Powder and Patch

Chapter IV. The Troubles Come to a Head

At half-past five on Wednesday Mr Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive. Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and un-powdered hair. Mr Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.

Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple. “Ah, Mr Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know.” He paused to allow Bancroft

to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. “I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?”

Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.

“My playmate of long ago,” he murmured. “Your very obedient, Mr Jettan.” Philip returned the bow awkwardly.

“I am very pleased to meet you again, sir,” he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. “Do you-er-intend to make a long stay?”

Bancroft raised his shoulders and spread out his hands.

“I had thought not, sir, but now”-another glance was cast at Cleone-“I think-perhaps-!” he smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip’s person. “Do you know, sir, I swear I’d not have known you. You have grown prodigiously.”

Cleone broke into the conversation.

“You were so much older than Philip, or James or me, Mr Bancroft!” Instantly he swept round.

“I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged.” “Why, sir, have you lost your years?” she asked.

“In your company, yes, madam. Can you wonder?”

“Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!” Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face. “Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated.”

“La!” said Madam Charteris. “How can you say such things, Mr Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!”

“Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter,” he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.

Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.

“Pranked out mummer!” he muttered in her ear. Cleone smiled up at him.

“Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?” she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. “’Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?”

A dull red crept to the roots of Philip’s hair. He spoke lower still.

“You know-what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot-mouth what I feel-in pretty phrases.” A strangely tender light came into her eyes.

“You might try, Philip,” she said.

“What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public.” He laughed shortly. “So that is what you desire?”

The tender light died.

“No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me.” Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass. When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr Charteris and Philip brought up the rear.

From Philip’s point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr Bancroft, and on his left Mr Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very

gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr Bancroft’s sallies with delightful little laughs and applause.

As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr Bancroft’s white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and-coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop’s, but his nails … bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails!

The lilac satin of Mr Bancroft’s coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace … more suited to a woman than a man. The quizzing-glass … abominable affectation! The jewels … flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent? …

Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk! … Now hints at conquests made-veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!-truckling, over-dressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr Charteris.

Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window, and looked at his father. “And that,” he said bitingly, “is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!”

“Not at all.” Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. “’Tis the last thing in the world I would have you.”

“You said-”

“I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways.” “Well?-”

“You perhaps conceive Mr Bancroft a perfect gentleman?” “Not I! Tis you who-”

Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand.

“Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two.”

“I had sooner be what I am!” “Which is a conceited oaf.” “Sir!”

Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane.

“Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you-which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?”

Philip answered quickly.

“Cleone, sir, will-give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft.”

“Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure,” said Sir Maurice softly.

The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt.

“I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?” “And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know.”

“Thank you!” The young voice was exceedingly bitter. “I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am.”

“Or leave you as you are,” said Sir Maurice gently. “A warning, sir?”

“That’s for you to judge, child. And now I’ll to bed.” He paused, looking at his son. Philip went to him.

“Goodnight, sir.”

Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand. “Goodnight, my son.”

Philip kissed his fingers.

Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip’s tongue was stiff and reluctant So Mr Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone.

Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr Bancroft that displeased her: I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety, society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man’s, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall.

Despite the lisping conceit of Mr Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip’s brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr Bancroft. At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man’s lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane. Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip’s eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr Bancroft, who was following.

“A word with you, sir.”

Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly. Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared. “You have seen fit to mock at me, sir-” “I?” interpolated Bancroft languidly. “My dear sir!” “-and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object.” Bancroft’s brows rose higher.

“To-which-you-object …” he echoed softly.

“I trust I make myself clear?” snapped Philip.

Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head. “Is it possible that you want satisfaction?” he drawled.

“More than that,” retorted Philip. “It is certain.” Once again he was scrutinised. Mr Bancroft’s smile grew. “I do not fight with schoolboys,” he said.

The colour flooded Philip’s face.

“Perhaps because you are afraid,” he said quickly, guarding his temper. “Perhaps,” nodded Bancroft. “Yet I have not the reputation of a coward.” Swift as a hawk Philip pounced.

“You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!” It was Bancroft’s turn to flush.

“I-beg-your-pardon?”

“It is necessary,” bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days. “You-impudent boy!” gasped Bancroft

“I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy.” Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.

“I see you will have it, Mr Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will.” Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword. “I have noticed, Mr Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. ‘When’ is now, and ‘where’ is yonder!” He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it

Bancroft sneered at him.

“A trifle countrified, Mr Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?”

“I think we can trust each other,” said Philip grandly. “Then pray lead the way,” bowed Bancroft.

What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip’s blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed.

“Let this be a lesson to you, sir,” he said, and walked away before Philip could pick up his sword.

Twenty minutes later Philip walked into the hall of Sharley House, a handkerchief tied tightly round his arm, and asked for Mistress Cleone. On being told that she was in the parlour, he stalked in upon her.

Cleone’s eyes flew to his crooked arm.

“Oh!” she cried, and half rose. ‘What-what have you done? You are hurt!” “It is less than nothing, I thank you,” replied Philip. “I want you to answer me plainly, Cleone. What is that fellow to you?”

Cleone sat down again. Her eyes flashed; Philip was nearer than ever to his downfall. “I entirely fail to understand you, sir,” she answered.

“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.