THE OTHER MAN
NOTHING could keep Mrs. Keith quiet. She was unable to rest. Twenty
minutes after Colin had left, she dismissed her maid, declaring herself
well, and went to the scene of the conflagration, only to find the door
locked. Extreme anxiety to know whether the hidden picture had escaped
observation oppressed her; but she dared not make direct inquiries. She
knew that the dresses on the floor had been consumed; but she also knew
that, when the things caught fire, a thick woollen shawl still covered
the picture, and her hope was that it might have been left undisturbed.
She bitterly regretted now the fancy that had seized her to take one
more look at the portrait.
If indeed it had been found, her role would be to profess ignorance of
its presence in the box. Somebody else, not she, should bear the blame.
She would not risk asking for the key of the door, but made her way to
the library, where others were gathered, discussing the event of the
day. Colin remonstrated with her for being about, putting her gently
into an armchair, and Giles tried to turn the subject, seconded by
Phyllys. Mr. Dugdale surveyed her with critical glances.
"Wonderful woman!" he said to himself. "Brass enough for anything!"
Yet she, like they, found it difficult to speak on any other topic but
the fire. The dread which weighed upon her nailed her to it.
"I'm sure it is a marvel I was not burnt to death," she said. "Giles
was so quick—if he had not been there, I must have been killed—perhaps
the whole house burnt down."
"Unfortunately I can't take credit," remarked Giles. "I should like to
discover who my 'doppel' can be."
Mrs. Keith was talking still, but she stopped. "'Not' you! How odd! I
certainly thought—but I was too terrified to see, and the smoke was
stifling."
"Sensible fellow, whoever he was, to throw a soaking towel round
your face! First step everybody should take at a fire," observed Mr.
Dugdale. "I'm told he had a pretty determined voice."
"Giles' voice," murmured Phyllys.
"If he was my build, probably a coal-heaver!"
"O no—a gentleman!"
"I wish he had stayed to be thanked."
"John tried to make him, but he was in such a state, he said he would
look in later. Not hurt—only blackened," added Mr. Dugdale. "We owe him
something for his energy. Three minutes' delay might have made all the
difference."
Enter the stout butler, composed as always, but with curved eyebrows of
intense amaze.
"The gentleman is here, sir, that got in at the window. He asks to see
Mrs. Keith."
"Bring him in. We wish to thank him," spoke Giles.
Fear seized Mrs. Keith. The thought might have occurred earlier, but
for the bewildering effects of her fright. She rose, and put out
protesting hands; but all eyes were turned to the door, and she sank
back, knowing that it was too late. With more than usual emphasis the
butler gave forth—
"Mr. Jock Reeves!"
Solid of figure and heavy of step, in walked an elderly, but most exact
reproduction of Giles. It was Giles in form, Giles in bearing, Giles
when he spoke in voice—but Giles as he would become years later, more
stout, with streaks of grey. Phyllys knew him instantly as the "Giles"
of Interlaken.
He stopped, looked round, and smiled, as if in expectation of a welcome.
Nobody spoke. The circle seemed stricken dumb. Giles, Colin, Mr.
Dugdale, Phyllys, were as if petrified. The three men knew not what to
think. Phyllys read confirmation of her midnight suggestion. Mrs. Keith
hardly breathed. This was the moment that had hung before her as an
awful possibility through years.
Feature for feature he was Giles Randolph. And—his name was Jock
Reeves. Brother to Mrs. Keith; uncle to Colin; no relative, not the
most distant, of Giles.
He did not seem embarrassed by his reception, perhaps ascribing it to
insular shyness. He cheerfully accosted Giles:—
"How d' you do, Colin? I've taken you all by surprise," with a jolly
laugh. "You and I might be son and father! Glad to find my nephew so
perfect a chip of the old block. Well, Cecil, my dear, I made up my
mind to take the bull by the horns. Lucky I did and was at hand! You'll
have guessed from my letter what I meant—eh?"
He addressed himself anew to Giles.
"I've put up for a good while with your mother's fantasies, Colin; but
really, you know, it was getting beyond a joke! After a quarter of a
century at the antipodes to be kept at arm's length from one's kith
and kin—no reason but a fad! Couldn't stand it any longer, and that's
a fact! So I thought I would see for myself what it all meant. I was
in the garden, debating whom to ask for, when I saw a glare and heard
Cecil shriek—and the quickest way was over the porch. I'm pretty active
still—luckily. The fire was blazing—not three seconds to spare. Then
of course I stayed to help, and when we had put it out, I was as black
as a crow, and went to the inn, where I'd left my bag. Now I've come
back—to see my sister and you young fellows. Not done wrongly, I hope?"
Giles murmured a negative, though the last words had been spoken to
Colin.
"You, of course, are Randolph?" He placed a broad hand on Colin's
shoulder. "About three feet high when I saw you last. No mistaking you
for anything but a Randolph! Not the athletic type. You're the exact
image of your uncle Jem—died early, you know. Well, Cecil, I hope you
forgive me for not carrying out your eccentric instructions!"
