Life at the castle during the first few days of his visit filled Jimmy with a curious blend of emotions, mainly unpleasant. Fate, in its pro-Jimmy capacity, seemed to be taking a rest. In the first place, the part allotted to him was not that of Lord Herbert, the character who talked to Molly most of the time. The instant Charteris learned from Lord Dreever that Jimmy had at one time actually been on the stage professionally, he decided that Lord Herbert offered too little scope for the new man's talents.
"Absolutely no good to you, my dear chap," he said. "It's just a small dude part. He's simply got to be a silly ass."
Jimmy pleaded that he could be a sillier ass than anybody living; but Charteris was firm.
"No," he said. "You must be Captain Browne. Fine acting part. The biggest in the piece. Full of fat lines. Spennie was to have played it, and we were in for the worst frost in the history of the stage. Now you've come, it's all right. Spennie's the ideal Lord Herbert. He's simply got to be him-self. We've got a success now, my boy. Rehearsal after lunch. Don't be late." And he was off to beat up the rest of the company.
From that moment, Jimmy's troubles began. Charteris was a young man in whom a passion for the stage was ineradicably implanted. It mattered nothing to him during these days that the sun shone, that it was pleasant on the lake, and that Jimmy would have given five pounds a minute to be allowed to get Molly to himself for half-an-hour every afternoon. All he knew or cared about was that the local nobility and gentry were due to arrive at the castle within a week, and that, as yet, very few of the company even knew their lines. Having hustled Jimmy into the part of CAPTAIN BROWNE, he gave his energy free play. He conducted rehearsals with a vigor that occasionally almost welded the rabble he was coaching into something approaching coherency. He painted scenery, and left it about—wet, and people sat on it. He nailed up horseshoes for luck, and they fell on people. But nothing daunted him. He never rested.
"Mr. Charteris," said Lady Julia, rather frigidly, after one energetic rehearsal, "is indefatigable. He whirled me about!"
It was perhaps his greatest triumph, properly considered, that he had induced Lady Julia to take a part in his piece; but to the born organizer of amateur theatricals no miracle of this kind is impossible, and Charteris was one of the most inveterate organizers in the country. There had been some talk—late at night, in the billiard room—of his being about to write in a comic footman role for Sir Thomas; but it had fallen through, not, it was felt, because Charteris could not have hypnotized his host into undertaking the part, but rather because Sir Thomas was histrionically unfit.
Mainly as a result of the producer's energy, Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, and disliked the sensation. He had not experienced much difficulty in mastering the scenes in which he appeared; but unfortunately those who appeared with him had. It occurred to Jimmy daily, after he had finished "running through the lines" with a series of agitated amateurs, male and female, that for all practical purposes he might just as well have gone to Japan. In this confused welter of rehearsers, his opportunities of talking with Molly were infinitesimal. And, worse, she did not appear to mind. She was cheerful and apparently quite content to be engulfed in a crowd. Probably, he thought with some melancholy, if she met his eye and noted in it a distracted gleam, she put it down to the cause that made other eyes in the company gleam distractedly during this week.
Jimmy began to take a thoroughly jaundiced view of amateur theatricals, and of these amateur theatricals in particular. He felt that in the electric flame department of the infernal regions there should be a special gridiron, reserved exclusively for the man who invented these performances, so diametrically opposed to the true spirit of civilization. At the close of each day, he cursed Charteris with unfailing regularity.
There was another thing that disturbed him. That he should be unable to talk with Molly was an evil, but a negative evil. It was supplemented by one that was positive. Even in the midst of the chaos of rehearsals, he could not help noticing that Molly and Lord Dreever were very much together. Also—and this was even more sinister—he observed that both Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern were making determined efforts to foster the state of affairs.
Of this, he had sufficient proof one evening when, after scheming and plotting in a way that had made the great efforts of Machiavelli and Richelieu seem like the work of raw novices, he had cut Molly out from the throng, and carried her off for the alleged purpose of helping him feed the chickens. There were, as he had suspected, chickens attached to the castle. They lived in a little world of noise and smells at the back of the stables. Bearing an iron pot full of a poisonous-looking mash, and accompanied by Molly, he had felt for perhaps a minute and a half like a successful general. It is difficult to be romantic when you are laden with chicken-feed in an unwieldy iron pot, but he had resolved that this portion of the proceedings should be brief. The birds should dine that evening on the quick-lunch principle. Then—to the more fitting surroundings of the rose-garden! There was plenty of time before the hour of the sounding of the dressing-gong. Perhaps, even a row on the lake—
"What ho!" said a voice.
Behind them, with a propitiatory smile on his face, stood his lordship of Dreever.
"My uncle told me I should find you out here. What have you got in there, Pitt? Is this what you feed them on? I say, you know, queer coves, hens! I wouldn't touch that stuff for a fortune, what? Looks to me poisonous."
