THE PIPE OF PEACE
Brendon was much astonished a day or two later to receive an
invitation to dine with his grandfather. After the somewhat stormy
interview he had participated in with the old tyrant, George certainly
never expected to be treated well by the man whose path he had
crossed. He had heard many tales of Derrington's pride, and of his
relentless pursuit of those whom he conceived had done him wrong. As
George had fought the old man with his own weapons, and had come off
victor, he did not expect to be pardoned.
But in this he was wrong. Derrington, sickened with Walter's
milk-and-water ways, saw in Brendon a worthy successor who would be
able to hold his own in will and word, and would shed fresh luster on
the house. Had George been polite, and what the old lord sneeringly
called cringing, he would never have received the invitation. As it
was, Derrington took him to his hard old heart. He chuckled to think
of Walter's dismay when he heard that he had an elder cousin and would
not be likely to inherit the title or the money.
However astonished, Brendon was too much a man-of-the-world to reveal
his feelings. On the evening in question he presented himself at the
mansion in St. Giles Square, scrupulously groomed and brushed.
Derrington looked approvingly on his dress, which set off a handsome
figure to advantage.
Also the haughty bearing of Brendon pleased him, and he unbent so far
as to advance to George with outstretched hand.
"We had rather a rough interview, George," he said, "so I have invited
you to smoke the pipe of peace."
Brendon shook the old man's hand quietly, but without much enthusiasm.
He could not conjecture what Derrington meant by behaving in a way
so different to that he usually adopted. His host felt the slack
hand-clasp, and winced on seeing the want of response in Brendon's
face. Queerly enough Derrington, contrary to accepted opinion, had a
heart, and was so much taken with George that he wished to draw him to
himself. Still, he could not but admit that seeing how he had treated
the young fellow in the past it was not to be expected that Brendon
would act the part of an affectionate relative immediately. Derrington
rather admired George for his uncompromising attitude.
"Dinner will be ready soon," said the old lord, waving Brendon to a
seat; "only our two selves. I wish to consult you."
"Consult me?" George could not keep the astonishment out of his face.
"It's rather late in the day, is it not?" remarked Derrington, dryly,
"but you see I am old, George, and have not much time to spare. Yes, I
wish you to consult with me after dinner about--but that can come in
the course of our conversation. Meantime, let us talk of anything you
like."
"The weather, sir?"
"No, confound you," snapped Derrington, with a flash of his old
irritable self; "talk of wine, wit, and women if you like, but spare
me platitudes."
Brendon stared at his shoes and smiled under his mustache. "I do not
think I can say anything very original about the subjects you
mention," he said quietly.
"Talk of Miss Ward, then. You can be original on that point."
Brendon would rather not have mentioned Dorothy, but he was quite
determined to show his grandfather that he fully intended to marry his
lady-love, and that he was not afraid to speak his mind. "I do not
fancy that there is anything particularly original in a love-story. I
met Miss Ward some three years before, I have loved her ever since,
and we will marry when----"
"There, there," interrupted Derrington, waving his hand, "let us not
get on to that subject as yet. We can talk of it after dinner. In
fact, you may as well know that I asked you here to discuss your
position. We must have an understanding."
"I think you must intend it to be a pleasant one," said Brendon, "as
you have asked me to dinner."
"And to smoke the pipe of peace. There's the gong. Heigh-ho!"--he rose
rather sluggishly--"gout is stiffening my limbs."
It struck Brendon that his grandfather looked old and very haggard. He
had lost his fresh color, his eyes were sunken, and the defiant curl
was out of his enormous mustache. He moved slowly toward the door, and
George felt sorry to see him so lonely. He knew that Derrington hated
all his relatives, and that his relatives cordially hated him, so
there was none to comfort the old man in his declining years. Walter
Vane was less than nothing, as his mere presence served to irritate
his grandfather.
Moved by a sudden impulse, George made no remark, but moved to the
elder man's side and offered his arm. The footman was holding the door
open, and Derrington could not express, even by a look, the
satisfaction he felt. With a surly grunt he took Brendon's arm, but
George guessed by the warm pressure that Derrington was pleased. That
simple, kindly movement served to draw the two men closer together,
and they sat down to an excellent dinner in good spirits.
It was quite a banquet, for Derrington lived in a most expensive
manner, and in spite of a sadly diminished income he would never abate
the splendor of the style in which he had lived all his life. The
table was a round one, laid with exquisite taste, and was placed under
a kind of velvet tent, which shut off the rest of the room and made
the meal particularly cosy. George, who had a taste for art, admired
the finish of the silver, the beauty of the Crown Derby service, the
glitter of the cut glass, which was unusually massive, and the
adornments of the table. It was a perfect little banquet, and after
the somewhat stale food of his lodgings, George enjoyed the meal
greatly. Derrington himself did not eat much, but he took great
pleasure in seeing George enjoy his viands.
"I had a fine appetite myself once," he observed; "you have inherited
it from me. Never be ashamed to eat, George--it means good work. The
man who starves himself, starves his public."
"You mean in the quality of his work, sir?"
"Of course. Poor living means poor thoughts."
