Hurry as he might, it was nearly half-past seven before Rodney Elmore reached that restaurant in Jermyn Street at which he was due at seven. The fault was Stella's. Had she not spun out the parting to such an unconscionable length, he would have been able to be there in time. But he could not explain this to Gladys Patterson, who had never heard of the girl. She rose, as he came in, from a seat in the vestibule, with a face which mirrored the anxiety she had felt.
"Whatever is the matter? I thought that something had happened, and you weren't coming."
"My dearest child, I've been the victim of a series of accidents; I was beginning to wonder myself if I should ever get here."
Then he told another lie--invented on the spur of the moment. He had not troubled to prepare one on the way; he was not sure of the mood in which he might find her; one story might suit one mood another another. With him, to lie was as easy as to breathe; he himself was often hardly conscious he was lying, he lied so like truth.
"So you see, I've been half off my head, and in a deuce of a stew. Perhaps you'll tell me what you'd have done in my position. But, thank goodness, I'm here at last. The worst of it is, I haven't ordered dinner, or reserved a table; we shall have to take pot-luck; let's hope that thetable d'hôteis worth eating." It so chanced that there was a table, and that themenuof the set dinner read quite well. Presently they were fronting each other at a little table in a corner of the room, each in the best possible frame of mind. She had forgotten the strain of waiting in her delight that he had come, while he was charmed to find her in so good a temper. Indeed, he seemed to be in the very highest spirits, and when he was that no one could be better company. Then the food was good; that was a point on which they both were excellent judges. On the occasion of that first dinner in Russell Square each had played on the other a pleasant comedy; to make a good impression on the strange cousin, who might have views on such matters, Gladys had drunk nothing but water, and, for some similar reason, Rodney had done the same. It was only when, later, they were on more intimate terms, that they learned that neither was a teetotaller. It was rather funny. As a matter of fact, so far as the pleasures of the table were concerned, Gladys was in very truth her father's child; not only could she appreciate good food well cooked, but she was by way of being a connoisseur of certain wines; and in such respects Rodney was an excellent second.
Before the dinner was half way through she was looking at him with something in her eyes which spoke to a similar something which was in his. He had forgotten the episode of the afternoon as if it had never been. This was the sort of girl he loved to have in front of him on the other side of a table--one who would eat what he ate, drink what he drank, do as he did; to whom he could say whatever he pleased. They joked on the subject of the absent Mr. Patterson.
"I wonder," she said, "what would happen if he walked in here at this very moment."
Rodney also wondered, for a second, in silence.
"For one thing, he'd spoil our evening, because he'd start you straight away off home."
"Would he? I should take some starting. I never am particularly afraid of him, and I'm not in the least when I've had two glasses of Montebello--rattling good bottle, this is. Thank you; that's the third. What beats me is why you're afraid of him. You don't strike me as being a person who's afraid of much. What would it matter if he did give you the key of the street, so far as his office is concerned? You'd easily find a better one. There's a mystery somewhere. Don't imagine, my dear old man, that I don't know so much. Why has he such an objection to you? And why are you so much in awe of him? Now's your time--out with it. Make a clean breast of it--between this glass and the next."
class="normal""I can't tell you why he objects to me, but I can assure you that I don't stand in awe of him."
"Rubbish! If you don't, why have you kept away from me in the way you have done?--you exasperating boy! I console myself with the reflection that if I'm losing your society you're losing mine; because I'll bet a trifle that you're just as fond of seeing me every other day or so as I am of seeing you."
"You're right there. If I saw you all day and every day I shouldn't mind."
"I'm not so sure of that; there's a limit. It might be all right for a time; but, my hat! wouldn't you get bored after a month of nothing else but my society!"
"What price you--after a month of nothing else but me?"
She seemed to reflect before she answered.
"You see, it's like this; if you and I were alone together for a month, or longer----"
"I'd be willing to make it longer."
"Would you?"
She looked at him with shining eyes.
"Rodney, you're a dear. If we were to be alone together for so long as that, we should have to alter the pace. I fancy that where a man and a woman are concerned it's the pace that kills."
"What do you mean by that, oh, wise one?"
"If you had one pound of chocs to eat you might gobble them down as fast as you please, and no harm would be done."
"You've tried it?"
"Perhaps! But if you had a ton you would have to go, oh so carefully, or you would be so sick. But we meet so seldom that when we do we want to gobble; I know that, so far as I am concerned, I want to get as much of you as I possibly can during the short time we are together."
"Same here--only more so."
They smiled at each other across the little table. Then, glancing down, she transferred her attention to what was on her plate.
"But, of course, if we weren't to part for a month--or more--it would be different."
"True, oh, queen! And suppose we were to marry!"
"I don't think I'd mind."
"I'm pretty nearly sure I shouldn't."
