Take Mabel Joyce. She was showing him a side of her character whose existence he had not suspected. Yet he understood her, quite believed her when she said that she was fighting for her life. No one could have been sweeter to him than she had been; then she was such a pretty little thing, from the tips of her little pink toes to the top of her fluffy little head. It could hardly be set down to her as a fault if she was sweet no longer. Let him be just! Then there was Gladys, a girl of quite a different type; but that was the charm about women, there were so many types. He was persuaded that they would have the best possible time together, if the fates could only manage to be kind. He would make her a model husband, he really would; he rather wondered what it would feel like to be a husband, but he did not doubt that it would be all right. A little cramped, perhaps; but he would study her, and her interests, in every possible way. She should never regret the father she had lost, who was precious little loss after all. He would be better to her than a father; he should rather think so! Then there was Mary Carmichael; but at the thought of Mary Carmichael his pulses began to dance-that any man should be ass enough to care nothing for women when there was Mary Carmichael! Also, let him not forget little Stella-why, what an idiot he was; she was waiting for him now! He glanced at his watch. Great Scott! how the time had flown! And that poor child was longingly waiting for him to put his arms about her and stifle her with kisses. That he should be brute enough to let her wait!
He addressed the envelope, rang the bell, bade the lad who answered take it at once to Russell Square, took his hat off its peg, and, after a few hurried words to Andrews as he went out, started off for Kensington.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PERFECT LOVER
Stella, opening the door for him herself, was at him like a small wild thing.
"I thought you were never coming!"
"Why, it's not yet half-past five."
"Half-past five! when I expected papa to bring you with him, and he said you'd be here by five! Come in here; I'll talk to you!"
She took from him his hat and stick and gloves, and placed them on a table in the hall; then she led him by the sleeve of his coat into a room on the left, and shut the door, and drew a long breath.
"Oh-h-h! So you've come at last, my lord! Let me look at you, to make sure that it is you. Oh, Rodney, why have you been so long in coming?"
She put her arms about his neck and drew him down to her and kissed him. He said, softly:
"I do believe you have grown shorter."
"You wretch! To let a thing like that be your first word to me!"
"It's such a long way down, though it's well worth stooping for."
He kissed her again, tenderly, on her pretty lips-he was an expert in the art of kissing. Because he did it so well, she, not knowing that such skill came of practice, had him kiss her again and again and again, till the breath had half gone out of her body and she was all rapturous palpitation.
"If you only knew what ages it seems since I saw you!"
"Stella, what do you think it has seemed to me? If you only knew what I have gone through!"
"Poor boy! I suppose you have had to bear a good deal."
"You have no notion what I've had to bear."
That was true enough, or she would not have been as close to him as she was.
"It was bad enough when you didn't come on Sunday. I suppose you didn't get back from that Mrs. What's-her-name, your mother's friend, in time?"
"My dear, I had a chapter of accidents, and nearly missed the last train; I'll tell you all about it some day, and you'll laugh. I didn't feel like laughing then, I can tell you that."
"And I didn't feel like laughing, and I can tell you that. In fact, I-I cried."
"Stella!"
"I did; it seemed so awful. That was the longest Sunday I ever knew; and then when the evening came I kept expecting you every moment; I kept rushing out of the front door to look for you. Every footstep in the street I thought was yours, and every vehicle the hansom which was bringing you; when it kept getting later and later, and still you didn't come, I-I fancied all sorts of things, and I simply had to cry."
"My darling, I would infinitely rather have been with you than where I was."
That again was true enough; part of the time he had been in the tunnel-a gruesome time.
"What time was it when you did get back?"
"Frightfully late; but-Stella, you won't tell anyone if I tell you something? Promise!"
"Of course I promise. What-what is it?"
"You can laugh if you like; I don't mind your laughing a little bit; but I don't want them to laugh."
"Why should they laugh?"
"I did come to see you-after I came back."
"Rodney!"
