Читать книгу The Luck of Colin Charteris - Arthur Owens Cooke - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Colin Charteris settled himself snugly in his corner of a first-class carriage in the north-and-west express. The train slid smoothly from the platform, threaded with care the maze of points outside the station, and then gathered speed.

Had anyone been there to note him, Colin would have been remarked as a tall, well-built, pleasant-looking boy of perhaps seventeen—which was his age; clear-skinned and ruddy-cheeked, with keen intelligent grey eyes, straight nose, and dark-brown hair inclined to curl. The badge upon his cap proclaimed that his scholastic home was Clinton School. A close observer would not perhaps have set him down as being a “swot”, but would have judged him as a likely member of the First Eleven and Fifteen; in both of which surmises the observer would have been correct.

But it so happened that on this December afternoon the boy was quite alone. Other Clintonians going north had travelled by a train which did not stop at Hereford, the nearest town to Colin’s country home. He did not greatly mind his solitude; he had an evening paper, Punch, a book—ample provision for the short two hours’ run.

A long shrill whistle roused him from perusal of the book. The Severn Tunnel, eh? Oh, bother reading; it was pleasanter to sit and think.

Bit of a nuisance if this frost should hold; it would put a stopper on the hunting. Rather a pity, also, that the Christmas holidays should be so short. Would the Pater have acted on that half-made promise of September to “see about” something for him in the way of a hunter—something better than the old cob Pedro who was getting decidedly stiff at his fences? Hardly to be expected perhaps, seeing how little of the hunting season Colin spent at home; but still, one never knew—the Pater was a real good sort. Those words “one never knew” went far to sum up Colin Charteris’s outlook upon life; always cheerful, always optimistic, and prepared to take things as they came and make the best of them, even if they turned out inferior to his hopes. At any rate he knew that he might count upon the loan of Darkie, Major Charteris’s own crack steeplechaser, for at least one run, perhaps two. Jolly to turn up at a meet on Darkie—such a topping horse!

Dido. He’d take her with him; just to see the hounds throw off, at any rate; after which Millichamp, the coachman, could ride home with her. Not but what Dido, on her grey Welsh pony, Fairy, took her jumps quite well. A ripping kid, his sister Dido—her real name Diana—though she was but nine. She had the “go” of many a fellow twice her age, and took a bruise or tumble with a smile. So, after all, if the frost held and then perhaps turned to snow, why, he would make her a toboggan-track upon the slope of the Long Meadow, and they’d have a lot of fun.

The Severn Tunnel must be twenty miles or more behind by now. Yes, here was Abergavenny, with the hills lying round the town; the high-peaked Sugarloaf, the great bulk of the Blorenge, and the Holy Mountain, ghostly in the gathering dusk.

Enid no doubt would be at home from school in Paris. Quite a good sort Enid, just two years his senior; but not quite as much a “sport” as Dido was.

Would Gerald be across this Christmas? Gerald had been at Eton and Oxford, and now held a minor post in the Embassy at Vienna; quite a decent fellow, though a little lordly now and then, as elder brothers often were. Roger, the naval son, was different; much more “go”, though no great things outside a horse. Well, whether the three elder ones were there or not, there would be Mother, Dido, and the Pater; it would be jolly to see Meadowgrange again. Thank goodness for the English climate, after all; no weather lasted very long. The frost would turn to snow, and he would have a day or two with Dido and her new toboggan. Then would come a thaw, and with the thaw a meet. Life was a pretty jolly business, take it on the whole.

Another whistle; then a jolting over points, the grip of brakes to check the heavy train as it ran down a long incline. Great Scott! At Hereford already! Colin had only time to thrust his book into his greatcoat pocket when the platform lights came flashing by, and he could hear the porters’ old familiar strain:

“Hereford! Hereford! Hereford! Crewe and North express! Change for the Birmingham and Midland lines. All tickets ready—tickets ready! Next stop Shrewsbury—Shrewsbury next stop!”

There was his father on the platform.

“Hullo, Pater!”

“Well, Coll, old fellow! All serene?”

“Rather! Bit of a bore this frost though. You been out at all this week?”

“No, I’ve had other things to do; hounds met at the ‘Green Man’ on Tuesday, found among the gorse, and had a rattling fifty minutes’ run, I heard.”

Outside the station Colin looked about him for the car; but Major Charteris led the way to a mail phaeton, in the shafts of which was a dark chestnut mare.

“Oh, you’ve brought Psyche. Take us a bit longer, won’t it, than the car? Well then, old lady, you know me?” For the mare whinnied softly, snuffed his coat-sleeve as he stood beside the boy who held her head. The lad was just a station loafer; funny for his father not to bring a groom.

“Like to drive, Coll?”

“Rather—if you don’t mind.”

“No, not a bit; my fingers are a little cold. Hop up; you’ll find her rather fresh.”

The chestnut sped away the instant that her head was loosed. A hairpin turn to cross the railway bridge; the hill beyond, though steep, was taken at a trot; the stretch of level at its summit flew beneath swift feet. Then came a sharp descent, and then four miles of level road until they reached the hills that formed the county’s eastern border-line, among which, in a secluded valley, nestled. Meadowgrange, the Charteris’s home.

