Grantley Wagram sat alone in his library--thinking.
When a man thus sits, with an open letter in front of him, at which he
gazes from time to time, with a contraction of the brows, it is safe to
assume that his thoughts are hardly pleasant; and such, indeed,
represented the state of the old Squire's mind.
The correspondence which troubled him was not quite recent--that is to
say, it was some days old. But, great Heaven! the issue it involved if
the statements therein set forth were true! It speaks volumes for the
old man's marvellous self-control that he should have gone through that
period evincing no sign whatever that anything had occurred to threaten
his normal urbanity--no, not even to his son; and yet, day and night,
awake, and even asleep, the matter had been uppermost in his thoughts.
Now, those thoughts for the hundredth time seemed to voice the two
words: Only Blackmail! And yet--and yet--he knew that it was blackmail
from which there would be no escape.
He took up the letter and scanned it, then let it fall again with a
weary sigh. There was a genuine ring about the tone of the
communication. No; there could hardly be two Develin Hunts.
Well, a few moments would decide, for the letter which troubled him was
subscribed with that name, and the writer promised to call that very
morning--in fact, might arrive any moment.
Even then there came a tap at the door, and the servant who entered
announced the arrival of a stranger.
"Show him up here," said the Squire.
The first thing the new-comer did was to look deliberately around,
return to the door, open it, and look outside. Then, closing it, he
came back, seated himself opposite the Squire, and said:
"Don't you know me?"
"No."
"Look again. You know me right enough, though we've neither of us grown
any younger."
"Not from Adam." And Grantley Wagram leaned back in his chair, as if
there were no more to be said.
"Never heard my name before, eh?" said the stranger sneeringly.
"N-no. Wait. Let's see. Now I remember I read it in connection with
some shipwreck. Are you the person referred to?"
"That I am. And a hell of a time I had of it. By the Lord, we all
had."
"I can quite believe that," said the Squire. "That castaway business
must be one of the most ghastly situations imaginable."
"Quite right, Squire. Come, now, I believe you're not half a bad sort
after all. I believe we are going to understand each other."
The old diplomat made no immediate reply as he leaned back in his chair
and watched the other. He saw before him a tallish man, somewhat
loosely hung, but conveying an idea of wiriness and strengths. The
face, tanned a red brown, might very well have been good-looking at one
time; now somewhat bloodshot eyes and an indescribable something told
that its owner had lived hard and wildly, and that in wild, hard places.
"Yes; I believe you're not half a bad sort, Squire," repeated the
stranger, pulling at his short white beard--"far too good a sort not to
have _forgotten_ that a man might have a thirst after a walk on a hot
morning; for I walked over here, mind."
"To be sure, I had forgotten," said the Squire, with a pleasant laugh,
as he touched an electric button on the table. "What do you fancy? A
glass of wine?"
"Wine? No, thanks. Scotch is good enough for me, especially good
Scotch--and it's bound to be that here," with a comprehensive sweep of
the hand round the library.
A servant appearing, the whisky was ordered and brought, Grantley Wagram
the while uneasily hoping that it would not have the effect of making
his unwelcome visitor uproarious.
"Soda? No, thanks," said the latter emphatically; "that'll do for those
stay-at-home popinjays who loaf about clubs, not for a man who's lived.
Ah! That's real good," swallowing at a gulp half the four-finger
measure he had poured out for himself. "Soft, mellow as milk. Squire,
you're not with me."
"Not--?"
"Not with me. It isn't usual in places I've been for one man to drink
and another to look on."
"Oh, I see. I must ask you to take the will for the deed. This is the
wrong end of the day with me for that sort of thing."
"Oh, but--it'll never do," returned the other in an injured tone,
gulping down the remains of his glass. "We shall never get to business
that way."
"Perhaps even better," said the Squire pleasantly. "Well, now--what is
your business?"
At this--put point-blank--the stranger stared, and the decanter which he
had reached for, to fill up again, was held arrested in mid-air.
"Well, I'll get to it," he said, following out his immediate purpose,
and tossing off a good half of the same. "I've been knocking about all
my life--and it _has_ been a life, mind you--and now I want to squat.
Some nice, bright, pleasant neighbourhood where there's good company and
a bit of sport to be had; like this, for instance."
"Quite natural," said the Squire pleasantly. "Made your pile, I
suppose, and want to settle down and enjoy it."
The other winked.
"Not much `pile,'" he said. "For the rest you're right. I do want to
enjoy it--if by `it' you mean life--and it strikes me this is just the
corner of this little island to do it in." And down went the remainder
of the glass.
The Squire was relieved to find that the liquor had no effect upon the
man whatever, for though he had lowered practically a tumbler of it
neat, and within a very short interval of time, he talked with the same
easy, confident drawl, nor did his speech show any signs of thickening.
The said speech, by the way, was correct, and not by any means that of
an uneducated person.
"And--the business?"
"That's it, Squire. I want a nice snug little box, where I can smoke my
pipe in peace and stable a horse or two, and have a day's shooting now
and again, and throw a fly when I want. That's reasonable, isn't it?"
"Quite. But, then--I'm not a house agent."