"At least, I came as far as the outside of the house. I dismissed the cab at the corner; then I walked-or rather sneaked-along the pavement; if a bobby had seen me he'd have been all suspicion-till I reached the house. It was all in darkness; there wasn't a glimmer of light anywhere."
"What time was it?"
"About one, perhaps later."
"Rodney, I'd been in my room hours and hours; but I wasn't asleep; I was crying in bed."
"Stella! You were crying! Great Scott! if-if I'd only known it, I'd-I'd have done something."
"What would you have done?"
"I'd-I'd have done something if-if I'd had to break a window!"
"But what good would your breaking a window have done me?"
"Anyhow, it would have been a beginning; but, you see, I didn't even know which your room was-whether you were at the front or the back."
"I'm on the second floor in the front; my window's over the hall door."
"I kept staring at it all the time; I had a sort of feeling-I swear I had a sort of feeling! If I'd only been sure I'd have whistled."
"Whistled! At one in the morning! What would have been the good of that?"
"Suppose, say, I'd whistled 'The Devout Lover'-or what I should have meant for 'The Devout Lover'-you'd have heard."
"I probably should have heard; Miss Claughton would probably have heard also."
"Oh, hang Miss Claughton!"
"Rodney! Miss Claughton's a dear-and your hostess!"
"Miss Claughton may be an absolute angel for all I know-you know what I mean-so long as you heard I shouldn't have cared who heard. Then you'd have wondered who was kicking up that awful row."
"Do you think I should?"
"Certain! I can't whistle for nuts. Then you'd have got out of bed, crossed the room with your dear little bare feet-"
"Rodney!"
"And lifted the corner of the blind."
"I might."
"When you'd seen me hanging on to the railings for all I was worth, trying to get my breath and whistle at the same time; you'd have stopped crying, whatever else you did."
"Rodney, how absurd you are! Fancy your hanging on to the railings for all you were worth! What did you really do?"
"Oh, I hung about and hung about, and then I slunk off home. Wasn't it silly to come and see you at that time of night? I knew you'd laugh!"
"If I'd known you were there I shouldn't have cried. The idea, you darling! But, Rodney, why didn't you manage to get a peep at me the whole of yesterday?"
"Do you think I didn't try? – but I couldn't; it was a day of horrors! Just as I was wondering if I couldn't manage to get at least a kiss by making out that Kensington was on the way to the City, the news came of what my uncle had done. That was a facer, for a man to get news like that just as he was finishing his breakfast."
"But I thought you didn't get the news till you reached the City? You sent your first telegram from there."
"I got the news before, but I didn't understand; I didn't want to understand, I didn't dare to understand. Then I had to go to the inquest."
"Did you? It doesn't say anything in the paper about you being there."
"Of course not; my evidence wasn't wanted after all, but we all of us had to be there. It was awful!"
"You poor, poor boy! Afterwards why didn't you come straight to me?"
"I couldn't; I had to rush off to the City."
"But why?"
"Everything was in the most frightful confusion; no one knew why he had done it."
"But there was the verdict!"
"The verdict? My uncle was not a man to kill himself for a shadow; there might be a better reason. Say nothing to your father; I wish to impute nothing against my uncle's credit; but at one time it seemed just possible that he had done it, because he knew he was ruined, to save himself from shame, dishonour. We had to find out, to be certain, to make sure; we went all through the books; we went through everything; we were at it till the small hours of the morning."
"My dear! Did they tell you I had called?"
"Did they not! When I heard it I wished that I could have flown to you on a flying machine; but it was impossible."
"But papa tells me that you talk about going to the office every day this week."
"Stella, let me put a case. Suppose Mr. Austin were my uncle, and he had done what my uncle did, and everything were at sixes and sevens, and all the help was wanted that could be got, what would you think of me if I were to cut and run-it would amount to that! – even for the sake of the best and sweetest and prettiest and dearest girl in the world-meaning you?"
