Chapter 6 LUCIUS HAGGARD IS BEWILDERED.

John, Earl of Pit Town, was above all things an art-worshipper. He was never tired of perambulating the great galleries of Pit Town Castle and admiring the collection, which it had been his life-long labour of love to bring together. When his son, the late Lord Hetton, had come to his sudden and dreadful end, the old man had felt the blow severely; when his heir, Reginald Haggard, had been snatched away in the pride of his manhood, it had affected him in a less degree; but he had felt the blow from its very suddenness.

Ever since Reginald Haggard's wife had come to live at the Castle, he had ceased to feel that he was alone in the world, and a deep affection had sprung up between the two. As for Haggard's boys, now bursting into early manhood, he loved them somewhat for themselves, but still more for the sake of the woman who had been a daughter to him, and the stay and comfort of his waning years. Always orderly and methodical, he had settled the ultimate disposition of his property with justice and discretion. He was immensely wealthy. As we have said, the entailed property was extremely large, but was exceeded in actual money value by the great mineral wealth which was disposable by will. The value of several ordinary estates, too, was locked up in the vast collection contained in the new galleries.

The future possessor of the Pit Town title would be a lucky man indeed if he got the treasures so laboriously accumulated, during his long lifetime, by old Lord Pit Town. The old man lived by strict rule. He had a curious theory that, barring accidents, the span of human life might be ordinarily calculated at sixty-five years; that is, supposing that one third of the time, or eight hours a day, was given to sleep. He believed, too, that just as the span of life is undoubtedly shortened by indiscretions and excesses, particularly in the matters of diet and drink; so he considered that span to be indubitably lengthened, if the ordinary rules of common prudence were carefully observed. But Lord Pit Town went further than this. Continual association with Dr. Wolff had converted the old nobleman to an extraordinary and original theory which was held by the doctor of philosophy. This theory was a delightfully simple one. Dr. Wolff was accustomed to sum it up as follows: "The human body is a machine, and would go on working for ever did not certain parts of it gradually wear out. It is our duty to make the machine last as long as possible. When not in use it should be run at the lowest rate of speed, in order to reduce the rapidity of the deterioration." "If I don't want to wear out my boots," Dr. Wolff would triumphantly remark, "I put on my slippers; therefore, as my body is more precious to me than even my new boots, I never unnecessarily wear it out. A certain minimum amount of exercise is undoubtedly necessary to health; let us take that by all means, but no more. Let us avoid unnecessary exertion of all kinds, physical or mental; let us not ride if we can drive, let us not walk if we can ride, let us not stand when we can sit, and certainly we should not sit if we can lie down; above all things we should not remain awake if we can possibly sleep, and even in sleeping we should, if possible, refrain from dreams. The valuable machine which we are possessed of should be run at the lowest possible speed, that it may last the longer. Strong emotions of all kinds should be just as obnoxious to us as strong drinks. Holding it as an absolute fact that, barring unavoidable accidents, a certain definite amount of wakefulness is allotted to every man, every opportunity should be seized for running the machine at the lowest possible rate by the simplest means; that is to say, to put it shortly, never remain awake without an object, as you are uselessly expending the allotted time of Life, that is to say, of Wakefulness." But Dr. Wolff and his disciple went further than this: they looked upon sleep as the secret recuperative power of nature. They considered that in sleep they had discovered the real vis medicatrix natur?. Their curiosity was aroused as to the success of their theory; they were neither of them particularly anxious to become very old men, except that their doing so would tend to prove the correctness of their views.

Lord Pit Town himself had already reached an almost patriarchal age; he slept and dozed frequently in the daytime, thus carrying out the principles of what the doctor proudly termed the "Wolffian Theory." Under no pretext whatever would any servant at Walls End Castle have dared to awaken either the doctor or the old lord; they were never called in the morning, and in the midst of the most interesting conversations they were both of them in the habit, without the slightest apology, of suddenly closing their eyes and taking a deep draught of what they called nature's recuperative elixir. Everybody in Walls End Castle knew perfectly well what the servants meant, when they said that either the old lord or his faithful henchman was engaged; it simply signified that the two human dormice were carrying out the Wolffian Theory.

