MELVILLE LEADS TRUMPS.
Melville possessed in an eminent degree the gift of winning the
affection of his inferiors. Where no conflict of interest was
possible he gave full play to the sympathetic part of his nature,
which was his as it is the nature of all musicians. It was part of
his policy, too, to stand well in the favour of those upon whom his
comfort depended, and thus, although he was indifferent to the
appeals of those who were inconvenienced by his indebtedness to them,
and would resort to any subterfuge rather than pay his tradesmen's
bills, yet he was a lenient and considerate master to his valet in
Jermyn Street, was regarded with admiration by the hall porters of
his club, and was held in affection by the old retainers at the Manor
House, who had known him for so many years.
With Martin Somers, Sir Geoffrey's butler, Melville was an especial
favourite. The old man had taught him all he knew of outdoor sports,
and had often stood his friend when in earlier days the boy was in
disgrace with his uncle.
Melville turned from the hall into the dining-room and rang the bell.
It was cool and shady in this room, and Melville was conscious of a
pang of regret at the knowledge that the place would never be his.
His life had been full of variety and excitement, but it had cost him
all chance of ever being master of the Manor House. Already he was
an unwelcome visitor, and when in course of time it passed into
Ralph's possession, its doors would very probably be closed to him
altogether.
"Ralph is a stupid clown," he muttered, "but I'm not sure that he
hasn't done better for himself than I have. To own this place and be
Gwen's husband should be good enough for anyone."
The sigh that escaped him was born of sincerity, but he turned
briskly to face his immediate task as the butler came in answer to
the ring. Melville shook hands with him, making no reference to his
previous evening visit to his uncle.
"Here I am again, Martin," he said cheerfully, "'Pon my word, it's
good to see you."
"You've been abroad, Master Melville?" Martin asked.
"Yes," said Melville; "same old racket, same old place, same old
luck."
Martin shook his head.
"I've no faith in Monte Carlo," he remarked austerely; "never heard
of any good coming from there."
"That's rude," said Melville, "seeing that I've just come from there.
How is Sir Geoffrey?"
"Pretty well, sir," the butler replied; "I may say very well."
"He's a wonderful old chap," said Melville. "He'll be marrying soon
and having a family of his own; see if he doesn't."
"Sir Geoffrey never took any account of the ladies," Martin remarked.
"It's a pity, in some ways; but, bless you, sir, he's got all the
family a man needs in Master Ralph and yourself."
"Too much, perhaps," said Melville. "Go and tell him I'm here,
Martin, will you."
The old servant went, and Melville turned to the sideboard with the
air of a man who is quite at home and helped himself to sherry and
seltzer. Martin seemed very slow in coming, and Melville paced up
and down the room. As he did so he felt in his hip pocket the little
revolver which he always carried.
"Gad!" he thought, "on what a hair one's fortune hangs! I was within
an ace of turning that on myself when I saw Ralph's letter, and if I
had not got that cheque so easily from Uncle Geoffrey I was mad
enough then to have turned it on to him. And if I had done so all
this knowledge and the power it gives would have come too late--just
a few hours too late. And yet there are people who don't believe in
luck!"
The butler's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"I'm very sorry, Master Melville, but Sir Geoffrey cannot see you
this afternoon."
Melville frowned; he saw the perplexity on the old man's face,
detected the hesitation with which he spoke.
"Cannot or will not?" he asked sharply.
Martin was no dissembler where his affections were involved.
"Sir Geoffrey seems very put out," he said apologetically, "and----"
"Go back to Sir Geoffrey and say that I must see him," said Melville
peremptorily, and reluctantly Martin obeyed.
This time he did not return. Melville heard the library door bang
and quick steps cross the hall. In another moment the dining-room
door was flung open and, purple with rage, Sir Geoffrey himself
strode in.
"What do you mean by forcing yourself upon me?" he said passionately.
"Are you so dead to all sense of decency that you not only can't stop
away after your last vile swindle, but even have the audacity to
dictate to me in my own house? I will not receive you here. Go out
and stop out, or I'll have you put out!"
Melville stood perfectly quiet.
"I'm sorry to cause you any more annoyance," he said, "but my
business is urgent."
"I will not hear it," shouted Sir Geoffrey.
