MARKING TIME
Rodney Elmore's rooms were within a short distance of Paddington
Station. As his cab drew up at the house he saw that another hansom
was already at the door. Since it was past midnight, its presence was
suggestive; it betokened a visitor. The house being a small one, there
was only one other lodger besides himself, and he occupied a modest
"bed-sitting-room" on the upper floor. His instinct told him that the
visitor was for himself. At that hour on Sunday night the fact was
portentous. Opening the door with his latch-key, as he stepped inside
a girl came hastening towards him from a room at the back,
noiselessly, as if she did not wish to be overheard, rather a pretty
girl, with fluffy, fair hair. She spoke in a whisper:
"There's someone to see you--a lady. She would wait, although I told
her I didn't know when you would be in."
"What's her name?"
"She said Miss Patterson."
He understood--he had been making certain mental calculations as he
came along. No doubt his uncle would have his name and address upon
him; his identity would be discovered so soon as they searched the
body. There had been time to carry the news to Russell Square; this
was the result. Nodding to the fluffy-haired girl, he passed quickly
into his sitting-room, which was on the left, in the front of the
house. Gladys was standing by the table. As she came towards him he
knew by the look which was on her face that his guess had been
right--that already she knew at least part of the story.
"Where have you been?" she exclaimed. "I thought you were never
coming."
Taking both her hands in his, he drew her to him.
"My dear child! how could I guess that you were here? What does it
mean?"
She looked at him with a curious sombre something in her big dark
eyes, which reminded him of a child who is about to cry. Her lips
trembled.
"Rodney, dad's dead."
His tone was eager, gentle, sympathetic; instinct with surprise.
"Dead! You--you don't mean it!"
"In the train."
"In the train! What train?"
She told her tale, he listening with interest, anxiety, tenderness,
which were sufficiently real.
"I was just going to bed."
"Dear, you're shivering. You'd better sit down."
"I'd rather stand--close to you."
He put his arms about her and held her tight. He kissed her.
"Sweetheart," he whispered. He could feel her trembling; tears were
beginning to shine in her eyes.
"I was in my bedroom, and--and--I was thinking about you"--about the
corners of her lips was the queerest little smile--"when there was a
ringing at the front door. I thought it was dad, who had forgotten his
key; but they came and told me that there was a gentleman downstairs
who wished to see me very particularly about my father, and that it
was most important. So I slipped on a dressing-jacket and went down to
him. It was someone from the railway company. They had found dad in
the carriage of a train which had come from Brighton. He was dead--now
he was at Victoria Station--he had committed suicide."
"Suicide!"
Rodney started; it could not have been better done if his surprise had
been genuine.
"It's--it's incredible!"
"I can only tell you what the man told me. He said of course there
would have to be an inquiry, but all the indications pointed at that.
He had poisoned himself; in his hand they had found a box in which
were some more of the things with which he had done it."
"I can only say that to me it seems--it does seem impossible. I should
have said he was the last person to do anything like that."
"You never can tell what sort of person will do a thing like that.
I once knew a girl who went straight up after dinner to her bedroom
and--did it; no one ever knew why. I went with the man to Victoria,
and--saw dad; I've come right on from there. I felt that I couldn't
go home till I had seen you. I believe I should have stayed here all
night if you hadn't come."
"You poor little thing!--sweetheart mine!--you only woman in the
world!"
"You--you will be good to me, Rodney?"
"Never was man better to a woman than I will try to be to you."
"Suppose--suppose dad did it because he was ruined?"
"My dear girl, as you are aware, I was not in your father's
confidence--still, I am pretty nearly certain that, commercially, it
will be found that he was all right. Yet, should it turn out that he
was even worse than penniless, it will not make a mite of difference
in my love for you."
"You are sure?"
"Absolutely. Aren't you?"
"I do believe you care for me a little, or--I shouldn't be here."
"A little! You--you bad girl; you dearest, sweetest of darlings!
Between ourselves, if it does turn out that you're no richer than I
am, I shan't be sorry. He never did want you to have anything to do
with me. I might have won him over if he had lived; you know, I
believe he was commencing to like me a little better. I'm not sure
that I wouldn't sooner have you without his money; I should feel as if
I were playing the game."
"It will be horrid if he has left nothing; it will perhaps mean a
scandal, and things are bad enough as they are."
"I see what you have in your mind, but I assure you you need not have
the slightest fear. I'll stake my own integrity that in all matters of
business your father had the highest sense of honour. I'll be willing
to write myself down a rogue if it can be shown that he ever deviated
in any particular from the highest standard of commercial rectitude."
"I hope you're right."
"I am right, on that point you may rest assured."
"You know, Rodney, you're all I have in the world--now."
The use of the adverb, in that connection, tickled him. The idea that,
so far as she was concerned, her father ever had been much of a
personal asset was distinctly funny. However, he allowed no hint of
how her words struck him to peep out; never a more ardent lover, a
more present help in the time of a girl's trouble. He escorted her to
what bade henceforward to be her lonely home in the cab which still
waited at the door. When he returned to Paddington it was very late.
As he moved to his bedroom up the darkened staircase a door opened on
the landing. The fluffy-haired girl looked out. She was in a state of
considerable _deshabille_.
"You are late," she whispered. "I thought you never were coming back."
"You goose."
He put his arms about her and kissed her with the calmest proprietary
air.
"To think that you should be still awake."
"You knew I should sit up; you knew mother wasn't coming back
to-night, and you said you'd be in early."
She spoke with an air of grievance. He smiled.
"It's been a case of man proposes. I have had many things to contend
with--all sorts of worries. Now, as I want breakfast early, I'm going
to bed, and, I hope, to sleep, if you aren't."
"You don't care for me a bit."
He kissed her again.
