CHAPTER VI
A SPLIT AT LAST
The renovation of Musselburgh House took more time than had been hoped; bride and bridegroom remained abroad, basking in the sweet airs and sunlight of the Mediterranean spring; and it was not until well on in the month of May that they returned to London. Immediately after their arrival Vincent called on them – one afternoon on his way down to St. Stephen's. He stayed only a few minutes; and had little to say. But the moment he had left Lady Musselburgh turned to her husband.
"Oh, Hubert, isn't it dreadful! Did you ever see such a change in any human being? And no one to tell us of it – not even his own father – nor a word from Louie Drexel, though she wrote often enough about him and what he was doing in the House – "
"Yes, he does look ill," said Lord Musselburgh, with a seriousness not usual with him. "Very ill, indeed. Yet he doesn't seem to know it – declares there is nothing the matter with him – shows a little impatience, even, when you begin to ask questions. I suppose he has been working too hard; too eager and anxious all the way round; too ambitious – not like most young men. He'd better give up that newspaper-nonsense, for one thing."
"Oh, it isn't that, Hubert; it isn't that!" she exclaimed, in rather piteous accents; and she walked away to the window (this was the very room in which Vincent had first set eyes on Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather).
She stood there, alone, for a time. Then her husband went and joined her, and linked his arm within hers. She was crying a little.
"I did it for the best, Hubert," she sobbed.
"Did what for the best?"
"Getting that girl away. I never thought it would come to this."
"Now, now, Madge," said he, in a very affectionate fashion, "don't you worry about nothing – or rather, it isn't nothing, for Vin does look pretty seedy; but you mustn't assume that you are in any way responsible. People don't die nowadays of separation and a broken heart – not nowadays. He is fagged; he is not used to the late hours of the House of Commons; then there's that newspaper work – "
"But his manner, Hubert, his manner!" she exclaimed. "He seemed as if he no longer cared for anything in life; he hardly listened when I told him where we had been; he appeared to be thinking of something quite different – as if he were looking at ghosts."
"And perhaps he was looking at ghosts," said her husband. "For it was by that table there he first saw those two people who have made all this trouble. But why should you consider yourself responsible, Madge? It wasn't your money that sent them out of the country. It wasn't you who found out what they really were."
She passed her handkerchief across her eyes.
"I was quite sure," she went on – not heeding this consolation – "that as soon as she was got away – as soon as he was removed from the fascination of her actual presence – he would begin to see things in their true light. And then, thrown into the society of a charming and clever girl like Louie Drexel, I hoped everything for him. And is this all that has come of it, that he looks as if he were at death's door? It isn't the House of Commons, Hubert; and it isn't the newspaper-work: it is simply that he still believes in that girl, and that he is eating his heart out about her absence, and has no one to confide in. For that is the worst of it all: it is all a sealed book now, as between him and us. He was for leaving my house in Brighton – oh, the rage he was in with me about her! – and it would have been for the last time too, I know; only that I promised never again to mention the subject to him, and on that condition we have got on fairly well since. But how am I to keep silence any longer? I cannot see my boy like that. I must speak to him; I must ask him if he is still so mad as to believe in the honesty of those two people; and then, if I find that his infatuation still exists, even after all this time, then I must simply tell him that they took money to go away. How can he get over that? How can he get over that, Hubert?"
In her despair, this was almost a challenge as well as an appeal. But her husband was doubtful.
"When a man is in love with a woman," said he, "he can forgive a good lot – confound it, he can forgive everything, or nearly everything, so long as she can persuade him she loves him in return – "
"But not this, Hubert, not this!" the young wife exclaimed. "Even if he could forgive her being a thief and the accomplice of an old charlatan and swindler – and what an 'if! – imagine that of Vincent – of Vincent, who is as proud as Lucifer – imagine that of him! – but even if he were willing to forgive all that, how could he forgive her being bought over, her taking money to remain away from him? No, no, Hubert: surely there is a limit, even to a young man's folly!"
"Of course you know best," her husband said, in a dubious kind of way. "I've seen some queer things in my time, with young men. And Vin is an obstinate devil, and tenacious: he sticks to anything he takes up: look at him and that wretched newspaper-work, for example. If he has persuaded himself of the innocence and honour of this girl, it may be hard to move him. And I remember there was something very winning and attractive about her – something that bespoke favour – "
"That was what made her so useful to that old impostor!" Lady Musselburgh said, vindictively.
"Of course," he admitted, "as you say, here is the undoubted fact of their taking the money. If Vin is to be convinced at all, it is possible that may convince him."
"Very well, then," said she, with decision, "he must and shall be convinced; and that no further off than to-morrow morning. I'll tell Harland I'm coming along to lunch; so that he may be in the house, to give me any papers I may want. And surely, surely, when Vincent perceives what these people are, and what an escape he has had, he will cease to mope and fret: at his time of life there ought to be other things to think of than a girl who has deceived him all the way through, and ended by taking money to leave the country!"
But notwithstanding all this brave confidence, Lady Musselburgh felt very nervous and anxious as she went down next morning to Grosvenor Place. She was alone – her husband was coming along later, for lunch; and she went on foot, to give her a little more time to arrange her plan of procedure. For this was her last bolt, and she knew it. If his fatal obstinacy withstood this final assault, then there was no hope for him, or for her far-reaching schemes with regard to him.
She went into the drawing-room; and he came as soon as he was sent for. These two were now alone.
"Do you know, Vin," she began at once, "Hubert and I have been much concerned about you; for though you won't admit there is anything the matter, the change in your appearance struck us yesterday the moment you came in: indeed, it made me quite anxious; and after you were gone, Hubert and I talked a little about you and your affairs – you may be sure with only the one wish in our minds. Hubert thinks you are over-fagged; that you are too close in your attendance at the House; and that you should give up your newspaper-writing for a time. I wish it were no more than that. But I suspect there is something else – "
"Aunt," said he, interrupting her – and yet with something of a tired air, "do you think there is any use in talking, and inquiring, and suggesting? What has happened, has happened. It is something you don't understand; and something you couldn't put right – with all your good wishes."
"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, for she was rejoiced to find that he took her interference so amiably: "that is quite right; and mind you, I don't forget the agreement we came to at Brighton, that a certain subject should never be referred to by either of us. I quite remember that; and you know I have never sought to return to it again in any way whatever. But your looks yesterday, Vin, frightened me; and at this moment – why, you are not like my dear boy at all. I wish in all seriousness you had come over to Paris with us – you and Louie – and gone with us to the Mediterranean; we should not have allowed you to fall into this condition – "
"Oh, I'm well enough, aunt!" said he.
"You are not well!" she insisted. "And why? Because your mind is ill at ease – "
"And very little comfort I have to hope for from you," said he, remembering former conversations: but there was no bitterness in his tone – only a sort of resigned hopelessness.
"Now, that is not fair, Vin!" she protested. "If I said things to you you did not like, what motive had I but your happiness? And now at this moment, if I re-open that subject, it is not the kind of comfort you apparently hope for that I am prepared to bring you, but something quite different. I should like to heal your mental ailment, once and for all, by convincing you of the truth."
"Yes, I think we have heard something of that sort on previous occasions," he said, rather scornfully. "The truth as it is in George Morris! Well, I will tell you what would be more useful, more to the point, and more becoming. Before saying anything further about that old man and his granddaughter, I think you ought to go and seek them out, and go down on your knees to them, and ask their pardon – "
"For what?"
"For what you have already said of them – and suspected."
"Really you try my patience too much!" she exclaimed, with some show of temper. "What have I said or suspected of them that was not amply justified by the account of them that your father offered to show you? Of course you wouldn't look at it. Certainly not! Facts are inconvenient things, most uncomfortable things, where one's prepossessions are involved. But I had no objection to looking at it – "
"I suppose not!" said he.
"And my eyes were not blinded: I could accept evidence when it was put before me."
