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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A rolling stone
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: A rolling stone Author: B. M. Croker Release date: November 9, 2023 [eBook #72076] Language: English Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co, 1911 Credits: MWS, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROLLING STONE ***
A ROLLING STONE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR DIANA BARRINGTON A BIRD OF PASSAGE BEYOND THE PALE HER OWN PEOPLE THE CAT’S-PAW THE COMPANY’S SERVANT KATHERINE THE ARROGANT BABES IN THE WOOD, ETC.
A ROLLING STONE BY
B. M. CROKER “L’amour est un vrai recommenceur.”—Bussy-Rabutin LONDON
F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD. 17 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1911
CONTENTS CHAP.
PAGE
I. LADY KESTERS II. BROTHER AND SISTER III. THE LAST WORD GOES BEGGING IV. LEILA’S IDEA V. PLANS AND THREATS VI. FIRST IMPRESSIONS VII. MRS. HOGBEN AT HOME VIII. OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH IX. THE NEW CHAUFFEUR X. AS HANDY MAN XI. THE TRIAL TRIP XII. THE DOGS’ HOTEL XIII. THE DRUM AND ITS PATRONS XIV. LIEUTENANT WYNYARD XV. BY WATER XVI. TWO PRISONERS XVII. LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS XVIII. THE REASON WHY XIX. OWEN THE MATCHMAKER XX. SUDDEN DEATH XXI. BY THE SUNDIAL XXII. AUREA’S REFLECTIONS XXIII. AN HOUR OF LIBERTY XXIV. ON YAMPTON HILL XXV. LADY KESTERS AT THE DRUM XXVI. THE OBSTACLE
1 12 29 37 45 49 58 72 77 86 97 107 120 132 139 146 155 166 174 184 200 209 212 217 226 234
XXVII. SCANDAL ABOUT MISS SUSAN XXVIII. A NEW SITUATION XXIX. TOTTIE TOYE XXX. MASHAM—THE MOTORIST XXXI. TAKING RISKS XXXII. AN EXPLANATION XXXIII. SITUATION THE FOURTH XXXIV. SIR RICHARD AS CHAPERON XXXV. REINSTATED XXXVI. BY MOONLIGHT
243 251 261 267 274 284 289 294 300 306
A ROLLING STONE
A ROLLING STONE
CHAPTER I LADY KESTERS After a day of strenuous social activities, Lady Kesters was enjoying a well-earned rest, reposing at full length on a luxurious Chesterfield, with cushions of old brocade piled at her back and a new French novel in her hand. Nevertheless, her attention wandered from Anatole France; every few minutes she raised her head to listen intently, then, as a little silver clock chimed five thin strokes, she rose, went over to a window, and, with an impatient jerk, pulled aside the blind. She was looking down into Mount Street, W., and endeavouring to penetrate the gloom of a raw evening towards the end of March. It was evident that the lady was expecting some one, for there were two cups and saucers on a well-equipped tea-table, placed between the sofa and a cheerful log fire. As the mistress of the house peers eagerly at passers-by, we may avail ourselves of the opportunity to examine her surroundings. There is an agreeable feeling of ample space, softly shaded lights, and rich but subdued colours. The polished floor is strewn with ancient rugs; bookcases and rare cabinets exhibit costly contents; flowers are in profusion; the air is heavily scented with white lilac; and a multitude of magazines and papers lie scattered about in careless abundance. The Hibbert Journal, the Clarion, Le Revue des deux mondes, and the Spectator indicate a Catholic taste; but we look in vain for a piano, a pet dog, or a workbasket. As Lady Kesters turns from the window, it is seen that she is tall and slim, with dark, expressive eyes, a delicate, tip-tilted nose, and remarkably square chin; her figure, which is faultless, shows to admirable advantage in a simple gown of clinging black material.
