Thus they parted, there on the wooden platform of the deserted little country station. And those last words were as the knell of a life—of two lives.
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.