LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO.
Lucille's forebodings were justified by the event. Days passed by
and Sir Ross Buchanan neither wrote nor called; but while the maid
was filled with real concern at this interruption in a love story of
which she had been so sympathetic an eye-witness, her mistress
regarded it with indifference. At first she even hailed it as a
relief, for it did away with all possibility of her being called upon
to give explanations for what she saw must be the definite
postponement of her marriage with him. She lost no time in verifying
Melville's statement about the invalidity of her marriage with Mr.
Sinclair, and the more she considered her position the uneasier she
grew. She was afraid to take a legal opinion upon it, and to her
fear of losing the income she derived from a charge upon Mr.
Sinclair's estate was added terror of the pains and penalties to
which, in her ignorance of all legal matters, she thought her
bigamous marriage had rendered her liable. That she had acted in
good faith at the time afforded her but little consolation. She had
done something punishable by law, and she was in terror of anyone
else finding it out.
In Melville's discretion she had perfect confidence; it never
occurred to her that the danger might lie upon his side. Why she
should feel such security in the case of the only man who had any
knowledge of her offence she would have been at a loss to explain.
Anything like self-analysis was quite foreign to her temperament;
probably she recognised in Melville Ashley some fellowship of nature
and of habit, none the less real because undefinable. And yet in
spite of this fellowship there was this vast difference between them,
that he was a bad man, entirely unprincipled and utterly selfish,
while she was not a bad woman. Her terribly ill-assorted marriage as
a child with Sir Geoffrey Holt had been too great a tax upon her
uncurbed nature, and she had put an end to it in the summary,
reckless way that any savage child would do; yet had it been possible
for that strange couple to bear and forbear with each other, a little
time might have worked what then seemed a miracle, and the story of
their lives might have been very different.
While, however, Lavender Sinclair regarded Sir Ross's temporary
defection with equanimity, being indeed convinced that it was only
temporary, and that when she chose she could whistle him back to her
side, she felt that Melville Ashley's attendance was daily growing
more necessary to her. To women of the type to which she belonged,
the companionship of men is indispensable. But Melville, too,
absented himself from The Vale. As a matter of fact, he was playing
for big stakes, and had no intention of losing the game from any
failure to give it due consideration.
His return from Monte Carlo and the few days of absolute
impecuniosity, culminating in his so nearly executed idea of suicide,
had marked a period in his career. Up to that moment he had drifted
along in a happy-go-lucky fashion, enjoying himself when in funds,
existing somehow when he was hard up, but always contriving in an
irresponsible way to have what he called a pretty good time. But
that night when he looked death squarely in the face had altered him.
He vowed that such necessity should not arise again, and his evil
genius had come to his assistance by placing him in possession of Sir
Geoffrey Holt's old secret. In concocting the story of Mrs.
Sinclair's destitution, Melville had not aimed solely at getting a
single sum of money from his uncle. He determined to secure an
annual subsidy to be paid to him on her behalf, and the negotiations
were beset with difficulty.
At first Sir Geoffrey was in favour of the straightforward,
common-sensible policy of a point-blank refusal to part with a
shilling except to Lady Holt herself. He utterly distrusted
Melville, and scouted the idea of appointing him his almoner. But
the old man's pride was a factor in the problem which the young one
had not under-estimated. He could not bring himself to face what he
regarded as a scandal, although in all essential particulars it was
only he who had been wronged. Thus Melville had only to reiterate
his intention of observing his promise to Mrs. Sinclair not to betray
her whereabouts, and take precautions against being shadowed by any
emissaries from his uncle, and he could afford to wait until Sir
Geoffrey should decide. As a matter of fact he had decided to submit
to what was nothing less than blackmail, and was endeavouring to make
arrangements for the payment to his wife of an income of four hundred
pounds a year, to be given quarterly to Melville until it could be
given direct to Lady Holt, and to take such precautions as the
circumstances allowed against the whole of the subsidy being
misappropriated by Melville for his own purposes.
