The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPyramids of snowThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Pyramids of snowAuthor: Edith MetcalfeRelease date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72428]Most recently updated: February 5, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1903Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PYRAMIDS OF SNOW ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Pyramids of snowAuthor: Edith MetcalfeRelease date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72428]Most recently updated: February 5, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1903Credits: Al Haines
Title: Pyramids of snow
Author: Edith Metcalfe
Author: Edith Metcalfe
Release date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72428]Most recently updated: February 5, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1903
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PYRAMIDS OF SNOW ***
"'Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out.'" (Page 83.)"'Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out.'" (Page 83.)
BY
EDITH METCALFE.
"I can tell you without the help of an augur what will be your fate you become a gambler. Either the vice will end by swallowing you up alive as a quicksand does, or if you are a winner, your gains will disappear more quickly than they came, melting like pyramids of snow."
WILLIAM DE BRITAINE.
LONDON:WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.1903
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IThe Viaticum
CHAPTER II.The Best Thing in the World
CHAPTER III.Fraud
CHAPTER IV.Mediation
CHAPTER V.Kindred and Affinity
CHAPTER VI.Bravado
CHAPTER VII.Melville leads Trumps
CHAPTER VIII.Rivals
CHAPTER IX.Bigamy
CHAPTER X.Light come, Light go
CHAPTER XI.Mrs. Sinclair pays a Visit
CHAPTER XII.A Pic-nic
CHAPTER XIII.Murder
CHAPTER XIV.The Finding of the Body
CHAPTER XV.Flight
CHAPTER XVI.An Unexpected Will
CHAPTER XVII.An Arrest
CHAPTER XVIII.A Faithful Servant
CHAPTER XIX.In the Park
CHAPTER XX.Money makes a Difference
CHAPTER XXI.The Result of the Trial
CHAPTER XXII.Mr. Tracy becomes Active
CHAPTER XXIII.Sir Ross is Quits
CHAPTER XXIV.Mrs. Sinclair Resolves to Go Away
CHAPTER XXV.Mrs. Sinclair Goes away
CHAPTER XXVI.Fate takes the Odd Trick
CHAPTER XXVII.The Place of Peace
PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.
Upon most of the people who thronged the rooms the incident was lost. Of those who saw it many did not understand its meaning, and the rest were too much absorbed in their own affairs to give it any attention. The scene was the Casino at Monte Carlo; every chair was occupied, and behind every chair men and women were standing, all intent upon the play, all consumed by the feverish thirst of winning money born of the atmosphere of the place. The brilliant light flashed in jewels and gleamed in eager eyes, heightened the colour of flushed cheeks and emphasised the pallor of haggard faces; against the black evening coat of one man sitting down was outlined the bare arm of a woman, who laid her stake upon the table, and when the hand was withdrawn it still hesitated over the black coat until the fortune of the stake should be declared. Dominating everything was the monotonous sound of the croupiers' voices and the noise of the money as it was raked to and fro upon the tables.
The incident which took place in this scene was a not uncommon one. It was a little procession of three men, one a dark, good-looking man in well-cut evening dress, who walked nonchalantly through the rooms, pausing almost imperceptibly while his two companions shot a glance of interrogation at each of the croupiers; when the croupiers, in reply, had shot a glance of assent at his companions, the dark man moved on again until he had almost completed his tour of the rooms. It was Melville Ashley undergoing the process of identification as a well-known frequenter of the rooms before receiving theviaticumwhich should enable him to return to London.
It is the habit of the Englishman to conceal his feelings, and no one could have guessed from Melville's demeanour whether he experienced relief at having come to the end of his tether, regret at knowing that he could play no more that season, mortification at his somewhat humiliating position, or any other emotion which one may suppose natural to a gambler who is suddenly baulked in his pursuits. He seemed entirely unconcerned, perhaps a little bored, but certainly in complete possession of himself. To the few people who, knowing him, found time to vouchsafe him a nod of greeting, he bowed pleasantly enough. Of the existence of the others he appeared unaware, though, in point of fact, his senses were so alert that he could have supplied a remarkably close description of everyone had he been asked to do so. For the time the gambling fever had left him, and with the vanishing of his last coin there awoke in his mind an intense disgust at the heavy scent in the air and the grotesque sight of the many pairs of white gloves. He was only anxious for the great baize doors to swing behind him and exclude him from what was generally the one desire of his heart.
Only once did he betray any interest. A woman leaning back in her chair put out her hand to detain him. She understood the significance of his escort, and there was some commiseration in her eyes.
"Are you going home, Mr. Ashley?" she asked, in a low tone.
"Yes," he answered, with a little smile; "I leave to-night."
In those conventional words was conveyed a perfectly frank confession of the state of his finances. No need to invent any explanation of so sudden a departure. His questioner was well enough acquainted with the language of the place to know that he had pledged his word to return at once to London, in consideration of value received.
"I'm sorry," she said, and looked as if she meant it; "but I daresay I shall be following you soon, and then, perhaps, we may meet again. London is a tiny little place."
"Yes," Melville assented politely; "but wouldn't it be as well if you gave me one of your cards?"
"I haven't any," said Mrs. Sinclair, smiling lightly, for she liked a sportsmanlike loser. "Men always carry cards—in case of duels, I suppose, but women have no room in their purses for anything but money, and nowhere but their purses to put anything else. Give me one of yours, and I will write to you."
"That is too good of you," he replied, as he gave her one; "but of course you will forget all about it. Good-night, good-bye."
"Auf wiedersehen," she answered prettily, and turned to her companion on her left, who had watched the little comedy with a scowl upon his face. Melville noted the scowl and bowed sardonically as he moved away. To be conscious of superiority to anyone is satisfactory in one's hour of discomfiture, and Melville derived a complacent satisfaction from this little man's evident annoyance.
"The little bounder doesn't like me," he thought, "but he's a little ass to show it. He must be very rich for Mrs. Sinclair to be willing to lay aside her weeds for him."
The doors swung behind him, and in another moment Melville was in the open air. He stretched out his arms in pure enjoyment of the lovely night.
"I am infinitely obliged to you," he said to his escort; "the other trifling formalities will, doubtless, be completed in due course;" and in what seemed an incredibly short time Melville was on his way to London.
Inside the Casino, the little bounder turned to his companion.
