The Everlasting Arms
by Joseph Hocking · English · Gutenberg #39218 · 632,348 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Everlasting Arms
Author: Joseph Hocking
Release date: March 20, 2012 [eBook #39218]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39218
Credits: E-text prepared by David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines,
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EVERLASTING ARMS ***
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THE EVERLASTING ARMS
by
JOSEPH HOCKING
Author of "All for a Scrap of Paper," "The Trampled Cross," etc., etc.
Hodder and Stoughton
London New York Toronto
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I A WOMAN'S FACE 1
CHAPTER II THE MARCONIGRAM 8
CHAPTER III THE SHIPWRECK 15
CHAPTER IV "THE ENEMY OF YOUR SOUL" 23
PART I.--THE FIRST TEMPTATION
CHAPTER V THE ONLY SURVIVING RELATIVE 29
CHAPTER VI WENDOVER PARK 39
CHAPTER VII LADY BLANCHE MAKES HER APPEARANCE 52
CHAPTER VIII COUNT ROMANOFF'S GOSPEL 60
CHAPTER IX BEATRICE STANMORE 69
CHAPTER X UNCERTAINTY 78
CHAPTER XI THE REAL HEIR 86
CHAPTER XII THE DAY OF DESTINY 94
CHAPTER XIII THE INVISIBLE HAND 102
CHAPTER XIV A SCRAP OF PAPER 113
CHAPTER XV COUNT ROMANOFF'S DEPARTURE 118
CHAPTER XVI RIGGLETON'S HOMECOMING 125
CHAPTER XVII FAVERSHAM'S RESOLUTION 132
PART II.--THE SECOND TEMPTATION
CHAPTER XVIII MR. BROWN'S PROPHECY 140
CHAPTER XIX AN AMAZING PROPOSAL 151
CHAPTER XX "THE COUNTRY FOR THE PEOPLE" 157
CHAPTER XXI THE MIDNIGHT MEETING 165
CHAPTER XXII "YOU AND I TOGETHER" 173
CHAPTER XXIII THE SO-CALLED DEAD 181
CHAPTER XXIV VISIONS OF ANOTHER WORLD 190
CHAPTER XXV ROMANOFF'S PHILOSOPHY 199
CHAPTER XXVI A VOICE FROM ANOTHER WORLD 209
CHAPTER XXVII OLGA MAKES LOVE 218
PART III.--THE THIRD TEMPTATION
CHAPTER XXVIII THE COUNT'S CONFEDERATE 227
CHAPTER XXIX IN QUEST OF A SOUL 236
CHAPTER XXX VOICES IN THE NIGHT 245
CHAPTER XXXI DICK HEARS STRANGE NEWS 254
CHAPTER XXXII BEATRICE CONFESSES 263
CHAPTER XXXIII SIR GEORGE'S LOVE AFFAIR 272
CHAPTER XXXIV THE DAWN OF LOVE 281
CHAPTER XXXV THE ETERNAL STRUGGLE 291
CHAPTER XXXVI HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL 301
CHAPTER XXXVII AT THE CAFÉ MOSCOW 310
CHAPTER XXXVIII THE SHADOW OF A GREAT TERROR 319
CHAPTER XXXIX THE TRIUMPH OF GOOD 327
CHAPTER XL THE MINISTERING ANGEL 336
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I
A WOMAN'S FACE
"There may be a great deal in it."
"Undoubtedly there is. Imagination, superstition, credulity," said Dick
Faversham a little cynically.
"Well, I can't dismiss it in that fashion," replied the other. "Where
there's smoke there's fire, and you can't get men from various parts of
the world testifying that they saw the Angels at Mons unless there is
some foundation of truth in it."
"Again I say imagination. Imagination can do a great deal. Imagination
can people a churchyard with ghosts; it can make dreams come true, and
it can also make clever men foolish."
"Admit that. You still haven't got to the bottom of it. There's more
than mere imagination in the stories of the Angels at Mons, and at other
places. Less than three weeks ago I was at a hospital in London. I was
talking with a wounded sergeant, and this man told me in so many words
that he saw the Angels. He said there were three of them, and that they
remained visible for more than an hour. Not only did he see them, but
others saw them. He also said that what appeared like a great calamity
was averted by their appearance."
There was a silence after this somewhat lengthy speech, and something
like an uncanny feeling possessed the listeners.
The conversation took place in the smoke-room of a steamship bound for
Australia, and at least a dozen men were taking part in it. The subject
of the discussion was the alleged appearance of the Angels at Mons, and
at other places in France and Belgium, and although at least half of the
little party was not convinced that those who accepted the stories had a
good case, they could not help being affected by the numerous instances
that were adduced of the actual appearance of spiritual visitants. The
subject, as all the world knows, had been much discussed in England and
elsewhere, and so it was not unnatural that it should form the topic of
conversation in the smoke-room of the outgoing vessel.
One of the strongest opponents to the supernatural theory was a young
man of perhaps twenty-seven years of age. From the first he had taken up
an antagonistic attitude, and would not admit that the cases given
proved anything.
"Excuse me," he urged, "but, really, it won't do. You see, the whole
thing, if it is true, is miraculous, and miracles, according to Matthew
Arnold, don't happen."
"And who is Matthew Arnold, or any other man, to say that what we called
miracles don't happen?" urged Mr. Bennett, the clergyman, warmly. "In
spite of Matthew Arnold and men of his school, the world still believes
in the miracles of our Lord; why, then, should miracles happen in
Palestine and not in France?"
"If they did happen," interpolated Faversham.
"Either they happened, or the greatest movement, the mightiest and
noblest enthusiasms the world has ever known, were founded on a lie,"
said the clergyman solemnly.
"That may be," retorted Faversham, "but don't you see where you are
leading us? If, as you say, we accept the New Testament stories, there
is no reason why we may not accept the Angels at Mons and elsewhere. But
that opens up all sorts of questions. The New Testament tells of people
being possessed by devils; it tells of one at least being tempted by a
personal devil. Would you assert that a personal devil tempts men
to-day?"
"I believe that either the devil or his agents tempt men to-day,"
replied the clergyman.
"Then you would, I suppose, also assert that the old myth of guardian
angels is also true."
"Accepting the New Testament, I do," replied Mr. Bennett.
Dick Faversham laughed rather uneasily.
"Think," went on the clergyman; "suppose someone who loved you very
dearly in life died, and went into the great spirit world. Do you not
think it natural that that person should seek to watch over you? Is it
not natural that he or she who loved you in life should love you after
what we call death? A mother will give her life for her child in life.
Why should she not seek to guard that same child even although she has
gone to the world of spirits?"
"But the whole thing seems so unreal, so unnatural," urged Faversham.
"That is because we live in a materialistic age. The truth is, in giving
up the idea of guardian angels and similar beliefs we have given up some
of the greatest comforts in life. Because we have become so
materialistic, we have lost that grand triumphant conviction that there
is no death. Why--why--"--and Mr. Bennett rose to his feet
excitedly--"there is not one of those splendid lads who has fallen in
battle, who is dead. God still cares for them all, and not one is
outside His protection. I can't explain it, but I _know_."
"You know?"
"Yes, I know. And I'll tell you why I know. My son Jack was killed at
Mons, but he's near me even now. Say it's unreal if you like, say it's
unnatural if you will, but it's one of the great glories of life to me."
"I don't like to cast a doubt upon a sacred conviction," ventured
Faversham after a silence that was almost painful, "but is not this
clearly a case of imagination? Mr. Bennett has lost a son in the war. We
are all very sorry for him, and we are all glad that he gets comfort
from the feeling that his son is near him. But even admitting the truth
of this, admitting the doctrine that a man's spirit does not die because
of the death of the body, you have proved nothing. The appearance of the
Angels in France and Belgium means something more than this. It declares
that these spirits appear in visible, tangible forms; that they take an
interest in our mundane doings; that they take sides; that they help
some and hinder others."
"Exactly," assented Mr. Bennett.
"You believe that?"
"I believe it most fervently," was the clergyman's solemn answer. "I am
anything but a spiritualist, as the word is usually understood; but I
see no reason why my boy may not communicate with me, why he may not
help me. I, of course, do not understand the mysterious ways of the
Almighty, but I believe in the words of Holy Writ. 'Are they not all
ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs
of salvation?' says the writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews. While our
Lord Himself, when speaking of little children, said, 'I say unto you
that their angels do always behold the face of My Father who is in
heaven.'"
Again there was a silence which was again broken by Dick Faversham
turning and speaking to a man who had not spoken during the whole
discussion, but who, with a sardonic, cynical smile upon his face, had
been listening intently.
"What is your opinion, Count Romanoff?" asked Faversham.
"I am afraid I must be ruled out of court," he replied. "These stories
smack too much of the nursery."
"You believe that they are worn-out superstitions?"
"I should shock you all if I told you what I believe."
"Shock us by all means."
"No, I will spare you. I remember that we have a clergyman present."
"Pray do not mind me," urged Mr. Bennett eagerly.
"Then surely you do not accept the fables recorded in the New
Testament?"
"I do not admit your description. What you call fables are the greatest
power for righteousness the world has ever known. They have stood the
test of ages, they have comforted and inspired millions of lives, they
stand upon eternal truth."
Count Romanoff shrugged his shoulders, and a smile of derision and
contempt passed over his features.
"All right," he replied, and again lapsed into silence.
The man had spoken only a very few commonplace words, and yet he had
changed the atmosphere of the room. Perhaps this was because all felt
him utterly antagonistic to the subject of discussion. He was different
from Dick Faversham, who in a frank, schoolboy way had declared his
scepticism. He had been a marked man ever since the boat had left
England. There were several reasons for this. One was his personal
appearance. He was an exceedingly handsome man of perhaps forty years of
age, and yet there was something repellent in his features. He was
greatly admired for his fine physique and courtly bearing, and yet but
few sought his acquaintance. He looked as though he were the repository
of dark secrets. His smile was cynical, and suggested a kind of
contemptuous pity for the person to whom he spoke. His eyes were deeply
set, his mouth suggested cruelty.
And yet he could be fascinating. Dick Faversham, who had struck up an
acquaintance with him, had found him vastly entertaining. He held
unconventional ideas, and was widely read in the literature of more than
one country. Moreover, he held strong views on men and movements, and
his criticisms told of a man of more than ordinary intellectual acumen.
"You refuse to discuss the matter?"
"There is but little use for an astronomer to discuss the stars with an
astrologer. A chemist would regard it as waste of time to discuss his
science with an alchemist. The two live in different worlds, speak a
different language, belong to different times."
"Of course, you will call me a fanatic," cried the clergyman; "but I
believe. I believe in God, and in His Son Jesus Christ who died for our
sins, and who rose from the dead. On that foundation I build all the
rest."
A change passed over the Count's face. It might be a spasm of pain, and
his somewhat pale face became paler; but he did not speak. For some
seconds he seemed fighting with a strong emotion; then, conquering
himself, his face resumed its former aspect, and a cynical smile again
passed over his features.
"The gentleman is too earnest for me," he remarked, taking another cigar
from his case.
Dick Faversham did not see the change that passed over the Count's face.
Indeed, he had ceased to take interest in the discussion. The truth was
that the young man was startled by what was an unusual occurrence. The
room, as may be imagined, bearing in mind that for a long time a number
of men had been burning incense to My Lady Nicotine, was in a haze of
tobacco smoke, and objects were not altogether clearly visible; but not
far from the door he saw a woman standing. This would not have been
remarkable had not the lady passengers, for some reason known to
themselves, up to the present altogether avoided the smoke-room. More
than this, Dick did not recognise her. He had met, or thought he had met
during the voyage, every lady passenger on the boat; but certainly he
had never seen this one before. He was perfectly sure of that, for her
face was so remarkable that he knew he could not have forgotten her.
She was young, perhaps twenty-four. At first Dick thought of her as only
a girl in her teens, but as, through the thick smoky haze he watched her
face, he felt that she had passed her early girlhood. What struck him
most forcibly were her wonderful eyes. It seemed to him as though, while
they were large and piercing, they were at the same time melting with an
infinite tenderness and pity.
Dick Faversham looked at her like a man entranced. In his interest in
her he forgot the other occupants of the room, forgot the discussion,
forgot everything. The yearning solicitude in the woman's eyes, the
infinite pity on her face, chained him and drove all other thoughts
away.
"I say, Faversham."
He came to himself at the mention of his name and turned to the speaker.
"Are you good for a stroll on deck for half an hour before turning in?"
It was the Count who spoke, and Dick noticed that nearly all the
occupants of the room seemed on the point of leaving.
"Thank you," he replied, "but I think I'll turn in."
He looked again towards the door where he had seen the woman, but she
was gone.
"By the way," and he touched the sleeve of a man's coat as he spoke,
"who was that woman?"
"What woman?"
"The woman standing by the door."
"I saw no woman. There was none there."
"But there was, I tell you. I saw her plainly."
"You were wool-gathering, old man. I was sitting near the door and saw
no one."
Dick was puzzled. He was certain as to what he had seen.
The smoke-room steward appeared at that moment, to whom he propounded
the same question.
"There was no lady, sir."
"But--are you sure?"
"Certainly, sir. I've been here all the evening, and saw everyone who
came in."
Dick made his way to his berth like a man in a dream. He was puzzled,
bewildered.
"I am sure I saw a woman," he said to himself.
CHAPTER II
THE MARCONIGRAM
He had barely reached his room when he heard a knock at the door.
"Yes; what is it?"
"You are Mr. Faversham, aren't you?"
"Yes; what do you want?"
"Wireless for you, sir. Just come through."
A few seconds later Dick was reading a message which promised to alter
the whole course of his life:
"_Your uncle, Charles Faversham, Wendover Park, Surrey, just
died. Your immediate return essential. Report to us on arrival._
BIDLAKE & BILTON, _Lincoln's Inn_."
The words seemed to swim before his eyes. His uncle, Charles Faversham,
dead! There was nothing wonderful about that, for Dick had heard quite
recently that he was an ailing man, and not likely to live long. He was
old, too, and in the course of nature could not live long. But what had
Charles Faversham's death to do with him? It was true the deceased man
was his father's stepbrother, but the two families had no associations,
simply because no friendship existed between them.
Dick knew none of the other Favershams personally. His own father, who
had died a few years before, had left him practically penniless. His
mother, whose memory his father adored, had died at his, Dick's, birth,
and thus when he was a little over twenty he found himself alone in the
world. Up to that time he had spent his life at school and at college.
His father, who was a man of scholarly instincts, had made up his mind
that his son should adopt one of the learned professions, although
Dick's desires did not lean in that direction. At his father's death,
therefore, he set to work to carve out a career for himself. He had good
abilities, a determined nature, and great ambitions, but his training,
which utterly unfitted him for the battle of life, handicapped him
sorely. For three years nothing went well with him. He obtained
situation after situation only to lose it. He was impatient of control,
he lacked patience, and although he had boundless energies, he never
found a true outlet for them.
At length fortune favoured him. He got a post under a company who did a
large business in Austria and in the Balkan States, and he made himself
so useful to his firm that his progress was phenomenal.
It was then that Dick began to think seriously of a great career. It was
true he had only climbed a few steps on fortune's ladder, but his
prospects for the future were alluring. He pictured himself becoming a
power in the commercial world, and then, with larger wealth at his
command, he saw himself entering Parliament and becoming a great figure
in the life of the nation.
He had social ambitions too. Although he had had no serious love
affairs, he dreamed of himself marrying into an old family, by which
means the doors of the greatest houses in the land would be open to him.
"Nothing shall stop me," he said to himself again and again; and the
heads of his firm, realising his value to them, gave him more and more
responsibility, and also pointed hints about his prospects.
At the end of 1913, however, Dick had a serious disagreement with his
chiefs. He had given considerable attention to continental politics, and
he believed that Germany would force war. Because of this he advocated a
certain policy with regard to their business. To this his chiefs gave a
deaf ear, and laughed at the idea of England being embroiled in any
trouble with either Austria or the Balkan States. Of course, Dick was
powerless. He had no capital in the firm, and as his schemes were rather
revolutionary he was not in a position to press them.
On the outbreak of war in 1914 Dick's firm was ruined. What he had
predicted had come to pass. Because they had not prepared for this
possible contingency, and because large sums of money were owing them in
Austria and Serbia, which they could not recover, all their energies
were paralysed. Thus at twenty-seven years of age, with only a few
hundreds of pounds in his possession, Dick had to begin at the bottom
again.
At length a firm who knew something of his associations with his
previous employers offered to send him to Australia to attend to matters
in which they believed he could render valuable service, but payment for
which would depend entirely on his own success. Dick accepted this offer
with avidity.
This in bare outline was his story up to the commencement of the history
which finds him on his way to Australia with the momentous marconigram
in his hands.
Again and again he read the wireless message which had been handed to
him. It was so strange, so unexpected, so bewildering. He had never seen
or spoken to his uncle, never expected to. He was further removed from
this representative of his family than the Jews from the Samaritans. It
is true he had seen Wendover Park from the distance. He remembered
passing the lodge gates some year or two before when cycling through
Surrey. From a neighbouring hill he had caught sight of the old house
standing in its broad park-lands, and a pang of envy had shot through
his heart as he reflected that although its owner and his father were
stepbrothers he would never be admitted within its walls.
But this message had altered everything: "_Your uncle, Charles
Faversham, Wendover Park, just died. Your immediate return essential.
Report to us on arrival._"
The words burnt like fire into his brain. A wireless message, sent to
him in mid-ocean, must be of more than common purport. Men of Bidlake &
Bilton's standing did not send such messages as a pastime. They would
not urge his immediate return without serious reasons.
It must mean--it could only mean--one thing. He must in some way be
interested in the huge fortune which Charles Faversham had left behind
him. Perhaps, perhaps--and again he considered the probable outcome of
it all.
Hour after hour he sat thinking. Was his future, after all, to become
great, not simply by his own energies, but because of a stroke of good
fortune? Or, better still, was his uncle's death to be the means whereby
he could climb to greatness and renown? After all he had not longed so
much for money for its own sake, but as a means whereby he could get
power, distinction, high position. With great wealth at his command he
could--and again a fascinating future spread before him.
He could not sleep; of course, he couldn't! How could he sleep when his
brain was on fire with wild imaginings and unknown possibilities?
He reflected on the course of his voyage, and considered where the
vessel would first stop. Yes, he knew they were to call at Bombay, which
was a great harbour from which ships were frequently returning to
England. In three days they would be there, and then----
Should he take anyone into his confidence? Should he give reasons for
leaving the ship? Oh, the wonder, the excitement of it all! The
discussion about the Angels at Mons, and the talk about visitants from
the spirit world caring for the people who lived on earth, scarcely
entered his mind. What need had he for such things?
But who was that woman? For he was sure he had seen her. Tyler, to whom
he had spoken, and the smoke-room steward might say that no woman was
there, but he knew better. He could believe his own eyes anyhow, and the
wonderful yearning look in her eyes still haunted him in spite of the
disturbing message.
It was not until towards morning that sleep came to him, and then he was
haunted by dreams. Strange as it may seem, he did not dream of Bidlake &
Bilton's message nor of his late uncle's mansion. He dreamt of his
father and mother. He had never seen his mother; she had died at his
birth. He had never seen a picture of her, indeed. He believed that his
father possessed her portrait, but he had never shown it to him. His
father seldom spoke of his mother, but when he did it was in tones of
awe, almost of worship. She was like no other woman, he said--a woman
with all the possible beauty and glory of womanhood stored in her heart.
And she was with his father in his dream. They stood by his bedside
watching over him. His father's face he remembered perfectly. It was
just as he had seen it when he was alive, except that there was an added
something which he could not describe. His mother's face was strange to
him. Yet not altogether so. He knew instinctively that she was his
mother--knew it by the look on her almost luminous face, by the yearning
tenderness of her eyes.
Neither of them spoke to him. They simply stood side by side and watched
him. He wished they would speak; he felt as though he wanted guidance,
advice, and each looked at him with infinite love in their eyes.
Where had he seen eyes like those of his mother before? Where had he
seen a face like the face in his dream? He remembered asking himself,
but could recall no one.
"Mother, mother," he tried to say, but he could not speak. Then his
mother placed her hand on his forehead, and her touch was like a
benediction.
When he woke he wondered where he was; but as through the porthole he
saw the sheen of the sea he remembered everything. Oh, the wonder of it
all!
A knock came to the door. "Your bath is ready, sir," said a steward, and
a minute later he felt the welcome sting of the cold salt water.
He scarcely spoke throughout breakfast; he did not feel like talking. He
determined to find some lonely spot and reflect on what had taken place.
When he reached the deck, however, the longing for loneliness left him.
The sky was cloudless, and the sun poured its warm rays on the spotless
boards. Under the awning, passengers had ensconced themselves in their
chairs, and smoked, or talked, or read just as their fancy led them.
In spite of the heat the morning was pleasant. A fresh breeze swept
across the sea, and the air was pure and sweet.
Acquaintances spoke to him pleasantly, for he had become fairly popular
during the voyage.
"I wonder if they have heard of that wireless message?" he reflected.
"Do they know I have received news of Charles Faversham's death, and
that I am probably a rich man?"
"Holloa, Faversham."
