The Everlasting Arms Part 13

"He isn't my friend," replied d.i.c.k almost involuntarily; "he's just--but perhaps you wouldn't understand."

"He isn't a good man," she cried impulsively. "I don't like him. I know I ought not to say this. Granddad often tells me that I let my tongue run away with me. But he's not a good man, and--and I think he's your enemy."

d.i.c.k was silent.

"Is he staying with you long?" she went on.

"No, not long."

"I'm glad of that. He isn't nice. He's--he's--I don't know what. I shall tell Granddad I've been here."

"He won't be angry, will he?"

"No; he's never angry. Besides, I think he'll understand. You'll come and see us soon, won't you?"

"I'm afraid I shall not be able to. I'm going away."

"Going away?"

"Yes; I'm leaving Wendover Park. At least, I expect so."

"You don't mean for always?"

"Yes; for always. To-night has decided it."

She looked at him wistfully, questioningly.

"Has that man anything to do with it? Is he driving you away?"

"No; he wants me to stay."

She again scanned his features in a puzzled, childish way. "Of course, I don't understand," she said.

"No; I hardly understand myself," and he spoke almost involuntarily. "Thank you very much for coming."

She clasped his hand eagerly. "I shall be very sorry if you go," she said, "but please don't do anything that man asks you. Please don't."

"I won't," replied d.i.c.k.

He started the car for her, and then watched her while she drove down the avenue. Then he stood for a few seconds looking at the great doorway. He might have been expecting to see there what had been so plainly visible before, but there was nothing.

The grey old mansion was simply bathed in the light of the dying day, while the silvery moon, which was just rising behind the tree-tops, sent its rays through the fast-growing leaves. But as Beatrice Stanmore had said, it was a most wondrous night. All nature was glorying in life, while the light breezes seemed to bring him distant messages. The birds, too, even although the sun had set, perhaps an hour before, sent their messages one to another, and twittered their love-songs as they settled to their rest.

He waited on the steps for perhaps five minutes, then he found his way back to Romanoff. For some seconds neither said anything; each seemed to have a weight upon his lips. Then Romanoff spoke.

"You refuse, then?"

"Yes; I refuse."

"What do you refuse?"

"Everything. I refuse to allow you to do that devilish deed. I refuse to obey you."

Romanoff laughed as his eyes rested on d.i.c.k's face.

"You know what this means, of course?"

"Yes, I know."

"Then--then I interfere no further."

"Thank you."

Romanoff waited a few seconds before he spoke again. "Of course, you are very silly, Faversham," he said. "Soon you'll be sorry for this, and some time you'll need my help. Meanwhile I'm tired, and will go to bed."

He pa.s.sed out of the room as he spoke, and d.i.c.k noticed that the sc.r.a.p of paper was gone.

CHAPTER XV.

COUNT ROMANOFF'S DEPARTURE.

The next morning when d.i.c.k came downstairs he found Romanoff evidently prepared for a journey. His luggage had been brought into the hall, and he was looking at a time-table.

"Faversham, I am sorry that we part in this way," he said.

"Are you going?" asked d.i.c.k.

The Count looked at him steadily, as if trying to divine his state of mind--to know if he had changed his purposes since the previous evening.

"Naturally," he replied.

"You have settled on your train?"

"Yes; I go by the 10.43."

"Then I will see that a car is in readiness."

As may be imagined, d.i.c.k had spent a well-nigh sleepless flight, and he was in a nervous condition; but upon one thing he had decided. He would be studiously polite to the Count, and would in no way refer to the happenings of the previous night. Even yet he had not made up his mind about his visitor, except that he agreed with Beatrice Stanmore. The man still fascinated him; but he repelled him also. There was something mysterious, evil, about him; but the evil was alluring; it was made to seem as though it were not evil.

"Should you alter your mind," said the Count on leaving, "this address will find me. After to-night at ten o'clock, it will be useless to try to find me."

d.i.c.k looked at the card he had placed in his hand, and found the name of one of the best hotels in London.

When he had gone, the young man felt strangely lonely and fearfully depressed. The air seemed full of foreboding; everything seemed to tell him of calamity. As the morning pa.s.sed away, too, he, more than once, found himself questioning his wisdom. After all, the Count had asked nothing unreasonable. Why should he not promise to be guided by a man who was so much older and wiser than himself? One, too, who could so greatly help him in the future.

Again and again he wandered around the house, and through the gardens. Again and again he feasted his eyes upon the beauty of the park and the glory of the district. And it was his no longer! Could he not even now---- No; he could not! If Anthony Riggleton were alive, and was the true heir to old Charles Faversham's wealth, he should have it. The thought of doing what Romanoff had proposed made him shudder.

But he would not give up without a struggle. After all, he was in possession, and he was accepted as the owner of Wendover Park as well as heir to enormous wealth. Why, then, should he give it up? No; he would fight for what he held.

