"Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay."
The Honourable Mrs. Rannock, widow of Captain Rannock, second son of
Lord Kirkmichael, lived in a narrow-fronted Queen Anne house facing
Wellington Barracks. It was one of the smallest houses to be found
in a fashionable quarter, and the rent was the only thing big about
it; but Mrs. Rannock had lived at Court for the greater part of her
life, having begun as a maid-of-honour when she and her Royal mistress
were young, and she could hardly have existed out of that rarefied
atmosphere. Refinement and elegance were as necessary to her as air
and water are to the common herd; she would have pined to death in a
vulgar neighbourhood; her personal wants were of the smallest, but her
surroundings had to be the surroundings of a lady.
Everything in the house was perfect of its kind. It was furnished with
family relics, Sheraton and Chippendale furniture that had been made to
order by those famous cabinet-makers for the Rannocks of the eighteenth
century, a buhl cabinet that had come straight from the Faubourg St.
Germain in the Red Terror, when Paris was running with innocent blood,
and the _ci-devants_ were flying from ruin and death.
The street door was painted sky-blue, the hall and staircase were
white, the rich colouring of the wall-papers made a vivid background to
the sober tones of the old furniture, and in the dainty drawing-room,
with its apple-blossom chintz and exquisite Chelsea china, the
daintiest thing was old Mrs. Rannock, with her pink-and-white
complexion, silvery hair, patrician features and bearing, tall and
slender figure, rich brocade gown, and Honiton cap with lappets that
fell almost to her waist.
She was an ideal old lady, _grande dame_ in every detail. She had been
painted by Hayter and sketched by D'Orsay. The semi-transparent hand,
which lay on the arm of her chair, had been modelled by sculptors
of renown, had been carved in marble and in ivory, when she was the
beautiful Mary Rannock.
She was nearly eighty, and had been a widow for a quarter of a century,
drifting placidly down the river of time, with very few pleasures and
not many friends, having outlived most of them, and with only one
trouble, the wrong-doing of the son she adored.
She had hoped so much for him, had burnt with ambition for him, had
destined him for a high place in the world; and he had forfeited every
friendship, missed every chance, disappointed every hope. And she
loved him still, better than she loved her daughter and her daughter's
children; better, perhaps, because his life had been an ignominious
failure; better because of that boundless compassion which she felt for
his ill-fortune.
"My poor Dick has never had any luck," she would say excusingly.
She received Mr. Faunce with pathetic eagerness, like a drowning man
clutching at the first spar that floats within his reach.
"Pray, be seated," she said graciously. And then, turning to her
son-in-law, she said, "I should like to have my talk with Mr. Faunce
quite alone, Harry," at which Major Towgood bounded from his chair with
a snort of vexation.
"But surely, my dear mother, since I know all the circumstances of the
case, and as a man of the world, I can be of some use."
"Not while I am talking to Mr. Faunce, Harry. I want to keep my poor
old head calm and cool."
"Well, dear, you are the best judge, but really----"
"Dear Harry, it will be so kind of you to leave us alone."
"Well, mother, if that's so----" and the impetuous little Major puffed
and blew himself out of the room, and might have been heard fuming on
the landing, before he went downstairs to console himself with a cigar
in the dining-room.
"My son-in-law is an excellent creature, Mr. Faunce, but he talks too
much," said Mrs. Rannock. "No doubt he has told you something of the
circumstances in which I require your help."
"Yes, madam."
"And now ask me as many questions as you like. I will keep nothing from
you. I am too anxious about my son's fate to have any reserve."
"May I ask, madam, in the first place, what reason you have for being
anxious about Colonel Rannock?"
"His silence is a sufficient reason--his silence of nearly ten months.
My son is a very good correspondent. I don't think he has ever before
left me two months without a letter. He is a very good correspondent,"
she repeated earnestly, as if she were saying, "He is a very good son."
"But have you allowed for the rough life at Klondyke, madam, and the
disinclination that a man feels--in a scene of that kind--to sit down
and write a letter, dead beat, perhaps, after a day's toil?"
"Yes, I have allowed for that, but I cannot believe--if my son were
living"--her eyes filled with irrepressible tears in spite of her
struggle to be calm--"and in his right mind, with power to hold a
pen--I cannot believe that he would so neglect me."