"Since you have no room in your purse for visiting cards," he said, "may I not keep that one in safe custody for you?"
"Thanks, no," the woman answered, and slipped it inside her dress; "I haven't finished playing yet, and my luck is in to-night."
"Would you be as kind to me," he pursued, "if I had to have recourse to the charity of the bank to pay my fare to London? Or would you drop me when my money went?"
Mrs. Sinclair looked at him coolly.
"Don't ask leading questions, and please don't make yourself ridiculous. Civility costs nothing, and it amused me to be civil to that—gentleman."
"It is rare for you to be amused with anything that costs nothing," he retorted, but Mrs. Sinclair would not be drawn. She began to play again, and, when at last she stopped, the little man's carrying capacity was taxed to take her winnings back to her hotel.
It would be a vain task to try to record all Melville Ashley's thoughts as the train bore him across France; in the aggregate they amounted to little less than a comprehensive cursing of everything and everybody, including himself. For his position was desperate.
The younger son of his parents, both of whom had died while he was still an infant, he had been brought up with his brother Ralph under the guardianship of his uncle, Sir Geoffrey Holt, lord of the manor of Fairbridge, in Surrey, whose co-heir, at any rate, he hoped some day to be. Sir Geoffrey had played his part well, placing every advantage in the way of both his nephews, but as the years slipped by he found it difficult to be quite impartial in his personal treatment of the two lads, though he never failed to be impartial in his dealings with them so far as they affected the education and up-bringing of the boys.
It was Ralph, however, who engrossed his uncle's affection, and something in Melville's nature rose in rebellion at the thought that he came second in the estimation of any person. Both boys were handsome, Melville especially so; both were well endowed with intelligence, and both took advantage of their opportunities. But whereas Ralph developed into a frank and unaffected man, fond of athletics and outdoor pursuits, Melville became more and more self-centred and reserved, devoting all his time to his one absorbing love of music. Manhood brought liberty, and liberty in Melville's case brought lack of self-restraint. His finer qualities led him into a certain sort of temptation, and the men with whom his rare musical talents brought him into contact were of a free and easy Bohemian type that did not afford the most healthy companionship for a young fellow of his particular temperament. Musical evenings led to smoking concerts, and the concerts to late nights of which other and less innocent amusements were the principal feature; billiards and cards became first a habit and then a passion, and Melville was still in his early twenties when it was obvious that he was a confirmed gambler.
Sir Geoffrey was patient and he was rich, but detestation of the gambler was added to his dislike of his younger nephew, and more than one violent quarrel had taken place between the two. It says much for the elder man that he never referred to the position of absolute dependence occupied by the younger one; but when, a few weeks before, Melville came to him with the oft-repeated tale, Sir Geoffrey spoke his mind in the vernacular.
"Let me know the sum total of your accursed debts," he said, "if you have the honesty or the wit to remember them, and I will clean the slate. Then I will give you a final two hundred and fifty for yourself, and that shall be the end."
When Melville gave him the damning list of debts, Sir Geoffrey bit his lips until they bled. Livery stables, and wine and cigar merchants told a tale of luxurious living which Sir Geoffrey himself had never been able to afford in his younger days, and there were other items not precisely specified, into which the elder man thought it better not to enquire too curiously. But he kept his word. He drew crossed cheques payable to every person named in the list for the full amount, and demanded a receipt from each in full discharge of his nephew's liability. When the last receipt came in, after a miserable week of waiting, he sent for Melville to his library.
"Is that the last?" he enquired grimly, and Melville assented. Then Sir Geoffrey sat down at his table and drew one cheque more. "There is the two hundred and fifty I promised you," he said; "make the best use of it you can, for it is the last you ever have from me. The dog-cart will take you to the station in half-an-hour." Then he turned on his heel and left him, and Melville returned to town.
Five weeks before! And now the whole of the money was gone. With all his ingenuity it would be difficult to invent a story which his uncle would be likely to accept as a valid explanation of so surprising a fact.
Melville lighted a cigar and cursed his luck again.
Then the gambler's spirit re-asserted itself. He had had a glorious time at Monte Carlo while it lasted. One night he had won more than five thousand pounds, and another night the bank had to send out twice for fresh supplies of money. That was the time of triumph. People had crowded round him, some to follow his play, some to envy, some to congratulate him, and among them he had seen Lavender Sinclair for the first time: a magnificent woman truly, with splendid colouring and grandly moulded limbs; she wore turquoise velvet, he remembered, and round her neck a barbaric collar of turquoise bosses linked together on red gold; even in that room, where jewels were as common as morals were rare, her jewels were conspicuous, and she wore them perfectly. Some acquaintance introduced him to her, and she seemed interested in hearing his name—had met people who knew him, or some distant kinsmen, but there was no indication of any desire on her part to press the acquaintance. She was in the ripest glory of her beauty, the sort that is at its best when it is mature. He wondered idly how old she was, over thirty certainly; but, after all, it did not matter. Rumour had it that she was going to marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and Melville was contemptuous of her choice of a second husband; he knew the man by sight, an undersized, rather weakly fellow, who inherited an old title from his father and, it was said, two millions sterling from his mother. Sir Ross was a pill that required an unusual amount of gilding, and Melville's first admiration of the woman was replaced by scorn of her venality. She was sympathetic though when he bade her good-bye, and Melville appreciated sympathy.
The journey was very tedious, so Melville opened his dressing-case and took out a packet of letters which had reached him at the hotel, but to which he had not troubled to attend. Several he tore up and threw away, but there was one which he carefully replaced in its envelope in his bag. It was from his brother, and ran as follows:
"DEAR MELVILLE,—Why didn't you tell me you were going to Monte Carlo? However, I hope you are enjoying yourself and having good luck. By the way, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Can you lend me a hundred for a fortnight? I will repay you then. My solicitors are selling some capital for me, but they are so slow, and I am in immediate want of the money. Do write soon.—Yours ever, RALPH ASHLEY. P.S.—Have you heard of my engagement to Gwendolen Austen?"
"So he is hard up, too," Melville muttered. "No, I wouldn't lend him fifty pounds if I had fifty thousand to-morrow. And engaged to Gwendolen is he? I wonder if I can put an end to that. If she were my wife I might even win the old man round again."
Then his mind reverted to his immediate difficulties, and he went over the old useless ground of trying to think of some way to raise the wind, failing once more to see any light at all, as indeed he was bound to fail, since honest work did not come into his most casual consideration.
