“Well; I don’t know; I don’t think he did. But I have heard you say, sir, that you sometimes went to cockfights when you were young.”
“To cockfights! well, yes. But let me tell you, sir, that I always went in the company of gentlemen—that is, when I did go, which was very seldom.” The baronet in some after-dinner half-hour had allowed this secret of his youth to escape from him, imprudently.
“And I went to the house in Cowcross Street with Lord John Fitzjoly.”
“The last man in all London with whom you ought to associate! But I am not going to argue with you, sir. If you think, and will continue to think, that the slaughtering of vermin is a proper pursuit—”
“But, sir, foxes are vermin also.”
“Hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. You know very well what I mean, sir. If you think that—rats are a proper pursuit for a gentleman in your sphere of life, and if all that I can say has no effect in changing your opinion—I shall have done. I have not many years of life before me, and when I shall be no more, you can squander the property in any vile pursuits that may be pleasing to you. But, sir, you shall not do it while I am living; nor, if I can help it, shall you rob your mother of such peace of mind as is left for her in this world. I have only one alternative for you, sir—.” Sir Peregrine did not stop to explain what might be the other branch of this alternative. “Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you will never again concern yourself in this disgusting pursuit?”
“Never, grandfather!” said Peregrine, solemnly.
Sir Peregrine before he answered bethought himself that any pledge given for a whole lifetime must be foolish; and he bethought himself also that if he could wean his heir from rats for a year or so, the taste would perish from lack of nourishment. “I will say for two years,” said Sir Peregrine, still maintaining his austere look.
“For two years!” repeated Peregrine the younger; “and this is the fourth of October.”
“Yes, sir; for two years,” said the baronet, more angry than ever at the young man’s pertinacity, and yet almost amused at his grandson’s already formed resolve to go back to his occupation at the first opportunity allowed.
“Couldn’t you date it from the end of August, sir? The best of the matches always come off in September.”
“No, sir; I will not date it from any other time than the present. Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman, for two years?”
Peregrine thought over the proposition for a minute or two in sad anticipation of all that he was to lose, and then slowly gave his adhesion to the terms. “Very well, sir;—for two years.” And then he took out his pocketbook and wrote in it slowly.
It was at any rate manifest that he intended to keep his word, and that was much; so Sir Peregrine accepted the promise for what it was worth. “And now,” said he, “if you have got nothing better to do, we will ride down to Crutchley Wood.”
“I should like it of all things,” said his grandson.
“Samson wants me to cut a new bridle-path through from the larches at the top of the hill down to Crutchley Bottom; but I don’t think I’ll have it done. Tell Jacob to let us have the nags; I’ll ride the gray pony. And ask your mother if she’ll ride with us.”
It was the manner of Sir Peregrine to forgive altogether when he did forgive; and to commence his forgiveness in all its integrity from the first moment of the pardon. There was nothing he disliked so much as being on bad terms with those around him, and with none more so than with his grandson. Peregrine well knew how to make himself pleasant to the old man, and when duly encouraged would always do so. And thus the family party, as they rode on this occasion through the woods of The Cleeve, discussed oaks and larches, beech and birches, as though there were no such animal as a rat in existence, and no such place known as Cowcross Street.
“Well, Perry, as you and Samson are both of one mind, I suppose the path must be made,” said Sir Peregrine, as he got off his horse at the entrance of the stable-yard, and prepared to give his feeble aid to Mrs. Orme.
Shortly after this the following note was brought up to The Cleeve by a messenger from Orley Farm:—
My dear Sir Peregrine,
If you are quite disengaged at twelve o’clock tomorrow, I will walk over to The Cleeve at that hour. Or if it would suit you better to call here as you are riding, I would remain within till you come. I want your kind advice on a certain matter.
Lady Mason, when she wrote this note, was well aware that it would not be necessary for her to go to The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine’s courtesy would not permit him to impose any trouble on a lady when the alternative of taking that trouble on himself was given to him. Moreover, he liked to have some object for his daily ride; he liked to be consulted “on certain matters;” and he especially liked being so consulted by Lady Mason. So he sent word back that he would be at the farm at twelve on the following day, and exactly at that hour his gray pony or cob might have been seen slowly walking up the avenue to the farmhouse.
The Cleeve was not distant from Orley Farm more than two miles by the nearest walking-path, although it could not be driven much under five.
