CHAPTER IX
THE END OF THE HOLIDAY
Grey looked up with an uneasy start and a sudden pallor.
"You do not remember me. My name is Barraclough. I am London representative of Mr. Evans, your Daneford solicitor."
"Of course, of course. This is about the last place in the world I should think of meeting you, Mr. Barraclough."
"I may say the same of you, Mr. Grey. Indeed few men – none, practically speaking – of our age come here, unless specialists of some kind."
"I have never been here before."
"Nor have I. That fact explains our presence here to-day at our time of life. As a rule, boys are brought here when young, under the impression they are going to have a treat; they find the thing a pedantic stuck-up bore, get disgusted with the place, and swear an oath (most likely the only one they swear and keep) that they will not enter this building again. Ever after in their memory this building seems the sour, old, crusty, maiden aunt of the sights of London. Now, my dears, just walk on a little before us; I want to speak to this gentleman. Mind to keep a sharp look-out for Pharaoh's favourite coffin. I'm sure it's somewhere hereabouts. You'll know it at once by not being able to distinguish it from the others until you shut one eye and keep the other eye fixed on the Rosetta stone, because that is, as you know, the only key we have to the hieroglyphics. I think they keep the Rosetta stone in one of the cellars, for fear of the daylight fading the inscription. You shall go down and see it presently; but now run on, and look up the coffin. My nieces, Mr. Grey," he explained, as the children with bewildered gravity walked on. "I live quite close – Bloomsbury Square. My wife had to go somewhere or other to-day, and asked me to take the children out for a few hours; so I left word at the office I should be here if they wanted me. You are not looking quite so well as the last time I saw you."
"I have not been very well of late, and came up here for a rest from business."
"I don't know how you bankers live. If I were one, I should worry myself to death in forty-eight hours. I should always be thinking my clerks were pocketing hundred-pound notes, or burglars were breaking into the strong-box."
Grey winced a little, but said nothing. The other ran on:
"I am sure this meeting is most lucky. Will you dine with me to-day? I got the instructions from Evans this morning, and will do the best I can, you may be sure. I have not, of course, been able to do anything in the matter as yet. It will take time. Dine with me, and we can talk the matter over. We shall be quite alone – no one but my wife. We can exchange views over a cigar."
Grey felt perplexed and confounded. He had not the least idea of what Barraclough referred to. Could it be his head had been so much confused he had gone to Evans, given him important instructions, and then forgotten all about them? The thing must be of consequence. There would be no need to discuss a trifle. It would not, however, do to confess his ignorance or forgetfulness to this man.
"Can we not speak of it here?" Grey asked.
Barraclough looked around, shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the place, and said: "I think business always comes best after dessert. Do dine with me. I promise you an excellent cigar."
Grey was sorely perplexed. He had no hint of what those instructions were. It was absolutely necessary he should find out. This was not a fitting place for a business chat. The idea of dining with anyone was intolerable.
"I am very much obliged to you, and should be very pleased to dine with you, but I – I really cannot. I must keep as quiet as possible. You will excuse my not going; and, as a favour, tell me now what you have to say."
"Certainly, certainly. Let me see – let me see. Of course, Mr. Grey, in a matter of this kind we must be business-like, and take into consideration facts we might otherwise leave out of sight."
"Of course."
What could be coming? This was a very grave prelude.
"You are executor and trustee to the will?"
"Yes." Grey started. "Sole executor and trustee."
"Sole executor and trustee! Are you sure of that? Evans said you were one of the executors and trustees."
"I am sole executor and trustee, I assure you."
What had he said to Evans about the will? In his conscious moments he had no intention of saying anything to Evans about the will. The blows were coming too heavily and too quickly. His head – his head!
"Strange! Evans ought to be more careful. He said he was not sure whether the others were living or not; but he mentioned the fact that it would be necessary to inquire and ascertain if they were living or dead."
The attorney looked cautiously into the sarcophagus, as though he expected the bottom to disappear, disclosing the missing executors and trustees.
Grey glanced at the other man in a bewildered way. The whole of his intellect must be going. Not only had he gone to Evans and given him important instructions about something or other, but, if he was to credit Evans and Barraclough, he had forgotten a feature in that will, and this very feature happened to be enough to destroy him instantly. Could it be, good Heavens, that there was a second name in the will, and he had forgotten it, and was roaming here about London instead of taking the precaution of blowing out his brains!
He felt sick and faint. His head began to swim. What a blessed fate that of those men of Egypt who, three thousand years ago, had died, and been swathed up in bandages, enclosed in huge granite coffins, and buried in the inviolable silence and security of pyramids! Here was he, all naked and raw from crime, out in the rough winds, among the rough ways of unfeeling men; and add to all this his head – his head!
"I am surprised at Evans," said Grey. "He ought to have known. He ought to have known better."
"I should think he ought!" exclaimed the attorney warmly. "To fancy a man instructing another to move in an important matter of this kind, to write and say the consent of the trustees might be relied upon, and then to find out there was but one trustee! Evans must be going mad."
"Yes; he or – I."
"Nonsense," returned Barraclough. "There is no chance of your being wrong. Evans is either careless or mad."
"What do you purpose doing?" asked Grey cautiously.
That question might safely be put in the face of any facts.
"I shall sell, of course. Evans tells me you agree to sell; so that if you are sole executor and trustee, there is no need to look up anyone for consent."
What was he to hear next? This man was telling him he had a co-executor and co-trustee, and that he had authorised Evans to sell. Monstrous! Which was his period of insanity: when he had (if he had) given Evans the instructions, or now? Which was his madness: in giving such instructions, or in now believing his senses and the words of this man? He made a great effort, pulled all his faculties together, knit his brows, and put this question to himself: "Is the lead to overtake the gold – to-night?" Then he put another question to Barraclough:
"What did Evans say altogether?"
"That Mrs. Grey had come to him – " Arrested by the banker's manner, Barraclough paused.
Grey had leaned suddenly forward, thrust a pale, shrivelled face close to Barraclough's, placed one hand on the attorney's shoulder, and, pointing over his own right shoulder with the other hand, whispered:
"This one?"
"You are ill?"
"No. Go on."
"You really look very ill. Let me – "
"No. Go on."
"He said she wished to sell out her annuity of two thousand a year – "
"Who said that?"
"Mrs. Grey, your mother."
"My mother?"
"Yes."
Suddenly Grey's face changed. It flushed. He drew himself clear of the attorney, and, throwing his arms aloft, uttered a loud long laugh, followed by the words: "Before high Heaven I thought he meant my wife!"
All eyes were now directed to where the tall banker stood, with his arms upraised, and a smile of joy upon his flushed face. Ere the last echo of his voice had died away among these galleries of relics from the wrecks of a hundred religions, Grey's knees shook, and, with a groan, he fell to the ground.
It was hours before Walter Grey regained consciousness. His thoughts were sluggish and dull. The edges of his ideas were blurred, and wavering this way and that against the background. Around him all was dim. It was night. A shaded lamp was somewhere in the room. He did not know where the lamp stood.
Where was that lamp? What a strange thing no one came there to tell him where the lamp lay! He himself could not of course get up to try and find out where the lamp was. Of course not.
Why not? Ay, why not? Wasn't it very strange there should be no one there to tell him where the lamp was, particularly as he could not get up!
But why – why – why?
He lost the sense of sight, and felt his eyes pressed against illimitable void darkness. His ears, too, were dead, plugged with thick silence that was not clear, but confused silence, as in the ears of one deep in water. Then the darkness and the silence shuddered with horror, and he ceased to be aware.
