"That's a fine girl!"
The lady thus tersely referred to by Mr Harry Davison was followed into the room by a gentleman who was as noticeable as herself. As they searched for a vacant seat they were attended by the glances of the breakfasters. Chance had it that they found an unoccupied table which was close to that at which Mr Davison was seated. Mr Lintorn finished his breakfast, eating it steadily through, while Mr Davison, eating nothing, stared at the lady. Having discussed the meal, Mr Lintorn, fitting his eyeglass into its place, eyed the new-comers.
"I thought so."
"Thought what?"
Mr Lintorn paused before replying. He rose from his chair. An odd smile was on his face.
"They're some people I knew in the Riviera."
With a little nod to his friend, he moved towards the new arrivals. Left alone, Mr Davison observed Mr Lintorn's proceedings with surprise. He thought he perceived that that gentleman was not received with too effusive a welcome. It pleased Mr Davison to perceive it. But Mr Lintorn seemed in no way discomposed. Breakfasters finished and rose and went, but he stayed on. Mr Davison stayed too. He got up at last and began to walk about the room, lingering once or twice in the vicinity of the little table. Still Mr Lintorn declined to take the hint. In the end he had the courage of despair.
"Er, excuse me, Lintorn: er--"
There he ceased. He was Nottinghamshire born and bred, a handsome, sunny-faced lad scarcely out of his teens, with the flush of health upon his cheeks; but assurance was not his strongest point. Scarcely had he opened his mouth than he was overwhelmed by the fear that he was making an ass of himself. He became a ruby. Then the young lady did an extraordinary thing; she helped him over the stile.
"Mr Lintorn," she spoke English with quite a charming accent, "will you not permit us to know your friend?"
It was said with such a pretty little air that the request was robbed of singularity. Mr Lintorn, to whom, indeed, the proposition seemed a little unexpected, acceded to the lady's wishes.
"M. de Fontanes, Mdlle. de Fontanes, permit me to introduce to you Mr Davison."
Mr Davison's awkwardness continued, although the lady was so gracious. Perhaps her exceeding graciousness only increased his sense of awkwardness; it is so with some of us when the grass is green. They left the hotel together, this quartet; together they even wandered on the sands. Behind, the old gentleman with Mr Lintorn; in front, mademoiselle with Mr Davison. Under these circumstances, despite his awkwardness, Mr Davison seemed to enjoy himself, for when they parted he turned to Mr Lintorn.
"Lintorn, she's a goddess!"
Mr Lintorn, through his eyeglass, surveyed his friend. Then he lit a cigarette. Then he pointed to a lady, who could boast of some sixteen stone of solid figure.
"Another goddess," he observed.
"That monstrosity!"
"Perhaps some people do prefer them lean."
"Lean? You call Mdlle. de Fontanes lean? Why, she's as graceful as a sylph!"
"I shouldn't be surprised. What is a sylph?"
"Did you see such eyes?"
"Yes; often."
"Where?"
"In other people's heads."
"Lintorn, you're a brute!"
On that they parted. They joined forces again at dinner. Afterwards they went to the Casino. There was a little ball that night. The place was crowded. M. de Fontanes and his daughter were there. Mdlle. de Fontanes behaved towards Mr Davison like an old-time friend. She danced with him, not once nor twice, but three times running; and, oddly enough, between the dances they lost her father. Looking for him occupied a considerable amount of time; and still they could not find him. At the end of the search the young lady was compelled to seat herself while Mr Davison procured her an ice. As he was engaged in doing so, someone touched him on the shoulder. It was Mr Lintorn.
"Take care," he said, his hand upon the other's arm.
"What do you mean?" asked Mr Davison. He was heated with pleasure and excitement. Mr Lintorn eyed him fixedly.
"Take care; you're spilling that ice."
The fact was correctly stated. Mr Davison was holding the plate in such a manner that the half-melted mass was dripping over the edge. Still it was scarcely necessary to stop him in order to tell him that; the more especially as it was the stoppage which was the cause of the ice being spilt.
Mr Davison saw Mdlle. de Fontanes home. Under the circumstances he could scarcely help it. When a lady is alone--we need not lay stress on such incidentals as youth and beauty--where is the man who would not proffer her his escort through the perils of the midnight streets? The night was fine, the breeze was warm; they lingered first in the gardens of theétablissementto look upon the sea. Then they strolled gently through the Boulogne streets. They had told each other tales--unspoken tales--by the time they reached the Rue des Anges, but perhaps she understood his tale better than he did hers.
The lady paused. She addressed her cavalier,--
"This is our apartment. I am afraid my father will scold me."
"Scold you! Why?"
"You see, I am all he has, and so--I wait upon his pleasure. I am so seldom away from him that, when I am, even for a little time, he misses me. But will you not come in? Perhaps your presence may save me from my scolding."
Mr Davison was not in the mood, nor was he the man, to say "No" to such an invitation. He went in to save her from her scolding. They found the old gentleman in thesalon, seated, in solitary state, in front of a table on which were a couple of packs of cards. His manner in greeting his daughter was more than a trifle acid.
