Part 6

"The same as ever, I thank you," answered Cleone.

Sir Maurice patted her hand.

"And how is little Cleone?"

"Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well," she said, with great sprightliness. "And you?"

Sir Maurice was more honest.

"To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp."

Cleone played with her fingers, her head bent.

"Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you--do you yet know where he is?"

"No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters."

"Mr. Tom--has not told you, I suppose."

"No. I've not seen Tom for some time.... The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I'd like to see him walk in at that door!"

Cleone's head sank a little lower.

"Do you think--harm could have come to him, sir?"

"No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!"

"I never--"

"My dear, don't pretend to me! Do you think I don't know?"

Cleone was silent.

"We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned--without the polish, child?"

"No!" whispered Cleone.

"Nor should I. Strange! But I should prefer it, I confess."

"Do you think--do you think he--he will be--very elegant, Sir Maurice?"

He smiled.

"I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?"

"N--no."

There was silence for a few minutes.

"Sir Maurice."

"My dear?"

"Mamma has a letter from my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke."

"So? And what does she say therein?"

"She--she wants me to go to her for the season."

Sir Maurice looked down at her.

"And you are going?"

"I don't--know. I--do not wish to leave you, sir."

"That is very kind of you, child. But I'd not have you stay for my sake."

"It's no such thing, sir. I do not want to go."

"Why, Cleone, not for the season? Think of the balls and the routs."

"I don't--care about it." It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again.

"Tut-tut, my love!"

Another silence.

"I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time," said Cleone wistfully.

"You forget, dear. I sent him. He is but obeying me."

"And--and me."

Sir Maurice found nothing to say to that.

"Was I--perhaps--very wicked--to--to--do what he said--I did?"

"What was that, Cleone?"

"Th--throw away--an honest man's love for--for--oh, you know the things he said!"

"Silly young fool! You gave him his just deserts, Cleone. And you may vouch for it that he will be back here at your feet in a very short while."

Cleone glanced up through her lashes.

"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly.

"Of course I do!" he answered stoutly.

Just then a bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Cleone jumped up and ran to the window which looked out on the avenue. She tip-toed, craning her neck to see who stood in the porch.

"Why, it is Sir Harold Bancroft!" she exclaimed.

"Plague take him, then!" said Sir Maurice, disagreeably. "I can't stand the fellow or his sprig of a son!"

Cleone blushed and continued to stand with her back to the room until footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened to admit the visitor.

Sir Maurice rose.

"Give ye good den, Bancroft. It's good of you to come to visit me this cold day."

Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice's rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtseying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand.

"'Tis a joke I must have you share! 'Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?"

Sir Maurice put forward a chair.

"Really? No, I did not know."

"Well, he is. And"--a chuckle escaped him--"so is yours!"

"Oh!" It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone.

Sir Maurice smiled.

"I guessed as much," he said, quite untruthfully. "Have you news from Henry?"

"No, not I! But I've a letter from an old friend of mine--Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?"

Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch, and beckoned Cleone to his side.

"No. He, too, is in Paris?"

"Ay. Now wait while I find the letter! You'll split o' laughter when you've heard me read it!" He rummaged in his capacious pockets, and drew forth two or three crumpled sheets. These he spread out, and proceeded to find the place.

"'I trust....' No, that's not it! 'We are' ... Hum, hum, hum! Ah, here we have it! Just listen to this!" He held the parchment close to his nose and began to read:

"'... Whom should I meet but your boy, Henry! I had no notion he was in Paris, or I should have sought him out, you may depend. The manner of my meeting with him was most singular, as you will agree, and it is the more interesting as the occasion affords the subject for the latest joke of Paris, nay, I may almost say scandal, though to be sure I mean not our meeting, but that which I am about to relate....' A bit involved, that," remarked Bancroft, frowning.

"Not at all," said Sir Maurice. "I understand perfectly."

"Well, it's more than I do! However: 'I came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day....'"

"Château-Banvau!"

"Eh? Do ye know him?"

