Part 36 (1/2)

”For ten per cent on good security, I repeat,” answered Master Freake gravely.

”d.a.m.n your ten per cent!”

”Looks like it, and the security into the bargain!” said Master Freake very quickly.

”Swounds! that's just it!” said Sir James. He rose and paced backwards and forwards between me and the hearth. ”A year ago, sir,”--he addressed me in particular--”I should have shouted with joy at the summons to take the place among the adherents of the cause which my father would have held had he lived, and which it was his heart's wish on his death-bed that I should take for him. The cause and the creed are nothing to me as such, for I place no value on either. Your talk about the right divine of old Mr. Melancholy, mumming and mimicking away there at Rome, makes me smile.

He's an old fool, that's the long and short of it. But a Blount's a Blount after all. I owe something to my ancestors. My word to my father ought not to be an empty breath. Yet here I am, with all the interests of life pulling one way--wait till you've a boy five weeks old by a wife you'd be cut in little pieces for, and you'll know, sir,--and a dead father and a dead creed pulling the other. I knew what was coming, and I've talked about it and thought about it till my head's like a bee-hive. Now, sir, give me your advice!”

”I have joined the standard of your Prince,” I said.

”Damme, sir, you mock me. That's not advice. That's torture.”

”I have turned my back on the creed of my life and on every sound instinct in me,” I continued.

He stopped his walk and looked intently at me.

”I have ancestors whose memory I cherish, and I have torn up their work as if it were a sc.r.a.p of paper covered with a child's meaningless scribble.”

Sir James stepped up to the table, his fine face alive with emotion.

”For what?” he asked.

I rose and looked straight into his eyes.

”For a woman,” I whispered, very low but very proudly.

Our hands met across the table in a hard grip.

”You have done well, sir!” he said. ”I asked you to give me advice. You have set me an example.”

He sat down again, and looked hopefully at the fire and then moodily at Master Freake.

”There is this unfortunate difference between Mr. Wheatman's case and mine. I have, and he has not, given my plain word to a father.”

”I admit that is a striking difference,” said Master Freake. ”I am no Jesuit, however, and cannot decide cases of conscience. I deal with business problems only, which are all cut and dry, legal and formal. When I make a promise in the way of business I always keep it precisely and punctually, for the penalty of failure to do so is a business man's death--bankruptcy.”

”There's such a thing as moral bankruptcy,” said Sir James gloomily.

”Very likely,” replied Master Freake.

”This is all nothing whatefer but words, words, words,” said the Welshman. ”And words, my goot sirs, are indeed no goot whatefer. Sir James's head is wrapped up in a mist of words, words, words, and indeed he cannot see anything whatefer. I am not a man of words, and what you call 'em--broblems.”

”Very good,” said I.

”Indeed it is goot,” said he. ”To h.e.l.l with your words and your broblems.

They are of no use whatefer, whatefer. Our good friend, Sir James, is up to his neck in broblems like a man in a bog, and he cannot move. Now I have not your broblems. To h.e.l.l with your broblems. My Cousin Wynne is full of 'em, and he's still gaping up at the cloud on Snowdon, while I'm here, ready. I say plain: if the Prince cross south of the Trent I will join him.”

”Why the Trent?” said I.

”It is my mark. It is my way of knowing what I will do. It is all so simple. Indeed I am a simple man, not a broblem in my brain, none whatefer, I tell you plain. It is as this--so. If the Prince cross the Trent, say I to myself, well and goot. He do his share. It is time for me to do mine. It is better indeed, I tell you plain, to have it settled by a simple thing like the Trent than to have it all muddled up by your broblems. I can sing you off my ancestors by dozens, right back to the standard-bearer of the great Llewellyn, but they're all dead, and indeed I'm not going to poke about among their bones to find out what to do. I look at your pretty river, and I wait.”