The Rev. Dudley Vallance sat in his library sorting out the contents of
the post-bag.
There was his usual correspondence, all of which he knew at a glance,
and tossed impatiently aside, and two or three missives in an unknown
hand, which met with no greater attention. But that which he sought was
not there. Not a line from his absent son.
More than a month had elapsed since Geoffry had started on his travels.
To the surprise of his parents, he had as suddenly come round to their
plans, and was as ardently ready to go abroad as he had been formerly
opposed to the idea. Still more to their surprise, he had expressed a
firm determination to travel in the United States and nowhere else; and,
with an energy wholly foreign to his limp nature, had extorted from them
a promise to reveal no word of his intention until after his departure.
Of course, the reason of this was soon made manifest; yet his indulgent
father would not oppose him. And now, for nearly a fortnight, no news
of him had been received. To be sure, he had been on the eve of
quitting the furthest limits of Western civilisation when he last
wrote--probably opportunities of communication were few and far between.
Yet the Rev. Dudley felt very anxious, very disappointed.
Mechanically he opened his letters, one after another, but hardly
glanced at the contents. Even the announcement that a couple of farms
would shortly be thrown on his hands--a notice which at any other time
would have disturbed his rest for a week--passed unheeded now. Suddenly
his face paled, and a quick gasp escaped his white lips. He had come to
the last letter of all, and it was from his solicitors.
We know of nothing more calculated to knock a man out of all time than a
wholly unexpected and equally unwelcome communication imparted through
the agency of the post. If imparted by word of mouth, he can find some
relief in questioning his informant, but when coming through the medium
of a letter, especially a lawyer's letter, there is that in the cold,
stiff paper, in the precise, hateful characters, as unbending, as
inexorable as the very finality of Fate. The communication which, even
in the midst of his paternal anxiety, had knocked Mr Vallance so
thoroughly out of time, conveyed nothing less than the news that a
claimant had come forward to dispossess him of the Lant estates, to
contest the late squire's will on several grounds, including that of
fraud. And the said claimant was no less a personage than the late
squire's son.
And really it is not surprising that he should have been knocked out of
time. In a lightning-flash there passed before him a vision of years of
litigation, draining his resources and impoverishing his estate--and
that even should things not come to the worst. The tone of his lawyers'
letter was not reassuring. This meant that, in their opinion, the
claimant had a good case. How good that case might be was a
consideration which turned the reverend squire's features a trifle
paler.
Then came a ray of hope. Ralph Vallance had not been heard of for
years, nearer twenty than ten. He had probably gone to the dogs long
ago, had joined the ranks of the "shady," and, in keeping with his
umbrageous character, was now trying to extort a compromise, or, failing
that, a sum of money not to make himself troublesome. But to this happy
idea succeeded a darker one, dousing the first as in a rush of ink.
Probably with the extraordinary luck which now and then befalls the
thorough adventurer, Ralph was returning a rich man, prepared, out of
sheer vindictiveness, to devote a large portion of his wealth to
plunging his cousin into protracted litigation, with all its harassing
and impoverishing results. This would be about as disastrous, in the
long run, as the actual establishment of the claim.
Again and again he read the hateful missive, until every word of it was
burnt into his brain, but he gleaned no comfort. From whatever point he
thought it over, the outlook was about as gloomy as it could be. The
summer air came into the room in soft and balmy puffs, laden with the
scent of roses. He could hear his children's voices on the terrace
below, and away over many a mile of rolling down his eye wandered over
pleasant pastures alternating with velvety woodland, and yellow
corn-fields awaiting the sickle; to the river flashing like a silver
streak through the shade of the beeches, where the deer lay in antlered
and dappled groups, lazily chewing the cud in the soft and sensuous
forenoon. All this was his own, and his son's after him--an hour ago,
that is. But now? He saw himself adrift in his old age, and his
idolised son drudging miserably for daily bread. He saw the kinsman, in
whose place he had for so long stood, ejecting him pitilessly,
vindictively; exacting, it might be, all arrears to the uttermost
farthing. Even after this lapse of years (nearer twenty than ten) he
cowered beneath the bitter and burning home-truths which that kinsman
had hurled at him, here, in this very room, and his heart quaked and his
blood curdled at the promise of a terrible and unlooked-for vengeance
with which his kinsman had left him. Time had gone by; year had
succeeded year; his children growing up, and he himself in undisturbed
possession, and the force of these denunciations and threats had become
dulled. He had long since come to categorise them in his own mind as
the furious vapourings of a desperate and disappointed man. And now
they were to bear fruit, to strike him down in his old age, to turn him
and his homeless and helpless on the world. The wretched man dropped
his head into his hands and groaned aloud.
