Count Romanoff!
A weight seemed to settle on Dick Faversham's heart as he saw the sinister face of his visitor. During the excitement of the last few days he had scarcely given him a thought. The dark, saturnine stranger had shrunk away into the background of his life, and no longer seemed of importance to him. It is true he had now and then wondered whether he should ever see him again, but as there seemed no present likelihood of his doing so, he had practically dismissed him from his mind.
His sudden appearance came to him like a shock. Besides, he was nervous, excited at what he had just experienced. Every nerve was tingling, every sense preternaturally awake. What did this apparition mean? Why should the same face and form appear to him again and again?—first in the smoke-room of the ship, then on the island, then as he first put foot into the new inheritance, and now again. What did it mean? Then during that awful struggle in the stormy sea.
"Ha, Faversham. You see, I have taken you at your word."
Dick's thoughts came to earth as the Count's voice reached him.
"I'm glad to see you," he said cordially, and as he led the way to the library he was all that a host should be.
"You see, I was in England, and, having a little spare time, I thought I would look you up. I hope I'm not taking too great a liberty?"
"Liberty, my dear fellow! I should be annoyed beyond words if you had not come to see me. I have hosts of things to discuss with you. Besides," and Dickspoke like one deeply moved, "I cannot help remembering that but for you it is not likely I should be here. I should have been lying somewhere at the bottom of the Indian Ocean."
"Oh, come now; let's have no more of that. Of course, I had the good luck to be of service to you, and jolly glad I am; no decent fellow could have done less than I did."
"All the same, I cannot forget that I owe my life to you," cried Dick fervently. "Do you know, I wondered no end what happened to you; tell me about it."
"Not until I hear about you. Of course, I can guess a great deal. The fact that you are here tells me that the wireless you got on the ship was not onlybona fidebut important. You are master here, eh?"
Dick nodded.
"I've been told that your uncle was a very rich man. Is that so?"
"Yes."
"And you are his heir?"
"Yes."
"I congratulate you. By Jove, it's a lovely place. I didn't know when I've seen anything I like so much. And I've seen a few houses, I can tell you. But really, now, and I hope I'm not impertinent, do you mean to tell me that you have entered into all old Charles Faversham's wealth?"
"I suppose so."
"Shake hands on it. I can think of no one more fitted to own 'big money,' as the Americans say. I'm glad of the privilege of seeing you in possession."
It seemed to Dick that it was a new Romanoff that he saw. He was no longer pessimistic, cynical, saturnine. He looked younger, too, and no one could help admitting that he had that grand air that denotes birth and breeding.
"I only arrived in London last night," went on Romanoff. "I got into Tilbury late in the afternoon, and after I got fixed up at my hotel I began to wonder about you. Presently I called to mind what you told me, and—here I am."
"Of course you'll stay with me a bit?"
"May I?"
"May you? Why, of course you must, if you can. That goes without saying."
"I say, you are awfully good. I should love to stay a bit. This is one of the loveliest corners in the world at the loveliest time of the year. Surrey in May! What can be more attractive!"
"I'll have your room prepared at once, and, by the way, I'll send a man to London for your luggage."
"That is good of you, Faversham. I may as well confess it now. I did bring a suit-case with me in the hope that you could put me up for the night, but of course——"
"You might have known that I'd want you for a long time," Dick interrupted.
A servant entered, and Dick gave his instructions. "Now tell me," he went on; "what did you do on leaving the island? I know practically nothing about anything. I was very ill, and got no better till the boat landed at Plymouth."
Romanoff hesitated for a few seconds, then he replied:
"Oh, I caught a boat bound for Australia."
"Australia, eh?"
"Yes. Our signals were seen by two vessels, one returning to England, and the other going to Australia, which, as luck would have it, stopped at Bombay for a few hours. So I took that."
"And you didn't stay long in the Antipodes?"
"No, I did not like the country, and I found it necessary to return to England."
"I'm jolly glad."
"Well, here I am anyhow. Isn't life a topsy-turvy business? Who would have thought when we exchanged commonplaces on that boat a short time ago we should forgather like this in a lovely old Surrey house? Facts beat fiction all to bits. Fiction is commonplace, tame, prosy; but facts—real life—are interesting. Now, tell me about your experiences."
"Not yet. It's nearly dinner-time. I suppose you brought no evening clothes?"
Romanoff laughed. "As a matter of fact, I did. Of course, I was not sure you were here; but I thought you might be, so I took the liberty of——"
"Splendid," interrupted Dick. "There, the dressing-bell is ringing. I'll show you your room. My word, I'm awfully glad you've come. To tell you the truth, I was feeling a bit depressed."
"You depressed! I say! Fancy the heir of all this being depressed."
"But I was. The idea of spending the evening alone dismayed me. You see, a fellow can't be out every night, and—and there you are. But you've come."
"And no one will call to-night?"
"I don't expect so. Young Clavering, who is home on leave, might come over for a game of billiards, but I can't think of anyone else likely to turn up."
"Clavering—Clavering. I don't think I know the name."
"Oh, it is a good name in Surrey, I can assure you. It's a very old family, although I suppose it is frightfully poor. I've only met young Clavering once, but I liked him very much. Most of the young fellows around here are in the Army, and the older men are frightful old fossils. Here's your room. I hope you'll be comfortable."
Romanoff looked around the room with evident pleasure. He walked to the window and gazed steadily at the landscape; then he turned to Dick and gave him a keen, searching glance.
"You are a fortunate man, Faversham. Speaking as a Russian and also as one who has travelled all over the world, I say, commend me to England for comfort. Yes, I'll be all right, my friend."
When Dick had gone Romanoff threw himself in a chair and gazed into vacancy. A change passed over his face. He was no longer cheerful and pleasant; the old sinister, threatening look had come into his eyes, while his mouth was cruel. Once an expression swept over his features which suggested a kind of mocking pity, but it was only for a moment.
During dinner he was in a gay humour. Evidently he had thrown care to the winds, and lived for thepleasure of the moment. Dick found him fascinating. He talked pleasantly—at times brilliantly. His conversation scintillated with sardonic humour. He told stories about many countries. He related anecdotes about the Imperial House of the Romanoffs, and described the influence which Rasputin had on the Tzar and the Tzarina.
