Chapter VI

"Life struck sharp on death makes awful lightning."
E. B. BROWNING.

Cherton is the station for Bramleigh; a small station with a small shelter on the "down" side. When Nevil Sinclair alighted--heart-sick and travel-sick, after interminable hours of ceaseless, and almost sleepless, rushing through space--it was raining, uneffusively, yet persistently, as it can rain in July. The clouds hung low and positive, here thinned to a whitish-grey, there heavy with unshed tears. No bustling wind threatened to interrupt their superfluous zeal for earth and trees and new-mown hay already saturate to repletion. They wore a settled, sullen look, as if they meant to stay there on and off for days.

Sinclair, followed by Barnes, hurried under the shelter and commanded a fly. It arrived out of space, with the leisurely dignity of its kind; and, for Nevil, that four-mile drive in a superannuated brougham, smelling at once stuffy and damp, almost broke the back of his endurance. Yet it was his own doing that he had not been "met" by the landau and the greys. In wiring from Paris his probable hour of arrival, haunting thoughts of his father had impelled him to add "if wet don't send." For at that time the evolving motor had not quite changed the face of the landscape, and the stench and snort of one was as smoke to the eyes and vinegar to the teeth of the dear old man. By way of protest, he emphasized the sanctity of his greys and their driver: a faithful tyrant of twenty years' service. Hence Nevil's impulse of consideration. And it was just such endearing acts of graciousness--foreign to Jane and George--that had gone far to keep his first-born supreme in the father's heart, for all his tiresome perversity in matters of greater moment.

And now, while Nevil leaned back uneasily in the brougham-that-was, watching dejected hedges and tearful trees trail past him through the rain-blurred landscape, he found himself praying, instinctively, incoherently, to the dim God of his boyhood that he might, at worst, be granted living sight and sound of the father he had disappointed and deceived, before the Great Silence fell between them for ever. No wire awaiting him in Paris seemed to augur possible improvement. But he had been travelling for eight hours since then; and eight minutes would suffice ...

While his ark of safety, lurching through the pillared gateway, rumbled on between drenched battalions of cypress and fir, Nevil Sinclair held thought suspended. One last lurch, and the house loomed into view; flat-fronted, creeper-covered, with short wings at either end: the east wing culminating in a tower. Familiar, every line and corner of it: yet now--tragically unfamiliar. For as Nevil leaned out into the rain a dozen sightless windows attested the futility of that broken prayer.

Sir George Sinclair was dead: and the spirit of the place, the spirits of unnumbered Sinclairs, who had lived and died there, called mutely on Sir Nevil to rise up and reign in his stead. But in that first shock of realization, he was simply a son bereft of a father--hard to please or understand, yet honestly beloved, in the queer, shamefaced fashion of his race.

Barnes, with eyes discreetly lowered, opened the brougham door; and at sight of him a jarring thought intruded on Nevil's misery. The man must be warned not to speak of the Como establishment. It was a detestable necessity; implying, as it did, a slur on Lilamani's fair name from which his every instinct shrank. Yet, hateful or no, speak he must.

"Look here, Barnes," he said under his breath, "no chattering about my private affairs in the servants' hall--you understand?"

Distaste lent an unusual curtness to his tone; and Barnes infused into his own a hint of mild reproach.

"That might ha' gone without sayin', Sir Nevil," he answered, still considering the wet gravel; and the new-made baronet winced. He could have struck the man for his glib change of address. But instead, he hurried forward into the dim hall, smitten by a sudden acute fear that, by some unforeseen chance, his marriage had become known; that, he, Nevil, might even be responsible---- He could not complete the hideous thought. Nor could he dismiss it, till he knew----

But in this stronghold of the conventions all must be done decently and in order. Through the dimness came Madgwick, butler and major-domo, a small, shrewd-faced man, with kindly eyes and a suspicion of red about his eyelids. Nevil, frank and friendly always to those who served him, shook hands in silence with the pillar of the house.

"Wish you could ha' got here sooner, sir," Madgwick muttered huskily. No glib change of address for him. "Her la'ship's waiting tea for you in the dining-room."

He led the way and Nevil followed into a lofty, oval space--lit by skylights and ringed by a gallery--known as the large hall. Though not the smoking-room proper, it had been the dead man's favourite "den"; and his spirit clung about it in the faint, familiar smell of leather, tobacco, and dogs. Two setters rose from the hearthrug to greet Nevil; their tails, at a melancholy angle, wagged mere recognition. They missed the cheerful voice and heavy tread of their master, and the sensitiveness of humanized animals told them something was wrong.

As Nevil stooped to caress them, the dining-room door opened; Madgwick obliterated himself, and Jane looked out.

"That you, Nevil?"

"Yes."

She came forward to meet him; a feminine counterpart of Sir George; square-cut and decisive; with strong, blunt nose, cleft chin and a lower lip that would obviously "stand no nonsense" from woman or man. Though only five years older than her brother, she looked more, was more, in fact, from having lost, too early, if she had ever possessed, the elasticity of youth. Plain, at her best, she looked plainer than usual in an old black dress, hastily donned; her brown hair brushed well off an uncompromising brow; her eyes, like Madgwick's, betraying the weakness of secret tears. In spite of mutual grief, that unanswered letter hung between them like a bared sword.

