Lord Penlyn and his friend and companion, Philip Smerdon, had returned from their yachting tour, which had embraced amongst other places Le Vocq, about a fortnight before Walter Cundall arrived in London from Honduras. The trip had only been meant to be a short one to try the powers of his new purchase, theElectra, but it had been postponed by the storm to some days over the time originally intended. Since he had become engaged to Ida Raughton, he naturally hated to be away from her, and, up till the night before he returned to England, had fretted a great deal at his enforced absence from her.
But the discovery he had made in theLivre des Étrangersat Le Vocq, had had such an effect upon his thoughts and mind that, when he returned to England, he almost dreaded a meeting with her. He was an honourable, straightforward man, and, with the exception of being possessed of a somewhat violent and obstinate temper when thwarted in anything he had set his heart upon, had no perceptible failings. Above all he hated secrecy, or secrecy's next-door neighbour, untruth; and it seemed to him that, if not Ida, at least Ida's father, should be told about the discovery he had made.
"With the result," said Philip Smerdon, who was possessed of a cynical nature, "that Miss Raughton would be shocked at hearing of your father's behaviour, and that Sir Paul would laugh at you."
"I really don't see what there is to laugh at in my father being a scoundrel, as he most undoubtedly was."
"A scoundrel!" Philip echoed.
"Was he not? We have what is almost undoubted proof that he was living for two summers at that place with some lady who could not have been his wife, and whom he must have cast off previous to marrying my mother. And there was the child for whom the landlord took me! He must have deserted that as well as the woman. And, if a man is not a scoundrel who treats his offspring as he must have treated that boy, I don't know the meaning of the word."
"As I have said before, it is highly probable that both of them were dead before he married your mother."
"Nonsense! That is a very good way for a novelist to make a man get rid of his encumbrances before settling down to comfortable matrimony, but not very likely to happen in real life. I tell you I am convinced that, somewhere or other, the child, if not the mother, is alive, and it is horrible to me to think that, while I have inherited everything that the Occleves possessed, this elder brother of mine may be earning his living in some poor, if not disgraceful, manner."
"The natural children of noblemen are almost invariably well provided for," Smerdon said quietly; "why should you suppose that your father behaved worse than most of his brethren?"
"Because, if the estate had been charged with anything I should have known it. But it was not--not for a farthing."
"He might have handed over to this lady a large sum down for her and for her son, when they parted."
"Which is also impossible! He was only Gervase Occleve then, and had nothing but a moderately comfortable allowance from his predecessor, his uncle. He married my mother almost directly after he became Lord Penlyn."
This was but one of half-a-dozen conversations that the young men had held together since their return from France, and Gervase had found comfort in talking the affair over and over again with his friend. Philip Smerdon stood in the position to him of old schoolfellow and playmate, of a 'Varsity friend, and, later on, of companion and secretary. Had they been brothers they could scarcely have been--would probably not have been--as close friends as they were.
When they were at Harrow, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, they had been inseparable, and, in point of means, entirely on an equality, Philip's father being a reported, and, apparently, enormously wealthy contractor in the North. But one day, without the least warning, without a word from his father or the slightest stopping of his allowance, he learnt, by a telegram in a paper, that his parent had failed for a stupendous sum, and was undoubtedly ruined for ever. The news turned out to be true, and Philip knew that, henceforth, he would have to earn his own living instead of having a large income to spend.
"Thank God!" he said, in those days, "that I am not quite a fool, and have not altogether wasted my time. There must be plenty of ways in which a Harrow and Oxford man can earn a living, and I mean to try. I have got my degrees, and I suppose I could do something down at the old shop (meaning the old University, and with no disrespect intended), or get pupils, or drift into literature--though they say that means starvation of the body and mortification of the spirit."
"First of all," said Penlyn, who in that time was the counsellor, and not, as he afterwards became, the counselled, "see a bit of the world, and come along with me to the East. When you come back, you will be still better fitted than you are now for doing something or other--and you are young enough to spare a year."
"Still, it seems like wasting time--and, what's worse!--it's sponging on you."
"Sponging! Rubbish! You don't think I am going alone, do you? And if you don't come, somebody else will! And you know, old chap, I'd sooner have you than any one else in the world."
"All right, Jerry," his friend said, "I'll come and look after you."
