Israel Rank

by Roy Horniman

Chapter X

I had by this time informed Mr. Gascoyne of my acquaintance with his nephew and niece. At first he looked hurt.

“They are very heartless, I am afraid, Israel, very heartless; when my poor boy died neither of them wrote a line.”

“I am afraid, sir, that young Gascoyne has not much depth, but his sister seems to me a fine character.”

“What is she like?”

“Beautiful.”

Perhaps something in my voice betrayed what I felt, for he looked at me keenly.

“She is a little cold. Difficult, I should say, to rouse to enthusiasm, and she appears to have a will of iron.”

“She hardly sounds alluring.”

“She has charm.”

“Ah! Then everything else falls into line. I should like to see them, but I can hardly make the advances. You see, my poor brother chose to quarrel with me for two reasons; first, because I went on the Stock Exchange; secondly, because my wife’s father happened to have made his money in trade. It was all very foolish, but year after year reconciliation grew more difficult, and what had been a breach which I thought could easily be bridged any moment widened imperceptibly, until it was impossible to make advances. If Miss Gascoyne would write to my wife the thing would be done.”

Inwardly I thought it would have been just as easy for Mrs. Gascoyne to write to her.

“What is Harry like? His father was good-looking.”

“He is handsome enough.”

“Fair?”

“Very.”

“So was his father. Dear me, it seems only the other day that we were boys together. It is all very sad, very sad indeed. It is incredible that people should drift apart so.”

“I’ve never had anyone to drift apart from.”

“You have your friends. There is young Hallward. He seems to be very devoted to you, and, do you know, I have sometimes wondered whether you appreciate his devotion.”

“Oh, I’m very fond of Grahame.”

“We must see if something can’t be done to bring my nephew and niece and my wife together. You say you are going down there this week?”

“I thought of doing so.”

“Then you might spy out the land and see how my niece would be likely to receive advances.”

“I think Miss Gascoyne would welcome them,” I said, with simulated warmth.

I now felt not the least hesitation in praising the young Gascoynes. I had complete confidence in my position with their uncle. He was not the sort of man to commit an injustice, and what he had made up his mind to do for me he would do; perhaps more, certainly not less.

It may perhaps be wondered why, having a comfortable position and fairly assured prospects, I did not rest content. That I did not do so was due to a consistency of aim which has always been my chief characteristic. In removing young Gascoyne from my path I had burnt my boats, and there did not appear to be any particular reason, except that of cowardice, to prevent my pursuing my original purpose. A middle-class position with moderate wealth in no way represented my ideal. I had dreamed from early childhood of a brilliant position, and if possible I intended to achieve one.

I found also that I was a person of a multiplying ambition. I had begun to meet certain people in a very good set. My musical accomplishments here stood me in very good stead—as they have done many another idle young adventurer. Lady Pebworth, who was an amateur vocalist who would not have been tolerated at a tenth-rate pier pavilion without her title, was singing at a charity concert at which I was assisting. Her accompanist failing her, I took his place. She declared that no one had ever accompanied her so sympathetically, and asked me to call. I was not of the order of modern youth who gives some great lady the use of his inferior baritone voice and other services in return for social protection, but Lady Pebworth had the tact to treat me with dignity, and I found her extremely useful. I paid my respects one Sunday afternoon. The drawing-room of her house in Bryanston Square was crowded, and I at once realised that I was in the society of people of quite a different tone from anything I had hitherto come into contact with. Fortunately her invitation had not been merely formal. She had evidently been anxious to see me, for she welcomed me with a swift glance of pleasure and came from the extreme end of the long room to meet me.

“How good of you to come so soon!”

“It was good of you to ask me.”

Then she introduced me to a pretty, dark-eyed woman, whose beauty was just giving signs of approaching wane.

“Mrs. Hetherington, Mr. Rank.” And she left us.

Mrs. Hetherington talked incessantly, but I replied in monosyllables. I realised that Lady Pebworth was interested, and my vanity was flattered that a woman, so evidently admired and courted in a first-rate set, should be attracted by me. I could see that she was very much aware of my presence whilst seeming to be engrossed by the conversation of a man of distinguished appearance suggesting diplomacy. A feeble-looking young man with rather a pleasant laugh joined in the conversation between Mrs. Hetherington and myself. He was evidently inquisitive as to who I might be, and threw out one or two baits which I avoided.

Mrs. Hetherington droned on about Lord this and Lady that—if she mentioned commoners at all they possessed double-barrelled names—until there was a general movement to go. I rose with the others, but Lady Pebworth with the greatest cleverness managed to avoid saying good-bye to me till everyone else had gone and we were left alone. Mrs. Hetherington, who was the last to leave, looked at me with the insolent curiosity of good breeding as she was making her farewells, evidently fully conscious of her hostess’s manœuvring.

“Are you in a great hurry?” asked Lady Pebworth, as the door closed behind Mrs. Hetherington.

“Oh, no.”

“Then sit down and let us talk. I must have some fresh tea, and you will have something stronger.”

I explained that I seldom drank anything stronger than tea.

She looked at me curiously.

“Dear me! You don’t look a puritan.”

I laughed. The expression as applied to myself sounded quite comic.

“I am afraid my virtue has its origin in vanity. I confine myself to champagne, and that only occasionally.”

“You are quite right. It is dreadful the objects young men make of themselves with drink—and women, too, when they cease to attract.”

“Do they ever realise when that time has come?”

“Yes, most women are philosophical enough for that.”

