Death of a Peer

“I’d better not,” breathed Roberta, diffidently.

“It’s all right,” said Frid in her ear. “Daddy wouldn’t mind. Ssh!”

“… so you see,” said Lord Charles’s voice, “it’s been a series of misfortunes rather than any one disaster. The jewellery and objets-d’art idea seemed a capital one. I really couldn’t foresee that poor Stein would shoot himself, you know. Now could I?”

“You go and tie yourself up with some miserable adventurer—”

“No, no, he wasn’t that, Gabriel, really.”

“Why the devil didn’t you make some enquiries?”

“Well I–I did make a good many. The truth is—”

“The truth is,“ said Lord Wutherwood’s voice edgily, ”you drifted into this business as you have drifted into every conceivable sort of blunder for the last twenty years.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Lord Charles’s voice: “Very well, Gabriel. I’ll take that. It’s quite useless in my predicament to offer excuses. I readily confess that the sort of explanation I have to make would seem quite ridiculous to you.”

“And to anyone else. I may as well tell you at the outset that I can’t do anything about it. I’ve helped you twice before and I might as weLL have thrown the money into the sea.”

“We were extremely grateful—”

“Is it too much to suggest that you might have shown it by pullin’ yourselves together? I told you then that you should recognize the fact that you were a man with a small income and a large family and should cut your coat accordingly. It’s preposterous, the way you live. Butlers, maids, cars, bringin’ gels out, doin’ the season, trips here, gamblin’ there. Good God, you ought to be livin’ like a — like a clerk or something! Why haven’t you got some post for yourself where you earned a wage? What are those three boys doin’?”

“They’ve tried extremely hard to get jobs.”

“Nonsense. They could have gone into shops since they’re not qualified for any professions. I said when they were at school that they ought to face the facts and work for professions!”

“We couldn’t afford the University.”

“You could afford half a dozen white elephants. You could afford to traipse around the world in luxury liners, you could afford to take that place in the Highlands, entertain, and God know what.”

“My dear Gabriel! The amount of entertaining we do!”

“You dribble money away. Why don’t those gels run the house? Plenty of gels one knows are doin’ that sort of thing. Domestic.”

“Frid’s going on the stage.”

“Yah!” said Lord Wutherwood. “Was that display she treated us to just now a sample? Showin’ her legs and droppin’ about in other people’s scarves like a dyin’ duck in a thunderstorm!”

Roberta felt Frid go rigid with hatred. Stephen and Colin thrust their fists into their mouths. Patch snorted and was savagely nudged by Henry.

“… I may tell you, Charles, that I’m plaguely hard pressed myself. Deepacres nearly kills me keepin’ it up. I’m taxed up to the gullet. Looks as if I’ll have to put down the London house. You don’t know the calls there are on me in — well, in my position. When I remember what it’ll end in I sometimes wonder why the devil I take the trouble.”

“What do you mean, Gabriel?”

“I’ve no boy of my own.”

“No.”

“And to be frank with you I don’t imagine Deepacres is likely to survive the treatment of my heirs.”

“You mean Henry.”

“Oh you’ll outlive me, no doubt,” said Lord Wutherwood.

“Then you mean me?

“Put it baldly, I mean the pair of you.”

There was a long pause. Roberta heard the fire in the next room settle down in the grate. She heard the breathing of the young Lampreys and the flurried ticking of a carriage-clock on the dining-room mantelpiece. When Lord Charles at last broke the silence, Robert felt her companions stir a little as though something for which they had waited was about to appear. Lord Charles’s voice had changed. It was at once gentler and more decisive.

“I think,” he said, “that I can promise you neither Henry nor I will do much harm to Deepacres. We might possibly care to let other people share its amenities occasionally. That’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was thinking of your regard for Deepacres and wondering if after all it amounts to very much. As you say, one day it will be Henry’s. Yet you are content to let him go down with the rest of us.”

“If he’s got any guts he’ll make his way.”

“I hope he will. I almost believe I am glad to go bankrupt without your aid, Gabriel. I’ve had to ask you for money. No doubt you would say I’ve come begging for money. You choose to refuse me. But please don’t plead poverty. You could perfectly well afford to help me but you are a miserly fellow and you choose not to do so. It is not a matter of principle with you — I could respect that — it is just plain reluctance to give away money. I hoped that your vanity and snobbishness, for you’re a hell of a snob, would turn the balance. I was wrong. You will go away bathed in the vapour of conscious rectitude. I doubt if you have ever in your life been guilty of a foolish generous action. Everything you have said about us is true; we have dribbled money away. But we’ve given something with it. Imogen and the children have got gaiety and warmth of heart and charm; over-rated qualities perhaps, but they are generous qualities. Indeed there is nothing ungenerous about my undisciplined children. They give something to almost everybody they meet. Perhaps they cheat a little and trade a little on their charm but I don’t think that matters nearly so much as being tight-lipped monsters of behaviourism. They are full of what I dare to call loving-kindness, Gabriel, and that’s a commodity I don’t expect you to understand or applaud.”

“Oh Daddy!” whispered Frid.

“That’s a damned impertinent stand to take,” said Lord Wutherwood. “It’s as much as to say that people with a conscience about money are bound to be bores.”

“Nothing of the sort, I—”

“You’re as good as puttin’ a premium on dishonesty. It’s the way people talk these days. ‘Charm!’ Plenty of scamps have got charm; wouldn’t be scamps if they hadn’t, I daresay. Where’s this lovin’-kindness you talk about when it comes to lettin’ down your creditors?”

“Touche, I’m afraid,” muttered Henry.

“If I hadn’t thought of that,” said Lord Charles, “nothing would have induced me to ask for your help.”

“You won’t get it.”

“Then, as I fancy the Americans say, it is just too bad about my creditors. I rather think the poor devils have banked on you, Gabriel.”

“Insufferable impertinence!” shouted Lord Wutherwood, and Roberta heard the angry sibilants whistle through his teeth. “Sulking behind my name, by God! Using my name as a screen for your dishonesty.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“You as good as said so,” shouted Lord Wutherwood. “By God, this settles it.”

The scene which had hitherto maintained the established atmosphere of drawing-room comedy now blossomed agreeably into a more robust type of drama. The brothers set about abusing each other in good round terms and with each intemperate sally their phrases became more deeply coloured with the tincture of Victorian rodomontade. Incredible references to wills, entails, and family escutcheons were freely exchanged. Lord Charles was the first to falter and his brother’s peroration rang out clearly.

“I refuse to discuss the matter any further. You can drag yourself and your fool of a wife and your precious brood through the bankruptcy court. If Deepacres wasn’t entailed I’d see that you never got a penny of Lamprey money. As it is—”

“As it is you will no doubt rewrite as much of your will as is not covered by the entail.”

“I shall do so, certainly.”

“You’re a delightful fellow, Gabriel! I wish to God I’d left you alone.”

“You appear even to make a failure of the noble art of sponging.”