And whilst she once more subsides into her sofa and book, we may venture to introduce a little sketch of her personal history. Leila Wynyard and her brother Owen were the orphan children of a dashing cavalry officer, who was killed at polo, leaving family and creditors to the benevolence of his relations. Sir Richard, his brother, undertook charge of the boy, the girl—some years his senior—fell to the lot of a maiden aunt who lived in Eaton Terrace, and maintained considerable dignity in a small house, on an income to correspond. Leila had lessons and masters, her teeth, complexion, and deportment were objects of anxious solicitude; at eighteen she was brought out and presented, and hopes were entertained that, in her first or second season, she would make a suitable match, and secure a husband and a home. The girl carried herself with grace, had fine dark eyes, and fine fashionable connections; these latter combined to take her into society, and exhibit her at Ascot and Hurlingham, as well as balls and the opera. She visited historical country seats and notable Scottish moors, and was, so to speak, passed along from one house-party to another; and yet, despite her friends’ exertions, Leila Wynyard failed to “go off.” Perhaps the truth lay in the simple fact that the lady herself was disinclined to move on; and often joked over her social failure with her Aunt Eliza, who had a keen sense of humour and no mind to lose the light of her old age. On the other hand, Leila Wynyard was known to be penniless! (for what is a hundred a year?—it scarcely keeps some women in hats) had no surpassing accomplishments to lift her out of the ruck; it was also whispered that she had an independent character, and a sharp tongue! No one could deny that Miss Wynyard’s air was distinguished. Some men considered her a brilliant conversationalist, and extraordinarily clever—but these are rarely the attributes of the women they marry! Time sped along, Miss Wynyard had been out for nine seasons, was spoken of in the family as “poor Leila,” and now relegated to the worst spare room, expected to make herself useful, “do the flowers,” write notes, and take over the bores. In short, she was about to step
into the position of permanent poor relation, when, to the amazement of the whole connection, Leila married herself off with triumphant success! Alone she did it! Her uncle, Sir Richard Wynyard, owner of the family title and estates, was an old bachelor, who lived in a gloomy town house in Queen’s Gate, but spent most of his time at his club. At uncertain intervals he repaid hospitalities received, and entertained his friends at dinner under his own roof—he scorned the fashionable craze of assembling one’s guests at a restaurant. These banquets were well done—wine, ménu, and attendance being beyond criticism. They would also have been insupportably dull, but for the officiating hostess; and, thanks to Miss Wynyard’s admirable supervision, they were usually an enviable success. The company were of a respectable age—the host’s contemporaries —old club friends or City folk, with their sedate and comfortable wives. Miss Wynyard introduced an element of youth and vivacity into the gathering, selected flowers for the table decoration, had a word about the savouries and dessert, and, on the evening itself, radiant and well dressed, enjoyed herself prodigiously—for Leila had the flair of the born hostess—a gift that had no opportunity for expanding in the limited space at home. On one of these occasions, a certain Martin Kesters sat on Miss Wynyard’s right hand—a plain, elderly man, of few words and many thoughts, with rugged features, grizzled whiskers, and a made tie!— a melancholy and reluctant guest who rarely dined abroad, and had martyrised himself to please and appease his old schoolfellow, Dick Wynyard. The brilliant Leila, who adored playing hostess and giving her talents full scope, drew him out with surprising subtlety, listened to his opinions with flattering deference, put him at his ease and in good humour with himself, and won, so to speak, his heart! She was not aware that Mr. Kesters was a wealthy widower, and mainly responsible for the enormous increase in her uncle’s fortunes; but this would not have made an atom of difference. Her attention would have been precisely the same had he been a penniless curate; she could see that he was overpowered by his partner—a magnificent matron who talked exclusively of royalties—his answers were short
