PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT
I
THE Duke, in his morning-room, was reading a letter which had just come
to him by post. As he folded it neatly and returned it to an envelope
which bore the stamp of the south-eastern postal district, the light of
humor played over an expressive face. And when, after much reflection,
he took the letter again from its envelope and solemnly re-read it, the
look deepened to the verge of the saturnine.
Still pondering what he plainly considered to be a priceless document,
a succession of odd grimaces caused him to purse his lips and to frown
perplexedly. At last he dropped his glasses and broke into a guffaw.
Lying back in his invalid’s chair, still in the throes of an infrequent
laughter, he was presently brought back to the plane of gravity by the
unexpected arrival of Lady Wargrave upon the scene.
She entered the room with a gladiatorial air.
The face of his Grace underwent a sudden change at the sight of this
unwelcome visitor.
Charlotte seated herself ponderously. And then having allowed a
moment’s pause for dramatic effect, she said, marking her brother with
an intent eye, “The plot thickens.”
“Plot?” he said, warily.
“Do you wish me to believe that you have not heard the latest
development?”
“Why speak in riddles, Charlotte?” He was trying to suppress a growing
irritability.
Charlotte smiled frostily. “One should make allowances, no doubt, for
natural simplicity. But even to the aloofness of philosophers there’s a
limit, my friend. You must know that there is only one subject in all
our minds just now.”
The Duke, a concentrated gaze upon Charlotte, did not allow himself
to admit anything of the kind. For one thing they were lifelong
adversaries. Charlotte was a meddlesome woman, an intriguer and a
busybody in the sacred name of Family. They had tried many a fall with
each other in the past, and although Providence in making Albert John
the head of the house had given him an unfair advantage, he was often
hard set by Charlotte’s malice and persistency.
“Have you spoken to that young wretch?” Charlotte lost no time in
coming boldly to the horses.
“I have not,” was the sour reply.
“Is it quite wise, do you think, to let the grass grow under your
feet?--particularly having regard to the fact that the person happens
to be a niece of Mrs. Sanderson’s.” This was a very shrewd blow, whose
manner of delivery had been most carefully considered beforehand.
Indeed, so neatly was it planted now that his Grace got the shock of
his life. The surprise was so painfully sharp that he found it hard to
meet the foe without flinching. He had to make a great effort to hold
himself in hand. And Charlotte, a cold eye upon him, followed up in an
extremely businesslike manner. She had a very strong hand to play and a
true warrior, if ever there was one, she was set on wringing out of it
the last ounce of advantage. There had come to her at last, after many
a year of watching and waiting, an opportunity beyond her hopes and her
prayers.
“Last evening poor Sarah came to me in great distress,” proceeded
Charlotte. “Muriel, it appears, had been electioneering in the
constituency of a certain person, and in the course of her wanderings
up and down the suburbs, she found herself quite by chance at the house
of Mrs. Sanderson’s brother-in-law.”
By this time his Grace had sufficiently recovered from the blow that
had been dealt him to ask how Muriel had contrived to make that
particular discovery.
It seemed that she had found Mrs. Sanderson there.
“The long arm of coincidence,” opined his Grace with a wry smile. He
opined further that the whole thing began to sound uncommonly like a
novel.
“Sober reality, I assure you, Johnnie. And sober reality can beat
any novel in the power of the human mind to invent, that’s why it’s
so stupid to write them. Muriel entered the house by chance, Mrs.
Sanderson came there, and presently, if you please, Master Jack arrived
by motor with the young person. By the way, Muriel says she is very
good looking.”
“Quite a family party.” His Grace achieved a light tone with
difficulty. “But I incline to think, Charlotte, you a little overstate
the facts.”
“It is the story Muriel told Sarah.”
“Well, I am very unwilling to believe that Mrs. Sanderson knew what was
going on.”
“Pray, why not?” He was raked by a goshawk’s eye.
“She would have told me.”
Somehow those lame, impotent words revealed a man badly hit. Charlotte
saw that at once, and forthwith proceeded to turn the fact to pitiless
advantage. A gust of coarse laughter swept the room.