"Do I know him! As I know my brother!"

"Fancy! There's a coincidence! But there's more to come! Where was I? Oh, yes--'came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day and found him in great amusement, which he offered me to share, and the which I agreed to. He propounded me the joke that we were to see, and one in which his _protégé_, a Mr. Philip Jettan, was the part cause of and your son, Henry, the other!' Gad, that's a fine sentence! Are ye listening to me, Jettan?"

There was no need to ask that question. Both his auditors had their whole attention fixed on him. Satisfied, he continued: "'This young Jettan is, so says the Marquis, the craze of Fashionable Paris, the ladies' darling'--do ye hear that now?--'and the maddest young scamp that you could wish for. Then the Marquis further told me that Henry was in Paris and engaged to fight a duel with this Jettan.'"

"Oh, heavens!" cried Cleone.

"Ye may well say so, my dear! Now, wait a while--the joke's against me, I confess, but I had to tell you--'The cause whereof, it is rumoured, is some lady whom both are enamoured of, some French wench, I think.'"

Cleone was rigid. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Sir Maurice's arm.

"'Jettan being a great favourite among the young sparks here, they all, having got wind of the affair, combined among themselves, laying wagers about the fight, the most of the money being laid on Jettan, as I hear. Then to bait him, or what-not, they conspired to be present at the meeting despite Jettan's protests. The Marquis laughed mightily here, and said that Jettan threatened to read them an ode should they appear, which he seemed to find vastly entertaining on account of some joke or other concerning Jettan's poetry.'"

"Philip's _poetry_?..." said Sir Maurice faintly. "Proceed, Bancroft."

"Ay, wait a bit! Here we are: 'The Marquis was going to be present, having heard of the rumour, and swore to take me along with him. The which I did consent to, as you may imagine. Well, we came out to Neuilly in due course at half-after eight one morning, and mighty cold it was, but that's neither here nor there. There we found a fair gathering of young rakes with their horses or chariots, some half dozen in all, laying wagers and all mightily amused. And, stap me, if there was not a fiddler scraping away as if his life depended on it. Soon after we were come, up drives a coach and out jumps three men, the first in great disorder at finding so many there assembled. This was Jettan, and prodigious elegant and finicky he was, too, all patched and painted, and tricked up in velvets and silks and I don't know what. He fell into a great rage, though he was laughing half the time, and, indeed, 'twas a ridiculous situation, and he could scarce help but to be tickled by it. He turns to his seconds and rates them, but they were too amused to do aught but to hold their sides. Then young Jettan orders us all off and especially begs the Marquis to exert his influence, which he would not do. Then Jettan appealed to us to withdraw, whereat they were all the more entertained, and adjured him to _se taire_, as they call it, calling him _petit Philippe_ and the like. Then Jettan started to laugh himself and pulls out a roll of parchment from his pocket, and was for declaiming some ode he had writ, but that three of them took it from him. Then he says, "At least, send that damned fiddler away!" and they replied, "All in good time," but 'twas himself had asked for him. Before he could say more, which he was about to do, up comes another coach, and out gets your boy, Henry, and his seconds. When they saw what was toward they were mightily put out, as you may imagine, and, indeed, Henry was white and purple with rage, saying this was an insult and he was not to be so mocked, and the like. His seconds spoke apart with young Jettan's, and I give you my word, they were dancing with fury, at least one was, but the little one seemed more entertained. Then up comes Jettan, very solemn and dignified, and bows to Henry. "I ask you to believe, moosoo," says he, "that this is none of my designing. I desire," says he, "to offer you my apologies for my friends' ill-timed pleasantry." Henry could scarce mouth forth a word, so enraged was he, and was for retiring at once, saying that he had borne much, but this was too much. The fiddler was ordered to stop his scraping now, and the onlookers all vowed they had come with serious intent to watch the fight, and would not go until they had done so. Jettan offers to meet Henry another day, when and where he will, but I could see Henry was burning to run him through. "Since we are here," says he, "let us go on with it. I await your convenience," he says, and, "I thank you," replies Jettan and stands back. Henry's seconds were all for retiring, but he'd have none of it, and bids them go to and choose the ground. At last all was prepared, and the two stripped off their coats and vests. Everyone was becomingly sober now, and, indeed, mighty anxious for young Jettan, who is the smaller of the two, and Henry looking murder as he was. Henry fought devilish hard, and, indeed, is a cunning fencer, as you no doubt apprehend, but young Jettan was like a bit of quicksilver, in and out with his sword most finicky and dainty. Soon we saw that Henry was no match for him at all, and, indeed, could have been run through the body a score of times, Jettan playing with him very pretty to see, but I was sore distressed to see Henry so put to it. He gave Jettan but the faintest scratch, and before we knew what was to do, there was Henry reeling back and his sword on the ground. At which Jettan bows very polite, and but a mite out of breath, and picks up the sword and hands it to Henry. Henry was for continuing, and a brave lad he is, but the seconds would have none of it, and 'twas all over. "I trust you are satisfied, sir?" says Jettan. "Satisfied be damned!" pants Henry, clutching at his shoulder. "Of the other matter between us," says Jettan, "I can only counsel you to remember, for I meant what I said." Then he walks off and we rode away.'" Bancroft stopped. "I saw the joke was against me. What do ye think of that, Sir Maurice?"

