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On all subjects she talked, and on all subjects she talked well. Her mind, indeed, seemed to be filled with information that as a rule can only be acquired by personal experience.
He, himself, made every effort to interest her. He even made a sacrifice very uncommon in a barrister. He forbore to tell her anecdotes indicative of his forensic acumen.
The Mudge beard worked hard. He ate heartily and spoke little. Mrs Mudge, after the entrée, had practically ceased to be present.
Harding and Miss Clive performed a conversational duet. Her face mesmerised him. He absorbed it with his eyes. And strangely enough, although he realised he had never in his life seen any woman so beautiful as she, yet there was about her face something not unfamiliar. Was there any truth in the theory of the transmigration of souls? Had he, in a previous existence, wooed and won this marvellous woman? If he had seen her before in this life, he would certainly have remembered her. There were many men at the Savoy, dining at tables near, who stared at her. He was quite convinced that no one of those, if he met her again, would think he met her for the first time. Why was memory playing him such a strange trick? He, who always prided himself upon the fact that he never forgot names or faces, could not shake off the idea that he had seen her before.
He put the question to her:
‘I can’t help thinking, Miss Clive, that I have met you somewhere. Do you remember ever having seen me?’
‘Your name,’ she answered laughing, ‘is very familiar to me, but I have completely forgotten your face.’
As he handed her into her motor, he said:
‘May I come and see you?’
She smiled graciously.
‘Certainly, Mr Harding. I shall be delighted.’
‘On what day?’
‘I am often in about tea-time.’
‘But what day?’ he persisted.
Pouting her lips into a rose-bud, whilst her eyes twinkled, she answered:
‘Oh, please, won’t you take your chance, or am I asking too much? Besides, I am on the telephone. 2835 Mayfair.’
‘2835 Mayfair is the most beautiful telephone number in the world. But what is your address?’
‘Sixty-nine Pembroke Street.’
Then the motor glided off.
She was living in Clifford Oakleigh’s house.
CHAPTER VIII (#ulink_20287b26-3c27-59cc-a906-d99a4604824c)
2835 MAYFAIR (#ulink_20287b26-3c27-59cc-a906-d99a4604824c)
HE went back to Mudge, whose duties as a host, so far as the speeding of the parting guest was concerned, he had usurped.
The solicitor, while an attendant helped him with his greatcoat, was being told by his wife on no account to neglect putting on his muffler. He extricated his huge beard from his coat and draped it satisfactorily over the muffler.
‘What a charming woman!’ exclaimed Harding.
‘I’m delighted to have met her.’
He was intent on extracting particulars. Throughout dinner she had given him no hint as to her circumstances. Beyond the facts that she was Miss Clive, that she was extraordinarily beautiful and fascinating, and that he was hopelessly in love with her, he knew nothing. And yet he did not like to put definite questions to Mudge. He felt that any curiosity exhibited by him would reveal the state of his affections.
‘Is she by any chance the daughter of Frederick Clive—in the wool business?’ he asked, nonchalantly.
He knew of no Frederick Clive in the wool business; he knew of nobody in the wool business; he had but a vague idea of what the wool business was. But the question served its purpose.
‘No,’ replied the solicitor, ‘her father is not alive: neither of the girl’s parents is alive. I’m glad you like her,’ he added, ‘I fancy she takes an interest in you.’
‘You flatter me,’ Harding answered gallantly.
At that moment the lumbering Mudge landau drew up at the door. The shapeless Mudge footman, in the ill-fitting Mudge livery, opened the door and the Mudges entered. Much to his annoyance they did not ask him whether they could give him a lift. He was athirst for information as to Miss Clive. But the landau drove off into the Strand, leaving him alone on the pavement.
However, he knew that her telephone number was 2835 Mayfair.
When he reached his home, he took up a Court Guide and searched the ‘Clives’ for a hint of elucidation. He had faint hope that he would trace her. He found that there existed two Captain Clives; there was also a General Clive; and a Mrs Clive lived in Campden Hill Gardens. They might or might not be related to the only woman in the world.
