CHAPTER IIBROTHER AND SISTER
“Well,” began Lady Kesters, as the door closed, “I suppose you have seen him?”
“I have very much seen him,” replied her brother, who had thrown himself into a chair; “I did a sprint across the park, because I know your ladyship cannot bear to be kept waiting. Everything must be done to the minute in this establishment.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “and you come from a country where time is no object—everything is for ‘To-morrow.’ Now, tell me about Uncle Richard. Was he furious?”
“No; I believe I would have got off better if he had been in a rage. He received me in a ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ frame of mind, spoke as deliberately as if he had written his speech, and learnt it by heart; he meant every word he said.”
“I doubt it,” said his sister, who had been filling the teapot, and now closed the lid with a decisive snap. “Let me hear all you can remember.”
“He said he had done his best for me since I was a kid—his only brother’s son and his heir,—that he had sent me to Eton——”
“As if you didn’t know that!” she interrupted.
“Engineered me into the Service——”
“Yes, yes, yes!” with a wave of her hand. “Tell me something new.”
“He says that he is sick of me and my failures—is that new?”
“What does he propose?” asked Lady Kesters.
“He proposes that, for a change, I should try and get along by myself, and no longer hang on to other people.”
“Well, there is some sense in that.”
“He says that if I continue as I’ve begun, I’ll develop into the awful loafer who haunts men’s clubs, trying to borrow half a sov. from old pals, and worrying them with begging letters.”
“A pretty future foryou, Owen!”
“He swears I must work for my living and earn my daily bread; and that, if, for two years from now, I can maintain myself honourably in this country or the Continent—Asia, Africa, and America are barred—and neither get into debt, prison, or any matrimonial entanglement——” he paused for a moment to laugh.
“Yes, yes,” said his sister impatiently; “and if you comply with all these conditions?”
“He will reinstate me, put me into Wynyard to take the place of his agent, and give me a handsome screw. But if I play the fool, he takes his solemn oath he will leave everything he possesses to a hospital, and all I shall come in for will be the bare estate, an empty house, and an empty title—andthathe hopes to keep me out of for the next thirty years!”
“No doubt he will,” agreed his sister; “we are—bar accidents—a long-lived stock.”
“He also said that he was only fifty-six; he might marry; a Lady Wynyard——”
“No fear of that,” she interposed; “the old servants will never permit it, and never receive her. But how are you to earn your living and your daily bread?”
“That, he declares, is entirelymyaffair. Of course he doesn’t expect much from a wooden-headed duffer like me; he knows I’ve no brains, and no, what he calls ‘initiative or push.’ He doesn’t care a rap if I sweep a crossing or a chimney, as long as I am able to maintain myself, become independent, and learn to walk alone.”
“So that is Uncle Richard’s programme!” said Lady Kesters reflectively. “Now, let’s have some tea,” and she proceeded to pour it out. “The little cakes are cold and stodgy, but try these sandwiches. Martin is away to-night—he had to go to a big meeting in Leeds, and won’t be home. I shall send for your things. I suppose you are at your old quarters in Ryder Street?”
“Yes; they have been awfully decent to me, and kept my belongings when I was away.”
“And you must come here for a week, and we will think out some scheme. I wish you could stay on and make your home here. But you know Martin has the same sort of ideas as Uncle Richard; he began, when he was eighteen, on a pound a week, and made his own way, and thinks every young man should do the same.”
“I agree with him there—though it may sound funny to hear me say so, Sis. I hope you don’t imagine I’ve come back to loaf; I shall be only too glad to be on my own.”
“I suppose you have no money at all?” she inquired, as she replenished his teacup.
“I have fifteen pounds, if you call that nothing, all my London kit, a pair of guns, and a gold watch.”
“But what brought you back so suddenly? You did not half explain to me this morning, when you tumbled from the skies.”
“Well, you see,” he began, as he rose and put downhis cup, “the Estancia I was on was of the wrong sort, as it happened, and a rotten bad one. Uncle Richard was tremendously keen to deport me, and he took hold of the first thing he heard of, some crazy advice from a blithering old club fogey who did not know a blessed thing about the country. The Valencia Estancia, a horse-breeding one, was far away inland—not one of those nearer Buenos Ayres and civilisation,—it belonged to a native. The proprietor, Vincino, was paralysed from a bad fall, and the place was run by a ruffian called Murcia. I did not mind roughing it; it’s a splendid climate, and I liked the life itself well enough. I got my fill of riding, and a little shooting—duck, and a sort of partridge—and I appreciated the freedom from the tall hat and visiting card.”
“You never used many of those!” she interposed.
