_ PART IV CHAPTER II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
It was a dark, wet night. The rain streamed from the gutters and pattered desolately on the pavement below. It had rained for hours.
Trevor Mordaunt sat alone, with a pipe between his teeth, his windows flung wide to the empty street, and listened to the downpour. He had arrived in town that afternoon to make a few necessary arrangements before leaving England. These arrangements completed, there was nothing left to do but to await the next morning for departure.
It was not easy, that waiting. He faced it with grim fortitude, realizing the futility of going to bed. It was possible that he might presently doze in his chair, but ordinary sleep was out of the question, and he would not trouble himself to court it. Tossing all night sleepless on his pillow was a refinement of torture that he did not feel called upon to bear.
He had spent the previous night tramping the country-side, but he could not tramp in London, and though he was not aware of fatigue, he knew the necessity for bodily rest existed, and he compelled himself to take it.
So he sat motionless, listening to the rain, while the hours crawled by.
The roar of London traffic rose from afar, for the night was still. Now and then a taxi whirred through the sloppy street, but there were few wayfarers. Once a boy passed whistling, and the man at the window above stiffened a little, as if in some fashion the careless melody stirred him, but as the whistler turned the corner he relaxed again with his head back, and resumed his attitude of waiting.
It was nearly midnight when a taxi hummed up to the flaring lamp-post before the house, and stopped to discharge its occupant. Mordaunt heard the vehicle, but his eyes were closed and he did not trouble to open them. He had laid aside his pipe, and actually seemed to be on the verge of dozing at last. The window-curtain screened him from the view of any in the street, and it did not occur to him that the new arrival could be in any way connected with himself.
It was, therefore, with a hint of surprise that he turned his head at the opening of the door.
"Mr. Wyndham to see you, sir," said Holmes. "Says it's very particular, sir."
"Who? Oh, all right. Show him in." A bored note sounded in Mordaunt's voice. "And you needn't sit up, Holmes. I'll let him out," he added.
"Very good, sir," said Holmes, without enthusiasm. He never liked to retire before his master.
Mordaunt rose with a faint touch of impatience. He expected to see Max, and wondered that the news of his arrival in town had reached him so quickly. But it was Rupert who entered, and turned to satisfy himself that the door was shut before he advanced to greet his brother-in-law.
Mordaunt stood by the window and watched the precaution with a certain grim curiosity. He fancied he could guess the reason of this midnight visitation, but as the boy came towards him and halted in the full light he saw that he was mistaken. There was no indignant questioning visible on Rupert's face. It looked only grey and haggard and desperate.
"Look here," he said, speaking jerkily, as if it were only by a series of tense efforts that he spoke at all. "I've come to tell you something. I don't know how you'll take it. And I may as well admit--that I'm horribly afraid. Do you mind if I have a drink--just to help me through?"
Mordaunt closed the window, and came quietly forward. Just for a moment he fancied that Rupert had already fortified himself in the manner indicated for the ordeal of meeting him, and then again he realized that he was mistaken. The eyes that looked into his were perfectly sane, but they held an almost childlike appeal that made his heart contract suddenly. He bit his lip savagely. Why on earth couldn't the fellow have left him alone for this one night at least?
He forced himself to be temperate, but there was no warmth in his tone as he said, "I've no objection to your having a drink if you want it. I suppose you've got into a scrape again, and want me to help you out?"
"No, it's not that--at least, not in the sense you mean."
Hurriedly Rupert made answer. He looked for a moment at the glasses on the table, but he did not attempt to help himself. Suddenly he shivered.
"Ye gods! What an infernal night! I had to walk ever so far before I found a taxi. I came up by the evening train--couldn't get off duty sooner. I thought you would be off to Dover before I got here. And I--and I--" He broke off blankly and became silent, as if he had forgotten what he had meant to say.
Mordaunt leaned over the table, and mixed a drink with the utmost steadiness. "Sit down," he said. "And now drink this, and pull yourself together. There's nothing to be in a funk about, so take your time."
He spoke with authority, but his manner had the aloofness of one not greatly interested in the matter in hand. He resented the boy's intrusion, that was all.
Rupert accepted his hospitality in silence. This obvious lack of interest increased his difficulties tenfold.
Mordaunt went back to his chair by the window, and relighted his pipe. He knew he was being cold-blooded, but he felt absolutely incapable of kindling any warmth. There seemed to be no warmth left in him.
