The Man Who Lost Himself Part 27

"This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else is going to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing have you done?"

Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased sniffing and turned on Venetia.

"No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to accuse him."

"Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia.

"Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible."

Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen.

Teresa had put her finger on the spot.

Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other people's sins gave her pleasure.

Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had suddenly entered his practical mind.

"Good heavens," said he, "what has become of your luggage?"

"I don't know and I don't care," replied the roused one, "let it go with the rest."

The car drew up.

"You will stay with us to-night, I suppose," said Venetia coldly.

"I suppose so," replied the other.

Jones got out.

"I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock," said he. "I want the whole family present."--Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct Rochester--"Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the morning."

She sighed and pa.s.sed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was Curzon street. Then he walked home.

Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.

What a woman! and what a fate!

It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and lurid light.

Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never thought of her, or he had not cared.

And such a wife!

"That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated," said Jones to himself as he opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hope I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow."

Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed.

He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the morrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt, determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment.

CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to the sounds of the house and the street outside.

He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices.

Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words.

One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his eye gla.s.ses.

He nodded at Jones.

"Morning," said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "The women will be up in a moment." He took his seat and spread open the paper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, "Glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in there just after you left and he told me."

"Yes," said Jones, "I've got it back." He had no time to say more as at that moment the door opened and the "women" appeared, led by the Dowager Countess of Rochester.

Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst Jones, who had risen, reseated himself.

Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began:

"I have asked you all to come here this morning--I asked you to meet me this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder into your family--"

"An intruder," cried the mother of the defunct. "Arthur, what _are_ you saying?"

"One moment," he went on. "I want to begin by explaining what I have done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds that would have been a dead loss only for me."

"You have acted like a man," said the Duke of Melford, "go on--what do you mean about intrusion?"

"Let me tell the thing in my own way," said Jones irritably. "The late Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a woman--I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now the fact of his death."

The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke.

"We will leave your father's name alone," said he; "yes, we know he is dead--what more have you to say?"

"I was not talking of my father," said Jones, beginning to get bogged and slightly confused, also angry, "he was not my father. If you will only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am talking of myself--or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead--"

He turned to Rochester's wife. "I _hate_ to have to tell you this right out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband.

I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from Philadelphia."

The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her chair, sank back, she had fainted.

Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread.

Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in lamentation: