FRAUD.
Rather more than a week elapsed, during which Melville saw
practically nothing of the outer world. His chambers were at the top
of the house in Jermyn Street, the suite consisting of a sitting,
bed, and bath rooms, which he rented furnished for seventy pounds a
year. His food and attendance were all supplied to him by the
general manager of the house, and his credit for these bare
necessaries of life was still good. So Melville gave orders to the
hall porter to reply uniformly to all enquirers that he was not at
home, and remained in his chambers steeped in dull melancholy. One
evening he stole out and pawned his violin, but that very night he
lost nearly all the proceeds of the transaction in some utterly
foolish wager, and the next morning he woke up face to face with the
fact that he only possessed ten shillings in the world. It was
pouring with rain and the wind was howling round the balustrade
outside his windows. Melville shivered; he felt cold and ill, and
recollected that he had eaten no dinner the night before. He rang
the bell and told the valet, whose services he shared with the other
tenants on his floor, to bring him up some breakfast and some shaving
water.
"What is the time?" he asked curtly, as the man came from his bedroom
to say the shaving water was ready.
"About twelve, sir. I will bring up your breakfast in a quarter of
an hour."
Melville turned to the window again. If only the rain would stop!
And how he missed his violin! No human being could realise what his
instrument had been to him, or what a wrench it had been to part with
it. He felt utterly destitute.
"What am I to do?" he muttered vainly. "Sir Geoffrey--no, it's worse
than useless to apply to him--last time was the last time, unless
some marvellous inspiration helps me to pitch some plausible yarn."
While he was still harping on the one perpetual theme, the valet
returned with his breakfast, and Melville drank some tea and disposed
of some excellent kidneys.
"I was getting quite faint," he said to the man who was attending to
him. "Don't bother about things this morning. I shall go out
presently, and you can do whatever you've got to do then."
"It's a very wet day, sir," the other answered.
"Wet?" said Melville disgustedly. "I should think it is wet. The
weather certainly means business." He drank some more tea and
lighted a cigarette. "By the way, put out my dress clothes early
this evening. I probably shall not be dining at home."
The valet hesitated.
"Have you any more linen in any other portmanteau, sir?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," Melville replied testily. "You'd better
look and see. Anyhow, find some."
The valet looked still more uncomfortable.
"I sent all I could find to the wash, sir," he stammered; "and the
laundry people have refused to leave any clean linen until your
account is settled."
Melville grew scarlet with anger.
"What do I owe them?" he asked.
"It's a little over four pounds, sir. Will you write a cheque?"
"No, I won't," said Melville shortly. "Go to the Burlington Arcade
and tell my hosiers to send me over three dozen, and put them down in
my account."
"Yes, sir," said the valet civilly, and left the room.
Melville laughed when the door closed behind the servant. When the
devil laughs it is time for good folks to beware, and Melville felt
like a fiend at that moment. It was grotesquely funny that he could
get three dozen shirts on credit, but had not the money to pay his
washerwoman. But the fact was a staggering reminder of his real
position. He got up preparatory to going out, when he remembered
that he had still to shave; he went, therefore, into his bedroom,
and, having stropped his razor, took off his collar and tie and began
to make a lather for his face.
And then suddenly the idea came to him with the force of a conviction
that the way out of his trouble lay plain before him. It was the
cowardly way which it yet requires a measure of courage to take.
Death was the solution of the problem. He did not know how to live,
but it was very simple to die. He sat down in a chair and, almost
closing his eyes, peered at his reflection in the mirror. Very
little paler--only with eyes quite closed--he would not look very
different presently if he did this thing. And, unless his courage
failed him in the act, it would not hurt. Then what would happen?
The scene here, in this room, with the dead body stretched upon the
floor, was easy to imagine. It might not be very appalling. Had he
ever contemplated such a deed before he would have provided himself
with some poison, which, while it was as fatal as the razor blade,
would not disfigure him; for to the living man the idea of being
disfigured after death is always repugnant. But he had no poison,
and here was the razor ready to his hand. He would be found quite
soon--but it must not be too soon--and he rose and stealthily locked
the outer door.
Again he sat before the impassive mirror. There was no one who would
care. In all the world, so far as Melville knew, there was no one
who would care if he were dead, only a few who would resent the
manner of his dying.
He had nothing left to lose. Penniless and friendless in the
present, bankrupt of hope for the future, he had nothing material
left to lose, at any rate, and he stood to gain emancipation from an
environment to which he had ceased to be adapted.
He would have to draw the blade across his throat--so! He must do it
very strongly, very swiftly, or he would fail.
