§ 1
THE porter at White’s sorted mechanically the morning’s letters,
pigeon-holing those for which members would be calling, piling the
others to be re-addressed. Things were contrary, and one interruption
after another kept him the morning through at restless, scrappy work.
The lunch rush came and went. At four he took some hours off duty,
returning to his lodge at seven o’clock. The pile of letters caught his
eye. ‘Blast them letters!’ he thought. ‘I forgot all about ’em!’ But
the half-hour had struck before he had an opportunity to start his task
of forwarding. The envelopes were barely spread out upon the desk when
a member paused at his office opening.
“Any letters for me, Rogers?”
The porter looked up with a surprised smile of greeting.
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Plethern! We didn’t expect you back yet, sir.
This has just arrived. I suppose it’s for you, sir. I was going to
forward it. Hope nothing’s wrong, sir, to bring you home early?”
“No, thanks,” replied Charles, taking the letter. “Nothing that
concerns me at any rate. Tell them to send this junk round to old
Tatham’s in Curzon Street. I wired him from Southampton.”
Pointing toward a pile of bags he passed on into the club.
On the yacht’s arrival at Teneriffe a telegram had been found awaiting
her owner to the effect that the Transvaal claimants had thrown up
their case and that the title was no longer threatened. Carruthers had
consulted his companions. Would they prefer to go home or to convert
a business-voyage into a voyage of pleasure? Thinking to suit their
host’s convenience, they had suggested immediate return to England. The
train from Southampton had brought Charles Plethern and his luggage to
Waterloo. Thence he had driven straight to White’s.
To a servant in the inner hall he gave order for a drink. In the
smoking-room, glass in hand, he considered a little ruefully his
curtailed adventure. ‘Back to a London season again!’ he thought
wearily. ‘Well, the little girl will enjoy it. That’s something. I owe
her a good time.’
The envelope beside him on the table caught his eye. It had the
straggling superscription of a begging letter. He tore it open and,
with indifference, glanced at its contents. Then he sat up and read
carefully from start to finish the apparently meaningless enclosure.
‘James Plethern, Esquire ... five thousand pounds ... the Rockarvon
Estate in Gloucestershire ... James Plethern ... Christopher’ ...
blank for signature and witnessing ... ‘Morvane, June 6th, 1903....’
He stared confounded at this extraordinary document; then picked
up the torn envelope and read the address. ‘C. Plethern, Esq.’
Presumably it was for him.... Back to the unsigned paper once again.
‘Five thousand pounds!’ Five thousand pounds for the Rockarvon acres!
It was ludicrous. And James? What had James to do with land in
Gloucestershire? Or Christopher? Why was the document, prepared for
signature but blank and worthless, sent in an envelope to White’s? Then
the address and date struck his attention. ‘Morvane, July 6th, 1903.’
Why Morvane? Over a writing-table in the corner hung a calendar. His
eyes fell on the staring scarlet of a five. He crossed the room. It
was the fifth to-day! The document was dated for to-morrow, dated at
Morvane and for to-morrow!
He was completely at a loss. Either the paper was a joke, in which
case its humour totally escaped him; or it had meaning, in which case
the man Rockarvon must have taken leave of his senses, for none but a
lunatic would sell that land for so absurd a figure. But James? What in
the name of thunder was James’ concern with Rockarvon valley or with
its owner?
For a few moments he stood, seeking a clue to the meaning of the
mystery. That there was matter of real gravity behind it did not occur
to him, but the Rockarvon lands were very near his heart, for all that
he had abandoned hope of owning them, and he was disinclined to brush
neglectfully aside any event that had concern with them. What if for
some reason unexplained actual transfer of the valley was intended?
Five thousand pounds might be a dummy figure; the whole document
might be a symbol of a larger, more rational transaction. Else were
it nonsense; a piece of silly fooling; perhaps a hoax. Whichever or
whatever it might prove to be it was not effectual, nor could be made
effectual until the sixth of June. The address implied that the affair,
if such existed, was to be concluded actually at Morvane. “I think I’d
like to be there too,” thought Charles, and rang for a timetable.
