A while back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round Little Fittledean. Of one I said but little, of the second I spoke at length and to the tune of one whole chapter. It now behoves me to mention the third gentleman, who chose his site on the outskirts of the village, some two miles from Jettan's Pride, and to the east. To reach it you must walk along the main street until the cottages grow sparse and yet more sparse, and the cobblestones and pavement cease altogether. The street turns then into a lane with trees flanking it and grass growing to the sides. A few steps further, and the moss-covered roof of Sharley House peeps above a high holly hedge which screens the place from the passer-by. There lived Mr. Charteris, and his father and grandfather before him. Mr. Charteris was the happy possessor of a wife and a daughter. It is with the daughter that I am most concerned.
Her name was Cleone, and she was very lovely. She had thick gold curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a pair of red lips that pouted or smiled in equal fascination. She was just eighteen, and the joy and despair of all the young men of the countryside. Particularly was she the despair of Mr. Philip Jettan.
Philip was head over ears in love with Cleone. He had been so ever since she returned from the convent where she had received a slight education. Before her departure for this convent, she and Philip, James and Jennifer Winton, had played together and quarrelled together since any of them could walk. Then Cleone went away to acquire polish, and the two boys thought very little more about her, until she returned, and then they thought of nothing else but her. The romping playfellow was gone for ever, but in her place was a Vision. Philip and James began to eye one another askance.
Delighted by the new state of affairs, Cleone queened it right royally, and played one young man against the other. But it was not long before she found herself thinking far more about Mr. Jettan than was seemly. He began to haunt her dreams, and when he came to visit the house her heart fluttered a little and showed a tendency to jump into her throat.
Cleone was stern with her heart, for there was much in Mr. Jettan that did not meet with her approval. However masterful and handsome he might be—and Philip was both—he was distressingly boorish in many ways. Before her return to Sharley House Cleone had spent a few months with her aunt, who lived in Town. Several men had made very elegant love to her and showered compliments about her golden head. She had not cared the snap of her fingers for any one of them, but their graceful homage was very gratifying. Philip's speech was direct and purposeful, and his compliments were never neat. His clothes also left much to be desired. Cleone had an eye for colour and style; she liked her cavaliers to be à la mode. Sir Matthew Trelawney, for instance, had affected the most wonderful stockings, clocked with butterflies; Frederick King wore so excellently fitting a coat that, it was said, he required three men to ease him into it. Philip's coat was made for comfort; he would have scorned the stockings of Matthew Trelawney. He even refused to buy a wig, but wore his own brown hair brushed back from his face and tied loosely at his neck with a piece of black ribbon. No powder, no curls, unpolished nails, and an unpainted face—guiltless, too, of even the smallest patch—it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep. Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip must be reformed, since she—well, since she did not dislike him.
At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but—"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!"
At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled.
"Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough."
Sir Maurice's mouth quivered responsively.
"What's that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?"
"Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I—am I."
"So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate."
Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning.
"What mean you, sir?"
The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly.
"Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an you fail to mend your ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with a raw clodhopper like yourself?"
Philip answered low.
"If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau."
"A man! Sacré tonnerre, 'tis what you are, hein? Philip, child, get you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig."
"No, sir, I thank you. I shall do very well without a wig."
Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards at the floor in exasperation.
"Mille diables! You'll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!"
Philip nodded.
"That I will do, sir, since you wish it."
"Bah!" retorted his father.
He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence.
Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation.
Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand.
Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.
"Why, sir, are you back already?" she asked, dimpling.
"Already!" he echoed. "It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!"
"Pooh!" she said. "Ten days—not a moment more!"
"Is that all it has seemed to you?" he said.
Cleone's cheek became faintly tinged with pink.
"What more?" she retorted. "'Tis all it is!"
Into Philip's eyes came a gleam of triumph.
"Aha! You've counted, then! Oh, Cleone!"
The roguish look fled.
"Oh!" cried Cleone, pouting. "How—how—monstrous—"
"Monstrous what, dear Cleone?"
"Impudent!" she ended. "I declare I won't see you!" As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.
Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr. Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madam Charteris.
Madam patted her hand.
"Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!"
Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip.
"Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person."
"Tut-tut!" said her mother. "Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet one beauty to whom you lost your heart?"
"No, madam," answered Philip. "The painted society dames attract me not at all." His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.
"I dare say you've not yet heard the news?" Cleone said, after a slight pause. "Or did Sir Maurice tell you?"
"No—that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?"
"It remains to be seen," she replied. "'Tis that Mr. Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?"
Philip stiffened.
"Bancroft? Sir Harold's son?"
"Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think—he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be—" she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers "—twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!"
"H'm!" remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. "What does he want here?"
Cleone's long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes.
"To see his papa, of course. After so many years!"
Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort.
"I'll wager there's a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere now."
"Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?"
Madam Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation.
"Yes. It seems that Henry—"
"Who?" Philip straightened in his chair.
"Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?"
Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.
"I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?"
"No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard," said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.
When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.
Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.
"Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?"
Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.
"I believe someone told me. What of it?"
"You said nothing of it to me."
The grey eyes lifted.
"Is he a friend of yours? I did not know."
"A friend!" Philip set his glass down with a snap. "Hardly, sir!"
"Now what's to do?" asked his father. "Why the scorn?"
"Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!"
"I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice. "What's the tale?"
"The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!"
"Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?"
"I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?"
"I—er—knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?"
"As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand—"
Sir Maurice sighed.
"No. Of course not. Go on."
"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."
"Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?"
"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here."
A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips.
"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip."
In spite of himself, Philip laughed.
"Sir, you are incorrigible!"
"Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?"
"From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else."
"Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine."
Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling.
"I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire," he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct."
"It's a piquante situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't disinherit you."
"No?"
"Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though."
"Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation."
"Does it?" Sir Maurice was mildly interested. "Faith, I did not know that."
"Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself."
"You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in—let us say, Bancroft's. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me."
"Ah!" Philip leaned forward eagerly. "You admit that?"
Sir Maurice sipped his wine.
"Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire." He watched Philip draw back. "An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others," he waved his hand, "should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another's; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the world." He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. "Well? What have you to say to my peroration?"
Philip answered simply, and in admiration.
"Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice."
"Bah!" snapped Sir Maurice.