So far he had talked carelessly, in Giles' voice, though with a
"jollier" intonation. But the silence made itself felt. He paused.
After these years of unquestioning acceptance, in one moment light had
flashed upon all three men, vividly, as with Phyllys before, casting
a lurid glare upon past, present, future. No doubt the way for such
illumination had been prepared. Many a perplexity, put down to Mrs.
Keith's "oddity," now rose with convincing power. Mr. Dugdale's eyes
expanded, and for once words failed him. Colin's face grew a shade more
ivory-like. Giles flushed darkly crimson, whether with guilt Phyllys
could not determine; and by comparison she cared for nothing beside.
If "he" were true, if "he" had been in ignorance—all else signified
little. The silence was brief, measured by seconds, yet it seemed long.
To Mrs. Keith it meant an age of anguish!
For the worst had come. The blow which for twenty-seven years she had
used every effort to avert, was fallen. At another time she might
have carried matters with a high hand, might have tried to prove the
likeness accidental. But the fire and the shock of her brother's
appearance had shaken her nerve, and she could neither speak nor move.
In previous imaginings of this scene, the one thing that she had not
thought of was—silence. Astonishment, reproaches, exclamations, she had
expected. The silence was more awful. Would it never end?
Colin broke it. In soft slow tones, dragging more than usual, he
informed the newcomer—
"You are making a mistake; pardon me. I am Colin Keith. That is Giles
Randolph."
The other spoke his incredulity by a laugh.
"It is true," chimed in a deeper voice. "'I' have always been Giles.
'He' has always been Colin." The form of expression betrayed his
thought.
"No, my dear fellow! You don't bamboozle your uncle in that style! Not
quite!"
Mr. Dugdale indulged in a whistle; an act so exceptional that it
showed his state of mind. A cry from Mrs. Keith was smothered in her
handkerchief.
More deliberately still Colin repeated, "'I' am Colin Keith, your
nephew. This is Giles Randolph."
Reeves turned upon his heel with a gesture of disdain.
"I don't fathom your object in trying to take me in. But, I promise,
you won't succeed. Look here!" He placed himself beside Giles, opposite
the long mirror—both tall, substantial in make, upright, with red-brown
complexion, straight features, and blue eyes dragged downward at the
outer corners. Giles' sombreness was his own; otherwise the two were
moulded after one model.
"Coincidence! Humbug! Look at us, and tell me so again! I believe,"
and he glanced round once more—"I believe you mean it. You are not
humbugging me! But how you can have been taken in passes comprehension.
Look there!" He pointed to the mirror. "Does it need telling? This is
my nephew! You—" grasping Giles' arm—"'you' are Colin Keith. That other
is Randolph! It is written in your faces—branded there! Mistake! No
mistake is possible. Is 'that' what you have been up to, Cecil?"
She shivered under the accusing voice.
"Eh? Is that it?" he repeated.
Mr. Dugdale made a move. He went to a corner of the room, brought
thence an oil-painting, and held it beside Colin. Hardly more
remarkable was the resemblance between Giles and Mr. Reeves, than the
resemblance between Colin and this Randolph ancestor.
"See?" demanded Mr. Dugdale. "Now we know why it has been hidden!"
"Now I know why I've been treated like a pariah!" muttered Reeves.
Giles strode across to Mrs. Keith, and she cowered before him.
Phyllys' heart bounded with joy; and then came self-reproach that she
could be so happy when another was so miserable.
"Will you please to tell me the truth, Mrs. Keith? Am I—or is
Colin—your son? Is my name Randolph or Keith?"
She shrank lower, till her bowed head rested on her knees; and in that
shame-stricken form they read the answer. But he repeated—
"My name, if you please! Randolph—or Keith!"
And as if the word were dragged from her, against her will, she moaned,
"Keith!"
Then she straightened herself, and made a feeble effort.
"I—I—couldn't help it," she stammered, and she laughed hysterically.
"They—they—got mixed and I—I—when I found it out—"
"Mixed!" uttered Reeves scornfully.
One low murmur, "Mother!" had been heard from Colin.
But the crushing shame, the overwhelming distress, of Giles' look, drew
all eyes, silenced all lips. He stood like a statue, with folded arms
and bent head.
"I meant—I meant to tell," gasped Mrs. Keith. "I-I never meant it to go
on!"
"And it has gone on! You have let it go on, all their lives! Colin
for Giles! Giles for Colin! Though you are my sister, I say it is
'scandalous!'"
Reeves stopped.
Phyllys' hand was on his arm, and a soft voice whispered, "Please
don't! Is she—quite like other people?"
"You don't understand—you can't!" Mrs. Keith spasmodically wailed. "It
was—a mistake—a mistake—a mis—"
The strain became too great. She burst into a storm of hysterics and
had to be carried from the room.
"I believe that girl is in the right," muttered Reeves. "Most
charitable view to take, anyway—poor thing!"