On the Monday afternoon a hansom drew up at the door of the by no means pretentious house in which Miss Lorraine had her quarters. Out of it stepped Sir Frank Pickard. He bore with him upstairs what seemed to be a by no means insignificant portion of the contents of a fair-sized shop. In one hand he carried a magnificent bouquet, a large basket of splendid fruit, a big box of bonbons and a mysterious case which, as a matter of fact, was filled with various kinds of gloves. In the other were unconsidered trifles in the shape of bottles of perfume, silver knickknacks, a writing case, and other odds and ends. His arms were filled with parcels of different shapes and sizes which contained he alone knew what. Under the circumstances it was not surprising that he found it a little difficult to know what to do with his hat. As he entered Miss Lorraine's sitting-room he was in a state of some confusion. Plumping the contents of one of his arms on the nearest chair, whence they mostly proceeded to tumble on to the floor, he removed his hat in a fashion which was rather dexterous than elegant. As if conscious that he was not making his first appearance under the most propitious conditions, his cheeks were a beautiful peony red.
Miss Lorraine had risen to receive him. She had on her best frock--a frock which she specially reserved for high-days and holidays. Although she had made it herself, it could not have become--or fitted--her better had it been the creation of one of the world's great dressmakers. At least, such was the instant and unhesitating opinion of Sir Frank Pickard. He felt that he had never seen a more perfect example of feminine beauty--of all that was desirable in woman; he was convinced that he never should. He was trembling from head to foot; as some boys still do tremble when, for the first time in their lives, they are head over heels in love. Miss Lorraine, on the other hand, was both cool and calm--an accident which enabled her to perceive that her visitor was very much the reverse. She looked him up and down, inclining to the opinion, as the result of her inspection, that he was not an ill-looking boy. He was fairly tall, broad-shouldered, carried himself well, and looked a gentleman. She told herself that, had her affections not been pre-engaged, it was extremely possible that she might have regarded him in quite a different kind of way. But her heart really was Joe Lamb's; and she never for a moment contemplated the feasibility of transferring it to anybody else.
The lady was the first to speak.
"You are Sir Frank Pickard?"
The visitor had been afforded an opportunity to disencumber himself of his parcels, and therefore ought to have become more at his ease. But the simple truth was that the sight of the lady embarrassed him more than the parcels had done. His heart was thumping against his ribs; he seemed to be giving way at the knees; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. However, he managed to stammer out something; though it was only with difficulty that he could articulate at all.
"It's awfully good of you to let me come and see you."
The lady smiled--a smile which might have been described as of the glacial kind.
"Will you sit down, Sir Frank?"
He sat down, on the extreme edge of a chair, as if fearful of occupying too much of it at once. He looked--and no doubt was--excessively uncomfortable. Placing herself in the only arm-chair the room contained, she observed him with an air which was at once both cruel and condescending.
"You have written me one or two notes, Sir Frank?"
He stammered worse than ever. Not only did he find the question an awkward one, but it seemed to him that the lady was even more bewitching in the arm-chair than she had been when standing up. As he realised--or thought he realised--her charms still more clearly, his few remaining senses were rapidly deserting him.
"I--I'm afraid I did."
"In which you asked me, a perfect stranger, to be your wife?"
"I--I'm awfully sorry."
"You are sorry? Indeed. Do you mean that you are sorry you asked me to be your wife?"
He gasped. There was something in her tone, something in the way in which she peeped at him from under the long lashes which shaded her violet eyes, something in her attitude, in the quality of the smile which parted her pretty lips, which set every fibre in his body palpitating. What did she mean? What could she mean? Was it possible that she meant--what he had scarcely dared to hope she ever would mean?
In his stuttering eagerness his words tumbled headforemost over each other.
"Of course what I meant was that I know perfectly well that I never ought to have written to you like that. It was frightful cheek, and--and the sort of thing I ought to be kicked for. But as for being sorry that I asked you to be my wife--!" The boy's feelings were so intense that for the moment his breath entirely failed him. When he continued, tears were actually standing in his eyes. "Oh, Miss Lorraine, if you only knew what I have felt since I first saw you. I have been to the theatre every night; I have waited at the stage door to see you come out--"
"So I understand. It was very wrong of you."
"I had to do something--I couldn't help it. I didn't know anyone who'd introduce me; you wouldn't answer my letters; you refused my presents--"
"Certainly; under the circumstances they were so many insults."
"I didn't mean them for insults--I swear I didn't. I wouldn't have insulted you, or allowed anyone else to insult you, not--not for all the gold of the Indies."
"Sir Frank, the question I put to you was, are you sorry that you asked me to be your wife? That is, did you really wish me to be your wife, and do you wish it still?"
"Wish it! I'd give all I have if you'd be my wife; you'd make me the happiest fellow in the world!"
"If you truly mean that--"
"Put me to the test and see if I mean it!--say yes!"
"I do believe that you mean it; so I will say yes. One moment, Sir Frank!" Rising from his chair the young gentleman showed symptoms of a desire to express his feelings in a style which the lady might have found slightly inconvenient. "A girl in my position cannot be too careful. If you care for me as you say, you will see that even better than I do." That was rather a bold stroke of Miss Lorraine's, and a clever one. For it made an irresistible appeal to the boy's quixotic nature. "Remember, you and I are still almost strangers. Nevertheless, you have asked me to be your wife; and I have consented. Will you write a few lines, setting forth the exact position of affairs, on this sheet of paper?"
She pointed to paper, pens and ink, which were on the centre table. The youngster did hesitate. There was a matter-of-fact air about the fashion in which the lady made her suggestion which, even to his eyes, rather blurred the romance of the situation. But his hesitation did not endure. He was like wax in her hands. Presently he sat down and wrote on a sheet of paper the words which--without his being altogether conscious of the fact--she had put at the point of his pen.
"You understand, Sir Frank," she remarked, as she folded up what, from her point of view, was an invaluable document, and slipped it in the bodice of her dress, "this engagement of ours must be no hole-and-corner affair. You must not conceal it from your mother!"
