§ 1.
It is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a
thing has happened before writing about it. Otherwise he may commit
himself to statements which are not borne out by the actual facts. Mrs
Peagrim, recording in advance the success of her party at the Gotham
Theatre, had done this. It is true that she was a “radiant and
vivacious hostess,” and it is possible, her standard not being very
high, that she had “never looked more charming.” But, when, she went on
to say that all present were in agreement that they had never spent a
more delightful evening, she deceived the public. Uncle Chris, for one;
Otis Pilkington, for another, and Freddie Rooke, for a third, were so
far from spending a delightful evening that they found it hard to mask
their true emotions and keep a smiling face to the world.
Otis Pilkington, indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try, left
early. Just twenty minutes after the proceedings had begun, he seized
his coat and hat, shot out into the night, made off blindly up
Broadway, and walked twice round Central Park before his feet gave out
and he allowed himself to be taken back to his apartment in a taxi. He
tried to tell himself that this was only what he had expected, but was
able to draw no consolation from the fact. He tried to tell himself
that Jill might change her mind, but hope refused to stir. Jill had
been very kind and very sweet and very regretful, but it was only too
manifest that on the question of becoming Mrs Otis Pilkington her mind
was made up. She was willing to like him, to be a sister to him, to
watch his future progress with considerable interest, but she would not
marry him.
One feels sorry for Otis Pilkington in his hour of travail. This was
the fifth or sixth time that this sort of thing had happened to him,
and he was getting tired of it. If he could have looked into the
future—five years almost to a day from that evening—and seen himself
walking blushfully down the aisle of St. Thomas’ with Roland Trevis’
sister Angela on his arm, his gloom might have been lightened. More
probably, however, it would have been increased. At the moment, Roland
Trevis’ sister Angela was fifteen, frivolous, and freckled and, except
that he rather disliked her and suspected her—correctly—of laughing at
him, amounted to just _nil_ in Mr Pilkington’s life. The idea of
linking his lot with hers would have appalled him, enthusiastically
though he was in favor of it five years later.
However, Mr Pilkington was unable to look into the future, so his
reflections on this night of sorrow were not diverted from Jill. He
thought sadly of Jill till two-thirty, when he fell asleep in his chair
and dreamed of her. At seven o’clock his Japanese valet, who had been
given the night off, returned home, found him, and gave him breakfast.
After which, Mr Pilkington went to bed, played three games of
solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke to take up the
burden of life again. He still brooded on the tragedy which had
shattered him. Indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dance he
was introduced to a red-haired girl from Detroit, that he really got
over it.
The news was conveyed to Freddie Rooke by Uncle Chris. Uncle Chris,
with something of the emotions of a condemned man on the scaffold
waiting for a reprieve, had watched Jill and Mr Pilkington go off
together into the dim solitude at the back of the orchestra chairs,
and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latter whizzing
back, his every little movement having a meaning of its own—and that
meaning one which convinced Uncle Chris that Freddie, in estimating Mr
Pilkington as a sixty to one chance, had not erred in his judgment of
form.
Uncle Chris found Freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to Nelly
Bryant. Dancing was going on down on the stage, but Freddie, though
normally a young man who shook a skilful shoe, was in no mood for
dancing tonight. The return to the scenes of his former triumphs and
the meeting with the companions of happier days, severed from him by a
two-weeks’ notice, had affected Freddie powerfully. Eyeing the happy
throng below, he experienced the emotions of that Peri who, in the
poem, “at the gate of Eden stood disconsolate.”
Excusing himself from Nelly and following Uncle Chris into the
passage-way outside the box, he heard the other’s news listlessly. It
came as no shock to Freddie. He had never thought Mr Pilkington
anything to write home about, and had never supposed that Jill would
accept him. He said as much. Sorry for the chap in a way, and all that,
but had never imagined for an instant that he would click.
“Where is Underhill?” asked Uncle Chris, agitated.
“Derek? Oh, he isn’t here yet.”
“But why isn’t he here? I understood that you were bringing him with
you.”
“That was the scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he met
on the boat to go to a theatre and have a bit of supper with them
afterwards. I only heard about it when I got back this morning.”
“Good God, boy! Didn’t you tell him that Jill would be here tonight?”
“Oh, rather. And he’s coming on directly he can get away from these
people. Forget their name, but they’re influential coves who can do him
a bit of good and all that sort of thing. The man—the head of the gang,
you know—is something connected with the Cabinet or the Prime Minister
or something. You’d know his name in a minute if I told you—always
seeing it in the papers—they have pictures of him in _Punch_ a lot—but
I’m rotten at names. Derek did tell me, but it’s slipped the old bean.