Rupert gulped down his drink, and buried his face in his hands. He felt that the thing he had come to do was beyond his power to accomplish. He could not make his confession to a stone image. And yet he could not go, leaving it unmade.
In the long pause that followed it almost seemed as if Mordaunt had forgotten his presence in the room. The minutes ticked away, and he made no sign.
At last, desperately, Rupert lifted his head. "Trevor!"
Mordaunt looked at him. Then, struck possibly by the misery of the boy's attitude, he laid down his pipe and turned towards him.
"Well, what is it?"
Vehemently Rupert made answer. "For pity's sake, don't freeze me up like this, man! I--I--oh, can't you give me a lead?" he broke off desperately.
"You see, I don't know in the least what you have come to say," Mordaunt pointed out. "If it has anything to do with--recent events"--he spoke with great distinctness--"I can only advise you to leave it alone, since no remonstrance from you will make the smallest difference."
"But it hasn't," groaned Rupert. "At least, of course, it's in connection with that. But I've come to try and tell you the truth--something you don't know and never will know if I don't tell you. And--Heaven help me!--I'm such a cur--I don't know how to get through with it."
That reached Mordaunt, stirring him to activity almost against his will. He found himself unable to look on unmoved at his young brother-in-law's distress. He left his chair and moved back to the table.
"I don't know what you've got to be afraid of," he said, with a touch of kindliness in his tone that deprived it of its remoteness. "I'm not feeling particularly formidable. What have you been doing?"
Rupert groaned again and covered his face. "You'll be furious enough directly. But it's not that exactly that I mind. It's--it's the disgusting shabbiness of it. We Wyndhams are such a rotten lot, we don't see that part of the business till afterwards."
"Hadn't you better come to the point?" suggested Mordaunt. "We can talk about that later."
"No, we can't," said Rupert, with conviction. "You'll either throw me out of the window or kick me downstairs directly you know the truth."
"I'm not in the habit of doing these things," Mordaunt remarked, with the ghost of a smile.
"But this is an exceptional case." Rupert straightened himself abruptly, and turned in his chair, meeting the quiet eyes. "Damn it, I'll tell you!" he said, springing to his feet with sudden resolution. "Trevor, I--I'm an infernal blackguard! I forged that cheque!"
"You!" Sternly Mordaunt uttered the word. He moved a step forward and looked Rupert closely in the face. "Are you telling me the truth?" he said.
"I am." Rupert faced him squarely, though his eyelids quivered a little. "I'm not likely to lie to you in this matter. I've nothing to gain and all to lose. And I shouldn't have told you--anyway now--if Noel hadn't come over this morning with the news that you had kicked out your secretary for the offence I had committed. Even I couldn't stick that, so I've come to own up--and take the consequences."
He braced himself, almost as if he expected a blow. But Mordaunt remained motionless, studying him keenly, and for many seconds he did not utter a word.
At last, "Bertrand knew of this," he said, in a tone that held more of conviction than interrogation.
"No, he didn't. He knew nothing, or, if he did, it was sheer guess-work. I never suspected that he knew." Rupert's hands were clenched. He was face to face with the hardest task he had ever undertaken.
"He knew, for all that." Mordaunt's brows contracted; he seemed to be following out a difficult problem.
Finally, to Rupert's relief, he turned aside. "Go on," he said. "I'll hear the whole of it now. What did you do with the money?"
Rupert's teeth closed upon his lower lip. "That's the only question I can't answer."
"Why not?" The question was curt, and held no compromise.
"Private reasons," Rupert muttered.
"Family reasons would be more accurate," Mordaunt rejoined, in the same curt tone. "You gave it to--Chris."
The momentary hesitation before the name did not soften its utterance. It came with a precision almost brutal.
Rupert made a slight movement, and stood silent.
"You are not going to deny it?" Mordaunt observed, glancing at him.
He turned his face away. "What's the good?"
"Just so. You had better tell me the whole truth. It will save trouble."
"But I don't see that there is anything more to tell." Rupert spoke with an effort. "I stole the cheque in the first place--that Sunday afternoon--you remember? I was a bit top-heavy at the time. That's no excuse," he threw in. "I daresay I should have done it in any case. But--well, you know the state of mind I was in that day. You had just been beastly generous, too. And that reminds me; you left your keys behind, do you remember? I came in for another drink and saw them. The temptation came then, and I never stopped to think till the thing was done. Bertrand nearly caught me in the act. He didn't suspect anything at the time, but he may have remembered afterwards."
"Probably," said Mordaunt. "You weren't frank with me that day, then? There were debts you didn't mention."
