When my father died and left me his large fortune I also inherited that
very successful London newspaper, the _Evening Special_. I decided to
edit it myself.
To be six-and-twenty, to live at high pressure, to go everywhere, see
everything, know everybody, and above all to have Power, this is success
in life. I would not have changed my position in London for the
Premiership.
On the evening of Lady Brentford's dance, I dined alone in my Piccadilly
flat. There was nothing much doing in the way of politics and I had been
playing golf at Sandown the whole of the day. I hadn't seen the paper
until now, when Preston brought it in--the last edition--and I opened it
over my coffee.
There were, and are, few things that I love better than the _Evening
Special_. I claim for it that it is the most up-to-date evening
newspaper in England, bright and readable from the word "go," and
singularly accurate in all its information.
There was a long time yet before I need dress, and I sat by the balcony,
with the mellow noises of Piccadilly on an early summer's evening
pouring into the room, and read the rag through.
On one of the last pages, where the society gossip and women's chat
appear, I saw something that interested me. Old Miss Easey, who writes
the society news, was one of my most valued contributors. With her
hooked nose, her beady black eyes and marvelous coffee-colored wig, she
went everywhere by right of birth, for she was connected with half the
peerage. Her news was accurate and real. She faked nothing, because she
got all her stuff from the inside, and this was known all over London.
She was well worth the thousand a year I paid her, and the daily column
signed "Vera" was an accepted fact in the life of London society.
To-day the old girl had let herself go. It seemed--of course there had
been paragraphs in the papers for some days--that the great Brazilian
millionaire, Gideon Mendoza Morse, had exploded in society like a bomb.
He had taken a whole floor of the Ritz Hotel, and it was rumored that he
was going to buy an empty palace in Park Lane and astonish town. Every
one was saying that he had wealth beyond the dreams of avarice--which
is, of course, awful rot when you come to think of it, because there are
no bounds whatever to avarice.
"Vera" was not expatiating upon the Brazil Nut's wealth, but upon his
only daughter. It was put in a veiled way, and that with well-bred
reticence for which we paid Miss Easey a thousand a year--no cheap gush,
thank you, in the _Evening Special_--that Miss Morse was a young girl of
such superlative loveliness that there was not a debutante to come
within a mile of her. I gathered, also, that the young lady's first very
public appearance was to be made to-night at the house of the
Marchioness of Brentford in Belgrave Square.
The news certainly gave an additional interest to the prospect of the
evening, and I wondered what the girl was really like.
I had motored up from Sandown and sat down to dinner as I was. Perhaps I
was rather tired, but as I sat by the window and dusk came over the
Green Park while all the lights of Piccadilly were lit, I sank into a
sort of doze, assisted by the deep, organ-like hum of the everlasting
traffic.
Yes, I must really have fallen asleep, for I was certainly in the middle
of some wild and alluring adventure, when I woke with a start to find
all the lights in my dining-room turned on, Preston standing by the
door, and Pat Moore shaking me violently by the shoulder.
"Confound you, don't do that!" I shouted, jumping up--Pat Moore was six
feet two in height, and the heaviest man in the Irish Guards. "Hallo,
what are you doing here?"
"It's myself that has looked in for a drink," he said. "I thought we'd
go to the ball together."
I was a little more awake by this time and saw that Pat was in full
evening kit, and very grand he looked. He was supposed to be the
handsomest man in London, on the large swaggering side, and certainly,
whether in uniform or mufti, he was a very splendid figure.
Nevertheless, he had no more idea of side than a spaniel dog, and he was
just about as kind and faithful as the sportsman's friend. He possessed
a certain downright honesty and common sense that endeared him to every
one, though his own mother would hardly have called him clever. At an
earlier period of our lives he had caned me a good deal at Eton, and it
was difficult to get out of his dear, stupid old head that he had not
some vague rights over me in that direction still.
"Now, Tom," he said, pouring himself out a mighty drink--for his head
was cast-steel, "you go and make yourself look pretty and then come back
here, 'cos I have something to tell you."
I went obediently away, bathed, shaved, was assisted by Preston into
evening clothes and returned to the dining-room about a quarter to ten.
"What have you got to tell me, Pat?"