"That's all very well, Rodney; but I asked papa if he thought you really had to go-if you ought to go; and he said that so far as he could make out there wasn't the least necessity why you should ever set foot in the office again."
"Your father said that?"
"And I believe he's been making inquiries."
"Has he? When I see your father I shall have to tell him that this is a matter in which I am afraid I shall have to use my own judgment."
"At least you can get one day off to take me out-say to-morrow."
"To-morrow! It's my uncle's funeral."
"Well? There's no reason why you should go to it, if it is. Who expects you to go?"
For a moment it seemed as if the question had left the ready-tongued young gentleman nonplussed; but it was only for a moment.
"My dear Stella, isn't it sufficient answer to say that my uncle was the only relative I have in the world?"
"My dear Rodney, I don't wish to comment on your sudden sensitiveness where your uncle is concerned. I never dreamt that you felt for him what you seem to feel; but I suppose your connection with him will cease when he is buried?"
"In a sense, certainly."
"In all senses?"
"My dear Stella, I have already told you."
"To whom has he left his business?"
"Until the contents of the will are known who can say-positively?"
"Has he left it to you?"
"That I am quite sure he hasn't."
"Has he left you anything?"
"There again, till the will is read, who can be sure?"
"When is the will to be read?"
"To-morrow, after the funeral."
"Where?"
"At his house in Russell Square."
"Are you invited to be present?"
"'Invited' is scarcely the correct word; instructions have been issued that the whole staff is to attend. That rather looks as if he may have left something, possibly some trifle, to everyone who was actually in his employ at the time of his death."
"I see. That explains why you want to be present at the funeral. And afterwards, when the will has been read, will you-dine with us? Papa wants me to dine, I think, at the Savoy, to what he calls 'celebrate' our engagement."
"You may be sure I'll come if I can."
"'If'! It's again 'if.' Is it to be all 'ifs '?"
"My dearest Stella, what do you mean?"
"It doesn't matter. Shall we go to the drawing-room? I think we shall find that the Miss Claughtons and papa are waiting for us there."
The young lady turned as if to leave the room. He caught her by the arm.
"Stella, is it possible, is it conceivable, that you can imagine that what has happened is in the least degree, in any sense my fault? Can you suppose that I would not ten thousand times rather spend every hour of every day with you than do what I have done, what I may still have to do? – that my heart, my thoughts, are not with you every instant I have to spend in that confounded City?"
"Rodney, I am very anxious to believe that there are sufficient reasons which compel you to spend all the time you seem to spend in the City; but you don't manage to make it very clear what they are."
"Stella! Stella! How can you talk like that? What shall I say? What can I do?"
"You can promise to dine with us to-morrow night."
"I gladly promise it-gladly."
"There's no 'if' about the promise?"
"No 'if'! If you only knew how I shall look forward to coming, what pleasure I shall give myself in coming! My dear, if you only knew how I am looking forward to dining with you all the days of all the year!"
"And, Rodney, papa understand that you are coming into his business; is that what you understand?"
"Rather! You bet it is, if he'll have me. Do you think I'd throw away a chance like that?"
"Nothing that may be in your uncle's will will make any difference?"
"You goose! What do you suppose will be there? The probability is that there will be nothing of the slightest interest to me-at the most some trivial legacy-a hundred, fifty, five-and-twenty pounds! But let me tell you this, that in the present state of my exchequer even the latter sum will be a godsend. You don't know what it is to be in a chronic state of impecuniosity-a little millionaire like you!"
"I, a millionaire!"
"You don't appreciate the situation; you really don't. Entirely between us, I wonder that I ever had the courage-the cheek! – to tell you how much I love you; how dear to me is the ground under your small feet; how I long to have you in my arms-you, with the Bank of England at your back; and I! But-Cæsar's ghost! – what am I dreaming about? The sight of you, the touch of you, the sound of you, has so-so got into the very bones of me that I'd clean forgotten. Why-Stella! – what's this?"
He took a small, round, leather-covered box out of his waistcoat pocket.
