CHAPTER XIII
Douglas Falloden rode home rapidly after parting from Connie. Passion,impatience, bitter regret consumed him. He suffered, and could notendure to suffer. That life, which had grown up with him as a flatteringand obsequious friend, obeying all his whims, yielding to all hisdesires, should now have turned upon him in this traitorous way,inflicting such monstrous reprisals and rebuffs, roused in him theastonishment and resentment natural to such a temperament.
He, too, drew rein for a moment at the spot where Connie had looked outover Flood Castle and its valley. The beautiful familiar sight producedin him now only a mingling of pain and irritation. The horrid thing wassettled, decided. There was no avoiding ruin, or saving his inheritance.Then why these long delays, these endless discomforts and humiliations?The lawyers prolonged things because it paid them to do so; and his poorfather wavered and hesitated from day to day, because physically andmorally he was breaking up. If only his father and mother would havecleared out of Flood at once--they were spending money they could notpossibly afford in keeping it up--and had left him, Douglas, to do theodious things, pay the creditors, sell the place, and sweep up the wholevast mess, with the help of the lawyers, it would have been infinitelybest. His own will felt itself strong and determined enough for anysuch task. But Sir Arthur, in his strange, broken state, could not bebrought to make decisions, and would often, after days of gloom anddepression, pass into a fool's mood, when he seemed for the moment toforget and ignore the whole tragedy. Since he and Douglas had agreedwith the trustees to sell the pictures, that sheer bankruptcy might justbe escaped, Sir Arthur had been extravagantly cheerful. Why not havetheir usual shooting-party after all?--one last fling before the end! Hesupposed he should end his days in a suburban villa, but till they leftFlood the flag should be kept flying.
During all this time of tension indeed, he was a great trial to his son.Douglas's quick and proud intelligence was amazed to find his father soweak and so incompetent under misfortune. All his boyish life he hadlooked up to the slender, handsome man, whom he himself so muchresembled, on a solider, more substantial scale, as the most indulgentof fathers, the princeliest of hosts, the best of shots and riders,chief indeed of the Falloden clan and all its glories, who, like othermonarchs, could do no wrong.
But now the glamour which must always attend the central figure of sucha scene withered at the touch of poverty and misfortune. And, in itsabsence, Douglas found himself dealing with an enthusiastic, vain,self-confident being, who had ruined himself and his son byspeculations, often so childishly foolish that Douglas could not thinkof them without rage. Intellectually, he could only despise and condemnhis father.
Yet the old bond held. Till he met Constance Bledlow, he had cared onlyfor his own people, and among them, preeminently, for his father. Inthis feeling, family pride and natural affection met together. Thefamily pride had been sorely shaken, the affection, steeped in apainful, astonished pity, remained. For the first time in his lifeDouglas had been sleeping badly. Interminable dreams pursued him, inwhich the scene in Marmion quad, his last walk with Constance along theCherwell, and the family crash, were all intermingled, with the fatuitynatural to dreams. And his wakings from them were almost equally hauntedby the figures of Constance and Radowitz, and by a miserable yearningover his father, which no one who saw his hard, indifferent bearingduring the day could possible have guessed. "Poor--poor old fellow!"--hehad once or twice raised himself from his bed in the early morning, asthough answering this cry in his ears, only to find that he himself haduttered it.
He had told his people nothing of Constance Bledlow beyond the bare factof his acquaintance with her, first at Cannes, and then at Oxford. Andthey knew nothing of the Radowitz incident. Very few people indeed wereaware of the true history of that night which had marred an artist'slife. The college authorities had been painfully stirred by the reportswhich had reached them; but Radowitz himself had written to the Headmaintaining that the whole thing was an accident and a frolic, andinsisting that no public or official notice should be taken of it, afact which had not prevented the Head from writing severely to Falloden,Meyrick, and Robertson, or the fellows of the college from holding acollege meeting, even in the long vacation, to discuss what measuresshould be taken in the October term to put down and stamp out ragging.
Falloden had replied to the Head's letter expressing his "profoundregret" for the accident to Otto Radowitz, and declaring that nobody inthe row had the smallest intention of doing him any bodily harm.
What indeed had anybody but himself to do with his own malignant andmurderous impulse towards Radowitz? It had had no casual connectionwhatever with the accident itself. And who but he--and ConstanceBledlow--was entitled to know that, while the others were actuated bynothing but the usual motives of a college rag, quickened by too muchsupping, he himself had been impelled by a mad jealousy of Radowitz, anda longing to humiliate one who had humiliated him? All the same he hatedhimself now for what he had said to Constance on their last walk. It hadbeen a mean and monstrous attempt to shift the blame from his ownshoulders to hers; and his sense of honour turned from the recollectionof it in disgust.
