VIII
Tatham had to open the gate of Threlfall Park for himself. The lodge beside it, of the same date and architecture as the house, had long ceased to be inhabited. The gate was a substantial iron affair, and carried a placard, peremptorily directing the person entering to close it behind him. And on either side of it, the great wall stretched away with which, some ten years before this date, Melrose, at incredible cost, had surrounded the greater part of his property, in consequence of a quarrel with the local hunt, and to prevent its members from riding over his land.
Tatham, having carefully shut the gate, rode slowly through the park, casting a curious and hostile eye over the signs of parsimonious neglect which it presented. Sheep and cattle were feeding in part of it; part of it was standing for hay; and everywhere the fences were ruinous, and the roads grass-grown. It was, Tatham knew, let out to various small farmers, who used it as they pleased. As to the woods which studded it, "the man must be a simple fool who could let them get into such a state!" Tatham prided himself hugely on the admirable forestry with which the large tracts of woodland in his own property were managed. But then he paid a proper salary to a trained forester, a man of education. Melrose's woods, with their choked and ruined timber, were but another proof that a miser is, scientifically, only a species of idiot.
Only once before in his life had he been within the park—on one of the hunts of his boyhood, the famous occasion when the fox, started on the other side of the river, had made straight for Threlfall, and, the gate closing the private foot-bridge having been, by a most unusual chance, left open, had slipped thereby into the park, with the hounds in full cry after him. The hunt had momentarily paused, and then breaking loose from all control had dashed through the yard of the Home Farm in joyous pursuit, while the enraged Melrose, who with Dixon and another man had rushed out with sticks to try and head them back, had to confine himself and his followers to manning the enclosure round the house—impotent spectators of the splendid run through the park—which had long remained famous in Cumbrian annals. Tatham was then a lad of fourteen, mounted on one of the best of ponies, and he well remembered the mad gallop which had carried him past the Tower, and the tall figure of its furious master. The glee, the malicious triumph of the moment ran through his pulses again as he thought of it.
A short-lived triumph indeed, as far as the hunt was concerned; for the building of the ten-foot wall had followed, and Melrose's final breach with the gentry of his county. Never since had Tatham set foot in the Ogre's demesne; and he examined every feature of it with the most lively interest. The dilapidated buildings of the Home Farm reminded him of a lawsuit brought by a former tenant against his landlord, in which a story of mean and rapacious dealing on the part of Melrose, toward a decent though unfortunate man, had excited the disgust of the whole countryside. Melrose had never since been able to find a tenant for the farm, and the bailiff he had put in was a drunken creature whose mismanagement of it was notorious. Such doings by a man so inhumanly shrewd as Melrose in many of his affairs could only be accounted for by the combination in him of miserly dislike of spending, with a violent self-will. Instances, however, had been known when to get his own way, or gain a sinister advantage over an opponent, Melrose had been willing to spend extravagantly.
After passing the farm, Tatham pressed on eagerly, expecting the first sight of the house. The dense growth of shrub and creeper, which had been allowed to grow up around it, the home according to the popular legend of uncanny multitudes of owls and bats, tickled imagination; and Tatham had often brought a field-glass to bear upon the house from one of the neighbouring hills. But as he turned the last corner of the drive he drew up his horse in amazement.
The jungle was gone—! and the simple yet stately architecture of the house stood revealed in the summer sunshine. In the west wing, indeed, the windows were still shuttered, and many of them overgrown with ivy; but the dingy thickets of laurel and yew were everywhere shorn away; and to the east all the windows stood free and open. Moreover, two men were at work in the front garden, clearing the flagged paths, traced in the eighteenth century, from encumbrance, and laying down turf in a green circle round one of the small classical fountains that stood on either side of the approach.
"What on earth is the old villain up to now?" was the natural comment of the surprised Tatham.
Was it simply the advent of a guest—an invalid guest—that had wrought such changes?
One of the gardeners, seeing him as he approached the gate, came running up to hold his horse. Tatham, who knew everybody and prided himself on it, recognized him as the son of an old Duddon keeper.
"Well, Backhouse, you're making a fine clearance here!"
"Aye! It's took us days, your lordship. But we're about through wi' this side, howivver." He pointed to the east wing.
"One can see now what a jolly old place it is," said Tatham, pausing in the gateway to survey the scene.
Backhouse grinned responsively.
"I do believe, my lord, Muster Melrose hissel' is pleased. He stood a lang while lookin' at it this morning, afore he started oot."
"Well, no one can deny it's an improvement!" laughed Tatham, as he walked toward the house.
Dixon had already opened the door. Slave and factotum of Melrose as he was, he shared the common liking of the neighbourhood for young Lord Tatham. Two of his brothers were farmers on the Duddon estate; and one of them owed his recovery from a dangerous and obscure illness to the fact that, at the critical moment, Tatham had brought over a specialist from Leeds to see him, paying all expenses. These things—and others besides—were reflected in the rather tremulous smile with which Dixon received the visitor.
"Mr. Faversham expects me?"
"Aye, aye, my lord." The old man quickly led the way through the front hall, more quickly than Tatham's curiosity liked. He had time to notice, however, the domed and decorated ceiling, the classical mantelpiece, with its medallions and its pillars of Sienese marble, a couple of bold Renaissance cabinets on either side, and a central table, resting on carved sphinxes, such as one might find in the sala of a Venetian palace.
But as they turned into the corridor or gallery Tatham's exclamation brought Dixon to a halt. He faced round upon the young man, revealing a face that worked with hardly repressed excitement, and explained that the furnishing and arrangement had been only completed that day. It had taken them eight days, and Barclay's men were only just gone.
