"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 _a 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 _bona 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 regle_ 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.