unturned to prevent the worst from coming about. When Mademoiselle
returns I will make her comprehend that her dearly loved father's
happiness is in her hands. She has but to make a small sacrifice which
she will never regret. Even for herself it would be well, were there no
other to consider, for there is on the scene a _person extremely
undesirable_ of whom Mademoiselle is thinking too much. I have been
asked to warn her against him, and I do my best, but it is a delicate
situation. Mademoiselle can be obstinate as the camel. She would have
little regard for my advice had I not come to her from Madame.
With unfailing devotion and respect, I am the humble servant of Madame
la Marquise,
ANGELE DUBOIS.
X
EDWARD CASPIAN TO MRS. SHUSTER
MY DEAR FRIEND:
If I dated this letter "The Stanislaws House," it would suggest nothing
to you except a hotel. It's not a hotel; but it has _no name_, and it is
generally spoken of in this way. As a matter of fact, it ought to be
mine, and I've suffered from a strong sense of irritation in being
brought here against my will. I couldn't prevent the party coming,
however, and as I didn't care to turn my back while P. S. had everything
his own way, I let myself be dragged, as you might say, at his
victorious chariot wheels.
We were to have gone to the nearest hotel, as you know, for your
telegram to me (just forwarded) and the proofs for Storm were both
addressed there. P. S. had this invitation up his sleeve as a surprise
for the crowd. His pal Moncourt knows the man to whom the place was left
by young Stanislaws, or else he got the favour through the man's lawyer,
which I think more likely. But no use troubling you with details of the
affair, which can't interest you as it does me. Suffice it to say it's a
very fine place, and there's something queer about the ownership which,
as it happens, my detectives are at this very time trying to get at the
root of. I've never ceased to feel that I have been defrauded. I suspect
Storm heard something of the story from Moncourt, and put him up to
arranging the "surprise" more to annoy me than to please any one else.
Well, he scored, I can't deny. But the man laughs best who laughs last,
you know, and it's my turn now. I got my chance at Piping Rock, as I
expected; and as I shan't arrive at Kidd's Pines with the others, I am
writing this to put you on to the situation; also to acknowledge your
telegram. It was nice of you to send it like that, the minute you got my
scolding letter from Easthampton. I'm sorry I was so severe, though I
had some excuse to be cross. I forgive you freely, now things are
turning out a little better, and I ask you to do the same with me.
I am writing, as before, in a hurry, for I have to go to New York on
important business. My own car has been put to rights, and I am
expecting it to turn up at any minute. I shall post this, express, on
the way to town.
Well, the little lady played me a trick day before yesterday. Watch out
for her, my friend! She looks as innocent as a Christmas card angel, but
she's got something of the pussy cat in her composition. Not that I like
her the less for that. It's more exciting. The only way is, to know what
one may have to expect, and be ready for emergencies. She may try to
make trouble for _you_ in a certain direction, so hurry up and fix
things! But so far as I'm concerned, it seems as if I'd got her in hand
since last night.
The trick she played was to send me off, driving her beastly
Grayles-Grice, and carting the Goodrich family round the country, while
she and Peter Storm spooned in an imitation Italian garden. I hadn't a
notion the girl meant to stay behind till I was in the car with the
wheel in my hand. The Goodrich lot were in, too. One of them wanted to
know what we were waiting for? I said, "For Miss Moore." "Oh, she isn't
coming!" remarked the gigantic young female. "She's got letters to
write."
Letters be blighted! It took all my _noblesse oblige_ not to step out of
the automobile and refuse to stir. But it would have looked rather too
marked, and that little devil of a Mrs. Winston would have been too much
tickled. Her car was close by at the time, and for once she'd stopped
chattering, no doubt to see how I would bear the blow she probably knew
was coming. My one satisfaction was to give her _none_! But I hoped for
more later, and got it, as you are going to hear.