"I cannot understand it," remarked Dick after one of these stories.
"Understand what?"
"How a man like the Tzar could allow a dirty charlatan like Rasputin to have such influence. After all, Nicholas was an educated man, and a gentleman."
Romanoff laughed.
"As well Rasputin as the others," he replied.
"What others?"
"The priests of the Holy Orthodox Church. Let me give you a bit of advice, Faversham; keep clear of all this religious rot. It's true that you in England pretend to be more advanced than the poor Russians, but at bottom there's no difference. Wherever religion creeps in, it's the same story. Religion means credulity, and credulity means lies, oppression, cant, corruption."
"Did you meet Rasputin?"
"Oh yes," replied Romanoff, with a sigh of resignation. "On the whole, I admired him."
"I say, that's a bit too thick."
"Anyhow, the fellow was interesting. He had a philosophy of his own. He recognised the fact that the world was populated by fools, and he determined to make the most of his chances. He interpreted religion in a way that would give the greatest possible gratification to his senses. His policy was to suck the orange of the world dry. 'Salvation through sin,' eh?" and Romanoff laughed as he spoke. "Well, it's about the most sensible religion I ever heard of."
"It seems to me devilish and dirty," Dick spoke warmly.
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Of course, all religion is foolishness—that is, religion as is usually understood. Butif there is to be a religion at all, Rasputin got hold of the true one."
"You don't mean that?"
Romanoff looked at Dick steadily for a few seconds. He seemed to be thinking deeply as though he were trying to understand his man.
"Perhaps I don't," he admitted presently. "Sometimes one exaggerates in order to convey what is actually true. Still, there is a substratum of truth in the dirty monk's philosophy, as you'll find out before you are much older. By the way, the evening has turned cold, hasn't it?"
"Do you find it so? The air of a night is often cold in the early summer. Have you finished? Then we'll go into my little den where I always have a fire of an evening."
A few minutes later Romanoff was sprawling in a large easy-chair with his feet close to the fire.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Not quite a month."
"Been well received by your neighbours?"
"On the whole, yes."
Again Romanoff looked steadily at his companion. "Will you forgive me if I ask you a few questions?"
"Certainly. Go ahead."
"First, then, how do you like being a rich man?"
Dick glanced around the room, and then gave a look towards the wide-spreading park-lands.
"How can one help liking it?" he asked.
"Exactly. You do not find money to be the root of all evil, then?"
"Heavens, no!"
"You would not like to be a poor man again?"
"What in the world are you driving at? Of course, the very thought of it is horrible."
"Just so. I am in my way a student of human nature, and I was a bit curious. Now for a second question. Who is she?"
"Oh, I say."
"Of course she exists."
"How do you know?"
"In my way I have the power of divination. When I look at a man I know something, not much perhaps, but something of his hopes. I felt sure before I spoke that you were in love. You've been quick about it, my young friend."
"I don't know that I am in love."
"Of course you are. Who is she?"
"There's no one. At least not yet. I don't suppose she's given me a second's thought."
"But you do. Is she young, beautiful? Is she rich, well connected?"
"Young! beautiful!" laughed Dick.
"Ah, I see. Not a rustic beauty, by any chance?"
"Rustic beauty, eh? There's nothing rustic about Lady Blanche Huntingford."
"Huntingford! That's one of the best known names in England."
"Do you know it?"
"Who doesn't? It's the biggest name in Debrett. But the Huntingfords are as poor as church mice."
"What does that matter?"
"You have enough for both, eh? Of course, that's your hope."
"Why?" and Dick turned rather sharply on his interlocutor.
"Oh, nothing personal, my friend. I'm only speaking from a long experience. The Huntingfords are poor and proud. I do not know of a more unpleasant combination. I've heard of Lady Blanche—she is about twenty-four, a great beauty, and so far has not succeeded in the marriage market. She's had several seasons in London, but the rich aristocrat has not turned up. That's why she may smile on a commoner—a newcomer—providing he's rich enough."
"If you'd seen her, spoken with her, you would not talk like that."
"Shouldn't I? Who knows? But it's nothing to worry about, my dear fellow. All talk about the love of women goes for nothing. It doesn't exist. Of course, there is such a thing as sexual attraction, but nothing else."
"You are a terrible cynic, Romanoff."
"I'm a citizen of the world, and I've gone around the world with my eyes open. But, as I said, you can have an easy mind. The ball is at your feet, my dear fellow. Whatever you want you can have."
"Do be serious." Dick spoke lightly; all the same, he felt uneasy.
"Iamserious," replied Romanoff. "With wealth like yours, you are master of the world; you can get all the world has to give."
"I wish I could."
"I tell you you can. Money is all-powerful. Just think, if you were poor, not a hope, not an ambition could be realised."
"That won't do. Hosts of poor fellows have——"
"Risen to position and power. Just so; but it's been a terrible struggle, a ghastly grind. In most cases, too, men don't get money until they are too old to enjoy it. But you are young, and the world's at your feet. Do you want titles? You can buy them. Power? fame? Again you can get them. Beautiful women? Love? Yes, even love of a sort you can buy, if you have money. Poverty is hell; but what heaven there is in this world can be bought."
"Then you think the poor can't be happy?"
"Let me be careful in answering that. If a man has no ambitions, if he has no desire for power, then, in a negative way, he may be happy although he's poor. But to you, who are ambitious through and through—you, who see visions and dream dreams—poverty would be hell. That's why I congratulate you on all this. And my advice to you is, make the most of it. Live to enjoy, my dear fellow. Whatever your eyes desire, take it."
Dick realised that Romanoff was talking cheap cynicism, that, to use a journalistic term, it was "piffle" from thread to needle, and yet he was impressed. Again he felt the man's ascendancy over him, knew that he was swayed and moulded by a personality stronger than his own.
Dick did not try to answer him, for at that moment there was a knock at the door and a servant entered.
"Mr. and Miss Stanmore have called, sir."
"I do not think I know them, do I?" asked Dick.
"I don't know, sir. They live not far from the South Park gates. They are old residents, sir."
