"My dear kind host," explained Vingie to Lord Fordingbridge in a
corner of his drawing-room after dinner, "he's in love with romance,
and he thinks he's in love with her. Men are all children. They
don't love us; they love what they think we are. If I can persuade
him she doesn't monopolize romance, you're safe. Do you care to let
me try?"
Lord Fordingbridge eyed her very thoughtfully, glanced across at the
bridge four in the middle distance and sighed.
"Perhaps it depends on your idea of romance," he temporized. "We
shall be taking a certain responsibility. What do you propose?"
Vingie leaned back in her gilded chair.
"Diane's indoor and exotic. I want to be open-air and natural. She
pretends to be simple; she isn't really. You aren't simple just
because you fool about with an omelette. I think a summer camp--just
he and I, some older woman to play propriety and p'r'aps one
man-servant to do the rough work. I'd suggest your sister only her
type and generation simply couldn't do it. Charles has a perfect
housekeeper, Vokes, getting on for sixty, absolutely discreet and
utterly trustworthy. She's known me since I was a baby. He can take
a chauffeur-valet. You'll never understand--or p'r'aps you will--but
I want to stage a twentieth century _Midsummer Night's Dream_. Are
you going to trust me? I don't think you'd better tell Rupert. He's
too conventional."
She outlined her conversation with the duke. "And if you let me have
my way I'm going to produce a very effective climax. And I may have
to do it just to oblige you, though not if I can help it. Financial
considerations don't seem in keeping with the atmosphere at the
moment. Is it a bargain?"
Still he hesitated. She read his thoughts and added:
"Of course I shall consult Charles first. I never do anything
without telling him."
"Well," said Lord Fordingbridge at last, "the duke has some leisure
in a day or two. He's got a shooting estate in Yorkshire remote
enough for anything if it comes to that. But you'll be very careful,
won't you?"
"My dear," replied Vingie in tender mockery, "a boy of his age would
rather die. They're perfect dragons of respectability if a girl
trusts them. Besides, you forget Vokes. But don't tell Rupert.
He'd never understand."
Rupert had arrived, draped with dispatch boxes, in time to make a
fourth at bridge.
At ten o'clock Lord Fordingbridge's sister discovered, by means of
that social telepathy peculiar to Queen Victoria's earlier
god-children, that bridge began to pall on the duke. In consequence
she pleaded fatigue, excused herself and retired, removed her
transformation, assumed a woolen night-gown with long sleeves, and
slept as only people with no nerves and a good conscience do sleep.
The duke yawned, half closed his eyes at Captain Hamish Duncan, made
an imperceptible movement of the head, and found himself alone with
Vingie. She still sat in the gilded chair, her hands resting lightly
on its arms, deep in thought. He stood before her awaiting his
opportunity.
"Were you serious this morning?" he said at last.
She turned upon him unfathomable eyes.
"If you know a garden of Paradise, I'll try to be your good angel.
It sounds to me like a tiny camp remote from anywhere. There are
only you and I and my chaperon and your servant. I'll leave it to
you to arrange if you still want it. I shall have to go back to town
first and collect some kit."
"Let's go and look at my black list and settle dates," he suggested.
In a small businesslike room they found Captain Duncan methodically
dealing with correspondence. "Hamish," announced the duke, "I
propose to take a holiday. What are our bookings for the next few
days?"
The equerry, whistling noiselessly, consulted a small red volume.
"To-morrow there's a parade of ex-service men. Memo: say the right
thing to Sergeant Robert Smith, aged eighty-five. Wellington shook
hands with his father, Acting-Bombardier John Smith, after the Battle
of Waterloo. Except for that you appear to be free for a week."
He closed the book, replaced it and looked a little wistful.
"If you don't actually need me I could idle for a day or two myself,"
he concluded.
William Albert smiled privately at Vingie.
"Run away and play by all means. Invent some yarn to account for me.
In two days, Hamish, I shall, with luck, be out of reach."
He turned joyfully to Vingie.
"In two days," he repeated. "Leave everything to me. In two days
the blasé stars may look down on that which will cause sensation
among astronomers."
"I'm going up to town," she answered in the manner of one who hears
but does not listen. "I need to collect a few necessaries and make
peace with my relations. One tells the right story for fear the
wrong should get about. You will be ever so discreet, won't you?
Remember I'm doing a great deal for you."
She smiled, and smiling contradicted her words. He said good night
and watched her move delicately up the great staircase. For a man
hopelessly in love with some one else the young blood flowed through
his aristocratic veins not unriotously.
Much of Sir Charles' attraction for Vingie lay in the fact that he
treated her with the devotion of a new lover allied to the sureness
and experience of an old husband. For this reason, in his Park
Street library, after a very perfect little _diner à deux_, she told
him all.
"I've collected the right clothes," she murmured dreamily, "and the
main idea's absolutely cast-iron. He doesn't really love Diane;
she's just been very clever, but I shall be cleverer still. All the
same, Charles, I want a partner, a confederate among the crowd. Do
you want to come to the rescue?"
"Frankly," declared Sir Charles, "I do not. My years and my position
forbid it. You, my dear Virginia, are in the predicament of a secret
agent. If they succeed they get no reward, and if they fail we
disown them. They languish in a foreign prison and if ever they get
out their name is mud. I may sympathize privately, but the most I
can do publicly is to send you on a long voyage to the Far East with
an impeccable chaperon when your reputation lies in tatters on all
the dinner tables of Mayfair."
Vingie slid from her armchair and crept gently on to his knee. "I
wouldn't compromise you for all the world, darling," she murmured,
stroking his gray hair with caressing fingers. "I know just the man
for the job--that very charming Mr. Berriman, the foreign editor of
the _Daily Tale_ who helped me once before. He's perfectly
unscrupulous, and so adequate."
"In heaven's name, Virginia, keep away from the newspapers," implored
Sir Charles. "One can't touch pitch without being defiled."
Vingie spread out two small pale hands.
"I pray I may ever keep these unsullied!" she said solemnly. "Only
lend me Vokes, Charles, and if I perish I will never darken your
doors again."
"You may have Vokes by all means, but try not to put a most
respectable, faithful servant to the blush," replied Sir Charles a
little plaintively.
In the morning Vingie, all Paris in her summer frock, drifted from
Sir Charles' limousine through the stern portals of the _Daily Tale_,
eclipsing the most divine divorcee that ever lied through her tears
to a sympathetic special writer. She penetrated via the intoxicating
hum of giant machines and the faint violet smell of printing ink to a
calm silent room containing one really nice man and many telephones.
Mr. Berriman laid aside the habitual ferocity before which
correspondents in Brussels, Vienna, and even far New York, dwindled
and pined, rose from his lair amid blue pencils and damp proofs and
gripped her hand.
"Thank God it's only eleven and the rush hasn't begun. If there's
anything in the world I can do for you, Miss Lauriston, I shall be so
happy. Or perhaps"--his stocky figure gathered as for a spring, and
his quiet, good-looking face hardened--"perhaps you've got news?"
Vingie shook her head and sank plaintively into a chair.
"I've come to you for that. I'm at my last gasp, and you helped me
once before. Who, what, and why is Diane de Blanchefôret?"
Mr. Berriman lifted the receiver of a telephone.
"Is that the news room?" he inquired. "I want Mr. Marsh."
Vingie glimpsed curiously the discipline of a great paper. The door
opened quietly and a young man entered.
"This," explained her host, "is Mr. Marsh, who does the society
feature. What do we know of Mademoiselle Diane de Blanchefôret,
Marsh?"