I had made a plan for the evening, in case Storm showed up for the
dance. It was quite a simple one. I hadn't given him a special
invitation, as I had the others, and if he took it for granted he was
asked, it was his own fault. I knew that one of the most exclusive women
in society was coming to the dance, Mrs. Sam de Silverley. You may have
known she was on your ship, though it's unlikely you saw her, as she was
badly sick all the way across, I've heard. She's been rather friendly
with me since I came into my money; in fact, I helped to get her the
house she's taken for the summer, not far from the Piping Rock Club. It
belongs to a man I know, a great golfer, in France with the American
Ambulance just now; and it was on my programme for the day to call and
ask her to be nice to my party in the evening. I did call, while the
crowd were having a picnic-lunch, ran the Grayles-Grice to her place,
and stopped long enough for coffee. She's fond of a little gossip, and
knew all about the debacle at Kidd's Pines of course. I gave her a few
picturesque details of P. S. and his exploits on land. Mrs. Sam had
already heard of those at sea. The stewardess and her maid had cheered
the monotony of the voyage by describing the "Stormy Petrel," as it
seems you all called him on shipboard. I let _you_ down lightly; said
that out of charity you'd employed the man to do secretarial work, to
which he was entirely unsuited, but that he was thoroughly at home as
chauffeur. I enlarged a little on his impudence, and remarked that I
shouldn't be surprised if he had the cheek to turn up at the dance,
pretending to be my guest.
"If he does, I have enough influence in the club to see that he is asked
to go," Mrs. de Silverley assured me. And that was exactly what I
wanted. It would be awkward for me, in the circumstances, to have him
put out, I said, but if the club did it, understanding that he was _not_
my guest, I should be grateful.
This was the whole of my original plan, and I carried it out as
intended. But since beginning to work it up, I found I had Miss Patty to
punish as well as P. S. I concentrated my whole mind on my objective
while the Goodrich girls admired the scenery, during the afternoon run;
and toward evening I thought I saw my way to something _big_.
You haven't seen the Piping Rock Club yet, I think. Well, it's
absolutely _it_, and only the right people belong. There's fine golf,
and tennis of course, and I've heard Englishmen say the lawns are more
like the turf "at home" than any they've seen on this side. In fact,
Winston said that very thing to-day: called the club an "American
Ranelagh." Not that I set much value on his opinion! The clubhouse
itself is just like some jolly old country house: white shingles and
green blinds, green and white awnings, large open court with brick walks
running all around, and a fountain playing in the middle, wicker chairs
scattered about the court, and window boxes full of pink flowers, wide
verandas or loggias, or whatever you call them, where you can have tea
or most anything else you want; a lot of rooms with comfortable
chintz-covered furniture, jolly chintz like the old patterns at Kidd's
Pines, and a ballroom fit for Buckingham Palace. You'll love the place;
but I'm not describing it to make you regret stopping at home. If things
have gone right with you, it would take twenty Piping Rocks to do
that--and _then_ one! All I'm aiming at is to show you the swell sort of
setting I had for my stage last night.
The big dances are in the fall and winter. This one was a special
affair, very smart but not big, and that made every one there more
conspicuous. Our crowd had about the only strangers in it. Pretty well
all the rest knew each other, and most of them belonged to the same
clique. I felt good all over, as if I had a chance of coming into my
own, when I found Storm in the chauffeur's seat of the Grayles-Grice,
ready to drive us to the dance. He was in evening clothes under his big
coat: had worn them to dinner of course, pretty weird ones; ready made,
I should say. I guessed that he meant to brave the business out, though
I wasn't quite easy in my mind up to the last that he wouldn't make some
excuse to go home when he'd got us to the clubhouse. But not a word of
the sort did he utter. On the contrary, I heard him tell Miss Moore she
"wasn't to forget their dance." That made me hot in the collar, and if
I'd been inclined to wobble before, I nailed my colours to the mast
then. Not only was I egged on by my anger against that fellow, who has
deliberately put stumbling-blocks in my way from the first, but by my
sincere desire for Miss Moore's welfare. Quite apart from my wishes
where she is concerned, nothing could be worse for her than an
entanglement with an adventurer like Storm--a man from the dark, you
might call him, if you chose to say nothing worse. And already the
Goodriches are talking--made jokes in the automobile yesterday about the
two who had stayed at home to "write."
