DEPUTATIONS--WITH A DIFFERENCE
Hughie let himself into his chambers in Jermyn Street, and rang the bell
of his sitting-room. It was a comfortable bachelor apartment, with
sporting trophies on the walls, cavernous arm-chairs round the
fireplace, and plenty of pipes dotted about the mantelpiece.
It was eleven o'clock on a fine morning in March, and Hughie had been to
Putney to stroke a scratch eight against the Cambridge crew, who had
rowed a full trial on the early flood and required a little pacing
between bridges.
Presently the sitting-room door opened, and John Alexander Goble
presented himself upon the threshold. Since his unregenerate days on
board the Orinoco a new and awful respectability had descended upon him,
and in his sober menial attire he looked more like a Calvinistic divine
than ever. He regarded his employer with some displeasure.
"Your breakfast has been sitting in the fender these twa hours," he
observed bitterly.
"Sorry, John. Afraid I forgot to countermand it. I had some at Putney."
"At what hour?" inquired the inexorable Mr. Goble.
"Half-past seven, about, with the crew."
"It's eleven the noo. You'll be able for some mair, I doot. Forbye it's
a pity to waste good food. Bide you, while I'll get it."
Hughie, who was as wax in the hands of his retainer, presently found
himself partaking of a lukewarm collation and opening his letters.
He glanced through the first.
"John!" he called.
Mr. Goble appeared from the bedroom.
"Were you cryin' on me?" he inquired.
"Yes. Did two gentlemen call here at ten?"
"Aye."
"Who were they?"
"Yon felly Gaymer, and anither."
"Who was he?"
"I couldna say."
"What was he like?"
Mr. Goble cast about him for a suitable comparison.
"He was just a long drink o' watter," he announced at last, with an air
of finality.
"Did he look--like an actor?" inquired Hughie, with a flash of
intuition.
"Worse than that," replied Goble.
"Um--I think I know him. Thank you, that will do. By the way, I'm
expecting some friends to lunch. Captain and Mrs. Leroy--and Mr. D'Arcy.
You know him, don't you?"
"D'Arcy? Aye, I mind him fine. A fat yin, wi' a lum hat tied up wi'
string. A popish-lookin' body," commented Mr. Goble sorrowfully.
He retired downstairs, to ponder upon the dubiety of the company into
which his employer appeared to be drifting, and Hughie returned to his
letters.
The sight of the next caused him to glow suddenly, for on the back of
the envelope he observed the address of Joan's flat. But he cooled when
he turned it round and read the superscription. It was in the
handwriting of the lady with whom Joan shared the flat.
"DEAR MR. MARRABLE [it said],--
"Joan and I are coming to call on you to-morrow about twelve--"
"They'd better stay to lunch." Hughie touched the bell and continued,--
"Dear Joan is very young in some ways, and she has no idea of
the value of money; but since talking the matter over with _me_
recently, she would like to have a few words with you about her
financial position.
"How delightful to see the leaves coming out again!--Believe me,
yours sincerely,
"URSULA HARBORD."
"'Dear Joan would like'--_would_ she?" commented Hughie. "I'm afraid
it's Ursula Harbord I'm going to have the few words with, though.
Hades!"
He rose and crossed the room to the fireplace, where he kicked the coals
with unnecessary violence. Then he sighed heavily, and picked up a
photograph which stood upon the mantelpiece.
Joan had spoken nothing but the truth when she told Hughie that he would
discover his true feelings as soon as he found himself away from her.
For six or eight months he had gone about his day's work with the
thoroughness and determination of his nature. He had administered the
little estate of Manors, was beginning to dabble in politics, had taken
up rowing again, and was trying to interest himself generally in the
course of life to which he had looked forward so eagerly on his travels.
He had even tried conclusions with a few _débutantes_ who had been
introduced to his notice by business-like Mammas. But whatever his
course of life, his thoughts and desires persisted in centring round a
single object,--a very disturbing and elusive object,--and try as he
would, he failed to derive either pleasure or profit from his present
existence.
