PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.

BY

EDITH METCALFE.

"I can tell you without the help of an augur what will be your fate you become a gambler. Either the vice will end by swallowing you up alive as a quicksand does, or if you are a winner, your gains will disappear more quickly than they came, melting like pyramids of snow."

WILLIAM DE BRITAINE.

LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED. NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE. 1903

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I The Viaticum

CHAPTER II. The Best Thing in the World

CHAPTER III. Fraud

CHAPTER IV. Mediation

CHAPTER V. Kindred and Affinity

CHAPTER VI. Bravado

CHAPTER VII. Melville leads Trumps

CHAPTER VIII. Rivals

CHAPTER IX. Bigamy

CHAPTER X. Light come, Light go

CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Sinclair pays a Visit

CHAPTER XII. A Pic-nic

CHAPTER XIII. Murder

CHAPTER XIV. The Finding of the Body

CHAPTER XV. Flight

CHAPTER XVI. An Unexpected Will

CHAPTER XVII. An Arrest

CHAPTER XVIII. A Faithful Servant

CHAPTER XIX. In the Park

CHAPTER XX. Money makes a Difference

CHAPTER XXI. The Result of the Trial

CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Tracy becomes Active

CHAPTER XXIII. Sir Ross is Quits

CHAPTER XXIV. Mrs. Sinclair Resolves to Go Away

CHAPTER XXV. Mrs. Sinclair Goes away

CHAPTER XXVI. Fate takes the Odd Trick

CHAPTER XXVII. The Place of Peace

PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.

CHAPTER I. THE VIATICUM.

Upon most of the people who thronged the rooms the incident was lost. Of those who saw it many did not understand its meaning, and the rest were too much absorbed in their own affairs to give it any attention. The scene was the Casino at Monte Carlo; every chair was occupied, and behind every chair men and women were standing, all intent upon the play, all consumed by the feverish thirst of winning money born of the atmosphere of the place. The brilliant light flashed in jewels and gleamed in eager eyes, heightened the colour of flushed cheeks and emphasised the pallor of haggard faces; against the black evening coat of one man sitting down was outlined the bare arm of a woman, who laid her stake upon the table, and when the hand was withdrawn it still hesitated over the black coat until the fortune of the stake should be declared. Dominating everything was the monotonous sound of the croupiers' voices and the noise of the money as it was raked to and fro upon the tables.

The incident which took place in this scene was a not uncommon one. It was a little procession of three men, one a dark, good-looking man in well-cut evening dress, who walked nonchalantly through the rooms, pausing almost imperceptibly while his two companions shot a glance of interrogation at each of the croupiers; when the croupiers, in reply, had shot a glance of assent at his companions, the dark man moved on again until he had almost completed his tour of the rooms. It was Melville Ashley undergoing the process of identification as a well-known frequenter of the rooms before receiving the viaticum which should enable him to return to London.

It is the habit of the Englishman to conceal his feelings, and no one could have guessed from Melville's demeanour whether he experienced relief at having come to the end of his tether, regret at knowing that he could play no more that season, mortification at his somewhat humiliating position, or any other emotion which one may suppose natural to a gambler who is suddenly baulked in his pursuits. He seemed entirely unconcerned, perhaps a little bored, but certainly in complete possession of himself. To the few people who, knowing him, found time to vouchsafe him a nod of greeting, he bowed pleasantly enough. Of the existence of the others he appeared unaware, though, in point of fact, his senses were so alert that he could have supplied a remarkably close description of everyone had he been asked to do so. For the time the gambling fever had left him, and with the vanishing of his last coin there awoke in his mind an intense disgust at the heavy scent in the air and the grotesque sight of the many pairs of white gloves. He was only anxious for the great

baize doors to swing behind him and exclude him from what was generally the one desire of his heart.

Only once did he betray any interest. A woman leaning back in her chair put out her hand to detain him. She understood the significance of his escort, and there was some commiseration in her eyes.

"Are you going home, Mr. Ashley?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes," he answered, with a little smile; "I leave to-night."

In those conventional words was conveyed a perfectly frank confession of the state of his finances. No need to invent any explanation of so sudden a departure. His questioner was well enough acquainted with the language of the place to know that he had pledged his word to return at once to London, in consideration of value received.

