"It can only mean that he suspects that Mrs. Sinclair and Lady Holt are one and the same person," she said despairingly. "It is the end of everything," and her hysterical collapse was pitiful to witness.
That first visit, indeed, marked a point when Lavender's illness became serious. She refused to see a doctor, and this refusal Lucille made no great effort to combat, knowing that freedom from worry and plenty of rest were all that were necessary to restore her mistress to health, and that although any physician might prescribe these two remedies, no one could provide them. For the present, therefore, the faithful woman contented herself with never leaving Lavender, and with taking control of the establishment in a manner that was as effective as it was silent and undemonstrative.
When next Mr. Tracy presented himself at The Vale, Lucille received him.
"Mrs. Sinclair is really very ill," she said, "and unable to see anybody; but more than that, she told me the other day that she did not know your name and would not see you on business without knowing something about it beforehand. If you like to write to her, I daresay she will make an appointment to see you when she comes back."
"Comes back?" said Mr. Tracy.
"Yes," Lucille replied; "from abroad. She goes to-morrow, if she's well enough, but she will certainly go this week."
And Mr. Tracy had nothing left but to murmur some polite good wishes for her complete restoration to health, and go away again.
"The good lady is determined to avoid me," he thought. "Well, it can't be helped. The clock won't stop for poor Ralph Ashley because Mrs. Sinclair wants to go abroad, and I am determined to get to the bottom of all I don't know about the family before it is too late. Mrs. Sinclair has reasons, either of her own or of Melville Ashley's, for not wanting to see me. Perhaps herfiancéwill be more accommodating. I will beard the bold Sir Ross in his den."
Without further delay he set about the business. Sir Ross was in the habit of standing much upon his dignity, and felt inclined at first to refuse admission to this stranger who presented himself at his door without any previous advertisement of his coming; but his curiosity was aroused by the message that the stranger desired to see him in connection with Melville Ashley. Whether Sir Ross scented a battle from afar, or whether it was a less heroic form of curiosity, does not matter much; at all events, he acceded to Mr. Tracy's request for an audience, and with the proud air of a man who is not only a millionaire but a patrician, he entered the room where his visitor was awaiting him. With a magnificent gesture he motioned him to a seat.
"You are—er?" was his intelligent enquiry.
"I am the family solicitor to the Ashleys and to the late Sir Geoffrey Holt," said Mr. Tracy, "and I am very anxious to enlist your help in a matter of considerable delicacy. May I throw myself upon your mercy, Sir Ross, and beg you to help me, if you can?"
"I shall be glad if I can be of any assistance," said Sir Ross stiffly, "but I quite fail to see how it is likely that I can be. Is it in connection with the murder that you think I may be of use? Sir Geoffrey was—er—one of us."
"Not perhaps directly in connection with the murder," Mr. Tracy replied, "but there are several things in the story which are puzzling. What more natural than that I should come to a man of the world like yourself and say, 'I have no right to trouble you with my difficulties it is true, but of your charity help me from your superior knowledge of men and of affairs?'"
Sir Ross concealed his delight with difficulty.
"But why choose me? There are other men of the world whose names, I should have thought, would have suggested themselves more naturally."
"I had one primary object in venturing to come to you first," Mr. Tracy answered. "Sir Ross, I am speaking as if in the confessional?" Sir Ross bowed. "Well, then, I want you to tell me what you know of Mr. Melville Ashley."
The slowly dawning look of cordiality died again from the little baronet's face, and his dignity was icy.
"I know—and I desire to know—practically nothing at all about Mr. Melville Ashley."
Mr. Tracy hastened to explain.
"As I said just now, I throw myself upon your mercy. My visit may seem an impertinent intrusion, but it is not prompted in any degree by love or regard for Mr. Melville Ashley." He proceeded to explain how he had been led to make some enquiries into that individual's mode of life, and with what result. "You know everybody, Sir Ross. Is it common knowledge that Mr. Ashley plays high?"
"The first time I ever saw him was at Monte Carlo," Sir Ross replied, "and on that occasion he took advantage of theviaticumto get home, so he played, at any rate, until he had nothing left to play with. Over here I don't know much about him personally, but I could not afford the points which his set affect."
Mr. Tracy shrugged his shoulders.
"Thanks; that is quite enough for my purpose. The fact is, I was at a loss to account for various sums of money which have passed through his hands, and the cards seemed the only possible explanation. I don't think he drinks or has other vices."
"Gamblers never do drink," said Sir Ross vindictively; "they press the liquor on the other side. Frankly, Mr. Tracy, I think Mr. Melville Ashley is the devil incarnate, and I should never be surprised to hear any villainy of him."
The vigour with which the little man delivered himself of this outburst surprised the lawyer considerably, but he trimmed with superlative skill.
"He is one of those curious people who lead several different lives simultaneously. In my capacity of Sir Geoffrey Holt's executor I wanted to ascertain why his uncle disinherited him—which he has done—in order that I might know how far to encourage or restrain his brother's impulse to make provision for him by deed of gift."
"What's the brother like?" enquired Sir Ross.
"A fine fellow," said Mr. Tracy warmly; "white all through. As different from Melville as it's possible to imagine."
"Must be," grunted Sir Ross. "If it weren't that you say he's been cut off without a shilling, I should say that Mr. Melville Ashley shot his uncle and shifted the suspicion on to his brother by some vile trickery." He paused a minute, and then in his turn sought the information which he had failed to obtain elsewhere. "You are the family lawyer, so you will probably be able to tell me this. What is the relationship between Mr. Ashley and Mrs. Sinclair?"
"Do you mean the Mrs. Sinclair to whom you are engaged?"
"To whom I was engaged," said Sir Ross, flushing; "that is whom I mean. I am told there is some relationship by marriage between her and the Ashleys. What is it precisely?"
"I am not aware of any," said Mr. Tracy, feeling horribly uncomfortable. "I know they are acquainted."
"I knew Mr. Sinclair intimately," said Sir Ross, "but I never heard of any relations of his named Ashley; yet when I had occasion to object to Mr. Melville Ashley's very constant attendance on and very marked attentions to Mrs. Sinclair, an attempt was made to over-rule my protest on the ground that they were so closely related by marriage that my objections were absurd. What is the relationship?"
"Really you embarrass me very much," said Mr. Tracy pathetically. "If Mr. Ashley alone had alleged it I should have said he was mistaken, but if the lady corroborated it there must be something in it, although it is news to me."
"There was so much in it," said Sir Ross, with fine sarcasm, "that I required the lady to choose between us, and as she declined to give Mr. Ashley hiscongéI retired from the apparent rivalry with a person whom I detest, and my engagement to Mrs. Sinclair is cancelled."
