“Well, it’s a bill.”
“Been flying kites, eh?”
“Yes,” answered Hubert in desperation. Why the deuce was the other so infernally laconic and quiet over it—why couldn’t he show a little feeling? he thought—and then his heart sank, for he made sure Roland would put him off with the usual excuse. But the next words reassured him.
“H’m! That’s better. If it had been the other phase of the root of all evil, I don’t see how I could have helped you to avoid reaping the traditional whirlwind. But what’s the amount?”
Hubert named it—rather shamefacedly. It was a fair sum, just topping the three figures. More, a good deal, than Roland had expected, but he showed no surprise. He had made up his mind to help his brother in this, though Hubert’s deportment towards himself had hitherto been ill-conditioned enough—and row he speculated idly as to whether the other would feel any gratitude towards him or hate him all the more.
Hubert, meanwhile, felt his fears revive during the silence that ensued, and he thought enviously of all the advantages his brother possessed. Here he was, free from this wretched home, with a handsome independence of his own, over and above being the heir to the splendid family place. Surely he would help him. He lived very quietly, and could not be short of cash himself.
“What makes it worse,” he went on desperately, “is that I told the ‘Relieving Officer’ there was nothing else outstanding, when he pulled me through before, and now he’ll find out there was. I don’t know how the deuce I did it—but, you see, this was such a big thing, and he was so beastly satirical and sneering, that somehow I got in a funk and shirked it. Hang it all, Roland,” he broke off in a kind of irritable despair, “it’s all very well for you, you see. You’re independent of him, and are not driven to do these things; while a poor devil like me—oh, well!”
“My dear fellow, there’s not the least necessity for jumping down my throat, I assure you. I wasn’t going to offer an opinion on the matter. Nor am I going to lecture you—unless, perhaps, you don’t mind my advising you to square this up and have done with it. I’ll write you a cheque when we go upstairs.”
Even while he spoke it flitted across Roland’s mind that the time would probably come when, in a pecuniary sense, his own position would be insignificant in comparison with that of his younger brother. Would he have helped him, he wondered, were their positions reversed? But then Hubert was an extravagant young dog, and would in all likelihood go through life in a chronic state of “hard-up.”
“By Jove, Roland, it’s awfully good of you,” he cried, in such a tone of genuine relief as to draw that queer smile to his brother’s face. “Thanks, awfully. The fact is you’ve got me out of a deucedly deep hole—and—er—”