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Page 6
He was not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined
carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a
mean lover of mean things--which would be a little unkind to the
peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities
undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than
an earl; he would have spoken of his friendship with Dante--had
that been possible--more glibly than of his friendship with the
Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but not the worst kind of
snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not Society; a
climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.
His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew
Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as
limited as had been Mark's own before his patron had rescued him.
He sent the Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives,
no doubt, were unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying to his
account in the Recording Angel's book of the generosity which had
been lavished on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But
it is probable that, as the boy grew up, Mark's designs for his
future were based on his own interests as much as those of his
cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew Cayley of
twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property for a man in
his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left him so
little time for his affairs.
Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin's affairs.
By this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable
amount of land which went with it. Cayley superintended the
necessary staff. His duties, indeed, were many. He was not
quite secretary, not quite land-agent, not quite
business-adviser, not quite companion, but something of all four.
Mark leant upon him and called him "Cay," objecting quite rightly
in the circumstances to the name of Matthew. Cay, he felt was,
above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed, solid fellow, who
didn't bother you with unnecessary talk--a boon to a man who
liked to do most of the talking himself.
Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty,
which was his patron's age. Spasmodically they entertained a
good deal at the Red House, and Mark's preference--call it
kindliness or vanity, as you please--was for guests who were not
in a position to repay his hospitality. Let us have a look at
them as they came down to that breakfast, of which Stevens, the
parlour-maid, has already given us a glimpse.
The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,
grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey
flannel trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural
history articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the
side-table, decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it.
He had passed on to a sausage by the time of the next arrival.
This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful young man in white flannel
trousers and a blazer.
"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"
"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.
"Well, whatever it is."
The Major grunted.
"I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's
why I asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?"
he added, as he poured himself out a cup.
"No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."
"Quite right, Major; it's only manners." He sat down opposite to
the other. "Well, we've got a good day for our game. It's going
to be dashed hot, but that's where Betty and I score. On the
fifth green, your old wound, the one you got in that frontier
skirmish in '43, will begin to trouble you; on the eighth, your
liver, undermined by years of curry, will drop to pieces; on the
twelfth--"
"Oh, shut up, you ass!"
"Well, I'm only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris.
I was just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and
him this morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer
choosing your own breakfast?"
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