But when they found themselves in the East, it turned out that the "looking after" had to be done by Penlyn, instead of by Philip. The one was always well, the other always ill. From the time they got to Cairo, it seemed as if every malady that can afflict a man in those districts fell upon Smerdon. At Thebes he had a horrible low fever, from which he temporarily recovered, but at Constantine he was again so ill, that his friend thought he would never bring him away alive. Nor, but for his own exertions, would he ever have done so, and the mountain city would have been his grave. But Gervase watched by his side day and night, was his nurse and doctor too (for the grave Arab physician did nothing but prescribe cooling drinks for him and herbal medicines), bathed him, fanned him, and at last brought him, though weak as a child, back to life.
"How am I ever to repay this?" the sick man said, as he sat up one evening, gazing out on the Algerian mountains and watching the sun sink behind them. "What can I ever do in acknowledgment of your having saved my life?"
"Get thoroughly well, and then we'll go home as fast as we can. And don't talk bosh about repayment."
"Bosh! Do you call it that? Well, I don't suppose I ever shall be able to do anything in return, but I should like to have the chance. As a rule, I don't talk bosh, I believe, though no one is a judge of themselves. Do give me another drink of that lemon-water, Jerry, the thirst is coming on again."
"Which comes of talking nonsense, so shut up!" his friend answered, as he handed him the drink.
"It does seem hard, though, that instead of my being your companion as I came out to be, you should have to always----"
"Now look here, Phil, my friend," Gervase said, "if youdon'tleave off talking, I'll call the doctor." This threat was effectual, for the native physician had such unpleasant personal peculiarities that Philip nearly went mad whenever he entered the room.
Four years have passed since that excursion to the East and the time when Gervase Occleve is the affianced husband of Ida Raughton, but the friendship of these two has only grown more firm. On their return to England, Lord Penlyn offered his friend the post of his secretary combined with steward, which at that moment was vacant by the death of the previous holder. "But companion as well," he said laughingly, "I am not going to have you buried alive at Occleve Chase when I want your society in London, norvice versâ, so you had better find a subordinate."
Smerdon took the post, and no one could say with any truth that his friendship for Lord Penlyn stood in the way of his doing his duty to him as his secretary. He made himself thoroughly master of everything concerning his friend's property--of his tenants and his servants; he knew to a head the cattle belonging to him, and what timber might be marked annually, and regulated not only his country estate but also his town house. And, that his friend should not lose the companionship which he evidently prized so dearly, he thought nothing of travelling half the night from Occleve Chase to London, and of appearing fresh and bright at the breakfast table. For, so deeply had Penlyn's goodness to him in all things sunk into his heart, that he never thought he had done enough to show his gratitude.
Of course in society it was known that, wherever Lord Penlyn went his friend went also, and no doors were shut to the one that were open to the other, or would have been shut had Philip chosen. But he cared little for fashionable doings, and refused to accompany his friend to many of the balls and dinners to which he went.
"Leave me alone in peace to read and smoke," he would say, "and go out and enjoy yourself. I shall be just as happy as you are." And when he learned that Ida Raughton had consented to be Lord Penlyn's wife he told him that he was sincerely glad to hear it. "A man in your position wants a wife," he said, "and you have found a good one in her, I am sure. You will be as happy as I could wish you, and that is saying a good deal."
They had been busy this morning--the morning after Lady Chesterton's ball--in going over their accounts, and in making arrangements for their visit, in the forthcoming Ascot week, to Sir Paul's villa, near the Royal course. Then, while they had paused for a few moments to indulge in a cigarette, the conversation had again turned upon that discovery at Le Vocq.
"I tell you what I do mean to do," Penlyn said, "I mean to go and see Bell. Although he could have known nothing of what was going on thirty years ago, he may have heard his father say something on the subject. They have been our solicitors for years."
"It is only letting another person into the story, as he probably knows nothing about it," Philip said. "I wouldn't go, if I were you."
"I will, though," Penlyn answered; and he did.
Mr. Bell was a solicitor of the modern type that is so vastly different from the old one. Thirty years ago, when our fathers went to consult the family lawyer, they saw either an elderly gentleman with a shaved upper lip and decorous mutton-chop whiskers, or a young man, also with his lip shaved, and clad in a solemn suit of black. But all that is passed, and Mr. Bell was an excellent specimen of the solicitor of to-day. He wore a neatly waxed moustache, had a magnificent gardenia in his well-cut morning coat, and received Lord Penlyn in a handsomely furnished room that might almost have passed for the library of a gentleman of taste. And, had his client been a few years older, they would probably have known each other well at Oxford, for Mr. Bell himself had been a John's man, and had been well known at the debating rooms.
He listened to his client's story, smiling faintly once or twice, at what seemed to his worldly mind, too much remorse for his father's sin on the part of Lord Penlyn, then he said:
"I never even knew your father, but I should think the whole affair a simple one, and an ordinary version of the old story."
