Chapter VII

So John Maple came down to Aunt Hilda’s, for that week-end. Once more did he put his foot down firmly on Spegel, refusing to do a turn after the Thursday night, but promising by way of compensation to go into the Provinces on Tuesday.

It was on the Friday as he had promised that he went down. He was offended, as he always was, by the motor-car and the French driver at the station; he wanted the old coachman (who was dead), and the old horse (who was worse than dead). He was offended, as he always was, by the new sham timber front of Rackham Catchings as he came up the drive. He was in a nasty mood.

But as for that determination in his heart, on the twenty thousand pounds, it had turned into cold iron. It was the hardest thing in him. But it was no longer in the air. Isabeau had done the trick. Upon my soul, as the too quick, too expensive car shot vulgarly through those dignified old trees up the new sweep of new drive to the new unfortunate great door in the devastated front of what had once been his home, he felt as though the twenty thousand pounds were there in a purse, to be thrown at his aunt when he should meet her.

But when he got in he did not meet her. The atheist Gaul who had driven him smiled cheerfully enough, though in a fashion a little too manly for his servile position, and handed him his bag from the front of the car almost as though they were equals—a thing intolerable. It was at once a worry and a relief to hear that his aunt was out and would not be back for an hour or two. It was more like home, however, to be met by Corton and to talk to that old friend. Then he spent the time remaining wandering through the rooms, noting for the twentieth time what had been left the same as in his own days of childhood, and what had been changed.

Most had been changed, but not all. The schoolroom was just the same, except that they had put the boxes into it, as though it were derelict. What had once been the hall with its simple little eighteenth-century porch of wooden pillars and wooden Pediment had been degraded into a sort of back entrance, and where the old drive had gone on to it there was now moss and grass, though it was still hard with the old gravel.

What had been the main stairs of the house—how he loved the old carved banisters!—were now the back way to the bedrooms and passages above; the main staircase was a wicked new oaken thing, chemically stained to look old, leading up from the new hall.

That hall itself was a piece of stage scenery. He called up what had been torn down to make space for all that new big room. He smiled to remember that it was nothing but the big empty, spare, plastered cavern where all manner of household wreckage piled up; where also the beer casks used to be kept in his father’s time. He remembered how he had kept his bicycle there, and how proud he had been of it when he had been first allowed to ride it. He remembered having asked leave to keep his rabbits in there during the cold weather.

So all that was gone. And in its place was this sham old oak with the huge great beam—Baltic, not English, and the ridiculous sham date upon it—and in the dining-room, where he had been allowed on grand occasions of childhood, in the old dining-room now panelled, damasked and changed out of recognition, the abominable Ancestor grinning, and the abominable “refectory” table, long, with carved legs, darkened, and of the sort called antique.

He would change all that.

He was as certain that he would change all that as he was that he had (virtually) the twenty thousand pounds; and of such is the kingdom of twenty-three years old.

* * * * *

Aunt Hilda came in, not over-pleased with whatever she had been doing. She had been calling on the county people, and she always felt after doing that that she was not quite on their scale.

But before going out to call upon people (and she was so kind that she had done it in her little car, leaving the big one for John and his luggage), she had read two letters which had put her out not a little. The first was John’s with its enclosure—and it made her hot with anger to think of it. The second was from the Esthonian. He would not wait. It was a shame, and it was silly. She had virtually sold the place. She was quite sure that either Lord Hellup or dear Amathea’s husband would buy. Why, it would probably be decided that very week-end. He could perfectly well wait. She was sure he was only fussing in order to make her renew. And _that_ she was determined she would _not_ do.

But this criticism of the Esthonian was uncharitable, and also unwise in Aunt Hilda. The Esthonian was really suffering, for Esthonians who have Europeans in their debt are yet often in debt themselves to bigger Esthonians; and such was the condition of this Esthonian. And for all I know, even the larger Esthonian up above was in debt to yet another enormous Esthonian, until you got to the centre of the great spider’s web in New York, to which nowadays even Frankfort and London bow down.

