On the evening of the day in which she had fainted, Marjorie Poole sat alone in the drawing-room of her mother's house in Curzon Street.
It was a large, handsome place, furnished in the Empire style with mirrors framed in delicate white arabesques, and much gilding woven into the pattern. The carpet was a great purple expanse covered with laurel wreaths of darker purple.
There was but little furniture in the big, beautiful place, but it was all airy, fantastic and perfect of its kind. There was a general air of repose, of size and comely proportion in this delightful room. Here, an old French clock clicked merrily, there were two or three inlaid cabinets, and upon the walls were a few copies of some of Watteau's delightful scenes in the old courtly gardens of Versailles.
Marjorie wore a long tea-gown, and she was sitting quite alone in the brilliantly lit place, with a book in her hand. The book was in her hand indeed, but she was not reading it. Her eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, though they saw nothing there. Her thoughts were busy and her face was pale.
She had recovered from her swoon in a minute or two, and found her mother fussing round her and her lover generally skilful in doing all that was necessary. And a short time afterwards she had driven home with Lady Poole.
What she had heard, the very strain of hearing and being so intensely interested in it, had taken her strength away. Then had come the words when Sir William told her that the very thoughts that she was thinking at that moment were being in some mysterious way recorded and known. And she knew that she had been thinking of another man, thinking of him as an engaged girl should never think.
But as she had returned to consciousness, Sir William had told her kindly and simply that if she had feared her thoughts, whatever they might be, were known to him, she need fear no longer. "There was no one," he said, "observing any record of vibrations from your dear mind. Do you think that I should have allowed that, Marjorie? How could you think it of me?"
She had driven home relieved but very weary, and feeling how complex life was, how irrevocable the mistakes one made from impulse or lack of judgment really were.
Ambition! Yes, it was that that had brought her to where she was now. Her heart had never been touched by any one. She never thought herself capable of a great love for a man. From all her suitors she had chosen the one who most satisfied her intellectual aspirations, who seemed to her the one that could give her the highest place, not only in the meaningless ranks of society, but in and among those who are the elect and real leaders of the world.
And now? Well, now she was waiting because Guy Rathbone was coming to the house.
A letter from him had arrived just before dinner. She had expected it by an earlier post, the post by which all his letters usually came, and she had been impatient at its non-arrival. But it had come at last, and she was sitting in the drawing-room waiting for him now.
He was on intimate terms in that house, and came and went almost as he would, old Lady Poole liking to have young people round her, and feeling that now Marjorie's future was satisfactorily settled, there was no need to bar her doors to people she was fond of, but who, before the engagement, she would have regarded as dangerous.
Even as Marjorie was thinking of him, the butler showed Guy Rathbone into the room.
Marjorie got up, flushing a little as she saw him.
"Mother's very tired," she said; "she's not well to-night, and so she's gone to bed. Perhaps you'd rather not stay."
He sat down, after shaking hands, without an answer in words. He looked at her, and that was his answer.
He was a tall young man, as tall as Sir William, but more largely built, with the form and figure not of the student but rather of the athlete. His face was clean-shaven, frank, open and boyishly good-looking; but a pair of heavy eyebrows hung over eyes that were alert and bright, robbing the upper part of his face of a too juvenile suggestion. His head was covered with dark red curls, and he had the walk and movements of perfect health and great physical power, that had once led a dyspeptic friend at the Oxford and Cambridge Club to remark of him, that "Rathbone is the sort of fellow who always suggests that he could eat all the elephants of India and pick his teeth with the spire of Strasburg Cathedral afterwards."
There was force about him, the force of clean, happy youth, health, and a good brain. It was not the concentrated force and power of Sir William, but it was force nevertheless.
And as he came into the room, Marjorie felt her whole heart go out to him, leaping towards him in his young and manly beauty. She knew that here indeed was the one man that would satisfy her life for ever and a day. He was not famous, he was clever without having a great intellect, but for some reason or other he was the man for her. She knew it, and she feared that he was beginning to know she knew it.
He was sitting in the chair, when he turned and looked her straight in the face.
"I have come to-night," he said, "to say something very serious, very serious indeed. I am glad Lady Poole isn't here, just for to-night, Marjorie."
"I've told you you oughtn't to say Marjorie," she said.
"Well," he answered, "you've called me Guy for a good long time now, and one good turn deserves another."
He smiled, showing a perfect and even row of teeth, a smile so simple, hearty and spontaneous that once more that furiously beating heart of hers seems striving to burst its physical bonds and leap to him.
Then he passed his hand through his hair, and his face immediately became full of perplexity and doubt.
"I should have been here before," he said, "only I was detained. I met a man who happened to take my overcoat to-day in mistake for his own from the hairdresser's. He turned out to be a decent sort of chap, and I couldn't get rid of him at once. But that's by the way. I've come here to say something which is awfully difficult to say. I've fought it out with myself, and I've wondered if I should be a bounder in saying it. I'm afraid I'm going to say something that a gentleman oughtn't to say. I don't know. I really don't know. But something within tells me that if I don't say it I should be doing something which I should regret all my life long. But you must forgive me, and if after what I've said to you you feel that I oughtn't to have done so, I do beg you will forgive me, Marjorie. Will you forgive me?"
Her voice was very low. "Yes," she said in almost a whisper.
"You are engaged to another man," he said. "I don't know him, I have never seen him. I know he is a great swell and very important. A year ago, if anybody had told me that I was going to talk to a girl who was engaged to another man as I'm going to talk to you, I should probably have knocked him down. Shows one never knows, doesn't it, Marjorie?"
She began to breathe quickly. Her breast rose and fell, her agitation was very manifest. The tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. She hated herself for this visible emotion; she did her best to control it, but it was utterly impossible, and she knew that she was telling him even now what she knew also he most desired to hear.
He got up from his chair, big, forceful, manly and young, and was by her side in a moment.
"Marjorie," he said, "dear, sweet girl, I can't help telling you, however wrong it may be. I love you, I love you deeply and dearly. I am quite certain, I don't know how, but I'm certain, and nothing in the world could persuade me I wasn't, that I'm the man who was made for you, and that you're the girl who was made for me. I can't put it poetically, I don't know how to say it beautifully, as the Johnnies say it in the novels and on the stage, but, darling, I love you."
