Fordham's Feud Part 31

But it was the face of a many-generation-descended gentleman.

As we have said, there was nothing in this bright, mellow summer morning to conduce to depression. Yet the cloud upon the thinker's face deepened.

It would be safe to hazard a conjecture that the cause of his melancholy was purely subjective. His was just the temperament which delights in retrospect, which is given to tormenting its owner with speculative musings upon what might have been--to raising the ghosts of dead and buried events.

He looked back upon his life and derived no pleasure from the process.

With his opportunities--always with the best intentions--what a poor affair he seemed to have made of it! Better indeed for him had those intentions been less free from alloy, since nothing which borders on perfection has the slightest chance in this world of snares, and pitfalls, and rank growths. Best intentions, indeed, had been his undoing all along the line. His own inclinations were rather against the profession of arms, but he had sacrificed them and accepted a commission, in accordance with his father's strongly expressed wish. He had married his first wife from motives of chivalry rather than affection--out of pity for the life of toil and grinding poverty otherwise mapped out for her. Then had followed disillusion, unappreciativeness, ingrat.i.tude, misery, till her early death freed him from the ill-a.s.sorted and blighting tie. Caught at the rebound, his too soft heart and aesthetic nature had led him into an intrigue which proved disastrous to all concerned--but, there, he did not care to dwell upon that. Again, in a fit of disgust and sensitiveness, brought about by the _eclat_ and scandal, he had sold out--always with the best intentions--where another would simply have shown a bold front until the nine days' wonder had abated, and was left early in life without a profession. He had embarked in literature, always of a delicate, not to say dilettante nature; had dabbled in art, and a little in a science or two, but had never got his head above the level of the swaying, striving, pushing--shall we say cringing?--mult.i.tude of heads, all fighting for that proud and lucrative pre-eminence. But he had always the interests and occupations of a country gentleman to fall back upon, and perhaps, on the whole, these suited him as well as anything else.

And then, after about twenty years wherein to reflect on the scant advantages which he had reaped from his former matrimonial venture, he had suffered himself to be again bound with the iron chain, and his second partner--as is curiously enough not unfrequently the case under the circ.u.mstances, presumably through some ironical freak of Nature which decrees that when a man of an age and experience to know better does make a fool of himself he shall do it thoroughly--possessed neither attractions, nor wealth, nor suitability of temperament to recommend her. And having arrived at this stage of his retrospection, poor Sir Francis could not but own to himself--we fear, not for the first time-- that in taking this step to counteract the growing loneliness of advancing age he had performed the metaphorical and saltatory feat popularly known as "jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire."

But there was one bright influence shining in upon the shaded events of his anything but cheerful introspection, and its name was Philip. The baronet's heart glowed with pride at the thought of his fine, open-hearted, handsome son, upon whom he lavished an almost feminine affection. Here again came in that fatal motor, "best intentions."

Better, perchance, had a little more steel and a little less velvet gloved the hand which had had the bringing up of that sunny-natured youth. But Sir Francis was the last person to whom this was likely to occur, and now, as he thought that the time for his idolised son's return could not be very far distant, there stole over his features an unconscious smile of pleasurable antic.i.p.ation.

Immersed in such congenial musing, he hardly heard the subdued knock at the door, the almost noiseless footsteps of the well-trained butler.

The latter bore some letters on a salver.

"Put them on the table, Karslake," said the baronet, unwilling to be disturbed in his pleasant reverie.

"Beg pardon, Sir Francis," said the man, who was of long standing and privileged--"beg pardon, Sir Francis, but I think one of 'em's from Mr Philip."

The change in the baronet's demeanour was striking.

"Eh--what?" he cried, wheeling round and making what almost amounted to a s.n.a.t.c.h at the letters. Then, having pushed the others contemptuously aside, he resumed his position in the window, hurriedly tearing open the envelope.

The butler meanwhile was busying himself about the room, putting things tidy that had got out of their places or were otherwise disarranged. A quick gasp of dismay which escaped his master caused him to pause in his occupation.

"Karslake," said the latter, in explanation, for the old butler was, as we said, privileged, having been in the household almost since Philip's birth, "you will be sorry to hear that Mr Philip has met with an accident--climbing those infernal mountains," he added, more to himself than the servant.

"Not serious, I trust, Sir Francis?" said the latter, in real anxiety, for Philip was a prime favourite in the Claxby household, save with one, and that not the least important member of it.