How girls manage to squeeze such a lot of clothes into small space, I
don't know. Anyhow, Miss Patty and the Goodriches and the two young
married women didn't appear in the same dresses they had worn for the
dance at Easthampton. I never saw Patty look so pretty, though as a rule
I don't like green, and to me it's unlucky. I shall never let her have
another green dress when we are married, becoming though the colour may
be. Storm was looking after the Grayles-Grice when the rest of us went
into the clubhouse, so I knew the dance Patty was to "remember" couldn't
be the first. I asked her to sit it out with me, and she hesitated a
minute. "Has some one else got ahead of me?" I asked. She said no, but
she had been thinking she wouldn't give the first dance to any one; she
would "sit with Molly and Jack." It shot into my head that she didn't
want Storm to come in and find her with me, knowing he wastes no love on
yours truly. I was mad, but I kept cool. "All right, let me sit with you
all three," I said. "I've got something important to tell you that can't
very well wait."
I saw by her eye what she thought the "something important" was, so I
hurried to disabuse her mind. "It's about Storm," I explained. "I don't
know whether you'd care to save him serious trouble, but you can do so
if we talk the thing over while there's time."
"Of course I would care to!" she said. "He's been very kind to Larry and
me."
In my opinion it was the other way round, but I didn't stop to argue. I
took her into the ballroom, having previously found out that Mrs. Sam de
Silverley hadn't arrived yet. I was counting on her being a bit late.
She generally is--for the sake of the effect.
When we were sitting down together, Patty and I (all the rest of our lot
dancing, except the Winstons), I didn't waste a second in firing off my
first gun. "I want to ask you frankly, Miss Moore," I began, "to tell me
if you know whether Storm intends to be present at this dance to-night."
"But yes!" she answered in that funny French way she has, that would be
difficult to put on paper if one wanted to. "He will come in a few
minutes."
"Oh," said I. "That's a pity."
"Why a pity?" she wanted to know.
"Because he's not invited, and that is going to make it mighty
awkward--worse than awkward."
"But, you invited us all," she insisted. "You are a member. You have the
right----"
"I have the right, but I didn't exercise it for Storm's benefit. I
shouldn't have thought of doing so. The rest of the party are gentlemen
and ladies. The club can make no objection to them as guests. Storm is
a chauffeur. I should have insulted the club by inviting him, and I
certainly didn't do so."
Patty flushed up, and her eyes turned black. She can be a regular little
_tiger_ cat, that girl! She must have been spoilt by the nuns in that
blessed convent of hers! I believe she'd have liked to box my ears. But
I knew I had the whip hand, and I was enjoying myself. "He's _not_ a
chauffeur. You know that!" she snapped. "He kindly drives my car these
few days, because we couldn't replace the man who went, and because I am
not experienced. If it comes to that, _you're_ a chauffeur, too. You
drove the Grayles-Grice to-day, and you would to-morrow, if I said yes."
"You are talking sophistry," said I, though I don't suppose she knew
what I meant, as I believe she thinks in French. "Storm is a paid
employe of Mrs. Shuster. He's been switched off one job on to another to
accommodate. And he admits he's had former experience as a chauffeur,
driving a Grayles-Grice. Anyhow, the fact remains that's the way his
status will be regarded here, and if he comes in, claiming to be my
guest, in self-defense I shall have to deny it, otherwise I might be
asked to resign. When I've had to give him the lie, he will be kicked
out of the place. That's a sure thing."
Patty began to look sick, and her green dress wasn't as becoming as it
had been while she was just plain mad. "You said something about my
saving him trouble," she reminded me. "What did you mean?"
"Well, you could do one of two things," I began to explain. "You could
come out now with me in a hurry before he gets in, to head him off and
tell him in your own words what I've just said."
"I would rather die than do such a very insulting thing!" she rapped
out, rolling her r's as if she were beating a drum.
"All right then, there's one thing left--that gives you a little more
time, but not much, because if the crash isn't to come the question has
got to be decided in a few minutes, before the arrival of a certain
lady--as a matter of fact, a lady who was on your ship and knows all
about Mr. Peter Storm. When _she_ appears on the scene she'll enter a
complaint, and the affair will be out of our hands. You will then be too
late to save Mrs. Shuster's secretary and your friend the chauffeur from
a nasty knock which may leave a black mark for the rest of his
life--make it hard for him to get new situations and that sort of
thing."
"Tell me quickly what to do and I will do it!" she said.
"Ask me as a favour to you to speak up for Storm. If you do I shall
grant the favour, no matter what it may cost me. But as it will most
likely cost me my membership when the story comes out later (which it
will) why, I sort of feel as if you'd hate to have me give you that
favour for nothing."