He felt an irresistible desire to ring her up on the telephone. Irresistible though the desire was, he resisted it.
Heavens! he thought, he must be phenomenally in love to think even for a minute of making himself so ridiculous. Even if he were to ring her up and announce that he had broken his leg, or changed his religion, or grown a beard, such a proceeding would not fail to be regarded as an intolerable impertinence. To summon her to the telephone and say, ‘Are you Miss Clive? I have a shrewd suspicion that your house is on fire. A well-wisher,’ was a course that actually suggested itself to him. He would love to hear her voice. After all, he was in love with her. She was bound to find out that he was in love with her. It would be the object of his life to tell her that he was in love with her. Why should he not let her suspect at once the condition of his feelings?
Although it is idiotic to fall in love at first sight, it is not an unpleasant occurrence to be fallen in love with at first sight. At any rate, she could not take offence. He would zealously lay siege to her heart.
Suddenly he seized his courage in both hands and went to the telephone.
‘2835 Mayfair, please.’
…
‘Are you 2835 Mayfair? Can I speak to Miss Clive?’
…
‘Oh, you are Miss Clive?’
His face broke into a smile.
‘I hope you won’t think I’m awfully rude. I know I have no business to wake you up.’
…
‘Oh, you have only just got into bed. So you have your telephone by your bedside. How very convenient!’
He noticed that she had not asked who he was. Could it be—obviously it must be—that she had recognised his voice? How delightfully intimate was the knowledge that she was talking to him from her bed! How marvellously beautiful she must look in bed!
‘Oh, you know who I am. Yes, I am Mr Harding. George Harding. And I rang you up because I am most anxious to know whether you will be in between four and five tomorrow. I am very methodical,’ he added, by way of explanation, ‘and I never like to go to bed without knowing exactly what I am going to do the next day.’
But her answer displeased him.
A shade of disappointment passed over his face.
‘Well, on Monday?’
To this query the reply was satisfactory.
‘Good-night. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.’
He glanced at his watch.
Twelve o’clock. Good Heavens, there were forty hours to get through before four o’clock on Monday!
He looked at his engagement book. It was good to know that he was lunching out with some cheery friends. The afternoon he would spend in paying calls, and in the evening he was dining with ‘The Beavers’ at the Ritz. He was sure of a delightful evening at the best of all London dining clubs. ‘The Beavers’ would not break up until well after twelve: there would be delightful conversation and merry jests. And on Monday he would be busy in the morning and afternoon in Court.
Yes, he thought, it would be quite possible to live through those forty hours.
Picturing to himself the huge joy of the forty-first he undressed and went to bed.
Sunday passed far less tediously than he had dared to hope.
On Monday morning the papers were full of the disappearance of Mingey’s daughter. Disappearances, apparently, were the order of the day; tunnel murders were no longer in fashion. In two papers which he read there were leaders on the subject. These journals were seriously alarmed. It appeared that no one was safe. Anybody, the most unlikely person for choice, might vanish at any moment. The Morning Star maintained that Parliament ought to interfere. The Morning Star always believed in the omnipotence of Parliament, mainly because it was against the Government. If the weather was bad for crops—which the weather always is—if a church was struck by lightning, the Morning Star tried to rouse the legislature from its lethargy. At the first symptom of the end of the world the Morning Star would certainly urge the Government to take strenuous action to frustrate the peril.
The facts given were exactly as Mingey had described them. There were no new details. The girl had left her humble home in the Monmouth Road, Bayswater, and she had not yet returned. The parents were disconsolate and could suggest no clue. The Morning Star gave a portrait, a wood block, that made the heroine so painfully unattractive that any suggestion of an amorous solution of the matter appeared impossible. As he walked along Piccadilly on his way to the Temple, most of the contents bills bore the legend:
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A BAYSWATER GIRL
However mysterious the disappearance of this girl might be, he reflected, it was not so mysterious as the appearance of Miss Clive in his life.
