From the drawing-room window Melville watched Sir Ross prancing down the garden path, and then he turned to Mrs. Sinclair as she came in holding his flowers. He would have assumed a penitent demeanour if the situation had seemed to require it, but a glance at his aunt's face reassured him. The laughter in her eyes was infectious, and Melville laughed in response.
"Sir Ross looks a little put out," he said tentatively.
"He's in an abominable temper," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "You have a great deal to answer for, Melville. You are the cause of quite a serious quarrel between that excellent little man and myself."
"I'm sorry if you're sorry," Melville said. "He doesn't like me, I know, but I wonder why?"
"Is it so surprising?" she enquired.
"Well," said Melville candidly, "most people do like me, you know—barring the very good ones."
"I see," said Mrs. Sinclair. "The fact is Sir Ross thinks you are too attentive to me."
"So he told me," Melville answered. "He left me in no doubt as to what he wanted; he regards me as a sort of trespasser, and desired me to clear out and not come back."
"What did you say?"
"Oh! I suggested that perhaps it was rather your affair than his, and then he said that one of us had got to go, and we played a sort of nursery game—'twasn't me and 'twas you, don't you know—I didn't go, so he did. Am I really compromising you—aunt?"
"Of course you're not," she said laughing. "There's a perfect explanation of your coming here in our relationship, but I don't choose to produce the family pedigree on demand. In plain English, Sir Ross is jealous of you, and jealous people are capable of anything."
"So it appears," Melville said. "From the way Sir Ross waltzed down to the gate I thought the gravel must be red-hot. Only a very angry man could prance as he did. By the way, he asked me how I was related to you."
"Did you tell him?" she asked a little anxiously.
"Not I," said Melville. "I saw he didn't know, and inferred you hadn't told him, so I explained that we were related by marriage, and eased him off a point or two."
"That was quite right," Mrs. Sinclair said approvingly. "You should never gratify idle curiosity."
Melville assented, but decided mentally that his own desire for information was different from the idle curiosity of Sir Ross Buchanan, and resolved that it should be satisfied.
"It was unfortunate," Mrs. Sinclair went on, "that Lucille should have shown you both into the same room, but it must have been very funny to see you glaring at each other."
Melville expostulated.
"I didn't glare. I purred—positively purred, but it was no good. Sir Ross meant to lose his temper and he lost it. He doesn't believe in our relationship a little bit. He said he knew the late Mr. Sinclair intimately, and never heard of any relations of his named Ashley."
"That's quite true," Mrs. Sinclair said simply; "he did know him, but he doesn't know that I was married to Sir Geoffrey Holt."
Melville looked at her sharply. He could tell from her voice and from the way she spoke that she had no idea of the sequence of thoughts passing in his mind. Once more fortune was smiling on him. Sir Ross Buchanan's casual remark had opened his eyes to a possible fact. Mrs. Sinclair herself could corroborate it, and once more knowledge would give him power. His marvellous faculty of reading faces stood him in good stead. Criminal or fool, whichever she might be, this woman did not suspect him now of cross-examining her from any sinister motive. She assumed that he knew something which he did not know, but which, if he were careful, she would let him know.
"Mr. Sinclair died on Jubilee Day, didn't he?" he said, and Mrs. Sinclair nodded. For once in his life Melville was really puzzled, and puzzled because in his cool, calculating way of doing wrong he made no allowance for possible ignorance of the wrong. But it was evident that the woman in front of him scented no danger, and he played a bold game.
"Forgive me, Lavender, for putting things so bluntly, but tell me—was there really any Mr. Sinclair at all?"
"Of course there was," she answered, quite surprised.
"When did you marry him?"
"Five years before; that is, in ninety-two."
"But Sir Geoffrey Holt is living."
"Yes," said Mrs. Sinclair.
"And you were legally married to him, weren't you?"
"Most certainly I was," she said indignantly.
"Well, my dear lady," Melville said, raising his brows so that the eye-glass dropped from his eye into his hand outstretched to catch it, "I don't care as a rule for calling a spade a spade, but it's the simple fact that you have committed bigamy."
If Melville expected his hostess to recoil with the dismay not unnatural in a criminal suddenly unmasked, he was disappointed. For a moment Mrs. Sinclair looked at him in blank astonishment, colouring slightly, it is true, but from indignation, not from shame, and when she spoke again it was with the same obvious ignorance of guilt that she had made the statement which so much surprised Melville.
"Don't be preposterous," she remarked at length. "Bigamy? Absurd!"
"It's anything but absurd," Melville retorted. "It's an uncommonly serious matter."
"But I had left Sir Geoffrey ages before," Mrs. Sinclair argued, "and hadn't heard of him or from him for years and years. I didn't even know he was alive."
"Did you try to find out?" Melville asked curtly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Sinclair; "but I didn't succeed, and I never connected my husband with the baronet in possession of Fairbridge. Anyhow, I had heard nothing of him for ages, and everybody knows that if you lose sight of your husband or your wife for seven years, you can marry again."
Melville considered. Evidently Mrs. Sinclair was an ignorant sort of woman, and, as a rule, it is only ignorant people who can be influenced by fear. At any rate, he could try to frighten her into telling him the facts, and it would be his own fault only if he could not turn them to his own advantage. His part as accessory after the fact could be explained easily enough if the occasion should ever arise.
"I know there are people who labour under that delusion," he said, "but it is a delusion. Marriage once contracted is binding until it is dissolved by death or decree, and while Sir Geoffrey could, doubtless, get a decree now in the Divorce Court, it could only be after your conviction at the Old Bailey."
He spoke icily and deliberately, and his words had the desired effect. Mrs. Sinclair's eyes dilated, and, although she retained her self-command, her bosom rose and fell quickly, betraying the emotion within her, and the emotion was fear. Melville was satisfied. He turned to her with a pleasant, sympathetic smile which might have inspired confidence in the heart of the most suspicious.
"Tell me all about it, Lavender," he said gently. "Naked truth is always a little bit shocking. I suppose that is why you only get it in savage countries. But it is the naked truth that you have committed bigamy, and it looks to me uncommonly as if you contemplated doing it again. Tell me all about it. I don't suppose you have one disinterested adviser among all the people you know, and this is certainly a case where two heads are better than one. I won't give you away. What are the facts?"
His frankness completely took her in, as completely as his definition of her offence had satisfied her. She sat down in a chair, nervously beating a tattoo upon its arms with her plump fingers, and every now and then stealing a glance at Melville from underneath her lashes.
"I can't believe you are right," she said, "but perhaps I may as well tell you what did happen. I know I can trust you if—if I was wrong."
"Implicitly," Melville murmured.
"Well," she said hesitatingly, punctuating her story with little pauses as if in doubt how much detail to fill in. "I was very young and—and pretty, and desperately poor when I met your uncle, and he was—rather old, and well-to-do and very kind. And I married him. I thought everything would be comfortable, don't you know. But I couldn't stand it. He wanted to have me educated, and I wanted to go about and see life. It was like trying to boil a tea-kettle over a volcano. We had most frightful quarrels, and very soon I made up my mind to leave him. And one day I just walked out of the house and never went back."
