The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗

Good thick old walls, these, Mrs. Mallathorpe, and

a solid door. We’re as safe here as we were in your study last night.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe sat down in the chair which Pratt politely drew near

his fire. She raised her veil and looked at him, and the clerk saw at

once how curious and eager she was.

 

“That—will!” she said, in a low voice. “Let me see it—first.”

 

“One moment,” answered Pratt. “First—you understand that I’m not going

to let you handle it. I’ll hold it before you, so you can read it.

Second—you give me your promise—I’m trusting you—that you’ll make no

attempt to seize it. It’s not going out of my hands.”

 

“I’m only a woman—and you’re a strong man,” she retorted sullenly.

 

“Quite so,” said Pratt. “But women have a trick of snatching at things.

And—if you please—you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. Put your

hands behind you! If I see you make the least movement with them—back

goes the will into my pocket!”

 

If Pratt had looked more closely at her just then, he would have taken

warning from the sudden flash of hatred and resentment which swept

across Mrs. Mallathorpe’s face—it would have told him that he was

dealing with a dangerous woman who would use her wits to circumvent and

beat him—if not now, then later. But he was moving the gas bracket over

the mantelpiece, and he did not see.

 

“Very well—but I had no intention of touching it,” said Mrs.

Mallathorpe. “All I want is to see it—and read it.”

 

She obediently followed out Pratt’s instructions, and standing in front

of her he produced the will, unfolded it, and held it at a convenient

distance before her eyes. He watched her closely, as she read it, and he

saw her grow very pale.

 

“Take your time—read it over two or three times,” he said quietly. “Get

it well into your mind, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

 

She nodded her head at last, and Pratt stepped back, folded up the will,

and turning to a heavy box which lay open on the table, placed it

within, under lock and key. And that done, he turned back and took a

chair, close to his visitor.

 

“Safe there, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” he said with a glance that was both

reassuring and cunning. “But only for the night. I keep a few securities

of my own at one of the banks in the town—never mind which—and that

will shall be deposited with them tomorrow morning.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe shook her head.

 

“No!” she said. “Because—you’ll come to terms with me.”

 

Pratt shook his head, too, and he laughed.

 

“Of course I shall come to terms with you,” he answered. “But they’ll be

my terms—and they don’t include any giving up of that document. That’s

flat, Mrs. Mallathorpe!”

 

“Not if I make it worth your while?” she asked. “Listen!—you don’t know

what ready money I can command. Ready money, I tell you—cash down, on

the spot!”

 

“I’ve a pretty good notion,” responded Pratt. “It’s generally understood

in the town that your son’s a mere figure-head, and that you’re the real

boss of the whole show. I know that you’re at the mill four times a

week, and that the managers are under your thumb. I know that you manage

everything connected with the estate. So, of course, I know you’ve lots

of ready money at your disposal.”

 

“And I know that you don’t earn more than four or five pounds a week, at

the outside,” said Mrs. Mallathorpe quietly. “Come, now—just think what

a nice, convenient thing it would be to a young man of your age to

have—a capital. Capital! It would be the making of you. You could go

right away—to London, say, and start out on whatever you liked. Be

sensible—sell me that paper—and be done with the whole thing.”

 

“No!” replied Pratt.

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe looked at him for a full moment. She was a shrewd judge

of character, and she felt that Pratt was one of those men who are hard

to stir from a position once adopted. But she had to make her

effort—and she made it in what she thought the most effective way.

 

“I’ll give you five thousand pounds—cash—for it,” she said. “Meet me

with it tomorrow—anywhere you like in the town—any time you like—and

I’ll hand you the money—in notes.”

 

“No!” said Pratt. “No!”

 

Once more she looked at him. And Pratt looked back—and smiled.

 

“When I say no, I mean no,” he went on. “And I never meant ‘No’ more

firmly than I do now.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” she answered, affecting a doubt which she

certainly did not feel. “You’re only holding out for more money.”

 

“If I were holding out for more money, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” replied Pratt,

“if I meant to sell you that will for cash payment, I should have stated

my terms to you last night. I should have said precisely how much I

wanted—and I shouldn’t have budged from the amount. Mrs.

Mallathorpe!—it’s no good. I’ve got my own schemes, and my own

ideas—and I’m going to carry ‘em out. I want you to appoint me steward

to your property, your affairs, for life.”

 

“Life!” she exclaimed. “Life!”

