The Vision of Desire
Decidedly something was radically awry, Ann reflected unhappily. Her visit,
of course, was spoilt. But this troubled her very little in comparison with
her increasing anxiety concerning Tony. He had never kept her out of his
confidence before. She had always been able to stand by him--as she had
promised his mother that she would. But now it seemed as if he had
deliberately assumed an armour of reserve, not only in his relations with
his uncle, but also in his attitude towards Ann herself, and her
helplessness worried her intensely. She felt convinced that there must be
something seriously amiss to account for Tony's extraordinary behaviour,
and finally, the day before her visit was due to terminate, she decided to
consult Mrs. Mellow, Sir Philip's faithful old housekeeper, whom Ann had
known ever since those childhood days when she and Robin had been invited
over to Lorne to have nursery tea with Tony.
Mrs. Mellow was one of the old-fashioned type of housekeeper--a comfortable
black satin person, with pink cheeks and kind blue eyes and crinkly grey
hair surmounted by a lace cap. Her name suited her admirably. When Ann put
her head round the door of the housekeeper's room with the announcement,
"Mellow, dear, I've come to have tea with you, if I may," she welcomed her
with respectful delight.
"Now, come straight in, Miss Ann. As if you even needed to ask! I was
afraid you meant going away this time without coming to have a cup of tea
with your old Mellow."
Ann shook a reproving forefinger at her.
"Now, Mellow, you arch-hypocrite, you know I'd never dare! If I did, I
expect the next time I wanted to come up and frivol in town you'd tell Sir
Philip that you were spring-cleaning or something of the kind and that you
couldn't put me up."
"How you do go on, miss, to be sure!" declared Mrs. Mellow beamingly, as
she bustled about spreading the cloth for tea. "As if you didn't know you
were always as welcome as the flowers in May, spring cleaning or no spring
cleaning! And I suppose, miss"--archly--"it'll be 'Mrs.' the next time you
visit us--if all I hear is true?"
Ann laughed. Throwing her arms round the old woman's neck, she kissed her
warmly.
"Yes, it really will, Mellow. I believe"--teasingly--"you're just aching to
hear all about it?"
"Well, miss," admitted Mellow, holding the kettle, suspended a moment above
the teapot, "I don't want to seem inquisitive or disrespectful, you may be
sure, but I _would_ like to hear a bit about the gentleman who's going to
marry my young lady. I always think of you as my young lady, you know, Miss
Ann. You were more like a daughter than anything else to Master Tony's
mother, God rest her! Perhaps you have his photograph, miss, that you could
show me?"
Ann nodded smilingly--she knew her Mellow, and had anticipated this
request!--and forthwith proceeded to descant on Eliot's various virtues and
the beauty of Heronsmere until Mrs. Mellow declared that she could, as she
phrased it, "picture it all as plain as if she'd seen it herself." Then,
when the good woman's kindly interest was satisfied, Ann embarked on the
quest which had been uppermost in her mind when she sought the
housekeeper's room.
"Mellow, I'm worried about Tony," she announced at last.
The smile died out of Mrs. Mellow's face like the flame of a suddenly
snuffed candle.
"You've noticed it, then, miss?" she parried uneasily.
"Of course I've noticed it. He isn't in the least like himself, and he's
almost always out."
"Yes, miss." Mrs. Mellow shook her head. "I call it rare bad manners to ask
a young lady to the house and then to leave her to entertain herself, as
you may say. And I've told Master Tony so more than once."
"You told him so? What did he say?"
"Why, miss, he looked at me in a funny sort of way, and he said: 'Don't you
worry yourself, Mellow. Miss Ann will understand all about it one day--and
before very long, too.' I couldn't think what he meant, miss. But I didn't
like the way he looked."
Ann's brows were knitted.
"How did he look?" she asked.
"Why, miss, sort of reckless. Like he did that time when we were down at
Lorne last year and he and Sir Philip quarrelled something dreadful. He
came down to me then, Master Tony did, in the housekeeper's room, at Lorne,
and he said: 'Well, I'm off, Mellow, and whether you ever see me again
or not depends on whether you can beat any sense into the head of that
obstinate old man upstairs.' He was mad with anger, was Master Tony, or of
course he wouldn't have spoken like that of his uncle. And I'm blest if
he didn't go out of the house the very next day! Sir Philip was in a rare
taking, I remember."
"He needn't have been," said Ann, smiling. "Tony only came to Oldstone
Cottage and stayed with Robin and me."
"So I heard, miss, afterwards. But, really, at the time I was frightened
lest he should do himself a mischief--he looked so wild."
Ann's heart skipped a beat.
"Do himself a mischief?" she interposed quickly. "What do you mean? How
could he?"
"I don't know _how_, miss. But I tell you, I'm frightened for Master Tony.
I am, truly."
Ann gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
"Where does he spend his time, Mellow? Have you any idea?"
"I have not, miss. But I do know this--that it's sometimes two and three
o'clock in a morning before he comes home. My bedroom's on the ground
floor, as you know, and I hear him come in and go upstairs almost always
after midnight. Last night 'twas near one o'clock, and another night it may
be later still. It bodes no good for a young gentleman to be coming home at
all hours. Of that I _am_ sure."
"I think you're right, Mellow," replied Ann gravely. "Does Sir Philip know
about it, do you think?"