“No. From the first I never could stand Murcia; he was such an oily scoundrel, and an awful liar; so mean and treacherous and cruel, both to men and animals. He drank a lot of that frightfully strong spirit that’s made out there—fermented cane—and sometimes he was stark mad, knocking the servants and the peons about; and as to the horses, he was a fiend to them. He killed lots of the poor brutes by way of training; lassoed them—and broke their hearts. It made my blood boil, and, as much as I could, I took over the breaking-in business. When I used to jaw him and remonstrate, it made him wild, and he always had his knife into me on the sly.”
“How?”
“The stiffest jobs, the longest days, the largest herds, were naturally for the English ‘Gringo.’”
“What is that?”
“A dog. He never called it to my face—he was toomuch of the cur—but we had several shakes up, and the last wasfinal. One afternoon I caught him half-killing a wretched woman that he said had been stealing coffee. It was pay-day, all the employés, to a man and child, were assembled in the patio—you know what that is? An enclosed courtyard with the house round it. This was a grand old dilapidated Spanish Estancia, with a fine entrance of great iron gates. It was a warm, still sort of afternoon. As I cantered across the campo I heard harrowing shrieks, and, when I rode in, I soon saw what was up! Murcia, crazy with drink, was holding a wretched creature by her hair and belabouring her with a cattle-whip, whilst the crowd looked on, and no one stirred a finger.”
“You did?” leaning forward eagerly.
“Rather! I shouted to him to hold hard, and he only cursed; so I jumped off the horse and went for him straight. He dropped his victim and tried to lay on to me with the whip; but the boot was on the other leg, and I let him have it, I can tell you. It was not a matter of fists, but flogging. My blood was up, and I scourged that blackguard with all my soul and all my strength. He ran round and round the patio yelling, whilst the crowd grinned and approved. I settled some of Murcia’s scores on the spot and paid for many blows and outrages! In the end he collapsed in the dust, grovelling at my feet, blubbering and groaning, ‘a worm and no man.’ I think that’s in the Bible. Yes, I gave that hulking, drunken brute a thrashing that he will never forget—and those who saw it won’t forget it either. Naturally, after such a performance I had to clear. You may do a lot of things out there; you may even shoot a man, but you must never lay hands on an overseer; so I made tracks at once, without pay, bonus, character, or anythingexcept the adoration of the employés, my clothes, and a few pounds. Murcia would have run me in, only he would have shown up badly about the woman. Well, I came down country in a cattle-train, and found I was just short of coin to pay my way home.”
Leila stared into the fire in silence; her warm imagination transported her to the scene her brother had described. She, too, was on the campo, and heard the cries of the woman; she saw the Englishman gallop through the gates, saw the cowardly crowd, the maddened ruffian, the victim, and the punishment!
“But what did you do with your salary?” she asked, after an expressively long pause; “surely you had no way of spending it?”
“That’s true. As I was to have a bonus, you know, on the year, my salary was small, and I got rid of it easily enough.”
“Cards!” she supplemented; “oh, of course. My dear Owen, I’m afraid you are hopeless!”
“Yes, I suppose it’s hereditary! After the day’s work there was nothing to do. All the other chaps gambled, and I could not stand with my hands in my pockets looking on; so I learnt the good old native game of ‘Truco,’ but I had no luck—and lost my dollars.”
“And after your arrival at Buenos Ayres in the cattle-train, what happened?”
“Well, naturally, I had no spare cash to spend in that little Paris: the Calle Florida, and the Café Florian, and Palermo Park, saw nothing ofme, much less the magnificent Jockey Club. I searched about for a cast home! I was determined to get back to the Old Country, for I knew I’d do no good out there—I mean in Buenos Ayres; so I went down to the Digue, where the big liners lie, andcadged for a job. I believe they are pretty sick of chaps asking for a lift home, and I had some difficulty in getting a berth; but, after waiting several days, I got hold of a captain to listen to me. I offered to stoke.”
“Owen!”
“Yes; but he said, ‘You look like a stoker, don’t you? Why, you’re a gentleman! You couldn’t stand the engine-room for an hour. However, as I see you are not proud and they are short of hands in the stewards’ pantry, they might take you on to wash plates.’”
Lady Kesters made no remark; her expression was sufficiently eloquent.
“‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll do my little best.’ So I was made over to the head steward. We carried a full number of passengers that trip, and, when one of the saloon waiters fell sick, I was promoted into his place, as I was clean and civil. Needless to say, I was thankful to get away from the horrors of greasy plates and the fag of cleaning knives. I can wait pretty well, the ladies liked me—yes, and I liked them—and when we docked at Southampton yesterday, Owen, as they called me, received nearly six pounds in tips, not to speak of a steamer chair and a white umbrella!”
