The Unknown Ajax (5 page)

“Very well, thank you, my lady. Mrs. Darracott is in the Green Saloon, I fancy. Perhaps your ladyship would—”

He broke off, for at that moment Mrs. Darracott came hurrying across the hall. “Oh, Matthew! My dear Aurelia! How glad I am to see you! I did not expect you would be so early—but so delightful!”

“We lay at Tonbridge,” said Lady Aurelia, presenting her cheek to her sister-in-law. “I do not care to travel above thirty or forty miles at a stretch: it does not agree with my constitution.” “No, it is very disagreeable!” agreed Mrs. Darracott. “The road from Tonbridge, too, is so horribly rough! I am—”

“Elvira!” interrupted Matthew, thrusting his hat into James’s hand, “what do you know about this appalling business?”

“Oh, my dear Matthew, nothing! That is, only—But won’t you come into the Green Saloon? Unless you would wish to take off your bonnet and pelisse, Aurelia? I will take you upstairs—not that there is any need to escort you, for you must feel yourself to be quite as much at home as I am.”

This, however, her ladyship disclaimed, saying graciously that she considered herself a guest in the house, her sister-in-law being its unquestionable mistress. Mrs. Darracott, though privately thinking that there was a good deal of question about it, accepted this, and the two ladies went upstairs, leaving Matthew to get what information he could from Chollacombe. But as the butler knew very little more than he did, the only tidings he was able to glean were that the heir was not expected to arrive until the following day, and that my lord was (if Chollacombe might venture to say so) a trifle out of humour.

“Ay, I’ll be bound he is!” said Matthew. “Well, it is enough to put a saint out of temper! What’s more, I shouldn’t wonder at it if the fellow’s an impostor!”

Chollacombe thought it prudent to return no answer to this; so, after fidgeting about the hall for a few moments, Matthew took himself off, saying that if my lord was out riding with Mr. Richmond he might as well go down to the stables to meet him on his return. In the event, he reached the main stableyard to find that his father had already returned, and in time to see the two sturdy coach-horses being taken out of the shafts of Matthew’s travelling-carriage. He himself was bestriding a neatish bay cover-hack, but Richmond, as his uncle resentfully perceived, had just dismounted from the back of a high-bred hunter which had probably cost my lord anything from three to five hundred guineas. “So you’ve arrived, have you?” said my lord, by way of paternal greeting. “I might have known this paltry turnout was yours! What did you give for that pair of commoners?” “I don’t recall—but they are not commoners, sir! Purebred Welsh, I assure you!” responded Matthew, nettled. “Cleveland machiners!” said his lordship, with a bark of sardonic mirth. “You’ve been burnt, my boy! If ever I knew such a slow-top!” He pointed his whip at Richmond’s hunter. “Now, there’s a horse of the right stamp! Breed in every inch of him, perfect fencer, flying or standing!”

“Hardly the right stamp for carriage-work, sir!” said Matthew. “A good-looking horse, however, and carries a good head.” He held out his hand to Richmond, adding kindly: “Well, my boy? And how are you?”

“Pretty stout, sir, thank you,” replied Richmond, shaking hands with him. “I hope you are well? And my aunt, of course. Is my cousin with you?”

The note of eagerness did not escape Matthew; he smiled faintly. “No, neither of them. I collect, though, that you meant Vincent: I expect he will arrive presently.” “You may be sure that he will!” interpolated his lordship, dismounting, and handing over his bridle to the waiting groom. He then looked his son over, remarked that he was becoming as fat as a flawn, and strode off towards the house, imperatively commanding Richmond to follow him.

But Richmond, who disliked being made to stand by in acute embarrassment while my lord insulted his son, had already slipped away into a wing of the stables, and it was Matthew who, swallowing his resentment, caught up with my lord. “Father, I must ask you—indeed, I must insist—”

My lord stopped, and turned, his grasp on his riding-whip tightening. “Oh? So you must insist, must you? Go on!”

“Well, I must say that I think you owe me—well, that an explanation is due to me!” amended Matthew sulkily.

“If you think you’ll get an explanation out of me, other than what I choose to tell you, muffin-face, you’re a bigger clunch than I knew! What I choose to tell you I have told you, and it’s all that concerns you!”

“No, sir!” said Matthew resolutely. “That don’t fit! You don’t like me; you didn’t wish for me to step into your shoes; but when—after what happened in June—I was your heir: no question about it!”

