THE HERO OF THE EVENING
That same afternoon--the day before Bernadette was to return from
Paris--Marie Sarradet telephoned to Arthur asking him to drop in after
dinner, if he were free; besides old friends, a very important personage
was to be there, Mr. Claud Beverley, the author of the wonderfully funny
farce; Marie named him with a thrill in her voice which even the
telephone could not entirely smother. Arthur was thrilled too, though it
did cross his mind that Mr. Claud Beverley must have rechristened
himself; authors seldom succeed in achieving such suitable names as that
by the normal means. Though he was still afraid of Mr. Sarradet and
still a little embarrassed about Marie herself, he determined to go. He
put on one of his new evening shirts--with pleats down the front--and
one of his new white evening waistcoats, which was of extremely
fashionable cut, and sported buttons somewhat out of the ordinary; these
were the first products of the five hundred pounds venture. He looked,
and felt, very well turned-out.
Old Mr. Sarradet was there this time, and he was grumpy. Marie seized a
chance to whisper that her father was "put out" because Raymond had left
business early to go to a race-meeting and had not come back yet--though
obviously the races could not still be going on. Arthur doubted whether
this were the whole explanation; the old fellow seemed to treat him with
a distance and a politeness in which something ironical might be
detected; his glance at the white waistcoat did not look wholly like one
of honest admiration. Marie too, though as kind and cordial as possible,
was perhaps a shade less intimate, less at ease with him; any possible
sign of appropriating him to herself was carefully avoided; she shared
him, almost ostentatiously, with the other girls, Amabel and Mildred.
Any difference in Marie's demeanour touched his conscience on the raw;
the ingenious argument by which he had sought to acquit himself was not
quite proof against that.
Nothing, however, could seriously impair the interest and excitement of
the occasion. They clustered round Mr. Beverley; Joe Halliday saw to
that, exploiting his hero for all he was worth. The author was tall,
gaunt, and solemn-faced. Arthur's heart sank at the first sight of
him--could he really write anything funny? But he remembered that
humorists were said to be generally melancholy men, and took courage.
Mr. Beverley stood leaning against the mantelpiece, receiving admiration
and consuming a good deal of the champagne which had been produced in
his special honour. Joe Halliday presented Arthur to him with
considerable ceremony.
"Now we're all here!" said Joe. "For I don't mind telling you, Beverley,
that without Lisle's help we should be a long way from--from--well, from
standing where we do at present."
Arthur felt that some of the limelight--to use a metaphor appropriately
theatrical--was falling on him. "Oh, that's nothing! Anything I could
afford--awfully glad to have the chance," he murmured, rather
confusedly.
"And he did afford something pretty considerable," added Joe,
admiringly.
"Of course I can't guarantee success. You know what the theatre is,"
said Mr. Beverley.
They knew nothing about it--and even Mr. Beverley himself had not yet
made his bow to the public; but they all nodded their heads wisely.
"I do wish you would tell us something about it, Mr. Beverley," said
impulsive Amabel.
"Oh, but I should be afraid of letting it out!" cried Mildred.
"The fact is, you can't be too careful," said Joe. "There are fellows
who make a business of finding out about forthcoming plays and stealing
the ideas. Aren't there, Beverley?"
"More than you might think," said Mr. Beverley.
"I much prefer to be told nothing about it," Marie declared, smiling. "I
think that makes it ever so much more exciting."
"I recollect a friend of mine--in the furniture line--thirty years ago
it must be--taking me in with him to see a rehearsal once at the--Now,
let's see, what was the theatre? A rehearsal of--tut--Now, what was the
play?" Old Mr. Sarradet was trying to contribute to the occasion, but
the tide of conversation overwhelmed his halting reminiscences.
"But how do you get the idea, Mr. Beverley?"
"Oh, well, that may come just at any minute--anywhere, you know."
"Where did this one come?"
"Oh, I got this one, as it happens, walking on Hampstead Heath."
"Hampstead Heath! Fancy!" breathed Amabel Osling in an awed voice.
"And you went straight home and wrote it out?" asked Mildred Quain.
"Oh, I've got my office in the daytime. I can only write at nights."
"Bit of a strain!" murmured Joe.
"It is rather. Besides, one doesn't begin by writing it out, Miss
Quain." He smiled in condescending pity. "One has to construct, you
see."
"Yes, of course. How stupid of me!" said Mildred, rather crestfallen.
