Chapter Twenty Seven.The Droop of a Sunshade.Alma Wyatt was at home again—was once more an inmate of the much-decried semi-detached which was an exact counterpart of all the Rosebanks, and Hollybanks, and Belmonts, and Heathfields, which go to line the regulation suburban road.The said regulation road was ankle-deep in dust—even the foliage of the trees and garden patches, which fronted each monotonous row of villas, was dried and gasping, and sprinkled with the same powdery substance. The atmosphere was of the stuffy, moist, enervating character inseparable from low-lying riverside resorts. Small wonder, then, that Alma, at home again now, should find herself drawing bitter contrasts between commonplace, cockneyfied Surbiton, and the bounteous glories of the mighty Alps—the thunder of the mountain torrent, and the cool fragrance of the shadowy pine forest; the cloudless skies and the soaring peaks; the sheeny ice-slopes, and the blue, castellated masses of theséracs, and, not least, the bracing exhilaration of the air.“At home again! Athomeagain!”—as she kept bitterly repeating to herself. At home again, to enact the part of a butt for her mother’s nagging and ever-discontented tongue; at home again, to fall into the oldrôleof self-obliteration, to hold herself in readiness to sacrifice every inclination of her own, to devote all her time, all her energies, to the convenience of the family idol, her younger sister, and especially to look for no appreciation of, or thanks for, the same. And such is home!How her soul sickened as she looked around on the mediocrity of it all—the flat, ditchwater circumstances of life, the stagnation, the deadly monotony. There was the same narrow round, the same bi-weekly run up to Town on shopping intent, the same local gossip and feeble attempts at entertainment, the same evening visits from the same bevy of Constance’s admirers—City youths mostly, all as like each other as the immaculacy of their collars, the sheen of their hats, the lack of expression in their countenances and the inanity of their conversation, could render them. These would redeem the time with some feeble singing and feebler wit, and evening after evening would Alma be called upon to sit it all out and endeavour to make herself agreeable. Constance on such occasions was in her element, but to the sucking Couttses and Barings and Rothschilds Alma was a stumbling-block and a wet blanket.“Sort of garl, baai Jove, who ought to have a chappie built to her ordar, don’t cher know. Ordinary fellar not good enough,” the principal dry wag of the coterie was wont to remark.When she had told Philip Orlebar she detested the place and everything to do with it, Alma had spoken no more than the literal truth. But if she detested it then, it strikes her now as ten times more detestable. The suburban mediocrity, the much-belauded river—a mere muddy playground for ’Arry and ’Arriet—pall upon her with nauseous monotony. Never did the hideous Cockney twang grate more offensively upon her ears, never did the obtrusive vulgarity of the low-class Briton—the most irredeemably vulgar animal in the world—revolt her sensibilities as now, when contrasted with the pleasant speech and innately refined manners of the same class of Continental peoples. Assuredly with no feeling of gladness or even contentment did Alma Wyatt return home. This may have been wrong; it was undoubtedly lamentable. But, under the circumstances, it was very natural.We should be sorry to make oath that apart from this pardonable discontent with her most uncongenial surroundings there was not another phase of canker eating into her mind and destroying its peace. We have, elsewhere, and more than once, emphasised the fact that a certain young reprobate, hight Philip Orlebar, was one of those dangerous persons of whom the opposite sex is prone to become very fond. Now Alma’s opportunities of doing so had been exceptional and many—and, in point of fact, she had so become.Often now, in the stagnant monotony of her home life, does that bright young face rise up before her, as she first saw it, gazing with scarcely disguised admiration upon her own, as she has so frequently, so constantly seen it since—the sunny blue eyes, with their straight, frank glance, lighting up with a world of welcoming gladness when meeting her for the first time in the day or after a few hours’ absence. She sees it, too, as she saw it in the black, driving cloud, high up on the perilous rockarêteof the Cape au Moine, anxious on her account, otherwise fearless and resolute—she sees it, as she saw it in the sinking sunshine of that same day, tender, apprehensive, as its owner hung upon the reply which her lips should frame—but, oh, so attractive! Again, she sees it as she saw it last—crushed, hopeless, despairing, and as it appears thus before her the proud, self-contained nature partially breaks down, and, being alone, she cannot repress a convulsive sob or two, and a few tears damp the handkerchief which she passes rapidly over her eyes.Does she ever regret—repent of her haste in thus giving him hiscongé! Does it ever occur to her that she may have judged him hastily, harshly—in fact, unheard? Well, her nature is a fearfully proud, a fearfully sensitive one. Did he not put a public slight upon her, make her the laughing stock of a number of nondescript people? Yet even here she cannot further justify herself in the idea that he had merely been amusing himself at her expense. The feeling was there, warm and genuine—as to that there could be no mistake whatever. Characteristically, however, she proceeds to impale him upon the other horn of the dilemma. He had shown weakness. If that other girl had really any claim upon him, if there was really any engagement between them, he ought to have broken it off definitely and decisively before presuming to offer his affection to herself. Yes, he had been guilty of lamentable weakness—an unpardonable fault in Alma Wyatt’s eyes.There is even more behind, however, than all this. On hearing of his accident, did she not write him a letter of condolence—a really kind letter of sympathy and interest, asking to be informed how he got on—a letter, indeed, in which it was just possible for any man not actually a born fool to “read between the lines,” affording him, with a little diplomacy, a chance of crying “Peccavi,” and eventually reinstating himself? But how had he answered it? He had not answered it at all!No, from that day to this he had not answered it. There could be no explanation. She had learned indirectly through those who were in the same hotel at the time, that his accident, though tiresome, was not serious—never sufficiently serious to incapacitate him for writing. And she had been at Zinal long enough to have heard from him over and over again; added to which, every letter which had arrived there for her uncle and aunt, even some time after their departure, had been scrupulously forwarded and safely received. The postal arrangements could not be to blame; clearly, then, he had deliberately and of set purpose elected to take no notice of her letter.Well, that dream was over. She felt a little hard—a little bitter. It was no easy matter to gain Alma’s good opinion, but of Philip Orlebar she had managed to become very fond—more so, in fact, than she herself had suspected at the time. And sometimes now a satirical smile would curve her lips as she reflected bitterly that after all he had certainly shown no weakness in choosing to ignore her own gracious advance, and the reflection did not tend in any degree to restore either peace or contentment to herself.Bearing in mind Alma’s character and general temperament, it need hardly be said that concerning this, the great event of her trip abroad, she let fall neither word nor hint. She would, indeed, sometimes smile bitterly to herself as she pictured her mother’s wrath and disgust did the latter become aware that she had refused the heir to a baronetcy—a poor one certainly, but still a baronetcy. Why, life would thenceforth cease to be worth living. It would be the last straw. And for this, in her heart of hearts, she admitted that, looking at it from a strictly mundane point of view, there was some excuse. The chances matrimonial, to a girl situated as she was, were poor enough, in fact they were mainly confined to the City youths of mediocre lineage and strictly limited incomes, who constituted her sister’s sworn admirers, or a delicate handed and mustachioed curate who had for some time evinced an unmistakable partiality for herself. Still she was nothing if not characteristic. She was not going to sacrifice her clearly-formed judgment upon the altar of expediency. So she strove to dismiss Philip Orlebar from her mind, and to fall back into her old groove with what contentment she might.That Alma did not “get on well at home” was not surprising—indeed, the wonder would have come in had things been the other way. The problematical amalgamation of oil and water was a trifle more conceivable than the existence of any cordiality or even a good understanding between herself and her mother. For the latter was not a lovable person. To start with, her brain power was of the scantiest order, her mind of the narrowest; it follows, therefore, that she was intensely, aggressively obstinate. And in the art of nagging she was a past mistress. She was one of those women to whom battle is as the air they breathe, and she had a knack of starting a fray gently, insidiously, sorrowfully even, as though marvelling herself that there should ensue any hostilities at all. Her younger daughter, Constance, then just eighteen, was an excellent replica of her in disposition—that is to say, had not a single redeeming point in her character; and,pacethe gushing philanthropist, there are such persons. But the girl, with her blue eyes and smooth skin, her golden hair and fresh complexion, was extremely pretty; and in stating this we have said all there is to be said for her; for as a set-off against these advantages she was selfish, wilful, and conceited to the last degree, as, indeed, was only natural, seeing that from her birth upward she had been thoroughly and consistently spoiled.There were those who wondered whence Alma had inherited her fine character. Those in a position to speak—old General Wyatt for instance—declared that she had inherited all her father’s good qualities and none of her mother’s bad ones, whereas in the case of Constance the positions were exactly reversed.“Alma, I want you to get on your hat, quick, and come along up the river,” cried Constance, bursting in upon her sister one bright summer afternoon. The latter had sought out the coolest corner of the stuffy little drawing-room, and was busily engaged in the—to her in her then frame of mind—very congenial task of sticking a number of Alpine views into an album. She had a touch of headache, and was not in the most amiable frame of mind herself. In fact the above invitation struck within her no responsive chord, and she said as much.“Of course!” snapped the younger girl. “Isn’t that always the way! Here one has been indoors the whole day, and directly it gets cool enough to move you say you wont. Just because you know I want to. Well—well. One never can get to the bottom of the selfishness of some people.”“Speak for yourself, Constance!” returned Alma, quickly but quietly. “Does it never strike you that I may now and then feel tired, or disinclined for exertion. And I certainly feel that way this afternoon.”But the other’s rejoinder was a shrill, jeering, ringing laugh.“All very well,” she cried, flinging her sailor hat into the air and catching it. “All very well. But that won’t go down with me. Can’t tear yourself away from those old Swiss photos. I know all about it. By the way, which is the place you methimin?” she jeered, going over to the table and feigning a deep interest in the views which lay ranged upon it ready for sticking in the book. “Which was it? You might as well tell a fellow, instead of being as close as Death itself. Which was it, Alma, and what’s he like? You needn’t keep it all so dark. I won’t let on.”For the life of her, Alma could not restrain the colour which came into her face. She was in a rather unamiable mood just then, as we have said, and now she felt stung to retort.