In sleep they were both accustomed to seek refuge from disturbing influences of all kinds. On the second day of Mrs. Dodd's visit to the Castle she had seized the opportunity of improving the occasion, when she suddenly came upon the old lord and the philosopher, each of whom was seated in an easy chair, silently drinking in the beauties of the celebrated Pit Town Turner, which formed one of the gems of the new galleries.

"I hope I'm not intruding," the energetic lady remarked, as she burst in upon the scene of tranquil enjoyment; "I don't disturb you, Lord Pit Town?" she said.

"Certainly not, dear madam; nothing disturbs me. I allow nothing to disturb me now."

"No, nothing disturbs us; nothing short of an earthquake, Frau Prediger; it is against our principle, you know, and that is why we don't rise at your approach," chimed in the doctor of philosophy; and the eyes of the two gentlemen by common accord left Mrs. Dodd and returned to their meditative contemplation of the great landscape.

Mrs. Dodd was astonished but not abashed; she had never known what it was to be abashed in the whole course of her life. "Their conduct is very peculiar," she thought. "That German man, if he had the instincts of a gentleman, should at least rise and explain the pictures to me; as for the old lord, I suppose he's in his second childhood. I wonder what 'Frau Prediger' means?" "Ah, Lord Pit Town," she said, apostrophising the old nobleman and utterly ignoring the obnoxious Wolff, "I must confess to a feeling of sadness when I look at all these beautiful things, and when I think how much might have been done with the vast sums that they must have cost," and she put up her eye-glass and read the descriptive label affixed to the frame of the great Turner. "So that is the celebrated picture," she continued, "and did it really cost four thousand pounds? Oh, Lord Pit Town," she went on, in the tone she might have used to a little child detected red-handed in some act of juvenile depravity, "when we think how much might have been done with four thousand pounds, when we read in the statistics of the Society for the Conversion of the Jews that it costs little more than four thousand pounds to convert one of that proverbially stiff-necked race, one cannot look at that picture without emotion."

She waited for a moment for the old lord to excuse himself; she looked from the picture to the venerable nobleman; his eyes were tightly shut; he was evidently taking a deep draught of the recuperative elixir. Then she turned in search of sympathy to the man who had called her "Frau Prediger;" he too was employed in exactly the same manner. For the first time in her life Mrs. Dodd found herself absolutely and distinctly ignored; she was to these two dreadful men as if she did not exist; it was too much, she turned and fled. As the vicar's wife flung out of the gallery, the two enthusiasts reopened their eyes and resumed their contemplation of Turner's masterpiece. From this little incident it may be seen that the old lord and his companion were not easily disturbed in the even tenor of their tranquil lives.

Lord Spunyarn's feelings after the stormy interview with young Lucius Haggard were not to be envied. He hated to meddle and to make. It's quite true that he had been forced into his present position by Haggard's dying communication, and it was by no fault of his own that he suddenly found himself mixed up in the exceedingly intricate family affairs of other people. It was an unpleasant position; he had seen with his own eyes the links of evidence which completed the chain of proof that plainly demonstrated the truth of what his old friend had told him on his death-bed. How and by whom the contents of the little red box had been mysteriously spirited away he was unable to imagine; certainly not by his friend's widow, for Mrs. Haggard, he knew, was the soul of honour; certainly Lucius could have had no hand in the abstraction. It seemed to Spunyarn's mind imperative upon him to communicate the whole matter to the old earl, and so shift the entire responsibility upon the shoulders of the head of the family. Possibly the old lord, as the possessor of unbounded wealth, might be able to make arrangements satisfactory to himself and to the naturally conflicting interests of the two young men. In any case an open scandal must be avoided, and the Pit Town title and estates, whatever might become of the old lord's money, must not be diverted from the legitimate heir. How he wished that he had never accepted that autumn invitation to Pit Town Castle! He knew full well that young Lucius Haggard would not relinquish one tittle of what he considered his rights. It was difficult to escape from the horns of the dilemma. It was quite certain that Mrs. Haggard would not move in the matter, and to let Lucy Warrender's child rob George Haggard of his birthright seemed to him a crime. The only other alternative being a scandalous trial in open court and the dragging of the whole matter before the public. As a man of the world, Lord Spunyarn was quite aware that a secret ceases to be a secret when there are too many depositories of it; for this reason he could not even consult the legal advisers of the family. He felt that George Haggard must be told sooner or later: that was a plain duty. He felt, too, that it were better that the boy should learn the secret from him, but the communication of the matter to the old lord was still more imperative, and that communication must be made at once, for Spunyarn well knew that the life of the fragile old nobleman hung by a thread, and that there was no exaggeration in Lucius Haggard's statement that Lord Pit Town might go off at any moment. From what Spunyarn knew of George Haggard and his mother, he felt, in the event of the old earl's death, that it was more than probable that Lucius Haggard would be allowed to succeed to everything, contrary to all the dictates of human justice. At this thought all Spunyarn's class instincts violently revolted.