There was a catch and a break in his voice; a sob had come into it.
Then he went on. "Do you know, Marjorie, I can't help thinking somehow that you must have made a mistake—" He was kneeling now by the side of her chair. His arms stole round her, she made no motion to forbid it. It was a moment of absolute surrender, a surrender which she had no power to withstand.
And now he held her in his strong arms, his kisses fell upon her lips, her head was on his shoulder, she was sobbing quietly and happily. With no word of avowal spoken, she gave herself to him at that moment. He had felt, and his whole body was shaken with joy and triumph, that come what might, she was his in spirit if indeed she could never be his in any other way.
It was a great moment for those two young lives. Young man and maid, knowing themselves and each other for the first time. It wasn't romantic, exactly, there was nothing very striking about it, perhaps, but it was sweet—ah! unutterably sweet!
He was walking about the room.
"You must tell him," he said, "dearest. You'll have to go through so much more than I shall, and it cuts me to the heart to think of it. You'll have to face all the opposition of everybody, of your people, of society and the world generally. And I can't help; you'll have to go through this alone. It's a bitter thought that I can't help you. Dear, dare you fight through this for me? Are you strong enough? are you brave enough?"
She went up to him, and placed both her hands upon his shoulders, looking straight into his face.
"I have been wicked," she said, "I have been wrong. But perhaps there were excuses. Until one has felt love, real love, Guy, one doesn't realize its claims or the duties one owes it. I was ambitious. I liked William well enough. He interested me and stimulated me. I felt proud to think that I was to be the companion of a man who knew and had done so much. But now the mere thought of that companionship fills me with fear. Not fear of him, but fear of the treachery I should have done my nature and myself if I had married him. I don't know what will happen, but here and now, Guy, whatever may be the outcome, I tell you that I love you, and I swear to you, however wrong it may be, whatever violence I may be doing to my plighted troth, I tell you that, however great the unworthiness, I will be yours and yours alone. I know it's wrong, and yet, somehow, I feel it can't be wrong. I don't understand, but—but——" He took her in his arms once more and held her.
It was late, and he was going, and was bidding her farewell. He knelt before her and took her hand, bowing over it and kissing it.
"Good-night," he said, "my lady, my love, my bride! I am with you now, and shall be with you always in spirit until we are one—until the end of our lives. And whatever may be in store in the immediate future I shall be watching and waiting, I shall be guarding you and shielding you as well as I can, and if things come to the worst, I shall be ready, and we will count the world well lost, as other wise lovers have done, for the sacred cause and in the holy service of Love."
So he bowed over her slim white hand and kissed it, looking in his beauty and confidence and strength like any knight of old kneeling before the lady he was pledged to serve. And when he was gone, and she was alone in her room up-stairs, Marjorie was filled with a joy and exhilaration such as she had never known before. Yet there seemed hanging over the little rosy landscape, the brightly-lit landscape in which she moved, a dark and massive cloud.
She dreamt thus. She dreamt that this cloud grew blacker and blacker, and still more heavy, sinking lower and lower towards her. Then she saw her lover as a knight in armour cutting upwards with a gleaming sword until the cloud departed and rushed away, and all was once more bathed in sunlight. She knew the name of that sword. It was not Excalibur, it was Love.
Sir William Gouldesbrough had been up very late the night before. He came down from his room on a grey morning a fortnight after the day on which he had told Marjorie something of his hopes. It was nearly twelve o'clock. He had not retired to rest until four upon the same morning. And when he had at last left the great laboratories built out of the back of the house, he had stumbled up to his room, a man drunk with an almost incredible success—a success of detail so perfect and complete that his intelligence staggered before the supreme triumph of his hopes.
But the remaining portion of the night, or rather during the beginning of the chill wintry dawn, he had lain alone in his great Georgian bedroom, watching the grey light filtering into the room, flood by flood, until the dark became something more terrible, something filled with vast moving shadows, with monstrous creatures which lurked in the corners of the room, with strange half lights that went and came, and gave the wan mirrors of the wardrobe, of the mantel-shelf, a ghost-like life only to withdraw, and then once more increase it.
And as this great and famous man lay in this vast lonely room without power of sleep, two terrible emotions surged and throbbed within him,—two emotions in their intensity too great for one mind to hold.
One was the final and detailed triumph of all he held dear in the world of science and in the department of his life's work. The other was the imminent and coming ruin of his heart's hope, and the love which had come to him, and which had seemed the most wonderful thing that life could give.
Yes, there he lay, a king of intellect, a veritable prince of the powers of the air, and all his triumph was but as dust and ashes and bitterness, because he knew that he was losing a smaller principality perhaps, but one he held dearer than all his other possessions.
Emperor of the great grey continent of science, he must now resign his lordship of the little rosy principality of Love.
So, as he came down-stairs close upon mid-day of the winter's morning—a tall distinguished figure in the long camel's-hair dressing-gown, with its suggestion of a monk's robe—the butler who was crossing the hall at the time was startled by the fixed pallor of his face.
The man went up to him.
"Excuse me, Sir William," he said, "but you're working too hard. You're not well, sir. You mustn't overdo it. I have got you a sole and mushrooms for breakfast, sir, but I should not advise you to touch it, now I've seen you. If you'll allow me to offer my advice, I should suggest a bowl of soup."
"Thank you, Delaine," Sir William answered. "But I don't think I could even take anything at present. Will you send my letters into the study?"
"Yes, Sir William," the man replied, "and I shall make so bold as to bring you a bowl of soup in half-an-hour, as well."
Gouldesbrough crossed the great gloomy hall and entered the study.
A bright fire was glowing on the hearth, the place was all dusted, tidy and cheerful, even though the world outside was a blank wall of fog.
He stood up in the middle of the room. Tall, columnar, with a great dignity about him, had there been any one there to see. It was a dual dignity, the dignity of supreme success and the dignity of irremediable pain.
The butler came in with the letters upon a copper tray. There was a great pile of them, and as the man closed the door after he put the tray upon the writing-table, Sir William began to deal the letters like a pack of cards, throwing this and that one on the floor, with a shuffling movement of the wrist, and as he did so his eyes were horrid in their searching and their intensity. At last he came to the one he sought. A letter addressed to him in a bold but feminine handwriting. As his fingers touched it a loud sob burst out into the silence of the room. With shaking fingers he tore it open, standing among the litter of the unopened letters, and began to read.
