A Master of Deception

by Richard Marsh

CHAPTER XVIII

[THE PERFECT LOVER]

Stella, opening the door for him herself, was at him like a small wild thing.

"I thought you were never coming!"

"Why, it's not yet half-past five."

"Half-past five! when I expected papa to bring you with him, and he said you'd be here by five! Come in here; I'll talk to you!"

She took from him his hat and stick and gloves, and placed them on a table in the hall; then she led him by the sleeve of his coat into a room on the left, and shut the door, and drew a long breath.

"Oh--h--h! So you've come at last, my lord! Let me look at you, to make sure that it is you. Oh, Rodney, why have you been so long in coming?"

She put her arms about his neck and drew him down to her and kissed him. He said, softly:

"I do believe you have grown shorter."

"You wretch! To let a thing like that be your first word to me!"

"It's such a long way down, though it's well worth stooping for."

He kissed her again, tenderly, on her pretty lips--he was an expert in the art of kissing. Because he did it so well, she, not knowing that such skill came of practice, had him kiss her again and again and again, till the breath had half gone out of her body and she was all rapturous palpitation.

"If you only knew what ages it seems since I saw you!"

"Stella, what do you think it has seemed to me? If you only knew what I have gone through!"

"Poor boy! I suppose you have had to bear a good deal."

"You have no notion what I've had to bear."

That was true enough, or she would not have been as close to him as she was.

"It was bad enough when you didn't come on Sunday. I suppose you didn't get back from that Mrs. What's-her-name, your mother's friend, in time?"

"My dear, I had a chapter of accidents, and nearly missed the last train; I'll tell you all about it some day, and you'll laugh. I didn't feel like laughing then, I can tell you that."

"And I didn't feel like laughing, and I can tell you that. In fact, I--I cried."

"Stella!"

"I did; it seemed so awful. That was the longest Sunday I ever knew; and then when the evening came I kept expecting you every moment; I kept rushing out of the front door to look for you. Every footstep in the street I thought was yours, and every vehicle the hansom which was bringing you; when it kept getting later and later, and still you didn't come, I--I fancied all sorts of things, and I simply had to cry."

"My darling, I would infinitely rather have been with you than where I was."

That again was true enough; part of the time he had been in the tunnel--a gruesome time.

"What time was it when you did get back?"

"Frightfully late; but--Stella, you won't tell anyone if I tell you something? Promise!"

"Of course I promise. What--what is it?"

"You can laugh if you like; I don't mind your laughing a little bit; but I don't want them to laugh."

"Why should they laugh?"

"I did come to see you--after I came back."

"Rodney!"

"At least, I came as far as the outside of the house. I dismissed the cab at the corner; then I walked--or rather sneaked--along the pavement; if a bobby had seen me he'd have been all suspicion--till I reached the house. It was all in darkness; there wasn't a glimmer of light anywhere."

"What time was it?"

"About one, perhaps later."

"Rodney, I'd been in my room hours and hours; but I wasn't asleep; I was crying in bed."

"Stella! You were crying! Great Scott! if--if I'd only known it, I'd--I'd have done something."

"What would you have done?"

"I'd--I'd have done something if--if I'd had to break a window!"

"But what good would your breaking a window have done me?"

"Anyhow, it would have been a beginning; but, you see, I didn't even know which your room was--whether you were at the front or the back."

"I'm on the second floor in the front; my window's over the hall door."

"I kept staring at it all the time; I had a sort of feeling--I swear I had a sort of feeling! If I'd only been sure I'd have whistled."

"Whistled! At one in the morning! What would have been the good of that?"

"Suppose, say, I'd whistled 'The Devout Lover'--or what I should have meant for 'The Devout Lover'--you'd have heard."

"I probably should have heard; Miss Claughton would probably have heard also."

"Oh, hang Miss Claughton!"

"Rodney! Miss Claughton's a dear--and your hostess!"

