It was, however, quite impossible to put any restraint upon Penhallow. Eccentric he might be, but he was not in the least mad. His near neighbour, and oldest acquaintance, John Probus, said that he had been born into the wrong age, and reminded him of his grandfather, a hard-drinking, hard-riding, nineteenth-century squire, whom he could just remember, and who had gambled away a considerable portion of his estates, and had ended his days a martyr to gout. Penhallow did not gamble away his estates: he mortgaged them.
He had other habits, less disastrous but almost as irritating to his heir, chief amongst which was his predilection for keeping enormous sums of money locked away in a battered tin box, which he stowed in one of the cupboards of his preposterous bed. It was nothing unusual for him to hoard several hundreds of pounds in this freakish way, which he saved, or cast about with a lavish hand, just as his fancy dictated. He would bestow a casual handful of crumpled notes upon any of his children who had happened to please him; scatter coins amongst his servants; send one of his sons, or old Reuben, off with a bulging wallet to purchase some piece of furniture which he had seen advertised in the local paper as being put up for auction in a sale and which he had taken a sudden fancy to possess; bid the Vicar to help himself from the open box, when that gentleman called to beg a donation for the poor of the parish, or for the renovations to the Church; and generally behave as though he were a sort of Midas to whom gold was no sort of object. It amused him to compel Raymond to keep him supplied with money, which he did by threatening to send Jimmy the Bastard to the Bank in Bodmin with his cheque, if his disapproving heir refused to perform the errand.
Raymond had one of these scrawled cheques in his pocket as he left the house after his morning’s interview with his parent. These daily meetings seldom passed without friction, but this one had been stormier than most. Raymond, going straight from the breakfast-table to his father’s room, had found Penhallow in a smouldering rage, shouting abuse at old Martha, who had just finished tidying the room. His eyes had gleamed at sight of his son, and he had lost no time in trying to pick a quarrel with him. Eugene would have diverted his wrath with his nimble tongue; Ingram, or either of the twins, would have gratified him by losing their tempers, and shouting back at him with a complete lack of filial respect, or self-control; Raymond merely stood before the fire, with his feet wide-planted, the first three fingers of either square hand thrust into the slit pockets in the front of his whipcord breeches, and a heavy scowl on his face. Nothing could have annoyed Penhallow more than his invariable refusal to be goaded into fury.
“Dumb, are you?” he roared, heaving himself up in his bed. “You sulky young hound, if you’d the spirit of a louse you’d find your tongue quick enough!”
“When you’ve quite finished,” Raymond had said coldly, “you can take a look at that lot!”
He jerked his head towards the ledgers he had placed on the table beside the bed, but he did not move from his position before the fire. Penhallow sneered at him. “I ought to have made you into a damned accountant! I don’t doubt you’d have been happy to have spent your life totting up columns of figures!”
As this taunt had no visible effect upon Raymond, he passed to a wholesale criticism of his management of the estate, and ended by remarking that he had heard from Ingram that the Demon colt was likely to prove a failure. Ingram had said nothing of the sort, but the shaft served to bring a flush to Raymond’s cheeks. He replied briefly: “I’ve got a hit.”
Penhallow at once forgot that he wanted to enrage his son. His brows drew together. “A hit, eh? Well! Early days yet. Got his sire’s shoulders?”
“Grand shoulder-blade and forearm. Powerful quarters; hocks well-bent; stifles high and wide,” Raymond responded.
“Back?” Penhallow shot at him. “Out with it! I remember thinking, when I saw his dam—”
“Short above and long below,” interrupted Raymond, the corners of his mouth lifting.
Penhallow grunted. “I’ll take a look at him. Got him out yet?"
“I’ve had him out a couple of weeks now.”
“Where?” Penhallow demanded.
“The Upper Paddock.”
“Good! How many have you put with him?”
“Three others.”
Penhallow nodded. “Quite right. Never have more than four yearlings to a paddock.” He looked Raymond over. “Bred him for selling, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“God, I don’t know where you get your huckstering instinct from!”
Raymond shrugged, and was silent. Penhallow’s ill humour descended upon him again. He bethought him of a piece of news likely to find no sort of favour with his grim-faced heir. He informed him casually of his plans for Clay.
That did rouse Raymond, if not to an exhibition of Penhallow rage, at least to a considerable degree of annoyance. It seemed to him poor economy to remove Clay from college before the expiration of his three years there; it exasperated him to be obliged to stand by while his father laid down a substantial sum of money to buy Clay into a firm which he would infallibly leave the instant Penhallow was underground; and in addition to these considerations he wanted no more brothers quartered at Trevellin. When Penhallow added to these unwelcome tidings an announcement that he thought it nigh time young Aubrey stopped messing about in town, and came home, he shut his lips tightly, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room.
When he reached the hunting-stables, his face still wore so forbidding an expression that a stable-boy, carrying a couple of buckets across the yard, made all haste to remove himself from his sight; and a groom, who was engaged in strapping a flea-bitten grey, exchanged a significant glance with one of his mates.
