AN ARREST.
It was the fact that Melville shirked a conversation with his brother
immediately after the reading of the will; the mental strain had been
so great that he could not be sure of his temper or judgment, and
that being so, common prudence dictated a delay which would enable
him to consider the new situation in all its bearings before risking
a final rupture with the new lord of the Manor. He sought a
temporary refuge at The Grange, where he knew he would receive
commiseration upon his terrible disappointment, and where he might
derive some sardonic satisfaction from the knowledge that his
presence by Gwendolen's side would involve Ralph's absence from the
same desirable spot. Mrs. Austen was quite frank in her condemnation
of Sir Geoffrey's action.
"Whatever Melville may or may not have done, it is unfair to allow a
young fellow to grow up without any profession or occupation, in the
belief that he will inherit a considerable fortune, and then to
ignore his existence in this way."
Gwendolen agreed with the abstract proposition, but could not believe
that Sir Geoffrey would have taken such drastic measures without good
reason; she hinted as much, but her mother would have none of it.
"I dare say Sir Geoffrey had plenty to put up with from Melville,"
she said, "but that is the penalty of having children, whether they
are your own or adopted by you. What makes this will so inexplicable
is that it was made such a little while ago, for just lately Melville
seemed to be on better terms with his uncle than he had been for
years. I'm sure there is some mischief-maker at the bottom of it
all, and if it had not been for this terrible murder Sir Geoffrey
would have got at the rights of the story, whatever it was, and made
a new will."
"Melville is fortunate in having such a brother as Ralph," said
Gwendolen; "it isn't as if the money were left to strangers. I don't
suppose there will be any difference really."
"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Austen testily. "Ralph is a very charming
young man, and I'm delighted you're going to be his wife, but I have
a very warm place in my heart for Melville, and I think it's quite
possible he has been misjudged; and your most excellent Ralph goes
about with the cheerful expression of a professional mute whenever
Melville comes down. Lately, for instance, since Melville has been
here so frequently we haven't seen half so much of Ralph."
Gwendolen sighed. She had not failed to observe the fact, but she
could throw no light upon the reason of it. Ralph resembled Sir
Geoffrey in being very taciturn where his private feelings were
concerned; she remembered the day when Sir Geoffrey said he had a
bone to pick with Ralph. The discussion ended satisfactorily, but
she connected the slight trouble in some way with Melville, who, as
she afterwards learned, had seen his uncle the previous night, and
Ralph's championship of his brother's cause had been discontinued
from that time; since then, indeed, he never talked about him. It
was all very puzzling and sad.
In the meantime, Melville forsook the neighbourhood. He accepted
Mrs. Austen's hospitality for a couple of nights, and then, frankly
confessing that the proximity of the Manor House with its
associations was intolerable to him in his present frame of mind,
returned to London, outwardly calm enough, but inwardly consumed by a
raging fire of evil passions. As he paced his chambers, secure from
prying eyes, hate and fear, chagrin and lust for revenge swept across
his pallid face, and sometimes, as he caught sight of his reflection
in the mirror, he thought the whole world must be able to read his
secret in the careworn lines, which in reality it ascribed to
laudable grief and natural disappointment. It is a kind-hearted
place, this same world of ours, provided its patience and generosity
are not unduly taxed, and just now it laid itself out to make things
easier for Melville. He accepted the proffered sympathy gratefully,
and won a new sort of popularity by his quiet pluck and his gentle
air of resignation. Old people thought he was chastened by his
trouble; young ones thought he was to be pitied; and Melville made
the most of this occasion to make new friends among the children of
this world.
But he did not forget his vow that Ralph should live to be sorry for
having contributed, however indirectly, to his disinheritance, and
wherever he went he sowed scandal with both hands. It is an
invisible seed, of which the fruit is more deadly than the upas tree,
and in sowing it as he did it is possible that Melville himself had
no idea of what the harvest would be. Society knew little of Sir
Geoffrey, who lived a comparatively retired life in his fine old
Surrey home, but the mystery attaching to the unknown Lady Holt
tickled its palate, and the murder of a man who was one of its order
was not lightly to be forgotten. Thus at many a dinner party, where
the subject was delicately broached, and at many a little luncheon in
the clubs, where the conversation veered upon the question of
undetected criminals, remarks were made--no one could afterwards
precisely say by whom--which went to direct the general suspicion
towards one point.
