In the absence of her father, Sheila Monkton was compelled to entertain
her guests at dinner alone. There were three: Sir Pemberton Wheeler and
his young dark-haired wife Cicely, an old schoolfellow of Sheila's, and
Austin Wingate.
They were a merry quartette as they sat in the cosy dining-room in
Chesterfield Street, a few doors from Curzon Street, waited on by Grant,
the white-headed, smooth-faced old butler who had been in the service of
Monkton's father before him.
The house was an old-fashioned Georgian one. Upon the iron railings was
a huge extinguisher, recalling the days of linkmen and coaches, while
within was a long, rather narrow hall and a spiral staircase of stone
worn hollow by the tread of five generations. The rooms were not large,
but very tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished, with many fine
paintings, pieces of beautiful statuary, and magnificent bronzes, while
everywhere were soft carpets upon which one's feet fell noiselessly. In
that house, indeed in that very room wherein the four sat laughing in
the June twilight, the pale-pink shades of the lamps shedding a soft
glow over the table with its flowers and silver, many of the most
prominent British statesmen had been entertained by the Colonial
Secretary, and many a State secret had been discussed within those four
dark-painted walls.
"The Prime Minister dined with us last Thursday," Sheila remarked to
Cicely Wheeler. "Lord Horsham came in later, and they had one of their
private conferences."
"Which meant that you were left to amuse yourself alone, eh?" laughed
Sir Pemberton Wheeler, and he glanced mischievously towards Austin on
the other side of the table.
"Yes. That is quite true." Sheila laughed, instantly grasping his
meaning. "Mr Wingate did not happen to be here. When father has a
political dinner no ladies are invited. Some of those dinners are
horribly boring, I can assure you," declared the girl.
"Their eternal discussion of this measure and the other measure, and--
oh! how they all intrigue, one Party against the other! Do you know
that I've sat here and heard some most remarkable schemes."
"Secrets, I suppose?" remarked Austin, twisting the stem of his windlass
between his fingers.
"Yes--I've heard them discuss what they call matters of policy which, to
me, appear merely to be the most ingenious methods of gulling the
public."
"Ah! my dear Miss Monkton, few politicians are so straight and open as
your father. That is why the Opposition are so deadly in fear of him.
His speech last week regarding the recent trouble in the Malay States
was an eye-opener. He lifted the veil from a very disconcerting state
of affairs, much to the chagrin and annoyance of those to whose
advantage it was to hush-up the matter."
"That is what father is always saying," declared Sheila. "He often
sighs when going through despatches which the messengers bring, and
exclaims aloud `Ah! if the public only knew!--if they only knew! What
would they think--what would they say?'"
"Then something is being concealed from the nation?" Austin remarked.
"Something!" echoed the girl. "Why, a very great deal. Of that I am
quite certain."
"You know nothing of its nature?" asked her friend Cicely, with her
woman's eagerness to inquire.
"Of course not, dear. Father never confides any secrets to me," she
replied. "He always says that women gossip too much, and that it is
through the chattering wives of Members of the House, whom he calls the
jays, that much mischief is done."
"The jays!" laughed Sir Pemberton. "Very good! I suppose he has given
them that name because of their fine feathers. Personally I shall be
glad to get to Dinard out of it all for a while."
"We always enjoy Dinard, Sheila," declared his wife. "You really must
get your father to bring you to the Royal this summer. We shall be
there all the season. We sent the car over a week ago."
Cicely, or Lady Wheeler to give her her title, was a giddy little woman
who, after being a confirmed flirt and known in Mayfair as one of its
prettiest butterflies, had married a man more than double her age, for
Wheeler was fifty, interested in spinning-mills in Yorkshire, and sat in
Parliament for the constituency in which his mills were situated. At
the last moment she had jilted young Stenhouse, of the Grenadier Guards,
for the more alluring prospect of Wheeler's title and his money. Hence
the _Morning Post_ had one day announced to the world that her marriage
with the good-looking young Captain would "not take place," and a week
later her photograph had appeared as the future Lady Wheeler.
She had joined that large circle of London society who are what is known
in their own particular jargon as "spooky." She attended seances,
consulted mediums, and believed in the statements of those who pretended
to have made psychic discoveries. Yet Sheila, who was far too
level-headed to follow London's latest craze, was devoted to her, and
had been ever since they studied together at that fashionable school
near Beachy Head.