"Of course not. I never have concealed anything from her in my life, and I certainly don't mean to start concealing from her that I'm engaged to be married."
"You must introduce me to her."
"Rather! I shall be only too delighted, if you'll let me. She already has some idea of how it is with me. I wrote to her that I'd fallen head over heels in love. She always has said that she'd like me to marry young; when she hears that I'm to be married right away she'll be delighted."
Miss Lorraine was not so sure. But she did not say so. She was becoming momentarily more convinced that this really was a remarkable young man.
"When do you think you can introduce me to your mother? I should like it to be as soon as possible."
She was thinking of the following Sunday, and of her provisional promise to Mr Lamb.
"Next Wednesday, if that wouldn't be too early."
"Not at all. Wednesday would suit me perfectly."
"That's awfully good of you; because, in that case, I shall be able to introduce you not only to my mother, but, as it were, to everybody else as well. You see, the village people are holding their annual flower show on Wednesday, at my place in Sussex; I've lent them one of my fields. And my mother's got a house-party, and that kind of thing, to do honour to the occasion. I think it would be even better if you could come to-morrow, that's Tuesday. And then by Wednesday you'll know the whole houseful; and then at the flower show I could introduce you to the village people, they're nearly all my tenants. If you'll say yes, I'll run down at once and let my mother know you're coming."
"To-morrow will suit me even better than Wednesday, thank you."
"And of course you'll stay the rest of the week, and over Sunday."
"You'll be tired of me long before then; and your mother also."
"Not she! My mother doesn't tire so easily. And as for me, I shall never be tired of you--never!"
The lady was of a different opinion, but she did not say so.
When they parted it was on the understanding that Sir Frank Pickard was to go and prepare his mother's mind for the coming of his lady love upon the morrow; and the lady was left in the possession of more valuable property than she had previously owned, if all that she had ever had in her life had been lumped together.
As she contemplated her new belongings, and reread what was written on the sheet of paper which she took out of her bodice, she made certain inward comments.
"Some girls would marry him straight off, perhaps most girls, and forget that there ever was a Joe. And if I did marry him he should never have cause to regret it, nor to be ashamed of me; nor his mother either; nor his friends. If I liked, I could make as good a Lady Pickard as anyone. But, fortunately or unfortunately, I don't happen to be that particular kind of girl. I'd rather be Mrs Joe Lamb, with five thousand pounds in my pocket, than Lady Frank Pickard, with fifty thousand pounds a year."
She smiled a very peculiar smile, which, if anything, rather enhanced her charms. She made a very pretty picture as she turned Sir Frank's promise of marriage over and over between her fingers.
It is not on record how exactly Lady Pickard received her son's communication. It may be taken for granted that it was not with feelings of ecstatic delight. To hear that he proposed to present her with a daughter-in-law to whom he had spoken only once in his life could hardly have filled her breast with the proud consciousness of his peculiar wisdom. Nor, probably, was her estimate of his character heightened when she learned that the lady in question was a chorus girl at the Frivolity Theatre. It is within the range of possibility that the reception of the news was followed by what, for her, was a very bad half-hour. There is even reason to suspect that she then and there retired to her own apartment, and, for a time at least, was the unhappiest woman in England. No mother likes, unexpectedly, to discover that the son whom she has idolised has suddenly shown signs of being a hopeless idiot.
But Lady Pickard was a cleverer woman than her boy, at that time, imagined. When, after a few dreadful minutes, the first stress of the shock began to fade away, she commenced to perceive, however dimly, that the situation might not, after all, be so terrible as it actually appeared. She realised, also, that there were two or three facts which she would have to bear in mind.
In the first place, her son was his own master. Whom he would wed, he could wed; no one might say him nay. In the second, considering his position, and his sex, he had been on the whole a tolerably fair specimen of his kind; he was not, at bottom, such an absolute idiot as his own conduct had so uncomfortably suggested. She felt sure that there was something to be said about the girl, or he would not have chosen her. She had reason to know that his taste, as regards women, was fastidiousness itself. If he had asked her to his home she entertained a pleasant conviction that, superficially at anyrate, she need not fear any shocking scandal. He would bring no woman there of whose conduct, appearance, or manners there was any serious risk of his being ashamed. Of so much she felt persuaded. In her heart she was still persuaded that, where women were concerned, his judgment might, in the long run, be implicitly relied upon. Since there was positively no means of postponing the lady's threatened visit, she was far too wise to risk a public rupture with her son, with the accompanying scandal. It was just as well that she had such an assurance.
As for the future--well, her son was not yet married to Miss Ailsa Lorraine. All sorts of little accidents might intervene. Some one or other of them might yet induce him to change his point of view. It was conceivable that she might never quarrel with her boy at all, and still be rid of the lady.
She, of course, had not the dimmest notion of the fact that, for reasons of which she could not have the faintest inkling, there was not the slightest danger of Miss Ailsa Lorraine ever becoming Lady Pickard.
Various friends of her own were coming to stay with her during the week of the flower-show--that great event of the village year. On the Tuesday, carriage after carriage brought visitors from the station to the house. As the afternoon drew on nearly every bedroom in the big, old place had its occupant. It was glorious weather. Tea was being served out of doors. The people were, for the most part, in the best of tempers, and the highest spirits. Frank Pickard was very far from being the most miserable person there. On the contrary he was brimming over with health and happiness. So happy, indeed, was he, that, boy-like, he seemed quite incapable of concealing from anyone the cause of his contentment. Not altogether to his mother's satisfaction, he blurted out to everyone who cared to listen to the tale of his good fortune in being able to persuade a feminine paragon to promise to be his wife. Soon all were aware that, shortly, the lady was to be presented to them in person. Frank would have liked her to have come by an earlier train--indeed the earliest. But, instead, the lady had chosen to travel by what was almost the latest, one so late, in fact, that it necessitated putting off the already late dinner to permit of her being among the other guests at table.
