LORD ASCOT'S CROWNING ACT OF FOLLY.
Lord Ascot, with his umbrella over his shoulder, swung on down the
street, south-westward. The town was pleasant in the higher parts, and
so he felt inclined to prolong his walk. He turned to the right into
Park Lane.
He was a remarkable-looking man. So tall, so broad, with such a mighty
chest, and such a great, red, hairless, cruel face above it, that
people, when he paused to look about him, as he did at each street
corner, turned to look at him. He did not notice it; he was used it.
And, besides, as he walked there were two or three words ringing yet in
his ears which made him look less keenly than usual after the handsome
horses and pretty faces which he met in his walk.
"Oh, Ascot, Ascot! will nothing save you from the terrible hereafter?"
"Confound those old women, more particularly when they take to religion.
Always croaking. And grandma Ascot, too, as plucky and good an old soul
as any in England--as good a judge of a horse as William Day--taking to
that sort of thing. Hang it! it was unendurable. It was bad taste, you
know, putting such ideas into a fellow's head. London was dull enough
after Paris, without that."
So thought Lord Ascot, as he stood in front of Dudley House, and looked
southward. The winter sun was feebly shining where he was, but to the
south there was a sea of fog, out of which rose the Wellington statue,
looking more exasperating than ever, and the two great houses at the
Albert Gate.
"This London is a beastly hole," said he. "I have got to go down into
that cursed fog. I wish Tattersall's was anywhere else." But he
shouldered his umbrella again, and on he went.
Opposite St. George's Hospital there were a number of medical students.
Two of them, regardless of the order which should always be kept on Her
Majesty's highway, were wrestling. Lord Ascot paused for a moment to
look at them. He heard one of the students who were looking on say to
another, evidently about himself--
"By Gad! what preparations that fellow would cut up into."
"Ah!" said another, "and wouldn't he cuss and d---- under the operation
neither."
"I know who that is," said a third. "That's Lord Ascot; the most
infernal, headlong, gambling savage in the three kingdoms."
So Lord Ascot, in the odour of sanctity, passed down into Tattersall's
yard. There was no one in the rooms. He went out into the yard again.
"Hullo, you sir! Have you seen Mr. Sloane?"
"Mr. Sloane was here not ten minutes ago, my lord. He thought your
lordship was not coming. He is gone down to the Groom's Arms."
"Where the deuce is that?"
"In Chapel Street, at the corner of the mews, my lord. Fust turning on
the right, my lord."
Lord Ascot had business with our old acquaintance, Mr. Sloane, and went
on. When he came to the public-house mentioned (the very same one in
which the Servants' Club was held, to which Charles belonged), he went
into the bar, and asked of a feeble-minded girl, left accidentally in
charge of the bar--"Where was Mr. Sloane?" And she said, "Upstairs, in
the club-room."
Lord Ascot walked up to the club-room, and looked in at the glass door.
And there he saw Sloane. He was standing up, with his hand on a man's
shoulder, who had a map before him. Right and left of these two men were
two other men, an old one and a young one, and the four faces were close
together; and while he watched them, the man with the map before him
looked up, and Lord Ascot saw Charles Ravenshoe, pale and wan, looking
like death itself, but still Charles Ravenshoe in the body.
He did not open the door. He turned away, went down into the street, and
set his face northward.
So he was alive, and----There were more things to follow that "and" than
he had time to think of at first. He had a cunning brain, Lord Ascot,
but he could not get at his position at first. The whole business was
too unexpected--he had not time to realise it.
The afternoon was darkening as he turned his steps northwards, and began
to walk rapidly, with scowling face and compressed lips. One or two of
the students still lingered on the steps of the hospital. The one who
had mentioned him by name before said to his fellows, "Look at that Lord
Ascot. What a devil he looks! He has lost some money. Gad! there'll be
murder done to-night. They oughtn't to let such fellows go loose!"
