IN DANES INN
Some men maintained that it was not the quantity, nor the quality, nor
the colour of Peggy Ryle's hair that did the mischief, but simply and
solely the way it grew. Perhaps (for the opinion of men in such matters
is eminently and consciously fallible) it did not grow that way at all,
but was arranged. The result to the eye was the same, a peculiar harmony
between the waves of the hair, the turn of the neck, and the set of the
head. So notable and individual a thing was this agreement that Arthur
Kane and Miles Childwick, poet and critic, were substantially at one
about it. Kane described it as 'the artistry of accident,' Childwick
lauded its 'meditated spontaneity.' Neither gentleman was ill-pleased
with his phrase, and each professed a polite admiration of the other's
effort--these civilities are necessary in literary circles. Other young
men painted or drew the hair, and the neck, and the head, till Peggy
complained that her other features were neglected most disdainfully.
Other young men again, not endowed with the gift of expression by tongue
or by hand, contented themselves with swelling Peggy's court. She did
not mind how much they swelled it. She had a fine versatility, and could
be flirted with in rhyme, in polished periods, in modern slang, or in
the deaf-and-dumb alphabet; the heart is, of course, the thing in such a
matter, various forms of expression no more than its interpreters.
Meanwhile Peggy learnt men and their manners, caused a good deal of
picturesque misery--published and unpublished--and immensely increased
the amenity of life wherever she went. And she went everywhere, when
she could pay a cab fare and contrive a frock, or borrow one or both of
these commodities. (Elfreda Flood, for instance, often had a frock.) She
generally returned the cab fare, and you could usually regain the frock
by personal exertions; it was not considered the correct thing to ask
her directly for either. She had an income of forty pounds a year, and
professed to be about to learn to paint in real earnest. There was also
an uncle in Berlin who sent cheques at rare and irregular intervals.
When a cheque came, Peggy gave a dinner-party; when there had been no
cheque for a long while, Peggy accepted a dinner. That was all the
difference it made. And anyhow there was always bread-and-butter to be
had at Airey Newton's. Airey appeared not to dine, but there was tea and
there was bread-and-butter--a thing worth knowing now and then to Peggy
Ryle.
She had been acquainted with Airey Newton for two years--almost since
her first coming to London. Theirs was a real and intimate friendship,
and her figure was familiar to the dingy house whose soft-stone front
had crumbled into a premature old age. Airey was on the third floor,
front and back; two very large windows adorned his sitting-room--it was
necessary to give all encouragement and opportunity to any light that
found its way into the gloomy _cul-de-sac_. Many an afternoon Peggy sat
by one of these windows in a dilapidated wicker arm-chair, watching the
typewriting clerk visible through the corresponding big window opposite.
Sometimes Airey talked, oftener he went on with his work as though she
were not there; she liked this inattention as a change. But she was a
little puzzled over that work of his. He had told her that he was an
inventor. So far she was content, and when she saw him busy with models
or working out sums she concluded that he was at his trade. It did not
appear to be a good trade, for he was shabby, the room was shabbier, and
(as has been mentioned) he did not, so far as her observation went,
dine. But probably it kept him happy; she had always pictured inventors
as blissful although poverty-stricken persons. The work-table then, a
big deal one which blocked the other window, was intelligible enough.
The mystery lay in the small table on the right hand of the fireplace;
under it stood a Chubb's safe, and on it reposed a large book covered in
red leather and fastened with a padlock. She had never seen either book
or safe open, and when she had asked what was in them, Airey told her a
little story about a Spartan who was carrying something under his
cloak--a mode of retort which rather annoyed her. So she inquired no
more. But she was sure that the locks were unfastened when she was gone.
What was there? Was he writing a great book? Or did he own ancestral
plate? Or precious--and perhaps scandalous--documents? Something
precious there must be; the handsomeness of the book, the high polish by
which the metal of the safe shamed the surrounding dustiness, stood out
sure signs and proofs of that.
