A Bid for Fortune - Guy Boothby (ready player one ebook TXT) 📗

for some years past, and that they only stayed on with him because they were too poor and proud to seek shelter elsewhere.

When we had inspected the house we left it by a side door, and crossed a courtyard to the stables. There the desolation was, perhaps, even more marked than in the house. The great clock on the tower above the main building had stopped at a quarter to ten on some long-forgotten day, and a spider now ran his web from hand to hand.

At our feet, between the stones, grass grew luxuriantly, thick moss covered the coping of the well, the doors were almost off their hinges, and rats scuttled through the empty loose boxes at our approach. So large was the place, that thirty horses might have found a lodging comfortably, and as far as I could gather, there was room for half as many vehicles in the coach-houses that stood on either side. The intense quiet was only broken by the cawing of the rooks in the giant elms overhead, the squeaking of the rats, and the low grumbling of my uncle’s voice as he pointed out the ruin that was creeping over everything.

Before we had finished our inspection it was lunch time, and we returned to the house. The meal was served in the same room in which I had made my relative’s acquaintance an hour before. It consisted, I discovered, of two meagre mutton chops and some homemade bread and cheese, plain and substantial fare enough in its way, but hardly the sort one would expect from the owner of such a house. For a beverage, water was placed before us, but I could see that my host was deliberating as to whether he should stretch his generosity a point or two further.

Presently he rose, and with a muttered apology left the room, to return five minutes later carrying a small bottle carefully in his hand. This, with much deliberation and no small amount of sighing, he opened. It proved to be claret, and he poured out a glassful for me. As I was not prepared for so much liberality, I thought something must be behind it, and in this I was not mistaken.

“Nephew,” said he after a while, “was it ten thousand pounds you mentioned as the amount of your fortune?”

I nodded. He looked at me slyly and cleared his throat to gain time for reflection. Then seeing that I had emptied my glass, he refilled it with another scarce concealed sigh, and sat back in his chair.

“And I understand you to say you are quite alone in the world, my boy?”

“Quite! Until I met you this morning I was unaware that I had a single relative on earth. Have I any more connections?”

“Not a soul⁠—only Gwendoline.”

“Gwendoline!” I cried, “and who may Gwendoline be?”

“My daughter⁠—your cousin. My only child! Would you like to see her?”

“I had no idea you had a daughter. Of course I should like to see her!”

He left the table and rang the bell. The ancient manservant answered the summons.

“Tell your wife to bring Miss Gwendoline to us.”

“Miss Gwendoline here, sir? You do not mean it surely, sir?”

“Numbskull! numbskull! numbskull!” cried the old fellow in an ecstasy of fury that seemed to spring up as suddenly as a squall does between the islands, “bring her without another word or I’ll be the death of you.”

Without further remonstrance the old man left the room, and I demanded an explanation.

“Good servant, but an impudent rascal, sir!” he said. “Of course you must see my daughter, my beautiful daughter, Gwendoline. He’s afraid you’ll frighten her, I suppose! Ha! ha! Frighten my bashful, pretty one. Ha! ha!”

Anything so supremely devilish as the dried-up mirth of this old fellow it would be difficult to imagine. His very laugh seemed as if it had to crack in his throat before it could pass his lips. What would his daughter be like, living in such a house, with such companions? While I was wondering, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and then an old woman entered and curtsied respectfully. My host rose and went over to the fireplace, where he stood with his hands behind his back and the same devilish grin upon his face.

“Well, where is my daughter?”

“Sir, do you really mean it?”

“Of course, I mean it. Where is she?”

In answer the old lady went to the door and called to someone in the hall.

“Come in, dearie. It’s all right. Come in, do’ee now, that’s a little dear.”

But the girl made no sign of entering, and at last the old woman had to go out and draw her in. And then⁠—but I hardly know how to write it. How shall I give you a proper description of the⁠—thing that entered. She⁠—if she it could be called⁠—was about three feet high, dressed in a shapeless print costume. Her hair stood and hung in a tangled mass upon her head, her eyes were too large for her face, and to complete the horrible effect, a great patch of beard grew on one cheek, and descended almost to a level with her chin. Her features were all awry, and now and again she uttered little moans that were more like those of a wild beast than of a human being. In spite of the old woman’s endeavours to make her do so, she would not venture from her side, but stood slobbering and moaning in the half dark of the doorway.

It was a ghastly sight, one that nearly turned me sick with loathing. But the worst part of it all was the inhuman merriment of her father.

“There, there!” he cried; “had ever man such a lovely daughter? Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she fit to be a prince’s bride? Isn’t she fit to be the heiress of all this place? Won’t the young dukes be asking her hand in marriage? Oh, you beauty! You⁠—but there, take her away⁠—take her away, I say, before I do her mischief.”

The words had