and gruff;—evidently he was bored to death and longing to be at home; and she instantly made up her mind to capture his interest and rivet his attention. Leila was on her mettle that night, and achieved a notable success. How she shone! Even Sir Richard was amazed—he was proud of, and not a little afraid of, his clever niece; as for Mr. Kesters, he watched her furtively, noted her upright grace, her animation, her delightful smile, her art of saying the right thing—and saying it well— her insidious dexterity in leading the conversation into interesting channels, yet never obtruding her own personality. It was not the excellence of the champagne that made every one at the table feel themselves unusually shining and brilliant. No, poor souls! they were but the pale reflection of this luminous star. Then the girl’s appearance—she was a girl to his fifty-six years—of superb health and vitality. What an inmate for a dull, drab home— what a stimulating companion for a lonely man! It was a cosy little party of eight, and at a sign from the hostess, three matrons arose and preceded her up to the ghostly drawingroom, there to feel depressingly flat and to sip very superior coffee. After some devastating comments on the British climate and the British domestic, two of the quartette retired, whispering, to a sofa, in order to discuss a cure—leaving Miss Wynyard and Lady Billing têteà-tête. “This room is rather a dreadful specimen of Early Victorian,” said Leila, waving an apologetic spoon. “I fought so hard for these loose chintz covers and lamp-shades; but everything else is as it was in grandmamma’s time—there she is, between the windows, in yellow satin and ringlets! The venerable servants who still survive will not hear of a change. Do look at the carpet; it must be fifty years of age. How old things wear!” “I wonder Sir Richard does not live in a flat near his club,” suggested her ladyship in diamonds and velvet; “so much more comfortable and up-to-date.”
“Yes; but then this is the family town house, and he is never quite sure that he won’t marry.” “Marry!” repeated Lady Billing, “what an idea!” “It is his favourite threat”—and Leila laughed—“if the cooking is bad, the coal indifferent, or the servants too autocratic.” “But isn’t your brother his heir?” opening her eyes to their widest extent. “How would he like that?” “Oh, I really don’t think Owen would care a straw; he is rather happygo-lucky, and never thinks of the future. After all, Uncle Dick is not an old man, and I don’t see why he should not please himself. I may dance at his wedding yet!” “I suppose there is no particular lady in the case?” inquired the other judicially. Miss Wynyard smiled, and shook her head. “Do you know, my dear, that you have made an important conquest this evening?” Then, in answer to Miss Wynyard’s gaze of amazement, “Mr. Kesters,” she added, with impressive solemnity. “Mr.—Kesters?” repeated Leila. “Your neighbour at dinner, you know. He was simply swept off his feet—any one could see that!” and she flourished a puffy hand. “Well, I hope he has recovered his equilibrium by now. Why, we never met till eight o’clock.” “He rarely goes anywhere. He is just a money-spinner—enormously rich—he can make money, but he does not know how to spend or enjoy it.” “That’s easily learnt,” declared the young lady, with a gay laugh; “I’d give him lessons with pleasure.” “Oh, my dear, it is not so easy to spend, when you have the habit of years of economy. His wife was terribly close; they say she counted the potatoes and matches! She was his cousin, and had a nice fortune.”
“So, then, he is a widower?” “Yes, this five years; he lives alone in Eaton Square—such a frowzy house—it has never known a spring cleaning! Mrs. Kesters and I exchanged calls. She would not allow the windows to be opened; loved King Charles dogs (horrid things) and parrots; dressed on thirty pounds a year; and her only extravagance was patent medicines. The premises simply reeked of them! Latterly, she was a helpless invalid, and since her death Mr. Kesters goes nowhere, just occupies a couple of rooms, and devotes himself to business. Business is his pleasure. He is a mighty man in the City—though he is so shy and reserved in society. I declare you quite woke him up tonight; I’ve known him for years, and I never saw him so animated.” “I suppose I hit on a lucky topic—he told me such interesting things about mining and minerals.” “Gold especially; they say everything he touches turns to that! My husband and he are rather friendly, and once or twice he has dined with us, scarcely uttered a word, and looked as if he was going to sleep. Oh, here they are!” as the door opened, and the two ladies on the sofa suddenly concluded a mysterious and confidential conversation, and sat expectant and erect. But the men as one man made straight for Miss Wynyard. Later, as the guests departed, Mr. Kesters lingered to the last, and his host said fussily— “I say, look here, Martin, I suppose you have your carriage, and you may as well take my niece home; you are going in her direction.” “My dear uncle, why should you victimise Mr. Kesters?” she protested; “I shall return as I came, in a hansom.” But Mr. Kesters intervened with unexpected gallantry, and declared that to escort Miss Wynyard was an honour that he could not forgo. Subsequently he conducted her down to a shabby, “one-horse” brougham—the coachman’s legs were wrapped in a specially odoriferous stable rug—and conveyed her to Eaton Terrace. As he took leave of her at the hall door, he ventured to put a timid question. He was such a near neighbour—might he come and call?
