"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Instruct Tracy to take proceedings against Melville for getting money under false pretences."
"But that's punishable with imprisonment," said Ralph aghast.
"Certainly it is," said Sir Geoffrey grimly.
"But you can't make a convict of my brother, and your nephew!"
"Our relationship to him is our misfortune," said Sir Geoffrey, "not our fault. I shall do what I say."
"Look here, Uncle Geoffrey," said Ralph excitedly, "after all, this is largely my affair. I will give you back the hundred pounds—I've got the money now—and I will go to town at once and square accounts with Melville. Did he tell you where he was staying?"
"No," said his uncle; "I did not enquire."
"Well, I'm sure to get news of him at Jermyn Street, if he isn't actually there. Promise to abandon all idea of prosecution, and leave this in my hands. Promise?"
Sir Geoffrey looked with pleasure at his nephew as he stood erect before him, glowing with just indignation, but with chivalrous desire to spare his brother this crowning shame.
"How you two fellows are brothers passes my comprehension," he said. "Well, Ralph, I tell you what I will do. I'll give you a week—you need not go up to town again to-day, for that would be hard on Gwen. I'll give you a week, and if you can make Melville disgorge the money I'll take it back with uncommon satisfaction. If you fail, I reserve liberty of action."
"That's fair, I suppose," said Ralph reluctantly; then he added more hopefully, "but it will be all right; of course, it will be all right."
Sir Geoffrey shook his head doubtfully, but the mellow roar of the gong reverberated through the house announcing luncheon, and he welcomed the interruption.
"Shake hands, my boy," he said. "I'm sorry I misjudged you, even for a moment. And now come along, or Gwen will think I've frightened away your appetite."
He linked his arm within his nephew's, and went into the dining-room with all his wonted cheerfulness restored.
Possession of money has an invigorating effect upon the majority of people, and Melville, who like most gamblers lived only in the present, awoke in the morning feeling a new man because of the open cheque for £100 which he had secured the night before. No qualms of conscience disturbed his equanimity because of the device he had adopted to obtain it. As soon as his toilette and breakfast were completed he could get the money from the bank, and the future, with its difficulties and complications, might be left to take care of itself. The solid satisfaction derived from the possession of money was enough for the moment.
Moreover, to-day contained an element of surprise in the shape of his pending visit to his unknown relative, and next to money there is probably nothing that has so much charm for the average gambler as the element of surprise, had any kindred spirit been with him at the time Melville would have made wagers upon the age and appearance of this Lady Holt, of whose existence he had never heard before. She was old, of course, and most likely intensely disagreeable; incompatibility of temper was doubtless the reason of her separation from Sir Geoffrey, and desire to avoid scandal the explanation of her complete seclusion from the world. The phrasing of her letter showed that she was precise, and upon that fragmentary piece of evidence Melville erected in imagination a complete living personality, in much the same way as scientists "restore" an entire prehistoric mammoth from a single tooth.
He dressed with particular care, and after an early breakfast went cheerfully downstairs and drove to his uncle's bank. Then, with eighteen five-pound notes in his pocket book and ten pounds in cash in his waistcoat, he was in a position to spend in a sufficiently agreeable manner the hours that intervened before he was due at South Kensington.
A refresher, in the shape of a sherry and bitters at the club, was followed by a delicate but entirely adequate luncheon at the Dieu-donnée, and Melville's enjoyment of it was not diminished by the fact that, happening to meet a casual acquaintance there, he lunched at the same table, and suggested that they should toss to decide which of the twain should pay the joint account, with the result that the casual acquaintance lost. Evidently the fickle jade was smiling on Melville; a couple of games of billiards followed the luncheon, and another refresher the billiards, and in high good humour Melville sauntered down the Ladies' Mile, preparatory to driving from Albert Gate to The Vale.
Opposite the French Embassy he parted from his friend.
"Sorry I can't ask you to come with me, old man," he said genially, "but I'm obliged to pay a duty visit to an aged aunt."
The friend expressed his sincere commiseration, but Melville only laughed.
"It's a very little flaw in an otherwise perfect day. You must lunch with me next time, and I will give you your revenge at billiards," and carefully choosing a well-appointed hansom he drove away.
The Vale, South Kensington, is a little-knowncul-de-saclying just off the Fulham Road. It contains but half-a-dozen houses, with trim lawns in front and quite large gardens in the rear; great elms shade the houses, and the remoteness from the main road makes them very quiet; in all of them are French windows and small verandahs, and there is an air of quietude and refinement about the place that makes it very attractive.
"The old lady does herself pretty well," thought Melville to himself as he walked up the gravelled path and noticed the close-cropped lawn and the blaze of geraniums and petunias. "I wonder what she knows about me, and what line I'd better take! The interesting musician might be diplomatic perhaps."
He thought that the maid who opened the door looked curiously at him as he enquired whether Lady Holt was at home, but, after all, that was a trifling matter, capable of bearing many interpretations. His interest was, however, more fully aroused by the drawing-room into which he was shown to await his aunt's coming, for it was not at all the sort of environment in which he had imagined he would find Sir Geoffrey's wife. It was essentially the drawing-room of a worldly woman of the world, furnished with taste, but evidently at great cost; photographs and silver boxes, enamels and ivories were scattered in profusion over the many tables, water colours by rising artists covered the walls, cushions and flowers were everywhere.
"I shall have to readjust my preconceived notions of my elderly relative," he said to himself as he took a rapid survey of the pretty room; "this is a veritable canary's cage."
Then the door opened, and at the rustle of silk petticoats he turned to make a formal bow to his aunt. But as he turned, an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips and his single eye-glass dropped upon the floor, for the woman who entered was no precise and ringletted old lady, but the one who had asked him for his card at Monte Carlo, and who had expressed such sympathy with him when he was reduced to the necessity of applying for theviaticum. It was indeed no other than the charming Mrs. Sinclair.
She came forward with perfect self-possession, but a gleam of amusement lurked in her eyes.
"This is really a most astonishing experience," Melville said, as he bowed over her hand. "You are quite the last person I expected to see."
"Not the last you wanted to see, I hope," she replied, "but I confess delight is not the predominant expression upon your face at the moment. Won't you sit down?"
Melville picked up his monocle and polished it carefully before readjusting it in his eye.
"But tell me," he persisted, "what are you doing here?"
"Living here," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "What else do you suppose?"
"I can't quite sort things," Melville said apologetically. "To begin with, you see, I had never heard until last night that there was a Lady Holt, and when I got her note asking me to call here to-day I tried to picture what she would be like."
"What was the result of your efforts?" Mrs. Sinclair enquired.
Melville laughed slightly.
