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 so.
“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.
“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 which had opened between
them.
He missed the chance. He had had time to think, and his arguments were
ready again. With stolid good humour 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 for a
moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think.”
★ 17 ★
_Jimmy Remembers Something, and Hears Something Else_
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 favour 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-player 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 shan’t be able to give you twenty in a
hundred much longer.”
He went to a side-table and mixed himself a whisky 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
farther 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 centre.
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 Scot! 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? Halloa! 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 you 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 lit 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 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 behaviour was not the
ordinary code, was to chat with him and to 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 said—“the having to seem a mug at the game.
I’ve been patronised 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 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.”
“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 armour. 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.
“Halloa, 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
carolling 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-centres with a gulp of brandy and
soda, and for a 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 sombre nod.
“You’re engaged to her?”
Another sombre 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 demeanour 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 at him 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 heavens!” 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-backboned
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. Now 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 deuce 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 pretty 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-O!’ or
something—dashed if I know 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 occasions,” said Jimmy, emptying his glass.
★ 18 ★
_The Lochinvar Method_
As Jimmy sat smoking a last cigarette in his bedroom before going to bed
that night Spike Mullins came in. Jimmy had been thinking things over.
He was one of those men who are at their best in a losing game. Imminent
disaster always had the effect of keying him up and putting an edge on
his mind. The news he had heard that night had left him with
undiminished determination, but conscious that a change of method would
be needed. He must stake all on a single throw now. Young Lochinvar
rather than Romeo must be his model. He declined to believe himself
incapable of getting anything that he wanted as badly as he wanted
Molly. He also declined to believe that she was really attached to Lord
Dreever. He suspected the hand of McEachern in the affair, though the
suspicion did not clear up the mystery by any means. Molly was a girl of
character, not a feminine counterpart of his lordship, content meekly to
do what she was told in a matter of this kind. The whole thing puzzled
him.
“Well, Spike?” he said.
He was not too pleased at the interruption. He was thinking, and he
wanted to be alone.
Something appeared to have disturbed Spike. His bearing was excited.
“Say, boss! Guess what. You know dat guy dat come dis afternoon?—de guy
from de village, dat came wit old man McEachern.”
“Galer?” said Jimmy. “What about him?”
There had been an addition to the guests at the castle that afternoon.
Mr. McEachern, walking in the village, had happened upon an old New York
acquaintance of his, who, touring England, had reached Dreever and was
anxious to see the historic castle. Mr. McEachern had brought him
thither, introduced him to Sir Thomas, and now Mr. Samuel Galer was
occupying a room on the same floor as Jimmy’s. He had appeared at dinner
that night, a short, wooden-faced man, with no more conversation than
Hargate. Jimmy had not paid any particular attention to him.
“What about him?” he said.
“He’s a ‘sleut’, boss.”
“A what?”
“A ‘sleut’.”
“A detective?”
“Dat’s right. A fly cop.”
“What makes you think that?”
“T’ink! Why, I can tell dem by deir eyes and deir feet, and de whole of
dem. I could pick out a fly cop from a bunch of a t’ousand. He’s sure a
’nough ‘sleut’ all right, all right. I seen him rubbering at you, boss.”
“At me! Why at me? Why, of course, I see now. Our friend McEachern has
got him in to spy on us.”
“Dat’s right, boss.”
“Of course you may be mistaken.”
“Not me, boss. And, say, he ain’t de only one.”
“What, more detectives? They’ll have to put up ‘House Full’ boards at
this rate. Who’s the other?”
“A mug what’s down in de soivants’ hall. I wasn’t so sure of him at
foist, but now I’m on to his curves. He’s a sleut all right. He’s vally
to Sir Tummas, dis second mug is; but he ain’t no vally! He’s come to
see no one don’t get busy wit de jools. Say, what do youse t’ink of dem
jools, boss?”
“Finest I ever saw.”
“Yes, dat’s right. A hundred thousand plunks dey set him back. Dey’re de
limit, ain’t dey? Say, won’t you really——”
“Spike, I’m surprised at you! Do you know you’re getting a regular
Mephistopheles, Spike? Suppose I hadn’t an iron will, what would happen?
You really must select your subjects of conversation more carefully.
You’re bad company for the likes of me.”
Spike shuffled despondently.
“But, boss——”
Jimmy shook his head.
“It can’t be done, my lad.”
“But it can, boss,” protested Spike. “It’s dead easy. I’ve been up to de
room, and I seen de box what de jools is kept in. Why, it’s de softest
ever! We could get dem as easy as pullin’ de plug out of a bottle. Why,
say, dere’s never been such a peach of a place for gettin’ hold of de
stuff as dis house. Dat’s right, boss. Why, look what I got dis
afternoon, just snoopin’ round and not really trying to get busy at all.
It was just lying about.”
He plunged his hand into his pocket and drew it out again. As he
unclosed his fingers Jimmy caught the gleam of precious stones.
“What the——” he gasped.
Spike was looking at his treasure-trove with an air of affectionate
proprietorship.
“Where on earth did you get those?” asked Jimmy.
“Out of one of de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was de
easiest old t’ing ever, boss. I just went in when dere was nobody
around, and dere dey was on de toible. I never butted into anyt’ing so
soft.”
“Spike!”
“Yes, boss.”
“Do you remember the room you took them from?”
“Sure. It was de foist on de——”
“Then just listen to me for a moment, my bright boy. When we’re at
breakfast to-morrow you want to go to that room and put those things
back—all of them, mind you—just where you found them. Do you
understand?”
Spike’s jaw had fallen.
“Put dem back, boss?” he faltered.
“Every single one of them.”
“Boss!” said Spike plaintively.
“Remember—every single one of them, just where it belongs. See?”
“Very well, boss.”
The dejection in his voice would have moved the sternest to pity. Gloom
had enveloped Spike’s spirit. The sunlight had gone out of his life.
It had also gone out of the lives of a good many other people at the
castle. This was mainly due to the growing shadow of the day of the
theatricals.
For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can compete
with the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at a
country house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more heavily charged
with restlessness and depression. The producer of the piece, especially
if he is also the author of it, develops a sort of intermittent
insanity. He plucks at his moustache, if he has one; at his hair, if he
has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent to occasional despairing
cries. The soothing suavity which marked his demeanour in the earlier
rehearsals disappears.
He no longer says with a winning smile, “Splendid, old man, splendid!
Couldn’t be better. But I think we’ll take that over just once more, if
you don’t mind.” Instead, he rolls his eyes and snaps out, “Once more,
please. This’ll never do. At this rate we might just as well cut out the
show altogether. What’s that? No, it won’t be all right on the night!
Now, then, once more; and do pull yourselves together this time.” After
which the scene is sulkily resumed; and conversation, when the parties
concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained.