IS MAINLY ABOUT DAISY MARVIN
"What's wrong?" I asked my well-beloved.
"Oh, nothing--nothing," she hastened to assure me, quickly replacing
Julian's letter in the envelope.
"But there is," I exclaimed; "I'm sure there is!" Her blanched face
told me plainly that some sudden blow had fallen upon her. She was
staring at me blankly, as though utterly dazed by what she had read.
"How very foolish of you, Victor!" she cried, bracing herself up with
an effort, and trying to laugh. Her attempt to remain calm was but a
sorry one.
"Look here, Daisy," I said quite frankly, "why don't you tell me the
truth? Surely I, of all men, ought to be allowed to know?"
"To know!" she echoed, glancing wildly around the room. "Yes--yes, of
course. You are jealous that Julian should write to me, bidding me
farewell--eh?"
"Well, his sudden departure certainly seems to have somewhat upset
you," I remarked a trifle coldly, noticing that she had already placed
the crushed letter within the breast of her blouse, for, woman-like,
she had no dress-pocket.
"It was rather unexpected," she admitted lamely. "But, Victor," she
added, "you surely are not jealous of such a confirmed bachelor as
Julian? Only the other day we were discussing him at home, and dad
declared that he was quite a woman-hater."
"Yes," I answered, "I believe he is. Yet is it not strange that he
should write you a letter of farewell?"
"If there was anything in it that you should not see he would never
have confided it to your keeping, would he?"
"Then I may read the letter?"
"I hardly think that is quite a fair request," she exclaimed
resentfully. "You love me, Victor--and surely you can trust me?"
"Yes," I replied, with just a slight hesitation. The effect of Little's
letter upon her had sorely puzzled me. He had left London suddenly, and
at his own request. Fled across Europe, in fact.
Why?
Was it some startling truth confessed in that hurried note that had
caused her that sudden and breathless surprise? Indeed, the expression
upon her face as she read those lines was more of horror than of mere
amazement.
"You are not quite certain of me, Victor," she said slowly, looking
straight into my eyes and laying her gloved hand upon mine. "Come,
admit it."
"I love you, Daisy," I answered. "I repeat every word that I told you
the other Sunday evening when I rowed you up to Hampton. You remember?"
Her handsome countenance grew serious in an instant, and she nodded at
the recollection of my declaration of passionate affection and of our
mutual pledges.
"Then why do you ask to see Julian's letter?" she said half
reproachfully. "Remember, he is an old friend of dad's."
"And of yours."
"Yes. I have known him almost ever since I knew myself. When I was a
little child he used to swing me on Sunday afternoons in our garden at
Dulwich."
"And he confides in you sometimes?"
"Sometimes--but very rarely. This is one of the occasions."
"I can't think why he's gone out to Servia. There is no political
trouble apparent there."
"He's gone, I suppose, because with him, like some other men of genius,
constant travel is part of their existence. They cannot live without
incessant change," she laughed.
"Perhaps you are right, darling," I said. Then, after a pause, I drew
her to me, and, kissing her white brow tenderly, added, "Forgive me; I
know I had no right to ask to see that letter. But----"
"But you are just a trifle jealous--eh, Victor?" she laughed, with
twinkling, mischievous eyes. "Now, confess!"
"Well, darling," I said, pressing her to me again, and placing my lips
passionately to hers, "I suppose I must."
"Then it's very wrong of you," she declared, lifting her finger in mock
reproof. "Jealousy leads to anger, and lots of bad things. My own boy
must not be jealous if he means to marry an artiste."
"Means to marry!" I cried. "Why, of course I do. You are my own--my own
sweet little love--all my own--are you not?" And I placed my arm about
her neck, so that her splendid head fell upon my shoulder.
"Your own? Of course, dearest," she replied in a soft voice, scarce
above a whisper, while in her eyes showed the love-light--that light
impossible to feign, that tells a man so plainly when he is beloved.
For a long time we stood together in silence, locked in each other's
arms, our hearts beating in unison. And our love was all the sweeter
because it was in secret. I knew full well that my people would hold
up their hands in pious horror at the bare thought of my love for a
stage-woman; while if old Marvin, my chief, discovered it, my services
on the staff of the _Evening Herald_ would very quickly be dispensed
with. But I loved her fondly--aye, loved her with the whole strength
of my being. And for that very reason I was jealous that she should
receive a letter from another.
"It must be very dull and lonely for you here, Victor, when Julian is
away," she said at last, crossing to the table whereon stood Little's
collection of autographed photographs of his Royal and diplomatic
friends.
"Oh, not very. I have my work, as you know, and it keeps me well
occupied."
"And in the evening you go to the halls to see and applaud me--eh?"
she laughed, holding aside her skirts daintily, and making a tour of
inspection of the room.
"I suppose you'll say that's Julian's property?" she exclaimed,
pointing to a cabinet photograph of a pretty girl upon the mantelshelf,
and laughing.
"Well, as it happens, it is his. The portrait of some girl he met in
Vienna--daughter of the Roumanian Minister, I think."
Then, as a further breach of the _convenances_, she seated herself,
allowed me to light a cigarette for her, and gazed across at me through
the smoke-clouds from her pretty lips.
Why, I wondered, had she discarded that little portrait of myself that
she had so constantly worn beneath her dress? I longed to ask her. Yet
to do so would mean explanations which at present I was somewhat averse
to making.
I recollected Little's uneasiness when introduced to Whitlock, the
detective's curious manner, the discovery of the small portrait,
Little's flight, and the effect produced upon Daisy by his letter. All
was suspicious--distinctly suspicious. Was it possible that my love
possessed any knowledge of the remarkable affair at Barnes--the affair
of which the whole details were in the possession of some person active
but unknown?
