Poor Relations Page 12

  CHAPTER XII

  John did not consider himself a first-class whip: if he had been offeredthe choice between swimming to meet his love like Leander, climbing intoher father's orchard like Romeo, and driving to meet her with adog-cart, he would certainly, had the engagement shown signs of being along one, have chosen any mode of trysting except the last. Thismorning, however, he was not as usual oppressed by a sense of imperfectsympathy between himself and the mare; he did not think she was going tohave hysterics when she blew her nose, nor fancy that she was on theverge of bolting when she tossed her chestnut mane; the absence ofWilliam the groom seemed a matter for congratulation rather than forregret; he felt as reckless as Phaeton, as urgent as Jehu, and the mareknew it. Generally, when her master held the reins, she would try towalk up steep banks or emulate in her capricious greed the loftybrowsings of the giraffe; this morning at a steady swinging trot shekept to the middle of the road, passed two motor-cars without trying tobox the landscape, and did not even shy at the new hat of the vicar'swife.

  Later on, however, when John was safe in the station-yard and saw thefamiliar way in which Miss Hamilton patted the mare he decided not totake any risk on the return journey and in spite of his brother'sparting gibe to hand over the reins to his secretary; nor was thesymbolism of the action distasteful. How charming she looked in thatmauve frieze! How well the color was harmonizing with the purplehedgerows! How naturally she seemed to haunt the woodland scene!

  "Oh, this exquisite country," she sighed. "Fancy staying in London whenyou can write here!"

  "It does seem absurd," the lucky author agreed. "But the house is veryfull at present. We shall be rather exposed to interruptions until theparty breaks up."

  He gave her an account of the Christmas festival, to which she seemedable to listen comfortably and appreciatively in spite of the fact thatshe was driving. This impressed John very much.

  "I hope your mother wasn't angry at your leaving town," he said,tentatively. "I thought of telegraphing an invitation to her; but therereally isn't room for another person."

  "I'm afraid I can't say that she was gracious about my desertion of her.Indeed, she's beginning to put pressure on me to give up my post. Quiteindirectly, of course, but one feels the effect just the same. Whoknows? I may succumb."

  John nearly fell out of the dog-cart.

  "Give up your post?" he gasped. "But, my dear Miss Hamilton, thedog-roses won't be in bloom for some months."

  "What have dog-roses got to do with my post?"

  He laughed a little foolishly.

  "I mean the play won't be finished for some months. Did I say dog-roses?I must have been thinking of the dog-cart. You drive with such admirableunconcern. Still, you ought to see these hedgerows in summer. Now thetime I like for a walk is about eight o'clock on a June evening. Thehoneysuckle smells so delicious about eight o'clock. There's no doubt itis ridiculous to live in London. I hope you made it quite clear to yourmother you had no intention of leaving me?"

  "Ida Merritt did most of the arguing."

  "Did she? What a very intelligent girl she is, by the way. I confess Itook a great fancy to her."

  "You told mother once that she frightened you."

  "Ah, but I'm always frightened by people when I meet them first. Thoughcuriously enough I was never frightened of you. Some people have told methat _I_ am frightening at first. You didn't find that did you?"

  "No, I certainly did not. And I can't imagine anybody else's doing soeither."

  Although John rather plumed himself upon the alarm he was credited withinspiring at first sight, he did not argue the point, because he reallynever had had the least desire to frighten his secretary.

  "And your relations don't seem to find you very frightening," shemurmured. "Good gracious, what an assemblage!"

  The dog-cart had just drawn clear of the beechwood, and the whole of theAmbles party could be seen vigilantly grouped by the gate to receivethem, which John thought was a lapse of taste on the part of his guests.Nor was he mollified by the way in which after the introductions weremade Hugh took it upon himself to conduct Miss Hamilton indoors, whilehe was left shouting for William the groom. If it was anybody's businessexcept his own to escort her into the house, it was Hilda's.

  "What a very extraordinary thing," said John, fretfully, "that the_only_ person who's wanted is not here. Where is that confounded boy?"

  "I'm here," cried Bertram, responding to the epithet instinctively.

  "Not you. Not you. I wanted William to take the mare."

  When lunch was over John found that notwithstanding his secretary'sarrival he was less eager to begin work again upon his play than he hadsupposed.

  "I think I must be feeling rather worn out by Christmas," he told her."I wonder if a walk wouldn't do you good after the journey."

  "Now that's a capital notion," exclaimed Hugh, who was standing close byand overheard the suggestion. "We might tramp up to the top of ShalsteadDown."

  "Oh yes," Harold chimed in. "I've never been there yet. Mother said itwas too far for me; but it isn't, is it, Uncle John?"

