Thorne Guy
The Soul Stealer

Charliewood and Sir William Gouldesbrough were pale as linen, but the short, fat man was pink still, and laughed and chuckled nervously.

CHAPTER VI
"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOUR?"

Mr. Eustace Charliewood's chambers were in Jermyn Street. But few of his many friends had ever seen the interior of them. Such entertaining as the man about town did – and he was always one of those who were entertained, rather than one of those who offer hospitality – was done at his club.

The man who looked after the place and valeted his master was therefore the more surprised when Charliewood had called him up one morning after breakfast.

"Look here, William," Charliewood had said, "I've got a gentleman coming to dinner. We've some business to talk over, so I shan't dine him at the club. I suppose you can manage a little dinner here?"

"Certainly, sir, if necessary," the man answered. "Of course you're not in the habit of dining at home, and you've not got your own things. That is if you mean a proper little dinner, sir."

"I do, I do, William," his master answered hurriedly.

"But, there, that needn't matter," the man answered, "we can have everything in if you like, sir."

"That will be best," Charliewood answered. "I leave everything to you, William. Except," he added as an afterthought, "the menu. I want a small dinner, William, but quite good. Shall we say a little bisque for the soup? Then perhaps a small Normandy sole. Afterwards a chicken cooked en casserole. As an entrée some white truffles stewed in Sillery – you can get them in glass jars from Falkland & Masons – and then a morsel of Brie and some coffee. That will do, I think."

"And about the wine, sir?" said William, astonished at these unaccustomed preparations, and inwardly resolving that Mr. Eustace Charliewood had discovered a very brightly plumed pigeon to pluck.

"Oh, about the wine! Well, I think I'll see to that myself. I'll have it sent up from the club. You've an ice-pail for the champagne, haven't you, William?"

"Yes, sir, we certainly have that."

"Very good then. We'll say at eight then."

William bowed and withdrew.

All that day the various members of this or that fast and exclusive club round about St. James's Street, noticed that Eustace Charliewood was out of form. His conversation and his greetings were not so imperturbably cheerful and suave as usual. He took no interest in the absorbing question as to whether young Harry Rayke – the Earl of Spaydes' son – would after all propose to Lithia Varallette, the well-known musical comedy girl. The head waiter of the Baobab Club noticed Mr. Charliewood was off his food, and everybody with whom the man about town came in contact said that "Richard was by no means himself."

As the evening drew on, a dark, foggy evening, which promised as night came to be darker and foggier still, Charliewood's agitation increased, though just now there was no one to see it.

He walked down St. James's Street, past Marlborough House, and briskly promenaded the wide and splendid avenue which now exists in front of Buckingham Palace. The fog made him cough, the raw air was most unpleasant, and it was no hour for exercise. But, despite the cold and misery of it all, Charliewood continued his tramp backwards and forwards.

When he returned to his chambers in Jermyn Street, about seven o'clock, he found that his clothes were wet with perspiration, and only a hot bath before dressing for dinner and a couple of bromide tabloids in a wine-glass full of milk seemed to bring him back to his ordinary condition.

When, however, he went into his little dining-room, to all outward appearances he was the usual Eustace Charliewood of the pavements and club-rooms of the West End.

The room was comfortable. A bright fire glowed upon the hearth, shining upon the high-class sporting prints, the subdued wall-paper, the comfortable padded chairs, and the shelves loaded with bachelor nick-nacks and sporting trophies of his youth.

In one corner was a little round table set for two, gleaming with glass and silver and lit by electric lights covered with crimson shades.

It was all very warm and inviting. He looked round it with satisfaction for a moment.

Then, suddenly, as he stood on the hearth-rug, he put his plump, white hand with the heavy seal ring upon it, up to his throat. The apple moved up and down convulsively, and for a single moment the whole being of the man was filled with overmastering fear of the future and horror and loathing for himself.

The spasm passed as quickly as it came, the drug he had taken asserted its grip upon the twitching nerves, the man whose whole life was discreet adventure, who was a soldier of social fortune, who daily faced perils, became once more himself.

That is to say, to put it in two words, his better angel, who had held possession of him for a moment, fled sorrowfully away, while the especial spirit deputed to look after the other side of him happened to chance that way, and remembering he had often found a hospitable reception from Mr. Eustace Charliewood, looked in, found his old quarters duly swept and garnished, and settled down.

Charliewood's rooms were on the ground floor. In a minute or two, it was about a quarter to eight, he heard someone upon the steps outside, in Jermyn Street, and then the electric bell whirr down below in the kitchen.

He rushed out into the hall. It generally took William some time to mount from the lower regions, which were deep in the bowels of the earth, and no doubt Mr. Charliewood kindly desired to spare the butler the trouble of opening the door.

