“And what,” said Spring, ignoring his careful evasion, “what about my suggestion that you should marry a wife? You wiped the floor with it. But the instant the position is reversed, I must swallow my feelings and follow my head. What if you are a man? Men aren’t immune from sickness. Don’t say that you’ve got William, or I shall scream. If William’s as good a nurse as he is a seamstress, you wouldn’t live twenty-four hours. And look at the women there are who are up against it. They don’t go under because they’re not on concrete.”
“I don’t suggest that you would. But some of the roads of Life are pretty bad. If one can avoid the roughest, it’s—it’s just as well. Spares the frame, you know.”
“Don’t I look strong?”
“You do. I’m sure you’re as hard as nails, but nobody’s any the better for being hammered.”
“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of marriage, in case one day it may rain.”
“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly.
“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out. You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a quarter of an hour.”
Willoughby gasped.
“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’ Or is that out ofParadise Lost?”
With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was really ridiculously relieved.
Spring gave a little laugh.
“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.”
The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how to lose.
As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to burst into tears.
Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her hand.
“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.”
He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was, of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience. Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot, haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness was everything. His own did not count.
To my mind, such love was worth having.
And Spring thought likewise.
“I must be going,” she said.
Willoughby bowed.
In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive.
As he opened the wicket-gate—
“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why did you say you were sure he was one of the best?”
“Because I knew that, if he was not, you wouldn’t have considered his proposal.”
“But I didn’t,” said Spring, with a positively blinding smile. “I turned him down last night.”
“You turned him down?” shouted Bagot.
Spring smiled very sweetly.
“I thought I told you,” she said, “that I was a fool.”
She left him staring, and pelted down the road.
Spring came the next afternoon, but was gone before four o’clock.
Then came Thursday.
Willoughby found her framed in the little porch.
“Change quickly,” she said. “I mustn’t stay long to-day.”
“Packing?” said Willoughby quietly.
“Yes.”
They ate their tea without laughter. The spirit of parting was hovering over the meal.
Afterwards they sat by the window, for, though the sun was shining, it had rained a lot that morning, and the world was wet.
Spring sat like a child, perched on the deep sill, smoking a cigarette and peering at Chancery out of the leaded panes.
“You will remember it all?” said the Groom of the Chambers.
“Yes—all.”
“It’s like a tale, don’t you think? A slice of a fairy tale. In the distance, the shining castle, and here, on the fringe of its domain, the little cot.”
“Where the poor boy dwelt who was really the rightful heir, with one old retainer to whom he was still the lord.”
“And one day a Princess came, with hair as dark as night, and eyes that were unfair, they were so big, and—and silk stockings, and all. And she recognized the poor boy (sic) and, because she had a nice, soft heart, she came and had tea with him, instead of visiting the castle.”
“And the silly part of it was,” said Spring, “that she wasn’t a Princess at all, but an ordinary, poor girl, who was——”
“She was a Princess,” said Bagot. “She hadn’t got the riches or the Court she should have had, but—oh, anyone could see she was a Princess.”
“Any way, the boy treated her like one, which was very nice for her, and, when the time came for her to go——”
“The boy lost his wits,” said Bagot steadily, “and made a fool of himself.” Spring turned and looked at him. “You’ll never guess what he did. He forgot that he was no longer lord of the castle. It wasn’t altogether his fault, because the presence of the Princess had made his cottage all glorious. Be that as it may, he thought how wonderful it would be if only—the—Princess—didn’t—go. . . . And when he came to his senses and saw what a madman he’d been, the idea was so precious, that he couldn’t get it out of his head. You see, she’d seen what his life was, and she seemed to understand, and she did like Chancery, and he had two hundred a year, as well as his wages, and he could be home by half-past four every day, and there was a bathroom upstairs, and——” He stopped short there, and clapped his hands to his temples. Then he burst out tempestuously. “Oh, Spring, darling, why did you ever come to dazzle my wretched eyes? You couldn’t stick it, I know. It’s absurd, grotesque, comic. The clothes you’re wearing are worth more than I earn in a year. I’m mad—raving.” He sank his head upon his chest and put out his hand. “Give me your blessed fingers to kiss before you go, and then—go as you came, my sweet, like a breath of air, like a perfume out of the night. I’ll try and think it’s been a dream—a wonderful, golden dream, which the good gods sent me, to make my memory rich. You know. When first you wake, you could weep to think it isn’t true; but, after a while, you’re grateful for just the dream.”
Spring put down her face and kissed his hand.
Then she slid off the sill and put her arms round his neck.
“Why d’you think I came back that day? Why d’you think I left my bag in the gallery? Why d’you think I’ve come here? Because I love you, Willoughby—loved you before you loved me. I don’t care what you’ve got, or what you haven’t. I only want to share your life.”
“My wonderful darling,” said Bagot, and kissed her mouth.
Miss Consuelo Spring Lindley became Mrs. Willoughby Bagot ere August was old. The wedding took place one morning at Holy Brush and was extremely quiet.
