Chapter Thirty.
After Fordham’s Visit.
After Fordham had left the room Sir Francis hardly seemed aware of his visitor’s departure. He sat there like one turned to stone, the full horror of the recent disclosure weighing him down. First had come the lawyer’s letter threatening an action against his son. That seemed very trivial now—very far-away. Then the shock of confronting so unexpectedly his old enemy, and following that the pain and resentment of learning that Philip had taken the most important step in life without a word to him. But all this was nothing—less than nothing—when compared with the nature of that fearful disclosure.
Why had the long-turned-down pages of that dark chapter in his past so suddenly been flung open before him now? Why should this man pursue him with such vengeful hate? He had wronged him, it was true, but equally true was it that he had never shrunk from the consequences. He had given him satisfaction, and bore the mark of that meeting even yet, would carry it to his grave. Why, then, should he be thus relentlessly pursued—why should his transgression be visited upon the head of his innocent son? Surely the retribution was out of all proportion to the offence. But reason as he would, rebel as he would, the horrible fact remained. For years he and his had unconsciously been the objects of a devilish, vindictive plot. And at the thought of the craft and cleverness of the plan a ray of hope shone in upon his mind. The whole thing might be annulled. It should be. But could it? He could no more prove the relationship now than Fordham could have done at the time. Besides, the publicity of such an attempt, and they had already been married more than twenty-four hours—horrible—horrible! Whichever way he looked at it there was a dead blank wall confronting him.
“So make up your mind to hear by any post that you are endowed with a daughter-in-law of the least desirable kind,” had been his wife’s sneering words but a short half-hour ago. Prophetic indeed, so much so that a brief suspicion crossed his mind lest she might be already in the secret—very brief though, only to be succeeded by a fixed determination that she must at all costs be kept out of it—out of that part of it which contained the whole sting of the grisly reality at any rate; for the bare fact of the marriage was of course public property. No; it must remain a secret between himself and Philip, while they should arrive at some decision as to what ought to be done.
It may readily be surmised that Lady Orlebar did not leave her husband alone for long, once Fordham had departed. Even her damaged dignity had to give way before the intense curiosity which was consuming her, and accordingly she swooped down upon him determined to arrive at the torturing secret. But, for once, she failed—only for the present though, she told herself—for so ill, so prostrated did he look that expediency supplying the place of feeling, moved her to refrain from worrying him further—moved her even to show some solicitude on his behalf. If ever there was a valuable life, from her way of looking at it, in this world, it was that of Sir Francis, for should it cease she would be left well-nigh penniless. He could not put by any thing now because she persisted in living up to the income, and at his death everything would go to the obnoxious Philip, against whom her ire raged secretly but hot.
Wherefore, we say, expediency moved her to show some consideration for her husband, and of a truth he needed it. Piteous indeed he looked, white and ill as a man who has received a knock-down blow. At first a horrible fear crossed her mind, that he had been speculating, but a hurried assertion that money had nothing to do with the affair had infinitely relieved it. If it was not that it didn’t matter, she reasoned. Of course it had to do with his scamp of a son, but that need not affect her.
“You had better go to bed, Francis, and take a sleeping draught,” she said, after several ineffectual attempts at eliciting the burden of the recent interview. “We can talk things over to-morrow. But, goodness gracious, what is the use of worrying? As if anything mattered at this time of life—anything short of the smash up of a bank—and you say it is no question of money. Come, now. The best thing you can do is to go to bed.”
But on this point Sir Francis was not compliant. By a curious coincidence a new idea struck him, viz, that Philip not having communicated with him, was coming in person to break the news of his marriage. And he might arrive at any moment. No, he would not go to bed, late as it was. And then, as if to add point to his resolve, there came a grinding of wheels on the drive, followed by a loud ring at the front door. The baronet started up in his chair, and his face became more ashy white than before.
“Goodness gracious! Whatever is it all about?” cried Lady Orlebar, as, following on a sound of voices outside, the door was thrown open, and Philip entered without waiting to be announced. “Shall we ever get to the bottom of all this mystery?” And then she stopped. For, at sight of her, the joyous, radiant look on Philip’s face had changed to one of cold sternness as he discounted her furious opposition in advance. Even she was overawed. She felt almost afraid of him.