As he concluded, he walked over to the fire and stood with his back to it. His sister surveyed him reflectively; she was thinking how impossible it was to realise that her well-bred, smart-looking brother, in his admirably cut clothes, and air of easy self-possession, had, within twenty-four hours, been a steward at the beck and call of the passengers on a liner. However, all she said was—
“So at any rate you have made a start, and begun to earn money already.”
“Oh, that’s nothing new. I was never quite broke;”and, diving into his pocket, he produced a little parcel, which he tossed into her lap.
“For me?”
“For who else?”
He watched her attentively as she untied the narrow bit of red and yellow ribbon, unfolded a flat box, and discovered a beautiful plaque or clasp in old Spanish paste. The design was exquisite, and the ornament flashed like a coruscation of Brazilian diamonds.
“Oh, Owen, how perfect!” she gasped; “but how dare you? It must have cost a fortune—as much as your passage money,” and she looked up at him interrogatively.
“Never mind; it was a bargain. I picked it up in a queer, poky little shop, and it’s real old, old Spanish—time of Ferdinand and Isabella they said—and I felt I’d like to take something home to you; it will look jolly well on black, eh?”
“Do you know it’s just the sort of thing that I have been aching to possess,” she said, now holding it against her gown. “If you had searched for a year you couldn’t have given me anything I liked so much—so beautiful in itself, so rare and ancient, and so uncommon that not one of my dear friends can copy it. Oh, it’s atreasure”—standing up to look at her reflection as she held the jewel against her bodice—“but all the same, it was wicked of you to buy it!”
“There are only the two of us, Sis, and why shouldn’t I give myself that pleasure?”
“What a pretty speech!” and she patted his arm approvingly.
At this moment Payne entered, salver in hand.
“A telegram for you, my lady.”
“Oh,” picking it up, and tearing it open, “it’sfrom Martin. He is detained till Saturday—three whole days;” then, turning to the butler, she said, “You can take away the tea-table.”
As soon as the tea-things were removed, and Payne and his satellite had departed, Lady Kesters produced a gold case, selected a cigarette, settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, and said—
“Now, Owen, light up, and let us have a pow-wow! Have you any plan in your head?”
“No,” he answered, “I’m afraid my head is, as usual, pretty empty, and of course this ultimatum of Uncle Richard’s has been a bit of a facer; I was in hopes he’d give me another chance.”
“What sort of chance?”
“Something in South Africa.”
“Something in South Africa has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has ruined lots of young men,” she said; “you would do no good there, O. You haven’t enough push, originality, or cheek; I believe you would find yourself a tram conductor in Cape Town.”
“Then what about India? I might get a billet on some tea estate—yes—and some shooting as well!”
“Tea-planters’ assistants, as far as I can gather, don’t have much time for shooting. There is the tea-picking to look after, and the coolies to overseer in all weathers. I believe the work in the rains is awful and the pay is poor—you’d be much more likely to get fever than shooting. Have you any other scheme?”
She glanced at her brother, who was lying back in an arm-chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed on the fire. Yes, Owen was undeniably good to look at, with his clean-shaven, clear-cut face, well-knit figure, and length of limb. He shook his head, but after a moment said—
“Now let us have your ideas, Sis. You are always a sure draw!”
“What about matrimony?” she asked composedly, and without raising her eyes.
He turned and surveyed her with a stare of ironical amusement.
“On the principle that what is not enough for one will support two—eh?”
“How can you be so silly! I don’t mean love in a cottage; I’m thinking of an heiress. There are several, so to speak, on the market, and I believe I could marry you off remarkably well, if you were not too critical; there is Miss Goldberger—a really good sort—enormously rich, an orphan, and hideous to the verge of fascination. She is in the racing set—and——”
“No, thank you, Sis,” he broke in; “I’d rather drive a ’bus or motor any day than live on my wife’s fortune. If I married one of your rich friends I should hate it, and I guarantee that she’d soon hateme; anyway, I’m not keen on getting married. So, as the young men in shops say, ‘and the next article, please?’”
“Of course I know I need not again waste my breath talking to you of business. Martin got you a capital opening in Mincing Lane, and you threw it up; he’d taken a lot of trouble, and he is rather sore about it still. He fancies you look down on the City.”
“I? He never made a greater mistake! The City would soon look down on me. I’m no good at figures; I’ve no business ability or smart alacrity. If I had not taken myself off, I’d soon have been chucked out; besides, I never could stick in an office all day from ten to six. I’d much rather wash plates! I want something that will keep me in the open air all the time, rain or shine; and if I had to do with horses, so muchthe better. How about a place as groom—a breaker-in of young hunters?”