"Well? You have come! It is good of you, upon my honour. I have not waited quite two hours--yet."
"I am so sorry."
She put her arms about his neck, her soft cheek against his rough one. He disengaged himself from her embrace.
"Permit me! I am not in the vein!"
"Father, you see that Mr Davison is here. Mr Davison, my father is justly angry with me. I have kept him waiting two hours for hisécarté."
Mr Davison advanced to the old gentleman with outstretched hand.
"Let me pay forfeit in Mdlle. de Fontanes' stead: play with me."
The old gentleman touched the extended palm with the end of his frigid fingers. He looked the speaker up and down.
"Do you playécarté?"
"I ought to; I have played it my whole life long."
"Then," said the old man, with beautiful irony, "you should be a foeman worthy of my steel."
They sat down. But the young lady did not seem easy.
"Is it not too late to play to-night? I am already guilty of detaining Mr Davison."
Mr Davison repudiated the idea with scorn.
"Too late! Why, sometimes I sit up playing cards the whole night long."
"After that," murmured the old man softly, "what has one left to say?"
They played, if not all night, at least until the tints of dawn were brightening the sky. The stakes were trifling, but, even so, if one never wins, one may lose--in time. When Mr Davison rose to go he had lost all his ready money and seventeen pounds besides. This he was to bring to-morrow, when he was to have his revenge.
Mdlle. de Fontanes let him out. In the hall, before she opened the door, she spoke to him.
"I wish you would promise me not to play with my father again."
"Promise you! But why?"
"Do not be offended. You are a younger man. You do not play so well as he, my friend."
The "friend" came softly at the end. But Mr Davison chafed at the under-estimation of his powers.
"You think so because I have not won to-night. Let me tell you, for your satisfaction, that I was not afraid of meeting any man at the 'Varsity, and there are some first-rate players there."
The lady smiled.
"At the 'Varsity? I see." She opened the door. The dawn streamed in. "Good-night."
As Mr Davison strolled homewards he saw before him in the air, not a pack of cards, but a woman's eyes.
Mr Davison saw Mr Lintorn again at the eleven o'clock breakfast that morning.
"Find her father?" was Mr Lintorn's greeting to him as he took his seat.
"Find her father? Whose? Oh, Mdlle. de Fontanes'! No; I had to see her home."
"Hard lines!"
Mr Lintorn waited until the second course was served before he spoke again.
"It took you a long time to see her home?"
"I don't understand you."
"I sat up for you until nearly two, and you weren't in then."
"It was very good of you to sit up for me, I'm sure."
Mr Lintorn, adjusting his eyeglasses, looked his friend fixedly in the face.
"Davison, if you will allow me, on this occasion only, to play the part of mentor, you will have as little to do with the de Fontanes as you conveniently can.
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"Nothing; only a word to the wise--"
"Considering that they are not my friends, but yours--"
"Who said they were my friends?"
"You introduced me."
"I introduced you? The like of that!"
The pair sallied forth together to see the bathers. Who should they chance upon but M. and Mdlle. de Fontanes. Mademoiselle had bathed. She looked radiant. Unlike the average woman, who finds the ordeal of emerging from the sea a trying one, the sea had but enhanced her charms. They were quite a family party. M. de Fontanes even unbent so far as to express a hope that the two Englishmen would dine with them that same evening. They were but in a temporary apartment; he could not promise them much, but they should have something to eat. Mr Davison accepted with effusion. Mr Lintorn, a little to his friend's surprise, after what had passed between them, accepted too.
Mr Davison spent the rest of the day in looking forward to his dinner. It was to be at seven. As a matter of course, he was dressed at six. Yet, owing to Mr Lintorn, it was half-past seven before they reached the Rue des Anges. Mr Davison was perspiring with rage. Mdlle. de Fontanes received them. Her father was standing, looking black, behind. Mr Lintorn was the first to enter the room.
"I pray your pardon, but Mr Davison has not yet reached an age at which punctuality at dinner is esteemed a virtue."
The thing was gratuitous.
"I assure you, Mdlle. de Fontanes--" burst out Mr Davison.
The young lady cut him short.
"I forgive you," she said. "It is so nice to be young."
During dinner Mr Davison scarcely spoke a word. His feelings were too strong for speech--at least, at such a gathering. The young lady, observing his silence, commented on it in what seemed almost a spirit of gratuitous malice.
"I am afraid, Mr Davison, we do not please you."
"Mdlle. de Fontanes!"
"Or perhaps you are not so eloquent as Mr Lintorn--ever?"
"No, never."
Mdlle. de Fontanes spoke so hesitatingly, and in such low tones, that only Mr Davison caught the words she uttered next.
"Perhaps--there is a certain manner--which--only comes with age."
"You seem to think that I am nothing but a boy. I will prove to you that at least in some things I am a man."
She looked up at him and smiled. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were bright. To make up, perhaps, for his lack of conversation, he had been drinking all the time. When they re-entered thesalonthe card-table was arranged for play. Mr Davison went up to it at once.