"I'm frightfully sorry," he explained. "But, of course, if she couldn't come any earlier, she couldn't; we shall have to make the best of it. Hullo!--who's this?"
The drive to the house wound along one side of the lawn on which the guests were assembled for tea. As he spoke, there appeared on the drive a waggonette--a village waggonette--an ancient, dilapidated vehicle, which was the property of Mr Goshawk, the local flyman. On the box were two figures--a man and a woman. As Sir Frank spoke, the conveyance stopped. The woman climbed down from the box to the body of the vehicle, from which she presently emerged, carrying, as best she could, several brown-paper parcels, and a cardboard hatbox. The driver appeared to remonstrate.
"Don't you trouble about those, miss," he was heard to remark. "I'll take them up to the house."
The woman's reply was still more audible. "There aren't any flies on me; not much you don't. The odds are that if I once lose sight of my belongings I shall never see them again. I know you cabmen. Thank you very much; but if it's all the same to you, what's mine I'll stick to."
Hampered by her various possessions, she scrambled as best she could over the wire fencing on to the lawn. With one or other of her miscellaneous properties bumping against her at every step, she came striding towards the tea-drinkers. It chanced that young Brock was the first person she came to. He was engaged in atête-à-têtewith Florence Stacey of such an engrossing kind that he was not even aware of the advent of the waggonette. His first intimation of the stranger's approach was obtained from Miss Stacey.
"I do believe she's coming to you," she cried. Rising from his seat, Brock turned to see what was meant, and almost in the same instant found himself in the stranger's arms, that dexterous person managing to throw them about him without shedding a single parcel.
"Hullo, Frank, old boy," she exclaimed. "You're looking a bit of all right, upon my word. Catch hold of some of these, there's a good chap; I've had about enough of them."
Before the astounded Brock--who, at that stage of his existence, would not have been seen carrying even so much as a pair of gloves!--could realise what was happening, he found himself in possession of half-a-dozen large and untidy brown-paper parcels of different shades, and a shabby, old cardboard box, tied round with what looked like a clothes-line. It is true that, so soon as he had them he dropped them, but, as he was often told afterwards, that was the moment of his life at which he ought to have been photographed. He would have made a striking picture. So soon as his feelings permitted, he demanded an explanation.
"What do you mean by going on like this? Who are you? I don't know you. And my name's not Frank."
The newcomer remained unabashed.
"All right, old man; no harm done; keep your hair on."
She regarded him fixedly, as if he were some strange specimen which she was endeavouring to place, the unfortunate Brock showing a marked disposition to retreat from her immediate neighbourhood. At last it seemed she arrived at the conclusion that there had been some slight misunderstanding.
"Well, if I wasn't mistaking you for somebody else! It's lucky I didn't kiss you in front of the crowd, wasn't it?" Stanley Brock's inflamed countenance hinted that he thought it was. The lady only smiled. She proceeded to explain still further. "You're a nice-looking boy, especially in those nice white calico clothes"--the "calico" clothes in question were of linen duck--"but you're not my boy; now that I look at you right in front I see that you're not my boy. My boy's as nice-looking as you are, and perhaps a little nicer; no offence, my rosy lad." This was possibly a delicate allusion to Brock's complexion, which was becoming momentarily more ensanguined. "My boy's Sir Frank Pickard. You see, although I'm going to be his wife I've only seen him once; and then I scarcely had what you might call a real good look at him. Seems queer, doesn't it? Ours is a romance, ours is--one of the good old-fashioned sort. I'm Miss Ailsa Lorraine, and I was, up to yesterday, in the chorus at the Frivolity. He fell in love with me from the front row of stalls; that's how it is, you see. They tell me Sir Frank Pickard lives here. You don't happen to know if he's anywhere about just now?"
Frank Pickard's sensations during this scene were of a kind which, although they were never forgotten, he never cared--or dared--to recall. He would have found it difficult to diagnose them, either then or at any other time. When, in after years his thoughts recurred--as they sometimes would--to that moment, what he remembered chiefly was the burning desire which seized him that the ground might open, and he sink into it and be hidden from the sight of all for evermore.
The whole thing was such a bolt from the blue. A moment before he had been telling everyone what a charming person he had won for his wife--how she combined in her person all those attributes which go to make up the perfect woman. With his mother he had dwelt upon the fact of her refinement; had specially pointed out that, though she was only a chorus girl, she was still a high-bred lady. On questions of refinement and breeding he was conscious that his mother esteemed his judgment.
And now, all at once, he found himself confronted by a young woman who was attired in a costume which suggested, more than anything else, a caricature of the tasteless vulgarity to which a certain sort of female could attain. She wore--on that blazing summer's day--a fantastically-cut, ill-fitting dress of scarlet satin--very long behind and very short in front--which was edged and trimmed with some weird material in light green. A black silk petticoat--with ragged edges--was more than visible; as also were her openwork light blue silk stockings, terminated by a pair of cheap, brand-new mustard-coloured shoes. On her bedizened hair was a monstrous picture hat, which bade fair to take the earliest opportunity of toppling forward over her eyes. The fingers of her ungloved hands were covered with gaudy--but worthless--rings; half a dozen bracelets and bangles of silver, and more than dubious gold, were on either wrist; a preposterous chatelaine dangled from a still more ridiculous belt; while her neck was imprisoned by a two-inch-high collar of imitation pearls. To complete the picture, her cheeks were rouged and powdered; her eyebrows pencilled, and her eyes kohled; her lips carmined. In spite of all her efforts she had been unable to conceal the fact that she was pretty; but, under the circumstances, her prettiness seemed to make the matter worse.
Frank Pickard stared at her as if she were some creature born of a nightmare. Was this the dainty damsel whom he had been worshipping from a distance and who had seemed still daintier when he had been brought into close neighbourhood with her yesterday? What hideous metamorphosis had taken place in her between this and then? If he could only have taken to his heels and run!