He turned and saw Count Romanoff.
"You look rather pale this morning," went on the Count; "did you sleep
well?"
"Not very well," replied Dick.
"Your mind exercised about the discussion, eh?"
"That and other things."
"It's the 'other things' that make the great interest of life," remarked
the Count, looking at him intently.
"Yes, I suppose they do," was Dick's reply. He was thinking about the
wireless message.
"Still," and the Count laughed, "the discussion got rather warm, didn't
it? I'm afraid I offended our clerical friend. His nod was very cool
just now. Of course, it's all rubbish. Years ago I was interested in
such things. I took the trouble to inform myself of the best literature
we have on the whole matter. As a youth I knew Madame Blavatsky. I have
been to seances galore, but I cease to trouble now."
"Yes?" queried Dick.
"I found that the bottom was knocked out of all these so-called
discoveries by the first touch of serious investigation and criticism.
Nothing stood searching tests. Everything shrivelled at the first touch
of the fire."
"This talk about angels, about a hereafter, is so much empty wind," went
on the Count. "There is no hereafter. When we die there is a great black
blank. That's all."
"Then life is a mockery."
"Is it? It all depends how you look at it. Personally I find it all
right."
Dick Faversham looked at his companion's face intently. Yes, it was a
handsome face--strong, determined, forceful. But it was not pleasant.
Every movement of his features suggested mockery, cynicism, cruelty.
And yet it was fascinating. Count Romanoff was not a man who could be
passed by without a thought. There was a tremendous individuality behind
his deep-set, dark eyes--a personality of great force suggested by the
masterful, mobile features.
"You have nerves this morning, Faversham," went on the Count. "Something
more than ordinary has happened to you."
"How do you know?"
"I feel it. I see it. No, I am not asking you to make a confidant of me.
But you want a friend."
"Yes," cried Dick, speaking on impulse; "I do."
The other did not speak. He simply fixed his eyes on Faversham's face
and waited.
CHAPTER III
THE SHIPWRECK
For a moment Dick was strongly tempted to tell his companion about the
wireless he had received. But something, he could not tell what, seemed
to forbid him. In spite of the fact that he had spent a good deal of
time with Count Romanoff he had given him no confidences. There was
something in his presence, in spite of his fascination, that did not
inspire confidence.
"By the way," ventured Dick, after an awkward silence, "I have often
been on the point of asking you, but it felt like a liberty. Are you in
any way connected with the great Russian family of your name?"
The Count hesitated before replying. "I do not often speak of it," he
told him presently, "but I come of a Royal Family."
"The Romanoffs of Russia?"
The Count smiled.
"I do not imagine that they would admit me into their family circle," he
replied. "I make no claims to it, but I have the right."
Dick was duly impressed.
"Then, of course, you are a Russian. You were born there?"
"A Russian!" sneered the other. "A vast conglomeration of savagery,
superstition, and ignorance! I do not claim to be a Russian. I have
estates there, but I am a citizen of the world. My sympathies are not
national, insular, bounded by race, paltry landmarks, languages. I live
in a bigger world, my friend. Yes, I am a Romanoff, if you like, and I
claim kinship with the greatest families of the Russian Empire--but la
la, what is it? Thistledown, my friend, thistledown."
"But you were educated in Russia?" persisted Dick.
"Educated! What is it to be educated? From childhood I have been a
wanderer. I have taken my degrees in the University of the world. I have
travelled in China, Japan, Egypt, America, the Antipodes. In a few days
we shall call at Bombay. If you will accompany me I will take you to
people in that city, old Indian families whose language I know, whose
so-called mysteries I have penetrated, and who call me friend. Ecco! I
owe my education to all countries, all peoples."
He did not speak boastfully; there was no suggestion of the boaster, the
braggadocio, in his tones; rather he spoke quietly, thoughtfully, almost
sadly.
"Tell me this," asked Dick: "you, who I judge to be a rich man, do you
find that riches bring happiness?"
"Yes--and no. With wealth you can buy all that this world can give you."
Dick wondered at the strange intonation of his voice.
"It is the only thing that can bring happiness," added Romanoff.
"I fancy our friend Mr. Bennett would not agree with you," laughed Dick.
"He would say that a clear conscience meant happiness. He would tell you
that a good life, a clean mind, and a faith in God were the secrets of
happiness."
Romanoff laughed.
"What makes a clear conscience? It is a feeling that you have done what
is right. But what is right? What is right in China is wrong in England.
What makes the Chinaman happy makes the Englishman miserable. But why
should the Englishman be miserable because he does the thing that makes
the Chinaman happy? No, no, it won't do. There is no right; there is no
wrong. The Germans are wise there. What the world calls morality is a
bogy to frighten foolish people. 'It is always right to do the thing you
_can_ do,' says Brother Fritz. Personally I believe it to be right to do
what satisfies my desires. It is right because it brings happiness.
After all, you haven't long to live. A few years and it is all over. A
shot from a pistol and _voilà!_ your brains are blown out--you are dead!
Therefore, take all that life can give you--there is nothing else."
"I wonder?" said Dick.
"That is why money is all-powerful. First of all, get rid of
conventional morality, rid your mind of all religious twaddle about
another life, and then suck the orange of this life dry. You, now, you
are keen, ardent, ambitious; you love beautiful things; you can enjoy to
the full all that life can give you. Nature has endowed you with a
healthy body, ardent desires, boundless ambitions--well, satisfy them
all. You can buy them all."
"But I am not rich," interposed Dick.
"Aren't you?" queried the other. "Who knows? Anyhow, you are young--make
money. 'Money talks,' as the Americans say."
Again Dick was on the point of telling him about the wireless message,
but again he refrained.
"By the way, Count Romanoff," he said, "did you see that woman in the
smoke-room last night?"
"Woman! what woman?"
"I don't know. I never saw her before. But while you were talking I saw
a woman's face through the haze of tobacco smoke. She was standing near
the door. It was a wonderful face--and her eyes were beyond description.
Great, pure, yearning, loving eyes they were, and they lit up the face
which might have been--the face of an angel."
"You were dreaming, my friend. I have seen every woman on board, and not
one of them possesses a face worth looking at twice."
"I asked another man," admitted Dick, "and he told me I was dreaming. He
had been sitting near the door, he assured me, and he had seen no woman,
while the smoke-room steward was just as certain."
"Of course there was no woman."
"And yet I saw a woman, unless----" He stopped suddenly.
"Unless what, my friend?"
"Unless it was a kind of rebuke to my scepticism last night; unless it
was the face of an angel."
"An angel in mid-ocean!" Romanoff laughed. "An angel in the smoke-room
of a P. & O. steamer! Faversham, you are an example of your own
arguments. Imagination can do anything."
"But it would be beautiful if it were so. Do you know, I'm only half a
sceptic after all. I only half believe in what I said in the smoke-room
last night."
"Perhaps I can say the same thing," said Romanoff, watching his face
keenly.
"I say!" and Dick laughed.
"Yes, laugh if you will; but I told you just now that the world
contained no mystery. I was wrong; it does. My residence in India has
told me that. Do you know, Faversham, what has attracted me to you?--for
I have been attracted, I can assure you."
"Flattered, I'm sure," murmured Dick.
"I was attracted, because the moment I saw your face I felt that your
career would be out of the ordinary. I may be wrong, but I believe that
great things are going to happen to you, that you are going to have a
wonderful career. I felt it when I saw you come on deck a little while
ago. If you are wise you are going to have a great future--a _great_
future."
"Now you are laughing."
"No, I'm not. I'm in deadly earnest. I have something of the power of
divination in me. I feel the future. Something's going to happen to you.
I think great wealth's coming to you."
Dick was silent, and a far-away look came into his eyes. He was thinking
of the wireless message, thinking whether he should tell Romanoff about
it.
"I started out on this voyage--in the hope that--that I should make
money," he stammered.
"Where?"
"In Australia."
"You'll not go to Australia."
"No? Why?"
"I don't know--something's going to happen to you. I feel it."
Dick was again on the point of taking him into his confidence when two
acquaintances came up and the conversation ended. But Dick felt that
Romanoff knew his secret all the time.
The day passed away without further incident, but towards afternoon
there was a distinct change in the weather. The sky became overclouded,
and the gentle breeze which had blown in the morning strengthened into a
strong, boisterous wind. The smooth sea roughened, and the passengers no
longer sat on deck. The smoke-room was filled with bridge players, while
other public rooms became the scenes of other amusements.
But Dick preferred being alone. He was still hugging his news to his
heart, still reflecting on the appearance of the strange woman's face in
the smoke-room, and all the time he was under the influence of Count
Romanoff's conversation.
Perhaps the great, dark, heaving waste of waters excited his nerves and
made him feel something of the mysterious and resistless forces around
him. After all, he asked himself, how small the life of a man, or a
hundred men, appeared to be amidst what seemed infinite wastes of ocean.
After dinner, in spite of the fact that the weather remained boisterous,
he again went on deck. The sky had somewhat cleared now, and although
there were still great black angry clouds, spaces of blue could be seen
between them. Here the stars appeared, and shone with great brilliancy.
Then the moon rose serene, majestic. Now it was hidden by a great storm
cloud, and again it showed its silvery face in the clear spaces.
"Great heavens!" cried Dick, "how little a man knows of the world in
which he lives, and what rot we often talk. The air all around me may be
crowded with visitants from the unseen world! My dream last night may
have an objective reality. Perhaps my father and my mother were there
watching over me! Why not?"
It is said that atheists are bred in slums, and amidst brick walls and
unlovely surroundings. It is also said that there are few sailors but
who are believers--that the grandeur of the seas, that the wonder of
great star spaces create a kind of spiritual atmosphere which makes it
impossible for them to be materialists. Whether that is so I will not
argue. This I know: Dick Faversham felt very near the unseen world as
he leaned over the deck railings that night and gazed across the
turbulent waters.
But this also must be said. The unseen world seemed to him not good, but
evil. He felt as though there were dark, sinister forces around
him--forces which were inimical to what he conceived to be best in him.
Before midnight he turned in, and no sooner did he lay his head on his
pillow than he felt himself falling asleep. How long he slept he did not
know. As far as he remembered afterwards, his sleep was dreamless. He
only knew that he was awakened by a tremendous noise, and that the ship
seemed to be crashing to pieces. Before he realised what had taken place
he found himself thrown on the floor, while strange grating noises
reached his ears. After that he heard wild shouts and despairing
screams. Hastily putting on a coat over his night clothes, he rushed out
to see what had happened; but all seemed darkness and confusion.
"What's the matter?" he cried, but received no answer.
Stumblingly he struggled towards the companion-way, where he saw a dark
moving object.
"What's happened?" he gasped again.
"God only knows, except the vessel going down!"
"Vessel going down?"
"Yes; struck a mine or something!"
Even as the man spoke the ship seemed to be splitting asunder. Harsh,
grating, bewildering noises were heard everywhere, while above the
noises of timber and steel were to be faintly heard the cries of frantic
women and excited men.
Then something struck him. He did not know what it was, but he felt a
heavy blow on his head, and after that a great darkness fell upon him.
How long the darkness lasted he could not tell. It might have been
minutes, it might have been hours; but he knew that he suddenly came to
consciousness through the touch of icy-cold water. The cold seemed to
pierce his very marrow, to sting him with exquisite pain. Then he was
conscious that he was struggling in the open sea.
He had been a strong swimmer from early boyhood, and he struck out now.
He had no idea which way to swim, but swim he did, heedless of direction
or purpose. A kind of instinct forced him to get as far away as possible
from the spot where he came to consciousness.
There was still a heavy sea running. He found himself lifted on the
crest of huge waves, and again sinking in the depths. But he held on. He
had a kind of instinct that he was doing something to save his life.
Presently his mind became clear. The past came vividly before him--the
talk in the smoke-room, the wireless message----
Yes, he must live! Life held out so much to him. His immediate return to
England was essential. Bidlake & Bilton had told him so.
Where were the other passengers? He had heard women's cries, the wild
shouts of men, the creaking of timbers, the grating of steel; he had
felt that the great steamship was being torn to pieces. But now there
was nothing of this. There was nothing but the roar of waters--great,
heaving, turbulent waters.
He still struggled on, but he knew that his strength was going. It
seemed to him, too, as though some power was paralysing his limbs,
sapping his strength. He still had the desire to save himself, to live;
but his will power was not equal to his desire.
Oh, the sea was cruel, cruel! Why could not the waves cease roaring and
rolling if only for five minutes? He would have time to rest then, to
rest and regain his strength.
Still he struggled on. Again he felt himself carried on the crest of
waves, and again almost submerged in the great troughs which seemed to
be everywhere.
"O God, help me!" he thought at length. "My strength is nearly gone. I'm
going to be drowned!"
A sinister power seemed to surround him--a power which took away hope,
purpose, life. He thought of Count Romanoff, who had said there was
nothing after death--that death was just a great black blank.
The thought was ghastly! To cease to be, to die there amidst the wild
waste of the sea, on that lonely night! He could not bear the thought of
it.
But his strength was ebbing away; his breath came in panting sobs; his
heart found it difficult to beat. He was going to die.
Oh, if only something, someone would drive away the hateful presence
which was following him, surrounding him! He could still struggle on
then; he could live then. But no, a great black shadow was surrounding
him, swallowing him up. Yes, and the ghastly thing was taking shape. He
saw a face, something like the face of--no, he could liken it to no one
he knew.
The waves still rolled on; but now he heard what seemed like wild,
demoniacal laughter. Once, when a boy, he had seen Henry Irving in
_Faust_; he saw the devils on the haunted mountain; he heard their
hideous cries. And there was a ghastly, evil influence with him now. Did
it mean that devils were there waiting to snatch his soul directly it
left his body?
Then he felt a change. Yes, it was distinct, definite. There was a
light, too--a pale, indistinct light, but still real, and as his tired
eyes lifted he saw what seemed to be a cross of light shining down upon
him from the clouds. What could it mean?
It seemed to him that the sinister presence was somehow losing power,
that there was something, someone in the light which grew stronger.
Then a face appeared above him. At first it was unreal, intangible,
shadowy; but it grew clearer, clearer. Where had he seen it before?
Those great, tender, yearning eyes--where had he seen them? Then the
form of a woman became outlined--a woman with arms outstretched. Her
face, her lips, her eyes seemed to bid him hope, and it felt to him as
though arms were placed beneath him--arms which bore him up.
It was all unreal, as unreal as the baseless fabric of a dream; and yet
it was real, wondrously real.
"Help me! Save me!" he tried to say, but whether he uttered the words he
did not know. He felt that his grip on life became weaker and
weaker--then a still, small voice seemed to whisper, "The Eternal God is
thy refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."
The roar of the waves grew less, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER IV
"THE ENEMY OF YOUR SOUL"
When again Dick Faversham regained something like consciousness he had a
sensation of choking, of a hard struggle to breathe, which ended in
partial failure.
He did not know where he was, but he had a sense of warmth, of
restfulness. He thought he heard the ripple of waves on a sunlit shore,
and of wide-spreading trees which grew close to the edge of the sea.
But it was all indistinct, unreal, and he did not care very much. He was
trying to breathe, trying to overcome the awful sense of choking, and
after a while, dazed, bewildered though he was, he felt his breath come
easier and the weight on his chest grow lighter. But he was terribly
tired--so tired that he had no desire to struggle, so languid that his
very efforts to breathe were the result not of his own will, but of some
claims of nature over which he had no control. He was just a piece of
machinery, and that was all.
He felt himself going to sleep, and he was glad. He had no curiosity as
to where he was, no desire to know how he came to be there, no
remembrance of the past; he only knew that warm air wrapped him like a
garment, and that he was deliciously tired and sleepy.
How long he slept he did not know, but presently when he woke he saw the
sun setting in a blaze of glory. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred the
warm, fragrant air, and all was silent save the lapping of the waves and
the screaming of birds in the distance.
He sat up and looked around him. Great tropical trees grew in wild
profusion, while gorgeous vegetation abounded. It was like some land of
dreams.
Then suddenly memory asserted itself, and the past flashed before his
mind. Everything became clear, vivid.
"I am saved! I am alive!" he exclaimed aloud.
Again he saw the wild upheaving sea; he felt himself struggling in the
deep, while his strength, strength of body, of mind, and will were
failing him. He recalled the dark, fearful presence that surrounded him,
and then the coming of the light, and in the light the outline of a
woman's form. Nothing would ever destroy that memory! The face, the
lips, the eyes! No, he should never forget! And he had seen her arms
outstretched, felt her arms placed beneath him--the arms that bore him
up, brought him to safety.
"I was saved," he murmured--"saved by an angel!"
He was startled by the sound of a footstep, and, turning, he saw
Romanoff, and with him came back something of the feeling that some evil
presence surrounded him.
"That's right, Faversham. I was afraid, hours ago, that I should never
bring you round, but at length you made good, and then, like a sensible
fellow, went to sleep."
Romanoff spoke in the most matter-of-fact way possible, banishing the
mere thought of angels or devils.
"Where are we? How did we get here?" gasped Faversham. Up to now he had
not given a thought to the other passengers.
"Where are we? On an island in the Pacific, my dear fellow. How did we
get here? After the accident--or whatever it was--the boats were
lowered, and all hands were got away. I looked out for you, but could
not find you. There was a great commotion, and it was easy to miss
anyone in the darkness. I was among the last to leave the sinking
vessel, and the boat was pretty full. We had got perhaps half a mile
away from the scene of the wreck, when I saw someone struggling in the
sea. It was by the purest chance possible that I saw. However, I managed
to get hold of--what turned out to be you. You were nearly gone--I never
thought you'd--live."
"But how did I get here?" asked Dick, "and--and where are the others?"
"It was this way," and Romanoff still continued to speak in the same
matter-of-fact tones. "As I told you, the boat was jammed
full--overweighted, in fact--so full that your weight was a bit of a
danger. More than one said you were dead, and suggested that--that it
was no use endangering the safety of the others. But I felt sure you
were alive, so I held out against them."
"And then?" asked Dick. He was only giving half his mind to Romanoff's
story; he was thinking of what he saw when he felt his strength leaving
him.
"You see the bar out yonder?" and Romanoff pointed towards a ridge of
foam some distance out at sea. "It's mighty rough there--dangerous to
cross even when the sea is smooth; when it is rough--you can guess. I
was holding you in my arms in order to--give room. The oarsmen were
making for land, of course; you see, we had been many hours in a mere
cockleshell, and this island promised safety. But in crossing the bar we
were nearly upset, and I suddenly found myself in the sea with you in my
arms. It was fairly dark, and I could not see the boat, but I was
fortunate in getting you here. That's all."
"That's all?"
"Yes; what should there be else?"
"But the others?"
"Oh, I expect they've landed somewhere else on the island--sure to, in
fact. But I've not looked them up. You see, I did not want to leave
you."
"Then you--you've saved me?"
"Oh, that's all right, my dear fellow. You are here, and you are looking
better every minute; that's the great thing. See, I've brought you some
food--fruit. Delicious stuff. I've tried it. Lucky for us we got to this
place."
Dick ate almost mechanically. He was still wondering and trying to
square Romanoff's story with his own experiences. Meanwhile, Romanoff
sat near him and watched him as he ate.
"How long have we been here?"
"Ten hours at least. Look, my clothes are quite dry. By Jove, I was
thankful for the hot sun."
"You saved me!" repeated Dick. "I owe my life to you, and yet even
now----"
"What, my dear fellow?"
"I thought I was saved in another way."
"Another way? How?"
Dick hesitated a few seconds, and then told him, while Romanoff listened
with a mocking smile on his lips.
"Of course, you were delirious; it was pure hallucination."
"Was it? It was very real to me."
"Such things don't happen, my friend. After all, it was a very
matter-of-fact, mundane affair. You were lucky, and I happened to see
you--that's all--and if there was an angel--I'm it."
The laugh that followed was anything but angelic!
"I suppose that's it," and with a sigh Dick assented to Romanoff's
explanation. Indeed, with this strange, matter-of-fact man by his side,
he could not believe in anything miraculous. That smile on his face made
it impossible.
"I don't know how to thank you," he said fervently. "You've done me the
greatest service one man can do for another. I can't thank you enough,
and I can never repay you, but if we ever get away from here, and I have
an opportunity to serve you--all that I have shall be yours."
"I'll remember that," replied Romanoff quietly, "and I accept what you
offer, my friend. Perhaps the time will come when I can take advantage
of it."
"I hope you will--you must!"--Dick's mind had become excited--"and I
want to tell you something," he continued, for he was strangely drawn
towards his deliverer. "I want to live. I want to get back to England,"
he went on. "I have not told you before, but I feel I must now."
Whereupon he told him the story of the wireless message and what it
possibly might mean.
Romanoff listened gravely, and Dick once again experienced that uncanny
feeling that he was telling the other a story he already knew.
"Didn't I tell you on the boat that something big was in store for you?"
he said, after many questions were asked and answered. "I shall
certainly look you up when I go to England again, and it may be I shall
be able to render you some--further service."
Night came on, and Dick slept. He was calm now and hopeful for the
future. Romanoff had told him that as the island was on the great trade
route it was impossible for them to be left there long. Vessels were
always passing. And Dick trusted Romanoff. He felt he could do no other.