"I spoke to father to-day about a little trip across to you," Sheila
replied, "and he thinks he may be able to do it when the House is up."
"That's good," declared Sir Pemberton in his plethoric voice. "Get him
to bring his car over too, and we'll have a tour together through
Brittany and down to Nantes and the Touraine."
"I'd love to see the old chateaux there," Sheila declared. "There's a
big illustrated book about them in the library--Blois, Chenonceaux,
Chinon, Loches, and the rest."
"Well, your father certainly requires a rest after all the stress of
this session."
"Certainly he does," declared Cicely. "Get round dear old Macalister,
the doctor, to order him a rest and suggest a motor-tour as relaxation."
"Besides, it always delights the public to know that a Cabinet Minister
has gone away on holiday. It shows that he is overworked in the
interests of the nation," laughed Austin, who was nothing if not
matter-of-fact.
At last, the dinner having ended, Sheila and Cicely rose and left the
men, after which Grant sedately served them with coffee, two glasses of
triple-sec, and cigarettes.
For ten minutes or so they gossiped, after which they rejoined the
ladies in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room upstairs.
At Wheeler's suggestion Sheila went to the piano and sang one of those
gay chansons of the Paris cafes which she had so often sung at charity
concerts. She had begun to learn French at eight years of age, and
after her school at Eastbourne had been at Neuilly for three years
before coming out.
She chose "Mon p'tit Poylt," that gay song to which Lasaigues had
written the music and which was at the moment being sung at half the
cafe concerts in France. Playing her own accompaniment in almost the
professional style of the entertainer, she began to sing the merry
tuneful song, with its catchy refrain:
"On s'aimait, on n'etait pas rosse.
On s'frolait gentiment l'museau;
On rigolait comme des gosses.
On s'becotait comm' des moineaux."
The trio listening laughed merrily, for she played and sang with all the
verve of a Parisian chanteuse. Besides, both music and words were full
of a gay abandon which was quite unexpected, and which charmed young
Wingate, who knew that, though the Cabinet Minister held him in high
esteem as a friend, yet to marry Sheila was entirely out of the
question. He realised always that he was a mere designer of aeroplanes,
"a glorified motor-mechanic" some jealous enemies had declared him to
be. How could he ever aspire to the hand of "Monkton's daughter?"
Level-headed and calm as he always was, he had from the first realised
his position and retained it. Mr Monkton had admitted him to his
friendship, and though always extremely polite and courteous to Sheila,
he remained just a friend of her father.
At last she concluded, and, rising, made a mock bow to her three
listeners, all of whom congratulated her, the mill-owner declaring:
"You really ought to give a turn at the Palace Theatre, Sheila! I've
heard lots of worse songs there!"
"`Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister's daughter' would certainly be a
good draw!" declared Cicely.
"Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That's all,"
answered their sprightly young hostess. "But look! it's past eleven,
and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left.
I'll telephone to the House."
And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where she
quickly "got on" to the House of Commons.
When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed:
"He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? He
ought to have been back long before this."
Then at her guests' request she sang another French chanson--which,
through the half-open window, could have been heard out in Curzon
Street--greatly to the delight of the little party.
At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leave
by the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and her
husband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after which
Sheila and Austin found themselves alone.
When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were,
find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case.
While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin's request to
sing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their hands
touched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face.
In those hazel eyes he saw that love-look--that one expression which no
woman can ever disguise, or make pretence; that look which most men
know. It is seldom in their lives they see it, and when once it is
observed it is never forgotten, even though the man may live to be a
grandfather.
At that instant of the unconscious contact of the hands, so
well-remembered afterwards by both of them, Sheila flushed, withdrew her
hand forcibly, and rose, exclaiming with pretended resentment:
"Don't, Austin--please."
Meanwhile there had been what the newspapers term a "scene" in the House
of Commons that evening. An important debate had taken place upon the
policy of the Imperial Government towards Canada, a policy which the
Opposition had severely criticised in an attempt to belittle the
splendid statesmanship of the Colonial Secretary, who, having been
absent during greater part of the debate, entered and took his seat just
as it was concluding.
