A Master of Deception

CHAPTER XIV

BUSINESS FIRST, PLEASURE AFTERWARDS

That afternoon there were five persons in the drawing-room of the house in Russell Square. Miss Patterson, who was already attired in garments of orthodox hue, in which Rodney felt that she did not look her best. It is your fair, slender women who appear to advantage in black-she was too big and dark. There was Rodney, who was also in mourning, which did become him; but, then, anything became him. He was one of your tall, graceful, well-set-up, debonair, handsome young fellows whom any tailor might find it worth his while to dress at reduced prices for the sake of the advertisement. The other three men also were in black: Mr. Wilkes's dark blue cheeks almost matching his attire; Mr. Parmiter's light hair and pale face standing out in marked relief; Mr. Andrews's general air of colourlessness causing his sombre attire to make him seem older than it need have done. The proceedings were short-unexpectedly short-and to the point. Mr. Wilkes had met Miss Patterson before, and while her almost sullen manner suggested no fondness for him, his brusqueness hinted at no particular attachment for her. The keen-eyed Rodney, observing their demeanour, told himself that the lawyer had been too much the father's friend to care overmuch for the child, which was, perhaps, as well, since it might make things easier.

The inquest was already over. Mr. Wilkes had been present, and had taken with him a physician whom he was aware that Graham Patterson had consulted. He testified that Mr. Patterson was suffering from a malady which would certainly have grown more painful as time went on, and was probably incurable. This statement, since it supplied the motive, caused the inquiry to assume briefer limits than it might have done; the obvious inference was that the knowledge of his parlous state had prompted Graham Patterson to take his fate into his own hands. Nothing could have been clearer to such men of the world as the coroner and his jury. All else that was said and done was mere formality. The doctor who had conducted the autopsy, Mr. Andrews, a police officer connected with the railway company, the guard of the train-all these gave formal evidence. The latter said that he had seen the deceased man come running down the platform at Brighton station just as the train was about to start; that he had noticed him getting into a carriage; that he recognised him when, at East Croydon, his attention had been called to him by the ticket collector, who, going to collect his ticket, found him sitting up in the corner of the carriage, dead. In view of the physician's evidence, the whole affair was so transparently simple that no one thought of asking if anyone was in the compartment when he entered it at Brighton station. One of the jury did inquire if the train stopped between Brighton and East Croydon. When he was informed that it did not, it was generally felt that there was nothing more to be said. The hackneyed verdict was recorded as a matter of course-suicide while temporarily insane.

The whole affair struck Rodney, when he learnt all the particulars from Andrews, as distinctly droll. He realised that he owed Mr. Wilkes a debt of gratitude of which that gentleman had no notion. The physician had been an unknown quantity; Rodney, who, through devious channels, had heard of a good many things, had never heard of him. Had not the lawyer brought him on to the scene the situation might easily have become very much more difficult-for him. He would not be so hard on Stephen Wilkes as he had meant to be, but in his treatment of him would recognise that, as Parmiter had put it, he was an able man.

The will was the usual wordy, legal document. Stripped of its verbiage it was plain enough. It began with the legacies. A sufficient sum was to be set apart to buy an annuity of one hundred pounds a year for Agnes Sybil Armstrong, of an address at Hove. She was also to have five hundred pounds in cash and the furniture of the house in which she was residing.

Gladys, who had been warned by Rodney that she might expect something of the kind, pursed her lips together and looked at her cousin. Sitting with expectant eyes fixed on her, he had been waiting for her look, and greeted it with a reassuring smile.

Various legacies were left to servants in Russell Square, to clerks in St. Paul's Churchyard, and to certain trade charities. Five thousand pounds was left to Stephen Wilkes, in recognition of a life-long friendship and of valued services-the lawyer's voice was a trifle hesitant as he read this clause. One thousand pounds in cash and a tenth share in the business were left to Robert Fraser Andrews; and, since the testator's only child was a daughter, he directed that the said Andrews should be appointed manager of his business, under the conditions which followed.

