Some Do Not . . ._ A Novel - Ford Madox Ford [117]
'We must move on,' he said, 'or I shall have to take a cab.' Mark detached himself from his half-buried cannon.
'What did you do with the other three thousand?' he asked. 'Three thousand is a hell of a big sum to chuck away. For a younger son.'
'Except for some furniture I bought for my wife's rooms,' Christopher said, 'it went mostly in loans.' 'Loans!' Mark exclaimed. 'To that fellow Macmaster?'
'Mostly to him,' Christopher answered. 'But about seven hundred to Dicky Swipes, of Cullercoats.'
'Good God! Why to him?' Mark ejaculated.
'Oh, because he was Swipes, of Cullercoats,' Christopher said, 'and asked for it. He'd have had more, only that was enough for him to drink himself to death on.'
Mark said:
'I suppose you don't give money to every fellow that asks for it?'
Christopher said:
'I do. It's a matter of principle.'
'It's lucky,' Mark said, 'that a lot of fellows don't know that. You wouldn't have much brass left for long.' 'I didn't have it for long,' Christopher said.
'You know,' Mark said, 'you couldn't expect to do the princely patron on a youngest son's portion. It's a matter of taste. I never gave a ha'penny to a beggar myself. But a lot of the Tietjens were princely. One generation to addle brass: one to keep: one to spend. That's all right...I suppose Macmaster's wife is your mistress? That'll account for it not being the girl. They keep an arm-chair for you.'
Christopher said:
'No. I just backed Macmaster for the sake of backing him. Father lent him money to begin with.'
'So he did,' Mark exclaimed.
'His wife,' Christopher said, 'was the widow of Breakfast Duchemin. You knew Breakfast Duchemin?'
'Oh, I knew Breakfast Duchemin,' Mark said. 'I suppose Macmaster's a pretty warm man now. Done himself proud with Duchemin's money.'
'Pretty proud!' Christopher said. 'They won't be knowing me long now.'
'But damn it all!' Mark said, 'You've Groby to all intents and purposes. I'm not going to marry and beget children to hinder you.'
Christopher said:
'Thanks. I don't want it.'
'Got your knife into me?' Mark asked.
'Yes. I've got my knife into you,' Christopher answered. 'Into the whole bloody lot of you, and Ruggles and ffolliot and our father!'
Mark said: 'Ah!'
'You don't suppose I wouldn't have?' Christopher asked.
'Oh, I don't suppose you wouldn't have,' Mark answered. 'I thought you were a soft sort of bloke. I see you aren't.'
'I'm as North Riding as yourself!' Christopher answered.
They were in the tide of Fleet Street, pushed apart by foot passengers and separated by traffic. With some of the imperiousness of the officer of those days, Christopher barged across through motor-buses and paper lorries. With the imperiousness of the head of a department, Mark said:
'Here, policeman, stop these damn things and let me get over.' But Christopher was over much the sooner and waited for his brother in the gateway of the Middle Temple. His mind was completely swallowed up in the endeavour to imagine the embraces of Valentine Wannop. He said to himself that he had burnt his boats.
Mark, coming alongside him, said:
'You'd better know what our father wanted.'
Christopher said:
'Be quick then. I must get on.' He had to rush through his War Office interview to get to Valentine Wannop. They would have only a few hours in which to recount the loves of two lifetimes. He saw her golden head and her enraptured face. He wondered how her face would look, enraptured. He had seen on it humour, dismay, tenderness, in the eyes--and fierce anger and contempt for his, Christopher's, political opinions. His militarism!
Nevertheless they halted by the Temple fountain. That respect was due to their dead father. Mark had been explaining. Christopher had caught some of his words and divined the links. Mr Tietjens had left no will, confident that his desires as to the disposal of his immense fortune would be carried out meticulously by his eldest son. He would have left a will, but there was the vague case of Christopher to be considered. Whilst Christopher had been a youngest son