“Johnnie, it’s the first time I’ve read you a fool. Simple Simon! Do
you think a woman who has learned to play her cards like that is the
one to give away her hand?”
This was a second blow planted neatly on the vizor of his Grace. In
spite of his armor of cynicism he could be seen to wince a little. And
the silence which followed enabled the implacable foe to perceive that
he was shaken worse than it seemed reasonable to expect him to be.
“Perhaps you’ll now permit her to be sent away. A sordid intriguer. She
must go at once.”
In the trying moment which followed, the Duke, badly hipped, fought
valiantly to pull himself together. But somehow he only just managed to
do so.
“You make a mistake, Charlotte,” he said, with an effort that clearly
hurt him. “She is not that kind of person. You always have made that
mistake. She is a superior woman in every way. At least, I have always
found her so. I can’t imagine such a woman intriguing for anybody.”
“Shows how little you know ’em, Johnnie.” Another Gargantuan gust swept
the room. “Every woman intrigues unless she’s a born fool, and this
housekeeper nurse of yours is very far from being that--believe me.”
For a brief, but uncomfortable moment the Duke thought the matter over
with an air of curious perplexity. Then he said abruptly and with
defiance:
“I must have further information.”
“Sarah has the details. It would be well, no doubt, to have her views
on the matter.”
Whereupon Charlotte rose massively, crossed to the bell and rang it in
order that a much tormented male should enjoy this further privilege.
II
The eldest daughter of the house, when she came on the scene, found the
atmosphere decidedly electric. Her father was glaring with very ominous
eyes; while it was clear from the look on the face of Aunt Charlotte
that she was under the impression that she had downed him at last. No
doubt she had, but if those eyes meant anything there was still a lot
of fight in the stricken warrior.
Sarah herself was a long, thin, flat-chested person. Totally devoid of
imagination, her horizon was so limited that outside the Family nothing
or nobody mattered. And yet she was not in the least domesticated. In
fact, she was not in the least anything. She was nobly and consistently
null, without opinions or ideas, without humor, charm or amenity. Her
mental outlook had somehow thrown back to the 1840’s, yet with all
her limitations, apart from which very little remained of her, she
was a thoroughly sound, exceedingly honest Christian gentlewoman of
thirty-eight.
Sarah, it seemed, having heard Muriel’s story, had taken counsel of the
dowager. And at once realizing the extreme gravity of the whole affair,
both ladies determined to make the most of a long-sought opportunity to
give the housekeeper her quietus. Sarah herself, who was inclined to be
embittered and vindictive on this particular point, fell in only too
readily with Aunt Charlotte’s desire to take full advantage of such a
golden chance. Called upon now to divulge all that she knew, the eldest
daughter re-told Muriel’s remarkable story of her meeting with Mrs.
Sanderson, Jack and the girl, in the course of political endeavors at
Laxton. The story, amazing as it was, was undoubtedly authentic.
“Of course, father,” was Sarah’s conclusion, very pointedly expressed,
“she will simply _have_ to go. And the sooner the better, as no doubt
you agree.”
To Sarah’s deep annoyance, however, her sire seemed very far from
agreeing.
“There is no direct evidence of collusion,” he said. “And knowing
Mrs. Sanderson to be an old and tried servant, who has always had our
welfare at heart, I am very unwilling to place such a construction upon
what may be no more than a rather odd coincidence.”
Sarah was too deeply angry to reply. But she looked on grimly while the
ruthless Charlotte showly marshaled her forces. The quarrel was a very
pretty one. Yet the Duke, now his back was to the wall, was able to
take excellent care of himself. Moreover, he flatly declined to hear a
worthy woman traduced until she had had a chance of meeting charges so
recklessly, and as it seemed, malevolently brought against her.
“From the way in which you speak of her,” said the incensed Charlotte,
“you appear to regard her as a person of importance.”
“Charlotte, I regard her as thoroughly honest, trustworthy,
competent--in fact a good woman in every way.”