"That's very sweet of you to say so. Only--there's dad!"
"There's very much dad!"
"He can forbid my seeing you, and that kind of thing, if he pleases; and if he finds out that I've been disobedient he'll make himself extremely disagreeable. Still, I fancy I could manage him. But if I were to marry you against his wishes, I don't believe I'd ever get another penny from him, living or dead; and as you have no immediate promise of becoming a millionaire, that would be awkward for both of us."
"It would. All the same, don't you think it would be comfy if we were secretly engaged--in the event of anything happening to him?"
class="normal""What's going to happen?"
"Anything--living the sort of life he does."
"Are you hinting that there's anything the matter with his health?"
"My dear girl, you've only to use your eyes to be aware that a doctor would tell him that he's the kind of man who ought to swear off everything. And does he?"
"You make me feel all shivery. You talk as if you expected him to die right off."
"We've all had sentence of capital punishment pronounced against us, and, though we don't know when it will be put into execution, in such a case as his it's possible to guess that it mayn't be very long postponed."
"Rodney! I don't like to hear you talk like that. He's fond of asking me questions about you; I hate telling lies; if we were engaged, and he were in one of his cross-examining moods, I might find myself in a fix."
He played with his knife while a waiter was bringing another course.
"Consider something else. Let me put a hypothetical case. Suppose a girl were to make a dead set at me, I might like to be able to tell her that I'm engaged already."
"Who's the girl?"
"The girl, like the case, is hypothetical; but I can conceive of circumstances in which I should like to feel that we were engaged."
class="normal""You've changed your mind. A short time ago you were all the other way."
"I've been considering matters. Say, for example, that your father puts his foot down, and that we don't see each other again for an indefinite period. Do you not think that then I should not like to feel that we were engaged?"
"You can feel that we're engaged all you want to, without our setting it down in black and white. Aren't you as sure of me as if I were your wife already? Don't you know that if circumstances permitted I would become your wife? Do you wish me to understand that I'm not as sure of you?"
"Gladys, you're a goose. So far as I'm concerned, I'm inclined to the opinion that I'd like you to be my wife to-night."
"It's you who are the goose. As if we didn't understand each other far too well to render it necessary to have things placed on a ceremonious footing. We can do without formulas."
On the Sunday Rodney Elmore kept his engagement with the third young woman, with the punctiliousness on which, in such matters, he prided himself. He went down to Brighton on the Pullman, Limited, and was met at the station by Mary Carmichael. He exclaimed, at sight of her:
"You angel!--to come and meet me!"
"I'm not quite sure that I did come to meet you, in the strict sense. I'd nothing to do; I've always a feeling that the queerest lot of people come by this train, the oddest sort of week-enders--didn't you notice how the platform reeked of perfume?--so that its arrival's generally worth seeing. Besides, between ourselves, I'd a kind of notion that Tom might come by it. If he had I should have ignored you utterly, and should have explained that something within told me he was coming, and that was why I was here. Wouldn't he have been enraptured?"
As he listened--and, in his observant way, took in the details of her appearance--Rodney was conscious, not for the first time, of how beneficent Providence had been in making girls in such variety. Stella, emblematic of the domestic virtues; Gladys, for physical pleasure; Mary, suggestive of the arch in the sky, which, though a man may walk for many days, he shall never find the end of. To his thinking she was as many-tinted as a rainbow; as beautiful, as elusive. He doubted if the average man were her husband whether he would have any but the dimmest comprehension of her at the finish; she had a knack of surprising even him. He had known her a good long time, yet he admitted to himself that in many respects she was still wholly beyond his comprehension, and he prided himself, not without reason, on his gift for understanding persons of the opposite sex.
They went down towards the Hove lawns in a fly, and were still in Queen's Road when she said:
"So you've done it at last."
He turned towards her as if a trifle startled.
"Done what?"
"Asked Stella to be your wife."
"How on earth do you know that?"
"My simple-minded babe, aren't I the very dearest friend Stella has in the world? And didn't she, directly you left her yesterday afternoon, send me a telegram conveying the news? Do you think she would keep it a moment longer than she could help from me, especially as she is perfectly well aware that I've been on tip-toe for it for goodness alone knows how long? And aren't I expecting a letter of at least half a dozen pages to-morrow morning to tell me all about it? I wired my congratulations to her at once, and I almost wired them to you; then I thought I'd keep them till you came this morning. My congratulations, Rodney, dear."
