"Just what do you mean to insinuate, Mother Millidew?" demanded the other, her voice rising.
"My God!" cried Trotter's employer, straightening her figure and facing the other. Something like horror sounded in her cracked old voice. "Could—my God!—could it be possible?"
"Speak plainly! What do you mean?"
Mrs. Millidew, the elder, advanced her mottled face until it was but a few inches from that of her daughter-in-law.
"Where wereyoulast night?" she demanded harshly.
There was a moment of utter silence. Trotter, down below, caught his breath.
Then, to his amazement, Mrs. Millidew the younger, instead of flying into a rage, laughed softly, musically.
"Oh, you are too rich for words," she gurgled. "Iwish,—heavens, how I wish you could see what a fool you look. Go back, quick, and look in the mirror before it wears off. You'll have the heartiest laugh you've had in years."
She leaned against the railing and continued to laugh. Not a sound from Mrs. Millidew, the elder.
"Do come up a few steps, Trotter," went on the younger gaily,—"and have a peep. You will—"
The other found her voice. There was now an agitated note, as of alarm, in it.
"Don't you dare come up those steps, Trotter;—I forbid you, do you hear!"
Trotter replied with considerable dignity. He had been shocked by the scene.
"I have no intention of moving in any direction except toward the front door," he said.
"Don't go away," called out his employer. "You are not dismissed."
"I came to explain my unavoidable absence last—"
"Some other time,—some other time. I want the car at half-past ten."
Young Mrs. Millidew was descending the stairs. Her smiling eyes were upon the distressed young man at the bottom. There was no response in his.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Millidew," he said, raising his voice slightly. "I came not only to explain, but to notify you that I am giving up my place almost immediately."
"What!" squeaked the old lady, coming to the top of the steps.
"It is imperative. I shall, of course, stay on for a day or two while you are finding—"
"Do you mean to say you are quitting of your own accord?" she gasped.
"Yes, madam."
"Don't call me 'madam'! I've told you that before. So—so, you are going to work for her in spite of me, are you? It's all been arranged, has it? You two have—"
"He is coming to me today," said young Mrs. Millidew sweetly. "Aren't you, Trotter?"
"No, I am not!" he exploded.
She stopped short on the stairs, and gave him a startled, incredulous look. Any one else but Trotter would have been struck by her loveliness.
"You're not?" cried Mrs. Millidew from the top step. It was almost a cry of relief. "Do you mean that?"
"Absolutely."
His employer fumbled for a pocket lost among the folds of her dressing-gown.
"Well, you can't resign, my man. Don't think for a minute you can resign," she cried out shrilly.
He thought she was looking for a handkerchief.
"But I insist, Mrs. Millidew, that I—"
"You can't resign for the simple reason that you're already fired," she sputtered. "I never allow any one to givemenotice, young man. No one ever left me without being discharged, let me tell you that. Where the dev—Oh, here it is!" She not only had found the pocket but the crisp slip of paper that it contained. "Here is a check for your week's wages. It isn't up till next Monday, but take it and get out. I never want to see your ugly face again."
She crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and threw the ball in his direction. Its flight ended half-way down the steps.
"Come and get it, if you want it," she said.
"Good day, madam," he said crisply, and turned on his heel.
"How many times must I tell you not to call me—Come back here, Dolly! I want to see you."
But her tall, perplexed daughter-in-law passed out through the door, followed by the erect and lordly Mr. Trotter.
"Good-bye, Tommie," whispered Katie, as he donned his grey fedora.
"Good-bye, Katie," he said, smiling, and held out his hand to her. "You heard what she said. If you should ever think of resigning, I'd suggest you do it in writing and from a long way off." He looked behind the vestibule door and recovered a smart little walking-stick. "Something to lean upon in my misfortune," he explained to Katie.
Young Mrs. Millidew was standing at the top of the steps, evidently waiting for him. Her brow wrinkled as she took him in from head to foot. He was wearing spats. His two-button serge coat looked as though it had been made for him,—and his correctly pressed trousers as well. He stood for a moment, his head erect, his heels a little apart, his stick under his arm, while he drew on,—with no inconsiderable effect—a pair of light tan gloves. And the smile with which he favoured her was certainly not that of a punctilious menial. On the contrary, it was the rather bland,casual smile of one who is very well satisfied with his position.
In a cheery, off-hand manner he inquired if she was by any chance going in his direction.
The metamorphosis was complete. The instant he stepped outside of Mrs. Millidew's door, the mask was cast aside. He stood now before the world,—and before the puzzled young widow in particular,—as a thoroughbred, cocksure English gentleman. In a moment his whole being seemed to have undergone a change. He carried himself differently; his voice and the manner in which he used it struck her at once as remarkably altered; more than anything else, was she impressed by the calm assurance of his inquiry.