  "Your mother was right. It's at least three miles too far," said John,firmly. "Oh, by the way, Hugh, I've been thinking over your scheme forthat summerhouse or whatever you call it, and I'm not sure that I don'trather like the idea after all. You might put it in hand this afternoon.You'd better keep Laurence with you. I want him to have it in the way helikes it, although of course I shall undertake the expense. Where'sBertram? Ah, there you are. Bertram, why don't you and Viola take Harolddown to the river and practice diving? I dare say Mr. Fenton willsuperintend the necessary supply of air and reduce the chances of afatal accident."

  "But the water's much too cold," Hilda protested in dismay.

  "Oh well, there's always something to amuse one by a river withoutactually going into the water," John said. "You like rivers, don't you,Fenton? I'm afraid we can't offer you a very large one, but it wigglesmost picturesquely."

  Aubrey Fenton, who was still feeling twinges of embarrassment on accountof his uninvited stay at Ambles, was prepared to like anything his hostput forward for his appreciation, and he spoke with as much enthusiasmof a promenade along the banks of the small Hampshire stream as if hewere going to view the Ganges for the first time. John, having disposedof him, looked around for other possible candidates for a walk.

  "You look like hard work, James," he said, approvingly.

  "I've a bundle of trash here for review," the critic growled.

  "I'm sorry. I was going to propose a stroll up Shalstead Down. Nevermind. You'll have to walk into your victims instead." And, by gad, hewould walk into them too, John thought, after that dinner yesterday.

  Beatrice and Eleanor were not about; old Mrs. Touchwood was unlikely ather age to venture up the third highest elevation in Hampshire; Hildawas occupied with household duties; Edith had a headache. Only Georgenow remained unoccupied, and John was sure he might safely risk aninvitation to him; he looked incapable of walking two yards.

  "I suppose you wouldn't care for a constitutional, George?" he inquired,heartily.

  "A constitutional?" George repeated, gaping like a chub at a largecherry. "No, no, no, no. I always knit after lunch. Besides I never walkin the country. It ruins one's boots."

  George always used to polish his own boots with as much passionate careas he would have devoted to the coloring of a meerschaum pipe.

  "Well, if nobody wants to climb Shalstead Down," said John beaminghappily, "what do you say, Miss Hamilton?"

  A few minutes later they had crossed the twenty-acre field and wereamong the chalk-flecked billows of the rising downs.

  "You're a terrible fraud," she laughed. "You've always led me to believethat you were completely at the mercy of your relations. Instead ofwhich, you order them about and arrange their afternoon and really bullythem into doing all sorts of things they never had any intention ofdoing, or any wish to do, what's more."

  "Yes, I seemed to be rather success
ful with my strategy to-day," Johnadmitted. "But they were stupefied by their Christmas dinner. None ofthem was really anxious for a walk, and I didn't want to drag them outunwillingly."

  "Ah, it's all very well to explain it away like that, but don't ever askme to sympathize with you again. I believe you're a replica of my poormother. Her tyranny is deeply rooted in consideration for others. Why doyou suppose she is always trying to make me give up working for you? Forher sake? Oh, dear no! For mine."

  "But _you_ don't forge my name and expect her to pay me back. _You_don't arrive suddenly and deposit children upon her doorstep."

  "I dare say I don't, but for my mother Ida Merritt represents all theexcesses of your relations combined in one person. I'm convinced that ifyou and she were to compare notes you would find that you were bothsuffering from acute ingratitude and thoroughly enjoying it. But come,come, this is not a serious conversation. What about the fourth act?"

  "The fourth act of what?" he asked, vaguely.

  "The fourth act of Joan of Arc."

  "Oh, Joan of Arc. I think I must give her a rest. I don't seem at all inthe mood for writing at present. The truth is that I find Joan ratherlacking in humanity and I'm beginning to think I made a mistake inchoosing such an abnormal creature for the central figure of a play."

  "Then what have I come down to Hampshire for?" she demanded.

  "Well, it's very jolly down here, isn't it?" John retorted in anoffended voice. "And anyway you can't expect me to burst into blankverse the moment you arrive, like a canary that's been uncovered by thehousemaid. It would be an affectation to pretend I feel poetical thisafternoon. I feel like a jolly good tramp before tea. I can't standwriters who always want to be literary. I have the temperament of acountry squire, and if I had more money and fewer relations I shouldhardly write at all."

  "Which would be a great pity," said his secretary.

