I had by this time informed Mr. Gascoyne of my acquaintance with his
nephew and niece. At first he looked hurt.
“They are very heartless, I am afraid, Israel, very heartless; when my
poor boy died neither of them wrote a line.”
“I am afraid, sir, that young Gascoyne has not much depth, but his
sister seems to me a fine character.”
“What is she like?”
“Beautiful.”
Perhaps something in my voice betrayed what I felt, for he looked at
me keenly.
“She is a little cold. Difficult, I should say, to rouse to
enthusiasm, and she appears to have a will of iron.”
“She hardly sounds alluring.”
“She has charm.”
“Ah! Then everything else falls into line. I should like to see them,
but I can hardly make the advances. You see, my poor brother chose to
quarrel with me for two reasons; first, because I went on the Stock
Exchange; secondly, because my wife’s father happened to have made his
money in trade. It was all very foolish, but year after year
reconciliation grew more difficult, and what had been a breach which I
thought could easily be bridged any moment widened imperceptibly,
until it was impossible to make advances. If Miss Gascoyne would write
to my wife the thing would be done.”
Inwardly I thought it would have been just as easy for Mrs. Gascoyne
to write to her.
“What is Harry like? His father was good-looking.”
“He is handsome enough.”
“Fair?”
“Very.”
“So was his father. Dear me, it seems only the other day that we were
boys together. It is all very sad, very sad indeed. It is incredible
that people should drift apart so.”
“I’ve never had anyone to drift apart from.”
“You have your friends. There is young Hallward. He seems to be very
devoted to you, and, do you know, I have sometimes wondered whether
you appreciate his devotion.”
“Oh, I’m very fond of Grahame.”
“We must see if something can’t be done to bring my nephew and niece
and my wife together. You say you are going down there this week?”
“I thought of doing so.”
“Then you might spy out the land and see how my niece would be likely
to receive advances.”
“I think Miss Gascoyne would welcome them,” I said, with simulated
warmth.
I now felt not the least hesitation in praising the young Gascoynes. I
had complete confidence in my position with their uncle. He was not
the sort of man to commit an injustice, and what he had made up his
mind to do for me he would do; perhaps more, certainly not less.
It may perhaps be wondered why, having a comfortable position and
fairly assured prospects, I did not rest content. That I did not do so
was due to a consistency of aim which has always been my chief
characteristic. In removing young Gascoyne from my path I had burnt my
boats, and there did not appear to be any particular reason, except
that of cowardice, to prevent my pursuing my original purpose. A
middle-class position with moderate wealth in no way represented my
ideal. I had dreamed from early childhood of a brilliant position, and
if possible I intended to achieve one.
I found also that I was a person of a multiplying ambition. I had
begun to meet certain people in a very good set. My musical
accomplishments here stood me in very good stead—as they have done
many another idle young adventurer. Lady Pebworth, who was an amateur
vocalist who would not have been tolerated at a tenth-rate pier
pavilion without her title, was singing at a charity concert at which
I was assisting. Her accompanist failing her, I took his place. She
declared that no one had ever accompanied her so sympathetically, and
asked me to call. I was not of the order of modern youth who gives
some great lady the use of his inferior baritone voice and other
services in return for social protection, but Lady Pebworth had the
tact to treat me with dignity, and I found her extremely useful. I
paid my respects one Sunday afternoon. The drawing-room of her house
in Bryanston Square was crowded, and I at once realised that I was in
the society of people of quite a different tone from anything I had
hitherto come into contact with. Fortunately her invitation had not
been merely formal. She had evidently been anxious to see me, for she
welcomed me with a swift glance of pleasure and came from the extreme
end of the long room to meet me.
“How good of you to come so soon!”
“It was good of you to ask me.”
Then she introduced me to a pretty, dark-eyed woman, whose beauty was
just giving signs of approaching wane.
“Mrs. Hetherington, Mr. Rank.” And she left us.
Mrs. Hetherington talked incessantly, but I replied in monosyllables.
I realised that Lady Pebworth was interested, and my vanity was
flattered that a woman, so evidently admired and courted in a
first-rate set, should be attracted by me. I could see that she was
very much aware of my presence whilst seeming to be engrossed by the
conversation of a man of distinguished appearance suggesting
diplomacy. A feeble-looking young man with rather a pleasant laugh
joined in the conversation between Mrs. Hetherington and myself. He
was evidently inquisitive as to who I might be, and threw out one or
two baits which I avoided.
Mrs. Hetherington droned on about Lord this and Lady that—if she
mentioned commoners at all they possessed double-barrelled names—until
there was a general movement to go. I rose with the others, but Lady
Pebworth with the greatest cleverness managed to avoid saying good-bye
to me till everyone else had gone and we were left alone. Mrs.
Hetherington, who was the last to leave, looked at me with the
insolent curiosity of good breeding as she was making her farewells,
evidently fully conscious of her hostess’s manœuvring.
“Are you in a great hurry?” asked Lady Pebworth, as the door closed
behind Mrs. Hetherington.
“Oh, no.”
“Then sit down and let us talk. I must have some fresh tea, and you
will have something stronger.”
I explained that I seldom drank anything stronger than tea.
She looked at me curiously.
“Dear me! You don’t look a puritan.”
I laughed. The expression as applied to myself sounded quite comic.
“I am afraid my virtue has its origin in vanity. I confine myself to
champagne, and that only occasionally.”
“You are quite right. It is dreadful the objects young men make of
themselves with drink—and women, too, when they cease to attract.”
“Do they ever realise when that time has come?”
“Yes, most women are philosophical enough for that.”
“Women with charm need never cease to attract.”