It was not, however, until he found himself in his chambers in Jermyn Street that he fully realised how he had come to the end of all things. There were invitations awaiting him which he could not accept for lack of ready money; little accounts which he would have been only too glad to hand over to his uncle if he had remembered their existence; all insignificant enough individually, but totalling up to a considerable sum; private tips from hangers-on at stables, which were certain to be good since he could not avail himself of them; letters from women suggesting trips up the river or supper after the play; even letters from friends saying they were hard up, and reminding him of small obligations under which he lay to them. Melville felt as if he were at last at bay, with all his worries like so many starving wolves tearing him down to his destruction. And worse than all was the extreme physical reaction from the unwholesome life of excitement he had lately been leading at Monte Carlo. While that life lasted no fatigue oppressed him. A tumbler of champagne or a stiff pick-me-up from a chemist always availed to keep him going. But now the excitement was over. The curtain was rung down, the lights were all turned out, he was alone with his troubles, and had no pluck left to face them. In sheer weariness he turned into bed and slept the sleep of deep exhaustion.
Even while Melville, with despair gnawing at his heart, was speeding on his journey back to England, Sir Geoffrey Holt was keeping festival at Fairbridge Manor. That very evening he had given a final dinner party to celebrate the betrothal of his god-child, Gwendolen Austen, to his favourite nephew, Ralph Ashley.
In the whole of a land which is proud to claim as its children so many fair women and brave men, it would be difficult to find a fairer woman or a braver man than now engrossed Sir Geoffrey's thoughts, and in their approaching union he looked to see the culmination of his own happiness. It was infinitely pleasant to know that the two, over whose lives he had watched so tenderly, would never leave him now, but hand-in-hand would walk in quiet contentment by his side, lightening the burden of his increasing years, and giving him fresh pleasure in their own unfolding joys. No man could ever hope to win richer reward for his unfailing goodness to others than Sir Geoffrey was reaping now for his long care of this boy and girl.
So he threw wide his hospitable doors, and asked the county to come and shower congratulations upon the happy couple. For a week he kept open house, and his pleasure was so apparent, his high spirits so contagious, that he made himself loved the more by his unaffected delight and his manner of displaying it. To his succession of dinner parties practically the entire county came, until both Ralph and Gwendolen were at a loss to find fresh ways of saying, "Thank you," for so many expressions of goodwill.
But this evening had brought the entertainments to a close, and when Sir Geoffrey, standing by his open door, had bade the latest guest good-bye, he turned with a sigh of satisfaction into the great hall where his children, as he called them, were laughing over some incident which had amused them during the day.
Sir Geoffrey pulled his god-daughter towards him and held her face between his hands.
"The last guest gone," he said, smiling at her; "now, Gwen, confess you are not sorry."
"I didn't know there was so much kindness in the world," she answered, smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining; "but I confess I am glad we are all by ourselves again."
"Tired?" he asked.
"Not a bit," she answered brightly; "unless it be of seeming to occupy so much attention."
"And you don't want to go to bed?"
"Indeed, no," she said indignantly. "When one is as happy as I am it would be a shame to spend a single hour asleep."
"Then let us go down to the house-boat," Sir Geoffrey said. "I daresay Ralph can manage to amuse you somehow, and I want to talk to your mother."
"Do you want to talk to me, Ralph?" said Gwendolen, turning to her lover, who was looking at her with affectionate pride.
"I don't seem to have had a chance of talking to you for a week," Ralph answered promptly. "Let's go at once and—and get a deck chair ready for your mother."
Sir Geoffrey chuckled.
"An admirable reason for both of you hurrying away. Ralph is too weak to move one by himself; you must help him, Gwendolen."
Ralph put a wrap round Gwendolen, and, linking her arm in his, went through the French window across the garden.
It was a glorious night. A full moon shed a mellow splendour across the lawns, throwing the masses of the cedars into bold relief against the sky, and glinting in all the diamond panes of the heavy-leaded windows. Over the phloxes and tobacco plants that adorned the borders great moths were wheeling, and bats were flickering in and out of the plantation that screened the stables from the house. As the garden sloped towards the river the turf was more closely shaven, and along the water's edge were sunk pots in which magnificent geraniums and sweet heliotrope were growing.
Moored by the extreme boundary of the garden Ralph's house-boat lay; it contained a little bedroom and two sitting-rooms, fragrant with flowers and light with mirrors and thin curtains, and the upper part, covered in with a pale green awning, was a mass of flowers and palms. Here were deck chairs, and little tables, and Japanese lanterns.
Ralph put two chairs ready for Mrs. Austen and Sir Geoffrey, and then looked at Gwendolen.
"Shall we wait here for them, or would you like me to punt you up the stream?"
"Let us stay here," she answered; "somehow——"
"Yes?" he said enquiringly.
"Somehow I fancy the others will not come," she said, rippling with laughter. "Sir Geoffrey is always so thoughtful."
Ralph took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.
"I love you—I love you," he said, between set teeth, and Gwendolen drew a sigh of perfect content. "If it could always be like this," he went on. "Just you and I in the peace, with the river and the moonlight to reflect our happiness."
But Gwendolen shook her head.
"You would soon tire of that," she said, and when he would have demurred laid her hand upon his lips. "I hope you would, at any rate, for I would not like you to be a lotos-eater dreaming your days away. There is so much to do in the world, Ralph, and surely we, to whom so much has been given, would not wish to give nothing in return."
He kissed the hand that caressed him.
"Tell me what I am to do."
Gwendolen considered.
"It is not easy to see just at first," she admitted, "but work, like charity, begins at home. You will be a good master to your household, and will take an active interest in the estate. You will be so anxious to make the tenants happier in their respective stations that you will be surprised to find how many things go to make up their lives. Life is a big bundle of little things, you know, not a little bundle of big ones. If you really set your heart upon doing good you will never stop for lack of something to do. That is a wonderful thought, Ralph: there is no end to the good you can do in the world."
"Go on," he said tenderly; "go on, dear, good little woman!"
"That is only thinking of your life at home," said Gwendolen; "but there are wider interests outside. I should like you to make a name for yourself in the great world; it might be in philanthropy, it might be in politics. I'm often sorry you have no profession, but the world has always need of good men, and I won't let you hold wool for me while the world wants one pair of honest hands. Oh! Ralph, wouldn't that be more worth while than idling your life away, even if it could always be like this?"
