“There I agree with you,” he answered. “And Owen is the man to do it. God helps those who help themselves!”
“Owen is most anxious to make another start; but it is not easy for a soldier man, brought up as he has been.”
“Brought up as a rich man’s heir,” broke in her uncle, with a quick, impatient movement; “more fool the rich man! I gave the fellow a good education, good allowance, good send-off. I got him into his father’s old regiment, and made him a decent allowance; he did fairly well in India, I admit; but as soon as he came home to the depôt, he seemed to have lost his head. Why, I believe the young scamp actually kept racers, and as for his hunters, I never saw finer cattle in my life! One day, when I happened to run down to Canterbury to visit him, I noticed a servant exercising a couple of horses—such a pair! I was bound to stop and admire them, and the groom informed me that they belonged to Lieutenant Wynyard of the Red Hussars; and Mr. Wynyard’s uncle hadn’t as much as a donkey to his name!”
“But could have thousands if he chose,” interposed Leila. “As for racing, it was only his hunters Owen put into regimental steeplechases and that sort of thing.”
“And that sort of thing came devilish expensive!” snapped Sir Richard, who was now pacing the room. “I had to pay his debts. I paid them twice, and he promised on his word of honour to turn over a new leaf. The next thing he did was to back a bill for an infernal young swindler, and let me in for two thousand pounds—that was the last straw!”
“Yes, I know it was,” assented his niece; “but really, Uncle Dick, Owen was not so much to blame as you believe. He was very steady out in India for four years; coming home, as you say, went to his head; he did not realise that money does not go nearly as far here—especially in an expensive cavalry regiment. He kept polo ponies and racing ponies in Lucknow, and could not understand that he could not do the same at home. As to the bill, he is not suspicious, or sharp at reading character, and is staunch to old friends—or those he mistakes for friends—as in the case of young de Montfort. He had never heard what a ‘wrong un’ he turned out; they were at Eton——”
“Yes, I know—same house—same puppy-hole!” growled her uncle.
“And when Mr. de Montfort looked up Owen and told him a pathetic and plausible tale about his affairs, and swore on his word of honour that his signature was a mere formality—and——”
“Cleared off to Spain and left me to pay!” interposed Sir Richard, coming to a halt.
“Owen had to pay too,” retorted his sister, with a touch of bitterness.