RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
"BY Jove! Here's a muddle! Blest if I know what to do!"
"What's the matter now? Sent a love letter by mistake to one of your numerous aunts and uncles?"
"N—no. Not quite so bad as that. Still, it's most confoundedly awkward! Deucedly awkward!"
The speakers were two young fellows, cousins, who were living together in bachelor rooms in London. They were both named Westland, and they were both studying medicine in the hope of one day passing certain examinations which would turn them at once into full-blown physicians, licensed to cure—or—the other thing.
Curiously enough, they had both been given Christian names in honour of the same ancestor, but in different order. Thus, the full name of the first speaker was Raymond John Westland, while that of his cousin was John Raymond Westland.
There was also a marked personal resemblance between them, for both were tall, dark, and good-looking, though John—or Jack, as he was usually called—was the more strongly built and the more athletic of the two.
In other ways, however, their respective lots in life were strangely different. Jack was poor, and had had a rather rough, hard time of it all along, while through various accidents Raymond's lines seemed to be cast in pleasant places. He had the knack of making himself immensely popular wherever he went. Moreover, fortune smiled upon him, and kept him supplied with money by means of windfalls and curious unexpected happenings; so that, to sum up the situation, Raymond led the life of a butterfly, while Jack was almost a recluse, ever at work, studying hard, and unable to spare either the time or the money to go much into society.
"Yes! It's deucedly awkward!" Raymond repeated, as he glanced again at a letter he was holding in his hand.
"What's it all about? Out with it Ray," said Jack, curtly, between two mouthfuls of toast—the two were seated at breakfast—"You sit there mumbling to yourself—"
"Well, it's this way," Raymond explained. "This letter in from Dr Burnington, who lives somewhere in the wilds of the Black Country, at a little one-horse town called Coppersley, the very name suggests ironworks and copperworks, or some such beastly atrocities. Every year he writes and solemnly invites me down to a party which he gives in honour of his ward's birthday. He's a widower with no children of his own, but he's guardian to my cousin, Dorothy Merton, you know."
"Well? Aren't you going? Why don't you go—or, if you're engaged, you've only got to write and say so."
"That's the mischief of it! You see, it happens most unfortunately that it comes this year on the very same day as Lady Vere de Talbot's dance—and—well—of course you know I couldn't possibly miss that for the sake of a country hop amongst a lot of ironmasters' daughters, now could I?"
"Very well, then, write and say you're engaged," said Jack, shortly.
"Ah! but you don't understand! I told you that he writes to me regularly every year as if—well, as if I had never put him off before. To cut it short, I need to go every year to these birthday parties of my cousin Dorothy, while we were juveniles. But since then something has somehow happened every year to stop me—and I haven't been since I was—oh! quite a kid. I had to refuse last year because it was the first night of a new play—I forget which one now; and the year before—h'm—I forget about that, too. So it has been, however, each year; and so the silly old fossil-head goes on sending me a formal invitation when the time comes round, just the same as if I'd accepted all his previous invitations, instead of always putting him off."
"It's very kind and forgiving of him," Jack remarked, while buttering more toast. "I suppose that cousin Dorothy—"
"Cousin Dorothy!" repeated Raymond, in surprise.
Jack looked up sharply from his toast. "Why," he said, "though I never saw the young lady in my life. I suppose if she is your cousin she is mine, too, eh?"
"Oh, ah, yes! Yes, of course!" Raymond assented, rather lamely, still looking, however, much surprised.
"I was about to remark, Ray," Jack resumed, slowly, "that I suppose cousin Dorothy is an heiress of some sort, since she's got a guardian?"
"Oh, dear no! There you're all at sea! Why, if that were the case—if the girl were an heiress—don't you suppose I should have been down there long before this?"
"Yes," returned Jack, reflectively. "Yes, I suppose you would."
Raymond's surprise at the reminder that his (Raymond's) cousin would be Jack's also, was illustrative of the curious difference in the lives led by these two chums, living together though they were. Amongst a large troop of relations it was Raymond who always came in for everything that was worth having, who was always considered, petted, invited here, there, and everywhere: spoiled and admired. Jack they never seemed to consider in any way—in fact, as he himself sometimes laughingly put it, he hardly seemed to belong to the family at all.
"Tell you what it is, Jack," cried Raymond suddenly. "I've just thought of it—and it's a fine idea I've got, too! You must go in my place!"
"I? Go in your place?" exclaimed Jack, aghast.
"Yes. Don't you see. It's this way. Old Dr Burnington must be worth something. He's neither chick nor child of his own—and he was my father's dearest friend. Depend upon it, he means to remember me in his will—that's why he has written so persistently, year after year, inviting me down, in spite of my never going. If I don't go now, after so many invitations, who knows but that he may get annoyed."
"I should think it's not unlikely," rejoined Jack, drily.
"Well, then, he'll very likely cut me out of his will, see? Now he hasn't seen me since I was a youngster—so he won't know you from me. You must go and pretend you're me. See!"
"I'm jiggered if I do," said Jack, stoutly.
"But you must: there's no other way. I'll pay the railway fare. Come, now! First class if you like—and other ex's"
"But—but—it's a fraud!" Jack protested.
"Not at all. He invites Raymond Westland. You are Raymond Westland, honestly—just as much as I am. They'll never know the difference.
In the end Jack gave in, as he generally did where Raymond was concerned. That fascinating young gentleman "had such a way with him," as people put it, that he was accustomed to do pretty much as he pleased with a good many besides his good-natured cousin.
"Are you really going to leave us, Ray? We shall miss you—"
"Is that true, Dorothy. I wonder, or are you just talking the usual conventional civilities?"
Pretty Dorothy Merton flushed, as she turned her head and gazed out of the window.
"I mean what I say," she answered, in a low voice. "I'm sure Dr. Burnington will miss you, for he was saying so only yesterday morning. He was talking about how much you have helped him while you have been here. He said he had no idea you knew so much. And there is the Blakes—I'm sure they'll miss you. Ever since you jumped into millstream that day, and saved little Harry Blake from drowning they—"
"Pooh! don't talk nonsense, Dorothy; it isn't the Blakes I am thinking about."
"Well," continued the young lady, with a sly, roguish glance from her captivating blue eyes, "there are the Laughtons—I'm sure they'll miss you. Laura will be in despair—"
"Laura be—blistered!"
"Cousin Raymond!"
"Oh! You know well enough what I mean! Look here, Dorothy, the question that's bothering me is, will you miss me!"
He had moved towards her as he spoke, and tried to take her hand, but she had slipped past him and gone close to the window. Then she turned and looked at him.
"Of course I shall miss you," she said, simply. "I shall miss my cavalier. It's the first time I have had one. In all my life—at any rate, since I have lived here—I never had anyone but the dear old doctor to take me about—and he can't always get out, you know. Never have I had a cavalier all to myself to dance attendance on me at all the balls and parties, as you've been kind enough to do during the time you've been here."
Jack Westland assumed a disappointed air, and began to march up and down the room, his eyes cast down, his forehead puckered as though he were debating with himself some question which he found it difficult to settle to his own satisfaction.
He had come to Rothdean House, Dr Burnington's residence at Coppersley, with the intention of staying one night—the night of Dorothy's birthday party. But the doctor—had taken such a fancy to him, and had pressed him so cordially to prolong his visit, that he had stayed on and on until now he had been there three weeks.
All this time he had been posing as his cousin Raymond, and the deception was becoming a heavier burden to him, and one more difficult to bear with each day that passed. He felt angry, disgusted with himself at the part he was playing; yet could not make up his mind to declare the truth.
The reason of it all was that from the very first moment he had set eyes upon his cousin Dorothy he had fallen desperately, hopelessly, helplessly in love with her. For the time in his life, he found himself yielding to the gentler influence of a charming girl, and for the first time he had begun to fret at his poverty, and to feel impatient at the dreary prospect before him, of long years of hard work, scantily paid for, which was all that the future seemed to hold for him.
