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III.
Mr Pallard Does Not Stay
The speechless Mr
Callander stood shaking his nephew's hand
mechanically. Horace, struck dumb with amazement, could only stare, and
Gladys
looked from one to the other helplessly. "I'm afraid," began
Mr Callander, summoning his reserve of
dignity, "that this visit " "Quite so, quite
so." Brian patted him affectionately on the
shoulder. "Very upsetting, very upsetting." "I wrote to you "
Mr Callander made another attempt. "I know, I know,"
soothed the youth kindly. "Let bygones
be bygones; never," he said, impressively raising his hand, "never
let the incident be referred to again." Mr Callander was
left with the sense that he was distinctly forgiven. "And this is
Horace?" smiled Brian, and took the limp hand of
the other. "I have heard of you. I was reading something about you in
one
of the magazines 'the man with the Rossetti touch', wasn't that it?" Horace blushed and
coughed. This dreadful man was not so bad. "This is Mr
Willock." He introduced his friend awkwardly.
"President of our Art Club, you know." "Charmed to meet you
the Gresham Art Club, of course," said
Brian Pallard. "Let me see, you became president last year, didn't you,
after Tyler?" Mr Willock, who was
not so fierce as he looked, was visibly gratified. "A very interesting
club," said Brian admiringly; "one
of the most progressive of the art clubs, if I may be allowed to say
so"
Mr Willock bowed "and one," Brian went on enthusiastically,
"that has rendered no small service to the country. Its work in
connection
with the purchase of the Morby Valasquez will, I think, be remembered
for some
time." "Really," murmured
Horace in his sister's ear, "this
chap is a great deal smarter than we gave him credit for. Really " She made no reply.
Her cousin's easy progress was fascinating. Nor was
Horace the only one affected by this presentable young man. Mr
Callander senior
found his feelings undergoing revolution. From the chaos of mind
induced by the
sudden apparition of the Banned Relative there was emerging a certain
irritable
approval. For, villain as the man was (he told himself), he, at least,
had a
mind capable of appreciating Horace and his work. There was, perhaps,
thought
Mr Callander, something in him. "H'm, Brian," he
said mildly, "we are, of course er glad
to see you, though you will understand, of course, that er, our ways
are not
exactly in fact nor your ways." "That I understand,
Uncle Peter," said Brian soberly;
"and I will endeavour to remember it. If you detect even a suspicion of
unconscious superiority in my tone, I beg that you will give me, so to
speak, a
moral kick under the table. I am conscious," he added, "of my own
weaknesses." "Very proper, very
proper," said Mr Callander in a haze;
"but there is one subject just a moment." He caught his
nephew's arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "As men of the
world," he murmured, "we will agree to
taboo er horses?" "Horses?" Brian raised his
eyebrows. "Racehorses," urged
Mr Callander; "we won't talk of
them, at dinner, you know." "Oh, I see," Brian
smiled. "You wish me not to say
anything about my horses?" "Exactly," beamed Mr
Callander. "Why, of course, I
shan't," declared the young man heartily.
