As the Right Honourable Reginald Monkton walked towards Charing Cross on
that June morning his fifty-odd years appeared to weigh lightly upon him
True, his hair was tinged with grey, yet that was but natural after over
twenty years of political strife and Party bickering, of hard-fought
divisions in the House, and of campaigns of various sorts up and down
the country. His career had been a brilliantly outstanding one ever
since he had graduated at Cambridge. He had risen to be a Bencher of
the Inner Temple; had been, among other things, Quain Professor of Law
at University College, London. In Parliament he had sat for North-West
Manchester for ten years, afterwards for East Huntingdon, and later for
the Govan Division of Glasgow. Among other political appointments he
had held was that of a Junior Lord of the Treasury, afterwards that of
Parliamentary Under-Secretary to the Home Office, and now in the latest
Administration he had been given the portfolio of Colonial Secretary.
His one regret was that while he loved the country, and more especially
Fydinge, that fine old Elizabethan manor house in Leicestershire, not
far from Melton Mowbray, yet he was compelled to live in London and
endure the fevered political and social life of the metropolis.
That morning, as he turned from Charing Cross towards Pall Mall, he was
in a pensive mood. True, that little knot of people had spontaneously
expressed their approval, and perhaps he was secretly gratified.
Whatever popular men may say to the contrary, it is always the small
appreciations that please. Reginald Monkton was far more gratified by a
schoolgirl asking for his autograph in her well-thumbed album, than by
the roars of applause that greeted his open and fearless speeches in the
huge halls of Manchester, Birmingham, or Glasgow.
The millions of Britain knew him. His portrait appeared regularly in
the illustrated papers, sometimes in declamatory attitude with his mouth
open, his right fist in the palm of his left hand, addressing a great
audience. But that morning, as he passed the "Senior"--as the United
Service Club is known to officialdom--his thoughts were serious. He had
tasted most of the sweets of life, and all the delights of popularity.
Yet that day, the eighth of June, was the fourth anniversary of the
death of Sheila, his beloved wife, the fine, self-sacrificing helpmate
of his early days, the woman who had moulded his career and seen him
through many hours of disappointment and tribulation, and who, with her
woman's amazing intuition and tact, had at the crisis of his life given
him that sound advice which had swept him high upon the crest of the
wave of popularity.
He recollected that it was on a bright sunny June day--just as that
was--when, in that little villa amid the feathery palms at Mentone, he
had held his dear one's wasted hard while her eyes had slowly closed in
her last long sleep.
A lump arose in his throat as he turned into Cockspur Street, heedless
of the busy bustle of London life, or that two honourable Members had
nodded to him. So absorbed was he that he had only stared at them
blankly and passed on.
Like many another man whose name is a household word in Britain to-day,
all his popularity counted as nothing to him, and even though he led the
busy life of a Cabinet Minister, yet he was very lonely at heart.
For a second he held his breath, then, setting his wide jaws in hard
determination to put aside those bitter thoughts of the past, and still
unaware that he was being followed, he crossed the road and entered the
Carlton Hotel.
The young woman in plain navy blue who had followed him from Downing
Street passed by, and continued until she reached the corner of Waterloo
Place, when she turned, retraced her steps, and, entering the hotel by
the door in Pall Mall, glanced into the palm-court with quick, furtive
eyes. Then, apparently satisfying herself, she went along the narrow
corridor and emerged into the Haymarket.
Again turning the corner into Pall Mall she drew out her handkerchief to
dab her nose again, and afterwards hailed a taxi and drove away.
On the kerb opposite stood the thick-set young man, who, having seen her
signal, watched her leave, and then crossed and entered the hotel.
Reginald Monkton, on entering the palm-court after leaving his hat and
cane, found his daughter Sheila seated at one of the little tables with
a spruce, well-set-up, refined young man, awaiting him.
The young man sprang up eagerly, and, putting out his hand, exclaimed:
"It's awfully good of you to come, Mr Monkton! I know how terribly
busy you must be."
"Delighted, my dear Austin," declared the statesman. "Delighted! The
Cabinet was just over in time, so I've walked along. Well, Sheila," he
asked merrily, turning to his daughter, "what have you been doing this
morning?"
"Oh!" replied the pretty, fair-haired girl, who was very daintily, yet
not showily, dressed. "I've not been doing much, father. I went to
Bond Street for you, and then I called on Cicely Wheeler. She and her
husband are off to Dinard to-morrow. I've asked them to dine with us
to-night."
"Ah! Then you will have to entertain them, I fear, as I must be down at
the House."
"What a pity!" replied the girl in disappointment. "I thought you said
you would dine at home to-night!"
