"My God!" I whispered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, "that Rupert Carlingham murdered John Trelawnay, and
then killed himself and his wife, five years ago ... during just such
another storm as we have had this evening."
_*IV -- The Man who would not Play Cards*_
*I*
"Thanks very much, but as I told you before--I don't play cards."
The speaker, a tall, bronzed man whose clear eye and slightly
weather-beaten face proclaimed him to be no dweller in cities, paused at
the smoking-room door, and stared, a little deliberately, at the man who
had just accosted him. It was the second time that day that this same
gentleman had endeavoured to rope him into a game of poker--"just small
stakes, you know"--and Hugh Massingham disliked being asked things
twice. Almost as much as, in this particular case, he disliked the
appearance of the asker.
He paused long enough to let the stare become pointed; then he opened
the door and stepped out on deck. He hated the stuffiness of the
smoking-room, with its eternal cards and whisky pegs, and with an
atmosphere so thick with tobacco smoke that at times he could hardly see
across it.
Away to port, like a faint smudge on the horizon, lay the North Coast of
Africa, and Hugh Massingham, with a faint smile, wondered just how many
times he'd seen that smudge before. And how many times he'd see it in
the future.
He leaned over the rail staring at the water thoughtfully. It depended,
of course, on Delia. Things are apt to depend on a man's wife. There
was no necessity for him to go back to the East--no financial
necessity--yet somehow he hoped Delia would like to come, at any rate,
for a few years. England, from all he heard, didn't sound much of a
place to live in just now, but, of course, she'd have to decide.
Surreptitiously he put a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a
photograph. It was the likeness of a woman--little more than a
girl--with a pair of eyes that, even on the cardboard, mocked and
haunted him. It was the likeness of a girl who was more than passing
lovely; it was the likeness of his wife; a wife with whom he had spent
his whole married life of one week. Involuntarily he smiled. A week
together, out of four years. But if tactless Governments will conduct
campaigns in Mesopotamia, some such result is hardly to be wondered at.
He drew in a deep breath, and once again started to stroll up and down
the deck. He wondered if she'd find him much changed: a bit thinner,
perhaps, but enteric tends to remove superfluous flesh. And what would
she be like? Grown a little--no longer a lovely girl, but a lovely
woman. The photograph was nearly five years old, and she had been
nineteen then--no, nearly twenty. A week out of four years--a week!
With a faint smile still on his lips, he turned and re-entered the
smoking-room. The persuasive gentleman, he noticed, had settled down to
his game of poker with four youngsters, and for a moment Massingham
frowned. He knew the type--knew it inside out, and whoever might lose
at that quiet game of poker there was one player who would certainly
win. Not that he accused the persuasive gentleman for a moment of
anything unfair; but he was of the type who had forgotten more about
poker than the other four players combined were ever likely to know.
With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked over to the bar and
called for a gin and bitters. It was no business of his, and, from time
immemorial, youth has had to pay for its experience.
It was about ten o'clock that night that it became increasingly evident
that youth was paying with a vengeance. The persuasive gentleman had a
very considerable proportion of the total number of chips beside him, to
say nothing of a small library of written chits. And two of the other
four players were looking worried, very worried. The thing was perfectly
absurd; had they not played poker pretty consistently in the mess? Made
a bit of money out of it, too, taking it in the long run. But to-night
the luck was simply infernal. Hugh Massingham smiled grimly to himself.
Truly, the lambs had walked docilely to the slaughter.
For a while he watched the persuasive gentleman narrowly through
half-closed eyes; then, because it was still no business of his, he
moved towards the door for a final stroll on deck before turning in.
And it was as he was on the point of opening it that one of the
youngsters rose suddenly with a muttered curse.
"I can't play any more," he said, shortly. "I'm holding good cards, but
they always seem to go down."
Hugh smiled once again; it isn't the man who holds bad cards who loses
heavily at poker; it's the man who holds good ones when somebody else is
holding a bit better. Then something in the boy's face made his hand
drop to his side; quite evidently he had lost more than he could
comfortably afford. And the persuasive gentleman's complacent smirk
made Hugh annoyed. He disliked the persuasive gentleman.
"Have your revenge to-morrow night," he remarked, with a kind of oily
suavity, and with a grunt the youngster drained his whisky and soda
sullenly.
"Won't someone else take his place?" As if by accident the speaker's
eyes met Hugh's, and it may have been due to the procession of whiskies,
or it may have been due to the fact that the dislike was reciprocal, but
the persuasive gentleman allowed himself the pleasure of a very faint
sneer. "You, as you have told me twice, do not play, do you?"
It wasn't the words, but it was the way they were said that decided
Massingham. The persuasive gentleman should have his lesson.
"I don't mind taking this gentleman's place for half an hour," he
remarked, quietly. "What stakes are you playing?"
"Maximum five-pound rise, and limit of a hundred in the pool," returned
the other, and Hugh's eyebrows went up. He called those small stakes,
did he?
For a while the game went on normally without any hands of importance,
and it was not until they had been playing about twenty minutes that the
cards became interesting. And that hand they were very interesting! It
was Hugh's deal, and he dealt, as usual, slowly and methodically. The
three youngsters threw their hands in at once; only the persuasive
gentleman remained. And Hugh noted that the little finger of his left
hand twitched slightly as he glanced at his cards.
"How many?" he demanded.
"One," said the other, and his voice was oily as ever.
"I stand," said Hugh, laying his cards face downwards on the table.
Then began the betting and the youngster whose place he had taken
watched eagerly in his excitement. They mounted a fiver at a time,
until the persuasive gentleman reached the limit of a hundred.
"I'll see you at a hundred," drawled Hugh.
And a little gasp of, envy ran round the spectators as the originator of
the quiet game laid down four aces.
"You dealt 'em to me," he remarked with a smirk, his hand already
stretched out to collar the pool.
"Er--one moment," murmured Hugh, and the persuasive gentleman turned
white. Four aces. Only a straight flush could beat it. Surely--
Another gasp ran round the group. Hugh had just turned up his hand.
And the three, four, five, six, and seven of clubs being a straight
flush beats four aces.
For a moment Hugh allowed himself the luxury of watching the other's
face. Then he spoke. "I certainly dealt you four aces, my friend; so I
took the precaution of dealing myself a straight flush. And that is the
reason why I do not play cards. Years of boredom by myself on a
plantation made me take up card-conjuring as a hobby. And I did this
simple little trick to-night in order to demonstrate to you boys that
even a fine card-player like the gentleman opposite may be quite
helpless when playing with a stranger. In fact, I could win money off
him just as easily as he can win money off you."
The persuasive gentleman appeared to be the least pleased member of the
group, though the fact that after all he had not lost his money appeased
him somewhat.
"Anyone, sir," he remarked, a little thickly, "can win money by
cheating."
"Not anyone," said Hugh, amicably. "But we'll let that pass. Only I'd
win money off you playing perfectly fair. You're not a good gambler:
your finger twitches. Good-night."
And he was still smiling as he turned in.
*II*
With fingers that fumbled over the unaccustomed stiff shirt, Hugh
Massingham was dressing for dinner. His first dinner with his wife for
four years. It was the moment he had dreamed of through long,
sweltering days in Mesopotamia--and now that it had come, he was afraid.
Things were different to what he had expected; Delia was different. He
could hear her now, moving about in the next room, and her voice as she
spoke to her maid. Somehow, he hadn't expected that maid. He had
hoped--well, it didn't much matter what he'd hoped. Anyway, it was
absurd: naturally, his wife would have a maid.