Charles Ravenshoe alive. And Lord Saltire's will. Half a million of
money. And Charley Ravenshoe, the best old cock in the three kingdoms.
Of all his villainies--and, God forgive him, they were many--the one
that weighed heaviest on his heart was his treatment of Charles. And
now----
The people turned and looked after him as he hurled along. Why did his
wayward feet carry him to the corner of Curzon Street? That was not his
route to St. John's Wood. The people stared at the great red-faced
giant, who paused against the lamp-post irresolute, biting his upper lip
till the blood came.
How would they have stared if they had seen what I see.[11]
There were two angels in the street that wretched winter afternoon, who
had followed Lord Ascot in his headlong course, and paused here. He
could see them but dimly, or only guess at their existence, but I can
see them plainly enough.
One was a white angel, beautiful to look at, who stood a little way off,
beckoning to him, and pointing towards Lord Saltire's house; and the
other was black, with its face hid in a hood, who was close beside him,
and kept saying in his ear, "Half a million! half a million!"
A strange apparition in Curzon Street, at four o'clock on a January
afternoon! If you search the files of the papers at this period, you
will find no notice of any remarkable atmospheric phenomena in Curzon
Street that afternoon. But two angels were there, nevertheless, and Lord
Ascot had a dim suspicion of it.
A dim suspicion of it! How could it be otherwise, when he heard a voice
in one ear repeating Lady Ascot's last words, "What can save you from
the terrible hereafter?" and in the other the stealthy whisper of the
fiend, "Half a million! half a million!"
He paused, only for a moment, and then headed northward again. The black
angel was at his ear, but the white one was close to him--so close, that
when his own door opened, the three passed in together. Adelaide,
standing under the chandelier in the hall, saw nothing of the two
spirits; only her husband, scowling fiercely.
She was going upstairs to dress, but she paused. As soon as Lord Ascot's
"confidential scoundrel," before mentioned, had left the hall, she came
up to him, and in a whisper, for she knew the man was listening, said:
"What is the matter, Welter?"
He looked as if he would have pushed her out of the way. But he did not.
He said:
"I have seen Charles Ravenshoe."
"When?"
"To-night."
"Good God! Then it is almost a matter of time with us," said Adelaide.
"I had a dim suspicion of this, Ascot. It is horrible. We are ruined."
"Not yet," said Lord Ascot.
"There is time--time. He is obstinate and mad. Lord Saltire might
die----"
"Well?"
"Either of them," she hissed out. "Is there no----"
"No what?"
"There is half a million of money," said Adelaide.
"Well?"
"All sorts of things happen to people."
Lord Ascot looked at her for an instant, and snarled out a curse at her.
John Marston was perfectly right. He was a savage, untameable
blackguard. He went upstairs into his bedroom. The two angels were with
him. They are with all of us at such times as these. There is no
plagiarism here. The fact is too old for that.
Up and down, up and down. The bedroom was not long enough; so he opened
the door of the dressing-room; and that was not long enough; and so he
opened the door of what had been the nursery in a happier household than
his; and walked up and down through them all. And Adelaide sat below,
before a single candle, with pale face and clenched lips, listening to
his footfall on the floor above.
She knew as well as if an angel had told her what was passing in his
mind as he walked up and down. She had foreseen this crisis plainly--you
may laugh at me, but she had. She had seen that if, by any wild
conjunction of circumstances, Charles Ravenshoe were alive, and if he
were to come across him before Lord Saltire's death, events would
arrange themselves exactly as they were doing on this terrible evening.
There was something awfully strange in the realisation of her morbid
suspicions.
Yes, she had seen thus far, and had laughed at herself for entertaining
such mad fancies. But she had seen no further. What the upshot would be
was hidden from her like a dark veil, black and impenetrable as the fog
which was hanging over Waterloo Bridge at that moment, which made the
squalid figure of a young, desperate girl show like a pale, fluttering
ghost, leading a man whom we know well, a man who followed her, on the
road to--what?