He thought for a moment. I believe that he always had to summon his
words out of some cupboard in his brain--"Tom, I've seen the most
beautiful girl in the world."
"Then leg it, Pat, hare away from temptation, or she'll have you!"--Pat
had ten thousand a year and had been a dead mark for all sorts of
schemes for the last two years.
"Don't be a silly ass, Tom, you don't know what you're talking about.
This is serious."
"I don't know who _you're_ talking about."
He was heaving himself out of his chair to explain, when the door opened
and Preston announced "Lord Arthur Winstanley."
"Hallo, what brings you here?" I said.
"Thought I'd come in for a drink. Saw you were going to mother's
to-night, Tom, thought we might as well be going together. Hallo, Pat.
You coming along too?"
"Thought of doin' so," said Captain Moore.
Arthur threw himself into a chair--slim, clean shaved, with curly black
hair and dark blue eyes, his clean-cut, clever face alive with youth and
vitality.
"Tom," he said to me, "to-night you are going to see the most beautiful
girl in the world."
"Hallo!" Pat shouted, "you've seen her too?"
"Seen her? Of course I have. Mother's giving the dance for her
to-night."
Then I understood.
"Oh, Miss Morse?" I said.
"Jooaneeta!" said Pat in his rich, Irish voice.
"Generally pronounced 'Whanita' soft--like tropic moonlight, my old
geranium," said Arthur.
"Sure, your pronunciation won't do at all, at all."
Pat twirled the end of his huge mustache, then he heaved a cushion. "You
and your talk!" he said.
"Well, I've not seen her," I remarked, "but I'm quite willing to take
the word of two experts. Isn't it about time we went?"
Winstanley produced a platinum watch no thicker than a half-crown from
the pocket of his white waistcoat.
"Well, perhaps it might be," he said. "We can take up strategic
positions, and get there before the crush. Although I don't live at
home, I've got a snug little couple of rooms they keep for me, and
mother will see that--"
He smiled to himself.
"Now look here," I said, "fair does! You are already half-way up the
course with the fair Brazilian, but do let your pals have a chance. I
suppose all the world will be round her, but do see that Pat and I have
a small look in."
"Of course I will. We've done too much hunting together, we three. I
tell you, Tom, you will be bowled clean over at the very sight of her.
There never was such a girl since Cleopatra was a flapper. Now, send old
Preston for a taxi and we'll get to cover side."
It was about half-past ten as we entered the hospitable portals of
Brentford House in Belgrave Square. There was a tremendous crush; I
never remember seeing so many people at Lady Brentford's, for, though
everybody went to her parties, they were never overcrowded, owing to the
immense size of the famous old London House.
Pat Moore and I kept close to Arthur, who, as a son of the house, knew
his way a great deal better than we did, and we soon found ourselves at
the top of the staircase and close to the alcove where Lady Brentford
and her daughter, Lady Joan Winstanley, were standing, while I saw the
bald head of the marquis, who was as innocent of hair as a new laid egg,
shining in the background.
Dear Lady Brentford greeted Pat--who had formed a sort of battering-ram
for us on the staircase--with marked kindness. It was thought that she
saw in him a prospective husband for Arthur's sister. After greeting his
mother and asking a question, Arthur went off at once and my turn came.
"My dear Sir Thomas, I am so glad to see you. Are you like all the other
young men in London to-night?"
"I sincerely hope not," I told her, though I knew very well what she
meant.
We were old friends, and she was not deceived for a moment. "I
understand you perfectly, you wicked boy."
"Well then, Lady Brentford"--I lowered my voice--"has she come?"
Her eyes gleamed.
"Not yet, but I am expecting her every moment. Now, I am going to be
kind to you. You wait here, just a little behind me, and I'll introduce
you at once."
I hope I looked as grateful as I felt, for I confess my curiosity was
greatly aroused, and besides it would be such a score over Pat and
Arthur. There's something in power after all! Had I been merely Tom
Kirby whose father had received a baronetcy for, say, soap, Lady
Brentford would not have been nearly as nice, even though Arthur and I
had been bosom friends at Oxford. But you see I was the _Evening
Special_ and that meant much, especially in a political house like this.
