You ask me why I never turned up this morning. I can see no earthly reason why you shouldn’t know. Convention has offered me fifty, but they’re none of them sound. If either of us was a fool, if the understanding which you and Madge share was less perfect, finally, if you were almost any sort of man but the sort of man you are, it would be different. As it is. . . .Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth.As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there you are. . . .You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell you I love you better than anything on earth.But my impulse is to do both.So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this morning.Nell.
You ask me why I never turned up this morning. I can see no earthly reason why you shouldn’t know. Convention has offered me fifty, but they’re none of them sound. If either of us was a fool, if the understanding which you and Madge share was less perfect, finally, if you were almost any sort of man but the sort of man you are, it would be different. As it is. . . .
Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth.
As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there you are. . . .
You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell you I love you better than anything on earth.But my impulse is to do both.So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this morning.
Nell.
The royal box at the Imperial was available. So, incidentally, were more than half the stalls. The occasion, however, was demanding privacy.
So soon as the curtain rose, Crispin opened the door and ushered Eleanor into the withdrawing-room.
“Crispin, why have you done this? You know what I said.”
Standing still by the table, the girl made a pathetically beautiful picture. Her simple white frock, her short hair, her little folded hands, her high colour, the piteous droop of her lips—above all, the tense dog-like devotion of her big brown eyes lent her the air of a child that has pleaded guilty and come to judgment.
Willoughby steeled his heart.
“One can say things,” he said, “which it isn’t easy to write. Sit down, Nell.”
He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. Then he took out a cigar and lighted it carefully.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your letter was rather a godsend.”
Miss Cloke started.
“A—a godsend?” she stammered.
“A godsend,” said Crispin comfortably. “But let that pass. I’ll tell you why presently. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of something like this.” Eleanor opened her mouth, shut it, hesitated and then sat down. “I couldn’t very well say so, but when Madge first suggested that we should hunt in pairs I thought it was playing with fire. You see, as you hint in your letter, I—well, I’ve had some, Nell. It’s a difficult thing to say, but . . .”
The sentence slid into an apologetic snigger.
“You’re rather—rather popular?” said Eleanor, using an odd, strained tone.
“Exactly. Heaven knows why, but you wouldn’t believe the number of, er, applications I’ve had in the last five years.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed.
“What fools women are,” she said.
“And men,” said Crispin, with a generous air. “And men—often enough. In the present case, I wasn’t afraid for myself because, though you’re awfully attractive, Nell, I’m—I’m funny like that.” He laughed self-consciously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve got one simply appalling fault.”
“One—yes?”
“Well, I’m frightfully critical—particular.”
There was a frozen silence.
Then—
“Where,” said Eleanor in a choking voice, “where do I fall short?”
Crispin shifted uneasily.
“Don’t let’s go into details,” he said. “It’ll only——”
“Please.”
“My dear Nell, you are so attractive and you’ve got so many——”
“That’ll do,” said Eleanor Cloke. “And now please tell me exactly where I fail.”
Crispin hesitated. Then—
“Perhaps it’s as well,” he muttered. “You see. . . . Nell, my dear, it’s your walk.”
“Mywhat?” shrieked Eleanor.
“Your walk—carriage, my dear. In repose you’re immense. Standing by the table just now, you were simply it. But when you move—I don’t know what it is, but you, er, you don’t do yourself justice. You’re inclined to . . . to . . .”
“Waddle?” said Eleanor mercilessly.
“Not exactly waddle, but. . . . Well, perhaps you would call it ‘waddling.’ But it’s nothing to write home about. The trouble is I’m afraid it’s occurred to David.”
“What has? My wal—waddle?”
“Your walk. I may be wrong, but. . . . Nell, it’s your only blemish, but, as it happens, the one thing David’s noticed ever since I’ve known him was the way a woman walked. When you two said you were engaged, you could have knocked me down. But apparently——”
“He happens,” said Eleanor icily, “to have affirmed on more than one occasion that I had the bearing of a queen.”
Crispin shrugged his shoulders.
