Chapter 27: 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.

“Dear Mrs. Joyce, --I’m off, to another world--the world beyond the grave. I’m more of a coward than I thought; and yet I don’t know that it’s quite that. I have tried to cut my throat in bed--your bed; but my hand bungled. I have made rather a mess--and then I stopped. It seemed rather a pity to spoil your bedclothes, and I did not like to feel the razor. I am going to do it another way--outside your house, in a place I know of, where I hope no one will ever find me. I want no coroner to sit upon my body, and I want no jury to make me the subject of their silly verdicts.

“I have heaps of reasons--I dare say you’ll hear enough about them before long. I’d rather you heard of them than other people heard of them, when I am not here. It is because I am so anxious that the hearing should take place behind my back that I am going. I don’t quite know what I owe you, but I believe I’m a little in arrears. You’ll find ten pounds on the table; it should more than pay you, and even make up for the week’s notice which I have not given. All my possessions that I leave behind--and there are quite a number of decent suits of clothes--are yours. Do as you like with them. If you sell them, and get the price you ought to get, you should not do badly.

“Tell everybody what I have told you, and, if you like, show them this letter. You have not been a bad landlady; I don’t suppose I shall be better suited where I am going; nor have I been a bad lodger; if you get a better you’ll be in luck.

“Say good-bye to Mabel. There is a portrait of a kind in the locket which you will find near this envelope. I think I should like her to have it, as one to whom I am indebted for many favours.--Your one-time lodger,

“Rodney Elmore.

“Do you think I shall find it lonely where I am going? I wonder!”

The girl, having read this letter to the end, caught up an old-fashioned locket; doubtless the one referred to. Opening it, there looked out at her the young man’s face--a miniature, not ill-done. She pressed it to her lips, not once, nor twice, but again and again and again. Then, shutting it, slipped it inside her blouse. She gave another rapid glance about the room, moved hither and thither as if to make sure that there was nothing left which might tell more than need be told; then, passing hastily from the room, went not downstairs to her mother but upstairs to the lodger overhead. At his door she also knocked. Response was instant.

“Who’s there? Come in!”

She went in. Mr. Dale was sitting up in bed She stayed close to the door.

“He’s gone!” she said.

Mr. Dale, although he seemed but recently roused from sleep, seemed to grasp her meaning in a moment.

“Gone where?”

“He’s left this.”

She tossed the letter she had been reading so dexterously that it fell just before him on the bed. He caught it up and read.

“What’s it mean?” he asked. She seemed to consider for a moment.

“You know as well as I do.”

“I suppose I do--when you come to think of it. He’s a beauty--a shining star!” He stared at the letter. “What does he mean?”

“At any rate, he means one thing--he’s gone.” Mr. Dale leaned back, looking at the girl as if he were endeavouring to find something on her face which should give him a hint what to say next. When he spoke again it was slowly, as if he measured his words; yet bitterly, as if behind them was a meaning which scarcely jumped to the eye.

“Look here, Mabel, this isn’t going to be an easy thing to do. I’m going to have all my work cut out if it’s to be managed. You know what I mean by managed. And, as I’m alive, I don’t want to do it for nothing--and I don’t mean to.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the tale’s not to be told--you know what tale--it must be on terms. I won’t ask what this chap’s been to you, because I believe I know. He’s been--a blackguard; that’s what he’s been to you; and, on my word I believe you women like a man who’s a blackguard. But I don’t want to talk about that now.”