XX
While Felicia was making her vain attempt upon her father's pity,Faversham was sitting immersed in correspondence in his own room at thefarther end of the gallery. He heard nothing of the girl's arrival ordeparture. Sound travelled but little through the thick walls of theTower, and the gallery, muffled with rich carpets, with hangings andfurniture, deadened both step and voice.
The agent was busy with some typewritten evidence that Melrose waspreparing wherewith to fight the Government officials now being sent downfrom London to inquire into the state of some portion of the property.The evidence had been collected by Nash, and Faversham read it withdisgust. He knew well that the great mass of it was perjured stuff,bought at a high price. Yet both in public and private he would have toback up all the lies and evasions that his master, and the pack ofobscure hangers-on who lived upon his pay, chose to put forward.
He set his teeth as he read. The iron of his servitude was cutting itsway into life, deeper and deeper. Could he go on bearing it? For weeks hehad lived with Melrose on terms of sheer humiliation--rated, or mockedat, his advice spurned, the wretched Nash and his crew ostentatiouslypreferred to him, even put over him. "No one shall ever say I haven'tearned my money," he would say to himself fiercely, as the intolerabledays went by. His only abiding hope and compensation lay in his intensebelief that Melrose was a dying man. All those feelings of naturalgratitude, with which six months before he had entered on his task,were long since rooted up. He hated his tyrant, and he wished him dead.But the more he dwelt for consolation on the prospect of Melrose'sdisappearance, the more attractive became to him the vision of his owncoming reign. Some day he would be his own master, and the master ofthese hoards. Some day he would emerge from the cloud of hatred andsuspicion in which he habitually walked; some day he would be able oncemore to follow the instincts of an honest man; some day he would be ableagain--perhaps--to look Lydia Penfold in the face! Endurance for a fewmore months, on the best terms he could secure, lest the old madmanshould even yet revoke his gifts; and then--a transformation scene--onthe details of which his thoughts dwelt perpetually, by way of relieffrom the present. Tatham and the rest of his enemies, who were nowhunting and reviling him, would be made to understand that if he hadstooped, he had stooped with a purpose; and that the end _did_ in thiscase justify the means.
A countryside cleansed, comforted, remade; a great estate ideallymanaged; a great power to be greatly used; scope for experiment, forpublic service, for self-realization--he greedily, passionately, foresawthem all. Let him be patient. Nothing could interfere with his dream,but some foolish refusal of the conditions on which alone it could cometrue.
Often, when this mood of self-assertion was on him, he would go back inthought to his boyish holidays in Oxford, and to his uncle. He saw thekind old fellow in his shepherd plaid suit, black tie, and wide-awake,taking his constitutional along the Woodstock road, or playing a mildgame of croquet in the professorial garden; or he recalled him among hisgems--those rare and beautiful things, bought with the savings of alifetime, loved, each of them, for its own sake, and bequeathed at death,with the tender expression of a wish--no tyrannical condition!--tothe orphan boy whom he had fathered.
The thought of what would--what must be--Uncle Mackworth's judgment onhis present position, was perhaps the most tormenting element inFaversham's consciousness. He faced it, however, with frankness. Hisuncle would have condemned him--wholly. The notion of serving a bad man,for money, would have been simply inconceivable to that straight andinnocent soul. Are there not still herbs to be eaten under hedgerows,with the sauce of liberty and self-respect?
No doubt. But man is entitled to self-fulfilment; and men pursue vastlydifferent ways of obtaining it. The perplexities of practical ethics areinfinite; and mixed motives fit a mixed world.
At least he had not bartered away his uncle's treasure. The gems stillstood to him as the symbol of something he had lost, and might some dayrecover. It was really time he got them out of Melrose's clutches...
...The room was oppressively hot! It was a raw December night, but theheating system of the Tower was now so perfect, and to Faversham's mindso excessive, that every corner of the large house was bathed in atemperature which seemed to keep Melrose alive, while it half suffocatedevery other inmate.
Suddenly the telephone bell on his writing-desk rang. His room was nowconnected with Melrose's room, at the other end of the house, as well aswith Pengarth. He put his ear to the receiver.
"Yes?"
"I want to speak to you."
He rose unwillingly. But at least he could air the room, which he wouldnot have ventured to do, if Melrose were coming to him as usual for theten minutes' hectoring, which now served as conversation between them,before bedtime. Going to the window which gave access to the terraceoutside, he unclosed the shutters, and threw open the glass doors. Heperceived that it had begun to rain, and that the night was darkening. Hestood drinking in the moist coolness of the air for a few seconds, andthen leaving the window open, and forgetting to extinguish the electriclight on his table he went out of the room.
