_ The parlour-maid took Mr. Wonham to the study. He had been in the
drawing-room before, but had got bored, and so had strolled out
into the garden. Now he was in better spirits, as a man ought to
be who has knocked down a man. As he passed through the hall he
sparred at the teak monkey, and hung his cap on the bust of
Hermes. And he greeted Mrs. Elliot with a pleasant clap of
laughter. "Oh, I've come with the most tremendous news!" he
cried.
She bowed, but did not shake hands, which rather surprised him.
But he never troubled over "details." He seldom watched people,
and never thought that they were watching him. Nor could he guess
how much it meant to her that he should enter her presence smok-
ing. Had she not said once at Cadover, "Oh, please smoke; I love
the smell of a pipe"?
"Would you sit down? Exactly there, please." She placed him at a
large table, opposite an inkpot and a pad of blotting-paper.
"Will you tell your 'tremendous news' to me? My brother and my
husband are giving the boys their dinner."
"Ah!" said Stephen, who had had neither time nor money for
breakfast in London.
"I told them not to wait for me."
So he came to the point at once. He trusted this handsome woman.
His strength and his youth called to hers, expecting no prudish
response. "It's very odd. It is that I'm Rickie's brother. I've
just found out. I've come to tell you all."
"Yes?"
He felt in his pocket for the papers. "Half-brother I ought to
have said."
"Yes?"
"I'm illegitimate. Legally speaking, that is, I've been turned
out of Cadover. I haven't a penny. I--"
"There is no occasion to inflict the details." Her face, which
had been an even brown, began to flush slowly in the centre of
the cheeks. The colour spread till all that he saw of her was
suffused, and she turned away. He thought he had shocked her, and
so did she. Neither knew that the body can be insincere and
express not the emotions we feel but those that we should like to
feel. In reality she was quite calm, and her dislike of him had
nothing emotional in it as yet.
"You see--" he began. He was determined to tell the fidgety
story, for the sooner it was over the sooner they would have
something to eat. Delicacy he lacked, and his sympathies were
limited. But such as they were, they rang true: he put no
decorous phantom between him and his desires.
"I do see. I have seen for two years." She sat down at the head
of the table, where there was another ink-pot. Into this she
dipped a pen. "I have seen everything, Mr. Wonham--who you are,
how you have behaved at Cadover, how you must have treated Mrs.
Failing yesterday; and now"--her voice became very grave--"I see
why you have come here, penniless. Before you speak, we know what
you will say."
His mouth fell open, and he laughed so merrily that it might have
given her a warning. But she was thinking how to follow up her
first success. "And I thought I was bringing tremendous news!" he
cried. "I only twisted it out of Mrs. Failing last night. And
Rickie knows too?"
"We have known for two years."
"But come, by the bye,--if you've known for two years, how is it
you didn't--" The laugh died out of his eyes. "You aren't
ashamed?" he asked, half rising from his chair. "You aren't like
the man towards Andover?"
"Please, please sit down," said Agnes, in the even tones she used
when speaking to the servants; "let us not discuss side issues. I
am a horribly direct person, Mr. Wonham. I go always straight to
the point." She opened a chequebook. "I am afraid I shall shock
you. For how much?"
He was not attending.
"There is the paper we suggest you shall sign." She pushed
towards him a pseudo-legal document, just composed by Herbert.
"In consideration of the sum of..., I agree to perpetual silence-
-to restrain from libellous...never to molest the said Frederick
Elliot by intruding--'"
His brain was not quick. He read the document over twice, and he
could still say, "But what's that cheque for?"
"It is my husband's. He signed for you as soon as we heard you
were here. We guessed you had come to be silenced. Here is his
signature. But he has left the filling in for me. For how much? I
will cross it, shall I? You will just have started a banking
account, if I understand Mrs. Failing rightly. It is not quite
accurate to say you are penniless: I heard from her just before
you returned from your cricket. She allows you two hundred a-
year, I think. But this additional sum--shall I date the cheque
Saturday or for tomorrow?"
At last he found words. Knocking his pipe out on the table, he
said slowly, "Here's a very bad mistake."
