Part 24 (2/2)
”I don't know,” she replied. ”And I don't very much care. It's enough for me that he's here and spending money!”
”Where's his chauffy?” inquired a lad, lounging near the bar.
”He hasn't got one. He drives his car himself. He's got a friend with him--a Mr. James Brookfield.”
There was a moment's silence. Helmsley drew further back into the corner where he sat, and restrained the little dog Charlie from perking its inquisitive head out too far, lest its beauty should attract undesirable attention. His nervous misgivings concerning the owner of the motor-car had not been entirely without foundation, for both Reginald Wrotham and James Brookfield were well known to him. Wrotham's career had been a sufficiently disgraceful one ever since he had entered his teens,--he was a modern degenerate of the worst type, and though his coming-of-age and the a.s.sumption of his family t.i.tle had caused certain time-servers to enrol themselves among his flatterers and friends, there were very few decent houses where so soiled a member of the aristocracy as he was could find even a semblance of toleration. James Brookfield was a proprietor of newspapers as well as a ”something in the City,” and if Helmsley had been asked to qualify that ”something” by a name, he would have found a term by no means complimentary to the individual in question. Wrotham and Brookfield were always seen together,--they were brothers in every sort of social iniquity and licentiousness, and an attempt on Brookfield's part to borrow some thousands of pounds for his ”lordly” patron from Helmsley, had resulted in the latter giving the would-be borrower's go-between such a strong piece of his mind as he was not likely to forget. And now Helmsley was naturally annoyed to find that these two abandoned rascals were staying at the very inn where he, in his character of a penniless wayfarer, had hoped to pa.s.s a peaceful night; however, he resolved to avoid all danger and embarra.s.sment by leaving the place directly he had finished his supper, and going in search of some more suitable lodgment. Meanwhile, the hum of conversation grew louder around him, and opinion ran high on the subject of ”the right of the road.”
”The roads are made for the people, sure-_ly_!” said one of a group of men standing near the largest table in the room--”And the people 'as the right to 'xpect safety to life an' limb when they uses 'em.”
”Well, the motors can put forward the same claim,” retorted another.
”Motor folks are people too, an' they can say, if they likes, that if roads is made for people, they're made for _them_ as well as t' others, and they expects to be safe on 'em with their motors at whatever pace they travels.”
”Go 'long!” exclaimed the cattle-driver, who had before taken part in the discussion--”Aint we got to take cows an' sheep an' 'osses by the road? An' if a car comes along at the rate o' forty or fifty miles an hour, what's to be done wi' the animals? An' if they're not to be on the road, which way is they to be took?”
”Them motors ought to have roads o' their own like the railways,” said a quiet-looking grey-haired man, who was the carrier of the district.
”When the steam-engine was invented it wasn't allowed to go tearin'
along the public highway. They 'ad to make roads for it, an' lay tracks, and they should do the same for motors which is gettin' just as fast an'
as dangerous as steam-engines.”
”Yes, an' with makin' new roads an' layin' tracks, spoil the country for good an' all!” said the man in corduroys--”An' alter it so that there aint a bit o' peace or comfort left in the land! Level the hills an' cut down the trees--pull up the hedges an' scare away all the singin' birds, till the hull place looks like a football field!--all to please a few selfish rich men who'd be better dead than livin'! A fine thing for England that would be!”
At that moment, there was the noise of an opening door, and the hostess, with an expressive glance at her customers, held up her finger warningly.
”Hush, please!” she said. ”The gentlemen are coming out.”
