Claxby Court, Sir Francis Orlebar's seat, was a snug country box, rather
modern in architecture and unpretentious of aspect. A long, winding
carriage-drive led up to the front portico, entering which you found
yourself in a spacious central hall, lit from above by a skylight. The
effect of this hall, with its carved furniture and quaint oak cabinets,
its walls covered with weapons and trophies of many lands, was extremely
good. A gallery ran round it above, and the dining and drawing-room,
morning-room and library, opened out from it on the ground-floor.
The stabling and gardens were of proportionately modest dimensions. The
house stood in a park of about fifty acres, and, being on a slight
eminence, commanded a charming view of field and woodland stretching
away to a line of green downs to the southward. The estate consisted of
about three thousand acres, but it was not all good land, and there was
always a farm or two lying unlet. The former possessor had been a
careful man, but although times were better in his day, he had found it
all he could do to steer clear of serious embarrassment. The present
one found it hardly less difficult, but he had two things in his favour.
He was a man of simple and inexpensive tastes, and, with the exception
of one son, he was childless. His liability was, therefore, a strictly
limited one.
Sir Francis Orlebar stood in his library window, thinking. It was a
bright summer morning--bright and cheerful enough to have exercised a
corresponding effect upon the spirits. Yet in this instance it did not
seem to.
He was a slight, well-proportioned man of medium height, but his slight
build and erect carriage made him seem taller than he really was. There
was a look of almost ultra-refinement in his face, and he was still
strikingly handsome. His hair and moustache were grey, but his eyes
looked almost young. Not in their light-hearted expression, however,
for there was a tinge of melancholy never wholly absent from them, but
in their wonderful penetrating clearness. It was a most contradictory
face, and withal, to the student of physiognomy, a most provoking one,
for as a set-off to the high forehead and straight, clear eyes there was
a shade of weakness, of over-sensitiveness in the set of the lower jaw.
But it was the face of a many-generation-descended gentleman.
As we have said, there was nothing in this bright, mellow summer morning
to conduce to depression. Yet the cloud upon the thinker's face
deepened.
It would be safe to hazard a conjecture that the cause of his melancholy
was purely subjective. His was just the temperament which delights in
retrospect, which is given to tormenting its owner with speculative
musings upon what might have been--to raising the ghosts of dead and
buried events.
He looked back upon his life and derived no pleasure from the process.
With his opportunities--always with the best intentions--what a poor
affair he seemed to have made of it! Better indeed for him had those
intentions been less free from alloy, since nothing which borders on
perfection has the slightest chance in this world of snares, and
pitfalls, and rank growths. Best intentions, indeed, had been his
undoing all along the line. His own inclinations were rather against
the profession of arms, but he had sacrificed them and accepted a
commission, in accordance with his father's strongly expressed wish. He
had married his first wife from motives of chivalry rather than
affection--out of pity for the life of toil and grinding poverty
otherwise mapped out for her. Then had followed disillusion,
unappreciativeness, ingratitude, misery, till her early death freed him
from the ill-assorted and blighting tie. Caught at the rebound, his too
soft heart and aesthetic nature had led him into an intrigue which
proved disastrous to all concerned--but, there, he did not care to dwell
upon that. Again, in a fit of disgust and sensitiveness, brought about
by the _eclat_ and scandal, he had sold out--always with the best
intentions--where another would simply have shown a bold front until the
nine days' wonder had abated, and was left early in life without a
profession. He had embarked in literature, always of a delicate, not to
say dilettante nature; had dabbled in art, and a little in a science or
two, but had never got his head above the level of the swaying,
striving, pushing--shall we say cringing?--multitude of heads, all
fighting for that proud and lucrative pre-eminence. But he had always
the interests and occupations of a country gentleman to fall back upon,
and perhaps, on the whole, these suited him as well as anything else.
And then, after about twenty years wherein to reflect on the scant
advantages which he had reaped from his former matrimonial venture, he
had suffered himself to be again bound with the iron chain, and his
second partner--as is curiously enough not unfrequently the case under
the circumstances, presumably through some ironical freak of Nature
which decrees that when a man of an age and experience to know better
does make a fool of himself he shall do it thoroughly--possessed neither
attractions, nor wealth, nor suitability of temperament to recommend
her. And having arrived at this stage of his retrospection, poor Sir
Francis could not but own to himself--we fear, not for the first time--
that in taking this step to counteract the growing loneliness of
advancing age he had performed the metaphorical and saltatory feat
popularly known as "jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire."
But there was one bright influence shining in upon the shaded events of
his anything but cheerful introspection, and its name was Philip. The
baronet's heart glowed with pride at the thought of his fine,
open-hearted, handsome son, upon whom he lavished an almost feminine
affection. Here again came in that fatal motor, "best intentions."
Better, perchance, had a little more steel and a little less velvet
gloved the hand which had had the bringing up of that sunny-natured
youth. But Sir Francis was the last person to whom this was likely to
occur, and now, as he thought that the time for his idolised son's
return could not be very far distant, there stole over his features an
unconscious smile of pleasurable anticipation.