“Women with charm need never cease to attract.”

“That is very true, but you are young to have found it out. It is usually a discovery of the middle-aged.”

“Age is not altogether a question of years.”

I found Lady Pebworth a mental tonic. She made me talk as I had never talked before, indeed, as I had never known myself capable of talking.

I realised that I had made a distinct impression, and found myself calculating how far she might be useful to me.

She evidently knew everyone worth knowing. She could undoubtedly launch me in the great world if she cared to do so, and I was quite confident of my ability to keep afloat providing I had a really good introduction. I could not help smiling as I reflected how envious Lionel Holland would have been could he have witnessed my tête-à-tête with Lady Pebworth.

Later Lord Pebworth came in. He was the personification of the elderly well-bred. It was not probable that he had ever possessed many brains, but he had the amount of conscience which causes a man highly placed to do the right thing at the right moment. He was devoid of enthusiasm, and being eminently safe had even achieved a second-rate position as a politician, which he was quite persuaded was a first-rate one. He treated his wife’s young men friends—and I discovered afterwards that they had been a numerous procession—with kindly toleration, and even went out of his way to give them a good time when it lay in his power.

He seconded his wife’s invitation to dinner with great cordiality, and accompanied me as far as the front door, an attention which was so unexpected that I began to wonder whether he regarded me as a suspicious character. He gave me an excellent cigar, and I walked down Park Lane in the red light of a Sunday evening in summer, feeling that socially, I had moved on.

Lady Pebworth took me up feverishly, and introduced me to a great many people who seemed quite pleased to know me. Nevertheless, I realised that I should have to make hay whilst the sun shone, for unless I persuaded my new acquaintances to accept me as an intimate I should very soon be dropped. Great ladies have a way of carrying young men into the vortex of society to which they have not been accustomed, and then, when weary, leaving them to be slowly slain by general indifference, till they are only too glad to find themselves back again in their proper middle-class element.

I did not consider the middle-class my element, and I was determined that Lady Pebworth should keep me afloat as long as I chose and not as long as she chose.

As I was engaged in snaring young Gascoyne, I was only able to give her a divided attention. This turned out to be as well, for she concluded that there was another woman, and her interest in me was fanned by jealousy. She tried all manner of arts in order to discover who claimed my attention, arts which she imagined were undetected, but at which I was secretly amused.

Mr. Gascoyne used to chaff me good-naturedly about my smart acquaintances. Some employers in his position might have resented one of his clerks spending his spare time among people who would most probably lead him into extravagance; but Mr. Gascoyne, well born himself, hardly saw the incongruity of it to the extent that an ordinary middle-class commercial man would have done.

At the time I met Gascoyne my affair with Lady Pebworth was in full swing. That is to say, I was getting tired of her, for she had never really meant anything to me. She was beginning to reproach me with neglect, and to take exception to my Saturdays and Sundays being occupied.

I knew how far Lady Pebworth could be useful to me, and I was certainly not going to drop the solid substance of a position in my own right for the shadow of her social introductions.

It was quite extraordinary how ready people were to accept and make use of a young man who carried no other credentials than the good word of a pretty Countess with a reputation for being rapid. I found myself dancing every evening with the peerage. I cannot honestly say that I received many invitations to dinner, or to those more select entertainments which argue any great degree of intimacy. My keen instinct warned me of the unreality of my position and of how necessary it was to make ties of some kind to enable me to retain my hold on society. The men were civil enough, but I had little in common with those who talked nothing but the jargon they had learned at a public school or at one of the ’Varsities.

I had the extreme satisfaction of being seen in a box at the Gaiety by Lionel Holland and Sibella while I was with Lord and Lady Pebworth and Sir Anthony Cross, a friend of theirs.

“What a very beautiful girl,” said Lady Pebworth, as I bowed to Sibella.

“Quite lovely,” said Lord Pebworth.

Sir Anthony Cross said nothing, but I repeatedly caught him looking at Sibella when Lady Pebworth was not using his opera glasses.

“Who is the man with her?” asked Lady Pebworth.

“Lionel Holland.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“I know him. I went to school with him.”

“I see you don’t like him. He looks a bounder.”

Lady Pebworth had in her conversation just that amount of slanginess which may be permitted to an obviously well-bred woman without its giving offence.

As we were going out I found myself by the side of Sibella for a moment.

“You hardly ever come and see us now,” she murmured.

Sibella never lost her charm for me, and the sound of her voice—always a little sharp and unmusical, even when she made an attempt at modulating it, which was seldom—played upon my temperament in the most subtle manner.

I promised to visit them quite soon.

“Next Sunday?” she asked.

“I am going out of town next Sunday.”

Lady Pebworth’s carriage drew up, and, murmuring something about the Sunday after, I left her.

“Your friend, Mr. Rank,” said Lady Pebworth, “is decidedly pretty.”

“One of the prettiest girls I have ever set eyes on,” said Lord Pebworth.

Sir Anthony Cross still said nothing, but I had a shrewd conviction that he was more impressed than either.

On Saturday I bicycled down to stay with the Gascoynes till Monday, having promised my employer to do all which tactful diplomacy might accomplish to find out how they would take an effort at a reconciliation.