The whole residue of his estate, real and personal, he left to his daughter, Gladys, unreservedly. At this point the cousins again exchanged glances. Andrews was to manage the business for five years; at the end of that period, or in the event of his death, Gladys might appoint his successor, or dispose of the business, whichever she chose. No radical change in the conduct of the business was to be made without consulting her, and she was to have the right of veto. She was to have access to the accounts at all times, with right of comment.

The testator went on to say that Stephen Wilkes had acted as his legal adviser for many years, and to express a strong wish that he would continue in that capacity for his daughter. He hoped that she would consult him freely, both in the conduct of the business and in her affairs generally, and act on his advice. He appointed Robert Fraser Andrews and Stephen Wilkes his executors.

So soon as he had finished the reading of the will Mr. Wilkes observed:

"In order to avoid misunderstanding, I wish to state that, since I have reason to believe that my services would not be welcome-and, indeed, learn that another solicitor has already been retained, whom I see present-I wish to withdraw at the earliest possible moment from all connection with Mr. Patterson's estate and affairs, and also that I renounce administration. I will not act as executor."

When the lawyer stopped, Mr. Andrews had his say:

"I'm very much in the same position as Mr. Wilkes. If Miss Patterson would rather I did not act as manager, I have not the slightest wish to press my claim. I'm given to understand, Miss Patterson, that Mr. Elmore here is likely to become your husband. From a conversation I had with him this morning, I-I'm inclined to think that I am older than I supposed, and that it would be to your advantage and to the advantage of the business that the management of affairs should be in his hands. Also, if you wish it, so as not to be a clog on you in any way, I will not act as executor."

Rodney answered for his cousin:

"You must act as executor, Mr. Andrews; Miss Patterson will very unwillingly release you from that duty. The other point she will discuss with you later; you will find that she is as anxious to consider your wishes as you are to consider hers. I may remark to you, Mr. Wilkes, as well as to Mr. Andrews, that Miss Patterson is grateful for the delicate thought which prompts your proposed action, and she will endeavour in all she does to show that she appreciates at its full value all that you have done for her father, and, by consequence, for her. I think, gentlemen, that, at present, that is all."

The meeting was dissolved. The three gentlemen dismissed. The cousins were left together. Kneeling before the armchair on which Miss Patterson was seated, Rodney drew her towards him and kissed her with a sort of mock solemnity.

"My congratulations, lady! if I may venture to kiss one who is now a person of property and importance. I hope you won't mind, but I almost wish, for my sake, that you hadn't quite so much money."

She put out her hand and softly stroked his hair.

"That's nonsense. How much money have I got?"

"Roughly, I suppose that the business brings in four or five thousand a year, and you've forty or fifty thousand pounds in what represents cash. You're a rich woman."

"Then, if you do marry me, you'll be a rich man."

"There's one thing-put the business at its highwater mark, say that in its best year it brings in five thousand pounds-in ten years it shall bring in fifty thousand."

"Rodney, don't be too speculative. We've enough to get along with; let's be sure of having a good time with what there is."

"My dear lady, I'm no speculator-not such a fool; but I don't want to see a gold-mine producing only copper. You've twice the head your father had, and keener, because younger, eyes. Shortly I shall hope to lay my ideas before you; when you have assimilated them, you will be able to judge for yourself whether or not they're speculative. You'll see, what even old Andrews already sees, that you're the possessor of a gold-mine-a veritable gold-mine-which hitherto has been worked as if it were merely a copper-mine. When you begin to work it as a gold-mine, in less than ten years it will be bringing you in fifty thousand pounds a year; I shouldn't be surprised if it brings you twice as much-honestly."

"A hundred thousand pounds a year, Rodney!"

