Sauntering along the Casino terrace enjoying a morning cigar, attended
by the Baron and Mrs. Corbett, Blagdon was unaffectedly disgusted when
a gigantic and majestic Grand Duke accosted the latter, and after a
brief parley annexed the lady, to accompany and amuse _him_--leaving
the great man, deserted and despoiled. At _déjeuner_ Lola reappeared
in radiant spirits, cajoling, irresistible, and full of stories about
the Duke. She had met him in Paris, Vienna, and Marienbad, they were
old _old_ friends. The Duke was so enormously interested in Hugo and
anxious to make his acquaintance, had heard of his lovely place, his
splendid hunters, his first-rate shooting. She was dining with the
Duke that night, and would bring off the introduction later; Hugo was
both mollified and flattered. He considered himself the equal of any
potentate, but by all accounts this particular Russian Prince, with
versts of shooting and millions of roubles, might prove a satisfactory
acquaintance. After _déjeuner_ he went into the Rooms, and was so
successful at the tables, and so pleased with himself and the world
in general, that he subsequently strolled over to the _galerie_, and
purchased the coveted necklace on which Mrs. Corbett had long set
envious eyes. Well, after all, it cost _him_ nothing--it came out of
the pockets of the Administration and really was a remarkably neat
thing--a diamond collar, with large drops of cabochon emeralds.
In the evening, the Rooms were crowded. Blagdon played again, but was
out of luck, and also a little out of humour. He had seen the Countess
of Boncaster stare fixedly at his sister, and cut her dead. Connie had
too much rouge on; she looked dishevelled and excited, and was gambling
recklessly--yet it was only the other day that he had squared up her
betting book, and she had sworn to economise and reform.
Wandering through the rooms, in a doorway he suddenly encountered Mrs.
Corbett and the gigantic Grand Duke; he was about to halt, but amazing
to relate, the lady glanced over his head with cold, unseeing eyes, and
so passed on. He paused transfixed, and stared after the pair. Lola was
chattering French, and gazing up at the great hulking Tartar, with her
most alluring expression. How well he knew it! He watched them as they
circled a table, and melted away into the crowd. The burly Russian,
and his graceful companion, who was actually wearing diamonds that he,
Blagdon, had paid for--yes, and the very gown on her back! As he stood
motionless and bewildered, for once experiencing the sting of smarting
vanity, and dwelling on the late decisive incident, the Baron accosted
him, with a scared white face.
“I have been looking for you all over the shop,” he began. “I say, old
chap, I’m cleared out. Can you let me have a couple of _mille_ notes,
just to go on with? I’ll pay you back of course.”
“I have only one left,” rejoined Blagdon in a sulky voice, as he
reluctantly produced and handed over a note, then before the Baron
could thank him he had turned away, and abandoned the Casino for the
cool, moonlit gardens. Here he lit a cigar, sat down alone under a
clump of Bamboos, and said to himself, he was going to have a good
solid think. Blagdon had inherited a certain amount of his father’s
shrewdness, and this on rare occasions struggled to the surface, and
he beheld his associates by the light of common sense. Connie and
her racing debts; the penniless Baron and his borrowings; Lola, her
bills and jewellery--a greedy pack, all for themselves! If he were a
pauper, not one of them would come near him. Then a beautiful innocent
face rose before his mental vision. What a contrast to the painted,
powdered, artificial women of his acquaintance! _She_ was the genuine
article: her lovely hair and complexion were her own. And yet he was
not in love with her, but with an idea, that if he were to marry Letty
Glyn, his wife, as Roland said, would be one of the most beautiful
women in England. Wherever she was seen, she would make a tremendous
sensation. At the Ball, and at the Bonhams’ how she had eclipsed
everyone. The resolve sprang up suddenly in his mind, Miss Glyn was the
right sort of wife for him. He was a man who desired to possess the
best of everything--chiefly in order to excite the envy of others--and
as he sat smoking and musing, the image of Letty gathered shape and
distinctness. Finally he rose, threw the stump of his cigar among the
bushes, and muttered under his breath:
“By Jove, I’ll do it!”
Next morning, with a touch of unusual restraint, Blagdon dissembled his
wrath with Lola Corbett, and accepted her playful enquiry as to “why he
had never come near her in the Casino?” with commendable indifference.
“The Duke was longing to meet you,” she lied. “We searched for you
everywhere. Now he has gone off to Paris. He left by the morning train.”
To which Hugo (also lying) replied with complete _sang-froid_:
“All right, better luck next time--express my profound regrets when you
write!”
Mrs. Corbett surveyed him under her thick black lashes. So Hugo could
joke; he had not noticed--what a relief!
“Oh, Hugo,” she resumed, with well-simulated animation, “what _do_ you
think, some dreadful person has bought my adorable pet necklace--wasn’t
it wicked of them? When I went to pay it my daily visit, it was gone.
Who can have bought it?” and she looked at him sharply, but Hugo merely
struck a match, and shook his head.
“He probably has it in his pocket the whole time,” the lady assured
herself, for she had entered the shop full of anxious enquiries, and
received a most particular description of the purchaser, and his
name--since Blagdon was a well-known figure, and a generous customer to
many of the establishments in the principality.
