"You had better not know," he said.
"But--I must."
"But--why? Have you gained anything by being too curious before?
Didn"t I warn you to leave it alone--that there might be things it were better that you should not know? This is another of them. Leave it alone, I say. "Where ignorance is bliss," you know. Well, in this case it is, believe me."
"That is impossible. What sort of ease of mind, let alone happiness, could ever travel my way again while every moment of my life was spent in the consciousness that I was keeping somebody else out of his rights?"
"His rights! Good Lord! His rights! Now, do you really mean to tell me that you would abdicate, would turn over all this"--with a sweep of the hand around--"to Butcher Ned--er--I mean Everard? Why, to begin with, it would kill your father."
"No; because he could have no rights here--at least not in the sense we mean--during my father"s lifetime. After that, well--"
"After that--well, you would put him in here--would install him in possession. Good Lord! Wagram Wagram, I can only suppose you don"t know your--er--brother one little bit."
"Not lately, of course. But that doesn"t touch the principle of the thing anyhow."
"Not touch the principle of the thing, eh? Have you reflected what would be the result of putting Everard in possession here? No; of course, you haven"t. Well, then, you may take it from me that h.e.l.l let loose would be a merry little joke compared with Hilversea six months after that sucking lamb had got his finger on it. I tell you it would be a by-word for--well, for everything that you, and all decent people, would rather it were not."
"Have you some grudge against him?" said Wagram.
"Grudge? No; not an atom of a grudge. But, honestly, I"d be sorry-- more than sorry--to see him in your place. I haven"t any grudge against him; but--I _know_ him, and I don"t think you do."
"Possibly not. But if he is all you imply, all the more reason for finding him out. No one is utterly irreclaimable, you know."
"Pardon me. I don"t I would say I know the exact contrary; only that is a point on which we should certainly disagree. And the first instance I should cite in proof of that contrary would be your half-brother. Now, this time be advised by me--you would not before--and leave Everard-- well, exactly wherever he may happen to be."
"No; I cannot do that. We had thought him dead, having heard nothing of him for years. Now we know he is alive it is--well, my duty to find him, in view of his future rights and great responsibilities. Now, Mr Hunt you owned just now that you had been well treated by us, so I put it to you to make some little return; therefore tell me where Everard is to be found."
"The return you mention is to bury what I know as surely as if I were dead, and that you seem determined to prevent me from doing."
"No. Nothing need be known of--of--the other matter any the more. But Everard must be restored to his rights."
The adventurer stood stock still and stared at Wagram. His experience had been wide and diverse, yet here was a man who stood clean outside it. Why, he must be mad; yet as his puzzled glance took in the tall, straight form and the strong, thoroughbred face, still showing traces of the recent shock, he shook his head, puzzled, and decided that the man was as sane as himself, only clean outside his own experience.
"Look here," he said shortly, "supposing in refusing you this information I am trying to protect myself against myself--oh, not from Everard, don"t think that. He couldn"t harm me; the boot, if anything, is rather on the other foot. Now, I"ve made a compact with you and your father, and I mean to keep it, but I"ve made no compact with Everard.
Yet, I"m only human, and what if you let him in here and I felt moved to take advantage of it? I have a considerable hold over him, remember, and might easily be tempted to turn it to account."
"In that case you "might easily be tempted" to turn this other knowledge to further account as regards ourselves," said Wagram, with a dry, wan smile.
"No, no; the cases are entirely different," rejoined the adventurer quickly, and with some vehemence. "Look here. Like yourself, I, too, have a son, of about the same age as yours. Well, it is for him--to keep him as far apart as the poles from becoming what Everard and I, and others, have been--that I am so urgently in need of this money. Now I can do it, and if I could have done it without your forcing this secret from me Heaven knows I would have been far more glad."
Wagram softened. "It could not be helped," he said wearily. "And now, in return, tell me where to find my brother. I don"t say I am going to rush up to him with the good news--for him--all at once; but he must be found."
The adventurer stood for a moment or two in silence.