"Well, I'm bound to admit that I imagined my uncle's choice in women would be early Victorian, so to speak, and I don't think it's anything but a compliment to say that the early Victorian brand isn't very likely to agree with you. If you like Lady Holt, there is hope for me."
"I like her very much," Mrs. Sinclair said. "Mr. Melville, it isn't quite fair, perhaps, to lay snares for young men, and you evidently don't grasp the situation. You remember your last night at Monte Carlo?"
"It was not the sort of night to forget readily," Melville replied grimly. "I never had such monstrous bad luck at the tables before."
"You gave me one of your cards and I promised to write to you."
"You did," said Melville.
"I have kept my promise," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I wrote to you yesterday and asked you to come to see me. I am Lady Holt."
The astonishment depicted on Melville's face was ludicrous, and Mrs. Sinclair rippled over with mirth.
"I never thought to see you so taken aback," she said. "What I like so much about English gentlemen is that they are so imperturbable, and now you are gazing at me as if I were a freak."
"Really, I beg your pardon," Melville said. "but to think how grossly I have misjudged Sir Geoffrey!"
"Come, that's much better," Mrs. Sinclair replied. "Yes, Mr. Ashley, the confession has to be made; I am your aunt."
"I'm uncommonly delighted to hear it," Melville said heartily, "and I've only one regret in learning the fact."
"And that is——?" his new-found relative enquired.
"That I did not know it long ago," Melville replied. His wonted composure returned, and with it his wonted desire to stand well in the opinion of those in whose company he happened to be—a desire, it may be said, characteristic of many men who drift into bad lives from weakness rather than from natural vice. "Tell me, have you refrained from claiming relationship with me all this time because you heard I was a bad lot?"
"I perceive you are not expert in drawing inferences," Mrs. Sinclair said; "one does not associate the particularly goody-goody type of young man with Monte Carlo, and that is where I saw you first."
"That is true," Melville admitted. "I must plead guilty to not being goody-goody. By the way, am I to call you 'aunt'?"
Mrs. Sinclair shuddered.
"Certainly not," she said emphatically; "there is no necessity to draw public attention to the question of my age."
"What am I to call you?" he persisted.
"Call me Mrs. Sinclair," she said. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-five," Melville answered. "Why?"
"Then you are old enough to call me Lavender when we are alone," she said. "Out of doors it had better be Mrs. Sinclair, I suppose. It is a censorious world."
She leaned back in her chair and surveyed her nephew critically; the scrutiny was satisfactory, and she was glad of the impulse that had prompted her to disclose her identity to him. Yet, shrewd and clever woman as she was, she had taken a step which, while it could never be retraced, was the first towards the undoing of them both. There were other things in her life which in her hours of reflection she regretted, not least among them being her separation from a husband whose good qualities she fully recognised, but nothing in the past had been so fraught with peril to herself as this alliance with her husband's nephew, which she owed to a single moment of caprice.
"Confess now," she said presently, "you are burning with curiosity to know all about everything?"
"That is a comprehensive way of putting it," he laughed, "but it is true. Tell me everything that is necessary, and as much more as you think fit."
"The only thing that is necessary," Mrs. Sinclair replied, "is that I actually am Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife. I married him years ago, when I was too young to realise all that marriage means, especially marriage to a man many years older than oneself. And—it didn't answer. That is really all." She had no intention of telling Melville very much about herself, and, of course, he could not cross-examine her. "He had not come into the title then," she went on, "and indeed there was no reason for supposing he ever would, for his brother was quite young enough to have married and had sons. Perhaps——" She paused, and Melville took advantage of the pause to give expression to the thought that was uppermost in his mind.
"I wonder that his marriage has been so completely forgotten. I never heard of it, and I'm quite sure my brother never has, yet he has been like a son to Sir Geoffrey, and knows a lot about his affairs."
Mrs. Sinclair flushed a little.
"Sir Geoffrey is a very proud man. He always was; indeed, that had a great deal to do with our mutual incompatibility, and proud men are apt to hold their tongues about their failures. Oh, yes!" she said, laughing, though there was no mirth in her laughter, "it was a dismal failure, and so we agreed to separate and never trouble each other again."
"And you never have?" said Melville.
"We never have."
"Sir Geoffrey is a very rich man," Melville remarked, following the line of his own thoughts.
"I believe he is," said Mrs. Sinclair indifferently. "All the money in the world doesn't make some things worth while."
"But I suppose he is very generous to you?"
"I wouldn't touch a penny of his money," said Mrs. Sinclair vehemently.
Melville, of course, dropped the subject, but noted her reply for future use. What he wanted to ascertain most at the moment was Lady Holt's feeling for her husband, but she gave him no opportunity.
"What's your brother like?" she enquired. "Anything like you?"
"Nothing," said Melville shortly. "Ralph is a paragon of all the virtues and I'm—not."
"And he's like a son to Sir Geoffrey?" said Mrs. Sinclair. "Is he to be his heir?"
"I don't know," Melville answered moodily. "I suppose so; but, as a matter of fact, Sir Geoffrey hasn't made his will, so I don't know what he will do with his money."
Mrs. Sinclair yawned. The conversation really did not interest her much, and she had her own reasons for not wishing to let it get too intimate. She had taken a fancy to Melville when she first saw him in the Riviera; he belonged to the type of man in whose company she was most at home, and she foresaw a certain amount of pleasurable excitement in which she could participate with him without being worried by demonstrations of a more affectionate interest, which men not related to her were apt to make. A nephew is safer than a cousin.
"You must ask me to dine with you," she said, "and we will develop our acquaintance gradually. I hate finding out all about people at once and having nothing left to learn."
"Dine with me to-night," said Melville promptly. The hundred pounds were burning a hole in his pocket, and he felt convinced that more would be forthcoming now from the same source. "Where shall it be?"
"Wherever you like," Mrs. Sinclair replied. "I'm always interested in people's varying ideas of hospitality. Come here for me at half-past seven and take me to the appointed place. Only don't tell me now where it is to be."
"All right," said Melville with alacrity. He liked her point of view and felt amazingly sympathetic already. Moreover, he recognised as clearly as she did the value of their relationship as a preventative of mutual misunderstandings. "I will go and fix it up. 'Pon my honour, I'm awfully delighted about this."
"Respect my confidence," she said gravely. "I may rely on that?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "I never interfere with other people's private business. It's not my form; and, besides, I'm so grateful to you for recognising me that I'm not going to forfeit a good thing."
Mrs. Sinclair was satisfied. She rang the bell for the maid to open the door, and smiled graciously upon her nephew.
"I hope you're going to be a great success," she said, as he rose to go. "There is an element of romance in the way fate has brought us together that is fascinating, and really you are a very creditable nephew."
Melville smiled sardonically. His aunt's husband held such a different opinion!