Whether there was something in the tone of the man's voice, or whether he desired company other than Romanoff's, I cannot tell. Certain it is that, acting on impulse and scarcely realising what he was doing, he said:
"Show them in here, Jenkins, will you?"
"You don't mind, do you?" asked Dick, turning to Romanoff when the man had left the room.
"Not at all, my dear fellow. Why should I?"
Again the servant returned and ushered in an old man and a young girl. The former was a striking-looking figure, and would be noticed in any crowd. Although old, he stood perfectly upright, and was evidently healthy and vigorous. His face was ruddy and almost unlined. His white beard and moustache were allowed to grow long, while his almost massive head was covered with a wealth of wavy white hair. Perhaps, too, his attire helped to make his appearance attractive, and his velvet dinner-jacket suggested the artist or the poet.
"I hope you'll forgive me calling, Mr. Faversham," he said, taking Dick's outstretched hand, "but I'm an old man, as well as a man of moods. I've thought several times of dropping in to see you, but refrained. I was afraid you would have no use for an old buffer such as I. But to-night I felt I must, and here I am. This is my granddaughter, Beatrice."
"It's awfully good of you to call, Mr. Stanmore, and you, too, Miss Stanmore."
Dick looked at the girl full in the face as he spoke, and then all further words were frozen on his lips. The sight of Beatrice Stanmore caused his heart to beat wildly, and made him feel that a new influence had entered the room.
And yet, at first sight, there was nothing remarkable in her presence. Picture a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of eighteen—a girl with a sweet, winsome, yet mischievous smile, and a perfect complexion; a girl with well-formedfeatures and an evident sense of humour—and you see Beatrice Stanmore. And yet your picture would be incomplete. What I have said suggests a somewhat commonplace girl, such as can be seen by the score in any country town. But she was not commonplace. Her blue eyes were large and haunting; sometimes they were sad, and yet there was a world of mirth and gladness stored in their liquid depths. She was only eighteen or nineteen years of age, and she did not look older than her years; but, if you took a second look at her, you would know that her thoughts were not always a child's thoughts—that she had longings too deep for words.
She was dressed very simply. I cannot describe her apparel, but to Dick it was something light and diaphanous, which set oft a figure which was at once girlish and yet perfect in its proportions. I do not suppose that a connoisseur would call her beautiful, but she suggested health—health of body, of mind, of soul. It would be impossible to associate her with anything impure, rather a flash from her mirth-loving eyes would destroy all thought of such a thing.
"I've seen her before," thought Dick, "but where?"
No, it was only fancy. She was an utter stranger to him, and yet he was haunted with the thought that somewhere, at some time, they had met and known each other, that she had been with him in some crisis.
"Please forgive us, Mr. Faversham," she said, with a laugh; "it's not my fault. I should never have had the courage to beard the lion in his den."
"What lion? What den?" asked Dick, as he looked into the girl's sunny face.
"Of course, you are the lion. You've been the talk of the countryside for weeks; and—and isn't this your den?"
She spoke with all the simplicity and frankness of a child, and seemed to be perfectly unimpressed by the fact that she was talking with one who was spoken of as one of the richest young men in England.
"It's I who am the culprit, Mr. Faversham," broke inthe old man. "The impulse came upon me suddenly. I said to Beatrice, 'I am going to call on young Faversham,' and she jumped at the idea of a walk through the park, and that's why she's here with me. Please tell me if we are in the way."
"In the way? I'm just delighted. And—but let me introduce you to Count Romanoff."
Both Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter looked towards Count Romanoff, who had risen to his feet. The light was shining fully upon his face, and Dick could not help feeling what a striking appearance he had. He half held out his hand to the newcomers and then suddenly withdrew it.
Old Hugh Stanmore looked at the Count steadily for a few seconds, and then bowed in silence. It might seem as though something had frozen his urbanity and cheerfulness. He did not appear to notice the half-outstretched hand, and Dick felt as though there was an instinctive antipathy between them. As for Beatrice, she gave the Count a cold nod, and then, with a perfunctory, "How d'ye do?" turned to Dick again.
"I'm so glad you've come here to live, Mr. Faversham," she said, with girlish enthusiasm.
"You can't be gladder than I," replied Dick; "but, is there a special reason for your gladness?"
"Of course there is. I've wanted for years to see the inside of this house, but I was frightfully afraid of your—your uncle. He always looked so stern, and so—so forbidding that I hadn't the courage to ask him. But you are different."
"Then why haven't you called before?" asked Dick. "I've been here nearly a month, and yet I've never seen you before."
"Of course, you must understand," and it was old Hugh Stanmore who replied, "that we are quite unimportant people. We live in that cottage not far from your South Lodge, and, not knowing you, we felt rather sensitive about calling."
"But your name seems familiar. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere."
"Not among the people around here, I imagine?"
"No, I think not; but I seem to have heard of it, or seen it, years ago."
"I fancy you are mistaken, although what you say is just possible. When I was at Cambridge I had tremendous ambitions, and, like thousands of other callow youths, I made up my mind to win fame. I was something of a linguist, and had a great longing to win renown as an Egyptologist and as an Assyrian scholar. However, I had no money to indulge in such luxuries, so on leaving Cambridge I looked to journalism for a living. I even wrote a novel," and he laughed merrily.
"Splendid!" cried Dick. "What was the title of the novel?"
"I won't tell you that," replied the old man. "I've drawn a very thick curtain over that effort. However, I might have done something if I'd persevered; but, luckily or unluckily for me, I had some money left to me. Not much, but enough to enable me to travel in the East."
"Yes, and then?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I did not shine as an Egyptologist, although I had some wonderful experiences and made some interesting acquaintances. I also contributed to that phase of literature."
"I never saw your name in that connection," Dick confessed.
"I expect not. You see, that was many years ago. Still, although my health would not stand the Eastern climate, I've kept up my interest in my early love. But I've been somewhat of a butterfly. On my return to England I conceived a passion for throwing paint in the eyes of the public, to quote John Ruskin. I even went so far as to get a few pictures hung in the Academy. But, in spite of that, I achieved no fame. Since then I've contributed occasional articles to the reviews, while such papers asThe SpectatorandThe Timeshave printed some effusions of mine which I in my vanity have called poetry. Please forgive me for talking about myself in this way. I know it is frightful egotism on my part, but, as I'm one of your nearest neighbours, I'm in a way introducing myself."