Raymond paused for a moment, silently watching the busy groom. Apparently he had no fault to find, for, to the man’s relief, he passed on. The upper halves of the loose-box doors stood open, and a row of beautiful heads looked out. Raymond stopped to caress one of his own hunters; parted the hair on the neck of a bay mare with his fingers; inspected the ears of a neat-headed Irish hunter; entered one of the boxes to examine the hooves of a nervous chestnut under treatment for thrush; and was joined presently by his head-groom, with whom he held a brief discussion of a highly technical nature. He still looked rather forbidding, but his scowl had lightened as it always did when he came amongst his horses. He glanced round the quadrangle, thinking how good were these stables of his own designing, thinking that the new groom he had engaged shaped well, thinking that he would advise Bart to have his grey’s shoes removed, thinking that when Penhallow died — But at this point his thoughts stopped abruptly, and he swung round to visit the harness-room. One of the hands was washing some dirty harness there, which hung on a double-hook suspended from the ceiling; Bart and Conrad, as well as himself, had been exercising horses earlier in the morning, and the three saddles were spread over the long iron saddle-horse. Glass-fronted cupboards running round the walls contained well-polished saddles on their brackets, gleaming bits attached to neatly hung bridles, all in demonstrably good order. A quick look over some horse-clothing, spread out for his inspection, a glance along the shelf stacked with bandages, a nod in answer to a request for more neat’s foot oil and some new leathers, and he passed on to the hay-chamber, and to the granary, with its corn-bruiser, its chaff cutter, and its many bins.
When he left the stables, he strode off to the ramshackle building which housed his runabout, and backed this battered and aged vehicle out into the yard. He decided that he had just time to pay a visit to his studfarm before motoring into Bodmin, and drove off noisily up the rough lane which led to it.
He found Ingram there, talking to Mawgan, the studgroom. The brothers exchanged a curt greeting. Ingram, who was sitting on his shooting-stick, said: “I’ve been saying to Mawgan that we’d do well to get rid of the Flyaway mare.”
Raymond grunted.
“Guv’nor all right?” Ingram asked casually.
“Much as usual.”
“Goi
ng to take a look at the Demon colt? I’m on my way to the Upper Paddock myself.”
Raymond had meant to take a look at the colt on which his present ambitions were centred, but he had no wish to do so in Ingram’s presence. He replied: “No, I haven’t time. I’ve got to get to Bodmin.”
“Oh! Did Weens show you that quarter-piece?”
“Yes.”
“Dam’ bad,” remarked Ingram, easing his game leg a little. “If you’re going into Bodmin, you might tell Gwithian’s to send me up another dozen of lager. Save me a journey.”
“All right,” Raymond said. “Nothing wanted here?”
“Not that I know of:’ Ingram eyed him shrewdly. “Bank again?” he inquired laconically.
Raymond nodded, scowling. “Going the pace a bit, isn’t he?”
“If you think you can clap a curb on him, try!” recommended Raymond savagely. “I’m fed up with it!”
Ingram laughed. “No bloody fear! Leave him alone: he’ll quieten down if you don’t fret him. You never had an ounce of tact, that’s your trouble.”
Raymond got into his car, and started the engine.
“He’s having Clay home,” he said grimly.
“Hell!” ejaculated Ingram.
“And Aubrey,” added Raymond, thrusting out his clutch.
“Hell and blast!” said Ingram, at the top of his voice.
“Laugh that one off!” recommended Raymond sardonically, and bucketed away down the lane.
It did not take him long to reach Bodmin, and his business there was soon transacted. It was when he was coming out of the bank that he encountered his Aunt Delia, fluttering scarves, veils, and ribbons, and carrying a laden shopping-basket in one hand, and a capacious leather bag in the other.
Those who had known Delia Ottery since her childhood said that she had been a very pretty girl, although cast a little into the shade by her sister Rachel. Her nephews, not having known her as a girl, were obliged to take this opinion on trust. They could none of them remember her as anything but an untidy, faded old maid, whose lustreless hair was prematurely grey, and always falling down in unsightly tails and wisps. Girlish slimness had early changed to middle-aged scragginess, and as she had never outgrown a youthful predilection for bright colours, frills, and fluffiness, this was considerably accentuated by the clothes she wore. When she accosted her nephew, becoming quite pink in the face from pleasure at seeing him, she was wearing a straw picture-hat on the back of her head, its brim weighed down by a large, salmon-coloured rose. A veil floated from this structure, getting entangled, in the breeze which was blowing down the street, with the ends of a fringed scarf which she wore loosely knotted round her neck. A frock of a peculiarly aggressive shade of blue was imperfectly concealed by a long brown coat; and since the month was May, and the weather not as summery as the picture-hat would have seemed to imply, she wore in addition a feather-boa of a style fashionable in the opening years of the century. She was of a very nervous and retiring disposition, and appeared to be almost as much frightened as pleased at walking into her nephew.
She gasped: “Oh, Raymond! Well, this is a surprise!” and dropped her handbag.
Raymond, whose innate neatness was invariably offended by his aunt’s untidy appearance, betrayed no pleasure at the meeting. He responded briefly: “Hallo, Aunt Delia!” and bent to pick up the handbag.
