"NOBODY OF NOWHERE."
Had Wagram been a sufferer from weakness of heart it is highly probable
that he would have fallen down dead there and then.
The shock was sudden and complete. As he stood gazing out through the
open window its full meaning swept over his mind as in a very flash of
blasting flame. He, Wagram of Hilversea, whose intense pride in and
love of his noble inheritance and the almost illimitable opportunity for
good which the position entailed upon him were as the very breath of
life, now learned, all in a moment of time, that he was in reality
Nobody of Nowhere--that he had not even a name. It seemed as though the
very heavens had fallen upon him, crushing him to the dust.
"Not a soul need ever be one atom the wiser. It's strictly between
ourselves."
It was the adventurer's voice that had broken the awful silence. Wagram
turned, wearily.
"You have proof of what you advance, I take it--sufficient and
convincing proof?" he said.
"Oh yes; abundant. Look at this," exhibiting a marriage certificate of
many years back. "You can go down and compare notes with the original
parish register; it isn't a very long journey from here. Besides, your
father will bear out what I say."
Again the old man nodded feebly. He seemed incapable of speech.
Wagram took the certificate and examined it earnestly. It was from the
register of a parish in a small county town. Then he handed it back.
"What have you received as hush-money over this business?" he said.
"Not a farthing until to-day. But the Squire has been very liberal, and
has behaved like a thorough gentleman. You may rely upon it that no
word will ever pass my lips."
"May I see the cheque?"
"Certainly."
Develin Hunt produced the cheque, intending to keep a firm hold of it
while the other scanned its contents; but, marvellous to relate, he
actually and deliberately placed it in Wagram's outstretched hand. The
latter looked at it.
"Twenty-five thousand pounds!" he said. "I suppose you are greatly in
need of money?"
"Greatly isn't the word for it," answered the adventurer quickly. "I'm
stony broke--and the worst of it is, I'm too old to be able to make any
more."
"Destroy it, Wagram, destroy it!" burst from the old Squire. "He's
broken his side of the contract already."
The adventurer was conscious of a tense and anxious moment. He was
fully aware, as we have said above, that the payment could be stopped by
wire; still, while he actually held the document itself, he seemed to be
holding something substantial. Wagram handed it back unhesitatingly.
"No, father," he said; "it has been given, and we can't take back a
gift; and if anyone is the loser it will be me."
"No, it will not," declared the adventurer with vehemence. "No,
certainly not. And--pardon me, Squire, for reminding you that I have
_not_ broken my side of the compact. Your son forced the information
from me--very unfortunately, but still he did. But nobody else ever
will if only you could bring yourselves to believe it. Come. Remember
how, for all these years, I have kept absolute silence, even to
Everard--though I have been seeing him day after day--in fact, for a
devilish sight more days than I wanted to. Well, then, why should I
begin to wag my tongue now?"
"Only to Everard?" repeated Wagram. "Then you've seen him?"
"Seen him? Rather! Seen a great deal too much of him. I don't mind
admitting that, if I hadn't been a sight smarter man for my age than he
reckoned, I should have had six inches of his knife between my ribs one
time."
"Where is he?" said Wagram.
"Ah-h! Now you're asking for some information it wouldn't be a bit good
for you to have, so I think I'll withhold it in your own interest--
purely in your own interest, mind."
Wagram was about to reply, but did not. The adventurer went on:
"Don't let this knowledge make any difference to you. I give you my
word of honour--though, I daresay, you won't think much of that--that
this secret shall die with me. You have both treated me handsomely and
fairly and squarely in this matter, and, so help me God! I'll do the
same by you. Wagram Wagram, you might have torn up that cheque when I
put it into your hand, as the Squire there advised you, though I know he
was speaking without thought when he did. But it was with the knowledge
that no more honourable man treads this green and blue world than
yourself that I did put it there. Well, then, I swear to you that what
I told the Squire on a former occasion is absolutely true. I have a
hankering to end up my days decently and respectably, and, perhaps, in
the long run this will turn out not the least amount of good of all the
good you have done in your time, and I have some sort of inkling what
that is. Now I'll go, and once more I say you'll never hear of me
again."
He rose, and, with a bow to both, walked to the door. No attempt was
made to detain him this time.
"I'll just see this gentleman out, father," said Wagram. "I won't be a
moment." The Squire nodded.
But Wagram had something further in his mind than merely seeing an
exceedingly unwelcome visitor off the premises. He made a commonplace
remark or two until they were clear of the house; then, once fairly in
the avenue, where the ground was open around, and no chance of being
overheard, he said again:
"Where is he? Where is my brother?"
The adventurer's answer was the same.
"You had better not know," he said.
"But--I must."
"But--why? Have you gained anything by being too curious before?
Didn't I warn you to leave it alone--that there might be things it were
better that you should not know? This is another of them. Leave it
alone, I say. `Where ignorance is bliss,' you know. Well, in this case
it is, believe me."
"That is impossible. What sort of ease of mind, let alone happiness,
could ever travel my way again while every moment of my life was spent
in the consciousness that I was keeping somebody else out of his
rights?"
"His rights! Good Lord! His rights! Now, do you really mean to tell
me that you would abdicate, would turn over all this"--with a sweep of
the hand around--"to Butcher Ned--er--I mean Everard? Why, to begin
with, it would kill your father."
"No; because he could have no rights here--at least not in the sense we
mean--during my father's lifetime. After that, well--"
"After that--well, you would put him in here--would install him in
possession. Good Lord! Wagram Wagram, I can only suppose you don't
know your--er--brother one little bit."
