LORD NUNNELEY IS FRANK
"I asked you to lunch at the club, Deane," said Lord Nunneley, "because
I thought that we could talk here without being interrupted. If you came
to Cavendish Square, Olive would walk you right away from the table, and
if I asked to have a chat with you alone, there would be a perfect
avalanche of questions to face."
Deane looked up a little curiously. For the first time he realized that
this was not simply a casual invitation. His prospective father-in-law
had really something to say to him.
"There was some matter which you wished to discuss, then?" Deane asked.
"I need scarcely say that I am quite at your service."
[Illustration: "There was some matter which you wished to discuss,
then?" Deane asked.]
Lord Nunneley passed his cigarette-case across the table. They were
nearing the end of a very excellent luncheon. "Well," he said, "there
were a few things I wanted to say to you. You see, Deane, the city is no
longer a mythical place to us idlers. We meet people whose life is
centred in money-making, every day. I have friends, friends beside
yourself, who come from Lombard Street, and one hears things, gossip, I
mean, and stray talk."
Deane seemed suddenly to recede into himself. His host noticed the
change, and blamed himself for his want of tact. Nevertheless, as he had
begun, so he went on.
"You see, Deane," he continued, "Olive is my only daughter, and it makes
one more than ordinarily cautious. This blackmailing case of yours has
set people talking a bit. Of course, I think you were right. It was a
brave and sportsmanlike thing to do. The man is committed for trial, and
I only hope he'll get penal servitude. All the same, there are a lot of
people, you know, Deane, who don't take quite the same view of it."
"Naturally," Deane assented. "One can scarcely occupy such a position as
mine without having enemies. There are wheels within wheels in the
financial world, you know, Lord Nunneley, just as there are in the
social world. There are a dozen men who covet my post, and as many
hundreds of hangers-on and parasites who would be glad to see me out of
it."
"Quite so," returned Lord Nunneley. "Of course, this man Hefferom's
attitude was distinctly belligerent, and his solicitors evidently knew
what they were talking about when they reserved his defence. Tell me,
when Sinclair came to you first had he really any papers at all which
were likely to cause you embarrassment?"
"He had an original claim to the Little Anna Gold-Mine," Deane admitted,
"but it had lapsed before I took possession. It was not worth the paper
it was written on."
"Still, he had got that document?" Lord Nunneley asked.
"Without a doubt," Deane answered.
"You have no idea, I suppose, what became of it?" Lord Nunneley asked.
"Not the slightest," replied Deane. "I only know that it was not found
among his effects."
"Would it have been of any interest to you to secure it?" Lord Nunneley
continued.
"I would have given a few hundred--perhaps a few thousand--pounds for
it," Deane answered, "partly as a curiosity, partly in order to save any
possible trouble."
"Of course," Lord Nunneley said, leaning back in his chair and sipping
his coffee, "the world is full of people who love to gossip, and you
cannot gossip unless you invent ill about someone. Somehow or other, it
never amuses people to talk good of their friends; conversation only
becomes interesting when one can associate evil with them. There are
things being said in connection with this Hefferom affair, Deane, which
are not altogether pleasant."
"Go on," said Deane.
"For instance," his host continued, "I was told last night that
Hefferom's tale was in substance true,--he did advance this man Sinclair
money to come to England and assert his right to the Little Anna
Gold-Mine. Sinclair was murdered with this deed in his possession, and
it is freely whispered that you have befriended Rowan--his murderer. The
paper has disappeared. We know that. Still, there is a further rumor
that it may turn up at his trial. In that case, wouldn't you be rather
badly hit?"
Deane shrugged his shoulders. "The exact facts are these," he said.
"Sinclair's claim to the Little Anna Gold-Mine is worth very little.
Nevertheless, he knew that any action he might take against me in the
present state of our money market here would be somewhat disastrous. It
would upset our credit and bring down our prices. Therefore, his idea,
without a doubt, was to come to England and make a bargain with me. He
didn't expect the mine. What he wanted was blood money. He came, and,
perhaps unwisely, I would have nothing to do with him. Rowan was known
to both of us out there. He came to see me a few days afterwards, and I
commissioned him to buy this deed, if he could. He went to look for
Sinclair, they drank together, an old quarrel was revived, and they
fought. The end of that you know. Where the document has gone to, I
can't imagine, but I can assure you that it was never meant to be the
basis of a serious claim, merely the foundation stone of a perfect
system of blackmailing. If I had listened for five minutes to Hefferom I
should have been in his power all my life. I should have lost my
self-respect. Very soon I should have lost my nerve. I couldn't do it. I
preferred to face him in a court of justice. He came to blackmail me,
and he deserved to be punished. If he can prove that it is I who am the
ill-doer, I will take my punishment. I can say no more."
"You talk," Lord Nunneley said, looking at him kindly, "as I would have
my own son talk. And yet, Deane, this whole affair is distressing to me.
I tell you frankly that it has upset all the pleasure with which I
consented to your engagement. I cannot bear that anyone associated with
Olive should ever find himself in such a position. This case, of course,
may go all in your favor, or it may not. If it does not, well, you know
very well that it would be the beginning of very unpleasant things."
"Does Olive know of this little luncheon party of ours, Lord Nunneley?"
Deane asked.
"She does not," Lord Nunneley asserted. "Olive is, above all things,
staunch. She is, I believe, too, sincerely attached to you. I am
speaking entirely for myself. I am speaking, too, as the father of an
only daughter, whose engagement to you was, after all, a little
experimental. I should like to see my daughter released from that
engagement, Deane."
