DE MORTUIS
The Home Secretary had never spent a more uncomfortable hour. His
favourite daughter had stanched her tears, and gone straight to the root
of the very delicate matter at issue between them. Much as her tears had
depressed him, however, Mr. Sellwood preferred them to the subsequent
attitude. It was too independent for his old-fashioned notions, and yet
it made him think all the more of Olivia. Indeed she was her father's
child in argument--spirited and keen and fair. His point of view she
took for granted, and proceeded to expound her own. Much that she said
was unanswerable; a little made him fidget--for between the sexes there
is no such shyness as that which a father finds in his heart towards his
grown-up girls. But a certain bluntness of speech was not the least
refreshing trait in Olivia's downright character, and decidedly this was
not a matter to be glossed over with synonyms for a spade. She wanted
to know how the circumstances of the birth affected the value of the
man--and so forth. Mr. Sellwood replied as a man of the world, and
detested his replies. But the worst was his guilty knowledge of Jack's
flight. This made him detest himself; it made him lie; and it filled him
with a relief greater than his surprise when voices came out of the
darkness of the drive, and one of them was Jack's.
Olivia ran forward.
"At last! Oh, Jack, where _have_ you been?"
Mr. Sellwood never heard the answer; he was bristling at the touch of
Dalrymple, who had led him aside.
"Entirely my doing," explained the squatter; "but I can justify it. I
mean to do so at once. Am I right in understanding the bar sinister to
be your only objection to our friend?"
"You may put it so," said Mr. Sellwood shortly.
"Then I shall have the pleasure of removing the objection: the bar
doesn't exist."
"Your grounds for thinking so, Mr. Dalrymple?"
"I don't think. I know. And I'm here to prove what I know. Good heavens,
do you suppose he was no more to me than one of my ordinary station
hands? He was the son--at all events, the stepson--of one of my oldest
friends."
"The stepson! May I ask the name of your friend?"
"It is unnecessary. You have guessed it. I have a good deal to explain.
Where can we go? I should like Lafont and Cripps to hear what I've got
to say. Cripps especially--he will be able to check half my facts."
"I think we ought all to hear them," remarked Sellwood; "we are all
interested and concerned."
"You mean the ladies? I would rather not; you can tell them afterwards;
and as to the young lady, you may make your mind easy about her. If that
was the only obstacle, I undertake to remove it. You can afford to trust
her out of your sight."
"I shall mind my own business," snapped the Home Secretary;
nevertheless, he led the way indoors with no more than a glance towards
Olivia and her lover, who were still within hail; and five minutes
later, as many gentlemen were empanelled in the billiard-room. Claude
and Cripps and Mr. Sellwood occupied the couches at one end; Francis
Freke palpitated in a corner; and Dalrymple leant against the table, his
legs crossed, his arms folded, a quiet smile upon his face. He was
waiting for a clock over the chimney-piece to finish striking; the hour
was eleven.
"Well, gentlemen," he began, "I shall not detain you many minutes. I
have certain statements to make, and any proofs that you may want I
shall be happy to supply to-morrow or any time you like. Those
statements will ignore, as far as possible, my own relations with the
notorious Lord Maske. These I shall explain later, and you will then
understand why I have hitherto held my peace concerning them. I have
known all along that our friend outside--shall we call him John
Dillamore?--was not and never could be the Duke of St. Osmund's; and
though Mr. Cripps may look as black as his boots, he never consulted my
opinion when he took John Dillamore away from my station, and it was no
business of mine to interfere. Mr. Cripps seemed sufficiently positive
about the matter; and, knowing what I know, I really don't blame Mr.
Cripps. But this by the way. I shall first confine myself to those
incidents in the Marquis's career, of which, occurring as they did at
the antipodes, and as long ago as the fifties, very little has hitherto
been known here in England. And I repeat that I shall afterwards be
prepared to prove every word I am about to say.
"The Marquis of Maske landed in Melbourne in the early part of 1854.
There for a time he cut a great dash, spent an enormous quantity of
money, and indeed reached the end of his resources by the middle of the
year. He then tried his luck on the Ballarat gold-fields, but his luck
was out. At the diggings he sailed under an alias, and under an alias he
drifted to Tasmania as early as July, 1854. And at Hobart Town, as it
was then called, he met the lady for whose sake he broke, though
unwittingly, one of the criminal laws of his native land.
"Now, I happen to know a good deal about that lady; but the more
impersonally one enters into details of this kind the more chance has
one of making such details perfectly clear to you. As it is you will
find some little complications here and there. But I shall do my best to
present them as intelligibly as possible; and where I fail, you will
perhaps make a note of the point, and call my attention to it presently.
The lady's name was Greenfield. Mrs. Greenfield was a young widow with
one male child; but not, as you might suppose, a young widow with money.
And the Marquis married her at Hobart under peculiar, and really rather
extenuating circumstances.
"Of course, he had a wife all the time. You know all about that. It has
leaked out through another channel--a channel I happen to have spent the
last few hours in exploring. I have only just returned from the Lower
Farm. I find the first wife died in 1860. But you may take my word for
one thing: her husband had reason to believe she was already dead when
he married for the second time in 1854.
"As a matter of fact, Eliza Hunt, as she was called, was actually at
death's door in June of the latter year. On a day of which she was not
expected to see the close, the late Duke wrote to his son (I happen to
possess the letter, Mr. Cripps), telling him, with perhaps a pardonable
satisfaction, that the end was only a question of hours; and making
certain overtures which I fear only excited Lord Maske's contempt and
disdain. The Marquis did not profess to be a pious man; his father did.
They had parted in anger, and in anger Maske tore up his father's
letter; but I collected the fragments, and preserved them--and I shall
justify _that_ before I'm done. Maske tore the letter to little bits.
But that very week he married again on the strength of it. And I needn't
tell you there was trouble when the next mail came in! The woman was
still alive; though still hopelessly--or rather hopefully--ill.
"So the couple in Tasmania lay low until their child was born--an event
which proved fatal to the mother, and brought the Marquis up with a
round turn, as the saying is. He was, as you may have heard, a very
heartless man; but I happen to know that he was reasonably fond of his
second wife, and reasonably grieved at her death. As a matter of fact,
it drove him almost crazy at the time, and embittered him for the rest
of his days. The point is, however, that he was thus left with two
boys--a new-born weakling and an absolutely hardy child of two, the
issue of its mother's first--and only legal--marriage. The weakling he
registered as he would have done had the marriage been really valid;
and, mark you, for all he knew it might be valid still. After that
second letter, saying that the English wife was still hopelessly ill, he
never heard again, either as to her recovery or her death, until the
latter occurred some few years later. But it might have occurred while
the second letter was still on the sea, for it was only a month behind
the first, and they took two or three months coming in those days. And
this is a point worth noting," said Dalrymple, uncrossing his arms, and
for the first time making a gesture.
"It is a nice point," conceded Mr. Sellwood.
"In a nasty story!" cried the squatter, with his sardonic laugh. "No,
not quite that; it's too strong a word. Still I am not here to whitewash
the Marquis of Maske; indeed, the next feature of the case is wholly
indefensible. You must know that all this time the exile nourished the
most venomous feelings towards his family in general and the old Duke in
particular. Unlovely as they were, however, I still think there was some
excuse for such sentiments; the boy had been harshly treated; he was
literally forced to desert his first wife; had they lived together, in
England or elsewhere, not a penny-piece would have been theirs until the
death of the Duke. Hence the silence of the Hunts--for the consideration
you wot of. It wasn't the sort of arrangement that would have gone on
very long had the woman lived, or left a child; but she died childless,
as you know; and the Hunts' subsequent policy was obvious even to the
Hunts. Nor was it an arrangement calculated to increase a young man's
respect for his father; in the case of Maske it intensified contempt,
and created the craving for revenge. I have heard him speak so often of
that revenge! He would spring an Australian heir upon the family; that
was his first, and, as you know, his very last idea. He even spoke of
it, as I understand, in the letter that was pinned to the tree under
which he was found dead in the bush! You see it was his dominant idea in
life. But the heir he spoke of was not his son at all. And that's the
indefensible feature of which I spoke."
"If not his son, who was he, pray?" asked Cripps, with indignant
incredulity; for his own repute was in question here.
The squatter smiled. "Can you ask? The elder of the two boys; the son of
Mrs. Greenfield by her first marriage," he quietly replied.
"And what of his own son?"
"Dead."
"You will find that difficult to prove!" cried the lawyer hotly.
"Yes? I think not; he died in Sydney, where the father migrated after
the mother's death; he was dead within six months of his birth. You saw
the certificate of the birth in Hobart, I believe?"
"Certainly I did."
"Then here is that of the death; better keep it; you will have more use
for it than I."
And the squatter turned round, and rolled the red ball up and down the
board, with his quiet sinister smile, while the men on the lounges
examined the document he had put in the solicitor's hands.
"It looks all right," said Cripps at length, in a tone that made
Dalrymple laugh heartily as he faced about.
"It looks all right, eh? _That's_ all right! Mr. Cripps, your
discernment--but excuse me! We are not here to bark and bite; we are
here to clear up a mystery, at least I am. Is there any other point,
gentlemen, which I can elucidate before we go any further?"