It was daylight, and his tongue was very thick – thicker than ever he had felt it. It was so thick and stiff he could not move it. This was strange. The light, too, was peculiar. It looked as though the dawn or daylight lay far from the window. Of course the dawn was far away from the windows always, but it seemed immeasurably far off this morning. But then the ringing of all those bells made up for the increased distance of the dawn. How dull he had been not to see that at first! Of course the bells more than compensated the distance of the dawn. How he hated Latin! He'd never even try to learn it – never. They might flog him as much as ever they chose, but Latin he'd never learn. Not for all the masters in England. No; not for his father. He would not even pretend to learn it, only for his mother. But for his mother he'd shy a slate at the head-master, and hit the Latin man with the heavy, very heavy knob of the big school-room poker on the bald part, right in the middle of the bald part, of his head. They were ringing a thousand bells more now. How the sound did thin out the dawn! It thinned it out until all was worn away. Well, he had better go to sleep. He had a hard day's work before him. He had promised Bee (this very day six weeks they had been married) to take her on the river, their own river, and show her what he could do with the sculls. He was to pull her down to Seacliff. And yet, with that run on the Bank, how was he to sleep? Bee too was worrying him a good deal. Why did they not stop those bells? They had changed the measure of the bells. They had been ringing peals of joy; they now rang ten thousand times more bells, but they were all ringing death-bells. Ah, yes; how stupid he had been! Of course, they were burying the universe in the Great Darkness, and these were the great bells swung in the peaked hollows of space, ringing for the burial in chaos of the dead stars. Now he must go.
It was afternoon before he again opened his eyes. He felt something had happened, what he did not know. "I have had a bad fall, or an accident of another kind; my head feels queer and I am weak. What has happened? Where am I?"
He lay still awhile to recover strength. Then he asked feebly: "Is there anyone here?"
A nurse showed herself. She would not allow him to speak much, but she told him the history of his present position briefly:
While speaking to Mr. Barraclough in the British Museum, he had had an attack, of what kind the doctor did not say. From the British Museum Mr. Barraclough had him conveyed to this place, the attorney's house, where he had been insensible for some hours.
Had he raved?
No; not a word.
Had any message been sent home?
Yes. Mr. Barraclough had telegraphed to Mr. Grey's chief man at Daneford, and the gentleman was now waiting below.
Grey asked that Mr. Aldridge might be sent to him. The nurse agreed to admit the manager on an understanding the interview was to occupy no more than a quarter of an hour.
In a few minutes Aldridge entered the room, and having expressed his regrets and hopes, and received suitable replies, Grey's first question was:
"Have you told anyone of the contents of that telegram?"
"No."
"You are sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Tell no one on the face of the earth."
"I promise not."
"Aldridge, I have known you some time, and I have every reason to believe and trust you. I am under many obligations to you. Keep this matter entirely to yourself, and you will double all my gratitude."
"Rely on me."
"It may leak out through the telegraph office or through Barraclough. I want you to go back to Daneford at once, see Evans, and tell him not to say anything of my illness. This is most important. Now go. Barraclough may have told Evans. Go at once."
"Any further orders?"
"No."
"I have paid Sir William Midharst's cheque for twenty thousand."
"All right. Don't lose a moment. Don't miss the first train."
Grey fell back exhausted. Though his head ached, it felt clearer than for many weeks.
"It would never do," he thought, "to have all Daneford gossiping over the infirmities of a man who must one of these days be a candidate bridegroom. The least said about me the better. I have neither the humour nor the strength for criticism or sympathy at present."
It was several days before he was well enough to go home. He went back straight to Daneford.
The evening of his arrival he strolled through the city, and took no heed of the direction in which he had wandered until he was attracted by something unusual in a house over the way. The front of the house was all dark. It was his mother's house. The piers of the gate were covered with auction bills announcing in a few days the sale of the lease and furniture.
He had, until now, forgotten what Barraclough had told him. All rushed in upon his mind.
"She is going to sell her annuity, her lease, her furniture, poor old woman; and I, the only trustee living, cannot prevent her, cannot approach her. Poor old woman! Wat Grey, I never pitied you until this moment."
