“Not on your life,” said Yule. “I hope to God there’s nothing in it. I like his verse.”
“And you, Jack?”
“I don’t care for the look of him; but I’d refuse to believe that of an Englishman till it was plainer than the nose on my face, which is saying a good bit. You and I must be getting on, Yule, if we’re to catch that train to Royston.”
This speech of Jack Muskham’s further disturbed Sir Lawrence, left alone in his chair. It seemed so entirely to preclude leniency of judgment among the ‘pukka sahibs’ if the worst were true.
At last he rose, found a small volume, sat down again and turned its pages. The volume was Sir Alfred Lyall’s Verses Written in India, and he looked for the poem called ‘Theology in Extremis.’
He read it through, restored the volume, and stood rubbing his chin. Written, of course, more than forty years ago, and yet doubtful if its sentiments were changed by an iota! There was that poem, too, by Doyle, about the Corporal in the Buffs who, brought before a Chinese General and told to ‘kow-tow’ or die, said: ‘We don’t do that sort of thing in the Buffs,’ and died. Well! That was the standard even today, among people of any caste or with any tradition. The war had thrown up innumerable instances. Could young Desert really have betrayed the tradition? It seemed improbable. And yet, in spite of his excellent war record, might there be a streak of yellow in him? Or was it, rather, that at times a flow of revolting bitterness carried him on to complete cynicism, so that he flouted almost for the joy of flouting?
With a strong mental effort Sir Lawrence tried to place himself in a like dilemma. Not being a believer, his success was limited to the thought: ‘I should immensely dislike being dictated to in such a matter.’ Aware that this was inadequate, he went down to the hall, shut himself up in a box, and rang up Michael’s house. Then, feeling that if he lingered in the Club he might run into Desert himself, he took a cab to South Square.
Michael had just come in from the House; they met in the hall; and, with the instinct that Fleur, however acute, was not a fit person to share this particular consultation, Sir Lawrence demanded to be taken to his son’s study. He commenced by announcing Dinny’s engagement, which Michael heard with as strange a mixture of gratification and disquietude as could be seen on human visage.
“What a little cat, keeping it so dark!” he said. “Fleur did say something about her being too limpid just now; but I never thought! One’s got so used to Dinny being single. To Wilfrid, too? Well, I hope the old son has exhausted the East.”
“There’s this question of his religion,” said Sir Lawrence gravely.
“I don’t know why that should matter much; Dinny’s not fervent. But I never thought Wilfrid cared enough to change his. It rather staggered me.”
“There’s a story.”
When his father had finished, Michael’s ears stood out and his face looked haggard.
“You know him better than anyone,” Sir Lawrence concluded: “What do you think?”
“I hate to say it, but it might be true. It might even be natural for HIM; but no one would ever understand why. This is pretty ghastly, Dad, with Dinny involved.”
“Before we fash ourselves, my dear, we must find out if it’s true. Could you go to him?”
“In old days—easily.”
Sir Lawrence nodded. “Yes, I know all about that, but it’s a long time ago.”
Michael smiled faintly. “I never knew whether you spotted that, but I rather thought so. I’ve seen very little of Wilfrid since he went East. Still, I could—” He stopped, and added: “If it IS true, he must have told Dinny. He couldn’t ask her to marry him with that untold.”
Sir Lawrence shrugged. “If yellow in one way, why not in the other?”
“Wilfrid is one of the most perverse, complex, unintelligible natures one could come across. To judge him by ordinary standards is a wash-out. But if he HAS told Dinny, she’ll never tell us.”
And they stared at each other.
“Mind you,” said Michael, “there’s a streak of the heroic in him. It comes out in the wrong places. That’s why he’s a poet.”
Sir Lawrence began twisting at an eyebrow, always a sign that he had reached decision.
“The thing’s got to be faced; it’s not in human nature for a sleeping dog like that to be allowed to lie. I don’t care about young Desert—”
“I do,” said Michael.
“It’s Dinny I’m thinking of.”
“So am I. But there again, Dad, Dinny will do what she will do, and you needn’t think we can deflect her.”
“It’s one of the most unpleasant things,” said Sir Lawrence slowly, “that I’ve ever come across. Well, my boy, are you going to see him, or shall I?”
“I’ll do it,” said Michael, and sighed.
“Will he tell you the truth?”
“Yes. Won’t you stay to dinner?”
Sir Lawrence shook his head.
“Daren’t face Fleur with this on my mind. Needless to say, no one ought to know until you’ve seen him, not even she.”
“No. Dinny still with you?”
“She’s gone back to Condaford.”
“Her people!” and Michael whistled.
Her people! The thought remained with him all through a dinner during which Fleur discussed the future of Kit. She was in favour of his going to Harrow, because Michael and his father had been at Winchester. He was down for both, and the matter had not yet been decided.
“All your mother’s people,” she said, “were at Harrow. Winchester seems to me so superior and dry. And they never get any notoriety. If you hadn’t been at Winchester you’d have been a pet of the newspapers by now.”
“D’you want Kit to have notoriety?”
“Yes, the nice sort, of course, like your Uncle Hilary. You know, Michael, Bart’s a dear, but I prefer the Cherrell side of your family.”
“Well, I was wondering,” said Michael, “whether the Cherrel’s weren’t too straight-necked and servicey for anything,”
“Yes, they’re that, but they’ve got a quirk in them, and they look like gentlemen.”
“I believe,” said Michael, “that you really want Kit to go to Harrow because they play at Lords.”
Fleur straightened her own neck.
“Well, I do. I should have chosen Eton, only it’s so obvious, and I hate light blue.”
“Well,” said Michael, “I’m prejudiced in favour of my own school, so the choice is up to you. A school that produced Uncle Adrian will do for me, anyway.”
“No school produced your Uncle Adrian, dear,” said Fleur; “he’s palæolithic. The Cherrells are the oldest strain in Kit’s make-up, anyway, and I should like to breed to it, as Mr. Jack Muskham would say. Which reminds me that when I saw him at Clare’s wedding he wanted us to come down and see his stud farm at Royston. I should like to. He’s like an advertisement for shooting capes—divine shoes and marvellous control of his facial muscles.”
Michael nodded.
“Jack’s an example of so much stamp on the coin that there’s hardly any coin behind it.”
“Don’t you believe it, my dear. There’s plenty of metal at the back.”
“The ‘pukka sahib,’” said Michael. “I never can make up my mind whether that article is to the good or to the bad. The Cherrells are the best type of it, because there’s no manner to them as there is to Jack; but even with them I always have the feeling of too much in heaven and earth that isn’t dreamed of in their philosophy.”
“We can’t all have divine sympathy, Michael.”
Michael looked at her fixedly. He decided against malicious intent and went on: “I never know where understanding and tolerance ought to end.”
“That’s where men are inferior to us. We wait for the mark to fix itself; we trust our nerves. Men don’t, poor things. Luckily you’ve a streak of woman in you, Michael. Give me a kiss. Mind Coaker, he’s very sudden. It’s decided, then: Kit goes to Harrow.”