CHAPTER 17.
The gift of hiding private emotion and keeping up appearancesbefore strangers is not, as many suppose, entirely a product of ourmodern civilization. Centuries before we were born or thought ofthere was a widely press-agented boy in Sparta who even went so faras to let a fox gnaw his tender young stomach without permittingthe discomfort inseparable from such a proceeding to interfere witheither his facial expression or his flow of small talk. Historianshave handed it down that, even in the later stages of the meal, thepolite lad continued to be the life and soul of the party. But,while this feat may be said to have established a record neversubsequently lowered, there is no doubt that almost every day inmodern times men and women are performing similar and scarcely lessimpressive miracles of self-restraint. Of all the qualities whichbelong exclusively to Man and are not shared by the lower animals,this surely is the one which marks him off most sharply from thebeasts of the field. Animals care nothing about keeping upappearances. Observe Bertram the Bull when things are not going justas he could wish. He stamps. He snorts. He paws the ground. Hethrows back his head and bellows. He is upset, and he doesn't carewho knows it. Instances could be readily multiplied. Deposit acharge of shot in some outlying section of Thomas the Tiger, andnote the effect. Irritate Wilfred the Wasp, or stand behind Maudthe Mule and prod her with a pin. There is not an animal on thelist who has even a rudimentary sense of the social amenities; andit is this more than anything else which should make us proud thatwe are human beings on a loftier plane of development.
In the days which followed Lord Marshmoreton's visit to George atthe cottage, not a few of the occupants of Belpher Castle had theirmettle sternly tested in this respect; and it is a pleasure to beable to record that not one of them failed to come through theordeal with success. The general public, as represented by theuncles, cousins, and aunts who had descended on the place to helpLord Belpher celebrate his coming-of-age, had not a notion thatturmoil lurked behind the smooth fronts of at least half a dozen ofthose whom they met in the course of the daily round.
Lord Belpher, for example, though he limped rather painfully,showed nothing of the baffled fury which was reducing his weight atthe rate of ounces a day. His uncle Francis, the Bishop, when hetackled him in the garden on the subject of Intemperance--for UncleFrancis, like thousands of others, had taken it for granted, onreading the report of the encounter with the policeman and Percy'ssubsequent arrest, that the affair had been the result of a drunkenoutburst--had no inkling of the volcanic emotions that seethed inhis nephew's bosom. He came away from the interview, indeed,feeling that the boy had listened attentively and with a becomingregret, and that there was hope for him after all, provided that hefought the impulse. He little knew that, but for the conventions(which frown on the practice of murdering bishops), Percy wouldgladly have strangled him with his bare hands and jumped upon theremains.
Lord Belpher's case, inasmuch as he took himself extremelyseriously and was not one of those who can extract humour even fromtheir own misfortunes, was perhaps the hardest which comes underour notice; but his sister Maud was also experiencing mentaldisquietude of no mean order. Everything had gone wrong with Maud.Barely a mile separated her from George, that essential link in herchain of communication with Geoffrey Raymond; but so thickly did itbristle with obstacles and dangers that it might have been a mileof No Man's Land. Twice, since the occasion when the discovery ofLord Marshmoreton at the cottage had caused her to abandon herpurpose of going in and explaining everything to George, had sheattempted to make the journey; and each time some trifling,maddening accident had brought about failure. Once, just as she wasstarting, her aunt Augusta had insisted on joining her for what shedescribed as "a nice long walk"; and the second time, when she waswithin a bare hundred yards of her objective, some sort of a cousinpopped out from nowhere and forced his loathsome company on her.
Foiled in this fashion, she had fallen back in desperation on hersecond line of attack. She had written a note to George, explainingthe whole situation in good, clear phrases and begging him as a manof proved chivalry to help her. It had taken up much of oneafternoon, this note, for it was not easy to write; and it hadresulted in nothing. She had given it to Albert to deliver andAlbert had returned empty-handed.
"The gentleman said there was no answer, m'lady!"
"No answer! But there must be an answer!"
