In the glorious sundown glinting across the river, and rendering it a
rippling flood of gold, Max and Marion were seated in the long upstairs
room of that old-fashioned riparian inn, the "London Apprentice," at
Isleworth, taking their tea at the open window.
Before them was the green ait, with the broad, tree-fringed river
beyond, a quiet, peaceful old-world scene that, amid the rapidly
changing metropolitan suburbs, remains the same to-day as it has been
for the past couple of centuries or so.
They always preferred that quiet, old-fashioned upstairs room--the
club-room, it was called--of the "London Apprentice," at Isleworth, to
the lawns and string bands of Richmond, the tea-gardens of Kew, or the
pleasures of Eel Pie Island.
That long, silent, old, panelled room with its big bow-window commanding
a wide reach of the river towards St Margaret's was well suited to
their idyllic love. They knew that there they would at least be alone,
away from the Sunday crowd, and that after tea they could sit at the
window and enjoy the calm sundown.
The riverside at Isleworth does not change. Even the electric trams
have passed close by it on their way to Hampton Court from Hammersmith
but they have not modernised it. The old square-towered church, the row
of ancient balconied houses, covered with tea-roses and jasmine, and the
ancient waterman's hostelry, the "London Apprentice," are just the same
to-day as they have ever been in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;
and the little square in the centre of the riverside village is as
silent and untrodden as in the years when Charles II loved to go there
on his barge and dine in that very room at the inn, and when, later,
David Garrick and Pope sang its praises.
Max and his well-beloved had finished their tea, and, with her hat and
gloves off, she was lying back in a lounge chair in the deep bay window,
watching the steamer _Queen Elizabeth_, with its brass band and crowd of
excursionists, slowly returning to London. Near her he was seated,
lazily smoking a cigarette, his eyes upon her in admiration, but still
wondering, as he always wondered.
The truth concerning Maud Petrovitch had not been told.
He was very fond of the Doctor. Quiet, well-educated, polished, and
pleasant always, he was, though a foreigner, and a Servian to boot, the
very essence of a gentleman. His dead wife had, no doubt, influenced
him towards English ways and English thought, while Maud herself--the
very replica of his lost wife, he always declared--now held her father
beneath her influence as a bright and essentially English girl.
The disappearance of the pair was an enigma which, try how he would, he
could not solve. His efforts to find Rolfe had been unavailing, and
Marion herself had neither seen nor heard from him. At Charlie's
chambers his man remained in complete ignorance. His master had left
for Servia--that was all.
Max had been trying in vain to lead the conversation again up to the
matter over which his mind had become so much exercised; but, with her
woman's keen ingenuity, she each time combated his efforts, which, truth
to tell, only served to increase his suspicion that her intention was to
shield herself behind her friend.
Why this horrible misgiving had crept upon him he could not tell. He
loved her with his whole heart and soul, and daily he deplored that,
while he lived in bachelor luxury in artistic chambers, and with every
whim satisfied, she was compelled to toil and drudge in a London drapery
store. He wished with his whole heart that he could take her out of
that soul-killing business life, with all its petty jealousies and its
eternal make-believe towards customers, and put her in the companionship
of some elderly gentlewoman in rural peace.
But he knew her too well. The mere offer she would regard as an insult.
A hundred times she had told him that, being compelled to work for her
living, she was proud of being able to do so.
Charlie, her brother, he could not understand. He had just made a
remark to that effect, and she had asked--"Why? He's awfully good to
me, you know. Lots of times he sends me unexpectedly five-pound notes,
and they come in very useful to a girl like me, you know. I dare say,"
she laughed, "you spend as much in a single evening when you go out with
friends to the theatre and supper at the Savoy as I earn in a month."
"That's just it," he said. "I can't understand why Charlie, in his
position, secretary to one of the wealthiest men in England, allows you
to slave away in a shop."
"He does so because I refuse to leave," was her prompt answer. "I don't
care to live on the charity of anybody while I have the capacity to
work. My parents were both proud in this respect, and I take after
them, I suppose."
"That is all to your credit, dearest," he said; "but I am looking
forward to the future. I love you, as you well know, and I can't bear
to think that you are bound to serve at Cunnington's from nine in the
morning till seven at night--waiting on a set of old hags who try to
choose dresses to make them appear young girls."
She laughed, her beautiful face turned towards him. "Aren't you rather
hard on my sex, Max?" she asked. "We all of us try to present ourselves
to advantage in order to attract and please."
"All except yourself, darling," he said courteously. "You look just as
beautiful in your plain black business gown as you do now."
"That's really very sweet of you," she said, smiling. Then a moment
later a serious look overspread her countenance, and she added: "Why
worry yourself over me, Max, dear. I am very happy. I have your love.
What more can I want?"
"Ah! my darling!" he cried, rising and bending till his lips touched
hers, "those words of yours fill me with contentment. You are happy
because I love you! And I am happy because I have secured your
affection! You can never know how deeply I love you--or how completely
I am yours. My only thought is of you, my well-beloved; of your present
life, and of your future. I have friends--men of the world, who spend
their time at clubs, at sport, or at theatres--who scoff at love. I
scoff with them sometimes, because there is but one love in all the
world for me--yours!"
"Yes," she said, slowly fixing her eyes upon his, and tenderly stroking
his hair. "But sometimes--sometimes I am afraid, Max--I--"
"Afraid!" he echoed. "Afraid of what?"
"That you cannot trust me."
He started. Was it not the unconscious truth that she spoke? He had
been doubting her all that afternoon.
