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.
“Oh” cried Cleone, pouting. “How-how-monstrous-” “Monstrous what, dear Cleone?”
“Impudent!” she ended. “I declare I won’t see you!” As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.
Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madame Charteris. Madam patted her hand.
“Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!” Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip.
“Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person.” “Tut-tut!” said her mother. “Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet one beauty to whom you lost your heart?”
“No, madam,” answered Philip. “The painted society dames attract me not at all.” His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.
“I dare say you’ve not yet heard the news?” Cleone said, after a slight pause. “Or did Sir Maurice tell you?”
“No-that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?”
“It remains to be seen,” she replied. “’Tis that Mr Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?”
Philip stiffened.
“Bancroft? Sir Harold’s son?”
“Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think-he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be”-she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers-“twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!” “H’m!” remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. “What does he want here?” Cleone’s long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes. “To see papa, of course. After so many years!”
Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort.
“I’ll wager there’s a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere now.” “Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?”
Madame Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation.
“Yes. It seems that Henry-”
“Who?” Philip straightened in his chair.
“Mr Bancroft,” said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. “It seems that Mr Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?”
Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.
“I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. ’Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, ’tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused.” She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. “Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?”
“No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard,” said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.
When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins arid velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.
Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.
“Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?”
Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.
“I believe someone told me. What of it?” “You said nothing of it to me.”
The grey eyes lifted.
“Is he a friend of yours? I did not know.”
“A friend!” Philip set his glass down with a snap. “Hardly, sir!” “Now what’s to do?” asked his father. “Why the scorn?” “Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!”