"Not many women are so unmercenary," Mr. Tracy replied, "and not many men get such proof of having been loved for themselves alone and not for their wealth and position."
He meant the remark to be in the nature of an emollient, but it failed to have that effect.
"I am not sufficiently sentimental to appreciate the value of being loved for myself alone," Sir Ross responded drily, "if the upshot is that I am to be jilted for somebody else. The essential thing is that I, although one of Mr. Sinclair's intimate friends, have never heard of any relationship between his family and Mr. Ashley's; neither have you, although you are the solicitor to Mr. Ashley's family. It merely corroborates my previous impression that the alleged relationship is all my eye."
He blew out his cheeks, which were purple with just indignation at the recollection of the affront offered to his intelligence, and glared fiercely at Mr. Tracy, who represented his hated rival's house; but Mr. Tracy remained as gentle and unmoved as ever.
"I am unable to explain, Sir Ross. I have never met the lady, nor indeed heard of her except as your future wife. What is she like?"
Sir Ross looked round the room; the photographs of Lavender, which once were numerous, had been removed immediately after the rupture of the engagement, and he had to open a bureau in a corner to find some. There, however, he found plenty, framed and unframed.
"There she is," he said, and heaved a sigh as he saw the counterfeit presentment of her superb womanhood.
But Mr. Tracy's forehead was all wrinkled and his eyebrows were drawn together as he stared at the photographs and tried to fix in his memory where he had met this woman, and under what cognomen; it must be long ago, and yet the face was familiar to him. At last his mind responded to the effort, and putting his hand into his inner pocket he withdrew a letter-case, and opening it produced the photograph of the unknown lady which Gwendolen had given to him at Fairbridge. He laid it on the table by the others, and motioned to Sir Ross to examine it.
"Yes, that must be an early photograph of Mrs. Sinclair," the baronet exclaimed. "How do you come by that?"
Mr. Tracy hesitated to disclose the chain of his thoughts. To do so might cause much pain to the worthy little Scotchman, who, at least, had been sincere in his affection for this woman, and Mr. Tracy shrank from doing that. Yet, so much might be at stake!
"It looks like an extraordinary freak of fortune, but of course I may be wrong. I found that photograph among a lot of papers, and did not know whose likeness it was. You are sure it is Mrs. Sinclair?"
"Morally certain," said Sir Ross. "What does it all mean?"
"Possibly nothing," Mr. Tracy answered; "possibly a great deal, including an explanation of that alleged relationship. You can help me more than I thought, though, perhaps, at the cost of suffering to yourself. I believe that this is a picture of Sir Geoffrey's widow, Dame Lavinia Holt. If I am right, it will prove at least that Mr. Melville Ashley has committed perjury in one important particular, and it may prove God knows what else."
"What else?" thundered Sir Ross. "That Mrs. Sinclair shot Sir Geoffrey Holt?"
"The Lord forbid!" said Mr. Tracy very earnestly; "but I have to rescue an innocent man. Whoever did that murder, it was not Ralph Ashley, as I mean to make clear before the world. If I can prove that this"—and he laid his hand upon the portrait found by Gwendolen—"is a picture of Lady Holt, I can save my man. That done, I'll gladly leave the rest to God and to the Crown."
Lavender never ceased to regret the impulse which had prompted her to persuade Melville to let her accompany him on that fateful visit to Fairbridge. Missing the constant attendance of him and of Sir Ross Buchanan, after their unfortunate meeting in her drawing room, she became bored with her own society, and was really only influenced by that, and perhaps by some little idle curiosity, when she called upon him at Jermyn Street and induced him to give her the innocent pleasure of a picnic up the river. It seemed too cruel that her simple want of something definite to do on that one day of her life should have involved her in such an appalling catastrophe. She had never known a moment's peace or happiness since then. Had it not been for her lack of occupation and for her natural terror of the thunderstorm, she would not have gone to the Manor House at all, would not have been a witness of the tragedy, would not have had this burden on her soul. Were it not for her knowledge whose hand took Sir Geoffrey's life she could have faced the world with a clear conscience on the subject of that crime, could have awaited the issue of Ralph's trial with comparative equanimity, and have received Melville with no reservation of mistrust or horror of the blood upon his hands.
That single impulse had rendered this impossible. She did know who the real criminal was, did know that it was an innocent man upon whom suspicion had fallen, did know the injustice of it all; and yet her lips were sealed and she was dumb. From the moment of Ralph's arrest until the moment at the assizes when the jury failed to agree upon a verdict, she had remained in London, unable to tear herself away from the dreadful fascination of his danger. She had confidently anticipated his acquittal, and the relief she would have experienced at knowing that an innocent man would not suffer death, would have been the saving of her own life and reason. But although she had endured the torments of suspense so long, her strength was exhausted and she could endure no more. If, next time, Ralph were convicted, Lavender felt sure that the horror of his impending doom would drive her mad. It was better if he had to die that she should not know it, should only learn of it long after it had happened. She must go away, and at once.
That was the conclusion at which she arrived immediately after the abortive trial, and Mr. Tracy's visits to The Vale only confirmed her resolution. She was satisfied that his object in calling was to identify her as Lady Holt, and that identification only meant the substitution of one disaster for another. So, after his second visit, she determined to do what her maid had professed she was upon the point of doing, and leave for the Continent that week. Had it not been for the necessity of seeing Melville, she would have made an effort to start the following day, but she could not leave without making some arrangement with him for the communication of urgent news, and this involved the settlement of some definite route to which she must adhere, and also the invention of some code, under the seeming innocence of which the most startling information might be sent to her without attracting attention.
Moreover, houses cannot be casually left in London, unless, perhaps, by the very rich, who have servants to whose care they can entrust everything just as it is at any moment; and Lavender had all the house-pride and affection for her goods and chattels that makes English home life so indicative of English character. Having decided to go away, she set about doing the thousand things that must be done ere she could lock all the doors and windows, and abandon her house to the formal custody of the caretaker.
She stood in the drawing-room buttoning her gloves, and looked around her. All the silver ornaments, the ivories and needlework were put away, and the place wore a cheerless look. She would be glad when the morrow came and she turned her back upon it for an indefinite time. If only she could leave her misery behind as well, with what a different feeling she would start upon her journey! But that could not be; only death could bring her that emancipation.
Leaving Lucille upstairs to finish packing, Lavender went round to the tradesmen to pay their several books and give instructions that they should not call for orders until they heard from her again. She completed her round of visits with an odd sense of having come to the end of a period in her existence, and was walking listlessly homewards, when the thought struck her that she must lose no time if she wanted to be sure of conveying a message to Melville before he left home, as she knew he generally did after his mid-day meal. It was to be a verbal message, given by Lucille to him in person, and it must be carefully worded, so as to arouse no speculations in the servant's mind. She walked briskly back and called Lucille.