He was not to escape so easily. Having received no answer from Stanley Brock, she repeated her inquiry.
"I say, old man, look lively! Didn't you hear me ask you if Sir Frank Pickard was anywhere about?"
Mr Brock moved his hand in a sort of vague half-circle, which comprised the spot on which the gentleman in question was standing as if rooted to the ground.
"There is Sir Frank Pickard."
With that genius for blundering which Miss Lorraine seemed to have all at once developed, swinging round, she grasped by both her hands the nearest gentleman, who happened to be General Taylor, one of Lady Pickard's oldest and most particular friends.
"Why, Frankie, I don't take it to be very kind of you not to be taking any notice of me at all. Scotland Yard! you're not Frankie! You're old enough to be his grandpa!" She returned to Stanley Brock; as if the fault were his. "What are you giving us? This isn't my Frank! I'm not collecting fossils just yet, if it's all the same to you."
What the General felt--and his friend the hostess--history does not recount. Silence had settled down on the assembly which was more eloquent than any ribald laughter could possibly have been; it was the silence of stupefaction. It meant that everyone was on tenterhooks as to what was the next thing which this extraordinary person--who had dropped from the clouds--would do or say. Screwing his courage to the sticking point, Frank did his best to rescue his friends from an impossible situation. Advancing towards the dreadful stranger, he addressed her with what one is bound to admit was a voice which trembled.
"Good afternoon, Miss Lorraine."
She looked at him with a glance which was both impudent and mischievous.
"Miss Lorraine! What ho! So you've turned up at last; and now you have turned up you don't seem over hearty. I say, Frankie dear, I wish you'd give me a hand with my baggage. These brown-paper parcels contain pretty nearly everything I've got in the world; my evening dress is in this one. Such a oner! you wait till you see it, you'll stare! Being tumbled about anyhow on the grass won't do it any good. Help me to put the whole lot of it straight, there's a dear."
She was stooping over her collection of miscellaneous rubbish with the apparent intention of piling it into something like a symmetrical heap. Frank showed commendable presence of mind.
"If you will walk with me up to the house, we will send a servant down, and have it all placed in your room."
Miss Lorraine showed no desire to associate herself with his plan to remove her, at anyrate, temporarily, from the scene.
"I'm not going to walk up to the house with you, not much I'm not. Where I am I'll stay. Look here, Frank, if these people are your friends you introduce them to your future wife; I don't like being among a lot of folks and not know who's who. It don't seem sociable. And where's your mother? You promised to introduce me to the old lady the very first chance you had."
The "old lady" thus delicately referred to--who was herself of opinion that she was still very far from being old--cast at her son such a glance that he became immediately conscious that compliance with Miss Lorraine's request was altogether out of the question. He ingeniously shirked it.
"Won't you have some tea? You must be tired--you came by an earlier train than we expected."
"That's how it turned out. I'll tell you how it was. This dress, you see, that I've got on, it isn't my own, it belongs to a lady who's a friend of mine. I asked her to lend it to me directly I knew I was coming down here, and she said she would; but we're not the same figures, you know, and I knew it'd want a good bit of altering, taking in here and letting out there; your friends'll understand how sometimes one lady's dress has to be pulled about before it can be got to fit another, and I thought it wouldn't be finished before the train I told you of. But it turned out after all that there wasn't so much difference in our waists as I'd supposed, she was only three-quarters of an inch--"
Frank made a gallant effort to curtail what bade fair to be some extremely intimate personal details.
"Did you say you'd have some tea?"
"I didn't say anything about it, that I know of. I can't say that I care for tea, not as a general rule; but I don't mind having a drop if there's nothing better going. Hullo, where's the old lady off to?--and the old chap I mistook for you?"
The "old lady" and the "old chap" were Lady Pickard and General Taylor. The pair were making a dash for cover.
"Why, they're all going!"
They all were. Following her ladyship's lead the entire company was showing a disposition to seek safety in flight. Frank stammered an explanation.
"You see, they had their tea before you came; I expect they've all got something to do."
Miss Lorraine feigned indifference, even if she felt it not.
"Oh, they can go for all I care. It makes no odds to me. If my company isn't good enough for them I'm sure I don't want to keep 'em. Besides, if we're left alone it'll give you a chance to say some of those pretty things which are nearly dropping off the tip of your tongue. I say, Frankie, don't you think I'm looking simply sweet?"
What "Frankie" answered the chronicles do not state.
"Frank, is this an intentional outrage of which you have been guilty? Or is it an insolent practical joke which you have planned to play at the expense of your mother's friends?"
For the first time in his life Frank Pickard saw his mother really angry. Of the reality of her anger, as he confronted her in her boudoir, to which he had ascended in obedience to an urgent summons, there could be no doubt. He was conscious that her anger was justified. He was ready enough to admit it.
"It is neither, mother. Only--I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"How the Miss Lorraine I saw yesterday has become transformed into the Miss Lorraine you saw just now."
"My dear Frank, I don't wish to hurt your feelings--although you have shown yourself indifferent as to mine--"
"Mother!"
"So I will not probe too deeply into the matter of what you call 'transformations,' and similar mysteries; I merely wish to know how long you propose to allow that person--whose presence, even in the immediate neighbourhood, is a monstrous insult both to your acquaintances and to me--to continue on these premises."
"I should like you, first of all, to believe that this is not the person I saw yesterday."
"Do you desire me to understand that this is not the person you asked to be your wife?"
"She is, and she is not. I assure you that I should never have extended that invitation to the person you have seen to-day. At present, I can't explain. I don't understand myself. A trick has been played on me. Before I have finished I will find out exactly how it has been done; and why, and by whom it has been played."
"And in the meantime, while you are examining the intricacies of a puzzle which is simplicity itself to all but you, do you propose that the young woman shall continue an inmate of this establishment?"
"I do not. On the contrary, I have requested General Taylor to get rid of her at once."
"Frank!"
