THE GENTLEMAN'S DEPARTURE AND THE LADY'S EXPLANATIONS
In the morning early Mabel Joyce knocked at the door of Mr. Elmore's
bedroom with a jug of shaving water in her hand; knocked softly, as if
she did not wish to rouse the sleeper too abruptly from his rest. When
no answer came she clung to the handle of the door, as a tremor seemed
to pass all over her; then, presently, knocked again. Still no reply.
She bent her head towards the panel, listening intently. Then,
suddenly, decisively, rapped three times and waited. Still no reply.
With a quick movement she turned the handle and passed into the room;
and, when in, closed the door rapidly behind her, standing with her
back against it, in an attitude of one who was afraid. She looked
towards the bed. It was empty; the sleeper had awaked himself from
slumber, had risen, and had gone. Putting the jug beside her on the
floor, she passed quickly towards the bed; leaning over it, she stared
at something which caught her eye upon the pillow. On the white slip
was a dark red stain. She put out her hand, clutched it with her
finger, withdrew her finger, and looked at it. Part of the redness
had passed from the pillow to the tip of her finger. All at once
she dropped on to her knees beside the empty bed, and, bowing her
head upon the coverlet, stayed motionless. Then rose again to
her feet, looking round her. Her glance caught something on the
dressing-table--an envelope. Moving towards it, she snatched it up.
It was addressed, simply, "Mrs. Joyce." Although it seemed scarcely
likely that such an address was intended for her, she ripped open
the flap, and took out the sheet of paper it contained.
"DEAR MRS. JOYCE,--I'm off, to another world--the world beyond the
grave. I'm more of a coward than I thought; and yet I don't know that
it's quite that. I have tried to cut my throat in bed--your bed; but
my hand bungled. I have made rather a mess--and then I stopped. It
seemed rather a pity to spoil your bedclothes, and I did not like to
feel the razor. I am going to do it another way--outside your house,
in a place I know of, where I hope no one will ever find me. I want no
coroner to sit upon my body, and I want no jury to make me the subject
of their silly verdicts.
"I have heaps of reasons--I dare say you'll hear enough about them
before long. I'd rather you heard of them than other people heard of
them, when I am not here. It is because I am so anxious that the
hearing should take place behind my back that I am going. I don't
quite know what I owe you, but I believe I'm a little in arrears.
You'll find ten pounds on the table; it should more than pay you, and
even make up for the week's notice which I have not given. All my
possessions that I leave behind--and there are quite a number of
decent suits of clothes--are yours. Do as you like with them. If you
sell them, and get the price you ought to get, you should not do
badly.
"Tell everybody what I have told you, and, if you like, show them this
letter. You have not been a bad landlady; I don't suppose I shall be
better suited where I am going; nor have I been a bad lodger; if you
get a better you'll be in luck.
"Say good-bye to Mabel. There is a portrait of a kind in the locket
which you will find near this envelope. I think I should like her to
have it, as one to whom I am indebted for many favours.--Your one-time
lodger,
"RODNEY ELMORE.
"Do you think I shall find it lonely where I am going? I wonder!"
The girl, having read this letter to the end, caught up an
old-fashioned locket; doubtless the one referred to. Opening it, there
looked out at her the young man's face--a miniature, not ill-done. She
pressed it to her lips, not once, nor twice, but again and again and
again. Then, shutting it, slipped it inside her blouse. She gave
another rapid glance about the room, moved hither and thither as if to
make sure that there was nothing left which might tell more than need
be told; then, passing hastily from the room, went not downstairs to
her mother but upstairs to the lodger overhead. At his door she also
knocked. Response was instant.
"Who's there? Come in!"
She went in. Mr. Dale was sitting up in bed She stayed close to the
door.
"He's gone!" she said.
Mr. Dale, although he seemed but recently roused from sleep, seemed to
grasp her meaning in a moment.
"Gone where?"
"He's left this."
She tossed the letter she had been reading so dexterously that it fell
just before him on the bed. He caught it up and read.
"What's it mean?" he asked. She seemed to consider for a moment.
"You know as well as I do."
"I suppose I do--when you come to think of it. He's a beauty--a
shining star!" He stared at the letter. "What does he mean?"
"At any rate, he means one thing--he's gone." Mr. Dale leaned back,
looking at the girl as if he were endeavouring to find something on
her face which should give him a hint what to say next. When he spoke
again it was slowly, as if he measured his words; yet bitterly, as if
behind them was a meaning which scarcely jumped to the eye.
"Look here, Mabel, this isn't going to be an easy thing to do. I'm
going to have all my work cut out if it's to be managed. You know what
I mean by managed. And, as I'm alive, I don't want to do it for
nothing--and I don't mean to."
"What do you mean?"
"If the tale's not to be told--you know what tale--it must be on
terms. I won't ask what this chap's been to you, because I believe I
know. He's been--a blackguard; that's what he's been to you; and, on
my word I believe you women like a man who's a blackguard. But I don't
want to talk about that now."
"I shouldn't, especially as I expect mother will be calling me before
you've done."
The shade of sarcasm in the girl's tone made the man regard her with
knitted brows.
"Never you mind about your mother; I know all about her. For once in
your life you'll just listen to me. Mr. Rodney Elmore has gone,
vanished from the scene--he's dead; here's this letter to prove it
to anyone who doubts it." The speaker grinned. "I'm not dead; I'm
alive--very much alive; and I want you to take a particular note of
that."
"Do you think I don't know that you're alive?"
Mr. Dale's tone grew suddenly fierce.
"I haven't got Mr. Rodney Elmore's pretty tone, nor his pretty
manners, nor his pretty words; but I do care for you." He laughed.
"Care for you! Why, I'd eat the dirt you walk on; and you've made me
do it more than once. Mabel, if I keep my mouth shut, and get others
to keep theirs shut, will you stop treating me as if I were dirt, and
treat me as if I were a man?"
"I'll treat you as you like; I'll do whatever you like; I'll be your
slave, if--if you do that."
She stood close up against the door, with both hands pressed against
her breast, and her words seemed to come from her in gasps. As he saw
that in very truth she suffered, his whole bearing underwent a sudden
change. He all at once grew tender.
"Mabel, I'll make no bargain; I'll do it--for your sake; and--I'll
trust to you for my reward."
With odd suddenness she turned right round, so that her back was
towards him, and her face pressed against the panel of the door. Her
pain seemed to hurt him.
"For God's sake don't--don't do that! I'd rather--do what he's only
pretended to do than give you pain. Cheer up--just try hard to cheer
up, if it's only just enough to help you to know what ought to be done
next."
The suggestion affected her in a fashion which perhaps took him a
little aback. She turned again as suddenly as she had done before,
this time towards him. Her eyes blazed; the words came swiftly from
her lips.
"Do you think that I don't know what I'm going to do next? Do you
think it hasn't been in my mind all night? Why, I've got it all cut,
and planned, and dried. Leave that to me; all I want is for you to
see"--her voice fell--"the tale's not told."
"It sha'n't be if I can help it; and I think I can."
The words still came swiftly from her.
"Say nothing to mother, say nothing to anyone; leave me to do all the
telling--you know nothing; that's all you've got to know. You
understand?"
His voice as he replied was grim.
"Oh, yes, I understand."
"Then, for the present, it's good-bye."
She opened the door. He checked her.
"I shall see you to-night when I come in."
"You shall; if--if nothing's been told."
She went from the room to her own on the landing below, put on her
hat, her coat, and her gloves, and went quickly down the stairs.
Seldom was a pretty girl ready more quickly for the street. She
already had the front door open when her mother called to her.
"Mabel, what to goodness is the matter with you? Where are you going?"