She stood there, blinking at him with her myopic grey eyes, and smiling a little foolishly. “Well, this is a surprise!” she repeated.
As Raymond drove into Bodmin never less frequently than twice a week, and Miss Ottery did her marketing there every morning, there seemed to be very little reason for her to feel any surprise. However, the Penhallows had long since decided that their aunt was a trifle soft in the head, so Raymond merely said: “I came in on business. You and Uncle Phineas both well?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, very well, thank you! And are you quite well, dear?”
He replied with a slight smile: “Thanks, I’m always well.”
“That’s right!” she said. “And dear little Faith? It seems such ages since I saw her. I don’t know how it is, but one never has time to turn round these days!”
“She’s much the same as usual,” he answered.
They stood looking at one another, Miss Ottery tremulously smiling, Raymond wondering how to get away from her.
“It’s so nice to see you, dear, and looking so well, too!” produced Delia, after a slight pause. “I was only saying to Phineas the other day — actually, it was Tuesday, because I saw Myra in the town, which made me think, not but what I know you young people have your own affairs to attend to, especially you, Raymond dear, I’m sure — well, I was saying to Phineas that we haven’t seen anything of you for ages. And now here you are!”
“Yes,” agreed Raymond. He could see no way, short of walking off, of escaping from her, and added: “Can I give you a lift home?”
She turned pinker than ever with pleasure, and stammered: “Well, that is kind of you, dear! Of course you have your car here, haven’t you? I was just going into the corn-chandler’s to buy some seed for my birdies, and then I thought I would catch the bus, but if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me, I’m sure it would be most kind of you. Though I oughtn’t to be keeping you, I know, for I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“The car’s over there,” interrupted Raymond, indicating its position with a jerk of his head. “I’ll wait for you.”
“I won’t be a minute!” she promised. “I’ll just pop across the road for my seed, and be back in a trice. You remember my birdies, don’t you? Such sweets!”
As it was only three weeks since Raymond had visited the grey house outside the town where Delia lived with her brother, upon which occasion it had seemed to him that as much of the drawing-room as was not filled with glass-fronted cabinets containing Phineas’s collection of china was occupied by love-birds and canaries in gilt cages, all making the most infernal din, he had a very vivid recollection of the birdies, and said so, somewhat grimly.
It was fully a quarter of an hour later when Miss Ottery climbed into the runabout beside her nephew, and disposed her shopping-basket in the cramped space at her feet. She explained her dilatoriness as having been due to her desire to get the corn-chandler’s advice about Dicky, one of her roller-canaries, who had been ailing for several days. “Such a nice man!” she said. “He always takes such an interest! Of course, we have dealt there all our lives, which I always think makes a difference, don’t you? Only you’re more interested in horses than in birds, aren’t you, dear? Naturally, you would be. It would be very strange if you weren’t, considering. And how are the dear horses?”
He did not feel that it was necessary to answer this question. He told her instead that he had one or two promising youngsters turned out to grass.
“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “I was always so sorry when we gave up our stables, not but what I was never such a wonderful horsewoman as dear Rachel, only I have always loved horses, as long as they aren’t too skittish for me. Rachel used to ride anything — such a picture as she was, too! — but my dear father — your grandfather, Raymond, only you can’t remember him, because he died before you were born — used to mount me on such gentle, well-mannered horses that I quite enjoyed it. But I never hunted. I never could quite bring myself to approve of it, not that I mean anything against people who do hunt, because I’m sure it would be a very dull world if we all thought alike. But I used to drive a dear little governess-cart. You remember my fat pony, Peter, don’t you Raymond?”
Yes, Raymond remembered the fat pony perfectly, a circumstance which made Miss Ottery beam with delight, and recall the various occasions when the fat pony had been so naughty, or so clever, or so sweet.
Branching away somewhat erratically from this fruitful subject, she said wistfully that she wished she could see Raymond’s darling colts, because she loved all young animals, even kittens, though when you considered what they would grow into, and
the perfectly dreadful way they played with poor little birds, and mice, it seemed quite terrible.
“You must come up one day and walk round the stables,” Raymond said, safe in the knowledge that she was a great deal too nervous of Penhallow to accept the invitation.
The suggestion threw her into a twitter of embarrassment at once, and she was still faltering out excuses when the car pulled up outside Azalea Lodge.
Refusing her pressing invitation to come in for a moment to see his uncle, Raymond leaned across her to open the door of the car. By the time she had extricated herself, and had received her basket from him, Phineas, who had seen her arrival from behind the muslin curtains which shrouded the drawing-room windows, had come out of the house, and was advancing down the garden-path.
Common politeness compelled Raymond to refrain from driving off, which he would have liked to do, until he had shaken hands with his uncle. He did not, however, get out of the car, and he did not retain Phineas’s soft, white hand in his a second longer than was necessary.
“Well, well, well!” uttered Phineas. “I declare, I wondered who could be bringing you home in such style, Delia! This is indeed kind! And how are you, my boy’ You have no need to answer: you look to be in splendid shape. You must come inside, and take a little refreshment. No, no, I insist!”
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