"I'm sorry," she said, and looked as if she meant it; "but I daresay I shall be following you soon, and then, perhaps, we may meet again. London is a tiny little place."

"Yes," Melville assented politely; "but wouldn't it be as well if you gave me one of your cards?"

"I haven't any," said Mrs. Sinclair, smiling lightly, for she liked a sportsmanlike loser. "Men always carry cards—in case of duels, I suppose, but women have no room in their purses for anything but money, and nowhere but their purses to put anything else. Give me one of yours, and I will write to you."

"That is too good of you," he replied, as he gave her one; "but of course you will forget all about it. Good-night, good-bye."

"Auf wiedersehen," she answered prettily, and turned to her companion on her left, who had watched the little comedy with a scowl upon his face. Melville noted the scowl and bowed sardonically as he moved away. To be conscious of superiority to anyone is satisfactory in one's hour of discomfiture, and Melville derived a complacent satisfaction from this little man's evident annoyance.

"The little bounder doesn't like me," he thought, "but he's a little ass to show it. He must be very rich for Mrs. Sinclair to be willing to lay aside her weeds for him."

The doors swung behind him, and in another moment Melville was in the open air. He stretched out his arms in pure enjoyment of the lovely night.

"I am infinitely obliged to you," he said to his escort; "the other trifling formalities will, doubtless, be completed in due course;" and in what seemed an incredibly short time Melville was on his way to London.

Inside the Casino, the little bounder turned to his companion.

"Since you have no room in your purse for visiting cards," he said, "may I not keep that one in safe custody for you?"

"Thanks, no," the woman answered, and slipped it inside her dress; "I haven't finished playing yet, and my luck is in to-night."

"Would you be as kind to me," he pursued, "if I had to have recourse to the charity of the bank to pay my fare to London? Or would you drop me when my money went?"

Mrs. Sinclair looked at him coolly.

"Don't ask leading questions, and please don't make yourself ridiculous. Civility costs nothing, and it amused me to be civil to that—gentleman."

"It is rare for you to be amused with anything that costs nothing," he retorted, but Mrs. Sinclair would not be drawn. She began to play again, and, when at last she stopped, the little man's carrying capacity was taxed to take her winnings back to her hotel.

It would be a vain task to try to record all Melville Ashley's thoughts as the train bore him across France; in the aggregate they amounted to little less than a comprehensive cursing of everything and everybody, including himself. For his position was desperate.

The younger son of his parents, both of whom had died while he was still an infant, he had been brought up with his brother Ralph under the guardianship of his uncle, Sir Geoffrey Holt, lord of the manor of Fairbridge, in Surrey, whose co-heir, at any rate, he hoped some day to be. Sir Geoffrey had played his part well, placing every advantage in the way of both his nephews, but as the years slipped by he found it difficult to be quite impartial in his personal treatment of the two lads, though he never failed to be impartial in his dealings with them so far as they affected the education and up-bringing of the boys.

It was Ralph, however, who engrossed his uncle's affection, and something in Melville's nature rose in rebellion at the thought that he came second in the estimation of any person. Both boys were handsome, Melville especially so; both were well endowed with intelligence, and both took advantage of their opportunities. But whereas Ralph developed into a frank and unaffected man, fond of athletics and outdoor pursuits, Melville became more and more self-centred and reserved, devoting all his time to his one absorbing love of music. Manhood brought liberty, and liberty in Melville's case brought lack of self-restraint. His finer qualities led him into a certain sort of temptation, and the men with whom his rare musical talents brought him into contact were of a free and easy Bohemian type that did not afford the most healthy companionship for a young fellow of his particular temperament. Musical evenings led to smoking concerts, and the concerts to late nights of which other and less innocent amusements were the principal feature; billiards and cards became first a

habit and then a passion, and Melville was still in his early twenties when it was obvious that he was a confirmed gambler.

Sir Geoffrey was patient and he was rich, but detestation of the gambler was added to his dislike of his younger nephew, and more than one violent quarrel had taken place between the two. It says much for the elder man that he never referred to the position of absolute dependence occupied by the younger one; but when, a few weeks before, Melville came to him with the oft-repeated tale, Sir Geoffrey spoke his mind in the vernacular.