He was too late for the last train on the local branch. There was an
express from Paddington at eight-fifteen that stopped at Sawley, but
without connection to the country station near his home. Quickly he
wrote a telegram to Wilkinson:
“Meet me ten-twenty Sawley and hire fast motor. Important.
CHARLES PLETHERN.”
He took the telegram himself to the porter’s office.
“Send this at once, Rogers. It is very urgent. I want a hansom for
Paddington, and my dressing-case and kit-bag on it, in ten minutes’
time. I shan’t be sleeping at Tatham’s after all. Let him know, will
you? I’ll send word about the rest of the luggage.”
In the smoking-room he dined rapidly off sandwiches and whisky, saw
that the document lay safely in his pocketbook, climbed into his cab
and caught his train.
§ 2
The limousine that was to have carried Lord Rockarvon to the most
flavorous seduction of his career sped through the darkness in alarmed
retreat.
No sooner had Viola vanished into the gloom of the evening, than the
earl had bidden his chauffeur turn and drive furiously to Sawley
station. He was sick of the motor-car, sick of this wilderness of
Gloucestershire; longed for London and for a bright train to take him
swiftly thither. But most of all he longed to be free of Plethern
plotting. He was bothered and uneasy at the continual complications of
an adventure he now regretted to have undertaken. He did not imagine
that the girl would really hunt him to London; in his present mood (so
ardently did he hope that he had seen the last of her) he considered
the advantage of taking an earlier train to Paris. Once in Paris,
he could forget the Pletherns and their craziness. It would be well
to obliterate all trace of this ridiculous conspiracy by which, if
his opponents were left nicely fooled, he was at least five thousand
pounds the richer. He would destroy the documents in his portfolio. The
dressing-case was at the negro’s side:
“Light the lantern, Hannibal; open that bag and give me my portfolio.”
The car rushed through the darkness. The negro found the leather case
and gave it to his master. The papers lay neatly folded in their place.
Rockarvon twisted them in a long, crumpled scroll.
“A match, Hannibal!”
The papers flickered, flared and slowly were consumed. Rockarvon lay
back in his dark corner with a feeling of content. He had no qualms
about the other copy. James, when he heard the scheme had failed, would
quickly make an end of evidence that hinted at a plot. Perhaps it was
destroyed already. A man as terrified as he had been would likely
read the draft and tear it up. Perhaps again it had been sent to Mrs.
Plethern. What matter if it had? The paper proved nothing. He could
deny all knowledge of it. Also he knew too much for them to flout him
easily.
The motor reached the Sawley railway station at ten minutes after nine.
A London train had left five minutes to the hour. There was another
due to pass through Sawley from the west at ten-fifteen. The earl was
driven to the town in search of dinner. Then, at a little after ten, he
was again deposited at the station. He dismissed the chauffeur with a
handsome tip, sent the negro to the booking-office, and settled himself
as comfortably as possible on a seat in the draughty booking-hall. At
ten-fifteen he told his servant to inquire of an official if the train
were late. The black returned to say he could not make the man at the
ticket-gate understand. The earl struggled peevishly to his feet and,
leaning on the negro’s arm, crawled toward the platform barrier. He
heard the grinding of a car’s brakes in the station-yard and saw a tall
man with a round face and a bowler hat hurry across the booking-hall.
To a ticket-inspector Rockarvon put his query. The man glanced at the
wall-clock. Twenty minutes past.
“She’ll be another ten minutes, sir,” he said. “Running about quarter
of an hour late. Number one, sir. Stay here, and you’ll see her come
in, just through that gate.”
The earl returned to his seat. He felt cold and cross. The so-called
dinner had been uneatable. Why had he come to this ghastly wilderness?
Even the trains that got one out again were not to time. Steps at his
side. Raising his eyes, he saw Charles Plethern at his elbow.
“Good evening, my lord! I wondered if I should catch a glimpse of you.”
Rockarvon acknowledged the greeting with calm, though inwardly he raged
that yet another of this cursed family had come to plague him.
“Ah, Mr. Plethern? How are you? This is your station?”
“And yours, I think,” said Charles pleasantly, “if you would honour us
by living at home.”
