mr. francis soon joined him for tea, and, after proposing a stroll in ten minutes' time, had gone to his room to answer an urgent letter. harry was well content to wait, for nothing could come amiss to a mood so harmonious as his, and, lighting a cigarette, he strolled round the walls, beholding his forbears. opposite the portrait of old francis, second baron, he stood long, and his eye sought and dwelt on the luck as a familiar object. the sun, streaming through the western windows, fell full on to the picture, and the jewels, so cunning and exact was their portrayal, sparkled with an extraordinary vividness in the gleam. the luck! was it the luck which had given him these days of wonderful happiness, with so great and unspeakable a hope for the days to come? was this the huge reward it granted him, for which he had paid but with a cold in the head, a burn on the hand, a sprain of the foot? how curious, at the least, those three coincidences following so immediately on the finding of the luck had been. how curious, also, this awakening of his (dating from the same time) from the solitary lethargy of his first twenty-one years! for the[pg 110] awakening had come with the coming of uncle francis, and his own instant attachment to him. it was indeed he—he and geoffrey, at any rate, between them on their visit here—who had started him on the voyage which had already resulted in the discovery of the world. it was then that his potential self had begun to rustle and stir in the chrysalis of isolation which had grown up round it, very feebly and tentatively indeed at first, but by degrees cracking and bursting its brown bark, then standing with quivering and momently expanding wings, which gradually unfolded and grew strong for flight. the luck! was it indeed the gems and the gold which had done this for him? it was much, it was very much, but to him now how infinitely more than he had, did he desire! six months ago he had desired nothing, for he was dead; but now, being alive, how he yearned for more, one thing more!
a sudden idea seized him, and he rang the bell, and, until it was answered, looked again at the picture. old francis's face, he thought, and old francis's hands, did not fare so well in the sunlight as the glorious jewel which he held. the hands clutched rather than held the cup; the lines of them were greedy and grasping, they gripped the treasure with nervous tension, and in the face there were ugly lines which he had never noticed before, but which bore out the evidence of the hands; avarice sat on that throne, and cunning as deep as the sea, and cruelty and evil mastery. still looking and wondering, he suddenly[pg 111] saw the face in a different light; it was no longer a vile soul that looked from those eyes, but the kind, cheerful spirit of his own uncle. he started, for the change had the vividness of actuality, and at the moment the bell was answered by the old butler.
"ah, templeton," he cried, "i am glad to see you. all well? that's right. i rang to say that i wanted you to get out the luck—the big cup, you know, which you and i found in the attic last christmas, and put it on the table to-night as a centrepiece."
"mr. francis has the key, my lord," said templeton. "it is on his private bunch."
"ask him to give it you, then. say it was by my order. oh, here he is!—uncle francis, i want the key of the case in which is the luck. i want to have it on the table to-night."
"dear boy, is it wise?" said mr. francis. "supposing the house was broken into: you know the thing is priceless."
"but burglars can not take it from under our noses while we sit at dinner," said harry, "and, as soon as dinner is over, even before we leave the room, it shall be put back again.—see to that, templeton. that is the key, is it?—why, it is gold, too! old francis knew how to do things thoroughly."
uncle and nephew strolled out together, harry with his head high and leading the way. an extraordinary elation was on him.
"i have a feeling that the luck is bringing[pg 112] me luck," he said. "oh, i don't seriously believe it, but think how strange the coincidences have been! fire, and frost, and rain! i had a turn with all of them. and you know, uncle francis, since i found it, i have had more happiness than in the whole of my life before."
"what happiness, harry?"
"friends, you the first; the joy of my life; the conscious feeling that one is alive, which i suppose is the same thing. all, all," he cried, "the world, men, women, things—all!"
mr. francis did not reply at once, but went forward a few steps, his eyes on the ground.
"don't believe it, harry," he said. "i would never have told you about the foolish old tale if i had thought that there was the slightest chance of your paying more attention to it than one gives to a fairy story. my dear boy, you are really quite silly. you caught cold because you would not listen to my excellent advice and change your clothes when you got in from shooting; you sprained your ankle because you did not look where you were going, and see that the steps were covered with ice; you burned yourself because a careless housemaid had forgotten to tack down the carpet! i do not believe in magic at all; there is, i assert, no such thing; but even if one did, it would be a very childish, weak kind of spell that could only bring curses of that sort."