“Love is blind,” he said shortly. “But of course I may be wrong. Still, if it isn’t that, I don’t know what it is. If you wash that out, you’re practically flawless,” and with that he leaned back, thrust his cigar between his lips and smoked luxuriously.
“What do you mean,” said Eleanor “ ‘—if it isn’t that’?”
Crispin started. Then he rose to his feet and began to pace the room nervously.
Eleanor Cloke watched him with smouldering eyes.
After two or three turns he stopped in front of her chair.
“I said your note was a godsend. Well, so in a way it is. Nell, if you value your happiness, you’d better give David up.”
The girl stared.
“Thanks very much—why? Are you afraid my waddle will get on his nerves?”
“I’m afraid,” said Crispin, “it has.” Eleanor smothered an exclamation. “At least, if it hasn’t,” he added, “then something else has. Nell, I’m grieved to tell you, but he’s looking elsewhere.”
“Who to?”
Crispin shook his head.
“I’ve not the faintest idea. But I’m pretty sure he’s cooling. Now he’s not the man to cool off unless somewhere around there’s another brighter fire. Of course, we—I may be wrong.”
“Madge thinks so?”
Crispin threw away his cigar, picked up a chair and sat himself down with the table between himself and Eleanor Cloke.
“Look here,” he said, “if you want to be happy, Nell, you’ll take my advice.Back out before it’s too late.If you and he marry, you’re done. Madge and I’ve always been afraid that you wouldn’t be able to hold him. Well, it looks as though we were right. . . . You’re awfully sweet, Nell, and David’s one of the best. He’ld never go looking for trouble—he’s not that sort. But he’s an attractive man, and there are plenty of girls. Only a strong personality—a charm that fills up his life—will ever hold David Herrick.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly, nodding her head. “And my charm’s not strong enough?”
“I’m frightfully sorry, Nell, but I’m afraid it isn’t. The mercy is that you haven’t burned your boats.”
There was a long silence.
From behind the closed door a sudden swell of applause came to their ears, subduing for an instant the faint roar and jingle of the traffic, the toots of innumerable horns, and even the staccato clamour of a fire-engine’s tongue. Then the demonstration died down, leaving the distant racket to snarl and grumble over the bone of silence as a beast frets jealously over the consumption of its prey.
At length—
“Well, I’m greatly obliged,” said Miss Cloke, with a dry laugh. “It was a good thing I wrote, wasn’t it?”
“It was Fate,” said Crispin piously. “ ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.’ ”
“No doubt,” said Eleanor. “Any way, you’ve opened my eyes—wide. . . . By the way, have you got my, er, application or did you leave it on the piano?”
Crispin began to search his pockets.
“I had it,” he murmured. “I remember thinking when I was dressing ‘I must not leave that about.’ ”
“Never mind,” said Eleanor in a shaking voice. “I expect the servants have found it and thrown it away.”
“Here it is,” said Crispin triumphantly.
Eleanor snatched the letter and thrust it into her bag.
Then she rose to her feet.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I think I’ll go. Don’t let me take you away. I’m only sorry to have put you to so much expense.”
“My dear,” said Crispin, “the thought that I’ve opened your eyes makes it cheap at the price.”
“It is obvious,” said Eleanor, “that the great thing in life is to know oneself.”
“That’s the idea,” cried Crispin, thumping the table with his fist. “You’ve got it in one, Nell. And it’s never too late to begin.”
Speechless with indignation, Miss Cloke regarded him.
Then she recovered her face and began to shake with laughter. . . .
Crispin watched her open-mouthed.
At last she pulled herself together and passed to the door.
“Poor . . . old . . . Madge,” she said deliberately.
Crispin swallowed.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “She’s only rather tired.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Eleanor. “I think I should be—rather tired. . . after five years.”
The next second she was gone.
Captain Willoughby took out a handkerchief and proceeded to mop his face. Then he stepped to a mirror and adjusted his tie.
“And they think they’re acting,” he muttered, jerking his head towards the box. “Well, well—it’s all in the day’s work. . . .” He fell to pulling his moustache. Suddenly he burst out laughing. “What a game Life is!” he cried. “I try to protect my own skin, and they give me the V.C.; I deliberately scrap my reputation to do a girl a good turn, and—and it costs me a jolly good friend and seven quid.” He lighted a cigarette and picked up his coat. “I wonder how Madge has got on,” he continued musingly. “And perhaps it’ld be as well if I had a look at the play. I can’t reappear till it’s over, and she might ask what it’s about.”
