XII

“Ursula Ardfern is leaving the stage and is going to live in the country.”

Tab made the announcement one evening when he came home from the office.

Rex scarcely seemed interested.

“Oh?” said Rex.

That was all he said. He seemed as disinclined as Tab to discuss the lady.

It was his last night at the Doughty Street flat. He was still suffering from shock, and his doctor had advised a trip abroad. He had suggested that at the end of his vacation he would return to Doughty Street, but on this point Tab was firm.

“You have a lot of money, Babe,” he said seriously, “and a man who has a lot of money has also a whole lot of responsibilities. There are about a hundred and forty-five reasons why our little ménage should be broken up, and the most important from my point of view is, that I will not be demoralized by living cheek by jowl with a man of millions. You have a certain place to take in society, certain duties to perform, and you can’t keep up the position that you are entitled to keep, in a half-flat in Doughty Street. I don’t suppose you ever want to go to Mayfield to live.”

Rex shuddered.

“I don’t,” he said with great earnestness. “I shall shut the place up and let it stand for a few years, until the memory of the crime is forgotten, and then perhaps somebody will buy it. I am pretty comfortable here, Tab.”

“I am not thinking so much about your comfort as my own,” replied Tab calmly. “It isn’t going to do me a lot of good in any way. Consider yourself ejected.”

Rex grinned.

He sailed for Naples the next afternoon, and Tab went down to the boat to see him off. No mention of Ursula Ardfern was made until the landing bell was ringing.

“I am holding you to your promise, Tab, to introduce me to Miss Ardfern,” he said, and frowned as though at some unhappy recollection. “I wish to heaven she hadn’t been mixed up in the business at all. How on earth do you account for her jewel-case being in poor Uncle Jesse’s vault? By-the-way, the key of that devil room is in my trunk if the police want it. I don’t suppose they will, for they have the other key now.”

He had asked this question about Ursula’s jewels so many times before, that Tab could not keep count of them. Therefore, he did not attempt to supply a satisfactory solution.

Standing on the pier he watched the big ship gliding down the river, and on the whole was glad that the companionship had broken up. He liked Rex and Rex liked him, and they had shared happily the mild vicissitudes which came to young men with large ambitions and limited incomes. Of the two, Tab had been the richer in the old days, and had often helped the other through the morasses which grip the ankles of men who systematically live beyond their means. And now Babe was in calm waters: forevermore superior to the favours of crabbed uncles and businesslike employers: no more would he start at every knock the postman rapped, or scowl at the letters which arrived, knowing that more than half of them were bills he could not hope to satisfy.

Nearly a month had passed since the inquest, and all that Tab had heard about Ursula was that she had been very ill and was now in the country, presumably at the Stone Cottage. He had some idea of going down to see her, but thought better of it.

Meanwhile, he had made respectful enquiries about the girl who had so impressed him.

Ursula Ardfern’s story was a curious one. She had appeared first in a road company, playing small parts and playing them well. Then without any warning, she blossomed forth into management, took a lease of the Athenaeum and appeared playing a secondary role in an adaptation of Tosca⁠—the lead being in the capable hands of Mary Farrelli. The dramatic critics were mollified by her modesty and pleased with her acting: said they would like to see her in a more important part, and hoped that her season would be prosperous. They asked, amongst themselves, who was the man behind the show and found no satisfactory answer. When Tosca came off, after a run of three months, she staged The Tremendous Jones, which played for a year, and this time she was the leading actress. She had gone from success to success, was on the very threshold of a great career. The simple announcement that she had retired from the stage forever was not very seriously believed. Yet it was true. Ursula Ardfern had appeared for the last time before the footlights.

The day that Rex sailed she saved Tab any further cogitation by writing to him. He found the letter at the office.

“Dear Mr. Holland: I wonder if you would come to Stone Cottage to see me? I promise you rather a sensational ‘story,’ though I realize that it will lose much of its importance because I will not have my name mentioned in connection.”

Tab would have liked to have gone then and there. He was up the next morning at six, and chafed because he could not in decency arrive at the house much before lunch.

It was a glorious June day, warm, with a gentle westerly wind, such a day as every doctor with a convalescent patient in his charge, hails with joy and thankfulness.

She was reclining where he had seen her on his first visit to Hertford, but this time she did not rise, but held out a thin, white hand, which he took with such exaggerated care that she laughed. She was paler, thinner of face, older looking in some indefinite way.

