Chapter VII: Melville Leads Trumps

Melville possessed in an eminent degree the gift of winning the affection of his inferiors. Where no conflict of interest was possible he gave full play to the sympathetic part of his nature, which was his as it is the nature of all musicians. It was part of his policy, too, to stand well in the favour of those upon whom his comfort depended, and thus, although he was indifferent to the appeals of those who were inconvenienced by his indebtedness to them, and would resort to any subterfuge rather than pay his tradesmen's bills, yet he was a lenient and considerate master to his valet in Jermyn Street, was regarded with admiration by the hall porters of his club, and was held in affection by the old retainers at the Manor House, who had known him for so many years.

With Martin Somers, Sir Geoffrey's butler, Melville was an especial favourite. The old man had taught him all he knew of outdoor sports, and had often stood his friend when in earlier days the boy was in disgrace with his uncle.

Melville turned from the hall into the dining-room and rang the bell. It was cool and shady in this room, and Melville was conscious of a pang of regret at the knowledge that the place would never be his. His life had been full of variety and excitement, but it had cost him all chance of ever being master of the Manor House. Already he was an unwelcome visitor, and when in course of time it passed into Ralph's possession, its doors would very probably be closed to him altogether.

"Ralph is a stupid clown," he muttered, "but I'm not sure that he hasn't done better for himself than I have. To own this place and be Gwen's husband should be good enough for anyone."

The sigh that escaped him was born of sincerity, but he turned briskly to face his immediate task as the butler came in answer to the ring. Melville shook hands with him, making no reference to his previous evening visit to his uncle.

"Here I am again, Martin," he said cheerfully, "'Pon my word, it's good to see you."

"You've been abroad, Master Melville?" Martin asked.

"Yes," said Melville; "same old racket, same old place, same old luck."

Martin shook his head.

"I've no faith in Monte Carlo," he remarked austerely; "never heard of any good coming from there."

"That's rude," said Melville, "seeing that I've just come from there. How is Sir Geoffrey?"

"Pretty well, sir," the butler replied; "I may say very well."

"He's a wonderful old chap," said Melville. "He'll be marrying soon and having a family of his own; see if he doesn't."

"Sir Geoffrey never took any account of the ladies," Martin remarked. "It's a pity, in some ways; but, bless you, sir, he's got all the family a man needs in Master Ralph and yourself."

"Too much, perhaps," said Melville. "Go and tell him I'm here, Martin, will you."

The old servant went, and Melville turned to the sideboard with the air of a man who is quite at home and helped himself to sherry and seltzer. Martin seemed very slow in coming, and Melville paced up and down the room. As he did so he felt in his hip pocket the little revolver which he always carried.

"Gad!" he thought, "on what a hair one's fortune hangs! I was within an ace of turning that on myself when I saw Ralph's letter, and if I had not got that cheque so easily from Uncle Geoffrey I was mad enough then to have turned it on to him. And if I had done so all this knowledge and the power it gives would have come too late--just a few hours too late. And yet there are people who don't believe in luck!"

The butler's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm very sorry, Master Melville, but Sir Geoffrey cannot see you this afternoon."

Melville frowned; he saw the perplexity on the old man's face, detected the hesitation with which he spoke.

"Cannot or will not?" he asked sharply.

Martin was no dissembler where his affections were involved.

"Sir Geoffrey seems very put out," he said apologetically, "and----"

"Go back to Sir Geoffrey and say that I must see him," said Melville peremptorily, and reluctantly Martin obeyed.

This time he did not return. Melville heard the library door bang and quick steps cross the hall. In another moment the dining-room door was flung open and, purple with rage, Sir Geoffrey himself strode in.

"What do you mean by forcing yourself upon me?" he said passionately. "Are you so dead to all sense of decency that you not only can't stop away after your last vile swindle, but even have the audacity to dictate to me in my own house? I will not receive you here. Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out!"

Melville stood perfectly quiet.

"I'm sorry to cause you any more annoyance," he said, "but my business is urgent."

"I will not hear it," shouted Sir Geoffrey.