"What old story?"
"The story of a person of position---- Forgive me, Lord Penlyn, we are men of the world" (he said "we," though he considered his client as the very reverse of "a man of the world"), "and can speak plainly; the story of a person of position taking up with some woman who was his inferior and flattered by his attentions, amusing himself with her till he grew tired, and then--dropping her."
"To starve with her--with his offspring!"
"I should imagine not!" Mr. Bell said with an airy cynicism that made him appear hateful to his young client. "No, I should imagine not! The ladies who attach themselves to men of your father's position generally know how to take very good care of themselves. You may depend that this one was either provided for before she agreed to throw in her lot with him, or afterwards."
The lawyer's opinion was the same as Philip's, and they both seemed to look upon the affair as a much less serious one than it appeared to him! Were they right, and was he making too much out of this peccadillo of his father's?
"And you can tell me nothing further?" he asked the solicitor.
"What can I tell you?" the lawyer said. "I never saw the late Lord Penlyn, and scarcely ever heard my father mention him. If you like I will have all the papers relative to him gone through; but it is thirty years ago! If the lady is alive and had wanted anything, she would surely have turned up by now. And I may say the same of the son."
"He may not even know the claim he has."
"Claim! my lord, what claim? He has no claim on you."
"Has he not? Has he not the claim of brotherhood, the claim that my father deserted his mother? I tell you, Mr. Bell, that if I could find that man I would make him the greatest restitution in my power."
The lawyer looked upon Lord Penlyn, when he heard these words, as a Quixotic young idiot, but of course he did not say so. It occurred to him that, in all probability, his father had had more than one affair of this kind, and he wondered grimly what his romantic young client would say if he heard, by chance, of any more of them. But he did promise to go through all the papers in his possession relating to the late lord, and to see about this particular case. "Though I warn you," he said, "that I am not likely to find anything that can throw any light upon an affair of so long ago. And, as a lawyer, I must say that it is not well that such a dead and gone business should ever be dug up again."
"I would dig it up," Lord Penlyn answered, "for the sake of justice."
Then he went away, leaving the lawyer's mind wavering between contempt and admiration for him.
"He must be a good young fellow at heart, though," Mr. Bell said to himself; "but the world will spoil him."
Two nights afterwards Penlyn received a letter from him, saying that there was not the slightest trace in any of the Occleve papers in his possession of the persons about whom they had spoken. Moreover, Mr. Bell said he had gone through a great many of the accounts of the late Lord Penlyn, and of his uncle and predecessor, but in no case could he find any evidence of the Hon. Gervase having ever exceeded his income, or, when he succeeded to the property, of having drawn any large sum of money for an unknown purpose. "And," he concluded, "I should advise your lordship to banish the whole affair for ever from your mind. If your father really had the intimacy imagined by you with that lady, time has removed all signs of it; and, even though you might be willing to do so, it would be impossible for you now to obtain any information about it."
Two people went away from Lady Chesterton's ball with anything but happiness at their hearts--Ida Raughton and Walter Cundall. The feelings with which the former had heard the latter's declaration of love had been of a very mixed nature; pity and sympathy for him being combined with an idea that she had not altogether been loyal to the man to whom she was now pledged. She was able to tell herself, as she sat in her dressing-room after her maid had left her, that she had, after all, become engaged to the man whom she really loved; but she had also to acknowledge that, for that other one, her compassion was very great. She had never loved him, nor did she until this night believe the rumours of society that reached her ears, to the effect that he loved her; but she had liked him very much, and his society had always been agreeable to her. His conversation, his stories of a varied life in other lands, had had a charm for her that the invertebrate gossip of an ordinary London salon could never possess; but there her liking for him had stopped. And, for she was always frank even to herself, she acknowledged that he was a man whom she regarded with some kind of awe; a man whose knowledge of the world was as much above hers as his wealth was above her father's wealth. She remembered, that when any question had ever perplexed her, any question of politics, science, or art, to which she could find no answer, he would instantly solve the knotty subject for her, and throw a light upon it that had never come to her mind. Yes, she reflected, he was so much above her that she did not think, in any circumstances, love could have come into her heart for him.
But, if there was no love there was intense sympathy. She could not forget, at least not so soon after the occurrence, his earnest appeal to her to speak, his certainty that she knew of his love, and then the deep misery apparent in his voice when he forced himself into restraint, and could even go so far as to congratulate her. Her knowledge of the world was small, but she thought that from his tone this must have been almost the first, as she was sure it was the greatest, disappointment he had ever had. "He wanted to have a wife to make his home welcome to him," he had said, "and she was the woman whom he wanted for that wife." Surely, she reflected, he was entitled to her pity, though she could not give him her love. And then she wondered what she ought to do with regard to telling her father and her future husband. She did not quite know, but she thought she would tell her father first, and then, if he considered it right that Gervase should know, he should also be told. Perhaps he, too, would feel inclined to pity Mr. Cundall.