I went a certain part of the way by train, and sent my bag on. I had written to say that I should not be at the Grange for dinner, and found myself riding through a crimson summer evening with a sensuous enjoyment in the perfect peace of the rural scenery through which I was passing. According to the received notion of a man with a murder on his conscience, external objects, however beautiful, should have been unable to convey any sensation of peace to my inner being. So far from this being the case I was immensely soothed, and rode leisurely on with as much moral quiet as is enjoyed by most folk. After all, the degree of power of the conscience is entirely a matter of individuality and force of character. A weak man, hypersensitive to received social obligation, may fret himself into a fever over the merest trifle of a moral lapse. I do not believe the aged Cenci slept the less well for—in the world’s opinion—his awful crimes. I have no doubt his affectionate family found him in a comfortable doze when they came to bring him a deeper sleep. The rate at which one great crime will develop a man’s intelligence is curious. It is a wonderful grindstone on which to sharpen the intellect. New values, hitherto unsuspected, develop themselves on all sides. An acute and sardonic appreciation of society’s laws presents itself, together with an exhilarating sensation of being outside them, which assists in forming an unbiassed and comprehensive view. I could never have belonged to the anarchical type of man, because I never had any comprehension of or sympathy with those who starve in a land of plenty. I could not understand the intellect which could live in a dream of a society regenerated by revolution in the future, and which was yet unable to help itself to a crust of bread in the present. My abilities were essentially practical, so I removed those who were immediately in my way and left the dreamers to remove those whom they esteemed to be in the way of society.

I was indulging in such reflections as these when I passed the lane down which I had turned the day I had discovered young Gascoyne’s love affair. The sun had almost set. Already the greater part of the landscape was in shadow. The song of the birds was silenced by the chill of coming night, and they slept. On the horizon the crimson blaze had sunk, and an expiring streak of amber marked where the day had passed. The evening star shone solitary, a little pale for the moment, a faint flame set in a ghastly pallor. I turned down the lane of the romantic memory; why, I could not have said, unless, perhaps, some occult informing power gave me a premonition of what I should find there. The actual road track was quite narrow, there being a wide expanse of grass on each side. I had not gone very far before I saw a figure lying in a curiously huddled heap close to the hedge. I knew it was young Gascoyne at a glance. The expected had happened. My heart almost leapt into my mouth. How seldom schemes carried as well as mine had done! I got off my bicycle and looked stealthily around. There was not a soul in sight. The growing dusk of the lane gave birth to one or two shadows which somewhat startled me as I went towards the body. As I turned him over to look at his face a low groan escaped him.

He was not dead. This was awkward. His face was covered with blood, and there was a terrible wound in the side of his head, while his jaw hung loose as if it were broken. An idea struck me. I lifted his head. I almost fancied that I saw his eyes open, and that even in the gloom he recognised me. I hastened to put my idea into execution. I pressed my fingers gently to the veins behind his neck. I knew that this would produce an absolute insensibility which must inevitably end in death unless succour arrived within quite a short space of time.

After a few minutes I laid him back an inert mass on the turf, and, mounting my bicycle, reached the main road without meeting anyone.

I could not help regretting as I rode leisurely on to the Grange that it was Miss Gascoyne’s brother whom I had been compelled to dispose of, but I agreed with the writer who warned the ambitious that they must subordinate their affections to their aims in life if they wished to succeed. It is curious how affection can be subdued. For instance, I loved Sibella, but I was able to subdue my infatuation and keep it out of sight when necessary.

It was quite dark when I reached the Grange, and riding through the fir plantation I was entirely dependent on the light thrown from my bicycle lamp. Suddenly I received a weird reminder of the figure I had left behind me lying half concealed in the fern and bracken by the roadside. Perhaps I was a little more affected by what had happened than I imagined, for I am not superstitious, and only by reason of having young Gascoyne’s image vividly in my mind can I account for what happened.

Half-way through the plantation the light of my lamp fell full on a white, human face dabbled in blood. It was young Gascoyne’s face, and the blue eyes were wide open and glazed in death. I saw the head and trunk to the waist. The rest of the body appeared to be beneath the ground. So strong was the illusion that I swerved aside in order not to ride over it, and in doing so fell from my machine. When I picked myself up my lamp was out and I was in total darkness. I was about to hurry forward with a mad haste to get out of the wood when I pulled myself up short. Deliberately I remained where I was, picked up my bicycle, lit my lamp and mounting leisurely rode slowly out of the plantation. With such a career as I had planned it would never do to give way to fancies.

There was a light in the drawing-room as I wheeled my bicycle up the drive of the Grange. I could see Miss Gascoyne sitting by a small table with a lamp on it. At first I thought she was reading, but as I drew near I could see that the book was lying in her lap, whilst her eyes were fixed on the ground in deep reflection. She came out into the hall when she heard my voice. I thought there was an unusual animation in her appearance as she welcomed me.

“Have you dined?”

“Well, not exactly, but I had an enormous tea at a wayside inn.”

“You look very tired.”

Evidently I still looked somewhat agitated by my adventure in the pine wood. No doubt for want of another explanation it must have struck her as fatigue.

“I have had rather a busy week.”

We moved towards the dining-room chatting freely and pleasantly, and I could not help contrasting her present friendliness with the hauteur and strictly formal manner she had displayed at our first meeting.

We sat and talked while I ate sandwiches.

“Harry said he was going to meet you.”

“I rather thought he might do so, and I looked out for him.”

“It is very rude of him not to have done so, or not to have been at home when you came. I shall scold him severely.”

She began to talk of her brother and his future. She wanted him to read for the law. Did I not think it would be the best thing?

“Do you really want my candid opinion?”

“Of course. You know I say what I mean.”