I stood regarding her in wonder. How sweet, almost child-like, was her
face; how clear and bright her eyes! How smart and _chic_ she was, from
the point of her patent-leather shoe to the crown of her neat toque!
My profession as journalist took me into every phase of life. Sometimes
I was bidden to dinners, bazaars, receptions, and social functions,
where were assembled the prettiest women of that strange little world
where the _convenances_ are set at nought--Society. At others I found
myself hobnobbing with the respectable working classes, or chatting in
obscure bars with touts and thieves.
Surely no man knows so much of the world, or sees so much of the varied
sides of human nature, as he who writes for the Press. The reporter
obtains the _entrée_ everywhere, often to places from which the public
are strictly excluded; consequently, even when still a young man, he
possesses a knowledge of the world that eclipses that of other men in
their dotage.
In London I rubbed shoulders with hundreds of pretty women--often with
the women whose portraits appeared in the illustrated Press; but none
were, in my eyes, half so beautiful or possessed half the grace of my
news editor's daughter, Daisy Marvin.
Mrs Marvin had been an actress of some note in the old Gaiety days,
hence it was but natural that her daughter should develop stage
inclinations. When she was ten she could dance well, and at seventeen
she was already playing in a "combination" on tour, in order to obtain
that perfection of song and dance that was to secure for her the
plaudits of a London audience.
For my own part, I hated the thought that she should have adopted the
variety stage as a profession, and my secret desire was that when we
married she should at once retire. This, however, I had never told her,
for I knew full well how devoted she was to her art, and how she loved
the excitement of her evening "turn."
She had many admirers, but what pretty girl on the music-hall stage
has not? They were in all walks of life--from the humble City clerk
with his briar pipe on Saturday nights to the white-waistcoated young
clubman who sent her bouquets and cards. But old Annie Axford, an
elderly woman who had been her nurse and was now a widow, went about
with her everywhere, acted as her dresser always, and kept a very
careful eye upon everything. Mrs Marvin seldom, if ever, accompanied
her daughter. She left her to old "Annie" entirely, and she certainly
could not have been in safer hands.
"Well," she said at last, as she threw away the end of her cigarette
and leaned back, looking at me through half-closed eyes, "I suppose I
must go. Have you been out all day, as usual?"
"Yes," I replied. "I've been doing that mystery at Barnes."
"What's that?" she asked, as though quite ignorant of the facts.
"What, haven't you heard of it! Not seen the paper?"
"I don't often read the papers, as you know, Victor. Tell me about it.
Is it very mysterious?"
"Glance at it yourself," I said, handing her a copy of the "special" in
which was a report of the inquest.
She looked at it, pretending to be interested but, watching her eyes, I
saw that she was not reading. That proved to me that her ignorance of
the affair was feigned. But why?
What would I not have given to know the contents of Julian's letter?
I rose and crossed the room in order to get a better view of her
features. Suddenly the expression upon them entirely changed. In
an instant she grew interested, and read eagerly a portion of the
evidence; but which portion I was unable to determine.
Her mouth was open. She was staring fixedly at the paper. Whatever
she had discovered had evidently caused her the utmost surprise and
consternation.
It was as though some suspicion she had held had been suddenly
confirmed.
"It's a curious affair," I said in a careless manner, returning to my
chair; "isn't it?"
"Extraordinary!" she ejaculated, mechanically allowing the paper to
fall upon her lap. "Most extraordinary!" and she fixed her eyes upon me
with a strange look that told me her thoughts were very far away.
"There are other facts not yet published which will increase the
mystery very considerably," I said. "I have been with Whitlock, of
Scotland Yard, all day, making inquiries. We dug up a box from the
garden."
"A box! And what did you find?"
"Several things of interest to the police," I responded. And then I
told her of the existence of the tapped telegraph wire.
I longed to tell her of the discovery of the little portrait I had
given her, but to refer to it at that juncture was, I saw, unwise.
She rose and placed the paper upon the table, then, in a hard, strained
voice, said--
"I must really go, Victor. Annie will be waiting for me at Charing
Cross. We shall go and have something to eat, and then to the
music-hall. I'm on at nine-forty."
"I may look in for half an hour," I said. "That is, if I'm free. I have
yet to 'phone to your father at home. But you'll let me see you into a
cab."
She pulled on the glove she had removed in order to smoke, and then I
placed my arm tenderly about her slim waist and kissed her fondly.
"You are mine, darling," I said earnestly; "truly mine, are you not?"
"Why, of course, Victor," she replied, looking up into my face with
frank, wide-open eyes. In her countenance I saw a look of sweet and
devoted affection, and I laughed at my suspicions.
They were really too absurd, I reassured myself. I loved her, and was,
I suppose, jealous. Every word and every gesture aroused deep suspicion
within me, but how could I doubt her?
Her red lips met mine with the fierce passion of perfect love. Gladly
would I have driven with her to Charing Cross, where the faithful old
servant awaited her, but to do that might, we both agreed, arouse
Annie's curiosity.
Her visit to my rooms was not exactly what her parents would have
tolerated, for old Marvin had expressly told her to deliver the letter
to the porter.
Therefore I descended the stairs behind my dainty little love, walked
out with her into Holborn, and put her into a cab.
She waved me adieu with her white-gloved hand, and, turning, I retraced
my steps, little dreaming, alas! into what a slough of Mystery and
Despair I had already drifted, or of the black storm that had gathered
ready to burst and overwhelm me.