Fordham's Feud

Dinner was over, and the servants had withdrawn. The dessert was on the table – had been for some time – and Sir Francis was wistfully wondering how long it would be before his wife thought fit to follow the example of the servants. Just then a footman entered bearing some letters on a salver. The evening post had arrived.

Welcoming any diversion, Sir Francis proceeded to open his. But at sight of the contents of one of them, his face changed, and an exclamation escaped him. His wife looked quickly up, then without a moment’s hesitation she stretched forth her hand and seized the letter, which in his first bewilderment he had let fall upon the table. A harsh, sneering laugh escaped her as she ran her eye down the contents, and then proceeded to read them aloud: —

“Capias Chambers, Golden Fleece Lane, E.C.

“September 2 3, 188-.

“Glover versus Orlebar.

“Dear Sir, – Instructed by our client, Miss Edith Glover, we have written to your son, Mr Philip Orlebar, claiming from him the sum of 10,000 (ten thousand) pounds damages by reason of non-fulfilment of his promise to marry our aforesaid client.

“Up till now we have received no reply; but we think it may be in the interest of the young gentleman himself that you should be made aware of this claim against him.

“Trusting that by adopting this course further steps may be rendered unnecessary —

“We are, dear Sir,

“Yours faithfully,

“Swindell and Shears.

“To Sir Francis Orlebar, Bart.,

“Claxby Court, Rushtonborough.”

“Ha-ha! Didn’t I say so?” she cried. “And scarcely are the words out of my mouth than here it is – an action for breach of promise! Well, and what are you going to do now, Francis?”

“Nothing. Take no notice of it whatever. The thing is a mere attempt at a swindle – a clumsy, impudent swindle. I sha’n’t give it another moment’s thought.”

Easily said – far less easily done, especially by a nervous highly strung temperament such as that of the speaker.

“But who is this person?” went on Lady Orlebar, again scanning the letter. “The people he is with now are named Daventer – not Glover. Do you know who it can be?”

“Honestly, I don’t. To the best of my belief I never heard the name before in my life. All the more does it look like a try-on – an impudent and barefaced try-on. On second thoughts, however, I’ll send it up to Stretton in the morning, and tell him to see if he can make anything out of it, or to act as he thinks fit. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Why don’t you send for Philip himself and make him explain. It appears to me that he would be the proper person to throw what light he could upon the matter.”

“Oh, it’s of no use worrying the boy. He may be here any day now. It’ll be time enough then.”

Lady Orlebar gave a snort of defiance. The above remark was as a direct challenge to her to renew the battle. But her husband looked so anxious, so worried himself, that even she forebore, for once, to worry him further.

There was silence in the room. Sir Francis sat abstractedly gazing upon the table in front of him – in reality seeing nothing at all. His whole mind was filled up with this scrape that his son had got into. It was not the amount of the claim that affected him – on that point he felt fairly secure. Philip was of age, but had not a shilling in the world of his own; out of him, therefore, nothing could be got. But that his name should once more be dragged through the mud, and that at the instance of a harpy, an adventuress, this was where the sting of it all lay. “Once more,” we said. For Sir Francis had very good reasons of his own for avoiding anything that should drag his name into notoriety.

So unpleasantly absorbing were his reflections, so rapt was he in his reverie, that the entrance of the butler was wholly unnoticed. Not until the man had twice drawn his attention to the card which lay upon a salver did he awake from his abstraction, and then it was with a start, for the card was inscribed – “Mr Richard Fordham.”

Fordham! – Phil’s friend, whom he had more than once pressingly invited to make a stay at Claxby Court, which invitation had persistently been declined upon one ground or another. Fordham – the man who had been Philip’s travelling companion, guide, philosopher, and friend during the past year. Surely if any one knew anything of this unfortunate affair, Fordham was the man. True, it would have struck him at any other time that to arrive after dinner unannounced and unexpected was somewhat of an odd proceeding, but Phil had always described his friend as an out-and-out eccentricity. Besides, his visit might relate to this very affair. The baronet saw light. “Where is this gentleman, Karslake?” he said eagerly. “I showed him into the library, Sir Francis. He said he would not detain you long, and his fly is waiting for him at the door.”