The day pa.s.sed slowly away. He ate his lonely lunch in silence, and then, taking a two-seater car, ran it in the direction of Lord Huntingford's house. Just as he was pa.s.sing the gates Lady Blanche appeared, accompanied by a girl of about her own age.

Almost unconsciously he lifted his foot from the accelerator and pressed down the brake.

"Alone, Mr. Faversham?" she asked, with a radiant smile.

"Quite alone, Lady Blanche."

"Your guest is gone, then?"

"He left this morning."

"Then--then please excuse the informality--but then we are neighbours; won't you come to dinner en famille on Thursday night? Father will be delighted to see you. And, oh, I want to introduce you to my friend here."

He did not catch the girl's name, but it did not matter. He had only eyes and ears for this glorious woman. Her face was wreathed with smiles, while her eyes shone brightly. Surely such a woman was never known before. In a moment he had forgotten the previous night--forgotten the great crisis in his life.

"Thursday! I shall be delighted!" he cried, lifting his cap.

The two pa.s.sed on, and he resumed his drive. Why did he not ask them to accompany him? Why? Why?

His mind was in a turmoil. The sight of Lady Blanche had set his nerves tingling, and caused his blood to course madly through his veins. Her smile, her look, her att.i.tude could only mean one thing: she thought kindly of him--she thought more than kindly of him.

Then he remembered. Wendover Park was not his--nothing was his. If Romanoff told him truly, he was a pauper. All--all would have to be sacrificed.

Where he went that afternoon he had no recollection. He only knew that he drove the car at its utmost speed, and that the country through which he was pa.s.sing was strange to him. He wanted to get away from himself, from his thoughts, from everything that reminded him of the truth.

He returned to Wendover Park in time for dinner, and from eight to ten o'clock he sat alone. On his arrival he had asked whether there had been any callers, any message, and on receiving an answer in the negative, he had heaved a sigh of relief. In the library after dinner, however, the whole ghastly position had to be faced, and for two hours his mind was torn first this way and then that.

But he did nothing. He could not do anything. How could he?

The evening--the night pa.s.sed, and there was no happening. Everything was orderly, quiet, commonplace. He might never have seen the luminous figure at the doorway, never felt that awesome gripping of his wrist; indeed, the whole experience might have been a dream, so unreal was it.

The next day pa.s.sed, and still nothing happened. More than once he was on the point of ringing up Mr. Bidlake, but he refrained. What could he say to the keen old lawyer?

He did not leave the house during the whole day. Almost feverishly he listened to every sound. No footstep pa.s.sed unnoticed, no caller but was anxiously scanned. Every time the telephone bell rang, he rushed to it with fast-beating heart, only to heave a sigh of relief when he discovered that there was no message concerning the things which haunted his mind.

Still another night pa.s.sed, and still nothing happened. He was beginning to hope that Romanoff had been playing a practical joke on him, and that all his fears were groundless.

Then just before noon the blow came.

The telephone bell tinkled innocently near him, and on putting the instrument to his ear he heard Mr. Bidlake's voice.

"Is that you, Mr. Faversham?

"Mr. Faversham speaking. You are Mr. Bidlake, aren't you?"

"Yes."

This was followed by a cough; then the lawyer spoke again.

"Will you be home this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"I want to see you very particularly. A strange thing has happened. Grotesque, in fact, and I want you to be prepared for--for anything."

"What?"

"I don't like telling you over the telephone. I'm tremendously upset. I can hardly speak collectedly."

"I think I know. It has to do with Anthony Riggleton and the Faversham estates, hasn't it?"

"How did you know? Yes; it has. It's terribly serious, I'm afraid. I'd better see you at once. Some arrangement, some compromise might be made."

"You mean that Riggleton is not dead? That you've seen him?"

He spoke quite calmly and naturally. Indeed, he was surprised at his command over himself.

"Yes; he's just left me. He's been here for two hours. Of course, I tried at first to take his visit as a joke, but----"

"You are convinced that it was Riggleton?"

"I can have no doubt about it--no possible doubt. He's deadly in earnest too, and his case is overwhelming--simply overwhelming. Never, outside the realms of the wildest romance, did I ever come across a case where a lawyer could be so completely mistaken. But I can't help it, and I'm afraid that--that your prospects for the future are materially altered. Of course you might----"

"You are coming down here, you say. There's a good train from Victoria at 1.45. Can you catch it?"

"Ye--s. I think so."

"Then I'll send a car to meet you at this end."

He rang the bell, altered the time of lunch, and then sat down to think. But not for long. Calmly as he had talked to the lawyer, his every nerve was quivering with excitement, every faculty was in tension.

He went to the window and looked out.

All he saw was his no longer. He had no doubt about it, and it seemed to him that an icy hand was placed upon his heart as he realised it.

And he might have retained it!

Was he glad or sorry because of what he had done? Every particle of his being was crying out for the life he longed to live, and yet----As he thought of the price he would have to pay, as he remembered Romanoff's words, he did not repent.

He calmly waited for the lawyer's arrival.