I waited, and talked a little with Lord Brentford, that sterling,
old-fashioned member of more Cabinets than one would care to count. He
said "hum," and then "ha," and then "hum" again, which was the extent of
his conversation on every occasion except that of a specially good
dinner, when he added "ho."
And then, I suppose it was about eleven o'clock, there was a stir and a
movement all down the grand staircase. Except that the band in the
ballroom did not burst into the strains of the National Anthem, it was
exactly like the arrival of royalty. Coming up the staircase was a
thick-set man of medium height with white hair, a brown face, and good
features, but of such immobility that they might have been carved in
sandstone. By his side, very simply dressed, and wearing no ornament but
one rope of great pearls, came Juanita Morse.
If I live for a thousand years I shall never forget that first vision of
her. I have seen all the beauties of London, Paris and Rome, danced with
many of them, spoken at least to the majority, but never before or since
have I seen such luminous and compelling loveliness. It is almost
impossible for me to describe her, a presumption indeed, when so many
abler pens than mine have hymned her praises. The poets of two
Continents have lain their garlands of song at her little feet. She has
been the theme of innumerable articles in the Press, the heroine of a
dozen novels. And yet I must give some impression of her, I suppose. She
was slender and tall, though not too tall. Her hair, which must have
fallen to her feet and enveloped her like a cloud of night, was dead
black. But it was not the coarse, lifeless black of so many women of the
Latin race. It was as fine as spun silk, gleaming, vital and full of
electricity--a live thing of itself, so it seemed to me. Her father's
eyes were unpolished jet, but hers were of a deep blue-black, large,
lustrous, and of unfathomable depth. They were never the same for two
moments together and the light within them was forever new. But what's
the good of a catalogue--after all, it expresses very little. There was
not a feature of her face, not a line of her form that was not perfect,
and her smile was the last real enchantment left in the modern world....
In two minutes, I, I--Tom Kirby, was walking towards the ballroom with
her hand upon my arm. How all the women stared, nodded and whispered!
how all the men hated me! I caught sight of Pat and Arthur, and, lo!
their faces were as those who lie in wait, who grin like dogs and run
about the city--as I told them some hours afterwards.
Thank heavens that all the vulgar modern dances were not only perishing
of their own inanity at that time, but had never been allowed in
Brentford House. The best band in town had begun a delightful waltz, and
we slipped into it together as if passing through curtains into
dreamland.
I don't remember that we said very much to each other--certainly I was
not going to ask her how she liked London and so forth. She did not seem
the sort of girl to appreciate the farthing change of talk.
But, somehow or other, we conversed with our eyes. I was as certain of
this as of the fact that I was dancing with her, and, long after, in a
situation and moment of the most deadly peril, she confessed it to me.
Towards the end of the dance, when the flutes and violins glided into
the last movement, I said this--"Miss Morse, I know that I am doing the
most dreadful thing. All London wants to dance with you to-night, and I
have had the great privilege of being the very first. But could you, do
you think you possibly could, give me just one more dance later on in
the evening?"
"Of course I will, Sir Thomas," she said, and her voice was as clear as
an evening bell. "I think you dance beautifully."
We circled round the room for the last time and then I resigned her to
Lady Brentford, who was looking after the girl, with an eloquent look of
thanks. Immediately she became swallowed up by a regiment of black
coats, and I saw her no more for a time.
I am extremely fond of dancing, but I sought out no other damsel now,
but went to a buffet and drank a long glass of iced hock-cup--as if that
was going to quench the fever within! Then I found my way to a lonely
spot in one of the conservatories and sat thinking hard. I will say
nothing as to the nature of my reverie--it may very easily be guessed.
But from time to time I concentrated all my powers in living over again
the divine moments of that dance. I was finally, irrevocably,
passionately in love. It seems the maddest thing to say for a
hard-headed, level-minded man of the world such as I was. I suppose I
had known her for just about quarter of an hour, and yet I knew that
there would never be any other woman for me and that when my days were
at an end her name would be the only one upon my lips.