It wasn't that that made him pause every now and again and stare a
little blankly in front of him; it was something far bigger and more
fundamental than such a triviality as a maid. And even to himself he
would hardly acknowledge what it was. She was shy--naturally, any woman
would be after such a long separation. And then the idea of associating
shyness with his singularly self-possessed and lovely wife made him
smile grimly. It was not that. No, it was simply--and Hugh Massingham
took a deep breath like a man about to dive--it was simply that she had
become a stranger to him. Or, to put it more accurately, he had become
a stranger to her. The kiss which she had given him had been such as a
sister would give to her brother. True, there had not been much
time--some people had arrived to play bridge and had remained most of
the afternoon. Delia wouldn't hear of their going away, though they had
half suggested it. And he had spent the afternoon at his club--the
afternoon of which he'd dreamed through four long weary years. A
stranger--he was a stranger in his own house. With a twisted apology
for a smile, he put on his coat and switched out the light. Time
doubtless would straighten out the situation; but there had been enough
time, already in their married life. There had been four years.
Dinner, perfectly served and faultlessly cooked, merely continued the
hollow mockery of his home-coming. He felt that he might have been
dining with any pretty woman at any house; not with his wife in his own.
In fact, except that he happened to pay for it, it wasn't his house.
Everything about it was hers--except himself. He was merely the stranger
within his own gates.
"A little different, Delia, to what I had imagined it," he remarked,
quietly, as the servant, having placed the port in front of him, left
the room.
For a moment she looked at him narrowly; then she leaned back in her
chair.
"In what way?" she asked, calmly. "Don't you think the flat is
comfortable?"
They had got to have a straight talk anyway; perhaps it was as well, she
reflected, to get it over and done with. There was no good starting on
false pretences.
"Very." He rose and stood by the fireplace looking down at her. "It
wasn't the flat I was alluding to." With ostentatious deliberation he
selected a cigarette and lit it. "Do you know it's four years since
we've seen one another?"
"Quite strangers, aren't we?" she agreed, lightly.
"Exactly--the very word. Strangers. But through no wish of mine."
"Nor mine, either, my dear man. It's simply the inevitable result of
four years' separation."
"I disagree; the result is by no manner of means inevitable. However, I
won't press the point. But was it absolutely essential that those
people should have stopped to bridge this afternoon? They had the
decency to suggest going."
It was not a happy way of putting it, and a red spot burned for a moment
on his wife's cheek.
"And I had not the decency to let them, you imply." She laughed a
little shortly. "Well, since you've started this conversation, I
suppose we may as well have it out."
Hugh's hand clenched suddenly behind his back, and he stood very still.
A little dully, he wondered what was coming.
"I can only hope that you will be sensible and try and look at the
matter from all points of view." She, too, lit a cigarette, and stared
at him deliberately. "In the first place, I suppose I've
changed--considerably. And in order to save any misunderstanding, it's
just as well that we should both know where we stand."
"You mean you don't love me any more?" said her husband, slowly.
"Don't be ridiculous," she cried. "I never said anything of the sort.
I'm very fond of you. But----" she stirred a little restlessly in her
chair. "I've never believed, as you know, in beating about the bush, and
there is another man whom I'm very fond of, too."
The dull, sickening blow, which well-nigh stunned him mentally, showed
not at all on Hugh Massingham's face.
"One can't help these things," continued his wife, gravely, "and I think
you'll agree that it is best for everybody to discuss matters as they
are--rather than go on living as if they were otherwise."
"Quite," he murmured, grimly. "Please go on."
"We need neither of us insult our intelligences by regarding the matter
in the light that our fathers and mothers would have looked at it. The
fact that a married woman falls in love with a man who is not her
husband is not a thing to hold up hands of pious horror at--or so it
seems to me; it is just a thing which has happened, and if one is
sensible, the best course is to see the most satisfactory way out for
all concerned. Don't you agree?"
"Your argument certainly has its points," concurred Hugh. Great
heavens! was this conversation real, or was he dreaming?
"Jimmy Staunton has kissed me--but that's all."
His wife was speaking again, and he listened dully.
"Jimmy Staunton! Is that the man's name?"
He threw his cigarette, long gone out, into the grate.
"Yes--that is the man. He's been asking me for months to go away with
him, but I've refused. I didn't tell him why, but I'm going to tell you
now. I wouldn't go until you'd come home, and I'd seen you again, and
made sure--that----"
She hesitated, and the man laughed grimly.
"Made sure that you really did love Mr. Jimmy Staunton more than me!
Dreadful thing to make a second mistake."
"Put it that way, if you like," she answered, quietly. "Though it
wasn't from quite such baldly selfish motives that I refused to go with
him. I tried, Hugh, to argue the thing out as best I could; I tried to
be fair to him and to you. I realized that I might be wrong--that I
didn't really love him----" the man by the fireplace made a quick,
convulsive movement, "and anyway I realized that I must give you a
chance if you want to have it. If, after what I've told you, you decide
to let me go--well and good; we can arrange details easily. If, on the
other hand, you refuse, and in the course of a month, say, I find that I
was not mistaken, and that I'm fonder of Jimmy than I am of you, well, I
shall have to take the law into my own hands."
Hugh Massingham laughed shortly.
"I see," he answered. "You have put things very clearly." He turned on
her with an expressionless face. "I take it, then, that as matters
stand at present, I am on trial."
"If you wish," she said. "I realize that you have a perfect right to
refuse that trial, and tell me to go; but, after all your goodness to
me, I could not do less than offer it to you."
"Your generosity touches me," he remarked, grimly. "And----"
It was at that moment that the servant opened the door and announced:
"Mr. Staunton."
"Are you coming to Hector's, Delia?"
An immaculately clad young man entered, with his evening overcoat on his
arm and a top-hat in his hand, to stop in momentary confusion on seeing
Hugh.
"I beg your pardon," he muttered. "I--er----"
"This is my husband, Jimmy," said Delia, composedly, and the two men
bowed.
"My wife was just talking about you, Mr. Staunton," said Hugh,
impassively, while he took in every detail of the other's face--the
mouth, well-formed, but inclined to weakness; the eyes that failed to
meet his own; the hands, beautifully manicured, which twitched uneasily
as they played with his white scarf.
Good God! This effeminate clothes-peg! To be on trial against--this!
He stifled a contemptuous laugh; there was Delia to be considered.
"Pray don't let me detain you from Hector's; though I'm not quite
certain what it is."
"A night-club, Mr. Massingham," said the other, nervously. "But perhaps
Mrs. Massingham would prefer not to go this evening?"
"I am convinced my wife would prefer nothing of the sort," returned
Hugh, and for a moment his eyes and Delia's met. Then with a faint
shrug she stood up. "Four years in Mesopotamia do not improve one's
dancing." He strolled to the door. "I shall wander round to the club,
my dear," he murmured. "And, by the way, with regard to your offer, I
accept it."
"Good Lord, darling!" whispered Staunton, as the door closed. "I'd got
no idea he'd come back. What an awful break!"
But she was staring at the door, and seemed not to hear his remark. It
was only as he kissed her that she came back to the reality of his
presence.
"Let's go and dance, Jimmy," she said, feverishly. "I feel like
dancing--to-night."
*III*
"Halloa, Hugh! Got back, have you?"
The words greeted Massingham as he strolled through the club
smoking-room in search of a seat, and with a start he looked at the
speaker. So engrossed had he been in his own thoughts that he had failed
to notice his brother-in-law, John Ferrers, till he was right on top of
him.
"Yes, John--back," he said, slowly. "Back to-day--after four years."
Ferrers grunted and leaned over to pull up a chair. Something
wrong--quite obviously. A man doesn't come to his club on the first
evening home after four years, under normal circumstances.
"Have a drink!" Ferrers beckoned a waiter and gave the order. "How do
you think Delia is looking?"
"Very well," said Hugh, quietly. "Very well indeed. She has gone off
to a place called Hector's to-night."
Ferrers paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and looked at him in
mild amazement. "Delia gone to Hector's to-night! What the devil has
she done that for?"
"A gentleman of the name of Staunton--Jimmy Staunton--arrived in his
glad rags after dinner," remarked Hugh. "She went to Hector's with
him--I came here."