He read the letter right through, then walked to the mantel-piece, leaning his right arm upon it as if for support. But the tension was now a little relaxed. He had come down to find the worst, to meet the inevitable. He had met it, and there was now neither premonition of the moment of realization nor the last and torturing flicker of despairing hope.
This was the letter. It began without preface or address—
"You must have known this was coming. Everything in your manner has shown me that you knew it was coming. And for that, unhappy as I am, I am glad. I have a terrible confession to make to you. But you who are so great, you who know the human mind from your great height, as a conquering general surveys a country from a mountain-top, you will understand. When you asked me to marry you and I said 'Yes,' I was pleased and flattered, and I had a tremendous admiration and respect for you and for all you have done. Then when we came to know each other, I began to see the human side of you, and I had, and if you will let me say so, still have, a real affection for you. And had it not been that something more powerful than affection has come into my life, I would have been a true and faithful wife and companion to you."But you have seen, and you must know, that things are changed. Are we not all subject to the laws of destiny, the laws of chance? Is it not true that none of us on our way through the world can say by whom or how we shall be caught up out of ourselves and changed into what we could not be before? Oh, you know it all. You of all men know it!"I need not here speak in detailed words, because from things you have seen you know well enough what I am about to say, of whom I would speak if I could. But it is enough, William, to tell you what you already know. That I love some one else, and that if I am true to myself, which is after all the firstdutyof all of us, I could never marry you. I can never be to you what you wish or what I would like to be as your wife. I am stricken down with the knowledge of the pain all this will give you, though, thank God, it is not a pain for which you are unprepared. I dare not ask your forgiveness, I can say nothing to console you. I have acted wickedly and wrongly, but I cannot do anything else but what I am doing."Forgive, if you can. Think kindly, if you can, of Marjorie."
"You must have known this was coming. Everything in your manner has shown me that you knew it was coming. And for that, unhappy as I am, I am glad. I have a terrible confession to make to you. But you who are so great, you who know the human mind from your great height, as a conquering general surveys a country from a mountain-top, you will understand. When you asked me to marry you and I said 'Yes,' I was pleased and flattered, and I had a tremendous admiration and respect for you and for all you have done. Then when we came to know each other, I began to see the human side of you, and I had, and if you will let me say so, still have, a real affection for you. And had it not been that something more powerful than affection has come into my life, I would have been a true and faithful wife and companion to you.
"But you have seen, and you must know, that things are changed. Are we not all subject to the laws of destiny, the laws of chance? Is it not true that none of us on our way through the world can say by whom or how we shall be caught up out of ourselves and changed into what we could not be before? Oh, you know it all. You of all men know it!
"I need not here speak in detailed words, because from things you have seen you know well enough what I am about to say, of whom I would speak if I could. But it is enough, William, to tell you what you already know. That I love some one else, and that if I am true to myself, which is after all the firstdutyof all of us, I could never marry you. I can never be to you what you wish or what I would like to be as your wife. I am stricken down with the knowledge of the pain all this will give you, though, thank God, it is not a pain for which you are unprepared. I dare not ask your forgiveness, I can say nothing to console you. I have acted wickedly and wrongly, but I cannot do anything else but what I am doing.
"Forgive, if you can. Think kindly, if you can, of Marjorie."
Now he knew. He folded the letter gently, kissed it—an odd action for a man so strong—and put it in the inside pocket of his coat, which pressed next his heart.
Then he rang the bell.
"Ask Mr. Guest to come," he said.
"Very well, Sir William," the butler answered, "but Mr. Charliewood has just arrived."
"Then ask him in," Gouldesbrough answered.
Charliewood came into the room.
"By Jove!" he said, "you look about as seedy as I've ever seen you look!"
Sir William went up to him and put his hand upon his shoulder.
"Look here," he said, "I've had a smack in the face this morning, Charliewood. You know what it is, I need not tell you. And look here, too, I'm going to ask you to help me as you've never helped me before. I'm afraid, old fellow, I've often been a nuisance to you, and often rather rubbed in the fact that you owe me money, and that you've had to do things for me. Forgive me now, if you will. I'm going to call upon you for active friendship."
"Oh," Charliewood answered, "we won't talk about friendship between you and me. I've done what I had to do and there's enough."
Sir William still held him by the shoulder. "You don't really feel that, Charliewood?" he said in a quiet voice, and as he did so the magnetism of his personality began to flow and flood upon the weaker man and influence him to kindliness.
"Well, well," he said, "what is it now? I suppose we've been running round a vicious circle and we've come to the last lap?"
"That's just about it," Sir William answered. "Just let me say that this is the last service I shall ever ask from you. I'll give you back all the I.O.U.'s and things, and I'll give you enough money to put yourself absolutely right with the world, then we'll say good-bye."
Charliewood started. "That's awfully good of you," he said. "I don't think that I want to say good-bye. But still, what is it?"
"Rathbone," Sir William answered, pronouncing the name with marked difficulty.
"It's all over then?" Charliewood answered.
"Yes."
"I thought it would be. I have told you all that has been going on, and I knew it would be."
"She's written to me this morning," Gouldesbrough said. "A kind letter, but a letter finishing it all."
Then the weaker, smaller man became, as so often happens in life, the tempter—the instrument which moves the lever of a man's career towards the dark sinister side of the dial.
Charliewood was touched and moved by the unexpected kindness in his patron's voice.
"Don't say it's finished," he said; "nothing is finished for a man like you, with a man like me to help him. Of course it's not finished. You have not always been all you might to me, William, but I'll help you now. I'll do anything you want me to do. Buck up, old boy! You will pass the post first by a couple of lengths yet."
"How?"
"Well, what were you going to ask me to do?"
They looked each other in the face with glowing eyes and pale countenances, while a horrible excitement shone out upon them both.
At that moment the door opened very quietly, and an extraordinary person came into the room.