“I am not encouraged by what I have seen,” snapped Rockarvon. “I come
on a visit, lose my way and have to wait eternally for a train to take
me to town again.”
“To town again? How uncomfortable to travel thus late! You must accept
my hospitality. A car is waiting. We shall be at Morvane in twenty
minutes.”
The earl shook his head.
“You are very kind, but I am anxious to get back.”
“To-morrow,” said Charles smoothly, “is more convenient. I really must
insist. We will do all we can to make you comfortable.”
“I tell you I am going back to London,” snarled the other.
Charles shook his head thoughtfully.
“Not to-night,” he said. “Not to-night. I cannot allow you to take away
so false a notion of civilized Gloucestershire.”
A rush of steam and a train roared into the station. Rockarvon moved.
“That is my train,” he said, struggling to rise. A hand on his shoulder
held him in his seat. “Let me go, damn you! That is my train, I say!
Let me go! Here--Hannibal! Hannibal!”
“Don’t make a disturbance, Rockarvon,” commanded Charles in a voice of
authority. “You are coming to Morvane with me and had best make up
your mind to it. I’m a magistrate in these parts, you know, and the
police-inspector is a friend of mine. I should not like to charge a
fellow landowner with conspiracy, but----”
With whistles and with loud banging of doors the London train
prepared to leave. She was behind her schedule and in a hurry to be
gone. The negro, who had been waiting patiently at the corner of the
booking-office, saw some one (in tragic fact a harmless Sawley doctor)
on the arm of an official hasten through the barrier. He assumed the
limping figure to be his master’s, for Rockarvon’s cries had been
drowned by the noise and bustle of the station. He ran for the train,
swinging himself into a third-class carriage as it began to move.
The earl, after a few moments’ writhing in the hand that held him down,
seemed to accept the inevitable.
“If there is a law in this filthy country,” he said, “you will be sorry
for this!”
Charles ignored the speaker and his fury.
“Get him up, Wilkinson. He can’t walk alone. I’ll go and see about the
bags.”
At the door of the booking-hall a railway official looked curiously
at the feeble figure in Wilkinson’s strong grip. He recognized the
gentleman who had made inquiry about the London train. Suddenly the
stranger called to him:
“I’m being kidnapped! Fetch the police!”
The official looked at Wilkinson, whom he knew well. The agent
preserved a stony gravity. The next moment Charles Plethern hurried
into sight.
“Good evening, Mr. Vane,” he said cheerily. “Would you give Mr.
Wilkinson a hand? This poor gentleman is not well.”
Rockarvon spluttered viciously. Wilkinson’s grip tightened. Behind the
victim’s back Charles, tapping his head, gave a meaning glance at the
perplexed official. He was prominent and respected at Sawley, a man of
means and influence. Vane seized the earl by his other arm and helped
to push him, wriggling feebly, into the car.
For a while no one spoke. The motor slid along dark country roads.
Wilkinson, masterfully silent, sat alert at the captive’s right. He had
so complete a confidence in his employer that, at Charles’ bidding, he
would have thrown Rockarvon from the window without questioning. As he
understood his instructions for the time being, this grotesque ruin of
a man was to be delivered safely at Morvane. Wherefore he watched and
held his tongue.
And Charles himself? He was concerned to think how, when the time for
explanation came, he would manipulate his prisoner. The capture had
been made on impulse. Because he had been busy in the train with the
enigma that was hurrying him to Morvane and because, in consequence,
Rockarvon and Rockarvon valley were greatly in his mind, the sight
of the earl in the Sawley booking-hall had astonished him less than,
normally, it would have done. Somehow it had seemed proper enough to
find the man thus on the threshold of his investigation. Instinctively
he had bluffed so as to secure a clue--perhaps a valuable clue--to
the mystery that baffled him. Now, however, the high-handedness of
the proceeding began to cause qualms and he could only trust to
circumstance to help him.
The earl himself, of a cunning rather than of a blusterous nature,
had abandoned all idea of physical revolt. Of the reason for Charles
Plethern’s outrage he had no inkling, nor did he trouble to obtain
one. Matters would declare themselves at Morvane. He consoled himself
with the thought that, at the unimaginable worst, he could only be
suspected, and to be suspected rather diverted than dismayed him.
