Fordham's Feud Part 40

It was Philip's turn to look slightly foolish now; and in spite of his anger and misery he did so--such is the power of a master-mind and a sarcastic tongue.

"Just do me the favour to open that door suddenly, will you?" went on Fordham. "Ah! The coast's clear, is it? Well, then"--as the door was shut again--"if you really mean business, this is how you ought to have put it: 'Fordham, old man, are you really going to St. Jean-de-Luz this week or next? Because if so I might join you there.'"

Philip started, and stared. Then it dawned on him.

"And where the deuce is St. Jean-de-Luz?" he said.

"About equidistant between Biarritz and the Spanish border, and very near both," was the tranquil answer. "Well, I was going to Les Avants, but if you prefer it I will alter my destination. Do you prefer it?"

with a keen glance into the other's eyes.

"I understand," said Philip, slowly. "Yes, certainly, I do prefer it."

"Very well, then. There is no more to be said. I will be at St.

Jean-de-Luz by the middle of next week at the latest. And now a word of caution for your own sake. Do not breathe one syllable with regard to our--er--rendezvous, while you are on this side of the English Channel.

Remember that on this side of that geographical feature we are both within British jurisdiction. I suppose you don't want to spend the rest of your life in penal servitude in the event of gaining your object?"

"I understand," said Philip, again. "Till this day week, then--over there."

"You may rely upon me." And then the speaker rang the bell, and Philip, hardly knowing where he went, found himself following a manservant to the street door.

He had gone in there on violence intent. That was a mistake. Fordham was right to keep cool. It is what he ought to have done himself. Ah, well, he was learning his lesson gradually. He had acted upon impulse hitherto--the warm, generous impulse of youth. No more of that. But he would be cool enough that day week, when they two should meet.

No compunction did he feel--nothing but hate, and horror, and loathing towards his former friend. The diabolical and coldblooded cruelty which could predestine his life to s.h.i.+pwreck from the very cradle, which could watch him grow up, and then under the guise of friends.h.i.+p lure him to his ruin, effaced at one sweep all the recollection of their former intimacy, of many an act of kindness on the part of the older man, of strong and reliable comrades.h.i.+p in moments of danger. And his father-- if he had injured Fordham in times past, he had given him full satisfaction. That ought to have closed the matter. And now this coldblooded villain, after all these years, rose again to persecute and hound him into the grave. Never while he was there. And then at the recollection of his father's white, stricken face and pitiable aspect, Philip clenched his fists and wished he had insisted upon an earlier meeting.

When he reached the Great Western terminus the Welsh train was already moving, but with an effort and at imminent risk to life and limb he managed to fling himself into a compartment, and then, speeding over the familiar landscape, his thoughts turned from those he was leaving behind to those to whom he was going. Why, it was very little more than twenty-four hours since he had parted from his bride, and what a cataclysm had taken place within that time. His bride! Horror! How should he even meet her, knowing what he did? How could he even bear to look at her? And then, as he sat there throughout the day, gazing out vacantly upon the flying trees and hedges, the scales seemed to drop from his eyes. He had fallen a prey--a contemptibly easy prey--to a couple of designing adventuresses. All the kind and gracious attentions of the mother--the winsome ways of the daughter--all struck him now as so many arts to lure him into their net, and they had succeeded. He had fallen a victim to a couple of the basest tools ever employed to carry out a base and villainous scheme. Well, after that night they should look upon his face no more.

Then another thought struck him. If the more horrible side of Fordham's scheme, as set forth in his revelation, were true, Mrs Daventer-- so-called--could not be in ignorance of it. Could she, as a mother,-- under no matter what pressure of circ.u.mstances--consent to become a party to so monstrous a crime? It did not seem possible. Yet, to poor Phil, now beginning to realise the sublimity of iniquity to which some will soar, it occurred that the woman acting under baser, stronger motives, might even have been brought to sacrifice her own daughter.

Well, she would know, at any rate, and--she should tell.

Chance favoured him. It was late when he reached the house. Laura, having given him up for that night, had gone upstairs; but her mother was still sitting in the drawing-room reading. The French window, neither curtained nor shuttered, stood ajar, for the night was hot and stuffy. Standing there for a moment in the starlight, the fresh salt air fanning his brow, the murmur of the waves on the beach hard by, humming confusedly in his ears, Philip felt quite sick and faint. He had been continuously on the move since this horror had burst upon him-- had eaten next to nothing, and had not slept a wink--and now it was all beginning to tell. Recovering himself, he pushed open the window and stepped into the room.