He was a short, fat, youthful-looking man, with a large, pink, and quite hairless face. The face was extremely intelligent, noticeably so, but it was streaked and furrowed with dissipation. It told the story not of the man who enjoyed the sensuous things of life in company, and as part of a merry progress towards the grave, but it betrayed the secret sot, the cunning sensualist private and at home.
This man was Mr. Guest, Sir William's faithful assistant in science, a man who had no initiative power, who could rarely invent a project or discover a scientific fact, but a man who, when once he was put upon the lines he ought to go, could follow them as the most intelligent sleuth-hound in the scientific world.
Wilson Guest was perhaps the greatest living physicist in Europe. He was of inestimable value to his chief, and he was content to remain between the high red-brick walls of the old house in Regent's Park, provided with all he needed for his own amusements, and instigated to further triumphs under the ægis of his master.
"Well, what is it?" said this fat, youthful and rather horrible-looking person.
"We've come to grips of the great fact, Guest," Sir William answered, still with his hand upon Charliewood's shoulder.
The pink creature laughed a hollow and merciless laugh.
"I knew it would come to this," he said, "since you have added another interest to your scientific interests, Gouldesbrough. Why have you called me in to a consultation?"
Gouldesbrough's whole face changed; it became malignant, the face of a devil.
"I'm going to win," he said. "I've had a knock-down blow, but I'm going to get up and win still! Mr. Rathbone must disappear. That can be easily arranged with the resources at our command."
Guest gave a horrible chuckle.
"And when we've got him?" he said.
"He must disappear for always," Gouldesbrough answered.
"Quite easy," Guest replied. "Quite easy, William. But,not until we've done with him, shall he?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, isn't it the last condition of our experiments that we should have some one a slave, a dead man to the world, to use as we shall think fit? Here's your man. Do what you like to him afterwards. Let's make your rival a stepping-stone to your final success."
Then the three men looked at each other in fear.
Charliewood and Sir William Gouldesbrough were pale as linen, but the short, fat man was pink still, and laughed and chuckled nervously.
Mr. Eustace Charliewood's chambers were in Jermyn Street. But few of his many friends had ever seen the interior of them. Such entertaining as the man about town did—and he was always one of those who were entertained, rather than one of those who offer hospitality—was done at his club.
The man who looked after the place and valeted his master was therefore the more surprised when Charliewood had called him up one morning after breakfast.
"Look here, William," Charliewood had said, "I've got a gentleman coming to dinner. We've some business to talk over, so I shan't dine him at the club. I suppose you can manage a little dinner here?"
"Certainly, sir, if necessary," the man answered. "Of course you're not in the habit of dining at home, and you've not got your own things. That is if you mean a proper little dinner, sir."
"I do, I do, William," his master answered hurriedly.
"But, there, that needn't matter," the man answered, "we can have everything in if you like, sir."
"That will be best," Charliewood answered. "I leave everything to you, William. Except," he added as an afterthought, "the menu. I want a small dinner, William, but quite good. Shall we say a littlebisquefor the soup? Then perhaps a small Normandy sole. Afterwards a chicken cookeden casserole. As anentréesome white truffles stewed in Sillery—you can get them in glass jars from Falkland & Masons—and then a morsel of Brie and some coffee. That will do, I think."
"And about the wine, sir?" said William, astonished at these unaccustomed preparations, and inwardly resolving that Mr. Eustace Charliewood had discovered a very brightly plumed pigeon to pluck.
"Oh, about the wine! Well, I think I'll see to that myself. I'll have it sent up from the club. You've an ice-pail for the champagne, haven't you, William?"
"Yes, sir, we certainly havethat."
"Very good then. We'll say at eight then."
William bowed and withdrew.
All that day the various members of this or that fast and exclusive club round about St. James's Street, noticed that Eustace Charliewood was out of form. His conversation and his greetings were not so imperturbably cheerful and suave as usual. He took no interest in the absorbing question as to whether young Harry Rayke—the Earl of Spaydes' son—would after all propose to Lithia Varallette, the well-known musical comedy girl. The head waiter of the Baobab Club noticed Mr. Charliewood was off his food, and everybody with whom the man about town came in contact said that "Richard was by no means himself."
As the evening drew on, a dark, foggy evening, which promised as night came to be darker and foggier still, Charliewood's agitation increased, though just now there was no one to see it.
He walked down St. James's Street, past Marlborough House, and briskly promenaded the wide and splendid avenue which now exists in front of Buckingham Palace. The fog made him cough, the raw air was most unpleasant, and it was no hour for exercise. But, despite the cold and misery of it all, Charliewood continued his tramp backwards and forwards.
When he returned to his chambers in Jermyn Street, about seven o'clock, he found that his clothes were wet with perspiration, and only a hot bath before dressing for dinner and a couple of bromide tabloids in a wine-glass full of milk seemed to bring him back to his ordinary condition.
When, however, he went into his little dining-room, to all outward appearances he was the usual Eustace Charliewood of the pavements and club-rooms of the West End.
The room was comfortable. A bright fire glowed upon the hearth, shining upon the high-class sporting prints, the subdued wall-paper, the comfortable padded chairs, and the shelves loaded with bachelor nick-nacks and sporting trophies of his youth.
In one corner was a little round table set for two, gleaming with glass and silver and lit by electric lights covered with crimson shades.
It was all very warm and inviting. He looked round it with satisfaction for a moment.
Then, suddenly, as he stood on the hearth-rug, he put his plump, white hand with the heavy seal ring upon it, up to his throat. The apple moved up and down convulsively, and for a single moment the whole being of the man was filled with overmastering fear of the future and horror and loathing for himself.
The spasm passed as quickly as it came, the drug he had taken asserted its grip upon the twitching nerves, the man whose whole life was discreet adventure, who was a soldier of social fortune, who daily faced perils, became once more himself.
That is to say, to put it in two words, his better angel, who had held possession of him for a moment, fled sorrowfully away, while the especial spirit deputed to look after the other side of him happened to chance that way, and remembering he had often found a hospitable reception from Mr. Eustace Charliewood, looked in, found his old quarters duly swept and garnished, and settled down.
Charliewood's rooms were on the ground floor. In a minute or two, it was about a quarter to eight, he heard someone upon the steps outside, in Jermyn Street, and then the electric bell whirr down below in the kitchen.
