Chapter III: Fraud

Rather more than a week elapsed, during which Melville saw practically nothing of the outer world. His chambers were at the top of the house in Jermyn Street, the suite consisting of a sitting, bed, and bath rooms, which he rented furnished for seventy pounds a year. His food and attendance were all supplied to him by the general manager of the house, and his credit for these bare necessaries of life was still good. So Melville gave orders to the hall porter to reply uniformly to all enquirers that he was not at home, and remained in his chambers steeped in dull melancholy. One evening he stole out and pawned his violin, but that very night he lost nearly all the proceeds of the transaction in some utterly foolish wager, and the next morning he woke up face to face with the fact that he only possessed ten shillings in the world. It was pouring with rain and the wind was howling round the balustrade outside his windows. Melville shivered; he felt cold and ill, and recollected that he had eaten no dinner the night before. He rang the bell and told the valet, whose services he shared with the other tenants on his floor, to bring him up some breakfast and some shaving water.

"What is the time?" he asked curtly, as the man came from his bedroom to say the shaving water was ready.

"About twelve, sir. I will bring up your breakfast in a quarter of an hour."

Melville turned to the window again. If only the rain would stop! And how he missed his violin! No human being could realise what his instrument had been to him, or what a wrench it had been to part with it. He felt utterly destitute.

"What am I to do?" he muttered vainly. "Sir Geoffrey--no, it's worse than useless to apply to him--last time was the last time, unless some marvellous inspiration helps me to pitch some plausible yarn."

While he was still harping on the one perpetual theme, the valet returned with his breakfast, and Melville drank some tea and disposed of some excellent kidneys.

"I was getting quite faint," he said to the man who was attending to him. "Don't bother about things this morning. I shall go out presently, and you can do whatever you've got to do then."

"It's a very wet day, sir," the other answered.

"Wet?" said Melville disgustedly. "I should think it is wet. The weather certainly means business." He drank some more tea and lighted a cigarette. "By the way, put out my dress clothes early this evening. I probably shall not be dining at home."

The valet hesitated.

"Have you any more linen in any other portmanteau, sir?" he asked.

"I'm sure I don't know," Melville replied testily. "You'd better look and see. Anyhow, find some."

The valet looked still more uncomfortable.

"I sent all I could find to the wash, sir," he stammered; "and the laundry people have refused to leave any clean linen until your account is settled."

Melville grew scarlet with anger.

"What do I owe them?" he asked.

"It's a little over four pounds, sir. Will you write a cheque?"

"No, I won't," said Melville shortly. "Go to the Burlington Arcade and tell my hosiers to send me over three dozen, and put them down in my account."

"Yes, sir," said the valet civilly, and left the room.

Melville laughed when the door closed behind the servant. When the devil laughs it is time for good folks to beware, and Melville felt like a fiend at that moment. It was grotesquely funny that he could get three dozen shirts on credit, but had not the money to pay his washerwoman. But the fact was a staggering reminder of his real position. He got up preparatory to going out, when he remembered that he had still to shave; he went, therefore, into his bedroom, and, having stropped his razor, took off his collar and tie and began to make a lather for his face.

And then suddenly the idea came to him with the force of a conviction that the way out of his trouble lay plain before him. It was the cowardly way which it yet requires a measure of courage to take. Death was the solution of the problem. He did not know how to live, but it was very simple to die. He sat down in a chair and, almost closing his eyes, peered at his reflection in the mirror. Very little paler--only with eyes quite closed--he would not look very different presently if he did this thing. And, unless his courage failed him in the act, it would not hurt. Then what would happen? The scene here, in this room, with the dead body stretched upon the floor, was easy to imagine. It might not be very appalling. Had he ever contemplated such a deed before he would have provided himself with some poison, which, while it was as fatal as the razor blade, would not disfigure him; for to the living man the idea of being disfigured after death is always repugnant. But he had no poison, and here was the razor ready to his hand. He would be found quite soon--but it must not be too soon--and he rose and stealthily locked the outer door.

Again he sat before the impassive mirror. There was no one who would care. In all the world, so far as Melville knew, there was no one who would care if he were dead, only a few who would resent the manner of his dying.

He had nothing left to lose. Penniless and friendless in the present, bankrupt of hope for the future, he had nothing material left to lose, at any rate, and he stood to gain emancipation from an environment to which he had ceased to be adapted.

He would have to draw the blade across his throat--so! He must do it very strongly, very swiftly, or he would fail.