"She's one of those weird birds--on the stage and yet not of it,"
observed Mr. Marsh, like a distinguished naturalist explaining a rare
species. "Everybody that is anybody receives her; she dresses
quietly, lives in a house, not a flat, women recognize her, she only
runs a very small car, she doesn't go to dance clubs, her credit is
good in the West End and she pays her own bills. Extremely
good-looking and intelligent. I should call her a dark horse."
"All right, Marsh," murmured Mr. Berriman, assembling his proofs
methodically and ringing for a boy to remove them. "And what exactly
do you want me to do?" he went on to Vingie with the painful
directness that seemed to her a feature of the place.
"To produce her plausibly at a given place and time," answered
Vingie, growing reckless. "If you can, you shall be the first to
announce whom the Duke of Sussex is really going to marry. Is it a
bargain?"
"Suppose," said the imperturbable Mr. Berriman, "you tell me the
whole story, strictly in confidence."
So, looking him straight in the face, she told it. His expression
never varied by the flicker of an eyelash.
"Probably we know fairly well whom he'll marry, but you and I are
only just beginning. One day we'll land a real story," he said at
last. "Anyway, I think I can work it. We've got a certain stunt
going--'Is the Country Girl Prettier than the Town Girl?' I might
ask her to help judge, and take her along to Yorkshire to look at
country girls. We can always lose our way. Now I'm afraid I must
ask you to go. Sorry, but there's a crisis in the Near East. It
keeps me rather on the stretch. Remember to let me know the date,
the place and the time. Good-by!"
She went out thoughtfully in the light of his brief smile. In the
lift she glanced at her platinum diamante wrist-watch. "That took
him just five minutes. I wonder what he could do in an hour?" she
mused. Undoubtedly Mr. Berriman had made a certain impression.
At the great entrance of Diss, Rupert, his trousers baggy-kneed with
distress, stood beside Captain Hamish Duncan surveying the chaste
outlines of a two-seater Rolls-Royce. Lord Fordingbridge, who
preferred not to be present officially, had laid this burden upon him.
As in a nightmare he beheld Vingie, shrouded in a fleece-lined
weather-proof, escalade the passenger's seat. The sporting body
being innocent of doors, she revealed a certain wealth of silk-veiled
limbs, to the extreme delight of Captain Duncan, and the intense
disgust of Rupert. Vingie nestled in her padded shell, adjusting a
rug with joyous fingers.
Hours ahead, harbinger of a brighter convoy, Figgis, the duke's
chauffeur, guided a baggage car, and by his side sat Vokes, austere
with sixty years, sublime in decent black.
The duke gave a last look round, climbed neatly to the wheel, took
off the side-brake and waved a benevolent hand.
"Well, toodle-oo, every one," he said serenely.
"Pip-pip, sir," returned the faithful equerry.
The sweetest clutch in the world took up the noiseless drive; with
scarce a disturbed pebble they glided unstressed away.
"It is the most appalling error of judgment I ever heard of!" said
Rupert hollowly.
"Now, now!" reproved Captain Duncan in his soothing fashion. "Try to
take the broad view, dear old bird. Don't be mother's little
kill-joy!"
Vingie glanced lazily at the good-looking profile beside her and put
her thoughts into words.
"We're playing truant from life like two happy kids," she said.
"We'd better leave the trappings of state in care of Rupert for the
time being. I think you may call me Vingie, oh, fellow conspirator,
and I'm going to call you Bill."
"My dear Vingie," replied her princely chauffeur with profound
appreciation, "Bill was always my middle name."
Vingie lay back in murmuring peace. Her soul took wings and sought a
certain window in the Diplomats' Club where a neat elderly figure,
with gray thick hair and a Victorian mustache perused the _Morning
Post_, a thin-stemmed glass at his elbow.
"Oh, Charles," she crooned to herself, "you who preached marriage to
me, how many times have you done what I'm doing, you delightful old
hypocrite, except that my indiscretion's as innocent as the light of
day? How many girls haven't you eloped with in everything from a
post-chaise to a hansom cab, and told them all how you loved them,
with that perfect, devastating, far-too-wonderful-for-this-world
manner of yours? And yet you threaten me with the Far East and a
chaperon, you deceitful adorable darling. As if even that wouldn't
be worth setting my teeth to this delicious stolen fruit!"
She turned again to the tanned face beside her.
"Bill," she announced, "this might be a honeymoon, but it isn't."
"_Don't_," groaned the duke bitterly.
"It might be an escapade, but it isn't. I'm going to christen it
'The Quest of the Young Wild Oat.'"
They floated on north by east. They flickered through a
kinematograph film of summer green varied by distracting close-ups;
the halt in the market town at the foot of a fifteenth-century market
cross while a flock of sheep flowed by; the ten-minute answer to an
S.O.S. call from two unmechanical girls in a stricken two-seater; the
picnic lunch in a little wood with Vingie licking the traces of the
last peach from her slender fingers; the quest for cheap cigarettes
in a wayside village because his costly Turkish cloyed her palate.
Toward sunset they began their long climb upward on a moorland road,
with the everlasting heather stretching for miles on either hand.
The scented air grew keener; the car took on that super-efficiency
cars do take on mysteriously by twilight. Shaggy woods loomed up to
clothe the moorland fells; they won the peak of the road, dropped
down and swung into scarcely more than a bridle track, the furze
brushing their wings, the startled rabbits hopping wildly for safety.
Presently in the distance a little river gleamed, bordered by five
green tents, two of them each in its own isolation, three clustered
at a greater distance. The baggage car stood parked in the shelter
of the trees; a camp-fire sent up its cheery glow and scented wood
smoke. The duke swept round into a little clearing, reversed
faultlessly in line with the baggage car, switched off, removed a
glove, and held out his hand.
"Welcome to our camp, Vingie, dear," he said joyfully. "We've done
it. Let me help you down."
She sauntered stiffly to her own green tent, and Vokes ministered to
her; there came a shedding of dusty clothes, the steaming luxury of a
canvas bath, a clean, cool, costly linen frock simple enough to
deceive a man, the saunter back to a table spread beneath the rising
moon. The duke came out in comfortable gray flannel, they sat down,
and Figgis served dinner.
"They cook it over there," explained the duke, jerking his head to
the clustered tents. "I've arranged for a first-rate man. We may as
well be comfortable. Well, cheerio!"
Vingie raised her glass of bubbling wine. He watched her as if he
hoped to see it flow down her slender throat. She set down the
glass, rested her chin on her hands and smiled into his eyes.
"Bill," she murmured dreamily, "this is going to be sheer heaven."
Sleepily they ate, drugged by a day in the fresh air. Sleepily she
stretched for his cigarette-case, tilted her chin to the held match.
At last the beautifully waved head drooped; she offered her fingers
for a good-night clasp, staggered to her tent and slept like a baby,
with Vokes in the outer division lying between her and the censorious
world.
William Albert sat dreaming over a final cigar. With an effort
pathetic from fatigue he conjured up a mental image.
"Diane, Diane, if it were only you!" he said, and really believed he
meant it.
At seven thirty A.M. a slender figure shrouded in a cream and scarlet
bathing cloak tiptoed past Vokes and sought the sweet morning air.
Vingie, whistling softly, stretched one white arm to adjust her
already perfect bathing cap, and wandered in search of Figgis. She
found him as a good chauffeur should be found, in overalls grooming
his car.
"Figgis," began Vingie, "I want a message taken to the outer world,
and it's private. I want it handed in at a post-office with
instructions to wire it."
"We have a lad who runs errands on a motorcycle, miss," replied
Figgis, not unimpressed by the vision before him. "I will see to it
at once."