Since the very startling communication which had been made to him, Lucius Haggard had thought of nothing else. To be suddenly told that one is a bastard is bad enough even for an ordinary mortal, but to a youth who has considered himself porphyro-genitus to be informed that he is but of common clay after all, and, worse than that, base-born, is terrible indeed. Since he had heard the story, young Lucius had been unable to obtain even a sip of the doctor's recuperative elixir. He believed the tale-he couldn't doubt it-for he knew that the woman who had been a mother to him could not lie. So Lucius Haggard believed the story, and his only consolation was that the proofs were missing. Possession is nine points of the law he very well knew, and he thanked his stars that the onus probandi, fortunately for him, lay with those whom he already looked upon as "the other side." But he could not rest, for the mysterious contents of the box, whatever they had been, might be discovered at any moment, and, like Damocles, he trembled at the suspended sword.

"You're not looking well, sir," said Mr. Capt, as he appeared with the dressing materials in the morning. "Won't you lie a little while longer?" said the valet. "I can bring up your breakfast, sir."

"I'm all right, Capt. I've only had a bad night," and then the valet drew the curtains, and the young fellow looked once more upon the well-timbered landscape which till yesterday he had regarded as all his own. And then he gave a long sigh, which came from the very bottom of his heart.

"The light seems to hurt your eyes, sir," said the valet, as he shut out what had now become a hateful picture.