So, at least, William thought, as he mounted the kitchen stairs and came out into the hall to find Mr. Charliewood already helping his guest off with his coat and showing him into the dining-room. William did not know that there were any special reasons in Mr. Charliewood's mind for not having his guest's name announced and possibly remembered by the servant.

"Well, my dear Rathbone, how are you?" Charliewood said, and no face could have been kinder or more inviting and pleasant to see than the face of the host. "Awfully good of you to come and take me like this, but I thought we should be more comfortable here than at the Club. There are one or two things I want to talk over. I'll do you as well as I can, but I can't answer for anything. You must take pot luck!"

Guy Rathbone looked round the charming room and laughed – a full-blooded, happy laugh.

"I wish you could see my chambers in the Temple," he said. "But you fellows who live up this end do yourselves so jolly well!"

"I suppose one does overdo it," Charliewood answered, "in the way of little comforts and things. It's a mistake, no doubt, but one gets used to it and was brought up to it, and so just goes on, dependent upon things that a sensible man could easily do without. Now, sit down and have a sherry and bitters. Dinner will be up in a minute. And try one of these cigarettes. It's a bad plan to smoke before dinner, I know, as a rule, but these little things just go with the sherry and bitters, and they are special. I get them over from Rio. They're made of black Brazilian tobacco, as you see; they're only half as long as your finger, and instead of being wrapped in filthy, poisonous rice paper, they're covered with maize leaves."

Rathbone sank into the luxurious chair which his host pointed out to him, took the sherry, in its heavily cut glass, and lit one of the cigarettes. He stretched out his feet towards the fire and enjoyed a moment of intense physical ease. The flames and the shaded electric lights shone upon his fine and happy face, twinkled upon the stud in his shirt front, and showed him for what he was at that moment – a young gentleman intensely enjoying everything that life had to give.

In a moment or two more dinner was served.

"You needn't wait, William," Charliewood said, as they sat down to the hors d'œuvre. "Just put the soup on and I'll ring when we're ready."

"So good of you to ask me," Rathbone said. "I should have gone to the Oxford and Cambridge Club, had a beef-steak, looked at the evening papers, and then returned to chambers to write letters. Rather a dismal proceeding on a night like this!"

"Hadn't you anything on to-night, then?" Charliewood asked carelessly.

"Not a single thing," Rathbone answered. "I've been cutting all my engagements during the last week or two, telling people I was going out of town. I've got a special reason for working very hard just now."

Charliewood started, and a slight gleam came into his eyes.

"Good idea, that!" he said, "telling people you're going out of town when you want to be quiet for a week or two!"

"It is," Rathbone replied. "At most of the houses I'm in the habit of going to just now every one thinks I'm away. I've been living the life of a recluse, as far as society goes."

Charliewood slightly lifted a glass of Pol Roger.

"Here's success to the work, my dear boy," he said jovially. "And I congratulate myself on the odd accident which brought us together. And of course I don't know you very well, Rathbone, and I am sure I should hate to be impertinent in any way. But still, as you know, I go about everywhere, and one can't help hearing things. And, besides, I'm in a special position in regard to a certain matter, too. Here's my best wish for your happiness in the future, in another way!"

He looked straight into the young man's eyes as he said this, and as he did so Rathbone, whose glass was lifted in response, began to colour until his whole face became crimson.

"I haven't offended you?" Charliewood said quickly.

"Oh – er – not a bit, of course," Rathbone answered with manifest uneasiness. "But I didn't know that anything had got about. I didn't know that you knew. Oh, confound it," he concluded, "I don't want to talk about my own affairs; I – Hang it all, Charliewood, tell me straight out what you mean."

"I repeat," Charliewood answered, "that I haven't known you very long, and therefore I am very chary of in any way infringing the natural reticence that should be between men in our position. Still, you know who I am; everybody knows all about me, and I should like you to believe that I am really a friend."

As he said this, though his face was full of frankness and kindliness once more, Charliewood felt that sick loathing of himself he had experienced just before his guest had arrived. There was a throbbing at his temples, his throat felt as if it were packed with warm flour. He hurriedly gulped down some champagne and went on. "Everybody knows by this time," he said in a quiet voice, "that – that – well, old chap, that there has been a sort of set to partners and a change in certain quarters."

At that moment William appeared with the fish, Charliewood having rung for him at the psychological moment, knowing that the little interlude would give his guest time to collect his thoughts.

When the man had once more left the room, Rathbone, who had been biting his lips in perplexity and drumming upon the table with his fingers, bent towards his host.

"I see you know all about it," he said; "and, upon my word, if you'd let me, I should like to talk things over with you from one point of view."

"My dear Rathbone," Charliewood replied, "say nothing whatever to me unless you like, but understand that what you did say would be said in absolute confidence, and that if the experience of a man older in social life, and accustomed to all its vagaries, can help you, I give it to you with all my heart."