“That is very true, but you are young to have found it out. It is
usually a discovery of the middle-aged.”
“Age is not altogether a question of years.”
I found Lady Pebworth a mental tonic. She made me talk as I had never
talked before, indeed, as I had never known myself capable of talking.
I realised that I had made a distinct impression, and found myself
calculating how far she might be useful to me.
She evidently knew everyone worth knowing. She could undoubtedly
launch me in the great world if she cared to do so, and I was quite
confident of my ability to keep afloat providing I had a really good
introduction. I could not help smiling as I reflected how envious
Lionel Holland would have been could he have witnessed my
_tête-à-tête_ with Lady Pebworth.
Later Lord Pebworth came in. He was the personification of the elderly
well-bred. It was not probable that he had ever possessed many brains,
but he had the amount of conscience which causes a man highly placed
to do the right thing at the right moment. He was devoid of
enthusiasm, and being eminently safe had even achieved a second-rate
position as a politician, which he was quite persuaded was a
first-rate one. He treated his wife’s young men friends—and I
discovered afterwards that they had been a numerous procession—with
kindly toleration, and even went out of his way to give them a good
time when it lay in his power.
He seconded his wife’s invitation to dinner with great cordiality, and
accompanied me as far as the front door, an attention which was so
unexpected that I began to wonder whether he regarded me as a
suspicious character. He gave me an excellent cigar, and I walked down
Park Lane in the red light of a Sunday evening in summer, feeling that
socially, I had moved on.
Lady Pebworth took me up feverishly, and introduced me to a great many
people who seemed quite pleased to know me. Nevertheless, I realised
that I should have to make hay whilst the sun shone, for unless I
persuaded my new acquaintances to accept me as an intimate I should
very soon be dropped. Great ladies have a way of carrying young men
into the vortex of society to which they have not been accustomed, and
then, when weary, leaving them to be slowly slain by general
indifference, till they are only too glad to find themselves back
again in their proper middle-class element.
I did not consider the middle-class my element, and I was determined
that Lady Pebworth should keep me afloat as long as I chose and not as
long as she chose.
As I was engaged in snaring young Gascoyne, I was only able to give
her a divided attention. This turned out to be as well, for she
concluded that there was another woman, and her interest in me was
fanned by jealousy. She tried all manner of arts in order to discover
who claimed my attention, arts which she imagined were undetected, but
at which I was secretly amused.
Mr. Gascoyne used to chaff me good-naturedly about my smart
acquaintances. Some employers in his position might have resented one
of his clerks spending his spare time among people who would most
probably lead him into extravagance; but Mr. Gascoyne, well born
himself, hardly saw the incongruity of it to the extent that an
ordinary middle-class commercial man would have done.
At the time I met Gascoyne my affair with Lady Pebworth was in full
swing. That is to say, I was getting tired of her, for she had never
really meant anything to me. She was beginning to reproach me with
neglect, and to take exception to my Saturdays and Sundays being
occupied.
I knew how far Lady Pebworth could be useful to me, and I was
certainly not going to drop the solid substance of a position in my
own right for the shadow of her social introductions.
It was quite extraordinary how ready people were to accept and make
use of a young man who carried no other credentials than the good word
of a pretty Countess with a reputation for being rapid. I found myself
dancing every evening with the peerage. I cannot honestly say that I
received many invitations to dinner, or to those more select
entertainments which argue any great degree of intimacy. My keen
instinct warned me of the unreality of my position and of how
necessary it was to make ties of some kind to enable me to retain my
hold on society. The men were civil enough, but I had little in common
with those who talked nothing but the jargon they had learned at a
public school or at one of the ’Varsities.
I had the extreme satisfaction of being seen in a box at the Gaiety by
Lionel Holland and Sibella while I was with Lord and Lady Pebworth and
Sir Anthony Cross, a friend of theirs.
“What a very beautiful girl,” said Lady Pebworth, as I bowed to
Sibella.
“Quite lovely,” said Lord Pebworth.
Sir Anthony Cross said nothing, but I repeatedly caught him looking at
Sibella when Lady Pebworth was not using his opera glasses.
“Who is the man with her?” asked Lady Pebworth.
“Lionel Holland.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“I know him. I went to school with him.”
“I see you don’t like him. He looks a bounder.”
Lady Pebworth had in her conversation just that amount of slanginess
which may be permitted to an obviously well-bred woman without its
giving offence.
As we were going out I found myself by the side of Sibella for a
moment.
“You hardly ever come and see us now,” she murmured.
Sibella never lost her charm for me, and the sound of her voice—always
a little sharp and unmusical, even when she made an attempt at
modulating it, which was seldom—played upon my temperament in the most
subtle manner.
I promised to visit them quite soon.
“Next Sunday?” she asked.
“I am going out of town next Sunday.”
Lady Pebworth’s carriage drew up, and, murmuring something about the
Sunday after, I left her.
“Your friend, Mr. Rank,” said Lady Pebworth, “is decidedly pretty.”
“One of the prettiest girls I have ever set eyes on,” said Lord
Pebworth.
Sir Anthony Cross still said nothing, but I had a shrewd conviction
that he was more impressed than either.
On Saturday I bicycled down to stay with the Gascoynes till Monday,
having promised my employer to do all which tactful diplomacy might
accomplish to find out how they would take an effort at a
reconciliation.
