Chapter 2

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.