  "Would it?" John replied in the voice of one who has found an unexpectedgrievance and is determined to make the most of it. "I doubt if itwould. What is my work, after all? I don't deceive myself. There wasmore in my six novels than in anything I've written since. I'm a failureto myself. In the eyes of the public I may be a success, but in thedepths of my own heart--" he finished the sentence in a long sigh, allthe longer because he was a little out of breath with climbing.

  "But you were so cheerful a few minutes ago. I'm sure that countrysquires are not the prey to such swift changes of mood. I think you mustbe a poet really."

  "A poet!" he exclaimed, bitterly, with what he fancied was the kind oflaugh that is called hollow. "Do I look like a poet?"

  "If you're going to talk in that childish way I sha'n't say any more,"she warned him, severely. "Oh, there goes a hare!"

  "Two hares," said John, trying to create an impression that in spite ofthe weight of his despondency he would for her sake affect alight-hearted interest in the common incidents of a country walk.

  "And look at the peewits," she said. "What a fuss they make aboutnothing, don't they?"

  "I suppose you are comparing me to a peewit now?" John reproachfullysuggested.

  "Well, a moment ago you compared yourself to an uncovered canary; so ifI've exceeded the bounds of free speech marked out for a secretary, youmust forgive me."

  "My dear Miss Hamilton," he assured her, "I beg you to believe that youare at liberty to compare me to anything you like."

  Having surrendered his personality for the exercise of her wit John feltmore cheerful. The rest of the walk seemed to offer with its wideprospects of country asleep in the winter sunlight a wider prospect oflife itself; even Joan of Arc became once again a human figure.

  It was to be feared that John's manipulation of his guests after lunchmight have had the effect of uniting them against the new favorite; andso it had. When he and Miss Hamilton got back to the house for tea thefamily was obviously upon the defensive, so obviously indeed that itgave the impression of a sculptor's group in which each figure wascontributing his posture to the whole. There was not as yet the leasthint of attack, but John would almost have preferred an offensive actionto this martyred withdrawal from the world in which it was suggestedthat he and Miss Hamilton were living by themselves. It happened that aneighbor, a colorless man with a disobedient and bushy dog, called uponthe Touchwoods that afternoon, and John could not help being aware thatto the eyes of his relations he and his secretary appeared equallyintrusive and disturbing; the manner in which Hilda offered MissHamilton tea scarcely differed from the manner in which she propitiatedthe dog with a bun; and it would have been rash to assert that she wasmore afraid of the dog's biting Harold than of the secretary's doing so.

  "Don't worry Miss Hamilton, darling. She's tired after her long walk.Besides, she isn't used to little boys. And don't make Mr. Wenlow's dogeat sugar if it doesn't want to."

  Eleanor would ordinarily have urged Bertram to prove that he couldachieve what was denied to his cousin. Yet now in the face of a commonenemy she made overtures to Hilda by simultaneously calling off herchildren from the intruders.

  "If I'd known that animals were so welcomed down here," James grumbled,"I should have brought Beyle with us."

  It was not a polite remark; but the disobedient dog in an effusion ofcordiality had just licked the back of James' neck, and he was notnearly so rude as he would have been about a human being who hadsurprised him, speaking figuratively, in the same way.

  "Lie down, Rover," whispered the colorless neighbor with so rich a blushthat until it subsided the epithet ceased to be appropriate.

  Rover unexpectedly paid attention to the command, but chose Grandmama'slap for his resting place, which made Viola laugh so ecstatically thatFrida felt bound to imitate her, with the result that a geyser of teaspurted from her mouth and descended upon her father's leg. Laurencerose and led his daughter from the room, saying:

  "Little girls who choke in drawing-rooms must learn to choke outside."

  "I'm afraid she has adenoids, poor child," said Eleanor, kindly.

  "I know what that word means," Harold bragged with gloating knowledge.

  "Shut up!" cried Bertram. "You know everything, glass-eyes. But youdon't know there are two worms in your tea-cup."

  "There aren't," Harold contradicted.

  "All right, drink it up and see. I put them there myself."

  "Eleanor!" expostulated the horrified mother. "_Do_ you allow Bertram tobehave like this?"

  She hurriedly poured away the contents of Harold's cup, which provedthat the worms were only an invention of his cousin. Yet the joke wassuccessful in its way, because there was no more tea, and thereforeHarold had to go without a third cup. Edith, whose agitation had beenintense while her husband was brooding in the passage over Frida'schokes, could stay still no longer, but went out to assist with tugs andtaps of consolation. The colorless visitor departed with his disobedientdog, and soon a thin pipe was heard in vain whistles upon the twilightlike the lisp of reeds along the dreary margin of a December stream.