Mr. Worcester obtained one day’s leave without arousing suspicion, and the quick congregation consisted of a tearful Mrs. Le Fevre, that lady’s solicitor, who gave the bride away, and William, the groom. For the dead I cannot answer, but if polished brass and marble may be believed, eleven Gray Bagots slept through the simple service beneath the cold, white flags.
The following morning, Benedict was back at his work.
This, however, was destined to be disturbed.
Shortly before ten o’clock, his employer summoned him to the library, and bade him close the door.
“Worcester,” said Mr. Harp, “I ’ave some very queer noos. In fac’, I’m all of a shake—never ’ad such a night in me life, wakin’ up all of a sweat and tossin’ and tryin’ to think, till me brain rebelled against me.” He sighed heavily, holding a hand to his head. “As for Mrs. ’Arp, she’s that struck and bewildered, she’s stayin’ in bed.”
Willoughby regarded his employer and then fixed his eyes upon the floor.
“Yes, sir?” he said steadily.
“Yesterday afternoon I ’ad an offer for the ’ouse.” The Groom of the Chambers started and then went very pale. “Lock, stock and barrel—just as I bought it meself.” Mr. Harp paused as if seeking for appropriate words. Suddenly he smote upon the table and let out a cry. “They might’ve offered me twice—free times what I gave and I’d ’ave ’ad ’em shown out wiv a flea in their ear. Forty-five thousan’ I paid, as p’r’aps you know. Well—I can’t ’ardly believe it,but they offered me ten times that.”
“Four hundred and fifty thousand!”
“Four ’undred and fifty thousan’,” said Mr. Harp. He slapped his breast. “I’ve a bankers’ draft in ’ere for a quarter of that—’undred an’ twelve thou—five. I ’ave to keep takin’ it out to believe it’s true.”
“You took the offer, sir?” ventured Bagot.
“Why man alive,” screamed his master, “wot else could I do? You can’t turn away money like that. You ’aven’t the right. I tell you straight, I’m dotty about this place, but ‘Business First’ ’s my motter, an’—an’ it’s pretty nigh ’arf a million,” he concluded absently.
For a moment, blinking, he scribbled figures upon the blotting-pad, his lips moving, his eyes fixed. Then he sat back in his seat and covered his face.
“Two o’clock they come, and give me till four to decide. Immediate possession, in course. I ’ad to take it or leave it by four o’clock. I never ’ad two such hours in all me life. One thing I said. I asked if the buyer was British, for I couldn’t ’ave sold to a foreigner, come wot might. ‘Yes,’ they says, ‘British.’ So I signed her away at this table wiv tears in me eyes. I s’pose we’ll ’ave free seats now an’ do the grand, but shan’t be never so ’appy as we’ve bin ’ere.”
There was a long silence.
“When am I to go, sir?” said Bagot.
“I mentioned you,” said his master. “I didn’t forget. I said as I ’oped you’d stay with me and Mrs. ’Arp, but if you didn’t do that, maybe you’ld like to stay ’ere. I said you was a Groom in a million an’ did the work o’ five, an’ that wot you didn’t know about the place could be counted out. The fellow listened and took a note o’ your name, but ’e said that he ’ad no authority to promise to take you on. ’Owever, the purchaser’s comin’ this afternoon at free. You’ll show ’im round, in course, and it’s Lombard Street to a norange ’e’ll jump at the chance. Mrs. ’Arp and me’ll be out. There ain’t no call for us to stay, an’—an’ we’ld rather not. The deal’s to go through nex’ Monday at twelve o’clock.”
There was nothing more to be said.
Chancery had passed.
Five hours and a half had gone dragging by and Bagot was in the gallery, oiling an aged hinge, and wondering how to word hiscommuniquéto Spring.
Suddenly the throb of a bell came to his vigilant ears.
The can went into a locker, and the Groom of the Chambers descended into the hall.
He tried his best to be calm, but his nerves were taut. A good deal depended upon this interview—their tiny home, their living, their . . .
With his hand on the mighty latch, Willoughby moistened his lips. . . .
Spring was standing alone on the broad flags, very smartly dressed, looking ridiculously girlish, and inspecting her thin gold ring with her head on one side.
Behind her, in the hot sunshine, was gleaming the grey and silver of a magnificentcoupé.
Husband and wife regarded each other with beating hearts.
Then—
“Please may I see over the house?” said Spring. “It—it belongs to my husband.”
Willoughby put a hand to his head.
“F-four hundred and fifty thousand,” he stammered. “Then——”
“Yes, dear,” said Spring, entering and closing the door. “We might’ve got it for less, but I didn’t want to take any risks. You see,” she added, setting her back against the oak, “in spite of all your protests, you took my advice. In fact, you married the first one that came along.”
Willoughby tried to speak, but no words would come.
Suddenly he began to tremble.
In an instant, Spring’s arms were about him and her cheek against his.
“Willoughby, my darling, my darling!”
So she comforted him.
Presently he picked her up as one picks up a baby child.
“I never dreamed,” he said slowly. “I never dreamed. . . . I didn’t know how to tell you, and I was going to ask the people if they could see their way to keep the Groom of the Chambers on.” A shy smile came playing into his face. “Do you think you could—madam?”
Gravely, his sweet regarded him.
Then—
“You must ask my husband,” she said.
