Part 6 (2/2)

”Yes,” said Mrs. Clinton. ”I am glad that she is to be with us for a day or two.”

The Squire considered this. Without any remarkable powers of discernment, he was yet not entirely incapable of interpreting his wife's sober judgments.

”It will be a rest for her,” he said. ”She will want to forget it.

Yes. That's all very well--if she's learnt her lesson.”

Mrs. Clinton left him to make his own decision. ”I shall certainly have a talk with Humphrey,” he said, rather grudgingly.

”Yes, Edward. If you have a quiet talk with him, I feel sure that he will respond. He is in the mood for it.”

A quiet talk was not exactly what the Squire had promised himself when he had summoned Humphrey and Susan to Kencote. But perhaps his wife was right. She often was in these matters. And he had worked off a good deal of his irritation already in the train. Yes, a quiet talk would be the thing; and Susan should be left out of it. She had been reduced to tears once, and it would be disturbing if that should happen again. She might be considered to have learnt her lesson, as far as a woman could learn any lesson. The wholesome influence of Kencote might be left to work in her repentant soul. He would deny himself the satisfaction of rubbing it in.

The quiet talk took place as father and son walked out together after tea to see the young birds. Frank had to be prevented from making a third in the expedition, and there was interruption from keepers, from dogs, and from the young birds themselves, whose place in the scheme of things it was to be discussed, in the month of June. But it was a satisfactory talk all the same, and the Squire was pleased, and a little surprised, at his own kindly reasonableness.

”I was sorry to make Susan cry in the train. At least I wasn't altogether sorry--it showed she took to heart what I had said to her.”

”Oh yes. She took it to heart all right. The whole business has given her a bit of a shock.”

”Exactly what I said to your mother. She's had a shock. Well, it isn't a bad thing to have a shock sometimes. It brings you to your senses if you've been going wrong. I don't want to be hard on you, my boy; but I shan't regret all the worry and unpleasantness I've been put to if it has the effect of making you think a bit about the way you have been going on, and changing your way of life--you and Susan both.”

”Yes.” Humphrey had not yet realised that the talk was to be a quiet one. It was not unusual for openings of this sort to develop into something that, however it might be viewed, could not be described as quiet. He was ready to be quiet himself; but he would give no handles if he could help it.

The Squire, however, could not altogether dispense with some sort of a handle, although he was prepared to grasp it softly.

”You feel that yourself, eh?” he said. ”You do recognise that you've been going wrong, what?”

”Oh yes,” said Humphrey readily. ”We've been spending too much money, and I'm sick of it. It isn't good enough.”

This was not quite what the Squire wanted. If Humphrey had been spending too much money, he must be in debt; and if he was sick of it, he would obviously want to get out of debt. He did not want the quiet talk to follow the path of suggestions as to how that might be done.

”Well, if you've been spending too much money,” he said, not without adroitness, ”you can easily spend less. You have a very handsome income between you, and could have anything anybody could reasonably want if you only spent half of it. The fact is, you know, my boy, that you can't live the life you and Susan have been living with any lasting satisfaction. Your Uncle Tom preached a capital sermon about that last Sunday. It was something to the effect of doing your duty in the world instead of looking out for pleasure, and it would be all the better for you, both here and hereafter. I don't pose as a saint--never have--but, after all, your religion's a real thing, or it isn't. I can only say that mine has been a comfort to me, many's the time. I have had my fair share of annoyances, and it has enabled me to get through them, hoping for a better time to come. And it has done more than that; it's made me see that a life of pleasure is a dangerous thing, by Jove, and the man's a fool who goes in for it.”

”Well, it depends on what you mean by pleasure.”

”That's not very difficult to see, is it? Dancing about after amus.e.m.e.nt all day and half the night; rus.h.i.+ng here, rus.h.i.+ng there; never doing anything for the good of your fellow-creatures; getting more and more bored with yourself and everybody else; never----”

”Is that what you would call pleasure?”

”What _I_ should call pleasure? No, thank G.o.d, it isn't. I'd sooner break stones on the road than live a life like that.”

”Well, there you are, you see. What you would really call pleasure is something quite different. I suppose it would be to live quietly at home in the country, just as you _are_ doing. There's nothing dangerous in that.”

”Of course there isn't. It's the best life for any man, if the Almighty has put him into the position of enjoying it. It's a life of pleasure in a way--yes, that's perfectly true; but it's a life of duty too, and stern duty, by Jove, very often. You can't be always thinking about yourself. You've got responsibilities, in a position like mine, and you've got to remember that some day you'll have to give an account of them. We'll just go in here and see Gotch; I want a word with him about his bill for meal.”

Gotch's bill for meal, and the welfare of the young birds under his charge having been duly discussed, the walk and the quiet talk were resumed.

<script>