Cursed by a Fortune. Fenn George Manville

“Close upon two. You’d like a turn with us, Harry, fishing or shooting?”

      “I? No. I’m tired with my walk, and I’ve got to do it again this evening.”

      “No, you haven’t,” said Claud, sulkily; “you know you’ll be driven back.”

      “Oh, yes,” said Garstang; “your uncle will not let you walk. Better come, Harry.”

      “Thanks, no, sir; I’ll stop and talk to Aunt and Kate, here.”

      “No, my dear; we must not tire Kate out, she’ll have to go and lie down this afternoon.”

      “Oh, very well then, Aunt; I’ll stop and talk to you and Uncle.”

      “Then you’ll have to come round the farms with me if you do,” growled Wilton.

      “Thanks, no; I’ve walked enough through the mud for one day.”

      “Let him have his own way, Claud, my lad,” cried Garstang. “We must be off. See you down to dinner, I hope, Kate, my child?”

      She smiled at him.

      “Yes, I hope to be well enough to come down,” she replied.

      “That’s right; and we’ll see what we can get to boast about when we come back. Come along, boy.”

      Claud was ready to hesitate, but he could not back out, and he followed Garstang, the young men’s eyes meeting in a defiant gaze.

      But he turned as he reached the door.

      “Didn’t say good-bye to you, Mamma. All right,” he cried, kissing her boisterously. “I won’t let them shoot me, and I’ll mind and not tumble out of the boat. I say,” he whispered, “don’t let him get Kate alone.”

      “Oh, that’s your game, is it?” said Harry to himself; “treats it with contempt. All right, proud step-father; you haven’t all the brains in the world.”

      He followed the gentlemen into the hall, and then stood at the door to see them off, hearing Garstang say familiarly: “Let’s show them what we can do, Harry, my lad. It’s just the day for the pike. Here, try one of these; they tell me they are rather choice.”

      “Oh, I shall light my pipe,” said the young man sulkily.

      “Wise man, as a rule; but try one of these first, and if you don’t like it you can throw it away.”

      Claud lit the proffered cigar rather sulkily, and they went off; while Harry, after seeing Wilton go round to the stables, went back into the hall, and was about to enter the drawing-room, but a glance down at his muddy boots made him hesitate.

      He could hear the voice of Mrs Wilton as she talked loudly to her niece, and twice over he raised his hand to the door knob, but each time lowered it; and going back into the dining-room, he rang the bell.

      “Can I have my boots brushed?” he said to the footman.

      “Yes, sir, I’ll bring you a pair of slippers.”

      “Oh, no, I’ll come to the pantry and put my feet up on a chair.”

      The man did not look pleased at this, but he led the way to his place, fetched the blacking and brushes, and as he manipulated them he underwent a kind of cross-examination about the household affairs, answering the first question rather shortly, the rest with a fair amount of eagerness. For the visitor’s hand had stolen into his pocket and come out again with half-a-crown, which he used to rasp the back of the old Windsor chair on which he rested his foot, and then, balancing it on one finger, he tapped it softly, making it give forth a pleasant jingling sound that was very grateful to the man’s ear, for he brushed away most diligently, blacked, polished, breathed on the leather, and brushed again.

      “Keep as good hours as ever?” said Dasent, after several questions had been put.

      “Oh, yes, sir. Prayers at ha’-past nine, and if there’s a light going anywhere with us after ten the governor’s sure to see it and make a row. He’s dreadful early, night and morning, too.”

      “Yes, he is very early of a morning, I noticed. Well, it makes the days longer.”

      “Well, sir, it do; but one has to be up pretty sharp to get his boots done and his hot water into his room by seven, for if it’s five minutes past he’s there before you, waiting, and looking as black as thunder. My predecessor got the sack, they say, for being quarter of an hour late two or three times, and it isn’t easy to be ready in weather like this.”

      “What, dark in the mornings?”

      “Oh, no, sir, I don’t mean that. It’s his boots. He gets them that clogged and soaked that I have to wash ’em overnight and put ’em to the kitchen fire, and if that goes out too soon it’s an awful job to get ’em to shine. They don’t have a hot pair of feet in ’em like these, sir. Your portmanteau coming on by the carrier?”

      “Oh, no, I go back to-night. And that reminds me – have they got a good dog-cart in the village?”

      “Dog-cart, sir?” said the man, with a laugh; “not here. The baker’s got a donkey-cart, and there’s plenty of farmers’ carts. That’s all there is near.”

      “I thought so, but I’ve been here so little lately.”

      “But you needn’t mind about that, sir. Master’s sure to order our trap to be round to take you to the station, and Tom Johnson’ll be glad enough to drive you.”

      “Oh, yes; of course; but I like to be independent. I daresay I shall walk back.”

      “I wouldn’t, sir, begging your pardon, for it’s an awkward road in the dark. Tell you what, though, sir, if you did, there’s the man at Barber’s Corner, at the little pub, two miles on the road. He has a very good pony and trap. He does a bit of chicken higgling round the country. You mention my name, sir, and he’d be glad enough to drive you for a florin or half-a-crown.”

      “Ah, well, we shall see,” said Dasent, putting down his second leg. “Look a deal better for the touch-up. Get yourself a glass.”

      “Thankye, sir. Much obliged, sir. But beg your pardon, sir, I’ll just give Tom Johnson a ’int and he’ll have the horse ready in the dog-cart time enough for you. He’ll suppose it’ll be wanted. It’ll be all right, sir. I wouldn’t go tramping it on a dark night, sir, and it’s only doing the horse good. They pretty well eat their heads off here sometimes.”

      “No, no, certainly not,” said Dasent. “Thank you, though, er – Samuel, all the same.”

      “Thank you, sir,” said the man, and the donor of half-a-crown went back through the swing baize-covered door, and crossed the hall.

      “Needn’t ha’ been so proud; but p’raps he ain’t got another half-crown. Lor’, what a gent will do sooner than be under an obligation!”

      Even that half-crown seemed to have been thrown away, for upon the giver entering the drawing-room it was to find it empty, and after a little hesitation he returned to the hall, where he was just in time to encounter the footman with a wooden tray, on his way to clear away the lunch things.

      “Is your mistress going out?” he said. “There is no one in the drawing-room.”

      “Gone upstairs to have her afternoon nap, sir,” said the man, in a low tone. “I suppose Miss Wilton’s gone up to her room, too?”

      Dasent nodded, took his hat, and went out, lit a cigar, and began walking up and down, apparently admiring the front of the old, long, low, red-brick house, with its many windows and two wings covered with wistaria and roses. One window – that at the end of the west wing – took his attention greatly, and he looked up at it a good deal before slowly making his way round to the garden, where he displayed a great deal of interest in the vineries and the walls, where a couple of men were busy with their ladders, nailing.

      Here he stood watching them for some minutes – the deft way in which they used shreds and nails to rearrange the thin bearing shoots of peach and plum.

      After