"I want you to go to Jermyn Street at once," she said, "and take a message to Mr. Ashley. His chambers are on the top floor, and you can go up to his door without telling the hall porter whose rooms you are going to. Say you must see him himself, and when you do, give him my compliments, say I am going abroad to-morrow, and ask him if he will take me out to dinner to-night, and tell you where and when I shall meet him."
"And if he isn't in?"
"Don't deliver the message to anybody but Mr. Ashley. If he isn't in you must go again later on, but you will see him if you go now. Take a cab, so as to make sure."
Inwardly Lucille was a little surprised, for she had seen much less of Melville lately, and hoped that his great intimacy with Lavender was diminishing. She looked forward to a time when Sir Ross Buchanan would pick up the dropped threads of his courtship and draw her mistress into a safe haven of matrimony, from which Mr. Ashley, with all other disturbing influences, would be permanently excluded. That very morning, when packing, she had hesitated as to whether she should or should not put into one of the portmanteaux the large silver-framed photograph of the little baronet, which always stood on Lavender's dressing-table, and she had only decided not to do so because on this occasion she was anxious to take nothing which might remind her mistress of the immediate past. But of all this the good creature made no sign. She donned her hat and gloves, and, selecting a hansom with a likely-looking horse, soon arrived at Jermyn Street.
Acting upon her mistress's instructions, she walked upstairs and knocked at Melville's door. It was opened by Jervis, who looked at her approvingly.
"Is Mr. Ashley at home?" she enquired.
"Yes," said Jervis. "What name shall I say?"
Lucille hesitated; it might be advisable not to mention her mistress's name to the valet, and her own surname was not known to Melville.
"Miss Lucille," she said at last, and Jervis smiled.
"French," he thought. "Query, French maid. Gad, I'm beginning to think I gave Mr. Ashley a false character to the family lawyer, and that the circle of his female acquaintances is larger than I thought." He invited Lucille to walk in, and bestowing upon her another smile of cordiality and approval, of which she took no notice whatever, went into the bedroom where Melville was dressing.
"A lady to see you, sir."
"A what?" said Melville, looking at the clock; an odd time, he thought, forgetting for the moment, with characteristic casualness, the urgent reasons several women might have for ringing him up at any time. "Who is she? What does she want?"
"Don't know, sir," Jervis replied; "haven't seen her before; gave the name of Lucille—Miss Lucille."
"Oh! ah! of course," said Melville quickly. "That's all right. Tell her I'll come in a minute, and then I shan't want you."
"Thank you, sir," said Jervis, and giving the message to Lucille, he left the flat, and, substituting a smart coat for his linen jacket, he arranged himself upon the staircase to await Lucille's reappearance, holding a feather brush in his hand to avoid any air of being out of work.
Lucille criticised the room in which she was, and sniffed.
"Ladylike," she remarked, and the epithet was a happy one. The open piano, the violins, and a basket-tray of cut flowers, just delivered by a neighbouring florist, gave an impression that the occupant of the flat was a woman rather than a man. She rose as Melville entered.
"Your mistress has sent me a message?" he said curtly.
"Yes, sir!" she answered. "She desired me to give you her compliments and say that she is leaving for the Continent tomorrow, and to ask whether you could take her out to dinner this evening."
Melville frowned; he had an appointment for the evening which he was unwilling to cancel, but experience had shown him that Lavender would not trouble him unnecessarily, and if she was at last about to gratify him by going out of the country, she deserved this small gratification in return.
"I shall be delighted," he said, without a spark of enthusiasm. "Am I to come to The Vale?"
"Mrs. Sinclair said if you would tell me where you thought of dining, and at what time, she would meet you at the place," Lucille replied. "Her house is all dismantled, as she starts early to-morrow."
"Quite so," said Melville. "Well, ask her to join me at the Café d'Autriche in Pall Mall at a quarter to seven. Do you think that will be too early for her?"
"Not at all," said Lucille. "I daresay she will prefer not to be home late."
"Very well," said Melville, and as he held open the door for her to pass out, Lucille could not fail, much as she disliked the man, to be conscious of his fascination of manner and perfect breeding.
Jervis stood on the next landing and waved his feather brush in the direction of the lift.
"Mayn't I take you down in the lift, Miss—er—Lucille?" he suggested amiably.
"Thanks, no," she answered; "I don't like elevators."
"Elevators?" said Jervis. "Are you American? I made sure you were French."
"Did you?" Lucille remarked, withholding information on the point, but an amused look on her face belied the coldness of her tone.
"Tell me," Jervis persisted, "where do you live, Miss Lucille?"
"Geneva, when I'm at home," she answered.
"A perfect cosmopolitan," said Jervis, with admiration. "French name, American language, and Swiss home. I suppose you would not care to be English by marriage, would you?"
"Is that an offer?" Lucille enquired, looking at him so frigidly that his genial smile was frozen on his face.
"Well," he stammered, "I am engaged, you know, but——"
"Poor girl!" said Lucille, and continued her progress downstairs, leaving the valet short of repartee. He flung the feather brush down in the passage, and returned disconsolately to Melville's rooms.
Melville stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, thinking hard. He had been counting out his money that morning, and the operation took a disgustingly short time in the doing; he had a balance of thirty-seven pounds in the bank, and a five-pound note, three sovereigns and some silver in his rooms: a total of something under forty-six pounds left from Mr. Tracy's little payment on account of out-of-pocket expenses on Ralph's behalf. The result of the expenditure of the other fifty-four pounds was difficult to define, but if it did not benefit Ralph it benefited Melville as little. They were gone, though whither Melville had no clear notion. Mr. Tracy might be good for another hundred later on, but certainly not at once. The evening engagement which, by arranging to dine early, Melville did not find it necessary to cancel, might result in an addition to his funds, for its primary object was cards, but, on the other hand, it might not. The barometer of his luck had fluctuated from fair to stormy of late. Where should he go for an appreciable sum—if not to Lavender? And why not to Lavender? The necessity had arisen sooner than he anticipated, but from the first he had seen her potentialities as a source of revenue for himself, and he had no squeamish reluctance in availing himself of any means of assistance which fortune dropped in his way. The opportunity of asking her was created by herself, and, in view of her departure from England, might not arise again.
He wrote an open cheque for thirty pounds and called Jervis.
"Go round to my bank and cash that cheque for me. Take it in five-pound notes; I have enough change on me."
And when Jervis presently returned, Melville put the banknotes in his writing table drawer, lighted a cigarette, and went out for his usual gentle constitutional in the streets frequented by the best sort of idle man-about-town, as calm and free from worry as the idlest of them all.
