The Unknown Ajax

Chapter 2

It was instantly apparent to her children that Mrs. Darracott had not been summoned by her father-in-law to discuss such trivialities as the arrangements to be made for the reception of his heir. She was looking slightly dazed; but when Anthea asked her if my lord had been unkind, she replied in a flustered way: “No, no! Nothing like that! Well, that is to say—Except for—Not that I regarded it, for it was nothing out of the ordinary, and I hope I know better than to take a pet over a trifle. I must own, too, that I can’t be astonished at his being vexed to death over this business. It is excessively awkward! However, he doesn’t lay the blame at my door: you mustn’t think that!”

“I should think not indeed!” exclaimed Anthea between amusement and indignation. “How could he possibly do so?”

“No, very true, my love!” agreed Mrs. Darracott. “I thought that myself, but it did put me on the fidgets when Richmond said he wanted to see me, because, in general, you know, things I never even heard about turn out to be my fault. However, as I say, it wasn’t so today. Now, where did I put my thimble? I must finish darning that shocking rent before your aunt arrives tomorrow.”

“No, that you shan’t!” declared Anthea, removing the work-box out of her mother’s reach. “You are big with news, Mama!”

“I am—sure I haven’t the least guess why you should think so. And you shouldn’t say things like that! It is most improper!”

“But not by half as improper as to try to bamboozle your children! Now, Mama, you know you can’t do it! What has Grandpapa disclosed to you? Instantly tell us!”

“Nothing at all!” asserted the widow, looking ridiculously guilty. “Good gracious, as though he ever told me anything! How can you be so absurd?”

“Now, that is trying it on much too rare and thick!” said Richmond accusingly.

“Foolish boy! You are as bad as your sister, and what your poor papa would think of you both, if he could hear you, I’m sure I don’t know! And you ought to be in bed, Richmond! You look worn to a bone!”

At this, her masterful offspring converged upon her, Anthea sinking down on to a stool at her feet, and Richmond perching on the arm of her chair.

“And we don’t know what poor Papa would think of you for shamming it so, dearest!” said Anthea. “Grandpapa has told you all about the weaver’s son. Confess!”

“No, no, I promise you he hasn’t! He told me nothing about him—well, nothing to the purpose! Only when I ventured to ask him if it had not been a great shock to him to learn of the young man’s existence, he said he had known of it for ever. My dears, would you have believed it? It seems that poor Hugh wrote to tell your grandfather of this Hugh’s birth, twenty-seven years ago! And not a word has he uttered to a soul until today! Unless, of course, he disclosed the truth to Granville, but I am positive he never did so, for your Aunt Anne and I were the closest of friends, and she must have told me, if she had known anything about it. Oh dear, poor soul, I wonder how she does? I wonder how it will answer, living with her daughter and her son-in-law? To be sure, Sir John Caldbeck seemed a most amiable man, and I daresay anything was preferable to Anne than continuing here—though I always used to think that Grandpapa was by far more civil to her than—”

“Yes, Mama,” interrupted Anthea. “But all this is fair and far off, you know! So Grandpapa has known from the start how it was, has he? We needn’t marvel that he said nothing about it while my Uncle Granville and Oliver were alive, but how can he have allowed my Uncle Matthew to suppose all these months that he was now the heir to the barony? It is a great deal too bad, besides being quite crackbrained! Did he hope the young man might be dead? He can’t, surely, have forgotten him!”

“Well, I fancy, from something he said to me just now, that he had the intention of disinheriting him, if it might be done, only from some cause or another—but I don’t precisely understand about settlements, so—or do I mean any entail? No, I don’t think it was that, and naturally I shouldn’t dream of asking your grandfather to explain, for nothing provokes him more than to be asked questions, though why it should I can’t conjecture!”

“I didn’t know one could cut out the heir of one’s title,” objected Richmond.

“It seems to be established that Grandpapa, at all events, cannot,” said Anthea.