As for him, he hardly knew what to do on that night. He walked back to his house in Grosvenor Place (he was too uneasy to sit in his carriage), and, letting himself in went to his library, where he passed some hours pacing up and down it. Once he muttered a quotation from the Old Testament, and once he flung himself into a chair and buried his head in his hands, and wept as strong men only weep in their darkest hour. Afterwards, when he was calmer, he went to a largeécritoire, and, unlocking it, took out a bundle of papers and read them. They were a collection of several old letters, a tress of hair in an envelope, which he kissed softly, and two slips of paper which he seemed to read particularly carefully. Then he put them away and said to himself: "It must be done, there is no help for it. My happiness is gone for ever, and, God knows, I would not wreck the happiness of others! but, in this case, my sin would be beyond recall if I hesitated." And, again, after a pause, he said to himself: "It must be done."
He rose in the morning at his usual time, though it was nearly six before he flung himself wearily on his bed to snatch some troubled rest, and when he went downstairs to his breakfast he found his secretary, Mr. Stuart, waiting for him. The young fellow had been telegraphed for on his employer's return, and had torn himself away from the charms of Brighton to come back to his duties. After they had exchanged greetings, the secretary said:
"West told me that I should find you looking better than ever, Mr. Cundall, but I cannot honestly say that I do. You look pale and worn."
"I am perfectly well, nevertheless. But I went to a bail last night, and, what with that and travelling all day, I am rather knocked up. But it is nothing. Now, let us get to work on the correspondence, and then we must go into the City."
They began on the different piles of letters, Mr. Cundall throwing over to Stuart all those the handwriting of which he did not recognise, and opening those which he did know himself.
Presently he came to one with a crest on the envelope that he was well acquainted with--the Raughton crest, and he could scarcely resist a start as he saw it. But he controlled himself and tore the letter open. It was from Sir Paul, and simply contained an invitation from him to Cundall to make one of his Ascot party at Belmont, the name of his place near there. The writer said he had heard it rumoured about that he was on his way home from Honduras, and hence the invitation, as if he got back in time, he hoped he would come. This letter had been written some day or two ago, and had been passed over by Cundall on the previous one. Had he not so passed it over, he would have known his fate before he went to Lady Chesterton's ball, for the Baronet went on to say: "You may have learned from some of your numerous correspondents that Ida and Lord Penlyn are engaged. The marriage is fixed for the 1st September, and will, I hope and believe, be a suitable one in every way. At least, I myself can see nothing to prevent its being so; and I shall hope to receive your congratulations, amongst others, when we meet."
He read the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he said to Stuart:
"I have had a letter from Sir Paul Raughton, in which he tells me his daughter is engaged to Lord Penlyn. You go out a good deal, when did you first hear of it?"
The secretary looked up, and seemed rather confused for the moment. He, too, like every one else, even to West the butler, knew that it was supposed that Cundall was in love with Ida, and had wondered what he would say when he heard it. And now he was sitting opposite to him, asking him in the most calm tone when he first knew of her engagement, and the calmness staggered him. Had the world, after all, been mistaken?
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Not so very long ago. About a month, I should say."
"About a month since it was announced?"
"Yes, about that."
"I wonder you did not think of telling me in your last letter, since you knew how intimate I was with the Raughtons."
"I forgot it. It--it slipped my memory. And there were so many business matters to write about."
"Well! it is of no importance."
"Of no importance!" Stuart thought to himself. "Of no importance!" Then they must all have been indeed mistaken! Why, it was only two or three days before Mr. Cundall's return that he had, when up in town for the day, consulted West, and told him that he had better not say anything on that subject to his master, but let him find it out for himself. And now he sat there calmly reading his letters, and saying that "it was of no importance!" Well, he was glad to hear it! Cundall was a good, upright man, and, when he heard of Ida Raughton's engagement, his first thought had been that it would be a blow to his employer. He was very glad that his fears were ungrounded.
They went to the City together later on, and then they separated; but before they did so, Cundall asked Stuart if he knew what club Lord Penlyn belonged to.
"'Black's,' I fancy, and the 'Voyagers,' but we can see in the Directory." And he turned to the Court department of that useful work, and found that he was right.
