In spite of the fact that Penhallow’s determination to hold a tea-party pleased no one, least of all the invited guests, it took place, Mrs Venngreen being the only person to decline the invitation. It was considered unlikely that Delia Ottery would come, since she visited Trevellin rarely, but she did come, persuaded, it was believed, by Phineas, who, for all his dislike of Penhallow, was extremely inquisitive, and rarely refused an invitation to visit him. Rosamund obviously came because Clifford had begged her to; and the younger Penhallows held that the Vicar came because Sybilla’s scones and cakes were very much richer than any baked under Mrs Venngreen’s auspices.
Penhallow did honour to the occasion by making Jimmy and Martha dress him, a circumstance which relieved one at least of his wife’s anxieties. The apprehension that he would appear at the party in his aged dressing-gown had induced her seriously to consider the advisability of retiring to bed with an unnamed illness.
Tea was served in the Long drawing-room, and the first guests to arrive were Clifford and Rosamund, Rosamund looking cool and remote in one of her excellent tailor-made flannel suits, and Clifford overflowing with geniality, and professing the greatest satisfaction on beholding his uncle in such robust health.
Penhallow, who had been wheeled into the drawing-room, and placed near the fire, which he had insisted on being lighted, quite regardless of the sultriness of the day, saw that Rosamund was looking cool and self-possessed, and maliciously summoned her to sit beside him, where, between the heat of the fire, and the raffish nature of his remarks, she very soon began to look hot, and even a little flustered. This pleased Penhallow so much that by the time Conrad ushered the Otterys into the room he was in a state of good humour which was felt to be only less dangerous than his moods of blind rage. He looked Delia over with twinkling eyes and said as he took her nervous hand in his: “Well, well! What a sight for sore eyes! Seeing you with pink roses in your hat takes me back to the time when I first met you, Delia, by God it does! Now, how long ago would that be? How old are you, Ray? Thirty-nine? Then it must be about forty years ago, eh, Delia?”
Miss Ottery blushed to the roots of her untidy grey hair, and stammered something almost inaudible. She was always at her worst and most incoherent in Penhallow’s presence, and looked now to be so unhappy that Faith, indignant with Penhallow for jibing at the poor lady’s youthful taste in dress, affectionately invited her to come and sit beside her on a sofa a little removed from his vicinity.
“No, no, you let Delia sit next to Ray!” said Penhallow. “He’s the one she really came to see, didn’t you, Delia? Always have had a soft corner for him, eh?”
“Oh, I’m sure Ray doesn’t want to be bothered with his old aunt!” Delia said, in a flutter of embarrassment. “Anywhere will do for me — not too near the fire!”
“And how, my old friend,” inquired Phineas, softly rubbing his hands together, “do you find yourself these days? It is indeed a pleasure to find you up and about!”
“I’m still pretty clever,” Penhallow boasted. “I’ll surprise the lot of you yet, Lifton included. You’re not wearing so well, Phineas: you’ve developed a paunch. You’re flabby, that’s what you are. Gone to seed. Lord, I remember when you were as thin as a rake, with all the girls after you! Sold you a horse once which wasn’t up to my weight.”
“Indeed, yes!” smiled Phineas. “A straight-shouldered grey, always throwing out a splint. I remember him well.”
“Honours,” said Eugene, “may now be said to be even. Of course, I feel that Father would have sold you an unsound horse.”
Penhallow accepted this tribute with a grin, and upon Clay’s coming into the room at that moment, at once called upon Clifford to “run your eye over this young cub!” Clifford shook hands with his cousin, and said that he looked forward to having him in his office.
“Oh well, as to that — I mean, nothing’s decided yet, is it?” Clay said with an uneasy laugh. “I’m afraid my bent isn’t in the least legal. I’ve always been more on the artistic side — if you know what I mean.”
“You know, even Aubrey doesn’t make me feel as sick as Clay,” remarked Conrad to the room at large.
““That will do, thank you!” Faith said sharply.
“Edifying close-up of the Penhallows at home!” muttered Vivian.
