Lord Penlyn and his friend and companion, Philip Smerdon, had returned
from their yachting tour, which had embraced amongst other places Le
Vocq, about a fortnight before Walter Cundall arrived in London from
Honduras. The trip had only been meant to be a short one to try the
powers of his new purchase, the _Electra_, but it had been postponed
by the storm to some days over the time originally intended. Since he
had become engaged to Ida Raughton, he naturally hated to be away from
her, and, up till the night before he returned to England, had fretted
a great deal at his enforced absence from her.
But the discovery he had made in the _Livre des Étrangers_ at Le Vocq,
had had such an effect upon his thoughts and mind that, when he
returned to England, he almost dreaded a meeting with her. He was an
honourable, straightforward man, and, with the exception of being
possessed of a somewhat violent and obstinate temper when thwarted in
anything he had set his heart upon, had no perceptible failings. Above
all he hated secrecy, or secrecy's next-door neighbour, untruth; and
it seemed to him that, if not Ida, at least Ida's father, should be
told about the discovery he had made.
"With the result," said Philip Smerdon, who was possessed of a cynical
nature, "that Miss Raughton would be shocked at hearing of your
father's behaviour, and that Sir Paul would laugh at you."
"I really don't see what there is to laugh at in my father being a
scoundrel, as he most undoubtedly was."
"A scoundrel!" Philip echoed.
"Was he not? We have what is almost undoubted proof that he was living
for two summers at that place with some lady who could not have been
his wife, and whom he must have cast off previous to marrying my
mother. And there was the child for whom the landlord took me! He must
have deserted that as well as the woman. And, if a man is not a
scoundrel who treats his offspring as he must have treated that boy, I
don't know the meaning of the word."
"As I have said before, it is highly probable that both of them were
dead before he married your mother."
"Nonsense! That is a very good way for a novelist to make a man get
rid of his encumbrances before settling down to comfortable matrimony,
but not very likely to happen in real life. I tell you I am convinced
that, somewhere or other, the child, if not the mother, is alive, and
it is horrible to me to think that, while I have inherited everything
that the Occleves possessed, this elder brother of mine may be earning
his living in some poor, if not disgraceful, manner."
"The natural children of noblemen are almost invariably well provided
for," Smerdon said quietly; "why should you suppose that your father
behaved worse than most of his brethren?"
"Because, if the estate had been charged with anything I should have
known it. But it was not--not for a farthing."
"He might have handed over to this lady a large sum down for her and
for her son, when they parted."
"Which is also impossible! He was only Gervase Occleve then, and had
nothing but a moderately comfortable allowance from his predecessor,
his uncle. He married my mother almost directly after he became Lord
Penlyn."
This was but one of half-a-dozen conversations that the young men had
held together since their return from France, and Gervase had found
comfort in talking the affair over and over again with his friend.
Philip Smerdon stood in the position to him of old schoolfellow and
playmate, of a 'Varsity friend, and, later on, of companion and
secretary. Had they been brothers they could scarcely have been--would
probably not have been--as close friends as they were.
When they were at Harrow, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford,
they had been inseparable, and, in point of means, entirely on an
equality, Philip's father being a reported, and, apparently,
enormously wealthy contractor in the North. But one day, without the
least warning, without a word from his father or the slightest
stopping of his allowance, he learnt, by a telegram in a paper, that
his parent had failed for a stupendous sum, and was undoubtedly ruined
for ever. The news turned out to be true, and Philip knew that,
henceforth, he would have to earn his own living instead of having a
large income to spend.
"Thank God!" he said, in those days, "that I am not quite a fool, and
have not altogether wasted my time. There must be plenty of ways in
which a Harrow and Oxford man can earn a living, and I mean to try. I
have got my degrees, and I suppose I could do something down at the
old shop (meaning the old University, and with no disrespect
intended), or get pupils, or drift into literature--though they say
that means starvation of the body and mortification of the spirit."
"First of all," said Penlyn, who in that time was the counsellor, and
not, as he afterwards became, the counselled, "see a bit of the world,
and come along with me to the East. When you come back, you will be
still better fitted than you are now for doing something or other--and
you are young enough to spare a year."
"Still, it seems like wasting time--and, what's worse!--it's sponging
on you."