“Not to be thought of!” she answered curtly.
“No?” then drawing out another cigarette, “do you know, I’ve half a mind to enlist. You see, I know something of soldiering—and I like it. I’d soon get my stripes, and for choice I’d pick the ‘Death and Glory Boys.’”
“Yes; you may like soldiering as an officer, with a fair allowance, a couple of hunters, and polo ponies; but I’m not sure that Trooper Wynyard would care for stables, besides his drill and work, and I may be wrong, but I think you have a couple of troop horses to do up.”
“Oh, I could manage all right! I’m rather handy with horses, though I must confess the bronchos I’ve been riding lately did not get much grooming.”
“No, no, Owen, I’m dead against enlisting, remember that,” she said authoritatively. “I shall go and interview Uncle Richard to-morrow morning, and have a tooth-and-nail combat on your behalf, find out if he means to stick to his intention, or ifIcan’t persuade him to give you a job on the estate, say as assistant agent, that would suit you?”
“You’re awfully clever, Sis,” said the young man, now rising and leaning against the chimneypiece, “and in every respect the head of the family. It’s downright wonderful how successfully you manage other people’s affairs, and give one a push here and a hand there. I am aware that you have immense and far-reaching—er—influence. You have been the making of Kesters.”
His sister dismissed the statement with an impatient jerk of her cigarette.
“Oh yes, you have,” he went on doggedly. “He wasformerly a common or garden wealthy man, whose daytime was divided between meals and business; now he’s a K.C.B., sits on all sorts of boards, has a fine place in the country, shoots a bit, is a Deputy-Lieutenant, and I don’t know what all—andyou’vedone it! But there is one person you cannot manage or move, and that is Uncle Richard; he is like a stone figure that all the wind and sun and rain may beat on, and he never turns a hair.”
“How you do mix your metaphors!” she exclaimed; “who ever saw a stone image with hair upon it! Well,” rising to stand beside him, “I shall see whatIcan do in the morning. Now, let us put the whole thing out of our heads and have a jolly evening. Shall we go to a theatre? I suppose you’ve not been inside one since you were last in town?”
“Oh yes, I was at theatres in Buenos Ayres, the Theatre Doria, a sort of music hall, where I saw some ripping dancing.”
“I’ll telephone for stalls at something. You may as well have all the fun you can before you start off to plough your lonely furrow.”
“It’s awfully good of you, Sis. I’m a frightful nuisance to the family—something between a bad penny and a black sheep!”
“No, Owen, you know perfectly well you are neither,” she protested, as she lit another cigarette. “You mentioned just now there are only the two of us, and it would be rather strange if we did not stick by one another. And there is this to be said, that although you’ve been wild and extravagant, and your gambling and practical joking were shocking, all the time you remain a gentleman; and there are two things in your favour—you don’t drink——”
“No, thank God!” he responded, with emphasis.
“As far as I know you have never been mixed up with women—eh, Owen?” and she looked at him steadily.
“No. To tell you the truth, I give them a wide berth. I’ve seen some pretty awful affairs they had a hand in. To be candid, I’m a little shy of your sex.”
“That is funny, Owen,” she replied, “considering it was on account of a woman you have just been thrown out of a job.”
“You could hardly expect a man to stand by and see a brute like Murcia knocking a poor creature about—half-killing her—and never interfere!”
“No, of course; but you must not make the mistake of being too chivalrous—chivalry is costly—and it is my opinion that it has cost you a good deal already. That detestable de Montfort was not the first who let you in, or persuaded you to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. Come now, own up—confess to the others.”
“No—no”—and he smiled—he had a charming smile—“there is such a thing as honour among thieves.”
“That’s all very noble and generous, my dear brother, but some of the thieves werenothonourable.”
Her dear brother made no reply; he was staring fixedly into the fire and thinking of Hugo de Montfort. How little had he imagined, when he backed Hugo’s bill, that the scribbling of his signature would make such an awful change in his own life!
Hugo and he had been at Eton in the same house; they had fagged together, sat side by side in chapel, and frequently shared the same scrapes. Later they had lost sight of one another, as Owen had struggled into the Service and gone out to India. Some yearslater, when stationed at the depôt, he and de Montfort had come across one another once more.
Hugo de Montfort was a self-possessed young man, with sleek black hair and a pair of curiously unreadable grey eyes: an idler about town—clever, crafty, unscrupulous, and much given to cards and racing.