Nevertheless, he resented deeply the treatment he had suffered and from
offended dignity was very angry. His anger took the form of stealthy
spite and he huddled malevolent in his corner, waiting for revenge.
Against the night sky Morvane was a frowning bulk. No light shone, no
sound disturbed the utter stillness. Leaving his agent with Rockarvon
in the car, Charles climbed the steps to the main house-door. It was
barely eleven o’clock, and he felt surprised that his household should
so early have retired. He tried his key, but there were bolts shot
within and he was forced to ring. He rang again. A distant footstep and
the light flashed on, gleaming behind the fanlight, blazing from the
bracket that projected over the outside steps. Bolts ground noisily
and a chain rattled. The door opened, and the master of Morvane faced
an untidy young woman in a print dress, capless, with straggling hair,
holding in one hand a tattered book.
“What the devil----?” he exclaimed. Then: “Who are you?”
Poor Ellen, doomed as the junior of the under-housemaids to stay at
home while her superiors junketed at the fair, lost her head at this
awful confrontation with an employer to whom she had never even spoken.
“Please,” she stammered, “I’m--I’m--Ellen....”
“Where’s Hopton?” sharply.
“Please, sir, he’s out.”
“Where’s Mrs. Mullins? Where----”
“Please, sir, they’re all out--’cept me.”
“_All_ out! What in the world----?”
“They’ve gone to the fair, sir.”
“The fair? Who said they might go to the fair? Did Miss Marvell tell
them to go?”
“I don’t know, sir.... I thought cook said Mrs. Plethern told them to
go. I’m sorry, sir.... I.... I’m.... I....”
The ludicrous sight of a dishevelled Ellen on the point of tears
rallied Charles Plethern’s kindliness and humour.
“All right, all right,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not your fault.
Now listen, Ellen. Can you find some wine and some whisky and some
soda-water and some cake and some fruit? Can you, having found them,
bring them to the library? Can you, finally, get two bedrooms ready for
the gentlemen waiting in the car. It’s bad luck, all the work falling
on you; but Cinderellas will be Cinderellas, won’t they?”
Ellen giggled nervously.
“Thank you, sir. I think so, sir. I’ll try, sir.”
“Then get on to it.”
Returning to the car Charles offered his arm to the impatient earl.
“Upon my word, Rockarvon,” he said genially, “you seem to have the
laugh on me on this question of local civilization! There’s not a
servant in the place to matter! Come in, all the same, and we’ll find
you a drink and a long chair.”
Wilkinson followed mutely to the hall-door. There he paused.
“Shall I leave you now, Mr. Plethern? And do you want the car any more?”
“I want you both, Wilkinson. Tell the car to wait where it is. You come
in.”
An awkward five minutes in the library preceded Ellen and such
refreshment as she had contrived to find. Charles heard her chink
unsteadily along the corridor and went to meet her. Taking the tray, he
said in a lowered voice:
“Is Miss Marvell in bed?”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen her since after lunch, sir.”
“When will the others be in?”
“Cook said she’d be back by eleven, sir. And Mr. Hopton and Mrs.
Mullins was driving back with Mr. Masters, sir. They shouldn’t be long,
sir.”
“Well, I want to see Hopton or Mullins here the very moment they come
in. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now run along and see about the rooms. Don’t forget that I want to see
the others immediately.”
“No, sir.”
Drinks in the library and cake and nectarines, but only Wilkinson
with peace of mind to savour them. Charles coughed and shuffled as
he prepared to justify his violent hospitality. Rockarvon, eyeing
him between narrowed lids, glowered in a chair. Searching for words,
Charles walked the length of his long room. The window on the garden
was curtained. He lifted the curtain nervously and saw that lights were
blazing in the campanile. Even from the bulb-like dome a light-ray
lay along the darkness. The irregular windows of the other stories
showed bright chinks, where blinds or curtains let light filter past.
Charles had not seen before so many lights gleam in his mother’s tower.
Twitching his mind back to the problem facing him, he let the curtain
fall, walked to the fireplace and faced the earl.
