Читать книгу The White Gipsy - J. Monk Foster - Страница 6

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It was the evening following that described in the opening pages of this story. After dining with Frederic, Sir Nicholas Carsland had been minded to stroll through his carefully kept grounds in order "to smoke, and think, and help his digestion," as he himself put it to his son. As the evening was fine and warm and his reflections were absorbing, he went right along the drive, smoking his second pipeful of mild weed, and presently the entrance gates and lodge hove in sight through the gloaming.

As Sir Nicholas gazed with an indifferent glance in the direction of the tall dark arch and the great gates of iron underneath, he saw the figure of a man approaching at a fair pace. A visitor to the hall he thought, and loitered. The next minute he and his younger son stood face to face.

"You—Sydney?" the baronet managed to exclaim after an instant's breathless silence which the son seemed unwilling to break.

"Yes, it is I, father," the prodigal replied, his keen eyes fixed on his parent's face as if he desired to divine his thoughts. "You are surprised to see me here," he added, "but I hope you are not sorry."

"I can't say that I am very well pleased to see you," Sir Nicholas answered in a dry, matter of fact voice.

"I was starving in London in a common lodging-house!" said Sydney.

"That was your own fault and exactly what you deserved. The man who chooses to spend his life as you have spent yours must be prepared to take the consequences. The man who cannot keep himself has very small excuse, in my opinion, for existing at all."

"I know what an ass I have been," Sydney responded in a contrite way, "but I have seen the error of my ways and honestly mean to mend them."

"If you hadn't said the same thing so many times before I might be inclined to believe you, Sydney."

"But I do mean it now!"

"We shall see," was the cutting rejoinder.

"You will permit me to stay here awhile until I find something to do?"

"Oh, of course. But you need expect no monetary help from me. I have squandered enough of thousands on your promises. You had better begin work at once. Do something—anything. Rather than be dependent on anyone as you have been all your days I'd go down into the pit again and be a dataller."

"It is all very well, father, for you to talk like that, for you were accustomed to work—hard work from your boyhood. But with me it was very different. My bringing up didn't fit me for anything of the sort, and I don't think I am at all to blame after all."

"Perhaps not. I was too soft with you because I liked you. But I mean to be hard now for your sake and my own."

"I daresay you are wise, father. But I mean to be a better man."

"When you quite satisfy me of that I shall do something for you—not before. I suppose we may as well walk towards the hall."

Hitherto they had carried on their conversation on the spot where they had met so unexpectedly; now they turned and strolled in silence towards the house, the lights of which could be discerned through the trees and the fast falling shadows of the night.

"Do you honestly mean, Sydney," Sir Nicholas asked after a while, "to knuckle down to hard work?"

"I do."

"Then you shall have the chance."

"Any work that I can fulfil without any loss of dignity as your son."

"Ah! At your age I did not consider dignity so much as other things."

There was another break in the conversation, and then the baronet remarked: "You have never inquired about your brother, Sydney?"

"No. How is he? All right, I hope. The fact is that Frederic and I don't see things in the same light."

"He is about to be married."

"Married! To whom?"

"Miss Adelaide Woodcock, of 'The Limes.'"

"To her! Frederic to be married to Adelaide Woodcock. Why——" Sydney broke off abruptly, and whistled softly.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing!"

"She is a most admirable and estimable lady in every respect, and the marriage is a most desirable one. Woodcock's Mines adjoin my own, and the union of the two families would mean a good deal of money saved to us."

"When does the wedding take place?"

"About Christmas, I understand. Frederic has made a very good match, and I mean to mark the affair by making his bride a handsome wedding present."

"Indeed."

"Yes. I shall give her the whole of your mother's jewels, which are certainly worth ten or twelve thousand pounds."

Sydney Carsland bit his lips till the blood came, but he said nothing. What his father had told him had aroused all that was evil in his nature, and he was cursing in his throat father and brother, and the prospective bride of the latter.

