class="normal""I want no thanks; I want deeds. I'm hopeful that the arrangement will turn out to our mutual advantage. Now, Rodney, tell me candidly do you love my girl?"
"Let me put question for question. Do you think I'm the kind of man who would ask her to be my wife if I didn't?"
"Then why didn't you ask her before?"
"Mr. Austin, you're not quite fair to me."
"How am I unfair?"
"I've loved Stella ever--ever since we were boy and girl together. I've tried to break myself of loving her, but I haven't succeeded. I've never been able to dream of anyone but her as wife. You were a rich man; I was not only penniless, but without prospects. Over and over again I've been on the point of telling her what I felt, but I've checked myself. It hasn't been easy, but I've done it. I meant to wait till I'd some shadow of a right to ask her to be my wife, but last Saturday, when I saw her dear face, I--I couldn't hold myself in any longer, and that's the truth."
"I'm glad you couldn't. While I'm quite aware that your sentiments do you honour, all the same I rather wish that you'd shown a little more of the perception with which I've credited you. Rodney, is there any reason why the marriage should be postponed?"
"Mr. Austin, I haven't at the moment five pounds in the world to call my own. That's the only reason, so far as I'm concerned; but some fathers would think it a quite sufficient one."
Mr. Austin's eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he settled his spectacles on his nose.
"I suppose they would, if you look at it in that way. You don't paint your position too attractively."
"It couldn't be worse than it is."
"You're not in debt?"
"Oh, I'm not in debt; I don't know who'd give me credit if I wanted it. I've just enough to live on, as it were, from hand to mouth; but, with all the goodwill in the world and all the management, I don't see how it's going to be enough for two."
"I see. You put the position with some clearness. As you say, some fathers would think it a sufficient reason for postponement, but I'm not one of them. As you perhaps know, Stella has some means of her own."
"Isn't that one of the reasons why I--I kept quiet for so long?"
"And on her marriage I shall settle a further sum on her, besides making other arrangements. For instance, I shall, as I have said, be glad to receive you in my business, giving you at the commencement a salary which will enable you to contribute towards some of the expenses of a wife, with the prospect of a partnership in the early future. Now, do you see any reason why there should be any postponement so far as you're concerned?"
"I shall be only too delighted to marry Stella next week."
"Next week is a little early perhaps; but what do you say to next month?"
"If I'm Stella's husband next month I shall be the happiest man in the world."
He looked and sounded as if he meant it.
"You understand that in matters of this sort it is the lady who has the final word, but you have my authority to tell Stella that if she can see her way to stand with you at the altar in a month or earlier, she will make her mother and father happy, to say nothing of you. Now suppose you come and spend the day with us?"
"My dear sir! I must go to the City."
"Meaning to your late uncle's office? Why? Can't you scribble a note as soon as you've finished breakfast, and make an end of that?"
"It's impossible; I must go to-day."
"Very well. Go to-day, and say you're not coming to-morrow, or ever again. Say good-bye."
"I'm afraid that that wouldn't be playing the game. I ought to go, at any rate, till the end of the week."
"Very well. Perhaps you're right in not wishing to leave them in the lurch, if the departure of such a junior clerk as I understand you are would be leaving them in the lurch. Then on Saturday you'll come down with me to Leicester, and on Monday I'll introduce you to the warehouse. It will be just as well that you should have a look round before you're actually installed."
Here was Mr. Austin mapping out everything for him, as he had foreseen long ago would be the case if he ever committed himself to Stella; treating him as a puppet who would be content to dance when he pulled the strings. He had no doubt that Mrs. Austin would be ready to play the same motherly part in the management of his domestic affairs. He smiled as he thought of it. His would-be father-in-law went on:
"I'm going to write to Mrs. Austin and wire to Tom; I want to arrange a little dinner for to-morrow in honour of a certain auspicious event. Stella tells me she wants you all to herself to-night, and I'm not to interfere. I don't know what she wants you for, I'm sure, but I've promised not to interfere. She'll pull a face when she sees you've not returned with me, so you come early; after disappointing her twice--on Sunday and last night--she'll think that you can't come too early."