The pleasant anticipation of her trip abroad, and the little mild excitement promised by her prospective dinner at a restaurant, among well-dressed people and brightened by lights and music, went far to rouse Lavender from her recent long spell of depression; there was much of the old sparkle in her eyes, much of the warm colour in her cheeks, as she finished dressing that evening and looked at her reflection in the mirrors while waiting for Lucille to bring her opera cloak.
Some caprice impelled her to desire to look her very best to-night, and she was magnificently dressed in champagnecrepe-de-chine, worn over a foundation the tint of apricots. Regardless of the general superstition she had chosen opals for her jewels, and they burned in a myriad fantastic colours upon her splendid neck and bosom, and crept like a flaming serpent up one of her finely moulded arms. Few women could wear magnificent gems as easily as Lavender Sinclair, and, imperial as she looked to-night, there was no suggestion of ostentation or of bad taste in her appearance. Here was the splendour that compels homage, not the lavish display that challenges criticism.
Lucille surveyed her with proud affection ere she dropped the long opera cloak lightly over her shoulders, screening the glowing opals and covering the delicate gown. There was no need for Lavender to ask if she looked well; the least vain woman in the world, the most vain one as well, would have been satisfied by one glance at the image reflected from the depths of the full-length mirrors. Reluctantly Lucille extinguished the candles that stood in branching candelabra over the mirrors, and went downstairs to unroll the carpet from the hall door to the gate, where the hansom stood in readiness.
Lavender stood in the doorway and looked at the fair exterior of the small domain where for the last five years she had led so luxurious an existence. The sound of the traffic outside was subdued in here, and The Vale was like a green island in the great river of London life; all of the houses were creeper-covered, and in the flower-beds in the lawns were brilliant geraniums and petunias and giant sunflowers. Lavender's own garden was as pretty as any of them, with ribbon grass and flaunting lilies, and a gnarled wistaria stretching brown arms over the porch. It seemed a pity to be leaving home when it was all so sweet and dainty, and yet August had never before found her in London.
She got into the cab, and, smiling a farewell to Lucille, told the man to drive to the Café d'Autriche. It was a lovely evening, and already, early as it was, the stream of cabs and carriages was setting in the direction of the great hotels and restaurants. Lavender leaned back in her seat and watched the familiar scene with the keen interest of the intelligent Londoner, but as she travelled along the Brompton Road a wistful look stole over her face. Good as her lot had been until these later days, it might have been better still if as a child she had been taught more self-control. If Sir Geoffrey had been more patient with his impetuous child-wife, and she herself had been less self-willed and passionate, she might now be driving through the town, not as a practical adventuress masquerading under a name to which she had no right, but as the wife of an honoured and honourable old man—not as a supposititious Mrs. Sinclair, but in her true guise as Lady Holt.
They had got nearly to the end of the road when suddenly, with a deafening rattle and clanking of chains and a throbbing pulsation of machinery, a heavy traction engine, drawing a trolly laden with an enormous cylindrical boiler, came panting towards them. At the same moment the horses attached to an omnibus, between which and the pavement Lavender's cab was passing, shied and swerved, the axle of the hind wheel forcing the cab against the curb. Startled by the slight collision, and terrified by the hammering din of the ungainly locomotive, the animal behind which Lavender was sitting—a wiry Irish mare—threw back her ears, and, letting fly with her heels at the splash-board, dashed madly forward, jerking the bit between her teeth and getting absolutely out of hand.
A spasm of fear gripped Lavender's heart, and then, sitting bolt upright with hands pressed against the two sides of the cab, she braced herself to await the catastrophe. Even in the wild rush of the moment she noted with admiration how the driver managed to keep some semblance of control over the terrified mare, guiding her, he certainly knew not how, past cabs and omnibuses. But foolish people on the pavement began to shout, and only scared the little mare into a wilder pace. Crossing the top of Sloane Street they avoided by a hair's breadth a green omnibus full of people, and raced on towards the huge Hyde Park Hotel; they skidded over the edge of the island in the road, but already the cab was swaying from side to side with a rhythmical swing that grew more dangerous every time, and in Lavender's mind two words kept ringing in rhythm with the swinging of the cab, Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt.
She was kept in no suspense as to what the end would be, but even her stout heart quailed as she saw in what shape death was coming to her. Just by the railings of the Park the road was up, and policemen were diverting the traffic on to the other side of the road; but now the mare was blind and deaf and mad, only struggling to get faster and farther away from the hellish clangour of that horrible machine behind. Lifting herself together she charged full at the barrier of stout pines, upsetting a brazier full of charcoal and crashing anyhow into a maze of broken poles and blocks of karri-karri.
The impact threw the driver clear over the cab and forced Lavender through the window folded up above her. Shivering glass and splintering wood tore and rent their way into her face and neck and hands; one sob escaped her as a blaze of red flashed up before her to die away in utter hopeless blackness, and she was lying crushed and bleeding in the wreckage of the cab, as motionless as the mare that lay dead beside her.
There is no city in the world where help is so speedily forthcoming for the injured as it is in London. Almost before the crowd that ran shouting after the runaway came up to the spot where the dead mare lay amid the havoc she had wrought, Lavender and the cabman were taken to the nearest hospital. Tender hands took the jewels from her torn neck and shoulders, unclasped the winking serpent from her arm, and cut the stained gown from her broken frame. Her wounds were dressed and she was already laid in a spotless little bed ere she recovered consciousness.
"Who is she?" said the house-surgeon. "Does anybody know?"
"There are only initials on her linen," one of the nurses said; "perhaps the cabman may be able to tell us by-and-bye."
The house-surgeon shook his head.
"'The poor fellow can never tell us anything now; he was dead before they brought him in. This poor creature's hours are numbered too." He went out to the constables who had brought the accident in. "One of you had better come inside," he said; "the lady is dying, but she may recover consciousness before the end," and, with an inspector of police, he resumed his seat by the side of the bed. A quiver moved the tired eyelids, so faint that only the surgeon saw it. He bent over Lavender.
"Lavender Holt," she murmured, her dazed brain reverting to what had been almost her last conscious thought, and rhythmically the words forced themselves from the white lips again and yet again—"Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt."
"You are Lavender Holt?" the surgeon asked, and she made a sign of assent.
"Can that be the woman who has been advertised for from Fairbridge Manor?" the inspector whispered, an eager light shining in his eyes; "the missing widow of the murdered man?"
The silence was painfully long drawn out, but again the white lips tried to frame a name, and this time the inspector's suggestion helped.
"Try Ashley," he murmured, and with wonderful skill the surgeon encouraged the wavering brain to act.
"You are Lady Holt," he said, "and you want to see Mr. Ashley, is that it?"