He found Melrose in his chair, his aspect thunderous and excited.
"Was it by your plotting, sir, that that girl got in?" said the old man,as he entered.
Faversham stood amazed.
"What girl?"
Melrose angrily described Felicia's visit, adding that if Faversham knewnothing about it, it was his duty to know. Dixon deserved dismissal forhis abominable conduct; "and you, sir, are paid a large salary, not onlyto manage--or mismanage--my affairs, but also to protect your employerfrom annoyance. I expect you to do it!"
Faversham took the charge quietly. His whole relation to Melrosehad altered so rapidly for the worse during the preceding weeks thatno injustice or unreason surprised him. And yet there was somethingstrange--something monstrous--in the old man's venomous temper. Afterall his bribes, after all his tyranny, did he still feel somethingin Faversham escape him?--some deep-driven defiance, or hope,intangible? He seemed indeed to be always on the watch now for freshoccasions of attack that should test his own power, and Faversham'ssubmission.
Presently, he abruptly left the subject of his daughter, and Favershamdid not pursue it. What was the good of inquiring into the details of thegirl's adventure? He guessed pretty accurately at what had happened; thescorn which had been poured on the suppliant; the careless indifferencewith which she had been dismissed--through the rain and the night. Yetanother scandal for a greedy neighbourhood!--another story to reach theears of the dwellers in a certain cottage, with the embellishments, nodoubt, which the popular hatred of both himself and Melrose was certainto supply. He felt himself buried a little deeper under the stoning ofhis fellows. But at the same time he was conscious--as of a dangerpoint--of a new and passionate exasperation in himself. His will mustcontrol it.
Melrose, however, proceeded to give it fresh cause. He took up a letterfrom Nash containing various complaints of Faversham, which had reachedhim that evening.
"You have been browbeating our witnesses, sir! Nash reports them asdiscouraged, and possibly no longer willing to come forward. Whatbusiness had you to jeopardize my interests by posing as the superiorperson? The evidence had been good enough for Nash--and myself. It mighthave been good enough for you."
Faversham smiled, as he lit his cigarette.
"The two men you refer to--whom you asked me to see yesterday--were acouple of the feeblest liars I ever had to do with. Tatham's counselwould have turned them inside out in five minutes. You seem to forget theother side are employing counsel."
"I forgot nothing!" said Melrose hotly. "But I expect you to follow yourinstructions."
"The point is--am I advising you in this matter, or am I merely youragent? You seem to expect me to act in both capacities. And I confess Ifind it difficult."
Melrose fretted and fumed. He raised one point after another, criticisingFaversham's action and advice in regard to the housing inquiries, asthough he we
re determined to pick a quarrel. Faversham met him on thewhole with wonderful composure, often yielding in appearance, but inreality getting the best of it throughout. Under the mask of thediscussion, however, the temper of both men was rising fast. It was asthough two deep-sea currents, converging far down, were struggling unseentoward the still calm surface, there to meet in storm and convulsion.
Again, Melrose changed the conversation. He was by now extraordinarilypale. All the flushed excitement in which Faversham had found him haddisappeared. He was more spectral, more ghostly--and ghastly--thanFaversham had ever seen him. His pincerlike fingers played with the jewelwhich Felicia had thrown down upon the table. He took it up, put on hiseyeglass, peered at it, put it down again. Then he turned an intent andevil eye on Faversham.
"I have now something of a quite different nature to say to you. Youhave, I imagine, expected it. You will, perhaps, guess at it. And Icannot imagine for one moment that you will make any difficulty aboutit."
Faversham's pulse began to race.
He suspended his cigarette.
"What is it?"
"I am asked to send a selection of antique gems to the Loan Exhibitionwhich is being got up by the 'Amis du Louvre' in Paris, after Christmas.I desire to send both the Arconati Bacchus and the Medusa--in fact allthose now in the case committed to my keeping."
"I have no objection," said Faversham. But he had suddenly lost colour.
"I can only send them in my own name," said Melrose slowly.
"That difficulty is not insurmountable. I can lend them to you."
Melrose's composure gave way. He brought his hand heavily down on thetable.
"I shall send them in--as my own property--in my own name!"
Faversham eyed him.
"But they are not--they will not be--your property."
"I offer you three thousand pounds for them!--four thousand--fivethousand--if you want more you can have it. Drive the best bargain youcan!" sneered Melrose, trying to smile.
"I refuse your offer--your very generous offer--with great regret--but Irefuse!" Faversham had risen to his feet.
"And your reason?--for a behaviour so--so vilely ungrateful!"
