At that moment, with his brain positively whirling with suppressed excitement, and with the fever caused by anxiety and suspense boiling in his veins, Arthur felt that, had he been stopped by his respected father on his outward way, he would have been capable of laying violent hands upon that well-meaning but officious personage. To rush into the fresh air—to throw himself into a passing hansom—to be carried as fast as wheels could bear him to the first emporium of sporting news where he was likely to obtain authentic intelligence regarding the respective fates of Rough Diamond and the Colonel—were the ends that Arthur Vavasour had in view while stepping on tiptoe down the broad stone staircase, with a flushed face, and a heart that beat fast with long-controlled emotion. The heaviness that had endured through the night (for, for the first time in his life, Arthur had been kept awake by care) was not succeeded by the joy which “cometh in the morning,” and—during the weary hours that he had passed, book in hand, on the luxurious sofa, among the pretty and expensive nicknacks which adorned his wife’s boudoir—the heir to countless thousands had given himself up to the most disastrous convictions regarding his future fate. To his then thinking—and he too soon discovered that his forebodings had not overstepped the truth—it seemed the most probable of misfortunes that Frederick Norcott, taking advantage of the carelessly-effected contract regarding the Derby colt, had shamelessly appropriated to his own use the proceeds of the sale of that invaluable animal. That the man who had sunk so deep in the mire of infamy would hesitate a moment to make merchandise of the secret which he was well aware his dupe and victim was keenly desirous to preserve, Arthur could neither hope nor believe. He was in the power—poor young fellow!—(and miserably did he shudder under the disgraceful yoke)—of one of the most unprincipled genteel villains that ever walked about in well-made boots and broadcloth, and—a grievance for the moment still more keenly felt—his debts of honour—those debts which he had hoped and intended by the sale of the Derby winner to discharge—would still remain unpaid, whilst he, under the cloud which his own folly had gathered above his head, must endure, with such patience as he could muster, the consequences of a bad man’s guilt.
It took but little time, and a very few inquiries, to make sure of the fact that Colonel Norcott, with whom no respectable sporting man (a degradation of which Arthur was ignorant, so blind had his passion for Honor made him) would bet—it took but little time, I say, to make sure of the, at first, only floating news, to wit, that the nominal owner of Rough Diamond, after securing the amount paid by Lord Penshanger for that illustrious animal, had left England for foreign parts. Where he had gone, no one appeared able to divulge; nor did the ascertaining of the chosen spot to which he had betaken himself appear a matter of importance to the greatest sufferer by Colonel Norcott’s disappearance. Arthur knew enough of law to be convinced that, even were it possible for him to brave the consequences of irritating Fred’s not-over-placable disposition, the law could in this case do little or nothing towards the recovery of the stolen cash. It was horribly provoking—annoying to a scarcely endurable extent, and the more unendurable from the circumstance that to no human being could he venture to pour forth the history of his wrongs; but there was, alas, no help for it. If it should ever chance that his lucky stars might place him within arm’s-reach of the “swindler,” whose real character was now laid bare before him, why, then—and Arthur (who was the man to keep such an oath both to the letter and in the spirit) swore a vow between his clenched teeth, that if Frederick Norcott left his hands alive, it was about as much as that ignoble personage could reasonably expect.
CHAPTER XV.
MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY.
On his return home, two hours later, and after gleaning all the slender information in his power regarding the proceedings of his enemy, Arthur—his pocket full of certain ugly-looking letters which he had found to his address at the Travellers’—was in anything but a quietly-domestic frame of mind. With the exception of Honor—whose lovely eyes, as he had last seen them, tearful and full of piteous pleading—the idea of contact with no single human creature with whom he was connected afforded him the slightest pleasure. On the contrary, the thought of his young wife, ready, longing even to throw her weak white arms round his neck, was positively distasteful to him; the prospect of listening to old Dub’s paternal twaddle he turned from with disgust; whilst the feeble cry of his one-day old heir-apparent was likely to awaken no responsive feelings in his agitated breast. On the whole, the state of feeling in which Arthur Vavasour found himself on that bright May afternoon may be described as a reckless one. He was soured, discontented, almost despairing. Lines of care were deepening on his brow, and it needed not the fresh blow that awaited him in Hyde-park-terrace to convince Arthur Vavasour that he was doomed to misfortune, and marked out for a large share of the miseries to which flesh is heir.
“A letter that looks like business,” Mr. Duberly said, as his son-in-law opened a missive of large dimensions, sealed with a big seal, and altogether portentous of aspect. “From the lawyers,” continued the old man, “ain’t it?”
Mr. Duberly took a great and very natural interest in the law-suit which was in progress between Lady Millicent Vavasour and her next heir. He did not like, or, rather, he did positively dislike the haughty woman who had never treated him with the simple civility due from one educated individual to another, and who now, in old Dub’s opinion, was conducting herself not only with a very blamable absence of natural motherly feeling, but with what the good man considered in the light of something very like dishonesty. According to his old-fashioned ideas, the will of a dead man was a sacred thing, a document not to be lightly set aside, and, above all, not to be set aside for reasons of cupidity, self-interest, or love of power on the part of the pleader. In his opinion there were stringent and reciprocal duties, binding alike the parent and the child; and that foolish, prejudiced old Dub could as little understand Lady Millicent’s conduct towards her offspring, as he could excuse her disrespectful and aggressive acts as regarded the dead earl her father.
Without being possessed of any inordinate fondness for wealth, Andrew Duberly was nevertheless keenly desirous that Lady Millicent should not succeed in the difficult and arduous task that she had undertaken. He was entirely ignorant of the points of law which might or might not be brought to bear favourably on her case, and was well aware that, in the event of her obtaining judgment in her favour, Arthur’s mother would certainly not be inclined to treat her eldest son with any marked liberality. But it was not for that cause—or, rather, to be entirely honest—it was not for that cause only, that Andrew Duberly hoped and trusted that Earl Gillingham’s will should remain in statu quo, and that milady should, to use his own expression, be pulled down a peg from the high horse she was so fond of mounting. The real reason for the fervour of zeal into which he had worked himself might be sought for, however, as is so often the case, in personal motives. Lady Millicent had wounded and mortified both himself and the child he loved; which being the case, it was only natural that the old millionaire, excellent Christian though he was, should have viewed with complacency the possible chances of her discomfiture.
“Well?” said Mr. Duberly interrogatively, for the terms on which he lived with his son-in-law warranted the reality as well as the appearance of curiosity,—“well, what says the enemy? We’re never going to say die, eh? I’ll tell you what, Arthur; rather than that, I’d pay five thousand pounds for you to the lawyers—five thousand! I’d pay ten to help keep your rights. It isn’t the money, but the principle that I think so much of. But, I say, what does the old quill-driver write to you about? Let’s see the letter; or if you’d rather not, I—”
“O no, sir; take it. It isn’t that, but it’s all such a beastly bore. You see he says that Houndsford’s opinion is against my chance; and if it is, what’s the use of not giving in? I don’t like the scandal of the thing, fighting a case against one’s own mother; and—”
“Stuff and nonsense, boy; it’s milady’s doing, and not yours. It’s her that’s setting it all a-going; and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll not give in till you’re obliged to. However, there’s time enough to talk of that by and by. Sophy’s been asking for you more than once, poor girl, whilst you was away; and as for the boy, he’s been holloring like a good ’un. His lungs are sound enough, at any rate, bless him!” And “grandpapa,” after fixing his gold spectacles once more upon his nose, returned to the perusal of the newspaper, in which his soul delighted.