"Sponging! Rubbish! You don't think I am going alone, do you? And if
you don't come, somebody else will! And you know, old chap, I'd sooner
have you than any one else in the world."
"All right, Jerry," his friend said, "I'll come and look after you."
But when they found themselves in the East, it turned out that the
"looking after" had to be done by Penlyn, instead of by Philip. The
one was always well, the other always ill. From the time they got to
Cairo, it seemed as if every malady that can afflict a man in those
districts fell upon Smerdon. At Thebes he had a horrible low fever,
from which he temporarily recovered, but at Constantine he was again
so ill, that his friend thought he would never bring him away alive.
Nor, but for his own exertions, would he ever have done so, and the
mountain city would have been his grave. But Gervase watched by his
side day and night, was his nurse and doctor too (for the grave Arab
physician did nothing but prescribe cooling drinks for him and herbal
medicines), bathed him, fanned him, and at last brought him, though
weak as a child, back to life.
"How am I ever to repay this?" the sick man said, as he sat up one
evening, gazing out on the Algerian mountains and watching the sun
sink behind them. "What can I ever do in acknowledgment of your having
saved my life?"
"Get thoroughly well, and then we'll go home as fast as we can. And
don't talk bosh about repayment."
"Bosh! Do you call it that? Well, I don't suppose I ever shall be able
to do anything in return, but I should like to have the chance. As a
rule, I don't talk bosh, I believe, though no one is a judge of
themselves. Do give me another drink of that lemon-water, Jerry, the
thirst is coming on again."
"Which comes of talking nonsense, so shut up!" his friend answered, as
he handed him the drink.
"It does seem hard, though, that instead of my being your companion as
I came out to be, you should have to always----"
"Now look here, Phil, my friend," Gervase said, "if you _don't_ leave
off talking, I'll call the doctor." This threat was effectual, for the
native physician had such unpleasant personal peculiarities that
Philip nearly went mad whenever he entered the room.
Four years have passed since that excursion to the East and the time
when Gervase Occleve is the affianced husband of Ida Raughton, but the
friendship of these two has only grown more firm. On their return to
England, Lord Penlyn offered his friend the post of his secretary
combined with steward, which at that moment was vacant by the death of
the previous holder. "But companion as well," he said laughingly, "I
am not going to have you buried alive at Occleve Chase when I want
your society in London, nor _vice versâ_, so you had better find a
subordinate."
Smerdon took the post, and no one could say with any truth that his
friendship for Lord Penlyn stood in the way of his doing his duty to
him as his secretary. He made himself thoroughly master of everything
concerning his friend's property--of his tenants and his servants; he
knew to a head the cattle belonging to him, and what timber might be
marked annually, and regulated not only his country estate but also
his town house. And, that his friend should not lose the companionship
which he evidently prized so dearly, he thought nothing of travelling
half the night from Occleve Chase to London, and of appearing fresh
and bright at the breakfast table. For, so deeply had Penlyn's
goodness to him in all things sunk into his heart, that he never
thought he had done enough to show his gratitude.
Of course in society it was known that, wherever Lord Penlyn went his
friend went also, and no doors were shut to the one that were open to
the other, or would have been shut had Philip chosen. But he cared
little for fashionable doings, and refused to accompany his friend to
many of the balls and dinners to which he went.
"Leave me alone in peace to read and smoke," he would say, "and go out
and enjoy yourself. I shall be just as happy as you are." And when he
learned that Ida Raughton had consented to be Lord Penlyn's wife he
told him that he was sincerely glad to hear it. "A man in your
position wants a wife," he said, "and you have found a good one in
her, I am sure. You will be as happy as I could wish you, and that is
saying a good deal."
They had been busy this morning--the morning after Lady Chesterton's
ball--in going over their accounts, and in making arrangements for
their visit, in the forthcoming Ascot week, to Sir Paul's villa, near
the Royal course. Then, while they had paused for a few moments to
indulge in a cigarette, the conversation had again turned upon that
discovery at Le Vocq.
"I tell you what I do mean to do," Penlyn said, "I mean to go and see
Bell. Although he could have known nothing of what was going on thirty
years ago, he may have heard his father say something on the subject.