"Simply, that the gems were left to me--by an uncle I loved--who was asecond father to me--who asked me not to sell them. I have warned you notonce, or twice, that I should never sell them."
"No! You expected both to get hold of my property--and to keep your own!"
"Insult me as you like," said Faversham, quietly. "I probably deserve it.But you will not alter my determination."
He stood leaning on the back of a chair, looking down on Melrose. Somebondage had broken in his soul! A tide of some beneficent force seemed tobe flooding its dry wastes.
Melrose paused. In the silence each measured the other. Then Melrose saidin a voice which had grown husky:
"So--the first return you are asked to make, for all that has beenlavished upon you, you meet with--this refusal. That throws a new lightupon your character. I never proposed to leave my fortune to anadventurer! I proposed to leave it to a gentleman, capable ofunderstanding an obligation. We have mistaken each other--and ourarrangement--drops. Unless you consent to the very small request--thevery advantageous proposal rather--which I have just made you--you willleave this room--as penniless--except for any savings you may have madeout of your preposterous salary--as penniless--as you came into it!"
Faversham raised himself. He drew a long breath, as of a man delivered.
"Do what you like, Mr. Melrose. There was a time when it seemed as ifour cooperation might have been of service to both. But some devil inyou--and a greedy mind in me--the temptation of your money--oh, Iconfess it, frankly--have ruined our partnership--and indeed--muchelse! I resume my freedom--I leave your house to-morrow. And now,please--return me my gems!"
He peremptorily held out his hand. Melrose glared upon him. Then slowlythe old man reopened the little drawer at his elbow, took thence theshagreen case, and pushed it toward Faversham.
Faversham replaced it in his breast pocket.
"Thank you. Now, Mr. Melrose, I should advise you to go to bed. Yourhealth is not strong enough to stand these disputes. Shall I call Dixon?As soon as possible my accounts shall be in your hands."
"Leave the room, sir!" cried Melrose, choking with rage, and motioningtoward the door.
On the threshold Faversham turned, and gave one last look at the darkfigure of Melrose, and the medley of objects surrounding it; at MadameElisabeth's Sevres vases, on the upper shelf of the Riesener table; atthe Louis Seize clock, on the panelled wall, which was at that momentstriking eight.
As he closed the door behind him, he was aware of Dixon who had justentered the gallery from the servants' quarters. The old butler hurriedtoward him to ask if he should announce dinner. "Not for me," saidFaversham; "you had better ask Mr. Melrose. To-morrow, Dixon, I shall beleaving this house--for good."
Dixon stared, his face working:
"I thowt--I heard yo'--" he said, and paused.
"You heard us disputing. Mr. Melrose and I have had a quarrel. Bring mesomething to my room, when you have looked after him. I will come andspeak to you later."
Faversham walked down the gallery to his own door. He had to pass on theway a splendid Nattier portrait of Marie Leczinska which had arrived onlythat morning from Paris, and was standing on the floor, leaning sidewaysagainst a chair, as Melrose had placed it himself, so as to get a goodlight on it. The picture was large. Faversham picked his way round it. Ifhis thoughts had not been so entirely preoccupied, he would probably havenoticed a slight movement of something behind the portrait as he passed.But exultation held him; he walked on air.
He returned to his own room, where the window was still wide open. As heentered, he mechanically turned on the central light, not noticing thatthe reading lamp upon his table was not in its place. But he saw thatsome papers which had been on his desk when he left the room were now onthe floor. He supposed the wind which was rising had dislodged them.Stooping to lift them up, he was surprised to see a large mud-stain onthe topmost sheet. It looked like a footprint, as though some one hadfirst knocked the papers off the table, and then trodden on them. Heturned on a fresh switch. There was another mark on the floor just beyondthe table--and another--nearer the door. They were certainly footprints!But who could have entered the room during his absence? And where was theinvader? At the same time he perceived that his reading lamp had beenoverturned and was lying on the floor, broken.
Filled with a vague anxiety, he returned to the door he had just closed.As he laid his hand upon it, a shot rang through the house--a cry--thesound of a fierce voice--a fall.
And the next minute the door he held was violently burst open in hisface, he himself was knocked backward over a chair, and a man carrying agun, whose face was muffled in some dark material, rushed across theroom, leapt through the window, and disappeared into the night.
* * * * *
Faversham ran into the gallery. The first thing he saw was the Nattierportrait lying on its face beside a chair overturned. Beyond it, a darkobject on the floor. At the same moment, he perceived Dixon standinghorror-struck, at the farther end of the gallery, with the handle of thedoor leading to the servants' quarters still in his grasp. Then the oldman too ran.