"Now I call that very good of you, Charliewood," the young man answered. "I'll tell you straight out, what you probably already know, and I'll ask you for a hint as to what I ought to do. Miss Poole" – he mentioned the name with obvious reluctance – "has found that she made an – er, well, a sort of mistake in her affections. I have no doubt it's all over London that she's written to Sir William Gouldesbrough telling him so."

"Throwing him over, in fact," Charliewood said.

"If you like to put it so," the other answered, "and of course that is just what it amounts to."

"Well then?" Charliewood said.

"I feel in a sort of way that I've done an awfully caddish thing," Rathbone went on. "Fortunately, I am not in Gouldesbrough's set. I don't know him at all. At the same time it's awfully bad form to make love to a girl who's engaged to any one else. And that, unconsciously, is just what I seem to have been doing for a very long time. But, believe me," he concluded with a singular simplicity and boyishness, "I really couldn't help it."

Charliewood laughed a little and then sighed to himself.

"I quite understand," he said; "these things do and will happen, and it wasn't your fault at all. But I do think it's very wrong if a girl who finds that she has made a mistake doesn't put it right before it becomes unavoidable."

"Do you really?" Rathbone cried. "Well, do you know, that's just my point of view, and it relieves me to hear you say so."

"And do you know," Charliewood replied, "that I'm probably the most intimate friend William Gouldesbrough has in the world?"

Rathbone started. "Good Lord!" he said. "Then – what – then – why? And you really mean that you can be friends with me?"

"That's just what I do mean," Charliewood answered; "and now we've got to the point, I will tell you frankly that though our meeting was a pure accident in the first place, I am awfully glad that we did meet and that you are here to-night. I have talked the whole matter over with poor dear Sir William a good deal lately. He has done me the honour to make me his confidant in the matter. Two or three days ago I mentioned that I knew you."

"What did he say?" Rathbone asked quickly.

"I can't tell you his words," Charliewood answered, "but I can tell you their purpose. And it was a wonderful revelation to me of the strength and beauty of my old friend's character. He's a fine fellow, Rathbone, and when you know him you'll say so too."

"Know him?" Rathbone said. "My dear Charliewood, surely you see that it's impossible that I should meet a man to whom I have unconsciously done such a great injury."

"Ah," Charliewood answered, "you don't know William. It is just the possibility which makes his character so fine. Practically, what he said to me was this. 'You know this young fellow, Eustace. Is he a decent sort of man? A gentleman in ideas, as well as in position, clean living and all that?' 'As far as I know,' I answered, 'he's just so in every way.'"

Once more Rathbone coloured up to the eyes.

Charliewood went on.

"Then William unburdened himself to me fully. 'I only want Marjorie Poole to be happy,' he said, 'and when the proper time arrives I shall just write and tell her so. I was fond of her, deeply fond of her; what man would not be? I thought if she cared for me that she would be a worthy mistress of my house, and an ideal partner to share my fortune and the position I have won. But I am much older than she is. I am immersed, as you know, in grave, scientific pursuits, and I quite realize that I could not give her what as a young girl she has a right to expect. I don't say that I relinquish my claim upon her without a pang, but I have other interests, and my wife and love could in any case only be a part of my life. Do you know what I should like to do more than anything else, Eustace?' 'What?' I said. 'Why,' he continued, 'to meet this young Mr. Rathbone. To tell him all that I am telling you, perfectly frankly, to shake him by the hand, and, by Jove, to be the best man at his wedding, if he'd let me. Then I shall get back to my inventions with a quiet mind, knowing that the only girl who has ever touched me in the least degree is safe and happy.'"

Rathbone pushed back his chair and jumped up.

"Why, heavens," he said, "what a noble fellow! There's a man, if you like. I can quite see it all, Charliewood, and you've relieved my mind of a tremendous weight. I can see it all quite distinctly. One of the most distinguished and charming men of the day sees a beautiful and intellectual girl and thinks the time has come when he must marry. Of course, he can't really know what love is, like a younger man or a man who has not made his mark in the world. He can't feel what I feel, for instance. And so he bows to the inevitable, and in the kindest and most chivalrous way wants to make every one happy. Charliewood! It's just like a story-book!"

"I don't read 'em myself much, the papers do for me. But, 'pon my soul, since you put it in that way, so it is."

Mr. Charliewood quite forgot to add what sort of story-book. Even the most popular novels of to-day don't always have the traditional happy ending.

"Sit down, old fellow," Charliewood said with great kindness. "You mustn't miss this chicken, it is a rather special dish, and I'm going to ring for William."

"Oh, hang chicken!" Rathbone answered, his face glowing.

"Never abuse your dinner," Charliewood answered. "Only people who are not able to dine do that. You never know when you may dine again."

