Chapter 8

“Oh! you will, sir; we shall see.”

The others had risen and were gathered in a knot at the end of the table; old Heythorp and Mr. Ventnor alone remained seated. The old man's lower lip projected till the white hairs below stood out like bristles. '.ou ugly dog,' he was thinking, 'you think you've got something up your sleeve. Well, do your worst!' The “ugly dog” rose abruptly and joined the others. And old Heythorp closed his eyes, sitting perfectly still, with his cigar, which had gone out, sticking up between his teeth. Mr. Brownbee turning to voice the decision come to, cleared his throat.

“Mr. Heythorp,” he said, “if your bankers and solicitors bear out your statements, we shall accept your offer faute de mieux, in consideration of your--” but meeting the old man's eyes, which said so very plainly: “Blow your consideration!” he ended with a stammer: “Perhaps you will kindly furnish us with the authorisation you spoke of?”

Old Heythorp nodded, and Mr. Brownbee, with a little bow, clasped his hat to his breast and moved towards the door. The nine gentlemen followed. Mr. Ventnor, bringing up the rear, turned and looked back. But the old man's eyes were already closed again.

The moment his creditors were gone, old Heythorp sounded the hand-bell.

“Help me up, Mr. Farney. That Ventnor--what's his holding?”

“Quite small. Only ten shares, I think.”

“Ah! What time is it?”

“Quarter to four, sir.”

“Get me a taxi.”

After visiting his bank and his solicitors he struggled once more into his cab and caused it to be driven towards Millicent Villas. A kind of sleepy triumph permeated his whole being, bumped and shaken by the cab's rapid progress. So! He was free of those sharks now so long as he could hold on to his Companies; and he would still have a hundred a year or more to spare for Rosamund and her youngsters. He could live on four hundred, or even three-fifty, without losing his independence, for there would be no standing life in that holy woman's house unless he could pay his own scot! A good day's work! The best for many a long month!

The cab stopped before the villa.

3

There are rooms which refuse to give away their owners, and rooms which seem to say: 'They really are like this.' Of such was Rosamund Larne's--a sort of permanent confession, seeming to remark to anyone who entered: 'Her taste? Well, you can see--cheerful and exuberant; her habits--yes, she sits here all the morning in a dressing-gown, smoking cigarettes and dropping ink; kindly observe my carpet. Notice the piano--it has a look of coming and going, according to the exchequer. This very deep-cushioned sofa is permanent, however; the water-colours on the walls are safe, too--they're by herself. Mark the scent of mimosa--she likes flowers, and likes them strong. No clock, of course. Examine the bureau--she is obviously always ringing for “the drumstick,” and saying: “Where's this, Ellen, and where's that? You naughty gairl, you've been tidying.” Cast an eye on that pile of manuscript--she has evidently a genius for composition; it flows off her pen--like Shakespeare, she never blots a line. See how she's had the electric light put in, instead of that horrid gas; but try and turn either of them on--you can't; last quarter isn't paid, of course; and she uses an oil lamp, you can tell that by the ceiling: The dog over there, who will not answer to the name of 'Carmen,' a Pekinese spaniel like a little Djin, all prominent eyes rolling their blacks, and no nose between--yes, Carmen looks as if she didn't know what was coming next; she's right--it's a pet-and-slap-again life! Consider, too, the fittings of the tea-tray, rather soiled, though not quite tin, but I say unto you that no millionaire's in all its glory ever had a liqueur bottle on it.'

When old Heythorp entered this room, which extended from back to front of the little house, preceded by the announcement “Mr. Aesop,” it was resonant with a very clatter-bodandigo of noises, from Phyllis playing the Machiche; from the boy Jock on the hearthrug, emitting at short intervals the most piercing notes from an ocarina; from Mrs. Larne on the sofa, talking with her trailing volubility to Bob Pillin; from Bob Pillin muttering: “Ye-es! Qui-ite! Ye-es!” and gazing at Phyllis over his collar. And, on the window-sill, as far as she could get from all this noise, the little dog Carmen was rolling her eyes. At sight of their visitor Jock blew one rending screech, and bolting behind the sofa, placed his chin on its top, so that nothing but his round pink unmoving face was visible; and the dog Carmen tried to climb the blind cord.