“But where is the rest of the family?” asked Phineas, in a light tone plainly meant to cover an awkward breach. “I seem to descry gaps in your ranks. Aubrey and Char I suppose we must not hope to see, but are we not to have the pleasure of meeting Ingram, and his charming wife; and this tall fellow’s counterpart?” He laid an affectionate hand on Conrad’s arm as he spoke, and smiled winningly round the circle.
“Ingram’s coming up to tea, but there’s nothing charming about his wife,” said Penhallow, with brutal frankness. “She’s as rangy as old Clara here, and not so good-looking. The best thing I know of Myra is that she’s bred a couple of lusty sons, and that with no more fuss and to-do than my Rachel would have made.”
This shaft impaled two victims, as it was intended to do. Faith flushed painfully, and Rosamund, the mother of three daughters, stiffened. The entrance of Ingram and Myra was felt to create a welcome diversion.
Ingram, who was rather gregarious, greeted everyone with loud-voiced heartiness; and as Myra was both shrill and voluble, Bart, who had entered the room in their wake, was able to pause for an instant by the table which Loveday was quietly spreading with one of Clara’s crochet-edged cloths, and to exchange a low word with her. She shot him a warning glance, and whispered that she must see him presently. He said tersely: “Schoolroom, as soon as this mob has cleared off.”
She saw that Penhallow’s eyes were upon them, and said clearly: “You’ll find them in your room, sir.”
“What?” said Bart, unused to such subtleties. Then he too saw that his father was watching them, and added: “Oh, I see! All right!”
“Ah, here he is!” Phineas exclaimed, coming towards him, with his white hand outstretched. “My dear fellow, what a giant you have become, to be sure!”
“It would, I suppose, be tactless to remind Uncle Phineas that the twins attained their present stature six years ago,” remarked Eugene softly to his Auntie Clara.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t you go makin’ bad worse!” she replied “You’d better let me pour out, Faith. You’ll only go asking’ everyone whether they take milk or cream, and upsettin’ the conversation, if you do it. There’s no need to wait for the Vicar. I daresay he won’t come.”
“I’m afraid,” said Faith to Delia, with a slight laugh, “that I’m one of those hopelessly unpractical people who never can remember who takes cream, and who doesn’t.”
“I’m not at all surprised, not at all!” Delia assured her. “Such a big family as you have to pour out for! I’m sure I should always forget, for I have a head like a sieve. So unlike dear Rachel! Now, Rachel never forgot anything. I often used to say that she ought to have been a man. Not that I meant to speak of — But I’m sure you don’t mind — Always so sensible!”
“Talking of Rachel?” said Penhallow, suddenly propelling his chair towards them. “What a woman! What a grand lass she was! By God, she’d drive the lot of us the way she wanted to go, whether we wanted to or not, eh, Delia?”
“She was always so good — so kind!” Delia stammered. “Such a strong character — there was no one like her.”
“No, nor there ever will be. No offence to you, my dear,” he added, turning to his second wife.
Delia began nervously to fidget with the clasp of her handbag. “I’m sure dear Faith — Not that anyone could take Rachel’s place, but it takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it? Oh, Conrad, thank you, is this my tea? So wonderful of Clara to remember just how I like it!”
At this moment, Ingram suddenly became aware of his half-brother’s presence. He broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Phineas to exclaim: “Good lord, the kid’s back! Hallo, how are you?”
“I’m all right,” Clay answered.
Ingram looked him over critically, remarking with the paralysing candour of his family that it was time he started to furnish a bit. He grasped Clay’s arm above the elbow, feeling his muscle, and expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied. “Why, my young rascal, Rudolph, could give you a stone!” he said. “Bertie’s got more muscle than you! Hi, Ray! you’ll have to do something about the kid! He’s growing up a positive weed!”
The fact that Ingram’s elder son was only two years junior to him always had the effect of making Clay feel that Ingram was even farther removed from him in age than Raymond. He stood more in awe of him, hated his loud, cheerful voice, and lost no time in escaping from his clutch. Phineas engaged Ingram’s attention once more by inquiring after the health and progress of Rudolph and Bertram, and Ingram was still descanting upon this theme when Reuben Lanner ushered the Vicar into the room.