“I think it is about the very worst profession he could follow.”

“But why?”

“Well, apart from the difficulty of the examinations, which in our days is no small matter, it is a profession in which patience is the most important factor. There is no other profession like it for encouraging a naturally lazy man with a small income to idle.”

“I should have thought application was altogether necessary.”

“Absolutely, but it is optional. He cannot get on without it, but there will be no one to see that he uses his time well. Besides, men in the law are as a rule strenuous, earnest people with all kinds of ambitions, and Harry will hardly meet sympathetics.”

“Then what is he to do?”

“I know you will think it rather a curious suggestion, coming from me, but I give my vote for the Army.”

“The Army? But Harry is poor.”

I inwardly smiled at Miss Gascoyne’s notion of poverty. I knew what she thought the Army should mean for a Gascoyne:—a crack cavalry regiment and unlimited private means.

“An inexpensive line regiment.”

“Oh dear!”

I laughed. “It’s the thing, depend upon it. He will be in a profession he likes, among men who take their profession seriously. After all, he will have a better average of gentlemen than he would have in a crack regiment, even if he does not have the high nobility of exceptions.”

“I see what you mean, but I don’t think Harry would ever consent.”

“I believe you could make him do anything.”

I was inwardly congratulating myself on the perfect conviction with which I was discussing the future of one who by this time was most probably solving problems in theology.

We talked on till Miss Gascoyne grew anxious.

“I really wish Harry would come home.”

“Shall I go and look for him?”

She knew what was in my mind. His late homecoming meant as a rule that he was to be found at the inn.

“Was he at home to dinner?”

“No. He has some friends living a few miles off whom I don’t know, and he rode over in the afternoon and proposed to stay to dinner. There he is.”

We both listened. Along the hard road came the sound of a horse’s hoofs.

Miss Gascoyne rose in alarm. Either the horse was riderless or it was no longer under control. It was not necessary to listen for more than a few seconds to be convinced of that.

We both went out on to the lawn. A figure came round the corner of the house and hastened on to the road. It was the groom.

“Oh, Mr. Rank, what can have happened?”

“I will go and see.”

But she went with me to the gate. The mare had evidently come to a full stop just outside, and was now held by the groom. She was steaming with sweat and gave every evidence of the greatest distress.

Inwardly I was wondering how it was the animal had been so long in reaching the Grange. It must have wandered on slowly feeding by the wayside till it had taken fright at some passing object and started at full gallop for home.

Miss Gascoyne looked around in dismay for her brother.

“She wur alone, Miss,” said the groom, blankly.

“It doesn’t at all follow that your brother was on her back when she bolted,” I ventured.

She looked at me, grateful for the suggestion. She was very white, but her character asserted itself. She turned to the groom.

“Baker, take Jenny round to the stables and make her comfortable as soon as possible. Mr. Rank and I will walk as far as the inn and you can follow us.”

“Very good, Miss.” The man did as he was directed.

“I will go as I am,” she said, “though after all I may be alarming myself unnecessarily.” She was not the woman to treat the situation hysterically if it could possibly be avoided. I was genuinely sorry for the grief that was coming upon her. I would have spared her if possible, but I either had to abandon the object of my life or to put up with such unpleasantnesses as were involved with the course I had laid out for myself.

We started to walk rapidly towards the inn.

“I dare say Harry missed his stirrup and Jenny bolted.”

On the way her spirits rose. The fact that we met no one seemed to her a proof that nothing much was the matter. Sounds of drunken revelry reached us long before the inn came in sight.

“I will wait here,” she said, as we reached the broadening of the road. I left her and went on.

“We’ll all be merry,

Drinking whisky, wine, and sherry,

If he can’t come, we’ll ask his son.”

The chorus was trolled forth in disjointed snatches, showing the singers to be very far gone indeed. The door stood ajar and I went in. So convinced was I of the necessity of playing my part thoroughly that I looked carefully round to see if Harry Gascoyne were present. The half-dozen or so roysterers looked up stupidly with open mouths. As a matter of fact, they were none of them drinking whisky, wine or sherry, but had very substantial mugs of ale before them. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with the reek from peasant limbs. The landlord, with a figure that threatened apoplexy, surveyed them from the other side of the bar with an approving smile as if he were presiding over an assemblage of highly well-behaved infants. To me he suggested a genial but relentless ghoul, callous to the feelings of the mothers and children who were to welcome home these repulsive sots as governors and lords of their lives and welfare.

They sat waiting for me to speak.

“Has Mr. Gascoyne been here to-night?” I asked.

The landlord looked round the room, and, having as it were satisfied himself that none of the others knew of the young man being concealed unknown to himself, answered slowly:

“I ain’t seen ’im.”

“No more ain’t I,” came in phlegmatic chorus.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite.”

“Thank you.” I withdrew.

Miss Gascoyne came forward out of the dusk into the light which streamed from the front door.

“He’s not there,” I said gravely.

She looked at me in dismay.

“Shall I tell them?” I asked.

She reflected for a moment.

“Yes. He may have fallen from his horse. We must look for him at once.” I turned towards the inn.

“I will come with you,” she said, and we passed through the low door.

The song had not been resumed. Evidently my errand had given food for conversation. The landlord paused in the middle of something he was saying and got down off his stool.

“Mr. Gascoyne’s horse has returned home without him, and we are afraid he may have been thrown and hurt.” I spoke in a loud tone.