“You willfully blind yourself, Johnnie. This creature has thrown dust
in your eyes. But it will be no more than you deserve if one day her
niece is installed as mistress here. You will not live to see it, yet
it would be no more than bare justice if you did.”
“Pernicious nonsense,” rejoined his Grace. “Perhaps in the
circumstances it would be well to hear what Mrs. Sanderson has to say
for herself.”
“She is bound to lie.”
Somehow the precision of the language stung his Grace.
“You are not entitled to say that,” he flashed.
“It is the common sense of the situation and one has a perfect right to
express it.”
“Not here, Charlotte--not in this room before me. If I trust people
implicitly--there are not many that I do--I trust them implicitly, and
I can’t allow even _privileged_ people to speak of them in that way--at
any rate, in my presence.”
This explosion was so unlooked for that it took the ladies aback. In
all the years they had fought him they had never seen him moved so
deeply. A new Albert John had suddenly emerged. Never before had the
head of the house allowed these enemies to catch a glimpse of such
quixotic, such fantastic chivalry. Charlotte was sourly amused, Sarah,
amazed; but both ladies were deeply angry.
However, they had fully made up their minds that the housekeeper
must go. Indeed, that had been already arranged at the after-dinner
conference at Hill Street the previous evening. They were convinced
that a woman whom they intensely disliked, whose peculiar position
they greatly resented, was at last driven into a corner. The Duke’s
indecently bold defense of her had taken them by surprise, but it
only made them the more determined to push their present advantage
ruthlessly home.
III
Suddenly Sarah rose and pressed the bell. She demanded of the servant
who answered it that Mrs. Sanderson should appear.
Harriet, already apprised of Lady Wargrave’s arrival, came at once. She
was quite prepared for a painful scene. Only too well had she reason to
know the state of feeling in regard to herself. She had always been so
able and discreet that she had enforced the outward respect of those
whom she served so loyally. But she well knew that she was not liked
by the ladies of the house, and that the special position she had
come to hold owing to the decline of the Duke’s health, was a _casus
belli_ between him and the members of his family. She had long been
aware that in the opinion of the Dinneford ladies it was no part of
a housekeeper’s functions to act as a trained nurse to their invalid
father.
Harriet had a natural awe of Lady Wargrave, which she shared with all
under that roof; for Lady Sarah she had the deep respect which she
extended to every member of the august clan it had been her privilege
to serve for so many years. In the devout eyes of Harriet Sanderson
each unit of that clan was not as other men and women. In the matter of
Bridport House and all that it stood for, she was more royalist than
the king.
From the dark hour, a week ago now, in which the news had come by
a side wind, that the fates by a stroke of perverse cruelty, as it
seemed, had thrown Mary across the path of Mr. Dinneford, she had
hardly known how to lay her head on her pillow. To her mind the whole
thing was simply calamitous. It had thrown her into a state of profound
unhappiness. She now came into the room looking worn and ill, yet fully
prepared for short shift to be meted out to her by those whom she found
assembled there.
The ladies looked for defiance, no doubt. And they may have looked for
an undercurrent of malicious triumph. Yet if they expected either of
these things their mistake was at once very clear. It was hard to find
a trace of the successful intriguer in the haggard cheeks and somber
eyes of the woman before them. But to minds such as theirs portents of
this kind could not be expected to weigh in the scale against their
preconceived ideas.
It was left to Lady Wargrave to fix the charge. And this she did with a
blunt precision which was itself a form of insult. The icy tones were
scrupulously polite, nothing was said which one in her position was not
entitled to say in such circumstances, yet the whole effect was so
deadly in its venom as to be absolutely pitiless.
At first Harriet was overwhelmed. The force of the attack was beyond
anything she had looked for. Moreover, it seemed to fill the Duke, an
unwilling auditor, with anger and pain. He moved uneasily in his chair,
yet he was not able to check the cold torrent of quasi-insult by word
of mouth, for none knew better than Lady Wargrave how to administer
castigation without going outside the rules of the game.