"I think you're right, Capt, I'll have an extra hour's sleep; you can leave me, and when I want my breakfast I'll ring for it," and Lucius Haggard turned his face to the wall as the valet left the room. But he didn't attempt to sleep; he began once more to turn over the matter in his mind and to meditate upon the best course of action to pursue. Should he have an interview with the possessor of his father's heritage, the heir to what he had once looked upon as his own birthright? He well knew young George Haggard's generosity. Should he make a clean breast of the whole matter to George, and propose that come what might, they two should share and share alike by mutual consent? Of course such a contract would not be legally binding, as he well knew, but he felt that should George consent to such an arrangement, he, the more astute, could break the contract whenever he saw fit. If he could only get hold of those papers, or whatever they were, and destroy them, his position would become almost impregnable; he would still remain practically Lord Pit Town's heir. Should the old man be talked over, even he, could not keep him out of the title and the entailed property. Could it be that in her love and affection for him, or in a horror of a scandal being attached to her name or to her dead husband's, that Mrs. Haggard had destroyed what the little red box had once contained? No, he couldn't hope that. To whose interest was it that the proofs, whatever they were, should disappear? To his, and to his alone. But surely no one would commit so stupendous an act of villainy merely to benefit him, or to wrong the man whom he still called his brother? Would Spunyarn lay the whole matter before the old lord? And if he did so would Lord Pit Town take the tale for gospel without proof-proof, the very existence of which was now problematical? Should he at once go to the earl and pose as the outraged victim of a base conspiracy, with the hope of enlisting the powerful support of the head of the family? The more he thought over all these things, the more was he overwhelmed with a sense of his own impotence. If he could only get hold of what the box had contained and destroy it, he would be comparatively safe; for he felt that even were he to peaceably come into the possession of what he had once considered his own, what a life of doubt and terror would be unquestionably his, so long as those proofs, those dreadful proofs, existed. If the whole strange story were but a fabrication after all-even that was possible. Reginald Haggard was his father; both Lord Spunyarn and Mrs. Haggard had agreed in this. He had always stood much in awe of his father, and had never given him cause of offence. It was strange that, knowing him to be a bastard, his father should have treated him in all things as his legitimate heir. Why had his father failed to provide for him in any way by will? For the apparently simple reason that he looked upon him as the old lord's natural successor. If it were true that he was but a base-born child, then his father must have been aware of the fact, and he and Mrs. Haggard must have been co-conspirators in an ignoble plot. What possible object could Reginald Haggard have had, and by what possible means could he have induced his wife to be his accomplice in so abominable a crime? As he looked back upon the long years of affection that the woman, who until to-day he had called his mother, had lavished upon him, he became the more bewildered. Could it be possible that the whole matter was but a hallucination of his mother's, caused by her recent bereavement? That supposition wouldn't hold water for a moment, for the philanthropic but notoriously hard-headed Spunyarn had actually seen the proofs, and Spunyarn was an honourable man; and he well remembered that Spunyarn himself had asserted his power of supplying the missing links in the chain. Was it possible after all that the mysterious contents of the little red box would never be discovered and that he might be still the old man's heir for want of legal proof to the contrary? Such a solution was the best that could be hoped for. He felt more than ever powerless, as he reflected that his future lot remained in the hands of Mrs. Haggard, the woman who in his rage and despair he had insulted by base suspicion and met by an open defiance. That was a mistake, he saw it now but too clearly. But the mistake was not irreparable. Gradually the policy he should pursue became more and more clearly marked out in his troubled mind. "I will not quarrel with them," he thought; "I will express my readiness to do what is right, and should the contents of the box be ever forthcoming, then I must trust to their generosity. That is the simplest and safest way, the only wise course and the only prudent one; she may after all be bound to secrecy," he thought.

And then he rang for his breakfast, and afterwards proceeded to interview his father's friend. He found Lord Spunyarn in what had been called Reginald Haggard's own room. When Lucius entered it, Lord Spunyarn was engaged with a mass of papers.

"Spunyarn," he said abruptly, "I owe you an apology; I behaved badly yesterday. Forgive me," he continued, as he held out his hand, "I behaved badly enough to you," he went on, "but I behaved worse to my mother, for I must call her my mother still," he added in a broken voice.

Spunyarn rose and took the offered hand. "Say no more, Lucius, I'm glad you thought better of it. After all it was a terrible position for you, my poor boy, a terrible position for us all," he continued, "and for her especially."

"There's one thing I have to say to you, Lord Spunyarn," said Lucius, and the crafty young fellow spoke the words gracefully and trippingly; "in this matter I can only place my interests and my honour unreservedly in your hands. You were my father's friend, Lord Spunyarn, and you are his widow's and mine. It is for you, then, to say what is to be done."

"One thing must be done, Lucius; the honour of the family and of the dead," he added solemnly, "must be respected."

"That of course," said the young fellow, as he seated himself and fixed his eyes upon the carpet.

"You will ask for nothing but what is just, Lucius; you would not wish to see your brother wronged?"

"Surely not, Lord Spunyarn, surely not."