In other words, he had made a mess of a love-affair.
Most men--and most women too, for that matter--undergo this experience
at least once in their lives, and no two ever endure it in the same way.
One rants, another mopes, a third forgets, a fourth bides his time, a
fifth seeks consolation elsewhere, a sixth buries himself in work or
dissipation. Hughie, who cherished a theory that everything ultimately
comes right in this world provided you hold on long enough, and that
when in doubt a man should "stand by the Day's Work and await
instructions," like Kipling's Bridge-Builders, had gone steadily on,
because it was his nature so to do. It was uphill work at present,--a
mechanical perfunctory business, with no reward or alleviation in
sight,--but he was determined to go on doing his duty by Joan to the
best of his ability, and combine so far as he was able the incompatible
_rôles_ of stern guardian, undesired suitor, and--to him most
paradoxical of all--familiar friend.
For there was no doubt that Joan liked him. She trusted him, consulted
him,--yea, obeyed him, even when he contradicted her most preposterous
utterances and put down a heavy foot on her most cherished enterprises.
For this he did without flinching. The fact that he was a failure as a
lover seemed to be no reason why he should fail as a guardian.
Not that Joan submitted readily to his _régime_. To Hughie's essentially
masculine mind her changes of attitude were a complete mystery. They
seemed to have no logical sequence or connection. She would avoid him or
seek him out with equal unexpectedness. She might be hopelessly
obstinate or disarmingly docile. One day she would behave like a spoilt
child; on another she would be a very grandmother to him. Sometimes she
would blaze up and rail against her much-enduring guardian for a tyrant
and a monster; at others she would take him under a most maternal wing,
and steer him through a garden-party or a reception in a manner which
made him feel like a lost child in the hands of a benevolent policeman.
On one occasion, which he particularly remembered, she had rounded on
him and scolded him for a full half-hour for his stolid immobility and
lack of _finesse_; the self-same afternoon he had overheard her hotly
defending him against a charge of dulness brought by two frivolous
damsels over the tea-table.
All this was very perplexing to a man who hated subtlety and liked his
friends and foes marked in plain figures. It unsettled his own opinions,
too. Joey's variegated behaviour prevented him from deciding in his own
mind whether he really liked her or not. At present all he was certain
of was that he loved her.
Meanwhile she was coming to see him--about her financial position. That
did not promise romance. And Ursula Harbord was coming too. Help!
Certainly life was a rotten business at present. And it had been so full
and glorious before he had forsaken the wide world and taken to this
sort of thing. It might have been so different too, if only--
Poor Hughie replaced Joan's photograph, sighed again--and coughed
confusedly. A funereal image appeared over his shoulder in the
chimney-glass.
"Were you ringin'?" inquired a sepulchral voice.
"Yes, John. Miss Gaymer and a friend of hers are coming to see me this
morning. They'll probably stay to lunch. You can clear away that food
over there."
He returned to his letters. Only one remained unopened, and proved to be
from a man with whom he had arranged to shoot in the autumn.
"This seems to promise a little relief from the present cheery state of
affairs," he mused. "Four men on a nice bleak moor, with no women about!
Thank God! A hundred pounds a share. Well, Lord knows, trusteeing is an
unprofitable business, but I think I can just do it. I'll accept at
once."
He began to write a telegram. Bachelors have a habit of conducting their
correspondence in this manner.
"Here's they twa whigmalearies," announced Mr. Goble dispassionately.
He ushered in Lance Gaymer and the histrionic Mr. Haliburton.
"After compliments," as they say in official circles, Lance came to the
point.
"Marrable," he said, after an almost imperceptible exchange of glances
with Haliburton, "aren't you keeping my sister rather short of money?"
Hughie turned and stared at him in blank astonishment.