He met Jimmy's eye, and stopped. There was that in Jimmy's eye that would have stopped an avalanche. His lordship twiddled his fingers in pink embarrassment.
"Oh, look!" said Molly. "There's a poor little chicken out there in the cold. It hasn't had a morsel. Give me the spoon, Mr. Pitt. Here, chick, chick! Don't be silly, I'm not going to hurt you. I've brought you your dinner."
She moved off in pursuit of the solitary fowl, which had edged nervously away. Lord Dreever bent toward Jimmy.
"Frightfully sorry, Pitt, old man," he whispered, feverishly. "Didn't want to come. Couldn't help it. He sent me out." He half-looked over his shoulder. "And," he added rapidly, as Molly came back, "the old boy's up at his bedroom window now, watching us through his opera-glasses!"
The return journey to the house was performed in silence—on Jimmy's part, in thoughtful silence. He thought hard, and he had been thinking ever since.
He had material for thought. That Lord Dreever was as clay in his uncle's hands he was aware. He had not known his lordship long, but he had known him long enough to realize that a backbone had been carelessly omitted from his composition. What his uncle directed, that would he do. The situation looked bad to Jimmy. The order, he knew, had gone out that Lord Dreever was to marry money. And Molly was an heiress. He did not know how much Mr. McEachern had amassed in his dealings with New York crime, but it must be something considerable. Things looked black.
Then, Jimmy had a reaction. He was taking much for granted. Lord Dreever might be hounded into proposing to Molly, but what earthly reason was there for supposing that Molly would accept him? He declined even for an instant to look upon Spennie's title in the light of a lure. Molly was not the girl to marry for a title. He endeavored to examine impartially his lordship's other claims. He was a pleasant fellow, with—to judge on short acquaintanceship—an undeniably amiable disposition. That much must be conceded. But against this must be placed the equally undeniable fact that he was also, as he would have put it himself, a most frightful ass. He was weak. He had no character. Altogether, the examination made Jimmy more cheerful. He could not see the light-haired one, even with Sir Thomas Blunt shoving behind, as it were, accomplishing the knight's ends. Shove he never so wisely, Sir Thomas could never make a Romeo out of Spennie Dreever.
It was while sitting in the billiard-room one night after dinner, watching his rival play a hundred up with the silent Hargate, that Jimmy came definitely to this conclusion. He had stopped there to watch, more because he wished to study his man at close range than because the game was anything out of the common as an exposition of billiards. As a matter of fact, it would have been hard to imagine a worse game. Lord Dreever, who was conceding twenty, was poor, and his opponent an obvious beginner. Again, as he looked on, Jimmy was possessed of an idea that he had met Hargate before. But, once more, he searched his memory, and drew blank. He did not give the thing much thought, being intent on his diagnosis of Lord Dreever, who by a fluky series of cannons had wobbled into the forties, and was now a few points ahead of his opponent.
Presently, having summed his lordship up to his satisfaction and grown bored with the game, Jimmy strolled out of the room. He paused outside the door for a moment, wondering what to do. There was bridge in the smoking-room, but he did not feel inclined for bridge. From the drawing-room came sounds of music. He turned in that direction, then stopped again. He came to the conclusion that he did not feel sociable. He wanted to think. A cigar on the terrace would meet his needs.
He went up to his room for his cigar-case. The window was open. He leaned out. There was almost a full moon, and it was very light out of doors. His eye was caught by a movement at the further end of the terrace, where the shadow was. A girl came out of the shadow, walking slowly.
Not since early boyhood had Jimmy descended stairs with such a rare burst of speed. He negotiated the nasty turn at the end of the first flight at quite a suicidal pace. Fate, however, had apparently wakened again and resumed business, for he did not break his neck. A few moments later, he was out on the terrace, bearing a cloak which, he had snatched up en route in the hall.
"I thought you might be cold," he said, breathing quickly.
"Oh, thank you," said Molly. "How kind of you!" He put it round her shoulders. "Have you been running?"
"I came downstairs rather fast."
"Were you afraid the boogaboos would get you?" she laughed. "I was thinking of when I was a small child. I was always afraid of them. I used to race downstairs when I had to go to my room in the dark, unless I could persuade someone to hold my hand all the way there and back."
Her spirits had risen with Jimmy's arrival. Things had been happening that worried her. She had gone out on to the terrace to be alone. When she heard his footsteps, she had dreaded the advent of some garrulous fellow-guest, full of small talk. Jimmy, somehow, was a comfort. He did not disturb the atmosphere. Little as they had seen of each other, something in him—she could not say what—had drawn her to him. He was a man whom she could trust instinctively.
