XI

It was on a bleak and bitter day of wind and rain that Anthony Laydon came to Laydon Manor. He and Manning walked from the station, tramping silently through soggy lanes between bare hedges. Once a patch of blackthorn broke from the dark hedgerow like a splash of snow. Laydon stopped and stood looking at it for a minute, then tramped on again in silence.

When the big gate came into view he stopped again, looked at the stone pillars, and spoke for the first time:

“Let’s go round by the door in the wall, Monkey.”

“It won’t be open; it’s always kept locked.”

“Yes—I forgot. I used to have a key of course. I’d forgotten.”

They went on up the drive, with its over-arching trees all leafless in the rain. At his first sight of the house Laydon drew a long breath.

“Thank the Lord, there’s something that hasn’t changed!” he said at last.

Then they went up to the big oak door which stood open, and came through the hall to the door of Sir Cotterell’s study without seeing anyone.

Inside the study Sir Henry Prothero stood with his back to the fire. He looked very large, very wise, and rather sad. Between the window and the fire was a long, narrow table of polished walnut. It carried, as a rule, newspapers, magazines and periodicals arranged in orderly rows; but for today’s occasion it had been cleared and was empty, except that at the window end a sheet of blotting paper had been laid upon it, flanked by a silver presentation ink-stand and two or three pens. The chair at this end of the table was empty too, Mr. Gregory having not yet arrived. But at the other end, half turned from his brother-in-law and the fire, Sir Cotterell Laydon sat stiffly upright, his eyes on the door, his right hand stretched out upon his knee, where it beat time mechanically to some tune in his brain. He had pushed his chair back from the table, and had the air of a man who is listening intently. When the door opened his fingers stopped beating time, his hand clenched on itself, and he rose to his feet with a jerk.

Standing there, leaning with his left hand on the table, he was very noticeably a Laydon, true to the type which had furnished the half-dozen portraits on the panelled walls. It was a straight, slim, soldierly type, of notably upright carriage and proud bearing—not very tall, not very strongly built, with a straight nose, an obstinately moulded chin, clear-cut lips, and fine, well kept hands. In Sir Cotterell the brown hair of the last two portraits was as white as that of the powdered great-grandfather who hung between the windows.

Anthony Laydon came into the room with Manning behind him. He walked straight across the floor, and came to a standstill in front of Sir Cotterell with his hand out and a quick:

“Grandfather!”

Sir Cotterell kept his left hand on the table; but his right hand went up, shaking a little, and caught at Laydon’s arm.

“You!” he said. “You!” and his voice was thinly incredulous.

“I’ve changed,” said Laydon. “I was afraid it would come as a shock.”

“Changed?” said Sir Cotterell. He took his hand away, stepped back, and sat down again rather heavily. “Changed?” he repeated; and then, “There’s nothing left—there’s nothing left at all!”

Laydon drew out a chair, and came and sat down knee to knee with him, leaning across the corner of the table.

“I was afraid you’d feel like that. But it’s only on the surface really. Do you remember giving us our first ponies, and making us ride bare-back in the parson’s meadow?”

“Eh!” Sir Cotterell looked up. “So you remember that? Do you remember what you called the ponies?”

“Nick and Dick,” said Laydon at once.

“And which belonged to which?” Sir Cotterell’s blue eyes—they were very blue—were looking out keenly now from under his pepper-and-salt eyebrows.

“Nick was Jack’s, and Dick was Jim’s,” said Laydon.

Sir Cotterell’s hand shot out and caught him by the wrist.

“And which was yours, eh? Which was yours?”

“I can’t say, sir.” The grey eyes met the blue ones quite steadily.

“Can’t say! But you must know, my boy—you must know!”

“It’s like this, sir. I remember all the things that we both did, but I can’t say which of us did them.”

Sir Cotterell took his hand off Laydon’s wrist and looked down at the great fingers, the enlarged knuckles, the blackened, broken nails. He bit his lip sharply and looked again at Laydon’s face.

The thick beard had been removed, and the unkempt hair trimmed to a normal length. Where the beard had been, the skin had an unnatural pallor; but forehead, nose, and the upper part of the cheeks were burnt to a deep and ingrained tan. The effect was very curious—almost that of a man with his face lathered for shaving, and very perplexing to eyes that were searching for a likeness. The right side of the forehead bore the mark of an old, puckered scar that ran up into the hair and was lost there; and this old scar was crossed by the stain of a yellowing bruise and the red line of a cut that had drawn blood.

Sir Cotterell dropped his eyes again with a sort of groan.

“I can’t understand it,” he muttered. “Not a trace of my boys—not a trace.”

There was a short, painful silence. Then Laydon said in a curiously gentle voice,

“And you’ve hardly changed at all, sir.” He paused. “Will you tell me about the people in the village? Are the Gaunts still at the Vicarage?”

Sir Cotterell nodded without looking up. His right hand tapped his knee again.