"Evidence!" he repeated. "You forget that I have been across the Atlantic since that precious document was compiled. I heard how that evidence had been got: I could see how it could be perverted to suit the malignant theories of a pack of detectives. And if I came back with any settled conviction, it was that you and one or two others – myself, too, in a way – could do no better than go and humble ourselves before that old man and that girl, and beg for their forgiveness, and their forgetfulness of the wrongs and insults we have put upon them."
"Oh, this is beyond anything!" she cried – rather losing command of herself. "You drive me to speak plain. Everything your father and I could think of was tried to cure you of this mad infatuation – the most patient inquiry – expenditure of money – representations that would have convinced any sane person. Nothing was of any use. What was to be done next? Well, we could only buy up those honourable persons – who were not adventurers in any kind of way – oh, certainly not! – but all the same they were willing to be bought; and so, on payment of a substantial consideration, they agreed to pack up their traps and be off. What do you think of that? What do you say to that? Where was the old gentleman's indomitable pride? – where was the girl's pretended affection for you? – when they consented to take a good round sum of money and be off? How can you explain that away?"
She regarded him with a certain defiance – for she was moved to anger by his obduracy. But if she expected him to wince under this sudden stab she was mistaken.
"How do I know that this is true?" he said, calmly.
"I am not in the habit of speaking untruths," she said, slightly drawing herself up.
"Oh, of course not," he answered. "But all through this matter there has been a good deal of twisting about and misrepresentation. I should like to know from whom Mr. Bethune got this money – and in what form."
Well, she was prepared.
"I suppose you would be convinced," said she, "if I showed you the receipt – a receipt for £5,000 – which he signed and gave to George Morris?"
"Where is that receipt?" he asked.
"In this house. I will go to your father, and get it. Shall I ask him at the same time for those other documents which you would not read? Perhaps all taken together they might enable you to realise the truth at last."
"No, thank you," said he, coldly. "I know how those other documents were procured. I shall be glad to see the receipt."
She hurried away, anxious to strike while the iron was hot, and certain she had already made a profound impression. And so she had, in one way, all unknowing. When she left the room, he remained standing, gazing blankly at the sides of the books on the table: outwardly impassive, but with his brain working rapidly enough. He made no manner of doubt that she could produce this receipt. He took it for granted that George Bethune had accepted the money. Of course, Maisrie had nothing to do with it; her grandfather kept her in ignorance of his pecuniary affairs; and it would be enough for him to say that she must go away with him from England – she was obedient in all things. And no doubt the old man had been cajoled and flattered into believing he was acting justly and in the best interests of every one concerned; there could have been little difficulty about that; he was quick to persuade himself of anything that happened to fall in with the needs of the moment. All this Vincent understood at once. But when he came to consider that it was his own relatives who had brought upon him all the long torture and suffering of these bygone months – and not only that: for what was he or his hidden pain? – but also that they had once more driven forth those two tired wanderers – the old man who had some wistful notion of ending his days in his own country, the young girl whose maiden eyes had just made confession of her love-secret – then his heart grew hot within him. It was too cruel. When Lady Musselburgh returned with the receipt in her hand, he took the paper, and merely glanced at it.
"And whose clever and original idea was this?" he demanded – with what she took to be indifference.
"But Vincent – are you convinced at last!" she exclaimed. "Surely you must see for yourself now. You will give up thinking of them – thinking of that girl especially when you see what she is – "
"Whose idea was it to get them sent away?" he repeated.
"Well, it was my idea," she said; "but your father paid the money."
He was silent for a second or two, and then he said slowly —
"And you are my nearest relatives; and this is what you have done, not to me only, but to one who is dearer to me than life. So be it. But you cannot expect me to remain longer under this roof, or to sit down at table, anywhere, with my cruellest enemies – "
She turned very pale.
"Vincent!" she exclaimed.
"It is a question of taking sides," he went on, with perfect composure; "and I go over to the other side. They most need help: they are poor and friendless. I hope the mischief you have done is not irreparable; I cannot tell; but I dare say when you and I meet again time will have shown."
