Everyone went back to Conster after the funeral. Sir John’s will had already been read by the solicitors. It presented no difficulties—the whole estate went to Peter Alard and his heirs; in the event of his dying without male issue, to Gervase. The will had been made shortly after the death of George.
Gervase knew that now the time had come when he must face his family. They were all there at tea, except Vera—who was still unable to leave her room—and he could tell by a certain furtive expectancy in some and uneasiness in others that a crisis was impending. Doris was the head of the expectant group, Jenny of the uneasy ones. Doris had never looked more unlike the hysterical, dishevelled woman who had wept for Sir John. In her new black frock, and her hat with the plumes that swept down to her shoulders—powdered, rouged, salved, pencilled and henna’d into elegance if not into beauty, she seemed to have gathered up in herself all the pomp and circumstance of the Alards. There was not much of it to be seen in Lady Alard’s weary preoccupation with the burnt scones, in Rose’s glancing survey of the other women’s clothes, in Mary’s rather colourless smartness, in Jenny’s restlessness or her husband’s awkwardness—he had carried his first top-hat into the drawing-room, and put it, with his gloves inside it, on the floor between his large feet—and there was certainly nothing of it in the present holder of the title, sitting with his arms folded and thrust up the sleeves of his habit, his shoulders hunched as with a sense of battles to come.
Gervase considered that the sooner the row was over the better; so, as no one seemed inclined to begin it, he decided to start it himself.
“Mother, dear, do you think you could lend me five shillings?—At least I’d better say give it to me, for I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of your ever seeing it again.”
“Yes, dear—but why ... I don’t understand.”
“Well, I’ve only got eighteenpence left from the money Father Peter gave me to come here, and the third class fare to Brighton is six and six.”
“Gervase,” shrieked Doris—“you’re not going back to that place!”
“My dear, what else did you expect?”
“But you won’t stay there—you won’t go on being a monk—you won’t refuse to be Sir Gervase Alard!”
“I haven’t even begun to be a monk, and, according to the solicitors, I’ll have to go on being Sir Gervase Alard to the end of my days—but I’m going to stay there.”