Well, he had to leg it with these people, but he’s coming on later.
Ought to be here any moment now.”
Uncle Chris plucked at his mustache gloomily. Freddie’s detachment
depressed him. He had looked for more animation and a greater sense of
the importance of the issue.
“Well, pip-pip for the present,” said Freddie, moving toward the box.
“Have to be getting back. See you later.”
He disappeared, and Uncle Chris turned slowly to descend the stairs. As
he reached the floor below, the door of the stage-box opened, and Mrs
Peagrim came out.
“Oh, Major Selby!” cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. “I couldn’t
think where you had got to. I have been looking for you everywhere.”
Uncle Chris quivered slightly, but braced himself to do his duty.
“May I have the pleasure … ?” he began, then broke off as he saw the
man who had come out of the box behind his hostess. “Underhill!” He
grasped his hand and shook it warmly. “My dear fellow! I had no notion
that you had arrived!”
“Sir Derek came just a moment ago,” said Mrs Peagrim.
“How are you, Major Selby?” said Derek. He was a little surprised at
the warmth of his reception. He had not anticipated this geniality.
“My dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” cried Uncle Chris. “But, as
I was saying, Mrs Peagrim, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”
“I don’t think I will dance this one,” said Mrs Peagrim surprisingly.
“I’m sure you two must have ever so much to talk about. Why don’t you
take Sir Derek and give him a cup of coffee?”
“Capital idea!” said Uncle Chris. “Come this way, my dear fellow. As
Mrs Peagrim says, I have ever so much to talk about. Along this
passage, my boy. Be careful. There’s a step. Weil, well, well! It’s
delightful to see you again!” He massaged Derek’s arm affectionately.
Every time he had met Mrs Peagrim that evening he had quailed inwardly
at what lay before him, should some hitch occur to prevent the re-union
of Derek and Jill: and, now that the other was actually here, handsomer
than ever and more than ever the sort of man no girl could resist, he
declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. His spirits soared. “You
haven’t seen Jill yet, of course?”
“No.” Derek hesitated. “Is Jill … Does she … I mean …”
Uncle Chris resumed his osteopathy. He kneaded his companion’s
coat-sleeve with a jovial hand.
“My dear fellow, of course! I am sure that a word or two from you will
put everything right. We all make mistakes. I have made them myself. I
am convinced that everything will be perfectly all right … Ah, there
she is. Jill, my dear, here is an old friend to see you!”
§ 2.
Since the hurried departure of Mr Pilkington, Jill had been sitting in
the auditorium, lazily listening to the music and watching the couples
dancing on the stage. She did not feel like dancing herself, but it was
pleasant to be there and too much exertion to get up and go home. She
found herself drifting into a mood of gentle contentment, and was at a
loss to account for this. She was happy,—quietly and peacefully happy,
when she was aware that she ought to have been both agitated and
apprehensive. When she had anticipated the recent interview with Otis
Pilkington, which she had known was bound to come sooner or later, it
had been shrinkingly and with foreboding. She hated hurting people’s
feelings, and, though she read Mr Pilkington’s character accurately
enough to know that time would heal any anguish which she might cause
him, she had had no doubt that the temperamental surface of that long
young man, when he succeeded in getting her alone, was going to be
badly bruised. And it had fallen out just as she had expected. Mr
Pilkington had said his say and departed, a pitiful figure, a spectacle
which should have wrung her heart. It had not wrung her heart. Except
for one fleeting instant when she was actually saying the fatal words,
it had not interfered with her happiness at all; and already she was
beginning to forget that the incident had ever happened.
And, if the past should have depressed her, the future might have been
expected to depress her even more. There was nothing in it, either
immediate or distant, which could account for her feeling gently
contented. The future was a fog, into which she had to grope her way
blindly. She could not see a step ahead. And yet, as she leaned back in
her seat, her heart was dancing in time to the dance-music of Mrs
Peagrim’s hired orchestra. It puzzled Jill.
And then, quite suddenly yet with no abruptness or sense of discovery,
just as if it were something which she had known all along, the truth
came upon her. It was Wally, the thought of Wally, the knowledge that
Wally existed, that made her happy. He was a solid, comforting,
reassuring fact in a world of doubts and perplexities. She did not need
to be with him to be fortified, it was enough just to think of him.
Present or absent, his personality heartened her like fine weather or
music or a sea-breeze,—or like that friendly, soothing night-light
which they used to leave in her nursery when she was little, to scare
away the goblins and see her safely over the road that led to the gates
of the city of dreams.