Immersed in such congenial musing, he hardly heard the subdued knock at
the door, the almost noiseless footsteps of the well-trained butler.
The latter bore some letters on a salver.
"Put them on the table, Karslake," said the baronet, unwilling to be
disturbed in his pleasant reverie.
"Beg pardon, Sir Francis," said the man, who was of long standing and
privileged--"beg pardon, Sir Francis, but I think one of 'em's from Mr
Philip."
The change in the baronet's demeanour was striking.
"Eh--what?" he cried, wheeling round and making what almost amounted to
a snatch at the letters. Then, having pushed the others contemptuously
aside, he resumed his position in the window, hurriedly tearing open the
envelope.
The butler meanwhile was busying himself about the room, putting things
tidy that had got out of their places or were otherwise disarranged. A
quick gasp of dismay which escaped his master caused him to pause in his
occupation.
"Karslake," said the latter, in explanation, for the old butler was, as
we said, privileged, having been in the household almost since Philip's
birth, "you will be sorry to hear that Mr Philip has met with an
accident--climbing those infernal mountains," he added, more to himself
than the servant.
"Not serious, I trust, Sir Francis?" said the latter, in real anxiety,
for Philip was a prime favourite in the Claxby household, save with one,
and that not the least important member of it.
"No, thank God! He got hit by a falling stone, and can't put his foot
to the ground. Confined to his room, he says."
"I hope he'll be properly taken care of in them foreign parts, Sir
Francis," said Karslake, shaking his head in John Bull-like scepticism
as to any such possibility.
"Oh, yes. There's an English doctor attending him as well as the
foreign one. Thank Heaven it's no worse. Is her ladyship down yet?
But never mind--I'll find her anyhow," he added to himself, going to the
door. And as he did so it was noticeable that he walked with a slight
limp.
Lady Orlebar was up but not down, which apparently paradoxical
definition maybe taken to mean that, arrayed in a dressing-gown, she
reposed comfortably in a big armchair by her bedroom window. Her
occupation was of a twofold character, in that she was assimilating
coffee and reading _Truth_.
In externals she was a large well-built woman of middle age, handsome
after a coarse, rubicund fashion, though a purplish hue which had
succeeded in her cheeks the roseate flush of youth, would almost excuse
the severe verdict of that hypercritic who should define her charms as
somewhat "blowsy." Her temper could not even be described as
"uncertain," for there was no element of uncertainty about it, as poor
Sir Francis had already realised, to his sorrow. Her disposition was
domineering and exacting to the last degree, and she would do nothing
for herself that she could get anybody else to do for her--presumably to
make up, if somewhat late in the day, for half a lifetime spent in
perforce doing everything for herself. From such a one as this it was
hardly likely Sir Francis would meet with much sympathy in the flurry
and anxiety into which the news of his son's accident had thrown him.
"Mercy on us! Is that all?" was her comment as soon as he had given her
particulars. "Here you come bursting in upon me regardless of my poor
nerves, and I in such pain all night, as I always am. You come rushing
in upon me, I say, as if the house was on fire."
The fact being that Lady Orlebar was as strong as a horse. The only
pain she ever suffered from was of that nature, which a daily hour's
walk, combined with a little discrimination at table, would have
conjured away like magic. But it was a useful affectation to assume
that life was a perpetual martyrdom--a highly efficient buttress to her
ascendency.
"And all about what?" she went on. "Merely to tell me that an idle,
good-for-nothing boy, who ought to be hard at work earning his living
instead of skylarking about the world amusing himself, has sprained his
ankle. Really, Francis, I wonder the absurdity of it doesn't strike
even you!"
"Well it's a pity I said anything about it, I admit," he answered
coldly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have--but--how would you like a trip
abroad, Alicia?"
"What, at this time of year, when you have to sit five a side in a
railway compartment, and to make one of a clamouring, struggling rabble,
beseeching the hotel-keepers to allow you even a garret at a charge that
is rather more than would be required to keep a yacht? No, thank you,
not for me."
"Well, I don't mind a little of that sort of thing, so I think I shall
take a run over myself."
"Over where--may I ask?"
"Over to Zermatt. I should like to be sure the boy is getting proper
care--efficient attendance. An injury of that sort, though
insignificant in itself, may become serious if not properly taken care
of at the time. And Philip is so reckless."
The colour deepened in Lady Orlebar's highly coloured face, and the
sneer upon her lips was not pleasant to look upon.
"Did I hear you aright, Sir Francis? It cannot be possible that I
understood you to say you purposed to leave me alone here--to leave me
all alone in my wretched state of health--while you go rushing off to
the Continent to look after this boy, who is surely old enough to take
care of himself, and who will probably laugh over you and your fussiness
with his friends for your pains."
"Whatever may be your opinion of Philip, you can at least credit him
with being a gentleman," was the icy reply to this rally.