A look of relief crossed her face. It was enough that her wish was understood, but too much for her to grasp the fact that there was any danger for anyone in what the wish involved. Behind her vacant look the surgeon saw the glimmer of consciousness, and with infinite patience he extracted from her that it was Melville whom she wished to see, and that he lived in Jermyn Street.
"That is the brother of the suspect," the inspector whispered. "You had better send for him at once," and without any delay a messenger was despatched in a cab to Melville's chambers.
Before the tiny wave of strength had ebbed, Lavender found means to ask for Lucille too, and said that she lived at The Vale, South Kensington. That much done, her brain became clouded again, and for a space the others could only wait and watch.
"She will probably have several periods of consciousness," the surgeon said to the inspector, "but there is no chance of life for her. If you think that she really is the widow of Sir Geoffrey Holt, who has been so sought after of late, perhaps you had better arrange for her depositions to be taken next time she comes round."
It was half-past eight before Lucille arrived, and later still before Lavender opened her eyes again and saw her loyal servant kneeling near her. She smiled, contented, but the worst ordeal was to come.
"Melville?" she whispered.
"He isn't here," they answered. "He said he would come at once, but something has detained him by the way."
Someone stooped over her: a tall, grey man with kind eyes set in a stern face, and he was speaking slowly and earnestly, so that each softly uttered word conveyed its full meaning. He told her that the end was very near; that if she had anything to say the minutes left in which to say it were but few, and that if she knew anything about her husband and his end it was her duty to reveal it all to man before she faced the judgment seat of God.
"Melville?" she said again, and in this supreme moment it was only his absence that distressed her. He had promised not to fail her when she should send for him, and now he was breaking his word because he could not trust her not to betray him.
"You understand?" the grey man said. "You are going to tell me everything you know, and I will write it down. The truth, dear lady, as before the God who is calling you away to-night."
"Ralph Ashley is innocent," she said, and by degrees the broken story was told; told in faint outline, but with sufficient clearness to make corroboration easy afterwards. She told of her early marriage to Sir Geoffrey and of her flight from him; of her marriage to Mr. Sinclair, made in all good faith, and of his death; of her visit to Fairbridge Manor on the fatal day from idle curiosity to see what might have been her home; of Sir Geoffrey's murder by the man with whom she went, and how she only chanced to be a witness of it because she was frightened by the storm; of how she saw the weapon dropped into the river, and was intimidated into silence afterwards; how she had always believed that an innocent man could not be convicted, and that Ralph would be set free and the true facts never be known. She told it all, but never gave a clue as to who her companion on that momentous occasion was.
On that point she was obdurate. It was her duty to prevent the innocent man from suffering, but she could not be brought to believe that it was her duty to bring the guilty one to justice. That was her code of morals, and while she was true to it in this last hour by doing what she could to set Ralph free, she would not be false to it by breaking her solemn promise to Melville.
"I'm very tired," she said, and in sheer compassion they let her be. She contrived to affix some sort of signature to the statement they read over to her, and then the others withdrew, leaving her to the care of the nurses and doctors and the company of Lucille, who loved her so.
"Everything I have I've given to you," she said once, and later on sent a farewell message to Sir Ross. Melville she did not mention any more; she had kept her promise and that sufficed. So she lay, waiting for the end, with an expression on her face in which fear had no part. Warm-hearted and impulsive, no one could ever tell how much she may have repented the part she played in spoiling Sir Geoffrey's life by her early desertion of him. From that point onwards, however, within the limitations of her rather crude nature, she had always been kind, straightforward, and true, and death found her not afraid. Of many a better woman not so much can be said.
Lucille knelt by her, gently stroking her hair, grudging every second as it sped. A faint smile flickered over Lavender's face, just lightening the gravity that was settling on it, and for the last time the lips that had never spoken an unkind word parted. Lucille bent her head nearer and caught the whisper.
"Good-bye—dear."
Melville was on the point of leaving his rooms, his Inverness cape hanging on his arm, when Jervis came into the room.
"A commissionaire, sir, has come and wants to see you."
"All right," said Melville casually; "send him up."
The man appeared and gave his message tersely; he was often sent on errands such as this, but still was no adept in the art of breaking bad news.
"There has been an accident, sir, and you are wanted at once."
"Who is hurt?" Melville asked.
"Lady Holt," the man replied.
"Lady Holt?" said Melville; "and she sent for me?"
"Yes, sir; the cabman's killed and the lady's dying, they say. Will you come back with me? I have a cab at the door."
"Is it as bad as that?" said Melville.
"They're waiting to take her depositions, if they can," the messenger said. "It was an awful sight."
"Go back and say I'll come in half a minute," Melville said. "I shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner."
He controlled his agitation until the door closed upon the man, and then, turning the key in the lock, threw his cape upon the couch. In an instant he realised to the full what this meant. With incredible swiftness he slipped off his dress clothes and changed into a dark mourning suit, crammed some linen and a couple of suits into a Gladstone bag, tipped the contents of his despatch box into it, and took the banknotes from his writing-table drawer. In a wonderfully short time his preparations were complete, and, grasping the bag, he ran lightly down the staircase, and getting into the crowd in Piccadilly Circus took a cab and drove to Charing Cross. Finding that he still had some time to wait before the express left, he went into one of the many small restaurants near the station and took a hasty dinner, which he washed down with a plentiful supply of spirits. Before suspicion at the hospital had definitely been turned upon him, he was lying back against the cushions of an otherwise empty carriage and speeding through Kent upon his way to Dover.
He did his utmost to concentrate his thoughts upon what was next to be done, but, despite his endeavours, they would wander to the hospital where Lavender was lying. If he had any sure information of what was going on there, what the nature of the accident was, and who was with her, the possible danger would have had less terror for him; but it was still too early for any particulars to appear in the papers, and he could only allow his overwrought imagination to supply the details for him. The commissionaire had said that Lady Holt was dying, and used the ill-omened word "depositions." That meant that Lavender had acknowledged her identity either by accident or of design, and was about to make a full statement of her knowledge of the events which culminated in Sir Geoffrey's death. Doubtless, she was being influenced by some smooth-cheeked, smooth-spoken parson to confess her sins before passing away, and in the hysterical, neurotic state in which she had been these last few weeks—to say nothing of the state to which the accident might have reduced her—that task of professional persuasion might be only too easy to fulfil. She had tied the label of conviction round his neck by asking for him by name, and while his flight would possibly only be regarded as corroboration of her story, the alternative course of staying was attended by too grave risks for any sane man to contemplate. No good purpose could be served now by hoping for the best or by trying to look upon the bright side of things. It was wiser to look the probabilities squarely in the face, and they spelled hanging by the neck for Melville Ashley.
