CHAPTER II.

Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station

Whether Mark Ablett was a bore or not depended on the point of view,

but it may be said at once that he never bored his company on the

subject of his early life. However, stories get about. There is always

somebody who knows. It was understood—and this, anyhow, on Mark’s own

authority—that his father had been a country clergyman. It was said

that, as a boy, Mark had attracted the notice, and patronage, of some

rich old spinster of the neighbourhood, who had paid for his education,

both at school and university. At about the time when he was coming

down from Cambridge, his father had died; leaving behind him a few

debts, as a warning to his family, and a reputation for short sermons,

as an example to his successor. Neither warning nor example seems to

have been effective. Mark went to London, with an allowance from his

patron, and (it is generally agreed) made acquaintance with the

money-lenders. He was supposed, by his patron and any others who

inquired, to be “writing”; but what he wrote, other than letters asking

for more time to pay, has never been discovered. However, he attended

the theatres and music halls very regularly—no doubt with a view to

some serious articles in the “Spectator” on the decadence of the

English stage.

Fortunately (from Mark’s point of view) his patron died during his

third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted. From that

moment his life loses its legendary character, and becomes more a

matter of history. He settled accounts with the money-lenders,

abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of others, and became

in his turn a patron. He patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers

who discovered that Mark Ablett no longer wrote for money; editors were

now offered free contributions as well as free lunches; publishers were

given agreements for an occasional slender volume, in which the author

paid all expenses and waived all royalties; promising young painters

and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical company on

tour, playing host and “lead” with equal lavishness.

He was not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined

carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a mean

lover of mean things—which would be a little unkind to the peerage if

the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities undoubtedly, but

he would sooner have met an actor-manager than an earl; he would have

spoken of his friendship with Dante—had that been possible—more glibly

than of his friendship with the Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but

not the worst kind of snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not

Society; a climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay

Hill.

His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew

Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as limited

as had been Mark’s own before his patron had rescued him. He sent the

Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives, no doubt, were

unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying to his account in the

Recording Angel’s book of the generosity which had been lavished on

himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But it is probable that, as

the boy grew up, Mark’s designs for his future were based on his own

interests as much as those of his cousin, and that a suitably educated

Matthew Cayley of twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property

for a man in his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left

him so little time for his affairs.

Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin’s affairs. By

this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable amount of

land which went with it. Cayley superintended the necessary staff. His

duties, indeed, were many. He was not quite secretary, not quite

land-agent, not quite business-adviser, not quite companion, but

something of all four. Mark leant upon him and called him “Cay,”

objecting quite rightly in the circumstances to the name of Matthew.

Cay, he felt was, above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed, solid

fellow, who didn’t bother you with unnecessary talk—a boon to a man who

liked to do most of the talking himself.

Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty, which

was his patron’s age. Spasmodically they entertained a good deal at the

Red House, and Mark’s preference—call it kindliness or vanity, as you

please—was for guests who were not in a position to repay his

hospitality. Let us have a look at them as they came down to that

breakfast, of which Stevens, the parlour-maid, has already given us a

glimpse.

The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,

grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey flannel

trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural history

articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the side-table,

decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it. He had passed on

to a sausage by the time of the next arrival. This was Bill Beverly, a

cheerful young man in white flannel trousers and a blazer.

“Hallo, Major,” he said as he came in, “how’s the gout?”

“It isn’t gout,” said the Major gruffly.

“Well, whatever it is.”

The Major grunted.

“I make a point of being polite at breakfast,” said Bill, helping

himself largely to porridge. “Most people are so rude. That’s why I

asked you. But don’t tell me if it’s a secret. Coffee?” he added, as he

poured himself out a cup.

“No, thanks. I never drink till I’ve finished eating.”

“Quite right, Major; it’s only manners.” He sat down opposite to the

other. “Well, we’ve got a good day for our game. It’s going to be

dashed hot, but that’s where Betty and I score. On the fifth green,

your old wound, the one you got in that frontier skirmish in ’43, will

begin to trouble you; on the eighth, your liver, undermined by years of

curry, will drop to pieces; on the twelfth—”

“Oh, shut up, you ass!”

“Well, I’m only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris. I was

just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and him this

morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer choosing your own

breakfast?”

“Please don’t get up,” said Miss Norris. “I’ll help myself. Good

morning, Major.” She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.

“Good morning. Going to be hot.”

“As I was telling him,” began Bill, “that’s where—Hallo, here’s Betty.

Morning, Cayley.”

Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together. Betty was the

eighteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. John Calladine, widow of the

painter, who was acting hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth Norris

took herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays, seriously as

a golfer. She was quite competent as either. Neither the Stage Society

nor Sandwich had any terrors for her.

“By the way, the car will be round at 10.30,” said Cayley, looking up

from his letters. “You’re lunching there, and driving back directly

afterwards. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t have—two rounds,” said Bill hopefully.

“Much too hot in the afternoon,” said the Major. “Get back comfortably

for tea.”

Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and sat down

to toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered

gently while he read his letters.

“Good God!” said Mark suddenly.

There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. “I beg your

pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty.”

Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself,

particularly at rehearsals.

“I say, Cay!” He was frowning to himself—annoyed, puzzled. He held up a

letter and shook it. “Who do you think this is from?”

Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders. How

could he possibly guess?

“Robert,” said Mark.

“Robert?” It was difficult to surprise Cayley. “Well?”

“It’s all very well to say ‘well?’ like that,” said Mark peevishly.

“He’s coming here this afternoon.”

“I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere.”

“Of course. So did I.” He looked across at Rumbold. “Got any brothers,

Major?”

“No.”

“Well, take my advice, and don’t have any.”

“Not likely to now,” said the Major.

Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: “But you haven’t any brothers,

Mr. Ablett?”

“One,” said Mark grimly. “If you’re back in time you’ll see him this

afternoon. He’ll probably ask you to lend him five pounds. Don’t.”

Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.

“I’ve got a brother,” said Bill helpfully, “but I always borrow from

_him_.”

“Like Robert,” said Mark.

“When was he in England last?” asked Cayley.

“About fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? You’d have been a boy, of course.”

“Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn’t know if he

had been back since.”

“No. Not to my knowledge.” Mark, still obviously upset, returned to his

letter.

“Personally,” said Bill, “I think relations are a great mistake.”

“All the same,” said Betty a little daringly, “it must be rather fun

having a skeleton in the cupboard.”

Mark looked up, frowning.

“If you think it’s fun, I’ll hand him over to you, Betty. If he’s

anything like he used to be, and like his few letters have been—well,

Cay knows.”

Cayley grunted.

“All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions about him.”

It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask

more questions, or a reminder to his host not to talk too freely in

front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a mere statement

of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more

fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs. Calladine was driving over

with the players in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near

the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining at home—on affairs.

Apparently “affairs” were now to include a prodigal brother. But that

need not make the foursome less enjoyable.

At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing

his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their

business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman of the name of

Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham station and

asking the way to the village. Having received directions, he left his

bag with the station-master and walked off leisurely. He is an

important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know

something about him before letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at

the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.

The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than

we are. Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually

associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes which seem to

be absorbing every detail of our person. To strangers this look is

almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very

often elsewhere; that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard,

while he himself follows a train of thought in another direction. Many

people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking to one

person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them.

Antony’s never did.

He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a

sailor. When at the age of twenty-one he came into his mother’s money,

£400 a year, old Gillingham looked up from the “Stockbreeders’ Gazette”

to ask what he was going to do.

“See the world,” said Antony.

“Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to.”

“Right,” said Antony.

Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son, and, on

the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain

other families; Champion Birket’s, for instance. But, then, Champion

Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.

Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London.

His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and

to see them from as many angles as possible. There are all sorts in

London if you know how to look at them. So Antony looked at them—from

various strange corners; from the view-point of the valet, the

newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the

independence of £400 a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely. He

never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection with

it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood

between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had no

difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and

testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He would

take no wages the first month, and—if he satisfied his employer—double

wages the second. He always got his double wages.

He was now thirty. He had come to Woodham for a holiday, because he

liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel

further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter.

Woodham attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him

and money in his pocket. Why not get out?

The landlady of ‘The George’ was only too glad to put him up, and

promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his

luggage.

“And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”

“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold

anything-you’ve-got.”

“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of

meat to select from, and was offering him her best.

“That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer.”

While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the

luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.

“It must be rather fun to keep a country inn,” he said, thinking that

it was about time he started another profession.

“I don’t know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over.”

“You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony, looking at him

thoughtfully.

“Funny thing your saying that,” said the landlord, with a smile.

“Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only

yesterday. Offered to take my place an all.” He laughed rumblingly.

“The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?”

“That’s right, sir. Stanton’s the next station to Woodham. The Red

House is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett’s.”

Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from “The Red

House, Stanton,” and signed “Bill.”

“Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself. “He’s getting on.”

Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist’s shop.

Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the

other. Something about Bill, his youth and freshness, perhaps,

attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered, and an address

given to which they were to be sent, he remembered that he had come

across an aunt of Beverley’s once at a country-house. Beverley and he

met again a little later at a restaurant. Both of them were in

evening-dress, but they did different things with their napkins, and

Antony was the more polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So

on one of his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged an

introduction through a mutual friend. Beverley was a little inclined to

be shocked when he was reminded of their previous meetings, but his

uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony quickly became

intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as “Dear Madman” when he

happened to write.

Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House after lunch and call

upon his friend. Having inspected his bedroom which was not quite the

lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, but sufficiently

clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.

As he came down the drive and approached the old red-brick front of the

house, there was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle

cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms, and from distant lawns the

whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds....

And in the hall a man was banging at a locked door, and shouting, “Open

the _door_, I say; open the _door!_”

“Hallo!” said Antony in amazement.