And you never know whether she will,And you never know whether you may,But hold her tight,With all your might,By the small of her back,On a moonlight night,And you won’t be left,’Cause you must be right—THOWAT-T-T’S the way!
And you never know whether she will,And you never know whether you may,But hold her tight,With all your might,By the small of her back,On a moonlight night,And you won’t be left,’Cause you must be right—THOWAT-T-T’S the way!
And you never know whether she will,And you never know whether you may,But hold her tight,With all your might,By the small of her back,On a moonlight night,And you won’t be left,’Cause you must be right—THOWAT-T-T’S the way!
And you never know whether she will,
And you never know whether you may,
But hold her tight,
With all your might,
By the small of her back,
On a moonlight night,
And you won’t be left,
’Cause you must be right—
THOWAT-T-T’S the way!
They flashed the short length of the salon, whirled through the open doors and disappeared. . . .
There is an old saying that you cannot have it both ways. If you decide to discourage heaven, then you must be prepared to encourage hell. Whether or no Susan had offended Kilmuir, she had exalted Labotte—a supererogatory and rather dangerous elevation.
He began to improve the occasion almost at once.
“I do not know why I ’af not resgue you more soon. I think I am a gread fool. There is the nices’ leedle ’orse in oll the place sidding with a gread dull fellow an’ I ’af lose my dime in tryin’ to school so many mules.Tant pis!I tell you, we are goin’ to ’af a good dime now. We are goin’ to go well this evenin’—my naize leedle ’orse an’ I.”
His buoyant tenderness was hideous, but Kilmuir was standing in the doorway, and they were dancing towards him.
Susan threw back her head and laughed wildly.
“Your horse?”
Labotte tightened his hold.
“From the firs’ dime I ’af see you, you ’af been my naize leedle ’orse. Bud olways before, you ’af been shy from me. ‘Ah,’ I ’af say, ‘bud thad is a good fault.’ You know, a man like much bedder when a girl is not oll over ’im at once. An’ so I say, ‘Gently, my frien’, tread gently your naize leedle ’orse: an’ one day she shall whinney when she shall ’ear your face——”
“And eat out of your hand?”
It is doubtful whether the sage heard what she said.
Intoxicated with the triumph of his compelling personality, dazzled by the richness of the pasture his brilliancy had won, considerably affected by the elegance with which his imagery had betrayed at once the sportsman, master and swain, Labotte was out of earshot.
He whirled her past Nicholas in an eloquent dithyramb of motion to which she deliberately subscribed.
“My naize leedle ’orse,” he crooned, “oll while I ’af make spord with the mules I ’af see olways my leedle ’orse in the dail of my eye. An’ ad night I ’af dream about ’er, an’ now. . . ’Af I not say that we shall go well this evening? Eh? An’ do we not? Eh? Was I nod righd then, sweet-bit?”
Craning his neck, he leered into her eyes.
As they swung round, Susan was able to see that the doorway was empty. Kilmuir had gone.
“Now then I will teach you ’ow. You mus’ turn your ’ead sweet-bit, and our leaps shall brush themselves. It will, of gourse, be an agsiden’. I shall not ’af know that you were to move. An’ no one shall know neither . . . But we shall know an’ be ’appy—my leedle——”
“Let’s stop,” said Susan, suiting the action to the word.
Labotte wagged his head.
“I know a leedle salon,” he chanted rhythmically, “ ’alf-way on the stairs.”
As the girl turned, he laid hands upon her. It was his way. He always smeared his prey. The suggestion of an embrace appealed to him. For one thing, it looked so well. It argued a certain proprietorship—a seignory, such as other men did not enjoy; it suggested the existence of a familiarity which, short of a scene, his victim could seldom rebut: it enhanced his reputation as an irresistible dog. For another, he found it agreeable.
He slid an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hand, as though by way of shepherding her in the required direction.
“D’you mind not touching me?” said Susan.
Labotte started, and the greasy hands fell away.
Then he rapped his knuckles.
“Ah, then,” he simpered, “you mus’ be more gareful, block-face. You mus’ nod go to frighden your leedle ’orse.”
Susan passed out of a door and sat down in the hall. This was empty, but it was not remote.
Labotte stared.
“Bud,” he blurted, “we ’af arrange to go——”
“I sit here,” said Susan.