The man leant forward on the dressing-table and gazed closely at himself in the glass; he saw exactly where he must make the gash, and without any hesitation or nervousness he felt the edge of the razor with the thumb of his left hand. As he did so he cut the skin, and some blood fell upon the snow-white cover of the table. In the extraordinary mental state in which he was, the horrible incongruity in his reasoning did not strike him, but, in actual fact, the bloodstain on the cloth gave him offence, and he paused and looked around him. This--would make such a mess! And there was a revolver in his bag. How stupid of him not to have remembered that! It had another advantage, too, for people might think the pistol had gone off by accident while he was cleaning it, whereas there could be no doubt about the intention in the other case. It mattered a great deal what people would think.

He laid down the razor on a chest of drawers and removed the soiled toilet cover from the dressing table. Then he went to his bag to take out his revolver. The valet had disarranged the contents of the bag, and Melville turned over a lot of things and could not find the little pistol case. Instead, his hand fell upon a heap of letters, and on the top of them was the one that had come to him from Ralph asking for a loan of a hundred pounds.

A sudden revulsion of thought made Melville sick and giddy. It was as if a gambler who had lost all but his last five-franc piece had, after hesitation, staked _en plein_ and followed with a run of wins on single numbers. One cannot follow up the gambler's line of thought, but many a one whom that fortune befell would be almost sick to think how narrowly he missed his chance. Melville was a gambler pure and simple. An instant before he had been upon the very point of death because he did not know whence money could be got, and without money he did not want to live. Yet here in his bag was a letter which might mean at least a hundred pounds. Of course, he might lose his stake, but to kill himself without having made the venture was intolerable.

The physical endurance of the strongest man has its limitations, and Melville staggered into the sitting-room and threw himself into a great armchair. Here presently he was discovered by his valet, who was frightened by his master's complete collapse. Some hours passed by before he regained anything like his usual self-control, and then, resolutely putting out of his mind all thought of how close he had been to death, he began to consider the best time and manner of making his final venture to raise money.

A train left Waterloo at six-forty, which would land him at Fairbridge Manor at eight o'clock. If he went by that train he would in all probability find Sir Geoffrey Holt in a good humour after dinner. He even took the precaution of changing his clothes again, substituting a somewhat shabby lounge suit for his elaborate frock coat. "May as well look the part," he said sardonically to himself. "The Prodigal Son was a bit baggy at the knees, I imagine, and that is the scene I'm on in now. I shall have to draw on my imagination about the husks all the same."

There was something almost heroic--in a wicked fashion--in his effort to pull himself together, for his recent temptation to commit suicide had really shaken him. He drank freely of the spirits in his tantalus as he was dressing, and all the while tried to anticipate every difficulty in the interview before him.

"If only Ralph is out of the way I may pull it off. His letter will serve to account for one hundred of the last two-fifty, and I can gas about some forgotten bills to explain how most of the rest has gone. It's a fighting chance anyhow, and if I fail there is still the pistol."

From one thought sprang another.

"There is still the pistol!"

With a curiously furtive action Melville took the revolver from his portmanteau and slipped it into his pocket. Then he crept downstairs, and, hailing a hansom, drove to Waterloo.

But when the train steamed into Fairbridge Station, Melville was not in it. He was so restless that he could not endure the swaying of the carriage, and getting out two stations short of his destination he resolved to walk the rest of the way.

Leaving the high road he made his way down to the river and followed the towing path. It was getting dark, but the rain had ceased; the silence was intense, and the occasional splash of a water-rat startled him so much that he was angry with himself for being in so highly strung and nervous a condition.

When at last he reached the gardens of the Manor House he was feeling very shaky; he walked quickly towards the house, wondering, now the moment was at hand, how he should begin.

"Ralph may be cornered for money," he muttered, "but I notice he hasn't got rid of his houseboat. I wonder whether he is here to-night. Everything depends upon that."

He crept cautiously up to the dining-room windows and tried to peep through the blinds. As he did so he heard the front door open, and crouching down hid himself in some shrubbery. He recognised Sir Geoffrey's firm, quick step, and peering over the laurels saw his uncle walking with Ralph down the drive. He watched them shake hands, and saw Ralph walk briskly away; then he drew back among the laurels as Sir Geoffrey returned to the house and quietly closed the door.

"So Ralph is here to-night," said Melville under his breath; "my luck again!"

He felt horribly uncertain what to do. His first impulse was to follow Ralph, who might be going up to town, but he refrained, and walked softly down to the towing path again, turning round at every other step to see if Sir Geoffrey were coming. The evening grew colder, and Melville turned up the collar of his coat and stood back among the shadows, steadying himself against a tree.