She was nonplussed. For a moment she hesitated between resentment and the swift-growing conviction that he was an equal.
For the first time within the range of her memory, she felt herself completely rattled and uncertain of herself. She blushed like a fool,—as she afterwards confessed,—and stammered confusedly:
"I—yes—that is, I am going home."
"Come along, then," he said coolly, and she actually gasped.
To her own amazement, she took her place beside him and descended the steps, her cheeks crimson. At the bottom, she cast a wild, anxious look up and down the street, and then over her shoulder at the second-story windows of the house they had just left.
Queer little shivers were running all over her. She couldn't account for them,—any more than she couldaccount for the astonishing performance to which she was now committed: that of walking jauntily through a fashionable cross-town street in the friendliest, most intimate manner with her mother-in-law's discharged chauffeur! Fifth Avenue but a few steps away, with all its mid-morning activities to be encountered! What on earth possessed her! "Come along, then," he had said with all the calmness of an old and privileged acquaintance! And obediently she had "come along"!
His chin was up, his eyes were sparkling; his body was bent forward slightly at the waist to co-ordinate with the somewhat pronounced action of his legs; his hat was slightly tilted and placed well back on his head; his gay little walking-stick described graceful revolutions.
She was suddenly aware of a new thrill—one of satisfaction. As she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her face cleared. Instinctively she grasped the truth. Whatever he may have been yesterday, he was quite another person today,—and it was a pleasure to be seen with him!
She lengthened her stride, and held up her head. Her red lips parted in a dazzling smile.
"I suppose it is useless to ask you to change your mind,—Trotter," she said, purposely hesitating over the name.
"Quite," said he, smiling into her eyes.
She was momentarily disconcerted. She found it more difficult than she had thought to look into his eyes.
"Why do you call yourself Trotter?" she asked, after a moment.
"I haven't the remotest idea," he said. "It came to me quite unexpectedly."
"It isn't a pretty name," she observed. "Couldn't you have done better?"
"I daresay I might have called myself Marjoribanks with perfect propriety," said he. "Or Plantagenet, or Cholmondeley. But it would have been quite a waste of time, don't you think?"
"Would you mind telling me who you really are?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Oh, yes, I would. I could believe anything of you."
"Well, I am the Prince of Wales."
She flushed. "I believe you," she said. "Forgive my impertinence, Prince."
"Forgive mine, Mrs. Millidew," he said soberly. "My name is Temple, Eric Temple. That does not convey anything to you, of course."
"It conveys something vastly more interesting than Trotter,—Thomas Trotter."
"And yet I am morally certain that Trotter had a great deal more to him than Eric Temple ever had," said he. "Trotter was a rather good sort, if I do say it myself. He was a hard-working, honest, intelligent fellow who found the world a very jolly old thing. I shall miss Trotter terribly, Mrs. Millidew. He used to read me to sleep nearly every night, and if I got a headache or a pain anywhere he did my complaining for me. He was with me night and day for three years and more, and that, let me tell you, is the severest test. I've known him to curse me roundly, to call me nearly everything under the sun,—and yet I let him go on doing it without a word in self-defence. Once he savedmy life in an Indian jungle,—he was a remarkably good shot, you see. And again he pulled me through a pretty stiff illness in Tokio. I don't know how I should have got on without Trotter."
"You are really quite delicious, Mr. Eric Temple. By the way, did you allow the admirable Trotter to direct your affairs of the heart?"
"I did," said he promptly.
"That is rather disappointing," said she, shaking her head. "Trotter may not have played the game fairly, you know. With all the best intentions in the world, he may have taken advantage of your—shall I say indifference?"
"You may take my word for it, Mrs. Millidew, good old Trotter went to a great deal of pains to arrange a very suitable match for me," said he airily. "He was a most discriminating chap."
"How interesting," said she, stiffening slightly. "Am I permitted to inquire just what opportunities Thomas Trotter has had to select a suitable companion for the rather exotic Mr. Temple?"
"Fortunately," said he, "the rather exotic Mr. Temple approves entirely of the choice made by Thomas Trotter."
"I wouldn't trust a chauffeur too far, if I were you," said she, a little maliciously.
"Just how farwouldyou trust one?" he inquired, lifting his eyebrows.
She smiled. "Well,—the length of Long Island," she said, with the utmost composure.
"Mr. Trotter's late employer would not, it appears, share your faith in the rascal," said he.
"She is a rather evil-minded old party," said Mrs. Millidew, the younger, bowing to the occupants of an automobile which was moving slowly in the same direction down the Avenue.