The Reverend John Venngreen, a stout cleric with a wide, bland smile, and a gift for overlooking the obvious which amounted to genius, came in exuding good-will. Finding one member of the household, Ingram, boring the circle by the fire with an account of his sons’ exploits; another, Penhallow himself, reducing his wife and sister in-law to a condition of acute discomfort; a third, Eugene, apparently suffering from acute spiritual nausea; and a fourth, Clay, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible at his Aunt Clara’s elbow, he was prompted to exclaim: “Ah, this is a pleasure indeed! And may I be allowed to join this happy family party? Penhallow, my dear fellow! Mrs Penhallow! Mrs Hastings! Mrs Ingram, my indefatigable helper! I am more fortunate than I knew! Mrs Eugene, too, as bright and blooming as ever! Well, well, well!”
“Where’s your wife?” demanded Penhallow, wheeling his chair round and shaking hands.
“Alas!” The Vicar’s smile widened, and he made a deprecating gesture. “She sent me to be the bearer of her excuses. This east wind had awakened her old enemy, I fear, and she would not venture out.”
“There!” said Penhallow, with an air of chagrin. “And I particularly arranged for poor little Jimmy to be kept out of the way!”
The Vicar managed, by suddenly affecting to perceive Rosamund for the first time, to remain deaf to this outrageous speech. He said: “If it is not Mrs Clifford! How do you do? And your dear little girls? Your nosegay of bright blossoms!”
“Now, don’t talk nonsense!” said Penhallow. “There’s nothing wrong with the kids, but one of ’em’s got teeth that stick out. You ought to do something about it, Rosamund. You don’t want her growing up rabbit-faced.”
“That’s right,” agreed Clara. “She ought to have a plate made for her, poor little soul! I remember we had to have one made for Char, and look at her now!”
Ingram was at once reminded of all the improper uses to which Charmian had put her plate, and Rosamund, ignoring the whole family, made room for the Vicar to sit down on the sofa beside her, and engaged him in a rather conventional conversation about gardening. Clifford went over to the tea-table, and after exchanging a few words with his mother, smiled in a friendly way at Clay, and asked him when he thought of starting work with him.
“I told you, nothing is settled yet,” Clay replied desperately. “I may as well tell you that I was never consulted about this, and it’s absolutely the last thing in the world I want to do! I don’t mean that I’m not very grateful to you, and all that, for being willing to take me, but I shouldn’t be the least use to you, and I do wish to God you’d say something to Father!”
“Well, well, you never know what you can do till you try!” said Clifford bracingly. Feeling himself to be standing on the brink of deep waters, he sought to escape by hailing Raymond, who was coming towards the table with Delia’s cup-and-saucer. “Hallo, Ray, old boy! Donkey’s years since I laid eyes on you! How’s the young stock?”
Raymond set the cup-and-saucer down before Clara, saying briefly: “Aunt Delia,” and turned to his cousin. “I’ve got one hit, and several promising colts.”
“Yes, Ingram told me about your Demon colt. I’d like to have a look at him. Got anything likely to suit me?”
“I might have. Come up to the stables presently, and you can cast your eye over what I’ve got.”
“If he weren’t a bit short of bone, that liver-chestnut would do nicely for Cliff, Ray,” remarked Clara, replenishing Delia’s cup.
“Cliff likes a lot in front of him,” put in Bart. “Tell you what, Cliff, I’ll sell you my Thunderbolt!”
“Why, what’s wrong with him?” retorted Clifford.
“I don’t like a sorrel,” said Clara, with a decisive shake of her head.
“A good horse,” said Bart sententiously, “can’t be a bad colour. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Barring his being at least three inches too long behind the saddle,” interpolated Raymond dryly.
Realising that Clifford was now embarked fairly upon a discussion of horseflesh which would in all probability last for the rest of his stay, Clay relieved his feelings by saying, “O God!” under his breath, and sighing audibly.