  John welcomed this recrudescence of maternal competition, which seemedlikely to imperil the alliance, and he was grateful to Bertram and Violafor their provocation of it. But he had scarcely congratulated himself,when Hugh came in and at once laid himself out to be agreeable to MissHamilton.

  "You've put the summerhouse in hand?" John asked, fussily, in order tomake it perfectly clear to his brother that he was not the owner ofAmbles.

  Hugh shook his head.

  "My dear man, it's Boxing Day. Besides, I know you only wanted to getrid of me this afternoon. By the way, Aubrey's going back to townto-night. Can he have the dog-cart?"

  John looked round at the unbidden guest with a protest on his lips; hehad planned to keep Aubrey as a diversion for Hugh, and had taken quitea fancy to him. Aubrey however, had to be at the office next day, andJohn was distressed to lose the cheerful young man's company, althoughit had been embarrassing when Grandmama had shuddered every time heopened his mouth. Another disadvantage of his departure was thed
irection of the old lady's imagination toward an imminent marriagebetween Hugh and Miss Hamilton, which was extremely galling to John,especially as the rest of the family was united in suggesting a similarconjunction between her and himself.

  "I don't want to say a word against her, Johnnie," Grandmama began tomutter one evening about a week later when every game of patience hadfailed in turn through congestion of the hearts. "I'm not going to sayshe isn't a lady, and perhaps she doesn't mean to make eyes at Hughie."

  John would have liked to tell his mother that she was on the verge ofsenile decay; but the dim old fetish of parental respect blinked at himfrom the jungle of the past, and in a vain search for a way of stoppingher without being rude he let her ramble on.

  "Of course, she has very nice eyes, and I can quite understand Hughie'staking an interest in her. I don't grudge the dear boy his youth. We allget old in time, and its natural that with us old fogies round him he_should_ be a little interested in Miss Hamilton. All the same, itwouldn't be a prudent match. I dare say she thinks I shall havesomething to leave Hugh, but I told her only yesterday that I shouldleave little or nothing."

  "My dear Mama, I can assure you that my secretary--my secretary," Johnrepeated with as much pomposity as might impress the old lady, "is notat all dazzled by the glamour of your wealth or James' wealth orGeorge's wealth or anybody's wealth for that matter."

  He might have said that the donkey's ears were the only recognizablefeature of Midas in the Touchwood family had there been the least chanceof his mother's understanding the classical allusion.

  "I don't mean to hint that she's _only_ after Hugh's money. I've nodoubt at all that she's excessively in love with him."

  "Really?" John exclaimed with such a scornfully ironical intonation thathis mother asked anxiously if he had a sore throat.

  "You might take a little honey and borax, my dear boy," she advised, andimmediately continued her estimate of the emotional situation. "Yes, asI say, excessively in love! But there can't be many young women whoresist Hugh. Why, even as a boy he had his little love affairs. Dear me,how poor papa used to laugh about them. 'He's going to break a lot ofhearts,' poor papa used to say."

  "I don't know about hearts," John commented, gruffly. "But he's brokeneverything else, including himself. However, I can assure you, Mama,that Miss Hamilton's heart is not made of pie-crust, and that she ismore than capable of looking after herself."

  "Then you agree with me that she has a selfish disposition. I _am_ gladyou agree with me. I didn't trust her from the beginning; but I thoughtyou seemed so wrapped up in her cleverness--though when I was youngwomen didn't think it necessary to be clever--that you were quite blindto her selfishness. But I _am_ glad you agree with me. There's nobodywho has more sympathy for true love than I have. But though I alwayssaid that love makes the world go round, I've never been partial tovulgar flirtations. Indeed, if it had to be, I'd rather they got engagedproperly, even if it did mean a long engagement--but leading poor Hughieon like this--well, I must speak plainly, Johnnie, for, after all, I amyour mother, though I know it's the fashion now to think that childrenknow more than their parents, and, in my opinion, you ought to put yourfoot down. There! I've said what I've been wanting to say for a week,and if you jump down my throat, well, then you must, and that's allthere is to it."

  Now, although John thought his mother fondly stupid and was perfectlyconvinced when he asked himself the question that Miss Hamilton was asremote from admiring Hugh as he was himself, he was nevertheless unableto resist observing Hugh henceforth with a little of the jealousy thatmost men of forty-two feel for juniors of twenty-seven. He was notprepared to acknowledge that his opinion of Miss Hamilton was colored byany personal emotion beyond the unqualified respect he gave to herpractical qualities, and he was sure that the only reason for anxietyabout possible developments between her and Hugh was the loss to himselfof her valuable services.