"Perhaps that is Sir Geoffrey," he thought, as the sound of footsteps fell upon his ear. "No! it's someone going the other way. 'Pon my word, I'm beginning to feel quite guilty. Still--I'm not going back without seeing him. Perhaps I'd better go up to the house and get it over. Why can't he come down here as usual?"

He retraced his steps, and as he reached the garden gate came face to face with Sir Geoffrey, who, apparently, was not at all surprised to see him.

"How do you do, uncle?" Melville said. "I thought I would look you up."

"Very good of you, I'm sure," said Sir Geoffrey drily. "Have you just come from the station?"

"Yes, just this instant," Melville answered, without thinking.

"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey; "I suppose they must have put on a new down train. Did you meet Ralph?"

"No," said Melville shortly.

"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey again; "I thought not."

"Not a very promising beginning!" said Melville to himself; then he added aloud, "Is Ralph staying with you?"

"He has been," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's coming back to-morrow, so I am sorry I cannot offer you his room."

Melville was annoyed.

"I am not aware that I have asked you to give me his room, and I am aware that you prefer his company."

"That being so," said Sir Geoffrey, "it seems to me that you have chosen a somewhat unconventional hour for your visit."

"I've only just returned to England," Melville replied; "otherwise I should have called earlier."

"May I ask the object of your visit now you have called?" enquired Sir Geoffrey. "What is it you want?" and he looked keenly at his nephew.

"Well," Melville stammered, "the fact is I wanted to ask you to give me some more money. I--I----"

"But it's not two months since I gave you two hundred and fifty pounds," cried Sir Geoffrey. "What on earth have you done with that?"

Melville was at a loss how to begin the explanation he had invented.

"I've been away," he said lamely, "and ill, and--and it's gone."

"I can quite believe it's gone," said his uncle bitterly. "Money melts before you like pyramids of snow. I wonder you have the face to ask me again."

Melville flushed. He knew that Sir Geoffrey had detected him in one lie, and that in his present state of excitement he would only make matters worse if he faltered in his suddenly improvised story.

"Well, what am I to do?" he asked.

"Do what every other man does," Sir Geoffrey said. "Work, instead of idling about in the club and playing the fiddle--and the fool."

"But I can't get any work," Melville objected.

"What have you tried to do?"

"Oh, it's no good going into all that."

"I should think not," said Sir Geoffrey with a bitter laugh, "but, anyhow, I won't help you any more; men of your type never will work while they've got any relations on whom they can sponge. You give up the fiddle, as a start."

"I have," said Melville, "to a pawn-broker."

"Best place for it," grunted Sir Geoffrey unsympathetically. "I'll pay the interest for you next year, if you'll agree to leave it there."

Melville clenched his fists and walked on in silence for a few yards.

"You don't mind helping Ralph," he said, with a sneer; "he's so different, isn't he?"

"That is my own affair," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I don't mind saying I've never had to refuse him, because he has never asked me. He's a thoroughly fine fellow."

"He's a humbug," said Melville. "He's not above borrowing from me at all events. As you insist upon knowing what I did with the last two hundred and fifty I had from you, I will tell you that I gave Ralph a hundred of it."

"I don't believe you," said Sir Geoffrey. "You're a liar, Melville, and I've proved it."

"Read that," said Melville shortly.

He took Ralph's letter out of his pocket and gave it to his uncle, who read it in the fading light. A spasm of pain crossed the old man's face, but he drew himself up with dignity.

"I detected you in one lie, sir," he said, "but I may have made a mistake about this. If so, I apologise. You did what your brother asked you? Sent him this hundred pounds?"

Melville met his keen eyes steadily.

"I did. I sent it to him at once."

"How? By cheque?"

"No," said Melville; "in notes--twenty fivers." His wonted effrontery returned to him. "I can tell you the numbers if you like."

"Thank you, no," replied Sir Geoffrey. "I'm not proposing to try to trace the notes now, and Ralph can give me his own explanation of his temporary embarrassment later. Come to the house and I will repay you for him now."

Melville's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He felt absolutely no shame at his fraud, no fear of the subsequent inevitable exposure. He had to get money somehow, and with incredible swiftness it was already almost in his grasp. They walked in silence to the Manor House. As they passed the drawing-room windows Melville caught sight of Gwendolen Austen's figure and involuntarily paused, but Sir Geoffrey noticed the action and harshly interrupted him.

"Mrs. and Miss Austen are staying here as my guests. As this is purely a business visit on your part we will, if you please, go to my library," and he strode along the terrace.

