CHAPTER XI
It was some minutes past seven that evening when the lawyer left, andhe had not been gone a quarter of an hour before a hired gig drove upto the door containing Philip, who had got back from town in the worstof bad tempers, and, as no conveyance was waiting for him, had beenforced to post over from Roxham. Apparently his father had beenexpecting his arrival, for the moment the servant opened the door heappeared from his study, and addressed him in a tone that was as nearto being jovial as he ever went.
"Hallo, Philip, back again, are you? Been up to town, I suppose, anddriven over in the 'George' gig? That's lucky; I wanted to speak toyou. Come in here, there's a good fellow, I want to speak to you."
"Why is he so infernally genial?" reflected Philip. "Timeo Danaos etdona ferentes;" then aloud, "All right, father; but if it is all thesame to you, I should like to get some dinner first."
"Dinner! why, I have had none yet; I have been too busy. I shall notkeep you long; we will dine together presently."
Philip was surprised, and glanced at him suspiciously. His habits wereextremely regular; why had he had no dinner?
Meanwhile his father led the way into the study, muttering below hisbreath--
"One more chance--his last chance."
A wood fire was burning brightly on the hearth, for the evening waschilly, and some sherry and glasses stood upon the table.
"Take a glass of wine, Philip; I am going to have one; it is a goodthing to begin a conversation on. What says the Psalmist: 'Wine thatmaketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerfulcountenance'--a cheerful countenance! Ho, ho! my old limbs are tired;I am going to sit down--going to sit down."
He seated himself in a well-worn leather arm-chair by the side of thefire so that his back was towards the dying daylight. But thebrightness of the flames threw the clear-cut features into strongrelief against the gloom, and by it Philip could see that the witheredcheeks were flushed. Somehow the whole strongly defined scene made himfeel uncanny and restless.
"Cold for the first of May, isn't it, lad? The world is very cold ateighty-two. Eighty-two, a great age, yet it seems but the other daythat I used to sit in this very chair and dandle you upon my knee, andmake this repeater strike for you. And yet that is twenty years since,and I have lived through four twenties and two years. A great age, acold world!"
"Ain't you well?" asked his son, brusquely, but not unkindly.
"Well; ah, yes! thank you, Philip, I never felt better, my memory isso good, I can see things I have forgotten seventy years or more.Dear, dear, it was behind that bookcase in a hole in the board that Iused to hide my flint and steel which I used for making little firesat the foot of Caresfoot's Staff. There is a mark on the bark now. Iwas mischievous as a little lad, and thought that the old tree wouldmake a fine blaze. I was audacious, too, and delighted to hide thethings in my father's study under the very nose of authority. Ay, andother memories come upon me as I think. It was here upon this verytable that they stood my mother's coffin. I was standing where you arenow when I wrenched open the half-fastened shell to kiss her once morebefore they screwed her down for ever. I wonder would you do as muchfor me? I loved my mother, and that was fifty years ago. I wondershall we meet again? That was on the first of May, a long-gone firstof May. They threw branches of blackthorn bloom upon her coffin. Odd,very odd! But business, lad, business--what was it? Ah! I know," andhis manner changed in a second and became hard and stern. "AboutMaria, have you come to a decision?"
Philip moved restlessly on his chair, poked the logs to a brighterblaze, and threw on a handful of pine chips from a basket by his sidebefore he answered. Then he said--
"No, I have not."
"Your reluctance is very strange, Philip, I cannot understand it. Isuppose that you are not already married, are you, Philip?"
There was a lurid calm about the old man's face as he asked thisquestion that was very dreadful in its intensity. Under the shadow ofhis thick black eyebrows, gleams of light glinted and flickered in theexpanded pupils, as before the outburst of a tempest the forkedlightning flickers in the belly of the cloud. His voice too wasconstrained and harsh.
Owing to the position of his father's head, Philip could not see thisplay of feature, but he heard the voice and thought that it meantmischief. He had but a second to decide between confession and the liethat leaped to his lips. An inward conviction told him that his fatherwas not long for this world, was it worth while to face his anger whenmatters might yet be kept dark till the end? The tone of the voice--ah! how he mistook its meaning--deceived him. It was not, he thought,possible that his father could know anything. Had he possessed alittle more knowledge of the world, he might have judged differently.
