"And now we believe in evil
Where once we believed in good.
The world, the flesh, and the devil
Are easily understood."
GORDON.
It seems a pity that our human destinies are too often so constituted
that with our own hands we may annul in one hour--our hour of
weakness--the long, slow work of our strength; annul the self-conquest
and the renunciation of our best years. We ought to be thankful when the
gate of the irrevocable closes behind us, and the power to defeat
ourselves is at last taken from us. For he who has once solemnly and
with conviction renounced, and then, for no new cause, has taken to
himself again that which he renounced, has broken the mainspring of his
life.
John went early the following morning to London, for he had business
with three men, and he could not rest till he had seen them, and had
shut that gate upon himself for ever.
So early had he started that it was barely midday when he reached Lord
Frederick's chambers. The valet told him that his lordship was still in
bed, and could see no one; but John went up to his bedroom, and knocked
at the door.
"It is I--John Tempest," he said, and went in.
Lord Frederick was sitting up in bed, sallow and shrunk like a mummy, in
a blue watered-silk dressing-gown. His thin hair was brushed up into a
crest on the top of his head. The bed was littered with newspapers and
letters. There was a tray before him, and he was in the act of chipping
an egg as John came in.
He raised his eyebrows and looked first with surprised displeasure, and
then with attention, at his visitor.
"Good morning," he said; and he went on tapping his egg. "Ah," he said,
shaking his head, "hard-boiled again!"
John looked at him as a plague-stricken man might look at the carcase of
some obscene animal found rotting in his water-spring.
Lord Frederick's varied experiences had made him familiar with the
premonitory symptoms of those outbursts of anger and distress which he
designated under the all-embracing term of "scenes." He felt idly
curious to know what this man with his fierce white face had to say to
him.
"Oblige me by sitting down," he said; "you are in my light."
"I have been reading my mother's letters to you," said John, still
standing in the middle of the room, and stammering in his speech. He had
not reckoned for the blind paroxysm of rage which had sprung up at the
mere sight of Lord Frederick, and was spinning him like a leaf in a
whirlwind.
"Indeed!" said Lord Frederick, raising his eyebrows, and carefully
taking the shell off his egg. "I don't care about reading old letters
myself, especially the private correspondence of other people; but
tastes differ. You do, it seems. I had imagined the particular letters
you allude to had been burnt."
"My mother intended to burn them."
"It would certainly have been wiser to do so, but probably for that
reason they remained undestroyed. From time immemorial womankind has
shown a marked repugnance to the dictates of common sense."
"I have burnt them."
"Just so," said Lord Frederick, helping himself to salt. "I commend your
prudence. Had you burnt them unread, I should have been able to commend
your sense of honour also."
"What do you know about honour?" said John.
The two men looked hard at each other.
"That remark," said Lord Frederick, joining the ends of his fingers and
half shutting his eyes, "is a direct insult. To insult a man with whom
you are not in a position to quarrel is, in my opinion, John, an error
of judgment. We will consider it one, and as such I will let it pass.
The letters, I presume, contained nothing of which you were not already
aware?"
"Only the fact that I am your illegitimate son."
"I deplore your coarseness of expression. You certainly have not
inherited it from me. But, my dear Galahad, it is impossible that even
your youth and innocence should not have known of my _tendresse_ for
your mother."
"Is that the last new name for adultery?" said John huskily, advancing a
step nearer the bed. His face was livid. His eyes burned. He held his
hands clenched lest they should rush out and wrench away all semblance
of life and humanity from that figure in the watered-silk dressing-gown.
Lord Frederick lay back on his pillows, and looked at him steadily. He
was without fear, but it appeared to him that he was about to die. The
laws of his country, of conscience and of principle, all the protection
that envelops life, seemed to have receded from him, to have slipped
away into the next room, or downstairs with the valet. They would come
back, no doubt, in time, but they might be a little late, as far as he
was concerned.
"He has strong hands, like mine," he said to himself, his pale,
unflinching eyes fixed upon his son's; while a remembrance slid through
his mind of how once, years ago, he had choked the life out of a mastiff
which had turned on him, and how long the heavy brute had taken to die.
"Do not spill the coffee," he said quietly, after a moment.
John started violently, and wheeled away from him like a man regaining
consciousness on the brink of an abyss. Lord Frederick put out his lean
hand, and went on with his breakfast.