Tatham frankly expressed his surprise and admiration. The whole gallery and both of its terminal windows had now been cleared. The famous series of rose-coloured tapestries, of which Undershaw had seen the first specimens, had been hung at intervals throughout its length; and from the stores of the house had been brought out more carpets, more cabinets, mirrors, pictures, fine eighteenth-century chairs, settees, occasional tables, and what not. Hastily as it had been done, the brilliance of the effect was great. There was not, there could not be, the beauty that comes from old use and habit—from the ordered life of generations moving among and gradually adapting to itself a number of lovely things. Tatham brought up amid the surroundings of Duddon was scornfully conscious of the bric-à-brac element in the show, as he stood contemplating Melrose's latest performance. Nevertheless a fine taste had presided both at the original selection of the things shown, and at the arrangement of them in the stately gallery, which both harmonized and displayed them.
"There's not a thing yo' see, my lord, that hasna been here—i' this house—for years and years!" said Dixon, pointing a shaky finger at the cabinets on either side. "There's soom o' them has been i' their packing-cases ever sin' I can remember, an' the carpets rolled up aw deep in dust. And there's not a thing been unpacked now i' the house itsel', for fear o' t' dust, an' Mr. Faversham. The men carried it aw oot o' that door"—he pointed to the far western end of the gallery—"an' iverything was doon out o' doors, all t' carpets beaten an' aw, where Mr. Faversham couldna hear a sound. An' yesterday Muster Melrose and Muster Faversham—we browt him in his wheeled chair yo' unnerstan'—fixed up a lot o' things together. We havna nailed doon th' matting yet, for fear o't' noise. But Muster Faversham says noo he won't mind it."
"Is Mr. Faversham staying on some time?"
"I canno' say, my lord, I'm sure," was the cautious reply. "But they do say 'at he's not to tak' a journey for a while yet."
Tatham's curiosity was hot within him, but his very dislike of Melrose restrained him from indulging it. He followed Dixon through the gallery in silence.
There was no one in the new sitting-room. But outside on some newly laid grass, Tatham perceived the invalid on a deck chair, with a table holding books and cigarettes beside him.
Dixon had departed. Faversham offered cigarettes.
"Thank you," said Tatham, "I have my own."
And he produced his case with a smile, handing it to Faversham.
"A drink?"
Tatham declined again. As he sat there smoking, his hat on the back of his head, and his ruddy, good-humoured face beaming on his companion, it did not occur to Faversham that Tatham was thereby refusing the "salt" of an enemy.
"They'll bring some tea when Mrs. and Miss Penfold come," said Faversham.
Tatham nodded, then grinned irrepressibly.
"I say! I told Miss Penfold she'd find you in 'piggery.'"
Faversham's dark face showed a certain discomposure. Physical delicacy had given a peculiar distinction to the gaunt black and white of his eyes, hair, and complexion, and to the thinness of his long frame, so that Tatham, who would have said before seeing him that he remembered him perfectly, found himself looking at him from time to time in surprise. As to his surroundings, Faversham appeared not only willing but anxious to explain.
"It's a queer business," he said frankly. "I can assure I you I never asked for anything, never wished for anything of the sort. Everything was arranged for me to go to Keswick—to a home there—when—this happened."
"When old Melrose broke out!" Tatham threw back his head and gurgled with laughter. "I suppose you know that nobody but yourself has ever had bite or sup in this house for twenty years, unless it were some of the dealers, who—they say—come occasionally. What have you done to him? You've cast a spell on him!"
Faversham replied again that he had done nothing, and was as much puzzled as anybody.
"My mother was afraid you would be anything but comfortable," said Tatham. "She knows this gentleman of old. But she didn't know your powers of soothing the savage breast! However, you have only to say the word, and we shall be delighted to take you in for as long as you like."
"Oh, I must stay here now," said Faversham decidedly. "One couldn't be ungrateful for what has been done. But my best thanks to Lady Tatham all the same. I hope I may get over to see her some day."
"You must, of course. Dixon tells me there is a carriage coming—perhaps a motor; why not!"
A flush rose in Faversham's pale cheek.
"Mr. Melrose talked of hiring one yesterday," he said, unwillingly. "How far are you?"
They fell into talk about Duddon and the neighbourhood, avoiding any further discussion of Melrose. Then Faversham described his accident, and spoke warmly of Undershaw, an occupation in which Tatham heartily joined.
"I owe my life to him," said Faversham; adding with sudden sharpness, "I suppose I must count it an advantage!"
"That would be the common way of looking at it!" laughed Tatham. "What are you doing just now?"
"Nothing in particular. I am one of the large tribe of briefless barristers. I suppose I've never given enough of my mind to it. The fact is I don't like the law—never have. I've tried other things—fatal, of course!—but they haven't come off, or at least only very moderately. But, as you may suppose—I'm not exactly penniless. I have a few resources—just enough to live on—without a wife."
Tatham felt a little awkward. Faversham's tone was already that of a man to some extent disappointed and embittered.
"You had always so much more brains than the rest of us," he said cordially. "You'll be all right."
"It's not brains that matter nowadays—it's money. What do you get by brains? A civil service appointment—and a pension of seven hundred a year. What's the good of slaving for that?"
Faversham turned to his companion with a smile, in which however there was no good-humour. It made Tatham disagreeably conscious of his own wealth.
"Well, of course, there are the prizes—"
"A few. So few that they don't count. A man may grind for years, and get passed over or forgotten—just by a shave—at the end. I've seen that happen often. Or you get on swimmingly for a while, and everybody supposes you're going to romp in; and then something crops up you never thought of. Some boss takes a dislike to you—or you make a mistake, and cut your own throat. And there you are—pulled!"
Tatham was silent a moment, his blunt features expressing some bewilderment. Then he said—awkwardly:
"So you don't really know what you're going to take up?"
Faversham lit another cigarette.
"Oh, well, I have some friends—and some ideas. If I once get a foothold, a beginning—I daresay I could make money like other people. Every idiot one meets seems to be doing it."
"Do you want to go into politics—or something of that kind?"
"I want to remain my own master, and do the things I want to do—and not the things I must do," laughed Faversham. "That seems to me the dividing line in life—whether you are under another man's orders or your own. And broadly speaking it's the line between poverty and money. But you don't know much about it, old fellow!" He looked round with a laugh.