"M. de Fontanes, I hope for my revenge."
Mdlle. de Fontanes went to his side and whispered him,--
"I asked you!"
"But I had promised. Besides, I wish to show you thatécartéis one of the things in which you underrate my age."
M. de Fontanes sat down. There was a curious look upon his face.
"Mr Lintorn, you and I are old antagonists. Who was it used to win?"
"Invariably you."
"Ah, then it is your turn now!"
"Perhaps."
They played gallery. In spite of his prediction, fortune, as a rule, was with their host. The stakes were trifling, his losses small, yet it was curious to see the irritation with which Mr Lintorn saw his francs forsake him. He was playing with M. de Fontanes. The old gentleman scored the king. Suddenly Mr Lintorn, throwing his cards on the table, rose to his feet.
"It is enough!" he said.
His opponent looked up in not unnatural surprise.
"How?"
"You have won, and you will win certainly." He turned to the lady. "Mdlle. de Fontanes, you must excuse me. I have letters to write."
Without another word he left the room. A pause of blank amazement followed his disappearance. M. de Fontanes sat like a figure carved in stone.
"Is Mr Lintorn ill?" his daughter asked.
Mr Davison took upon himself to answer.
"He must be, or else mad. I believe he always is half-mad. But never mind! I'm glad he's gone. Now, M. de Fontanes, you have to reckon with me. For revenge! Your daughter doubts if I can playécarté. I will show her that her doubts are vain."
He drank two glasses of Maraschino, one after the other, emptying each at a draught. Placing the liqueur case beside him on the table, he sat down again to play. And they played on, and on, and on, hour after hour. Mr Davison continually lost. Fortune never varied; it was against him all the time. As his losses increased, he insisted on increasing the stakes. At last they were playing for really considerable sums.
"Fortune must turn!" he cried. "I never saw such cards in all my life! And, when it turns, I want to have a chance, you know."
So he persisted in raising the stakes still higher. And he drank! He emptied the flask of Maraschino, and began upon the Kummel, and would have emptied that if his host's daughter had not, probably in a moment of abstraction, removed the case of liqueurs from the table. He was in the highest spirits, and lost as though losing were a pleasure. And mademoiselle leant over his shoulder and whispered in his ear.
But at last her father declared that play must cease.
"You have had bad fortune," he observed.
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Mr Davison; his utterance was a little thick. "Extraordinary! Never had such bad fortune in my life before. It isn't fair to judge of a man's form from the play tonight? What do I owe you? A heap, I know."
"A trifle," M. de Fontanes looked through his tablets. "Three thousand seven hundred and fifty francs."
"Three thousand seven hundred and fifty francs! Why, that's a--that's a hundred and fifty pounds! Great snakes!"
The magnitude of the sum almost sobered him. M. de Fontanes smiled.
"You must try again for your revenge."
As before, the lady escorted the guest downstairs, "assisted" him would, on the present occasion, perhaps, have been the better word. The touch of her hand at parting increased his sense of intoxication. The cool air of the early morning did not tend to lessen it. He went staggering over the cobblestones. On the quay he encountered a solitary figure--the figure of a man who was strolling up and down and smoking a cigar. Mr Davison, with a burst of tipsy surprise, perceived that it was Mr Lintorn.
"Lintorn! I thought you were writing your letters."
Mr Lintorn quietly surveyed him.
"Did you? How much have you lost?"
"How do you know I've lost?"
"Why?" Mr Lintorn shrugged his shoulders. "The man happens to be a cheat."
"Don't--don't you say that again!"
"Why not? You would have seen it yourself if you had had your wits about you. He was cheating all the time."
"You--!"
Mr Davison struck at his friend. Mr Lintorn warded off the blow. Mr Davison struck again. The man was drunk and bent upon a row. It was impossible to avoid him without actually turning tail and fleeing. So Mr Lintorn let him have it. Mr Davison lay on his back among the cobble-stones. Mr Lintorn advanced to his assistance. The recumbent hero greeted him with a volley of abuse. Seeing that to persist would only be to bring about a renewal of hostilities, Mr Lintorn strolled off to the hotel alone, leaving Mr Davison to follow at his leisure.
The next morning Mr Davison did not put in an appearance at breakfast. So Mr Lintorn went to look for him in his room. He knocked at the door.
"Who's there?" growled a voice within.
"Lintorn. May I come in?"
Without waiting for the required permission he entered. The hero was still in bed. There was that look about him which is noticeable in the ordinarily sober youth who has enjoyed the night before not wisely, but too well. And his eye--outside the actual organ--was a beautiful black. Mr Lintorn started at sight of these signs of mourning.
"Davison, I had no idea--"
"You had no idea of what, sir? What do you mean by entering my room?"
"I cannot express to you how ashamed of myself I feel. I--I had no idea that I had hit so hard."
Mr Lintorn felt--too late--that this was one of those delicate subjects which are best avoided. But the words were spoken.