"Mother, I am not the fool I seem to be. I assure you that the girl I fell in love with, and whom I asked to be my wife, was not like the one you have seen. I have already been putting two and two together. I am beginning to suspect that I have been the victim of some sort of conspiracy. The only thing I can do is to free myself from it as soon as I possibly can."
"But how do you intend to be rid of the girl? You don't imagine that she will take herself off at your mere request--or General Taylor's?"
"I am inclined to fancy that this is about to resolve itself into a question of money. I have instructed the Genera! to offer her any sum within reason for my release, and for the return of a certain document which she obtained from me yesterday."
"Frank!"
"You see, mother, it is necessary to take immediate action; at any cost I must free you from the risk of again encountering this person, not to speak of the others. Had I more time for consideration, I might take other steps. As it is, I don't think that the General will have so much difficulty as he perhaps anticipates."
For once in a while, rather late in the day, Frank Pickard's judgment was not at fault; General Taylor had no difficulty whatever. The General had an interview with the lady in question in the library, having deemed it desirable to fortify himself for it by a preliminary glass of sherry. As it turned out, however, as a fortifier the sherry was completely wasted; he had no resistance to encounter.
He opened proceedings with what was distinctly a professional tone and air.
"I am a soldier, Miss--eh--Lorraine, and therefore accustomed to come to the point without any sort of circumlocution. I will therefore at once put to you the question for which I have solicited the favour of this interview. How much do you require to leave this house at once; to release Sir Frank Pickard from his engagement to marry you, and for the surrender of the written undertaking which you extracted from him yesterday?"
Some ladies would have resented both the form in which the inquiry was couched, and the manner in which it was put. The General thought it extremely possible that, in this case, resentment might take a shape which was at once active and unpleasant. He was mistaken. The lady, as soon as the inquiry was addressed to her, answered, with the most matter-of-fact air in the world,--
"Five thousand pounds."
The General stared. He was genuinely taken aback by the magnitude of the demand, and by the prompt calmness with which it was made.
"Five thousand pounds! Monstrous! Do you take Sir Frank Pickard for a fool?"
The lady smiled.
"I don't think, General, that, if I were you, I should ask too many questions like that--it might be awkward for everyone concerned. The sum I have named is my lowest figure; my very lowest. As I believe the lawyers put it, it is named without prejudice. Unless I receive a cheque for that amount during the next fifteen minutes by that clock on the shelf, the figure will be raised. And as, also, if I am to remain for dinner there is not much time for me to put on my other frock--a startler, General, I give you my word!--I shall be obliged if you will not keep me a moment longer than you can help."
The General stared still more. It burst on him, with the force of an electric shock, that his young friend had placed himself in a very peculiar position indeed. Some remarks, in good, plain Saxon, were exchanged. As a result, the General interviewed his principal. After a period of time, which probably did not much exceed the fifteen minutes she had named, the lady quitted the house she had so recently entered as an invited guest, with her brown-paper parcels, and her cardboard bonnet-box, but without that sheet of paper on which Sir Frank Pickard had placed a formal undertaking to make her his wife.
That same night when, at last, Joe Lamb was enabled, by the closing of his master's shop, to get out into the streets to obtain what, comparatively speaking, was a mouthful of fresh air, he received a boisterous salute from a female in gorgeous and fantastic attire.
"Hullo, Joey! How goes it, my gay young pippin?"
He showed signs of objecting both to the address, and the person from whom it came.
"Don't holler at me like that; who are you? Why--if it isn't Peggy! What's the meaning of this Guy Fawkes show?"
"Crummy, isn't it? It's earned me that."
She held out in front of him a slip of paper. He took it in his fingers.
"What's this?--a cheque?--payable to you!--for five thousand pounds! Peggy, what does this mean?"
"It means that what I told you of 's come off, and before next Sunday, too. It means that I've been engaged to be married since I saw you; and now I'm disengaged again; and I've been paid five thousand pounds for allowing myself to be disengaged again. It was this rig-out did it. You remember that scene at the Frivolity, where the costers were supposed to take their donahs to Hampstead Heath on a bank holiday? This was one of the costumes which the girls wore. The sight of it was enough for Sir Frank Pickard and his aristocratic friends. I could have got ten thousand if I'd liked, but I was satisfied with five. Joe, that means that you needn't emigrate; and that we can be married whenever you like."
They were married within the month.
* * * * *
When Sir Archibald Ferguson had finished the story which is here set down, I regarded him for some moments in silence.
"That's not a bad yarn; but--how come you to be so well acquainted with the intimate details?"
Before he answered he rolled his cigar over and over between his fingers as if considering. Then he stood up in front of the fireplace and, from that vantage post, beamed down at me.
"I'll tell you. Open confession is--occasionally--good for the soul. I can trust you. I have taken the liberty to alter the names of some of my characters. The Frank Pickard of my story is--yours truly, Archie Ferguson."
"No?"
"Yes. Seems incredible, doesn't it, that a staid and happily-married man of many years' standing, with a big family of strapping sons and daughters, should have been that particular kind of idiot. But it's true; I was. It only demonstrates--what perhaps does not need demonstration--that because a youngster shows himself to be a first-class fool as a youngster, you mustn't take it for granted that he's going to continue to be a fool his whole life long."
"But how came you to be so well posted in the lady's part of the story?"
"That's not the least queer part of it. When Mr and Mrs Bennett-Lamb first established themselves here I felt--funny. I didn't know what I might expect. But one day we were going up by the same train to town. She invited me into her compartment. I didn't quite like going, but--I did. We had the compartment to ourselves. After the train had started she told me her side of the story, exactly as I have told it you. She told it uncommonly well--uncommonly. And by the time the train reached town I was more than half inclined to the opinion that the five thousand pounds had been judiciously expended. Fact! She has made her husband a first-rate wife, and been an excellent mother to his child. In fact, she's an all-round clever woman."
"So," I admitted, with a degree of candour which I am not sure that he altogether relished, "I should imagine."