A lady in the rear seat of the limousine leaned forward to peer at the widow's companion, who raised his hat,—but not in greeting. The man who slumped down in the seat beside her, barely lifted his hat. A second later he sat up somewhat hastily and stared.
The occupants of the car were Mrs. Smith-Parvis,—a trifle haggard about the eyes,—and her son Stuyvesant.
Young Mrs. Millidew laughed. "Evidently they recognize you, Mr. Temple, in spite of your spats and stick."
"I thought I was completely disguised," said he, twirling his stick.
"Good-bye," said she, at the corner. She held out her hand. "It is very nice to have known you, Mr. Eric Temple. Our mutual acquaintance, the impeccable Trotter, has my address if you should care to avail yourself of it. After the end of June, I shall be on Long Island."
"It is very good of you, Mrs. Millidew," he said, clasping her hand. His hat was off. The warm spring sun gleamed in his curly brown hair. "I hope to be in England before the end of June." He hesitated a moment, and then said: "Lady Temple and I will be happy to welcome you at Fenlew Hall when you next visit England. Good-bye."
She watched him stride off down the Avenue. Shewas still looking after him with slightly disturbed eyes when the butler opened the door.
"Any fool should have known," she said, to herself and not to the servant. A queer little light danced in her eyes. "As a matter of fact, I suppose I did know without realizing it. Is Mrs. Hemleigh at home, Brooks?"
"She is expecting you, Mrs. Millidew."
"By the way, Brooks, do you happen to know anything about Fenlew Hall?"
Brooks was as good a liar as any one. He had come, highly recommended, from a Fifth Avenue intelligence office. He did not hesitate an instant.
"The Duke of Aberdeen's county seat, ma'am? I know it quite well. I cawn't tell you 'ow many times I've been in the plice, ma'am, while I was valeting his Grice, the Duke of Manchester."
FOUR persons, a woman and three men, assembled in the insignificant hallway at the top of the steps reaching to the fifth floor of the building occupied by Deborah, Limited. To be precise, they were the butler, the parlour-maid and two austere footmen. Cricklewick was speaking.
"Marriage is a most venturesome undertaking, my dear." He addressed himself to Julia, the parlour-maid. "So don't go saying it isn't."
"I didn't say it wasn't," said Julia stoutly. "What I said was, if ever any two people were made for each other it's him and her."
"In my time," said Cricklewick, "I've seen what looked to be the most excellent matches turn out to be nothing but fizzles."
"Well, this one won't," said she.
"As I was saying to McFaddan in the back 'all a minute ago, Mr. Cricklewick, the larst weddin' of any consequence I can remember hattending was when Lady Jane's mother was married to the Earl of Wexham. I sat on the box with old 'Oppins and we ran hover a dog drivin' away from St. George's in 'Anover Square." It was Moody who spoke. He seemed to relish the memory. "It was such a pretty little dog, too. I shall never forget it." He winked at Julia.
"You needn't wink at me, Moody," said Julia. "I didn't like the little beast any more than you did."
"Wot I've always wanted to know is how the blinkin' dog got loose in the street that day," mused McFaddan. "He was the most obstinate dog I ever saw. It was absolutely impossible to coax 'im into the stable-yard when Higgins's bull terrier was avisitin' us, and you couldn't get him into the stall with Dandy Boy,—not to save your life. He seemed to know that hoss would kick his bloomin' gizzard out. I used to throw little hunks of meat into the stall for him, too,—nice little morsels that any other dog in the world would have been proud to risk anything for. But him? Not a bit of it. He was the most disappointin', bull-headed animal I ever saw. I've always meant to ask how did it happen, Julia?"
"I had him out for his stroll," said Julia, with a faraway, pleased expression in her eyes. "I thought as how he might be interested in seeing the bride and groom, and all that, when they came out of the church, so I took him around past Claridge's, and would you believe it he got away from me right in the thick of the carriages. He was that kind of a dog. He would always have his own way. I was terribly upset, McFaddan. You must remember how I carried on, crying and moaning and all that till her ladyship had to send for the doctor. It seemed to sort of get her mind off her bereavement, my hysterics did."
"You made a puffeck nuisance of yourself," said Cricklewick.
"I took notice, however, Mr. Cricklewick, thatyoudidn't shed any tears," said she coldly.
"Certainly not," said the butler. "I admit I should have cried as much as anybody. You've no idea how fond the little darling was of me. There was hardly aday he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much. He used to go without his regular meals, he had such a preference for my calves. I've got marks on me to this day."
"And just to think, it was twenty-six years ago," sighed Moody. "'Ow times 'ave changed."