Mr. Haliburton, exuding gentlemanly tact at every pore, rose instantly.
"You two fellows would like to be alone, no doubt," he said. "I must not
intrude into family matters. I'll call for you in half an hour, Lance."
Hughie had risen too.
"You need not trouble, Mr. Haliburton," he said. "Lance is coming with
you."
Mr. Gaymer was obviously unprepared for such prompt measures as these.
"But look here--I say--what the devil do you mean?" he spluttered.
"I mean," replied Hughie deliberately,--he had realised, almost
exultantly, that here once more was a situation which need not be
handled with kid gloves,--"that I am your sister's sole trustee and
guardian, and that you have nothing whatever to do with the disposition
of her property, and--"
"I think you forget," said Lance truculently, "that I am her brother."
"I do not forget it," said Hughie. "Neither did Jimmy Marrable. It was
no oversight on his part which left Joan's inheritance and yours locked
up in separate compartments, so to speak. He gave you an independent
income long ago, Lance, because he was particularly anxious to give you
no opportunity of interfering with Joan's affairs when the time came.
For some reason he had chosen me for the job, and he preferred that I
should have a free hand. Therefore I am not going to allow you to cut
into my department. I am sorry to have to put it so brutally, but,
really, you have been infernally officious of late. This is the fourth
reference which you have made to the subject during the past six weeks.
I don't know whether your enterprise is inspired by brotherly love or
the desire to make a bit, but whichever it is I don't think you'll get
much change out of me. I also object to your latest move--bringing in
Mr. Haliburton, presumably as an accomplice, or a witness, or whatever
you like to call him."
"Really, Mr. Marrable!" Mr. Haliburton's voice quivered with gentlemanly
indignation.
Hughie rang the bell.
"Look here, Marrable," burst out Lance furiously, "you are getting
yourself in a hole, I can tell you! We--I happen to know that Jimmy
Marrable left thirty or forty thousand pounds at least for Joey's
immediate use; and I am pretty certain he left something for mine too.
Now--"
"I'm sorry I can't ask you to stay to lunch," said Hughie, "but I have
some friends coming. Show these gentlemen out, John."
The deputation was ruthlessly shepherded downstairs by the impassive Mr.
Goble, and Hughie was left to his own reflections. He filled a pipe
meditatively.
"I wonder," he said, lighting a spill and puffing, "where young Lance
got his figures from. I also wonder what the game is. He was obviously a
bit worked up, and I should say he had been fortifying himself for the
interview before he arrived. I knew, of course, that he had never
forgiven me for being put in charge of Joey's affairs: he has always
made things as difficult for me as possible. Perhaps he wants a trifle
for himself: his closing remarks rather pointed that way. But what on
earth is friend Haliburton doing in that galley? I fancy he has been at
the back of things all along. What interest has _he_ in the amount of
Joey's fortune? I don't know much about him, but I wouldn't trust him a
yard. Perhaps Lance owes him money. Have they gone, John?"
"Aye," replied Mr. Goble. "They went quite quietly," he added
regretfully.
He began to lay the table for luncheon.
"I say, John," began Hughie awkwardly.
"Aye?"
"There's a thing I want to speak to you about. I have been losing money
lately, and I have to give up some luxuries I can't afford. I--I am
afraid you are one of them. I have always regarded a man-servant as an
extravagance," he went on with a rush, "and I must ask you to look about
for another place. Take your time, of course, and don't leave me till
you are suited. I shall be glad to give you a character, and all that.
You understand?"
There was a silence, while Mr. Goble folded a napkin. Then he replied:
"Fine!" Then he added, after a pause, "So you've been lossin' your
money? Aye! Aha! Mphm!"
"Yes. I'm desperately sorry," said Hughie penitently. "I don't want to
lose you. Perhaps it will only be tempor--"
"You'll no be daen' that yet a while," remarked Mr. Goble morosely. "I'm
an ill body tae move."
