A Master of Deception

"So you are here? Well, I suppose that's something!"

Mr. Austin, as he deposited his hat and coat with the attendant, seemed very much in the same key.

"We should have been here some minutes ago, only Stella would have it you were coming to fetch her; we should have been waiting for you still if she had had her way. How was it you didn't come? She's quite disappointed; rather a pity that the evening should have begun with a misunderstanding of that sort."

Rodney drew the gentleman aside.

"I take it, Mr. Austin, that you haven't heard the news?"

"To what news do you refer?"

"It is now stated that my uncle did not commit suicide, but was murdered."

"But I thought the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of suicide."

"That is so; but this afternoon a man named Parker gave himself up to the police, on his own confession, as having murdered my uncle. You will understand that I-I have had rather a trying day."

"On his confession? Is the man a lunatic?"

"That's just it; he is, yet it seems only too likely that-he did what he says he did."

"But how came he to make his confession in your presence? Do you know the man?"

"Not I; he's an entire stranger to me; but I'll tell you all about it later. I don't want you to say anything to the ladies or anyone; I only mention it to you because I want you to understand how it is that I am not in such-such good fettle as I might be for an occasion of this kind; and also because I want you, if needs be, to help me with Stella."

"My dear boy, of course I will. It is only natural that, at a time like this, a girl should think that there's nothing of much consequence except her own affairs; but I'll stand by you, never fear. I rather wish that the whole thing had been postponed, but Stella wouldn't hear of it. There's Tom not at all himself; he wanted Mary Carmichael to come, and Stella wanted her to come, in fact, we all wanted her to come, but she hasn't. I've been told nothing, but I can see there's some trouble there. Altogether the evening doesn't look as if it were going to be quite such a merry one as I had hoped it would have been; however, we must make the best of it. Cheer up, lad; put your troubles behind you for this night only."

That was a prescription which at any rate the prescriber's son did not seem at all disposed to follow, as Rodney quickly learnt when Tom appeared a little tardily. Tom's naturally good-humoured face wore an expression of unwonted gloom, and there was that in his air and general bearing which accorded ill with a time of feasting and making merry.

"You know, old chap, I oughtn't to be here, I really didn't. I shall queer the whole show. Unless I drink too much, and put my spirits up that way, I shall give everyone the hump; and when I start on that lay I'm apt to get my spirits up a bit too much, so I don't know that that will have a good effect either."

Rodney laughed as he put his hand on the speaker's shoulder.

"Why, Tom, what's wrong?"

"I don't know what's wrong, but something's wrong. I do know that. When the governor told me about this kick-up to-night, I wrote to Mary and told her all about it, and asked her to come up, and so on, and said I'd run down to Brighton this morning to bring her up, and told her the train I'd come by, and asked her to meet me at the station. She didn't meet me at the station-that was shock number one; and then when I got to the house, if you please, the servant didn't want to let me in-she wanted to make me believe that Mary was out. I wasn't taking that; I would go in, and I saw her old aunt-she's an old dear, she is. After a while, and she'd told no end of them, she owned up that Mary was in all the time she'd been telling them. She was up in her bedroom, and had given word that if I called she wouldn't see me. You might have bowled me over with an old cork."

"The lady wasn't well."

"Her health was all right; the old girl owned as much. She said Mary was perfectly well, but beyond that she wouldn't say anything; and she made out that she couldn't; and she wouldn't send a message up, or a note, or anything. She said that she knew her niece well enough to be sure that that would be no use. But when she saw that I was set, she said that if I chose I might go up and try my luck. So, if you please, up I went, and rapped at her bedroom door."

"Summoned her to surrender, quite in the good old style; and she did?"