“Sequestration!” suddenly and triumphantly exclaimed Mrs. Darracott. “That was the word! I thought very likely it would come back to me, for very often things, do, and sometimes, which always seems extraordinary to me, in the middle of the night! Well, that was it, only it can’t be done, and so Grandpapa feels that there is nothing for it but to make the best of this young man.”

“Did he say that, Mama?” asked Anthea incredulously.

“Yes, he did,” nodded Mrs. Darracott. “Well, it was what he meant!”

“But what did he say?”demanded Richmond.

“Oh, I can’t recall exactly what he said! Only he seems to think he might go off at any moment, though why he should I can’t imagine, for I never knew anyone so hearty! In feet, it wouldn’t surprise me if he—Well, never mind that! Dear me, I have forgotten what I was about to say!”

“It wouldn’t surprise you if he outlived us all,” supplied Anthea helpfully.

“Certainly not!” stated Mrs. Darracott, blushing, “Such a thought never entered my head!”

“Lord, what a rapper!” remarked Richmond, palliating this undutiful criticism by hugging her briefly. “You’re trying to cut a wheedle, but if you think you can turn us up sweet, you’re a goose, Mama!”

“Richmond!”

“How many more times is Mama to tell you not to speak to her so saucily?” interpolated Anthea severely.

“You are two very silly, impertinent children!” said Mrs. Darracott, trying not to laugh. “And what your Aunt Aurelia will think of you, if you talk in that improper style, makes me quite sick with apprehension!”

“We won’t,” promised Anthea. “We will remember that a want of conduct in us reflects directly upon you, love, and, we will behave with all the propriety in the world.”

“If she stops trying to gammon us,” amended Richmond.

“Oh, that is understood! How does Grandpapa mean to make the best of our new cousin, Mama?”

“Well, my dears,” responded the widow, capitulating, “he seems to think that it will be necessary to lick the unfortunate young man into shape. At least, that’s what he said.”

“Unfortunate young man indeed!”

“I own, one can’t but feel a great deal of compassion for him, yet it can’t be denied that it is a severe trial for your grandfather to know that he must be succeeded by quite a vulgar person. I should be very much vexed myself, and heaven knows I don’t set half the store by my consequence that your grandfather does! Oh dear, how uncomfortable it will be! I did hope, when I learned that he is a military man, that he might be quite gentlemanlike, but your grandfather says that the army has grown so large, on account of the war’s having dragged on for such a time, that it is full of what he calls shabby-genteel officers—though how he should know that, when he never stirs from home, is more than I can tell! And to make it worse the poor man is in the wrong sort of regiment.”

“What?” ejaculated Richmond, kindling. “He’s in the 95th! A Light Division man! I should like to know what is wrong with that!”

“Well, dearest, I don’t know anything about such matters myself, but Grandpapa spoke of its being newfangled, which, of course, would account for his not liking it.”

“If that’s the way my grandfather means to talk he’ll make more of a Jack-pudding of himself than ever this cousin could, even if he is a rum ’un!” declared Richmond hotly. “Of all the antiquated, top-lofty—”

“Well, don’t put yourself in a passion!” recommended his sister. “You cannot suppose that anything other than a cavalry regiment, or the 1st Foot Guards, would do for a Darracott!”

“Balderdash!” said Richmond. “I don’t mean I wouldn’t wish for a cavalry regiment myself, but if I can’t—couldn’t—join one, I’d as lief be a Light Bob as anything else. And if Grandpapa says something slighting—oh, lord, I shan’t know where to look! I wonder if this man marched to Talavera? Do you know that—” He broke off, seeing his mother look quickly up at him, a stricken expression in her face. “Oh, well!” he said, shrugging. “It’s of no consequence—only I do hope to God Grandpapa doesn’t make a cake of himself! Go on, Mama! How is our cousin to be licked into shape? Does my grandfather mean to undertake the task himself? The wretched victim will seize the first opportunity that offers of escaping from the home of his fathers!”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Darracott said. “That is—no, I am persuaded your grandfather doesn’t mean—He said something about Vincent’s being able to hint him into the established mode.”

“Vincent! He won’t do it!” said Richmond positively.

