THE MORALS OF MOLLY
It was exactly eleven o'clock when Tony woke up. He looked at his
watch, yawned, stretched himself, ran his fingers through his hair,
and then reaching out his hand pressed the electric bell beside his
bed. After a short pause it was answered by a middle-aged,
clean-shaven man, with a face like a tired sphinx, who entered the
room carrying a cup of tea upon a tray. Tony sat up and blinked at
him.
"Good-morning, Spalding," he observed.
"Good-morning, Sir Antony," returned the man; "I trust that you slept
well, sir?"
"Very well, thank you," replied Tony. "What time did I get home?"
"I fancy it was a little after four, sir."
Tony took a long drink out of the tea-cup, and then put it down
again. "I am curiously thirsty this morning, Spalding," he said.
"Was I quite sober when I came back?"
The man hesitated. "I should describe you as being so, sir," he
replied.
"Thank you, Spalding," said Tony gratefully.
Crossing the room the valet drew up the blinds, and admitted a
cheerful stream of sunshine.
"Mr. Oliver left a message, sir, to say that he would not be back
until the afternoon. He has gone out on business and is lunching
with Mr. Henry Conway."
"Where's Bugg?" inquired Tony.
"At the present moment, sir, I believe he is in the gymnasium. He
informed me that he was about to loosen his muscles with a little
shadow boxing."
"Is he all right?"
"He appears to be in the most robust health, sir."
A look of relief passed across Tony's face. "You have taken a weight
off my mind, Spalding," he said. "I dreamed that he had broken his
neck."
The valet shook his head reassuringly.
"I observed no sign of it, sir, when I passed him in the hall."
"In that case," said Tony, "I think I shall get up. You can fill the
bath, Spalding, and you can tell the cook I shan't want any
breakfast."
The impassive servant bowed and withdrew from the room, and after
finishing his tea, Tony got luxuriously out of bed, and proceeded to
drape himself in a blue silk dressing-gown with gold dragons
embroidered round the hem. It was a handsome garment originally
intended for the President of China, but that gentleman had
unexpectedly rejected it on the ground that it was too ornate for the
elected head of a democratic community. At least that was how the
Bond Street shopman who had sold it to Tony had accounted for its
excessive price.
Lighting a cigarette, Tony sauntered across to the bathroom, where a
shave, a cold tub, and a few minutes of Muller's exercises were
sufficient to remove the slight trace of lassitude induced by his
impersonation of Charles the Second. Then, still clad in his
dressing-gown, he strolled down the main staircase, and opening the
front door passed out into the garden.
The house was one of those two or three jolly old-fashioned survivals
which still stand in their own grounds in the neighbourhood of Jack
Straw's Castle. Tony had bought up the freehold several years
previously, the quaint old Georgian residence in its delightful
surroundings appealing to him far more than his own gloomy family
mansion in Belgrave Square. As he himself was fond of explaining, it
gave one all the charm of living in the country without any of its
temptations to virtue.
A few yards' walk along a gravel path, hedged in on each side by
thick laurel bushes, brought him to the gymnasium. The door was
slightly open, and from the quick patter and shuffle of footsteps
inside, it sounded as if a number of ballet girls were practising a
novel and rather complicated form of step dance.
The spectacle that actually met Tony's eyes when he entered, however,
was of a less seductive nature. Clad only in a pair of flannel
trousers, a young man was spinning and darting about the room in the
most extraordinary fashion, indulging at the same time in
lightning-like movements with his head and arms. To the uninitiated
observer he would have appeared to be either qualifying for a lunatic
asylum or else attempting the difficult feat of catching flies on the
wing. As a matter of fact either assumption would have been equally
inaccurate. He was engaged in what is known amongst pugilists as
"shadow boxing" which consists of conducting an animated contest with
a vicious but imaginary opponent.
On seeing Tony the young man in question came to an abrupt halt in
the middle of the room, and raised his forefinger to his
close-cropped forehead.
"Mornin', Sir Ant'ny," he observed.
Notwithstanding his exertions he spoke without the least trace of
breathlessness, and there was no sign of perspiration upon his clean
white skin. He looked what he was--a splendidly built lad of about
nineteen, trained to the last pitch of physical fitness.
Tony glanced him over with an approving eye. "Good-morning, Bugg,"
he answered. "I am glad to see you looking so well. I dreamed you
had broken your neck."
The lad grinned cheerfully. "Not me, sir. Never felt better in me
life. Must 'a bin the other bloke."
"I hope not," said Tony anxiously. "I backed you for another
two-fifty yesterday, and I can't very well claim the money unless the
fight comes off. By the way, a hundred of that goes on to the purse
if you do the trick all right."
The young prize-fighter looked a trifle embarrassed. "There ain't no
call for that, sir--thankin' ye kindly all the saime, sir. I'd knock
out 'alf a dozen blokes like Lopez for a purse o' three 'undred."
"Your unmercenary nature is one of your chief charms, Bugg," said
Tony. "All the same you mustn't carry it to extremes. How much
money have you got in the bank now?"
Bugg scratched his ear. "The last time I goes in, sir, the old
geezer with the whiskers says somethin' abaht a matter of eleven
'undred quid."
"Well, by to-morrow you ought to have fifteen hundred. In other
words, Bugg, you will be a capitalist--one of the idle rich. That
money, properly invested, will bring you in thirty shillings a week.
If you want to set up as an independent gentleman now's the time to
begin."
A sudden look of surprised dismay spread itself across Bugg's
square-jawed face.
"Meanin' I got the chuck, sir?" he inquired dully.
Tony laughed. "Of course not," he said. "Don't be an ass, Bugg. I
was only pointing out to you that if you like to set up on your own
you can afford to do it. I'll go on backing you as long as you want
me to, but you needn't feel bound to stop on here if you'd rather
clear out. It's not much of a job for a budding champion of England
with fifteen hundred pounds in the bank."
Bugg gave an audible sigh of relief.
"I thought you was 'andin' me the bird, sir," he observed. "Give me
a proper turn it did, jest for the minit."
"Then you don't want to go?"
Bugg laughed, almost contemptuously.
"Where'd I go to, sir?" he demanded. "'Ow long would that fifteen
'undred last if I was knockin' arahnd on me own with every flash cove
in London 'avin' a cut at it? 'Sides, that, sir, I don't want
nothin' different. I wouldn't change the job I got, not to be King
of England. If it weren't for you I'd be 'awkin' welks now, or
fightin' in a booth, an' Tiger Bugg ain't the sort to forget a thing
like that. Wen you don't want me no more, sir, jest you tip me the
orfice straight and proper and I'll 'op it, but so long as there's
any bloomin' thing I can do for you, sir, well, 'ere I am and 'ere I
means to stop."
It was the longest speech that Tiger Bugg had ever indulged in, and
certainly the most eloquent. Tony, who was genuinely touched by the
obvious sincerity with which it was uttered, stepped forward and
patted the lad on his shoulder.
"That's all right, Tiger," he said. "There will always be a job for
you here if it's only to annoy my relations." He paused and lighted
himself another cigarette. "Give us a bit of your best to-night," he
added. "I should like to make Da Freitas look silly, and if you win
easily, Donaldson has practically promised me a match for the
Lonsdale Belt."
Bugg's eyes gleamed, and his hands automatically clenched themselves.
"I'll slip one over the fust chance I get, sir," he observed
earnestly. "I don't think I'll 'ave to wait long either."
Tony nodded, and gathering up his dressing-gown, turned towards the
door.
"Well, be ready by eight o'clock," he said, "and we'll go down
together in the car."
Leaving the gymnasium he strolled on up the path till it curved round
the corner and opened out into an asphalt yard, where a man in blue
overalls was attending to the toilet of the big Peugot. He was a
tall, red-haired individual with an expression of incurable
melancholy on his face.
"Good-morning, Jennings," said Tony. "It's a nice morning, isn't it?"
The chauffeur cast a resentful glance at the unclouded blue overhead.
"It's all right at present, sir," he admitted grudgingly, "but these
here extra fine mornings have a way of turning off sudden."
Tony sauntered up to the car, and lifting the bonnet looked down into
the gleaming network of copper and brass which bore eloquent
testimony to the care and energy expended on it.
"I didn't think she was pulling quite at her best yesterday," he
said. "You might have a run through and tune her up a bit, when
you've got time."
The chauffeur nodded. "Once these here big racin' engines begin to
give trouble, sir," he remarked with a sort of gloomy relish, "they
ain't never the same again--not in a manner o' speaking. Least,
that's how it seems to me."
"That's how it would seem to you, Jennings," said Tony kindly. "Is
the Suiza all right?"
"She'll run, sir."
"Well, have her ready about one o'clock, and I shall want you and the
Rolls-Royce at eight to-night, to take us down to the Club." He
paused. "I suppose you have backed Bugg?" he added.
Jennings shook his head. "Not me, sir. I think he's flying too
high, sir. From all they tell me this here Lopez is a terror. I'll
be sorry to see Bugg knocked out, but there it is; it comes to all of
'em in time."
"I like talking to you after breakfast, Jennings," said Tony. "You
cheer one up for the entire day."
Jennings received the compliment with an utterly unmoved expression.
"I don't take much stock in bein' cheerful meself, sir," he observed,
"not unless there's something to be cheerful about."
He stepped forward and resumed his work on the car, and after
watching him for a moment or two with a pleasant languid interest
Tony turned round and sauntered back to the house.
He finished his toilet in a leisurely fashion, and then spent an
agreeable half-hour over the _Sportsman_, which was the only morning
paper that he took in. Current affairs of a more general nature did
not interest him much, though in times of national or political
crisis it was his habit to borrow the _Daily Mail_ from Spalding.
Soon after one, Jennings brought the Suiza round to the front door,
and a quarter of an hour later Tony turned in through the gateway of
Basil Mansions and drew up alongside the rockery and fountain with
which a romantic landlord had enriched the centre of the courtyard.
Leaving the car there, he strolled across to Molly's flat and rang
the bell. It was answered almost at once by a neatly dressed French
maid, who conducted him into a bright and daintily furnished room
where Molly was sitting at the piano practising a new song. She
jumped up gaily directly she saw him.
"Oh, how nice of you, Tony," she exclaimed. "You are ten minutes
early and I'm fearfully hungry. Lunch as soon as it's ready,
Claudine."
She gave Tony her hand which he raised gallantly to his lips.
"You are looking very beautiful this morning, Molly," he said. "You
remind me of one of those things that come out of ponds."
"What do you mean?" asked Molly. "Frogs?"
"No," said Tony, "not frogs. Those sort of jolly wet girls with
nothing on; what do you call them--naiads, isn't it?"
Molly burst into a ripple of laughter. "I don't think that's much of
a compliment to my frock, Tony," she said. "It was specially
designed for me by Jay's too! Don't you like it?"
Tony stepped back and inspected her critically.
"It's wonderful," he said. "I should imagine Mr. Jay was now
prostrate with nervous exhaustion."
"Oh, well," replied Molly comfortingly, "he'll have heaps of time to
recover before he's paid."
The clear note of a silver gong sounded from the passage and she
thrust her arm through Tony's.
"Come along," she said, "there are roast quails and it would be awful
if they got cold, wouldn't it?"
Tony gave a slight shudder. "There are some tragedies," he said,
"that one hardly likes to think about."
All through lunch, which was daintily served in Molly's pretty, sunny
little dining-room, they chatted away in the easy cheerful fashion of
two people who have no illusions about each other and are yet the
firmest of friends. The lunch itself was excellent, and Claudine
waited on them with a graceful skill that lent an additional harmony
to its progress.
"I think I am in love with your new maid," observed Tony
thoughtfully, when she at length left them to their coffee and
cigarettes.
"I am glad you approve of her," said Molly, "but if you haven't seen
her before it only shows how disgustingly you must have treated me.
She has been here since Christmas."
"I like her face," pursued Tony. "It's so pure. She looks as if she
had been turned out of a convent for being too good."
"She isn't good," said Molly. "Don't you think it."
"That only makes her all the more wonderful," said Tony. "To look
good and to be wicked is the ideal combination. You get the benefits
of both without any of their drawbacks."
"In that case," observed Molly, "I must be dead out of luck. With my
red hair and red lips I look desperately wicked, while as a matter of
fact I'm quite uninterestingly good--by instinct." She paused. "I
want to talk to you about my morals, Tony. That has been one of the
chief reasons why I asked you to lunch."
Tony poured out a glass of liqueur brandy. "The morals of Molly," he
remarked contentedly. "I can't imagine a more perfect subject for an
after-lunch discussion."
Molly lit herself a cigarette and passed him across the little silver
box. "It's not so much a discussion as an explanation," she said.
"I want to explain Peter." She sat back in her chair. "You see,
Tony, you're the only person in the world whose opinion I care a hang
for. If it hadn't been for you I don't know what would have happened
to me after I ran away from home. You helped me to get on the stage,
and I don't want you to think I've turned out an absolute rotter.
Oh, I know people have always said horrid things about me, but then
they do that about any girl in musical comedy. I believe I'm
supposed to have lived with a Rajah and had a black baby, and Lord
knows what else, but as a matter of fact it's all lies and invention.
People talk like that just to appear more in the swim than somebody
else. Of course I don't mean to say I haven't had lots of kind
offers of that sort, but until Peter came along I'd said 'no' to all
of them."
"What made you pitch on Peter?" asked Tony.
"I don't know," said Molly frankly. "I think I was sorry for him to
start with. He's so stupid you know--any one can take him in, and
that little cat Marie d'Estelle was getting thousands out of him and
carrying on all the time with half a dozen other men. So I thought
I'd just take him away if only to teach her common decency."
"If rumour is correct," observed Tony, "the lesson was not entirely
successful."
Molly laughed. "Well, that was how the thing started anyway," she
said. "Peter got awfully keen on me, and after I had seen a little
bit of him and snubbed him rather badly once or twice for being too
affectionate, I really began to get quite fond of him. You see if he
wasn't a king he'd be a jolly good sort. There's nothing really the
matter with him except that he's been horribly spoilt. He isn't a
bit vicious naturally; he only thought he was until he met me. He is
weak and stupid, of course, but then I like a man not to be too
clever if I am going to have much to do with him. Stupid men stick
to you, and you can make them do just what you want. You know Peter
consults me about practically everything."
"And what does Da Freitas think of the situation?" asked Tony mildly.
"Oh, Da Freitas!" Molly's expression was an answer in itself. "He
hates me, Tony; he can't stand any one having an influence over Peter
except himself. He didn't mind d'Estelle and people like that, in
spite of the money they cost, but he would give anything to get rid
of me. He likes Peter to be weak and dissipated and not to bother
about things, because then he has all the power in his own hands."
"But how is all this going to end, Molly?" asked Tony. "Suppose
there's another revolution in Livadia, and Peter, as you call him,
has to go back to be King. It's quite on the cards according to what
one hears."
"Oh, I know," said Molly, shrugging her shoulders, "but what's the
good of worrying? If they knew Peter as well as I do they wouldn't
be so stupid. He'd be no earthly use as a king, by himself, and he'd
look too absolutely silly for words with a crown on his head. As far
as his own private tastes go, he's a lot happier at Richmond. He
quite sees it too, you know, when I point it out to him, but he says
he wouldn't be able to help himself if there really was a revolution."
"No," said Tony. "I imagine Da Freitas would see to that. It will
be a precious cold day when he gets left. He hasn't schemed and
plotted and kept in with Pedro all this time in order to let the
chance slip when it comes along. If he isn't back there one day in
his old job of Prime Minister, it won't be the fault of the Marquis
Fernando."
Molly looked pensively into the fire. "He only makes one mistake,"
she said. "He's a little too apt to think other people are more
stupid than they are. I suppose it comes from associating so much
with poor old Peter."