my grandmother – old Lady Tain, you remember – and I got through that as soon as possible. It didn't last long," added the profligate, grinning; "but I had a glorious time while it lasted. Then the smash came. I took what was left and went to America. Things got worse there, so, on hearing the war was on, I came back and enlisted as Dick West. I revealed myself only to my lawyer; and, of course, my tobacconist – old Taberley – knows. But from paragraphs in the Society papers about my noble self I'm supposed to be in California. Of course, as I told you, I take jolly good care to keep out of everyone's way. I'm off to the Cape in a month, and then if Fortune favors me with a commission and a V.C. I'll take up the title again."
"You still hold the castle, then?"
"Yes. It's the last of the old property. Old Mother Moon looks after it for me. She's a horrid old squaw, but devoted to me. So she ought to be. I got that brat of a grandson of hers a situation as messenger boy to old Taberley. Not that he's done much good. He's out of his place now, and from all accounts, is a regular young brute."
"Does he know you have enlisted?"
"What, young Judas – I call him Judas," said Conniston, "because he's such a criminal kid. No, he doesn't. Taberley had to turn him away for robbing the till or something. Judas has spoiled his morals by reading penny novels, and by this time I shouldn't wonder if he hasn't embarked on a career of crime like a young Claude Duval. No, Gore, he doesn't know. I'm glad of it – as he would tell Mother Moon, and then she'd howl the castle down at the thought of the head of the West family being brought so low."
"West is your family name, isn't it?"
"It is; and Richard is my own name – Richard Grenville Plantagenet West, Lord Conniston. That's my title. But I dropped all frills, and here I smoke, Dick West at your service, Bernard, my boy. So now you've asked me enough questions, what's your particular lie?"
"Dick, Dick, you are as hair-brained as ever. I never could – "
"No," interrupted Conniston, "you never could sober me. Bless you, Bernard, it's better to laugh than frown, though you don't think so."
Gore pitched away the stump of his cigarette and laughed somewhat sadly. "I have cause to frown," said he, wrinkling his forehead. "My grandfather has cut me off with a shilling."
"The deuce he has," said Conniston coolly. "Take another cigarette, old boy, and buck up. Now that you haven't a cent, you'll be able to carve your way to fortune."
"That's a philosophic way to look at the matter, Dick."
"The only way," rejoined Conniston, emphatically. "When you've cut your moorings you can make for mid-ocean and see life. It's storm that tries the vessel, Bernard, and you're too good a chap to lie up in port as a dull country squire."
Bernard looked round, surprised. It was not usual to hear the light-hearted Dicky moralize thus. He was as sententious as Touchstone, and for the moment Gore, who usually gave advice, found himself receiving it. The two seemed to have changed places. Dick noticed the look and slapped Gore on the back. "I've been seeing life since we parted at Eton, old boy," said he, "and it – the trouble of it, I mean – has hammered me into shape."
"It hasn't made you despondent, though."
"And it never will," said Conniston, emphatically, "until I meet with the woman who refuses to marry me. Then I'll howl."
"You haven't met the woman yet?"
"No. But you have. I can see it in the telltale blush. Bless me, old Gore, how boyish you are. I haven't blushed for years."
"You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of my trouble."
"The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass.
"A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?'"
"I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote that song, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice."
"What's her other name?"
"Malleson – Alice Malleson!"
"Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of Miss Berengaria Plantagenet?"
"Yes! Do you know – ?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Of course. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt."
"My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd only die. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair, and you'll marry her."
"Conniston, don't be an ass. If you know the story of Miss Malleson's life, you must know that there isn't the slightest chance of her inheriting the money."
"Ah, but, you see, Bernard, I don't know the story."
"You know Miss Plantagenet. She sometimes talks of you."
"How good of her, seeing that I've hardly been in her company for the last ten years. I remember going to "The Bower" when a small boy, and making myself ill with plums in a most delightful kitchen garden. I was scolded by a wonderful old lady as small as a fairy and rather like one in looks – a regular bad fairy."
"No! no. She is very kind."
"She wasn't to me," confessed Conniston; "but I daresay she will have more respect for me now that I'm the head of the family. Lord! to think of that old woman's money."
"Conniston, she would be angry if she knew you had enlisted. She is so proud of her birth and of her connection with the Wests. Why don't you call and tell her – "
"No, indeed. I'll do nothing of the sort. And don't you say a word either, Bernard. I'm going to carve out my own fortune. I don't want money seasoned with advice from that old cat."
"She is not an old cat!"
"She must be, for she wasn't a kitten when I saw her years ago. But about Miss Malleson. Who is she? I know she's Miss Plantagenet's niece. But who is she?"
"She is not the niece – only an adopted one. She has been with Miss Plantagenet for the last nine years, and came from a French convent. Miss Plantagenet treats her like a niece, but it is an understood thing that Alice is to receive no money."
"That looks promising for me," said Conniston, pulling his mustache, "but my old aunt is so healthy that I'll be gray in the head before I get a cent. So you've fallen in love with Alice?"
"Yes," sighed Gore, drawing figures with his cane. "I love her dearly and she loves me. But my grandfather objects. I insisted upon marrying Alice, so he cut me off with a shilling. I expect the money will go to my cousin, Julius Beryl, and, like you, I'll have to content myself with a barren title."
"But why is Sir Simon so hard, Gore?"
Bernard frowned again. "Do you notice how dark I am?" he asked.
"Yes! You have rather an Italian look."
"That's clever of you, Dick. My mother was Italian, the daughter of a noble Florentine family; but in England was nothing but a poor governess. My father married her, and Sir Simon —his father – cut him off. Then when my parents died, my grandfather sent for me, and brought me up. We have never been good friends," sighed Bernard again, "and when I wanted to marry Alice there was
