"Monsignor Culham, sir," announced a servant, throwing open the library
door.
The Squire advanced with outstretched hand. "Ah, my dear old friend, I
never was more glad to see you in my life."
"And how are you, Grantley? Upon my word, in spite of whatever it is
that's bothering you, you are looking younger than ever."
"That'll soon remedy itself, unless we can devise some way out of this
abominable tangle."
"Supposing, now, you let me in behind this same abominable tangle--for,
of course, I have as yet no idea as to its nature."
A week had gone by since the visit of the African adventurer, but
nothing further had been heard of or from that worthy. Clearly he was
not going to hurry his victim unduly, but that he had given up his
predatory scheme the said victim could not bring himself to believe.
In a matter involving weighty issues even the most shrewd and secretive
of us may be excused for doubting his own judgment, or, at any rate,
desiring to take counsel of another mind. Thus the situation, as laid
down by the would-be blackmailer, had got upon even the cool nerves of
the old diplomat; and upon whose judgment could he rely as he could upon
that of his old friend?
"But you are only just off a journey," he now replied. "You must rest
and refresh first."
"Neither, thanks; and the journey wasn't a long one. Now, begin."
"It's a tale soon told. My first wife--Wagram's mother--was married
before. She honestly believed her husband to be dead; in fact, if
certificates and all that sort of thing count as proof, she was
justified in believing it. Afterwards he turned up, and tried
blackmailing us."
"Was that before Wagram was born?"
"No; after. Not that it made any difference either way, because, of
course, the marriage was void."
"You have no doubt whatever that he was her real husband?"
"She had no doubt. Poor thing! it killed her."
"And what became of the man?"
"I made it worth his while to leave the country, and on the way to New
Zealand or Australia--I forget which--he was washed overboard, and never
seen again. I was justified in believing him drowned, if only that he
never troubled me again, which he would certainly have done otherwise."
"And he wasn't?"
"So he says. Read this," handing him the newspaper cutting narrating
the rescue of the three castaways.
"And is this the man--Develin Hunt?"
The Squire nodded. "Funny, isn't it, that he should reappear in the
same way as he went? Well, he has been here to blackmail me." And he
told of the recent visitor and the proposed terms.
"People change a good deal in a matter of thirty years or so," said the
prelate. "And you had no doubt as to this man's identity?"
"Unfortunately, none. I didn't let him know that, though. I treated
him politely, and as if I thought him a fraud of the first water, but it
didn't seem to disconcert him. He has a trump card to throw down, for
it is not merely a case of Wagram going out but--of who do you think
coming in? Everard!"
"What?"
"Everard. He professes to know his whereabouts, declares that he has
gone utterly to the bad. The fellow even dwelt upon the utter wreck
that wretched boy would make of everything here in the event of
establishing his claim."
To listen to the old man telling his tale in his easy, light, cynical
tones you would have thought it concerned him not at all. But his
friend saw deeper down than that; he knew that if this thing were to
befall Grantley Wagram's days were numbered. Heavens! it was too awful!
And Wagram, whose love for his heritage was an obsession, and who was
such a perfect steward of the great wealth entrusted to him--what would
be the effect on him when he learnt that such heritage was reft from him
at one blow--that he had no right even to the name he bore, nor his son
after him? The prelate's face wore as gloomy a look as that of his
friend.
"Of course, you must insist on this man furnishing you with every proof
of his identity," he said. "He can do that, of course?"
"The worst of it is I'm convinced in my heart of hearts as to his
identity. There was something out of the way about the fellow that even
the lapse of time hasn't affected. I don't know quite what it is.
Perhaps it's his way of talking. Anyway, I'm sure of him."
"You can be sure of nothing in this world, Grantley--nothing that isn't
a matter of faith, which, of course, sounds paradoxical. But in mundane
matters such as this it isn't a question of faith but of hard, dry
evidence, which for present purposes may be taken to mean: Can this man
prove that he was validly and legally married to your first wife before
you went through what we will, provisionally, and for the sake of
argument, call the form of marriage with her?"
"And supposing he can't?"
"Then there's an end of the whole affair."
"Even if I am morally certain?" persisted the Squire, smiling sadly to
himself as he remembered how, when they were youths at college together,
he had delighted in putting every form of difficult and intricate case
of conscience he could think of to the budding priest, who, for his
part, had never shirked the challenge.
"Everything is to be ruled upon its own merits. Moral certainty in such
a matter as this is nothing, and counts for nothing. We must have
clear, authenticated, documentary proof."
"I have often wondered," went on Grantley Wagram slowly, "how Everard
could really be my son; there was a total absence about him of every
sort of seeming relationship or affinity. Well, well, it is too late to
dwell upon that now. Yet I gave him every chance, and he threw it from
him. Did I not give him every chance?"
"You did indeed; you have nothing to reproach yourself with under that
head."
"Then, as a matter of conscience, I am justified in resisting the claim
_de haut en bas_? And I don't know who could be a better authority in
that department than you, old friend."
"Absolutely and entirely you are. You can't as a juror conscientiously
hang a man on moral certainty, you must have legal certainty--otherwise
clear evidence. It's the same here. When you consider the enormous
stake involved the principle of `the benefit of the doubt' holds good
more than ever."
"Knowing what I knew," resumed the Squire after a brief pause--"knew, or
at any rate was morally certain of--I reckoned it my duty to make a
second marriage, to obviate all possibility of Hilversea passing to a
distant and apostate branch of the family, which stands in no sort of
need of it, by the way, being as well endowed with this world's goods as
I am myself. How disadvantageous that second marriage turned out--well,
you, old friend, will remember. And the only result spells--Everard.