Labotte sat down by her side and took out a cigarette. His grin had faded into a supercilious and rather unpleasant regard which sat uneasily upon his insignificant face.
“And,” continued Miss Crail, “I’ld be glad if you wouldn’t refer to me as ‘your little horse.’ It suggests an intimacy which does not exist between us; it’s vulgar and it’s bad form. I don’t suppose that any of those reasons will appeal to you, but you can take my word for it they’re pretty sound.”
Labotte regarded her open-mouthed.
After a moment the blood began to pour into his face. Very soon this was completely suffused and glistening. The scarlet of his ears suggested that they were on fire. As for his eyes, these had become small slits of grey-green flame.
He shut his mouth with a snap.
“What?” he breathed through his teeth. “I—Iam vulgar?”
“Intensely vulgar,” said Susan, producing a cigarette. “Get me a match.”
For a second Labotte hesitated.
Then he rose, crossed to a table and returned with a box of matches.
“Thank you,” said Miss Crail. “Now you can go.”
Labotte drew himself up.
“I ’af nod the use to be commanded,” he said. “I am a gennelman, an’——”
“Don’t be silly,” said Susan. “Because it suited me to dance with you, that doesn’t make you a gentleman. And now, if you take my advice, you’ll run away and play—while there is time. Otherwise, I may be tempted to put you where you belong.”
The macaroni appeared to have lost the power of speech.
His world was rocking before him.
A woman—a fury, of course—had had the hideous presumption to turn him down. His advances had been rejected: his condescension had been actually flung in his face: he had been offered gross, gratuitous insult. The dove he had deigned to nourish had turned serpent. The female he had demeaned himself to favour had turned and rent him—him, Labotte, knight and sportsman. . . .
The indecency of the affair made his brain reel.
Dazedly he put a hand to his head.
“No one ’as never speak to me so—nevare,” he announced dramatically. “Eef you was a man——”
“Be thankful,” said Miss Crail, “that I am not. Why, you wouldn’t ride for weeks,” she added pleasantly.
Labotte blenched. The reflection, however, that sex cannot be changed at will steadied him almost at once.
He took a pace backward and bowed.
“I go,” he said stiffly, “bud nod begauze you ’af say so. No.” Susan began to shake with laughter. “The only reason wot I ’af got ees that I will blease myselve. Oh, yes. Eet ees very fine to laugh,” he added violently. “It ees a gread jork to make slaps when you are very safe that they cannot be render: but eet ees you shall waid, Mees Crail, an’ fin’ whether you shall ’af make these blace too ’ott for you to ’old.”
He turned and sauntered away with such nonchalance as he could muster.
When he was out of sight, Susan went to her room, sank into a chair, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.
Upon the next floor Nicholas was pulling his moustache and covering his third mile upon an Aubusson carpet of great beauty.
Three rooms away Labotte was savaging a pillow.
“Sapristi!” he mouthed. “Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman.”
Nicholas very nearly returned to Town.
The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit.
He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve.
Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away with it.
Labotte was as good as his word.
His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served. After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his attention to his opponent’s harness.
Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot.
Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes. Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . .
Labotte licked his lips.
If he approached her privately, he would be told to go away. Very well. Supposing he approached her publicly—short of a scene, she would have to submit to his approach. More. If he addressed her, sat by her side, made loud, innocent conversation—no one would see anything inconsistent with courtesy in that. Everybody would think that he was dancing attendance. But he and she would know that she was being whipped. . . .
Susan’s luck was clean out.
Five times in three days he contrived to sit next to her at meat: twice he had managed to be driven in the same car: seven times he had asked her to dance. She had not done so, but it was not too pleasant—this pestering. Labotte’s attentions would have been odious at any time: now they were nothing less than a direct insult. When upon the third day at dinner he steered the conversation to the points of a ‘naize leedle ’orse,’ mentioned nice clean legs, a soft mouth and well-rounded quarters as essential features and then asked Susan if she did not agree, the latter felt cold with rage.
Most of the women saw there was something amiss and, reluctantly respecting Susan, were faintly amused. The more quick-witted of the men began to smell trouble. The jolly-eyed Frenchman looked very hard at Labotte: the Spaniard had frowned and lost the thread of his discourse: the tall Italian had stared and then asked Susan to dance. But that was all. The way of a man with a maid had to be patently outrageous to warrant intervention. . . .