"Let me know the sum total of your accursed debts," he said, "if you have the honesty or the wit to remember them, and I will clean the slate. Then I will give you a final two hundred and fifty for yourself, and that shall be the end."

When Melville gave him the damning list of debts, Sir Geoffrey bit his lips until they bled. Livery stables, and wine and cigar merchants told a tale of luxurious living which Sir Geoffrey himself had never been able to afford in his younger days, and there were other items not precisely specified, into which the elder man thought it better not to enquire too curiously. But he kept his word. He drew crossed cheques payable to every person named in the list for the full amount, and demanded a receipt from each in full discharge of his nephew's liability. When the last receipt came in, after a miserable week of waiting, he sent for Melville to his library.

"Is that the last?" he enquired grimly, and Melville assented. Then Sir Geoffrey sat down at his table and drew one cheque more. "There is the two hundred and fifty I promised you," he said; "make the best use of it you can, for it is the last you ever have from me. The dog-cart will take you to the station in half-an-hour." Then he turned on his heel and left him, and Melville returned to town.

Five weeks before! And now the whole of the money was gone. With all his ingenuity it would be difficult to invent a story which his uncle would be likely to accept as a valid explanation of so surprising a fact.

Melville lighted a cigar and cursed his luck again.

Then the gambler's spirit re-asserted itself. He had had a glorious time at Monte Carlo while it lasted. One night he had won more than five thousand pounds, and another night the bank had to send out twice for fresh supplies of money. That was the time of triumph. People had crowded round him, some to follow his play, some to envy, some to congratulate him, and among them he had seen Lavender Sinclair for the first time: a magnificent woman truly, with splendid colouring and grandly moulded limbs; she wore turquoise velvet, he remembered, and round her neck a barbaric collar of turquoise bosses linked together on red gold; even in that room, where jewels were as common as morals were rare, her jewels were conspicuous, and she wore them perfectly. Some acquaintance introduced him to her, and she seemed interested in hearing his name—had met people who knew him, or some distant kinsmen, but there was no indication of any desire on her part to press the acquaintance. She was in the ripest glory of her beauty, the sort that is at its best when it is mature.

He wondered idly how old she was, over thirty certainly; but, after all, it did not matter. Rumour had it that she was going to marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and Melville was contemptuous of her choice of a second husband; he knew the man by sight, an undersized, rather weakly fellow, who inherited an old title from his father and, it was said, two millions sterling from his mother. Sir Ross was a pill that required an unusual amount of gilding, and Melville's first admiration of the woman was replaced by scorn of her venality. She was sympathetic though when he bade her good-bye, and Melville appreciated sympathy.

The journey was very tedious, so Melville opened his dressing-case and took out a packet of letters which had reached him at the hotel, but to which he had not troubled to attend. Several he tore up and threw away, but there was one which he carefully replaced in its envelope in his bag. It was from his brother, and ran as follows:

"DEAR MELVILLE,—Why didn't you tell me you were going to Monte Carlo? However, I hope you are enjoying yourself and having good luck. By the way, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Can you lend me a hundred for a fortnight? I will repay you then. My solicitors are selling some capital for me, but they are so slow, and I am in immediate want of the money. Do write soon.—Yours ever, RALPH ASHLEY. P.S.—Have you heard of my engagement to Gwendolen Austen?"

"So he is hard up, too," Melville muttered. "No, I wouldn't lend him fifty pounds if I had fifty thousand to-morrow. And engaged to Gwendolen is he? I wonder if I can put an end to that. If she were my wife I might even win the old man round again."

Then his mind reverted to his immediate difficulties, and he went over the old useless ground of trying to think of some way to raise the wind, failing once more to see any light at all, as indeed he was bound to fail, since honest work did not come into his most casual consideration.

