A CHANGE OF AIR
About the same time that Major Carden was sitting over his breakfast,
Sir George Haredale was gloomily contemplating his own. He had read most
of his letters, and had impatiently pushed aside the sheaf of bills and
applications for money which poured like a flood upon him at every post.
Some of them were peremptory and some imploring. But they had been
coming in for so long that the master of Haredale Park was more or less
hardened to them. But one communication was distinctly out of the common
and worried him excessively.
"What the deuce does it mean?" he soliloquized irritably. "And who are
these people, Absalom & Co.? I never had any dealings with them.
According to their note-paper they call themselves financial agents, but
the whole thing looks more like a communication from money-lenders. Yet
I don't see how I owe them anything. They write to remind me that in
virtue of an assignment made by Mr. Raymond Copley of a certain date I
am in their debt to the extent of more than forty thousand pounds. What
the dickens is an assignment? And what does Copley mean by doing a thing
of this sort without consulting me? These people hope I shall make
arrangements to liquidate the debt in the course of the next fourteen
days. Why, they might just as well ask me to find as many millions. But
I daresay there is nothing really alarming about the thing if I only
understood it. I wish I had a head for figures. I wish my father had
given me a business training. Still, Copley will put it right. Perhaps
he is annoyed at the way that May has been behaving. But I hardly think
he will visit her folly upon me. However, I must say the thing is
alarming."
Sir George shuffled the letter into his pocket as the door opened and
May entered. She was dressed for going out and was buttoning her driving
gloves round her wrists. Outside on the gravel stood a smart cob in a
Whitechapel cart.
"Where are you going?" Sir George asked.
"To the station to meet Alice Carden. She will be here for lunch."
"I had forgotten her," Sir George murmured. "To tell you the truth, my
dear, I am rather sorry you asked her."
"But I was always fond of Alice."
"Yes, of course, why not? The girl is all right. But, between ourselves,
Carden is a bit of a bad egg. He comes of an old family, and I recollect
when his position was as good as ours. But he muddled his money away.
He always affected the society of those sportsmen who are ready to do
anybody. He made the mistake of regarding everybody as a fool except
himself, and naturally he came to grief. Those fellows always do."
"But he belongs to one or two good clubs," May protested.
"Oh, I know that. He was never actually found out. He was mixed up in
one or two very queer transactions, but contrived to keep clear of
trouble himself. There are scores of men who meet him on familiar terms,
but precious few ask him to their houses. Still, the girl is coming
here, and we must make the best of it. But I wouldn't ask her again if I
were you. You can easily drop the acquaintance after the next week or
so."
May discreetly refrained from discussing the matter further. There was a
strong vein of loyalty in her nature. She liked Alice Carden, and was
not disposed to visit any of the father's shortcomings on the daughter.
She had almost forgotten what Sir George said during her drive to the
station. It was a crisp day, and a frosty sun was shining. There was an
exhilaration in the air almost like champagne. Before the station was
reached May put her troubles behind her, not a very difficult matter for
a girl in her twentieth year who boasts of a fine constitution and a
perfect flow of animal spirits. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes
sparkling, as she advanced to meet Alice Carden.
"I thought I would come for you myself," she said. "I brought a cart
which I am driving. Now if you will pick out your boxes we'll get a
porter to put them in the trap for you."
"My boxes," Alice laughed. "Behold my humble belongings. I have come
down here with one dress-basket which contains all the finery I have. I
hope you haven't many dinner parties and that kind of thing, for,
positively, I have only one evening dress, and I am afraid that that is
hopelessly out of date. Still, if you have any special functions, it
will be easy to plead a convenient headache."
May laughed as she took up the reins.
"Calm yourself," she said. "I assure you there will be nothing of that
sort. We have dropped out of gaieties. For one thing, most of our old
friends have left the neighbourhood, and my father doesn't care for new
people. We three will probably dine alone every night of your stay, and
we can ride and drive, and I can give you a day or two with the hounds
if you like."
Alice Carden protested sincerely that she wanted nothing better. It was
pleasant to find herself once more driving down the country roads behind
a good horse. It was like old times when she came to Haredale Park and
surveyed the room which had been appropriated to her use. It was exactly
as her father had described. Here was the old oak, the long rambling
passages, the china and pictures and ancient furniture, all in the
setting where they had been fixed the best part of two centuries ago.
Here was the open landscape in front of the mullioned windows. Here were
the woods and fields and lawns, and in the distance the stables where
Sir George Haredale's stud led its luxurious existence.
It was pleasant to sit in the dining-room before a well-appointed lunch
with the fine silver on the table, the vases of flowers, and the
beautiful glass. Whatever Sir George's feelings on the subject of his
daughter's guest were, there was nothing in his manner to which the girl
could take exception. He was natural, courtly and charming, as he always
was, and appeared to take the keenest pleasure in Alice Carden's
arrival. So far as she could see, there was no sign of trouble, no grim
shadow to forecast the ruin hanging over the house. The butler and a
footman or two moved about the room. The sunshine poured through the
painted windows. Altogether it was a household to be envied. Alice's
spirits rose accordingly. She meant thoroughly to enjoy herself, and
when lunch was over professed herself willing to fall in with any plan
May had to suggest.
"Well, let us have a ride," the latter said. "We will go over the Downs
towards the sea and come back by Seton Manor. Now run away and get your
habit on. I will have a horse saddled for you which is not too fresh.
You used to be a daring rider at one time, but it is as well to begin
cautiously. In a day or two you shall have a hunter after your own
heart."
They rode out in the keen sunshine and broke across the wide expanse of
Downs, and Alice Carden gave herself up to the exquisite enjoyment of
the hour. It was good to feel the elastic movement of the cob, to listen
to the thud of his hoofs on the turf and catch the breeze streaming in
her face. They turned presently as the sun was setting, and jogged more
quietly homewards. A little later, as they came to Seton Manor, a string
of horses clothed and hooded were turning into the stables. Alice pulled
up.
"Who lives there?" she asked.
Some colour crept into May Haredale's cheeks.
"Our neighbour, Mr. Copley," she explained. "He is a newcomer and a
great lover of horses; he is very rich, having made a large fortune in
South Africa, and I suppose this is one way of getting rid of his
income. Like most beginners at the game, he has hardly any good horses,
but that is probably because he hasn't time to look after them himself."
"Is he a friend of yours?" Alice asked.
"Oh, well, he comes over to Haredale Park pretty frequently. My father
has struck up a sort of intimacy with him. Between ourselves, I detest
the man. He goes everywhere in virtue of his money, but he is not a
gentleman, as anybody can see. I am going to tell you a secret, Alice,
which you must not tell to a soul. Mr. Copley is anxious to marry me.
Needless to say, I have given him very little encouragement."
"Of course, you wouldn't," Alice said. "You haven't forgotten what you
used to tell me at school. Don't you remember how you confided in me
about Harry Fielden, and how you used to read part of his letters? I
never knew what became of him."
"No, I never told you. Well, perhaps I will to-night before we go to
bed. It was a very unfortunate business altogether. There was nothing
wrong about Harry. He was merely very reckless and extravagant, and got
rid of his money and went abroad. He hadn't a single penny left, and
there was an end of my romance. It sounds very commonplace, but it is
just as serious to me as if it were one of those pretty stories we read
in books. So now Harry has nothing and I have nothing, and some day or
other I shall end, I suppose, in marrying a man for the sake of a home.
But you may be certain it won't be Mr. Raymond Copley."
"How very sad!" Alice said sympathetically. "Do you ever see Mr.
Fielden?"
"Oh, yes," May laughed unsteadily. "In fact, he is coming towards us
now."