The Eldest Son Part 12

Humphrey grew a shade paler, but he asked quietly, "What scandal do you accuse me of spreading about her?"

"Well, it isn't scandal in the sense that it's untrue; but I don't suppose a dozen people know that she was ever on the stage. It was only for a few months, and the circ.u.mstances of it did her credit. But if it gets about, it will do her harm. As far as the governor goes, of course, it puts him up on his hind legs at once, and here am I in the position of getting this quite charming lady, against whom n.o.body can say a word, down here, and my own people refusing to go near her. It's too bad. If you happened to know that about her, which, of course, is just the sort of thing you would find out and remember and talk about, out of all the other things you might say about a woman like that, you ought to have kept it to yourself. And you would have done if you had had a spark of decent feeling."

"I _should_ have kept it to myself if I had had any idea it was through you she came here."

"You ought to have kept it to yourself in any case. You know her, you know what she is, and the first thing you find to blurt out about her when you hear she has come down here is the very thing that you know will put everybody against her!"

"Look here, d.i.c.k, there's no sense in you going on blackguarding me like this. I hadn't a ghost of a notion she was anywhere near here when I told them what I did. The moment I came into the room the governor said, 'We've been talking about Lady George Dubec. Do you know her?' I said, 'Yes, she's a very charming lady.' That was the very first thing I said. Then I said, 'She was an actress once upon a time.' There's nothing in that. You say very few people know it.

You're quite wrong. Lots of people know it. Why, even Mrs. Graham knew it, and had seen her. n.o.body thinks anything the worse of her for it. Why should they? And anyhow it wasn't until afterwards that they told me that she had come down here. Then I said, 'd.i.c.k knows her better than I do; he'll tell you all you want to know.' Really, old chap, you're a bit unreasonable."

Both of them had been standing so far, but now Humphrey, feeling perhaps that the crisis had been disposed of, threw himself into a chair.

So it was, on the surface. d.i.c.k stood for a time looking down on the floor. If it was as Humphrey had said, and he had not known that Virginia Dubec was in the neighbourhood until after he had let out that fact about her, it was impossible to carry the attack further. But d.i.c.k was no more satisfied with him than before. The hostility he had felt remained, and was destined to grow. From that moment the common ground of easy, tolerant brotherhood upon which they had both stood for so long was left behind. d.i.c.k had begun to criticise, to find cause for dislike; Humphrey had received an affront, and he did not easily forgive an affront.

But the cement of their years of frictionless companionship still held, and could not be broken in a moment. d.i.c.k also took a chair. "Well, if you didn't know----" he said rather grudgingly.

"No, I didn't know, and I'm sorry," said Humphrey; "the governor won't hold out, d.i.c.k; he's only got to see her."

It was the best thing he could have said. d.i.c.k was inwardly gratified, and some of his resentment departed. "You needn't say anything unless he opens the subject," he said. "But----"

"Oh, I know what to say if he does," said Humphrey. "I say, d.i.c.k, old chap, is it a case?"

d.i.c.k was not at all ready for this--from Humphrey, although if Walter had asked him he might have admitted how much of a case it was, and gained some contentment by talking it over. "I like her, of course,"

he said, somewhat impatiently; "I've never disguised it. I suppose one is permitted to make friendship with women occasionally?"

"Oh yes," said Humphrey, with rather elaborate unconcern. Then d.i.c.k said he was going up to dress, and left the room without further word, while Humphrey sat a while longer looking at the fire and turning things over in his mind.

Over the dinner-table that evening there was talk of the forthcoming Hunt Ball, and the one or two others which made the week after Christmas a short season of gaiety in South Meadshire. The Birketts were coming to stay for them, the Judge and his wife and unmarried daughter, and his other daughter, Lady Senhouse, with her husband.

These were the only guests invited so far, and the Squire, who liked a little bustle of gaiety about him now and again, said that they must ask one or two more people.

"We shall be unusually gay this year," he said, "with the ball for Grace at Kemsale, which is sure to be well done. We must take a good party over from Kencote. Who can we ask?"

