GOOD NIGHT
When Rodney Elmore went home, as his cab drew up in front of his
lodgings a man came quickly across the road and stood so that he was
between him and the entrance to the house.
"Mr. Rodney Elmore?"
Rodney looked him up and down. It was not a very good light just
there, but it was clear enough for him to recognise the man who had
greeted him. For the first time in his life a feeling that was
something very like dizziness went all over him, so that he all but
reeled; but that self-control which so seldom quitted him except for
the briefest instant was back before it had actually gone. He did not
reel, but stood quite still, and, with a smile upon his face, looked
the man fairly and squarely in the eyes.
"That is my name--I am Rodney Elmore; but you, sir--pray, who are
you?"
"My name is Edward Giles. But I don't think that that can mean much to
you, Mr. Elmore."
"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Giles, but, as you say, your name
does convey absolutely nothing to me. What is it that I can have the
pleasure of doing for you at this latish hour?"
The man was silent for a moment. Then a curious smile flitted across
his face as he came a half-step nearer.
"Think, Mr. Elmore. I shouldn't be surprised if you had rather a good
memory. Don't you remember me?"
"Not the least in the world, Mr. Giles."
"It isn't so very long ago since you saw me."
"Indeed! I presume it was on rather a special occasion, Mr. Giles,
since you appear to be rather anxious to recall it to my
recollection."
"It was rather a special occasion for you, Mr. Elmore; and a still
more special occasion--for Mr. Patterson."
"My uncle?"
"Yes, Mr. Elmore, your uncle. Don't you remember last Sunday evening
at Brighton station?"
Rodney hesitated.
"Why do you ask?"
"You do remember, Mr. Elmore, and so do I. I can see you still, coming
sauntering down the platform smoking a cigarette and looking into the
first-class carriages to see which of them would suit you best. You
chose one, and then stood for a moment or two at the door, looking up
and down the platform, to see, as it were, if there was anything which
caught your eye. Then you got into the carriage, and took the seat at
the farther end, facing the engine. You thought you were going to
journey up all alone, but just as the train was starting a stout,
elderly gentleman came bustling along. Yours was the only carriage
door that was open, and I helped him in. I shut the door, and you went
out of the station together. Don't you remember that? Look at me
carefully. Don't you remember that I was the party who helped your
uncle into your carriage? Just look at me and think."
Again Rodney hesitated, and seemed to think. Then he said, in a tone
the indifference of which was perhaps a trifle studied:
"Really, Mr. Giles, I don't quite know what it is you expect me to
say."
The man gave a little laugh.
"Anyhow, Mr. Elmore, you've said it."
Without an attempt at a farewell greeting, he walked quickly back
across the street, to where, as Rodney had been aware, another person
had been waiting.
The pair walked briskly off together side by side, and Rodney went up
the steps into the house. He knew that, as he had expected, the
presence of that platform inspector was going to prove awkward for
him; more awkward than he cared to think. But he did think, as he
turned into his sitting-room; and still stood thinking as the door was
gently opened and Mabel Joyce came in. Her agitation was almost
unpleasantly evident. One could see that her hands were trembling,
that her lips were twitching, and that, indeed, it was all she could
do to keep her whole body from shaking. She came quickly towards the
table, and leaned upon the edge; plainly it was a very real assistance
in aiding her to stand. And her voice was as tremulous as her person.
"Did--did you see him?"
"My dear Mabel, did I see whom?"
She seemed to clutch the table still more tightly.
"Rodney, don't! It's no good. Do you think I don't know? What's the
good of pretending with me, when you know--I know? What cock-and-bull
story is this about some man, some fool, some lunatic, who says--he
did it? Do you think that I don't know, that Mr. Dale doesn't
know, that they all don't know? Rodney," and her voice trembled so
that it was with pain she spoke at all, "there'll--there'll--be a
warrant--out--in the morning. Oh, my God! my God!"
And the girl threw herself forward on the table, crying and trembling
as if on the verge of a convulsion.
"What on earth, Mabel, is the use of spoiling your pretty face like
this? I am a little worried to-night, and that's the truth. If there's
anything you want to say to me, old girl, say it, and have done with
it."