Encircled from behind by the arms of Phyllis, and preceded by the gracious perfumed bulk of Mrs. Larne, old Heythorp was escorted to the sofa. It was low, and when he had plumped down into it, the boy Jock emitted a hollow groan. Bob Pillin was the first to break the silence.

“How are you, sir? I hope it's gone through.”

Old Heythorp nodded. His eyes were fixed on the liqueur, and Mrs. Larne murmured:

“Guardy, you must try our new liqueur. Jock, you awful boy, get up and bring Guardy a glass.”

The boy Jock approached the tea-table, took up a glass, put it to his eye and filled it rapidly.

“You horrible boy, you could see that glass has been used.”

In a high round voice rather like an angel's, Jock answered:

“All right, Mother; I'll get rid of it,” and rapidly swallowing the yellow liquor, took up another glass.

Mrs. Larne laughed.

“What am I to do with him?”

A loud shriek prevented a response. Phyllis, who had taken her brother by the ear to lead him to the door, let him go to clasp her injured self.

Bob Pillin went hastening towards her; and following the young man with her chin, Mrs. Larne said, smiling:

“Aren't those children awful? He's such a nice fellow. We like him so much, Guardy.”

The old man grinned. So she was making up to that young pup! Rosamund Larne, watching him, murmured:

“Oh! Guardy, you're as bad as Jock. He takes after you terribly. Look at the shape of his head. Jock, come here!” The innocent boy approached; with his girlish complexion, his flowery blue eyes, his perfect mouth, he stood before his mother like a large cherub. And suddenly he blew his ocarina in a dreadful manner. Mrs. Larne launched a box at his ears, and receiving the wind of it he fell prone.

“That's the way he behaves. Be off with you, you awful boy. I want to talk to Guardy.”

The boy withdrew on his stomach, and sat against the wall cross-legged, fixing his innocent round eyes on old Heythorp. Mrs. Larne sighed.

“Things are worse and worse, Guardy. I'm at my wits' end to tide over this quarter. You wouldn't advance me a hundred on my new story? I'm sure to get two for it in the end.”

The old man shook his head.

“I've done something for you and the children,” he said. “You'll get notice of it in a day or two; ask no questions.”

“Oh! Guardy! Oh! you dear!” And her gaze rested on Bob Pillin, leaning over the piano, where Phyllis again sat.

Old Heythorp snorted. “What are you cultivating that young gaby for? She mustn't be grabbed up by any fool who comes along.”

Mrs. Larne murmured at once:

“Of course, the dear gairl is much too young. Phyllis, come and talk to Guardy!”

When the girl was installed beside him on the sofa, and he had felt that little thrill of warmth the proximity of youth can bring, he said:

“Been a good girl?”

She shook her head.

“Can't, when Jock's not at school. Mother can't pay for him this term.”

Hearing his name, the boy Jock blew his ocarina till Mrs. Larne drove him from the room, and Phyllis went on:

“He's more awful than anything you can think of. Was my dad at all like him, Guardy? Mother's always so mysterious about him. I suppose you knew him well.”

Old Heythorp, incapable of confusion, answered stolidly:

“Not very.”

“Who was his father? I don't believe even mother knows.”

“Man about town in my day.”

“Oh! your day must have been jolly. Did you wear peg-top trousers, and dundreary's?”

Old Heythorp nodded.

“What larks! And I suppose you had lots of adventures with opera dancers and gambling. The young men are all so good now.” Her eyes rested on Bob Pillin. “That young man's a perfect stick of goodness.”