They have been our solicitors for years."
"It is only letting another person into the story, as he probably
knows nothing about it," Philip said. "I wouldn't go, if I were you."
"I will, though," Penlyn answered; and he did.
Mr. Bell was a solicitor of the modern type that is so vastly
different from the old one. Thirty years ago, when our fathers went to
consult the family lawyer, they saw either an elderly gentleman with a
shaved upper lip and decorous mutton-chop whiskers, or a young man,
also with his lip shaved, and clad in a solemn suit of black. But all
that is passed, and Mr. Bell was an excellent specimen of the
solicitor of to-day. He wore a neatly waxed moustache, had a
magnificent gardenia in his well-cut morning coat, and received Lord
Penlyn in a handsomely furnished room that might almost have passed
for the library of a gentleman of taste. And, had his client been a
few years older, they would probably have known each other well at
Oxford, for Mr. Bell himself had been a John's man, and had been well
known at the debating rooms.
He listened to his client's story, smiling faintly once or twice, at
what seemed to his worldly mind, too much remorse for his father's sin
on the part of Lord Penlyn, then he said:
"I never even knew your father, but I should think the whole affair a
simple one, and an ordinary version of the old story."
"What old story?"
"The story of a person of position---- Forgive me, Lord Penlyn, we are
men of the world" (he said "we," though he considered his client as
the very reverse of "a man of the world"), "and can speak plainly; the
story of a person of position taking up with some woman who was his
inferior and flattered by his attentions, amusing himself with her
till he grew tired, and then--dropping her."
"To starve with her--with his offspring!"
"I should imagine not!" Mr. Bell said with an airy cynicism that made
him appear hateful to his young client. "No, I should imagine not! The
ladies who attach themselves to men of your father's position
generally know how to take very good care of themselves. You may
depend that this one was either provided for before she agreed to
throw in her lot with him, or afterwards."
The lawyer's opinion was the same as Philip's, and they both seemed to
look upon the affair as a much less serious one than it appeared to
him! Were they right, and was he making too much out of this
peccadillo of his father's?
"And you can tell me nothing further?" he asked the solicitor.
"What can I tell you?" the lawyer said. "I never saw the late Lord
Penlyn, and scarcely ever heard my father mention him. If you like I
will have all the papers relative to him gone through; but it is
thirty years ago! If the lady is alive and had wanted anything, she
would surely have turned up by now. And I may say the same of the
son."
"He may not even know the claim he has."
"Claim! my lord, what claim? He has no claim on you."
"Has he not? Has he not the claim of brotherhood, the claim that my
father deserted his mother? I tell you, Mr. Bell, that if I could find
that man I would make him the greatest restitution in my power."
The lawyer looked upon Lord Penlyn, when he heard these words, as a
Quixotic young idiot, but of course he did not say so. It occurred to
him that, in all probability, his father had had more than one affair
of this kind, and he wondered grimly what his romantic young client
would say if he heard, by chance, of any more of them. But he did
promise to go through all the papers in his possession relating to the
late lord, and to see about this particular case. "Though I warn you,"
he said, "that I am not likely to find anything that can throw any
light upon an affair of so long ago. And, as a lawyer, I must say that
it is not well that such a dead and gone business should ever be dug
up again."
"I would dig it up," Lord Penlyn answered, "for the sake of justice."
Then he went away, leaving the lawyer's mind wavering between contempt
and admiration for him.
"He must be a good young fellow at heart, though," Mr. Bell said to
himself; "but the world will spoil him."
Two nights afterwards Penlyn received a letter from him, saying that
there was not the slightest trace in any of the Occleve papers in his
possession of the persons about whom they had spoken. Moreover, Mr.
Bell said he had gone through a great many of the accounts of the late
Lord Penlyn, and of his uncle and predecessor, but in no case could he
find any evidence of the Hon. Gervase having ever exceeded his income,
or, when he succeeded to the property, of having drawn any large sum
of money for an unknown purpose. "And," he concluded, "I should advise
your lordship to banish the whole affair for ever from your mind. If
your father really had the intimacy imagined by you with that lady,
time has removed all signs of it; and, even though you might be
willing to do so, it would be impossible for you now to obtain any
information about it."