“Whoever ‘he’ is, or isn’t, which is nearer the truth, I should be sorry to scrape together such a tenth-rate brigade as you seem to delight in gathering round you. And now having shown how intensely and objectionably silly you can make yourself, Constance, how would it be to start off on your walk and leave me in peace?”“Well, that is a nice way to talk to your sister, I must say, Alma,” said Mrs Wyatt, entering the room in time to hear the latter half of the above remark.“Pooh, mother. What odds!” cried Constance, maliciously. “Alma’s only mad because I chaffed her about her mysterious ‘mash.’”“My dear Connie, don’t use those vulgar words,” expostulated the mother, but in a very different tone to that employed when speaking to her elder daughter. The younger went on—“It’s a fact, mother. Alma has made a mysterious ‘mash’ while she was away. She’s as close as death about it, but I’ve drawn her at last. Don’t you see now why she can’t tear herself loose from her beloved Swiss views? All enchanted land, don’t you know.”Mrs Wyatt sniffed, and up went her virtuous nose into the air, sure prelude to the coming storm.“Ah well, my dear,” she said, in her most aggrieved and acidulated tone. “Ah well, we can’t all have uncles and aunts to think that nothing’s good enough for us, to take us frisking round the world. And I’m afraid such changes are not for everybody’s good. Apt to make them return home more dissatisfied, more discontented than ever.” And emitting another sniff, Mrs Wyatt paused and awaited the reply which she expected and ardently hoped for.But it did not come. More and more repellent to Alma did these almost daily wrangles become. The girl’s fine nature scorned and loathed them, recognising their tendency to degrade and lower the self-respect of all parties concerned; indeed, there were times when it was as much as she could do to keep herself from extending that scorn and loathing to their originator.Thus disappointed, Mrs Wyatt nagged on, saying a few of the most stinging things she could think of—stinging because unjust and untrue—to move her daughter to a reply; but still it didn’t come. At last, pushing back her chair, with a sigh Alma said—“Where do you want to go to, Constance? I suppose I may as well go with you as”—stay here to be reviled, she was nearly saying, but put it—“as not.”“All right, come along then,” was the reply. And this compliance having the effect of damming up the stream of the maternal eloquence, the two girls sallied forth.At any other time, moved by the sheer and wanton contrariety of her disposition, Constance would have declined to profit by this concession—would have delighted to stand by and deftly add fuel to the fire. To-day, however, she had a reason for acting otherwise. And as they gained the tow-path of the river that reason took definite shape—the shape of a youth.He who stood there waiting for them was a medium-sized youth of about twenty, a good-looking boy, on the whole, with dark hair and eyes of a Jewish type, but remarkable for nothing in particular, unless it was a full, free, and perfectly unaffected conceit—on which latter account Alma was inclined to dislike him; but among Constance’s galaxy of adorers he held, just then, a foremost place. He rejoiced in the name of Ernest Myers.That he was there by appointment was obvious. He was clad in flannels, and in one hand held the bow rope of a light boat which he had drawn up to the side. With a half smile, Alma understood now her sister’s disgust when she had refused to come out. She, Alma, was wanted to make a third. Well, she didn’t mind that. If it amused Constance to carry on a harmless flirtation with young Myers—for it was not likely she could think seriously of a bank clerk with an extremely limited salary—why should she baulk her? Besides, what were they but a couple of children, after all. So she was gracious to the young man, and allowed Constance to monopolise his conversation and attentions to her heart’s content, earning a subsequent encomium from her sister to the effect that when she chose she could be the very ideal of a perfect “gooseberry.”They paddled up-stream in the evening sunshine. Alma, by common consent, was voted to the tiller ropes, but as it was neither Saturday nor Sunday, and the personality of ’Arry was comparatively absent, her skill and attention were by no means overtaxed. There was nothing in the clearness of one of the four and a half fine days, which go to make up an English summer, to suggest it—and she had often handled the tiller ropes since—nothing in the green glow of the emerald meadows, or the droop of the pollard willows, to recall the furious, misty, leaden surface of a storm-lashed lake. Yet the recollection did come back to her that evening, and with unaccountable vividness, of the day when, tossing before the howling wrath of the tempest, they had given themselves up for lost. Even the varying demeanour of the different members of their boat’s crew, when thus brought face to face with death—from the cynical indifference of Fordham, to the abject, craven terror displayed by the chaplain, Scott—rose up clearly before her mind’s eye, and looking back upon it all, and upon the days that followed, she was conscious of a strangely blank feeling as of a want unsupplied.“Hallo!—By Jove! Look out! Excuse me, Miss Wyatt. But you as nearly as possible took us right bang into that boat.”It was young Myers who spoke. Upon Alma the warning was needed. In the middle of his words she had pulled her right rope only just in time. But as the boat, which they had so narrowly grazed, shot by she obtained a distinct view of its occupants. And they were two, the one a fine-looking, well-built specimen of young English manhood, who was sculling, the other a dark, handsome girl seated in the stern-sheets.The boats had passed each other, as it were, in a flash. But in that brief moment the faces of both its occupants were vividly stamped upon Alma’s vision. And that of the man was that of none other than Philip Orlebar.She had seen him, but he had not recognised her. He was bending forward talking to his companion in that airy, half-caressing, half-confidential tone that Alma knew so well. She had seen him clearly and distinctly, but he had failed to recognise her, and for this the droop of her sunshade might account.The droop of a sunshade! On such frail pivots do the fortunes of mankind turn! But for the droop of that sunshade the end of this story might, we trow, have to be written very differently.“Why, Miss Wyatt! You do look startled!” exclaimed young Myers. “We are well out of it now, though, and a miss is as good as a mile when all’s said and done. But it was a near thing.”He might well remark on her aspect. The suddenness of the interruption, the unexpectedness of the recognition, had startled every trace of colour from her face. Looking back, cautiously at first, and still under cover of the parasol, she gazed after the receding boat, now a long way astern. Yes, it was him. But who was his companion? Well he had not been slow to console himself, she thought bitterly.“How very stupid of me,” she replied. “It was, as you say, a near thing. I must not neglect my responsible duties again though.”But while the two younger members of the trio were in high spirits and laughed and chatted, and bantered each other for the rest of the time they were out, Alma was silent anddistraite. And an hour or so later when they landed at the tow-path in the dusk and bade good-bye to their escort and chief oarsman it seemed to Alma that that day had somehow drawn down a curtain across her life. For this brief glimpse of her former lover had stirred her heart with a dull and aching sense of void. She recognised now that she had been fonder of Philip Orlebar than she had chosen to admit, had, in fact, loved him. Well, it was too late now for regrets. She it was who in her scorn and bitter anger had sent him away from her, and now he had already begun to console himself.
Alma Wyatt was at home again—was once more an inmate of the much-decried semi-detached which was an exact counterpart of all the Rosebanks, and Hollybanks, and Belmonts, and Heathfields, which go to line the regulation suburban road.
The said regulation road was ankle-deep in dust—even the foliage of the trees and garden patches, which fronted each monotonous row of villas, was dried and gasping, and sprinkled with the same powdery substance. The atmosphere was of the stuffy, moist, enervating character inseparable from low-lying riverside resorts. Small wonder, then, that Alma, at home again now, should find herself drawing bitter contrasts between commonplace, cockneyfied Surbiton, and the bounteous glories of the mighty Alps—the thunder of the mountain torrent, and the cool fragrance of the shadowy pine forest; the cloudless skies and the soaring peaks; the sheeny ice-slopes, and the blue, castellated masses of theséracs, and, not least, the bracing exhilaration of the air.
“At home again! Athomeagain!”—as she kept bitterly repeating to herself. At home again, to enact the part of a butt for her mother’s nagging and ever-discontented tongue; at home again, to fall into the oldrôleof self-obliteration, to hold herself in readiness to sacrifice every inclination of her own, to devote all her time, all her energies, to the convenience of the family idol, her younger sister, and especially to look for no appreciation of, or thanks for, the same. And such is home!
How her soul sickened as she looked around on the mediocrity of it all—the flat, ditchwater circumstances of life, the stagnation, the deadly monotony. There was the same narrow round, the same bi-weekly run up to Town on shopping intent, the same local gossip and feeble attempts at entertainment, the same evening visits from the same bevy of Constance’s admirers—City youths mostly, all as like each other as the immaculacy of their collars, the sheen of their hats, the lack of expression in their countenances and the inanity of their conversation, could render them. These would redeem the time with some feeble singing and feebler wit, and evening after evening would Alma be called upon to sit it all out and endeavour to make herself agreeable. Constance on such occasions was in her element, but to the sucking Couttses and Barings and Rothschilds Alma was a stumbling-block and a wet blanket.
“Sort of garl, baai Jove, who ought to have a chappie built to her ordar, don’t cher know. Ordinary fellar not good enough,” the principal dry wag of the coterie was wont to remark.
When she had told Philip Orlebar she detested the place and everything to do with it, Alma had spoken no more than the literal truth. But if she detested it then, it strikes her now as ten times more detestable. The suburban mediocrity, the much-belauded river—a mere muddy playground for ’Arry and ’Arriet—pall upon her with nauseous monotony. Never did the hideous Cockney twang grate more offensively upon her ears, never did the obtrusive vulgarity of the low-class Briton—the most irredeemably vulgar animal in the world—revolt her sensibilities as now, when contrasted with the pleasant speech and innately refined manners of the same class of Continental peoples. Assuredly with no feeling of gladness or even contentment did Alma Wyatt return home. This may have been wrong; it was undoubtedly lamentable. But, under the circumstances, it was very natural.
We should be sorry to make oath that apart from this pardonable discontent with her most uncongenial surroundings there was not another phase of canker eating into her mind and destroying its peace. We have, elsewhere, and more than once, emphasised the fact that a certain young reprobate, hight Philip Orlebar, was one of those dangerous persons of whom the opposite sex is prone to become very fond. Now Alma’s opportunities of doing so had been exceptional and many—and, in point of fact, she had so become.
