Faulkner's Folly

Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.

A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman's back, when he should have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar.

Faulkner's Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect's joy and delight. It showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and Faulkner's Folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.

James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home.

The man who bought Faulkner's Folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner's house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.

A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner's death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the Stannards' while the picture was being painted. Partly because of sentiment toward her husband's favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait.

But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door.

"Blake," she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As the Stannards' guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts' servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house.

Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled face,--it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.

"Blake! What is it?" she said, alarmed at his manner. "What are you doing?"

"I--heard a strange sound, Madame,--from the studio----"

"A strange sound?" and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.

"And the lights in there, just went out----"

"The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?"

"No, Madame--but--there, Madame! Did you not hear that?"

"Oh, yes, yes," and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry faintly, "Help!" It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire extremity. "What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!"

"Yes, Madame," and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.

Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.

"I knew it was something dreadful!" Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.

Beatrice gave one gasping "Oh!" and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.

At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.

"Is he--is he----" began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.

Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.

Joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.

Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.

"We must do something," he muttered, starting toward his master. "There is some accident----"

As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.

"Eric," she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting.

"Who did this, sir?" Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.

"Natalie," he said, "not Joyce." The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.

"No!" Natalie screamed. "No! Eric, don't say----"

But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.

Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.

"Do something, Blake," she cried. "Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?"

Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce's assistance, and gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her husband's side.

"I don't--know--" returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. "Did you kill him, Natalie?"

"No!" cried the girl. "You know I didn't! You killed him yourself!"

Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was Stannard's own man.

Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable servants took the helm.