"Miss Claughton may be an absolute angel for all I know--you know what I mean--so long as you heard I shouldn't have cared who heard. Then you'd have wondered who was kicking up that awful row."

"Do you think I should?"

"Certain! I can't whistle for nuts. Then you'd have got out of bed, crossed the room with your dear little bare feet----"

"Rodney!"

"And lifted the corner of the blind."

"I might."

"When you'd seen me hanging on to the railings for all I was worth, trying to get my breath and whistle at the same time; you'd have stopped crying, whatever else you did."

"Rodney, how absurd you are! Fancy your hanging on to the railings for all you were worth! What did you really do?"

"Oh, I hung about and hung about, and then I slunk off home. Wasn't it silly to come and see you at that time of night? I knew you'd laugh!"

"If I'd known you were there I shouldn't have cried. The idea, you darling! But, Rodney, why didn't you manage to get a peep at me the whole of yesterday?"

"Do you think I didn't try?--but I couldn't; it was a day of horrors! Just as I was wondering if I couldn't manage to get at least a kiss by making out that Kensington was on the way to the City, the news came of what my uncle had done. That was a facer, for a man to get news like that just as he was finishing his breakfast."

"But I thought you didn't get the news till you reached the City? You sent your first telegram from there."

"I got the news before, but I didn't understand; I didn't want to understand, I didn't dare to understand. Then I had to go to the inquest."

"Did you? It doesn't say anything in the paper about you being there."

"Of course not; my evidence wasn't wanted after all, but we all of us had to be there. It was awful!"

"You poor, poor boy! Afterwards why didn't you come straight to me?"

"I couldn't; I had to rush off to the City."

"But why?"

"Everything was in the most frightful confusion; no one knew why he had done it."

"But there was the verdict!"

"The verdict? My uncle was not a man to kill himself for a shadow; there might be a better reason. Say nothing to your father; I wish to impute nothing against my uncle's credit; but at one time it seemed just possible that he had done it, because he knew he was ruined, to save himself from shame, dishonour. We had to find out, to be certain, to make sure; we went all through the books; we went through everything; we were at it till the small hours of the morning."

"My dear! Did they tell you I had called?"

"Did they not! When I heard it I wished that I could have flown to you on a flying machine; but it was impossible."

"But papa tells me that you talk about going to the office every day this week."

"Stella, let me put a case. Suppose Mr. Austin were my uncle, and he had done what my uncle did, and everything were at sixes and sevens, and all the help was wanted that could be got, what would you think of me if I were to cut and run--it would amount to that!--even for the sake of the best and sweetest and prettiest and dearest girl in the world--meaning you?"

"That's all very well, Rodney; but I asked papa if he thought you really had to go--if you ought to go; and he said that so far as he could make out there wasn't the least necessity why you should ever set foot in the office again."

"Your father said that?"

"And I believe he's been making inquiries."

"Has he? When I see your father I shall have to tell him that this is a matter in which I am afraid I shall have to use my own judgment."

"At least you can get one day off to take me out--say to-morrow."

"To-morrow! It's my uncle's funeral."

"Well? There's no reason why you should go to it, if it is. Who expects you to go?"

For a moment it seemed as if the question had left the ready-tongued young gentleman nonplussed; but it was only for a moment.

"My dear Stella, isn't it sufficient answer to say that my uncle was the only relative I have in the world?"

"My dear Rodney, I don't wish to comment on your sudden sensitiveness where your uncle is concerned. I never dreamt that you felt for him what you seem to feel; but I suppose your connection with him will cease when he is buried?"

"In a sense, certainly."

"In all senses?"

"My dear Stella, I have already told you."

"To whom has he left his business?"

"Until the contents of the will are known who can say--positively?"

"Has he left it to you?"

"That I am quite sure he hasn't."

"Has he left you anything?"

"There again, till the will is read, who can be sure?"

"When is the will to be read?"

"To-morrow, after the funeral."

"Where?"

"At his house in Russell Square."

"Are you invited to be present?"