Vingie nodded, plucked a sheet of paper from an envelope and reread
it for the last time.
"Berriman, _Daily Tale_, London. Bring Diane day after to-morrow,
tea time. Place is Long Moor, near Cleckbarrow, Yorks. Bear left on
top of moor and make for river. Good luck. Virginia L."
"I'm very much obliged to you, Figgis," said Vingie, moistening and
sealing the envelope flap. Turning away on happy feet that longed to
dance she ran across to the duke's tent and stood listening.
"Coo-ee!" she cried at last. "Wake up, Bill! It's a lovely morning."
Two seconds later a pajama-clad form emerged from the tent door, hair
charmingly tousled, cigarette between fingers.
"Good morning," said Vingie. "Have you forgotten that river? Put on
your bathing-kit and be quick, 'cause I've been waiting hours."
He disappeared obediently. In five minutes, approaching the
river-bank he came upon a naiad in a scarlet one-piece swimming suit
seated upon her cloak with an air of great patience. She stood up,
waved a hand, raised her arms, stayed poised for one heart-beat, and
dived. A moment after his blue-clad form cut the air in pursuit.
"I'm going to cook breakfast, Bill," she announced later, pattering
tentward by his side. "You're keen on these real women, and you
think I'm only a butterfly. Run along and shave and I'll be ready
when you're finished."
By some miracle of galvanizing the sixty-year-old limbs of Vokes into
young activity, Vingie, when he came forth groomed and hungry, he
beheld deep in the mysteries of chafing-dish cookery.
Eggs and bacon sizzled with an appetizing smell; coffee steamed near
by. Figgis, having spread a table in the wilderness, looked on
indulgently. The duke praised while he marveled.
"I brought my own tools," explained Vingie, heaping his plate. "They
say seeing's believing. You never knew I was useful before, did you,
Bill? Look how the toy of an idle hour can produce grub and coffee
for two. And what are we going to do with our nice day?"
"Anything in the world you like, Vingie."
She thought a moment.
"Let's take the boat and sandwiches and go exploring along the wild
coasts of the river. If we get tired of it we can always land and go
for a tramp across the moor. I love a boat. It's kind of lazy and
romantic. Do you mind?"
The duke sighed. "No," he said. "I don't mind." He looked at her
thoughtfully while she sat bare armed in some little elbow-sleeved
rag and smiled at him from sheer vitality. "If you asked me to rig
up sky-hooks and a rope and try and climb to the moon I'd do it. One
does do things you suggest somehow. One gets the habit and then it's
fatal. You see, they always sound so nice when you say them."
All day she made a perfect playfellow. Sometimes she would be a
little girl, when she preferred not to walk any farther, and let him
take care of her. At others she played the calm sensible friend,
full of elder wisdom. Occasionally she remembered Diane and oozed
soothing maternalness, as when he cut his finger and she bound it up,
or when arriving back in camp she insisted on mending a tear in his
coat.
For dinner that night she arrived bathed, powdered, beautiful,
manicured, not one hair out of place, with a faint air of haughtiness
very compelling. Having made a worm of him she relented and became
kind as they sat smoking beneath the stars.
"Happy, Bill?" she asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"Know any more about what a woman can be to you than you did?"
"Oh well, you're not an ordinary woman. You're a witch or a devil or
a darling, and sometimes all three at once."
Vingie rose to her feet in judgment.
"Either every woman's ordinary or else there are no ordinary women.
Once a woman's attracted a man she can be anything she chooses to him
if she likes to take the trouble. Attracting him's easy. She only
has to ignore him and the vain thing comes running up to see why."
"No, really? By jove, you amaze me!" said the duke with mild sarcasm.
"So I'm going to bed, so night-night," she ended and left him,
proving the truth of her wisdom, for he sat down feeling a little
lonely and forsaken, wondering how she could bear to be without him,
seeing it was only nine o'clock.
They came at tea-time. Mr. Berriman knew that punctuality is the
courtesy of kings, having dealt with kings at odd times in the
execution of his duty; consequently his hired limousine rolled gently
into the duke's camp at four P.M. looking a little self-conscious and
metropolitan. The chauffeur gazed about with a "Well, I never!"
expression, got down, opened a door and consulted Mr. Berriman. Mr.
Berriman alighted, a comforting and unmovable figure in tweed, and
assisted Mademoiselle Diane de Blanchefôret to alight also. They
moved slowly in the direction of the two isolated tents.
Vingie and the duke sat in two comfortable deck-chairs awaiting tea.
Vingie was the first to behold the advance of Mr. Berriman and a tall
dark woman with dead white complexion who moved with the subtlety of
a snake, wearing an afternoon frock suitable for the races and an
immense black hat. The high heels of her wonderful shoes were such
as are forbidden by large and legible notices on all the best
golf-courses. She would have looked perfect in the Park or Bond
Street.
"Frenchwomen simply don't understand country kit," murmured Vingie to
herself, and aloud: "Oh, Bill, look what's blown in!"
The duke raised his eyes and froze. First the color drained from his
cheeks and then it returned at double-strength. Then his training
asserted itself. He had received too many deputations not to know
what to do. He went forward with outstretched hand.
Diane's dagger-glance flashed past him for one second to photograph a
perfectly adorable Vingie utterly self-possessed; then her smile
bathed the duke's unhappy face.
"_Ah! Monseigneur, que je suis enchantée de vous voir!_" she
exclaimed in a voice like milk trickling over white velvet.
"_Figurez-vous que nous nous sommes perdus! Permettez que je vous
présente Monsieur Bairymont._"
Mr. Berriman raised his soft felt hat and remarked: "How do you do,
sir? I must apologize for this descent on you, but we lost our way
on top of the moor. What a perfectly delightful spot!"
"Oh, a filthy hole really, but I rather like it," deprecated the
duke, and introduced him to Vingie. They met as perfect strangers.
Figgis, having grasped the situation from the alien chauffeur, came
forward to arrange tea.
Vingie with the feeling of one whose work is well done took the woman
guest tentward, and Vokes offered hairpins and face powder and all
that she had. Nevertheless all traces of Vingie's occupation had
been removed, and plain hair-brushes replaced her ivory-backed
treasures. From the subtle under-currents it was plain to her that
the romance of Diane and the duke was shattered into bits and on the
other hand would never be remolded nearer to the heart's desire. The
slight on Diane was too deep, the pride of the duke too profound.
The bright sallies and tinkling mirth of the tea-party proved this
beyond a doubt.
As Vingie sat marveling at her own cleverness, a second car curved
into the little clearing, an open touring car of distinguished
lineage. A door opened and Rupert alighted, turning to assist his
companion, the Lady Celia Pytchley. They advanced gently upon the
tea-party.
Rupert wore the expression of a murderer who, found with the body of
his victim, declares he has never noticed it before.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed with false geniality. "We thought we'd just
drop in to tea."
"Cheerio!" returned the duke with equivalent heartiness. "The very
thing! Figgis, two more cups, please."
Vingie smiled upon Lady Celia and Rupert as the sun shines on the
just and unjust alike, but her eyes when they met Rupert's told him
through the smile that rat-poison was too good for him. Lady Celia
being a pleasant, pretty girl who played all sorts of games, fitted
into the gathering without one wrinkle on her fair brow. If any man
had said, "What a fine day!" she would have replied "Yes, isn't it!"
and if he had continued, "No, it's wet!" she would have replied "Yes,
it is rather wet!" Thus she had the making of a perfect wife, but
Vingie's brain worked furiously nevertheless.
"Diane doesn't know me, but Celia and I played as children. There's
no deceiving even an imbecile who played with you as a child. I must
seem to be nothing but a tea-party guest and leave with the others.