"I'm awfully particular about that sort of thing." "Quite right, quite
right." "One gasses about a
horse at a friend's table," the other
went on virtuously, "and before you know where you are, he's stepped
into
the ring and spoilt your market. No, sir, I shall not talk about
horses." Again Mr Callander
did not know whether to be annoyed or pleased. He
was very thoughtful when they rejoined the party. He knew little about
racing,
but he knew enough to realize the significance of market spoliation. He
took
little part in the discussion that followed for many reasons, not the
least
being sheer inability to follow his smooth-tongued nephew in his
appreciation
of Watts, Rossetti, and other mysterious creatures. "You will, of
course, stay the night," he ventured to
interrupt. "Oh, indeed, yes,"
said the cheerful Brian. "I thought
of staying a few days." "Oh, yes," said Mr
Callander weakly. The party made a
move inside to dress, and Gladys, who had been a
silent listener to her eloquent cousin, found herself walking in the
rear with
him whilst he expatiated on the brilliancy of the pre-Raphaelite School. "They give us form,"
he was saying, with his curious
intensity; "they give us thought it isn't only the colour. Excuse
me." He sneezed violently, and in grabbing a handkerchief from his
pocket,
he pulled out two little books. Before he realized
it she had stooped and picked them up. She glanced
at the titles, and a smile struggled for expression at the corners of
her
mouth. He took the books
from her hand and hastily pocketed them. "Then again," he
went on, "look at the spirituality of
Watts " "Humbug!" she said
in a low voice. "Eh?" "Blatant hypocrite
and humbug," she said. He stopped. "May I
ask why you thus upbraid me?" he demanded
sternly. "You come here
talking like a Christy's catalogue," she said,
"with a Directory of British Art Schools in one pocket and a little
handbook on the pre-Raphaelite painters in the other." "Why not?" he asked,
unashamed. "Until this morning
you never heard of the pre-Raphaelites, and
were ignorant of the existence of the Gresham Art School. You swotted
them up
in the train." He met the
accusation without flinching. "Perhaps you're
right," he said, "though you are wrong
to say I know nothing of the pre-Raphaelites. I once had a horse called
Dan
Rossetti he was by Raphaelite, from the dam of St. Artist, and she
was by a
son of Toxophilite out of Queen Nudge by Birdcatcher " "You came here
deliberately intending to get into father's good
graces " "You are wrong," he
said quietly. "Whether I am in your
father's good books or not is a matter which does not concern me. After
his
rudeness to my Irish valet this morning a man who has descended from
the
kings of Ireland I nearly let your father slide." "Then why did you
come?" she challenged. "It is a case of
self-discipline," he replied. "I was
determined that I should like your father. I did not care whether I was
in his
good books; I was determined that he should be in mine." "I think you are
very horrid," she flamed. "Moreover," he
continued, "I am a rich man. I must have
an heir. My solicitor chap told me the other day that I ought to make a
will.
Now, I am very keen on making a will; it is one of the joys of life
that has
never been mine. But how can I make a will until I see who is worthy of
inheriting my fortune?" She made no answer.
They were in the big hall by now, alone, for the
rest of the party had gone to their several rooms. "And I have
decided," he said. She pushed a bell by
the side of the big open fireplace. "I am glad to hear
it," she said. "I shall leave
everything to you," he said deliberately. "Don't you dare!"
she said with some violence. "When the mourners
have returned," he went on sadly,
"and they are sitting round the darkened room drinking my port and
eating
my biscuits, the lawyer will read the one simple, but touching clause:
'To my
beloved cousin, Gladys Mary '" "My name isn't Mary." She could have
bitten her tongue at her folly. "I don't know your
second name," he said calmly, "but I
will find out 'To my beloved and ever gentle cousin, Gladys Blank
Callander,
I bequeath the residue of my estate as a slight recompense '" A servant made his
appearance. "Show Mr Pallard to
his room," said Gladys. He followed the
man upstairs and, reaching the first landing, he leant over and fired
his
parting shot. "You must hear the last paragraph," he said,
"after dinner. It is an injunction begging you to avoid gambling and " She beat a hurried
retreat. She was prepared to
be very frigid and distant to him at dinner so
she told herself as she dressed. The man was already on the border-line
of
insolence. His conceit was abnormal ... Was it conceit? Or was he
laughing at
himself all the while? For there was, when
he spoke, a dancing merriment in his Irish eyes,
and through his mock, solemn speeches she detected the ripple of a
little
stream of laughter. Still he was distinctly the type of man to be
suppressed. She smiled at her
image in the glass as she recalled his glib art passages.
He had discovered that Horace was interested in art, the magazine
article had
put him on the track, and with a pertinacity worthy of a better cause,
he had
read up the subject. A directory had told him all that he wanted to
know about
the Gresham School. "You succeeded Tyler," the humbug had said, and
poor Mr Willock had imagined that his Presidency was world-famous! She came down to the
drawing-room three minutes before dinner and found
a new-comer. She remembered with annoyance that this was the night that
her
father had invited Lord Pinlow to dinner. He was standing with
his back to the fire as she came in. "How do, Miss
Callander; hope I'm not keepin' the fire from you;
these June nights can be jolly chilly." His lordship was a
big young man, broad-shouldered and stout, and from
the crown of his well-brushed head to the tip of his patent-leather
shoes he
was a picture of a perfectly dressed man-about-town. Lord Pinlow's
career had
been a varied one. Starting life with an estate mortgaged to its utmost
capacity, he had, by sheer perseverance and a magnetic personality,
more than
doubled its indebtedness. His imperial 'I O U's' were held in every
city of the
Empire; his all-red route from London to Hong Kong, from Brisbane to
Victoria,
B. C., was studded with promises to pay which had never been fulfilled. But he had avoided
bankruptcy, and he knew people. Moreover, he had a
house in the neighbourhood and was useful to Mr Callander, for even a
discredited peer has more influence than the bourgeoisie of
unimpeachable
integrity. Gladys gave him a
little nod and looked round. Mr Callander was turning
over the leaves of a book which had arrived that day, and Horace was
looking
over his father's shoulder. There was nothing to do but to entertain
the guest.