ELIZABETH
Thosewho dine at the Richelieu sit over their cups. It is the custom. A dinner at the quiet Duke Street restaurant is never a prelude to an entertainment. It is the entertainment itself. People go there to dine and talk leisurely. The kitchen and the cellar are probably the best in London; the service and the atmosphere are certainly the best in the world. There is an unseen orchestra, which plays so softly that you are just aware of melody while you converse. There is no light but that shed by table-lamps, so that it is more easy to identify the dish your neighbour is tasting than your neighbour herself. You may be sitting by Royalty; often enough you are. And if you ring up to take a table you will be told that they are all booked—unless the clerk at the bureau knows and respects your name. It is the custom.
Upon the ninth evening of December the elements seemed to have conspired to enhance the Richelieu’s charm. Without, a gale was raging. Squall after tearing squall flung down the dripping streets, fuming at every obstacle, blustering at every corner, lashing the pitiless rain into a very fury. The latter fell steadily and, with the wind behind it, drove and beat passionately upon a miserable world, harrying, chilling and stinging till such as might gave in and pelted for shelter, while such as might not fought their way through themêléewith tightened lips.
Behind the curtained double-windows of the restaurant only the wilder squalls obtained an audience, but those who sat there had proved the night while they came, and the muffled stutter of the rain and the dull growl of the wind about the casements vividly remembered the malice of the streets.
Little wonder that the comfort of the room entered into the soul.
Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass.
“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets, shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.”
Her host pulled his moustache.
“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore when——”
“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I should never get up on a horse.”
“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“You can get clean with cold water.”
“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me off water for weeks.”
“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while I——”
“So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too. We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.”
“I’ve got it to-night, any way.”
Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven. The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them.
“Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.”
“But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate.Après vous—the deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.”
“I’ll bet you’ve told no one.”
“I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.”
“Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s. The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’ out with another? Hul-lo!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’ lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.”
My lady regarded the end of her cigarette.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?”
“There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the Stores.”
“You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Neither have you,” said the man.
“Perhaps that’s why we get on.”
Pembury raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——”
“Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.”
“—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.”
“A vulgar taste,” said my lady. “Hilton would have a fit. When I can’t bear it any more, you must send me a bottle of Bass by parcel post.”
“We’re both of us fools about dogs, if we must see a show we like music with a small ‘m,’ we’re both left-handed, we don’t know what it is to be seasick——”
“I trust Hilton doesn’t. Otherwise, the yacht . . .”
Pembury frowned.
“You called me your Best Man just now. Did you mean that, Dot?”
“I did. Why?”
“It gives me a right to say what I’m going to say.” Lady Elizabeth stared. “You’re not to gird at Hilton before me again. I know you’ld never do it before anyone else: and we’re such very old friends—we’ve always discussed everyone—that it’s easy enough to forget. But you——”
“Forget what?”
“That we’re on a new footing now. Hilton’s up on the daīs, and I’ve stepped down.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed.
“Upon my soul,” she said, “I think that beats it. First, you set out to teach me manners: then, you calmly announce that Hilton has usurped your place.”
“Hang it, Dot, I never——”
“When you said I oughtn’t to have come, you were perfectly right. I oughtn’t. I ought never to have come here with you. I thought you could stand corn, and I find you can’t. I thought you understood, and I find I was wrong. I tell you now you were never ‘up on the daïs’—never within miles of it. Because I gave you my friendship, I suppose you thought I cared.”
“I did,” said Pembury quietly. “It was very presumptuous, but I did. And if I’d had enough to keep you, I’ld ’ve made certain. . . . And now that you know, old lady, have a heart. Forgive me for being clumsy and call it ‘Nerves.’ I’m like a spoilt child this evening. You’ve spoiled me by being so nice. And now I know that it’s over, I’m kicking against the pricks.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“What’s over?” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Act One,” said her host shortly. “The spoiling process. My—er—tastes being what they are, I must retire. If you want another reason, Hilton hasn’t much use for me. I don’t know that I blame him, but that’s neither here nor there. He hasn’t. And since he hasn’t, neither must you. Incidentally, you haven’t, any way. I said it first.”
“You know I have, Dick. You know I have. I’m sorry I burst out just now. You’re perfectly right, of course. You always are. To laugh about Hilton to you was shocking form. To turn and rend you because you told me so was painfully cheap. I was wild, because I was guilty. I was guilty, because I was wild.”
“Dot, don’t——”
“Listen. You say I’ve spoiled you. What rot! What blazing rot! Why, all my life you’ve spoiled me. You’re spoiling me now. And I’m wild because I know that it ends to-night. ‘Nerves’? Yes, if you like. Call it ‘Nerves.’ ” With a queer, dry laugh, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I’ll have to be going, my dear. Have you got the car?”
“She’s in St. James’s Square.”
“Good.” They rose to their feet. “See how I bank on your goodwill. If I were a man, I wouldn’t drive a girl home when she’d just told me off across my own table.”
“I think you would,” said Dick.
