Chapter IV: Part 4

All through lunch the Honourable Herbert, in the intervals of being charming to the ghastly collection of old bores--as he mentally dubbed them--who formed the party, had been puzzling out the best line to take at this interview. That the girl had seen that something was wrong was obvious: no one but a blind person could have failed to notice it. And now that the interview had actually started he was still undecided....

"My dear little girl," he remarked, gently, sitting down beside her and taking her hand.... "Why worry about it? As I told you this morning, some little grievance, I expect--which I'll inquire into...."

The girl shook her head.

"It's something very much more than a grievance," she said, quietly but positively. "There's something radically wrong, Herbert. I want to know what it is."

"Good heavens! Marjorie"--there was a hint of impatience in his voice--"haven't I told you I'll inquire into it? Do be reasonable, my dear girl."

"I'm being perfectly reasonable," she answered, still in the same quiet tone. "But I don't understand how things have got as far as they have without any steps on your part. You say you don't know what's the matter. Daddy would have known long ago--and remedied it." The Honourable Herbert's opinion of daddy, at that moment, remained unspoken.... "You see," went on the girl, "they're just part of daddy, are the works. He was only saying to-day that he had never had any strikes. And now, when he's getting old..." She stirred restlessly in her chair, and looked at the fire. "Of his capabilities as the boss of Frenton's, other people have already decided." The words danced before her in the flames, and almost passionately she turned to the man beside her. "Don't you see," she cried, "don't you realize that I feel responsible? You're there--as a partner--because you're my fiance. That's the only reason. The works will come to me when daddy dies: I shall be responsible for them--I and my husband...."

"You could always turn the thing into a Limited Company, darling," murmured the man, "if you found it too great a strain." He waited for an answer, but none came, and after a while he continued in an easy, reassuring voice. "Of course, I understand, my little Marjorie, your feelings on the matter."

"Do you?" she interrupted, slowly. "I wonder."

"I'm only a beginner," he went on, and his voice was a trifle hurt. "One can't pick up all sorts of technical knowledge in a month, or even a year...."

"Technical knowledge isn't wanted, Herbert--so much as human knowledge, personality. I could run those works--with the help of Mr. Thompson and the other managers.... Ah, dear!" she bent forward quickly. "I don't want to hurt you. But I just can't imagine what would have happened if dad had gone round the works with us this morning.... I believe it would have almost killed him...."

"Very well, dear, if those are your feelings there is no more to be said." With quiet dignity her fiance rose to his feet. "If you are not satisfied with me..." He left the sentence unfinished.

"I am," she cried, quickly. "I am, Herbert--perfectly satisfied. But..."

"Then don't think any more about it," he said, quickly. "I'll go down, little girl, and find out what the trouble is. And then I'll put it right, and let you know...."

"You'll let me know this evening, won't you?"

For a moment he hesitated.

"If possible, Marjorie...."

"But of course it's possible," she cried, impulsively. "At our works, you've only got to ask.... Have the men together and ask....."

The Honourable Herbert's face was expressionless, as he bent over and kissed her.

"Quite so, darling," he murmured. "Quite so. Don't worry about it any more...."

And it was not until he was at the wheel of his car driving back to his office that he gave vent to his real feelings. "Ask the men?" He saw himself doing it. The cursed luck of the thing. But for that one episode yesterday, he could have bluffed it through, until they were married at any rate. After that he had never had an intention of carrying on a deception which bored him to extinction: there would be no need to.... But now.... The marvel to him was that they hadn't struck already. And once they did, and John Frenton came down to the works and the cause became known--good-bye to his hopes of the future. Marjorie would never forgive him. And as the realization of what that would entail struck him seriously for the first time, he swore savagely. He had been banking on the Frenton millions not only morally but actually. And if they failed to materialize.... Once again he cursed under his breath....

It was after dinner that night that Marjorie made up her mind. She had twice rung up her fiance with no result. The first time he had not come in: the second he had just gone out--to the local theatre, the servant believed. With a frown she hung up the receiver, and turning away walked slowly to her father's study.

"I want to see the book of addresses, daddy," she said, quietly.

It was one of old Frenton's hobbies to have the address of every one of his men entered in a large book, which enabled periodical gifts to arrive if there was any illness in the family.

"It's over there, girlie," he said, with a sleepy smile. "What do you want it for?"

"Mrs. Tracy has just had a baby," she announced, turning over the leaves.

But it was not under the T's that she looked. Mendle, Morgan, Morrison ... Morrison, John, 9, Castle Road.... Thoughtfully she closed the book, and put it back in its proper place. Then she crossed the room, and kissed her father lovingly on his bald head.

"You're a dear old thing," she whispered. "Go and play billiards with the general...."

A few minutes later she was driving her little runabout towards Castle Road. An onlooker, had he been able to see under the thick veil she wore, would have been struck with the likeness of the small determined face to that of old John Frenton. Like her father--once she came to a decision, she required some stopping. And since her fiance had left after lunch she had become more and more uneasy, more and more certain that something was being kept from her--something thing which concerned the Honourable Herbert pretty closely. And if it concerned him, it concerned her: she, as she had told him, had brought him into the firm....