Sir Maurice drew a deep breath.

"My God, I would I had been there!" he said fervently.

"Ay, 'twould have been a fine sight, I vow! But did ye ever hear the like of it? Philip and the petticoats, eh? These lads, Sir Maurice! These lads! Satterthwaite says he writes madrigals and what-not to the ladies' eyelashes!" Bancroft went off into a long chuckle. "And so ruffled my young hot-head, who had always a way with the petticoats!"

Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure.

When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff.

"Ahem!" said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: "Pack o' lies!"

"Do you think so?" said Cleone hopefully.

"Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do--acquiring polish and _savoir faire_ with your sex, my dear."

Cleone sprang up.

"You told him to--oh, how could you, sir?"

"My dear, it's less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!"

"Nor I," said Cleone bitterly. "And--and 'tis my own--f-fault--for--s-sending him away--s-so c-cruelly, but--but--oh, how _dare_ he?"

Sir Maurice was silent.

"He--he--I thought he--" she broke off, biting her lip. After a slight pause she spoke again, with would-be lightness. "I--do you know, I think I shall go to my aunt after all?"

"Will you, my dear?" said Sir Maurice.

* * * * *

That evening he was moved to write to his brother, an infrequent proceeding. The outcome of that letter was a brief note from Tom, which reached Philip a week later.

"Dear Nephew,--The Devil's in it now and no Mistake. Old Satterthwaite was Present at your crazy Duel, and has writ the whole Tale to Harry Bancroft, who, curse him for an interfering old Fool, read it to your Father and Cleone. The Tale is that you and B. quarrelled over some French Minx, which may be True for all I know. In any Case, Cleone is monstrous put out, and Comes to Towne to her Aunt, old Sally Malmerstoke. Maurice writes me this and demands your Return, being Upset for the Girl's sake, but secretly Delighted at the Story, if I read his Letter aright. Do as you please, dear Boy, but I warn you, Cleone is in the Mood for any Madness, as is the way when a Maid thinks herself slighted. And she is a Prodigious pretty Chit. My love to Château-Banvau and to Yr Self.--Tom."

Eleven

Philip Astonishes His Uncle

Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the _Rambler_, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town-chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the bandboxes that he carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom's front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house.

Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another's.

But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing.

"Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!" And he proceeded to do so.

"God ha' mercy, it's Philip!" gasped Tom. "I never expected you for another week, lad!"

Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak.

"I am _de trop_, no?"

"Never in your life!" Tom assured him. "Stand up, child, and let me look at you!" Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. "By the Lord Harry, Philip, it's marvellous! How could you do it in six months----!"

Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands.

"Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?"