PART III. HUSBAND AND WIFE
CHAPTER I
THE SECRET OF THE SALE
Grey had taken all the precautions in his power to prevent a report of his illness spreading, because he did not wish anything to get abroad which might make his approaches to Maud seem unreasonable. That was an important consideration. But it sank into insignificance beside the enormous danger likely to arise from the concentration of public attention upon him at this time.
Here was his own mother, the one owner of remaining claims upon his better nature, imperilling his fortune – his neck. By advertising this sale, the eyes of all Daneford would be drawn to his mother, and the tongues of Daneford would be busy with his name. He himself did not know why his mother had resolved upon converting all she had in the world into cash, though he had an uneasy suspicion he could guess if he tried. His great dread was that his mother might do some incautious thing, take some incautious measure, in carrying out her design.
Suppose her action did not suggest examination of anything in connection with him, he would still be in a very uncomfortable position. Surely people would speak to him of the step his mother was about to take. What answer should he make? What explanation could he give? If anyone asked him why his mother was selling, he could not tell, for he did not know. It would soon be found out that, under the simple conditions of his father's will, his authority would be necessary to the sale. How could he justify so unwise an act on the part of his mother? How could he tell people he approved of it? And yet he must say he sanctioned it, otherwise people would think there was something wrong.
But even if he said he sanctioned it, would they not think there was something wrong? People would look first with amazement and then with suspicion at the sale of an old woman's annuity, house and furniture, when he, her childless and only son, was reputed to be enormously rich. What could induce a woman like Mrs. Grey to sell her house in her native town, and the chairs her husband had used, the table at which he had sat, the back drawing-room furniture given her by him as a birthday present after the coming of their only boy? Clearly nothing but want of money.
It would be known his mother and he had been on most affectionate terms all their lives. Why did not an affectionate son spare an affectionate mother the unpleasantness of a sale by giving her the paltry few thousands? Even if he was mean enough not to make her a present of them, he might advance them upon the security she had to offer. It could not be that mother and son had quarrelled; if that were so he would clearly refuse his assent. It could not be she was in difficulties while her son had money. The clear deduction, the only possible deduction left to the people of Daneford would be that the selling was with his, Wat's, full consent, and that the money was for him – for the Daneford Bank.
All this was quite clear to Grey; beyond it he durst not go. No, he would not allow his mind to look behind the curtain drawn across the remote future.
What should he do?
All night he lay awake, trying to solve that question. Morning came and found him without a solution.
He had recovered wonderfully. His mind was now clear and vigorous. He resolved not to go to the office this day. He could not face people without some answer to enquiries sure to be made, and he had not yet resolved upon the course he should pursue.
He spent the forenoon reading and writing letters. One he wrote to the Castle to Miss Midharst, announcing his return, and that he should call upon her next day. A second he addressed to his mother in the following terms:
"Mother,
"One last word. If you persist in attracting attention to my affairs, by selling out, the chances are I shall be ruined; and such ruin will be mine that I shall not face it, but leave people to discuss my conduct over my corpse."
He did not sign this note. He sent it by James, the stupid, purblind, discharged soldier, and bade him wait for an answer.
In an hour James returned with the answer. It was in a large envelope, a very large envelope. The reply must have been prepared in anticipation of the appeal. A reply so bulky must be a favourable one. If an adverse answer had to be given, it would be brief.
With trembling hands he broke the seal as soon as he was alone. He drew forth several documents. But the first that caught his eye was the smallest of all – his own letter returned unopened! Upon the envelope was written, in the unsteady hand of his mother, these words:
"Sign the enclosed papers. The signatures must be witnessed. They must be signed and with me before the sale. I have not opened your letter. I daresay it does not lie, but how could I be sure?"
His hand ceased to tremble. He put the unopened letter into his pocket with a firm deliberate hand, calmly took up the legal papers, perused them carefully, critically, and paused now and then to extract the sense from the legal jargon.
When he had finished reading he rang the bell. James answered it.