Castle Road proved to be a better neighbourhood than she had expected. Most of the hands preferred to live nearer to the works, and this street struck her as being more suitable for well-to-do clerks. But she was far too preoccupied to worry overmuch with such trifles. John Morrison and the truth were what she wanted. She left the car at the end of the street, and walked to Number 9.

Yes. Mr. Morrison was at home. A disapproving sniff preceded the opening of a sitting-room door, which closed with a bang behind her. She heard the steps of the landlady going down the stairs, and then she took an uncertain pace forward.

"... I ..." she stammered. Undoubtedly the man in evening clothes facing her was John Morrison, but he looked so different. And whoever had heard of a factory hand getting into a smoking jacket for dinner? ... And the room.... The prints on the walls: the big roll-top desk: golf clubs in the corner, and to cap everything--a gun-case.

"I think there must be some mistake," she said, haltingly. "I must apologize.... I..." She turned as if to leave the room....

"I hope not, Miss Frenton." She gave a little start: she had hoped he had not recognized her. "Won't you come and sit down by the fire and tell me what I can do for you?"

After a moment's hesitation she did as he said.

"You must admit, Mr. Morrison," she loosened her veil as she spoke, "that there is some excuse for my surprise."

The man glanced round the room with a slight smile.

"Yes," he murmured. "I can understand it causing you a slight shock. Had I known you were coming I would have tried to make it less--er--startling."

"What on earth are you doing in the works?" she asked, curiously.

"My poor concerns will keep, Miss Frenton." A charming smile robbed the words of any offence. "I don't think it was to discuss me that you came to-night. My note, I suppose. Am I to be rebuked?"

"No," she answered, slowly. "I am to be enlightened, please."

"Have you spoken to Strongley about it?" he asked, after a pause.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I asked _Mr._ Strongley what was the matter with the men, after lunch to-day."

"I stand corrected." With an expressionless face John Morrison held out a heavy silver cigarette box to her, but she shook her head.

"No, thank you," she said curtly, and he replaced the box on the table. "But please smoke yourself, if you want to."

"And what did Mr. Strongley say?" asked the man.

"Nothing." She stared at the fire with a little frown. "He didn't seem to know: but he said he'd find out and ring me up. He hasn't done so, and I want to know, Mr. Morrison--know the truth. There's something radically wrong down there. What is it?"

John Morrison thoughtfully lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantelpiece, staring down at her.

"May I ask you one or two questions, Miss Frenton: questions which, though they may sound impertinent, are not intended in that spirit?"

"Yes." She looked up at him steadily. "But I don't promise to answer."

"How long ago did you meet Herbert Strongley?"

"About a year."

"And how long was it before you got engaged to him?"

She shifted a little in her chair.

"Not very long," she said at length.

He did not press the point: though a faint smile hovered for a moment on his lips.

"Not very long," he repeated, softly. "Are you quite sure, Miss Frenton--and this is a very important question--are you quite sure that you haven't made a mistake?"

"It may be important, but it's one I absolutely refuse to answer." She faced him angrily. "What business is it of yours?"

"Absolutely none--at the moment," he said, quietly. "But you've come to me to find out what the trouble is. And if you have not made any mistake with regard to your engagement, I advise you to carry out the suggestion contained in my note. Get your fiance away from Frenton's, and keep him away, both before and after your marriage. It will come, I imagine, as a blow to your father, but you can easily turn it into a company."

"You mean--that the men don't like Herbert?" She forced herself to ask the question.

"I mean," he answered, deliberately, "that the men loathe and detest him, and that only the love they have for you and your father has staved off trouble up till now. And even that love will fail to avert a crisis after--well, after the regrettable episode that happened yesterday."

"What was it?" she demanded, and her voice sounded dead to the man.

"I don't think we need bother as to what it was," he said, quietly. "Shall we leave it at the fact that however excellent a husband Strongley may make, as a boss of Frenton's he is a complete failure?" He bit his lip as he saw the look on the girl's face. Then he went on in the same quiet voice. "Things like this hurt, Miss Frenton: but you are the type that appreciates frankness. And I tell you quite openly that the men are after your fiance. And I don't blame them."

"You side with them, do you?" She threw the words at him fiercely.

"Am I not one of them?" he replied, gravely.

"You know you're not." She stood up and faced him. "You're not one of the ordinary hands. Look at your evening clothes; look at that gun-case in the corner...." She paused as she saw the sudden look on his face. "What is it?"

"Into this room quickly," he whispered. "You must stop there till he goes. Good Lord! What a complication!"

"Who is it?" she cried, startled by his evident agitation.

"Strongley," he whispered. "Heard his voice in the hall. Absolutely unexpected."

He closed the door, and she found herself in his bedroom, just as the landlady ushered in the second visitor.

And if she had been surprised on her first entrance to John Morrison's rooms, it was evident that the Honourable Herbert was even more so.

"Good Lord, man," he spluttered. "Why the glad rags? I--er--of course, it's no business of mine, but your general appearance gave me a bit of a shock."

To the girl listening intensely on the other side of the door it seemed as if a note of relief had crept into her fiance's voice--relief in which a certain amount of uneasiness was mingled.

"What can I do for you?" John Morrison asked, gravely.

"Well--er--don't you know"--undoubtedly the visitor was not at all sure of his ground--"your rooms and that sort of thing have rather knocked me. I mean--er--I'm rather in the soup, Morrison: and I really came round to ask your advice, don't you know. I mean you saw the whole thing--yesterday: and though I'm afraid I lost my temper with you too, yet even at that time I saw you were different. And--er--I thought..."

The Honourable Herbert mopped his forehead and sank into a chair.

"The mere fact that I change for dinner doesn't seem to alter the situation appreciably," said Morrison, quietly.

"No, by Jove--I suppose not." The other sat up and braced himself for the plunge. "Well, what the hell am I to do? And what the devil are the men going to do? Are they going to strike?"

"No--I don't think so." Morrison smiled at the sudden look of relief on Strongley's face. "They're too fond of Mr. Frenton and his daughter. It's you they're after."

"What are they going to do?"

"Give you a pleasant half-hour under the steam-hammer," said Morrison deliberately, and the other rose with a stifled cry. "Just to test your nerves. Let it drop to within an inch to you--then stop it. And if that doesn't expedite your departure--they'll take other steps...."

"But, damn it, Morrison," his voice was shaking--"don't you understand I can't go? I--er--Good Lord! do you suppose I want to stop here for one second longer than I must? I loathe it. Can't you stop 'em, man: tell 'em I'm clearing the instant I'm----"

"Married," said Morrison, quietly.

"Well, yes," said the other. "I'll have to be frank with you--and I can see you'll understand." His eyes strayed round the room. "I admit absolutely that this isn't my line: I detest the show. But old Frenton is wrapped up in these works--and--well--he looks for a son-in-law who will carry on. After I'm married I can explain things to him, don't you know. And until then--well, we must stave off this trouble, Morrison."

"Wouldn't it be a little more straightforward to explain your views to him before the marriage?"

"Perhaps it would have been," said the other, with apparent frankness. "But it's too late now--and then there's that damned show yesterday. That's what I'm so afraid will come out." He stared at the fire. "I didn't mean to hurt the fellow," he went on querulously. "And I'm certain he dropped that spanner on my toe on purpose."

"Still, that hardly seems sufficient justification for slogging a boy, who is not quite all there, over the head with an iron bar, does it?" Almost unconsciously his eyes travelled to the bedroom door as he spoke, and then he grew suddenly rigid. For the door was open, and the girl stood between the two rooms with a look of incredulous horror on her face.

"So that's what was the matter with Jake," she said, slowly, and at the sound of her voice Strongley swung round with a violent start.

"Marjorie..." he gasped, "what on earth..."

"Why didn't you tell me at the beginning?" she demanded, staring at him with level eyes. "Why lie about it? It seems so unnecessary and petty. And then--to hit Jake over the head.... You, ... Take it back, please." She laid her engagement ring on the table. "And I think you'd better go--at once. The fault was partially mine; and I wouldn't like them to punish you for my--for my mistake...."

Without another word she turned and left the room. And it was not till the front door banged that Strongley turned his livid face on John Morrison.

"You swine," he muttered. "I believe this was a put-up job."

John Morrison laughed.

"Yes--you told me you were coming, didn't you?"

"No--I didn't tell you," said Strongley, slowly, with a vicious look dawning in his eyes. "Which perhaps accounts for the fact that Miss Frenton was here.... In your bedroom.... How nice.... The gentleman workman and the employer's daughter.... A charming romance.... I should think Mr. Frenton will be delighted to hear it to-morrow...."

Not a muscle on John Morrison's face moved.

"More than delighted, I should imagine.... Except that it will be a little stale. Personally, I am going up to tell him to-night." He smiled slightly. "I don't like you, Strongley; I know far too much about you. But I _did_ pass Miss Frenton a note to-day at the works warning her to get you away...."

"Your solicitude for my welfare is overwhelming," sneered Strongley.

"Good heavens!" laughed John Morrison. "I didn't care a damn about you. I was afraid the men might get into trouble. Steady! Don't get gay with me. I'm not half-witted; and I can hit back...."

*III*

It was in London the following spring that Marjorie Frenton next saw John Morrison. She had not been present at the interview with her father--was in ignorance that it had ever taken place until the next day. And on that next day John Morrison had disappeared, leaving no trace.... For a while she had waited, wondering whether he would write--but no word came. After all, why should he? There was nothing to write about.... It was merely curiosity on her part--nothing more, of course.... A workman in evening clothes.... Enough to make anybody curious....

And now there he was--three tables away, dining with a very pretty woman. He hadn't seen her yet.... Probably wouldn't remember her when he did ... After all, why should he? ... And at that moment their eyes met....

She looked away at once, and started talking to the man next to her: but even as she spoke she knew John Morrison had risen and was coming towards her.

"How are you, Miss Frenton?" She looked up into his face: met the glint of a smile in the lazy blue eyes.

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Morrison," she answered, coldly.

"Hullo, Joe!" A woman opposite had begun to speak, to stop with a puzzled frown at Marjorie's words. "Morrison! Why Morrison? ... Have you been masquerading, Joe, under an assumed name?"

"I did for a while, Jane," he said, calmly, "to avoid you; you know how you pursued me with eligible girls.... Battalions of 'em, Miss Frenton--ranged in rows. I had to disappear stealthily in the dead of night...."

"Well, when are you going to get married?" demanded the woman, laughing.

"Very soon, I hope.... I do much better than you, Jane, in these things. The girl I've got my eye on is a girl who summoned several hundred factory hands together; and told 'em she was sorry for a mistake she'd made. And she halted a bit, and stumbled a bit--but she got through with it.... And then the men cheered 'emselves sick...."

"Good heavens! Joe ... Factory hands!" gasped the woman. "What sort of a girl is she?"

"A perfect topper, Jane." Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Marjorie, whose eyes were fixed on her plate. "By the way, Miss Frenton, has your father turned his works into a company yet?"

"Not yet," she answered, very low.

"Ah! that's good." He forced her to meet his eyes, and there was something more than a smile on his face now. "Well, I must go back to my sister.... And I'll come and call to-morrow if I may.... Jane will expose my wicked deceit doubtless...."

"Mad--quite mad," remarked the woman opposite, as he went back to his interrupted dinner. "Morrison, did you say? I knew he wanted to study labour conditions first-hand--why, Heaven knows. He's got works of his own or something.... But all the Carlakes are mad.... And I'd got a splendid American girl up my sleeve for him...."

"Carlake," said Marjorie, a little faintly. "Is that Lord Carlake?"

"Of course it is, my dear. That's Joe Carlake.... Mad as a hatter.... I wonder who the girl is...."

_*VI -- The Unbroken Line*_

*I*

"My dear man, where have you been buried? You don't seem to know anybody. That's Bobby Landon, Lord Fingarton's only son. Just about to pull off _the_ marriage of the season."

I accepted the rebuke meekly: a spell of three years in Africa investigating the question of sleeping sickness does almost count as burial.

"Oh! is that Lord Landon?" I murmured, glancing across the crowded restaurant at a clean-looking youngster dining with a couple of men. "See--who is he engaged to?"

"You win the bag of nuts," laughed my fair informant. "Robert Landon, only son of Earl Fingarton of Fingarton, is about to marry Cecilie, youngest daughter of the Duke of Sussex. A fuller society announcement can be given if required, bringing out the pleasing union of two historic families in these socialistic days...." She laughed again. "But speaking the normal mother tongue, a first-class boy is marrying a topping girl, which is all that matters."

"It's all coming back to me," I said, slowly. "I'm getting warm. There was another son, wasn't there, and he died."

"I believe so," she answered; "in fact I know there was. But he died before I was born. That was the first wife's son. Daddy would be able to tell you all about that."

"What's that, my dear?" My host leaned across the table with a smile.

"Sir Richard was asking me about Lord Fingarton's family history, old man," she remarked, brightly. "I was telling him that I was slightly on the youthful side, and that you would elucidate the matter in your well-known breezy style.

"It doesn't require much elucidation," he said, slowly. "It was a mixture of tragedy and good fortune...."

"I remember that the first son died, Bill, but..." I paused and waited for him to continue.

"He broke his neck in the hunting field the day after he came of age. And the accident broke his mother's heart. They were absolutely wrapped up in that boy--both of 'em.... Six months later she died in Scotland, at Fingarton...." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and unconsciously my eyes wandered to the youngster at the neighbouring table.

"And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at length.

"This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous: they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid boy--better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a while in silence. "You see--Betty Fingarton was too old to have another child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider of the purest water--a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move about like a man in a dream--dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death would--how shall I put it--help matters. Not that he ever said anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I've lost sight of him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap. The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again.... Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...."

My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side whispered a little breathlessly:

"I didn't know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!"

I looked at her inquiringly, and she smiled.

"He's always been uncle to me," she explained. "Though lately I've hardly seen him at all.... He buries himself more and more up at Fingarton...."

"And what of the present Lady Fingarton?" I inquired.

"I like her--she's a dear," answered the girl. "Though I think daddy always compares her with the first one." Her father smiled, but said nothing. "She is generally here in Town.... She likes to be near Bobby...."

For a while we were silent, while the soft strains of the orchestra stole through the smoke-laden air above the hum of conversation.... It had gripped me--the picture painted by Bill Lakington, in his short clipped sentences. The tragedy of it--and, as he had said, the good fortune too.... Duty: pride of family--aye, they have their price. Mayhap Betty Fingarton was paying her share in the knowledge that the next of the line was not her son.... Or did she, with clearer vision, understand the workings of the Great Architect, which at first must have seemed so inscrutable?...

"When is the wedding?" I asked.

"In about a month," said the girl. "Everyone will be there."

"Personally," I murmured, "I shall be one of the forty or fifty odd million who won't. So you can send me an account of it."

"Where are you going, Sir Richard?"

"To a little village way up in the outskirts of Skye," I replied with a smile. "More burial, young lady--and more hard work."

"You ought to take a bit of a rest, Dick," said Bill Lakington. "You deserve it...."

"After I've broken the back of the book, I shall," I answered.

"Are you writing a novel, Sir Richard?" inquired the girl.

"No such claim to immortality," I sighed. "My subject is the mode of life of Glossina palpales--with illustrations."

"And who are they when they're at home?" she asked, dubiously.

"Flies--whose conduct is not above suspicion. Shall I present you with a copy?"

"Rather. As long as you don't expect me to read it.--Hullo! Bob. Going to anything to-night?"

"We're staggering to Daly's, old thing...." With a feeling of mild curiosity I glanced at the boy who had paused by our table on the way out: a clean-cut, good-looking youngster. No outsider, this future seventeenth earl, like the distant cousin.... Yes, one could see where the good fortune came in....

We, too, were going to Daly's, and we all passed out of the restaurant together. I had a word or two with the youngster as we waited for the car: he was keen as mustard on hearing about Africa, and especially Uganda....

"Everybody is tottering out to the country these days, Sir Richard, and 'pon my word, I don't blame 'em..."

"If they can, no more do I. But the head of the family can't go, my dear boy.... That's the drawback to responsibility."

"Do you know Fingarton?" A gleam came into his eyes as he spoke.

"I'm afraid I don't," I answered. "I've never met your father."

"Go and look him up, if you're in those parts," he said, impulsively. "It'll do the dear old governor good.... He's burying himself too much up there, and it's lonely for him.. I've written and written just lately, and I can't get any answer out of him.... I want him to come South--he will for my wedding, of course--but these last few months, if ever I do get a line from him, it's in reply to a letter about three weeks old...."

"Come on, Sir Richard...." Molly Lakington was calling me from the car.... "We mustn't miss the last part of the first act...."

Undoubtedly not, and with a nod to the youngster I stepped into the car.

"A good lad that, Bill," I remarked.

"Aye ... a good lad.... But not _quite_ so good as the other," he answered, thoughtfully.

"He's good enough for Cecilie, anyway, old man, and that's saying a good deal," said Molly....

By the light of a passing lamp I saw Bill Lakington's face. He was smiling quietly to himself, as a man smiles when he has his own opinion, but refuses to argue about it....

"Besides, you scarcely knew the first son," pursued Molly. "I've heard you say so yourself."

"No, my dear, but I knew the first wife," answered her father, still with the same quiet smile. Evidently, on the subject of Betty Fingarton, Bill was adamant.

And at that moment we drew up at Daly's and the conversation ceased. We were in time for the last part of the first act as the girl had demanded--though apparently one priceless song about a Bowwow named Chow-chow had eluded us.... My sorrow at this failure on our part was heightened by the information that it was one of the best Fox Trots you could dance to.... I was very anxious to know what a Fox Trot was: in Uganda, as a form of amusement, it is in but little vogue....

But we'd missed it, and though I endeavoured to bear up under the staggering blow, I found my attention wandering more and more from the stage, and centring round the story or the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his first wife Betty.

The picture of the old man, shutting himself up more and more in his Highland castle, waiting for the time when he could be relieved of duty, and go once more to the woman he loved, came between me and the stage.... _His_ child to carry on the line, but not _hers_.... But it would be carried on in direct descent--that was the great point--it would remain unbroken. The sacrifice of the father had had its reward....

"There is Lady Fingarton in the box opposite," said Molly Lakington in my ear, as the lights went up at the end of the first act.... "Sitting next to Bobby ... and Cecilie on the other side."

I glanced across the theatre. The youngster was just getting up to go out and smoke, and for a moment or two he bent over a lovely girl, who smiled up into his face. Then he turned to his mother, and she too smiled--a smile of perfect happiness. She was a sweet-looking woman of rising fifty, and on a sudden impulse I spoke my thoughts to Bill Lakington.

"He ought to come down, Bill: he oughtn't to bury himself. He'd like it--once he'd broken away. It's not fair to them--or himself. Why doesn't he?"

"I can't tell you, old man..." he answered, slowly. "I know no more than you. He's happy up North: when he does come he's always hankering to get back again."

"But they go up there, I suppose?"

"Sometimes," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes. But never for long.... When shooting starts, and he has guests."

"I agree with Sir Richard," said Molly, decidedly. "It's not fair. He's got the son he wanted, and now he sees as little of the woman who gave it him as he can.... He ought at any rate to pretend...."

The orchestra was filing back: the smokers were returning to their seats. And as the safety-curtain rolled slowly up, I glanced once more across the theatre at Lady Fingarton. Did she feel that too? And it seemed to me that her eyes were weary.... He ought at any rate to pretend....

*II*

And so, but for a strange turn in the wheel of fate, the matter would have rested as far as I was concerned. For an evening the story of the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his wife Betty had appealed to my imagination, then stress of work drove it from my mind. In Scotland, especially in the Highlands, the fierce pride of family and clan seems natural and right: from time immemorial that pride has been a dominant trait of those who live there.

And up in Skye, where I wandered for a while before settling down to work, the old Earl's action seemed easier to understand.... As a man, his heart had died with his wife Betty; as the sixteenth of his line, he had gone forth into the world, which had ceased to interest him, and taking unto himself another wife, had waited until she gave him a son. Then, his duty over, he had come back to his dead and his memories.... Callous, perhaps, to the living; primitive in his treatment of his second wife, as men of old were primitive in their treatment of women, regarding them as merely the bearers of their children--yet understandable.... Look on the glory of Glen Sligachan, and it is understandable. Country such as that in another part of the Highlands belonged to the Fingartons, and the breathless marvel of it is not to be lightly parted with. It must remain for a man's son, and his son's son ... a sacred heritage. There must be no outsider to break the line.

Thus did it strike me as I settled down to work in the island that I loved. And then, as I have said, it gradually faded from my mind. Vast tracts of territory at present infested with sleeping sickness could, I felt convinced, be rendered immune from that dreadful scourge if my proposals were adopted. Starting from the point at which the German Commission under Professor Koch had left off, years before the war, I had carried his investigations several steps further. And I knew that I had been successful. So I found an undisturbed place to write, and quickly became absorbed in my task. Without undue conceit, I knew it was an important one....

And then, one evening, after I had been working for about a fortnight, occurred the strange turn of the wheel which was to bring my attention back from the dark interior of Africa to things much nearer at hand. I had finished for the day, and was sitting by the open window watching the sun sink in a blaze of golden glory over the Coolin Hills, when a small urchin obtruded himself into my line of vision, and stared at me fixedly in the intervals of sucking his thumb. The inspection apparently proved satisfactory, and after a while the small urchin spoke. His language required interpretation by my landlady, but finally I gathered that the attentions of a medical man were wanted. And since the local doctor was away, he wanted to know whether I would come.

"It's for Mrs. MacDerry, sir," explained my landlady. "She's old and ailing fast."

No doctor can disregard a call of such a sort, and though I had certainly not come to Skye with the idea of attending to the local man's practice during his absence, I followed my small guide to a little house some half a mile away. He left me at the door, and after a moment's hesitation I knocked. It was opened almost at once by a somewhat stern and forbidding-looking woman, who stared at me suspiciously, and then curtly inquired what I wanted.

"Nothing," I answered a little nettled by her tone. "But from the boy who led me here I gathered you wanted a doctor."

"It was Doctor Lee I sent him for," she snapped.

"Well, Doctor Lee is out," I replied. "But doubtless he will be back soon, so I'll go away."

I turned away distinctly annoyed at my reception, and was on the point of passing through the little gate when the woman overtook me.

"Are you a clever doctor?" she demanded.

"I have been told so," I remarked, suppressing a smile.

"Then come inside and see what you can do for my mistress."

"Is your mistress Mrs. MacDerry?"

"Aye," she nodded. "It's herself." Without another word she turned and led the way up the narrow path, apparently taking it for granted that I would follow.

"What's the matter with your mistress?" I asked as I reached the door.

"If you're clever you'll find out for yourself," she remarked tersely, and again I suppressed a smile. An uncompromising handmaiden this....

She left me alone in the room which in such houses is generally alluded to as the parlour, and while I waited I stared about me idly. And as I stared my vague curiosity gave way to acute surprise. Generally the furniture in such rooms must be seen to be believed: stuffed birds in glass domes, and beaded ornaments of incredible design meet one at every step. And should one lift one's eyes in a moment of panic to the walls, innumerable photographs of wedding groups leap at you in mute protest. But there was nothing of that sort in this room....

Everything was in the most exquisite taste, from the bric-a-brac on a beautiful inlaid table, to the baby Grand standing in the corner. I glanced at some of the pictures, and my surprise changed to amazement. Three at least were genuine Corots.... And the next thing that caught my eye were half a dozen pieces of Sevres....

"Will you come this way, please?" The woman's harsh voice from the door interrupted my inspection, and I followed her slowly up the stairs.

I found Mrs. MacDerry propped up in bed awaiting me. The bedroom, in the quick glance I took around it, seemed in keeping with the room below; then my attention centred on my patient. She was an old lady--sweet and fragile-looking as her own Sevres china--and it needed but a glance to see that the fires were burning low. For Mrs. MacDerry the harbour was almost reached.

"It is good of you to come, Doctor----" She paused inquiringly.

"Morton is my name," I answered gently, drawing up a chair beside the bed.

"Doctor Lee seems to be out," she continued, "and--and..."

Her voice died away, and she lay back on her pillows, while the harsh-voiced woman bent over her with a look of such infinite love on her weather-beaten face that I inwardly marvelled at the transformation.

"You see"--the invalid opened her eyes again as my fingers closed round the weak, fluttering pulse--"it's very important, Doctor Morton, that I should see my husband.... He has been up in London, and came down by the mail from Euston last night.... So he should be here in a few hours, shouldn't he?"

"He should," I answered, taking out a notebook and pencil. "Don't talk, Mrs. MacDerry ... just rest."

I scribbled a few lines and handed the paper to the maid. I knew only the simplest drugs would be available, and it was going to be a stiff fight to keep the feeble flame alight even for a few hours.

"Either go yourself, or send the boy at once to the nearest chemist for those drugs," I whispered. "There's no time to be lost...."

She left the room without a word, and once more the weak voice came from the bed.

"Can you do it, doctor; can you keep me ... till my husband comes?"

"Of course, Mrs. MacDerry, and long after he's come," I said, cheerfully; but she only shook her head with a faint smile.

"You can't deceive me," she whispered.... "Besides, I don't want to stay on.... It's finished--now; only I just want to hear from his own lips that it went off well.... That it's not all been in vain...."

And then for a while she lay very still--so still that once I thought she had gone. But she stirred again, and said a few words which I could not catch. Faintly through the open window came the ceaseless murmur of the distant sea, while from a dozen cottages on the hillside opposite little yellow beams of light shone out serenely into the darkening night. And after a while I rose and lit the lamp, shading it from the face of the woman in the bed. One swift glance I stole at her, and she was sleeping with a look of ineffable peace on her face.... Then once more I sat down to wait....

It was an hour before the maid returned with the drugs, and the slight noise she made as she entered the room roused the sleeper....

"Has he come?" she cried, eagerly, only to sink back again with a tired sigh as the maid shook her head.

"He couldn't be here yet, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, reassuringly. "Not for an hour or two.... And now I want you to drink this, please...."

Without a word she did as I told her, and once again closed her eyes.

I beckoned to the maid. "Get a hot bottle. And a little brandy...."

"Can you do it, doctor?" she said, gripping my arm tight. "Can you let him see her alive?"

"Yes--I think so.... But he will have to come to-night."

She left the room, and for a while I stood by the window staring out into the night. Was it my imagination, or did I see the head-lights of a car coming over the pass in the distance? He would have to come that way if he'd crossed from Kyle to Lochalsh.... But they had vanished again, and I couldn't remember if the road dipped behind a rise there or not....

"Do you often go to London, Doctor Morton?" The invalid's voice was a little stronger, and I crossed to the bed.

"Very often, Mrs. MacDerry," I answered. "In fact, except when I'm abroad, I generally live there. At the moment I've come up here to work...."

"Ah! I see." ... She smiled faintly. "I haven't been to London for over twenty years. I haven't left Skye for over twenty years.... I suppose it's changed a lot...."

"Yes--I think you'd find it different to twenty years ago.... Motors everywhere instead of hansoms...."

"I've never been in a motor-car," she said, still with the same sweet smile. "I've been buried, doctor--just buried...."

"You could not have chosen a lovelier tomb," I answered, gently; and she nodded her head.

"Those are three delightful Corots you have downstairs," I continued after a moment. "I was admiring them before I came up...."

She looked at me quickly.

"You know about such things, do you?"

"I'm a collector myself in a mild way," I answered.

"They belong to my husband," she said, abruptly; and once more closed her eyes. "Tell me, doctor," she continued after a while, "what is happening in London?"

"The usual things, Mrs. MacDerry.... In that respect I don't think there is much change since you were there. The world dances and goes to theatres as ever...."

"But is there no big event," she persisted, "in the season this year? ... No big ball ... or ... or marriage?"

"Why, yes," I answered, "there's a big marriage.... It's just taken place...." And though I saw those two fragile hands clenched tight, no suspicion dawned on me as I spoke. "Lord Fingarton's only son has just married the Duke of Sussex's youngest daughter...."

"And what do they say of Lord Fingarton's only son?" she demanded. "Is he a worthy successor of his father?"

"They say that he's a good lad," I answered. "I thought so myself when I spoke to him the other night...."

"You spoke to him?" she cried. "Tell me about him--everything you can...."

And still I did not suspect.... I told her of the boy; I sketched him for her to the best of my ability, and she listened eagerly. And then when I had finished, something--I know not what--made me add one sentence for which, till my dying day, I shall be thankful.

"There is only one criticism," I said, "which I can make. And that was given by a man who knew the first Lady Fingarton well. Good though this boy is--he is not _quite_ so good as the one who died...."

"Who was the man who said that?" she whispered, breathlessly.

"Sir William Lakington--the great heart specialist," I answered, and at that moment clear and distinct through the still night came the thrumming of a motor-car.

"Is it--my husband?" She listened tensely, and I crossed to the window. The car had stopped outside the gate, and already a man was striding up the narrow path to the front door.

"He has come, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, cheerfully.... "Now I want you to have another drink of this...."

I poured out the dose, and as I held the glass to her lips, the bedroom door gently opened and a man came in. I glanced up at him to ensure silence, and met a pair of piercing eyes, which were staring at me from under great bushy eyebrows. His huge frame seemed to fill the whole doorway; then, on tiptoe he crept towards the bed.

I laid the glass down, and turned away. My part was over, save for a word of warning. And so I beckoned to him, and he followed me to the window.

"You have not got long, Mr. MacDerry," I whispered. "The sands are very low." It was then that I noticed a huge roll of illustrated papers under his arm. "I shall be downstairs: call me if you want me."

"Is it the end?" he whispered, and I bowed gravely.

"It is the end," I answered.

I heard him whisper, "Thank God I was in time"; and then I left them together.

For maybe half an hour I sat in the room downstairs. Once the maid came in to know if I would have anything to eat, and after that the house grew very silent. Only the murmur of a man's deep voice above broke the stillness, and at length that, too, ceased. And then suddenly I heard him calling me from the landing, and went upstairs.

One glance was enough, and he looked at my face and understood. Mechanically I stooped and picked up one of the papers that had slipped off the bed: then I moved away ... I could do no more for the sweet old lady: she had passed beyond all earthly aid.

I put the paper on the table within the circle of light thrown by the lamp. It was a copy of the _Tatler_ open at the page of photographs taken at the big wedding. There was one of young Landon and his bride--a good photo: and then I found myself staring foolishly at one of the others. I bent forward to examine it closer; there was no mistaking the great spare frame and thick eyebrows. Why had Robert, Sixteenth Earl of Fingarton, rushed post-haste from the wedding of his son to the death-bed of Mrs. MacDerry? And why had she called him--husband?...

*III*

It was the following day that, closely muffled up, he came into my room as I worked.

"Do I disturb you, Sir Richard?" he asked as I rose.

So he had made inquiries about my name.... "Not at all," I answered, gravely. "Sit down."

He took the chair I indicated, and for a while he stared at me in silence.

"It was unfortunate that Doctor Lee was out," he said at length. "And Hannah--the maid--had naturally no idea who you were. I, on the contrary, know you well by reputation...."

I bowed silently.

"And you know me, Sir Richard?"

Again I bowed.

For a while he drummed with his fingers on the table, then once again he fixed his piercing eyes on me.

"I want you to listen to a short story," he said, quietly. "It's very short, and"--his voice shook a little--"your reception of it is very important. I am no spinner of glib phrases: I have no tricks of speech to captivate your imagination. But I have an idea that the story I have to tell requires no assistance. Nearly fifty years ago a son was born to a certain man and his wife. He was their only child; the woman was not strong enough to have another. But that son was enough: he was the heir that was needed to an historic house.... And then there was an accident, and the boy broke his neck out hunting...."

He broke off and stared out of the window.

"The woman was too old to have another child," he went on after a while, "and so it seemed that that historic name would pass out of the direct line. And it would go to a man who had recently been expelled from his London clubs for cheating at cards.... He was openly boasting of his good fortune: had already started to raise money on his prospects...." He paused again, his great fists clenched.

"A few months later the woman fell ill. And though she loved the man as it is given to few men to be loved, she was glad--for the sake of his family. She thought she was going to die, and then he could marry again.... She prayed to die, and her prayer was not heard, though maybe it was one of the most divinely unselfish prayers that a human heart has ever raised.... Then one night, as she was recovering, the man found her with a glass of something by her bedside.... And he didn't leave her till she had sworn that she would not take that way out...."

He shifted restlessly in his seat. "It was about then that the plan was conceived. It was hazy at first, and the man would have none of it.... But after a while he began to think of it more and more.... And, one day, to his amazement he found that the woman had an unexpected ally in the shape of the heart specialist who was attending her."

"Who was the heart specialist?" I asked, quietly.

"Sir William Lakington," he answered. "You see, Sir Richard, through a turn of fate, this man is in your hands. He has no intention of hiding anything from you.... That same day the prospective heir, who had married a barmaid, became the father of twin sons; and the man made up his mind. The woman died, and was buried in the family vault.... Such was the story that was told the world. And then, with the help of that great-hearted doctor, the woman was smuggled away. For twenty-four years she has lived by herself with only one maid--buried, scarce daring to leave the house, in case she should be recognized. Through those long years the man has visited her just now and then.... Not too often, again for fear of discovery, though when he did come he came disguised, save only last night, when nothing mattered but the fact that it was the end. And through those long years her only mainstay has been the knowledge that his son will succeed to the title--that the line is still direct.... Fate decreed it was not to be hers; but no word of complaint or disappointment has ever passed her lips. Maybe they did wrong--that man and that woman: maybe they sinned. But they did it for the best at the time, and when, ten years afterwards, the man who would have been the heir was confined in an inebriates' home, it seemed to them that they had been justified. And now in your hands, Sir Richard, rest the issue as to whether that sweet woman's sacrifice shall have been in vain.... Rests also the issue of a dreadful scandal...."

The deep voice ceased, and I rose and stood by the window. The sun was glinting on the hills opposite, bathing them in a riot of purple and gold: a cart was moving lazily along the rough track below the house.... Maybe it had been a sin; who was I to judge? The risk was over now, the sacrifice finished. And God knows that sacrifice had been heavy. At the time they had done it for the best: that best was good enough for me.

"You have told me a very wonderful story, Mr. MacDerry," I said, as I turned and faced him. "For a short time I foolishly confused you with Lord Fingarton: I must apologize for my mistake. May I express my deepest sympathy with you in your terrible loss, and assure you that I will attend to all the necessary formalities with regard to Mrs. MacDerry's death?..."

For a moment I thought he would break down: instead he took my hand and wrung it.... And then without a word he was gone.

* * * * *

It was a year later that I went with Bill Lakington to the christening of a man-child. They are not entertainments that I generally patronize, but this was an exception. Judging by the noise it contributed to the performance, it was a fine, lusty child: certainly its parents seemed more than usually idiotic about it.

"He's aged, Dick," said Bill to me after it was over. "Bob's aged badly."