He was more taken aback than he would have cared to own. What an idiot he had been! Had he had his senses about him he would have given Stella to understand that the new relationship between them must be kept private till it suited him to make it public. That she should have telegraphed to Mary the moment he had left her! Could anything be more awkward? If to Mary, why not to others? To her mother, her father, her brother, her cousins, and her aunts; and she had crowds of dearest friends. Possibly by now the news was known to fifty people; they would spread it over the face of the land. Had he foreseen such a state of things he would have torn his tongue out rather than have said what he did in Regent's Park. Imbecile that he was; he had forgotten altogether that that was just the tale a girl of a sort loves to tell. Had he had his wits about him he might have known that she would be all eagerness to proclaim her happiness to her friends. To have had a private understanding with Stella might have been fun. He might have lied to her; played the traitor; done as he pleased--it would not have mattered if her heart was broken so long as she suffered in silence. But the affair assumed quite a different complexion if her confounded relations were to have their parts in it. He would have to endure all kinds of talkee-talkee from her mother. That oaf Tom might want to thrust his blundering foot into what was no concern of his. Worst of all, there was her father. Rodney was quite certain that he would want to regularise the position at once; that he himself would be helpless in his hands. Mr. Austin would require a clear statement of his intentions; having got it, he would see that it was adhered to. Being opposed to long engagements, he would want to fix the wedding day--and he would fix it. Rodney was uncomfortably conscious that he had made such a conspicuous ass of himself that, being delivered into her father's strong hands, almost before he knew it he might find himself the husband of Stella Austin.
He shuddered at the thought--a fact which was observed by the young lady at his side.
"Whatever is the matter? You shook the fly! You haven't thanked me for my congratulations, nor do you seem so elated as I expected. You know I'm not sure that it was quite nice of you to propose to another girl on the very day before the one on which you knew you were coming down to me. For all you could tell, I was expecting you to propose to me."
"If I'd only thought there was the slightest chance, wouldn't I have loved to."
"I suppose for the sake of practice."
"Well--there are girls with whom one would like to practise love-making."
"That's a nice thing to say, and you an engaged man of less than four-and-twenty hours' standing. There's a taximeter--stop him! Pay the driver of this silly old cab and let's get into the taxi."
The transfer was effected, the driver of the "silly old cab" expressing himself on the subject with some frankness. When they were in the taxi the lady set forth the idea which had been in her mind.
"I don't want to go on to the horrid lawns and see the stupid people in their ugly dresses; I can't take you to aunt's house, because, as you know, she's away, and I don't want the servants to talk; I don't want to lunch at either of the hotels, because I hate them all; I do want to go where we can be all by ourselves, so I suggest the Devil's Dyke. This taxi will romp up; it's the most vulgar place I know, so we go where we please and do as we choose--everybody does up there."
So it was the Devil's Dyke. The taxi did "romp up." They had lunch at the hotel, and afterwards went out on to the downs, Rodney carrying a rug which he had borrowed from the hotel over his arm. They had not to go far over the slopes before they had left the few people who were up there behind, and were as much alone as if they had the world to themselves. Rodney spread the rug on the grass at the bottom of one of those little hollows shaped like cups which are to be found thereabouts by those who seek. On it they reclined; the gentleman lit a cigar, the lady a cigarette. They were as much at home with each other as either could desire. Their conversation was frankness itself.
"When I feel like liking it," observed the lady, "this is just the sort of thing I do like. You're engaged, and I'm engaged, so we ought to be nice to each other. Do you mind my kissing you?"
"Not a bit."
She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, he removing his cigar to enable her to do it. Then she blew her cigarette smoke in his face and laughed. He said nothing; he was thinking that there was a good deal to be said for being on such terms with three nice girls. After all, there might be something in the Mohammedan's idea of paradise. She was silent for a moment; then inquired:
"Why did you ask Stella after all? Because you knew she'd like you to?"
He considered his reply.
"No; not altogether. Of course, at the beginning I never meant to, then all of a sudden I felt as if I had to. I had a sort of feeling that it would be such fun."
"And was it fun?"
"Distinctly; I wouldn't mind going through it all over again."
"Wouldn't you? Now you'll have to marry her."
"Shall I?"
"Don't you want to marry her?"
"I do not."
"That's unfortunate, because you certainly will have to."
"We'll see."
"Stella'll see--or, rather, her family will. If it were any other but the Austin family I should have said that a person of your eel-like slipperiness----"
"Thank you."
"Might have wriggled away; but if you wriggle away it will be out of the frying-pan into the fire. For ever so long the family has been expecting you to ask Stella to marry you; you've fostered the expectation, and now that you have asked her, if you try to sneak out of your engagement, Mr. Austin will make things so uncomfortable that you'll find it easier to make Stella Mrs. E."
"And do you want to marry Tom?"
"I do not. All the same, I expect I shall."
"Why? If you don't want to?"
Miss Carmichael sent a cloud of smoke up into the air.
"A girl's position is so different from a man's. I must marry someone, and, so far as I can see, it may as well be Tom."
"Why must you marry someone?"
"Don't be absurd! Can you conceive me as a spinster? Rather than be an old maid I'd--marry you; I can't say anything stronger."