"that is just what i think," said harry; "the evil, perhaps, has run down, so to speak; it is nearly impotent. oh, i am only joking. but if[pg 113] that is the price i have paid for my present happiness, i consider it dirt cheap. and if the luck can give me more happiness, i hereby declare to the powers that work it that i will take any amount more on the same scale of charges."
mr. francis laughed, and took harry's arm affectionately.
"dear lad, you were only jesting, i know," he said. "but it is not well to dwell on such fantastic things too much, though we constantly remind ourselves that they are nonsense. the human mind is a very wonderful and delicate piece of mechanism, and if once we begin playing experiments with a thing of which we understand so little, it may get out of order, and strike the wrong hour, and fail to keep time. lead your wholesome, honourable life, dear boy, and take gratefully what happiness comes in your way, and do not forget where it comes from. then you will have nothing to fear from the luck."
"no, and nothing to gain from it," said harry, "for i suspect magic can not touch those who do not believe in it."
"dear boy, enough," said mr. francis, with a certain earnestness. "you have told me you do not believe in it. ah, what a wonderful evening! look at those pink fleeces of cloud in the west, softer than sleep, softer than sleep, as theocritus says. how i wish i was a painter! think of the privilege of being able to show those sunset glories; to show, too, as the true artist can, the feelings, infinite and subtle, which those rose[pg 114] clouds against the pale blue of the sky produce in one, to show them to the toiler of the london streets. ah, harry, what a wealth of senses has been given us, what diverse-facing windows to our souls, and how little we trouble to look out of any, or to keep bright and clean even one! the gourmet even, the man who eats his dinner, using his palate with intelligence, is a step above most people. he has trained a sense, and what exquisite pleasure that sense, even though it be the most animal of all, gives him! and who can say that each sense was not given us in order that we should cultivate it to the fullest?"
suddenly he raised his hat, and in a low, clear voice he cried:
"o world as god has made it, all in beauty,
and knowing this is love, and love is duty,
what further can be sought for or declared?"
for a long moment he stood there, his face irradiated by the fires of sunset, his eyes soft with gentle, unshed tears, his hair stirred by the caress of the evening breeze, with who knows what early dreams and cool reveries of boyhood reminiscent within him? his harsh, untoward past had gone from him; he had lived backward in that moment to the days before troubles and darkness came about his path; aspirations seemed to have taken the place of memory; he was a youth again, and harry's face, as he looked at him, was loving and reverent.
it was already deep dusk when they turned[pg 115] back, and only the faint reflections of the fires of sunset lingered in the sky. the green of grass and tree had faded to a sombre gray, and the green of the fantastically cut box hedge had deepened to black when they again passed under its misshapen shapes and monstrous prodigies. somehow the look of it, cut out against the unspeakable softness and distance of the sky, struck harry with something of an ominous touch.
"that must be seen to," he said, pointing to it. "look at the horror of its shapes; it is like a collection of feverish dreams!"
"the old box hedge?" asked mr. francis. "if i were you i should not have it touched. see how nature is striving to obliterate the intruding hand of man. how grotesque and quaint it appears in this light! how delightfully horrible!"
"horrible, certainly," said harry, "but i do not find delight there. come, uncle francis, let us go in. it is already close upon dinner time, and one has to dress."
but the box hedge seemed to have a strange fascination for mr. francis, and he still lingered there, standing in the road, with his eye wandering down the lines of that nightmare silhouette.
"indeed, i would not touch it, dear harry," he said; "it is so grotesque and gothic. what a thickness the hedge must be—eight feet at the least!"
"but it is hideous," replied the lad. "it is enough to frighten anybody."
[pg 116]
"but it does not frighten you and me, or the gardeners either, we may suppose. at least, i have heard of no hysterics."
"that is probably true, but—— well, come in, uncle francis. we shall be so late for dinner, and i am dying for it."
an hour later the two had finished dinner, and were waiting for coffee to be brought. harry, after finishing his wine, had lit a cigarette, which had been the occasion of some playful strictures from his uncle, who still held his unkindled in his soft, plump fingers.