"What the--blazes!"
George Coventry sat with an open envelope in his hand. It was an ordinary white envelope--"business" size--of not too fine a quality. It was addressed: "George Coventry, Esq., Hôtel Metropole, Brighton." The address was type-written.
"Dun!"
That was the one word which had crossed his mind when he first glanced at the exterior of this missive. When he took it up his suspicions were strengthened. It was fat and bulky.
"Contains either a writ or a bill in several volumes."
He laid it down again. He looked at it ruefully as he puffed at his pipe. Then, gathering together his courage with a sigh, he opened it. It was at this point he emitted the above exclamation,--"What the--blazes!"
The envelope was full of crinkly pieces of paper--bank-notes. There were ten of them. Each was for a thousand pounds. Mr Coventry stared at them with bewildered amazement.
"Someone is having a joke with me! Bank of Elegance, for a fiver!"
But they were not on the Bank of Elegance. Mr Coventry fancied that he knew a genuine bank-note when he saw one. After examination, he concluded that if these were forgeries, then he was not so good a judge as he thought he was. He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book for the purpose of comparison.
"Right uns, as I'm a sinner! Then, in that case, it strikes me they've been sent to the wrong address."
In his desire to establish the genuineness of the notes, he had temporarily overlooked a sheet of paper which he had drawn with them from the envelope. This he now examined. It was a single sheet of large post. On it these words were typewritten,--
"The accompanying bank-notes (£10,000) are forwarded to Mr George Coventry, to enable him to pay the losses which he has experienced during the Brighton races."
When Mr Coventry read this, his bewilderment, instead of being diminished, was considerably increased. There was no signature, no address, no clue to the sender. One type-writer is like another, so that there was no clue in the words themselves. Someone, of infinite faith, had entrusted £10,000 to the guardianship of a flimsy envelope and of a penny stamp. Mr Coventry had flattered himself that no one knew--as yet--of the particularly tight place that he was in. Here was proof positive that he had been guilty of self-deception indeed.
He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all--that was left--that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his "friends," how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of £10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone!
"Would--would you lend me your arm? I--I am afraid I have hurt my foot."
Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black.
"I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?"
"Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle."
The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain.
"Let me carry you to a seat."
Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant's notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion.
"I'll fetch you a bath-chair."
He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman's. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away.
It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him.
"I ought to have asked her her name."
He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.
That afternoon he called at the house in the Steyne. A person, evidently of the landlady type, opened the door. He handed in his card with, pencilled on it, the words: "I venture to hope that your foot is better." A reply came to the effect that he was requested to walk upstairs. He walked upstairs. He was shown into what was undeniably a lodging-house sitting-room. As he entered, someone was lying on a sofa; it was the little woman in black.
"It is very kind of you to call, Mr Coventry. I ought to have thanked you for your goodness to me this morning, but you were gone in a moment."
Mr Coventry murmured something. He hoped that her foot was better.
"Oh, it is nothing. Only I think that I had better rest it a little, and that is rather a difficult thing for me to do; rest means interference with my work." Perhaps because he seemed to hesitate, she added: "I am a teacher of music."
"Then I am afraid that your accident will be hard on your pupils."
She laughed. "The worst of it is, there are not many of them. I cannot afford to offend the few I have." She changed her tone. "I cannot think how it was I was so awkward, Mr Coventry. I was coming up the steps when my foot slipped, and--there I was. It was such a silly thing to do."
Mr Coventry explained that it was the easiest thing in the world to twist one's ankle. Further, that a twisted ankle sometimes turned out to be a serious matter. Possibly the lady knew this without his telling her, yet she seemed grateful for the information.
The gentleman's visit, considering the circumstances, extended to what seemed to be an unnecessary length, yet neither appeared particularly desirous to bring it to a close. Before they parted they were talking like old friends. She had told him that her name was Hardy--Dora Hardy. She had imparted the further information that she was an orphan--alone in the world. They talked a great deal about, it must be owned, a very little, and they would probably have had as much to say even if the subject matter had been still less. Such conversations are not dependent upon subjects.
The next day he returned to inquire after her foot. It seemed better, but was not yet quite recovered; its owner was still upon the couch. That visit was even longer than the first had been. During its progress Mr Coventry became singularly frank. He actually made a confidant of the little woman on the couch. He told her all his history, unfolded the list of his follies--a part of it that is, for the list was long. Some folks would have said that he was adding to the crowning folly of them all. He told her of his recent disastrous speculations on what, doubtless in the cause of euphony, is called "the turf." He even told of the ten thousand pounds!
It must be allowed that Miss Hardy seemed to find the young gentleman's egotistical outpourings not devoid of interest. When he spoke of the contents of the mysterious envelope she gave quite a little start.
"I don't understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received £10,000 from a stranger?"
"I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each."
"But it's ridiculous. They can't be genuine."
"Aren't they? See for yourself. If they're not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet."
He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy.
"Is this the envelope in which they came?"
"It is."
"And are these the bank-notes?"
"They are."
She took out the rustling pieces of paper. Her eyes sparkled. She laughed; it sounded like a little laugh of pleasure.
"Bank-notes! Ten of them, for a thousand each! You beauties!" She pressed them between her little hands. "Think of all they can buy. Ten thousand pounds!" She laughed again; this time in her laughter there was the sound of something very like a sob. "Why, Mr Coventry, it's--it's like a fairy tale. Some people never dream that they will be able to even handle such a sum--just once."
"It is a queer start."
Mr Coventry rose from his chair. He stood with his back to the fireplace. The little woman followed him with her eyes.
"Come, Mr Coventry, you know very well from whom they came."
"I wish I did."
"Think! They came from that rich old uncle you have been telling me about."
"He would see me starve before he gave me a fiver. I know it is a fact."
"Is there nobody of whom you can think?"
"Not a soul! I don't believe there's an individual in the world who would give me a hundred pounds to keep me from the workhouse."