As might have been expected, the conversation gradually extended to nearly everyone else in the room; and after arguing loudly over the merits and demerits of quite half the horses at present in the stables or out to grass, the Penhallows surged out, under Penhallow’s direction, to conduct the guests to the stud-farm. As this lay at a considerable distance from the house, the services of all the available cars were requisitioned, Penhallow himself being hoisted into the dilapidated limousine, which Bart had had to fetch from the garage to accommodate him, the Vicar, Faith, Clara, and Phineas. Delia, after fluttering about in an aimless fashion for a few minutes, got into Raymond’s two-seater, reminding him that he had promised to show her his dear little colts. The only people to abstain from the expedition were Eugene and Vivian. The rest of the party drove off towards the uplands, taking in the hunting-stables on the way, and having most of the horses there paraded before them. Faith, who had developed a nagging headache, leaned back in the corner of the car with closed eyes, trying to shut her ears to the sound of insistent voices tossing scraps of hunting jargon to and fro; and Clay, standing in the yard amongst, yet apart from, his brothers, watched a succession of horses pass him, and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, imagined the most restive apportioned to him. Raymond said, as Weens led out a bay whose chosen mode of progression was a sort of restless dance: “He might suit you, Clay.”
“Quite a good frontispiece,” Clay said judicially, thinking that the brute had a vicious eye. He could imagine how he would hump his back under a cold saddle, and could almost hear, in advance, his half brothers’ adjurations to himself to keep him walking, for God’s sake to keep his heels away from his sides! He knew he would soon part company with a horse like that, but he dared not say it.
Bart put him out of his agony. “Too nappy for Clay,” Bart said. “What about that half-bred mare Con picked up at Tavistock?”
“Oh, she’s a terrible brute!” Conrad said. “I’m frightened to death of her. Clay could never hold her, except on a twisted snaffle.”
Clay thought resentfully that if ever he should say that he was frightened, which he had never possessed the moral courage to do, they would all mock at him unkindly. But his brothers often swore to their terror of some horse, or some jump, and not even Penhallow did more than laugh at such confessions.
“Now, why shouldn’t Clay have my Ajax?” Clara said. “I’m sure he’s a comfortable, safe ride.”
“Oh, Clara darling, you old coper!” Bart crowed. “He rides green, and well you know it! I’ll mount young Clay. I’ve got a nice little horse: no, really, a nice little horse, that’ll suit him down to the ground!”
A fantastic thought crossed Clay’s mind. He tried to picture the scene there would be if he were to say all that was in his head: that he hated horses, hated hunting, never took any but the easiest fence without expecting to be thrown, could not see a bullfinch without imagining himself lying beyond it with a broken neck. He knew that he would never have the moral courage to say any of these things, and indeed felt quite sick as his fancy played with the idea of what would happen if he did.
Of the rest of the party, Phineas stood beside Ingram, passing quite shrewd judgements on the various animals shown him; Clifford pointed out the excellence of the new stables to his politely uninterested wife; the Vicar stood near the limousine, exchanging hunting reminiscences with Penhallow; and Delia, holding her unsuitable hat on with one hand, and clutching her feather-boa with the other, remained at Raymond’s elbow, exclaiming continually, asking foolish questions, and receiving rather curt replies to them. Occasionally Penhallow shouted criticism, or demanded enlightenment of either Raymond or Ingram. There were few better judges of a horse, but he was in a perverse mood by this time, and stigmatised a favourite mare belonging to Raymond as short of a rib; told Ingram that a brown gelding of his breeding was tied in below the knee; and bestowed haphazardly amongst the rest of the horses shown him such belittling terms as flat-sided, goose-romped, sickle-hocked, peacocky, and roach-backed. His sons exchanged significant glances. Ingram tried to argue with him, but Raymond contemptuously ignored his strictures.