"You've a friendly way of paying compliments."
"My dear young fellow; as a--chum, when I'm in the mood, you're ripping, simply ripping; but as a husband--good Lord, deliver us! If Stella understood you only a quarter as well as I do she'd be only too glad to let you go the very first moment you showed the faintest inclination to bolt."
class="normal""And, pray, what sort of wife do you think you'll make?"
Again a pause, while more cigarette smoke went into the air.
"Depends on the man."
"I presume to what extent you can fool him."
"I can imagine a man to whom I would be all that a wife could be, the whole happiness of his whole life."
"I can't."
"That's because you don't understand me as well as I do you."
"What sort of wife do you think that you'll make Tom?"
"Oh, he'll be content."
"Poor devil!"
"I'm not so sure; it's a good thing to be content. Each time I put my arms about his neck he'll forgive me everything."
"So far as I gather, the difference between me as a husband and you as a wife consists in this: that while I'm going to be found out, you're not. I don't see why you should be so sure of the immunity you refuse to me."
"I admit that in this world one never can be sure of anything. I quite credit you with as much capacity to throw dust in a woman's eyes as I have to throw dust in a man's. Still, there is a difference between us of which I'm conscious, though just now I'm too lazy to attempt an exact definition. I really can't see why you object to Stella; she'll make you a good wife."
"Hang your good wives!"
"My child! Do you want a bad one? You should have no difficulty in being suited."
"Is a sinner likely to be happy if mated to a saint?"
"Would he be happier if mated to another sinner? In that case you might do well to marry me--which I doubt."
"I don't. I'm disposed to think that ours would be an ideal union."
"I wonder."
"Neither would expect the other to be perfect; each would allow the other a wider range of liberty for purely selfish reasons."
"I say, wouldn't it be rather a joke if you were to throw over Stella and I were to throw over Tom and we were to marry each other?"
"I'd do it like a shot if it weren't for one drawback--that we both of us are penniless."
"That is a nuisance, since we are both of us so fond of what money stands for. If you had five thousand a year perhaps I might marry you after all."
"I'm sure you would."
"Pray why are you sure? You've a conceit!"
"I am sure."
"If--I say if--I were to marry you, would you give me a good time?"
"The very best--a time after your own heart."
"Would you? Lots of frocks?"
"All the frocks your soul desired."
"Everything I wanted?"
"That's a tall order. I'm only human."
"That certainly is true. I shouldn't be surprised if you were more generous even than Tom."
"I don't call that sort of thing generosity. A man gives things to a woman he cares for because he has a lively sense of favours to come."
"That's candid. You've given me one or two trifles already. Has that been with a lively sense of favours to come?"
"Perhaps."
"You wretch! Would you care for me a little?"
"I care for you more than a little now, as you are perfectly well aware."
She turned and whispered something in his ear. He smiled, but kept silent. Presently she said aloud:
"It would be rather a joke if we were to marry. Now that the idea's got into my head I can't get it out again. It makes little thrills go all over me--dear little thrills. I hope that if ever you do marry me it will be before I have had to resort to any of women's aids to beauty. I should like you to have me just as I am, while I am really at my best and while I can still bear the most searching investigation. My complexion's my own; I use no powder, rouge, or pencil. I haven't a false tooth in my head or even a stopped one. I've only a weeny pad on the top of my head, which is rendered absolutely necessary by the present style of hairdressing--everything about me's true."
"Outside."
"Sir! I dare say we shouldn't make such a very bad pair. Would you--like to marry me?"
"Given an assured position, I would marry you."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what we might do. You might marry Stella, and--dispose of her with some nice painless thing like chloral; and I might marry Tom, and--delicately dispose of him. Then we should both of us have an assured position, and--we could marry."
"There's more in the idea than meets the eye."
She threw the fag-end of her cigarette away from her and laughed.
"You're simply ripping!" she exclaimed.
Rodney Elmore returned by the 9.10 to town. He had meant to travel by the Pullman, but as he entered the station the train was drawing clear of the platform. Being informed that another express was starting in ten minutes, he had to be content with that. Beyond doubt the Pullman had been crowded; as he found himself the sole occupant of a first-class carriage, he was inclined to think that he had not lost by the exchange. He was in a mood for privacy. Events had followed each other so quickly; he had so many things to consider that he was glad of an opportunity for a little solitary self-communion. He was not pleased, therefore, when, just as the signal had been given to start, someone came rushing along the platform, the door was thrown open by an officious guard, and a passenger was hoisted into his compartment while the train was already in motion; nor was his pleasure enhanced by the discovery that the intruder was his uncle, Graham Patterson. In such disorder had Mr. Patterson been thrown that it was some seconds before he even realised that he had a companion. Uncovering, he wiped first his brow, then the lining of his hat. He panted so for breath that his critical nephew said to himself that if he had run a little further, or even a little faster, he might have panted in vain; he had never seen a man in such difficulty with his breathing apparatus. His face was purple, his eyes seemed to be bulging out of their sockets.
