The Treasure of Heaven Part 25

Tom o' the Gleam,--Tom, with his clothes torn and covered with dust,--Tom, changed suddenly to a haggard and terrible unlikeness of himself, his face drawn and withered, its healthy bronze colour whitened to a sickly livid hue,--Tom, with such an expression of dazed and stupid horror in his eyes as to give the impression that he was heavily in drink, and dangerous.

"Well, mates!" he said thickly--"A fine night and a clear moon!"

No one answered him. He staggered up to the bar. The hostess looked at him severely.

"Now, Tom, what's the matter?" she said.

He straightened himself, and, throwing back his shoulders as though parrying a blow, forced a smile.

"Nothing! A touch of the sun!" A strong shudder ran through his limbs, and his teeth chattered,--then suddenly leaning forward on the counter, he whispered: "I'm not drunk, mother!--for G.o.d's sake don't think it!--I'm ill. Don't you see I'm ill?--I'll be all right in a minute,--give me a drop of brandy!"

She fixed her candid gaze full upon him. She had known him well for years, and not only did she know him, but, rough character as he was, she liked and respected him. Looking him squarely in the face she saw at once that he was speaking the truth. He was not drunk. He was ill,--very ill. The strained anguish on his features proved it.

"Hadn't you better come inside the bar and sit down?" she suggested, in a low tone.

"No, thanks--I'd rather not. I'll stand just here."

She gave him the brandy he had asked for. He sipped it slowly, and, pus.h.i.+ng his cap further off his brows, turned his dark eyes, full of smouldering fire, upon Lord Wrotham and his friend, both of whom had succeeded in getting up a little conversation with the hostess's younger daughter, the girl named Grace. Her sister, Elizabeth, put down her needlework, and watched Tom with sudden solicitude. An instinctive dislike of Lord Wrotham and his companion caused her to avoid looking their way, though she heard every word they were saying,--and her interest became centred on the handsome gypsy, whose pallid features and terrible expression filled her with a vague alarm.

"It would be awfully jolly of you if you'd come for a spin in my motor,"

said his lords.h.i.+p, twirling his sandy moustache and conveying a would-be amorous twinkle into his small brown-green eyes for the benefit of the girl he was ogling. "Beastly bore having a break-down, but it's nothing serious--half a day's work will put it all right, and if you and your sister would like a turn before we go on from here, I shall be charmed.

We can't do the record business now--not this time,--so it doesn't matter how long we linger in this delightful spot."

"Especially in such delightful company!" added his friend, Brookfield.

"I'm going to take a photograph of this house to-morrow, and perhaps"--here he smiled complacently--"perhaps Miss Grace and Miss Elizabeth will consent to come into the picture?"

"Ya-as--ya-as!--oh do!" drawled Wrotham. "Of course they will! _You_ will, I'm sure, Miss Grace! This gentleman, Mr. Brookfield, has got nearly all the pictorials under his thumb, and he'll put your portrait in them as 'The Beauty of Somerset,' won't you, Brookfield?"

Brookfield laughed, a pleased laugh of conscious power.

"Of course I will," he said. "You have only to express the wish and the thing is done!"

Wrotham twirled his moustache again.

"Awful fun having a friend on the press, don't-cher-know!" he went on.

"I get all my lady acquaintances into the papers,--makes 'em famous in a day! The women I like are made to look beautiful, and those I don't like are turned into frights--positive old horrors, give you my life! Easily done, you know!--touch up a negative whichever way you fancy, and there you are!"

The girl Grace lifted her eyes,--very pretty sparkling eyes they were,--and regarded him with a mutinous air of contempt.

"It must be 'awfully' amusing!" she said sarcastically.

"It is!--give you my life!" And his lords.h.i.+p played with a charm in the shape of an enamelled pig which dangled at his watch-chain. "It pleases all parties except those whom I want to rub up the wrong way. I've made many a woman's hair curl, I can tell you! You'll be my 'Somersets.h.i.+re beauty,' won't you, Miss Grace?"

"I think not!" she replied, with a cool glance. "My hair curls quite enough already. I never use tongs!"

Brookfield burst into a laugh, and the laugh was echoed murmurously by the other men in the room. Wrotham flushed and bit his lip.