"Not as much as you'd think," said Julia, a worried look in her eyes. "My mistress is talking of getting another dog,—after all these years. She swore she'd never have another one to take 'is place."
"Thank 'eavings," said Moody devoutly, "I am in another situation." He winked and chuckled loudly.
"As 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month," said McFaddan. "He is a—"
"Ahem!" coughed the butler. "There is some one on the stairs, Julia."
Silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. Cricklewick took his place in the foyer, Julia clattered down the stairs to the barred gate, Moody went into the big drawing-room where sat the Marchioness, resplendent,—the Marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing household had been the solitary mourner. She was the Marchioness of Camelford in those days.
The nobility of New York,—or such of it as existed for the purpose of dignifying the salon,—was congregating on the eve of the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne and Lord Temple. Three o'clock the next afternoon was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions because it happened to be off in a somewhatobscure cross-town street and encouraged the unconventional.
The bride-elect was not so proud or so self-absorbed that she could desert the Marchioness in the preparation of what promised to be the largest, the sprightliest and the most imposing salon of the year. She had put on an old gingham gown, had rolled up the sleeves, and had lent a hand with a will and an energy that distressed, yet pleased the older woman. She dusted and polished and scrubbed, and she laughed joyously and sang little snatches of song as she toiled. And then, when the work was done, she sat down to her last dinner with the delighted Marchioness and said she envied all the charwomen in the world if they felt as she did after an honest day's toil.
"I daresay I ought to pay you a bit extra for the work you've done today," the Marchioness had said, a sly glint in her eyes. "Would a shilling be satisfactory, my good girl?"
"Quite, ma'am," said Jane, radiant. "I've always wanted a lucky shillin', ma'am. I haven't one to me name."
"You'll be having sovereigns after tomorrow, God bless you," said the other, a little catch in her voice,—and Jane got up from the table instantly and kissed her.
"I am ashamed of myself for having taken so much from you, dear, and given so little in return," she said. "I haven't earned a tenth of what you've paid me."
The Marchioness looked up and smiled,—and said nothing.
"Isn't Lieutenant Aylesworth perfectly stunning?" Lady Jane inquired, long afterwards, as she obedientlyturned this way and that while the critical Deborah studied the effect of her latest creation in gowns.
"Raise your arm, my dear,—so! I believe it is a trifle tight—What were you saying?"
"Lieutenant Aylesworth,—isn't he adorable?"
"My dear," said the Marchioness, "it hasn't been your good fortune to come in contact with many of therealAmerican men. You have seen the imitations. Therefore you are tremendously impressed with the real article when it is set before you. Aylesworth is a splendid fellow. He is big and clean and gentle. There isn't a rotten spot in him. But you must not think of him as an exception. There are a million men like him in this wonderful country,—ay, more than a million, my dear. Give me an American every time. If I couldn't get along with him and be happy to the end of my days with him, it would be my fault and not his. They know how to treat a woman, and that is more than you can say for our own countrymen as a class. All that a woman has to do to make an American husband happy is to let him think that he isn't doing quite enough for her. If I were twenty-five years younger than I am, I would get me an American husband and keep him on the jump from morning till night doing everything in his power to make himself perfectly happy over me. This Lieutenant Aylesworth is a fair example of what they turn out over here, my dear Jane. You will find his counterpart everywhere, and not always in the uniform of the U. S. Navy. They are a new breed of men, and they are full of the joy of living. They represent the revivified strength of a dozen run-down nations, our own Empire among them."
"He may be all you claim for him," said Jane, "but give me an English gentleman every time."
"That is because you happen to be very much in love with one, my dear,—and a rare one into the bargain. Eric Temple has lost nothing by being away from England for the past three years. He is as arrogant and as cocksure of himself as any other Englishmen, but he has picked up virtues that most of his countrymen disdain. Never fear, my dear,—he will be a good husband to you. But he will not eat out of your hand as these jolly Americans do. And when he is sixty he will be running true to form. He will be a lordly old dear and you will have to listen to his criticism of the government, and the navy and the army and all the rest of creation from morning till night and you will have to agree with him or he won't understand what the devil has got into you. But, as that is precisely what all English wives love better than anything else in the world, you will be happy."
"I don't believe Eric will ever become crotchety or overbearing," said Jane stubbornly.
"That would be a pity, dear," said the Marchioness, rising; "for of such is the kingdom of Britain."
Shortly after eleven o'clock, Julia came hurrying upstairs in great agitation. She tried vainly for awhile to attract the attention of the pompous Cricklewick by a series of sibilant whispers directed from behind the curtains in the foyer.