"Young Staunton!" muttered Ferrers. "I didn't know----" He looked
quickly at Hugh; then he resumed lighting his pipe. "If I were you,
Hugh--of course I know it's not my business--but if I were you I
wouldn't let Delia go about too much with young Staunton. He's a--well,
he's a useless young puppy to begin with, and his reputation is nothing
to write home about in addition."
"Ah! is that so?" Hugh lay back in his chair and stared at his
brother-in-law. "I had already classed him as a puppy; but I didn't
think he was big enough to have a reputation of any kind--good or bad."
"My dear fellow--he's young, he's good-looking, and he's sufficiently
well off to be able to do nothing. Also I believe he dances perfectly.
Whether it's those assets, or whether it's something which the vulgar
masculine eye is unable to appreciate, I can't tell you. But I do know
this: that three ordinary, decent, sensible young married women of my
acquaintance have made the most infernal fools of themselves over that
youth." John Ferrers shook his head. "I'm hanged if I know what it is.
It must be the war or something. But a lot of these girls seem to have
gone completely off the rails."
He sighed ponderously; he was a good-hearted individual, was John
Ferrers, but anything which deviated from his idea of the normal
generally called forth a mild outburst. Also he was very fond of his
sister.
And really it wasn't quite the thing to go barging off to a night-club
the day your husband returned after four years. Especially with young
Staunton. It came back to his mind now, as he sat there pulling at his
pipe, that off and on he had seen her about with the fellow; in the
park, and twice at a theatre. Also having supper once at the Ritz, and
two or three times at dinner. Of course there was nothing in it,
but--still--confound it! the first night after four years.
"Are you going to take Delia out East with you, old boy?"
"That depends, John, on a variety of circumstances," remarked Hugh,
quietly.
"I would if I were you," grunted the other. "It's been lonely for her,
you know, and----" He became very interested in his pipe. "I wouldn't
take too much notice of that young ass. Delia is far too sensible a girl
to make a fool of herself over any man--let alone Staunton. But," and
John Ferrers drained his glass decisively, "the next time I see her, I
shall tell her a few home truths."
"Oh, no, John!" said Hugh, "you won't. I don't want you to allude to
the matter at all. But I want you to tell me one thing. In those three
cases you mentioned, did any question of divorce come up?"
"Divorce!" John Ferrers sat up in his chair abruptly. "What the deuce
are you talking about?"
"The three cases you were speaking of," returned Hugh, imperturbably.
"What manner of man is this Staunton, if things pass the dallying stage
and come to a head?"
"Oh!" His brother-in-law sat back, relieved. "I can't tell you more
than that Mr. James Staunton does not strike me as the type who would
ever face the music. While he can take his pleasure with other men's
wives, I don't think he has any intention of providing himself with one
of his own."
"That was my diagnosis of his character," said Hugh. "I'm glad you
confirm it."
John Ferrers rose as another member came up.
"Will you join us, Hugh? Snooker."
"No, thanks, old boy. Not to-night. So long."
With a faint smile he watched his worthy brother-in-law as he crossed
the room. Then, having ordered another drink, he lay back in his chair
and closed his eyes. And it was not till an hour later that he rose and
wrote a short letter to a certain firm of shipping agents. Then he left
the club, with the look on his face of a man who had made up his mind.
*IV*
It was Hugh himself who opened the door of the flat at two o'clock in
the morning and let in his wife. Staunton was standing behind her on
the landing, and Hugh nodded to him.
"Had a good time?" he asked, genially, standing aside to let Delia in.
"Come in, Mr. Staunton, and have a nightcap before you go. No? Really,
I insist."
Gently but firmly he propelled his reluctant guest towards the
dining-room. The last thing which Mr. James Staunton wanted was a drink
in his present surroundings. In fact, Mr. James Staunton wanted more
than words can express to retire to his lonely bachelor couch, where he
could meditate at leisure on how best to extricate himself from a
situation which had suddenly ceased to appeal to his somewhat peculiar
sense of humour. Really he had credited Delia with a little more
knowledge of the rules of the game. For months he'd been suggesting that
there were possibilities by the sad sea waves at a delightful little
fishing village down in Cornwall; or if that was too far afield he knew
of a charming little hotel on the upper reaches of the Thames. In fact,
the whole of his vast experience in such matters would have been at her
disposal, and for no rhyme or reason, so far as he could see, she had
continually refused his suggestion. And he was not used to being
refused. Up to a point, of course, a little coyness and hesitation was
delightful; but pushed to an extreme it became tedious. And then, to
cap everything, on the very night when this large and somewhat
uncouth-looking husband had returned from the back of beyond, Delia had
become serious.
Hector's had not been a success; though he had manfully tried to be his
own bright self. But there had been long silences--rather awkward
silences--when he had been conscious that Delia was studying him--almost
as if he was a stranger to her. And since he had an uneasy suspicion
that he had not altogether shone during his meeting with her husband, he
had found things increasingly difficult as the evening wore on.
"Say when, Mr. Staunton." Massingham was pouring some whisky into a
glass, and he stepped up to the table.
"That's enough, thanks. Yes, soda, please. And then I must be off."
"The night is yet young," said his host, "and I rather want to have a
talk with you, Mr. Staunton."
The youngster looked up quickly at the words; then he glanced at Delia,
who was staring at her husband with a slight frown.
"Rather late, isn't it?" he murmured.
Massingham smiled genially. "Two--late! You surprise me, Mr. Staunton.
I thought that was about the time some of you people started to live."
He splashed some soda into his own glass. "It's about my wife--about
Delia. Absurd to call her anything but Delia to you, isn't it? I mean,
we three need not stand on formality."
Staunton stiffened slightly; then, because he was painfully aware that
his hands were beginning to tremble, he put them in his pockets.
"Really, Mr. Massingham," he laughed slightly, "you're very kind."
Surely to Heaven she hadn't told her husband--anything.
"Not at all," returned Hugh. "Not at all, my dear fellow. It is
absurd--as you said yourself, my dear, earlier in the evening--for us to
become in any way agitated or annoyed over an unfortunate but very
natural occurrence. And I consider it very natural, Staunton, that you
should have fallen in love with my wife. I regard it in many respects
as a compliment to myself."
His eyes were fixed steadily on the other's face, and a wave of
contemptuous disgust surged up in him, though outwardly he gave no sign.
The pitiful indecision of this king of lady-killers: the weak mouth,
loose and twitching--surely Delia could see for herself what manner of
thing it was. But his wife was sitting motionless, staring in front of
her, and gave no sign.
"I--er, really," stammered Staunton.
"Don't apologize, my dear fellow--don't apologize. As I said, it's a
most natural thing, and though this discussion may seem at first sight a
trifle bizarre, yet if you think it over it's much the best manner of
dealing with the situation."
"Er--quite."
Staunton shifted uneasily on his feet, and endeavoured feverishly to
regain his self-control. Of course, the whole thing was farcical and
Gilbertian; at the same time, just at the moment it appeared remarkably
real. And he couldn't make up his mind how to take this large,
imperturbable man.
"I told my husband, Jimmy," said Delia, speaking for the first time,
"that we were in love with one another--and that you'd asked me to go
away with you."
With intense amusement Hugh watched Staunton's jaw drop, though his
wife, still staring in front of her, noticed nothing.
"Most kind of you," remarked Hugh, affably, and Delia looked at him
quickly. "Most flattering. But my wife apparently decided that it
wouldn't be quite fair to me--so she waited till I came home. And now
I'm on trial--so to speak."
Staunton sat down in a chair; his legs felt strangely weak.
"The trouble is," continued Hugh, "that circumstances have arisen only
to-night which prevent me standing on trial. I found a letter waiting
for me at my club which necessitates my return to the East at
once--probably for a year."
"By Jove--really!" Staunton sat up; the situation looked a little
brighter.
"Going East at once?" Delia was staring at him puzzled.
"I'm afraid I must," returned her husband. "And so it makes things a
little awkward, doesn't it? You see, Mr. Staunton, my wife's proposal
was this. If after a few weeks of my presence she still found that she
preferred you to me, she was going to tell me so straight out.