"I am a particularly fortunate one, I think," was all he said, and as he went out into the Fulham Road he thought the sun had never shone so brightly. Fortune had turned her wheel again, and his gambler's soul exulted.
It was, indeed, with a very similar sense of satisfaction to that enjoyed by a man who, when playing cut-throat euchre, finds the joker in his hand, that Melville contemplated the advent of Mrs. Sinclair into his life. In many respects she was a charming woman; vigorous and resourceful in consequence of her somewhat adventurous career, but womanly and free from affectation. Moreover, if she could not claim entire exoneration from the charge of being an adventuress, she was entitled to several important limitations in the term; she gambled, it is true, and led an extravagant life, but she did both out of her own resources, and did not prey upon society as do most of the evening-gowned frequenters of the Casino. What other skeletons might be hidden in the secret cupboard of her life, Melville did not yet trouble to surmise; he assumed that among them was the grisly relic of her marriage with his uncle. The marriage had been a failure; the couple had separated and agreed to let the story be forgotten; "Sinclair" was merely anom-de-guerre, and everything was capable of a perfectly satisfactory explanation, with the exception of her financial independence. Melville could not understand the feeling which prompted her to refuse assistance from her husband, more especially in such a case as this, where she might dictate her own terms for consenting to suppress the fact of her existence. What her motive was in so doing was one of the first things Melville intended to ascertain; there might be money in the knowledge. But the first thing he intended to do was to tell Sir Geoffrey that he knew this amazing secret of the marriage, for he felt convinced that he could make money by holding his tongue on that subject to the world at large.
Such were the thoughts that passed through Melville's mind as he walked from the station to The Grange at Fairbridge, where the Austens lived. With him to decide was to act, and the previous night he had resolved to adopt a bold policy and face Sir Geoffrey and Ralph at once; they had had time to compare notes about the hundred pounds, and a stormy interview with them both was inevitable, but it possessed no terrors for Melville now. He guessed correctly that for the credit of the family neither of them would detail the facts to the Austens, with whom he was particularly anxious to stand well. Too selfish a man to be capable of real love for any woman, he yet liked Gwendolen better than any other woman he had ever seen, and he was quite willing to "range himself" if she would be his wife. That she was engaged to his brother troubled him very little. Engagements had been broken off before now, and the idea of cutting Ralph out had a certain piquancy that rendered the attempt worth making.
Looking delightfully cool and well-bred in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, with a turn-down collar that seemed to suggest an innocent simplicity of character, Melville walked slowly down the hill from the station and presented himself at the Austens' door. The ladies were in the garden, the servant informed him, and there Melville sought them, confident of a friendly greeting from them both.
Mrs. Austen was unaffectedly glad to see him. She had a tolerant feeling for nearly all young men, and Melville's marvellous gift as a musician had an especial charm for her. To Gwendolen he was Ralph's brother, and hitherto Ralph had championed Melville's cause, with the result that the girl was disposed to regard him as a somewhat maligned young man. So to-day they made much of him, and, under the influence of their warm welcome and gentle refinement, Melville was at his best.
"I've been sowing wild oats at Monte Carlo," he said gently, "and I found it vanity. So I've come home. No, I had no adventures and met nobody I knew. I lost all my money, and I'm very sorry for myself."
He congratulated Gwendolen on her engagement to Ralph, and there was a touch of pathos in his voice that proved him to be a consummate actor. Altogether, he enjoyed himself hugely, and awaited the critical moment of meeting his brother with actual pleasure. Ralph was expected early in the afternoon, and Melville lunched at the Grange and occupied the centre of its little stage with much complacency.
After luncheon Gwendolen remained indoors to watch for Ralph, and Melville sat in the verandah with Mrs. Austen and waxed confidential. She liked to be regarded as the recipient of the confidences of young men, and Melville played upon her amiable weakness, being careful to invent such peccadilloes only as would not strain her charity unduly.
"Heaven divides its gifts very unequally," he remarked presently.
"Why that platitude?" asked Mrs. Austen.
"I was thinking of Ralph and myself," he said. "Of course, Sir Geoffrey has been equally generous to us both, but I notice that Ralph gets all the affection. He was always Uncle Geoffrey's favourite, and now he is engaged to Gwen." He sighed pathetically, and Mrs. Austen considered.
"I think your uncle is just as fond of you as he is of Ralph," she said, "but you're not a home bird and your brother is. Really, I don't think Sir Geoffrey could have been kinder to you if you had been his own son."
"Not kinder," Melville said, "but fonder, more affectionate. You have known him a long time, Mrs. Austen. Why do you suppose he never married?"
"I have often wondered," Mrs. Austen said, "but I never met him until he came into the title and estates, and he was not a young man then. He may never have wanted to marry, or he may have had some disappointment. At all events, it's an excellent thing for you boys that he never did."
"Excellent," Melville assented heartily. Mrs. Austen evidently had no suspicion of the facts; that meant that Sir Geoffrey did not want her to know them, and that, too, was excellent. "Ah! here comes Ralph, dancing on air."
Judging by the expression on Ralph's face, dancing on air was a disagreeable mode of progression. He was, indeed, furious at finding Melville thus established in the heart of the citadel; he was conscious, too, of a disadvantage in being thus taken by surprise. Confident in the justice of his indignation, he could have invaded Melville's chambers and demanded explanations and apologies for the fraud; here all the force of his attack would be wasted in the interval before he could deliver it.
He made no offer to shake hands, and, flushed with anger, he compared unfavourably with Melville, sitting so imperturbable, and prepared for all contingencies.
Melville employed every little artifice of which he was capable to heighten the contrast between his brother and himself, of which he saw Mrs. Austen was conscious. He made room for Ralph upon the verandah, and chatted gaily of a hundred trifles, but to all his flippancies Ralph returned only monosyllabic answers, appearing awkward and ill-mannered even in Gwendolen's biassed judgment.
At last Melville rose to go, and with alacrity Ralph rose too.
Melville protested politely.
"Don't let me take you away, old man," he said.
"But I want to have a talk with you," Ralph answered.
"Thought you weren't particularly pleased to see me," Melville returned placidly, "but I'm glad I was wrong. Good-bye, Mrs. Austen, and thanks awfully for a jolly time. May I come again soon?"
"Do," she answered, "there's always cold luncheon and a warm welcome here for you." She made the remark pointedly, for she was a little vexed with Ralph. She even went so far as to restrain Gwendolen from accompanying the brothers to the gate, and as they disappeared at the end of the drive Ralph was conscious of almost being in disgrace with his future mother-in-law.
Outside, however, on the main road his embarrassment vanished.
"What the deuce do you mean by coming here like this?" he said angrily.