The rest, though, seemed to be, in some sort, in her own hands. Wealth,
position in the world, the power of driving her chariot over the necks
of those who had scorned her--the only things for which her worthless
heart cared--were all at stake.
"He will murder me," she said, "_but he shall hear me_."
Still, up and down, over head, his heavy footfall went to and fro.
Seldom, in any man's life, comes such a trial as his this night. A good
man might have been hard tried in such circumstances. What hope can we
have of a desperate blackguard like Lord Ascot? He knew Lord Saltire
hated him; he knew that Lord Saltire had only left his property to him
because he thought Charles Ravenshoe was dead; and yet he hesitated
whether or no he should tell Lord Saltire that he had seen Charles, and
ruin himself utterly.
Was he such an utter rascal as John Marston made him out? Would such a
rascal have hesitated long? What could make a man without a character,
without principle, without a care about the world's opinion, hesitate at
such a time as this? I cannot tell you.
He was not used to think about things logically or calmly: and so, as he
paced up and down, it was some time before he actually arranged his
thoughts. Then he came to this conclusion, and put it fairly before
him--that, if he let Lord Saltire know that Charles Ravenshoe was alive,
he was ruined; and that, if he did not, he was a villain.
Let us give the poor profligate wretch credit for getting even so far as
this. There was no attempt to gloss over the facts, and deceive himself.
He put the whole matter honestly before him.
He would be a fool if he told Lord Saltire. He would be worse than a
fool, a madman--there was no doubt about that. It was not to be thought
about.
But Charles Ravenshoe!
How pale the dear old lad looked. What a kind, gentle old face it was.
How well he could remember the first time he ever saw him. At Twyford,
yes; and, that very same visit, how he ran across the billiard-room, and
asked him who Lord Saltire was. Yes. What jolly times there were down in
Devonshire, too. Those Claycomb hounds wanted pace, but they were full
fast enough for the country. And what a pottering old rascal Charley was
among the stone walls. Rode through. Yes. And how he'd mow over a
woodcock. Fire slap through a holly bush. Ha!
And suppose they proved this previous marriage. Why, then he would be
back at Ravenshoe, and all things would be as they were. But suppose
they couldn't----
Lord Ascot did not know that eighty thousand pounds were secured to
Charles.
By Gad! it was horrible to think of. That it should be thrown on him, of
all men, to stand between old Charley and his due. If it were any other
man but him----
Reader, if you do not know that a man will act from "sentiment" long,
long years after he has thrown "principle" to the winds, you had better
pack up your portmanteau, and go and live five years or more among
Australian convicts and American rowdies, as a friend of mine did. The
one long outlives the other. The incarnate devils who beat out poor
Price's brains with their shovels, when they had the gallows before
them, consistently perjured themselves in favour of the youngest of the
seven, the young fiend who had hounded them on.
Why there never was such a good fellow as that Charley. That Easter
vacation--hey! Among the bargees, hang it, what a game it was----I won't
follow out his recollections here any further. Skittle-playing and
fighting are all very well; but one may have too much of them.
"I might still do this," thought Lord Ascot: "I might----"
At this moment he was opposite the dressing-room door. It was opened,
and Adelaide stood before him.
Beautiful and terrible, with a look which her husband had, as yet, only
seen shadowed dimly--a look which he felt might come there some day, but
which he had never seen yet. The light of her solitary candle shone upon
her pale face, her gleaming eyes, and her clenched lip; and he saw what
was written there, and for one moment quailed.
("If you were to say to me," said Lord Hainault once, "that Charles
would be unwise to let Ascot's wife make his gruel for him, I should
agree with you.")
Only for one moment! Then he turned on her and cursed her.
"What, in the name of hell, do you want here at this moment?"