As he sat there, rigid and impassive, he might have been taken for a financier working out some vast calculation involving millions of money, a statesman debating a point in international policy involving issues of peace or war, a physician considering a new development of disease involving life or death to his patient; no one would have taken him for what he was, a murderer flying from the Nemesis that was trailing close after him. But his cold face masked a heart aflame already. As on his way home from Monte Carlo he cursed what he called his luck, so now on his way from London to—he knew not where—he cursed the greater thing he called his destiny.
Only once could he remember having made any mistake in the way he played the cards dealt out to him by fate, and what added bitterness to the memory now was the fact that he made the mistake with his eyes open. He cursed himself for having once been persuaded into doing a thing which at the time he knew was imprudent. That once was when he agreed to take Lavender with him by boat to Fairbridge Manor. But for that he would not now be in this parlous plight. Even supposing he had still committed the murder—which actually was never in his mind when he set out—he still would not have been seen and been rendered subject to the mercies of an emotional woman. Lavender would never have suspected him, and he could have kept his own counsel and had no fear of nerves.
It was impossible for him to keep his mind from memories and turn it to the future. He could only think of what had been and what might have been, not of what was to be. Never before had his thinking powers played him false like this; will and foresight were dispossessed by memory just at the moment when he needed them as he had never needed them before. That was the most pregnant fact of all, and he did not perceive it. If he thought of the present it was only with some vague satisfaction that every moment was taking him farther away from peril.
In the hospital the depositions were taken, and the grey man looked across at the inspector of police and left the room with him. And soon the inspector left the hospital and went to see his chiefs. There was no evidence against any individual, for the name of the man who rowed her up to Fairbridge had not escaped Lavender's lips, but Melville had not obeyed the summons she had sent him, and the inspector was not alone in wanting to know why. He went to Jermyn Street and asked for Mr. Ashley.
"I don't think he's at home," the hall porter said, and the inspector went upstairs. On the top landing he met Jervis coming from another set of rooms. "I want to see Mr. Ashley," he said again.
"He's dining out," said Jervis.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite," said Jervis. "I saw him dress, and a commissionaire brought him a message just as he was finished. I haven't been in his rooms since, but I'm sure he's out."
"Show me," said the inspector, and something about him quelled Jervis's usual breezy impertinence.
"Look for yourself, if you don't believe me," he said, unlocking the door and flinging it wide open. "Perhaps you will believe your own eyes."
The room bore unmistakable evidence of Melville's flight. His dress clothes were flung upon the sofa, his despatch box stood open on the table, his writing-table drawers were unlocked. Jervis's face of surprise only confirmed the inspector's previous idea.
"You are Mr. Ashley's servant?" he enquired.
"Yes," said Jervis.
"Well, perhaps you can describe him to me; fully, please. I only want to make enquiries in case there has been an accident. You will not be doing him any injury."
So Jervis gave an accurate description of his master, and found several photographs of him to bear the description out. From a study of the wardrobe he saw what clothes were missing, and suggested what Melville might be wearing, and soon the inspector was satisfied.
"You will be very well advised to keep a still tongue in your head," he remarked. "If Mr. Ashley comes back, well and good, but if he doesn't, see that nobody comes into these rooms unless I am with them at the time," and, leaving Jervis dumbfounded, he walked away.
Thus it came about that when the train in which Melville was travelling reached Dover, the police there, as at many another likely spot for leaving England, were in possession of a close description of him, and of instructions not to lose sight of him if they saw him. His actual apprehension might be deferred with safety, it could be accomplished at any moment; but just as it is a mistake to strike too soon when playing a game fish, so it is often one to arrest a man merely upon suspicion when a little delay may justify the event and yet not prejudice its successful performance. Moreover, if Lady Holt's statement were true, the police had made one gross blunder as it was.
But while at Dover the detectives knew what Melville was like, and had a clearly defined course of action in the event of his arriving there and crossing the Channel, Melville had no idea of what they might be like, and reached the end of this first stage in his journey without devising any scheme for his next movements. He was so persuaded that Lavender had betrayed him, and that already a warrant must be out for his arrest, that his heart was broken ere the pursuit was begun. What was the good of thirty pounds to a man for whom the whole world held no sanctuary? Would it not have been wiser to remain in London until he could raise enough money to take him, at any rate, an appreciable distance away? There might be greater difficulty in leaving the country a week hence, but the difficulty would be more worth trying to overcome if afterwards he had money to go on with. Thirty pounds was almost useless. Again he blasphemed against his luck. If the accident had happened twenty-four hours later he might have drawn a considerable sum from Lavender, and even gone abroad. And it was just like his cursed ill-luck that the cabman should be killed outright and Lavender live to speak once more, whereas if the converse had happened he would have been out of danger for ever, and nobody would have been a penny the worse except his brother, whom everyone believed to be guilty, and who might hang with pleasure so far as Melville was concerned.
He got furtively out of the carriage and scanned everybody about him; in each face he fancied he detected the detectives whom he supposed to be waiting for him, and even when he got aboard the packet unobserved, as he believed, he stood cowering on one side, uncertain whether to go below or linger to watch for the hand that surely must be laid upon him soon. His nerve was utterly gone, and the only idea clear in his mind was that if an attempt were made to arrest him ere the packet started, he must jump overboard and endeavour not to relax his grasp upon his Gladstone bag, so that he might be sure of not rising to the surface. That much, at any rate, was certain: he must not be taken alive.
The night was mild, but very dark, and Melville stood forward watching every figure as it came aboard, and finding the really short wait interminably long; but at last the boat began to move away from the pier, and he felt that he had another respite. With a sudden access of terror, however, he saw two men rush to the end of the pier gesticulating wildly, and he waited, feeling absolutely sick, until he saw they were too late and had missed the boat. None the less, it accentuated his fear and stretched his power of endurance to breaking point. In reality, they were two harmless travellers, one an acquaintance of his own, who had tarried too long in the hotel and lost the packet by mere carelessness. But Melville was convinced that they were the men deputed to detain him, and while it was now too late to draw back, it was fatal to go on. They would certainly telegraph to the authorities at Calais, and freedom was his for another bare hour and a half. How should he utilise it?
The coast line was lost in the darkness, and the lights grew smaller and smaller. When the largest of them showed like pin-pricks, Melville sighed and went below. He had something to do before the pin-pricks should appear ahead and grow larger and larger until they fell upon the deck of the boat at Calais. Going into the saloon he opened his bag and sat down upon a couch. Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote a pencil note.
"I do not know what Lavender Sinclair may have said. This much, at any rate, is true. My brother Ralph is innocent of the crime imputed to him. I declare this upon my solemn oath.—MELVILLE ASHLEY."