Then--since, as I think you will agree, a woman must always be a man's
first consideration--I would have effaced myself, gone through the
necessary formalities to allow her to divorce me, and left her free to
marry you. If, on the other hand, she had found that after all she
could not return your devotion--well, we should then have gone on as we
are. Perhaps not exactly the Church's idea of morality--but for all
that, very fair. Don't you agree?"
Staunton nodded; speech was beyond his power.
"Now," continued Hugh, lighting a cigarette, "this sudden necessity for
me to go East has upset her plan. I can't wait for those few weeks of
test, and so we are confronted with a difficulty. I feel that it is not
fair to keep her from you for a year or possibly longer; on the other
hand, I feel that it is rather hard luck on me to relinquish her without
a struggle. You said, Mr. Staunton? Sorry; I thought you spoke." He
flicked the ash off his cigarette, and, crossing the room, he opened a
bureau on the other side. "And so I've evolved a plan," he remarked,
coming back again with a pack of cards in his hand. "A time-honoured
method of settling things where there are two alternatives, and one
which I suggest can be used with advantage here. We will each cut a
card, Mr. Staunton. If I win, Delia comes East with me--on the clear
understanding, my dear, that you may leave me at any moment and return
to Mr. Staunton. I wouldn't like you to think for an instant that I am
proposing to deprive you of your absolute free will whichever way the
cards go. If I lose, on the other hand, I go East alone, and the
necessary information to enable you to institute divorce proceedings
will be sent you as soon as possible."
His wife rose quickly, and stood in front of him, "I'll come East with
you, Hugh--anyway, for a time. It's only fair."
"Quite," agreed Staunton. "It's only fair."
"Not at all," remarked Massingham, decidedly. "I wouldn't dream of
accepting such a sacrifice. It's a totally different matter if I win it
at cards: then I shall hold you to it. Otherwise I go East alone. I
have, I think, a certain say in the matter, and my mind is made up."
He turned to Staunton, who was staring at him open-mouthed: then he
glanced at Delia, and she, for the first time, was looking at Jimmy
Staunton.
"I suppose," he remarked, suddenly, "that I'm not making any mistake?
You do wish to marry Delia, don't you, Mr. Staunton?"
For a moment that gentleman seemed to find difficulty in speaking.
Then--"Of course," he muttered. "Of course."
"Good!" said Massingham. "Then we'll cut. Ace low--low wins."
He put the pack on a small table by the other man: then he turned away.
"Cut--please."
"But, Hugh," his wife laid her hand on his arm, "it's
impossible--it's----"
"Not at all, Delia. It's all quite simple. Have you cut?"
"I've cut the King of Hearts." Staunton was standing up. "So it looks
as if I lose." His voice seemed hardly to indicate that the blow had
prostrated him.
Massingham turned round, while his wife's breath came sharply.
"It does--undoubtedly," he remarked. "Yes--mine's the two of clubs. So
you come, Delia." He broke off abruptly, his eyes fixed on the chair in
which Staunton had been sitting. The next moment he stepped forward and
pulled a card from the crack between the seat and the side. "The ace of
diamonds," he said, slowly. "What is this card doing here? I don't
quite understand, Mr. Staunton. Ace low--low wins--and the ace of
diamonds in your chair. I didn't watch you cut--but did you not want to
win?"
"I--I--don't know how it got there," stammered Staunton, foolishly. "I
didn't put it there."
"Then one rather wonders who did," said Massingham, coldly. "It makes
things a little difficult."
For a moment or two there was silence: then Delia spoke.
"On the contrary," she remarked, icily, "it seems to me to make them
very easy. Good-night, Mr. Staunton. I shall not be at home to you in
future."
And when Hugh Massingham returned a few minutes later, having shown the
speechless and semi-dazed Staunton the front door, his wife had gone to
her room.
"Undoubtedly one rather wonders who did," he murmured to himself with a
faint smile. "But I think--I think, it was a good idea."
*V*
"It was a sort of infatuation, Hugh. I can't explain it." With her arm
through his--she hadn't quite found her sea-legs yet--they were walking
slowly up and down the promenade deck of the liner.
He smiled gently.
"Doesn't need any explanation, darling," he answered. "It's happened
before: it will happen again. There are quite a number of Mr. James
Stauntons at large--more's the pity."
"I know," she said. "I know that. But somehow he seemed different."
"HE always does." For a while they continued their walk in silence.
"Quite cured, little girl?"
"Quite, absolutely." She squeezed his arm, "I think I was well on the
way to being cured, before--before he cheated. And that finished it."
"Ah!" Hugh stopped a moment to light a cigarette.
"It simply defeats me how, after all he said, he could have done such a
thing."
"I wouldn't let it worry you, sweetheart. The matter is of little
importance. Halloa! What do these people want?"
"Glad to see you about again, Mrs. Massingham." An officer in the
Indian Army, returning from leave, and his wife came up. "Would you and
your husband care to make up a four at bridge?"
"Would you, dear?" She turned to him, and Massingham smiled.
"You go, Delia. You'll be able to find a fourth, and you've walked
enough. I never play cards, myself."
"What a refreshing individual," laughed the officer's wife. "Does it
bore you?"
"Intensely," murmured Hugh. "And I'm such a bad player."
He watched his wife go away with them: then, leaning over the rail, he
commenced to fill his pipe. Away to starboard, like a faint smudge on
the horizon, lay the north coast of Africa: two days in front was Malta.
And then---- Surreptitiously he put a hand into his breast pocket and
pulled out a photograph. Yes: it had been a good idea.
_*V -- A Question of Personality*_
*I*
The personally conducted tour round Frenton's Steel Works paused, as
usual, on reaching the show piece of the entertainment. The mighty
hammer, operated with such consummate ease by the movement of a single
lever, though smaller than its more celebrated brother at Woolwich
Arsenal, never failed to get a round of applause from the fascinated
onlookers. There was something almost frightening about the deadly
precision with which it worked, and the uncanny accuracy of the man who
controlled it. This time it would crash downwards delivering a blow
which shook the ground: next time it would repeat the performance, only
to stop just as the spectators were bracing themselves for the
shock--stop with such mathematical exactitude that the glass of a watch
beneath it would be cracked but the works would not be damaged.
For years now, personally conducted tours had come round Frenton's
works. Old Frenton was always delighted when his friends asked him if
they might take their house-parties round: he regarded it as a
compliment to himself. For he had made the works, watched them grow and
expand till now they were known throughout the civilized world. They
were just part of him, the fruit of his brain--born of labour and hard
work and nurtured on the hard-headed business capacity of the rugged old
Yorkshireman. He was a millionaire now, many times over, but he could
still recall the day when sixpence extra a day had meant the difference
between chronic penury and affluence. And in those far-off days there
had come a second resolve into his mind to keep the first and ever
present one company. That first one had been with him ever since he
could remember anything--the resolve, to succeed; the second one became
no less deep rooted. When he did succeed he'd pay his men such wages
that there would never be any question of sixpence a day making a
difference. The labourer was worthy of his hire: out of the sweat of
his own brow John Frenton had evolved that philosophy for himself....
And right loyally he had stuck to it. When success came, and with it
more and more, till waking one morning he realized that the big jump had
been taken, and that henceforth Frenton's would be one of the powers in
the steel world, he did not forget. He paid his men well--almost
lavishly: all he asked was that they should work in a similar spirit.
And he did more. From the memories of twenty years before he recalled
the difference between the two partners for whom he had then been
working. One of them had never been seen in the works save as an aloof
being from another world, regarding his automatons with an uninterested
but searching eye: the other had known every one of his men by name, and
had treated them as his own personal friends. And yet his eye was just
as searching.... But--what a difference: what an enormous difference!
And so John Frenton had learned and profited by the example which stared
him in the face: things might perhaps be different to-day if more
employers had learned that lesson too. To him every man he employed was
a personal friend: again all he asked was that they should regard him
likewise....