"But, John, you don't understand. I can't afford to keep you for more
than--"
"There a cab!" observed Mr. Goble.
Hughie looked down out of the window.
"So it is," he said hastily. "I'll show them up, John. You go on with
your work."
He was across and out of the room in three strides, and could be heard
descending the stairs kangaroo fashion.
Mr. John Goble breathed heavily into a spoon and rubbed it with the
point of his elbow.
"I wunner wha his visitors is," he mused caustically. "Of course he
always opens the door himsel' tae all his visitors! Of course I dinna
ken wha she is! Oh, no!"
He wagged his head in a broken-hearted manner, and gave vent to a
depressing sound which a brother Scot would have recognised as a chuckle
of intense amusement.
To him entered Miss Ursula Harbord. She wore _pince-nez_ and a
sage-green costume of some art fabric--one of the numerous crimes
committed in the name of Liberty. She was Joan Gaymer's latest fad; and
under her persuasive tutelage Joan was beginning to learn that the men
who all her life had served her slightest whim were at once monsters of
duplicity and brainless idiots; and that, given a few more fervid and
ungrammatical articles in "The New Woman," women would shortly come to
their own and march in the van of civilisation, and that people like
Ursula Harbord would march in the van of the women.
Pending this glorious destiny, Miss Harbord acted as
unsettler-in-general of Joan's domestic instincts, and worried Hughie
considerably.
She was followed into the room by Joan; very much the Joan of last
summer, if we make allowances for the distressing appearance presented
by a young woman of considerable personal attractions who is compelled
by Fashion's decree, for this season at any rate, to obscure her
features under a hat which looks like an unsuccessful compromise between
a waste-paper basket and a dish-cover.
"Well, John," she inquired in her friendly fashion, "have you quite
settled down in London?"
"Aye, mem."
"Not missing Scotland?" continued Joan, peeling off her white gloves and
sitting down in an arm-chair.
"Naething to speak of," said John.
"I thought," continued Miss Gaymer, surveying Mr. Goble's Cimmerian
features, "that you had perhaps left your heart there."
"Ma hairt? What for would I dae a thing like that?" enquired the literal
Mr. Goble. "A hairt is no a thing a body can dae wi'oot," he explained.
"It's no like a rib. Ye jist get the ane, so ye canna afford tae get
leavin' it ony place."
Miss Gaymer smilingly abandoned the topic, and in all probability the
ghost of Sydney Smith chuckled.
"When are you going to pay us another visit at Manors?" was Joan's next
question.
"I'm no sure," said Mr. Goble. "Mr. Marrable has jist given me notice."
"Oh, John!" said Joan, "what have you been doing? Breaking his china?"
"Drinking his wine?" suggested Miss Harbord, turning from a scornful
inspection of Hughie's stock of current literature.
"I doot I'm no givin' satisfaction," said John.
"But, John, I am _sure_ you are!" said Joan. "Was that the reason he
gave?"
"He said he was givin' up keepin' a man-servant."
Miss Harbord, who had been craning her neck to see something in the
street, turned round sharply.
"Why? Has he been losing money?"
"I couldna say, mem," said Mr. Goble woodenly. He shared his master's
antipathy to Miss Harbord.
That lady shook her head resignedly.
"I thought so!" she said. "Joan, dear--"
At this moment Hughie entered, and Miss Harbord's fire was diverted.
"Mr. Marrable, have you got rid of that cabman?" she enquired with
truculence.
"Rather!" said Hughie. "He went like a lamb."
"He was intoxicated," remarked Miss Harbord freezingly.
"I didn't notice it," said Hughie. "He was quite tractable. Apparently
you engaged him at Hyde Park Terrace and stopped at two shops on the
way."
"That is correct."
"And you gave him one and threepence for a drive of over two miles and a
stop of about ten minutes."
"His legal fare. We employed him for exactly half an hour."
