“Ursula Ardfern is leaving the stage and is going to live in the
country.”
Tab made the announcement one evening when he came home from the office.
Rex scarcely seemed interested.
“Oh?” said Rex.
That was all he said. He seemed as disinclined as Tab to discuss the
lady.
It was his last night at the Doughty Street flat. He was still
suffering from shock, and his doctor had advised a trip abroad. He had
suggested that at the end of his vacation he would return to Doughty
Street, but on this point Tab was firm.
“You have a lot of money, Babe,” he said seriously, “and a man who has
a lot of money has also a whole lot of responsibilities. There are
about a hundred and forty-five reasons why our little menage should be
broken up, and the most important from my point of view is, that I will
not be demoralized by living cheek by jowl with a man of millions. You
have a certain place to take in society, certain duties to perform,
and you can’t keep up the position that you are entitled to keep, in
a half-flat in Doughty Street. I don’t suppose you ever want to go to
Mayfield to live.”
Rex shuddered.
“I don’t,” he said with great earnestness. “I shall shut the place
up and let it stand for a few years, until the memory of the crime
is forgotten, and then perhaps somebody will buy it. I am pretty
comfortable here, Tab.”
“I am not thinking so much about your comfort as my own,” replied Tab
calmly. “It isn’t going to do me a lot of good in any way. Consider
yourself ejected.”
Rex grinned.
He sailed for Naples the next afternoon, and Tab went down to the boat
to see him off. No mention of Ursula Ardfern was made until the landing
bell was ringing.
“I am holding you to your promise, Tab, to introduce me to Miss
Ardfern,” he said, and frowned as though at some unhappy recollection.
“I wish to heaven she hadn’t been mixed up in the business at all. How
on earth do you account for her jewel-case being in poor Uncle Jesse’s
vault? By-the-way, the key of that devil room is in my trunk if the
police want it. I don’t suppose they will, for they have the other key
now.”
He had asked this question about Ursula’s jewels so many times before,
that Tab could not keep count of them. Therefore, he did not attempt to
supply a satisfactory solution.
Standing on the pier he watched the big ship gliding down the river,
and on the whole was glad that the companionship had broken up. He
liked Rex and Rex liked him, and they had shared happily the mild
vicissitudes which came to young men with large ambitions and limited
incomes. Of the two, Tab had been the richer in the old days, and had
often helped the other through the morasses which grip the ankles of
men who systematically live beyond their means. And now Babe was in
calm waters: forevermore superior to the favours of crabbed uncles
and business-like employers: no more would he start at every knock the
postman rapped, or scowl at the letters which arrived, knowing that
more than half of them were bills he could not hope to satisfy.
Nearly a month had passed since the inquest, and all that Tab had heard
about Ursula was that she had been very ill and was now in the country,
presumably at the Stone Cottage. He had some idea of going down to see
her, but thought better of it.
Meanwhile, he had made respectful enquiries about the girl who had so
impressed him.
Ursula Ardfern’s story was a curious one. She had appeared first in a
road company, playing small parts and playing them well. Then without
any warning, she blossomed forth into management, took a lease of
the Athenæum and appeared playing a secondary role in an adaptation
of Tosca--the lead being in the capable hands of Mary Farrelli. The
dramatic critics were mollified by her modesty and pleased with her
acting: said they would like to see her in a more important part,
and hoped that her season would be prosperous. They asked, amongst
themselves, who was the man behind the show and found no satisfactory
answer. When Tosca came off, after a run of three months, she staged
“The Tremendous Jones”, which played for a year, and this time she was
the leading actress. She had gone from success to success, was on the
very threshold of a great career. The simple announcement that she had
retired from the stage forever was not very seriously believed. Yet
it was true. Ursula Ardfern had appeared for the last time before the
foot-lights.
The day that Rex sailed she saved Tab any further cogitation by writing
to him. He found the letter at the office.
“Dear Mr. Holland: I wonder if you would come to Stone Cottage to see
me? I promise you rather a sensational ‘story’, though I realize that
it will lose much of its importance because I will not have my name
mentioned in connection.”
Tab would have liked to have gone then and there. He was up the next
morning at six, and chafed because he could not in decency arrive at
the house much before lunch.
It was a glorious June day, warm, with a gentle westerly wind, such a
day as every doctor with a convalescent patient in his charge, hails
with joy and thankfulness.
She was reclining where he had seen her on his first visit to Hertford,
but this time she did not rise, but held out a thin, white hand, which
he took with such exaggerated care that she laughed. She was paler,
thinner of face, older looking in some indefinite way.