John Richard Shere, Viscount Pembury, was thirty-two. He had looked thirty-two for years and was likely to look thirty-two when he was forty. And there you have the man—steady, conservative, faithful. With it all, he was never dull. He was gay, eager, brilliant—could have taken his place anywhere: and his place was high. The tragedy of it was that access to his place was denied him. If his ways were charming, his means were unhappily of no account. What was worse, they would never be anything else. The collapse of Russia had finished the House of Shere. His father had sunk to an annuity and dwelled at a Club. His mother was dead—mercifully. He had sought employment, of course, but his style was against him. Besides, he had been bred to be an earl. He was certainly offered six hundred a year to show motor-cars, but had declined the honour. He was ready to sell his labour, but not his name. His greatest regret was that he would never hunt hounds. Tall, slight, dark, gentle-eyed, he was a man to look twice at. If you did so, you saw the strength of his pleasant mouth and the firm set of his chin. At Oxford, where he had been President of Vincent’s, he was known as ‘The Velvet Glove.’
Lady Elizabeth Crecy was twenty-nine, dark and grey-eyed. She could, I suppose, have married anyone. Her beauty, her wisdom, her excellence in all she did made three distinct, forcible appeals. I do not think the man lives who, had she pleased, could have resisted successfully so dazzling a combination. That she did not please made little enough difference. The result was the same. Men fell in love at first sight—and Sir Hilton Shutter among them. People said he had proposed six times.
Shutter believed in living and indulged his belief. He did himself very well—on thirty-five thousand a year. His ocean-going yacht was the last word. He was forty-six years old and had been handsome. He was also the second baronet and had been High Sheriff of Berkshire, in which county his name was respected almost as highly as he respected it himself. He was well known in London and believed in writing toThe Times. A letter above his signature appeared about once a month.
Lady Elizabeth Crecy had, in her own right, three hundred and fifty a year.
The wind had died and a fine rain was falling when Pembury turned into King Street in quest of his car. The wet did not stop him from looking the old Rolls over to see that she had taken no hurt. Besides, he feared that rain might have forced an entrance. . . . But the coupé had been built by men who knew their business. Cushions and floor were bone dry. He started the engine and left for the Richelieu at once.
Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times. As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many times. . . .
A moment later they were heading west.
“Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.”
“That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age. And Nature’s catching the disease.”
Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay farther, by twenty paces.
The girl stared.
“Why have you stopped, Dick?”
The other smiled.
“Would you like a drink, Dot?”
Elizabeth caught his arm.
“Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.”
“The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial pint of beer——”
“Dick, you darling!”
“—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.”
In silence the bottle passed. . . .
“Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly.
She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again.
Elizabeth put it aside.
“You drink that, Dick.”
“I brought it for you.”
“I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.”
Pembury raised the glass.
“Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly.
He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot upon the clutch. . . .
An instant later they were before the broad steps.
At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head.
“You see I’m crying, Dick.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never seen that before.”
“Nerves, dear, nerves.”
My lady shook her head.
“And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily.
Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand.
“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers.
These were very cold.
Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . .
Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare.
As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across his path. . . .
Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory.
Two buses were coming. He could see them.
By a violent effort he straightened the great car up.
Then she skidded again—the opposite way.
He accelerated—tried to get through. . . .
Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman screamed. . . .
With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side.
As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and wings.
The buses stopped, and their two conductors appeared. In blasphemous terms, the cab-driver called the world to witness that it was not his fault. His fares alighted indignantly. A crowd began to collect. . . .
Then the police came up.
“Were you drunk?” said the Earl shortly.
“I was not, sir. But just now the police have got drunkenness on the brain.”
“What evidence have you?”
“None.”
“Who did you dine with?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“You mean, you can’t drag her in?”
“Exactly.”
“For her sake, or ours?”
“Hers.”
Lord Larch pointed to a table.
“Give me pen and paper,” he said.
Pembury did as he was bid, and the Earl lay back on his pillows and wrote a note.
Mr. Forsyth,Be good enough to attend to this matter. Lord Pembury was not drunk and so should not be convicted. Call me if you think it advisable.Larch.
Mr. Forsyth,
Be good enough to attend to this matter. Lord Pembury was not drunk and so should not be convicted. Call me if you think it advisable.
Larch.
“Take that to Forsyth,” he said. “And dine with me here to-night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Father and son understood each other perfectly.
The latter went his way and duly surrendered to his bail at eleven o’clock.
Evidence of arrest was given, and then, at Forsyth’s request, the case was adjourned.
Some evening papers gave much prominence to the affair. So did some morning papers of the following day. Down in Somerset, with the Fairies, Lady Elizabeth Crecy never saw the reports. Out of regard for her, none of the house-party drew her attention to them. It was known that she and Pembury were very old friends.
As for Pembury himself, the man prayed hourly that, ere the news reached her, the case would be over and done. She was not a reader of news-sheets: she was well out of Town; that anyone would inform her was most unlikely. Of course, she would know one day, but, with luck, not until it was . . . too late . . . with luck. . . .
Mr. Quaritch, of Treasury Counsel, removed his pince-nez.