"But did you tell him that you were engaging him by the hour?"
"Of course not! They simply _crawl_ if you do. You might have known
that, Mr. Marrable."
"Well, it's all right now," interposed Joan cheerfully.
"Mr. Marrable," persisted Miss Harbord, "I fear you were weak with him.
How much did you give him?"
"Nothing out of the way," said Hughie uneasily. "You'll stay to lunch,
won't you? I am expecting the Leroys and D'Arcy. We can all go on to a
_matinée_ afterwards."
Miss Harbord assumed the expression of one who is not to be won over by
fair words, and endeavoured to catch Miss Gaymer's eye--an enterprise
which failed signally, as the latter lady rose from her seat and
strolled to the window.
"Mr. Marrable," began Miss Harbord, taking up her parable single-handed,
"Joan wishes to have a chat with you about money-matters."
"No I don't, Hughie," said Miss Gaymer promptly, over her shoulder.
"Well then, dear," said Miss Harbord calmly, "you ought to. Women leave
these things to men far too much as it is. Joan has an old-fashioned
notion," she added to Hughie, "that it is not quite nice for girls to
know anything about money-matters: hence her reluctance. However, I will
conduct her case for her."
Miss Harbord crossed her legs, threw herself back in her chair in a
manner which demonstrated most conclusively her contempt for appearances
and feminine ideas of decorum, and began:
"Tell me, Mr. Marrable, what interest does Joan get on her money?"
Hughie gaped feebly. Half an hour ago he had put Mr. Lance Gaymer to the
door for an almost precisely similar question. But Lance Gaymer was a
man, and Miss Harbord, conceal the fact as she might, was a woman; and
Hughie's old helplessness paralysed him once more.
"The usual rate of interest," he said lamely, "is about four per cent."
Ursula Harbord nodded her head, as who should say, "I expected that!"
and produced a crumpled newspaper from her muff.
"That," she said almost indulgently, "reveals your ignorance of the
world, Mr. Marrable. If you mixed a little more in affairs, and followed
some regular occupation, you would have more opportunities of
discovering things for yourself, and so be spared the indignity--I
suppose you consider it an indignity?--of having to be advised by a
woman."
The afflicted Hughie murmured something about it being a pleasure.
"Now here," continued Miss Harbord, slapping the newspaper as an
East-End butcher slaps the last beef-steak at his Saturday night
auction, "I have the report of the half-yearly meeting of the
International Trading Company, Limited, where a dividend of seven per
cent was declared, making a dividend on the whole year of fourteen per
cent. _Now_ do you see what I--what Joan wants?"
"Hughie," said Joan, who was making a tour of inspection of the room,
"where did you get this lovely leopard-skin? Have I seen it before?"
"Shot it, Joey. I beg your pardon, Miss Harbord?"
"Do you see what Joan wants you to do?" repeated that financial Amazon.
"Afraid I don't, quite. I'll get on to it in a minute, though," replied
the docile Hughie.
"Surely, the whole thing is quite clear! You must take Joan's capital
out of whatever it is in and buy shares in The International Trading
Company with it. And be sure you order _preference_ shares, Mr.
Marrable. They are the best sort to get. That is all; but I ought not to
have to point these things out to you."
Hughie surveyed his preceptress in an undecided fashion. Was it worth
while endeavouring to explain to her a few of the first principles of
finance, or would it be simpler to grin and bear it? He decided on the
latter alternative.
"The shares," continued Miss Harbord, having evidently decided to follow
up her whips with a few selected scorpions, "should be bought as cheap
as possible. They go up and down, you know, like--a--"
"Monkey on a stick?" suggested Hughie, with the air of one anxious to
help.
Miss Harbord smiled indulgently.
"No, no! Like a--a barometer, let us say; and you have to watch your
opportunity. There is a thing called 'par' which they go to,--anybody
will tell you what it is,--and that is a very good time to buy them."