Tatham screwed up his blue eyes, not finding reply very easy, and not certain that he liked the "old fellow," though their college familiarity justified it. He changed the subject, and they fell into some gossip about Oxford acquaintances and recollections, which kept the conversation going.
But at the end of it the two men were each secretly conscious that the other jarred upon him; and in spite of the tacit appeal made by Faversham's physical weakness and evident depression to Tatham's boundless good-nature, there had arisen between them at the end an incipient antagonism which a touch might develop. Faversham appeared to the younger man as querulous, discontented, and rather sordidly ambitious; while the smiling optimism of a youth on whom Fortune had showered every conceivable gift—money, position, and influence—without the smallest effort on his own part, rang false or foolish in the ears of his companion. Tatham, cut off from the county, agricultural, or sporting subjects in which he was most at home, fumbled a good deal in his efforts to adjust himself; while Faversham found it no use to talk of travel, art, or music to one who, in spite of an artistic and literary mother and wonderful possessions, had himself neither literary nor artistic faculty, and in the prevailing manner of the English country gentleman, had always found the pleasures of England so many and superior that there was no need whatever to cross the Channel in pursuit of others. Both were soon bored; and Tatham would have hurried his departure, but for the hope of Lydia. With that to fortify him, however, he sat on.
And at last she came. Mrs. Penfold, it will easily be imagined, entered upon the scene, in a state of bewildered ravishment.
"She had never expected—she could not have believed—it was like a fairy-tale—a real fairy-tale—wasn't the house too beautiful—Mr. Melrose's taste!—and such things!" In the wake of this soft, gesticulating whirlwind, followed Lydia, waiting patiently with her bright and humorous look till her mother should give her the chance of a word. Her gray dress, and white hat, her little white scarf, a trifle old-fashioned, and the pansies at her belt seemed to Tatham's eager eyes the very perfection of dress. He watched her keenly as she came in; the kind look at Faversham; then the start—was it, of pity?—for his altered aspect, the friendly greeting for himself; and all so sweet, so detached, so composed. His heart sank, he could not have told why.
"I ought to have warned you of that hill!" she said, standing beside
Faversham, and looking down upon him.
"You couldn't know I was such a duffer!" laughed Faversham. "It wasn't me—it was the bike. At least, they tell me so. As for me, everything, from the moment I left you till I woke up here six weeks ago, is wiped out. Did you finish your sketch? Were the press notices good?"
She smiled. "Did you see what they were?"
"Certainly. I saw your name in one as I picked it out."
"I still sleep with it under my pillow—when I feel low," said Lydia. "It said the nicest things. And I sold my pictures."
"Magnificent!" said Faversham. "But of course you sold them."
"Oh, no, Mr. Faversham, not 'of course'!" cried Mrs. Penfold, turning round upon him. "You can't think how Lydia was envied! Hardly anybody sold. There were friends of hers exhibiting—and it was dreadful. The secretary said they had hardly ever had such a bad year—something to do with a bank breaking—or the influenza—or something. But Lydia, lucky girl, sold hers within the first week. And we don't know at all who bought them. The secretary said he was not to tell. There are many buyers, he told us, who won't give their names—for fear of being bothered afterward. As if Lydia would ever bother any one!"
The guilty Tatham sat with his cane between his knees twirling it, his eyes on the ground. No one noticed him.
"And the sketch you were making that day?" said Faversham.
"As you liked it, I brought it to show you," said Lydia shyly. And she produced a thin parcel she had been carrying under her arm.
Faversham praised the drawing warmly. It reminded him, he said, of some work he had seen in March, at one of the Bond Street galleries; a one-man show by a French water-colourist. He named him. Lydia flushed a little.
"Next to Mr. Delorme"—she glanced gratefully at Tatham—"he is the man of all the world I admire most! I am afraid I can't help imitating him."
"But you don't!" cried Faversham. "You are quite independent. I didn't mean that for a moment."
Lydia's eyes surveyed him with a look of amusement, which seemed to say that she was not at all duped by his compliment. He proceeded to justify it.
"I'll tell you who do imitate him—"
And forthwith he began to show a remarkable knowledge of certain advanced groups among the younger artists and their work. Lydia's face kindled. She listened; she agreed; she interrupted; she gave her view; it was evident that the conversation both surprised and delighted her.
Tea came out, and, at Faversham's invitation, Lydia presided. The talk between her and Faversham flowed on, in spite of the girl's pretty efforts to make it general, to bring Tatham into it. He himself defeated her. He wanted to listen; so did Mrs. Penfold, who sat in open-mouthed wonder at Lydia's cleverness; while Tatham was presently conscious of a strong discomfort, a jealous discomfort, which spoilt for him this nearness to Lydia, and the thrill stirred in him by her movements and tones, her soft laugh, her white neck, her eyes….
Here, between these two people, Faversham and Lydia, who had only seen each other for some ten minutes in their lives before, there seemed to have arisen, at once, an understanding, a freemasonry, such as he himself had never reached in all his meetings with Lydia Penfold.
How had it come about? They talked of people, struggling people, to whom art was life, though also livelihood; of men and women, for whom nothing else counted, beside the fascination and the torment of their work; Lydia speaking from within, as a humble yet devout member of the band; Faversham, as the keen spectator and amateur—not an artist, but the frequenter of artists.
And all the time Lydia's face wore a happy animation which redoubled its charm. Faversham was clearly making a good impression upon her, was indeed set on doing so, helped always by the look of delicacy, the traces of suffering, which appealed to her pity. Tatham moved restlessly in his chair, and presently he got up, and proposed to Mrs. Penfold that they should examine the improvements in the garden.
* * * * *
When they returned, Lydia and Faversham were still talking and still absorbed.
"Lydia, my dear," cried her mother, "I am afraid we shall be tiring Mr. Faversham! Now you must let Lord Tatham show you the garden—that's been made in a week! It's like that part in 'Monte Cristo,' where he orders an avenue at breakfast-time, that's to be ready by dinner—don't you remember? It's thrilling!"