How pale she had looked, beside that gate, in the evening light--howheavy-eyed! No doubt she was seeing Radowitz constantly, and grievingover him; blaming herself, indeed, as he, Falloden, had actually invitedher to do. With fresh poignancy, he felt himself an outcast from hercompany. No doubt they sometimes talked of him--his bitter pride guessedhow!--she, and Sorell, and Radowitz together. Was Sorell winning her? Hehad every chance. Falloden, in his sober senses, knew perfectly wellthat she was not in love with Radowitz; though no one could say whatpity might do with a girl so sensitive and sympathetic.
Well, it was all over!--no good thinking about it. He confessed tohimself that his whole relation to Constance Bledlow had been oneblunder from beginning to end. His own arrogance and self-confidencewith regard to her, appeared to him, as he looked back upon them, not somuch a fault as an absurdity. In all his dealings with her he had been aconceited fool, and he had lost her. "But I had to be ruined to find itout!" he thought, capable at last of some ironic reflection on himself.
He set his horse to a gallop along the moorland turf. Let him get home,and do his dreary tasks in that great house which was already becomingstrange to him; which, in a sense, he was now eager to see the last of.On the morrow, the possible buyer of the pictures--who, by the way, wasnot an American at all, but a German shipping millionaire fromBremen--was coming down, with an "expert." Hang the expert! Falloden,who was to deal with the business, promised himself not to beintimidated by him, or his like; and amid his general distress anddepression, his natural pugnacity took pleasure in the thought ofwrestling with the pair.
When he rode up to the Flood gateway everything appeared as usual. Thegreat lawns in front of the house were as immaculately kept as ever, andalong the shrubberies which bordered the park there were gardeners stillat work pegging down a broad edge of crimson rambler roses, which seemedto hold the sunset. Falloden observed them. "Who's paying for them?" hethought. At the front door two footmen received him; the stately headbutler stood with a detached air in the background.
"Sir Arthur's put off dinner half an hour, sir. He's in the library."
Douglas went in search of his father. He found him smoking and reading anovel, apparently half asleep.
"You're very late, Duggy. Never mind. We've put off dinner."
"I found Sprague had a great deal to say."
Sprague was the subagent living on the further edge of the estate.Douglas had spent the day with him, going into the recent valuation ofan important group of farms.
"I dare say," said Sir Arthur, lying back in his armchair. "I'm afraid Idon't want to hear it."
Douglas sat down opposite his father. He was dusty and tired, and therewere deep pits tinder his eyes.
"It will make a difference of a good many thousands to us, father, ifthat valuation is correct," he said shortly.
/> "Will it? I can't help it. I can't go into it. I can't keep the factsand figures in my head, Duggy. I've done too much of them this last tenyears. My brain gives up. But you've got a splendid head,Duggy--wonderful for your age. I leave it to you, my son. Do thebest you can."
Douglas looked at his father a moment in silence. Sir Arthur was sittingnear the window, and had just turned on an electric light beside him.Douglas was struck by something strange in his father's attitude andlook--a curious irresponsibility and remoteness. The deep depression oftheir earlier weeks together had apparently disappeared. This mood ofeasy acquiescence--almost levity--was becoming permanent. Yet Douglascould not help noticing afresh the physical change in a once splendidman--how shrunken his father was, and how grey. And he was onlyfifty-two. But the pace at which he had lived for years, first in theattempt to double his already great wealth by adventures all over theworld, and latterly in his frantic efforts to escape the consequences ofthese adventures, had rapidly made an old man of him. The waste andpity--and at the same time the irreparableness of it all--sent a shock,intolerably chill and dreary, through the son's consciousness. He wastoo young to bear it patiently. He hastily shook it off.
"Those picture chaps are coming to-morrow," he said, as he got up,meaning to go and dress.
Sir Arthur put his hands behind his head, and didn't reply immediately.He was looking at a picture on the panelled wall opposite, on which thelingering western glow still shone through the mullioned window on hisright. It was an enchanting Romney--a young woman in a black dressholding a spaniel in her arms. The picture breathed a distinction, adignity beyond the reach of Romney's ordinary mood. It represented SirArthur's great-grandmother, on his father's side, a famous Irish beautyof the day.