"I'll leave the office as early as I can--trust me for that!--rush back here, dress, and come right on."
"Dress! You needn't dress! They're homely folk at Kensington, and Stella will excuse you; she won't want you to waste, in dressing, valuable time which might be spent with her. You come straight on from the office in your toil-stained garments. She'll want to know what time. Shall I say five? I dare say, at a pinch, you can manage to be in Kensington by five."
Rodney considered. If he did go straight on from the office he would at least escape the risk of another heated discussion with Miss Joyce--that would be something.
"Very well, sir; if Stella will forgive me coming as I am, as you say, all toil-stained, I'll try my best to be with her as near as possible to five."
Mr. Austin and Rodney left the house together, and so disappointed Miss Joyce, who was waiting to have one or two last words with Mr. Elmore. Having parted from Mr. Austin, Rodney paid a few calls on his way to St. Paul's Churchyard.
To begin with, he went into a jeweller's shop, and bought a ring set with pearls and diamonds--a simple, inexpensive trifle, which cost six pounds. It was designed for Stella's finger, and was to be her engagement ring.
"It won't do," he said to himself, "for it to cost too much, for one of her inquiring family will want to know where I got the money from. She'll value it none the less because 'I can no more, though poor the offering be.'"
Then he looked in at the offices of the White Star Steamship Company, and paid a deposit on a berth which he booked on a steamer which was to sail from Liverpool to New York on the following Thursday, booking it in the name of John Griffiths; then into the offices of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company, where he booked a berth for the following Friday, from Southampton to Buenos Ayres, in the name of Charles Dickinson; then to the Cunard offices, where he booked for Saturday to New York, in the name of Adolphus Ridgway. Afterwards he visited the Bishop's Registry, in Doctors' Commons, and there, having made certain affidavits, received, in exchange for two sovereigns, a strip of paper which authorised him to marry Gladys Patterson, spinster, at any church in the London diocese. Thus prepared, as one might suppose, for more than one emergency, he paid still another call before proceeding to St. Paul's Churchyard--on Clarence Parmiter, solicitor. From him he wanted to know what forms it would be necessary to go through to enable Miss Patterson to draw on her late father's banking account. Mr. Parmiter explained that to do this it would be necessary, first of all, to prove Mr. Patterson's will--and it was not usual to do that, at any rate, till after the testator was buried. When, Mr. Parmiter asked, was the funeral to take place. In spite of himself, his visitor smiled; so fast had events come crowding on him that the fact that the dead man would have to be put into his grave had entirely escaped his notice--so far as he was aware, no arrangements for the funeral had been made of any sort or kind. Mr. Parmiter looked as if he felt that the smile with which this announcement was made was a little out of place. He said that probably Rodney would find that the matter had been arranged by one of the executors, or by Miss Patterson herself. If cash was wanted in the interim; if Miss Patterson and Mr. Andrews, as executor, would attend with him at a bank with which Mr. Patterson had an account, he did not doubt that arrangements might be made which would provide the lady with such advances as she required; and, of course, if she chose, she might instruct the bank to honour any cheques which he--Rodney Elmore--might draw, acting on her behalf.
Mr. Elmore left his friend's chambers with a feeling strong upon him that the business of getting his uncle's money out of the bank was not going to be as simple as he had hoped it would be. Clarence Parmiter even told him that the bank would not now honour any cheque which Graham Patterson might have drawn while still alive. This he did feel was unreasonable; it rendered even forgery futile. If he could wait he did not doubt that matters would be perfectly all right; but--could he wait? If only certain difficulties could be smoothed away, and he was given time, he did not doubt that he would be able to load himself with money; but could they be smoothed away, even for a week? Danger threatened from so many quarters; he really had been such an utter fool. If he had only realised what a fool, he would have taken precious good care to walk more warily; he would have been a wiser and a better man. But wisdom after the event was easy; what he needed was to be ready at a moment's notice for whatever came. He had planned escape in three different directions on three following days--if he could only get away with enough money to count! There was that nest-egg which he had found in his uncle's drawer, but what was that to a man in his plight? What he wanted was ten, or even, say, five thousand pounds. With five thousand pounds he might do very well on the other side of the world.