"Cannot trust you!" he cried. "What do you mean? How very foolish!"
But she shook her head, and a slight sigh escaped her. She seemed to
possess some vague intuition that he did not entirely accept her
statement regarding Maud. Yet was it, after all, very surprising,
having in view the fact that she had admitted that Maud had made
confession. It was the truth regarding that admission on the part of
the Doctor's daughter that he was hoping to elicit.
"Marion," he said presently, in a low, intense voice, "Marion, I love
you. If I did not trust you, do you think my affection would be so
strong for you as it is?"
She paused for a moment before replying.
"That all depends," she said. "You might suspect me of double-dealing,
and yet love me at the same time."
"But I do not doubt you, darling," he assured her, at the same time
placing his arm around her slim waist and kissing her upon the lips. "I
love you; surely you believe that?"
"Yes, Max, I do," she murmured. "I do--but I--"
"But what?" he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes and waiting
for her to continue.
She averted his gaze, and slowly but firmly disengaged herself from his
embrace, while he, on his part, wondered.
She was silent, her face pale, and in her eyes a look of sudden fear.
"Tell me, darling," he whispered. "You have something to say to me--is
not that so?"
He loved her, he told himself, as truly as any man had ever loved a
woman. It was only that one little suspicion that had arisen--the
suspicion that she had not been to Queen's Hall with his friend's
daughter.
He took her hand lightly in his and raised it courteously to his lips,
but she drew it away, crying, "No! No, Max! No."
"No?" he gasped, staring at her. "What do you mean, Marion. Tell me
what you mean."
"I--I mean that--that though we may love each other, perfect trust does
not exist between us."
"As far as I'm concerned it does," he declared, even though he knew that
his words were not exactly the truth. "Why have you so suddenly changed
towards me, Marion? You are my love. I care for no one save yourself.
You surely know that--have I not told you so a hundred times? Do you
still doubt me?"
"No, Max. I do not doubt you. It is you who doubt me!"
"I do not doubt," he repeated. "I have merely made inquiry regarding
Maud, and the confession which you yourself told me she made to you.
Surely, in the circumstances, of her extraordinary disappearance,
together with her father, it is not strange that I should be unduly
interested in her?"
"No, not at all strange," she admitted. "I am quite as surprised and
interested over Maud's disappearance as you are."
"Not quite so surprised."
"Because I view the whole affair in the light of what she told me."
"Did what she tell you in any way concern the Doctor?" he asked eagerly.
"Indirectly it did--not directly."
"Had you any suspicion that father and daughter intended to suddenly
disappear?"
"No; but, as I have before told you, I am not surprised."
"Then they are fugitives, I take it?" he remarked, in a changed tone.
"Certainly. They were no doubt driven to act as they have done. Unless
there--there has been a tragedy!"
"But the men who removed the furniture must be in some way connected
with the Doctor's secret," he remarked. "There were several of them."
"I know. You have already described to me all that you have discovered.
It is very remarkable and very ingenious."
"A moment ago you were about to tell me something, Marion," he said,
fixing his gaze upon hers; "what is it?"
"Oh!" she answered uneasily. "Nothing--nothing, I assure you!"
"Now, don't prevaricate!" he exclaimed, raising his forefinger in mock
reproof. "You wanted to explain something to me. What was it?"
She tried to laugh, but it was only a very futile attempt, and it caused
increased suspicion to arise within his already overburdened mind. Here
he was, endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of the disappearance of a
friend, yet she could not assist him in the least. His position was
sufficiently tantalising, for he was convinced that by her secret
knowledge she held the key to the whole situation.
Usually, women are not so loyal to friends of their own sex as are men.
A woman will often "give away" another woman without the least
compunction, where a man will be staunch, even though the other may be
his enemy. This is a fact well-known to all, yet the reason we may
leave aside as immaterial to this curious and complex narrative which I
am endeavouring to set down in intelligible form.
Marion, the woman he loved better than his own life, was assuring him
that she had nothing to tell, while he, at the same moment, was
convinced by her attitude that she was holding back from him some
important fact which it was her duty to explain. She knew how intimate
was her lover's friendship with the missing man, and the love borne his
daughter by her own brother. If foul play were suspected, was it not
her bounden duty to relate all she knew?
The alleged confession of Maud Petrovitch struck him now more than ever
as extraordinary. Why did Marion not openly tell him of her fears or
misgivings? Why did not she give him at least some idea of the nature
of her companion's admissions? On the one hand, he admired her for her
loyalty to Maud; while, on the other, he was beside himself with chagrin
that she persistently held her secret.
In that half-hour during which they had sat together in the crimson
sundown, her manner seemed to have changed. She had acknowledged her
love for him, yet in the same breath she had indicated a gulf between
them. He saw in her demeanour a timidity that was quite unusual, and he
put it down to guiltiness of her secret.
"Marion," he said at last, taking her hand firmly in his again, and
speaking in earnest, "you said just now that you believed I loved you,
but--something. But what? Tell me. What is it you wish to say? Come,
do not deny the truth. Remember what we are both to each other. I have
no secrets from you--and you have none from me!"
She cast her eyes wildly about her, and then they rested upon his. A
slight shudder ran through her as he still held her soft, little hand.
"I know--I know it is very wrong of me," she faltered, casting her eyes
to the floor, as though in shame. "I have no right to hold anything
back from you, Max, because--because I love you--but--ah!--but you don't
understand--it is because I love you so much that I am silent--for fear
that you--"
And she buried her head upon his shoulder and burst into tears.