police would be telegraphing private instructions
from town to town; the scandal would stick to Kenelm
Chillingly for life, accompanied with vague hints of
criminal propensities and insane hallucinations; he
would be ever afterwards pointed out as “THE
MAN WHO HAD DISAPPEARED.” And to disappear
and to turn up again, instead of being murdered, is
the most hateful thing a man can do: all the
newspapers bark at him, “Tray, Blanche, Sweetheart,
and all;” strict explanations of the unseemly
fact of his safe existence are demanded in the name
of public decorum, and no explanations are accepted;
it is life saved, character lost.
Sir Peter seized his hat and walked forth, not to
deliberate whether to fib or not to fib to the wife
of his bosom, but to consider what kind of fib would
the most quickly sink into the bosom of his wife.
A few turns to and fro on the terrace sufficed for
the conception and maturing of the fib selected; a
proof that Sir Peter was a practised fibber.
He re-entered the house, passed into her ladyship’s
habitual sitting-room, and said with careless gayety,
“My old friend the Duke of Clareville is just
setting off on a tour to Switzerland with his family.
His youngest daughter, Lady Jane, is a pretty girl,
and would not be a bad match for Kenelm.”
“Lady Jane, the youngest daughter with fair
hair, whom I saw last as a very charming child, nursing
a lovely doll presented to her by the Empress Eugenie,—a
good match indeed for Kenelm.”
“I am glad you agree with me. Would it
not be a favourable step towards that alliance, and
an excellent thing for Kenelm generally, if he were
to visit the Continent as one of the Duke’s travelling
party?”
“Of course it would.”
“Then you approve what I have done; the Duke
starts the day after to-morrow, and I have packed
Kenelm off to town, with a letter to my old friend.
You will excuse all leave taking. You know that
though the best of sons he is an odd fellow; and seeing
that I had talked him into it, I struck while the
iron was hot, and sent him off by the express at nine
o’clock this morning, for fear that if I allowed
any delay he would talk himself out of it.”
“Do you mean to say Kenelm is actually gone?
Good gracious.”
Sir Peter stole softly from the room, and summoning
his valet, said, “I have sent Mr. Chillingly
to London. Pack up the clothes he is likely to
want, so that he can have them sent at once, whenever
he writes for them.”
And thus, by a judicious violation of truth on the
part of his father, that exemplary truth-teller Kenelm
Chillingly saved the honour of his house and his own
reputation from the breath of scandal and the inquisition
of the police. He was not “THE MAN WHO HAD
DISAPPEARED.”