In the evening of two days later Cundall called at "Black's," and learned that Lord Penlyn was in that institution.
"Will you tell him, if you please," he said, "that Mr. Cundall wishes to see him?"
All through those two days he had been nerving himself for the interview that was now about to take place, and had at last strung himself up for it. He had prayed that there might be no cruelty in what he was about to do; but he was afraid! The lad--for he was little better--whom he was now summoning, was about to be dealt a blow at his hand that would prostrate him to the earth; he hoped that he would be man enough to bear it well.
"How are you, Cundall?" Lord Penlyn said, coming down the stairs behind the porter, and greeting him with cordiality. "I have never had the pleasure of seeing you here before."
Then he looked at his visitor and saw that he was ghastly pale, and he noticed that his hand was cold and damp.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, "aren't you well? Come upstairs and have something."
"I am well, but I have something very serious to say to you, and----"
"Ida is not ill?" the other asked apprehensively, his first thoughts flying to the woman he loved. And the familiar name upon his lips struck to the other's heart.
"She is well, as far as I know. But it is of her that I have come to speak. This club seems full of members, will you come for a stroll in the Park? It is close at hand."
"Yes, yes!" Penlyn said, calling to the porter for his hat and stick. "But what can you have to say to me about her?"
Then, as they went down St. James' Street and past Marlborough House into the Park, there did come back suddenly to his memory some words he had once overheard about Cundall being in love with the woman who was now his affianced wife. Good God! he thought, suppose he had come to tell him that he held a prior promise from her, that she belonged to him! But no; that was absurd! He had seen her that very day, and, though he remembered that she had been particularly quiet and meditative, she had again acknowledged her love. There could be nothing this man might have to say about her that should be disagreeable for him to hear. Yet, still, the remembrance of that whisper about his love for her disquieted him.
"Now tell me, Mr. Cundall," he said, "what you have to say to me about my future wife."
They had passed through the railings into St. James' Park, and were in one of the walks. The summer sun was setting, and the loiterers and nursemaids were strolling about; but, nevertheless, in this walk it was comparatively quiet.
"I have come to tell you first," Cundall answered, "that, three nights ago, I asked Ida Raughton to be my wife."
"What!" the other exclaimed, "you asked my future----"
"One moment," Cundall said quietly. "I did not know then that she was your future wife. If you will remember, I had only returned to London on that day."
"And you did not know of our engagement?"
"I knew nothing. Let me proceed. In proposing to her and in gaining her love--for she told me that she had consented to be your wife--you have deprived me of the only thing in this world I prize, the only thing I wanted. I came back to England with one fixed idea, the idea that she loved me, and that, when I asked her, she would accept me for her husband."
He paused a moment, and Lord Penlyn said:
"While I cannot regret the cause of your disappointment, seeing what happiness it brings to me, I am still very sorry to see you suffering so."
Cundall took no notice of this remark, though his soft, dark eyes were fixed upon the younger man as he uttered it. Then he continued:
"In ordinary cases when two men love the same woman--for I love her still, Heaven help me and shall always love her; it is my love for her that impels me to say what I am now about to--when two men love the same woman, and one of them gets the acknowledgment of her love, the other stands aside and silently submits to his fate."
Lord Penlyn had been watching him fixedly as the words fell from his lips, and had noticed the calmness, which seemed like the calmness of despair, that accompanied those words. But there was not, however, the calm that accompanies resignation in them, for they implied that, in this case, he did not intend to follow the usual rule.
"You are right in your idea, Mr. Cundall," he answered. "Surely it is not your intention to struggle against what is always accepted as the case?"
"It is not, for since she loves you I must never look upon her face again. But--there is something else?" He paused again for a moment and drew a deep breath, and then he proceeded:
"Are you a strong man?" he asked. "Do you think you can bear a sudden shock?"
"I do not know what you mean, nor what you are driving at!" Lord Penlyn said, beginning to lose his temper at these strange hints and questions. "I am sorry for your disappointment, in one way, but it is not in your power, nor in that of any one else, to come between the love Miss Raughton and I bear to each other."
"Unfortunately it is in my power and I must do it--temporarily, at least. At present, you cannot marry Miss Raughton."
"What!Why not, sir? For what reason, pray?"
"Do not excite yourself! Because she and her father imagine that she is engaged to Lord Penlyn, and----"
"What the devil do you mean, sir?" the other interrupted furiously.
"And," Cundall went on, without noticing the interruption, "you are not Lord Penlyn!"