"I do not ask you to give it for nothing!" said she.
"But you do ask the favour. Is that what I'm to understand?"
"Yes. I do ask that."
"You don't think you'd better wait and hear what I want for my reward
before you decide?"
"No. Because whatever you want I will do rather than have Mr. Storm hurt
for life, when it was I who persuaded him to come." (I think she said
"me," but that's a detail. I adore her little slips!) "He objected,
because there were some good reasons he couldn't tell me for him _not_
to go to a big fashionable dance, but I thought that was just because he
was modest. I wanted to show him how I felt--how Molly Winston and _all_
of us feel, except you, the _Socialist_"--(I wish you could have heard
how she hissed that word at me!)--"so I begged him to come, to please
_me_. Then he told me he would, and now it seems I bring him to
humiliation. It is terrible! Yes, I will do anything to save him. And
now what is it you want?"
Poor little tragedy queen, I was almost sorry for her, in spite of her
tricks! But I was punishing her for her own future good. Think of the
difference for a girl between being Mrs. Edward Caspian and Mrs. Peter
Storm!
"Can you guess?" I asked.
"Perhaps I can; perhaps I can't. You had better put it into words, and
see how it sounds."
"Well, I only want you to say what your father wants you to say, and
what you let me think you might be willing to say, if you weren't so
young. I want you to be engaged to me. Once you've promised, I shall
feel safe, and won't press you too much or too soon for the rest. We can
talk the future over with Mr. Moore when we get back to Kidd's Pines."
"_Soit!_" said Patty, which sounded like slang for a slap, but I
happened to remember it was French for something or other. (I asked Mrs.
Sam later, and she thought it meant "So be it.") "_Soit!_ Now go this
instant and make everything perfectly right for Mr Storm, because here
he comes, and if any one is rude, _nothing_ I have said counts."
I bounded away from her, as if she'd shot me out of a gun, and crossed
the room to meet Storm. It was the first time I had ever been cordial,
and he let me see he was surprised. Such was his manner that it was all
I could do to keep up the show of friendliness, but I knew Patty was in
a mood to come down on me like a thousand of brick if the least detail
went wrong. My only fear was that Mrs. Sam might have said something to
somebody prematurely; but apparently she hadn't. I explained to Storm I
must definitely introduce him as my guest, because all the other names
had been mentioned, and not his. You could have knocked me down with a
feather when he said, "Oh, I'm not _your_ guest. I'm here on the
invitation of Mr. James Strickland of New York, and Huntington, Long
Island, who is one of the oldest members of this club, as I dare say you
know. But he doesn't come to the dances."
For a minute I was weak in the knees. I saw all my work destroyed. But
when I'd got my second wind I realized that nothing was changed. Patty
would never tell Storm that she'd engaged herself to me to save him from
being turned out of the Piping Rock Club. She'd be too proud for such a
confession, and, besides, she'd hate to upset his feelings to that
extent. When she's not in a temper she's almost absurdly kind, and when
she _is_ in a temper, it generally seems to be with me. But I shall
change that, later. There was still danger, however, from Mrs. Sam. I
had warned her to pull Storm off his perch; now I must warn her to leave
him on it, or Patty's promise wouldn't stand. I let Storm go, even
though I knew he was going straight to _her_. She was engaged to marry
me, and I could trust her--as far as I could see her anyhow!
Presently Mrs. Sam floated in with a suite consisting of one husband,
one daughter, and several satellites of both sexes. She had on the most
expensive dress in the room, I should judge, and her hair was done in a
way which nobody could help noticing on account of the diamond
sign-posts; consequently she was in a good humour. I paid her
compliments, and then pretended suddenly to remember our conversation of
the afternoon. "Oh, by the by," said I, "that fellow I was telling you
about turns out to be better than I thought. He's not a professional
chauffeur, and apparently he's a gentleman by birth. Anyhow, he's a
protege of James Strickland the New York lawyer, and is introduced here
by him, not by me. He's got the countersign! We'd better consider him a
friend and let him pass--what?"
"Oh, certainly, if he's under the protection of Strickland," said Mrs.
Sam. "James Strickland is the most successful of the decent lawyers in
New York. One never knows when one may want his services, and he's
merciless, positively _merciless_, if he gets down on anybody. We'll let
sleeping dogs lie."