  "I've reached an age," he told his reflection, whose crow's-feet wereseeming more conspicuous than usual in the clear wintry weather, "when aman becomes selfish in small matters. Let me be frank with myself. Letme admit that I do dislike the idea of an entanglement with Hugh,because I _have_ found in Miss Hamilton a perfect secretary whom Ishould be extremely sorry to lose. Is that surprising? No, it is quitenatural. Curious! I noticed to-day that Hugh's hair is getting very thinon top. Mine, however, shows no sign of baldness, though fair men nearlyalways go bald before dark men. But I'm inclined to fancy that fewobservers would give me fifteen years more than Hugh."

  If John had really been conscious of a rival in his youngest brother, hemight have derived much encouragement from the attitude of all the othermembers of the family, none of whom seemed to think that Hugh had a lookin. But, since he firmly declined to admit his secretary's potentialityfor anything except efficient clerical work, he was only irritated byit.

  "Are you going to marry Miss Hamilton?" Harold actually wanted to knowone evening. He had recently been snubbed for asking the company whatwas the difference between gestation and digestion, and was determinedto produce a conundrum that could not be evaded by telling him that hewould not understand the answer. John's solution was to look at hiswatch and say it was time for him and Bertram to be in bed, hoping thatBertram would take it out of his cousin for calling attention to theirexistence. One of Bertram's first measures at Ambles had been tomuffle, impede, disorganize and finally destroy the striking of thedrawing-room clock. When this had been accomplished he could count everynight on a few precious minutes snatched from the annihilation of bedduring which he sat mute as a mummy in a kind of cataleptic ecstasy. Thebetrayer of this profound peace sullenly gathered up the rubbish withwhich he was wont to litter the room every night, and John saw Bertram'seye flash like a Corsican sharpening the knife of revenge. But whateverwas in store for Harold lacked savor when John heard from the group ofmothers, aunts, sisters, and sisters-in-law the two words "Childrenknow" dying away in a sibilance of affirmative sighs.

  After that it was small consolation to hear a scuffle outside in thehall followed by the crash of Harold's dispersed collections and a wailof protest. For the sake of a childish quarrel Hilda and Eleanor werenot going to break up the alliance to which they were now definitelycommitted.

  "It's so nice for poor Harold to have Bertram to play with him,"volunteered one mother.

  "Yes, and it's nice for Bertram too, because Harold's such a littleworker," the other agreed.

  Even George's opaque eyes glimmered with an illusion of life when heheard his wife praise her nephew; she had not surprised him socompletely since on a wet afternoon, thirteen years ago, she acceptedhis hand. It was even obvious to Edith that she must begin to thinkabout taking sides; and, having exhausted her intelligence by thisdiscovery, she had not enough wit left to see that now was heropportunity to trade upon John's sentimental affection for herself, butproceeded to sacrifice her own daughter to the success of the hostilealliance.

  "I think perhaps it's good for Frida to be teased sometimes," sheventured.

  As for Beatrice, she was not going to draw attention to herchildlessness by giving one more woman the chance of feeling superior toherself, and her thwarted maternity was placed at the disposal of thethree mothers. Indeed it was she who led the first foray, in which shewas herself severely wounded, as will be seen.

  Among the unnecessary vexations and unsatisfactory pleasures which thehuman side of John inflicted upon the well-known dramatist, JohnTouchwood, was the collection of press-cuttings about himself and hiswork; one of Miss Hamilton's least congenial tasks was to preserve in ascrap-book these tributes to egoism.

  "You don't really want me to stick in this paragraph from _High Life_?"she would protest.

  "Which one is that?"

  "Why, this ridiculous announcement that you've decided to live on theupper slopes of the Andes for the next few months in order to gathermaterial for a tragedy about the Incas."

  "Oh, I don't know. It's rather amusing, I think," John woul
d insist,apologetically. Then, rather lamely, he would add, "You see, Isubscribe."

  Miss Hamilton, with a sigh, would dip her brush in the paste.

  "I can understand your keeping the notices of your productions, which Isuppose have a certain value, but this sort of childish gossip...."

  "Gossip keeps my name before the public."

  Then he would fancy that he caught a faint murmur about "lack ofdignity," and once even he thought she whispered something about "lackof humor."

  Therefore, in view of the importance he seemed to attach to the mostirrelevant paragraph, Miss Hamilton could not be blamed for drawing hisattention to a long article in one of those critical quarterlies ormonthlies that are read in club smoking-rooms in the same spirit ofdesperation in which at railway stations belated travelers readtime-tables. This article was entitled _What Is Wrong With Our Drama?_and was signed with some obscurely allusive pseudonym.

  "I suppose I am involved in the general condemnation?" said John, withan attempt at a debonair indifference.