“No, well—well, at least your grandfather seems to feel that we ought, all of us, to use the young man kindly!” Mrs. Darracott perceived that both her children were regarding her with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and her colour rose. She began to rearrange the Paisley shawl she wore draped round her shoulders, and said, rather too airily: “I am sure it is greatly to his credit, and not at all what one would have expected! Poor young man! Your cousin, I mean, not Grandpapa! I daresay he will feel sadly out of place here, and we must try to make him welcome. I shall certainly do so, and I hope you will, too, dearest Anthea. Grandpapa is—is particularly anxious that you should make yourself agreeable to him. Indeed, I don’t know why you should not! Not that I mean ...” Aware that two pairs of fine grey eyes were fixed on her face, she found herself unable to finish this sentence, and tried hurriedly to begin another. “Dear me, how late it is! Anthea, my love,—”

“Mama!” uttered Anthea accusingly. “If you don’t tell me precisely what it was that my grandfather said to you I’ll go to the library and ask him!”

This dreadful threat threw Mrs. Darracott into instant disorder. She scolded a little, wept a little, asseverated that my lord had said nothing at all, and ended by divulging to her children that my lord had conceived the happy notion of bringing about a match between his shabby-genteel heir and his only unmarried granddaughter. “To keep him in the Family!”she explained earnestly.

That was all that was needed to send Richmond into shouts of laughter. His sister, in general a girl with a lively sense of the ridiculous, found herself easily able to withstand the infection of his laughter. She waited in ominous silence until his mirth abated, and then, transferring her gaze from him to her mother, asked with careful restraint: “Does it ever occur to you, Mama, that my grandfather is a lunatic?”

“Frequently!”Mrs. Darracott assured her. “That is—oh, dear, what am I saying? Of course not! Perhaps he is a trifle eccentric!”

“Eccentric! He’s a mediaeval bedlamite!” said Anthea, not mincing matters. “Upon my word, this is beyond everything!”

“I was afraid you would not quite like it,” agreed her mother unhappily. “Now, Richmond—! You will be in whoops if you don’t take care! Foolish boy! There is nothing to laugh at!”

“Let him go into whoops, Mama! They may choke him!”

Mrs. Darracott was shocked by this unfeeling speech, but thought it wisest, after one glance at Anthea’s stormy face, to beg Richmond to go away. He did go, but it was a moment or two before Anthea’s wrath abated. She had jumped up from the footstool, and now look several turns about the room in a hasty, impetuous way which filled Mrs. Darracott with foreboding. However, she soon recovered her temper, and, although still incensed, was presently able to laugh at herself. “I should know better than to fly up into the boughs for anything that detestable old man could say or do! I beg your pardon, Mama, but it puts me in such a rage when he behaves as though he were the Grand Turk, and we a parcel of slaves—! So I am to marry the weaver’s son, am I? I collect that I have nothing to say in, the matter: has the weaver’s son? Has he been informed of the fate that awaits him?”

“Oh, no! That is—I did venture to suggest to your grandfather—But he said—you know his way!—that the poor young man would do as he was bid!”

“And he will!” said Anthea. “That’s to say, he’ll try! Wretched, wretched man! I pity him with all my heart! He will be miserably ill-at-ease, miserably out of place, , and will arrive to find himself under fire! Grandpapa will overawe him within five minutes! Mama, it is infamous! Did you tell my grandfather that I shouldn’t consent to such a scheme?”

“Well—well, I didn’t say that, precisely!” confessed Mrs. Darracott, in acute discomfort. “To own the truth, my love, I was so much taken-aback that—”

“Then I will, and immediately!” declared Anthea, going towards the door.

She was halted by a small, anguished shriek. “Anthea, I forbid you—I implore you!—He would be so angry! He will say that he told me not to say one word to you about it, and he did!”

Anthea could not be impervious to this appeal. She paused; and, pursuing her advantage, Mrs. Darracott said: “My dearest, you have so much good sense! I know you will consider carefully before you—Not that I would urge you to marry him if you felt you couldn’t like him! I promise you I would never, never—But what will you do, Anthea? Oh, my dearest child, I’m cast into despair whenever I think of it! You are two-and-twenty, and how can you hope to receive a respectable offer, when you never meet anyone but the Family, or go anywhere, or—And here is your grandfather saying that you frittered away your chances when he was so obliging as to frank you to a London Season, and so you must now be content with a husband of his choosing!”