"My dear Rodney-how should I know what it is?"
As she looked at the outside of the box her eyes began to sparkle-as if she did not know!
"There! Why, it's a ring!"
"What a pet."
"Give me your hand!"
"That's not the proper hand."
"Isn't it? Which is the proper hand?"
"Rodney! How ignorant you are!"
"My dear, have I had your experience?"
"My experience! – silly! I thought everybody knew on which hand the engagement finger was-there! – that is the finger!"
She held out to him a finger which, if it was small, was slim and daintily fashioned. He bent and kissed it.
"Dear digit! – salutation! Now, you unclothed midget, I'll clothe you with this ring."
"Oh, Rodney, what-what a darling!"
She pressed it to her lips.
"Does it fit?"
"As if it were made for me."
"Isn't that wonderful, when I only guessed?"
"Thank you-thank you, Rodney."
"It's only a poor little ring-a love token, to mark you as my own-that's all. But one day I'll give you the finest ring that money can buy, and you can put it in the place of this."
"As if I ever would-or could! Rodney, this is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen-ever, ever, ever! And it always will be the most beautiful ring in the world-to me. No other will ever take its place."
Her voice fell as she moved a little closer to him.
"I shall hope to be still wearing it when I am lying in my grave."
"Dear love!"
He took her in his arms and kissed her again, as it were, solemnly. He was practised in all varieties of the art. And they were silent.
CHAPTER XIX
THE FEW WORDS AT THE END OF THE EVENING
There were five of them at dinner-the lovers, the lady's father, her two hostesses-the Misses Claughton. These were cousins of her mother. Miss Claughton was tall and straight and prim; Miss Nancy Claughton, the younger sister, was stout and tender. Both ladies were disposed to make a fuss of Rodney, to invest him with a sort of halo, as if, in asking Stella to be his wife, he had done something which marked him out as an unusual young man. Mr. Austin's inclination was towards jocosity. Rodney had long since decided that a sense of humour was not that gentleman's strongest point. Dry he could be, he had rather an effective trick of it; but funny-no. His persistent efforts to be funny did not improve the flavour of what, from the young gentleman's point of view, was a sufficiently homely repast. The soup was doubtful, one could not be sure if it was meant to be clear or thick; the cod was boiled to rags-and, anyhow, he hated cod; the mutton was overdone; the sweets were suited to the nursery. Under the circumstances it was perhaps as well that, between Mr. Austin's jokes, the question chiefly discussed was where they should dine on the morrow. It was some consolation, Rodney felt, that there was a prospect of a decent meal after the passage of another four-and-twenty hours. The gentlemen did not remain at table when the feast was done; Mr. Austin was a teetotaller, and Rodney, when he had tasted Miss Claughton's claret, wished he was; so there was no temptation to linger over the wine. In the drawing-room they had "music." Stella played and sang. Rodney, whose taste in music was as fastidious as in other things, would have been content had she done neither. She had not got a bad little voice; from the point of view of those who liked little voices of the kind; but he had always been of opinion that it was worth more to the professors of singing than to anybody else. Still, she sang straight at him, and for him only; so it was not so bad. Presently Mr. Austin vanished, and the Misses Claughton followed. So he put his arm about Stella's waist, and that was better. She was even more disposed to be made love to after dinner than before, and somehow she seemed prettier and sweeter and more desirable to him. Under such conditions he was the kind of young man who was bound to shine.
After a while-quite an agreeable while-he led the conversation on to the subject which Mr. Austin had broached in the morning. The lady lent a complacent ear.
"Stella, I have a very serious question which I wish to put to you."
"What is it? If you can be serious."
"You will find I can when you have heard my question; I pray you incline your little pink ears unto my question. Will you marry me?"
"Perhaps, some day-silly!"
"When is 'some day'?"
"When would you like it to be?"
"This day; to-night."
"Rodney, you-you really mustn't talk like that."
"Why mustn't I?"
"You only proposed last Saturday."
