Squire Luke Candlish looked flushed and angry, as he stood facing his
brother in the billiard-room, over the dining-room, at the Hall. Dinner
had been ended an hour, and in company with his brother he had partaken
of enough wine for three ordinary men, after which they had gone
upstairs to smoke and play two or three games.
Tom Candlish played horribly that night. The strokes he made were vile;
and so transparent were some of his blunders that any one but Squire
Luke would have seen and asked what it meant.
Squire Luke only chuckled and smoked, and spilled the cigar-ash over the
green cloth and played; but played more vilely than his brother, with
the result that, in spite of all his efforts, Tom won game after game.
It was very awkward, for Tom had a request to make, and unless he could
get his brother in a good temper, the request would certainly be in
vain.
He made misses and his brother scored one each time. Then went straight
into the pocket without touching a ball; and his opponent scored three;
but directly afterwards, when his turn came round, the balls seemed as
if they would make cannons and winning and losing hazards, so that his
score kept rising, and Squire Luke raved.
Tom won every game, and his brother grew more silent, till quite in
despair at the failure of his plan to put the squire in a good temper,
Tom blurted out his business. He wanted a hundred pounds.
"I should think you do want a hundred pounds!" said the squire coolly;
"say two."
"Two!" cried Tom merrily.
"Twopence!" cried his brother, driving his ball off the table with a
tremendous clatter. "What for?"
"Meet a couple of bills," said Tom, picking up the ball. "No! Your
play again."
"No business to accept them."
"Couldn't help it, old fellow. Come, let's have a hundred."
"Not a stiver."
"Why?"
"Because you've had your allowance for the year, and fifty over."
"Nonsense, old man; I'm hard pushed, and if I don't meet the bills,
they'll be dishonoured."
"Well, what of that?" said Squire Luke coolly, as he made a stroke.
"What of it! eh? Why, the glorious name of Candlish will be dragged in
the mire."
"Bah!" ejaculated the squire, playing again.
"Why, Luke, that stroke was not emblematic, was it, of your turning into
a screw?"
"None of your hints. I put on no screw, and I am no screw. You have
your five hundred a year to spend, and I keep you besides."
"Oh, yes: and keep me well; but a man can't always keep just inside a
certain line."
"You always keep outside a certain line," retorted the squire. "You
have your five hundred regularly."
"And you have your five thousand regularly," said Tom, who was beginning
to flush up.
"Well, what of that?"
"Why, it isn't fair that you should have all this big place and a large
income, and I nearly nothing."
"That's right," said the squire; "abuse your father."
"I don't abuse my father!" retorted Tom hotly; "but I say it was an
infernal shame!"
"He knew what a blackguard you are, Tommy. Ah! that's a good stroke:
six!"
"Blackguard, eh? Come, I like that. Because I am open and above-board,
and you are about the most underhanded ruffian that ever lived, I'm a
blackguard, and you are only Squire Luke. Why, you sneaking--"
"Don't call names, Tom," said the squire, laughing huskily, with his
heavy face bloated and red from the wine he had taken. "Little boy,
younger brother, if you are rude I may use the stick in the shape of a
billiard cue."
"I only wish you would," said Tom, grinding his teeth as he played,
striking the balls viciously, and scoring now every time.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried the squire; "going to win, are you? We
shall see."
"Win? Curse the game! I could give you fifty out of a hundred, and
beat you easily. Look here, are you going to let me have that money?"
"No, I am not; mind your play."
"Then I'll have it somehow."
"Burglary?"
"No; I'll make it so unpleasant for a certain person about some things I
know that he shall be glad to lay down the hundred instead of lending
it, as one brother should to another."
The squire's face grew dark, and the cue quivered in his grasp, as he
gazed full at Tom Candlish, the brothers looking singularly alike in
their anger. But the elder turned it off with a curious, unpleasant
laugh, and leant over the table to make a stroke.
"Don't be a fool, Tom," he said, playing. "You always did have too much
tongue."
"Too much or too little, I mean to use it more, instead of submitting to
the tyranny of such a mean-spirited hound as you. What the old man
could have been thinking of to leave the estate to such a miserly cur--"
"Mean-spirited hound! miserly cur, eh!" paid the squire, between his
teeth.