He was so strong, so wise, so confident.
For hours he slept dreamlessly, but towards morning he had a vivid
dream, and in his dream he again saw the face of the angel, just as he
had seen on the wild, heaving sea.
"Listen to me," she said to him. "That man Romanoff is your enemy--the
enemy of your soul. Do you realise it?--your soul. He is an emissary of
the Evil One, and you must fight him. You must not yield to him. You
will be tempted, but you must fight. He will be constantly near you,
tempting you. He is your enemy, working for your downfall. If you give
way to him you will be for ever lost!"
Dick heard her words quite plainly. He watched her face as she spoke,
wondered at the yearning tenderness in her eyes.
"How can he be my enemy?" he asked. "He risked his life to save mine; he
brought me to safety."
"No," she replied; "it was the arms of another that were placed beneath
you, and bore you up. Don't you know whose arms? Don't you remember my
face?"
"Who are you?" asked Dick.
Then, as it seemed to him in his dream, Romanoff came, and there was a
battle between him and the angel, and he knew that they were fighting
for him, for the possession of his soul.
He could see them plainly, and presently he saw the face of Romanoff
gloat with a look of unholy joy. His form became more and more clearly
outlined, while that of the angel became dimmer and dimmer. The evil
power was triumphant. Then a change came. Above their heads he saw a
luminous cross outlined, and he thought Romanoff's face and form became
less and less distinct. But he was not sure, for they were drifting away
from him farther and farther----
Again he saw the angel's face, and again she spoke. "You will be
tempted--tempted," she said, "in many ways you will be tempted. But you
will not be alone, for the angel of the Lord encampeth around them that
fear Him. You will know me by the same sign. Always obey the angel."
He awoke. He was lying where he had gone to sleep hours before. He
started to his feet and looked around him.
Near him, passing under the shadows of the great trees, he thought he
saw a woman's face. It was the face he had seen on the outgoing vessel,
the face he had seen when he was sinking in the deep waters, the face
that had come to him in his dreams.
He was about to speak to her, to follow her, when he heard someone
shouting.
"Faversham! Faversham!" It was Romanoff's voice. "Come quickly. We've
hailed a vessel; our signal has been seen. Come to the other side of the
island."
PART I.--THE FIRST TEMPTATION
CHAPTER V
THE ONLY SURVIVING RELATIVE
Dick Faversham made his way to the offices of Messrs. Bidlake & Bilton,
Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, with a fast-beating heart. He felt
like a man whose fortune depended on the turn of a die. If the lawyers
had sent him a message for the purpose he hoped, all was well; if
not----And for the hundredth time he considered the pros and cons of
the matter.
His rescue from the island had turned out to be one of the prosiest
matters imaginable. The captain of an English-bound steamer had seen the
signals made from the island, and had sent boats. Thus Dick was saved
without difficulty. There were others who had a similar fortune, but
Dick had no chance to speak with them. No sooner did he reach the
steamer than he was taken ill, and remained ill during the whole of the
homeward voyage.
After he reached Plymouth he began to recover rapidly, but he found on
making inquiries that all who were rescued from the island had
disembarked at the western seaport. This was very disappointing to him,
as he wanted to make inquiries concerning the manner of their escape. Of
Romanoff he neither heard nor saw anything. No one knew anything of him
on the steamer, neither was he known to board it.
Dick was both glad and sorry because of this. Glad because, although
Romanoff possessed a strange fascination for him, he had never been
altogether comfortable in his presence. The man repelled him even while
he fascinated him, and he felt relieved that he was not on board. On the
other hand, he was sorry, because he had a feeling that this strange,
saturnine man might have been a great help to him in his peculiar
circumstances.
"It may be all a will-o'-the-wisp fancy," he reflected as he walked
along Fleet Street towards the Law Courts, "and yet it must mean
something."
His mind was in a whirl of bewilderment, for in spite of Romanoff's
explanation he could not drive from his mind the belief that his
experiences after the vessel was wrecked had been real. Indeed, there
were times when he was _sure_ that he had seen an angel's form hovering
while he was struggling in the sea, sure that he felt strong arms
upholding him.
"At any rate, this is real," he said to himself as he turned into
Lincoln's Inn Fields. "I am here on dry land. I wear a suit of clothes
which Captain Fraser gave me, and I have twenty-four shillings in my
pocket. Whatever happens, I will at the first opportunity pay the
captain for his kindness."
He entered the office and gave his name.
"Do you wish to see Mr. Bidlake or Mr. Bilton?" asked the clerk.
"Either, or both," replied Dick.
"Would you state your business, please?" The clerk did not seem to be
sure of him.
"I will state my business to your principals," replied Dick. "Please
take in my name."
When the clerk returned his demeanour was changed. He was obsequious and
anxious to serve.
"Will you come this way, please, sir?" he said. "Mr. Bilton is in Mr.
Bidlake's room, and----"
He did not finish the sentence, for the door of an office opened and a
man of about fifty years of age appeared.
"Come in, Mr. Faversham," he invited. "Do you know, I've been on
tenterhooks for days about you."
"I landed at Tilbury only a few hours ago."
"Is that so? But it was this way: we, of course, heard that your boat
had been mined, and we also heard that a number of the passengers and
crew were rescued; but news about you was contradictory. In one list of
the saved your name appeared, while in another you were not mentioned.
Tell us all about it."
"Another time," replied Dick. He was in a fever to know why this very
respectable firm of lawyers should have sent a wireless to him.
"Yes, yes, of course," assented Mr. Bidlake, leading the way to an inner
room. "Bilton, you may as well come too. My word, Mr. Faversham, I _am_
glad to see you."
Dick felt light-hearted. Mr. Bidlake would not receive him in this
fashion had there not been important reasons for doing so.
"Well now, to come to business right away," said Mr. Bidlake the moment
they were seated--"you got my message?"
"Twenty-four hours before I was wrecked," replied Dick.
"Just so. You'll tell us all about that presently. My word, you must
have had a terrible time! But that's by the way. You got my message, and
therefore you know that your uncle, Mr. Charles Faversham, is dead?"
Dick nodded. He tried to appear calm, but his heart was thumping like a
sledge-hammer.
"Of course, you know that Mr. Charles Faversham was a bachelor, and--by
the way, Mr. Bilton, will you find the Faversham papers? You've had them
in hand."
"Yes, my uncle was a bachelor," repeated Dick as Mr. Bidlake hesitated.
"You've never had any communications with him?"
"Never."
"A peculiar man. A genius for business, but, all the same, a peculiar
man. However, I think it's all plain enough."
"What is plain enough?"
"Have you the papers, Bilton? That's good. Yes, I have everything here.
This is the last will of Mr. Faversham--a plain, straightforward will in
many ways, although slightly involved in others. However----"
The lawyer untied some tape, and began scanning some documents.
"However what?" asked Dick, who by this time was almost beside himself
with impatience.
"By the way, you can easily put your hand on your birth certificate, as
well as the death certificate of your father, I suppose?"
"Quite easily."
"Of course you can. The fact that I have known you for some time makes
things far easier, far less--complicated. Otherwise a great many
formalities would have to be gone into before--in short, Mr. Richard
Faversham, I have great pleasure in congratulating you on being the heir
to a fine fortune--a _very_ fine fortune."
Mr. Bidlake smiled benignly.
"My uncle's fortune?"
"Your uncle's estate--yes. He was a very rich man."
"But--but----" stammered Dick.
"Yes, yes, of course, you wish for some details. This is the position.
Your uncle made a will--a rather peculiar will in some ways."
"A peculiar will?" queried Dick.
"Yes--as you know, I did a great deal of work for him; but there were
others. Triggs and Wilcox attended to some things, while Mortlake and
Stenson also did odd jobs; but I have made all inquiries, and this is
the last will he made. He wrote it himself, and it was duly witnessed. I
myself have interviewed the witnesses, and there is no flaw anywhere,
although, of course, this document is by no means orthodox."
"Orthodox? I don't understand."
"I mean that it is not in legal form. As a matter of fact, it is utterly
informal."
"You mean that there is some doubt about it?"
"On no, by no means. It would stand good in any court of law, but, of
course, all such documents are loosely worded. In case of a lawsuit it
would offer occasion for many wordy battles," and Mr. Bidlake smacked
his lips as though he would enjoy such an experience. "But here is the
will in a nutshell," he went on. "You see, his own brother died many
years ago, while your father, his stepbrother, died--let me see--how
long ago? But you know. I need not go into that. As you may have heard,
his sister Helen married and had children; she was left a widow, and
during her widowhood she kept house for your uncle; so far so good. This
is the will: all his property, excepting some small sums which are
plainly stated, was left equally to his sister Helen's children, and to
their heirs on their decease."
"But where do I come in?" gasped Dick.
"Here, my dear sir. There is a clause in the will, which I'll read:
'Should not my sister Helen's children be alive at the time of my
decease, all my property is to be equally divided between my nearest
surviving relatives.' Now, here," went on the lawyer, "we see the
foolishness of a man making his own will, especially a man with such
vast properties as Mr. Charles Faversham had. First of all, suppose his
sister Helen's children married and had children who were alive at the
time of Mr. Charles Faversham's death. These children might not inherit
a penny if his sister's children had been dead. Again, take the term
'equally divided.' Don't you see what a bill of costs might be run up in
settling that? What is an equal division? Who is to assess values on an
estate that consists of shipping interests, lands, mines, and a host of
other things? Still, we need not trouble about this as it happens. We
have inquired into the matter, and we find that your Aunt Helen's
children are dead, and that none of them was married."
"Then--then----"
"You are the nearest surviving relative, my dear sir, and not only
that--you are the only surviving relative of the late Mr. Charles
Faversham of Wendover Park, Surrey."
Dick Faversham still appeared outwardly calm, although his brain was
whirling with excitement. The words, 'shipping interests, lands, mines,
and a host of other things,' were singing in his ears. And he--_he_ was
heir to it all! But was there some doubt about it? Was everything so
definite as the lawyer had stated?
"I believe my Aunt Helen had three children," Dick said after a
silence--"two girls and a boy, or two boys and a girl, I have forgotten
which. Do you mean to say they are all dead?"
"Certain. Directly on Mr. Faversham's death I went into the matter. Two
of the children died in England. The third, a son, died in Australia. I
was very anxious about that, and spent quite a little fortune in
cablegrams. Still, I got everything cleared up satisfactorily."
"Tell me how." Dick was very anxious about this. It seemed to him as the
crux of the whole question.
"It was naturally a little difficult," and Mr. Bidlake smiled
complacently. "Australia is some little distance away, eh? But I managed
it. For one thing, an old articled clerk of mine went to Melbourne some
years ago, and succeeded in getting a practice there. He was very
anxious to oblige me, and got on the track almost immediately.
Fortunately for us, the death of Mr. Anthony Riggleton was somewhat
notorious."
"And Mr. Anthony Riggleton was my Aunt Helen's son?" asked Dick.
"Exactly. He was not a young man of high character, and I am given to
understand that Mr. Charles Faversham threatened more than once, when he
was in England, never to leave him a penny. However, he paid his debts,
gave him a sum of money, and told him to go away and never to return
again during his life. It seems, too, that Mr. Anthony Faversham
Riggleton considerably reformed himself during the time he was in
Australia, so much so that favourable reports were sent to his uncle
concerning his conduct. That, I imagine, accounts for his inclusion in
the will. Whether he went wild again, I don't know, but it is certain
that he met his death in a very suspicious way. It seems that he and
some other men met in a house of bad repute not far from Melbourne, and
in a brawl of some sort he came to an untimely end. His body was found
more than twenty-four hours after his death, in the harbour at
Melbourne. Evidently the affair was most unsavoury. His face was much
bashed. A pistol-shot had passed through his brain, and there were some
knife-stabs in his body."
"And his companions?" asked Dick.
"They had cleared out, and left no traces behind. You see, they had
plenty of time to do so before the police were able to get to work.
According to the latest reports I have heard, there is not the slightest
chance of finding them."
"But the body--was it identified?"
"It was. Letters were found on the body addressed to Mr. Anthony
Faversham Riggleton, and there were also private papers on his person
which left no doubt. Added to this, the evidence of the cashier and of a
clerk of the Bank of Australia was most explicit. You see, he had called
at the bank on the morning of the night of the brawl, and drew what
little money he had. When the body was brought to the mortuary, both the
cashier and the clerk swore it was that of the man who had called for
the money."
"That was settled definitely, then?"
"Just so. Oh, you can make your mind quite easy. Directly I got news of
Mr. Charles Faversham's death I naturally took steps to deal with his
estate, and I assured myself of your interest in the matter before
seeking to communicate with you. I would not have sent you that wireless
without practical certainty. Since then I have received newspapers from
Melbourne giving details of the whole business."
"And my Aunt Helen?" asked Dick.
"She died before the will was made. I gather that her death caused him
to make the new will--the one we are discussing--in a hurry."
"And my two other cousins?" Dick persisted. He wanted to assure himself
that there could be no shadow of doubt.
The lawyer smiled. "Things do happen strangely sometimes," he said. "If
anyone had told me at the time this will was made that you would come in
for the whole estate, I should have laughed. There were three healthy
people in your way. And yet, so it is. They are dead. There is not a
shadow of doubt about it."
"But didn't my uncle know of their decease?"
"I can't tell you that. He was a strange man. As I have said, he had a
regular genius for making money, and he lived for his business. He
simply revelled in it; not because he cared about money as such, but
because the accumulation of wealth fascinated him. He was, as you know,
unmarried, and up to the time of his making this will, his sister, of
whom he seemed to have been fond, kept house for him. But he would not
have her children around him. He gave them large sums of money, but he
had no personal knowledge of them. It is quite probable, therefore, that
he, being in failing health for more than a year before his death, would
have no knowledge that they died some time before he did. You would
understand if you had known him. A most eccentric man."
Dick reflected a few seconds. The way seemed perfectly plain, and yet
everything seemed intangible, unreal.
"In proof of that," went on the lawyer, "he did not tell either Mr.
Bilton or myself that he had made this will. He simply gave a letter to
the housekeeper he had secured after his sister's death, and told her
that this letter was to be given to me at his decease. That letter,"
went on Mr. Bidlake, "contained the key of a safe and instructions to me
to deal with the contents of the safe immediately after his death. Of
course, I opened the safe, and among the first things I found was this
will. The rest I have explained to you."
"And you say I am very wealthy?" asked Dick almost fearfully. Even yet
it seemed too good to be true.
"Wealthy!" and the lawyer smiled. "Wealthy, my dear sir! I cannot yet
tell you _how_ wealthy. But if a controlling interest in one of the most
prosperous shipping companies in the world, if the principal holding in
one of our great banks, if landed estates in more than three counties,
if important mining interests, if hundreds of houses in London and hosts
of other things mean great wealth--then I can truly say that you are a
very wealthy man. Of course, I cannot as yet estimate the value of the
whole estate, but the death duties will make a nice fortune--a _very_
nice fortune. Still, if you decide to entrust your legal business to us,
as we hope you will, we shall be able in a few weeks to give you an
approximate idea of what you are worth."
"Of course I will do that," replied Dirk hastily; "naturally there is no
question about the matter. That must be settled here and now."
"Thank you," said Mr. Bidlake. "Naturally Mr. Bilton and myself
appreciate this mark of your confidence. You may depend that neither of
us will spare himself in order to serve you. Eh, Mr. Bilton?"
"Exactly," replied Mr. Bilton. It was the only word he had as yet spoken
throughout the interview.
"And now," said Dick, "I want your advice."
"Our advice? Certainly. What about?"
"Well, owing to the wreck, I am at this moment in borrowed clothes. I
have only a few shillings in my pocket----"
"My dear sir," interrupted the lawyer, "that presents no difficulties.
Let me give you an open cheque for two hundred--five hundred--pounds
right away. Naturally, too, you will want to get clothes. You lost
everything in the--the wreck; naturally you did. I had almost forgotten
such things in the--the bigger matter. But that's all right. I have a
private sitting-room here, and my tailor would be only too glad to come
here right away. A most capable man. He would rig you out, temporarily,
in a few hours, and afterwards----"
"That's all right," interrupted Dick; "but what next?"
"Take possession at once, my dear sir--at once."
"But I don't want anything to get into the papers."
"Certainly not--if we can help it. And I think we can. Shall I ring up
my tailors? Yes?" And Mr. Bidlake took a telephone receiver into his
hand. "That's all right," he added two minutes later. "Hucknell will be
here in less than half an hour, and you can trust him to fix you up and
tide you over the next few days. Yes, he will be glad to do so--very
glad. Terrible business this industrial unrest, isn't it? I'm afraid
it's going to take some settling. Of course, it's world wide, but I say,
thank goodness our people have got more sense and more balance than
those poor Russians."
The words were simple enough, and the expression was almost a
commonplace, but Dick Faversham felt a sudden pain at his heart. He
thought of the dark, mysterious man who claimed kinship with the great
Russian House of Romanoff, and in a way he could not understand; the
thought seemed to take away from the joyous excitement which filled his
being at that moment. He wished he had never seen, never heard of Count
Romanoff.
With an effort he shook off the cloud.
"You suggest that I go to Wendover Park at once?"
"Yes, say to-morrow morning. It is your right; in a way, it's your duty.
The property is undeniably yours."
"Would--would you--could you go with me?" stammered Dick.
"I was on the point of suggesting it myself, my dear sir. Yes, I could
go to-morrow morning."
"Are there any servants there, or is the house empty?" asked Dick. Again
he had a sense of unreality.
"Most of the servants are there," replied the lawyer. "I thought it best
to keep them. I am not sure about a chauffeur, though. I have an idea I
discharged him. But it can easily be managed. The housekeeper whom your
uncle engaged on your aunt's death is there, and she, it appears, has a
husband. Rather a capable man. He can get a chauffeur. I'll ring up
right away, and give instructions. You don't mind, do you?"
"It's awfully good of you," Dick assured him. "I shall feel lost without
you."
At half-past one Dick accompanied Mr. Bidlake to his club for lunch,
attired in a not at all badly fitting ready-made suit of clothes, which
Mr. Hucknell had secured for him, and spent the afternoon with the
lawyer discussing the new situation.
"Nine-thirty-five Victoria," said Mr. Bidlake to him as he left him that
night.
"I'll be there."
Dick went to his hotel like a man in a dream. Even yet everything was
unreal to him. He had received assurances from one of the most
trustworthy and respectable lawyers in London that his position was
absolutely safe, and yet he felt no firm foundation under his feet.
"I expect it's because I've seen nothing yet," he reflected. "When I go
down to-morrow and get installed as the owner of everything, I shall see
things in a new light."
CHAPTER VI
WENDOVER PARK
The end of April had now come, and a tinge of green had crept over what
in many respects is one of the loveliest counties in England. The train
in which Mr. Bidlake and Dick Faversham sat had left Redhill and was
passing through a rich, undulating countryside.
"You feel a bit excited, I expect?" and Mr. Bidlake looked up from his
copy of _The Times_.
"Just a bit."
"You'll soon get over your excitement, although, of course, you'll find
the change very great. A rich man has many responsibilities."
"If I remember aright, there are several other big houses within a few
miles of Wendover Park? Was my uncle on good terms with his neighbours?"
The lawyer coughed. "He did not go much into society. As I told you, he
was a very eccentric man."
Dick was quick to notice the tone in which the other spoke. "You mean
that he was not well received?"
"I mean that he lived his own life. Mr. Faversham was essentially a
business man, and--and perhaps he could not understand the attitude of
the old county families. Besides, feeling against him was rather strong
when he bought Wendover Park."
"Why?"
"I daresay you'll learn all about it in time. Enough to say now that Sir
Guy Wendover, the previous owner, was in money difficulties, and the
feeling was that your uncle took advantage of them in order to get hold
of the place. Personally I don't pay much attention to such stories; but
undoubtedly they affected your uncle's position. Possibly they may
affect yours--for a time." The lawyer appeared to utter the last
sentence as an afterthought.
Presently the train stopped at a wayside station, where the two
alighted. The sun was now high in the heavens, and the birds were
singing gaily. Wooded hills sloped up from the station, while westward
was a vast panorama of hill and dale.
"I don't think you could find a fairer sight in all England," remarked
Mr. Bidlake. "Ah, that's right. I see a motor-car is waiting for us."
Dick felt as thought a weight rolled from his shoulders the moment he
stood beneath the open sky. Yes, this was glorious! The air was laden
with the perfume of bursting life. The chorus of the birds exhilarated
him; the sight of the rich loamy meadows, where lambkins sported and
cows fed lazily, made him feel that he was not following some chimera of
the mind, but tangible realities.
A chauffeur touched his cap. "Mr. Faversham and Mr. Bidlake, sir?" he
inquired.
A few minutes later the car was moving swiftly along beautiful country
lanes, the like of which only a few English counties can show. Yes, Dick
had to admit it. Beautiful as he thought the whole district to be when
cycling through it years before, he had no idea it was like this. Every
corner they turned revealed new loveliness. All nature seemed bent on
giving him a great welcome to his new home.