"My dear Ralph," said Melville coolly, "The Grange doesn't belong to you, nor does the Manor House—yet. I've been to The Grange because I wanted to see the Austens, and now I'm going to the Manor House because I want to see Sir Geoffrey."
Ralph was unfeignedly astonished.
"You want to see Sir Geoffrey?" he gasped.
"I do," said Melville. "Why not?"
"I wonder you have the audacity to look him in the face again," said Ralph hotly. "You are a liar and a thief."
"Go slow, Ralph," said Melville, "go slow. It seems to me you're off your chump. If your engagement hasn't turned your brain, tell me what all this pother is about, and leave mud-slinging till afterwards. What do you mean?"
Ralph was almost deceived by his brother's calmness; at any rate, it had the effect of making him struggle to regain command of his own temper.
"I wrote to you when you were at Monte Carlo," he said more quietly, "and asked you to lend me a hundred pounds."
"That's so," said Melville. "Sorry I couldn't oblige you, but I didn't even read your letter till I was on my way home, and then I was broke myself."
"But you got a hundred pounds out of Sir Geoffrey," spluttered Ralph.
"I did," said Melville. "I hope you did the same."
"Good heavens, man!" cried Ralph, as angrily as before; "don't try your vile swindles on me too. You told Sir Geoffrey you lent me that hundred pounds and got him to hand you over an open cheque for the amount in repayment of what you said was my debt, leaving him to get explanations from me afterwards."
"I hope the old man wasn't very crusty," said Melville sweetly.
"But your whole story was an infernal lie," roared Ralph, "and you got that money by a vulgar, low-down swindle. You are a liar, Melville, and a thief. I wish to heaven Sir Geoffrey had kicked you out of the house before he parted with the cheque."
"I daresay you do," Melville replied, unmoved; "but really, Ralph, you've had your whack out of the old buck, and now you're going to marry the Austen money you needn't grudge me a bit, need you? It's not exactly brotherly."
The sneering affront goaded Ralph almost to madness.
"You can thank me that you've not been arrested already for getting that money under false pretences," he said, livid with passion. "If Sir Geoffrey had had his own way you would have been, and 'pon my word, I'm beginning to be sorry I begged you off."
"Perhaps it isn't too late even yet," said Melville, no less calmly than before, "but I fancy you are exaggerating. Sir Geoffrey is always intemperate in his language, but I can't believe he would adopt such extremely unpleasant measures as the prosecution of his own nephew. However, I'll talk to him about it. I came down with the intention of doing so after I left The Grange."
Ralph was nonplussed. Such unlimited assurance as that displayed by Melville was outside his experience, and it even began to have some effect upon him.
"I think it was a mean and dirty trick," he said, "to make out that I owed you anything when I didn't, but that part of the business you can settle with your own conscience. What are you going to do now about the money?"
"How do you mean?" Melville enquired innocently.
"Well," said Ralph, "I persuaded Sir Geoffrey to drop the idea of legal proceedings by saying that as you had used my name the matter ought to be left in my hands. I've been to town to get the money, and I repaid him this morning."
"That's really awfully good of you," Melville said effusively. "I am infinitely obliged to you, but I'm afraid I shall have to owe it to you for a little while."
"It's simple waste of time to talk to you," said Ralph with scorn, "but there's one more remark I have to make, and you may as well remember it, for I mean what I say. I can't undo the fact that you are my brother, but I can do a good deal to prevent it from being forced on my attention, and one way is to avoid seeing you. Now, in future I'll trouble you to keep away from The Grange."
Melville coloured. This was a contingency he had not foreseen, and for a moment he lost his judgment.
"Jealous, eh?" he enquired, with ill-affected sarcasm. He was no coward physically, but he almost quailed before the blaze in his brother's eyes. Ralph did not trouble to fling back the taunt. With suppressed passion he spoke rapidly and distinctly, and each word flicked Melville on the raw.
"You are a contemptible swindler, and if you only have rope enough you'll hang yourself in the end. I'm quits with Sir Geoffrey over your last fraud, and it's worth every penny of the money to have learnt to know you as you are; but now I do know you I'll take jolly good care that you don't hang about my friends. Sir Geoffrey has ordered you out of the Manor House, and I order you out of The Grange. Go there again, and I'll tell Mrs. Austen all about this business and twist your neck into the bargain."
Melville forced a laugh.
"It will be time enough for you to order me out of houses when you possess any. When you are master of The Grange I shall keep clear of the place, you may be sure. Until then I shall call upon Mrs. Austen whenever I choose."
"If you go to The Grange I shall tell Mrs. Austen what has happened," Ralph repeated, "and she will order you out then herself."
"I dare you to do it," said Melville. In reality the idea filled him with uneasiness, but he was too shrewd to show it. Instead, he remarked reflectively, as if considering Ralph's interests only, "Mrs. Austen might begin to think she was allowing her daughter to marry into a queer family, supposing for the moment that she took everything you said for gospel."
Ralph drove his hands deep into his pockets. Honesty such as his often seems very stupid when confronted with the cleverness of a knave, and he felt unequal to a discussion with his brother. But he wished he had been less loyal to him in the past, less sturdy an advocate for his defence when Sir Geoffrey arraigned him. It was humiliating to think how completely Melville had taken him in. They walked in silence to the Manor House, and Ralph paused by the gate.
"I'm not going to argue with you, and I have nothing to add to what I said about The Grange. Go there and you'll see. Here is the Manor House. If you take my advice you will leave me here and get back to town by the next train."
"When I ask your advice I'll consider about taking it," Melville answered gently; he saw how his own coolness angered and flurried Ralph. "As for The Grange, Mrs. Austen has kindly invited me to dine there and bring my violin, and I need scarcely say I have accepted. And as for Sir Geoffrey, I have come down to see him, and if he's at home I will see him now; if he is out I shall wait."
"You are beyond me," Ralph said hopelessly. "Well, I don't want to keep you away from Sir Geoffrey if you are anxious to see him, but if I were in your shoes, which, thank heaven, I am not, I would blow out my brains rather than face him. I don't believe you have any shame left."
He opened the gate and, with Melville, walked up the drive. As they came in sight of the house, however, his mind shrank from the prospect of having to be present at so painful an interview between his uncle and brother as he felt sure this one must be. He stopped abruptly.
"You will probably find Sir Geoffrey in the library," he said. "I am going down to the houseboat."
"All right," said Melville unconcernedly. "I dare say I shall see you again later. If Sir Geoffrey asks me to stay, I will. By-bye," and noting with amusement the incredulous surprise written on Ralph's countenance he nodded cheerfully to him and walked in through the open doorway of the Manor House.
