So far Melrose had been fairly amenable--had given a curt a.s.sent, for instance, to the conditions on which Faversham had proposed to relet two of the vacant farms, and to one or two other changes. But Faversham realized that he possessed no true knowledge of the old man"s mind and temperament. Exultant though he often felt in his new office, and the preposterously large salary attached to it, he reminded himself constantly that he trod on unsure ground. Once or twice he had been conscious of a strange sense as of some couchant beast beside him ready to spring; also of some curious weakening and disintegration in Melrose, even since he had first known him. He seemed to be more incalculable, less to be depended on. His memory was often faulty, and his irritability hardly sane.
Faversham indeed was certain, from his own observation, that the mere excitement of opening and exploring the huge collections he had acc.u.mulated, during these twenty years, in the locked rooms of the house, had imposed a sharp nervous strain on a man now past seventy, who for all the latter part of his life had taken no exercise and smoked incessantly.
Supposing he were suddenly to fall ill and die--what would happen to the house and its collections, or to the immense fortune, the proportions of which the new agent was now slowly beginning to appreciate? All sorts of questions with regard to the vanished wife and child were now rising insistently in Faversham"s mind. Were they really dead, and if so, how and where? Once or twice, since his acceptance of the agency, Melrose had repeated to him with emphasis: "I am alone in the world." Dixon and his wife preserved an absolute silence on the subject, and loyalty to his employer forbade Faversham to question them or any other of Melrose"s dependents. It struck him, indeed, that Mrs. Dixon had shown a curious agitation when, that morning, Faversham had conveyed to her Melrose"s instructions to prepare a certain room on the first floor as the agent"s future bedroom.
"Aye, sir, aye--but it wor Mrs. Melrose"s room," she had said, looking down, her lip twitching a little, her old hands fumbling with the strings of her ap.r.o.n.
Faversham had asked uncomfortably whether there were not some other room in a less conspicuous part of the house to which he might be transferred, the once dismantled drawing-room being now wanted to house the fine things that were constantly coming to light. Mrs. Dixon shook her head.
All the available rooms were still full of what she called "stoof." And then she had abruptly left him.
The light was fast failing as he approached the house. By the shearing away of trees and creeper, at least from all its central and eastern parts, Threlfall had now lost much of its savage picturesqueness; the formal garden within the forecourt had been to some extent restored; and the front door had received a coat or two of paint. But the whole of the west wing was still practically untouched. There they still were--the shuttered and overgrown windows. Faversham looked at them expectantly.
The exploration of the house roused in him now the same kind of excitement that drives on the excavators of Delphi or Ephesus, or the divers for Spanish treasure. He and Melrose had already dug out so many precious things--things many of them which had long sunk below the surface of the old man"s memory--that heaven only knew what might turn up. The pa.s.sion of adventure ran high; he longed to be at the business again and was sorry to think it must some day have an end.
That broken window, for instance, now widely open in the west wing, was the window of the room they had forced on the previous day. In general, Melrose possessed some rough record of the contents of the locked rooms, and their labelled keys; but in this case both record and label had been lost. A small amount of violence, however, had sufficed to open the half-rotten door. Inside--thick darkness, save for one faint gleam through a dilapidated shutter. As Faversham advanced, groping into the room, there was a sudden scurry of mice, and a sudden flapping of something in a corner, which turned out to be a couple of bats. When he made for the window, dense cobwebs brushed against his face, and half the shutter on which he laid his hand came away at his touch and lay in fragments at his feet. The rain had come in for twenty years through a broken pane, and had completely rotted the wood. Strange noises in the chimney showed that owls had built there; and as the shutter fell a hideous nest of earwigs was disturbed, and ran hither and thither over the floor.
And when Faversham turned to look at the contents of the room, he saw Melrose in his skullcap, poking about among a medley of black objects on the floor and in a open cupboard, his withered cheeks ghastly in the sudden daylight.
"What are they?" asked Faversham, wondering.
"Silver," was the sharp reply. "Some of the finest things known."
And from the filthy cupboard Melrose"s shaking hand had drawn out a ewer and basin, whence some ragged coverings fell away. It was almost entirely black; but the exquisite work of it--the spiral fluting of the ewer, its sh.e.l.l-like cover, the winged dragon on the handle, and, round the oval basin, the rim of chasing dolphins, could still be seen.
"That came from the Wolfgang sale--I gave six hundred for it. It"s worth six thousand now--you can"t find such a piece anywhere. Ah! by George!"--with a stifled shout--"and that"s the Demidoff tazza!"--as Faversham lifted up a thing lying in a half-open box that might have been ebony--a shallow cup on a stem, with a young vine-crowned Bacchus for a handle. Melrose took it eagerly, put up his eyegla.s.s, and, rubbing away with his handkerchief, searched for the mark. "There it is!--a Caduceus and 1620. And the signature--see!--"A.D. Viana." There was a cup signed by Viana sold last week at Christie"s--fetched a fabulous sum! Every single thing in this room is worth treble and quadruple what I gave for it. Talk of investments! There are no such investments as works of art.
