All the while, too, he kept Dick'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 Dick. "They burn with the light of hell fire."
"You are dreaming, boy. Sign, and let's have a bottle of wine to seal the bargain."
"I must be dreaming," thought Dick. "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 Dick did not sign, for suddenly he saw a white, shadowy hand appear, which with irresistible strength gripped his wrist.
CHAPTER XIV
A Scrap 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 Dick. "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 Dick 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 Dick. "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 passed 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 Dick. "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."
"He isn't my friend," replied Dick 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."
Dick 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 Dick.
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 Dick'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 passed out of the room as he spoke, and Dick noticed that the scrap of paper was gone.
CHAPTER XV
Count Romanoff's Departure
The next morning when Dick 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 Dick.
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, Dick 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."
Dick 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 passed 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 passed 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 passing 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 passed 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 attitude 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 passing 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 passed, 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 passed, 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 passed 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 passed, 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.
By four o'clock Mr. Bidlake was on his way back to London again, and Dick knew that his own fate was sealed. The lawyer had proved to him that he had no right to be there, and while he advised him to put on a bold face, and in the last extremity to try and compromise with Anthony Riggleton, he held out no hope. Anthony Riggleton was beyond doubt the true heir of old Charles Faversham, and he had undisputable proofs of the fact.
"I am more upset than I can say, Faversham," said the lawyer, when he had described Riggleton's visit, "but we can't help ourselves. He is perfectly sure of his ground, and he has reason to be."
"He convinced you entirely, then?"
"Absolutely – absolutely."
Dick was still calm. Perhaps the experiences of the last few days left him almost incapable of feeling.
"What sort of fellow is he?"
The lawyer puckered up his face, and shook his head dismally. "He will not be a Society favourite," was all he said.
"But he has no doubts as to his plans?"
"He says he's going to take possession immediately. If you offer any opposition, he will apply for an injunction."
"Has he any money?"
"He appeared to be quite well off. His clothes are quite new," added the lawyer, "and he sported some very flashy jewellery. I was impressed by the thought that he had someone behind him."
"Did he say so?"
"No, not definitely, but I formed that impression. Anyhow, you can be certain of this. He will lose no time in making his claim. Indeed, I should not be at all surprised if the papers don't contain some notice of his advent and his claims to-morrow morning."
"You said something about a compromise."
"Yes, you see" – and the lawyer coughed almost nervously – "this will be very awkward for you. You've no right here; you've been spending money which has not been your own. Still, your case is not without its good points. You are in possession, you have been accepted as the owner of – all this, and even although he has the prior claim, you would have great sympathy from a jury – should it come to that. I told him so. I don't promise anything, but it might be that he might be disposed to – do something considerable to persuade you to leave him in possession quietly."
"As a kind of salve for my disappointment?" and there was an angry light in Dick's eyes.
"If you like to put it that way, yes. But, bless my soul, it is close on four o'clock, and I must be going. I can't say how sorry I am, and – and if I can do anything – "
"Is the fellow married?" interrupted Dick.
"No – nothing of that sort. After all, no one but he stands in the way of possession."
"What shall I do?" Dick asked himself. "I'm worse off than I was before. At any rate I was in the way of earning a few hundred pounds when that wireless came. But now everything is altered, and I don't know where to turn. Still – " and there was a grim, hard look in his eyes.
Slowly he walked down the avenue towards the lodge gates. Away in the distance, as though coming towards him, he saw a young girl. It was Beatrice Stanmore. He took a few steps towards her, and then turned back. Something forbade his speaking to her; somehow she seemed closely connected with the black calamity which had fallen on him.
He had barely returned to the house when he heard the tooting of a motor horn, and, looking out, he saw a large, powerful motor-car coming rapidly up the avenue. A minute later he heard voices in the hall – voices which suggested recognition. Then the door opened.
"Mr. Anthony Riggleton!" said the servant excitedly.