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Dust Flower

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<h2>Chapter XXII</h2> It was Steptoe who discovered that the little back spare room was empty, though William had informed him that he thought it strange that madam didn’t appear for breakfast. Steptoe knew then that what he had expected had come to pass, and if earlier than he had looked for it, perhaps it was just as well. Having tapped at madam’s door and received no answer he ventured within. Everything there confirming his belief, he went to inform Mr. Rash. As Mr. Rash was shaving in the bathroom Steptoe plodded round the bedroom, picking up scattered articles of clothing, putting outside the door the shoes which had been taken off on the previous night, digging another pair of shoes from the shoe-cupboard, and otherwise busying himself as usual. Even when Mr. Rash had re-entered the bedroom the valet made no immediate reference to what had happened in the house. He approached the subject indirectly by saying, as he laid out an old velvet house-jacket on the bed: “I suppose if Mr. Rash ain’t goin’ out for ’is breakfast ’e’ll put this on for ’ome.” Mr. Rash, who was buttoning his collar before the mirror said over his shoulder: “But I am going out for my breakfast. Why shouldn’t I? I always do.” Steptoe carried the house-jacket back to the closet. “I thought as Mr. Rash only did that so as madam could ’ave the dinin’ room to ’erself, private like.” As a way of expressing the fact that Allerton had never eaten a meal with Letty the choice of words was neat. “Well? What then?” “Oh, nothink, sir. I was only thinkin’ that, as madam was no longer ’ere––” Allerton wheeled round, his fingers clawing at the collar-stud, his face growing bloodless. “No longer here? What the deuce do you mean?” “Oh, didn’t Mr. Rash know? Madam seems to ’ave left us. I supposed that after I’d gone upstairs last night Mr. Rash and ’er must ’ave ’ad some sort of hunderstandin’—and she went.” “Went?” Allerton’s tone was almost a scream. Leaping on the old man he took him by the shoulders, snaking him. “Damn you! Get it out! What are you trying to tell me?” Steptoe quaked and cowered. “Why, nothink, sir. Only when William said as madam didn’t come down to ’er breakfast I went to ’er door and tapped—and there wasn’t no one in the room. Mr. Rash ’ad better go and see for ’imself.” The young man not only released the older one, but pushed him aside with a force which sent him staggering backwards. Over the stairs he scrambled, he plunged. Though he had never entered the back spare room since allotting it to Letty as her own he threw the door open now as if the place was on fire. But by the time Steptoe had followed and reached the threshold Allerton had calmed suddenly. He stood in front of the open closet vaguely examining its contents. He picked up the little gold band, chucked it a few inches into the air, caught it, and put it down. He looked into the little leather purse, poured out its notes and pennies into his hand, replaced them, and put that also down again. He opened the old red volume lying on the table by the bed, finding The Little Mermaid marked by two stiff dried sprays of dust flower, which more than ever merited its name. When he turned round to where Steptoe, white and scared by this time, was standing in the open doorway, his, Allerton’s, face was drawn, in mingled convulsion and bewilderment. With two strides he was across the room. “Tell me what you know about this, you confounded old schemer, before I kick you out.” Shivering and shaking, Steptoe nevertheless held himself with dignity. “I’ll tell you what I know, Mr. Rash, though it ain’t very much. I know that madam ’as ’ad it in ’er mind for some time past that unless she took steps Mr. Rash’d never be free to marry the young lydy what ’e was in love with.” “What did she mean by taking steps?” “I don’t know exactly, but I think it was the kind o’ steps as’d give Mr. Rash ’is release quicker nor any other.” Allerton’s arm was raised as if to strike a blow. “And you let her?” The old face was set steadily. “I didn’t do nothin’ but what Mr. Rash ’imself told me to do.” “Told you to do?” “Yes, Mr. Rash; six months ago; the mornin’ after you’d brought madam into the ’ouse. I was to get you out of the marriage, you said; but I think madam ’as done it all of ’er own haccord.” “But why? Why should she?” Steptoe smiled, dimly. “Oh, don’t Mr. Rash see? Madam ’ad give ’erself to ’im ’eart and spirit and soul. If she couldn’t go to the good for ’im, she’d go to the bad. So long as she served ’im, it didn’t matter to madam what she done. And if I was Mr. Rash––” Allerton’s spring was like that of a tiger. Before Steptoe felt that he had been seized he was on his back on the floor, with Allerton kneeling on his chest. “You old reptile! I’m going to kill you.” “You may kill me, Mr. Rash, but it won’t make no difference to madam ’avin’ loved you––” Two strong hands at his throat choked back more words, till the sound of his strangling startled Allerton into a measure of self-control. He scrambled to his feet again. “Get up.” Steptoe dragged himself up, and after dusting himself with his fingers stood once