"You must," said Melville firmly. "I haven't come here to-day on my
own account. I have come on behalf of Lady Holt."
For a moment the name seemed to convey nothing to Sir Geoffrey;
indeed, the combination of words had never formed itself before his
mind; he had not inherited the title when that passage in his life
was closed. Melville saw that he was puzzled, and with cold emphasis
he varied his announcement.
"On behalf of Lady Holt. I have come to see you about your wife."
Then he knew his shot had gone home. Sir Geoffrey paled, and seemed
to be on the verge of a collapse; he turned vaguely to the fireplace
where his great armchair stood, and sank feebly into it.
"Lady Holt!" he muttered. "Good God! my wife!"
Melville broke the silence.
"You thought that she was dead?" he said gently.
"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey; "I thought that she was dead." His voice
was hoarse, his face white and hopeless. He did not question the
truth of her reappearance in his life, or of Melville's coming as her
ambassador; he knew how cruel destiny can be, how remorselessly she
chooses our happiest moments to deal her hardest blows. For a moment
the shock had numbed him, but as his full consciousness returned he
was angry with himself for having betrayed by even so much as the
quiver of an eyelid the fact that he was hurt, albeit the hurt was
mortal.
With an effort he recovered himself, and his old sternness of manner
towards Melville returned.
"When did you make Lady Holt's acquaintance?" he enquired coldly.
"And how long have you known of--this?"
"I made her acquaintance yesterday," Melville answered; "I first
heard of her existence the day before."
"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey.
Melville interpreted the exclamation correctly; his uncle was
thinking of his evening visit for getting money. He hastened to put
him right.
"When I got back to my chambers after leaving you the night before
last, I found a letter from Lady Holt asking me to call upon her
yesterday, and, of course, I went."
"Of course," echoed Sir Geoffrey drily. He could imagine the
alacrity with which Melville would follow up this discovery. "And
she has sent me a message by you?"
"No," Melville replied. "I have come of my own motion. Uncle
Geoffrey, your wife is in an absolutely destitute condition--she is
starving."
Sir Geoffrey bit his lips. This thing was possible, and yet he could
not place reliance on one single word his nephew uttered. He looked
at him searchingly as if to read his soul, but Melville never
blenched, and Sir Geoffrey was compelled to believe that in this
instance his story was true, inasmuch as its truth was all to
Melville's advantage. If only he could have looked his nephew in the
face and denied the whole matter! But that was impossible. Not all
the years that had elapsed could undo the marriage contracted in a
moment of infatuation; all the injury which had been heaped upon him
by his heartless wife could not release him from the obligation he
had incurred. And now the forgotten story had been discovered by
this unscrupulous, self-seeking schemer, who would be only too glad
to retail it to an astonished world, unless it were made worth his
while to hold his tongue. The suspicion leaped into life in the old
man's mind. Melville might be sincere in his desire to be of service
to his new-found relative, but the main plank in his platform was
blackmail; he meant to have hush-money, and if that were not
forthcoming he would publish all the facts, embellished, no doubt, by
a malicious imagination.
At last he spoke.
"I need scarcely say I believed her to be dead. All my efforts to
find her were in vain; but it is unnecessary to go into all that.
Give me her address and she shall receive immediate and liberal
assistance. I will go to her at once."
Melville shook his head.
"She will not see you. She guessed what you would say, and I gave
her my word of honour not to tell you where she is."
"Is that so very binding?" Sir Geoffrey asked with scorn. "If I am
not to know where Lady Holt lives, why should I come to her help?"
"It is for you to decide whether you will or not," Melville replied,
"but somebody must, and soon."
"I will help her at once if I do it myself," Sir Geoffrey said, "but
I do not intend to allow you to be my purse-bearer. Do you suppose I
can place any confidence in you after your last disgraceful
performance? How am I even to know that you are speaking the truth
now?"
"It is entirely your own affair," said Melville quietly. "The case
is urgent. If you will not assist your wife in her extremity, I must
find someone who will."
He rose to go, and Sir Geoffrey watched him narrowly.
"What are you going to do?"
"One woman may befriend another," Melville answered; "perhaps Mrs.
Austen will be willing to help Lady Holt."
"What business is it of Mrs. Austen's in particular?"