“During my one Season,” said Anthea, in a level tone, “I received two offers of marriage. One came from a widower, old enough, I conjecture, to have been my father. The other was from young Oversley, who, besides being next door to a moonling, had the fixed intention of continuing under his parents’ roof. Between Grandpapa and Lady Aberford I am persuaded there wasn’t the difference of a hair! I haven’t watched the trials you’ve been made to endure only to stumble into the same snare, Mama!”

“No, and heaven knows, dear child, I must be the last person alive to wish to see you in such a situation,” sighed Mrs. Darracott.

“I could, I think, have developed a tendre for Jack Froyle,” said Anthea reflectively. “But he, you know, was obliged to hang out for a rich wife, and thanks to the improvidence for which the Darracotts are so justly famed my portion can’t be called anything but paltry. Does Grandpapa consider that circumstance when he talks of the chances I have frittered away?”

“No, he doesn’t!” replied Mrs. Darracott, with unaccustomed bitterness. “But I do, and it utterly sinks my spirits! That’s why I can’t help thinking that perhaps you ought not to set your face against this scheme of your grandfather’s. Not until you have met your cousin, at all events, my love! Of course, if he should prove to be impossible—only, you know, his is a Darracott onone side!”

“The side I should like the least!” said Anthea.

“Yes, but—but you would be established!”Mrs. Darracott pointed out. “Even if the young man is a coxcomb, which I do pray he is not, your position as Lady Darracott would be one of the first respectability. Anthea, I cannot bear to see you dwindle into an old maid!”

Anthea could not help laughing at this impassioned utterance, but Mrs. Darracott was perfectly serious, saying very earnestly: “How can you help but do so when no eligible gentleman ever sees you? Dear Anne was used to say that when Elizabeth and Caroline were off her hands she would invite you to stay in London, because she entered into all my sentiments on that head; but now that your uncle Granville is dead, and she has gone away into Gloucestershire, it would be useless to depend on her. Aurelia has still two daughters of her own to bring out, and although I could write to my brother—”

“On no account in the world!” exclaimed Anthea. “My uncle is the most amiable soul alive, but I would far rather dwindle into an old maid than stay for as much as two days with my aunt Sarah! Besides, I don’t think she could be prevailed upon to invite me.”

“No, nor do I: she is the most disagreeable woman! So what, I ask you, is to become of you? When Grandpapa dies we shall be obliged to leave Darracott Place, you know. We shall be reduced to seeking lodgings, very likely in some dreadful back-slum, and eat black-pudding, and turn our dresses, and—”

A peal of laughter interrupted this dismal catalogue. “Stop, stop, Mama, before you fall into an incurable fit of the blue-devils! We shall do nothing of the sort! With your skill in dressmaking, and my turn for making elegant reticules, we shall set up as mantua-makers. In Bath, perhaps, on Milsom Street: not a large establishment, but an excessively modish one. Shall we call it Darracott’s, to enrage the Family, or would it be more tonnish to call ourselves Elvira? Yes, I’m persuaded we should make a hit as Elvira! Within a year every woman of fashion will patronize us, because we shall charge the most exorbitant prices, which will convince the world that we must be top-of-the-trees!”

Mrs. Darracott, while deprecating such a nonsensical idea, could not help being strongly attracted by it. Anthea encouraged her to enlarge upon the daydream; and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her volatile parent restored to her usual optimism. Not until they retired to bed was the unknown cousin again mentioned. He came into Mrs. Darracott’s mind as she picked up her candle, and she ventured to beg Anthea not to speak of the matter to her grandfather. She was much relieved when Anthea, kissing her, and giving her shoulder a reassuring pat, replied: “No, I shan’t say anything to Grandpapa. I am sure it would be quite useless!”