The train had passed Preston Park station before Mr. Patterson had sufficiently recovered himself to become alive to the fact that he was not alone. But that he still did not recognise his companion his words showed.
"I'm not exactly--of the build--to--run after trains."
The moment he spoke Rodney became aware that Mr. Patterson had been drinking. Not enough, perhaps, to affect his speech--the hyphenated form of the remark he had just made was owing to the trouble he still had to breathe--but sufficient to place him at the point which divides the drunk from the sober. Elmore was still; possibly because he was unwilling to spoil what he felt was the grim humour of the situation. His silence apparently struck the other as odd. Presently Mr. Patterson glanced round as if to learn what manner of person this was who offered no comment on his observation. Then he perceived who his companion was.
The discovery seemed to fill him with amazement which approached to stupefaction. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged still farther out of his head, his face assumed a darker shade of purple; he looked like a man who was on the verge of a fit. His nephew felt that he had never seen him present so unprepossessing a spectacle. His surprise was so great that an appreciable space of time passed before he could find words to give it expression. Then they were of a lurid kind.
"By gad!--it's you! Well, I'm damned!"
"I'm sorry, sir, to hear it."
The retort was so obvious that it had slipped from Rodney's lips almost before he was aware. Its effect on Mr. Patterson was so great that for some moments his nephew was convinced that that apoplectic fit which he had so often seen threatening was hideously close. Mr. Patterson himself seemed conscious of the risk he ran. He made a perceptible effort to regain self-control--a painful one it evidently was. He put his finger to his collar as if to loosen it; one could see that his hand shook, his lips trembled, beads of sweat stood on his brow. Probably more than a minute had passed before he felt himself in a condition to speak again. Still his voice was a little hoarse, his utterance not quite clear.
"My lad, if I could have got at you this morning I should have killed you."
"Should you, indeed, sir. Pray why?"
The young man had been observing his senior's plight with a sense, not only of amusement, but of positive relish. He was conscious that a spirit of malice had entered into him. He was prepared to return insolence with insolence. This bloated relative of his should this time not find him disposed to cringe.
Still with his finger to his neck, as if he would have liked to loosen his collar, Mr. Patterson went on, yet a little huskily:
"Luckily I didn't get at you, because I'll do worse than kill you, now."
"I thank you for your kind intentions, sir. You have not yet told me what I have done to deserve them."
"You've been getting at that girl of mine again."
"You use unpleasant phrases, sir. I'm afraid you have been drinking."
"You young swine! In spite of what I told you, last night you took her out with you again to dinner."
"Premising that I don't see why you should so resent my showing little courtesies to members of your family, may I ask on what grounds your statement is based?"
"You young word-twister! You've your father's tongue. Do you deny it?"
"That I've my father's tongue?"
"That you took my girl to dinner?"
"It's for you to prove; not for me to disprove."
"A man came to me on the front this morning and said that he saw my daughter dining last night in Jermyn Street with a young man. He described the fellow; from his description I knew that it was you. If I could have got at you then and there I'd have broken my stick across your back! I'd have--I'd have---- Are you going to tell a lie, and say it wasn't you?"
"It was."
"It was?"
"It was. Why not? We had a most agreeable evening, much more agreeable, perhaps, than you have any notion of. Possibly, if you ask Gladys, she herself will tell you so."
"You--you----!"
"Steady--go slow! If you don't take care you'll have a fit--you know you have been drinking."
Possibly because he had given way to such a sudden access of rage, Mr. Patterson again went through all his former disagreeable physical experiences, while his nephew smiled. He sat inarticulate and gasping, incapable alike of speech or movement. When, after a prolonged interval, the faculty of speech returned, his voice had grown huskier than ever; he spoke slowly, with a pause between each word.
"All right, my lad--laugh, but you won't laugh last. You're not going to put me in the cart, as your swindler of a father did; I'm going to put you there. I warned you what would be the result of your attempting to have any more traffic with my girl, so you've yourself to thank for whatever happens."
He stopped, as if he found a difficulty in saying much at once. When he continued, while his tones were a little clearer, they were more bitter. "Directly I get home I'm going to tell my girl what kind of man you are, and what kind of man your delectable father was. When she knows, I'll wager you a trifle that she never willingly speaks to you again; she'll despise herself for ever having spoken to you at all; she'll treat you in the future as if you had never been. She has her faults, but she resembles her father on one point--she has no use for a thief, and especially for a thief who is the son of a thief."