“You won’t break it,” she said. “Sit down, Mr. Tab.”

“I like Mr. Tab very much better than I like Mr. Holland,” said Tab. “It is glorious here. Why do we swelter in the towns?”

“Because the towns pay us our salaries,” she said drily. “Mr. Holland, will you do something for me?”

He longed to tell her that if she asked him to stand on his head, or lie down whilst she wiped her feet upon him, she would be gladly obeyed. Instead:

“Why, of course,” he said.

“Will you sell some jewels for me? They are those which were found⁠—in poor Mr. Trasmere’s vault.”

“Sell your jewels,” he said in amazement, “why? Are you⁠—” he checked himself.

“I am not very poor,” she said quietly, “I have enough money to live on without working again⁠—my last play was a very great success, and happily the profits⁠—” She stopped dead. “At any rate, I am not poor.”

“Then why sell your jewelry? Are you going to buy others?” he blurted out.

She shook her head, and a smile dawned in her eyes.

“No, my plan is this: I am going to sell the jewelry for what it is worth, and then I want you to distribute the money to such charities as you think best.”

He was too astonished to answer, and she went on:

“I know very little about charities and their values. I know in some cases all the money subscribed is swallowed up in officials’ salaries. But you will know these.”

“Are you serious?” he at last found his voice to ask.

“Quite,” she nodded gravely. “I think they are worth from twelve to twenty thousand. I am not sure. They are mine,” she went on a little defiantly, and unnecessarily so, thought Tab, “and I may do as I wish with them. I want them to be sold and the money distributed.”

“But my dear Miss Ardfern⁠—” he began.

“My dear Mr. Holland!” she mocked him, “you must do as I tell you if you are going to help me at all.”

“I’ll certainly carry out your wishes,” he said, “but it is a weighty lot of money to give away.”

“It is a weighter lot of money to keep,” she said quietly. “There is another favour I ask⁠—you must not write that I am the donor. You can describe me as a society woman, a retired trades-woman, or as anything you like, except as an actress, and of course my name must not even be hinted. Will you do this?”

He nodded.

“I have them here,” she said. “I kept them at the hotel and had them sent down to me by special messenger yesterday. And now that that business is over, come inside and lunch.”

It was very dear to have her leaning on his arm; her dependence thrilled him. He wanted to take her up in his arms and carry her through that sweet-smelling place, slowly and with dignity, as nurses carry sleeping babies. He wondered what she would think and say, if she guessed his thoughts. It made him hot to consider the possibility for a second.

She did not go direct to the house, but took him through a sunken patch hidden by low bushes, and he stopped and admired, for here a master hand had laid out a Chinese garden with tiny bridges and dwarf trees and great clumps of waxen rock flowers that harboured a faint and delicate scent, a hint of which came up to him.

“You were thinking of carrying me,” she said, apropros of nothing.

Tab went a fiery red.

“But for the proprieties, I should like it. Do you like babies, Mr. Tab?”

“I love ’em,” said he, glad to reach a less embarrassing topic.

“So do I⁠—I have seen so many when I was a child. They are wonderful. It seems to me that they are so near to the source of life they bring with them the very fragrance of God.”

He was silent, impressed, a little bewildered. Where had she seen “so many” babies? Had she been a nurse? She had not been talking for effect.⁠ ⁠… He knew an actress once, the only other one he had interviewed, who had quoted Ovid and Herrick and had talked with astonishing ease and fluency on the Byzantine Empire. He learnt from a friend that she possessed an extraordinary memory and had read up these subjects before he came, in order to get a good story about herself. She had the story.

No, Ursula was different. He wished he had lifted her up in his arms when she had spoken about being carried.

Over the meal the talk took a personal turn.

“Have you many friends?” she asked.

“Only one,” smiled Tab, “and he’s now so rich that I can scarcely call him a friend. Not that Rex wouldn’t repudiate that.”

“Rex?”

“Rex Lander,” said Tab, “who by-the-way, is very anxious to be introduced to you. He is one of your most fervent admirers.” Tab felt that he was being very noble indeed, and he experienced quite a virtuous glow at his own unselfishness.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“He is old Trasmere’s nephew.”

“Why, of course,” she said quickly, and went red. “You have spoken about him before.”

Tab tried to remember. He was almost certain that he had never mentioned Rex to the girl.

“So he is very rich? Of course, he would be. He was Mr. Trasmere’s only nephew.”

“You saw that in the newspaper?”