"I think there is one," said Claude, speaking nervously. "I have seen
the last letter my uncle wrote, in which he mentioned an heir. I
presume, in order to carry out the revenge you speak of, he called the
living child by the dead child's name----"
"Exactly. He did it deliberately. I was coming to that."
"But he seemed uncertain as to the living child's whereabouts. My point
is this: where was the so-called heir at the time that last letter was
written?"
"Lost," said Dalrymple, shutting his ugly lips as you shut a window.
"Lost in the bush, like Maske himself, only the child's body was not
found. The father had tattooed one of the eagles of his crest upon the
little chap's chest--I am afraid, to further his deception. I was in all
his secrets, as you see; indeed, you may call me his accomplice without
offending me; and I'm bound to say I considered the tattooing a smart
idea. However, a judgment was at hand. The child was lost for many
years. And the rest is easily told; it refers to _me_."
The squatter looked at Mr. Sellwood--not for the first time. As on the
other occasions, however, he ran his eyes against an absolutely
impassive, pink countenance.
"Mr. Sellwood may remember my little anecdote of the iron store, the
Queensland blacks, and the French eagle on the chest of the stray
shearer who saved all our lives?"
Mr. Sellwood very slightly inclined his head.
"Well, that was the finding of the _soi-disant_ Jack Dillamore. I knew
all about him. For his father's sake, I never lost sight of him again;
for his father's sake (and also because the idea appealed to me
personally) I allowed my old chum's very reprehensible plan to come off,
and our friend Mr. Cripps to lay hold of my Happy Jack for the live Duke
of St. Osmund's: and for the sake of some fun for my pains, I came home
myself to see how matters were progressing. I'm bound to say I was
disappointed. Happy Jack had grown tamer than I could have believed
possible in the time. And hang me if the fellow wasn't in love! My
disgust was such that I was on the point of taking myself off this very
afternoon, and leaving the suppositious Duke (whom it wasn't _my_
business to depose) to marry and save the Upper House by the example of
high morality he seemed certain to set; but at the last moment I
discovered his trouble. He was found out without my assistance; he was
cutting a worse figure than was in any way necessary; and was about to
lose, not only the title and emoluments he had enjoyed for some months,
but the charming girl whom he had fairly won in love. That seemed a
trifle too hard! I determined to speak out. I have done so: and I am
prepared to prove every word I have said. The certificate now in your
pocket, Mr. Cripps, was not the only one I had in mine. At the moment,
however, there's no more to be said--except a few words with reference
to Jack Greenfield's future. He has suffered enough. I have been, if not
at the bottom of it, at all events to blame in the matter. I have a
little inadequate scheme of reparation, which I shall submit to you,
gentlemen, in order that you may use your influence with Jack, if
necessary. The point is that I am never going back to Australia any
more. I was born and brought up in the old country, and I've got the
taste for it again during the few days I've been home. Indeed, I had
never lost the taste; but I don't intend to run the risk any more. I am
lucky enough to own one of the crack sheep-stations of New South Wales.
I shall want a permanent manager in my absence. I needn't tell you who
is the very man for _that_ billet. Jack Greenfield--if he'll take it."
"A good house?" said Mr. Sellwood casually.
"The best homestead in the Riverina. Trust me for that."
Mr. Sellwood said no more. His mind was made up: better lose his
daughter than have her break her heart. He could not forget the earlier
experiences of the evening. The surprises of this hour were enchanting
compared with the embarrassments of the last. Then he had no reason to
doubt Dalrymple's word as to Jack's actual antecedents; where he doubted
it, was in another matter altogether. At this point in his reflections,
however, and with the inevitable discussion of the immaterial points
still raging around him, Mr. Sellwood was brought to his feet by the
violent opening of the billiard-room door and an agitated apparition of
his wife upon the threshold. Something was the matter: had the lovers
eloped? No; with Mary Freke they were at the heels of Lady Caroline, who
came the length of the room at something ludicrously like a run--her
very fringe awry, and a horrified glance shooting from the corner of
each eye at the nonchalant, well-preserved figure of Dalrymple the
squatter.
"Do you know what they are saying downstairs?" cried her Ladyship,
looking as far as was possible at everybody at once. "Matthew Hunt is
here, and do you know what _he_ is saying? That neither Jack nor Claude
is the Duke of St. Osmund's, but you--you--you!" And she turned like a
podgy tigress upon none other than the squatter himself.
"I could have told him that," remarked Mr. Sellwood calmly; he had
arrived at the conclusion exactly ten seconds before.