"I intended to do so, but find it will be impossible," declared her
father as the trio made a move into the restaurant, filled as it was
with a gay London throng who were lunching to the well-modulated strains
of the Roumanian orchestra.
Of the many pretty girls seated at the tables certainly none could
compare with Sheila Monkton. Indeed, more than one young man turned to
admire her as she seated herself and drew off her gloves, and they
envied the good-looking young fellow with whom she was laughing so
happily. She had just turned twenty. Her clear-cut features were
flawless; her healthy complexion, her clear hazel eyes, her soft fair
hair, and her small mouth combined to impart to her sweetness and
daintiness that were both peculiarly attractive. Her black velvet hat
trimmed with saxe blue suited her soft countenance admirably, while the
graceful poise of her head had often been admired by artists; indeed,
she was at that very period sitting to Howe, the R.A., for her portrait
for next year's Academy.
As for Austin Wingate, her companion, he was about twenty-four, and if
not exactly an Adonis he was handsome enough, clean-shaven, with black
hair, eyes of a dark grey, and a mouth which needed no moustache to hide
it. His figure was that of the young man of pre-war days whom you met
by the dozen in the High at Oxford, broad-shouldered, muscular, and full
of natural energy and grace.
Women who met Austin Wingate for the first time usually thought him an
ordinary easy-going fellow of that type known as a "nut," who was
careless as long as he lived his own go-ahead town life, the centre of
which was the Automobile Club. Yet they would soon discern a certain
deep thoughtful expression in his eyes and a gravity about the lips
which at once upset the first estimate they had made of his character.
It was true that young Wingate was a merry, careless young fellow. He
lived in cosy chambers in Half Moon Street, and his circle of friends,
young men of his own age, were a rather wild lot. Most of them were
ardent motorists, and nearly all were habitues of that centre of
motoring in Pall Mall.
Of late Monkton's daughter had been seen about with him a good deal, and
in the select little world of politicians' wives there had been many
whisperings over teacups.
That day, however, Monkton was lunching openly with the pair, and
several people in the restaurant, recognising the trio, put together
their heads and gossiped.
While the two young people chattered merrily, Monkton, who had tried to
crush down those ghosts of the past that had obsessed him while he
walked along Whitehall, glanced across at his pretty daughter and sighed
as he commenced his meal. Ah! how complete was the image of his dead
wife. It was as though she sat there before him in those long-ago days
of over twenty-five years ago, when she was the daughter of a country
vicar and he was on the threshold of his career.
He saw how happy Sheila was with the young man who had so recently come
into her life. Sometimes he had resented their acquaintance, yet to
resent it was, he reflected, only jealousy after all. He himself had
but little to live for. As a member of the Cabinet he had gained his
goal. He would, he knew, never fulfil the prophecy of his humble
admirer standing in Downing Street. He could never become Premier.
There were abler men than he, men with greater influence with the
nation, men who had schemed for the office for half a lifetime. No.
Death might come to him soon--how soon he knew not. And then Sheila
should marry. Therefore, even though the wrench would be a great one,
personally he, honest man that he was, felt that he should make a
sacrifice, and promote a union between the pair.
Sheila was his only home companion and comfort. True, she scolded him
severely sometimes. Sometimes she pouted, put on airs, and betrayed
defiance. But do not all young girls? If they did not they would be
devoid of that true spirit of independence which every woman should
possess.
Again he glanced at her while she laughed happily with the young man who
loved her, but who had never admitted it. Then he looked across the
room, where sat Benyon, a well-known member of the Opposition, with his
fat, opulent wife, who had, until recently, been his housekeeper. The
eyes of the two men met, and the Cabinet Minister waved his hand in
recognition, while the stout, over-dressed woman stared.
Half the people in the restaurant had, by this time, recognised Reginald
Monkton by the many photographs which appeared almost daily, for was he
not the popular idol of his Party, and did not the _Court Circular_
inform the nation of the frequent audiences he had of His Majesty the
King?
"Well, Austin?" asked the Minister, when the waiter had served an
exquisitely cooked entree. "How are things out at Hendon?"
"Oh! we are all very busy, sir. Wilcox is experimenting with his new
airship. At last he has had some encouragement from the Government, and
we are all delighted. My shops are busy. We sent three planes to Spain
yesterday. King Alphonso ordered them when he was over in the early
spring."
"Austin has promised to take me up for a flight one day, dad!" exclaimed
the girl enthusiastically. "He wants to ask you if he may."
Her father did not reply for some moments. Then he said judiciously:
"Well, dear, we must see. Perhaps he might take you just a little way--
once round the aerodrome--eh?"