Mrs. Darracott, much cheered, was able then to go to bed with a quiet mind. She was too deeply occupied with household cares on the following morning to have a thought to spare for any other problems than which bedchamber it would be proper to allot to the heir; how best to hide from Lady Aurelia that there was not a linen sheet in the house which had not been darned; and whether the undergroom would be able to purchase in Rye enough lobsters to make, when elegantly dressed, a handsome side-dish for the second course at dinner that day. She, and Mrs. Flitwick too, would have been glad to know for how many days my lord had invited five guests to stay at Darracott Place, but neither considered for as much as a minute the eligibility of applying to him for information on this head. Nothing but a rough answer could be expected. My lord would be unable to understand what difference it could make to anyone. He would also be unable to understand why the addition of five persons to his household should make any appreciable difference to the cost of maintaining his establishment. As he would, at the same time, cut up very stiff indeed if fewer than seven or eight dishes were provided for each course, the task of catering to his satisfaction was one of the labours of Hercules. “For, ma’am,” (as Mrs. Flitwick sapiently observed) “I dare not for my life tell Godney to use the mutton in a nice haricot, or toss up some oysters in an escallop: his lordship will want everything to be of the best.”

It soon transpired that there was one thing which his lordship did not want to be of the best. When Mrs. Darracott asked him if he wished Poor Granville’s bedchamber to be prepared for the reception of his successor, his reply was explosive and unequivocal, and carried the rider that the weaver’s brat would think himself palatially housed if put to sleep in one of the attics.

The first of the guests to arrive were Mr. Matthew Darracott and Lady Aurelia. They came in their own travelling-carriage, drawn by a single pair of horses; and they reached Darracott Place shortly after noon, having left town the day before, and rested for the night at Tonbridge.

Of my lord’s four sons, Matthew, the third, was the one who had caused him the least trouble and expense. His youthful peccadilloes had been of a venial nature, committed either in emulation of his elder brothers, or at their instigation. He had been the first to marry; and from the day that he led Lady Aurelia Holt to the altar his career had been at once blameless and successful. It had been a very good match, for although Lady Aurelia was not beautiful her fortune was respectable, and her connections excellent. She had also a forceful personality, and it was not long before Matthew, weaned from the Whiggish heresies in which he had been reared, found himself (under the aegis of his father-in-law) with his foot firmly set on the first rung of the political ladder. His progress thereafter had been steady; and although it seemed unlikely that he would ever achieve the topmost rungs of the ladder, it was only during the brief reign of “All the Talents” that he was out of office; and although there were those who did not scruple to stigmatize his continued employment as jobbery, no one could deny that he discharged his duties with painstaking honesty.

His political apostasy notwithstanding, it might have been expected that so worthy a son would have occupied the chief place in his father’s affection. Unfortunately Lord Darracott was bored by virtue, and contemptuous of those whom he could bully. Matthew had always been the meekest of his sons, and although his marriage had rendered him to some extent independent of his father, he still accorded him a sort of nervous respect, obeying his periodic and imperious summonses with anxious promptitude, and saying yes and amen to his lordship’s every utterance. His reward for this filial piety was to be freely apostrophized as a pudding-heart, with no more pluck in him than a dunghill cock. Since his conduct was largely governed by the precepts of his masterful and rigidly correct wife, my lord was able to add, with perfect truth, that he lived under the sign of the cat’s foot.

What Lady Aurelia thought of my lord no one knew, for she had been reared in the belief that the head of a family was entitled to every observance of civility. So far as outward appearances went, she was a dutiful daughter-in-law, neither arguing with his lordship, nor encouraging Matthew to rebel against his autocratic commands. Simple-minded persons, such as Mrs. Rupert Darracott, were continually astonished by Matthew’s divergence, on all important issues, from his father’s known prejudices; but Lord Darracott was not a simple-minded person, and he was well-aware that however politely Lady Aurelia might defer to him, it would be her dictates Matthew would obey in major matters. In consequence, he held her in equal respect and dislike, and never lost an opportunity to plant what he hoped would be a barb in her flesh.