Often now, in the stagnant monotony of her home life, does that bright young face rise up before her, as she first saw it, gazing with scarcely disguised admiration upon her own, as she has so frequently, so constantly seen it since—the sunny blue eyes, with their straight, frank glance, lighting up with a world of welcoming gladness when meeting her for the first time in the day or after a few hours’ absence. She sees it, too, as she saw it in the black, driving cloud, high up on the perilous rockarêteof the Cape au Moine, anxious on her account, otherwise fearless and resolute—she sees it, as she saw it in the sinking sunshine of that same day, tender, apprehensive, as its owner hung upon the reply which her lips should frame—but, oh, so attractive! Again, she sees it as she saw it last—crushed, hopeless, despairing, and as it appears thus before her the proud, self-contained nature partially breaks down, and, being alone, she cannot repress a convulsive sob or two, and a few tears damp the handkerchief which she passes rapidly over her eyes.
Does she ever regret—repent of her haste in thus giving him hiscongé! Does it ever occur to her that she may have judged him hastily, harshly—in fact, unheard? Well, her nature is a fearfully proud, a fearfully sensitive one. Did he not put a public slight upon her, make her the laughing stock of a number of nondescript people? Yet even here she cannot further justify herself in the idea that he had merely been amusing himself at her expense. The feeling was there, warm and genuine—as to that there could be no mistake whatever. Characteristically, however, she proceeds to impale him upon the other horn of the dilemma. He had shown weakness. If that other girl had really any claim upon him, if there was really any engagement between them, he ought to have broken it off definitely and decisively before presuming to offer his affection to herself. Yes, he had been guilty of lamentable weakness—an unpardonable fault in Alma Wyatt’s eyes.
There is even more behind, however, than all this. On hearing of his accident, did she not write him a letter of condolence—a really kind letter of sympathy and interest, asking to be informed how he got on—a letter, indeed, in which it was just possible for any man not actually a born fool to “read between the lines,” affording him, with a little diplomacy, a chance of crying “Peccavi,” and eventually reinstating himself? But how had he answered it? He had not answered it at all!
No, from that day to this he had not answered it. There could be no explanation. She had learned indirectly through those who were in the same hotel at the time, that his accident, though tiresome, was not serious—never sufficiently serious to incapacitate him for writing. And she had been at Zinal long enough to have heard from him over and over again; added to which, every letter which had arrived there for her uncle and aunt, even some time after their departure, had been scrupulously forwarded and safely received. The postal arrangements could not be to blame; clearly, then, he had deliberately and of set purpose elected to take no notice of her letter.
Well, that dream was over. She felt a little hard—a little bitter. It was no easy matter to gain Alma’s good opinion, but of Philip Orlebar she had managed to become very fond—more so, in fact, than she herself had suspected at the time. And sometimes now a satirical smile would curve her lips as she reflected bitterly that after all he had certainly shown no weakness in choosing to ignore her own gracious advance, and the reflection did not tend in any degree to restore either peace or contentment to herself.
Bearing in mind Alma’s character and general temperament, it need hardly be said that concerning this, the great event of her trip abroad, she let fall neither word nor hint. She would, indeed, sometimes smile bitterly to herself as she pictured her mother’s wrath and disgust did the latter become aware that she had refused the heir to a baronetcy—a poor one certainly, but still a baronetcy. Why, life would thenceforth cease to be worth living. It would be the last straw. And for this, in her heart of hearts, she admitted that, looking at it from a strictly mundane point of view, there was some excuse. The chances matrimonial, to a girl situated as she was, were poor enough, in fact they were mainly confined to the City youths of mediocre lineage and strictly limited incomes, who constituted her sister’s sworn admirers, or a delicate handed and mustachioed curate who had for some time evinced an unmistakable partiality for herself. Still she was nothing if not characteristic. She was not going to sacrifice her clearly-formed judgment upon the altar of expediency. So she strove to dismiss Philip Orlebar from her mind, and to fall back into her old groove with what contentment she might.
That Alma did not “get on well at home” was not surprising—indeed, the wonder would have come in had things been the other way. The problematical amalgamation of oil and water was a trifle more conceivable than the existence of any cordiality or even a good understanding between herself and her mother. For the latter was not a lovable person. To start with, her brain power was of the scantiest order, her mind of the narrowest; it follows, therefore, that she was intensely, aggressively obstinate. And in the art of nagging she was a past mistress. She was one of those women to whom battle is as the air they breathe, and she had a knack of starting a fray gently, insidiously, sorrowfully even, as though marvelling herself that there should ensue any hostilities at all. Her younger daughter, Constance, then just eighteen, was an excellent replica of her in disposition—that is to say, had not a single redeeming point in her character; and,pacethe gushing philanthropist, there are such persons. But the girl, with her blue eyes and smooth skin, her golden hair and fresh complexion, was extremely pretty; and in stating this we have said all there is to be said for her; for as a set-off against these advantages she was selfish, wilful, and conceited to the last degree, as, indeed, was only natural, seeing that from her birth upward she had been thoroughly and consistently spoiled.
There were those who wondered whence Alma had inherited her fine character. Those in a position to speak—old General Wyatt for instance—declared that she had inherited all her father’s good qualities and none of her mother’s bad ones, whereas in the case of Constance the positions were exactly reversed.
“Alma, I want you to get on your hat, quick, and come along up the river,” cried Constance, bursting in upon her sister one bright summer afternoon. The latter had sought out the coolest corner of the stuffy little drawing-room, and was busily engaged in the—to her in her then frame of mind—very congenial task of sticking a number of Alpine views into an album. She had a touch of headache, and was not in the most amiable frame of mind herself. In fact the above invitation struck within her no responsive chord, and she said as much.
“Of course!” snapped the younger girl. “Isn’t that always the way! Here one has been indoors the whole day, and directly it gets cool enough to move you say you wont. Just because you know I want to. Well—well. One never can get to the bottom of the selfishness of some people.”
“Speak for yourself, Constance!” returned Alma, quickly but quietly. “Does it never strike you that I may now and then feel tired, or disinclined for exertion. And I certainly feel that way this afternoon.”
But the other’s rejoinder was a shrill, jeering, ringing laugh.
“All very well,” she cried, flinging her sailor hat into the air and catching it. “All very well. But that won’t go down with me. Can’t tear yourself away from those old Swiss photos. I know all about it. By the way, which is the place you methimin?” she jeered, going over to the table and feigning a deep interest in the views which lay ranged upon it ready for sticking in the book. “Which was it? You might as well tell a fellow, instead of being as close as Death itself. Which was it, Alma, and what’s he like? You needn’t keep it all so dark. I won’t let on.”
For the life of her, Alma could not restrain the colour which came into her face. She was in a rather unamiable mood just then, as we have said, and now she felt stung to retort.
“Whoever ‘he’ is, or isn’t, which is nearer the truth, I should be sorry to scrape together such a tenth-rate brigade as you seem to delight in gathering round you. And now having shown how intensely and objectionably silly you can make yourself, Constance, how would it be to start off on your walk and leave me in peace?”
“Well, that is a nice way to talk to your sister, I must say, Alma,” said Mrs Wyatt, entering the room in time to hear the latter half of the above remark.
“Pooh, mother. What odds!” cried Constance, maliciously. “Alma’s only mad because I chaffed her about her mysterious ‘mash.’”
“My dear Connie, don’t use those vulgar words,” expostulated the mother, but in a very different tone to that employed when speaking to her elder daughter. The younger went on—
“It’s a fact, mother. Alma has made a mysterious ‘mash’ while she was away. She’s as close as death about it, but I’ve drawn her at last. Don’t you see now why she can’t tear herself loose from her beloved Swiss views? All enchanted land, don’t you know.”
Mrs Wyatt sniffed, and up went her virtuous nose into the air, sure prelude to the coming storm.
“Ah well, my dear,” she said, in her most aggrieved and acidulated tone. “Ah well, we can’t all have uncles and aunts to think that nothing’s good enough for us, to take us frisking round the world. And I’m afraid such changes are not for everybody’s good. Apt to make them return home more dissatisfied, more discontented than ever.” And emitting another sniff, Mrs Wyatt paused and awaited the reply which she expected and ardently hoped for.
But it did not come. More and more repellent to Alma did these almost daily wrangles become. The girl’s fine nature scorned and loathed them, recognising their tendency to degrade and lower the self-respect of all parties concerned; indeed, there were times when it was as much as she could do to keep herself from extending that scorn and loathing to their originator.
Thus disappointed, Mrs Wyatt nagged on, saying a few of the most stinging things she could think of—stinging because unjust and untrue—to move her daughter to a reply; but still it didn’t come. At last, pushing back her chair, with a sigh Alma said—
“Where do you want to go to, Constance? I suppose I may as well go with you as”—stay here to be reviled, she was nearly saying, but put it—“as not.”
“All right, come along then,” was the reply. And this compliance having the effect of damming up the stream of the maternal eloquence, the two girls sallied forth.
At any other time, moved by the sheer and wanton contrariety of her disposition, Constance would have declined to profit by this concession—would have delighted to stand by and deftly add fuel to the fire. To-day, however, she had a reason for acting otherwise. And as they gained the tow-path of the river that reason took definite shape—the shape of a youth.
He who stood there waiting for them was a medium-sized youth of about twenty, a good-looking boy, on the whole, with dark hair and eyes of a Jewish type, but remarkable for nothing in particular, unless it was a full, free, and perfectly unaffected conceit—on which latter account Alma was inclined to dislike him; but among Constance’s galaxy of adorers he held, just then, a foremost place. He rejoiced in the name of Ernest Myers.
That he was there by appointment was obvious. He was clad in flannels, and in one hand held the bow rope of a light boat which he had drawn up to the side. With a half smile, Alma understood now her sister’s disgust when she had refused to come out. She, Alma, was wanted to make a third. Well, she didn’t mind that. If it amused Constance to carry on a harmless flirtation with young Myers—for it was not likely she could think seriously of a bank clerk with an extremely limited salary—why should she baulk her? Besides, what were they but a couple of children, after all. So she was gracious to the young man, and allowed Constance to monopolise his conversation and attentions to her heart’s content, earning a subsequent encomium from her sister to the effect that when she chose she could be the very ideal of a perfect “gooseberry.”
