GRATITUDE OF MISS MARJORIE POOLE
As the man to whom she had been engaged came into the room, Marjorie
rose to meet him. She was not embarrassed, the hour and occasion were
too serious for that, and she herself was too broken down for any
emotions save those that were intensely real and came from an anguished
heart. She went up to him, all pale and drooping, and took him by the
hand.
"Thank you, William," she said in a low voice, and that was all.
But in her words Gouldesbrough realized all that she was powerless to
say. He heard, with an inward thrill and leap of the pulses, an immense
respect for him, which, even in the days of their engagement, he had
never heard.
Always, Marjorie had reverenced his attainments, never had she seemed to
be so near to him as a _man_ as now.
He looked straight into her eyes, nor did his own flinch from her
direct and agonized gaze. The frightful power of his dominating will,
the horrible strength of his desire, the intensity of his purpose,
enabled him to face her look without a sign of tremor.
He, this man with a marvellous intellect and a soul unutterably stained
by the most merciless perfidy, was yet able to look back at her with a
kind, sorrowful, and touching glance.
Gouldesbrough wore no metal helmet which should make the horror of his
thoughts and knowledge plain for Marjorie to see. The man who had
committed a crime as foul and sinister as ever crime was yet, the man
who was responsible for the pale face of the girl he loved, the drooping
form, the tearful eyes, yet smiled back at her with a mask of patient
resignation, deference, and chivalry.
"I am so glad you've come, William," Lady Poole said; "and I'm sure,
distressing as all these circumstances are, we cannot thank you enough
for what you have done and are doing. No one else in your position would
have done so much. And on Marjorie's behalf and on my own I thank you
with a full heart."
Sir William bowed.
Then Lady Poole, voluble as she usually was, and unabashed in almost
every circumstance hesitated a little. The situation was certainly very
delicate, almost unparalleled, indeed, and it was certainly quite
outside even her wide experience. But her voice had a genuine ring of
thankfulness and gratitude, and the real woman emerged from the veneer
of worldliness and baffled ambition.
There was a pause for a moment, no one of the three spoke a single word.
Then Lady Poole, by an intuition, said and did exactly the right
thing--perhaps old Sir Frederick's "hobby of tact" had not been without
its use after all! She sank into a chair.
"There's no need for any explanation, I can see that," she said with a
sigh of relief. "With any other man it would have been so different, but
it's all right, William, I can see it in your manner and in your
presence here. Then let me say once and for all, that both Marjorie and
I feel at last we have got some one with us who will help us. We have
been terribly alone. We have both felt it most poignantly. After all,
women do want a man in a crisis! You, dear William, are the last man we
should have thought of asking to help us, and yet you are the first man
who has come to do so."
"Dear Lady Poole," Gouldesbrough answered in a quiet voice, "I think
perhaps I see a little of what you mean. I am not sure, but I think I
do. And I regard it as the greatest privilege and honour to come to you
with an offer of help and assistance in your trouble."
He turned to the younger lady.
"Marjorie," he said, "you must treat me just like a brother now. You
must forget all that has passed between us, and just lean on me, rely on
me, use me. Nothing could make me more happy than just that."
Lady Poole rose again. Who shall say in the volatile brain of the good
dame that already in the exhilaration of Sir William's presence and
kindness, new hopes and ambitions were not reviving? Lady Poole was a
woman, and she was an opportunist too. Woman-like, her mind moved fast
into an imaginary future; it had always done so. And it is possible that
upon the clouded horizon of her hopes a faint star began to twinkle once
more.
Who shall blame Lady Poole?
"Now, my dears," she said in a more matter of fact voice, "I think
perhaps you might be happier in discussing this matter if I were to go
away. Under the circumstances, I am perfectly aware that it's not the
correct thing to do, but that is speaking only from a conventional
standpoint, and none of us here can be conventional at a moment like
this. If you would rather have me stay, just say so. But it is with
pride and pleasure that I know that I can leave you with Marjorie,
William, even under these miserable circumstances and in this unhappy
business."
Gouldesbrough smiled sadly.
"It is as Marjorie wishes," he said. "But I know that Marjorie knows she
can trust me."
The great man saw that once more the girl lifted her eyes and looked at
him with something which was almost like reverence. Never before had he
seen her look at him like this. Once more the evil joy in the
possibility of victory after all leapt through his blood.
No thought nor realization of the terrible thing he had done, of the
horrors that he and the pink-faced man in Regent's Park were even now
perfecting, came to trouble that moment of evil pride. Everybody had
always said, everybody who had been brought into contact with him,
always knew that Sir William Gouldesbrough was a strong man!
Lady Poole waited a moment to see if her daughter made any sign of
wishing her to remain, and finding that there was none, for Marjorie was
standing with drooping head and made no movement, the dowager swept out
of the room with rustling skirts, and gently closed the door.
Sir William and Marjorie were left alone.
The man of action asserted himself.
"Sit down, Marjorie," he said in a commonplace tone, "and just let me
talk to you on pure matters of fact. Now, my dear, we haven't seen each
other since you wrote me the letter telling me that our engagement was a
mistake. You know what my reply to that was, and I believe and trust you
know that I shall remain perfectly true to both the spirit and actual
words of that communication. That's all we need say now, except just
this: I loved you dearly and I love you dearly now. I had hoped that we
might have been very happy together and that I might have spent my life
in your service. But that was not to be in the way that I had hoped. At
the same time, I am not a man easily moved or changed, and if I cannot
be yours in one way, dear girl, I will be yours in another. However,
that's all about that. Now, then, let me tell you how hard I have been
trying to discover the truth of this astounding disappearance of poor
Mr. Guy Rathbone."