If she knew I was staying here my reputation would disappear. As
Rupert has done me in it's up to him to rescue me."
With considerable skill she drew him aside and sauntered toward the
river-bank. Then she turned on him.
"I always realized you were a fool, Rupert," she said bitterly, "but
would you mind telling me exactly why even you brought Celia here?"
Rupert frowned thoughtfully.
"It is the theory of the attraction of opposites," he explained. "I
considered it likely that the violent contrast between you and her
might turn his fancy in her direction. It was an experiment in
psychology, my dear Virginia. Of course, I had no idea that other
woman would be here. It is most distressing that Lady Celia should
breathe the same air----"
"It would take more than air to hurt Celia," snarled Vingie. "My
dear Rupert, you're the hopeless frozen limit. I get him here
quietly, handle him perfectly for days, arrange for Diane to come
down looking like a film star on a desert island, and to-night I'd
have finished the job and packed him off to Celia in the morning.
Now I wash my hands of you and your duke. All I'm concerned is to
get away before Celia. She must never know I'm staying here."
"Why not?" asked Rupert kindly.
"Because----" retorted Vingie, fighting for breath, "because
it's--just possible--she might think it--funny. Not laughing funny
you know, curious funny, like widows who aren't married and that kind
of thing. Do you see that man over there with two arms and two legs?
That is Figgis, the chauffeur. Go and tell him to get the Rolls
ready and not be surprised when I tell him to drive me home, but just
to do it. And tell him to tell Vokes to hide. Celia must never see
Vokes. She might remember her. And tell him to get a coat of mine
and put it in the car. It looks better and I'll need it. And,
Rupert, if I didn't happen to have a hat on nothing could have saved
me. Now go!"
Rupert had at least one virtue, the capacity to obey. He went.
For ten minutes Vingie tossed the shuttle-cock of conversation
lightly to and fro. Then she rose and held out a hand to the duke.
He had long ceased to think or wonder; he hid a bruised and
bewildered boy behind a grinning society image, but under this last
blow his nerve almost cracked.
"Good-by," said Vingie. "I've enjoyed my tea most awfully; thank you
for a gorgeous time."
His eye, wandering helplessly, beheld Figgis, capped and dust-coated,
beside a purring Rolls.
"But," he began, "must you go? What about your----"
"My coat's in the car, thanks!" she broke in. "Rupert, you can take
me over to it if you like. Good-by, every one."
Once again, Rupert watched with disapproval while she escaladed the
sporting body.
"I didn't really want you; I loathe the sight of you," she explained
over the side of it. "But I must know which road your car will take."
"We go north. Celia and I are both staying with the Tees. I think
you are being a little unkind, Virginia."
"Let's go south then," said Vingie to Figgis, and at her word the car
glided away.
"I followed your instructions, miss," he reassured her. "I told the
other chauffeurs what I thought would do most good, and Vokes is
concealed in the stores tent."
"Jolly good of you, Figgis. Take me about twenty miles and stop at
some decent place for dinner, and then we'll go back when the coast's
clear."
Even as Vingie nourished herself in the ancient splendor of the Rose
& Crown while Figgis lurked in the outer darkness where chauffeurs
feed, the duke dined alone in his stricken camp. Diane had gone and
Celia had gone and Vingie, for all he knew, still traveled south in
his pet car. His dinner was badly served by some awkward substitute
for Figgis. Afterward he lay back in a cane lounge, smoked a cigar
and stared at the evening sky.
"A person in my position," he said to himself at last, "is doomed as
far as women are concerned. The suitable ones are dull and the
attractive ones aren't suitable. They do these things better in the
East; I believe I could get together a harem as well as the next
person if only people's silly prejudice didn't stand in the way."
The sight of an approaching car interrupted, but he never raised his
head. There had been so many cars that day. He did not hear
Vingie's feet upon the grass, and started when she laid a hand on his
shoulder.
"Bill, darling," she said reproachfully, "you didn't think I wouldn't
come back, did you? Have you forgotten this is our last night?
We've got to go home to-morrow."
"Don't touch me or I shall go mad," implored the duke. "You might
remember that when you touch them men are inclined that way, Vingie.
It may simplify life for you. Sit over there and listen."
She went obediently.
The duke held up his left hand and ticked things off on its fingers
with his right.
"Diane is finished," he began. "She looked rather a fool in those
clothes out here, and I looked rather a fool being caught here with
you. A man does look a fool when one woman catches him with another.
I don't know why. And directly people have looked fools, love ceases
to exist."
He paused, and ticked off a second item on a second finger.
"You," he went on, "are perfectly delightful. But with you it was
all fair and above-board, a kind of demonstration like when I go down
to Aldershot and a general with no brains, for reasons that don't
exist, maneuvers troops armed with blank cartridge against an enemy
that isn't there."
"The enemy was there, Bill," murmured Vingie. "And kindly don't
confuse me with people who have no brains."
"Well, never mind all that. Now we come to Celia. She's a nice
bright girl, and she'd never give me a moment's anxiety. But think
of a lifetime with a woman who never gave one a moment's anxiety!"
Vingie rose, seated herself on the edge of the cane lounge and slid
an arm behind his tired head. He let it fall back against her with a
little sigh.
"Listen," she said. "Celia will be just as nice to you as I've been.
All women are the same really. The difference between one and the
other is what you imagine. A man always falls in love with an
imaginary girl, but he marries a real one, and spends his life
discovering the difference. But with you it'll be the other way
round. You'll expect nothing and make all sorts of exciting
discoveries."
The duke reached up, drew her head down and kissed her
affectionately. At length he delivered judgment.
"If it were going to be you and not Celia I should never have a
moment's peace of mind till the grave closed over me," he said.
In her Park Street boudoir Vingie entertained Lord Fordingbridge to
tea. There is a certain appeal about these intimate entertainments
which no man is too old to appreciate. Lord Fordingbridge's genial,
rubicund countenance wore an expression of beatitude.
"So you see," continued Vingie, "I managed to persuade him finally.
But it was a fearf'ly narrow escape and I can't tell you how sick I
am with Rupert. He nearly wrecked everything."
There is also something in the charm of a delightful girl which makes
men reveal secrets they would do better to hide. Lord Fordingbridge
simpered self-consciously.
"As a matter of fact it wasn't Rupert's idea at all," he confessed.
"You don't mean you----?"
Lord Fordingbridge shook his head.
"I'm a very stupid old man. All I can do is to look cheerful and
pick other people's brains. But somehow I felt a little nervous
about our conspiracy--indeed you were somewhat uncertain yourself."
"Oh, no, I wasn't!" scoffed Vingie.
"So I went and had a chat with Charles," Lord Fordingbridge rumbled
on. "Charles is the brainiest fellow I know, a perfect marvel; never
makes a mistake. And Charles said to me: 'Arrange for Celia Pytchley
to find him with the other two.' So I got the Tees to ask her and
Rupert up to their place, and told Rupert what to do. Of course he
had to do it, so you mustn't be angry with him."
"And what was Charles' reason for the idea?" asked Vingie in a gray
voice.
Lord Fordingbridge chuckled.
"He explained it all to me, because you know I haven't his brain. He
said: 'I know Vingie's damned attractive and I presume Diane's damned
attractive, but Celia's absolutely safe. Now when he sees all three
together he'll lose his nerve and play for safety. He'll choose the
safe one and that's exactly what you want him to do.'
"'But why will he?' says I.
"'Because, you fool, a man always does!' says he, and you see he was
right. Charles was right! But your skilful handling of the
situation--your tact--your patience--your insight--marvelous, my dear
young lady. Simply marvelous!"