He hung up his coat, extinguished his cigarette and entered the box.
The wedding of David Herrick and Eleanor Cloke took place early in May and was a brilliant success.
The bride looked extraordinarily beautiful, and if the dignity of her gait was slightly affected, that was a fault upon the right side.
At the reception the bridegroom, who had eaten no lunch, ate nothing at all. I imagine he had decided that the occasion was one upon which no risks should be run.
Captain and Mrs. Willoughby were among the guests.
The tongues which had recently wagged fairly spouted the ‘Amens,’ and afterwards slobbered over the ‘enchanting atmosphere of a true love-match.’ Subduing a feeling of nausea, Madge and Crispin agreed enthusiastically.
The relations, however, between the Herricks and Willoughbys seemed to leave something to be desired. The old familiar affection seemed to have been superseded by a boisterous cordiality which was rather too hearty to be true.
These conditions prevailed until the month of July.
It was then for the first time that Mr. and Mrs. Herrick spent twenty-four hours apart. And that was against their will—they were really absurdly in love. But Eleanor had a cold, and Tattersall’s Sale Ring may be a draughty place. . . .
For all that, Madge Willoughby was there, and she and David had an engaging talk—so engaging, in fact, that the mare which he had come to Newmarket to buy became the property of another at less than half the figure to which Herrick was prepared to go.
That same July morning Mrs. Herrick received a note.
Nell dear,I gave you back your letter because you asked for it, but to part with it went against the grain rather more than did anything else I had to do that night. You see, next to Madge, I love you rather better than anyone else, and I was so pleased to know that, next to David, you felt the same about me. Besides, to be strictly truthful, it was the only ‘application’ I’d ever had. . . . Still, perhaps it’s as well.One or two confessions you’ll value.First, before your delivery of the word ‘waddle,’ I almost broke down. I never could have believed that so much withering contempt could be compressed into so homely a dissyllable. Secondly, I never missed one of your thrusts; they were superb. Finally, never to my dying day shall I know how, when first you were standing by the table, I resisted the temptation to take you in my arms. Before we got down to it, I mean. Nell, it—was—irresistible. . . . Yet, I came through. Truly, ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.’Crispin.
Nell dear,
I gave you back your letter because you asked for it, but to part with it went against the grain rather more than did anything else I had to do that night. You see, next to Madge, I love you rather better than anyone else, and I was so pleased to know that, next to David, you felt the same about me. Besides, to be strictly truthful, it was the only ‘application’ I’d ever had. . . . Still, perhaps it’s as well.
One or two confessions you’ll value.
First, before your delivery of the word ‘waddle,’ I almost broke down. I never could have believed that so much withering contempt could be compressed into so homely a dissyllable. Secondly, I never missed one of your thrusts; they were superb. Finally, never to my dying day shall I know how, when first you were standing by the table, I resisted the temptation to take you in my arms. Before we got down to it, I mean. Nell, it—was—irresistible. . . . Yet, I came through. Truly, ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.’
Crispin.
As her husband came in that evening—
“Well, my darling,” cried Eleanor, “what d’you know?”
“Little enough, old lady. I lost the mare, but Madge and Crispin were there, and they helped me home. They want us to dine to-morrow. Will you be fit?”
Eleanor sat up in bed.
“I’ld love to,” she said. “But d’you think we possibly can? I’ve put the Festivals off.”
“Good Heavens, yes. I mean, they’re practically relatives, aren’t they—Crispin and Madge?”
“Practically,” said Eleanor. “And much—much more intelligent.”
SUSAN
Nicholas John Kilmuir, Dukeof Culloden, turned his letter about. Presently he fell into a reverie.
