Dick Faversham made his way to the offices of Messrs. Bidlake & Bilton, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, with a fast-beating heart. He felt like a man whose fortune depended on the turn of a die. If the lawyers had sent him a message for the purpose he hoped, all was well; if not——And for the hundredth time he considered the pros and cons of the matter.
His rescue from the island had turned out to be one of the prosiest matters imaginable. The captain of an English-bound steamer had seen the signals made from the island, and had sent boats. Thus Dick was saved without difficulty. There were others who had a similar fortune, but Dick had no chance to speak with them. No sooner did he reach the steamer than he was taken ill, and remained ill during the whole of the homeward voyage.
After he reached Plymouth he began to recover rapidly, but he found on making inquiries that all who were rescued from the island had disembarked at the western seaport. This was very disappointing to him, as he wanted to make inquiries concerning the manner of their escape. Of Romanoff he neither heard nor saw anything. No one knew anything of him on the steamer, neither was he known to board it.
Dick was both glad and sorry because of this. Glad because, although Romanoff possessed a strange fascination for him, he had never been altogether comfortable in his presence. The man repelled him even while he fascinated him, and he felt relieved that he was not on board. On the other hand, he was sorry, because he had a feeling that this strange, saturnine man might have been a great help to him in his peculiar circumstances.
"It may be all a will-o'-the-wisp fancy," he reflected as he walked along Fleet Street towards the Law Courts, "and yet it must mean something."
His mind was in a whirl of bewilderment, for in spite of Romanoff's explanation he could not drive from his mind the belief that his experiences after the vessel was wrecked had been real. Indeed, there were times when he wassurethat he had seen an angel's form hovering while he was struggling in the sea, sure that he felt strong arms upholding him.
"At any rate, this is real," he said to himself as he turned into Lincoln's Inn Fields. "I am here on dry land. I wear a suit of clothes which Captain Fraser gave me, and I have twenty-four shillings in my pocket. Whatever happens, I will at the first opportunity pay the captain for his kindness."
He entered the office and gave his name.
"Do you wish to see Mr. Bidlake or Mr. Bilton?" asked the clerk.
"Either, or both," replied Dick.
"Would you state your business, please?" The clerk did not seem to be sure of him.
"I will state my business to your principals," replied Dick. "Please take in my name."
When the clerk returned his demeanour was changed. He was obsequious and anxious to serve.
"Will you come this way, please, sir?" he said. "Mr. Bilton is in Mr. Bidlake's room, and——"
He did not finish the sentence, for the door of an office opened and a man of about fifty years of age appeared.
"Come in, Mr. Faversham," he invited. "Do you know, I've been on tenterhooks for days about you."
"I landed at Tilbury only a few hours ago."
"Is that so? But it was this way: we, of course, heard that your boat had been mined, and we also heard that a number of the passengers and crew were rescued; but news about you was contradictory. In one list of the saved your name appeared, while in another you were not mentioned. Tell us all about it."
"Another time," replied Dick. He was in a feverto know why this very respectable firm of lawyers should have sent a wireless to him.
"Yes, yes, of course," assented Mr. Bidlake, leading the way to an inner room. "Bilton, you may as well come too. My word, Mr. Faversham, Iamglad to see you."
Dick felt light-hearted. Mr. Bidlake would not receive him in this fashion had there not been important reasons for doing so.
"Well now, to come to business right away," said Mr. Bidlake the moment they were seated—"you got my message?"
"Twenty-four hours before I was wrecked," replied Dick.
"Just so. You'll tell us all about that presently. My word, you must have had a terrible time! But that's by the way. You got my message, and therefore you know that your uncle, Mr. Charles Faversham, is dead?"
Dick nodded. He tried to appear calm, but his heart was thumping like a sledge-hammer.
"Of course, you know that Mr. Charles Faversham was a bachelor, and—by the way, Mr. Bilton, will you find the Faversham papers? You've had them in hand."
"Yes, my uncle was a bachelor," repeated Dick as Mr. Bidlake hesitated.
"You've never had any communications with him?"
"Never."
"A peculiar man. A genius for business, but, all the same, a peculiar man. However, I think it's all plain enough."
"What is plain enough?"
"Have you the papers, Bilton? That's good. Yes, I have everything here. This is the last will of Mr. Faversham—a plain, straightforward will in many ways, although slightly involved in others. However——"
The lawyer untied some tape, and began scanning some documents.
"However what?" asked Dick, who by this time was almost beside himself with impatience.
"By the way, you can easily put your hand on yourbirth certificate, as well as the death certificate of your father, I suppose?"
"Quite easily."
"Of course you can. The fact that I have known you for some time makes things far easier, far less—complicated. Otherwise a great many formalities would have to be gone into before—in short, Mr. Richard Faversham, I have great pleasure in congratulating you on being the heir to a fine fortune—averyfine fortune."
Mr. Bidlake smiled benignly.
"My uncle's fortune?"
"Your uncle's estate—yes. He was a very rich man."
"But—but——" stammered Dick.
"Yes, yes, of course, you wish for some details. This is the position. Your uncle made a will—a rather peculiar will in some ways."
"A peculiar will?" queried Dick.
"Yes—as you know, I did a great deal of work for him; but there were others. Triggs and Wilcox attended to some things, while Mortlake and Stenson also did odd jobs; but I have made all inquiries, and this is the last will he made. He wrote it himself, and it was duly witnessed. I myself have interviewed the witnesses, and there is no flaw anywhere, although, of course, this document is by no means orthodox."
"Orthodox? I don't understand."
"I mean that it is not in legal form. As a matter of fact, it is utterly informal."
"You mean that there is some doubt about it?"
"On no, by no means. It would stand good in any court of law, but, of course, all such documents are loosely worded. In case of a lawsuit it would offer occasion for many wordy battles," and Mr. Bidlake smacked his lips as though he would enjoy such an experience. "But here is the will in a nutshell," he went on. "You see, his own brother died many years ago, while your father, his stepbrother, died—let me see—how long ago? But you know. I need not go into that. As you may have heard, his sister Helen married and had children; she was left a widow, and during her widowhood she kept house for your uncle; so far so good. This is the will:all his property, excepting some small sums which are plainly stated, was left equally to his sister Helen's children, and to their heirs on their decease."