"Boys," he had said to them on one occasion, when a spirit of unrest had
been abroad in the neighbouring works, "if you've got any grievance,
there's only one thing I ask. Come and get it off your chests to me:
don't get muttering and grousing about it in corners, if I can remedy
it, I will: if I can't I'll tell you why. Anyway, a talk will clear the
air...."
In such manner had John Frenton run his works: in such manner had he
become a millionaire and found happiness as well. And then had come the
great grief of his life. His wife had died when Marjorie, the only
child, was born. Twenty years ago the sweet kindly woman who had
cheered him through the burden and heat of the day had died in giving
him Marjorie. They had been married eight years, and when she knew that
their hopes were going to be realized, it seemed as if nothing more
could be wanting to complete their happiness. The stormy times were
over: success had come. And now ... a child.
When the doctor told John Frenton he went mad. He cursed Fate: he
cursed the wretched brat that had come and taken away his woman. For
weeks he refused to see it: and then Time, the Great Healer, dulled the
agony. Instead of a wife--a daughter: and on the girl he lavished all
the great wealth of love of which his rugged nature was capable. He
idolized her: and she, because her nature was sweet, remained a
charming, unaffected girl. Some day she would be fabulously rich, but
the fact did not concern her greatly. In fact she barely thought of it:
it would be many long days before her dearly loved dad left her. And so
it had been up to a year ago.... Then she'd met the man.
It would perhaps be more correct to say that the man had met her. The
Honourable Herbert Strongley received an intimation from an aunt of his,
that if he would find it convenient to abstain for a while from his
normal method of living, and come and stay with her in the country, she
would introduce him to a charming girl staying at a neighbouring house.
She specified who the charming girl was, and suggested that though from
his birth Herbert had been a fool, he couldn't be such a damned fool as
to let this slip. She was an outspoken lady was this aunt....
The Honourable Herbert made a few inquiries, and left London next day
for a protracted stay with his relative. It took him a week--he
possessed a very charming manner did Herbert--before he was formally
engaged to Marjorie. The armament of nineteen has but little resisting
power when exposed to the batteries of a good-looking delightful man of
the world who is really bringing all his guns to bear. And because the
man was a consummate actor when he chose to be, he had but little more
difficulty in getting through the defences of her father. Marjorie
seemed wonderfully happy: that was the chief thing to John Frenton. And
he was getting old: carrying out his usual routine at the works was
daily becoming more and more of a strain. Why not? He had no
son--everything would go to his girl and her husband at his death. His
lifework would be in their hands.... If he'd had his way, perhaps, he'd
have chosen someone with a little more knowledge of the trade--the
Honourable Herbert didn't know the difference between mild and tool
steel: but after all a happy marriage did not depend on such technical
qualifications. As a man he seemed all that could be desired, and that
was the principal thing that mattered. He could trust his managers for
the rest....
And so his prospective son-in-law became a prospective partner.
Ostensibly he was supposed to be picking up the tricks of the trade, a
performance which afforded him no pleasure whatever. He loathed work in
any form: he regarded it as a form of partial insanity--almost a
disease. During the hours which he spent in the office his reason--such
as it was--was only saved by the help of _Ruff's Guide_ and telephonic
communication with his bookmaker.... But he was far too astute a person
to run any risks. He was playing for immeasurably larger stakes than he
could afford to lose, and in addition he was quite genuinely fond of
Marjorie in his own peculiar way. He intended to marry her, and then,
when the old man was dead--and he was visibly failing--the Honourable
Herbert had his own ideas on the subject of Frenton's Steel Works. The
only trouble was that Frenton's Steel Works had their own ideas on the
subject of the Honourable Herbert, though that gentleman was supremely
ignorant of the fact. Without a slip he had acted his part before John
Frenton: with just the right eagerness to learn he had played up to the
managers: but--and it was a big but--he had forgotten the men. They had
never even entered into his calculations, and it would doubtless have
amazed him to hear that he had entered very considerably into theirs.
For the men did not like the Honourable Herbert--in fact they disliked
him considerably: and since there was no secret regarding his future--a
future which concerned them intimately--this error in the calculations
was serious. They were a rough-and-ready crowd, with rough-and-ready
ideas of justice and fair play. In addition they idolized Marjorie
Frenton and her father to a man. It had taken them about a month to
size up the new partner, and that was six months ago. Since then,
slowly and inexorably--their brains did not work very quickly--the
determination that they would not have the Honourable Herbert as John
Frenton's successor had crystallized and hardened. For a while they had
waited: surely the old man would see for himself that the man was
useless. But the old man did not see: the Honourable Herbert still
strolled yawning through the works, taking not the slightest notice of
any of the hands--the man whom they in future would have to work for.
Very good: if old John could not see it for himself, other steps would
have to be taken to dispose of the gentleman.
They might have been peaceful steps, but for an incident which had
occurred the day before the personally conducted tour already mentioned.
It was conducted by the Honourable Herbert himself, and consisted of the
house-party staying with John Frenton and Marjorie. The house-party
noticed nothing unusual, somewhat naturally: they were bored or
interested according to their natures. But as the tour progressed, a
look of puzzled wonder began to dawn in Marjorie's eyes. What on earth
was the matter with the men?
It was some time since she had been in the works, and the change was the
more pronounced because of it. Instead of cheery smiles, sullen faces
and black looks followed them wherever they went: she sensed that the
whole atmosphere of the place was hostile. And after a while the uneasy
suspicion began to form in her mind that the object of this hostility
was her fiance. She took advantage of the halt at the steam hammer to
draw him on one side.
"What on earth is the matter with the men, Herbert?" she demanded.
"I've never seen them like this before."
The Honourable Herbert cursed under his breath. He, too, had been
painfully aware of the scowls which had followed them, though he had
hoped against hope that Marjorie would not notice. Moreover, he had
known only too well the reason of the demonstration. And now it would
come to old John's ears.... He cursed again, as the girl looked at him
with questioning eyes.
"Lord knows, my dear," he answered, abruptly. "I suppose the blighters
have got some fancied grievance."
"'Blighters! Fancied grievance!'" The girl stepped back a pace in
genuine amazement. "Then why don't you have them together and ask them,
like daddy used to do?"
As she spoke she glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment her eyes
met those of a man standing behind him. He was looking at her
deliberately and intently, and suddenly, to her surprise, he held up a
twisted slip of paper in his hand. Then he pointed to the floor and
turned away. It had been done so quickly that for a while she could
hardly believe her eyes. One of the men, trying to pass a secret
note.... To her.... What on earth _was_ the matter with everybody?...
Once again the man looked at her with the suspicion of a smile on his
face, and she frowned quickly. He was impertinent, this youngster, and
she turned to her fiance. She remembered now that the last time she had
been round she had seen him working on a lathe: that it had struck her
then that he had seemed different from the others--his hands, oily
though they were: the cool unembarrassed look in his eyes: his way of
speaking.... Almost as if he had been her equal.... And now he was
presuming on her kindness then....
Her hands clenched involuntarily as she looked at her fiance.
"What is the name of that man with his back half towards us, over
there?" she demanded. For the moment the "fancied grievance" was
forgotten in more personal matters.
The Honourable Herbert, thankful for the respite, swung round. Then as
he saw the subject of her question his jaw set in an ugly line.
"John Morrison," he answered, shortly. "And if I had my way I'd sack him
on the spot. A useless, argumentative, insubordinate swine...."
And it was as this graceful eulogy concluded that John Morrison looked
at her again. Her fiance had moved away, and she was standing alone.
For a moment she hesitated: then she, too, turned to join the rest of
the party. And lying on the ground where she had been, was her
handkerchief....
It was done on the spur of the moment--a feminine impulse. And the
instant she had done it, she regretted it. But there had been something
in her fiance's voice as he spoke that had come as a shock to her:
something ugly and vicious; something new as far as she was concerned.
Though what that had to do with John Morrison passing her a note was
obscure.
"You dropped your handkerchief, Miss Frenton." A courteous, well-bred
voice was speaking close behind her, and she turned slowly to find John
Morrison holding it out to her.