It was not, however, until he found himself in his chambers in Jermyn Street that he fully realised how he had come to the end of all things. There were invitations awaiting him which he could not accept for lack of ready money; little accounts which he would have been only too glad to hand over to his uncle if he had remembered their existence; all insignificant enough individually, but totalling up to a considerable sum; private tips from hangers-on at stables, which were certain to be good since he could not avail himself of them; letters from women suggesting trips up the river or supper after the play; even letters from friends saying they were hard up, and reminding him of small obligations under which he lay to them. Melville felt as if he were at last at bay, with all his worries like so many starving wolves tearing him down to his destruction. And worse than all was the extreme physical reaction from the unwholesome life of excitement he had lately been leading at Monte Carlo. While that life lasted no fatigue oppressed him. A tumbler of champagne or

a stiff pick-me-up from a chemist always availed to keep him going. But now the excitement was over. The curtain was rung down, the lights were all turned out, he was alone with his troubles, and had no pluck left to face them. In sheer weariness he turned into bed and slept the sleep of deep exhaustion.

CHAPTER II. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

Even while Melville, with despair gnawing at his heart, was speeding on his journey back to England, Sir Geoffrey Holt was keeping festival at Fairbridge Manor. That very evening he had given a final dinner party to celebrate the betrothal of his god-child, Gwendolen Austen, to his favourite nephew, Ralph Ashley.

In the whole of a land which is proud to claim as its children so many fair women and brave men, it would be difficult to find a fairer woman or a braver man than now engrossed Sir Geoffrey's thoughts, and in their approaching union he looked to see the culmination of his own happiness. It was infinitely pleasant to know that the two, over whose lives he had watched so tenderly, would never leave him now, but hand-in-hand would walk in quiet contentment by his side, lightening the burden of his increasing years, and giving him fresh pleasure in their own unfolding joys. No man could ever hope to win richer reward for his unfailing goodness to others than Sir Geoffrey was reaping now for his long care of this boy and girl.

So he threw wide his hospitable doors, and asked the county to come and shower congratulations upon the happy couple. For a week he kept open house, and his pleasure was so apparent, his high spirits so contagious, that he made himself loved the more by his unaffected delight and his manner of displaying it. To his succession of dinner parties practically the entire county came, until both Ralph and Gwendolen were at a loss to find fresh ways of saying, "Thank you," for so many expressions of goodwill.

But this evening had brought the entertainments to a close, and when Sir Geoffrey, standing by his open door, had bade the latest guest good-bye, he turned with a sigh of satisfaction into the great hall where his children, as he called them, were laughing over some incident which had amused them during the day.

Sir Geoffrey pulled his god-daughter towards him and held her face between his hands.

"The last guest gone," he said, smiling at her; "now, Gwen, confess you are not sorry."

"I didn't know there was so much kindness in the world," she answered, smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining; "but I confess I am glad we are all by ourselves again."

"Tired?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she answered brightly; "unless it be of seeming to occupy so much attention."

"And you don't want to go to bed?"

"Indeed, no," she said indignantly. "When one is as happy as I am it would be a shame to spend a single hour asleep."

"Then let us go down to the house-boat," Sir Geoffrey said. "I daresay Ralph can manage to amuse you somehow, and I want to talk to your mother."

"Do you want to talk to me, Ralph?" said Gwendolen, turning to her lover, who was looking at her with affectionate pride.

"I don't seem to have had a chance of talking to you for a week," Ralph answered promptly. "Let's go at once and—and get a deck chair ready for your mother."

Sir Geoffrey chuckled.

"An admirable reason for both of you hurrying away. Ralph is too weak to move one by himself; you must help him, Gwendolen."

Ralph put a wrap round Gwendolen, and, linking her arm in his, went through the French window across the garden.

It was a glorious night. A full moon shed a mellow splendour across the lawns, throwing the masses of the cedars into bold relief against the sky, and glinting in all the diamond panes of the heavy-leaded windows. Over the phloxes and tobacco plants that adorned the borders great moths were wheeling, and bats were flickering in and out of the plantation that screened the stables from the house. As the garden sloped towards the river the turf was more closely shaven, and along the water's edge were sunk pots in which magnificent geraniums and sweet heliotrope were growing.

Moored by the extreme boundary of the garden Ralph's house-boat lay; it contained a little bedroom and two sitting-rooms, fragrant with flowers and light with mirrors and thin curtains, and the upper part, covered in with a pale green awning, was a mass of flowers and palms. Here were deck chairs, and little tables, and Japanese lanterns.

Ralph put two chairs ready for Mrs. Austen and Sir Geoffrey, and then looked at Gwendolen.

"Shall we wait here for them, or would you like me to punt you up the stream?"