They had covered perhaps half the journey between the station and the
house when the chauffeur jammed his foot on the brake suddenly and
brought the car to a standstill. In front of them stood a small
two-seater, by the open bonnet of which stood a young lady with hand
uplifted. Evidently something had gone wrong with her machine, and the
lane at this point was not wide enough for them to pass.
Dick immediately alighted.
"I am awfully sorry to inconvenience you," protested the girl, "but my
engine has stopped, and, try as I may, I can't get it to start again."
Her face was slightly flushed, partly with her endeavours to start the
engine and partly with impatience; but this did not detract from her
more than usually handsome appearance. For she was handsome; indeed,
Dick thought he had never seen such a striking girl. And this was no
wonder. It is only rare that nature produces such a perfect specimen of
young womanhood as he saw that morning--perfect, that is, in face and
form, perfect in colouring, in stature, in bearing. She was a
brunette--great black flashing eyes, full red lips, raven-black hair,
skin suffused with the glow of buoyant health. More than ordinarily
tall, she was shaped like a Juno, and moved with all the grace and
freedom of an athlete.
"Help the lady, my man," said Mr. Bidlake to the chauffeur.
"Sorry, sir," replied the man, "but I don't know anything about engines.
I've only just learnt to drive. You see, sir, Mrs. Winkley didn't quite
know what to do when----"
"All right," interrupted Dick, with a laugh; "perhaps I can help you."
"If you only could," laughed the girl. "I haven't had the thing long,
but it never went wrong until to-day. I know how to drive pretty well,
but as for understanding the engine, I'm a mere baby."
She had a frank, pleasant voice, and laughed as she spoke, revealing
perfect teeth.
Dick, who had quite a gift for mechanism, quickly found some tools, and
commenced testing the sparking-plugs like a man conversant with his
work.
"I'll have to take off my coat if you'll excuse me," he said presently.
"I see you start the thing on a battery, and have no magneto. I'm sorry
I don't know this class of car well, but I think I can see what's the
matter."
"What is it? Do tell me," she cried, with an eager laugh. "I've been
studying motor manuals and all that sort of thing ever since I commenced
to drive, but diagrams always confuse me."
"The distributor seems to be wrong, and some wires have become
disconnected. Have you been held up long?"
"Oh, a quarter of an hour--more."
"And running the battery all the time?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You must be careful or your battery'll run out of electricity; that
would mean your being hung up for two days."
"They told me that at the garage a little time ago. But what must I do?"
and she laughed at him pleasantly.
"If she doesn't start at once, get someone to adjust the parts. There, I
wonder if she'll go now."
He touched a switch, and the engine began to run.
"She seems all right," he said, after watching the moving mass of
machinery for some seconds.
"Oh, you are good--and--thank you ever so much."
"It's been quite a pleasure," replied Dick, putting on his coat. "It was
lucky I came by."
"It was indeed; but look at your hands. They are covered with oil. I
_am_ sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. Oil breaks no bones. Besides, I shall be able
to wash them in a few minutes."
"You are not going far, then?"
"Only to Wendover Park. Do you know it?"
"Know it! Why----" She checked herself suddenly, and Dick thought she
seemed a little confused. "But I must be going now. Thank you again."
She got into the car, and in a few seconds was out of sight.
"Remarkably handsome young lady, isn't she?" remarked Mr. Bidlake. "Do
you know who she is?" he asked the chauffeur.
"Lady Blanche Huntingford, sir," replied the chauffeur.
"Whew!" whistled Mr. Bidlake.
"Anybody special?" asked Dick.
The lawyer smiled. "The incident is decidedly interesting," he replied.
"First, she is cousin to Sir Guy Wendover who used to own Wendover Park,
and second, she is the daughter of Lord Huntingford, the proudest and
most exclusive aristocrat in Surrey."
"No? By Jove, she is handsome!"
"It is said that the Huntingfords rule Social Surrey. If they take you
up, your social status is assured; if they boycott you----" and the
lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
Dick was silent a few seconds. Evidently he was thinking deeply. "Isn't
she glorious?" he cried presently. "I never saw such a dazzling girl.
Did you notice her eyes--her complexion? I--I wouldn't have missed it
for anything."
The lawyer did not reply. Perhaps he had reasons for his silence.
The car dashed on for another mile, and then Dick gave a cry of delight.
"That's it, isn't it?"
"Yes; that's it."
They were looking at a lovely old mansion which stood on the slope of a
hill. Stretching away from it were fine park-lands, and beyond these
were wide-stretching woods. Looked at on that fair spring day, it was
indeed a place to be proud of, to rejoice in.
"I never dreamt it was so fine!" gasped Dick.
"One of the finest places in England," was the lawyer's complacent
reply.
Dick looked like one fascinated. It appealed to and satisfied him
altogether.
"It's old, isn't it?"
"Three hundred years. It is said that the gardens are a wonder."
The car passed through some heavily wrought gates, and then rolled under
an avenue of old trees. Dick could not speak; the thought of possessing
such a place made him dumb. A few minutes later they drew up before the
main entrance.
Dick was the first to leap out. He was eager to enter, to claim
possession, to examine every nook and corner of his new home. He put his
foot on the bottom step leading to the door, and then stopped suddenly.
He felt himself rooted to the ground, felt afraid to move.
"I congratulate you again," said the lawyer. "I feel proud that I have
the privilege to----"
"Don't you see? There! Don't you see?" gasped Dick.
"See?" repeated the lawyer. "Of course I see one of the most beautiful
houses in England."
"Yes, but nothing else?" he asked excitedly.
"What do you mean?" queried the lawyer.
But Dick did not reply. Although the lawyer had seen nothing, he saw in
dim outline the face and form which had appeared to him when he was
sinking in the turbulent waters of the Indian Ocean. Was this a warning
that trouble was to overwhelm him again?
Dick Faversham had no doubts. Whatever he might think later, he was at
that time certain of what he saw. The sun was shining brightly, and
there was nothing in the various objects by which he was surrounded to
suggest the supernatural, and yet he saw the face of the angel. She
seemed to be hovering over the steps which led to the main entrance of
the house, and for the moment she looked as though she would forbid his
entrance. But only for the moment. Slowly she faded away, slowly he lost
sight of her, and by the time the servant, who had evidently seen the
approach of the car, had reached the door she had gone.
But he was sure he had seen her. The form he had seen hovering over him
on the wild, turbulent sea was plainly visible to him at the door of
this old Surrey mansion. The face, too, could not be mistaken. The same
calm, benign expression, the same tender mouth. Goodness, purity,
guardianship, all found their expression in those features. But there
was something more. The eyes which had riveted his attention and haunted
his memory for months seemed to convey something different to him now
from what they had then. There was still the same yearning gaze, the
same melting tenderness, but there was something more. They seemed to
suggest fear, warning. Dick Faversham felt as though she wanted to tell
him something, to warn him against some unknown danger. It is true the
feeling was indefinite and difficult to put into words; but it was
there. She might, while not forbidding him to enter the house which had
so unexpectedly come into his possession, be trying to tell him of
dangers, of possible calamity.
"And do you say that you can see--that--that you saw nothing?" he almost
gasped.
"I can see a great deal," replied Mr. Bidlake. "I can see one of the
loveliest scenes in England. I can see you standing at the entrance
of--but what do you mean? You look pale--frightened. Aren't you well?"
Dick opened his mouth to tell what he had seen, but he checked himself.
Somehow the thought of opening his heart to this matter-of-fact lawyer
seemed like sacrilege. He would not understand. He would tell him, just
as Romanoff had told him weeks before, that his mind was unbalanced by
the experiences through which he had passed, that the natural excitement
caused by the news he had heard were too much for him, and caused him to
lose his mental balance.
"Yes, I am quite well, thank you."
"Well, what do you mean? What do you think you saw?"
At that moment the door opened, and the housekeeper, who had hurried to
meet them, appeared, and the lawyer did not listen to his stammering
reply.
"Good-day, Mr. Bidlake," smiled the housekeeper. "I am glad you got here
all right. Winkley had quite a difficulty in getting a chauffeur. I hope
the one provided was satisfactory?"
"It's all right, Mrs. Winkley," and the lawyer was very patronising as
he spoke; "the man brought us here safely. This," and he turned towards
Dick, "is Mr. Richard Faversham, the new owner of--hem--Wendover Park,
and your new--master."
"Indeed, sir," and Mrs. Winkley turned and looked nervously towards
Dick, "I hope you'll be very--happy here, sir. I bid you welcome, sir."
Dick smiled with frank pleasure and shook hands--a familiarity which
pleased the housekeeper, but not the lawyer.
"You got my letter, Mrs. Winkley?" Mr. Bidlake said hurriedly.
"Yes, sir, also your telephone message yesterday. Wendover Park is a
lovely place, Mr. Faversham."
"It is, indeed, Mrs. Winkley. This Surrey air has given me an appetite,
too."
Dick was so nervous that he hardly knew what he was saying. As he
glanced around the spacious hall and tried to realise that it was his
own, and as he called to mind that for the last mile he had been passing
through his own property, it seemed to be too wonderful to be true.
"Yes, the air is very good, and I am glad you are hungry. Lunch will be
ready in half an hour. I have prepared a bedroom for you, Mr. Faversham.
I have assumed you are--staying here?"
"Rather!" and Dick laughed as he spoke. "You must excuse me if I'm a
little abrupt, Mrs. Winkley. You see, I imagine it will take me some
little time to settle down to the new order of things."
"I think I understand; it must be a wonderful experience for you. But I
think you'll find everything all right. I have taken great care of
everything since the late Mr. Faversham died. It's all just as he left
it. No doubt you'll want to look over the house?"
"Presently, Mrs. Winkley; but, first of all, I want to come to an
understanding with you. I am a bachelor, and I don't think I have a
relation in the world, so, for a time, I--shall make no changes in the
place at all. What I mean to say is, that I hope you'll continue to be
my housekeeper, and--and look after me generally. Mr. Bidlake has said
all sorts of good things about you, so much so that I shall regard
myself very fortunate if--if you'll remain in your present position."
Dick didn't know at all why he said this, except that he had a feeling
that something of the sort was expected from him.
"I'm sure it's very kind of you to say so, sir," and Mrs. Winkley smiled
radiantly. "Of course I've been a little bit anxious, not knowing what
kind of--of gentleman the new owner would be, or what plans he might
have. But, if you think I'll suit you, sir, I'll do my utmost to make
you comfortable and look after your interests. I was housekeeper to Dr.
Bell of Guildford when the late Mr. Faversham's sister died, and----"
"Yes, I've heard about that," interrupted Dick. "I'm sure he was lucky
to get you."
"I did my best for him, sir, and he never grumbled. I lived in these
parts as a girl, so I can get you plenty of references as to the
respectability of my family."
"I'm sure you can," Dick assented. He was glad that Mrs. Winkley was of
the superior servant order rather than some superior person who had
pretensions to being a fine lady. "By the way, of course you know the
house well?"
"Know the house well?" repeated Mrs. Winkley. She was not quite sure
that she understood him.
"Yes; know all the rooms?" laughed Dick nervously.
"Why, certainly, sir. I know every room from the garret to the cellar,"
replied Mrs. Winkley wonderingly.
"And there are no ghosts, are there?"
"Ghosts, sir? Not that I ever heard of."
"I was only wondering. It's an old house, and I was thinking that there
might be a family ghost."
Mrs. Winkley shook her head. "Nothing of the sort, sir, to my knowledge.
Wait a minute, though; I did hear when I was a girl that the elm grove
was haunted. There's a lake down there, and there was a story years ago
that a servant who had drowned herself there used to wander up and down
the grove wringing her hands on Michaelmas Eve."
"And where is the elm grove?"
"It's away towards the North Lodge. You wouldn't see it the way you
came, and it's hidden from here."
"But the house? There's no legend that that has ever been haunted?"
"No, sir. I suppose some of the Wendovers were very wild generations
ago, but I never heard that any of their spirits ever came back again."
Mrs. Winkley was pleased that her new master kept talking so long,
although she came to the conclusion that he was somewhat eccentric.
"Of course, it was foolish of me to ask," Dick said somewhat awkwardly;
"but the thought struck me. By the way, how long did you say it was to
lunch-time?"
"Not quite half an hour, sir," replied Mrs. Winkley, looking at an old
eight-day clock. "I'll speak to the cook and get it pushed forward as
fast as possible. Perhaps you'd like a wash, sir? I'll show you to your
room, if you would."
"Thank you. After that I--I think, Mr. Bidlake, I'd like to go into the
gardens."
He was afraid he was making a bad impression upon his housekeeper, and
he was angry with himself for not acting in a more natural manner. But
he seemed to be under a strange influence. Although the thought of the
supernatural had left him, his experience of a few minutes before
doubtless coloured his mind.
A few minutes later they were out in the sunlight again, and they had
scarcely reached the gardens when a man of about fifty years of age made
his way towards them.
"Good morning, sir," he said, with a strong Scotch accent. "Have I the
honour to speak to the new master?"
"Yes; my name is Faversham."
"I'm M'Neal, your second gardener, sir. I thought when I saw you I'd
make bold to speak, sir. I've been here for thirty years, sir, and have
always borne a good character."
"I've no doubt you have," laughed Dick. "You look it."
"Thank you, sir. I gave satisfaction to the late Mr. Faversham, and to
Sir Guy Wendover before him, and I hope----"
"That we shall get on well together. Of course we shall. I like the look
of you."
He felt better now. The sight of the broad expanse of the park and the
smell of the sweet, pure air made him light-hearted again.
"Indeed," he continued, "I may as well tell you right away that I intend
to keep everybody that was here in my uncle's days. You can tell the
others that."
"Thank you, sir. But I'd like to remark that this war has made food
dear."
"I'll bear that in mind; you'll not find me unjust. All who serve me
shall be well paid."
"We've all done our best, sir," persisted M'Neal, who was somewhat of a
character, "but I'll not deny that we shall all be the better for a
master. Personally I'm not satisfied with the way things are looking."
"No? I thought they looked beautiful."
"Ah, but nothing to what they can look. We are, as you may say, in a
kind of between time now. We've not planted out the beds, although we've
prepared them. If you'll----"
"Of course I will," Dick interrupted him, with a laugh, "but you must
give me time before making definite promises."
"If I might show you around," suggested M'Neal, "I think I could
explain----"
"Later, later," laughed Dick, moving away. "Mr. Bidlake, will you come
over here with me? I want to speak to you privately."
"Do you know," Mr. Bidlake told him, "that your uncle discharged M'Neal
several times during the time he lived here?"
"Why?"
"Because he followed him like a dog whenever he came into the grounds,
and insisted on talking to him. He said the fellow gave him no rest."
"But why did he take him on again?"
"He didn't. But M'Neal took no notice of the discharges. He always
turned up on the following morning, and went on with his work as though
nothing had happened."
"And my uncle paid him his wages?"
"Yes. You see, the fellow is as faithful as a dog, although he's a
nuisance. My word, what a view!"
The lawyer made this exclamation as a turn in the path revealed a
landscape they had not hitherto seen. It was one of those stretches of
country peculiar to that part of Surrey, and as Dick looked he did not
wonder at the lawyer's enthusiasm. Beyond the park, which was studded
with giant oaks, he saw a rich, undulating country. Here and there were
farmsteads nestling among the trees; again he saw stretches of
woodland, while in the distance rose fine commanding hills. The foliage
had far from reached its glory, but the tinge of green which was
creeping over every hedgerow and tree contained a promise, and a charm
that no poet could describe. And the whole scene was all bathed in
spring sunlight, which the birds, delighting in, made into a vast
concert hall.
"My word, it is ripping!" cried Dick.
"It's glorious! it's sublime!" cried the lawyer. "You are a fortunate
man, Mr. Richard Faversham. Do you know, sir, that all you can see is
yours?"
"All mine?" Dick almost gasped.
"Yes, all this and much more."
For the first time Dick had a real feeling of possession, and something
to which he had hitherto been a stranger entered his life. Up to now he
had been poor. His life, ever since his father died, had been a
struggle. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions, only to be
disappointed. In spite of ambition, endeavour, determination, everything
to which he had set his hand had failed him. But now, as if some fabled
genii had come to his aid, fortune had suddenly poured her favours into
his lap.
And here was the earnest of it!
This glorious countryside, containing farms, houses, villages, and
wide-spreading lands, was his. All his! Gratified desire made his heart
beat wildly. At last life was smiling and joyous. What a future he would
have! With wealth like his, nothing would be impossible!
"Yes, and much more," repeated the lawyer. "On what chances a man's
fortunes turn."
"What do you mean?" asked Dick, who scarce knew what he was saying.
"Only this," said Mr. Bidlake. "If that fellow had not been killed in a
drunken brawl, none of this would be yours. As it is, you are one of the
most fortunate men in England."
"Yes, by Jove, I am."
The lawyer looked at his watch. "Excuse me, Mr. Faversham, but it is
lunch-time, and I must leave you at five o'clock."
"I'm sorry you can't stay a few days."
"Impossible, my dear sir, much as I'd like to. But I've made a little
programme for you this afternoon, if it is quite convenient to you."
"Yes?" queried Dick.
"Yes; I've arranged for your steward, your head gamekeeper, and the
other principal men on the estate to call here. I thought you might like
to see them. There, I hear the lunch-gong."
Dick went back to the house like a man in a dream.
CHAPTER VII
LADY BLANCHE MAKES HER APPEARANCE
At six o'clock that evening Dick Faversham was alone. He had had
interviews with his steward, his bailiff, his gamekeeper, his forester,
his head gardener, and his head stableman, and now he was left to
himself. Mr. Bidlake, after promising to come again in three days, had
gone back to London, while the others had each gone to their respective
homes to discuss the new master of Wendover Park and the changes which
would probably take place.
Dick had also gone over the house, and had taken note of the many
features of his new dwelling-place. He had examined the library, the
billiard-room, the dancing-room, the minstrels' gallery, the banqueting
hall, and the many other apartments belonging to this fine old mansion.
Evidently many of the rooms had for years been unused, but, as Mrs.
Winkley had said, everything was "in perfect condition."
His uncle belonged to that order of men who could not bear to let
anything deteriorate for lack of attention, and he had spent his money
freely. In a way, too, Charles Faversham had a sense of fitness. In all
the improvements he had made, he saw to it that the character and spirit
of the old place should in no way be disturbed. Thus, while every room
was hygienic, and every fireplace fitted according to the most modern
ideas, the true character of everything was maintained. Electric light
was installed, but not a single fitting was out of accord with the age
of the building. Modern science had in everything been perfectly blended
with the spirit of the men who had erected this grand old pile centuries
before.
And Dick felt it all. He was enough of an artist to realise that
nothing was out of place, that it was a home to rejoice in, to be proud
of. If John Ruskin had been alive, and had accompanied him on his tour
of inspection, there was little that the author of _The Seven Lamps of
Architecture_ would have found fault with.
Most of the furniture, too, was old, and had belonged to the Wendovers.
When Mr. Charles Faversham had bought the estate, he had taken over
everything practically as it stood. Pictures, tapestry, antique articles
of furniture which had been in the house for centuries still remained.
"Everything has such a homely, cosy feeling!" he exclaimed to himself,
again and again. "The place is not one of those great, giant, homeless
barracks; it's just an ideal home. It's perfect!"
And it was all his! That was the thought that constantly came to his
mind. This fact was especially made real to him during his interview
with Mr. Boase, the steward. That worthy gentleman, a lawyer who lived
in a little town, most of which belonged to the Wendover estate, made
this abundantly plain by every word he spoke, by every intonation of his
voice.
Mr. Boase unrolled maps and plans in abundance. He placed before him
lists of tenants, with nature and condition of their tenancy. He told
him how much each farmer paid in rent, how much the house property was
worth, what amount was spent each year in repairs, and finally the net
amount of his rent-roll. And this was all apart from his investments
elsewhere. It was simply fabulous. He who had always been poor, and had
often been hard put to it to pay for food and clothes, found himself
ridiculously wealthy. He had money to burn. Aladdin of romantic renown
was not so much filled with wonder when the slave of the lamp appeared,
ready to do his bidding, as was Dick as he realised his position.
And he revelled in thought of it all. He was not of a miserly nature,
but he gloried in the influence of the power of wealth, and he painted
glowing pictures of his future. He saw the doors of the rich and the
great open to him; he saw himself courted by people possessing old names
and a great ancestry; he fancied himself occupying positions of
eminence in the life of the nation; he saw proud beauties smiling on
him.
Nothing was impossible! He knew he had more than an average share of
brains; his late employers had admitted as much to him. He also had the
gift of oratory. On the few occasions he had attempted to address his
fellows this had been abundantly proved. In the past he had been
handicapped, but now----
After dinner that night he walked out alone. He wanted to see his
possessions, to feel his own earth beneath his feet, to feast his eyes
on the glorious countryside.
"It will take me a week," he reflected, "to get used to it all, to fully
realise that it is all mine. I want to feel my feet, to formulate my
plans, to sketch my future. Of course, I shall be alone for a time, but
in a few days the neighbours will be sure to call on me. After that I
must give a ball. Of course, it is a bad time just now, and it is a
nuisance that so many of the young fellows have been called into the
Army; but I'll be able to manage it," and then he pictured the great
ballroom filled with laughter and gaiety.