“You won’t break it,” she said. “Sit down, Mr. Tab.”
“I like Mr. Tab very much better than I like Mr. Holland,” said Tab.
“It is glorious here. Why do we swelter in the towns?”
“Because the towns pay us our salaries,” she said drily. “Mr. Holland,
will you do something for me?”
He longed to tell her that if she asked him to stand on his head,
or lie down whilst she wiped her feet upon him, she would be gladly
obeyed. Instead:
“Why, of course,” he said.
“Will you sell some jewels for me? They are those which were found--in
poor Mr. Trasmere’s vault.”
“Sell your jewels,” he said in amazement, “why? Are you----” he checked
himself.
“I am not very poor,” she said quietly, “I have enough money to live
on without working again--my last play was a very great success, and
happily the profits----” She stopped dead. “At any rate, I am not poor.”
“Then why sell your jewelry? Are you going to buy others?” he blurted
out.
She shook her head, and a smile dawned in her eyes.
“No, my plan is this: I am going to sell the jewelry for what it is
worth, and then I want you to distribute the money to such charities as
you think best.”
He was too astonished to answer, and she went on:
“I know very little about charities and their values. I know in some
cases all the money subscribed is swallowed up in officials’ salaries.
But you will know these.”
“Are you serious?” he at last found his voice to ask.
“Quite,” she nodded gravely. “I think they are worth from twelve to
twenty thousand. I am not sure. They are mine,” she went on a little
defiantly, and unnecessarily so, thought Tab, “and I may do as I wish
with them. I want them to be sold and the money distributed.”
“But my dear Miss Ardfern----” he began.
“My dear Mr. Holland!” she mocked him, “you must do as I tell you if
you are going to help me at all.”
“I’ll certainly carry out your wishes,” he said, “but it is a weighty
lot of money to give away.”
“It is a weighter lot of money to keep,” she said quietly. “There is
another favour I ask--you must not write that I am the donor. You can
describe me as a society woman, a retired trades-woman, or as anything
you like, except as an actress, and of course my name must not even be
hinted. Will you do this?”
He nodded.
“I have them here,” she said. “I kept them at the hotel and had them
sent down to me by special messenger yesterday. And now that that
business is over, come inside and lunch.”
It was very dear to have her leaning on his arm; her dependence
thrilled him. He wanted to take her up in his arms and carry her
through that sweet-smelling place, slowly and with dignity, as nurses
carry sleeping babies. He wondered what she would think and say, if she
guessed his thoughts. It made him hot to consider the possibility for a
second.
She did not go direct to the house, but took him through a sunken patch
hidden by low bushes, and he stopped and admired, for here a master
hand had laid out a Chinese garden with tiny bridges and dwarf trees
and great clumps of waxen rock flowers that harboured a faint and
delicate scent, a hint of which came up to him.
“You were thinking of carrying me,” she said, apropros of nothing.
Tab went a fiery red.
“But for the proprieties, I should like it. Do you like babies, Mr.
Tab?”
“I love ’em,” said he, glad to reach a less embarrassing topic.
“So do I--I have seen so many when I was a child. They are wonderful.
It seems to me that they are so near to the source of life they bring
with them the very fragrance of God.”
He was silent, impressed, a little bewildered. Where had she seen
“so many” babies? Had she been a nurse? She had not been talking
for effect.... He knew an actress once, the only other one he had
interviewed, who had quoted Ovid and Herrick and had talked with
astonishing ease and fluency on the Byzantine Empire. He learnt from a
friend that she possessed an extraordinary memory and had read up these
subjects before he came, in order to get a good story about herself.
She had the story.
No, Ursula was different. He wished he had lifted her up in his arms
when she had spoken about being carried.
Over the meal the talk took a personal turn.
“Have you many friends?” she asked.
“Only one,” smiled Tab, “and he’s now so rich that I can scarcely call
him a friend. Not that Rex wouldn’t repudiate that.”
“Rex?”
“Rex Lander,” said Tab, “who by-the-way, is very anxious to be
introduced to you. He is one of your most fervent admirers.” Tab
felt that he was being very noble indeed, and he experienced quite a
virtuous glow at his own unselfishness.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He is old Trasmere’s nephew.”
“Why, of course,” she said quickly, and went red. “You have spoken
about him before.”
Tab tried to remember. He was almost certain that he had never
mentioned Rex to the girl.
“So he is very rich? Of course, he would be. He was Mr. Trasmere’s only
nephew.”
“You saw that in the newspaper?”