"Wait-you'll see! This is the age of miracles, which, when you look into them, have the simplest natural causes. Seriously, Gladys, there's no reason why, properly handled, the business of which you are now the sole proprietress-because you can easily get rid of Andrews-should not make you rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Wilkes has been quick in taking the hint, hasn't he?"

"I don't like him-I never did. I think I shall like Mr. Parmiter much better."

"I'm sure you will. He's an awfully good sort and as clever as they make them-and straight! He'll make your interests his own."

There was a momentary pause. The gentleman was still kneeling in front of the armchair, and the lady was still stroking his hair. There was a look on her face which was half comical and half something else as she changed the topic.

"Rodney, who's Agnes Sybil Armstrong?"

"I don't know, and don't you ask. Let her have her hundred a year, and go hang!"

"Does every man have an Agnes Sybil Armstrong?"

"Emphatically no; only-I was going to say only men like your father, but perhaps you wouldn't like it."

"I wonder-will you ever have one?"

"Gladys! Lady, if a man loves one woman, that's all the feminine kind he'll ever want, especially-if she's a woman like you. Doesn't your instinct tell you that when you're my wife, I'll-be satisfied, in every sense?"

"I hope so. If you weren't, I-I shouldn't like it."

"I should say not. May I hope that there is some possibility of your being my wife?"

"I have some ideas in that direction now, though on Saturday I thought I never should. How prophetic you were? You almost foretold what has happened-almost as if you saw it coming. Did you know that he was ill?"

"I had a shrewd suspicion; but you don't suppose I foresaw what actually did happen?"

"I dare say that yours was not the prophetic vision quite to that extent. I wonder why he didn't like you?"

"I'm nearly sure that with him it was a case of Dr. Fell-the reason why he couldn't tell. When you came on the scene he hated me because you didn't."

"Didn't you do anything to ruffle him-to rub him the wrong way?"

"Never-consciously. I've a notion-it's only a notion, but my notions are apt to be pretty near the mark-that he had some idea of marrying you to Mr. Stephen Wilkes."

"Rodney! Good gracious! What a notion!"

"As I remarked, it's only a notion; but I can put two and two together, and something in the gentleman's manner this morning put the crown on my suspicions."

"I'd rather have died."

"Or married me? Well-do! How soon could you make it convenient?"

"How soon would you like it to be?"

"This is Monday. Say Thursday-next?"

"Rodney! How can you?"

"Then make it Friday-if you've no prejudice against the day."

"I'll never be married on a Friday."

"Then postpone it to that far-off date, Saturday, or even Monday. I don't know if you want a smart wedding; if you do, what indefinite postponement may the conventions require?"

"I don't want a smart wedding."

"That sounds hopeful. You're all I want; I don't know if I'm all you want."

"Well; you are one thing."

"Am I? Thanks-you have a nice way. I tell you what, I'll get a special licence-hang the expense-and we'll be married on Monday."

"I won't be married in black, and I will have one bridesmaid; I'll have Cissie Henderson. She's my particular friend; she likes you; she's been on our side all through; and she'll strain a point-when I've put it to her as I shall, she'll have to. As a matter of fact, I believe she'll love to."

"And Clarence Parmiter shall be my best man, and old Andrews shall give you away."

"I don't know about old Andrews."

"Then old Andrews shan't! So long as I get you I don't care who gives you away; if it comes to that, we'll make it worth the verger's while. Then we'll go off for a whole month, and have a rare old spree."

"That sounds inviting."

"And while we're away Andrews and Parmiter between them shall get things ship-shape; and when we come back, under her majesty's directions I shall put my shoulder to the wheel and start making her the richest woman in the world-and the happiest."

"The conceit of him! Mind you do make me happy. Will you?"

"Don't you think I shall?"

"If I hadn't hopes in that direction you-wouldn't be where you are."

"Where shall we go to?"

"Wherever you like."

"Then-"

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She put her arms about his neck and drew him to her.