Melville possessed in an eminent degree the gift of winning the affection of his inferiors. Where no conflict of interest was possible he gave full play to the sympathetic part of his nature, which was his as it is the nature of all musicians. It was part of his policy, too, to stand well in the favour of those upon whom his comfort depended, and thus, although he was indifferent to the appeals of those who were inconvenienced by his indebtedness to them, and would resort to any subterfuge rather than pay his tradesmen's bills, yet he was a lenient and considerate master to his valet in Jermyn Street, was regarded with admiration by the hall porters of his club, and was held in affection by the old retainers at the Manor House, who had known him for so many years.
With Martin Somers, Sir Geoffrey's butler, Melville was an especial favourite. The old man had taught him all he knew of outdoor sports, and had often stood his friend when in earlier days the boy was in disgrace with his uncle.
Melville turned from the hall into the dining-room and rang the bell. It was cool and shady in this room, and Melville was conscious of a pang of regret at the knowledge that the place would never be his. His life had been full of variety and excitement, but it had cost him all chance of ever being master of the Manor House. Already he was an unwelcome visitor, and when in course of time it passed into Ralph's possession, its doors would very probably be closed to him altogether.
"Ralph is a stupid clown," he muttered, "but I'm not sure that he hasn't done better for himself than I have. To own this place and be Gwen's husband should be good enough for anyone."
The sigh that escaped him was born of sincerity, but he turned briskly to face his immediate task as the butler came in answer to the ring. Melville shook hands with him, making no reference to his previous evening visit to his uncle.
"Here I am again, Martin," he said cheerfully, "'Pon my word, it's good to see you."
"You've been abroad, Master Melville?" Martin asked.
"Yes," said Melville; "same old racket, same old place, same old luck."
Martin shook his head.
"I've no faith in Monte Carlo," he remarked austerely; "never heard of any good coming from there."
"That's rude," said Melville, "seeing that I've just come from there. How is Sir Geoffrey?"
"Pretty well, sir," the butler replied; "I may say very well."
"He's a wonderful old chap," said Melville. "He'll be marrying soon and having a family of his own; see if he doesn't."
"Sir Geoffrey never took any account of the ladies," Martin remarked. "It's a pity, in some ways; but, bless you, sir, he's got all the family a man needs in Master Ralph and yourself."
"Too much, perhaps," said Melville. "Go and tell him I'm here, Martin, will you."
The old servant went, and Melville turned to the sideboard with the air of a man who is quite at home and helped himself to sherry and seltzer. Martin seemed very slow in coming, and Melville paced up and down the room. As he did so he felt in his hip pocket the little revolver which he always carried.
"Gad!" he thought, "on what a hair one's fortune hangs! I was within an ace of turning that on myself when I saw Ralph's letter, and if I had not got that cheque so easily from Uncle Geoffrey I was mad enough then to have turned it on to him. And if I had done so all this knowledge and the power it gives would have come too late—just a few hours too late. And yet there are people who don't believe in luck!"
The butler's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"I'm very sorry, Master Melville, but Sir Geoffrey cannot see you this afternoon."
Melville frowned; he saw the perplexity on the old man's face, detected the hesitation with which he spoke.
"Cannot or will not?" he asked sharply.
Martin was no dissembler where his affections were involved.
"Sir Geoffrey seems very put out," he said apologetically, "and——"
"Go back to Sir Geoffrey and say that I must see him," said Melville peremptorily, and reluctantly Martin obeyed.
This time he did not return. Melville heard the library door bang and quick steps cross the hall. In another moment the dining-room door was flung open and, purple with rage, Sir Geoffrey himself strode in.
"What do you mean by forcing yourself upon me?" he said passionately. "Are you so dead to all sense of decency that you not only can't stop away after your last vile swindle, but even have the audacity to dictate to me in my own house? I will not receive you here. Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out!"
Melville stood perfectly quiet.
"I'm sorry to cause you any more annoyance," he said, "but my business is urgent."
"I will not hear it," shouted Sir Geoffrey.
"You must," said Melville firmly. "I haven't come here to-day on my own account. I have come on behalf of Lady Holt."
For a moment the name seemed to convey nothing to Sir Geoffrey; indeed, the combination of words had never formed itself before his mind; he had not inherited the title when that passage in his life was closed. Melville saw that he was puzzled, and with cold emphasis he varied his announcement.
"On behalf of Lady Holt. I have come to see you about your wife."
Then he knew his shot had gone home. Sir Geoffrey paled, and seemed to be on the verge of a collapse; he turned vaguely to the fireplace where his great armchair stood, and sank feebly into it.
"Lady Holt!" he muttered. "Good God! my wife!"
Melville broke the silence.
"You thought that she was dead?" he said gently.
"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey; "I thought that she was dead." His voice was hoarse, his face white and hopeless. He did not question the truth of her reappearance in his life, or of Melville's coming as her ambassador; he knew how cruel destiny can be, how remorselessly she chooses our happiest moments to deal her hardest blows. For a moment the shock had numbed him, but as his full consciousness returned he was angry with himself for having betrayed by even so much as the quiver of an eyelid the fact that he was hurt, albeit the hurt was mortal.
With an effort he recovered himself, and his old sternness of manner towards Melville returned.
"When did you make Lady Holt's acquaintance?" he enquired coldly. "And how long have you known of—this?"
"I made her acquaintance yesterday," Melville answered; "I first heard of her existence the day before."
"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey.
Melville interpreted the exclamation correctly; his uncle was thinking of his evening visit for getting money. He hastened to put him right.
"When I got back to my chambers after leaving you the night before last, I found a letter from Lady Holt asking me to call upon her yesterday, and, of course, I went."
"Of course," echoed Sir Geoffrey drily. He could imagine the alacrity with which Melville would follow up this discovery. "And she has sent me a message by you?"
"No," Melville replied. "I have come of my own motion. Uncle Geoffrey, your wife is in an absolutely destitute condition—she is starving."
Sir Geoffrey bit his lips. This thing was possible, and yet he could not place reliance on one single word his nephew uttered. He looked at him searchingly as if to read his soul, but Melville never blenched, and Sir Geoffrey was compelled to believe that in this instance his story was true, inasmuch as its truth was all to Melville's advantage. If only he could have looked his nephew in the face and denied the whole matter! But that was impossible. Not all the years that had elapsed could undo the marriage contracted in a moment of infatuation; all the injury which had been heaped upon him by his heartless wife could not release him from the obligation he had incurred. And now the forgotten story had been discovered by this unscrupulous, self-seeking schemer, who would be only too glad to retail it to an astonished world, unless it were made worth his while to hold his tongue. The suspicion leaped into life in the old man's mind. Melville might be sincere in his desire to be of service to his new-found relative, but the main plank in his platform was blackmail; he meant to have hush-money, and if that were not forthcoming he would publish all the facts, embellished, no doubt, by a malicious imagination.
At last he spoke.