"But where do I come in?" gasped Dick.
"Here, my dear sir. There is a clause in the will, which I'll read: 'Should not my sister Helen's children be alive at the time of my decease, all my property is to be equally divided between my nearest surviving relatives.' Now, here," went on the lawyer, "we see the foolishness of a man making his own will, especially a man with such vast properties as Mr. Charles Faversham had. First of all, suppose his sister Helen's children married and had children who were alive at the time of Mr. Charles Faversham's death. These children might not inherit a penny if his sister's children had been dead. Again, take the term 'equally divided.' Don't you see what a bill of costs might be run up in settling that? What is an equal division? Who is to assess values on an estate that consists of shipping interests, lands, mines, and a host of other things? Still, we need not trouble about this as it happens. We have inquired into the matter, and we find that your Aunt Helen's children are dead, and that none of them was married."
"Then—then——"
"You are the nearest surviving relative, my dear sir, and not only that—you are the only surviving relative of the late Mr. Charles Faversham of Wendover Park, Surrey."
Dick Faversham still appeared outwardly calm, although his brain was whirling with excitement. The words, 'shipping interests, lands, mines, and a host of other things,' were singing in his ears. And he—hewas heir to it all! But was there some doubt about it? Was everything so definite as the lawyer had stated?
"I believe my Aunt Helen had three children," Dick said after a silence—"two girls and a boy, or two boys and a girl, I have forgotten which. Do you mean to say they are all dead?"
"Certain. Directly on Mr. Faversham's death I went into the matter. Two of the children died in England. The third, a son, died in Australia. I was very anxiousabout that, and spent quite a little fortune in cablegrams. Still, I got everything cleared up satisfactorily."
"Tell me how." Dick was very anxious about this. It seemed to him as the crux of the whole question.
"It was naturally a little difficult," and Mr. Bidlake smiled complacently. "Australia is some little distance away, eh? But I managed it. For one thing, an old articled clerk of mine went to Melbourne some years ago, and succeeded in getting a practice there. He was very anxious to oblige me, and got on the track almost immediately. Fortunately for us, the death of Mr. Anthony Riggleton was somewhat notorious."
"And Mr. Anthony Riggleton was my Aunt Helen's son?" asked Dick.
"Exactly. He was not a young man of high character, and I am given to understand that Mr. Charles Faversham threatened more than once, when he was in England, never to leave him a penny. However, he paid his debts, gave him a sum of money, and told him to go away and never to return again during his life. It seems, too, that Mr. Anthony Faversham Riggleton considerably reformed himself during the time he was in Australia, so much so that favourable reports were sent to his uncle concerning his conduct. That, I imagine, accounts for his inclusion in the will. Whether he went wild again, I don't know, but it is certain that he met his death in a very suspicious way. It seems that he and some other men met in a house of bad repute not far from Melbourne, and in a brawl of some sort he came to an untimely end. His body was found more than twenty-four hours after his death, in the harbour at Melbourne. Evidently the affair was most unsavoury. His face was much bashed. A pistol-shot had passed through his brain, and there were some knife-stabs in his body."
"And his companions?" asked Dick.
"They had cleared out, and left no traces behind. You see, they had plenty of time to do so before the police were able to get to work. According to the latest reports I have heard, there is not the slightest chance of finding them."
"But the body—was it identified?"
"It was. Letters were found on the body addressed to Mr. Anthony Faversham Riggleton, and there were also private papers on his person which left no doubt. Added to this, the evidence of the cashier and of a clerk of the Bank of Australia was most explicit. You see, he had called at the bank on the morning of the night of the brawl, and drew what little money he had. When the body was brought to the mortuary, both the cashier and the clerk swore it was that of the man who had called for the money."
"That was settled definitely, then?"
"Just so. Oh, you can make your mind quite easy. Directly I got news of Mr. Charles Faversham's death I naturally took steps to deal with his estate, and I assured myself of your interest in the matter before seeking to communicate with you. I would not have sent you that wireless without practical certainty. Since then I have received newspapers from Melbourne giving details of the whole business."
"And my Aunt Helen?" asked Dick.
"She died before the will was made. I gather that her death caused him to make the new will—the one we are discussing—in a hurry."
"And my two other cousins?" Dick persisted. He wanted to assure himself that there could be no shadow of doubt.
The lawyer smiled. "Things do happen strangely sometimes," he said. "If anyone had told me at the time this will was made that you would come in for the whole estate, I should have laughed. There were three healthy people in your way. And yet, so it is. They are dead. There is not a shadow of doubt about it."
"But didn't my uncle know of their decease?"
"I can't tell you that. He was a strange man. As I have said, he had a regular genius for making money, and he lived for his business. He simply revelled in it; not because he cared about money as such, but because the accumulation of wealth fascinated him. He was, as you know, unmarried, and up to the time of his making this will, his sister, of whom he seemed to have been fond, kept house for him. But he would not have her childrenaround him. He gave them large sums of money, but he had no personal knowledge of them. It is quite probable, therefore, that he, being in failing health for more than a year before his death, would have no knowledge that they died some time before he did. You would understand if you had known him. A most eccentric man."
Dick reflected a few seconds. The way seemed perfectly plain, and yet everything seemed intangible, unreal.
"In proof of that," went on the lawyer, "he did not tell either Mr. Bilton or myself that he had made this will. He simply gave a letter to the housekeeper he had secured after his sister's death, and told her that this letter was to be given to me at his decease. That letter," went on Mr. Bidlake, "contained the key of a safe and instructions to me to deal with the contents of the safe immediately after his death. Of course, I opened the safe, and among the first things I found was this will. The rest I have explained to you."
"And you say I am very wealthy?" asked Dick almost fearfully. Even yet it seemed too good to be true.