It was a somewhat extraordinary thing that a question like that could not easily be answered at Kencote. The Squire very seldom left home, Mrs. Clinton practically never, and in the course of years the families from whom they could draw for visitors had dwindled down to those of relations and county neighbours. The Squire was quite satisfied with this state of things. There were plenty of people about him with whom he could shoot, and who would shoot with him; and an occasional dinner party was all or more than he wanted in the way of indoor sociability--that, and this yearly little group of b.a.l.l.s, the Hunt Ball, the Bathgate Ball, and whatever might be added to them from one or other of the big houses round. Kencote had never been one of those houses. Its women had never been considered of enough importance to make the trouble and expense of ball-giving worth while, and the men could get all the b.a.l.l.s they wanted elsewhere. Before Cicely was married her brothers had generally brought a few men down for these local gaieties, but for the past two years there had been no party from Kencote.

"I think Lady Aldeburgh would bring Susan Clinton if you were to ask her," said Humphrey. "In fact, I'm pretty sure she would."

Now the Countess of Aldeburgh was a person of some importance in the social world, and her husband was sprung from the same race as the Squire, sprung, in fact, some distance back, from Kencote, and represented, as the Squire not infrequently pointed out, a junior branch of the family of which he himself was the head. He was accustomed to speak rather patronisingly of the Aldeburgh Clintons on that account, although not to them, for he did not know them, the present Lord Aldeburgh having been a small boy at school at that period of the Squire's life when he had been about London and known everybody.

"Are they friends of yours?" he asked, not displeased at the idea.

"Yes," said Humphrey. "I told Susan Clinton that she ought to see the home of her ancestors--I was lunching with them--and Lady Aldeburgh said they couldn't see it unless they were asked."

"No difficulty about asking them," said the Squire. "Very pleased to see them, and show them what there is, although I dare say they won't think much of it after the sort of thing they're accustomed to. They must take us as they find us. Did you say anything about these b.a.l.l.s?"

"Well, yes, I did--threw out feelers, you know. I think they would come if mother were to ask them."

"Oh, write by all means, Nina," said the Squire. "Include Aldeburgh, of course."

"Oh, _he_ won't come," said Humphrey. "He never goes where they do.

He doesn't like them."

The Squire frowned. He knew there were people like that, but he didn't want to hear about them. According to his old-fashioned ideas, husbands and wives, if they went visiting at all, ought to go visiting together. Of course it was different where a man might have to go up to London for a day or two. There was no necessity always to take his wife along with him. Or he might perhaps go to a house to shoot. That was all right. But for women to make a point of going about by themselves--why, they had much better stop at home and look after their household duties. "Well, ask him, of course," he said. "He can refuse if he likes. We can do very well without him. Are either of you boys going to ask any men?"

d.i.c.k had thought of bringing a friend, Captain Vernon, who had been to Kencote before and would be very welcome. And Humphrey was going to ask Lord Edgeware.

"What, that young fool who lost all his money racing?" asked the Squire.

"He didn't lose it all," said Humphrey, "and he's had a lot more left to him."

"We don't want that sort of person here," said the Squire decisively.

"All right," said Humphrey. "But he's a very good chap all the same, and has finished sowing his wild oats."

"He's an absolute rotter," said d.i.c.k. "I quite agree; we don't want that sort of fellow here."

Humphrey threw a glance at him and flushed with annoyance, but he said lightly, "I beg to withdraw his candidature. Is there any objection to Bobby Trench? He hasn't spent money racing because he has never had any to spend."

d.i.c.k was silent. The Squire enquired if Mr. Trench was one of Lord So-and-so's sons, and being informed that he was, said that he had known his father and should be pleased to see him at Kencote. So the party was made up, and the men went on to talk about pheasants and hounds, until the twins came in for dessert, when they went on talking about pheasants and hounds.

The Squire and d.i.c.k went into the library to go over their farm papers together almost immediately after dinner, leaving Humphrey with his mother and the girls in the morning-room. When they had finished they betook themselves to easy-chairs to talk, as their custom was in the evening. They were very good friends, and had enough in common to make their conversation mutually agreeable. Neither of them read much, and when d.i.c.k was at Kencote they usually spent their evenings talking.