"Well. Allow a week for that fact to get fixed firmly in your mind, another for preparation, why shouldn't 'some day' be Saturday week?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It's you who are ridiculous. If you keep me waiting long I shall kiss you all away."
"Am I the only girl you've ever kissed?"
"Yes."
"That's a fib; I saw you kiss Mary."
"Gracious! When?"
"Have you been so much in the habit of kissing Mary that you need ask when?"
"If by Mary you mean Miss Carmichael, I don't remember to have ever kissed her once."
"Well, I remember. And let me tell you something, sir: there have been times when-I've been jealous of Mary."
"Good gracious me! what an extraordinary child! Miss Carmichael's sole recommendation to me has been that she's your friend; besides, hasn't Tom an eye on her?"
"Oh, Tom! Tom never would see anything-like that; but I see. Honestly, don't you think Mary's very pretty?"
"She's not bad, in a way; but she's not to be compared with you."
"That she certainly isn't; you don't imagine that you can make me believe that I'm-a tenth part as pretty as Mary? Do you take me for a perfect goose?"
"Stella, do you remember what you said before dinner about the ring. You said-I don't know if you meant it."
"I meant every word I said, Rodney."
"Well, sweetheart, you said it was the most beautiful ring you had ever seen. Just as you said that, and meant it, I say and mean that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen; and, to me, you will be the most beautiful girl, as long as I live."
"Do you really mean that? Really?"
"By the time we're-Darby and Joan, you'll know I mean it. Now, young woman, I'm as one who speaks with authority. I'm authorised to inform you that if you will stand with me at the altar inside a month you will make your mother happy and your father happy, to say nothing of me. So which day next month is it to be? Shall I put it at the first?"
"Who told you to say that?"
"Your own father, this morning as ever was."
"Was-was the idea yours or his?"
"My very dearest-small one-"
"I'm not so small as all that! You're not to call me small!"
"Well, all-that-my-heart-desireth, which you are, I will tell you with such precision as is in me. I said to him: 'I want her! I do want her! Oh, I want her badly! But, if I have to earn her, I'll have to wait for her, I dare not think how long.' Then he said to me-exactly what I've told you; and my heart sang. Do you doubt? Ask him! To me the point is: shall we say the first?"
"Rodney, do try to be sensible! You're a man, and you can't understand."
"Is that so? So long as you do."
"To a girl her wedding day is the day of her life."
"Some girls manage to have several wedding days, so I suppose they have two or three days in their lives."
"There will be only one wedding day in my life. Whatever happens I want that to be, in every sense, a wonderful day; I want mine to be a pretty wedding."
"With you as bride that's assured."
"A really pretty wedding can't be arranged at a moment's notice; it takes time."
"Half an hour-or three-quarters?"
"Don't be so silly! Mamma's coming up to town to-morrow. I'll consult her; then I shall have some idea how long a time it will take."
"You mean how short a time! Do mean how short a time!"
"Well, how short a time. Rodney, how many bridesmaids would you like me to have?"
"Bridesmaids? My dear! What are bridesmaids to me, so long as I've the bride? All-all-all I'm going to be married to is the bride!"
"You are-a perfect-"
"Yes? A perfect-what?"
"Oh, I don't know! Rodney?"
She hid her face upon his shoulder.
"I always wondered what there was in a kiss to make a fuss about. Now-I know."
When he left it had been practically settled that the wedding should take place on the earliest possible day of the ensuing month.
