“I am anxious for a few minutes’ conversation inside with you, Ducaine,” the Duke said. “Angela, you had better perhaps not wait for me.”
She nodded her farewell, a brief imperious little gesture, it seemed to me, with very little of kindliness in it. Then the Duke followed me into my sitting-room. I waited anxiously to hear what he had to say.
XXVI. “NOBLESSE OBLIGE”
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The Duke selected my most comfortable easy chair and remained silent for several minutes, looking thoughtfully out of the window. Notwithstanding the fresh colour, which he seldom lost, and the trim perfection of his dress, I could see at once that there was a change in him. The lines about his mouth were deeper, his eyes had lost much of their keen brightness. I found myself wondering whether, after all, some suspicion of Lord Blenavon’s doings had found its way to him.
“You are well forward with your work, I trust, Mr. Ducaine?” he said at last.
“It is completed, your Grace,” I answered.
“The proposed subway fortifications as well as the new battery stations?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“What about the maps?”
“I have done them also to the best of my ability, sir,” I answered. “I am not a very expert draughtsman, I am afraid, but these are at least accurate. If you would care to look them over, they are in the library safe.”
“And the code word?”
In accordance with our usual custom I scribbled it upon a piece of paper, and held it for a moment before his eyes. Then I carefully destroyed it.
“To-morrow,” he said, “perhaps to-night, we have some railway men coming down to thoroughly discuss the most efficient method of moving troops from Aldershot and London to different points, and to inaugurate a fresh system. You had better hold yourself in readiness to come up to the house at any moment. They are business men, and their time is valuable. They will probably want to work from the moment of their arrival until they go.”
“Very good, your Grace,” I answered.
He turned his head and looked at me for a moment reflectively.
“You remember our conversation at the War Office, Mr. Ducaine?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“I do not wish you to have a false impression as to my meaning at that time,” he said coldly. “I do not, I have never, doubted your trustworthiness. My feeling was, and is, that you are somewhat young and of an impetuous disposition for a post of such importance. That feeling was increased, of course, by the fact that I considered your story with reference to the Prince of Malors improbable to the last degree. In justice to you,” he continued more slowly, “I must now admit the possibility that your description of that incident may after all be in accordance with the facts. Certain facts have come to my knowledge which tend somewhat in that direction. I shall consider it a favour, therefore, if you will consider my remarks at that interview retracted.”
“I thank your Grace very much,” I answered.
“With reference to the other matter,” he continued, “there my opinion remains unaltered. I do not believe that the papers in the safe were touched after you yourself deposited them there, and I consider your statement to the contrary a most unfortunate one. But the fact remains that you have done your work faithfully, and the Council is satisfied with your services. That being so, you may rely upon it that any feeling I may have in the matter I shall keep to myself.”
I would have expressed my gratitude to him, but he checked me.
“There is,” he said, “one other, a more personal matter, concerning which I desired a few words with you. I have had a visit from a relative of yours who is also an old friend of my own. I refer to Sir Michael Trogoldy.”
I looked at him in amazement. I was, in fact, so surprised that I said nothing at all.
“Sir Michael, it seems, has been making inquiries about you, and learned of your present position,” the Duke continued. “He asked me certain questions which I was glad to be able to answer on your behalf. He also entrusted me with a note, which I have here in my pocket.”
He produced it and laid it upon the table. I made no movement to take it.
“The details of your family history,” the Duke said, “are unknown to me. But if the advice of an old man is in any way acceptable to you, I should strongly recommend you to accept any offer of friendship which Sir Michael may make. He is an old man, and he is possessed of considerable wealth. Further, I gather that you are his nearest relative.”
“Sir Michael was very cruel to my mother, sir,” I said slowly.
“You have nothing to gain by the harbouring of ancient grievances,” the Duke replied. “I have always known Sir Michael as a just if a somewhat stern man. Please, however, do not look upon me in any way as a would-be mediator. My interest in this matter ceases with the delivery of that letter.”
The Duke rose to his feet. I followed him to the door.
“In any case, sir,” I said, “I am very much obliged to you for your advice and for bringing me this letter.”
“By-the-bye,” the Duke said, pausing on the threshold, “I fear that we may lose the help of Colonel Ray upon the Council. There are rumours of serious trouble in the Soudan, and if these are in any way substantiated, he will be certainly sent there. Good afternoon, Mr. Ducaine.”
“Good afternoon, your Grace.”
So he left me, stiff, formal, having satisfied his conscience, though I felt in my heart that his opinion of me, once formed, was not likely to be changed. Directly I was alone I opened my uncle’s letter.
“127, GROSVENOR SQUARE,
“LONDON, W.