But anyhow, in this piffling matter of these few thousand pounds the Esthonian was fussing abominably, and his letter was peremptory. The date for payment fell in the very next week. He respectfully but very urgently required her answer. Had she received anything on account? Had she anything to show him in writing which he could show to others (for the Esthonian was quite frank in this matter, as he sometimes was when he thought it profitable to be so). He said he really needed the money; and he really did—there was no reason why he should pretend not to; quite the contrary. But it is true that the Esthonian did not need the money so very much as he pretended.

Alas! poor Aunt Hilda had no writing yet to show! You cannot show in writing the growing devotion of an American business man to a fine figure of an Englishwoman not so old as himself. Nor the growing appetite for a quiet country place in the wife of a Coalition Peer.

She had not answered the letter. She had temporised. And that made her mood more irritable still.

It was in such a state of human tempers—Aunt Hilda exasperated and John, as he believed, quiet and firm, but really more exasperated still—that the meeting between them took place. She poured out tea for him. He spoke vaguely of London and, knowing well that he was applying an irritant, he told her with what anxiety to be under her roof he had put off his engagement upon the Halls. She in her turn had exploded at him and told him that she wanted to hear nothing about that horrible side of life, and he had said:

“Very well, very well. There’s nothing in it, to be sure.”

She wanted to make the best of her party for her guests. She felt that her nephew was popular with those whom he knew, and could make himself popular with those whom he did not. She switched off on to who was coming.

“I’ve told you who they are, John, there are only five, and only two women. I had to ask Lord Hambourne, because he was so kind to me over that unfortunate business of Oriel when _you_ refused to go to Oxford. He was _most_ considerate. He made every allowance for you. I’ve always been intending to have him down at the Catchings, and I’ve not had him here all that time.”

John nodded.

“If only you had gone to Oxford, John, you would have had the advantage of one of the greatest minds in the world. Lord Hambourne....”

John interrupted.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “They call him Hambone.”

“That’s silly and vulgar,” said Aunt Hilda.

“It is,” said John. “So is he.”

“He’s nothing of the sort. I met him often when I ran up there before you came back to England when I was making the arrangements. He’s one of the nicest men I have ever met. You only run him down because he’s poor.”

“That may have something to do with it,” said John deliberately.

Aunt Hilda was on the point of violence, when she controlled herself and turned it off to the other two.

“Then there’s Lord Hellup, and his daughter Isabeau.” Aunt Hilda looked at her nephew for a moment, but he gave no response. “Have you met them?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered rather surlily. “I’ve met them at the Pattles’.”

“There are no Pattles,” said Aunt Hilda majestically. “If you mean Lady Pattle....”

“Yes, I mean old Mother Pattle,” said John, and Aunt Hilda sighed.

“Then there’s a man, John, I really want you to meet, and to be careful about, if only for my sake.”

John said that for her sake he would do anything.

“Very young men like you, John, may do things that not only ruin their own careers, but really hurt other people. I have asked Amathea—Amathea de Beaurivage that is—and her husband.”

John looked at her innocently.

“Why not? Who are they?”

“You know perfectly well, John,” she said. “The man that was Sir George Huggins, who did all that splendid work during the war.”

“Oh, Lord Mere de Boreevarge?” said John, charmingly and spontaneously. “Yes, I’ve read about him. A great financial brain. I read that only to-day, as I was coming down, in the paper—which paper, upon my soul, I forget. Or was it in _The Howl_?—which belongs to Cad Toronto.”

“For God’s sake, John,” said Aunt Hilda, exasperated, “behave yourself, at any rate when you meet him! And why do you call him De Bo-ree-varge?”

“Because it’s spelt that way. And I’ve always read it like that.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’re telling the truth. But please to understand that it’s Bruvvish.”

“I will,” said John solemnly. “I’ll call him Mere Bruvvish, and her, Lady Mere Bruvvish. Bruvvish all the time.”

Aunt Hilda got up from her chair and stood in front of the fire looking at her nephew. She had something to say. It might be the wrong time to say it, when they were half-quarrelling; but she wanted to get it over, and perhaps a certain softness of manner would come better after a passage like this than later on, when the trouble might begin again.