"Not much she didn't. I spoke to her through the bedroom door, I called out to her, I as nearly as possible howled; I daresay I rapped as many as twenty times-I know I made my knuckles sore But she took not the slightest notice, not a sound came from the other side; she might have been stone deaf or dead. In fact, I wanted to tell her that I felt sure that something dreadful had happened, and that if she wouldn't speak I should have to break down the door to see what was wrong. But the old girl wouldn't have it. She said that she had had enough of that folly, and when I talked about camping out on the door-mat she marched me off downstairs, feeling all mops and brooms, and all over the place. Then it came out that when I was at the front door she had told the old girl that she wouldn't see me, and nothing would make her see me, and had rushed up to her bedroom and locked herself in. So I came back from Brighton all alone, and the wonder is I didn't start to drink and keep on at it; only I had a sort of feeling that if I began by being squiffy when I got here things wouldn't be so very much brighter; besides, there's always time to start that sort of thing if you are set on it."

"My dear old chap, you've done something to upset the lady's apple-cart; you'll have a letter telling you all about it in the morning."

"I hope so, but I doubt it; I might have known I was feeling too much bucked up. You know she never said exactly yes; she sort of let me take it for granted, and perhaps I took it a little too much for granted; I feel that perhaps that's how it is. But if she's off with me, I'm done-clean. She could make a man of me, even the kind of article the governor thinks a man; but no one else could. If she won't have me, I shall emigrate, that's what I shall do; I shall go to one of those cheery spots where you get knocked out by blackwater fever, or sleeping sickness, or something nice of that sort, three months after you've landed."

Notice being given that dinner was ready, Rodney led Stella into the private room in which it was to be served cheerfully enough, bestowing on her admiring glances and whispering what he meant to be sweet things into her pretty ear as they went.

"My hat! that's a duck of a frock you're arrayed in; you do look scrumptious."

"I'm glad you think so."

The maid's manner was a trifle prim; she plainly wished him to understand that she was still a little out with him. He smiled at her.

"I don't know what you're laughing at."

"Would you rather I cried?"

"I'm afraid poor Tom feels like crying. Isn't it strange Mary not coming, and sending no message, or anything-nothing to explain? Have you heard how she treated Tom?"

They had reached the dinner-table, and were settling themselves in their places.

"Stella, be so good as to understand, once for all, that there's only one subject to-night, and that's you. All other subjects are tabooed. Are you quite comfortable? Don't put your chair too far off; so that, if you feel like it, you can put your baby foot out towards mine and with your wee slipper crush my favourite corn."

"Rodney, I'm glad you are going to talk to me at last, though I don't suppose you have thought of me once all day."

"Shall I tell you what I've been looking for ever since I came?"

"I expect for somewhere to smoke."

"I've been looking for-say, a curtained nook, where I can have you alone for about five minutes, and have a few of those kisses of which I have been dreaming this livelong day."

"If you had come and fetched me you might have had one kiss-in the cab."

"I'll have one kiss when I take you back-one!"

"Oh, you are going to take me back?"

"I am; and I'm going to eat you on the way; then you'll understand what you escaped by my not fetching you."

"You're not to talk like that; people will hear you."

"Let 'em. Fancy if you'd arrived here with that lovely frock all crumpled-two in a cab! People would have wondered what you had been doing."

"Rodney, if you will talk like that I shall crush your favourite corn."

"Crush it!"

"Please pass me the salt."

Whether, while he passed her the salt, she did crush it, there was nothing to show.

The feast passed off better than, at one time, it had promised to do. There were about twenty people present. Mr. Austin had whipped up, at a moment's notice, various relations, and also certain persons who were intimately connected with the firm of which he was head; he desired to introduce to them not only his future son-in-law, but also the probable partner in his business. Most of these people were very willing to be entertained, simple souls, easily pleased, and the dinner was a good one. Even Tom, who found himself next to a girl with mischievous eyes and a saucy tongue, was inclined to shed some of his melancholy before the menu was half-way through.

"I never did meet a girl who says such things as you do," he told her, with a frankness which was perhaps meant for laudation. "You are quite too altogether."

