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Mr. James Elliot reached Grest Park in his coach at half past seven of the evening. He was not an assiduous visitor of country houses, for he preferred the artistic society of Continental cities. But Grest held a special place in his affections. It was not a castle, frowning from the top of a rock over a country of serfs; nor a Tudor palace of dark panels and diamond-paned windows; but a mansion of his own eighteenth-century, spacious and light, and, whilst reserving its own privileges, paternal. A great Whig house in fact. Wide corridors with white walls ornamented with plaster plaques by Adam led to long oblong rooms lit by high rounded windows. Big mirrors in gilded frames of Chinese Chippendale hung on the walls between the windows. Lofty ceilings, barrel-shaped and painted, spread a panoply above the head. Nothing frowned. There was a suggestion of humanity. One moved in a world of white and gold, of space and grace and high colonnades. Yet comfort was not lacking. Deep carpets of soft patterns made walking a caress. There were small rooms where one could be private, with open fireplaces and sweet-smelling logs burning in the iron baskets.

Three years had passed since Mr. Elliot’s last visit. Philip, the owner and builder of Grest, had died a year before after a long illness, and Elliot wondered with some trepidations what changes had been made in this lordly pleasure-house. But after he had driven past the great stables and up the wide avenue to the west front his trepidations diminished. For an old friend in a butler, growing grey now and stooping under his long years of service, welcomed him with a smile.

“Gurton, I am delighted to see you again,” said Mr. Elliot handsomely.

“You are very kind, Sir.”

Gurton led the way across the vestibule and up the stairs to the bedroom over the great south portico which Elliot had occupied before. A footman and Elliot’s own servant followed with the travelling bags.

“Her Ladyship fancied that you would like your old room, Sir,” said Gurton.

That would be Lady Frances Scoble, daughter by the first wife of course.

“Her Ladyship is most thoughtful,” said Elliot. He went across to the central window and as he looked out, he sighed with enjoyment. The Italian garden behind its wrought-iron gates stretched out in front of him, an oblong of grass paths and glowing flower beds, of box trees and hedges, of stone seats at the sides and in one corner, a ridiculous charming little temple with open pillars and a roof of green and gold. Beyond the garden, lawns like velvet shaded here and there by a big cedar sloped gently to a lake. The east side of the lake was guarded by a ridge with a coppice of trees to crown it; and straight ahead a wide country of fields and villages melted into a blue distance where round smooth downs rolled upwards and closed it in.

Mr. Elliot enjoyed the familiar view and still more he enjoyed his enjoyment of it. He was a man of forty years now and had begun consciously to make much of each little sensuous pleasure, recording it carefully in his memory.

“There have been, I suppose, many changes and surprises, Gurton, since I was here,” he said sympathetically, “though, upon my word, I have seen no sign of them yet.”

Gurton, however, was not to be led to talk.

“Surprises, Sir, must be expected,” he answered, a little formally. “Supper will be at nine.”

“Thank you, Gurton.”

Left to himself, Mr. Elliot was conscious of a change. A gentle melancholy stole over him; and in spite of the beauty of the scene before him he almost regretted that he had come to Grest. He was going to miss the long, intimate conversations with his former host, pacing the gardens or sitting over their wine with the candlesticks pushed aside so that they might argue the better; he, the dilettante, the idler, and the other, the great nobleman who by some miracle of industry managed his estates, made a speech of some wisdom in the House of Lords from time to time, and yet lived magnificently for months on end in some great villa in Rome or Naples or the Apennines. James Elliot was not a parasite, but he was something of a snob; and with the death of his friend there was an emptiness in the year’s progress which he could not hope to fill. How they had talked, the two of them, and from whatever point the conversation had started, how surely it always came round to the same subject—Italy and the development in Italy of that new, odd, artificial art, the opera! Romanina, the young Farinelli, Domenico Scarlatti, the poet Metastasio, the triumphs of Handel in London.

Mr. Elliot flung up the windows. A cascade of rooks had just burst out from a grove and the birds were wheeling about the sky with loud cries, as though they were sorting themselves out before they went to bed. Then they were hushed and the world was given over to the evening hymns of blackbird and thrush. And whilst he listened and looked, the air noisy with melody and the fresh earthy scents of young summer mounting to his nostrils, a note was struck upon a harpsichord in a room opening on to the portico below him. Mr. Elliot turned his head sharply. Of all the things in the world, music was the most real to him. He waited, his body and his mind tense. What was to follow upon that note? One never knew—one always hoped. Mr. Elliot in the matter of music was at one with Gurton. Surprises were to be expected; and one leaped at Mr. Elliot now. Through an open window in the room below him a young clear voice, with such an appeal as had never moved him in all his wanderings, poured out melody upon the air.

