I
Two men stood in the billiard-room of an old country house, talking.
Play, which had been of a half-hearted nature, was over, and they sat
at the open window, looking out over the park stretching away beneath
them, conversing idly.
“Your time’s nearly up, Jem,” said one at length, “this time six weeks
you’ll be yawning out the honeymoon and cursing the man—woman I mean—
who invented them.”
Jem Benson stretched his long limbs in the chair and grunted in
dissent.
“I’ve never understood it,” continued Wilfred Carr, yawning. “It’s not
in my line at all; I never had enough money for my own wants, let alone
for two. Perhaps if I were as rich as you or Crœsus I might regard it
differently.”
There was just sufficient meaning in the latter part of the remark for
his cousin to forbear to reply to it. He continued to gaze out of the
window and to smoke slowly.
“Not being as rich as Crœsus—or you,” resumed Carr, regarding him from
beneath lowered lids, “I paddle my own canoe down the stream of Time,
and, tying it to my friends’ door-posts, go in to eat their dinners.”
“Quite Venetian,” said Jem Benson, still looking out of the window.
“It’s not a bad thing for you, Wilfred, that you have the doorposts and
dinners—and friends.”
Carr grunted in his turn. “Seriously though, Jem,” he said, slowly,
“you’re a lucky fellow, a very lucky fellow. If there is a better girl
above ground than Olive, I should like to see her.”
“Yes,” said the other, quietly.
“She’s such an exceptional girl,” continued Carr, staring out of the
window. “She’s so good and gentle. She thinks you are a bundle of all
the virtues.”
He laughed frankly and joyously, but the other man did not join him.
“Strong sense—of right and wrong, though,” continued Carr, musingly.
“Do you know, I believe that if she found out that you were not—-”
“Not what?” demanded Benson, turning upon him fiercely, “Not what?”
“Everything that you are,” returned his cousin, with a grin that belied
his words, “I believe she’d drop you.”
“Talk about something else,” said Benson, slowly; “your pleasantries
are not always in the best taste.”
Wilfred Carr rose and taking a cue from the rack, bent over the board
and practiced one or two favourite shots. “The only other subject I can
talk about just at present is my own financial affairs,” he said
slowly, as he walked round the table.
“Talk about something else,” said Benson again, bluntly.
“And the two things are connected,” said Carr, and dropping his cue he
half sat on the table and eyed his cousin.
There was a long silence. Benson pitched the end of his cigar out of
the window, and leaning back closed his eyes.
“Do you follow me?” inquired Carr at length.
Benson opened his eyes and nodded at the window.
“Do you want to follow my cigar?” he demanded.
“I should prefer to depart by the usual way for your sake,” returned
the other, unabashed. “If I left by the window all sorts of questions
would be asked, and you know what a talkative chap I am.”
“So long as you don’t talk about my affairs,” returned the other,
restraining himself by an obvious effort, “you can talk yourself
hoarse.”
“I’m in a mess,” said Carr, slowly, “a devil of a mess. If I don’t
raise fifteen hundred by this day fortnight, I may be getting my board
and lodging free.”
“Would that be any change?” questioned Benson.
“The quality would,” retorted the other. “The address also would not be
good. Seriously, Jem, will you let me have the fifteen hundred?”
“No,” said the other, simply.
Carr went white. “It’s to save me from ruin,” he said, thickly.
“I’ve helped you till I’m tired,” said Benson, turning and regarding
him, “and it is all to no good. If you’ve got into a mess, get out of
it. You should not be so fond of giving autographs away.”
“It’s foolish, I admit,” said Carr, deliberately. “I won’t do so any
more. By the way, I’ve got some to sell. You needn’t sneer. They’re not
my own.”
“Whose are they?” inquired the other.
“Yours.”
Benson got up from his chair and crossed over to him. “What is this?”
he asked, quietly. “Blackmail?”
“Call it what you like,” said Carr. “I’ve got some letters for sale,
price fifteen hundred. And I know a man who would buy them at that
price for the mere chance of getting Olive from you. I’ll give you
first offer.”
“If you have got any letters bearing my signature, you will be good
enough to give them to me,” said Benson, very slowly.
“They’re mine,” said Carr, lightly; “given to me by the lady you wrote
them to. I must say that they are not all in the best possible taste.”
His cousin reached forward suddenly, and catching him by the collar of
his coat pinned him down on the table.
“Give me those letters,” he breathed, sticking his face close to
Carr’s.
“They’re not here,” said Carr, struggling. “I’m not a fool. Let me go,
or I’ll raise the price.”
The other man raised him from the table in his powerful hands,
apparently with the intention of dashing his head against it. Then
suddenly his hold relaxed as an astonished-looking maid-servant entered
the room with letters. Carr sat up hastily.
“That’s how it was done,” said Benson, for the girl’s benefit as he
took the letters.
“I don’t wonder at the other man making him pay for it, then,” said
Carr, blandly.
“You will give me those letters?” said Benson, suggestively, as the
girl left the room.
“At the price I mentioned, yes,” said Carr; “but so sure as I am a
living man, if you lay your clumsy hands on me again, I’ll double it.
Now, I’ll leave you for a time while you think it over.”
He took a cigar from the box and lighting it carefully quitted the
room. His cousin waited until the door had closed behind him, and then
turning to the window sat there in a fit of fury as silent as it was
terrible.
The air was fresh and sweet from the park, heavy with the scent of
new-mown grass. The fragrance of a cigar was now added to it, and
glancing out he saw his cousin pacing slowly by. He rose and went to
the door, and then, apparently altering his mind, he returned to the
window and watched the figure of his cousin as it moved slowly away
into the moonlight. Then he rose again, and, for a long time, the room
was empty.
It was empty when Mrs. Benson came in some time later to say good-night
to her son on her way to bed. She walked slowly round the table, and
pausing at the window gazed from it in idle thought, until she saw the
figure of her son advancing with rapid strides toward the house. He
looked up at the window.
“Good-night,” said she.
“Good-night,” said Benson, in a deep voice.
“Where is Wilfred?”
“Oh, he has gone,” said Benson.
“Gone?”
“We had a few words; he was wanting money again, and I gave him a piece
of my mind. I don’t think we shall see him again.”
“Poor Wilfred!” sighed Mrs. Benson. “He is always in trouble of some
sort. I hope that you were not too hard upon him.”
“No more than he deserved,” said her son, sternly. “Good night.”