“No, I guessed, or somebody told me; I haven’t read any account of
the murder, or any of the proceedings. I was too ill. He must be very
rich,” she went on. “Is he anything like his uncle?”
Tab smiled.
“I can’t imagine two people more dissimilar,” he said. “Rex is--well,
he’s rather stoutish,” he said loyally, “and a lazy old horse. Mr.
Trasmere, on the contrary, was very thin, and, for his age, remarkably
energetic. When did I mention Rex?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I can’t recall the time and place. Please don’t make me think, Mr.
Holland. Where is Rex now?”
“He has gone to Italy. He sailed yesterday,” said Tab, and thereupon
the girl’s interest in Rex Lander seemed to suffer eclipse.
“I should like to have had Trasmere’s real story,” said Tab, “he must
have lived an interesting life. It is rather curious that we found
nothing in the house reminiscent of his Chinese experience but a small
lacquer box, which was empty. The Chinese fascinate me.”
“Do they?” she looked at him quickly, “they fascinate me in a way by
their kindness.”
“You know them; have you lived in China?”
She shook her head.
“I know one or two,” she said, and paused as though she were
considering whether it was advisable to say any more. “When I first
came to town from service--”
He gaped at her.
“I don’t quite get that--by ‘service’ what do you mean? You don’t mean
domestic service--you weren’t a cook or anything?” he asked jocularly,
and to his amazement she nodded.
“I was a sort of tweeny maid: peeled potatoes and washed dishes,” she
said calmly, “I was only thirteen at the time. But that is another
story, as Mr. Kipling says. At this age, and before I went to school,
I met a Chinaman whose son was very ill. He lodged in the house where
I was staying. The landlady wasn’t a very humane sort of person, and
being Chinese, she thought the poor little boy had some mysterious
Eastern disease which she would ‘catch.’ I nursed him, in a way,” she
said apologetically, but Tab knew that the apology was not for her
condescension, but for her lack of nursing skill. “The father was
very poor then, a waiter in a native restaurant, but he was ever so
grateful. Quite an extraordinary man--I have seen him since.”
“And the child?”
“Oh, he got better--his father was dosing him with quaint proprietary
medicines. I think he was suffering from enteric fever, and nursing is
the only thing that cures that. He’s in China now--quite an important
person.”
“I should like to have that other story,” said Tab. “Kipling gets my
goat. That ‘other story’ of his is never told. I think he must have had
them in his mind when he referred to them, but he got lazy on it.”
“My other story must keep,” she smiled. “Some day--perhaps--but
not now. The father of the boy laid out my little Chinese garden,
by-the-way.”
Tab had come by train and there was a long walk to the station. He
stayed to the very last moment, and then had to hurry to catch the
one fast express of the afternoon. He had gone a leisurely hundred
yards from the front gate (you cannot walk fast if you turn around at
intervals for a glimpse of a cool white figure) when he saw a dusty
roadfarer coming toward him. The awkward gait of the walker, his baggy
clothes, the huge Derby hat pulled down to his ears, attracted Tab’s
attention long before he could distinguish the man’s features. When he
did, it was with a spasm of surprise. The walker was a Chinaman and
carried in his hand a flat packet.
The oriental deviated from the straight path to cross the road. Without
a word he carefully unwrapped a thin paper cover and exposed a letter.
It was addressed to “Miss Ursula Ardfern, Stone Cottage,” and on the
wrapper Tab saw a number of Chinese characters which he guessed were
directions to the messenger.
“Tell,” said the man laconically. He evidently knew little English.
“That house on the left,” said Tab pointing. “How far have you come,
Chink?”
“Velly well,” said the man, and taking the letter folded it again in
its covering and trotted off.
Tab looked after him, wondering. How curious a coincidence, he thought,
that they should have been talking about the Chinese only half-an-hour
before?
He had to run and then only caught the train as it was pulling out of
the station.
The inexorable and constitutionally discontented news editor was not at
all satisfied with the story as Tab wrote it.
“It loses half its value if we can’t give her name,” he complained,
“and after we’ve started the interest going, the ‘_Herald_’, or some
other paper, will find out who is the owner of the jewels and get all
the fat of the story! Can’t you persuade her?”
Tab shook his head.
“What’s the great idea--is she going into a convent or something?”
“She didn’t mention it,” said Tab impatiently. “There it is--take it or
leave it, Jacques. It is a good item, and if you don’t like it, I’ll
take it to the chief.”
A threat which invariably ended all discussion, for Tab was an
important personage on the staff of the ‘Megaphone’ and his word
carried weight.