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<h2> CHAPTER II. Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station </h2>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"</p>
<p>"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.</p>
<p>"Well, whatever it is."</p>
<p>The Major grunted.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"Oh, shut up, you ass!"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Please don't get up," said Miss Norris. "I'll help myself. Good morning,
Major." She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.</p>
<p>"Good morning. Going to be hot."</p>
<p>"As I was telling him," began Bill, "that's where—Hallo, here's
Betty. Morning, Cayley."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"I don't see why we shouldn't have—two rounds," said Bill hopefully.</p>
<p>"Much too hot in the afternoon," said the Major. "Get back comfortably for
tea."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Good God!" said Mark suddenly.</p>
<p>There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. "I beg your pardon,
Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty."</p>
<p>Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself,
particularly at rehearsals.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders. How could
he possibly guess?</p>
<p>"Robert," said Mark.</p>
<p>"Robert?" It was difficult to surprise Cayley. "Well?"</p>
<p>"It's all very well to say 'well?' like that," said Mark peevishly. "He's
coming here this afternoon."</p>
<p>"I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere."</p>
<p>"Of course. So did I." He looked across at Rumbold. "Got any brothers,
Major?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Well, take my advice, and don't have any."</p>
<p>"Not likely to now," said the Major.</p>
<p>Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: "But you haven't any brothers,
Mr. Ablett?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.</p>
<p>"I've got a brother," said Bill helpfully, "but I always borrow from him."</p>
<p>"Like Robert," said Mark.</p>
<p>"When was he in England last?" asked Cayley.</p>
<p>"About fifteen years ago, wasn't it? You'd have been a boy, of course."</p>
<p>"Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn't know if he had
been back since."</p>
<p>"No. Not to my knowledge." Mark, still obviously upset, returned to his
letter.</p>
<p>"Personally," said Bill, "I think relations are a great mistake."</p>
<p>"All the same," said Betty a little daringly, "it must be rather fun
having a skeleton in the cupboard."</p>
<p>Mark looked up, frowning.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Cayley grunted.</p>
<p>"All I knew was that one didn't ask questions about him."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
pounds a year, old Gillingham looked up from the "Stockbreeders' Gazette"
to ask what he was going to do.</p>
<p>"See the world," said Antony.</p>
<p>"Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to."</p>
<p>"Right," said Antony.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 pounds 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.</p>
<p>He was now thirty. He had come to Waldheim 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. Waldheim attracted
him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his
pocket. Why not get out?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir."</p>
<p>"Yes, but don't give yourself any trouble about it. Cold
anything-you've-got."</p>
<p>"What about beef, sir?" she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of
meat to select from, and was offering him her best.</p>
<p>"That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer."</p>
<p>While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the
luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.</p>
<p>"It must be rather fun to keep a country inn," he said, thinking that it
was about time he started another profession.</p>
<p>"I don't know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over."</p>
<p>"You ought to take a holiday," said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.</p>
<p>"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 'n all." He laughed rumblingly.</p>
<p>"The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?"</p>
<p>"That's right, sir. Stanton's the next station to Waldheim. The Red House
is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett's."</p>
<p>Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from "The Red
House, Stanton," and signed "Bill."</p>
<p>"Good old Bill," he murmured to himself. "He's getting on."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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....</p>
<p>And in the hall a man was banging at a locked door, and shouting, "Open
the door, I say; open the door!"</p>
<p>"Hallo!" said Antony in amazement.</p>
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