I went a certain part of the way by train, and sent my bag on. I had
written to say that I should not be at the Grange for dinner, and
found myself riding through a crimson summer evening with a sensuous
enjoyment in the perfect peace of the rural scenery through which I
was passing. According to the received notion of a man with a murder
on his conscience, external objects, however beautiful, should have
been unable to convey any sensation of peace to my inner being. So far
from this being the case I was immensely soothed, and rode leisurely
on with as much moral quiet as is enjoyed by most folk. After all, the
degree of power of the conscience is entirely a matter of
individuality and force of character. A weak man, hypersensitive to
received social obligation, may fret himself into a fever over the
merest trifle of a moral lapse. I do not believe the aged Cenci slept
the less well for—in the world’s opinion—his awful crimes. I have no
doubt his affectionate family found him in a comfortable doze when
they came to bring him a deeper sleep. The rate at which one great
crime will develop a man’s intelligence is curious. It is a wonderful
grindstone on which to sharpen the intellect. New values, hitherto
unsuspected, develop themselves on all sides. An acute and sardonic
appreciation of society’s laws presents itself, together with an
exhilarating sensation of being outside them, which assists in forming
an unbiassed and comprehensive view. I could never have belonged to
the anarchical type of man, because I never had any comprehension of
or sympathy with those who starve in a land of plenty. I could not
understand the intellect which could live in a dream of a society
regenerated by revolution in the future, and which was yet unable to
help itself to a crust of bread in the present. My abilities were
essentially practical, so I removed those who were immediately in my
way and left the dreamers to remove those whom they esteemed to be in
the way of society.
I was indulging in such reflections as these when I passed the lane
down which I had turned the day I had discovered young Gascoyne’s love
affair. The sun had almost set. Already the greater part of the
landscape was in shadow. The song of the birds was silenced by the
chill of coming night, and they slept. On the horizon the crimson
blaze had sunk, and an expiring streak of amber marked where the day
had passed. The evening star shone solitary, a little pale for the
moment, a faint flame set in a ghastly pallor. I turned down the lane
of the romantic memory; why, I could not have said, unless, perhaps,
some occult informing power gave me a premonition of what I should
find there. The actual road track was quite narrow, there being a wide
expanse of grass on each side. I had not gone very far before I saw a
figure lying in a curiously huddled heap close to the hedge. I knew it
was young Gascoyne at a glance. The expected had happened. My heart
almost leapt into my mouth. How seldom schemes carried as well as mine
had done! I got off my bicycle and looked stealthily around. There was
not a soul in sight. The growing dusk of the lane gave birth to one or
two shadows which somewhat startled me as I went towards the body. As
I turned him over to look at his face a low groan escaped him.
He was not dead. This was awkward. His face was covered with blood,
and there was a terrible wound in the side of his head, while his jaw
hung loose as if it were broken. An idea struck me. I lifted his head.
I almost fancied that I saw his eyes open, and that even in the gloom
he recognised me. I hastened to put my idea into execution. I pressed
my fingers gently to the veins behind his neck. I knew that this would
produce an absolute insensibility which must inevitably end in death
unless succour arrived within quite a short space of time.
After a few minutes I laid him back an inert mass on the turf, and,
mounting my bicycle, reached the main road without meeting anyone.
I could not help regretting as I rode leisurely on to the Grange that
it was Miss Gascoyne’s brother whom I had been compelled to dispose
of, but I agreed with the writer who warned the ambitious that they
must subordinate their affections to their aims in life if they wished
to succeed. It is curious how affection can be subdued. For instance,
I loved Sibella, but I was able to subdue my infatuation and keep it
out of sight when necessary.
It was quite dark when I reached the Grange, and riding through the
fir plantation I was entirely dependent on the light thrown from my
bicycle lamp. Suddenly I received a weird reminder of the figure I had
left behind me lying half concealed in the fern and bracken by the
roadside. Perhaps I was a little more affected by what had happened
than I imagined, for I am not superstitious, and only by reason of
having young Gascoyne’s image vividly in my mind can I account for
what happened.
Half-way through the plantation the light of my lamp fell full on a
white, human face dabbled in blood. It was young Gascoyne’s face, and
the blue eyes were wide open and glazed in death. I saw the head and
trunk to the waist. The rest of the body appeared to be beneath the
ground. So strong was the illusion that I swerved aside in order not
to ride over it, and in doing so fell from my machine. When I picked
myself up my lamp was out and I was in total darkness. I was about to
hurry forward with a mad haste to get out of the wood when I pulled
myself up short. Deliberately I remained where I was, picked up my
bicycle, lit my lamp and mounting leisurely rode slowly out of the
plantation. With such a career as I had planned it would never do to
give way to fancies.
There was a light in the drawing-room as I wheeled my bicycle up the
drive of the Grange. I could see Miss Gascoyne sitting by a small
table with a lamp on it. At first I thought she was reading, but as I
drew near I could see that the book was lying in her lap, whilst her
eyes were fixed on the ground in deep reflection. She came out into
the hall when she heard my voice. I thought there was an unusual
animation in her appearance as she welcomed me.
“Have you dined?”
“Well, not exactly, but I had an enormous tea at a wayside inn.”
“You look very tired.”
Evidently I still looked somewhat agitated by my adventure in the pine
wood. No doubt for want of another explanation it must have struck her
as fatigue.
“I have had rather a busy week.”
We moved towards the dining-room chatting freely and pleasantly, and I
could not help contrasting her present friendliness with the hauteur
and strictly formal manner she had displayed at our first meeting.
We sat and talked while I ate sandwiches.
“Harry said he was going to meet you.”
“I rather thought he might do so, and I looked out for him.”
“It is very rude of him not to have done so, or not to have been at
home when you came. I shall scold him severely.”
She began to talk of her brother and his future. She wanted him to
read for the law. Did I not think it would be the best thing?
“Do you really want my candid opinion?”
“Of course. You know I say what I mean.”