“Rockarvon, you will understand my determination for your company, when
you see this curious document which has come into my hands.”
The earl knew what the paper was, the moment it lay between his
fingers. Characteristically he left unexplored the reasons for its
present whereabouts; concerned himself only with outward calm and rapid
plans of action. He pretended to read the document with care. Then
shook his head and, coldly smiling, handed it to his host again.
“A silly joke, I suppose,” he said carelessly.
“I’m afraid in that case I don’t see the point of it.”
“Has it a point?” asked the earl languidly.
“You should perhaps be able to inform me.”
“I? Why, I never saw the thing until this moment!”
Maybe the literal truth of this considerable falsehood gave to
Rockarvon’s voice a genuine note. Charles was abashed. The man spoke
convincingly and his eyes were steady.
“Then ...” he said uncertainly, “what can it mean...?”
The earl shrugged his shoulders.
“Is this the sole reason for your--invitation?” he asked sarcastically.
“But----,” began Charles, gazing with puzzled eyes at words he knew by
heart already. “But it’s so senseless! Five thousand pounds----! The
land is yours; no one _could_ sell it but you, could he?”
“Really, Mr. Plethern,” yawned Rockarvon, “do you not think it is a
little peremptory to force a man to miss his train, to bring him late
at night to a house he had no desire to visit, just to help you at a
guessing game?”
Charles stood in great embarrassment, twisting the document between his
fingers, frowning at the floor. He was not satisfied, but he could see
no way of questioning Rockarvon further. He began to reproach himself
for hurrying thus to Morvane; he should have gone to his brother in
London, should have confronted him with the mystery. Then had been
avoided this unpleasant impasse, in which impulsive curiosity had
landed him. He was about to begin a halting apology, when there came a
knock at the door. It was Hopton; he wore a black coat over the light
tweed trousers donned for the fair; an ashamed look, as of a bishop
caught kissing in a shrubbery, lurked behind his well-trained dignity.
“You wanted me, sir?”
Charles felt a new confidence and courage. It is a great thing, in
moments of abashment, to find outside scope for self-assertion.
“Yes, Hopton, I wanted you particularly. These gentlemen will excuse us
a moment....”
Followed by the butler he crossed the corridor to a small room
opposite. Closing the door he began his reprimand.
“In the first place, why do I come home and find the house in charge of
a young girl?”
“Well, Mr. Plethern, we had no idea----”
“That’s not the point. You are paid to look after my house, and to
leave a child like that alone, while the rest of you go jaunting, is an
odd way of doing your duty.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry. Both Mrs. Mullins and myself thought it
unusual, sir, but Mrs. Plethern was so anxious--and Miss Marvell said
there would be no dinner----”
“No dinner? What do you mean?”
“Miss Marvell sent word she would be dining with Mrs. Plethern in the
tower, sir.”
“Oh, I see. Then you said Mrs. Plethern was anxious you should go.
Explain that, please.”
“Well, sir, it was Mrs. Plethern who suggested to Mrs. Mullins that the
staff should have the opportunity of going to Church Meldon. It is a
special feast--some kind of anniversary, sir--and a much larger affair
than any other festivity hereabouts, sir, for many years. Then, when
Miss Marvell confirmed it----I’m very sorry it should have happened,
Mr. Plethern, and you coming home and all, but I can assure you the
staff meant no harm, sir, no harm or disrespect----”
“I think I begin to understand, Hopton,” said Charles thoughtfully. “Is
Miss Marvell still over at the tower?”
“I don’t know, sir. I came straight up, as soon as I come in from
Church Meldon.”
“Send me Miss Marvell’s maid--to this room. Is she back yet?”
“I think they are all back now, sir.”
“Very well. Tell her to hurry.”
To servants’ quarters aflurry with chatter and nervousness Hopton made
stately descent. Mrs. Mullins, who had so far forgotten her dignity
as to be gossiping in the servants’ hall, rose at his approach, a
fluttered splendour of black silk and lace.
“Well, Mr. Hopton? Is it really Mr. Plethern?”
“Indeed and it is, Mrs. Mullins, and in something of a taking, and he
must see Miss Marvell’s young lady immediately.”