“John,” she said, “I want to put it to you quite frankly. I think it would be wrong to hide it from you, though I have a perfect right to do what I am doing. I want to tell you everything, so that nothing shall go wrong, because these next few days are so important to me; and to you too, my dear. And to Rackham Catchings.”

“Never mind me, Aunt Hilda,” said John quietly. “And for the matter of that, don’t take too much trouble about the Catchings.”

Aunt Hilda controlled herself again.

“Both those men are prepared to make an offer. I shall ask £60,000 for £50,000. And I happen to know, privately, that both are thinking of it.”

“I didn’t know Hambone was worth it,” said John quietly.

“Nonsense,” snapped his aunt. “Hambourne indeed! Lord Hambourne! And please don’t call him Hambone, like a schoolboy. No! Lord Hellup, and Amathea and her husband may either, or both, make an offer. There. I’ve told you, and you ought to know. Remember, John,” she went on hurriedly, “that you are the only one I have, and when I am gone” (after which illogical sentence she heaved a profound sigh from her considerable chest—which had, as might be, thirty more years of life in it), “it really concerns you as much as it does myself. I tell you quite frankly, and quite plainly, that I am not going to take less than £50,000.”

For half a minute or so John gave no answer. She had said nothing about his letter. He looked in the fire, as though it were an old friend with whom he was consulting, and leaned his solid young head on his left hand. Then he rose slowly in his turn, and without facing Aunt Hilda, putting both hands upon the mantelpiece and still gazing into the fire, he said:

“Aunt Hilda, I can’t offer you £50,000; but you’ve had my letter, there you have it in black and white, after so much palaver. I can and do offer you £20,000. It’s firm.”

The effect of this remark upon Aunt Hilda may be compared to that produced by the slipping of a piece of ice down the neck of a neighbour at dinner during an ardent conversation; a practical joke which I hope is no longer fashionable. The victim is at first oddly shocked, as by a spasm—then stabbed into language. So Aunt Hilda. After a gasp she flamed up, turned round, found her nephew no longer staring at the fire in gentle distraction but facing her, square, firm, and defiant. She had received his challenge, she repeated the old insult.

“Twenty thousand pounds? Why, you haven’t got twenty thousand pence!”

The insolence of his proposition! The insufficiency of it! The wild impossibility of his being able to fulfil it! His assurance! Why, he was her dependent——

John Maple was like a wrestler in his attitude and in his mood, standing ready for the spring. He tried hard not to quiver, but he was quivering all the same.

“I have said twenty thousand more than once, Aunt Hilda, and now I’ve written it and given you the paper to accept,” he answered, “I _mean_ twenty thousand.”

Her reply was complete. She told him not to make a fool of himself. They both sat down to cool off.

“Well, John, it’s no good quarrelling over nonsense, is it?”

“It isn’t nonsense,” said John. “There may be a day,” he added darkly, “when you will think better of it.”

Aunt Hilda groaned. She had not had much to do with young people, but she had heard they were all like that. She recovered her temper.

“There may be, John,” she said, laughing uneasily, “but at any rate not yet, and not for Rackham Catchings.”

“I didn’t offer it for the Catchings. I know the Catchings would cost more. I offered it for Rackham.”

And he went out to cool off further. They saw each other no more till dinner.

* * * * *

At dinner a truce was declared. They talked of anything: principally of the County. Hilda Maple was longing to do two things: first, to relieve her nerves by asking him to be particularly good when the guests came on the morrow, Saturday—but she had had the sense to hold her tongue—it would only have provoked a new quarrel, and after all, she could trust John Maple to behave himself if he felt inclined. She also knew that nothing would prevent his saying something to upset the _ci-devant_ Huggins and his wife if he did not feel inclined. With Hellup she felt he was safe, and as he had no particular grudge against lords as such or dons as such, but rather a natural sympathy with poor men, she felt he would be safe with Lord Hambourne—though she could not get over the disrespectful allusion to Hambone; but she thought he might have picked it up from his Oxford acquaintances in London, and she let it lie.