"Wealthy!" and the lawyer smiled. "Wealthy, my dear sir! I cannot yet tell youhowwealthy. But if a controlling interest in one of the most prosperous shipping companies in the world, if the principal holding in one of our great banks, if landed estates in more than three counties, if important mining interests, if hundreds of houses in London and hosts of other things mean great wealth—then I can truly say that you are a very wealthy man. Of course, I cannot as yet estimate the value of the whole estate, but the death duties will make a nice fortune—averynice fortune. Still, if you decide to entrust your legal business to us, as we hope you will, we shall be able in a few weeks to give you an approximate idea of what you are worth."
"Of course I will do that," replied Dirk hastily; "naturally there is no question about the matter. That must be settled here and now."
"Thank you," said Mr. Bidlake. "Naturally Mr.Bilton and myself appreciate this mark of your confidence. You may depend that neither of us will spare himself in order to serve you. Eh, Mr. Bilton?"
"Exactly," replied Mr. Bilton. It was the only word he had as yet spoken throughout the interview.
"And now," said Dick, "I want your advice."
"Our advice? Certainly. What about?"
"Well, owing to the wreck, I am at this moment in borrowed clothes. I have only a few shillings in my pocket——"
"My dear sir," interrupted the lawyer, "that presents no difficulties. Let me give you an open cheque for two hundred—five hundred—pounds right away. Naturally, too, you will want to get clothes. You lost everything in the—the wreck; naturally you did. I had almost forgotten such things in the—the bigger matter. But that's all right. I have a private sitting-room here, and my tailor would be only too glad to come here right away. A most capable man. He would rig you out, temporarily, in a few hours, and afterwards——"
"That's all right," interrupted Dick; "but what next?"
"Take possession at once, my dear sir—at once."
"But I don't want anything to get into the papers."
"Certainly not—if we can help it. And I think we can. Shall I ring up my tailors? Yes?" And Mr. Bidlake took a telephone receiver into his hand. "That's all right," he added two minutes later. "Hucknell will be here in less than half an hour, and you can trust him to fix you up and tide you over the next few days. Yes, he will be glad to do so—very glad. Terrible business this industrial unrest, isn't it? I'm afraid it's going to take some settling. Of course, it's world wide, but I say, thank goodness our people have got more sense and more balance than those poor Russians."
The words were simple enough, and the expression was almost a commonplace, but Dick Faversham felt a sudden pain at his heart. He thought of the dark, mysterious man who claimed kinship with the great Russian House of Romanoff, and in a way he could not understand; the thought seemed to take away from thejoyous excitement which filled his being at that moment. He wished he had never seen, never heard of Count Romanoff.
With an effort he shook off the cloud.
"You suggest that I go to Wendover Park at once?"
"Yes, say to-morrow morning. It is your right; in a way, it's your duty. The property is undeniably yours."
"Would—would you—could you go with me?" stammered Dick.
"I was on the point of suggesting it myself, my dear sir. Yes, I could go to-morrow morning."
"Are there any servants there, or is the house empty?" asked Dick. Again he had a sense of unreality.
"Most of the servants are there," replied the lawyer. "I thought it best to keep them. I am not sure about a chauffeur, though. I have an idea I discharged him. But it can easily be managed. The housekeeper whom your uncle engaged on your aunt's death is there, and she, it appears, has a husband. Rather a capable man. He can get a chauffeur. I'll ring up right away, and give instructions. You don't mind, do you?"
"It's awfully good of you," Dick assured him. "I shall feel lost without you."
At half-past one Dick accompanied Mr. Bidlake to his club for lunch, attired in a not at all badly fitting ready-made suit of clothes, which Mr. Hucknell had secured for him, and spent the afternoon with the lawyer discussing the new situation.
"Nine-thirty-five Victoria," said Mr. Bidlake to him as he left him that night.
"I'll be there."
Dick went to his hotel like a man in a dream. Even yet everything was unreal to him. He had received assurances from one of the most trustworthy and respectable lawyers in London that his position was absolutely safe, and yet he felt no firm foundation under his feet.
"I expect it's because I've seen nothing yet," he reflected. "When I go down to-morrow and get installed as the owner of everything, I shall see things in a new light."
The end of April had now come, and a tinge of green had crept over what in many respects is one of the loveliest counties in England. The train in which Mr. Bidlake and Dick Faversham sat had left Redhill and was passing through a rich, undulating countryside.
"You feel a bit excited, I expect?" and Mr. Bidlake looked up from his copy ofThe Times.
"Just a bit."
"You'll soon get over your excitement, although, of course, you'll find the change very great. A rich man has many responsibilities."
"If I remember aright, there are several other big houses within a few miles of Wendover Park? Was my uncle on good terms with his neighbours?"
The lawyer coughed. "He did not go much into society. As I told you, he was a very eccentric man."
Dick was quick to notice the tone in which the other spoke. "You mean that he was not well received?"
"I mean that he lived his own life. Mr. Faversham was essentially a business man, and—and perhaps he could not understand the attitude of the old county families. Besides, feeling against him was rather strong when he bought Wendover Park."
"Why?"
"I daresay you'll learn all about it in time. Enough to say now that Sir Guy Wendover, the previous owner, was in money difficulties, and the feeling was that your uncle took advantage of them in order to get hold of the place. Personally I don't pay much attention to such stories; but undoubtedly they affected your uncle's position. Possibly they may affect yours—for a time."The lawyer appeared to utter the last sentence as an afterthought.
Presently the train stopped at a wayside station, where the two alighted. The sun was now high in the heavens, and the birds were singing gaily. Wooded hills sloped up from the station, while westward was a vast panorama of hill and dale.
"I don't think you could find a fairer sight in all England," remarked Mr. Bidlake. "Ah, that's right. I see a motor-car is waiting for us."
Dick felt as thought a weight rolled from his shoulders the moment he stood beneath the open sky. Yes, this was glorious! The air was laden with the perfume of bursting life. The chorus of the birds exhilarated him; the sight of the rich loamy meadows, where lambkins sported and cows fed lazily, made him feel that he was not following some chimera of the mind, but tangible realities.