"Much more worth while," he answered gravely. "You have made me happy; you will make me good; you may make me famous. That is a great deal for one little woman to do for a man. What am I to do in return for you?"
"Only love me," she said. "Love me always as you do now; never any less tenderly or truly, even when the other interests are nearer than they are to-night. What more can you do than give me love—the best thing in the world?"
"I think I may safely promise that," Ralph said, and his deep voice quivered. What had he done that Providence should heap blessings on him so lavishly? For what had already been bestowed upon him he could never show sufficient gratitude, and now there was the crowning gift of all—the love of a pure and beautiful girl, whom he knew he had loved all his life.
Gwendolen lay back in one of the deck chairs, and Ralph, leaning against the wooden railing, feasted his eyes upon the picture that she made. In a dress of whitemousseline-de-soie, trimmed with rare point lace, she looked ethereally beautiful in this setting of coloured lamps and lovely flowers. Her hands were clasped upon her lap, and the moonlight caught the diamonds in the ring that he had given her, and even sought out the little diamond drop that did duty as an earring. Against the scarlet cushions on which she reclined her fair skin showed like ivory, and Ralph was filled with something akin to amazement that this incarnation of all that was sweet and lovely in English womanhood would soon be his to have and to hold for ever.
Her eyes, large, brown, and true, were fixed steadfastly on him, and found no less pleasure in what they saw than his did. In his evening dress Ralph looked taller than the six feet that he actually measured; fair hair curled crisply over a sun-tanned face, in every line of which frank candour was written, and his athletic figure was graceful in every involuntary pose. Gwendolen had reason to be proud of her lover as he thus stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and she made no secret of it to herself that she found pleasure in his unconscious show of great strength in restraint. He could kill her with so little effort of those well-shaped, nervous hands, and yet one look from her could make his whole frame tremble.
So in silence they communed together, as is the way with lovers who know that no words can express a tithe of their deep emotion. And, indeed, while lovers have eyes to see, they do not need tongues to speak. Silence is best when two hearts are in accord.
The silence was broken by Sir Geoffrey's voice talking to Mrs. Austen as they came over the velvety turf. Sir Geoffrey helped his companion on to the houseboat and followed her up the stairway.
"Forgive us for being so long, Gwendolen," he said in his cheery, bantering fashion. "I hope my nephew has been doing his best to entertain you."
"He has been behaving very nicely," Gwendolen replied, "and I think you have brought him up very well."
"I told Martin to bring us some coffee and liqueurs," Sir Geoffrey went on, "and I'm going to smoke, if you ladies will allow me, and look at the reflections in the water, and fancy I'm young again."
Mrs. Austen protested.
"You are young, until you feel old," she said, "and you don't feel that to-night."
"No, I don't," said Sir Geoffrey stoutly. "This is an ideal ending to one of the happiest days of my life, and if a man is only as old as he feels, I shall come of age on Ralph's wedding-day." He lighted a cigar and flung the match into the river. "Have a cigar, Ralph? I'm sure you have earned it." The old fellow was pleased that his nephew could not chime in with his trivial chatter, and pulling up a chair by Gwendolen's side, he patted her hand. "Happy, Gwen?" he asked, and as the answering smile dawned in the girl's dark eyes, he wiped his own, which suddenly grew misty. "That's right, that's right," he said quickly. "Ah! here is Martin with the tray."
Allured by the material pleasures of tobacco and liqueurs, Ralph descended to earth again, and soon the little party were laughing and chatting merrily enough. Soft strains of music from another houseboat were carried down to them, and presently a young fellow poled a racing punt swiftly down the stream; two swans floated out from underneath the trees, rocking gracefully on the water ruffled by the punt; and from the tender came suggestively domestic sounds as the old butler put away the cups and saucers and decanted whiskey for the men.
Then presently they strolled back to the manor house and lingered for a little in the hall; and while Ralph took his time to bid Gwendolen good-night, Sir Geoffrey found opportunity to say a few more words to Mrs. Austen.
"I wish I could tell you how happy I am," he said. "I have hoped for this all my life, and now it has come to pass. They both are worthy of each other, and to see such happiness as theirs is almost as good as having it oneself."
Mrs. Austen cordially agreed, but she wondered if Sir Geoffrey's hearty words were at all belied by the sigh that accompanied them. Yet she stifled the suspicion as it was born, for no woman lives long enough to give her child in marriage without learning the truth that underlies the words:
"Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those thattell of saddest thought."
Then, with the curiosity of her sex, she wondered again, as she had so often wondered before, why Sir Geoffrey Holt himself had never married.
Rather more than a week elapsed, during which Melville saw practically nothing of the outer world. His chambers were at the top of the house in Jermyn Street, the suite consisting of a sitting, bed, and bath rooms, which he rented furnished for seventy pounds a year. His food and attendance were all supplied to him by the general manager of the house, and his credit for these bare necessaries of life was still good. So Melville gave orders to the hall porter to reply uniformly to all enquirers that he was not at home, and remained in his chambers steeped in dull melancholy. One evening he stole out and pawned his violin, but that very night he lost nearly all the proceeds of the transaction in some utterly foolish wager, and the next morning he woke up face to face with the fact that he only possessed ten shillings in the world. It was pouring with rain and the wind was howling round the balustrade outside his windows. Melville shivered; he felt cold and ill, and recollected that he had eaten no dinner the night before. He rang the bell and told the valet, whose services he shared with the other tenants on his floor, to bring him up some breakfast and some shaving water.
"What is the time?" he asked curtly, as the man came from his bedroom to say the shaving water was ready.
"About twelve, sir. I will bring up your breakfast in a quarter of an hour."
Melville turned to the window again. If only the rain would stop! And how he missed his violin! No human being could realise what his instrument had been to him, or what a wrench it had been to part with it. He felt utterly destitute.
"What am I to do?" he muttered vainly. "Sir Geoffrey—no, it's worse than useless to apply to him—last time was the last time, unless some marvellous inspiration helps me to pitch some plausible yarn."
While he was still harping on the one perpetual theme, the valet returned with his breakfast, and Melville drank some tea and disposed of some excellent kidneys.
