“How anxious you are to assert your new authority!” she sneered, and waited while he winced. “Stanley’s judgment after years of experience is of course not to be weighed against that of an untried youngster fresh to his responsibilities! Probably you would prefer one of the country yokels with whom you are on such intimate terms, to an educated gentleman, trained in his profession. But there is the estate to be considered before your own personal tastes—you must please make an effort to remember that.”
“Of course the estate comes before everything,” Christian answered quietly. “Why will you never believe that I care for the old place?”
“It is certainly difficult to realise,” she retorted coldly, “seeing that you have never shown any sense of your position! That must be changed, at least. Now that you are Lyndesay of Crump, you must break finally with the individuals who have hitherto made demands upon your time and pocket—all those persons whose chief object in life seems to consist in going about hitting somebody or something with something else.”
“Do you mean that the games must go to the wall?” Christian asked wistfully. “Is it really necessary? They keep one fit, you know—and—and—it seems rotten to be throwing flowers at oneself, but I’m considered pretty useful——” He broke off under her mocking eyes, his enthusiasm dropping dead.
“All that is over!” she said very distinctly. “Lyndesay of Crump cannot go out into an open field to make sport for spectators. There is absolutely no second word on the matter. All that is over.”
He sat silent, wondering vaguely why he did not rebel; conscious of something beyond and stronger than his mother forcing him into acquiescence. He felt suddenly very desolate. He had loved that part, at least, of the old life, and he was not ready for the new.
“I never approved, as you know,” Mrs. Lyndesay went on, “but while Stanley lived, it was not of paramount importance. I never thought Stanley would go—so soon.” She looked up at the portrait, setting her lips, and Christian ran a gentle finger down the smooth cane of a rod. It had been hard on Slinker, poor chap, in all conscience: yet Slinker had never loved a swinging game as he loved it, nor ached to get at grips with an adversary in fair and amicable fight. At that moment he would almost have been content to change with him.
“You must get to know the County,” his mother was saying. “You have been very much of a boor, refusing invitations when you were at home, and going your own way entirely. Lyndesays of Crump have always led, have always been expected to lead, and you must take your place. You must get to know people.”
“Some of them are such slackers!” Christian answered sadly. “I’m afraid I like people who do things for themselves instead of those who run a reputation upon others who did things for them. But I’ll get to work on the County points at once, if you like. And I’ll”—he rose abruptly, and turned his head away—“I’ll give up the games.”
He could feel the leather sphere under his arm, the rush of wind past his ears, the thud of his feet on the firm ground, the final pitch into glory on the far side of the line. That was gone for good. Again he crossed the ring with outstretched hand, sank his chin on his opponent’s shoulder, braced his muscles and suppled his wrists ere he felt for the final hold. That, too, was gone. Breathing deep, he came back to the foreign atmosphere of Slinker’s den, and found himself looking once more into Deb’s eyes. With a kind of mechanical deftness he lifted the picture from its ambiguous position, and slipped it into his pocket, turning towards the door.