Even when the shock of the first blows was past, Harriet could find
no means of defending herself. She was a very proud woman. Her
blamelessness in what she could only regard as a very odious matter was
so clear to her own mind that it did not seem to call for re-statement.
She, too, said nothing. But a hot flush came upon the thin cheek.
Lady Wargrave grew more and more incensed by a silence, the cause of
which she completely mistook.
“You have been nearly thirty years here, Mrs. Sanderson, and you have
been guilty of a wicked abuse of trust.”
The painful pause which followed this final blow was broken at last by
the Duke.
“You must forgive me, Charlotte, if I say that the facts of the case as
they have been presented, hardly justify such a statement.”
The tone was honey. And it was in such ironical contrast to Charlotte’s
own that nothing could have shown more clearly the wide gulf between
their points of view or the envenomed strife of many years now coming
to a head.
“They prove the charge to the hilt.” The hawk’s eyes of Charlotte
contracted ominously.
“What charge?--if you don’t mind stating it explicitly.”
“Mrs. Sanderson has used her position here to make her niece known to
the future head of this house, she has connived at their intimacy, she
appears to have fostered it in every way.”
“I don’t think you are entitled to say that, Charlotte.” The Duke spoke
slowly and pointedly, and then he turned to Harriet with an air of such
delicate politeness that it added fuel to the flame which was withering
her traducers. “If it is not asking too much, Mrs. Sanderson,” he said,
with a smile of grave kindness, “I should personally be very grateful
if you would be wicked enough to defend yourself. Let me say at once
that I am far from accepting the construction Lady Wargrave has placed
on the matter. But her zeal for a time-honored institution is so great
that if her judgment is outrun, it seems only kind to forgive her.”
Such oblique but resounding blows in the sconce of Charlotte filled her
with a fury hard to hold in check.
“What defense is possible?” Her voice was like a crane. “The facts are
there to look at. Mrs. Sanderson’s niece has extracted a promise of
marriage.”
The Duke turned to Harriet rather anxiously.
“I sincerely hope Lady Wargrave has been misinformed,” he said.
Harriet flushed.
“I only know”--speech for her had become almost intolerably
difficult--“that Mr. Dinneford has asked my brother-in-law’s consent to
his marrying her.”
The Duke may have been deeply annoyed, but not a line of his face
betrayed him.
“Who is your brother-in-law, Mrs. Sanderson?”
Harriet told him.
“A very honest man”--the Duke checked a laugh--“I have been honored by
a letter from him this morning.”
Even the lacerated Harriet could not forbear to smile.
“I am sure,” said she, “he will not let Mary marry Mr. Dinneford if he
can help it.”
“Why not?” sharply interposed Lady Wargrave.
“Why not, Charlotte?” Her brother took upon himself to answer the
question. “Because Sergeant Kelly is a very sensible and enlightened
man who evidently tries to see things in their right relation.”
“Fiddle-de-dee!” said Charlotte, with the bluntness for which she was
famous. “Depend upon it, he knows as well as anybody on which side his
bread is buttered.”
Her brother shook his head. “I think,” he said, “if you had had the
privilege of reading Sergeant Kelly’s letter you would be agreeably
surprised. At any rate, he seems quite to share your view of the
sacredness of the social fabric.”
“Let us look at the facts,” said Charlotte. “This marriage has to be
prevented at all costs. And I hope it is not too much to ask Mrs.
Sanderson that she will give us any assistance which may lie in her
power.”
The look upon Lady Wargrave’s face, as she made the request, clearly
implied that help from such a quarter must, in the nature of things, be
negligible. But in spite of the covert insult in the tone and manner
of the dowager, Harriet replied very simply that there was nothing she
would leave undone to prevent such a catastrophe.
“I am quite sure, Mrs. Sanderson, we can count upon that,” said the
Duke, in a tone which softened considerably the humiliating silence
with which the promise had been received.
“To begin with,” said the Duke, turning to Harriet, “I shall ask
your brother-in-law to come and see me. Evidently he is one of these
sensible, straightforward men who can be trusted to take a large view
of things.”
The face of Lady Wargrave expressed less optimism.