"one sip, only one sip of coffee, first, harry," he said. "it is almost wicked to light your cigarette till you have had one sip of coffee. that is the psychological moment. ah, that dazzling thing! how it sparkles! it was a good idea of yours to have it on the table, harry. it makes a noonday in the room. how the luck welcomes you home, my dear boy! but though i can not sparkle like that, not less do i welcome you."
indeed, that winking splendour in the centre of the table was enough to strike sight into blind eyeballs. the candles that lit the table, though shaded from the eye of the diner, poured their unobtruded rays on to it from fifty angles, and each stone glowed with an inward and ever-varying light. the slightest movement of the head was sufficient to turn the blue lights of the diamonds into an incandescent red; again, a movement, and the burning danger signals were changed to a living green. the pearls shone with[pg 117] a steady lustre, like moons through mist; but even the sober emeralds caught something of the madness of the diamond-studded handles, and glowed with colours not their own. the thing had fascinated harry all dinner time, and the spell seemed to grow, for suddenly he filled his glass again.
"the luck," he said; "i drink to the luck," and he put down an empty glass.
an affectionate remonstrance with his folly was on mr. francis's lips, when the servants entered with coffee. behind the footman, who carried it, walked a man with liqueurs, whom harry could not remember having seen before. he looked at him a moment, wondering who he was, when he recollected that his uncle had spoken to him about his own man, whom he proposed should wait on him at vail. last came templeton, carrying the leather case of the luck.
harry took coffee and liqueur, and had another look at his uncle's valet. the man wore the immovable mask of the well-trained servant; he was no more than a machine for handing things.
"yes, take the cup, templeton," said harry. "have you the key of it?"
"no, my lord; it is on mr. francis's bunch."
"would you give me the key, uncle francis? i will lock it myself, and keep the key."
mr. francis did not at once answer, but continued sipping his coffee, and harry, thinking he had not heard, repeated his request. on the repetition,[pg 118] mr. francis instantly took the key off his bunch.
"by all means, dear boy," he said. "it is much better so, that you should have it."
templeton packed the jewel in its case, and harry turned the key on it.
"lock it up yourself, templeton," he said, "in one of the chests. i must have a new case made for it, i think. this is very old, and it would be much too easily carried away—eh, uncle francis?" and he swung the locked case lightly in his hand.
"it is the original case, harry," he said. "i should be sorry to change it."
the men left the room, templeton going last, with the case containing the luck. the candles still burned brightly, but half the light seemed to have been withdrawn from the room, now that the great jewel no longer gleamed on the table; it was as if a cloud had hidden the sun. harry still held the key in his hand, looking curiously at its chased and intricate wards, and for a few moments neither spoke. then he put it into his pocket, and, pushing his chair a little farther from the table, flung one leg over the other.
"i propose to stop here four or five days, uncle francis," he said, "but not more, unless we can not get through our business. but, indeed, i can not see what there is to do. the place looks in admirable order, thanks to you. there is the box hedge; that is positively all i can see that wants looking to."
[pg 119]
mr. francis laughed gaily.
"dear harry," he said, "if you are not careful you will become as absurd on the subject of this box hedge as you are in danger of becoming about the luck. the dear, quaint, picturesque thing! how can you want it trimmed and cut?"
harry laughed.
"as you say, it does not frighten you or me, or the gardeners," he said; "but, as i was about to tell you as we drove from the station, when something put it out of my head, i shall have to consider others as well."
suddenly he stopped. in the intense pleasure with which he had looked forward to the visit of evie and lady oxted—which should be, so he had figured it, hardly less welcome to his uncle, as a sign, visible and pertinent, of how utterly dead and discredited was the lying rumour which at one time had so blackened him—he had not consciously reckoned with the moment of telling him. but he went on almost without a pause:
"at the end of the month lady oxted has promised to come and spend a sunday here, and with her will come—o uncle francis, how long this or something of the sort has been delayed, and how patiently you have waited for it!—with her will come her niece, miss aylwin, who has just come to england from italy."