The huge room was crowded. Everybody was there, including Count Andrew Drouillard, who rarely attended the functions; the Princess Mariana di Pavesi,young Baron Osterholz (who had but recently returned to New York after a tour of the West as a chorus-man in "The Merry Widow"); and Prince Waldemar de Bosky, excused for the night from Spangler's on account of a severe attack of ptomaine poisoning.
"What do you want?" whispered Cricklewick, angrily, passing close to the curtains and cocking his ear without appearing to do so.
"Come out here," whispered Julia.
"Don't hiss like that! I can't come."
"You must. It's something dreadful."
"Is it McFaddan's wife?" whispered Cricklewick, in sudden dismay.
"Worse than that. The police."
"My Gawd!"
The butler looked wildly about. He caught McFaddan's eye, and signalled him to come at once. If it was the police, McFaddan was the man to handle them. All the princes and lords and counts in New York combined were not worth McFaddan's little finger in an emergency like this.
At the top of the steps Julia explained to the perspiring Cricklewick and the incredulous McFaddan.
"They're at the gate down there, two of 'em in full uniform,—awful looking things,—and a man in a silk hat and evening dress. He says if we don't let him up he'll have the joint pulled."
"We'll see aboutthat," said McFaddan gruffly and not at all in the voice or manner of a well-trained footman. He led the way down the steps, followed by Cricklewick and the trembling Julia. At the last landing but one, he halted, and in a superlatively respectfulwhisper restored Cricklewick to his natural position as a superior.
"You go ahead and see what they want," he said.
"What's wrong with your going first?" demanded Cricklewick, holding back.
"I suddenly remembered that the cops wouldn't know what to think if they saw me in this rig," confessed McFaddan, ingratiatingly. "They might drop dead, you know."
"You can explain that you're attending a fancy dress party," said Cricklewick earnestly. "I am a respectable, dignified merchant and I—"
"Go on, man! If you need me I'll be waitin' at the top of the steps. They don't know you from Adam, so what's there to be afraid of?"
Fortified by McFaddan's promise, Cricklewick descended to the barred and locked grating.
"What's goin' on here?" demanded the burliest policeman he had ever seen. The second bluecoat shook the gate till it rattled on its hinges.
Mr. Cricklewick was staring, open-mouthed but speechless, at the figure behind the policemen.
"Open up," commanded the second officer. "Get a move on."
"We got to see what kind of a joint this is, uncle. This gentleman says something's been goin' on here for the past month to his certain knowledge,—"
"Just a moment," broke in Cricklewick, hastily covering the lower part of his face with his hand,—that being the nearest he could come, under the circumstances, to emulating the maladroit ostrich. "I will call Mr.—"
"You'll open the gate right now, me man, or we'll bust it in and jug the whole gang of ye," observed the burlier one, scowling.
"Go ahead and bust," said Cricklewick, surprising himself quite as much as the officers. "Hey, Mack!" he called out. "Come down at once! Now, you'll see!" he rasped, turning to the policemen again. The light of victory was in his eye.
"What's that!" roared the cop.
"Break it down," ordered the young man in the rear. "I tell you there's a card game or—even worse—going on upstairs. I've had the place watched. All kinds of hoboes pass in and out of here on regular nights every week,—the rottenest lot of men and women I've—"
"Hurry up, Mack!" shouted Mr. Cricklewick. He was alone. Julia had fled to the top landing.
"Coming," boomed a voice from above. A gorgeous figure in full livery filled the vision of two policemen.
"For the love o' Mike," gasped the burly one, and burst into a roar of laughter. "What is it?"
"Well, of all the—" began the other.
McFaddan interrupted him just in time to avoid additional ignominy.
"What the hell do you guys mean by buttin' in here?" he roared, his face brick-red with anger.
"Cut that out," snarled the burly one. "You'll mighty soon see what we mean by—"
"Beat it. Clear out!" shouted McFaddan.
"Smash the door down," shouted the young man in full evening dress.
"Oh, my God!" gasped McFaddan, his eyes almostpopping from his head. He had recognized the speaker.
By singular coincidence all three of the men outside the gate recognized Mr. Cornelius McFaddan at the same time.
"Holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing for his cap. "It's—it's Mr. McFaddan or I'm a goat."