Peggy had just bought a new frock--and paid for it under some
pressure--and a cheque had not come for ever so long; so she ate
bread-and-butter steadily and happily, interrupting herself only to pour
out more tea. At last Airey pushed away his papers and models, saying,
'That's done, thank heaven!' and got up to light his pipe. Peggy poured
out a cup of tea for him, and he came across the room for it. He looked
much as when he had met Trix Trevalla in Paris, but his hair was shorter
and his beard trimmed close and cut to a point; these improvements were
due to Peggy's reiterated entreaties.
'Well?' he asked, standing before her, his eyes twinkling kindly.
'Times are hard, but the heart is light, Airey. I've been immortalised
in a sonnet----'
'Dissected in an essay too?' he suggested with ironical admiration.
'I don't recognise myself there. And I've had an offer----'
'Another?'
'Not that sort--an offer of a riding-horse. But I haven't got a habit.'
'Nor a stable perhaps?'
'No, nor a stable. I didn't think of that. And you, Airey?'
'Barring the horse, and the sonnet, and the essay, I'm much as you are,
Peggy.'
She threw her head back a little and looked at him; her tone, while
curious, was also slightly compassionate.
'I suppose you get some money for your things sometimes?' she asked. 'I
mean, when you invent a--a--well, say a corkscrew, they give you
something?'
'Of course. I make my living that way. He smiled faintly at the
involuntary glance from Peggy's eyes that played round the room.
'Yesterday's again!' he exclaimed suddenly, taking up the loaf. 'I told
Mrs. Stryver I wouldn't have a yesterday's!' His tone was indignant; he
seemed anxious to vindicate himself.
'It won't be to-morrow's, anyhow,' laughed Peggy, regarding the
remaining and much diminished fragment in his hand. 'It wasn't badly
stale.'
Airey took his pipe out of his mouth and spoke with the abruptness of a
man who has just made up his mind to speak.
'Do you know a Mrs. Trevalla?' he asked.
'Oh, yes; by sight very well.'
'How does she strike you?'
'Well--certainly pretty; probably clever; perhaps---- Is she a friend of
yours?'
'I've known about her a long while and met her once.'
'Once! Well, then, perhaps unscrupulous.'
'Why do you think she's unscrupulous?'
'Why do you ask me about her?' retorted Peggy.
'She's written to me, proposing to come and see me.'
'Have you asked her? I can't have you having a lot of visitors, you
know. I come here for quiet.'
Airey looked a little embarrassed. 'Well, I did give her a sort of
general invitation,' he murmured, fingering his beard. 'That is, I told
her to come if--if she was in any difficulty.' He turned an appealing
glance towards Peggy's amused face. 'Have you heard of her being in any
difficulty?'
'No; but I should think it's not at all unlikely.'
'Why?'
'Have you ever had two people in love with you at the same time?'
'Never, on my honour,' said Airey with obvious sincerity.
'If you had, and if you were as pleasant as you could be to both of
them, and kept them going by turns, and got all you could out of both of
them, and kept on like that for about two months----'
'Oh, that's how the land lies, is it?'
'Don't you think it possible you might be in a difficulty some day?'
'But, good heavens, that's not the sort of thing to bring to me!'
'Apparently Mrs. Trevalla thinks differently,' laughed Peggy. 'At least
I can't think of any other difficulty she's likely to be in.'
Airey was obviously disturbed and displeased.
'If what you say is true,' he observed, 'she can't be a good sort of
woman.'
'I suppose not.' Peggy's admission sounded rather reluctant.
'Who are the two men?'
'Lord Mervyn and Beaufort Chance.'
'M.P.'s, aren't they?'
'Among other things, Airey. Well, you can't tell her not to come, can
you? After that sort of general invitation, you know.' Peggy's tone was
satirical; she had rather strong views as to the way in which men made
fools of themselves over women--or sometimes said she had.
'I was an old friend of her husband's.'
'Oh, you've nothing to apologise for. When does she want to come?'
'To-morrow. I say, oughtn't I to offer to go and call on her?'
'She'd think that very dull in comparison,' Peggy assured him. 'Let her
come and sob out her trouble here.'
'You appear to be taking the matter in a flippant spirit, Peggy.'
'I don't think I'm going to be particularly sorry if Mrs. Trevalla is in
a bit of a scrape.'