When the stables had been exhausted, the company got into the various cars again, and drove up the rough track to the stud-farm. The paddock in which the Demon colt had been placed abutted on this track, and they all stopped to observe this promising youngster. Penhallow’s keen eyes picked him out unerringly, and as he merely grunted, offering no immediate disparagement, it was considered that he privately considered that his eldest son had bred a winner. Everyone except Faith had some remark to make, or praise to bestow. Miss Ottery said the darling thing had such a pretty head. No one replied to this until the Vicar said, Indeed, indeed, if, he had to choose a horse on one point alone it would be on the head. Clay then stupefied everyone by suggesting that the colt was surely a bit straight-shouldered, a criticism which provoked a storm of condemnation and mockery only exceeded in violence by that which followed the discovery that he had been looking at the wrong colt. Even the Vicar gave an indulgent laugh, and said, Tut, tut, it was not like a Penhallow to make such a mistake. Red to the ears, Clay played first with the idea of murdering all his half-brothers, and then with that of committing suicide; while Penhallow made the Vicar sheer off from his side in a hurry by once more stating his doubts of Clay’s parentage.
By the time the stud-farm had been inspected, and Penhallow had offended the sensibilities of his wife by indulging in a very obstetric conversation with Mawgan, the groom, on the mares at present in use, most of the guests discovered that it was time to be going home. They all drove back to the house, and while the Vicar announced his intention of walking, and Penhallow commanded Clifford to attend him to his room, where he proposed instantly to go to bed, the under-gardener was summoned to drive the Otterys back to Bodmin in the limousine. Faith went upstairs to bathe her throbbing brow with eau-de-Cologne; Bart slid away to meet Loveday in the schoolroom; and Ingram, after telling Raymond that in his opinion the old man was breaking up, took Myra back to the Dower House.
Penhallow, as might have been expected, was considerably exhausted by his exertions, and consequently in a very bad temper. Nothing, however, would make him postpone his discussion with Clifford on Clay’s future. As soon as he had been undressed and got into bed, and revived with whisky-and-soda, he sent Jimmy to summon Clay to his presence, and then and there made such ruthless and sweeping plans for his immediate study of the law, that that unfortunate youth felt that he was being borne along on a flood tide it was useless to battle with. After that, Penhallow dismissed both him and Clifford, and might have enjoyed a much needed period of repose had he not suddenly bethought himself of Bart’s possible entanglement, and decided to have it out with the young fool then and there. Once more his bell pealed violently in the kitchen, and Jimmy was dispatched on this new errand. Since Bart was shut up with Loveday in the schoolroom, he had to report failure to find him. In his present mood, any opposition made Penhallow the more determined to get his way, and nothing would now do for him but to set the entire staff searching for Bart, regardless of what other and more important duties any of them might have to perform. By the time that Reuben, Sybilla, Martha, Jimmy, four housemaids, the kitchen-maid, and a woman who came in from the village to help with the rough work, had all been sent to different parts of the house and stables, and had most of them shouted “Mr Bart!” in varying keys until they were hoarse, and such members of the family as were resting before dinner driven to the verge of desperation, Bart had emerged from the schoolroom, choosing a moment when the coast was temporarily clear, and had gone down the backstairs to his father’s room. As he omitted to inform those searching for him that he was now found, the hunt continued long after he had entered Penhallow’s room, and dinner was set back three-quarters of an hour in consequence.
Bart knew why he was being shouted for, and went to his father with the intention of obeying Loveday’s directions. But Penhallow, enraged by having been kept waiting, greeted him with an accusing stab of his finger, and the announcement that he knew very well where he had been, and that that was in a hiding-place with that bitch of a girl.
Bart was not prepared to allow even Penhallow to refer to Loveday in such terms, and his colour deepened at once, and his obstinate chin began to jut dangerously. “Who the devil are you talking about?” he demanded.
“To hell with your insolence, you young cub!” thundered Penhallow. “I’m talking about Loveday Trewithian, and well you know it! I say you’ve just come from her!”
“What of it?” Bart shot at him. “Supposing I have? So what?”
Penhallow looked him over sardonically, and replied in a quieter tone: “That depends on what you’ve been hatching, the pair of you. There’s a damned queer story running around the house that you’ve offered the girl marriage.”