"No answer, m'lady. Those was his very words," stoutly maintainedthe black-souled boy, who had destroyed the letter within twominutes after it had been handed to him. He had not even botheredto read it. A deep, dangerous, dastardly stripling this, who foughtto win and only to win. The ticket marked "R. Byng" was in hispocket, and in his ruthless heart a firm resolve that R. Byng andno other should have the benefit of his assistance.
Maud could not understand it. That is to say, she resolutely keptherself from accepting the only explanation of the episode thatseemed possible. In black and white she had asked George to go toLondon and see Geoffrey and arrange for the passage--throughhimself as a sort of clearing-house--of letters between Geoffreyand herself. She had felt from the first that such a request shouldbe made by her in person and not through the medium of writing, butsurely it was incredible that a man like George, who had beenthrough so much for her and whose only reason for being in theneighbourhood was to help her, could have coldly refused withouteven a word. And yet what else was she to think? Now, more thanever, she felt alone in a hostile world.
Yet, to her guests she was bright and entertaining. Not one of themhad a suspicion that her life was not one of pure sunshine.
Albert, I am happy to say, was thoroughly miserable. The littlebrute was suffering torments. He was showering anonymous Advice tothe Lovelorn on Reggie Byng--excellent stuff, culled from the pagesof weekly papers, of which there was a pile in the housekeeper'sroom, the property of a sentimental lady's maid--and nothing seemedto come of it. Every day, sometimes twice and thrice a day, hewould leave on Reggie's dressing-table significant notes similar intone to the one which he had placed there on the night of the ball;but, for all the effect they appeared to exercise on theirrecipient, they might have been blank pages.
The choicest quotations from the works of such established writersas "Aunt Charlotte" of Forget-Me-Not and "Doctor Cupid", theheart-expert of Home Chat, expended themselves fruitlessly onReggie. As far as Albert could ascertain--and he was one of thoseboys who ascertain practically everything within a radius ofmiles--Reggie positively avoided Maud's society.
And this after reading "Doctor Cupid's" invaluable tip about"Seeking her company on all occasions" and the dictum of "AuntCharlotte" to the effect that "Many a wooer has won his lady bybeing persistent"--Albert spelled it "persistuent" but the effectis the same--"and rendering himself indispensable by constantlittle attentions". So far from rendering himself indispensable toMaud by constant little attentions, Reggie, to the disgust of hisbacker and supporter, seemed to spend most of his time with AliceFaraday. On three separate occasions had Albert been revolted bythe sight of his protege in close association with the Faradaygirl--once in a boat on the lake and twice in his grey car. It wasenough to break a boy's heart; and it completely spoiled Albert'sappetite--a phenomenon attributed, I am glad to say, in theServants' Hall to reaction from recent excesses. The moment whenKeggs, the butler, called him a greedy little pig and hoped itwould be a lesson to him not to stuff himself at all hours withstolen cakes was a bitter moment for Albert.
It is a relief to turn from the contemplation of these torturedsouls to the pleasanter picture presented by Lord Marshmoreton.Here, undeniably, we have a man without a secret sorrow, a man atpeace with this best of all possible worlds. Since his visit toGeorge a second youth seems to have come upon Lord Marshmoreton. Heworks in his rose-garden with a new vim, whistling or even singingto himself stray gay snatches of melodies popular in the 'eighties.
Hear him now as he toils. He has a long garden-implement in hishand, and he is sending up the death-rate in slug circles wi
th adevastating rapidity.
"Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay Ta-ra-ra BOOM--"
And the boom is a death-knell. As it rings softly out on thepleasant spring air, another stout slug has made the Great Change.
It is peculiar, this gaiety. It gives one to think. Others havenoticed it, his lordship's valet amongst them.
"I give you my honest word, Mr. Keggs," says the valet, awed, "thisvery morning I 'eard the old devil a-singing in 'is barth!Chirruping away like a blooming linnet!"
"Lor!" says Keggs, properly impressed.
"And only last night 'e gave me 'arf a box of cigars and said I wasa good, faithful feller! I tell you, there's somethin' happened tothe old buster--you mark my words!"