Melville lighted a cigar and cursed his luck again.
Then the gambler's spirit re-asserted itself. He had had a glorious time at Monte Carlo while it lasted. One night he had won more than five thousand pounds, and another night the bank had to send out twice for fresh supplies of money. That was the time of triumph. People had crowded round him, some to follow his play, some to envy, some to congratulate him, and among them he had seen Lavender Sinclair for the first time: a magnificent woman truly, with splendid colouring and grandly moulded limbs; she wore turquoise velvet, he remembered, and round her neck a barbaric collar of turquoise bosses linked together on red gold; even in that room, where jewels were as common as morals were rare, her jewels were conspicuous, and she wore them perfectly. Some acquaintance introduced him to her, and she seemed interested in hearing his name—had met people who knew him, or some distant kinsmen, but there was no indication of any desire on her part to press the acquaintance. She was in the ripest glory of her beauty, the sort that is at its best when it is mature. He wondered idly how old she was, over thirty certainly; but, after all, it did not matter. Rumour had it that she was going to marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and Melville was contemptuous of her choice of a second husband; he knew the man by sight, an undersized, rather weakly fellow, who inherited an old title from his father and, it was said, two millions sterling from his mother. Sir Ross was a pill that required an unusual amount of gilding, and Melville's first admiration of the woman was replaced by scorn of her venality. She was sympathetic though when he bade her good-bye, and Melville appreciated sympathy.
The journey was very tedious, so Melville opened his dressing-case and took out a packet of letters which had reached him at the hotel, but to which he had not troubled to attend. Several he tore up and threw away, but there was one which he carefully replaced in its envelope in his bag. It was from his brother, and ran as follows:
"DEAR MELVILLE,—Why didn't you tell me you were going to Monte Carlo? However, I hope you are enjoying yourself and having good luck. By the way, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Can you lend me a hundred for a fortnight? I will repay you then. My solicitors are selling some capital for me, but they are so slow, and I am in immediate want of the money. Do write soon.—Yours ever, RALPH ASHLEY. P.S.—Have you heard of my engagement to Gwendolen Austen?"
"So he is hard up, too," Melville muttered. "No, I wouldn't lend him fifty pounds if I had fifty thousand to-morrow. And engaged to Gwendolen is he? I wonder if I can put an end to that. If she were my wife I might even win the old man round again."
Then his mind reverted to his immediate difficulties, and he went over the old useless ground of trying to think of some way to raise the wind, failing once more to see any light at all, as indeed he was bound to fail, since honest work did not come into his most casual consideration.
It was not, however, until he found himself in his chambers in Jermyn Street that he fully realised how he had come to the end of all things. There were invitations awaiting him which he could not accept for lack of ready money; little accounts which he would have been only too glad to hand over to his uncle if he had remembered their existence; all insignificant enough individually, but totalling up to a considerable sum; private tips from hangers-on at stables, which were certain to be good since he could not avail himself of them; letters from women suggesting trips up the river or supper after the play; even letters from friends saying they were hard up, and reminding him of small obligations under which he lay to them. Melville felt as if he were at last at bay, with all his worries like so many starving wolves tearing him down to his destruction. And worse than all was the extreme physical reaction from the unwholesome life of excitement he had lately been leading at Monte Carlo. While that life lasted no fatigue oppressed him. A tumbler of champagne or a stiff pick-me-up from a chemist always availed to keep him going. But now the excitement was over. The curtain was rung down, the lights were all turned out, he was alone with his troubles, and had no pluck left to face them. In sheer weariness he turned into bed and slept the sleep of deep exhaustion.
CHAPTER II.
THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.
Even while Melville, with despair gnawing at his heart, was speeding on his journey back to England, Sir Geoffrey Holt was keeping festival at Fairbridge Manor. That very evening he had given a final dinner party to celebrate the betrothal of his god-child, Gwendolen Austen, to his favourite nephew, Ralph Ashley.