A low sob came from the girl in the chair. It was a sob not only of
regret for her lost lover, but it had the same note of reverence, of
utter appreciation, of her first words.
"You are too good," she said. "William, I have treated you horribly
badly. You are too good. Oh, you are _too_ good!"
"Hush!" he said in a sharp staccato voice. "We agreed that aspect of
the question wasn't to be spoken of any more. The past is the past, and,
my dear little girl, I beg you to realize it. You loved poor Guy
Rathbone, and he seems to have been wiped out of ordinary life. My
business is to find him again for you, so that you may be happy. I have
been trying to do the utmost in my power for days. I have done
everything that my mind could suggest, and as yet nothing has occurred.
Now, Marjorie, let's just be business-like. Tell me what you think about
the matter, and I will tell you what I think. See if our two brains
cannot hit on something which will help us."
"William," she said with a full note, a chord rather, of deep pain in
her voice--"William, I don't know what to think. I can't understand it.
I am lost in utter darkness. There seems no possible reason why he
should have gone away. I can only think that the worst has happened, and
that some terrible people must have killed him."
"But why?"
"Oh," she answered almost hysterically, "he was so beautiful and so
strong. They must have killed him because he was so different to other
men." She did not see the tall man who sat before her wince and quiver.
She did not see his face change and contort itself into malignancy. She
did not realize that these innocent words, wrung from a simple
distressed and loving heart, meant awful things for the man she longed
for.
"But, Marjorie," the voice came steady and strong, "you know that is
just a little fantastic, if you will forgive me for saying so. People
don't go about injuring other people because they are better-looking or
have finer natures than themselves. They only say unkind things about
them, they don't kill them, you know."
"Oh, of course, you are right, William," she answered, "and I hardly
know what I'm saying, the pain of it all is so great. But then, there
_is_ nothing to say. I can't understand, I can hardly realize what has
happened."
"For my part," Sir William answered, "I have left no stone unturned to
discover the truth. I have been in communication with every force or
agency which might be able to explain the thing. And no one has given me
the slightest hint, except perhaps----"
She leapt up from her chair, her pale face changed.
"Yes?" she cried, "What is it? What is that?"
Her breath came thick and fast. Sir William remained sitting in his
chair and his head was bowed.
"Sit down, Marjorie," he answered; "I didn't mean to say that."
"But you said it," she replied. "Ah! my ears are very keen, and there
was something in your voice which had meaning. William, what is it? What
is it?"
"Nothing," he answered in a deep, decisive voice.
But the voice brought no conviction to her ears. She had detected, or
thought she had detected, the note of an inner knowledge when he had
first spoken. She crossed the room with rapid strides and laid her white
hand upon his shoulder.
"You've _got_ to tell me," she said imperiously. And her touch thrilled
him through and through with an exquisite agony and an exquisite joy.
"It's nothing," he repeated.
Now there was less conviction than ever in his voice. She laughed
hysterically. "William," she said, "I know you so well, you can't hide
anything from me. There's something you can tell me. Whatever it may be,
good or bad, you've just _got_ to tell me."
At that he looked up at her, and his face, she saw, was drawn and
frightened.
"Marjorie," he said, "don't let any words of mine persuade you into any
belief. Since you ask me I must say what I have got to say. But mind
you, I am in no way convinced myself that what I am going to tell you is
more than mere idle supposition."
"Tell me," she whispered, and her voice hissed like escaping steam.
"Well, it's just this," he said, "and it's awfully hard for me even to
hint such a thing to you. But, you know, Rathbone had recently made
rather a friend of poor Eustace Charliewood. I like Charliewood; you
never did. A man's point of view and a girl's point of view are quite
different about a man. But of course I can't pretend that Charliewood is
exactly, well--er--what you might call--I don't know quite how to put
it, Marjorie."
"I know," she said with a shudder of disgust "I know. Go on."
"Well, just before Rathbone disappeared those two seemed to have been
about together a good deal, and of course Charliewood is a man who has
some rather strange acquaintances, especially in the theatrical world.
That is to say, in the sub-theatrical world. Marjorie, I hardly know how
to put it to you, and I think I had better stop."
"Go on!" she cried once more.
"Well," he said wearily, "Rathbone was a good fellow, no doubt, but he
is a young man, and no girl really knows what the life of a young man
really is or may be. I know that Charliewood introduced Rathbone to a
certain girl. Oh, Marjorie, I can't go on, these suspicions are
unworthy."
"Terribly unworthy," she cried, standing up to her full height, and then
in a moment she drooped to him, and once more she asked him to go on.
He told her of certain meetings, saying that there could have been, of
course, no harm in them, skilfully hinting at this or that, and then
testifying to his utter disbelief in the suspicions that he himself had
provoked. She listened to him, growing whiter and whiter. At last his
hesitating speech died away into silence, and she stood looking at him.
"It might be," she whispered, half to herself, "it might be, but I do
not think it _could_ be. No man could be so unutterably cruel, so
unutterably base. I have made you tell me this, William, and I know that
you yourself do not believe it. He could not be so wicked as to
sacrifice everything for one of those people."
And then Sir William rose.
"No," he said, "he couldn't. I feel it, though I don't know him.
Marjorie, no living man could leave you for one of the vulgar syrens of
the half world."
She looked at him for a moment as he put the thing in plain language,
and then burst into a passion of weeping.
"I can't bear any more, William," she said between her sobs. "Go now,
but find him. Oh, find him!"