The Everlasting Arms Part 12

And this Anthony Riggleton, whom the Count described as vermin, stood in his way. Because of a quibble on his part this loathsome thing would ruin his future, dash his hopes to the ground, blacken his life.

But the alternative!

"No, of course not!" he cried.

"You refuse?"

"Certainly I do. I'm not a murderer."

"Very well, go your own way. Go to your Mr. Bidlake, see him shrug his shoulders and laugh, and then watch while your cousin--your cousin!--turns this glorious old place into a cesspool."

"Yes; rather than stain my hands in----I say, Romanoff," and the words pa.s.sed his lips almost in spite of himself, "there must be some deep reason why you--you say and do all this. Do you expect to gain anything, in any way, because of my--retaining possession of my uncle's wealth?"

For the first time the Count seemed to lose possession over himself. He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing.

"What!" he cried; "do you mean that I, Romanoff, would profit by your poor little riches? What is all this to me? Why, rich as you thought you were, I could buy up all the Faversham estates--all--all, and then not know that my banking account was affected. I, Romanoff, seek to help a man whom I had thought of as my friend for some paltry gain! Good-night, Mr. Richard Faversham, you may go your own way."

"Stop!" cried d.i.c.k, almost carried away by the vehemence of the other; "of course, I did not mean----"

"Enough," and the Count interrupted him by a word and a laugh. "Besides, you do not, cannot, understand. But to rid your mind of all possible doubt I will show you something. Here is my account with your Bank of England. This is for pocket-money, pin-money, petty cash as your business men call it. There was my credit yesterday. In the light of that, do you think that I need to partic.i.p.ate in your fortune, huge as you regard it?"

d.i.c.k was startled as he saw the amount. There could be no doubt about it. The imprimatur of the Bank of England was plainly to be seen, and the huge figures stood out boldly.

"I'm sure I apologise," stammered d.i.c.k. "I only thought that--that--you see----"

"All right," laughed the Count, "let it be forgotten. Besides, have I not told you more than once that I am interested in you? I have shown you my interest, and----"

"Of course you have," cried d.i.c.k. "I owe you my life; but for you I should not be alive to-day."

"Just so. I want to see you happy, Faversham. I want you to enjoy life's sweetness. I want you to be for ever free from the haunting fear that this Anthony Riggleton shall ever cross your path. That is why----"

He hesitated, as though he did not know what to say next.

"Yes," asked d.i.c.k, "why what?"

"That is why I want to serve you further."

"Serve me further? How?"

"Suppose I get rid of Riggleton for you?"

"I do not understand."

"Suppose I offer to get rid of Riggleton for you? Suppose without your having anything to do with him, without knowing where he is, I offer to remove him for ever from your path--would you consent?"

"I consent?"

"Yes; I must have that. Would you give it?"

"You--you--that is, you ask me if I will consent to--to his--his murder?"

"Just that, my friend. That must be--else why should I do it? But--but I love you, Faversham--as if you were my son, and I would do it for your happiness. Of course, it's an unpleasant thing to do, even although I have no moral scruples, but I'll do it for you."

Again d.i.c.k felt as though the ground were slipping from under his feet. Never before was he tempted as he was tempted now, never did it seem so easy to consent to wrong. And he would not be responsible. He had suggested nothing, pleaded nothing. His part would be simply to be blindly quiescent. His mind was confused to every issue save one. He had only to consent, and this man Riggleton, the true owner of everything, would be removed for ever.

"And if I do not?" he asked.

"Then nothing more need be said. But look at me, Faversham, and tell me if you will be such a fool. If there is any guilt, I bear it; if there is any danger, I face it; do you refuse, Faversham? I only make the offer for your sake."

Again d.i.c.k felt the awful eyes of the Count piercing him; it was as though all his power of judgment, all his volition were ebbing away. At that moment he felt incapable of resistance.

"And if I consent?" he asked weakly.

"Of course you will, you will, you WILL," and the words were repeated with peculiar intensity, while the eyes of the two met. "I only make one stipulation, and I must make it because you need a friend. I must make it binding for your sake."

He took a piece of paper from a desk and scribbled a few words.

"There, read," he said.

d.i.c.k read: "I promise to put myself completely under the guidance of Count Romanoff with regard to the future of my life."

"There, sign that, Faversham," and the Count placed the pen in his hand.

Without will, and almost without knowledge, d.i.c.k took the pen.

"What do you want me to do?" asked d.i.c.k dully.

"Sign that paper. Just put 'Richard Faversham' and the date. I will do the rest."

"But--but if I do this, I shall be signing away my liberty. I shall make myself a slave to you."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Why should I interfere with your liberty?"

"I don't know; but this paper means that." He was still able to think consecutively, although his thoughts were cloudy and but dimly realised.

"Think, Faversham. I am undertaking a dirty piece of work for your sake. Why? I am doing it because I want you to be free from Anthony Riggleton, and I am doing it because I take a deep interest in you."

"But why should I sign this?"

In spite of the Count's influence over him, he had a dull feeling that there was no need for such a thing. Even although he had tacitly consented to Romanoff's proposal he saw no necessity for binding himself.

"I'll tell you why. It's because I know you--because I read your mind like a book. I want to make you my protege, and I want you to cut a figure in the life of the world. After all, in spite of Charles Faversham's wealth, you are a n.o.body. You are a commoner all compact. But I can make you really great. I am Romanoff. You asked me once if I were of the great Russian family, and I answered yes. Do you know what that means? It means that no door is closed to me--that I can go where I will, do what I will. It means that if I desire a man's aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, it is an accomplished fact. Not only are the delights of this country mine for the asking, but my name is an Open Sesame in every land. My name and my influence are a key to unlock every door; my hand can draw aside the curtain of every delight. And there are delights in the world that you know nothing of, never dreamt of. As my protege I want them to be yours. A great name, great power, glorious pleasures, the smile of beautiful women, delights such as the author of The Arabian Nights only dimly dreamt of--it is my will that you shall have them all. Charles Faversham's money and my influence shall give you all this and more. But I am not going to have a fretful, puling boy objecting all the time; I am not going to have my plans for your happiness frustrated by conscience and petty quibbles about what is good and evil. That is why I insist on your signing that paper."

Romanoff spoke in low tones, but every word seemed to be laden with meanings. .h.i.therto unknown to d.i.c.k. He saw pictures of exquisite delights, of earthly paradises, of joys that made life an ecstasy.

And still something kept his hand still. He felt rather than reasoned that something was wrong--that all was wrong. He was in an abnormal state of mind; he knew that the influences by which he was surrounded were blinding him to truth, and giving him distorted fancies about life's values.

"No," he said doggedly; "I won't sign, and I won't consent to this devilish deed."

Again Romanoff laughed. "Look at me, d.i.c.k, my boy," he said. "You are not a milksop; you were made to live your whole life. Fancy you being a clerk in an office, a store--a poor little manikin keeping body and soul together in order to do the will of some snivelling tradesman! Think of it! Think of Anthony Riggleton living here, or in London, in Paris, in India--or wherever he pleases--squandering his money, and satiated with pleasure, while you--you----Pooh! I know you. I see you holding Lady Blanche in your arms. I see you basking in the smiles of beautiful women all over the world. I see the name of Faversham world-wide in its power. I see----" and the Count laughed again.

All the while, too, he kept d.i.c.k's eyes riveted on his own--eyes which told him of a world of sensuous delights, and which robbed him of his manhood. No, he could not bear to become poor again, and he would not give up the delights he had dreamt of. Right! Wrong! Good! Evil! They were only words. The Count was right. It was his right to enjoy.

"All right, I'll sign," he said.

He dipped the pen into the ink, and prepared to inscribe his name, but the moment he placed his hand on the paper it felt as though it were paralysed.

"There is something here!" he gasped.

"Something here? Nonsense."

"But there is. Look!"

It seemed to him that a ray of light, brighter than that of the electric current that burnt in the room, streamed towards him. Above him, too, he saw the face that was now becoming familiar to him. Strange that he had forgotten it during the long conversation, strange that no memory of the evening before, when over the doorway he had seen an angel's face beaming upon him and warning him, had come to him.

But he remembered now. The night on the heaving sea, the vision on the island, the luminous form over the doorway of the house, all flashed before him, and in a way he could not understand Romanoff's influence over him lessened--weakened.

"Sign--sign there!" urged the Count, pointing towards the paper.

"What is the matter with your eyes?" gasped d.i.c.k. "They burn with the light of h.e.l.l fire."

"You are dreaming, boy. Sign, and let's have a bottle of wine to seal the bargain."

