by Guy Thorne
CHAPTER VIII
THE CHIVALROUS BARONET
Lady Poole and her daughter had been living in rooms in the great PalaceHotel at Brighton for a fortnight.
Marjorie, utterly broken down by the terrible mystery that envelopedher, and shrinking from the fierce light that began to beat upon thedetails of her private life, had implored her mother to take her fromLondon.
There had been a terrible scene between the old lady and her daughterwhen, the day after Marjorie had written to Sir William Gouldesbroughtelling him that she could not marry him, she had confessed the truth toLady Poole.
In her anger and excitement the elder woman had said some bitter andterrible things. She was transformed for a space from the pleasant andeasy-going society dame into something hard, furious, and even coarse.Marjorie had shrunk in amazement and fear from the torrent of hermother's wrath. And finally she had been able to bear it no longer, andhad lost consciousness.
Allowances should be made for the dowager. She was a worldly woman, goodand kind as far as she went, but purely worldly and material. The hopeof her life had seemed gained when her daughter became engaged to SirWilliam. The revelation that, after all, the engagement was now broken,was nothing more than a delusion, and that a younger and ineligible man,from the worldly point of view, had won Marjorie's affection, was aterrible blow to the woman of the world. All her efforts seemed useless.The object of her life, so recently gained, so thoroughly enjoyed, wassnatched away from her in a sudden moment.
But when Marjorie had come to herself again, and the doctor had beensummoned to treat her for a nervous shock, she found her mother oncemore the kindly and loved parent of old. Lady Poole had been frightenedat her own violence, and repented bitterly for what she had said. Shetended and soothed the girl in the sweetest and most motherly way. Andwithout disguising from Marjorie the bitter blow the girl's decision wasto her, she told her that she was prepared to accept the inevitable, andto re-organize all her ideas for the future.
And then had come the black mystery of Guy's utter vanishing from theworld of men and women.
Lady Poole had always been fond of Guy Rathbone, and now, by a curiouscontradiction of nature, when she had schooled herself to realize thatit was on this man her daughter's life was centred, the old lady wasterribly and genuinely affected at Guy's disappearance. No one couldhave been more helpful or more sympathetic during these black hours, andshe gladly left Curzon Street for Brighton, in order that she might bealone with her daughter and endeavour to bring her back in some measureto happiness, or, if not happiness, to interest in life.
Soon after Marjorie had written her letter to Sir William, Lady Poolehad received a reply from the scientist, enclosing a short note for herdaughter.
It had been a wonderful letter. The writer said that he could notdisguise from himself that he had seen, or at least suspected, the waythings were going.
"Terrible," he said, "as this letter of your daughter's has been to me, it would yet ill-become me not to receive it as a man. I had hoped and believed that a very happy life was in store for me with Marjorie and for her with me. Then I saw that it was not to be, and Marjorie's letter comes as no surprise, but as only the definite and final end of my dream. Dear Lady Poole, do realize that, despite all this, it will always be my duty and my privilege to be the friend of you and of your daughter if you and she will permit me to be so. I have told her so often how I love her, and I tell her so even now. But love, as I understand it, should have the element of self-sacrifice in it, if it is true love. I will therefore say no more about my personal feelings, except in one way. Just as my whole life would have been devoted to making your daughter happy, so I now feel it is my duty to devote myself as well as I can to making her happy in another way. She has chosen a man no doubt more worthy to be her husband than I should ever be. You will forgive a natural weakness if I say no more on this point, but the great fact is that she has chosen. Therefore, I say that my only wish is for her life-long happiness, and that all my endeavours, such as they are, will be still devoted to that end. Let them be happy, let them be together. And if I can promote their happiness, even though my own heart may be broken, believe me, dear Lady Poole, it is my most fervent wish.
"Will you give Marjorie the enclosed little note of farewell? I shall not trouble her more, until perhaps some day in the future we may still be friends, though fate and her decision have forbidden me to be anything more to her than just that.
"Believe me, my dear Lady Poole, "In great sorrow and in sincere friendship, "WILLIAM GOULDESBROUGH."
So the two ladies had gone to Brighton, and while the press of theUnited Kingdom was throbbing with excitement, while hundreds of peoplewere endeavouring to solve the terrible mystery of Guy Rathbone'sdisappearance, the girl more nearly interested in it than any one elsein the world stayed quietly with her mother at the pleasant sea-sidetown, and was not molested by press or public.