“The police contend that you were drunk. Three things, they say, corroborate their contention. First, Lord Pembury, you collided with another vehicle. Secondly, you smelt of liquor. Thirdly, a bottle and glass, both of which had recently contained beer, were found in a pocket of your car. Very good. Our answer to the first is that the collision was due to a skid, which was itself due directly to the fact that a taxi shot without warning across your path and indirectly to the fact that you were admittedly driving rather faster than the condition of the streets was warranting. Am I right?”
“Perfectly,” said the delinquent.
The lawyer inclined his head.
“Our reply to the second is that, very shortly before the accident happened, you had consumed one half of a small bottle of beer.”
“I had.”
“Very good. What is our answer to the third?”
Pembury shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve no explanation to give. Finding a bottle and glass doesn’t prove I was blind.”
“It’s pretty strong evidence of drinking. Mind you, Iknowyou weren’t drunk. But we’ve got to satisfy the Court. What construction will the Court put upon the discovery of that bottle and glass? Assuming the Magistrate is reasonable, he will consider it peculiar. Even if they’re addicted to drink, people of your position do not as a rule go about with a glass and a bottle of beer. So, finding the discovery peculiar, the Magistrate will expect an explanation. If you don’t give him one, he will very naturally put the worst construction upon those unfortunate utensils.”
“What’ll he think?”
The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he’ll think. He’ll certainly assume that your explanation is not forthcoming because you know very well that it wouldn’t assist your case. And if he thinks any further, I suppose he’ll class you with the thirsty and prudent undesirable who carries a flask in his pocket wherever he goes.”
“And he’ll send me down?”
“Wait. The time is late in the evening—ten-twenty-five. That is the hour when those who do get drunk may be most easily encountered. You have a smash—which ought to have been avoided. You smell of liquor. Real evidence of liquor, recently consumed, is found. The police say you were drunk. If you were on the Bench, would you accept the accused’s unsupported statement that he was sober?”
“Frankly, I don’t think I should.”
“Add to all this two scandalously irrelevant facts, which, because the Magistrate is human, will be constantly present to his mind. One is that of late the crater of public indignation upon the subject of drunken drivers has been in violent eruption: the other is that at the present moment there are hundreds of thousands of people who are simply living for an opportunity of demonstrating that there is one law for the poor and another for the rich.”
“And he’ll send me down?”
“I think he will have no alternative.”
Lord Pembury laced his fingers and put them behind his head.
“Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve nothing to say.”
Forsyth put in his oar.
“Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of beer.”
“Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared it with a friend.”
“Then produce the friend.”
“I can’t,” said Pembury.
“ ‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?”
“Won’t.”
Forsyth threw up his hands.
Quaritch leaned forward.
“You do see the point, Lord Pembury? The introduction of the friend makes it a shade more palatable, but it doesn’t eliminate that distressing element of eccentricity. Is it your practice to—er—sport a bottle of beer? Of course not. Then why did you do it? From hospitable motives? For a wager? Why?”
“I’m not going to say any more,” said Viscount Pembury. “I’m sorry to be so graceless. I know you’re trying to help me and I’m carefully crampin’ your style. But there you are. Please do what you can with what you’ve got.”
There was a long silence.
“He mayn’t . . . mayn’t be content with a fine, you know,” said Forsyth.
“I know. It can’t be helped.”
Counsel folded his Brief and rose to his feet.
The conference was at an end.
As the door closed behind Pembury—
“Who the devil is he shielding?” said Quaritch.
“I wish to God I knew,” said Forsyth bitterly.
Sir Hilton Shutter was thoroughly pleased with life. For one thing, he was standing with his back to a roaring fire: for another, he was a guest at Castle Charing, a pleasant residence to which he had long hoped to be invited: for another, his future wife, seated on a sofa before him, was looking particularly lovely in a frock of powder-blue and gold: finally, from the solemn, almost subdued demeanour of his host and hostess, he perceived that his discourse was creating a profound impression.
A booming note slid into his voice.
“Leadership. To-day, more than ever before, people require a lead. Point them the way, and they’ll move. But you must point it definitely. Your indication must be downright, courageous.” He paused to flick his cigar ash into the grate. “I wrote toThe Timesto-day,” he continued, frowning.
“Did you?” said his hostess pleasantly. “What about?”
“This question of drunken motorists,” was the reply.
Mrs. Fairie started, and her husband’s hand flew to his moustache.
“It’s more than a public scandal,” continued Shutter. “It’s a national disgrace. I don’t mean——”
“I know,” said Fairie nervously. “There’s been a lot of agitation about it, but——”
“I agree. But the evil remains.”
“Oh, they’ll stamp it out,” said Fairie. “Trust them. People are beginning to see it’s not good enough. By the way——”
“By ‘national disgrace,’ ” said Shutter, “I mean that the failure of the authorities to observe the will of those who appoint and pay them to do their will is a state of affairs which would not be tolerated in any other country in the world.”
“I agree,” said his host heartily. “It’s wicked.”
“Monstrous,” said Mrs. Fairie. “What about some Bridge?”
“One minute,” said Lady Elizabeth. “What’s monstrous?”
“This drunkenness stunt,” said Fairie. “Let’s——”
“No, no, no,” cried Shutter. “I thought you didn’t quite follow me. My point is that, outrageous as is the offence, the failure of those whose signal duty it is to eradicate it is still more infamous.”