"You're a goat all right," declared McFaddan in a voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen and caused Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis to back sharply toward the steps leading to the street. "Where's Julia?" roared the district boss, glaring balefully at Stuyvie. "Get the key, Cricklewick,—quick. Let me out of here. I'll never have another chance like this. The dirty—"
"Calm yourself, McFaddan," pleaded Cricklewick. "Remember where you are—and who is upstairs. We can't have a row, you know. It—"
"What's the game, Mr. McFaddan?" inquired one of the policemen, very politely. "I hope we haven't disturbed a party or anything like that. We were sent over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this gentleman, who says—"
"They've got a young girl up there," broke in Stuyvesant. "She's been decoyed into a den of crooks and white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop downstairs. I've had her watched. I—"
"O'Flaherty," cried McFaddan, in a pleading voice, "will ye do me the favour of breaking this damned door down? I'll forgive ye for everything—yes, bedad, I'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed thing off its hinges."
"Ain't this guy straight?" demanded O'Flaherty, turning upon Stuyvesant. "If he's been double-crossing us—"
"I shall report you to the Commissioner of Police," cried Stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate gave signs of yielding. "He is a friend of mine."
"He is a friend of Mr. McFaddan's also," said O'Flaherty, scratching his head dubiously. "I guess you'll have to explain, young feller."
"Ask him to explain," insisted Stuyvie.
"Permit me," interposed Cricklewick, in an agitated voice. "This is a private little fancy dress party. We—"
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Stuyvesant, coming closer to a real American being than he had ever been before in all his life. "It's old Cricklewick! Why, you old roué!"
"I—I—let me help you, McFaddan," cried Cricklewick suddenly. "If we all put our strength to the bally thing, it may give way. Now! All together!"
Julia came scuttling down the steps.
"Be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "Whatever are we to do? She's coming down—they're both coming down. They are going over to the Ritz for supper. The best man is giving a party. Oh, my soul! Can't you do anything, McFaddan?"
"Not until you unlock the gate," groaned McFaddan, perspiring freely.
"There she is!" cried Stuyvesant, pointing up the stairs. "Now, will you believe me?"
"Get out of sight, you!" whispered McFaddan violently,addressing the bewildered policemen. "Get back in the hall and don't breathe,—do you hear me? As foryou—" Cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his arm checked the torrent.
Lady Jane was standing at the top of the steps, peering intently downward.
"What is it, Cricklewick?" she called out.
"Nothing, my lady,—nothing at all," the butler managed to say with perfect composure. "Merely a couple of newspaper reporters asking for—ahem—an interview. Stupid blighters! I—I sent them away in jolly quick order."
"Isn't that one of them still standing at the top of the steps?" inquired she.
"It's—it's only the night-watchman," said McFaddan.
"Oh, I see. Send him off, please. Lord Temple and I are leaving at once, Cricklewick. Julia, will you help me with my wraps?"
She disappeared from view. Julia ran swiftly up the steps.
Stuyvesant, apparently alone in the hall outside, put his hand to his head.
"Did—did she say Lord Temple?"
"Beat it!" said McFaddan.
"The chap the papers have been—What the devil has she to do with Lord Temple?"
"I forgot to get the key from Julia, damn it!" muttered McFaddan, suddenly trying the gate again.
"I say, Jane!" called out a strong, masculine voice from regions above. "Are you nearly ready?"
Rapid footsteps came down the unseen stairway, anda moment later the erstwhile Thomas Trotter, as fine a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of Sundays, stopped on the landing.
"Will you see if there's a taxi waiting, Cricklewick?" he said. "Moody telephoned for one a few minutes ago. I'll be down in a second, Jane dear."
He dashed back up the stairs.
"Officer O'Flaherty!" called out Mr. McFaddan, in a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step downstairs and see if Lord Temple's taxi's outside?"
"What'll we do with this gazabo, Mr. McFaddan?"
"Was—isthatman—that chauffeur—was that Lord Temple?" sputtered Stuyvesant.
"Yes, it was," snapped McFaddan. "And ye'd better be careful how ye speak of your betters. Now, clear out. I wouldn't have Lady Jane Thorne know I lied to her for anything in the world."
"Lied? Lied about what?"
"When I said ye were a decent night-watchman," said McFaddan.
Stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street, puzzled and sick at heart.
He paused irresolutely just outside the entrance. If they were really the Lord Temple and the Lady Jane Thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau at City Hall had provided a small sensation for the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let them see that he was ready and willing to forget and forgive—
"Move on, now! Get a move, you!" ordered O'Flaherty, giving him a shove.
THE brisk, businesslike little clergyman was sorely disappointed. He had looked forward to a rather smart affair, so to speak, on the afternoon of the fifteenth. Indeed, he had gone to some pains to prepare himself for an event far out of the ordinary. It isn't every day that one has the opportunity to perform a ceremony wherein a real Lord and Lady plight the troth; it isn't every parson who can say he has officiated for nobility. Such an event certainly calls for a little more than the customary preparations. He got out his newest vestments and did not neglect to brush his hair. His shoes were highly polished for the occasion and his nails shone with a brightness that fascinated him. Moreover, he had tuned up his voice; it had gone stale with the monotony of countless marriages in which he rarely took the trouble to notice whether the responses were properly made. By dint of a little extra exertion in the rectory he had brought it to a fine state of unctuous mellowness.