"You see," she said, with her eyes fixed demurely on her plate, "it doesn't matter what one does say to some people, does it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Of course some people don't count, do they?"

"By that I suppose you mean that I'm a-"

She did not wait for him to finish.

"Oh, not at all."

She looked at him with innocence in her glance, which was too perfect to be real.

"How many times have you been ploughed?"

"Who's been telling you tales about me?"

"I was only thinking that it doesn't matter if one hasn't brains so long as one has looks, and you have got those, haven't you?"

Tom's face, as the minx said this, in a voice which was just loud enough to reach his ears, would have made a good photographic study. Beyond a doubt he was in a fair way to lose some of his sadness, at least for the time.

When the cloth had been removed the giver of the feast, getting on to his feet, made the usual half jovial, half sentimental references to the occasion which had brought them together; and, in wishing the young couple well, made special allusion to the fact that he was not only welcoming a son, but also a colleague. The toast he ended by proposing could not have been better received. Then, while the young maiden sat blushing, the young man stood up, and, in a brief yet deft little speech, told how happy they all had made him, how the hopes which he had cherished for years had at last been realised, how dear those hopes had been to him, how unworthy he was of all the good gifts which had descended on him. But of this they might be sure, that if he had health and strength-and at present he was very well and pretty strong, thanking them very much-he would do his very best in the years to come to prove that he could at least appreciate those things which Providence had bestowed on him. The young man sat down on quite a pathetic note, and the girl by his side pressed his hand and looked as if this were indeed one of those moments of which she had dreamed.

Then there were other speeches and all sorts of kind things were said, which, at such times, one takes it for granted should be said. The young man was made much of, and the maiden, if possible, even more. And when the feast was really ended, and all the good wishes had been wished again and again, and there came the time of parting, even Mr. Austin was obliged to confess to himself that everything could scarcely have gone off better. His wife was radiant, some of the shadows had gone from Tom's face; apparently the young lady with the mischievous eyes had in some subtle way, the secret of which she only possessed, acted the part of the sun in dispelling the clouds; Stella could not by any possibility have looked happier or Rodney prouder. Tom, it is believed, saw the young lady with the mischievous eyes home in one cab, and it is certain that Rodney was with Stella in another. What took place during that journey in the cab between the restaurant and Kensington it is not perhaps easy to determine precisely, but beyond a doubt Rodney had that one kiss which had been spoken of, and probably others; for when the house in Kensington was reached, and the young lady ran up the steps to the front door, she was in a state of the most delightful agitation. And in the house there was the final parting, which occupied a considerable time, for they had to say to each other the things which they had already said more than once, and which Rodney at least could say so well and to which the girl so loved to listen.

"I think that, after all, to-night has made up for to-day. Do you know, Rodney," and she looked up into his face with something shining in her pretty eyes, "that to-day I have had the most curious fancies? I was actually frightened; I don't know at what, but I do know that somehow it was because of you. Wasn't it silly?"

"I am not sure that it's ever silly for you to be frightened because of me; I'm in the most delicious terror all day, and sometimes all night, because of you; but you are a goose."

Then he held her perhaps a little closer, and whispered:

"It has been something of a night, hasn't it? For the first time in my life I feel as if I were a person of some importance. You couldn't have your betrothal feast again to-morrow, could you?"

She smiled.

"I doubt it; but we might have a silver betrothal feast as well as a silver wedding. Hasn't that sort of thing ever been done?"

He laughed at the conceit, and when the parting really did come she was looking forward as through a dim mist, towards that silver time at which he had hinted; and when she went upstairs she prayed that after five-and-twenty years of married life she might be as happy as she was then. And all night she slept sweetly, dreaming the happiest dreams of all that took place during the passage of the years, through which she walked with the husband whom she loved so dearly, ever heart in heart and hand in hand. That night was to her a halcyon time.

CHAPTER XXVI

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.

CHAPTER XXVII

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.