Melville followed him, and turning to the right came to the west front of the house, on which side lay Sir Geoffrey's private set of rooms. To Melville, overwrought with excitement as he was, the library with its great armchairs and well-filled bookcases looked very homelike and comfortable, but he did not venture to sit down unasked, and Sir Geoffrey pointedly refrained from everything approaching hospitality. He unlocked a drawer in his writing table and, taking out his cheque book, filled in a form payable to Melville for one hundred pounds. Before signing the cheque, he laid down his pen and looked scrutinisingly at his nephew.

"There are a few things I wish to say to you, Melville," he said very slowly, "before we finally part, and I beg you to remember them, as they may prevent any future misunderstanding. For more than thirty years I have treated you as my son, in spite of endless disappointments at your total failure to give me any return in consideration or affection. You have always been utterly selfish, and, as I think, utterly bad. Now I am a rich man, and you may perhaps argue that I am only anticipating the provision I have doubtless made for you in my will. Please understand that that is not the case. Over and above the just expenses of your life up to now you have already had from me many thousand pounds, which have been squandered by you in wanton vice. I do not intend you to have any more. I hold that my money was given to me for some other purpose than that. In point of fact, I have not made my will, but when I choose to do so, you will not be a legatee. You understand perfectly?"

Melville bowed.

"Very good. Now I am giving you this cheque because for once you have done an unselfish action and have lent your brother two-fifths of what you had reason to suppose was the last money you would ever receive from me. I am very, very sorry Ralph asked you for it, but very glad you sent it to him. I repay you on his behalf, and will see that he in turn repays me."

Sir Geoffrey signed the cheque and gave it to Melville.

"I have left it open so that you may obtain the money in the morning. This, too, is your property," and he gave him Ralph's letter, which Melville had forgotten.

Then Sir Geoffrey rose.

"This is a final parting, Melville," he said solemnly, "and I wish to heaven it were not so. If in these last few weeks I had any reason to hope you had been trying to be a better man I might have been more harsh to-night, but not so relentless. But the money I gave you the other day, apart from this hundred pounds, has gone in gambling as all the rest has gone, and as everything else I might give you would go. And I declare now, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, that I hold myself free of you at last. From whatever you may do in the future to bring shame upon your family I, in their name, declare we are absolved, and you must look for no more help or countenance from us. And now I will ask you to go. You can walk to the station, and will not have long to wait for a train to town."

And opening the French windows on to the lawn, Sir Geoffrey stood with set lips and stern eyes until his nephew disappeared among the shrubbery that fringed the drive.

Outside, Melville drew a deep breath.

"The hysterical old idiot!" he said, half audibly; but his fingers trembled as he placed the cheque in his inner pocket, and he was more nervous than he thought himself capable of being. "Still, I've got a hundred pounds, and as for the row which, I suppose, is bound to follow when the old man finds out the truth--that can rip for the present. I'm glad he didn't cross the cheque. There wouldn't have been much change out of it for me if I'd had to pay it into my account, because I'm so overdrawn, and, what's more, it might be stopped if Ralph turned up early to-morrow. Gad! I'll go to the bank at nine."

He stumbled along until he reached the station. He had another stiff glass of spirits at the refreshment bar, and found he had only a shilling left.

"Good thing I took a return ticket," he muttered, "and as for to-morrow I can go to the bank in a cab, thank goodness, and go home in a balloon, if I choose. And after that, I'll clear out of town for a bit and pull myself together--and pull myself together."

He laughed stupidly as he found himself repeating his words, and then huddled up in a corner of the carriage. How he got back to his chambers in Jermyn Street he scarcely knew, but he had been there some time before his attention was attracted by a letter which was lying on his table. It was written in a hand that was not familiar to him. It bore date that morning, and the paper was stamped with a monogram and the address, 5, The Vale, South Kensington.

"Dear Mr. Melville Ashley," it ran, "there are many reasons--into none of which do I deem it expedient to enter now--why I have hitherto refrained from inviting you to my house. For the moment I will confine myself to making the announcement, for which you may be wholly unprepared, that I married Sir Geoffrey Holt many years ago, and am, consequently, your aunt by marriage. I shall be obliged if you will call upon me to-morrow at half-past four o'clock, and it is my desire that until I have seen you, you shall not acquaint any third person with the contents of this communication.--I am, yours faithfully, LAVINIA HOLT."

At last the full significance of the note was borne in upon him.

"Married Sir Geoffrey many years ago!" Melville said slowly. "Strange! that is very strange!"

He entered the address in his pocket book, and then carefully locked away the letter, together with that from Ralph, in a despatch box.

"In spite of all you said, Sir Geoffrey, I fancy this letter, too, may mean money in my pocket!" and the smile upon his face was very evil.