Bart turned away, and kicked a smouldering log in the hearth so that it broke, and the flames leaped up the chimney. “Yes, I know all about that,” he said. "Jimmy the Bastard. I should have thought you’d have known better than to listen to what the little skunk tells you.”
“Maybe I do,” Penhallow said. “Now, look here, my boy! I don’t blame you for giving that girl a tumble: I’d do the same myself in your shoes. But don’t let’s have any nonsense about marrying her! She’s a handsome bit of goods, she moves well, and she doesn’t speak so badly, but don’t you be misled into thinking she’s your equal! She’s my butler’s niece, and if half Sybilla told me was true, her mother was as common as a barber’s chair before she got Trewithian to make an honest woman of her. There’s damned bad blood there, Bart, make no mistake about that!”
“At that rate there must be some damned bad blood in me too!” retorted Bart.
Penhallow grinned. “Now, don’t you give me any of your impudence! There may be wild blood in you, but there’s nothing in your breeding to give you the kind of genteel respectability that can’t let you look at a pretty girl without making you think of marriage. If she’s trying to blackmail you, make a clean breast of the whole affair, and no nonsense about it, and I’ll soon settle with her.”
“She’s not,” said Bart shortly, keeping a tight hold on his temper. He added: “She’s not that kind of a girl. What’s more, I’ve done nothing to be blackmailed about.”
Penhallow’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t, eh? That’s what you say!”
“It’s true.”
Penhallow brought his fist down upon the table beside him with such force that the glass and the decanter standing on it rang. “Then if it’s true, what the devil are you playing at?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t you stand there lying to me!” roared Penhallow. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“All right, I won’t!” said Bart, wheeling to face him. “I am going to marry her, and be damned to you!”
Penhallow looked for a moment as though he would heave himself out of bed, but after glaring at Bart in hard-breathing silence, he relaxed against his pillows again, and drank what remained of the whisky in his glass. He set the glass down then, and said slowly: “Going to marry her, are you? We’ll see!”
“You can’t stop me.”
This seemed to amuse Penhallow, for he smiled. “There’s a lot of things I can do, my lad, which you don’t know yet. Now, don’t let’s have any more of this tomfoolery! You can’t marry my butler’s niece, and if you don’t know it you ought to! I see what’s happened: the girl’s been playing you on the end of her line, and she’s made you think you’ll only get her by putting a ring on her finger. Don’t you believe it! There’s no need to tie yourself up for the sake of a little love-making. If she’s so high in her notions, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Come to that, I’d as soon you left her alone. Reuben won’t like it if you mess about with her, and I don’t want to upset the old fellow. Damn it, we were boys together!”
“I’m going to marry her,” Bart repeated.
The obstinacy in his face and the dogged note in his voice infuriated Penhallow, and made him lose his temper again. He began to curse his son, and the whole room seemed to shudder with the repercussions of his fury. A torrent of invective, mingled with bitter jeering, poured from him; he shouted threats; broke into fierce, mocking laughter at Bart’s greenness; and very soon goaded Bart into losing control of himself, and giving him back threat for threat.
Suddenly Penhallow stopped. He was panting, and his face was dangerously suffused with colour. Bart, staring at him with hot, angry eyes, and his underlip out-thrust pugnaciously, wondered if he was going to go off in a fit. But the colour gradually receded from his cheeks, and his breathing grew more easy. He was no fool, and he knew that to rail at Bart was no way of bending him to his will. The boy was too like himself, and one half of his mind delighted in the mulishness which exacerbated the other half of it. “There, that’s enough!” he said a little thickly. “Young devil! Come here!”
“What for?” Bart asked sullenly.
“Because I tell you to!” Penhallow said, anger flaring up again momentarily.
Bart hesitated for a moment, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, walked up to the bed. Penhallow put out a hand, and grasped his arm, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He transferred his grasp to Bart’s knee, and gripped it through the whipcord breeches. Bart looked defensively at him. “Well?” he said.