For this anger on his part there was, he thought, ample grounds. Three years ago, he and Miss Woodcock had seen a good deal of each other. Her beauty and wealth had affected both his head and heart, he had pursued her with the certainty that she was to be had for the wooing; she had shewn him every encouragement; they had walked and talked together on summer days—had flirted and made love to each other in the delightful evenings; and, then, when he had laid his heart and hand at her feet she had coolly dismissed him, saying that she had never cared for him, and desired their acquaintance to terminate.

Now his ill-favoured half-brother was to marry the rich and beauteous girl his handsome self had failed to win. Moreover, the woman who had cruelly cast him away was to have his dead mother's jewels presented to her.

What wonder that his mouth was blood-stained, and that his heart and brain were charged with bitterest pain and thought.

Before the evening was over the half-brothers met. The eldest shewed not the faintest trace of surprise or ill-feeling, as he held out his cold hand, saying,

"I am pleased to see you home again, Sydney?"

"Really; is that quite true, Frederic?" he asked, icily, as he touched the other's fingers for a moment, and then dropped them like a hot coal.

"Certainly, why should you think otherwise?"

"Your letter was scarcely as warm as your welcome here—I am sure you will forgive me if I am wrong, but—it was scarcely the letter one brother might expect from another."

"I could do nothing. Father is really offended with you this time, and in spite of all I could urge, and did urge, he refused to do anything."

"I had an impression, Frederic, that you had possibly used your influence with him in the other direction," was Sydney's tart rejoinder.

"You doubt my word, then—think, suggest that I am a liar?" the elder son replied hotly. "At all events, my word is as good as yours!"

"But even if my father refused to aid me, you could have done something."

"I couldn't do much. My allowance is small enough, heaven knows; and in view of my approaching marriage, I have nothing to spare."

"Father told me that you were engaged to Miss Woodcock. I suppose it is so."

"Yes. We are to be married in December."

"I wish you joy. I was once fool enough to think that the same lady cared for me."

"She told me all about it. It was a mere fancy on your part, as you learned when she declined your offer."

"I discovered my mistake then, but I was stupid enough to imagine that had I been the elder son in place of the younger, the always-do-well in place of the scapegrace and ne'er-do-weel, the answer would have been different."

"Do you mean to insult me? Have you come here to quarrel?"

For a moment the half-brothers glared at one another in silence. They disliked each other thoroughly, and all their lives had striven to disguise their enmity. The elder was freckled, ill-featured, and ungainly of figure. The younger was uncommonly handsome of face, and gracefully built. It was wonderful that any woman of parts would select as lover and husband the former. This thought ran through Sydney's mind, but he did not care to express himself then. He could not afford to quarrel with one who possessed so much influence over Sir Nicholas. So, dissembling his hot wrath, and crushing back his unbrotherly thoughts, he cried with apparent warmth and contrition——

"I'm a fool, Frederic. Forgive me for being so hasty. Shake hands."

His outstretched hand was grasped, warmly shaken, and then the unfraternal brothers parted for the night, each to brood over his own schemes.

Several weeks went by after Sydney Carsland's strange home-coming, without anything of importance happening. Several days after his arrival Sir Nicholas had come to him as he lounged about the lawn in front of the house, and as he walked alongside him had remarked——

"I got a letter from a Mrs. Edwards, of London, with whom you lodged, it appears."

"Indeed. She sent her account, I suppose?"

Sir Nicholas grunted out an assent.

"Then send the poor devil a cheque for the amount. You won't miss it, and she needs it very much. It is only a matter of a few pounds."

The cheque was sent, and Sydney contrived to borrow a few pounds from his father on his own account, in order to rig himself out in a respectable manner.

Sir Nicholas Carsland was very busy at this period, being engaged in negotiations with his neighbour, Squire Woodcock, with a view to the amalgamation of their respective collieries. The baronet was satisfied to have his younger son at home with him, thinking he was out of mischief's way there, and as Frederic went down to the colliery office every day, Sydney was left very much to his own devices.

He had the free run of the house; the best of food, wine, and cigars were at his command; there were fair horses in the stables, so that all he was short of was ready cash.