The two men were brought up by the same obstacle. The body of EdmundMelrose lay between them.
Melrose had fallen on his face. As Faversham and Dixon lifted him, theysaw that he was still breathing, though _in extremis_. He had been shotthrough the breast, and a pool of blood lay beneath him, blotting out thefaded blues and yellow greens of a Persian carpet.
At the command of her husband, Mrs. Dixon, who had hurried after him, ranfor brandy, crying also for help. Faversham snatched a cushion, put itunder the dying man's head, and loosened his clothing. Melrose's eyelidsfluttered once or twice, then sank. With a low groan, a gush of bloodfrom the mouth, he passed away while Dixon prayed.
&n
bsp; "May the Lord have mercy--mercy!"
The old man rocked to and fro beside the corpse in an anguish. Mrs. Dixoncoming with the brandy in her hand was stopped by a gesture fromFaversham.
"No use!" He touched Dixon on the shoulder. "Dixon--this is murder! Youmust go at once for Doctor Undershaw and the police. Take the motor. Mrs.Dixon and I will stay here. But first--tell me--after I spoke to youhere--did you go in to Mr. Melrose?"
"I knocked, sir. But he shouted to me--angry like--to go away--till herang. I went back to t' kitchen, and I had nobbut closed yon door behindme--when I heard t' firin'. I brast it open again--an' saw a man--wi'summat roun' his head--fleein' doon t' gallery. My God!--my God!--"
"The man who did it was in the gallery while you and I were speaking toeach other," said Faversham, calmly, as he rose; "and he got in throughmy window, while I was with Mr. Melrose." He described briefly thepassage of the murderer through his own room. "Tell the police to havethe main line stations watched without a moment's delay. The man's gamewould be to get to one or other of them across country. There'll be nomarks on him--he fired from a distance--but his boots are muddy. Aboutfive foot ten I should think--a weedy kind of fellow. Go and wake Tonson,and be back as quick as you possibly can. And listen!--on your way to thestables call the gardener. Send him for the farm men, and tell them tosearch the garden, and the woods by the river. They'll find me there. Orstay--one of them can come here, and remain with Mrs. Dixon, while I'mgone. Let them bring lanterns--quick!"
In less than fifteen minutes the motor, with Dixon and the new chauffeur,Tonson, had left the Tower, and was rushing at forty miles an hour alongthe Pengarth road.
Meanwhile, Faversham and the farm-labourers were searching the garden,the hanging woods, and the river banks. Footprints were found all alongthe terrace, and it was plain that the murderer had climbed the lowenclosing wall. But beyond, and all in the darkness, nothing could betraced.
Faversham returned to the house, and began to examine the gallery. Thehiding-place of Melrose's assailant was soon discovered. Behind theNattier portrait, and the carved and gilt chair which Melrose had himselfmoved from its place in the morning, there were muddy marks on the floorand the wainscotting, which showed that a man had been crouching there.The picture, a large and imposing canvas--Marie Leczinska, sitting ona blue sofa, in a gala dress of rose-pink velvet with trimming of blackfur--had been more than sufficient to conceal him. Then--had he knockedto attract Melrose's attention, having ascertained from Dixon's shortcolloquy at the library door, after Faversham had left the room, that themaster of the Tower was still within?--or had Melrose suddenly come outinto the gallery, perhaps to give some order to Dixon?
Faversham thought the latter more probable. As Melrose appeared, themurderer had risen hastily from his hiding-place, upsetting the pictureand the chair. Melrose had received a charge of duck shot full in thebreast, with fatal effect. The range was so short that the shot hadscattered but little. A few pellets, however, could be traced in thewooden frames of the tapestries; and one had broken a majolica dishstanding on a cabinet.
A man of the people then--using probably some old muzzle-loader, beggedor borrowed? Faversham's thought ran to the young fellow who haddenounced Melrose with such fervour at Mainstairs the day of LydiaPenfold's visit to the stricken village. But, good heavens!--there were ascore of men on Melrose's estate, with at least as good reason--orbetter--for shooting, as that man. Take the Brands! But old Brand wasgone to his rest, the elder son had sailed for Canada, and the youngerseemed to be a harmless, half-witted chap, of no account.
Yet, clearly the motive had been revenge, not burglary. There were plentyof costly trifles on the tables and cabinets of the gallery. Not one ofthem had been touched.
Faversham moved to and fro in the silence, while Mrs. Dixon sat moaningto herself beside the dead man, whose face she had covered. The lavishelectric light in the gallery, which had been Melrose's latest whim,shone upon its splendid contents; on the nymphs and cupids, the wreathsand temples of the Boucher tapestries, on the gleaming surfaces of thechina, the dull gold of the _ormolu_. The show represented the desires,the huntings, the bargains of a lifetime; and in its midst lay Melrose,tripped at last, silenced at last, the stain of his life-blood spreadinground him.
