A MAN WHO NEVER FORGAVE.
To the address thus obtained by her--her uncle being now well on the
road to recovery--Miss Baynard went next afternoon in a hackney-coach,
accompanied by her maid.
Mr. McManus, a little, old, and very snuffy man, with a shrewd but
kindly expression, readily furnished her with the information asked
for, after Nell had introduced herself and told him for what purpose
she wanted it.
"Ah, poor lass! I'm sadly afraid she's not long for this world,"
remarked the old fellow with a melancholy shake of the head, in
allusion to Dick's widow.
"Is she so ill as that?" queried Nell, thoroughly shocked.
"Aye, that is she. Long afore next year at this time the daisies'll be
growin' over her grave. She caught a chill last Christmas, and it
settled on her chest, which was always delicate, and now--why now, as
I say, all the doctors in the world couldn't set her on her feet
again."
"I cannot tell you how grieved I am to hear this. And the boy--her
child--what of him?"
"Oh, he's as right as a trivet. A famous young shaver, and no mistake.
There's nothing the matter with him."
Miss Baynard drove direct from Holborn to the address given her, which
was Lawn Cottage, Chelsea. There Marjory Cortelyon rented a couple of
rooms, a middle-aged widow, Mrs. Mardin by name, being at once her
landlady and her nurse.
Nell, having sent in her name, was presently admitted to the invalid's
little sitting-room, with its pleasant outlook across a wide sweep of
sunny meadows, long ago covered with bricks and mortar.
The ex-actress lay on a couch near the window, a frail figure, wasted
by illness to little more than skin and bone. That she had been very
pretty once on a time was still plainly evident, and in her large,
lustrous eyes, sunken though they were, Nell read something which went
direct to her heart. There had never been anything meretricious or
tawdry about her, otherwise Dick Cortelyon would not have made her his
wife. She had been good and pure, and, in her way, a lady.
Nell, after pausing on the threshold for a couple of seconds while she
took in the scene, went quickly forward and, dropping on one knee by
the couch, bent over and kissed the dying woman. Tears dimmed her
eyes, and a few moments passed before a word would come. Indeed,
Marjory was the first to speak. At the touch of Nell's lips her ivory
cheeks flushed, and a lovely smile played for a few seconds round her
mouth. "My Dick loved you very dearly, and no wonder," she said
softly. "I have often longed to see you, and I'm sure I shall die
happier now that I have done so."
Nell's visit lasted upwards of an hour. She explained to Marjory how
it happened that she had been unable either to communicate with her or
to visit her before. Greatly to her disappointment, young Evan was
from home, he having been taken into the country to spend a few days
with a married sister of Marjory's, but Nell was told that if she
chose to come again in a week's time he would then be back, and this
she promised herself that she certainly would do.
By and by Nell said: "And now, Marjory dear, you must allow me to
renew the offer made by me in the letter which failed to find you.
Although you do not see your way to accept pecuniary help from Mr.
Cortelyon, there is no reason in the world why you should not accept
it from me, and I am quite sure that if poor dear Dick could speak to
you from the grave he would agree with all I say. That he left you
very poorly off, although through no fault of his own, I know full
well. Therefore, I say again, why not----"
The sick woman held up one of her transparent hands. "You are kindness
itself, Miss Baynard," she said, "and were I in want of help, you
would be the first person to whom I would appeal; but I am not in want
of anything. I have everything I need, and more, thanks to the
generosity of Mr. Geoffrey Dare."
"Of Mr. Geoffrey Dare?" echoed Nell.
"Did Dick never speak of him to you?"
"Not to my knowledge; but you must remember that when Dick first came
to London I was hardly out of the schoolroom, and that we saw very
little of him at Stanbrook afterwards, before that last visit of all,
with its unhappy ending."
"Well, my husband and Geoff Dare--we always used to call him and speak
of him as 'Geoff'--were like brothers (not that all brothers hit it
off together by any means), and of all Dick's many fine friends he was
the only that was in the secret of our wedding. It was a secret he
told to nobody, and when Dick's father cast him off and hard times
came, he remained just the same Geoff that he had always been; not the
least bit of change did we ever find in him. Then, when my child was
born, nothing would suit him but that he must stand godfather to it.
All through Dick's illness, which lasted a matter of four months,
he would leave his gayeties and engagements at the other end of
the town--we were living at that time in a couple of rooms in
Clerkenwell--and come two or three times a week to sit with him and
cheer him up. And when all was over, it was his money that helped to
bury my husband, and it was on his arm that I leaned as I stood by the
grave-side--he and I by our two selves. Is there any one like him in
the world, I wonder?"
She sank back exhausted; but a little wine and water which Miss
Baynard proceeded to administer speedily revived her.
Then said Nell: "Judging from what you tell me, Mr. Dare must indeed
be a friend among a thousand, and for what he has done for you and
yours I honor and respect him. Now, however, that you and I have found
each other, there is no reason why you should any longer burden his
generosity. You and I, my dear Marjory, are cousins; Dick and I, as
you know, loved each other like brother and sister; consequently, it
is to me, and to me only, that you and Evan ought to look in time to
come."
A faint smile, it might almost be termed a smile of amusement, lighted
up the sick woman's face. "'Tis very evident that you don't know Geoff
Dare, or you would not talk like that," she said. "Why, merely for me
to hint at such a thing would turn him into a thundercloud, and then
there would be an explosion fit to bring the roof off. Oh, he has a
fine temper of his own, I can tell you! And besides and worse than
all, it would cut him to the quick, and that is what I would never be
a party to doing. Then again, dear Miss Baynard, it isn't as if he was
a poor man. In that case what you urge would bear twice thinking
about. But Geoff is anything but poor, although--so Dick used to
say--far over-fond of the gaming table and the race-course, like most
young bucks of the day."