"Married, no, indeed; what put that idea into your head?" And helaughed outright.
Presently he became aware that his father had risen and wasapproaching towards him. Another moment and a hand of iron was laidupon his shoulder, the awful eyes blazed into his face and seemed topierce him through and through, and a voice that he could not haverecognized hissed into his ear--
"You unutterable liar, you everlasting hound, your wife is at thismoment in this house."
Philip sprang up with an exclamation of rage and cursed Hilda aloud.
"No," went on his father, standing before him, his tall frame swayingbackwards and forwards with excitement; "no, do not curse her, she,like your other poor dupe, is an honest woman; on yourself be thedamnation, you living fraud, you outcast from all honour, who havebrought shame and reproach upon our honest name, on you be it; mayevery curse attend _you_, and may remorse torture _you_. Listen: youlied to me, you lied to your wife, trebly did you lie to theunfortunate girl you have deceived; but, if you will not speak it, foronce hear the truth, and remember that you have to deal with one sorelentless, that fools, mistaking justice for oppression, call him'devil.' I, 'Devil Caresfoot,' tell you that I will disinherit you ofevery stick, stone, and stiver that the law allows me, and start youin the enjoyment of the rest with my bitterest curse. This I will donow whilst I am alive; when I am dead, by Heaven, I will haunt you ifI can."
Here he stopped for want of breath, and stood for a moment in the fulllight of the cheery blaze, one hand raised above his head as though tostrike, and, presenting with his glittering eyes and working features,so terrible a spectacle of rage that his son recoiled involuntarilybefore him.
But fury begets fury as love begets love, and in another second Philipfelt his own wicked temper boil up within him. He clenched his teethand stood firm.
"Do your worst," he said; "I hate you; I wish to God that you weredead."
Hardly had these dreadful words left his lips when a change came overthe old man's face; it seemed to stiffen, and putting one hand to hisheart he staggered back into his chair, pointing and making signs ashe fell towards a little cupboard in the angle of the wall. His son atonce guessed what had happened; his father had got one of the attacksof the heart to which he was subject, and was motioning to him tobring the medicine which he had before shown him, and which alonecould save him in these seizures. Actuated by a common impulse ofhumanity, Philip for the moment forgot their quarrel, and stepped withall speed to fetch it. As it happened, there stood beneath thiscupboard a table, and on this table lay the document which his fatherhad been reading that afternoon before the arrival of Mr. Bellamy. Itwas his will, and, as is usual in the case of such deeds, the date wasendorsed upon the back. All this Philip saw at a single glance, and healso saw that the will was dated some years back, and therefore oneunder which he would inherit, doubtless the same that his father hadsome months before offered to show him.
It flashed through his mind that his father had got it out in order toburn it; and this idea was followed by another that for a momentstilled his heart.
"_If he should die now he cannot destroy it!_ If he does not take themedicine he _will_ die."
Thought flies fast in moments of emergency. Philip, too, was a man ofdeterm
ined mind where his own interests were concerned, and his bloodwas heated and his reason blinded by fury and terror. He was not longin settling on his course of action. Taking the bottle from thecupboard, he poured out its contents into one of the wine-glasses thatstood upon the table, and coming up to his father with it addressedhim. He knew that these attacks, although they were of a nature tocause intense pain, did not rob the sufferer of his senses. The oldman, though he lay before him gasping with agony, was quite in acondition to understand him.
"Listen to me," he said, in a slow, distinct voice. "Just now you saidthat you would disinherit me. This medicine will save your life, andif I let it fall you will die, and there is no more in the house.Swear before God that you will not carry out your threat, and I willgive it to you. Lift up your hand to show me that you swear."
Silence followed, only broken by the gasps of the dying man.
"If you will not swear, I will pour it out before your eyes."
Again there was silence; but this time the old man made an effort torise and ring the bell.
His son threw him roughly back.
"For the last time," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "will you swear?"
