Chapter Eighteen.
Further Counsels.
“Monsignor Culham, sir,” announced a servant, throwing open the library door.
The Squire advanced with outstretched hand. “Ah, my dear old friend, I never was more glad to see you in my life.”
“And how are you, Grantley? Upon my word, in spite of whatever it is that’s bothering you, you are looking younger than ever.”
“That’ll soon remedy itself, unless we can devise some way out of this abominable tangle.”
“Supposing, now, you let me in behind this same abominable tangle—for, of course, I have as yet no idea as to its nature.”
A week had gone by since the visit of the African adventurer, but nothing further had been heard of or from that worthy. Clearly he was not going to hurry his victim unduly, but that he had given up his predatory scheme the said victim could not bring himself to believe.
In a matter involving weighty issues even the most shrewd and secretive of us may be excused for doubting his own judgment, or, at any rate, desiring to take counsel of another mind. Thus the situation, as laid down by the would-be blackmailer, had got upon even the cool nerves of the old diplomat; and upon whose judgment could he rely as he could upon that of his old friend?
“But you are only just off a journey,” he now replied. “You must rest and refresh first.”
“Neither, thanks; and the journey wasn’t a long one. Now, begin.”
“It’s a tale soon told. My first wife—Wagram’s mother—was married before. She honestly believed her husband to be dead; in fact, if certificates and all that sort of thing count as proof, she was justified in believing it. Afterwards he turned up, and tried blackmailing us.”
“Was that before Wagram was born?”
“No; after. Not that it made any difference either way, because, of course, the marriage was void.”
“You have no doubt whatever that he was her real husband?”
“She had no doubt. Poor thing! it killed her.”
“And what became of the man?”
“I made it worth his while to leave the country, and on the way to New Zealand or Australia—I forget which—he was washed overboard, and never seen again. I was justified in believing him drowned, if only that he never troubled me again, which he would certainly have done otherwise.”
“And he wasn’t?”
“So he says. Read this,” handing him the newspaper cutting narrating the rescue of the three castaways.
“And is this the man—Develin Hunt?”
The Squire nodded. “Funny, isn’t it, that he should reappear in the same way as he went? Well, he has been here to blackmail me.” And he told of the recent visitor and the proposed terms.
“People change a good deal in a matter of thirty years or so,” said the prelate. “And you had no doubt as to this man’s identity?”
“Unfortunately, none. I didn’t let him know that, though. I treated him politely, and as if I thought him a fraud of the first water, but it didn’t seem to disconcert him. He has a trump card to throw down, for it is not merely a case of Wagram going out but—of who do you think coming in? Everard!”
“What?”
“Everard. He professes to know his whereabouts, declares that he has gone utterly to the bad. The fellow even dwelt upon the utter wreck that wretched boy would make of everything here in the event of establishing his claim.”
To listen to the old man telling his tale in his easy, light, cynical tones you would have thought it concerned him not at all. But his friend saw deeper down than that; he knew that if this thing were to befall Grantley Wagram’s days were numbered. Heavens! it was too awful! And Wagram, whose love for his heritage was an obsession, and who was such a perfect steward of the great wealth entrusted to him—what would be the effect on him when he learnt that such heritage was reft from him at one blow—that he had no right even to the name he bore, nor his son after him? The prelate’s face wore as gloomy a look as that of his friend.
“Of course, you must insist on this man furnishing you with every proof of his identity,” he said. “He can do that, of course?”
“The worst of it is I’m convinced in my heart of hearts as to his identity. There was something out of the way about the fellow that even the lapse of time hasn’t affected. I don’t know quite what it is. Perhaps it’s his way of talking. Anyway, I’m sure of him.”
“You can be sure of nothing in this world, Grantley—nothing that isn’t a matter of faith, which, of course, sounds paradoxical. But in mundane matters such as this it isn’t a question of faith but of hard, dry evidence, which for present purposes may be taken to mean: Can this man prove that he was validly and legally married to your first wife before you went through what we will, provisionally, and for the sake of argument, call the form of marriage with her?”
“And supposing he can’t?”
“Then there’s an end of the whole affair.”
“Even if I am morally certain?” persisted the Squire, smiling sadly to himself as he remembered how, when they were youths at college together, he had delighted in putting every form of difficult and intricate case of conscience he could think of to the budding priest, who, for his part, had never shirked the challenge.
“Everything is to be ruled upon its own merits. Moral certainty in such a matter as this is nothing, and counts for nothing. We must have clear, authenticated, documentary proof.”
“I have often wondered,” went on Grantley Wagram slowly, “how Everard could really be my son; there was a total absence about him of every sort of seeming relationship or affinity. Well, well, it is too late to dwell upon that now. Yet I gave him every chance, and he threw it from him. Did I not give him every chance?”
“You did indeed; you have nothing to reproach yourself with under that head.”
“Then, as a matter of conscience, I am justified in resisting the claim de haut en bas? And I don’t know who could be a better authority in that department than you, old friend.”
“Absolutely and entirely you are. You can’t as a juror conscientiously hang a man on moral certainty, you must have legal certainty—otherwise clear evidence. It’s the same here. When you consider the enormous stake involved the principle of ‘the benefit of the doubt’ holds good more than ever.”
“Knowing what I knew,” resumed the Squire after a brief pause—“knew, or at any rate was morally certain of—I reckoned it my duty to make a second marriage, to obviate all possibility of Hilversea passing to a distant and apostate branch of the family, which stands in no sort of need of it, by the way, being as well endowed with this world’s goods as I am myself. How disadvantageous that second marriage turned out—well, you, old friend, will remember. And the only result spells—Everard. Why, it might even be better for everything to go to the other branch than to him.”
