LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS
At this amazing question the chauffeur started violently, looked up
into the anxious, sunken eyes gazing into his own, and answered--
“No, to the best of my belief, I’ve never seen you before--never till I
came here.”
The man’s worn face worked with violent emotion--which he vainly
struggled to subdue.
“What!” he demanded, in a high, hoarse key, “have you forgotten
Lucknow?--and Jim Ramsay of the Seventh? Impossible!”
Wynyard glanced at him and again shook his head.
After a long pause, expressive of indignant incredulity--
“Why, man alive, you and I were at school together! Don’t you remember
your poky little room over the churchyard, and how we fagged for Toler,
and played hard rackets?”
As Wynyard still remained irresponsive, suddenly, to his horror, the
questioner burst into tears and tottered unsteadily towards the door,
wringing his hands, uttering loud convulsive sobs, and exclaiming, “As
a dead man out of mind! As a dead man out of mind! Tell them to sound
the Last Post!”
There was a loud murmur from the card-players, and old Thunder,
turning about and addressing the company, said--
“Poor old chap, ’e’s worse nor ever. At school together”--to
Wynyard--“Lor’ bless me! why, ye might be his son! I suppose ’e’s a
stranger to ye, mister?”
“Yes; I never laid eyes on him before.”
“He’s a-going off his nut,” declared a voice from the nap table; “he
did ought to be put away--he did.”
“Ay,” agreed the organist, addressing Wynyard, “his good lady won’t
hear of it; but it’s my opinion that he is no longer safe to himself
or others--it’s the loose and at-home lunatics that commit these awful
crimes ye read of in the papers, and makes your blood run cold.”
Wynyard made no reply. He had more than once heard Pither himself
spoken of as a madman and a crazy fellow; but _he_ was merely
eccentric. As for Captain Ramsay, he was lost in conjecture as to how
that unfortunate and afflicted gentleman had got hold of his _real_
name?
This mystery was solved no later than the next evening. In the lovely,
soft June twilight he was walking past the Claringbold’s empty farm,
and here came upon the captain, who was leaning over the gate, and
signalled imperatively to him with his stick.
“Look here!” he called out, and Wynyard stood still. “You’ve been a
puzzle to me for nearly six weeks--and at last I’ve got you.”
“Got _me_!”
“Of course you are Owen Wynyard; you and I knew one another long ago.
Why, man! we were schoolfellows, almost like brothers, and afterwards,
when our two regiments lay in Lucknow--why, God bless me! it’s over
thirty years ago!”
Captain Ramsay had got hold of his right name, but otherwise he was a
raving lunatic.
“You are Owen Wynyard, aren’t you?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes, I am, but I don’t use the Wynyard here; and I must beg you to
keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, all right; in one of your old scrapes, my boy! Money scarce! Ha
ha!” and he laughed hysterically. “So you’re lying doggo from the
Soucars, but why _here_?”
“That’s my business,” he answered sharply.
“Come, come, don’t be so grumpy and short with me, Owen. You were
always such a rare good-tempered chap. What has changed you, eh?
Now, come along home with me, and we will have a good ‘bukh’ over
old times,” and, as he spoke, his grasp--a fierce, possessive
clutch--tightened painfully on his prisoner’s arm.
“But,” objected the victim, “I was going for a turn.”
“No, you are not; you are coming straight home with me. My wife will
be glad to make your acquaintance. I forget if you’ve met her?” and he
touched his forehead. “I’m a little funny here, Owen. India, my boy!
she takes it out of all of us one way or another--teeth, hair, liver,
brains. Come on now--right about turn!” he concluded facetiously.
There was no use in resistance or in having a violent personal struggle
with the lunatic--nothing for it but to submit; and, in spite of his
reluctance, Wynyard was conducted, as if in custody, right up to the
door of Ivy House. Were he to refuse to enter, he knew there would only
be a scene in the street, a gaping crowd, and an unpleasant exposure.
