Powder and Patch (6 page)

“As well to him as any other. I care not.”

“That’s the wrong spirit for your emprise,” said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes .”You must enter into your venture heart and soul.”

Philip flung out his arm. “My heart’s here, sir, at home!”

“It’s also at Sharley House,” said his father dryly, “or why do you go to London?” “Ay, it’s there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes a sport of me for her amusement!” “Tra-la-la-la!” said Maurice. “Then why go to London?”

“To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!” answered Philip, and marched off.

Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.

Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice’s hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice—well, he chid himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip’s departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip’s return.

Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.

“Well met, Philip, my boy! What’s to do now?” Philip sank into a chair.

“I’ll tell you when I’m fed,” he grinned. “That sirloin pleases my eye.” “Not an artistic colour,” said Tom, studying it, “but appetising, I grant you.” “Artistic be damned!” said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. “H’m! No, Tom, ’tis a displeasing blend—red and brown.”

Tom looked at him in surprise. “What’s colour to you, Philip?”

“Naught, God help me,” answered Philip, and fell to with a will. “I echo that sentiment,” said Tom. “How does your father?” “Well enough; he sends you his love.”

Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair. “Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!” Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat’s reluctant back. “I’ve—to learn to be—a gentleman,” he said.

Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. “God ha’ mercy, Philip, has it come to that?” “I do not take your meaning,” said Philip crossly. “What! It’s not a petticoat?”

“Tom, I’ll thank you to—to—be quiet!” Tom choked his laughter.

“Oh, I’m dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?” “’Tis what I want to know, Tom,”

“And I’m to teach you?”

Philip hesitated.

“Is it perhaps—a thing I can best; learn alone?” he asked, surprisingly diffident. “What is it exactly you want to learn?”

“To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?” “Odd rot, what are ye now?”

Philip’s lips curled.

“I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clod-hopper.” His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.

“Little vixen,” he remarked sapiently. “I beg your pardon?” Philip was cold.

“Not at all,” said Tom hastily. “So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God’s sake! What do ye want?”‘ “I want, or rather, they—he—wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to—” “Oh, stop, stop!” cried Tom. “I have the whole picture! And it’s no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn.”

“Why, I trust you’re pessimistic, sir,” said Philip, “for I intend to acquire all these arts—within a year.”

“Well, I like your spirit,” acknowledged Tom. “Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story.”

This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh—although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished fingernail and looked exceeding wise.

“My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that’s neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don’t appreciate your sterling qualities

—”

“Oh, ’tis not my qualities they object to! ’Tis my lack of vice.”

“Don’t interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble—what was the word you used?—clodhopper, ’Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. ’Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them.”

“I doubt I shall,” said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.

Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew’s form appraisingly. “Ye’ve a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?”

Philip extended them, laughing.

“Um! a little attention, and I’d not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome.”

“Am I?” Philip was startled. “I never knew that before!”

“Then ye know it now. You’re the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat,” he added sadly. “But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat—what’s the girl’s name?”

“I don’t see why you should assu—”

“Don’t be a fool, lad! It’s that fair chit, eh? Charlotte—no, damn it, some heathenish name!” “Cleone,” supplied Philip, submitting.

“Ay, that’s it—Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye’ll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is to excel. Excel!”

“I doubt I could not,” said Philip. “And, indeed, I’ve no mind to.” “Then I’ve done with you.” Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.

“No, no, Tom! You must help me!”

A stern eye was fixed on him.

“Ye must put yourself in my hands, then.” “Ay, but—”

“Completely,” said Tom inexorably. Philip collapsed. “Oh, very well!”

The round, good-tempered face: lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought.

“Paris,” he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. “You must go there,” he explained.

Philip was horrified.

“What! I? To Paris? Never!” “Then I wash my—”

“But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!” “The more reason.”

“But—but damn it, I say I will not!” Tom yawned.

“As ye will.”

Philip became more and more unhappy. “Why should I go to Paris?” he growled.

“You’re like a surly bear,” reproved Tom. “Where else would you go?” “Can’t I—surely I can learn all I want here?”

“Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!”

Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.

“To Paris,” resumed Tom, “within the week. Luckily, you’ve more money than is good for you. You’ve no need to pinch and scrape. I’ll take you, clothe you, and introduce you.” Philip brightened.

“Will you? That’s devilish good of you, Tom!”

“It is,” agreed Tom. “But I dare swear I’ll find entertainment there.” He chuckled. “And not a word to your father or to anyone. You’ll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you.”

This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily. “I suppose I must do it. But—” He rose and walked to the window. “It’s all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love—does not suffice. Well, we shall see.” He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They—he—they—don’t care what may be a man’s reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else Is of consequence. Faugh!”

“Ay, you’re taking it hard,” nodded his uncle. “But they’re all the same, lad—bless ’em!” “I thought—this one—was different.”

“More fool you,” said Tom cynically.

Chapter VI. The Beginning of the Transformation

Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for tile seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip’s right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.

François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip’s legs adoringly.

“But of an excellence, m’sieur! So perfect a calf, m’sieur! So vairy fine a laig,” he explained in English.

Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the

gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.

“Tais-toi, imbecile! ’Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!”

“Mais, monsieur, je—je—cela me donne—mal au cou.” “Il faut souffrir pour être bel,” replied the Marquis severely. “So it seems,” said Philip irritably. “Tom, for God’s sake, have done!” His uncle chuckled.

“I’ve finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!”

Le Marquis de Chateau-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork. “I am not altogether satisfied,” he said musingly.

Philip warded him off.

“No, no, m’sieur! I am sure it is perfection!”

The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.

“It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!”

The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis’ hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief. The Marquis nodded.

“Yes, Tom, you are right It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe.” Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table. “What now? Have you nearly finished?” “Now the rouge. François, haste!” Philip tried to rebel.

“I will not be painted and powdered!” The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye. “Plaît-il?”

“M’sieur—I—I will not!”

“Philippe—if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, hein?”

“But, m’sieur, can I not go without paint?” “You can not.”

Philip smiled ruefully. “Then do your worst!”

“It is not my worst, ingrat. It is my best!” “Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir.” The Marquis’ lips twitched. He signed to François.

Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire earring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.

But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.

The Marquis found him fort amusant, but troublesome. “Forget it, little fool!”

“Forget it?” cried Philip. “How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?” “Quelle absurdité! The sword, Tom!”

“How can I dance in a sword?” protested Philip. “It is de rigueur,” said the Marquis.

Philip fingered the jewelled hilt! “A pretty plaything,” he said. “I have never spent so much money on fripperies before.”

François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to

Philip’s fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuffbox, and a handkerchief.

Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.

“Well, my friend?”

But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little and shook out his handkerchief. “Well!” The Marquis grew impatient. “You have nothing to say?”

Philip turned.

“C’est merveilleux!” he breathed.

The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.

“In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C’est gauche, c’est impossible!” Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less gauche.