There was a pause. The gentleman looked at the lady; the lady looked at him. She kept folding and unfolding the notes between her dainty fingers; a smile parted her lips.
"Mr Coventry, I know from whom they came."
"Miss Hardy, you don't mean it! From whom?"
"They came," with a rapid glance she looked down, then up again, "from a woman."
"A woman!" Mr Coventry looked considerably startled. "What woman?"
"Ah, there it is!"
Mr Coventry still looked startled.
"I suppose, Miss Hardy, you are simply making a shot at it."
"It looks to me like the act of a woman. Think! Is there a woman possible?"
Mr Coventry looked even disconcerted.
"It--it can't be. It--it's quite impossible."
"I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence."
"But, I--I assure you, the--thing can't be."
"Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far--in my case you have piqued it--might I ask who is the woman?"
"There isn't one; I assure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have--have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?"
"Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?"
"You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's--she's stopping at the Métropole just now."
"Isn't she rich?"
"Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my--my uncle wrote to me about her."
"You mean Sir Frederick?"
"Yes, old rip! I wrote, asking if he could let me have a few hundreds, just to help me along. He wrote back saying that he couldn't, but that he could put me in the way of laying my hands on several hundred thousands instead. Then he spoke of the widow."
"I see; go on."
Mr Coventry had stopped. He seemed to be a little at a loss.
"Then, somehow or other, I--I got introduced to her."
"Did you, indeed? How strange!"
"Don't laugh at me, Miss Hardy. The woman's my aversion. She's old enough to be my mother, or--or my aunt, at any rate."
"One's aunt may be younger than oneself."
"She isn't, by a deal. She's a hideous, vulgar old monstrosity."
"You appear to have a strong objection to the lady."
"I have. It--it sounds absurd, but she's always after me. She must mistake me for her son."
"For her son? You look twenty-five, and I thought I saw in one of the papers the other day that Mrs Murphy was in her early thirties."
"She looks fifty, if a day. She can't have sent me all that money."
"As to that, you should know better than I. She might, if she took you for her son."
"If I thought she had, I--I'd send it back to her."
Mr Coventry had recommenced fidgeting about the room. Miss Hardy's suggestions seemed to have seriously disturbed him. That young lady continued to trifle with the bank-notes. As she trifled she continued to smile demurely.
"Hasn't another rich woman been stopping at the Métropole?"
"You mean the American?"
"Was she an American?"
"Rather! Sarah Freemantle. Got five millions--pounds--of her own, in hard cash."
"Has she been stopping at the hotel since you've been there?"
"I believe she has, though I wasn't aware of it till she had gone."
"Haven't you ever seen her?"
"Never; which is rather queer, because she's often been at dances which I've been at. But I hate Americans."
"Do you, indeed? How liberal-minded!"
"Don't laugh at me. You--you don't know how worried I am."
"Some people wouldn't feel worried because £10,000 fell into their lap from the skies. Here, Mr Coventry, are your precious notes."
"I'll send them back to her at once."
"Her? Whom? Mrs Murphy? Don't you think you are rather hasty in jumping at conclusions? Suppose, after all, they didn't come from Mrs Murphy?"
"I'll soon find out, and if they did--"
"Well, if they did? I thought you mentioned some rather pressing obligations which you had to meet."
"Confound it! I know I've been a fool, but I'd rather be posted than owe my salvation to a woman's money."
"All men are not of your opinion, Mr Coventry."
The lady's tone was dry. The young gentleman had a tendency in the direction of "high-falutin."
Among his morning's letters on the morrow the first which caught his eye was a missive enclosed in an envelope which was own brother to the one which had contained the notes.
"Another ten thousand pounds," he wailed.
But he was mistaken. Only a sheet of paper was in the envelope. On the sheet of paper two words were type-written:
"Buy Ceruleans."
Mr Coventry endeavoured to calm himself. Constitutionally, he was of an excitable temperament. The endeavour required an effort on his part. When he could trust himself to speak, he delivered himself to this effect:
"What in thunder are Ceruleans? And why am I to buy them?"
He examined the paper; he examined the envelope; he observed that the postmark was "London, E.C."--that could scarcely be regarded as a tangible clue.
The remainder of his correspondence was not of an agreeable tenor. Everybody seemed to be wanting money; moreover, everybody seemed to be wanting it at once. He went downstairs with, metaphorically, "his heart in his boots." On the way down he encountered an acquaintance. Mr Coventry stopped him.
"I say, Gainsford, what are Ceruleans?"
"Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford fixed his eyeglass into his eye. "Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford thrust his hands into his breeches pockets. "What do you know about Ceruleans?"
"I don't know anything, only some fool or other has been advising me to buy them."
Mr Gainsford eyed Mr Coventry for some moments before he spoke again.
"Coventry, would you mind stepping into my sitting-room?" Mr Coventry stepped in. "I should be obliged if you would tell me who has been advising you to buy Ceruleans. I give you my word that you shall not suffer through giving me the name of your informant. I don't know if you are aware that I am a member of the London Stock Exchange."
"I can't give you the name of my informant, because I don't know it myself. I have just had that sent me through the post. From whom it comes I know no more than Adam."
Mr Coventry handed him the paper on which were the two type-written words, "Buy Ceruleans." Mr Gainsford eyed this very keenly. Then he applied an equally keen scrutiny to Mr Coventry himself.
"Odd! Very odd! Very odd indeed!"
He paused, then continued with an air of quite judicial gravity,--
"Ceruleans, Mr Coventry, is Stock Exchange slang for an American mine which has just struck oil. The fact of its having done so is known, as yet, in England, to only one or two persons. Until you showed me that sheet of paper, I was under the impression that it was known only to one other person beside myself. Whoever sent you that piece of paper is in the know. Your correspondent has given you a recipe for a fortune."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. Get into the market before the rush begins, and--ah! you might take what some people would call a snug little fortune in less than a couple of hours. Mr Coventry, I am going up to town at once. Come with me, and I will put you in the way of doing the best day's business that ever you did in all your life."