"Thank you," she answered. Rolled up inside it she could feel the
twisted wisp of paper, and as the Honourable Herbert came up with an
angry look on his face she hesitated.
"What do you want?" he snapped at the man.
"Miss Frenton dropped her handkerchief, sir," answered Morrison,
impassively.
The other grunted.
"All right. Get on with your work."
Marjorie hesitated no longer. With a sort of blinding certainty there
flashed into her mind the conviction that something was wrong. She
didn't stop to analyse her thoughts: she merely felt convinced that John
Morrison was not an insubordinate swine, and that in the note she held
in her hand lay the clue to a great deal that was puzzling her at the
moment. And so with a gracious smile at the man she slipped her
handkerchief into her bag....
It was ten minutes before she found an opportunity of reading the note.
It was in pencil, and the handwriting was small and neat.
"It is immaterial to me what action you take on receiving this," it ran.
"But if you are in any way interested in your fiance's future, I most
strongly advise you to suggest a change of air to him. Of his
capabilities as a husband you must decide for yourself: of his
capabilities as the boss of Frenton's, other people have already
decided, as possibly you may have noticed this morning. So get him away,
and _keep him away_. You haven't got much time."
"Get him away, and keep him away." The words danced before the girl's
eyes. She was conscious of no anger against John Morrison: merely of a
stunned surprise. The thing was so totally unexpected. "Of his
capabilities as the boss of Frenton's, other people have already
decided." And even as she read and re-read the sentence, she found that
she was actually asking herself the question--"Was it so totally
unexpected after all?" That matters should have come to a head in such
an abrupt way was a staggering shock: but ... She crumpled the note into
her bag once more, and walked slowly towards the waiting cars. A
hundred little half-defined thoughts came crowding in on her memory: a
hundred little things which had not struck her at the time--or was it
that she hadn't allowed them to strike her?--now arrayed themselves in
massed formation in front of her.
She paused with her foot on the step of the car. The Honourable Herbert
was solicitously bending over a stout and boring aunt of hers, and she
watched him dispassionately. "Of his capabilities as a husband you must
decide for yourself." Impertinent.... And yet she was not conscious of
any resentment.
"Come up to lunch, Herbert," she said, as he stepped over to her. "I
want to talk to you afterwards."
He raised his eyebrows slightly.
"I shall be very busy this afternoon, dear."
"I think the works will stand your absence for one afternoon," she
remarked quietly, and he bit his lip.
"I'll be there, Marjorie." He fumbled with her rug. "One o'clock
sharp, I suppose."
He stood back, and the cars rolled off.
"What a charming man your fiance is, my dear!" cooed the elderly female
sitting beside Marjorie. "So polite: so ... so ... impressive."
The girl smiled a little absently, and nodded. "Impressive...." It
struck her that the word exactly described Herbert. He was impressive.
And then because she was loyal clean through, she started to fan herself
into a furious rage at the abominable impertinence of this wretched man
John Morrison. Herbert was right: he was an insubordinate swine....
How dare he--how _dare he_--hand her such a note! He ought to be sacked
at once. She would tell Herbert about it after lunch, and he would
explain matters. Of course he would explain--of course....
John Frenton was standing on the steps as the cars drove up, and
impulsively she went up to him.
"Herbert is coming to lunch, daddy," she cried, putting her arm through
his.
"Is he, darling," said the old man, patting her hand. "That's all
right." He turned to the rest of the party as they came up.
"Well--what do you think of my works? None in England to beat 'em, my
friends, not if you search from John o' Groats to Land's End. And as
for a strike, it's unknown, sir, unknown.... My men don't do it,
whatever other firms may do."
He passed into the house talking animatedly to one of his guests, and
for a while Marjorie stood, staring over the three miles of open country
to where the high chimneys of Frenton's Steel Works stuck up like
slender sticks against the dull background of smoke. Then with a little
sigh she too went up the steps into the house.
*II*
"Herbert, I don't quite understand about this morning." She was in her
own sitting-room, and her fiance, standing in front of the fire, was
lighting a cigarette. "What is the matter at the works?"
All through lunch the Honourable Herbert, in the intervals of being
charming to the ghastly collection of old bores--as he mentally dubbed
them--who formed the party, had been puzzling out the best line to take
at this interview. That the girl had seen that something was wrong was
obvious: no one but a blind person could have failed to notice it. And
now that the interview had actually started he was still undecided....
"My dear little girl," he remarked, gently, sitting down beside her and
taking her hand.... "Why worry about it? As I told you this morning,
some little grievance, I expect--which I'll inquire into...."
The girl shook her head.
"It's something very much more than a grievance," she said, quietly but
positively. "There's something radically wrong, Herbert. I want to know
what it is."
"Good heavens! Marjorie"--there was a hint of impatience in his
voice--"haven't I told you I'll inquire into it? Do be reasonable, my
dear girl."
"I'm being perfectly reasonable," she answered, still in the same quiet
tone. "But I don't understand how things have got as far as they have
without any steps on your part. You say you don't know what's the
matter. Daddy would have known long ago--and remedied it." The
Honourable Herbert's opinion of daddy, at that moment, remained
unspoken.... "You see," went on the girl, "they're just part of daddy,
are the works. He was only saying to-day that he had never had any
strikes. And now, when he's getting old..." She stirred restlessly in
her chair, and looked at the fire. "Of his capabilities as the boss of
Frenton's, other people have already decided." The words danced before
her in the flames, and almost passionately she turned to the man beside
her. "Don't you see," she cried, "don't you realize that I feel
responsible? You're there--as a partner--because you're my fiance.
That's the only reason. The works will come to me when daddy dies: I
shall be responsible for them--I and my husband...."
"You could always turn the thing into a Limited Company, darling,"
murmured the man, "if you found it too great a strain." He waited for
an answer, but none came, and after a while he continued in an easy,
reassuring voice. "Of course, I understand, my little Marjorie, your
feelings on the matter."
"Do you?" she interrupted, slowly. "I wonder."
"I'm only a beginner," he went on, and his voice was a trifle hurt.
"One can't pick up all sorts of technical knowledge in a month, or even
a year...."
"Technical knowledge isn't wanted, Herbert--so much as human knowledge,
personality. I could run those works--with the help of Mr. Thompson and
the other managers.... Ah, dear!" she bent forward quickly. "I don't
want to hurt you. But I just can't imagine what would have happened if
dad had gone round the works with us this morning.... I believe it
would have almost killed him...."
"Very well, dear, if those are your feelings there is no more to be
said." With quiet dignity her fiance rose to his feet. "If you are not
satisfied with me..." He left the sentence unfinished.
"I am," she cried, quickly. "I am, Herbert--perfectly satisfied.
But..."
"Then don't think any more about it," he said, quickly. "I'll go down,
little girl, and find out what the trouble is. And then I'll put it
right, and let you know...."
"You'll let me know this evening, won't you?"
For a moment he hesitated.
"If possible, Marjorie...."
"But of course it's possible," she cried, impulsively. "At our works,
you've only got to ask.... Have the men together and ask....."
The Honourable Herbert's face was expressionless, as he bent over and
kissed her.
"Quite so, darling," he murmured. "Quite so. Don't worry about it any
more...."
And it was not until he was at the wheel of his car driving back to his
office that he gave vent to his real feelings. "Ask the men?" He saw
himself doing it. The cursed luck of the thing. But for that one
episode yesterday, he could have bluffed it through, until they were
married at any rate. After that he had never had an intention of
carrying on a deception which bored him to extinction: there would be no
need to.... But now.... The marvel to him was that they hadn't struck
already. And once they did, and John Frenton came down to the works and
the cause became known--good-bye to his hopes of the future. Marjorie
would never forgive him. And as the realization of what that would
entail struck him seriously for the first time, he swore savagely. He
had been banking on the Frenton millions not only morally but actually.
And if they failed to materialize.... Once again he cursed under his
breath....