"No, thank G.o.d! He got hit by a falling stone, and can't put his foot to the ground. Confined to his room, he says."

"I hope he'll be properly taken care of in them foreign parts, Sir Francis," said Karslake, shaking his head in John Bull-like scepticism as to any such possibility.

"Oh, yes. There's an English doctor attending him as well as the foreign one. Thank Heaven it's no worse. Is her ladyship down yet?

But never mind--I'll find her anyhow," he added to himself, going to the door. And as he did so it was noticeable that he walked with a slight limp.

Lady Orlebar was up but not down, which apparently paradoxical definition maybe taken to mean that, arrayed in a dressing-gown, she reposed comfortably in a big armchair by her bedroom window. Her occupation was of a twofold character, in that she was a.s.similating coffee and reading _Truth_.

In externals she was a large well-built woman of middle age, handsome after a coa.r.s.e, rubicund fashion, though a purplish hue which had succeeded in her cheeks the roseate flush of youth, would almost excuse the severe verdict of that hypercritic who should define her charms as somewhat "blowsy." Her temper could not even be described as "uncertain," for there was no element of uncertainty about it, as poor Sir Francis had already realised, to his sorrow. Her disposition was domineering and exacting to the last degree, and she would do nothing for herself that she could get anybody else to do for her--presumably to make up, if somewhat late in the day, for half a lifetime spent in perforce doing everything for herself. From such a one as this it was hardly likely Sir Francis would meet with much sympathy in the flurry and anxiety into which the news of his son's accident had thrown him.

"Mercy on us! Is that all?" was her comment as soon as he had given her particulars. "Here you come bursting in upon me regardless of my poor nerves, and I in such pain all night, as I always am. You come rushing in upon me, I say, as if the house was on fire."

The fact being that Lady Orlebar was as strong as a horse. The only pain she ever suffered from was of that nature, which a daily hour's walk, combined with a little discrimination at table, would have conjured away like magic. But it was a useful affectation to a.s.sume that life was a perpetual martyrdom--a highly efficient b.u.t.tress to her ascendency.

"And all about what?" she went on. "Merely to tell me that an idle, good-for-nothing boy, who ought to be hard at work earning his living instead of skylarking about the world amusing himself, has sprained his ankle. Really, Francis, I wonder the absurdity of it doesn't strike even you!"

"Well it's a pity I said anything about it, I admit," he answered coldly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have--but--how would you like a trip abroad, Alicia?"

"What, at this time of year, when you have to sit five a side in a railway compartment, and to make one of a clamouring, struggling rabble, beseeching the hotel-keepers to allow you even a garret at a charge that is rather more than would be required to keep a yacht? No, thank you, not for me."

"Well, I don't mind a little of that sort of thing, so I think I shall take a run over myself."

"Over where--may I ask?"

"Over to Zermatt. I should like to be sure the boy is getting proper care--efficient attendance. An injury of that sort, though insignificant in itself, may become serious if not properly taken care of at the time. And Philip is so reckless."

The colour deepened in Lady Orlebar's highly coloured face, and the sneer upon her lips was not pleasant to look upon.

"Did I hear you aright, Sir Francis? It cannot be possible that I understood you to say you purposed to leave me alone here--to leave me all alone in my wretched state of health--while you go rushing off to the Continent to look after this boy, who is surely old enough to take care of himself, and who will probably laugh over you and your fussiness with his friends for your pains."

"Whatever may be your opinion of Philip, you can at least credit him with being a gentleman," was the icy reply to this rally.

But ice thrown into a boiling copper produces a mighty hissing, a prodigious letting off of steam. And such was the effect entailed upon the lady by this rejoinder. Of indifferent birth herself she imagined the reply to contain a gird at that circ.u.mstance, and rushed into the battle--horse, foot, and artillery.

"Pah! An idle, good-for-nothing scamp is what I credit him with being,"

she retorted furiously. "A fellow who allows his parents to pinch and starve themselves in order that he may revel in the luxury of idleness.

And, I tell you what it is, Francis, I won't be neglected in any such fashion! I won't be left alone here! No, that is a thing I will not stand! Isn't it enough that I am ground down and forced to live on a mere pittance because you choose to spoil your son? Is that not enough, I say? And now you propose to go away and leave me alone for an indefinite time. But you will find I am not to be so easily shelved. I have my rights, and I know thoroughly well how to look after them. And look after them I shall--rest a.s.sured of that! Go--go by all means!