"Look here, Mr Lintorn: I chanced to stay in the same hotel with you at Nice, and it has suited me since, as a traveller, to adapt my movements to yours. Beyond that, you are a perfect stranger to me. You are, at best, but a chance acquaintance. Be so good as to consider that acquaintance dropped."
Mr Davison spoke, or intended to speak, with the dignity and the hauteur which are appropriate to the travelling man of fashion, who has spent six weeks abroad. But such a character is difficult to maintain when one has "hot coppers" and a black eye, and is lying in bed. None the less Mr Lintorn perceived that the present was not a favourable moment for argument. He fixed his glass in his eye, gave Mr Davison just one look, bowed, and left him to his dignity.
Mr Davison rang for his shaving-water, and the waiter who brought it was so indiscreet as to notice the gentleman's condition--the condition, that is, of what has been called his optic.
"Mais, monsieur est blessé!"
Mr Davison's knowledge of French was not peculiar for its extent, but it was sufficient to render him aware that the man exaggerated the actual fact.
"Get out!" he shouted.
The man got out, having learned, it is to be hoped, a lesson in tact. When Mr Davison began to shave he found that his hand was shaky. His temper was ruffled, his head ached most dreadfully. The looking-glass revealed with terrible distinctness the state of his eye; it was really not surprising that the waiter had found it impossible to avoid making his little observation. In shaving--not, by the way, in his case an absolutely indispensable operation--he cut a gash about an inch and a half in length on the most prominent part of his chin. This, ornamented with a strip of yellow sticking-plaster, did not, so to speak, harmonise with the rest of his appearance. It did not harmonise with his temper, either; he was in a mood to cut the throat of the first man he met.
When he had completed his toilet he sat down and penned the following note:--
"Mr Davison presents his compliments to M. de Fontanes. He encloses notes to the value of three thousand seven hundred and fifty francs--the amount of his overnight losses atécarté. As such a sum is larger than Mr Davison cares to lose, he would be obliged by M. de Fontanes giving him his revenge at the earliest possible moment--say this evening at eight o'clock."
Mr Davison felt this was a communication which any man might be proud of having written; that it conveyed the impression that he was not a lad to be trifled with, and that it would give M. de Fontanes and his daughter to understand that, sooner or later, he would be quits, and more. Before enclosing the notes it was necessary to have the notes to enclose. That involved sallying forth to get them. So he sallied forth, patched chin, black eye, and all, to the banking-house of MM. Adam et Cie. Those gentlemen were so good as to honour his cheque to the extent he required--not, however, without commiserating him both on the state of his chin and the state of his eye. Having received his notes, he sent his letter. Then he returned to the hotel to wait for a reply. It came.
"Mon Brave.--Ce soir, à huit heures, chez moi. Mille remercîments.
"De Fontanes."
Although M. de Fontanes spoke such fluent English, it appeared that he preferred to trust to his own language when it came to pen and paper.
On the stroke of eight Mr Davison made his appearance in the Rue des Anges. His entry made a small sensation. Mdlle. de Fontanes, advancing to meet him, stopped short with a little cry.
"Mr Davison! Oh, what is the matter! Are--are you ill?"
Mr Davison turned the colour of a boiled beetroot.
"I do not understand you," he said.
The father's tact was finer than the daughter's.
"On the stroke of the hour!" he murmured, extending his hand to greet his guest, as though guests with patched chins and black eyes were everyday occurrences.
They sat down to play. Before they commenced Mr Davison delivered himself of a few remarks.
"You must understand, M. de Fontanes, that I have lost more than I quite care to lose. Therefore, I cannot afford to play for trifling stakes. I suggest with your permission, that we commence with five-pound points."
"Five-pound points!" cried mademoiselle. Her distress seemed genuine.
"I said five-pound points."
Mr Davison's manner towards the daughter of the house was scarcely courteous. Perhaps he resented the surprise she had shown at his appearance.
"Five pounds--or fifty."
M. de Fontanes smiled at the board as he murmured this liberal agreement with his guest's suggestion.
It was not the drink that night, but the cards! The younger player never touched a king. Never had a man such luck before. In so short a space of time as to make the whole affair seem like a conjuring trick, his debt to M. de Fontanes had entered its second century. He appeared to grow bewildered, as, indeed, in the face of such a run of luck an older player might easily have done. He got into such a state that he would have been unable to play the cards even if he had had them, and he never had them.
"This--this is awful!" he groaned. "At this rate I shall be able to do nothing even if luck turns. What do you say to doubling the stakes?"
Mdlle. de Fontanes was reclining in an easy-chair, ostensibly reading a book; in reality following the game. She sprang to her feet.
"I forbid it!" she cried. "Father, I forbid it!"
"Do not disturb yourself, my child. I am in all things moderate. The stakes are high enough--for me."
Mr Davison's losses increased. He never scored a trick. He was making a record in bad luck. His lips were parched, his hands trembling.
"That makes three hundred pounds," said M. de Fontanes, reading his tablets.
"Three hundred pounds!" repeated the young man, a little hoarsely, perhaps.
