Gloria Mundi. Frederic Harold
stage of filling his pipe. Walking to the mantel for a light, it occurred to him to ring the bell first. “Her ladyship breakfastin’ in her room?” he asked the youngster who answered the summons.
“Her ladyship’s woman has just gone up with it, sir,” he replied.
“That’s all right,” said Edward, and forthwith struck the match. “Send in Davis and Morton to me, and ask Barlow for those Brazilian cigars of mine—the small huntin’ ones. What wheels were those I heard on the gravel? If it’s the traps we shan’t want them to-day. We’re walkin’ across.”
“I will make inquiries, sir,” said the domestic, and went out.
The room had brightened perceptibly, and Captain Edward was in a better temper. He moved over to the sideboard and filled a pocket-flask from one of the decanters in the old-fashioned case. As an afterthought, he also filled a small glass, and gulped its contents neat. “We’re off in ten minutes now,” he called out to the men about the table, some of whom had already lit their pipes. “What do you fellows want to take with you? My tip is this rum.”
“Hardly cold enough for rum, is it?” asked one, drifting languidly toward the sideboard. Most of the others had risen to their feet.
A slender, sad-faced, gentlemanly-looking old man in evening clothes had entered the room, and stood now at Captain Edward’s elbow and touched it with his hand. “I—beg—your—pardon—sir,” he said, in the conventional phrase.
Edward, listening to what a companion was saying, turned absent-mindedly to the butler. Then he happened to remember something. “Damn you, Barlow, you get duller every day!” he snapped. “You know perfectly well what cigars I take out of doors!”
“I—beg—your—pardon—sir,” repeated the elderly person. He spoke in a confidential murmur. “I thought you would like to know, sir—Lord Julius has come.”
The young man looked at him, silently revolving the intelligence, a puzzled frown between his pale brows. A furtive something in the butler’s composed expression struck him. “What of it?” he demanded, angrily. “What are you whispering for? He’s old enough to take care of himself, isn’t he?”
The butler thrust out his dry underlip a trifle. “I thought you would like to know, sir,” he reiterated.
“Well, you’re wrong. I don’t like to know!” The man’s tone—an indefinable, lurking suggestiveness in his face and eyes and voice—vexed Mr. Edward exceedingly. It annoyed him still more to note that his companions had tacitly turned their backs, and were affecting great preoccupation in something else.
He kept a wrathful eye on Barlow, as the latter bowed, turned, moved to the door and opened it. Of course, a man musn’t slang servants, his irritated thought ran, but the covert impertinence in this old menial’s manner was something no longer to be borne. The impulse to call the elderly fool back and send him packing on the instant, tingled hotly in the young man’s blood. He even opened his lips to speak, but reflection checked his tongue. It would be bad form, for one thing; for another, perhaps he was not quite in the position to dismiss his grandfather’s servants. He would speak to Welldon, the estate steward, instead—a sensible and civil man, by the way, who seemed to know which side his bread was buttered on. At the merest hint from the heir, Welldon would give Barlow the sack, and that would teach the rest a lesson. But all this would keep until Lord Julius had gone. Being an aged duffer himself, he would probably side with Barlow—and there was no point in offending Lord Julius. Very much to the contrary, indeed.
Mr. Edward’s meditations, unwontedly facile in their movements for him, had reached this point, when his mind reverted to the fact that he was still regarding the back of Barlow, who, instead of going out, stood holding the door open, his lean figure poised in ceremonious expectancy. Even as the surprised Edward continued looking, the butler made a staid obeisance.
A stalwart, erect, burly old gentleman came in, and halted just over the threshold to look about him. He had the carriage, dress and general aspect of a prosperous and opinionated farmer. The suggestion of acres and crops was peculiarly marked in the broad, low soft hat on his head, and in the great white beard which spread fan-wise over his ample breast. He had the face of one who had spent a life in commanding others, and had learned meanwhile to master himself—a frank, high-featured, ruddy face, with a conspicuously prominent and well-curved nose, and steady, confident eyes. He folded his hands over his stick and, holding his head well back, glanced about the room at his ease. It was a glance from which the various eyes that it encountered somehow turned away.
“How-do, Eddy? How-do, Gus?” the newcomer said impassively to the two young men who, with palpable constraint, came up to greet him. He shook hands with each, but seemed more interested in viewing the company at large. His appearance had produced a visible effect of numbness upon the group of guests, but he seemed not to mind this.
“Quite a party!” he observed. His voice was full and robust, and not unamiable. “All military?”
Edward nodded. “All but Gus, here. Glad to introduce ’em, if you like,” he murmured, with a kind of sullen deference.
“Presently, presently,” said Lord Julius, with an effect of heartiness at which Edward lifted his head.
“Drive over from Clune this morning?” the young man asked. “Then you’ll want breakfast. Ring the bell, Gus. We’re just starting for the Mere copse. Glad to have you make an eighth gun, if you’ll come to us after you’ve eaten. You still shoot, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I still shoot,” said the other.
Edward had a sense of embarrassment at his great-uncle’s immobility in the doorway. “Well, we’ll get along to the gun-room now,” he said to the others. Then to Lord Julius he remarked with an air of making conversation, “I always say to the fellows that I ask nothing better in this world than to be as fit as you are when I’m your age. Let’s see, seventy-six, isn’t it?”
The elder man nodded. “I’m sure that’s a modest enough ambition,” he observed. His steady gray eyes dallied with the young man’s countenance for a moment. “I’m relieved to learn that you want nothing more than that.”
Edward looked up swiftly, and braved an instant’s piercing scrutiny of the other’s face. Then he laughed, uneasily. “Oh, I want a few other things, too.”
Lord Julius lowered his voice. “I would put among your wants a trifling matter of good taste, Eddy,” he said, not unkindly.
Captain Edward flushed. “If I could see that it really made any difference between the First and the Second,” he answered with dogged civility, “I wouldn’t shoot until tomorrow. If you’re keen about it now, I’ll—”
“Oh, damn your First and Second,” broke in the old man, keeping his voice down below the hearing of the others, but letting impatience glow in his eyes; “you had no business bringing these men here at all. No—I see that you don’t understand me. You needn’t explain. It’s entirely a question of feeling.”
“I’m sorry you take that view of it, sir,” said Edward, gloomily. “You know that I’m willing enough to meet your views—if only—if only because I’m going to need your help.” Lord Julius gave a snort of contemptuous laughter, and nodded to himself with lifted brows. “Really something in the way of consideration is due to such frankness as that,” he said, with a pretense of reverie. “Send your friends out of the room, Eddy,” he went on, more gently—“make what excuse you like—or take them out and come back to me—that’s better. I did intend to have no secrets from them, but I’ve relented. And yes—by the way—instead of coming here—you’ll find me in the small morning room I will breakfast there. You’ve filled this room with smoke.”
“Would you—would you mind my bringing Gus?” Edward asked, doubtfully.
The other thought for an instant. “Oh, yes, Gus may come,” he said, and with that left the room.