"You may murder me if you like, Ascot; but, before you have time to do
that, you shall hear what I have got to say. I have been listening to
your footsteps for a weary hour, and I heard irresolution in every one
of them. Ascot, don't be a madman!"
"I shall be soon, if you come at such a time as this, and look like
that. If my face were to take the same expression as yours has now, Lady
Ascot, these would be dangerous quarters for you."
"I know that," said she. "I knew all that before I came up here
to-night, Ascot. Ascot, half a million of money----"
"Why, all the devils in the pit have been singing that tune for an hour
past. Have you only endangered your life to add your little pipe to
theirs?"
"I have. Won't you hear me?"
"No. Go away."
"Are you going to do it."
"Most likely not. You had better go away."
"You might give him a hundred thousand pounds, you know, Ascot. Four
thousand a year. The poor dear fellow would worship you for your
generosity. He is a very good fellow, Ascot."
"You had better go away," said he, quietly.
"Not without a promise, Ascot. Think----"
"Now go away. This is the last warning I give you. Madwoman!"
"But, Ascot----"
"Take care; it will be too late for both of us in another moment."
She caught his eye for the first time, and fled for her life. She ran
down into the drawing-room, and threw herself into a chair. "God
preserve me!" she said; "I have gone too far with him. Oh, this lonely
house!"
Every drop of blood in her body seemed to fly to her heart. There were
footsteps outside the door. Oh, God! have mercy on her; he was following
her.
Where were the two angels now, I wonder?
He opened the door, and came towards her slowly. If mortal agony can
atone for sin, she atoned for all her sins in that terrible half-minute.
She did not cry out; she dared not; she writhed down among the gaudy
cushions, with her face buried in her hands, and waited--for what?
She heard a voice speaking to her. It was not his voice, but the kind
voice of old Lord Ascot, his dead father. It said--
"Adelaide, my poor girl, you must not get frightened when I get in a
passion. My poor child, you have borne enough for me; I would not hurt a
hair of your head."
He kissed her cheek, and Adelaide burst into a passion of sobs. After a
few moments those sobs had ceased, and Lord Ascot left her. He did not
know that she had fainted away. She never told him that.
Where were the angels now? Angels!--there was but one of them left.
Which one was that, think you?
Hurrah! the good angel. The black fiend with the hood had sneaked away
to his torment. And, as Lord Ascot closed the door behind him, and sped
away down the foggy street, the good one vanished too; for the work was
done. Ten thousand fiends would not turn him from his purpose now.
Hurrah!
* * * * *
"Simpson," said Lord Saltire, as he got into bed that evening, "it won't
last much longer."
"What will not last, my lord?" said Simpson.
"Why, me," said Lord Saltire, disregarding grammar. "Don't set up a
greengrocer's shop, Simpson, nor a butter and egg shop, in Berkeley
Street, if you can help it, Simpson. If you must keep a lodging-house, I
should say Jermyn Street; but don't let me influence you. I am not sure
that I wouldn't sooner see you in Brook Street, or Conduit Street. But
don't try Pall Mall, that's a good fellow; or you'll be getting fast
men, who will demoralise your establishment. A steady connection among
government clerks, and that sort of person, will pay best in the long
run."
"My dear lord--my good old friend, why should you talk like this
to-night?"
"Because I am very ill, Simpson, and it will all come at once; and it
may come any time. When they open Lord Barkham's room, at Cottingdean, I
should like you and Mr. Marston to go in first, for I may have left
something or another about."
An hour or two after, his bell rang, and Simpson, who was in the
dressing-room, came hurriedly in. He was sitting up in bed, looking just
the same as usual.
"My good fellow," he said, "go down and find out who rung and knocked at
the door like that. Did you hear it?"
"I did not notice it, my lord."
"Butchers, and bakers, and that sort of people, don't knock and ring
like that. The man at the door now brings news, Simpson. There is no
mistake about the ring of a man who comes with important intelligence.
Go down and see."
He was not long gone. When he came back again, he said--
"It is Lord Ascot, my lord. He insists on seeing you immediately."
"Up with him, Simpson--up with him, my good fellow. I told you so. This
gets interesting."
Lord Ascot was already in the doorway. Lord Saltire's brain was as acute
as ever; and as Lord Ascot approached him, he peered eagerly and
curiously at him, in the same way as one scrutinises the seal of an
unopened letter, and wonders what its contents may be. Lord Ascot sat
down by the bed, and whispered to the old man; and, when Simpson saw his
great coarse, red, hairless, ruffianly face actually touching that of
Lord Saltire, so delicate, so refined, so keen, Simpson began to have a
dim suspicion that he was looking on rather a remarkable sight. And so
he was.
"Lord Saltire," said Lord Ascot, "I have seen Charles Ravenshoe
to-night."
"You are quite sure?"
"I am quite sure."
"Ha! Ring the bell, Simpson." Before any one had spoken again, a footman
was in the room. "Bring the major-domo here instantly," said Lord
Saltire.
"You know what you have done, Ascot," said Lord Saltire. "You see what
you have done. I am going to send for my solicitor, and alter my will."
"Of course you are," said Lord Ascot. "Do you dream I did not know that
before I came here?"
"And yet you came?"
"Yes; with all the devils out of hell dragging me back."
"As a matter of curiosity, why?" said Lord Saltire.
"Oh, I couldn't do it, you know. I've done a good many dirty things; but
I couldn't do that, particularly to that man. There are some things a
fellow can't do, you know."
"Where did you see him?"
"At the Groom's Arms, Belgrave Mews; he was there not three hours ago.
Find a man called Sloane, a horse-dealer; he will tell you all about
him; for he was sitting with his hand on his shoulder. His address is
twenty-seven, New Road."
At this time the major-domo appeared. "Take a cab at once, and _fetch_
me--you understand when I say _fetch_--Mr. Brogden, my solicitor. Mr.
Compton lives out of town, but he lives over the office in Lincoln's
Inn. If you can get hold of the senior partner, he will do as well. Put
either of them in a cab, and pack them off here. Then go to Scotland
Yard; give my compliments to inspector Field; tell him a horrible murder
has been committed, accompanied by arson, forgery, and regrating, with a
strong suspicion of sorning, and that he must come at once."
That venerable gentleman disappeared, and then Lord Saltire said--
"Do you repent, Ascot?"
"No," said he. "D---- it all, you know, I could not do it when I came to
think of it. The money would never have stayed with me, I take it.
Good-night."
"Good-night," said Lord Saltire; "come the first thing in the morning."
And so they parted. Simpson said, "Are you going to alter your will
to-night, my lord? Won't it be a little too much for you?"
"It would be if I was going to do so, Simpson; but I am not going to
touch a line of it. I am not sure that half a million of money was ever,
in the history of the world, given up with better grace or with less
reason. He is a noble fellow; I never guessed it; he shall have it--by
Jove, he shall have it! I am going to sleep. Apologise to Brogden, and
give the information to Field; tell him I expect Charles Ravenshoe here
to-morrow morning. Good-night."
Simpson came in to open the shutters next morning; but those shutters
were not opened for ten days, for Lord Saltire was dead.
Dead. The delicate waxen right hand, covered with rings, was lying
outside on the snow-white sheet, which was unwrinkled by any death
agony; and on the pillow was a face, beautiful always, but now more
beautiful, more calm, more majestic than ever. If his first love, dead
so many years, had met him in the streets but yesterday, she would not
have known him; but if she could have looked one moment on the face
which lay on that pillow, she would have seen once more the gallant
young nobleman who came a-wooing under the lime-trees sixty years agone.
The inspector was rapid and dexterous in his work. He was on Charles
Ravenshoe's trail like a bloodhound, eager to redeem the credit which
his coadjutor, Yard, had lost over the same case. But his instructions
came to him three hours too late.