He was a quiet, good-looking man a short thirty-six years old. As luck would have it, he looked an aristocrat and perhaps because of this, was seldom recognized. His features were fine and clean-cut, his shoulders square, his head well set on. He was tall, moved perfectly, rode as though he were part of his horse. His gentle brown eyes and pleasant voice, above all, his steady, grave smile, made many friends. In France, his men had reverenced him as a god. His tenantry did not reverence him, because reverence was not among their faculties, but the bluntest crofter would have died for him as a matter of course. Culloden understood this devotion and valued it as it deserved. He spent ten months of the year at Ruth Castle and full four-fifths of his income upon his estate. And since in this world much is expected of a duke, the remaining fifth had to be gingerly expended. Thanks to his loyalty to his own, Culloden was a comparatively poor man. He could not, for instance, afford to keep a car. . . .
At the present moment he was rather awkwardly placed.
His operation had been an expensive business. To judge by the surgeon’s fee-book, dukes’ appendices were twice as refractory as those of commoners. Again, his bill at the nursing-home had been worthy of his rank. More. He was to have convalesced upon an old friend’s steam-yacht: then at the last moment his host had fallen sick and the cruise had been cancelled.
Staying at his Club in St. James’s, Culloden, who was really hard up and had been medically forbidden to return to the isolation of Ruth for at least six weeks, did not know what to do.
It is not surprising that an invitation which in the ordinary way he would not have cared to accept seemed to have fallen from heaven. . . .
c/o Comte Boschetto,Château ChiennileCannes.Dear Nick,I know it’s not your practice to batten on people you’ve never seen in your life, but I really think for once you’ll have to climb down. My dear fellow, you MUST. You’re going spare: to judge by your blasphemous incoherence, the weather in England is foul: the vacuum within you demands consolation in the shape of complete relaxation appropriately leavened with nice, gentle exercise. Very well, then. Join me.Listen.The Boschettos are mad to have you, of course, but don’t let that stop you. They mayn’t be pre-war, but they’re insanely kind. Their one idea is to do their guests about fifteen times as well as they’ve ever been done before—in an inoffensive way. What’s more, they actually bring it off.First, they leave you alone. We make up our own parties, go as we please. I get up when I like. I retire when I like. I eat and drink what I like, when I like. I do what I like. I come and go as I happen to feel inclined. In fact, so long as you sleep in, they don’t care what you do if only you’re happy. I’m one of the few who make a point of seeing the Countess about every other day just to tell her how much I’m enjoying myself. Whereupon she almost weeps upon my neck and wails that there are always sandwiches and champagne in thesalon bleufrom eleven a.m. on, but that if I prefer port I’ve only to ask for it.Secondly, I thought I knew a thing or two about the contents of the top-drawer, but I didn’t. My son, I’m a blinkin’ tenderfoot. Luxury? I tell you, before I came here I couldn’t spell the word. Of course the château’s palatial—you never saw such a place. Over thirty bathrooms. My bedroom faces south and is about forty feet square. Fifteen cars all going all day long and half the night, and the stables full of ripping good ponies and hacks. Three motor-boats. As for the servants, I didn’t know there were so many in France. They literally swarm. I have a valet to myself, and so, I believe, has everyone. And the women have maids. Two private bands—three, I think. Dancing all night—if you like. If I want a car or a cocktail or a Corona or any imaginable thing, I just call the nearest wallah, and there it is. God knows what it costs—I should think about two thousand a day—pounds, not francs, pounds. But apparently that doesn’t matter. I tell you, it’s indescribable. . . .Hospitality like this seems to be proof against abuse. Short of larceny, you can’t abuse it. Your duty towards your hostess and your duty towards yourself are synonymous terms. The most dutiful guest is the most self-indulgent. Naturally, such an establishment has attracted a motley crowd: still, there are no flagrant undesirables, and most of us mean well. Bertram Scarlet has just left—amid lamentations. The Pemburys are coming. So you see. . . .I play golf all day, have a rubber of bridge before dinner—small tables, of course—and do a little dancing afterwards. Eleven o’clock usually sees me out. I ran into the Fairies the other day on the links and after a lot of bickering persuaded them to come along after dinner. They and Bertram and I and one or two others made up our own party and had a good evening. When they said ‘Good-night’ to the Countess, she thanked them effusively for coming and begged them to leave the Carlton and stay here instead. She’d no idea who they were. They left dazedly in a Hispano limousine with two chauffeurs, wondering whether it was all a dream, I tell you, the whole thing is incredible—has to be seen to be believed.So COME.Yours,Teddy Mandeville.
c/o Comte Boschetto,
Château Chiennile
Cannes.
