The real and resuscitated Lord Quorn had all this while been having a
deplorable time of it. Driven from the _Three Pigeons_ in consequence
of that hostelry being the abode of the terrible Leos, denied access to
his own home through the same fear, he had betaken himself to a
neighbouring village, and there spent his days, only venturing towards
Staplewick after nightfall, when he would prowl about the Towers like
an uneasy, discontented ghost. But now the small sum he had been able
to raise on the little jewellery he wore was all but spent, and he was
becoming desperate. Every day he expected to find that his trackers
from the Antipodes had departed in disgust; every night he was
disappointed. Surely, thought he, with the false Lord Quorn to all
intents established, what have these nuisances to wait for? Surely
even the self-and-brother-reliant Lalage can scarcely be stupid enough
to suppose that she had a chance of catching the substituted lord of
Staplewick. If he has the cleverness and enterprise to fill that
position backed by his friend's money he will hardly be such a rank
idiot as to allow himself to be snapped up by those Australian sharks.
Meanwhile the position for the real owner was drawing to a point when
something would have to be done. Necessary as it was for him to lie
low, it was yet more necessary for him to live, and his resources were
now about exhausted.
And the other Lord Quorn, he who had, so to speak, bought a title
without a title, was, except so far as nourishment went, in an almost
equally uncomfortable position. He had vowed that he would get up (his
chill having left him) and he had done so, much to Peckover's annoyance
and apprehension. That astute person, rendered yet more wily by the
chance of losing a handsome income, and furthermore of being kicked out
of the fairly safe asylum he had found in the Towers, had set himself,
with all the desperate disingenuousness he could summon to his aid, to
work upon the fears and personal considerations of the convalescent.
The consequence was that Gage, obstinate as he was, so far succumbed to
the lurid picture, drawn by his friend, of the certain consequences of
showing himself, that he had to submit with a very ill grace to
confining his perambulations to the more secluded parts of the house
and garden.
He would not have minded this so much had his circumscribed existence
been mitigated by the charm of constant--or even inconstant--female
society. But the fact was that so long as the rich Mr. Gage,
represented by the strategic Peckover, was more or less free, Lord
Quorn, even with a fair income, the result of his performance in the
lake, was, to these ladies at least, less to be desired than the man of
wealth. The Misses Hemyock were too familiar with an aristocratic
position for it to have any charms for them. They were also well
versed in the tricks of keeping up appearances on limited means, which
meant going in for the parade and going without the desirables of life;
in consequence of which their discontented hearts were both rigidly set
upon solid fortune rather than upon empty grandeur; money was what they
hankered after; they were tired of mere social standing. So Mr. Gage's
yearning was still ungratified, and so he told himself, and his friend,
Peckover, in no measured terms as he rampaged about the more secluded
quarters of the demesne.
Meanwhile the time for the Hemyocks to give up their tenancy of
Staplewick had arrived, and that designing family had left the Towers.
Not to go far, though. Lady Agatha with an eye to bringing the
business in hand to a happy conclusion, had persuaded some
acquaintances, two elderly sisters, to turn out of the Moat, a house
within half a mile of the Towers, and seek the invigorating air of a
seaside resort for a month or two. From this point of vantage she
continued to keep an opportunist's eye on the eligible bachelors, whose
position of comparative freedom was now from the lady's point of view
that of a bird who is let out of its cage and allowed to hop and
flutter to the extent permitted by the string attached to its legs.
But the Moat and the _Three Pigeons_, where the enterprising Leos still
lingered in an attitude of doubtfully restrained aggressiveness, were
both marked with a red cross in the minds of Peckover and Gage, to be
given a wide berth in their rambles.
Now a curious chance was to bring about a still more complicated state
of affairs than already existed. Gage was out riding one afternoon,
exploring the roads and bridle-paths of the neighbourhood alone, for,
since his adventure with Harlequin, Peckover had decided that life on
five thousand a year was too precious to risk on horseback. He was
jogging along a woodland road, turning over in his mind plans for the
extraction of more fun than he was just then getting out of his
purchased dignity, when suddenly a turn in the way gave him a glimpse
of the well-known figures of the ladies from the Moat who did not
exactly fit in with the distractions he was seeking. Luckily their
backs were towards him, while the grassy road deadened the sound of his
horse's hoofs. Quickly he reined up and turned aside into the wood
with the intention of striking a bridle-path, a few hundred yards
ahead, which would bring him to the park and safety. As he gained the
covert he heard or thought he heard, the would-be charmers giving
tongue in pursuit. Accordingly he shook up his horse into a smart
trot, hoping to get clear away without apparent rudeness.
Now it is manifestly difficult to ride fast and far through a pathless
wood unscathed. In his anxiety to press forward Gage had one or two
narrow escapes from being rubbed off by interposing trees. As he was
being carried away at a smart pace he suddenly had occasion to duck
over the saddle-bow to avoid a low branch. While in this attitude,
leaning sideways, his horse tripped over an exposed root, plunged
forward and recovered himself, but not before the impetus had shot his
rider out of the saddle. In trying to save himself Gage somehow
contrived to twist and wedge his foot in the stirrup as he fell. So he
was dragged along, just able to keep his head from contact with the
ground by the purchase he got from the bridle which he still clutched.
He tried in vain to stop the horse, preferring naturally the society of
the Misses Hemyock to the excitement of that bumping progress; but the
animal was not amenable to snaffle or reason, and the severely
inconvenient mode of getting over the ground continued.