“Mother and Dido well?”

“Yes, quite all right.”

The elder children would not be at home, it seemed. Gerald could not be spared from the Embassy, nor Roger obtain leave from his ship; while Enid had an invitation to spend Christmas in the South of France. Questions were asked and answered, news exchanged; yet all the while there hovered in the mind of Colin something that he could not understand. Why not the car? Or, if the car were for the moment out of action, then why not the pair? When did his father ever drive to town with Psyche, and no Cupid on the near side of the pole? Nothing in it, very likely; still, it did seem funny, and, for some reason Colin could not formulate, he did not ask; nor did his father offer any explanation on the point.

Ah, Meadowgrange at last! The dark plantations sheltering the old house upon the east and north; the drive-gates open for their coming; and the single dormer window of the great Elizabethan dovecote peering at them over the thick holly hedge as they drove by. Then the wide stretch of lawn; the moon just rising, sickle-shaped, above the dead trunk of the Wellingtonia clothed from head to foot in ivy—that was his mother’s dodge to save the tree from being cut down. And there was Mother—she and Dido standing under the electric light that shone above the wide arch of the Tudor entrance-door. Gad, it was good to be at home!

A quick close clasp and kiss from Mother; then the throttling clutch of Dido’s arms about his neck.

“Oh, Coll, you dear old Coll!”

“Dinner at seven,” said his mother; “time for a cup of tea to warm you up before you change.”

Everything just as usual—save for several little, in themselves quite unimportant, things. For instance, it seemed curious that Evans, the housemaid, who brought up hot water to his bedroom when he went to change, should also help Pritchard, the butler, to wait at dinner. Where, then, was the new parlourmaid who had succeeded Shaw when she got married in September? If she had left, why was there not another in her place? At every turn there was the air of “something” which was difficult to understand.

Dido sat down to dinner with them—as a special treat on Colin’s first night home. And later, in the drawing-room, she was crouched beside him on a hassock, with her head—its brown hair short, just like a boy’s—against his knee. “Just twenty minutes, Mummy darling,” she had pleaded, coaxing with her smiling lips and dark-brown eyes. A happy evening—yet with that “something” in the background all the time.

Not till the following morning was the mystery explained.

“Come to my den and have a chat, Coll, will you,” said his father as they rose from breakfast; “any time about eleven I’ll be there.”

“Right, Pater, I’ll be with you,” answered Colin. Then he caught his mother’s eyes upon him, saw in them a look which startled him. Something was wrong, there could be little doubt of that. Well, his own conscience was quite clear; he had no hidden sins to come to light. But it was with a troubled mind that presently he sought his father’s room.

“Sit down, Coll, will you.” Colin took a seat. “There’s no use in beating about the bush, old boy,” his father went on; “I’ve got bad news for you. We’ve lost a lot of money and must change our way of life.”

Colin sat silent. Certainly this sounded pretty bad; but as yet he hardly grasped what changes loss of money might involve.

“I don’t suppose that you have ever troubled yourself much about money matters,” continued the major; “but at any rate you know that Meadowgrange is my property, and that it has been in the family for several hundred years. But it is long since an estate like this has paid its way; if I depended on the rents of the three farms, of the houses and the inn in the village, we could not live as we have done. Taxes, repairs, and so on eat up a great part of the rents. What has largely kept us here in comfort is your mother’s money—quite a decent little income in itself. Now, when her father, your grandfather Hamilton, died several years ago, her part of his fortune consisted of shares in a rubber plantation in the Malay States; you’ve heard us speak of that?” Colin nodded. “For years the rubber trade had flourished, and these shares paid well. Then came a ‘slump’, and dividends began to fall; but your mother was strongly advised against selling out, because to do so would have meant a serious loss. It was believed the rubber business would improve, and the shares rise again in value. This, we are now afraid, will never be the case. Last year there was a trifling dividend; this year there will be none at all.”

“You mean that Mother has lost all her money, Pater?”

“Not perhaps for ever; I hope not, at any rate. But for the present—perhaps for several years to come—she will receive no income at all from her shares. The plantation is quite sound and in good hands; with a revival in the rubber trade things should look up again, though they will never be the same as they once were. Meanwhile we are without her income and shall have to change our mode of life—change it drastically.”

“Not part with Meadowgrange—not sell it, Pater?”

“Not sell, if we can avoid it; but I fear that we shall have to let it, Coll, and live in a much less expensive place.”

“It will break Mother’s heart to think of anybody else being here.”

“I’m glad that your first thought is of your mother, Coll; it is of her that I am mostly thinking too; but I can see no alternative.”

“Could we not cut down expenses in some other way?”