Another pause; this time, apparently, not so much for the sake of gaining breath as to enable his words to have their full effect on the smiling young man at the other end of the carriage. If he looked for some sign of their having touched him on a sensitive spot, he found none; the young man continued to smile. Possibly because he suspected that it might be the other's intention to irritate, he kept himself the more in hand. Leaning back in his seat, laying his parti-coloured silk handkerchief across his knee, for the first time he wore an appearance of ease, and he also began to smile.
"However, since I'm a cautious man, and you never can be certain what trick a blackguard will play upon a girl, I'll make assurance doubly sure; I'll take steps which will render it impossible for you to play a trick on my girl. The first thing to-morrow morning I'll take out a warrant for your arrest as a forger and a thief, and I'll give instructions to have it executed at once; so, you see, I'm better than my word, as I generally am. I warned you that if you dared to force yourself upon my girl again I'd have you gaoled, and I will. But I didn't undertake to give you a chance to show the police a clean pair of heels; yet I'm giving you one. If, between this and to-morrow morning--say, at ten--you can make yourself scarce, you can. But you'll have to be spry, because I give you my word that if the police do let the scent go cold it won't be for want of my urging them after you. You may run to earth if you like, but they'll dig you out. Don't you flatter yourself on your dodging powers; they'll get the handcuffs on your wrists."
Picking up his handkerchief with his finger-tips, Mr. Patterson let it fall again across his knee, smiling broadly as if in the enjoyment of a joke.
"And don't you flatter yourself that you'll come under the First Offenders Act--you won't, I'll take care of that. I've a list locked up in a drawer at the office the details of which, when they are produced in court, will surprise you. No jury will recommend you to mercy after hearing that, and no judge will listen to them if they do. You'll be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment as sure as you are sitting there. You'll be branded as a felon for the rest of your life. I'll teach you, you thief, to try to associate as an equal with that girl of mine."
Again he picked up his handkerchief; on this occasion to wipe his lips. But this time he did not return it to his knee; he continued to hold it in his hand--indeed, he waved it affably towards Elmore.
"I owed your father one--such a one! But he never gave me a chance of paying him. Now I owe you one--also such a one--and I'll pay you both together--by gad, I will! Oh, you may keep on smiling, you brassbound blackguard; I hope you'll find the reality as amusing as you seem to find the prospect. When you feel a policeman's hand upon your shoulder and handcuffs on your wrists, then you'll stop smiling. Make no mistake; for you there's only one way of escape, and that's your father's--suicide."
Stopping, Mr. Patterson thrust his handkerchief into the outer breast-pocket of his coat in such a fashion that the hem protruded. There was silence, broken only by the rushing noise made by the train. All at once Rodney Elmore, rising, moved along the carriage and placed himself on the seat immediately in front of his uncle.
Mr. Patterson glared at his nephew as if he had been guilty of a gross liberty in placing himself where he had done--indeed, he said as much.
"Go back to your own end of the carriage at once, you young scoundrel. How dare you come so close to me? Isn't it sufficient contamination to have to breathe the air of the same compartment, without being polluted by your immediate neighbourhood?"
Rodney was not at all abashed, nor did he show any sign of an intention to return whence he came. On the contrary, leaning a little forward, he smiled at his uncle blandly.
"Softly, sir, softly! If you allow yourself to become excited you may do yourself a mischief--excitement is the worst possible thing for you."
"None of your insolence, you young hound; don't you think I'll allow you to be insolent to me! Are you going back to the other end of the carriage?"
"No, sir; I am not."
"Then----"
Mr. Patterson made as if to move, then checked himself. Rodney asked:
"What were you going to do?"
"If you don't go back to the other end of the carriage at once I'll pull the communication cord and stop the train."
"And then?"
"I'll give you into custody before the whole trainful of passengers."
"Into whose custody?"
"The guard will take charge of you till we get to a station; he won't let you go till he has seen you safe in the hands of a policeman. You won't have a chance of running; you'll sleep in gaol tonight. Are you going back to your own seat?"
"I propose to remain where I am."
"Then I'll stop the train!"
He made as if to do as he said, but Rodney, rising first, laid his hand upon his shoulder to such effect that he found himself unable to move. Indignation brought back the purple to Mr. Patterson's face.
"You dare to touch me? You infernal young villain--take away your hand!"
"I don't intend to allow you to touch the communication cord."
"You don't intend! We'll see about that."
They did see, on the instant. The black knob of the alarm bell was over the centre seat in front of Mr. Patterson. Putting out his strength, evading Rodney's grip, he gained his feet. Elmore took him by the shoulders with both his hands. There was a scuffle--sharp, but brief. For a moment it looked as if the elder man might be a match for the younger, but for a moment only. On a sudden Mr. Patterson collapsed on to his seat as if the stiffening had gone all out of him and left him but a mass of boneless pulp. He could only gasp out words.
"You shall smart for this!"