Cantering along the country lane in the direction of Thurstanley, a mining hamlet a couple of miles to the south of Thorrell Moor, where the Woodcocks lived, he encountered his old flame, Miss Adelaide, on horseback, attended by a groom.

On recognising her in the distance, he slackened pace, intending to speak to the lady, but when they met face to face her curt nod drove him on. Miss Woodcock looked more attractive than ever that morning. The exercise she was taking had flushed her face, which was usually pale as marble; and he went back to his old habit of biting his lips at the thought that this proud beauty had thrown him aside for his brother, and was destined to wear his dead mother's jewels.

A week or two later a strong temptation was thrown in Sydney Carsland's way. One evening Sir Nicholas came home after a day's absence, bringing with him the precious stones his dead wife used to wear. For years they had been stored in the strong room of the bank in the neighbouring town, and when the baronet opened the iron box in which they were placed both his sons were present.

"I thought I would give Miss Adelaide a pleasant surprise when she dines with us to-morrow," said the baronet, as he unlocked the casket, and took therefrom trinket after trinket gemmed with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and many other rare crystals. "A present for a princess, are they not, Frederic?"

"They are, indeed," the elder son answered, warmly, as he handled the bejewelled gewgaws, while the younger son—the outcast—looked on with gleaming eyes and darkling brow.

Standing there in silence, Sydney Carsland swore, mentally, that those rare gems his dead mother had worn should never adorn the wife of his half-brother, could he prevent it.

"You mean to present them to Miss Woodcock to-morrow, then, father?" Sydney asked in a low, husky voice.

"Oh, no. I only mean to shew them to her. When you settle down and marry as well as Frederic, your bride shall have a present equal to these."

"I should have preferred my wife to have worn my mother's jewels!" the younger son said rather bitterly as he went out of the room.

On the morrow the stones were shewn to Miss Woodcock, and she examined them calmly, critically as one who understood such things. She expressed her delight in a measured way, and then the valuable stones were locked up in the jewel box and placed in the safe in Sir Nicholas's study by the baronet himself.

Two nights later Sydney carried out a scheme he had conceived. Stung to the soul by the thought that the woman who had rejected him had accepted Frederic and was destined to wear his mother's gems, he had resolved to seize them and take to flight.

A favourable opportunity presented itself at the time indicated. His brother was away in Liverpool on some important business, and was not to return until the morrow; the servants had retired to rest an hour ago, and Sydney and his father sat chatting and enjoying their wines until midnight. Then Sir Nicholas had sought his room, and the younger son was left to execute his plan.

Seeking his room, he remained there until he thought his parent would be asleep. Creeping along the corridor he gained the door of Sir Nicholas's room. The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open, peered inside, saw the gas burning dimly, and heard his father breathing heavily and regularly.

On his hands and knees he stole over the thick carpet, and soon was near the window with his hand on the tap of the gas. A hurried glance around, and he turned out the light. If his father awoke now he could not recognise him. Then his hand sought the well-remembered drawer in which he knew his father had for years been in the habit of putting his keys on retiring.

The receptacle slid out almost noiselessly, his fingers closed on the bunch of cold steel keys inside, and then he crept on all fours from the apartment. He listened intently at the door, but all was still as death, save the laboured breathing of the slightly inebriated baronet.

A moment later he was in his own room examining the keys by the aid of the gas jet. They were the ones he needed. In another minute he was at the study door, had unlocked it and passed inside. Lighting the gas he opened the safe and lifted out the iron box. He opened that also, and found the casket containing the spoil he sought. The casket was of fine rosewood, bound with brass bands, and he unlocked that also to make certain that the jewels were intact.

When he had satisfied himself on that point he replaced the glittering gold set gems, re-fastened the casket, and placed it in a portmanteau. Then he rummaged through the safe for other valuables, and finding several bank-notes and a handful of gold and silver coins, he pocketed them and prepared for flight.

It took him only a minute or two to boot and coat himself and then he stole out through a back entrance into the darkness and silent of the night.