He put the note, with Ralph's letter asking for the loan on which so much had turned, and Lavender's first letter from The Vale, and his remaining paper money, into an envelope, and addressed it to Mr. Tracy at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then he strapped up the bag, which he left unlocked, and went on deck again. This was the end of it all? No god from a car could come to save him this time; the Furies had reached their quarry and were going to pull him down. He found a more or less deserted place upon the deck and stood, a dark figure, against the rail; and so the moment came. With one last glance around to make sure he was not observed, he got on to the outside of the rail and dropped silently into the warm, dark water.
When he rose he was surprised to see how far behind he was left; he had no idea the boat made such good speed. He stifled an impulse to call out, but the natural instinct to swim was too strong to be resisted, and, even managing to disengage himself from his thin overcoat, he began with slow steady strokes to follow in the wake of the boat. The black mass of her shape grew lower in the water, her lights drew away from him with ever increasing speed, the salt burned his eyelids and stung his face. His arms grew weaker with each more painful stroke, until at length, with his eyes set upon the far lights of the boat which represented man, of whom he was forsaken, and never once upon the stars, above which was enthroned the God whom he had rejected, Melville gave up the impossible task of living, and the last mechanical effort ceased.
When Lavender knocked away the keystone of the vaulted arch beneath which Ralph Ashley was confined, the fabric fell to pieces easily. Provided with a copy of her depositions, the police sought Mr. Tracy, and next day he was engaged with the Treasury solicitors discussing the Fairbridge murder in the light of the new facts, and gathering together sufficient evidence to corroborate her statement and set the suspect free.
Of this, the most important part was Melville's pencilled note, which reached Mr. Tracy about five o'clock the following evening. In itself his suicide was held to be sufficient; that he had thrown himself overboard was beyond question. It was proved that he had gone on board the packet at Dover and that he was not on board at Calais; his Gladstone bag was there, with the note and the enclosures, and what had happened in the interval was self-evident. He, too, bore witness to his brother's innocence, and although, like Lavender, he did not say who the murderer was, it was a simple matter to name him now. All that was necessary was to prove that it was he who rowed Lavender to Fairbridge the day the murder was committed.
To do this was not very difficult. Lucille and Jervis both could prove that Lavender had been to Jermyn Street the day before the crime. The maid could swear that on the following morning her mistress went out for the day, taking a basket containing luncheon for two people, and that she returned in the evening terribly agitated and wet through. The valet could swear that Mrs. Sinclair took tea with Melville and asked him to take her out next day; he had overheard that much, although he did not overhear the answer, but he swore that next morning his master told him that he was going out and would not require anything during the day; that he was wearing flannels when he spoke, and that those garments were soiled and creased as if they had got wet when on the following Monday they were sent to the laundry. The manager acknowledged his surprise at finding Melville in when he answered the bell in the evening, for it was unusual for him to pass an entire afternoon in his rooms without requiring service of any kind, and his professed ignorance of Jervis's absence was odd, in view of the fact that he had himself given the leave of absence. Careful investigation showed that the time permitted of his going to Fairbridge and returning by the hour he saw the manager. The lock keeper at St. Martin's proved that a lady and gentleman had hired his last boat, and left it outside the lock on their return in order to make a rush to catch a train just due, which they must have missed if they had waited to go through the lock to the boathouse, and which would have got him back to Jermyn Street in time to change and affect to have been at home all day; In Melville's rooms, moreover, the police found ammunition similar to that found in the gun-room at the Manor House, but no trace of the revolver which it fitted. Jervis had often seen it, and swore that Melville generally carried it in his hip pocket. Was it not, therefore, the one that Lavender declared her companion had used and afterwards dropped into the river? Did not Ralph's possession of its fellow prove his own innocence and not his guilt, as Mr. Tracy had always contended?
Nor when it came to the question of motive was there any other difficulty. The perjury Melville had committed in denying all knowledge of Lady Holt's existence, and the inferences to be drawn from Sir Geoffrey's accounts, pointed directly to the motive. The story Ralph had told to Mr. Tracy of the hundred pounds explained the rest. Sir Geoffrey had paid Melville's debts and given him a final two hundred and fifty pounds. That Melville lost at Monte Carlo, where he was when Ralph wrote to him for the loan. He applied to his uncle for further help and got a hundred pounds, as the cheque itself attested. Yet, in spite of the fraud and its penalties, only averted by Ralph's generosity, Melville went back to Fairbridge and got more money from his uncle, as the cheque book again demonstrated. On what plea did he get those further funds? Obviously, under the false pretence that Lady Holt, whom, as her letter showed, he had seen in the brief interval, was in poor circumstances; or else, perhaps, as hush-money from his uncle, who believed that his wife was dead.
Finally, Sir Geoffrey made a will and refused to give Melville another penny for himself or for Lavender, and then Melville shot his uncle, either in a paroxysm of rage at being baffled, or hoping to benefit under some intestacy, for the will was only executed a few days before the tragedy. The whole story was complete, and could no longer be withstood. Within the briefest possible period the Crown dropped the case against Ralph Ashley, and he was free.
It was with a face stern and hard as granite that Ralph listened to Mr. Tracy's disclosure of this horrible betrayal by his brother. He had been looking death in the face, and its visage had almost turned him to stone, although it could not make his high courage quail. It would have been bad enough if the traitor had been any other man, but that it should be his own brother, with whom he had played as a child, dreamed such fair dreams, and thought such long, long thoughts, was the most cruel blow fate had ever dealt him. He marvelled at the cool courage with which Melville had pitted himself against the devil, and played the game right to the end. He shuddered as he tried to picture what the end was like, when, with a certain pagan courage, Melville threw himself into death's cold embrace. The life was incomprehensible to him, but the death he could find it in his heart to commend.
With Mr. Tracy he left the prison, of which the high walls had been suffocating him so long.
"I will telegraph to Gwendolen at once," he said, "saying I will be home to-morrow night and asking her to await me there. I will go up to London with you now; there is a lot that I must do."
His whole occupation that first day of freedom was characteristic of the man. Everything that could be devised to spare his brother's memory he thought of and arranged—everything, that is, that did not detract from the absolute declaration of his own innocence. He provided for the payment of Melville's debts, from the greatest to the least, took possession of his personal effects, so that nothing might fall into the hands of curious strangers, and gave his whole wardrobe and a generous gratuity to Jervis on the understanding that he should preserve silence as to his late master's shortcomings. And Jervis acted loyally in accordance with the understanding, for he had been a good and even affectionate servant to Melville, who had always been kind and generous to him; he was, indeed, Melville's sincerest mourner.
Ralph thought of all who had contributed, in however small a degree, to his acquittal. Lucille was broken-hearted by Lavender's death, and would accept nothing at his hands.