But the consequences be upon your own head."

Of attempting to reason with her in this mood, or indeed in any mood, Sir Francis had long since learned the futility. Indeed, at that moment he felt little inclination to attempt anything of the kind. Apart from the coa.r.s.eness of her temper, which revolted his more refined instincts, her venomous abuse of his son aroused in him the bitterest resentment.

He was no match for an adversary of this fibre, for his refined and sensitive nature shrank with loathing and horror from violent scenes.

So now he adopted the wise, if somewhat ignominious, course of beating a retreat. He simply walked out of the room.

This was not precisely what his wife desired. Like all women of her kind, and a good many not of her kind, she dearly loved a battle, and the sort of battle she loved most was that wherein victory was a.s.sured.

By fleeing at the sound of the first gun the enemy had effected a retreat which was three parts of a victory. She returned to the perusal of _Truth_--an extra pungent number--with an angry frown, yet she could not quite reconcentrate her mind upon the spicy contents of the journal.

The slave had shown signs of rebellion. He must be made to feel that rebellion was not going to answer.

Poor woman! Her grievances were very great--very real--were they not?

She had brought her husband neither wealth, looks, nor connections when she had condescended to take possession of him and his position and t.i.tle, yet _her_ convenience was ever to be uppermost, _her_ word law.

She claimed the right to control his every movement. She had, we say, brought him not a shilling, yet to rule his means and expenditure was of course her indubitable right. As, for instance, that he should persist in making an allowance to his own son, instead of turning that fortunate youth penniless out of doors and pouring out the cash thus saved at her feet, was an act of flagrant and shameful ill-treatment of her that cried aloud to Heaven for vengeance. But whether Heaven listened, and looked upon it in the same light or not, certain it was that it const.i.tuted the sum and crown of all her grievances, and they were not few.

That a man of Sir Francis Orlebar's temperament should ever have taken such a woman to wife--rather, we ought to say, should ever have suffered himself to be taken possession of by her--was marvellous, would have been incredible but that we know the same sort of thing happens every day. And having once succ.u.mbed he was bound hand and foot. No power on earth could save him. A man more coa.r.s.e fibred would have held his own, even at the cost of a diurnal battle royal. One less sensitive would have cut the knot of the difficulty by the simple expedient of undertaking a tour round the world, or any other method of separation which should commend itself to him. Or one of slippery principle would have laid himself out to effect an emanc.i.p.ation in the method most approved of by the lawyers and by newspaper editors in want of acceptable "copy." But to Sir Francis each and all of these courses were equally repugnant--the latter, indeed, not to be thought of. His bondage was complete. He was a slave to that most tyrannical of despots--a thoroughly selfish, domineering, coa.r.s.e-natured woman.

With an instinctive idea of placing it beyond his wife's power to renew the last encounter he had taken himself out of the house. As he strolled through the park the limp in his left leg became more p.r.o.nounced, as curiously enough it invariably did whenever he was vexed or agitated, and now he was both.

But by that evening the resolution he had formed to proceed to his son's bedside was considerably shaken. He had telegraphed, and the replies had been in every way satisfactory. Perhaps his presence there would be unnecessary after all. This might or might not have been the sensible way of looking at it. But continual dropping wears away stones, which for present purposes may be taken to mean that the tongue of a violent woman is a pretty effective weapon against the strongest resolution formed by an irresolute nature. There had been another battle royal, and the baronet had retreated under cover of the satisfactory replies to his telegrams. It was better to avoid any more violent scenes, and accordingly he had succ.u.mbed--had yielded for the sake of peace--that is to say, "with the very best intentions."

But the violent tongue of his stepmother, coupled with his father's sensitive horror of the same, was destined to work such woe in poor Philip's eventual fate as even that vindictive matron little dreamed.

Strange are the trivialities that combine together for stupendous results. Had Sir Francis adhered to his first and laudable resolve what widespread ruin might have been averted. But he did not. He abandoned it for the sake of peace, of course with the best intentions.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

TAKEN AT THE REBOUND.

When Philip at length managed to leave his room and hobble downstairs with the aid of a stick and one of the hotel porters he realised to the full that it was high time he did.