Hughie, fighting for breath, rose and joined Joan in the window recess,
while Miss Harbord, with much ostentatious crackling, folded up the
newspaper and put it away.
"Hughie," said Joan, under cover of the noise, "you are angry."
"Not at all," replied Hughie, wiping his eyes furtively. "A bit
flummoxed--that's all. No idea your friend was so up in these things."
"She _is_ clever, isn't she?" said Joan, with unaffected sincerity.
"But, Hughie dear, don't bother about it if it worries you. My affairs
must be a fearful nuisance to you, but Ursula was so keen that I should
come--"
"I'm glad you did, Joey. It was worth it," said Hughie simply.
"Of course," continued the unlearned Miss Gaymer, "to people like Ursula
these things are as easy as falling off a log, but for you and me, who
know nothing about business, they're pretty stiff to tackle, aren't
they?"
"Quite so," agreed Hughie meekly. "But look here, Joey," he continued,
"are you really in want of money?"
"Of course she is!" said Miss Harbord, overhearing and resuming the
offensive.
"I _could_ do with a few more frocks, Hughie," said Miss Gaymer
wistfully, "if it wouldn't be a bother to change those investments about
a bit, as Ursula advises. Still, if it can't be done, we'll say no more
about it."
"Will another hundred a-year be any use to you?" said Hughie suddenly.
"Oh, Hughie, I should _think_ so! Can it be managed without a fearful
upset?" cried Miss Gaymer, her eyes already brightening over a vista of
blouse-lengths and double-widths.
"Yes," said Hughie shortly. "I'll--I'll make the necessary changes and
see that the cash is paid into your banking account."
"You dear!" said Miss Gaymer, with sincerity.
"A hundred pounds? It might be more!" observed the daughter of the
horse-leech on the sofa. Fourteen per cent still rankled in her
Napoleonic brain.
Hughie crossed to the writing-table and tore up a telegraph-form.
"Capt'n Leroy!" announced Mr. Goble's voice in the doorway.
That easy-going paladin entered the room, and intimated that his wife
had sent him along to say that she would arrive in ten minutes.
"That means twenty," said Joan. "Ursula, we have just time to run round
and see that hat we thought we'd better not decide about until we had
heard from Hughie about the thing we came to see him about. Now I can
try it on with a clear conscience. Back directly, Hughie!"
She flitted out, the prospective hundred pounds obviously burning a hole
in her pocket (or wherever woman in the present era of fashion keeps her
money), followed by Miss Harbord.
Hughie turned to Leroy.
"Take a cigarette, old man," he said, "and sit down with a glass of
sherry while I do myself up for lunch. Been down at Putney."
Leroy obeyed. When Hughie returned from his bedroom a quarter of an hour
later, he found that Mrs. Leroy had arrived. She and her husband were
engaged in a low-toned conversation, which they broke off rather
abruptly on their host's entrance.
Hughie shook hands, and sweeping some newspapers off the sofa, offered
his latest-arrived guest a seat.
"No, thanks, Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy; "I prefer to look out of the
window."
She walked across the room and began to gaze down into the street with
her back to Hughie. Her husband, evidently struck with the suitability
of this attitude, rose and joined her.
"The fact is, Hughie," began Mrs. Leroy, staring resolutely at the house
opposite, "Jack and I want to talk to you like a father and mother, and
I can do it more easily if I look the other way."
"Same here," corroborated Leroy gruffly.
Hughie started, and surveyed the guilty-looking pair of backs before him
with an uneasy suspicion. Surely he was not going to be treated to a
third variation on the same theme!
"Go on, Jack!" was Mrs. Leroy's next remark.
"Can't be done, m'dear," replied the gentleman, after an obvious effort.
"Well, Hughie," continued Mrs. Leroy briskly, "as this coward has failed
me, I must say it myself. I want to tell you that people are talking."