“There is one question I would like to put to Mrs. Sanderson,” she
suddenly interposed. It seemed that she had reserved for a final attack
the weapon on which she counted most. “Be good enough to tell me this.”
The ruthless eye was fixed on Harriet. “How long, Mrs. Sanderson, have
you known of Mr. Dinneford’s intimacy with your niece?”
There was a slight but painful pause, and it was broken by a rather
faltering reply.
“It is just a week since I first heard of it, my lady.”
“Just a week! And in the whole of that time you have not thought well
to mention the matter?”
The tone cut like a knife. And the stab it dealt was so deep that
Harriet was unable to answer the question which propelled it.
“_Why didn’t_ you mention it, Mrs. Sanderson?”
The blood fled suddenly from Harriet’s cheek. She grew nervous and
confused.
“Please answer the question.” There was now a ring of triumph in the
pitiless tone.
“I wished to spare his Grace unpleasantness,” stammered Harriet.
“Very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Sanderson,” said Lady Wargrave,
bitingly. “No doubt his Grace appreciates your regard for his feelings.
But even if that was the motive, surely it was your duty to report the
matter to Lady Sarah as soon as it came to your knowledge.”
The hesitation of Harriet grew exceedingly painful to witness.
“Yes,” she said at last. Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. “I begin to
see now that it _was_ my duty. I wish very much that I _had_ mentioned
the matter to Lady Sarah.”
Both ladies were so fully set on the overthrow of this serpent that the
air of touching, exquisite simpleness went for nothing. But in any case
they would have been too obtuse to notice it.
“We all wish that.” Lady Wargrave pursued her advantage pitilessly.
“And I am sure I speak for his Grace as well as for the rest of us.”
She trained a look of malicious triumph upon the perplexed and frowning
face of her brother.
As became a consummate tactician who now had the affair well in hand,
Charlotte gave the Duke a moment to intervene if he felt inclined to
do so. But she well knew, a kind of instinct told her, that the attack
had succeeded completely. The housekeeper made such a feeble attempt
to parry it, that for the time being her champion was dumb. Nor was
this surprising. In the opinion of both ladies the sinister charge of
collusion had now been proved to the hilt.
Lady Wargrave having given her brother due opportunity for a further
defense of Mrs. Sanderson, which he had quite failed to grasp,
proceeded coldly and at leisure to administer the _coup de grâce_.
“I am afraid, Mrs. Sanderson,” she said, “that in these circumstances
only one course is open to you now.”
She was too adroit, however, to state exactly what that course was. She
was content merely to suggest it. But Harriet did not need to be told
what the particular alternative was that her ladyship had in mind.
“You wish me to resign my position,” she said, in a low calm voice. She
turned with tears in her eyes to the eldest daughter of the house. “I
beg leave to give a month’s notice from today, my lady. If you would
like me to go sooner, I will do so at any time you wish.”
The words and manner showed a consideration wholly lacking in the
measure meted out to herself. There was so little of pride or of
wounded dignity that the tears were running in a stream down the pale
cheeks. Uppermost in Harriet Sanderson was still a feeling of profound
veneration for those to whom she had dedicated the best years of her
life.
IV
The ladies of the Family had won the day. Mrs. Sanderson was going.
It was an occasion for rejoicing. She had intrigued disgracefully;
moreover, it had long felt that this clever, unscrupulous, plausible
woman had gained a dangerous ascendancy over the head of the house. But
Aunt Charlotte, it seemed, with the tactical skill for which she was
famous, had driven her into a corner and had forced her to surrender.
In the opinion of Sarah, Mrs. Sanderson had behaved very well. It was,
of course, impossible to trust that sort of person; but to give the
woman her due, she had appeared to feel her position acutely; she had
promised, moreover, to undo as far as in her lay the mischief she had
caused. The ladies saw no inconsistency in that. They had formed a low
opinion of Mrs. Sanderson--for what reason they didn’t quite know--but
now that she had received her _congée_ and they were to have their own
way at last there would be no harm in taking up a magnanimous attitude
towards her.