“Young Cupid with the bandaged eyes

Draws tight his bow of pearl and jade.

Swift from the string the arrow flies

To wound the heart of youth and maid.

But in this odd world of sevens and sixes

Nothing is quite as it ought to be.

It’s only my heart that the arrow transfixes

And never the maid’s that was made for me.”

Mr. Elliot sat down in a chair before the open window. The song couldn’t end there. He was thinking not of the song nor the singer. He was wrapt in delight. Changes were to be expected, Gurton had said. Here were changes indeed, but Mr. Elliot was insensible of them. He waited, expectant, his ears ravished, and the voice rose again on a lilt of pleasure:

“I have her picture carved upon crystal,

Painted in exquisite colours and rare.

A pledge? If a pledge, it’s a pledge that the tryst’ll

Only be kept by one of the pair.

She has eyes that are deeper and kinder than sapphires;

Her lips’ dark velvet defies the rose.

Oh, I can’t believe that other lads have fires

Fierce as the one which destroys my repose.”

Every word was clear, every note true and effortless. It rose and swooped and fell, a boy’s voice, fresh and pure as a bird’s, but with a throb of passion, an infinity of delicate cadences which no bird ever had. It rose—no—it poured itself out again like water sparkling from a glass ewer.

“And so I wander by forest and boulder

Hoping that one day in spite of my fears

I shall wake with a golden head at my shoulder

Instead of a pillow wet with my tears.”

The last two lines were repeated with a change in the melody, so that the joyous eagerness of the first ending declined in a curve of disappointment and died away in unhappiness. But so the musician intended. There was no faltering in the voice which sang the music. When it died away upon the air, it died in a sigh.

Mr. Elliot sat without moving in an enchantment. The garden, the lake beyond, the summer evening, to his eyes had suffered the same change as he and lay hushed under the same spell. He almost expected the blue downs in the far distance to melt and reveal some exquisite glimpse of a world unknown. He was brought back into the life of things as they were by the entrance of Gurton, who had come up to see that one of his favourite guests lacked nothing for his change of dress.

“I’ll send up your man to you, Sir. It is now twenty minutes past eight.”

“Thank you,” said Elliot, and after a pause, “I suppose that was his Lordship singing?”

Gurton smiled with a smile of real pleasure.

“Yes, Sir. His Lordship has a very fine voice they tell me. His Lordship’s father thought very highly of it and had great teachers down from London to advise him. A Mr. Handel came once.”

That of course was the explanation why Elliot had never heard the boy before. Mr. Elliot nodded his head. It was a matter of training. He had not been allowed to sing even before the small public of a country drawing-room. It had all been scales and scales, and one simple phrase repeated and repeated until the last drip of music had been extracted—Porpora’s way, Jommelli’s way, the way of all the great teachers.

“So Mr. Handel came to Grest, did he?” Elliot mused. “Let me see! His Lordship will be twelve now?”

“Twelve last month, Sir.”

Gurton might be reluctant to discuss the changes which the last years had brought about at Grest, but he was prepared to make speeches about his young master.

“Of course he is not so given to his singing as he was. It’s a sort of gift with him. If he comes across a song he likes, he’ll sit down and sing it. But all those trills and roulades and shakes which seem so popular, he’s weary of them, one might say.”

“A pity,” said Mr. Elliot.

But Gurton would not listen to any reproach of his idol however mild.

“His Lordship’s a proper boy, Sir. His heart is set on the sea, as a boy’s should be. He sees himself an Admiral in a blue coat, commanding a fleet against the parlez-vous, or stumping with a wooden leg up and down his quarter-deck.”

“And Grest?” Mr. Elliot asked. “What of Grest meanwhile?”

“Grest won’t run away, Sir,” said Gurton drily and he departed.

Mr. Elliot smiled ruefully. He repeated to himself two lines of the song which he had heard.

“In this odd world of sevens and sixes

Nothing is quite as it ought to be.”