Old Heythorp grunted.

“You wouldn't know how good he was,” Phyllis went on musingly, “unless you'd sat next him in a tunnel. The other day he had his waist squeezed and he simply sat still and did nothing. And then when the tunnel ended, it was Jock after all, not me. His face was--Oh! ah! ha! ha! Ah! ha!” She threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat. Then edging near, she whispered:

“He likes to pretend, of course, that he's fearfully lively. He's promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards. Won't it be scrummy! Only, I haven't anything to go in.”

Old Heythorp said: “What do you want? Irish poplin?”

Her mouth opened wide: “Oh! Guardy! Soft white satin!”

“How many yards'll go round you?”

“I should think about twelve. We could make it ourselves. You are a chook!”

A scent of hair, like hay, enveloped him, her lips bobbed against his nose,--and there came a feeling in his heart as when he rolled the first sip of a special wine against his palate. This little house was a rumty-too affair, her mother was a humbug, the boy a cheeky young rascal, but there was a warmth here he never felt in that big house which had been his wife's and was now his holy daughter's. And once more he rejoiced at his day's work, and the success of his breach of trust, which put some little ground beneath these young feet, in a hard and unscrupulous world. Phyllis whispered in his ear:

“Guardy, do look; he will stare at me like that. Isn't it awful--like a boiled rabbit?”

Bob Pillin, attentive to Mrs. Larne, was gazing with all his might over her shoulder at the girl. The young man was moonstruck, that was clear! There was something almost touching in the stare of those puppy dog's eyes. And he thought 'Young beggar--wish I were his age!' The utter injustice of having an old and helpless body, when your desire for enjoyment was as great as ever! They said a man was as old as he felt! Fools! A man was as old as his legs and arms, and not a day younger. He heard the girl beside him utter a discomfortable sound, and saw her face cloud as if tears were not far off; she jumped up, and going to the window, lifted the little dog and buried her face in its brown and white fur. Old Heythorp thought: 'She sees that her humbugging mother is using her as a decoy.' But she had come back, and the little dog, rolling its eyes horribly at the strange figure on the sofa, in a desperate effort to escape succeeded in reaching her shoulder, where it stayed perched like a cat, held by one paw and trying to back away into space. Old Heythorp said abruptly:

“Are you very fond of your mother?”

“Of course I am, Guardy. I adore her.”

“H'm! Listen to me. When you come of age or marry, you'll have a hundred and twenty a year of your own that you can't get rid of. Don't ever be persuaded into doing what you don't want. And remember: Your mother's a sieve, no good giving her money; keep what you'll get for yourself--it's only a pittance, and you'll want it all--every penny.”

Phyllis's eyes had opened very wide; so that he wondered if she had taken in his words.

“Oh! Isn't money horrible, Guardy?”

“The want of it.”

“No, it's beastly altogether. If only we were like birds. Or if one could put out a plate overnight, and have just enough in the morning to use during the day.”

Old Heythorp sighed.

“There's only one thing in life that matters--independence. Lose that, and you lose everything. That's the value of money. Help me up.”

Phyllis stretched out her hands, and the little dog, running down her back, resumed its perch on the window-sill, close to the blind cord.

Once on his feet, old Heythorp said:

“Give me a kiss. You'll have your satin tomorrow.”

Then looking at Bob Pillin, he remarked:

“Going my way? I'll give you a lift.”

The young man, giving Phyllis one appealing look, answered dully: “Tha-anks!” and they went out together to the taxi. In that draughtless vehicle they sat, full of who knows what contempt of age for youth; and youth for age; the old man resenting this young pup's aspiration to his granddaughter; the young man annoyed that this old image had dragged him away before he wished to go. Old Heythorp said at last:

“Well?”

Thus expected to say something, Bob Pillin muttered

“Glad your meetin' went off well, sir. You scored a triumph I should think.”

“Why?”