At the sight of Miss Gascoyne the whole assemblage had risen. She was looked upon by the cottagers around with not a little awe.

“Will some of you oblige me by helping to look for him?”

The landlord, who had had more than one passage of arms with the justices of the peace as to the way in which his house was conducted, became officiousness itself. Anything to prove to the gentry what an estimable and respectable character he was.

“It ain’t like Mr. Gascoyne to get into trouble on horseback,” he said, with a laudatory shake of his head, as if to conciliate Miss Gascoyne by conveying to her what a very high sense he had of her brother’s horsemanship.

He evidently had an idea of offering her some refreshment, for he looked from her to the bottles of spirit and coloured cordials on the shelf, and from them back again to her, but apparently without being able to make up his mind to so hazardous a proceeding.

As we were all standing outside the inn debating how to conduct the search, a dog-cart drove up.

“Let me see, I am right for the Grange, am I not?” asked a voice.

“Yes,” I answered, “but whom do you want at the Grange?”

“Miss Gascoyne.”

“I am Miss Gascoyne.”

There was a silence. The man in the dog-cart was evidently somewhat taken aback. He was saved from further awkwardness by the character of the woman he had to deal with.

“I am afraid something has happened. What is it?”

“Your brother has had an accident.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I am afraid so.”

The answer was inconclusive, and it was obviously intended that it should be.

“Seriously?”

“I am afraid so.”

The answer was still lacking in finality, and Miss Gascoyne guessed the worst.

We all stood round, the men looking stupid but concerned.

“Will you take me to him, please?”

“I came to fetch you.”

“Will you come too, Mr. Rank?”

“Of course.” I turned to the landlord’s wife, who had now joined us. “Can you find a shawl for Miss Gascoyne? She has no hat.”

The landlady disappeared, and returned with a white woollen shawl, which she was taking out of tissue paper.

“When was he found?” asked Miss Gascoyne, as we drove rapidly away, leaving the little group outside the public-house to discuss the matter.

“About two hours and a half ago.”

“Where?”

The doctor explained, throwing into his account as much insinuation as he could of the worst. I don’t know at what particular moment Miss Gascoyne grasped that her brother was dead, but it was apparent before we reached our destination that she had realised the truth.

He had been carried to a farmhouse, from whence they had sent for the doctor.

“I am afraid he was kicked by his horse. I cannot for the life of me imagine how it could have happened to so fine a horseman.”

The doctor ended a little lamely. Young Gascoyne’s propensities were too well known for miles round his home for anyone to be ignorant of them.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable as we turned down the lane where I had left Harry Gascoyne. The doctor made no remark as we passed the spot where I knew he had been found.

I was full of curiosity as to how his sister would behave.

As we descended from the dog-cart, the doctor turned to her.

“I hope I have made myself clear.”

Miss Gascoyne stood silent for a few seconds, struggling for self-control. Then she answered quietly:

“Quite. You mean that my brother is dead?”

The doctor nodded his head gravely.

It was curious evidence of the apartness of Miss Gascoyne’s character that the woman of the house, a buxom, garrulous body, made no attempt at comfort. She at once realised that it would have been an intrusion.

Miss Gascoyne went upstairs with the doctor. She was not away long, and when she returned I saw that she must give way soon, or a mental catastrophe would ensue. Her features were rigid.

I went upstairs at her request.

All signs of violence had already been removed, and he lay as if asleep. Any indications of vice and intemperance had disappeared, and he looked very boyish and beautiful. The doctor was in the room.

“I don’t quite see,” he said, in a low voice, “how a mere kick or two could have inflicted such injuries. I don’t mean, of course, that kicks could not have caused his death, but the blows seem as if they had been struck by a blunt instrument, directed with less velocity than would have been the case with a horse’s hoof. I am waiting for a colleague, and then we must make a serious examination.”

I murmured that I was no authority. I could not help reflecting how much Harry Gascoyne had been the gainer by dying when he did. Instead of growing into a debauched, worn-out old man, his physical casket lay before us in all the freshness of its youth and beauty. He would leave beautiful instead of ugly memories.

Yes, it was well he had died. His sister might continue to worship him and to preserve her illusions.

She returned to the Grange, and I, having left her to the care of the old housekeeper, went to the inn, though it struck me as being somewhat ridiculous to observe the conventions at such a time.

I did not believe for one moment that the blows which had struck young Gascoyne were from the horse’s hoofs. Before leaving the house, however, I went round to the stables. There was no one about, and the mare was by this time as quiet as a lamb.

I examined her hoofs carefully. There was not the least trace of blood—at any rate, not observable to myself. If there were any traces, they must be microscopic.

I sat down on an upturned pail and reflected. I should like to save Nat Holway—that is to say, if he had not already given himself up, which with a nature such as his was quite possible.

Would it help him to smear the horse’s hind hoofs with blood? It was worth trying. Where was I to get the blood from? There was only one source, and that was myself.

I am not brave about blood, but the occasion demanded urgent measures. I took out my pocket-knife, and deliberately drew the blade across the little finger of my left hand. I then smeared the hoofs of the horse and, binding my finger, left the stable. The dawn was just beginning to lay ghostly hands on the garment of night. The stars trembled and burned pale in the growing light.

Through the firs the coming day gave almost the effect of an expanse of water beyond. In the cheerless air there was a touch of clamminess which suggested rain, whilst heavy, sulky-looking clouds were driven slowly towards the east.