But d.i.c.k was rather silent to-night, and the Squire was uneasily conscious of the shadow that had fallen on their intercourse. And when he was uneasy about anything his uneasiness always found expression.

"I say, my boy, I hope you don't take it amiss what I said about this Lady George Dubec this afternoon," he said. "You see my point all right, don't you?"

"I see your point well enough," said d.i.c.k. "Only I don't think it's much of a point."

He was accustomed thus to address his father on equal terms, and the Squire liked to have it so. He was now only anxious, while having his own way, to avoid the unpleasantness of leaving a grudge against himself in d.i.c.k's mind.

"Well, we needn't go all over it again," he said. "I haven't made up my mind yet. I don't say your mother shan't call and I don't say she shall. I must think it over. Of course it's a bit awkward for you."

"It's more than a bit awkward for me," said d.i.c.k uncompromisingly.

"When you do think it over you might consider how particularly awkward it is, after having helped this lady to a house here, to have to tell her that my people don't consider her respectable enough to know."

"H'm! Ha!" grunted the Squire, at a loss how to meet this. Then he made a clutch at his authority. "Well, I think you ought to have asked me first, d.i.c.k," he said, "and not taken things for granted. If I'm putting you in an awkward position now, it's because you have put me in an awkward position first."

There was reason in this, perhaps more than the Squire usually displayed in discussing a subject in which his feelings were already engaged, and d.i.c.k did not want to go over the ground again until matters had advanced themselves a stage.

"She will be at the meet on Monday--driving," he said. "You will see what she is like, and that she isn't in the least like what you probably think she is. I should like to introduce you to her, but that shall be as you please."

The Squire did not reply to this. He sat looking at the fire with a puzzled frown on his face. Then he turned to his son and said, "There's nothing between you and this lady, d.i.c.k, is there? You hadn't got her in your mind last night when you said that you did not want to marry a young girl?"

d.i.c.k cursed himself inwardly for having made that unlucky speech. He was not cut out for however mild a conspiracy, and he hated to have to fence and parry. But he must answer quickly if suspicion, which would be disastrous at the present stage, were not to rest on him. He gave a little laugh. "Is that what you have been thinking of?" he asked. "Is that why you don't want mother to call on Lady George?"

The Squire had only to push his question, and he would have learnt everything, for d.i.c.k would not have denied Virginia. But he did not do so. "No, of course not," he said. "But if it were so--if that's how the land lay----"

d.i.c.k did not tell him that that was not how the land lay. He said nothing, and the Squire relinquished the subject, not to open it up again until he was alone with his wife that night. Then his disquietude came out, for d.i.c.k's reply to his question had not satisfied him, and putting two and two together, as he said, and impelled towards dreadful conclusions by his habit of making the most of vague fears, he had now fully convinced himself that the land did indeed lie in the direction of Lady George Dubec, now settled within a mile or two, at Blaythorn, and that, unless he could do something to stop it, a most dreadful catastrophe was about to overtake the house of Clinton.

Mrs. Clinton could do little to calm his fears. Privately she thought that he was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, and that d.i.c.k was as little likely as the Squire himself to marry such a woman as she imagined Lady George Dubec to be. For she knew how much alike her husband and her son were in all the essential aims and ambitions of their lives, although she knew also that d.i.c.k had a far cooler head and a better brain than his father's. For that very reason he was the less likely to make a marriage which would be beneath the dignity of his family. She said what she could to persuade her husband that d.i.c.k might be trusted in a matter of this sort, but he was in that stage of alarm when however much a man may desire to find himself mistaken he resists all attempts to prove him so. "I tell you, Nina," he said, "that he told me himself that when he did marry it would be a middle-aged woman, or words to that effect. And he gets this woman down here without saying a word to us about it, and they say she's good-looking--you heard Humphrey say that yourself, and Mrs. Graham too--and he goes over there this afternoon without mentioning it.--By Jove! didn't he say he wanted to go and see Jim at Mountfield? Yes, he did,--you remember--at luncheon. Nina, I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. Can't you _see_ what a dreadful thing it would be, and that we _must_ stop it at any cost?"