He sighed. She raised herself from the table, and looked across at
him.
"Rodney, it won't be any use our marrying." There was a big sob. "That
won't save you--now. God knows what will."
"It's really very good of you to worry about the sort of man that I
have been to you; take my tip, my dear, don't worry. I'll win
through."
"But how? How? You don't understand! This--this fool, whoever he is,
who pretends he did it, has only made them all the keener. They--they
mean to have you now."
"They? And who are _they?_"
"There's Dale, and Giles, and Harlow, and--and don't ask me who
besides. They're all wild because--because you tricked them; because
they made such idiots of themselves at the inquest."
Rodney raised his arms above his head, and stretched himself, and
yawned, as if he were a little weary.
"They were a trifle premature; coroner, and jury, an eminent
specialist, and Harlow, and all--the whole jolly lot of them. I don't
wonder they feel a trifle wild. But why with me?"
"You know, Rodney--you know! You know! Oh, don't--don't pretend!"
"On my word of honour--if it's any use employing that pretty figure of
speech with you--I am not pretending. I've still another trick in the
bag; that's all. And that's what you don't give me credit for, my
dear."
"What--what trick's that? You've too many tricks--you're all tricks!
It's--Rodney, it's--it's too late for tricks!"
"But not for this pretty trick of mine. Mabel, it's such a pretty one!
But now you listen to me for a moment. Pull yourself together. Stand
up; let me see your face."
She did as he bade her, and stood, leaning on the table with both her
hands, looking at him with eyes from which the tears were streaming.
"Mabel, you asked me to marry you. I said I would, and I will."
"But--what's the use of it now? You don't understand."
"Oh, yes, I do; I don't know if I can get you to believe me, but I do
understand much better than you suppose; and, indeed, I rather fancy
even better than you do. Anyhow, the supposition is that we're to be
bride and bridegroom, dear, to-morrow; let's for goodness' sake be
friends to-night. Let's try to say, at any rate, one or two pleasant
things, as, not so very long ago, we used to do. What's going to come
of it all you seem doubtful, and I can hardly pretend that I'm quite
sure. I don't suppose, Mabel, that you ever read Dante, or, perhaps,
even heard of him. But, in a tolerably well-known poem by Dante, there
is this story. He goes down, with a party named Virgil, into one of
the lowest depths of hell, and there he meets a poor devil who seems
to be having an uncommonly bad time. They ask him what he has done
that he should suffer so, and he answers something to this effect. He
has it that his creed was a very simple one. He believed, and he acted
on his belief, that one moment of perfect bliss was worth an eternity
of hell, He had that perfect moment, the lucky bargee! And now for
ever he's in hell. Yet, do you know, he isn't sorry; he thinks that
moment was worth the price he paid. That's a moral story, and I don't
pretend that I've got it quite right; but that's what it comes to;
and, upon my word, I'm sometimes half disposed to think that that
man's creed is mine. I guess it would be rather too much to ask you to
make it yours; but--this you'll grant--we have had our moments of
bliss, which was nearly perfect. Now, haven't we?"
"I--I don't know why you're talking to me like this. I--I know we
have. Oh, Rodney, how--how I wish we hadn't!"
"Well, I don't--and I rather fancy I'm in a worse fix than you. But,
as I live, when I think of the fun we've had, I don't care--that." And
he snapped his fingers. "They can do as they please, but they can't
take from me my memories; and if I'm face to face with hell--I'll
carry them there."
He held out his hands to her with a little gesture of appeal. "Lady,
talking will do no good, so let's say pretty things. Sweetheart, I'll
be shot if I won't call you sweetheart, look you never so sourly at
me!"
"Oh, Rodney, I--I don't want to look sourly at you! Sourly! Oh, my
dear, if you only knew!"
"I do know, and that's just it. I want you to know. Sweetheart, good
night!"
He still held out his hands to her. As she looked at him, with
straining eyes, she seemed to waver.
"Rodney!"
"Good night. Come here and say it--or shall we meet half-way?"
He moved towards her round the table, and she, as if she could not
help it, moved towards him. And they said good night.