Lydia rose obediently, and Mrs. Penfold slipped into her seat. Lydia, strolling with Tatham along the rampart wall which crowned the sandstone cliff, was now and then uncomfortably aware as they passed the tea-table of the soft shower of questions that her mother was raining upon Faversham.
"You really think, Mr. Faversham"—the tone was anxiously lowered—"the daughter is dead?—the daughter and the mother?"
"I know nothing!"
"She would be the heiress?"
"If she were alive? Morally, I suppose, not legally, unless her father pleased."
"Oh! Mr. Faversham!—but you would never suggest—"
Lydia came to the rescue:
"Mother, really we ought to ask for the pony-carriage."
Faversham protested, but Lydia was firm, and the hand-bell beside him was rung. Mrs. Penfold flushed. She quite understood that Lydia thought it unseemly to be putting a guest through a string of questions about the private affairs of his host; but the inveterate gossip in her whimpered.
"You see when one has watched a place for months—and people tell you such tales—and you come and find it so different—and so—so fascinating—"
She paused, her plaintive look, under her wistful eyebrows, appealing to
Faversham to come to her aid, to justify her curiosity.
Suddenly, a sound of wheels from the front.
Lydia offered her hand to Faversham.
"I'm afraid we've tired you!"
"Tired! When will you come to see me again?"
"Will it be permitted?" She laid a finger on her lip, as she glanced smiling at the house.
He begged them to repeat their visit. Tatham looked on in silence. The figure of Lydia, delicately bright against the dark background of the Tower, absorbed him, and this time there was something painful and strained in his perception of it. In his first meeting with her that day he had been all hopefulness—content to wait and woo. Now, as he saw her with Faversham, as he perceived the nascent comradeship between them, and the reason for it, he felt a first vague suffering.
A step approached through the sitting-room of which the door was open to the terrace.
The two ladies escorted by Tatham moved toward the house expecting Dixon with the announcement of their carriage.
A tall figure stood in the doorway. There was a checked exclamation from Tatham, and Faversham perceived to his amazement that it was not Dixon—but—Melrose!
* * * * *
Melrose surveyed the group. Removing his old hat he bowed gravely to the ladies. His flowing hair, and largely cut classical features gave him an Apollonian aspect as he towered above the startled group, looking down on them with an expression half triumphant, half sarcastic. Tatham was the first to recover himself. He approached Melrose with a coolness like his own.
"You are back early, sir? I apologize for my intrusion, which will not be prolonged. I came, as you see, to inquire after my old friend, Mr. Faversham."
"So I understand. Well—what's wrong with him? Isn't he doing well—eh?
Faversham, will you introduce me to your friends?"
Mrs. Penfold, so much shaken by the sudden appearance of the Ogre that words failed her, bowed profoundly; Lydia slightly. She was indignant for Tatham. Mr. Melrose, having announced his absence for the day, ought not to have returned upon them by surprise, and his manner convinced her that it had been done on purpose.
"They gave you tea?" said Melrose to Mrs. Penfold, with gruff civility, as he descended the steps. "Oh, we keep open house nowadays. You're going?" This was in answer to Tatham's bow which he slightly acknowledged. "Good-day, good-day! You'll find your horse. Sorry you're so hurried."
Followed by the old man's insolent eyes, Tatham shook hands with Faversham and the Penfolds; then without reentering the house, he took a short cut across the garden and disappeared.
"Hm!" said Melrose, looking after him, "I can't say he resembles his mother. His father was a plain fellow."
No one answered him. Mrs. Penfold nervously pressed for her carriage, throwing herself on the help of Dixon, who was removing the tea things. Melrose meanwhile seated himself, and with a magnificent gesture invited the ladies to do the same. Mrs. Penfold obeyed; Lydia remained standing behind her mother's chair. The situation reminded her of a covey of partridges when a hawk is hovering.
Mrs. Penfold at once began to make conversation, saying the most dishevelled things for sheer fright. Melrose threw her a monosyllable now and then, reserving all his attention for the young girl, whose beauty he instantly perceived. His piercing eyes travelled from Faversham to Lydia repeatedly, and the invalid rather angrily divined the conjectures which might be passing in their owner's brain.
* * * * *
"How are you?" asked Melrose abruptly, when he returned from accompanying the Penfolds to the front door.
Faversham replied with some coldness. He was disgusted that Melrose should have spoilt the final success of his little festa by the breach of a promise he had himself volunteered.
But Melrose appeared to be in an unusually good temper, and he took no notice. He had had considerable success that morning, it appeared, at an auction of some fine things at a house near Carlisle; having not only secured what he wanted himself, but having punished two or three of his most prominent rivals, by bidding high for some inferior thing, exciting their competition, and then at the critical moment dropping it on the nose, as he explained it, of one of his opponents. "Wilson of York came to me nearly in tears, and implored me to take some beastly pot or other that I had made him buy at a ridiculous price. I told him he might keep it, as a reminder that I always paid those out who bid against me. Then I found I could get an earlier train home; and I confess I was curious to see how young Tatham would look, on my premises. He did not expect that I should catch him here." The Ogre chuckled.
"You told me, if you remember," said Faversham, not without emphasis, "that I was to say to him you would not be at home."
"I know. But sometimes there are impulses—of different kinds—that I can't resist. Of different kinds—" repeated Melrose, his glittering, absent look fixed on Faversham.
There was silence a little. Then Melrose said slowly, as he rose from his chair: "I have—a rather important proposition to make to you. That fellow Undershaw would attack me if I began upon it now. Moreover, it will want a fresh mind. Will it suit you if I come to see you at eleven o'clock to-morrow?"
IX
On the following morning, Faversham, for the first time, dressed without assistance, and walked independently—save for his stick—into his sitting-room. The July day was rather chill and rainy and he decided to await Melrose indoors.