The way she summarised what must have been a tragedy was pathetic, and Melville was able to imagine what that home must have been like when it was the theatre of such a conflict between passionate youth and determined middle age.
"Where did you go to?" he asked.
"A girl I knew had lately married, and I went to her. Her husband was manager of an old-fashioned hotel on the South Coast, and they gave me a home. I was useful to them, so there was no obligation on either side. I stayed there a long time, and it was there that I met Mr. Sinclair."
"Did you never hear of Sir Geoffrey?"
"Never. After I marched out of his house that morning I was frightened, and at least two years went by before I dared to ask anything about him. He had left the house we lived in and disappeared too. He may have tried to trace me, but a child is very easily lost, and I was only a child. Anyhow, he never found me. And when a long time afterwards Mr. Sinclair asked me to marry him, I thought that I was free, and finally I consented. I knew I had no claim upon Sir Geoffrey, and I honestly believed he had none on me. Are you sure I was not free?"
"Quite sure," Melville answered. "Tell me the rest."
"We were married, and got along all right, and he died," she replied. "It was just like hundreds of other marriages, I suppose. I don't know that I loved him particularly, but I was a pretty good wife, and he left me comfortably provided for, and—and that is the end of the story."
She gave vent to a defiant little laugh, and looked at Melville.
"Those are the facts," she said. "Now, if you are right and I was wrong, tell me the position."
"Honestly, it's a very unpleasant one," Melville answered. "You see, Sir Geoffrey being alive at the time, your marriage with Mr. Sinclair was quite invalid. Sir Geoffrey could divorce you on the facts and you would have no claim on him for alimony; and, on the other hand, you would forfeit all the income you derive from Mr. Sinclair's estate as his widow, which legally, of course, you are not."
There was an interval, during which the minds of both worked quickly.
"What am I to do about Sir Ross?" Mrs. Sinclair asked presently. "I suppose I shall have to say that, for reasons that have just come to my knowledge, I can't marry him, or something of the sort. But he is dreadfully inquisitive; and, besides, any man would want something more definite than that."
"What more definite reason can you give?" Melville enquired.
"I shall have to tell him about Sir Geoffrey," she answered.
Melville immediately foresaw the objection to this. Sir Ross Buchanan would almost certainly do his best to get to the bottom of the whole thing; he would go to Fairbridge, with the result that Sir Geoffrey would learn where his wife was living and in what comfort; the funds he had been giving to Melville for her assistance would be withdrawn, and Melville would thus be thrown upon his own resources once again.
"That will not do at all," he said decisively; "it would be most dangerous. Sir Ross must remain in ignorance of the whole affair. Why, just think! If this reached Sir Geoffrey's ears he would prosecute you for bigamy at once and obtain a divorce; you would lose the whole of your present income, and Sir Ross would certainly never make you his wife. No; this must remain a secret between you and me."
"I don't want to tell him," Lavender admitted. "He knew Mr. Sinclair personally, but even if Sir Geoffrey were dead I should not care for him to know that I'd been married twice already. That is why I've never explained how you are related to me, not because I thought there was any harm in what I'd done. Can we really keep it to ourselves, Melville?"
"Certainly," he answered. "You've proved that you can keep a secret, which is more than most women can do, and you may rely upon me. I am as safe as the bank."
"Sir Ross is so jealous of you," Mrs. Sinclair said. "He told me to-day that I must choose between you, and went off in a huff because I would not order you out of the house."
"I daresay it's just as well," Melville said indifferently; "you may be glad of a day or two to think things over in. There's no blinking the fact that this is serious. When Sir Ross turns up again let me know, and don't do anything without consulting me."
"I think you are right," Mrs. Sinclair said. "For the present I will say nothing to him about it, and if any difficulty arises—I mean, if he presses me to marry him at once, or anything of that sort—I will come to you for advice."
"We will leave it like that," Melville assented. "For the present things can go on as they are. Above all, don't get frightened and lose your head."
"I'm very grateful to you, Melville," Mrs. Sinclair murmured; her words were at once an expression of gratitude and an appeal, for, in sober truth, she was very frightened already. It was as if the solid ground had suddenly opened, and as if a bottomless pit were yawning before her feet.
Melville took her hands in his.
"That's all right," he said, smiling kindly at her. "Show your gratitude by playing the game like a sportsman. If there is any way out of the mess I'll find it for you. Keep a stout heart. Good-bye."
He walked away from the house apparently absorbed in thought, but when he was out of sight he fairly rubbed his hands.
"It's like a bally game of chess," he said with glee, "and the chess-board's like Tom Tiddler's ground; there's gold and silver for me on every bally square simply waiting to be picked up. Just now it's Sir Geoffrey sending me to the assistance of the queen, who's in a tight place: starving, if you please, on about a thousand a year; and if for any reason that source of revenue dries up, the queen can be driven into the arms of Sir Ross. More bigamy, unless Sir Geoffrey is translated to another sphere, and if he is it won't matter very much to me. If my polygamous aunt marries Sir Ross Buchanan at all I shall be able to draw a very respectable percentage of her annual income. Oh, these knights and ladies!"
But indoors, Lavender Sinclair, with a very white face, sat thinking, thinking, thinking, and the only thought which was really clear before her mind was how fortunate it was that she had met Melville Ashley when she did. In him, at any rate, she possessed one loyal friend on whom she could rely.
Lucille's forebodings were justified by the event. Days passed by and Sir Ross Buchanan neither wrote nor called; but while the maid was filled with real concern at this interruption in a love story of which she had been so sympathetic an eye-witness, her mistress regarded it with indifference. At first she even hailed it as a relief, for it did away with all possibility of her being called upon to give explanations for what she saw must be the definite postponement of her marriage with him. She lost no time in verifying Melville's statement about the invalidity of her marriage with Mr. Sinclair, and the more she considered her position the uneasier she grew. She was afraid to take a legal opinion upon it, and to her fear of losing the income she derived from a charge upon Mr. Sinclair's estate was added terror of the pains and penalties to which, in her ignorance of all legal matters, she thought her bigamous marriage had rendered her liable. That she had acted in good faith at the time afforded her but little consolation. She had done something punishable by law, and she was in terror of anyone else finding it out.
In Melville's discretion she had perfect confidence; it never occurred to her that the danger might lie upon his side. Why she should feel such security in the case of the only man who had any knowledge of her offence she would have been at a loss to explain. Anything like self-analysis was quite foreign to her temperament; probably she recognised in Melville Ashley some fellowship of nature and of habit, none the less real because undefinable. And yet in spite of this fellowship there was this vast difference between them, that he was a bad man, entirely unprincipled and utterly selfish, while she was not a bad woman. Her terribly ill-assorted marriage as a child with Sir Geoffrey Holt had been too great a tax upon her uncurbed nature, and she had put an end to it in the summary, reckless way that any savage child would do; yet had it been possible for that strange couple to bear and forbear with each other, a little time might have worked what then seemed a miracle, and the story of their lives might have been very different.