According to Granville, whose own son had found little favour in his grandfather’s eyes, it was with this amiable intention that my lord encouraged Vincent in a career which his parents were known to think ruinous. More charitable persons suspected that in Vincent my lord saw a reflection of his own youth; but, as Granville once bitterly remarked, it was strange, if that were so, that my lord’s feeling for him fell far short of the doting fondness he lavished on Richmond.

It must have been apparent to the most casual observer that Matthew Darracott was labouring under a strong sense of ill-usage. He was rather a stout man, not quite as tall as his father, or any of his brothers, and with a chubby countenance. When he was pleased he looked what nature had intended him to be: a placid man with a kindly, easy-going disposition; but when harassed his expression changed to one of peevishness, a frown dragging his brows together, and a pronounced pout giving him very much the look of a thwarted baby.

As he climbed down from the carriage, he saw that Chollacombe was waiting by the open door of the house. Leaving James, the footman, to assist Lady Aurelia to alight, he trod up the shallow terrace-steps, exclaiming: “This is a damned thing, Chollacombe! Where’s my father?”

“His lordship went out with Mr. Richmond, sir, and is not yet come in,” replied the butler.

“Has that fellow—I don’t know what he calls himself!—Has he arrived here?”

“No, sir. You are the first to arrive. As you no doubt know, Mr. Matthew, we are expecting Mr. Vincent and Mr. Claud also, but—”

“Oh, them!” said Matthew, dismissing his sons with an impatient shrug.

By this time he had been joined by his wife. She never reproved him in public, and she did not now so much as glance at him, but said majestically: “Good-day, Chollacombe. I hope I see you well?”

“Very well, thank you, my lady. Mrs. Darracott is in the Green Saloon, I fancy. Perhaps your ladyship would—”

He broke off, for at that moment Mrs. Darracott came hurrying across the hall. “Oh, Matthew! My dear Aurelia! How glad I am to see you! I did not expect you would be so early—but so delightful!”

“We lay at Tonbridge,” said Lady Aurelia, presenting her cheek to her sister-in-law. “I do not care to travel above thirty or forty miles at a stretch: it does not agree with my constitution.”

“No, it is very disagreeable!” agreed Mrs. Darracott. “The road from Tonbridge, too, is so horribly rough! I am—”

“Elvira!” interrupted Matthew, thrusting his hat into James’s hand, “what do you know about this appalling business?”

“Oh, my dear Matthew, nothing! That is, only—But won’t you come into the Green Saloon? Unless you would wish to take off your bonnet and pelisse, Aurelia? I will take you upstairs—not that there is any need to escort you, for you must feel yourself to be quite as much at home as I am.”

This, however, her ladyship disclaimed, saying graciously that she considered herself a guest in the house, her sister-in-law being its unquestionable mistress. Mrs. Darracott, though privately thinking that there was a good deal of question about it, accepted this, and the two ladies went upstairs, leaving Matthew to get what information he could from Chollacombe. But as the butler knew very little more than he did, the only tidings he was able to glean were that the heir was not expected to arrive until the following day, and that my lord was (if Chollacombe might venture to say so) a trifle out of humour.

“Ay, I’ll be bound he is!” said Matthew. “Well, it is enough to put a saint out of temper! What’s more, I shouldn’t wonder at it if the fellow’s an impostor!”

Chollacombe thought it prudent to return no answer to this; so, after fidgeting about the hall for a few moments, Matthew took himself off, saying that if my lord was out riding with Mr. Richmond he might as well go down to the stables to meet him on his return.

In the event, he reached the main stableyard to find that his father had already returned, and in time to see the two sturdy coach-horses being taken out of the shafts of Matthew’s travelling-carriage. He himself was bestriding a neatish bay cover-hack, but Richmond, as his uncle resentfully perceived, had just dismounted from the back of a high-bred hunter which had probably cost my lord anything from three to five hundred guineas.

“So you’ve arrived, have you?” said my lord, by way of paternal greeting. “I might have known this paltry turnout was yours! What did you give for that pair of commoners?”

“I don’t recall—but they are not commoners, sir! Purebred Welsh, I assure you!” responded Matthew, nettled.