"Yes; and I repeat it," cried Tom Candlish, who was furious with
disappointment. He found that humility was useless, and that now they
had begun to quarrel, his only chance of getting money was by bullying
and threats; so without heeding the gathering anger in his brother's
eyes as he went on playing rapidly in turn and out of turn, he kept up
his attack. "What the governor could have been thinking of, I say--"
"Leave the governor alone, Tom," growled the squire. "He knew that if
he left the money to me with the title, the estate would be kept out of
the lawyers' hands, and the money would not be found in pretty women's
laps."
"But down your throat, you sot!" The squire looked up at him again, and
he was going to make some furious retort, when the old butler's steps
were heard ascending the flight of stairs, and he entered the room.
"Can I bring anything else, Sir Luke, before I go to bed?"
"No, Smith," said the squire; "what time is it?"
"Half-past ten, sir."
"All locked up? Servants gone to bed?"
"Yes, Sir Luke."
"That'll do, then, without Mr Tom wants some more hot water."
"No; I'm in hot water enough," growled Tom, lighting a cigar, and the
butler withdrew.
For some few minutes there was no sound but the click of the billiard
balls, as the squire, forgetful entirely of the game, kept on knocking
the red here, the white there, while Tom Candlish paced up and down, cue
in hand, emitting regular puffs of smoke, as if he were some angry
machine moved by an internal fire.
Doors were heard to shut here and there, and then all was silent in the
old place save the regular pacing about of Tom, the squire's hasty
tread, and the clicking of the billiard balls.
"Now, then!" cried Tom, at last; "are you going to let me have that
money?"
"No," said the squire, coolly enough. "I wouldn't let you have it now
for your bullying. I'm a hound and a cur, am I, my lad?"
"Yes, you are a despicable hound and a miserable cur, and if the old man
had known--"
"Let the old man rest," said the squire, with a lurid look.
"I say, if the old man had known how you were going to spend his money,
sotting from morning to night--"
"He'd have left it to you to spend on the loose, eh?"
"Loose? Why, you are ten times as loose as I am; but you are so proud
of your good name that you sneak about in the dark to do your
dissipation. I am manly and straightforward in mine."
"Yes, you're a beauty," said the squire mockingly. "Which of those
girls are you going to marry--Leo Salis or Dally Watlock?"
"You mind your own affairs, and leave me to manage mine!" said Tom
Candlish fiercely.
"But I should like to know," said the squire, "because then I could
arrange about the paper and furniture for the rooms."
"Do you want to quarrel, Luke?"
"Quarrel?" chuckled the squire; "not I. Trying to be brotherly and to
make things pleasant. If it is to be Leo, of course we must have greys
and sage greens and terra cottas. If it is to be Dally Watlock, we must
go in for red and yellow and purple. How delightful to have the
sexton's granddaughter for a sister! I say, Tom, how happy we shall
be!"
Tom Candlish turned upon his brother furiously, as if about to strike;
and the squire, though apparently laughing over his banter, and about to
play, kept upon his guard.
But no blow was struck. Tom uttered a low sound, like the muttering
growl of an angry dog, and smoked quickly, giving the butt of his cue a
thump down upon the floor from time to time as he walked.
"I shan't mind your marrying, Tom; and there's plenty of room for you to
bring a wife to. I shan't marry, so your boy will get the title--and
the coin."
"Coin?" cried Tom savagely; "there'll be none left. Do you think I
don't know how you are spending it?"
"Never mind how I spend it, my lad. I only spend what is my own; and if
I had spent all, I shouldn't come begging to you."
"Lucky for you," cried Tom Candlish tauntingly. "Look here, Luke, how
many years does it take a man to drink himself to death?"
"Don't know," said the squire, wincing.
"Well, you're hard at work, and I shall watch the experiment with some
curiosity. I've a good chance."
"Healthier man than you, Tom; and it'll take me longer to kill myself
than it will take you. I shall be a hale man long after you've broken
your neck hunting."
"Look here!" cried Tom savagely, "once more: do you want to quarrel?"
"Not I," said the squire; "and I don't want to fight. Cain might kill
Abel over again with an unlucky blow."
"'Pon my soul, Luke, if I could feel sure that Cain would be hung for
it, I shouldn't mind playing Abel."
"Look at that!" cried the squire, as, after a random shot, the red ball
went into one pocket, the white into another. "There's a shot!"
"Yes--a fluke," sneered Tom. "Your life has been a series of flukes.
It was one that you were born first, and another that you ever lived;
while in earnest, as in play, it's always flake, fluke, fluke!"
"Anchor flukes take fast hold of the ground, Tom," said the squire, with
a sneering laugh.
"Yes, and of the money, too," cried Tom. "Come, I'll give you another
chance. Will you let me have that cash?"
"No."
"Not to save me from a writ?"
"Who holds the bills?"
"That scoundrel Thompson. North's cousin."
"Then he'll worry you well for it," said the squire. "Let him. It'll
be a lesson for you, and bring you to your senses. You'll be more
careful."
"Nonsense! Let me have the money."
"I might have let you have it, and precious unwillingly, too," said the
squire. "I might, I say, have let you have the money to save you for
the last time, but your bullying tone, and the way in which you have
spoken to me to-night, have quite settled it. You may have writs and he
arrested, and turn bankrupt if you like: it doesn't make any difference
to me. Yes, it would; for perhaps I should get rid of you for a time."
"You cursed, mean, unbrotherly hound!" cried Tom furiously; and,
throwing down the cue upon the table just as his brother was about to
play, he swung out of the room, descended the stairs, and went up to his
bedroom.
"Hang him!" muttered the squire, going to a side table and pouring
himself out half a tumbler of strong brandy, which he diluted a little,
and then drank off half at a draught.
"I wish to goodness he'd go altogether. I won't pay his debts any more.
That's not a bad stroke. How a drop of brandy does steady a man's
hand! Let him swear and growl. Five hundred's enough for him for a
year, and the old man was quite right."
He went on playing for another half-hour, practising strokes with very
little success, till, glancing at his watch, he found it was close upon
midnight, and placing his cue in the rack, he poured himself out some
more brandy, drank it, turned down the lamp, and was moving towards the
baize swing-door, when it opened, and Tom Candlish stood in the opening.
"Hallo!" said the squire; "thought you'd gone to bed."
"What's the good of my going to bed with that money trouble to think
about."
"Have some brandy? Make you forget it. I've left some on the table."
"No fooling, Luke. I was out of temper. I've been worried, and I said
things I didn't mean."
"Always do. Here, let me come by. I want to go to bed."
"All right, you shall directly, old fellow; but you'll let me have that
money?"
"Not a sou."
"I want it horribly; and it will save me no end of worry. You'll let me
have it?"
"Not a sou, I tell you."
"Come, Luke, old chap, don't be hard upon me. I've been waiting
patiently till I got cool, and you had finished playing, before I came
and spoke to you again. Now, then, it's only a hundred."
"And it'll be a hundred next week, and a hundred next month. I won't
lend you a penny."
"Then, give it me. I've a right to some of the old man's coin."
"Not a sou, I tell you, and get out of my way. I want to go to bed."
"You'll help me, Luke?"
"No! Stand aside!"
"Come, don't be hard. I'm your brother."
"Worse luck!" said the squire, whose face was flushed by the brandy he
had taken.
"Never mind that. Let me have the hundred."
"I tell you again, not a sou. Curse you! Will you let me come by?"
cried the squire savagely; for the spirit had taken an awkward turn, and
his face grew purple.
"Once more; will you let me have the money?"
"No!" roared the squire. "Get out of the way--dog!"
"Dog, yourself! Curse you for a mean hound!" cried Tom Candlish, with a
savage look. "You don't go by here till you've given me a cheque."
The squire's temper was fully roused now. He had restrained it before;
though, several times when he had uttered a low laugh and kept on
handling his cue, his anger had been seething, and ready to brim over.
Now, at his brother's threat, that he should not pass until he had
signed a cheque, he seized Tom by the shoulder as he blocked the way,
and flung him aside.
Luke Candlish cleared the passage for his descent; but roused the evil
in his brother, so that Tom closed with him in a fierce grip.
The struggle was almost momentary. There was a wrestling here and
there, and then Luke Candlish put forth his whole strength as he
practised a common Cornish trick, and Tom was thrown heavily upon the
landing.
"There!" cried the squire; "lie there, you idiot! You'll get no cheque
from me."
The squire had to pass over his brother's body to reach the stairs, and
he was in the act of rapidly crossing him, when, with a desperate
effort, Tom made a savage snatch at his leg.
The result was what might have been expected: the sudden check caused
the squire to lose his balance, and he literally pitched head foremost
down the stairs, to fall with a heavy crash at the bottom.
Tom Candlish rose to his hands and knees, and gazed at where his brother
lay, just beneath the lamp in the lobby, head downwards, and in a
curiously-awkward position for a living man.