“That’s the word I was trying to think of,” said Fairie. “ ‘Infamous.’ So it is. What about roping in the others an’ havin’ a quiet game of——”
“As I said in my letter to-day,” said Sir Hilton, frowning, “the community no longer asks for protection—it demands the abolition of these pests: and that, by the infliction in every case, without fear or favour, of a penalty—imprisonment, of course—so harsh as, once for all, to frighten would-be offenders back into the path of decency.”
“You are fierce,” said Elizabeth. “Why——”
“Yes, isn’t he?” cried Mrs. Fairie. “Never mind. Let’s——”
“Isn’t it time someone was?” demanded Sir Hilton. “Look at the latest——”
“Ouch!” squealed Fairie, leaping to his feet.
“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Elizabeth, considerably startled.
“Must’ve sat on a pin or something,” said Fairie desperately. “What about that poker? It’s much——”
“As I was saying,” boomed Shutter, “look at the latest case. There’s a man with all the advantages which birth and education can offer——”
“Excuse me, Sir Hilton,” blurted Fairie, “but—I know you’ll forgive my saying so, but the fellow in question’s rather a friend of mine, and——”
“Pembury is?”
“WHO?”
Elizabeth was on her feet, flushed, blazing-eyed.
“Who?” she repeated.
Fairie sank into his seat with a groan.
“Pembury, Elizabeth,” said Shutter. “Young Pembury. Haven’t you seen the papers?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, “I haven’t. What do the papers say . . . about . . . Lord Pembury?”
The broad shoulders were shrugged.
“Oh, he’s the latest instance of the drunken driver. That’s all. I’m not particularly surprised, but——”
“Hang it, man,” cried Fairie, “you’ve no right to——”
“Why aren’t you surprised?” said Lady Elizabeth.
Her fiancé stared. Then he gave a short laugh.
“Oh, I don’t know. But don’t let’s pursue it. Didn’t you hear Fairie say that he’s——”
“Does it occur to you that Lord Pembury’s a friend of mine?”
“I know he was,” said Sir Hilton.
“Is,” said Elizabeth. “Is. And always will be. Never mind. Who says he was drunk?”
“The police, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie, putting an arm about her waist. “He ran into something—a taxi, on Sunday night——What is it, darling?”
Elizabeth was trembling violently.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Let me sit down. ‘On Sunday night,’ you were saying. Yes?”
“On Sunday night, in Park Lane. He wasn’t hurt. And the police—you know what they are—immediately jumped to the conclusion——”
“Be just, Mrs. Fairie,” said Shutter. “It wasn’t a question of jumping to any conclusion. Finding him drunk, they——”
“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Fairie, setting a brandy and soda in Elizabeth’s hand, “whether they found him drunk or sober has yet to be decided. At present he’s merely charged with being drunk.”
“Of course,” said Shutter, “if you like to split hairs——”
“It isn’t a question of hair-splitting,” said his host. “It’s a question of cold facts. If the charge is dismissed—as it will be—he could sue you for slander for this, and just waltz home.”
Elizabeth was speaking.
“Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s happened?”
“I will,” said her host. “Dick had a smash late on Sunday night. Nobody was hurt. He was arrested and charged. They say he smelt of liquor and a bottle was found in the car. He appeared on Monday morning and pleaded ‘Not guilty.’ Evidence of arrest was given and the case was adjourned for a week.”
“What’s to-day?” said Elizabeth.
“Friday.”
“Thank you. Go on.”
“That’s all, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie. “We didn’t tell you, because——”
“You did, though, didn’t you?” said Elizabeth, looking Sir Hilton in the face.
“I naturally assumed——”
“Quite a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Recreations—golf, yachting, assumption. You assumed that he was drunk. You assumed that I knew about it. I suppose you assumed that, in view of my knowledge, I should relish your recent conversation, including the fact that you had written toThe Times, urging ‘the infliction of penalties—imprisonment, of course—so harsh . . .’ ” She stopped dead there. Then her voice rang out. “Why did you write that letter?”
Sir Hilton started.
“ ‘Why?’ ”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well—er—because, I suppose, I felt——”
“Was it in the hope that it would appear on the day Dick’s case came on?”
“Good Heavens, Elizabeth! What——”
“Cut it out,” said the girl, quietly. “I know. And so do Madge and Harry. We all three know. And so do you. And I’ll tell you another thing we know—we three. We know Dick wasn’t drunk.”
“Right!” cried the Fairies in a breath.
“And so do you,” said Elizabeth, rising.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Shutter. “If I like to——”
The girl stretched out her hand.
“Just hold my drink for a minute, will you?” she said.
Mechanically, Sir Hilton received the glass.
Elizabeth took off her pearls and slid an enormous emerald off her finger. She pitched the gems together at Shutter’s feet. Then she looked into his eyes.
“How I came to make such a mistake, I can’t conceive. I think I must have been mad. To be perfectly honest, I liked the idea of being rich. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not so terribly to blame, because, when you asked me to marry you, you dangled your rotten wealth before my eyes. You prayed it in aid of your suit. And I thought it was good enough, I did. . . . Well, I find I was wrong.”