'You young women are so moral.'
'I don't care,' said Peggy defiantly.
'Women have an extraordinary gift for disliking one another on sight,'
mused Airey in an injured voice.
'You seem to have liked Mrs. Trevalla a good deal on sight.'
'She looked so sad, so solitary, a mere girl in her widow's weeds.' His
tone grew compassionate, almost tender, as he recalled the forlorn
figure which had timidly stolen into the dining-room of the Paris hotel.
'You'll find her a little bit changed perhaps,' Peggy suggested with a
suppressed malice that found pleasure in anticipating his feelings.
'Oh, well, she must come anyhow, I suppose.'
'Yes, let her come, Airey. It does these people good to see how the poor
live.'
Airey laughed, but not very heartily. However, it was well understood
that everybody in their circle was very poor, and Peggy felt no qualms
about referring to the fact.
'I shall come the next day and hear all about the interview. Fancy these
interesting things happening to you! Because, you know, she's rather
famous. Mrs. Bonfill has taken her up, and the Glentorlys are devoted to
her, and Lady Blixworth has said some of her best things about her.
She'll bring you into touch with fashion.'
'Hang fashion!' said Airey. 'I wonder what her difficulty is.' He seemed
quite preoccupied with the idea of Mrs. Trevalla's difficulty.
'I see you're going to be very romantic indeed,' laughed Peggy Ryle.
His eyes dwelt on her for a moment, and a very friendly expression
filled them.
'Don't you get into any difficulties?' he said.
'There's never but one with me,' she laughed; 'and that doesn't hurt,
Airey.'
There was a loud and cheerful knock on the door.
'Visitors! When people come, how do you account for me?'
'I say nothing. I believe you're taken for my daughter.'
'Not since you trimmed your beard! Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Let
him in.'
The visitor proved to be nobody to whom Peggy needed to be accounted
for; he was Tommy Trent, the smart, trim young man who had danced with
her at Mrs. Bonfill's party.
'You here again!' he exclaimed in tones of grave censure, as he laid
down his hat on the top of the red-leather book on the little table. He
blew on the book first, to make sure it was not dusty.
Peggy smiled, and Airey relit his pipe. Tommy walked across and looked
at the _débris_ of the loaf. He shook his head when Peggy offered him
tea.
A sudden idea seemed to occur to him.
'I'm awfully glad to find you here,' he remarked to her. 'It saves me
going up to your place, as I meant. I've got some people dining
to-night, and one of them's failed. I wonder if you'd come? I know it's
a bore coming again so soon, but----'
'I haven't been since Saturday.'
'But it would get me out of a hole.' He spoke in humble entreaty.
'I'd come directly, but I'm engaged.'
Tommy looked at her sorrowfully, and, it must be added, sceptically.
'Engaged to dinner and supper,' averred Peggy with emphasis as she
pulled her hat straight and put on her gloves.
'You wouldn't even look in between the two and--and have an ice with
us?'
'I really can't eat three meals in one evening, Tommy.'
'Oh, chuck one of them. You might, for once!'
'Impossible! I'm dining with my oldest friend,' smiled Peggy. 'I simply
can't.' She turned to Airey, giving him her hand with a laugh. 'I like
you best, because you just let me----'
Both words and laughter died away; she stopped abruptly, looking from
one man to the other. There was something in their faces that arrested
her words and her merriment. She could not analyse what it was, but she
saw that she had made both of them uncomfortable. They had guessed what
she was going to say; it would have been painful to one of them, and the
other knew it. But whom had she wounded--Tommy by implying that his
hospitality was importunate and his kindness clumsy, or Airey by a
renewed reference to his poverty as shown in the absence of pressing
invitations from him? She could not tell; but a constraint had fallen on
them both. She cut her farewell short and went away, vaguely vexed and
penitent for an offence which she perceived but did not understand.
The two men stood listening a moment to her light footfall on the
stairs.
'It's all a lie, you know,' said Tommy. 'She isn't engaged to dinner or
to supper either. It's beastly, that's what it is.'
'Yours was all a lie too, I suppose?' Airey spoke in a dull hard voice.
