Part 52 (1/2)
In Melrose's inhuman will there was something demonic, which appalled.
The impotence of justice, of compa.s.sion, in the presence of certain shameless and insolent forces of the human spirit--the lesson goes deep!
Victoria quivered under it.
But there were other elements besides in her tumult of feeling. The tone, the taunting look, with which Melrose had spoken of Faversham's possible marriage--did he, did all the world know, that Harry had been played with and jilted? For that, in plain English, was what it came to. Her heart burnt with anger--with a desire to punish.
The car pa.s.sed out of the lodge gates. Its brilliant lamps under the trees seemed to strike into the very heart of night. And suddenly, in the midst of the light they made, two figures emerged, an old man carrying a sack, a youth beside him, with a gun over his shoulder.
They were the Brands--father, and younger son. Victoria bent forward with a hasty gesture of greeting. But they never turned to look at the motor.
They pa.s.sed out of the darkness, and into the darkness again, their frowning, unlovely faces, their ragged clothes and stooping gait, illuminated for an instant.
Victoria had tried that very week, at her son's instance, to try and persuade the father to take a small farm on the Duddon estate, Tatham offering to lend him capital. And Brand had refused. Independence, responsibility, could no longer be faced by a spirit so crushed. ”I darena' my lady,” he had said to her. ”I'm worth n.o.bbut my weekly wage. I canna' tak' risks--no more. Thank yo' kindly; but yo' mun let us be!”
XVII
On the morning following her vain interview with Melrose, Victoria, sorely conscious of defeat, conveyed the news of it to the depressed and disprited Netta.
They were in Victoria's sitting-room. Netta sat, a lamentable figure, on the edge of the sofa, twisting her disfigured hands, her black eyes glancing restlessly about her. Ever since she had read Faversham's letter to Tatham she had been an altered being. The threats as to her father, which it contained, seemed to have withered her afresh. All that small and desperate flicker of hope in which she had arrived had died away, and her determination with it. Her consent to Victoria's interview with Melrose had been only obtained from her with difficulty. And now she was all for retreat--precipitate retreat.
”It's no use. I was a fool to come. We must go back. I always told Felicia it would be no use. We'd better not have come. I'll not have papa tormented!”
While she was speaking a footman entered, bringing a telegram for Victoria. It was from Tatham in London.
”Have just seen lawyers. They are of opinion we could not fail in application for proper allowance and provision for both mother and daughter. Hope you will persuade Mrs. Melrose to let us begin proceedings at once. Very sorry for your telegram this morning, but only what I expected.”
Victoria read the message to her guest, and then did her best to urge boldness--an immediate stroke. But Netta shook her head despairingly. She could not and would not have her father hara.s.sed. Mr. Melrose would do anything--bribe anybody--to get his way. They would have the police coming, and dragging her father to prison. It was not to be thought of.
Victoria tried gently to investigate what skeleton might be lying in the Smeath closet, whereof Mr. Melrose possessed such very useful information. But Netta held her tongue. ”Papa had been very unfortunate, and the Government would like to put him in prison if they could. Edmund had been always so cruel to him.” Beyond this Victoria could not get.
But the determination of the frail, faded woman was unshakable, although she glanced nervously at her daughter from time to time, as if much more in dread of her opinion than of Victoria's.
Felicia, who had listened in silence to the conversation between her mother and Victoria, turned round from the window in which she was staring, as soon as Lady Tatham seemed to be finally worsted.
”Mother, you promised to stay here till Christmas!”
The voice was imperious. Felicia's manner to her mother indeed was often of an unfilial sharpness, and Victoria was already meditating some gentle discipline on the point.
”Oh, no, Felicia!” said Netta, helplessly, ”not till Christmas.” Then, remembering herself, she turned toward her hostess: ”It's so kind of you, I'm sure.”
”Yes, till Christmas!” repeated Felicia. ”You know grandpapa's no worse.
You know,” the girl flushed suddenly a bright crimson, ”Lord Tatham sent him money--and he's quite comfortable. _I_ am not going home just yet! I am not going back to Italy--till--I have seen my father!”
She faced round upon Victoria and her mother, her hands on her hips, her breath fluttering.
”Felicia!” cried her mother, ”you can't. I tell you--you can't! I should never allow it!”
”Yes, you would, mother! What are you afraid of? He can't kill me. It's ridiculous. I must see my father. I will! He is getting old--he may die.
I will see him before I leave England. I don't care whether he gives us the money or not!”