"I was getting quite faint," he said to the man who was attending to him. "Don't bother about things this morning. I shall go out presently, and you can do whatever you've got to do then."
"It's a very wet day, sir," the other answered.
"Wet?" said Melville disgustedly. "I should think it is wet. The weather certainly means business." He drank some more tea and lighted a cigarette. "By the way, put out my dress clothes early this evening. I probably shall not be dining at home."
The valet hesitated.
"Have you any more linen in any other portmanteau, sir?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," Melville replied testily. "You'd better look and see. Anyhow, find some."
The valet looked still more uncomfortable.
"I sent all I could find to the wash, sir," he stammered; "and the laundry people have refused to leave any clean linen until your account is settled."
Melville grew scarlet with anger.
"What do I owe them?" he asked.
"It's a little over four pounds, sir. Will you write a cheque?"
"No, I won't," said Melville shortly. "Go to the Burlington Arcade and tell my hosiers to send me over three dozen, and put them down in my account."
"Yes, sir," said the valet civilly, and left the room.
Melville laughed when the door closed behind the servant. When the devil laughs it is time for good folks to beware, and Melville felt like a fiend at that moment. It was grotesquely funny that he could get three dozen shirts on credit, but had not the money to pay his washerwoman. But the fact was a staggering reminder of his real position. He got up preparatory to going out, when he remembered that he had still to shave; he went, therefore, into his bedroom, and, having stropped his razor, took off his collar and tie and began to make a lather for his face.
And then suddenly the idea came to him with the force of a conviction that the way out of his trouble lay plain before him. It was the cowardly way which it yet requires a measure of courage to take. Death was the solution of the problem. He did not know how to live, but it was very simple to die. He sat down in a chair and, almost closing his eyes, peered at his reflection in the mirror. Very little paler—only with eyes quite closed—he would not look very different presently if he did this thing. And, unless his courage failed him in the act, it would not hurt. Then what would happen? The scene here, in this room, with the dead body stretched upon the floor, was easy to imagine. It might not be very appalling. Had he ever contemplated such a deed before he would have provided himself with some poison, which, while it was as fatal as the razor blade, would not disfigure him; for to the living man the idea of being disfigured after death is always repugnant. But he had no poison, and here was the razor ready to his hand. He would be found quite soon—but it must not be too soon—and he rose and stealthily locked the outer door.
Again he sat before the impassive mirror. There was no one who would care. In all the world, so far as Melville knew, there was no one who would care if he were dead, only a few who would resent the manner of his dying.
He had nothing left to lose. Penniless and friendless in the present, bankrupt of hope for the future, he had nothing material left to lose, at any rate, and he stood to gain emancipation from an environment to which he had ceased to be adapted.
He would have to draw the blade across his throat—so! He must do it very strongly, very swiftly, or he would fail.
The man leant forward on the dressing-table and gazed closely at himself in the glass; he saw exactly where he must make the gash, and without any hesitation or nervousness he felt the edge of the razor with the thumb of his left hand. As he did so he cut the skin, and some blood fell upon the snow-white cover of the table. In the extraordinary mental state in which he was, the horrible incongruity in his reasoning did not strike him, but, in actual fact, the bloodstain on the cloth gave him offence, and he paused and looked around him. This—would make such a mess! And there was a revolver in his bag. How stupid of him not to have remembered that! It had another advantage, too, for people might think the pistol had gone off by accident while he was cleaning it, whereas there could be no doubt about the intention in the other case. It mattered a great deal what people would think.
He laid down the razor on a chest of drawers and removed the soiled toilet cover from the dressing table. Then he went to his bag to take out his revolver. The valet had disarranged the contents of the bag, and Melville turned over a lot of things and could not find the little pistol case. Instead, his hand fell upon a heap of letters, and on the top of them was the one that had come to him from Ralph asking for a loan of a hundred pounds.
A sudden revulsion of thought made Melville sick and giddy. It was as if a gambler who had lost all but his last five-franc piece had, after hesitation, stakeden pleinand followed with a run of wins on single numbers. One cannot follow up the gambler's line of thought, but many a one whom that fortune befell would be almost sick to think how narrowly he missed his chance. Melville was a gambler pure and simple. An instant before he had been upon the very point of death because he did not know whence money could be got, and without money he did not want to live. Yet here in his bag was a letter which might mean at least a hundred pounds. Of course, he might lose his stake, but to kill himself without having made the venture was intolerable.
The physical endurance of the strongest man has its limitations, and Melville staggered into the sitting-room and threw himself into a great armchair. Here presently he was discovered by his valet, who was frightened by his master's complete collapse. Some hours passed by before he regained anything like his usual self-control, and then, resolutely putting out of his mind all thought of how close he had been to death, he began to consider the best time and manner of making his final venture to raise money.
A train left Waterloo at six-forty, which would land him at Fairbridge Manor at eight o'clock. If he went by that train he would in all probability find Sir Geoffrey Holt in a good humour after dinner. He even took the precaution of changing his clothes again, substituting a somewhat shabby lounge suit for his elaborate frock coat. "May as well look the part," he said sardonically to himself. "The Prodigal Son was a bit baggy at the knees, I imagine, and that is the scene I'm on in now. I shall have to draw on my imagination about the husks all the same."
There was something almost heroic—in a wicked fashion—in his effort to pull himself together, for his recent temptation to commit suicide had really shaken him. He drank freely of the spirits in his tantalus as he was dressing, and all the while tried to anticipate every difficulty in the interview before him.
"If only Ralph is out of the way I may pull it off. His letter will serve to account for one hundred of the last two-fifty, and I can gas about some forgotten bills to explain how most of the rest has gone. It's a fighting chance anyhow, and if I fail there is still the pistol."
From one thought sprang another.
"There is still the pistol!"
With a curiously furtive action Melville took the revolver from his portmanteau and slipped it into his pocket. Then he crept downstairs, and, hailing a hansom, drove to Waterloo.
But when the train steamed into Fairbridge Station, Melville was not in it. He was so restless that he could not endure the swaying of the carriage, and getting out two stations short of his destination he resolved to walk the rest of the way.
Leaving the high road he made his way down to the river and followed the towing path. It was getting dark, but the rain had ceased; the silence was intense, and the occasional splash of a water-rat startled him so much that he was angry with himself for being in so highly strung and nervous a condition.