"You must," said Melville firmly. "I haven't come here to-day on my own account. I have come on behalf of Lady Holt."

For a moment the name seemed to convey nothing to Sir Geoffrey; indeed, the combination of words had never formed itself before his mind; he had not inherited the title when that passage in his life was closed. Melville saw that he was puzzled, and with cold emphasis he varied his announcement.

"On behalf of Lady Holt. I have come to see you about your wife."

Then he knew his shot had gone home. Sir Geoffrey paled, and seemed to be on the verge of a collapse; he turned vaguely to the fireplace where his great armchair stood, and sank feebly into it.

"Lady Holt!" he muttered. "Good God! my wife!"

Melville broke the silence.

"You thought that she was dead?" he said gently.

"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey; "I thought that she was dead." His voice was hoarse, his face white and hopeless. He did not question the truth of her reappearance in his life, or of Melville's coming as her ambassador; he knew how cruel destiny can be, how remorselessly she chooses our happiest moments to deal her hardest blows. For a moment the shock had numbed him, but as his full consciousness returned he was angry with himself for having betrayed by even so much as the quiver of an eyelid the fact that he was hurt, albeit the hurt was mortal.

With an effort he recovered himself, and his old sternness of manner towards Melville returned.

"When did you make Lady Holt's acquaintance?" he enquired coldly. "And how long have you known of--this?"

"I made her acquaintance yesterday," Melville answered; "I first heard of her existence the day before."

"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey.

Melville interpreted the exclamation correctly; his uncle was thinking of his evening visit for getting money. He hastened to put him right.

"When I got back to my chambers after leaving you the night before last, I found a letter from Lady Holt asking me to call upon her yesterday, and, of course, I went."

"Of course," echoed Sir Geoffrey drily. He could imagine the alacrity with which Melville would follow up this discovery. "And she has sent me a message by you?"

"No," Melville replied. "I have come of my own motion. Uncle Geoffrey, your wife is in an absolutely destitute condition--she is starving."

Sir Geoffrey bit his lips. This thing was possible, and yet he could not place reliance on one single word his nephew uttered. He looked at him searchingly as if to read his soul, but Melville never blenched, and Sir Geoffrey was compelled to believe that in this instance his story was true, inasmuch as its truth was all to Melville's advantage. If only he could have looked his nephew in the face and denied the whole matter! But that was impossible. Not all the years that had elapsed could undo the marriage contracted in a moment of infatuation; all the injury which had been heaped upon him by his heartless wife could not release him from the obligation he had incurred. And now the forgotten story had been discovered by this unscrupulous, self-seeking schemer, who would be only too glad to retail it to an astonished world, unless it were made worth his while to hold his tongue. The suspicion leaped into life in the old man's mind. Melville might be sincere in his desire to be of service to his new-found relative, but the main plank in his platform was blackmail; he meant to have hush-money, and if that were not forthcoming he would publish all the facts, embellished, no doubt, by a malicious imagination.

At last he spoke.

"I need scarcely say I believed her to be dead. All my efforts to find her were in vain; but it is unnecessary to go into all that. Give me her address and she shall receive immediate and liberal assistance. I will go to her at once."

Melville shook his head.

"She will not see you. She guessed what you would say, and I gave her my word of honour not to tell you where she is."

"Is that so very binding?" Sir Geoffrey asked with scorn. "If I am not to know where Lady Holt lives, why should I come to her help?"

"It is for you to decide whether you will or not," Melville replied, "but somebody must, and soon."

"I will help her at once if I do it myself," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I do not intend to allow you to be my purse-bearer. Do you suppose I can place any confidence in you after your last disgraceful performance? How am I even to know that you are speaking the truth now?"

"It is entirely your own affair," said Melville quietly. "The case is urgent. If you will not assist your wife in her extremity, I must find someone who will."

He rose to go, and Sir Geoffrey watched him narrowly.

"What are you going to do?"

"One woman may befriend another," Melville answered; "perhaps Mrs. Austen will be willing to help Lady Holt."

"What business is it of Mrs. Austen's in particular?"

"I presume she is aware of Lady Holt's existence," Melville replied, "and may consequently be less astounded at the facts than other of your friends might be."

