Читать книгу A Nine Days' Wonder - B. M. Croker - Страница 3

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A tall grey-haired soldier, with a professionally straight back, stood looking out of an upper window in the “Rag” one wet October afternoon. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was clothed with an expression of almost mediæval gloom. The worldly wise mask their emotions so that those who run may not read, but Colonel Doran had lived so many years among a primitive race that he made no effort to conceal his feelings, and all the world was welcome to see that he was bored to death. To tell the truth, he had been too long in the East to appreciate club life. Other men were undoubtedly contented, interested, occupied; it was different in his case. The palatial dignity, solemnity, luxury of the place failed to stir his pride; even its traditions left him as cold as the marble statue on the great staircase. He would have felt ten times more at home in a Bombay chair, on a brick verandah, with the old Pioneer in his hands and a “Trichy” in his mouth.

The big smoking-room below had presented a most animated scene; groups of old brother officers were discussing various burning questions, and topics ranged, from the new Hussar boot, to the North-west Frontier. Colonel Doran knew a good deal about the frontier, but made no effort to enter the lists. What were possible campaigns to him now? He wandered aimlessly up to the library, and turned over some books; he tried to read—it was no use. Ashamed to appear a sort of no man’s friend, and stray, he made his way to the upper smoking-room, which he was tolerably certain to find empty at that hour. He sauntered round it, gazing indifferently at the pictures and mementoes. A sketch of two elephants in a dust-storm arrested his attention. How he wished himself on the back of one of the old beggars—dust-storm and all! At last he strolled over to the window, and as he stood looking out on a dismal vista of wet slates and an iron-grey sky he heaved an involuntary sigh. So this was the end of his career—idleness, boredom, solitude!

The career of Ulick Doran had commenced at eighteen, when as a cadet he had landed in India—that hospitable godmother of younger sons—and the kindly East had adopted and made him her own for the better part of thirty-four years. He had been gazetted as a mere boy to a crack regiment of Bengal cavalry known as “Holland’s Horse,” and in this corps, his home, he had lived and fought and nearly died: had seen his comrades come and go, marry, and retire. Now it was his own turn. At fifty-two his career was ended, and the curtain rung down. Good-bye to everything he cared for—to the sowars, his children, to the mess, to the horse lines, aye, to the very horses, half of which he had selected—good-bye to all that had made life worth living. Naturally he could not remain in India, that unseemly spectacle, a mere camp follower of the regiment he had so ably commanded, hovering around it like a departed spirit. He must return to England, and range himself decently on the shelf along with most of his contemporaries. Unfortunately Colonel Doran had but few resources apart from his profession; he was a fine horseman, a noted swordsman, a keen and capable officer, and here he stood, a stranded and unhappy pensioner, the very typical dragoon without his horse! What made his position still worse, he was alone in the world. His mother had died when he was a small boy—he scarcely remembered her; his father, on the other hand, had lived to a great age, a red-faced, irascible old gentleman, whose eldest son predeceased him by many years; and thus the family place had come to the Indian officer, after all.

An agent had remitted him spasmodically his somewhat shrunken rents; and recently he had visited Kilmoran Castle, the home of his ancestors, a tumbledown old place six miles from a station, with a defective roof, and a pervading odour of soot and dry rot. He scarcely knew a soul in the neighbourhood: undoubtedly there was good hunting to be had of a somewhat rough-and-ready description that would carry him through the dark winter days; but what of the evenings at home? He recalled the cavernous dining-room, with black horsehair and mahogany furniture, the heavy flock paper, the narrow windows, the glowering family portraits, and, above all, the grim sarcophagus under the sideboard that seemed to await, not the plate, but a corpse! whilst the drawing-room, which had been closed for fifty years, was a ghostly apartment, given over to dust and mice, who played weird tunes among the wires of the ancient Broadwood piano. Ulick Doran shivered as he pictured the dim flagged passages, the damp, desolate bedrooms. If he were to live at Kilmoran alone, he would undoubtedly take to drink or cut his throat! The other alternative was London and a bedroom near his club, where he would see the same faces, hear the same arguments, walk the same streets—every day. Oh, he would soon come to the end of that! This great city had no attractions for him. As he stood gazing out on the streaming rain and leaden clouds he was mentally contrasting Pall Mall with the “eye of his heart”—the Punjaub—and wishing he were back under the deep blue sky, with the first nip of the cold weather in the air, and his new Australian thoroughbred between his knees.