He welcomed his old pal Wynyard with enthusiasm—and secretly marked him for his own. Wynyard—so said report—was a nailing rider, a good sort, popular, and known to be the nephew and heir of a rich, unmarried uncle; so he played the rôle of old schoolfellow and best pal for all it was worth.
The plausible, insidious scoundrel, who lived by his wits, was on his last legs—though he kept the fact a secret—was seen everywhere, carried a bold front, and owned a magnificent 60 h.p. motor, which was useful in more ways than one. He was staying at the Métropôle at Folkestone, and, struck by a bright idea—so he declared—motored over to Canterbury one fine Sunday morning, and carried off his friend to lunch.
As they sat smoking and discussing recent race meetings, weights, and jockeys, de Montfort suddenly put down his cigar and said—
“I say, look here, Owen, old man. I’m in rather a tight fix this week. I want two thousand to square a bookie—and, like the real sporting chap you are—will you back my name on a bill?”
Owen’s expression became unusually grave; backing a bill was an iniquity hitherto unknown to him. Uncle Dick had recently paid up handsomely, and he had given certain promises; and, indeed, had curtailed his expenses, sold two of his ponies, and had made up his mind to keep strictly within his allowance.
“Of course it’s a mere form,” pursued de Montfort,in his swaggering, off-hand way, “I swear to you. Do you think I’d ask you, if it was not safe as a church! I’ll have the coin in a fortnight; but just at the moment I’m terribly short, and you know yourself what racing debts mean. So I come to you, my old pal, before any one; you are such a rare, good, generous, open-handed sort! Don’t for a moment suppose thatyouwill be responsible,” declared this liar; “I’ll take up the bill when it falls due; I’d as soon let in my own mother as a pal like you.”
In short, Hugo was so urgent and so plausible, that his victim was persuaded and carried away by eloquence and old memories, accompanied de Montfort to a writing-table, where he signed O. St. J. Wynyard—and repented himself before his signature had been blotted!
Two days later Owen received a beautiful silver cigarette-case, inscribed, as a token of friendship from de Montfort, and this was succeeded by an alarming silence. When the time approached for the bill to fall due, Wynyard wrote anxious epistles to his old schoolfellow—who appeared to be one of the crowd who believe that letters answer themselves! Then he went up to town and sought him at his rooms and club; no one could give him any tidings of Hugo beyond the fact that he was abroad—a wide and unsatisfactory address. He sent distracted telegrams to some of the runaway’s former haunts; there was no reply. The fatal day arrived, and Owen was compelled to interview his uncle and make a clean breast of the whole business; and his uncle was furious to the verge of apoplexy.
“They used to say,” he shouted, “put the fool of the family into the army; butmyfool shall not remain in the Service! I’ll pay up the two thousand you’ve beenrobbed of for the sake of my name—and out you go! Send in your papers to-day!”
Lady Kesters was contemplating her face in the overmantle, which also reflected her brother’s unusually grave visage.
“Owen,” she said, “what a pity it is that I hadn’t your looks and you my brains.”
They presented a contrast, as they examined one another in the glass. The woman’s dark, irregular face, her keen, concentrated expression; the man with clear-cut features, sleepy, deep-set grey eyes, and close-cropped light brown hair.
“I think you are all right as you are, Sis,” he remarked, after a reflective pause.
“But you are not,” she snapped. “Now, if you had my head. Oh, how I long to be a man! I’d have gone into Parliament. I’d have helped to manage the affairs of a nation instead of the affairs of a family. I’d have worked and slaved and made myself a name—yes, and gone far!”
“What’s the good of going far?” he asked, in a lazy voice.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, with a touch of passion, “you have no ambition; you don’t even know what the word means! Look at the men in the Commons, who have worked themselves up from nothing to be powers in the land, whose influence is far-reaching, whose voices are heard at the ends of the earth. What would be your ambition, come now?” and she surveyed him with sparkling eyes.
“Certainly not to go into Parliament,” he answered, “and sit in the worst atmosphere in London for eight months of the year.”
“Well, at least it’s an electrical atmosphere, charged with vitality! And your ambition?” she persisted.
“To win the Grand National, riding my own horse, since you must know.”
“Pooh!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers with a gesture of scorn, “and what a paltry aim!—the yells of a raving mob, a ‘para’ in the papers, and the chance of breaking your neck.”
“Better than breaking something else! I’m told that a political career, with its incessant work, crushing disappointments, worry, and fag, has broken many a fellow’s heart.”
“Heart! Nonsense; I don’t believe you have one. Well, now, as we are dining early, you had better see about your things from Ryder Street, and I will go and ’phone for stalls forThe Giddy Girl.”