They walked on in silence. Words were pouring into Jimmy's mind, but he could not frame them. He seemed to have lost the power of coherent thought.
Molly said nothing. It was not a night for conversation. The moon had turned terrace and garden into a fairyland of black and silver. It was a night to look and listen and think.
They walked slowly up and down. As they turned for the second time, Molly's thoughts formed themselves into a question. Twice she was on the point of asking it, but each time she checked herself. It was an impossible question. She had no right to put it, and he had no right to answer. Yet, something was driving her on to ask it.
It came out suddenly, without warning.
"Mr. Pitt, what do you think of Lord Dreever?"
Jimmy started. No question could have chimed in more aptly with his thoughts. Even as she spoke, he was struggling to keep himself from asking her the same thing.
"Oh, I know I ought not to ask," she went on. "He's your host, and you're his friend. I know. But—"
Her voice trailed off. The muscles of Jimmy's back tightened and quivered. But he could find no words.
"I wouldn't ask anyone else. But you're—different, somehow. I don't know what I mean. We hardly know each other. But—"
She stopped again; and still he was dumb.
"I feel so alone," she said very quietly, almost to herself. Something seemed to break in Jimmy's head. His brain suddenly cleared. He took a step forward.
A huge shadow blackened the white grass. Jimmy wheeled round. It was McEachern.
"I have been looking for you, Molly, my dear," he said, heavily. "I thought you must have gone to bed."
He turned to Jimmy, and addressed him for the first time since their meeting in the bedroom.
"Will you excuse us, Mr. Pitt?"
Jimmy bowed, and walked rapidly toward the house. At the door, he stopped and looked back. The two were standing where he had left them.
Neither Molly nor her father had moved or spoken while Jimmy was covering the short strip of turf that ended at the stone steps of the house. McEachern stood looking down at her in grim silence. His great body against the dark mass of the castle wall seemed larger than ever in the uncertain light. To Molly, there was something sinister and menacing in his attitude. She found herself longing that Jimmy would come back. She was frightened. Why, she could not have said. It was as if some instinct told her that a crisis in her affairs had been reached, and that she needed him. For the first time in her life, she felt nervous in her father's company. Ever since she was a child, she had been accustomed to look upon him as her protector; but, now, she was afraid.
"Father!" she cried.
"What are you doing out here?"
His voice was tense and strained.
"I came out because I wanted to think, father, dear."
She thought she knew his moods, but this was one that she had never seen. It frightened her.
"Why did he come out here?"
"Mr. Pitt? He brought me a wrap."
"What was he saying to you?"
The rain of questions gave Molly a sensation of being battered. She felt dazed, and a little mutinous. What had she done that she should be assailed like this?
"He was saying nothing," she said, rather shortly.
"Nothing? What do you mean? What was he saying? Tell me!"
Molly's voice shook as she replied.
"He was saying nothing," she repeated. "Do you think I'm not telling the truth, father? He had not spoken a word for ever so long. We just walked up and down. I was thinking, and I suppose he was, too. At any rate, he said nothing. I—I think you might believe me."
She began to cry quietly. Her father had never been like this before. It hurt her.
McEachern's manner changed in a flash. In the shock of finding Jimmy and Molly together on the terrace, he had forgotten himself. He had had reason, to be suspicious. Sir Thomas Blunt, from whom he had just parted, had told him a certain piece of news which had disturbed him. The discovery of Jimmy with Molly had lent an added significance to that piece of news. He saw that he had been rough. In a moment, he was by her side, his great arm round her shoulder, petting and comforting her as he had done when she was a child. He believed her word without question; and his relief made him very tender. Gradually, the sobs ceased. She leaned against his arm.
"I'm tired, father," she whispered.
"Poor little girl. We'll sit down."
There was a seat at the end of the terrace. McEachern picked Molly up as if she had been a baby, and carried her to it. She gave a little cry.
"I didn't mean I was too tired to walk," she said, laughing tremulously. "How strong you are, father! If I was naughty, you could take me up and shake me till I was good, couldn't you?"
"Of course. And send you to bed, too. So, you, be careful, young woman."
He lowered her to the seat. Molly drew the cloak closer round her, and shivered.
"Cold, dear?"
"No."
"You shivered."
"It was nothing. Yes, it was," she went on quickly; "it was. Father, will you promise me something?"
"Of course. What?"
"Don't ever be angry with me like that again, will you? I couldn't bear it. Really, I couldn't. I know it's stupid of me, but it hurt. You don't know how it hurt."
"But, my dear—"
"Oh, I know it's stupid. But—"
"But, my darling, it wasn't so. I was angry, but it wasn't with you."
"With—? Were you angry with Mr. Pitt?"
McEachern saw that he had traveled too far. He had intended that Jimmy's existence should be forgotten for the time being. He had other things to discuss. But it was too late now. He must go forward.
