John waited in considerable anxiety for Miss Hamilton's reply to his
letter, and when a few days later she answered his appeal in person by
presenting herself for work as usual he could not express in words the
intensity of his satisfaction, but could only prance round her as if he
had been a dumb domestic animal instead of a celebrated romantic
playwright.
"And what have you done since I've been away?" she asked, without
alluding to her illness or to her mother or to her threat of being
obliged to leave him.
John looked abashed.
"Not very much, I'm afraid."
"How much?"
"Well, to be quite honest, nothing at all"
She referred sympathetically to the death of Mrs. Touchwood, and,
without the ghost of a blush, he availed himself of that excuse for
idleness.
"But now you're back," he added, "I'm going to work harder than ever.
Oh, but I forgot. I mustn't overwork you."
"Nonsense," said Miss Hamilton, sharply. "I don't think the amount you
write every day will ever do me much harm."
John busied himself with paper, pens, ink, and notebooks, and was soon
as deep in the fourth act as if there had never been an intermission.
For a month he worked in perfect tranquillity, and went so far as to
calculate that if Miss Hamilton was willing to remain forever in his
employ there was no reason why he should not produce three plays a year
until he was seventy. Then one morning in mid-February Mr. Ricketts
arrived in a state of perturbation to say that he had been unable to
obtain any reply to several letters and telegrams informing Hugh when
their steamer would leave. Now here they were with only a day before
departure, and he was still without news of the young man. John looked
guilty. The fact was that he had decided not to open any letters from
his relations throughout this month, alleging to himself the
interruption they caused to his work and trusting to the old
superstition that if left unanswered long enough all letters, even the
most disagreeable, answered themselves.
"I was wondering why your correspondence had dwindled so," said Miss
Hamilton, severely.
"But that is no excuse for my brother," John declared. "Because I don't
write to him, that is no reason why he shouldn't write to Mr. Ricketts."
"Well, we're off to-morrow," said the mahogany-planter.
An indignant telegram was sent to Hugh; but the prepaid answer came back
from Hilda to say that he had gone off with a friend a fortnight ago
without leaving any address. Mr. Ricketts, who had been telephoned for
in the morning, arrived about noon in a taxi loaded with exotic luggage.
"I can't wait," he assured John. "The lad must come on by the next boat.
I shan't go up country for a week or so. Good-by, Mr. Touchwood; I'm
sorry not to have your brother's company. I was going to put him wise to
the job on the trip across."
"But look here, can't you...." John began, despairingly.
"Can't wait. I shall miss the boat. West India Docks," he shouted to the
driver, "and stop at the last decent pub in the city on the way
through."
The taxi buzzed off.
Two days later Hugh appeared at Church Row, mentioned casually that he
was sorry he had missed the boat, but that he had been doing a little
architectural job for a friend of his.
"Very good bridge," he commented, approvingly.
"Over what?" John demanded.
"Over very good whisky," said Hugh. "It was up in the North. Capital
fun. I was designing a smoking-room for a man I know who's just come
into money. I've had a ripping time. Good hands every evening and a very
decent fee. In fact, I don't see why I shouldn't start an office of my
own."
"And what about mahogany?"
"Look here, I never liked that idea of yours, Johnnie. Everybody agrees
that British Honduras is a rotten climate, and if you want to help me,
you can help me much more effectively by setting me up on my own as an
architect."
"I do not want to help you. I've invested L2,000 in mahogany and
logwood, and I insist on getting as much interest on my money as your
absence from England will bring me in."
"Yes, that's all very well, old chap. But why do you want me to leave
England?"
