More than seven years had gone by since that New Year’s Eve on which Rupert, rejected by Edith, wiped the mud of London off his feet for ever, when the terrible blow fell on Lord Devene which crushed out the last sparks of his proud and bitter spirit. Of a sudden, his only child—for no others were born to him—the bright and beautiful boy whom he idolised, was seized by some sickness of the brain, which, in spite of all that skill could do for him, carried him off within a week. Thus it came about that once more Rupert, who was supposed to be dead, was left heir-presumptive to the Devene title and settled property.
The mother accepted her loss with characteristic patience and courage. She had never expected that the boy would live, and was not surprised at his decease. But such a blow as this was more than Lord Devene could bear. Here his philosophy failed him, and he had no other comfort to which to fly. Moreover, now, the title would become extinct, and so much of the property as he could not leave away must pass into the worthless hands of Dick Learmer. Under these circumstances, his thoughts turned once more to his natural daughter, Edith. He even sent for Dick, and much as he despised and hated the man, suggested that he should marry her, of course without telling him his real reason.
“It is time you settled yourself in life, if ever you are going to do so,” he said, “and the same remark applies to Edith, who must have had enough of being a widow. You will be a rich man when I am gone, and in this pure and virtuous land it would be easy enough to purchase the re-creation of the title. A matter of £50,000 judiciously spent on the Party will do that in a year or so—even for you. What do you say?”
“Only that I have been trying to marry Edith for the last seven years and she won’t have me,” answered Dick.
“Why not? I thought she was so fond of you.”
“Used to be, you mean. I don’t think she is now.”
“Ah! she may have heard of your way of life, you know, as many other people have; but perhaps your new prospects”—and he winced as he said the words, “may make a difference.”
“I doubt it,” said Dick. “She has got a craze in her head; believes that Rupert may still be living.”
Lord Devene looked at him so sharply that next moment he was sorry he had spoken the words.
“That’s a very odd craze, Dick,” he said, “after so many years. I should not have thought Edith was a woman given to such fancies. I suggest that you should try to disabuse her. See what you can do, and we will talk over the matter again. Now good-bye; I’m tired.”