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Another random document with
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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 1
II. BROTHER AND SISTER 12
III. THE LAST WORD GOES BEGGING 29
IV. LEILA’S IDEA 37
V. PLANS AND THREATS 45
VI. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 49
VII. MRS. HOGBEN AT HOME 58
VIII. OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH 72
IX. THE NEW CHAUFFEUR 77
X. AS HANDY MAN 86
XI. THE TRIAL TRIP 97
XII. THE DOGS’ HOTEL 107
XIII. THE DRUM AND ITS PATRONS 120
XIV. LIEUTENANT WYNYARD 132
XV. BY WATER 139
XVI. TWO PRISONERS 146
XVII. LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS 155
XVIII. THE REASON WHY 166
XIX. OWEN THE MATCHMAKER 174
XX. SUDDEN DEATH 184
XXI. BY THE SUNDIAL 200
XXII. AUREA’S REFLECTIONS 209
XXIII. AN HOUR OF LIBERTY 212
XXIV. ON YAMPTON HILL 217
XXV. LADY KESTERS AT THE DRUM 226
XXVI. THE OBSTACLE 234
 XXVII. SCANDAL ABOUT MISS SUSAN 243
XXVIII. A NEW SITUATION 251
XXIX. TOTTIE TOYE 261
XXX. MASHAM—THE MOTORIST 267
XXXI. TAKING RISKS 274
XXXII. AN EXPLANATION 284
XXXIII. SITUATION THE FOURTH 289
XXXIV. SIR RICHARD AS CHAPERON 294
XXXV. REINSTATED 300
XXXVI. BY MOONLIGHT 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 drawing-
room, 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 tête-
à-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 happy-
go-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 to-
night; 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!”