John embarked upon a justification of his attitude, in the course of
which he pointed out the dangers of idleness, reminded Hugh of the
forgery, tried to inspire him with hopes of independence, hinted at
moral obligations, and rhapsodized about colonial enterprise. As a
mountain of forensic art the speech was wonderful: clothed on the lower
slopes with a rich and varied vegetation of example and precept, it
gradually ascended to the hard rocks of necessity, honor, and duty until
it culminated in a peak of snow where John's singleness of motive
glittered immaculately and inviolably to heaven. It was therefore
discouraging for the orator when he paused and walked slowly up stage to
give the culprit an opportunity to make a suitably penitent reply, after
which the curtain was to come down upon a final outburst of magnanimous
eloquence from himself, that Hugh should merely growl the contemptuous
monosyllable "rot."
"Rot?" repeated John in amazement.
"Yes. Rot. I'm not going to reason with you...."
"Ah, indeed?" John interrupted, sarcastically.
"Because reason would be lost on you. I simply repeat 'Rot!' If I don't
want to go to British Honduras, I won't go. Why, to hear you talk
anybody would suppose that I hadn't had the same opportunities as
yourself. If you chose to blur your intelligence by writing romantic
tushery, you must remember that by doing so you yielded to temptation
just as much as I did when I forged Stevie's name. Do you think I would
write plays like yours? Never!" he proclaimed, proudly.
"It seems to me that the conversation is indeed going outside the limits
of reason," said John, trying hard to restrain himself.
"My dear old chap, it has never been inside the limits. No, no, you
collared me when I was down over that check. Well, here's what you paid
to get me out of the mess." He threw a bundle of notes on the table. "So
long, Johnnie, and don't be too resentful of my having demonstrated that
when I _am_ left for a while on my own I can earn money as well as you.
I'm going to stay in town for a bit before I go North again, so I shall
see you from time to time. By the way, you might send me the receipt to
Carlington Road. I'm staying with Aubrey as usual."
When his brother had gone, John counted the notes in a stupor. It would
be too much to say that he was annoyed at being paid back; but he was
not sufficiently pleased to mention the fact to Miss Hamilton for two
days.
"Oh, I am so glad," she exclaimed when at last he did bring himself to
tell her.
"Yes, it's very encouraging," John agreed, doubtfully. "I'm still
suffering slightly from the shock, which has been a very novel
sensation. To be perfectly honest, I never realized before how much less
satisfactory it is to be paid back than one thinks beforehand it is
going to be."
In spite of the disturbing effect of Hugh's honesty, John soon settled
down again to the play, and became so much wrapped up in its daily
progress that one afternoon he was able without a tremor to deny
admittance to Laurence, who having written to warn him that he was
taking advantage of a further reduction in the price on day-tickets, had
paid another visit to London. Laurence took with ill grace his
brother-in-law's message that he was too busy on his own work to talk
about anybody's else at present.
"I confess I was pained," he wrote from Ambles on John's own note-paper,
"by the harsh reception of my friendly little visit. I confess that
Edith and I had hoped you would welcome the accession of a relative to
the ranks of contemporary playwrights. We feel that in the circumstances
we cannot stay any longer in your house. Indeed, Edith is even as I pen
these lines packing Frida's little trunk. She is being very brave, but
her tear-stained face tells its own tale, and I confess that I myself am
writing with a heavy heart. Eleanor has been most kind, and in addition
to giving me several more introductions to her thespian friends has
arranged with the proprietress of Halma House for a large double room
with dressing-room attached on terms which I can only describe as
absurdly moderate. Do not think we are angry. We are only pained,
bitterly pained that our happy family life should suddenly collapse like
this. However, excelsior, as the poet said, or as another poet even
greater said, 'sic itur ad astra.' You will perhaps be able to spare a
moment from the absorption of your own affairs to read with a fleeting
interest that Sir Percy Mortimer has offered me the part of the butler
in a comedy of modern manners which he hopes to stage--you see I am
already up to the hilt in the jargon of the profession--next autumn.
Eleanor considers this to be an excellent opening, as indeed so do I.