The girl seemed for a moment to be in doubt whether or not to let her
mother's question go unheeded; then decided to vouchsafe her at least
some scraps of information.
"Mother, I believe Mr. Elmore's gone."
"Gone? Mr. Elmore? What's the girl talking about?"
"His bedroom's empty, and there's ten pounds on the dressing-table,
and I'm going straight off to the City to see."
"To the City!"
The astonishment of the lady's voice was justified; she came quickly
along the passage as if to learn what might be the significance of the
mystery which she felt was in the air. But her daughter did not wait
for her approach; she was through the door, had shut it with a bang,
before her mother had realised what it was she meant to do.
Miss Joyce did not go to the City; she went instead to No. 90, Russell
Square. There she inquired for Miss Patterson. She was told the lady
was at breakfast.
"Tell her--tell her that I'm Miss Joyce, and that I must see her--at
once."
She was in the hall, and looked so strange as she leaned against the
wall, with her white face and frightened eyes, that the maid looked at
her as if she could not make her out at all.
"Miss Joyce, did you say the name was?"
"Yes--Joyce--Mabel Joyce; tell Miss Patterson that Miss Joyce must see
her at once."
The maid went into a room upon the right--the dining-room--presently
reappeared, with Miss Patterson behind her. Gladys came out into the
hall.
"Miss Joyce! You wish to see me? On what business?"
"Somewhere--somewhere where we'll be private."
Gladys observed her with curious eyes; then she held open the
dining-room door.
"I'm at breakfast; but, if you don't mind, you'd better come in here."
Mabel went in, Gladys followed. The stranger, now that they were
alone, presented such a woebegone picture that, in spite of herself,
Gladys was moved.
"You don't seem well--are you ill? Hadn't you better sit down?--here's
a chair."
She pushed the chair towards her visitor, but Mabel would none of it.
"No, it doesn't matter, I'd--I'd rather stand. My mother was Mr.
Elmore's--landlady."
"Joyce? Oh, yes, of course, I thought I knew the name; I remember."
Perhaps unconsciously to herself, Gladys's tone hardened; she drew
herself a little straighter, she even moved a little away. In spite of
her obvious trouble, Mabel noticed.
"You needn't be afraid of me--I shan't bite."
"I was not afraid that you would bite. What is it you wish with me,
Miss Joyce?"
"That."
She stretched out towards the other a letter. Gladys eyed it askance,
almost, one might have thought from her demeanour, that she feared
that it might bite.
"What's that?"
"If you take it--you'll see. You're right this time in being afraid;
you've cause to be more afraid of that than of me. But it's written by
somebody you know well, and--you'd better read it."
Still doubtfully, as if she really were in awe of what the sheet of
paper might portend, she took it gingerly from the other's fingers.
Then she read it. And as she read, a curious change came over, not
only her countenance, but her whole bearing. When she had reached the
end her hands dropped to her side, she stared at the girl in front of
her as she might have done at a visitant from another sphere.
"What--does this letter mean?"
For answer, Mabel took another piece of paper from that woman's
universal pocket--her blouse. She held it out to Gladys, and, even
more cautiously than before, Gladys took it with unwilling fingers.
This time, as she read it, it was with an obvious lack of
comprehension.
"What on earth is this?"
"Can't you see? Isn't it plain enough? It's a marriage licence--now
can you see?"
Gladys seemed to make an effort to achieve steadiness, not with entire
success. As if to hide her partial failure, she went down the room to
the seat which she had been occupying at the other end of the table.
Resting her hand on the top of the chair, raising the paper again, she
re-read it. Her back was towards Mabel, her face could not have been
more eloquent, one saw a spasm pass right across it. She was still;
there was a perceptible interval; she turned towards her visitor. Her
face seemed to have aged; one saw that as she grew older she would not
grow better-looking.
"I see that this purports to be a licence of marriage--I don't know
much about these things, but I take it that the marriage was to be
before a registrar--between Rodney Elmore, who, I presume, is my
cousin----"
"He's your cousin right enough."