Here was a voice which from the throat of some surpliced chorister should be beating against the roof of the Sistine Chapel like a bird seeking its freedom; and it belonged to Julian John Philip Challoner Carolus Scoble, Earl of Linchcombe, Viscount Terceira—there had been a Scoble who had sailed with Drake to the Azores and very likely that fact accounted for the boy’s present ambition—Baron Hardley, owner of Grest, a seat in the House of Lords and half a dozen pocket boroughs! He didn’t want to waste any more time over shakes and trills. Not he! He had a divine gift, the rarest sweetest gift made to one single person in a century, that he might entrance the world, and he wanted to be Old Timbertoes on his quarter-deck. Mr. Elliot was annoyed with Julian John Philip Challoner and the rest of it. He flung the clothes he was taking off about in a pet. None the less at ten minutes to nine, groomed and spruce, from his powdered wig to his ruffles, as one of the box trees in the Italian garden, he descended into the great drawing-room. A wood fire was burning cheerfully in the grate and a young woman in a dress of flowered satin was standing in front of it with a hand upon the marble mantelpiece. Elliot saw her face reflected in the mirror with its curious frame of gilt birds and human figures before she turned to him. She wore her brown hair unpowdered and arranged in a simple coiffure which gave her an appearance of early youth. She was, as Elliot knew, twenty-seven and had always been handsome rather than pretty. But to-night she had a colour in her cheeks and a light in her brown eyes and a smile upon her lips, which made him forget the strong features. Before, it had been the bone structure which had been noticeable. “She’s a demned fine gel,” her father used to say of her, “but, by Gad, she’ll look like a horse by the time she’s forty!” Well, forty was still a long way off and it was the warmth and softness of her flesh which now caught and held the eye.

“Mr. Elliot,” she said as she gave him her hand, “we have no company for you except our poor selves. You are our first visitor and we treat you as one of the family.”

“Lady Frances,” Elliot answered, very much flattered as he bowed over her hand, “you could do nothing more gracious.”

“And Julian,” she continued, “insisted on staying up beyond his bed time specially to welcome you.”

Rather shyly the boy who had sung came forward from the embrasure of the high round-headed window. Mr. Elliot would not have known him again, so great a difference the three years had made. He had been small then, and though he had not really outgrown his age, the slenderness of his figure and his long, straight legs gave to him a greater look of height than he possessed. Moreover he had grown beautiful. Mr. Elliot could think of no other word. He had the beauty of a Greek statue—a broad forehead; a nose, straight with nostrils which a sculptor might have carved, ran down from it without a notch at the root to the short upper lip; a mouth wide enough to show an unspoilt range of white teeth; and a jaw with the clean curve of the moon’s sickle. It would have been a face too regular but for its lively expression and the eyes, which were at the first view enormous. They were of a deep violet and set wide apart between dark lashes as long and silky as a girl’s.

“The boy Paris on Mount Ida,” Mr. Elliot said to himself. “Well, his voice will crack like a tin kettle, but he’ll still be able to toss the apple to whatever goddess he approves.”

If there was a fault, it was to be found in a delicacy too fine for the world’s rough and tumble. Certainly his dress set him off to advantage. A wealth of brown hair, not as yet tied back by any riband, flowed down to a white collar hemmed with lace and a shirt of white lawn open at the throat. He wore a coat and breeches of black velvet with buttons of cut jet, black silk stockings and shoes with black jet buckles, as though he still was dressed in mourning for his father.

“I was very glad,” he said, “when my sister told me that you were coming to Grest,” and he held out his hand and clasped his visitor’s in a firm grasp. “I wonder if, when my lessons are done to-morrow, I might ride with you for an hour?”

He looked towards Lady Frances for permission and Mr. Elliot wondered whether the boy’s father would not have found this docility a trifle spiritless. Were Admirals made of quite this stuff? Mr. Elliot doubted.

Lady Frances was in something of a hurry to reply; and again Mr. Elliot wondered. Had his own face been a trifle too easy to read?

“Why, of course, Julian. You will have finished by twelve. At half past twelve, Mr. Elliot, if that is agreeable to you, Julian will be free.”

“It will be very agreeable to me,” said Mr. Elliot and Julian thanked him, bade his half-sister good night and went out of the room. Mr. Elliot was inclined to modify his censure. There was something very winning in the boy’s manner, a modesty, a courtesy, and perhaps a quiet will lying undisclosed behind them.

Mr. Elliot, however, was given no time to pursue his reflections. A step sounded on the gravel path and a young man in a coat of brown cloth embroidered with silver passed the window on his way to the door.

“My cousin Henry,” said Frances. “You know him, I think.”