“I think it is about the very worst profession he could follow.”
“But why?”
“Well, apart from the difficulty of the examinations, which in our
days is no small matter, it is a profession in which patience is the
most important factor. There is no other profession like it for
encouraging a naturally lazy man with a small income to idle.”
“I should have thought application was altogether necessary.”
“Absolutely, but it is optional. He cannot get on without it, but
there will be no one to see that he uses his time well. Besides, men
in the law are as a rule strenuous, earnest people with all kinds of
ambitions, and Harry will hardly meet sympathetics.”
“Then what is he to do?”
“I know you will think it rather a curious suggestion, coming from me,
but I give my vote for the Army.”
“The Army? But Harry is poor.”
I inwardly smiled at Miss Gascoyne’s notion of poverty. I knew what
she thought the Army should mean for a Gascoyne:—a crack cavalry
regiment and unlimited private means.
“An inexpensive line regiment.”
“Oh dear!”
I laughed. “It’s the thing, depend upon it. He will be in a profession
he likes, among men who take their profession seriously. After all, he
will have a better average of gentlemen than he would have in a crack
regiment, even if he does not have the high nobility of exceptions.”
“I see what you mean, but I don’t think Harry would ever consent.”
“I believe you could make him do anything.”
I was inwardly congratulating myself on the perfect conviction with
which I was discussing the future of one who by this time was most
probably solving problems in theology.
We talked on till Miss Gascoyne grew anxious.
“I really wish Harry would come home.”
“Shall I go and look for him?”
She knew what was in my mind. His late homecoming meant as a rule that
he was to be found at the inn.
“Was he at home to dinner?”
“No. He has some friends living a few miles off whom I don’t know, and
he rode over in the afternoon and proposed to stay to dinner. There he
is.”
We both listened. Along the hard road came the sound of a horse’s
hoofs.
Miss Gascoyne rose in alarm. Either the horse was riderless or it was
no longer under control. It was not necessary to listen for more than
a few seconds to be convinced of that.
We both went out on to the lawn. A figure came round the corner of the
house and hastened on to the road. It was the groom.
“Oh, Mr. Rank, what can have happened?”
“I will go and see.”
But she went with me to the gate. The mare had evidently come to a
full stop just outside, and was now held by the groom. She was
steaming with sweat and gave every evidence of the greatest distress.
Inwardly I was wondering how it was the animal had been so long in
reaching the Grange. It must have wandered on slowly feeding by the
wayside till it had taken fright at some passing object and started at
full gallop for home.
Miss Gascoyne looked around in dismay for her brother.
“She wur alone, Miss,” said the groom, blankly.
“It doesn’t at all follow that your brother was on her back when she
bolted,” I ventured.
She looked at me, grateful for the suggestion. She was very white, but
her character asserted itself. She turned to the groom.
“Baker, take Jenny round to the stables and make her comfortable as
soon as possible. Mr. Rank and I will walk as far as the inn and you
can follow us.”
“Very good, Miss.” The man did as he was directed.
“I will go as I am,” she said, “though after all I may be alarming
myself unnecessarily.” She was not the woman to treat the situation
hysterically if it could possibly be avoided. I was genuinely sorry
for the grief that was coming upon her. I would have spared her if
possible, but I either had to abandon the object of my life or to put
up with such unpleasantnesses as were involved with the course I had
laid out for myself.
We started to walk rapidly towards the inn.
“I dare say Harry missed his stirrup and Jenny bolted.”
On the way her spirits rose. The fact that we met no one seemed to her
a proof that nothing much was the matter. Sounds of drunken revelry
reached us long before the inn came in sight.
“I will wait here,” she said, as we reached the broadening of the
road. I left her and went on.
“We’ll all be merry,
Drinking whisky, wine, and sherry,
If he can’t come, we’ll ask his son.”
The chorus was trolled forth in disjointed snatches, showing the
singers to be very far gone indeed. The door stood ajar and I went in.
So convinced was I of the necessity of playing my part thoroughly that
I looked carefully round to see if Harry Gascoyne were present. The
half-dozen or so roysterers looked up stupidly with open mouths. As a
matter of fact, they were none of them drinking whisky, wine or
sherry, but had very substantial mugs of ale before them. The
atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with the reek from
peasant limbs. The landlord, with a figure that threatened apoplexy,
surveyed them from the other side of the bar with an approving smile
as if he were presiding over an assemblage of highly well-behaved
infants. To me he suggested a genial but relentless ghoul, callous to
the feelings of the mothers and children who were to welcome home
these repulsive sots as governors and lords of their lives and
welfare.
They sat waiting for me to speak.
“Has Mr. Gascoyne been here to-night?” I asked.
The landlord looked round the room, and, having as it were satisfied
himself that none of the others knew of the young man being concealed
unknown to himself, answered slowly:
“I ain’t seen ’im.”
“No more ain’t I,” came in phlegmatic chorus.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite.”
“Thank you.” I withdrew.
Miss Gascoyne came forward out of the dusk into the light which
streamed from the front door.
“He’s not there,” I said gravely.
She looked at me in dismay.
“Shall I tell them?” I asked.
She reflected for a moment.
“Yes. He may have fallen from his horse. We must look for him at
once.” I turned towards the inn.
“I will come with you,” she said, and we passed through the low door.
The song had not been resumed. Evidently my errand had given food for
conversation. The landlord paused in the middle of something he was
saying and got down off his stool.
“Mr. Gascoyne’s horse has returned home without him, and we are afraid
he may have been thrown and hurt.” I spoke in a loud tone.
At the sight of Miss Gascoyne the whole assemblage had risen. She was
looked upon by the cottagers around with not a little awe.