He rushed out into the hall. It generally took William some time to mount from the lower regions, which were deep in the bowels of the earth, and no doubt Mr. Charliewood kindly desired to spare the butler the trouble of opening the door.
So, at least, William thought, as he mounted the kitchen stairs and came out into the hall to find Mr. Charliewood already helping his guest off with his coat and showing him into the dining-room. William did not know that there were any special reasons in Mr. Charliewood's mind for not having his guest's name announced and possibly remembered by the servant.
"Well, my dear Rathbone, how are you?" Charliewood said, and no face could have been kinder or more inviting and pleasant to see than the face of the host. "Awfully good of you to come and take me like this, but I thought we should be more comfortable here than at the Club. There are one or two things I want to talk over. I'll do you as well as I can, but I can't answer for anything. You must take pot luck!"
Guy Rathbone looked round the charming room and laughed—a full-blooded, happy laugh.
"I wish you could see my chambers in the Temple," he said. "But you fellows who live up this end do yourselves so jolly well!"
"I suppose one does overdo it," Charliewood answered, "in the way of little comforts and things. It's a mistake, no doubt, but one gets used to it and was brought up to it, and so just goes on, dependent upon things that a sensible man could easily do without. Now, sit down and have a sherry and bitters. Dinner will be up in a minute. And try one of these cigarettes. It's a bad plan to smoke before dinner, I know, as a rule, but these little things just go with the sherry and bitters, and they are special. I get them over from Rio. They're made of black Brazilian tobacco, as you see; they're only half as long as your finger, and instead of being wrapped in filthy, poisonous rice paper, they're covered with maize leaves."
Rathbone sank into the luxurious chair which his host pointed out to him, took the sherry, in its heavily cut glass, and lit one of the cigarettes. He stretched out his feet towards the fire and enjoyed a moment of intense physical ease. The flames and the shaded electric lights shone upon his fine and happy face, twinkled upon the stud in his shirt front, and showed him for what he was at that moment—a young gentleman intensely enjoying everything that life had to give.
In a moment or two more dinner was served.
"You needn't wait, William," Charliewood said, as they sat down to thehors d'œuvre. "Just put the soup on and I'll ring when we're ready."
"So good of you to ask me," Rathbone said. "I should have gone to the Oxford and Cambridge Club, had a beef-steak, looked at the evening papers, and then returned to chambers to write letters. Rather a dismal proceeding on a night like this!"
"Hadn't you anything on to-night, then?" Charliewood asked carelessly.
"Not a single thing," Rathbone answered. "I've been cutting all my engagements during the last week or two, telling people I was going out of town. I've got a special reason for working very hard just now."
Charliewood started, and a slight gleam came into his eyes.
"Good idea, that!" he said, "telling people you're going out of town when you want to be quiet for a week or two!"
"It is," Rathbone replied. "At most of the houses I'm in the habit of going to just now every one thinks I'm away. I've been living the life of a recluse, as far as society goes."
Charliewood slightly lifted a glass of Pol Roger.
"Here's success to the work, my dear boy," he said jovially. "And I congratulate myself on the odd accident which brought us together. And of course I don't know you very well, Rathbone, and I am sure I should hate to be impertinent in any way. But still, as you know, I go about everywhere, and one can't help hearing things. And, besides, I'm in a special position in regard to a certain matter, too. Here's my best wish for your happiness in the future, in another way!"
He looked straight into the young man's eyes as he said this, and as he did so Rathbone, whose glass was lifted in response, began to colour until his whole face became crimson.
"I haven't offended you?" Charliewood said quickly.
"Oh—er—not a bit, of course," Rathbone answered with manifest uneasiness. "But I didn't know that anything had got about. I didn't know that you knew. Oh, confound it," he concluded, "I don't want to talk about my own affairs; I——Hang it all, Charliewood, tell me straight out what you mean."
"I repeat," Charliewood answered, "that I haven't known you very long, and therefore I am very chary of in any way infringing the natural reticence that should be between men in our position. Still, you know who I am; everybody knows all about me, and I should like you to believe that I am really a friend."
As he said this, though his face was full of frankness and kindliness once more, Charliewood felt that sick loathing of himself he had experienced just before his guest had arrived. There was a throbbing at his temples, his throat felt as if it were packed with warm flour. He hurriedly gulped down some champagne and went on. "Everybody knows by this time," he said in a quiet voice, "that—that—well, old chap, that there has been a sort of set to partners and a change in certain quarters."
At that moment William appeared with the fish, Charliewood having rung for him at the psychological moment, knowing that the little interlude would give his guest time to collect his thoughts.
When the man had once more left the room, Rathbone, who had been biting his lips in perplexity and drumming upon the table with his fingers, bent towards his host.
"I see you know all about it," he said; "and, upon my word, if you'd let me, I should like to talk things over with you from one point of view."
"My dear Rathbone," Charliewood replied, "say nothing whatever to me unless you like, but understand that what you did say would be said in absolute confidence, and that if the experience of a man older in social life, and accustomed to all its vagaries, can help you, I give it to you with all my heart."
"Now I call that very good of you, Charliewood," the young man answered. "I'll tell you straight out, what you probably already know, and I'll ask you for a hint as to what I ought to do. Miss Poole"—he mentioned the name with obvious reluctance—"has found that she made an—er, well, a sort of mistake in her affections. I have no doubt it's all over London that she's written to Sir William Gouldesbrough telling him so."
"Throwing him over, in fact," Charliewood said.
"If you like to put it so," the other answered, "and of course that is just what it amounts to."
"Well then?" Charliewood said.
"I feel in a sort of way that I've done an awfully caddish thing," Rathbone went on. "Fortunately, I am not in Gouldesbrough's set. I don't know him at all. At the same time it's awfully bad form to make love to a girl who's engaged to any one else. And that, unconsciously, is just what I seem to have been doing for a very long time. But, believe me," he concluded with a singular simplicity and boyishness, "I really couldn't help it."
Charliewood laughed a little and then sighed to himself.
"I quite understand," he said; "these things do and will happen, and it wasn't your fault at all. But I do think it's very wrong if a girl who finds that she has made a mistake doesn't put it right before it becomes unavoidable."
"Do you really?" Rathbone cried. "Well, do you know, that's just my point of view, and it relieves me to hear you say so."