As, strolling leisurely along, he considered the matter in all its bearings calmly, it appeared to him that nothing worth calling money could be got at least until the morrow. In the morning he would meet his cousin at the bank, with Parmiter and Andrews; the arrangements would be made of which Parmiter had spoken; then, immediately after, he would be free to lay hands on as much ready cash as the arrangements permitted. He had no doubt that everything would be all right until to-morrow--he would so manage that it should be; all the same, he would have liked to have had a good supply of coin at his command, in case. However, it was no use grizzling at what might not be. He smiled as he arrived at this conclusion; he was still smiling when he reached the office. He marched, as a matter of course, to the room which had been his uncle's own particular sanctum, and this time no one even as much as hinted nay. Indeed, he was presently followed by Andrews, who informed him, with a countenance of decent solemnity, that he had made arrangements, which he hoped would meet with his and Miss Patterson's approval, for the interment of Mr. Patterson's remains in the family vault at Kensal Green, the interment to take place upon the morrow--Wednesday. Tickled by certain thoughts of his own, Rodney smiled as he listened; but this time, as his face was bent over the table, it is possible that the smile went unnoticed. He expressed himself as greatly obliged by what Andrews had done, and was certain that his feelings would be shared by Miss Patterson. Indeed, he was convinced that Miss Patterson would be willing to leave everything in his charge, since she would feel assured that everything he did would be right and proper and for the best. Mr. Andrews put his hand up to his mouth and coughed--the cough of one who was sensible that he deserved the compliment which was paid him.
He wanted to know if Mr. Elmore did not think it would be well to close the office for the whole of to-morrow, so as to give the staff an opportunity of at least attending at the graveside. They had all been remembered in the will, and would like to show the last tokens of respect for their dead master. Rodney, to whom the notion of marking such an occasion as a sort of holiday was novel, informed Andrews that the idea was excellent, and that he was at liberty to act in the matter as he thought was right. Andrews then wanted to know if Miss Patterson would be present, or if he--Rodney Elmore--would represent her as chief mourner. The suggestion moved Rodney in a way he would not have cared to admit. He had had no intention of attending his uncle's funeral at all--and as chief mourner! He to represent his cousin in such a capacity! That would be indeed to mock the dead. He was conscious of a feeling which surprised himself; he had not supposed he was so sensitive.
"I think," he told Andrews, "we must leave these points till later. I will consult with Miss Patterson and--observe her wishes. There is another matter," he went on. "Access to Mr. Patterson's banking account is not so easy as I imagined. My acquaintance with the procedure in these cases is nil; I don't know what yours amounts to."
"I know no more than you; this is the first time I find myself in such a position. Two payments of some importance are to be made this week; I was wondering how they would be met. Of course, if representations are made, time will be given."
"But, all the same, you would rather the payments were made? Exactly my feelings, Andrews; I want everything to be done in due order. I am going to arrange for Miss Patterson to meet you and Mr. Parmiter at the bank to-morrow morning, when I am advised that it will be possible to make arrangements which will enable us to meet all liabilities as they fall due. By the way, I believe that the trading account pass-book is in your charge; you might let me look at it."
Rodney examined the book when it was brought to him with great attention. He was already posted in certain figures which had to deal with his uncle's private account. Customers were brought in to him; some who had called in the ordinary course of business, others who had come to offer condolences, and so on. Their being brought straight to him showed a frank acceptance on Andrews' part of the fact that he was to be acting head of the firm; none the less, therefore, he was careful that Andrews was present at each of the interviews, referring certain matters to him with a little air of deference which won, as it was intended to win, the managing man's heart. The customers were favourably impressed, agreeing, as they went out, that Graham Patterson's mantle had descended on to capable shoulders.
"I shouldn't wonder," declared Mr. Brailson North as he shook hands with Mr. Andrews at the outer door, "if he turns out to be every bit as good a man as his uncle."
