A TURN OF THE WHEEL
Audley was suspicious and ill at ease. Standing on the hearth-rug with
his back to the fire, he fixed the visitor with his eyes, and with
secret anxiety asked himself what he wanted. The possibility that
Basset came to champion Mary had crossed his mind more than once; if
that were so he would soon dispose of him! In the meantime he took
civility for his cue, exchanged an easy word or two about the poll and
the election, and between times nodded to Stubbs to be seated. Through
all, his eyes were watchful and he missed nothing.
“I asked Mr. Stubbs to be here,” he said when a minute or two had been
spent in this by-play, “as you spoke of business. You don’t object?”
“Not at all,” Basset replied. His face was grave. “I should tell you at
once, Audley,” he added, “that my mission is not a pleasant one.”
The other raised his eyebrows. “You are sure that it concerns me?”
“It certainly concerns you. Though, as things stand, not very
materially. I knew nothing of the matter myself until three o’clock
to-day, and at first I doubted if it was my duty to communicate it. But
the facts are known to a third person, they may be used to annoy you in
the future, and though the task is unpleasant, I decided that I had no
option.”
Audley set his broad shoulders against the mantel-shelf. “But if the
facts don’t affect me?” he said.
“In a way they do. Not as they might under other circumstances. That is
all.”
“And yet you are making our hair stand on end! I confess you puzzle me.
Well, let us have it. What is it all about?”
“A little time ago you recovered, if you remember, your Family Bible.”
“Well? What of that?”
“I have just learned that the man did not hand over all that he had. He
kept back—it now appears—certain papers.”
“Ah!” Audley’s voice was stern. “Well, he has had his chance. This
time, I can promise him a warrant will follow.”
“Perhaps you will hear me out first?”
“No,” was the sharp reply. Audley’s temper was getting the better of
him. “Last time, my dear fellow, you compounded with him; your motive
an excellent one I don’t doubt. But if he now thinks to get more money
from me—and for other papers—I can promise him that he will see the
inside of Stafford gaol. Besides, my good friend, you gave us to
understand that he had surrendered all he had.”
“I am afraid I did, and I fear I was wrong. Why he deceived me, and has
now turned about, I know no more than you do!”
“I think I can enlighten you,” the other answered—his fears as well as
his temper were aroused. “The rogue is shallow. He thinks to be paid
twice. Once by you and once by me. But you can tell him that this time
he will be paid in other coin.”
“I’m afraid that there is more in it than that,” Basset said. “The fact
is the papers he now produces, Audley, are of another character.”
“Oh! The wind blows in that quarter, does it?” my lord replied. “You
don’t mean that you’ve come here—why, d—n it, man,” with sudden
passion, “either you are very simple, or you are art and part——”
“Steady, steady, my lord,” Stubbs said, interposing discreetly.
Hitherto he had not spoken. “There’s no need to quarrel! I am sure that
Mr. Basset’s intentions are friendly. It will be better if he just
tells us what these documents are which are now put forward. We shall
then be able to judge where we stand.”
“Go ahead,” Audley said, averting his face and sulkily relapsing
against the mantel-shelf. “Put your questions! And, for God’s sake,
let’s get to the point!”
“The paper that is pertinent is a deed,” Basset explained. “I have the
heads of it here. A deed made between Peter Paravicini Audley, your
ancestor, the Audley the date of whose marriage has been always in
issue—between him on the one side, and his father and two younger
brothers on the other.”
“What is the date?” Stubbs asked.
“Seventeen hundred and four.”
“Very good, Mr. Basset.” Stubbs’s tone was now as even as he could make
it, but an acute listener would have detected a change in it. “Proceed,
if you please.”
Before Basset could comply, my lord broke in. “What’s the use of this?
Why the d—l are we going into it?” he cried. “If this man is out for
plunder I will make him smart as sure as my name is Audley! And any one
who supports him. In the meantime I want to hear no more of it!”
