“Do you love that-that prancing ninny?” asked Philip.
“I consider such a question an-an impertinence!” cried Cleone. “What right have you to ask me such a thing?”
Philip’s brows met across the bridge of his nose. “You do love him?”
“No, I don’t! I mean-Oh, how dare you?”
Philip came closer. The frown faded.
“Cleone-do you-could you-love me?” Cleone was silent.
Closer still came Philip, and spoke rather huskily. “Will you-marry me, Cleone?”
Still silence, but the blue eyes were downcast.
“Cleone,” blundered Philip, “you-don’t want a-mincing, powdered-beau.” “I do not want a-a-raw-country-bumpkin,” she said cruelly. Philip drew himself up.
“That is what you think me, Cleone?”
Something in his voice brought tears to her eyes. “I-no-I-oh, Philip, I could not marry you as you are!”
“No?” Philip spoke very evenly. “But if I became-your ideal-you could marry me?” “I-oh, you should not-ask such questions!”
“As I am-you’ll none of me. You do not want-an honest man’s love. You want the pretty compliments of a doll. If I will learn to be-a doll-you’ll wed me. Well, I will learn. You shall not be-annoyed-by an honest man’s love-any longer. I will go to London-and one day I’ll return. Farewell, Cleone.”
“Oh-goodness-are you-going to town?” she gasped. “Since that is your desire, yes,” he answered.
She held out her hand, and when he kissed it her fingers clung for an instant. “Come back to me, Philip,” she whispered.
He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive.
Chapter V. In which Philip Finds that his Uncle is More Sympathetic than his Father
Home went Philip, a prey to conflicting emotions. He was angry with Cleone, and hurt at what he termed her fickleness, but she was very lovely, and still wholly desirable. Never until now had he realized how necessary she was to his happiness. She would not marry him unless he reformed, learned to behave like Bancroft-that was what she meant. She did not love him as he was; she wanted polish, and frills and furbelows. Philip’s lips tightened. She should have them-but he was very, very angry. Then he thought of his father, and the anger grew. What right had these two to seek to change him into something that was utterly insincere, trifling, and unmanly? His father would be rejoiced to hear that he was going ‘to become a gentleman’. Even he had no use for Philip as he was. Well, they should have what they wanted-and then perhaps they would be sorry. In a wave of self-pity he considered how dearly he loved these two people. He wanted neither to change, he loved them for what they were; but they … He felt very sore and ill-used. Something else there was that troubled him. He had set about the task of punishing Mr Bancroft, and Mr Bancroft had ended by punishing him. No pleasant thought, that Bancroft was master not only of words but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the question, chaffed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice.
He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip’s sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant.
Philip threw himself down upon a bench.
“Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met.” “I thought it would come,” nodded his father. “I’m no match for him. He-pinked me with some ease.” Again Sir Maurice nodded.
“Also”-Philip spoke with difficulty-“Cleone-will have none of me-as I am.” He looked across at his father with some bitterness. “As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft.”
“And so-?”
Philip was silent.
“And so Mr Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine,” added Sir Maurice. “Have I said so, sir?” Philip spoke sharply. “Cleone desires a beau-she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what-she thinks-is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than”-he mimicked his father’s tone-“to till the earth! I’ll learn to be the painted fop you’d like to see me! Neither you or she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!” “Now, here’s a heat! “remarked Sir Maurice. “So you’ll to London, boy? To your uncle?” Philip shrugged.
“As well to him as any other. I care not.”
“That’s the wrong spirit for your emprise,” said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes .”You must enter into your venture heart and soul.”
Philip flung out his arm. “My heart’s here, sir, at home!”
“It’s also at Sharley House,” said his father dryly, “or why do you go to London?” “Ay, it’s there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes a sport of me for her amusement!” “Tra-la-la-la!” said Maurice. “Then why go to London?”
“To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!” answered Philip, and marched off.
Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.
Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice’s hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice-well, he chid himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip’s departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip’s return.
Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.
“Well met, Philip, my boy! What’s to do now?” Philip sank into a chair.
“I’ll tell you when I’m fed,” he grinned. “That sirloin pleases my eye.” “Not an artistic colour,” said Tom, studying it, “but appetising, I grant you.” “Artistic be damned!” said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. “H’m! No, Tom, ’tis a displeasing blend-red and brown.”
Tom looked at him in surprise. “What’s colour to you, Philip?”
“Naught, God help me,” answered Philip, and fell to with a will. “I echo that sentiment,” said Tom. “How does your father?” “Well enough; he sends you his love.”
Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair. “Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!” Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat’s reluctant back. “I’ve-to learn to be-a gentleman,” he said.
Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. “God ha’ mercy, Philip, has it come to that?” “I do not take your meaning,” said Philip crossly. “What! It’s not a petticoat?”
“Tom, I’ll thank you to-to-be quiet!” Tom choked his laughter.
“Oh, I’m dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?” “’Tis what I want to know, Tom,”
“And I’m to teach you?”
Philip hesitated.
“Is it perhaps-a thing I can best; learn alone?” he asked, surprisingly diffident. “What is it exactly you want to learn?”
“To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?” “Odd rot, what are ye now?”
Philip’s lips curled.
“I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clod-hopper.” His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.
“Little vixen,” he remarked sapiently. “I beg your pardon?” Philip was cold.