young man extant, was made with a very particular purpose.
“Well, Ma'am,” he said, in reply to the old lady's hospitable greeting, “I won't refuse a pot of half-and-half and a couple of eggs, and I'll go so far as a cut or two of bacon, bein' 'ungry; and I'm a-goin' to write a paper of some consequence, if you'll obleege me with a sheet of foolscap and a pen and ink; and I may as well write it while the things is a-gettin' ready, accordin' to your kind intentions.”
And accordingly Mr. Paul Davies sat in silence, looking very important – as he always did when stationery was before him – at a small table, in a dark back room, and slowly penned a couple of pages of foolscap.
“And now,” said he, producing the document after his repast, “will you be so good, Ma'am, as to ask Mr. Sildyke and Mrs. Rumble to come down and witness my signing of this, which I mean to leave it in your hands and safe keepin', under lock and key, until I take it away, or otherwise tells you what you must do with it. It is a police paper, Ma'am, and may be wanted any time. But you keep it dark till I tells you.”
This settled, Mr. Sildyke and Mrs. Rumble arrived obligingly; and Paul Davies, with an adroit wink at his mother – who was a little shocked and much embarrassed by the ruse, being a truth-loving woman – told them that here was his last will and testament, and he wanted only that they should witness his signature; which, with the date, was duly accomplished. Paul Davies was, indeed, a man of that genius which requires to proceed by stratagem, cherishing an abhorrence of straight lines, and a picturesque love of the curved and angular. So, if Mr. Longcluse was doing his duty at one end of the town, Mr. Davies, at the other, was by no means wanting in activity, or, according to the level of his intellect and experience, in wisdom.
We have recurred to these scenes in which Mr. Paul Davies figures, because it was indispensable to the reader's right understanding of some events that follow. Be so good, then, as to find Sir Reginald exactly where I left him, standing on the steps of Mortlake Hall. His daughter would have stayed, but he would not hear of it. He stood on the steps, and smirked a yellow and hollow farewell, waving his hand as the carriage drove away. Then he turned and entered the lofty hall, in which the light was already failing.
Sir Reginald did not like the trouble of mounting the stairs. His bed-room and sitting-room were on a level with the hall. As soon as he came in, the gloom of his old prison-house began to overshadow him, and his momentary cheer and good-humour disappeared.
“Where is Tansey? I suppose she's in her bed, or grumbling in toothache,” he snarled to the footman. “And where the devil's Crozier? I have the fewest and the worst servants, I believe, of any man in England.”
He poked open the door of his sitting-room with the point of his walking-stick.
“Nothing ready, I dare swear,” he quavered, and shot a peevish and fiery glance round it.
Things were not looking quite so badly as he expected. There was just the little bit of expiring fire in the grate which he liked, even in summer. His sealskin slippers were on the hearth-rug, and his easy-chair was pushed into its proper place.
“Ha! Crozier, at last! Here, get off this coat, and these mufflers, and – I was d – d near dying in that vile chaise. I don't remember how they got me into the inn. There, don't mind condoling. You're privileged, but don't do that. As near dying as possible – rather an awkward business for useless old servants here, if I had. I'll dress in the next room. My son's coming this evening. Admit him, mind. I'll see him. How long is it since we met last? Two years, egad! And Lord Wynderbroke has his dinner here – I don't know what day, but some day very soon – Friday, I think; and don't let the people here go to sleep. Remember!”
And so on, with his old servant, he talked, and sneered, and snarled, and established himself in his sitting-room, with his reviews, and his wine, and his newspapers.
Night fell over dark Mortlake Hall, and over the blazing city of London. Sir Reginald listened, every now and then, for the approach of his son. Talk as he might, he did expect something – and a great deal – from the coming interview. Two years without a home, without an allowance, with no provision except a hundred and fifty pounds a year, might well have tamed that wilful beast!
With the tremor of acute suspense, the old man watched and listened. Was it a good or an ill sign, his being so late?
The city of London, with its still roaring traffic and blaze of gas-lamps, did not contrast more powerfully with the silent shadows of the forest-grounds of Mortlake, than did the drawing-room of Lady May Penrose, brilliant with a profusion of light, and resonant with the gay conversation of inmates, all disposed to enjoy themselves, with the dim and vast room in which Sir Reginald sat silently communing with his own dismal thoughts.
Nothing so contagious as gaiety. Alice Arden, laughingly, was “making her book” rather prematurely in dozens of pairs of gloves, for the Derby. Lord Wynderbroke was deep in it. So was Vivian Darnley.
“Your brother and I are to take the reins, turn about, Lady May says. He's a crack whip. He's better than I, I think,” said Vivian to Alice Arden.
“You mustn't upset us, though. I am so afraid of you crack whips!” said Alice. “Nor let your horses run away with us; I've been twice run away with already.”
“I don't the least wonder at Miss Arden's being run away with very often,” said Lord Wynderbroke, with all the archness of a polite man of fifty.
“Very prettily said, Wynderbroke,” smiled Lady May. “And where is your brother? I thought he'd have turned up to-night,” asked she of Alice.
“I quite forgot. He was to see papa this evening. They wanted to talk over something together.”
“Oh, I see!” said Lady May, and she became thoughtful.
What was the exact nature of the interest which good Lady May undoubtedly took in Richard Arden? Was it quite so motherly as years might warrant? At that time people laughed over it, and were curious to see the progress of the comedy. Here was light and gaiety – light within, lamps without; spirited talk in young anticipation of coming days of pleasure; and outside the roll of carriage-wheels making a humming bass to this merry treble.
Over the melancholy precincts of Mortlake the voiceless darkness of night descends with unmitigated gloom. The centre – the brain of this dark place – is the house: and in a large dim room, near the smouldering fire, sits the image that haunts rather than inhabits it.
CHAPTER XV
FATHER AND SON
Sir Reginald Arden had fallen into a doze, as he sat by the fire with his Revue des Deux Mondes, slipping between his finger and thumb, on his knees. He was recalled by Crozier's voice, and looking up, he saw, standing near the door, as if in some slight hesitation, a figure not seen for two years before.
For a moment Sir Reginald doubted his only half-awakened senses. Was that handsome oval face, with large, soft eyes, with such brilliant lips, and the dark-brown moustache, so fine, and silken, that had never known a razor, an unsubstantial portrait hung in the dim air, or his living son? There were perplexity and surprise in the old man's stare.
“I should have been here before, Sir, but your letter did not reach me until an hour ago,” said Richard Arden.
“By heaven! Dick? And so you came! I believe I was asleep. Give me your hand. I hope, Dick, we may yet end this miserable quarrel happily. Father and son can have no real interests apart.”
Sir Reginald Arden extended his thin hand, and smiled invitingly but rather darkly on his son. Graceful and easy this young man was, and yet embarrassed, as he placed his hand within his father's.
“You will take something, Dick, won't you?”
“Nothing, Sir, thanks.”
Sir Reginald was stealthily reading his face. At last he began circuitously —
“I've a little bit of news to tell you about Alice. How long shall I allow you to guess what it is?”
“I'm the worst guesser in the world – pray don't wait for me, Sir.”
“Well,