"It's awfully good of you," replied Dick. "I hope we shall see a good deal of each other."
"I hope we shall," replied Hugh Stanmore. "I may as well confess it, Mr. Faversham, that although I am an old man, I am a creature of impulses. I do things without being able to give a reason for them. I talk without knowing why. Do you know that I've never spoken so much about myself to anyone in this district as I have to-night, and I've lived here for eighteen years?"
"What—at the cottage you spoke of?"
"Yes, at the cottage. I took up my residence there when my son died. He was an artist who would have won fame if he had lived; but it pleased the good God to take him away. I determined that I would try to bring what comfort I could into the life of his young wife. But I was not with her long. She died at the birth of this little girl here, three months later."
A silence fell upon the little company.
"There, there," laughed Hugh Stanmore, "there's nothing to be sad about. This life is only a beginning. Actual life comes next, as Browning says. Besides, I've been very happy looking after my little maid here. It's rather hard on her, having to see so much of an old man like myself. All the same, we've had a jolly time."
"Old man!" cried Beatrice indignantly. "I assure you, Mr. Faversham, he's the youngest man in Surrey. Sometimes I am quite ashamed of his frivolity. I'm quite a staid, elderly person compared to him."
"Anyhow," said the old man, rising, "we must be going now. But be assured of this, Mr. Faversham: no one wishes you joy in your new home more than I. We give you a glad welcome to the district, and if an old man's prayer and an old man's blessing are worth anything, you have them."
"But please don't go yet," cried Dick. "It's only a little after nine o'clock, and—and I'm so glad to have you here. You see, you've only just come."
"No, no, I know. But we'll be going now. Some other time, when you happen to be alone, I'll be glad to come and smoke a pipe with you—if I may?"
"May! Of course. Besides, Miss Stanmore said shewanted to look over the house. When will you come, Miss Stanmore?"
"I think it must be when you can let Granddad know that you are alone and have nothing to do," was the girl's reply. "I shall look forward to it tremendously."
"So shall I," cried Dick. Then, forgetful of Romanoff, he added, "And I can assure you, you won't have long to wait."
Throughout their conversation, only a part of which I have recorded, Romanoff had not spoken a word. Had Dick been watching him he would have seen that he was not at all pleased at the presence of the visitors. There was a dark, lowering look in his eyes, and almost a scowl on his face. It was evident that a strong feeling of antagonism existed.
"Good-night, Mr. Faversham," said old Hugh Stanmore, holding out his hand; then, bowing gravely to Romanoff, he passed out of the room.
"Oh, but I'll see you to the door, if youwillgo," insisted Dick, as for a moment he held Beatrice Stanmore's hand in his. "Allow me."
He passed through the hall by her side and opened the door. As he did so, he could barely repress an exclamation of wonder and delight, while both the old man and the young girl stood as if spellbound.
It was one of those rare nights which constantly recur to one's remembrance in after days. It was now the end of May, and while the summer had not reached its full glory, the fullness of spring made the earth like a paradise. The sky was cloudless and the silver rays of a nearly full moon lit up the scene with an unearthly beauty. All around giant trees stood, while the flowers, which grew in rich profusion, were plainly to be seen. Away through the leafy trees could be seen the outline of the country. Here and there the birds, which had barely gone to rest, were chirping, while away in the distance a cuckoo proclaimed the advent of summer.
For a few seconds they stood in silence, then Hugh Stanmore said quietly, "One can understand Charles Kingsley's dying words on such a night, Mr. Faversham."
"What did he say?" asked Dick.
"'How beautiful God must be,'" quoted Hugh Stanmore.
Just then a bird burst forth into song—rich-noted, mellow, triumphant.
"A nightingale!" cried the girl. "Look, Granddad, it is over on that tree." She went down the drive under the long avenue of trees as she spoke, leaving Hugh Stanmore and Dick together.
"They can't be far away on such a night as this," murmured the old man.
"Who can't be far away?"
"The angels. The heavens are full of them. Ah, if we could only see!"
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Do I believe in them? How can I help believing? It is nearly nineteen years ago since my boy and his wife died. But they didn't leave me altogether. They come to me."
"Have you seen them?" and Dick's eager question was uttered almost unconsciously.
"No, not with my natural eyes. Why? I wonder. But I have felt them near me. I know they are watching over me. You see, they did not cease to love us when God took them away for some higher service. Naturally, too, they watch over Beatrice. They could not help it."
He spoke quietly, and in an almost matter-of-fact way, yet with a suggestion of reverence in his tones.
"Who knows who is watching over us now?" continued the old man. "Ah, if we could only see! 'Are they not all ministering spirits sent to minister to those who are heirs of Salvation?'"
Dick felt a shiver pass through him. He reflected that on that very spot, only a few hours before, he had seen something,something—a luminous figure, a pale, sad face—sad almost to agony!
"Mr. Faversham," asked Hugh Stanmore suddenly, "who is Count Romanoff?"
"I don't know much about him," replied Dick. "He was a fellow-passenger on board the boat on which I was bound for Australia some time ago. Why do you ask?"
"You know nothing else? Excuse me."
"Only that he saved my life."
"Ah!"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. Only he will have a great influence on your life."
"How do you know?" Dick was greatly excited.
"I have no reason to give you. I only know."
"Good or bad?" asked the young man eagerly.
"I don't know. But did you notice that Beatrice didn't like him? And I've never once known her wrong in her estimate of people. There, look at her now, amongst the moon's rays under the trees. Doesn't she look like an angel? Yes, and sheisan angel—one of God's sweetest and purest and best. But as human as every woman ought to be. Good-night, Mr. Faversham. Yes, my darling, I'm coming," and the old man went down the drive with the activity of a boy.
Dick watched them until they were out of sight. He was influenced more than he knew by their visit. Their presence, after Count Romanoff's cynicism, was like some sweet-scented balm; like a breeze from the mountains after the fetid atmosphere of a cavern.