"Wonder what they'll give me for that," he Said quietly, pointing to it."My father always said it was the pick. You remember the story thatshe--my great-grandmother--once came across Lady Hamilton in Romney'sstudio, and Emma Hamilton told Romney afterwards that at last he'd founda sitter handsomer than herself. It's a winner. You inherit her eyes,Douglas, and her colour. What's it worth?"
"Twenty thousand perhaps." Douglas's voice had the cock-sureness thatgoes with new knowledge. "I've been looking into some of therecent prices."
"Twenty thousand!" said Sir Arthur, musing. "And Romney got seventy-fivefor it, I believe--I have the receipt somewhere. I shall miss thatpicture. What shall I get for it? A few shabby receipts--for nothing. Mycreditors will get something out of her--mercifully. But as for me--Imight as well have cut her into strips. She looks annoyed--as though sheknew I'd thrown her away. I believe she was a vixen."
"I must go and change, father," said Douglas.
"Yes, yes, dear boy, go and change. Douglas, you think there'll be a fewthousands over, don't you, besides your mother's settlement, when it'sall done?"
"Precious few," said Douglas, pausing on his way to the door. "Don'tcount upon anything, father. If we do well to-morrow, there may besomething."
"Four or five thousand?--ten, even? You know, Duggy, many men have builtup fortunes again on no more. A few weeks ago I had all sorts of ideas."
"That's no good," said Douglas, with emphasis. "For God's sake, father,don't begin again."
Sir Arthur nodded silently, and Douglas left the room.
His father remained sitting where his son had left him, his fingersdrumming absently on the arms of his chair, his half-shut eyes wanderingover the splendid garden outside, with its statues and fountains, andits masses of roses, all fused in the late evening glow.
The door opened softly. His wife came in.
Lady Laura had lost her old careless good humour. Her fair complexionhad changed for the worse; there were lines in her white forehead, andall her movements had grown nervous and irritable. But her expression asshe stood by her husband was one of anxious though rather childishaffection.
"How are you, Arthur? Did you get a nap?"
"A beauty!" said her husband, smiling at her, and taking her hand. "Idreamt about Raby, and the first time I saw you there in the old Duke'sday. What a pretty thing you were, Laura!--like a monthly rose,all pink."
He patted her hand; Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly.
"It's no good thinking about that now.... You're not really going tohave a shooting-party, Arthur? I do wish you wouldn't!"
"But of course I am!" said her husband, raising himself with alacrity."The grouse must be shot, and the estate is not sold yet! I've askedyoung Meyrick, and Lord Charles, and Robert Vere. You can ask theCharlevilles, dear, and if my lady doesn't come I shan't break my heart.Then there are five or six of the neighbours of course. And no whiningand whimpering! The last shoot at Flood shall be a good one! The keepertells me the birds are splendid!"
Lady Laura's lips trembled.
"You forget what Duggy and I shall be feeling all the time, Arthur. It'svery hard on us."
"No--nonsense!" The voice was good-humouredly impatient. "Take itcalmly, dear. What do places matter? Come to the Andes with me. Duggymust work for his fellowship; Nelly can stay with some of our relations;and we can send the children to school. Or what do you say to a winterin California? Let's have a second honeymoon--see something of the worldbefore we die. This English country gentleman business ties oneterribly. Life in one's own house is so jolly one doesn't want anythingelse. But now, if we're going to be uprooted, let's enjoy it!"
"Enjoy it!" repeated his wife bitterly. "How can you say such things,Arthur?"
She walked to the window, and stood looking out at the garden with itsgrandiose backing of hill and climbing wood, and the strong brokenmasses of the cedar trees--the oldest it was said in England--whichflanked it on either side. Lady Laura was, in truth, only just beginningto realise their misfortunes. It had seemed to her impossible that suchwealth as theirs should positively give out; that there should benothing left but her miserable two thousand a year; that somethingshould not turn up to save them from this preposterous necessity ofleaving Flood. When Douglas came home, she had thrown herself on herclever son, confident that he would find a way out, and his sombreverdict on the hopelessness of the situation had filled her with terror.How could they live with nothing but the London house to call their own?How could they? Why couldn't they sell off the land, and keep the houseand the park? Then they would still be the Fallodens of Flood. It wasstupid--simply stupid--to be giving up everything like this.
So day by day she wearied her husband and son by her lamentations,which were like those of some petted animal in distress. And every nowand then she had moments of shrinking terror--of foreboding--fearing sheknew not what. Her husband seemed to her changed. Why wouldn't he takeher advice? Why wouldn't Douglas listen to her? If only her father hadbeen alive, or her only brother, they could have helped her. But she hadnobody--nobody--and Arthur and Douglas would do this horrible thing.