She was thunderstruck and stupefied; she did not even seek to detain him as he left the room. For there was a curious air of self-possession, of resolution, about his manner: this was no pique of disappointed passion, nor any freak of temper. And she could not but ask herself, in a breathless sort of way, whether after all he might not be in the right about those people; and, in that case, what was this that she had brought about? She was frightened – too frightened to reason with herself, perhaps: she only saw Vincent leaving his father's roof – cutting himself off from his own family – and she had a dumb consciousness that it was her work, through some fatal error of judgment. And she seemed to know instinctively that this step that he had taken was irrevocable – and that she was in some dim way responsible for all that had occurred.
When Lord Musselburgh arrived, he and Harland Harris came upstairs together; and almost directly afterwards luncheon was announced. As they were about to go down to the dining-room the great Communist-capitalist looked round with a little air of impatience and said —
"But where is Vin?"
"He was here a short time ago," said Lady Musselburgh: she dared not say more.
Mr. Harris, from below, sent a message to his son's room: the answer – which Lady Musselburgh heard in silence – was that they were not to wait luncheon for him.
"Too busy with his reply to the Sentinel," Musselburgh suggested. "Sharp cuts and thrusts going. I wonder that celestial minds should grow so acrid over such a subject as the nationalisation of tithe."
There was some scuffle on the stairs outside, to which nobody (except Lady Musselburgh, whose ears were painfully on the alert) paid any attention; but when a hansom was called up to the front door, Harland Harris happened to look out.
"What, is he going off somewhere? I never knew any creature so careless about his meals. I presume his indifference means a good digestion."
"Oh, Vin's digestion is all right," Lord Musselburgh said. "I hear he dines every night at the House of Commons – and yet he is alive – "
"But there are his portmanteaus!" Mr. Harris exclaimed, and he even rose and went to the window for a second. Well, he was just in time to see Vincent step into the cab, and drive off; and therewith he returned to his place at table, and proceeded, in his usual bland and somewhat patronising manner, to tell Lord Musselburgh of certain experiments he was having made in copper-lustre. He was not in the least concerned about that departing cab; nor did he know that that was the last glimpse of his son he was to have for many and many a day.
And meanwhile Lady Musselburgh sate there frightened, and guilty, and silent. And that without reason; for what she had done she had done with the full concurrence and approval of her brother-in-law and her fiancé (as he then was). Yet somehow she seemed to feel herself entirely answerable for all that had happened – for the failure of all her schemes – for the catastrophe that had resulted. And the moment she got outside her brother-in-law's house, she began and confessed the whole truth to her husband.
"But why didn't you tell Harris?" said he, pausing as if even now he would go back.
"Oh, I couldn't, Hubert; I daren't!" she said, evidently in great distress. "I was so confident everything would come right – I advised him – I persuaded him to pay the £5,000 – "
"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply. "A man doesn't hand over £5,000 unless he is himself convinced that it is worth while. And he got what he bargained for. Those people have gone away; they don't interfere any more – "
"Ah, but that is not all," Lady Musselburgh put in, rather sadly. "I made so sure that Vin would forget – that as soon as the hallucination had worn off a little, he would see what those people really were, and turn his eyes elsewhere: yet apparently he believes in their honesty more firmly than ever – talks of my going and asking their pardon – and the like; and now he has wholly broken away from us – declares he will never be under the same roof with us, or sit down at the same table with us. He has gone over to the other side, he says, because they are poor and friendless. Poor and friendless!" she repeated, with a snap of anger – "living on the fat of the land through their thieving! And yet – "
And here again she paused, as if recalling something to herself: "Do you know, Hubert, I was startled and frightened by Vin's manner to-day; for I had suddenly to ask myself whether after all it was possible he might be in the right, and we altogether wrong. In all other things he shows himself so clear-headed and able and shrewd; and then he has seen the world; you would not take him to be one who could be easily deceived. Sometimes I hardly know what to think. But at all events, this is what you must do now, Hubert: you must get hold of him, and persuade him to go back home, before Harland knows anything of what had been intended. He can invent some excuse about the portmanteaus. You can go down to the House to-night, and see him there; and if you persuade him to return to Grosvenor Place, that will be so much of the mischief set straight. That is the first thing to be done; but afterwards – "
It was quite clear that she knew not what to think, for she went on again, almost as if talking to herself —
"Of course, if the girl were a perfectly good and honest girl, and above suspicion of every kind, Vin's constancy and devotion to her would be a very fine and noble thing; and I for one should be proud of him for it. But as things are, it is a monomania – nothing else than a monomania! He must see that she is in league with that old man to get money on false pretences."
