by Guy Thorne
CHAPTER IX
GRATITUDE OF MISS MARJORIE POOLE
As the man to whom she had been engaged came into the room, Marjorierose to meet him. She was not embarrassed, the hour and occasion weretoo serious for that, and she herself was too broken down for anyemotions save those that were intensely real and came from an anguishedheart. She went up to him, all pale and drooping, and took him by thehand.
"Thank you, William," she said in a low voice, and that was all.
But in her words Gouldesbrough realized all that she was powerless tosay. He heard, with an inward thrill and leap of the pulses, an immenserespect for him, which, even in the days of their engagement, he hadnever heard.
Always, Marjorie had reverenced his attainments, never had she seemed tobe so near to him as a _man_ as now.
He looked straight into her eyes, nor did his own flinch from herdirect and agonized gaze. The frightful power of his dominating will,the horrible strength of his desire, the intensity of his purpose,enabled him to face her look without a sign of tremor.
He, this man with a marvellous intellect and a soul unutterably stainedby the most merciless perfidy, was yet able to look back at her with akind, sorrowful, and touching glance.
Gouldesbrough wore no metal helmet which should make the horror of histhoughts and knowledge plain for Marjorie to see. The man who hadcommitted a crime as foul and sinister as ever crime was yet, the manwho was responsible for the pale face of the girl he loved, the droopingform, the tearful eyes, yet smiled back at her with a mask of patientresignation, deference, and chivalry.
"I am so glad you've come, William," Lady Poole said; "and I'm sure,distressing as all these circumstances are, we cannot thank you enoughfor what you have done and are doing. No one else in your position wouldhave done so much. And on Marjorie's behalf and on my own I thank youwith a full heart."
Sir William bowed.
Then Lady Poole, voluble as she usually was, and unabashed in almostevery circumstance hesitated a little. The situation was certainly verydelicate, almost unparalleled, indeed, and it was certainly quiteoutside even her wide experience. But her voice had a genuine ring ofthankfulness and gratitude, and the real woman emerged from the veneerof worldliness and baffled ambition.
There was a pause for a moment, no one of the three spoke a single word.Then Lady Poole, by an intuition, said and did exactly the rightthing--perhaps old Sir Frederick's "hobby of tact" had not been withoutits use after all! She sank into a chair.
"There's no need for any explanation, I can see that," she said with asigh of relief. "With any other man it would have been so different, butit's all right, William, I can see it in your manner and in yourpresence here. Then let me say once and for all, that both Marjorie andI feel at last we have got some one with us who will help us. We havebeen terribly alone. We have both felt it most poignantly. After all,women do want a man in a crisis! You, dear William, are the last man weshould have thought of asking to help us, and yet you are the first manwho has come to do so."
"Dear Lady Poole," Gouldesbrough answered in a quiet voice, "I thinkperhaps I see a little of what you mean. I am not sure, but I think Ido. And I regard it as the greatest privilege and honour to come to youwith an offer of help and assistance in your trouble."
He turned to the younger lady.
"Marjorie," he said, "you must treat me just like a brother now. Youmust forget all that has passed between us, and just lean on me, rely onme, use me. Nothing could make me more happy than just that."
Lady Poole rose again. Who shall say in the volatile brain of the gooddame that already in the exhilaration of Sir William's presence andkindness, new hopes and ambitions were not reviving? Lady Poole was awoman, and she was an opportunist too. Woman-like, her mind moved fastinto an imaginary future; it had always done so. And it is possible thatupon the clouded horizon of her hopes a faint star began to twinkle oncemore.
Who shall blame Lady Poole?
"Now, my dears," she said in a more matter of fact voice, "I thinkperhaps you might be happier in discussing this matter if I were to goaway. Under the circumstances, I am perfectly aware that it's not thecorrect thing to do, but that is speaking only from a conventionalstandpoint, and none of us here can be conventional at a moment likethis. If you would rather have me stay, just say so. But it is withpride and pleasure that I know that I can leave you with Marjorie,William, even under these miserable circumstances and in this unhappybusiness."
Gouldesbrough smiled sadly.
"It is as Marjorie wishes," he said. "But I know that Marjorie knows shecan trust me."
The great man saw that once more the girl lifted her eyes and looked athim with something which was almost like reverence. Never before had heseen her look at him like this. Once more the evil joy in thepossibility of victory after all leapt through his blood.
No thought nor realization of the terrible thing he had done, of thehorrors that he and the pink-faced man in Regent's Park were even nowperfecting, came to trouble that moment of evil pride. Everybody hadalways said, everybody who had been brought into contact with him,always knew that Sir William Gouldesbrough was a strong man!
Lady Poole waited a moment to see if her daughter made any sign ofwishing her to remain, and finding that there was none, for Marjorie wasstanding with drooping head and made no movement, the dowager swept outof the room with rustling skirts, and gently closed the door.
Sir William and Marjorie were left alone.
The man of action asserted himself.
"Sit down, Marjorie," he said in a commonplace tone, "and just let metalk to you on pure matters of fact. Now, my dear, we haven't seen eachother since you wrote me the letter telling me that our engagement was amistake. You know what my reply to that was, and I believe and trust youknow that I shall remain perfectly true to both the spirit and actualwords of that communication. That's all we need say now, except justthis: I loved you dearly and I love you dearly now. I had hoped that wemight have been very happy together and that I might have spent my lifein your service. But that was not to be in the way that I had hoped. Atthe same time, I am not a man easily moved or changed, and if I cannotbe yours in one way, dear girl, I will be yours in another. However,that's all about that. Now, then, let me tell you how hard I have beentrying to discover the truth of this astounding disappearance of poorMr. Guy Rathbone."
