A FUTILE PROTEST
It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library, while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above it on either band, conveying an idea of space and distance by the way they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.
The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne, in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament. The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked different, more virile, coarser; he was fuller in figure and heavier in face.
“No,” declared Gladwyne with a show of firmness; “the line must be drawn. I’ve already gone farther than I should have done.”
“I’m sorry for you, Gladwyne—you don’t seem to realize that a man can’t very well play two widely different parts at once,” Batley rejoined, smiling. “Your interfering Canadian friend would describe your attitude as sitting upon the fence. It’s an uncomfortable position, one that’s not often tenable for any length of time. Hadn’t you better make up your mind as to which side you’ll get down on?”
Gladwyne looked uneasy. The choice all his instinct prompted him to make was not open to him, except at a cost which he was hardly prepared to face. He was known as a bold rider, he had the steady nerves that usually result from a life spent in the open air, but, as Batley recognized, he lacked stamina.
“You are going wide of the mark,” he answered. “What I have asked you to do is to let the lad alone. The thing’s exciting comment. You”—he hesitated—“have made enough out of him.”
“I think,” replied the other coolly, “I was very much to the point. If you don’t recognize this, I’ll ask: Suppose I don’t fall in with your request, what then?”
Gladwyne examined his cigar. It was not in his nature to face an issue boldly, and his companion seemed determined to force one.
“I’ve asked it as a favor,” he finally said.
“No,” corrected Batley; “I don’t think you did so. You intimated your wishes in a rather lordly style.”
This was true, but Gladwyne winced at the man’s cold smile. He had, in a fit of indignation which was both honest and commendable, expressed himself with some haughtiness; but he knew that he would be beaten if it came to an open fight. This was unfortunate, because his intentions were good.
“Besides,” Batley continued, “I’m not in a position to grant expensive favors. My acquaintance with young Crestwick is, of course, profitable. What’s more, I’ve very liberally offered you a share.”
Gladwyne’s face grew hot. He had acted, most reluctantly, as a decoy to the vicious lad, but he had never benefited by it, except when now and then some stake fell into his hands. The suggestion that he should share in the plunder filled him with disgust, and he knew that Batley had made it to humiliate him.
“You’re taking risks,” he continued. “There’s legislation on the subject of minors’ debts; Crestwick began to deal with you before he was twenty-one, and he’s still in his trustees’ hands. If he made trouble, I’m inclined to think some of your transactions would look very much like conspiracy.”
“I know my man. You people would suffer a good deal, sooner than advertise yourselves through the law courts.”
“Crestwick isn’t one of us,” Gladwyne objected.
“Then, as he aspires to be considered one, he’ll go even farther than you would. None are so keen for the honor of the flock as those who don’t strictly belong to the fold. There’s another point you overlook—a person can’t very well conspire alone, and inquiries might be made about my confederates. That, however, is not a matter of much importance, because I imagine Miss Crestwick would not allow any one to point to you. Besides, her money’s safe, and she’s a prepossessing young lady.”
Gladwyne straightened himself sharply in his chair. “Don’t go too far! There are things I won’t stand!”
“Then we’ll try to avoid them. All I require is that you still give the lad the entry of this house and don’t interfere with me. You see I’m reasonable.”
As Gladwyne had interfered, to acquiesce was to own defeat, which was galling, and while he hesitated Batley watched him with an air of indulgent amusement.
“It’s a pity you were not quite straight with me at the beginning, Gladwyne; it would have saved you trouble,” he remarked at length. “I took a sporting risk at pretty long odds—I have to do so now and then and I pay up when I lose. But if I’d known the money was to go to Miss Gladwyne and you would only get the land, I’d never have kept you supplied; and in particular I wouldn’t have made the last big loan shortly before you and your cousin sailed for Canada.”
“You knew it was a blind speculation—that I ran the same risk as George did, and that he might outlive me.”
“You’re wrong on one point,” Batley objected dryly. “I’m acquainted with your temperament—it’s not one that would lead you into avoidable difficulties. Well, you came through and your cousin died, but you failed to pay me off when you came into possession.”
“I’ve explained that I couldn’t foresee the trouble I have in meeting expenses. I’ve paid you an extortionate interest.”
“That’s in arrears,” retorted Batley. “You should have pinched and denied yourself to the utmost until you had got rid of me. You couldn’t bring yourself to do so—well, it’s rather a pity one can’t have everything.”