"What is the good of all this parrot-talk about motives," he said on
one occasion. "When once you set to work imputing motives you need
never stop. Anybody can tell you that half the murders in the world
are due to drink or jealousy. Neither comes into this case. And
England isn't like Sicily or Corsica, where vendetta is an
institution. Sir Geoffrey could not have had an enemy in the world,
so you may rule out revenge as well."
"How about the lady?" someone suggested, but Melville disposed of the
idea.
"She can't have got her knife into him, or she would not have lain so
low all these years. Besides, it looks as if Sir Geoffrey believed
her to be dead, for he made some funny arrangements about her
annuity. Anyhow, all that is pretty certain to come to light, for I
believe there is a big reward offered to anyone who will produce her.
No; I don't see much use in fooling after motives."
That was as far as he allowed himself to go then, but elsewhere, and
to another audience, he took a different line and seemed interested
in hearing the general opinion on this same subject of motives. He
sat silent until the end of the conversation, when he appeared
disinclined to endorse the verdict of the rest.
"It's too jolly dangerous," he said gravely, "to go about suggesting
people who might commit a crime, and then inventing reasons why they
should do it. It's very easy to vary the amusement, until you begin
to believe you have found the motive and the man by a process of
exhaustion. Why, Sir Geoffrey once told me he had made no will; is
there sufficient motive there for me to kill him so that I might
benefit under an intestacy? On the other hand, my brother knew he
had made one, though I don't suppose he knew its tenour. Is there
sufficient motive there for him to kill the old man on the chance of
coming in? The thing is absurd on the face of it. We were both
dependent on him, and I venture to say that no two fellows were ever
fonder of their father than we were of our uncle."
It was not often he was as precise as that. For the most part he
contented himself with the vaguest remarks, all harmless
individually, but totalling up to an incredible strength when put
together by skilful brains; and skilful brains were doing it, brains
owned by men who, in spite of all detractors, are marvellously
shrewd, and who do not often have to confess themselves beaten in the
end, although they may sometimes take a long time upon the journey,
and even make errors by the way. Whose business it was to gather
these rumours and carry them to the detectives engaged upon the case,
it matters not to enquire; popular opinion is no evidence, but it is
often useful as indicating where evidence may be found, and,
Melville's expressed opinion notwithstanding, all lawyers attach
importance to motive in arguing for or against the criminality of
individuals. At any rate, they agreed in the advisability of making
an arrest upon suspicion, and their selection of the individual was
partly influenced by some of these random and irresponsible remarks.
The Manor House was looking its best in the mellow light of an ideal
summer evening. It had been one of those days when it is impossible
not to feel delight in life, and Ralph awoke to full consciousness of
the fact that he had youth and love and wealth to comfort himself
withal. He spent the morning at The Grange, and after luncheon
punted Gwendolen up the river, arranging for Mrs. Austen to join them
at the Manor House. There was no flaw in his happiness that day,
and, perhaps because of the violent contrast between its morning and
its night, it always stood out afterwards with particular
distinctness in his memory. Returning from Longbridge, he put on his
evening clothes and went to The Grange to fetch Gwendolen and her
mother; they strolled leisurely down to the Manor House and lingered
over dinner, discussing idly many little plans for alterations to be
made in the old place for the fuller satisfaction of its new mistress.
Martin hovered about them, anticipating their every want, and when at
last they left the dining-room they resumed the discontinued custom,
and decided to have their coffee brought to them on the houseboat.
It seemed to mark the closing of a tragedy and the resumption of the
pleasant routine of their country life.
And as on that evening--which now seemed so long ago--when the last
of the guests, summoned to congratulate them on their betrothal, had
departed, and Sir Geoffrey and Mrs. Austen joined Ralph and
Gwendolen, so now the sound of music was borne to them from other
houseboats on the river, so now a stray punt was poled swiftly down
the stream, and the swans floated out from their nooks under the
willows and rocked gracefully in its wake. Everything goes on just
the same, although the best and greatest of us die.
Mrs. Austen was dozing comfortably in her chair, and Ralph sat close
to Gwendolen, smoking in perfect content. Both were seeing visions
of the future, a future of unbroken peace and happiness spent in each
other's company, and the interruption of their waking dream by the
sound of footsteps coming on board was not unwelcome, as it only
suggested another little touch in the picture of material prosperity
of which they themselves furnished the human interest.
