“But if your first wife were John Fausset’s natural daughter—what then? The law does not recognise such affinities.”
“No, but the Church does. The Roman Church could create a prohibitive affinity in the case of a cast-off mistress; and it is the privilege of our Anglican theology in its highest development to adopt the most recondite theories of Rome. For God’s sake be plain with me, Mr. Pergament! Was the girl who called herself Vivien Faux, John Fausset’s daughter, or was she not?”
“I regret that I cannot answer your question. My promise to my client was of the nature of an oath. I cannot violate that promise upon any consideration whatever. I must ask you, Mr. Greswold, as a gentleman, not to urge the matter any farther.”
“I submit,” said Greswold hopelessly. “If it is a point of honour with you, I can say no more.”
Mr. Pergament accompanied him to the threshold of the outer office, and the elderly clerk ushered him to the wide old landing-place beyond. The lawyer had been courteous, but not cordial. There was a shade of distrustfulness in his manner, and he had pretended to no sympathy with Mr. Greswold in his difficulties; but George Greswold felt that among those who knew the history of his former marriage there was not much likelihood of friendly feeling towards him. To them he was a man outside the pale.
He left the office sick at heart. This had been his only means of coming at the knowledge of his first wife’s parentage, and this means had failed him utterly. The surprise indicated by that slight movement of the lawyer’s hand at the first mention of John Fausset’s name went far to convince him that Mildred’s conviction was based on truth. Yet if John Fausset were Mr. Pergament’s client, it was very odd that Mr. Pergament should be ignorant of the circumstances of Mildred’s marriage, and the name and surroundings of her husband. Odd assuredly, but not impossible. On reflection, it seemed by no means unnatural that Mr. Fausset should confide his secret to a stranger, and establish a trust with a stranger, rather than admit his family lawyer to his confidence. This provision for an illegitimate daughter would be an isolated transaction in his life. He would select a firm of approved respectability, who were unconcerned in his family affairs, with whom there was no possibility of his wife or daughter being brought into contact.
George Greswold drove from Lincoln’s Inn to Queen Anne’s Gate, where he spent ten minutes with Mrs. Tomkison, and learned all that lady could tell him about his wife’s movements: how she had had a long interview with Mr. Cancellor before she started for Brighton, and how she was looking very ill and very unhappy. Provided with this small stock of information, he went back to the hotel and dined tête-à-tête with Pamela, who had the good sense not to talk to him, and who devoted all her attentions to the scion of Brockenhurst Joe.
When the waiters had left the room for good, and uncle and niece were alone over their coffee, Greswold became more communicative.
“Pamela, you are a good, warm-hearted girl, and I believe you would go some way to serve me,” he said quietly, as he sat looking at Box, who had folded his delicately-pencilled legs in a graceful attitude upon the fender, and was amiably blinking at the fire.
“My dear uncle, I would cut off my head for you—”