Vingie surveyed him in frigid silence. He continued to smile
benignly.
"I may say that the--ah!--investments you suggested have been made in
your name," he purred. "And the news of the duke's engagement shall
be announced in that deplorable newspaper, a copy of which, thank
God, I have never seen."
"And one thing more," demanded Vingie swiftly. 'You must send Rupert
to Mr. Berriman to arrange the announcement."
"But why?" asked Lord Fordingbridge dubiously.
Vingie's smile was very sweet.
"Because they'll put him in his place at the _Daily Tale_," she said.
"He'll stroll in languidly and they'll grab him, and shut him in a
waiting-room, and whiz him up in a lift and rush him into Mr.
Berriman's room and rush him out. They only let me stay five
minutes! And Charles' brain conceived it, but Rupert's was the hand
that torpedoed me."
Lord Fordingbridge, still smiling, turned his thumbs down.
V
The butler, hovering in Olympian calm over the ministrant footman,
stepped forward, moved the teapot one-sixteenth of an inch, stood
back, bowed his head in acknowledgment of perfection at length
achieved and passed out in the wake of his underling. Vingie, from
the depths of her cane armchair, blessed with her eyes the sweeping
terrace of Wynwood, the velvet swathes of shaven lawn, the
umbrageousness of the park, and came back contentedly to the
contemplation of her own delicious ankles. Sir Charles, draped in
the creamiest of flannel trousers, silk shirt, and the violent blazer
of the dear old regiment, surveyed her in dreamy reverie.
Vingie, pouring his tea with slender fingers, drenching it generously
in cream, fondled him with a glance half provocative, half maternal.
It is so hard for good-looking twenty to be altogether merciful.
"Charles," she murmured reproachfully, "I know you're thinking about
Mrs. Trevor-James."
"Nothing of the kind," retorted Sir Charles. "I was looking at you
and being perfectly happy. One can look at a beautiful ward and
experience a solely esthetic pleasure. It's one of the few pure
emotions of which we are capable."
"The violence of your flirtation with Mrs. Trevor-James has been a
great comfort to me, Charles," pursued Vingie, totally unmoved. "It
showed me that even at her age I shall still be dangerous, and it
proved to me the perpetual charm of sowing wild oats. She isn't your
first wild oat by any means, and yet you displayed a childish
excitement that was very pathetic. In the days to come when I am a
carefully corseted widow with a past----"
Sir Charles shook his head gravely.
"Youth! Youth!" he intoned, "so headstrong, so censorious, so
inexperienced! Yours is the age of greedy emotions, Virginia. You
mistake the harmless exercise of a perfect technique--since that is
all it amounts to at my time of life--for the sort of temperamental
thunder-storm you would indulge in if you dared. I have been a
soldier, a diplomat, a man of the world, and I tell you candidly that
wild oats in your case are like artificial pearls--a confession that
you were unable to achieve the real thing. With the solemnization of
every marriage a woman exchanges the inside of a cage for the outside
and a man the outside of a cage for the inside. Speaking as a
bachelor, honestly I don't see what more you can want."
"You're just a few years out of date, Charles. To-day a girl can
sneak out of her cage for a little sight-seeing and sneak back again
in time for the wedding. It's a sensible precaution, like learning
the language and looking up the history of a foreign country before
you go abroad. It enables one to know exactly the right sort of
cakes and things to throw between the bars to cheer up one's poor
caged man after he's caged."
A gentle smile modified Sir Charles' clean-cut mouth.
"Rupert has come on a lot of late," he said darkly. "You haven't
seen him for a month or more. You'd be surprised. He ought to be
here at any moment, unless the three-forty-five train is later than
usual."
"And what has caused the miracle?" queried Vingie with delicate scorn.
"I shouldn't wonder if it's some girl," chuckled Sir Charles. "It
would cause me a certain amount of amusement if you were to officiate
one day as one of Mrs. Rupert's bridesmaids. He'd be certain to ask
you; after all, he's known you since you were a child."
The distant purring of a car at the farther side of the house came
soothingly to their ears. Two minutes later the tall form of Rupert
emerged from a French window, his earnest preoccupied face wreathed
in a deprecating smile. Vingie leaned back in her chair literally
aghast at his transformation. She had expected a lank untidy figure,
its trousers baggy-kneed, its jacket sagging at the pockets, its hair
undisciplined, its shoes deplorable. She saw a young man of fashion
slenderly embraced by an inspired morning coat beneath which a cream
waistcoat peeped coyly. His striped trousers were ironed into a
tin-like severity, his white spats and patent shoes gleamed, the silk
hat he raised shot back the rays of the summer sun, and he carried a
gold knobbed straight Malacca cane with a certain _panache_.
"Good afternoon," began this vision, a little self-consciously.
"Forgive the festive appearance, but I came straight from an official
Foreign Office luncheon. The chief is motoring down late with Jim
Andaside. We're very worried about him. It is a most unfortunate
business all round."
"Tell us about it while I give you some tea, you standardized Don
Juan," scoffed Vingie. "Or perhaps you'd rather drink
whisky-and-soda; I'm afraid we haven't any absinthe. Do find him a
cigarette, Charles; it's the one touch lacking."
The bad habits of a lifetime not being conquered in a moment, Rupert
Frack tossed his glossy hat carelessly on to the grass and subsided
into a chair. Vingie stared in fascination at his sleek,
brilliantined head. "I mustn't," he said soberly. "Tea, please.
The chief will use his discretion. I rather think he wishes to
consult Uncle Charles. It's lovely weather for June, isn't it? By
jove, Virginia, what topping tea-cakes!"
"He even has polite conversation on the tip of his tongue," commented
Vingie. "Where did you learn all this, Rupert? Whose is the white
reforming hand?"
"To tell you the truth," he confessed, "it became my duty to
cultivate a certain rather attractive lady in whom the Foreign Office
was interested. We deported her last week, but newly acquired
mannerisms are apt to cling. I hope nothing unfortunate has happened
to the chief. Jim was bringing him down in a new car of recent
design. They should really be here by now."
"Man proposes but God disposes," commented Sir Charles, offering his
cigarette-case to Vingie.
A violent commotion resembling machine-gun fire heralded the arrival
upon a winding drive beneath the terrace of a car bristling with
ferocity whose two-seated body contained a rather grim-faced young
man and Lord Fordingbridge. His lordship descended with dignity from
the severely braked vehicle, which emitted irregular and protesting
booms from its exhaust, contemplated the exiguous body festooned with
luggage and spare wheels, shrugged his shoulders resignedly and
climbed the flight of stone steps leading to the terrace. He removed
his gray tall hat in sweeping homage to Virginia and gazed down on
the assembled tea-party.
"Jim is a good-hearted fellow and means well," he observed
judicially. "Nevertheless I have envied the French aristocrats
journeying in a tumbril to the guillotine ever since we left Hyde
Park Corner. The certainty of their end, swift and comparatively
painless, gave rise to my somewhat unchristian feeling. To have
one's innermost self spread out for the vulgar to gaze upon--an
imminent prospect for the last twenty miles--rather appals me. My
dear Virginia, to see you is more than sufficient reward for my
sufferings. You look positively blooming."
She smiled graciously and offered him a slender hand which he raised
to his lips in the old-time manner. She had a definite esteem for
this rubicund old gentleman with the heart of a child and the eye of
a connoisseur. He presented the Honorable James Andaside, a youthful
person of quiet exterior, foreboding hidden fires, whose battered
blue suit and stained finger-tips bespoke a descendant of Tubal Cain,
the Father of Artificers. His eyes dwelt gratefully on Vingie and
his voice wooed her, for women and petrol engines have much in common
and a man who is clever with cars may toy skilfully with girls.