Buy "em, I say--lock "em up--and forget "em for twenty years!"
With much labour, they had at last ranged the most important pieces on some trestle tables and in the cupboards of the room. A number of smaller boxes and packages still remained to be looked through. Faversham, by Melrose"s directions, had written to a London firm of dealers in antique silver, directing them to send down two of their best men to clean, mend, and catalogue. Proper glazed cupboards, baize-lined, were to be put up along each side of the room; the room itself was to be repaired, whitened, and painted. Faversham already foresaw the gleaming splendour of the show, when all should be done, and these marvels of a most lovely art--these silver nymphs and fauns, these dainty sea-horses and dolphins, these temples and shrines, now holding a Hercules, now a St. Sebastian, these arabesques, garlands, festoons, running in a riot of beauty over the surface of cup and salver--had been restored to daylight and men"s sight, after the burial of a generation.
But the value of what the house contained! In these days of huge prices and hungry buyers, it must be simply enormous.
Faversham often found himself speculating eagerly upon it, and always with the query in the background "For _whom_ is it all piling up?"
As they left the silver room, Melrose had made the grim remark that the contents of that room alone would make it prudent to let loose an extra couple of bloodhounds in the park at night. Dixon"s frowning countenance as he followed in their wake showed an answering anxiety. For he had now been made guardian of the collections; and a raw nephew of his, chosen apparently for his honesty and his speechlessness, had been put on as manservant, Mrs. Dixon had two housemaids under her, and a girl in the kitchen. It was sometimes evident to Faversham that the agitation of these changes which had come so suddenly upon them, had aged the two old servants, just as it had tried their master.
Faversham on dismounting was told by Joseph, the new man, that Mr.
Melrose would dine alone, but would be glad to see Mr. Faversham in the library after dinner.
Faversham made a quick and sparing meal in his own room, and then adjourning to his newly furnished office ran eagerly through the various papers and proposals which he had to lay before his employer.
As he did so, he was more conscious than ever before of the enormity of Melrose"s whole career as a landowner. The fact was that the estate had been for years a mere field for the display of its owner"s worst qualities--caprice, miserliness, jealous or vindictive love of power.
The finance of it mattered nothing to him. Had he been a poorer man his landed property might have had a chance; he would have been forced to run it more or less on business lines. But his immense income came to him apparently from quite other sources--mines, railways, foreign investments; and with all the human relations involved in landowning he was totally unfit to deal.
Hence these endless quarrels with his tenants to whom he never allowed a lease; these constant evictions; these litigations as to improvements, compensation, and heaven knows what. The land was naturally of excellent quality, and many a tenant came in with high hopes, only to find that the promises on the strength of which he had taken his farm were never fulfilled, and that if it came to lawyers, Melrose generally managed "to best it." Hence, too, the rotten, insanitary cottages--maintained, Faversham could almost swear, for the mere sake of defying the local authorities and teaching "those Socialist fools" a lesson. Hence the constant charges of persecution for political reasons; and hence, too, this bad case of the Brands, which had roused such a strong and angry sympathy in the neighbourhood that Faversham felt the success of his own regime must be endangered unless some means could be found, compatible with Melrose"s arrogance, of helping the ruined family.
Well, there in those clear typewritten sheets, lay his suggestions for dealing with these various injustices and infamies. They were moderate.
Expensive for the moment, they would be economical in the long run. He had given them his best brains and his hardest work. And he had taken the best advice. But they meant, no doubt, a complete change in the administration and _personnel_ of the estate.
Faversham stepped into the garden, and, hanging over the low wall which edged the sandstone cliff, he looked out over the gorge of the river, across the woods, into the ravines and gullies of the fells. Mountain and wood stood dark against a saffron sky. In the dim blue above it Venus sailed. A light wind stirred the trees and the stream. Along the river meadows he could hear the cows munching and see their dusky forms moving through a thin mist. The air was amethyst and gold, and the beautiful earth shone through it, enn.o.bled by the large indistinctness, the quiet ma.s.sing of the evening tones.
His heart withdrew itself into some inner shrine where it might be with Lydia. She represented to him some force, some help, to which he turned.
Please G.o.d, he would win her!--and through a piece of honourable work--the cleansing of an ugly corner of human life. A n.o.bler ambition than he had ever yet been conscious of, entered in. He felt himself a better man, with a purpose in the world.