"And you have written to him, I conclude, madam?"
"I have written week after week. I have sent letters to the Post Office
at San Francisco and at Dawson City, where my son told me to address
him--letter after letter."
"Have you communicated with Colonel Rannock's late body-servant?"
"Chater? Yes, naturally. What do you know of Chater?"
"Very little, madam. I happened to hear of him from a gentleman who had
also been making inquiries about your son."
"For what reason?"
"In Lady Perivale's interest. The gentleman has since married Lady
Perivale."
"Mr. Haldane! Yes, I heard of the marriage. I was glad to hear of it.
Lady Perivale had suffered a great injustice from her likeness to that
wretched woman."
"Pardon me, madam. You know the saying--Cherchez la femme. If you can
tell me anything about that woman, and Colonel Rannock's relations with
her, it may help me in my search for him."
"Oh, it is a sad, sad story. My dear son began life so well, in his
grandfather's regiment. There had been Rannocks in the Lanarkshire ever
since Killicrankie. He was a fine soldier, and distinguished himself
in Afghanistan, and it was only after he made that wretched woman's
acquaintance that he began to go wrong--seriously wrong. He may have
been a little wild even before then, but not more than many other young
men. It was that woman and her surroundings that ruined him."
"I take it that happened about ten years ago."
"Ten years? Yes. How did you know that?"
"I had occasion to look into Miss Delmaine's past life, madam. Pray
tell me all you can about her."
"It was an infatuation on my son's part. He saw her at the theatre,
where people made a great fuss about her on account of her beauty,
though she was no actress. She had a fine house in St. John's Wood, at
the expense of a young man of large means--whom she ruined, and who
died soon after. My son became a frequent visitor at the house. There
were Sunday dinners, and suppers after the theatre, and my son was
always there, madly in love with Miss Delmaine. Whether she was more
to him than an acquaintance in those days I cannot say. Certainly he
had no quarrel with Sir Hubert Withernsea. But after that unhappy young
man's death Kate Delmaine's influence upon my son wrecked his career.
He left the Army when the Lanarkshire was ordered to Burmah, rather
than leave her, and not daring to take her with him. I don't know what
kind of life he lived after that, although I saw him from time to
time; but I know he was under a cloud, and there were only a few of
his father's old friends who were civil to him, and asked him to their
houses."
"Did you know of Colonel Rannock's courtship of Lady Perivale, madam?"
"Yes, indeed. It was my earnest hope that he would succeed in it."
"Did you know the lady, and know of her likeness to Miss Delmaine?"
"No. I go very little into society. I am an old woman, and only like
to see old friends. And you must understand that I never saw Miss
Delmaine."
"Do you think your son was in love with Lady Perivale?"
"Yes, I believe he was. Or it may be that he only liked her because of
her resemblance to that woman."
"And was he very angry when she refused him?"
"Yes, I know he was wounded--and even angry."
"Do you think that disappointment, and other troubles, might have
induced him to take his own life?"
"No, no, no; I couldn't believe that for one moment. My son has faced
death too often--has risked his life in a good cause, and would never
throw it away like a coward. I know how brave he is, what a strong will
he has--a will strong enough to overcome difficulties. It was like him
to think of Klondyke when he was ruined."
"Did you know that he was in Algiers with Miss Delmaine last February?"
"Not till I read the report of Lady Perivale's libel suit. I thought he
had broken with her finally two years ago, and I believe at the time
he had. I need not tell you that I did not obtain my knowledge of that
unhappy connection from my son himself. You will understand a mother's
keen anxiety, and that I had other sources of information."
"Yes, madam, I can understand. I do not think I need give you any
further trouble to-day; but if you will oblige me with your son's
photograph--a recent likeness--it may be of use in this matter."
"Yes, I can give you his photograph, taken last year."
Mrs. Rannock opened a velvet case on the table next her chair, and the
wasted white hands trembled ever so faintly as she took out a cabinet
photograph and gave it to Faunce.
"Thank you, madam. I shall wait upon you again directly I have any
fresh information; but I must warn you that an inquiry of this kind is
apt to be very slow; and I fear you can give me no suggestion as to
where to look for Colonel Rannock in the event of his having changed
his mind and not gone to Klondyke."
