CHAPTER XXXIX.
Both by profession and inclination I am a man of peace. But for once my sluggish blood boiled; and it would have been a nasty hour for Halidane had his smug and rosy countenance come within reach of my fists. Many annoyances I had forgiven him, many more was prepared to forgive. But that he should sow discord between Hartover and me at this particular juncture outpaced my power of forgiveness. The fellow had kept a stone in his pocket for years. Now he threw it—meanly and spitefully, by the hand of a woman, thereby making it more difficult for me to parry the blow or to retaliate. Hence I subscribed most heartily, I am afraid, to any and every evil which might befall him in this world or the next!
‘Either your ladyship’s memory is at fault, or your informant is guilty of a remarkably odious falsehood,’ I said, so grimly as to disconcert my fair hearer not a little, I thought. ‘I should have supposed it unnecessary to declare that I have never discussed Lord Hartover or his affairs with Mr. Halidane. Any such discussion would be repugnant to me in the highest degree. If Mr. Halidane is acquainted with the contents of any letter addressed to me by Lord Hartover, he must have acquired that knowledge by methods reflecting but scanty credit upon his sense of honour, let alone his sense of common honesty. Yet I cannot pretend to be greatly surprised. For on one occasion, at least, I have had reason to accuse him of entering my college rooms, for purposes of his own, during my absence.’
And I recounted, very briefly, what I had seen and heard on the night of the fire at the Master’s Lodge.
Lady Longmoor, none too sure of the success of her last move, seized upon the new topic with avidity.
‘Ah! yes,’ she cried; ‘we heard about that from Dr. Marston. He was loud in praise of your wonderful courage in saving the life of his niece. According to him you performed prodigies of valour. I was so interested in meeting her—Miss Davis, no, Dynevor—of course, I remember, Dynevor—quite a nice girl and—and so very much in love. Oh! yes; it was all extraordinarily romantic, you know, George—just like a story in a book.’
The impertinence of these great folk! The tone of condescension and patronage in which her ladyship alluded to Alice Dynevor was by no means lost on me; but, I am afraid, ten thousand Alice Dynevors and their impertinent treatment at the hands of fine ladies weighed as rather less than nothing with me, just now, as against Hartover’s apparent alienation. To reconquer his confidence and sympathy, to convince him of my unswerving loyalty, was the sole and only thing I cared about.
During the whole interview we had been kept standing, since Lady Longmoor remained standing herself. I fancied she had an eye to rapid withdrawal whenever a promising strategic opportunity presented itself. As she spoke, she too moved towards the door. But Hartover, who, to my great comfort, had paused, listening both to her impertinently enthusiastic flourish and my disclaimer, faced about blocking her passage.
‘One moment,’ he said. ‘Has Mr. Halidane, may I inquire, crowned his amiable mission as scandalmonger by communicating this piece of stolen information to my father?’
‘No. He felt it was his duty to tell your father, but very properly consulted me first. And I dissuaded him.’
‘How charming of you!’ from Hartover, not without sarcasm.
‘I begged him to wait—not to speak of it yet. Later, I felt, circumstances might not improbably arise which would compel us to break it to your father. But naturally I wished to spare him as long as⸺’
‘Pray, is that a threat?’
‘Hardly a threat. But a warning—yes, possibly, dearest George. Take my advice and lay it to heart. And, since plain speaking seems the fashion to-night, you know your manner towards me is excessively strange—barely civil, in fact. Have you been drinking, by chance?’
The boy shook his head; but with an air! Insolence being to the fore, it was diamond cut diamond as between stepmother and stepson.
‘Oh! dear, no. I have touched nothing stronger than water to-day,’ he said.
‘Really! I am sorry to hear it, as that leaves no valid excuse for your behaviour. But I am tired; and, frankly, I can’t admit any right on your part to keep me here listening first to nonsense, and then to incivility. Good-night, Mr. Brownlow. I do not know how long you propose to stay, so good-bye, too—in case, which is possible, I do not see you again. And now, George, be good enough to open the door for me.’
From all which I derived the conviction that, for once, her ladyship had pretty thoroughly lost her temper. Then, as Hartover did not move:
‘My dear George, do you hear? Even if you unfortunately have no love for your mother, you may still pay some respect, some ordinary courtesy towards your father’s wife.’
‘For my father’s wife I have all possible respect,’ he began.
My lady’s dark eyebrows went up until they nearly met her fair hair.
‘Indeed! You have a most original fashion of showing it!’
‘But—for I, too, can issue a warning—I have very little of either for my cousin Jack Esdaile’s mistress.’
An instant of stupefaction.
Then: ‘How dare you! How dare you!’ Lady Longmoor stormed.
She took a couple of steps forward, with the intention, I verily believe, of boxing Hartover’s ears soundly. But he was too adroit for her. Catching her by both hands, he held them—not roughly, but with a gallant, if naughty grace, vastly engaging. Some colour had come into his face. His eyes and lips laughed saucily.
‘No, no, your Magnificence,’ he said. ‘That belongs to the past, to the old nursery days, here and at Hover, when I was too small to hit back. I have grown up since then, and we are more evenly matched.’
Ought I to interfere? To do so was to risk losing Hartover’s trust and affection for ever. Therefore I thought, and still think, not.
Meanwhile, whether contact with physical force—to her a novel experience—tamed her, or whether conscience was the determining factor, I am uncertain; but—
‘You young boor!’ she exclaimed; and there ended all direct protest. For, at once, she began to try and make terms with him—an uneasiness, not to say an edge of fear, perceptible behind the fine chill of her manner. ‘Pray, what do you expect to gain by insulting me thus?’