Dear Nick,
I know it’s not your practice to batten on people you’ve never seen in your life, but I really think for once you’ll have to climb down. My dear fellow, you MUST. You’re going spare: to judge by your blasphemous incoherence, the weather in England is foul: the vacuum within you demands consolation in the shape of complete relaxation appropriately leavened with nice, gentle exercise. Very well, then. Join me.
Listen.
The Boschettos are mad to have you, of course, but don’t let that stop you. They mayn’t be pre-war, but they’re insanely kind. Their one idea is to do their guests about fifteen times as well as they’ve ever been done before—in an inoffensive way. What’s more, they actually bring it off.
First, they leave you alone. We make up our own parties, go as we please. I get up when I like. I retire when I like. I eat and drink what I like, when I like. I do what I like. I come and go as I happen to feel inclined. In fact, so long as you sleep in, they don’t care what you do if only you’re happy. I’m one of the few who make a point of seeing the Countess about every other day just to tell her how much I’m enjoying myself. Whereupon she almost weeps upon my neck and wails that there are always sandwiches and champagne in thesalon bleufrom eleven a.m. on, but that if I prefer port I’ve only to ask for it.
Secondly, I thought I knew a thing or two about the contents of the top-drawer, but I didn’t. My son, I’m a blinkin’ tenderfoot. Luxury? I tell you, before I came here I couldn’t spell the word. Of course the château’s palatial—you never saw such a place. Over thirty bathrooms. My bedroom faces south and is about forty feet square. Fifteen cars all going all day long and half the night, and the stables full of ripping good ponies and hacks. Three motor-boats. As for the servants, I didn’t know there were so many in France. They literally swarm. I have a valet to myself, and so, I believe, has everyone. And the women have maids. Two private bands—three, I think. Dancing all night—if you like. If I want a car or a cocktail or a Corona or any imaginable thing, I just call the nearest wallah, and there it is. God knows what it costs—I should think about two thousand a day—pounds, not francs, pounds. But apparently that doesn’t matter. I tell you, it’s indescribable. . . .
Hospitality like this seems to be proof against abuse. Short of larceny, you can’t abuse it. Your duty towards your hostess and your duty towards yourself are synonymous terms. The most dutiful guest is the most self-indulgent. Naturally, such an establishment has attracted a motley crowd: still, there are no flagrant undesirables, and most of us mean well. Bertram Scarlet has just left—amid lamentations. The Pemburys are coming. So you see. . . .
I play golf all day, have a rubber of bridge before dinner—small tables, of course—and do a little dancing afterwards. Eleven o’clock usually sees me out. I ran into the Fairies the other day on the links and after a lot of bickering persuaded them to come along after dinner. They and Bertram and I and one or two others made up our own party and had a good evening. When they said ‘Good-night’ to the Countess, she thanked them effusively for coming and begged them to leave the Carlton and stay here instead. She’d no idea who they were. They left dazedly in a Hispano limousine with two chauffeurs, wondering whether it was all a dream, I tell you, the whole thing is incredible—has to be seen to be believed.
So COME.
Yours,
Teddy Mandeville.
Culloden lowered the letter and gazed into the street.
It did seem an obvious way out. But for his title, he would not have thought twice . . . but for his title.
The man could not endure to traffic with his name. In spite of golden opportunities, he was not a director of a single company: and, as he steadfastly refused to rent his style, so he declined to exchange it for board and lodging. If he was invited for himself, he was delighted to accept; but every new invitation was carefully weighed, and nine out of ten of them were found wanting. He need not have spent ten months of the year at Ruth Castle. In point of fact, had he pleased, he need not have spent ten days of the year at home. Bachelor dukes are apt to be in demand. . . .