Deep in a shadowy corner of thesalon vertSusan was contemplating her state and wondering, if she fled, how far four hundred and fifty francs would go.
Six feet away two Englishmen were talking.
For a moment or two she listened idly, too much depressed to care at all for their words.
Then her brain leapt.
“Sponge knows who he is.”
“He would”—contemptuously.
“He didn’t go so far as to claim his acquaintance, but he says he’s Kilmuir of Kilsay. He added that he knew his wife intimately—spoke of her as ‘Kitty Kilmuir.’ ”
“And I bet if she came here she wouldn’t know him. What a sweep the man is!”
The two moved away, and the voices faded.
His wife. . . . Kitty Kilmuir.
Wondering why she had assumed that Nicholas John Kilmuir was unmarried, halting curiously between relief and dismay, Susan started to her feet. . . .
Then she sank down again and stared at the floor.
Her impulse had been to find Kilmuir at once and tell him the truth. Not all of it, of course, but enough to make him her friend—a present help in her trouble. But Susan Crail was no fool. Life was a stern creditor. If she invoked the sympathy of the man she loved, touched his strong hand, called up the kindness of his steady brown eyes—these things would have to be paid for in blood and tears. As it was, even if Labotte vanished, she would still have to try to forget. . . . Nicholas Kilmuir. There was a scourge waiting. Was it worth her while, for the sake of a little relief, deliberately to load the cords? Wasn’t it better to——
“No,” said Susan suddenly. “It isn’t better. What is better is to take what you can get. I can’t take him, because somebody else has done that. But I can be with him and see him and hear his blessed voice. Damn what the future holds. The present’s the thing.”
She rose and stepped out of the shadow—almost into the arms of ‘the Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte.
The latter bowed low.
“Good evening, Miss Susan Crail.”
“Good evening.”
‘His Grace’ stared. Then—
“Oh, ’elp,” he said. “Any more for the throne-room?” He bowed grotesquely. “Good sunset, sweeting. What doth the night-light say?”
“Too late,” said Susan pleasantly. “I’ve a letter to write.”
“Splendid,” said ‘the Duke.’ “We’ll tell you what to say, shall I?” He linked her arm in his and turned to Labotte. “If I’m not back in half an hour, Saddle-soap——”
Labotte raised his eyebrows.
“I do nod think,” he announced, “you will be zo long.” Suddenly his eyes gleamed. “But there,” he added, “I do nod know. Perhaps . . . I tell you, when she was naize, she was vairy, vairy naize.” He closed his eyes and vented a happy sigh.
Susan felt rather sick.
“O-o-oh,” said ‘the Duke,’ approaching a face which appeared to have been recently buttered. “And how does he know?”
“I don’t think he does,” said Susan, seeking to disengage herself. “Please let me go.”
“And why was she ‘vairy naize’?” continued ‘the Duke,’ detaining her.
“You’d better ask him,” said Susan, trying to pass it off. “He seems to know. And now let me go, please. I’ve got this letter to write.”
‘His Grace’ skipped to a doorway and spread out his arms.
“Block the other one, Saddle-soap: and we’ll give her a run,” he cried, and, with that, he switched off the lights.
Then curtain rings rasped, and, except for the rosiness of a dying fire, the room was black.
Susan stood paralysed.
She was going to be kissed, of course. That went without saying. She wondered dully whether she was going to be scratched. Labotte. . . . Perhaps he would only pinch her.
With a shock she realized that she had better move. To stay where she was would be fatal. If she could change her position . . .
With a beating heart, she began to steal to one side, straining her ears.
Suddenly she stood still as death.
Something—someone was almost touching her. She could hear his breathing. She was right under his hand. And she was trapped. Her knee was against a chair, and she could not move. Any second now . . .
The form sheered off. Whose-ever it was, he had missed her by a hair’s breadth.
Trembling all over, Susan began to edge away from the chair. . . .
A piercing scream of agony shattered the silence—the sort of scream which is associated with torture—the scream of a human being under the pain of hell.
Susan’s heart stood still.
The scream slid into a flurry of howled oaths, the nature of which suggested that Labotte was out of action. If he was, there was a doorway clear. . . .
Susan was there in a flash.
She and Kilmuir passed out together.