Mr. Elliot didn’t know him from Adam. He saw a tall, strong, handsome animal of a man, with the dark blue eyes of the Scobles, only harder than he remembered in any other of them, and a jaw rather more pronounced and rather redder—a Scoble, he would have said, who never left the table until the bottle of port was tucked away under his waistcoat.

“No, we have never met,” said Henry with a nod which suggested that indeed there was no particular reason why they should have met this evening. And as Gurton announced that supper was ready and Frances led them into the small dining-room, Mr. Elliot began to wonder why after all they were meeting.

“Yes, why was I invited, the first guest of all after the year of mourning was completed?” he pondered. He could imagine no point of sympathy with Henry, and though Frances Scoble had directed the household and sat at the head of the table ever since her father’s second wife had died, he had never been on more than formal terms with her. Undoubtedly the invitation to him was odd and he determined to keep an ear open on the chance of intercepting a reason for it.

But it was his eye which first warned him that there was a reason. For they had no sooner taken their seats at the small, round table than he caught across the candles a slight glance and a little nod made by Henry to Frances. His cousin, however, was less crude in taking up her cue, and she began with a polite question or two to Mr. Elliot on the discomforts of his journey from London and whether he was well rested and what new fashions he could describe to country mice like herself. Mr. Elliot made the proper gallant replies, but Henry broke in upon them impatiently.

“The fashions, my dear coz, which Mr. Elliot noticed in the Mall two days ago are to be sure altogether démodé to-day.”

“He’s a bear, Mr. Elliot,” said Lady Frances, laughing very prettily. “I wonder I put up with him. I lent him the Dower House and I vow there’s only one reason which stops me from taking it away again.”

“And that reason, Madam, so that I may make the most of it?” said Henry with a mocking humility.

“Julian,” said Lady Frances, and with the name both of them put away their frivolity. Lady Frances sighed.

“I am the boy’s guardian. I must do my best. But he’s a heavy charge for an ignorant body like me. He will go to Eton in due course and he has tutors, but how to direct the tutors? I should be in a sad quandary but for my bear of a cousin.”

Mr. Elliot started. It was as much as he could do not to gasp. He certainly stared beyond the time-limit of good manners. In the use of a gun, in the training of a dog, in the schooling of a horse, Henry Scoble would no doubt be an admirable director of tutors. But for Julian, with the wide opportunities awaiting him, someone of a finer culture was required. Mr. Elliot, however, managed to keep his tongue still. He recognized that the boy’s possession of a rare voice and his exquisite use of it had, so far as he himself was concerned, clothed him with a glamour for which there might not be the least justification. Choristers abounded who, once they had slipped out of their cassocks, were just snotty-nosed little ruffians with minds as foul as their voices were divine. No one knew it better than Mr. Elliot who had more than once wasted his charity, beguiled by an anthem. But he was still under the spell of the voice and the gracious manner of Julian Linchcombe. The country should be combed for tutors to educate this paragon. He stammered out:

“Choosing teachers for a lad with a future so important is of course a most delicate matter. One cannot exercise too much care, or seek too experienced advice.”

Mr. Henry Scoble lolled back in his chair and laughed—with enjoyment rather than annoyance.

“Mr. Elliot, my dear cousin,” he said easily to Frances, “does not know that though I hunt four days a week through the winter, I am none the less a Fellow of Oriel and a scholar. Yes, Mr. Elliot, a scholar. If your attention had ever turned to the poet, Propertius—is it too much to suggest that it never has?—you would have found your way made easier by some trumpery notes of mine. I was glad therefore to offer some suggestions for the direction of my young relative’s studies.”

Mr. Elliot was staggered.

“I hadn’t an idea,” he mumbled. “You must forgive me if I seemed to hint that any other advice should be sought; and so——” all his admiration for cultured accomplishment showed in his face—“and so you actually lecture at Oriel?”

Mr. Henry Scoble shrugged his shoulders.

“I do, Mr. Elliot. I am a poor man,” and then he leaned forward and his manner changed altogether.

“But my fortunes are a very small matter compared with those of the boy we are talking about. Latin, Mr. Elliot! You shall give me your opinion upon that in a minute.” It was quite obvious that he would not have given an old frying-pan for Mr. Elliot’s opinion. “In the education of a gentleman, Latin is the first necessity. And not only because Latin makes good tags to a speech, or because the language has a sonority and rhythm which cannot but be of value to one occupying a great position. But above all, because there is a sobriety in Latin authors. Observe that word, if you please, Mr. Elliot. Sobriety! Isn’t it the watchword of the Whigs? And we are a great Whig family, looking forward to the leadership of our chief-to-be, Julian Linchcombe.”

