night, you know.” Madame Sop was a Madame Sopwith, a lady of uncertain age and Oriental appearance, who gave card-parties.
Duplessis said, “You must make my excuses—if she wants ’em. I’m going.”
“A woman, of course,” said Bramleigh, tapping a cigarette—but had no answer. Duplessis caught the Sun express, and, travelling straight through, reached Misperton Brand in less than two days.
On the afternoon of the third day he was at the door of the little house, Heath View, in Blackheath. The door was open, and within the frame of it stood a tall young woman with hair elaborately puffed over the ears and a complexion heightened by excitement.
“Good-afternoon,” says Duplessis. “Miss Middleham at home?”
“Yes,” says Jinny, “she is. Will you come in?”
He followed her into the parlour and was offered a chair. “Thanks very much,” he said, but did not take it. He stood by the window, and Jinny Middleham stood by the door.
Presently Jinny said, “I am Miss Middleham, you know. Or perhaps you didn’t know it.” Duplessis stared, then recovered.
“I beg your pardon. No, I didn’t grasp that. But you’re not my Miss Middleham.”
“I didn’t know that you had one,” said Jinny. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
He laughed. “You’ll think me very rude in a minute; but I’ll explain to you. It was your sister I wanted to see. She is—a friend of mine. My name is Duplessis. She may have told you.” Jinny was as stiff as a poker.
“I have heard my sister speak of you, certainly. I understood that you were—an acquaintance.”
Duplessis nodded easily. “Put it at that. I suppose I may see her?”
“She’s away,” said Jinny. “She’s staying in London—with the Honourable Mrs. Germain.”
He began to bite his cheek. “Can you give me Mrs. Germain’s address? It’s not Hill-street, I suppose?”
Jinny was very happy just now. “I suppose that a letter to Mrs. Germain at Misperton would find her. You are related to her, I believe?”
“My dear Miss Middleham,” said Duplessis candidly, “let’s keep to the point. It seems to me that you don’t want me to see your sister.”
“Oh,” says Jinny, “it don’t matter at all to me.” He knit his brows.
“Then you mean——?”
“I mean,” said Jinny, “that my sister is going to be married to Mr. Germain. That’s what it comes to.”
Duplessis bowed. “I see. Thank you very much. Than I think, if you’ll allow me—” He bowed again and went towards the door. The scene was to be over. Jinny put her hand upon the latch. “Where are you going?” she said, very short of breath. There was a thrill yet to be got out of this.
What was sport to her mortified him to death. “Really, I don’t know that I need trouble you any more,” he said. “You will give my kind regards to your sister, I hope.” But Jinny kept the door-handle in possession.
“Mr. Duplessis,” she said, “I ought to tell you that my sister would rather be excused from seeing you. At least, she says so. She said so to me. You best know why that may be.”
He ill concealed his mortification. “We won’t talk of your sister’s affairs, I think. I am happy to have made your acquaintance——”
Jinny tossed her head up. “My acquaintance, as you call it, is for them that want it. My sister’s is her own business. I tell you fairly, Mr. Duplessis, that she may be very unhappy.”
He flashed her a savage look. “Good Heavens, I believe that. Why, the thing’s monstrous! You might as well marry her to a nunnery. The fellow’s frozen—stark cold.” Jinny steadfastly regarded him.
“You know very well that you never meant to marry her,” she said. He grew cold instantly.
“Once for all, I must tell you that I decline to discuss your sister’s affairs with any one but herself. And since you tell me that I am not to see her, I will ask you to let me bid you good-afternoon. I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble.”
It was over; there was but one treatment for such a cavalier in Jinny’s code of manners. She opened the door wide. “Good-afternoon,” she said. He bowed and went out with no more ceremony.
He felt spotted, and was furious that such a squalid drama should have engaged him. A fluffed shop-girl—and Tristram Duplessis! Filthy, filthy business! But he went directly to Hill-street—whither a telegram had preceded him, terse and significant according to Jinny’s sense of the theatre. “Look out,” it said.
That sent the colour flying from Mary’s lips, and lighted panic in her eyes. She crushed it into a ball and dropped it; then she went directly to Mrs. James and asked leave to go home for a few days. She shook as she spoke. She said she was feeling very tired and unlike herself; she wanted her mother, she said simply, and as her lip quivered at the pathetic sound of that, her eyes also filled. Mrs. James, not an unkind woman by any means, was really sympathetic. “My dear child, I quite understand. Go home, of course, and get strong and well. Although you may hardly believe me, I care very much for your happiness—and John would wish it. If he could have been here I know he would have taken you. You shall have the carriage. Now, when would you like to——?”
“At once, please, Mrs. Germain—at once.” Mrs. Germain rang the bell and ordered the carriage. Mary could hardly wait for it; she spent the lagging moments pacing her room, and before it was fairly at the door she was on the doorstep. She took no luggage. Crouched in one corner of the hatefully dawdling thing, she stared quivering out of the window. At the corner of the square by Lansdowne House she gasped and cowered. A cab passed her, in which sat, scowling and great, Tristram Duplessis, his arms folded over the apron. Did he—? No, no, th............