“Damn it, you’re the best of the bunch!” Penhallow said. “You’ve got no sense, and you’re an impudent young dog, but there’s more of me in you than in any of your brothers. Now, Bart lad, there’s no point in quarrelling with me! I’m not going to last much longer, by what Lifton tells me.”
Bart’s simplicity was moved by this. He said in a slightly mollified tone: “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Guv’nor. Only I’m not going to be dictated to about this. I’m not a kid. I know what’ll suit me, and that’s Loveday.”
“If I hand Trellick over to you,” Penhallow said dryly. “What if I don’t?”
“I’ll manage somehow.”
“Talk sense! Who do you suppose is going to employ you? You don’t run well in harness, Bart. You’re too headstrong.”
“I’ll start a training stables of my own.”
“Where’s the money coming from? You’ll get none from me.”
“I don’t know, but you needn’t think you can force me to give Loveday up by cutting off supplies. I’m young, and strong, and I know enough about farming to get job any day of the week.”
“And what does Miss Loveday say to all this?” inquired Penhallow, the corners of his mouth beginning to lift.
He knew from Bart’s silence that he had set his finger on the weak link in his armour, and was satisfied. He tightened his grip on Bart’s knee. “Come on, my lad! Let’s have it from the shoulder! What are you going to do? Walk out on me? I can’t stop you!”
“Hell, why can’t you hand over Trellick, and let me please myself?” Bart exploded. “I’m not your heir. It doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse what I do! All that tosh about birth and breeding! It’s out-of-date — dead as mutton!”
“Well, I’m out-of-date,” said Penhallow. “Daresay I’ll be dead as mutton too before very long. Wait till I’m gone before you take that girl to church.”
Bart said awkwardly: “You’re all right, Guv’nor. See us all out.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t! I’m done, my boy. Drinking myself into my grave. I’ll be bound that old woman, Lifton, has told you so! Damned fool!”
Bart looked at him with a little concern in his face. “You’re good for years yet. Why don’t you ease up on the whisky a bit?”
“God damn it, do you suppose I want to add a few miserable years to my life?” Penhallow demanded. “Lying here, a useless hulk, gasping like a landed trout every time I so much as heave myself over in bed! I, who could throw any man to my inches, and better! No, by God! The sooner I’m laid underground the better I’ll be pleased!” He released Bart’s knee, giving it a little push, as though to drive him away. “Go and be damned to you! Marry the girl! I’ve taken some knocks in my time, and I can take this last one.”
“I say, Father, don’t!” Bart begged uncomfortably. “I don’t want to clear out, honestly I don’t! But I don’t see why you should be so cut up about it. I’m not going to be a ruddy literary bloke, like Eugene or Aubrey: I’m a farmer, and I want a wife who’ll be some use to me, not a blamed little fool like Vivian, or a cold poultice like Rosamund!”
Penhallow bit back an appreciative chuckle at this, and said: “I’m too old to change my way of thinking. It’ll be a bitter day to me when you tie yourself up to a wench out of my kitchen. I’m fond of you, Bart. I shall miss you like hell if you leave Trevellin. Wait till I’m gone, boy! When I’m in my grave I shan’t care what kind of a fool you make of yourself. You’ll get Trellick: I’ve left it to you in my will.”
Bart grinned at him. “Any strings tied to it, Guv’nor?” Penhallow shook his head. “No. It’s not entailed. I bought it with you in my eye. I want you to have it.”
“I know it’s unentailed. That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. No strings.”
Bart flushed. "Jolly good of you, Guv’nor!” he said gruffly. “Puts me in a filthy position, though. I’m not going to give Loveday up.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t care a damn what you do when I’ve gone. All I’m asking is that you have a bit of patience, Bart.”
A vague, half-formed suspicion formed in Bart’s mind. He said: “I shan’t change, you know.”
Penhallow’s lips curled a little. “No harm done, then. If you do change, I shall be glad; if you don’t, it won’t have done either of you any harm to wait a while. You’re young yet.”
Bart got up. “I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly. “That’s right: you think about it,” said his father, with the utmost cordiality.