"It shall not be!"
The interruption came from Mdlle. de Fontanes. She advanced to the table. She laid her hand upon the pack of cards which Mr Davison was about to deal. Her father looked up at her interrogatively.
"I say it shall not be. I will not have it, father. Mr Davison, you owe my father nothing; he cheats you all the time."
M. de Fontanes rose. His tall figure seemed to tower to an unusual height.
"I care not. I tell you, Mr Davison, you owe my father nothing--not a sou--! He cheats you all the time!"
Mr Davison staggered to his feet, his eyes opened, as it were, by a sudden flash of lightning. He threw the pack of cards, which he was holding, into the old man's face.
There was silence. Then the old man's lips moved.
"To-morrow," he muttered, so that the words were scarcely audible, and left the room.
When he was gone, the lady addressed the gentleman:
"You, too, had better go."
Mr Davison went. Mdlle. de Fontanes was left alone. She did not escort him down the stairs. And this time, as he walked through the night to his hotel, it was not a woman's eyes, but a pack of cards which he saw before him in the air.
The next morning--another morning!--at a very early hour, Mr Davison entered Mr Lintorn's bedroom. The latter gentleman was still engaged in his toilet.
"Lintorn, I am an ass!"
"The fact," said Mr Lintorn placidly, and as though there had been no unpleasantness of any kind between them, "does not surprise me so much as the statement of the fact."
"I've behaved like an ass to you."
"You have."
Mr Lintorn wiped the soap off his razor; he had a steadier hand than Mr Davison.
"I've behaved like an ass all round."
"I can believe it easily. Indeed, you are, in general, an ass. You're a nice fellow, but you are an ass. You'll grow out of it in time, but you'll have to do a deal of growing first." Mr Lintorn glanced at his friend, who was pacing round the room. "How's your eye?"
"Oh, hang my eye! Lintorn, how much do you think I've lost within the last three nights? Five hundred pounds!"
Mr Lintorn whistled.
"How pleasant it is to be rich and young."
"But I'm not rich. With the exception of five thousand pounds left me by my aunt to help me along while I'm reading for the bar, I've scarcely a penny in the world."
"Davison, you don't mean that?"
"I do mean it. And the worst of it is, it's not been fairly lost. That old rogue's been rooking me all through."
"Oh, you've discovered that, have you? After trying to murder me for warning you."
Then Mr Davison told his tale. How Mdlle. de Fontanes had interrupted the game, and exposed her father's pernicious practices. Mr Lintorn expressed much admiration of the lady's conduct.
"She looked like a goddess then, if you like. I should like to have seen her."
"She did look like a goddess; but I don't know that you would have liked to have seen her. She made me feel uncommonly small, I do know that."
"That's of course! but that's so easy."
While Mr Davison was thinking of a retort with which to crush his friend--for even a worm will turn--there came a tap at the door. A waiter entered.
"A lady to see M. Davison."
"A lady! To see me! What's her name?"
"She does not give her name. It is a young lady--a pretty young lady." It was the waiter who had found it impossible to avoid commenting on Mr Davison's appearance. It was plain he had not learnt his lesson yet. "She attends in thesalon."
The waiter disappeared.
"Bet you a guinea," cried Mr Lintorn, "that it's Mdlle. de Fontanes. Davison, I've almost finished shaving; I'll take this business off your hands if you like."
"Thanks; I'm much obliged. This time I will not trouble you."
It was Mdlle. de Fontanes. When Mr Davison appeared she was standing in the centre of the room. A thick black veil was before her face. That waiter must have had keen eyes to detect the prettiness beneath it. A little packet was in her hand. Opening it, she turned out its contents on the table. There was a little heap of notes and gold.
"That is the money which my father has won from you."
This was her greeting as the young gentleman entered the room.
"Mdlle. de Fontanes!"
There was a pause. Mr Davison looked from the lady to the money, and from the money to the lady. With a little movement she lifted her veil.
He saw her face; it was pale, with the look upon it which follows a sleepless night.
"Did you think that we would keep it?" She put out her hand and touched his sleeve. "Did you think so badly of us, then, as that?"
He thought that he had never seen her look so pretty. There was something in her voice which caused "a choking in his throat.
"But I cannot take the money. Especially--if you will forgive me, Mdlle. de Fontanes--especially from you."
She sat down. For a moment she covered her face with her hands. Suddenly she rose.
"Do not make my burden heavier than it is already. Mr Davison, my father cannot help but cheat. It is a disease. In the common things of life he is the most honourable of men--the best of fathers. But with the cards, night after night, since he must play, I play with him, and he cheats me."
She fell on her knees by the side of the table. Burying her face in her hands, she cried as though her heart would break. Mr Davison could only whisper--
"Mdlle. de Fontanes."
She looked up at him.
"Say you forgive me," she cried.
"Forgive you! I! What have I to forgive?"
"For taking you home that night; for letting you know my father; for letting you know me."
Mr Davison fumbled with a compliment.
"That--that is an honour for which I--I ought to thank you."