Then the memory of Lady Blanche Huntingford came to him. He saw her as
she had appeared to him that morning. What a glorious creature she was!
What great flashing eyes, what a complexion, what a figure! And she
belonged to one of the oldest families in England. The Huntingfords were
a great people before half the titled nobility of the present day were
ever heard of.
He called to mind what Mr. Bidlake had told him. If the Huntingfords
recognised him, his social position was assured, for Lord Huntingford
was the social magnate of the county. He was almost half in love with
her already. He remembered her silvery laugh, the gleaming whiteness of
her teeth. What a mistress she would make for Wendover Park! And he
could win her love! He was sure he could, and when he did----
He blessed the failure of her car to run that morning; blessed the
knowledge he possessed whereby he had been able to render her a service.
Of course, she would find out who he was, and then--yes, he would find
the Open Sesame for every door.
For the next few days things happened as Dick expected. He was given
time to view his possessions, to take stock of his new position, and
then the neighbours began to call. By this time Dick knew full
particulars of all the old families in Surrey, and he was gratified at
their appearance. Evidently he suffered from none of the antipathy which
had been felt towards his uncle. He was young, he was good looking, he
had the education and appearance of a gentleman, and people accepted him
at his face value.
One day his heart gave a great bound, for a servant told him that Lord
and Lady Huntingford, accompanied by Lady Blanche Huntingford, were in
the drawing-room. He knew then that his position in the society of the
county would be assured. It was true that Lord Huntingford was
poor--true, too, that his uncle had practically ejected Sir Guy Wendover
from his old home, and that Sir Guy was a relative of the Huntingfords.
But that would count for nothing, and the Huntingfords were the
Huntingfords!
"This is good of you, Lord Huntingford!" he cried, as he entered the
room.
"I came to give you a welcome," said Lord Huntingford somewhat
pompously. "I trust you will be very happy here."
"I'm sure I shall!" cried Dick, with the laugh of a boy. "Wendover Park
feels like Paradise to me."
"I know the place well," said the peer. "My Cousin Guy, as you may have
heard, used to live here."
"Yes, I have heard of it, and I'm afraid you must feel rather bitterly
towards me as a consequence."
"Not at all," replied Huntingford. "Of course, it is all ancient history
now. We _did_ feel cut up about it at the time, but--but I congratulate
you on possessing such a fine old place."
"But for the fact that I so love it already," said Dick, "I should wish
my uncle had secured some other place; but, for the life of me, I can't.
It's too lovely. Anyhow, I'll try to be not an unworthy successor of Sir
Guy. I hope you'll help me, Lord Huntingford, and you, Lady Huntingford
and Lady Blanche. You see, I'm handicapped. I'm a bachelor, and I'm
entirely ignorant of my duties. I shall look to you for help."
This was sound policy on Dick's part. Lord Huntingford was a vain man,
and loved to patronise.
"You began all right," laughed Lady Blanche. "You helped a poor,
forlorn, helpless motorist out of a difficulty."
"You recognise me, then?"
"Of course I do. I positively envied the way you tackled that engine of
mine and put it right. Of course, I felt angry when I knew who you were.
No, no, there was nothing personal about it. I only hated the thought
that anyone other than a Wendover should live here. A family feeling,
you know."
"All that Wendover Park has is yours to command!" and Dick looked very
earnest as he spoke.
"Now, that's good of you. But don't be too liberal with your promises. I
may take you at your word."
"Try me!" cried Dick. "I should like to do something to atone. Not that
I can give it up," he added, with a laugh. "I simply couldn't, you know.
But--but----"
"And how are you going to spend your time?" asked Lord Huntingford. "We
are living in a critical age."
"I shall make something turn up!" Dick cried heartily, "as soon as I
know where I am."
"And, meanwhile, I suppose you motor, ride, shoot, golf, and all the
rest of it?" asked Lady Blanche.
"I have all the vices," Dick told her.
"You say you golf?"
"Yes, a little. Would you give me a match?" he ventured.
"I'd love to," and her eyes flashed into his.
The next afternoon Dick met Lady Blanche on the golf links, and before
the match was over he believed that he was in love with her. Never
before had he met such a glorious specimen of physical womanhood. To him
her every movement was poetry, her lithe, graceful body a thing in which
to rejoice.
After the match Dick motored her back to her home. He was in Arcadia as
she sat by his side. The charm of her presence was to him like some
fabled elixir. On their way they caught a glimpse of Wendover Park. The
old house stood out boldly on the hillside, while the wide-stretching
park-lands were plainly to be seen.
"It's a perfect place," said the girl. "It just wants nothing."
"Oh yes, it does," laughed Dick.
"What?" she asked.
"Can't you think? If you were a bachelor you would," and he watched her
face closely as he spoke.
He was afraid lest he might offend her, and he wondered if she saw his
meaning. He thought he saw a flush surmount her face, but he was not
sure. They were passing a cart just then, and he had to fix his
attention on the steering-wheel.
"Do you know," he went on, "it's a bit lonely there. I haven't many
friends. And then, being a bachelor, I find it difficult to entertain.
Not but what I shall make a start soon," he added.
"I think you are to be envied," she remarked.
"Of course I am. I'm one of the luckiest fellows in the world. By the
way, I want to give a dance or something of that sort as a kind of
house-warming."
"How delightful."
"Is it? But then, you see, I'm so ignorant that I don't know how to
start about it."
"Don't you? That's a pity. You must get help."
"I must. I say, will you help me? There is no one I'd so soon have."
He was sure this time. He saw the rosy tint on her face deepen. Perhaps
she heard the tremor in his voice. But she did not answer him; instead,
she looked away towards the distant landscape.
"Will you?" he persisted.
"What could I do?"
"Everything. You know the people, know who I should invite, and what I
should do. You are accustomed to that kind of thing. I am not."
Still she was silent.
"Will you?" he asked again.
"Perhaps. If you really wish me to."
She almost whispered the words, but he heard her, and to him there was
something caressing in her tone.
They passed up a long avenue of trees leading to her home, and a few
seconds later the car stood at the door.
"You'll come in and have some tea, won't you?"
"May I?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course you may. Mother will be expecting you."
As he rode back to Wendover Park that evening Dick was in Paradise.
Nothing but the most commonplace things had been said, but the girl had
fascinated him. She had appealed to his ambition, to his pride, to his
admiration for perfect, physical womanhood. She was not very clever, but
she was handsome. She was instinct with redundant health; she was
glorious in her youth and vitality.
"I'm in love," he said to himself more than once. "And she's
wonderful--simply, gloriously wonderful. What eyes, what a complexion,
what a magnificent figure! I wonder if----"
I am dwelling somewhat on this part of Dick Faversham's life because
I wish the reader to understand the condition of his mind, to
understand the forces at work. Uninteresting as it may be, it is still
important. For Dick passed through some wonderful experiences soon
after--experiences which shook the foundations of his life, and which
will be more truly understood as we realise the thoughts and feelings
which possessed him.
As I have said, he was in a state of bliss as he drove back to Wendover
Park that evening, but as he neared his lodge gates a curious feeling of
depression possessed him. His heart became heavy, forebodings filled his
mind. It seemed to him that he was on the edge of a dreadful calamity.
"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself again and again. "The sun
is shining, the world is lovely, and I have all that heart can wish
for."
Still the feeling possessed him. Something was going to
happen--something awful. He could not explain it, or give any reason for
it, but it was there.
Then suddenly his heart stood still. As the car drew up to his own door
he again saw the face of the angel. She was hovering over the entrance
just as he had seen her on the day he came to take possession. She
seemed to dread something; there was pain almost amounting to agony in
the look she gave him.
He had alighted from the car, and he had a dim idea that a man was
approaching to take it to the garage, but he paid no attention to him;
he stood like one transfixed, looking at the apparition. He was aware
that the car had gone, and that he was alone. In a vague way he supposed
that the chauffeur, like the lawyer, had seen nothing.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The words escaped him almost in spite of himself.
But he heard no voice in reply. He thought he saw her lips trying to
formulate words, but were not able.
"Tell me," he persisted--"tell me who you are, why you appear to me.
What do you want?"
Again the apparition seemed to be trying to become audible, only to
fail. Then, although he could hear no distinct voice, her answer seemed
to come to him.
"Fight, fight; pray, pray," she seemed to be saying. "Beware of the
tempter. Fight, fight; pray, pray. Promise me."
He was not afraid, but it seemed to him that he was face to face with
eternal realities. He knew then that there were depths of life and
experience of which he was ignorant.
He heard steps in the hall, and then someone opened the door.
There stood, smiling, debonair, sardonic, and--yes--wicked, Count
Romanoff.
CHAPTER VIII
COUNT ROMANOFF'S GOSPEL
Count Romanoff!
A weight seemed to settle on Dick Faversham's heart as he saw the
sinister face of his visitor. During the excitement of the last few days
he had scarcely given him a thought. The dark, saturnine stranger had
shrunk away into the background of his life, and no longer seemed of
importance to him. It is true he had now and then wondered whether he
should ever see him again, but as there seemed no present likelihood of
his doing so, he had practically dismissed him from his mind.
His sudden appearance came to him like a shock. Besides, he was nervous,
excited at what he had just experienced. Every nerve was tingling, every
sense preternaturally awake. What did this apparition mean? Why should
the same face and form appear to him again and again?--first in the
smoke-room of the ship, then on the island, then as he first put foot
into the new inheritance, and now again. What did it mean? Then during
that awful struggle in the stormy sea.
"Ha, Faversham. You see, I have taken you at your word."
Dick's thoughts came to earth as the Count's voice reached him.
"I'm glad to see you," he said cordially, and as he led the way to the
library he was all that a host should be.
"You see, I was in England, and, having a little spare time, I thought I
would look you up. I hope I'm not taking too great a liberty?"
"Liberty, my dear fellow! I should be annoyed beyond words if you had
not come to see me. I have hosts of things to discuss with you.
Besides," and Dick spoke like one deeply moved, "I cannot help
remembering that but for you it is not likely I should be here. I should
have been lying somewhere at the bottom of the Indian Ocean."
"Oh, come now; let's have no more of that. Of course, I had the good
luck to be of service to you, and jolly glad I am; no decent fellow
could have done less than I did."
"All the same, I cannot forget that I owe my life to you," cried Dick
fervently. "Do you know, I wondered no end what happened to you; tell me
about it."
"Not until I hear about you. Of course, I can guess a great deal. The
fact that you are here tells me that the wireless you got on the ship
was not only _bona fide_ but important. You are master here, eh?"
Dick nodded.
"I've been told that your uncle was a very rich man. Is that so?"
"Yes."
"And you are his heir?"
"Yes."
"I congratulate you. By Jove, it's a lovely place. I didn't know when
I've seen anything I like so much. And I've seen a few houses, I can
tell you. But really, now, and I hope I'm not impertinent, do you mean
to tell me that you have entered into all old Charles Faversham's
wealth?"
"I suppose so."
"Shake hands on it. I can think of no one more fitted to own 'big
money,' as the Americans say. I'm glad of the privilege of seeing you in
possession."
It seemed to Dick that it was a new Romanoff that he saw. He was no
longer pessimistic, cynical, saturnine. He looked younger, too, and no
one could help admitting that he had that grand air that denotes birth
and breeding.
"I only arrived in London last night," went on Romanoff. "I got into
Tilbury late in the afternoon, and after I got fixed up at my hotel I
began to wonder about you. Presently I called to mind what you told me,
and--here I am."
"Of course you'll stay with me a bit?"
"May I?"
"May you? Why, of course you must, if you can. That goes without
saying."
"I say, you are awfully good. I should love to stay a bit. This is one
of the loveliest corners in the world at the loveliest time of the year.
Surrey in May! What can be more attractive!"
"I'll have your room prepared at once, and, by the way, I'll send a man
to London for your luggage."
"That is good of you, Faversham. I may as well confess it now. I did
bring a suit-case with me in the hope that you could put me up for the
night, but of course----"
"You might have known that I'd want you for a long time," Dick
interrupted.
A servant entered, and Dick gave his instructions. "Now tell me," he
went on; "what did you do on leaving the island? I know practically
nothing about anything. I was very ill, and got no better till the boat
landed at Plymouth."
Romanoff hesitated for a few seconds, then he replied:
"Oh, I caught a boat bound for Australia."
"Australia, eh?"
"Yes. Our signals were seen by two vessels, one returning to England,
and the other going to Australia, which, as luck would have it, stopped
at Bombay for a few hours. So I took that."
"And you didn't stay long in the Antipodes?"
"No, I did not like the country, and I found it necessary to return to
England."
"I'm jolly glad."
"Well, here I am anyhow. Isn't life a topsy-turvy business? Who would
have thought when we exchanged commonplaces on that boat a short time
ago we should forgather like this in a lovely old Surrey house? Facts
beat fiction all to bits. Fiction is commonplace, tame, prosy; but
facts--real life--are interesting. Now, tell me about your experiences."
"Not yet. It's nearly dinner-time. I suppose you brought no evening
clothes?"
Romanoff laughed. "As a matter of fact, I did. Of course, I was not sure
you were here; but I thought you might be, so I took the liberty of----"
"Splendid," interrupted Dick. "There, the dressing-bell is ringing. I'll
show you your room. My word, I'm awfully glad you've come. To tell you
the truth, I was feeling a bit depressed."
"You depressed! I say! Fancy the heir of all this being depressed."
"But I was. The idea of spending the evening alone dismayed me. You see,
a fellow can't be out every night, and--and there you are. But you've
come."
"And no one will call to-night?"
"I don't expect so. Young Clavering, who is home on leave, might come
over for a game of billiards, but I can't think of anyone else likely to
turn up."
"Clavering--Clavering. I don't think I know the name."
"Oh, it is a good name in Surrey, I can assure you. It's a very old
family, although I suppose it is frightfully poor. I've only met young
Clavering once, but I liked him very much. Most of the young fellows
around here are in the Army, and the older men are frightful old
fossils. Here's your room. I hope you'll be comfortable."
Romanoff looked around the room with evident pleasure. He walked to the
window and gazed steadily at the landscape; then he turned to Dick and
gave him a keen, searching glance.
"You are a fortunate man, Faversham. Speaking as a Russian and also as
one who has travelled all over the world, I say, commend me to England
for comfort. Yes, I'll be all right, my friend."
When Dick had gone Romanoff threw himself in a chair and gazed into
vacancy. A change passed over his face. He was no longer cheerful and
pleasant; the old sinister, threatening look had come into his eyes,
while his mouth was cruel. Once an expression swept over his features
which suggested a kind of mocking pity, but it was only for a moment.
During dinner he was in a gay humour. Evidently he had thrown care to
the winds, and lived for the pleasure of the moment. Dick found him
fascinating. He talked pleasantly--at times brilliantly. His
conversation scintillated with sardonic humour. He told stories about
many countries. He related anecdotes about the Imperial House of the
Romanoffs, and described the influence which Rasputin had on the Tzar
and the Tzarina.
"I cannot understand it," remarked Dick after one of these stories.
"Understand what?"
"How a man like the Tzar could allow a dirty charlatan like Rasputin to
have such influence. After all, Nicholas was an educated man, and a
gentleman."
Romanoff laughed.
"As well Rasputin as the others," he replied.
"What others?"
"The priests of the Holy Orthodox Church. Let me give you a bit of
advice, Faversham; keep clear of all this religious rot. It's true that
you in England pretend to be more advanced than the poor Russians, but
at bottom there's no difference. Wherever religion creeps in, it's the
same story. Religion means credulity, and credulity means lies,
oppression, cant, corruption."
"Did you meet Rasputin?"
"Oh yes," replied Romanoff, with a sigh of resignation. "On the whole, I
admired him."
"I say, that's a bit too thick."
"Anyhow, the fellow was interesting. He had a philosophy of his own. He
recognised the fact that the world was populated by fools, and he
determined to make the most of his chances. He interpreted religion in a
way that would give the greatest possible gratification to his senses.
His policy was to suck the orange of the world dry. 'Salvation through
sin,' eh?" and Romanoff laughed as he spoke. "Well, it's about the most
sensible religion I ever heard of."
"It seems to me devilish and dirty," Dick spoke warmly.
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Of course, all religion is foolishness--that
is, religion as is usually understood. But if there is to be a religion
at all, Rasputin got hold of the true one."
"You don't mean that?"
Romanoff looked at Dick steadily for a few seconds. He seemed to be
thinking deeply as though he were trying to understand his man.
"Perhaps I don't," he admitted presently. "Sometimes one exaggerates in
order to convey what is actually true. Still, there is a substratum of
truth in the dirty monk's philosophy, as you'll find out before you are
much older. By the way, the evening has turned cold, hasn't it?"
"Do you find it so? The air of a night is often cold in the early
summer. Have you finished? Then we'll go into my little den where I
always have a fire of an evening."
A few minutes later Romanoff was sprawling in a large easy-chair with
his feet close to the fire.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Not quite a month."
"Been well received by your neighbours?"
"On the whole, yes."
Again Romanoff looked steadily at his companion. "Will you forgive me if
I ask you a few questions?"
"Certainly. Go ahead."
"First, then, how do you like being a rich man?"
Dick glanced around the room, and then gave a look towards the
wide-spreading park-lands.
"How can one help liking it?" he asked.
"Exactly. You do not find money to be the root of all evil, then?"
"Heavens, no!"
"You would not like to be a poor man again?"
"What in the world are you driving at? Of course, the very thought of it
is horrible."
"Just so. I am in my way a student of human nature, and I was a bit
curious. Now for a second question. Who is she?"
"Oh, I say."
"Of course she exists."
"How do you know?"
"In my way I have the power of divination. When I look at a man I know
something, not much perhaps, but something of his hopes. I felt sure
before I spoke that you were in love. You've been quick about it, my
young friend."
"I don't know that I am in love."
"Of course you are. Who is she?"
"There's no one. At least not yet. I don't suppose she's given me a
second's thought."
"But you do. Is she young, beautiful? Is she rich, well connected?"
"Young! beautiful!" laughed Dick.
"Ah, I see. Not a rustic beauty, by any chance?"
"Rustic beauty, eh? There's nothing rustic about Lady Blanche
Huntingford."
"Huntingford! That's one of the best known names in England."
"Do you know it?"
"Who doesn't? It's the biggest name in Debrett. But the Huntingfords are
as poor as church mice."
"What does that matter?"
"You have enough for both, eh? Of course, that's your hope."
"Why?" and Dick turned rather sharply on his interlocutor.
"Oh, nothing personal, my friend. I'm only speaking from a long
experience. The Huntingfords are poor and proud. I do not know of a more
unpleasant combination. I've heard of Lady Blanche--she is about
twenty-four, a great beauty, and so far has not succeeded in the
marriage market. She's had several seasons in London, but the rich
aristocrat has not turned up. That's why she may smile on a commoner--a
newcomer--providing he's rich enough."
"If you'd seen her, spoken with her, you would not talk like that."
"Shouldn't I? Who knows? But it's nothing to worry about, my dear
fellow. All talk about the love of women goes for nothing. It doesn't
exist. Of course, there is such a thing as sexual attraction, but
nothing else."
"You are a terrible cynic, Romanoff."
"I'm a citizen of the world, and I've gone around the world with my eyes
open. But, as I said, you can have an easy mind. The ball is at your
feet, my dear fellow. Whatever you want you can have."
"Do be serious." Dick spoke lightly; all the same, he felt uneasy.
"I _am_ serious," replied Romanoff. "With wealth like yours, you are
master of the world; you can get all the world has to give."
"I wish I could."
"I tell you you can. Money is all-powerful. Just think, if you were
poor, not a hope, not an ambition could be realised."
"That won't do. Hosts of poor fellows have----"
"Risen to position and power. Just so; but it's been a terrible
struggle, a ghastly grind. In most cases, too, men don't get money until
they are too old to enjoy it. But you are young, and the world's at your
feet. Do you want titles? You can buy them. Power? fame? Again you can
get them. Beautiful women? Love? Yes, even love of a sort you can buy,
if you have money. Poverty is hell; but what heaven there is in this
world can be bought."
"Then you think the poor can't be happy?"
"Let me be careful in answering that. If a man has no ambitions, if he
has no desire for power, then, in a negative way, he may be happy
although he's poor. But to you, who are ambitious through and
through--you, who see visions and dream dreams--poverty would be hell.
That's why I congratulate you on all this. And my advice to you is, make
the most of it. Live to enjoy, my dear fellow. Whatever your eyes
desire, take it."
Dick realised that Romanoff was talking cheap cynicism, that, to use a
journalistic term, it was "piffle" from thread to needle, and yet he was
impressed. Again he felt the man's ascendancy over him, knew that he was
swayed and moulded by a personality stronger than his own.
Dick did not try to answer him, for at that moment there was a knock at
the door and a servant entered.
"Mr. and Miss Stanmore have called, sir."
"I do not think I know them, do I?" asked Dick.
"I don't know, sir. They live not far from the South Park gates. They
are old residents, sir."
Whether there was something in the tone of the man's voice, or whether
he desired company other than Romanoff's, I cannot tell. Certain it is
that, acting on impulse and scarcely realising what he was doing, he
said:
"Show them in here, Jenkins, will you?"