Her husband watched her, half smiling--his shrunken face flushed, hiseyes full of a curious excitement. She had grown stout in the last fiveyears, poor Laura!--she had lost her youth before the crash came. Butshe was still very pleasant to look upon, with her plentiful fair hair,and her pretty mouth--her instinct for beautiful dress--and her softappealing manner. He suddenly envisaged her in black--with a plain whitecollar and cuffs, and something white on her hair. Then vehementlyshaking off his thought he rose and went to her.
"Dear--didn't Duggy want you to ask somebody for the shoot? I thought Iheard him mention somebody?'
"That was ages ago. He doesn't want anybody asked now," said Lady Lauraresentfully. "He can't understand why you want a party."
"I thought he said something about Lady Constance Bledlow?"
"That was in June!" cried Lady Laura. "He certainly wouldn't let me askher, as things are."
"Have you any idea whether he may have wanted to marry her?"
"He was very much taken with her. But how can he think about marrying,Arthur? You do say the strangest things. And after Dagnall'sbehaviour too."
"_Ra
ison de plus!_ That girl has money, my dear, and will have more,when the old aunts depart this life. If you want Duggy still to go intoParliament, and to be able to do anything for the younger ones, you'llkeep an eye on her."
Lady Laura, however, was too depressed to welcome the subject. The gongrang for dinner, and as they were leaving the room, Sir Arthur said--
"There are two men coming down to-morrow to see the pictures, Laura. IfI were you, I should keep out of the way."
She gave him a startled look. But they were already on the threshold ofthe dining-room, where a butler and two footmen waited. The husband andwife took their places opposite each other in the stately panelled room,which contained six famous pictures. Over the mantelpiece was ahalf-length Gainsborough, one of the loveliest portraits in the world, amiracle of shining colour and languid grace, the almond eyes with theirintensely black pupils and black eyebrows looking down, as it seemed,contemptuously upon this after generation, so incurably lacking in itsown supreme refinement. Opposite Lady Laura was a full-length Van Dyckof the Genoese period, a mother in stiff brocade and ruff, with anadorable child at her knee; and behind her chair was the great Titian ofthe house, a man in armour, subtle and ruthless as the age which bredhim, his hawk's eye brooding on battles past, and battles to come, whilebehind him stretched the Venetian lagoon, covered dimly with the fleetof the great republic which had employed him. Facing the Gainsboroughhung one of Cuyp's few masterpieces--a mass of shipping on the Scheldt,with Dordrecht in the background. For play and interplay of everythingthat delights the eye--light and distance, transparent water, andhovering clouds, the lustrous brown of fishing boats, the beauty ofpatched sails and fluttering flags--for both literary and historicsuggestion, Dutch art had never done better. Impressionists andpost-impressionists came down occasionally to stay at Flood--for SirArthur liked to play Maecenas--and were allowed to deal quite franklywith the pictures, as they wandered round the room at dessert, cigarettein hand, pointing out the absurdities of the Cuyp and the Titian. Theirhost, who knew that he possessed in that room what the collectors of twocontinents desired, who felt them buzzing outside like wasps against aclosed window, took a special pleasure in the scoffs of the advancedcrew. They supplied an agreeable acid amid a general adulation thatbored him.
To-night the presence of the pictures merely increased the excitementwhich was the background of his mind. He talked about them a good dealat dinner, wondering secretly all the time, what it would be like to dowithout them--without Flood--without his old butler there--withouteverything.
Douglas came down late, and was very silent and irresponsive. He too wasmorbidly conscious of the pictures, though he wished his father wouldn'ttalk about them. He was conscious of everything that meant money--of hismother's pearls for instance, which she wore every evening withoutthinking about them. If he did well with the pictures on the morrow shemight, perhaps, justly keep them, as a dowry for Nelly. But if not--Hefound himself secretly watching his mother, wondering how she would takeit all when she really understood--what sort of person she would turnout to be in the new life to which they were all helplessly tending.
After dinner, he followed his father into the smoking room.
"Where is the catalogue of the pictures, father?"
"In the library, Duggy, to the right hand of the fire-place. I paid afellow a very handsome sum for making it--a fellow who knew a lot--areal expert. But, of course, when we published it, all the other expertstore it to pieces."
"If I bring it, will you go through it with me?"
Sir Arthur shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't think I will, Duggy. The catalogue--there are a great manymarginal notes on it which the published copies haven't got--will tellyou all I know about them, and a great deal more. And you'll find aloose paper at the beginning, on which I've noted down the prices peoplehave offered me for them from time to time. Like their impudence, I usedto think! I leave it to you, old boy. I know it's a great responsibilityfor a young fellow like you. But the fact is--I'm pumped. Besides, whenthey make their offer, we can talk it over. I think I'll go and play agame of backgammon with your mother."