"I didn't like to see you out here alone with Mr. Pitt, dear," he said. "I was afraid—"
He saw that he must go still further forward. It was more than, awkward. He wished to hint at the undesirability of an entanglement with Jimmy without admitting the possibility of it. Not being a man, of nimble brain, he found this somewhat beyond his powers.
"I don't like him," he said, briefly. "He's crooked."
Molly's eyes opened wide. The color had gone from her face.
"Crooked, father?"
McEachern perceived that he had traveled very much too far, almost to disaster. He longed to denounce Jimmy, but he was gagged. If Molly were to ask the question, that Jimmy had asked in the bedroom—that fatal, unanswerable question! The price was too great to pay.
He spoke cautiously, vaguely, feeling his way.
"I couldn't explain to you, my dear. You wouldn't understand. You must remember, my dear, that out in New York I was in a position to know a great many queer characters—crooks, Molly. I was working among them."
"But, father, that night at our house you didn't know Mr. Pitt. He had to tell you his name."
"I didn't know him—then," said her father slowly, "but—but—" he paused—"but I made inquiries," he concluded with a rush, "and found out things."
He permitted himself a long, silent breath of relief. He saw his way now.
"Inquiries?" said Molly. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why did you suspect him?"
A moment earlier, the question might have confused McEachern, but not now. He was equal to it. He took it in his stride.
"It's hard to say, my dear. A man who has had as much to do with crooks as I have recognizes them when he sees them."
"Did you think Mr. Pitt looked—looked like that?" Her voice was very small. There was a drawn, pinched expression on her face. She was paler than ever.
He could not divine her thoughts. He could not know what his words had done; how they had shown her in a flash what Jimmy was to her, and lighted her mind like a flame, revealing the secret hidden there. She knew now. The feeling of comradeship, the instinctive trust, the sense of dependence—they no longer perplexed her; they were signs which she could read.
And he was crooked!
McEachern proceeded. Belief made him buoyant.
"I did, my dear. I can read them like a book. I've met scores of his sort. Broadway is full of them. Good clothes and a pleasant manner don't make a man honest. I've run up against a mighty high-toned bunch of crooks in my day. It's a long time since I gave up thinking that it was only the ones with the low foreheads and the thick ears that needed watching. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all they could do was to lead the cotillon. This man Pitt's one of them. I'm not guessing, mind you. I know. I know his line, and all about him. I'm watching him. He's here on some game. How did he get here? Why, he scraped acquaintance with Lord Dreever in a London restaurant. It's the commonest trick on the list. If I hadn't happened to be here when he came, I suppose he'd have made his haul by now. Why, he came all prepared for it! Have you seen an ugly, grinning, red-headed scoundrel hanging about the place? His valet. So he says. Valet! Do you know who that is? That's one of the most notorious yegg-men on the other side. There isn't a policeman in New York who doesn't know Spike Mullins. Even if I knew nothing of this Pitt, that would be enough. What's an innocent man going round the country with Spike Mullins for, unless they are standing in together at some game? That's who Mr. Pitt is, my dear, and that's why maybe I seemed a little put out when I came upon you and him out here alone together. See as little of him as you can. In a large party like this, it won't be difficult to avoid him."
Molly sat staring out across the garden. At first, every word had been a stab. Several times, she had been on the point of crying out that she could bear it no longer. But, gradually, a numbness succeeded the pain. She found herself listening apathetically.
McEachern talked on. He left the subject of Jimmy, comfortably conscious that, even if there had ever existed in Molly's heart any budding feeling of the kind he had suspected, it must now be dead. He steered the conversation away until it ran easily among commonplaces. He talked of New York, of the preparations for the theatricals. Molly answered composedly. She was still pale, and a certain listlessness in her manner might have been noticed by a more observant man than Mr. McEachern. Beyond this, there was nothing to show that her heart had been born and killed but a few minutes before. Women have the Red Indian instinct; and Molly had grown to womanhood in those few minutes.
Presently, Lord Dreever's name came up. It caused a momentary pause, and McEachern took advantage of it. It was the cue for which he had been waiting. He hesitated for a moment, for the conversation was about to enter upon a difficult phase, and he was not quite sure of himself. Then, he took the plunge.
"I have just been talking to Sir Thomas, my dear," he said. He tried to speak casually, and, as a natural result, infused so much meaning into his voice that Molly looked at him in surprise. McEachern coughed confusedly. Diplomacy, he concluded, was not his forte. He abandoned it in favor of directness. "He was telling me that you had refused Lord Dreever this evening."
"Yes. I did," said Molly. "How did Sir Thomas know?"
"Lord Dreever told him."
Molly raised her eyebrows.
"I shouldn't have thought it was the sort of thing he would talk about," she said.
