“Serve ’em right!” growled one man. “Serve ’em right to ‘ave broke down! ‘Ope the darned thing’s broke altogether!”
“You shouldn’t say that,— ‘taint Christian,” expostulated his neighbour at the same table. “Them cars cost a heap o’ money, from eight ‘undred to two thousand pounds, I’ve ‘eerd tell.”
“Who cares!” retorted the other. “Them as can pay a fortin on a car to swish ‘emselves about in, should be made to keep on payin’ till they’re cleaned out o’ money for good an’ all. The road’s a reg’lar hell since them engines started along cuttin’ everything to pieces. There aint a man, woman, nor child what’s safe from the moneyed murderers.”
“Oh come, I say!” ejaculated a big, burly young fellow in corduroys. “Moneyed murderers is going a bit too strong!”
“No ‘taint!” said the first man who had spoken. “That’s what the motor-car folks are — no more nor less. Only t’ other day in Taunton, a woman as was the life an’ soul of ‘er ‘usband an’ childern, was knocked down by a car as big as a railway truck. It just swept ‘er off the curb like a bundle o’ rags. She picked ‘erself up again an’ walked ‘ome, tremblin’ a little, an’ not knowin’ rightly what ‘ad chanced to ‘er, an’ in less than an hour she was dead. An’ what did they say at the inquest? Just ‘death from shock’ — an’ no more. For them as owned the murderin’ car was proprietors o’ a big brewery, and the coroner hisself ‘ad shares in it. That’s ‘ow justice is done nowadays!”
“Yes, we’s an obligin’ lot, we poor folks,” observed a little man in the rough garb of a cattle-driver, drawing his pipe from his mouth as he spoke. “We lets the rich ride over us on rubber tyres an’ never sez a word on our own parts, but trusts to the law for doin’ the same to a millionaire as ’twould to a beggar, — but, Lord! — don’t we see every day as ‘ow the millionaire gets off easy while the beggar goes to prison? There used to be justice in old England, but the time for that’s gone past.”
“There’s as much justice in England as you’ll ever get anywheres else!” interrupted the hostess at the bar, nodding cheerfully at the men, and smiling,— “And as for the motor-cars, they bring custom to my house, and I don’t grumble at anything which does me and mine a good turn. If it hadn’t been for a break-down in that big motor standing outside in the stableyard, I shouldn’t have had two gentlemen staying in my best rooms to-night. I never find fault with money!”
She laughed and nodded again in the pleasantest manner. A slow smile went round among the men, — it was impossible not to smile in response to the gay good-humour expressed on such a beaming countenance.
“One of them’s a lord, too,” she added. “Quite a young fellow, just come into his title, I suppose.” And referring to her day-book, she ran her plump finger down the various entries. “I’ve got his name here — Wrotham, — Lord Reginald Wrotham.”
“Wrotham? That aint a name known in these parts,” said the man in corduroys. “Wheer does ’e come from?”
“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 assumption of his family title 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 pass a peaceful night; however, he resolved to avoid all danger and embarrassment 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 title, 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 e
yes of poisonous tropical beetle. The hush among the “lower” class 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 Title, 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 assume 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 goddess 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 lordship. “Perfect dream! Love to pass 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 lordship’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
Tom o’ the Gleam, — Tom, with his clothes torn and covered with dust, — Tom, changed suddenly to a haggard and terrible unlikeness of himself, his face drawn and withered, its healthy bronze colour whitened to a sickly livid hue, — Tom, with such an expression of dazed and stupid horror in his eyes as to give the impression that he was heavily in drink, and dangerous.
“Well, mates!” he said thickly— “A fine night and a clear moon!”
No one answered him. He staggered up to the bar. The hostess looked at him severely.
“Now, Tom, what’s the matter?” she said.
He straightened himself, and, throwing back his shoulders as though parrying a blow, forced a smile.
