Powder and Patch (2 page)

“Ay! Trying to dun me, the rascal! Don’t I know it! Blustering and—”

“No, sir,” said Moggat firmly. “I could not truthfully say that the gentleman blustered. Indeed, sir, if I may say so, I think him a singularly quiet, cool gentleman. Very soft-spoken, sir—oh, very soft-spoken!”

“Take him away!” shouted Tom. “I tell you I’ll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time—not at dawn. Now, don’t try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I’d not see him!”

Moggat bowed again.

“I will hinform the gentleman, sir.”

When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leant back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again, Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow.

“Eh? What d’ye want?”

“Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother,” said Moggat gently. Tom jumped as though he had been shot

“What? My brother? What d’ye mean? My brother?” “Sir Maurice, sir.”

Up flew Tom, catching at his wig and cramming it on his head all awry. “Thunder an’ turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?” He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him. Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother’s tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed.

“A nice welcome you give me, Tom! Tell him to come again at a godly time—I’d not see him if ’twere my brother himself, forsooth!”

Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice’s long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.

“My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I’d no notion ’twas you! My dolt of a lackey—but there! When did you arrive in England?”

“A week ago. I have been at the Pride.”

“A week? What a plague d’mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?” As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure. Maurice leant back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered:

“I had first to see my wife installed in her new home,” he said. For a moment Tom stared at him.

“Wife? Tare an’ ouns, ye don’t waste your time! Where and when did you marry the lady?” “Three weeks ago, at Paris. Now I have come home to fulfil the last part of the Jettan adage.”

“God ha’ mercy!” ejaculated Thomas. “Not a staid old age, lad! Not you?” “Something like it,” nodded Maurice. “Wait till you have seen my wife!” “Ay, I’m waiting,” said Tom. “What’s to do now, then? The country squire, and half a dozen children?”

The grey eyes twinkled.

“Tom, I’ll thank you not to be so coarse.”

“Coarse? Coarse? Gad, Maurice, what’s come over you?”

“I am a married man,” replied Maurice. “As such I have—er—learnt to guard my tongue. My wife—”

“Maurry, couldn’t ye call the lady by her name?” begged Torn. “Faith, I can’t bear those two words so often, proud though ye may be of them.”

Maurice flushed slightly and smiled.

“Maria, then. She is a very—sweet, delicate lady.”

“Lord! I’d made up my mind you’d wed a bold, strapping wench with a saucy smile, Maurry!” “I? Good God, no! My w—Maria is gentle, and meek, and—”

“Ay, ay, Maurry, I know!” hastily interrupted Thomas. “I must see her for myself, so don’t spoil the surprise for me, there’s a good fellow! Now have you breakfasted? No? Then come upstairs with me. Where’s that rascal Moggat? Moggat! Moggat! Ah, there you are! Go and prepare breakfast at once, man! And bring some more chocolate to my room.” He wrapped the voluminous robe about him once more, and, seizing his brother by the arm, led him forth to the staircase.

Thus it was that Maurice Jettan brought home his bride. She was a gentle lady, with a sweet disposition; she adored her handsome husband, and duly presented him with a son, Philip. When the babe was shown to him, Tom discovered that he was a true Jettan, with all their characteristics. His father confessed that he saw no resemblance either to himself or to anyone, but he was nevertheless gratified by his brother’s remarks. Tom chuckled mightily

and prophesied that young Philip would prove himself a Jettan in more ways than one. He hinted at a youth which should surpass his father’s in brilliancy, and Maurice smiled, looking proudly down at the red, crumpled face.

“And,” concluded Tom, “he’ll have a papa who can advise him in all matters of fashion better than any man I know. Why, Maurice, you will show him the fashionable world! You must take care you do not stagnate here. You must not fall out of Society.”

Maurice was still smiling down at his offspring.

“No. I must not fall out, Tom. The youngster will need me later on.”

For five years he continued to take his place in London Society, but he found that the desire for excitement and gaiety was growing less and less within him. The death of Maria gave this desire the coup de grace. Maurice took his small son down to the Pride as soon as he had recovered from the first shock of bereavement, and after that for some years he rarely visited London, except sometimes to see his brother or his tailor. Then he seemed to grow restless again, and started to spend more time with Tom. Bit by bit he re-entered the world he had quitted, yet never did he give himself up to it as once he had done. The Pride seemed to call him, and little Philip held his heart with both hands. Thereafter he spent his time between London and the Pride. When he felt restless, he packed his bags and flitted either to London or to Paris; when the restlessness had passed, back he came to the Pride, there to spend two or three peaceful months.

When Philip was eighteen, he took him to London. Philip was very thoroughly bored. Sir Maurice concluded that he was too young to be introduced into Society, and he sent him back to the country, thinking that in two or three years’ time the lad would be only too anxious to leave it.

But the years slipped by, and Philip showed no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. He refused to go on the Grand Tour; he cared nothing for the Dress or Fashionable Manners; he despised the life of Courts; he preferred to remain in the country, usurping, to a great extent, his father’s position as squire. He was now some twenty-three years old, tall and handsome, but, as his father told his uncle, an unpolished cub.”

Chapter II. In which is Presented Mistress Cleone Charteris

Awhile back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round 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 play-fellow 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 un-painted 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 shaft 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.