She looked at him with a curious sombre something in her big dark eyes, which reminded him of a child who is about to cry. Her lips trembled.
"Rodney, dad's dead."
His tone was eager, gentle, sympathetic; instinct with surprise.
"Dead! You--you don't mean it!"
"In the train."
"In the train! What train?"
She told her tale, he listening with interest, anxiety, tenderness, which were sufficiently real.
"I was just going to bed."
"Dear, you're shivering. You'd better sit down."
"I'd rather stand--close to you."
He put his arms about her and held her tight. He kissed her.
"Sweetheart," he whispered. He could feel her trembling; tears were beginning to shine in her eyes.
"I was in my bedroom, and--and--I was thinking about you "--about the corners of her lips was the queerest little smile--"when there was a ringing at the front door. I thought it was dad, who had forgotten his key; but they came and told me that there was a gentleman downstairs who wished to see me very particularly about my father, and that it was most important. So I slipped on a dressing-jacket and went down to him. It was someone from the railway company. They had found dad in the carriage of a train which had come from Brighton. He was dead--now he was at Victoria Station--he had committed suicide."
"Suicide!"
Rodney started; it could not have been better done if his surprise had been genuine.
"It's--it's incredible!"
"I can only tell you what the man told me. He said of course there would have to be an inquiry, but all the indications pointed at that.
He had poisoned himself; in his hand they had found a box in which were some more of the things with which he had done it."
"I can only say that to me it seems--it does seem impossible. I should have said he was the last person to do anything like that."
"You never can tell what sort of person will do a thing like that.
I once knew a girl who went straight up after dinner to her bedroom and--did it; no one ever knew why. I went with the man to Victoria, and--saw dad; I've come right on from there. I felt that I couldn't go home till I had seen you. I believe I should have stayed here all night if you hadn't come."
"You poor little thing!--sweetheart mine!--you only woman in the world!"
"You--you will be good to me, Rodney?"
"Never was man better to a woman than I will try to be to you."
"Suppose--suppose dad did it because he was ruined?"
"My dear girl, as you are aware, I was not in your father's confidence--still, I am pretty nearly certain that, commercially, it will be found that he was all right. Yet, should it turn out that he was even worse than penniless, it will not make a mite of difference in my love for you."
"You are sure?"
"Absolutely. Aren't you?"
"I do believe you care for me a little, or--I shouldn't be here."
"A little! You--you bad girl; you dearest, sweetest of darlings!
Between ourselves, if it does turn out that you're no richer than I am, I shan't be sorry. He never did want you to have anything to do with me. I might have won him over if he had lived; you know, I believe he was commencing to like me a little better. I'm not sure that I wouldn't sooner have you without his money; I should feel as if I were playing the game."
"It will be horrid if he has left nothing; it will perhaps mean a scandal, and things are bad enough as they are."
"I see what you have in your mind, but I assure you you need not have the slightest fear. I'll stake my own integrity that in all matters of business your father had the highest sense of honour. I'll be willing to write myself down a rogue if it can be shown that he ever deviated in any particular from the highest standard of commercial rectitude."
"I hope you're right."
"I am right, on that point you may rest assured."
"You know, Rodney, you're all I have in the world--now."
The use of the adverb, in that connection, tickled him. The idea that, so far as she was concerned, her father ever had been much of a personal asset was distinctly funny. However, he allowed no hint of how her words struck him to peep out; never a more ardent lover, a more present help in the time of a girl's trouble. He escorted her to what bade henceforward to be her lonely home in the cab which still waited at the door. When he returned to Paddington it was very late.
As he moved to his bedroom up the darkened staircase a door opened on the landing. The fluffy-haired girl looked out. She was in a state of considerable _deshabille_.
"You are late," she whispered. "I thought you never were coming back."
"You goose."
He put his arms about her and kissed her with the calmest proprietary air.
"To think that you should be still awake."
"You knew I should sit up; you knew mother wasn't coming back to-night, and you said you'd be in early."
She spoke with an air of grievance. He smiled.
"It's been a case of man proposes. I have had many things to contend with--all sorts of worries. Now, as I want breakfast early, I'm going to bed, and, I hope, to sleep, if you aren't."
"You don't care for me a bit."
He kissed her again.
She waited on him at breakfast, which, as he had forewarned her, he had unusually early. She was his landlady's daughter; her name was Mabel Joyce. Among his letters was one from Stella Austin. He opened it as she placed before him his bacon and eggs; as he glanced at Stella's opening lines Miss Joyce talked.
"So you went to Brighton yesterday--by the Pullman, too."
He looked up at her as if surprised.
"Did I? Who told you that?"
"Didn't you?"