I walked with a melancholy step along the sandy path that led through the plantation. What would poor Janet Gray do? I made a point of letting my sympathies have as much play as was compatible with my own interest. As a matter of fact, her situation was slightly bettered, excepting that her lover was dead—than which no greater grief can come to any human being. But at the same time she would receive a much larger meed of pity than would otherwise have been her lot.

If Nat Holway were fool enough to give himself up it would be unpleasant, although I could not forget that even if he had not actually accomplished his purpose, it had been his full intention to murder Harry Gascoyne. Still, he was a fine fellow, and it was not nice to think of lives unnecessarily wasted. The next afternoon I would go over to Copsley and reconnoitre. I must confess that I found the whole thing very exciting, especially as I myself stood in absolutely no danger.

On returning to the inn I found the landlord waiting up for me, a great feat for a man who was usually somewhat heavy with alcohol. He plied me with questions, and appeared terribly shocked at the sad catastrophe.

“Such an open-handed young gentleman, sir, and his sister doting on him as she did. Well, there, you never know. The Lord has His own way of doing things.”

He sighed and looked as if to say that were it not for this undeniable fact he might be prevailed upon to take a hand in the management of the universe.

I lay open-eyed, tossing from side to side. Miss Gascoyne stood between myself and sleep. Although I could put an irrevocable fact like death out of my mind I could not dismiss a living grief so easily. I knew that she was capable of terrible suffering. Her brother had been her all. At the same time, while feeling acutely for her I could not help reflecting what a much better match she would now be. Sixteen hundred a year was not great wealth, but when combined with a woman like Miss Gascoyne it was a prize worth having.

I believe there is not the character, however elevated, which does not at a moment of supreme grief calculate the particular degree of benefit or disadvantage it will obtain from it.

It was noon when I walked over to the Grange to ask how Miss Gascoyne was. The servant said her mistress particularly desired to be informed of my arrival, and I went into the inner hall and waited. She came down almost immediately. I was shocked at the change in her appearance. She had evidently been weeping bitterly, and for a moment I would have given anything to restore her brother to her. The weakness was only momentary, however, and after all it would have been doing her a very bad turn.

She appeared to derive a certain degree of comfort and help from my presence.

“It seems a little sad, Mr. Rank, that although we have so many relations there is hardly one to whom I could write at this emergency.”

This was a great opportunity to please Mr. Gascoyne by obtaining her consent to send for him. There were also other schemes in my head, nebulous as yet, which such a reconciliation would assist materially.

“I should have thought,” I said gently, “that your father’s brother would be the proper person to send for under the circumstances.”

She looked at me in surprise. The idea had evidently not struck her, and she became thoughtful.

“I am afraid he would not come.”

“I think he would. I know it hurt his feelings somewhat that when his son died neither you nor your brother wrote to him.”

“He told you so?”

“Yes.”

“I will send a telegram.”

“Let me take it.”

She went to her desk and wrote several.

“The groom can take them,” she said, as I rose.

“No, let me. I shall be quicker on my bicycle, and it will be something to do.”

“It is very poor entertainment for you.”

“Anything I can do to serve you. Your brother and I were great friends.”

Most of the telegrams were conventional intimations of the news to relatives and friends. That to Mr. Gascoyne ran:

“My brother has been killed by an accident. I am in great trouble; would you come to me?”

My plan was that Miss Gascoyne should make friends with her uncle and aunt and that we four should form a harmonious quartet, and that finally I should marry her, and Mr. Gascoyne should leave us his money.

I fully realised all my own disabilities in Miss Gascoyne’s eyes. The Semitic taint in my appearance could not possibly be a recommendation, and my parentage would certainly be a bar. There was no disguising the fact that my father was not, to the world’s way of thinking, a gentleman, and from what I could remember I was inclined in strict honesty to agree with the world.

I was not so far even the adopted heir of Mr. Gascoyne, and I was running a grave risk in introducing a considerably nearer blood relation bearing his own name into the house. I did not fear that Mr. Gascoyne would do anything less for me than he had intended, but he might do considerably less than I had intended. He was just the sort of man to admire Miss Gascoyne. Still, should I fail in my scheme, she already had an ample fortune, and was no claimant for relief. I sent off the telegram, but did not return to the house. I gathered that Miss Gascoyne would wish to be alone, and contented myself with sending over a message that I was at the inn should she want me, and that I should remain there till Mr. Gascoyne arrived. She sent back a grateful note thanking me, and asking me to come over in the evening.

In the afternoon I mounted my bicycle and rode to Copsley.

The little village lay still as death in the burning sun. The boys and young men were probably lounging about the adjacent lanes and fields, whilst the older people were taking their Sunday afternoon rest.

The blacksmith’s shop was shut, the great worm-eaten doors barred with a massive piece of iron. The house next door, with its trim garden and green shutters, which evidenced the prosperity of the Grays, was in silence.

Or was I mistaken?

I was wheeling my machine, and I paused with my back to the house and bent down, ostensibly to set something defective right. There was the sound of faint sobbing in the house behind me. At the same time I heard footsteps coming along the street. I looked up. It was Nat Holway. His face was impassive, but his features were set. Almost at the same moment the door of the house opened, and Mr. Gray came out.

Apparently he was expecting Nat Holway. They went into the forge together. Old Gray’s face was white and stern.