"And do you know," Charliewood replied, "that I'm probably the most intimate friend William Gouldesbrough has in the world?"
Rathbone started. "Good Lord!" he said. "Then—what—then—why? And you really mean that you can be friends with me?"
"That's just what I do mean," Charliewood answered; "and now we've got to the point, I will tell you frankly that though our meeting was a pure accident in the first place, I am awfully glad that we did meet and that you are here to-night. I have talked the whole matter over with poor dear Sir William a good deal lately. He has done me the honour to make me his confidant in the matter. Two or three days ago I mentioned that I knew you."
"What did he say?" Rathbone asked quickly.
"I can't tell you his words," Charliewood answered, "but I can tell you their purpose. And it was a wonderful revelation to me of the strength and beauty of my old friend's character. He's a fine fellow, Rathbone, and when you know him you'll say so too."
"Know him?" Rathbone said. "My dear Charliewood, surely you see that it's impossible that I should meet a man to whom I have unconsciously done such a great injury."
"Ah," Charliewood answered, "you don't know William. It is just the possibility which makes his character so fine. Practically, what he said to me was this. 'You know this young fellow, Eustace. Is he a decent sort of man? A gentleman in ideas, as well as in position, clean living and all that?' 'As far as I know,' I answered, 'he's just so in every way.'"
Once more Rathbone coloured up to the eyes.
Charliewood went on.
"Then William unburdened himself to me fully. 'I only want Marjorie Poole to be happy,' he said, 'and when the proper time arrives I shall just write and tell her so. I was fond of her, deeply fond of her; what man would not be? I thought if she cared for me that she would be a worthy mistress of my house, and an ideal partner to share my fortune and the position I have won. But I am much older than she is. I am immersed, as you know, in grave, scientific pursuits, and I quite realize that I could not give her what as a young girl she has a right to expect. I don't say that I relinquish my claim upon her without a pang, but I have other interests, and my wife and love could in any case only be a part of my life. Do you know what I should like to do more than anything else, Eustace?' 'What?' I said. 'Why,' he continued, 'to meet this young Mr. Rathbone. To tell him all that I am telling you, perfectly frankly, to shake him by the hand, and, by Jove, to be the best man at his wedding, if he'd let me. Then I shall get back to my inventions with a quiet mind, knowing that the only girl who has ever touched me in the least degree is safe and happy.'"
Rathbone pushed back his chair and jumped up.
"Why, heavens," he said, "what a noble fellow! There's aman, if you like. I can quite see it all, Charliewood, and you've relieved my mind of a tremendous weight. I can see it all quite distinctly. One of the most distinguished and charming men of the day sees a beautiful and intellectual girl and thinks the time has come when he must marry. Of course, he can't really know whatloveis, like a younger man or a man who has not made his mark in the world. He can't feel what I feel, for instance. And so he bows to the inevitable, and in the kindest and most chivalrous way wants to make every one happy. Charliewood! It's just like a story-book!"
"I don't read 'em myself much, the papers do for me. But, 'pon my soul, since you put it in that way, so it is."
Mr. Charliewood quite forgot to add what sort of story-book. Even the most popular novels of to-day don't always have the traditional happy ending.
"Sit down, old fellow," Charliewood said with great kindness. "You mustn't miss this chicken, it is a rather special dish, and I'm going to ring for William."
"Oh, hang chicken!" Rathbone answered, his face glowing.
"Never abuse your dinner," Charliewood answered. "Only people who are not able to dine do that. You never know when you may dine again."
As he said this the wicked exhilaration at having successfully played with sure and dexterous fingers upon this young and impressionable nature flowed over the older man. An evil joy in his own powers came to him—a devilish satisfaction in his knowledge of the horrid future. For a moment the Tenant who had lately taken up his abode within Mr. Eustace Charliewood was looking out of his host's eye.
Rathbone laughed carelessly. Then, after the waiter had once more entered and left the room, he bent over the table and began to speak more earnestly.
"I suspect," he said, "that I owe you a great deal in this matter, Charliewood, more than you would care to confess. Now tell me, don't I?"
Charliewood waved his hand.
"Oh, we won't go into that part of the question," he said. "But there's just one thing I would like to say. Your feeling in the matter has been quite splendid, Rathbone. I admire you for the way you have felt and spoken since you have been telling me about your engagement, from first to last. Such a lot of men would have congratulated themselves upon winning the girl away from the other fellow without a thought of what the other fellow would feel. Now look here, I do think you owe William this much reparation——"
"Anything in the world I can do——" Rathbone was beginning.
"Well, there's one thing you can do," Charliewood answered, "you can satisfy him that you're the sort of man to whom he would care to surrender Miss Poole. He is willing and anxious to make friends with you. In fact, I know he is most anxious to meet you. I admit that it may be rather an awkward meeting for you, but I think that you owe it to him, considering the way in which he regards the whole affair."
"Of course I will meet him," Rathbone answered. "I shall be proud to meet a man like that. Any time you like."
"Well, I don't want to press things, Rathbone; but, personally, I should say there was no time like the present. We are sure to find Gouldesbrough in to-night after dinner. Suppose we walk up to Regent's Park and call on him. I know you will be received in the kindest way, in a way you never suspected before we talked the matter over."
"We'll do it," Rathbone answered, "and I shall leave his house to-night feeling a great burden has been removed from me."
Charliewood made no answer to this last remark but merely pushed the champagne-bottle over to his guest.
An hour afterwards the two men, both with the astrachan coats which brought them so curiously together turned up about their ears, were walking briskly towards Oxford Street. The fog was very heavy and few people were about, though Charliewood said he knew exactly how to find the way.
"You needn't worry," he said, "we'll go up Portland Place, and I can find Sir William's house without the least trouble. In fact, I think it would be a mistake to take a hansom on a night like this. The roads are horribly greasy. You can't see the lights of any vehicle a few yards ahead, and we're just as likely to be run into as not. Of course, if you'd rather ride——"
"Not a bit," Rathbone answered, "exercise will do me good, and I shall feel calmer and more prepared for the interview. I'm not a sybarite like you are, and after a dinner like you've given me I should not be nearly in such good form unless I did have a walk."