Basset moved in his chair as if he would rise. Stubbs intervened.
“That is one way of looking at it, my lord,” he said temperately. “And
I’m not saying that it is the wrong way. But I think we had better hear
what Mr. Basset has to say. He is probably deceived——”
“He has let himself be used as a catspaw!” Audley cried. His face was
flushed and there was an ugly look in his eyes.
“But he means us well, I am sure,” the lawyer interposed. “At present I
don’t see”—he turned and carefully snuffed one of the candles—“I don’t
see——”
“I think you do!” Basset answered. He had had a long day and he had
come on an unpleasant business. His own temper was not too good. “You
see this, at any rate, Mr. Stubbs, that such a deed may be of vital
import to your client.”
“To me?” Audley exclaimed. Was it possible that the thing he had so
long feared—and had ceased to fear—was going to befall him? Was it
possible that at the eleventh hour, when he had burnt his boats, when
he had thought all danger at an end—no, it was impossible! “To me?” he
repeated passionately.
“Yes,” Basset replied. “Or, rather, it would be of vital import to you
in other circumstances.”
“In what other circumstances? What do you mean?”
“If you were not about to marry the only person who, with you, is
interested.”
Audley cut short, by a tremendous effort, the execration that burst
from his lips. His face, always too fleshy for his years, swelled till
it was purple. Then, and as quickly, the blood ebbed, leaving it gray
and flabby. He would have given much, very much at this moment to be
able to laugh or to utter a careless word. But he could do neither. The
blow had been too sudden, too heavy, too overwhelming. Only in his
nightmares had he seen what he saw now!
Meanwhile Stubbs, startled by the half-uttered oath and a little out of
his depth—for he had heard nothing of the engagement—intervened. “I
think, my lord,” he said, “you had better leave this to me. I think you
had, indeed. We are quite in the dark and we are not getting forward.
Let us have the facts, Mr. Basset. What is the gist of this deed? Or,
first, have you seen it?”
“I have.”
“And read it?”
“I have.”
“It appears to you—I only say it appears—to be genuine?”
“I have no doubt that it is genuine,” Basset replied. “It bears the
marks of age, and it was found in the chest with the old Bible. If the
book is genuine——”
The lawyer raised his hand. “Too fast,” he said. “You say it was found!
You mean that this man says it was found?”
“Yes.”
“Precisely. But there is a difference. Still, we have cleared the
ground. Now, what does this deed purport to be?”
Basset produced a slip of paper. “An agreement,” he read from it,
“between Peter Paravicini Audley and his father and his two younger
brothers. After admitting that the entry of the marriage in the
register is misleading and that no marriage took place until after the
birth of his son, Peter Paravicini undertakes that, in consideration of
his father and his brothers taking no action and making no attack upon
his wife’s reputation, she being their cousin, he will not set up for
the said son, or the issue of the said son, any claim to the title or
estates.”
Audley listened to the description, so clear and so precise, and he
recognized that it tallied with the deed which tradition had always
held to exist but of which John Audley had been able to give no proof.
He heard, he understood; yet while he listened and understood, his mind
was working to another end, and viewing with passion the tragedy which
fate had prepared for him. Too late! Too late! Had this become known a
week, only a week, earlier, how lightly had the blow fallen! How
impotently! But he had cut the rope, he had severed the strands once
carefully twisted, that bound him to safety! And then the irony, the
bitterness, the cruelty of those words of Basset’s, “in other
circumstances!” They bit into his mind.
Still he suffered in silence, and only his stillness and his unhealthy
color betrayed the despair that gripped and benumbed his soul. Stubbs
did not look at him; perhaps he was careful not to look at him. The
lawyer sat thinking and drumming gently with his fingers on the table.
“Just so, just so,” he said presently. “On the face of it, the document
of which Mr. John Audley tried to give secondary evidence, and which a
person fraudulently inclined would of course concoct. That touch of the
cousin well brought in!”