  Had he been alone he might have refrained from a descent intoparticulars, but having laid so much stress upon the salvage ofworthless flotsam, he could not in Miss Hamilton's presence ignore thislarge wreck.

  "_Let us pause now to contemplate the roundest and the rosiest of ourromantic cherubs._ Ha-ha! I suppose the fellow thinks that will irritateme. As a matter of fact, I think it's rather funny, don't you? Ratherclever, I mean. Eh? _But, after all, should we take Mr. Touchwoodseriously? He is only an exuberant schoolboy prancing about with apudding-dish on his head and shouting 'Let's pretend I'm aKnight-at-Arms' to a large and susceptible public. Let us say to Mr.Touchwood in the words of an earlier romantic who was the fount andorigin of all this Gothic stucco:_

  _'O what can ail thee, Knight-at-Arms,_ _So staggered by the critics' tone?_ _The pit and gallery are full,_ _And the play has gone.'_

  "I don't mind what he says about _me_," John assured his secretary. "ButI do resent his parodying Keats. Yes, I do strongly resent that. Iwonder who wrote it. I call it rather personal for anonymous criticism."

  "Shall I stick it in the book?"

  "Certainly," the wounded lion uttered with a roar of disdain. At leastthat was the way John fancied he said "certainly."

  "Do you really want to know who wrote this article?" she asked,seriously, a minute or two later.

  "It wasn't James?" the victim exclaimed in a flash of comprehension.

  "Well, all I can tell you is that two or three days ago your brotherreceived a copy of the review and a letter from the editorial offices. Iwas sorting out your letters and noticed the address on the outside.Afterwards at breakfast he opened it and took out a check."

  "James would call me a rosy cherub," John muttered. "Moreover, I didtell him about Bertram and the pudding-dish when he was playing atPerseus. And--no, James doesn't admire Keats."

  "Poor man," said Miss Hamilton, charitably.

  "Yes, I suppose one ought to be sorry for him rather than angry," Johnagreed, snatching at the implied consolation. "All the same, I think Iought to speak to him about his behavior. Of course, he's quite atliberty to despise my work, but I don't think he should take advantageof our relationship to introduce a note of personal--well, really, Idon't think he has any right to call me a round and rosy cherub inprint. After all, the public doesn't know what a damned failure Jameshimself is. I shouldn't so mind if it really was a big pot calling thekettle black. I could retaliate then. But as it is I can do nothing."

  "Except stick it in your press-cutting book," suggested Miss Hamilton,with a smile.

  "And then my mother goes and presents him with all the silver! No, Iwill not overlook this lapse of taste; I shall speak to him about itthis morning. But suppose he asks me how I found out?"

  "You must tell him."

  "You don't mind?"

  "I'm your secretary, aren't I?"

  "By Jove, Miss Hamilton, you know, you really are...."

  John stopped. He wanted to tell her what a balm her generosity was tohis wound; but he felt that she would prefer him to be practical.

  It was like the critic to welcome with composure the accusation of whatJohn called his duplicity, or rather of what he called duplicity in theprivacy of his own thoughts: to James he began by referring to it asexaggerated frankness.

  "I said nothing more than I've said a hundred times to your face," hisbrother pointed out.

  "That may be, but you didn't borrow money from me on the strength ofwhat you said. You told me you had an article on Alfred de Vignyappearing shortly. You didn't tell me that you were raising the money asa post obit on my reputation."

  "My dear Johnnie, if you're going to abuse me in metaphors, be just atany rate. Your reputation was a corpse before I dissected it."

  "Very well, then," cried John, hotly, "have it your own way and admitthat you're a body-snatcher."

  "However," James continued, with a laugh that was for him almostapologetic, "though I hate excuses, I must point out that the money Iborrowed from you was genuinely on account of Alfred de Vigny and thatthis was an unexpected windfall. And to show I bear you no ill will,which is more than can be said for most borrowers, here's the check Ireceived. I'm bound to say you deserve it."

  "I don't want the money."

  "Yet in a way you earned it yourself," the critic chuckled. "But let mebe quite clear. Is this a family quarrel? I don't want to quarrel withyou personally. I hate your work. I think it false, pretentious anddemoralizing. But I like you very much. Do, my dear fellow, let uscontract my good taste in literature and bad taste in manners with yourbad taste in literature and good taste in manners. Like two pugilists,let's shake hands and walk out of the ring arm-in-arm. Even if I hit youbelow the belt, you must blame your curves, Johnnie. You're so plump androsy that...."

  "That word is becoming an obsession with you. You seem to think itannoys me, but it doesn't annoy me at all."