But ice thrown into a boiling copper produces a mighty hissing, a
prodigious letting off of steam. And such was the effect entailed upon
the lady by this rejoinder. Of indifferent birth herself she imagined
the reply to contain a gird at that circumstance, and rushed into the
battle--horse, foot, and artillery.
"Pah! An idle, good-for-nothing scamp is what I credit him with being,"
she retorted furiously. "A fellow who allows his parents to pinch and
starve themselves in order that he may revel in the luxury of idleness.
And, I tell you what it is, Francis, I won't be neglected in any such
fashion! I won't be left alone here! No, that is a thing I will not
stand! Isn't it enough that I am ground down and forced to live on a
mere pittance because you choose to spoil your son? Is that not enough,
I say? And now you propose to go away and leave me alone for an
indefinite time. But you will find I am not to be so easily shelved. I
have my rights, and I know thoroughly well how to look after them. And
look after them I shall--rest assured of that! Go--go by all means!
But the consequences be upon your own head."
Of attempting to reason with her in this mood, or indeed in any mood,
Sir Francis had long since learned the futility. Indeed, at that moment
he felt little inclination to attempt anything of the kind. Apart from
the coarseness of her temper, which revolted his more refined instincts,
her venomous abuse of his son aroused in him the bitterest resentment.
He was no match for an adversary of this fibre, for his refined and
sensitive nature shrank with loathing and horror from violent scenes.
So now he adopted the wise, if somewhat ignominious, course of beating a
retreat. He simply walked out of the room.
This was not precisely what his wife desired. Like all women of her
kind, and a good many not of her kind, she dearly loved a battle, and
the sort of battle she loved most was that wherein victory was assured.
By fleeing at the sound of the first gun the enemy had effected a
retreat which was three parts of a victory. She returned to the perusal
of _Truth_--an extra pungent number--with an angry frown, yet she could
not quite reconcentrate her mind upon the spicy contents of the journal.
The slave had shown signs of rebellion. He must be made to feel that
rebellion was not going to answer.
Poor woman! Her grievances were very great--very real--were they not?
She had brought her husband neither wealth, looks, nor connections when
she had condescended to take possession of him and his position and
title, yet _her_ convenience was ever to be uppermost, _her_ word law.
She claimed the right to control his every movement. She had, we say,
brought him not a shilling, yet to rule his means and expenditure was of
course her indubitable right. As, for instance, that he should persist
in making an allowance to his own son, instead of turning that fortunate
youth penniless out of doors and pouring out the cash thus saved at her
feet, was an act of flagrant and shameful ill-treatment of her that
cried aloud to Heaven for vengeance. But whether Heaven listened, and
looked upon it in the same light or not, certain it was that it
constituted the sum and crown of all her grievances, and they were not
few.
That a man of Sir Francis Orlebar's temperament should ever have taken
such a woman to wife--rather, we ought to say, should ever have suffered
himself to be taken possession of by her--was marvellous, would have
been incredible but that we know the same sort of thing happens every
day. And having once succumbed he was bound hand and foot. No power on
earth could save him. A man more coarse fibred would have held his own,
even at the cost of a diurnal battle royal. One less sensitive would
have cut the knot of the difficulty by the simple expedient of
undertaking a tour round the world, or any other method of separation
which should commend itself to him. Or one of slippery principle would
have laid himself out to effect an emancipation in the method most
approved of by the lawyers and by newspaper editors in want of
acceptable "copy." But to Sir Francis each and all of these courses
were equally repugnant--the latter, indeed, not to be thought of. His
bondage was complete. He was a slave to that most tyrannical of
despots--a thoroughly selfish, domineering, coarse-natured woman.
With an instinctive idea of placing it beyond his wife's power to renew
the last encounter he had taken himself out of the house. As he
strolled through the park the limp in his left leg became more
pronounced, as curiously enough it invariably did whenever he was vexed
or agitated, and now he was both.
But by that evening the resolution he had formed to proceed to his son's
bedside was considerably shaken. He had telegraphed, and the replies
had been in every way satisfactory. Perhaps his presence there would be
unnecessary after all. This might or might not have been the sensible
way of looking at it. But continual dropping wears away stones, which
for present purposes may be taken to mean that the tongue of a violent
woman is a pretty effective weapon against the strongest resolution
formed by an irresolute nature. There had been another battle royal,
and the baronet had retreated under cover of the satisfactory replies to
his telegrams. It was better to avoid any more violent scenes, and
accordingly he had succumbed--had yielded for the sake of peace--that is
to say, "with the very best intentions."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But the violent tongue of his stepmother, coupled with his father's
sensitive horror of the same, was destined to work such woe in poor
Philip's eventual fate as even that vindictive matron little dreamed.
Strange are the trivialities that combine together for stupendous
results. Had Sir Francis adhered to his first and laudable resolve what
widespread ruin might have been averted. But he did not. He abandoned
it for the sake of peace, of course with the best intentions.