Martin deposited his tray in the kitchen in the tender, and came up
to Ralph.
"May I speak to you for a moment, sir?" he said almost in a whisper.
Ralph looked up surprised.
"What is it, Martin? Anything the matter?"
"I should like to speak to you alone, sir, if I may."
Martin followed him to the top of the ladder.
"A gentleman has come--in connection with the murder," he said, an
odd look of embarrassment upon his face, "and he says he must see you
at once; he won't be denied."
"Of course I must see him at once," said Ralph. "Why should he be
denied?"
The look on Martin's face was pitiful.
"I can't tell you what I mean, Mr. Ralph," he said, "but I'm sure
there is some hideous mistake. I think--I think he thinks you know
something about it."
Ralph stared at the old servant in blank astonishment, utterly
failing to comprehend his meaning.
"Where is the gentleman?" he said, but the question was answered for
Martin. A tall figure was standing at the foot of the stairway, and
bowed to Ralph as he reached the bottom step.
"Mr. Ralph Ashley?"
"At your service," Ralph answered pleasantly. "I understand you want
to see me about this murder. Have you discovered anything?"
"I am sorry you have company, Mr. Ashley," the officer said in a
quiet tone, so that his words might not be overheard upstairs. "I am
a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest in connection with
the murder of Sir Geoffrey Holt."
"My arrest?" cried Ralph.
"Yes, sir," the officer replied. "You understand, of course, that I
am only acting in accordance with my instructions, and it is my duty
to remind you that anything you say will be available as evidence."
Ralph's first impulse was to laugh, but the grotesque horror of the
situation was too much for him. He drew himself up with dignity.
"I will come with you at once," he said. "Excuse me for a moment. I
must tell my guests that I am compelled to bid them good-night."
The detective hesitated, and Ralph flushed as he understood.
"By all means come upstairs," he said, with cold hauteur. "You will,
doubtless, excuse me if I refrain from introducing you to the lady
who is going to do me the honour of becoming my wife." He went
upstairs again, but his native instincts of a gentleman reasserting
themselves in the brief interval, he turned to the detective as they
gained the roof. "I beg your pardon for saying that," he said, with
wonderfully winning courtesy; "perhaps you will oblige me by allowing
me to present you to Miss Austen. Your name is----?"
"Anstruther," the man answered.
Ralph went up to Gwendolen.
"I'm sorry to cause you a minute's distress or anxiety, darling," he
said, "but this gentleman, Mr. Anstruther, requires my attendance in
the matter of Uncle Geoffrey's death."
Gwendolen started up.
"Requires----?"
Ralph stroked her hand.
"I would rather you knew it from me, since you must know it. Mr.
Anstruther is instructed to detain me on suspicion of being somehow
implicated." He looked imploringly at the detective, who came
gallantly to his rescue.
"Merely on suspicion, Miss Austen," he said, in a full rich voice
that conveyed confidence somehow. "I am more sorry than I can say
that it falls to me to come on such an errand, but I fancy you would
be the last to wish me not to do my duty."
Ralph kissed Gwendolen, who clung to him.
"We must show a brave front, Gwen," he said. "It's horrible to think
that anybody can suspect me of having had a hand in the dear old
man's death, but since somebody does, the only thing now is to clear
myself before the world." He turned to Mrs. Austen. "If I should
happen to be unable to come home to-morrow, I wonder if you would
mind taking up your quarters at the Manor House? I should like to
think that you and Gwen were there, and it might be well if someone
was available to help Mr. Tracy if necessary."
"Of course we will if you wish it," Mrs. Austen said. She was
boiling over with indignation at the outrage, but controlled herself
admirably, partly for her daughter's sake and partly from a natural
pride which forbade her to betray emotion. Indeed, they were all
wonderfully self-possessed.
"A thousand thanks," Ralph said gratefully. "Martin will see you
home and will come on to get me anything I may want. Good-night,
Mrs. Austen. Good-night, my darling."
He pressed his lips passionately upon her mouth, and she returned him
kiss for kiss. Then, with head erect and a proud look on his frank
and boyish face, he led the way downstairs, followed by the
detective; while, on the houseboat, Gwendolen, clasping her mother's
hand, strained longing eyes upon his figure until it was lost to
sight amid the shadows of the trees.