"Ursula Harbord, for instance," said Hughie drily.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"She delivered a lecture to me this morning. Gave me to understand that
she darkly suspects me of being a knave, and made no attempt to conceal
her conviction that I am a fool."
"Well, of course that's all nonsense," said Mrs. Leroy to a fly on the
window-pane; "but really, Hughie, with all the money that her Uncle
Jimmy left her, you ought to be able to give Joey more than you do,
_shouldn't_ you? The child has to live in quite a small way--not really
poor, you know, but hardly as an heiress ought to live. You give her
surprisingly small interest on her money, Jack says--didn't you, Jack?"
Captain Leroy made no reply, but the deep shade of carmine on the back
of his neck said "Sneak!" as plainly as possible.
"And you know he would be the last to say anything against you--wouldn't
you, Jack?"
"Rather!" said Leroy, in a voice of thunder.
"Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, turning impulsively, "won't you confide in
me?"
Hughie kicked a coal in the grate in his usual fashion, and sighed.
"I can't, _really_," he said.
"Fact is, old man," broke in Leroy, in response to his wife's appealing
glances, "we didn't want to say anything at all, but the missis thought
it best--considerin' the way people are talkin', and all that. Can _I_
be of any use? Been speculatin', or anything?"
"No, Jack, I haven't," said Hughie shortly.
Mrs. Leroy gave a helpless look at her husband, and said desperately:
"But, Hughie, we can't leave things like this! You simply don't _know_
what stories are going about. It is ruining your chances with Joey, too.
She thinks you are a noodle."
"I know it," said Hughie.
"Well, look here," said Leroy, "can't you give us some sort of
explanation--some yarn we could put about the place to account for this
state of things--"
"What state of things?" said Hughie doggedly. He was in an unpleasant
temper.
"Well, Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, keeping hers, "here is Joan, known to
have been left a lot of money for her immediate use,--she admits it
herself,--living quite humbly and cheaply, and obviously not well off.
People are asking why. There are two explanations given. One, the more
popular, is that you have embezzled or speculated the money all away.
The other, which prevails among the _élite_--"
"The people who are really in the know, you know," explained Leroy.
"Yes: _they_ say," continued his wife, "that Joan won't marry you, so
you have retaliated by--by--"
"By cutting off supplies," suggested Hughie.
"Yes, until--"
"Until she is starved into submission--eh?"
"That's about the size of it, old son," said Leroy.
There was a long pause. Finally Hughie said:--
"Well, it's a pretty story; but, honestly, I'm not in a position to
contradict it at present."
Mrs. Leroy desisted from plaiting the window-cord, swung round, walked
deliberately to the fireplace, and laid a hand on Hughie's arm.
"Hughie," she said, in tones which her husband subsequently affirmed
would have drawn ducks off a pond, "what have you done? Tell _us_!"
Leroy followed his wife across the room. "Get it off your chest, old
man," he said, with the air of a father confessor.
Hughie smiled gratefully. He took Mrs. Leroy's two hands into one of his
own, and laid the other on Jack Leroy's shoulder.
"Jack and Milly," he said earnestly, "my two pals!--I would rather tell
you than anybody else; but--I simply _can't_! It's not my secret! You'll
probably find out all about it some day. At present I must ask you to
accept my assurance that I'm not so black as I'm painted."
"Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, "you are simply stupid! We have not come to
you out of idle curiosity--"
"I know that," said Hughie heartily.
"And I think you might give us some sort of an inkling--a sort of
favourable bulletin--that I could pass on to Joey, at any rate--"
"Joey!" said Hughie involuntarily; "Lord forbid!"
Mrs. Leroy, startled by the vehemence of his tone, paused; and her
husband added dejectedly,--
"All right, old man! Let's drop it! Sorry you couldn't see your way to
confide in us. Wouldn't have gone any further. Rather sick about the
whole business--eh? No wonder! Money is the devil, anyway."