What chance had he of being able to marry for at least another ten years? he kept saying to himself over and over again. What right had he to be falling in love. And, worst of all, what right had he to be posing there as his cousin Raymond, who was so much better off, so much more eligible a "parti"! What right had he thus to deceive these kindly, trusting people, making them think they were extending their hospitality to the well-to-do Raymond, when, in reality, they were only entertaining the poverty-stricken Jack?
Raymond, too, was the son of a man who had been one of Dr Burnington's oldest and dearest friends; scarce did a day pass without a reminder from the kindly old doctor that he had not forgotten the fact, What right had he (Jack) to let him go on thinking he was that dead friend's son?
Then, again, even if he had ventured, with his present prospects, to aspire to gain Dorothy's affection, how could he do so under a false name? And what would be the effect upon her when he confessed to the horrid truth? Would she not be disgusted, and despise him for ever more?
The two were in the morning room, the breakfast had been cleared away, and the doctor had gone into his consulting room to write his letters and make up his books. There of a morning Jack often accompanied him, only too willing and grateful to be allowed to be of service; and the doctor, as Dorothy had just said, had found his help worth having; indeed, he had said a great deal more than Dorothy had repeated. He had declared to her that he considered her cousin an extremely clever young follow, "one who was bound to make his mark in the world some day!"
But of this Jack know only what he had been told, and in any case he felt he must put an end to the false position he was in—and then—
He sighed as he thought of what must follow. He must go away, of course—in any case he would have to do that, for he had his examination coming on; but he would have to go away not as one with the pleasurable anticipation of coming again, but as a self-confessed impostor—as one who had gained the goodwill and accepted the hospitality of these simple-minded country people under false pretences!
"Ugh! I could kick myself!" he muttered half aloud.
"Eh? What did you say?" queried Dorothy, turning quickly.
"I was saying I could kick myself," he confessed. She had heard the words, and it was no use to deny them.
"What a funny idea? Whatever in the world for?"
"For—for—well, for many things. First of all, because I've got to go away."
"Then—why do you go? The doctor has asked you—almost begged you—to stay and help him for a week or two longer. He is very much pressed with work just now, I know, and it worries him. I only wish I could help him. If I knew how to I would do it like a shot. Why can't you?"
"Oh, for many reasons. In the first place, I get a letter about every other day asking me when in the world I'm coming back, and what on earth I'm doing down here all this time."
"From whom, pray? From a young lady?" Dorothy asked, bridling up.
"Good gracious, child—young lady? No! From Ray—I mean Jack."
Dorothy laughed—an arch, ringing, roguish laugh.
"How funny you are sometimes!" she cried. "How you seem to mix yourself up with your cousin Jack? So many times I've noticed you say your own name—when you mean Jack."
"Oh, you have!" said the young fellow, beneath his teeth. "Well, what would you say—" He was about to plunge desperately into his confession, when she interrupted him.
"What other reasons are there?" she demanded imperiously.
"Well, there is the examination, anyhow. If I play about here much longer—"
She looked at him curiously.
"I understand," she said, soberly, "that it was Jack who was working for that; and that you had announced your intention of not going in for it till next year."
He turned and glanced at her in amaze.
"Pray how did you know that?" he asked, sharply.
"Then it is true?"
Jack felt himself turning first icy cold and then red hot. How in the name of all that was wonderful could she have heard it?
He could stand the strain no longer. He then and there burst out with a confession of his hated secret—not only that, but, carried away by his feelings, he avowed his love for Dorothy—a love which he knew now must be for ever hopeless.
"And now, having at last got the truth out, I am going away for good. Going shamefaced and disgusted with myself," he declared. "You'll never see me again. I will only ask you to think of me kindly sometimes—if you can—eh?"
To his astonishment, and somewhat to his discomfort, the young lady had burst into another of her ringing laughs.
"Look here, Jack," she said, still laughing, yet blushing the while. "We've known all along! You needn't look so precious blue over it! If you think you am going to overwhelm the doctor with your amazing confession you'll be disappointed! He's known it all the time!"