Then suddenly, in his undignified, not to say dangerous, position, Gage
heard a man's voice cry, "Whoa, boy!" the horse swerved inconveniently
for his hanger-on, who became aware as the painful method of equitation
came to a stop, that a man was at his head. Without unnecessary loss
of time Gage allowed himself to be extricated from his unbecoming
attitude and set on his feet.
"Awkward position to adopt," remarked his rescuer dryly. "Lucky thing
I happened to be on hand."
"I'm awfully obliged to you," Gage said, gratefully, feeling that his
good time had hung in the balance during those exciting moments.
"Shouldn't wonder if you've saved my life."
He surveyed his preserver inquiringly to gather what manner of man he
was. A shabby, hungry-looking fellow, who ought to have been more
respectable than his clothes proclaimed.
"I think it's quite likely," was the cool response.
"Horse stumbled when I was off my balance ducking away from a bough,"
Gage thought proper to explain by way of excusing his late pose.
"Ah! Just so. Not an easy position to recover from when once you're
well shaken into it," the man commented indifferently; "with the horse
a bit fresh, and the ground not exactly a billiard table. Lucky I
noticed you, if you happen to be in no particular hurry to hand in your
checks."
"I really am more than grateful to you," Gage protested warmly,
realizing the narrow squeak he had had of losing a big investment. "I
hope I may be able to prove my gratitude. Do you belong to these
parts?"
"No. Not exactly," the man answered gloomily. "Came down here to get
a place only to find it snapped up by somebody else."
"Ah, the way of the world, I'm afraid," Gage commented sympathetically.
"Well, perhaps I can find you something to do on my place here. I'm
Lord Quorn."
"Oh, are you?" returned the man in a tone which left Gage a little
doubtful as to his manners.
"I've taken over an old place that wants a deal of looking after to get
it ship-shape," he continued. "Any experience in land and farming?"
"Plenty," was the prompt answer.
"Then you ought to do for me," Gage said. "Anyhow I should like to put
something acceptable in your way. You've done me a service I shan't
easily forget, and I hope you won't do anything to make me want to
regret it. Now, will it suit your book to take a position on the
Staplewick estate?"
"Just what I was after," replied the stranger in a curiously mechanical
tone. He seemed strangely preoccupied, even apathetic, but Gage was
not going just then to criticize too closely the man who had saved his
life.
"Come along, then," he said.
The man seemed to rouse himself from a reverie, then laughed oddly.
"Yes, I'll come," he agreed more briskly. "You shan't find fault with
the way I look after my place."
"We'll talk it over as we go," said Gage, throwing the bridle over his
arm and moving on.
"Full of fun and pretty surprises, the peerage," Gage observed to his
friend later in the afternoon. "Makes one wonder what the next start
is going to be."
"What's wrong now?" Peckover inquired with a laugh.
"Had a nasty spill, and nearly got sent to bye-bye just as the fun is
beginning."
"Come off?"
Gage answered by an aggrieved nod, as though he held his friend
responsible for the mishap. "Got my foot caught in the iron and was
dragged ever so far."
"Awkward," Peckover commented. "Still you can't put that down to the
peerage. Noblemen's feet don't swell, although their heads may."
"I don't," returned Gage snappishly. "Only the Quorn title doesn't
seem exactly a mascot."
This was a proposition which the vendor of that equivocal dignity did
not feel himself in a position to traverse. "How did you get out of
it?" he asked sympathetically.
"The iron? I shouldn't have been taken out alive, with the brute
bumping me over the ground fit to drive my spine out at the top of my
skull," Gage replied in a victimized tone, "if it hadn't been for a
chap that came along in the nick of time and held him up."
"Lucky," remarked Peckover. "Going to settle a few hundred thou. on
him?" he inquired playfully.
"Not exactly. But I'm going to give him a billet on the estate. Poor
devil, out-at-elbows; superior sort for all that. Knows all about
farming, he tells me. He'd better have that glib old thief Treacher's
place at the farm. Turn him in there, and let him make the best job he
can of it. He has given me an idea of how he'd work the land, which
seems pretty sensible, and at the worst he can't rob me more than
Treacher has been doing."
"Good idea," Peckover agreed, not wildly interested in the arrangement.
"Yes," said Gage. "After all, the fellow saved my life. I owe him a
chance of showing he can be honest as well as useful. Now, as I'm
considerably bumped about and only fit for a hot bath, I'd be glad if
you'd just trot the fellow down to the farm, give Treacher his notice,
and show his successor how the land lies. We can put him up somewhere
till Treacher clears out."
"All right," Peckover responded with a yawn. "Anything to oblige.
Where is the party?"
"He's in the gun-room. I told Bisgood to get him something to eat.
Poor fellow seemed half starved. His name's Jenkins. Treat him
kindly. He has done us both a service," he added significantly.
"All serene," Peckover assured him with another yawn. "I'll handle him
tenderly. In the gun-room, eh?"
As Peckover opened the gun-room door, Gage's preserver was standing
with his back to it, scrutinizing a sporting print. "Up, Jenkins," was
Peckover's facetious salutation and mode of attracting his attention.
Next moment it was down Peckover, for he staggered back and subsided
helplessly into a low chair as, in the stranger who turned quickly, he
recognized with a gasping cry the real Lord Quorn, whom he had believed
to be lying poisoned and forgotten in Great Bunbury churchyard.