ABOUT the same time, as the Duke of Bosworth was dressing for
dinner in his rooms at The Waldorf, he received the following note:--
“DUKY, DUKY, DADDLEDUMS!--I have great news for you. Rush
your engagements, and come here between twelve and one to-night.
F. C.”
As the young Englishman entered Cuyler’s rooms a little after midnight,
he received such warmth of greeting from a powerful hand concealed
behind the _portière_ that his backbone doubled.
“For God’s sake, Fletcher,” he said crossly, “remember that I am not a
Hercules. What do you want of me?”
“Sit down. Sit down. I’ll put you in a good humour if I have to break a
bank. I’ve pledged it to my peace of mind. Well, first--Creighton has
practically gone to smash.”
“I know it. He told me so this afternoon. Poor man, I felt sorry for
him; and I think he did for me, although his respect may have been
something less than his pity. I know I felt uncommonly cheap, and if he
had kicked me out I doubt if I should have resented it. He said that
what with his daughter’s fortune and some land investments, he might
scrape together a hundred thousand pounds. I told him it wouldn’t pay
my debts. Then I had an interview with her. Don’t ask me to repeat it.
Good God, what have we come to? Drop the subject.”
“I haven’t begun yet. My conscience wouldn’t rest, however, unless I
paused to remark that I am deuced sorry for the Creightons. They are
the best sort, and I hate to see them go under. Well, to proceed. You
can have Miss Forbes.”
The nobleman’s dull eyes opened. “What do you mean?”
“I had an interview of a purely diplomatic nature with _la belle
mère_ after I left you. She is willing. Miss Forbes is willing.
Nay, willing is not the word. I named your price--the modest sum of
$5,000,000. She said you should have it.”
“But Mr. Forbes despises me. By Heaven, I have more respect for that
man than for anybody I have met in America. Every time I meet those
steel eyes of his I seem to read: ‘You poor, miserable, little wretch
of a fortune-hunter! Go home and blow out your brains, but don’t
disgrace your name by bartering it for our screaming eagles.’ He’ll
never consent.”
“My boy, you need a B. and S. Do brace up.” Fletcher wagged his head
pathetically. “You’ll have me crying in a minute. I’ve been on the
verge of tears for the last three weeks. Now let me tell you that you
are all right. There may be a tussle, but Forbes is bound to cave in
the end. He is infatuated with his wife and she knows her power. She
is as set on this match as you could be. She’s had the bee in her
bonnet for a good many years, to cut as great a dash in London as she
does in New York. Of course she’s in it in a way when she’s over there
for a month or two during the season, but she wants a long sight more
than that. Her ancestry does her no good because the English trunk
of the family died out two hundred years ago. As your mother-in-law
she’d be out of sight. A woman with her beauty and brain and style
and charm could bring any society in the world to her feet, and keep
it there once she had those feet planted beyond the door-mat. Now she
is patronised pleasantly as one of many pretty American women who flit
back and forth. You’ve got a powerful ally, and one that’s bound to
win. Now pull up that long face or I’ll hold you under the cold water
spout!”
“I believe you have put new life into me,” said his Grace, the Duke of
Bosworth.