Approaching the table, he quietly took up the lamp. It was heavy, standing on a massive silver pillar, but he raised it above his head so that the light streamed far about the stately room. Then he laughed as he set it down.
“It’s something to be the owner of such a place and enjoy all that it implies—which includes your acknowledged status and your neighbors’ respect. There would be a risk of losing the latter if it came out that, driven by financial strain, you had been speculating on your cousin’s death.”
Gladwyne made a little abrupt movement and Batley saw that his shot had told.
“It would be enough to place you under a cloud,” he went on. “People might think that you had at least not been very reluctant to leave him to starve. Well, I’ve had to wait for my money, with the interest by no means regularly paid, and unless you can square off the account, I must ask you to leave me a free hand to deal with Crestwick as I think fit. In return, if it’s needful, I’ll see you through on reasonable terms until you marry Miss Crestwick or somebody else with money.”
On the whole, Gladwyne was conscious of relief. He had been badly frightened for a moment or two. If Batley, who had good reasons for distrusting him, had accepted his account of his cousin’s death, it was most unlikely that it had excited suspicion in the mind of anybody else. Crestwick, however, must be left to his fate. It was, though he failed to recognize this, an eventful decision that Gladwyne made.
“As you will,” he answered, rising. “It’s late; I’m going for my candle.”
He strode out of the room, and Batley smiled as he followed him.
A day or two later Lisle stood on Gladwyne’s lawn. Gladwyne entertained freely, and though his neighbors did not approve of all of his friends, the man had the gift of pleasing, and his mother unconsciously exerted a charm on every one. She rarely said anything witty, but she never said anything unkind and she would listen with a ready sympathy that sometimes concealed a lack of comprehension.
Lisle had a strong respect for the calm, gracious lady, though she had won it by no more than a smile or two and a few pleasant words, and he went over to call upon her every now and then. He was interested in the company he met at her house; it struck him as worth studying; and he had a curious feeling that he was looking on at the preliminary stages of a drama in which he might presently be called upon to play a leading part. Besides, he had reasons for watching Gladwyne.
The stage was an attractive one to a man who had spent much of his time in the wilderness—a wide sweep of sunlit sward with the tennis nets stretched across part of it; on one side a dark fir wood; and for a background a stretch of brown moor receding into the distance, dimmed by an ethereal haze. A group of young men and women, picturesquely clad, were busy about the nets; others in flannels and light draperies strolled here and there across the grass, and a few more had gathered about the tea-table under a spreading cedar, where Mrs. Gladwyne sat in a low wicker-chair. Over all there throbbed the low, persistent murmur of a stream.
Lisle was talking to Millicent near the table. He looked up as a burst of laughter rose from beside the nets and saw Bella Crestwick walk away from them. One or two of the others stood looking after her, and Mrs. Gladwyne glanced from her chair inquiringly.
“They seem amused,” she said.
“It was probably at one of Miss Crestwick’s remarks; she’s undoubtedly original,” returned Millicent. “Still, I think it was chiefly Mr. Marple’s laugh you heard.”
His voice had been most in evidence—it usually carried far—but Lisle was half amused at the disapproval in the girl’s tone.
“I’m afraid I’m now and then a little boisterous, too,” he ventured.
“It depends a good deal upon what you laugh at,” Millicent informed him.
Mrs. Gladwyne looked up again, as if she had not heard, and the girl smiled at her.
“What I said isn’t worth repeating.”
She moved away a pace or two and Lisle watched Bella, who glanced once or twice in his direction as she crossed the lawn. Somehow he felt that he was wanted and a little later he strolled after the girl. Millicent noticed it with a slight frown, though she did not trouble to ask herself why she was vexed. When Lisle reached Bella, she regarded him with mischief in her eyes.
“As I once mentioned, you learn rapidly,” she laughed. “You’ll be thankful for the instruction some day, and I promise not to teach you anything very detrimental. But I’m a little surprised that Millicent Gladwyne allowed you to come.”
“I dare say she could spare me; I’m not a very entertaining companion,” Lisle said humbly.
“It wasn’t that,” Bella explained. “I don’t think she’d like you spoiled—perhaps I should say contaminated; she has ideas on the subject of education, too. She always calls me Miss Crestwick, which is significant; I’ve no doubt she did so when Marple made himself conspicuous by his amusement just now.”
Lisle had noticed the correctness of her assumptions on other occasions, but he said nothing, for he had noticed some bitterness in her voice. He walked on with her and she led him into a path through a shrubbery bordering the lawn, where she sat down on a wooden seat.