more passive and respectful, as if nothing violent had occurred. “If I was Mr. Rash,” he went on, imperturbably, “I’d let well enough alone.” It was Allerton who was breathless. “Wha—what do you mean by well enough alone?” “Well the wye I see it, it’s this wye. Mr. Rash is married to one young lydy and wants to marry another.” He broke off to ask, significantly: “I suppose that’d be so, Mr. Rash?” “Well, what then?” “Why, then, ’e can’t marry the other young lydy till the young lydy what ’e’s married to sets ’im free. Now that young lydy what ’e’s married to ’as started out to set ’im free, and if I was Mr. Rash I’d let ’er.” “You’d let her throw herself away for me?” “I’d let ’er do anythink what’d show I knowed my own mind, Mr. Rash. If it wouldn’t be steppin’ out of my place to sye so, I wish Mr. Rash could tell which of these two young lydies ’e wanted, and which ’e’d be willin’ for to––” “How can I tell that when—when both have a claim on me?” “Yes, but only one ’as a clyme on Mr. Rash now. Madam ’as given up ’er clyme, so as to myke things easier for ’im. There’s only one clyme now for Mr. Rash to think about, and that mykes everythink simple.” An embarrassed cough drew Steptoe’s attention to the fact that someone was standing in the hall outside. It was William with a note on a silver tray. Beside the note stood a small square package, tied with a white ribbon, which looked as if it contained a piece of wedding cake. His whisper of explanation was the word, “Wildgoose,” but a cocking of his eye gave Steptoe to understand that William was quite aware of wading in the current of his employer’s love-affairs. Moreover, the fact that Steptoe and his master should be making so free with the little back spare room was in William’s judgment evidence of drama. “What’s this?” Glancing at the hand-writing on the envelope, and taking in the fact that a small square package, looking like a bit of wedding cake stood beside it, Allerton jumped back. Steptoe might have been presenting him with a snake. “I don’t know, Mr. Rash. William ’as just brought it up. Someone seems to ’ave left it at the door.” As Steptoe continued to stand with his offering held out Allerton had no choice but to take up the letter and break the seal. He read it with little grunts intended to signify ironic laughter, but which betrayed no more than bitterness of soul. “Dear Rash: I have come to see that we shall never get out of the impasse in which we seem to have been caught unless someone takes a stand. I have therefore decided to take one. Of the three of us it is apparently easiest for me, so that I am definitely breaking our engagement and sending you back your ring. Any claim I may have had on you I give up of my own accord, so that as far as I am concerned you are free. This will simplify your situation, and enable you to act according to the dictates of your heart. Believe me, dear Rash, affectionately yours Barbara Walbrook.” Though it was not his practice to take his valet into the secret of his correspondence the circumstances were exceptional. Allerton handed the letter to Steptoe without a word. As the old man was feeling for his glasses and adjusting them to his nose Mr. Rash turned absently away, picking up the volume of Hans Andersen, from which the sprays of dust flower tumbled out. On putting them back his eyes fell upon the words, which someone had marked with a pencil: “Day by day she grew dearer to the prince; but he loved her as one loves a child. The thought of making her his queen never crossed his mind.” A spasm passed over his face. He turned the page impatiently. Here he caught the words which had been underlined: “I am with him every day. I will watch over him—love him—and sacrifice my life for him.” Shutting the book with a bang, and throwing it on the table, he wheeled round to where Steptoe, having folded the letter, was taking off his spectacles. “Well, what do you say to that?” “What I’d sye to that, Mr. Rash, is that it’s as good as a legal document. If any young lydy what wrote that letter was to bring a haction for breach, this ’ere pyper’d nyle ’er.” “So where am I now?” “Free as a lark, Mr. Rash. One young lydy ’as turned you down, and the other ’as gone to the bad for you; so if you was to begin agyne with a third you’d ’ave a clean sheet.” He groaned aloud. “Ah, go to ––” But without stating the place to which Steptoe was to go he marched out of the room, and back to his dressing upstairs. <hr class='tb' /> More dispassionate was the early morning scene in the little basement eating house in which the stunted Hebrew maid of Polish culture was serving breakfast to two gentlemen who had plainly met by appointment. Beside the one was an oblong packet, of which some of the contents, half displayed, had the opulent engraved decorations of stock certificates. The other gentleman, resembling an operatic brigand a little the worse for wear, was saying with conviction: “Oil! Don’t talk to me! No, sir! There’s enough oil in Milligan Center alone to run every car in Europe and America at this present time; while if you include North Milligan, where it’s beginnin’ to shoot like the Old Faithful geyser––” “Awful obliged to you, Judson,” the other took