“But the lady was his cousin,” Basset said.
“All the world knows it,” the lawyer retorted coolly, “and use has been
made of the knowledge. But, of course, there are a hundred things to be
proved before any weight can be given to this document; its origin, the
custody from which it comes, the signatures, the witnesses. Its
production by a man who has once endeavored to blackmail is alone
suspicious. And the deed itself is at variance with the evidence of the
Bible.”
“But that variance bears out the deed, which is to secure the younger
sons’ rights while covering the reputation of the lady.”
The lawyer shook his head. “Very clever,” he said. “But, frankly, the
matter has an ugly look, Mr. Basset.”
“Lord Audley says nothing,” Basset replied, nettled by the lawyer’s
phrase.
“And will say nothing,” Stubbs rejoined genially, “if he is advised by
me. In the circumstances, as I understand them, he is not affected as
he might be, but this is still a serious matter. We are not quarrelling
with you for coming to us, Mr. Basset. On the contrary. But I would
like to know why the man came to you.”
“The answer is simple,” Basset explained. “I am Mr. Audley’s executor.
On his account, I am obliged to be interested. The moment I learned
this I saw that, be it true or false, I must disclose it to Miss
Audley. But I thought it fair to open it to Lord Audley first that he
might tell the young lady himself, if he preferred to do so.”
Stubbs nodded. “Very proper,” he replied. “And where, in the meantime,
is this—precious document?”
“I lodged it with Mr. Audley’s bankers this afternoon.”
Stubbs nodded again. “Also very proper,” he said. “Just so.”
Basset rose. “I’ve told you what I know. If there is nothing more?” he
said. He looked at Audley, who had turned his back on them and, with
his hands in his pockets and one foot on the fender, was gazing into
the fire.
“I think that’s all,” Stubbs hastened to say. “I am sure that his
lordship is obliged to you, Mr. Basset, though it is a hundred to one
that there is nothing in this.”
At that, however, Audley turned about. He had pulled himself together,
and his manner was excellent. “I would like to say that for myself,” he
said frankly, “I owe you many thanks for the straightforward course you
have taken, Basset. You must pardon my momentary annoyance. Perhaps you
will kindly keep this business to yourself for—shall we say—three days?
I will speak myself to my cousin, but I should like to make one or two
inquiries first.”
Basset agreed willingly. He hated the whole thing and his part in it.
It forced him to champion, or to seem to champion, Mary against her
betrothed; and so set him in that kind of opposition to his rival which
he loathed. It was only after some hesitation that he had determined to
see Audley, and now that he had seen him, the sooner he was clear of
the matter the happier he would be. So, “Certainly,” he repeated,
thinking that the other was taking it very well. “And now, as I have
had a hard day, I will say good-night.”
“Good-night, and believe me,” my lord added warmly, “we recognize the
friendliness of your action.”
Outside, in the darkness of the road, Basset drew a breath of relief.
He had had a hard day and he was utterly weary. But he had come now,
thank God, to an end of many things; of the canvass he had detested and
the contest in which he had been beaten; of his relations with Mary,
whom he had lost; of this imbroglio, which he hated; of Riddsley and
the Gatehouse and the old life there! He could go to his inn and sleep
the clock round. In his bed he would be safe, he would be free from
troubles. It seemed to him a refuge. Till the morrow he need think of
nothing, and when he came forth again it would be to a new life.
Henceforth Blore, his old house and his starved acres must bound his
ambitions. With the money which John Audley had left him he would dig
and drain and fence and build, and be by turns Talpa the mole and
Castor the beaver. In time, as he began to see the fruit of his toil,
he would win to some degree of content, and be glad, looking back, that
he had made this trial of his powers, this essay towards a wider
usefulness. So, in the end, he would come through to peace.
But at this point the current of his thoughts eddied against Toft, and
he cursed the man anew. Why had he played these tricks? Why had he kept
back this paper? Why had he produced it now and cast on others this
unpleasant task?