"Of course not far," said his daughter, glancing significantly at her
lover.
"There is no risk, Mr Monkton, I assure you. Miss Sheila is very
anxious to go up, and I shall be most delighted to take her--with your
consent, of course," Wingate said. "My suggestion is just a circuit or
two around the aerodrome. We are completing a new machine this week,
and after I've tried her to see all is safe. I'd like to take Sheila
up."
"We must see--we must see," replied her indulgent father, assuming a
non-committal attitude. He, however, knew that in all England no man
knew more of aerial dynamics than Austin Wingate, and, further, that
beneath his apparently careless exterior with his immaculate clothes and
his perfectly-brushed hair was a keen and scientific mind, and that he
was working night and day directing the young and rising firm of
aeroplane makers at Hendon, of which he was already managing director.
Sheila's meeting with him had been the outcome of one of his
experiments. One afternoon in the previous summer he had been driving a
new hydroplane along the Thames, over the Henley course, when he had
accidentally collided with a punt which Sheila, in a white cotton dress,
was manipulating with her pole.
In an instant the punt was smashed and sunk, and Miss Monkton and her
two girl companions were flung into the water. After a few minutes of
excitement all three were rescued, and the young inventor, on presenting
himself to express his deep regret, found himself face to face with
"Monkton's daughter," as Sheila was known in Society.
The girl with her two friends, after changing their clothes at the Red
Lion, had had tea with the author of the disaster, who was unaware of
their names, and who later on returned to London, his hydroplane being
badly damaged by the collision.
Six months went past, yet the girl's face did not fade from Austin
Wingate's memory. He had been a fool, he told himself, not to ascertain
her name and address. He had given one of the girls his card, and she
had told him her name was Norris. That was all he knew. On purpose to
ascertain who they were he had been down to Henley a fortnight after the
accident, but as the girls had not stayed at the Red Lion, but were
evidently living in some riverside house or bungalow, farther up the
river, he could obtain no knowledge or trace of her.
One bright Saturday afternoon in November the usual gay crowd had
assembled at the aerodrome at Hendon to watch the aviation, a science
not nearly so well developed in 1912 as it is to-day. At the Wingate
works, on the farther side of the great open grass lands, Austin was
busy in the long shed directing the final touches to a new machine,
which was afterwards wheeled out, and in which he made an experimental
flight around the aerodrome, which the public, many of them seated at
tea-tables on the lawn, watched with interest.
After making several circles and performing a number of evolutions, he
came to earth close to a row of smart motor-cars drawn up on the lawn
reserved for subscribers, and unstrapping himself sprang gaily out.
As he did so he saw, seated in the driver's seat of a fine limousine
straight before him, a girl in motoring kit chatting with an elderly man
who stood beside the car.
The girl's eyes met his, and the recognition was instantly mutual. She
smiled merrily across to him, whereupon he crossed to her, just as he
was, in his mechanic's rather greasy brown overalls, and bowing before
her exclaimed:
"How fortunate! Fancy meeting again like this!" Whereupon, with her
cheeks flushed with undisguised pleasure, she shook his hand, and then
turning to the tall elderly man explained:
"This is the gentleman who smashed our punt at Henley, father! We have
not met since."
"I fear it was very careless of me, sir," Wingate said. "But I offer a
thousand apologies."
"The accident might have been far worse," declared the girl's father,
smiling. "So let it rest at that."
"I had no idea that it was you in the air just now," exclaimed the girl,
and then for ten minutes or so the trio stood chatting, during which
time he explained that his works were on the opposite side of the
aerodrome, after which he shook hands and left them.
"Whose car is that big grey one, third in the row yonder?" he asked
eagerly of one of the gatekeepers, a few moments later.
"Oh, that, sir? Why, that belongs to Mr Reginald Monkton, the Colonial
Secretary. There he is--with his daughter."
So his sweet, dainty friend of the river was daughter of the popular
Cabinet Minister!
He drew a long breath and bit his lip. Then climbing back into his
machine, he waved father and daughter adieu and was soon skimming across
to the row of long sheds which comprised the Wingate Aeroplane Factory.
The young man was sensible enough to know that he could never aspire to
the hand of the Cabinet Minister's daughter, yet a true and close
friendship had quickly sprung up between her father and himself, with
the result that Wingate was now a frequent and welcome visitor to the
cosy old-world house in Mayfair, and as proof the well-known statesman
had accepted Austin's invitation to lunch at the Carlton on that
well-remembered day of the Cabinet meeting, the true importance of which
is only known to those who were present at the deliberations in Downing
Street that morning.
Curious, indeed, were the events that were to follow, events known only
to a few, and here chronicled for the first time.