"It is quite possible," retorted Agnes. She was glad she had
taken the offensive, instead of waiting till he began his
blackmailing, as had been the advice of Rickie. Aunt Emily had
said that very spring, "One's only hope with Stephen is to start
bullying first." Here he was, quite bewildered, smearing the
pipe-ashes with his thumb. He asked to read the document again.
"A stamp and all!" he remarked.
They had anticipated that his claim would exceed two pounds.
"I see. All right. It takes a fool a minute. Never mind. I've
made a bad mistake."
"You refuse?" she exclaimed, for he was standing at the door.
"Then do your worst! We defy you!"
"That's all right, Mrs. Elliot," he said roughly. "I don't want a
scene with you, nor yet with your husband. We'll say no more
about it. It's all right. I mean no harm."
"But your signature then! You must sign--you--"
He pushed past her, and said as he reached for his cap, "There,
that's all right. It's my mistake. I'm sorry." He spoke like a
farmer who has failed to sell a sheep. His manner was utterly
prosaic, and up to the last she thought he had not understood
her. "But it's money we offer you," she informed him, and then
darted back to the study, believing for one terrible moment that
he had picked up the blank cheque. When she returned to the hall
he had gone. He was walking down the road rather quickly. At the
corner he cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, and
disappeared.
"There's an odd finish," she thought. She was puzzled, and
determined to recast the interview a little when she related it
to Rickie. She had not succeeded, for the paper was still
unsigned. But she had so cowed Stephen that he would probably
rest content with his two hundred a-year, and never come
troubling them again. Clever management, for one knew him to be
rapacious: she had heard tales of him lending to the poor and
exacting repayment to the uttermost farthing. He had also stolen
at school. Moderately triumphant, she hurried into the side-
garden: she had just remembered Ansell: she, not Rickie, had
received his card.
"Oh, Mr. Ansell!" she exclaimed, awaking him from some day-dream.
"Haven't either Rickie or Herbert been out to you? Now, do come
into dinner, to show you aren't offended. You will find all of us
assembled in the boys' dining-hall."
To her annoyance he accepted.
"That is, if the Jacksons are not expecting you."
The Jacksons did not matter. If he might brush his clothes and
bathe his lip, he would like to come.
"Oh, what has happened to you? And oh, my pretty lobelias!"
He replied, "A momentary contact with reality," and she, who did
not look for sense in his remarks, hurried away to the dining-
hall to announce him.
The dining-hall was not unlike the preparation room. There was
the same parquet floor, and dado of shiny pitchpine. On its walls
also were imperial portraits, and over the harmonium to which
they sang the evening hymns was spread the Union Jack. Sunday
dinner, the most pompous meal of the week, was in progress. Her
brother sat at the head of the high table, her husband at the
head of the second. To each he gave a reassuring nod and went to
her own seat, which was among the junior boys. The beef was being
carried out; she stopped it. "Mr. Ansell is coming," she called.
"Herbert there is more room by you; sit up straight, boys." The
boys sat up straight, and a respectful hush spread over the room.
"Here he is!" called Rickie cheerfully, taking his cue from his
wife. "Oh, this is splendid!" Ansell came in. "I'm so glad you
managed this. I couldn't leave these wretches last night!" The
boys tittered suitably. The atmosphere seemed normal. Even
Herbert, though longing to hear what had happened to the
blackmailer, gave adequate greeting to their guest: "Come in, Mr.
Ansell; come here. Take us as you find us!"
"I understood," said Stewart, "that I should find you all. Mrs.
Elliot told me I should. On that understanding I came."
It was at once evident that something had gone wrong.
Ansell looked round the room carefully. Then clearing his throat
and ruffling his hair, he began-
"I cannot see the man with whom I have talked, intimately, for an
hour, in your garden."
The worst of it was they were all so far from him and from each
other, each at the end of a tableful of inquisitive boys. The two
masters looked at Agnes for information, for her reassuring nod
had not told them much. She looked hopelessly back.
"I cannot see this man," repeated Ansell, who remained by the
harmonium in the midst of astonished waitresses. "Is he to be
given no lunch?"
Herbert broke the silence by fresh greetings. Rickie knew that
the contest was lost, and that his friend had sided with the
enemy. It was the kind of thing he would do. One must face the
catastrophe quietly and with dignity. Perhaps Ansell would have
turned on his heel, and left behind him only vague suspicions, if
Mrs. Elliot had not tried to talk him down. "Man," she cried--
"what man? Oh, I know--terrible bore! Did he get hold of you?"--
thus committing their first blunder, and causing Ansell to say to
Rickie, "Have you seen your brother?"