Edith and little Frida laugh heartily when they are not too sad for such
simple fun when I enter the room and assume the characteristic
mannerisms of a butler. All agree I have a natural propensity for droll
impersonation. Who knows? I may make a great hit, although Sir Percy
warns me that the part is but a slight one. Eleanor, however, reminds me
that deportment is always an asset for an actor. Have I not read
somewhere that the great Edmund Kean did not disdain to play the tail
end of a dragon erstwhile? I wish you all good luck in your own work, my
dear John. People are interested when they hear you are my
brother-in-law, and I have told them many tales of the way you are wont
to consult me over the little technical details of religion in which I
as a former clergyman have been able to afford you my humble
assistance."
"What a pompous ass the man is," said John to his secretary. He had read
her the letter, which made her laugh.
"I believe you're really quite annoyed that _he's_ showing an
independent spirit now."
"Not at all. I'm delighted to be rid of him," John contradicted. "I
suppose he'll share George's aquarium at Halma House."
"You don't mind my laughing? Because it is very funny, you know."
"Yes, it's funny in a way," John admitted. "But even if it weren't, I
shouldn't mind your laughing. You have, if I may say so, a peculiarly
musical laugh."
"Are you going to have Joan's scaffold right center or left center?" she
asked, quickly.
"Eh? What? Oh, put it where you like. By the way, has your mother been
girding at you lately?"
Miss Hamilton shrugged her shoulders.
"She isn't yet reconciled to my being a secretary, if that's what you
mean."
"I'm sorry," John murmured. "Confound all relations!" he burst out. "I
suppose she'd object to your going to France with me to finish off the
play?"
"She would object violently. But you mustn't forget that I've a will of
my own."
"Of course you have," said John, admiringly. "And you will go, eh?"
"I'll see--I won't promise. Look here, Mr. Touchwood, I don't want to
seem--what shall I call it--timid, but if I did go to France with you, I
suppose you realize my mother would make such a fuss about it that
people would end by really talking? Forgive my putting such an
unpleasant idea into your innocent head; being your confidential
secretary, I feel I oughtn't to let you run any risks. I don't suppose
you care a bit how much people talk, and I'm sure I don't; at the same
time I shouldn't like you to turn round on me and say I ought to have
warned you."
"Talk!" John exclaimed. "The idea is preposterous. Talk! Good gracious
me, can't I take my secretary abroad without bring accused of ulterior
motives?"
"Now, don't work yourself into a state of wrath, or you won't be able to
think of this terribly important last scene. Anyway, we sha'n't be going
to France yet, and we can discuss the project more fully when the time
comes."
John thought vaguely how well Miss Hamilton knew how to keep him
unruffled, and with a grateful look--or what was meant to be a grateful
look, though she blushed unaccountably when he gave it--he concentrated
upon the site of his heroine's scaffold.
During March the weather was so bright and exhilarating that John and
his secretary took many walks together on Hampstead Heath; they also
often went to town, and John derived much pleasure from discussing
various business affairs with her clerical support; he found that it
helped considerably when dealing with the manager of a film company to
be able to say "Will you make a note of that, please, Miss Hamilton?"
The only place, in fact, to which John did not take her was his club,
and that was only because he was not allowed to introduce ladies there.
"A rather mediaeval restriction," he observed one day to a group
assembled in the smoking-room.
"There was a time, Touchwood, when you used to take refuge here from
your leading ladies," a bachelor member chuckled.
"But nowadays Touchwood has followed Adam with the rest of us," put in
another.
"What's that?" said John, sharply.
There was a general burst of merriment and headshaking and wagging of
fingers, from which and a succession of almost ribald comment John began
to wonder if his private life was beginning to be a subject for club
gossip. He managed to prevent himself from saying that he thought such
chaff in bad taste, because he did not wish to give point to it by
taking it too much in earnest. Nevertheless, he was seriously annoyed
and avoided the smoking-room for a week.
