"Yes, sir. You want the dressing–case carried to Mrs. Weston's house, and I'm to wait for you there?"
"Yes; you can wait for me."
"But is there nothing else I can do, sir?"
"Nothing whatever. I've only got to collect a few papers, and then I shall follow you."
"Yes, sir."
The discreet Peterson bowed, and retired to fetch the dressing–case. He put his own construction upon Mr. Marchmont's evident desire to get rid of him, and to be left alone at the Towers. Paul had, of course, made a purse, and had doubtless put his money away in some very artful hiding–place, whence he now wanted to take it at his leisure. He had stuffed one of his pillows with bank–notes, perhaps; or had hidden a cash–box behind the tapestry in his bedchamber; or had buried a bag of gold in the flower–garden below the terrace. Mr. Peterson went upstairs to Paul's dressing–room, put his hand through the strap of the dressing–case, which was very heavy, went downstairs again, met his master in the hall, and went out at the lobby–door.
Paul locked the door upon his valet, and then went back into the lonely house, where the ticking of the clocks in the tenantless rooms sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness. All the windows had been broken; and though the shutters were shut, the cold night–air blew in at many a crack and cranny, and well–nigh extinguished Mr. Marchmont's candle as he went from room to room looking about him.
He went into the western drawing–room, and lighted some of the lamps in the principal chandelier. The shutters were shut, for the windows here, as well as elsewhere, had been broken; fragments of shivered glass, great jagged stones, and handfuls of gravel, lay about upon the rich carpet,––the velvet–pile which he had chosen with such artistic taste, such careful deliberation. He lit the lamps and walked about the room, looking for the last time at his treasures. Yes, his treasures. It was he who had transformed this chamber from a prim, old–fashioned sitting–room––with quaint japanned cabinets, shabby chintz–cushioned cane–chairs, cracked Indian vases, and a faded carpet––into a saloon that would have been no discredit to Buckingham Palace or Alton Towers.
It was he who had made the place what it was. He had squandered the savings of Mary's minority upon pictures that the richest collector in England might have been proud to own; upon porcelain that would have been worthy of a place in the Vienna Museum or the Bernal Collection. He had done this, and these things were to pass into the possession of the man he hated,––the fiery young soldier who had horsewhipped him before the face of wondering Lincolnshire. He walked about the room, thinking of his life since he had come into possession of this place, and of what it had been before that time, and what it must be again, unless he summoned up a desperate courage––and killed himself.
His heart beat fast and loud, and he felt an icy chill creeping slowly through his every vein as he thought of this. How was he to kill himself? He had no poison in his possession,––no deadly drug that would reduce the agony of death to the space of a lightning–flash. There were pistols, rare gems of choicest workmanship, in one of the buhl–cabinets in that very room; there were both fowling–piece and ammunition in Mr. Marchmont's dressing–room: but the artist was not expert with the use of firearms, and he might fail in the attempt to blow out his brains, and only maim or disfigure himself hideously. There was the river,––the black, sluggish river: but then, drowning is a slow death, and Heaven only knows how long the agony may seem to the wretch who endures it! Alas! the ghastly truth of the matter is that Mr. Marchmont was afraid of death. Look at the King of Terrors how he would, he could not discover any pleasing aspect under which he could meet the grim monarch without flinching.