He threw away his cigar, and Douglas, angry at what seemed to him hisfather's shirking, stood stiffly aside to let him pass. Sir Arthuropened the door. He seemed to walk uncertainly, and he stooped a greatdeal. From the hall outside, he looked back at his son.
"I think I shall see M'Clintock next time I'm in town, Duggy. I've hadsome queer pains across my chest lately."
"Indigestion?" said Douglas. His tone was casual.
"Perhaps. Oh, they're nothing. But it's best to take things in time."
He walked away, leaving his son in a state of seething irritation.Extraordinary that a man could think of trumpery ailments at such atime! It was unlike his father too, whose personal fitness andsoundness, whether on the moors, in the hunting field, or in any othersort of test, had always been triumphantly assumed by his family, aspart of the general brilliance of Sir Arthur's role in life.
Douglas sombrely set himself to study the picture catalogue, and satsmoking and making notes till nearly midnight. Having by that timeaccumulated a number of queries to which answers were required, he wentin search of his father. He found him in the drawing-room, still playingbackgammon with Lady Laura.
"Oh Duggy, I'm so tired!" cried his mother plaintively, as soon as heappeared. "And your father will go on. Do come and take my place."
Sir Arthur rose.
"No, no, dear--we've had enough. Many thanks. If you only understood itspoints, backgammon is really an excellent game. Well, Duggy, ready togo to bed?"
"When I've asked you a few questions, father."
Lady Laura escaped, having first kissed her son with tearful eyes. SirArthur checked a yawn, and tried to answer Douglas's enquiries. But verysoon he declared that he had no more to say, and couldn't keep awake.
Douglas watched him mounting the famous staircase of the house, with itsmarvellous _rampe_, bought under the Bourbon Restoration from one of thehistoric chateaux of France; and, suddenly, the young man felt his heartgripped. Was that shrunken, stooping figure really his father? Of coursethey must have M'Clintock at once--and get him away--to Scotlandor abroad.
* * * * *
"The two gentlemen are in the red drawing-room, sir!" Douglas and hisfather were sitting together in the library, after lunch, on thefollowing afternoon, when the butler entered.
"Damn them!" said Sir Arthur under his breath. Then he got up, smiling,as the servant disappeared. "Well, Duggy, now's your chance. I'm a brutenot to come and help you, my boy. But I've made such a mess of drivingthe family coach, you'd really better take a turn. I shall go out for anhour. Then you can come and report to me."
Douglas went into the red drawing-room, one of the suite of rooms datingfrom the early seventeenth century which occupied the western front ofthe house. As he entered, he saw two men at the farther end closelyexamining a large Constable, of the latest "palette-knife" period, whichhung to the left of the fire-place. One of the men was short, verystout, with a fringe of grey hair round his bald head, a pair of veryshrewd and sparkling black eyes, a thick nose, full lips, and a doublechin. He wore spectacles, and was using in addition, a magnifying glasswith which he was examining the picture. Beside him stood a thin,slightly-bearded man, cadaverous in colour, who, with his hands in hispockets, was holding forth in a nonchalant, rather patronising voice.
Both of them turned at Douglas's entrance, surveying the son of thehouse with an evident and eager curiosity.
"You are, I suppose, Mr. Douglas Falloden?" said the short man, speakingperfect English, though with a slight German accent. "Your father is notable to see us?"
"My father will be pleased to see you, when you have been the round ofthe pictures," said Douglas stiffly. "He deputes me to show you whatwe have."
The short man laughed.
"I expect we know what you have almost as well as you. Let me introduceMr. Mikl
os."
Douglas bowed, so did the younger man. He was, as Douglas already knew,a Hungarian by birth, formerly an official in one of the museums ofBudapest, then at Munich, and now an "expert" at large, greatly indemand as the adviser of wealthy men entering the field of artcollecting, and prepared to pay almost anything for success in one ofthe most difficult and fascinating _chasses_ that exist.
"I see you have given this room almost entirely to English pictures,"said Mr. Miklos politely. "A fine Constable!"--he pointed to the picturethey had just been considering--"but not, I think, entirely bythe master?"
_Herr Schwarz was examining a picture with a magnifyingglass when Falloden entered_]
"My great-grandfather bought it from Constable himself," saidDouglas. "It has never been disputed by any one."