One night, after the first performance of a friend's play, he turned in
to the club for supper, and, being disinclined for sleep, because
although it was a friend's play it had been a tremendous success, which
always made him feel anxious about his own future he lingered on until
the smoking-room was nearly deserted. Towards three o'clock he was
sitting pensively in a quiet corner when he heard his name mentioned by
two members, who had taken seats close by without perceiving his
presence. They were both strangers to him, and he was about to rise from
his chair and walk severely out of the room, when he heard one say to
the other:
"Yes, they tell me his brother-in-law writes his plays for him."
John found this so delightfully diverting an idea that he could not
resist keeping quiet to hear more.
"Oh, I don't believe that," said the second unknown member.
"Fact, I assure you. I was told so by a man who knows Eleanor
Cartright."
"The actress?"
"Yes, she's a sister-in-law of his."
"Really, I never knew that."
"Oh yes. Well, this man met her with a fellow called Armitage, an
ex-monk who broke his vows in order to marry Touchwood's sister."
John pressed himself deeper into his armchair.
"Really? But I never knew monks could marry," objected number two.
"I tell you, he broke his vows."
"Oh, I see," murmured number two, who was evidently no wiser, but was
anxious to appear so.
"Well, it seems that this fellow Armitage is a thundering fine poet, but
without much experience of the stage. Of course, he wouldn't have had
much as a monk."
"Of course not," agreed number two, decidedly.
"So, what does Johnnie Touchwood do--"
"Damned impudence calling me Johnnie," thought the subject of the
duologue.
"But make a contract with his brother-in-law to stay out of the way down
in Devonshire or Dorsetshire--I forget which--but, anyway, down in the
depths of the country somewhere, and write all the best speeches in old
Johnnie's plays. Now, it seems there's been a family row, and they tell
me that Armitage is going to sue Johnnie."
"What was the row about?"
"Well, apparently Johnnie is a bit close. Most of these successful
writers are, of course," said number one with the nod of an expert.
"Of course," agreed his companion, with an air of equally profound
comprehension.
"And took advantage of his position as the fellow with money to lord it
over the rest of his family. There's another brother--an awful clever
beggar--James, I think his name is--a real first-class scientist,
original research man and all that, who's spent the whole of his fortune
on some great discovery or other. Well, will you believe it, but the
other day when he was absolutely starving, Johnnie Touchwood offered to
lend him some trifling sum if he would break the entail."
"I didn't know the Touchwoods were landed proprietors. I always
understood the father was a dentist," said number two.
"Oh, no, no. Very old family. Wonderful old house down in Devonshire or
Dorset--I wish I could remember just where it is. Anyway, it seems that
the eldest brother clung on to this like anything. Of course, he would."
"Of course," number two agreed.
"But Johnnie, who's hard as flint, insisted on breaking the entail in
his own favor, and now I hear he's practically turned the whole family
into the street, including James' boy, who in the ordinary course of
events would have inherited."
"Did Eleanor Cartright tell your friend this?" asked number two.
"Oh no, I've heard that from lots of people. It seems that old Mrs.
Touchwood died of grief over the way Johnnie carried on. It's really a
very grim story when you hear the details; unfortunately, I can't
remember all of them. My memory's getting awfully bad nowadays."
Number two muttered an expression of sympathy, and the other continued:
"But one detail I do remember is that another brother--"
"It's a large family, then?"
"Oh, very large. As I was saying, the old lady was terribly upset not
only about breaking the entail, but also over her youngest son, who had
some incurable disease. It seems that he was forced by Johnnie to go out
to the Gold Coast--I think it was--in order to see about some money that
Johnnie had invested in rubber or something. As I say, I can't remember
the exact details. However, cherchez la femme, I needn't add the reasons
for all this."
"A woman?"
"Exactly," said number one. "Some people say it's a married woman, and
others say it's a young girl of sixteen. Anyway, Johnnie's completely
lost his head over her, and they tell me...."
The two members put their heads together so that John could not hear
what was said: but it must have been pretty bad, because when they put
them apart again number two was clicking his tongue in shocked
amazement.
"By Jove, that will cause a terrific scandal, eh?"
John decided he had heard enough. Assuming an expression of intense
superiority, the sort of expression a man might assume who was standing
on the top of Mount Everest, he rose from his chair, eyed the two
gossips with disdain, and strode out of the smoking-room. Just as he
reached the door, he heard number one exclaim:
"Hulloa, see who that was? That was old Percy Mortimer."
"Oh, of course," said number two, as sapiently as ever, "I didn't
recognize him for a moment. He's beginning to show his age, eh?"
On the way back to Hampstead John tried to assure himself that the
conversation he had just overheard did not represent anything more
important than the vaporings of an exceptionally idiotic pair of men
about town; but the more he meditated upon the tales about himself
evidently now in general circulation, the more he was appalled at the
recklessness of calumny.
"One has joked about it. One has laughed at Sheridan's _School for
Scandal_. One has admitted that human beings are capable of almost
incredible exaggeration. But--no, really this is too much. I've gossiped
sometimes myself about my friends, but never like that about a
stranger--a man in the public eye."
John nearly stopped the taxi to ask the driver if _he_ had heard any
stories about John Touchwood; but he decided it would not be wise to run
risk of discovery that he enjoyed less publicity than he was beginning
to imagine, and he kept his indignation to himself.
"After all, it is a sign of--well, yes, I think it might fairly be
called fame--a sign of fame to be talked about like that by a couple of
ignorant chatterboxes. It is, I suppose, a tribute to my position. But
Laurence! That's what annoyed me most. Laurence to be the author of my
plays! I begin to understand this ridiculous Bacon and Shakespeare
legend now. The rest of the gossip was malicious, but that was--really,
I think it was actionable. I shall take it up with the committee. The
idea of that pompous nincompoop writing Lucretia's soliloquy before she
poisons her lips! Laurence! Good heavens! And fancy Laurence writing
Nebuchadnezzar's meditation upon grass! By Jove, an audience would have
some cause to titter then! And Laurence writing Joan's defense to the
Bishop of Beauvais! Why, the bombastic pedant couldn't even write a
satisfactory letter to the Bishop of Silchester to keep himself from
being ignominiously chucked out of his living."
The infuriated author bounced up and down on the cushions of the taxi in
his rage.
"Shall I give you an arm up the steps, sir?" the driver offered,
genially, when John, having alighted at his front door, had excessively
overpaid him under the impression from which he was still smarting of
being called a skinflint.
"No, thank you."
"Beg pardon, sir. I thought you was a little bit tiddly. You seemed a
bit lively inside on the way up."
"I suppose the next thing is that I shall get the reputation of being a
dipsomaniac," said John to himself, as he flung open his door and
marched immediately, with a slightly accentuated rigidity of bearing,
upstairs to bed.
But he could not sleep. The legend of his behavior that was obviously
common gossip in London oppressed him with its injustice. Every
accusation took on a new and fantastic form, while he turned over and
over in an attempt to reach oblivion. He began to worry now more about
what had been implied in his association with Miss Hamilton than about
the other stories. He felt that it would only be a very short time
before she would hear of the tale in some monstrous shape and leave him
forever in righteous disgust. Ought he, indeed, to make her aware
to-morrow morning of what was being suggested? And even if he did not
say anything about the past, ought he to compromise her more deeply in
the future?