A struggle passed over his father's face, now nearly black with pain;and presently from the distended lips, that did not seem to move,there burst a single word--destined to echo for ever in his son'sears--
"_Murderer!_"
It was his last. He sank back, groaned, and died; and at the samemoment the flame from the pine-chips flickered itself away, and of asudden the room grew nearly dark. Philip stood for awhile aghast athis own handiwork, and watched the dull light glance on the dead whiteof his father's brow. He was benumbed by terror at what he had done,and in that awful second of realization would have given his own lifeto have it undone.
Presently, however, the instinct of self-preservation came to his aid.He lit a candle, and taking some of the medicine in the glass, smearedit over the dead man's chin and coat, and then broke the glass on thefloor by his side--thus making it appear that he had died whilstattempting to swallow the medicine.
Next he raised a loud outcry, and violently rang the bell. In a minutethe room was full of startled servants, one of whom was instantlydespatched for Mr. Caley, the doctor. Meanwhile, after a vain attemptto restore animation, the study-table was cleared and the corpse laidon it, as its mother's had been on that day fifty years before.
Then came a dreadful hush, and the shadow of death came down upon thehouse and brooded over it. The men-servants moved to and fro withmuffled feet, and the women wept, for in a way they had all loved theimperious old man, and the last change had come very suddenly.Philip's brain burned; he was consumed by the desire of action.Suddenly he bethought him of his wife upstairs: after what he had justpassed through, no scene with her could disturb him--it would, he evenfelt, be welcome. He went up to the room where she was, and entered.It was evident that she had been told of what had happened, as bothshe and Pigott, who was undressing her--for she was wearied out--wereweeping. She did not appear surprised at his appearance; the shock ofthe old man's death extinguished all surprise. It was he who broke thesilence.
"He is dead," he said.
"Yes, I have heard."
"If you are at liberty for a few minutes, I wish to talk to you," hesaid savagely.
"I, too," she answered, "have something to say, but I am too weary andupset to say it now. I will see you to-morrow."
He turned and went without answering, and Pigott noticed that no kissor word of endearment passed between them, and that the tone of theirwords was cold.
Soon after Philip got downstairs the doctor came. Philip met him inthe hall and accompanied him into the study, where the body was. Hemade a rapid examination, more as a matter of form than anything else,for his first glance had told him that life was extinct.
"Quite dead," he said sorrowfully; "my old friend gone at last. One ofa fine sort too; a just man for all his temper. They called him'devil,' and he was fierce when he was younger, but if I never meet aworse devil than he was I shall do well. He was very kind to me once--very. How did he go?--in pain, I fear."
"We were talking together, when suddenly he was seized with theattack. I got the medicine as quick as I could and tried to get itdown his throat, but he could not swallow, and in the hurry the glasswas knocked by a jerk of his head right out of my hands. Next secondhe was dead."
"Very quick--quicker than I should have expected. Did he sayanything?"
"No."
Now, just as Philip delivered himself of this last lie, a curiousincident happened, or rather an incident that is apt to seem curiousto a person who has just told a lie. The corpse distinctly moved itsright hand--the same that had been clasped over the old man's head ashe denounced his son.
"Good God!" said Philip, turning pale as death, "what's that?" andeven the doctor started a little, and cast a keen look at the deadface.
"Nothing," he said. "I have seen that happen before where there hasbeen considerable tension of the muscles before death; it is onlytheir final slackening, that is all. Come, will you ring the bell?They had better come and take it upstairs."
This sad task had just been performed, and Mr. Caley was about to takehis leave, when Pigott came down and whispered something into his earthat evidently caused him the most lively astonishment. Drawing Philipaside, he said--
"The housekeeper asks me to come up and see 'Mrs. Philip Caresfoot,'whom she thinks is going to be confined. Does she mean your wife?"
"Yes," answered Philip sullenly, "she does. It is a long story, and Iam too upset to tell it you now. It will soon be all over the countryI suppose."
The old doctor whistled, but judged it advisable not to put any morequestions, when suddenly an idea seemed to strike him.
"You said you were talking to your father when the fit took him; wasit about your marriage?"
"Yes."
"When did he first know of it?"
"To-day, I believe."
"Ah, thank you;" and he followed Pigott upstairs.
That night, exactly at twelve o'clock, another little lamp floated outon the waters of life: Angela was born.