When at last he reached the gardens of the Manor House he was feeling very shaky; he walked quickly towards the house, wondering, now the moment was at hand, how he should begin.
"Ralph may be cornered for money," he muttered, "but I notice he hasn't got rid of his houseboat. I wonder whether he is here to-night. Everything depends upon that."
He crept cautiously up to the dining-room windows and tried to peep through the blinds. As he did so he heard the front door open, and crouching down hid himself in some shrubbery. He recognised Sir Geoffrey's firm, quick step, and peering over the laurels saw his uncle walking with Ralph down the drive. He watched them shake hands, and saw Ralph walk briskly away; then he drew back among the laurels as Sir Geoffrey returned to the house and quietly closed the door.
"So Ralph is here to-night," said Melville under his breath; "my luck again!"
He felt horribly uncertain what to do. His first impulse was to follow Ralph, who might be going up to town, but he refrained, and walked softly down to the towing path again, turning round at every other step to see if Sir Geoffrey were coming. The evening grew colder, and Melville turned up the collar of his coat and stood back among the shadows, steadying himself against a tree.
"Perhaps that is Sir Geoffrey," he thought, as the sound of footsteps fell upon his ear. "No! it's someone going the other way. 'Pon my word, I'm beginning to feel quite guilty. Still—I'm not going back without seeing him. Perhaps I'd better go up to the house and get it over. Why can't he come down here as usual?"
He retraced his steps, and as he reached the garden gate came face to face with Sir Geoffrey, who, apparently, was not at all surprised to see him.
"How do you do, uncle?" Melville said. "I thought I would look you up."
"Very good of you, I'm sure," said Sir Geoffrey drily. "Have you just come from the station?"
"Yes, just this instant," Melville answered, without thinking.
"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey; "I suppose they must have put on a new down train. Did you meet Ralph?"
"No," said Melville shortly.
"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey again; "I thought not."
"Not a very promising beginning!" said Melville to himself; then he added aloud, "Is Ralph staying with you?"
"He has been," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's coming back to-morrow, so I am sorry I cannot offer you his room."
Melville was annoyed.
"I am not aware that I have asked you to give me his room, and I am aware that you prefer his company."
"That being so," said Sir Geoffrey, "it seems to me that you have chosen a somewhat unconventional hour for your visit."
"I've only just returned to England," Melville replied; "otherwise I should have called earlier."
"May I ask the object of your visit now you have called?" enquired Sir Geoffrey. "What is it you want?" and he looked keenly at his nephew.
"Well," Melville stammered, "the fact is I wanted to ask you to give me some more money. I—I——"
"But it's not two months since I gave you two hundred and fifty pounds," cried Sir Geoffrey. "What on earth have you done with that?"
Melville was at a loss how to begin the explanation he had invented.
"I've been away," he said lamely, "and ill, and—and it's gone."
"I can quite believe it's gone," said his uncle bitterly. "Money melts before you like pyramids of snow. I wonder you have the face to ask me again."
Melville flushed. He knew that Sir Geoffrey had detected him in one lie, and that in his present state of excitement he would only make matters worse if he faltered in his suddenly improvised story.
"Well, what am I to do?" he asked.
"Do what every other man does," Sir Geoffrey said. "Work, instead of idling about in the club and playing the fiddle—and the fool."
"But I can't get any work," Melville objected.
"What have you tried to do?"
"Oh, it's no good going into all that."
"I should think not," said Sir Geoffrey with a bitter laugh, "but, anyhow, I won't help you any more; men of your type never will work while they've got any relations on whom they can sponge. You give up the fiddle, as a start."
"I have," said Melville, "to a pawn-broker."
"Best place for it," grunted Sir Geoffrey unsympathetically. "I'll pay the interest for you next year, if you'll agree to leave it there."
Melville clenched his fists and walked on in silence for a few yards.
"You don't mind helping Ralph," he said, with a sneer; "he's so different, isn't he?"
"That is my own affair," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I don't mind saying I've never had to refuse him, because he has never asked me. He's a thoroughly fine fellow."
"He's a humbug," said Melville. "He's not above borrowing from me at all events. As you insist upon knowing what I did with the last two hundred and fifty I had from you, I will tell you that I gave Ralph a hundred of it."
"I don't believe you," said Sir Geoffrey. "You're a liar, Melville, and I've proved it."
"Read that," said Melville shortly.
He took Ralph's letter out of his pocket and gave it to his uncle, who read it in the fading light. A spasm of pain crossed the old man's face, but he drew himself up with dignity.
"I detected you in one lie, sir," he said, "but I may have made a mistake about this. If so, I apologise. You did what your brother asked you? Sent him this hundred pounds?"
Melville met his keen eyes steadily.
"I did. I sent it to him at once."
"How? By cheque?"
"No," said Melville; "in notes—twenty fivers." His wonted effrontery returned to him. "I can tell you the numbers if you like."
"Thank you, no," replied Sir Geoffrey. "I'm not proposing to try to trace the notes now, and Ralph can give me his own explanation of his temporary embarrassment later. Come to the house and I will repay you for him now."
Melville's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He felt absolutely no shame at his fraud, no fear of the subsequent inevitable exposure. He had to get money somehow, and with incredible swiftness it was already almost in his grasp. They walked in silence to the Manor House. As they passed the drawing-room windows Melville caught sight of Gwendolen Austen's figure and involuntarily paused, but Sir Geoffrey noticed the action and harshly interrupted him.
"Mrs. and Miss Austen are staying here as my guests. As this is purely a business visit on your part we will, if you please, go to my library," and he strode along the terrace.
Melville followed him, and turning to the right came to the west front of the house, on which side lay Sir Geoffrey's private set of rooms. To Melville, overwrought with excitement as he was, the library with its great armchairs and well-filled bookcases looked very homelike and comfortable, but he did not venture to sit down unasked, and Sir Geoffrey pointedly refrained from everything approaching hospitality. He unlocked a drawer in his writing table and, taking out his cheque book, filled in a form payable to Melville for one hundred pounds. Before signing the cheque, he laid down his pen and looked scrutinisingly at his nephew.