“Will some of you oblige me by helping to look for him?”
The landlord, who had had more than one passage of arms with the
justices of the peace as to the way in which his house was conducted,
became officiousness itself. Anything to prove to the gentry what an
estimable and respectable character he was.
“It ain’t like Mr. Gascoyne to get into trouble on horseback,” he
said, with a laudatory shake of his head, as if to conciliate Miss
Gascoyne by conveying to her what a very high sense he had of her
brother’s horsemanship.
He evidently had an idea of offering her some refreshment, for he
looked from her to the bottles of spirit and coloured cordials on the
shelf, and from them back again to her, but apparently without being
able to make up his mind to so hazardous a proceeding.
As we were all standing outside the inn debating how to conduct the
search, a dog-cart drove up.
“Let me see, I am right for the Grange, am I not?” asked a voice.
“Yes,” I answered, “but whom do you want at the Grange?”
“Miss Gascoyne.”
“I am Miss Gascoyne.”
There was a silence. The man in the dog-cart was evidently somewhat
taken aback. He was saved from further awkwardness by the character of
the woman he had to deal with.
“I am afraid something has happened. What is it?”
“Your brother has had an accident.”
“Is he hurt?”
“I am afraid so.”
The answer was inconclusive, and it was obviously intended that it
should be.
“Seriously?”
“I am afraid so.”
The answer was still lacking in finality, and Miss Gascoyne guessed
the worst.
We all stood round, the men looking stupid but concerned.
“Will you take me to him, please?”
“I came to fetch you.”
“Will you come too, Mr. Rank?”
“Of course.” I turned to the landlord’s wife, who had now joined us.
“Can you find a shawl for Miss Gascoyne? She has no hat.”
The landlady disappeared, and returned with a white woollen shawl,
which she was taking out of tissue paper.
“When was he found?” asked Miss Gascoyne, as we drove rapidly away,
leaving the little group outside the public-house to discuss the
matter.
“About two hours and a half ago.”
“Where?”
The doctor explained, throwing into his account as much insinuation as
he could of the worst. I don’t know at what particular moment Miss
Gascoyne grasped that her brother was dead, but it was apparent before
we reached our destination that she had realised the truth.
He had been carried to a farmhouse, from whence they had sent for the
doctor.
“I am afraid he was kicked by his horse. I cannot for the life of me
imagine how it could have happened to so fine a horseman.”
The doctor ended a little lamely. Young Gascoyne’s propensities were
too well known for miles round his home for anyone to be ignorant of
them.
I felt somewhat uncomfortable as we turned down the lane where I had
left Harry Gascoyne. The doctor made no remark as we passed the spot
where I knew he had been found.
I was full of curiosity as to how his sister would behave.
As we descended from the dog-cart, the doctor turned to her.
“I hope I have made myself clear.”
Miss Gascoyne stood silent for a few seconds, struggling for
self-control. Then she answered quietly:
“Quite. You mean that my brother is dead?”
The doctor nodded his head gravely.
It was curious evidence of the apartness of Miss Gascoyne’s character
that the woman of the house, a buxom, garrulous body, made no attempt
at comfort. She at once realised that it would have been an intrusion.
Miss Gascoyne went upstairs with the doctor. She was not away long,
and when she returned I saw that she must give way soon, or a mental
catastrophe would ensue. Her features were rigid.
I went upstairs at her request.
All signs of violence had already been removed, and he lay as if
asleep. Any indications of vice and intemperance had disappeared, and
he looked very boyish and beautiful. The doctor was in the room.
“I don’t quite see,” he said, in a low voice, “how a mere kick or two
could have inflicted such injuries. I don’t mean, of course, that
kicks could not have caused his death, but the blows seem as if they
had been struck by a blunt instrument, directed with less velocity
than would have been the case with a horse’s hoof. I am waiting for a
colleague, and then we must make a serious examination.”
I murmured that I was no authority. I could not help reflecting how
much Harry Gascoyne had been the gainer by dying when he did. Instead
of growing into a debauched, worn-out old man, his physical casket lay
before us in all the freshness of its youth and beauty. He would leave
beautiful instead of ugly memories.
Yes, it was well he had died. His sister might continue to worship him
and to preserve her illusions.
She returned to the Grange, and I, having left her to the care of the
old housekeeper, went to the inn, though it struck me as being
somewhat ridiculous to observe the conventions at such a time.
I did not believe for one moment that the blows which had struck young
Gascoyne were from the horse’s hoofs. Before leaving the house,
however, I went round to the stables. There was no one about, and the
mare was by this time as quiet as a lamb.
I examined her hoofs carefully. There was not the least trace of
blood—at any rate, not observable to myself. If there were any traces,
they must be microscopic.
I sat down on an upturned pail and reflected. I should like to save
Nat Holway—that is to say, if he had not already given himself up,
which with a nature such as his was quite possible.
Would it help him to smear the horse’s hind hoofs with blood? It was
worth trying. Where was I to get the blood from? There was only one
source, and that was myself.
I am not brave about blood, but the occasion demanded urgent measures.
I took out my pocket-knife, and deliberately drew the blade across the
little finger of my left hand. I then smeared the hoofs of the horse
and, binding my finger, left the stable. The dawn was just beginning
to lay ghostly hands on the garment of night. The stars trembled and
burned pale in the growing light.
Through the firs the coming day gave almost the effect of an expanse
of water beyond. In the cheerless air there was a touch of clamminess
which suggested rain, whilst heavy, sulky-looking clouds were driven
slowly towards the east.