“Look, look, Tom!” cried Mrs. Hogben, pointing to the opposite house,
“if the captain hasn’t got hold of our young fellow, and a-walkin’
him home as if he had him in charge--he has took a fancy to him, I do
declare!”
“There’s more nor one has took a fancy to Owen,” remarked Tom, with
gruff significance; “but, as to the captain--well--I’d rather it was
him--nor me.”
The captain entered his house with a latchkey and an air of importance;
there was a light in the square hall, and a door at one side was ajar.
He called out--
“Katie, Katie, come and see what _I_ have found for you!”
A door was opened wide, and there stood Mrs. Ramsay in a tea-gown, with
a little black Pom. in her arms. She looked amazed, as well she might,
but instantly dissembled her surprise, and said--
“Good-evening--I see my husband has invited you in for a smoke?”
“Smoke!” said Captain Ramsay, passing into the drawing-room,
and beckoning Wynyard to follow him. As he did so, he glanced
apologetically at the lady of the house, and it struck him then that he
was looking into a face that had seen all the sorrows of the world.
The room was furnished with solid old furniture, but Mrs. Ramsay’s
taste--or was it Miss Morven’s--had made it a charming and restful
retreat, with pretty, soft wall-paper, rose-shaded lamps, flowers, a
quantity of books, and a few Indian relics--such as a brass table, a
phoolcarrie or two, and some painted Tillah work which he recognised as
made near Lucknow.
“Katie,” resumed her husband, after a pause, “I know you will be
pleased to hear I’ve met a very old friend,” and he laid his hand
heavily on Wynyard’s shoulder. “Let me introduce Captain Wynyard--Owen
Wynyard of the Red Hussars. He and I were quartered together in
Lucknow, a matter of thirty-three years ago--why, I knew him, my dear,
long before I ever set eyes on _you_!”
As he concluded, he gazed at her with his dark shifty eyes, and Wynyard
noticed the nervous twitching of his hands.
“I’m sure I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, with
the utmost composure, though her lips were livid. Jim was getting
worse--this scene marked a new phase of his illness--another milestone
on the road to dementia.
“We were inseparable, Katie, I can tell you, and went up together for
our leave to Naini Tal, and stayed at the club, rowed in the regatta,
had a ripping time, and went shooting in Kumaon. I say, Owen, do you
remember the panther that took your dog near Bhim Tal--and how you got
him?”
Wynyard nodded assent--in for a penny, in for a pound! He was
impersonating a dead man, and what was a dead dog more or less?
“Do you remember the cairn we raised over him, and he was so popular,
every one who knew him, that passed up or down, placed a stone on it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to go and smoke in the dining-room?” suggested Mrs.
Ramsay. “Jim, I’ll ring for Mary to light the lamp, she does not know
you are in.”
“No, no, I’ll go myself,” and he shuffled into the hall.
“He has taken you for some one else, of course, poor fellow!” she said,
turning quickly to Wynyard, and speaking under her breath.
“Yes,” he answered, “for my father--but please keep this to
yourself--I’ve always heard I am extraordinarily like him.”
“Then humour him, humour him, _do_. You see how bright and happy this
imaginary meeting has made him. Oh, it will be so kind of you to talk
to him of India--he loves it--how I wish you knew the country--you
must pretend, and I will coach you. Lucknow is very hot, and gay, not
far----”
“But I needn’t pretend,” he broke in, “I know the country--yes--and
Lucknow too. I was there with my father’s old regiment.”
She stared at him for a moment in bewildered astonishment.
“I say, you won’t give me away, will you?” he added anxiously.
“No; is it likely? If you will only come and talk to him of an evening
now and then, it will be truly one of the good deeds that will be
scored up to you in heaven. Ah, here he is, and the lamp.”
“Now come along, Owen,” he said briskly. “Here you are, I’ve got my
best tobacco for you. Let’s have a bukh!”