"It is a lie!" the other said, springing at him in the dusk that had now set in, "and I will kill you for it." But Cundall caught him in a grasp of iron and pushed him back, as he said hoarsely: "It is the truth, I swear it before Heaven! Your father had another wife who died before he married your mother, and he left a son by her. That man is Lord Penlyn."
Gervase Occleve took a step back and reeled on to a seat in the walk. In a moment there came back to his mind the inn at Le Vocq, theLivre des Étrangersthere in which he had seen that strange entry, and the landlord's tale. So that woman was his wife and that son a lawful one, instead of the outcast and nameless creature he had pictured him in his mind! But--was this story true?
He rose again and stood before Cundall, and said:
"I do not know how you, who seem to have lived in such out-of-the-way parts of the world, are capable of substantiating this extraordinary statement; but you will have to do so, and that before witnesses. You have brought a charge of the gravest nature against the position I hold. I suppose you are prepared to produce some proof of what you say?"
"I am fully prepared," Cundall said.
"Then I would suggest, Mr. Cundall, that you should call at my house to-morrow, and tell this remarkable tale in full. There will be at least one witness, my friend, Mr. Smerdon. When we have heard what you have to say, we shall know what credence to place in your story."
"I will be there at midday, if you will receive me. And believe me, if it had not been that I could not see Miss Raughton married illegally, and assuming a title to which she had no right, I would have held my peace."
Lord Penlyn had turned away before the last words were spoken, but on hearing them, he turned back again and said:
"Is this secret in your hands only, then, and does it depend upon you alone for the telling? Pray, may I ask who this mysterious Lord Penlyn is whom you have so suddenly sprung upon me?"
"I am he!" the other answered.
"You!" with an incredulous stare. "You!"
"Yes, I."
"I have heard it said that he is worth from two to three millions," Philip Smerdon said to his friend the next morning, when Penlyn had, for the sixth or seventh time, repeated the whole of the conversation between him and Cundall. "A man of that wealth would scarcely try to steal another man's title. Yet he must either be mistaken or mad."
"He may be mistaken--I must hope he is--but he is certainly not mad. His calmness last night was something extraordinary, and I am convinced that, provided this story is true, he has told it against his will."
"You mean that he only told it to prevent Miss Raughton from being illegally married, or rather, for the marriage would be perfectly legal since no deception was meant, to prevent her from assuming a title to which she had no claim?"
"Yes."
"You do not think that he hopes by divulging this secret--always assuming it to be true--to cause your marriage to be broken off, so that he might have a chance of obtaining Miss Raughton himself? If his story is true, he can still make her Lady Penlyn."
His friend hesitated. "I do not know," he said. "He bears the character of being one of the most honourable men in London. Supposing his story true, I imagine he was right to tell it."
The young man expressed his opinion and spoke as he thought, but he also spoke in a voice broken with sorrow. If what Cundall had told him was the actual case, not only was he not Lord Penlyn, but he was a beggar. And then Ida Raughton could never be his wife. Even though she might be willing to take him, stripped as he would be of his title and his possessions, it was certain that Sir Paul would not allow her to do so. He began to feel a bitter hatred rising up in his heart against this man, who had only let him enjoy his false position till he happened to cross his path, and had then swooped down upon him, and, in one moment, torn from him everything he possessed in the world. His heart had been full of pity for that unknown and unnamed brother, whom he had imagined to be in existence somewhere in the world; for this man, who was now to come forward armed with all lawful rights to deprive him of what he had so long been allowed blindly to enjoy, he experienced nothing but the blackest hate. For he never doubted for one moment but that the story was true!
At twelve o'clock he and Smerdon were ready to receive the new claimant to all he had imagined his, and at twelve o'clock he arrived. He bowed to Smerdon and held out, with almost a beseeching glance, his hand to Gervase Occleve, but the latter refused to take it.
"Whether your story is true or not," he said, "I have nothing but contempt to give you. If it is false, you are an impostor who shall be punished, socially if not legally; if it is true, you are a bad-hearted man to have left me so long in my ignorance."
"I should have left you so for ever," Cundall answered in a voice that sounded sadly broken, "had it not been for Miss Raughton's sake; I could not see her deceived."
"Had he not come between you and her," Philip. Smerdon asked, "but had wished to marry some other lady, would your scruples still have been the same?"
"No! for she would not have been everything in the world to me, as this one is. And I should never have undeceived him as to the position he stood in. He might have had the title and what it brings with it, I could have given Ida something as good."
"Your ethics are extraordinary!" Philip said, with a sneer.
"You, sir, at least, are not my judge."
"Suppose, sir," Gervase Occleve said, "that you give us the full particulars of your remarkable statement of last night."
"It is hard to do so," Cundall answered. "But it must be done!"