There was a long silence.
"John," said Lord Frederick at last, not without a certain dignity,
"the world is as it is. We did not make it, and we are not responsible
for it. If there is any one who set it going, it is his own look out.
Reproach _him_, if you can find him. All we have to do is to live in it.
And we can't live in it, I tell you we can't exist in it, with any
comfort until we realize that it is rotten to the core."
John was leaning against the window-sill shaking like a reed. It seemed
to him that for one awful moment he had been in hell.
"I do not pretend to be better than other men," continued Lord
Frederick. "Men and women are men and women; and if you persist in
thinking them angels, especially the latter, you will pay for your
mistake."
"I am paying," said John.
"Possibly. You seem to have sustained a shock. It is incredible to me
that you did not know beforehand what the letters told you.
Wedding-rings don't make a greater resemblance between father and son
than there is between you and me."
Lord Frederick looked at the stooping figure of the young man, leaning
spent and motionless against the window, his arms hanging by his sides.
He held what he called his prudishness in contempt, but he respected an
element in him which he would have termed "grit."
"You are stronger built than I am, John," he said, with a touch of
pride, "and wider in the chest. Come, bygones are bygones. Shake hands."
"I can't," said John. "I don't know that I could on my account, but
anyhow not on _hers_."
"H'm! And so this was the information which you rushed in without leave
to spring upon me?"
"It was, together with the fact that of course I withdraw in favour of
Colonel Tempest, the heir at law. I am going on to him from here."
Lord Frederick reared himself slowly in his bed, his brown hands
clutching the bedclothes like eagles' talons.
"You are going to own your----"
"_My_ shame--yes; not yours. You need not be alarmed. Your name shall
not be brought in. If I take the name of Fane, it will only be because
it was my mother's."
"But you said you had burned the letters."
"I have. I don't see what difference that makes. The fact that they are
burnt does not alter the fact that I am--nobody, and he is the legal
heir."
"And you mean to tell him so?"
"I do."
"To commit suicide?"
"Social suicide--yes."
"Fool!" said Lord Frederick, in a voice which lost none of its force
because it was barely above a whisper.
John did not answer.
"Leave the room," said the outraged parent, turning his face to the
wall, the bedclothes and the tray trembling exceedingly. "I will have
nothing more to do with you. You need not come to me when you are
penniless. Do you hear? I disown you. Leave me. I will never speak to
you again."
"I hope to God you never will," said John; and he took up his hat and
went out.
He had settled his account with the first of the three people whom he
had come to London to see. From Lord Frederick's chambers he went
straight to Colonel Tempest's lodgings in Brook Street. But Colonel
Tempest had that morning departed with his son to Brighton, and John,
momentarily thrown off his line of action by that simple occurrence,
stared blankly at the landlady, and then went to his club and sat down
to write to him. There was no question of waiting. Like a man walking
across Niagara on a tight rope, it was no time to think, to hesitate, to
look round. John kept his eyes riveted to one point, and shut his ears
to the roar of the torrent below him, in which a moment's giddiness
would engulf him.
It was afternoon by this time. As he sat writing at a table in one of
the bay windows, a familiar voice spoke to him. It was Lord Hemsworth.
They had not met since the night of the ice carnival. Lord Hemsworth's
face had quite lost its boyish expression.
"I hope you are better, Tempest," he said, with obvious constraint,
looking narrowly at him. Could Di's accepted lover wear so grey and
stern a look as this?
John replied that he was well; and then, with sudden recollection of
Mitty's account of Lord Hemsworth's conduct during that memorable night,
began to thank him, and stopped short.
The room was empty.
"It was on _her_ account," said Lord Hemsworth.
John did not answer. It was that conviction which had pulled him up.
Lord Hemsworth waited some time for John to speak, and then he said--
"You know about me, Tempest, and why I was on the ice that night. Well,
I have kept out of the way for three months under the belief that--I
should hear any day that---- I am not such a fool as to pit myself
against you--I don't want to be a nuisance to---- But it's three months.
For God's sake tell me; are you on or are you not?"
"I am not," said John.
"Then I will try my luck," said the other.
He went out, and John knew that he had gone to try it there and then;
and sat motionless, with his hand across his mouth and his unfinished
letter before him, until the servant came to close the shutters.