At last, before a crowded House, Reginald Monkton, who, his friends
noticed, was looking unusually pale and worn, rose and replied in one of
those brief, well-modulated, but caustic speeches of his in which he
turned the arguments of the Opposition against themselves. He heaped
coals of fire upon their heads, and denounced them as "enemies of
Imperialism and destroyers of Empire." The House listened enthralled.
He spoke for no more than a quarter of an hour, but it was one of the
most brilliant oratorical efforts ever heard in the Lower Chamber, and
when he reseated himself, amid a roar of applause from the Government
benches, it was felt that the tide had been turned and the Opposition
had once more been defeated.
Hardly had Monkton sat down when, remembering that he had guests at
home, he rose and walked out.
He passed out into Palace Yard just before ten o'clock and turned his
steps homeward, the night being bright and starlit and the air
refreshing. So he decided to walk.
Half-an-hour after Cicely and her husband had left Chesterfield Street
Sheila again rang up the House and made further inquiry, with the same
result, namely, that the Colonial Minister had left Westminster just
before ten o'clock. Monkton had been seen in St Stephen's Hall
chatting for a moment with Horace Powell, the fiery Member for East
Islington, whom he had wished "good-night" and then left.
So for still a further half-hour Sheila, though growing very uneasy, sat
chatting with Austin, who, be it said, had made no further advances. He
longed to grasp her slim white hand and press it to his lips. But he
dared not.
"I can't think where father can be!" exclaimed the girl presently,
rising and handing her companion the glass box of cigarettes. "Look! it
is already one o'clock, and he promised most faithfully he would be back
to wish the Wheelers farewell."
"Oh! he may have been delayed--met somebody and gone to the club
perhaps," Austin suggested. "You know how terribly busy he is."
"I know, of course--but he always rings me up if he is delayed, so that
I need not sit up for him, and Grant goes to bed."
"Well, I don't see any necessity for uneasiness," declared the young
man. "He'll be here in a moment, no doubt. But if he is not here very
soon I'll have to be getting along to Half Moon Street."
Through the next ten minutes the eyes of both were constantly upon the
clock until, at a quarter-past one, Wingate rose, excusing himself, and
saying:
"If I were you I shouldn't wait up any longer. You've had a long day.
Grant will wait up for your father."
"The good old fellow is just as tired as I am--perhaps more so,"
remarked the girl sympathetically. And then the pair descended to the
hall, where Sheila helped him on with his coat.
"Well--good-night--and don't worry," Austin urged cheerfully as their
hands met. The contact sent a thrill through him. Yes. No woman had
ever stirred his soul in that manner before. He loved her--yes, loved
her honestly, truly, devotedly, and at that instant he knew, by some
strange intuition, that their lives were linked by some mysterious
inexplicable bond. He could not account for it, but it was so. He knew
it.
By this time Grant had arrived in the hall to let out Miss Sheila's
visitor, and indeed he had opened the door for him, when at that same
moment a taxi, turning in from Curzon Street, slowly drew up at the kerb
before the house.
The driver alighted quickly and, crossing hurriedly to Austin, said:
"I've got a gentleman inside what lives 'ere, sir. 'E ain't very well,
I think."
Startled by the news Austin and Grant rushed to the cab, and with the
assistance of the driver succeeded in getting out the unconscious form
of the Colonial Secretary.
"I'd send the lady away, sir--if I were you," whispered the taxi-driver
to Wingate. "I fancy the gentleman 'as 'ad just a drop too much wine at
dinner. 'E seems as if 'e 'as!"
Amazed at such a circumstance Sheila, overhearing the man's words, stood
horrified. Her father was one of the most temperate of men. Such a
home-coming as that was astounding! The three men carried the prostrate
statesman inside into the small sitting-room on the right, after which
Austin, completely upset, handed the taxi-man five shillings, and with a
brief word of thanks dismissed him.
Meanwhile Sheila had rushed into the dining-room to obtain a glass of
water, hoping to revive her father. Old Grant, faithful servant that he
was, had thrown himself upon his knees by the couch whereon his master
had been placed.
He peered into his pale face, which was turned away from the silk-shaded
electric light, and then suddenly gasped to Wingate: "Why! It isn't Mr
Reginald at all, sir! He's wearing his clothes, his watch and chain--
and everything! But he's a stranger--it isn't Mr Reginald! Look for
yourself!"