They paddled up-stream in the evening sunshine. Alma, by common consent, was voted to the tiller ropes, but as it was neither Saturday nor Sunday, and the personality of ’Arry was comparatively absent, her skill and attention were by no means overtaxed. There was nothing in the clearness of one of the four and a half fine days, which go to make up an English summer, to suggest it—and she had often handled the tiller ropes since—nothing in the green glow of the emerald meadows, or the droop of the pollard willows, to recall the furious, misty, leaden surface of a storm-lashed lake. Yet the recollection did come back to her that evening, and with unaccountable vividness, of the day when, tossing before the howling wrath of the tempest, they had given themselves up for lost. Even the varying demeanour of the different members of their boat’s crew, when thus brought face to face with death—from the cynical indifference of Fordham, to the abject, craven terror displayed by the chaplain, Scott—rose up clearly before her mind’s eye, and looking back upon it all, and upon the days that followed, she was conscious of a strangely blank feeling as of a want unsupplied.
“Hallo!—By Jove! Look out! Excuse me, Miss Wyatt. But you as nearly as possible took us right bang into that boat.”
It was young Myers who spoke. Upon Alma the warning was needed. In the middle of his words she had pulled her right rope only just in time. But as the boat, which they had so narrowly grazed, shot by she obtained a distinct view of its occupants. And they were two, the one a fine-looking, well-built specimen of young English manhood, who was sculling, the other a dark, handsome girl seated in the stern-sheets.
The boats had passed each other, as it were, in a flash. But in that brief moment the faces of both its occupants were vividly stamped upon Alma’s vision. And that of the man was that of none other than Philip Orlebar.
She had seen him, but he had not recognised her. He was bending forward talking to his companion in that airy, half-caressing, half-confidential tone that Alma knew so well. She had seen him clearly and distinctly, but he had failed to recognise her, and for this the droop of her sunshade might account.
The droop of a sunshade! On such frail pivots do the fortunes of mankind turn! But for the droop of that sunshade the end of this story might, we trow, have to be written very differently.
“Why, Miss Wyatt! You do look startled!” exclaimed young Myers. “We are well out of it now, though, and a miss is as good as a mile when all’s said and done. But it was a near thing.”
He might well remark on her aspect. The suddenness of the interruption, the unexpectedness of the recognition, had startled every trace of colour from her face. Looking back, cautiously at first, and still under cover of the parasol, she gazed after the receding boat, now a long way astern. Yes, it was him. But who was his companion? Well he had not been slow to console himself, she thought bitterly.
“How very stupid of me,” she replied. “It was, as you say, a near thing. I must not neglect my responsible duties again though.”
But while the two younger members of the trio were in high spirits and laughed and chatted, and bantered each other for the rest of the time they were out, Alma was silent anddistraite. And an hour or so later when they landed at the tow-path in the dusk and bade good-bye to their escort and chief oarsman it seemed to Alma that that day had somehow drawn down a curtain across her life. For this brief glimpse of her former lover had stirred her heart with a dull and aching sense of void. She recognised now that she had been fonder of Philip Orlebar than she had chosen to admit, had, in fact, loved him. Well, it was too late now for regrets. She it was who in her scorn and bitter anger had sent him away from her, and now he had already begun to console himself.
Chapter Twenty Eight.”...For His House an Irredeemable Woe.”“Well, Francis, and what do you think of that idle, good-for-nothing boy of yours now? He seems in no great hurry to come and see his father—in rather less of a hurry than his father was to go and see him.”Thus Lady Orlebar one evening as she sat at dinner with her husband some few weeks after we last saw them together. There was just sufficient point in the ill-conditioned and therefore characteristic sneer to give it effect. Nearly a month had gone by since Philip’s return from the Continent, but somehow he had not found time to pay his father a visit. He was still in Wales, still staying with Mrs Daventer, where he had been ever since his return aforesaid.“He seems tolerably happy where he is,” went on Lady Orlebar, maliciously, having failed to provoke a reply. “Of course there is a girl in the case, and that with one of Philip’s temperament can lead to but one result. So make up your mind to hear by any post that you are endowed with a daughter-in-law of the least desirable kind.”Still Sir Francis made no reply. He was, in fact, very sore, very hurt, by Philip’s want of consideration, and his wife’s gibing sneers were probing the wound. This she failed not to see, and, seeing, enjoyed thoroughly, after the manner of her kind.“Failing the daughter-in-law I prophesy the outcome will be an action for breach of promise,” she went on, characteristically eager to provoke a battle of words in order to enjoy the triumph of crushingly defeating the enemy. “Philip is just the sort who is sent into the world to constitute an easy prey for rogues and adventuresses. The boy is simply a born fool.”Dinner was over, and the servants had withdrawn. The dessert was on the table—had been for some time—and Sir Francis was wistfully wondering how long it would be before his wife thought fit to follow the example of the servants. Just then a footman entered bearing some letters on a salver. The evening post had arrived.Welcoming any diversion, Sir Francis proceeded to open his. But at sight of the contents of one of them, his face changed, and an exclamation escaped him. His wife looked quickly up, then without a moment’s hesitation she stretched forth her hand and seized the letter, which in his first bewilderment he had let fall upon the table. A harsh, sneering laugh escaped her as she ran her eye down the contents, and then proceeded to read them aloud:—“Capias Chambers, Golden Fleece Lane, E.C.“September 23, 188-.“GloverversusOrlebar.“Dear Sir,—Instructed by our client, Miss Edith Glover, we have written to your son, Mr Philip Orlebar, claiming from him the sum of 10,000 (ten thousand) pounds damages by reason of non-fulfilment of his promise to marry our aforesaid client.“Up till now we have received no reply; but we think it may be in the interest of the young gentleman himself that you should be made aware of this claim against him.“Trusting that by adopting this course further steps may be rendered unnecessary—“We are, dear Sir,“Yours faithfully,“Swindell and Shears.“To Sir Francis Orlebar, Bart.,“Claxby Court, Rushtonborough.”“Ha-ha! Didn’t I say so?” she cried. “And scarcely are the words out of my mouth than here it is—an action for breach of promise! Well, and what are you going to do now, Francis?”“Nothing. Take no notice of it whatever. The thing is a mere attempt at a swindle—a clumsy, impudent swindle. I sha’n’t give it another moment’s thought.”Easily said—far less easily done, especially by a nervous highly strung temperament such as that of the speaker.“But who is this person?” went on Lady Orlebar, again scanning the letter. “The people he is with now are named Daventer—not Glover. Do you know who it can be?”“Honestly, I don’t. To the best of my belief I never heard the name before in my life. All the more does it look like a try-on—an impudent and barefaced try-on. On second thoughts, however, I’ll send it up to Stretton in the morning, and tell him to see if he can make anything out of it, or to act as he thinks fit. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”“Why don’t you send for Philip himself and make him explain. It appears to me that he would be the proper person to throw what light he could upon the matter.”“Oh, it’s of no use worrying the boy. He may be here any day now. It’ll be time enough then.”Lady Orlebar gave a snort of defiance. The above remark was as a direct challenge to her to renew the battle. But her husband looked so anxious, so worried himself, that even she forebore, for once, to worry him further.There was silence in the room. Sir Francis sat abstractedly gazing upon the table in front of him—in reality seeing nothing at all. His whole mind was filled up with this scrape that his son had got into. It was not the amount of the claim that affected him—on that point he felt fairly secure. Philip was of age, but had not a shilling in the world of his own; out of him, therefore, nothing could be got. But that his name should once more be dragged through the mud, and that at the instance of a harpy, an adventuress, this was where the sting of it all lay. “Once more,” we said. For Sir Francis had very good reasons of his own for avoiding anything that should drag his name into notoriety.So unpleasantly absorbing were his reflections, so rapt was he in his reverie, that the entrance of the butler was wholly unnoticed. Not until the man had twice drawn his attention to the card which lay upon a salver did he awake from his abstraction, and then it was with a start, for the card was inscribed—“Mr Richard Fordham.”Fordham!—Phil’s friend, whom he had more than once pressingly invited to make a stay at Claxby Court, which invitation had persistently been declined upon one ground or another. Fordham—the man who had been Philip’s travelling companion, guide, philosopher, and friend during the past year. Surely if any one knew anything of this unfortunate affair, Fordham was the man. True, it would have struck him at any other time that to arrive after dinner unannounced and unexpected was somewhat of an odd proceeding, but Phil had always described his friend as an out-and-out eccentricity. Besides, his visit might relate to this very affair. The baronet saw light. “Where is this gentleman, Karslake?” he said eagerly. “I showed him into the library, Sir Francis. He said he would not detain you long, and his fly is waiting for him at the door.”The library was lighted only by one shaded lamp in the centre of the table; consequently it was in semi-gloom. The visitor was seated in a low chair with his back to the door, and Sir Francis on entering hardly perceived him. Then, closing the door behind him and giving a slight cough, the baronet began—“Mr Fordham, I believe—Garcia! Oh, good God!”And then, with a low cry of amazement and horror, he stopped short, staggered back a pace or two, and stood gazing helplessly at his visitor.For the latter, as soon as he heard the door close, had risen and wheeled round rapidly to face the other. Now, as he stood there, the light full upon him, the saturnine features wreathed into a smile that was more than half a sneer; the look of triumphant malice upon that dark countenance was positively satanic.“The name on the card was Fordham,” said Sir Francis, vacantly. “I recognised it as that of my son’s friend. What does it all mean?”“It means this, Francis Orlebar. Your son’s friend of to-day, hight Fordham, is the same individual as your friend of years ago, hight Garcia. Are you beginning to see?”The question was scarcely needed. As the whole truth burst in upon him that this man, whose ruthless hate he had incurred—not wrongfully either—long years ago, had been his son’s confidant and constant travelling companion now, the look of horror and repulsion upon the baronet’s countenance was in itself sufficient answer.“You do!” went on the other. “Quite so—I knew you would. And now you are wondering what on earth was my object in constituting myself guide, philosopher, and friend to your son, for no man can be more certain than yourself that that object was not likely to be to Philip’s advantage. Do you follow me?”