While, however, Lavender Sinclair regarded Sir Ross's temporary defection with equanimity, being indeed convinced that it was only temporary, and that when she chose she could whistle him back to her side, she felt that Melville Ashley's attendance was daily growing more necessary to her. To women of the type to which she belonged, the companionship of men is indispensable. But Melville, too, absented himself from The Vale. As a matter of fact, he was playing for big stakes, and had no intention of losing the game from any failure to give it due consideration.
His return from Monte Carlo and the few days of absolute impecuniosity, culminating in his so nearly executed idea of suicide, had marked a period in his career. Up to that moment he had drifted along in a happy-go-lucky fashion, enjoying himself when in funds, existing somehow when he was hard up, but always contriving in an irresponsible way to have what he called a pretty good time. But that night when he looked death squarely in the face had altered him. He vowed that such necessity should not arise again, and his evil genius had come to his assistance by placing him in possession of Sir Geoffrey Holt's old secret. In concocting the story of Mrs. Sinclair's destitution, Melville had not aimed solely at getting a single sum of money from his uncle. He determined to secure an annual subsidy to be paid to him on her behalf, and the negotiations were beset with difficulty.
At first Sir Geoffrey was in favour of the straightforward, common-sensible policy of a point-blank refusal to part with a shilling except to Lady Holt herself. He utterly distrusted Melville, and scouted the idea of appointing him his almoner. But the old man's pride was a factor in the problem which the young one had not under-estimated. He could not bring himself to face what he regarded as a scandal, although in all essential particulars it was only he who had been wronged. Thus Melville had only to reiterate his intention of observing his promise to Mrs. Sinclair not to betray her whereabouts, and take precautions against being shadowed by any emissaries from his uncle, and he could afford to wait until Sir Geoffrey should decide. As a matter of fact he had decided to submit to what was nothing less than blackmail, and was endeavouring to make arrangements for the payment to his wife of an income of four hundred pounds a year, to be given quarterly to Melville until it could be given direct to Lady Holt, and to take such precautions as the circumstances allowed against the whole of the subsidy being misappropriated by Melville for his own purposes.
But until the matter had been completed and put upon such a basis as to seem tolerably secure, Melville felt that his constant attendance upon his uncle was at least expedient. So his visits to Fairbridge became more frequent than they had been for several years past, and their effect upon the two establishments at the Manor House and The Grange was very marked. No hawk can take up his quarters in a dove-cote without causing a commotion in the farmyard, and this was what happened now.
Ralph was moody and suspicious; he avoided his brother as much as he could, and recognised his existence only so much as was inevitable if he would not be actually rude to his uncle's guest. Sir Geoffrey was always studiously polite to Melville, but on most occasions shut himself up in his library to commune with his own thoughts, and denied access to everyone, not excepting Gwendolen. She, indeed, was in the most invidious position of all, for her mother liked Melville, and made much of him, thinking that he was a rather misunderstood young man whose latent merits it only required a little sympathy and affection to evoke. And his music was superb. He kept his Amati at The Grange, and whenever opportunity offered would play to the accompaniment of Gwendolen, herself a musician of no mean order. The girl was divided between two emotions. Her love for Ralph would have kept her ever by his side to the sacrifice of everything and everybody else, but, since Melville's reappearance, Ralph was preoccupied and taciturn, avoiding The Grange when, as so often happened, his brother was there. On those many occasions Gwendolen was obliged to remain at home, and her devotion to her duty was always rewarded by hearing Melville play. His bow was a magician's wand, drawing music from the violin that stole into Gwendolen's heart and held her very soul spell-bound.
"No man can be bad who plays as divinely as he does," she often thought, and Melville, noting the rapt expression on her face and the moisture in her glorious eyes, would play as he had never played before, until the silence that followed the dying away of the last note was broken by an involuntary sigh from all who had the privilege of listening.
Thus it was that Melville forsook The Vale in favour of The Grange. But at last his business came to a satisfactory conclusion, and, provided with what he hoped and believed would be the first of a series of cheques, he returned in jubilant mood to town.
Invitations in plenty poured upon him, and he devoted himself to enjoyment. But with the possession of money returned the old insatiable desire for excitement that had always been his bane. All his good resolutions proved to be straws in the wind. Races and suppers and cards once more became the order of his days and nights, and among the set that lives—and dies—by its wits Melville resumed his place as leader. Like all confirmed gamblers, his faith in his star revived, and he could not believe that fortune would ever desert him finally. When things were at their blackest the goddess had given the kaleidoscope a turn and dazzled his eyes by the blaze of colours in the glass before him.
Thus it was with particular pleasure that he accepted an invitation to make one of a party at a great race meeting, and spick and span in new apparel, with glasses slung across his shoulder, he joined the coach at Hatchett's, and, sanguine as ever, mounted to his seat. His information was exclusive, the banknotes in his pocket book were new and crisp, and would be multiplied tenfold when he got back to town. A light rain in the early morning had laid the dust, and the roads were in perfect condition; high overhead thin wisps of clouds were blown swiftly across a grey-blue sky, betokening a breeze that would temper the heat of the summer day. With a jest upon every lip, and a plenitude of coppers for all the children shouting by the roadside, the party drove away.
But when the sun was setting behind them, and the team of bays was swinging into London, the smile upon Melville's face, in common with the others, was replaced by a look of utter dejection. The horses which, according to his information, were to do such wonderful things had, without exception, failed to fulfil his expectations; in every single race his fancy had gone down, not even succeeding in getting into a place; conversation was monosyllabic upon the coach; the guard proclaimed its coming by melancholy toots upon his horn instead of by selections adapted from "The Washington Post" and "The Flowers that bloom in the Spring"; there were no pennies for the children, no Japanese lanterns swinging from the seats. The whole party was sick and sorry. Melville finished the day, according to the programme, with dinner at his host's flat and a modest game of cards, yet even at that nobody seemed to win. And when, after a final flutter atpetit-paquetand a tumbler of champagne, Melville let himself into his own chambers in the small hours of the morning, very little was left of the considerable sum with which he had left Fairbridge such a short time before.
Melville's absence from The Vale occurring thus simultaneously with Sir Ross Buchanan's defection made the time hang heavy on Mrs. Sinclair's hands, and, her other visitors being few, she suddenly found herself deprived of all companionship. It was not long before this solitude became intolerable to her, and as her repeated little notes to Melville remained without an answer she determined to go to call on him in person. He, of course, had duly received these several communications, but as none of them contained the news which he desired—that Sir Ross had resumed his visits—he did not think that any good purpose would be served by prosecuting his attentions to his aunt.
As a consequence of his disaster at the races he was obliged to economise again. For breakfast, followed by luncheon at his club or some good restaurant, he substituted a meal which would in France be termeddéjeûner, but which he significantly labelled "brunch," as being neither the one thing nor the other, although compact of both. Then in the afternoon he lounged by the Achilles Statue, and played billiards if chance threw in his way any acquaintance with kindred tastes but less skill than his own. And in the evening he would dine alone at some one of the many cheap restaurants in Soho, or have a chop in solitude at home. The life was all right in a way, but aimless and not to his taste. Yet even he could not bring himself to make fresh demands upon his uncle until a more reasonable period had elapsed.