"Right oh!" Charliewood replied; "then come along. We will walk fast to keep warm."
They went on, neither talking much, because of the thick fog that stung the nostrils and the eyes and poured down the throat when the mouth was opened.
In about three-quarters of an hour they had passed up Portland Place, turned to the left and were drawing near the house they sought.
"It's not very far now," Charliewood said.
He shook as he said so, and his voice had a very muffled sound.
"Don't you talk, old fellow," Rathbone answered. "I can see you're cold, and this fog plays the deuce with the lungs. Do keep quiet; there's no need to say anything. I'll follow where you lead."
They stood at last before the little door in the high wall of Sir William Gouldesbrough's house.
In the distance the faint rumble of London came to their ears, but there was not a soul about. Nobody saw them as Charliewood opened the door with a pass-key, explaining to Rathbone that Sir William had given him the key in order to save the servants coming through the garden.
"I'm always in and out of the house," he explained, still with the cold and fog in his voice.
They opened the door, and it clicked behind them.
Rathbone brushed against some laurel bushes.
"I say," he said, "how dark it is here! You must conduct me, Charliewood, up this path. Let me take your arm."
He took his friend's arm, noticing with wonder how the cold seemed to have penetrated the bones of his host; for the big man's whole body was trembling.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked for thirty yards or so. Then Rathbone saw a dim light above his head. It was the lamp which hung in the porch. His feet knocked against the step.
"Here we are," Charliewood said; "six steps, and then the front door."
Once more Charliewood produced a key, opened the massive door of the hall, and entered with his friend.
"Take off your coat," he said, as Rathbone looked round wonderingly at the big, gloomy and dimly-lit place. "This is rather miserable, but Gouldesbrough has got a little snuggery down the passage, where we shall be quite comfortable. Are you ready? Very well, then, come along."
The house seemed absolutely still, save for Charliewood's echoing footsteps as he led the way towards the door on the right-hand side of the wide staircase.
Rathbone followed him. As he did so the sombre emptiness of the place began to steal over his nerves and influence them, coupled, no doubt, with the expectation of the coming interview.
He shuddered a little, and wished that he was back again in the cosy little room in Jermyn Street.
Then a green baize door opened, they passed through, and it swung back noiselessly behind them.
In the course of a week or so London, and shortly afterwards the whole of England, realized that a new and absorbing sensation was dawning.
Perhaps there is nothing which more excites the popular mind than the sudden disappearance of anybody from whatever class of society.
It began to be realized, whispered and hinted at in the newspapers that a young and rising barrister of good family, named Mr. Guy Rathbone, of the Inner Temple, had suddenly vanished. It was but a year or two before that the whole of the country had been thrilled by the sad case of Miss Hickman. The event and the excitement it had raised at the time were still fresh in the public mind; and when it began to be rumoured that something even more sensational than that had taken place, the Press began to be on the alert. In ten days' time such as were known of the facts of Mr. Guy Rathbone's apparent departure from ordinary life had become the topic of the hour. The newspapers were filled with columns of surmises. Hour by hour, as the evening papers of London and the provinces appeared, new theories, clues, explanations filled the leader pages and the contents' bills. The "Rathbone Mystery," as it was called, absorbed the whole interest of the country. An announcement of war would have been momentarily disregarded by the man in the street, while he yet remained unsatisfied as to the truth about the young gentleman who seemed to have been utterly wiped out from the world of men and women, to have vanished into thin air without a trace of his movements or a single clue as to his whereabouts.
All that was accurately known was summed up again and again in the Press and in general conversation, and it amounted to just this and no more.
Mr. Guy Rathbone was in fairly prosperous circumstances; he had an income of his own, was slowly but steadily climbing the laborious ladder of the Bar, was popular in society, and, as far as could be ascertained, had no troubles of any sort whatever.
It was shown that Rathbone was not in debt, and practically owed nothing whatever, except the ordinary current accounts, which he was accustomed to settle every quarter. He had a fair balance at the bank, and his securities, which provided him with his income, were intact. His life had been a singularly open one. His movements had never suggested anything secret or disreputable. His friends were all people in good circumstances, and no one had ever alleged any shady acquaintances against him. He was in perfect health, was constantly in the habit of taking exercise at the German Gymnasium, still played football occasionally, and held a commission in the Inns of Court Volunteers. He had never been observed to be downcast or despondent in any way. In short, there was no earthly reason, at any rate upon the surface, for a voluntary withdrawal on his part from the usual routine of his life.
The idea of suicide was frankly scouted by both friends, acquaintances and business connections. People do not destroy themselves without a real or imaginary reason, and this young man had always been regarded as so eminently healthy-minded and sane, that no one was prepared to believe even that he had made away with himself in a sudden fit of morbidity or madness. It was shown that there had been no taint of insanity in his family for several generations. The theory of suicide was clearly untenable. This was the conclusion to which journalists, police, and the new class of scientific mystery experts which has sprung up during the last few years unanimously came. Moreover, in the London of to-day, or even in the country, it is a most difficult thing for a man to commit suicide without the more or less immediate discovery of his remains.
There was not wanting the class of people who hinted at foul play. But that theory was immensely narrowed by the fact that no one could have had any motive for murdering this young man, save only a member of the criminal classes, who did so for personal gain. It was quite true that he might have been robbed and his body cunningly disposed of. Such things have happened, such things do, though very rarely, happen in the London of to-day. But the class of criminal who makes a practice and livelihood of robbery with violence, of attempted or actual murder, is a small class. Every member of it is intimately known to the police, and Scotland Yard was able to discover no single suspicious movement of this or that criminal who might reasonably be concerned in such an affair. Moreover, it was pointed out that such criminals were either invariably brought to justice or that, at any rate, thefactthat some one or other unknown has committed a murder is invariably discovered within a week or so of the occurrence.
For fourteen days the hundreds of people engaged in trying to solve this mystery had found no single indication of foul play.
Where, then, was Guy Rathbone? Was he alive? was he dead? Nobody was prepared to say.
