you?”
Havergal considered it a moment. He thought of a red-haired, green-eyed wench and was tempted, but in the end he said, “No, it ain’t worth the risk. I’m tired as a racehorse anyway. Get rid of this slop, will you?” He handed the posset to Cuttle, who drank it off in one gulp.
“And while we’re here, Cuttle, lay off the wine. You were staggering like a horse with the heaves. It won’t do your boxing career any good, you know.”
Cuttle gave a sheepish look. A hiccup prevented him from denying this charge, so he just backed away and left.
Havergal had a bottle of his own excellent wine and puzzled over the pages of his favorite philosopher, Kant. It was not an easy read, and he paid particular attention to some passages his father had underlined. His father had given him the book. Scanning these passages, Havergal read that the dignity of life did not depend on natural endowments, power, riches, or honor, but on goodwill. Intelligence, wit, judgment—all could be bad and mischievous if the character that makes use of them was not good.
What had Papa heard that he felt impelled to send him this sly message? Had he learned about Uncle Eustace’s estate? Only three thousand guineas—the bequest had come at a particularly convenient time, just when he was overdrawn at the bank and had to settle up at Tatt’s. Papa had expected him to give some portion of that money to the Cauleigh school for orphans. He should have sent a thousand at least. A thousand, Papa had mentioned earlier, would pay a teacher’s salary for five years. Or it would pay for one bad race run by Hamlet. Did men actually live on two hundred guineas a year?
God, it must be awful to be poor. At the rate he was going, he would soon know. He really must curb his spending. But first he must pay his debts, and that meant charming Miss Beddoes into giving him an advance on his interest. Well, to be realistic, it meant biting into the capital left by Cousin Horace. Miss Beddoes could not give him unearned interest. The lady was not a magician after all. It just sounded better if he asked for an advance on his interest.
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Not that a paltry euphemism would pass muster with Miss Beddoes. She’d dredge up some quotation and beat him over the head with it. His eyelids began to droop, the book fell from his fingers to the counterpane, and he was asleep.
Chapter Five
Havergal was awakened early the next morning by the raucous call of chanticleer. Hearing a rooster, he knew he was in the country, but was unclear for a moment as to precisely where or what he was doing there. Glancing around at the relatively modest and unfamiliar furnishings, he knew he was not at his ancestral home. Then it came back to him, and he emitted a low groan. Miss Beddoes, and Crymont at the inn three miles away with the lightskirts, like a charged pistol waiting to go off. He dragged himself from bed. At least he hadn’t overindulged in wine the night before, so his head was clear.
In fact, he found, as he lifted the window and stuck his head out, that he felt remarkably good. It was the early night that had done it. Country smells of meadows, apple blossoms, and the lingering scent of cattle hung on the air. It reminded him of his youth and was a strong contrast to his more recent mornings. He really must change his ways. His conscience had not yet petrified, and he felt badly about his behavior. He inhaled deeply. A country breakfast would hit the spot. He went to the adjoining door and called, “Cuttle.”
The unmoving hulk under the blankets told him his valet was still asleep. “Poor masters make poor servants,” his father used to say. His conscience gave another jab, as it always did when he thought of his father. Cuttle’s services were so seldom required before ten o’clock that he had fallen into the lazy habit of staying abed long after daylight. Havergal advanced and shook him by the toe.
“Gorblimy,
Havergal considered it a moment. He thought of a red-haired, green-eyed wench and was tempted, but in the end he said, “No, it ain’t worth the risk. I’m tired as a racehorse anyway. Get rid of this slop, will you?” He handed the posset to Cuttle, who drank it off in one gulp.
“And while we’re here, Cuttle, lay off the wine. You were staggering like a horse with the heaves. It won’t do your boxing career any good, you know.”
Cuttle gave a sheepish look. A hiccup prevented him from denying this charge, so he just backed away and left.
Havergal had a bottle of his own excellent wine and puzzled over the pages of his favorite philosopher, Kant. It was not an easy read, and he paid particular attention to some passages his father had underlined. His father had given him the book. Scanning these passages, Havergal read that the dignity of life did not depend on natural endowments, power, riches, or honor, but on goodwill. Intelligence, wit, judgment—all could be bad and mischievous if the character that makes use of them was not good.
What had Papa heard that he felt impelled to send him this sly message? Had he learned about Uncle Eustace’s estate? Only three thousand guineas—the bequest had come at a particularly convenient time, just when he was overdrawn at the bank and had to settle up at Tatt’s. Papa had expected him to give some portion of that money to the Cauleigh school for orphans. He should have sent a thousand at least. A thousand, Papa had mentioned earlier, would pay a teacher’s salary for five years. Or it would pay for one bad race run by Hamlet. Did men actually live on two hundred guineas a year?
God, it must be awful to be poor. At the rate he was going, he would soon know. He really must curb his spending. But first he must pay his debts, and that meant charming Miss Beddoes into giving him an advance on his interest. Well, to be realistic, it meant biting into the capital left by Cousin Horace. Miss Beddoes could not give him unearned interest. The lady was not a magician after all. It just sounded better if he asked for an advance on his interest.
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Not that a paltry euphemism would pass muster with Miss Beddoes. She’d dredge up some quotation and beat him over the head with it. His eyelids began to droop, the book fell from his fingers to the counterpane, and he was asleep.
Chapter Five
Havergal was awakened early the next morning by the raucous call of chanticleer. Hearing a rooster, he knew he was in the country, but was unclear for a moment as to precisely where or what he was doing there. Glancing around at the relatively modest and unfamiliar furnishings, he knew he was not at his ancestral home. Then it came back to him, and he emitted a low groan. Miss Beddoes, and Crymont at the inn three miles away with the lightskirts, like a charged pistol waiting to go off. He dragged himself from bed. At least he hadn’t overindulged in wine the night before, so his head was clear.
In fact, he found, as he lifted the window and stuck his head out, that he felt remarkably good. It was the early night that had done it. Country smells of meadows, apple blossoms, and the lingering scent of cattle hung on the air. It reminded him of his youth and was a strong contrast to his more recent mornings. He really must change his ways. His conscience had not yet petrified, and he felt badly about his behavior. He inhaled deeply. A country breakfast would hit the spot. He went to the adjoining door and called, “Cuttle.”
The unmoving hulk under the blankets told him his valet was still asleep. “Poor masters make poor servants,” his father used to say. His conscience gave another jab, as it always did when he thought of his father. Cuttle’s services were so seldom required before ten o’clock that he had fallen into the lazy habit of staying abed long after daylight. Havergal advanced and shook him by the toe.
“Gorblimy,
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