Rupert nodded. "You were a bit high-handed with me. That choked me off. Still, though in an evil moment I took the cheque out of your book, I loathed myself for it afterwards. I hadn't the strength of mind to destroy it, or the courage to send it back. But"--he turned back again and met Mordaunt's eyes--"I wasn't going to use it, though I was cur enough to keep it, and to like to feel it was there in case of emergency. I didn't mean to use it--on my oath, I didn't. I don't expect you to believe me, but it's true."
"I believe you," Mordaunt said quietly. "And--the emergency arose?"
Rupert nodded again. "Chris came to me--in great distress. Couldn't tell me what she wanted it for. You weren't to know, neither was Bertrand. She couldn't use her own without your finding out. And so--as it seemed urgent--in fact, desperate--and as it was for her--" He broke off. "No, I won't shelter myself in that way. I did it on my own. She didn't know. No one knew. If Bertrand suspected, he must have thought I took it for my own purposes. Heaven knows what she wanted it for, but she was most emphatic that it shouldn't get round to him."
"And you tell me she did not know how you obtained the money? Are you certain of that?" Mordaunt's tone was deliberate; he spoke as one who meant to have the truth.
"Why, man, of course I am! What do you take her for? Chris--my sister--your wife--"
"Stop!" The word was brief, and very final. "We need not go into that. She may not have known at the time, but she suspected afterwards. In fact, she knew."
"Is that what you quarrelled about?" Eagerly Rupert broke in. "Noel tried to get it out of her, but she wouldn't tell him. You'll find out where she's gone, and set it right? She can't be very far away."
"That," Mordaunt said, in a tone from which the faintest hint of feeling was excluded, "is beside the point. We will not discuss it."
"But--" Rupert began.
"We will not discuss it." Mordaunt repeated the words in the same utterly emotionless voice, and Rupert found it impossible to continue. "In fact, there seems to be nothing further to discuss of any sort. Can I put you up for the night?"
Rupert stared at him.
"Well?" Mordaunt's brows went up a little.
"Are you in earnest?" the boy burst out awkwardly. "I mean--I mean--don't you want to--to--give me a sound kicking?"
"Not in the least." A steely glint shone for a moment in the grey eyes. "I don't think that sort of treatment does much good, as a rule. And I have not the smallest desire to administer it. If you think you deserve it, I should imagine that is punishment enough."
Rupert swung round sharply on his heel. "All right. I'm going. If you want me, you know where to find me. I shan't run away. And I shan't try to back out. What I've said I shall stick to--if it means perdition."
"And what about the Regiment?" Quietly Mordaunt's voice arrested him before he reached the door. "Or doesn't the Regiment count?"
Rupert stopped dead, but he did not turn. "The Regiment"--he said--"the Regiment"--he choked suddenly--"they'll be damned well rid of me," he ended, somewhat incoherently.
"Come back!" Mordaunt said.
He made an irresolute movement, but did not comply.
"Rupert!" There was authority in the quiet voice.
Unwillingly Rupert turned. He came back unsteadily, with features that had begun to twitch.
Mordaunt moved to meet him. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. He took Rupert's arm, and brought him back to the table.
"I think you had better let me put you up," he said. "You can sleep in my room; I'm not wanting it for to-night. There, sit down. You mustn't be a fool, you know. You are played out, and want a rest."
"I--I'm all right," Rupert said.
He made as if he would withdraw his arm, but changed his intention, and stood tense, battling with himself.
"Oh, man!" he burst out at last, hoarsely, "you--you don't know what a--what a--cur I feel! I--I--I--" Words failed him abruptly; he flung round and sank down again at the table with his head on his arms, too humbled to remember his manhood any longer.
"My dear fellow, don't!" Mordaunt said. He put his hand on the boy's heaving shoulders and kept it there. "There's no sense in letting yourself go. The thing is done, and there is no more to be said, since neither you nor I can undo it. Come, boy! Pull yourself together. I am going to forget it, and you can do the same. I think you had better go to bed now. We shall have time for a talk in the morning. What?" He stooped to catch a half-audible sentence.
"You'll never forget it," gasped Rupert.
"Yes, I shall--if you will let me. It rests with you. I never wish to speak or think of it again. I have plenty of other things to think about, and so have you. That's settled, then. I am going to see if I can find you something to eat."
He stood up. His face had softened to kindness. He patted Rupert's shoulder before he turned away.
"Buck up, old chap!" he said gently, and went with quiet tread from the room. _