Читать книгу The Interloper - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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On the whole, Lord Henry bore the blow well. He rang the bell for a pint of champagne, most of which he was compelled to drink himself, as the lawyer deprecated any form of alcoholic refreshment before lunch time. Then he asked a great many questions.

"Tell me exactly how you discovered this?"

"It was during a spring cleaning at the office," Sir Stephen explained. "In destroying a lot of worthless papers belonging to the late Duke, we came across several packets of paid cheques returned from the bank. One of these was made out to the chaplain of the English Church in Rome. Pinned to it was a letter, promising attendance for the purpose of performing some ceremony at a certain hour. I did not wish to disturb you unnecessarily so I said nothing about it, but went out to Rome myself. The marriage was in the register and there was also a record of the christening of a boy. I subsequently visited Pellini and had an interview with the Superior of the monastery and with the young man, Francis."

"I always knew there was something wrong about that infernal place," Lord Henry groaned. "Susan was saying only this morning that Monica hasn't been the same girl since we got back from there."

"I had the utmost difficulty with the young man," Sir Stephen continued thoughtfully. "At first he absolutely refused to listen to me. Eventually, however, he handed over a box of papers left by his mother. They contained a copy of the marriage certificate, birth certificate, and additional evidence which I can only assure you is overwhelming. Even then I found the young man's attitude extraordinary. He seemed to take the slightest possible interest in the fact that his father and mother had been legally married, and the realisation of his own position left him absolutely unmoved."

"He had better stay where he is then," Lord Henry commented.

"That is exactly what at first he proposed to do. However, I pointed out to him where his duty lay and I also pointed out the fact that, whether he returned or not, the estates would have to be administered in his name. Finally the Father Superior got hold of him, and very quickly ended the matter. A Roman Catholic Peer of England was too great an asset to be disregarded. The young man has practically received orders to quit. A special dispensation signed by the Pope will release him from his vows before many months have passed. I have promised then to go over and fetch him."

"What sort of a fellow is he?" Lord Henry enquired.

"The image of his father in appearance," Sir Stephen confided. "I recognized him directly I saw him on the ramparts at Pellini, the night we were there, but I hadn't, of course, the faintest idea that there had ever been any marriage. I talked to him as his late father's friend. I must admit that I came away feeling that he was better in the monastery than out of it."

"What about his disposition—towards us, I mean?"

"That will undergo a change, without a doubt, under these altered circumstances. I should imagine that his mother was an unhappy woman—very much neglected by your brother, who we know was not a particularly—er—considerate person. The young man has been brought up in the belief—or, of course, he may have imbibed it himself—that both she and he were deeply wronged. He has a violent disposition—some of his mother's Italian blood in him, I should think,—and he seems to have nourished almost a hatred against his father and his father's family. That, however, will I am sure be modified if it does not altogether disappear under existing circumstances."

"A pleasant lookout for us," Lord Henry observed gloomily.

"You may rely upon it," Sir Stephen promised, "that every scrap of influence I possess will be used to make this young man take a sane view of the situation."

"And supposing he doesn't, how do we stand?"

Sir Stephen frowned.

"You wish me to be quite frank?"

"Absolutely."

"You would be penniless. You will remember that your late brother made you an allowance of some four thousand a year. That, however, was purely voluntary. The Chatfield estates have neither jointures nor settlements. Everything has always been voluntary. Shall I go on?"

"If there is anything worse to be said, pray don't omit it," Lord Henry enjoined bitterly.

"I am speaking now from an entirely legal point of view," Sir Stephen continued. "The income from the estates which you have drawn and spent constitutes a debt to the new owner. Furthermore, you have realised on certain outlying portions of the property and spent the money. This also is a debt. I need hardly say," he went on, "that I shall urge upon this young man as strongly as possible that it is his duty to make you an adequate allowance and that any restitution of what has been spent under a misapprehension is quite impossible."

"In plain words, we are paupers!"

"I am afraid that is the long and short of it," the lawyer agreed. "It is a terribly unfortunate situation. I need scarcely say that you have my most profound sympathy, both you and your family. It is particularly hard, too, upon the younger people."

"What are we to do until this young man arrives?" Lord Henry demanded.

"Go on just as you are," the lawyer advised. "I was coming to that directly. Nothing is to be disturbed until he arrives."

"I hope to God he won't hurry, then!" Lord Henry exclaimed fervently.