  "Then it is a family quarrel. Come, your young lady has opened hercampaign well. I congratulate her. By the way, when am I to congratulateyou?"

  "This," said John, rising with grave dignity, "is going too far."

  He left his brother, armed himself with a brassey, proceeded to thetwenty-acre field, and made the longest drive of his experience. Atlunch James announced that he and Beatrice must be getting back to townthat afternoon, a resolution in which his host acquiesced without even aconventional murmur of protest. Perhaps it was this attitude of John'sthat stung Beatrice into a challenge, or perhaps she had been egged onby the mothers who, with their children's future to consider, were notanxious to declare open war upon the rich uncle. At any rate, in hercommonest voice she said:

  "It's plain that Jimmie and I are not wanted here any longer."

  The mothers looked down at their plates with what they hoped was astrictly neutral expression. Yet it was impossible not to feel that theywere triumphantly digging one another in the ribs with ghostly fingers,such an atmosphere of suppressed elation was discernible above themodest attention they paid to the food before them. Nobody made aneffort to cover the awkwardness created by the remark, and John wasfaced with the alternative of contradicting it or acknowledging itstruth; he was certainly not going to be allowed to ignore it in a burstof general conversation.

  "I think that is rather a foolish remark, Beatrice," was his comment.

  She shrugged her shoulders so emphatically that her stays creaked in thehorrid silence that enveloped the table.

  "Well, we can't all be as clever as Miss Hamilton, and most of uswouldn't like to be, what's more."

  "The dog-cart will be round at three," John replied, coldly.

  His sister-in-law, bursting into tears, rushed from the room. Jamesguffawed and helped himself to potatoes. The various mothers reprovedtheir children for breaches of table manners. George looked nervously athis wife as if she was on the point of following the example ofBeatrice. Grandmama, who was daily receding further and further into thepast, put on her specta
cles and told John, reproachfully, that he oughtnot to tease little Beatrice. Hugh engaged Miss Hamilton in aconversation about Bernard Shaw. John, forgetting he had already dippedtwice in mustard the morsel of beef upon his fork, dipped it again, sothat his eyes presently filled with tears, to which the observant Haroldcalled everybody's attention.

  "Don't make personal remarks, darling," his mother whispered.

  "That's what Johnnie said to me this morning," James chuckled.

  When the dog-cart drove off with James and Beatrice at three o'clock tocatch the 3:45 train up to town, John retired to his study in fullexpectation that when the mare came back she would at once turn roundfor the purpose of driving Miss Hamilton to catch the 5:30 train up totown: no young woman in her position would forgive that vulgar scene atlunch. But when he reached his desk he found his secretary hard at workupon the collection of material for the play as if nothing had happened.In the presence of such well-bred indifference the recollection ofBeatrice's behavior abashed him more than ever, and, feeling that anykind of even indirect apology from him would be distasteful to MissHamilton, he tried to concentrate upon the grouping of the trial scenewith an equal show of indifference to the mean events of family life. Hewas so far successful that the afternoon passed away without anyallusion to Beatrice, and when the gong sounded for tea his equanimitywas in order again.

  After tea, however, Eleanor managed to get hold of John for what shecalled a little chat about the future, but which he detected with themind's nose as an unpleasant rehash of the morning's pasticcio. Healways dreaded this sister-in-law when she opened with zoologicalendearments, and his spirits sank to hear her exclaim boisterously:

  "Now, look here, you poor wounded old lion, I'm going to talk to youseriously about Beatrice."

  "There's nothing more to be said," John assured her.

  "Now don't be an old bear. You've already made one poor aunt cry; don'tupset me too."

  Anybody less likely to be prostrated by grief than Eleanor at thatmoment John could not have imagined. She seemed to him the incarnationof a sinister self-assurance.

  "Rubbish," he snapped. "In any case, yours would only be stage tears,you old crocodile--if I may copy your manner of speech."

  "Isn't he in a nasty, horrid, cross mood?" she demanded, with anaffected glance at an imaginary audience. "No, but seriously, John! I dowant to give you a little advice. I suppose it's tactless of me to talkabout advising the great man, but don't bite my head off."

  "In what capacity?" the great man asked. "You've forgotten to specifythe precise carnivore that will perform the operation."

  "Oh dear, aren't we sarcastic this afternoon?" she asked, opening wideher eyes. "However, you're not going to frighten me, because I'mdetermined to have it out with you, even if you order the dog-cartbefore dinner. Johnnie, is it fair to let a complete stranger makemischief among relations?"

  John played the break in Eleanor's voice with beautiful ease.

  "I will not have Miss Hamilton's name dragged into these sordid familysquabbles," he asseverated.