The man leant forward on the dressing-table and gazed closely at
himself in the glass; he saw exactly where he must make the gash, and
without any hesitation or nervousness he felt the edge of the razor
with the thumb of his left hand. As he did so he cut the skin, and
some blood fell upon the snow-white cover of the table. In the
extraordinary mental state in which he was, the horrible incongruity
in his reasoning did not strike him, but, in actual fact, the
bloodstain on the cloth gave him offence, and he paused and looked
around him. This--would make such a mess! And there was a revolver
in his bag. How stupid of him not to have remembered that! It had
another advantage, too, for people might think the pistol had gone
off by accident while he was cleaning it, whereas there could be no
doubt about the intention in the other case. It mattered a great
deal what people would think.
He laid down the razor on a chest of drawers and removed the soiled
toilet cover from the dressing table. Then he went to his bag to
take out his revolver. The valet had disarranged the contents of the
bag, and Melville turned over a lot of things and could not find the
little pistol case. Instead, his hand fell upon a heap of letters,
and on the top of them was the one that had come to him from Ralph
asking for a loan of a hundred pounds.
A sudden revulsion of thought made Melville sick and giddy. It was
as if a gambler who had lost all but his last five-franc piece had,
after hesitation, staked _en plein_ and followed with a run of wins
on single numbers. One cannot follow up the gambler's line of
thought, but many a one whom that fortune befell would be almost sick
to think how narrowly he missed his chance. Melville was a gambler
pure and simple. An instant before he had been upon the very point
of death because he did not know whence money could be got, and
without money he did not want to live. Yet here in his bag was a
letter which might mean at least a hundred pounds. Of course, he
might lose his stake, but to kill himself without having made the
venture was intolerable.
The physical endurance of the strongest man has its limitations, and
Melville staggered into the sitting-room and threw himself into a
great armchair. Here presently he was discovered by his valet, who
was frightened by his master's complete collapse. Some hours passed
by before he regained anything like his usual self-control, and then,
resolutely putting out of his mind all thought of how close he had
been to death, he began to consider the best time and manner of
making his final venture to raise money.
A train left Waterloo at six-forty, which would land him at
Fairbridge Manor at eight o'clock. If he went by that train he would
in all probability find Sir Geoffrey Holt in a good humour after
dinner. He even took the precaution of changing his clothes again,
substituting a somewhat shabby lounge suit for his elaborate frock
coat. "May as well look the part," he said sardonically to himself.
"The Prodigal Son was a bit baggy at the knees, I imagine, and that
is the scene I'm on in now. I shall have to draw on my imagination
about the husks all the same."
There was something almost heroic--in a wicked fashion--in his effort
to pull himself together, for his recent temptation to commit suicide
had really shaken him. He drank freely of the spirits in his
tantalus as he was dressing, and all the while tried to anticipate
every difficulty in the interview before him.
"If only Ralph is out of the way I may pull it off. His letter will
serve to account for one hundred of the last two-fifty, and I can gas
about some forgotten bills to explain how most of the rest has gone.
It's a fighting chance anyhow, and if I fail there is still the
pistol."
From one thought sprang another.
"There is still the pistol!"
With a curiously furtive action Melville took the revolver from his
portmanteau and slipped it into his pocket. Then he crept
downstairs, and, hailing a hansom, drove to Waterloo.
But when the train steamed into Fairbridge Station, Melville was not
in it. He was so restless that he could not endure the swaying of
the carriage, and getting out two stations short of his destination
he resolved to walk the rest of the way.
Leaving the high road he made his way down to the river and followed
the towing path. It was getting dark, but the rain had ceased; the
silence was intense, and the occasional splash of a water-rat
startled him so much that he was angry with himself for being in so
highly strung and nervous a condition.
When at last he reached the gardens of the Manor House he was feeling
very shaky; he walked quickly towards the house, wondering, now the
moment was at hand, how he should begin.
"Ralph may be cornered for money," he muttered, "but I notice he
hasn't got rid of his houseboat. I wonder whether he is here
to-night. Everything depends upon that."
He crept cautiously up to the dining-room windows and tried to peep
through the blinds. As he did so he heard the front door open, and
crouching down hid himself in some shrubbery. He recognised Sir
Geoffrey's firm, quick step, and peering over the laurels saw his
uncle walking with Ralph down the drive. He watched them shake
hands, and saw Ralph walk briskly away; then he drew back among the
laurels as Sir Geoffrey returned to the house and quietly closed the
door.
"So Ralph is here to-night," said Melville under his breath; "my luck
again!"
He felt horribly uncertain what to do. His first impulse was to
follow Ralph, who might be going up to town, but he refrained, and
walked softly down to the towing path again, turning round at every
other step to see if Sir Geoffrey were coming. The evening grew
colder, and Melville turned up the collar of his coat and stood back
among the shadows, steadying himself against a tree.