“Steady,” he said quietly. “Now turn round, get behind me and appear to be looking in. Then they won’t connect us with this little play.”
As he parted the curtains, the lights in the room went up, and four or five guests and servants appeared in the other doorway.
Labotte was sitting on the parquet, rocking himself to and fro, nursing his bridle-hand and addressing ‘the Duke of Culloden,’ who was leaning against a sofa convulsed with laughter.
“I tell you I ’af not see why jus’ begozz you are duke that ’as nod give you the raighd to starm’ to my ’and laike there was fifdy tousan’ dun of storns in your boode an’ then you gannot bray bardon bud mus’ laugh laike you gry an’ make that you ’af nod starm’ to no one’s ’and. I suppose it is I wot ’af march oll over my own ’and—yess! Bah! I make myself to be your frien’, I let you to call me Zaddle-zorp an’ show you the rorpes of these place, an’ then you starm’ to my ’and and when I say, ‘See ’ow you ’af done,’ then there was a gread forny jork that I am ’urt. I tell you I do not gare ooze duke you are . . .”
By one consent Miss Crail and Nicholas turned and made their way out of the press.
“So perish all traitors,” said the latter. “As the actual executioner, my use of that pious expression is traditionally becoming.”
Susan stared.
“You?”
Kilmuir nodded.
“I was there all the time,” he said. “None of you saw me. I was wondering where I came in, when the lights went out. I happen to be able to see rather well in the dark, and just as I passed you I saw our little red-back making for where you stood on his hands and knees. . . . I admit I’m not very proud of myself. I should have preferred to thrash him in daylight and a public place, but you—you had to be considered. . . . I was going to harry the—er—Duke of Culloden also, but Saddle-soap made such a noise that I hadn’t time. That he should credit his accomplice with the assault is sheer good fortune. I never dreamed of such an elegantdénouement.” He led the way to a closet at the end of thesalon gris. This was deserted. “And now, why did you rush upon your fate three days ago? Why did you try to discredit yourself in my eyes? We’d only just made friends.”
“Did I succeed?”
“To a certain extent. Won’t you sit down? That’s right.” He took his seat by her side. “I’ve changed my mind now.”
“What d’you think now?”
“I think you wanted to put me off,” said Nicholas. “And I want to know why.”
“You remember what I told you—about my life?”
“Every word.”
“Well, I spoke without thinking, you know. I don’t know why. I’ve never done it before. And suddenly I realised that. . . .”
“Yes?”
Susan hesitated. Then—
“I knew a woman once,” she said, “who was always tied up for money. And she used to come to Aunt Beatrice. She never asked her right out, but she used to tell her the awful plight she was in and say if she couldn’t get someone to lend her two hundred dollars she’ld have to kill herself and—and look volumes. . . . Well, it wasn’t pretty.”
“No,” said Kilmuir. “But how does that apply?”
“I realized the other night that I’d done exactly the same—told you in so many wordshow you could rescue me. . . . You see, I didn’t know then that you were married. If the woman had come and told me how poor she was, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I had nothing. But Aunt Beatrice had the means. In the same way, my telling you my plight doesn’t matter now, because you can’t help.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“Surely,” said Nicholas gently, “you knew me better than that? Surely you needn’t ’ve thought——”
“You’re a man,” said Susan. “You don’t know how frightfully sensitive about marriage a woman can be. Many a girl’s thrown away happiness rather than let a man even suspect—quite wrongly—that she’s setting the pace.”
“I’m inclined to think that still more have set the pace rather than run the risk of throwing away happiness.”
Susan laughed.
“And, what’s more,” continued Kilmuir, “the latter have all my sympathy.”
“Listen to the man,” said Susan.
“Supposing,” said Nicholas John, “I had been a bachelor. You naturally thought I was, because there are still men left who travel with their wives. I happen to have a good reason for not being one of them. Next time I go abroad I hope my wife will be with me. But that’s by the way. Supposing I had been a bachelor and, as such, eligible—to pull you out of your slough. And supposing I’d decided that I loved you and had asked you to be my wife. . . . And supposing you’d thought it good enough. . . . D’you mean to say you’ld ’ve actually turned me down?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Susan.
“Why?”
“They call it,” said Susan, “ ‘self-respect.’ You might have sworn that you loved me, but I should have been terrified that it was onlyNoblesse oblige.”