"If you're not very careful, sir, you'll smart first--my dear uncle."
"Don't you call me your dear uncle."
"My dear uncle."
"Damn you, you----"
A flood of vituperation poured from the elder man's lips, which, when he had finished, left him an even darker shade of purple. Rodney never ceased to smile. So soon as the flood had stopped he repeated the endearing form of address.
"My dear uncle"--Mr. Patterson was panting, for the moment he was speechless--"turn and turn about's fair play, and fair play's a jewel. You've had your say, now I'm going to have mine--you'll find mine as interesting as I found yours. To begin with, I'm going to ask you one or two questions."
"I'll answer no questions of yours."
"Oh, yes, you will, when you find what they are. In the first place, am I to understand that you are really serious--weigh your words, my dear uncle!--in saying that you'd tell Gladys--what you said you'd tell her?"
"So soon as I get home I'll tell her everything--everything--about you, and your rascally father, too."
"Will you?"
"I will--as sure as you are living!"
"So surely as that? And are you prepared to take your oath that you'll take out that warrant you were speaking of, or--was that intended for a jest?"
"Oath! I'll take no oath to you--you Nature's gaol-bird! But of this I assure you, you'll sleep in a prison cell to-night, and many and many another night to come."
Mr. Patterson, dragging the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, used it to wipe away the perspiration which again bedewed his brow.
"Shall I?"
"You will."
"Oh, no, I won't; nor will you tell Gladys those unkind things about me and my father."
"Who the devil's going to stop me?"
"I'm the devil who's going to stop you."
Rodney was leaning a little forward. His uncle stopped in the process of wiping his brow to stare at him, as if there were something in his manner which struck him as peculiar. About the young gentleman's lips was the same easy, unconcerned smile which had been there all the time; there was a smile also in his eyes--it was, apparently, this latter which gave him the odd expression which had struck his uncle. Mr. Patterson glanced about him as if in search of something he would have liked to find. Rodney sat perfectly still. As he put a query to him his uncle's pursy lips showed a tendency to twitch.
"How are you going to stop me?"
"Can't you guess how I am going to stop you?"
"I can do nothing of the kind. You can't stop me, or anyone. I am going to do my duty to my daughter and to society, and nothing can stop me."
"You know better than that. From something which has just come upon your face I can see that already you know better."
Mr. Patterson gave what he doubtless meant to be a spring towards the alarm bell opposite; but, for reasons which were beyond his control, his movements were slower than they should have been--the younger man was much too quick for him. Gripping him again by both his shoulders, exerting greater strength than on the first occasion, he forced him back upon his seat with a degree of violence which seemed to drive the sense half out of him. As Rodney, remaining on his feet, stood towering above him, one perceived more clearly that his was the build of the athlete, and how great were the probabilities, if they came to grips, that the big man would be helpless in his hands. He addressed his uncle as an elder person might have spoken to a mutinous child.
"My dearest uncle--you really must permit me to lay stress upon your avuncular relationship on what will probably be my last chance of doing so--you are not going to pull the alarm bell, you are not going to stop the train. You have no more chance of doing either than you have of flying to the moon, so get that into your drink-sodden brain. Nor are you going to libel me to Gladys, nor commit me to the mercy of a ruthless police. Presently you will see that as clearly as I do now."
Rodney resumed his seat, still keeping his glance fixed on his uncle, in whose demeanour a change seemed to have taken place which was both mental and physical. Possibly his nephew had used more violence than he supposed. The vigour had gone all out of him; inert, he stared at Rodney with bloodshot eyes, as if drink had taken sudden effect and bemused his brain. The young man's smile became more pronounced, as if he found the singularity of the other's appearance amusing. The tone of his voice, when he spoke, was genial and pleasant.
"My dear uncle, if you, the only relative I have in the world, had treated me, when first I entered your office, as you might have been expected to do, I might have become an affectionate and worthy nephew."
"Not you. You started robbing me before you'd been in the place a week."
"Is that so? So soon as that? Perhaps you have never known what it is to be in want of ready cash."
"When I was eighteen I was keeping myself on fifty pounds a year, for which I was working anything up to sixteen hours a day."
"Indeed! It might have been better if that period of your life had lasted longer. You wouldn't have been in the rotten condition you are."
"What's the matter with my condition? I never had a day's illness in my life."
"My dear uncle, if you weren't in a rotten condition you'd have rung that alarm bell before this, wouldn't you? But, although it's only within a foot or two, you'll never ring it--never, because you are rotten."
Mr. Patterson glanced towards the black knob. Rodney shook his head.
"It's no good, uncle. You won't be able to get at it--you know that. What an illustration you are of the desirability of keeping oneself fit! It seems that from the first you kept a sharper eye on me than I suspected."
"I'm not the fool you took me for."
