Читать книгу The White Gipsy - J. Monk Foster - Страница 5

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One bright summer morning, when Mr. Sydney Carsland came down to breakfast about an hour before noonday, he found two letters lying on the table beside his toast and chop. He was living in a quiet and an unfashionable street in the south-west of London, and he and his landlady had been on rather unfriendly terms for some weeks, owing to the unpleasant fact that the young gentleman had been unable to pay during that period for either his board or lodging.

Before pouring out his tea his gaze fell on the couple of envelopes, and seizing them eagerly he glanced first at the handwriting and next at the postmarks. The letters were from Thorrell Moor—his correspondents were his father and brother.

What had they to say? Both had answered him promptly. Was the news they sent good or bad? He broke open his parent's missive first, and the short note he found ran thus:

"Carsland Hall, Thorrell Moor,

July 25th, 1867.

"MY DEAR SYDNEY,

"Your letter to hand. I am just sick and weary of your never-ending talks about reforming, and have no intention of throwing any more money away upon you until your reformation has at least begun. One thing I want you to understand once and for all. Never another penny will you handle of mine till you have shown me and the world that you are not utterly worthless. You have done your best to impoverish me, and it is quite time now that you began to depend on your own hands and brains for a livelihood. At your age I was working night and day, was slaving for gold that you have since thrown to the dogs. When you can shew me that all traces of manliness and honesty are not dead in your breast, then, and never before, will I think of you as a son.

"NICHOLAS CARSLAND."

A muttered curse escaped his hot lips, and he threw the letter on the table with a gesture of disgust. Than he took up the other missive, tore it open with violent fingers, and hurriedly ran his eyes over the few lines it contained.

"Dear Sydney,"—the letter ran—

"I am sorry to hear that you are on your beam ends again, as you put it. I have spoken to Father, but he swears that he will do nothing further. Really, you have gone too far. Why not settle down, and become a respectable member of society? Of course, I am very sorry, but can do nothing.

"Your affectionate brother,

"FREDERIC CARSLAND."

Throwing both communications into the grate with a curse, he turned to the table, and tried to eat. But he had no appetite. The night before he had reeled home the worse for liquor, and felt "seedy" enough at that moment. He was thirsty, however, and drained teapot and milk jug of their contents.

His thoughts still ran on the unpleasant missives he had received from home, and presently he went to the fireplace, took up the crumpled sheets, and re-read them carefully, without, however, being enabled to extract a gleam of comfort from one or other of the letters. A second reading only brought out more clearly the unpleasant and plainly made statements they contained, and caused Sydney B. Carsland to curse, not between his teeth now, but openly and loudly.

"That infernal cur is to blame for all this, and not the old man!" he ejaculated. "But I'll be even with him some day!"

He tore the letters into fragments, and scattered them passionately about the floor, afterwards dropping upon the chair, his teeth chafing his under lip, his brow contracted, and his forehead wrinkled in all the fury of impotent rage.

What was he to do? Was this to be the end of his folly? Was he to go under at last, as so many of his friends had been kind enough to predict. No! He would make one more effort before he gave up the struggle.

He would go to Thorrell Moor, even if he had to walk all the distance. But he had no intention of trudging it from London to Lancashire if it were possible for him to raise the money by either hook or crook.

He considered for some moments, but could call to mind no friends who would be willing to lend him the necessary coins of the realm; he had nothing to pawn: what was he to do? Just at this point his landlady—a pleasant-faced and respectable-looking woman of middle age—tapped at the door, pushed it open, and stood in the doorway.

"You got your two letters. Mr. Carsland?" she began, a trifle awkwardly.

"I did," he replied, sullenly and without turning his face towards her.

"You received good news, I hope, sir?"

"Bad news—infernally bad, curse it. I'm at the end of my tether now!"

"You said you thought you might be able to let me have a little of my account to-day, Mr. Carsland."

"So I did, and I meant it!" he cried, twisting round on his seat. "I expected money this morning, and well, I didn't get any. I have no money—not a shilling, and I mean to be in Lancashire to-morrow. I must go. Can't you lend me a pound or thirty shillings? I'll pay you every penny I owe you, Mrs. Edwards. I am a gentleman and would scorn to cheat a hard-working woman like you."

"They all say that, sir."

"But you know that my father is a baronet—Sir Nicholas Carsland, of Carsland Hall, Thorrell Moor, Lancashire, an owner of coal mines."

"So you said," she remarked, drily.

"Do you doubt my word? If you do, pick up those pieces of paper and read them. You will see then that I am not a liar."

"It's no business of mine, Mr. Carsland. I only want my money. I'm a poor woman."

"You shall be paid. But to obtain money I shall have to go home, and Lancashire is a long way. Lend me the money if you can."

"I have none to lend, sir, I'm sorry to say."

"Can't you borrow it from some of your neighbours?"

"I might, but——"

"You can't trust me!" he ejaculated, bitterly. "God knows that I have fallen very low indeed when you believe that I would rob you like a common adventurer or thief!"

"I will try to get you a pound or so," she cried, impulsively, touched by his despair, and she turned to leave the room.

"Do, there's a good soul, and you shall never regret it. If I do not repay you with ample interest may I be——"

She had gone, and he ceased to make assertions. Seeing he was alone, five minutes later Mrs. Edwards returned, and placed a sovereign and ten shillings on the table without a word.

"Thank you very much!" he said, earnestly as he pocketed the money. "And now I'm off to Thorrell Moor, Lancashire. You will hear from me in a few days. You will find my address on those scraps of paper."