The second thing she wanted to do was to examine him on this very point of Lord Hambourne. She herself hardly knew the man. She had observed that he would go to pretty well any house where he would meet rich people. She thought, quite rightly, that both the others would like to meet a brother peer with a few generations behind him.

She dipped her tongue in honey (if you will excuse the coarseness of the phrase), and said sweetly to her nephew at dessert:

“Tell me, John, I think you know Lord Hambourne, don’t you? Or about him, anyhow? You see, I know him _well_. Only I was told that he was interested in old furniture and understood it, and I wanted him to help me a little in that.” (It was true; but it was also true that she wanted him to help her in impressing his wealthier peers with the fact that the furniture was old and that the Beam was old and that the Ancestor was old, and that in general the Catchings were old and vouched for by that venerable glory the Hambourne peerage.)

“Oh,” said John, “I’ve met him. And I’ve got friends, as I said, who have known him at Oxford. And there’s one man in his fourth year whom I know rather well and he did Psychology with him. Rather likes him. You know that he does journalism?”

“Who?” said Aunt Hilda.

“Hambourne.”

“No, I didn’t. What do you mean by journalism?”

“Why, this stuff they call Personal Journalism. He talks about people whom he’s really met, and also about people whom he pretends to meet. But he won’t sign. Perhaps it’s a point in his favour, for they’d pay him double if he did. But the rag he’s on is really so base that perhaps it pays him one way and another not to sign. You see, his column’s called ‘Behind the Scenes.’ It’s in _The Howl_.”

“Oh!” said Aunt Hilda. Her heart had risen slightly at the idea that he might be useful to advertise her and hers. It sank a little at hearing under what headline she and hers would appear.

“He’s not scurrilous, is he?” she said, after a pause.

“I’m told,” said John Maple, critically and carefully separating his words, “that he would like to be, and can’t. You see, though he was very poor he had a good mother and was an only son and (as he was very poor) he did not go to a Public School. It’s very difficult for that kind to shake off all their early refinement.”

Aunt Hilda again restrained herself.

“Is it true he is an atheist?”

“Oh, good Lord, _yes_!” protested John Maple. “Why, my dear Aunt Hilda, what did you expect? He’s a don, Aunt Hilda—and more than that, he belongs to the old-fashioned lot. After all, he was elected to Burford nearly thirty years ago.”

Aunt Hilda pursed her lips firmly. She had not got quite used to the moral revolution. As for the reaction that is now beginning, she had no idea of it.

“But he won’t be blatant, Aunt Hilda,” John went on. “Besides, I know Lord Hellup wouldn’t mind.”

“I think,” said Aunt Hilda acidly, “I should know as well as anyone what Lord Hellup would or would not mind....” Then she stopped abruptly, for she was getting on dangerous ground. She did not want to discuss her other two guests and raise a breeze.

John was less discreet.

“As for the other one, old Bruvvish,” he began.... But Aunt Hilda cut him short.

“We won’t discuss Lord Mere de Beaurivage, if you please, John, though his wife _is_ a friend of mine. A straightforward, plain, English gentleman—I think that’s enough said. He never pretends to be what he is not, and that is one of the hundred reasons why everybody respects him.”

It is immensely to John Maple’s credit that he did not here add the other reasons; but he remained silent. The wine he had drunk, the influence of the evening, which gave the darkening room a real antiquity (for Night is an aged thing), the fact that he had his back to the Ancestor and was facing the oak table—which after all _was_ old—all this soothed John. In his mind he was already the owner of Rackham, planning innumerable things, and among these plans he reprieved some part of the Catchings. Yes, he would keep the oak table; he might even keep the panelling. But the Ancestor would have to go. Corrupted by too early an experience of competition, his mind wandered off (after his aunt had left him to his wine) to what he might make on the Ancestor. Should it go by auction or how? Then the thought of money brought him back to the raising of that £20,000. And _that_ brought him back to Bo. And in contemplation of Bo’s image he pleasantly remained.

He went to bed early, too sleepy to pursue the thoughts of banks, solicitors, options and the rest, which that excellent young daughter of commerce had put into his head. Opportunity would come with the morrow.

And it did; as it always does to the young.