As he said this the wicked exhilaration at having successfully played with sure and dexterous fingers upon this young and impressionable nature flowed over the older man. An evil joy in his own powers came to him – a devilish satisfaction in his knowledge of the horrid future. For a moment the Tenant who had lately taken up his abode within Mr. Eustace Charliewood was looking out of his host's eye.

Rathbone laughed carelessly. Then, after the waiter had once more entered and left the room, he bent over the table and began to speak more earnestly.

"I suspect," he said, "that I owe you a great deal in this matter, Charliewood, more than you would care to confess. Now tell me, don't I?"

Charliewood waved his hand.

"Oh, we won't go into that part of the question," he said. "But there's just one thing I would like to say. Your feeling in the matter has been quite splendid, Rathbone. I admire you for the way you have felt and spoken since you have been telling me about your engagement, from first to last. Such a lot of men would have congratulated themselves upon winning the girl away from the other fellow without a thought of what the other fellow would feel. Now look here, I do think you owe William this much reparation – "

"Anything in the world I can do – " Rathbone was beginning.

"Well, there's one thing you can do," Charliewood answered, "you can satisfy him that you're the sort of man to whom he would care to surrender Miss Poole. He is willing and anxious to make friends with you. In fact, I know he is most anxious to meet you. I admit that it may be rather an awkward meeting for you, but I think that you owe it to him, considering the way in which he regards the whole affair."

"Of course I will meet him," Rathbone answered. "I shall be proud to meet a man like that. Any time you like."

"Well, I don't want to press things, Rathbone; but, personally, I should say there was no time like the present. We are sure to find Gouldesbrough in to-night after dinner. Suppose we walk up to Regent's Park and call on him. I know you will be received in the kindest way, in a way you never suspected before we talked the matter over."

"We'll do it," Rathbone answered, "and I shall leave his house to-night feeling a great burden has been removed from me."

Charliewood made no answer to this last remark but merely pushed the champagne-bottle over to his guest.

An hour afterwards the two men, both with the astrachan coats which brought them so curiously together turned up about their ears, were walking briskly towards Oxford Street. The fog was very heavy and few people were about, though Charliewood said he knew exactly how to find the way.

"You needn't worry," he said, "we'll go up Portland Place, and I can find Sir William's house without the least trouble. In fact, I think it would be a mistake to take a hansom on a night like this. The roads are horribly greasy. You can't see the lights of any vehicle a few yards ahead, and we're just as likely to be run into as not. Of course, if you'd rather ride – "

"Not a bit," Rathbone answered, "exercise will do me good, and I shall feel calmer and more prepared for the interview. I'm not a sybarite like you are, and after a dinner like you've given me I should not be nearly in such good form unless I did have a walk."

"Right oh!" Charliewood replied; "then come along. We will walk fast to keep warm."

They went on, neither talking much, because of the thick fog that stung the nostrils and the eyes and poured down the throat when the mouth was opened.

In about three-quarters of an hour they had passed up Portland Place, turned to the left and were drawing near the house they sought.

"It's not very far now," Charliewood said.

He shook as he said so, and his voice had a very muffled sound.

"Don't you talk, old fellow," Rathbone answered. "I can see you're cold, and this fog plays the deuce with the lungs. Do keep quiet; there's no need to say anything. I'll follow where you lead."

They stood at last before the little door in the high wall of Sir William Gouldesbrough's house.

In the distance the faint rumble of London came to their ears, but there was not a soul about. Nobody saw them as Charliewood opened the door with a pass-key, explaining to Rathbone that Sir William had given him the key in order to save the servants coming through the garden.

"I'm always in and out of the house," he explained, still with the cold and fog in his voice.

They opened the door, and it clicked behind them.

Rathbone brushed against some laurel bushes.

"I say," he said, "how dark it is here! You must conduct me, Charliewood, up this path. Let me take your arm."

He took his friend's arm, noticing with wonder how the cold seemed to have penetrated the bones of his host; for the big man's whole body was trembling.

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked for thirty yards or so. Then Rathbone saw a dim light above his head. It was the lamp which hung in the porch. His feet knocked against the step.

"Here we are," Charliewood said; "six steps, and then the front door."

Once more Charliewood produced a key, opened the massive door of the hall, and entered with his friend.

"Take off your coat," he said, as Rathbone looked round wonderingly at the big, gloomy and dimly-lit place. "This is rather miserable, but Gouldesbrough has got a little snuggery down the passage, where we shall be quite comfortable. Are you ready? Very well, then, come along."

The house seemed absolutely still, save for Charliewood's echoing footsteps as he led the way towards the door on the right-hand side of the wide staircase.

Rathbone followed him. As he did so the sombre emptiness of the place began to steal over his nerves and influence them, coupled, no doubt, with the expectation of the coming interview.

He shuddered a little, and wished that he was back again in the cosy little room in Jermyn Street.

Then a green baize door opened, they passed through, and it swung back noiselessly behind them.