"Aren't you? That remains to be seen. Do you think that it was the part of wisdom to threaten me as you have been doing when you and I were alone together in a compartment of a railway train which doesn't stop, at least, till it gets to Croydon?"
"I've not been threatening you; I wouldn't condescend. I've only been telling you what you may expect."
"That's all; and by doing so you've made the issue a simple one. If you reach town alive, to all intents I shall be dead; whereas, if you reach town dead, I--shall be on velvet, because you see, my dear uncle, I'm Gladys' lover; and she loves me, if possible, even more than I do her. I've proofs of it. Since she is your only child, when you are dead everything you have will be hers, which is tantamount to saying that it will be mine, which is just what I should like. So you will at once perceive how--from every point of view--very much to my advantage it would be that you should be dead."
"You young hell-hound! Unfortunately for you, I'm not dead, and I'm not likely to die."
"Oh, yes, you are, very likely--unfortunately for you. You told me that my father only found one way to escape trouble--suicide. You hinted in your most affectionate manner that some time, in my turn, I might only find one way. Your kindly hint made such an impression on me that I actually made preparations, so that I might never be at a loss if ever that time should come. Those preparations are contained in this dainty little box."
Rodney took from his waistcoat pocket what might have passed as a silver needle-case or receptacle for pins. He held it out in front of his uncle, who was as much moved by the sight of it as if it had been some object of horror.
"You--you're not going to make away with yourself before my eyes? You--you don't suppose I'll let you do it?"
"How would you propose to stop me?"
Again Mr. Patterson mopped his brow with his silk handkerchief of many colours. He presented a pitiable spectacle. His lips twitched, his hand trembled, and his whole huge frame seemed to shiver like a mass of jelly. His voice was broken and husky, he stammered in his speech.
"Elmore, you--you're quite right; I'm--I'm not very well. I--I've had a great deal to put up with lately, and it's unhinged me. Give me that infernal thing you've got there--I don't know what is in it, or if you're playing a trick with me, but--you give it me."
"I'm going to--shortly."
The young man's airy self-possession was in almost painful contrast to the elder's agitation. He glanced at his watch, holding the slender, round case between the finger and thumb of his other hand.
"Nearly half-past nine. What was that station we passed? Was it Hayward's Heath? I fancy we do stop at Croydon, so that there's not much time to spare. I'm going to act on your suggestion, uncle--with a difference. I am not going to commit suicide, but you are!"
"I am?--you young fool!--what do you mean?"
"In fact, you practically have committed suicide already."
"The man's mad."
"Possibly--but not on this particular point. When you told me in such very coarse language what I might expect, you practically committed suicide, as--I'm about to prove. You remember the case of the eminent financier who, within five minutes of being sentenced to a long term of penal servitude, was in a room which was immediately outside the court in which he had received his sentence, from which he was instantly to be haled to gaol, under the very noses of his warders slipped something between his lips and--escaped. You will probably remember the case better than I do, since at the time I was only a boy; yet I have studied it to such purpose that within this pretty little box are--shall we call them tabloids?--which are in all essentials identical with the one he swallowed. They kill as by a flash of lightning. Whoever has one of these within his reach no man shall stay him from--escaping. You are going to swallow one of these tabloids, uncle--this one." Unscrewing the top of his silver box, Rodney removed the cap, and took from it what looked like a small peppermint lozenge, holding it up between his finger and thumb.
"You see, uncle--this one; as it were, death reduced to its lowest possible denomination."
At that moment Rodney seemed to be exercising over his uncle some of the fabulous qualities attributed to the serpent. Beyond doubt Mr. Patterson recognised with sufficient vividness that this young man in front of him was much more dangerous than he had supposed; that he had underrated his capacity for evil; that he might as well have shut himself in with a tiger as with his sister's son. But the recognition came too late. The very force of it had the effect of destroying his few remaining powers of volition. In face of the deadly purpose with which he perceived that his nephew was filled, he was as one paralysed. He could only grow purpler and purpler, and splutter.
"Don't--don't you play any of your infernal tricks on me, you--you villain! Curse it, why can't I get at that bell!" He made as if to rise, but, seemingly, was as incapable of movement as if he had been glued to his seat. As if conscious that his peril was imminent, he raised his voice to a raucous scream.
"Don't--don't you dare to lay your hands on me! Don't--don't you dare to touch me! Help!"
As the uncle opened his mouth to cry for aid the nephew caught him by the throat and slipped between his lips the tiny white lozenge which he had taken from the silver box. Then he struck up his jaw with a click and held it shut, so that he could not put it out again. Forcing back his head, he gripped him tight. His uncle was seized with a convulsion which seemed to Rodney as if it must have shaken the carriage. Almost at the same instant it was as if all vitality had gone clean out of him. The nephew was gripping a limp corpse.