CHAPTER IX
BEATRICE STANMORE
"You don't mind, do you?" asked Dick, turning to Romanoff when the man
had left the room.
"Not at all, my dear fellow. Why should I?"
Again the servant returned and ushered in an old man and a young girl.
The former was a striking-looking figure, and would be noticed in any
crowd. Although old, he stood perfectly upright, and was evidently
healthy and vigorous. His face was ruddy and almost unlined. His white
beard and moustache were allowed to grow long, while his almost massive
head was covered with a wealth of wavy white hair. Perhaps, too, his
attire helped to make his appearance attractive, and his velvet
dinner-jacket suggested the artist or the poet.
"I hope you'll forgive me calling, Mr. Faversham," he said, taking
Dick's outstretched hand, "but I'm an old man, as well as a man of
moods. I've thought several times of dropping in to see you, but
refrained. I was afraid you would have no use for an old buffer such as
I. But to-night I felt I must, and here I am. This is my granddaughter,
Beatrice."
"It's awfully good of you to call, Mr. Stanmore, and you, too, Miss
Stanmore."
Dick looked at the girl full in the face as he spoke, and then all
further words were frozen on his lips. The sight of Beatrice Stanmore
caused his heart to beat wildly, and made him feel that a new influence
had entered the room.
And yet, at first sight, there was nothing remarkable in her presence.
Picture a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of eighteen--a girl with a sweet,
winsome, yet mischievous smile, and a perfect complexion; a girl with
well-formed features and an evident sense of humour--and you see
Beatrice Stanmore. And yet your picture would be incomplete. What I have
said suggests a somewhat commonplace girl, such as can be seen by the
score in any country town. But she was not commonplace. Her blue eyes
were large and haunting; sometimes they were sad, and yet there was a
world of mirth and gladness stored in their liquid depths. She was only
eighteen or nineteen years of age, and she did not look older than her
years; but, if you took a second look at her, you would know that her
thoughts were not always a child's thoughts--that she had longings too
deep for words.
She was dressed very simply. I cannot describe her apparel, but to Dick
it was something light and diaphanous, which set oft a figure which was
at once girlish and yet perfect in its proportions. I do not suppose
that a connoisseur would call her beautiful, but she suggested
health--health of body, of mind, of soul. It would be impossible to
associate her with anything impure, rather a flash from her mirth-loving
eyes would destroy all thought of such a thing.
"I've seen her before," thought Dick, "but where?"
No, it was only fancy. She was an utter stranger to him, and yet he was
haunted with the thought that somewhere, at some time, they had met and
known each other, that she had been with him in some crisis.
"Please forgive us, Mr. Faversham," she said, with a laugh; "it's not my
fault. I should never have had the courage to beard the lion in his
den."
"What lion? What den?" asked Dick, as he looked into the girl's sunny
face.
"Of course, you are the lion. You've been the talk of the countryside
for weeks; and--and isn't this your den?"
She spoke with all the simplicity and frankness of a child, and seemed
to be perfectly unimpressed by the fact that she was talking with one
who was spoken of as one of the richest young men in England.
"It's I who am the culprit, Mr. Faversham," broke in the old man. "The
impulse came upon me suddenly. I said to Beatrice, 'I am going to call
on young Faversham,' and she jumped at the idea of a walk through the
park, and that's why she's here with me. Please tell me if we are in the
way."
"In the way? I'm just delighted. And--but let me introduce you to Count
Romanoff."
Both Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter looked towards Count Romanoff,
who had risen to his feet. The light was shining fully upon his face,
and Dick could not help feeling what a striking appearance he had. He
half held out his hand to the newcomers and then suddenly withdrew it.
Old Hugh Stanmore looked at the Count steadily for a few seconds, and
then bowed in silence. It might seem as though something had frozen his
urbanity and cheerfulness. He did not appear to notice the
half-outstretched hand, and Dick felt as though there was an instinctive
antipathy between them. As for Beatrice, she gave the Count a cold nod,
and then, with a perfunctory, "How d'ye do?" turned to Dick again.
"I'm so glad you've come here to live, Mr. Faversham," she said, with
girlish enthusiasm.
"You can't be gladder than I," replied Dick; "but, is there a special
reason for your gladness?"
"Of course there is. I've wanted for years to see the inside of this
house, but I was frightfully afraid of your--your uncle. He always
looked so stern, and so--so forbidding that I hadn't the courage to ask
him. But you are different."
"Then why haven't you called before?" asked Dick. "I've been here nearly
a month, and yet I've never seen you before."
"Of course, you must understand," and it was old Hugh Stanmore who
replied, "that we are quite unimportant people. We live in that cottage
not far from your South Lodge, and, not knowing you, we felt rather
sensitive about calling."
"But your name seems familiar. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere."
"Not among the people around here, I imagine?"
"No, I think not; but I seem to have heard of it, or seen it, years
ago."
"I fancy you are mistaken, although what you say is just possible. When
I was at Cambridge I had tremendous ambitions, and, like thousands of
other callow youths, I made up my mind to win fame. I was something of a
linguist, and had a great longing to win renown as an Egyptologist and
as an Assyrian scholar. However, I had no money to indulge in such
luxuries, so on leaving Cambridge I looked to journalism for a living. I
even wrote a novel," and he laughed merrily.
"Splendid!" cried Dick. "What was the title of the novel?"
"I won't tell you that," replied the old man. "I've drawn a very thick
curtain over that effort. However, I might have done something if I'd
persevered; but, luckily or unluckily for me, I had some money left to
me. Not much, but enough to enable me to travel in the East."
"Yes, and then?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I did not shine as an Egyptologist, although I had some
wonderful experiences and made some interesting acquaintances. I also
contributed to that phase of literature."
"I never saw your name in that connection," Dick confessed.
"I expect not. You see, that was many years ago. Still, although my
health would not stand the Eastern climate, I've kept up my interest in
my early love. But I've been somewhat of a butterfly. On my return to
England I conceived a passion for throwing paint in the eyes of the
public, to quote John Ruskin. I even went so far as to get a few
pictures hung in the Academy. But, in spite of that, I achieved no fame.
Since then I've contributed occasional articles to the reviews, while
such papers as _The Spectator_ and _The Times_ have printed some
effusions of mine which I in my vanity have called poetry. Please
forgive me for talking about myself in this way. I know it is frightful
egotism on my part, but, as I'm one of your nearest neighbours, I'm in a
way introducing myself."
"It's awfully good of you," replied Dick. "I hope we shall see a good
deal of each other."
"I hope we shall," replied Hugh Stanmore. "I may as well confess it, Mr.
Faversham, that although I am an old man, I am a creature of impulses. I
do things without being able to give a reason for them. I talk without
knowing why. Do you know that I've never spoken so much about myself to
anyone in this district as I have to-night, and I've lived here for
eighteen years?"
"What--at the cottage you spoke of?"
"Yes, at the cottage. I took up my residence there when my son died. He
was an artist who would have won fame if he had lived; but it pleased
the good God to take him away. I determined that I would try to bring
what comfort I could into the life of his young wife. But I was not with
her long. She died at the birth of this little girl here, three months
later."
A silence fell upon the little company.
"There, there," laughed Hugh Stanmore, "there's nothing to be sad about.
This life is only a beginning. Actual life comes next, as Browning says.
Besides, I've been very happy looking after my little maid here. It's
rather hard on her, having to see so much of an old man like myself. All
the same, we've had a jolly time."
"Old man!" cried Beatrice indignantly. "I assure you, Mr. Faversham,
he's the youngest man in Surrey. Sometimes I am quite ashamed of his
frivolity. I'm quite a staid, elderly person compared to him."
"Anyhow," said the old man, rising, "we must be going now. But be
assured of this, Mr. Faversham: no one wishes you joy in your new home
more than I. We give you a glad welcome to the district, and if an old
man's prayer and an old man's blessing are worth anything, you have
them."
"But please don't go yet," cried Dick. "It's only a little after nine
o'clock, and--and I'm so glad to have you here. You see, you've only
just come."
"No, no, I know. But we'll be going now. Some other time, when you
happen to be alone, I'll be glad to come and smoke a pipe with you--if I
may?"
"May! Of course. Besides, Miss Stanmore said she wanted to look over
the house. When will you come, Miss Stanmore?"
"I think it must be when you can let Granddad know that you are alone
and have nothing to do," was the girl's reply. "I shall look forward to
it tremendously."
"So shall I," cried Dick. Then, forgetful of Romanoff, he added, "And I
can assure you, you won't have long to wait."
Throughout their conversation, only a part of which I have recorded,
Romanoff had not spoken a word. Had Dick been watching him he would have
seen that he was not at all pleased at the presence of the visitors.
There was a dark, lowering look in his eyes, and almost a scowl on his
face. It was evident that a strong feeling of antagonism existed.
"Good-night, Mr. Faversham," said old Hugh Stanmore, holding out his
hand; then, bowing gravely to Romanoff, he passed out of the room.
"Oh, but I'll see you to the door, if you _will_ go," insisted Dick, as
for a moment he held Beatrice Stanmore's hand in his. "Allow me."
He passed through the hall by her side and opened the door. As he did
so, he could barely repress an exclamation of wonder and delight, while
both the old man and the young girl stood as if spellbound.
It was one of those rare nights which constantly recur to one's
remembrance in after days. It was now the end of May, and while the
summer had not reached its full glory, the fullness of spring made the
earth like a paradise. The sky was cloudless and the silver rays of a
nearly full moon lit up the scene with an unearthly beauty. All around
giant trees stood, while the flowers, which grew in rich profusion, were
plainly to be seen. Away through the leafy trees could be seen the
outline of the country. Here and there the birds, which had barely gone
to rest, were chirping, while away in the distance a cuckoo proclaimed
the advent of summer.
For a few seconds they stood in silence, then Hugh Stanmore said
quietly, "One can understand Charles Kingsley's dying words on such a
night, Mr. Faversham."
"What did he say?" asked Dick.
"'How beautiful God must be,'" quoted Hugh Stanmore.
Just then a bird burst forth into song--rich-noted, mellow, triumphant.
"A nightingale!" cried the girl. "Look, Granddad, it is over on that
tree." She went down the drive under the long avenue of trees as she
spoke, leaving Hugh Stanmore and Dick together.
"They can't be far away on such a night as this," murmured the old man.
"Who can't be far away?"
"The angels. The heavens are full of them. Ah, if we could only see!"
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Do I believe in them? How can I help believing? It is nearly nineteen
years ago since my boy and his wife died. But they didn't leave me
altogether. They come to me."
"Have you seen them?" and Dick's eager question was uttered almost
unconsciously.
"No, not with my natural eyes. Why? I wonder. But I have felt them near
me. I know they are watching over me. You see, they did not cease to
love us when God took them away for some higher service. Naturally, too,
they watch over Beatrice. They could not help it."
He spoke quietly, and in an almost matter-of-fact way, yet with a
suggestion of reverence in his tones.
"Who knows who is watching over us now?" continued the old man. "Ah, if
we could only see! 'Are they not all ministering spirits sent to
minister to those who are heirs of Salvation?'"
Dick felt a shiver pass through him. He reflected that on that very
spot, only a few hours before, he had seen something, _something_--a
luminous figure, a pale, sad face--sad almost to agony!
"Mr. Faversham," asked Hugh Stanmore suddenly, "who is Count Romanoff?"
"I don't know much about him," replied Dick. "He was a fellow-passenger
on board the boat on which I was bound for Australia some time ago. Why
do you ask?"
"You know nothing else? Excuse me."
"Only that he saved my life."
"Ah!"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. Only he will have a great influence on your life."
"How do you know?" Dick was greatly excited.
"I have no reason to give you. I only know."
"Good or bad?" asked the young man eagerly.
"I don't know. But did you notice that Beatrice didn't like him? And
I've never once known her wrong in her estimate of people. There, look
at her now, amongst the moon's rays under the trees. Doesn't she look
like an angel? Yes, and she _is_ an angel--one of God's sweetest and
purest and best. But as human as every woman ought to be. Good-night,
Mr. Faversham. Yes, my darling, I'm coming," and the old man went down
the drive with the activity of a boy.
Dick watched them until they were out of sight. He was influenced more
than he knew by their visit. Their presence, after Count Romanoff's
cynicism, was like some sweet-scented balm; like a breeze from the
mountains after the fetid atmosphere of a cavern.
"Well, what did you think of them?" he asked of Romanoff on his return.
The Count shrugged his shoulders. "There's not much to think, is there?"
he asked.
"I think there is a great deal. I found the old man more interesting
than almost any caller I have had."
"A dull, prosy, platitudinous old Polonius; as for the girl, she's just
a badly behaved, unformed, bread-and-butter miss."
Dick did not speak. The Count's words grated on him.
"By the way," went on Romanoff, "I should like to meet Lady Blanche
Huntingford. I think I knew the old Lord."
"I promised to call to-morrow afternoon," replied Dick. "I'll take you
over." But he was not so enthusiastic as the Count expected.
After they had retired to their rooms that night, the Count sat long in
soliloquy. Of what he was thinking it would be difficult to say. His
face was like a mask.
When he rose from his chair, however, there was a look of decision in
his eyes.
"The time has come sooner than I thought," he said aloud. "I must bring
the matter to a head at once. Otherwise I shall lose him."
And then he laughed in his grim, sardonic way, as if something had made
him merry.
CHAPTER X
UNCERTAINTY
Dick rose early the following morning, and went for a walk in the park.
When he returned he found the Count in the breakfast-room.
"Quite a pattern young countryman," he laughed. "I saw you reflecting on
the beauties of your own domains. Did you sleep well?"
"Like a healthy dog. And you?"
"I never sleep. I dream sometimes--that's all."
"Still play-acting," laughed Dick.
"No, there's not a more serious man in England than I, as a rule; but
I'm not going to be serious to-day while the sun shines. When the sun
goes down I shall be tragic. There, Richard is himself again!"
He threw back his shoulders as he spoke, as though he would shift a
weight from them. "I am hungry, Faversham," he laughed. "Let us eat.
After breakfast I would love a ride. Have you a horse in your stables
that you could lend me?"
"Of course I have."
"Good. Then we'll have a gallop till lunch. After that a-wooing we will
go. I'm feverish to see the glorious Lady Blanche, the flower of the
age, the beauty of the county. I say, Faversham, prepare to be jealous.
I can be a most dangerous rival."
"I can't think of you as a marrying man, Count. Domesticity and you are
oceans apart."
The Count laughed. "No, a man such as I never marries," he said.
"Marriage! What an idiotic arrangement. But such things always follow
religion. But for religion, humanity would be natural, happy."
"Come, now. That won't do."
"It is true, my friend. Ever and always the result of religion has been
to raise unnatural barriers, to create sin. The man who founds a
religion is an enemy to the race. The greatest enemy to the world's
happiness was the Founder of Christianity."
"In Heaven's name, why?"
"Because He labelled natural actions as sins, because He was for ever
emphasising a distinction between right and wrong. When there is no
right, no wrong. The evolution of religion, and of so-called morality,
is a crime, because it strikes at the root of human enjoyment. But,
there, I'm getting serious, and I won't be serious. This is a day to
laugh, to rejoice in, and I've an appetite like a hunter."
Throughout the morning they carried out the programme Romanoff had
suggested. Two of the best horses in the stables were saddled, and they
rode till noon. During all this time the Count was in high spirits, and
seemed to revel in the brightness of the day and the glory of the
scenery.
"After all, give me a living thing to deal with," he cried. "This craze
for motor-cars is a sign of decadence. 'Enjoyment by machinery' should
be the motto of every motorist. But a horse is different. A horse is
sentient, intelligent. He feels what his rider feels; he enters into the
spirit of whatever is going on."
"But motoring can be jolly good sport," Dick rejoined.
"Of course it can. But a motor is impersonal; it is a thing, not a
being. You cannot make it your slave. It is just a matter of steel, and
petrol, and oil. It never becomes afraid of you."
"What of that?" asked Dick.
"Without fear there is no real mastery," replied Romanoff.
"But surely the mastery which is obtained through fear is an
unsatisfactory sort of thing."
Romanoff looked at Dick as though on the point of replying, but he was
silent.
"Anyhow, I love a horse," he ventured presently. "I love to feel his
body alive beneath me, love to feel him spurn the ground beneath his
feet."
"Yes; I, too, love a horse," replied Dick, "and do you know, although
I've only been here a month, this chap loves me. He whines a welcome
when I go to the stable, and he kind of cries when I leave."
"And he isn't afraid of you?" asked Romanoff.
"Afraid!" cried Dick. "I hope not. I should hate to feel that a thing I
loved was afraid of me."
"Wait till you are married," laughed Romanoff.
"I don't see what that has to do with it."
"But it has everything to do with it. A wife should obey, and no woman
obeys unless she fears. The one thing man has to do when he marries is
to demand obedience, and until he has mastered the woman he gets none."
"From the little experience I have, a woman is a difficult thing to
master."
"Everything can be mastered," replied Romanoff. "It sometimes requires
patience, I'll admit, but it can always be done. Besides, a woman never
respects her husband until he's mastered her. Find me a man who has not
mastered his wife, and I'll show you a man whose wife despises him. Of
course, every woman strives for mastery, but in her heart of hearts
she's sorry if she gets it. If I ever married----" He ceased speaking.
"Yes; if you married?"
"I'd have obedience, obedience, obedience," and Romanoff repeated the
word with increasing emphasis. "As you say, it might be difficult, but
it can always be obtained."
"How?"
"Of course, if you go among the lower orders of people, the man obtains
his wife's obedience by brute force. If she opposes him he knocks her
down, thrashes her. But as you rise in the scale of humanity, the
methods are different. The educated, cultured man never loses his
temper, seldom utters an angry word. He may be a little sarcastic,
perhaps, but nothing more. But he never yields. The wife cries, pleads,
protests, goes into hysterics perhaps, threatens, but he never yields.
He is polite, cold, cruel if you like, but he never shows a sign of
weakness, and in the end he's master. And mastery is one of the great
joys of life."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it."
Dick felt slightly uncomfortable. "You said you wouldn't be serious
to-day, Romanoff," he laughed nervously, "and yet you talk as though
something tragic were in the air."
"I can assure you I'm in one of my light moods," replied the Count.
"After all, of what account is a woman in a man's life? A diversion if
you like--a creature necessary to his pleasure, but nothing more. When a
man regards a woman as indispensable to his happiness, he's lost. Always
look on a woman, whoever she may be, as a diversion, my friend," and
Romanoff laughed quietly.
After lunch, however, Romanoff's mood seemed changed. He spoke of his
early days, and of his experiences in St. Petersburg and Moscow.
"People talk about Paris being the great centre of pleasure," he said a
little indignantly, "but it is nothing compared with St. Petersburg, or
Petrograd, as it is called now. Some day, my friend, I must take you
there; I must show you the sights; I must take you behind the scenes.
Oh, I envy you!"
"Why should you?" asked Dick.
"Because you are young, because you have the world at your feet."
"And haven't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But, then, you go to everything fresh. You will
drink the cup of life for the first time; you will drink deep and enjoy.
But I can never again drink for the first time--there lies the
difference."
"But if the cup of life is good and sweet, why may not one drink it
again, and again, and still find enjoyment?"
Romanoff did not reply. He sat for a few seconds in silence, and then
started up almost feverishly.
"Let us away, my friend," he cried. "I am longing to see Lady Blanche
Huntingford. How did you describe her? Velvety black eyes, rosy lips,
hair as black as the raven's wing, tall, stately, shaped like a Juno
and a Venus combined--was that it? Please don't let's waste any time.
I'm anxious to be off."
"Even although we are going in a motor."
"Motors are useful, my friend. I may not like them, but I use them. For
the matter of that, I use everything. I discard nothing."
"Except religion," laughed Dick.
"Oh, I have my religion," replied Romanoff. "Some time I'll tell you
about it, but not now. The sunlight is the time for adventure, for love,
for happiness. Let us be off."
Evidently the Count was impressed by Lady Blanche. Directly he entered
her presence he seemed to forget his cynicism, and to become
light-hearted and gay.
"Do you know, Lady Blanche," he said, "that I had an idea I had seen you
somewhere. Your name was familiar, and when Faversham spoke of you, I
felt I should be renewing an old acquaintance. Of course, I was
mistaken."
"Why 'of course'?"
"The true reply would be too obvious, wouldn't it? Besides, it would be
as trite and as clumsy as the repartee of an Oxford undergraduate."
"You are beyond me," she sighed.
Romanoff smiled. "Of course, you are laughing at me; all the same. I'll
say this: I shall have no doubt from this time on as to whether I've met
you. Do you know who I regard as the most favoured man in England?"
She shook her head.
"My friend Faversham, of course," and Romanoff glanced towards Dick, who
sat listening and looking with a kind of wonder at the face of the girl.
"Of course, Wendover is just lovely," she replied.
"And only a very short motor-run from here," remarked Romanoff.
The girl pouted as though she were vexed at his words, but it was easy
to see she was not. There could be little doubt that she loved flattery,
and although she felt slightly uncomfortable under the Count's ardent
gaze, she was pleased at his admiration.