"Ha--ha--ha! Capital joke--capital! Well, for once in your life you
shall be one--"
"Eh?"
"--And find me exactly what I want. I think the terms are easy. Only
there is another trifling detail I forgot. You were mentioning a `pile'
just now. Well, I haven't made any pile--rather the other way on. Now,
that modest establishment I suggest will want a little keeping up--a
banking account, you understand."
"Yes; it would want that."
"Well, then, you could arrange all that for me too," rejoined the
stranger airily, though at heart somewhat disconcerted by the old
diplomat's coolness. "Come, now; the terms are not hard. What do you
think?"
"Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Do."
"I think you must be an escaped lunatic."
"Ah, you think that, do you? Well, I'm not going to lose my temper with
you, Squire; in fact, I admire your gameness. But it's of no use. I
like this part of the country, and I'm here to stay. When I've
prospected around a little more I'll tell you which place I'll take, and
how much it will require to keep up."
"Yes? Pray be modest when you do."
The other laughed. The mild sarcasm tickled him, and he felt so sure of
his ground.
"I think I am, all things considered," he said. "Of course, we can
break off the deal--right now. You are all right for your life, but
what price when your son Wagram has to pack up and go, as, of course, he
will? You have another son?"
"No."
"What? Oh, Squire! Ah, I see. You don't own him, and all that sort of
thing. Well, I'm not surprised, and I don't blame you, for he's a hard
case. Upon my word, he's a devilish hard case--one of the hardest cases
I've ever struck, and that's saying a gaudy good deal. Well, now, I
know exactly where to put my finger on him, and when Wagram has to pack,
why, then, the other one--Everard--comes in. It'll all be his then, and
won't he make things hum!"
"I should think he most probably would, unless he's vastly changed since
I last saw him," smiled the old man, as if his visitor had just vented
some pleasant witticism.
"Well, he hasn't--not for the better at any rate, from your point of
view. You may take it from me, he won't refuse me what I am asking
you--ay, and a great deal more besides. In fact, he daren't."
"In that case, why did you come to me at all if you could get so much
more from him?"
"Don't you see, Squire, that would be a waiting game, and I don't prefer
that if it can be avoided, for, of course, he couldn't touch a thing
during your time."
"No; he couldn't--and certainly shouldn't."
"Very well, then. There's one motive, and here's another. What if I
have a hankering--a genuine one--after respectability? What if I would
rather settle down as a highly respectable neighbour of yours--you would
find me all that, I promise you--than help `blue' the whole show with
Everard? No; don't smile so incredulously. A man with your cool
reasoning faculties, which I have been admiring all along, ought to know
human nature better."
"Now, look here, Mr Develin Hunt, or whatever you choose to call
yourself," said the Squire, rising in his chair, as a hint to terminate
the interview, and speaking in a crisp, decisive tone. "Do you really
imagine that this precious concoction of yours is going to frighten or
influence me in the slightest degree--because, if so, you don't know me
at all--as, indeed, how should you? But I warn you that personation and
blackmail are felonies in this country, and not only very severely
punishable but generally very severely punished. So now I'll say
good-bye; only lay my warning to heart, and don't come here with any
more of these flimsy attempts to obtain money or I shall know next time
how to treat them."
"Blackmail! Felony! Ugly words both," said the stranger cheerfully as
he, too, rose. "Well, I'm not much afraid; only, let me echo your
words: `I shall know what to do next time' if you refuse to see me, and
that will be to place the matter before your son Wagram. He'll think
twice before allowing all the good you and he have done here--I have
been taking observations, you see--to be wrecked at the sweet will of as
cut-throat and piratical a `tough' as ever escaped hanging, even though
it be his own brother. Good-morning, Squire. Shall see you again in a
few days. Looks as if we were going to have rain, doesn't it?
Good-morning."
He passed through the door, which was being held open for him, for the
Squire had already rung, and went down the stairs with jaunty step.
Then, as he heard the front door shut, Grantley Wagram sank back into
his chair.
The sting of the whole interview lay in the parting words. About the
man's identity he had no doubt, and that his other and missing son
should be the instrument for undoing all that had been done, and
bringing the family to utter ruin! It was terrible! He could not so
much as sit still to think about it. He felt cornered and trapped.
He went to the open window. The June sunshine was flooding over the
richness of the foliage tossing in mountainous masses against the
cloudless blue. A perfect gurgle of bird voices in sweet harmony
blended in unceasing song, and that clear, pure fragrance which you will
only find in the open country came up with every waft of the summer air.
Red roofs nestling among the trees, near and far, where farm or tiny
hamlet formed a cluster of dwellings--all the people represented by
these looked up to him, and to him who should come after him, and the
reflection only served to add bitterness to Grantley Wagram's
meditations. He had striven to do his best for all these, in the truest
and best sense of the word, and had no reason to believe his high aims
had met with failure; indeed, it would have been false modesty to
pretend to himself that the very reverse was not the case. Wagram had
ably and whole-heartedly seconded him, and would continue to do so after
his time. Yet now, if this would-be blackmailer could but furnish
convincing proof of his identity--ah, surely high Heaven would never
permit such an undoing of its own work!