George Fenn - Cursed by a Fortune

“A hundred and fifty thousand pounds!” cried Wilton. “Curse you, I should like to give you a hundred and fifty thousand of those.”

Within half an hour the dog-cart bearing John Garstang and his portmanteau was grating over the gravel of the drive, and as he passed the further wing he looked up at an open window where Kate was standing pale and still.

He raised his hat to her as he passed, but she did not stir, only said farewell to him with her eyes.

But as the vehicle disappeared among the trees of the avenue she shrank away, to stand thinking of her position, of Garstang’s words, and how it seemed now that her girlish life had come to an end that day. For she felt that she was alone, and that henceforth she must knit herself together to fight the battle of her life, strong in her womanly defence, for her future depended entirely upon herself.

And through the rest of that unhappy afternoon and evening, as she sat there, resisting all requests to come down, and taking nothing but some slight refreshment brought up by her maid, she was trying to solve the problem constantly before her:

What should she do now?

Kate was not the only one at the Manor House who declined to come down to dinner.

The bell had rung, and after Mrs Wilton had been up twice to her niece’s room, and reported the ill success of her visits to her lord, Wilton growled out:

“Well, I want my dinner. Let her stay and starve herself into her senses. But here,” he cried, with a fresh burst of temper, “why the devil isn’t that boy here? I’m not going to be kept waiting for him. Do you hear? Where is he?”

“He was so ill, dear, he said he was obliged to go upstairs and lie down.”

“Bah! Rubbish! He wasn’t hurt.”

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know,” sobbed Mrs Wilton.

“Yah! You cry if you dare. Wipe your eyes. Think I haven’t had worry enough to-day without you trying to lay the dust? Ring and tell Samuel to fetch him down.”

“Oh, pray don’t do that, dear; the servants will talk enough as it is.”

“They’d better. I’ll discharge the lot. I’ve been too easy with everybody up to now, and I’ll begin to turn over a new leaf. Stand aside, woman, and let me get to that bell.”

“No, no, don’t, pray don’t ring. Let me go up and beg of him to come down.”

“What! Beg? Go up and tell him that if he don’t come down to dinner in a brace of shakes I’ll come and fetch him with a horsewhip.”

“James, my dear, pray, pray don’t be so violent.”

“But I will be violent. I am in no humour to be dictated to now. I’ll let some of you see that I’m master.”

“But poor dear Claud is so big now.”

“I don’t care how big he is – a great stupid oaf! Go and tell him what I say. And look here, woman.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively.

“I mean it. If he don’t come at once, big as he is, I’ll take up the horsewhip.”

Mrs Wilton stifled a sob, and went up to her son’s room and entered, to find him lying on his bed with his boots resting on the bottom rail, a strong odour of tobacco pervading the room, and a patch or two of cigar ashes soiling the counterpane.

“Claud, my dearest, you shouldn’t smoke up here,” she said, tenderly, as she laid her hand upon her son’s forehead. “How are you now, darling?”

“Damned bad.”

“Oh, not quite so bad as that, dearest. Dinner is quite ready.”

” – The dinner!”

“Claud, darling, don’t use such dreadful language. But please get up now, and let me brush your hair. Your father is so angry and violent because you are keeping him waiting. Pray come down at once.”

“Shan’t!”

“Claud, dearest, you shouldn’t say that. Please come down.”

“Shan’t, I tell you. Be off, and don’t bother me.”

“I am so sorry, my dear, but I must. He sent me up, dear.”

“I – shan’t – come – down. There!”

“But Claud, my dear, he is so angry. I dare not go without you. What am I to say?”

“Tell him I say he’s an old beast.”

“Oh, Claud, I can’t go and tell him that. You shouldn’t – you shouldn’t, indeed.”

“I’m too bad to eat.”

“Yes – yes; I know, darling, but do – do try and come down and have a glass of wine. It will do you good, and keep poor papa from being so violent.”

“I don’t want any wine. And I shan’t come. There!”

“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!” sighed Mrs Wilton; “what am I to do?”

“Go and tell him I won’t come. Bad enough to be hit by that beastly old prize fighter, without him kicking me as he did. I’m not a door mat.”

“No, no, my dear; of course not.”

“An old brute! I believe he has injured my liver.”

“Claud, my darling, don’t, pray don’t say that.”

“Why not? The doctor ought to be fetched; I’m in horrid pain.”

“Yes, yes, my dear; and it did seem very hard.”

“Hard? I should think it was. I’m sure there’s a rib broken, if not two.”

“Oh, my own darling boy!” cried Mrs Wilton, embracing him.

“Don’t, mother; you hurt. Be off, and leave me alone. Tell him I shan’t come.”

“No, no, my dear; pray make an effort and come down.”

“Shan’t, I tell you. Now go!”

“But – but – Claud, dear, he threatened to come up with a horse whip and fetch you.”

“What!” cried Claud, springing up on the bed without wincing, and staring at his mother; “did he say that?”

“Yes, my love,” faltered the mother.

“Then you go down and tell him to come, and I’ll knock his old head off.”

“Oh, Claud, my dear boy, you shouldn’t. I can not sit here and listen to such parricidical talk.”

“Stand up then, and now be off.”

“But, my darling, you will come?”

“No, I won’t.”

“For my sake?”

“I won’t, for my own. I’m not going to stand it. He shan’t bully and knock me about I’m not a boy now. I’ll show him.”

“But, Claud, darling, for the sake of peace and quietness; I don’t want the servants to know.”

But dear Claud – his mother’s own darling – was as obstinate now as his father, whom he condemned loudly, then condemned peace and quietness, then the servants, and swore that he would serve Kate out for causing the trouble.

“I’ll bring her down on her knees – I’ll tame her, and make her beg for a kiss next time.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, you shall, but not now. You must be humble and patient.”

“Are you coming down, Maria?” ascended in a savage roar.

“Yes, yes, my dear, directly,” cried the trembling woman. “There, you hear, darling. He is in a terrible fury. Come down with me.”

“I won’t, I tell you,” cried the young man, making a snatch at the pillow, to raise it threateningly in his hands; “go, and tell him what I said.”

“Maria! Am I to come up?” ascended in a roar.

“Yes – no – no, my dear,” cried Mrs Wilton. “I’m – I’m coming down.”

She hurried out of the room, dabbed her eyes hastily, and descended to where the Squire was tramping up and down the hall, with Samuel, the cook, housemaid, and kitchen maid in a knot behind the swing baize door, which cut off the servants’ offices, listening to every word of the social comedy.

“Well,” roared Wilton, “is he coming?”

“N-n-not just now, my d-dear. He feels so ill and shaken that he begs you will excuse him.”

“Humbug, woman! My boy couldn’t have made up such a message. He said he wouldn’t, eh? Now then; no prevarication. That’s what he said.”

“Y-yes, my dear,” faltered the mother. “Oh, James dearest, pray – pray don’t.”