"Sir Thomas is his uncle."
"Of course, so he is," said Molly, dryly. "I forgot. That would account for it, wouldn't it?"
Mr. McEachern looked at her with some concern. There was a hard ring in her voice which he did not altogether like. His greatest admirer had never called him an intuitive man, and he was quite at a loss to see what was wrong. As a schemer, he was perhaps a little naive. He had taken it for granted that Molly was ignorant of the maneuvers which had been going on, and which had culminated that afternoon in a stammering proposal of marriage from Lord Dreever in the rose-garden. This, however, was not the case. The woman incapable of seeing through the machinations of two men of the mental caliber of Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern has yet to be born. For some considerable time, Molly had been alive to the well-meant plottings of that worthy pair, and had derived little pleasure from the fact. It may be that woman loves to be pursued; but she does not love to be pursued by a crowd.
Mr. McEachern cleared his throat, and began again.
"You shouldn't decide a question like that too hastily, my dear."
"I didn't—not too hastily for Lord Dreever, at any rate, poor dear."
"It was in your power," said Mr. McEachern portentously, "to make a man happy—"
"I did," said Molly, bitterly. "You should have seen his face light up. He could hardly believe it was true for a moment, and then it came home to him, and I thought he would have fallen on my neck. He did his very best to look heart-broken—out of politeness—but it was no good. He whistled most of the way back to the house—all flat, but very cheerfully."
"My dear! What do you mean?"
Molly had made the discovery earlier in their conversation that her father had moods whose existence she had not expected. It was his turn now to make a similar discovery regarding herself.
"I mean nothing, father," she said. "I'm just telling you what happened. He came to me looking like a dog that's going to be washed—"
"Why, of course, he was nervous, my dear."
"Of course. He couldn't know that I was going to refuse him."
She was breathing quickly. He started to speak, but she went on, looking straight before her. Her face was very white in the moon-light.
"He took me into the rose-garden. Was that Sir Thomas's idea? There couldn't have been a better setting, I'm sure. The roses looked lovely. Presently, I heard him gulp, and I was so sorry for him! I would have refused him then, and put him out of his misery, only I couldn't very well till he had proposed, could I? So, I turned my back, and sniffed at a rose. And, then, he shut his eyes—I couldn't see him, but I know he shut his eyes—and began to say his lesson."
"Molly!"
She laughed, hysterically.
"He did. He said his lesson. He gabbled it. When he had got as far as, 'Well, don't you know, what I mean is, that's what I wanted to say, you know,' I turned round and soothed him. I said I didn't love him. He said, 'No, no, of course not.' I said he had paid me a great compliment. He said, 'Not at all,' looking very anxious, poor darling, as if even then he was afraid of what might come next. But I reassured him, and he cheered up, and we walked back to the house together, as happy as could be."
McEachern put his hand round her shoulders. She winced, but let it stay. He attempted gruff conciliation.
"My dear, you've been imagining things. Of course, he isn't happy. Why, I saw the young fellow—"
Recollecting that the last time he had seen the young fellow—shortly after dinner—the young fellow had been occupied in juggling, with every appearance of mental peace, two billiard-balls and a box of matches, he broke off abruptly.
Molly looked at him.
"Father."
"My dear?"
"Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?"
He met the attack stoutly.
"I think he's a fine young fellow," he said, avoiding her eyes.
"He's quite nice," said Molly, quietly.
McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it. If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it. But he was not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in surroundings where the subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.
"He's the Earl of Dreever, my dear."
He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the statement in a comfortable garment of words.
"Why, you see, you're young, Molly. It's only natural you shouldn't look on these things sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You expect this young fellow to be like the heroes of the novels you read. When you've lived a little longer, my dear, you'll see that there's nothing in it. It isn't the hero of the novel you want to marry. It's the man who'll make you a good husband."
This remark struck Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he repeated it.
He went on. Molly was sitting quite still, looking into the shrubbery. He assumed she was listening; but whether she was or not, he must go on talking. The situation was difficult. Silence would make it more difficult.
"Now, look at Lord Dreever," he said. "There's a young man with one of the oldest titles in England. He could go anywhere and do what he liked, and be excused for whatever he did because of his name. But he doesn't. He's got the right stuff in him. He doesn't go racketing around—"
"His uncle doesn't allow him enough pocket-money," said Molly, with a jarring little laugh. "Perhaps, that's why."
There was a pause. McEachern required a few moments in which to marshal his arguments once more. He had been thrown out of his stride.
Molly turned to him. The hardness had gone from her face. She looked up at him wistfully.