The library was lighted only by one shaded lamp in the centre of the table; consequently it was in semi-gloom. The visitor was seated in a low chair with his back to the door, and Sir Francis on entering hardly perceived him. Then, closing the door behind him and giving a slight cough, the baronet began —

“Mr Fordham, I believe – Garcia! Oh, good God!”

And then, with a low cry of amazement and horror, he stopped short, staggered back a pace or two, and stood gazing helplessly at his visitor.

For the latter, as soon as he heard the door close, had risen and wheeled round rapidly to face the other. Now, as he stood there, the light full upon him, the saturnine features wreathed into a smile that was more than half a sneer; the look of triumphant malice upon that dark countenance was positively satanic.

“The name on the card was Fordham,” said Sir Francis, vacantly. “I recognised it as that of my son’s friend. What does it all mean?”

“It means this, Francis Orlebar. Your son’s friend of to-day, hight Fordham, is the same individual as your friend of years ago, hight Garcia. Are you beginning to see?”

The question was scarcely needed. As the whole truth burst in upon him that this man, whose ruthless hate he had incurred – not wrongfully either – long years ago, had been his son’s confidant and constant travelling companion now, the look of horror and repulsion upon the baronet’s countenance was in itself sufficient answer.

“You do!” went on the other. “Quite so – I knew you would. And now you are wondering what on earth was my object in constituting myself guide, philosopher, and friend to your son, for no man can be more certain than yourself that that object was not likely to be to Philip’s advantage. Do you follow me?”

“I do. But Garcia, though I wronged you – wronged you unpardonably, I admit – years ago, you would surely not extend your rancour, just as that may be as regards myself – your revengeful bitterness – to an innocent boy – one who is incapable of harming anybody. Surely even you would stop short at this. We are both comparatively near the end of our lives – his is all before him. Surely even you would shrink from doing anything to poison that life.”

“Did you shrink from poisoning mine, Francis Orlebar? Still, upon my soul, I believe you were more sinned against than sinning. I almost think, if it concerned you alone, I would have let it pass. But in striking you I shall equally well strike her – that she-devil. I had almost decided to bury the whole affair, but I could not let her escape. She should supply the weapon – the weapon I wanted. I forced her to be the instrument of revenge upon herself equally as upon you. That sort of revenge was too appetising, too wholly unique, to be thrown away.”

Never a strong man at any time, when he was unnerved Sir Francis was as weak as water. He was now thoroughly unnerved. His face was as white as death and his voice shook.

“Man – man!” he gasped, “what are you driving at? What have you done? Speak out – or are you too great a coward?”

But Fordham only smiled – the same cruel, satanic smile, which consisted of little else than the droop of the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying the other’s anguished suspense – gloating over these mental writhings – as he had come there intending to do. But before he could frame an answer, an interruption occurred. The door opened suddenly, and there entered no less a personage than Lady Orlebar.

The fact was, she reckoned the time had come for her to bear her share in the interview. There should be no mysteries apart from her cognisance in that house, while she was in it. So allowing sufficient time to float them into the swing of the discussion, she had swooped down upon them, suddenly, decisively, as was her wont. But disappointment awaited. Beyond a stiff bow, Fordham’s attitude underwent no change – nor did he utter a single word. He stood, unmistakably, ostentatiously, waiting for her to go out again.

But this she had no intention of doing. One glance at her husband satisfied her that a stronger spirit was needed to cope with the man before her.

“Sir Francis has not been very well lately,” she began, looking at Fordham. “He is anything but strong, and this news about his son has sadly upset him.”

It was Fordham’s turn to look astonished. To what news did she allude? He himself had certainly not imparted any – not yet.

“Of course it is a very tiresome and disconcerting thing,” she went on, “although likely to prove all sheet-and-turnip – for one can hardly believe it genuine or likely to stand the test of a court of law.”

“I hope you may not be mistaken in that last surmise,” remarked Fordham grimly, and in a tone which implied that he very much hoped she might. They were at cross purposes.

“Well, it’s an annoying thing, anyway. Who are these Glovers, Mr Fordham, and how did Philip manage to get into their clutches? Of course you know they have brought an action for breach of promise against him?”