"James, is there any other man who can read and write about the place, besides you?"
"One of the clerks has just come with a message for you, sir."
"Ask him to step this way, please, and come yourself."
In a few minutes the clerk entered, followed by the servant.
"Glad to see you, Doughty. Got a message for me? Take a seat."
"Yes, sir. A message from Mr. Aldridge. This is it."
"Thank you. I want you, now that you have come so opportunely, to witness my signature to documents of importance. They concern the sale of my mother's annuity and property. I am sole surviving trustee to my father's will, and I am now about to sign these documents, authorising those sales. Stand up, Doughty, and look at me as I sign. James, come near. You are near-sighted. Closer still. Now!"
He signed, and they after him.
"That will do, James. It is exceedingly unlikely there will be any dispute. In case there should, all you have to remember is that I signed these papers in your presence, and you in mine, and in the presence of one another. I am not sure the last is necessary, but never mind. You need not trouble yourselves to remember all I have said about the matter contained in the papers. You may go now, James."
When the servant had retired he said to the clerk: "Thank you, Doughty. You came very luckily. I will ask you to take these documents back to Mrs. Grey's. Usually such matters reach one through an attorney, but I am sorry to say this is not a very ordinary or pleasant transaction. Leave the documents with Mrs. Grey. There is no answer. Then go back to the Bank, and ask Mr. Aldridge to come to me here this afternoon or evening. I shall not be in town to-morrow, and have something to communicate to him. This is the reply to the note you brought from him."
When the manager of the Daneford Bank arrived at the Manor House he was shown into the presence of the banker.
Grey received him with more of the old grave blandness than he had displayed for a long time.
"Aldridge," he said, "I am sorry I have a little bad news. It does not concern the Bank. It is worse than that. I wish to Heaven it did concern the Bank. We can bear reverses in business better than home troubles." He paused, with his eyes fixed on the ground, in deep thought.
Aldridge moved his chair closer to Grey's, to show he was giving his best attention. He did not speak.
"You can meet a business difficulty face to face; but you shrink from difficulties or unpleasantnesses which bring the names of those you love and honour into the public mouth."
It was plain to Aldridge Grey was weighing his words with the nicest care. The manager considered it better to preserve his silence still.
"I am going now," pursued Grey, "to place myself upon your honour – "
"I am sure you may do that," interrupted Aldridge with respectful emphasis. The respect in the emphasis was not that of employed to employer, but of sympathiser for a fellow-man, an esteemed fellow-man in trouble.
Something in Aldridge's tone struck Grey. He stood up, stretched out his hand to Aldridge, took the manager's hand in his, and said impressively: "Aldridge, I am sure of that."
"Thank you. Now you may go on. I will not interrupt again."
"You know my mother has advertised her house and furniture for sale?"
"Yes."
"And that she is about to sell her annuity."
"So I have heard."
"I, as trustee, have just signed the documents. There is talk about this affair in town?"
"There is; a good deal. People cannot understand it."
"It came as a great shock and surprise to me when I heard it. It was that shock knocked me up in London."
"I thought it must have had something to do with it."
"It was the cause of it. Well, I am placed in a horribly awkward position. My mother is called upon to pay a large sum of money, say eight to ten thousand. Of course, we could easily manage that."
"Easily, I should think," said Aldridge, thinking with pride of the gallant stand the Bank had made in the late ruinous times.
"But," continued Grey, "if I paid the money now, I might be called upon to pay a similar or even a larger sum in six months, and again six months later, and I could not stand that kind of thing."
Aldridge shook his head and looked grave in confirmation of Grey's decision.
"The things must be sold," continued the banker. "When she has no property to pledge, no annuity to pawn, I can make a suitable allowance to her. The fact is, Aldridge, my poor mother has lost all her money in gambling on the Stock Exchange. Her name does not appear. She did it through some fellow in London. Now you see how there is nothing for it but to sell out. You see that clearly?"
"Nothing in the world could be plainer. A woman of her age!"
"Isn't it extraordinary in a woman of her years?"
"Wonderful!"
"Now I told you I threw myself on your honour, and what I want you to do is to keep the matter rigidly to yourself, except in such cases as you in your judgment think silence would injure the Bank, and then you must not reveal the facts except upon a pledge of strict, the strictest secrecy. No earthly consideration would induce me to allow my poor mother's name to become a byword in Daneford, where she has been respected for so many years. Aldridge, Aldridge, my friend, I count on you to do this for me."
This time it was the manager who stood up. He went to the banker, caught his hand, and said: "You may count upon me in this, Mr. Grey, as upon yourself. I should be the last in the world to make idle talk about the name of Grey, and you may rely upon my keeping the secret from everyone, except when the interest of the Bank is at stake."
"Thank you, my dear Aldridge. It is a great relief to me to have opened my mind to you. You are the only man whose discretion I could trust in so delicate a matter."
In a little while Aldridge took his leave, and Grey was left alone.
"By Jove," he mused, "that returned letter was a splendid tonic. It pulled me together like magic. I feel a new man now – a new man. Now I have only one person to take care of – myself. She would not hear me. Because I tried to save her the misery I myself endured, because I represented things to her as flourishing when all was gone, she turns on me, throws me off, draws attention to my credit and my reputation when I should have neither if the truth were known, if the lesser truth were known; and by opening up inquiry leading to the discovery of the lesser truth, the disclosure of the greater was risked.
"By Jove, that returned letter was my salvation! She thought she was treating me as I deserved, severely; all the time she was only nerving me to lace my armour and prepare for the great fight. I can easily provide now against any course she may take short of denunciation, and I don't think she will go so far as that.
"The reason for the sale, as Aldridge has heard it, will be known under pledges of secrecy to-morrow to half-a-dozen of the most important men in Daneford. That will be more than enough to counteract any sinister rumours. The pledge of secrecy extracted from the men whom Aldridge tells will not operate at all, save in making those to whom they give the news very careful as to whom they in turn tell it. Thus it will never come to her ears, even if she stays in Daneford, which I doubt; and thus she will never have an opportunity of denying it."
He got up and walked about. His elation was great. He swelled out his chest, threw back his shoulders, and allowed his arms to swing at his sides. His thoughts ran on:
"I have been fencing with death, and for the moment I have disarmed my foe. That sale might have ruined me, given me over to the hangman; I have averted the danger, and turned the attack into a source of security. In a moment of weakness I told her, in a moment of strength I turned the feeble act into a fresh rampart; for how can I tell, if things went on smoothly, as they had been going (had she not shown the danger-signal at the Consols), I might not, in the weak and pitiful state I then was in, have told her all? Now a gulf lies between her and me. It is unlikely we shall ever meet again. She had the power of exercising an influence over me which might not be to my safety. I have ensured my future safety by getting away from the influence of the only person who could make me indiscreetly talkative."
He paused in his walk and drew himself up before the glass. Much of the haggard expression had left his face. He was flushed and handsome-looking as of old. His eyes shone with excitement and the anticipation of triumph.
Once more he strode up and down the room.
"I feel five-and-twenty to-day. Five-and-twenty; not a month older. And though in spirits and health and strength I feel no more than half my age, I am conscious I carry the experience of a second quarter of a century on the shoulders of the first. I could command an army or make love to a school-girl. I shall win yet. I shall win in spite of that lanky nigger, Sir William. I shall win I know, I feel. These muscles are more than a match for his; this head is more than a match for his; and in spirits I am a long way his junior. I shall win now, for all obstacles are out of my way. She is gone for ever, and she was the last link with – Bah! the old time is dead. Earth to earth. I am a new man, I say."
In all this he never thought of her as his mother. He always looked upon her as she or her; never as mother. He treated her as if the spirit of his mother had left the body, and the spirit of another, a stranger, had entered in.
That night he slept well, and started early for the Castle the next day.