She rose. She regarded him intently, the tears still stealing from her eyes. Never had he felt so uncomfortable before a woman's gaze. It seemed to him that he was passing through all the colour phases of the rainbow.
"So you forgive me, truly?"
"If--if there is forgiveness needed."
"If you forgive me"--she came close to him, he felt her hand steal into his--"kiss me, Harry."
He kissed her as though she were a red-hot coal. Never did a travelled young man of the world so kiss a pretty woman yet! And when he had kissed her there was silence. Then, slipping her hand into the bosom of her dress, she drew out a locket, to which was attached a narrow black ribbon.
"Keep this in memory of a chance acquaintance. Look at it sometimes, and, in looking, think of me. And, in thinking of me, do not think of me as one who plundered you, but as one who--"
She paused. She looked down. But he was the most awkward of men. When she looked up again her face was fiery red. She drew herself away from him, and when she spoke her tone was changed.
"So, Mr Davison, you quite perceive that you owe my father nothing. You two are quits. But there is one thing you must promise me--you will not fight him."
"I do not understand."
"Oh, it is simple. He will challenge you. After what passed last night he is sure to challenge you. But, however that may be, you must say 'No.'"
"If you wish me to, I promise. But in England we don't fight duels.
"No? Not even at the 'Varsity?"
She nodded to him and smiled. And in a moment she was gone. Mr Davison found Mr Lintorn still engaged in putting the finishing touches to his costume. The expression of his countenance was a vivid note of interrogation.
"Well, was it she?"
Mr Davison said "Yes."
"I should have won that guinea."
Mr Davison narrated the interview. When he had finished, Mr Lintorn reflected.
"Odd! Something of the same sort happened to me. It was at Mentone I first encountered the de Fontanes. On two or three evenings I playedécarté. I lost; but not five hundred pounds. Two or three days afterwards the sum which I had lost came to me enclosed in an envelope. Not a scrap of writing was with it, but the address was in a feminine hand; I always suspected it came from the lady. When I again inquired for the de Fontanes they were gone. But my curiosity was piqued. I did not forget them. So I renewed the acquaintance when I saw them here."
"If he challenges me, what shall I do? I promised not to fight him. Besides, the thing would be a rank absurdity."
"Stand to your promise. I tell you what to do. There's a boat leaves for Folkestone in an hour. Let's go by it together."
"But wouldn't that look like running away?"
"It would be running away."
Mr Davison did not quite like this way of putting it, but he went. They travelled together. On the boat Mr Davison remembered the locket. He opened it. It contained a portrait of the giver. As he eyed it, he observed in that curious vernacular which is an attribute of some examples of modern youth,--
"By Jingo! aren't those French girls goers?"
But Mr Lintorn was an older man. His range was wider.
"Don't judge of a nation by an individual. Mdlle. de Fontanes is unique; the product, I should say, of a very singular experience."
Actually, Mr Davison kissed the portrait.
"I will always keep it," he said.
Archie Ferguson's smoking-room. He and I its only occupants. We had been to a meeting of the Primrose League which had been held at the neighbouring county town. Knocking off the ash from his cigar, he broke an interval of silence by asking me a question.
"Did you notice a woman who, just as we were leaving the hall, came up and shook hands with me in rather an effusive way?"
"A good-looking, well-dressed woman, with rather an effusive smile? I wondered who she was."
"She's a Mrs Bennett-Lamb. The weight-carrying man who was standing at her side was Mr Bennett-Lamb. Perhaps you know the name. She and her husband have been the owners of a good deal of the public-house property in London which is worth owning. They're the proud possessors of some of it still. They've made a heap of money. Some of it they've spent in buying a place near here--Oakdene. It's on the cards that their daughter--they've only one, and she's an uncommonly pretty girl--will make a first-rate match. In which case, no doubt, they'll try to graduate for county honours."
He flicked off another scrap of ash before he spoke again.
"It was Mrs Bennett-Lamb who found the money with which to start the firm. The way in which she found it was curious. It's a queer story. I'll tell it you, if you like. It's a rather good one."
I lit another cigar; and smoked it while Ferguson told his story.
* * * * *
At that time Mrs Bennett-Lamb was a chorus girl at the Frivolity Theatre. In those days only pretty girls were allowed to appear on the Frivolity stage. The management's standard of beauty was a high one. It drew all London. And the prettiest of the whole crowd was Ailsa Lorraine. Whether Ailsa Lorraine was or was not her real name I am unable to tell you; I have reason to know that nowadays her husband calls her Peggy; but that was the name by which she was known on the programme. Miss Lorraine was engaged to be married--to Joe Lamb. Where the "Bennett" comes from Mr and Mrs Bennett-Lamb only know. It is certain that then the present J. Bennett-Lamb, Esquire, was plain Joe Lamb. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Joe Lamb was a grocer's assistant--and not a flourishing specimen of his kind. In fact, the more he considered his position and future prospects the more despondent he became.
One Sunday afternoon he went to tea at Miss Lorraine's. While they were enjoying the meal he gave utterance to the feelings which filled his bosom.