It was six o'clock before John fell asleep, and it was with a violent
headache that he faced his secretary after breakfast. Luckily there was
a letter from Janet Bond asking him to come and see her that morning
upon a matter of importance. He seized the excuse to postpone any
discussion of last night's revelation, and, telling Miss Hamilton he
should be back for lunch, he decided to walk down to the Parthenon
Theater in the hope of arriving there with a clearer and saner view of
life. He nearly told her to go home; but, reflecting that he might come
back in quite a different mood, he asked her instead to occupy herself
with the collation of some scattered notes upon Joan of Arc that were
not yet incorporated into the scheme of the play. He remembered, too,
that it would be his birthday in three days' time, and he asked her to
send out notes of invitation to his family for the annual celebration,
at which the various members liked to delude themselves with the idea
that by presenting him with a number of useless accessories to the
smoking-table they were repaying him in full for all his kindness. He
determined that his birthday speech on this occasion should be made the
vehicle for administering a stern rebuke to malicious gossip. He would
dam once for all this muddy stream of scandal, and he would make
Laurence write a letter to the press disclaiming the authorship of his
plays. Burning with reformative zeal and fast losing his headache, John
swung down Fitzjohn's Avenue in the spangled March sunlight to the
wicked city below.
The Parthenon Theater had for its acropolis the heights of the Adelphi,
where, viewed from the embankment gardens below, it seemed to be looking
condescendingly down upon the efforts of the London County Council to
intellectualize the musical taste of the generation. In the lobby--it
had been called the propylaeum until it was found that such a long name
had discouraged the public from booking seats beforehand through fear of
mispronunciation--a bust of Janet Bond represented the famous statue
Pallas Athene on the original acropolis, and the programme-girls,
dressed as caryatides, supplied another charming touch of antiquity. The
proprietress herself was the outstanding instance in modern times of the
exploitation of virginity--it must have been a very profitable
exploitation, because the Parthenon Theater itself had been built and
paid for by her unsuccessful admirers. Each year made Janet Bond's
position as virgin and actress more secure, and at the rate her
reputation was growing it was probable that she would soon be at liberty
to produce the most immodest plays. At present, however, she still
applied the same standard of her conduct to her plays as to herself. Nor
did she confine herself to that. She was also very strict about the
private lives of her performers, and many a young actress had been seen
to leave the stage door in tears because Miss Bond had observed her in
unsuitable company at supper. Mothers wrote from all over England to beg
Miss Bond to charge herself with the care of their stage-struck
daughters; the result was a conventional tone among the supernumeraries
slightly flavored with militant suffragism and the higher mathematics.
Nor was art neglected; indeed some critics hinted that in the Parthenon
Theater art was cultivated at the expense of life, though none of them
attempted to gainsay that Miss Bond had learned how to make virtue pay
without selling it.
In appearance the great tragedienne was somewhat rounder in outline than
might have been expected, and more matronly than virginal, perhaps
because she was in her own words a mother to all her girls. Her voice
was rich and deep with as much variety as a cunningly sounded gong. She
never made up for the stage, and she wore hygienic corsets: this
intimate fact was allowed to escape through the indiscretion of a
widespread advertisement, but its publication helped her reputation for
decorum, and clergymen who read their wives' _Queen_ or _Lady_ commented
favorably on the contrast between Miss Bond and the numerous
open-mouthed actresses who preferred to advertise toothpaste. England
was proud of Miss Bond, feeling that America had no longer any right to
vaunt a monopoly of virtuous actresses; and John, when he rang the bell
of Miss Bond's flat that existed cleverly in the roof of the theater,
was proud of his association with her. He did not have to wait long in
her austere study; indeed he had barely time to admire the fluted calyx
of a white trumpet daffodil that in chaste symbolism was the only
occupant of a blue china bowl before Miss Bond herself came in.
"I'm so hating what I'm going to have to say to you," she boomed.
This was a jolly way to begin an interview, John thought, especially in
his present mood. He tried to look attentive, faintly surprised,
dignified, and withal deferential; but, not being a great actor, he
failed to express all these states of mind at a go, and only succeeded
in dropping his gloves.
"Hating it," the actress cried. "Oh, hating it!"
"Well, if you'd rather postpone it," John began.
"No, no. It must be said now. It's just this!" She paused and fixed the
author more intensely than a snake fixes a rabbit or a woman in a bus
tries to see if the woman opposite has blacked her eyelashes. "Can I
produce _Joan of Arc_?"
"I think that question is answered by our contract," replied John, who
was used to leading ladies, and when they started like this always fell
back at once in good order on business.
"Yes, but what about my unwritten contract with the public?" she
demanded.
"I don't know anything about that," said the author. Moreover, I don't
see how an unwritten contract can interfere with our written contract."
"John Touchwood, I'm going to be frank with you, fiercely frank. I can't
afford to produce a play by you about a heroine like Joan of Arc unless
you take steps to put things right."
"If you want me to cut that scene...."
"Oh, I'm not talking about scenes, John Touchwood. I'm talking about
these terrible stories that everybody is whispering about you. I don't
mind myself what you do. Good gracious me, I'm a broad-minded modern
woman; but my public looks for something special at the Parthenon. The
knowledge that I am going to play the Maid of Orleans has moved them
indescribably; I was fully prepared to give you the success of your
career, but ... these stories! This girl! You know what people are
saying? You must have heard. How can I put your name on my programme as
the author of _Joan of Arc_? How can I, John Touchwood?"
If John had not overheard that conversation at his club the night
before, he would have supposed that Miss Bond had gone mad.
"May I inquire exactly what you have heard about me and my private
life?" he inquired, as judicially as he could.
"Please spare me from repeating the stories. I can honestly assure you
that I don't believe them. But you as a man of the world know very well
how unimportant it is whether a story is true or not. If you were a
writer of realistic drama, these stories, however bad they were,
wouldn't matter. If your next play was going to be produced at the Court
Theater, these stories would, if anything, be in favor of success ...
but at the Parthenon...."
"You are talking nonsense, Miss Bond," interrupted John, angrily. "You
are more in a condition to play Ophelia than Joan of Arc. Moreover, you
shan't play Joan of Arc now. I've really been regretting for some weeks
now that you were going to play her, and I'm delighted to have this
opportunity of preventing you from playing her. I don't know to what
tittle-tattle you've been listening. I don't care. Your opinion of your
own virtue may be completely justified, but your judgment of other
people's is vulgar and--however, let me recommend you to produce a play
by my brother-in-law, the Reverend Laurence Armitage. Even your
insatiable ambition may be gratified by the part of the Virgin Mary, who
is one of the chief characters. Good morning, Miss Bond. I shall
communicate with you more precisely through my agent."
John marched out of the theater, and on the pavement outside ran into
Miss Ida Merritt.
"Ah, you're a sensible woman," he spluttered, much to her astonishment.
"For goodness' sake, come and have lunch with me, and let's talk over
everything."
John, in his relief at meeting Miss Merritt, had taken her arm in a
cordial fashion, and steered her across the Strand to Romano's without
waiting to choose a less conspicuously theatrical restaurant. Indeed in
his anxiety to clear his reputation he forgot everything, and it was
only when he saw various people at the little tables nudging one another
and bobbing their heads together that he realized he was holding Miss
Merritt's arm. He dropped it like a hot coal, and plunged down at a
table marked "reserved." The head waiter hurried across to apprise him
of the mistake, and John, who was by now horribly self-conscious,
fancied that the slight incident had created a stir throughout the
restaurant. No doubt it would be all over town by evening that he and
his companion in guilt had been refused service at every restaurant in
London.
"Look here," said John, when at last they were accommodated at a table
painfully near the grill, the spitting and hissing from which seemed to
symbolize the attitude of a hostile society. "Look here, what stories
have you heard about me? You're a journalist. You write chatty
paragraphs. For heaven's sake, tell me the worst."
"Oh, I haven't heard anything that's printable," Miss Merritt assured
him, with a laugh.
John put his head between his hands and groaned; the waiter thought he
was going to dip his hair into the hors d'oeuvres and hurriedly
removed the dishes.
"No, seriously, I beg you to tell me if you've heard my name connected
in any unpleasant way with Miss Hamilton."
"No, the only thing I've heard about Doris is that your brother, Hugh,
is always pestering her with his attentions."
"What?" John shouted.
"Coming, sir," cried the waiter, skipping round the table like a
monkey.
John waved him away, and begged Miss Merritt to be more explicit.
"Why didn't she complain to me?" he asked when he had heard her story.
"She probably thought she could look after herself. Besides, wasn't he
going to British Guiana?"
"He was," replied John. "At least he was going to some tropical colony.
I've heard so many mentioned that I'm beginning myself to forget which
it was now. So that's why he didn't go. But he shall go. If I have to
have him kidnaped and spend all my savings on chartering a private yacht
for the purpose, by Heaven, he shall go. If he shrivels up like a burnt
sausage the moment he puts his foot on the beach he shall be left there
to shrivel. The rascal! When does he pester her? Where?"
"Don't get so excited. Doris is perfectly capable of looking after
herself. Besides, I think she rather likes him in a way."
"Never," John cried.
"Liver is finished, sair," said the officious waiter, dancing in again
between John and Miss Merritt.
John shook his fist at him and leant earnestly over the table with one
elbow in the butter.
"You don't seriously suggest that she is in love with him?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so. But I met him myself once and took rather a fancy
to him. No, she just likes him as a friend. It's he who's in love with
her."
"Under my very eyes," John ejaculated. "Why, it's overwhelming."
A sudden thought struck him that even at this moment while he was calmly
eating lunch with Miss Merritt, as he somewhat loosely qualified the
verb, Hugh might be making love to Miss Hamilton in his own house.
"Look here," he cried, "have you nearly finished? Because I've suddenly
remembered an important appointment at Hampstead."
"I don't want any more," said Miss Merritt, obligingly.
"Waiter, the bill! Quick! You don't mind if I rush off and leave you to
finish your cheese alone?"
His guest shook her head and John hurried out of the restaurant.
No taxi he had traveled in had ever seemed so slow, and he kept putting
his head out of the window to urge the driver to greater speed, until
the man goaded to rudeness by John's exhortations and the trams in
Tottenham Court Road asked if his fare thought he was a blinking bullet.
"I'm not bullying you. I'm only asking you to drive a little faster,"
John shouted back.
The driver threw his eyes heavenward in a gesture of despair for John's
sanity but he was pacified at Church Row by half-a-sovereign and even
went so far as to explain that he had not accused John of bullying him,
but merely of confusing his capacity for speed with that of a bullet's.
John thought he was asking for more money, gave him half-a-crown and
waving his arm, half in benediction, half in protest, he hurried into
the hall.
"They've nearly finished lunch, sir," murmured Maud who was just coming
from the dining-room. "Would you like Elsa to hot you up something?"
John without a word pounced into the dining-room, where he caught Hugh
with a stick of celery half-way to his mouth and Miss Hamilton with a
glass of water half-way down from hers in the other direction.
"Oh, I'm so sorry we began without you," said the culprits
simultaneously.
John murmured something about a trying interview with Janet Bond, lit a
cigar, realized it was rude to light cigars when people were still
eating, threw the cigar away, and sat down with an appearance of
exhaustion in one of those dining-room armchairs that stand and wait all
their lives to serve a moment like this.
"I'm sorry, but I must ask you to go off as soon as you've finished
your lunch, Hugh. I've a lot of important business to transact with Miss
Hamilton."
"Oh, but I've finished already," she exclaimed, jumping up from the
table.
It was the first pleasant moment in John's day, and he smiled,
gratefully. He felt he could even afford to be generous to this
intrusive brother, and before he left the room with Miss Hamilton he
invited him to have some more celery.
"And you'll find a cigar in the sideboard," he added. "But Maud will
look after you. Maud, look after Mr. Hugh, please, and if anybody calls
this afternoon, I'm not at home."