The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  “And so—?”

  Philip was silent.

  “And so Mr. Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine,” added Sir Maurice.

  “Have I said so, sir?” Philip spoke sharply. “Cleone desires a beau—she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what—she thinks—is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than”—he mimicked his father’s tone—“to till the earth! I’ll learn to be the painted fop you’d like to see me! Neither you nor she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!”

  “Now, here’s a heat!” remarked Sir Maurice. “So you’ll to London, boy? To your uncle?”

  Philip shrugged.

  “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 sport of me for her amusement!”

  “Tra-la-la-la!” said Sir 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 chided 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 clodhopper.”

  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 finger-nail 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 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