Miss Clive! He did not even know her Christian name. He ran through a list of names suitable for beautiful women, but he could not fix upon one which seemed suitable for her. She required a stately name, a beautiful name.
Gwendolen was possible but not adequate. Katherine would not be out of the question. He dismissed contemptuously Winifred and Hilda and Margaret and Maud. Mary was, perhaps, of all names the most beautiful, chiefly in a measure owing to its sentiment. He would not be disappointed if her name was Mary. It would be the right name; the only possible name. As she was perfect in figure and in face, there would be no jarring note in her name.
It could not be that she would answer to the name of Muriel or of Nellie.
He shuddered at the thought.
CHAPTER IX (#ulink_fa42a130-22bd-532d-be5b-a7f0d5ffc745)
69 PEMBROKE STREET (#ulink_fa42a130-22bd-532d-be5b-a7f0d5ffc745)
THAT afternoon, when he rang the bell at 69 Pembroke Street, he was in an ecstasy of happiness. So triumphant was he, that no fear lest she should not be at home crossed his mind.
And she was at home.
A dignified butler showed him to the drawing-room, which was furnished entirely in the fashion of Louis XV. Every piece of furniture in the room was genuine. Each ornament was a veritable specimen of the period.
He felt that he was out of place, angular, awkward, hideously modern in these beautiful antique surroundings. She, on the other hand, though dressed in the height of the fashion of the day, seemed perfectly in the picture. All beautiful things are, as has been well said, of the same period.
‘How good of you to be in, Miss Clive!’
‘How good of you,’ she corrected, ‘to keep your word!’
As he looked at her it seemed to him that she was genuinely pleased at his arrival.
‘I hope you have forgiven me for ringing you up in such an unmannerly way. But I was very, very anxious to see you again.’
‘You were, really?’ she asked, her eyes looking straight into his.
‘Really,’ he replied.
He felt that he was making headway. But still it seemed absurd to be in love with a woman of whose character and of whose antecedents he knew nothing. He hoped that she would enlighten him in the course of the conversation.
Vainly, however, did he strive to make her talk about herself. Of all women she appeared to be the least egotistical. She was as sensible as a man. She showed no sign of desiring to talk about ailments that occurred to the body. If a body is not in good condition it is not a matter to be mentioned in polite society. Either one is well or one is not well. The condition of ill-health is not suitable for discussion.
During tea, he mentioned the fact that she had taken the house belonging to a friend of his.
‘Do you know Sir Clifford Oakleigh?’ he inquired.
‘I have never seen him,’ she answered, ‘but I understand that he is a great friend of yours.’
‘He is my greatest friend, or rather…’ he was on the point of adding, ‘he was my greatest friend.’
For an instant it seemed to him that it was disloyal to his love not to tell her the mystery of the little house in King Street: he felt also that he had been disloyal to his friend in not going to find out if Reggie had any more information. On the whole, there was no object in telling Miss Clive of the strange events of Friday night. What interest would she take in a landlord whom she had never seen?
‘It is a very beautiful house,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think it is a perfect little house. All the rooms are as charming as this.’
‘But £2000 is a preposterous rent.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she answered, shrugging her shoulders and speaking as one to whom money is of very slight importance. ‘It’s the most perfect house…of its kind…in London, and one must pay for perfection.’
Deeply in love though Harding was, he felt considerable pleasure in this evidence of Miss Clive’s wealth.
He remained talking to her for half an hour and then reluctantly rose to leave.
‘A few friends of mine are coming to dinner on Friday at a quarter past eight at the Carlton. I should be delighted if you would come too.’
She thought for a moment, and then said:
‘On Friday, let me see. What day is this? This is Monday. Oh, yes, I shall be delighted. Thank you very much.’
Then he went away and reflected on the question of which of his friends deserved the privilege of meeting Miss Clive. Clifford Oakleigh should have headed the list.
The thought called to his mind his nearness to King Street. He would go and see Reggie and ascertain if there were any news.
Reggie opened the door and received him with enthusiasm.
‘It’s all right, my dear Harding,’ he said. ‘He’s alive, at any rate.’