Whether she meant that Strickland or Storm was a sleeping dog, or that
they'd both lain down together, I don't know, and don't care. I'd got
what I wanted!
"I wonder why it is Miss Moore's green dress seemed so becoming the
first part of the evening," said the oldest and shortest Miss Goodrich
to me when we were sitting out an extra (I'd as soon try to dance with
the Statue of Liberty as with her), "and now it doesn't suit her at
all."
If she'd known it, that remark was less complimentary to me than to
Patty herself; but she didn't know, for the engagement isn't out yet.
It won't be till after I arrive at Kidd's Pines with the ring (choosing
it is part of my business in New York), and meanwhile I've gone into all
these details in my letter to you, so that you'll be "on to" the
situation. I've helped you, and if you see any need for a special effort
before I get back (or afterward either for that matter) I shall rely on
you. Besides, each one of us agreed to report progress to the other. If
I hadn't seized upon this happy thought for the dance, I might have had
my work cut out to get Patty, once you'd secured the father. I have a
vague and not very self-flattering idea that she was keeping me up her
sleeve, so to speak, for use in order to "save" her father. Well, she
"saved" Storm instead, so her philanthropic instincts haven't been
wasted. The question is--though you mayn't think me very gallant to ask
it--is there any fear of its working the other way round? I, having
permanently promoted the family fortunes, will our friend "Larry" jog on
quietly with the bit in his mouth?
You have fair warning, anyhow, and I hope to see you day after
to-morrow.
I am a different man from the one who wrote you last time.
Your sympathetic friend,
E. CASPIAN.
XI
PETER STORM TO JAMES STRICKLAND
_Huntersford._
_My Simple Life Room. Unearthly Hour; but leading Hen
has just laid my breakfast Egg._
HAIL, FATHER CONFESSOR!
When you read what I have to say, if you weren't a model of (several, if
not) all the virtues, you'd say, "I told you so!" But you're a cynic at
head, not at heart, and you allow yourself to be sarcastic only in the
privacy of your own brain-pan as a rule.
I warn you I want to gush, and having stripped myself of all alleged
friends and acquaintances (except you) as a tree strips itself of leaves
in winter, I've no one else to gush to.
Perhaps it's but fair to myself, though, to explain that it doesn't feel
like "gush" to me. I use the word only because I'm a coward and fear to
have you think me a sentimental idiot. I'm trying to let myself down,
you see, as easily as I can!
It's a queer thing (I don't know whether a punishment or an omen of
blessing) that our talk when you prophesied my repentance took place on
the same road I travelled last night in a car of the same make and same
power. The same moon which gazed coldly on you and me, and maybe
eavesdropped, beamed sympathetically on me and some one else a few
hours ago, and if it had sense, witnessed your poetic justification.
Now I ask for your advice again, and this time--if it's anything like
what I want--I'll take it.
But I find it isn't as easy to get on with my confession as I thought it
would be. I'm nervously inclined to put the cart before the horse. Or,
I'm hanged if I'm sure which is the cart and which the horse!
The spell of the moon is upon me still. I feel myself two men--the man
who argued you down; the man who wishes you had downed him. I wonder if
you remember that night--my last on this side of the water--as well as I
do? Can you see us two, after our secret visit to _the_ house, getting
into the car? The moon a boat tossing a silver prow high into the blue,
and the stars small bright points like sequins flung in the air at an
Eastern wedding. Away we go, slipping through Cold Spring Harbor; trees
pouring past the car like smoke, hills olive gray in the moonshine; old
white houses dreaming of their stately past; young houses wide awake and
playing bridge or victrolas; carpets of baby bracken; dark, slumbering
forests planted by forgotten Indians; stretches of fair country with
pools of moonlight ringed in shadow shores; then, _your_ dear old
seafaring town of Huntington, where to-night, by the way, I had a
glimpse of your own delightful butter-yellow house as we slipped along
the road between your lawn and the water. The weeping willows moving in
the breeze looked like silver fountains, and the thick blossoms of the
apple orchard might have been a million hovering white moths.
You and I had no such fancies in our heads that night, had we? We
didn't think that each side road we passed looked as if it led to
fairyland--more fools we! But I was always a fool. I see that now, when
my brain is suddenly seized with growing pains.