"That's a one--er for me," he said lazily. "Pretty kitten as you are, Miss Grace, you can scratch! That's always the worst of women,--they've got such infernally sharp tongues----"

"Grace!" interrupted her mother, at this juncture--"You are wanted in the kitchen."

Grace took the maternal hint and retired at once. At that instant Tom o'

the Gleam stirred slightly from his. .h.i.therto rigid att.i.tude. He had only taken half his gla.s.s of brandy, but that small amount had brought back a tinge of colour to his face and deepened the sparkle of fire in his eyes.

"Good roads for motoring about here!" he said.

Lord Wrotham looked up,--then measuring the great height, muscular build, and commanding appearance of the speaker, nodded affably.

"First-rate!" he replied. "We had a splendid run from Cleeve Abbey."

"Magnificent!" echoed Brookfield. "Not half a second's stop all the way.

We should have been far beyond Minehead by this time, if it hadn't been for the break-down. We were racing from London to the Land's End,--but we took a wrong turning just before we came to Cleeve----"

"Oh! Took a wrong turning, did you?" And Tom leaned a little forward as though to hear more accurately. His face had grown deadly pale again, and he breathed quickly.

"Yes. We found ourselves quite close to Cleeve Abbey, but we didn't stop to see old ruins this time, you bet! We just tore down the first lane we saw running back into the highroad,--a pretty steep bit of ground too--and, by Jove!--didn't we whizz round the corner at the bottom! That was a near shave, I can tell you!"

"Ay, ay!" said Tom slowly, listening with an air of profound interest.

"You've got a smart chauffeur, no doubt!"

"No chauffeur at all!" declared Brookfield, emphatically. "His lords.h.i.+p drives his car himself."

There followed an odd silence. All the customers in the room, drinking and eating as many of them were, seemed to be under a dumb spell. Tom o'

the Gleam's presence was at all times more or less of a terror to the timorous, and that he, who as a rule avoided strangers, should on his own initiative enter into conversation with the two motorists, was of itself a circ.u.mstance that awakened considerable wonder and interest.

David Helmsley, sitting apart in the shadow, could not take his eyes off the gypsy's face and figure,--a kind of fascination impelled him to watch with strained attention the dark shape, moulded with such herculean symmetry, which seemed to command and subdue the very air that gave it force and sustenance.

"His lords.h.i.+p drives his car himself!" echoed Tom, and a curious smile parted his lips, showing an almost sinister gleam of white teeth between his full black moustache and beard,--then, bringing his sombre glance to bear slowly down on Wrotham's insignificant form, he continued,--"Are you his lords.h.i.+p?"

Wrotham nodded with a careless condescension, and, lighting a cigar, began to smoke it.

"And you drive your car yourself!" proceeded Tom,--"you must have good nerve and a keen eye!"

"Oh well!" And Wrotham laughed airily--"Pretty much so!--but I won't boast!"

"How many miles an hour?" went on Tom, pursuing his inquiries with an almost morbid eagerness.

"Forty or fifty, I suppose--sometimes more. I always run at the highest speed. Of course that kind of thing knocks the motor to pieces rather soon, but one can always buy another."

"True!" said Tom. "Very true! One can always buy another!" He paused, and seemed to collect his thoughts with an effort,--then noticing the half-gla.s.s of brandy he had left on the counter, he took it up and drank it all off at a gulp. "Have you ever had any accidents on the road?"

"Accidents?" Lord Wrotham put up an eyegla.s.s. "Accidents? What do you mean?"

"Why, what should I mean except what I say!" And Tom gave a sudden loud laugh,--a laugh which made the hostess at the bar start nervously, while many of the men seated round the various tables exchanged uneasy glances. "Accidents are accidents all the world over! Haven't you ever been thrown out, upset, shaken in body, broken in bone, or otherwise involved in mischief?"

Lord Wrotham smiled, and let his eyegla.s.s fall with a click against his top waistcoat b.u.t.ton.

"Never!" he said, taking his cigar from his mouth, looking at it, and then replacing it with a relish--"I'm too fond of my own life to run any risk of losing it. Other people's lives don't matter so much, but mine is precious! Eh, Brookfield?"