What Happened at Hazelwood? Read Free Page B

the first occasion on which George had chosen to show him off as the family scandal. Or as one of the family scandals. There are a good many more, some of which will presently come in.
    ‘Owdon,’ said George, ‘how old is your boy?’
    George’s butler turned abruptly and made a sign to the remaining parlour-maid. He was an unbeautiful creature – in some fray, piratical or otherwise, he had got his face messed up as well as losing that eye – and I used to fancy that an unexpected sensitiveness sometimes made him veer away like this when any general attention was directed on him.
    ‘Sixteen, sir,’ said Owdon.
    ‘Is that so?’ And George looked up the table. ‘Only a couple of years younger than Mervyn. But quite a different type. I mean, quite a different psychological type. Although both, I should say, are intelligent. Owdon, you would agree that Mr Mervyn is intelligent?’
    ‘Certainly, sir.’
    And Owdon moved off along the table – rather a silent table. George, of course, could give a wholly adequate rendering of the country gentleman able at any time to converse familiarly with his servants. And somehow this added an extra flavour of nastiness to his atrocious behaviour.
    The only person who did not appear upset was young Mervyn Cockayne himself. He looked appraisingly at Timmy, and as if by some instinctive sympathy his angelic features took on momentarily the same sultry look. I think their eyes met – in which case the sensation must have been just that of looking into a mirror. But when he spoke it was altogether sedately.
    ‘It is very respectable’ – Mervyn has a high-pitched voice which instantly commanded the table – ‘to derive one’s retainers from the same family generation by generation. Owdon is to be congratulated for having forwarded so pleasantly feudal a disposition of things.’ Mervyn looked round the table and affected to be much struck by an array of frozen faces. ‘Mama,’ he cried – and his voice rose to a parody of an anxious squeak – ‘is it possible that I can have said something gauche?’
    Lucy Cockayne looked vague, which was her refuge on such occasions. George looked delighted. Of all his relations it was this little toad alone whom he at all tolerated. Indeed, he made a favourite of Mervyn. It was generally agreed that he would leave him the greater part of what it was his to dispose of: a personal fortune of very considerable extent.
    ‘And now it is for Timmy to carry on the tradition.’ Mervyn was off again with the largest innocence. His eyes travelled once more round the table – an inquiring and speculative eye. It rested for a moment on his aunt Grace and passed on to the accompaniment of the faintest possible shake of the head. ‘Willoughby,’ he said suddenly – and much as if an altogether different topic of conversation had struck him – ‘did you ever feel, as I have done, that it is a pity not to have a sister?’
    Willoughby Simney might have replied to his cousin – only his father forestalled him. ‘Lucy’ – Bevis had gone a brick red and addressed his sister abruptly – ‘your boy ought to be birched. Eighteen or not, he ought to be birched.’
    ‘Whereas if I did have a sister’ – and with a skilful pause Mervyn swept in the attention of the whole company again – ‘she would have to be churched. A less painful experience, but equally embarrassing.’
    ‘Church?’ said Lucy absently. Whether she at all understood this indecent talk in which her brat was indulging I don’t know. ‘That reminds me. Wasn’t Mr Deamer here this afternoon?’
    ‘Deamer?’ said George sharply. ‘Fellow has no business coming about the place.’ He spoke much as if the vicar of Hazelwood was a dishonest gamekeeper whom he had turned away. ‘Unless to call on a sick servant and leave a tract. Owdon, are any of your people sick?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    Grace Simney, who had so far not spoken during the meal, put down her spoon and looked