“I didn’t. I know, however, that they threatened to. In fact, I was instrumental in rescuing him from their clutches. They are an underbred lot, anyway.”

“I thought so?” cried Lady Orlebar eagerly, while Sir Francis started, and stared bewildered at his visitor. If the latter had stood Philip’s friend in this affair surely he had no intention of injuring him. But this world is one of cruel contrasts.

“I am surprised you have heard nothing of this, Mr Fordham,” she went on. “We thought it was upon this subject that you had done us the favour to call. May I ask, then – what is the nature of your business with Sir Francis?”

If Fordham was inwardly bursting with sardonic mirth, he was not going to show it. The unbounded impudence of the woman, practically asking him what the devil he wanted there at all – and expecting he was going to tell her – struck him as the richest thing he had heard for a very long time.

“Pardon me, Lady Orlebar, if I seem rude,” he answered, shortly; “but the nature of my business happens to concern Sir Francis alone. We had only just begun to enter upon it when you came in; but if Sir Francis is not equal to hearing my communication to-night I shall be happy to call again in the morning, or in a day or two.”

But Sir Francis was equal – very much so. The suspense he was undergoing was far too real – sickening in fact. So he turned upon his spouse with an energy that astonished that now irate personage.

“I think, my dear, you had perhaps better leave us. Our business is private and important – in fact, very important.” And going over to the door he held it open for her in such wise as to leave her no alternative.

“Very well, Sir Francis,” she spluttered, fairly beside herself with rage. “I am turned out of the room, mind, and by you! Very well. But I have no wish to hear your secrets. They are sure to be of a discreditable nature, anyhow.”

With this parting shot she disappeared. Fordham, looking after her, slightly shook his head, and reflected that if he had thought to chastise his old enemy with whips, assuredly Fate had elected to do so with scorpions. Anybody under the heel of such a woman as this, had about come to the bottom of the cup of misfortune. Surely he had nothing worse left to fear.

“And now that we are alone,” said Sir Francis, coming back from the door which he had closed after his wife, “perhaps you will er – enlighten me as to the nature of this communication.”

He looked so unstrung, so worn, so piteous in his agony of suspense, that even a ray of ruth may have entered the heart of his implacable enemy. But if so, it was quickly quenched.

“Did it never strike you as odd?” said the latter, “that Philip should have been back all these weeks, and yet not have thought it worth his while running over to see you?”

Just what his wife had said. Sir Francis felt his apprehensions deepening; but he made no reply. Perhaps he could not.

“Well, he is more attractively employed, at any rate – for the time being,” emphasised Fordham. “In proof whereof – look at this.”

He produced a telegram from his pocket; deliberately unfolded it, then handed it to the other. Sir Francis’ face grew deathly white as he read it, and he gave a sort of gasp. He could only stare at the paper, then at Fordham, then at the paper again.

Thus ran the latter: —

“Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap. Phil.”

“Is this a practical joke of yours?” gasped the baronet at length, as soon as he could find words.

“By no means. It is just as I received it. Look at the date of the office stamp – the 22nd. It was yesterday the affair came off. I only returned this morning from a few days’ absence, and found the wire awaiting me in my quarters. Yet it is news to you. Very inconsiderate on Phil’s part, I must say. He might have let you know.”

“Who – what – are these people – these Daventers?”

“Well, the young lady is his social equal, at all events, as you will probably be the first to admit,” answered Fordham, the cruel sneer deepening on his countenance. All the satanic ruthlessness of his implacable rancour had returned. He was pouring out the very life blood of his enemy now. All thoughts of pity, of compunction, had passed away.

“On her mother’s side the girl is undoubtedly his social equal,” he continued. “On that of her father – well, you must be the best judge.”

“I!” echoed Sir Francis, wonderingly. “Who, then, is her father?”

Fordham gazed full at him for a moment. Then his lips framed in a whisper one single word. And, hearing it, Sir Francis dropped back into his chair, his eyes staring, his face white as with the dews of death, shaking in every limb.

“Look well at the date of this,” pursued his relentless tormentor, holding out the telegram. “September 22nd. And this is the twenty-third. They have been married more than twenty-four hours. By the time you can communicate with them it will be forty-eight.”