"We've been engaged for more than two years," he began.
"Two years!" the tone in which she echoed his words were intended to indicate surprise. "It doesn't seem anything like so long as that, does it, Joe?"
"It does to me. It seems every bit as long. In fact, I don't mind telling you that it seems longer."
Neither the words nor the manner in which they were spoken suggested a compliment, as the lady appeared to think. There was a rueful look upon her pretty face and a mist dimmed her eyes as she asked him a question in return.
"Does that mean that it has seemed so long because you're tired of being engaged to me?"
"It does; that's just exactly what it does mean."
"Joe!"
"Now don't jump up like that! You nearly upset the tray, and I've hardly touched my third cup of tea. What are you up to? Crying?"
"I'm sure, Mr Lamb, if you wish to release me you're perfectly at liberty to do so at once; and you need never see nor speak to me again. There's no fear of my bringing an action against you for breach of promise of marriage."
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"I'm sure if you'd even dropped so much as the slightest hint you'd have seen the last of me long enough ago; and I certainly wouldn't have worried you to come to tea."
"What have I said or done to start you off like this?--just as I was beginning on a fresh round of toast!"
"How dare you say you were tired of being engaged to me!"
"So I am."
"Joe--Joe Lamb!"
"It's gospel truth. I want you for my wife; that's what I want."
The lady's face perceptibly brightened. The tone of her voice was altered also.
"Joe! What extraordinary ways you have of expressing yourself. Will you kindly explain exactly what it is you mean?"
"I've been engaged to you more than two years, and you're no nearer being my wife than you were at the beginning. If anything, you're further off. And I'm sick and tired of waiting; that's what I mean."
"If you'd only said so at first."
"I did; didn't I?"
"I thought you meant something quite different."
"I can't help what you thought. I know what I meant."
"Poor Joe! So you want us to be quick and get married, do you?"
"Of course I do; what else do you suppose I got engaged for? But we can't marry on ten bob a week."
"Hardly."
"And that's all I get, living in. I asked the governor yesterday to give me thirty bob and let me live out. He said all he'd give me was a week's notice."
"The wretch!"
"As for bettering myself; I dare say I've spent five shillings on paper, stamps and envelopes, and nothing's come of it. We don't want to get married and have you keep on the stage."
"We certainly don't. I have a voice in that matter. When I marry I leave the stage for good; I don't marry until I do. I hate the theatre; that is, I don't mind being in front of the curtain, looking on; but I hate being behind. I only go there because I don't know any other way of earning two pounds a week. I've no delusions about the stage like some of the girls have. But, tell me, Joe, can't you think of any way of earning more?"
"There's one way."
"What's that?"
"Emigrating."
As she repeated the word again the expression on the lady's face grew rueful.
"Emigrating!"
"Going to Africa or Canada or one of those places where a fellow has a chance."
"But you'd have to leave me behind."
"That's the worst of it."
"We mightn't see each other again for years."
"We mightn't."
There was a pause. The lady had seated herself on the arm of the chair on which her lover sat, and was smoothing his hair with her dainty little hand.
"Joe, would you like to do that?"
"I'd sooner do anything--anything! I'd sooner sweep a crossing; I'd sooner be a shoeblack. I hear that some of them shoeblacks earn six and seven shillings a day when there's plenty of mud about."
"I don't think I should care for you to be a shoeblack, even when there's plenty of mud about. I'd almost rather you did anything than that."
"But there's nothing I can do."
Another pause; this time a longer one. Joe Lamb sat with his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his Sunday trousers; a frown upon his brow. The lady continued to smooth his well-brushed hair.
"Joe, suppose I were to see my way to earn some money."
"You! Are they going to raise you to fifty shillings, and give you a line to speak: 'The carriage waits,' or something of that sort?"
She suffered his ungraciousness to pass unheeded.
"Suppose I were to see my way to earn, say, five thousand pounds."
Mr Lamb, withdrawing his head from the neighbourhood of the lady's caressing hand, sat bolt upright in his chair with a start.
"Five--what?"
"I know a public-house which is to be bought cheap, if bought at once. Never mind how I know, but I do. We could get it for five thousand pounds and have plenty over to go on with. You and I might work the business up and in two years sell it for twice as much as we gave for it. Joe, what do you think?"
"I think--it's no use my telling you what I think, because you wouldn't like it. You might as well talk about buying the moon."
"I'm not so sure of that. I believe I could earn the money if I liked."
"You earn five thousand pounds! Well! I don't want to say anything--not a word; but might I just ask how you propose to set about it?"
"By bringing an action for breach of promise of marriage."
"What!"
"I shouldn't be surprised if I got at least five thousand pounds by way of damages."
Joe Lamb, who had risen from his seat, was staring at her with, on his countenance, an expression of increasing stupefaction.
"From whom?--from me?"
"The idea!" She laughed, as if the notion tickled her. "In the first place, I shouldn't dream of suing you, even if you were to prove false; and you know very well that you're not worth half as many farthings if I did. No; I propose to obtain my five thousand pounds from Sir Frank Pickard."