"He sees nothing of the kind," said her husband bluntly. "She may or she may not be; I know little or nothing about her; but if she is, Vin doesn't see it: you may make up your mind about that."
"And yet he seems sharp-sighted in other things," said Lady Musselburgh in a pensive sort of way; and then she added: "However, the first step to be taken is to get him back to his own family; and none can do that so well as you, Hubert; you are his old friend; and you stand between us, as it were. And there's one thing about Vin: he can't disappear out of the way; you can always get hold of him – at the House of Commons."
Lord Musselburgh had not been long married; he did as he was bid. And very eagerly did Vincent welcome this ambassador, when he encountered him in the Lobby.
"Come out on to the Terrace. I was just going to write to you: I want you to do me the greatest service you can imagine!"
"Here I am, ready to do anybody any number of services," said Lord Musselburgh, as they proceeded to stroll up and down this dark space, with the wide river flowing silently by, and the innumerable small beads of gold showing where London lay in the dusk. "Only too happy. And I am in the best position for being mediator, for I have nothing to gain from either side – except, of course that I should be extremely sorry to see you quarrelling with your relations. This is always a mistake, Vin, my boy: bad for you, bad for them. And I hope you will let me go back with the important part of my commission done – that is to say, I was to persuade you to return to Grosvenor Place, just as if nothing had happened. My wife is awfully upset about it – thinks it is entirely owing to her; whereas I don't see that it is at all. She has been trying to do her best for everybody – for your father as well as for yourself. And the notion that you should cut yourself off from your family naturally seems very dreadful to her; and if I can take her the assurance that you don't mean anything of the kind – very well!"
"Oh, but look here, Musselburgh," said Vincent, "you entirely mistake. It was not about that I wished to see you: not at all: on that point it is useless saying anything. You must assure Lady Musselburgh that this is no piece of temper on my part – nothing to be smoothed over, and hushed up. I have seen all along that it was inevitable. From the moment that my aunt and my father took up that position against – against Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather – I foresaw that sooner or later this must come. I have tried to reason with them; I have assured them that their suspicions and their definite charges were as cruel as they were false; and all to no purpose. And this last thing: this bribing of an old man, who can be too easily persuaded, to take his granddaughter away with him and subject her to the homeless life she had led for so many years – perhaps there are some other considerations I need not mention – this is too much. But I knew that sooner or later a severance would come between them and me; and I am not unprepared. You wondered at my drudging away at that newspaper work, when my father was allowing me a handsome income. Now do you see the use of it? I am independent. I can do as I please. I can't make a fortune; but I can earn enough to live – and something more. Let them go their way, as I go mine: it has not been all my doing."
Lord Musselburgh was disconcerted; but he was a dutiful husband; he went on to argue. He found he might as well attempt to argue with a milestone. Nothing could shake this young man's determination.
"I told Lady Musselburgh I had gone over to the other side, this time for good," said he. "We are in opposite camps now. We have been so all along – but not openly. This piece of treachery has been too much for me: we are better apart: I could not sit down at table with people who had acted like that – whatever their motives were. But you, Musselburgh, you were not concerned in that wretched piece of scheming; and as I tell you, you can do me the greatest possible service. Will you do it? Or will you rather cast in your lot with them?"
"Oh, well," said Musselburgh, rather disappointedly, "I don't see why I should be compelled to take sides. I want to do my best for everybody concerned. I've just come into the family, as you might say; and it seems a pity there should be any quarrel or break up. I had a kind of notion that we should all of us – but particularly my wife and myself and you and – and – your wife – I thought our little party of four might have a very pleasant time together, both at home and abroad. My wife and I have often talked of it, and amused ourselves with sketching out plans. Seems such a pity – "
"Yes," said Vincent, abruptly, "but there are other things in life besides going to Monte Carlo and staking five-franc pieces."