"I have not."
"Have you been told he was here?"
Rickie's answer was inaudible.
"Have you been told you have a brother?"
"Let us continue this conversation later."
"Continue it? My dear man, how can we until you know what I'm
talking about? You must think me mad; but I tell you solemnly
that you have a brother of whom you've never heard, and that he
was in this house ten minutes ago." He paused impressively. "Your
wife has happened to see him first. Being neither serious nor
truthful, she is keeping you apart, telling him some lie and not
telling you a word."
There was a murmur of alarm. One of the prefects rose, and Ansell
set his back to the wall, quite ready for a battle. For two years
he had waited for his opportunity. He would hit out at Mrs.
Elliot like any ploughboy now that it had come. Rickie said:
"There is a slight misunderstanding. I, like my wife, have known
what there is to know for two years"--a dignified rebuff, but
their second blunder.
"Exactly," said Agnes. "Now I think Mr. Ansell had better go."
"Go?" exploded Ansell. "I've everything to say yet. I beg your
pardon, Mrs. Elliot, I am concerned with you no longer. This
man"--he turned to the avenue of faces--"this man who teaches you
has a brother. He has known of him two years and been ashamed. He
has--oh--oh--how it fits together! Rickie, it's you, not Mrs.
Silt, who must have sent tales of him to your aunt. It's you
who've turned him out of Cadover. It's you who've ordered him to
be ruined today.
Now Herbert arose. "Out of my sight, sir! But have it from me
first that Rickie and his aunt have both behaved most generously.
No, no, Agnes, I'll not be interrupted. Garbled versions must
not get about. If the Wonham man is not satisfied now, he must be
insatiable. He cannot levy blackmail on us for ever. Sir, I give
you two minutes; then you will be expelled by force."
"Two minutes!" sang Ansell. "I can say a great deal in that." He
put one foot on a chair and held his arms over the quivering
room. He seemed transfigured into a Hebrew prophet passionate for
satire and the truth. "Oh, keep quiet for two minutes," he cried,
"and I'll tell you something you'll be glad to hear. You're a
little afraid Stephen may come back. Don't be afraid. I bring
good news. You'll never see him nor any one like him again. I
must speak very plainly, for you are all three fools. I don't
want you to say afterwards, 'Poor Mr. Ansell tried to be clever.'
Generally I don't mind, but I should mind today. Please listen.
Stephen is a bully; he drinks; he knocks one down; but he would
sooner die than take money from people he did not love. Perhaps
he will die, for he has nothing but a few pence that the poor
gave him and some tobacco which, to my eternal glory, he accepted
from me. Please listen again. Why did he come here? Because he
thought you would love him, and was ready to love you. But I tell
you, don't be afraid. He would sooner die now than say you were
his brother. Please listen again--"
"Now, Stewart, don't go on like that," said Rickie bitterly.
"It's easy enough to preach when you are an outsider. You would
be more charitable if such a thing had happened to yourself. Easy
enough to be unconventional when you haven't suffered and know
nothing of the facts. You love anything out of the way,
anything queer, that doesn't often happen, and so you get excited
over this. It's useless, my dear man; you have hurt me, but you
will never upset me. As soon as you stop this ridiculous scene we
will finish our dinner. Spread this scandal; add to it. I'm too
old to mind such nonsense. I cannot help my father's disgrace, on
the one hand; nor, on the other, will I have anything to do with
his blackguard of a son."
So the secret was given to the world. Agnes might colour at his
speech; Herbert might calculate the effect of it on the entries
for Dunwood House; but he cared for none of these things. Thank
God! he was withered up at last.
"Please listen again," resumed Ansell. "Please correct two slight
mistakes: firstly, Stephen is one of the greatest people I have
ever met; secondly, he's not your father's son. He's the son of
your mother."
It was Rickie, not Ansell, who was carried from the hall, and it
was Herbert who pronounced the blessing--
"Benedicto benedicatur."
A profound stillness succeeded the storm, and the boys, slipping
away from their meal, told the news to the rest of the school, or
put it in the letters they were writing home. _