He was seated in a deep chair facing them, they being on a roomy lounge, side by side, and, consequently able to fix their eyes fully upon him. The task he had to go through might have unnerved any man, but he had set himself to do it.
"Before I make any statement," he said, "look at these," and he produced two letters worn with time and with the ink faded. The other took them, and noted that they were addressed to, 'My own dear wife,' and signed, 'Your loving husband, Gervase Occleve.' And one of them was headed 'Le Vocq, Auberge Belle-Vue.'
"Are they in your father's handwriting?" he asked, and Gervase answered "Yes."
"It was in 1852," Cundall said, "that he met my mother. She was staying in Paris with a distant relative of hers, and they were in the habit of constantly meeting. I bear his memory in no respect--he was a cold-hearted, selfish man--and I may say that, although he loved her, he never originally intended to marry her. She told me this herself, in a letter she left behind to be opened by me alone, when I came of age. He won her love, and, as I say, he never intended to marry her. Only, when at last he proposed to her that she should go away with him and be his wife in everything but actual fact, she shrank from him with such horror that he knew he had made a mistake. Then he assumed another method, and told her that he would never have proposed such a thing, but that his uncle, whose heir he was, wished him to make a brilliant match. However, he said he was willing to forego this, and, in the eyes of the world at least, to remain single. For her sake he was willing to forego it, if she also was willing to make some sacrifice. She asked what sacrifice he meant, and, he said the sacrifice of a private marriage, of living entirely out of the world, of never being presented to any of his friends. Poor creature! She loved him well at that time--is it necessary for me to say what her answer was?"
He paused a moment, and he saw that the eyes of Gervase were fixed upon him, but he saw no sympathy for his dead mother in them. Perhaps he did not expect to see any!
"How she explained matters to the relation she lived with, I do not know," he went on; "but they were married in that year in London."
"At what church?" Gervase asked.
"At 'St. Jude's, Marylebone.' Here is the certificate." Gervase took it, glanced at it, and returned it to him.
"Go on," he said, and his voice too had changed.
"They lived a wandering kind of life, but, in those days, a not altogether unhappy one. But at last he wearied of it--wearied of living in continental towns to which no one of their own country ever came, or in gay ones where they passed under an assumed name, that which had been her maiden name--Cundall. At my birth he became more genial for a year or so, and then again he relapsed into his moody and morose state--a state that had become almost natural to him. He began to see that the secret could not be kept for ever, now that he had a son; that some day, if I lived, I must become Lord Penlyn. And he did not disguise his forebodings from her, nor attempt to throw off his gloom. She bore with him patiently for a long while--bore his repinings and taunts; but at last she told him that, after all, there was no such great necessity for secrecy, that she was a lady by birth, a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. Then--then he cursed her; and on the next occasion of their dispute he told her that they had better live apart.
"She took him at his word, and when he woke the next morning she was gone, taking me with her. He never saw her nor me again, and when he heard that she was dead he believed that I was dead also."
"Then he was the deceived and not the deceiver!" Gervase exclaimed. "He thought that I was really his son and heir."
"Yes, he thought so. My mother's only other relative in the world was her brother, a merchant in Honduras, who was fast amassing a stupendous fortune--the one I now possess. She wrote to him telling him that she had married, that her husband had treated her badly, and that she had left him and resumed her maiden name.Hisname she never would reveal. My uncle wrote to say that in such circumstances, and being an unmarried man, he would adopt me as his own child, and that I should eventually be his heir. Then he sent money over for my schooling and bringing up."
He paused again, and again he went on; and it seemed as if he was mustering himself for a final effort.
"When I was little over four years old she died. On her death-bed her heart relented, and she thought that she would do for him what appeared to be the greatest service in her power. She wrote to tell him she was dying, and that he would, in a few days, receive confirmation of her death from a sure hand.And she told him that I had died two months before. Poor thing! she meant well, but she was a simple, unworldly woman, and she had no idea of what she was doing. Perhaps it never occurred to her that he would marry again; perhaps she even thought that her leaving him would free him and his from all obligations to me. At any rate, she died in ignorance of the harm she had done, and I am glad she never realised her error."
He paused; and Gervase said:
"Is that all?"
