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 strolls à deux on 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 the bonâ fides of 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 everything en règle and 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.
Chapter Thirty
After Fordham’s Visit
After Fordham had left the room Sir Francis hardly seemed aware of his visitor’s departure. He sat there like one turned to stone, the full horror of the recent disclosure weighing him down. First had come the lawyer’s letter threatening an action against his son. That seemed very trivial now – very far-away. Then the shock of confronting so unexpectedly his old enemy, and following that the pain and resentment of learning that Philip had taken the most important step in life without a word to him. But all this was nothing – less than nothing – when compared with the nature of that fearful disclosure.
Why had the long-turned-down pages of that dark chapter in his past so suddenly been flung open before him now? Why should this man pursue him with such vengeful hate? He had wronged him, it was true, but equally true was it that he had never shrunk from the consequences. He had given him satisfaction, and bore the mark of that meeting even yet, would carry it to his grave. Why, then, should he be thus relentlessly pursued – why should his transgression be visited upon the head of his innocent son? Surely the retribution was out of all proportion to the offence. But reason as he would, rebel as he would, the horrible fact remained. For years he and his had unconsciously been the objects of a devilish, vindictive plot. And at the thought of the craft and cleverness of the plan a ray of hope shone in upon his mind. The whole thing might be annulled. It should be. But could it? He could no more prove the relationship now than Fordham could have done at the time. Besides, the publicity of such an attempt, and they had already been married more than twenty-four hours – horrible – horrible! Whichever way he looked at it there was a dead blank wall confronting him.
“So make up your mind to hear by any post that you are endowed with a daughter-in-law of the least desirable kind,” had been his wife’s sneering words but a short half-hour ago. Prophetic indeed, so much so that a brief suspicion crossed his mind lest she might be already in the secret – very brief though, only to be succeeded by a fixed determination that she must at all costs be kept out of it – out of that part of it which contained the whole sting of the grisly reality at any rate; for the bare fact of the marriage was of course public property. No; it must remain a secret between himself and Philip, while they should arrive at some decision as to what ought to be done.
It may readily be surmised that Lady Orlebar did not leave her husband alone for long, once Fordham had departed. Even her damaged dignity had to give way before the intense curiosity which was consuming her, and accordingly she swooped down upon him determined to arrive at the torturing secret. But, for once, she failed – only for the present though, she told herself – for so ill, so prostrated did he look that expediency supplying the place of feeling, moved her to refrain from worrying him further – moved her even to show some solicitude on his behalf. If ever there was a valuable life, from her way of looking at it, in this world, it was that of Sir Francis, for should it cease she would be left well-nigh penniless. He could not put by any thing now because she persisted in living up to the income, and at his death everything would go to the obnoxious Philip, against whom her ire raged secretly but hot.
Wherefore, we say, expediency moved her to show some consideration for her husband, and of a truth he needed it. Piteous indeed he looked, white and ill as a man who has received a knock-down blow. At first a horrible fear crossed her mind, that he had been speculating, but a hurried assertion that money had nothing to do with the affair had infinitely relieved it. If it was not that it didn’t matter, she reasoned. Of course it had to do with his scamp of a son, but that need not affect her.
“You had better go to bed, Francis, and take a sleeping draught,” she said, after several ineffectual attempts at eliciting the burden of the recent interview. “We can talk things over to-morrow. But, goodness gracious, what is the use of worrying? As if anything mattered at this time of life – anything short of the smash up of a bank – and you say it is no question of money. Come, now. The best thing you can do is to go to bed.”
But on this point Sir Francis was not compliant. By a curious coincidence a new idea struck him, viz, that Philip not having communicated with him, was coming in person to break the news of his marriage. And he might arrive at any moment. No, he would not go to bed, late as it was. And then, as if to add point to his resolve, there came a grinding of wheels on the drive, followed by a loud ring at the front door. The baronet started up in his chair, and his face became more ashy white than before.