"I don't need it," she said. "Mrs. Sinclair has left me everything she had, and they tell me I shall never need to work again. I'm going home to Geneva as soon as ever I can."
She listened gratefully to Ralph's words of sympathy.
"You've had a lot to put up with," she sobbed, "but don't you believe my mistress was a bad woman. She was frightened into holding her tongue. Your brother frightened her. She was a changed woman from the first unhappy day he crossed her path, and didn't dare stand up to him; but whatever she did, no one shall say to me that she was a wicked woman."
And when Ralph soothed her she looked up at him with eyes that were most pathetic.
"I don't know how you can be so forgiving when you've been so wronged, I can't forgive your brother. But oh! how I wish that it was you instead of him who came into her life! You could have told her, if she had done wrong by Sir Geoffrey Holt, how to put it right, and she would have done it. She never did a wrong thing knowingly in all her life;" and, indeed, until fear came upon her and upset her judgment as to the proportion of things, Lucille's epitaph upon her mistress was truer than many an epitaph graven on stone and lying in cathedrals.
Next day Ralph arrived at Fairbridge. He acknowledged silently the greetings of the knot of people gathered at the station. The situation was not free from embarrassment for them; their joy at his complete acquittal would have found expression in some tumultuous welcome but for the thought of his brother, by the chance exposure of whose treachery that acquittal had been secured.
Martin stood at the gate of the Manor House bareheaded, and Ralph put out both his hands.
"So I have come home safe, Martin,"
"The Lord be praised for it!" the butler said; "the Lord be praised for it! But, oh! poor Master Melville!" and the tears broke out and poured down the old fellow's withered cheeks.
"Poor Melville!" echoed Ralph. "Well, we can't forget it, Martin, but we can forgive him—you and I. Surely if anybody can forgive him it is you and I—because he was——"
He could not finish; the sight of the faithful old servant sobbing as he bent over his hands was too much for him, and the words died away into a groan.
"God bless you, you dear old Martin! Who can doubt of God when such kind hearts as yours are beating round them? Come, you must take me to missy."
So Martin led the way to the library, where Gwendolen stood alone, very pale and nervous, but very sweet. He opened the door and tried to say Ralph's name, but it would not come, and with his hands before his face he ran away and left them alone together.
* * * * *
That that part of the world which had inclined to believe in Ralph's guilt hastened to shower congratulations upon him goes without saying, but the recipient of them displayed something more than his wonted taciturnity in his acknowledgment of them. Almost more than anything else, he resented the fact that anybody who knew him could suppose him capable of such rank ingratitude as to kill his only friend and benefactor. He tried to explain his brother's life by some theory of criminal insanity, some lack of moral sense, which made him not wholly responsible for all his actions; but for the lack of charity displayed by so many of the average men and women of the world he had nothing but savage detestation.
As soon as practicable after his release he married Gwendolen, and spent the winter and spring with her abroad, only returning when early summer was painting the Manor House garden in its fairest colours of leaf and flower.
Mrs. Austen welcomed them with delight, gladly abdicating her position as regent of the Manor House in favour of its new mistress, and returning with unfeigned relief to the familiar surroundings of her own home at The Grange.
"No, I won't stay to-night," she said, after giving them the sort of welcome one can only get in English homes. "You don't really want me, and I must go and sacrifice to my own household gods. I've deserted them much too long as it is."
So the night of their return they dined alone, and after dinner walked down to the houseboat. It was inevitable that their doing so should recall sharply all the story in which they had played so important a part, and for the first time for months they spoke of it by mutual accord.
"This houseboat will always be associated in my mind with some of the supreme moments in my life," Gwendolen said softly. "It was here that you proposed to me, here that Mr. Anstruther arrested you, and here that we are spending our first evening together at home—all three times when one's heart seems full to bursting."
Ralph looked at her gravely.
"Last time was a bad one, Gwen," he said, in his deep voice. "It was an awful business!"
She stroked his hand, and the hard lines in his face were softened.
"Let it make the present good time seem all the better by contrast," she rejoined. "After all, God's in His heaven, Ralph."
"Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose so; but that wasn't the thought that kept my pluck up during those weeks of suspense."
"What did?" she asked.
"The thought of you," he answered, "and your belief in me. The knowledge that you loved me and had faith in me made me swear to keep the flag flying, don't you know. It wasn't the thought that God was in His heaven and all that. As a matter of fact, all seemed very wrong with the world."
Gwendolen checked him.
"You ought to have remembered that He gave you the love, if it meant so much," she said. "Sometimes I've thought that if Melville had really loved somebody it would have made all the difference and helped to make a good man of him."
"Possibly," Ralph answered. "The only thing Melville ever loved was money—that was at the bottom of it all."
"And so he had nothing to take him away from himself," Gwendolen said. "Even if he hadn't been loved in return, the affection would have made him unselfish, or at any rate less selfish."
She spoke with obvious ignorance of the fact that if there was one individual for whom Melville felt anything like affection it was herself, and Ralph looked at her in some surprise, for on more than one occasion he had been very much aware of it. Melville deserved some credit for not having told the girl of it, for to love and not to be loved in return by Gwendolen was enough to make any man incline to go to the bad, and it looked as if Melville had acted better than usual in refraining from revealing his affection and trying to cut his brother out. But the whole thing was unutterably painful still, and his heart ached when his thoughts turned, as they often did, to his last sight of Melville standing in the witness box, so handsome, so calm and self-possessed, apparently so eager in his desire to help Ralph out of danger, and all the while betraying him with a kiss. His wife heard his sigh and stopped it with a caress, and the touch of her lips brought back happiness. So they remained in silent content, thanking God that the trouble was overpast and that they were together and at home.
The faint notes of distant music were borne to them upon the breeze and died away again, but the sound suggested something else to Gwendolen.
"Ralph, I meant to ask you before. Will you give me Melville's violin?"
"Of course," he answered, "if you want it. But you can't play it, can you?"
"No," she replied. "I shall not even try, but I should like to have it. He was a great musician. I will keep his violin in memory of the one great talent God gave him, of which he never made anything but a perfectly good use."
"You are a good woman, Gwendolen!" Ralph said, with admiration. "It's just like you to have a pretty idea of that kind. It will help me a bit, too," he added reflectively. "I find it none too easy to forget about—all that, and I should like to remember only what was good about him. His music was exquisite."
And so in the old Manor House at Fairbridge the Amati, from whose strings Melville drew harmonies that thrilled the soul of all who heard them, remains as a perpetual reminder of the one thing he did supremely well. The magic spell it wove when it spoke in response to his command was as nothing to the spell it weaves by its silence now, helping them to forget all his sinfulness, and reminding them only of the one great talent God gave him of which he never made aught but a perfectly good use.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE.