Part 2 (1/2)

Mr. Waverton had an idea in his head. That was not the least unusual. It was, unhappily, a wrong one. That was not unusual either. We must have a trifle of Latin. Mr. Waverton, studying Horace, desired to translate, _Civium ardor prava jubentium_ ”the wicked ardour of the overbearing citizens.” In vain Harry urged that he was outraging grammar. Mr.

Waverton did not believe him, did not want to believe him--the same thing. Mr. Waverton was convinced that he had an insight into the soul of Horace which Harry's pedantic eyes could not share. He explained, as one explains to a dull child, the rare poetic beauty of the sentiment which he had produced. The hero whom Horace was celebrating, you know, was the man superior to the common herd. Now common men (as even Harry might be aware) are all overbearing. It is this quality in the vulgar which most distresses fine souls (like Mr. Waverton) who desire nothing but their just rights.

”I dare say it is,” Harry yawned. ”If Horace had wanted to mean that, he would have said so.”

”I often think, Harry, you dry scholars have no sense for the thought of a poet,” said Mr. Waverton elegantly, and lay back in his chair and surveyed Harry.

He was a handsome lad and knew how to set it off. He had height and bulk--almost too much of that indeed, and so made light of it by a careless, lounging ease. At this time he was only twenty-two, but of a precocious maturity. He had the self-possession--as well as the full-bottomed wig--of experience and worldly wisdom, and would have liked to hear you say so. In its dark aquiline style his face was finely moulded and imposing, and already it had a ma.s.sive gravity. ”A mighty grand fellow indeed,” said Lady Dorchester once, ”if only his mouth had grown since he was a baby.” It has to be admitted that Mr. Waverton's mouth, a small, pretty feature, was oddly a.s.sorted with the haughty manner in which the rest of him was constructed. The ladies who lamented that were, for the most part, consoled by his eyes--large, dark eyes of a liquid melancholy. But my Lord Wharton complained that they looked at him like a hound's.

Mr. Waverton was an only son, and fatherless. He had also great possessions. From his house of Tetherdown all the fields that he could see stretching away to the Ess.e.x border were of his inheritance. His mother was no wiser than she should have been. She consisted spiritually of admiration for herself, for the family into which she had married, and the son whom she had borne. ”After all,” said Harry Boyce in moments of geniality, ”it's wonderful the boy has come out of it so well.”

Mr. Waverton, thanks to vacillation of himself and his mother, doubt as to what career, what manner of education, what university, could be worthy his talents, went up to Oxford at last and (for those days) very late. After doing nothing for another year or two, he decided (which was also unusual for a gentleman of means in those days) that he had a genius in pure literature. Therefore Harry was hired to decorate him with all the elegances of Greek and Latin.

The appointment was considered a great prize for a lad so awkward as Harry Boyce. It might well end in a luxurious competence--a stewards.h.i.+p, for example, and marriage with my lady's maid. ”That is, if you play your cards well, sirrah,” the Sub-Warden felt it his duty to warn Harry's difficult temper.

”Oh, sir, I could never play cards,” said Harry, for the Sub-Warden was a master at picquet. ”I am too honest.”

Yet he had not fallen out with Mr. Waverton. It is probable that he was careful to keep on good terms with his bread and b.u.t.ter. But he had always, I believe, a kindness for Geoffrey Waverton, and bore no ill will for his parade of supremacy. Tyranny in small things, indeed, Mr.

Waverton did not affect. He had a desire to be magnificent. Those who did not cross him, those who were content to be his inferiors, found him amiable enough and, on occasion, generous....

”Shall we try another line, Mr. Waverton?” said Harry wearily.

”I have a mind to make an epigram,” Mr. Waverton announced. ”The arrogance of the vulgar, the--the uninstructed--perhaps I lack the _mot juste_, but _quand meme_--the mansuetude of the loftier mind. A fine ant.i.thesis that, I think.” He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out. Away down the hill the fields lay in a mellow mist, the kindly autumn sun made the copses glow golden; it was a benign scene, apt to encourage wit. Mr. Waverton lisped in numbers, but the numbers did not come. He turned to seek stimulus from Harry. ”You relish the thought?”

”It is a perfect subject for your style,” said Harry.

Mr. Waverton smiled, and turned again to the window for productive meditation.

A third man came lounging in, unheard by Mr. Waverton's rapt mind. He opened his eyes at the back which Mr. Waverton turned upon Harry and the s.p.a.ce between them. ”Why, Geoffrey, have you been very stupid this morning? And has schoolmaster stood you in the corner? Well done, Mr.

Boyce. I always told you, spare the rod and spoil the child. Shall I go cut a birch for you?”

”I wonder you are not tired of that old jest, Charles,” said Waverton with a dignity which did not permit him to turn round.

”Never while it annoys you, child.”

”Mr. Waverton is in labour with a poem,” Harry explained.

”And it's indecent in me to be present at the ceremony? Well, Geoffrey, postpone the birth.” He sat himself down at his ease in Geoffrey's chair.

He was a compact man with only one arm. He looked ten years older than Geoffrey and was, in fact, five. The campaign in Flanders which had destroyed his right arm had set and hardened a frame and face by nature solid enough. That face was long and angular, with a heavy chin and an expression of sardonic complacency oddly increased by the jauntiness of its shabby brown wig.

Waverton turned round wearily upon the unwelcome guest. ”Well, Charles, what is it?”

”It is nothing. My dear Geoffrey, if I had anything to do or anything to say why should I come to you?”

”_Merci_, monsieur,” Waverton smiled gracious indulgence.

Mr. Hadley chuckled, and in French replied: ”Yes, let's talk French; it embellishes our simple wit and elevates our souls above the vulgar.”

There is reason to believe that Waverton liked his French better in fragments than continuously. He still smiled condescension, but risked no other answer.

”Come, Geoffrey, what's the news?” Mr. Hadley reverted to English.

”Could you say your lessons this morning? And did you wear a new coat last night?”