"I presume she is aware of Lady Holt's existence," Melville replied,
"and may consequently be less astounded at the facts than other of
your friends might be."
He thoroughly enjoyed the situation; it was certain that Sir Geoffrey
would not allow the story which he had kept secret so long to be
published now, at any rate, not until he had time for further
consideration of its effect upon all concerned. He noted the nervous
way in which his uncle clasped and unclasped his hands upon the arms
of his chair, sure sign of the uncertainty within him, in spite of
the rigid determination of his face. Sir Geoffrey was too proud to
ask him to keep his knowledge to himself, but that he meant him to do
so Melville was assured.
"Why did Lady Holt write to you?" Sir Geoffrey asked suddenly; "and
what has she told you of her story?"
"I don't know why she wrote to me," Melville answered. "She merely
said in her note that she wished to see me, said she married you many
years ago, and asked me to regard her letter as confidential for the
present. I saw her yesterday."
"Yes?" said Sir Geoffrey.
"She said all I need know was that she really was your wife, and I
confess she satisfied me that she was speaking the truth. I suppose
she was? She is Lady Holt?"
"I did marry many years ago, if you mean that," Sir Geoffrey replied,
"but whether my wife is alive, and, if so, whether the lady you saw
is my wife, I am not in a position to say. Obviously, I must see her
before I do anything for her."
He thought he had scored a point, but he was wrong. Melville would
not budge from his original position, and so long as Sir Geoffrey
desired his old secret to remain sacred, Melville held the key of the
situation. "I intend to keep my promise to her," he said coldly.
"She is ill and actually destitute; she did not write to me until
things had become so critical that she was on the point of being
turned out of her lodgings. Of course, I put that all right, but you
will have to see about her future."
Sir Geoffrey winced under the whole speech; the tone and the manner
and the injustice of it were all so cruel.
"Be straightforward for once, Melville," he said peremptorily, "and
tell me what you expect to get out of this? You discover something
in my life which, for reasons of my own, I have kept to myself. Are
you acting in good faith on behalf of this poor lady, or do you hope
to turn your knowledge to your own advantage?"
"You doubtless had excellent reasons for dropping the curtain on that
scene in your life," Melville said.
"And you propose to raise it unless I make it worth your while not
to," said Sir Geoffrey bitterly. "I quite understand. You propose
to add blackmailing to your other accomplishments."
Melville declined to grow angry.
"I have merely come to tell you your wife is starving," he observed,
"and to suggest that you should help her. It is a condition that
your assistance should reach her through me, for Lady Holt appears to
hold her marriage in as much detestation as you do. The only thing I
want to know now is whether you accept the condition and will allow
me to be your envoy. If not, I shall act as I think proper. That is
all. It is really very simple."
Sir Geoffrey got up languidly.
"I can do nothing to-day," he said, and Melville knew he had won. "I
must write some letters, and if you will come here tomorrow I will
give you some money for Lady Holt's immediate needs, and consider
what steps to take for her future."
"I suppose I shall not be inconveniencing you if I stay the night
here?" Melville said with admirably assumed indifference. "It will
be pleasant to have a pull on the river, and will save me the double
journey. I daresay Ralph can find me anything I may require."
Sir Geoffrey looked at him. His worthy nephew was losing no time in
presenting a draft on account, but he affected to miss the point.
"As you please," he replied wearily; "and now I will ask you to
excuse me. I must be alone."
The change from the angry, outraged uncle and guardian to the
old-fashioned, courteous gentleman was pathetic, but the pathos was
lost upon Melville. As soon as Sir Geoffrey left the room he rang
the bell again.
"I'm going to spend the night here, Martin," he said to the butler;
"will you find me what's necessary. I've brought nothing down."
The old man was pleased; evidently Master Melville had made his peace
once more.
"I'm very glad to hear it, sir," he said deliberately. "Mrs. and
Miss Austen are dining here to-night at eight o'clock. I will have
everything ready for you in your own room by seven. Will you have
some tea now?"
"No, thanks; I'll join my brother on the houseboat," Melville
answered, and lighting a cigarette he strolled slowly down the
garden. "My virtuous brother will be disconcerted," he said to
himself, "and that is always agreeable to the onlooker. Thank
heaven, I have a sense of humour! It is a quality in which the very
good are woefully deficient, and Ralph is very good."