“I do. But Garcia, though I wronged you—wronged you unpardonably, I admit—years ago, you would surely not extend your rancour, just as that may be as regards myself—your revengeful bitterness—to an innocent boy—one who is incapable of harming anybody. Surely even you would stop short at this. We are both comparatively near the end of our lives—his is all before him. Surely even you would shrink from doing anything to poison that life.”“Did you shrink from poisoning mine, Francis Orlebar? Still, upon my soul, I believe you were more sinned against than sinning. I almost think, if it concerned you alone, I would have let it pass. But in striking you I shall equally well strike her—that she-devil. I had almost decided to bury the whole affair, but I could not let her escape. She should supply the weapon—the weapon I wanted. I forced her to be the instrument of revenge upon herself equally as upon you. That sort of revenge was too appetising, too wholly unique, to be thrown away.”Never a strong man at any time, when he was unnerved Sir Francis was as weak as water. He was now thoroughly unnerved. His face was as white as death and his voice shook.“Man—man!” he gasped, “what are you driving at? What have you done? Speak out—or are you too great a coward?”But Fordham only smiled—the same cruel, satanic smile, which consisted of little else than the droop of the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying the other’s anguished suspense—gloating over these mental writhings—as he had come there intending to do. But before he could frame an answer, an interruption occurred. The door opened suddenly, and there entered no less a personage than Lady Orlebar.The fact was, she reckoned the time had come for her to bear her share in the interview. There should be no mysteries apart from her cognisance in that house, while she was in it. So allowing sufficient time to float them into the swing of the discussion, she had swooped down upon them, suddenly, decisively, as was her wont. But disappointment awaited. Beyond a stiff bow, Fordham’s attitude underwent no change—nor did he utter a single word. He stood, unmistakably, ostentatiously, waiting for her to go out again.But this she had no intention of doing. One glance at her husband satisfied her that a stronger spirit was needed to cope with the man before her.“Sir Francis has not been very well lately,” she began, looking at Fordham. “He is anything but strong, and this news about his son has sadly upset him.”It was Fordham’s turn to look astonished. To what news did she allude? He himself had certainly not imparted any—not yet.“Of course it is a very tiresome and disconcerting thing,” she went on, “although likely to prove all sheet-and-turnip—for one can hardly believe it genuine or likely to stand the test of a court of law.”“I hope you may not be mistaken in that last surmise,” remarked Fordham grimly, and in a tone which implied that he very much hoped she might. They were at cross purposes.“Well, it’s an annoying thing, anyway. Who are these Glovers, Mr Fordham, and how did Philip manage to get into their clutches? Of course you know they have brought an action for breach of promise against him?”“I didn’t. I know, however, that they threatened to. In fact, I was instrumental in rescuing him from their clutches. They are an underbred lot, anyway.”“I thought so?” cried Lady Orlebar eagerly, while Sir Francis started, and stared bewildered at his visitor. If the latter had stood Philip’s friend in this affair surely he had no intention of injuring him. But this world is one of cruel contrasts.“I am surprised you have heard nothing of this, Mr Fordham,” she went on. “We thought it was upon this subject that you had done us the favour to call. May I ask, then—what is the nature of your business with Sir Francis?”If Fordham was inwardly bursting with sardonic mirth, he was not going to show it. The unbounded impudence of the woman, practically asking him what the devil he wanted there at all—and expecting he was going to tell her—struck him as the richest thing he had heard for a very long time.“Pardon me, Lady Orlebar, if I seem rude,” he answered, shortly; “but the nature of my business happens to concern Sir Francis alone. We had only just begun to enter upon it when you came in; but if Sir Francis is not equal to hearing my communication to-night I shall be happy to call again in the morning, or in a day or two.”But Sir Francis was equal—very much so. The suspense he was undergoing was far too real—sickening in fact. So he turned upon his spouse with an energy that astonished that now irate personage.“I think, my dear, you had perhaps better leave us. Our business is private and important—in fact, very important.” And going over to the door he held it open for her in such wise as to leave her no alternative.“Very well, Sir Francis,” she spluttered, fairly beside herself with rage. “I am turned out of the room, mind, and by you! Very well. But I have no wish to hear your secrets. They are sure to be of a discreditable nature, anyhow.”With this parting shot she disappeared. Fordham, looking after her, slightly shook his head, and reflected that if he had thought to chastise his old enemy with whips, assuredly Fate had elected to do so with scorpions. Anybody under the heel of such a woman as this, had about come to the bottom of the cup of misfortune. Surely he had nothing worse left to fear.“And now that we are alone,” said Sir Francis, coming back from the door which he had closed after his wife, “perhaps you will er—enlighten me as to the nature of this communication.”He looked so unstrung, so worn, so piteous in his agony of suspense, that even a ray of ruth may have entered the heart of his implacable enemy. But if so, it was quickly quenched.“Did it never strike you as odd?” said the latter, “that Philip should have been back all these weeks, and yet not have thought it worth his while running over to see you?”Just what his wife had said. Sir Francis felt his apprehensions deepening; but he made no reply. Perhaps he could not.“Well, he is more attractively employed, at any rate—for the time being,” emphasised Fordham. “In proof whereof—look at this.”He produced a telegram from his pocket; deliberately unfolded it, then handed it to the other. Sir Francis’ face grew deathly white as he read it, and he gave a sort of gasp. He could only stare at the paper, then at Fordham, then at the paper again.Thus ran the latter:—“Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap. Phil.”“Is this a practical joke of yours?” gasped the baronet at length, as soon as he could find words.“By no means. It is just as I received it. Look at the date of the office stamp—the 22nd. It was yesterday the affair came off. I only returned this morning from a few days’ absence, and found the wire awaiting me in my quarters. Yet it is news to you. Very inconsiderate on Phil’s part, I must say. He might have let you know.”“Who—what—are these people—these Daventers?”“Well, the young lady is his social equal, at all events, as you will probably be the first to admit,” answered Fordham, the cruel sneer deepening on his countenance. All the satanic ruthlessness of his implacable rancour had returned. He was pouring out the very life blood of his enemy now. All thoughts of pity, of compunction, had passed away.“On her mother’s side the girl is undoubtedly his social equal,” he continued. “On that of her father—well, you must be the best judge.”“I!” echoed Sir Francis, wonderingly. “Who, then, is her father?”Fordham gazed full at him for a moment. Then his lips framed in a whisper one single word. And, hearing it, Sir Francis dropped back into his chair, his eyes staring, his face white as with the dews of death, shaking in every limb.“Look well at the date of this,” pursued his relentless tormentor, holding out the telegram. “September 22nd. And this is the twenty-third. They have been married more than twenty-four hours. By the time you can communicate with them it will be forty-eight.”But the unhappy man could articulate no word. The faculty of speech seemed to have left him. He saw it all now—saw the whole plot in all its diabolical horror.“I told you once that my vengeance would follow you to the very grave,” went on Fordham. “Did you think because it had slept for years that therefore it was dead? Now you had better wire for Philip the first thing in the morning, for it will be too late to-night. And when he comes give him this. It will save you the trouble of explaining.”He threw down what looked like a bulky letter carefully sealed and directed. Mechanically Sir Francis clutched it, but of any further reply he seemed incapable. Had his reason given way beneath the shock? It almost looked like it. Then with one more glance at his stricken enemy—a glance burning with hate, and long cherished rancour, and sated vengeance—Fordham left the room—and the house.
“Well, Francis, and what do you think of that idle, good-for-nothing boy of yours now? He seems in no great hurry to come and see his father—in rather less of a hurry than his father was to go and see him.”
Thus Lady Orlebar one evening as she sat at dinner with her husband some few weeks after we last saw them together. There was just sufficient point in the ill-conditioned and therefore characteristic sneer to give it effect. Nearly a month had gone by since Philip’s return from the Continent, but somehow he had not found time to pay his father a visit. He was still in Wales, still staying with Mrs Daventer, where he had been ever since his return aforesaid.
“He seems tolerably happy where he is,” went on Lady Orlebar, maliciously, having failed to provoke a reply. “Of course there is a girl in the case, and that with one of Philip’s temperament can lead to but one result. So make up your mind to hear by any post that you are endowed with a daughter-in-law of the least desirable kind.”
Still Sir Francis made no reply. He was, in fact, very sore, very hurt, by Philip’s want of consideration, and his wife’s gibing sneers were probing the wound. This she failed not to see, and, seeing, enjoyed thoroughly, after the manner of her kind.
“Failing the daughter-in-law I prophesy the outcome will be an action for breach of promise,” she went on, characteristically eager to provoke a battle of words in order to enjoy the triumph of crushingly defeating the enemy. “Philip is just the sort who is sent into the world to constitute an easy prey for rogues and adventuresses. The boy is simply a born fool.”
Dinner was over, and the servants had withdrawn. The dessert was on the table—had been for some time—and Sir Francis was wistfully wondering how long it would be before his wife thought fit to follow the example of the servants. Just then a footman entered bearing some letters on a salver. The evening post had arrived.
Welcoming any diversion, Sir Francis proceeded to open his. But at sight of the contents of one of them, his face changed, and an exclamation escaped him. His wife looked quickly up, then without a moment’s hesitation she stretched forth her hand and seized the letter, which in his first bewilderment he had let fall upon the table. A harsh, sneering laugh escaped her as she ran her eye down the contents, and then proceeded to read them aloud:—
“Capias Chambers, Golden Fleece Lane, E.C.“September 23, 188-.“GloverversusOrlebar.“Dear Sir,—Instructed by our client, Miss Edith Glover, we have written to your son, Mr Philip Orlebar, claiming from him the sum of 10,000 (ten thousand) pounds damages by reason of non-fulfilment of his promise to marry our aforesaid client.“Up till now we have received no reply; but we think it may be in the interest of the young gentleman himself that you should be made aware of this claim against him.“Trusting that by adopting this course further steps may be rendered unnecessary—“We are, dear Sir,“Yours faithfully,“Swindell and Shears.“To Sir Francis Orlebar, Bart.,“Claxby Court, Rushtonborough.”