“The ‘cutting down expenses’ on a scale that would allow us to remain at Meadowgrange would be a business, Coll; but I have made a start, as you may perhaps have seen. Cupid has gone, and I’m afraid the hunter I half-hinted at for you is ‘off’. I’m trying to sell the car too; it’s in first-rate order and should fetch a decent price. I’m taking care of it meanwhile; that’s why I didn’t bring it in for you last night. If I can sell it and get hold of a cheap runabout, then Psyche will be sold. Enid will not go back to Paris for another year, as we had planned. We have dismissed a groom and a maid. But all this will not balance the deficit which we have to meet. Gerald naturally costs me a good deal; diplomacy is not a very paying profession, and there is a certain amount of style to be kept up.

“No, Coll, I don’t see how we can keep on at Meadowgrange. Gerald, of course, will have the place when I am gone. Roger and you are younger sons, and English social custom takes but small account of them. For years we have been trying to lay by something for both Roger and yourself, but it does not amount to very much as yet; I am afraid that I have been to blame.”

“No, Pater, you haven’t,” Colin broke in here; “you’ve given us a real good time and done the best you could, I’m sure. But won’t it be frightfully expensive sending me to Sandhurst, and then getting me into the Hussars and keeping me there?”

“It will be rather costly, Colin, for the cavalry’s not cheap; but everything possible must be sacrificed to your future. Gerald wished to enter the diplomatic service, and did so; Roger chose the navy for himself. It would be most unfair to treat you differently.”

Colin sat silent for some moments, thinking hard. It would be uncommonly disagreeable to him to give up the cavalry, to abandon all hope of the career which had been his father’s, and which he had looked on as being destined for his own. But Colin, as already stated, was a member of the Clinton First Eleven and the First Fifteen; and in Fifteen and in Eleven he had learnt a lesson which proved useful now—that personal distinction, a high batting average, conspicuous individual play, were all of small importance judged against the general welfare of the team. So, after a momentary struggle, Colin gave his family—his “team”—first place.

“Look here, Pater,” he said, “if I cut out the cavalry and go for something cheaper, where I should not cost you money, or at any rate, not much—would that make up the difference? Could we stay on then at Meadowgrange?”

He heard his father give a sigh that sounded like relief.

“Well, yes, my boy, with care I think we might. You see, it’s not entirely a question of the cost of your career alone, although the money saved would be considerable. But there are Gerald and Roger to be considered. Now if I tell them that you are giving up the cavalry, they cannot—and I’m sure they will not—think it hard if their allowances are docked a bit. But you must not decide this in a hurry, Coll. Think the matter over carefully for, say, a week, and then we’ll talk of it again.”

“I’ll let it stand a week then, Pater, but I shall not change my mind. I don’t mean you and Mother to have any other home than Meadowgrange if it depends on me.”

“Well, we will let it stand till after Christmas; but I shan’t be vexed, nor will your mother, if you reconsider it. Now I must go across and talk to Barnett about something; see you later on at lunch.”

Major Charteris took a step towards the door; then turned, took Colin’s hand, and held it for an instant in a grip that sent a glow to the boy’s heart.

If he could help his father in this trouble, keep his mother in this Meadowgrange which all of them—she perhaps especially—so dearly loved, his mind was quite made up. A fellow could not play for his own bat; to back the team up was a “sportsman’s” duty, and that duty was now his.

To this decision he stuck steadily, unshaken by a long talk with his mother, during which she urged his right to think of his own future, choose the life he had been promised. Stuck to it still when, Christmas over, he again talked of it with his father. Finally the major, seeing the hopelessness of trying to alter his decision, said:

“Well, Coll, I shan’t forget it, be quite sure of that. I have been going very closely into matters this last week, and find that, in that case, we need not leave this place. We have cut down expenses, as you know, and we shall do so more. I hope to do some ‘schooling’ of young horses into shape as hunters; that’s about all I’m fit for in the way of money-making, I’m afraid.”

“And what d’you think I’d better do, Pater?” Colin asked.

“Well, a chance offers which you may or may not care to think about. You know that your mother’s half-brother, Alexander Hamilton, is at the head of a big London bank. He also has a considerable interest in this confounded rubber concern, and we have been in correspondence with him lately as to that. He offered to be of any service that he could, and in one letter asked me what I thought of doing with you. I have no doubt that, if you cared about accepting it, he’d make an opening for you in the bank.”

“That would mean indoor work for life, I suppose.”

“I am afraid it would; and indoor life is just what you and I don’t greatly care for, eh? But still, there’s money in a bank; and you might have—I dare say would have—better prospects with your Uncle Hamilton than as an ordinary clerk. He asked what you were good at, and I told him modern languages and maths.”

“I wouldn’t say too much about the maths; my French and German aren’t so bad.”

“Well, there it stands at present. He suggests that you should run up in a few days’ time and let him have a look at you; you know he hasn’t seen you for some seven years. I have just thanked him, saying we’ll let him hear in a few days.”

“Should you come too—or Mother?”

“No, Coll. There’s nothing much to take us up to Town just now, and every shilling counts. You’ll do quite well alone. Your uncle may perhaps ask you to his house; if not, I’ll send you to some rooms in Ryder Street, where you’ll be very snug. Well, Coll, you’ve earned our thanks for giving up so readily the thing you’ve set your heart on for so long. As I have said before, we shan’t forget it—any of us, Coll.”