Nor, at this critical moment, did he forget his uncle--the man who had been a father to him in his orphaned boyhood. What pleasure the dear old fellow would have taken in this new opening--and in Melrose"s marvellous possessions! By the way--Melrose had said nothing about the gems for a long time past, and Faversham was well content to leave them in his temporary keeping. But his superst.i.tious feeling about them--and all men have some touch of superst.i.tion--was stronger than ever. It was as though he protested anew to some hovering shape, which took the aspect now of Mackworth, now of Fortuna--"Stand by me!--even as I hold by them."
The chiming clock in the gallery--a marvel of French _horlogerie_, made for the Regent Orleans--had just finished striking eleven. Melrose, who had been speaking with energy through the soft, repeated notes, threw himself back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. His white hair shone against the panelled background of the room, and, beneath it, framed in bushy brows still black, a pair of menacing eyes fixed themselves on Faversham.
Faversham remained for a minute at the table, looking down upon it, his hand resting on the doc.u.ment from which he had been reading. Then he too pushed his chair slowly backward, and looked up.
"I understand then, Mr. Melrose, that these proposals of mine do not meet with your approval?"
"I have told you what I approve."
"You have approved a few matters--of minor importance. But my chief proposals"--he ran his finger lightly over the pages of his memorandum, enumerating the various headings--"these, if I have understood you correctly, are not to your mind, and you refuse to sanction them?"
The face before him was as iron.
"Let half these things wait, I tell you, and they will settle themselves.
I pointed out to you when we made our bargain, that I would not have my estate run on any d.a.m.ned Socialist principles."
Faversham smiled; but he had grown very pale. "Your financial profit, Mr.
Melrose, and the business management of your property have been my sole concern."
"I am sure that you think so. But as to what is profit and what is business, you must allow me to be the final judge."
Faversham thought a moment, then rose, and walked quietly up and down the length of the room, his hands in his pockets. The old man watched him, his haughty look and regular features illuminated by the lamp beside him.
In front of him was the famous French table, crowded as usual with a mult.i.tude of miscellaneous _objets d"art_, conspicuous among them a pair of Tanagra figures, white visions of pure grace, amid the dusty confusion of their surroundings.
Suddenly Melrose flung his cigarette vehemently away.
"Faversham! Don"t be a fool! I have something to say to you a deal more important than this d.a.m.ned nonsense!" He struck his hand on the open memorandum.
Faversham turned in astonishment.
"Sit down again!" said Melrose peremptorily, "and listen to me. I desire to put things as plainly and simply as possible. But I must have all your attention."
Faversham sat down. Melrose was now standing, his hands on the back of the chair from which he had risen.
"I have just made my will," he said abruptly. "Tomorrow I hope to sign it. It depends on you whether I sign it or not."
As the speaker paused, Faversham, leaning back and fronting him, grew visibly rigid. An intense and startled expectancy dawned in his face; his lips parted.
"My will," Melrose continued, in a deliberately even voice, "concerns a fortune of rather more--than a million sterling--allowing little or nothing for the contents of this house. I inherited a great deal, and by the methods I have adopted--not the methods, my dear Faversham, I may say, that you have been recommending to me to-night. I have more than doubled it. I have given nothing away to worthless people, and no sloppy philanthropies have stood between me and the advantages to which my knowledge and my brains ent.i.tled me. Hence these acc.u.mulations. Now, the question is, what is to be done with them? I am alone in the world. I have no interest whatever in building universities, or providing free libraries, or subsidizing hospitals. I didn"t make the world, and I have never seen why I should spend my energies in trying to mend what the Demiurge has made a mess of. In my view the object of everybody should be to _live_, as acutely as possible--to get as many sensations, as many pleasant reactions as possible--out of the day. Some people get their sensations--or say they do--out of fussing about the poor. Forty years ago I got them out of politics--or racing--or high play. For years past, as you know, I have got them out of collecting works of art--and fighting the other people in the world who want the same things that I do.
Perfectly legitimate in my belief! I make no apology whatever for my existence. Well, now then, I begin to be old--don"t interrupt me--I don"t like it, but I recognize the fact. I have various ailments. Doctors are mostly fools; but I admit that in my case they may be right; though I intend to live a good while yet in spite of them. Still--there it is--who is to have this money--and these collections? Sooner than let any rascally Chancellor of the Exchequer get at them, I would leave them to Dixon. But I confess I think Dixon would be embarra.s.sed to know what to do with them. I don"t think I possess a single relation that I don"t dislike. So now we come to the point. With your leave--and by your leave--I propose to leave the money and the collections--to you!" The young man--flushed and staring--half rose in his chair.
"To _me_? What can you possibly mean, sir?"
"Precisely what I say. On conditions, of course. It depends on yourself.