MRS. SINCLAIR PAYS A VISIT.
Melville's absence from The Vale occurring thus simultaneously with
Sir Ross Buchanan's defection made the time hang heavy on Mrs.
Sinclair's hands, and, her other visitors being few, she suddenly
found herself deprived of all companionship. It was not long before
this solitude became intolerable to her, and as her repeated little
notes to Melville remained without an answer she determined to go to
call on him in person. He, of course, had duly received these
several communications, but as none of them contained the news which
he desired--that Sir Ross had resumed his visits--he did not think
that any good purpose would be served by prosecuting his attentions
to his aunt.
As a consequence of his disaster at the races he was obliged to
economise again. For breakfast, followed by luncheon at his club or
some good restaurant, he substituted a meal which would in France be
termed _déjeûner_, but which he significantly labelled "brunch," as
being neither the one thing nor the other, although compact of both.
Then in the afternoon he lounged by the Achilles Statue, and played
billiards if chance threw in his way any acquaintance with kindred
tastes but less skill than his own. And in the evening he would dine
alone at some one of the many cheap restaurants in Soho, or have a
chop in solitude at home. The life was all right in a way, but
aimless and not to his taste. Yet even he could not bring himself to
make fresh demands upon his uncle until a more reasonable period had
elapsed.
It was after one of these purposeless saunters in the Park that he
went back to his rooms. The day had been very hot, and, after
letting down the sun-blinds, Melville threw himself upon the sofa and
idly blew rings of smoke into the still air. A pile of illustrated
papers lay within reach, syphons and decanters stood upon a table at
his elbow, and he was just falling into a doze when he heard a
woman's voice, and in another moment his valet opened the outer door
with his master-key and ushered Mrs. Sinclair in.
Melville jumped to his feet and greeted her effusively, checking her
mixture of apologies and reproaches with admirable tact.
"It was a case of Mahomet and the mountain," she said. "You didn't
come and didn't answer my letters--I never thought you could be so
abominably rude, Melville--and I wanted to see you, so there was no
help for it but to disregard proprieties and come here. Why don't
you marry some charming girl, so that I can call without being
compromised or compromising you? You would be a delightful husband."
"So I have been explaining," Melville answered, "but the charming
girl has the bad taste to prefer somebody else. Get some tea,
Jervis, and some strawberries and things."
Mrs. Sinclair settled herself in a comfortable chair, with her back
to the light, and took stock of her surroundings.
"I wonder how it is that bachelors always have such delightful
quarters? This room is an effective answer to the old sneer that no
place can be quite comfortable without a woman's touch."
"Perhaps I'm a bit effeminate in my tastes," Melville replied. "Lots
of musical Johnnies are, you know. How is Sir Ross Buchanan?"
He switched off the conversation from trifles to essentials with
perfect ease, and Mrs. Sinclair showed no resentment.
"He hasn't been near me since the day you saw him," she answered.
"That is the principal reason why I've called now. Sir Ross hasn't
been to see me, nor have you, and I'm being bored to death. Why have
you stopped away, Melville?"
"I've had some business to attend to," he said, "and it didn't turn
up trumps. And now I'm a sick man--broke, and generally down on my
luck."
"All the more reason for you to avoid your own company," she
retorted. "Moping's no use to anybody. Come and dine with me
to-night?"
"Delighted," said Melville, but without enthusiasm.
"I'll get a box somewhere, and we'll pretend we're going the pace.
My show, you know," she added, thinking that the expense might be
inconvenient to him.
Melville liked the little touch of _camaraderie_.
"You're a good sort, Lavender," he said approvingly. "What a pity
you and Sir Geoffrey couldn't run together in double harness!"
A slight frown crossed her brow.
"If you mourn over the pity of everything you'll die of compassion,"
she remarked, "and that's a silly sort of end for any man to come to.
How is Sir Geoffrey? Have you seen him lately?"
"No," said Melville, "but I am going to Fairbridge to-morrow."
"Take me," said Mrs. Sinclair impulsively.
"My dear Lavender!" Melville said aghast; "what on earth will you
want me to do next?"
He was not only astonished but alarmed at the suggestion, for nothing
could be devised more fraught with danger to his own schemes. Yet he
did not know what a woman of Lavender's temperament might not be
capable of doing. On her part, it is true, Mrs. Sinclair had made
the suggestion on the spur of the moment, but, having once made it,
she was fascinated by it. Possibly, unrecognised by herself, there
was in her heart some remorse for the injury she had done Sir
Geoffrey, some hunger to set eyes once more upon the man who, if old
enough to be her father, had nevertheless been her husband; at all
events, she insisted.