"Who's Sir Frank Pickard?"
"He's a young gentleman--a very young gentleman, just turned twenty-one, who's fallen head over heels in love with me."
The lady was looking down at her skirt, as she smoothed it with the tips of her fingers, with an air of the most extreme demureness. Mr Lamb's face, as he regarded her, was rapidly assuming the hue of a boiled lobster.
"So you've been encouraging him, have you?"
"I have been doing nothing of the kind. So far, I haven't spoken to him a single word. I've declined to receive his presents--even his flowers."
"So he's been sending you presents, has he!--and flowers."
The lady sighed, as if she found the gentleman a little trying.
"My dear Joe, all sorts of people fall in love with me to whom I have never spoken in my life, or they say they do. They send me flowers and presents, and all kinds of things, which I always refuse to accept, although some of the other girls call me a goose for my pains. I can't help their falling in love with me, can I?"
She looked up at him with an air of innocence which was almost too perfect to be real. So far from it appeasing him, he began stamping up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his fists as he moved.
"A nice sort of thing for a man to be told by his young woman! You shall leave that confounded theatre this week!"
"To do so is part of my plan. I shall hand in my notice to-morrow--that is, if I am engaged to Sir Frank Pickard by then."
"What?"
"Joe! don't be silly! Why are you glaring at me like that? Won't you understand? Already, in three separate and distinct letters Sir Frank has asked me to marry him."
"Has he?"
"Though, of course, I've paid no sort of attention to his insane request."
"I should think it was insane!"
"I don't fancy I use the word in quite the same sense in which you do. However, I've been making inquiries about him. I find he's of a very old family, and tremendously rich. His father is dead. He's the only child of his mother; she can't prevent his doing anything he chooses to do, and she wouldn't if she could. She idolises him. During his minority the income has accumulated, until now he has at his command a perfectly enormous sum of ready money. Five thousand pounds is nothing to him, or ten either. My idea is to ask him to call on me to-morrow, and then to get him to repeat in person the proposal which he has already made by letter. Having accepted him, I shall see that he puts it all down in black and white, so that everything is quite ship-shape. And then I shall hand in my notice at the theatre."
During the lady's remarks Mr Lamb's countenance was a panorama of disagreeable emotions.
"And where do you suppose I shall be while all this is going on?"
"You'll be at the shop."
"Not much I sha'n't. I'll keep on hanging about your front door until I catch sight of your fine gentleman; and then I'll break his neck."
"Don't be silly. After we're engaged and everything is signed and sealed and settled I shall begin to behave in a fashion which will soon make him as anxious to break his promise as he was to make it."
"I bet he will! You wait till I get within reach of him, that's all."
"You will not appear upon the scene. You would spoil all if you did. I shall manage everything."
"I fancy I see myself letting you do it! You've got some pretty ideas of your own!"
"You'll find by the time I've finished that I've some very pretty ones indeed. You don't know what a treasure you possess. When Sir Frank begins to show signs of wanting to back out of his promise I shall begin to talk about my injured feelings; to which, however, he'll find it possible to apply a soothing plaster in the shape of--well, say five thousand pounds."
"You're a nice piece of goods, upon my word! I ask you again where do you suppose I shall be while all this is going on?"
"And I tell you again, you'll be at the shop. You open so early and close so late, and get out so little on week-days, that you never get a chance of seeing me even after I leave the theatre. Possibly by next Sunday, when we shall have a chance of seeing each other again, it will all be settled."
"By next Sunday?"
"Exactly. I mean to keep things moving. Possibly by next Sunday I shall be within reach of the money which will enable us to marry and ensure our future happiness. Think how delightful that will be! We can't marry on ten shillings a week; after we're married I don't mean to stay on at the theatre, and so keep up a home for us both; and as for your emigrating--the chances are that we might never see each other again. And, anyhow, it might be years before you earned even a tenth part of five thousand pounds. So do be reasonable. I'm sure if you think it over you'll see perfectly well that my way is by far the best."
It was some time before Mr Lamb was reasonable--from the lady's point of view. It is doubtful if to the end he saw as plainly as she would have liked him to, that her way was the best. But at that period of her career she had a way about her to which few men were capable of offering a prolonged resistance. Joe Lamb was distinctly not one of those few. By the time they parted she wrung from him what she told him plainly she intended to regard as his approbation of her nefarious schemes. So soon as his back was turned she wrote a stiff, formal note, in the third person, in which she informed Sir Frank Pickard that Miss Ailsa Lorraine would be at home to-morrow--Monday--afternoon at three o'clock and might be disposed to see him if he desired to call.
"It's not exactly a nice sort of thing to do," she admitted to herself, as she secured this epistle in an envelope. "But it's the sort of opportunity which never may occur again; it seems wicked to throw it away. Especially as poor dear Joe never will be able to get the money by himself. I am convinced that he's just the sort of man to take advantage of a chance if he has one. And I love him well enough to get him one. And that's the whole truth in a nutshell."