"Father, dear, listen," she said. "We always used to understand each other so well!" He patted her shoulder affectionately. "You can't mean what you say? You know I don't love Lord Dreever. You know he's only a boy. Don't you want me to marry a man? I love this old place, but surely you can't think that it can really matter in a thing like this? You don't really mean, that about the hero of the novel? I'm not stupid, like that. I only want—oh, I can't put it into words, but don't you see?"
Her eyes were fixed appealingly on him. It only needed a word from him—perhaps not even a word—to close the gulf that had opened between them.
He missed the chance. He had had time to think, and his arguments were ready again. With stolid good-humor, he marched along the line he had mapped out. He was kindly and shrewd and practical; and the gulf gaped wider with every word.
"You mustn't be rash, my dear. You mustn't act without thinking in these things. Lord Dreever is only a boy, as you say, but he will grow. You say you don't love him. Nonsense! You like him. You would go on liking him more and more. And why? Because you could make what you pleased of him. You've got character, my dear. With a girl like you to look after him, he would go a long way, a very long way. It's all there. It only wants bringing out. And think of it, Molly! Countess of Dreever! There's hardly a better title in England. It would make me very happy, my dear. It's been my one hope all these years to see you in the place where you ought to be. And now the chance has come. Molly, dear, don't throw it away."
She had leaned back with closed eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept over her. She listened in a dull dream. She felt beaten. They were too strong for her. There were too many of them. What did it matter? Why not give in, and end it all and win peace? That was all she wanted—peace now. What did it all matter?
"Very well, father," she said, listlessly.
McEachern stopped short.
"You'll do it, dear?" he cried. "You will?"
"Very well, father."
He stooped and kissed her.
"My own dear little girl," he said.
She got up.
"I'm rather tired, father," she said. "I think I'll go in."
Two minutes later, Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt's study. Five minutes later, Sir Thomas pressed the bell.
Saunders appeared.
"Tell his lordship," said Sir Thomas, "that I wish to see him a moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think."
The game between Hargate and Lord Dreever was still in progress when Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at the board showed that the score was seventy—sixty-nine, in favor of spot.
"Good game," said Jimmy. "Who's spot?"
"I am," said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason, he appeared in high spirits. "Hargate's been going great guns. I was eleven ahead a moment ago, but he made a break of twelve."
Lord Dreever belonged to the class of billiard-players to whom a double-figure break is a thing to be noted and greeted with respect.
"Fluky," muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long speech for him. Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had seldom heard him utter anything beyond a monosyllable.
"Not a bit of it, dear old son," said Lord Dreever, handsomely. "You're coming on like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you twenty in a hundred much longer."
He went to a side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda, singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a funeral. But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world, and chirping like a bird.
The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse. At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein. When he had finished his break, his score was ninety-five. Hargate, who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent's part, had reached ninety-six.
"This is shortening my life," said Jimmy, leaning forward.
The balls had been left in an ideal position. Even Hargate could not fail to make a cannon. He made it.
A close finish to even the worst game is exciting. Jimmy leaned still further forward to watch the next stroke. It looked as if Hargate would have to wait for his victory. A good player could have made a cannon as the balls lay, but not Hargate. They were almost in a straight line, with, white in the center.
Hargate swore under his breath. There was nothing to be done. He struck carelessly at white. White rolled against red, seemed to hang for a moment, and shot straight back against spot. The game was over.
"Great Scott! What a fluke!" cried the silent one, becoming quite garrulous at the miracle.
A quiet grin spread itself slowly across Jimmy's face. He had remembered what he had been trying to remember for over a week.
At this moment, the door opened, and Saunders appeared. "Sir Thomas would like to see your lordship in his study," he said.
"Eh? What does he want?"
"Sir Thomas did not confide in me, your lordship."
"Eh? What? Oh, no! Well, see you later, you men."
He rested his cue against the table, and put on his coat. Jimmy followed him out of the door, which he shut behind him.
"One second, Dreever," he said.
"Eh? Hullo! What's up?"
"Any money on that game?" asked Jimmy.
"Why, yes, by Jove, now you mention it, there was. An even fiver. And—er—by the way, old man—the fact is, just for the moment, I'm frightfully—You haven't such a thing as a fiver anywhere about, have you? The fact is—"
"My dear fellow, of course. I'll square up with him now, shall I?"
"Fearfully obliged, if you would. Thanks, old man. Pay it to-morrow."
"No hurry," said Jimmy; "plenty more in the old oak chest."
He went back to the room. Hargate was practising cannons. He was on the point of making a stroke when Jimmy opened the door.
"Care for a game?" said Hargate.
"Not just at present," said Jimmy.
Hargate attempted his cannon, and failed badly. Jimmy smiled.
"Not such a good shot as the last," he said.
"No."
"Fine shot, that other."
"Fluke."
"I wonder."
Jimmy lighted a cigarette.
"Do you know New York at all?" he asked.
"Been there."