“Surely a woman can distinguish pity from love?”
“A wife could, because she’ld be in a position to apply all sorts of tests. But that’s not very much good. I mean, it’s a bit late . . .”
Kilmuir took out a cigarette.
“Three days ago,” he said slowly, “you told me I meant what I said.” Susan started. “That what I said rang true. Yet I might have sworn that I——”
“I know,” said the girl desperately. “But the terror of making a mistake. . . .”
“Aren’t you digging too deep?” said Nicholas. “If somebody offers me a drink and I feel thirsty, I jolly well take it. So long as it’s honest liquor, I don’t bother about their motives. If I assume anything, I assume that they wouldn’t ask me if they didn’t want me to have it.”
“You’re not going to compare marriage to a Martini?”
“They’re much the same. A happy marriage is like a slap-up cocktail, the effect of which never passes off. . . . Well, if a man doesn’t offer another a tenpenny drink unless he wants him to have it, d’you seriously think he’s going to offer his heart, his home, his name, his fortune, his future to any daughter of Eve that ever was foaled—unless he wants her to have ’em?”
“Prosper Le Gai did.”
“Only to save Isoult’s neck. And, though she knew that, she took him. What’s more, my lady, it was a great success.”
Susan began to shake with laughter.
“That was an unfortunate instance, wasn’t it?” she said. “You know, you’re too well read. I should have got away with that with most of the people I know.”
“It’s a question of Greeks meeting,” said Nicholas John. “Or deeps calling. We’ve more or less the same tastes. I think you like the dawn and the silence of high places and the roar of the woods when the wind is laying on——”
“And the thud and suck of the surf and the baby talk of a brook and great cotton-wool clouds in the sky and a wind you can lean against. . . . Oh, I should think I do.”
For a moment the girl was transfigured.
Sitting upright, her grave eyes shining, her lips parted and her sweet pretty head thrown back, she might have been some Nereid out of some Odyssey. His eyes ablaze, Kilmuir regarded her, fascinated. . . .
Then she lowered her head, and the light in her eyes died.
“But that sort of life’s not for me,” she said abstractedly.
“Look here,” said Nicholas John. “D’you want that sort of life?”
“What d’you mean?”
“What I say—as usual,” said Kilmuir. He waved his hand. “Would you like to wash all this out? Would you like to get down to Nature? Spend nine months of the year under her wing? Sell this mess for a birthright? Know the rain on your face, and——”
“Are you offering me a land-agent’s job?”
The man looked at his finger-tips.
“It’s more of a stewardship,” he said. “There’s a post at my place in Scotland which you could fill—most admirably. It’s been vacant—oh, twenty years now, because I could never find the right person to take it on.”
Susan put a hand to her head.
“It—it sounds like a fairy-tale,” she said. “A girl—steward. . . . Of course, you’re making this up—creating some sinecure out of compassion for me.”
“No I’m not,” said Kilmuir. “The post’s going. Quite a good house, and about—about six hundred a year. Fuel. I could have filled it, of course: but I didn’t want someone who’ld get fed up in a week. D’you think you could stick it? It’s lonely up there—after this: and the dawn’s a bit late in the winter, and—I’ve known it pretty cold.”
“D’you think I’ld mind that? But what d’you know of me? What makes you think I could manage? I don’t even know myself. In fact, I’m sure I couldn’t. I don’t know what stewards do. I couldn’t control and order—I’ld try to learn, of course, and I’ld simply love the life. I’m choked here—tied and cooped and sickened and choked. I hardly saw a city before I was twelve years old. I was born and bred up in Maine. My grandfather’s place was there. . . .” She hesitated—then burst out suddenly. “Six years ago he died, and everything crashed. They sold my saddles and my very own mare with the others I used to ride. I couldn’t prove she was mine, and if I could have I hadn’t got any money to buy her corn. They sold the curtains I’d made to hang in my rooms, and lamps and mirrors and pictures I’d saved up to buy. They sold everything—house, woods, farms, hills, valleys. . . . And I who’d been mistress of it all was sold too. At least, I was put up for sale. But then you know that. . . . And all because my grandfather had forgotten to sign his will. . . . What was I saying? Oh, I know. Well, now you see why your fantasy dazzles me so. But don’t let’s talk about it any more. I know it’s out of the question, and you know it too. Don’t think I don’t appreciate——”
“Why is it out of the question?”
