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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pyramids of snow
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Pyramids of snow

Author: Edith Metcalfe

Release date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72428]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1903

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PYRAMIDS

OF SNOW ***
"'Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out.'" (Page 83.)
 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 Monto 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?"

"Let us stay here," she answered; "somehow——"

"Yes?" he said enquiringly.

"Somehow I fancy the others will not come," she said, rippling with
laughter. "Sir Geoffrey is always so thoughtful."

Ralph took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"I love you—I love you," he said, between set teeth, and Gwendolen
drew a sigh of perfect content. "If it could always be like this," he went on.
"Just you and I in the peace, with the river and the moonlight to reflect our
happiness."

But Gwendolen shook her head.

"You would soon tire of that," she said, and when he would have
demurred laid her hand upon his lips. "I hope you would, at any rate, for I
would not like you to be a lotos-eater dreaming your days away. There is so
much to do in the world, Ralph, and surely we, to whom so much has been
given, would not wish to give nothing in return."

He kissed the hand that caressed him.

"Tell me what I am to do."

Gwendolen considered.

"It is not easy to see just at first," she admitted, "but work, like charity,
begins at home. You will be a good master to your household, and will take
an active interest in the estate. You will be so anxious to make the tenants
happier in their respective stations that you will be surprised to find how
many things go to make up their lives. Life is a big bundle of little things,
you know, not a little bundle of big ones. If you really set your heart upon
doing good you will never stop for lack of something to do. That is a
wonderful thought, Ralph: there is no end to the good you can do in the
world."

"Go on," he said tenderly; "go on, dear, good little woman!"

"That is only thinking of your life at home," said Gwendolen; "but there
are wider interests outside. I should like you to make a name for yourself in
the great world; it might be in philanthropy, it might be in politics. I'm often
sorry you have no profession, but the world has always need of good men,
and I won't let you hold wool for me while the world wants one pair of
honest hands. Oh! Ralph, wouldn't that be more worth while than idling
your life away, even if it could always be like this?"

"Much more worth while," he answered gravely. "You have made me

happy; you will make me good; you may make me famous. That is a great
deal for one little woman to do for a man. What am I to do in return for
you?"

"Only love me," she said. "Love me always as you do now; never any
less tenderly or truly, even when the other interests are nearer than they are
to-night. What more can you do than give me love—the best thing in the
world?"

"I think I may safely promise that," Ralph said, and his deep voice
quivered. What had he done that Providence should heap blessings on him
so lavishly? For what had already been bestowed upon him he could never
show sufficient gratitude, and now there was the crowning gift of all—the
love of a pure and beautiful girl, whom he knew he had loved all his life.

Gwendolen lay back in one of the deck chairs, and Ralph, leaning
against the wooden railing, feasted his eyes upon the picture that she made.
In a dress of white mousseline-de-soie, trimmed with rare point lace, she
looked ethereally beautiful in this setting of coloured lamps and lovely
flowers. Her hands were clasped upon her lap, and the moonlight caught the
diamonds in the ring that he had given her, and even sought out the little
diamond drop that did duty as an earring. Against the scarlet cushions on
which she reclined her fair skin showed like ivory, and Ralph was filled
with something akin to amazement that this incarnation of all that was