"And--Mabel Joyce. Are you the Mabel Joyce referred to?"
"I am; we were to have been married to-day--at noon sharp; the
registrar--he'll be waiting for us, but he'll have to wait. Mr. Rodney
Elmore, that's your cousin and my husband that was to be, he's
bolted."
"Bolted? I see. Is that what this letter means?"
"That's just exactly what it means."
"It doesn't mean that--he's--he's killed himself?"
"Not much it doesn't; I know the gentleman. It simply means that, for
reasons of his own--I'm one of them and I daresay you're another--he's
cut and run."
Gladys's tone could scarcely have been more frigid or her bearing more
outwardly calm; unfortunately both the frigidity and the calmness were
a little overdone.
"I see. I'm much obliged to you for bringing me--this very interesting
piece of news. I believe this is yours. I scarcely think I need detain
you longer."
She returned to Mabel both the licence and the letter. Enclosing them
one in the other, the girl passed from the room out of the house.
Gladys stood staring at the door through which she had left, exactly,
if she could only have known it, as Rodney had stared when she had
vanished the afternoon before. Then she clenched her fists and shook
them in the air.
"To think that I should ever have been such a fool! That I should ever
have let him--soil me with his touch! Dad was right; what a fool he
must have thought me! If I'd only listened, what might not--have been
saved!"
Shortly afterwards she entered the office at St. Paul's Churchyard.
Andrews advanced to greet her.
"Mr. Elmore has not yet arrived."
"I know he hasn't; I wish to speak to you."
She led the way towards her father's private room; as he followed
Andrews seemed to recognise something in her carriage which recalled
his master. There could be no doubt that this was his daughter. When
they were in the room and the door was closed, Miss Patterson seated
herself in her father's chair. She looked the managing man in the
face, with something in her glance which again recalled her sire.
"Andrews, I suppose you can observe a confidence?"
Andrews smiled; he rubbed his hands together; one felt that he could
not make out the lady's mood, still less achieve a satisfactory guess
at what was in the air.
"I hope so, Miss Patterson, I'm sure. Your father reposed many and
many a confidence in me, and I never betrayed one of them--I'm not
likely now to betray yours."
"Right, Andrews, I believe you. I believe my father knew the kind of
man who may be trusted; he trusted you, and I will. Shake hands." She
offered him her hand. As if doubtful whether or not he was taking a
liberty, he took it in his. They gravely shook hands.
"It's very good of you, Miss Patterson, I'm sure, to say so; but what
you do say is true--your father trusted me, and so can you."
She eyed him for some seconds as if debating in her mind what to say
to him and just how to say it. Then it came from her, as it were, all
of a sudden.
"Andrews, I told you that my cousin, Rodney Elmore, and I were engaged
to be married. I was mistaken--we are not. Stop! I don't want you to
ask any questions; that's the confidence I'm reposing in you, I want
you to ask none, I simply tell you we're not. Another thing. You told
me when I came in just now that Mr. Elmore had not come yet. Andrews,
he never will come again--to this office."
"Indeed, miss! Is that so, miss?"
The girl smiled--gravely.
"There, again, Andrews--my confidence! You are to ask no questions.
Neither you nor I will see Mr. Elmore again--ever. Still one other
thing. You remember what my father said in his will about leaving the
conduct of his business in your hands? I echo my father's words; I
want you to manage it for me on my father's lines."
The old man was evidently confused. He stood staring at the girl and
rubbing his hands, as if he found himself in a quandary from which he
sought a way out.
"I'm sure, Miss Patterson, that I'm very gratified by the confidence
you place in me, and I want to do my best to ask no questions,
but--but there's one remark I ought to make." He bent over the table
as if he wished the remark in question to reach her ear alone. "I
don't know, Miss Patterson, if you are aware that yesterday morning
Mr. Elmore drew a thousand pounds from the bank."