It was after one of these purposeless saunters in the Park that he went back to his rooms. The day had been very hot, and, after letting down the sun-blinds, Melville threw himself upon the sofa and idly blew rings of smoke into the still air. A pile of illustrated papers lay within reach, syphons and decanters stood upon a table at his elbow, and he was just falling into a doze when he heard a woman's voice, and in another moment his valet opened the outer door with his master-key and ushered Mrs. Sinclair in.
Melville jumped to his feet and greeted her effusively, checking her mixture of apologies and reproaches with admirable tact.
"It was a case of Mahomet and the mountain," she said. "You didn't come and didn't answer my letters—I never thought you could be so abominably rude, Melville—and I wanted to see you, so there was no help for it but to disregard proprieties and come here. Why don't you marry some charming girl, so that I can call without being compromised or compromising you? You would be a delightful husband."
"So I have been explaining," Melville answered, "but the charming girl has the bad taste to prefer somebody else. Get some tea, Jervis, and some strawberries and things."
Mrs. Sinclair settled herself in a comfortable chair, with her back to the light, and took stock of her surroundings.
"I wonder how it is that bachelors always have such delightful quarters? This room is an effective answer to the old sneer that no place can be quite comfortable without a woman's touch."
"Perhaps I'm a bit effeminate in my tastes," Melville replied. "Lots of musical Johnnies are, you know. How is Sir Ross Buchanan?"
He switched off the conversation from trifles to essentials with perfect ease, and Mrs. Sinclair showed no resentment.
"He hasn't been near me since the day you saw him," she answered. "That is the principal reason why I've called now. Sir Ross hasn't been to see me, nor have you, and I'm being bored to death. Why have you stopped away, Melville?"
"I've had some business to attend to," he said, "and it didn't turn up trumps. And now I'm a sick man—broke, and generally down on my luck."
"All the more reason for you to avoid your own company," she retorted. "Moping's no use to anybody. Come and dine with me to-night?"
"Delighted," said Melville, but without enthusiasm.
"I'll get a box somewhere, and we'll pretend we're going the pace. My show, you know," she added, thinking that the expense might be inconvenient to him.
Melville liked the little touch ofcamaraderie.
"You're a good sort, Lavender," he said approvingly. "What a pity you and Sir Geoffrey couldn't run together in double harness!"
A slight frown crossed her brow.
"If you mourn over the pity of everything you'll die of compassion," she remarked, "and that's a silly sort of end for any man to come to. How is Sir Geoffrey? Have you seen him lately?"
"No," said Melville, "but I am going to Fairbridge to-morrow."
"Take me," said Mrs. Sinclair impulsively.
"My dear Lavender!" Melville said aghast; "what on earth will you want me to do next?"
He was not only astonished but alarmed at the suggestion, for nothing could be devised more fraught with danger to his own schemes. Yet he did not know what a woman of Lavender's temperament might not be capable of doing. On her part, it is true, Mrs. Sinclair had made the suggestion on the spur of the moment, but, having once made it, she was fascinated by it. Possibly, unrecognised by herself, there was in her heart some remorse for the injury she had done Sir Geoffrey, some hunger to set eyes once more upon the man who, if old enough to be her father, had nevertheless been her husband; at all events, she insisted.
"Why should I not go?"
"You would save yourself an unpleasant interview if you gave yourself up to the police at once," Melville answered; "but, of course, you are not serious. Fancy putting your head in the lion's mouth like that!" and he laughed.
Mrs. Sinclair looked at him gravely.
"I've been doing nothing but think for a week," she said, "and, do you know, I'm really not sure that it would not be the best thing for me to go to Sir Geoffrey and tell him all about it. I don't believe he would prosecute me or even apply for a divorce. Of course, I should have to come to terms with the Sinclair lot, and Sir Geoffrey might have to see me through any difficulty with them. But if I did that, he's just the sort of man to take care that I should be no worse off afterwards than I was before. He always respected people who did the square thing. And as for the rest, he knows that if he fed me I'm not the sort of reptile to sting his bosom."
Melville grew more and more anxious, for this mood was a difficult one to combat. He affected to consider the point sympathetically.
"You may be right," he replied; "but that's not the Sir Geoffrey whom I know. He has always been most generous to me, but I've never seen the soft side of the man. He does respect people who do the square thing, but, on the other hand, he never forgives those who don't. And he's as proud as Lucifer."
"I know," said Lavender, and flushed.
Melville noted her heightened colour and drew confidence from it.
"After you left him, Lavender—that morning—all those years ago——"
"Yes?" she said, as Melville seemed to hesitate.
"Well, how do you suppose he took it?"
"I can't possibly tell," she replied impatiently, and Melville drove his advantage further home; he would work upon her imagination as much as he could.
"I can picture him so clearly," Melville said meditatively. "At first he was angry—frightfully angry, and only thought of how he would punish you when you came back. Then, as you stayed away, he began—more to save his own honour than for any other reason—to invent explanations of your absence, but all the time he was raging at having been made a fool of by the child whom he had honoured by marrying. Then he began to search for you, at first with the idea of saving you from going to the devil, but afterwards with the different idea that he might be able to divorce you and put an end to the whole miserable business. But years went by and you never came back, and the little nine days' wonder was forgotten and he inherited the title, and now he not only hopes but believes that you are dead. And if you crop up again you'll hurt him in his pride ten thousand times more than you did when you left him, because then he was nobody in particular, and now he's a baronet and the best part of a millionaire, with a big position and heaps of friends, all of whom suppose him to be unmarried. You will be his dead past rising up like a ghost and ruining him, and he will never forgive you. Sir Geoffrey never does forgive. No, Lavender, you will have to pay for what you've done; pay to the uttermost farthing!"
There was silence for some moments, and then the tension was broken by the valet bringing in the tea-things, which he placed by Mrs. Sinclair. Melville rose and heaped some strawberries on a plate, flanking them with wafer-biscuits.
"It's a nice little world as it is," he said, as if carrying on some trivial conversation begun before the servant came into the room. "People ought always to enjoy things as they are. That's not only good philosophy, but a much easier one to put into practice than is commonly supposed."
He drank the tea that Mrs. Sinclair gave him, and waited until the valet noiselessly disappeared.
"Well?" he said interrogatively.
"I suppose you are right, as usual," she answered, with some reluctance, and Melville breathed more freely. "I suppose it would be madness to confess. But can't I go with you to-morrow, all the same? You can take me on the river and leave me somewhere while you go to the house. I promise not to get in your way."
Melville did not care about the idea, but having carried the point that was most important, thought it might be politic to conciliate the woman upon whose docility so much depended.
"I will take you with pleasure," he said cordially. "We will get a boat at Shipton's, near the old lock, and row up stream to the Manor House. I will leave you somewhere near there, and after I've seen Sir Geoffrey we will drift down in time to catch a train at St. Martin's Hill."
"I'll take a luncheon basket," Mrs. Sinclair said, her usual cheerfulness returning, "and we'll make a picnic of it."
But when Melville had put her into a cab and regained his cosy room, he shook his head doubtfully.