"Perhaps that is Sir Geoffrey," he thought, as the sound of footsteps
fell upon his ear. "No! it's someone going the other way. 'Pon my
word, I'm beginning to feel quite guilty. Still--I'm not going back
without seeing him. Perhaps I'd better go up to the house and get it
over. Why can't he come down here as usual?"
He retraced his steps, and as he reached the garden gate came face to
face with Sir Geoffrey, who, apparently, was not at all surprised to
see him.
"How do you do, uncle?" Melville said. "I thought I would look you
up."
"Very good of you, I'm sure," said Sir Geoffrey drily. "Have you
just come from the station?"
"Yes, just this instant," Melville answered, without thinking.
"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey; "I suppose they must have put on a new down
train. Did you meet Ralph?"
"No," said Melville shortly.
"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey again; "I thought not."
"Not a very promising beginning!" said Melville to himself; then he
added aloud, "Is Ralph staying with you?"
"He has been," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's coming back to-morrow, so
I am sorry I cannot offer you his room."
Melville was annoyed.
"I am not aware that I have asked you to give me his room, and I am
aware that you prefer his company."
"That being so," said Sir Geoffrey, "it seems to me that you have
chosen a somewhat unconventional hour for your visit."
"I've only just returned to England," Melville replied; "otherwise I
should have called earlier."
"May I ask the object of your visit now you have called?" enquired
Sir Geoffrey. "What is it you want?" and he looked keenly at his
nephew.
"Well," Melville stammered, "the fact is I wanted to ask you to give
me some more money. I--I----"
"But it's not two months since I gave you two hundred and fifty
pounds," cried Sir Geoffrey. "What on earth have you done with that?"
Melville was at a loss how to begin the explanation he had invented.
"I've been away," he said lamely, "and ill, and--and it's gone."
"I can quite believe it's gone," said his uncle bitterly. "Money
melts before you like pyramids of snow. I wonder you have the face
to ask me again."
Melville flushed. He knew that Sir Geoffrey had detected him in one
lie, and that in his present state of excitement he would only make
matters worse if he faltered in his suddenly improvised story.
"Well, what am I to do?" he asked.
"Do what every other man does," Sir Geoffrey said. "Work, instead of
idling about in the club and playing the fiddle--and the fool."
"But I can't get any work," Melville objected.
"What have you tried to do?"
"Oh, it's no good going into all that."
"I should think not," said Sir Geoffrey with a bitter laugh, "but,
anyhow, I won't help you any more; men of your type never will work
while they've got any relations on whom they can sponge. You give up
the fiddle, as a start."
"I have," said Melville, "to a pawn-broker."
"Best place for it," grunted Sir Geoffrey unsympathetically. "I'll
pay the interest for you next year, if you'll agree to leave it
there."
Melville clenched his fists and walked on in silence for a few yards.
"You don't mind helping Ralph," he said, with a sneer; "he's so
different, isn't he?"
"That is my own affair," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I don't mind saying
I've never had to refuse him, because he has never asked me. He's a
thoroughly fine fellow."
"He's a humbug," said Melville. "He's not above borrowing from me at
all events. As you insist upon knowing what I did with the last two
hundred and fifty I had from you, I will tell you that I gave Ralph a
hundred of it."
"I don't believe you," said Sir Geoffrey. "You're a liar, Melville,
and I've proved it."
"Read that," said Melville shortly.
He took Ralph's letter out of his pocket and gave it to his uncle,
who read it in the fading light. A spasm of pain crossed the old
man's face, but he drew himself up with dignity.
"I detected you in one lie, sir," he said, "but I may have made a
mistake about this. If so, I apologise. You did what your brother
asked you? Sent him this hundred pounds?"
Melville met his keen eyes steadily.
"I did. I sent it to him at once."
"How? By cheque?"
"No," said Melville; "in notes--twenty fivers." His wonted
effrontery returned to him. "I can tell you the numbers if you like."
"Thank you, no," replied Sir Geoffrey. "I'm not proposing to try to
trace the notes now, and Ralph can give me his own explanation of his
temporary embarrassment later. Come to the house and I will repay
you for him now."
Melville's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He felt absolutely no
shame at his fraud, no fear of the subsequent inevitable exposure.
He had to get money somehow, and with incredible swiftness it was
already almost in his grasp. They walked in silence to the Manor
House. As they passed the drawing-room windows Melville caught sight
of Gwendolen Austen's figure and involuntarily paused, but Sir
Geoffrey noticed the action and harshly interrupted him.
"Mrs. and Miss Austen are staying here as my guests. As this is
purely a business visit on your part we will, if you please, go to my
library," and he strode along the terrace.