"Ever been in the Strollers' Club?"
Hargate turned his back, but Jimmy had seen his face, and was satisfied.
"Don't know it," said Hargate.
"Great place," said Jimmy. "Mostly actors and writers, and so on. The only drawback is that some of them pick up queer friends."
Hargate did not reply. He did not seem interested.
"Yes," went on Jimmy. "For instance, a pal of mine, an actor named Mifflin, introduced a man a year ago as a member's guest for a fortnight, and this man rooked the fellows of I don't know how much at billiards. The old game, you know. Nursing his man right up to the end, and then finishing with a burst. Of course, when that happens once or twice, it may be an accident, but, when a man who poses as a novice always manages by a really brilliant shot—"
Hargate turned round.
"They fired this fellow out," said Jimmy.
"Look here!"
"Yes?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's a dull yarn," said Jimmy, apologetically. "I've been boring you. By the way, Dreever asked me to square up with you for that game, in case he shouldn't be back. Here you are."
He held out an empty hand.
"Got it?"
"What are you going to do?" demanded Hargate.
"What am I going to do?" queried Jimmy.
"You know what I mean. If you'll keep your mouth shut, and stand in, it's halves. Is that what you're after?"
Jimmy was delighted. He knew that by rights the proposal should have brought him from his seat, with stern, set face, to wreak vengeance for the insult, but on such occasions he was apt to ignore the conventions. His impulse, when he met a man whose code of behavior was not the ordinary code, was to chat with him and extract his point of view. He felt as little animus against Hargate as he had felt against Spike on the occasion of their first meeting.
"Do you make much at this sort of game?" he asked.
Hargate was relieved. This was business-like.
"Pots," he said, with some enthusiasm. "Pots. I tell you, if you'll stand in—"
"Bit risky, isn't it?"
"Not a bit of it. An occasional accident—"
"I suppose you'd call me one?"
Hargate grinned.
"It must be pretty tough work," said Jimmy. "You must have to use a tremendous lot of self-restraint."
Hargate sighed.
"That's the worst of it," he admitted, "the having to seem a mug at the game. I've been patronized sometimes by young fools, who thought they were teaching me, till I nearly forgot myself and showed them what real billiards was."
"There's always some drawback to the learned professions," said Jimmy.
"But there's a heap to make up for it in this one," said Hargate. "Well, look here, is it a deal? You'll stand in—"
Jimmy shook his head.
"I guess not," he said. "It's good of you, but commercial speculation never was in my line. I'm afraid you must count me out of this."
"What! You're going to tell—?"
"No," said Jimmy, "I'm not. I'm not a vigilance committee. I won't tell a soul."
'"Why, then—" began Hargate, relieved.
"Unless, of course," Jimmy went on, "you play billiards again while you're here."
Hargate stared.
"But, damn it, man, if I don't, what's the good—? Look here. What am I to do if they ask me to play?"
"Give your wrist as an excuse."
"My wrist?"
"Yes. You sprained it to-morrow after breakfast. It was bad luck. I wonder how you came to do it. You didn't sprain it much, but just enough to stop you playing billiards."
Hargate reflected.
"Understand?" said Jimmy.
"Oh, very well," said Hargate, sullenly. "But," he burst out, "if I ever get a chance to get even with you—"
"You won't," said Jimmy. "Dismiss the rosy dream. Get even! You don't know me. There's not a flaw in my armor. I'm a sort of modern edition of the stainless knight. Tennyson drew Galahad from me. I move through life with almost a sickening absence of sin. But hush! We are observed. At least, we shall be in another minute. Somebody is coming down the passage. You do understand, don't you? Sprained wrist is the watchword."
The handle turned. It was Lord Dreever, back again, from his interview.
"Hullo, Dreever," said Jimmy. "We've missed you. Hargate has been doing his best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you're too reckless, Hargate, old man. Mark my words, one of these days you'll be spraining your wrist. You should be more careful. What, going? Good-night. Pleasant fellow, Hargate," he added, as the footsteps retreated down, the passage. "Well, my lad, what's the matter with you? You look depressed."
Lord Dreever flung himself on to the lounge, and groaned hollowly.
"Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!" he observed.
His glassy eye met Jimmy's, and wandered away again.
"What on earth's the matter?" demanded Jimmy. "You go out of here caroling like a song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost soul. What's happened?"
"Give me a brandy-and-soda, Pitt, old man. There's a good chap. I'm in a fearful hole."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"I'm engaged," groaned his lordship.
"Engaged! I wish you'd explain. What on earth's wrong with you? Don't you want to be engaged? What's your—?"
He broke off, as a sudden, awful suspicion dawned upon him. "Who is she?" he cried.