"No, no; I cannot think that he would change his mind. He was with
me the day before he started, full of hope and excitement. He was
enthusiastic about the wild life in Alaska, and would not listen to my
fears and objections. Oh! Mr. Faunce, if anything evil has happened to
him, these grey hairs will go down in sorrow to the grave."
Again the uncontrollable tears welled into her eyes. She rose, and
Faunce took the movement as his dismissal.
"You may rely upon my most earnest endeavours, madam," he said, and
quietly withdrew, as she stretched a trembling hand to the bell.
"Poor soul! I'm afraid there must be sorrow for those grey hairs before
we come to the end of the story," mused Faunce, as he walked back to
his rooms.
He wrote to Chater, the valet, asking him to call in Essex Street next
morning on particular business concerning Colonel Rannock; and the
valet appeared, with exact punctuality, neatly clad, with well-brushed
hat and slim umbrella, and a little look about the clean-shaved
chin, broad chest, and close-cut hair, that told Faunce he had once
shouldered arms, and swung round to the "Right turn!" in the white dust
of a barrack-yard.
Chater was eminently a man of the world, very easy to get on with, when
he had heard Faunce's credentials, and knew what was wanted of him,
in Mrs. Rannock's interests. He had been Rannock's soldier-servant in
Afghanistan, and had lived with him between eleven and twelve years.
"And I think you liked him," said Faunce.
"Yes, sir; I liked my master. He was a devil, but he was the kind of
devil I like."
"And I suppose you knew Miss Delmaine?"
"Couldn't help that, sir. She was a devil, and the kind of devil I
don't like. She was the ruin of my master--blue ruin, Mr. Faunce. He
might have kept inside the ropes but for her."
"Did you know anything of his courtship of Lady Perivale?"
"Of course I did, sir. I had to carry the 'cello backwards and forwards
between the Albany and Grosvenor Square."
"Do you think he cared much for Lady Perivale?"
"Well, I believe he did, in a way. He was cuts with Miss Delmaine just
then. She'd been going on a little too bad. There was a prize-fighter,
a man she'd known from her childhood, that was always after her, and
the Colonel wouldn't stand it. Mind you, I don't believe--to give the
devil his due--she ever cared for the fellow, but I think she liked
making my master jealous. She is that kind of aggravating creature that
knows her power over a man, and can't be happy until she's made him
miserable. And then there were rows, and a regular burst up, and the
Colonel swore he'd never see her again."
"And it was after the quarrel that he courted Lady Perivale?"
"Yes, it was after. He was knocked all of a heap the first time he met
her ladyship, on account of her likeness to Kate. 'She's the loveliest
woman I ever saw since Mrs. Randall was at her best,' he said, for he
was always free with me, having lived under canvas together, and me
nursing him through more than one bout of Indian fever--'and she's an
oof-bird,' he said, 'and I shall be on the pig's back if I marry her.'
And I know he meant to marry her, and tried hard--left off cards and
drink, and cut all the young fools that he used to have hanging about
him, and turned over a new leaf. I'd never known him keep steady so
long since we came from India. But when he found it was all no go, and
Lady Perivale wouldn't have him, he was furious. And when she went off
to Italy in the autumn, he took to the cards again, and drank harder
than ever, and went a mucker one way and another, and by December he
had made it up with Kate, and they went off to Nice together the week
before Christmas, with the intention of crossing over to Ajaccio."
"Why didn't you go with your master?"
"I had business to do for him in town. He wanted to get rid of his
chambers and furniture, and I had to find a purchaser, and he wanted
it all carried through very quietly, for there was a money-lender who
thought he had a bill of sale on the goods."
"You succeeded in that?"
"Yes; I got him a fair price for his lease and furniture. I would give
a good deal to know where he is, and what became of that money."
"Was it much?"
"Six hundred and forty pounds. Three hundred for the lease, which had
only two years to run, and three hundred and forty for the furniture,
at a valuation."
"Did he take all the money with him when he started for America?"
"No; he paid me half a year's wages, on account of a year and a half
due, and he spent a little on himself, but he had five hundred and
fifty pounds in his pocket-book, in bank-notes, when he left Waterloo."
"In bank-notes. Do you know the figures?"
"Yes; there were two hundred-pound notes, and four fifties, the rest
tens and fives. I wrote a list of the numbers at his dictation."
"Have you kept that list?"
"I believe I have a copy of it among my papers. I copied the figures,
knowing what a careless beggar the Colonel is, and that he was as
likely as not to lose his list."
"Why did he take the money in bank-notes?"
"He had been told that a cheque-book wouldn't be of much use to him in
San Francisco, and no use at all at Dawson City, where he would have to
buy most of his outfit--furs, and mining tools, and a lot more."
"What put Klondyke into his head, do you think?"
"A pal of his, a Yankee, was going to try his luck there. My master was
always fond of adventure, and never minded roughing it; so the scheme
took his fancy."
"Chater," said Faunce, in a very earnest voice, "do you think Colonel
Rannock ever got as far as Klondyke?--as far as Dawson City?--as far as
'Frisco?--as far as New York?"
"God knows, sir! I think the case looks--fishy."
"I have reason to know that he wasn't at 'Frisco in time to start for
Vancouver with the pal you talk of, Mr. Bamford--and that Bamford and
another friend sailed without him."
"I know that, sir. Mr. Haldane, the gentleman who came to me for
information, told me the result of his inquiry."
"And this made you rather uneasy, didn't it, Chater?"
"Well, I didn't like to hear it, Mr. Faunce. But my master is a rum
sort. He might change his mind at the last minute. He might go back to
her."
"He didn't do that, Chater. I can answer for him."
"What do you know about her?"
"A good deal. Was she at Waterloo to see your master off by the
boat-train?"
"Not she! They had one of their quarrels in Paris--and he left her
there to find her way home by herself."
"You say home? Had she any house in London?"
"No, she'd never owned a house since the Abbey Road. She was in
lodgings near Cheyne Walk before she went to Nice."
"Decent lodgings?"
"Oh yes, topping."
"And she didn't show up at the boat-train?"
"He didn't travel by the boat-train. He went the night before--by the
Bournemouth express."
"The four-fifty-five?"
"Yes."
"Was he going to stay in Southampton that night?"
"I suppose so. He didn't tell me what was up. He seemed a bit excited
and put out, and hadn't a word to throw at a dog."
"Did he promise to write to you from America?"
"Yes, he was to write to me directly he landed. He had instructions to
give me."
"Do you know of any Southampton friends of Colonel Rannock's?"
"Can't say I do. He has had yachting pals there sometimes in summer,
but there wouldn't be any of that sort in March."
"Mrs. Rannock is alarmed at being without letters from her son since
last March. Do you consider that an alarming circumstance?"
"Yes, Mr. Faunce, I do. My master was fond of his mother, in his way.
He didn't mind victimizing her to the extent of her last sovereign,
poor old lady, when he was hard pushed; but he was attached to her,
in his way. And I don't think he would have made her unhappy by not
writing to her, if it had been in his power to write. I give him that
much credit."
"Well, Chater, we shall have to set the cable at work, and find out
what we can at Dawson City. And now tell me your opinion of Mrs.
Randall, alias Delmaine. You describe her as a bit of a shrew; but do
you know if she was really attached to the Colonel?"
"I believe she worshipped him, in her way. I--well, a letter she wrote
him after their worst quarrel--the row that parted them for over two
years--forced itself on my attention--happening to take it up in a
casual way--and I must say it was a letter to melt a stone; but it came
just when the Colonel was going all he knew for Lady Perivale, and he
took no notice of it."
"And two years after he went back to her. That was weak, wasn't it?"
"I suppose it was, sir. But, after being much with a stuck-up person
like Lady Perivale, a spirited, free and easy creature like Kate
Delmaine would exercise a fascination."
"And you don't think she ever played him false? You don't think she
cared for the prize-fighter? What was his name, by-the-by; Bolisco,
wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir, Jim Bolisco. No, she never cared a straw for him--a great
ugly brute, with a cock-eye. She'd known him when she was a child--for
her people were very low--father kept a small public out Battersea way;
and it ain't easy for a woman to shake off that sort of friend. Bolisco
was took up by Sir Hubert Withernsea, and used to dine at the Abbey
Road sometimes, much to the Colonel's disgust. No, I don't believe Kate
ever had the slightest liking for that man; but I sometimes used to
fancy she was afraid of him."