The present offer of hospitality was slightly different. It seemed that commoners were welcome—not so welcome, of course. ‘They’re mad to have you.’ Still, Bertram Scarlet and the Fairies—Teddy Mandeville himself seemed to bepersonæ gratæat Chiennile. Besides, no one, apparently, was wanted for himself. The Boschettos were purely beneficent. All was fish that came to their net. All they were wanting was a thundering catch. If this included turtle, so much the better: but that was all.
There was no doubt about it. Not to avail himself of such a timely chance would be the act of a fool.
He wired to Mandeville that night—
Seriously shall I arrive on Monday next?
Seriously shall I arrive on Monday next?
In due season he received a reply—
Every time.
Every time.
Monsieur Auguste Labotte adjusted his tie. Then he slid elegantly into the pink dress-coat which the servant was holding, told the man offensively to be gone and assumed a courtly pose before the pier-glass. After a careful survey of his points, he clicked his heels, bowed low, took on a jaunty air and, clasping an imaginary partner proceeded to shake his shoulders with every circumstance of abandon. . .
He was in the act of kissing his finger-tips—a delicious, careless gesture, by which the fragrant caress was apparently tossed into the air to wreak who knows what havoc, when he observed that the symmetry of his eyebrows left something to be desired. Simultaneously he remembered that his aggrandizement of the left had been interrupted and never resumed. He repaired the omission delicately. . . .
Again he reverted to the pier-glass, to be inspected.
This time his scrutiny could find no fault in him.
Here was Chivalryallegro. The rude paraphernalia of virility had been doffed: the hardy victor of the field was turning to tenderer, more luscious conquests.
With a happy sigh, Labotte reflected that, disguise it as he would, his sportsmanship emerged always. No one could miss it. If anyone did—well, that was what the pink coat was for.
He opened the door of his room and descended thoughtfully. . . .
Thesalon rosewas crowded.
Two pretty Englishwomen were sitting on the club-kerb, sipping cocktails and exchanging back-chat with a handsome jolly-eyed Frenchman and a tall Italian, whose manner suggested that he might adorn diplomacy. As a matter of fact, he had. A Frenchwoman of great beauty was relating her impressions of the Trooping of the Colour and lending both English and ceremony a peculiar charm. Two Englishmen, soldiers, were listening delightedly. A jovial, broad-shouldered Spaniard was vividly recounting his prowess upon the tennis-court and throwing his hearers into convulsions of mirth. A well-set-up Frenchman, one-armed, was lighting a cigarette: this belonged to an Italian lady: between the two of them the simple attention put on the courtly livery of a forgotten age. A tall American girl, with grave grey eyes and a proud mouth, was standing close to an alcove. A common, unhealthy-looking youth, with a loose lip and an aggressive stare was expelling smoke from his nostrils and languidly conversing with Count Boschetto, a stout, nervous little man, with vacant eyes and an everlasting smile. The latter was most deferential and was working extremely hard. Six or eight other guests were about their striving host, listening greedily to the youth and thrusting toothsome banalities into the discussion, as though in the hope of attracting attention to themselves. From the alcove, heaving with emotion, the Countess was surveying the scene with a beatific smile. Her proportions were immense: her splendour, barbaric. Her snow-white hair was almost hidden beneath an enormous tiara, while the size and number of the pearls about her neck was almost frightening. Bracelets flashed upon her tremendous arms: rings winked from every finger. Her dress was of purple and gold. Her shoes were of gold, with high purple heels.
The Duke of Culloden stood beside her, addressing her quietly from time to time. She whimpered irrelevant replies, sometimes tremulously voicing her thoughts. “Oll my gues-s-s,” she would falter. “Oll my deer guess-s-s. They were so naize to make vull my salons—the salons of an ole daungkih as me.”
It was pathetic.
Culloden felt as once he had felt in an asylum, watching a mad architect gleefully supervising the construction of a new wing. The poor wretch was intoxicated with his own importance, and the bricklayers were calling him ‘Sir’ and laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks.
The peer felt suddenly ashamed. He was subscribing to this tragic pantomime, taking advantage of an idiot’s whim. He was—
Another picture rose up before his eyes. He saw the halls deserted, the ball-rooms empty . . . saw his host and hostess in melancholy state, the servants idle, yawning, kicking their heels . . . heard the bands droning music to which no feet danced . . . perceived with a shock the awful dreariness of riches with none to gather them.