As to the "important proposal" his mind was full of conjectures. What he thought most probable was that Melrose intended, according to various fresh hints and indications, to make him another and a more serious offer for his gems—no doubt a big offer. They were worth at least three thousand pounds, and Melrose of course knew their value to a hair.
"Well, I shall not sell them," thought Faversham, his hands behind his head, his eyes following the misty course of the river, and the rain showers scudding over the fells. "I shall not sell them."
His mind clung obstinately to this resolve. His ambitions with regard to money went, in fact, so far beyond anything that three thousand pounds could satisfy, that the inducement to sell at such a price—which he knew to be the market price—and wound thereby the deepest and sincerest of his affections, was not really great. The little capital on which he lived was nearly double the sum, and could be made to yield a fair income by small and judicious speculation. He did not see that he should be much better off for the addition to it of three thousand pounds; and on the other hand, were the gems sold, he should have lost much that he keenly valued—the prestige of ownership; the access which it gave him to circles, learned or wealthy, which had been else closed to him; the distinction attaching thereby to his otherwise obscure name in catalogues and monographs, English or foreign. So long as he possessed the "Mackworth gems" he was, in the eyes of the world of connoisseurs, at any rate, a personage. Without them he was a personage nowhere. Every month, every week, almost, he was beginning to receive requests to be allowed to see and study them, or appeals to lend them for exhibition. In the four months since his uncle's death, both the Louvre and the Berlin Museum had approached him, offering to exhibit them, and hinting that the loan might lead, should he so desire it, to a very profitable sale. If he did anything of the kind, he was pledged of course to give the British Museum the first chance. But he was not going to do it—he was not even going to lend them—yet a while. To possess them, and the kudos that went with them; not to sell them, for sentimental reasons, and even at a money loss, made a poor man proud, and ministered in strange ways to his self-respect, which went often rather hungry; gave him, in short, a standing with himself, and with the world. All the more, that the poor man's mind was in fact, set passionately on the conquest of wealth—real and substantial wealth—to which the paltry sum of three thousand pounds bore no sort of relation.
No, he would not sell them. But he braced himself to a tussle with Melrose, for he seemed to have gathered from a number of small indications that the fierce old collector had set his heart upon them. And no doubt this business of the newly furnished rooms, and all the luxuries that had been given or promised, made it more difficult—had been intended, perhaps, to make it more difficult? Well, he could but say his No and depart, expressing his gratitude—and insisting on the payment of his score!
But—depart where? The energies of renewed health were pulsing through him, and yet he had seldom felt more stranded, or, except in connection with the gems, more insignificant, either to himself or others; in spite of this palace which had been oddly renovated for his convenience. His uncle's death had left him singularly forlorn, deprived of the only home he had ever possessed, and the only person who felt for him a close and spontaneous affection. For his other uncle—his only remaining relation—was a crusty and selfish widower, with whom he had been on little more than formal terms. The rheumatic gout pleaded in the letter to Undershaw had been, he was certain, a mere excuse.
Well—something must be done; some fresh path opened up. He had in Fact left London in a kind of secret exasperation with himself and circumstance, making an excuse out of meeting the Ransoms—mere acquaintances—at Liverpool; and determined, after the short tour to which they had invited him, to plunge himself for a week or two in the depths of a Highland glen where he might fish and think.
The Ransoms, machine manufacturers from St. Louis, had made matters worse. Such wealth!—such careless, vulgar, easily gotten wealth!—heaped up by means that seemed to the outsider so facile, and were, in truth, for all but a small minority, so difficult. A commonplace man and a frivolous woman; yet possessed, through their mere money, of a power over life and its experiences, such as he, Faversham, might strive for all his days and never come near. It might be said of course—Herbert Ransom would probably say it—that all men are worth the wages they get; with an obvious deduction in his own case. But when or where had he ever got his chance—a real chance? Visions of the rich men among his acquaintance, sleek, half-breed financiers, idle, conceited youths of the "classes," pushed on by family interest; pig-headed manufacturers, inheritors of fortunes they could never have made; the fatteners on colonial land and railway speculation—his whole mind rose in angry revolt against the notion that he could not have done, personally, as well as any of them, had there only been the initial shove, the favourable moment.
* * * * *
He envied those who had beaten him in the race, he frankly admitted it; but he must also allow himself the luxury of despising them.
* * * * *
Melrose was late.
Faversham rose and hobbled to the window, his hands on his sides, frowning—a gaunt figure in the rainy light. With the return of physical strength there had come a passionate renewal of desire—desire for happiness and success. The figure of Lydia Penfold hovered perpetually in his mind. Marriage!—his whole being, moral and physical, cried out for it. But how was he ever to marry?—how could he ever give such a woman as that the setting and the scope she could reasonably claim?
"A bad day!" said a harsh voice behind him, "but all the better for business."
Faversham turned to greet his host, the mental and physical nerves tightening.
"Good morning. Well, here I am"—his laugh showed his nervousness—"at your disposal."
He settled himself in his chair. Melrose took a cigarette from the table, and offered one to his guest. He lit and smoked in silence for a few moments, then began to speak with deliberation:
"I gather from our conversations, Faversham, during the last few weeks that you have at the present moment no immediate or pressing occupation?"
Quick colour leapt in Faversham's lean cheek.
"That is true. It happens to be true—for various reasons. But if you mean to imply by that, that I am necessarily—or willingly—an idler, you are mistaken."
"I did not mean to imply anything of the kind. I merely wished, so to speak, to clear the way for what I have to propose."
Faversham nodded. Melrose continued:
"For clearly it would be an impertinence on my part were I to attempt—suddenly—to lift a man out of a fixed groove and career, and suggest to him another. I should expect to be sent to the devil—and serve me right. But in your case—correct me if I am wrong—you seem not yet to have discovered the groove that suits you. Now I am here to propose to you a groove—and a career."
Faversham looked at him with astonishment. The gems, which had been so urgently present to his mind, receded from it. Melrose in his skullcap, sitting sideways in his chair, his cigarette held aloft, presented a profile which might have been that of some Venetian Doge, old, withered and crafty, engaged, say, in negotiation with a Genoese envoy.