“Oh! I don't know. I thought you had a good bit of opposition to contend with.”

Old Heythorp looked at him.

“Your grandmother!” he said; then, with his habitual instinct of attack, added: “You make the most of your opportunities, I see.”

At this rude assault Bob Pillin's red-cheeked face assumed a certain dignity. “I don't know what you mean, sir. Mrs. Larne is very kind to me.”

“No doubt. But don't try to pick the flowers.”

Thoroughly upset, Bob Pillin preserved a dogged silence. This fortnight, since he had first met Phyllis in old Heythorp's hall, had been the most singular of his existence up to now. He would never have believed that a fellow could be so quickly and completely bowled, could succumb without a kick, without even wanting to kick. To one with his philosophy of having a good time and never committing himself too far, it was in the nature of “a fair knock-out,” and yet so pleasurable, except for the wear and tear about one's chances. If only he knew how far the old boy really counted in the matter! To say: “My intentions are strictly honourable” would be old-fashioned; besides--the old fellow might have no right to hear it. They called him Guardy, but without knowing more he did not want to admit the old curmudgeon's right to interfere.

“Are you a relation of theirs, sir?”

Old Heythorp nodded.

Bob Pillin went on with desperation:

“I should like to know what your objection to me is.”

The old man turned his head so far as he was able; a grim smile bristled the hairs about his lips, and twinkled in his eyes. What did he object to? Why--everything! Object to! That sleek head, those puppy-dog eyes, fattish red cheeks, high collars, pearl pin, spats, and drawl-pah! the imbecility, the smugness of his mug; no go, no devil in any of his sort, in any of these fish-veined, coddled-up young bloods, nothing but playing for safety! And he wheezed out:

“Milk and water masquerading as port wine.”

Bob Pillin frowned.

It was almost too much for the composure even of a man of the world. That this paralytic old fellow should express contempt for his virility was really the last thing in jests. Luckily he could not take it seriously. But suddenly he thought: 'What if he really has the power to stop my going there, and means to turn them against me!' And his heart quailed.

“Awfully sorry, sir,” he said, “if you don't think I'm wild enough. Anything I can do for you in that line--”

The old man grunted; and realising that he had been quite witty, Bob Pillin went on:

“I know I'm not in debt, no entanglements, got a decent income, pretty good expectations and all that; but I can soon put that all right if I'm not fit without.”

It was perhaps his first attempt at irony, and he could not help thinking how good it was.

But old Heythorp preserved a deadly silence. He looked like a stuffed man, a regular Aunt Sally sitting there, with the fixed red in his cheeks, his stivered hair, square block of a body, and no neck that you could see-only wanting the pipe in his mouth! Could there really be danger from such an old idol? The idol spoke:

“I'll give you a word of advice. Don't hang round there, or you'll burn your fingers. Remember me to your father. Good-night!”

The taxi had stopped before the house in Sefton Park. An insensate impulse to remain seated and argue the point fought in Bob Pillin with an impulse to leap out, shake his fist in at the window, and walk off. He merely said, however:

“Thanks for the lift. Good-night!” And, getting out deliberately, he walked off.

Old Heythorp, waiting for the driver to help him up, thought 'Fatter, but no more guts than his father!'

In his sanctum he sank at once into his chair. It was wonderfully still there every day at this hour; just the click of the coals, just the faintest ruffle from the wind in the trees of the park. And it was cosily warm, only the fire lightening the darkness. A drowsy beatitude pervaded the old man. A good day's work! A triumph--that young pup had said. Yes! Something of a triumph! He had held on, and won. And dinner to look forward to, yet. A nap--a nap! And soon, rhythmic, soft, sonorous, his breathing rose, with now and then that pathetic twitching of the old who dream.

III

1

When Bob Pillin emerged from the little front garden of 23, Millicent Villas ten days later, his sentiments were ravelled, and he could not get hold of an end to pull straight the stuff of his mind.