  "I'm not going to say a word against Miss Hamilton. I think she's acharming young woman--a little too charming perhaps for you, yoususceptible old goose."

  "For goodness sake," John begged, "stick to the jungle and leave thefarmyard alone."

  "Now you're not going to rag me out of what I'm going to say. You knowthat I'm a real Bohemian who doesn't pay attention to the stupid littleconventionalities that, for instance, Hilda or Edith might consider.Therefore I'm sure you won't misunderstand me when I warn you aboutpeople talking. Of course, you and I are accustomed to the freedom ofthe profession, and as far as I'm concerned you might engage half adozen handsome lady secretaries without my even noticing it. But theothers don't understand. They think it's funny."

  "Good heavens, what are you trying to suggest?" John demanded.

  He could manage the break, but this full pitch made him slog wildly.

  "_I_'m not trying to suggest anything. I'm simply telling you what otherpeople may think. You see, after all, Hilda and Edith couldn't helpnoticing that you did allow Miss Hamilton to make mischief between youand your brother. I dare say James was in the wrong; but is it a part ofa secretary's duties to manage her employer? And James _is_ yourbrother. The natural deduction for conventional people like Hilda andEdith was that--now, don't be annoyed at what I'm going to say, but Ialways speak out--I'm famous for my frankness. Well, to put it frankly,they think that Miss Hamilton can twist you round her little finger.Then, of course, they ask themselves why, and for conventional peoplelike Hilda and Edith there's only one explanation. Of course, I toldthem it was all nonsense and that you were as innocent as an old lamb. Idare say you don't mind people talking. That's your business, but Ishouldn't have been a good pal if I hadn't warned you that people willtalk, if they aren't talking already."

  "You've got the mind of an usher," said John. "I can't say worse thanthat of anybody. Wasn't it you who suggested a French governess shouldbe given the freedom of Church Row and who laughed at me for being anold beaver or some other prudish animal because I objected? If I can betrusted with a French governess, I can surely be trusted with aconfidential secretary. Besides, we're surrounded by an absolute_chevaux de frise_ of chaperons, for I suppose that Hilda and Edith mayfairly be considered efficient chaperons, even if you are still tooyouthfully Bohemian for the post."

  Eleanor's age was the only vulnerable spot in her self-confidence, andJohn took advantage of it to bring her little chat to a bitter end.

  "My dear Johnnie," she said, tartly, "I'm not talking about the present.I'm warning you about the future. However, you're evidently not in themood to listen to anybody."

  "No, I'm not," he assented, warmly. "I'm as deaf as an old adder."

  The next day John, together with Mrs. Worfolk and Maud, left forHampstead, and his secretary traveled with him up to town.

  "Yes," his housekeeper was overheard observing to Elsa in the hall of 36Church Row, "dog-cart is a good name for an unnatural conveyance, butgive me a good old London cab for human beings. Turn again, Whittington,they say, and they're right. They may call London noisy if they like,but it's as quiet as a mouse when you put it alongside of all thatbaaring and mooing and cockadoodledoing in the country. Well, I mean tosay, Elsa, I'm getting too old for the country. And the master's gettingtoo old for the country, in my opinion. I'm in hopes he'll settle downnow, and not go wearing himself out any more with the country. Believeme or not as you will, Elsa, when I tell you that the pore fellow had toplay at ball like any little kid to keep himself amused."

  "Fancy that, Mrs. Worfolk," Elsa murmured with a gentle intake ofastonished breath.

  "Yes, it used to make me feel all over melancholy to see him. All byhimself in a great field. Pore fellow. He's lonely, that's what it is,however...."

  At this point the conversation born upon whispers and tut-tut passed outof John's hearing toward the basement.

  "I suppose my own servants will start gossiping next," he grumbled tohimself. "Luckily I've learnt to despise gossip. Hullo, here's anotherbundle of press-cuttings.

  "_It is rumored that John Touchwood's version of Joan of Arc which he iswriting for that noble tragedienne, Miss Janet Bond, will exhibit theMaid of Orleans in a new and piquant light. The distinguished dramatisthas just returned from France where he has been obtaining somestartling scenic effects for what is confidently expected will be theplaywright's most successful production. We are sorry to hear that MissBond has been suffering from a sharp attack of 'flu, but a visit to Dr.Brighton has--_"

  These and many similar paragraphs were all pasted into the album by hissecretary the next morning, and John was quite annoyed when she referredto them as worthless gossip.

  "You don't know what gossip is," he said, thinking of Eleanor. "I ignorereal gossip."

  Miss Hamilton smiled to herself.