"I shall tell him something he doesn't bargain for--the born idiot!"
added the squatter _sotto voce_.
"Then you believe it?" cried Lady Caroline to her husband. "You must be
mad!"
"Your Ladyship is so right; it would indeed be madness to dream of
entertaining so preposterous a notion!" cried Mr. Cripps, who was
literally dancing with disbelief. "Even Mr. Dalrymple will hardly go as
far as that. He has gone farther already than the law will follow him;
we'll do him the justice to hold him irresponsible for this absurd
report! He knows as well as we do that the Marquis of Maske was found
dead in the bush; of that we have absolute proof. Even if we hadn't, who
has recognized him? Has he one single witness to his identity? If so,
let him be called!"
"The gentleman is excited," remarked Dalrymple, ringing the bell. "Does
it really not occur to him that I might have _found myself_ dead in the
bush, and authenticated my own death by very obvious methods? Is it
inconceivable that a young man with my then reputation should jump at
the chance of dying on paper--if you will permit the expression? Such a
death offers unusual advantages, a second birth among others. However, I
never meant to be born again, least of all in this rather melodramatic
manner; but I couldn't resist coming home to see the fun, and it serves
me right to have to stop and pay the score. Witnesses? I had certainly
no intention of calling any to-night; but now that my hand has been
forced it can't be helped. The elder Hunt is one; knew me at sight; and
here comes Stebbings for another. Shut the door behind you, Stebbings,
and answer a couple of questions. It's generally supposed that you were
drunk yesterday when I arrived. Were you, or were you not?"
"I was not, your Grace."
"'Your Grace,' you see!" repeated the squatter. "I'm afraid that was
premature, Stebbings! However, if you were not drunk, and you certainly
conveyed that impression, what was the matter with you?"
"Nervousness!" cried Stebbings, who was sufficiently nervous now. "I had
seen the dead! I had recognised your Grace!"
"Exactly; and I swore at you as a blind, to explain the complete state
of collapse that you were in. That's all, Stebbings; you may go. Jack, I
see your face! You wonder you didn't spot it at the time? Stebbings
backed me up, or else you would have done; for my part, I confess I was
more frightened when you found us talking together in my room, when I
was packing. I assure you all, I meant to clear out then; believe it or
not, it's the case. In spite of what I said just now, I'm not so wedded
to an English life as I fancied Jack was; and I had no idea at the time
that his position was at all insecure. Yes, my boy, you were welcome to
the whole thing! I was going back to the bush----"
"_You_ were going back!" cried Jack, coming forward; and Olivia came
also, flushed with a joy that rendered her uniquely indifferent to the
great disclosure. Jack was hers. What did it matter who was the Duke?
"To be sure I was," said the squatter; "but now I think it will have to
be you after all. What do you say to managing Carara? What do you say,
Miss Sellwood, to helping him to try? You must talk to your father about
it. And for heaven's sake, Jack, don't thank _me_; I've been the worst
friend you ever had in your life."
Mr. Sellwood was already speaking to his wife. Jack and their daughter
stood hand-in-hand beside them. The new Duke turned his back and joined
Claude on his lounge. The solicitor had beaten a retreat; the Frekes had
done so before him; and the rest of their party, including Jack, did so
now. But Jack returned before either Claude or the squatter had left the
room.
"The worst friend I ever had!" said he reproachfully, as he took his old
master's hand. "What should I be doing to-night if it hadn't been for
you? You may say what you like; you've helped to make me the happiest
man in all the world. I can marry her after all! Mr. Sellwood's as white
a man as I know; even Lady Caroline has just given us best! But
you"--and he laid an affectionate rough hand on Claude's shoulder--"dear
old boy, what can I say to you? I'm ashamed to look you in the face.
You've lost everything!"
Claude was very pale; the other's honest eyes were shining with sympathy
beneath their bushy brows; but the new Duke laughed aloud.
"Lost everything?" he cried. "Not a bit of it! I'm not going to live for
ever, and Claude's exactly where he was--the next man in. You think not?
And have you known me all these years, and do you really and truly
expect me to marry again? Jack--my boy--have I to tell you how it is
with me? I have been a bad old lot in my time; but one woman I once
loved well enough to spoil me for ever for all the rest."
He paused an instant, and it was quite a tender hand he laid on Jack's
shoulder.
"And there's one man I love for her sake!"
* * * * *
By E. W. HORNUNG.
THE ROGUE'S MARCH. A Romance. 12mo. $1.50.
A BRIDE FROM THE BUSH. [Ivory Series.] 16mo. 75 cents.
IRRAELI'S BUSHRANGER. A Story of Australian Adventure. [Ivory Series.]
16mo. 75 cents.