up, humbly. “I thought that bunch o’ nuts ’d never––” “So did I, Gorry. I’ve sweated blood over this job all winter. Queer the way men are made. Now you’d hardly believe the work I’ve had to show that lot of boneheads that because a guy’s a detective in one line, he ain’t a detective in every line. Homicide, I said, was Gorry Larrabin’s specialty, and where there’s no homicide he’s no more a detective than a busted rubber tire.” “You’ve said it,” Gorry corroborated, earnestly. “One of the cussed things about detectin’ is that fellas gets afraid of you. Think because you’re keepin’ up your end you must be down on every little thing, and that you ain’t a sport.” “Must be hard,” Judson said, sympathetically. “I’ll tell you it’s hard. Lots of fun I’d like to be let in on—but you’re kept outside.” The drawbacks of the detective profession not being what Judson chiefly had on his mind he allowed the subject to drop. An interval of silence for the consumption of a plateful of golden toasties permitted Gorry to begin again reminiscently. “By the way, Judson, do you remember that about six months ago you was chewin’ over that girl of yours, and what had become of her?” To himself Judson said: “That’s the talk; now we’re comin’ to business.” Aloud he made it: “Why, yes. Seems to me I do. She’s been gone so long I’d almost forgot her.” “Well, what d’ye know? Last night—lemme see, was it last night?—no, night before last—I kind o’ got wind of her.” “Heaven’s sake!” “Guy I know was comin’ through East Sixty-seventh Street, and there was my lady, dressed to beat the band, leadin’ one of them little toy dogs, and talkin’ to a swell toff that lives in one of them houses. Got the number here in my pocket-book.” While he was searching his pocket-book Judson asked, breathlessly: “Couldn’t be no mistake?” “It’s nix on mistakes. That guy don’t make ’em. Surest thing on the force. He said, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Gravely’; and she said, ‘Good afternoon’ back to him—just like that. The guy walked on and turned a corner; but when he peeped back, there was the couple goin’ into the house just like husband and wife. What d’ye know?” “What do I know? I know I’ll spill his claret for him before the week is out.” “Ah, here it is! Knew I had that address on me somewheres.” He handed the scrap of paper across the table. “That’s his name and number. Seems to me you may have a good thing there, Judson, if you know how to work it.” <hr class='tb' /> In another early morning scene the ermine was cleaning her nest; and you know how fastidious she is supposed to be as to personal spotlessness. The ermine in question did not belie her reputation, as you would have seen by a glance at the three or four rooms which made up what she called her “flat.” Nothing was ever whiter than the wood-work of the “flat” and its furnishings. Nothing was ever whiter than the little lady’s dress. The hair was white, and even the complexion, the one like silver, the other like the camelia. Having breakfasted from white dishes placed on a white napkin, she was busy with a carpet-sweeper sweeping up possible crumbs. In an interval of the carpet-sweeper’s buzz she heard the telephone. “Hello!” The male voice was commanding. “Yes?” The response was sweetly precise. “Is this Red Point 3284-W?” “It is.” “Can I speak to Miss Henrietta Towell?” “This is Miss Henrietta Towell.” “This is the Brooklyn Bridge Emergency Hospital. Do you know a girl named Letitia Rashleigh?” There was a second’s hesitation. “I was once a lady’s maid to a lady whose maiden name was Rashleigh. I think there may be a connection somewhere.” “She was found unconscious on a car in the subway last night and brought in here.” “And has she mentioned me?” “She hasn’t mentioned anyone since she came to; but we find your address on a paper in her pocket.” “That seems singular, but I expect there’s a purpose behind it. Is that everything she had?” “No; she had forty-five cents and a thimble.” “A thimble! Just an ordinary thimble.” “Yes, an ordinary thimble, except that it has initials on the edge. ‘H.T. from H.S.’ Does that mean anything to you?” “Yes; that means something to me. May I ask how to reach the hospital?” This being explained Miss Towell promised to appear without delay, begging that in the meantime everything be done for Miss Rashleigh’s comfort. She was not perturbed. She was not surprised. She did not wonder who Letitia Rashleigh could be, or why her address should be found in the girl’s pocket. She was as quiet and serene as if such incidents belonged to every day’s work. Dressed for the street she was all in black. A mantua covered with bugles and braid dropped from her shoulders, while a bonnet which rose to a pointed arch above her brow, and allowed the silver knob of her hair to escape behind, gave her a late nineteenth century dignity. Before leaving the house she took two volumes from her shelves—read first in one, then in the other—sat pensive for a while, with head bent and eyes shaded—after which she replaced her books, turned the key in her door, and set forth for Brooklyn Bridge. <hr class='major' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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