"I don't like it a little bit," he said moodily. "Fancy my piloting that good lady up to Fairbridge of all places in the world! It would be just my luck if Ralph and Gwen were punting and spotted us, and Lavender gave the show away. Or Sir Geoffrey even might see her, attired in the latest thing in river costumes and looking as fit as a fiddle, when he fondly imagines she's dying of consumption in a garret in Hampstead. It's a jolly sight too dangerous to please yours truly. I hope to goodness it will rain cats and dogs!"
In spite of Melville's hope that rain might come to prevent the proposed excursion up the river, the following day dawned bright and sunny, and as he stood by the front door waiting for Mrs. Sinclair, who was to call for him on her way to Waterloo, he was conscious of the joy of mere existence that comes to men sometimes.
Punctual to the minute Mrs. Sinclair arrived, and before long the pair were at the boathouse by St. Martin's Lock. The boatman was apologetic; there was a regatta six miles up stream at Longbridge, and he could only offer Melville the choice between a Canadian canoe and a rather heavy boat; all his other boats were engaged for the whole day.
Mrs. Sinclair laughed.
"You'll have to work for once," she said. "I'm so sorry, but I cannot row at all, and I'm not going to trust myself, and my frock, and my luncheon to that canoe. We'll have the boat, please."
"Can you steer?" Melville asked.
"Not a little bit," she answered cheerfully; "it doesn't matter, does it?"
"There'll be a rare pack higher up," the boatman said to Melville, "but perhaps you'll not be going so far as Longbridge? If you do, and get into the crush, unship your rudder altogether. That'll be better than running any risks of being run into by any launches."
So the luncheon basket was transferred to the boat, and with easy strokes Melville sculled slowly up the stream.
"Better not try to steer at all," he remarked, as they zigzagged from one bank to the other. "Keep the lines by you in case I want your help, but while we have the river to ourselves I can manage better alone. Just tell me if there's anything coming down. So:" he fastened the rudder lines loosely on to the arms of Mrs. Sinclair's seat, and she, with a sigh of satisfaction, opened her parasol and resigned herself to the delicious spirit of idleness which makes a day up the river so enjoyable.
Nor could Melville fail to be glad that they had come; he possessed the faculty of getting the last ounce of pleasure out of whatever he had in hand, and atête-à-têtewith a charming and sympathetic woman in a boat on a summer's day was peculiarly to his taste. He resolutely put out of his mind all idea of possible complications if she should chance to be seen by Sir Geoffrey, and determined only to enjoy himself.
So he pulled indolently along, keeping under the shady bank, and lingering sometimes to pull a few wild flowers or to let his companion snatch at the round heads of the yellow lilies that seemed to evade her grasp with such intelligent skill; she insisted upon exploring every creek, however narrow, and the morning passed in laughing idleness.
In one of these little creeks, about a mile below Fairbridge, they found an ideal spot for luncheon, and, making the boat secure to the gnarled roots of a willow, Melville unstrapped the basket and carried it ashore. Mrs. Sinclair laid the cloth upon a level space of turf, while Melville spread the cushions from the boat to form easy couches for them. He surveyed the preparations with much satisfaction.
"You are a perfect hostess, Lavender. Chicken, and rolls, and, as I live, a salad! How has that lettuce kept so cool, I wonder?"
"As I have, by the simple process of doing nothing," she replied. "Stand that Moselle in the water, Melville, unless your thirst won't allow you to wait."
"I don't wonder the basket was so heavy," he remarked, as he obeyed her. "You've brought a full-blown luncheon—and trimmings. Silver spoons, by gad!"
"Well, you don't want to use tin ones just because you're eating out of doors, do you?"
"There are other things," he argued; "white metal, for instance. What is white metal?"
"I haven't the least idea," she said. "Mix the salad, and don't ask Mangnall's questions. The oil and vinegar are in those little screw-stoppered bottles."
"If you're ever hard up you can start a business to cater for picnic parties," Melville suggested; "Lavinie et Cie.," or something of that sort; "salads aspecialite;" and you can patent a luncheon basket full of cunning little dodges like a dressing-case. Are you sure the salt isn't in your tooth-powder bottle now?"
"Quite sure," Lavender answered. "Fall to, good sir, fall to."
Theal-frescoluncheon was a great success, and was supplemented by an early cup of tea, and afterwards Melville lay upon his back smoking cigarettes, while Lavender threw crumbs of bread to the fish that swarmed by the boat, and fought and leaped over each other in greedy haste to make the most of their unexpected treat.
It was very quiet in this creek, which was separated from the main stream by a tongue of land covered with trees and dense undergrowth. Upon the bank where Lavender and Melville reclined, ground ivy and white nettle grew in profusion, while willow-wort and meadow-sweet overhung the stream, and marsh marigolds flung back the sunlight from their glorious blooms; behind them flowering grasses and tufted rushes waved in luxuriance, and behind again there rose a screen of willows, flanked by silver birch and tapering poplars.
The place and the hour alike seemed to be pointed out for the exchange of tender confidences and happy day-dreams, but for the man, at any rate, the soft emotions had no charm. In the temple where money is enshrined as a god there is no welcome, and, indeed, no room, for love, and Melville Ashley's heart was such a temple. His interview with his uncle was impending, and the best use to which he could put this peaceful interval was to ascertain how Lavender Sinclair's own affairs were progressing.
He broke the silence which had fallen upon them.
"What is happening about Sir Ross Buchanan?"
Mrs. Sinclair threw the last handful of crumbs to the ravenous fish and leaned back with a weary sigh.
"Can't we forget everything horrid today?" she entreated.
"I can't," Melville answered; "besides, the real object of this trip is my visit to Sir Geoffrey, and—well, one thought leads to another, you know. Have you heard from Sir Ross?"
"I told you yesterday I hadn't," she replied; "but didn't we settle all this the other day? It was arranged that I should tell you anything he said when he said it, and in the meantime do nothing at all."
"I know," Melville said; "but a lot can happen in a few days. One thinks, for instance."
"Oh, yes! one thinks!" Mrs. Sinclair assented.
She seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and Melville thought it might be well to give her a lead. As a general rule he refrained from making direct statements or asking direct questions, for anything straight-forward was foreign to his nature, but in the present instance the objection was lessened by his knowledge of his companion's story.
"Well, I've been thinking," he said, "and, among other things, thinking that perhaps you ought to meet Sir Ross half way."
"What do you mean?"
"Half way about me," Melville answered, avoiding her direct look. "If he objects so violently to my coming to your house I can be less constant in my attendance, and you won't be any worse off than you were before you wrote to me. I shall be, of course," he added politely, "but that is my misfortune. You needn't tell Sir Ross in so many words that you have ordered me off your premises, but he will think you have done so, and everything will be—as you were, don't you know."
He rolled a cigarette delicately between his long fingers, focussing all his attention upon the operation.
"That is impossible," she said coldly. "Sir Ross only presumed to dictate because he understood that I was engaged to him."
"Quite so," said Melville.
"Of course it's impossible that I should marry him now."
"Why?" Melville enquired calmly.
"Why?" she echoed in astonishment. "You told me yourself that my marriage with Mr. Sinclair was invalid because Sir Geoffrey was alive, and yet you ask me why I can't marry Sir Ross! I wronged one man—in ignorance—but I have no intention of wronging another deliberately. I may as well say, once and for all, that if Sir Ross applies to me again I shall tell him that our engagement is finally broken off."
"Why be so heroic?" Melville said. "Millionaire baronets don't grow on blackberry bushes."
"If they did I wouldn't pick them off, now that you have enlightened me," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "I'm not that sort."
"Sir Ross is an enormously rich man," Melville protested, "and is worth keeping; and, in addition, Sir Geoffrey is a very old man, which is another argument in favour of a less drastic policy than the one that you suggest."
"You seem very keen on my becoming Lady Buchanan."
"I am," said Melville. "Candidly, I think you will make a frightful mistake if you break off the engagement, when a little temporising would save the situation."
"Temporising won't go down with Sir Ross," Mrs. Sinclair said shortly; "I know him too well to try that on. It must be 'yes' or 'no' with him. It can't be 'yes,' and as he will want all sorts of explanations if it's 'no,' I shall get out of the difficulty by not being at home to him. If he writes, I will consult you."
Melville was annoyed, for with his aunt feloniously intermarried with Sir Ross Buchanan, her former husband being still alive, he would have been sure of a substantial revenue; he wished he had been a little less emphatic in his explanation of the law of bigamy, and he was vexed with himself for having made any mistake in his game.
"You're not such a clever woman as I take you for," he said, "if you can't manage Sir Ross better than that. Take my advice, and go slow. That's good advice ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and better advice the hundredth."
Mrs. Sinclair shook her head.
"It's no good, Melville," she said gently. "I've done harm enough as it is—wilfully, if you like, as a child, ignorantly as a woman. But I've got a conscience left, and I'm not going to do any more harm deliberately; and I don't intend to play fast and loose with one man on the chance of another man dying. I mean what I say. Now that you have explained what my engagement to Sir Ross Buchanan amounts to, it is 'o double f'; and now, don't let us talk about it any more."
She got up and began to pack up the luncheon basket. Melville got up, too, and busied himself about the boat, rearranging the cushions and getting things ready for their further journey up to Fairbridge. In reality, he was not a little disconcerted by the way his plans with regard to Mrs. Sinclair threatened to be upset, and he was piqued to think that he had not read her character correctly. Conscience was the last complication he had expected to run up against, but he was forced to recognise its existence in this most unlikely quarter. Well! it rendered his visit to Sir Geoffrey all the more necessary; if supplies were not to be forthcoming from the one quarter, they must be doubled from the other.
He stowed the hamper in the boat, and helped Mrs. Sinclair back into her seat.
"I'm quite sorry to leave this shady nook, for it's getting hotter every minute, but I must get on to Fairbridge now. Are you ready to go?"
"Quite," she answered, and Melville proceeded to back the boat down the creek, pulling it along with the boat-hook and by the help of the overhanging branches of the trees. In the main stream he got out the sculls and paused a minute before setting to work again.
"I shouldn't be surprised if there were a storm," he remarked; "have you any cloak or mackintosh with you?"
"No," said Lavender anxiously, "and my frock's a fair weather one. Oh! don't say it's going to rain."
"I won't, if you think that will make any difference," said Melville with a smile, and he began to row again.
There was no doubt, however, that a storm was brewing, although it was possible that it might break elsewhere; low down on the horizon the sky was inky black, merging through indescribable gradations of shade into a lurid coppery glare overhead; the breathless heat was oppressive, and Melville was bathed in perspiration before they had travelled a hundred yards.
"The sky is sitting on the top of my head," Mrs. Sinclair complained. "Isn't there any inn or cottage where we can put up, and where I can wait while you are with Sir Geoffrey?"
"I'm afraid there isn't," Melville answered, "but perhaps the storm will pass us by. That often happens on the river."
"Fancy having the river so entirely to ourselves," she said presently. "I don't think a single boat has passed us since we started, and I know we haven't met any."
"That is because of the regatta at Longbridge," Melville explained. "If I had known about it we might have gone there to-day and I could have seen Sir Geoffrey to-morrow; but, personally, I've enjoyed what we have done immensely."
As a matter of fact, he had heard of the Longbridge regatta with considerable relief, for it removed most of the probability of his being seen with Mrs. Sinclair by either Ralph or Gwendolen. Sir Geoffrey, too, was still fond of boating, and might quite possibly have seen them, which would have been nothing short of a disaster. As it was, both Ralph and Gwendolen would certainly be present at the regatta, perhaps competing in some of the events, and Sir Geoffrey, if he were upon the water at all, would be there as well. Nothing was happening to shake Melville's faith in his star.
The intense atmospheric oppression was beginning to tell upon Mrs. Sinclair, who relapsed into complete silence. Varying emotions were conflicting in her mind as she drew near the Manor House, of which she might have been the mistress, but which she dared not enter now. After the lapse of so many years she felt some remorse at the thought of how she had spoiled Sir Geoffrey's life, and she would have liked to be able to convey some message to him telling him she was sorry. But fear stood between her and confession, as it so often stands, and sealed her lips until it was too late.
Presently Melville drew the boat into the bank.
"There is the Manor House garden, behind those trees," he said, pointing to a row of splendid elms some hundred, yards ahead. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you here under this great willow. I'll fasten the boat so that it can't drift away, and you won't get wet, even if it does come on to rain."
He tied the boat up, bow and stern, with the painter and rudder-lines, and gave her the boathook to grapple to the twisted roots of the willow if she felt uneasy. She thanked him with a smile.
"Don't be longer than you can help, will you?"
"Not a minute longer," he replied, and turned to leave her. As he stepped ashore he felt for the first time that day a pang of anxiety at the risk he was running in bringing her so close to the husband whom they had both wronged so much. He hesitated, and looked at her searchingly.
"You will wait for me here, Lavender, won't you? You won't——"
"I will wait here all right," she answered, and Melville forced his way through the bushes that screened the meadows from the stream, and was lost to view.
Sheltered by the leafy elms which Melville had pointed out to Lavender was an oblong inlet from the river, artificially constructed by Sir Geoffrey Holt to serve as a private bathing-place and as a landing-stage for the Manor House grounds. Here he had built a chalet in an ornate Swiss style, one half being devoted to the boats, the other containing two large sitting-rooms. The end room, which overlooked the creek on one side, the river on another, and the garden on a third, and which was surrounded on these three sides by a wide verandah, was a favourite resort of Sir Geoffrey's, and it was here that Melville hoped to find him this afternoon; if things went badly with him and the interview proved to be very quarrelsome, he would prefer to have it away from the house, where they would be less likely to be overheard.
His mind was quite made up. He knew that Lavender had been in earnest when she said she would not marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and he was mad with himself for having stood in his own light by preventing the marriage; had that been accomplished he could have drawn upon her jointure to a pretty tune. He knew, too, that Sir Geoffrey would not give him any more money for his wife so soon; it only remained for him to extort a payment on account for holding his tongue. His errand was blackmail, and it might not be an easy task to levy it. But he was determined to get money to-day, cost what it might.