I guessed that they had an appointment, and were keeping it there in order that they might talk undisturbed. I wondered if by any chance Nat Holway was offering to take Janet’s shame upon his shoulders. He was the sort of man to do it. Really, if such a thing did happen, and the murderer were not suspected, what a convenient settlement it would be. I should have obtained what I wanted, Janet Gray would in time be happy, and Miss Gascoyne would remain in ignorance of her brother’s peccadillo. It is certainly rare that matters move so easily along the ways of common-sense.

I rode back to the inn to find a telegram from Mr. Gascoyne to his niece which she had sent over for me to see. It was to say that he would come by the evening train. There were only four trains to Copsley Station on Sunday—two each way—and the London train did not arrive till ten o’clock. I saw her in the early evening. She seemed worn out with grief, and there was, I thought, a quite tragic loneliness in her appearance.

It pleased her to talk of her dead brother, and, sitting there saying all the nice things I could about him, and full of a real and genuine sympathy for her, I could hardly realise that it was I who had knelt in the dusky lane with my fingers on the dying youth’s throat.

“He had a great admiration for you,” she said, with a faint smile. “He thought you the cleverest person he had ever met.”

“His was one of the sunniest natures; no one could help loving him.”

“He was spoilt, of course. My father spoilt him terribly. It was not to be wondered at if he was a little wild.”

I allowed her to talk on till I rose to go and meet Mr. Gascoyne.

“I don’t know why,” she said, as she came out into the lane with me, “but I have always imagined my uncle to be a very hard man. I read ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ when I was a little girl, and I could not help drawing a comparison between my father, who was like Nicholas’s father, and lived in the country, and my uncle, who, of course, represented Ralph Nickleby.”

I smiled. “You will find Mr. Gascoyne very different from that. He is much softened of late, but I don’t think that he has ever been a miser, even if at times he has carried the principle of justice to the verge of hardness.”

I was thinking of the circumstances of my first appeal to him.

When I left her I went at once to the station, and, as the train was late, had some time to wait.

There were one or two yokels in the tiny waiting-room, and the station-master addressed one of them as he passed through from his little ivy-covered cottage to the ticket-office.

“Sad thing, this, about Mr. Gascoyne, Edward.”

The young man in question answered slowly:

“Yes. They say as ’is ’orse kicked him to death.”

“That’s strange—very strange. Was the horse bad-tempered?”

“Not that I know of, and I’ve shod the mare often enough.”

“They say as Miss Gascoyne is powerful cut up.”

“That’s very likely; yer see, she doted on him.”

I scrutinised young Gray, the last speaker, narrowly. His manner betrayed no indication that he was in any way aware of his sister’s condition.

As Mr. Gascoyne descended from the train he pressed my hand warmly.

“This is very terrible,” I said—“very terrible.”

“Tell me, how did it happen?”

As we drove towards the Grange I detailed the event as well as I could.

“You think the horse kicked him to death—a horse that was fond of him? That is somewhat strange.”

“I don’t say it is so, sir. That is what has been surmised.”

“When do they hold the inquest?”

“To-morrow.”

“My wife is shocked beyond measure. If my niece had expressed the least wish for her to do so, she would have come too.”

I did not answer. I could not say how Miss Gascoyne would welcome the idea of her aunt assuming the role of a near relation.

“I am very touched at her sending for me—very touched indeed. Is the body at the Grange?”

“No; it is at a farmhouse some miles off. It will be brought home after the inquest.”

“Quite so.”

We reached the Grange.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I will get back to town. I would sooner. I don’t think I can be of any further use.”

He did not press me to remain, and I went back to town carrying messages for his managing clerk. I did not witness the meeting between Miss Gascoyne and himself, but it must have been quite satisfactory, for he stayed away over a week, and I learnt that Mrs. Gascoyne had joined them.

I fancied that Miss Gascoyne would be rather surprised at the dignity and well-bred restraint of the tradesman’s daughter, and would find it a little difficult to account for her father’s prejudice; in fact, his objection could not fail to strike her as having something in it of unreasoning snobbery.

I would have given a great deal to be at the inquest, but although there was no particular reason why I should not be, I thought Mr. Gascoyne might deem it a little officious. Neither did I go down to the funeral, but wrote a sympathetic note and sent a wreath. I let it fully appear that my reason for not going was diffidence, and a desire not to assume too intimate an attitude.

The morning of Mr. Gascoyne’s return he called me into his office.

“Close the door, Israel.”

He motioned me to a chair.

“Did you see any account of the inquest?”

“No, sir; I have been waiting for you to tell me.” As a matter of fact, I had followed the case most carefully in the papers.

“It appeared that there was a serious doubt as to how my nephew received his injuries.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In the first place, both doctors were a little surprised that they should have caused death at all. The whole case became quite complicated. There were distinct traces of blood on the horse’s hoof, and yet one of the doctors absolutely refused to admit that the injuries could have been inflicted by the horse at all.”

“How very extraordinary!”

“Did you at any time exchange confidences with my nephew on love affairs?”

I swiftly reflected. Had he the least proof of our having done so? It would not do to give a direct answer.

“I dare say we did, sir, but I cannot remember anything definite.”

“Some letters were found in his pocket.”

I almost started. How was it that it had never occurred to me to search young Gascoyne’s pockets?

“Were they love-letters?”

“Yes.”

“It is not very unusual for a young fellow of his age.”

“No, and I am afraid that what they contained is also not unusual. It appears that he had accomplished the ruin of a girl in a neighbouring village.”

I looked thoughtful. “Do you mean to suggest that there is a mystery?”

“I am afraid there is. I cannot help thinking that the doctor who refused to accept the theory of his having been killed by the horse was right.”

