The Transformation of Philip Jettan

If you searched among the Downs in Sussex, somewhere between Midhurst and Brighthelmstone, inland a little, and nestling in modest seclusion between two waves of hills, you would find Little Fittledean, a village round which three gentlemen had built their homes. One chose the north side, half a mile away, and on the slope of the Downs. He was Mr. Winton, a dull man with no wife, but two children, James and Jennifer. The second built his house west of the village, not far from the London Road and Great Fittledean. He was one Sir Thomas Jettan. He chose his site carefully, beside a wood, and laid out gardens after the Dutch style. That was way back in the last century when Charles the Second was King, and what had then been a glaring white erection, stark-naked and blatant in its sylvan setting, was now, some seventy years later, a fair place, creeper-hung, and made kindly by the passing of the years. The Jettan who built it became inordinately proud of the house. Never a day passed but he would strut round the grounds, looking at the nude structure from a hundred different points of vantage. It was to be the country seat of the Jettans in their old age; they were to think of it almost as they would think of their children. It was never to be sold; it was to pass from father to son and from son to grandson through countless ages.

On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr. Jettan’s return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.

The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuffbox, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the marketplace, followed by the awestricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition’s coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble requested “John” to “look’ee now at them shoes!” did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored.

Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

“A word with you, sir.”

Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly.

Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared.

“You have seen fit to mock at me, sir⁠—”

“I?” interpolated Bancroft languidly. “My dear sir!”

“⁠—and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object.”

Bancroft’s brows rose higher.

“To⁠—which⁠—you⁠—object.⁠ ⁠…” he echoed softly.

“I trust I make myself clear?” snapped Philip.

Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head.

“Is it possible that you want satisfaction?” he drawled.

“More than that,” retorted Philip. “It is certain.”

Once again he was scrutinised. Mr. Bancroft’s smile grew.

“I do not fight with schoolboys,” he said.

The colour flooded Philip’s face.

“Perhaps because you are afraid,” he said quickly, guarding his temper.

“Perhaps,” nodded Bancroft. “Yet I have not the reputation of a coward.”

Swift as a hawk Philip pounced.

“You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!”

It was Bancroft’s turn to flush.

“I⁠—beg⁠—your⁠—pardon?”

“It is necessary,” bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days.

“You⁠—impudent boy!” gasped Bancroft.

“I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy.”

Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.

“I see you will have it, Mr. Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will.”

Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword.

“I have noticed, Mr. Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. ‘When’ is now, and ‘where’ is yonder!”

That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.

The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a persona grata in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.

Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London’s newest beauty.

She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever.

He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip’s hand clenched slowly on his snuffbox.