“DEAR Guy,—
“It has been on my mind more than once during the last few years—ever since, in fact, I heard of you at college—to write and inform myself as to your prospects in life. You are the son of my only sister, although I regret to say that you are the son also of a man who disgraced himself and his profession. You have a claim upon me which you have made no effort to press. Perhaps I do not think the worse of you for that. In any case, I wish you to accept an allowance of which my lawyers will advise you, and if you will call upon me when you are in town I shall be glad to make your acquaintance. I may say that it was a pleasure to me to learn that you have succeeded in obtaining a responsible and honourable post.
“I am, yours sincerely,
“MICHAEL TROGOLDY.”
I took pen and paper, and answered this letter at once.
“My DEAR SIR MICHAEL,—
“As I am your nephew, and I understand, almost your nearest relative, I see no reason why I should not accept the allowance which you are good enough to offer me. I shall also be glad to come and see you next time I am in London, if it is your wish.
“Yours sincerely,
“GUY DUCAINE.”
Grooton brought in my tea, also a London morning paper which he had secured in the village.
“I thought that you might be interested in the news about the Duke, sir,” he said respectfully.
“What news, Grooton?” I asked, stretching out my hand for the paper.
“You will find a leading article on the second page, sir, and another in the money news. It reads quite extraordinary, sir.”
I opened the paper eagerly. I read every word of the leading article, which was entitled “Noblesse Oblige,” and all the paragraphs in the money column. What I read did not surprise me in the least when once I had read the circumstances. It was just what I should have expected from the Duke. It seemed that he had lent his name to the prospectus of a company formed for the purpose of working some worthless patent designed to revolutionize the silk weaving trade. The Duke’s reason for going on the Board was purely philanthropic. He had hoped to restore an ancient industry in a decaying neighbourhood. The whole thing turned out to be a swindle. One angry shareholder stated plainly at the meeting that he had taken his shares on account of the Duke’s name upon the prospectus, and hinted ugly things.
The Duke had risen calmly in his place. He assured them that he fully recognized his responsibilities in the matter. If the person who had last spoken was in earnest when he stated that the Duke’s name had induced him to take shares in this company, then he was prepared to relieve him of those shares at the price which he had paid for them. Further, if there was any other persons who were able honestly to say that the name of the Duke of Rowchester upon the prospectus had induced them to invest their money in this concern, his offer extended also to them.
There were roars of applause, wild enthusiasm. It was magnificent, but the lowest estimate of what it would cost the Duke was a hundred thousand pounds.
I put down the paper, and my cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm. I think that if the Duke had been there at that moment I could have kissed his hand. I passed with much less interest to the letter which Grooton had brought in with the paper. It was from a firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn, and it informed me, in a few precise sentences, that they had the authority of their client, Sir Michael Trogoldy, to pay me yearly the sum of five hundred pounds.
XXVII. FRIEND OR ENEMY?
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There came no summons from Rowchester, and I dined alone. I must have dozed over my after-dinner cigarette, for at first that soft rapping seemed to come to me from a long way off. Then I sat up in my chair with a start. My cigarette had burnt out, my coffee was cold. I had been asleep, and outside some one was knocking at my’ front door.
I had sent Grooton to the village with letters, and I was alone in the place. I sprang from my chair just as the handle of the door was turned and a woman stepped quietly in. She was wrapped from head to foot in a long cloak, and she was thickly veiled. But I knew her at once. It was Mrs. Smith-Lessing.
My first impulse was one of anger. It seemed to me that she was taking advantage of the sympathy which Ray’s brutality during our last interview had forced from me. I spoke to her coldly, almost angrily.
“Mrs. Smith-Lessing,” I said, “I regret that I cannot receive you here. My position just now does not allow me to receive visitors.”
She simply raised her veil and sank into the nearest chair. I was staggered when I saw her face. It was positively haggard, and her eyes were burning. She looked at me almost with horror.
“I had to come,” she said. “I could not keep away a moment longer. Tell me the truth, Guy Ducaine. The truth, mind!” she repeated, fearfully.
“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered. “I do not understand you.”
“Tell me the truth about that man who came to see you on the seventh of January.”
I shook my head.
“I have nothing to tell you,” I said firmly. “When I found him on the marshes he was dead. I did not hear till afterwards that he had ever asked for me.”
“This is the truth?” she asked eagerly.
“It is the truth!” I answered.
I could see the relief shine in her face. She was still anxious, however.
“Is it true,” she asked, “that you told a girl in the village, Blanche Moyat, to keep secret the fact that this man inquired in the village for the way to your cottage?”
“That also is true,” I admitted. “She did not tell me until afterwards, and I saw no purpose in publishing the fact that the man had been on his way to see me.”
“You have been very foolish,” she said. “You have quarrelled with the girl. She is telling this against you, and there will be trouble.”
“I cannot help it,” I answered. “I never spoke to the man. I saw nothing of him until I found him dead.”
“Guy!” she cried, “this is an awful thing. I am not sure, but I believe that the man was your father!”