As far as it went this was well enough, but a serious and solemn task
had been imposed upon various people by the circumstances of the case.
It now seemed of vital importance to those concerned that Jack should
become engaged to Marjorie without further delay. With that end in
view the ladies of the Family were now working like beavers. But all
they had done so far had not been enough. In vain had the lure been
laid in sight of the bird. In vain had they used the arts and the
subtleties of their sex. For several weeks now Jack and Marjorie had
been thrown together on every conceivable pretext, yet the only result
had been that the future head of Bridport House had re-affirmed a fixed
intention of taking a wife from the stage.
Three days after Lady Wargrave had gained her signal triumph over Mrs.
Sanderson, the Duke was at home to an odd visitor. In obedience to
the written request of his Grace’s private secretary, Sergeant Kelly
presented himself about noon at Bridport House.
Fortunately, Joe had been able to arrange for a day off for the
purpose. Thus the dignity of man, also the dignity of the Metropolitan
Force, were upheld by impressive mufti. He had discarded uniform for
his best Sunday cutaway, old and rather shining it was true, but black
and braided, with every crease removed by Eliza’s iron; a pair of light
gray trousers, superbly checked; a white choker tie and a horse-shoe
pin; while to crown all, a massive gold albert, a recent gift from
Mary, was slung across a noble expanse of broadcloth waistcoat.
“Good morning, Sergeant Kelly,” said a musical voice, as soon as the
visitor was announced. The Duke in the depths of his invalid chair
looked at him from under the brows of a satyr. “Excuse my rising. I’m a
bit below the weather, as you see.”
Joe, secretly prepared for anything in the matter of his reception,
was impressed most favorably by such a greeting. Somehow the note of
cordiality was so exactly that of one man of the world to another,
that Joe was conscious of a subtle feeling of flattery. He was invited
to sit, and he sat on the extreme verge of a Sheraton masterpiece,
pensively twisting between his hands a brand-new bowler hat purchased
that morning en route to Bridport House.
“Sergeant Kelly,” said the Duke, speaking with a directness that Joe
admired, “I liked your letter. It was that of a sensible man.”
“Good of your Grace to say so,” said Joe, a nice mingling of dignity
and deference.
“I agree with you that the matter is extremely vexatious.”
Joe took a long breath. “It’s haggeravating, sir,” said he.
“Quite so,” said his Grace, with a whimsical smile. “But as a matter of
curiosity, may I ask what had led you to that conclusion?”
“Just this, sir.” Joe laid the new bowler hat on the carpet, squared
his shoulders and fixed the Duke with his eye. “The aristocracy’s
the aristocracy, the middle-class is the middle-class, and the lower
h’orders are the lower h’orders--there they are and you can’t alter
’em. Leastways that was the opinion of the Marquis.”
“I’m not sure that I know your friend,” said the Duke with charming
urbanity, “but I’m convinced his views are sound. If I read your letter
aright, you are as much opposed to the suggested alliance between your
daughter and my kinsman as I am myself.”
“That is so, your Grace. It simply won’t do.”
“I quite agree,” said the Duke, “but from your point of view--why won’t
it? I ask merely for information.”
“Why won’t it, sir?” said Joe, surprisedly. “Don’t I say the
aristocracy’s the aristocracy?”
“In other words you disapprove of them on principle?”
“No, sir, it’s because I respect ’em so highly,” said Joe, with a
simple largeness that bore no trace of the sycophant. “I’ve not
reggerlated the traffic at Hyde Park Corner all these years without
learning that it won’t do to keep on mixing things up in the way we’re
doing at present. Things are in a state of flux, as you might say.”
“Profoundly true,” said the Duke, with a fine appearance of gravity.
“And I have asked you to come here, Sergeant Kelly, to advise me in
a very delicate matter. In the first place, I assume that you have
withheld your consent to this ridiculous marriage.”
“That is so, your Grace. But the young parties are that headstrong
they may not respect their elders. I told the young gentleman what my
feeling was, and I told the girl, but I’m sorry to say they laughed at
me. Yes, sir, society is in a state of flux and no mistake.”