Mr. Miklos did not reply, but he shook his head with a slight smile, andwalked away towards a Turner, a fine landscape of the middle period,hanging close to the Constable. He peered into it short-sightedly, withhis strong glasses.
"A pity that it has been so badly relined," he said presently, toDouglas, pointing to it.
"You think so? Its condition is generally thought to be excellent. Myfather was offered eight thousand for it last year by theBerlin Museum."
Douglas was now apparently quite at his ease. With his thumbs in thearmholes of his white waistcoat, he strolled along beside the twobuyers, holding his own with both of them, thanks to his careful studyof the materials for the history of the collection possessed by hisfather. The elder man, a Bremen ship-owner,--one Wilhelm Schwarz--whohad lately made a rapid and enormous fortune out of the Argentine trade,and whose chief personal ambition it now was to beat the New York andParis collectors, in the great picture game, whatever it might cost, waspresently forced to take some notice of the handsome curly-headed youthin the perfectly fitting blue serge suit, whose appearance as thevendor, or the vendor's agent, had seemed to him, at first, merely onemore instance of English aristocratic stupidity.
As a matter of fact, Herr Schwarz was simply dazzled by the contents ofFlood Castle. He had never dreamt that such virgin treasures stillexisted in this old England, till Miklos, instructed by the Fallodenlawyer, had brought the list of the pictures to his hotel, a few daysbefore this visit. And now he found it extremely difficult to concealhis excitement and delight, or to preserve, in the presence of this verysharp-eyed young heir, the proper "don't care" attitude of the buyer. Hepresently left the "running down" business almost entirely to Miklos,being occupied in silent and feverish speculations as to how much hecould afford to spend, and a passion of covetous fear lest somehowA----, or Z----, or K----, the leading collectors of the moment, shouldeven yet forestall him, early and "exclusive" as Miklos assured himtheir information had been.
They passed along through the drawing-rooms, and the whole wonderfulseries of family portraits, Reynolds', Lawrences, Gainsboroughs,Romneys, Hoppners, looked down, unconscious of their doom, upon theinvaders, and on the son of the house, so apparently unconcerned. ButDouglas was very far from unconcerned. He had no artistic gift, and hehad never felt or pretended any special interest in the pictures. Theywere part of Flood, and Flood was the inseparable adjunct of theFalloden race. When his father had first mooted the sale of them,Douglas had assented without much difficulty. If other things went,why not they?
But now that he was in the thick of the business, he found, all in amoment, that he had to set his teeth to see it through. A smarting senseof loss--loss hateful and irreparable, cutting away both the past andthe future--burnt deep into his mind, as he followed in the track of thesallow and depreciatory Miklos or watched the podgy figure of HerrSchwarz, running from side to side as picture after picture caught hiseye. The wincing salesman saw himself as another Charles Surface; butnow that the predicament was his own it was no longer amusing. Thesefair faces, these mothers and babies of his own blood, these stalwartmen, fighters by sea and land, these grave thinkers and churchmen, theythronged about him transformed, become suddenly alien and hostile, acrowd of threatening ghosts, the outraged witnesses of their ownhumiliation. "For what are you selling us?"--they seemed to say."Because some one, who was already overfed, must needs grab at a largermess of pottage--and we must pay! Unkind! degenerate!"
Presently, after the English drawing-rooms, and the library, with itsone Romney, came the French room, with its precious Watteaus, itsLatours, its two brilliant Nattiers. And here Herr Schwarz's coolnessfairly deserted him. He gave little shrieks of pleasure, which brought afrown to the face of his companion, who was anxious to point out that agreat deal of the Watteau was certainly pupil-work, that the Latourswere not altogether "convincing" and the Nattiers though extremelypretty, "superficial." But Herr Schwarz brushed him aside.
"_Nein, nein, lieber freund_! Dat Nattier is as fine as anything atPotsdam. Dat I must have!" And he gazed in ecstasy at the opulentshoulders, the rounded forms, and gorgeous jewelled dress of anunrivalled Madame de Pompadour, which had belonged to her brother, theMarquis de Marigny.
"You will have all or nothing, my good sir!" thought Falloden, and bidedhis time.
Meanwhile Miklos, perceiving that his patron was irretrievably landedand considering that his own "expert" dignity had been sufficientlysaved, relaxed into enthusiasm and small talk. Only in the laterItalian rooms did his critical claws again allow themselves to scratch.A small Leonardo, the treasure of the house, which had been examined andwritten about by every European student of Milanese art for half acentury, was suavely pronounced--
"A Da Predis, of course, but a very nice one!" A Bellini became aRondinelli; and the names of a dozen obscure, and lately discoveredpainters, freely applied to the Tintorets, Mantegnas and Cimas on thewalls, produced such an effect on Herr Schwarz that he sat downopen-mouthed on the central ottoman, staring first at the pictures andthen at the speaker; not knowing whether to believe or to doubt.Falloden stood a little apart, listening, a smile on his handsome mouth.