But until the matter had been completed and put upon such a basis as
to seem tolerably secure, Melville felt that his constant attendance
upon his uncle was at least expedient. So his visits to Fairbridge
became more frequent than they had been for several years past, and
their effect upon the two establishments at the Manor House and The
Grange was very marked. No hawk can take up his quarters in a
dove-cote without causing a commotion in the farmyard, and this was
what happened now.
Ralph was moody and suspicious; he avoided his brother as much as he
could, and recognised his existence only so much as was inevitable if
he would not be actually rude to his uncle's guest. Sir Geoffrey was
always studiously polite to Melville, but on most occasions shut
himself up in his library to commune with his own thoughts, and
denied access to everyone, not excepting Gwendolen. She, indeed, was
in the most invidious position of all, for her mother liked Melville,
and made much of him, thinking that he was a rather misunderstood
young man whose latent merits it only required a little sympathy and
affection to evoke. And his music was superb. He kept his Amati at
The Grange, and whenever opportunity offered would play to the
accompaniment of Gwendolen, herself a musician of no mean order. The
girl was divided between two emotions. Her love for Ralph would have
kept her ever by his side to the sacrifice of everything and
everybody else, but, since Melville's reappearance, Ralph was
preoccupied and taciturn, avoiding The Grange when, as so often
happened, his brother was there. On those many occasions Gwendolen
was obliged to remain at home, and her devotion to her duty was
always rewarded by hearing Melville play. His bow was a magician's
wand, drawing music from the violin that stole into Gwendolen's heart
and held her very soul spell-bound.
"No man can be bad who plays as divinely as he does," she often
thought, and Melville, noting the rapt expression on her face and the
moisture in her glorious eyes, would play as he had never played
before, until the silence that followed the dying away of the last
note was broken by an involuntary sigh from all who had the privilege
of listening.
Thus it was that Melville forsook The Vale in favour of The Grange.
But at last his business came to a satisfactory conclusion, and,
provided with what he hoped and believed would be the first of a
series of cheques, he returned in jubilant mood to town.
Invitations in plenty poured upon him, and he devoted himself to
enjoyment. But with the possession of money returned the old
insatiable desire for excitement that had always been his bane. All
his good resolutions proved to be straws in the wind. Races and
suppers and cards once more became the order of his days and nights,
and among the set that lives--and dies--by its wits Melville resumed
his place as leader. Like all confirmed gamblers, his faith in his
star revived, and he could not believe that fortune would ever desert
him finally. When things were at their blackest the goddess had
given the kaleidoscope a turn and dazzled his eyes by the blaze of
colours in the glass before him.
Thus it was with particular pleasure that he accepted an invitation
to make one of a party at a great race meeting, and spick and span in
new apparel, with glasses slung across his shoulder, he joined the
coach at Hatchett's, and, sanguine as ever, mounted to his seat. His
information was exclusive, the banknotes in his pocket book were new
and crisp, and would be multiplied tenfold when he got back to town.
A light rain in the early morning had laid the dust, and the roads
were in perfect condition; high overhead thin wisps of clouds were
blown swiftly across a grey-blue sky, betokening a breeze that would
temper the heat of the summer day. With a jest upon every lip, and a
plenitude of coppers for all the children shouting by the roadside,
the party drove away.
But when the sun was setting behind them, and the team of bays was
swinging into London, the smile upon Melville's face, in common with
the others, was replaced by a look of utter dejection. The horses
which, according to his information, were to do such wonderful things
had, without exception, failed to fulfil his expectations; in every
single race his fancy had gone down, not even succeeding in getting
into a place; conversation was monosyllabic upon the coach; the guard
proclaimed its coming by melancholy toots upon his horn instead of by
selections adapted from "The Washington Post" and "The Flowers that
bloom in the Spring"; there were no pennies for the children, no
Japanese lanterns swinging from the seats. The whole party was sick
and sorry. Melville finished the day, according to the programme,
with dinner at his host's flat and a modest game of cards, yet even
at that nobody seemed to win. And when, after a final flutter at
_petit-paquet_ and a tumbler of champagne, Melville let himself into
his own chambers in the small hours of the morning, very little was
left of the considerable sum with which he had left Fairbridge such a
short time before.