"When you were first brought here," Melrose continued—"your presence, as Undershaw has no doubt told you—of course he has told you, small blame to him—was extremely distasteful to me. I am a recluse. I like no women—and d——d few men. I can do without them, that's all; their intimate company, anyway: and my pursuits bring me all the amusement I require. Such at any rate was my frame of mind up to a few weeks ago. I don't apologize for it in the least. Every man has a right to his own idiosyncrasies. But I confess that your society during the last few weeks—I am in no mood for mere compliment—has had a considerable effect upon me. It has revealed to me that I am no longer so young as I was, or so capable—apparently—of entertaining myself. At any rate your company—I put it quite frankly—instead of being a nuisance—has been a godsend. It has turned out that we have many of the same tastes; and your inheritance of the treasures collected by my old friend Mackworth"—("Ah!" thought Faversham, "now we come to it!")—"has made from the first, I think, a link between us. Have I your assent?"
"Certainly."
Melrose paused a moment, and then resumed. The impression he made was that of one rehearsing, point by point, a prepared speech.
"At the same time, I have become more aware than usual of the worries and annoyances connected with the management of my estates. We live, sir, in a world of robbers"—Melrose suddenly rounded on his companion, his withered face aflame—"a world of robbers, and of rapine! Not a single Tom, Dick, and Harry in these parts that doesn't think himself my equal and more. Not a single tenant on my estate that doesn't try at every point to take advantage of his landlord! Not a single tramp or poacher that doesn't covet my goods—that wouldn't murder me if he could, and sleep like a baby afterward. I tell you, sir, we shall see a jacquerie in England, before we are through with these ideas that are now about us like the plague; that every child imbibes from our abominable press!—that our fools of clergy—our bishops even—are not ashamed to preach. There is precious little sense of property, and not a single rag of loyalty or respect left in this country! But when you think of the creatures that rule us—and the fanatics who preach to us—and the fools who bring up our children, what else can you expect! The whole state is rotten! The men in our great towns are ripe for any revolutionary villainy. We shall come to blood, Faversham!"—he struck his hand violently on the arm of his chair—"and then a dictator—the inevitable round. Well, I have done my part. I have fought the battle of property in this country—the battle of every squire in Cumbria, if the dolts did but know their own interests. Instead they have done nothing but thwart and bully me for twenty years. And young Tatham with his County Council nonsense, and his popularity hunting, is one of the very worst of them! Well, now I've done!—personally. I daresay they'll crow—they'll say I'm beat. Anyway, I've done. There'll have to be fighting, but some one else must see to it. I intend to put my affairs into fresh hands. It is my purpose to appoint a new agent—and to give him complete control of my property!"
Melrose stopped abruptly. His hard eyes in their deep, round orbits were fixed on Faversham. The young man was mainly conscious of a half-hysterical inclination to laugh, which he strangled as he best could. Was he to be offered the post?
"And, moreover," Melrose resumed, "I want a secretary—I want a companion—I want some one who will help me to arrange the immense, the priceless collections there are stacked in this house—unknown to anybody—hardly known, in the lapse of years, even to myself. I desire to unravel my own web, so to speak—to spin off my own silk—to examine and analyze what I have accumulated. There are rooms here—containing masterpieces—unique treasures—that have never been opened for years—whose contents I have myself forgotten. That's why people call me a madman. Why? What did I want with a big establishment eating up my income?—with a lot of prying idiots from outside—museum bores, bothering me for loans—common tourists, offering impertinent tips to my housekeeper, or picking and stealing, perhaps, when her back was turned! I bought the things, and shut them up. They were safe, anyway. But now that process has gone on for a quarter of a century. You come along. A chance—a freak—a caprice, if you like, makes me arrange these rooms for you. That gives me new ideas—"
He turned and looked with sharp, slow scrutiny round the walls:
"The fact is I have been so far engaged in hoarding—heaping together. The things in this house—my extraordinary collections—have been the nuts—and I, the squirrel. But now the nuts are bursting out of the hole, and the squirrel wants to see what he's got. That brings me to my point!"
He turned emphatically toward Faversham, leaning hard on a marqueterie table that stood between them:
"I offer you, sir, the post, the double post, of agent to my property, and of private secretary, or assistant to myself. I offer you a salary of three thousand a year—three thousand pounds, a year—if you will undertake the management of my estates, and be my lieutenant in the arrangement of my collections. I wish—as I have said—to unpack this house; and I should like to leave my property in order before I die. Which reminds me, I should of course be perfectly ready to make proper provision, by contract, or otherwise, so that in the event of any sudden termination of our agreement—my death for instance—you should be adequately protected. Well, there, in outline, is my proposal!"
During this extraordinary speech Faversham's countenance had reflected with tolerable clearness the various impressions made by it—incredulous or amused astonishment—bewilderment—deepening gravity—coming round again to astonishment. He raised himself in his chair.
"You wish to make me your agent—the agent for these immense estates?"
"I do. I had an excellent agent once—twenty years ago. But old Dovedale stole him from me—bribed him by higher pay. Since then I have had nothing but clerks—rent-collectors—rascally makeshifts, all of them."
"But I know nothing about land—I have had no experience!"
"A misfortune—but in some ways to the good. I don't want any cocksure fellow, with brand-new ideas lording it over me. I should advise you of course."
"But—at the same time—I should not be content with a mere clerk's
place, Mr. Melrose," said Paversham, a momentary flash in his dark eye.
"I am one of those men who are better as principals than as subordinates.
Otherwise I should be in harness by now."
Melrose eyed him askance for a moment—then said: "I understand. I should be willing to steer my course accordingly—to give you a reasonable freedom. There are two old clerks in the estate-office, who know everything that is to be known about the property, and there are my solicitors both in Carlisle and Pengarth. For the rest, you are a lawyer, and there are some litigations pending. Your legal knowledge would be of considerable service. If you are the clever fellow I take you for, a month or two's hard work, the usual technical books, some expert advice—and I have little doubt you would make as good an agent as any of them. Mind, I am not prepared to spend unlimited money—nor to run my estates as a Socialist concern. But I gather you are as good a Conservative as myself."