"Why should I not go?"
"You would save yourself an unpleasant interview if you gave yourself
up to the police at once," Melville answered; "but, of course, you
are not serious. Fancy putting your head in the lion's mouth like
that!" and he laughed.
Mrs. Sinclair looked at him gravely.
"I've been doing nothing but think for a week," she said, "and, do
you know, I'm really not sure that it would not be the best thing for
me to go to Sir Geoffrey and tell him all about it. I don't believe
he would prosecute me or even apply for a divorce. Of course, I
should have to come to terms with the Sinclair lot, and Sir Geoffrey
might have to see me through any difficulty with them. But if I did
that, he's just the sort of man to take care that I should be no
worse off afterwards than I was before. He always respected people
who did the square thing. And as for the rest, he knows that if he
fed me I'm not the sort of reptile to sting his bosom."
Melville grew more and more anxious, for this mood was a difficult
one to combat. He affected to consider the point sympathetically.
"You may be right," he replied; "but that's not the Sir Geoffrey whom
I know. He has always been most generous to me, but I've never seen
the soft side of the man. He does respect people who do the square
thing, but, on the other hand, he never forgives those who don't.
And he's as proud as Lucifer."
"I know," said Lavender, and flushed.
Melville noted her heightened colour and drew confidence from it.
"After you left him, Lavender--that morning--all those years ago----"
"Yes?" she said, as Melville seemed to hesitate.
"Well, how do you suppose he took it?"
"I can't possibly tell," she replied impatiently, and Melville drove
his advantage further home; he would work upon her imagination as
much as he could.
"I can picture him so clearly," Melville said meditatively. "At
first he was angry--frightfully angry, and only thought of how he
would punish you when you came back. Then, as you stayed away, he
began--more to save his own honour than for any other reason--to
invent explanations of your absence, but all the time he was raging
at having been made a fool of by the child whom he had honoured by
marrying. Then he began to search for you, at first with the idea of
saving you from going to the devil, but afterwards with the different
idea that he might be able to divorce you and put an end to the whole
miserable business. But years went by and you never came back, and
the little nine days' wonder was forgotten and he inherited the
title, and now he not only hopes but believes that you are dead. And
if you crop up again you'll hurt him in his pride ten thousand times
more than you did when you left him, because then he was nobody in
particular, and now he's a baronet and the best part of a
millionaire, with a big position and heaps of friends, all of whom
suppose him to be unmarried. You will be his dead past rising up
like a ghost and ruining him, and he will never forgive you. Sir
Geoffrey never does forgive. No, Lavender, you will have to pay for
what you've done; pay to the uttermost farthing!"
There was silence for some moments, and then the tension was broken
by the valet bringing in the tea-things, which he placed by Mrs.
Sinclair. Melville rose and heaped some strawberries on a plate,
flanking them with wafer-biscuits.
"It's a nice little world as it is," he said, as if carrying on some
trivial conversation begun before the servant came into the room.
"People ought always to enjoy things as they are. That's not only
good philosophy, but a much easier one to put into practice than is
commonly supposed."
He drank the tea that Mrs. Sinclair gave him, and waited until the
valet noiselessly disappeared.
"Well?" he said interrogatively.
"I suppose you are right, as usual," she answered, with some
reluctance, and Melville breathed more freely. "I suppose it would
be madness to confess. But can't I go with you to-morrow, all the
same? You can take me on the river and leave me somewhere while you
go to the house. I promise not to get in your way."
Melville did not care about the idea, but having carried the point
that was most important, thought it might be politic to conciliate
the woman upon whose docility so much depended.
"I will take you with pleasure," he said cordially. "We will get a
boat at Shipton's, near the old lock, and row up stream to the Manor
House. I will leave you somewhere near there, and after I've seen
Sir Geoffrey we will drift down in time to catch a train at St.
Martin's Hill."
"I'll take a luncheon basket," Mrs. Sinclair said, her usual
cheerfulness returning, "and we'll make a picnic of it."
But when Melville had put her into a cab and regained his cosy room,
he shook his head doubtfully.
"I don't like it a little bit," he said moodily. "Fancy my piloting
that good lady up to Fairbridge of all places in the world! It would
be just my luck if Ralph and Gwen were punting and spotted us, and
Lavender gave the show away. Or Sir Geoffrey even might see her,
attired in the latest thing in river costumes and looking as fit as a
fiddle, when he fondly imagines she's dying of consumption in a
garret in Hampstead. It's a jolly sight too dangerous to please
yours truly. I hope to goodness it will rain cats and dogs!"