he looked not at his uncle as he spoke, but, with a delicacy unconscious and instinctive, kept his eyes on the ground. such an announcement as the visit of harold harmsworth's sister must,[pg 120] he knew, be momentous to the old man, and perhaps would give rise to an emotion which it was not fit that other eyes should see. his uncle would know that in the mind of one at least most intimately connected with the tragedy, suspicion was not. this visit would be a reconciliation, formal though silent. it was right that the hearer should have as great a privacy as might be, and so, both when he spoke and after he had finished speaking, harry kept his eyes on the ground.
there was a moment's silence, broken by the crash of breaking china, and, looking quickly up, harry saw the coffee cup fallen from his uncle's hand, and the brown stains leaping over the white tablecloth. the spoon clattered metallic in the shattered saucer and jumped to the floor, and mr. francis's hand dropped like lead on the edge of the table. the candles were between him and his uncle; he could see no more; and he sprang up with a sudden pang of horror insurgent within him.
there, with his head fallen over the back of the chair, lay mr. francis, sprawling and inert. his face was of a deadly, strangled white, the wholesome colour had fled his cheeks, and only on the lips and below the eyes lingered a mottled purple. his breathing was heavy and stertorous; you would have said he snored, and from the corner of the slack mouth lolled the protruding tongue. his hands lay limp upon his lap, gray and purple.
harry made one step of it to the bell, and[pg 121] rang peal after violent peal, scarce daring to look, yet scarce able not to look at that masklike horror of a face at the end of the table. "what had he done? what if he had killed him? death could not be more ghastly!" ran the shrill voice of terror-stricken thought through his head. his instinct was to go to him, though his flesh shrank and shivered at the thought of approaching that, to do something, but he knew not what, yet meddling might only cause damage irreparable, instead of giving relief. still he did not cease ringing, and it seemed to him that the muffled clanging of the bell he rang had sounded for years, when steps came along the passage and burst into the room.
"there, there! look to him! what is the matter?" cried harry, still working on the bell like a man demented. "send for the doctor. send for his servant; perhaps he knows what to do. ah, there he is!" and he dropped the bell handle.
mr. francis's valet, of the masklike face, had gone straight to his master, and, lifting him bodily from the chair, laid him flat on the floor. then with deft fingers he untied his cravat and collar, and told them to open all doors and windows wide. he tore open his shirt and vest so as to leave his breathing absolutely free, and then paused. the great rush of warm summer air that poured in gently stirred the hair on mr. francis's head, and rustled the folds of the tablecloth, yet, in spite of this, and the heavy, stertorous[pg 122] breathing of the stricken man, it seemed to harry that an immense silence reigned everywhere—the silence of waiting. maid servants had gathered in the doorway, but templeton, with a guttural word, sent them scurrying down the passages, and the three watched and waited round the one.
then, by blessed degrees, the breathing grew less drawn and laboured, and by the light of the candles which mr. francis's man had placed on the floor near the body it was possible to see that the colour of the face was less patched. then the valet turned to harry, who, white-faced and awe-struck, stood at his shoulder.
"he will do well now, my lord," said sanders. "it was lucky you did not touch him. mr. francis has had these fits before; cardiac, the doctors say; but the right thing is to lay him flat."
"he is not dead? he will not die?" cried harry, shaking the man by the shoulder, as if to make him hear.
"lord bless you! no, my lord," he said. "as like as not he'll be dressed to-morrow before you are awake. cardiac weakness," he repeated, as if the words were a prescription, "and all agitation to be avoided."
"oh, my god! i never meant to agitate him," cried harry. "i told him something which i should have thought he would have given his right hand to hear."
the man smiled.
"just the sort of thing which would agitate[pg 123] him, my lord," he said, "if you'll excuse my saying so.—and now, mr. templeton, if you'll be so kind as to get a shutter or something, we'll move him up to bed, keeping him flat. i'll sit up with him to-night."
"you're a good fellow, an awfully good fellow!" cried harry. "and there is no further anxiety. shall i not send for the doctor?"
"quite unnecessary, my lord. see how quiet his breathing has become. as like as not he will sleep like a child. he's had these attacks before, and i know well when the danger is over—cardiac. you can go to sleep yourself, my lord, as if nothing had happened."