Why, it might even be better for everything to go to the other branch
than to him."
"So far as we have got it doesn't follow that it need go to either. You
were saying something just now, Grantley, about your first wife being in
possession of certificates proving this man's, Develin Hunt's, death.
Now, did you ever see anything of the sort attesting his marriage to
her?"
"No; I never thought of it. No; I never saw any such certificate. The
poor thing admitted that it had taken place; and that was enough for me,
for it was a painful business, so I made it worth his while to clear
out."
"You committed an error of judgment, Grantley, not only in failing to
require such a certificate and establishing its genuineness, but also in
omitting to institute a thorough and searching inquiry into the
antecedents of this Develin Hunt prior to the alleged marriage."
"You think, then, that such may not have been valid?"
"I am not in a position to think; I only know--we both know--that such
things have happened. This man, you say, has led an adventurous life in
various parts of the world. Who knows what experiences it may hold, any
one of which would invalidate this alleged marriage, thereby rendering
yours valid?"
"Ah-h!"
Grantley Wagram drew a long breath as he straightened himself up in his
chair; his face lightened.
"In that case Wagram would be safe," he said.
"Safe as yourself; but it doesn't do to build too much on such an
uncertain foundation. Still, what I should do in your place would be to
take steps immediately to have this man's past traced. Of course, the
lapse of years will have added enormously to the difficulties of the
search, but by sparing no expense, and setting the right people to work,
the thing ought to be feasible, I imagine."
"I had thought of some such plan myself; but two heads are better than
one--by Jove, they are! I'll set to work about it directly; but
meanwhile this fellow threatens to call round for his price."
"When?"
"In a few days, he said, whatever that may mean; and it's about a week
ago now."
"Wait till he does call, then. But, of course, you won't pay him any
`price.' Give him rope instead--and plenty of it."
"Yes; I shall require the certificate of his marriage, and it will be
easy to verify it, unless, of course, it took place out of England--then
it will be more difficult."
"Not necessarily. It will take more time, and I don't know that that's
altogether an unmixed evil--the gaining of time in an important and
critical matter seldom is. By the way--er--I suppose Mrs Wagram never
informed you where it had taken place?"
"No. You see, the whole thing came as more than something of a shock,
and we agreed never to refer to it. Heavens! my working life was spent
in defeating the wiles of the potential enemies of my country, and when
it became a question of my own nearest affairs I seem to have acted the
part of a very complete and unsophisticated idiot."
"Not an uncommon thing, my dear Grantley. I seem to remember more than
one instance of an eminent judge or counsel whose will, drawn by
himself, was productive of a fruitful crop of lawsuits. But now you
have not got to let yourself get flurried or out of hand in the matter.
This man, from your account of him, seems to be a singularly confident
and level-headed type of adventurer. If his position is as secure as he
would have you believe, why, then, he can afford to play a waiting game,
and will be too much of a man of the world to spoil his own play by
hurrying yours. If he shows an unwillingness to play the said waiting
game, why, then, I think he will be giving away his own hand, which in
that case is sure to be weak."
"That's sound wisdom," said the Squire, "and I'll act upon it. I'll put
it to him straight that, until I've had time to have inquiries made,
I'll do nothing for him."
"Meanwhile don't give him a shilling."
"Oh no; certainly not. In any case I should never dream of embarking on
that idiocy over again."
"I suppose you have let drop no hint of that matter to Wagram?"
"No hint. If anything comes of it, why, he'll know soon enough--if
nothing, why disturb him? And--Wagram is so ultra conscientious. He'd
never have done for the Diplomatic Service."
Both laughed, but it was somewhat mirthlessly.
"There is Wagram," went on the Squire as a step and a whistled bar or
two sounded outside; and then the door opened.
"Ah! how are you, Monsignor? They told me you had arrived."
The old prelate's keen, kindly glance took in the man before him as they
shook hands, and there was sadness in his heart, though sign thereof did
not appear. Yes; he took in the tall, straight form and the refined,
thoughtful face, and realised what a blow hung over their owner. Should
it fall, how would he take it? How? He thought he knew. But--it would
be terrible, disastrous, ruinous. Heaven in mercy avert it!
"What do you think, father?" said Wagram as they were seated at lunch.
"You remember that fellow who escaped from that wreck we were reading
about the other day--the fellow with the quaint name--Develin
Something--ah, Hunt--that was it? Well, he's staying in Bassingham.
Charlie Vance pointed him out to me. Says he's stopping at the Golden
Crown. Funny, isn't it?"
"Very. That's the man at whose expense you perpetrated that infamous
pun, isn't it, Wagram?" answered the Squire, with a twinkle of the eyes,
and as complete an _insouciance_ as though the man's very existence were
not a matter of life and death to them.
"Well, I wasn't as bad as Haldane. I only fired it off once; but
Haldane--you know, Monsignor, Haldane spent the rest of the day
suggesting to everyone within hail that a chap named Develin Hunt must
have had a bad time throughout life in that he would be continually in
the way of being told that he had the Develin him."
"Capital--capital!" said Monsignor Culham, with a hearty laugh. "I read
the case in the papers at the time. And what sort of a fellow did this
shipwrecked mariner strike you as being, Wagram?"
"Oh, he looked a hard-bitten, unscrupulous sort of pirate. They say
he's been a West African back-country trader--a life, I imagine, likely
to turn a man that way."
The prelate laughed again, so did the Squire. Thus admirably did they
keep their own counsel these two finished old diplomats. But--beneath!