It was after dinner that night that Marjorie made up her mind. She had
twice rung up her fiance with no result. The first time he had not come
in: the second he had just gone out--to the local theatre, the servant
believed. With a frown she hung up the receiver, and turning away
walked slowly to her father's study.
"I want to see the book of addresses, daddy," she said, quietly.
It was one of old Frenton's hobbies to have the address of every one of
his men entered in a large book, which enabled periodical gifts to
arrive if there was any illness in the family.
"It's over there, girlie," he said, with a sleepy smile. "What do you
want it for?"
"Mrs. Tracy has just had a baby," she announced, turning over the
leaves.
But it was not under the T's that she looked. Mendle, Morgan, Morrison
... Morrison, John, 9, Castle Road.... Thoughtfully she closed the
book, and put it back in its proper place. Then she crossed the room,
and kissed her father lovingly on his bald head.
"You're a dear old thing," she whispered. "Go and play billiards with
the general...."
A few minutes later she was driving her little runabout towards Castle
Road. An onlooker, had he been able to see under the thick veil she
wore, would have been struck with the likeness of the small determined
face to that of old John Frenton. Like her father--once she came to a
decision, she required some stopping. And since her fiance had left
after lunch she had become more and more uneasy, more and more certain
that something was being kept from her--something thing which concerned
the Honourable Herbert pretty closely. And if it concerned him, it
concerned her: she, as she had told him, had brought him into the
firm....
Castle Road proved to be a better neighbourhood than she had expected.
Most of the hands preferred to live nearer to the works, and this street
struck her as being more suitable for well-to-do clerks. But she was
far too preoccupied to worry overmuch with such trifles. John Morrison
and the truth were what she wanted. She left the car at the end of the
street, and walked to Number 9.
Yes. Mr. Morrison was at home. A disapproving sniff preceded the
opening of a sitting-room door, which closed with a bang behind her. She
heard the steps of the landlady going down the stairs, and then she took
an uncertain pace forward.
"... I ..." she stammered. Undoubtedly the man in evening clothes
facing her was John Morrison, but he looked so different. And whoever
had heard of a factory hand getting into a smoking jacket for dinner?
... And the room.... The prints on the walls: the big roll-top desk:
golf clubs in the corner, and to cap everything--a gun-case.
"I think there must be some mistake," she said, haltingly. "I must
apologize.... I..." She turned as if to leave the room....
"I hope not, Miss Frenton." She gave a little start: she had hoped he
had not recognized her. "Won't you come and sit down by the fire and
tell me what I can do for you?"
After a moment's hesitation she did as he said.
"You must admit, Mr. Morrison," she loosened her veil as she spoke,
"that there is some excuse for my surprise."
The man glanced round the room with a slight smile.
"Yes," he murmured. "I can understand it causing you a slight shock.
Had I known you were coming I would have tried to make it
less--er--startling."
"What on earth are you doing in the works?" she asked, curiously.
"My poor concerns will keep, Miss Frenton." A charming smile robbed the
words of any offence. "I don't think it was to discuss me that you came
to-night. My note, I suppose. Am I to be rebuked?"
"No," she answered, slowly. "I am to be enlightened, please."
"Have you spoken to Strongley about it?" he asked, after a pause.
She raised her eyebrows.
"I asked _Mr._ Strongley what was the matter with the men, after lunch
to-day."
"I stand corrected." With an expressionless face John Morrison held out
a heavy silver cigarette box to her, but she shook her head.
"No, thank you," she said curtly, and he replaced the box on the table.
"But please smoke yourself, if you want to."
"And what did Mr. Strongley say?" asked the man.
"Nothing." She stared at the fire with a little frown. "He didn't seem
to know: but he said he'd find out and ring me up. He hasn't done so,
and I want to know, Mr. Morrison--know the truth. There's something
radically wrong down there. What is it?"
John Morrison thoughtfully lit a cigarette and leaned against the
mantelpiece, staring down at her.
"May I ask you one or two questions, Miss Frenton: questions which,
though they may sound impertinent, are not intended in that spirit?"
"Yes." She looked up at him steadily. "But I don't promise to answer."
"How long ago did you meet Herbert Strongley?"
"About a year."
"And how long was it before you got engaged to him?"
She shifted a little in her chair.
"Not very long," she said at length.
He did not press the point: though a faint smile hovered for a moment on
his lips.
"Not very long," he repeated, softly. "Are you quite sure, Miss
Frenton--and this is a very important question--are you quite sure that
you haven't made a mistake?"
"It may be important, but it's one I absolutely refuse to answer." She
faced him angrily. "What business is it of yours?"
"Absolutely none--at the moment," he said, quietly. "But you've come to
me to find out what the trouble is. And if you have not made any
mistake with regard to your engagement, I advise you to carry out the
suggestion contained in my note. Get your fiance away from Frenton's,
and keep him away, both before and after your marriage. It will come, I
imagine, as a blow to your father, but you can easily turn it into a
company."
"You mean--that the men don't like Herbert?" She forced herself to ask
the question.
"I mean," he answered, deliberately, "that the men loathe and detest
him, and that only the love they have for you and your father has staved
off trouble up till now. And even that love will fail to avert a crisis
after--well, after the regrettable episode that happened yesterday."
"What was it?" she demanded, and her voice sounded dead to the man.
"I don't think we need bother as to what it was," he said, quietly.
"Shall we leave it at the fact that however excellent a husband
Strongley may make, as a boss of Frenton's he is a complete failure?"
He bit his lip as he saw the look on the girl's face. Then he went on
in the same quiet voice. "Things like this hurt, Miss Frenton: but you
are the type that appreciates frankness. And I tell you quite openly
that the men are after your fiance. And I don't blame them."
"You side with them, do you?" She threw the words at him fiercely.
"Am I not one of them?" he replied, gravely.
"You know you're not." She stood up and faced him. "You're not one of
the ordinary hands. Look at your evening clothes; look at that gun-case
in the corner...." She paused as she saw the sudden look on his face.
"What is it?"
"Into this room quickly," he whispered. "You must stop there till he
goes. Good Lord! What a complication!"
"Who is it?" she cried, startled by his evident agitation.
"Strongley," he whispered. "Heard his voice in the hall. Absolutely
unexpected."
He closed the door, and she found herself in his bedroom, just as the
landlady ushered in the second visitor.
And if she had been surprised on her first entrance to John Morrison's
rooms, it was evident that the Honourable Herbert was even more so.
"Good Lord, man," he spluttered. "Why the glad rags? I--er--of course,
it's no business of mine, but your general appearance gave me a bit of a
shock."
To the girl listening intensely on the other side of the door it seemed
as if a note of relief had crept into her fiance's voice--relief in
which a certain amount of uneasiness was mingled.
"What can I do for you?" John Morrison asked, gravely.
"Well--er--don't you know"--undoubtedly the visitor was not at all sure
of his ground--"your rooms and that sort of thing have rather knocked
me. I mean--er--I'm rather in the soup, Morrison: and I really came
round to ask your advice, don't you know. I mean you saw the whole
thing--yesterday: and though I'm afraid I lost my temper with you too,
yet even at that time I saw you were different. And--er--I thought..."
The Honourable Herbert mopped his forehead and sank into a chair.
"The mere fact that I change for dinner doesn't seem to alter the
situation appreciably," said Morrison, quietly.
"No, by Jove--I suppose not." The other sat up and braced himself for
the plunge. "Well, what the hell am I to do? And what the devil are
the men going to do? Are they going to strike?"
"No--I don't think so." Morrison smiled at the sudden look of relief on
Strongley's face. "They're too fond of Mr. Frenton and his daughter.
It's you they're after."
"What are they going to do?"
"Give you a pleasant half-hour under the steam-hammer," said Morrison
deliberately, and the other rose with a stifled cry. "Just to test your
nerves. Let it drop to within an inch to you--then stop it. And if
that doesn't expedite your departure--they'll take other steps...."