And what a bukh it was! Captain Ramsay carried on most of the
conversation, and as he discoursed of old friends, of shikar, of camps
and manœuvres, racing and polo, his sunken eyes kindled, he became
animated; it was another personality to that of the silent, drooping
figure known to Ottinge. Wynyard, as he listened and threw in a word
or two, could now dimly realise the good-looking smart officer in this
poor stranded wreck.
Mrs. Ramsay, who had brought her work and her little dog, sat somewhat
apart, beyond the shaded lamp’s rays, listened, wondered, and inwardly
wept. What vital touch to a deadened mind had kindled these old
memories? What a mysterious organ was the human brain!
And the taciturn chauffeur, he too was changed--it was another
individual; he sat there, smoking, his elbow on the table, discussing
army matters (now obsolete), notable generals, long dead and gone,
the hills and plains of India, the climate--that, at least, was
unchanged--with extraordinary coolness and adaptability. The guest was
playing the rôle of being his own father, with astounding success. And
what a good-looking young fellow! she noticed his clear-cut features,
the well set-on head, the fine frame, the distinguished looking brown
hand that lay carelessly on the table. The scene was altogether
amazing; this sudden recognition seemed to have aroused Jim from a
long, long mental slumber. Was it a sign of recovery--or was it a
symptom of the end?
When at last Owen rose to go, Captain Ramsay made no effort to detain
him, but sat, with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed on the
opposite wall, lost in a reverie of ghastly vacuity.
It was Mrs. Ramsay who accompanied her guest into the hall, and
inquired, in her everyday manner--
“And when is the motor of Ottinge coming back?”
“I am to fetch it to-morrow.”
Then, in another voice, almost a whisper, she added--
“I am so grateful to you. My husband and your father seem to have been
like brothers--and you really managed wonderfully. You have given Jim
such pleasure, and, poor fellow, he has so little!” Her eyes were dim
as she looked up, “Even I, who am with him always, see a change. I am
afraid he is growing worse.”
“Why not better?” asked Wynyard, with forced cheerfulness. “Have you
seen a mental specialist?”
“Oh yes, long ago; his condition is the result of sunstroke, and they
said he--he ought to be--put away in an asylum; but of course his home
is his asylum.”
Her visitor was not so clear about this, and there was no doubt that
now and then the captain’s eyes had an alarmingly mad expression.
“Can you manage to come and see him occasionally, or is it asking too
much?”
“I’ll come with pleasure; I have my evenings off--the car never goes
out at night, as you may know; but I’m only Owen Wynyard, late of the
Red Hussars, in this house, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Of course; and I shall be only too thankful to see you whenever you
can spare us an hour,” and she opened the door and let him out.
From this time forth there commenced an intimacy between the chauffeur
and the Ramsays. He not only spent an hour now and then with the
captain, smoking, playing picquet, and talking over old times, but he
gave Mrs. Ramsay valuable assistance with her boarders, treated bites,
thorns, and other casualties with a practised hand; on one occasion
sat up at night with a serious case of distemper; on another, traced
and captured a valuable runaway. He admired her for her unquenchable
spirit, energy, and pluck, and helped in the kennel with the boy she
employed, and undertook to exercise the most boisterous dogs of an
evening. These thoroughly enjoyed their excursions with an active
companion, who, however, maintained a strict but kindly discipline;
and, of a bright moonlight night, it was no uncommon sight to meet the
chauffeur, four or five miles from Ottinge, accompanied by, not only
Joss, but by several of Mrs. Ramsay’s paying guests.
The friendship between the captain and the chauffeur naturally did not
pass unnoticed, and the verdict of the Drum was that the young fellow,
having spare time on his hands, had been “took on as a sort of keeper
at Ivy House, and gave a help with the kennel and the old man--and the
old man was growing worse.”
Leila had arranged to pay a flying visit to Brodfield when her brother
went there to fetch the motor, and he found her awaiting him in a
gloomy sitting-room of that once celebrated posting-inn--the Coach and
Horses.
“Three months are gone!” she said, after their first greetings, “so far
so good, _ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_!”
“There are a good many _pas_ yet! It’s awfully nice to see you, Sis,
and be myself for once in a way,” and then he proceeded to unfold his
experience with Captain Ramsay.