I walked with a melancholy step along the sandy path that led through
the plantation. What would poor Janet Gray do? I made a point of
letting my sympathies have as much play as was compatible with my own
interest. As a matter of fact, her situation was slightly bettered,
excepting that her lover was dead—than which no greater grief can come
to any human being. But at the same time she would receive a much
larger meed of pity than would otherwise have been her lot.
If Nat Holway were fool enough to give himself up it would be
unpleasant, although I could not forget that even if he had not
actually accomplished his purpose, it had been his full intention to
murder Harry Gascoyne. Still, he was a fine fellow, and it was not
nice to think of lives unnecessarily wasted. The next afternoon I
would go over to Copsley and reconnoitre. I must confess that I found
the whole thing very exciting, especially as I myself stood in
absolutely no danger.
On returning to the inn I found the landlord waiting up for me, a
great feat for a man who was usually somewhat heavy with alcohol. He
plied me with questions, and appeared terribly shocked at the sad
catastrophe.
“Such an open-handed young gentleman, sir, and his sister doting on
him as she did. Well, there, you never know. The Lord has His own way
of doing things.”
He sighed and looked as if to say that were it not for this undeniable
fact he might be prevailed upon to take a hand in the management of
the universe.
I lay open-eyed, tossing from side to side. Miss Gascoyne stood
between myself and sleep. Although I could put an irrevocable fact
like death out of my mind I could not dismiss a living grief so
easily. I knew that she was capable of terrible suffering. Her brother
had been her all. At the same time, while feeling acutely for her I
could not help reflecting what a much better match she would now be.
Sixteen hundred a year was not great wealth, but when combined with a
woman like Miss Gascoyne it was a prize worth having.
I believe there is not the character, however elevated, which does not
at a moment of supreme grief calculate the particular degree of
benefit or disadvantage it will obtain from it.
It was noon when I walked over to the Grange to ask how Miss Gascoyne
was. The servant said her mistress particularly desired to be informed
of my arrival, and I went into the inner hall and waited. She came
down almost immediately. I was shocked at the change in her
appearance. She had evidently been weeping bitterly, and for a moment
I would have given anything to restore her brother to her. The
weakness was only momentary, however, and after all it would have been
doing her a very bad turn.
She appeared to derive a certain degree of comfort and help from my
presence.
“It seems a little sad, Mr. Rank, that although we have so many
relations there is hardly one to whom I could write at this
emergency.”
This was a great opportunity to please Mr. Gascoyne by obtaining her
consent to send for him. There were also other schemes in my head,
nebulous as yet, which such a reconciliation would assist materially.
“I should have thought,” I said gently, “that your father’s brother
would be the proper person to send for under the circumstances.”
She looked at me in surprise. The idea had evidently not struck her,
and she became thoughtful.
“I am afraid he would not come.”
“I think he would. I know it hurt his feelings somewhat that when his
son died neither you nor your brother wrote to him.”
“He told you so?”
“Yes.”
“I will send a telegram.”
“Let me take it.”
She went to her desk and wrote several.
“The groom can take them,” she said, as I rose.
“No, let me. I shall be quicker on my bicycle, and it will be
something to do.”
“It is very poor entertainment for you.”
“Anything I can do to serve you. Your brother and I were great
friends.”
Most of the telegrams were conventional intimations of the news to
relatives and friends. That to Mr. Gascoyne ran:
“My brother has been killed by an accident. I am in great trouble;
would you come to me?”
My plan was that Miss Gascoyne should make friends with her uncle and
aunt and that we four should form a harmonious quartet, and that
finally I should marry her, and Mr. Gascoyne should leave us his
money.
I fully realised all my own disabilities in Miss Gascoyne’s eyes. The
Semitic taint in my appearance could not possibly be a recommendation,
and my parentage would certainly be a bar. There was no disguising the
fact that my father was not, to the world’s way of thinking, a
gentleman, and from what I could remember I was inclined in strict
honesty to agree with the world.
I was not so far even the adopted heir of Mr. Gascoyne, and I was
running a grave risk in introducing a considerably nearer blood
relation bearing his own name into the house. I did not fear that Mr.
Gascoyne would do anything less for me than he had intended, but he
might do considerably less than I had intended. He was just the sort
of man to admire Miss Gascoyne. Still, should I fail in my scheme, she
already had an ample fortune, and was no claimant for relief. I sent
off the telegram, but did not return to the house. I gathered that
Miss Gascoyne would wish to be alone, and contented myself with
sending over a message that I was at the inn should she want me, and
that I should remain there till Mr. Gascoyne arrived. She sent back a
grateful note thanking me, and asking me to come over in the evening.
In the afternoon I mounted my bicycle and rode to Copsley.
The little village lay still as death in the burning sun. The boys and
young men were probably lounging about the adjacent lanes and fields,
whilst the older people were taking their Sunday afternoon rest.
The blacksmith’s shop was shut, the great worm-eaten doors barred with
a massive piece of iron. The house next door, with its trim garden and
green shutters, which evidenced the prosperity of the Grays, was in
silence.
Or was I mistaken?
I was wheeling my machine, and I paused with my back to the house and
bent down, ostensibly to set something defective right. There was the
sound of faint sobbing in the house behind me. At the same time I
heard footsteps coming along the street. I looked up. It was Nat
Holway. His face was impassive, but his features were set. Almost at
the same moment the door of the house opened, and Mr. Gray came out.
Apparently he was expecting Nat Holway. They went into the forge
together. Old Gray’s face was white and stern.