He had found Mrs. Larne and Phyllis in the sitting-room, and Phyllis had been crying; he was sure she had been crying; and that memory still infected the sentiments evoked by later happenings. Old Heythorp had said: “You'll burn your fingers.” The process had begun. Having sent her daughter away on a pretext really a bit too thin, Mrs. Larne had installed him beside her scented bulk on the sofa, and poured into his ear such a tale of monetary woe and entanglement, such a mass of present difficulties and rosy prospects, that his brain still whirled, and only one thing emerged clearly-that she wanted fifty pounds, which she would repay him on quarter-day; for their Guardy had made a settlement by which, until the dear children came of age, she would have sixty pounds every quarter. It was only a question of a few weeks; he might ask Messrs. Scriven and Coles; they would tell him the security was quite safe. He certainly might ask Messrs. Scriven and Coles--they happened to be his father's solicitors; but it hardly seemed to touch the point. Bob Pillin had a certain shrewd caution, and the point was whether he was going to begin to lend money to a woman who, he could see, might borrow up to seventy times seven on the strength of his infatuation for her daughter. That was rather too strong! Yet, if he didn't she might take a sudden dislike to him, and where would he be then? Besides, would not a loan make his position stronger? And then--such is the effect of love even on the younger generation--that thought seemed to him unworthy. If he lent at all, it should be from chivalry--ulterior motives might go hang! And the memory of the tear-marks on Phyllis's pretty pale-pink cheeks; and her petulantly mournful: “Oh! young man, isn't money beastly!” scraped his heart, and ravished his judgment. All the same, fifty pounds was fifty pounds, and goodness knew how much more; and what did he know of Mrs. Larne, after all, except that she was a relative of old Heythorp's and wrote stories--told them too, if he was not mistaken? Perhaps it would be better to see Scrivens'. But again that absurd nobility assaulted him. Phyllis! Phyllis! Besides, were not settlements always drawn so that they refused to form security for anything? Thus, hampered and troubled, he hailed a cab. He was dining with the Ventnors on the Cheshire side, and would be late if he didn't get home sharp to dress.

Driving, white-tied--and waist-coated, in his father's car, he thought with a certain contumely of the younger Ventnor girl, whom he had been wont to consider pretty before he knew Phyllis. And seated next her at dinner, he quite enjoyed his new sense of superiority to her charms, and the ease with which he could chaff and be agreeable. And all the time he suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now, to think and talk of Phyllis. Ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful, his old Madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop. Favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that Ventnor was an agreeable fellow, Bob Pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the subject of his affections.

“Do you happen,” he said airily, “to know a Mrs. Larne--relative of old Heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories.”

Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin's would have seen that he also moved his ears.

“Of old Heythorp's? Didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and that son of his in the Admiralty.”

Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.

“She is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. I thought you might know her stories--clever woman.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled. “Ah!” he said enigmatically, “these lady novelists! Does she make any money by them?”

Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. And he said:

“Oh! she has private means, I know.”

Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.

“So she's a relative of old Heythorp's,” he said. “He's a very old friend of your father's. He ought to go bankrupt, you know.”

To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides, the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on Mrs. Larne? And he said:

“I think you're mistaken. That's of the past.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled.

“Will you bet?” he said.

Bob Pillin also smiled. “I should be bettin' on a certainty.”

Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. “Don't you believe it; he hasn't a mag to his name. Fill your glass.”

Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:

“Well, I happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six thousand pounds. Don't know if you call that being bankrupt.”

“What! On this Mrs. Larne?”

Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin hesitated, then gave a nod.

Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.

“No, my boy,” he said. “No!”

Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.

“I'll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens.”

Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:

“Scrivens---but they're not--” then, staring rather hard, he added: “I won't bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father's solicitors too, aren't they? Always been sorry he didn't come to me. Shall we join the ladies?” And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain in his mind than on his feet....