"But, damn it, Morrison," his voice was shaking--"don't you understand I
can't go? I--er--Good Lord! do you suppose I want to stop here for one
second longer than I must? I loathe it. Can't you stop 'em, man: tell
'em I'm clearing the instant I'm----"
"Married," said Morrison, quietly.
"Well, yes," said the other. "I'll have to be frank with you--and I can
see you'll understand." His eyes strayed round the room. "I admit
absolutely that this isn't my line: I detest the show. But old Frenton
is wrapped up in these works--and--well--he looks for a son-in-law who
will carry on. After I'm married I can explain things to him, don't you
know. And until then--well, we must stave off this trouble, Morrison."
"Wouldn't it be a little more straightforward to explain your views to
him before the marriage?"
"Perhaps it would have been," said the other, with apparent frankness.
"But it's too late now--and then there's that damned show yesterday.
That's what I'm so afraid will come out." He stared at the fire. "I
didn't mean to hurt the fellow," he went on querulously. "And I'm
certain he dropped that spanner on my toe on purpose."
"Still, that hardly seems sufficient justification for slogging a boy,
who is not quite all there, over the head with an iron bar, does it?"
Almost unconsciously his eyes travelled to the bedroom door as he spoke,
and then he grew suddenly rigid. For the door was open, and the girl
stood between the two rooms with a look of incredulous horror on her
face.
"So that's what was the matter with Jake," she said, slowly, and at the
sound of her voice Strongley swung round with a violent start.
"Marjorie..." he gasped, "what on earth..."
"Why didn't you tell me at the beginning?" she demanded, staring at him
with level eyes. "Why lie about it? It seems so unnecessary and petty.
And then--to hit Jake over the head.... You, ... Take it back, please."
She laid her engagement ring on the table. "And I think you'd better
go--at once. The fault was partially mine; and I wouldn't like them to
punish you for my--for my mistake...."
Without another word she turned and left the room. And it was not till
the front door banged that Strongley turned his livid face on John
Morrison.
"You swine," he muttered. "I believe this was a put-up job."
John Morrison laughed.
"Yes--you told me you were coming, didn't you?"
"No--I didn't tell you," said Strongley, slowly, with a vicious look
dawning in his eyes. "Which perhaps accounts for the fact that Miss
Frenton was here.... In your bedroom.... How nice.... The gentleman
workman and the employer's daughter.... A charming romance.... I should
think Mr. Frenton will be delighted to hear it to-morrow...."
Not a muscle on John Morrison's face moved.
"More than delighted, I should imagine.... Except that it will be a
little stale. Personally, I am going up to tell him to-night." He
smiled slightly. "I don't like you, Strongley; I know far too much
about you. But I _did_ pass Miss Frenton a note to-day at the works
warning her to get you away...."
"Your solicitude for my welfare is overwhelming," sneered Strongley.
"Good heavens!" laughed John Morrison. "I didn't care a damn about you.
I was afraid the men might get into trouble. Steady! Don't get gay
with me. I'm not half-witted; and I can hit back...."
*III*
It was in London the following spring that Marjorie Frenton next saw
John Morrison. She had not been present at the interview with her
father--was in ignorance that it had ever taken place until the next
day. And on that next day John Morrison had disappeared, leaving no
trace.... For a while she had waited, wondering whether he would
write--but no word came. After all, why should he? There was nothing to
write about.... It was merely curiosity on her part--nothing more, of
course.... A workman in evening clothes.... Enough to make anybody
curious....
And now there he was--three tables away, dining with a very pretty
woman. He hadn't seen her yet.... Probably wouldn't remember her when
he did ... After all, why should he? ... And at that moment their eyes
met....
She looked away at once, and started talking to the man next to her: but
even as she spoke she knew John Morrison had risen and was coming
towards her.
"How are you, Miss Frenton?" She looked up into his face: met the glint
of a smile in the lazy blue eyes.
"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Morrison," she answered, coldly.
"Hullo, Joe!" A woman opposite had begun to speak, to stop with a
puzzled frown at Marjorie's words. "Morrison! Why Morrison? ... Have
you been masquerading, Joe, under an assumed name?"
"I did for a while, Jane," he said, calmly, "to avoid you; you know how
you pursued me with eligible girls.... Battalions of 'em, Miss
Frenton--ranged in rows. I had to disappear stealthily in the dead of
night...."
"Well, when are you going to get married?" demanded the woman, laughing.
"Very soon, I hope.... I do much better than you, Jane, in these
things. The girl I've got my eye on is a girl who summoned several
hundred factory hands together; and told 'em she was sorry for a mistake
she'd made. And she halted a bit, and stumbled a bit--but she got
through with it.... And then the men cheered 'emselves sick...."
"Good heavens! Joe ... Factory hands!" gasped the woman. "What sort of
a girl is she?"
"A perfect topper, Jane." Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at
Marjorie, whose eyes were fixed on her plate. "By the way, Miss
Frenton, has your father turned his works into a company yet?"
"Not yet," she answered, very low.
"Ah! that's good." He forced her to meet his eyes, and there was
something more than a smile on his face now. "Well, I must go back to
my sister.... And I'll come and call to-morrow if I may.... Jane will
expose my wicked deceit doubtless...."
"Mad--quite mad," remarked the woman opposite, as he went back to his
interrupted dinner. "Morrison, did you say? I knew he wanted to study
labour conditions first-hand--why, Heaven knows. He's got works of his
own or something.... But all the Carlakes are mad.... And I'd got a
splendid American girl up my sleeve for him...."
"Carlake," said Marjorie, a little faintly. "Is that Lord Carlake?"
"Of course it is, my dear. That's Joe Carlake.... Mad as a hatter....
I wonder who the girl is...."
_*VI -- The Unbroken Line*_
*I*
"My dear man, where have you been buried? You don't seem to know
anybody. That's Bobby Landon, Lord Fingarton's only son. Just about to
pull off _the_ marriage of the season."
I accepted the rebuke meekly: a spell of three years in Africa
investigating the question of sleeping sickness does almost count as
burial.
"Oh! is that Lord Landon?" I murmured, glancing across the crowded
restaurant at a clean-looking youngster dining with a couple of men.
"See--who is he engaged to?"
"You win the bag of nuts," laughed my fair informant. "Robert Landon,
only son of Earl Fingarton of Fingarton, is about to marry Cecilie,
youngest daughter of the Duke of Sussex. A fuller society announcement
can be given if required, bringing out the pleasing union of two
historic families in these socialistic days...." She laughed again.
"But speaking the normal mother tongue, a first-class boy is marrying a
topping girl, which is all that matters."
"It's all coming back to me," I said, slowly. "I'm getting warm. There
was another son, wasn't there, and he died."
"I believe so," she answered; "in fact I know there was. But he died
before I was born. That was the first wife's son. Daddy would be able
to tell you all about that."
"What's that, my dear?" My host leaned across the table with a smile.
"Sir Richard was asking me about Lord Fingarton's family history, old
man," she remarked, brightly. "I was telling him that I was slightly on
the youthful side, and that you would elucidate the matter in your
well-known breezy style.
"It doesn't require much elucidation," he said, slowly. "It was a
mixture of tragedy and good fortune...."
"I remember that the first son died, Bill, but..." I paused and waited
for him to continue.
"He broke his neck in the hunting field the day after he came of age.
And the accident broke his mother's heart. They were absolutely wrapped
up in that boy--both of 'em.... Six months later she died in Scotland,
at Fingarton...." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and
unconsciously my eyes wandered to the youngster at the neighbouring
table.
"And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at
length.
"This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was
the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came
only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first
place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous:
they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid
boy--better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a
while in silence. "You see--Betty Fingarton was too old to have another
child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her
death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider
of the purest water--a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move
about like a man in a dream--dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I
remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death
would--how shall I put it--help matters. Not that he ever said
anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I've lost sight of
him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap.
The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his
God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again....
Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he
told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could
sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...."
My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side
whispered a little breathlessly:
"I didn't know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!"