Henry Scoble spoke without bluster but forcibly, leaning forward with his elbows folded upon the mahogany table. There was no longer any indifference in his face or his eyes; and Mr. Elliot, looking round the room where family portraits were framed in the white panels of the walls, understood, or thought that he understood, the spirit in which Henry Scoble spoke.

“For myself,” he said, “I remember that Gaul was divided into three parts and that Virgil sang of arms and the man. And there my Latin comes to a full stop, and, to be honest, I don’t feel a penny the worse for it. But then I don’t belong to a great Whig family.”

“To be sure you don’t,” Henry agreed heartily, and Mr. Elliot was a trifle nettled at being taken up so readily. He was spurred on to put in a word for a subject much nearer to his heart than Latin.

“We ought perhaps not to forget that Julian has a rare and lovely voice.”

Did he notice a sharp flash in the lady’s eyes? A curious hint of a smile, at once amused and disdainful upon her lips? But Mr. Elliot stuck to his point.

“Julian’s father certainly recognized its beauty. He was having it trained under the best advice. Was not Dr. Handel of the Royal Music himself brought down to Grest? And ought you—I have no right of course, beyond what my old friendship with his father gives me, to interfere—ought you not to continue as the father began?”

Frances Scoble tossed her head back impatiently.

“His voice! Not so great a thing perhaps as teachers in want of a fee are inclined to make out, Mr. Elliot,” she cried with, surely, a spice of venom in the words.

Henry slipped swiftly and smoothly in.

“What my cousin means is that the mere graces of life, music, singing, are at this moment not so important. We shall not neglect them. You may be assured of that, Mr. Elliot. But—well—let me put it in a sentence——” and he smiled: he had when he chose the charming smile of the Linchcombe family. “We don’t want a troubadour in the family, do we? So,” and he waved his hands, “the sobriety of the Latins! More of Horace than of the Odyssey. For to tell you the truth—” He broke off and turned to his cousin. “My dear cousin, I think we ought to take Mr. Elliot fully into our confidence, since we are fortunate enough to have him with us.”

Frances nodded her head very definitely. A conjecture flashed in and out of Mr. Elliot’s thoughts. Were these two coming by a devious way to whatever strange cause it was which had prompted their invitation?

“Julian is nervous for his age,” Henry continued. “He has odd fancies. He’s a dreamer of queer, outlandish dreams. He is a little more sensitive to impressions perhaps than he should be.” Mr. Elliot could not find in this farrago of words amongst which Henry was treading, as it were on tiptoe, anything very alarming. “In fact we are rather disturbed,” Henry declared and he turned to his cousin. “Frances, tell Mr. Elliot what happens.”

Lady Frances Scoble threw a glance towards the little ormolu clock which stood on the marble mantelpiece in front of a Hondecoeter picture of a peacock and hens with a stately mansion in the distance.

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “It is almost ten.”

“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean that....” Henry began, and his voice trailed away.

“I shall have to go in any case,” said Frances.

“Well, of course, I am merely the tutor,” observed Mr. Henry. “It’s for you, my dear, altogether.”

Whatever it was, it seemed to James Elliot that they were making a great to-do before they let him into the secret. But for their very manifest concern, he would have believed that they were deliberately engaged in fomenting in him a condition of excitement and expectation.

“At ten, or a little after, every night,” Frances explained, “Julian is seized in his sleep by some sort of horror. If he is alone, he wakens with a scream, a scream of sheer terror. If I am with him in time—and I make it a rule to be—and hold him close and comfort him—it’s the sound of the words as much as their meaning which soothes and quiets him,” she explained with a smile, “why then he never really wakes up at all. He lies back upon his pillow, the fear dies out of his face and he sleeps till morning.”

“Does he never say what waked him—what terrified him?” asked Elliot.

“He remembers nothing the next morning.”

“Not even when you are not at his side, when he wakes screaming?”

“Not even then.”

Mr. Elliot, in his turn, was disturbed. Hysteria? But the boy wasn’t hysterical. Mr. Elliot was indignant that so outrageous an idea should have occurred to him.

Frances Scoble got up from her chair.

“You are going up to him?” Elliot asked.

“Yes. Will you come with me?”

“I was going to ask for your consent.”