But, the reader will ask, what was the man made of to start by
discounting the worst; to throw up the sponge so abjectly at the very
first threat of battle? Well, there may be something in the adage that
conscience makes cowards--of certain temperaments, or there may have
been a something underlying the whole affair unknown even to Mr
Vallance's own lawyers, or, possibly, a good deal of both. We can only
say: Reader, persevere, and discover for yourself.
Suddenly there floated in upon the summer air a mellow peal of church
bells. Mr Vallance aroused himself. He had forgotten it was Sunday,
forgotten his anxiety about Geoffry, forgotten everything in this new
and terrible blow that threatened him. The turning of the door-handle
made him fairly start from his chair, so overwrought were his nerves.
"The girls have gone on, Dudley," said his wife, entering, a sumptuous
presence in her church-going attire.
"All right, my dear. Kindly overtake them, will you? I'll follow you
when I'm ready."
"But you'll be very late. Why, what is the matter?" she broke off,
alarmed by his appearance and the huskiness of his tone. Then glancing
at the pile of newly-opened letters--"Is it bad news? Not--not about
Geoffry?"
"_No_, not about Geoffry; thank Heaven for that. There is no word of
the boy or his movements. It is--er--merely a very unfortunate and
perplexing matter of business. Please don't wait for me."
Those who caught a glimpse of their pastor's face that morning as he
swept up the church behind his little procession of choir-boys were
startled at the grey, set expression it wore; and when, after several
mistakes and omissions in the performance of the service, he brought it
to a close without a sermon, the parish--such of it as was present, at
least--came to the conclusion that something must have gone very wrong
indeed. Had Mr Vallance heard bad news about his son? No, for when
the retired jerry-builder, who was also churchwarden, meeting the parson
after service, made the enquiry in a sepulchral and sympathising
stage-whisper, he met with a very unconcerned answer in the negative.
"Parson do look main sick, surely" was the verdict of the village, as,
represented by its choicest louts, it hung around the churchyard gate,
and subsequently at the corners of the roads and lanes, previous to its
afternoon Sunday loaf among the same. "Parson, he be agein', he be."
Thus the village verdict.
"Poor Mr Vallance was looking very ill this morning," remarked Mrs
Santorex at dinner that day. "He could hardly get through the service.
Everybody thought at first that he had heard bad news of Geoffry, but it
appears not. In fact, he had heard no news of him at all."
"Likely enough he has been hard hit in the pocket department," rejoined
her lord. "Probably, `poor Mr Vallance' has been dabbling in bubble
investments; and his particular bubble has--gone the way of all bubbles.
Rather rough that he should hear about it on Sunday, though, the day of
all others when he has to show up in public. So he blundered over the
service, did he? Well, our shepherd ought to know by this time that he
can't serve two masters--ha--ha!"
But when later in the afternoon Mr and Mrs Vallance, with a brace of
daughters, dropped in, Mr Santorex felt persuaded that at least one of
the quartet had come there with further intent than that of making a
mere friendly call, and accordingly he awaited events in a kind of
mental ambush congenial to his cynical soul.
"Any news of Yseulte?" asked Mrs Vallance, rising to depart.
"Yes. She has fallen in with a Major Winthrop and his wife. They seem
very good sort of people, and the little girl is going to travel under
their charge. They are neighbours of my boy George, and are returning
to their ranche."
"Can I have a word with you, Santorex?" said the Rev. Dudley, lingering
at the gate, having told his wife and daughters to go on without him.
"Er--the fact is," he continued, lowering his voice, as the other nodded
assent, "the fact is--er--something rather troublesome--a mere trifle
that is to say--has occurred to worry me. Have you any idea of the
whereabouts of Ralph Vallance?"
"Not the faintest."
"Oh. I thought perhaps you might know something about him. I believe
you and he were--er--on friendly terms at one time?"
"Yes, we were. Why? Have _you_ heard anything about him?"
"Er--well, I may say this much. I fancy the poor fellow is in need of
assistance--if only I knew where he was."
"Afraid I can't help you to learn. Stay. It was only lately I was
turning out a lot of old correspondence, and there was a whole bundle of
Ralph's letters. It was just before Chickie went away. I'll hunt them
up and see if they afford any clue."
The other started. A scared, anxious look came into his face at the
mention of the correspondence.
"Might I--might I just look over those letters?" he asked, eagerly.
"H'm. I'm afraid I can hardly agree to that. But if I find anything in
them likely to be of service to you I won't fail to let you know."
With this, Mr Vallance was forced to be content. His late host stood
shaking his head softly as he looked after his retreating figure, and
that cynical half-smile played about the corners of his mouth.