The Strange Mushroom
"Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with
my face?"
--SHAKESPEARE.
When Joseph had gone, with his pockets and his heart both full to
bursting, I felt much like the captain of a small fishing vessel,
wrecked in strange seas, who has seen his comrades depart on rafts,
while he stayed on board his sinking ship alone with three biscuits
and a gill of water. There was also a certain resemblance between me
and a well-meaning plant which has been pulled up by its roots just as
it had begun to grow nicely, and then stuck into the earth again,
upside down, to do the best it can.
I was not quite sure yet which was up or down, and which way I had
better grow, if at all. There was, however, an attraction in a
southerly direction: letters were to be forwarded to me at Grenoble,
and there would probably be one from Jack or Molly Winston, saying
when and where they might be expected to come upon the scene with
Mercédès. Finding me stranded, they would doubtless take pity upon my
forlornness, and offer me a lift in their car, down to the Riviera.
And to the Riviera I still felt strongly impelled to go, though I had
no longer the Contessa for an excuse. She had been engaged, in my
little drama, for the part of "leading juvenile," with the privilege
of understudying the heroine. But she had not shown an aptitude for
either rôle, and having stepped down to that of first walking lady,
she had minced off my stage altogether. Now the cast was filled up
without her, though strangely filled, since after the first act there
had been no leading lady at all. Nevertheless, having arranged a scene
at Monte Carlo I could not persuade myself to give it up, though it
would not be played, in any event, at the Contessa's villa.
The Boy had vanished, and the sole word he had left was that I had
better not count upon seeing him again. But the more I thought of it,
the less necessity I saw for taking him at that word. He perhaps
flattered himself that he had picked up all clues and carried them off
with him in the wonderful bag. But he had purposefully hinted that
"something might happen at Monte Carlo," and I hoped the something
might mean that, after all, the Boy would materialise with his sister
at the Hôtel de Paris on the night after our arrival. In any case, if
the Princess were going to Monte Carlo, there would the Fairy Prince
be also, and I did not see why I should not be there too, whether
Molly and Jack tooled me down in their motor or not.
Fifteen minutes after Joseph had gone from my life to mingle his lot
with Innocentina's, I had my own plans definitely mapped out. I would
stop in Chambéry overnight, to wait for the portmanteau with which I
had kept up a speaking acquaintance in the larger centres of
civilisation, during the tour, and next day I would go on to Grenoble
by train, there to pick up letters.
The luggage duly arrived in the evening, so that there was no bar to
the carrying out of my design; and, accordingly, after my coffee on
the following morning, I conscientiously went out to see more of the
town before taking the eleven-o'clock train.
It was only ten, and as my arrangements were all made, I had time for
strolling--too much to suit my mood. The murmur of an automobile
preparing to take flight attracted me from a distance, for it seemed
that the voice had the cadence of a car I knew. I hastened my steps,
turned a corner, and there, in front of the Hôtel de France's rival,
stood a fine motor, panting, quivering in eagerness to dart away.
It was a Mercédès, and if it were not Molly Winston's wedding-present
Mercédès, it was that Mercédès' twin. But there was a strange mushroom
in it.
I would have known Molly's mushroom among a thousand. It was small,
round, compact, and of a dark cream colour. This mushroom was flatter,
wider, more expansive, with an exceedingly slender stem; and in tint
it was of a pale silvery grey. It grew up straight and slim in the
tonneau of the car, all alone, unaccompanied by any similar growths,
or any guardian goblins; and several servants of the hotel were
grouped about, waiting to see it off.
I waited, too, sniffing adventure with the scent of petrol, and
interested in the resemblance to that good Dragon with which I had
been friends; but I was about to turn away at last when a form which
had evidently been squatting behind the car on the other side, rose to
its feet. It was that of Gotteland, and had he been a long-lost uncle
from Australia with his pockets crammed with wills in my favour, I
could not have been more delighted to see him.
As I rushed forward to claim him as my own, Molly and Jack came out of
the hotel.
"Monty!" Jack cried, with a sincerity of joy which warmed my heart.
As for his wife, she cried not at all, but merely gasped.
"What luck for me!" I exclaimed, shaking both Molly's hands so hard
that it was fortunate (as she remarked afterwards) that she had on
"only her rainy-day rings." "I did hope to hear of you at Grenoble,
but scarcely dared think of actually meeting you, even there. In two
minutes more I should have been on the way to catch my train."
"Here's your train, old man," said Jack, indicating the throbbing
automobile.
"My one true love, Mercédès," I remarked, looking fondly at the car.
"Sh!" whispered Molly, with an odd little sound which was like a
giggle strangled at birth. "She's there."
"Who?" I started, bewildered.
"Mercédès."
"I know; the darling! I long to have my hands on her again."
"Oh, Lord Lane, do be careful! You don't understand. I mean the real
Mercédès. The girl who gave me the car. She's sitting there. She'll
hear you."
"It's all right," said Jack. "The motor's making such a row, she
wouldn't catch the words."
"She joined us h--lately," explained Molly hurriedly.
"I remember now. You used to talk rather a lot about her and want us
to meet."