Knowing his limitations, she kept to the well-beaten path of
cub-hunting,
retriever-training, and the puppies of the Vale Hunt. Her father looked at
his watch and clicked his lips impatiently. "Your cousin is
late," he said severely. Gladys felt that the
responsibility, not only for his tardiness but for his very
relationship, was
being thrust upon her, and resented it. "You probably know
father's nephew," she said with malice.
"You were in Australia, weren't you?" "Twice, my dear
lady, twice," admitted the pleasant baron
lazily. "But I met so many people." "Brian Pallard?" she
suggested. Lord Pinlow frowned
a little. "Oh, that fellow!"
he said contemptuously. The girl flushed red
at his rudeness. "He is my cousin,"
she said icily. "Oh, I'm awfully
sorry," apologized his lordship, without in
any way appearing to be deeply affected; "rather a weird bird, isn't
he?" She made no answer.
She was boiling with wrath, wrath at the man's
boorishness, wrath with Brian Pallard, firstly for coming, and secondly
with
being late. Five minutes passed, then Mr Callander rang the bell. "Go to Mr Pallard's
room and ask him Oh, here you are!" For at that moment
Brian came in. "I'm sorry to keep
you," he said graciously; "but a
little oversight detained me." He looked
particularly handsome in his evening clothes. The tanned,
clear-cut face was browner against the snowy expanse of
shirt, the figure more graceful in the close-fitting coat. "Let us go in,"
grumbled Mr Callander, and led the way to the
dining- room. Gladys took one end
of the table. On her left she placed Brian; on her
right the untidy Mr Willock. Horace sat on his father's left and Lord
Pinlow on
his right. This brought Pinlow next to Brian. "I had forgotten,"
said the girl as she seated herself;
"you don't know Lord Pinlow." "Oh, yes, I do,"
responded Brian cheerfully; "we're old
acquaintances, aren't we, Pinlow?" She noticed that he
did not offer his hand to his fellow-guest. "We've met, I
think," growled the other, without turning his
head. "I think we have,"
said Brian carefully. "I've a private word
for you," he said, turning to the girl
and lowering his voice. "I'd rather you
hadn't, Mr Pallard," she said severely;
"and I think that I ought to tell you that father was very annoyed with
you. He is a stickler for punctuality " "Quite right, so am
I," agreed the young man, "though
punctuality is the thief of time. Think of the time one wastes turning
up to
meet a chap whose watch is ten minutes slow. But I couldn't help being
late for
dinner." Gladys stirred her
soup, taking no advantage of the unspoken invitation
to question him further. "I had a job of work
to do," he tempted her, and she fell. "Pre-Raphaelite
study?" He shook his head. "'You wrong me,
Brutus, in every way you wrong me'," he
quoted, and leaning over he whispered, "Clothes!" She looked at him
wonderingly. "Clothes," he
repeated. "Trousers, vest, coat, shirt,
collar, tie, and magnificent pearl stud." "What on earth do
you mean?" she demanded. She looked for the
'magnificent pearl stud', womanlike, and observed
its presence. He was laughing with
his eyes at her bewilderment. "Fair lady," he
said; "railway station 'send a man to
bring your bag' oh, cousin!" "And I didn't send
the man!" she said penitently. "Oh,
I'm so sorry!" He waved her sorrow
out of existence. "Don't mention it,"
he said magnanimously. "I enjoyed
the walk across the fields. The wicket was closed, but I climbed the
wall. Let
us talk about art." He raised his voice
at the last sentence and beamed on Mr Willock. |