"Well," said Brendon, with a smile, "I don't think rich living means
rich thoughts."
"Certainly not. Whoever said it did? Remember the saying of the
Greeks, and, egad, they were the only people who ever knew how to
live."
"What saying is that?" asked George.
"Moderation is the corner-stone of dissipation."
"Ah, that's good, sir. But were the Greeks ever dissipated?"
"No, because they followed the advice of that epigram. George, if you
expect me to explain epigrams I shall lose my respect for you."
"Have you any, sir?"
"You wouldn't be here if I had not," said Derrington, pulling his huge
mustache. "There's your Cousin Walter----"
"My cousin, sir?"
"Of course. You know that." George thought it wiser, to say nothing,
although it was strange that Derrington should mention the
relationship himself. The old man gave him a quick glance and
continued: "As I say, there is your Cousin Walter. I wouldn't ask him
to dinner on any account. He's a fool, sir."
"He means well."
"If there is one class of people I hate more than another it is that
Pharisaic lot who mean well. They make all the mischief."
"With the best intentions," put in Brendon, taking some wine.
"Best intentions are fatal. How many plans have come to naught because
of best intentions? Take some of that port."
"No more, thank you, sir."
"I insist. There are walnuts."
"I don't mind the nuts, but the port----" George shook his head.
Derrington, at his own table, was too polite to press the matter, but
he scored up another victory to Brendon's strong will. More, he passed
off the matter with a laugh. "You have the hereditary gout, I see,
George, when you are afraid of a glass of port."
"It's not that, sir, but I drink very little. I work on milk."
"Bah!" Derrington made a wry face. "Then your work----"
"Is all the better for it. Those who drink beer think beer."
"And those who drink milk think cows, I should say."
"Your knowledge on that point prevents contradiction on mine."
Derrington chuckled. This was just the kind of epigrammatic reply he
relished. "You must enter the Diplomatic Service sir," said he,
looking approvingly from under his bushy brows.
"Don't you think I'm rather old?"
"Brains are never old, sir. And you have 'em. It's what the Diplomatic
Service in this country requires and what it never gets. I was in the
Service myself at one time."
"So I have heard," said Brendon, cracking nuts composedly.
"Eh! What did you hear?"
"You must excuse me at your own table, sir."
"Pooh, if you want to say anything disagreeable my own table is the
safest place you can say it at. I can't throw things at you."
"Still, a guest must be polite," argued George.
"I like my guests to be truthful."
"Very well, sir, if you will have it--and I feel that it would be bad
manners to refuse your request--it is said that you nearly set Europe
by the ears when you were ambassador."
Derrington roared. "I did--I did, and I wish I had brought about the
war I wanted. It would have done no end of good."
"Does war ever do good?" asked Brendon, doubtfully.
"Certainly. It stirs up things, and teaches men how to use their hands
and brains. Without war there is too much wrapping up in cotton-wool.
Don't tell me, George, that you aren't a soldier at heart, for nearly
all your ancestors fought for their country.
"And fought their country also, I believe."
"When they didn't get their rights," said Derrington, grimly. "I have
been a fighter myself all my life, and I've held my own."
"So they say, sir, and I admire you for it."
"Hah! Very good of you, I'm sure," said Derrington, ironically, "but
in my old age I can't hold my own, so I have to call in you."
George looked surprised. "Do you intend to do me the honor to ask for
my advice, sir?"
"Bless my soul, are you also without understanding, sir? Didn't I say
so when you first came?"
"Of course. I forgot."
"You shouldn't forget, though it's useful at times to do so."
"In what cases, sir?"
"Forget a woman's age, forget to talk about yourself, and forget your
relations if you can. Come," he added, seeing George laughing, "the
wine and food have thawed you. There's coffee in the library, and we
can talk over our cigars. Up I get. George, your arm."
He not only asked for it, but took it with marked pleasure. The
footman in attendance returned to the servants' hall to state that the
Old Devil (the domestic name for Derrington) had quite taken to the
new young gentleman. Had the servants known who George was, they would
have had a long gossip. As it was, they simply said that the Old Devil
was always taking fancies and soon grew tired.
Meanwhile, Brendon was seated in a comfortable chair, enjoying one of
the best cigars he had ever placed between his lips. At his elbow
smoked a cup of Mocha, and in the chair on the other side of a roaring
fire of sea-timber smiled Lord Derrington. He looked a grim and
determined old gentleman as he bent his shaggy brows on his grandson.
He was becoming more and more delighted with the young man. "I shall
have a prop for my old age at last," he thought. "Damme, he's a fine
fellow! Ah, youth! youth!"
George was very comfortable, and also felt grateful for the kindness
which his grandfather was showing him. At the same time he felt as
though he were acting wrongly in hobnobbing with a man who
persistently blackened his mother's memory. But Brendon thought he saw
signs of repentance in Derrington, and wished to improve the situation
if he could. It was difficult for him to quite forgive the old rascal,
but he was sorry for his loneliness and haggard looks. Besides, George
was a Christian in more than merely going to church on Sunday.