“Oh, for a thousand reasons. I should have no authority. A woman——”
“I am obeyed—up there.”
“I don’t care. A woman can do many things, but she can’t fill a post like that. You know you’re only saying it out of pure——”
“I’m not,” said Kilmuir steadily. “It’s always been held by a woman. The last . . . died . . . twenty years ago.” His voice became very soft. “She was the sweetest lady—with the gentlest smile. She never gave an order in all her blessed life, but I think if she’d asked the waves to stop their fretting there would have been a calm. I’ve seen her tend a horse that the grooms were afraid to feed; I’ve seen wild birds on her shoulder; and once I saw a drunkard pour out his store of whisky on the ground before her eyes. I tell you the roughest fisherman hung upon her will. You see, she always understood. She never taught, yet everyone learned of her: she was so humble, yet she was found a queen. Her laugh—well, Eve may have laughed like that, before the apple. . . . And then . . . one day . . . she died. . . .” He took out a letter-case and discovered a photograph. Then he rose and stood in front of the girl. “For what it’s worth, that’s a picture of her.”
Susan stared at the beautiful, eager face. . . .
A crazy truth, such as one finds in dreams, kept thrusting into her brain.
Sharply she flung up her head.
“Your mother?” she whispered.
Nicholas nodded.
“I want you to take her place. . . . You see, I’m—I’m not married, darling.” Susan started violently, and the man set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m—I’m not that Kilmuir.”
“O-o-oh!”
For a moment she stared at him wildly. Then she closed her eyes, let her head fall and buried her face in her hands.
Nicholas continued steadily.
“It isn’t much to offer—a share in my lonely life. But it won’t be lonely any more if you’ll accept it. I never thought I should marry. I never thought I’ld find anyone I’ld care to see in her place. And then . . . at last . . . I saw you. . . . And the moment I saw you, I knew . . . I’m poor, you know, but if you’d been worth twenty millions, I’ld ’ve asked you to be my wife. You see, I love you, my lady: and so I can’t help myself. I love your beautiful temples and the droop of your precious lips: I love your grave grey eyes and your sweet pretty ways . . .” He hesitated. Then, “I warn you, I won’t be able to give you much of a time. I can’t even afford a car, Susan. At least, I haven’t been able to yet. But I think, if we were careful, perhaps . . .” He took her wrists and drew her hands from her face. She continued to hang her head. “Oh, my blessed lady, I want you so much: and, as you don’t mind the cold and the quiet, don’t you think you could——”
“Noblesse oblige,” wailed the girl. “Noblesse oblige.”
“Oh, you darling,” cried Nicholas, lifting her to her feet.
Susan flung up her head and stared at the face of her squire three inches away.
With his arms about her, Nicholas smiled back.
“I confess,” he said, “I’ld ’ve liked to feel that you loved me, but I’ld rather you took me out of pity than not at all.”
A child put her hands on his shoulders.
“Do you really love me?” she whispered.
Nicholas smiled down.
“No,” he said. “I’m doing it out of pity.”
A radiant, mischievous look leapt into the child’s grey eyes.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, and put up her mouth.
Ten glorious minutes had passed, and Susan and Nicholas were standing in thesalon bleu, drinking each other’s healths in rose-coloured Clicquot. Ten or twelve fellow-guests were hard by, flicking their several appetites with the same beverage. Among them, their recent difference adjusted, were ‘the Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte. The latter’s hand was bandaged and reclining in a sling.
A servant entered with a card.
This he took directly to ‘the Duke.’
The youth glanced at it and frowned.
“Say I’m not here,” he said.
The servant bowed and turned away.
“Stop,” said Nicholas John.
The servant hesitated, and a hush fell upon the room.
“Bring me that card.”
With an apologetic glance at ‘Culloden,’ the fellow did as he was bid.
Nicholas picked up the card and read the name.
“Where isMonsieur le Comte?”
“Monsieur le Comte est couché.”
“Et Madame?”
“Madame aussi, Monsieur.”
“Then show this gentleman in.”
“Bien, Monsieur,” said the man, and made his escape. . . .
Amid an electric silence Nicholas picked up his glass and drank comfortably.
Susan was touching his arm.
“Nicholas! What are you doing?”
Her lover turned with a swift smile.