Just at this instant the door opened and a brisk little bald man, with a fair moustache and cheery eye, entered the room. He was Major Sutton—or Johnny Sutton, as his friends called him—late of Holland’s Horse, a comrade who had retired, married, and apparently lived happy ever after.

“I say, old man,” he began, “what are you doing here all by yourself—eh? What’s the matter? Down on your luck?”

“Not much luck to be down on, as far as I know,” growled the other, turning from the window and sinking into a capacious chair.

“Of course it’s just raw to you at present; you miss the old regiment, and, by George! they miss you,” said Johnny Sutton, opening his cigar-case. “We all have a sort of lost, end-of-all-things feeling, when we first come home, but we get over it in time and make a fresh start.”

“That’s all right for the young ’uns, Johnny, but a man of fifty-two has gone over most of the course.”

“Nonsense, Pat. I see you are affected by this beastly weather, and your liver—a man of fifty is in his prime! Why, I’m fifty myself, and can walk and shoot with the best.”

“You were always a great shikari, Johnny.”

“For that matter, so were you.”

“Well, there’s an end of all that now.”

“Why so? Haven’t you shooting on your place in Ireland?”

“Shooting!” he repeated derisively. “About as much as is in St. James’s Park. Perhaps after a hard day’s work I might bag a brace of rabbits and one snipe. It’s been poached for years. My father was an old man, and let things slide——”

“Still, I suppose you will go over there and pull the place together a bit?”

“No, I could not stand it for more than a week; the loneliness and dreariness seem to penetrate to one’s very bones.”

“And you are not keen about living in town—eh? You are like a newly imported remount—everything is strange, and you don’t know what to do with yourself?”

“Yes, Johnny, you have hit the nail right on the head; and if you can give me some sort of lead, I’m your man.”

Major Sutton puffed at his cigar, removed it from his mouth, examined it carefully, and then blurted out—

“I say, why don’t you marry?”

“Marry!” repeated his companion. “What an idea!”

“Yes, man alive, and a good one; people do it every day. You stare as if you had never heard of the institution. Look at me”—and he tapped his waistcoat: “I am married.”

“Yes, but I—I am not a ladies’ man.”

“So much the better; they never marry.”

“And I’m too old,” objected Colonel Doran.

“Bosh!”

“No girl would have me.”

“Well, what do you say to a fine young woman of five-and-thirty—or—a widow?”

“I’m not a society man, or in the way of meeting ladies.”

“Because you won’t go out when you are invited, except among the old married folk of the regiment. I can introduce you to one or two really suitable young women, with good looks, a little money, and no nonsense about them. There is Flora Davey! Why, her father commanded the 25th Bengal Cavalry. You remember him. She was born in Lahore?”

“Yes; and I was at her christening,” he supplemented grimly. “No, no! that would never work. Thank you, old man, I believe I’ll stay as I am.”

“But look here, Pat, you remember when I got that crack on my head at polo and was shunted home—years ago: it nearly broke my heart, but matrimony cured me. I met Maudie on the Riviera my first winter—and she took to me and I to her. You see, I was an invalid, and she pitied me, and talked over her rich old pater. People said nasty things, and it was a lie; I married Maudie for herself only, though money is certainly a power. Now the old man is gone, she has a clear three thousand a year, and I have come into a comfortable legacy. Maudie is a confirmed match-maker, and tries her best to settle her friends.”

“Yes, like the fox who lost his tail,” remarked the bachelor.

“Bar jokes, come along and dine with us quietly on Friday.”