As often as the thought had comae to me I had thrust it away. This time, however, there was no escape. The whole hideous scene spread itself out again before my eyes. I saw the doubled-up body, limp and nerveless. I felt again the thrill of horror with which one looks for the first time on death. The mockery of the sunlight filling the air, gleaming far and wide upon the creek-riven marshes and wet sands, the singing of the birds, the slow tramp of the wagon horses. All these things went to fill up that one terrible picture. I looked at the woman opposite to me, and in her face was some reflection of the horror which I as surely felt.
“For your sake,” she murmured, “we must find out how he met with his death.”
“The verdict was Found drowned,” I murmured.
“People will change their opinion now,” she answered. “Besides, you and I know that he was not drowned.”
“You are sure of that?” I asked.
“Quite,” she answered. “He had letters with him, I know, and papers for you. Besides, he carried always with him a number of trifles by which he could have been identified. When he was searched at the police station his pockets were empty. He had been robbed. Guy, he had, as I have had, one unflinching, relentless enemy. Tell me, was Colonel Ray in Braster at the time?”
“No,” I answered hoarsely. “I cannot tell you. I will have no more to do with it. The matter is over—let it rest,”
“But, my poor boy,” she said quietly, “it will not be allowed to rest. Can’t you see that this girl’s statement does away with the theory that he was washed up from the sea? He met with his death there on the sands. He left Braster to visit you, and he was found within a few yards of your cottage dead, and with marks of violence upon him. You will be suspected, perhaps charged. It is inevitable. Now tell me the truth. Was Mostyn Ray in Braster at the time?”
“He lectured that night in the village,” I answered.
Her eyes gleamed with a strange fire.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I have him at last, then. I saw him falter when I spoke of your father. Guy, I will save you, but I would give the rest of my days to bring this home to Mostyn Ray.”
I shook my head.
“You will never do it,” I declared. “There might be suspicion, but there will never be any proof. If there was any murder done at all, it was done without witnesses.”
“We shall see about that,” she muttered. “There is what you call circumstantial evidence. It has hanged people before now.”
We remained silent for several moments. All this time she was watching me.
“Guy,” she said softly, “you are very like what he was—at your age.”
Her cloak had fallen back. She was wearing a black evening gown with a string of pearls around her neck. The excitement had given her a faint colour, and something like tears softened her eyes as she looked across at me. But the more I looked at her the more anxious I was to see her no more. Her words reminded me of the past. I remembered that it was she who had been my father’s evil genius, she who had brought this terrible disgrace upon him, and this cloud over my own life. I rose to my feet.
“I do not wish to ask for any favours from you,” I said, “but I will ask you to remember that if you are seen here I shall certainly lose my post.”
“What does it matter?” she answered contemptuously. “I am not a rich woman, Guy, but I know how to earn money. Mostyn Ray would not believe it, perhaps, but I loved your father. Yours has been a miserable little life. Come with me, and I promise that I will show you how to make it great. You have no relatives or any ties. I promise you that I will be a model stepmother.”
I looked at her, bewildered.
“It is not possible for me to do anything of the sort,” I told her. “I do not wish to seem unkind, but nothing in this world would induce me to consider such a thing for a moment. I have chosen my life and the manner of it. Do you think that I can ever forget that you and my father between you broke my mother’s heart, and made it necessary for me to be brought up without friends, ashamed of my name and of my history? One does not forget these things. I bear you no ill will, but I wish that you would go away.”
She sat there quite quietly, listening to me.
“Guy,” she said, when I had finished, “all that you s
peak of happened many years ago. There is forgiveness for everybody, isn’t there? You and I are almost alone in the world. I want to be your friend. You might find me a more powerful one than you think. Try me! I will make your future mine. You shall have your own way in all things. I know the hills and the valleys of life, the underneath and the matchless places. If you accept my offer you will never regret it. I can be a faithful friend or a relentless enemy. Between you and me, Guy, there can be no middle course. I want to be your friend. Don’t make me your enemy.”
The woman puzzled me. She had every appearance of being in earnest. Yet the things which she proposed were absurd.
“This is folly,” I answered her. “I cannot count it anything else. Do you suppose that I want to creep through life at a woman’s apron-strings? I am old enough, and strong enough, I hope, to think and act for myself. My career is my own, to make or to mar. I do not wish for enmity from any one, but your friendship I cannot accept. Our ways lie apart—a long way apart.”
“Do not be too sure of that,” she said quietly. “I think that you and I may come together again very soon, and it is possible that you may need my help.”
“All that I need now,” I answered impatiently, “is your absence.”
She rose at once from her chair.
“Very well,” she said, “I will go. Only let me warn you that I am a persistent woman. I think that it will not be very long before you will see things differently. Will you shake hands with me, Guy?”
Her small white fingers came hesitatingly out from under her cloak. I did not stop to think to what my action might commit me, whether indeed it was seemly that I should accept any measure of friendship from this woman. I took her hand and held it for a moment in mine.
“You cannot go back alone,” I said, doubtfully, as I opened the door.
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