"Well, you have your wish now, dearie," Jack chimed in. "You can
introduce them with your own fair hand."
"Wait--wait." Molly whispered piteously, as Jack would have taken a
step forward, and pulled me with him, a peculiarly dare-devil look in
his handsome eyes. "For _goodness'_ sake, Jack!"
Her voice restrained him, and again we were in conclave. "You see,
Lord Lane, it's rather awkward. We want you to go on with us,
immensely, but----"
"You're awfully good," I hastily cut in. "But I quite see, and I
couldn't think of----"
"Oh, please, that isn't what I meant. Now, will you and Jack both be
quite quiet, like angels, and let me talk for a while, till I make
everything clear to everybody, about everybody else. Don't grin. I
know I'm not beginning well, but the beginning's the difficult part.
We wrote to you, Lord Lane, to Grenoble, saying we would be arriving
about as soon as you got the letter. We didn't know whether we could
tear you away from your mule or not; but anyhow, we should have seen
each other and got each other's news. Then this friend of mine joined
us unexpectedly; at least, we thought we might meet her, but we
weren't at all sure she would want to travel with us. However, here
she is, and she's a perfect dear; and next to Jack and Dad I love her
better than anybody else in the world. Besides, she gave me the car;
and you know I told you how ill she had been, and how she was
travelling for her health. Altogether we have to consider her before
anyone; and I want to know, Lord Lane, if you'll think me a regular
little beast if I speak to her first, before we arrange anything?"
I opened my lips to answer with a complimentary protest, but before I
could frame a word, she had rushed to the two Mercédès, her mushroom
hanging limp in her hand, and had entered into a low-voiced
conversation with the human namesake.
"Look here, Jack; I wouldn't put you out for the world," I said. "As
for tearing myself from the mule, that surgical operation has already
been performed, and I was going on to Monte Carlo----"
"That's our goal," cut in Jack. "Molly maligned the place of old days.
Now I want her to do it justice. You and I will show her Monte at its
best."
"Yes, but I'll go down by rail, and meet you there."
"You'll do nothing of the kind. Molly's friend is one of the most
charming girls alive, but she has passed through a great trouble,
followed by a severe illness. She came to us in some distress of mind,
and we are bound, as Molly says, to consider her, as she may not think
herself equal to intercourse with strangers. However, all that's
necessary is to explain you to her, as I am now explaining her to you,
and the thing settles itself. There can be no question of your not
going on with us. You and Mercédès won't interfere with each other in
the least, because, you see, now that you've turned up, the thing is
to get down quietly, and--and enjoy ourselves at the journey's end.
We'll make a rush of it. In any case, Molly would have sat in the
tonneau with her friend, and the only difference you will make in our
arrangements is that I shall have you as a companion in front instead
of Gotteland."
At this moment our fair emissary returned from the enemy's camp.
"Mercédès says that not for anything would she cheat us out of your
company," announced Molly. "Only she hopes you won't think her rude
and horrid if she doesn't talk. There's her message; but I really
think, Lord Lane, that the best thing is to take no notice of the poor
child. She is very nervous and upset still, but I hope in a few days
she will be herself again. I won't even introduce you to her. She and
I will sit in the tonneau, as quiet as two kittens, while you and Jack
in front can talk over all your adventures since you met, and forget
our existence. We shan't be so very long on the way, shall we, Jack?"
I began another "but," which was scornfully disregarded by both Jack
and Molly. I might as well consent now, as later, they said, since
they would simply refuse to leave Chambéry without me, and the longer
I took to see reason, the more _essence_ would the motor be wasting.
Thus adjured, I allowed myself to be hustled off to my hotel by Jack,
who insisted on accompanying me lest I should turn traitor on the way.
In ten minutes Gotteland would drive the car to the door of the
France, and I was expected to be ready by that time. My packing had
been done before I went out, by the united efforts of a _valet de
chambre_ and myself; but now all had to be undone again; my motoring
coat (unused for weeks and aged in appearance by as many years)
dragged up from the lowest stratum with my goblin-goggles, and a few
small things dashed into a weird travelling bag which a confused
porter rushed out to buy at a neighbouring shop. While I settled the
hotel bill, Jack arranged to have my portmanteau expressed to
Grenoble, and by a scramble our tasks were finished when the voice of
the car called us to the door.
The whole incident had happened so quickly, that I had no time to
realise the change in my circumstances, when, "sole, like a falling
star," the motor "shot through the pillared town" with me on board.
There had been a time when I shrank from the name of the car's giver,
believing that Molly thrust it too obviously into notice. When "that
dear girl Mercédès" had threatened to enter our conversations I had
often kept her out by force; but now it seemed that I, not she, was
the intruder, and in a far more material way. This was, perhaps,
poetical justice, but I did not grudge it, since it was evident that
Molly no longer cherished the intention of dangling her friend the
heiress before me like a brilliant fly over the nose of an impecunious
trout. On the contrary, she warned me off the premises. We were to
hurry down to Monte Carlo as quickly as possible, that the situation
might not be overstrained. Mercédès in the tonneau, I in the front
seat, were to live and let live during the rapid journey, and this was
well.
