“It seems like that to me too.”
“Well, that’s where you’re out! We mean to put it to dashed good use! Kearney’s been to look it over, and he says there’s plenty of ground attached, and acres of stabling, which only needs repairing to furnish us with precisely what we need. Now, Waldo, you must know that Ireland’s the place for picking up first-rate horses for no more than eighty pounds apiece! No cart-horse blood there! No black drop! A year’s schooling, and you sell ’em over here for a couple of hundred at the least!”
“If you think that I’m going to set you up as a horse chanter—”
“No such thing!” exclaimed Laurence indignantly. “They won’t be unsound horses!”
“They will be if you have anything to do with choosing them.”
Laurence struggled with himself, and again managed to suppress his anger. “As a matter of fact, Kearney will attend to that side of the business: he knows the country, and which are the best fairs—and I shouldn’t wonder at it if he’s as good a judge of a horse as you are! My part will be to sell ’em over here.”
“Laurie, are you seriously proposing to set up as a dealer?”
“No, of course not! I mean, I’m not going to have a sale-ring, or anything of that kind! I’ve got a much better notion: I’m going to sell ’em on the hunting-field!”
“What?”said Sir Waldo faintly.
“Lord, you know what I mean! You ride a good-looking hunter of the right stamp with one of the Hunts—the Quorn, for instance—and what happens?”
“You end up in the Whissendine.”
“Oh, go to the devil! That’s not what I mean! Someone takes a fancy to your horse—asks you if you’d care to sell him, and before you know where you are—”
“Not if he’s seen you riding the horse!” interpolated Sir Waldo brutally.
Laurence flushed vividly. “Thank you! Upon my word, coz, of all the damnably unjust things to say—! I collect I’m a slow-top—a skirter—a—”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that!” said Sir Waldo, relenting slightly. “You’ve plenty of pluck, but you sloven your fences, and you don’t get the best out of your horses. Also—well, no matter! I’m sorry, but I’ll have no hand in this project.”
“Waldo, I’m not asking you to give it to me!” Laurence urged, rather desperately. “Only to lend it—and no more than five thousand! I swear I’d pay it back!”
“I doubt it! Oh, I don’t doubt you think you would! But I think that so far from your paying me back I should be obliged to tow you out of the River Tick to the tune of a few more thousands. I won’t do it.”
There was a long silence. Laurence got up jerkily, and went over to stare out of the window. Presently he said: “I know you said—when you paid that debt for me last month—that it was the last time, but I never thought you’d refuse to help me when—when I’m trying to do what you’ve been urging me to for ever!”
Sir Waldo could not help smiling at this. “My dear Laurie, I really don’t think I can be said to have urged you to take to horse-coping!”
“You want me to pursue some occupation. And now, when I’m determined not to be idle any longer, or to hang on your sleeve—you make it impossible!”
“Find a respectable occupation, and try me again! You think me a shocking nip-squeeze, but what you are asking me to do is to help you to break your back.”
Laurence turned, forcing a smile to his drooping mouth. “No, I don’t. You’ve been devilish generous to me: I know that! Only—Oh, well! I suppose there’s no more to be said. I’d best go back to London tomorrow. I know you don’t want me here.”
“Gammon! Do you wish to stay?”
“Well, I did rather think;—I mean, everyone is going out of town now, and you know what Brighton costs in July! You told me I must stop wasting the ready—”
“So it clearly behoves me to house you! Stop playing off your tricks, you incorrigible dryboots! I haven’t the smallest objection to your remaining here—but I don’t think you’ll like it above half! The builders are at work, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t care a straw for that!” Laurence assured him. “You seem to be pulling the place to bits—all for your ramshackle brats, I collect!”
“That’s it,” replied Sir Waldo cheerfully. “I must go and tell Wedmore we won’t wait dinner for Julian: he’s in Leeds, and is likely to be detained. That, by the way, is one of the disadvantages of the house: the only unbroken bell-wire is the one leading from our late lamented cousin’s bedroom! There are some other drawbacks, too: your man will tell you all about them! I only hope he won’t cut his stick. I live in constant dread of waking one morning to find that Munslow has abandoned me.”
Laurence looked rather appalled, but said: “Oh, Blyth wouldn’t serve me such a trick! As for your Munslow—I wish I may see him abandoning you! When do you dine? Should I change my rig?”
“Not on my account. We dine at the unfashionable hour of six.”
“Oh, yes! country hours!” said Laurence, refusing to be daunted. “I’m glad of it, for, to own the truth, I’m feeling a trifle fagged. Been thinking lately that it was time I went on a repairing lease!”
He maintained this affability until nine o’clock, when, after trying in vain to smother a succession of yawns, he took himself off to bed. Sir Waldo was not in the least deceived. As little as he believed that Laurence had been visiting friends in York did he believe that Laurence either wanted to remain at Broom Hall or was resigned to the frustration of his preposterous scheme. He remembered, with a rueful smile, several previous occasions when, having refused some demand of Laurie’s, he had allowed himself to be won over by just such tactics as Laurie was employing now. Laurie remembered them too; probably he had come prepared to meet with an initial rebuff; certainly he had not accepted it as finaclass="underline" that was betrayed by his meekness. When Laurie knew that he could not bring his cousin round his thumb he very rapidly fell into a rage, jealousy and self-pity overcoming his reason, and leading him to rant and complain until he really did believe in his illusionary grievances.
I ought to have sent him packing, Sir Waldo thought, knowing that in yielding to a compassionate impulse he was raising false hopes in Laurie’s breast. But he could no more have done it than he could have left him to languish in a debtor’s prison. He had little affection for Laurie, and he was well aware that Laurie had as little for him; but when he had told George Wingham that he had ruined Laurie he had spoken in all sincerity. Laurie’s idleness, his follies, his reckless extravagance he set at his own door. By his easy, unthinking generosity he had sapped whatever independence Laurie might have had, imposing no check upon his volatility, but rather encouraging him in the conviction that he would never be run quite off his legs because his wealthy cousin would infallibly rescue him from utter disaster. “After all, it means nothing to you!” Laurie had once said to him, when he had been in his first year at Oxford. Sir Waldo, remembering, grimaced at his younger self. Laurie had said bitterly that it was easy for anyone rolling in gold to preach economy; and that younger Waldo, rich beyond most men’s dreams, imbued with philanthropic principles imperfectly understood, morbidly anxious never to become clutchfisted, and only too ready to believe, with Laurie, that the difference between their respective circumstances was one of the grosser injustices of fate, had opened wide his purse for that predatory youth to dip into: not once, but so many times that Laurie had come to regard him as one on whom he had a right to depend. Only when he had taken to deep gaming had Sir Waldo put his foot down. He meant to keep it down, strengthened in his resolve by the storm of resentment he had roused in Laurence; but even at the height of exasperation his conscience told him that he was himself much to blame for this. He had often felt sorry for Laurie, but his pity had been mixed with contempt; and because he had never liked him he had given him money, which was an easy thing to do, instead of the very different services he had rendered Julian.