But the unhappy man could articulate no word. The faculty of speech seemed to have left him. He saw it all now – saw the whole plot in all its diabolical horror.

“I told you once that my vengeance would follow you to the very grave,” went on Fordham. “Did you think because it had slept for years that therefore it was dead? Now you had better wire for Philip the first thing in the morning, for it will be too late to-night. And when he comes give him this. It will save you the trouble of explaining.”

He threw down what looked like a bulky letter carefully sealed and directed. Mechanically Sir Francis clutched it, but of any further reply he seemed incapable. Had his reason given way beneath the shock? It almost looked like it. Then with one more glance at his stricken enemy – a glance burning with hate, and long cherished rancour, and sated vengeance – Fordham left the room – and the house.

Chapter Twenty Nine

“The Sins of the Fathers.”

The telegram which Fordham had shown Sir Francis told no more than the truth. Philip had riveted about himself that chain which only death can break. He and Laura Daventer were married.

How had it come about – the haste, the secrecy, too? Well, it was all very simple. Given one of Philip Orlebar’s temperament – given three or four weeks of close and daily companionship with a very attractive girl deadly in earnest in her designs upon him; given the accessories of a highly amiable and accommodating mother; of glorious summer weather; of cool rambles beneath shaded rocks, and strolls à deux on the moonlit beach – given all these things, we say, and small wonder is it that Philip’s susceptible heart – then very much at the rebound – should be triumphantly captured, and with it his hand.

Laura had played her cards well – had played them with a consummate coolness beyond her years. She had determined to win him, almost from the very first, yet she would rather risk failure than show herself over-eager to grasp success. Hence she had nipped his too premature declaration in the bud on that last occasion when we saw them together at Zermatt. She had even done this again with equal judiciousness – her point being that he should never think he was going to have an easy walk over – then had as suddenly capitulated, so sweetly, so entrancingly, as to bind him to her there and then with tenfold ardour.

In all of this she had been most skilfully and efficiently abetted by her mother. However reluctant the latter had been when the scheme was first propounded to her, the pendulum had now swung round the other way. It would be altogether to Laura’s advantage, and nothing need ever be known. The girl herself was in complete ignorance, and as for the Mephistophelian originator of the idea, it was not likely that he would disclose the secret. Perhaps, after all, she had judged him too harshly. Perhaps he had really been moved to plan out this in Laura’s interest and, at the same time, to enjoy the sport of, in a measure, turning the tables on his old enemy. And then, again, her mind would be shaken by a great disquietude, or more than misgiving. For if ever she could commit herself to a grave mistake, it would be when she should credit Fordham with motives and intentions otherwise than entirely evil – in his dealings with her and hers that is. Still she would not abandon her share in the plot – in the first place she dared not – in the next she lacked inclination. And meanwhile matters had gone too far.

Clever, scheming, as she was, to do her justice, Laura’s whole heart was in the plan. In progress of her manoeuvring she had conceived a great affection for this bright, open-hearted admirer of hers; an affection which was destined to blaze forth into a burning, deep-rooted, lifelong passion. And the motor which should work this transformation was very near at hand. Even then she stood on the verge of its shadow. But – Heaven help her when it should enshroud her entirely – for then might she sit down and cast ashes upon her head, and think no more of life.

Even in that brief, fleeting hour of her triumph – of her happiness – there was always one misgiving which, like the skeleton at the feast, would never be entirely banished. A heart caught at the rebound may constitute an easy capture, but it is doubtful whether it constitutes a safe one. And that her capture was of this nature Laura was fully aware. Given one of Philip’s expansive, sympathy-craving temperament, it was impossible she could have been otherwise. Indeed, it was very much the knowledge of this that constituted the trump card in her far from unfavourable hand; and it was a far from unfavourable one, for Laura Daventer could be very winning, very sympathetic, in short, very dangerously attractive when she chose.