Sir Stephen took his leave, after a few more words of sympathy. His distinguished client sat for several minutes in his chair without moving. His thoughts were chaotic. He was utterly unable to realise this thing which had happened. Presently he rose to his feet and made his way out into the hall. Attentive servants ministered at once to his wants. A silk hat and a tall grey hat were presented for his choice; gloves and a stick were pressed into his hand. He passed down the broad steps, between the stately pillars of the great house, on to the pavement, and took his usual leisurely stroll into the Park. Here he selected a chair in a remote position and sat gazing at the crowd. There was something symbolic in the ostracism which he had voluntarily embraced. He was no longer one of them. He was an outsider, a looker-on at the pleasant little game of life at which for so many years he had dealt the cards, cut and shuffled and dealt again. He saw his friends pass in the distance without greeting them, imagined their amazement when they heard the news, the thrill of interest, the careless word of sympathy, the swift forgetfulness. He was one of the first noblemen of his country. He had played his part conventionally, if without marked distinction. He had gambled a little, dissipated a little, dabbled in philanthropy, taken a grave but not overzealous interest in politics. He had few friends, scarcely a single enemy. He had liked to consider himself one of the old order, had presented a stiff front to the great stream of invaders, unless some personal and immediate good was to be had by extending the hand of patronage. He saw the truth very clearly that morning, and he knew quite well that it would be possible for him to slip out of his place without being missed for even twenty-four hours.

But Monica! That was where the rub came in. Selfish he might be to the core as regarded himself—even as regarded his wife and Eustace—but when it came to Monica he was a different man. It was not only his pride in her: there was something underneath that—something less personal—something of real affection. The first great pang which this strange news had brought him was when he had thought of his daughter, had seen her drop out of the life which seemed now to revolve around her, had imagined others taking her place, her admirers dissipated, her name left out of the papers, her pictures from the illustrated Press. What on earth was to become of a girl like Monica without money? He brooded so long about her that it was only towards the end of the morning that he began to think about himself. By that time realisation was at work. He grew older as he sat upon his seat and looked beyond the Park into the future. After all, it had been a fine thing to be a Duke, to be master of those wonderful houses, to sit at the head of the table in the banqueting hall at Chatfield Castle, to receive the homage of his tenants and the smaller country gentry, to be allowed place in the hunting field, place in the House of Lords, place even in the anteroom of palaces. After fifteen years these things had become part of his existence. To live on, dethroned, stripped of his consequence, oppressed all the time by the burden of an inadequate income—why, the very idea was a nightmare! There were luxuries which had become second nature to him, obligations, the nonfulfilment of which would be a humiliation. He shivered as the thoughts formed themselves more coherently in his brain. It was a new form of misery, this—something unheard of in the experience of any man—to have walked for all these years amongst the elect and now to slip back into the lower places. At the best, what had he to hope for? A few thousands a year, a Kensington residence, three or four servants, perhaps a cheap butler, cold mutton for luncheon, the made-up dishes of a second-rate cook for dinner. He reminded himself of sundry half-hearted excursions into the works of various philosophers, and in a crude sort of way he took his life to pieces and looked at it. It was the same from every point of view. There had been no motive in it anywhere, except to follow the daily curriculum of pleasure. Books had never attracted him; of art or science he knew nothing. Racing, shooting, and hunting—yes, under the most luxurious conditions possible. A flutter at cards or roulette and, by all means, now and then, an occasidnal Bohemian supper party—an expensive amusement and never to be talked about. Was there anything he could take with him—to Kensington? The question answered itself. At fifty-nine years of age, it was not possible to create a new world and fill it with new pleasures.—He abandoned his reflections at last and turned slowly homewards, feeling an older and a stricken man for that hour in the Park alone with his thoughts. It seemed to him that every one must notice the change. A Bishop whom he met at the gate gave him fresh food for reflection.

"I hope, my dear Duke," that dignitary said, "that we shall see you in the House of Lords this afternoon. Lord Mountavon's bill for the redistribution of stipends in various dioceses is one that deserves your most serious attention."

"I shall most certainly be there," Lord Henry promised gravely.

He passed on his way with a grim smile. What was the penalty, he wondered, for having voted something like a hundred and fifty times in the House of Lords, without being a member of that august body. A fine, probably. There were so many unrepealed statutes of former days that perhaps imprisonment might follow. He ran into a celebrated judge at Stanhope Gate and condescendingly stopped him.

"James," he asked, "do you know the penalty for voting in the House of Lords when you are not a member?"

"Something on the Tower Hill with a chopper, I should imagine," was the light-hearted reply.

Lord Henry went on his way, smiling. As he entered the house he saw some horses being led away and heard a male voice with Monica's in her own little sitting room. He entered the library, closed the door and took down the telephone—an instrument which he cordially detested and seldom used. In due course he reached the ear of Sir Stephen Dobelle.

"Chatfield speaking, Sir Stephen."

"Quite so."

"Respecting the news which you sprung upon me this morning, I understood you to say that nothing need be changed for two or three months."

"For two months, at least, probably three, possibly four."

"No one else knows?"

"Not a soul."

"Then I propose," Lord Henry continued, "to leave my family in ignorance, for say six weeks."

There was a short hesitation.

"If you think it wise," was the doubtful assent.

"I can't see that it makes the least difference," Lord Henry declared. "They may just as well have another six weeks' happiness. You have no objection?"

"Certainly not."

Lord Henry hung up the telephone and went up to luncheon. His guests found him in a most genial and pleasant mood.