CHAPTER XXVI
Christian, professing to himself momentarily that the chance to get away from his guests was at hand, discovered that his escape, all the same, was no easy matter.
Kathleen had disappeared somewhere, and without her he seemed curiously helpless. He did not as yet know the house well enough to be sure about its exits. The result of one furtive attempt at flight was to find himself in the midst of a group of county people, who fell back courteously at his approach and, as if by design, let him become involved in a quite meaningless conversation with a purple-faced, bull-necked old gentleman whose name he could not remember. This person talked at tremendous length, producing his words in gurgling spasms; his voice was so husky and his manner so disconcerting—not to mention the peculiarities of the local dialect in which he spoke—that Christian could make literally nothing of his remarks. He maintained a vapid listener’s-smile, the while his eyes roamed despondently about the room, and what he could see of the next apartment, in search of some relief. If he could hit upon Dicky Westland—or even Edward or Augustine!
It became apparent to him, at last, that his interlocutor was discoursing on the subject of dogs. Of course—it would be about the Caermere hounds. On the grave faces of those about him, who stood near enough to hear the sounds of this mysterious monologue, he read signs that they considered themselves a party to it. It was on their behalf as well as his own that the old gentleman was haranguing him—and he swiftly perceived the necessity of paying better attention.
“The hounds—yes,” he said, after a little. “I have been making inquiries about them. I am advised that they cannot be kept up properly for less than four thousand five hundred a year.”
“Up to Lord Porlock’s death, we had something like twenty-four hundred pounds from the Castle, and we made a whip-round among ourselves,” the other replied, “for the rest. With corn what it is, and rents what they are, we’re all so poor now that it’ll be harder than ever to get subscriptions, but we’ll try to do our share if the Castle’ll meet us half-way.”
Christian felt that he liked being referred to as “the Castle.” Moreover, an idea suddenly took shape in his mind. “My uncle, Lord Porlock, was the Master,” he said. “And before him my grandfather, I believe. But what has been done since Lord Porlock’s death—about a new Master, I mean?”
Out of the complicated response made to this question he gathered vaguely that nothing had been done—that nothing could have been done.
“My cousin, Captain Torr, is a hunting man, I think.” He threw out the question with some diffidence, and was vastly relieved to see the faces brighten about him.
“None better, by God!” affirmed the old gentleman, with vehemence, and there followed a glowing and spluttering eulogium of Edward’s sportsmanlike qualities and achievements, in the middle of which Christian recalled that the speaker was Sir George Dence.