"I need scarcely say I believed her to be dead. All my efforts to find her were in vain; but it is unnecessary to go into all that. Give me her address and she shall receive immediate and liberal assistance. I will go to her at once."
Melville shook his head.
"She will not see you. She guessed what you would say, and I gave her my word of honour not to tell you where she is."
"Is that so very binding?" Sir Geoffrey asked with scorn. "If I am not to know where Lady Holt lives, why should I come to her help?"
"It is for you to decide whether you will or not," Melville replied, "but somebody must, and soon."
"I will help her at once if I do it myself," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I do not intend to allow you to be my purse-bearer. Do you suppose I can place any confidence in you after your last disgraceful performance? How am I even to know that you are speaking the truth now?"
"It is entirely your own affair," said Melville quietly. "The case is urgent. If you will not assist your wife in her extremity, I must find someone who will."
He rose to go, and Sir Geoffrey watched him narrowly.
"What are you going to do?"
"One woman may befriend another," Melville answered; "perhaps Mrs. Austen will be willing to help Lady Holt."
"What business is it of Mrs. Austen's in particular?"
"I presume she is aware of Lady Holt's existence," Melville replied, "and may consequently be less astounded at the facts than other of your friends might be."
He thoroughly enjoyed the situation; it was certain that Sir Geoffrey would not allow the story which he had kept secret so long to be published now, at any rate, not until he had time for further consideration of its effect upon all concerned. He noted the nervous way in which his uncle clasped and unclasped his hands upon the arms of his chair, sure sign of the uncertainty within him, in spite of the rigid determination of his face. Sir Geoffrey was too proud to ask him to keep his knowledge to himself, but that he meant him to do so Melville was assured.
"Why did Lady Holt write to you?" Sir Geoffrey asked suddenly; "and what has she told you of her story?"
"I don't know why she wrote to me," Melville answered. "She merely said in her note that she wished to see me, said she married you many years ago, and asked me to regard her letter as confidential for the present. I saw her yesterday."
"Yes?" said Sir Geoffrey.
"She said all I need know was that she really was your wife, and I confess she satisfied me that she was speaking the truth. I suppose she was? She is Lady Holt?"
"I did marry many years ago, if you mean that," Sir Geoffrey replied, "but whether my wife is alive, and, if so, whether the lady you saw is my wife, I am not in a position to say. Obviously, I must see her before I do anything for her."
He thought he had scored a point, but he was wrong. Melville would not budge from his original position, and so long as Sir Geoffrey desired his old secret to remain sacred, Melville held the key of the situation. "I intend to keep my promise to her," he said coldly. "She is ill and actually destitute; she did not write to me until things had become so critical that she was on the point of being turned out of her lodgings. Of course, I put that all right, but you will have to see about her future."
Sir Geoffrey winced under the whole speech; the tone and the manner and the injustice of it were all so cruel.
"Be straightforward for once, Melville," he said peremptorily, "and tell me what you expect to get out of this? You discover something in my life which, for reasons of my own, I have kept to myself. Are you acting in good faith on behalf of this poor lady, or do you hope to turn your knowledge to your own advantage?"
"You doubtless had excellent reasons for dropping the curtain on that scene in your life," Melville said.
"And you propose to raise it unless I make it worth your while not to," said Sir Geoffrey bitterly. "I quite understand. You propose to add blackmailing to your other accomplishments."
Melville declined to grow angry.
"I have merely come to tell you your wife is starving," he observed, "and to suggest that you should help her. It is a condition that your assistance should reach her through me, for Lady Holt appears to hold her marriage in as much detestation as you do. The only thing I want to know now is whether you accept the condition and will allow me to be your envoy. If not, I shall act as I think proper. That is all. It is really very simple."
Sir Geoffrey got up languidly.
"I can do nothing to-day," he said, and Melville knew he had won. "I must write some letters, and if you will come here tomorrow I will give you some money for Lady Holt's immediate needs, and consider what steps to take for her future."
"I suppose I shall not be inconveniencing you if I stay the night here?" Melville said with admirably assumed indifference. "It will be pleasant to have a pull on the river, and will save me the double journey. I daresay Ralph can find me anything I may require."
Sir Geoffrey looked at him. His worthy nephew was losing no time in presenting a draft on account, but he affected to miss the point.
"As you please," he replied wearily; "and now I will ask you to excuse me. I must be alone."
The change from the angry, outraged uncle and guardian to the old-fashioned, courteous gentleman was pathetic, but the pathos was lost upon Melville. As soon as Sir Geoffrey left the room he rang the bell again.
"I'm going to spend the night here, Martin," he said to the butler; "will you find me what's necessary. I've brought nothing down."
The old man was pleased; evidently Master Melville had made his peace once more.
"I'm very glad to hear it, sir," he said deliberately. "Mrs. and Miss Austen are dining here to-night at eight o'clock. I will have everything ready for you in your own room by seven. Will you have some tea now?"
"No, thanks; I'll join my brother on the houseboat," Melville answered, and lighting a cigarette he strolled slowly down the garden. "My virtuous brother will be disconcerted," he said to himself, "and that is always agreeable to the onlooker. Thank heaven, I have a sense of humour! It is a quality in which the very good are woefully deficient, and Ralph is very good."
Ralph was disconcerted and not a little puzzled, but neither Melville nor Sir Geoffrey vouchsafed any explanation, and there was a traditional discipline maintained by the uncle over his nephews that precluded Ralph from asking any questions. So Melville made himself entirely at home, and no reference was made to the hundred pounds, for procuring which he had been within an ace of being prosecuted. Moreover, the one night's stay at the Manor House was extended into a week, and when at length he took his departure to London it was of his own free motion and not at the instigation of any of his relatives.
During the week he had several private interviews with Sir Geoffrey, but what passed between them was known only to themselves. On one occasion Mr. Tracy came down and was closeted for some time with Sir Geoffrey, but Melville, who was summoned to the library, emerged ultimately with a cheerful demeanour that effectually disposed of any suggestion that the advent of the solicitor was connected with his recent fraudulent transaction. He was, indeed, remarkably well pleased with the results of that particular debate, and subsequently jingled the money in his pockets with a light-heartedness most unseemly in a culprit.
Finally he bade a friendly farewell to his brother, a deferential one to his uncle, and a regretful one to Gwendolen Austen, and with the utmost self-satisfaction journeyed back to his chambers in Jermyn Street to enjoy the remainder of the season on an unruffled conscience and a well-filled purse.
His first visit was to his starving aunt, who gave him an excellent luncheon, accompanied by claret of undeniable quality; the impression left upon his mind at their first interview, that he had found an extremely pleasant acquaintance, was confirmed. Mrs. Sinclair was a "good comrade," and Melville became one of her most frequent visitors and her usual squire to the theatre and other places where the world amuses itself. He liked her unaffectedly, and she liked him, and the little house in The Vale would have had unalloyed charm for Melville but for the constant presence there of two other people.