Colonel Doran hesitated; he knocked the ash off his cigar reflectively and then began—

“You are very kind, Johnny, old man, but——”

“Oh, no, I’m not going to make up a match for you on the spot—no fear: but just take a look at me and mine—as a practical illustration of my argument—no party: I want you and Maudie to get to know one another better—she likes you so much——”

“All right, then, I’ll come—thanks. Friday did you say?” and he took out a little pocket-book. “Friday, 13th, at 8 o’clock, 402 Sloane Street.”

“Now, remember, you are engaged to us to a tête-à-tête dinner. I must be off; I’m taking the Mem Sahib to a theatre, and we dine early. You ought to look in yourself; it’s rather fun—The Old Bachelor’s Blunder.”

* * * * *

Major Sutton had been a Benedict for nearly ten years. His wife was a pretty, fashionable little woman, some months—though few suspected this—older than himself. She dressed with taste, had a capable maid, and was, in the eyes of Johnny Sutton, perennially young and beautiful. He had no secrets from her, and told her, like a good boy, where he had been, who he had seen, what they had said. The couple were on terms of delightful good fellowship, and she, for her part, shared with Johnny all the dearest secrets of her dearest friends.

“I say, Maudie,” he began, when they were settled in their brougham, “you know my pal, Pat Doran, one of the best fellows who ever stepped——”

“Yes, of course I do; he looks like an unhappy duke, poor old boy.”

“I met him to-day, alone and evidently rather wretched. You see, he feels a bit out of it now he is retired; he is like a lost dog. The regiment was his home; now he is out of it. If he had had a clever little wife to exploit him he might have become a brigadier and goodness knows what. Now he is short of a job; he is not even on the club committee, and he has nothing to do.”

“And Satan finds, etc. etc.; only he is too old to get into mischief, I should hope. What about him?”

“Well, you see, he doesn’t take kindly to London, and he does not care to live in Ireland. He has a fine estate and castle over there. His family goes back to the Flood, and had their own ship.”

“Yes, he looks an aristocrat all over,” agreed Mrs. Sutton, who, being the daughter of a successful nobody, had a profound respect for blue blood.

“He is one of the simplest and best of men, but all alone in the world. After living years in a mess he can’t stand the empty halls of his ancestors, and I’ve been telling him to-day, that he must marry!”

“Of course,” she eagerly agreed—“certainly he must marry.”

“And you are the proper person to find him a nice wife, Maudie—a real jewel, you know—no paste. I’ve asked him to come and dine on Friday—quite by ourselves, and you can talk to him—of course, not about matrimony—just to find out his tastes. In fact, I know them—he was desperately in love once, with a quiet fair-haired girl; she had a soft manner, and a charming smile, and married a drunken boor—who broke her heart—and——”

“But listen, Johnny,” interrupted his wife, “we have a little dinner on Friday—don’t you remember? The Colletts and Sir Fred and Lady Hewson.”

“By Jove! Yes—so we have! Then I’ll put him off till Sunday.”

“No, no, you will do nothing of the sort. I will ask a girl specially to meet him. I know the very one to suit him. What do you say to Julia Barker?”

“Oh,” doubtfully, “I don’t think she would be his style at all—no—not one little bit.”

“Why not? She is handsome, agreeable, well connected—the Hollington-Barkers you know.”

“Yes, but I don’t admire her; she’s too stout and full-blown; too loud, and I should say, had the devil of a temper.”

“It is not necessary for you to admire her, Johnny. Poor Ju has led a life to try the temper of a saint. A spendthrift old father, and since his death she is a sort of wanderer, and wants a home of her own so badly; her life is spent in visits—and she lives in her boxes. Now the Barre girls are growing up she cannot be there so much, and she hates being paying guest.”

“Miss Barker has no money,” objected Major Sutton.

“But Colonel Doran has, and Ju is wonderful, she can make one penny go as far as two! She will be a capital wife for him, lively, energetic, and managing—and so well connected.”

“I don’t think she will suit, Maudie. He is a quiet, reserved sort of chap, and would like some one of his own caste.”

“Not a bit of it: silent men always take talkative wives—every one chooses their opposite—I believe Ju and the Colonel will be an exact match—and here we are!”