"Why, Philip! What a way to come back!" cried Mrs Daventer, recovering from the momentary start this unexpected invasion had thrown her into.

"Laura will be delighted! Why--what is the matter? Has anything gone wrong?" she broke off, noting his haggard face and the miserable expression of his eyes; and her own cheeks grew livid with a horrible boding fear.

His first answer was to step to the door and turn the key.

"We had better not be interrupted for a few minutes," he said shortly.

"Now I want you to tell me. What is Cecil Garcia to you?"

She started, swayed, as if to fall, then recovered herself, as if by an effort of will.

"You know, then?" she gasped. "_He_ has told you?"

"Everything?"

"Everything! Oh, the infamous fiend! He was always that way."

"Maybe. Now I must have an answer to this! Who is Laura's father?

Cecil Garcia or--Sir Francis Orlebar?"

She started from her chair, and stood gazing at him, unutterable horror in her eyes, her lips livid and shaking. Her next words were gulped out, as though between the gasps of strangulation.

"He--told you--?"

"That your daughter's father is my father. That I had married my half-sister. Is it true?"

She tried to speak--the words would not come. The full horror--the diabolical ingenuity--of Fordham's plan, burst upon her now--for the first time, and burst upon her with crus.h.i.+ng force. This was the blow then. While the barest taint of such suspicion lurked in Philip's mind, Laura might go through life alone. This was how Fordham had chosen to strike her. And she had half credited him with benevolent motives!

Him, a devil in human shape!

"Is it true?" repeated Philip.

But his voice hummed in her ears with a far-away sound. She made a convulsive clutch at her throat, gasping as if to speak. No words would come. Then swaying heavily, with a low cry that was half a groan, she tottered and fell.

"She has answered the question," said Philip to himself, as he caught her just in time and placed her on the sofa. "She has answered the question, and now I know the worst."

Stepping to the door he unlocked it, just as Laura was turning the handle. She had heard her mother's cry and the sound of voices. Among the latter she recognised that of Philip, and had flown down, grievously dreading that something had happened.

And at sight of him all her fears were realised. That pale, stern man with the haggard eyes, and the hand stretched forth as though to bar her approach, was that her bright-hearted Philip, who had left her so gaily, yet so lovingly, but the morning before? Heavens, what did it all mean?

"No; it is all over," he said, putting forth his hand again, as she was about to fling herself upon his neck. "I know all now. Heavens--it is too horrible!" he added with a shudder. "But I suppose you are in the secret too. To think of it!"

"I think you have gone mad," she answered, a defiant fierceness taking the place of the soft love tones wherein she had at first addressed him.

"But--what have you been doing to my mother?" she added in half a scream, as she caught sight of the latter lying there white and still, and rushed over to her side.

"She has fainted. You had better see after her while I go for a doctor.

The knowledge that I had been made aware of the infamous plot to which I have fallen a victim has been too much for her."

Even in the midst of her attentions to her fainting mother the girl turned upon him with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and a livid countenance.

"Infamous plot!" she cried. "You dare? Mark this, then. Never come near me again--never again until you have apologised most humbly to her and to me. I mean it! Do you hear?"

"That makes it easier," he replied, with a faint sneer. "Now I am going for the doctor." And he went out. "_She_ is in it too," he soliloquised as he sped along through the cool night. "It is a horrible business--horrible--horrible! But the mother? Well, she answered the question. Still, when she comes round, I shall insist upon her answering it again in words, or in writing."

But his question was destined to remain unanswered, for Mrs Daventer never did come round. A couple of hours after Philip's return with the medical man she died. But she never spoke again.

The doctors p.r.o.nounced it a plain case of heart disease, though they wrapped their definition up in a layer of technical jargon that was anything but plain. So the only person who could have cleared up the doubt was silent for ever, and the true secret of Laura's paternity lay buried in her mother's grave.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

"FOR A BROTHER'S BLOOD."

The wind soughed mournfully through the great beech-forests which cover the slopes leading up to the Roncevalles plateau.

It was early morning--gloomy and lowering. The two occupants of the open carriage wending its way at a footpace up the steep mountain road were well wrapped up, for at that elevation, late summer as it was, the air was biting and chill.

"And so you are determined to go through with this, Orlebar?" one of them was saying. "Can it not be arranged even now?"