CHAPTER XXI.
THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF
As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartlesswrong, my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But Ican't recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give youthe substance of that terrible story.
When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife's second marriageduring his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted andsupplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of VivianCallingham's pretences, that his own daughter had died in herbabyhood in Australia. He fancied, therefore, that no person of hiskin remained alive at all, and that he might proceed to denounce andpunish Vivian Callingham. With that object in view, he tramped downall the way from London to Torquay, to make himself known to hiswife's relations, the Moores, and to their cousin, Courtenay Ivor ofBabbicombe--my Jack, as I called him. For various reasons of hisown, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him thisterrible family story.
At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true--ofhis Una's father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But astrange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. Itcame out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myselfin fancy dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As theweather-worn visitor's eye fell on the picture, he started and grewpale.
"Why, that's her!" he cried with a sudden gasp. "That's mydaughter--Mary Wharton!"
Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a meremistake on his strange visitor's part.
"That's her half-sister," he said, "Una Callingham--your wife'schild by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, ashalf-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteenyears ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I've heardall about it, because, don't you see, I'm engaged to Una."
The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profoundconviction. He knew better than that.
"Oh no," he said decisively: "that's my child, Mary Wharton. Evenafter all these years, I couldn't possibly be mistaken. Blood isthicker than water: I'd know her among ten thousand. She'd be justthat age now, too. I see the creature's vile plot. His daughter diedyoung, and he's palmed off my Mary as his own child, to keep hermoney in his hands. But never mind the money. Thank Heaven, she'salive! That's her! That's my Mary!"
The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody tobelieve. Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friendtold him. But the stranger persisted so--it's hard for me even tothink of him as quite really my father--that Jack at last broughtout two or three earlier photographs I'd given him some time before;and his visitor recognised them at once, in all their stages, as hisown daughter. This roused Jack's curiosity. He determined to huntthe matter up with his unknown connection. And he hunted it upthenceforward with deliberate care, till he proved every word of it.
Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long trampand his terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack's ownhouse, and became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question himfurther. The return to civilisation was more fatal than his longsolitary banishment. At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack'smind a profound conviction that all he had said was true, and that Iwas really Richard Wharton's daughter, not Vivian Callingham's.
"For a week or two I made inquiries, Una," Jack said to me as we satthere,--"inquiries which I won't detail to you in full just now, butwhich gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul's belief. Whatyou yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what Idiscovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. Thebaby that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death,your stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your realfather's money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother'salso was settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your motherdied, and you lived and married, he himself would be deprived of thefortune for which he had so wickedly plotted. So he made up anotherplot even more extraordinary and more diabolical still than thefirst. He decided to pretend it was Mary Wharton that died, and topalm you off on the world as his own child, Una Callingham. For ifMary Wharton died, the property at once became absolutely yourmother's, and she could will it away to her husband or anyone elseshe chose to."
"But baby was so much younger than I!" I cried, going back on myrecollections once more. "How could he ever manage to make the datescome right again?"
"Quite true," Jack answered; "the baby was younger than you. Butyour step-father--I've no other name by which I can call him--made aclever plan to set that straight. He concealed from the people inAustralia which child had been ill, and he entered her death as MaryWharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne atonce, and travelled about for some years on the Continent inout-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forthupon the world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as MaryWharton all obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for yourfalse father's plot, you were small for your age, and developedslowly: he gave out, on the contrary, that you were big for youryears and had outgrown yourself, Australian-wise, both in wisdom andstature."
"But my mother!" I exclaimed, appalled. "How could she ever consentto such a wicked deception?"
"Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb," Jackanswered with promptitude. "She couldn't call her soul her own, yourpoor mother--so I've heard: he cajoled her and terrified her tillshe didn't dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking creature, she wasafraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. He musthave persuaded her first to acquiesce passively in this hatefulplot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into fullcompliance by threats of exposure."
"He was a very unhappy man himself," I put in, casting back. "Hismoney did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody hewas often, at The Grange."
"Quite true," Jack replied. "He lived in perpetual fear of your realfather's return, or of some other breakdown to his complicatedsystem of successive deceptions. He never had a happy minute in hiswhole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraidof everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific workseemed ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. Hethrew himself into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy,because it absorbed him while he was at it, and prevented him forthe time being from thinking of his position."
"And how did you find it all out?" I asked eagerly, anxious to geton to the end.
"Well, that's long to tell," Jack replied. "Too long for onesitting. I won't trouble you with it now. Discrepancies in facts anddates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in Victoria,first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of mysuspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man's ownconscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardlyknew how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore,as far as was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spareyour supposed father a complete exposure."
"But why didn't you tell the police?" I asked.
"Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon.Realise the position to yourself, and you'll see how difficult itwas for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions.Clearly, under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interestthat you should get possession of all his property. Any claims Imight make for you would, therefore, be naturally regarded withsuspicion. The shipwrecked man had told nobody but myself. I hadn'teven an affidavit, a death-bed statement. All rested upon his word,and upon mine as retailing it. He was dead, and there was nothingbut my narrative for what he told me. The story itself was tooimprobable to be believed by the police on such dubious evidence. Ididn't even care to try. I wanted to make your step-father confess:and I waited for that till I could compel confession."