'Of course it was, but I could have beaten somebody up in time, or said
they'd caught influenza, or been given a box at the opera, or
something.'
Airey sat down by the fireplace, his chin sunk on his necktie. He seemed
unhappy and rather ashamed. Tommy glanced at him with a puzzled look,
shook his head, and then broke into a smile--as though, in the end, the
only thing for it was to be amused. Then he drew a long envelope from
his pocket.
'I've brought the certificates along,' he said. 'Here they are. Two
thousand. Just look at them. It's a good thing; and if you sit on it for
a bit, it'll pay for keeping.' He laid the envelope on the small table
by Airey's side, took up his hat, put it on, and lit a cigarette as he
repeated, 'Just see they're all right, old chap.'
'They're sure to be right.' Airey shifted uncomfortably in his chair and
pulled at his empty pipe.
Tommy tilted his hat far back on his head, turned a chair back foremost,
and sat down on it, facing his friend.
'I'm your business man,' he remarked. 'I do your business and I hold my
tongue about it. Don't I?'
'Like the tomb,' Airey acknowledged.
'And---- Well, at any rate let me congratulate you on the
bread-and-butter. Only--only, I say, she'd have dined with you, if you'd
asked her, Airey.'
His usually composed and unemotional voice shook for an almost
imperceptible moment.
'I know,' said Airey Newton. He rose, unlocked the safe, and threw the
long envelope in. Then he unlocked the red-leather book, took a pen,
made a careful entry in it, re-locked it, and returned to his chair. He
said nothing more, but he glanced once at Tommy Trent in a timid way.
Tommy smiled back in recovered placidity. Then they began to talk of
inventions, patents, processes, companies, stocks, shares, and all
manner of things that produce or have to do with money.
'So far, so good,' ended Tommy. 'And if the oxygen process proves
commercially practicable--it's all right in theory, I know--I fancy you
may look for something big.' He threw away his cigarette and stood up,
as if to go. But he lingered a moment, and a touch of embarrassment
affected his manner. Airey had quite recovered his confidence and
happiness during the talk on money matters.
'She didn't tell you any news, I suppose?' Tommy asked.
'What, Peggy? No, I don't think so. Well, nothing about herself,
anyhow.'
'It's uncommonly wearing for me,' Tommy complained with a pathetic look
on his clear-cut healthy countenance. 'I know I must play a waiting
game; if I said anything to her now I shouldn't have a chance. So I have
to stand by and see the other fellows make the running. By Jove, I lie
awake at nights--some nights, anyhow--imagining infernally handsome
poets---- Old Arty Kane isn't handsome, though! I say, Airey, don't you
think she's got too much sense to marry a poet? You told me I must touch
her imagination. Do I look like touching anybody's imagination? I'm
about as likely to do it as--as you are.' His attitude towards the
suggested achievement wavered between envy and scorn.
Airey endured this outburst--and its concluding insinuation--with
unruffled patience. He was at his pipe again, and puffed out wisdom
securely vague.
'You can't tell with a girl. It takes them all at once sometimes. Up to
now I think it's all right.'
'Not Arty Kane?'
'Lord, no!'
'Nor Childwick? He's a clever chap, Childwick. Not got a _sou_, of
course; she'd starve just the same.'
'She'd have done it before if it had been going to be Miles Childwick.'
'She'll meet some devilish fascinating chap some day, I know she will.'
'He'll ill-use her perhaps,' Airey suggested hopefully.
'Then I shall nip in, you mean? Have you been treating yourself to Drury
Lane?'
Airey laughed openly, and presently Tommy himself joined in, though in a
rather rueful fashion.
'Why the deuce can't we just like 'em?' he asked.
'That would be all right on the pessimistic theory of the world.'
'Oh, hang the world! Well, good-bye, old chap. I'm glad you approve of
what I've done about the business.'
His reference to the business seemed to renew Airey Newton's discomfort.
He looked at his friend, and after a long pause said solemnly:
'Tommy Trent!'
'Yes, Airey Newton!'
'Would you mind telling me--man to man--how you contrive to be my
friend?'
'What?'
'You're the only man who knows--and you're my only real friend.'