“Oh, how ghastly! The poor lunatic talking away to you, and taking
you for our father! Imagine him recognising you by the likeness, and
skipping thirty-three years! No one else suspects you, do they?”
“His wife knows my real name, and that’s all; I had to tell her, but
she is safe as a church. Miss Susan has been curious.”
“Bless her dear simple heart!”
“I say amen to that; but of all the mean, purse-proud, tyrannical old
hags, give me Bella Parrett! She’s always bragging of her family, too,
and her crest--in my opinion it ought to be a civet cat!”
“Oh, Owen,” and she laughed, “it’s not often that you are stirred to
such indignation.”
“Ah, you don’t know her.”
“Apparently not. Well, what do you say to a move, and to better
yourself? I believe I could find you a capital place in Somersetshire,
not so retired, more in the world, and with quite smart people.”
“No, thanks, I’ll stick to this now--anyway till Christmas.”
“But, Owen, when the old woman and the motor are so objectionable--by
the way, I must inspect it before you start to-morrow--why remain?”
“Oh, I’ve got the hang of the place now. I know the people, I’ve
comfortable quarters--and--er--I like Miss Susan----”
“Do you like any one else, Owen, come?”
“I like the parson, and the schoolmaster, and Tom Hogben.”
“Well, well, well!” throwing herself back, “I see you won’t give me
your confidence! I am positively certain there is some one in Ottinge
you like much better than the parson and the schoolmaster--or even Miss
Susan.”
“I swear there is not,” he answered, boldly confronting her. (Aurea was
not in Ottinge, but visiting her rich London relatives, doing a bit of
the season with, to borrow the native term, “Mrs. General Morven.”)
Leila was puzzled. Owen, she knew, was a hopelessly bad liar, and his
face looked innocence itself.
“I’ve got a box for the theatre here--a company on tour. We may as well
go--you can sit in the back,” she said, rising.
“All right; it’s to be hoped none of the Ottinge folk will be there,
and spot me!”
“Not they! Don’t you know your Ottinge by this time? Is it likely that
any one of them would come all this way to see a mere play?”
“Miss Susan might, she loves an outing and any little bit of amusement;
but she’s not at home, and if she was, she would not get the use of the
motor.”
“The theatre is only across the square--it’s quite near, so we may
as well walk;” and they did. Lady Kesters in a high black dress, her
brother in a dark suit, passed unnoticed among the crowd, and enjoyed
the entertainment.
The next morning Lady Kesters left Brodfield by the ten o’clock train
for London, having previously inspected the celebrated green gem at the
garage. She even got into it, examined it critically, and laughed as
she descended.
“Oh, what a take in! What a shame to have cheated those poor old women!
Why, Owen, I believe it must be years and years old!”
“And a bad machine always; strong when you want it to be weak, and weak
when it should be strong. Some of these days it will play me a trick,
I’m sure.”
“What, that old bone-shaker! No, no. Well, I’m afraid you must soon be
starting--as you say Miss Parrett awaits you, watch in hand--and so
must I. It’s been awfully good to see you, and find you are getting
on so well--‘a chauffeur almost to the manner born.’ Martin takes a
profound interest in our enterprise.”
“He keeps me supplied with lots of tobacco and A1 cigars. Tell him that
Miss Susan asked me if I got them in the village? and Miss Parrett,
who is as sharp as a razor, inquired how I could _afford_ to buy them?
I ventured to offer a couple to the doctor--I told him they were a
present; he took them like a lamb, and asked no questions.”
“What! does a lamb smoke? Well, I’ll tell Martin how much his offerings
are appreciated, and that you really are fit--and quite happy, eh?”
“Yes, tell him that neither of you need worry about me; I’m all right
at Ottinge.”
But when, an hour later, Lady Kesters gazed meditatively on the flying
Midlands, with her thoughts concentrated upon her brother, she was by
no means so sure, that he _was_ all right at Ottinge!