Cursed by a Fortune. Fenn George Manville

Leigh came? I’m sure it would do poor Kate a lot of good.”

      “And Claud, too, I suppose.”

      “Claud?”

      “Ugh! You stupid old woman! Isn’t she young and pretty? And artful, too, I’ll be bound; poor Doctor’s young sisters always are.”

      “Are they, dear?”

      “Of course they are; and before she’d been here five minutes she’d be making eyes at that boy, and you know he’s just like gunpowder.”

      “James, dear, you shouldn’t.”

      “I was just as bad at his age – worse perhaps;” and Mr James Wilton, the stern, sage Squire of Northwood Manor, J.P., chairman of the Quarter Sessions, and several local institutions connected with the morals of the poor, chuckled softly, and very nearly laughed.

      “James, dear, I’m surprised at you.”

      “Humph! Well, boys will be boys. You know what he is.”

      “But do you really think – ”

      “Yes, I do really think, and I wish you would too. Kate does not take to our boy half so well as I should like to see, and nothing must occur to set her against him. It would be madness.”

      “Well, it would be very disappointing if she married anyone else.”

      “Disappointing? It would be ruin. So be careful.”

      “Oh, yes, dear, I will indeed. I have tried to talk to her a little about what a dear good boy Claud is, and – why, Claud, dear, how long have you been standing there?”

      “Just come. Time to hear you say what a dear good boy I am. Won’t father believe it?”

      Chapter Six

      Claud Wilton, aged twenty, with his thin pimply face, long narrow jaw, and closely-cropped hair, which was very suggestive of brain fever or imprisonment, stood leering at his father, his appearance in no wise supporting his mother’s high encomiums as he indulged in a feeble smile, one which he smoothed off directly with his thin right hand, which lingered about his lips to pat tenderly the remains of certain decapitated pimples which redly resented the passage over them that morning of an unnecessary razor, which laid no stubble low.

      The Vicar of the Parish had said one word to his lady re Claud Wilton – a very short but highly expressive word that he had learned at college. It was “cad,” – and anyone who had heard it repeated would not have ventured to protest against its suitability, for his face alone suggested it, though he did all he could to emphasise the idea by adopting a horsey, collary, cuffy style of dress, every article of which was unsuited to his physique.

      “Has Henry Dasent gone?”

      “Yes, guvnor, and precious glad to go. You were awfully cool to him, I must say. He said if it wasn’t for his aunt he’d never darken the doors again.”

      “And I hope he will not, sir. He is no credit to your mother.”

      “But I think he means well, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively. “It is not his fault. My poor dear sister did spoil him so.”

      “Humph! And she was not alone. Look here, Claud, I will not have him here. I have reasons for it, and he, with his gambling and racing propensities, is no proper companion for you.”

      “P’raps old Garstang says the same about me,” said the young man, sulkily.

      “Claud, my dear, for shame,” said Mrs Wilton. “You should not say such things.”

      “I don’t care what John Garstang says; I will not have his boy here. Insolent, priggish, wanting in respect to me, and – and – he was a deal too attentive to Kate.”

      “Oh, my dear, did you think so?” cried Mrs Wilton.

      “Yes, madam, I did think so,” said her husband with asperity, “and, what was ten times worse, you were always leaving them together in your blundering way.”

      “Don’t say such things to me, dear, before Claud.”

      “Then don’t spend your time making mistakes. Just come, have you, sir?”

      “Oh, yes, father, just come,” said the young man, with an offensive grin.

      “You heard more than you said, sir,” said the Squire, “so we may as well have a few words at once.”

      “No, no, no, my dear; pray, pray don’t quarrel with Claud now; I’m sure he wants to do everything that is right.”

      “Be quiet, Maria,” cried the Squire, angrily.

      “All right, mother; I’m not going to quarrel,” said the son.

      “Of course not I only want Claud to understand his position. Look here, sir, you are at an age when a bo – , when a man doesn’t understand the value of money.”

      “Oh, I say, guv’nor! Come, I like that.”

      “It’s quite true, sir. You boys only look upon money as something to spend.”

      “Right you are, this time.”

      “But it means more, sir – power, position, the respect of your fellows – everything.”

      “Needn’t tell me, guv’nor; I think I know a thing or two about tin.”

      “Now, suppose we leave slang out of the matter and talk sensibly, sir, about a very important matter.”

      “Go on ahead then, dad; I’m listening.”

      “Sit down then, Claud.”

      “Rather stand, guv’nor; stand and grow good, ma.”

      “Yes, my dear, do then,” said Mrs Wilton, smiling at her son fondly. “But listen now to what papa says; it really is very important.”

      “All right, mother; but cut it short, father, my horse is waiting and I don’t want him to take cold.”

      “Of course not, my boy; always take care of your horse. I will be very brief and to the point, then. Look here, Claud, your cousin, Katherine – ”

      “Oh! Ah, yes; I heard she was ill. What does the Doctor say?”

      “Never mind what the Doctor says. It is merely a fit of depression and low spirits. Now this is a serious matter. I did drop hints to you before. I must be plain now about my ideas respecting your future. You understand?”

      “Quite fly, dad. You want me to marry her.”

      “Exactly. Of course in good time.”

      “But ain’t I ‘owre young to marry yet,’ as the song says?”

      “Years do not count, my boy,” said his father, majestically. “If you were ten years older and a weak, foolish fellow, it would be bad; but when it is a case of a young man who is bright, clever, and who has had some experience of the world, it is different.”

      Mrs Wilton, who was listening intently to her husband’s words, bowed her head, smiled approval, and looked with the pride of a mother at her unlicked cub.

      But Claud’s face wrinkled up, and he looked inquiringly at his elder.

      “I say, guv’nor,” he said, “does this mean chaff?”

      “Chaff? Certainly not, sir,” said the father sternly. “Do I look like a man who would descend to – to – to chaff, as you slangly term it, my own son?”

      “Not a bit of it, dad; but last week you told me I was the somethingest idiot you ever set eyes on.”

      “Claud!”

      “Well, he did, mother, and he used that favourite word of his before it. You know,” said the youth, with a grin.

      “Claud, my dear, you shouldn’t.”

      “I didn’t, mother; it was the dad. I never do use it except in the stables or to the dogs.”

      “Claud,