‘What I have never succeeded in gaining before—a clear stage and no favour.’
‘Be a little more explicit, please—that is, if you really have anything to be explicit about.’
‘Oh! dear, yes; plenty, plenty. I’ve no lack of material,’ Hartover answered. ‘But won’t you come and sit down, since you are tired, so that we may talk it over comfortably?’
And, releasing one hand, the boy led her across the lovely room to a large white and gold settee—prettily, as he might have led some charming partner after a dance—and, finally, sat down there beside her.
‘Is it necessary that a third person be present,’ she asked, ‘at this extraordinary interview?’
‘I prefer Brownlow to stay, if he will,’ Hartover answered. ‘It is desirable in your interests just as much as in my own.’
‘A packed jury! However, I am at your mercy—two men to one woman. If you command I cannot do otherwise than obey.’
And she folded her hands in her lap, settling her beautiful shoulders back against the soft white and gold cushions.
‘Now for this very chivalrous bargaining,’ she said scornfully. ‘For a bargain is just what it comes to, neither more nor less, I imagine.’
‘Yes,’ Hartover answered; while as he spoke sauciness, laughter, almost youth itself, died out of his face, leaving it grave, drawn, and very pallid. ‘You are right. Between you and me, as matters now stand, your Magnificence, it all comes to the dirty, low-caste business of a bargain—and a hard one. Only let us both speak the truth, please, in as far as we are able. It may save some ugly fighting hereafter.—You say you heard of the legalising of a certain entanglement from Mr. Halidane. Was that your first knowledge of it?’
‘Rumours may have reached me earlier.’
‘Through whom?’—Hartover went white about the lips—‘Through Fédore?’
‘You forget, she had left my service.’
‘But had no rumours reached you through her—Fédore—of another marriage, about three years ago?’
Lady Longmoor moved slightly, throwing back her head. She was very angry, but she was also very nervous—so, at least, I fancied.
‘This persistent asking of riddles becomes monotonous,’ she said. ‘Of what exactly are you speaking, my dear George?’
‘Of Fédore’s marriage to your butler, Marsigli. They were confidential servants, to both of whom we all understood you were a good deal attached. It seems improbable, when they married, you should be ignorant of the fact.’
‘Oh! there you are totally mistaken,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘The private lives of my servants are no concern of mine. So long as they serve me well, and there aren’t any scandals in the household, I am not so foolish as to invite annoyance by asking questions. If they are silent, I am silent likewise. I have no belief in fussing—especially when the establishment runs smooth. And then—tastes no doubt differ—but I really have more important and interesting things to think about than sentimental complications on the part of the maids.’
‘Even when one of the maids proposes to become your daughter-in-law?’ the boy put in bitterly. ‘Come, your Magnificence, what’s the use of hedging. Did you or didn’t you know?’
But here her ladyship saw fit to change her tactics by making a spirited raid into the enemy’s country.
‘And if rumours, again, had reached me,’ she asked, ‘what then?’
‘This—that, knowing, you still said nothing, made no attempt to prevent my doing this infamous thing.’
‘Stop, stop,’ Lady Longmoor cried. ‘You forget there is quite another aspect of the case. If I did not intervene it was simply because I knew intervention to be hopeless. Would you have listened to me? Have you ever listened? I am only human, after all, and my stock of patience, alas! is not inexhaustible. You can hardly deny having made heavy drafts on it, my dear George, for a number of years now.’
‘I deny nothing under that head,’ Hartover said quietly.
‘Your escapades—to call them nothing worse—have caused us—my poor lord and me—endless vexation and trouble. I was weary of hearing about them from—oh! well, from a number of different sources. People are not slow in repeating what is offensive, and your name has become a positive by-word in your regiment for every description of objectionable folly. Is it surprising if, at last, I gave up in despair? No doubt, it was wrong of me’—she glanced with very moving appeal in my direction—‘but really, things came to a point last winter, when I was tempted to wash my hands of you altogether. You must go your own way. I was helpless to restrain you. All I asked was some little respite from worry, from the perpetual wear and tear of concealing these wretched stories from your father.’
‘Thank you. I understand,’ Hartover said. ‘And so, other plans for wrecking me having miscarried—you and Jack Esdaile devised a good many—you connived at this abomination, just as you connived at—at—her running after me at Hover long ago, before Brownlow came. You encouraged her going to see me when I was ill—she told me so herself, told me that and a lot more too. And⸺’
He paused, leaning forward, looking on the ground, while his speech grew thick and unsteady.
‘And the fact—however vile the deception she practised on me—that she was kind, nursed me, helped me fight against my bad habits, pulled me through, does not lessen your guilt by one iota either towards her or towards me. Her death lies at your door. Marsigli, poor brute, may have struck the actual blow, but you are responsible for it.’
‘Death? Fédore dead?—Marsigli?—What do you mean, George? What, in heaven’s name, are you talking about?’
In her extreme excitement and agitation Lady Longmoor seized the boy by the arm; but he shook himself free, getting up and backing away from her with a movement of uncontrollable revolt.
‘Oh! yes,’ he said; ‘I know you’ve wanted—you’ve wanted for years to finish with me, to wipe me out. You’ve failed; but—but still, at the cost of a life. Explain to her, Brownlow, please. Tell her. It’s beyond me. I can’t.’