"Well, then," he said at last, "since you are so death on finding him, this is the best--or the worst--I can do for you. Go to Lourenco Marques and make a few inquiries there--not from the police, of course.
Then, if that"s no good, work over the Lebombo into Swaziland, and get into touch with some of the tougher samples of white traders there--and there are some tough ones. Then go to work delicately and carefully to obtain tidings of Butcher Ned--that"s how he"s known in those parts-- never mind why, as I told the Squire just now. Only be very careful how you work your inquiries, for he"ll be engaged on the most ticklish and infernally risky game in the gun-running and general information line for the benefit of the Transvaal Government, unless he"s changed his mind since I saw him last, and I don"t think he has. And, honestly, I hope you won"t succeed in finding him, in which case even your scruples, I should think, would be set at rest. And, perhaps, you won"t, for I certainly can"t give you any information that"s more explicit; and it"s more than a year old, for I took a look in on the West Coast on my way back from that part, and it lasted me a year."
"Thanks," said Wagram, again with that dry, wan smile, as he made a note or two in a pocket-book.
"Now I will go," said Develin Hunt, "and my best wish is that you will be unsuccessful in your search."
Then he paused, and a strange look--almost a wistful look--came over his hard, bronzed face.
"Look here, Wagram Wagram," he blurted out, "I"ve done you a devilish ill turn, but I needn"t have done that if you hadn"t been so infernally persistent. I still hope nothing will come of it; but, hang it all, I want to tell you before I go that I"ve never seen a man like you in all my experience, and it isn"t small. I"m going to ask you a great favour--no, not money this time--and I know you"re going to refuse it.
I want to ask you to let me shake hands with you."
Instinctively Wagram started, partly with astonishment. This man, as he had said, had indeed done him an ill turn. He had, by a word, deprived him of his possessions and of his very name. He had come as a blackmailer, and had obtained his blackmail--his price. He had spoiled--nay, ruined--his very life. And yet, and yet, but for the grace of G.o.d he himself might have been such as he, was the reflection that ran swiftly through his mind. Who was he to set himself up in judgment?
"No. You will not?" said the other, noting his hesitation. "Of course, I ought to have known."
"But I will," said Wagram, putting forth his hand.
The adventurer clasped it in a strong, hard grip. Then without another word he turned and strode away down the avenue at a most astonishing pace for one of his apparent years.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
AFTER THE BLOW.
Facing round to return to the house the sight of the latter met Wagram as with a blow. The last time he had looked upon it from outside, barely half-an-hour ago, it had been with the love of it and everything about it--that pride of possession which had become unconsciously a part of his very life. Now all was swept away. He pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes as though dazzled; even his walk seemed swaying and unsteady, as that of a man recovering from a stunning shock. But not of himself must he think just then. He must do what he could to mitigate the stroke as regarded his father, he told himself; afterwards he might indulge in the "luxury" of self-pity.
The old Squire was sitting in the library just where he had left him, and as many years seemed to have gone over his head as minutes during the time intervening.
"Well, father, this is rather a facer," he began. "The next thing is to consider what"s to be done."
"There"s nothing to be done," answered the old man wearily. "Do you think that scoundrel means to keep his word?"
"To do him justice, I think he means to at present; but whether his good intentions will evaporate with the lapse of time, and the temptation to try and extract more plunder, is another matter."
There was silence for a few moments between them. Then Wagram said:
"Father, would you mind telling me all the ins and outs of this while we are on the subject? We shall get it over that way, and then we need never refer to it again."
"Yes; perhaps it is better," said the Squire, with a sigh.
And then he set forth the whole story, which, with some additional but immaterial detail, was the same as that which we heard him narrate to Monsignor Culham.
"You know, this man has just been telling me where I can find Everard,"
said Wagram when he had done.
The Squire started.
"Where you can find Everard!" he echoed. "But--Wagram, you will never be so mad as to try?"
"How can I do otherwise? Every hour that I am here I am keeping him out of his rights."
Smiling somewhat feebly the old diplomat a.s.serted himself.