With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip's claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold.

"Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you're a joy to behold!"

"_Merci du compliment!_" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?"

Tom's eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes.

"Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots--Philip, where did you obtain them?"

Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg.

"They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François."

"Give them to François?" cried his uncle. "Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?"

"He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat." He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. "Ah, do not disturb yourself. I have spoken with _ce bon_ Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything."

Tom came back.

"He will be in a frenzy, Philip! All that baggage!"

"All--that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet."

"B--but--is there more to come?" asked Tom.

"But of course! The bulk follows me."

Tom sat down weakly.

"And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats."

Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste.

"Those far-off days! That is ended--completely!"

Tom cast him a shrewd glance.

"What, all of it? Cleone?"

"Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is--another--matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom."

"It brought you back?"

"_En partie._ She is here?"

"Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for--and courted." His eyes twinkled.

"Oho!" said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. "So she is furious with me, yes?"

"So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?"

Philip sipped his wine.

"Not a whit. 'Twas her own fair name, _à vrai dire_."

"Oh! You'll tell her that, of course?"

"Not at all."

Tom stared.

"What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?"

"Perhaps. Oh, I don't know! I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry! _Le petit Philippe se fâche_," he said, smiling suddenly. "He would see whether it is himself she loves, or--a painted puppet. It's foolish, but what would you?"

"So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely.

"What else?"

"Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.

"I want to have her love me for--myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?"

"Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?"

"Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear."

"No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall.

Philip laughed.

"That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes."

"I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?"

"Jacques, my groom and _homme à tout faire_!"

"Faith, ye've a retinue!"

"What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather."

"Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?"

"Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little--ah yes! and I procure a house."

"Do you make your bow to Cleone?"

An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes.

"I present myself to Cleone--as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!"

Tom considered him.

"No, you're not. You don't drawl."

"I shall drawl," promised Philip. "And I shall be very languid."

"It's the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?"

"It did not entice me. I am _le petit sans repos_, and _le petit_ Philippe _au C[oe]ur Perdu_, and _petit original_. _Hé, hé_, I shall be homesick! It is inevitable."

"Are you so much at home in Paris?" asked Tom, rather surprised. "You liked the Frenchies?"

"Liked them! Could I have disliked them?"

"I should have thought it possible--for you. Did you make many friends?"

"_A revendre!_ They took me to their bosoms."

"Did they indeed! Who do you count amongst your intimates?"

"Saint-Dantin--you know him?"

"I've met him. Tall and dark?"

"Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin--oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!"

"And the ladies?"

"Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? _Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir!_ I count that _rondeau_ one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other."

"That _what_?" ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.

"A _rondeau_: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it."

"Which? The _rondeau_?"

"The pearl, man! The _rondeau_ you shall most assuredly see."

"Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "A _rondeau_! Philip--poet! _Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!_"

* * * * *

"Monsieur dines at home this evening?" asked François.

Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded.

"The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?"

"A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.

François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.

"The blue and silver ... _un peu trop soigné_. The orange ... _peu convenable_. The purple the purple _essayons_!"

Philip opened the rouge-jar.

"The grey I wore at De Flaubert's last month."

François clapped a hand to his head.

"_Ah, sot!_" he apostrophised himself. "_Voilà qui est très bien._" He dived into the wardrobe, emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. "_Les bas?... Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ... où sont-ils?_" He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. "Ah, _sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!_"

In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him.

"Thou misbegotten son of a toad!" he raved. "Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou--"

"I gave it into your hands," said Jacques sadly. "Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it."

"Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do? _Nom d'un nom_, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?" His voice rose higher and higher. "And now, where is it?"

"I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!"

"And I say you did not! _Saperlipopette_, am I a fool that I should forget? Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass--"

"_Sacré nom de Dieu!_ Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?" Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. "Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?" His voice was thunderous.

François spread out his hands.

"M'sieur, I ask pardon! It is this _âne_, this careless _gaillard_--"

"_Mais, m'sieur!_" protested Jacques. "It is unjust; it is false!"