“Delighted, Squire,” said the adventurer with alacrity. “Getting old!” as he returned to his seat, “why, you are not even beginning to get old; or, if you are, all I can say is that many a much younger man would be glad to do so on the same terms. But, in any case, why add another anxiety—a totally unnecessary anxiety—to your afternoon of life, and all for a paltry thirty thousand pounds, which, as I said before, can only be, relatively, a mere half-crown to you?”
“That’s all very well; but what guarantee have I that it would end there?”
“I would give you an undertaking, cautiously worded, of course, to make no further demand upon you, nor upon anybody after you, for another farthing.”
“Legally, not worth the paper it’s written on,” said the Squire.
“I’m afraid that’s so; still, it would make a very strong piece of presumptive evidence against me if I did fail to keep my word. You may trust me this time. I don’t profess to be a saint or angel, I own to having done some pretty tough things in my time, but one thing I never have done, and that is to go back on a fair, square, and honest deal. Think of your son, Squire—Wagram, I mean—I have seen him more than once, not always when he has seen me. By the way, he turned me off here once when I was trespassing, but he did it in such a nice way, as between one gentleman and another. He’s a fine fellow—a splendid fellow—and I’ve heard a good deal more about him than I’ve seen. Well, isn’t it a thousand pities that life should be ruined for him, and his son after him—I have seen him too, by-the-by—and all because you can’t bring yourself to look at things from my standpoint, which is that necessity has no law?”
There was silence for a few moments. In saying that he had seen more of Wagram than the latter knew Develin Hunt was speaking no more than the truth. He had noted the quiet happiness of the man’s flawless life, had gleaned some idea of his intense joy of possession, and had done so with considerable satisfaction in that it would all go to further his own plans. No man living, he argued, would think twice as to what his action would be when called upon to choose between paying down what was, relatively speaking, an inconsiderable sum and throwing up his possessions and his name, and the name of his son after him—and to the case of this one was added an almost unlimited power for good. To do so would be the action of a stark, staring, raving lunatic, and it was abundantly certain Wagram was not that.
“Well, Squire, now is the time to make up your mind. It is important that I should go up to London to-night, and unless I take your cheque for twenty-five thousand with me I shall be under the necessity of postponing my departure for a day or two and applying to your son Wagram. I believe he would gladly give double the amount. Think! it is to save his name—his name, mind—and his son’s after him.”
The old man felt beaten. It was not the money value that afflicted him; he would cheerfully have parted with double the amount if by so doing he could close the other’s mouth for ever, but he doubted whether in any case he could do this for long. Sooner or later Hunt would come down upon him for more—it was the way of blackmailers for all time—nor did he in the least believe this one would keep his undertaking to make no further demand. And this disreputable adventurer had the power to hold a sword over Wagram’s head indefinitely. He remembered as a far-off thing his agreement with Monsignor Culham—here in this very room—not to give this man another shilling. Yet now matters looked differently; he felt himself cornered beyond all hope of deliverance.
“Give me the undertaking you mentioned just now,” he said at last. “Sit down there and draw it up,” pointing to another writing-table.
“No need, Squire, I have it here all ready; I knew we should come to terms. Here it is, and you may rely upon my adhering to it rigidly.”