Faversham was silent a moment, observing the man before him. The whole thing was too astounding. At last he said: "You are not prepared, sir, you say, to spend unlimited money. But the sum you offer me is unheard of."
"For an agent, yes—for a secretary, yes—for a combination of the two, under the peculiar circumstances, the market offers no precedents. You and I make a market—and a price."
"You would expect me to live in this house?"
"I gather these rooms are not disagreeable to you?"
"Disagreeable! They are too sumptuous. If I did this thing, sir, I should want to do it in a businesslike way."
"You want an office? Take your choice." Melrose's gesture indicated the rest of the house. "There are rooms enough. But you will want some place, I imagine, where you can be at home, receive friends—like the young lady and her mother yesterday—and so on."
His smile made him more Ogreish than before.
He resumed:
"And by the way, if you accepted my proposal, I should naturally expect that for a time you would devote yourself wholly to the organization of the collections, inside the house, and to the work of the estate, outside it. But you are of an age when a man hopes to marry. I should of course take that into account. In a year or two—"
"Oh, I have no immediate ideas of that kind," said Faversham, hastily.
There was a pause. At the end of it Faversham turned on his companion. A streak of feverish colour, a sparkling vivacity in the eyes, showed the effect produced by the conversation. But he had kept his head throughout the whole interview, and a certain unexpected strength in his personality had revealed itself to Melrose:
"You will hardly expect me, sir, to give an immediate answer to these proposals?"
"Take your time—take your time—in moderation," said Melrose, drumming on the table before him.
"And there are of course a few things that I on my side should wish to know."
A series of inquiries followed: as to the term of the proposed engagement; the degree of freedom that would be granted him; the date at which his duties would begin, supposing he undertook them—("To-morrow, if it pleases you!" said Melrose, jovially)—passing on to the general circumstances of the estates, and the nature of the pending litigations. The questions were put with considerable tact, but were none the less shrewd. Melrose's strange character with its mixture of sagacity, folly, and violence, had never been more acutely probed—though quite indirectly.
At the end of them his companion rose.
"You have a talent for cross-examination," he said with a rather sour smile. "I leave you. We have talked enough."
"Let me at least express before you go the gratitude I feel for proposals so flattering—so generous," said Faversham, not without emotion; "and for all the kindness I have received here, a kindness that no man could ever forget."
Melrose looked at him oddly, seemed about to speak—then muttered something hardly intelligible, ceased abruptly, and departed.
* * * * *
The master of the Tower went slowly to his library through the splendid gallery, where Mrs. Dixon and the new housemaid were timidly dusting. But he took no notice of them. He went into his own room, locked his door, and having lit his own fire, he settled down to smoke and ruminate. He was exhausted, and his seventy years asserted themselves. The radical alteration in his habits and outlook which the preceding six weeks had produced, the excitement of unpacking the treasures now displayed in the gallery, the constant thinkings and plannings connected with Faversham and the future, and, lastly, the interview just concluded, had tried his strength. Certain symptoms—symptoms of old age—annoyed him though he would not admit it. No doubt some change was wanted. He must smoke less—travel less—give himself more variety and more amusement. Well, if Faversham consented, he should at least have bought for himself a companionship that was agreeable to him, and relief from a number of routine occupations which he detested.
Suddenly—a child's voice—a child's shrill voice, ringing through the gallery—followed by scufflings and hushings, on the part of an older person—then a wail—and silence. Melrose had risen to his feet with an exclamation. Some peculiar quality in the voice—some passionate, thrilling quality—had produced for the moment an extraordinary illusion.
He recovered himself in a moment. It was of course the child of the upholstress who had been working in the house for a week or so. He remembered to have noticed the little girl. But the sound had inevitably suggested thoughts he had no wish to entertain. He had a letter in his pocket at that moment which he did not mean to answer—the first he had received for many years. If he once allowed a correspondence to grow up—with that individual—on the subject of money, there would be no end to it; it would spread and spread, till his freedom was once more endangered. He did not intend that persons, who had been once banished from his life, should reenter it—on any pretext. Netta had behaved to him like a thief and a criminal, and with the mother went the child. They were nothing to him, and never should be anything. If she was in trouble, let her go to her own people.
He took out the letter, and dropped it into the midst of the burning logs before him. Then he turned to a heap of sale catalogues lying near him, and after going through them, he rose, and as though drawn to it by a magnetic power, he went to the Riesener table, and unlocked the drawer which held the gems.
Bringing them back to the fireside he watched the play of the flames on their shining surfaces, delighting greedily in their beauty; in the long history attaching to each one of them, every detail of which he knew; in the sense of their uniqueness. Nothing like them of their kind, anywhere; and there they were in his hand, after these years of fruitless coveting. He had often made Mackworth offers for them; and Mackworth had laughed at him.
Well, he had bid high enough this time, not for the gems themselves, but for the chance of some day persuading their owner to entertain the notion of selling them. It pleased him to guess at what had been probably Faversham's secret expectation that morning of a proposal for them; and to think that he had baffled it.
He might, of course, have made some quite preposterous offer which would have forced the young man's hand. But that might have meant, probably would have meant, the prompt departure of the enriched Faversham. But he wanted both Faversham and the gems; as much as possible—that is, for his money. The thought of returning to his former solitariness was rapidly becoming intolerable to him. Meanwhile the adorable things were still under his roof; and with a mad pleasure he relocked the drawer.
* * * * *
Faversham spent the rest of the morning in cogitations that may be easily imagined. He certainly attributed some share in the extraordinary proposal that had been made to him, to his possession of the gems, and to Melrose's desire to beguile them from him. But what then? Sufficient for the day! He would decide how to deal with that crisis when it should arrive.