I dimly remembered that, in the first days of our journey in search of
a mule, Molly had vaunted her friend's beauty, but the silver-grey
mushroom prevented me from verifying or disproving this statement. The
small, triangular talc window was greyly-opaque, or else there was a
grey veil underneath; my one glance had not told me which, and I
neither dared nor desired to steal another.
Jack supplied the blanks in our somewhat broken correspondence, by
skimming over the details of their doings; how they had spent most of
their time since our parting in Switzerland; how they had arrived at
Aix-les-Bains the very morning we left for Mont Revard; and how they
had motored to Chambéry yesterday afternoon.
"Think of my being in the same town with you for more than twelve
hours, and not knowing it!" I exclaimed. "To borrow an expression of
Mrs. Winston's, I was jolly 'low in my mind' last night, and the very
thought that you two were close by would have been cheering."
I had not dared address myself to Molly in the other camp, but
evidently all communication between the lines was not to be broken
off. The wind must have carried my words to her ear, for she bent
forward, leaning her arm on the back of our seat.
"Did you say you were miserable last night?" she inquired with
flattering eagerness.
"Yes. Awfully miserable."
"Poor Lord Lane! I haven't understood yet exactly why you suddenly
gave up your walking tour, and got the idea of going on by rail. I
thought from your letters you were having such a good time, that we
could hardly bribe you to desert--your party and come with us, even at
Grenoble."
"My party deserted me, and that was the end of my 'good time,'" I
replied, charmed with Molly's conception of the rôle of a "quiet
kitten" whose existence was to be forgotten. As if any man could ever
forget hers!
"What, your nice Joseph and his Finois?" she inquired.
"When I speak of 'my party' I refer particularly to the boy I wrote
you about," I returned, far from averse to being drawn out on the
subject of my troubles, though I had resolved, were I not intimately
questioned, to let them prey upon my damask cheek.
"Oh, yes, that wonderful American boy. Did he keep right on being
wonderful all the time, or did he turn out disappointing in the end?"
"Disappointing!" I echoed. "No; rather the other way round. He was
always surprising me with new qualities. I never saw anyone like him."
"Ah, perhaps that's because you never knew other American boys. I dare
say if I'd met him I shouldn't have found him so remarkable."
"Yes, you would," I protested. "There could be no two opinions about
it."
"Is he good-looking?"
"Extraordinarily. Such eyes as his are wasted on a boy--or would be on
any other boy. If he'd been a girl, he would have been one for a man
to fall head over ears in love with."
"You're enthusiastic! Hasn't he got any sisters?"
"He has one, who is supposed to be like him. I was promised--or partly
promised--to meet her in Monte Carlo, at the end of our journey, where
the Boy expected her to join him."
"Oh, has he been called away by her?"
"I don't think so."
"I fancied that might have been why he left you."
"I don't know what his reason was, but I have faith enough in the
little chap to be sure it was a _good one_."
"Sure you didn't bore each other?"
"If you had ever seen that boy, you'd know that the word 'bore' would
perish in his presence like a microbe in hot water. As for me--I don't
believe I bored him. He did say once that we would part when we came
to the 'turnstile,' meaning the point of mutual boredom, but I can't
believe the turnstile was in his sight. I think that his resolution to
go was sudden and unexpected."
"He must have been an interesting boy, and you ought to be grateful to
Fate for sending him your way because apparently he gave you no time
for brooding on the past."
"The past? Oh, by Jove, I couldn't think what you meant for a second.
You have a right to say 'I told you so,' Mrs. Winston. There was
nothing in all that, you know, except a little wounded vanity; and you
know, _you_ are really the Fate I have to thank for finding it out so
soon."
"What _do_ you mean?" exclaimed Molly, almost as if she were
frightened. "I did nothing at all. I----"
"You took me away with you and Jack. The rest followed."
"Oh, _that_. I didn't understand. Well, as we shall get you down to
Monte Carlo soon, you will meet your boy again."
"I wish I could be sure."
"I thought you said it was an engagement."
"Only conditional. Besides, had we walked, we should have been weeks
on the way. I wonder you don't laugh in my face, Mrs. Winston, but
you'd understand if you could have met the Boy."
"I supposed Jack was your best friend," complained Molly.
"So he is. But this is different. I'm going to look for the Boy at
Monte Carlo. What I'm hoping is, that after all he may keep the
half-engagement he made to meet me there."
"When?"
"On the night after my arrival for a dinner at the Hôtel de Paris, to
be given in honour of him and his sister."
"You think he will?"
"It's worth going on the chance."
"You are the right kind of friend," said Molly, "and you deserve to
be rewarded, doesn't he, Jack?"
"Yes," Jack flung over his shoulder as he drove; "and I shall swear a
vendetta against everybody concerned, if he isn't."
This did not strike me as a particularly brilliant remark, but Molly
seemed to find it witty, for she laughed merrily, with a certain
impish ring in her glee, reminiscent of the Little Pal in some moods.
Evidently she had exhausted her long list of questions, for, laughing
still, she twisted her slim body half round in the tonneau, turning a
shoulder upon us. I took this as a signal that Mercédès was now to
have her share of attention, and tactfully bestowed mine on Jack.
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