“Pardon me,” he said to her, after the cold handshake of greeting. “I must see my father—alone. Would you mind?”
There was no mistaking the gesture as he moved towards the door. The bluntness of the request—the insult of it—thought Lady Orlebar as she swept majestically out. For the second time that evening she was turned out of the room. Well, let them talk over their infamous secrets. They need look for no help from her, she determined, fairly shaking with rage.
Sir Francis did not meet his son’s gaze as he extended one trembling hand. The other still clutched mechanically the packet which Fordham had thrust into it. Philip’s heart smote him, and all the brightness went out of his face. Had his father already heard the news which he had come to break?
“I say, dad, what’s the row? Dear old dad,” he went on, obtaining no answer but a sigh—bending down and placing his arm round his father’s shoulders—“you’re looking deucedly cut up. Have you been—er—hearing anything?”
“Hearing anything?” echoed Sir Francis, in a hollow, far-away tone, and turning to his son with a wild stare. “Hearing anything? Philip, I have heard that which I—which we had both better have died than have lived to see happen.”
“Come, come dad, don’t take on about it like that! It was playing rather low down, I know, doing things all on the quiet. Still—I couldn’t help it. Wait until you see my Laura—that’s all! Why you’ll fall in love with her yourself, and we’ll all be as jolly as sandboys together. But, how did you hear about it? Who told you?”
For answer Sir Francis pointed to the telegram which Fordham had left on the table either by inadvertence or as not worth taking away.
“Hallo! So Fordham has been here?” cried Phil. “Hang it, I never authorised the old chap to break the news. I suppose, though, he thought you knew it already, and came to congratulate you. Still—it’s odd—deuced odd. It isn’t like him, anyhow.”
“He left this for you,” holding forth the bulky missive. “Philip, take it to your own room, where you will be quite alone, lock the door, and read it through from beginning to end. Oh, God! It is horrible—horrible?”
“Horrible! Fordham!” echoed Philip, in blank amazement. “Father, I don’t understand. Tell me in a word—what’s it all about? Why make me wade through twenty pages of Fordham’s rigmarole when half-a-dozen words will do it?”
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t!” moaned poor Sir Francis. “Read it, Phil—read it! That will tell you.” And with almost frantic gesture he waved his son from the room.
Philip’s heart beat strangely as he went to seek the privacy enjoined. What on earth had Fordham to communicate that concerned himself—that availed to throw his father into so pitiable a state of agitation? Under ordinary circumstances he would have suspected the package, so elaborately sealed and directed to himself, to contain a string of stale and would-be cynical platitudes on the situation, for which he felt in no sort of mood just then. Now a strange eerie foreboding of evil was upon him.
He gained his room, which was fireless, and cold and uncheery of aspect. Then, by the light of the solitary candle, he broke the seals and drew forth the contents of the envelope. These would keep him busy for some time in all conscience, he decided, noticing how closely written were the numerous sheets. But almost with the first glance, as he began to read, a start and a wild ejaculation escaped him. Then, as he read on, a deathly paleness spread over his countenance, and his hand clenched convulsively upon the rail of his chair. His attitude became rigid and his features hardened. His eyes dilated with a stare of intense horror and surprise as they travelled down each successive sheet of the fateful paper.
Where is the sunny, light-hearted youth, rejoicing in the strength of health and happiness and love, who entered this house such a short while ago? Not surely to be found in this being, whose ashy features are stamped with the set, grey look of a stricken despair; the frozen horror in whose eyes, as they seek alternately the shadowed objects around the half-darkened room and the rigidly grasped paper, is that of a man who suddenly realises that he has all involuntarily committed some appalling crime.
His dry lips move half unconsciously, and in husky, laboured gasps, frame the well-nigh inarticulate words—
“O God! such a hideous thing could never be! God in Heaven, it can’t be true! It can’t be true!”