They had travelled home to England together, and during the tediousness and worry of a long journey – no small test of patience and temper – Laura had shown at her best; helpful, ready, unselfish. They had spent three or four days in London together, and Philip had found her a delightful companion; and while Mrs Daventer rested or shopped, they two would go off upon a long day’s expedition – mostly up the river – returning in the best of spirits, and more wrapped up in each other than ever. It was a bright and happy time – an idyllic time – and there seemed no reason why it should not last. Yet, deep down in her heart, Laura was conscious of that gnawing, cankering misgiving. Without underrating her own charms – her own powers of attractiveness – she instinctively felt that one glance from Alma Wyatt’s great grey eyes would suffice to scatter her own fair house of cards to the four winds of heaven. “On revient toujours,” etc, may be, and in fact is, a saw of doubtful, not to say baseless, foundation, but this last experience of the volatile Phil’s was of far too recent occurrence, she decided. The wound could not actually be healed in so short a time; but, given a fair field, under her own soft and sympathetic hand, it eventually should be.

Once they had got him safe home, Laura breathed more freely. In or around the quiet and somewhat remote little Welsh seaport the prospects of any chance meeting with Alma Wyatt seemed so minute as to be practically non-existent. Ynys-cwm-barweg was not much of a place in the matter of attractions; but given cloudless summer weather, bracing sea air, and unbounded freedom, to two young people in love with each other such a place is apt to become a very Eden.

The rest was easy. To a clever woman like Mrs Daventer, the process of “drawing” the ingenuous Philip was the merest child’s play. Before he had been a week her guest, she knew all about him and his family – its circumstances, idiosyncrasies, and surroundings – as well as he did himself. The chances seemed good enough. Laura should marry him, and eventually become Lady Orlebar. Then the irony of the situation would be complete, but they two would never know.

That a chain is no stronger than its weakest link is proverbial. Clever as she was, as success attended her shrewdness and manoeuvring, Mrs Daventer closed her eyes more and more to one point. The scheme had been one of Fordham’s originating – could it therefore have for its object anybody’s good? Yet so promising did everything look that, woman-like, she almost began to believe she had originated it herself, and so thoroughly was she acting upon this idea that it became unnecessary for the real author to apply from time to time a refreshing spur, which, being the skilful tactician that he was, he forebore to do.

But if her astuteness failed her as to the bonâ fides of the plan, in the execution of the same she showed skill and generalship. She read Philip’s character like a book. If Laura was to marry him, it must be now. Once away, once at home again, absence, family influences, possibly unforeseen circumstances, such as counter-attractions, would do their work. Once away, it would be – never. Wherein she was most probably right.

Never did sheep walk so confidingly to the slaughter, never did condemned so readily place the noose around his own neck. What Mrs Daventer was cudgelling her wits to bring about Philip himself shortly suggested. Then came some exquisite card-playing. She was horrified. He must never suggest such a thing again. Great Heavens, the boy must be mad! Of course he must do everything en règle and in a proper way, and the first step in that direction was of course to consult his family. Why, what would be said? Of course that they had led him into it – entrapped him. No, she would not hear of anything of the kind.

Whereat the guileless Phil had laughed inordinately. Led him into it! That was a good joke, and he even thought of retailing for Mrs Daventer’s amusement Fordham’s characteristic parting words —

“You’re walking into the trap with your eyes open, Phil, my boy. Don’t come to me to get you out of it, that’s all, for I won’t. I wash my hands of you. You’re hopeless.”

Now Fordham, we need hardly say, was perfectly aware that this warning would have precisely the same effect upon Philip as endeavouring to pull back a pig by the tail has upon that homely and generally useful quadruped – that of strengthening the spirit of opposition, to wit.

Quem Deus vult perdere. It is just possible that some similar idea as that which had carried conviction to Mrs Daventer ran through Philip’s mind. He feared opposition in delay – knowing his own weakness, he may have feared for the result. And the present was so insidiously sweet, so seductively entrancing, why think of the future? Others would put before him all sorts of hard, repellant contingencies – would unsettle him – would, in fact, drag him, and that rudely, from his fool’s paradise? And why should they? It did not follow that everybody else knew everything, while he, Philip Orlebar, was bound to remain a consummate ass. It did not follow either that his paradise was a fool’s paradise. He was surely old enough to know his own business best; other people’s interference could do no good, but very likely plenty of mischief. No, this was entirely his own affair, and as such he intended it should remain. Thus the sheep went quite blithely to the slaughter.