“No, I guessed, or somebody told me; I haven’t read any account of the murder, or any of the proceedings. I was too ill. He must be very rich,” she went on. “Is he anything like his uncle?”

Tab smiled.

“I can’t imagine two people more dissimilar,” he said. “Rex is⁠—well, he’s rather stoutish,” he said loyally, “and a lazy old horse. Mr. Trasmere, on the contrary, was very thin, and, for his age, remarkably energetic. When did I mention Rex?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I can’t recall the time and place. Please don’t make me think, Mr. Holland. Where is Rex now?”

“He has gone to Italy. He sailed yesterday,” said Tab, and thereupon the girl’s interest in Rex Lander seemed to suffer eclipse.

“I should like to have had Trasmere’s real story,” said Tab, “he must have lived an interesting life. It is rather curious that we found nothing in the house reminiscent of his Chinese experience but a small lacquer box, which was empty. The Chinese fascinate me.”

“Do they?” she looked at him quickly, “they fascinate me in a way by their kindness.”

“You know them; have you lived in China?”

She shook her head.

“I know one or two,” she said, and paused as though she were considering whether it was advisable to say any more. “When I first came to town from service⁠—”

He gaped at her.

“I don’t quite get that⁠—by ‘service’ what do you mean? You don’t mean domestic service⁠—you weren’t a cook or anything?” he asked jocularly, and to his amazement she nodded.

“I was a sort of tweeny maid: peeled potatoes and washed dishes,” she said calmly, “I was only thirteen at the time. But that is another story, as Mr. Kipling says. At this age, and before I went to school, I met a Chinaman whose son was very ill. He lodged in the house where I was staying. The landlady wasn’t a very humane sort of person, and being Chinese, she thought the poor little boy had some mysterious Eastern disease which she would ‘catch.’ I nursed him, in a way,” she said apologetically, but Tab knew that the apology was not for her condescension, but for her lack of nursing skill. “The father was very poor then, a waiter in a native restaurant, but he was ever so grateful. Quite an extraordinary man⁠—I have seen him since.”

“And the child?”

“Oh, he got better⁠—his father was dosing him with quaint proprietary medicines. I think he was suffering from enteric fever, and nursing is the only thing that cures that. He’s in China now⁠—quite an important person.”

“I should like to have that other story,” said Tab. “Kipling gets my goat. That ‘other story’ of his is never told. I think he must have had them in his mind when he referred to them, but he got lazy on it.”

“My other story must keep,” she smiled. “Some day⁠—perhaps⁠—but not now. The father of the boy laid out my little Chinese garden, by-the-way.”

Tab had come by train and there was a long walk to the station. He stayed to the very last moment, and then had to hurry to catch the one fast express of the afternoon. He had gone a leisurely hundred yards from the front gate (you cannot walk fast if you turn around at intervals for a glimpse of a cool white figure) when he saw a dusty roadfarer coming toward him. The awkward gait of the walker, his baggy clothes, the huge Derby hat pulled down to his ears, attracted Tab’s attention long before he could distinguish the man’s features. When he did, it was with a spasm of surprise. The walker was a Chinaman and carried in his hand a flat packet.

The oriental deviated from the straight path to cross the road. Without a word he carefully unwrapped a thin paper cover and exposed a letter. It was addressed to “Miss Ursula Ardfern, Stone Cottage,” and on the wrapper Tab saw a number of Chinese characters which he guessed were directions to the messenger.

“Tell,” said the man laconically. He evidently knew little English.

“That house on the left,” said Tab pointing. “How far have you come, Chink?”

“Velly well,” said the man, and taking the letter folded it again in its covering and trotted off.

Tab looked after him, wondering. How curious a coincidence, he thought, that they should have been talking about the Chinese only half-an-hour before?

He had to run and then only caught the train as it was pulling out of the station.

The inexorable and constitutionally discontented news editor was not at all satisfied with the story as Tab wrote it.

“It loses half its value if we can’t give her name,” he complained, “and after we’ve started the interest going, the Herald, or some other paper, will find out who is the owner of the jewels and get all the fat of the story! Can’t you persuade her?”

Tab shook his head.

“What’s the great idea⁠—is she going into a convent or something?”

“She didn’t mention it,” said Tab impatiently. “There it is⁠—take it or leave it, Jacques. It is a good item, and if you don’t like it, I’ll take it to the chief.”

A threat which invariably ended all discussion, for Tab was an important personage on the staff of the Megaphone and his word carried weight.