“You were not.”

“No! As it now appears, and if this fellow who has sprang out of nowhere is not an impostor! And that, sir, is something even you will own I’ve a right to ask!”

“He is not an impostor.”

“I beg your pardon, but what proof have you of that? For my part I think it damned smoky, Father! If the fellow is my brother’s son, I should like to know why he never approached you before! Upon my word, a very neat thing this is! If he had had the impudence to put forward his so-called claim to me, I’d have set Lissett to enquire into his credentials, and you may depend upon it we should soon have found that it was nothing more than an attempt to run a rig! Well, I’ve seen Lissett, and he tells me you didn’t desire him to do any such thing, but merely to write a letter informing the rascal you would receive him here. Now, Father—” “Damn you, when I want your advice I’ll ask you for it!” broke in his lordship roughly. “I’m not in my dotage yet! I’ve known for twenty-seven years that this cocktail existed!” “Good God!” gasped Matthew. “Known for—And never told us?”

“Why should I have told you?” demanded his father. “D’ye think I was proud of a weaver’s spawn? D’ye think I ever imagined I should be succeeded by a whelp I thought never to set eyes on? As for approaching me—laying claims—you’re fair and far off! He never did so! He’s coming here because I’ve sent for him—and he’s taken his time about coming!” he added grimly. “If you’ve seen Lissett, no doubt he told you that the fellow’s a soldier. I’ve known that these five years and more.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve followed his career?” asked Matthew incredulously. “No, I don’t! I never gave the whelp a thought. Old Barnwood ran against him when he was out in the Peninsula, and had the curst brass to come up to me in Brook’s, and ask me if I knew I’d a grandson in the 95th. I damned his eyes for it, meddling busy-body!” Matthew said slowly: “So when my brother was drowned you knew! And yet you—For God’s sake, sir, why didn’t you tell me then? Why—”

“Because I hoped he might be dead, chucklehead, or that there might be some way of keeping him out of my shoes!” replied Lord Darracott, his face working. “Well, he’s not dead, and there’s no way of keeping him out! When I’m booked, he’ll be the head of the family, but I’m not booked yet, and, by God, I’ll see to it he’s been licked into shape before I get notice to quit!”

Chapter 3

Vincent was the first of Matthew’s two sons to reach Darracott Place, driving himself in a curricle to which were harnessed three magnificent black geldings, randem-tandem; and by the time that Richmond, who had been on the watch for him, let out a halloo, and exclaimed: “Here’s my cousin at last! Oh, he’s driving unicorn! He’s the most complete hand!” even Mrs. Darracott, with whom Vincent was no favourite, felt a certain measure of relief. In her view, Vincent was a dangerous blade, with a viperous tongue, and a deplorable influence over her impressionable young son; but after spending three hours in an atmosphere of deepening gloom, she would have been much inclined to have welcomed the arrival of Beelzebub himself. My lord having shut himself up in the library, it had fallen to her lot to entertain his guests: an exercise which consisted of lending a sympathetic ear to Matthew’s complaints, rhetorical questions, and dire forebodings. Not a very arduous task, it might have been thought; but Mrs. Darracott (like her son) was impressionable, and long before Matthew had talked himself into a more cheerful frame of mind the depression which hung over him had communicated itself to her, quite sinking her spirits, and exhausting her vitality. Every effort to introduce another topic of conversation than the blighting of Matthew’s prospects failed: he returned mechanical answers only, and at the first opportunity returned to the grievance that possessed his mind.

Anthea too was glad to know that Vincent had arrived. She had not been subjected to so severe a strain as her mother, but she had been obliged, after Lady Aurelia had rested for an hour on her bed to recover from the rigours of her journey, to escort that rather formidable lady on a stately and prolonged tour of the gardens. In her youth, Lady Aurelia had been an enthusiastic gardener; since her marriage she had had no other home than a tall, narrow house in Mayfair, but she had forgotten none of the botanical lore so zealously acquired, and was perfectly ready to place it at the disposal of the various friends and relations whom it was her custom to visit (often for weeks at a time) during the summer months. She never uttered an adverse criticism, but her hostesses had been known to uproot whole borders only because she had said, with flat civility, “Very pretty;” and her way of ignoring the presence of a weed could cover the hardiest with shame. Anthea, no horticulturist, had much to endure, but she was spared the trials her mother was forced to undergo. Beyond stating, in a voice totally devoid either of sympathy or interest, that her husband was sadly put out by the appearance on the scene of the rightful heir, Lady Aurelia made no reference whatsoever to the event which filled the minds of the Darracotts. She did not say it, but no one blessed with a modicum of intelligence could have doubted that to an Earl’s daughter the succession to a mere barony was a matter of indifference.