A sudden pause ensued. The men looked round upon one another, half sheepishly, half sullenly, and their growling voices subsided into a murmur. The hostess settled the bow at her collar more becomingly, and her two pretty daughters feigned to be deeply occupied with some drawn thread work. David Helmsley, noting everything that was going on from his coign of vantage, recognised at once the dissipated, effeminate-looking young man, who, stepping out of a private room which opened on a corridor apparently leading to the inner part of the house, sauntered lazily up to the bar and, resting his arm upon its oaken counter, smiled condescendingly, not to say insolently, upon the women who stood behind it. There was no mistaking him,--it was the same Reginald Wrotham whose scandals in society had broken his worthy father's heart, and who now, succeeding to a hitherto unblemished t.i.tle, was doing his best to load it with dishonour. He was followed by his friend Brookfield,--a heavily-built, lurching sort of man, with a nose reddened by strong drink, and small lascivious eyes which glittered dully in his head like the eyes of poisonous tropical beetle. The hush among the ”lower” cla.s.s of company at the inn deepened into the usual stupid awe which at times so curiously affects untutored rustics who are made conscious of the presence of a ”lord.” Said a friend of the present writer's to a waiter in a country hotel where one of these ”lords” was staying for a few days: ”I want a letter to catch to-night's post, but I'm afraid the mail has gone from the hotel. Could you send some one to the post-office with it?” ”Oh yes, sir!” replied the waiter grandiloquently. ”The servant of the Lord will take it!” Pitiful beyond most piteous things is the grovelling tendency of that section of human nature which has not yet been educated sufficiently to lift itself up above temporary trappings and ornaments; pitiful it is to see men, gifted in intellect, or distinguished for bravery, flinch and cringe before one of their own flesh and blood, who, having neither cleverness nor courage, but only a t.i.tle, presumes upon that foolish appendage so far as to consider himself superior to both valour and ability. As well might a stuffed boar's head a.s.sume a superiority to other comestibles because decorated by the cook with a paper frill and bow of ribbon! The atmosphere which Lord Reginald Wrotham brought with him into the common-room of the bar was redolent of tobacco-smoke and whisky, yet, judging from the various propitiatory, timid, anxious, or servile looks cast upon him by all and sundry, it might have been fragrant and sacred incense wafted from the altars of the G.o.ddess Fortune to her waiting votaries. Helmsley's spirit rose up in contempt against the effete dandy as he watched him leaning carelessly against the counter, twirling his thin sandy moustache, and talking to his hostess merely for the sake of offensively ogling her two daughters.
”Charming old place you have here!--charming!” drawled his lords.h.i.+p.
”Perfect dream! Love to pa.s.s all my days in such a delightful spot! 'Pon my life! Awful luck for us, the motor breaking down, or we never should have stopped at such a jolly place, don't-cher-know. Should we, Brookfield?”
Brookfield, gently scratching a pimple on his fat, clean-shaven face, smiled knowingly.
”_Couldn't_ have stopped!” he declared. ”We were doing a record run. But we should have missed a great deal,--a great deal!” And he emitted a soft chuckle. ”Not only the place,--but----!”
He waved his hand explanatorily, with a slight bow, which implied an unspoken compliment to the looks of the mistress of the inn and her family. One of the young women blushed and peeped slyly up at him. He returned the glance with interest.
”May I ask,” pursued Lord Wrotham, with an amicable leer, ”the names of your two daughters, Madam? They've been awfully kind to us broken-down-travellers--should just like to know the difference between them. Like two roses on one stalk, don't-cher-know! Can't tell which is which!”
The mother of the girls hesitated a moment. She was not quite sure that she liked the ”tone” of his lords.h.i.+p's speech. Finally she replied somewhat stiffly:--
”My eldest daughter is named Elizabeth, my lord, and her sister is Grace.”
”Elizabeth and Grace! Charming!” murmured Wrotham, leaning a little more confidentially over the counter--”Now which--which is Grace?”
At that moment a tall, shadowy form darkened the open doorway of the inn, and a man entered, carrying in his arms a small oblong bundle covered with a piece of rough horse-cloth. Placing his burden down on a vacant bench, he pushed his cap from his brows and stared wildly about him. Every one looked at him,--some with recognition, others in alarm,--and Helmsley, compelled as he was to keep himself out of the general notice in his corner, almost started to his feet with an involuntary cry of amazement. For it was Tom o' the Gleam.
CHAPTER X
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