“Well, Sergeant Kelly, what’s to be done?”
“I should like your Grace to speak a word to the parties. Seemingly
they take no notice of me. But perhaps they might of you, sir.”
The Duke smiled and shook his head.
“Well, sir, they only laugh at me,” said Joe. “But with you it would be
different.” And then with admirable directness: “Why not see the girl
and give her your views in the matter? She’s very sensible and she’s
been well brought up.”
The Duke looked at his visitor steadily. If his Grace was in search of
_arrière pensée_, he failed to find a sign of it in that transparently
honest countenance.
“A bold suggestion,” he said, with a smile. “But I don’t know that I
have any particular aptitude for handling headstrong young women.”
Joe promptly rebutted the ducal modesty. “Your words would carry
weight, sir. She’s a girl who knows what’s what, I give you my word.”
The Duke could hardly keep from laughing outright at the sublime
seriousness of this old bobby. But at the same time curiosity stirred
him. What sort of a girl was this who owned such a genial grotesque
of a father? It would impinge on the domain of comic opera to instal
such a being as the future châtelaine of Bridport House. Still, as his
visitor shrewdly said, society was in a state of flux.
“My own belief is,” said Joe, “that she’s the best girl in England, and
if your Grace would set your point of view before her as you have set
it before me, I’m thinking she’d do her best to help us.”
The Duke was impressed by such candor, such openness, such simplicity.
After all, there was just a chance that things might take a more
hopeful turn.
“She’s not one to go where she’s not wanted, sir,” said Joe. “And my
belief is that if you have a little talk with her and let her know how
you feel about it, you may be spared a deal o’ trouble.”
“You really think that?” said the Duke with a sigh of relief.
“I do, sir. Leastways, if you ain’t, Joseph Kelly will be disappointed.”
Such disinterestedness was not exactly flattering, yet the Duke was
touched by it. Indeed, Sergeant Kelly’s sturdy common sense was so
reassuring that he was invited to have a cigar. At the request of his
host, he pressed the bell, one long and one short, and in the process
of time a servant appeared with a box of Coronas. Joe chose one, smelt
it, placed it to his ear and then put it sedately in his pocket.
“I’ll not smoke it now, sir,” he said urbanely. “I’ll keep it until I
can really enjoy it.”
He was graciously invited to take several. With an air of polite
deprecation he helped himself to three more. Then he realized that the
time had come to withdraw.
The parting was one of mutual esteem. If the girl would consent to pay
a visit to Bridport House, the Duke would see her gladly. But again his
Grace affirmed that he was not an optimist. Society _was_ in a state
of flux, he quite agreed, democracy was knocking at the gate and none
knew the next turn in the game. Still the Duke was not unmindful of
Sergeant Kelly’s remarkable disinterestedness, and took a cordial leave
of him, fully prepared to follow his advice in this affair of thorns.
As soon as the door had closed upon the dignified form of Sergeant
Kelly, the Duke lay back in his chair fighting a storm of laughter.
Cursed with a sense of humor, at all times a great handicap for such a
one as himself, its expression had seldom been less opportune or more
uncomfortable. For there was really nothing to laugh at in a matter of
this kind. The thing was too grimly serious.
Still, for the moment, this amateur of the human comedy was the victim
of a divided mind. He wanted to laugh until he ached over this solemn
policeman upholding the fabric of society.
“By gad, he’s right,” Albert John ruminated, as he dipped gout-ridden
fingers in his ravished cigar box. “Things _are_ in a state of flux.”
He cut off the end of a cigar. “My own view is that this monstrous
bluff which these poor fools have allowed some of us to put up since
the Conquest, more or less, will mighty soon be about our ears.
However,”--Albert John placed the cigar between his lips--“it hardly
does to say so.”
For a time this was the sum of his reflections. Then he pressed the
bell at his elbow and the servant reappeared.
“Ask Mr. Twalmley to be good enough to telephone to Mr. Dinneford. I
wish to see him at once.”