She was also bent on being agreeable, and Dick felt that surely no
handsomer woman ever lived than this glorious creature with whom he
chatted and laughed. More than once he felt his heart beating wildly as
her eyes caught his, and while he wished that Romanoff was not there, he
felt it to be one of the happiest days of his life.
"If Romanoff were not here I'd ask her to-day," he reflected. "It's true
she's almost a stranger to me; but, after all, what does it matter? Love
does not depend on a long acquaintance."
For Dick felt sure he was in love. It is true there seemed a kind of
barrier between them, a certain something that kept them apart. But that
he put down to their different upbringing. She was a patrician, the
child of long generations of aristocratic associations, while he,
although his father and mother were gentlefolk, was a commoner. All his
life, too, he had been poor, while during the last few years he had had
to struggle constantly with poverty. It was no wonder, therefore, that
there should be a kind of barrier between them. But that would break
down. Already he was feeling more as if "he belonged" to his new
surroundings, while his neighbours had received him with the utmost
kindness. It was only a matter of time before he would feel at one with
them all. Meanwhile, Lady Blanche charmed him, fascinated him. She
appealed to him as a glorious woman, regal in her carriage, wondrous in
her youth and beauty.
Once during the afternoon they were alone together, and he was almost on
the point of declaring his love. But something kept him back. What it
was he could not tell. She was alluring, gracious, and seemed to offer
him opportunities for telling her what was in his heart. And yet he did
not speak. Perhaps he was afraid, although he could not have told what
he feared.
"When are you going to give me another game of golf?" he asked, as they
parted.
"I don't like threesomes," she laughed, looking towards Romanoff.
"I share your antipathy," said Romanoff, "but could you not suggest
someone who might bear with me while you and Faversham break the
record?"
"Please manage it," pleaded Dick.
"There's a telephone at Wendover, isn't there?"
"Of course there is. You'll ring me up and let me know, won't you?"
"Perhaps."
Her smile was bewildering, and as he felt the warm pressure of her hand
he was in Arcadia.
"I congratulate you, Faversham," remarked Romanoff, as they neared
Wendover Park. "She's a glorious creature, simply glorious. Cleopatra
was plain compared with her. My word, what a mistress for your new home.
Such eyes, such hair, such a complexion--and what a magnificent figure.
Yes, Faversham, you are a lucky man."
"If I get her," sighed Dick.
"Get her! Of course you'll get her. Unless----"
"Unless what?" asked Dick as the other hesitated.
Romanoff looked at him for some seconds very searchingly; then he
sighed.
"Yes, what is it?" persisted Dick, who felt uncomfortable under
Romanoff's look.
"I'm wondering."
"Why and at what?"
"If you are a wise man or a fool."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"No, but you will presently."
There seemed to be something so ominous in his words that a feeling like
fear possessed Dick's heart. He had always felt somewhat uncomfortable
in Romanoff's presence, but now the feeling was so intensified that he
dreaded what he might mean.
"The sun is still shining," went on the Count, "and I told you that I
should be in a festive mood until dark. In another hour the king of day
will have disappeared; then I shall have some serious things to say to
you."
"Let's have no more play-acting," and Dick laughed nervously.
"I can assure you, there'll be no play-acting. Everything will be
real--desperately real. But I'm going to say no more now. After dinner
I am going to be serious. But not until. See! Aren't you proud of it
all? Don't you revel in it? Was there ever such a lovely old house,
standing amidst such gorgeous surroundings? Look at those giant trees,
man! See the glorious landscape! Was there ever such a lucky man! What a
mistress Lady Blanche will make!"
They were now passing up the long avenue which led to the house. Away in
the distance they could see the mansion nestling amidst giant trees
centuries old. From the house stretched the gardens, which were glorious
in the beauty of early summer. And Dick saw it all, gloried in it all;
but fear haunted him, all the same.
"What is the meaning of this strange mood of yours, Romanoff?" he asked.
"After dinner, my friend," laughed the other. "I'll tell you after
dinner."
Throughout dinner the Count was apparently light-hearted, almost to
flippancy, but directly the servants had left them to their coffee and
cigars his mood changed.
"I told you I was going to be serious, didn't I?" he said slowly. "The
time for laughter has ceased, Faversham. The next hour will be critical
to you--ay, and more than critical; it will be heavy with destiny."
"What in Heaven's name do you mean?"
"Have you ever considered," and Romanoff enunciated every word with
peculiar distinctness, "whether you are _really_ the owner of all
this?"
CHAPTER XI
THE REAL HEIR
Dick Faversham could not repress a shudder as the other spoke. The
Count's words were so ominous, so full of sinister meaning that for the
moment he felt like crying out with fear. He mastered himself after a
few seconds, however, and his reply was calm.
"I see what you mean," he said quietly. "A few weeks ago I was poor, and
without great expectation. Now----Naturally you wonder whether it is
real to me, whether I can believe in my good fortune."
"It goes deeper than that, Faversham," was the Count's rejoinder--"very
much deeper than that."
"What do you mean?"
"You believe that you are the owner of all this. You regard yourself as
the lawful possessor of the Wendover Park estate, with all its farms,
cottages, and villages; you also think of yourself as the owner of
mining rights, shipping interests, and a host of other things, added to
a very magnificent credit balance at your bankers'. Isn't that so?"
"Of course I do. What have you to say against it?" Dick spoke almost
angrily. He was greatly excited, not only by the Count's words, but by
his manner of speech.
"On the strength of it you have cast eyes of love on one of the most
beautiful women in England; you have dreamed of marrying Lady Blanche
Huntingford, who bears one of the oldest names in the land?"
"And if I have, what then?"
"Has it ever occurred to you that your fortune rests on a very slender,
a very unsafe, foundation?"
"I say, Count Romanoff----"
"Don't be angry, my friend, and, above all, look at everything calmly."
"Really, this is a trifle thick, isn't it? I'm afraid I must ask for an
explanation of this peculiar manner of speech."
"I deeply regret that I shall have to give an explanation," and there
was curious vibration in Romanoff's voice. "But please, _please_,
Faversham, don't think unkindly of me because of what I have to tell
you. Perhaps I have been very clumsy, but I have been trying all day to
prepare you for--for what you will regard as bad news."
"Trying to prepare me? Bad news?"
"Yes, my friend. I told you this morning that I was not going to be
serious while the sun shone, but that after the sun went down I was
going to be tragically in earnest. The time has come."
"You spoke of my having no right here!" and a gleam of anger shot from
Dick's eyes. "Might I suggest, Count, that it is a little out of the
common for a guest to tell his host that he has no right to give him
hospitality?"
"I was afraid you might take it like that," and Romanoff spoke almost
gently. "Doubtless I have been very clumsy, very gauche; all the same, I
have come only in kindness."
"Am I to understand, then, that you came here for the purpose of telling
me that I am an impostor, an interloper? That, indeed, is interesting."
"I came as a friend, a well-wisher--as one deeply, very deeply,
interested in your welfare. I came as one who wants you to enjoy what
you believe is your good fortune, and to marry the most beautiful woman
in England. If, after you have heard me, you wish me to leave you, I
will do so--sadly, I will admit, but I will leave you."
"At least, do not deal in hints, in innuendoes. Tell me exactly what you
mean, and perhaps you will also tell me what particular interest you
have in the matter, and by what right you--you--talk in this way."
"Faversham, let me first of all admit frankly that I took a great
liking to you during the voyage that ended so--tragically. I am no
longer a boy, and I do not take to people easily; but I felt an
unaccountable interest in you. There were traits in your character that
attracted me. I said to myself, 'I should like to know that young
fellow, to cultivate his acquaintance.' That must be my reason for
taking what interest I have in you. It would have been easy to let you
drown, to--to listen to the appeal of the other occupants of the boat,
and----"
"Pardon me," interrupted Dick impulsively, "I have behaved like a cad. I
forgot that I owed my life to you. But I was excited--angry. You see,
the suggestion that I am here under false pretences naturally upsets me.
But tell me what you mean. I do not understand you--I am bewildered by
your hints."
"Of course, I understand your feelings, and am not in the least
offended. I think I know you too well not to take offence easily;
besides, my desire, and my only desire, being to help you makes me
impervious to ordinary emotions."
"Still," cried Dick, "tell me what you mean. You say my position as
owner of my Uncle Faversham's estates rests on a very slender, a very
unsafe foundation. That is surely a serious statement to make. How do
you know?"
"Your uncle's will--yes, I will admit I went to Somerset House and paid
a shilling for the right of reading it--states that he gave his fortune
to his sister's sons, and after them to the next-of-kin."
"Exactly."
"Presently it came to pass that only one person stood between you and
possession."
"That is so. I did not know it at the time, but such, I am informed, was
the case."
"This person's name was Mr. Anthony Riggleton, at that time the only
surviving son of your uncle's sister!"
"That is so."
Romanoff lay back in his chair and quietly smoked his cigar.
"But why these questions?" persisted Dick.
"I was only thinking, my friend, on what small issues fortune or poverty
may rest."
"But--but really----"
"Here is the case as I understand it. Your lawyer told you that Mr.
Anthony Riggleton, the only man who stood between you and all your
uncle's possessions, was killed in a drunken brawl in Melbourne, and
that on his death you became heir. That was why he sent you that
wireless; that was why he summoned you back to England."
"Exactly."
"But what if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is not dead?"
"There is no doubt about that," replied Dick, in tones of relief. "Mr.
Bidlake realised the importance of this, and sent to a lawyer in
Melbourne to make investigations. Every care was taken, every possible
loophole of mistake was investigated. I saw all the documents, all the
newspaper reports."
"Has it ever struck you that mistakes might be made about this?"
"Of course. As a consequence I questioned Bidlake closely, and he told
me that doubt was impossible."
"Let me understand," and Romanoff continued to speak quietly. "Your
position is that Anthony Riggleton, the then heir to all your Uncle
Faversham's fortune, was living in Australia; that he was known in
Melbourne; that he went to a house near Melbourne with some boon
companions; that there was a night of orgy; that afterwards there was a
quarrel; and that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was killed."
"Evidently you've worked up the case," and there was a sneer in Dick's
voice.
"But I'm right, am I not?"
"As far as you've gone, you are roughly right. Of course, his body was
afterwards identified by----"
"By the cashier of the bank from which he had drawn money, and by
others," interrupted Romanoff. "But what if that cashier made a mistake?
What if it paid him to make it? What if the others who identified the
body were paid to do so? What if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is still alive?"
"What if a hundred things are true?" cried Dick angrily. "One can ask
such questions for ever. Of course, if Mr. Anthony Riggleton is still
alive, I have no right here. If he is alive, I clear out."
"And does the prospect please you?" and the Count looked at Dick like
one anxious.
"Of course, it doesn't please me. If it's true, I'm a pauper, or next
door to one. If it's true, I should have to leave everything and go out
into the world to begin again."
"And give up all thought of Lady Blanche Huntingford," added the Count.
"I say, Romanoff, if you've anything definite to tell me, tell it. I
tell you honestly, I don't enjoy all this."
"Of course you don't. The thought of giving up all this is like thinking
of having your eyes pulled out, isn't it?"
"But of course it's all rubbish. Of course you are imagining an ugly
bogey man," and Dick laughed nervously.
"I'm imagining nothing, Faversham."
"Then you mean to tell me----"
"That Mr. Anthony Riggleton is alive? Yes, I do."
Dick gave the Count an angry look, then started to his feet and began to
pace the room.
"Of course it's all nonsense," he cried after a few seconds. "Please
don't imagine that I'm going to accept a cock-and-bull sort of story
like that. Do you think that Bidlake would be deceived? Do you imagine
that the man he employed in Melbourne would be duped? No, no, I'm not
such a fool as to accept that. Besides, what have you to do with it? Why
did you come here in such a fashion, and with such a story? It does not
look very friendly, does it?"
"Why I came here, and why I have told you the truth, will leak out
presently. You will see then that I came not as an enemy, but as a
friend."
"As a friend!" and there was an angry sneer in Dick's voice.
"As a friend," repeated Romanoff. "Of course," he went on quietly, "I
expected that you would take it in this way; but you will soon see that
my motives are--not unworthy of a friend."
"Tell me then how you came to know of this. Perhaps you will also give
me some proofs that Mr. Anthony Riggleton, who was found dead, whose
body was identified by responsible witnesses, has so miraculously come
to life again. Believe me, this hearsay, this wonderful story does not
appeal to me. Do you come to me with this--this farrago of nonsense with
the belief that I am going to give up all this?" and he looked out of
the window towards the far-spreading parks as he spoke, "without the
most absolute and conclusive proof? If Mr. Anthony Riggleton is alive,
where is he? Why does he not show himself? Why does he not come here and
claim his own?"
"Because I have stopped him from coming," replied Romanoff.
"You have stopped him from coming?" cried Dick excitedly.
"Exactly."
"Then you have seen him?"
"I have seen him."
"But how do you know it was he? Are Mr. Bidlake's inquiries to go for
nothing? No, no, it won't do. I can't be deceived like that."
"I know it was he because I have the most absolute proofs--proofs which
I am going to submit to you."
"You saw him, you say?"
"I saw him."
"But where?"
"In Australia. I told you, didn't I, that--after leaving you I went to
Australia? I told you, too, that I left Australia quickly because I did
not like the country. That was false. I came because I wanted to warn
you, to help you. You asked me just now why, if Mr. Anthony Riggleton
was alive, he did not show himself. I will tell you why. If I had
allowed him to do so, if he knew that he was heir to all you now
possess, you would be a poor man. And I did not want you to be a poor
man. I did not want your life to be ruined, your future sacrificed, your
hopes destroyed. That's why, Faversham. That's why I left Australia and
came here without wasting an hour. That's why I examined your uncle's
will; that's why I came to warn you."
"To warn me?"
"To warn you."
"Against what?"
"Against dangers--against the dangers which might engulf you--ruin you
for ever."
"You speak in a tragic tone of voice."
"I speak of tragic things. I told you that this was your hour of
destiny. I told you the truth. This night will decide your future. You
are a young fellow with your life all before you. You were born for
enjoyment, for pleasure, for ease. You, unlike your uncle, who made all
the wealth we are thinking of, are not a business genius; you are not a
great master personality who can forge your way through difficult
circumstances. You are not cast in that mould. But you can enjoy. You
have barely felt your feet since you came into possession of great
wealth, but already you have dreamt dreams, and seen visions. You have
already made plans as to how you can suck the orange of the world dry.
And to-night will be the time of decision."
Dick laughed uneasily. "How?" he asked, and his face was pale to the
lips.
"Is there a photograph of Mr. Anthony Riggleton in the house?" asked
Romanoff.
"Yes, I came across one the other day. Would you like to see it?" He
went to a drawer as he spoke and took a packet from it. "Here is the
thing," he added.
"Just so," replied Romanoff; "now look at this," and he took a
photograph from his pocket. "It's the same face, isn't it? The same man.
Well, my friend, that is the photograph of a man I saw in Australia,
weeks after you got your wireless from Mr. Bidlake--months after the
news came that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was dead. I saw him; I talked with
him. He told me a good deal about himself, told me of some of his
experiences in this house. There are a number of people in this
neighbourhood who knew him, and who could identify him."
"You are sure of this?" gasped Dick.
"Absolutely."
"And does he know--that--that his uncle is dead?"
"Not yet. That's why I hurried here to see you. But he has made up his
mind to come to England, and of course he intends coming here."
"He told you this, did he?"
"Yes. I came across him in a little town about five hundred miles from
Melbourne, and when I found out who he was I thought of you."
"But how do you explain the news of his death, the inquest, and the
other things?"
"I'll come to that presently. It's easily explained. Oh, there's no
doubt about it, Faversham. I have seen the real heir to all the wealth
you thought your own."
"But what do you mean by saying that you stopped him from coming here?"
and Dick's voice was husky.
"I'm going to tell you why I stopped him. I'm going to tell you how you
can keep everything, enjoy everything. Yes, and how you can still marry
the woman you are dreaming of."
"But if the real heir is alive--I--I can't," stammered Dick.
"I'm here to show you how you can," persisted Romanoff. "Did I not tell
you that this was the hour of destiny?"
CHAPTER XII
THE DAY OF DESTINY
Dick Faversham wiped away the beads of perspiration that stood thick
upon his forehead. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by peculiar
influences, that forces were at work which he could not understand. In
one sense he did not at all believe in the story that Count Romanoff had
told him. It appeared to him chimerical, unconvincing.
It did not seem at all likely that a man of Mr. Bidlake's experience and
mental acumen could have been so deceived. This subtle-minded lawyer,
who had lived in London for so many years and had been spoken of as one
of the most astute and level-headed men in the profession, would not be
likely to communicate news of such great importance to him without being
absolutely certain of his ground. He had shown him details of
everything, too, and Mr. Bidlake was absolutely certain that Mr. Anthony
Riggleton was dead, that he was murdered near Melbourne. The proofs of
this were demonstrated in a hundred ways. No, he did not believe in
Romanoff's story.
Besides, it was absurd, on the face of it. Who was this Count Romanoff?
He knew little or nothing of him. Though he owed his life to him, he
knew nothing of his history or antecedents. He was afraid of him, too.
He did not like his cynical way of looking at things, nor understand his
mockery of current morality. And should he believe the bare word of such
a man?
And yet he did believe him. At the back of his mind he felt sure that he
had spoken the truth.
It came to him with ghastly force that he was not the owner of this fine
old house, and of all the wealth that during the last few weeks he had
almost gloated over. There was something in the tones of Romanoff's
voice--something in his mocking yet intense way of speaking that
convinced him in spite of himself.
And the fact maddened him. To be poor now after these few brief weeks of
riches would drive him mad. He had not begun to enjoy yet. He had not
carried out the plans which had been born in his mind. He had only just
entered into possession, and had been living the life of a pattern young
man. But he had meant to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to the very
dregs.
His mind swept like lightning over the conversation which had taken
place, and every word of it was burnt into his brain. What did the Count
mean by telling him that he could retain everything? Why did he persist
in urging that he had hurried from Australia to England to save him from
losing everything? What did he mean by telling him that this was his
hour of destiny--that on his decision would depend the future of his
life?
"You mean--to say then, that--that----" he stammered, after a long,
painful silence.
"That Anthony Riggleton, the legal heir of old Charles Faversham, is
alive," interrupted Romanoff. "I myself have seen him, have talked with
him."
"Does he know that he is--is the rightful heir?"
"Not yet," and Romanoff smiled. "I took good care of that."
"You mean----"
"I mean that I did not save your life for nothing. When I had fully
convinced myself that he was--who he said he was--I of course reflected
on what it meant. I called to mind what you had told me on that island,
and I saw how his being alive would affect you."
"How did you know? I did not tell you the terms of the will. I did not
know them myself."
"Does it matter how I knew? Anyhow, he--Riggleton--would guess."
"How did he know?"
Romanoff shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know, my dear fellow? But
one can easily guess. He knew he was next-of-kin to old Charles
Faversham, and would naturally think he would inherit his wealth. But
that is not all. Australia, although a long way from England, is not
away from the lines of communication. Melbourne is quite a considerable
city. It has newspapers, telephones, cablegrams, and a host of other
things. But one thing Anthony Riggleton did not know: he did not know
that the terms of the will were published in the Melbourne newspapers.
He was afraid to go near Melbourne, in fact. He thought it best for the
world to think of him as dead. Indeed, he paid a man to personate him in
Melbourne, and that man paid the penalty of his deceit by his life."
"It's anything but clear to me."
"Then I'll make it clear. Riggleton had enemies in Melbourne whom it was
necessary for him to see, but whom he was personally afraid to meet. He
had served them very shabbily, and they had threatened him with
unpleasant things. He had as a friend a man who resembled him very
closely, and he offered this friend a sum of money if he would go to
Melbourne and personate him. This man, ignorant of his danger, accepted
the offer--now, do you see?"
After he had asked many questions about this--questions which Romanoff
answered freely--Dick looked long and steadily at a picture of old
Charles Faversham which hung on the wall. He was trying to co-ordinate
the story--trying to understand it.
"And where is Anthony Riggleton now?"
"He is in England."
"In England! Then--then----"
"Exactly," interrupted Romanoff. "You see what I meant when I said that
the foundations of your position were very insecure. I do not imagine
that Lady Blanche Huntingford would think very seriously about Dick
Faversham if she knew the whole truth."
"But--but--in England?"
"Exactly. In England."
"But you say he does not know--the truth?"
"No. He may guess it, though. Who knows?"
"But why did you not tell me this last night? Why wait till now before
letting me know?"
Again Romanoff smiled; he might be enjoying himself.
"Because I like you, my friend. Because I wanted to see the state of
your mind, and to know whether it was possible to help you."
"To help me?"
"To help you. I saw the kind of man you were. I saw what such wealth as
you thought you possessed would mean to you. I saw, too, to what uses
you could turn the power that riches would give you. So I made my
plans."
"But you say he is in England. If so, he will know--all!"
"No, he does not. I took good care of that."
"But he will find out."
Romanoff laughed. "No, my friend, I have taken care of everything. As I
told you, I like you, and I want you to be a great figure in the life of
your country. That is why you are safe--for the present."