"Yesterday morning? When did he do that? Not when we were there?"
"It appears that he returned directly after we had left, and cashed a
cheque for a thousand pounds across the counter, took it in tens and
fives and gold--rather a funny way of taking a cheque like that."
The girl said nothing; just possible she thought the more--it is still
more possible that hers was disagreeable thinking. It came back to
her; she understood; the letter-case which had been left behind; her
sitting in the cab while he had gone into the bank to fetch it.
Letter-case? So the letter-case was a cheque for a thousand pounds;
and while she'd been sitting in the cab he had been putting her money
into his pocket. What a pretty fellow this cousin was, this lover
of--how many ages ago? Could she ever have cared, to say nothing of
loved, a thing like this? This girl had a sense of humour which was
her own; at the thought of it she smiled--indeed, suddenly she leaned
back in her chair and laughed outright.
"Cashed a cheque for a thousand pounds, did he? Well, Andrews, dad
left him nothing in his will--I wonder why. How funny! Then there's
still another thing to tell you, Andrews. Let them understand at the
bank, as quickly as you can, that they're not to cash any more of Mr.
Elmore's cheques which are drawn on my account. Now, Andrews, will you
be so very good as to send someone to Mr. Wilkes, and give him my most
respectful compliments, and say, if he can possibly spare a moment, I
should like very much indeed to see him here at once."
When Miss Joyce got home she found, waiting in the sitting-room which
had so recently been Rodney's, Mr. Austin. The gentleman regarded her
as she came in with an air of grave disapprobation.
"You are, I believe, the landlady's daughter."
Mabel nodded.
"I have just had a few words with your mother, who appears to be an
extraordinary woman, and who has told me an extraordinary tale."
"My mother's not in the habit of telling extraordinary tales to
anyone."
"Then, what does she mean by--by talking stuff and nonsense about Mr.
Elmore's having gone, and--and I don't know what besides?"
Miss Joyce drew a long breath, and seemed to nerve herself for an
effort. She had had a good deal to bear that morning, and to retain
even a vestige of self-command needed all her efforts.
"Mr. Austin, Mr. Elmore has gone, and he's left a letter behind him in
which he pretends that he has committed suicide; but he hasn't, I know
better. But here's the letter; you might like to look at it."
He read the letter with which we are already familiar; and it had a
very similar effect on him to that which it had had on others, only in
his case he read it over and over again, as if to make sure that its
meaning had not escaped him, yet that its meaning had escaped him his
words made plain.
"You--you may understand this letter, young woman, but I certainly do
not. What--what does this most extraordinary, and, as it seems to me,
inconsequent, letter mean?"
"I'll tell you just as shortly as I can exactly what it means. And,
perhaps, when I have told you you won't ask any more questions than
you can conveniently help, because--I've had just about as much to
bear as I can manage. Rodney Elmore--I'm not going to call him Mr.
Elmore, I've as much right to call him Rodney as anybody in this
world; he's got himself into a mess, and I'm one of them. Why, he
promised to marry me to-day at twelve o'clock."
"He--promised! Young woman!"
"Here's the licence to prove it; but--I suppose he daren't face it; so
he's gone, and he's done me, and I'm not the only one he's done. Has
he done your daughter?"
"Your question, put in such a form, I entirely decline to answer."
"You needn't; I know. And, mind you, I don't believe he's gone alone
either, wherever it is he has gone to. What's the name of that girl
down at Brighton that he was so thick with, and your son's
sweetheart?"
Mr. Austin started as if something had stung him. He stared at the
girl with growing apprehension.
"You can't mean----?"
"Yes, I can. Wasn't her first name Mary? I have heard the other--it's
a queer one--and I forget it. But you ask your son, if he cares for
the girl, to make inquiries, and if she's missing, and he wants her
new address, to find out Rodney Elmore's, and--he'll find hers."