Moreover, he had given some thought to the prayer. It wasn't going to be a perfunctory, listless thing, this prayer for Lord and Lady Temple. It was to be a profound utterance. The glib, everyday prayer wouldn't do at all on an occasion like this. The church would be filled with the best people in New York. Something fine and resonant and perhaps a little personal,—something to do with God, of course, but, inthe main, worth listening to. In fact, something from the diaphragm, sonorous.
For a little while he would take off the well-worn mask of humility and bask in the fulgent rays of his own light.
But, to repeat, he was sorely disappointed. Instead of beaming upon an assemblage of the elect, he found himself confronted by a company that caused him to question his own good taste in shaving especially for the occasion and in wearing gold-rimmed nose-glasses instead of the "over the ears" he usually wore when in haste.
He saw, with shocked and incredulous eyes, sparsely planted about the dim church as if separated by the order of one who realized that closer contact would result in something worse than passive antagonism, a strange and motley company.
For a moment he trembled. Had he, by some horrible mischance, set two weddings for the same hour? He cudgelled his brain as he peeped through the vestry door. A sickening blank! He could recall no other ceremony for that particular hour,—and yet as he struggled for a solution the conviction became stronger that he had committed a most egregious error. Then and there, in a perspiring panic, he solemnly resolved to give these weddings a little more thought. He had been getting a bit slack,—really quite haphazard in checking off the daily grist.
What was he to do when the noble English pair and their friends put in an appearance? Despite the fact that the young American sailor-chap who came to see him about the service had casually remarked that itwas to be a most informal affair,—with "no trimmings" or something like that,—he knew that so far as these people were concerned, simplicity was merely comparative. Doubtless, the young couple, affecting simplicity, would appear without coronets; the guests probably would saunter in and, in a rather dégagé fashion, find seats for themselves without deigning to notice the obsequious verger in attendance. And here was the church partially filled,—certainly the best seats were taken,—by a most unseemly lot of people! What was to be done about it? He looked anxiously about for the sexton. Then he glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to spare.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face the stalwart young naval officer. A tall young man was standing at some distance behind the officer, clumsily drawing on a pair of pearl grey gloves. He wore a monocle. The good pastor's look of distress deepened.
"Good afternoon," said the smiling lieutenant. "You see I got him here on time, sir."
"Yes, yes," murmured the pastor. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" He laughed in his customary way. Not one but a thousand "best men" had spoken those very words to him before. The remark called for a laugh. It had become a habit.
"Is everybody here?" inquired Aylesworth, peeping over his shoulder through the crack in the door. The pastor bethought himself and gently closed the door, whereupon the best man promptly opened it again and resumed his stealthy scrutiny of the dim edifice.
"I can't fasten this beastly thing, Aylesworth," said the tall young man in the background. "Would you mind seeing what you can do with the bally thing?"
"I see the Countess there," said Aylesworth, still gazing. "And the Marchioness, and—"
"The Marchioness?" murmured the pastor, in fresh dismay.
"I guess they're all here," went on the best man, turning away from the door and joining his nervous companion.
"I'd sooner face a regiment of cavalry than—" began Eric Temple.
"May I have the pleasure and the honour of greeting Lord Temple?" said the little minister, approaching with outstretched hand. "A—er—a very happy occasion, your lordship. Perhaps I would better explain the presence in the church of a—er—rather unusual crowd of—er—shall we say curiosity-seekers? You see, this is an open church. The doors are always open to the public. Very queer people sometimes get in, despite the watchfulness of the attendant, usually, I may say, when a wedding of such prominence—ahem!—er—"
"I don't in the least mind," said Lord Temple good-humouredly. "If it's any treat to them, let them stay. Sure you've got the ring, Aylesworth? I say, I'm sorry now we didn't have a rehearsal. It isn't at all simple. You said it would be, confound you. You—"
"All you have to do, old chap, is to give your arm to Lady Jane and follow the Baroness and me to the chancel. Say 'I do' and 'I will' to everything, and before you know it you'll come to and find yourselfstill breathing and walking on air. Isn't that so, Doctor?"
"Quite,—quite so, I am sure."
"Let me take a peep out there, Aylesworth. I'd like to get my bearings."
"Pray do not be dismayed by the—" began the minister.