This, coming from a member of one of the largest firms in the City, was praise indeed. The managing man's eyes glistened. Anything which suggested a compliment to the business, so wrapped up in it was his whole existence, was a compliment to him. Since yesterday his ideas on the subject of Mr. Elmore had changed.
"Mr. North," he addressed the visitor in a confidential whisper, "Mr. Patterson was a good man, an excellent man of business in his way, sound and discreet; but between you, me, and this doorpost, I shouldn't wonder if the young one was better, with all his uncle's soundness and discretion, together with something that his uncle hadn't got. He's surprised me! You mark my words, I shouldn't be surprised if the house of Graham Patterson--there's going to be no alteration in the title--takes its place among the greatest City houses--mind you, in the front rank."
Mr. North laughed.
"There's no reason why your prophecy shouldn't come true. This is the day of the young man. Your young man has evidently got a head on his shoulders; he's a good foundation to build on. If he has grit, steadiness, caution, and knows just what sort of structure he would raise on it, there's no reason that I know of why he shouldn't build anything he likes. I agree with you in thinking that it is possible that the house of Graham Patterson is destined to be, in all respects, one of the finest in the City of London."
While these things were being said in his praise Rodney Elmore was writing to Miss Patterson. He enclosed for her inspection the marriage licence he had bought, asked in what church she would like the ceremony to take place on Monday, and added that he hoped to be able to make all final detailed arrangements with her to-morrow after the funeral. He told her of the difficulty which had arisen about getting money, asked her to meet him at the bank in the morning at 11.30; hoped that afterwards they might lunch together, pointing out that he never had lunched with her yet. Since after to-morrow he looked forward to being able to spend most of his time with her till Monday, and then for ever and a day--and that wouldn't seem a day too long!--he said that he felt that it would be better to devote the evening to doing certain little things of his own, which, sooner or later, would have to be done. By doing them he would clear the decks for action, so that, when the time for action came, he would be able to devote the whole of his time and, indeed, the whole of his life to her. All of which meant that he would not be able to tell her, except on paper, that he loved her till they met at the bank to-morrow morning.
Before actually slipping it into the envelope, together with this edifying epistle, he read the marriage licence carefully through. The perusal started him on what, for him, was an unwonted train of thought. Already, while still in the first flush of youth, he had spoilt his life, brought it to final wreck and ruin. What an extremely silly thing to have done! It was characteristic of this young gentleman that he never could bring himself to look at anything through serious eyes--even death. Whatever his first impulse might be, his second was to smile. Life, with all that appertained thereto, was such a funny thing. Here was he, with a career on either hand, each of which would lead at least to fortune; yet he might have neither. That did seem droll. Each was represented by a woman; personally he would have preferred that which was represented by Gladys, if only because he had no doubt that ere long he would be master not only of the business but of her. He was not so sure of Stella. In her he suspected an obstinate streak which he feared might be congenital. He had always felt that the Austins were, as the head of the house had put it, "stocky." He would find them more inclined to manage than to be managed. One thing he did know of himself: that he never could be managed. He might not put up an open fight--open fighting was not precisely in his line--but, if a sustained attempt were made to manage him, he would slip away--somehow, that was sure. Therefore, if only for the sake of peace and quietude, it would be better to avoid the risk. All the same, there was something about Stella which did appeal to him. With a sudden smile, slipping the licence and the letter into the envelope, he closed the flap.
Then, with pen in hand, as he was about to write the address, he started again to think. It was women--girls--who had brought him to his present pass, that was how he put it to himself. What Mabel Joyce said was perfectly true: he could not be alone with a girl without making love to her. It was a physical impossibility; he did not know why, but it was. The mischief was that his instinct had not warned him they were dangerous, hence his horrid situation. Indeed, it was hard that they should be dangerous; they were so pleasant to make love to. There were men who cared nothing for women, who went through life without making love--real love!--to a single one. How they managed he could not think. To him life under such conditions would not be worth living. He was a Sybarite. Life meant to him its good things; were there better things than women? He doubted it. He thought little of men; he had a very high opinion of women; he doubted if he had ever met one in whom there was not something to be desired.
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.
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.
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.