“Capias Chambers, Golden Fleece Lane, E.C.
“September 23, 188-.
“GloverversusOrlebar.
“Dear Sir,—Instructed by our client, Miss Edith Glover, we have written to your son, Mr Philip Orlebar, claiming from him the sum of 10,000 (ten thousand) pounds damages by reason of non-fulfilment of his promise to marry our aforesaid client.
“Up till now we have received no reply; but we think it may be in the interest of the young gentleman himself that you should be made aware of this claim against him.
“Trusting that by adopting this course further steps may be rendered unnecessary—
“We are, dear Sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“Swindell and Shears.
“To Sir Francis Orlebar, Bart.,
“Claxby Court, Rushtonborough.”
“Ha-ha! Didn’t I say so?” she cried. “And scarcely are the words out of my mouth than here it is—an action for breach of promise! Well, and what are you going to do now, Francis?”
“Nothing. Take no notice of it whatever. The thing is a mere attempt at a swindle—a clumsy, impudent swindle. I sha’n’t give it another moment’s thought.”
Easily said—far less easily done, especially by a nervous highly strung temperament such as that of the speaker.
“But who is this person?” went on Lady Orlebar, again scanning the letter. “The people he is with now are named Daventer—not Glover. Do you know who it can be?”
“Honestly, I don’t. To the best of my belief I never heard the name before in my life. All the more does it look like a try-on—an impudent and barefaced try-on. On second thoughts, however, I’ll send it up to Stretton in the morning, and tell him to see if he can make anything out of it, or to act as he thinks fit. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Why don’t you send for Philip himself and make him explain. It appears to me that he would be the proper person to throw what light he could upon the matter.”
“Oh, it’s of no use worrying the boy. He may be here any day now. It’ll be time enough then.”
Lady Orlebar gave a snort of defiance. The above remark was as a direct challenge to her to renew the battle. But her husband looked so anxious, so worried himself, that even she forebore, for once, to worry him further.
There was silence in the room. Sir Francis sat abstractedly gazing upon the table in front of him—in reality seeing nothing at all. His whole mind was filled up with this scrape that his son had got into. It was not the amount of the claim that affected him—on that point he felt fairly secure. Philip was of age, but had not a shilling in the world of his own; out of him, therefore, nothing could be got. But that his name should once more be dragged through the mud, and that at the instance of a harpy, an adventuress, this was where the sting of it all lay. “Once more,” we said. For Sir Francis had very good reasons of his own for avoiding anything that should drag his name into notoriety.
So unpleasantly absorbing were his reflections, so rapt was he in his reverie, that the entrance of the butler was wholly unnoticed. Not until the man had twice drawn his attention to the card which lay upon a salver did he awake from his abstraction, and then it was with a start, for the card was inscribed—“Mr Richard Fordham.”
Fordham!—Phil’s friend, whom he had more than once pressingly invited to make a stay at Claxby Court, which invitation had persistently been declined upon one ground or another. Fordham—the man who had been Philip’s travelling companion, guide, philosopher, and friend during the past year. Surely if any one knew anything of this unfortunate affair, Fordham was the man. True, it would have struck him at any other time that to arrive after dinner unannounced and unexpected was somewhat of an odd proceeding, but Phil had always described his friend as an out-and-out eccentricity. Besides, his visit might relate to this very affair. The baronet saw light. “Where is this gentleman, Karslake?” he said eagerly. “I showed him into the library, Sir Francis. He said he would not detain you long, and his fly is waiting for him at the door.”
The library was lighted only by one shaded lamp in the centre of the table; consequently it was in semi-gloom. The visitor was seated in a low chair with his back to the door, and Sir Francis on entering hardly perceived him. Then, closing the door behind him and giving a slight cough, the baronet began—
“Mr Fordham, I believe—Garcia! Oh, good God!”
And then, with a low cry of amazement and horror, he stopped short, staggered back a pace or two, and stood gazing helplessly at his visitor.
For the latter, as soon as he heard the door close, had risen and wheeled round rapidly to face the other. Now, as he stood there, the light full upon him, the saturnine features wreathed into a smile that was more than half a sneer; the look of triumphant malice upon that dark countenance was positively satanic.
“The name on the card was Fordham,” said Sir Francis, vacantly. “I recognised it as that of my son’s friend. What does it all mean?”
“It means this, Francis Orlebar. Your son’s friend of to-day, hight Fordham, is the same individual as your friend of years ago, hight Garcia. Are you beginning to see?”
The question was scarcely needed. As the whole truth burst in upon him that this man, whose ruthless hate he had incurred—not wrongfully either—long years ago, had been his son’s confidant and constant travelling companion now, the look of horror and repulsion upon the baronet’s countenance was in itself sufficient answer.
“You do!” went on the other. “Quite so—I knew you would. And now you are wondering what on earth was my object in constituting myself guide, philosopher, and friend to your son, for no man can be more certain than yourself that that object was not likely to be to Philip’s advantage. Do you follow me?”
“I do. But Garcia, though I wronged you—wronged you unpardonably, I admit—years ago, you would surely not extend your rancour, just as that may be as regards myself—your revengeful bitterness—to an innocent boy—one who is incapable of harming anybody. Surely even you would stop short at this. We are both comparatively near the end of our lives—his is all before him. Surely even you would shrink from doing anything to poison that life.”
“Did you shrink from poisoning mine, Francis Orlebar? Still, upon my soul, I believe you were more sinned against than sinning. I almost think, if it concerned you alone, I would have let it pass. But in striking you I shall equally well strike her—that she-devil. I had almost decided to bury the whole affair, but I could not let her escape. She should supply the weapon—the weapon I wanted. I forced her to be the instrument of revenge upon herself equally as upon you. That sort of revenge was too appetising, too wholly unique, to be thrown away.”
Never a strong man at any time, when he was unnerved Sir Francis was as weak as water. He was now thoroughly unnerved. His face was as white as death and his voice shook.
“Man—man!” he gasped, “what are you driving at? What have you done? Speak out—or are you too great a coward?”
But Fordham only smiled—the same cruel, satanic smile, which consisted of little else than the droop of the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying the other’s anguished suspense—gloating over these mental writhings—as he had come there intending to do. But before he could frame an answer, an interruption occurred. The door opened suddenly, and there entered no less a personage than Lady Orlebar.
The fact was, she reckoned the time had come for her to bear her share in the interview. There should be no mysteries apart from her cognisance in that house, while she was in it. So allowing sufficient time to float them into the swing of the discussion, she had swooped down upon them, suddenly, decisively, as was her wont. But disappointment awaited. Beyond a stiff bow, Fordham’s attitude underwent no change—nor did he utter a single word. He stood, unmistakably, ostentatiously, waiting for her to go out again.
But this she had no intention of doing. One glance at her husband satisfied her that a stronger spirit was needed to cope with the man before her.
“Sir Francis has not been very well lately,” she began, looking at Fordham. “He is anything but strong, and this news about his son has sadly upset him.”
It was Fordham’s turn to look astonished. To what news did she allude? He himself had certainly not imparted any—not yet.
“Of course it is a very tiresome and disconcerting thing,” she went on, “although likely to prove all sheet-and-turnip—for one can hardly believe it genuine or likely to stand the test of a court of law.”
“I hope you may not be mistaken in that last surmise,” remarked Fordham grimly, and in a tone which implied that he very much hoped she might. They were at cross purposes.
“Well, it’s an annoying thing, anyway. Who are these Glovers, Mr Fordham, and how did Philip manage to get into their clutches? Of course you know they have brought an action for breach of promise against him?”
“I didn’t. I know, however, that they threatened to. In fact, I was instrumental in rescuing him from their clutches. They are an underbred lot, anyway.”
“I thought so?” cried Lady Orlebar eagerly, while Sir Francis started, and stared bewildered at his visitor. If the latter had stood Philip’s friend in this affair surely he had no intention of injuring him. But this world is one of cruel contrasts.
“I am surprised you have heard nothing of this, Mr Fordham,” she went on. “We thought it was upon this subject that you had done us the favour to call. May I ask, then—what is the nature of your business with Sir Francis?”
If Fordham was inwardly bursting with sardonic mirth, he was not going to show it. The unbounded impudence of the woman, practically asking him what the devil he wanted there at all—and expecting he was going to tell her—struck him as the richest thing he had heard for a very long time.
“Pardon me, Lady Orlebar, if I seem rude,” he answered, shortly; “but the nature of my business happens to concern Sir Francis alone. We had only just begun to enter upon it when you came in; but if Sir Francis is not equal to hearing my communication to-night I shall be happy to call again in the morning, or in a day or two.”
But Sir Francis was equal—very much so. The suspense he was undergoing was far too real—sickening in fact. So he turned upon his spouse with an energy that astonished that now irate personage.
“I think, my dear, you had perhaps better leave us. Our business is private and important—in fact, very important.” And going over to the door he held it open for her in such wise as to leave her no alternative.
“Very well, Sir Francis,” she spluttered, fairly beside herself with rage. “I am turned out of the room, mind, and by you! Very well. But I have no wish to hear your secrets. They are sure to be of a discreditable nature, anyhow.”
With this parting shot she disappeared. Fordham, looking after her, slightly shook his head, and reflected that if he had thought to chastise his old enemy with whips, assuredly Fate had elected to do so with scorpions. Anybody under the heel of such a woman as this, had about come to the bottom of the cup of misfortune. Surely he had nothing worse left to fear.
“And now that we are alone,” said Sir Francis, coming back from the door which he had closed after his wife, “perhaps you will er—enlighten me as to the nature of this communication.”
He looked so unstrung, so worn, so piteous in his agony of suspense, that even a ray of ruth may have entered the heart of his implacable enemy. But if so, it was quickly quenched.
“Did it never strike you as odd?” said the latter, “that Philip should have been back all these weeks, and yet not have thought it worth his while running over to see you?”
Just what his wife had said. Sir Francis felt his apprehensions deepening; but he made no reply. Perhaps he could not.
“Well, he is more attractively employed, at any rate—for the time being,” emphasised Fordham. “In proof whereof—look at this.”