Melville followed him, and turning to the right came to the west
front of the house, on which side lay Sir Geoffrey's private set of
rooms. To Melville, overwrought with excitement as he was, the
library with its great armchairs and well-filled bookcases looked
very homelike and comfortable, but he did not venture to sit down
unasked, and Sir Geoffrey pointedly refrained from everything
approaching hospitality. He unlocked a drawer in his writing table
and, taking out his cheque book, filled in a form payable to Melville
for one hundred pounds. Before signing the cheque, he laid down his
pen and looked scrutinisingly at his nephew.
"There are a few things I wish to say to you, Melville," he said very
slowly, "before we finally part, and I beg you to remember them, as
they may prevent any future misunderstanding. For more than thirty
years I have treated you as my son, in spite of endless
disappointments at your total failure to give me any return in
consideration or affection. You have always been utterly selfish,
and, as I think, utterly bad. Now I am a rich man, and you may
perhaps argue that I am only anticipating the provision I have
doubtless made for you in my will. Please understand that that is
not the case. Over and above the just expenses of your life up to
now you have already had from me many thousand pounds, which have
been squandered by you in wanton vice. I do not intend you to have
any more. I hold that my money was given to me for some other
purpose than that. In point of fact, I have not made my will, but
when I choose to do so, you will not be a legatee. You understand
perfectly?"
Melville bowed.
"Very good. Now I am giving you this cheque because for once you
have done an unselfish action and have lent your brother two-fifths
of what you had reason to suppose was the last money you would ever
receive from me. I am very, very sorry Ralph asked you for it, but
very glad you sent it to him. I repay you on his behalf, and will
see that he in turn repays me."
Sir Geoffrey signed the cheque and gave it to Melville.
"I have left it open so that you may obtain the money in the morning.
This, too, is your property," and he gave him Ralph's letter, which
Melville had forgotten.
Then Sir Geoffrey rose.
"This is a final parting, Melville," he said solemnly, "and I wish to
heaven it were not so. If in these last few weeks I had any reason
to hope you had been trying to be a better man I might have been more
harsh to-night, but not so relentless. But the money I gave you the
other day, apart from this hundred pounds, has gone in gambling as
all the rest has gone, and as everything else I might give you would
go. And I declare now, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, that I
hold myself free of you at last. From whatever you may do in the
future to bring shame upon your family I, in their name, declare we
are absolved, and you must look for no more help or countenance from
us. And now I will ask you to go. You can walk to the station, and
will not have long to wait for a train to town."
And opening the French windows on to the lawn, Sir Geoffrey stood
with set lips and stern eyes until his nephew disappeared among the
shrubbery that fringed the drive.
Outside, Melville drew a deep breath.
"The hysterical old idiot!" he said, half audibly; but his fingers
trembled as he placed the cheque in his inner pocket, and he was more
nervous than he thought himself capable of being. "Still, I've got a
hundred pounds, and as for the row which, I suppose, is bound to
follow when the old man finds out the truth--that can rip for the
present. I'm glad he didn't cross the cheque. There wouldn't have
been much change out of it for me if I'd had to pay it into my
account, because I'm so overdrawn, and, what's more, it might be
stopped if Ralph turned up early to-morrow. Gad! I'll go to the
bank at nine."
He stumbled along until he reached the station. He had another stiff
glass of spirits at the refreshment bar, and found he had only a
shilling left.
"Good thing I took a return ticket," he muttered, "and as for
to-morrow I can go to the bank in a cab, thank goodness, and go home
in a balloon, if I choose. And after that, I'll clear out of town
for a bit and pull myself together--and pull myself together."
He laughed stupidly as he found himself repeating his words, and then
huddled up in a corner of the carriage. How he got back to his
chambers in Jermyn Street he scarcely knew, but he had been there
some time before his attention was attracted by a letter which was
lying on his table. It was written in a hand that was not familiar
to him. It bore date that morning, and the paper was stamped with a
monogram and the address, 5, The Vale, South Kensington.
"Dear Mr. Melville Ashley," it ran, "there are many reasons--into
none of which do I deem it expedient to enter now--why I have
hitherto refrained from inviting you to my house. For the moment I
will confine myself to making the announcement, for which you may be
wholly unprepared, that I married Sir Geoffrey Holt many years ago,
and am, consequently, your aunt by marriage. I shall be obliged if
you will call upon me to-morrow at half-past four o'clock, and it is
my desire that until I have seen you, you shall not acquaint any
third person with the contents of this communication.--I am, yours
faithfully, LAVINIA HOLT."
At last the full significance of the note was borne in upon him.
"Married Sir Geoffrey many years ago!" Melville said slowly.
"Strange! that is very strange!"
He entered the address in his pocket book, and then carefully locked
away the letter, together with that from Ralph, in a despatch box.
"In spite of all you said, Sir Geoffrey, I fancy this letter, too,
may mean money in my pocket!" and the smile upon his face was very
evil.