“Yes, of course,” assented the lady; “Aunt Eliza will be delighted to see you—we are always at home on Sundays, four to six.” Subsequently Mr. Kesters became a regular visitor, and met with Aunt Eliza’s approval; and, before many Sundays had elapsed, a paragraph concerning the names of Wynyard and Kesters appeared in the Morning Post. And so poor Leila became rich Leila! and, from being an insignificant relation, a person of considerable social importance. Until her marriage few had discovered Mrs. Kesters’ beauty—her cleverness had never been disputed. Now, as the result of a visit to Paris, armed with a cheque-book, she glorified her appearance, wore charming frocks and exquisite jewels, and, with her fine air and admirable figure, it was impossible “to pass her unnoticed in a crowd.” Mrs. Kesters organised changes other than personal: the gloomy abode in Eaton Square was sold, its contents dispatched to an auction room—including two old stuffed parrots, and the mangy remains of her predecessor’s King Charles; another house was taken and furnished regardless of expense, a motor purchased, and a staff of experienced servants engaged. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Martin Kesters of 202 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, had become a popular member of society. Her little dinners and luncheons were famous, not alone for the quality of the menu, but also of the guests. Martin, too, had been transformed as by a wand! His whiskers disappeared, he was persuaded to change his tailor, and given a good conceit of himself. He felt ten years younger, brisk, energetic, prepared to enjoy his money and the Indian summer of his life. Instead of being taciturn, he talked; instead of going to sleep after dinner, he patronised the theatre; he learnt to play bridge and golf. In the society of ladies his manners had become assured, and he no longer was at a helpless loss to know what to say, or stumbled clumsily over their trains. For all these new accomplishments he had to thank Leila; and he was devoted to his brilliant and charming wife. She was more or less in touch with political people, and clever men, and women that mattered. The fascinating Mrs. Kesters was successful in drawing-room diplomacy and the delicate art of pulling strings; and, to her husband’s astonishment, he had found himself a
K.C.B., and elected to an exclusive club—sitting on important committees, dining in stately houses, and entertaining notable guests. Lady Kesters’ connections held up their hands, cast up their eyes, and declared that “Leila was too wonderful!” She had changed a dull, plodding, City man into a well-turned-out, agreeable, bland individual —who was her abject slave—and she had become a leader in her own particular set. Her relatives repeated, “Who would have thought Leila had it in her?” But Leila had, so to speak, always “had it in her.” “It” represented brains, tact, a passion for affairs and managing, a hidden and ambitious spirit, and an active and impatient longing to taste responsibility and power.
The clock pointed to a quarter past five. Lady Kesters took up the silver caddy and was proceeding to ladle out tea, when the door opened, a servant announced “Mr. Wynyard,” and a remarkably good-looking young man entered the room. Before he could speak, Lady Kesters turned to the butler, and said— “Payne, if any one should call, I am not at home.” “Very good, my lady,” he replied, and softly closed the door. A maid, who happened to be on the landing, witnessed the recent arrival and overheard the order, now winked at Payne with easy impudence, and gave a significant sniff. “I don’t know what you’re sniffing about,” he said peevishly. “I suppose you will allow her ladyship to receive her own brother in peace and comfort, seeing as he is just back from South America, and she hasn’t laid eyes on him for near a year.” “Oh, so that’s her brother, is it?” said the young woman; “and an uncommonly fine young chap—better looking than her ladyship by long chalks!”