No later than the next morning it was Mrs. Corbett’s turn to be the
victim of a disagreeable surprise. She discovered Hugo in the principal
florist’s, in the act of despatching his offering to The Holt. “Miss
Glyn,” she read aloud over his shoulder. “Oh, you sly, sly Hugo! If
you send these floral tributes to that pretty little schoolgirl, her
aunt will snap you up before you know where you are; and she will be
a thousand times worse than any mother-in-law--a hateful, managing,
dangerous woman.”
“I know how to take care of myself,” he answered sullenly; “and flowers
are only flowers--just a little civility and nothing more.”
Mrs. Corbett’s shot about the aunt had gone home; and Blagdon actually
began to waver with respect to the resolution he had made in the
garden. He had a horror of being what is called ‘managed’--he who was
so successfully exploited by his sister and his friends--and if only
Lola could have let well alone, his idea of Letty Glyn might possibly
have faded; but as it was, she was continually chaffing about ‘his
little village maid,’ ‘his pretty schoolgirl, and her pinafores,’ and
Hugo Blagdon, was a man who could not stand being laughed at,--although
he keenly enjoyed seeing others turned into ridicule; so one evening at
supper, surrounded by a gay and mixed company, when Mrs. Corbett threw
her gibe across at him, stung to revolt and indiscretion, his temper
suddenly boiled over, and he exclaimed:
“Now look here, Lola, I’m just a bit tired of your chaff--this joke
is about played out. Miss Glyn,” and he glared round the circle, “is
the prettiest girl I have ever seen--bar none--and I am going to marry
her! Here,” he added, “fill your glasses--I call upon you to drink the
health of the future Mrs. Blagdon!”
Sensation. To borrow an expression from legal cases of a dramatic
character.
Mrs. Corbett was speechless; leaving her champagne untasted she
exclaimed:
“But, Hugo, of course you are joking--why she is only a child of
seventeen--twenty years younger than yourself! You must be out of your
senses. You,” and there was a challenge in her eye, “never _could_ be
such a fool!”
“Wait till you see,” he growled.
“Perhaps the lady won’t have you?” suggested one of his fair friends
with a malicious laugh.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about _that_,” declared the Baron,
who was, however, consumed with alarm by this sudden announcement;
a bachelor Blagdon was one thing, a married man with a very pretty,
and no doubt influential wife, was another--his day was done! No more
hundred-pound cheques for him--no more big dressmaker’s bills for Mrs.
Corbett, no more long-tailed hunters for Lord Robbie; all the same,
there was no harm in hedging a bit. The day after the supper party
Blagdon abruptly announced that he was going home. He had taken a final
turn along the terrace alone under the stars, and assured himself, that
these harpies were getting a bit too much for him. They looked upon
him as their paymaster, and Lola was beyond all bounds--her bills were
really outrageous; she was too fond of cigarettes and champagne; he had
about enough of Monte Carlo, and decided to cut the whole blooming show.
Before leaving for England he went over to Cannes in order to interview
his mother, and inform her that he was about to get married.
“Married!” she exclaimed; “and to whom?” She stiffened all over as she
added, “I trust she is a reputable person?”
“_Rather._”
“Is it one of Lady Barron’s nieces?”
“No, no,” with a gesture of indignant scorn; “someone much younger and
prettier. You know Mrs. Fenchurch?”
“Very slightly,” she answered loftily.
“Well, it’s her niece.”
“What--that little Miss Glyn?”
“Ye-es; but she’s not so little, a good five foot seven.”
“But, my dear Hugo, I understand she’s only a schoolgirl.”
“She’s past seventeen--everyone doesn’t marry when they are
middle-aged” (an unfilial rap at his mother). “She is awfully pretty;
extraordinarily good-looking, I may say, and accomplished. I heard
her playing and singing at the Bonhams’, and I tell you she astonished
them.”
“And you astonish me! She is far too young. What you want, Hugo, is a
handsome, clever, well-bred girl, who has been about the world a bit,
who will be able to manage a big establishment, and take her proper
place in the County.”
“Thank you, I know that sort! but they wouldn’t suit me. I’m not
looking for a manageress, or a housekeeper, what I want is a beauty who
makes everyone turn round, and stare at her.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Blagdon, and she relapsed into silence. Hugo’s
choice might have been much worse. To tell the truth, she had always
anticipated that a lady from the boards of the Jollity Theatre would be
her future daughter-in-law.
“And when is it to be?” she asked at last.
“I am going straight home now to propose for her. I’ll get it fixed
up as soon as the trousseau is in hand. I’d like to spend May on the
Italian lakes.”
“You seem pretty sure of her, my dear Hugo.”
“I’m sure of her aunt, and that comes to the same thing; the girl has
never been allowed to have a will of her own, and wouldn’t say boo to a
goose.”
“I shouldn’t have thought that was your style. However, I am thankful
that your future wife will be a _lady_. She has good blood in her
veins, and no doubt will develop; the one great drawback in my opinion
is, that she is too young.”
“Well, there’s something in that, you know,” he replied. “She has no
past--hasn’t had time to have one.”
“No, and most of your lady friends have not one--but half a dozen.”
“I suppose you won’t be home before June?” ignoring this thrust.
“Oh, I will return for the wedding, of course. A daughter-in-law is an
important interest. You will let me hear how things go, won’t you?”
“Yes, and I must be off now, as I’m leaving by the evening train.
Good-bye, old lady,” and he touched her forehead with his lips, stepped
out into the verandah, and so disappeared.
Precisely a fortnight later, Mrs. Blagdon received the following
telegram:
“All settled, date May 20th, Hugo.”