"It'll have to be done, I suppose, sooner or later, and perhaps it's better done now. I don't think I could rake up all the miserable story in your mother's presence, Lucius, but you have a right to hear it. A good deal of the sad little drama was enacted before my very eyes. I once loved your mother, Lucius, your real mother, and I wanted to make her my wife. Lucius, don't ask me to name her-she is dead, poor girl. Try to think of your mother, Lucius, as the life-long victim of a girlish folly, as one who paid very dearly for her fault. Let us speak of her no more. I will tell you all you need know. I must tell you, or you would not be able to take in the situation. Just before you were born, Lucius, your mother, who was a dear friend of the much-wronged woman who sacrificed herself for you, feeling that her condition could be no longer concealed, appealed to your father's wife to save her from the consequences of her fault. Remember, Lucius, that Mrs. Haggard had no inkling of the truth that her friend's lover was her own husband. She never knew it, poor thing, till he was in his grave. If she chose to make the great sacrifice demanded of her, it was in her power to save her friend's reputation, and your mother, Lucius, was her dearest friend. She made the sacrifice, but when she made it she little knew the price she would have to pay, for in sacrificing herself, she sacrificed the rights of her own then unborn son; and for twenty years that poor woman supposed that she was deceiving, tricking and wronging your father. But it was not so, Lucius, for your father was aware of the whole conspiracy from the very first. Your mother's letters proved that, and the box contained further evidence, which rendered doubt upon the subject impossible. But when my poor friend was on his death-bed, Mrs. Haggard could be silent no longer. She, the woman who had sacrificed her whole life for the sake of a girlish friendship, on his death-bed, asked the forgiveness of the man who had wronged her. Then, and then only, with his dying breath, your father revealed to her that he had been a consenting party to the fraud and aware of it from the first. And then she forgave him, Lucius. What was she to do, poor thing? At your father's dying request, I, as his executor, having come into possession of the secret, handed the proofs to my friend's widow."

"And you saw those proofs, Lord Spunyarn?"

"Yes, I saw them, Lucius."

The young man rose. "Then, Lord Spunyarn," he said, "there is but one course open to me. As a man of honour I place myself freely and fully in your hands. Whatever you think is the right course to pursue, that course I will follow; for I feel, as you told me yesterday, that I have no rights. My very presence here as my father's bastard, is an insult to her whom, I would to heaven, I could still call my mother, and to the head of the family. I can say no more than this, Lord Spunyarn-I place myself in your hands."

Spunyarn took the young fellow by the hand affectionately. "Lucius," said he, "you are behaving nobly. But the dilemma is none the less; the proofs, unfortunately, have disappeared. I know full well that you will never have cause to regret your generosity. Pray God that we may yet be able to avoid a public scandal. I have sent for Brookes; he is, as you know, the old lord's lawyer, and to him we must come sooner or later. If we could only get the contents of the box once more into our possession, all would be simple enough; but the proofs have disappeared, perhaps for ever; and my poor friend's wife, Lucius, is smitten by a terrible affliction; they found her speechless this morning, and the family practitioner tells me she may never recover. God knows," he added with a groan, "perhaps the hand of heaven has closed her mouth for ever."

"You don't say that she is ill, Lord Spunyarn, perhaps dying?" cried the young man in an awe-stricken whisper, as he repressed his exultation with an effort. "Let me see her at once. Poor mother!" he added with a sigh.

I verily believe that should fortune desert young Lucius Haggard he need never really starve, for his talents as a light comedian should certainly be worth several guineas a week to him.

"Spunyarn," said Lucius after a pause, "who can have taken these papers? Have you any suspicion?"

"It's a mystery I cannot penetrate," he replied. "Brookes may be able to get at the bottom of it, however; I hope and trust so."

"Can it be possible," said Lucius, "that my mother destroyed the papers herself, or has secreted them?"

"I hardly think so; she seemed as much astonished as I was, when we found them gone. Besides, why should she destroy them? Lucius, she trusted you; and she judged you rightly, my boy; you have chosen the only honourable and manly course. No man has cause to regret running straight in this world. You will never have reason to repent of it, Lucius."

"Do you think no one outside the family, Lord Spunyarn, by any possibility can be in possession of the key to the secret?"

"No one. Besides it interests no one, save my dear old friend, your brother, and yourself."

"Yes, I suppose after all George is my brother, in a sort of way, still."

"George will never forget that he is your brother, Lucius."

There was a pause.

"Let us go to her," said Lucius Haggard with a sigh.

The elder man consented, and they left the room.

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