CHAPTER XV

MABEL JOYCE

When Rodney Elmore got back to his rooms it was somewhat late. Some letters were on the table in his sitting-room, and a telegram from Stella Austin. One of those voluminous telegrams which women send when they are in no mood to consider that each unnecessary word means another halfpenny. It was, indeed, a little letter, in which she expressed both sympathy and disappointment. She was so sorry to hear the bad news about his uncle, and assured him-with apparent disregard of the fact that the message might possibly pass through several persons' hands-that he had much better come to her if he was able, since she would console him as nobody else could.

"I shall be terribly disappointed if you do not come," it went on, "so please do come. There are heaps of things I wish to say to you-simply heaps. So mind, Rodney, dear, you are to come some time this evening, and you are to let nothing keep you away from your own Stella."

It was a love-letter which this young lady had flashed across the wires at a halfpenny a word, evidently caring nothing if strangers learned what was in her heart so long as he did. He was still considering it when Miss Joyce came into the room with a decanter and a glass upon a tray.

"Miss Austin's been to see you," she observed. "I suppose that telegram's from her."

"Did she tell you it was from her?"

"She came in and looked about her at pretty nearly everything, and saw it lying on the table, and said she'd sent you a telegram, and supposed that was it. I thought she was going to walk off with it, but she didn't. I expected she'd want to stop till you came in, as Miss Patterson did last night, but I told her I knew you'd an important engagement in the City, and knew you wouldn't be in till very late; so she went."

"Thank you; I'm glad she didn't stay."

"I thought you would be. She asked me if I was the servant. I don't think she liked the look of me."

There was something in his attitude which suggested that he was expecting her to leave the room, and would have liked her to. When she showed no sign of going he commented on her last remark.

"That was rather bad taste on her part."

"Wasn't it?"

Having done with the telegram, he began to examine the letters. She watched him with an expression in her pale blue eyes which, if he had been conscious of it, might have startled him. It was plain from his manner that he intended to offer her no encouragement either to continue the conversation or to remain in the room. After a perceptible interval, she said, with an abruptness which was a little significant:

"I was at the inquest."

He glanced up.

"You were where? At the inquest? Oh! What was the attraction? And how did you get in?"

"I believe the public are admitted to inquests. They're supposed to be public inquiries, aren't they? Also, I had a friend at court; and, anyhow, I wasn't the only person there. I suppose Miss Patterson is a rich woman now."

"She'll have money."

"Are you going to marry her?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Or are you going to marry Miss Austin?"

"Pray why do you ask that?"

"When Miss Patterson was here last night I thought there was an air about her as if she considered you her property; when Miss Austin was here this evening I thought the same thing of her. Odd, wasn't it?"

"The only thing odd about it, my dear Mabel, is that you should have such a vivid imagination. Both these ladies are old friends of mine."

"Old friends, are they? In what sense? In the sense that I'm an old friend?"

"No one could be nicer than you have been."

"I see. Have they been nice to you like that?"

"My dear Mabel, in what quarter sits the wind? Where's Mrs. Joyce?"

"Mother's out; she's going to stay at aunt's till to-morrow. You and I are alone together."

"Good business! Come and give me a kiss."

"No, don't touch me; I won't have it."

"There is something queer about the wind! What's wrong? Is there anything wrong?"

"I'm trying to tell you. It's not easy, but I'm going to tell you if you'll give me a chance."

"You've some bee in your bonnet. Let me get it out."

"You give me a chance, I say! I tried to tell you last night, but I couldn't. But I'm going to tell you now; I've got to!"

"Have you? Couldn't you tell me a little closer, instead of standing all that distance off?"

"I wouldn't come nearer for-for anything."

"Mabel! After all these years!"

"Yes, after all these years! How long have you been here?"

"I never had a memory for dates."

"More than four years you have been here."

"So long as that? And it hasn't seemed a day too long."

"I was a kid in short skirts when you first came."

"And a very pretty kid you were. Almost as pretty even then as you are now."