Faversham looked down upon him, shuddering. Then perceiving that the doorinto the library stood ajar, he entered the room. There stood the chairon which he had leant, when the chains of his slavery fell from him.There--on the table--was the jewel--the little Venus with flutteringenamel drapery, standing tiptoe within her hoop of diamonds, which he hadseen Melrose take up and handle during their dispute. Why was it there?Faversham had no idea.
And there on the writing-desk lay a large sheet of paper with a singleline written upon it in Melrose's big and sprawling handwriting. That wasnew. It had not been there, when Faversham last stood beside the table.The pen was thrown down upon it, and a cigar lay in the ashtray, asthough the writer had been disturbed either by a sudden sound, or by theirruption of some thought which had led him into the gallery to callDixon.
Faversham stooped to look at it:
"I hereby revoke all the provisions of the will executed by me on ..."
No more. The paper was worthless. The will would stand. Faversham stoodmotionless, the silence booming in his ears.
"A fool would put that in his pocket," he said to himself,contemptuously. Then conscious of a new swarm of ideas assailing him,of new dangers, and a new wariness, he returned to the gallery, pacingit till the police appeared. They came in force, within the hour,accompanied by Undershaw.
* * * * *
The old chiming clock set in the garden-front of Duddon had not longstruck ten. Cyril Boden had just gone to bed. Victoria sat with her feeton the fender in Tatham's study still discussing with him Felicia'sastonishing performance of the afternoon. She found him eagerlyinterested in it, to a degree which surprised her; and they passed fromit only to go zealously together into various plans for the future ofmother and daughter--plans as intelligent as they were generous. The buzzof a motor coming up the drive surprised them. There were no visitors inthe house, and none expected. Victoria rose in amazement as Undershawwalked into the room.
"A horrible thing has happened. I felt that you must know beforeanybody--with those two poor things in your house. Dixon has told me thatMiss Melrose saw her father this afternoon. I have come to bring you thesequel."
He told his story. Mother and son turned pale looks upon each other.Within a couple of hours of the moment when he had turned his daughterfrom his doors! Seldom indeed do the strokes of the gods fall so fitly.There was an awful satisfaction in the grim story to some of the deepestinstincts of the soul.
"Some poor devil he has ruined, I suppose!" said Tatham, his grave youngface lifted to the tragic height of the event. "Any clue?"
"None--except that, as I have told you, Faversham himself saw themurderer, except his face, and Dixon saw his back. A slight man incorduroys--that's all Dixon can say. Faversham and the Dixons were alonein the house, except for a couple of maids. Perhaps"--he hesitated--"Ihad better tell you some other facts that Faversham told me--and theSuperintendent of Police. They will of course come out at the inquest.He and Melrose had had a violent quarrel immediately before the murder.Melrose threatened to revoke his will, and Faversham left him,understanding that all dispositions in his favour would be cancelled. Hecame out of the room, spoke to Dixon in the gallery and walked tohis own sitting-room. Melrose apparently sat down at once to write acodicil revoking the will. He was disturbed, came out into the gallery,and was shot dead. The few lines he wrote are of course of no validity.The will holds, and Faversham is the heir--to everything. You see"--hepaused again--"some awkward suggestions might be made."
"But," cried Tatham, "you say Dixon saw the man? And the muddyfootmarks--in the house--and on the terrace!"
* * * * *
"Don't mistake me, for
heaven's sake," said Undershaw, quickly. "It isimpossible that Faversham should have fired the shot! But in the presentstate of public opinion you will easily imagine what else may be said.There is a whole tribe of Melrose's hangers-on who hate Faversham likepoison; who have been plotting to pull him down, and will be furious tofind him after all in secure possession of the estate and the money. Ifeel tolerably certain they will put up some charge or other."
"What--of procuring the thing?"
Undershaw nodded.
Tatham considered a moment. Then he rang, and when Hurst appeared, allwhite and disorganized under the stress of the news just communicated tohim by Undershaw's chauffeur, he ordered his horse for eight o'clock inthe morning. Victoria looked at him puzzled; then it seemed sheunderstood.
But every other thought was soon swallowed up in the remembrance of thewidow and daughter.
"Not to-night--not to-night," pleaded Undershaw who had seen NettaMelrose professionally, only that morning. "I dread the mere shock forMrs. Melrose. Let them have their sleep! I will be over early to-morrow."