He produced a telegram from his pocket; deliberately unfolded it, then handed it to the other. Sir Francis’ face grew deathly white as he read it, and he gave a sort of gasp. He could only stare at the paper, then at Fordham, then at the paper again.
Thus ran the latter:—
“Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap. Phil.”
“Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap. Phil.”
“Is this a practical joke of yours?” gasped the baronet at length, as soon as he could find words.
“By no means. It is just as I received it. Look at the date of the office stamp—the 22nd. It was yesterday the affair came off. I only returned this morning from a few days’ absence, and found the wire awaiting me in my quarters. Yet it is news to you. Very inconsiderate on Phil’s part, I must say. He might have let you know.”
“Who—what—are these people—these Daventers?”
“Well, the young lady is his social equal, at all events, as you will probably be the first to admit,” answered Fordham, the cruel sneer deepening on his countenance. All the satanic ruthlessness of his implacable rancour had returned. He was pouring out the very life blood of his enemy now. All thoughts of pity, of compunction, had passed away.
“On her mother’s side the girl is undoubtedly his social equal,” he continued. “On that of her father—well, you must be the best judge.”
“I!” echoed Sir Francis, wonderingly. “Who, then, is her father?”
Fordham gazed full at him for a moment. Then his lips framed in a whisper one single word. And, hearing it, Sir Francis dropped back into his chair, his eyes staring, his face white as with the dews of death, shaking in every limb.
“Look well at the date of this,” pursued his relentless tormentor, holding out the telegram. “September 22nd. And this is the twenty-third. They have been married more than twenty-four hours. By the time you can communicate with them it will be forty-eight.”
But the unhappy man could articulate no word. The faculty of speech seemed to have left him. He saw it all now—saw the whole plot in all its diabolical horror.
“I told you once that my vengeance would follow you to the very grave,” went on Fordham. “Did you think because it had slept for years that therefore it was dead? Now you had better wire for Philip the first thing in the morning, for it will be too late to-night. And when he comes give him this. It will save you the trouble of explaining.”
He threw down what looked like a bulky letter carefully sealed and directed. Mechanically Sir Francis clutched it, but of any further reply he seemed incapable. Had his reason given way beneath the shock? It almost looked like it. Then with one more glance at his stricken enemy—a glance burning with hate, and long cherished rancour, and sated vengeance—Fordham left the room—and the house.
Chapter Twenty Nine.“The Sins of the Fathers.”The telegram which Fordham had shown Sir Francis told no more than the truth. Philip had riveted about himself that chain which only death can break. He and Laura Daventer were married.How had it come about—the haste, the secrecy, too? Well, it was all very simple. Given one of Philip Orlebar’s temperament—given three or four weeks of close and daily companionship with a very attractive girl deadly in earnest in her designs upon him; given the accessories of a highly amiable and accommodating mother; of glorious summer weather; of cool rambles beneath shaded rocks, and strollsà deuxon the moonlit beach—given all these things, we say, and small wonder is it that Philip’s susceptible heart—then very much at the rebound—should be triumphantly captured, and with it his hand.Laura had played her cards well—had played them with a consummate coolness beyond her years. She had determined to win him, almost from the very first, yet she would rather risk failure than show herself over-eager to grasp success. Hence she had nipped his too premature declaration in the bud on that last occasion when we saw them together at Zermatt. She had even done this again with equal judiciousness—her point being that he should never think he was going to have an easy walk over—then had as suddenly capitulated, so sweetly, so entrancingly, as to bind him to her there and then with tenfold ardour.In all of this she had been most skilfully and efficiently abetted by her mother. However reluctant the latter had been when the scheme was first propounded to her, the pendulum had now swung round the other way. It would be altogether to Laura’s advantage, and nothing need ever be known. The girl herself was in complete ignorance, and as for the Mephistophelian originator of the idea, it was not likely that he would disclose the secret. Perhaps, after all, she had judged him too harshly. Perhaps he had really been moved to plan out this in Laura’s interest and, at the same time, to enjoy the sport of, in a measure, turning the tables on his old enemy. And then, again, her mind would be shaken by a great disquietude, or more than misgiving. For if ever she could commit herself to a grave mistake, it would be when she should credit Fordham with motives and intentions otherwise than entirely evil—in his dealings with her and hers that is. Still she would not abandon her share in the plot—in the first place she dared not—in the next she lacked inclination. And meanwhile matters had gone too far.Clever, scheming, as she was, to do her justice, Laura’s whole heart was in the plan. In progress of her manoeuvring she had conceived a great affection for this bright, open-hearted admirer of hers; an affection which was destined to blaze forth into a burning, deep-rooted, lifelong passion. And the motor which should work this transformation was very near at hand. Even then she stood on the verge of its shadow. But—Heaven help her when it should enshroud her entirely—for then might she sit down and cast ashes upon her head, and think no more of life.Even in that brief, fleeting hour of her triumph—of her happiness—there was always one misgiving which, like the skeleton at the feast, would never be entirely banished. A heart caught at the rebound may constitute an easy capture, but it is doubtful whether it constitutes a safe one. And that her capture was of this nature Laura was fully aware. Given one of Philip’s expansive, sympathy-craving temperament, it was impossible she could have been otherwise. Indeed, it was very much the knowledge of this that constituted the trump card in her far from unfavourable hand; and it was a far from unfavourable one, for Laura Daventer could be very winning, very sympathetic, in short, very dangerously attractive when she chose.They had travelled home to England together, and during the tediousness and worry of a long journey—no small test of patience and temper—Laura had shown at her best; helpful, ready, unselfish. They had spent three or four days in London together, and Philip had found her a delightful companion; and while Mrs Daventer rested or shopped, they two would go off upon a long day’s expedition—mostly up the river—returning in the best of spirits, and more wrapped up in each other than ever. It was a bright and happy time—an idyllic time—and there seemed no reason why it should not last. Yet, deep down in her heart, Laura was conscious of that gnawing, cankering misgiving. Without underrating her own charms—her own powers of attractiveness—she instinctively felt that one glance from Alma Wyatt’s great grey eyes would suffice to scatter her own fair house of cards to the four winds of heaven. “On revient toujours,” etc, may be, and in fact is, a saw of doubtful, not to say baseless, foundation, but this last experience of the volatile Phil’s was of far too recent occurrence, she decided. The wound could not actually be healed in so short a time; but, given a fair field, under her own soft and sympathetic hand, it eventually should be.Once they had got him safe home, Laura breathed more freely. In or around the quiet and somewhat remote little Welsh seaport the prospects of any chance meeting with Alma Wyatt seemed so minute as to be practically non-existent. Ynys-cwm-barweg was not much of a place in the matter of attractions; but given cloudless summer weather, bracing sea air, and unbounded freedom, to two young people in love with each other such a place is apt to become a very Eden.The rest was easy. To a clever woman like Mrs Daventer, the process of “drawing” the ingenuous Philip was the merest child’s play. Before he had been a week her guest, she knew all about him and his family—its circumstances, idiosyncrasies, and surroundings—as well as he did himself. The chances seemed good enough. Laura should marry him, and eventually become Lady Orlebar. Then the irony of the situation would be complete, but they two would never know.That a chain is no stronger than its weakest link is proverbial. Clever as she was, as success attended her shrewdness and manoeuvring, Mrs Daventer closed her eyes more and more to one point. The scheme had been one of Fordham’s originating—could it therefore have for its object anybody’s good? Yet so promising did everything look that, woman-like, she almost began to believe she had originated it herself, and so thoroughly was she acting upon this idea that it became unnecessary for the real author to apply from time to time a refreshing spur, which, being the skilful tactician that he was, he forebore to do.But if her astuteness failed her as to thebonâ fidesof the plan, in the execution of the same she showed skill and generalship. She read Philip’s character like a book. If Laura was to marry him, it must be now. Once away, once at home again, absence, family influences, possibly unforeseen circumstances, such as counter-attractions, would do their work. Once away, it would be—never. Wherein she was most probably right.Never did sheep walk so confidingly to the slaughter, never did condemned so readily place the noose around his own neck. What Mrs Daventer was cudgelling her wits to bring about Philip himself shortly suggested. Then came some exquisite card-playing. She was horrified. He must never suggest such a thing again. Great Heavens, the boy must be mad! Of course he must do everythingen règleand in a proper way, and the first step in that direction was of course to consult his family. Why, what would be said? Of course that they had led him into it—entrapped him. No, she would not hear of anything of the kind.Whereat the guileless Phil had laughed inordinately. Led him into it! That was a good joke, and he even thought of retailing for Mrs Daventer’s amusement Fordham’s characteristic parting words—“You’re walking into the trap with your eyes open, Phil, my boy. Don’t come to me to get you out of it, that’s all, for I won’t. I wash my hands of you. You’re hopeless.”Now Fordham, we need hardly say, was perfectly aware that this warning would have precisely the same effect upon Philip as endeavouring to pull back a pig by the tail has upon that homely and generally useful quadruped—that of strengthening the spirit of opposition, to wit.Quem Deus vult perdere. It is just possible that some similar idea as that which had carried conviction to Mrs Daventer ran through Philip’s mind. He feared opposition in delay—knowing his own weakness, he may have feared for the result. And the present was so insidiously sweet, so seductively entrancing, why think of the future? Others would put before him all sorts of hard, repellant contingencies—would unsettle him—would, in fact, drag him, and that rudely, from his fool’s paradise? And why should they? It did not follow that everybody else knew everything, while he, Philip Orlebar, was bound to remain a consummate ass. It did not follow either that his paradise was a fool’s paradise. He was surely old enough to know his own business best; other people’s interference could do no good, but very likely plenty of mischief. No, this was entirely his own affair, and as such he intended it should remain. Thus the sheep went quite blithely to the slaughter.It was done—was done at last. The mother’s horrified opposition went down at the last moment before the daughter’s quiet, determined persistency and a special licence—went down with a completeness that to an unprejudiced and strictly impartial observer might have looked ever so slightly suspicious. It was arranged that Philip should break the news to his father immediately afterwards, and on that condition only would Mrs Daventer be brought to yield a most reluctant consent; and, in accordance with this, Philip, leaving his bride in the care of her mother, was to travel down to Claxby alone.Yet very happy were these two—very happy in their fool’s paradise. To Laura especially it seemed too good to be true—too good to last. She seemed to move as in a waking dream. And now they must part, though only for forty-eight hours, perhaps less—must part immediately upon their union. It did not seem right. It seemed ominous.“Come back to me the moment you can break away, Phil, my darling,” she said, as she bade him a final good-bye in the early morning on the platform of the seldom-used little station. “I have no fear but that you will be able to talk over Sir Francis. Who could resist you?” she parenthesised with an inflexion of tender pride. “But do not remain away from me a moment longer than you are obliged. We have only just begun to belong to each other remember, and I have only just begun to live. Good-bye, my own.”Then the train moved off from the platform, and soft-hearted Phil felt a corresponding lump rise in his throat as he watched those beautiful eyes, brimming over with love for him, fade into the dimness of distance, till even the white waving handkerchief became as a mere speck. Then a turn in the embankment hid the whole from view.Thus they parted, there on the wooden platform of the deserted little country station. And those last words were as the knell of a life—of two lives.