“So far as we have got it doesn’t follow that it need go to either. You were saying something just now, Grantley, about your first wife being in possession of certificates proving this man’s, Develin Hunt’s, death. Now, did you ever see anything of the sort attesting his marriage to her?”
“No; I never thought of it. No; I never saw any such certificate. The poor thing admitted that it had taken place; and that was enough for me, for it was a painful business, so I made it worth his while to clear out.”
“You committed an error of judgment, Grantley, not only in failing to require such a certificate and establishing its genuineness, but also in omitting to institute a thorough and searching inquiry into the antecedents of this Develin Hunt prior to the alleged marriage.”
“You think, then, that such may not have been valid?”
“I am not in a position to think; I only know—we both know—that such things have happened. This man, you say, has led an adventurous life in various parts of the world. Who knows what experiences it may hold, any one of which would invalidate this alleged marriage, thereby rendering yours valid?”
“Ah-h!”
Grantley Wagram drew a long breath as he straightened himself up in his chair; his face lightened.
“In that case Wagram would be safe,” he said.
“Safe as yourself; but it doesn’t do to build too much on such an uncertain foundation. Still, what I should do in your place would be to take steps immediately to have this man’s past traced. Of course, the lapse of years will have added enormously to the difficulties of the search, but by sparing no expense, and setting the right people to work, the thing ought to be feasible, I imagine.”
“I had thought of some such plan myself; but two heads are better than one—by Jove, they are! I’ll set to work about it directly; but meanwhile this fellow threatens to call round for his price.”
“When?”
“In a few days, he said, whatever that may mean; and it’s about a week ago now.”
“Wait till he does call, then. But, of course, you won’t pay him any ‘price.’ Give him rope instead—and plenty of it.”
“Yes; I shall require the certificate of his marriage, and it will be easy to verify it, unless, of course, it took place out of England—then it will be more difficult.”
“Not necessarily. It will take more time, and I don’t know that that’s altogether an unmixed evil—the gaining of time in an important and critical matter seldom is. By the way—er—I suppose Mrs Wagram never informed you where it had taken place?”
“No. You see, the whole thing came as more than something of a shock, and we agreed never to refer to it. Heavens! my working life was spent in defeating the wiles of the potential enemies of my country, and when it became a question of my own nearest affairs I seem to have acted the part of a very complete and unsophisticated idiot.”
“Not an uncommon thing, my dear Grantley. I seem to remember more than one instance of an eminent judge or counsel whose will, drawn by himself, was productive of a fruitful crop of lawsuits. But now you have not got to let yourself get flurried or out of hand in the matter. This man, from your account of him, seems to be a singularly confident and level-headed type of adventurer. If his position is as secure as he would have you believe, why, then, he can afford to play a waiting game, and will be too much of a man of the world to spoil his own play by hurrying yours. If he shows an unwillingness to play the said waiting game, why, then, I think he will be giving away his own hand, which in that case is sure to be weak.”
“That’s sound wisdom,” said the Squire, “and I’ll act upon it. I’ll put it to him straight that, until I’ve had time to have inquiries made, I’ll do nothing for him.”
“Meanwhile don’t give him a shilling.”
“Oh no; certainly not. In any case I should never dream of embarking on that idiocy over again.”
“I suppose you have let drop no hint of that matter to Wagram?”
“No hint. If anything comes of it, why, he’ll know soon enough—if nothing, why disturb him? And—Wagram is so ultra conscientious. He’d never have done for the Diplomatic Service.”
Both laughed, but it was somewhat mirthlessly.
“There is Wagram,” went on the Squire as a step and a whistled bar or two sounded outside; and then the door opened.
“Ah! how are you, Monsignor? They told me you had arrived.”
The old prelate’s keen, kindly glance took in the man before him as they shook hands, and there was sadness in his heart, though sign thereof did not appear. Yes; he took in the tall, straight form and the refined, thoughtful face, and realised what a blow hung over their owner. Should it fall, how would he take it? How? He thought he knew. But—it would be terrible, disastrous, ruinous. Heaven in mercy avert it!
“What do you think, father?” said Wagram as they were seated at lunch. “You remember that fellow who escaped from that wreck we were reading about the other day—the fellow with the quaint name—Develin Something—ah, Hunt—that was it? Well, he’s staying in Bassingham. Charlie Vance pointed him out to me. Says he’s stopping at the Golden Crown. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Very. That’s the man at whose expense you perpetrated that infamous pun, isn’t it, Wagram?” answered the Squire, with a twinkle of the eyes, and as complete an insouciance as though the man’s very existence were not a matter of life and death to them.
“Well, I wasn’t as bad as Haldane. I only fired it off once; but Haldane—you know, Monsignor, Haldane spent the rest of the day suggesting to everyone within hail that a chap named Develin Hunt must have had a bad time throughout life in that he would be continually in the way of being told that he had the Develin him.”
“Capital—capital!” said Monsignor Culham, with a hearty laugh. “I read the case in the papers at the time. And what sort of a fellow did this shipwrecked mariner strike you as being, Wagram?”
“Oh, he looked a hard-bitten, unscrupulous sort of pirate. They say he’s been a West African back-country trader—a life, I imagine, likely to turn a man that way.”
The prelate laughed again, so did the Squire. Thus admirably did they keep their own counsel these two finished old diplomats. But—beneath!