He thoroughly enjoyed the situation; it was certain that Sir Geoffrey would not allow the story which he had kept secret so long to be published now, at any rate, not until he had time for further consideration of its effect upon all concerned. He noted the nervous way in which his uncle clasped and unclasped his hands upon the arms of his chair, sure sign of the uncertainty within him, in spite of the rigid determination of his face. Sir Geoffrey was too proud to ask him to keep his knowledge to himself, but that he meant him to do so Melville was assured.

"Why did Lady Holt write to you?" Sir Geoffrey asked suddenly; "and what has she told you of her story?"

"I don't know why she wrote to me," Melville answered. "She merely said in her note that she wished to see me, said she married you many years ago, and asked me to regard her letter as confidential for the present. I saw her yesterday."

"Yes?" said Sir Geoffrey.

"She said all I need know was that she really was your wife, and I confess she satisfied me that she was speaking the truth. I suppose she was? She is Lady Holt?"

"I did marry many years ago, if you mean that," Sir Geoffrey replied, "but whether my wife is alive, and, if so, whether the lady you saw is my wife, I am not in a position to say. Obviously, I must see her before I do anything for her."

He thought he had scored a point, but he was wrong. Melville would not budge from his original position, and so long as Sir Geoffrey desired his old secret to remain sacred, Melville held the key of the situation. "I intend to keep my promise to her," he said coldly. "She is ill and actually destitute; she did not write to me until things had become so critical that she was on the point of being turned out of her lodgings. Of course, I put that all right, but you will have to see about her future."

Sir Geoffrey winced under the whole speech; the tone and the manner and the injustice of it were all so cruel.

"Be straightforward for once, Melville," he said peremptorily, "and tell me what you expect to get out of this? You discover something in my life which, for reasons of my own, I have kept to myself. Are you acting in good faith on behalf of this poor lady, or do you hope to turn your knowledge to your own advantage?"

"You doubtless had excellent reasons for dropping the curtain on that scene in your life," Melville said.

"And you propose to raise it unless I make it worth your while not to," said Sir Geoffrey bitterly. "I quite understand. You propose to add blackmailing to your other accomplishments."

Melville declined to grow angry.

"I have merely come to tell you your wife is starving," he observed, "and to suggest that you should help her. It is a condition that your assistance should reach her through me, for Lady Holt appears to hold her marriage in as much detestation as you do. The only thing I want to know now is whether you accept the condition and will allow me to be your envoy. If not, I shall act as I think proper. That is all. It is really very simple."

Sir Geoffrey got up languidly.

"I can do nothing to-day," he said, and Melville knew he had won. "I must write some letters, and if you will come here tomorrow I will give you some money for Lady Holt's immediate needs, and consider what steps to take for her future."

"I suppose I shall not be inconveniencing you if I stay the night here?" Melville said with admirably assumed indifference. "It will be pleasant to have a pull on the river, and will save me the double journey. I daresay Ralph can find me anything I may require."

Sir Geoffrey looked at him. His worthy nephew was losing no time in presenting a draft on account, but he affected to miss the point.

"As you please," he replied wearily; "and now I will ask you to excuse me. I must be alone."

The change from the angry, outraged uncle and guardian to the old-fashioned, courteous gentleman was pathetic, but the pathos was lost upon Melville. As soon as Sir Geoffrey left the room he rang the bell again.

"I'm going to spend the night here, Martin," he said to the butler; "will you find me what's necessary. I've brought nothing down."

The old man was pleased; evidently Master Melville had made his peace once more.

"I'm very glad to hear it, sir," he said deliberately. "Mrs. and Miss Austen are dining here to-night at eight o'clock. I will have everything ready for you in your own room by seven. Will you have some tea now?"

"No, thanks; I'll join my brother on the houseboat," Melville answered, and lighting a cigarette he strolled slowly down the garden. "My virtuous brother will be disconcerted," he said to himself, "and that is always agreeable to the onlooker. Thank heaven, I have a sense of humour! It is a quality in which the very good are woefully deficient, and Ralph is very good."