"My stars! I can't grasp the idea yet," cried the astonished Jack. "But I say, Dorothy—I thought, you know—that is, I feared—that when you knew, you'd despise me so that I would never dare to look you in the face again! Is it possible that—eh, Dorothy? Do you think—if I promise to work very hard, and try to get a home for you, you could one day say 'Yes' to me?"
"You'd better ask my guardian," replied Dorothy, demurely. "I always act upon his advice!"
"Then, by Jove! I'll ask him at once!" Jack declared, and he rushed off to find him.
Dr Burnington listened to his story, and, as Dorothy had foreseen, it in no way surprised him. After some talk, he said, a little sadly:
"Your cousin Raymond is the son of a very dear friend of mine, as you are well aware, and I had hoped that he would have married Dorothy."
Jack opened his eyes. "Indeed, sir—"
"But I have long given up that hope," the doctor continued: "he has never come near us, though I have asked him hopefully year after year. But latterly I have made some inquiries as to his mode of life, and I hear he is in with a fast set, is living beyond his means, and, worst of all, is idle and procrastinating. Though he is older than you, you are far ahead of him in your studies, and in the examinations which you have already passed."
"Well, you see, sir," said Jack apologetically, "Ray is so very popular; everybody likes him so. He is asked here, there, and everywhere—and so, what with one thing and what with another he has not much time for work. Otherwise, I assure you, he is one of the best fellows—"
Dr Burnington held up his hand.
"There, there! That will do," he commented testily. "It is quite right of you to be loyal to your chum—and I honour you for it—but I have no wish to hear his praises sounded. Let us turn to your own affairs. How are you and Dorothy going to set up housekeeping? Have you saved any money?
Jack's face, while he had been defending his cousin, had lighted up and become animated and eager. Now it fell, and he looked doleful indeed.
"No, sir: I am sorry to say I've never had the chance of saving anything. We shall have to wait, that's certain. But I am not afraid of hard work—"
"Ah! But you want capital to buy a practice, you know. You can't step into one without. Now, Dorothy has a little money, or will have, when she either marries or comes of age—"
"My stars!" gasped Jack, turning very red, "I never guessed that! I thought she had nothing!"
The doctor eyed him keenly, then went on.
"Yes—so everybody thinks. It was our intention—her father's—when he confided her to my care on his death bed—that she should be brought up as one who had no fortune whatever. Only in that way, her father thought—and I quite agreed with him—could we be quite sure of guarding her against scheming fortune-hunters."
"I see," said Jack, absently. He was becoming impatient to get back to Dorothy. "Well, sir, it is very kind of you to treat me so indulgently as you have. I'll try my best to be worthy of it! Of course, if Dorothy has a little and we could manage to buy a practice and furnish a home, why, we shan't have to wait so long as I feared. And now, if I may, I should like to get back to her and tell her the news!" And he was rushing away when the doctor called him back.
"Stay, stay, young headstrong," he said, with a smile. "You've forgotten to ask how much Dorothy's fortune is,"
"I don't care—I don't want to know," Jack declared. "I only want—"
"But still you may as well know," insisted Dr Burnington, still smiling.
"Very well, sir, since you insist. How much is it?"
"H'm! Well, let me see." The doctor pulled out his pocket book and referred to some notes.
"On the first of January, this year," he said, genially, "it amounts to eighty-four thousand, three hundred and fifteen pounds, two shillings and sixpence!"
Jack and Dorothy are married, but instead of buying a practice elsewhere the young doctor joined Dr Burnington, and he now works as hard as though he had married a wife without a penny. One thing only grieves him—in gaining a wife he has lost a chum, for his cousin Raymond refuses to speak to him. That young gentleman seems to have a hazy idea that somehow or other Jack had jockeyed him out of the heiress.
At present he is still nursing his grievances, in spite of all Jack's good-natured overtures. But it has taught him a lesson, for he has been heard to declare that never again will he go "Visiting by Proxy.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.