“Why did they not call in a third doctor?”

“They did, and he was evidently under the influence of the man who believed in the horse theory.”

“What was the verdict?”

I had forborne to satisfy myself on this point in order to be able to ask the question with easy unconcern.

“Accidental death.”

I was astonished, but the country bumpkins on the jury had, I imagined, made up their minds before the inquest that he had been kicked by his horse.

“Were the letters read in court?”

“No. They were considered unnecessary, and no one thought they bore on the issue.”

“Do you think they did?”

“Decidedly I do,” answered Mr. Gascoyne. “Depend upon it, there was foul play. I talked to the doctor who would not admit the horse theory, after the case was over, and he was quite positive the injuries could not have been inflicted by a horse’s hoof.”

“Who was the girl?” I asked.

“Well, I do not think it is quite right to disclose her name. I had a talk with her father, who was very distant and said the matter would be best settled by saying nothing more about it. I don’t know what he meant.”

“Was the girl’s name by any chance Janet Gray?”

Mr. Gascoyne looked at me in surprise.

“That was her name, but how did you know?”

“Harry Gascoyne spoke to me once or twice about her, and I wondered at the time from something he said whether he had not made rather a mess of things.”

“Yes, I am afraid we men are very selfish, that is, until we have wives and daughters of our own. The possession of sisters does not seem to instil the same sense of responsibility to woman-kind.”

“Does Miss Gascoyne know of this?”

“No; unless the matter develops further I do not think it necessary to inform her.”

“What did the police think of the affair?”

“I fancy they are quite prepared to accept the horse theory.”

“Then the matter is settled?”

“Except for the trouble of the poor girl. It appears that he actually promised to marry her.”

“He was generous-hearted enough for anything,” I answered, with calculated impulsiveness.

“Her father asked me to give my word that the matter would not go any further, so you will remember that you hold a secret that affects three human beings at least.”

“I shall of course be as silent as the grave.”

He began to open his correspondence, and I rose to leave the room.

“Oh, by the way, my wife and my niece have struck up quite a friendship. My wife remains at the Grange, and I shall go down there again for a few days next week.”

I looked pleased.

“I believe,” he added, smiling, “you have been indulging in some diplomacy at our expense. Don’t you think my niece is a beautiful woman?”

“I think everyone would admit that.”

“I expect she will make a very brilliant match.”

I went out. I knew quite well why this last remark had been made, and smiled inwardly. Mr. Gascoyne had thought gently to dissuade me from indulging in hopes which were improbable of fulfilment. He could not know how carefully I had calculated all the obstacles that stood in the way of my success.

As I returned to my desk I found myself murmuring the word two. I had the most difficult part of my task still before me, but so far the two opening campaigns had been brilliant successes. I wondered if the Gascoyne family in general realised how much nearer I was to the succession. Probably with the exception of Mr. Gascoyne and his niece they had no idea of my existence.

I took out the genealogical tree and studied it carefully, although there was little need of this, as I could have passed an examination in the entire history of the Gascoynes up to date at any moment.

There were now four lives between me and the object of my ambition.

My great-uncle Henry, who was now very nearly ninety years of age, lived somewhere in the North of England. It was not necessary to consider him in any way. He was a widower without children. There was Ughtred, the uncle of the present peer, still a man in the prime of life. He might yet marry and have a family. He was devoted to good living and had a reputation as a dilettante. I had never seen him, but he had held office at Court, and was altogether rather an important person.

My difficulties would come when I arrived at the main branch of the family, and I reserved them for the final stroke. I should then be obviously near the succession and might be suspected of motives. A great many eyes would be upon me, and there would probably be a young baby and his perfectly healthy father to deal with. I began to realise that so far I had merely nibbled at my task.

It was advisable to give myself rest for a few months, as I discovered that after each campaign my nerve was apt to be slightly affected. I had proved to my own satisfaction that the dictum, ‘murder will out,’ was invented to frighten mankind, had in fact been set up as a perpetual bogey. Nat Holway’s guilt might be discovered, but the tracing of my anonymous letter would be an almost impossible task.

I was very anxious to know how Janet Gray’s affair was progressing, and rather hoped I might be asked to stay at the Grange for a day or two. I gathered as time went on that the friendship between Miss Gascoyne and her aunt had grown stronger and stronger. Mr. Gascoyne told me that their attachment was a great relief to him, that the companionship of her niece had to a great extent dissipated his wife’s melancholy, and that having a common sorrow they were very much in sympathy.

“They admire each other, and it is the dignified and warm friendship of two women to whom respect is essential. By the way, Israel, the girl Janet Gray is married.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, to a young miller called Nat Holway. He is very steady and very well-to-do. I almost wondered——” He pulled himself up abruptly.

“Yes, sir?” I queried.

“Nothing, nothing.”

I knew what he had intended to say, and fervently wished that he would get rid of his vague suspicions.

I was glad, therefore, when he continued: “I have often wondered whether my nephew may not have had a fight with some admirer of Janet Gray, a fight that ended unexpectedly in a tragedy.”

“Do you intend to pursue the matter?”

“No,” he answered, energetically. “I think when a man undertakes the seduction of a girl he must look for violence from those whose feelings he outrages or from those whose hearths he pollutes. I could not if it were my own son bring the avenger to so-called justice. I may be wrong, but I believe that if my niece were asked, she would agree with me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, for they were not precisely the sentiments I had expected from him.