The telegram which Fordham had shown Sir Francis told no more than the truth. Philip had riveted about himself that chain which only death can break. He and Laura Daventer were married.
How had it come about—the haste, the secrecy, too? Well, it was all very simple. Given one of Philip Orlebar’s temperament—given three or four weeks of close and daily companionship with a very attractive girl deadly in earnest in her designs upon him; given the accessories of a highly amiable and accommodating mother; of glorious summer weather; of cool rambles beneath shaded rocks, and strollsà deuxon the moonlit beach—given all these things, we say, and small wonder is it that Philip’s susceptible heart—then very much at the rebound—should be triumphantly captured, and with it his hand.
Laura had played her cards well—had played them with a consummate coolness beyond her years. She had determined to win him, almost from the very first, yet she would rather risk failure than show herself over-eager to grasp success. Hence she had nipped his too premature declaration in the bud on that last occasion when we saw them together at Zermatt. She had even done this again with equal judiciousness—her point being that he should never think he was going to have an easy walk over—then had as suddenly capitulated, so sweetly, so entrancingly, as to bind him to her there and then with tenfold ardour.
In all of this she had been most skilfully and efficiently abetted by her mother. However reluctant the latter had been when the scheme was first propounded to her, the pendulum had now swung round the other way. It would be altogether to Laura’s advantage, and nothing need ever be known. The girl herself was in complete ignorance, and as for the Mephistophelian originator of the idea, it was not likely that he would disclose the secret. Perhaps, after all, she had judged him too harshly. Perhaps he had really been moved to plan out this in Laura’s interest and, at the same time, to enjoy the sport of, in a measure, turning the tables on his old enemy. And then, again, her mind would be shaken by a great disquietude, or more than misgiving. For if ever she could commit herself to a grave mistake, it would be when she should credit Fordham with motives and intentions otherwise than entirely evil—in his dealings with her and hers that is. Still she would not abandon her share in the plot—in the first place she dared not—in the next she lacked inclination. And meanwhile matters had gone too far.
Clever, scheming, as she was, to do her justice, Laura’s whole heart was in the plan. In progress of her manoeuvring she had conceived a great affection for this bright, open-hearted admirer of hers; an affection which was destined to blaze forth into a burning, deep-rooted, lifelong passion. And the motor which should work this transformation was very near at hand. Even then she stood on the verge of its shadow. But—Heaven help her when it should enshroud her entirely—for then might she sit down and cast ashes upon her head, and think no more of life.
Even in that brief, fleeting hour of her triumph—of her happiness—there was always one misgiving which, like the skeleton at the feast, would never be entirely banished. A heart caught at the rebound may constitute an easy capture, but it is doubtful whether it constitutes a safe one. And that her capture was of this nature Laura was fully aware. Given one of Philip’s expansive, sympathy-craving temperament, it was impossible she could have been otherwise. Indeed, it was very much the knowledge of this that constituted the trump card in her far from unfavourable hand; and it was a far from unfavourable one, for Laura Daventer could be very winning, very sympathetic, in short, very dangerously attractive when she chose.
They had travelled home to England together, and during the tediousness and worry of a long journey—no small test of patience and temper—Laura had shown at her best; helpful, ready, unselfish. They had spent three or four days in London together, and Philip had found her a delightful companion; and while Mrs Daventer rested or shopped, they two would go off upon a long day’s expedition—mostly up the river—returning in the best of spirits, and more wrapped up in each other than ever. It was a bright and happy time—an idyllic time—and there seemed no reason why it should not last. Yet, deep down in her heart, Laura was conscious of that gnawing, cankering misgiving. Without underrating her own charms—her own powers of attractiveness—she instinctively felt that one glance from Alma Wyatt’s great grey eyes would suffice to scatter her own fair house of cards to the four winds of heaven. “On revient toujours,” etc, may be, and in fact is, a saw of doubtful, not to say baseless, foundation, but this last experience of the volatile Phil’s was of far too recent occurrence, she decided. The wound could not actually be healed in so short a time; but, given a fair field, under her own soft and sympathetic hand, it eventually should be.
Once they had got him safe home, Laura breathed more freely. In or around the quiet and somewhat remote little Welsh seaport the prospects of any chance meeting with Alma Wyatt seemed so minute as to be practically non-existent. Ynys-cwm-barweg was not much of a place in the matter of attractions; but given cloudless summer weather, bracing sea air, and unbounded freedom, to two young people in love with each other such a place is apt to become a very Eden.
The rest was easy. To a clever woman like Mrs Daventer, the process of “drawing” the ingenuous Philip was the merest child’s play. Before he had been a week her guest, she knew all about him and his family—its circumstances, idiosyncrasies, and surroundings—as well as he did himself. The chances seemed good enough. Laura should marry him, and eventually become Lady Orlebar. Then the irony of the situation would be complete, but they two would never know.
That a chain is no stronger than its weakest link is proverbial. Clever as she was, as success attended her shrewdness and manoeuvring, Mrs Daventer closed her eyes more and more to one point. The scheme had been one of Fordham’s originating—could it therefore have for its object anybody’s good? Yet so promising did everything look that, woman-like, she almost began to believe she had originated it herself, and so thoroughly was she acting upon this idea that it became unnecessary for the real author to apply from time to time a refreshing spur, which, being the skilful tactician that he was, he forebore to do.
But if her astuteness failed her as to thebonâ fidesof the plan, in the execution of the same she showed skill and generalship. She read Philip’s character like a book. If Laura was to marry him, it must be now. Once away, once at home again, absence, family influences, possibly unforeseen circumstances, such as counter-attractions, would do their work. Once away, it would be—never. Wherein she was most probably right.
Never did sheep walk so confidingly to the slaughter, never did condemned so readily place the noose around his own neck. What Mrs Daventer was cudgelling her wits to bring about Philip himself shortly suggested. Then came some exquisite card-playing. She was horrified. He must never suggest such a thing again. Great Heavens, the boy must be mad! Of course he must do everythingen règleand in a proper way, and the first step in that direction was of course to consult his family. Why, what would be said? Of course that they had led him into it—entrapped him. No, she would not hear of anything of the kind.
Whereat the guileless Phil had laughed inordinately. Led him into it! That was a good joke, and he even thought of retailing for Mrs Daventer’s amusement Fordham’s characteristic parting words—
“You’re walking into the trap with your eyes open, Phil, my boy. Don’t come to me to get you out of it, that’s all, for I won’t. I wash my hands of you. You’re hopeless.”
Now Fordham, we need hardly say, was perfectly aware that this warning would have precisely the same effect upon Philip as endeavouring to pull back a pig by the tail has upon that homely and generally useful quadruped—that of strengthening the spirit of opposition, to wit.
Quem Deus vult perdere. It is just possible that some similar idea as that which had carried conviction to Mrs Daventer ran through Philip’s mind. He feared opposition in delay—knowing his own weakness, he may have feared for the result. And the present was so insidiously sweet, so seductively entrancing, why think of the future? Others would put before him all sorts of hard, repellant contingencies—would unsettle him—would, in fact, drag him, and that rudely, from his fool’s paradise? And why should they? It did not follow that everybody else knew everything, while he, Philip Orlebar, was bound to remain a consummate ass. It did not follow either that his paradise was a fool’s paradise. He was surely old enough to know his own business best; other people’s interference could do no good, but very likely plenty of mischief. No, this was entirely his own affair, and as such he intended it should remain. Thus the sheep went quite blithely to the slaughter.
It was done—was done at last. The mother’s horrified opposition went down at the last moment before the daughter’s quiet, determined persistency and a special licence—went down with a completeness that to an unprejudiced and strictly impartial observer might have looked ever so slightly suspicious. It was arranged that Philip should break the news to his father immediately afterwards, and on that condition only would Mrs Daventer be brought to yield a most reluctant consent; and, in accordance with this, Philip, leaving his bride in the care of her mother, was to travel down to Claxby alone.
Yet very happy were these two—very happy in their fool’s paradise. To Laura especially it seemed too good to be true—too good to last. She seemed to move as in a waking dream. And now they must part, though only for forty-eight hours, perhaps less—must part immediately upon their union. It did not seem right. It seemed ominous.
“Come back to me the moment you can break away, Phil, my darling,” she said, as she bade him a final good-bye in the early morning on the platform of the seldom-used little station. “I have no fear but that you will be able to talk over Sir Francis. Who could resist you?” she parenthesised with an inflexion of tender pride. “But do not remain away from me a moment longer than you are obliged. We have only just begun to belong to each other remember, and I have only just begun to live. Good-bye, my own.”
Then the train moved off from the platform, and soft-hearted Phil felt a corresponding lump rise in his throat as he watched those beautiful eyes, brimming over with love for him, fade into the dimness of distance, till even the white waving handkerchief became as a mere speck. Then a turn in the embankment hid the whole from view.
Thus they parted, there on the wooden platform of the deserted little country station. And those last words were as the knell of a life—of two lives.