Then, turning to Lord Fordingbridge he said briefly:
"Don't you agree she ought to land the Iberian contract?" He jerked
a wise young head toward the silent monster in the drive. Lord
Fordingbridge raised his eyebrows.
"We certainly progressed by leaps and bounds, if that is a
recommendation."
"You don't expect," remonstrated Jim Andaside, "a car with a high
compression engine, overlap valve timing, racing cams, aluminum
pistons and drilled con-rods to doddle along like a ten-year-old
taxicab."
"It is not my custom to indulge in fatuous expectations," responded
Lord Fordingbridge gravely, "and even if it were I should reflect at
some length before aspersing the very delicately organized mechanism
on which you and your associates have lavished so much anxious
thought."
Jim Andaside shrugged his shoulders.
"The only thing to do is to marry that infernal woman," he declared.
"After all, what does it matter? I spend all my time at the works."
"I shall revoke your passport, my dear fellow," countered Lord
Fordingbridge with his most child-like smile. "You won't be able to
leave the country. I may be only a foolish old man, but one day
you'll succeed to the title and we can't have the Earl of Borth tied
up to a Dago countess. There are more ways of choking a cat than by
killing it with butter."
"What is all this talk about the assassination of cats?" inquired Sir
Charles in his gently indulgent voice. "The great question is,
George, do you know the name of a horse that is bound to win at
Ascot? Higgins, the head-gardener, is pressing me for new shoes for
the pony that pulls the lawn-mower, and Virginia is positively in
rags."
"No wise man would risk his reputation by tipping the sort of rubbish
they breed now-a-days, Charles," sighed Lord Fordingbridge. "I've
got a tenner on Belted Earl for the Gold Cup at fifties, but it's
money thrown away. Jim, I wonder if you'd mind showing Rupert your
pet leviathan. After all, he comes into this strange business that
involves us all. Dear me, dear me, how extraordinary it seems! I
don't know what Lord Palmerston would think if he were alive."
His shrewd old eyes followed the departing pair of young men with
interest. "I find Rupert very well turned out lately," he went on
dreamily to Vingie. "Positively proud to be seen about with him.
But, my dear Virginia, my dear Charles, we are in a sad fix. The
cares of state become almost more than I can bear."
"Rupert half-hinted at some crisis, but, of course, he gave nothing
away," murmured Vingie with balm in her tone far transcending the
bedside manner of the most expensive consulting specialist. "Do you
think it might help if you were to tell us just the bare outlines?"
"The curse of old age is that one begins to take advantage of one's
friends!" declared Lord Fordingbridge passionately. "Y'see it's like
this: The war did one thing to one man and another thing to another,
and it got young Jim Andaside mixed up in trade. He nearly broke
poor Bob Berth's heart, especially as Geoffrey, the eldest boy, was
smashed up so badly that marriage is out of the question for him.
That means Jim will succeed to the title eventually. He always had
low mechanical tastes--don't know one end of a horse from the other,
God help him, and I never saw such a disgraceful game shot in my
life--and he actually apprenticed himself to a firm of motor
engineers, Daimely or Wolseler or some one.
"He was a Sapper during the war, and happened to come across some
dreadful fellow--I'm not sure he wasn't an Australian--who had an
idea for a new-fangled car. Anyhow, they started to manufacture the
thing, but the Australian--if he was an Australian, but he may have
been a Canadian--broke his neck testing a new model. So now Jim's on
his own. He's made quite a bit of money out of it, which rather
reconciled his family, for, of course, dear old Bob Borth hasn't a
bean, and one day what does he do but find out that the Iberian
Republic is bringing the whole of its internal transport up to date."
"Iberia? Iberia?" pondered Vingie. "Isn't that where the Russians
used to knout prisoners to death before the Bolsheviks destroyed all
the old Russian civilization?"
"You're thinking of Siberia, my dear," corrected Lord Fordingbridge
with the large tolerance of the expert. "Iberia is one of those
Latin countries, somewhere in the region of Portugal or something.
Rupert would know exactly. Hitherto the Iberians have stuck to the
ox-carts of their forefathers, but there's been a terrible wave of
progress since the war, and the government felt it ought to encourage
motor transport. So Jim gets an introduction to the president of
Iberia and practically persuaded him to sign a contract for five
thousand Catapult cars, just as a beginning, so to speak."
"Clever blighter," murmured Sir Charles, hiding a yawn. "But how
dull and soulless these commercial transactions are, my dear George.
How much more picturesque the Iberian peasant appears seated in the
ox-cart of his ancestors!"
"Ah, but he wouldn't be supporting the Borths in their ancient
fastnesses, dear old boy! However, before Señor Alphonso del
Sol--that's the president's name, y' know--could put pen to paper,
his only daughter appeared on the scene."
Lord Fordingbridge paused, and sighed.
"She has no mother to guide her, poor girl, her father being a
widower. It may be that or it may be her nature, but I understand
that Maria Dolores del Sol practically runs Iberia.
"They're a romantic lot of scoundrels, and there's probably a great
deal more _noblesse oblige_ going about than is good for the young
lady. She's nineteen, but of course, in that climate they mature
very early."
He glanced guardedly at the chair which enshrined Vingie's twenty
flower-like years. "Her seniority in this country would be at least
twenty-five. Independent witnesses assert that she's remarkably
good-looking--naturally, in that florid Iberian fashion. Probably
nobody would look at her twice over here."
"Your delicacy does you credit, but pray don't mind me," said Vingie
very sweetly. "The question is, what did she do to Jim Andaside?"
"She played him simply the meanest trick a woman has it in her to
play," answered Lord Fordingbridge with emotion. "She fell in love
with him at first sight, and in a long life of diplomacy I never
heard of anything more miserably selfish. Jim aroused in her all
those terrible possessive instincts with which Providence curses
woman; she conjured up visions of an establishment, a wedding ring,
servants, tradespeople, cradles, and Heaven knows what else. She
insists on marrying the poor boy, and if he refuses the contract for
these five thousand cars will never be signed."
"And still," observed Sir Charles, "I fail to see why that should
worry you. Jim isn't your child, and I imagine you haven't invested
money in this undertaking."
"You don't understand, Charles. You've been out of harness for some
time--_otium cum dignitate_ so to speak. Diplomacy and commerce are
sadly mingled nowadays. Every ambassador carries a ready reckoner in
his pocket. The Foreign Office has to keep an eye on a big deal with
a foreign state; it means a lot of employment here next winter, and
there's a certain prestige attaching to the whole thing. Jim's got
the heart of a lion; he'd marry the girl sooner than lose the
contract, but my feeling is that we sacrificed enough young lives
during the war. Besides I can't hear of dear old Bob being saddled
with an Iberian daughter-in-law. At the same time Jim won't listen
to any scheme that jeopardizes the contract. You're a sound fellow,
Charles, and you know how stupid I am. I wonder if you could think
of any way out."
"I know a little about women and a great deal about Dagoes, and I can
see Jim with a handle of a knife sticking out between his
shoulder-blades," Sir Charles replied thoughtfully. "What is this
car we are discussing? Has anybody ever heard of it? There is only
one car that any decent person cares to be seen in, as far as I know."
Lord Fordingbridge, with shame written all over his face, furtively
extracted a leaflet from his waist-coat pocket, adjusted his glasses,
and read: "The Catapult car. For those who have no time. It needs
none. Faster than a flapper. Wears like a wife. Scrap your
'ought-to'-mobile for the Buzz-bus that Does!"