There was a perceptible moment of embarrassment as they clasped hands; an embarrassment that would have proved more awkward, but that Jane distrusted emotion, and had not kissed her brothers since she came of age. Determination not to let grief master her, increased her natural air of assertion as she scrutinized Nevil's tired face and the dumb anxiety in his eyes.

"Poor boy! You look fagged out," she said.

"Yes. I got no sleep."

"You came straight through, of course?"

"Yes. I couldn't possibly have got here sooner."

"We were afraid not. Yet--one hoped. He--he seemed to want you."

"_Did he?_" She had not the key to his suppressed eagerness. "I wish to God I could have been here. When--when was it over?"

"About an hour ago."

"Only an hour?" He bit his lower lip to steady it, and she turned back to the dining-room.

"Better have some tea before we talk any more," she said, forcing the common-sense note.

"A brandy and soda. No food, thanks," he answered, following her.

"Nonsense! There are sandwiches--and scones. I kept them hot----" She lifted the dish from the grate, where a wood-fire crackled and sputtered in defiance of July. "Makes the room a shade less dismal," she explained, setting the chicken before him and returning to warm her hands; for they were cold. "It's been raining steadily for three days."

There was a pause. Lady Roscoe, still warming her hands, tried to ignore a recurrent ache in her throat; while her brother obediently swallowed sandwiches that tasted like shavings, and threatened to choke him.

Then, leaning suddenly forward, he said huskily: "Jane--what was it--that upset him? A shock?"

"Yes. Speculation. A big failure."

"Thank God!" He spoke under his breath; but with such fervour of relief that she rounded on him sharply.

"Nevil! Are you quite mad?"

"No. I was afraid--by some chance, he might have heard--that it might have been----"

"No. It's not as bad as that. You're responsible for enough as it is."

She turned back to the fire. She heard Nevil push aside his plate and empty his tumbler. Then, without looking round, she spoke again.

"If you really thought it might have that effect on him, how could you bring yourself----"

Nevil's hand came down upon the table. "We don't want to quarrel at a time like this, Jane. The thing's done; and I shall never regret it."

"Never's a long word. You are sure it's binding--legally?"

"If it were not, I should at once take steps to make it so. That's enough."

The quiet note of command surprised Jane. Being of the downright, athletic type, that observes little and reflects less, except on matters of practical moment, it did not occur to her that love and husbandhood had naturally made her irresponsible brother more of a man. But man or no, Jane Roscoe was in the habit of going her own way.

"Well, I'm glad you had the good sense and good taste to come by yourself," she remarked, ignoring his last two words.

"The good sense was not mine. It was hers," he answered with repressed heat. "Nothing but her own express wish would have induced me to leave her alone. Luckily her father could come." He lit a cigar. "But Jane--about the speculation--the failure? D'you know any details?"

"No. One knew he speculated, of course. But not on such a big scale. He was writing to you when--when the stroke came." She drew an envelope from her bag. "I didn't read the letter. Perhaps it explains."

He held out his hand for it, a strained hunger in his eyes. But Jane saw only the outstretched hand. For her, eyes were not windows of that heavenly stranger, the soul. They were features in the human face. She knew when they flashed anger, or held tears. The finer shades of expression escaped her. And, while she stood pondering on matters practical, which Death emphasizes rather than sweeps aside, Nevil was reading his father's last words to him, shielding his face from view.

"My dear Boy," wrote Sir George, ten minutes before his hand was stricken powerless. "It's bad news I have to tell you, and I'm not much use on paper. Never was. Often as I've rated your unpractical disregard of money, I'm thankful for it now. It may help to soften the blow. My own regard for the 'dirty shekels' has pushed me deeper into the hell of speculation than any of you have guessed. I took to it, like dram-drinking, when your mother died, and I've kept on at it ever since. Bigger ventures each year. The luck lured me on. That and my ambition to put you into Parliament with a small fortune at your back. Money's everything these days, and when I'm gone I should turn in my grave if you couldn't keep the old Place going in the old style.

"Well--you knocked Parliament on the head, and now a parcel of muddle-headed fools in South Africa have robbed you of the fortune I was scheming to leave you. Don't be too down on your old father, boy. I've had a black time of it, these five years, since the luck deserted me. This last plunge was a desperation stroke. But I took the soundest advice available and worried myself half crazy over it. You must believe that, old boy. It was kill or cure--"

The word that followed was a meaningless scrawl. Nevil set his teeth and breathed deeply, while all the letters on the page ran together into one blur. But he mastered himself and looked up.

"Jane--it's awful. What he must have suffered--these last months!"

Lady Roscoe nodded. "I told you something was wrong. If you had come home--he might have spoken."

Nevil winced at that.

"Too late for 'if's,'" he said a trifle hurriedly. "Besides--how could one imagine---- It looks like a bad business. But this doesn't explain much." He held it out to her. "Let me have it back. George here?"