“Letty Holt! Letty Holt!” The housekeeper’s voice shrilled over the
room. A quiet, mouse-haired little person came obediently toward her.
“Letty--you are to go to Mr. Plethern at once.”
“In the little room opposite the library, my girl,” added the butler
pompously.
Letty looked scared.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Mullins? What have I done?”
Mrs. Mullins disliked direct communication between her employer and the
female servants under her charge. She vented something of her spleen on
the girl before her.
“That, maybe, _you_ know better than anyone, miss. Mr. Plethern
hasn’t thought well to inform _me_ what he has to say to you. I
can only hope it is thoroughly respectable.”
Poor Letty crept upstairs and knocked timidly at the door of her
ordeal. Charles was sitting on the table, leg swinging, cigarette in
mouth. He looked up quickly as the girl entered the room.
“Come in, Letty. Where is your mistress?”
“I--I don’t rightly know, sir. I think she’s in bed.”
“You have been to this fair, or whatever it was?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you go?”
“I left here about half-past eight, sir.”
“So late as that? Were you all late, then?”
“No, sir. I was waiting for Miss Marvell to come in and dress for
dinner.”
“Waiting for her? Didn’t she come then?”
“No, sir. She told me after tea that she was going riding and would be
back at half-past seven to get ready for dinner in the tower, sir. I
waited for her until half-past eight and then, as she didn’t come, I
thought she had gone over without changing.”
“Did she say anything about your helping her when she went to bed?”
“Yes, sir. She asked if I was going with the others, and I said I’d
like to, and she told me not to trouble about coming to her this
evening, sir.”
Charles considered the girl’s replies for a few moments. Then he
slipped from the table.
“Go upstairs quietly and see if she’s in her room. Don’t wake her. I
want to know if she’s there.”
The girl bowed her head and hurried away. Charles followed from the
room. He was about to turn the handle of the library door, when a
footfall along the corridor made him pause. Slowly, through the archway
from the main landing, Viola came draggingly. Her head drooped, her
habit was damp-stained and covered with burrs, grass and bed-straw. She
did not see him, but trailed drearily toward him along the wide carpet
of the corridor under the hard glare of the electric light. He took two
quick steps.
“Viola! My dearest child, what’s the matter?”
She raised her head sharply. He saw her great, tired eyes flame to
astounded happiness.
“Charles!” she cried. “Oh, Charles, you’ve come back----”
The next instant she had fainted in his arms.
He carried her to the library, calling for brandy to Wilkinson, who had
sat without a word or movement during his employer’s absence, watching
Rockarvon with the dull gaze of a bull-dog in charge of a treed
poacher. As the girl was brought in and laid upon a sofa, the earl
showed signs of animation. Hitherto he had been content to enjoy the
victory over Charles Plethern that circumstance had given him, leaving
to some happier occasion the wreaking of a positive revenge. Now,
however, he had an idea. He might yet turn the tables on this pestilent
family. He waited, motionless, the restoring of Viola.
Gradually she came to her senses. Seeing her guardian bending over
her, she smiled contentedly and lay back with closed eyes. She groped
for his hand and nestled her own fingers clenched over thumb, into the
shelter of his palm. A long sigh rippled down her body.
The silence was broken by a yawn of boredom from Rockarvon’s chair.
“Charming!” he drawled. “But I have as little taste for family reunions
as for guessing games. If the motor is still at the door, I should be
grateful for Mr.--er--for this ‘gentleman’s’ arm.”
Charles whipped round on him. The mode of diffidence had long passed.
He was full of uneasiness with events at Morvane, and no one was to
move, whatever the consequence of their detention, until his doubts
were stilled.
“Stay where you are!” he commanded roughly. “I’ll give you a bed when
I’ve done with you, but you’re not leaving either this house or this
room at present.”
He turned to find Viola propped on her elbow, gazing wildly at the earl.
“What is he doing here?” she whispered. “Send him away! Send him away,
Charles!”
He soothed her tenderly.
“There, there. You’re quite safe, darling; quite safe now. Lie back
again. No one shall touch you, child.”
She gave him a slow and deliberate look that there was no mistaking.