"I must be dreaming," thought d.i.c.k. "An angel's face! What mad, idiotic nonsense!"

He still held the pen in his hand, and it seemed to him that strength was again returning to his fingers.

"Where must I sign?" he muttered. "I can't see plainly."

"There--right at the point of your pen," was the Count's reply.

But d.i.c.k did not sign, for suddenly he saw a white, shadowy hand appear, which with irresistible strength gripped his wrist.

CHAPTER XIV.

A Sc.r.a.p OF PAPER.

Suddenly the spell, or whatever had enchained him, was broken. There was a noise of wheels on the gravel outside, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. He heard the Count mutter a savage oath, and a moment later the door opened and he heard a happy, clear, girlish voice: "Oh, Mr. Faversham, forgive me for coming; but I really couldn't help myself."

It was Beatrice Stanmore who, unheralded and unaccompanied, stood by his side.

He muttered something, he knew not what, although he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and strength came back to his being.

"I really couldn't," the girl went on. "Granddad left me just after a very early dinner, and then I felt awfully miserable and depressed. I didn't know why. It was just ghastly. Nothing had happened, and yet I knew--why, I couldn't tell--that something was terribly wrong. Then something told me that you were in danger, that unless I came to help you, you would be--oh, I can't put it into words! You are not in danger, are you?"

"It was very kind of you to come," muttered d.i.c.k. "I'm no end glad to see you."

"But--but I'm afraid!" she said in her childish way. "I don't know what Granddad will say to me. You see, you are a stranger to me, and I had no right to come. But I couldn't help it--I really couldn't. Someone seemed to be saying to me all the time, 'Mr. Faversham is in deadly peril; go to him--go to him quick! quick!' And I couldn't help myself. I kept telling myself that I was very silly, and all that sort of thing, but all the time I heard the voice saying, 'Quick, quick, or you'll be too late!' But I'm afraid it's all wrong. You are all right. You are in no danger, are you?"

"I'm no end glad to see you," he repeated. "And it is awfully good of you to come."

He still seemed to be under strange influences, but he no longer felt as though his strength was gone. His heart was strangely light, too. The presence of the girl by his side gave him comfort.

"You are not angry with me, then? I've not done wrong, have I?"

"Wrong? No! You have done quite right--quite. Thank you very, very much."

"I'm glad of that. When I had left our house I wanted to run to you. Then I thought of the car. I've learnt to drive, and Granddad thinks I'm very clever at it. I simply flew through the park. But I'm glad you are in no danger. I must go now."

She had not once looked at Romanoff; she simply stood gazing at d.i.c.k with wide-open, childish-looking eyes, and her words came from her almost pantingly, as though she spoke under the stress of great excitement. Then she looked at the paper before him.

"You are not going to write your name on that, are you?" she asked.

"No," he replied; "I'm not."

"You must not," she said simply. "It would be wrong. When I heard the words telling me to come to you I--I saw--but no, I can't recall it. But you must not sign that. I'll go now. Good-night, and please forgive me for coming."

"Please don't go yet."

"But I must. I could not stay here. There's something wrong, something evil. I'm sure there is."

She glanced nervously towards Romanoff, and shivered. "Good-night," she said, holding out her hand. "I really must go now. I think the danger is over--I feel sure it is; and Granddad will be anxious if he comes back and does not find me."

"I'll see you to the door," said d.i.c.k. "I shall never cease to thank you for coming."

Leaving the paper on the table, and without looking at Romanoff, he opened the door to her, and pa.s.sed into the hall.

"Yes; I shall never cease to thank you," he repeated--"never. You have saved me."

"What from?" and she looked at him with a strangely wistful smile.

"I don't know," he replied--"I don't know."

When they stood together on the gravel outside the door, he gave a deep sigh. It seemed to him as though the pure, sweet air enabled him to lift every weight from himself. He was free--wonderfully, miraculously free.

"Oh, it is heavenly, just heavenly here!" and she laughed gaily. "I think this is the most beautiful place in the world, and this is the most beautiful night that ever was. Isn't the avenue just lovely? The trees are becoming greener and greener every day. It is just as though the angels were here, hanging their festoons. Do you like my car? Isn't it a little beauty?"

"Yes," replied d.i.c.k. "May--may I drive you back?"

"Will you? Then you can explain to Granddad. But no, you mustn't. You must go back to your friend."