"Hullo! There's Bramby sitting in the front seat,—my word, I've never known him to look so seraphic. Old Fogazario, and de Bosky, and—yes, there's Mirabeau, and the amiable Mrs. Moses Jacobs. 'Gad, she's resplendent! Du Bara and Herman and—By Jove, they're all here, every one of them. I say, Aylesworth, what time is it? I wonder if anything can have happened to Jane? Run out to the sidewalk, old chap, and have a look, will you? I—"
"Are all bridegrooms like this?" inquired Aylesworth drily, addressing the bewildered minister.
"Here she is!" sang out the bridegroom, leaping toward the little vestibule. "Thank heaven, Jane! I thought you'd met with an accident or—My God! How lovely you are, darling! Isn't she, Aylesworth?"
"Permit me to present you, Doctor, to Lady Jane Thorne," interposed Aylesworth. "And to the Baroness Brangwyng."
From that moment on, the little divine was in a daze. He didn't know what to make of anything. Everything was wrong and yet everything was right! How could it be?
How was he to know that his quaint, unpretentious little church was half-full of masked men and women?How was he to know that these queer-looking people out there were counts and countesses, barons and baronesses, princes and princesses? Swarthy Italians, sallow-faced Frenchmen, dark Hungarians, bearded Russians and pompous Teutons! How was he to know that once upon a time all of these had gone without masks in the streets and courts of far-off lands and had worn "purple and fine linen"? And those plainly, poorly dressed women? Where,—oh where, were the smart New Yorkers for whom he had furbished himself up so neatly?
What manner of companions had this lovely bride,—ah, butshehad the real atmosphere!—What sort of people had she been thrown with during her stay in the City of New York? She who might have known the best, the most exclusive,—"bless me, what a pity!"
Here and there in the motley throng, he espied a figure that suggested upper Fifth Avenue. The little lady with the snow-white hair; the tall brunette with the rather stunning hat; the austere gentleman far in the rear, the ruddy faced old man behind him, and the aggressive-looking individual with the green necktie,—Yes, any one of them might have come from uptown and ought to feel somewhat out of place in this singular gathering. The three gentlemen especially. He sized them up as financiers, as plutocrats. And yet they were back where the family servants usually sat.
He got through with the service,—indulgently, it is to be feared, after all.
He would say, on the whole, that he had never seen a handsomer couple than Lord and Lady Temple. There was compensation in that. Any one with halfan eye could see that they came of the very best stock. And the little Baroness,—he had never seen a baroness before,—was somebody, too. She possessed manner,—that indefinable thing they called manner,—there was no mistake about it. He had no means of knowing, of course, that she was struggling hard to make a living in the "artist colony" down town.
Well, well, it is a strange world, after all. You never can tell, mused the little pastor as he stood in the entrance of his church with half-a-dozen reporters and watched the strange company disperse,—some in motors, some in hansoms, and others on the soles of their feet. A large lady in many colours ran for a south-bound street car. He wondered who she could be. The cook, perhaps.
Lieutenant Aylesworth was saying good-bye to the bride and groom at the Grand Central Station. The train for Montreal was leaving shortly before ten o'clock.
The wedding journey was to carry them through Canada to the Pacific and back to New York, leisurely, by way of the Panama Canal. Lord Fenlew had not been niggardly. All he demanded of his grandson in return was that they should come to Fenlew Hall before the first of August.
"Look us up the instant you set foot in England, Sammy," said Eric, gripping his friend's hand. "Watch the newspapers. You'll see when our ship comes home, and after that you'll find us holding out our arms to you."
"When my shipleaveshome," said the American,"I hope she'll steer for an English port. Good-bye, Lady Temple. Please live to be a hundred, that's all I ask of you."
"Good-bye, Sam," she said, blushing as she uttered the name he had urged her to use.
"You won't mind letting the children call me Uncle Sam, will you?" he said, a droll twist to his lips.
"How quaint!" she murmured.
"By Jove, Sammy," cried Eric warmly, "you've no idea how much better you look in Uncle Sam's uniform than you did in that stuffy frock coat this afternoon. Thank God, I can get into a uniform myself before long. You wouldn't understand, old chap, how good it feels to be in a British uniform."
"I'm afraid we've outgrown the British uniform," said the other drily. "It used to be rather common over here, you know."
"You don't know what all this means to me," said Temple seriously, his hand still clasping the American's. "I can hold up my head once more. I can fight for England. If she needs me, I can fight and die for her."
"You're a queer lot, you Britishers," drawled the American. "You want to fight and die for Old England. I have a singularly contrary ambition. I want toliveandfightfor America."
On the twenty-fourth of July, 1914, Lord Eric Temple and his bride came home to England.