A chauffeur touched his cap. "Mr. Faversham and Mr. Bidlake, sir?" he inquired.
A few minutes later the car was moving swiftly along beautiful country lanes, the like of which only a few English counties can show. Yes, Dick had to admit it. Beautiful as he thought the whole district to be when cycling through it years before, he had no idea it was like this. Every corner they turned revealed new loveliness. All nature seemed bent on giving him a great welcome to his new home.
They had covered perhaps half the journey between the station and the house when the chauffeur jammed his foot on the brake suddenly and brought the car to a standstill. In front of them stood a small two-seater, by the open bonnet of which stood a young lady with hand uplifted. Evidently something had gone wrong with her machine, and the lane at this point was not wide enough for them to pass.
Dick immediately alighted.
"I am awfully sorry to inconvenience you," protested the girl, "but my engine has stopped, and, try as I may, I can't get it to start again."
Her face was slightly flushed, partly with herendeavours to start the engine and partly with impatience; but this did not detract from her more than usually handsome appearance. For she was handsome; indeed, Dick thought he had never seen such a striking girl. And this was no wonder. It is only rare that nature produces such a perfect specimen of young womanhood as he saw that morning—perfect, that is, in face and form, perfect in colouring, in stature, in bearing. She was a brunette—great black flashing eyes, full red lips, raven-black hair, skin suffused with the glow of buoyant health. More than ordinarily tall, she was shaped like a Juno, and moved with all the grace and freedom of an athlete.
"Help the lady, my man," said Mr. Bidlake to the chauffeur.
"Sorry, sir," replied the man, "but I don't know anything about engines. I've only just learnt to drive. You see, sir, Mrs. Winkley didn't quite know what to do when——"
"All right," interrupted Dick, with a laugh; "perhaps I can help you."
"If you only could," laughed the girl. "I haven't had the thing long, but it never went wrong until to-day. I know how to drive pretty well, but as for understanding the engine, I'm a mere baby."
She had a frank, pleasant voice, and laughed as she spoke, revealing perfect teeth.
Dick, who had quite a gift for mechanism, quickly found some tools, and commenced testing the sparking-plugs like a man conversant with his work.
"I'll have to take off my coat if you'll excuse me," he said presently. "I see you start the thing on a battery, and have no magneto. I'm sorry I don't know this class of car well, but I think I can see what's the matter."
"What is it? Do tell me," she cried, with an eager laugh. "I've been studying motor manuals and all that sort of thing ever since I commenced to drive, but diagrams always confuse me."
"The distributor seems to be wrong, and some wires have become disconnected. Have you been held up long?"
"Oh, a quarter of an hour—more."
"And running the battery all the time?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You must be careful or your battery'll run out of electricity; that would mean your being hung up for two days."
"They told me that at the garage a little time ago. But what must I do?" and she laughed at him pleasantly.
"If she doesn't start at once, get someone to adjust the parts. There, I wonder if she'll go now."
He touched a switch, and the engine began to run.
"She seems all right," he said, after watching the moving mass of machinery for some seconds.
"Oh, you are good—and—thank you ever so much."
"It's been quite a pleasure," replied Dick, putting on his coat. "It was lucky I came by."
"It was indeed; but look at your hands. They are covered with oil. Iamsorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. Oil breaks no bones. Besides, I shall be able to wash them in a few minutes."
"You are not going far, then?"
"Only to Wendover Park. Do you know it?"
"Know it! Why——" She checked herself suddenly, and Dick thought she seemed a little confused. "But I must be going now. Thank you again."
She got into the car, and in a few seconds was out of sight.
"Remarkably handsome young lady, isn't she?" remarked Mr. Bidlake. "Do you know who she is?" he asked the chauffeur.
"Lady Blanche Huntingford, sir," replied the chauffeur.
"Whew!" whistled Mr. Bidlake.
"Anybody special?" asked Dick.
The lawyer smiled. "The incident is decidedly interesting," he replied. "First, she is cousin to Sir Guy Wendover who used to own Wendover Park, and second, she is the daughter of Lord Huntingford, the proudest and most exclusive aristocrat in Surrey."
"No? By Jove, she is handsome!"
"It is said that the Huntingfords rule Social Surrey.If they take you up, your social status is assured; if they boycott you——" and the lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
Dick was silent a few seconds. Evidently he was thinking deeply. "Isn't she glorious?" he cried presently. "I never saw such a dazzling girl. Did you notice her eyes—her complexion? I—I wouldn't have missed it for anything."
The lawyer did not reply. Perhaps he had reasons for his silence.
The car dashed on for another mile, and then Dick gave a cry of delight.
"That's it, isn't it?"
"Yes; that's it."
They were looking at a lovely old mansion which stood on the slope of a hill. Stretching away from it were fine park-lands, and beyond these were wide-stretching woods. Looked at on that fair spring day, it was indeed a place to be proud of, to rejoice in.
"I never dreamt it was so fine!" gasped Dick.
"One of the finest places in England," was the lawyer's complacent reply.
Dick looked like one fascinated. It appealed to and satisfied him altogether.
"It's old, isn't it?"
"Three hundred years. It is said that the gardens are a wonder."
The car passed through some heavily wrought gates, and then rolled under an avenue of old trees. Dick could not speak; the thought of possessing such a place made him dumb. A few minutes later they drew up before the main entrance.
Dick was the first to leap out. He was eager to enter, to claim possession, to examine every nook and corner of his new home. He put his foot on the bottom step leading to the door, and then stopped suddenly. He felt himself rooted to the ground, felt afraid to move.
"I congratulate you again," said the lawyer. "I feel proud that I have the privilege to——"
"Don't you see? There! Don't you see?" gasped Dick.
"See?" repeated the lawyer. "Of course I see one of the most beautiful houses in England."
"Yes, but nothing else?" he asked excitedly.
"What do you mean?" queried the lawyer.
But Dick did not reply. Although the lawyer had seen nothing, he saw in dim outline the face and form which had appeared to him when he was sinking in the turbulent waters of the Indian Ocean. Was this a warning that trouble was to overwhelm him again?
Dick Faversham had no doubts. Whatever he might think later, he was at that time certain of what he saw. The sun was shining brightly, and there was nothing in the various objects by which he was surrounded to suggest the supernatural, and yet he saw the face of the angel. She seemed to be hovering over the steps which led to the main entrance of the house, and for the moment she looked as though she would forbid his entrance. But only for the moment. Slowly she faded away, slowly he lost sight of her, and by the time the servant, who had evidently seen the approach of the car, had reached the door she had gone.
But he was sure he had seen her. The form he had seen hovering over him on the wild, turbulent sea was plainly visible to him at the door of this old Surrey mansion. The face, too, could not be mistaken. The same calm, benign expression, the same tender mouth. Goodness, purity, guardianship, all found their expression in those features. But there was something more. The eyes which had riveted his attention and haunted his memory for months seemed to convey something different to him now from what they had then. There was still the same yearning gaze, the same melting tenderness, but there was something more. They seemed to suggest fear, warning. Dick Faversham felt as though she wanted to tell him something, to warn him against some unknown danger. It is true the feeling was indefinite and difficult to put into words; but it was there. She might, while not forbidding him to enter the house which had so unexpectedly come into his possession, be trying to tell him of dangers, of possible calamity.
"And do you say that you can see—that—that you saw nothing?" he almost gasped.
"I can see a great deal," replied Mr. Bidlake. "I can see one of the loveliest scenes in England. I can see you standing at the entrance of—but what do you mean? You look pale—frightened. Aren't you well?"
Dick opened his mouth to tell what he had seen, but he checked himself. Somehow the thought of opening his heart to this matter-of-fact lawyer seemed like sacrilege. He would not understand. He would tell him, just as Romanoff had told him weeks before, that his mind was unbalanced by the experiences through which he had passed, that the natural excitement caused by the news he had heard were too much for him, and caused him to lose his mental balance.
"Yes, I am quite well, thank you."
"Well, what do you mean? What do you think you saw?"
At that moment the door opened, and the housekeeper, who had hurried to meet them, appeared, and the lawyer did not listen to his stammering reply.
"Good-day, Mr. Bidlake," smiled the housekeeper. "I am glad you got here all right. Winkley had quite a difficulty in getting a chauffeur. I hope the one provided was satisfactory?"
"It's all right, Mrs. Winkley," and the lawyer was very patronising as he spoke; "the man brought us here safely. This," and he turned towards Dick, "is Mr. Richard Faversham, the new owner of—hem—Wendover Park, and your new—master."
"Indeed, sir," and Mrs. Winkley turned and looked nervously towards Dick, "I hope you'll be very—happy here, sir. I bid you welcome, sir."
Dick smiled with frank pleasure and shook hands—a familiarity which pleased the housekeeper, but not the lawyer.
"You got my letter, Mrs. Winkley?" Mr. Bidlake said hurriedly.
"Yes, sir, also your telephone message yesterday. Wendover Park is a lovely place, Mr. Faversham."
"It is, indeed, Mrs. Winkley. This Surrey air has given me an appetite, too."
Dick was so nervous that he hardly knew what he was saying. As he glanced around the spacious hall and tried to realise that it was his own, and as he called to mind that for the last mile he had been passing through his own property, it seemed to be too wonderful to be true.
"Yes, the air is very good, and I am glad you are hungry. Lunch will be ready in half an hour. I have prepared a bedroom for you, Mr. Faversham. I have assumed you are—staying here?"
"Rather!" and Dick laughed as he spoke. "You must excuse me if I'm a little abrupt, Mrs. Winkley. You see, I imagine it will take me some little time to settle down to the new order of things."
"I think I understand; it must be a wonderful experience for you. But I think you'll find everything all right. I have taken great care of everything since the late Mr. Faversham died. It's all just as he left it. No doubt you'll want to look over the house?"
"Presently, Mrs. Winkley; but, first of all, I want to come to an understanding with you. I am a bachelor, and I don't think I have a relation in the world, so, for a time, I—shall make no changes in the place at all. What I mean to say is, that I hope you'll continue to be my housekeeper, and—and look after me generally. Mr. Bidlake has said all sorts of good things about you, so much so that I shall regard myself very fortunate if—if you'll remain in your present position."
Dick didn't know at all why he said this, except that he had a feeling that something of the sort was expected from him.
"I'm sure it's very kind of you to say so, sir," and Mrs. Winkley smiled radiantly. "Of course I've been a little bit anxious, not knowing what kind of—of gentleman the new owner would be, or what plans he might have. But, if you think I'll suit you, sir, I'll do my utmost to make you comfortable and look after your interests. I was housekeeper to Dr. Bell of Guildford when the late Mr. Faversham's sister died, and——"
"Yes, I've heard about that," interrupted Dick. "I'm sure he was lucky to get you."
"I did my best for him, sir, and he never grumbled. I lived in these parts as a girl, so I can get you plenty of references as to the respectability of my family."
"I'm sure you can," Dick assented. He was glad that Mrs. Winkley was of the superior servant order rather than some superior person who had pretensions to being a fine lady. "By the way, of course you know the house well?"
"Know the house well?" repeated Mrs. Winkley. She was not quite sure that she understood him.
"Yes; know all the rooms?" laughed Dick nervously.
"Why, certainly, sir. I know every room from the garret to the cellar," replied Mrs. Winkley wonderingly.
"And there are no ghosts, are there?"
"Ghosts, sir? Not that I ever heard of."
"I was only wondering. It's an old house, and I was thinking that there might be a family ghost."
Mrs. Winkley shook her head. "Nothing of the sort, sir, to my knowledge. Wait a minute, though; I did hear when I was a girl that the elm grove was haunted. There's a lake down there, and there was a story years ago that a servant who had drowned herself there used to wander up and down the grove wringing her hands on Michaelmas Eve."
"And where is the elm grove?"
"It's away towards the North Lodge. You wouldn't see it the way you came, and it's hidden from here."
"But the house? There's no legend that that has ever been haunted?"
"No, sir. I suppose some of the Wendovers were very wild generations ago, but I never heard that any of their spirits ever came back again."
Mrs. Winkley was pleased that her new master kept talking so long, although she came to the conclusion that he was somewhat eccentric.
"Of course, it was foolish of me to ask," Dick said somewhat awkwardly; "but the thought struck me. By the way, how long did you say it was to lunch-time?"
"Not quite half an hour, sir," replied Mrs. Winkley, looking at an old eight-day clock. "I'll speak to the cook and get it pushed forward as fast as possible. Perhaps you'd like a wash, sir? I'll show you to your room, if you would."
"Thank you. After that I—I think, Mr. Bidlake, I'd like to go into the gardens."
He was afraid he was making a bad impression upon his housekeeper, and he was angry with himself for not acting in a more natural manner. But he seemed to be under a strange influence. Although the thought of the supernatural had left him, his experience of a few minutes before doubtless coloured his mind.
A few minutes later they were out in the sunlight again, and they had scarcely reached the gardens when a man of about fifty years of age made his way towards them.
"Good morning, sir," he said, with a strong Scotch accent. "Have I the honour to speak to the new master?"
"Yes; my name is Faversham."
"I'm M'Neal, your second gardener, sir. I thought when I saw you I'd make bold to speak, sir. I've been here for thirty years, sir, and have always borne a good character."
"I've no doubt you have," laughed Dick. "You look it."
"Thank you, sir. I gave satisfaction to the late Mr. Faversham, and to Sir Guy Wendover before him, and I hope——"
"That we shall get on well together. Of course we shall. I like the look of you."
He felt better now. The sight of the broad expanse of the park and the smell of the sweet, pure air made him light-hearted again.
"Indeed," he continued, "I may as well tell you right away that I intend to keep everybody that was here in my uncle's days. You can tell the others that."
"Thank you, sir. But I'd like to remark that this war has made food dear."
"I'll bear that in mind; you'll not find me unjust. All who serve me shall be well paid."
"We've all done our best, sir," persisted M'Neal, who was somewhat of a character, "but I'll not deny that we shall all be the better for a master. Personally I'm not satisfied with the way things are looking."
"No? I thought they looked beautiful."
"Ah, but nothing to what they can look. We are, as you may say, in a kind of between time now. We've not planted out the beds, although we've prepared them. If you'll——"
"Of course I will," Dick interrupted him, with a laugh, "but you must give me time before making definite promises."
"If I might show you around," suggested M'Neal, "I think I could explain——"
"Later, later," laughed Dick, moving away. "Mr. Bidlake, will you come over here with me? I want to speak to you privately."
"Do you know," Mr. Bidlake told him, "that your uncle discharged M'Neal several times during the time he lived here?"
"Why?"
"Because he followed him like a dog whenever he came into the grounds, and insisted on talking to him. He said the fellow gave him no rest."
"But why did he take him on again?"
"He didn't. But M'Neal took no notice of the discharges. He always turned up on the following morning, and went on with his work as though nothing had happened."
"And my uncle paid him his wages?"
"Yes. You see, the fellow is as faithful as a dog, although he's a nuisance. My word, what a view!"
The lawyer made this exclamation as a turn in the path revealed a landscape they had not hitherto seen. It was one of those stretches of country peculiar to that part of Surrey, and as Dick looked he did not wonder at the lawyer's enthusiasm. Beyond the park, which was studded with giant oaks, he saw a rich, undulating country. Here and there were farmsteads nestling among the trees; again he saw stretches of woodland,while in the distance rose fine commanding hills. The foliage had far from reached its glory, but the tinge of green which was creeping over every hedgerow and tree contained a promise, and a charm that no poet could describe. And the whole scene was all bathed in spring sunlight, which the birds, delighting in, made into a vast concert hall.
"My word, it is ripping!" cried Dick.
"It's glorious! it's sublime!" cried the lawyer. "You are a fortunate man, Mr. Richard Faversham. Do you know, sir, that all you can see is yours?"
"All mine?" Dick almost gasped.
"Yes, all this and much more."
For the first time Dick had a real feeling of possession, and something to which he had hitherto been a stranger entered his life. Up to now he had been poor. His life, ever since his father died, had been a struggle. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions, only to be disappointed. In spite of ambition, endeavour, determination, everything to which he had set his hand had failed him. But now, as if some fabled genii had come to his aid, fortune had suddenly poured her favours into his lap.
And here was the earnest of it!
This glorious countryside, containing farms, houses, villages, and wide-spreading lands, was his. All his! Gratified desire made his heart beat wildly. At last life was smiling and joyous. What a future he would have! With wealth like his, nothing would be impossible!
"Yes, and much more," repeated the lawyer. "On what chances a man's fortunes turn."
"What do you mean?" asked Dick, who scarce knew what he was saying.
"Only this," said Mr. Bidlake. "If that fellow had not been killed in a drunken brawl, none of this would be yours. As it is, you are one of the most fortunate men in England."
"Yes, by Jove, I am."
The lawyer looked at his watch. "Excuse me, Mr. Faversham, but it is lunch-time, and I must leave you at five o'clock."
"I'm sorry you can't stay a few days."
"Impossible, my dear sir, much as I'd like to. But I've made a little programme for you this afternoon, if it is quite convenient to you."
"Yes?" queried Dick.
"Yes; I've arranged for your steward, your head gamekeeper, and the other principal men on the estate to call here. I thought you might like to see them. There, I hear the lunch-gong."
Dick went back to the house like a man in a dream.
At six o'clock that evening Dick Faversham was alone. He had had interviews with his steward, his bailiff, his gamekeeper, his forester, his head gardener, and his head stableman, and now he was left to himself. Mr. Bidlake, after promising to come again in three days, had gone back to London, while the others had each gone to their respective homes to discuss the new master of Wendover Park and the changes which would probably take place.