He gripped the stricken peer's shoulder, and shook it savagely. Unfortunately, he selected the precise moment when the latter was in the act of calming his quivering nerve-centers with a gulp of brandy-and-soda, and for the space of some two minutes it seemed as if the engagement would be broken off by the premature extinction of the Dreever line. A long and painful fit of coughing, however, ended with his lordship still alive and on the road to recovery.
He eyed Jimmy reproachfully, but Jimmy was in no mood for apologies.
"Who is she?" he kept demanding. "What's her name?"
"Might have killed me!" grumbled the convalescent.
"Who is she?"
"What? Why, Miss McEachern."
Jimmy had known what the answer would be, but it was scarcely less of a shock for that reason.
"Miss McEachern?" he echoed.
Lord Dreever nodded a somber nod.
"You're engaged to her?"
Another somber nod.
"I don't believe it," said Jimmy.
"I wish I didn't," said his lordship wistfully, ignoring the slight rudeness of the remark. "But, worse luck, it's true."
For the first time since the disclosure of the name, Jimmy's attention was directed to the remarkable demeanor of his successful rival.
"You don't seem over-pleased," he said.
"Pleased! Have a fiver each way on 'pleased'! No, I'm not exactly leaping with joy."
"Then, what the devil is it all about? What do you mean? What's the idea? If you don't want to marry Miss McEachern, why did you propose to her?"
Lord Dreever closed his eyes.
"Dear old boy, don't! It's my uncle."
"Your uncle?"
"Didn't I explain it all to you—about him wanting me to marry? You know! I told you the whole thing."
Jimmy stared in silence.
"Do you mean to say—?" he said, slowly.
He stopped. It was a profanation to put the thing into words.
"What, old man?"
Jimmy gulped.
"Do you mean to say you want to marry Miss McEachern simply because she has money?" he said.
It was not the first time that he had heard of a case of a British peer marrying for such a reason, but it was the first time that the thing had filled him with horror. In some circumstances, things come home more forcibly to us.
"It's not me, old man," murmured his lordship; "it's my uncle."
"Your uncle! Good God!" Jimmy clenched his hands, despairingly. "Do you mean to say that you let your uncle order you about in a thing like this? Do you mean to say you're such a—such a—such a gelatine—backboneless worm—"
"Old man! I say!" protested his lordship, wounded.
"I'd call you a wretched knock-kneed skunk, only I don't want to be fulsome. I hate flattering a man to his face."
Lord Dreever, deeply pained, half-rose from his seat.
"Don't get up," urged Jimmy, smoothly. "I couldn't trust myself." His lordship subsided hastily. He was feeling alarmed. He had never seen this side of Jimmy's character. At first, he had been merely aggrieved and disappointed. He had expected sympathy. How, the matter had become more serious. Jimmy was pacing the room like a young and hungry tiger. At present, it was true, there was a billiard-table between them; but his lordship felt that he could have done with good, stout bars. He nestled in his seat with the earnest concentration of a limpet on a rock. It would be deuced bad form, of course, for Jimmy to assault his host, but could Jimmy be trusted to remember the niceties of etiquette?
"Why the devil she accepted you, I can't think," said Jimmy half to himself, stopping suddenly, and glaring across the table.
Lord Dreever felt relieved. This was not polite, perhaps, but at least it was not violent.
"That's what beats me, too, old man," he said.
"Between you and me, it's a jolly rum business. This afternoon—"
"What about this afternoon?"
"Why, she wouldn't have me at any price."
"You asked her this afternoon?"
"Yes, and it was all right then. She refused me like a bird. Wouldn't hear of it. Came damn near laughing in my face. And then, to-night," he went on, his voice squeaky at the thought of his wrongs, "my uncle sends for me, and says she's changed her mind and is waiting for me in the morning-room. I go there, and she tells me in about three words that she's been thinking it over and that the whole fearful thing is on again. I call it jolly rough on a chap. I felt such a frightful ass, you know. I didn't know what to do, whether to kiss her, I mean—"
Jimmy snorted violently.
"Eh?" said his lordship, blankly.
"Go on," said Jimmy, between his teeth.
"I felt a fearful fool, you know. I just said 'Right ho!' or something—dashed if I know now what I did say—and legged it. It's a jolly rum business, the whole thing. It isn't as if she wanted me. I could see that with half an eye. She doesn't care a hang for me. It's my belief, old man," he said solemnly, "that she's been badgered into it, I believe my uncle's been at her."
Jimmy laughed shortly.
"My dear man, you seem to think your uncle's persuasive influence is universal. I guess it's confined to you."
"Well, anyhow, I believe that's what's happened. What do you say?"
"Why say anything? There doesn't seem to be much need."
He poured some brandy into a glass, and added a little soda.
"You take it pretty stiff," observed his lordship, with a touch of envy.
"On occasion," said Jimmy, emptying the glass.