The Amazing Chance

by Patricia Wentworth

  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 th
e 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.”

  XII

  Evelyn Laydon’s little car drew up at the big open door and Evelyn ran quickly up the steps and into the hall. She stripped off a dripping raincoat, and appeared in a dark grey tweed coat and skirt. She had moved to one of the old wall-mirrors, and was pulling off a wet felt hat, when she saw in the glass the hovering form of Lake, the butler. Without turning round she asked:

  “Where is Sir Cotterell? Is he alone?”

  Lake moistened his lips and rubbed his hands together. He was a passionately nervous little man, with a worried eye and a hereditary devotion to the Laydons. For at least three generations a Laydon had sworn at and generally bullied a Lake.

  “Sir Cotterell’s in his study, ma’am—with Sir Henry, ma’am.”

  “Alone?” The question was quite steady. As she put it, Evelyn slipped out of her coat and turned towards him, bare-headed, in a white polo jumper and short skirt.

  “Yes, they’re quite alone, ma’am. There’s no one else come yet.”

  Evelyn nodded.

  “Thanks, Lake—I’ll just go in then.” For the life of her she could not keep the relief out of her voice.

  She went to the study door, opened it, and was fairly in the room before she saw that there were four people there already. She shut the door sharply, and for a moment gripped the handle with fingers which did not seem able to let it go. Then she lifted her head and came quietly forward as Sir Cotterell rose to meet her—Sir Cotterell and the man whose back had been turned when she came in.

  An absolute silence seemed to have fallen on the room—one of those silences in which time and breath are suspended. It seemed as if it would never end.

  Anthony Laydon stood with the table at his back and looked down the room. He saw Evelyn. Everything stopped there. It was Evelyn. She had worn white ten years ago, and she had come up the dark aisle of an old church like a white and golden glory, with lilies in her hands. That was on the far side of the lost, blind years. But he saw Evelyn now—Evelyn in a white sweater like a man’s, and her face dead white above it—Evelyn unalterably beautiful, unalterably beloved.

  He stood there and waited, whilst time stood waiting too. As she came up to him, Sir Henry Prothero made a step forward. Manning over by the window bit deep into his lip. He would have looked away; but he could not look away; not one of them could look away. But after all, Evelyn was as unconscious of the watching eyes as if she and Laydon had been alone in space. They were alone. Never in all her life had she felt such an isolation. Everyone in the world was gone, and everything in the world was blotted out except herself and this man with the unfamiliar face. She looked at him as the others had looked—Manning, Sir Cotterell—, and saw what they had seen. And then she ceased to see that at all.

  Manning, watching, saw her lift her hand and put it to her throat. For an unendurable moment her eyes met Laydon’s full. Then the colour came to her face suddenly, brilliantly. She drew a very long breath, turned away, and walking deliberately to the far end of the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. No one would have guessed that the room swam before her eyes, or that she was saying over and over to herself, “I mustn’t faint—I mustn’t, mustn’t faint!”

  From the time she had entered the room not a single word had been spoken. Evelyn rested her head on her hand, looked down into the polished surface of the walnut table, and saw her own reflection there, vague and misty. She went on saying to herself, “I mustn’t faint—I mustn’t, mustn’t faint!” And still no one spoke.

  Laydon stood just where he was, but turned a little so that he could see Evelyn’s bent head with the golden hair cut short at the back, showing a beautiful curving line.

  It was Sir Henry Prothero who broke the silence. He left the fire, took a seat opposite Evelyn, and stretching across the table, touched her lightly on the wrist.

  “My dear,” he said—“Evelyn, my dear.”

  It was just then that Lake opened the door. He stood, surprised and nervous, on the threshold—“struck all of a heap,” as he afterwards explained to the housekeeper. “And they must have come in like ghosts, him and the Major, or I’d have heard them for certain.” He stood there, and Anthony Laydon gave himself a sort of shake and came forward with his hand out:

  “Hullo, Lake! How are you? Going strong?”

  Lake took the hand in silence; his own was shaking very much. He looked at Laydon in dazed bewilderment, and murmured unintelligibly. Sir Cotterell called to him sharply, “Lake, what is it man?”