Nell sat silent, if not convinced. The ground, so to speak, had been
cut from under her, and she was at a loss what to say next.
Presently Mrs. Cortelyon spoke again. "While we are talking about Mr.
Dare, there is something else with which he is concerned that I may as
well tell you about, as my doing so may perhaps prevent any
misunderstanding in time to come."
She closed her eyes for a few seconds while she inhaled her
smelling-salts. Then she went on:
"Although both the doctor and Mrs. Mardin try to keep the truth from
me, I am not deceived. That my days are numbered, that a very few
weeks will bring the end, I know full well--and Mr. Dare knows it too.
The last time he was here I challenged him with the truth, and he
could not deny it. It was the uncertainty about my child's future,
which lay like a dead weight at my heart, that impelled me to do so.
But he--God bless him for it!--at once put my mind at rest on that
score. He gave me his solemn promise that when I am gone he will act a
father's part by his dead friend's child. He will bring up Evan as if
he were his own son. That the boy is his godson I have already told
you."
"But what if Evan's grandfather should some day change his mind and
want to claim him?" The question sprang to Nell's lips almost before
she knew that it had formed itself in her mind.
An angry light leapt into the young widow's eyes; a spot of vivid red
flamed out in either cheek. For a moment or two she bit her nether lip
hard, as if thereby to control her emotion. Then she said: "If I
thought there was any likelihood of my darling ever falling into the
hands of that cruel and wicked old man, I am quite sure that I should
never rest in my grave. Oh, if only, when I am dead, I may be allowed
to haunt him! But you do not think, do you, dear Miss Baynard, that he
is ever likely to want to claim Evan?"
"One never can tell what may happen. Even the most self-willed people
sometimes see reason to change their mind. My uncle is an old man, and
Evan is his lineal heir. He has neither child nor grandchild but him.
What more natural than that he should some day turn round, hold out
his arms, and say: 'The past is dead and buried. Come to me. You
belong to me and to me only. I am rich, and all that I have is yours?'
What is to hinder such a thing from coming to pass?"
Mrs. Cortelyon remained silent for a few moments as if considering the
picture thus presented to her. Then she said: "When Geoff comes next I
must talk to him about it. You have frightened me. Neither he nor I
have dreamt of such a possibility. When I am dead the child must
disappear, he must be hidden away by Geoff where the Squire, should he
ever want to do so, could not find him. Rather, I truly believe, could
I bear to see Evan stark in his coffin than walking hand in hand with
that flinty-hearted old man. I never hated any one in my life as I
hate him, and I shall keep on hating him after I am dead."
Miss Baynard paid two more visits to Lawn Cottage before the time came
for her and her uncle to go back to Stanbrook. Evan was at home on
both occasions, and on both occasions they went together for a long
walk. The boy took to her from the first. He was a handsome, healthy
child, and--or so it seemed to Nell--wonderfully like what his father
must have been at the same age. She would have liked dearly to take
him and set him down suddenly in front of the Squire, and leave the
rest to Nature's prompting, but such a course was out of the question.
All she could do was to extort a promise from Mrs. Cortelyon that if
that should come to pass which she herself asserted to be inevitable,
and the boy before long be left motherless, then should she, Nell, be
informed, either by Mr. Dare or Mr. McManus, where he could at any
time be found, and should be allowed to have access to him as often as
she might feel disposed to claim the privilege.
When the time came for the two women to say goodbye, both knew that
the parting was a final one, but not a word was said by either to that
effect. Both feigned a cheerfulness which was the last thing in the
heart of either, and it was a relief to both when the ordeal was over
and the door shut between them. Then came the time for tears.
Before leaving town Nell paid a second visit to Mr. McManus, and got
him to promise to write to her as soon as all was over. It was a
promise the old tobacconist faithfully kept, and Nell had only been
six weeks back at home when the fatal tidings reached her.
After a little time given to tears in the solitude of her room, she
dried her eyes and went in search of her uncle. She found him in the
library, dusting and gloating over one of his cases of coins. He
looked up sourly as the door opened. When so engaged he did not like
being interrupted, but for that Nell cared not at all.
Walking directly up to the table, she said without preface: "Uncle,
news has just reached me of the death of poor Dick's widow. She died
of consumption three days ago."
The Squire dropped his duster, and, leaning back in his chair, grasped
an arm of it with either hand, and turned his cold eyes full upon her.
"And pray, Miss Baynard, may I ask in what way the news concerns me?"
He had not called her "Miss Baynard" since her last mention of her
cousin's name more than four years before, and Nell did not forget it.
But she was in no wise daunted.
"If you choose to consider that the death of your son's wife is no
concern of yours, so be it. That is a matter between yourself and your
conscience. But, in case the fact should have escaped your memory, I
may be allowed to remind you that Dick left a child behind him--a
son--who is now both fatherless and motherless."
"And what have I to do with that?"
"Everything. He is your grandson, your sole descendant, your natural
heir. He is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone, and ought to be
dearer to you than all the world beside. Poor Dick died years ago. Why
avenge his fault, if fault it was, on his innocent child? Think,
uncle, think and----"
He brought down his fist heavily on the table. "Think, girl, say'st
thou? Zounds! there's no need for me to think. My mind was made up
long ago, and nothing thou can'st urge will move me from it. I tell
thee, my grandson is no more to me than the veriest beggar's brat that
crawls in a London gutter. Never will I acknowledge him, or have aught
to do with him in any way. And if thou hast any regard left for me, or
any care for my displeasure, thou wilt never speak of him in my
presence again. As thou ought to have found out by now, I am a man who
never forgives."