"I call that jolly clever!" commented Vingie.
"May God forgive him," groaned Sir Charles.
"It goes on to mention things like 'full-floating axles' and
'spiral-bevel drives,'" explained Lord Fordingbridge apologetically,
"but I needn't profane your ears with any more. Nevertheless I
understand that for the sort of people who like that kind of thing
the Catapult car is most satisfactory. The Iberian Government
proposed to guarantee a scheme of easy payments--a dreadful system
devised for the classes that can neither owe like a gentleman nor pay
cash like a profiteer. As I said, however, Maria Dolores has queered
everything. There's a kind of moratorium for a fortnight and after
that, Heaven alone knows."
"Well," declared Sir Charles, "I don't want to seem like a rat
leaving the sinking ship, but I should like to be excused from
interfering, George. Blackmail I can understand, and embezzlement,
and highway robbery, but this has the drawbacks of each and the
virtues of neither. If I haven't got a pure heart I like to have
clean hands."
"How wise you are, Charles, darling. It takes a woman to beat a
woman at her own game. As long as her heart is pure she can always
wash her hands," said Vingie in her clear modern voice, smiling a
little.
"Ah!" sighed Lord Fordingbridge. He leaned back easily in his
comfortable chair. The anxious lines round his mouth relaxed. He
hummed a little tune, one that took London by storm in 1878. "My
dear," he went on craftfully, "it is quite a time since I saw the
rose-garden. I wonder whether you would be so kind as to show it me.
Somehow or other I can never manage to grow roses like Charles does.
He brings a touch of genius to everything."
She drifted rose-garden ward beside him, utterly adorable in her
brief tennis frock. Lord Fordingbridge felt himself move in an
atmosphere of extreme benevolence dashed with romance. Ultimately he
took a perfect specimen of Gloire de Dijon speculatively between
thumb and finger, and said simply:
"My dear Virginia, what is your opinion?"
"How should a mere foolish girl rush in where Cabinet ministers fear
to tread?" responded Vingie with humility.
"In this case, to be quite frank, she would do it almost on her own
terms."
"My poor friend, you must indeed be worried! I'd love to help you
for nothing because I'm ever so fond of you, but I'm very hard up and
Charles is such a dear I can't bear to sponge on him. You do
understand, don't you?"
"I think I could promise a commission of ten shillings per car
supposing the deal for this five thousand cars goes through without
Jim's marrying Maria Dolores. That's two thousand five hundred
pounds. It would buy quite a number of frocks."
"Yes. Thank you!" said Vingie, raising her fair young face to the
light and letting Lord Fordingbridge admire it in the academic spirit
of an expert. "A girl, of course, doesn't make a fool of herself
over a man like a man does of himself over a girl. Jim must appeal
to her vanity. Probably he shows up rather well beside the local
men; he's more athletic and capable, and he's done a certain amount.
Besides it's practically certain he made love to her, partly for the
sake of business, mostly from habit. The great thing is not to
thwart her or else she'll never let him go. If we could show her
something better than Jim, or make her feel he's not worth troubling
about, the whole thing's perfectly simple. It's a very delicate
matter. I should need to go out to Iberia, and take Charles, and
probably Rupert. You see, she mustn't get the idea that I want Jim
myself. I'd suggest that I wouldn't touch him with a long stick. I
expect I'm putting it all very badly. May I have a quiet talk with
Jim after dinner? Do you feel you can trust me?"
Lord Fordingbridge patted gently the loveliest shoulder this
generation has produced.
"Tiresome and ugly monuments have been erected in important
thoroughfares to people who have done far less than you are about to
accomplish," he said with conviction....
"Mary," announced Vingie half an hour later, "I must try to be almost
nice-looking this evening. Chuck an extra handful of bath-salts in
the bath--those _Baisers d'Amoureuse_ are the thrilliest I think--and
I should like a rather passionate make-up. I want to impress a young
man who's just left the most beautiful girl in Iberia. Do you think
we can manage it?"
"With the cream and gold gown it'll be quite simple, miss.
Accustomed as he has been to dark young ladies wearing brilliant
shades, your fair complexion and a gown to match will take his breath
away."
"What a comfort you are, Mary--so sympathetic and understanding,"
murmured Vingie, snatching a kimono about her slender form and
sliding her little feet into pink mules.
In truth, when after a very satisfactory dinner, the one girl among
three men, the pampered darling of an admiring trinity, she took Jim
Andaside apart, subjecting him to the third degree, herself and her
intriguing frock reduced him to a very suitable frame of mind.
She took in subconsciously his alert figure, the gray eyes in a thin
tanned face, the intelligent hands.
"Lord Fordingbridge suggested I might be able to help over this
Iberian affair," she began slowly. "Do you mind telling me exactly
how you stand with Maria Dolores!"
His eyes dwelt thoughtfully on hers.
"Strange as it may sound, she insists on marrying me. I've done
everything in reason. I gave her a Catapult salon with a gold-plated
body and scarlet cord upholstery. It sounds disgusting, but it suits
the Iberian taste. I've left her my head tester, Pete Hannen, to
drive it, because it's one of three racing models, with a special
engine all machined out of the solid, and I don't want her to break
her neck. She rides about looking like the band-wagon out of a
circus, as happy as a kid."
"Have you ever kissed her?"
"I never tell tales. Besides, what's that got to do with it?"
"Well," said Vingie severely, "you shouldn't have done."
"You don't know Iberia as well as I do," he sighed.
"'The wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandu
And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.'
Besides, when she's in the mood Maria Dolores positively palpitates,
and if a young lady produces a stiletto from her garter and spikes it
through your shirt over your heart, and swears you shall never live
to look at another woman, and then you have to take the stiletto
away, and she shows you the marks of your fingers on her wrist, life
becomes a little difficult."
"The idea is to convince her that personally you're not worth
bothering about."
"I'm not proud, but you'll have a job to find anything to beat me in
Iberia."
"Do you _want_ to marry this girl?" demanded Vingie icily.
"God forbid! I don't want to marry any girl until I've sold a
Catapult to every man, woman and child who's got the price of it.
But I should hate you not to realize the difficulties we have ahead
of us."
He smiled gently and placed his finger-tips together.
"It's a great life if you don't weaken, isn't it? But I'll do
anything in order to be rescued. I want to plant those five thousand
cars on the Iberian public."
"Well, if you'll be kind enough to leave me and ask Lord
Fordingbridge to spare me a few minutes I dare say it can be
arranged," said Vingie, with more casualness than actually she felt.
It did not seem desirable for the young man to overrate his personal
charm because he had impressed a simple Iberian damsel unaccustomed
to the Anglo-Saxon. Presently Lord Fordingbridge arrived.
"How wonderfully you understand women," murmured Vingie as he stood
surveying her with respectful homage. "Do sit down and I'll try to
work out a plan. The only thing I can think of is to make her give
him up out of pique. If you could arrange for Charles and Rupert and
me to go out to Iberia as I said, and for Charles and Rupert to pose
as directors of the Catapult Car Company while Jim is just a
salesman, it might work wonders. Of course, we'll all treat Maria
Dolores and her father most tactfully and rather snub Jim. I think
I'll be engaged to Rupert for the time being--it doesn't matter; I
know him so awfully well--and that will annoy Maria Dolores too. And
if the worst comes to the worst we can invite her over here. I
should like to arrange a little newspaper publicity for her in case
of accidents. Mr. Berriman--of the _Daily Tale_--can work anything.
If I could promise to take a little advertising space for this car
he'd feed out of my hand."
"Just as you wish, my dear Virginia," replied Lord Fordingbridge.