She waited on him at breakfast, which, as he had forewarned her, he
had unusually early. She was his landlady's daughter; her name was
Mabel Joyce. Among his letters was one from Stella Austin. He opened
it as she placed before him his bacon and eggs; as he glanced at
Stella's opening lines Miss Joyce talked.
"So you went to Brighton yesterday--by the Pullman, too."
He looked up at her as if surprised.
"Did I? Who told you that?"
"Didn't you?"
"You say I did. Pray, from what quarter did you get your information?"
"Oh, there are plenty of quarters from which I can get
information--when I like. And your uncle was in Brighton. It doesn't
look as if he had a very pleasant day there, as he committed suicide
in the train on the way back to town. I dare say you had a pleasanter
day than he did."
"I presume you got that information either from this morning's paper
or else from listening last night outside the door."
"As it happens, I haven't seen a paper, and, as for listening, if you
don't know I wouldn't do a thing like that it's no use my saying so."
"Then who was your informant?"
"That's my business. There is a little bird which sometimes whispers
in my ear. Did you come back in the Pullman?"
He replied to her question with another.
"What's the matter with you, Mabel?"
"What should be? Nothing's the matter; I was only thinking that if you
did, your uncle must have been in the train just behind you. If you'd
have known what he was doing you'd have felt funny. Still, if you did
come by the Pullman, considering that it's due at Victoria at ten, and
yesterday was quite punctual, since you had promised to be in early,
and knew that I was all alone in the house, I think you might have
been back before midnight."
He eyed the girl. She was pretty, in a pink-and-white sort of way;
fonder of him than was good for her. He had never seen her in this
shrewish mood before.
"My dear Mabel, if I could have got back earlier I would have done so;
but I couldn't. I was the sufferer, not you."
"I dare say! I suppose that Miss Patterson was your cousin. Are you
going to marry her?"
"Really! you jump about! How do you suppose a fellow in my position
can tell whom he's going to marry--on twopence a year?"
"I dare say she's got money, especially now. Since directly she heard
of her father's death she came tearing round to you, at that time of
night, it looks as if you ought to marry her if you don't!"
Miss Joyce flounced out of the room. For some moments he sat
considering her words. Who told her that he went to Brighton, on the
Pullman? Was it a lucky guess? Hardly; probably someone had seen him.
People's eyes were everywhere. He would have to be careful what tale
he told. It was odd how gingerly one had to walk when one was in a
delicate position; there were so many unseen strings over which one
might stumble.
As he ate his breakfast he read Stella's letter. It was a girl's first
letter to her lover; which is apt to be a wonderful production, as in
this case. He had not supposed that a letter from Stella could have
stirred him as that one did. It suggested the perfect love which
casteth out fear. She bared her simple heart to him in perfect trust
and confidence, showing in every line that, to her, he was both hero
and king, that man of men,--her husband that was to be. Tears actually
stood in his eyes as he realised the pathos of it all; how sweet to
hold such innocence in his arms. He was not sure that he had not been
over-hasty in concluding that here was no wife for him. The picture
which, as he read on, quite unwittingly she presented to his mind's
eye, of the two wandering hand in hand down the vale of years, to the
goal of venerable old age at the end, moved him to the depths. It was
sweet to be so trusted; he would have loved to have her with him at
the breakfast-table then. It was so dear a letter that he kissed it as
he folded it, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Then he set himself to thinking. Part of the point of Stella's letter
lay in the fact that she expected him to go to her that night, and
wished him to know all the things she set down in black and white, so
that they might be able to talk about them when he came. The
misfortune was that he was not going. He would have liked to
go--truly. He felt that after what had happened lately an evening
spent with Stella would be delicious. So strongly did he feel this
that he cast about in his mind for some means of ensuring himself
even a few fleeting minutes in her society; but could hit on none.
Accident might befriend him, but he doubted if Gladys would give
accident much chance. He had promised that he would go from the
office straight to her; it might go ill with him if he did not. Once
with her, she was not likely to let him go again till it was too
late to think of Stella.
How appease the maiden for her disappointment? He could think of
nothing but laying stress on the dreadful thing which had happened to
his uncle, and putting all the blame on that. He had never mentioned
his cousin to Stella, or to Mary, or to anyone, being of those who, if
they can help it, do not like their first finger to know what their
thumb is doing. Stella did not know he had a feminine relative; it
might be inconvenient to acquaint her with the fact just now; quite
possibly her soft heart might move her to go and offer the orphaned
Gladys consolation. He smiled as the droll side of such a possibility
tickled his sense of humour. Possibly the time might come when the two
young women would have to know of each other's existence, but--perhaps
it might be as well to put it off for awhile.
He scribbled a hasty note to Stella, speaking of the rapture her
letter had given him, and dwelling, in lurid hues, on the tragedy of
his uncle's end; then suddenly remembered that, from her point of
view, he ought not to have heard of it. What a number of trifles one
did have to think of. He had not seen a paper; he did not propose to
tell her of his trip to Brighton; she had heard nothing of Gladys; she
might ask some awkward questions as to how he came to know about it so
early in the day. He tore the note up and made a bonfire of the
pieces. Then he scribbled another, in which he only spoke of his
rapture and of the ecstatic longing with which he looked forward to
seeing her after his office work was done, and of how the intervening
seconds would go by like leaden hours--he felt that a poetic touch of
that sort was the least that was required. Then, when he reached the
office, he might wire her the dreadful tidings in an agitated
telegram, and, later, in a still more agitated telegram, inform her
that one awful consequence of the upheaval which had followed the
hideous tragedy was that he would be unable to come to her to-night.
The tale would be much more effective told like that. Whatever her
feelings were, he did not see how a loophole would be left to her to
lay blame on him.