Marjorie had become, even in these few days, a ghost of her former self.The light had faded out of her eyes, they had ceased to appeartransparent and had become opaque. Her beautifully chiselled lips nowdrooped in pathetic and habitual pain, her pallor was constant andunvarying. She drank in the keen sea breezes, and they brought no colourto her cheeks. She walked upon the white chalk cliffs and saw nothing ofthe shifting gold and shadow as the sun fell upon the sea, heard nothingof the harmonies of the Channel winds. Her whole heart was full of apassionate yearning and a terrible despair; she was like a statelyflower that had been put out of its warm and sheltered home into an icyblast, and was withered and blackened in an hour.
Kind as her mother was, Marjorie felt that there was nobody now left tolean upon, to confide in. A girl of her temperament needs some strongerarm than any woman can provide, to help and comfort, to keep awake thefires of hope within her, and nothing of the sort was hers. In all theworld she seemed to have no one to confide in, no one to lean upon, noone who would give her courage and hope for the black and impenetrablefuture.
At the end of the first fortnight, Marjorie knew, though her mother onlyjust referred to the matter, that letters were daily arriving from SirWilliam Gouldesbrough.
One evening Lady Poole, unable to keep the news from her daughter anylonger, told her of these communications.
"I dare say, darling," the old lady said, "I may give you pain, but Ithink you really ought to know how wonderfully poor dear William isbehaving in this sad affair. Though it must be terribly hard for him,though it must fill him with a pain that I can only guess at, he ismoving heaven and earth to discover what has become of your poor boy. Heis daily writing to me to tell me what he is doing, to inform me of hishopes, and I tell you, Marjorie, that if human power can discover whathas happened to Guy, William Gouldesbrough will discover it. Do realize,dear, what a noble thing this is in the man you have rejected. WheneverI receive his letters I can't help crying a little, it seems so noble,so touching, and so beautiful of him."
Marjorie was sitting at the table. The ladies dined in their privaterooms, and it was after the meal. Her head was in her hands and her eyeswere full of tears. She looked up as her mother said this, with a white,wan face.
"Ah, yes, dear," she replied, "there is no doubt of that, William wasalways noble. He is as great in heart as he is in intellect. He isindeed one of the chosen and best. Don't think I don't realize it,mother, now you've told me, indeed I _do_ realize it. My whole heart isfilled with gratitude towards him. No one else would have done as muchin his position."
"You do feel that, do you, dear?" Lady Poole said.
"Oh, indeed I do," she answered, "though I fear that even he, great ashis intellect is, will never disperse this frightful, terribledarkness."
Lady Poole got up and came round to where her daughter was sitting. Sheput her hand upon the shining coil of hair and said--
"Dear, do you think that you could bear
to see him?"
"To see William?" Marjorie answered quickly with a curious catch in hervoice.
"Yes, darling, to see William. Would it give you too much pain?"
"But how, why, what for?"
"Oh, not to revive any memories of the past, there is nothing furtherfrom his thoughts. But this morning he wrote me the very sweetestletter, saying that in this crisis he might be able to give you a littlecomfort."
"Has he discovered anything, then?" Marjorie asked.
"I fear not as yet. But he says that at this moment you must feel verymuch alone. As you know, he is doing all that a mortal man can. Ofcourse, I have told him how broken you are by it all, and he thinks thatperhaps you might like to hear what he is doing, might like to confidein him a little. 'If,' he says in his letter, 'she will receive me as abrother, whose only wish is to help her in this terrible trial, can Isay how proud and grateful I shall be to come to her and tell her what Ican?'"
Marjorie gave a great sob. It was too much. In her nervous and weakcondition the gentle and kindly message her mother had given her wasterribly affecting.
"How good he is!" she murmured. "Yes, mother, if only he would come Ishould like to see him."
"Then, my dear," Lady Poole replied, "that is very easily arranged, forhe is in the hotel to-night."
Marjorie started. Her mother went to a side table on which was a littleportable telephone. She held the receiver to her ear, and when the clerkfrom the down-stairs office replied, asked that Sir WilliamGouldesbrough should be told at once that Lady Poole would be very gladto see him in Number 207.
Marjorie rose and began to pace the room. A growing excitement masteredher, her hands twitched, her eyes were dilated. Perhaps she was at lastgoing to hear something, something definite, something new, about Guy.
There was a knock at the door. A waiter opened it, and Sir WilliamGouldesbrough came into the room.