Charles felt a sudden rush of fear and self-contempt. What had been
happening in his heedless absence? What misadventure had befallen this
ward of his that he was pledged to cherish, that could look at him as
women look only when----
Rockarvon interrupted his wondering bitterness.
“Mr. Plethern,” he said suavely, “you have treated me very strangely
this evening, but I can make allowance for excitement and bear no
malice. Indeed, I will repay good for evil and tell you something
that will, perhaps explain that curious unsigned paper we discussed a
while ago. The unhappy indisposition of your charming ward has had the
fortunate result that it has suggested an explanation to me.”
Charles faced the earl again, standing between Viola and the other’s
chair. He disliked the sudden amiability of his prisoner; almost he
disbelieved Rockarvon’s words before they had been spoken.
“Well?”
The earl waved an apologetic hand.
“It is not easy in Miss Marvell’s presence. Perhaps she would be more
comfortable in her room----”
The girl’s voice, low but clear, answered him.
“Go on, Lord Rockarvon. I am quite able to listen. It is better that I
should listen.”
“You will absolve me, Mr. Plethern!” asked Rockarvon, with a grimace
that was half leer, half deprecating smile.
“Go on,” said Charles grimly.
With a shrug of resignation the earl threw back his head, put the
points of his fingers together and gazing at the ceiling, began to
speak purringly in a voice smooth and soft as velvet.
“Not the least unusual incident of this most unusual day was an
interview between Miss Marvell and myself. We met on a country road.
I was in a motor-car, she was on horseback. My chauffeur stopped to
inquire the way; she recognized me, and, without any preliminary
conversation, made a very extraordinary proposal.”
No one spoke or moved. Charles heard his ward catch her breath
sharply, as she crouched on the sofa at his back. Wilkinson, smoking
his pipe, gazed steadily at Rockarvon’s chin, which, in his strange
attitude, was the one portion visible of his face.
“The proposal,” went on the earl in the same insinuating tone, “I need
not detail. It would hardly interest Mr.--er--Mr.--this gentleman.
_You_ will understand me, Mr. Plethern, when I say it was the
proposal made by me to you some months ago--with the omission of all
conventional rubbish about marriage-lines--a more modern proposal, in
short, than I took upon myself to make----”
Charles took a step forward.
“You infernal scoundrel!” he cried. But a faint voice from behind him
checked the explosion of his wrath.
“Charles! Be patient! Let him finish!”
The earl waved the fingers of one hand, but continued to stare at the
ceiling.
“Yes, let me finish, Mr. Plethern. Miss Marvell knows I am telling the
strict truth.”
“The truth! You skunk, you haven’t an ounce of truth in your rotten,
painted carcass!”
“Charles--please!” She was off the sofa and at his side. “Charles!
Listen, I beg of you! All that he has said so far is true----”
He caught her by the wrist and stared at her speechless. The smooth,
cruel voice of the tormentor cut across his fury like a whip.
“Abuse does not move me, Mr. Plethern, but it is ungrateful. I am
trying to help you----”
Charles was still glaring at Viola.
“What is true?” he demanded hoarsely.
She released herself and, moving to the door, stood against it, her
hands spread out from her sides and pressed palm inward against the
polished wood-work. Her pale, drawn face seemed hardly large enough to
hold the dusky caverns of her eyes.
“It is true, Charles,” she said steadily, “that I offered myself to
Lord Rockarvon in exchange for his valley yonder.”
Then she bowed her head and seemed almost to await a blow. But still he
fumbled after logic.
“But the valley? What good is the valley to _you_?”
For all her humiliation and her misery, she hugged his obtuseness to
her heart. How like him not to understand! How, even in this extremity,
she loved him for this angry density! She uttered not a word. The earl
spoke quickly:
“I suggest, Mr. Plethern, that your mysterious paper gives a hint
of the value of my land to her. Young ladies have their debts and
difficulties, you know, like the rest. But they have an advantage over
us men ... inherent resources more negotiable than ours.”
He chuckled nastily. Something snapped inside the iron control of
Wilkinson, and it was only just in time that Charles caught his agent’s
upraised arm.