Meanwhile, the amazing proposal itself was before him. If it were accepted, he should be at once a comparatively rich man, with an infinity of chances for the future; for Melrose's financial interest and influence were immense. If not free to marry immediately, he would certainly be free—as Melrose himself had hinted—to prepare for marriage. But could he do the work?—could he get on with the old man?—could he endure the life?
After luncheon Dixon, with the subdued agitation of manner which showed the advent of yet another change in the household, came in to announce that a motor had come from Carlisle, that Mr. Melrose did not propose to use it himself, and hoped that Mr. Faversham would take a drive.
It was the invalid's first excursion into the outer world.
He sat breathing in great draughts of the scented summer air, feeling his life and strength come back into him.
The rain had passed, and the fells rose clear and high above the moist hay meadows and the fresh-leaved trees.
As they emerged upon the Keswick road he tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Do you know Green Cottage?"
"Mrs. Penfold's, sir? Certainly."
"How far is it?"
"I should say about two miles."
"Go there, please."
The two miles passed for Faversham in a double excitement he had some difficulty in concealing; the physical excitement of change and movement, of this reentry upon a new world, which was the old; and the mental excitement of his own position.
At the cottage door, he dismounted slowly. The maid-servant said she thought Mrs. Penfold was in the garden. Would the gentleman please come in?
Faversham, leaning on his stick, made his way through the tiny hall of the cottage, and the drawing-room door was thrown open for him. A young lady was sitting at the farther end, who rose with a slight cry of astonishment. It was Lydia.
Through her reception of him Faversham soon learnt what are the privileges of the wounded, and how glad are all good women of excuses to be kind. Lydia placed him in the best chair, in front of the best view, ordered tea, and hovered round him with an eager benevolence. Her mother, she said, would be in directly. Faversham, on his side, could only secretly hope that Mrs. Penfold's walk might be prolonged.
They were not interrupted. Lydia, with concern, conjectured that Mrs. Penfold and Susan had gone to visit a couple of maiden ladies, living half a mile off along the road. But she showed not the smallest awkwardness in entertaining her guest. The rain of the morning had left the air chilly, and a wood fire burnt on the hearth. Its pleasant flame gave an added touch of intimity to the little drawing-room, with its wild flowers, its books, its water-colours, and its modest furnishings. After the long struggle of his illness, and the excitement of the morning, Faversham was both soothed and charmed. His whole nature relaxed; happiness flowed in. Presently, on an impulse he could not resist, he told her of the offer which had been made to him.
Lydia's embroidery dropped on her lap.
"Mr. Melrose's agent!" she repeated, in wonder. "He has offered you that?"
"He has—on most generous terms. Shall I take it?"
She flushed a little, for the ardent deference in his eyes was not easy to ignore. But she examined his news seriously—kindling over it.
"His agent—agent for his miserable, neglected property! Heavens, what a chance!"
She looked at him, her soul in her face. Something warned him to be cautious.
"You think it so neglected?"
"I know it: but ask Lord Tatham! He's chairman of some committee or other—he'll tell you."
"But perhaps I shall have to fight Tatham? Suppose that turns out to be my chief business?"
"Oh, no, you can't—you can't! He's too splendid—in all those things."
"He is of course the model youth," said Faversham dryly.
"Ah, but you can't hate him either!" cried Lydia, divining at once the shade of depreciation. "He is the kindest, dearest fellow! I agree—it's provoking not to be able to sniff at him—such a Prince Charming—with all the world at his feet. But one can't—one really can't!"
Jealousy sprang up sharply in Faversham, though a wider experience of the sex might have suggested to him that women do not generally shower public praise on the men they love. Lydia, however, quickly left the subject, and returned to his own affairs. Nothing, he confessed, could have been friendlier or sincerer than her interest in them. They plunged into the subject of the estate; and Faversham stood amazed at her knowledge of the dales-folk, their lives and their grievances. At the end, he drew a long breath.
"By George!—can I do it?"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" said Lydia eagerly, driving her needle into the sofa cushion. "You'll reform him!"
Faversham laughed.
"He's a tough customer. He has already warned me I am not to manage his estates like a Socialist."
"No—but like a human being!" cried Lydia, indignantly—"that's all we want. Come and talk to Lord Tatham!"
"Parley with my employer's opponent!"
"Under a flag of truce," laughed Lydia, "and this shall be the neutral ground. You shall meet here—and mamma and I will hold the lists."
"You think—under those circumstances—we should get through much business?" His dark eyes, full of gaiety, searched hers. She flushed a little.
"Ah, well, you should have the chance anyway."
Faversham rose unwillingly to go. Lydia bent forward, listening.
"At last—here comes my mother."
For outside in the little hall there was suddenly much chatter and swishing of skirts. Some one came laughing to the drawing-room and threw it open. Mrs. Penfold, flushed and excited, stood in the doorway.
"My dear, did you ever know such kind people!"
Her arms were laden with flowers, and with parcels of different sorts.
Susy came behind, carrying two great pots of Japanese lilies.
"You said you'd like to see those old drawings of Keswick—by I forget whom. Lady Tatham has sent you the whole set—they had them—you may keep them as long as you like. And Lord Tatham has sent flowers. Just look at those roses!" Mrs. Penfold put down the basket heaped with them at Lydia's feet, while Susy—demurely—did the same with the lilies. "And there is a fascinating parcel of books for Susy—all the new reviews! … Oh! Mr. Faversham—I declare—why, I never saw you!"
Voluble excuses and apologies followed. Meanwhile Lydia, with a bright colour, stood bewildered, the flowers all about her, and the drawings in her hands. Faversham escaped as soon as he could. As he approached Lydia to say good-bye, she looked up, put the drawings aside, and hurriedly came with him to the door.
"Accept!" she said. "Be sure you accept!"
He had a last vision of her standing in the dark hall, and of her soft, encouraging look. As he drove away, two facts stood out in consciousness: first, that he was falling fast and deep in love; next, that—by the look of things—he had a rival, with whom, in the opinion of all practical people, it would be mere folly for him to think of competing.