"Jim can't afford to refuse me anything at the moment. I will
arrange for him to transfer the necessary stock to Charles and
Rupert; it amounts merely to a paper transaction, for they will
hardly wish to retain an interest in the company. I will also give
instructions for cabins to be reserved in a steamer sailing, shall we
say, at the end of next week, and accommodation in Peixoes, the
capital of Iberia. That is, I'll leave it all to Rupert; I'm afraid
I haven't a head for these tiresome details, but he's a wonderful
fellow. Now I can scarcely look up a train in a time-table, but
then, why should I if I can get somebody else to do it for me?"
Vingie rose from her chair, placed a hand affectionately on his arm,
and moved across the drawing-room to the open French windows giving
upon the terrace. A full moon sailed high in the summer heavens and
the mingled scent of lawns and flower borders drifted intoxicatingly
on the air.
"It's an ideal sentimental setting," she murmured _à propos_ of
nothing. "Could I borrow Rupert for a moment or two?"
When Rupert stepped out on to the terrace she was standing by a vast
ornamental vase set on the balustrade dividing the terrace from the
gardens. Slowly she raised one white arm to remove the cigarette
from between her lips, turned, leaned against the balustrade and
faced him.
"I hardly know you nowadays, Rupert," she began irrelevantly. "You
used to look like something out of a rag-bag. Now you're perfectly
beautiful; was the deported lady so very charming?"
Rupert Frack, a very modish figure indeed in one of the daring new
double-breasted white dress waistcoats, shrugged his shoulders with
dandified grace.
"Have you ever observed, Virginia, how extremely trivial life is?" he
asked with cynical flippancy. "Even you judge entirely by exteriors.
For instance, my good work in connection with the Navigable Waters of
the Danube, my Minute on the Trans-Caucasian Iron Mines, my Report on
the Latvian Boundary Commission left you absolutely unmoved. But
because a man runs an iron rather more frequently up and down the
legs of my trousers, because I brilliantine my hair and double my
tailor's bill, you are impressed."
"I'm not impressed but I used to be rather sorry for you," explained
Vingie in the kindness of her heart.
"Well," replied Rupert, dropping his platform manner, "it doesn't
matter. You see one has to have one's pose; you've yours,
Fordingbridge has his and I have mine. It took people's eye, it gave
me time to work, I had to work in order to get on. But, having
established myself in the Foreign Office, I can afford to blossom
forth a little. How lovely blossoming is when you've kept yourself
severely in bud-formation for ever so many years."
"I never did. I was always a wild one, the gilded little prodigal,
the sickening anxiety in darling Charles' stately life. I've sown
several wild oats, Rupert, and I'm on the point of sowing some more.
You've got to come and help sow. It's this sordid business of Jim
Andaside and the Iberian siren, Lord Fordingbridge has lent me you
for the time being, but I suppose you've heard. Now that you've
started to blossom it may make life even more dangerous for me, but
you little know what chilled-steel nerve a girl has to have in these
insidious days. By the way, Rupert, how do I strike you in your
blossoming state?"
She stood before him, chin lifted, lips parted, eyes daring him.
Rupert smiled a smile more eloquent than words. The best cut sleeve
in Mayfair crinkled to enfold her slight beauty; his half-sensitive,
half-stern mouth stooped to hers. With a calm, unhurried turn of her
head, Vingie foiled him, with that barren gesture every pretty girl
knows so well and enjoys so much. She moved carelessly from the
circle of his arm and looked him up and down.
"For the last four years, Mr. Rupert Frack," she said venomously,
"I've been just as pretty as I am now, just as fascinating, just as
enthusiastic, and you preferred the waters of the Danube. I dare say
you knew what you were doing, but you don't imagine I'm going to
stand still like a good little girl and be kissed on the first
occasion when you can distinguish me from a Caucasian iron mine, do
you?"
"And you don't suppose you can stand there asking for it and not have
me try, do you?" reproved Rupert.
"I never need to ask, and I'm not accustomed to men who merely try.
No, go away, and listen. You've repented a little too late, Rupert.
By now so many men have made love to me that I'm very difficult. I
doubt if you'll ever appeal to me in the right way. I know you so
well--I can see the very thought flick in and out of your mind. But
you shall have this much opportunity. Directly we're outside the
three-mile limit on our voyage to Iberia, you will become officially
engaged to me, the engagement to cease as soon as we reenter the
three-mile limit on our way back. This engagement carries no
privileges and I shall be very exacting, but it'll be a wonderful
chance for you to learn. Now you may take me indoors."
Somewhere within, Jim Andaside, having repaired the stricken motor of
a large gramophone, was giving it a trial run, and the strains of a
foxtrot quivered in the air. Vingie sighed faintly, snuggled into
Rupert's arms and whirled with him over the polished parquet of the
vast drawing-room. "Dancing lessons too!" mocked Vingie. "Oh,
Rupert, Rupert, you reckless dog!"
The music of the gramophone ceased. At the foot of the historic
staircase she paused and extended a slender hand. Reverently he
raised it to his lips.
"George Fordingbridge does it better, but the instinct is
praiseworthy," murmured Vingie. "Good night, Rupert, darling."
Mr. Berriman was glad when Vingie invited him to a tête-à-tête
luncheon at Sir Charles' town house in Park Street. Accustomed to
dealing with mere reporters, foreign adventurers, privy conspirators
and rebels, his keen quiet eyes rested with pleasure on his adorable
hostess clad in a summer toilet of such inspiration as even improvers
might not fell or hem until they had been beaten with rods.
Somewhere in the thirties, disillusioned and self-reliant, he knew he
had not been asked for nothing, so he said politely:
"It's some time since we made newspaper history together. What scoop
have you got for me this time, Miss Lauriston?"
Vingie laughed and shook her head. Mr. Berriman thought he had never
seen anything more fascinating than the side curl that hid her ears.
"You know I've never brought you a scoop yet, but one day we'll wreck
Fleet Street," she crooned. "I'll be perfectly candid. This is the
situation."
Mr. Berriman listened quietly to the plight of Jim Andaside deftly
set forth.
"What I want you to do," explained Vingie, "is to work as many
paragraphs about Maria Dolores as you can into the _Daily Tale_. Let
me have the name and address of your Peixoes correspondent and I'll
send them through him. The idea is to give the girl a swollen head
and make her despise Jim. In return I can promise you a certain
amount of advertising, and the exclusive news of the contract, if we
put it through. Will that be fair, do you think?"
"Perfectly," answered Mr. Berriman gravely. "I'd like some personal
stuff about you too, if you don't mind. We could use a photograph,
and have a little story about your trip to Iberia, referring to you
as the charming young society beauty. I realize how you must loathe
anything of the kind but you have a certain responsibility to the
public."
"And if I have to bring Maria Dolores to England I can still rely on
you, can't I?"
"Let me choose my own photographer and we'll boost her even if she's
as plain as a pikestaff," promised Mr. Berriman. "Forgive me if I
run away but I've got a man coming to see me at three. Unfortunately
life isn't all feasting and revelry. How I wish it were!"
After he had gone Vingie sat idling joyfully, savoring adventure to
come. Upon her musing the arrival of a messenger broke abruptly. He
brought a note from Rupert and a sheaf of roses, typifying both sides
of that astonishing young man's nature, the routine and the romantic.
The note contained a _résumé_ of necessary facts: "The train leaves
at ...... the car will be at the door at ...... the boat sails at
...... on ...... your state room is number ......" Attached to this
order of march she found a list of useful phrases:
It is too expensive; have _Es demasiado caro. No_
you nothing cheaper? _tiene usted nada mas barato?_