Somehow Leroy's words hit Hughie harder than anything that had been said
yet. He wavered. After all,--
"We've bought the hat, and I'm perfectly _ravenous_," announced Joan,
appearing in the doorway. "And we've brought Mr. D'Arcy. Hughie, are
those plover's eggs? Ooh!"
This was no atmosphere for the breathing of confidential secrets. The
party resumed its usual demeanour of off-hand British _insouciance_, and
began to gather round the luncheon-table. Only Mr. D'Arcy's right
eyebrow asked a question of Mrs. Leroy, which was answered by a slight
but regretful shrug of the shoulders.
Hughie's apartment was L-shaped, and the feast was spread in the smaller
arm, out of the way of draughts and doorways. Consequently any one
entering the room would fail to see the luncheon table unless he turned
to his left and walked round a corner.
Hughie was helping the plover's eggs,--it is to be feared that Miss
Gaymer received a Benjamin's portion of the same,--when Mr. Goble
suddenly appeared at his elbow and whispered in his ear,--
"Him again!"
Muttering an apology, Hughie left the table and walked round the corner
to the other arm of the room. Lance Gaymer had just entered. His face
was flushed and his eyes glittered, and Hughie's half-uttered invitation
to him to come in and have some lunch died away upon his lips.
"Hallo, Lance!" he said lamely.
Mr. Gaymer replied, in the deliberate and portentously solemn tones of a
man who is three parts drunk,--
"I understand you have got a party on here."
"Yes," said Hughie, endeavouring to edge his visitor through the
doorway.
"What I want to say," continued Mr. Gaymer in rising tones, "is that I
accuse you of embezzling my sister's property, and I'm going to make
things damned hot for you. Yes--_you_! Go and tell that to your
luncheon-party round the corner!" he concluded with a snort.
"And--glug--glug-glug!"
By this time he had been judiciously backed into the passage, almost out
of ear-shot of those in the room. Simultaneously Mr. Goble's large hand
closed upon his mouth from behind, and having thus acquired a good
purchase, turned its owner deftly round and conducted him downstairs.
Death-like silence reigned at the luncheon-table. Hughie wondered how
much they had heard. Not that it mattered greatly, for Master Lance's
accusations, making allowances for alcoholic directness, partook very
largely of the nature of those already levelled at Hughie by more
conventional deputations.
Before returning to his seat, Hughie crossed to the window and looked
down into the street.
Mr. Lance Gaymer was being assisted into a waiting hansom by the kindly
hands of Mr. Guy Haliburton.
Hughie, having seen all he expected to see, returned with faltering
steps to his duties as a host.
It was a delicate moment, calling for the exercise of much tact. Even
Mildred Leroy hesitated. Joan had flushed red, whether with shame, or
anger, or sympathy, it was hard to say. Mr. D'Arcy regarded her
curiously.
But heavy-footed husbands sometimes rush in, with success, where the
most wary and diplomatic wives fear to tread. Jack Leroy cleared his
throat.
"Now, Hughie, my son," he observed, "when you've _quite_ done
interviewin' all your pals on the door-mat, perhaps you'll give your
guests a chance. With so many old friends collected round your table
like this, we want to drink your health, young-fellow-my-lad! Fill up
your glass, Miss Harbord! No heel-taps, Milly!"
There was an irrelevant _bonhomie_ about this whole speech which struck
exactly the right note. Mrs. Leroy glanced gratefully at her husband,
and lifted her glass. The others did the same. But it was Joan who spoke
first.
"Hughie!" she cried, with glowing eyes.
"Hughie!" cried every one. "Good health!"
In the times of our prosperity our friends are always critical,
frequently unjust, generally a nuisance, and sometimes utterly
detestable. But there is no blinking the fact that they are a very
present help in trouble.
Hughie suddenly felt himself unable to speak. He bowed his head dumbly,
and made a furious onslaught upon a plover's egg.