“Goodness gracious! Whatever is it all about?” cried Lady Orlebar, as, following on a sound of voices outside, the door was thrown open, and Philip entered without waiting to be announced. “Shall we ever get to the bottom of all this mystery?” And then she stopped. For, at sight of her, the joyous, radiant look on Philip’s face had changed to one of cold sternness as he discounted her furious opposition in advance. Even she was overawed. She felt almost afraid of him.
“Pardon me,” he said to her, after the cold handshake of greeting. “I must see my father – alone. Would you mind?”
There was no mistaking the gesture as he moved towards the door. The bluntness of the request – the insult of it – thought Lady Orlebar as she swept majestically out. For the second time that evening she was turned out of the room. Well, let them talk over their infamous secrets. They need look for no help from her, she determined, fairly shaking with rage.
Sir Francis did not meet his son’s gaze as he extended one trembling hand. The other still clutched mechanically the packet which Fordham had thrust into it. Philip’s heart smote him, and all the brightness went out of his face. Had his father already heard the news which he had come to break?
“I say, dad, what’s the row? Dear old dad,” he went on, obtaining no answer but a sigh – bending down and placing his arm round his father’s shoulders – “you’re looking deucedly cut up. Have you been – er – hearing anything?”
“Hearing anything?” echoed Sir Francis, in a hollow, far-away tone, and turning to his son with a wild stare. “Hearing anything? Philip, I have heard that which I – which we had both better have died than have lived to see happen.”
“Come, come dad, don’t take on about it like that! It was playing rather low down, I know, doing things all on the quiet. Still – I couldn’t help it. Wait until you see my Laura – that’s all! Why you’ll fall in love with her yourself, and we’ll all be as jolly as sandboys together. But, how did you hear about it? Who told you?”
For answer Sir Francis pointed to the telegram which Fordham had left on the table either by inadvertence or as not worth taking away.
“Hallo! So Fordham has been here?” cried Phil. “Hang it, I never authorised the old chap to break the news. I suppose, though, he thought you knew it already, and came to congratulate you. Still – it’s odd – deuced odd. It isn’t like him, anyhow.”
“He left this for you,” holding forth the bulky missive. “Philip, take it to your own room, where you will be quite alone, lock the door, and read it through from beginning to end. Oh, God! It is horrible – horrible?”
“Horrible! Fordham!” echoed Philip, in blank amazement. “Father, I don’t understand. Tell me in a word – what’s it all about? Why make me wade through twenty pages of Fordham’s rigmarole when half-a-dozen words will do it?”
“Oh, I can’t – I can’t!” moaned poor Sir Francis. “Read it, Phil – read it! That will tell you.” And with almost frantic gesture he waved his son from the room.
Philip’s heart beat strangely as he went to seek the privacy enjoined. What on earth had Fordham to communicate that concerned himself – that availed to throw his father into so pitiable a state of agitation? Under ordinary circumstances he would have suspected the package, so elaborately sealed and directed to himself, to contain a string of stale and would-be cynical platitudes on the situation, for which he felt in no sort of mood just then. Now a strange eerie foreboding of evil was upon him.
He gained his room, which was fireless, and cold and uncheery of aspect. Then, by the light of the solitary candle, he broke the seals and drew forth the contents of the envelope. These would keep him busy for some time in all conscience, he decided, noticing how closely written were the numerous sheets. But almost with the first glance, as he began to read, a start and a wild ejaculation escaped him. Then, as he read on, a deathly paleness spread over his countenance, and his hand clenched convulsively upon the rail of his chair. His attitude became rigid and his features hardened. His eyes dilated with a stare of intense horror and surprise as they travelled down each successive sheet of the fateful paper.
Where is the sunny, light-hearted youth, rejoicing in the strength of health and happiness and love, who entered this house such a short while ago? Not surely to be found in this being, whose ashy features are stamped with the set, grey look of a stricken despair; the frozen horror in whose eyes, as they seek alternately the shadowed objects around the half-darkened room and the rigidly grasped paper, is that of a man who suddenly realises that he has all involuntarily committed some appalling crime.
His dry lips move half unconsciously, and in husky, laboured gasps, frame the well-nigh inarticulate words —
“O God! such a hideous thing could never be! God in Heaven, it can’t be true! It can’t be true!”