He walked home, by way of Kensington High Street and the Park. And as he walked he mused, and more than once his musings moved him to something very much like laughter, out there in the solitude and the dark. Was ever man before in such a complication-promised at three weddings as bridegroom? As he tried to puzzle out how it all had come about it struck him as quite inconceivably comical. If he told the story to the ladies themselves they could scarcely fail to see how funny it was-at least, he hoped they would. The position would be simple enough if, as is still the custom in some of the more civilised countries of the world, a man could have wives galore. But if it came to choosing, why, there would be the rub. Mabel had her points; who knew it better than he? While as for Stella, he had never dreamed she was so charming. With her kisses still on his lips, her soft voice still in his ears, her pretty eyes still looking into his, how could he help but love her! Dear little Stella! A week all alone with her, even a fortnight-he would like to have the chance of it. Perhaps, after a fortnight, a little relaxation might be desirable, a sort of change of air. But why look so far ahead? Then there was Mary-but he dare not think of Mary Carmichael, even then. If he had ten thousand a year, and freedom, he would choose Mary Carmichael before all the girls he had ever met. But that was out of the question; he had better put her out of his mind. Things were already sufficiently complicated without adding her. On the whole, the circumstances being what they were, considering the position with the judicial calmness which was becoming, he plumped for Gladys; and-the business in St. Paul's Churchyard. Gladys Patterson should be his wife; yes, she should be his wife, on all accounts; on all! – if-if it was not necessary to take a voyage to foreign parts.
In that room on the second floor of the house in Kensington, Stella Austin, in her nightdress, her pretty hair hanging in two long plaits down her back, was on her knees beside her bed, seeming such a child. She was thanking God for all His goodness to her-she always began her prayers by thanking God. She thanked Him for many things, but chiefly, and beyond all else, for having given her so thoughtful, so tender, so true a lover. God knew how happy He had made her, and how full her heart was of gratitude to Him. And she prayed that God would make her worthy of the lover He had given. She knew how, in so many ways, he was above her, above anything she might ever hope to be; she prayed God that He would give her strength and grace, so that she might be at least a little more deserving. She had been unkind to-night, and-and wickedly jealous; she knew she had. Please God make her kinder and less selfish! And, when the time came, please God, make her a good wife, a good wife!
At this point articulate utterance ceased, her face fell forward on the coverlet because her eyes were streaming with tears. It was to her such a solemn and beautiful thought that she would before very long be Rodney Elmore's wife that she trembled with the very rapture of it, so that she could no longer even go on with her prayers.
* * * * *
When Mr. Elmore reached his lodgings, with the exception of the light in his sitting-room, the house was in darkness. But if that signified that the household had retired to rest, it did not follow that everyone was asleep, as he was presently to learn. He had only been in his room a couple of minutes when the door opened noiselessly-to admit Miss Joyce. Coming right in, she stood with her back to the door, which she closed behind her. She was in a state of undress which did not become her ill. As he eyed her Rodney compared her, mentally, with Stella; not to her disadvantage. She really was a good-looking girl; only-he did not like the look which was on her white face and in her eyes. He felt sure someone would notice it, and questions would be asked.
She spoke in so faint a whisper that what she said was only just audible; his voice was lowered in sympathy with hers.
"Mother's come back."
"Has she? That's good hearing. I hope she had a good time at your aunt's."
"I've got the licence."
"The-? Oh, have you? That also is good hearing."
"It cost me two pounds four and six."
"Did it? I hope you consider it to be worth the money."
"I've fixed it for Thursday at noon."
"Noon? Isn't that-rather an unfashionable hour?"
"Mind you're there! You've promised! I've got your promise."
"Am I likely to forget-the circumstances under which you got my promise?"
"If you're not there you'll be sorry."
"Honestly, Mabel, I think we shall both of us be sorry."
"You will! There's-there's another thing; I-I want to warn you."
"Warn me? Haven't you done that once or twice already?"
"I-I want to warn you against Mr. Dale."
"Against Mr. Dale? Why?"
"I believe he suspects."
"Suspects? What? About you and me?"
"About-your uncle."
"What does he suspect about my uncle?"
"He's been finding out things. Ssh! there's someone moving. Perhaps it's mother; she mustn't find me here, like this."
She flitted from the room as noiselessly as she had entered, shutting the door without its making a sound. He stood and listened. Perhaps it was her conscience which had made her fancy noises-all seemed still. If she had ascended to her room on the landing, a ghost could not have moved more silently.