Her peregrinations had brought her within sight of the avenue which led from the crumbling stone entrance-gates to the north front of the house, when Vincent’s natty curricle swept into view. The arrival of her eldest-born seemed to be a matter of equal indifference to her, but she raised no objection to Anthea’s suggestion that they should go to meet him. Before they had reached the avenue, Richmond had bounded out of the house, and was standing beside the curricle, smiling a little shyly up at his magnificent cousin. “What a hand you are! I have been watching for you this hour and more!”

The Corinthian in the curricle looked down at him, his brows lifting in exaggerated surprise. “But, my dear boy, you surely cannot have supposed that even I could accomplish more than sixty-two miles in less than five hours? Our beloved Regent, I would remind you, took four-and-a-half hours on his memorable dash to Brighton, and that road, you know, was vastly superior to this, even in those archaic times. Or did you think that my eagerness to reach the home of my ancestors—not, I apprehend, to be one day my own—would set me on the road before I had swallowed my breakfast?”

Richmond laughed. “No! Oh, lord, what a curst thing it is!—you to be cut out by this miserable fellow from Yorkshire! But what’s this new quirk, Vincent? You were always used to drive that bang-up team of grays in your curricle! Is it now the high kick of fashion to drive—unicorn, do you call it?”

“Yes,—or Sudden Death,” replied Vincent, transferring the reins into the hands of his groom. “And no, little cousin, you may not drive them. We have had enough sudden deaths in the family.”

From no one but Vincent would Richmond have tolerated such a form of address, but a cousin, nearly ten years his senior, who, in addition to being carelessly kind to him, was a buck of the first cut, might bestow whatever opprobrious epithet upon him which happened to occur to him. He protested, but with a grin; and before Vincent could roast him into defending hotly his ability to drive any number of horses, Lady Aurelia and Anthea had come up to the group.

“Well, Vincent!” said Lady Aurelia.

He had climbed down from the curricle, and he now swept off his-beaver, bowed, and with incomparable grace kissed first her hand, and then her cheek. “My dear Mama! Ah, and my dear cousin Anthea as well! A double pleasure!”

“And so unexpected!” she retorted, shaking hands with him.

His eyes glinted at her. “I never expect to find each time I come, here that you are in greater beauty than the last time I saw you. It is really quite remarkable.”

She was not in the least disconcerted by this, but only laughed, and said: “Yes, and I so stricken in years! Remarkable indeed! Where is your brother? Did you chance to see him on the road?”

“Now, that puts me in mind of something that causes me to feel the gravest concern!” he exclaimed. “I did see him—in fact, I passed him, driving, as I can’t conceive, unless it might be that at the fatal moment my attention was diverted by the new lining he has had made for his chaise (maiden’s blush I believe that particular shade of pink is called), but I very much fear that I may have ditched him.”

Richmond burst into a crow of joy. “Lord, what a famous lark! I wish I might have seen it! Hunting the squirrel!”

“No, no, how can you say such a thing?” protested Vincent, in a pained voice. “How often have I told you that such tricks as that are not at all the thing? I wonder if I can be losing my precision of eye?”

“A stupid and ill-natured prank,” pronounced Lady Aurelia, with measured severity. “If I find that Claud has sustained any injury I shall be excessively displeased.” “Then I do most sincerely trust he has escaped injury, Mama. Unfortunately, a sharp bend in the road almost immediately hid the scene from my view, so I can give you no very certain information on that head. But never mind! Crimplesham is following me, with my luggage, you know, and I am sure we may depend upon him to render my brother all the assistance in his power. What is the time? Should I, do you think, present myself to my grandfather at once, or—No, I perceive that it lacks only ten minutes to five. I have brought my evening-dress with me, but it will take me quite an hour to dress without Crimplesham’s aid. You do still dine at six, I daresay? Such a depressing habit I find it! And my anxiety about Claud to make it worse! Poor fellow! But he shouldn’t have urged his postboys to hold the road when I wished to give him the go-by: really, I think he almost deserves to sustain some injury for being so foolish!”