“What’s Allan Gaunt doing?”

“Gone,” said Sir Cotterell—“Loos or Messines—I forget which.”

“Cotty Abbott’s married, I hear.”

This time he got a sharp look.

“Who told you that, eh? Manning, I suppose. Yes, he’s married—and she’s a deuced unpleasant woman—deuced unpleasant—can’t stand the sight of either of ’em for the matter of that. Cotty Abbott always did stick in my throat, and his wife don’t make him any easier to swallow. He’ll be here directly. You know that?” Laydon nodded. “He rang me up this morning. He means to fight your claim.”

“I’m hardly making a claim,” said Laydon quickly.

“You’re not? What are you doing if you’re not making a claim? You say your name’s Laydon. You say you’re my grandson—you do say that, eh?” The blue eyes were fixed suddenly, piercingly on Laydon’s face. But Laydon made no sign.

“Yes, I certainly say that.”

“Then, for the Lord’s sake prove it, my boy, prove it! Both of you gone the same day, and no one left but Cotty Abbott—it nearly broke me. It’d have broken me outright if I hadn’t known that that’s what Cotty was waiting for. And if one of you’s come back, you must prove it—you must be able to prove it. The thought of Cotty Abbott here when I’m gone is gall and wormwood to me. But I’m a just man—I’ve tried to be a just man all my life—and I won’t leave the place away from the natural heir because I’ve a personal dislike for him. He’s my next of kin, and he’s got a son to come after him, and I won’t leave the place away from him on the grounds of personal dislike. I pushed Jim’s marriage on so as to be safe from Cotty. And if there’d been a little more time, if Evelyn had had a boy——” All the time he was speaking he used a low, rapid undertone and watched Laydon’s face with great intentness.

The low-spoken words hardly reached Manning where he stood by the window and watched the rain come down upon the budding daffodils in the Dutch garden. The grey stones streamed under the downpour, but the daffodil leaves stood up like straight, green spears round buds already streaked with gold.

“If Evelyn had had a boy——” Sir Cotterell repeated the words with a sort of angry regret, and saw the colour come suddenly into Laydon’s face and change it. Behind the colour, emotion deep and transforming.

For a moment the self-control which had troubled Manning slipped. It was only for a moment; but in that moment Sir Cotterell saw two boys fighting, two faces flushed with anger. The picture came up out of the dark places of memory—the boys swaying, straining, with flushed cheeks and angry eyes. It came, and was gone. Laydon’s change of countenance was gone too. But, for the first time, Sir Cotterell felt that here, in this changed figure, was one of those boys. The impression had been as brief as a lightning flash, and as startling. It was not exactly recognition; it was—he could not say what it was, but when the colour rushed into the face he was scanning, when the eyes blazed, he had seen his boys, seen them for a moment plainly, as he had not seen them through all the years of loss. He turned in his chair with a muttered “Henry!” And Sir Henry moved for the first time and came nearer.

“What is it?”

Sir Cotterell looked at him with a shaken air.

“I thought——No, it’s gone again—it’s gone.” He turned back.

“You’ve got to prove it,” he said. “Cotty’ll have his microscope out, but—don’t you let him rattle you. He’ll be here in a moment, and he’ll ask you this, that and the other, and try to trip you. But I want you to remember this. You haven’t got to satisfy Cotty or a court of law: you’ve only got to satisfy me. If you can prove to me that you’re my grandson, I’ll alter my will to-day.” He laughed grimly, “By Gad, I’ll make Cotty Abbott witness it too! But you’ve got to prove it—you’ve got to satisfy me. Once you’ve done that, Cotty can go hang. But I’ll not go past him for any except my own flesh and blood.”

Laydon lifted his elbow from the table and leaned back, his face heavy, his look remote.

“How am I going to prove it?” he said.

“You’ve got to. There are plenty of ways. If you’re Jim, now——” He paused, dropped his voice, and sat forward. “If you’re Jim, there’s a proof you could give me now. Jim and I had a talk together here, in this very room, on the night before his wedding—the night before he went back to France. If you’re Jim, you’ll know what passed between us.”

Sir Cotterell put his hand on the table as he spoke. It shook a little; his voice shook with the eagerness that possessed him. In his own mind he saw himself and the Jim of ten years ago and listened to their talk. It came back to him word for word. He saw himself rise and unlock the safe behind his father’s portrait. He saw the diamonds that his mother had worn, that his wife had worn, lie shining on the table where his hand lay now, his trembling hand. He heard himself say, “They’re pretty things, eh, Jim? Evelyn’ll look well in ’em. They’re for her, but I’ll keep ’em here till this damned war is over.” Impossible that Jim should have forgotten—if this were Jim. Behind him the locked safe was hidden by the portrait—and Evelyn had never worn the jewels.

He repeated his question urgently:

“If you’re Jim, you can tell me what we talked about. That’s a proof that would satisfy me. Can you give it me?”

“No, sir, I can’t.”