"With the exception of this. When I was twenty-one this letter of my mother's, which no other eyes but mine have ever seen before, was put into my hand. I was then in Honduras, and it had been left in my uncle's care. At first the news staggered me, and I could not believe it. I had always thought my uncle was on my father's side, and not on my mother's, and I now questioned him on the subject. I found that he, himself, was only partly in her secret, and that he knew nothing of my father's real position. Then, as to the names of Occleve and Penlyn, I was ignorant of them; although I had at that age seen something of European society. I came to England shortly afterwards, and there was in my mind some idea of putting in a claim to my birthright. But, on my arrival, I found that another--you--had taken possession of it. You were pointed out to me one night at a ball; and, as I saw you young and happy, and heard you well-spoken of, I put away from me, for ever, all thoughts of ever taking away from you what you--through no fault of your own--had wrongfully become possessed of."
"Yet now you will do so, because I have gained Ida's love."
"No, no, no!" he answered. Then he said, with a sadness that should have gone to their hearts: "I have been Esau to your Jacob all my life. It is natural you should supplant me now in a woman's love."
"What then do you mean to do,Lord Penlyn?" Gervase asked bitterly. The other started, and said:
"Never call me by that name again. I have given it to you."
"Perhaps," Smerdon said, with a bitter sneer, "because you are not quite sure yet of your own right to it. You would have to prove that there was a male child of this marriage, and then that you were he. That would not be so easy, I imagine."
"There is nothing would be more easy. I have every proof of my birth and my identity."
"And you intend to use them to break off my marriage with Ida Raughton," Gervase Occleve said.
"For God's sake do not misunderstand me!" Cundall answered. "I simply want you to tell her and her father all this, and be married as Gervase Occleve. I cannot be her husband--I have told you I shall never see her face again--all I wish is that she shall be under no delusion. As for the title, that would have no charms for me, and you cannot suppose that I, who have been given so much, should want to take your property away from you."
"You would have me live a beggar on your charity!--and that a charity which you may see fit to withdraw at any moment, as you have seen fit to suddenly disclose yourself at the most important crisis of my life." He spoke bitterly, almost brutally to the other, but he could rouse him to no anger. The elder brother simply said:
"God forgive you for your thoughts of me!"
"And now," Gervase said, "perhaps you will tell me what you wish done. I shall of course inform Sir Paul Raughton that, in my altered circumstances, my marriage with his daughter must be abandoned."
"No, no!"
"Yes! I say. It will not take twenty-four hours to prove whether you are right in your claim, for if I see the certificate of your birth it will be enough----"
"It is here," Cundall said, producing it. "You can keep it, or take a copy of it."
"Very well. That, and the marriage proved, I will formally resign everything to you, even the hand of Miss Raughton. That is what you mean to obtain by this declaration, in spite of your philanthropical utterances."
"It is false!" Cundall said, roused at last to defend himself, "and you know it. She loves you. You do not imagine I should want to marry her since I have learnt that."
"I do imagine it, for had you been possessed of the sentiments you express, you would have held your tongue. Had you kept silence, no harm could have been done!"
"The worst possible harm would have been done."
"No one on earth but you knew this story until yesterday, and it was in your power to have let it remain in oblivion. But, though you have chosen to bring it forward, there is one consolation still left to me. In spite of your stepping into my shoes, in spite of your wealth--got Heaven knows how!--you will never have Ida Raughton's love. No trick can ever deprive me of that, though she may never be my wife."
"Your utterances of this morning at least prove you to be unworthy of it," Cundall answered, stung at last to anger. "You have insulted me grossly, not only in your sneers about my wealth and the manner it has been obtained, but also by your behaviour. And I have lost all compassion for you! I had intended to let you tell this story in your own way to Sir Paul Raughton and his daughter, but I have now changed my mind. When they return to town, after Ascot next week, I shall call upon Sir Paul and tell him everything. Even though you, yourself, shall have spoken first."
"So be it! I want nothing from you, not even your compassion. To-night I shall leave this house, so that I shall not even be indebted to you for a roof."
"I am sorry you have taken it in this light," Cundall said, again calming himself as he went to the door. "I would have given you the love of a brother had you willed it."
"If you give me the feeling that I have for you, it is one of utter hatred and contempt! Even though you be my brother, I will never recognise you in this world, either by word or action, as anything but my bitterest foe!"
Cundall looked fixedly at him for one moment, then he opened the door and went out.
Philip Smerdon had watched his friend carefully through the interview, and, although there was cause for his excitement, he was surprised at the transformation that had taken place in him. He had always been gentle and kind to every one with whom he was brought into contact; now he seemed to have become a fury. Even the loss of name, and lands, and love seemed hardly sufficient to have brought about this violence of rage.
"It would almost have been better to have remained on friendly terms with him, I think," he said. "Perhaps he thought he was only doing his duty in disclosing himself."
"Perhaps so!" the other said. "But, as for being friendly with him, damn him! I wish he were dead!"