"Indeed, miss, I fancy he guesses. But mostly he's too proud to speak what
he thinks. Though he did say to me, one evening about a week or ten days
before you came here, 'Mellow,' says he, 'the boy's going the same way
as his father.' And then he swore, miss--something awful it was to hear
him--that he'd not lift a finger to keep Master Tony out of the gutter.
'He'll end up in jail, Mellow,' he said, 'and bring shame on the old name.
All I hope is that I'll be dead and buried before it happens.' And with
that he gets up and goes out and slams the door behind him."
Ann was silent. It seemed to her that things were even more seriously amiss
than she had imagined. Mrs. Mellow glanced at her wistfully.
"Do you think, miss, that you could say a word to Master Tony!" she said.
"Talk to him for his own good? He always used to take a lot of notice of
what you said to him, I remember."
"I know he did," returned Ann. "But he doesn't give me any opportunity
of talking to him now"--ruefully. "All the same," she added with
determination, "I shall certainly talk to him before I go home. I'll get
hold of him this evening."
But Tony proved obdurately uncommunicative.
"It's too late to _'talk'_!" he told her, with a roughness that was quite
foreign to him. "All the talking in the world wouldn't mend matters.
It's"--he looked at her oddly--"it's neck or nothing now, Ann."
His eyes were feverishly brilliant, and Ann could see that even during the
last few days his boyish face had grown strangely haggard-looking.
"Tony, you're in trouble of some sort. I wish you'd tell me about it," she
entreated.
"There's nothing to tell. Don't fuss so, Ann"--irritably. "I said it was
neck or nothing. Well, it's going to be _neck_! I swear it shall be. I'm
going to win through all right. And before long, too!"
To Ann's relief he made no suggestion of going out that evening after
dinner--presumably in deference to the fact that she was leaving on the
morrow, and, as Sir Philip appeared tired and Ann had still a few oddments
of packing to finish off, by common consent they all retired early to bed.
Half an hour later, however, as Ann was folding a last remaining frock
into the tray of her trunk, she heard some one very quietly descending the
stairs, and a minute later the house door opened and closed again softly.
A sudden conviction seized her, and she ran swiftly down to the landing
below, where Tony's room was situated, and tapped on his door. No answer
being forthcoming, she threw the door open and looked in. She had switched
on the landing burner as she passed, and the light streamed into the room.
Tony was not there, nor were there any indications that he had contemplated
going to bed. His room was untouched, just as the housemaid had left it
prepared for the night--a fire burning in the grate, the bed neatly turned
down, with his pyjamas laid out on it, a can of hot water, covered with a
towel, standing ready in the basin on the washstand.
Very quietly Ann closed the door and returned to her own room. She had
little doubt what had happened. In consideration of the fact that it was
her last evening Tony had stayed indoors until she and his uncle might
be supposed to be safely in bed. Then he had stolen out of the house and
departed once more on his own pursuits. Ann could make a pretty good guess
that these included gambling in some form or other.
She felt rather sick. It was so unlike Tony to resort to any
hole-and-corner business such as this--slipping out of the house, as he
believed, unknown to any one. That he must be caught in a terrible tangle
of some kind she felt sure, and his mother's last words, as she had lain
on her deathbed, came back to her with redoubled significance. _"And if
Tony gets into difficulties?"_ Vividly she recalled Virginia's imploring
face, the beseeching note in her tired voice. And her own answer: _"If he
does, why, then I'll get him out of them if it's in any way possible."_ It
looked as though the time had come for the fulfilment of that promise. And
ignorant of what danger it could be which threatened Tony, unable to guess
the particular kind of difficulties in which he found himself involved at
the moment, she was powerless to help.
Slowly she undressed and got into bed. But not to sleep. She lay there with
wide-open eyes, every sense alert, listening for the least sound which
might herald Tony's return. She could hear the loud ticking of the tall old
clock on the staircase--tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack. Sometimes the
sound of it deceived her into thinking it was a footstep on the stairs, and
she would sit up eagerly in bed, listening intently. But always the
hoped-for sound resolved itself back into the eternal tick-tack of the
clock.
Twelve, one, two o'clock struck, bringing no sign of Tony's return, and
finally, wearied out, Ann fell into a brief slumber from which she awakened
with sudden violence to the knowledge that, at length, there was the sound
of an actual footfall in the house. She heard the stairs creak twice,
unmistakably, then the muffled closing of a door--and silence.
For a moment she hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Surely she could
sleep in peace now? Tony was safely in the house once more, and to-morrow
she would have a heart-to-heart talk with him and induce him to confide in
her. But instantaneously her mind rejected the idea. Something bade her
act, and act immediately. Urged by that imperative inner impulse, she rose
and, throwing on a wrapper, ran swiftly down the stairs, her bare feet
soundless on the carpet, and paused irresolutely outside Tony's bedroom
door. Her hand was raised to knock softly on the panel, when all at once
an odd little noise came to her from the inside of the room--a curious
metallic sound, like the dull clink of metal dragged slowly across wood.
Seized by a sudden overwhelming fear, she flung open the door. Tony was
standing beside an old mahogany bureau, one drawer of which had been pulled
open. His arm was half-raised. In his hand he gripped a revolver. Ann could