"Yes. Hal couldn't get away. But he hopes to come--later. Gee's gone into Bramleigh--on business. He's good at doing things. But you must take your right place now, Nevil."

"Of course."

He frowned. He was tired, jarred, unstrung. She would have liked to put a hand on his shoulder, to take the edge, if might be, off her cruel letter.

But it is the penalty of those who are afraid of emotion, that at rare moments of true feeling they are tongue-tied, prisoned in the fortress themselves have built.

So Jane Roscoe mechanically re-read the address on her father's letter, and Nevil Sinclair pushed back his chair with a sigh. "Where's Christina?" he asked.

"Kit? She's back from Germany. Arrived this morning: just in time. Nevil"--she hesitated between pain and embarrassment--"won't you come up--to his room?"

"Yes--yes----" There were light steps in the large hall. "That must be the Kitten," he said in a changed tone. "I'll see her first."

And as Christina entered, Jane passed out.

They were as little alike as sisters could well be. Slim and fair as her brother, Christina had the Nevil eyes and brow where imagination sat enthroned; though tempered by a modified edition of the Sinclair mouth and chin. She was three-and-twenty, fresh from studying music in Germany; well up in modern theories and philosophies, but a tyro, as yet, in the greater philosophies of the heart and of life. Christina she had been baptized. Kit she was called; the longer name, however beautiful, having small chance of survival in a century dominated by the snippet, the postcard, and the monosyllable. Harold became Hal, and even George had been reduced to "Gee." Nevil, who was artist enough to object, had always been thankful that his own name triumphantly withstood the "potting" process.

At sight of him Christina gave a little cry.

"Oh, Nevil, my dear, I never knew you had come!"

As he rose, she flew to him, and cried a little on his shoulder, while he patted her head.

"Such a comfort to have you," she murmured between two sniffs. "Jane's so hard. I know she's miserable. But she wears chain-mail under her clothes, and makes one feel a hysterical fool if one breaks down." She lifted her head and saw tears in his eyes. "Oh, Nevil--it was awful! He--he never knew me; and--I almost wished--I had come too late. Am I a despicable coward?"

"No, no," he said, recalling his own sensations at Monte Carlo. "It is a natural shrinking. I quite understand."

"You always do." She dabbed her eyes with an ineffectual wisp of lawn, already saturate, and regarded him lovingly. "I can hardly believe it's a whole year since I said good-bye to you at Dover. Yet you look older, graver; and I'm glad you've taken up art in earnest. It's a sort of 'rainbow bridge,' joining the prose and poetry in us, isn't it?"

Nevil nodded.

"But you've been a fiend about writing," she went on, pressing his arm. "Not a letter worth speaking of in the last three months."

"Sorry, Christina. But we were both busy studying, weren't we?" he answered, looking thoughtfully at an impish blue flame that spurted from the crevice of a log. Then, because Christina was his sister every way, truth must out. "Besides, two months ago--I got married."

"Nevil! You--married?" Eager curiosity gleamed through her tears. "But what on earth made you keep it so dark?"

"Well--there were difficulties----" he said uneasily, still studying the flame. Then thought of Lilamani shamed him, and he looked his sister in the face. "The truth is--I've married a beautiful Indian girl of eighteen. A Hindu. I wouldn't let her change."

"Good heavens! And you never told anyone?"

"Only Jane. She's furious, of course."

"Not--not father?" Voice and eyes were lowered.

"No. I knew it would upset him. I was waiting----" He bit his lip. "Look here, Christina--I had to tell you. But we won't talk of it--yet. When--when all's over, I must announce it. Then you shall hear more---- Are you horrified?" he added hastily.

"N-no. I'm sort of stupefied with amazement. But it's so romantic. So interesting. I want to hear lots more."

"You shall. Later on. I'm going up now----" She shut her eyes and shivered. "Sit you down there, old girl," he said tenderly, "and try to read."

"Oh, I can't read. Nevil, you are a dear! Come back soon."

"All right."

Through the large hall he went, into the lesser one, and on up the broad staircase with reluctant feet.

He had felt the fact so far: not realized it. He dreaded the realization, that grew with every step through the unnatural silence of the house. The dear old man! It seemed incredible, even in the face of overwhelming proof. Instinctively the human soul rejects the fact of death, that seals the door of the charnel-house yet opens a window towards infinity. Mind and senses assert glibly: "Dust thou art----" The soul, unconvinced, whispers: "If in this life only we have hope----" And between both the heart of man swings like a pendulum, now this way, now that, inclining always toward the larger view; realizing, in moments of lucid vision, that the impersonal force men call death is not merely the King of Terrors, but the King of Life, which, without that inexorable shadow at the crossroads, would be shorn of half its meaning and more than half its glory.

Nevil Sinclair--man of misty beliefs and clear intuitions--had recognized this aforetime. To-day, mounting the staircase of Bramleigh Beeches, he recognized only that he had lost his father: a loss no faith in immortality could lessen or make good.

As he neared the door, Jane's black, square figure retreated down the passage. For a second or two he stood looking after her. Then he softly turned the handle and went in----.