"There are a few things I wish to say to you, Melville," he said very slowly, "before we finally part, and I beg you to remember them, as they may prevent any future misunderstanding. For more than thirty years I have treated you as my son, in spite of endless disappointments at your total failure to give me any return in consideration or affection. You have always been utterly selfish, and, as I think, utterly bad. Now I am a rich man, and you may perhaps argue that I am only anticipating the provision I have doubtless made for you in my will. Please understand that that is not the case. Over and above the just expenses of your life up to now you have already had from me many thousand pounds, which have been squandered by you in wanton vice. I do not intend you to have any more. I hold that my money was given to me for some other purpose than that. In point of fact, I have not made my will, but when I choose to do so, you will not be a legatee. You understand perfectly?"
Melville bowed.
"Very good. Now I am giving you this cheque because for once you have done an unselfish action and have lent your brother two-fifths of what you had reason to suppose was the last money you would ever receive from me. I am very, very sorry Ralph asked you for it, but very glad you sent it to him. I repay you on his behalf, and will see that he in turn repays me."
Sir Geoffrey signed the cheque and gave it to Melville.
"I have left it open so that you may obtain the money in the morning. This, too, is your property," and he gave him Ralph's letter, which Melville had forgotten.
Then Sir Geoffrey rose.
"This is a final parting, Melville," he said solemnly, "and I wish to heaven it were not so. If in these last few weeks I had any reason to hope you had been trying to be a better man I might have been more harsh to-night, but not so relentless. But the money I gave you the other day, apart from this hundred pounds, has gone in gambling as all the rest has gone, and as everything else I might give you would go. And I declare now, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, that I hold myself free of you at last. From whatever you may do in the future to bring shame upon your family I, in their name, declare we are absolved, and you must look for no more help or countenance from us. And now I will ask you to go. You can walk to the station, and will not have long to wait for a train to town."
And opening the French windows on to the lawn, Sir Geoffrey stood with set lips and stern eyes until his nephew disappeared among the shrubbery that fringed the drive.
Outside, Melville drew a deep breath.
"The hysterical old idiot!" he said, half audibly; but his fingers trembled as he placed the cheque in his inner pocket, and he was more nervous than he thought himself capable of being. "Still, I've got a hundred pounds, and as for the row which, I suppose, is bound to follow when the old man finds out the truth—that can rip for the present. I'm glad he didn't cross the cheque. There wouldn't have been much change out of it for me if I'd had to pay it into my account, because I'm so overdrawn, and, what's more, it might be stopped if Ralph turned up early to-morrow. Gad! I'll go to the bank at nine."
He stumbled along until he reached the station. He had another stiff glass of spirits at the refreshment bar, and found he had only a shilling left.
"Good thing I took a return ticket," he muttered, "and as for to-morrow I can go to the bank in a cab, thank goodness, and go home in a balloon, if I choose. And after that, I'll clear out of town for a bit and pull myself together—and pull myself together."
He laughed stupidly as he found himself repeating his words, and then huddled up in a corner of the carriage. How he got back to his chambers in Jermyn Street he scarcely knew, but he had been there some time before his attention was attracted by a letter which was lying on his table. It was written in a hand that was not familiar to him. It bore date that morning, and the paper was stamped with a monogram and the address, 5, The Vale, South Kensington.
"Dear Mr. Melville Ashley," it ran, "there are many reasons—into none of which do I deem it expedient to enter now—why I have hitherto refrained from inviting you to my house. For the moment I will confine myself to making the announcement, for which you may be wholly unprepared, that I married Sir Geoffrey Holt many years ago, and am, consequently, your aunt by marriage. I shall be obliged if you will call upon me to-morrow at half-past four o'clock, and it is my desire that until I have seen you, you shall not acquaint any third person with the contents of this communication.—I am, yours faithfully, LAVINIA HOLT."
At last the full significance of the note was borne in upon him.
"Married Sir Geoffrey many years ago!" Melville said slowly. "Strange! that is very strange!"
He entered the address in his pocket book, and then carefully locked away the letter, together with that from Ralph, in a despatch box.
"In spite of all you said, Sir Geoffrey, I fancy this letter, too, may mean money in my pocket!" and the smile upon his face was very evil.
Breakfast is a period of probation for many people's temper. It is a comparatively easy matter after dinner in the evening to assume light spirits with one's evening dress, knowing that the work and worries of the day are all behind one, but considerable philosophy is required to be entirely amiable the first thing in the morning, when the same work and worries have to be taken up anew.
So when, the morning following Melville's surprise visit to the Manor House, Sir Geoffrey entered the dining-room, Gwendolen's loving eyes perceived at once that something had occurred to ruffle his equanimity. With her he was never irritable, but his greeting was absent-minded, and he seemed to seek in vain for anything to interest him in the columns of theTimes.
Mrs. Austen usually breakfasted in bed, and as Ralph was not to return until the middle of the day, Sir Geoffrey and Gwendolen were alone together, and the meal passed almost in silence. At last Sir Geoffrey himself appeared to become aware of the fact that he was discharging his duties as a host with something less than his usual success.
"Forgive me, Gwen," he said pleasantly. "I'm an old bear this morning, and poor company for my beautiful princess."
Gwendolen rose and put her arms round his neck.
"Then if the story books are to be believed, the beautiful Princess only has to kiss the old bear, and he will be transformed into Prince Charming again," and leaning over him she kissed him affectionately.
"You're a little witch," said Sir Geoffrey, smiling; "but tell me, aren't you burning to know what has upset my temper to-day?"
"Not at all," Gwendolen answered quickly, "unless it is anything that I have done."
"Of course it isn't," said Sir Geoffrey; "but it's the next thing to it. I've got a bone to pick with Ralph."
Gwendolen's face clouded over.
"Oh! I am sorry," she said, but almost immediately her eyes shone brightly again. "It can't be very serious, though, because he's sure to have some perfectly satisfactory explanation for whatever he has done, and as soon as you see him you'll find there's no bone to pick."
"You're a loyal little woman," said Sir Geoffrey, well pleased, "and I've no doubt you're right. What time is the immaculate hero to honour us by his reappearance?"
"About a quarter to one," Gwendolen replied.
"In time for luncheon," Sir Geoffrey remarked. "Whatever one may think about his other meritorious qualities, there can be no doubt about the excellence of Ralph's appetite."
"You're trying to draw me," said Gwendolen cheerfully; "but I won't be drawn. I like a man to have a good appetite, and, by the way, you're not a bad trencherman yourself."
Sir Geoffrey laughed.