Dick had also gone over the house, and had taken note of the many features of his new dwelling-place. He had examined the library, the billiard-room, the dancing-room, the minstrels' gallery, the banqueting hall, and the many other apartments belonging to this fine old mansion. Evidently many of the rooms had for years been unused, but, as Mrs. Winkley had said, everything was "in perfect condition."
His uncle belonged to that order of men who could not bear to let anything deteriorate for lack of attention, and he had spent his money freely. In a way, too, Charles Faversham had a sense of fitness. In all the improvements he had made, he saw to it that the character and spirit of the old place should in no way be disturbed. Thus, while every room was hygienic, and every fireplace fitted according to the most modern ideas, the true character of everything was maintained. Electric light was installed, but not a single fitting was out of accord with the age of the building. Modern science had in everything been perfectly blended with the spirit of the men who had erected this grand old pile centuries before.
And Dick felt it all. He was enough of an artist torealise that nothing was out of place, that it was a home to rejoice in, to be proud of. If John Ruskin had been alive, and had accompanied him on his tour of inspection, there was little that the author ofThe Seven Lamps of Architecturewould have found fault with.
Most of the furniture, too, was old, and had belonged to the Wendovers. When Mr. Charles Faversham had bought the estate, he had taken over everything practically as it stood. Pictures, tapestry, antique articles of furniture which had been in the house for centuries still remained.
"Everything has such a homely, cosy feeling!" he exclaimed to himself, again and again. "The place is not one of those great, giant, homeless barracks; it's just an ideal home. It's perfect!"
And it was all his! That was the thought that constantly came to his mind. This fact was especially made real to him during his interview with Mr. Boase, the steward. That worthy gentleman, a lawyer who lived in a little town, most of which belonged to the Wendover estate, made this abundantly plain by every word he spoke, by every intonation of his voice.
Mr. Boase unrolled maps and plans in abundance. He placed before him lists of tenants, with nature and condition of their tenancy. He told him how much each farmer paid in rent, how much the house property was worth, what amount was spent each year in repairs, and finally the net amount of his rent-roll. And this was all apart from his investments elsewhere. It was simply fabulous. He who had always been poor, and had often been hard put to it to pay for food and clothes, found himself ridiculously wealthy. He had money to burn. Aladdin of romantic renown was not so much filled with wonder when the slave of the lamp appeared, ready to do his bidding, as was Dick as he realised his position.
And he revelled in thought of it all. He was not of a miserly nature, but he gloried in the influence of the power of wealth, and he painted glowing pictures of his future. He saw the doors of the rich and the great open to him; he saw himself courted by people possessing old names and a great ancestry; he fancied himself occupying positionsof eminence in the life of the nation; he saw proud beauties smiling on him.
Nothing was impossible! He knew he had more than an average share of brains; his late employers had admitted as much to him. He also had the gift of oratory. On the few occasions he had attempted to address his fellows this had been abundantly proved. In the past he had been handicapped, but now——
After dinner that night he walked out alone. He wanted to see his possessions, to feel his own earth beneath his feet, to feast his eyes on the glorious countryside.
"It will take me a week," he reflected, "to get used to it all, to fully realise that it is all mine. I want to feel my feet, to formulate my plans, to sketch my future. Of course, I shall be alone for a time, but in a few days the neighbours will be sure to call on me. After that I must give a ball. Of course, it is a bad time just now, and it is a nuisance that so many of the young fellows have been called into the Army; but I'll be able to manage it," and then he pictured the great ballroom filled with laughter and gaiety.
Then the memory of Lady Blanche Huntingford came to him. He saw her as she had appeared to him that morning. What a glorious creature she was! What great flashing eyes, what a complexion, what a figure! And she belonged to one of the oldest families in England. The Huntingfords were a great people before half the titled nobility of the present day were ever heard of.
He called to mind what Mr. Bidlake had told him. If the Huntingfords recognised him, his social position was assured, for Lord Huntingford was the social magnate of the county. He was almost half in love with her already. He remembered her silvery laugh, the gleaming whiteness of her teeth. What a mistress she would make for Wendover Park! And he could win her love! He was sure he could, and when he did——
He blessed the failure of her car to run that morning; blessed the knowledge he possessed whereby he had been able to render her a service. Of course, she would find out who he was, and then—yes, he would find the Open Sesame for every door.
For the next few days things happened as Dick expected. He was given time to view his possessions, to take stock of his new position, and then the neighbours began to call. By this time Dick knew full particulars of all the old families in Surrey, and he was gratified at their appearance. Evidently he suffered from none of the antipathy which had been felt towards his uncle. He was young, he was good looking, he had the education and appearance of a gentleman, and people accepted him at his face value.
One day his heart gave a great bound, for a servant told him that Lord and Lady Huntingford, accompanied by Lady Blanche Huntingford, were in the drawing-room. He knew then that his position in the society of the county would be assured. It was true that Lord Huntingford was poor—true, too, that his uncle had practically ejected Sir Guy Wendover from his old home, and that Sir Guy was a relative of the Huntingfords. But that would count for nothing, and the Huntingfords were the Huntingfords!
"This is good of you, Lord Huntingford!" he cried, as he entered the room.
"I came to give you a welcome," said Lord Huntingford somewhat pompously. "I trust you will be very happy here."
"I'm sure I shall!" cried Dick, with the laugh of a boy. "Wendover Park feels like Paradise to me."
"I know the place well," said the peer. "My Cousin Guy, as you may have heard, used to live here."
"Yes, I have heard of it, and I'm afraid you must feel rather bitterly towards me as a consequence."
"Not at all," replied Huntingford. "Of course, it is all ancient history now. Wedidfeel cut up about it at the time, but—but I congratulate you on possessing such a fine old place."
"But for the fact that I so love it already," said Dick, "I should wish my uncle had secured some other place; but, for the life of me, I can't. It's too lovely. Anyhow, I'll try to be not an unworthy successor of Sir Guy. I hope you'll help me, Lord Huntingford, and you, Lady Huntingford and Lady Blanche. You see,I'm handicapped. I'm a bachelor, and I'm entirely ignorant of my duties. I shall look to you for help."