"Well, what did you think of them?" he asked of Romanoff on his return.
The Count shrugged his shoulders. "There's not much to think, is there?" he asked.
"I think there is a great deal. I found the old man more interesting than almost any caller I have had."
"A dull, prosy, platitudinous old Polonius; as for the girl, she's just a badly behaved, unformed, bread-and-butter miss."
Dick did not speak. The Count's words grated on him.
"By the way," went on Romanoff, "I should like to meet Lady Blanche Huntingford. I think I knew the old Lord."
"I promised to call to-morrow afternoon," replied Dick. "I'll take you over." But he was not so enthusiastic as the Count expected.
After they had retired to their rooms that night, theCount sat long in soliloquy. Of what he was thinking it would be difficult to say. His face was like a mask.
When he rose from his chair, however, there was a look of decision in his eyes.
"The time has come sooner than I thought," he said aloud. "I must bring the matter to a head at once. Otherwise I shall lose him."
And then he laughed in his grim, sardonic way, as if something had made him merry.
Dick rose early the following morning, and went for a walk in the park. When he returned he found the Count in the breakfast-room.
"Quite a pattern young countryman," he laughed. "I saw you reflecting on the beauties of your own domains. Did you sleep well?"
"Like a healthy dog. And you?"
"I never sleep. I dream sometimes—that's all."
"Still play-acting," laughed Dick.
"No, there's not a more serious man in England than I, as a rule; but I'm not going to be serious to-day while the sun shines. When the sun goes down I shall be tragic. There, Richard is himself again!"
He threw back his shoulders as he spoke, as though he would shift a weight from them. "I am hungry, Faversham," he laughed. "Let us eat. After breakfast I would love a ride. Have you a horse in your stables that you could lend me?"
"Of course I have."
"Good. Then we'll have a gallop till lunch. After that a-wooing we will go. I'm feverish to see the glorious Lady Blanche, the flower of the age, the beauty of the county. I say, Faversham, prepare to be jealous. I can be a most dangerous rival."
"I can't think of you as a marrying man, Count. Domesticity and you are oceans apart."
The Count laughed. "No, a man such as I never marries," he said. "Marriage! What an idiotic arrangement. But such things always follow religion. But for religion, humanity would be natural, happy."
"Come, now. That won't do."
"It is true, my friend. Ever and always the result of religion has been to raise unnatural barriers, to create sin. The man who founds a religion is an enemy to the race. The greatest enemy to the world's happiness was the Founder of Christianity."
"In Heaven's name, why?"
"Because He labelled natural actions as sins, because He was for ever emphasising a distinction between right and wrong. When there is no right, no wrong. The evolution of religion, and of so-called morality, is a crime, because it strikes at the root of human enjoyment. But, there, I'm getting serious, and I won't be serious. This is a day to laugh, to rejoice in, and I've an appetite like a hunter."
Throughout the morning they carried out the programme Romanoff had suggested. Two of the best horses in the stables were saddled, and they rode till noon. During all this time the Count was in high spirits, and seemed to revel in the brightness of the day and the glory of the scenery.
"After all, give me a living thing to deal with," he cried. "This craze for motor-cars is a sign of decadence. 'Enjoyment by machinery' should be the motto of every motorist. But a horse is different. A horse is sentient, intelligent. He feels what his rider feels; he enters into the spirit of whatever is going on."
"But motoring can be jolly good sport," Dick rejoined.
"Of course it can. But a motor is impersonal; it is a thing, not a being. You cannot make it your slave. It is just a matter of steel, and petrol, and oil. It never becomes afraid of you."
"What of that?" asked Dick.
"Without fear there is no real mastery," replied Romanoff.
"But surely the mastery which is obtained through fear is an unsatisfactory sort of thing."
Romanoff looked at Dick as though on the point of replying, but he was silent.
"Anyhow, I love a horse," he ventured presently."I love to feel his body alive beneath me, love to feel him spurn the ground beneath his feet."
"Yes; I, too, love a horse," replied Dick, "and do you know, although I've only been here a month, this chap loves me. He whines a welcome when I go to the stable, and he kind of cries when I leave."
"And he isn't afraid of you?" asked Romanoff.
"Afraid!" cried Dick. "I hope not. I should hate to feel that a thing I loved was afraid of me."
"Wait till you are married," laughed Romanoff.
"I don't see what that has to do with it."
"But it has everything to do with it. A wife should obey, and no woman obeys unless she fears. The one thing man has to do when he marries is to demand obedience, and until he has mastered the woman he gets none."
"From the little experience I have, a woman is a difficult thing to master."
"Everything can be mastered," replied Romanoff. "It sometimes requires patience, I'll admit, but it can always be done. Besides, a woman never respects her husband until he's mastered her. Find me a man who has not mastered his wife, and I'll show you a man whose wife despises him. Of course, every woman strives for mastery, but in her heart of hearts she's sorry if she gets it. If I ever married——" He ceased speaking.
"Yes; if you married?"
"I'd have obedience, obedience, obedience," and Romanoff repeated the word with increasing emphasis. "As you say, it might be difficult, but it can always be obtained."
"How?"
"Of course, if you go among the lower orders of people, the man obtains his wife's obedience by brute force. If she opposes him he knocks her down, thrashes her. But as you rise in the scale of humanity, the methods are different. The educated, cultured man never loses his temper, seldom utters an angry word. He may be a little sarcastic, perhaps, but nothing more. But he never yields. The wife cries, pleads, protests, goes into hysterics perhaps, threatens, but he never yields. He ispolite, cold, cruel if you like, but he never shows a sign of weakness, and in the end he's master. And mastery is one of the great joys of life."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it."
Dick felt slightly uncomfortable. "You said you wouldn't be serious to-day, Romanoff," he laughed nervously, "and yet you talk as though something tragic were in the air."
"I can assure you I'm in one of my light moods," replied the Count. "After all, of what account is a woman in a man's life? A diversion if you like—a creature necessary to his pleasure, but nothing more. When a man regards a woman as indispensable to his happiness, he's lost. Always look on a woman, whoever she may be, as a diversion, my friend," and Romanoff laughed quietly.