"I've got some work to do this morning," he said as he got up. "You must kill the time somehow until Ralph returns, and after luncheon you will be able to pick water lilies and gaze into each other's eyes to any extent. Are you going to meet him at the station?"
"I thought of doing so," Gwendolen admitted.
"Did you really!" said Sir Geoffrey, with affected incredulity. "Well, I don't want to interfere with your plans, but seriously, Gwen, as soon as you've got over the shock—I mean the rapture—of seeing him again, will you tell him to come to me in the library?"
"Of course I will," said Gwendolen, "and seriously, too, dear uncle, I'm sure everything will be cleared up as soon as you see him."
"I daresay it will," Sir Geoffrey agreed, "but I have always believed in getting to the bottom of things immediately. When you're married, Gwen, avoid a misunderstanding with your husband as you would avoid the devil. Quarrel if you must, but, at any rate, know what you're quarrelling about. That's good advice."
"How can an old bachelor give any good advice about the married state?" Gwendolen asked lightly, and she nodded gaily as she ran upstairs, not noticing how the expression altered on Sir Geoffrey's face.
"Blows beneath the heart dealt by those one loves the most," he muttered sadly. "Well, it's inevitable in this world, I suppose, and, after all, there's compensation in the love itself. But Ralph ought not to have stooped to borrow that money from Melville; and what on earth can he have wanted it for that he was afraid to ask me? That's the sting," and the old gentleman walked slowly to his library and shut himself in there alone.
Both to Sir Geoffrey and to Gwendolen the morning seemed to drag, but at last the train which brought Ralph from town arrived, and, heedless of the bystanders, Gwendolen kissed her lover and walked down the hill with him to the river.
"Had a happy morning, dear?" he asked.
"A very long one," Gwendolen replied. "Time is very inconsiderate to people who are in love; it flies when they are together and halts when they are alone, whereas, of course, it ought to do exactly the reverse."
"Of course it ought," Ralph assented, "but, anyhow, it's ripping to be alive. By Jove, Gwen, I think I'm the happiest man in the whole world."
Gwen looked at him critically.
"I'm sure you are the nicest," she said enthusiastically, and did not demur to his finding her approval an excuse for another kiss.
"Let's go on the houseboat," he said, "and after luncheon I will punt you up to where the water lilies are."
"Pick water lilies and gaze in each other's eyes," said Gwen, laughing; "that was the programme Sir Geoffrey mapped out for us. Oh! I forgot. He asked me to send you to him directly you arrived. He's in the library."
"Can't it keep till after luncheon?" Ralph asked indifferently. "I want to talk to you."
"No," Gwen replied; "you must go now. I promised that you would. He said he had a bone to pick with you."
"Did he?" said Ralph. "I wonder what's the matter."
"I don't know," Gwen answered, "but he was very quiet at breakfast, and I guessed there was something wrong; then he told me it was about you, and I said you could explain anything you did or didn't do, and you've got to go at once and do so."
"A very lucid statement," Ralph said, smiling. "Well, it's a bore to have to leave you at once, but if you've promised, there's no help for it."
"None," said Gwendolen gravely. "Come along, Ralph."
In her heart she was a little uneasy, for although she had absolute confidence in Ralph's perfect integrity, she had never before seen Sir Geoffrey look so troubled at anything in which his favourite nephew was concerned. But she stifled her not unnatural curiosity, and, leaving Ralph at the library door, ran off to the room where her mother was writing wholly unnecessary letters.
Sir Geoffrey was so engrossed in a book that he did not hear Ralph come into the room. Comfortably ensconced in a huge armchair, with spectacles on his nose, and the sunlight streaming through the window upon his silver hair, he embodied the general idea of a cultivated old English gentleman. Ralph looked at him, and then spoke.
"Gwendolen tells me you want to see me, Uncle Geoffrey, so I've come straight in."
Sir Geoffrey looked up.
"Yes," he said. "Melville was here last night."
Ralph was vexed, for he knew what was the usual reason for his brother's visits to Fairbridge.
"Was he?" he said. "I didn't know he was back."
"Then you knew he was going abroad?"
"Oh, yes," said Ralph. "He made no secret about it to me."
Sir Geoffrey only grunted, and Ralph went on.
"In many ways I'm rather sorry for Melville, uncle. Of course, I know he has been a lot of worry to you, but he's my brother after all, and it isn't easy to get the sort of work that he could do."
"He's had a good education," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's got good health and a pair of hands. What more does a man need to earn an honest living?"
Ralph was very happy, and when one is happy it is difficult not to feel generously disposed even to those one loves the least; so now he championed his brother quite sincerely.
"I've got all that, too," he said, but Sir Geoffrey put up his hand in deprecation of any comparison between the two brothers.
"You owe me a hundred pounds, Ralph," he said.
"My dear uncle," Ralph replied. "I owe you a great deal more than that. I can never repay you a fraction of what I owe you."
Sir Geoffrey's face lighted up with pleasure at the young fellow's frank expression of gratitude.
"One does not repay free gifts," he answered. "Let all that pass; but, Ralph, why couldn't you tell me you were in need of ready money?"
"I don't quite understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled.
"A few weeks ago," said Sir Geoffrey, rather testily, "you borrowed it from Melville, and I repaid him for you last night."
Ralph's face flushed with indignation.
"You paid Melville a hundred pounds for me?"
"Yes," said his uncle.
"But I don't owe him anything."
"You wrote to him at Monte Carlo, and asked him for a hundred pounds. What did you want that for?"
"To complete the purchase of the yacht for Gwendolen. I wanted to give it to her absolutely unencumbered. Mr. Tracy was selling some capital for me and said I must wait till the following settling day for the cash, and I asked Melville to lend me the hundred I needed until the matter was completed. But he didn't send it. He never even answered my letter."
"He tells me he sent you a hundred pounds in notes," Sir Geoffrey said distinctly. "Isn't that true?"
"No," said Ralph indignantly; "it's an absolute lie." He paced the room in angry impatience. It seemed incredible that his own brother could be capable of such an utterly unworthy trick. Sir Geoffrey closed his book with a snap and pressed his lips together.
"I ought to have known you both better," he said; "but Melville's story was so circumstantial, and there was the evidence of your letter, too. I was completely taken in. But now I know what to do."
Ralph stopped abruptly.