The first of these was Mrs. Sinclair's maid, Lucille, who had admitted him on the occasion of his first visit. Entirely devoted to her mistress, with whom she had lived for many years, she had done her utmost to dissuade Lavender from writing to Melville and thus introducing an element of difficulty into a career now undisturbed, and likely to end in a marriage so desirable as that with the wealthy Scotch baronet, Sir Ross Buchanan.
The other was Sir Ross Buchanan himself, who was with Mrs. Sinclair in the Casino at Monte Carlo on the night when Melville became the recipient of theviaticum. Subject to the limitations suggested by his native Scotch caution, he intended to bestow his large fortune and his small person upon Mrs. Sinclair, and, knowing nothing of Melville's relationship by marriage to the object of his passion, he regarded him with dislike and jealous mistrust. He took no pains to conceal his dislike of Melville, and told Mrs. Sinclair in so many words that he disapproved of his visits.
"Have you any more grown-up relations to spring upon me?" he asked sarcastically.
"Now you're being stupid," she replied. "He is related to me and I like him, and now that I've opened my doors to him, I'm not going to close them again to gratify your caprice."
Sir Ross frowned.
"I hate the brute," he said viciously, "and I object to his visiting you."
"Then I had better arrange that you should not meet him," Mrs. Sinclair answered; "there will be no difficulty about that."
"I object to his visiting you at all," Sir Ross repeated. "You are too fond of him as it is; your attentions are quite marked. If you are so much attached to him now, there is no reason why you should not insist upon receiving him after we are married, and that I have no intention of permitting."
Mrs. Sinclair was not the woman to brook dictation.
"You might conceivably have some ground for objecting to Mr. Ashley visiting me if he were not related to me," she said coldly, "though even then I should think you unreasonable. But he is related to me, so your objection is merely absurd. Whatever you may do after we are married, you cannot revise my visiting list now."
"How is he related to you?" Sir Ross asked angrily, but that was a question which Mrs. Sinclair did not choose to answer. Sir Ross knew all about Mr. Sinclair, with whom Lavender really believed her marriage to have been perfectly legal, but he did not know anything about Sir Geoffrey Holt, and Lavender was particularly anxious that he should not. The only command she had laid upon Melville was that he should not talk about his uncle, and he had faithfully obeyed her. As potential husbands are not in the habit of discussing their predecessors in that office, she knew that Sir Ross would not talk about Mr. Sinclair, so that there had been no difficulty on that score either. Thus Melville was in ignorance of the fact that there ever had been any Mr. Sinclair, and Sir Ross was in ignorance, if not of Sir Geoffrey Holt's existence, at any rate of the part he had played in Lavender Sinclair's life. But for the impulse which had prompted her to claim Melville as her nephew, all the facts might have remained in the oblivion into which they had sunk.
"Very well," said Sir Ross, as Lavender remained silent, "if I cannot yet revise your visiting list, I can put you to your election between this person and myself. I have the honour to be your accepted suitor, and I object to this gentleman's attentions. You will be so good as to choose between him and me. If in defiance of my wishes you continue to receive him I shall absent myself from your house and consider our engagement at an end. If you are unwilling that that should occur you will dismiss Mr. Ashley as summarily as you took him up. I require you to choose between him and me, and I will come to-morrow for your answer. Good afternoon!" and unceremoniously hurrying into the hall he crammed his hat upon his head and marched away in high dudgeon.
But fortune still favoured Melville, or else it was Destiny leading him by easy gradations down to his destruction. For when the morrow came, bright and sunny, he found that he had no engagements until the evening, and determined to while away part of the time by chatting with his aunt. He therefore sauntered leisurely towards South Kensington, pausing in Piccadilly to buy some hothouse flowers for her. When he reached The Vale, Mrs. Sinclair was engaged with a dressmaker, and Melville, leaving the flowers in the hall, was shown into the drawing-room to wait her pleasure. Lucille brought the message asking him to wait, and was on the point of returning upstairs when the bell rang again. She opened the door and saw Sir Ross Buchanan, to whose cause with her mistress she was a staunch adherent. Instead of going upstairs to enquire whether Mrs. Sinclair was at home to him, Lucille took it upon herself to ask him, too, to wait, and ushered him into the drawing-room where Melville already was.
"There isn't any love lost between those two gentlemen," she thought as she opened the drawing-room door and noticed the change in Sir Ross's expression when his eye fell upon Melville, "and I'll give them the opportunity of having a few words. If Sir Ross is the man I take him for, he'll make it clear to Mr. Ashley that his room is preferred to his company."
Melville greeted Sir Ross cheerfully, ignoring the scowl upon the little baronet's face.
"Nice and cool in here," he remarked. "Mrs. Sinclair is engaged—frocks and frills, I understand, and all that sort of thing."
"I didn't have the impertinence to ask particulars," snapped Sir Ross, "and I don't take any interest in the details of ladies' toilettes."
"No?" said Melville. "That's a mistake; you should always be interested in what interests women, and nothing interests them so much as frocks—except frills."
"I don't require any lessons in how to deal with women, thanks," said Sir Ross.
Melville was amused. A little conversational fencing was always to his taste, and when one's opponent is angry to begin with, the odds are on oneself.
"Shouldn't presume to offer any to a man of the world, such as you are," he said, but if it was his intention to mollify Sir Ross, he was disappointed.
"I have an appointment with Mrs. Sinclair to-day," the baronet said, "on a matter of some importance. Perhaps you could make it convenient not to wait to see her this afternoon?"
"Mrs. Sinclair asked me to wait," Melville replied; "so I will, thanks." That Buchanan wanted him to go was enough to induce him to remain, but it was the only reason. Sir Ross, however, could not be expected to know that.
"To be precise, I have come to see her about you," he said.
"Oh! believe me, I am of no importance," Melville answered, smiling, "no importance whatever."
Sir Ross fumed and considered. Since Melville was obviously determined not to budge, perhaps the best thing to do was to explain the terms on which he stood with Mrs. Sinclair, and tell him quite frankly that he did not mean to put up with any tame cats. Incidentally, too, he might find out what the alleged relationship between Mrs. Sinclair and Melville amounted to.
"Perhaps you are not aware of the footing on which I stand with regard to Mrs. Sinclair?" he said, in a somewhat challenging tone.
"That of a valued friend, I am sure," Melville replied, a grin belying the politeness of his words.
"I am her affianced husband," Sir Ross announced pompously.
"The deuce you are!" said Melville. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he added hastily, "but you rather took me by surprise. Pray accept my warm congratulations."
"The fact that I am engaged to be married to her," Sir Ross went on, taking no notice of the congratulations, "will perhaps serve as an excuse for what I am going to say. You come here too much, Mr. Ashley, and I don't like it—I don't like it. Your constant attendance excites remark, and may compromise Mrs. Sinclair. That, in the circumstances, is a thing which I cannot permit."
He drew himself up and endeavoured to assume an air of commanding dignity. Melville, on the track of a mystery, never made a mistake. How Mrs. Sinclair contemplated marrying Sir Ross Buchanan, or anybody else, until Sir Geoffrey Holt shuffled off this mortal coil he could not conceive, but Sir Ross was evidently quite in earnest, and by fooling him to the top of his bent he might induce him to impart knowledge, which Melville had ever found a most valuable asset.
"I quite understand, Sir Ross," he murmured. "It is a most natural and proper feeling. But believe me, if I have been indiscreet I have erred through ignorance."
"You have been indiscreet," Sir Ross retorted, "and I am resolved that the indiscretion shall be terminated. I discussed the matter with Mrs. Sinclair yesterday, and, in point of fact, my appointment with her to-day was made that I might receive her answer."
"Forgive me if I'm dense," Melville said, "but even now I don't quite understand. That you might receive her answer to what?"
"You compel me to be candid," Sir Ross said, getting very red; "in plain English, I told Mrs. Sinclair that one of us—either you or I—must discontinue calling at her house, and I've come to know which it is to be."
Melville hugged himself.
"My dear Sir Ross," he protested, "you do me too much honour. I could never aspire to be your rival in any case. In this case the honour of your jealousy is so unnecessary. My relationship to Mrs. Sinclair puts any idea of a more intimate tie out of the question."
"What is your relationship to her?" Sir Ross asked bluntly.
Melville was on his guard at once. Acquiring information was one thing, imparting it another. If Sir Ross did not know, Mrs. Sinclair must have had her reasons for not telling him, and Melville was no marplot; he preferred to stand in.
"I am related to her by marriage," he answered vaguely.
"I knew the late Mr. Sinclair intimately," Sir Ross replied, "and I never heard of any relations of his named Ashley. However, it doesn't affect my point."
"I've a shocking memory for dates," Melville said. "How long is it actually since Mr. Sinclair died?"
"He died on Jubilee Day," Sir Ross answered shortly. "Mr. Ashley, I've been quite frank with you, and you will oblige me by giving me a specific answer to my question. Do you, now you know the facts, intend to observe my request that you will discontinue your very marked attentions to the lady who has done me the honour to accept my hand?"
"I think I must ask you to await Mrs. Sinclair's answer, for which you have called by appointment," Melville answered suavely. "You see, Sir Ross, this is her house, and I can only accept dismissal from it at the desire of its owner, who invited me to it. There is another point, too; my relationship to Mrs. Sinclair renders your apprehensions unnecessary, and I think it would be presumption on my part to do anything to suggest they were well founded."
"In short, you won't go?" Sir Ross asked, with suppressed fury.
"Thank you, no," Melville replied.
"Then I will," said Sir Ross, and rising abruptly he bounced out of the door, leaving Melville in possession of the field.
Lavender Sinclair, coming downstairs at that moment, met him in the hall.
"You're not going, are you?" she enquired. "I am sorry I've been so long."
"I was going," he answered, "but perhaps it may not be necessary. I've come for your answer, Lavender. Which is it to be?"
"Come into the dining-room," she said, "and have a cigarette. What do you mean?"
"Which is it to be?" he repeated. "I put you to your choice yesterday. Do you choose to dismiss Mr. Ashley or me?"
"How silly you are!" she said good-humouredly. "Fancy your still harping on that string! You needn't meet Mr. Ashley, need you?"
"I can't help it," Sir Ross retorted; "the brute's always here. I've been shut up with him now for the last half-hour."
Mrs. Sinclair laughed, though in reality she was a little annoyed.
"How foolish of Lucille to put you into the same room! But it shall not occur again. It was the merest accident."
"I don't know about an accident," Sir Ross growled; "it was a misfortune. Lavender, I meant what I said yesterday; you must choose between this man and me. Are you going to send him about his business?"
"No," said Mrs. Sinclair obstinately; "I am not. What is it you object to in him?"
"I object to everything," Sir Ross answered. "I don't like you having any man hanging about you so much, and I bar this particular one. That ought to be enough."
"I believe you're jealous," Mrs. Sinclair said.
"It don't matter what I am," Sir Ross said angrily, "if you're not going to take any notice of my wishes. Jealous or not, I'm in earnest. Which is it to be?"
"I can't affront people in this way," she replied. "What reason am I to give him?"
"I've done that for you," Sir Ross remarked. "I told him you were going to marry me, and that I wouldn't have him compromising you."
Mrs. Sinclair was irritated.
"You had no right to do anything of the kind," she said warmly. "What did he say?"
"He said he would go if, and when, you told him," Sir Ross answered. "Will you tell him now?"
"No," said Mrs. Sinclair; "certainly not."
"Then I will wish you a very good-day," he answered frigidly. "Pray do not trouble to come into the hall. You are keeping Mr. Ashley waiting."
"Good-bye," she replied with unconcern. "Come back when you're in a better temper. Won't you take your flowers?"
She held out Melville's offering, and it proved the last straw. Sir Ross controlled himself by a heroic effort, but vouchsafed no answer to this feminine last word. He departed in a frame of mind that was positively dangerous.
"He'll come back," Mrs. Sinclair said cheerfully to Lucille, who had been a witness of the baronet's exit, but the maid shook her head.
"I don't fancy he will," she said. She was sorry, for Sir Ross's title appealed to her imagination, and she had anticipated with satisfaction her mistress's promotion in the social scale. "I've never seen Sir Ross so put out before, and I don't fancy he will come back."
"Then he can stay away," Mrs. Sinclair replied; "but it's as well to begin as you mean to go on, and if he is so eccentric before marriage I don't suppose he'd be any better afterwards. Fancy his objecting to Mr. Ashley coming here!"
"I shouldn't think much of him if he didn't object," Lucille answered primly. "Any man who is a man dislikes another man paying attention to his young lady. Mr. Ashley brought those flowers, ma'am."
Mrs. Sinclair laughed; the philosophy of the remark amused her, and her mistake about the bouquet struck her as really funny. She looked at herself in the mirror, and put back a curl of hair that had strayed out of place. Then she picked up the flowers.
"How sweet of Mr. Ashley to think of them," she said. "I must go and thank him at once," and, still bubbling over with amusement, she went into the drawing-room. But, outside, Lucille still shook her head.
"It's a mistake," she said to herself, "and she'll live to regret it, I'm sure."