Culloden decided that the woman beside him was no fool. It was her glory to kill the fatted calf. She was labouring under no delusion. She knew. She actually thanked her guests, begged them to batten upon her, meant what she said.
After all, his visit was neither more nor less than a happy deal. It suited the Countess’ book, and it suited his. What he found especially pleasant was that for once in a way his title was cutting no ice. He was not being named: no one was being introduced. Teddy Mandeville was perfectly right—they really left him alone. He might have been Albert Binks, of High Street, Clapham.
He had arrived at Chiennile that Tuesday afternoon—a day later than he had said, but that was because there had raged a storm in the Channel and the present expediency of humouring his stomach had been impressed upon him. Upon his arrival he had found that Mandeville had left the château. It seemed that the latter had been wired for on Sunday night. His Grace considered, frowning, that, even if he could not advise, Teddy might at least have left him a note. However. . . .
A major-domo had received him and had shown him his rooms. It was clear that, for all his respect, the man had had no idea that he was not conducting a commoner. Culloden was faintly surprised and immensely relieved. The last thing he wanted was the carpet down. Still, it was curious. None of the servants knew. Yet—‘They’re mad to have you.’ Possibly Teddy had paved this admirable way. . . .
Labotte entered the room.
For a moment he stood, looking round. Then he joined the circle about Boschetto.
He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently mimicking the manner of his host.
“Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the unpleasant youth’s remarks.
“Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning.
“Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously.
“We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte.
His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter in which his loose-lipped patron joined.
“You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host, “ ’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this more better than you know.’ ” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?”
Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town.
Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room.
“Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere. Why are you so kind to us all?”
The Count blinked at him.
“Thank you,” he said tremulously. “Thank you.”
The American girl was speaking.
“To-day,” she said, “he took me for such a lovely drive. Didn’t you, Count?”
Her host drew himself up.
“I’ af enjoy every minute,” he said most earnestly.
The girl appealed to Culloden.
“You see?” she said. “He won’t let anyone thank him. He gives us all the very time of our lives——”
“I am dull,” said Boschetto.
The girl took his arm.
“What awful rot,” she said. She turned to Culloden. “You ought to hear him on Europe. I wonder how many people in this room——”
“Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely.
He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a servant with an anxious air. . . .
“Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?”
The girl smiled.
“The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who that is.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Aren’t you English?”
“I’m a Scotsman.”
“Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of Culloden.”
Two days and two hours had gone by, and Nicholas John Kilmuir was enjoying himself very much.
He was royally lodged, admirably served, superbly fed. What was still more to his taste, he went incognito. ‘Incognito’? No one had the remotest idea who he was—except that he wasnotthe Duke of Culloden. To turn to smaller mercies, the weather was brilliant, and his time was his own. Moreoever, his conscience was clear—whenever Boschetto saw him, a pleased light crept into the dull, strained eyes. . . .
But that was not nearly all.
First, there was the spectacle of an impostor, whose arrival on Monday had been taken for that of His Grace, deliberately exploiting the error, accepting the fervent homage of a perfectly poisonous crowd and generally playing such ‘tricks before high Heaven as make the angels weep.’
Secondly, there was Susan Armitage Crail. . . .
“I should like,” said Nicholas John, “to ask you to dance. But a recent bereavement. . . .”
Miss Crail raised her sweet eyebrows.
“I’ve heard some excuses,” she bubbled, “but that’s the very best. It suggests shades of mourning of which the average relict never dreams.”
“He wasn’t a relation,” said Nicholas. “Only a—an intimate connection. And I’m not really mourning. We got on admirably for many years, and then at the last he got above himself. Indeed, he caused me much pain, before—before he . . . passed over.”
Miss Crail frowned.
“Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——”
“Can appendices die?” said Nicholas.
Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter.
Kilmuir regarded her gravely.
There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were dreamt of in her philosophy.
“What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John.
“I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan.
The man shook his head.
“I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with anyone else.”
“You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the glorious mop of hair. . . .”
“Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.”
“Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Steadily grey eyes met brown.
“Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have. If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But you—you mean what you say.”
“I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I hate it, but it’s the fashion . . .anything. But there’s always a button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . . Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.”
Kilmuir digested this, frowning.
“In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?”
“That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said.
The sweet simplicity of heart that prompted gesture and word took Kilmuir by the throat. She was a child—this great lady, an exquisite, unspoiled child. Gentle, fair, wise—smothering up her nature because it was not safe for her nature to be abroad. His impulse was to take her hand and kiss it. He wanted to, immensely. But he mustn’t—because she was a child.
In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, their positions had been reversed. A moment ago he had been sitting at her feet. Now her hand was in his, and she was looking up trustfully into his eyes. She was a child.
“No,” he said, “I don’t. In fact, I’m much obliged. Let’s—let’s shake hands, shall we?”
They shook hands gravely.
Locked together, two couples rocketed out of the ballroom, whirled past Miss Crail and Kilmuir and, as the tune ended, crashed in a heap on a divan. They sorted themselves uproariously.
“What about a little courage?” said ‘the Duke,’ drying his neck. “And a mouthful of goose-grease, just to help it down?”
“Are you steel so thirsty?” queried his partner.
“I am when I look at you,” was the ducal reply.
Labotte suspended his handkerchief as a curtain between the two girls, as though to screen the speakers from inconvenient gaze. To do this, he passed his arms upon either side of his partner. The latter, an English girl, sought to duck beneath his sleeve. Instantly he lowered his arm. In a moment the screen was forgotten, and the business became an affray between Gallantry and Virtue.
“See, see,” cried Labotte, grinning. “I ’af catched a leedle mouze in a gage. She will get oud, but she does not know ’ow.” The girl slid to the ground, and her captor slid with her. “You see?” he announced. “It ees no good at oll. You are a preesner for life.”
The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter and a volley of innuendo.
The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . .
“D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.”
“What d’you think?” said Miss Crail.
“I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only sort going you make the best of it.”
“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be completely happy.”
“Then why do you stay here?”
“Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht. When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what can I do?”
Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette.
“How long have you done this?” he said.
“Nearly two years now. The idea is to get me married and out of the way. But I don’t go very well. Two or three men have been kind enough to bid, but one was married already and the others. . . .” She shuddered. “My aunt says it’s my fault,” she added, “and so it is! I don’t push my wares. . . . I’m not so bad as I was. At one time I was quite hopeless. But I’m better now. At least I give people a chance—to be nice or nasty according to how they feel. I’m afraid even now I’m not very good at horse-play, but I shall probably learn.”
“Don’t,” cried Nicholas. “Don’t.”
The girl looked at him.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise I won’t again. I don’t know why I did. Yes, I do,” she added abruptly. “I know why I did.”
“Why?” said Kilmuir.
Susan Crail started.
Then, suddenly, she fell into long strained laughter.
“From your curious tone,” she said, “I perceive that I have been maudlin. You know. Not offensively blind, but sorry for myself. It’s just that extra half-glass, you know. You think ‘I won’t drink it,’ and then you get talking and——”
“Rot,” said Nicholas John.
“Oh, but how rude,” said Susan. “Never mind. You’ll believe me one day. Didn’t I talk about a desert island? Yes, I thought so. I always do. But I’ll bet you never said what the last man said. You’re much too solemn.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in for goatskin shorts.”
“My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily.
There was a long silence.
Susan was beaten and she knew it.
Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening.
Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its remedy—marriage. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking. Suddenly she had realized. . . .
Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it . . . somehow—anyhow. . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched her efforts and feinted and knocked them out.
There was nothing for it: she must begin again.
“I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Labotte arrived—a verydeus ex machina.
He came straight to the two, stood before Susan, spread out anticipative hands and began to oscillate to the one-step which had just commenced. An impudence of raised eyebrows and the shadow of a superior grin argued a confident familiarity which could afford to dispense with a formal invitation to dance.
With a heart of lead, Miss Crail acceded brightly to the unspoken request.
As she launched herself, she flung out the words of the melody in the approved darkie fashion.