“Don’t strike him, Wilkinson. This is my house, remember.” He spoke
with a new quietness, and seemed to be pondering peaceably all that
the earl had said. Then he began to talk, pacing the room, his voice
ruminative and judicial.
“Your suggestion is that Miss Marvell proposed to sell the land to
my brother James? That she prepared this paper in advance? The price
seems low for so large an estate. Also, why should the paper be sent to
_me_? Why is it labelled Morvane and dated for to-morrow? Still,
those are details and may be thought of later. Let us examine more
closely this interview between yourself and Miss Marvell. Whereabouts
did it take place?”
The earl had a pang of alarm. He saw danger ahead.
“Miss Marvell will tell you more clearly than I can. She knows the
neighbourhood. Also, I am very tired. Perhaps now you will allow me to
go to bed.”
“One moment, Rockarvon. I am sorry to be importunate, but this is a
serious matter. At what time did you meet Miss Marvell?”
“About eight o’clock, I should think,” said the earl shortly.
Charles looked at Viola.
“Do you agree, Viola, that it was eight o’clock?”
She nodded.
“You were in a motor-car, you said? Where were you going?”
“I decline to be cross-examined,” snapped Rockarvon. “This is not a
court of law.”
“He told me he was going to Wellborough,” said Viola quietly.
“Was the road, then, near Wellborough?”
“No; it was only three miles from here. Out beyond the Macdonalds.”
“At eight o’clock,” observed Charles reflectively, “the car was
beyond the Macdonalds on its way to Wellborough. At ten-fifteen Lord
Rockarvon was at Sawley station for the London train. How long did your
conference take, Viola?”
She shook her head wearily.
“I don’t know. Not long. A quarter of an hour, perhaps.”
“Let us say that at eight-fifteen the car started for Wellborough. It
must be twelve miles to Wellborough from the Macdonalds, and a bad road
as far as Sawley. Half an hour would be good going at night. Suppose
that at a quarter to nine the car reached Wellborough----”
“No one ever said it reached Wellborough!” interrupted Rockarvon
angrily. “I didn’t go. I went no farther than Sawley.”
“Why!” inquired Charles gently.
“I refuse to answer another question. I insist on being shown my room.”
With a further abrupt change of manner, Charles walked to the fireplace
and jerked the bell.
“You must forgive me,” he said courteously. “I have been intolerably
persistent, and I can see you are tired out. The man shall see that the
room is ready and then come and help you upstairs.” He turned quickly
to Viola.
“Why, if you were to dine in the tower with my mother, were you three
miles away at eight o’clock?”
She gazed at him perplexedly. Her mind seemed dull and too fatigued for
reaction to further shocks.
“Was I to dine in the tower?” she muttered stupidly, then, with a queer
flash of eagerness, “Of course! Mrs. Plethern had news of you, Charles.
What news was it? A telegram? A letter? She sent word that she had
news, and that’s why I was to dine with her. I was a little hurt, you
know--that you had neglected me!” She began to laugh foolishly. “But
now you’re home it doesn’t matter, does it? Not a bit. Not the least
little bit--not----”
She swayed and nearly fell. As he ran to support her, Charles heard the
butler’s footsteps in the corridor without. Almost he carried Viola
through the door.
“Hopton,” he said quickly, “tell Letty to attend her mistress in her
room. I am taking Miss Marvell there now. Do you send George to see if
the bedrooms are ready for Lord Rockarvon and Mr. Wilkinson. Then he is
to come and help Lord Rockarvon to bed. I may want you later. Don’t go
to bed yet.”
* * * * *
Five minutes later he returned to the library. The footman was standing
awaiting his return.
“Is the gentleman ready, sir? His room is prepared.”
“More than ready, eh, Rockarvon?” said Charles. “Good night. I hope
you will be comfortable. We will go into your ingenious theory of this
document in the morning. Believe me, I am much obliged for your help.”
“You have a queer way of showing it, then,” grumbled the earl, as he
hoisted himself from his chair. Without another word he stumbled across
the room on George’s arm. As he disappeared Charles said to Wilkinson
in a low tone:
“The whole thing is a pack of lies! Come along. We are going over to
the tower to see my mother.”