“Now,” she said teasingly, “we have given the others something to think about; but I’ve really no designs on you. It wouldn’t be much use, anyway. You’re safe.”
She looked up at him with elfish mischief in her aggressively pretty face. Dressed in some clinging fabric of pale watery green that matched the greenish light in her eyes and the reddish gleam in her hair, she was very alluring; but it was borne in upon Lisle that to take up her challenge too boldly would lower him in the girl’s regard.
“I’m human,” he laughed. “Perhaps I’d better mention it. But I think it’s more to the purpose to say that I’m altogether at your disposal.”
“Well,” she answered, “I wanted you. As you’re almost a stranger, it’s curious, isn’t it? But, you see, I haven’t a real friend in the world.”
“I wonder if that can be quite correct?”
“So far as the people here go, haven’t you eyes?”
Lisle had seen the men gather about her, but it was those he thought least of who followed her most closely, and the women stood aloof.
“There are Miss Marple and her mother, anyway; they’re friends of yours,” he pointed out.
“Just so. Flo and I are in the same class, making the same fight; but that isn’t always a reason for mutual appreciation or support. Mrs. Marple, of course, is her daughter’s partizan, though in some ways it suits us to stand together. But I didn’t bring you here to listen to my grievances, but because you happen to be the one man I can trust.”
Lisle looked embarrassed, but merely bent his head.
“It’s that silly brother of mine again,” she went on.
“What has he been doing now?”
“It’s what he’s thinking of doing that’s the worst. He has been led to believe it’s easy to acquire riches on the stock exchange and that he has the makings of a successful speculator in him. Cards and the turf I’ve had to tolerate—after all, there were ways in which he got some return for what he spent on them—but this last craze may be disastrous.”
“Where did he get the idea that he’s a financial genius? It wouldn’t be from you.”
“No,” she said seriously; “I’m his sister and most unlikely to encourage him in such delusions. I don’t think Batley had much trouble in putting the notion into his mind.” Her expression suddenly changed. “How I hate that man!”
Lisle looked down at her with grave sympathy.
“It’s quite easy to get into difficulties by speculating, unless one has ample means. But I understood—”
Bella checked him with a gesture.
“Jim comes into money—we have a good allowance now—but it will be nearly two years before he gets possession. I want him to start fair when he may, perhaps, have learned a little sense, and not to find himself burdened with debts and associates he can’t get rid of. At present, Batley’s lending him money at exorbitant interest. I’ve pleaded, I’ve stormed and told him plain truths; but it isn’t the least use.”
“I see. Why don’t you take him away?”
“He won’t come. It would be worse if I left him.”
“Do you know why Gladwyne tolerates Batley?”
“I don’t.” Bella looked up sharply. “What has that to do with it?”
Lisle thought it had a bearing on the matter, as the lad would have seen less of Batley without Gladwyne’s connivance.
“Well,” he countered, “what would you like me to do?”
“It’s difficult to answer. He’s obstinate and resents advice. You might, however, talk to him when you have a chance; he’s beginning to have a respect for your opinions.”
“That’s gratifying,” Lisle commented dryly. “He was inclined to patronize me at first.”
She spread out her hands.
“You’re too big to mind it! Tell him anything you can about disastrous mining ventures; but don’t begin as if you meant to warn him—lead up to the subject casually.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very tactful,” Lisle confessed. “He’ll see what I’m after.”
“It’s not very likely. Talk as if you considered him a man of experience. It’s fortunate that you can be of help in this case, because I think some Canadian mining shares are to be the latest deal. From what Jim said it looks as if Batley was to give him some information about them on Wednesday, when Gladwyne and he are expected at Marple’s. Can’t you come? I understand you have been asked.”
“Yes,” promised Lisle. “If I have an opportunity, I’ll see what can be done.”
Bella rose and smiled at him.
“We’ll go back; I’m comforted already. You’re not profuse, but one feels that you will keep a promise.”
They walked across the lawn, Bella now conversing in an animated strain about unimportant matters, though it did not occur to Lisle that this was for the benefit of the lookers-on. On approaching the tea-table, she adroitly secured possession of a chair which another lady who stood higher in her hostess’s esteem was making for, and sitting down chatted cheerfully with Mrs. Gladwyne. Lisle was conscious of some amusement as he watched her. She was clever and her courage appealed to him; but presently he saw Millicent and strolled toward where she was standing. She spoke to him, but he thought she was not quite so gracious as she had been before he went away.