"'Invited' is scarcely the correct word; instructions have been issued that the whole staff is to attend. That rather looks as if he may have left something, possibly some trifle, to everyone who was actually in his employ at the time of his death."

"I see. That explains why you want to be present at the funeral. And afterwards, when the will has been read, will you--dine with us? Papa wants me to dine, I think, at the Savoy, to what he calls 'celebrate' our engagement."

"You may be sure I'll come if I can."

"'If'! It's again 'if.' Is it to be all 'ifs '?"

"My dearest Stella, what do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter. Shall we go to the drawing-room? I think we shall find that the Miss Claughtons and papa are waiting for us there."

The young lady turned as if to leave the room. He caught her by the arm.

"Stella, is it possible, is it conceivable, that you can imagine that what has happened is in the least degree, in any sense my fault? Can you suppose that I would not ten thousand times rather spend every hour of every day with you than do what I have done, what I may still have to do?--that my heart, my thoughts, are not with you every instant I have to spend in that confounded City?"

"Rodney, I am very anxious to believe that there are sufficient reasons which compel you to spend all the time you seem to spend in the City; but you don't manage to make it very clear what they are."

"Stella! Stella! How can you talk like that? What shall I say? What can I do?"

"You can promise to dine with us to-morrow night."

"I gladly promise it--gladly."

"There's no 'if' about the promise?"

"No 'if'! If you only knew how I shall look forward to coming, what pleasure I shall give myself in coming! My dear, if you only knew how I am looking forward to dining with you all the days of all the year!"

"And, Rodney, papa understand that you are coming into his business; is that what you understand?"

"Rather! You bet it is, if he'll have me. Do you think I'd throw away a chance like that?"

"Nothing that may be in your uncle's will will make any difference?"

"You goose! What do you suppose will be there? The probability is that there will be nothing of the slightest interest to me--at the most some trivial legacy--a hundred, fifty, five-and-twenty pounds! But let me tell you this, that in the present state of my exchequer even the latter sum will be a godsend. You don't know what it is to be in a chronic state of impecuniosity--a little millionaire like you!"

"I, a millionaire!"

"You don't appreciate the situation; you really don't. Entirely between us, I wonder that I ever had the courage--the cheek!--to tell you how much I love you; how dear to me is the ground under your small feet; how I long to have you in my arms--you, with the Bank of England at your back; and I! But--Cæsar's ghost!--what am I dreaming about? The sight of you, the touch of you, the sound of you, has so--so got into the very bones of me that I'd clean forgotten. Why--Stella!--what's this?"

He took a small, round, leather-covered box out of his waistcoat pocket.

"My dear Rodney--how should I know what it is?"

As she looked at the outside of the box her eyes began to sparkle--as if she did not know!

"There! Why, it's a ring!"

"What a pet."

"Give me your hand!"

"That's not the proper hand."

"Isn't it? Which is the proper hand?"

"Rodney! How ignorant you are!"

"My dear, have I had your experience?"

"My experience!--silly! I thought everybody knew on which hand the engagement finger was--there!--that is the finger!"

She held out to him a finger which, if it was small, was slim and daintily fashioned. He bent and kissed it.

"Dear digit!--salutation! Now, you unclothed midget, I'll clothe you with this ring."

"Oh, Rodney, what--what a darling!"

She pressed it to her lips.

"Does it fit?"

"As if it were made for me."

"Isn't that wonderful, when I only guessed?"

"Thank you--thank you, Rodney."

"It's only a poor little ring--a love token, to mark you as my own--that's all. But one day I'll give you the finest ring that money can buy, and you can put it in the place of this."

"As if I ever would--or could! Rodney, this is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen--ever, ever, ever! And it always will be the most beautiful ring in the world--to me. No other will ever take its place."

Her voice fell as she moved a little closer to him.

"I shall hope to be still wearing it when I am lying in my grave."

"Dear love!"

He took her in his arms and kissed her again, as it were, solemnly. He was practised in all varieties of the art. And they were silent.