A low sob came from the girl in the chair. It was a sob not only ofregret for her lost lover, but it had the same note of reverence, ofutter appreciation, of her first words.
"You are too good," she said. "William, I have treated you horriblybadly. You are too good. Oh, you are _too_ good!"
"Hush!" he said in a sharp staccato voice. "We agreed that aspect ofthe question wasn't to be spoken of any more. The past is the past, and,my dear little girl, I beg you to realize it. You loved poor GuyRathbone, and he seems to have been wiped out of ordinary life. Mybusiness is to find him again for you, so that you may be happy. I havebeen trying to do the utmost in my power for days. I have doneeverything that my mind could suggest, and as yet nothing has occurred.Now, Marjorie, let's just be business-like. Tell me what you think aboutthe matter, and I will tell you what I think. See if our two brainscannot hit on something which will help us."
"William," she said with a full note, a chord rather, of deep pain inher voice--"William, I don't know what to think. I can't understand it.I am lost in utter darkness. There seems no possible reason why heshould have gone away. I can only think that the worst has happened, andthat some terrible people must have killed him."
"But why?"
"Oh," she answered almost hysterically, "he was so beautiful and sostrong. They must have killed him because he was so different to othermen." She did not see the tall man who sat before her wince and quiver.She did not see his face change and contort itself into malignancy. Shedid not realize that these innocent words, wrung from a simpledistressed and loving heart, meant awful things for the man she longedfor.
"But, Mar
jorie," the voice came steady and strong, "you know that isjust a little fantastic, if you will forgive me for saying so. Peopledon't go about injuring other people because they are better-looking orhave finer natures than themselves. They only say unkind things aboutthem, they don't kill them, you know."
"Oh, of course, you are right, William," she answered, "and I hardlyknow what I'm saying, the pain of it all is so great. But then, there_is_ nothing to say. I can't understand, I can hardly realize what hashappened."
"For my part," Sir William answered, "I have left no stone unturned todiscover the truth. I have been in communication with every force oragency which might be able to explain the thing. And no one has given methe slightest hint, except perhaps----"
She leapt up from her chair, her pale face changed.
"Yes?" she cried, "What is it? What is that?"
Her breath came thick and fast. Sir William remained sitting in hischair and his head was bowed.
"Sit down, Marjorie," he answered; "I didn't mean to say that."
"But you said it," she replied. "Ah! my ears are very keen, and therewas something in your voice which had meaning. William, what is it? Whatis it?"
"Nothing," he answered in a deep, decisive voice.
But the voice brought no conviction to her ears. She had detected, orthought she had detected, the note of an inner knowledge when he hadfirst spoken. She crossed the room with rapid strides and laid her whitehand upon his shoulder.
"You've _got_ to tell me," she said imperiously. And her touch thrilledhim through and through with an exquisite agony and an exquisite joy.
"It's nothing," he repeated.
Now there was less conviction than ever in his voice. She laughedhysterically. "William," she said, "I know you so well, you can't hideanything from me. There's something you can tell me. Whatever it may be,good or bad, you've just _got_ to tell me."
At that he looked up at her, and his face, she saw, was drawn andfrightened.
"Marjorie," he said, "don't let any words of mine persuade you into anybelief. Since you ask me I must say what I have got to say. But mindyou, I am in no way convinced myself that what I am going to tell you ismore than mere idle supposition."
"Tell me," she whispered, and her voice hissed like escaping steam.
"Well, it's just this," he said, "and it's awfully hard for me even tohint such a thing to you. But, you know, Rathbone had recently maderather a friend of poor Eustace Charliewood. I like Charliewood; younever did. A man's point of view and a girl's point of view are quitedifferent about a man. But of course I can't pretend that Charliewood isexactly, well--er--what you might call--I don't know quite how to putit, Marjorie."
"I know," she said with a shudder of disgust "I know. Go on."
"Well, just before Rathbone disappeared those two seemed to have beenabout together a good deal, and of course Charliewood is a man who hassome rather strange acquaintances, especially in the theatrical world.That is to say, in the sub-theatrical world. Marjorie, I hardly know howto put it to you, and I think I had better stop."
"Go on!" she cried once more.
"Well," he said wearily, "Rathbone was a good fellow, no doubt, but heis a young man, and no girl really knows what the life of a young manreally is or may be. I know that Charliewood introduced Rathbone to acertain girl. Oh, Marjorie, I can't go on, these suspicions areunworthy."
"Terribly unworthy," she cried, standing up to her full height, and thenin a moment she drooped to him, and once more she asked him to go on.
He told her of certain meetings, saying that there could have been, ofcourse, no harm in them, skilfully hinting at this or that, and thentestifying to his utter disbelief in the suspicions that he himself hadprovoked. She listened to him, growing whiter and whiter. At last hishesitating speech died away into silence, and she stood looking at him.
"It might be," she whispered, half to herself, "it might be, but I donot think it _could_ be. No man could be so unutterably cruel, sounutterably base. I have made you tell me this, William, and I know thatyou yourself do not believe it. He could not be so wicked as tosacrifice everything for one of those people."
And then Sir William rose.
"No," he said, "he couldn't. I feel it, though I don't know him.Marjorie, no living man could leave you for one of the vulgar syrens ofthe half world."
She looked at him for a moment as he put the thing in plain language,and then burst into a passion of weeping.
"I can't bear any more, William," she said between her sobs. "Go now,but find him. Oh, find him!"