“But, Elizabeth——”
“My good sir,I wouldn’t be seen dead with you.” She stretched out her hand. “Thank you.”
She took the glass from his fingers and flung the liquor in his face.
Sir Hilton recoiled and Madge Fairie started to her feet. Lady Elizabeth and Fairie stood perfectly still.
Floating from behind closed doors, the lilt of the latest fox-trot disputed possession of the silence with the pleasant flare and crackle of the logs in the grate.
“What’s Mr. Forsyth want?”
“I don’t know at all, my lord. He simply told me to find you, wherever you were, and bring you back in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
Pembury, who was at his tailor’s, adjusted his tie.
“All right,” he said slowly. “If you’ll get a cab, I’ll be ready in two minutes’ time.”
The clerk bowed and withdrew.
Pembury wondered, frowning, what was afoot.
Had Forsyth got hold of something? Had he been making inquiries and come on the truth? Had the Richelieu been talking? Had . . . Forsyth had found out something. Not a doubt of it. Something about Sunday night. And Forsyth was going to try to force his hand. He was going to threaten to put Elizabeth wise. . . .
Pembury smiled a grim smile.
As he entered the lawyer’s room—
“Good morning, Dick,” said Elizabeth. “Where did they pick you up? I told them to try——”
“Forsyth,” said Pembury sternly, “I don’t remember instructing you——”
“One minute,” cried Forsyth. “One minute. My hands are clean. I haven’t moved in the matter. I never found the lady. She found me.”
“But——”
“It’s perfectly true,” said Elizabeth. “I only heard last night. Of course, it’s my own fault. I really must read the papers: but they’re so frightfully dull—usually.”
“Who told you?” said Pembury.
“Hilton, of course. But observe how astute I am. A fool would have rushed to you. The woman of the world goes to a lawyer.”
“Why does she do that?”
“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Saturday, and lawyers are closed at one. By the time I’d had it out with you, the lawyers would have been closed. As it is, we’re in just nice time. My statement’s being typed now.”
“I won’t have you called,” said Pembury.
“Quite sure?” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Positive. That’s flat. You can’t be called without my consent, and, short of pressin’ me to death, you won’t get that.”
“But, Dick——”
“My dear, it’s no earthly. I’m absolutely resolved. I not only won’t call you, but I won’t have you near the Court.”
He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs.
“Now, Dick, just listen. Put yourself in my place. Supposing I was charged with something I hadn’t done. And everything——”
“Dot,” said Pembury, “it’s not the slightest good. You know as well as I do that it’s a question of sex. What’s sauce for the goose may be sauce for the gander—but it can’t always be served. For people to know that we were dining ’ld be bad enough, but what about the beer?”
“Well, what about it?” said Dot. “What’s the matter with the truth? Remembering my affection for the beverage, you were considerate enough——”
“My dear girl,” said Pembury, “it’s out of the question. You can’t parade intimate nursery incidents in a Court of Law. Possibly, if we were brother and sister——”
“We are, practically. As I was telling Mr. Forsyth——”
“Well, it’s not the moment to advertise it. Forsyth knows that as well as I do. Of course, he’s out to pull me out of the muck, but I’m not takin’ any. Either I get out myself, or I stay where I am.I won’t have you called.More. Unless you give me your word not only to hold your tongue but not to come within a mile of the Joy Shop till it’s all over, I’ll—I’ll plead ‘Guilty.’ ”
Forsyth shifted in his chair.
Lady Elizabeth raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Well, there you are,” she said. “If you will cut your own little throat, I can’t stop you. Only, I can’t marry a man who’s been convicted of drunkenness.” Pembury leaped to his feet. “I can’t, really. You see, I’m funny like that. It’s—it’s against my principles.”
“Dot!” shouted Pembury. “Dot! What on earth d’you mean? You’re engaged to——”
“Finish, my dear, finish. I’ve turned him down. You’ll see it inThe Timeson Monday. I just couldn’t stick the swine. If we could have lived apart, I might have managed it. But together—no thanks. Charing opened my eyes. I was happy enough there, until he came. Then everything crashed. Better is a cold tub, where love is, than a tiled bathroom and hatred therewith. Don’t you agree, Mr. Forsyth?”
“Dot! Dot, my darling, is this a have?”
Pembury had her hands and was gazing into her eyes. The man was transfigured, blazing.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “It isn’t. It’s ordinary, natural love. Don’t go, Mr. Forsyth. I’ld rather like you to stay. I say it’s ordinary love. I’ve loved you for years, Dick. But when you never spoke, at last I came to the conclusion that you didn’t care for me—that way. And so—I turned elsewhere. Not to another man, because there was no other man and never could be. So I turned to money, instead. I told you I was degenerate. . . . And then, when on Sunday night you showed your hand—the hand you’d never played, the hand I’d been waiting for you to play for such a long, long time—I didn’t know what to do. You see, things had gone rather far. . . . And then—Sir Hilton Shutter very kindly showed me the way.”
A door closed. Forsyth had disobeyed.
“But, Dot, my darling, we’ll be awfully poor.”
