Part 18 (2/2)
”But why? What on earth has happened?”
”I'm not the man after all.”
”What man?”
”The Duke of St. Osmund's.”
And Claude was made to hear everything before he was allowed the free expression of his astonishment and incredulity. Then he laughed. His incredulity remained.
”My dear fellow,” he cried, ”there's not a word of truth in the whole story. It's one colossal fraud. Hunt's a blackguard. I wouldn't believe his oath in a court of justice.”
”What about the bank-book?”
”A fraud within a fraud!”
”Not it. I'll answer for that. Oh, no; we could have inquired at the bank. Hunt's a blackguard, but no fool. And you know what my father was; from all accounts he wasn't the man to think twice about a little job like bigamy.”
”I wouldn't say that; few men of our sort would be so reckless in such a matter,” declared the poet. ”Now, from all _I_ know of him, I should have said it was most inconsistent with his character to marry the girl at all. Everything but that! And surely it's quite possible to explain even that two hundred a year without swallowing such a camel as downright bigamy. My grandfather was a sort of puritanical monomaniac; even in the days of his mental vigour I can remember him as a sterner moralist than any of one's school-masters or college dons. Then, too, he was morbidly sensitive about the family failings and traditions, and painfully anxious to improve the tone of our house. Bear that in mind and conceive as gross a scandal as you like--but not bigamy. Do you mean to tell me that a man like my grandfather would have thought two hundred a year for all time too much to pay for hus.h.i.+ng such a thing up for all time? Not he--not he!” There fell a heavy hand upon Claude's back.
”Claude, old boy, I always said you were a genius. Do you know, I never thought of that?”
”It's obvious; besides, there's the Eliza Hunt on the gravestone, I've seen it myself. But look here--I'll tell you what I'll do.”
”What, old man?”
”I'll run up to town to-morrow and see Maitland, Hollis, Cripps about the whole matter. They've paid the money; they are the men to know all about it. Stop a moment! Hunt was clever enough to have an exact date for the marriage. What was it again?”
”October 22d, 1853.”
”I think he said Chelsea _parish_ church?”
”He did.”
Claude scribbled a note of each point on his s.h.i.+rt-cuff.
”That's all I want,” said he. ”I'll run up by the first train, and back by the last. Meanwhile, take my word for it, you're as safe as the Queen upon her throne.”
”And you?” said Jack.
”Oh, never mind me; I'm very well as I am.”
Claude was fully conscious of his semi-heroic att.i.tude; indeed he enjoyed it, as he had enjoyed many a less inevitable pose in his day.
But that he could not help; and Jack was perhaps the last person in the world to probe beneath the surface of a kind action. His great hand found Claude's, and his deep voice quivered with emotion.
”I don't know how it is,” he faltered, ”but this thing has got at me more than I meant it to. Hark at that! Three o'clock; it'll be light before we know where we are; you won't leave a fellow till it is, will you? I'm in a funk! I've got to believe the worst till I know otherwise--that's all about it. The day I shan't mind tackling by myself, but for G.o.d's sake don't go and leave me to-night. You've got to go in the morning; stop the rest of the night out here with me. You shall have the bunk, and I'll doss down on the floor. I'll light the fire and brew a billy of tea this minute if only you'll stay with me now. Didn't you once say you'd have hold of my sleeve? And so you have had, old man, so you have had: only now's your time--more than ever.”
Claude was deeply moved by the spectacle of a stronger man than himself so stricken in every nerve. He looked very compa.s.sionately upon the eager open face. There were a few grey hairs about either temple, but in the faint starlight they looked perfectly white; and there were crow's-feet under the eyes that seemed to have escaped his attention till now. He consented to remain on one condition: he must go back and put out the lights, and close the windows in the Poet's Corner. So Jack went with him; and those lights were the only sign of life in all the vast expanse of ancient masonry, that still belonged to one of them, though they knew not now to which. It was this thought, perhaps, that kept both men silent on the terrace when the lights had been put out and the windows shut. Then Jack ran his arm affectionately through that of Claude, and together they turned their backs upon those debatable stones.
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