I guessed that they had an appointment, and were keeping it there in
order that they might talk undisturbed. I wondered if by any chance
Nat Holway was offering to take Janet’s shame upon his shoulders. He
was the sort of man to do it. Really, if such a thing did happen, and
the murderer were not suspected, what a convenient settlement it would
be. I should have obtained what I wanted, Janet Gray would in time be
happy, and Miss Gascoyne would remain in ignorance of her brother’s
peccadillo. It is certainly rare that matters move so easily along the
ways of common-sense.
I rode back to the inn to find a telegram from Mr. Gascoyne to his
niece which she had sent over for me to see. It was to say that he
would come by the evening train. There were only four trains to
Copsley Station on Sunday—two each way—and the London train did not
arrive till ten o’clock. I saw her in the early evening. She seemed
worn out with grief, and there was, I thought, a quite tragic
loneliness in her appearance.
It pleased her to talk of her dead brother, and, sitting there saying
all the nice things I could about him, and full of a real and genuine
sympathy for her, I could hardly realise that it was I who had knelt
in the dusky lane with my fingers on the dying youth’s throat.
“He had a great admiration for you,” she said, with a faint smile. “He
thought you the cleverest person he had ever met.”
“His was one of the sunniest natures; no one could help loving him.”
“He was spoilt, of course. My father spoilt him terribly. It was not
to be wondered at if he was a little wild.”
I allowed her to talk on till I rose to go and meet Mr. Gascoyne.
“I don’t know why,” she said, as she came out into the lane with me,
“but I have always imagined my uncle to be a very hard man. I read
‘Nicholas Nickleby’ when I was a little girl, and I could not help
drawing a comparison between my father, who was like Nicholas’s
father, and lived in the country, and my uncle, who, of course,
represented Ralph Nickleby.”
I smiled. “You will find Mr. Gascoyne very different from that. He is
much softened of late, but I don’t think that he has ever been a
miser, even if at times he has carried the principle of justice to the
verge of hardness.”
I was thinking of the circumstances of my first appeal to him.
When I left her I went at once to the station, and, as the train was
late, had some time to wait.
There were one or two yokels in the tiny waiting-room, and the
station-master addressed one of them as he passed through from his
little ivy-covered cottage to the ticket-office.
“Sad thing, this, about Mr. Gascoyne, Edward.”
The young man in question answered slowly:
“Yes. They say as ’is ’orse kicked him to death.”
“That’s strange—very strange. Was the horse bad-tempered?”
“Not that I know of, and I’ve shod the mare often enough.”
“They say as Miss Gascoyne is powerful cut up.”
“That’s very likely; yer see, she doted on him.”
I scrutinised young Gray, the last speaker, narrowly. His manner
betrayed no indication that he was in any way aware of his sister’s
condition.
As Mr. Gascoyne descended from the train he pressed my hand warmly.
“This is very terrible,” I said—“very terrible.”
“Tell me, how did it happen?”
As we drove towards the Grange I detailed the event as well as I
could.
“You think the horse kicked him to death—a horse that was fond of him?
That is somewhat strange.”
“I don’t say it is so, sir. That is what has been surmised.”
“When do they hold the inquest?”
“To-morrow.”
“My wife is shocked beyond measure. If my niece had expressed the
least wish for her to do so, she would have come too.”
I did not answer. I could not say how Miss Gascoyne would welcome the
idea of her aunt assuming the role of a near relation.
“I am very touched at her sending for me—very touched indeed. Is the
body at the Grange?”
“No; it is at a farmhouse some miles off. It will be brought home
after the inquest.”
“Quite so.”
We reached the Grange.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I will get back to town. I would sooner. I
don’t think I can be of any further use.”
He did not press me to remain, and I went back to town carrying
messages for his managing clerk. I did not witness the meeting between
Miss Gascoyne and himself, but it must have been quite satisfactory,
for he stayed away over a week, and I learnt that Mrs. Gascoyne had
joined them.
I fancied that Miss Gascoyne would be rather surprised at the dignity
and well-bred restraint of the tradesman’s daughter, and would find it
a little difficult to account for her father’s prejudice; in fact, his
objection could not fail to strike her as having something in it of
unreasoning snobbery.
I would have given a great deal to be at the inquest, but although
there was no particular reason why I should not be, I thought Mr.
Gascoyne might deem it a little officious. Neither did I go down to
the funeral, but wrote a sympathetic note and sent a wreath. I let it
fully appear that my reason for not going was diffidence, and a desire
not to assume too intimate an attitude.
The morning of Mr. Gascoyne’s return he called me into his office.
“Close the door, Israel.”
He motioned me to a chair.
“Did you see any account of the inquest?”
“No, sir; I have been waiting for you to tell me.” As a matter of
fact, I had followed the case most carefully in the papers.
“It appeared that there was a serious doubt as to how my nephew
received his injuries.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In the first place, both doctors were a little surprised that
they should have caused death at all. The whole case became quite
complicated. There were distinct traces of blood on the horse’s hoof,
and yet one of the doctors absolutely refused to admit that the
injuries could have been inflicted by the horse at all.”
“How very extraordinary!”
“Did you at any time exchange confidences with my nephew on love
affairs?”
I swiftly reflected. Had he the least proof of our having done so? It
would not do to give a direct answer.
“I dare say we did, sir, but I cannot remember anything definite.”
“Some letters were found in his pocket.”
I almost started. How was it that it had never occurred to me to
search young Gascoyne’s pockets?
“Were they love-letters?”
“Yes.”
“It is not very unusual for a young fellow of his age.”
“No, and I am afraid that what they contained is also not unusual. It
appears that he had accomplished the ruin of a girl in a neighbouring
village.”
I looked thoughtful. “Do you mean to suggest that there is a mystery?”
“I am afraid there is. I cannot help thinking that the doctor who
refused to accept the theory of his having been killed by the horse
was right.”