The one strange circumstance which seemed to throw a tiny light upon the mystery was this. For a fortnight or so before his disappearance, Mr. Rathbone, usually in the habit of going a good deal to dinner-parties, dances, and so on, had declined all invitations. Many people who had invited him to this or that function now came forward and announced that their invitations had been declined, as Mr. Rathbone had said he was going out of town for a short time. Inquiries in the Temple showed that Mr. Rathbone had not been out of town at all. He had remained almost entirely in his chambers, and even his appearances in the Law Courts, where he had only done three days' actual work for the last week or two, had been less frequent than usual.
Rathbone was in the habit of being attended to by a woman who came early in the morning, lit the fires, prepared his bath and breakfast, and then swept the chambers. The woman generally arrived at seven and left about twelve, returning again for an hour about six in the evening, to make up the fires and do anything else that might be required. Rathbone either lunched in the Inner Temple or in one of the Fleet Street restaurants. If not dining out, he generally took this meal at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, of which he was a member.
The waiters in the Temple Hall said that his attendance had not been quite as regular as usual in the fortnight or so before his disappearance, but they certainly thought that they had seen him every other day or so.
The woman who looked after the chambers stated that Mr. Rathbone had remained indoors a good deal more than usual, seeming to be engrossed in law books. On several occasions when she had arrived at six in the evening, she had found that he did not require his dress clothes put out, and had asked her to bring him in some sandwiches or some light food of that description, as he intended to work alone far into the night.
These slight divergencies from his ordinary habits were, every one agreed, significant of something. But what that something was nobody knew, and the wild suggestions made on all sides seemed to provide no real solution.
The last occasion upon which Mr. Rathbone had been seen by any one able to report the occurrence was in the early morning at breakfast. Mrs. Baker, the bed-maker, had cooked the breakfast as usual, and had asked her master if he would excuse her attendance in the evening, as she had a couple of orders for the Adelphi, in return for displaying the bills of the theatre in a little shop she kept with her daughter in a street off Holborn.
"My master seemed in his usual spirits," the good woman had said in an interview with a member of the staff of theWestminster Gazette. "He gave me permission at once to go to the theatre, and said that he himself would be out that evening. There was no trace of anything unusual in his manner. When I arrived in the morning and opened the outer doors of the chambers with my pass key, I went into the study and the sitting-room as usual, lit two fires, turned on the bath, made a cup of tea and took it to Mr. Rathbone's bedroom. There was no answer to my knock, and when I opened the door and went in, thinking he was over-sleeping himself, I found the bed had not been slept in. This was very unusual in a gentleman of Mr. Rathbone's regular habits. It would not have attracted my notice in the case of some gentlemen I have been in the habit of doing for, who were accustomed to stay out without any intimation of the fact. But I did think it strange in the case of Mr. Guy, always a very steady gentleman. I waited about till nearly one o'clock, and he did not return. I then went home, and did not go to the chambers again till six o'clock, when I found things in the same state as before, the fires burnt out, and no trace of anybody having entered. As I left the Inn I asked the porter if he had seen Mr. Rathbone, and he replied that he had not returned. The same thing happened for the next two days, when the porter communicated with the authorities of the Inn, and an inspector of police was called in."
The interview disclosed few more facts of importance, save only one. This was that Mr. Rathbone had dressed for dinner on the night of his disappearance. His evening clothes were not in the wardrobe, and the morning suit he had been wearing at breakfast was neatly folded and placed upon a chest of drawers ready for Mrs. Baker to brush it.
This seemed to show indubitably that the barrister had no thought of being absent from home that night.
There the matter had rested at first. Meanwhile, as no new discovery was made, and not the slightest ray of light seemed to be forthcoming, the public interest was worked up to fever heat. Rathbone had few relations, though many friends. His only surviving relative appeared to be his uncle, a brother of his mother, who was the Dean of Bexeter. The clergyman was interviewed, and stated that he generally received a letter from his nephew every three weeks or so, but nothing in the most recent letter had been unusual, and that he was as much in the dark as any ordinary member of the public.
This much was known to the man in the street. But in society, while the comment and amazement was no less in intensity, much more was known than the outside world suspected.
For some time past every one had remarked the apparent and growing intimacy between the lost man and Miss Marjorie Poole, who was engaged to the famous scientist, Sir William Gouldesbrough, F.R.S. How far matters had gone between the young couple was only conjectured, but at the moment of Rathbone's disappearance it was generally believed that Miss Poole was about to throw over Sir William for his young rival—this was the elegant way in which men talked in the clubs and women in their drawing-rooms.
Nothing is hidden now-a-days, and the fierce light of publicity beats upon the doings of the countess and the coster-monger alike. The countess may, perhaps, preserve a secret a little longer than the coster-monger, and that is the only difference between them in this regard.
Accordingly, on the fifteenth or sixteenth day of the mystery, a sensational morning paper published a special article detailing what professed to be an entirely new light upon the situation. If statements affecting the private and intimate life of anybody can be called in good taste, the article was certainly written with a due regard to proprieties, and with an obvious attempt to avoid hurting the feelings of any one. But, as it was pointed out in a prefatory note, the whole affair had passed from the regions of private life into the sphere of national interest, and therefore it was the duty of a journal to give to the world all and every fact which had any bearing upon the affair, without fear or favour.
This last article, which created a tremendous sensation, was in substance as follows:—
It hinted that a young lady of great charm, and moving in the highest circles, a young lady who had been engaged for some little time to one of the most distinguished Englishmen of the day, had lately been much seen with the vanished man. The gossip of society had hinted that this could mean nothing more or less than the young lady had been mistaken in the first disposal of her affections, and was about to make a change.
How did this bear upon the situation?
During the next day or two, though no names were actually printed, it became generally known who the principal characters in the supposed little drama of love really were. Everybody spoke freely of old Sir Frederick Poole's distinguished daughter, of Lady Poole of Curzon Street, and of Sir William Gouldesbrough.
When the article first appeared everybody began to say, "Ah, now we shall have the whole thing cleared up." But as the days went on people began to realize that the new facts threw little new light upon the mystery, and only provided a possible motive for Mr. Guy Rathbone's suicide. And then once more people were compelled to ask themselves if Mr. Rathbone really was in love with Miss Poole, and had found that either she would have nothing to say to him, or that she was inevitably bound to Sir William Gouldesbrough in honour. Then when, how and where did he make away with himself?
And to that question there was absolutely no answer.