Again Dick wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. It seemed
to him as though he were standing on a precipice, while beneath him were
yawning depths of darkness. All he had hoped for was mocking him, and he
saw himself sinking under the stress of circumstances, just as on that
terrible night he felt himself sinking in the deep waters. But there
were no arms outstretched to save him, nor friendly help near him. He
looked around the room, noble in its proportions, and handsomely
appointed, and thought of all it suggested. He remembered his last
interview with Mr. Bidlake, when that gentleman gave him an account of
his possessions, and told him of the approximate amount of his fortune.
And now it would all go to this man who was not even aware of the truth.
It was all bewildering, maddening. Before he had properly begun to taste
of the sweets of fortune they were being dashed from his lips. He felt
as though he were losing his senses, that his brain was giving way
under the stress of the news he had heard.
Then his innate manhood began to assert itself. If what Romanoff had
said were true, he must bear it. But, of course, he would not yield
without a struggle. He would take nothing on the bare word of a man who,
after all, was a stranger. Everything should be proved up to the hilt
before he relinquished possession.
"Safe for the present!" Dick repeated, and there was a note of angry
scorn in his voice. "Of course, if--if you are not mistaken, there is no
question of safety."
"No question of safety?"
"Certainly not. If Anthony Riggleton is alive, and if he is the true
heir to old Charles Faversham, he must make his claim, as I assume he
will."
"Then you will yield without a struggle?" and there was a peculiar
intonation in Romanoff's voice.
"No," cried Dick, "I shall not yield without a struggle. I shall place
the whole matter in Bidlake's hands, and--and if I'm a pauper, I
am--that's all."
"I know a better way than that."
"I don't understand you."
"No, but you will in a minute. Faversham, there's no need for you to fix
up anything, no need for anyone to know what only you and I know."
"Look here," and Dick's voice trembled. "Are you sure that this fellow
you talk about is Anthony Riggleton--and that he is the lawful heir?"
Romanoff gave Dick a quick, searching glance; then he gave a peculiar
laugh. "Am I sure that the man is Anthony Riggleton? Here's the
photograph he gave me of himself. I compared the photograph with the
man, and I'm not likely to be mistaken. The photograph is the exact
representation of the man. You have photographs of Riggleton in this
house; compare them. Besides, he's been here repeatedly; he's known, I
imagine, to the servants, to the neighbours. If he is allowed to make a
claim, it will not be a question of Roger Tichborne and Arthur Orton
over again, my friend. He will be able to prove his rights."
"What do you mean by saying, 'if he is allowed to make his claim'?"
asked Dick hoarsely. "Of course he'll be allowed."
"Why of course?
"Naturally he will."
"That depends on you. Did I not tell you that this was your hour of
destiny?"
"Then the matter is settled. I will not usurp another man's rights. If
he's the lawful owner, he shall have his own. Of course, he will have to
prove it."
"You don't mean that?"
"Of course I do. Why not?"
"Because it would be criminal madness--the act of a fool!"
"It is the only attitude for a decent fellow."
Again Romanoff let his piercing eyes fall on Dick's face. He seemed to
be studying him afresh, as though he were trying to read his innermost
thoughts.
"Listen, my dear fellow," and the Count calmly cut the end of a fresh
cigar. "I want to discuss this matter with you calmly, and I want our
discussion to be entirely free from sentimental rubbish. To begin with,
there is no doubt that the man Anthony Riggleton is alive, and that he
is the legal owner of all Charles Faversham's fabulous fortune. Of that
I've no doubt. If he came here everyone would recognise him, while there
is not a lawyer, not a judge or jury in the land, who would not acclaim
him the owner of all which you thought yours. But, as I said, I like
you. You were meant to be a rich man; you were meant to enjoy what
riches can give you. And of this I am sure, Faversham: poverty after
this would mean hell to you. Why, man, think what you can have--titles,
position, power, the love of beautiful women, and a thousand things
more. If you want to enter public life the door is open to you. With
wealth like yours a peerage is only a matter of arrangement. As for Lady
Blanche Huntingford----" and the Count laughed meaningly.
"But what is the use of talking like that if nothing really belongs to
me?" cried Dick.
"First of all, Faversham," went on the Count, as though Dick had not
spoken, "get rid of all nonsense."
"Nonsense? I don't understand."
"I mean all nonsense about right and wrong, about so-called points of
honour and that sort of thing. There is no right, and no wrong in the
conventional sense of the word. Right! wrong! Pooh, they are only bogys
invented by priests in days of darkness, in order to obtain power. It is
always right to do the thing that pays---the thing that gives you
happiness--power. The German philosophy is right there. Do the thing you
can do. That's common sense."
"It's devilish!" exclaimed Dick.
"Your mind's unhinged, excited, or you wouldn't say so," replied
Romanoff. "Now, look at me," and he fastened Dick's eyes by his intense
gaze. "Do I look like a fanatic, a fool? Don't I speak with the
knowledge of the world's wisdom in my mind? I've travelled in all the
countries in the world, my friend, and I've riddled all their
philosophies, and I tell you this: there is no right, no wrong. Life is
given to us to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to its depths, to
press from the winepress all its sweets, and to be happy."
He spoke in low, earnest tones, and as he did so, Dick felt as though
his moral manhood were being sapped. The glitter of the Count's eyes
fascinated him, and while under their spell he saw as the Count saw,
felt as he felt.
And yet he was afraid. There was something awesome in all
this--something unholy.
"Look here!" and Dick started to his feet. "What do you mean by coming
to me in this way? Why should you so coolly assert that the moralities
of the centuries are nonsense? Who are you? What are you?"
Again the Count laughed.
"Who am I? What am I?" he repeated. "You remember Napoleon Bonaparte's
famous words: 'I am not a man. I am a thing. I am a force. Right and
wrong do not exist for me. I make my own laws, my own morals.' Perhaps I
could say the same, Faversham."
"Napoleon found out his mistake, though," protested Dick.
"Did he? Who knows? Besides, better taste the sweets of power, if only
for a few years, than be a drudge, a nonentity, a poor, struggling worm
all your days."
"But what do you want? What have you in your mind?"
"This, Faversham. If you will listen to me you will treat Anthony
Riggleton as non-existent----"
"As non-existent?"
"Yes, you can with safety--absolute safety; and then, if you agree to my
proposal, all you hope for, all you dream of, shall be yours. You shall
remain here as absolute owner without a shadow of doubt or a shadow of
suspicion, and--enjoy. You shall have happiness, my friend--happiness.
Did I not tell you that this was your day of destiny?"
CHAPTER XIII
THE INVISIBLE HAND
Again Dick felt as though he were gripped by an irresistible power, and
that this power was evil. It was true that the Count sat in the chair
near him, faultlessly dressed, urbane, smiling, with all the outward
appearance of a polished man of the world; all the same, Dick felt that
an evil influence dominated the room. The picture which Romanoff made
him see was beautiful beyond words, and he beheld a future of sensuous
ease, of satisfied ambition, of indescribable delights. And what he saw
seemed to dull his moral sense, to undermine his moral strength.
Moreover, the man had by his news undermined the foundations of life,
shattered the hopes he had nourished, and thus left him unable to fight.
"Tell me that this is a--a joke on your part," Dick said at length. "Of
course it's not true."
"Of course it is true."
"Well, I'll have it proved, anyhow. Everything shall be sifted to the
bottom."
"How?"
"I'll go and see Bidlake to-morrow. I'll tell him what you've said."
"You will do no such thing." The Count spoke in the most nonchalant
manner.
"Why not? Indeed, I shall."
"You will not. I'll tell you why. First, because it would be criminally
insane, and second, because you would be cutting your own throat."
"Please explain."
"Understand," replied Romanoff, "that this is really nothing to me after
all. I do not benefit by your riches, or lose by your poverty. Why, I
wonder, am I taking an interest in the matter?" And for the moment he
seemed to be reflecting. "I suppose it is because I like you--of course
that is it. Besides, I saved your life, and naturally one has an
interest in the life one has saved. But to explain: accept for the
moment the conventional standards of right and wrong, good and evil, and
what is the result? Suppose you give up everything to Riggleton--what
follows? You give up all this to an unclean beast. You put power in the
hands of a man who hasn't an elevated thought or desire. You, now--if
you are wise, and retain what you have--can do some good with your
money. You can bring comfort to the people on your estates; you can help
what you believe worthy causes. You, Faversham, are a gentleman at
heart, and would always act like one. Mind, I _don't_ accept
conventional morality; it is no more to me than so much sawdust. But I
do respect the decencies of life. My education has thrown me among
people who have a sense of what's fit and proper. Anyhow, judging from
your own standards, you would be doing an _immoral_ thing by handing
this great fortune to Riggleton."
"Tell me about him," and Dick felt a tightening at the throat.
"Tell you about him! An unsavoury subject, my friend. A fellow with the
mind of a pig, the tastes of a pig. What are his enjoyments? His true
place is in a low-class brothel. If he inherited Wendover Park, he would
fill these beautiful rooms with creatures of his own class--men and
women."
The Count did not raise his voice, but Dick realised its intensity; and
again he felt his influence--felt that he was being dominated by a
personality stronger than his own.
"No, no," he continued, and he laughed quietly as he spoke; "copy-book
morality has no weight with me. But I trust I am a gentleman. If, to use
your own term, I sin, I will sin like a gentleman; I will enjoy myself
like a gentleman. But this man is dirty. He wallows in filth--wallows in
it, and rejoices in it. That is Anthony Riggleton. Morality! I scorn it.
But decency, the behaviour of a gentleman, to act as a gentleman under
every circumstance--that is a kind of religion with me! Now, then,
Faversham, would it not be criminal madness to place all this in the
hands of such a loathsome creature when you can so easily prevent it?"
Of course, the argument was commonplace enough. It was a device by which
thousands have tried to salve their consciences, and to try to find an
excuse for wrong-doing. Had some men spoken the same words, Dick might
not have been affected, but uttered by Romanoff they seemed to undermine
the foundations of his reasoning power.
"But if he is in England?" he protested weakly.
"He is, but what then?"
"He must know; he must. He is not an idiot, I suppose?"
"No; he is cunning with a low kind of cunning--the cunning of a sensual
beast. Some would say he is clever."
"Then he must find out the truth."
"Not if you say he must not."
"What have I to do with it?"
"Everything," and Romanoff's eyes seemed to be searching into Dick's
innermost soul.
"But how? I do not understand," and he nervously wiped his moist hands.
"Say so, and he must be got rid of."
"How?"
Romanoff laughed quietly. "These are good cigars, Faversham," he said,
like one who was vastly enjoying himself. "Oh, you can do that easily
enough," he continued.
"How?" asked Dick. He felt his eyes were hot as he turned them towards
the other.
"I said treat him as though he were non-existent. Well, let him _be_
non-existent."
"You mean--you mean----" and Dick's voice could scarcely be recognised.
"Why not?" asked the Count carelessly. "The fellow is vermin--just dirty
vermin. But he is a danger--a danger to the community, a danger to you.
Why, then, if it can be done easily, secretly, and without anyone
having the slightest chance of knowing, should you not rid the world of
such a creature? Especially when you could save all this," and he looked
around the room, "as well as marry that divine creature, and live the
life you long to live."
"Never!" cried Dick. "What?--murder! Not for all the wealth ever known.
No, no--my God, no!"
"If there are good deeds in the world, that would be a good deed,"
persisted Romanoff. "You would be a benefactor to your race, your
country," and there was a touch of pleading in his voice. "Why, man,
think; I have him safe--safe! No one could know, and it would be a
praiseworthy deed."
"Then why not do it yourself?" cried Dick. There was a sneer as well as
anger in his voice.
"I am not the next heir to the Faversham estates," replied Romanoff.
"What does it matter to me who owns all that old Charles Faversham
gained during his life?"
"Then why suggest such a thing? Why, it's devilish!"
"Don't--please, don't be melodramatic," the Count drawled. "Would you
not kill a rat that ate your corn? Would you not shoot any kind of
vermin that infested your house? Well, Riggleton is vermin, human vermin
if you like, but still vermin, and he is not fit to live. If I,
Romanoff, were in your position, I would have no more hesitation in
putting him out of existence than your gamekeeper would have in shooting
a dog with rabies. But, then, I am not in your position. I have nothing
to gain. I only take a friendly interest in you. I have hurried to you
with all speed the moment I knew of your danger, and I have told you how
you can rid the world of a coarse, dirty-minded animal, and at the same
time save for yourself the thing nearest your heart."
"Did he come in the same vessel with you?"
"Suffice to say that I know he is in England, and in safe keeping."
"Where? How? England has laws to protect everyone."
"That does not matter. I will tell you if you like; but you would be
none the wiser."
"Then you have arranged this?"
"If you like--yes."
"But why?"
"Still the same silly question. Have you no sense of proportion,
Faversham? Haven't I told you again and again?"
Dick was almost gasping for breath, and as he buried his head in his
hands, he tried to understand, to realise. In calmer moments his mind
would doubtless have pierced the cheap sophistry of the Count, and
discarded it. But, as I have said, he was greatly excited, bewildered.
Never as now did he desire wealth. Never as now had the thought of
winning Lady Blanche seemed the great thing in life to be hoped for. And
he knew the Count was right--knew that without his money she would no
more think of marrying him than of marrying the utmost stranger. And yet
his heart craved after her. He longed to possess her--to call her his
own. He saw her as he had never seen her before, a splendid creature
whose beauty outshone that of any woman he had ever seen, as the sun
outshone the moon.
And this Anthony Riggleton, whom the Count described as vermin, stood in
his way. Because of a quibble on his part this loathsome thing would
ruin his future, dash his hopes to the ground, blacken his life.
But the alternative!
"No, of course not!" he cried.
"You refuse?"
"Certainly I do. I'm not a murderer."
"Very well, go your own way. Go to your Mr. Bidlake, see him shrug his
shoulders and laugh, and then watch while your cousin--your
_cousin_!--turns this glorious old place into a cesspool."
"Yes; rather than stain my hands in----I say, Romanoff," and the words
passed his lips almost in spite of himself, "there must be some deep
reason why you--you say and do all this. Do you expect to gain anything,
in any way, because of my--retaining possession of my uncle's wealth?"
For the first time the Count seemed to lose possession over himself. He
rose to his feet, his eyes flashing.
"What!" he cried; "do you mean that I, Romanoff, would profit by your
poor little riches? What is all this to me? Why, rich as you thought you
were, I could buy up all the Faversham estates--all--all, and then not
know that my banking account was affected. I, Romanoff, seek to help a
man whom I had thought of as my friend for some paltry gain! Good-night,
Mr. Richard Faversham, you may go your own way."
"Stop!" cried Dick, almost carried away by the vehemence of the other;
"of course, I did not mean----"
"Enough," and the Count interrupted him by a word and a laugh. "Besides,
you do not, cannot, understand. But to rid your mind of all possible
doubt I will show you something. Here is my account with your Bank of
England. This is for pocket-money, pin-money, petty cash as your
business men call it. There was my credit yesterday. In the light of
that, do you think that I need to participate in your fortune, huge as
you regard it?"
Dick was startled as he saw the amount. There could be no doubt about
it. The imprimatur of the Bank of England was plainly to be seen, and
the huge figures stood out boldly.
"I'm sure I apologise," stammered Dick. "I only thought that--that--you
see----"
"All right," laughed the Count, "let it be forgotten. Besides, have I
not told you more than once that I am interested in you? I have shown
you my interest, and----"
"Of course you have," cried Dick. "I owe you my life; but for you I
should not be alive to-day."
"Just so. I want to see you happy, Faversham. I want you to enjoy life's
sweetness. I want you to be for ever free from the haunting fear that
this Anthony Riggleton shall ever cross your path. That is why----"
He hesitated, as though he did not know what to say next.
"Yes," asked Dick, "why what?"
"That is why I want to serve you further."
"Serve me further? How?"
"Suppose I get rid of Riggleton for you?"
"I do not understand."
"Suppose I offer to get rid of Riggleton for you? Suppose without your
having anything to do with him, without knowing where he is, I offer to
remove him for ever from your path--would you consent?"
"I consent?"
"Yes; I must have that. Would you give it?"
"You--you--that is, you ask me if I will consent to--to his--his
murder?"
"Just that, my friend. That must be--else why should I do it? But--but I
love you, Faversham--as if you were my son, and I would do it for your
happiness. Of course, it's an unpleasant thing to do, even although I
have no moral scruples, but I'll do it for you."
Again Dick felt as though the ground were slipping from under his feet.
Never before was he tempted as he was tempted now, never did it seem so
easy to consent to wrong. And he would not be responsible. He had
suggested nothing, pleaded nothing. His part would be simply to be
blindly quiescent. His mind was confused to every issue save one. He had
only to consent, and this man Riggleton, the true owner of everything,
would be removed for ever.
"And if I do not?" he asked.
"Then nothing more need be said. But look at me, Faversham, and tell me
if you will be such a fool. If there is any guilt, I bear it; if there
is any danger, I face it; do you refuse, Faversham? I only make the
offer for your sake."
Again Dick felt the awful eyes of the Count piercing him; it was as
though all his power of judgment, all his volition were ebbing away. At
that moment he felt incapable of resistance.
"And if I consent?" he asked weakly.
"Of course you will, you _will_, you WILL," and the words were repeated
with peculiar intensity, while the eyes of the two met. "I only make one
stipulation, and I must make it because you need a friend. I must make
it binding for your sake."
He took a piece of paper from a desk and scribbled a few words.
"There, read," he said.
Dick read:
"I promise to put myself completely under the guidance of Count Romanoff
with regard to the future of my life."
"There, sign that, Faversham," and the Count placed the pen in his hand.
Without will, and almost without knowledge, Dick took the pen.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Dick dully.
"Sign that paper. Just put 'Richard Faversham' and the date. I will do
the rest."
"But--but if I do this, I shall be signing away my liberty. I shall make
myself a slave to you."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Why should I interfere with your liberty?"
"I don't know; but this paper means that." He was still able to think
consecutively, although his thoughts were cloudy and but dimly realised.
"Think, Faversham. I am undertaking a dirty piece of work for your sake.
Why? I am doing it because I want you to be free from Anthony Riggleton,
and I am doing it because I take a deep interest in you."
"But why should I sign this?"
In spite of the Count's influence over him, he had a dull feeling that
there was no need for such a thing. Even although he had tacitly
consented to Romanoff's proposal he saw no necessity for binding
himself.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I know you--because I read your mind
like a book. I want to make you my protégé, and I want you to cut a
figure in the life of the world. After all, in spite of Charles
Faversham's wealth, you are a nobody. You are a commoner all compact.
But I can make you really great. I am Romanoff. You asked me once if I
were of the great Russian family, and I answered yes. Do you know what
that means? It means that no door is closed to me--that I can go where I
will, do what I will. It means that if I desire a man's aggrandisement,
it is an accomplished fact. Not only are the delights of this country
mine for the asking, but my name is an _Open Sesame_ in every land. My
name and my influence are a key to unlock every door; my hand can draw
aside the curtain of every delight. And there are delights in the world
that you know nothing of, never dreamt of. As my protégé I want them to
be yours. A great name, great power, glorious pleasures, the smile of
beautiful women, delights such as the author of _The Arabian Nights_
only dimly dreamt of--it is my will that you shall have them all.
Charles Faversham's money and my influence shall give you all this and
more. But I am not going to have a fretful, puling boy objecting all the
time; I am not going to have my plans for your happiness frustrated by
conscience and petty quibbles about what is good and evil. That is why I
insist on your signing that paper."
Romanoff spoke in low tones, but every word seemed to be laden with
meanings hitherto unknown to Dick. He saw pictures of exquisite
delights, of earthly paradises, of joys that made life an ecstasy.
And still something kept his hand still. He felt rather than reasoned
that something was wrong--that all was wrong. He was in an abnormal
state of mind; he knew that the influences by which he was surrounded
were blinding him to truth, and giving him distorted fancies about
life's values.
"No," he said doggedly; "I won't sign, and I won't consent to this
devilish deed."
Again Romanoff laughed. "Look at me, Dick, my boy," he said. "You are
not a milksop; you were made to live your whole life. Fancy you being a
clerk in an office, a store--a poor little manikin keeping body and soul
together in order to do the will of some snivelling tradesman! Think of
it! Think of Anthony Riggleton living here, or in London, in Paris, in
India--or wherever he pleases--squandering his money, and satiated with
pleasure, while you--you----Pooh! I know you. I see you holding Lady
Blanche in your arms. I see you basking in the smiles of beautiful women
all over the world. I see the name of Faversham world-wide in its
power. I see----" and the Count laughed again.
All the while, too, he kept Dick's eyes riveted on his own--eyes which
told him of a world of sensuous delights, and which robbed him of his
manhood. No, he could not bear to become poor again, and he would not
give up the delights he had dreamt of. Right! Wrong! Good! Evil! They
were only words. The Count was right. It was his right to enjoy.
"All right, I'll sign," he said.
He dipped the pen into the ink, and prepared to inscribe his name, but
the moment he placed his hand on the paper it felt as though it were
paralysed.
"There is something here!" he gasped.
"Something here? Nonsense."
"But there is. Look!"
It seemed to him that a ray of light, brighter than that of the electric
current that burnt in the room, streamed towards him. Above him, too, he
saw the face
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