“D’you think I care? I only worshipped riches because I hadn’t got you. Luxury was the god I set up in your place. I tried to drown my love in a butt of Malmsey. But, you see, it couldn’t be done. Malmsey’s sickening stuff. I’ld much sooner drink beer. And now about this old trial. I’m to be in attendance, in case——”
“Oh, damn the trial,” said Pembury, taking her in his arms. “I haven’t kissed your blessed mouth since——”
“August the seventh, 1914,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve got it down in a diary. ‘He kissed my lips.’ ”
“My sweet, my sweet. . . .”
The girl just clung to him.
After a moment or two she lifted a radiant face.
“I think I shall have to marry you, whether you’re convicted or not. You see, you’re not only my Best Man—you’re so much the very best man I ever saw.”
On Monday, those sections of the Press which had been hoping to be able to announceSensational Developmentsunder the heading WELL-KNOWN VISCOUNT CHARGED were more than satisfied.
Before the case was called on, the Magistrate left the Bench, and Quaritch and his opponent were summoned behind the scenes. This was unusual. By the time the three reappeared excitement was running high.
The Magistrate’s clerk nodded, and the case was called on.
Pembury stepped into the dock, and the Magistrate cleared his throat.
“Mr. Shorthorn,” he said. The Solicitor to the Police rose to his feet and bowed. “I have decided, before proceeding with this case, to tell you that I have formed a very definite opinion.
“The position in which I stand is one of peculiar difficulty. If the charge was less grave, if the social position of the defendant was less considerable, if all the circumstances did not combine, rightly or wrongly, to attract to this case a good deal of attention, my path would be plain and easy to follow. As it is, I have thought proper to consult the Chief Magistrate and I may say that he agrees with me that the course which I am about to take is the only one which is at once convenient and just.
“By the merest accident, I am in possession of information which has a direct and powerful bearing upon this charge. That information would become evidence, if I could be put into the box.”
He paused.
Except for the noise of breathing and the flick of a reporter’s page, the Court, which was crammed with people, was still as death.
In a retired waiting-room Lady Elizabeth sat fretfully straining her ears, continually crossing and recrossing two sweet pretty legs and striving desperately to possess a mutinous spirit.
The Magistrate proceeded.
“In view of what I have said, Mr. Shorthorn, would you prefer that another Magistrate should deal with this case?”
“I am more than content, sir, that you should deal with it.”
Mr. Shorthorn resumed his seat.
“And you, Mr. Quaritch?”
Treasury Counsel smiled whimsically.
“The best, sir,” he said, “is good enough for me.”
An attempt at applause, which succeeded the roar of laughter, was instantly suppressed.
“Very well, then. On the evening of the defendant’s arrest I was dining out. Though he is probably unaware of the fact, I patronized the same restaurant as he did and, what is more, I sat at the next table.” Everyone’s gaze shifted to the accused. The latter stood like a rock. “And I observed—if I may say so, with surprise—that he drank nothing but water.”
A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the Court.
“I see that my words were equivocal. I should say that my surprise was provoked not by his personal failure to drink wine—for I do not know his habits and I never set eyes on him before—but by the spectacle of anyone of his age who to-day considers water fit for internal use.”
The Court laughed tremulously.
“The results of my observation do not end there. We are told that the collision occurred at ten-twenty-five. As luck will have it, I saw the defendant leave. I did not notice the time, for there was, of course, no reason at all why I should: but, recalling my own movements, I am satisfied that he finally left that restaurant not earlier than ten-fifteen. He was then unquestionably sober.
“The opinion I have formed is that in no circumstances is it possible for a man who is sober at ten-fifteen, who for the last two hours has touched no alcohol, to be drunk at ten-twenty-five.”
That upon the evening in question the learned Magistrate’s watch was ten minutes fast was not his fault. The man was scrupulous.
The case for the prosecution died there and then.
The prosecution was withdrawn, apologies were offered, the defendant left the dock, applause was suppressed.
Mr. Quaritch knew his job.
He rose to his feet.
“If, sir, I may complete the solution of this matter by disclosing what happened in the ten minutes of time during which my client was under observation neither by the judiciary nor the executive, I must confess that he seized the opportunity to consume a small glass of beer.”
The Court roared its merriment.
“Possibly, the discovery of a small bottle of Bass—grim relic of some picnic—was responsible for his lapse from grace. Upon that point I have no instructions. It follows that at the time of the collision he indubitably smelt of liquor, and, while personally I should become uneasy if to smell of liquor were to be regarded as the peculiar privilege of drunkards, it was presumably his indignant recognition of that mocking perfume which provoked the constable, whose name, I observe, is Worthington, to . . .”
The rest of the sentence was lost in an explosion of delight—which the defendant missed.
In a retired waiting-room, cheek against cheek, Pembury and Lady Elizabeth let the world slip. . . .
And, as I have said, certain sections of the Press were perfectly satisfied. Could they have perused one document, reposing in Counsel’s Brief, I imagine their satisfaction would have melted like snow upon the hearth. The very first words would have fused it—THE LADY ELIZABETH CRECY will say. . . . As it was, they were perfectly satisfied. And, when they were able to announce the lady’s engagement tothe hero of a recent cause célèbre, they could have thrown up their hats.