Deane smoked steadily for several minutes. Finally, "This is a little
hard on me, isn't it, sir? I have only done what you yourself would have
done--refused to have underhand dealings with men who made dishonorable
propositions to me."
"It is hard on you, Deane," Lord Nunneley declared. "It is very hard
indeed. But remember, I never wanted Olive to marry anyone in the city.
I know you, and I like you. If you came to me with your hands clean and
plenty of money, I should not hesitate for a second, for I believe that
Olive likes you. But I hate scandal, I hate gossip, I hate notoriety!
This blackmailing case of yours is going to result in all three. I'd
like to go home and lay the case before Olive, and have your permission
to say that if it seems good to her mother and myself, the engagement
between you two is broken."
Deane leaned back in his chair. It seemed to him that he had so little
time to give to thoughts outside the immediate trend of the day's work.
It was proposed that his engagement with Olive should be broken. What
did it mean to him, this engagement? How far into his life had she come?
What place did she hold in his heart? His thoughts travelled backwards.
He remembered his almost meteor-like accession to wealth and influence.
He remembered how all doors had flown open to him. He remembered and
realized exactly where he stood. He thought of Lady Olive. He remembered
the first day when he had decided that she was the woman who would look
well at the head of his table, who would be a pleasant companion for
him, and would insure his having friends, when he gave up his
struggling, amongst, the class of people with whom he desired to
associate. It was in that way that he had looked at it from the first.
Was it the same now? He had touched her hands. He had even kissed her
lips. She had come into his arms and allowed him to embrace her, without
any obvious reluctance. Only a few weeks ago she had kissed him
voluntarily, absolutely of her own will. During their fortnight in
Scotland she had shown herself more feminine than he had ever believed
her. She had insisted upon taking him for walks by herself. She had
taken his arm, encouraged him to make love to her, had deserted the
bridge table in the evenings to sit in dark corners with him, had
allowed him to hold her hand, even to snatch a few kisses. If she did
not care for him, at least she was very near it. And as for him,--he was
fond of her, without a doubt. Somewhere in the background of his
apprehension there was some shadowy idea of a greater thing than this, a
love more thrilling, more passionate, more mysterious,--music in the
veins, which no Lady Olive in the world had ever created. But there was
about these thoughts something absolutely unreal, fantastic. They had
never taken to themselves shape, never become associated with any human
being. They were nothing to trust to, he told himself,--nothing. He
looked out of the rain-swept window of the club. Curiously enough, he
had a sudden vision of Winifred Rowan's quiet, set face. The memory of
one passionate moment seemed suddenly to creep along his heartstrings
like the wind over the strings of a harp. Such folly, he thought,
frowning! Such absolute folly!
"Lord Nunneley," he said at last, "I am only anxious to do what Lady
Olive wishes. If you will go home and tell her exactly what you have
told me, I should like you to add that it is only her happiness that I
wish, and that if she desires to release me, I shall accept her decision
without a murmur."
Lord Nunneley played with his coffee-spoon nervously. "I knew you'd say
something like that, Deane," he said. "Of course, it will not be easy. I
believe that my daughter is really fond of you, and our influence over
her, both her mother's and mine, is somewhat limited. You wouldn't feel
inclined, I suppose, to come over to our side, to realize that under the
circumstances an alliance between you and her could scarcely be a
satisfactory thing,--in short, to encourage her to bring it to an end?"
"In other words," Deane said, "you propose that instead of suffering
myself to be jilted by Lady Olive, I should offer myself as a victim?"
"It's asking a good deal, I know," Lord Nunneley said, "and, of course,
it all depends upon how you feel about it. But I tell you frankly, I
can't help thinking--you must realize a little that this blackmailing
case, even if it turns out well, is bound to put a different complexion
upon things."
"You must convince Lady Olive of that," Deane said. "I am ready to
accept my dismissal, but you must forgive me if I decline to do anything
to facilitate it. On the contrary, I shall insist upon seeing Lady Olive
before she absolutely decides. I shall not plead with her--you need not
be afraid of that--but I shall want to be quite sure that there has been
no misunderstanding of any sort."
"There is no time like the present," Lord Nunneley said. "Drive home
with me, and we will interview my daughter at once."
* * * * *
She heard all that her father had to say, listened to him gravely and
attentively. Then she turned to Deane. "And you?" she asked. "What do
you say to it all?"
"My dear Olive," said Deane, "it amounts to this. I am to be the hero or
victim, as the case may be, of a _cause celebre_. I cannot come out of
it with any considerable credit; I may come out to find myself under
very grave suspicion. I admit that appearances are against me. There
will even be people who will whisper that I sent Rowan from my office as
an assassin to Sinclair, and that the deed he brought with him from
South Africa is in my safe, or at the back of my fire. No one has ever
been free from calumny. I certainly am going to have my share of it. It
may--it very likely will--lessen my prestige. You will find some of your
friends who will talk of the 'Deane Blackmailing Affair,' and who will
never be quite sure whether I was prosecutor or defendant. You will find
all your life my name looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion,
because, in a case of this sort, prosecutor and defendant, and even the
witnesses, are all classed together by that somewhat vague portion of
the public which your friends represent. I admit all this. I also admit
that it would be an act of perfect justice if you should tell me to kiss
your hands and go."
She pointed to the door. "Father," she said, "will you leave us for a
moment? There is something which I have to say to Stirling."