A little later on in the evening, before my second and final dance with
his daughter, I had the opportunity of a talk with Mr. Morse himself. I
say at once, and I am not letting myself be colored by what happened
afterwards and the intimate relations into which I was thrown with him,
I say at once that I found him charming. There was an immense force and
power about him, but this was not obtruded upon one, as I have known it
to be in the case of other extremely wealthy and successful men, both
English and American. This super-millionaire had all the graces of
speech and courtesy of manner of the Spanish great gentleman. And
curiously enough, he took to me. I was quite certain of that. Whether he
wanted to use me in any way--and nine-tenths of the people I met
generally did--I could not have said. At any rate I determined that if
he did I was very much at his disposal.
We watched Miss Morse dancing with old Pat, who, for all his sixteen
stone, was as light as a cat on his feet.
"Do you know who that is dancing with Juanita?" Morse asked simply.
"Oh, yes. Captain Moore, Patrick Moore, of the Irish Guards. He is one
of my most intimate friends and one of the best fellows in the world."
Then Morse said a curious thing, which I could not fathom just then. He
said it half to me and half to himself in a curiously, thoughtful way.
"--A fine fellow to have with one in an emergency."
Well, of course, I didn't like to tell him that dear old Pat, while he
had common sense enough to come indoors while it rained, had no mind--in
the real sense of that word--whatever. It did not occur to me for a
moment that Gideon Morse might have been speaking simply of Pat's
_physical_ qualities.
Pat's face was marvelous to look upon. It was one great, glowing mass of
happiness. He did not take the least trouble to disguise his ecstasy,
and if ever a man showed he was in paradise, Pat Moore did then. It was
different when Juanita danced with Arthur. His handsome, clever face was
not in repose for a moment. It was sharpened by eagerness, and he talked
incessantly, provoking answering smiles and flashes from the girl's
wonderful eyes. My heart sank. I knew how Arthur Winstanley could talk
when he chose--as all England was to learn two or three years later when
he entered the House of Commons.
"And that man?"--the low, resonant voice of Mr. Morse was again in my
ears, for I had been neglecting my duties to all the girls I knew, most
dreadfully, and remained with him for the space of three dances.
"Oh, that's another friend of mine, Lord Arthur Winstanley. He is a son
of the house, the second son. Charles, the heir, is with his regiment in
India."
Mr. Morse thanked me and soon afterwards two very great people indeed
came up, and I melted away. I went to my seat in the conservatory again.
I did not care how rude it was, how I was betraying Lady Brentford's
hospitality--being known as a dancing man and expected to dance--but I
was determined not to touch any other girl that night until Juanita
Morse and I had danced again together.
It came and passed. Afterwards I slipped downstairs, got my hat and
overcoat and left the house, without, I think, being observed by any
one.
The night air was fresh and sweet and I determined to walk before I
reached home, for my mind was in a whirl of sensation. I turned into the
great, dark canyon of Victoria Street, which was almost empty, and heard
my footsteps echoing up the cliff-like sides of the houses. I caught a
glimpse of the moon silvering the Campanile of Westminster Cathedral,
and when I reached the Abbey, it and the Houses of Parliament were
washed in soft and brilliant light. And yet, somehow, I could not think.
I could not survey, with my usual cool detachment, the situation which
had suddenly risen in my life. I remember that the predominant feeling
was a wish that I had never gone to Lady Brentford's, that I had never
seen or spoken to Juanita Morse. What was the use after all? She was as
much above my hopes as a Princess of the Royal House, and yet I knew
that without her I should never be really happy again.
It was in a sort of desperation that I hurried up Parliament Street and
through Trafalgar Square, feeling that I was a fool and mad, wanting to
hide my shame in my own quiet rooms, where at any rate I should be
alone.
I opened the door with my Yale key and ran lightly up the stairs to the
flat on the first floor which I occupied. As I went into the lounge hall
and took off my overcoat, Preston, whom I had not told to wait up for
me, came from the passage leading to the servants' quarters carrying a
tray.
"I shan't want any supper, thank you, Preston," I said in surprise.
"Thank you, sir, very good sir," he replied, "but his lordship and
Captain Moore are here and have just asked for something."
My first emotion was one of unutterable surprise, and then I scowled and
felt inclined to swear. What on earth were those two doing here at this
time of night, just when I would have given almost anything to be left
alone?