Mr Coventry went up to town with Mr Gainsford. When the young gentleman returned that night to Brighton, he was quite a man of means. On the return journey he just got into the station as the train was starting. He made a dash at the first carriage he could reach. He was settling himself in the corner, and the train was rapidly quickening, when a voice saluted him.
"Mr Coventry!"
He turned. At the other end of the compartment was Mrs Murphy.
"How nice! I was just thinking that I was going to have the carriage all to myself, and you know that I am not fond of my own society."
At that moment, Mr Coventry could not have even hinted that he was fond of hers. The lady went on--her volubility was famous,--
"I have been dabbling on the Stock Exchange."
Mr Coventry did not heed her. He was reflecting that the train did not stop till it reached its journey's end, and how about a smoke on the way? Her next words, however, caused him to prick up his ears.
"I have done wonderfully well. In fact, I have made what to some, less fortunately circumstanced than myself, would be quite a fortune. I have been buying Ceruleans. Do you know what Ceruleans are?"
Did he? Didn't he?
"Ceruleans! Then--it was you--"
He stopped, petrified. The lady seemed amused.
"It was I what?"
Mr Coventry took out a well-stuffed pocketbook.
"Mrs Murphy, allow me to return you these."
A broad smile was upon the lady's face as she took what the gentleman gave her; but when she perceived what it was she held, the broad smile vanished.
"What is it you are returning me? I was not aware--why, they're bank-notes for a thousand pounds each! Mr Coventry! What do you mean?"
The expression of her face, the tone of her voice, were alike expressive of the most unequivocal amazement. But, disregarding these signs, Mr Coventry pursued a line of his own.
"It was very good of you to send them me--though I hardly realise what it was which could have caused you to suppose that I was a fit subject for your charity. At the same time, I hope it is scarcely necessary for me to point out that it is quite impossible for me to take advantage of your generosity."
"Mr Coventry! What on earth do you mean?"
The lady's manner was altogether unmistakable, but Mr Coventry rushed at his fences.
"I can only say that I hope that you will find a more worthy object of what I cannot but call your eccentric liberality."
Mrs Murphy, as she sat, bank-notes in hand, endeavouring to grasp the gentleman's meaning, would not have made a bad study for a comic artist.
"Mr Coventry, will you be so good as to take back your property?"
The lady held out the notes. The gentleman waved them from him.
"My property! I presume you mean your property?"
"Mr Coventry, what do you mean by giving me these bank-notes?"
"Rather, Mrs Murphy, I think I am entitled to ask what you meant by giving them to me?"
"Pray, Mr Coventry, are you mad?"
"I can only presume that you thought I was mad."
"Thought you were mad! I am beginning to think so now."
"You flatter me. And--then there's the tip for Ceruleans. I--I confess that I have taken advantage of it; but had I known what I know now, I would sooner first have died. I have not yet received the whole of my gains--indeed, I have only received a portion as a favour from a friend. Here, Mrs Murphy, is a cheque for £5,000."
Mr Coventry thrust another slip of paper into the astonished lady's hand. She kept her presence of mind admirably upon the whole.
"I suppose, Mr Coventry, that you are a gentleman?"
"I suppose I was until you taught me otherwise."
"Then, as a gentleman, perhaps you will keep silence while a lady speaks."
Mr Coventry shrugged his shoulders.
"I see that I have here ten notes of a thousand pounds each. Am I to understand that someone has made you a present of £10,000?"
"Mrs Murphy, pray don't dissemble!"
"I have not the slightest intention of what you call dissembling. If you suppose I was the donor, you are under a great delusion. I don't think I ever gave any living creature even ten thousand pence; I have far too just a sense of the value of money."
It was Mr Coventry's turn to look astonished.
"Then if--if it wasn't you--"
"Who was it? That I cannot tell you. Someone, I should say, with more money than sense."
"But--but the tip for Ceruleans?"
"I have not the least notion what you're talking about. But I may tell you this: I myself only received what you call a 'tip' for Ceruleans this morning."
"The--the deuce you did!"
"Possibly you are aware that one of the chief holders of Ceruleans is a lady?"
"A lady!"
"That lady happens to be my friend. This morning she called on me while I was having breakfast. During that call she gave me the information on which I acted."
"Who--who is this lady?"
"I don't know that it is a secret; the lady is Sarah Freemantle."
"Sarah Freemantle!"
"She is staying in Brighton, you know--or perhaps you don't know--because she has actually gone and hidden herself away in one of the back streets, as if, as I tell her, she were hiding from her creditors. Her creditors! Why, she's worth untold millions!"
Mr Coventry was silent. Mrs Murphy sat and watched him. He was quite worth looking at. George Coventry has been pronounced by a high authority to be the handsomest man in England. Oddly enough, he was not only handsome, but he looked good and honest too; and he was without an atom of conceit. In the eyes of some people it was an extra recommendation that he was not exactly wise.
When Mrs Murphy had looked at the young gentleman quite two minutes, she moved up to his end of the carriage.
"Mr Coventry, here is your property. You are fortunate in having such a friend."
Without a word Mr Coventry placed the cheque and the notes within his pocket-book.
"After all, I am not sure that I would not have liked to have been that friend myself."
Mr Coventry fidgeted.
"You--you are very good."
"Do you think so? I should like to be good--to you."
Mr Coventry shivered. Was this woman making love?
"I married my first husband, Mr Coventry, to please my mother. When I marry again I mean to please myself."
"What--what time is this train due in Brighton?"
"Never mind what time the train is due in Brighton." She smiled.
Some men, who are about to pop the question, delight in the shyness of the maiden. Was it possible that she delighted in the shyness of the youth?
"George--I may call you George. Mayn't I call you George?"
"Have you any objection to my smoking a pipe?"
"Smoke if you please. Do what you please. My only desire is to give you pleasure."
She laid her gloved hand softly on his arm.