After lunch, however, Romanoff's mood seemed changed. He spoke of his early days, and of his experiences in St. Petersburg and Moscow.
"People talk about Paris being the great centre of pleasure," he said a little indignantly, "but it is nothing compared with St. Petersburg, or Petrograd, as it is called now. Some day, my friend, I must take you there; I must show you the sights; I must take you behind the scenes. Oh, I envy you!"
"Why should you?" asked Dick.
"Because you are young, because you have the world at your feet."
"And haven't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But, then, you go to everything fresh. You will drink the cup of life for the first time; you will drink deep and enjoy. But I can never again drink for the first time—there lies the difference."
"But if the cup of life is good and sweet, why may not one drink it again, and again, and still find enjoyment?"
Romanoff did not reply. He sat for a few seconds in silence, and then started up almost feverishly.
"Let us away, my friend," he cried. "I am longing to see Lady Blanche Huntingford. How did you describe her? Velvety black eyes, rosy lips, hair as black as theraven's wing, tall, stately, shaped like a Juno and a Venus combined—was that it? Please don't let's waste any time. I'm anxious to be off."
"Even although we are going in a motor."
"Motors are useful, my friend. I may not like them, but I use them. For the matter of that, I use everything. I discard nothing."
"Except religion," laughed Dick.
"Oh, I have my religion," replied Romanoff. "Some time I'll tell you about it, but not now. The sunlight is the time for adventure, for love, for happiness. Let us be off."
Evidently the Count was impressed by Lady Blanche. Directly he entered her presence he seemed to forget his cynicism, and to become light-hearted and gay.
"Do you know, Lady Blanche," he said, "that I had an idea I had seen you somewhere. Your name was familiar, and when Faversham spoke of you, I felt I should be renewing an old acquaintance. Of course, I was mistaken."
"Why 'of course'?"
"The true reply would be too obvious, wouldn't it? Besides, it would be as trite and as clumsy as the repartee of an Oxford undergraduate."
"You are beyond me," she sighed.
Romanoff smiled. "Of course, you are laughing at me; all the same. I'll say this: I shall have no doubt from this time on as to whether I've met you. Do you know who I regard as the most favoured man in England?"
She shook her head.
"My friend Faversham, of course," and Romanoff glanced towards Dick, who sat listening and looking with a kind of wonder at the face of the girl.
"Of course, Wendover is just lovely," she replied.
"And only a very short motor-run from here," remarked Romanoff.
The girl pouted as though she were vexed at his words, but it was easy to see she was not. There could be little doubt that she loved flattery, and although she felt slightly uncomfortable under the Count's ardent gaze, she was pleased at his admiration.
She was also bent on being agreeable, and Dick felt that surely no handsomer woman ever lived than this glorious creature with whom he chatted and laughed. More than once he felt his heart beating wildly as her eyes caught his, and while he wished that Romanoff was not there, he felt it to be one of the happiest days of his life.
"If Romanoff were not here I'd ask her to-day," he reflected. "It's true she's almost a stranger to me; but, after all, what does it matter? Love does not depend on a long acquaintance."
For Dick felt sure he was in love. It is true there seemed a kind of barrier between them, a certain something that kept them apart. But that he put down to their different upbringing. She was a patrician, the child of long generations of aristocratic associations, while he, although his father and mother were gentlefolk, was a commoner. All his life, too, he had been poor, while during the last few years he had had to struggle constantly with poverty. It was no wonder, therefore, that there should be a kind of barrier between them. But that would break down. Already he was feeling more as if "he belonged" to his new surroundings, while his neighbours had received him with the utmost kindness. It was only a matter of time before he would feel at one with them all. Meanwhile, Lady Blanche charmed him, fascinated him. She appealed to him as a glorious woman, regal in her carriage, wondrous in her youth and beauty.
Once during the afternoon they were alone together, and he was almost on the point of declaring his love. But something kept him back. What it was he could not tell. She was alluring, gracious, and seemed to offer him opportunities for telling her what was in his heart. And yet he did not speak. Perhaps he was afraid, although he could not have told what he feared.
"When are you going to give me another game of golf?" he asked, as they parted.
"I don't like threesomes," she laughed, looking towards Romanoff.
"I share your antipathy," said Romanoff, "butcould you not suggest someone who might bear with me while you and Faversham break the record?"
"Please manage it," pleaded Dick.
"There's a telephone at Wendover, isn't there?"
"Of course there is. You'll ring me up and let me know, won't you?"
"Perhaps."
Her smile was bewildering, and as he felt the warm pressure of her hand he was in Arcadia.
"I congratulate you, Faversham," remarked Romanoff, as they neared Wendover Park. "She's a glorious creature, simply glorious. Cleopatra was plain compared with her. My word, what a mistress for your new home. Such eyes, such hair, such a complexion—and what a magnificent figure. Yes, Faversham, you are a lucky man."
"If I get her," sighed Dick.
"Get her! Of course you'll get her. Unless——"
"Unless what?" asked Dick as the other hesitated.
Romanoff looked at him for some seconds very searchingly; then he sighed.
"Yes, what is it?" persisted Dick, who felt uncomfortable under Romanoff's look.
"I'm wondering."
"Why and at what?"
"If you are a wise man or a fool."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"No, but you will presently."
There seemed to be something so ominous in his words that a feeling like fear possessed Dick's heart. He had always felt somewhat uncomfortable in Romanoff's presence, but now the feeling was so intensified that he dreaded what he might mean.
"The sun is still shining," went on the Count, "and I told you that I should be in a festive mood until dark. In another hour the king of day will have disappeared; then I shall have some serious things to say to you."
"Let's have no more play-acting," and Dick laughed nervously.
"I can assure you, there'll be no play-acting. Everything will be real—desperately real. But I'm going to sayno more now. After dinner I am going to be serious. But not until. See! Aren't you proud of it all? Don't you revel in it? Was there ever such a lovely old house, standing amidst such gorgeous surroundings? Look at those giant trees, man! See the glorious landscape! Was there ever such a lucky man! What a mistress Lady Blanche will make!"
They were now passing up the long avenue which led to the house. Away in the distance they could see the mansion nestling amidst giant trees centuries old. From the house stretched the gardens, which were glorious in the beauty of early summer. And Dick saw it all, gloried in it all; but fear haunted him, all the same.