This was sound policy on Dick's part. Lord Huntingford was a vain man, and loved to patronise.
"You began all right," laughed Lady Blanche. "You helped a poor, forlorn, helpless motorist out of a difficulty."
"You recognise me, then?"
"Of course I do. I positively envied the way you tackled that engine of mine and put it right. Of course, I felt angry when I knew who you were. No, no, there was nothing personal about it. I only hated the thought that anyone other than a Wendover should live here. A family feeling, you know."
"All that Wendover Park has is yours to command!" and Dick looked very earnest as he spoke.
"Now, that's good of you. But don't be too liberal with your promises. I may take you at your word."
"Try me!" cried Dick. "I should like to do something to atone. Not that I can give it up," he added, with a laugh. "I simply couldn't, you know. But—but——"
"And how are you going to spend your time?" asked Lord Huntingford. "We are living in a critical age."
"I shall make something turn up!" Dick cried heartily, "as soon as I know where I am."
"And, meanwhile, I suppose you motor, ride, shoot, golf, and all the rest of it?" asked Lady Blanche.
"I have all the vices," Dick told her.
"You say you golf?"
"Yes, a little. Would you give me a match?" he ventured.
"I'd love to," and her eyes flashed into his.
The next afternoon Dick met Lady Blanche on the golf links, and before the match was over he believed that he was in love with her. Never before had he met such a glorious specimen of physical womanhood. To him her every movement was poetry, her lithe, graceful body a thing in which to rejoice.
After the match Dick motored her back to her home.He was in Arcadia as she sat by his side. The charm of her presence was to him like some fabled elixir. On their way they caught a glimpse of Wendover Park. The old house stood out boldly on the hillside, while the wide-stretching park-lands were plainly to be seen.
"It's a perfect place," said the girl. "It just wants nothing."
"Oh yes, it does," laughed Dick.
"What?" she asked.
"Can't you think? If you were a bachelor you would," and he watched her face closely as he spoke.
He was afraid lest he might offend her, and he wondered if she saw his meaning. He thought he saw a flush surmount her face, but he was not sure. They were passing a cart just then, and he had to fix his attention on the steering-wheel.
"Do you know," he went on, "it's a bit lonely there. I haven't many friends. And then, being a bachelor, I find it difficult to entertain. Not but what I shall make a start soon," he added.
"I think you are to be envied," she remarked.
"Of course I am. I'm one of the luckiest fellows in the world. By the way, I want to give a dance or something of that sort as a kind of house-warming."
"How delightful."
"Is it? But then, you see, I'm so ignorant that I don't know how to start about it."
"Don't you? That's a pity. You must get help."
"I must. I say, will you help me? There is no one I'd so soon have."
He was sure this time. He saw the rosy tint on her face deepen. Perhaps she heard the tremor in his voice. But she did not answer him; instead, she looked away towards the distant landscape.
"Will you?" he persisted.
"What could I do?"
"Everything. You know the people, know who I should invite, and what I should do. You are accustomed to that kind of thing. I am not."
Still she was silent.
"Will you?" he asked again.
"Perhaps. If you really wish me to."
She almost whispered the words, but he heard her, and to him there was something caressing in her tone.
They passed up a long avenue of trees leading to her home, and a few seconds later the car stood at the door.
"You'll come in and have some tea, won't you?"
"May I?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course you may. Mother will be expecting you."
As he rode back to Wendover Park that evening Dick was in Paradise. Nothing but the most commonplace things had been said, but the girl had fascinated him. She had appealed to his ambition, to his pride, to his admiration for perfect, physical womanhood. She was not very clever, but she was handsome. She was instinct with redundant health; she was glorious in her youth and vitality.
"I'm in love," he said to himself more than once. "And she's wonderful—simply, gloriously wonderful. What eyes, what a complexion, what a magnificent figure! I wonder if——"
I am dwelling somewhat on this part of Dick Faversham's life because I wish the reader to understand the condition of his mind, to understand the forces at work. Uninteresting as it may be, it is still important. For Dick passed through some wonderful experiences soon after—experiences which shook the foundations of his life, and which will be more truly understood as we realise the thoughts and feelings which possessed him.
As I have said, he was in a state of bliss as he drove back to Wendover Park that evening, but as he neared his lodge gates a curious feeling of depression possessed him. His heart became heavy, forebodings filled his mind. It seemed to him that he was on the edge of a dreadful calamity.
"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself again and again. "The sun is shining, the world is lovely, and I have all that heart can wish for."
Still the feeling possessed him. Something was going to happen—something awful. He could not explain it, or give any reason for it, but it was there.
Then suddenly his heart stood still. As the car drew up to his own door he again saw the face of the angel. She was hovering over the entrance just as he had seen her on the day he came to take possession. She seemed to dread something; there was pain almost amounting to agony in the look she gave him.
He had alighted from the car, and he had a dim idea that a man was approaching to take it to the garage, but he paid no attention to him; he stood like one transfixed, looking at the apparition. He was aware that the car had gone, and that he was alone. In a vague way he supposed that the chauffeur, like the lawyer, had seen nothing.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The words escaped him almost in spite of himself.
But he heard no voice in reply. He thought he saw her lips trying to formulate words, but were not able.
"Tell me," he persisted—"tell me who you are, why you appear to me. What do you want?"
Again the apparition seemed to be trying to become audible, only to fail. Then, although he could hear no distinct voice, her answer seemed to come to him.
"Fight, fight; pray, pray," she seemed to be saying. "Beware of the tempter. Fight, fight; pray, pray. Promise me."
He was not afraid, but it seemed to him that he was face to face with eternal realities. He knew then that there were depths of life and experience of which he was ignorant.
He heard steps in the hall, and then someone opened the door.
There stood, smiling, debonair, sardonic, and—yes—wicked, Count Romanoff.