"Rodney, have you ever cared for me a little bit?"

"Have I ever cared? Haven't I shown it?"

"Shown it? You call that showing it? My word!"

"What is the matter with the girl? I've never seen you like this before."

"Suppose-something was going to happen?"

"Well, isn't something always going to happen? What especially awful thing are you afraid is going to happen?"

"Suppose-something was going to happen-to me-because of you? Suppose-I was going-"

Her voice died away, her eyes fell.

"You don't mean that-"

"I do."

"Good God! It's-it's impossible!"

"Why is it impossible? It's true."

"But, my-my dear girl, it can't be."

"Why can't it be? It is."

"But-you're not sure. How can you be sure? You know, my dear Mabel, how you do fancy things. I'll bet ten to one that you're mistaken."

"Do you suppose that I haven't tried to make myself think that I'm mistaken? I wouldn't believe it. But it's no use pretending any longer; it's sure. What are you going to do?"

"What am I going to do? That's-that's a nice brick to aim at a fellow without the slightest warning."

"I'm sorry; I can't help it; I must know. What are you going to do?"

"My dear girl, you know that you've no more actual knowledge on such a subject than I have. I hope-and I think it's very possible-that you are wrong. Let's, first of all, make sure."

"Very well-we'll make sure. And when we've made sure what are you going to do-if it is sure?"

"We'll discuss that when we've made sure. Give me a chance to think; you've had one. It seems that you've guessed, goodness knows how long. Give me a chance to get my thoughts into order."

"I can't wait; I must know now. What are you going to do-if it is sure?"

"I'll do everything that a man can do-you know that perfectly well. You've knocked the sense all out of me! Do give me a chance to think! Don't look at me with that stand-and-deliver air! Come here, old lady, and let me kiss those pretty eyes of yours; I can't bear to have them look like that."

"Don't touch me-don't dare! You say you'll do everything a man can do. Does that mean you'll marry me?"

"Marry you! Mabel!"

"Don't you mean that you will marry me?"

"My dear girl, it's-it's impossible!"

"Why is it impossible? Are you married already?"

"Good Lord, no!"

"Then why can't you marry me?"

"As if you didn't know!"

"What do I know?"

"As if there weren't a thousand reasons! As if you weren't almost as well posted in my financial position as I am myself! As if you didn't know how hard I've found it to pay my way-that, in fact, I haven't paid it! If I were to marry you, financially there'd be an end of me; and in every other way! Not only should I be worse than penniless, but there'd be absolutely no prospect of my ever being anything else."

"I shouldn't be worse off as your wife than I am now."

"Oh, wouldn't you? You would; don't you make any error! I've never said a word to you about marriage."

"That's true, nor should I have said it to you if it hadn't been for this."

"There you are-that's frank. There's been no deception on either side. After all that there's been between us don't let's have any unpleasantness, for both our sakes. I'm as sorry for the position to which we've managed to bring things as you can be; you must know I am. At present I'm stony, but shortly I hope to have the command of plenty of money."

"Are you going to get it from Miss Patterson or Miss Austin?"

"What does it matter where it comes from?"

"So far as I'm concerned it matters a good deal."

"It'll be my own money."

class="normal""If you'll have so much money of your own why can't you marry me?"

"If I do marry you I'll have no money?"

"Are you going to get it with your wife? Which wife?"

"I can understand how you're feeling, so I'll try not to mind your being bitter, though it isn't like you one scrap. I can only implore you to trust me, to leave it all to me; I'll arrange everything. If you're right in what you fear you'll find a place ready for you when the time comes, in which you'll be comfortable, in which you'll have everything you want, and when it's over, if you like you can come home again, and no one will be one whit the wiser, and you won't be an atom the worse. It's done every day."

"Is it? And the child-what about the child?"

"The child? If it is my child-"

"If? if? if? What do you mean by 'if'? You'd better be careful, Rodney, what you are saying. What do you mean by 'if'?"