'I regard it as just like drinking,' Tommy explained, after a minute's
thought. 'You're the deuce of a good fellow in every other way. I hope
you'll be cured some day too. I may live to see you bankrupt yet.'
'I work for it. I work hard and usefully.'
'And even brilliantly,' added Tommy.
'It's mine. I haven't robbed anybody. And nobody has any claim on me.'
'I didn't introduce this discussion.' Tommy was evidently pained. He
held out his hand to take leave.
'It's an extraordinary thing, but there it is,' mused Airey. He took
Tommy's hand and said, 'On my honour I'll ask her to dinner.'
'Where?' inquired Tommy, in a suspicious tone.
Airey hesitated.
'Magnifique?' said Tommy firmly and relentlessly.
'Yes, the--the Magnifique,' agreed Airey, after another pause.
'Delighted, old man!' He waited a moment longer, but Airey Newton did
not fix a date.
Airey was left sorrowful, for he loved Tommy Trent. Though Tommy knew
his secret, still he loved him--a fact that may go to the credit of both
men. Many a man in Airey's place would have hated Tommy, even while he
used and relied on him; for Tommy's knowledge put Airey to shame--a
shame he could not stifle any more than he could master the thing that
gave it birth.
Certainly Tommy deserved not to be hated, for he was very loyal. He
showed that only two days later, and at a cost to himself. He was dining
with Peggy Ryle--not she with him; for a cheque had arrived, and they
celebrated its coming. Tommy, in noble spirits (the coming of a cheque
was as great an event to him as to Peggy herself), told her how he had
elicited the offer of a dinner from Airey Newton; he chuckled in pride
over it.
How men misjudge things! Peggy sat up straight in her chair and flushed
up to the outward curve of her hair.
'How dare you?' she cried. 'As if he hadn't done enough for me already!
I must have eaten pounds of butter--of mere butter alone! You know he
can't afford to give dinners.'
Besides anger, there was a hint of pride in her emphasis on 'dinners.'
'I believe he can,' said Tommy, with the air of offering a hardy
conjecture.
'I know he can't, or of course he would. Do you intend to tell me that
Airey--Airey of all men--is mean?'
'Oh, no, I--I don't say----'
'It's you that's mean! I never knew you do such a thing before. You've
quite spoilt my pleasure this evening.' She looked at him sternly. 'I
don't like you at all to-night. I'm very grievously disappointed in
you.'
Temptation raged in Tommy Trent; he held it down manfully.
'Well, I don't suppose he'll give the dinner, anyhow,' he remarked
morosely.
'No, because he can't; but you'll have made him feel miserable about it.
What time is it? I think I shall go home.'
'Look here, Peggy; you aren't doing me justice.'
'Well, what have you got to say?'
Tommy, smoking for a moment or two, looked across at her and answered,
'Nothing.'
She rose and handed him her purse.
'Pay the bill, please, and mind you give the waiter half-a-crown. And
ask him to call me a cab, please.'
'It's only half a mile, and it's quite fine.'
'A rubber-tired hansom, please, with a good horse.'
Tommy put her into the cab and looked as if he would like to get in too.
The cabman, generalising from observed cases, held the reins out of the
way, that Tommy's tall hat might mount in safety.
'Tell him where to go, please. Good-night,' said Peggy.
Tommy was left on the pavement. He walked slowly along to his club, too
upset to think of having a cigar.
'Very well,' he remarked, as he reached his destination. 'I played fair,
but old Airey shall give that dinner--I'm hanged if he sha'n't!--and do
it as if he liked it too!'
A vicious chuckle surprised the hall-porter as Tommy passed within the
precincts.
Peggy drove home, determined to speak plainly to Airey himself; that was
the only way to put it right.
'He shall know that I do him justice, anyhow,' said she. Thanks to the
cheque, she was feeling as the rich feel, or should feel, towards those
who have helped them in early days of struggle; she experienced a
generous glow and meditated delicate benevolence. At least the
bread-and-butter must be recouped an hundredfold.
So great is the virtue of twenty pounds, if only they happen to be sent
to the right address. Most money, however, seems to go astray.