The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  “Ah, Mr. Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know.” He paused to allow Bancroft to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. “I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?”

  Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.

  “My playmate of long ago,” he murmured. “Your very obedient, Mr. Jettan.”

  Philip returned the bow awkwardly.

  “I am very pleased to meet you again, sir,” he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. “Do you—er—intend to make a long stay?”

  Bancroft raised his shoulders and spread out his hands.

  “I had thought not, sir, but now”—another glance was cast at Cleone—“I think—perhaps—!” He smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip’s person. “Do you know, sir, I swear I’d not have known you. You have grown prodigiously.”

  Cleone broke into the conversation.

  “You were so much older than Philip or James or me, Mr. Bancroft!”

  Instantly he swept round.

  “I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged.”

  “Why, sir, have you lost your years?” she asked.

  “In your company, yes, madam. Can you wonder?”

  “Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!” Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face.

  “Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated.”

  “La!” said Madam Charteris. “How can you say such things, Mr. Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!”

  “Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter,” he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.

  Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.

  “Pranked out mummer!” he muttered in her ear.

  Cleone smiled up at him.

  “Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?” she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. “’Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?”

  A dull red crept to the roots of Philip’s hair. He spoke lower still.

  “You know—what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot—mouth what I feel—in pretty phrases.”

  A strangely tender light came into her eyes.

  “You might try, Philip,” she said.

  “What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public.” He laughed shortly. “So that is what you desire?”

  The tender light died.

  “No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me.”

  Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass.

  When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr. Charteris and Philip brought up the rear.

  From Philip’s point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr. Bancroft, and on his left Mr. Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr. Bancroft’s sallies with delightful little laughs and applause.

  As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr. Bancroft’s white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and—coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop’s, but his nails . . . bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails! . . .

  The lilac satin of Mr. Bancroft’s coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace . . . more suited to a woman than to a man. The quizzing-glass . . . abominable affectation! The jewels . . . flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent? . . .

  Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk! . . . Now hints at conquests made—veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!—truckling, overdressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr. Charteris.

  Back in the withdrawmg-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

  *

  The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window and looked at his father.

  “And that,” he said bitingly, “is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!”

  “Not at all.” Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. “’Tis the last thing in the world I would have you.”

  “You said—”

  “I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways.”

  “Well?—”

  “You perhaps conceive Mr. Bancroft a perfect gentleman?”

  “Not I! ’Tis you who—”

  Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand.

  “Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr. Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two.”

  “I had sooner be what I am!”

  “Which is a conceited oaf. ”

  “Sir!”

  Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane.

  “Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you—which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?”

  Philip answered quickly.

  “Cleone, sir, will—give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft.”

  “Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure,” said Sir Maurice softly.

  The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt.

  “I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?”

  “And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know.”

  “Thank you!” The young voice was exceedingly bitter. “I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am.”

  “Or leave you as you are,” said Sir Maurice gently.

  “A warning, sir?”

  “That’s for you to judge, child. And now I’ll to bed.” He paused, looking at his son.

  Philip went to him.

  “Good night, sir.”

  Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand.

  “Good night, my son.”

  Philip kissed his fingers.

  Followed a week of disturbing tri