"...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Dinner was over, and the servants had withdrawn.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 2_ 3, 188-.
"Glover _versus_ Orlebar.
"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.