"Not lately, of course. But that doesn't touch the principle of the
thing anyhow."
"Not touch the principle of the thing, eh? Have you reflected what
would be the result of putting Everard in possession here? No; of
course, you haven't. Well, then, you may take it from me that hell let
loose would be a merry little joke compared with Hilversea six months
after that sucking lamb had got his finger on it. I tell you it would
be a by-word for--well, for everything that you, and all decent people,
would rather it were not."
"Have you some grudge against him?" said Wagram.
"Grudge? No; not an atom of a grudge. But, honestly, I'd be sorry--
more than sorry--to see him in your place. I haven't any grudge against
him; but--I _know_ him, and I don't think you do."
"Possibly not. But if he is all you imply, all the more reason for
finding him out. No one is utterly irreclaimable, you know."
"Pardon me. I don't I would say I know the exact contrary; only that is
a point on which we should certainly disagree. And the first instance I
should cite in proof of that contrary would be your half-brother. Now,
this time be advised by me--you would not before--and leave Everard--
well, exactly wherever he may happen to be."
"No; I cannot do that. We had thought him dead, having heard nothing of
him for years. Now we know he is alive it is--well, my duty to find
him, in view of his future rights and great responsibilities. Now, Mr
Hunt you owned just now that you had been well treated by us, so I put
it to you to make some little return; therefore tell me where Everard is
to be found."
"The return you mention is to bury what I know as surely as if I were
dead, and that you seem determined to prevent me from doing."
"No. Nothing need be known of--of--the other matter any the more. But
Everard must be restored to his rights."
The adventurer stood stock still and stared at Wagram. His experience
had been wide and diverse, yet here was a man who stood clean outside
it. Why, he must be mad; yet as his puzzled glance took in the tall,
straight form and the strong, thoroughbred face, still showing traces of
the recent shock, he shook his head, puzzled, and decided that the man
was as sane as himself, only clean outside his own experience.
"Look here," he said shortly, "supposing in refusing you this
information I am trying to protect myself against myself--oh, not from
Everard, don't think that. He couldn't harm me; the boot, if anything,
is rather on the other foot. Now, I've made a compact with you and your
father, and I mean to keep it, but I've made no compact with Everard.
Yet, I'm only human, and what if you let him in here and I felt moved to
take advantage of it? I have a considerable hold over him, remember,
and might easily be tempted to turn it to account."
"In that case you `might easily be tempted' to turn this other knowledge
to further account as regards ourselves," said Wagram, with a dry, wan
smile.
"No, no; the cases are entirely different," rejoined the adventurer
quickly, and with some vehemence. "Look here. Like yourself, I, too,
have a son, of about the same age as yours. Well, it is for him--to
keep him as far apart as the poles from becoming what Everard and I, and
others, have been--that I am so urgently in need of this money. Now I
can do it, and if I could have done it without your forcing this secret
from me Heaven knows I would have been far more glad."
Wagram softened. "It could not be helped," he said wearily. "And now,
in return, tell me where to find my brother. I don't say I am going to
rush up to him with the good news--for him--all at once; but he must be
found."
The adventurer stood for a moment or two in silence.
"Well, then," he said at last, "since you are so death on finding him,
this is the best--or the worst--I can do for you. Go to Lourenco
Marques and make a few inquiries there--not from the police, of course.
Then, if that's no good, work over the Lebombo into Swaziland, and get
into touch with some of the tougher samples of white traders there--and
there are some tough ones. Then go to work delicately and carefully to
obtain tidings of Butcher Ned--that's how he's known in those parts--
never mind why, as I told the Squire just now. Only be very careful how
you work your inquiries, for he'll be engaged on the most ticklish and
infernally risky game in the gun-running and general information line
for the benefit of the Transvaal Government, unless he's changed his
mind since I saw him last, and I don't think he has. And, honestly, I
hope you won't succeed in finding him, in which case even your scruples,
I should think, would be set at rest. And, perhaps, you won't, for I
certainly can't give you any information that's more explicit; and it's
more than a year old, for I took a look in on the West Coast on my way
back from that part, and it lasted me a year."
"Thanks," said Wagram, again with that dry, wan smile, as he made a note
or two in a pocket-book.
"Now I will go," said Develin Hunt, "and my best wish is that you will
be unsuccessful in your search."
Then he paused, and a strange look--almost a wistful look--came over his
hard, bronzed face.
"Look here, Wagram Wagram," he blurted out, "I've done you a devilish
ill turn, but I needn't have done that if you hadn't been so infernally
persistent. I still hope nothing will come of it; but, hang it all, I
want to tell you before I go that I've never seen a man like you in all
my experience, and it isn't small. I'm going to ask you a great
favour--no, not money this time--and I know you're going to refuse it.
I want to ask you to let me shake hands with you."
Instinctively Wagram started, partly with astonishment. This man, as he
had said, had indeed done him an ill turn. He had, by a word, deprived
him of his possessions and of his very name. He had come as a
blackmailer, and had obtained his blackmail--his price. He had
spoiled--nay, ruined--his very life. And yet, and yet, but for the
grace of God he himself might have been such as he, was the reflection
that ran swiftly through his mind. Who was he to set himself up in
judgment?
"No. You will not?" said the other, noting his hesitation. "Of course,
I ought to have known."
"But I will," said Wagram, putting forth his hand.
The adventurer clasped it in a strong, hard grip. Then without another
word he turned and strode away down the avenue at a most astonishing
pace for one of his apparent years.