"What is this that you want me to do?" his friend asked next – seeing that those inducements did not avail.
"Well," said Vincent, "I suppose you know that Lady Musselburgh showed me this morning the receipt Mr. Bethune gave George Morris for the £5,000. It was a simple receipt: nothing more. But everybody knows George Morris is not the man to part with money unconditionally; there must have been arrangements and pledges; and I want to discover what Mr. Bethune undertook to do, where he undertook to go. Morris won't tell me, that is certain enough: but he would probably tell you."
Lord Musselburgh hesitated.
"Why," said he, "you know why that money was paid. It was paid for the express purpose of getting them away – so that you should not know where they are – "
"Precisely so," said Vincent. "And you would therefore be undoing a part of the wrong that has been done them, by your wife and my father."
"Oh, I don't call it doing a wrong to a man to give him £5,000," said Lord Musselburgh, with a touch of resentment. "He needn't have taken the money unless he liked."
"Do you know what representations were made to him to induce him to take it?" Vincent said.
"Well, I don't," was the reply. "They settled all that amongst themselves; and I was merely made acquainted with the results. It would hardly have been my place to interfere, you see; it was before my marriage, remember; in any case, I don't know that I should have wanted to have any say in the matter. However, the actual outcome we all of us know; and you must confess, Vin, whatever persuasions were used, it looks a rather shady transaction."
"Yes – on the part of those who induced him to accept the bribe!" Vincent said, boldly.
"Oh, come, come," Lord Musselburgh interposed, rather testily, "don't be so bigoted. It isn't only your considering that girl to be everything that is fine and wonderful – I can understand that – the glamour of love can do anything; but you go too far in professing the greatest admiration and respect for this old man. Leave us some chance of agreeing with you, of believing you sane. For you can't deny that he took the money: there is the plain and simple fact staring you in the face. More than that, his taking it was the justification of those who offered it: it proved to them that he was not the kind of person with whom you should be connected by marriage. I say nothing about the young lady; I don't know her; perhaps her association all these years with this old – well, I won't call him names – has not affected her in any way; perhaps she believes in him as implicitly as you appear to do. But as for him: well, take any unprejudiced outsider, like myself; what am I to think when I find him accepting this money from strangers?"
"Yes," said Vincent, a little absently, "I suppose, to an outsider, that would look bad. But it is because you don't know him, Musselburgh; or the story of his life; or his circumstances. I confess that at one time there were things that disquieted me; I rather shut my eyes to them; but now that I understand what this man is, and what he has gone through, and how he bears himself, it isn't only pity I feel for him, it is respect, and more than respect. But it's a long story; and it would have to be told to sympathetic ears; it would be little use telling it to my father or to my aunt – they have the detectives' version before them – they have the detectives' reading of the case."
"Well, tell me, at least," said his friend. "I want to get at the truth. I have no prejudice or prepossession one way or the other. For another thing, I like to hear the best of everybody – and to believe it, if I can; it makes life pleasanter; and I can't forget, either, that it was through me you got to know George Bethune."
It was a long story, as Vincent had said; and it was a difficult one to set in order and in a proper light: but it was chiefly based on what had been told him by the Toronto banker; and Mr. Thompson's generous interpretation of it ran through it all. Lord Musselburgh listened with the greatest interest and attention. What seemed mostly to strike him was the banker's phrase – 'Call George Bethune an impostor, if you like; but the man he has imposed on, his whole life through, has been – George Bethune.'
"Well, it's all very extraordinary," he said, when Vincent had finished. "I wish I had taken the trouble to become a little better acquainted with him; one is so apt to judge by the outside; I thought he was merely a picturesque old fellow with a mad enthusiasm about Scotland. And yet I don't know what to say even now. All that you have told me sounds very plausible and possible – if you take that way of looking at it; and the whole thing seems so pitiable, especially for the girl: he has his delusions and self-confidence – she has only her loneliness. But at the same time, Vin, you must admit that these little weaknesses of his might easily be misconstrued – "