"I suppose you wondered when you received my invitation," said
Derrington, in his hardest tone.
"I did, sir. I wondered very much."
"And you felt inclined to refuse."
"I had almost made up my mind to."
"Why did you change your mind?"
George pondered, and looked again at his neat shoes. "Well, sir," said
he, after a pause, "I thought that after a dinner we might come to
understand each other better, and I am anxious for peace."
"And for recognition of your birth."
"Naturally. The one included the other."
"Does that mean you will fight till you get what you want?"
"Yes," said George curtly, and then closed his lips with a firm
determination to give battle if necessary. At the same time he felt it
was rather awkward after eating Derrington's food. A sudden impulse
made him rise.
"What's the matter now?" asked Derrington, not moving.
"Well, sir," burst out Brendon with a candor unusual in him, "I have a
feeling that we are going to quarrel, and in your own house, and after
that very excellent dinner I don't want to behave rudely. It will be
better to postpone this talk to some other time."
"Not a bit of it," said Derrington, quietly; "we are relatives, and
quarrels between relatives do not count. Sit down. I have something
important to say to you."
George sat down and prepared for the worst. "We'll leave the question
of your birth alone for the present," said the elder in a hard tone.
"At this moment I wish to talk of Mrs. Jersey's death."
"Yes;" said Brendon, looking down.
"Also about your father's death."
"What has that to do with this, sir?"
"I believe the one is connected with the other."
George remembered what Bawdsey had said. "I've heard that remark
before," he observed.
"Of course. That detective I employed to watch you made it."
"He did. I think you trust that man too much, sir," said Brendon,
after a pause.
"Do you? I thought he was a friend of yours?"
"Oh--" George shrugged his shoulders--"I saved his life, but that does
not constitute friendship."
"I would fight a man who saved my life," said Derrington, grimly.
"Well, sir, I don't think Bawdsey is worthy of your confidence."
"I know he isn't. But you see I can't help myself."
George looked up quickly. "Blackmail?"
"Something of that sort. I intend to trust my own flesh and
blood--that is, I intend to tell you all I know connected with the
Jersey case, and ask you to help me to get the better of Bawdsey."
"I shall do my best, sir."
"Willingly?"
"Assuredly, sir."
Derrington was rather moved. "I have not behaved well, George."
"That's true enough, sir," said George, who was not going to be weak,
"but you can make amends by acknowledging that my mother was an honest
woman."
"I believe she was, George, for none but an honest woman could have
borne a son like you. But you see I know no more than you do where the
marriage took place."
"Do you acknowledge that there was a marriage?" said George, starting
to his feet. Derrington rose also, and the tall men faced one another.
Then the elder placed his hands on the shoulders of the younger, with
a look on his face which Brendon had never seen before. And certainly
the look was new to Derrington.
"My boy," said he, "I am sure there was a marriage. I am sure that you
are my legitimate heir, and, by Heavens! I intend to acknowledge you
as such before the week's out."
Brendon was so moved by this sudden recognition of all he longed for
that a sudden weakness seized him, and he sat down, covering his face
with his hand. Derrington thought the young man did so to conceal his
tears, but in reality George was putting up a short thanksgiving for
this wonderful and bloodless victory. His grandfather again touched
his shoulder. "My boy," he said again, and his voice was broken with
emotion, "I have behaved badly. I ask your pardon."
George put out his hand blindly and grasped that of his grandfather.
When it was once in the old man's grip he raised his grandson with a
jerk and made him look him in the face. "You forgive me?" he asked.
"With all my heart and soul," said Brendon, quietly, and after another
handshake they resumed their seats. The scene which both had dreaded
was over, and now they sat like two friends who had known each other
for years. George felt that as Derrington had done justice to the
memory of his mother, and Derrington was pleased to feel that he now
had a grandson and heir worthy of his name.
"I can marry Dorothy now," said Brendon, with a contented sigh.
"If my influence can help you--yes." Derrington paused and shook his
head. "But there is a lioness in the path, George."
"Mrs. Ward?"
"Exactly. She will move heaven and earth to prevent the marriage."
George looked puzzled. "I see no reason why she should oppose it, if I
am acknowledged as your heir."
"Nor do I. I thought myself that it was simply the money she wanted,
and if you were the son-in-law she would not get her claws on the
gold. But there is more in it than that. She seeks revenge."
"On me? I have never harmed her."
"It's a vicarious revenge. I believed that woman loved your father,
George, and that he slighted her; that is why she wants to visit his
sin--as with a vindictive spirit she may regard it--on you."
"Did Mrs. Ward know my father, sir?" asked George, quickly.
"Yes. She met him at San Remo."
"Then she knew he was murdered?"
"Of course. I saw Mrs. Ward the other day, George. She came here to
force me to harm you and to consent to Walter marrying Dorothy."
"Oh! You never agreed to that."
"I have answered her challenge by asking you to dinner and will
acknowledge you my heir. Mrs. Ward will then try and make mischief."
"Can she do so?"
"Yes. She knows that I was in Mrs. Jersey's house on that night."
"And you were, sir?"
Derrington made a most unexpected reply. "No, I was not."