"What is the meaning of this strange mood of yours, Romanoff?" he asked.
"After dinner, my friend," laughed the other. "I'll tell you after dinner."
Throughout dinner the Count was apparently light-hearted, almost to flippancy, but directly the servants had left them to their coffee and cigars his mood changed.
"I told you I was going to be serious, didn't I?" he said slowly. "The time for laughter has ceased, Faversham. The next hour will be critical to you—ay, and more than critical; it will be heavy with destiny."
"What in Heaven's name do you mean?"
"Have you ever considered," and Romanoff enunciated every word with peculiar distinctness, "whether you arereallythe owner of all this?"
Dick Faversham could not repress a shudder as the other spoke. The Count's words were so ominous, so full of sinister meaning that for the moment he felt like crying out with fear. He mastered himself after a few seconds, however, and his reply was calm.
"I see what you mean," he said quietly. "A few weeks ago I was poor, and without great expectation. Now——Naturally you wonder whether it is real to me, whether I can believe in my good fortune."
"It goes deeper than that, Faversham," was the Count's rejoinder—"very much deeper than that."
"What do you mean?"
"You believe that you are the owner of all this. You regard yourself as the lawful possessor of the Wendover Park estate, with all its farms, cottages, and villages; you also think of yourself as the owner of mining rights, shipping interests, and a host of other things, added to a very magnificent credit balance at your bankers'. Isn't that so?"
"Of course I do. What have you to say against it?" Dick spoke almost angrily. He was greatly excited, not only by the Count's words, but by his manner of speech.
"On the strength of it you have cast eyes of love on one of the most beautiful women in England; you have dreamed of marrying Lady Blanche Huntingford, who bears one of the oldest names in the land?"
"And if I have, what then?"
"Has it ever occurred to you that your fortune rests on a very slender, a very unsafe, foundation?"
"I say, Count Romanoff——"
"Don't be angry, my friend, and, above all, look at everything calmly."
"Really, this is a trifle thick, isn't it? I'm afraid I must ask for an explanation of this peculiar manner of speech."
"I deeply regret that I shall have to give an explanation," and there was curious vibration in Romanoff's voice. "But please,please, Faversham, don't think unkindly of me because of what I have to tell you. Perhaps I have been very clumsy, but I have been trying all day to prepare you for—for what you will regard as bad news."
"Trying to prepare me? Bad news?"
"Yes, my friend. I told you this morning that I was not going to be serious while the sun shone, but that after the sun went down I was going to be tragically in earnest. The time has come."
"You spoke of my having no right here!" and a gleam of anger shot from Dick's eyes. "Might I suggest, Count, that it is a little out of the common for a guest to tell his host that he has no right to give him hospitality?"
"I was afraid you might take it like that," and Romanoff spoke almost gently. "Doubtless I have been very clumsy, very gauche; all the same, I have come only in kindness."
"Am I to understand, then, that you came here for the purpose of telling me that I am an impostor, an interloper? That, indeed, is interesting."
"I came as a friend, a well-wisher—as one deeply, very deeply, interested in your welfare. I came as one who wants you to enjoy what you believe is your good fortune, and to marry the most beautiful woman in England. If, after you have heard me, you wish me to leave you, I will do so—sadly, I will admit, but I will leave you."
"At least, do not deal in hints, in innuendoes. Tell me exactly what you mean, and perhaps you will also tell me what particular interest you have in the matter, and by what right you—you—talk in this way."
"Faversham, let me first of all admit frankly that Itook a great liking to you during the voyage that ended so—tragically. I am no longer a boy, and I do not take to people easily; but I felt an unaccountable interest in you. There were traits in your character that attracted me. I said to myself, 'I should like to know that young fellow, to cultivate his acquaintance.' That must be my reason for taking what interest I have in you. It would have been easy to let you drown, to—to listen to the appeal of the other occupants of the boat, and——"
"Pardon me," interrupted Dick impulsively, "I have behaved like a cad. I forgot that I owed my life to you. But I was excited—angry. You see, the suggestion that I am here under false pretences naturally upsets me. But tell me what you mean. I do not understand you—I am bewildered by your hints."
"Of course, I understand your feelings, and am not in the least offended. I think I know you too well not to take offence easily; besides, my desire, and my only desire, being to help you makes me impervious to ordinary emotions."
"Still," cried Dick, "tell me what you mean. You say my position as owner of my Uncle Faversham's estates rests on a very slender, a very unsafe foundation. That is surely a serious statement to make. How do you know?"
"Your uncle's will—yes, I will admit I went to Somerset House and paid a shilling for the right of reading it—states that he gave his fortune to his sister's sons, and after them to the next-of-kin."
"Exactly."
"Presently it came to pass that only one person stood between you and possession."
"That is so. I did not know it at the time, but such, I am informed, was the case."
"This person's name was Mr. Anthony Riggleton, at that time the only surviving son of your uncle's sister!"
"That is so."
Romanoff lay back in his chair and quietly smoked his cigar.
"But why these questions?" persisted Dick.
"I was only thinking, my friend, on what small issues fortune or poverty may rest."
"But—but really——"
"Here is the case as I understand it. Your lawyer told you that Mr. Anthony Riggleton, the only man who stood between you and all your uncle's possessions, was killed in a drunken brawl in Melbourne, and that on his death you became heir. That was why he sent you that wireless; that was why he summoned you back to England."
"Exactly."
"But what if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is not dead?"
"There is no doubt about that," replied Dick, in tones of relief. "Mr. Bidlake realised the importance of this, and sent to a lawyer in Melbourne to make investigations. Every care was taken, every possible loophole of mistake was investigated. I saw all the documents, all the newspaper reports."
"Has it ever struck you that mistakes might be made about this?"
"Of course. As a consequence I questioned Bidlake closely, and he told me that doubt was impossible."
"Let me understand," and Romanoff continued to speak quietly. "Your position is that Anthony Riggleton, the then heir to all your Uncle Faversham's fortune, was living in Australia; that he was known in Melbourne; that he went to a house near Melbourne with some boon companions; that there was a night of orgy; that afterwards there was a quarrel; and that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was killed."