 

“My life,” answered Pratt. “And let me tell you—you’ll find me a

first-class man—a good, faithful, honest servant. I’ll do well by you

and yours. You’ll never regret it as long as you live. It’ll be the best

day’s work you’ve ever done. I’ll look after your son’s

interests—everybody’s interests—as if they were my own. As indeed,” he

added, with a sly glance, “they will be.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe realized the finality, the resolve, in all this—but

she made one more attempt.

 

“Ten thousand!” she said. “Come, now!—think what ten thousand pounds in

cash would mean to you!”

 

“No—nor twenty thousand,” replied Pratt. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll

have my own terms. It’s no use—not one bit of use—haggling or

discussing matters further. I’m in possession of the will—and therefore

of the situation, Mrs. Mallathorpe, you’ve just got to do what I tell

you!”

 

He got up from his chair, and going over to a side-table took from it a

blotting-pad, some writing paper and a pencil. For the moment his back

was turned—and again he did not see the look of almost murderous hatred

which came into his visitor’s eyes; had he seen and understood it, he

might even then have reconsidered matters and taken Mrs. Mallathorpe’s

last offer. But the look had gone when he turned again, and he noticed

nothing as he handed over the writing materials.

 

“What are these for?” she asked.

 

“You’ll see in a moment,” replied Pratt, reseating himself, and drawing

his chair a little nearer her own. “Now listen—because it’s no good

arguing any more. You’re going to give me that stewardship and agency.

You’ll simply tell your son that it’s absolutely necessary to have a

steward. He’ll agree. If he doesn’t, no matter—you’ll convince him.

Now, then, we must do it in a fashion that won’t excite any suspicion.

Thus—in a few days—say next week—you’ll insert in the Barford

papers—all three of them—the advertisement I’m going to dictate to

you. We’ll put it in the usual, formal phraseology. Write this down, if

you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

 

He dictated an advertisement, setting forth the requirements of which he

had spoken, and Mrs. Mallathorpe obeyed him and wrote. She hated Pratt

more than ever at that moment—there was a quiet, steadfast

implacability about him that made her feel helpless. But she restrained

all sign of it, and when she had done his bidding she looked at him as

calmly as he looked at her.

 

“I am to insert this in the Barford papers next week,” she said.

“And—what then?”

 

“Then you’ll get a lot of applications for the job,” chuckled Pratt.

“There’ll be mine amongst them. You can throw most of ‘em in the fire.

Keep a few for form’s sake. Profess to discuss them with Mr. Harper—but

let the discussion be all on your side. I’ll send two or three good

testimonials—you’ll incline to me from the first. You’ll send for me.

Your interview with me will be highly satisfactory. And you’ll give me

the appointment.”

 

“And—your terms?” asked Mrs. Mallathorpe. Now that her own scheme had

failed, she seemed quite placable to all Pratt’s proposals—a sure sign

of danger to him if he had only known it. “Better let me know them

now—and have done with it.”

 

“Quite so,” agreed Pratt. “But first of all—can you keep this secret to

yourself and me? The money part, any way?”

 

“I can—and shall,” she answered.

 

“Good!” said Pratt. “Very well. I want a thousand a year. Also I want

two rooms—and a business room—at the Grange. I shall not interfere

with you or your family, or your domestic arrangements, but I shall

expect to have all my meals served to me from your kitchen, and to have

one of your servants at my disposal. I know the Grange—I’ve been over

it more than once. There’s much more room there than you can make use

of. Give me the rooms I want in one of the wings. I shan’t disturb any

of you. You’ll never see me except on business—and if you want to.”

 

Again the calm acquiescence which would have surprised some men. Why

Pratt failed to be surprised by it was because he was just then feeling

exceedingly triumphant—he believed that Mrs. Mallathorpe was,

metaphorically, at his feet. He had more than a little vanity in him,

and it pleased him greatly, that dictating of terms: he saw himself a

conqueror, with his foot on the neck of his victim.

 

“Is that all, then?” asked the visitor.

 

“All!” answered Pratt.

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe calmly folded up the draft advertisement and placed it

in her purse. Then she rose and adjusted her veil.

 

“Then—there is nothing to be done until I get your answer to this—your

application?” she asked. “Very well.”

 

Pratt showed her out, and walked to the cab with her. He went back to

his rooms highly satisfied—and utterly ignorant of what Mrs.

Mallathorpe was thinking as she drove away.