  Lake pulled himself together with a great effort.

  “Mr and Mrs Abbott have arrived, sir—in the morning-room, sir. And Mr Gregory has arrived, sir.”

  Immediately on the words, Mr Gregory was in the room.

  “May I come in?” And then, without waiting for an answer, he advanced, greeted everyone, and took the chair with its back to the window, pushing the blotting paper a little farther off and adjusting the inkstand conveniently. He talked all the time in cheerful commonplaces—about the weather, the lateness of the spring. But when he was seated with his papers before him he fell silent, leaned back in his chair with his hands along the arms of it, and took a grave survey of the room and its six other occupants.

  He bore a certain resemblance to the portraits of Sir Walter Scott, on the strength of which he collected first editions of the Waverley Novels. Looking now between short sandy eyelashes, his small grey eyes were shrewd and kind. They rested with undisguised curiosity on Anthony Laydon. Then he nodded and turned to Sir Cotterell.

  “The Abbotts are here. I think better have them in—that is if you’re ready.”

  “Yes. Show Mr and Mrs Abbott in, Lake.” Under his breath Sir Cotterell added: “I didn’t bargain for Mrs Cotty—no, I’m hanged if I did!”

  There was silence until the door opened again. Laydon had come back to a lounging pose against the table. Evelyn sat without stirring, her forehead resting on her hand, her eyes veiled. She sat next to Mr Gregory, Sir Henry Prothero opposite with Manning leaning on the back of his chair.

  The Abbotts came in, bringing with them, as they always did, an air of bustle and aggression. Mrs Abbott was a plump, colourless person with white lashes and pale, prominent eyes. As she walked, she chinked and rustled—one suspected bangles and a stiff silk petticoat. Her light, fuzzy hair was carefully controlled by a net. Neither she nor Cotty ever forgot for an instant that she had been a Mendip-ffollinton. Cotty, behind her, was Sir Cotterell in caricature—much smaller, much stiffer, with every trait exaggerated; the whole enveloped in a preposterous air of self-importance.

  As they came up, Laydon passed to the other side of the table, leaving to the Abbotts the two places between Evelyn and Sir Cotterell. A sardonic humour rose in him as he listened to Cotty being very stiff and non-committal while Mrs Cotty exhibited the Mendip-ffollinton manner in one of its most irritating phases. She gave her staring bow to everyone in the circle except Laydon, and then sat down beside Evelyn, fixing her with inquisitive eyes.

  Laydon’s humour passed into savage anger as he watched Evelyn control a quiver of sensitive lips and for a moment raise h
er head with gentle dignity.

  “Of course, I don’t know how far these proceedings have gone.” This was Cotty Abbott, bolt upright and speaking with some asperity.

  Sir Cotterell beside him made the noise which is usually written “Tchah,” and drummed on the table. He also cleared his throat and blew his nose.

  Cotty Abbott produced a sheet of foolscap neatly typed, and took a fountain-pen out of his waistcoat pocket.

  “I would like to begin by asking just how far this—this—claim has proceeded,” he said. “And at the same time I wish to enter my protest, in Mr Gregory’s presence, against this—er—highly irregular manner of dealing with such a claim.”

  “Irregular?” said Mr Gregory. He pounced on the word, and it at once gave up the ghost. With a lenient smile he appeared to display its corpse. “Irregular? Let us say informal, Mr Abbott—that, I think, is the right word.”

  Cotty Abbott pinched in his nostrils and tightened his lips. His voice when he spoke was thin and acid.

  “I should be glad to know how far this—er—claim has proceeded. Have you, for instance, recognized this person, Uncle Cotterell?”

  He ignored Mr Gregory, but it was Mr. Gregory who answered him.

  “No formal recognition has, I believe, taken place as yet. I would suggest that you put any questions you wish to Mr Laydon, who has signified his willingness to answer such of them as he can. From these questions and his answers, and perhaps by one or two other simple tests, it will, I hope, be possible to arrive at a conclusion—a perfectly definite and friendly conclusion.”

  “You say, no formal recognition,” Cotty Abbott’s voice was high and unpleasant. “May I ask if anyone here pretends to recognize James or John Laydon in this—gentleman?”