“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.