"Evidently you've worked up the case," and there was a sneer in Dick's voice.
"But I'm right, am I not?"
"As far as you've gone, you are roughly right. Of course, his body was afterwards identified by——"
"By the cashier of the bank from which he had drawn money, and by others," interrupted Romanoff. "But what if that cashier made a mistake? What if it paid him to make it? What if the others who identified the body were paid to do so? What if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is still alive?"
"What if a hundred things are true?" cried Dick angrily. "One can ask such questions for ever. Of course, if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is still alive, I have no right here. If he is alive, I clear out."
"And does the prospect please you?" and the Count looked at Dick like one anxious.
"Of course, it doesn't please me. If it's true, I'm a pauper, or next door to one. If it's true, I should have to leave everything and go out into the world to begin again."
"And give up all thought of Lady Blanche Huntingford," added the Count.
"I say, Romanoff, if you've anything definite to tell me, tell it. I tell you honestly, I don't enjoy all this."
"Of course you don't. The thought of giving up all this is like thinking of having your eyes pulled out, isn't it?"
"But of course it's all rubbish. Of course you are imagining an ugly bogey man," and Dick laughed nervously.
"I'm imagining nothing, Faversham."
"Then you mean to tell me——"
"That Mr. Anthony Riggleton is alive? Yes, I do."
Dick gave the Count an angry look, then started to his feet and began to pace the room.
"Of course it's all nonsense," he cried after a few seconds. "Please don't imagine that I'm going to accept a cock-and-bull sort of story like that. Do you think that Bidlake would be deceived? Do you imagine that the man he employed in Melbourne would be duped? No, no, I'm not such a fool as to accept that. Besides, what have you to do with it? Why did you come here in such a fashion, and with such a story? It does not look very friendly, does it?"
"Why I came here, and why I have told you the truth, will leak out presently. You will see then that I came not as an enemy, but as a friend."
"As a friend!" and there was an angry sneer in Dick's voice.
"As a friend," repeated Romanoff. "Of course," he went on quietly, "I expected that you would take itin this way; but you will soon see that my motives are—not unworthy of a friend."
"Tell me then how you came to know of this. Perhaps you will also give me some proofs that Mr. Anthony Riggleton, who was found dead, whose body was identified by responsible witnesses, has so miraculously come to life again. Believe me, this hearsay, this wonderful story does not appeal to me. Do you come to me with this—this farrago of nonsense with the belief that I am going to give up all this?" and he looked out of the window towards the far-spreading parks as he spoke, "without the most absolute and conclusive proof? If Mr. Anthony Riggleton is alive, where is he? Why does he not show himself? Why does he not come here and claim his own?"
"Because I have stopped him from coming," replied Romanoff.
"You have stopped him from coming?" cried Dick excitedly.
"Exactly."
"Then you have seen him?"
"I have seen him."
"But how do you know it was he? Are Mr. Bidlake's inquiries to go for nothing? No, no, it won't do. I can't be deceived like that."
"I know it was he because I have the most absolute proofs—proofs which I am going to submit to you."
"You saw him, you say?"
"I saw him."
"But where?"
"In Australia. I told you, didn't I, that—after leaving you I went to Australia? I told you, too, that I left Australia quickly because I did not like the country. That was false. I came because I wanted to warn you, to help you. You asked me just now why, if Mr. Anthony Riggleton was alive, he did not show himself. I will tell you why. If I had allowed him to do so, if he knew that he was heir to all you now possess, you would be a poor man. And I did not want you to be a poor man. I did not want your life to be ruined, your future sacrificed, your hopes destroyed.That's why, Faversham. That's why I left Australia and came here without wasting an hour. That's why I examined your uncle's will; that's why I came to warn you."
"To warn me?"
"To warn you."
"Against what?"
"Against dangers—against the dangers which might engulf you—ruin you for ever."
"You speak in a tragic tone of voice."
"I speak of tragic things. I told you that this was your hour of destiny. I told you the truth. This night will decide your future. You are a young fellow with your life all before you. You were born for enjoyment, for pleasure, for ease. You, unlike your uncle, who made all the wealth we are thinking of, are not a business genius; you are not a great master personality who can forge your way through difficult circumstances. You are not cast in that mould. But you can enjoy. You have barely felt your feet since you came into possession of great wealth, but already you have dreamt dreams, and seen visions. You have already made plans as to how you can suck the orange of the world dry. And to-night will be the time of decision."
Dick laughed uneasily. "How?" he asked, and his face was pale to the lips.
"Is there a photograph of Mr. Anthony Riggleton in the house?" asked Romanoff.
"Yes, I came across one the other day. Would you like to see it?" He went to a drawer as he spoke and took a packet from it. "Here is the thing," he added.
"Just so," replied Romanoff; "now look at this," and he took a photograph from his pocket. "It's the same face, isn't it? The same man. Well, my friend, that is the photograph of a man I saw in Australia, weeks after you got your wireless from Mr. Bidlake—months after the news came that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was dead. I saw him; I talked with him. He told me a good deal about himself, told me of some of his experiences in this house. There are a number of people inthis neighbourhood who knew him, and who could identify him."
"You are sure of this?" gasped Dick.
"Absolutely."
"And does he know—that—that his uncle is dead?"
"Not yet. That's why I hurried here to see you. But he has made up his mind to come to England, and of course he intends coming here."
"He told you this, did he?"
"Yes. I came across him in a little town about five hundred miles from Melbourne, and when I found out who he was I thought of you."
"But how do you explain the news of his death, the inquest, and the other things?"
"I'll come to that presently. It's easily explained. Oh, there's no doubt about it, Faversham. I have seen the real heir to all the wealth you thought your own."
"But what do you mean by saying that you stopped him from coming here?" and Dick's voice was husky.
"I'm going to tell you why I stopped him. I'm going to tell you how you can keep everything, enjoy everything. Yes, and how you can still marry the woman you are dreaming of."
"But if the real heir is alive—I—I can't," stammered Dick.
"I'm here to show you how you can," persisted Romanoff. "Did I not tell you that this was the hour of destiny?"