MR. BELDEN CONTEMPLATES VILLAINIES, NEW AND OLD
Belden was the only guest at the dinner at Mr. Waddie’s in recognition
of his care of Diana. It was a satisfactory affair to him, the
principal actor. The to eat was good; the to drink sparkling; the to
wit brilliant; the to woo he thought promising.
It was not late when Mr. Belden reached the Millard on return from this
fortunate occasion. They were hopping, reciprocating to the Nilvederes.
There was tempting wealth of _étalage_, but Belden slipped through the
side door and up to his room. He took from one of his double-locked
trunks a small tin case, such as men who have securities keep them in.
He unlocked the case and took from it a bundle of papers, old papers
carefully enveloped. They were endorsed “Ira Waddy’s Letters.”
Belden opened the parcel and looked at several of the letters. Some
were signed “Ira Waddy,” or “Ira”; some “Sally Bishop.” They were such
letters as some women exchange with some men, but such as only vile men
and women write. Belden seemed to enjoy the tone of these epistles
hugely.
“What a bitch that girl was,” he said to himself. “Waddy missed it when
he was such a Puritan with her. She was a bad one to have for enemy.
She thought getting up the letters a glorious joke. How we roared over
some passages. I think I should have let the thing drop after proposing
it, if she hadn’t been so mad for it. It was a devilish risky thing
to do. The fellow would kill me in a minute if he knew it, but Sally
won’t peach before she dies, I think. The other woman is safe, damn
her! She and Waddy are the only two people that ever baffled me. But
I’ve had what I call a neat revenge--I should think so. She might much
better have smiled upon me for her own good. As to Waddy, he don’t seem
over-civil now. I shouldn’t mind closing the whole thing up by shooting
him. Miss Diana seems to have a liking for fighting men. I’m getting
on fast with her. She’s a little of a bolter, but I can soon tame her,
once in hand. Well, I thought I would burn these letters, but they’re
a little too rich. When I’m engaged to her, I’ll burn ’em and reform.
Some people would call it forgery--writing those documents--bah! what’s
forgery!”
He began scribbling names in various hands: his own, Ira Waddy, Diana,
Betty Bud, Bet Budlong, Sally Bishop, Tootler, Janeway, Sullivan,
Perkins, and others, just as recollection seemed to associate those
whom he had known in former life or now.
While he was scribbling, there came a knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” called Belden, tossing the papers into their case.
“Hit’s me, sir,” answered a cockney voice.
Belden unlocked the door and admitted a very bandy-legged groom, neatly
enough dressed, but topped by a most knavish head and face.
“Well, Figgins,” said his master, “what do you want?”
“Will ye ’ave Knockknees, sir, hin the mornink harely? Ye can go hon
the beach hat sevenk.”
“Bring him up at seven, then; the race must come off now in a few days.
I’m ringing in these precious greenhorns. They’ll all run their damned
cows, but they haven’t got enough to bleed much. I want to get that
fellow in with his black horse. He’ll bleed gold. Can I beat him on the
square, do you think?”
“Hi dunno, sir,” said Figgins, “’e’s a stepper, his that black. Hi
never see such a ’oss for clean goin’. You mout beat, hand you moutn’t.
But p’r’aps ’e’ll be summat sick,--a little sick, ’nough to take the
edge hoff ’im hat the race.”
“Perhaps he will,” agreed Belden, instantly accepting the hint. “You
might look at him once or twice and let me know whether it’s likely.
You know where his stable is--can you get in?”
“There’s keys to be ’ad, I s’pose. Do you want ’im to show hat all?”
“Oh, yes, I hope he’ll be well enough to make good play. He might win a
heat--then I can get more out of ’em. You understand? It will pay you
devilish well if I win a jolly pile.”
“Hi see, sir,” said Figgins, and with a furtive look at the tin case,
he went out.
Belden locked the case and put it away. The full luxurious sound of
music from the hall swelled up again after a pause and filled the room.
Some men are purified from baser wishes by the delicate sensualities of
passionate music; but not such men as Belden.
“Ah, a galop!” he thought. “I must go down and have a stampede and hug
with Mrs. Bud. Dear Betty Bud! I think I get on rather faster with her
than with Miss Diana.”
He went to the glass to arrange his toilet for the deranging struggles
of the hop. He did not perceive that the look of his three villainies
of the evening was stamped upon his face--three, one remembered, two
meditated. He thought it was the effect of age, the change he began to
be conscious of in his appearance. But age, of those whose lives are
worthy to endure, softens and tranquillises expression and harmonises
colouring; it does not darken the shadows where they had grown dark on
his face, nor give the unpeaceful and uneasy look he had.
“I must hold up for a while,” he thought. “I wish I could keep away
from that damned faro place. My luck is dished lately. However, I’ll
make that race square the accounts. If it don’t, I’m up a tree.”
He went down Jacob’s Ladder. Millard’s parlour was nearly as deserted
as its namesake of political supporters. All the Millarders and
the Nilvederes, with a decimation of outsiders and farthermores,
were taking their constitutional perspiration bath in the dining
rooms--tables having been turned out for the occasion. Trotting polkas,
racking redowas, cantering waltzes, galloping galops--bipeds were being
put through all their paces.
The old flirtations were going on swimmingly in the damp intervals of
dance; and lo! a new one. Bob O’Link was for the first time devoted
to Miss Anthrope. That strong-minded young person had, in the most
feeble-minded manner, succumbed at once when Bob O’ suddenly and
newly appeared in the ballroom and unanimously singled her out for a
permanent partner.
“Miss Anthrope has decided to take a false position,” said Peter
Skerrett to Gyas and Cloanthus, who were swabbing and drying off at the
door.
“No! Has she, though!” said Gyas. “What is it? She looks to me as well
on her pins as usual.”
“She is going to marry for money--that is the false position, a pillory
that neither man nor woman ever escaped from. Well, Bob O’ will stand
by her better than most fellows. Look at the chap. He is as sure to win
in love, particularly the bought variety, as at billiards.”
“Stand by, Peter,” said Gyas; “I’m going to say a good thing. Miss
Anthrope will be linked to Link, in the links of high man’s chain.
Capital, isn’t it? Now, Clo, don’t you get ahead of me and say that to
Julia.”
“Honour among friends,” returned Cloanthus. “I’ll take you odds, Guy,
on Bob O’Link. Ten to one he gets her in ten days; five to one in five
days; two to one on to-morrow--and even it’s done to-night.”
“You’d better save your money, boys,” said Peter. “Not that you’ll
spend it in charity, but you’ll want it all to pay what you’ll lose on
the race Belden is getting up.”
“There he comes now with Mrs. Budlong,” said Gyas Cutus. “By Golly,
isn’t she a stunner! Belden looks deuced hard to-night.”
“You’ll find him hard enough--hard as one of Millard’s eggs. I
recommend you both to keep away from him and his horse,” said Peter.
Here the music struck up a galop and the two flexible youths,
pocketing their moist _batistes_, tore wildly into the affray. Mr.
Belden dashed by with Mrs. Budlong in his arms.
He had found her tête-à-tête with De Châteaunéant. Their whispered
conversation closed as Belden approached, and bowed his request for a
dance. “Hot nubbless” looked after her wickedly as she moved away.
Sir Comeguys, passing with Granby, looked into the parlour. Sir Com saw
the Frenchman standing there with his vicious look and his clenched
fist.
“Gwanby,” said the bold and battailous Briton, “I can’t be wong--that
is the scoundwel that helped to wob me in Pawis. He called himself
Lavallette then, or some such name.”