“I want him to meet you, lady.”
“But——”
Labotte was before them, speaking acidly.
“Your frien’ ’as nod seem to unnerstan’——”
“Address yourself to me,” said Kilmuir.
Labotte stared. Then he looked Nicholas up and down.
“I am nod a servant,” he said.
“No,” said the other. “I knew that by your coat.”
Labotte drew himself up.
“I do nod know ’oo you are,” he said loftily, “an’ I do nod gare, but eet ees good you shall know that in France when a gennelman ’as gommanded it was nod use to gommand the opposide in ’is faze. You ’af ’ear my frien’ dell that ’e was nod to be seen an’ then you mus’ put your lorng norse to a thing which ’as not belong to you at oll an’ make jus’ the same business as my frien’ ’as nod wand.”
“And what,” said Nicholas, “is it to do with you? Why don’t you let him—Hullo, he’s cleared.”
Labotte swung round. Then he spread out his hands.
“Ov gourse ’e ’as gorn,” he cried. “Eet ees you wot ’ave drive ’im away. ’E ’as say ’e is nod to be seen, an’ then you mus’ . . .”
Here a nice-looking man with a merry eye was ushered into the room.
As he stepped forward—
“Hullo, Berry,” said Nicholas, taking his hand. “Nice of you to come up.”
“Yes, isn’t it touching?” said Berry.
Nicholas turned to Susan, staring, big-eyed.
“This, dear, is Major Pleydell—a very old friend. Berry, this is Susan—Miss Susan Crail. She’s just promised to be my wife.”
Berry Pleydell smiled. Then he took Susan’s hand.
“My dear,” he said, “this is most fortunate. You can do me a little service. Listen. When I was last at Ruth—about four years ago, I sent a good-looking pair of bed-socks to the Castle dairy. Well, I had to go before the wash came back, and in spite of repeated applications to His Grace the Duke of Culloden my property has never been restored. Now, when you get there, go through his rotten things, and——”
“The Duke of Culloden?” cried Susan. “But . . .” The sentence died there, and she looked from one to the other with fright in her eyes. Then she addressed her swain. “Areyou,” she breathed, “areyouthe Duke of Culloden?”
“Yes, dear,” said Nicholas John.
To style the sensation ‘profound’ conveys nothing at all.
Susan felt rather faint. Her fellow-guests, standing like drugged sheep, seemed to be bent upon at once avoiding one another’s gaze and ascertaining one another’s demeanour. Only their eyes shifted, their heads and bodies remaining perfectly still. As for Labotte, the consciousness that he had publicly insulted a Duke, harrassed a future Duchess, and for the last seven days conspicuously licked a rank impostor all over seemed to have affected his reason. He staggered to a doorway, collided with and ricochetted from the jamb, kicked the latter savagely, screamed and disappeared. . . .
Major Pleydell was speaking.
“But didn’t you know?” he said.
Susan could only shake her head.
“Bless my soul,” said Berry. “Never mind. Let’s drown it in drink. Besides, it’s not his fault. Only . . .”
“What?” said Susan.
Berry laid a hand on Nicholas’ shoulder.
“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t because of his title, what are you marrying him for?”
Susan and Nicholas laughed.
“Noblesse oblige,” they said.
THE END
NOVELS BY
Valentine
“Valentinehas one great quality—his mastery of human material.”—Sunday Referee.
“You can always rely on Valentine for a pleasantly told and cleverly written tale.”—Northern Echo, Darlington.
“The author shows rare insight into life and character.”—Public Opinion.
A Flight to a FinishThe Blue PoolThe Things that CountYoung DesireGod’s Clearing HouseRound The CornerAt Your BeginningsThe Longest way RoundOne Good TurnThat Certain Thing
A Flight to a Finish
The Blue Pool
The Things that Count
Young Desire
God’s Clearing House
Round The Corner
At Your Beginnings
The Longest way Round
One Good Turn
That Certain Thing
WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON
NOVELS BY
Harry Stephen Keeler
“Harry Stephen Keeleris a master of the type of thriller for which the mystery-loving public have come to look.”—The Mansfield Reporter.
“This Author has a happy knack of writing a novel which lures the reader on to the final chapter in a most enthralling manner.”—The Magazine Programme.
“A master of detective fiction.”—The Sussex Express.