“Nothing! A touch of the sun!” A strong shudder ran through his limbs, and his teeth chattered, — then suddenly leaning forward on the counter, he whispered: “I’m not drunk, mother! — for God’s sake don’t think it! — I’m ill. Don’t you see I’m ill? — I’ll be all right in a minute, — give me a drop of brandy!”
She fixed her candid gaze full upon him. She had known him well for years, and not only did she know him, but, rough character as he was, she liked and respected him. Looking him squarely in the face she saw at once that he was speaking the truth. He was not drunk. He was ill, — very ill. The strained anguish on his features proved it.
“Hadn’t you better come inside the bar and sit down?” she suggested, in a low tone.
“No, thanks — I’d rather not. I’ll stand just here.”
She gave him the brandy he had asked for. He sipped it slowly, and, pushing his cap further off his brows, turned his dark eyes, full of smouldering fire, upon Lord Wrotham and his friend, both of whom had succeeded in getting up a little conversation with the hostess’s younger daughter, the girl named Grace. Her sister, Elizabeth, put down her needlework, and watched Tom with sudden solicitude. An instinctive dislike of Lord Wrotham and his companion caused her to avoid looking their way, though she heard every word they were saying, — and her interest became centred on the handsome gypsy, whose pallid features and terrible expression filled her with a vague alarm.
“It would be awfully jolly of you if you’d come for a spin in my motor,” said his lordship, twirling his sandy moustache and conveying a would-be amorous twinkle into his small brown-green eyes for the benefit of the girl he was ogling. “Beastly bore having a break-down, but it’s nothing serious — half a day’s work will put it all right, and if you and your sister would like a turn before we go on from here, I shall be charmed. We can’t do the record business now — not this time, — so it doesn’t matter how long we linger in this delightful spot.”
“Especially in such delightful company!” added his friend, Brookfield. “I’m going to take a photograph of this house to-morrow, and perhaps” — here he smiled complacently— “perhaps Miss Grace and Miss Elizabeth will consent to come into the picture?”
“Ya-as — ya-as! — oh do!” drawled Wrotham. “Of course they will! You will, I’m sure, Miss Grace! This gentleman, Mr. Brookfield, has got nearly all the pictorials under his thumb, and he’ll put your portrait in them as ‘The Beauty of Somerset,’ won’t you, Brookfield?”
Brookfield laughed, a pleased laugh of conscious power.
“Of course I will,” he said. “You have only to express the wish and the thing is done!”
Wrotham twirled his moustache again.
“Awful fun having a friend on the press, don’t-cher-know!” he went on. “I get all my lady acquaintances into the papers, — makes ’em famous in a day! The women I like are made to look beautiful, and those I don’t like are turned into frights — positive old horrors, give you my life! Easily done, you know! — touch up a negative whichever way you fancy, and there you are!”
The girl Grace lifted her eyes, — very pretty sparkling eyes they were, — and regarded him with a mutinous air of contempt.
“It must be ‘awfully’ amusing!” she said sarcastically.
“It is! — give you my life!” And his lordship played with a charm in the shape of an enamelled pig which dangled at his watch-chain. “It pleases all parties except those whom I want to rub up the wrong way. I’ve made many a woman’s hair curl, I can tell you! You’ll be my ‘Somersetshire beauty,’ won’t you, Miss Grace?”
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“I think not!” she replied, with a cool glance. “My hair curls quite enough already. I never use tongs!”
Brookfield burst into a laugh, and the laugh was echoed murmurously by the other men in the room. Wrotham flushed and bit his lip.
“That’s a one — er for me,” he said lazily. “Pretty kitten as you are, Miss Grace, you can scratch! That’s always the worst of women, — they’ve got such infernally sharp tongues — —”
“Grace!” interrupted her mother, at this juncture— “You are wanted in the kitchen.”
Grace took the maternal hint and retired at once. At that instant Tom o’ the Gleam stirred slightly from his hitherto rigid attitude. He had only taken half his glass of brandy, but that small amount had brought back a tinge of colour to his face and deepened the sparkle of fire in his eyes.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 665