“Cleveland machiners!” said his lordship, with a bark of sardonic mirth. “You’ve been burnt, my boy! If ever I knew such a slow-top!” He pointed his whip at Richmond’s hunter. “Now, there’s a horse of the right stamp! Breed in every inch of him, perfect fencer, flying or standing!”

“Hardly the right stamp for carriage-work, sir!” said Matthew. “A good-looking horse, however, and carries a good head.” He held out his hand to Richmond, adding kindly: “Well, my boy? And how are you?”

“Pretty stout, sir, thank you,” replied Richmond, shaking hands with him. “I hope you are well? And my aunt, of course. Is my cousin with you?”

The note of eagerness did not escape Matthew; he smiled faintly. “No, neither of them. I collect, though, that you meant Vincent: I expect he will arrive presently.”

“You may be sure that he will!” interpolated his lordship, dismounting, and handing over his bridle to the waiting groom. He then looked his son over, remarked that he was becoming as fat as a flawn, and strode off towards the house, imperatively commanding Richmond to follow him.

But Richmond, who disliked being made to stand by in acute embarrassment while my lord insulted his son, had already slipped away into a wing of the stables, and it was Matthew who, swallowing his resentment, caught up with my lord. “Father, I must ask you—indeed, I must insist—”

My lord stopped, and turned, his grasp on his riding-whip tightening. “Oh? So you must insist, must you? Go on!”

“Well, I must say that I think you owe me—well, that an explanation is due to me!” amended Matthew sulkily.

“If you think you’ll get an explanation out of me, other than what I choose to tell you, muffin-face, you’re a bigger clunch than I knew! What I choose to tell you I have told you, and it’s all that concerns you!”

“No, sir!” said Matthew resolutely. “That don’t fit! You don’t like me; you didn’t wish for me to step into your shoes; but when—after what happened in June—I was your heir: no question about it!”

“You were not.”

“No! As it now appears, and if this fellow who has sprang out of nowhere is not an impostor! And that, sir, is something even you will own I’ve a right to ask!”

“He is not an impostor.”

“I beg your pardon, but what proof have you of that? For my part I think it damned smoky, Father! If the fellow is my brother’s son, I should like to know why he never approached you before! Upon my word, a very neat thing this is! If he had had the impudence to put forward his so-called claim to me, I’d have set Lissett to enquire into his credentials, and you may depend upon it we should soon have found that it was nothing more than an attempt to run a rig! Well, I’ve seen Lissett, and he tells me you didn’t desire him to do any such thing, but merely to write a letter informing the rascal you would receive him here. Now, Father—”

“Damn you, when I want your advice I’ll ask you for it!” broke in his lordship roughly. “I’m not in my dotage yet! I’ve known for twenty-seven years that this cocktail existed!”

“Good God!” gasped Matthew. “Known for—And never told us?”

“Why should I have told you?” demanded his father. “D’ye think I was proud of a weaver’s spawn? D’ye think I ever imagined I should be succeeded by a whelp I thought never to set eyes on? As for approaching me—laying claims—you’re fair and far off! He never did so! He’s coming here because I’ve sent for him—and he’s taken his time about coming!” he added grimly. “If you’ve seen Lissett, no doubt he told you that the fellow’s a soldier. I’ve known that these five years and more.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve followed his career?” asked Matthew incredulously.

“No, I don’t! I never gave the whelp a thought. Old Barnwood ran against him when he was out in the Peninsula, and had the curst brass to come up to me in Brook’s, and ask me if I knew I’d a grandson in the 95th. I damned his eyes for it, meddling busy-body!”

Matthew said slowly: “So when my brother was drowned you knew! And yet you—For God’s sake, sir, why didn’t you tell me then? Why—”

“Because I hoped he might be dead, chucklehead, or that there might be some way of keeping him out of my shoes!” replied Lord Darracott, his face working. “Well, he’s not dead, and there’s no way of keeping him out! When I’m booked, he’ll be the head of the family, but I’m not booked yet, and, by God, I’ll see to it he’s been licked into shape before I get notice to quit!”