Arthur Weigall - Burning Sands

“I tell you I was tight,” he answered petulantly. “And besides, what right had you to be with Lizette? She belongs to the regiment.”

“She was good enough to have supper with me,” Daniel answered, and there was an unmistakable menace in his voice. “Please leave her out of the question.”

Lord Barthampton laughed. “I suppose you feel a bit struck on her this morning.”

Daniel suddenly rose to his feet; and his cousin, startled by the look in his face, sprang from his chair, and placed his hand on the bell on the wall behind him.

“Sit down, Cousin Daniel,” he sneered, “or I’ll ring the bell and have you thrown out by the guard.”

Daniel shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his seat. “There’s nothing to be timid about,” he replied, “if you’re careful what you say. I tell you again I apologize for my part in last night’s affair: I’m always ashamed of myself when I’m rough with anybody. I’ve come here to talk about family business, so you’d better sit down too.”

He pulled out his pipe, and began to fill it, while Charles Barthampton, with an awkward air of unconcern, sat heavily down once more.

“Family business, is it?” he growled. “I suppose you’re going to claim some money or something. Well, your name was mentioned in my father’s will, if you want to know, but he didn’t leave you anything.”

“He sent me a copy of the will last year, just before he died,” Daniel answered, unmoved.

His cousin glanced quickly at him. “Did he really?” he remarked. “That was odd, as he left you nothing; but he was a bit strange always. I don’t see what it had got to do with you, though. Your father, his brother, died years ago, didn’t he? And your mother hardly knew him.”

Daniel lit his pipe. “You forget,” he said, “that your father and I had a couple of months shooting together on the Peace River, three or four years ago, while you were in India. We became good friends, and I saw him in England afterwards.”

Lord Barthampton nodded, and was silent. He puffed viciously at his cigar; then, as though deciding that there might be some call for diplomacy, he pointed to the table. “Have a drink?” he said.

“No, thanks,” his visitor answered.

“Well, what the Hell do you want?” He was becoming exasperated.

Daniel looked gravely at him. “I want you to turn over a new leaf,” he said. “Now that you’ve inherited the property, and now that you’re head of the family, you’ve got a lot of responsibilities.”

“That’s my own business, not yours,” muttered his cousin, again grunting loudly.

“No, it’s my affair, too,” Daniel answered. “You’re not married; you have no son. As things stand at present I’m the next of kin. I’m your heir.”

The other uttered a short laugh. “Oh, I see,” he scoffed. “You’re banking on my drinking myself to death, or something, before I can become a proud father, eh? You wanted to have a look at me: and I suppose you’re disappointed to find I’m in the pink. You’d rather fancy yourself as Daniel Lane, Earl of Barthampton.” He made a gesture of contempt. “A pretty sight you’d make in the House of Lords! I wonder they even let you into the barracks!”

Daniel laughed with genuine amusement. “They thought I’d come to mend your camera.”

Lord Barthampton suddenly leapt to his feet. “God!” he exclaimed. “Where the Hell is that man?” He rang the bell furiously. “Why the blasted Hell don’t they come when I send for them?”

“Are you in a hurry to have it mended?” asked Daniel mildly.

“Of course I am!” snapped his cousin.

“Then why didn’t you take it round to the shop, yourself, instead of going into tantrums like a baby?”

His Lordship stood stock still, and stared at Daniel, like an infuriated bull. “I wish to God I knew why you were sitting here in my room!” he roared. “Why don’t you go?”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” he snorted.

The knock was repeated.

“Come in, confound you!” he shouted, and thereat a soldier entered. “Are you deaf? Send somebody over to the camera place at once, and tell them that if they don’t attend to my orders I’ll break every damned thing in the shop. D’you hear?”

“In other words,” said Daniel, turning to the soldier, “say Lord Barthampton presents his compliments, and would be very grateful if they would hustle a bit.”

His cousin turned on him as the soldier, prompted by natural tact, speedily left the room. “Will you kindly mind your own business!” he snapped.

“How Lord Barthampton behaves is my business,” Daniel answered sternly. “Now, sit down there,” he added peremptorily, “and listen to me.”

The infuriated man stood where he was, breathing hard and biting at his cigar.

“Sit down, I said!” Daniel repeated; and now there was a ring of command in his voice at which the other started. He evidently had not forgotten last night.

“Oh, very well,” he replied, and flung himself into his chair.

Daniel leant forward and drew a long, type-written letter from his pocket. “This,” he said, “is a copy of your father’s last letter to me.”

“If he promised you any money,” the other interjected, “you won’t get it.”

Daniel took no notice. “I won’t trouble you with the first pages of the letter,” he remarked. “They just tell an old man’s disappointment in his son, and his fears that you will not only ruin yourself, but also sully the name and squander the estate. ‘Now, Daniel,’ he writes, ‘I am going to put the matter entirely into your hands, and to rely on your honour to carry out my wishes. In spite of my son’s shortcomings I love him for his mother’s sake, and it is my earnest desire that he should be a worthy representative of our line. If, however, you find that he is hopelessly going to the bad, I herewith place the documentary evidence in your hands by means of which you can turn him out in favour of yourself.’”

“What’s he mean?” exclaimed his cousin, half rising from his chair. “It’s forgery – it’s a trick or something!” His voice was unsteady.

Daniel, pipe in mouth, continued quietly to read: “‘I regret to say that, as these papers will show, my son was born out of wedlock. You are aware, no doubt, that I met my wife in South Africa, when I had a farm there, some years before I even expected to come into the title; but, except you and I, no living person knows that Charles was born six months before our marriage. I now leave the secret entirely in your discretion, knowing that you will only reveal it if you feel that I should wish you to do so.’”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Lord Barthampton. “It’s blackmail!”

“No,” said Daniel. “There’s no getting over it. The documents are all in order. You’re only Lord Barthampton on sufferance.”

His cousin sank back in his chair. His cigar had gone out, and he flung it on the ground. Then he leant forward and rested his head in his hands, scratching his red ear with one finger. In this attitude he appeared fat, unpleasant, and altogether devoid of dignity.

At length he looked up, sullenly, with a sort of cunning in his face. “How much do you want for those papers?” he asked.

Daniel sucked at his pipe for a few moments. “I want rather a stiff price,” he declared at length.

“What?” said his cousin, in a dull voice.

Daniel fixed his eyes upon him. “Your reformation,” he said.

“Oh, go to Hell!” was the reply, and Daniel rather liked him for it. He felt uncomfortable in a mentorial rôle.

“Look here,” he said, “let’s understand what your father meant.”

Charles Barthampton got up and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda. “If that letter’s genuine,” he muttered, “there’s no understanding him.”