"We should know nothing about Rondinelli," said Miklos at last,sweetly--"but for the great Bode--"
"_Ach_, Bode!" said Herr Schwarz, nodding his head in complacentrecognition at the name of the already famous assistant-director of theBerlin Museum.
Falloden laughed.
"Dr. Bode was here last year. He told my father he thought the Belliniwas one of the finest in existence."
Miklos changed countenance slightly.
"Bode perhaps is a trifle credulous," he said in an offended tone.
But he went back again to the Bellini and examined it closely. Falloden,without waiting for his second thoughts, took Herr Schwarz into thedining-room.
At the sight of the six masterpieces hanging on its walls, the Bremenship-owner again lost his head. What miraculous good-fortune hadbrought him, ahead of all his rivals, into this still unravaged hive? Heran from side to side,--he grew red, perspiring, inarticulate. At lasthe sank down on a chair in front of the Titian, and when Miklosapproached, delicately suggesting that the picture, though certainlyfine, showed traces of one of the later pupils, possibly Molari, incertain parts, Herr Schwarz waved him aside.
"_Nein, nein!_--Hold your tongue, my dear sir! Here must I judge formyself."
Then looking up to Falloden who stood beside him, smiling, almostreconciled to the vulgar, greedy little man by his collapse, he saidabruptly--
"How much, Mr. Falloden, for your father's collection?"
"You desire to buy the whole of it?" said Falloden coolly.
"I desire to buy everything that I have seen," said Herr Schwarz,breathing quickly. "Your solicitors gave me a list of sixty-fivepictures. No, no, Miklos, go away!"--he waved his expert asideimpatiently.
"Those were the pictures on the ground floor," said Falloden. "You haveseen them all. You had better make your offer in writing, and I willtake it to my father."
He fetched pen and paper from a side-table and put them before theexcited German. Herr Schwarz wrinkled his face in profound meditation.His eyes almost disappeared behind
his spectacles, then emergedsparkling.
He wrote some figures on a piece of paper, and handed it to Douglas.
Douglas laughed drily, and returned it.
"You will hardly expect me to give my father the trouble of consideringthat."
Herr Schwarz puffed and blowed. He got up, and walked about excitedly.He lit a cigarette, Falloden politely helping him. Miklosadvanced again.
"I have, myself, made a very careful estimate--" he began,insinuatingly.
"No, no, Miklos,--go away!--go away!" repeated Schwarz impatiently,almost walking over him. Miklos retreated sulkily.
Schwarz took up the paper of figures, made an alteration, and handed itto Falloden.
"It is madness," he said--"sheer madness. But I have in me something ofthe poet--the Crusader."
Falloden's look of slightly sarcastic amusement, as the little manbreathlessly examined his countenance, threw the buyer into despair.Douglas put down the paper.
"We gave you the first chance, Herr Schwarz. As you know, nobody is yetaware of our intentions to sell. But I shall advise my father to-nightto let one or two of the dealers know."
"_Ach, lieber Gott!_" said Herr Schwarz, and walking away to the window,he stood looking into the rose-garden outside, making a curiouswhistling sound with his prominent lips, expressive, evidently, ofextreme agitation.
Falloden lit another cigarette, and offered one to Miklos.
At the end of two or three minutes, Schwarz again amended the figures onthe scrap of paper, and handed it sombrely to Falloden.
"Dat is my last word."
Falloden glanced at it, and carelessly said--
"On that I will consult my father."
He left the room.
Schwarz and Miklos looked at each other.
"What airs these English aristocrats give themselves," said theHungarian angrily--"even when they are beggars, like this young man!"
Schwarz stood frowning, his hands in his pockets, legs apart. Hisagitation was calming down, and his more prudent mind already halfregretted his impetuosity.
"Some day--we shall teach them a lesson!" he said, under his breath, hiseyes wandering over the rose-garden and the deer-park beyond. Therapidly growing docks of Bremen and Hamburg, their crowded shipping, themounting tide of their business, came flashing into his mind--ranthrough it in a series of images. This England, with her stored wealth,and her command of the seas--must she always stand between Germany andher desires? He found himself at once admiring and detesting the Englishscene on which he looked. That so much good German money should have togo into English pockets for these ill-gotten English treasures! What acountry to conquer--and to loot!
"And they are mere children compared to us--silly, thick-headedchildren! Yet they have all the plums--everywhere."
* * * * *
Falloden came back. The two men turned eagerly.
"My father thanks you for your offer, gentlemen. He is very sorry he isnot able to see you as he hoped. He is not very well this afternoon. ButI am to say that he will let you have an answer in twenty-four hours.Then if he agrees to your terms, the matter will have to go before thecourt. That, of course, our lawyers explained to you--"
"That will not suit me at all!" cried Herr Schwarz. "As far as yourfather is concerned, my offer must be accepted--or rejected--now."
He struck his open hand on the polished mahogany of the table besidehim.
"Then I am very sorry you have had the trouble of coming down," saidFalloden politely. "Shall I order your carriage?"
The great ship-owner stared at him. He was on the point of losing histemper, perhaps of withdrawing from his bargain, when over Falloden'shead he caught sight of the Titian and the play of light on its shiningarmour; of the Van Dyck opposite. He gave way helplessly; gripped at thesame moment by his parvenu's ambition, and by the genuine passion forbeautiful things lodged oddly in some chink of his common and Philistinepersonality.
"I have the refusal then--for twenty-four hours?" he said curtly.
Falloden nodded, wrote him a statement to that effect, ordered whiskyand soda, and saw them safely to their carriage.
* * * * *
Then pacing slowly through the rooms, he went back towards the library.His mind was divided between a kind of huckster's triumph and a sense ofintolerable humiliation. All around him were the "tribal signs" of race,continuity, history--which he had taken for granted all his life. Butnow that a gulf had opened between him and them, his heart clung to themconsciously for the first time. No good! He felt himself castout--stripped--exposed. The easy shelter fashioned for him and his bythe lives of generations of his kindred had fallen in fragmentsabout him.
"Well--I never earned it!"--he said to himself bitterly, turning indisgust on his own self-pity.
When he reached the library he found his father walking up and down deepin thought. He looked up as his son entered.
"Well, that saves the bankruptcy, Duggy, and--as far as I cansee--leaves a few thousands over--portions for the younger children, andwhat will enable you to turn round."
Douglas assented silently. After a long look at his son, Sir Arthuropened a side door which led from the library into the suite ofdrawing-rooms. Slowly he passed through them, examining the picturessteadily, one by one. At the end of the series, he turned and came backagain to his own room, with a bent head and meditative step. Fallodenfollowed him.
In the library, Sir Arthur suddenly straightened himself.
"Duggy, do you hate me--for the mess I've made--of your inheritance?"
The question stirred a quick irritation in Falloden. It seemed to himfutile and histrionic; akin to all those weaknesses in his father whichhad brought them disaster.
"I don't think you need ask me that," he said, rather sharply, as heopened a drawer in his father's writing-table, and locked up the papercontaining Herr Schwarz's offer.
Sir Arthur looked at him wistfully.
"You've been a brick, Duggy--since I told you. I don't know that I hadany right to count upon it."
"What else could I do?" said Douglas, trying to laugh, butconscious--resenting it--of a swelling in the throat.
"You could have given a good many more twists to the screw--if you'dbeen a different sort," said his father slowly. "And you're a toughcustomer, Duggy, to some people. But to me"--He paused, beginning againin another tone--
"Duggy, don't be offended with me--but did you ever want to marry LadyConstance Bledlow? You wrote to me about her at Christmas."
Douglas gave a rather excited laugh.
"It's rather late in the day to ask me that question."
His father eyed him.
"You mean she refused you?"
His son nodded.
"Before this collapse?"
"Before she knew anything about it"
"Poor old Duggy!" said his father, in a low voice. "But perhaps--afterall--she'll think better of it. By all accounts she has the charm of hermother, whom Risborough married to please himself and not his family."
Falloden said nothing. He wished to goodness his father would drop thesubject. Sir Arthur understood he was touching things too sore tohandle, and sighed.
"Well, shake hands, Duggy, old boy. You carried this thing throughsplendidly to-day. But it seems to have taken it out of me--which isn'tfair. I shall go for a little walk. Tell your mother I shall be back inan hour or so."
The son took his father's hand. The strong young grasp brought amomentary sense of comfort to the older man. They eyed each other, bothpale, both conscious of feelings to which it was easier to give novoice. Then their hands dropped. Sir Arthur looked for his hat andstick, which were lying near, and went out of the open glass door intothe garden. He passed through the garden into the park beyond walkingslowly and heavily, his son's eyes following him.