“Why did they not call in a third doctor?”
“They did, and he was evidently under the influence of the man who
believed in the horse theory.”
“What was the verdict?”
I had forborne to satisfy myself on this point in order to be able to
ask the question with easy unconcern.
“Accidental death.”
I was astonished, but the country bumpkins on the jury had, I
imagined, made up their minds before the inquest that he had been
kicked by his horse.
“Were the letters read in court?”
“No. They were considered unnecessary, and no one thought they bore on
the issue.”
“Do you think they did?”
“Decidedly I do,” answered Mr. Gascoyne. “Depend upon it, there was
foul play. I talked to the doctor who would not admit the horse
theory, after the case was over, and he was quite positive the
injuries could not have been inflicted by a horse’s hoof.”
“Who was the girl?” I asked.
“Well, I do not think it is quite right to disclose her name. I had a
talk with her father, who was very distant and said the matter would
be best settled by saying nothing more about it. I don’t know what he
meant.”
“Was the girl’s name by any chance Janet Gray?”
Mr. Gascoyne looked at me in surprise.
“That was her name, but how did you know?”
“Harry Gascoyne spoke to me once or twice about her, and I wondered at
the time from something he said whether he had not made rather a mess
of things.”
“Yes, I am afraid we men are very selfish, that is, until we have
wives and daughters of our own. The possession of sisters does not
seem to instil the same sense of responsibility to woman-kind.”
“Does Miss Gascoyne know of this?”
“No; unless the matter develops further I do not think it necessary to
inform her.”
“What did the police think of the affair?”
“I fancy they are quite prepared to accept the horse theory.”
“Then the matter is settled?”
“Except for the trouble of the poor girl. It appears that he actually
promised to marry her.”
“He was generous-hearted enough for anything,” I answered, with
calculated impulsiveness.
“Her father asked me to give my word that the matter would not go any
further, so you will remember that you hold a secret that affects
three human beings at least.”
“I shall of course be as silent as the grave.”
He began to open his correspondence, and I rose to leave the room.
“Oh, by the way, my wife and my niece have struck up quite a
friendship. My wife remains at the Grange, and I shall go down there
again for a few days next week.”
I looked pleased.
“I believe,” he added, smiling, “you have been indulging in some
diplomacy at our expense. Don’t you think my niece is a beautiful
woman?”
“I think everyone would admit that.”
“I expect she will make a very brilliant match.”
I went out. I knew quite well why this last remark had been made, and
smiled inwardly. Mr. Gascoyne had thought gently to dissuade me from
indulging in hopes which were improbable of fulfilment. He could not
know how carefully I had calculated all the obstacles that stood in
the way of my success.
As I returned to my desk I found myself murmuring the word _two_. I
had the most difficult part of my task still before me, but so far the
two opening campaigns had been brilliant successes. I wondered if the
Gascoyne family in general realised how much nearer I was to the
succession. Probably with the exception of Mr. Gascoyne and his niece
they had no idea of my existence.
I took out the genealogical tree and studied it carefully, although
there was little need of this, as I could have passed an examination
in the entire history of the Gascoynes up to date at any moment.
There were now four lives between me and the object of my ambition.
My great-uncle Henry, who was now very nearly ninety years of age,
lived somewhere in the North of England. It was not necessary to
consider him in any way. He was a widower without children. There was
Ughtred, the uncle of the present peer, still a man in the prime of
life. He might yet marry and have a family. He was devoted to good
living and had a reputation as a dilettante. I had never seen him, but
he had held office at Court, and was altogether rather an important
person.
My difficulties would come when I arrived at the main branch of the
family, and I reserved them for the final stroke. I should then be
obviously near the succession and might be suspected of motives. A
great many eyes would be upon me, and there would probably be a young
baby and his perfectly healthy father to deal with. I began to realise
that so far I had merely nibbled at my task.
It was advisable to give myself rest for a few months, as I discovered
that after each campaign my nerve was apt to be slightly affected. I
had proved to my own satisfaction that the dictum, ‘murder will out,’
was invented to frighten mankind, had in fact been set up as a
perpetual bogey. Nat Holway’s guilt might be discovered, but the
tracing of my anonymous letter would be an almost impossible task.
I was very anxious to know how Janet Gray’s affair was progressing,
and rather hoped I might be asked to stay at the Grange for a day or
two. I gathered as time went on that the friendship between Miss
Gascoyne and her aunt had grown stronger and stronger. Mr. Gascoyne
told me that their attachment was a great relief to him, that the
companionship of her niece had to a great extent dissipated his wife’s
melancholy, and that having a common sorrow they were very much in
sympathy.
“They admire each other, and it is the dignified and warm friendship
of two women to whom respect is essential. By the way, Israel, the
girl Janet Gray is married.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, to a young miller called Nat Holway. He is very steady and very
well-to-do. I almost wondered——” He pulled himself up abruptly.
“Yes, sir?” I queried.
“Nothing, nothing.”
I knew what he had intended to say, and fervently wished that he would
get rid of his vague suspicions.
I was glad, therefore, when he continued: “I have often wondered
whether my nephew may not have had a fight with some admirer of Janet
Gray, a fight that ended unexpectedly in a tragedy.”
“Do you intend to pursue the matter?”
“No,” he answered, energetically. “I think when a man undertakes the
seduction of a girl he must look for violence from those whose
feelings he outrages or from those whose hearths he pollutes. I could
not if it were my own son bring the avenger to so-called justice. I
may be wrong, but I believe that if my niece were asked, she would
agree with me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, for they were not precisely the
sentiments I had expected from him.