Money! Never had false god so devout a worshipper, never had mistress so ardent a wooer as money had in Melville Ashley. He loved it; but as the spendthrift, not the miser. To scatter it broadcast with both hands was life to him, and he recked not how he came by it so that he had it in unfailing abundance; it meant gaiety and excitement and irresponsibility, music and wine and cards—everything that he summed up in the comprehensive name of pleasure. Honour and self-respect were a small price to pay for money which, in his opinion, could not cost too much. What was blackmail, after all? While Sir Geoffrey had a shilling left and desired the story of his marriage to remain untold, Melville would demand the shilling or trumpet forth the news for the delectation of a scandal-loving world.
And if Sir Geoffrey refused and bid him do his utmost? Where would the money come from then? The question framed itself in Melville's thoughts, and his brow darkened, but he dismissed it carelessly again, for as yet Sir Geoffrey seemed inclined to prefer being robbed to being exposed.
Melville gained the grounds and turned down towards the chalet. His rubber-soled canvas shoes were noiseless on the well-rolled paths, and he walked briskly into the boat-house, of which the wooden doors stood open. It was empty—punt and dinghy, pair-oar and canoe, all were gone. Evidently Sir Geoffrey, with customary good-nature, had allowed most of the servants to share in the amusement afforded by the regatta, and until dinner-time the Manor House would be in charge of some of the kitchenmaids. So much the better, if there was to be a quarrel in the house. But was Sir Geoffrey in the house, or was he here in the garden-room?
Melville walked along the verandah, treading softly. Overhead, the lurid sky grew more lurid, the still oppression more still and oppressive. A great drop of rain fell on the asphalte boat-slide, making a mark as big as a shilling; another fell, and, after an interval, another; the storm was going to break upon him, and he must hasten upon his business.
Through the window he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey sitting in a low wicker chair, with an illustrated paper in his hand. Melville's lips tightened as he marked the figure of his uncle, so unconscious of the presence of another person, so attuned to the atmosphere of this rich home of his. Sir Geoffrey's back was towards him, and Melville, with some idea of the fitness of making his entrance from the front, so to speak, walked quickly round the verandah, and, flinging open the French windows with both hands, stepped into the room. For a second the two men eyed each other, and then Sir Geoffrey spoke in a tone of studied evenness.
"So it is you, Melville. Have you come down for the regatta?"
"No," said Melville bluntly. "I want to see you."
Sir Geoffrey picked up the paper again and affected to be more interested in it than in the conversation.
"Want to see me, do you? On business?"
"Yes; on business," Melville answered, a little nettled by his uncle's nonchalance.
"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey, and paused. "Whose business is it this time?" he enquired presently. "Are you principal or agent on this occasion?"
His affectation of being rather bored by the whole thing emphasised the affront and brought the blood to Melville's cheek.
"Principal," he replied laconically, and, unasked, sat down.
"That simplifies the issue," said Sir Geoffrey, laying down one paper and picking up another. "Go on, man; say what you want. You are not usually lacking in effrontery."
Melville was always conscious of his own meanness when he was in his uncle's presence, always found it difficult to face the steady eyes and honest scorn of the old man; it was characteristic of him, too, that he always felt at a disadvantage unless in a struggle of wits he was able to make his opponent, whoever he might be, lose his temper first, and he could seldom do this with Sir Geoffrey. He grew hot and angry now under the lash of the bitter sarcasm in the coldly spoken words, but they had the effect of bringing him to the point.
"I've come down again for some money," he said coarsely.
"What is the lie to-day?" Sir Geoffrey enquired. "Has Ralph been tapping you again? Don't strain your imagination too much."
"I won't," said Melville. "I want some more money for myself, and I think you will give it me."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Sir Geoffrey; "you presume too much." He closed his lips with a snap, but as Melville did not reply at once, he went on in the same even tone that exasperated his nephew so intensely. "I tell you what I will do, Melville, if you like. After all, if I am to pay the piper I have some right to suggest the tune. I will give you an allowance on condition that you stop away altogether."
"How do you mean?" said Melville.
"Give you an allowance to be drawn by yourself at regular intervals, so that you will be spared the trouble of making these irregular applications."
Melville was completely deceived by the way his uncle spoke. He considered the proposal seriously, as he believed it to be made.
"How much will you make it?"
"Ten pounds a month, to be drawn in person at, say, Botany Bay," said Sir Geoffrey, looking at him over the top of the paper.
Melville was furious, and only kept control over himself by an effort.
"You are pleased to be facetious," he replied, "but I warn you I am not in the mood to enjoy a joke to-day. Fortunately, I am in a position to suggest terms as well. I know something which you want kept dark. Having seen the lady, I'm not surprised at your desire to suppress the fact of her existence, for she is not an ideal ornament for the head of your table. I will accept a hundred and twenty pounds now, and hold my tongue about her while that lasts."
Sir Geoffrey betrayed no anger.
"Blackmail?" he said enquiringly.
"Yes," said Melville. "The word is of your own choosing. Indeed, I'm indebted to you for putting the idea into my head. But a man who holds his tongue when it would pay him to talk may not be a blackmailer, but is most certainly a fool."
"You are not a fool," said Sir Geoffrey, "but you are a knave. Now, since I last had the misfortune of seeing you I've had time to think, and the result of my meditation may be of interest to you. Do you wish me to speak plainly?"
"Pray do."
"Well," said Sir Geoffrey, "when you first told me that Lady Holt was alive I confess I was very much surprised. I believed she had died years before; I don't know what she may have said to you, but it is the fact that the marriage was unhappy. Nobody about here had ever heard of it, and I wanted to save myself from being a topic of common gossip. What did I do? I accepted your story, and gave you some money to relieve her from the immediate distress in which you allege you found her. I suppose she received that sum?"
"Of course she did," said Melville.
"You know I distrust you entirely," Sir Geoffrey proceeded. "I had—still have—my doubts about your story, and I saw at once that you intended to convert my natural wish to avoid a scandal into money for yourself. Now I have resolved on my policy; I ought to have resolved on it at first. If Lady Holt needs permanent assistance, she must apply to Mr. Tracy, who will have my instructions. Tell her that from me. She is my wife, and she need have no fear in applying to her husband or his solicitor. But she will never have another farthing from me through you. I don't trust you; and if I did, I still should not employ you in this matter. And as for the blackmail, Melville, you have made a mistake in your calculations. I don't intend to be blackmailed."
"You don't mind your marriage becoming known?"
"I won't pay you to keep it secret," said Sir Geoffrey proudly. "The marriage was a failure, but it was a marriage, and I have nothing to be ashamed of in it. I was a fool to hesitate when you were down here last, but now I hesitate no more. I don't care what you do. Talk if you like. Sell the news toThe Fairbridge Mercuryfor half-a-crown, if you can; I won't give you five shillings to suppress it. And now, sir, go!"
His passion had been steadily rising, and as he shouted out the last word the old man jumped up from his chair and with outstretched arm pointed to the window. It was getting very dark, and suddenly the threatening storm burst in a torrent of heavy rain; it rattled on the zinc roof of the verandah with the noise of musketry, leaping up from the asphalte in white sheets and flooding all the gullies; then a blinding flash of lightning seemed to fill the room, and Melville sank back in his chair, hiding his eyes and waiting for the thunder, which swiftly followed like a roar of artillery. When the crash died away, Melville rose and faced his uncle, who had not moved a muscle.
"It's to be war between us?" he said.
Sir Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't fight with blackguards," he answered. "Do your worst; do what you please—but go."
Melville knew that he had lost; his second castle in the air was shattered and he could not hope to build it up again. Mrs. Sinclair had destroyed the first, Sir Geoffrey had destroyed the second, and Melville was once more face to face with ruin. Outside the wind had risen and the hail was beating into the room, streaming down the windows and blurring all the view. In horrible succession flash of lightning followed flash of lightning, silhouetting everything in the room for an instant before darkness, made more horrible by the deafening crashes of thunder, engulfed it all again. And swift as the lightning that blazed and then was gone, thoughts and schemes shot through Melville's brain. If only Sir Geoffrey were dead, struck by the jagged blades of flame that tore down from the storm-centre in the sky above them, everything would be well. He had made no will—he had said so—and if only he were dead there would be salvation for Melville—salvation in the share of his uncle's money which the law would give him.
Sir Geoffrey strode towards him.
"Storm or no storm," he shouted, striving to make himself heard above the din of wind and hail and thunder, "go. I disown you for the liar and swindler and blackmailer that you are. Not one shilling more shall you ever have whether for my wife or for yourself. Go!"
He seized Melville by the shoulder, and in an instant the men were locked together. Melville was taken by surprise, and even if he had not been he was not more than a match for his uncle, in spite of the difference in their ages. For one brief moment they swayed together, Sir Geoffrey wrestling to throw his nephew out, Melville wrestling to free himself from his uncle's grasp. Another roar of thunder shook the chalet, and even as it did so, the end came. Melville, twisted backwards by his uncle's weight, felt the pistol that he always carried hurt his side. Mad with passion he freed one hand somehow and struggled half an arm's length from the elder man. Before the thunder had fairly died away there was a barking report, a film of smoke rose between the swaying figures, and Sir Geoffrey threw up his arms and dropped. A smell of singed cloth seemed to fill the room, and on the white front of the old man's flannel shirt there was a burnt stain. Sir Geoffrey Holt was dead—shot at close quarters through the heart.
As Sir Geoffrey fell a sharp scream rang outside, and Melville, with wildly beating heart, looked across the room to the window through which he had caught sight of his uncle. A woman was clinging to one of the iron pillars that supported the verandah, and in the half-fainting form Melville recognised Lavender Sinclair.
Scared by the fearful intensity of the storm, all the people flocked away from Longbridge regatta, those who could manage to find room there hurrying in to the single inn the place possessed, while, of those who could not, some invaded the houseboats along the bank, and others, more bold, and in reality more wise, made the best of a bad business and started for home. Among these last were Ralph and Gwendolen. He wrapped her up as well as circumstances allowed, and then, cramming his cap upon his head and seizing his punt pole, began to work for all he was worth. Gwendolen did not speak. She was not a little frightened by the lightning, which appeared to flash backwards and forwards between the earth and sky, and there seemed every chance that the racing punt in which they were would be swamped; not that she could have got much wetter if it were; the rain was thrashing the river and flooding the punt and she was already drenched to the skin, but, at any rate, she was speeding towards shelter and dry clothes.
Behind her Ralph was straining every nerve. His thin cashmere shirt clinging damply to him showed every muscle on his chest and shoulders, and his arms, bare to the elbows, shone with the wet, the sinews standing out like cords. He, too, was nervous on her account, and breathed a prayer of gratitude as after each blinding shaft of lightning he found her still unhurt. With set jaws and stern eyes he used all his skill and strength, taking advantage of his thorough knowledge of the river to find the best course for the punt, and listening with a grim satisfaction to the water slapping underneath his feet.
He must have covered the three miles from Longbridge in record time, and of the crowd of boats that hurried down the stream but few succeeded in outstripping him. As he came to the Manor House he shot the punt dexterously alongside of his houseboat, and, jumping on to it, helped Gwendolen to alight.
"Don't be afraid, dear," he shouted, making himself heard with difficulty against a crashing peal of thunder; "run home and change your things at once."
"And you?" she called back to him.
"I will take the punt into the boathouse and wait there. I have plenty of dry things in the dressing-room. I'll change and come up when the storm is over."
He handed her down the gangway, and stood for a moment watching her as she sped across the lawn. Once at The Grange he knew she would be all right; a fond mother and devoted servants would have prepared a cheerful fire and warm garments for her as soon as they saw the persistency of the rain, and afternoon tea would soon restore her equanimity. Then he got back into the punt and took it round the bend into the creek.
He stepped ashore and, laying the soaked cushions under the shelter of the verandah, tipped up the punt to empty it of the water it had shipped, drew it up into the boat-house, and went into the dressing-room. It was a well-appointed place, with every convenience for men who take their boating seriously. In one corner stood a shower bath, and against it a full-size bath supplied with hot water by a lightning geyser. Divesting himself of his dripping flannels, he lighted the lamp in the geyser and employed the few minutes intervening before it should get warm by rubbing himself down. Then he had a bath, followed by a cold douche, and again rubbed himself with rough towels until he glowed with warmth. From a big press in another corner he took a clean shirt and socks and a spotless suit of flannels, and, finally, feeling splendidly fit and comfortable, turned towards the inner room, meaning to have a cigarette and some spirits, and wait there until the fury of the tempest should abate.
"Suppose Sir Geoffrey was here when the storm broke," he thought, as he saw the open windows, "and thought he would be safer in the house. It was careless of him not to shut the windows; those curtains are simply drenched!"
He closed the window overlooking the creek and turned to cross to those that opened on to the grounds, but as he walked round the table that filled the centre of the room a cry rang from his lips, for prone upon the floor Sir Geoffrey lay, and something in the utter helplessness of the posture of the body told Ralph that he was dead.
"Good God!" he cried, and in an instant dropped on his knees by the side of the still figure, conquering by an immense effort a feeling of positive repugnance against touching death. He felt his uncle's wrist to see if he could detect a pulse, and uttered another exclamation of horror when, on letting go the dead hand, it dropped with a thud upon the floor.
"Uncle Geoffrey!" he called; "Uncle Geoffrey!" but no answer came; there was not a quiver in the lids that bagged over the already glazing eyes.
Perhaps it was his own lack of skill that prevented him from feeling the pulse; there could scarcely be any room for doubt if he felt the heart. Sir Geoffrey was lying on his left side, and Ralph rolled the body on to its back and unfastened the flannel collar. Again the horror of it all shook him, and he turned his head aside as he slipped his hand inside his uncle's shirt. The body was quite warm, and Ralph's pluck was returning with his hope, when his fingers fell upon the little wound and became sticky with blood; in a frenzy of terror he tore open the shirt and forced himself to look. A sob shook his whole frame.