"Not a bit, Miss Quain. You naturally didn't realise"--Mr. Beverley
seemed genuinely sorry if he had appeared to snub her. "And I--I should
like to tell you all how much I--I feel what you're doing. Of course I
believe in the thing myself, but that's no reason why--Well, I tell you
I do feel it. I--I feel it really."
They had admired him before; they liked him the better for this little
speech. He came off his pedestal, and made himself one of them--a
co-adventurer. His hesitation and his blush revealed him as human. They
got a new and pleasantly flattering sense of what they were doing. They
were not only going to make money and have fun; they were helping
genius.
Joe raised his glass. "Here's luck to the Author and the Syndicate!"
"The what?" asked Amabel Osling. "I mean, what is a syndicate?"
"We are!" answered Joe with mock solemnity. "Fill your glasses--and no
heel-taps!"
They drank to Mr. Claud Beverley and their enterprising selves. Joe
clasped the author's hand. Mr. Beverley drained his glass.
"Here's luck!" he echoed. There was just a little shake in his voice;
the occasion was not without its emotions for Mr. Beverley. Never before
had he been the Hero of the Evening. His imagination darted forward to a
wider triumph.
Arthur was moved too. He felt a generous envy of Mr. Beverley, awkward
and melancholy as he was. Beverley was doing something--really off his
own bat. That was great. Well, the next best thing was to help--to be in
the venture; even that was making something of life. As he listened to
the talk and shared in the excitement, his embarrassment had worn away;
and old Sarradet himself had clinked glasses with him cordially.
Just on the heels of Mr. Beverley's "Here's luck!"--almost clashing with
it--came a loud ring at the front door.
"Why, who's that?" exclaimed Marie.
They heard the scurry of the maid's feet. Then came a murmur of voices
and the noise of the door closing. Then a full hearty voice--known to
them all except Mr. Beverley--said: "That's better, old chap! You're all
right now!"
The maid threw open the door of the room, and the festive and excited
group inside received a sudden shock that banished all thought of Author
and Syndicate alike. Very pale, very dishevelled, and seeming to totter
on his feet, Raymond Sarradet came in, supported by Sidney Barslow's
sturdy arm round his shoulders. Sidney was dishevelled too; his coat was
torn all down the front, his hat was smashed. He had a black eye, a cut
on the lip, and a swollen nose. They were a dismal battered pair.
"That's right, old chap! Here's a chair." Sidney gently deposited his
friend in a seat and looked round at the astonished company. "They gave
him a fair knock-out," he said, "but he's come round now." Then he spoke
to Marie directly. "Still I thought I'd better see him home--he's a bit
shaky."
"Oh, but you too!" she exclaimed. And to the maid she added: "Bring some
hot water and a sponge quickly--and towels, you know--Oh, and plaster!
Be quick!"
"What the devil is all this?" demanded old Sarradet, very red and very
bristly.
"They'd have had everything out of me, but for Sidney. Lucky if they
hadn't killed me!" said Raymond, resting his head on his hand. "Gad, how
my head aches!"
Amabel came and laid her hand on his forehead. "Poor boy! What can have
happened?"
"Give them some champagne, Joe. Oh, Sidney, you are hurt! Here's the hot
water! Now let me!"
Sidney gave himself up to Marie's ministrations. Amabel and Mildred
bathed Raymond's head with Eau-de-Cologne. Joe poured out champagne. The
other men stood about, looking as if they would like to do something,
but could not think of anything to do. In the course of the
ministrations the story gradually came out.
The two had gone to a suburban race-meeting together. Fortune favoured
Raymond, and he came away with considerably more money than he started
with. Three agreeable strangers got into their carriage, coming home.
Raymond joined them in a game of cards, Sidney sitting out. On arrival
at Waterloo the agreeable strangers proposed a "bite" together--and
perhaps another little game afterwards? Sidney tried to persuade Raymond
to refuse the invitation, but Raymond persisted in accepting it, and his
friend would not leave him. The story continued on familiar lines--so
familiar that Sidney's suspicions were very natural. There was the
"bite," the wine, the game--Sidney still not playing. There was the lure
of temporary success, the change of fortune, the discovery of the
swindling.
"Sidney was looking on, you know," said Raymond, "and he nudged me. I
had an idea myself by then, and I knew what he meant. So I watched, and
I saw him do it--the big one with the red hair--you saw him too, didn't
you, Sidney? Well, I was excited and--and so on, and I just threw my
cards in his face. The next minute they rushed us up into a corner and
went for us like blazes, the three of them. I did my best, but I'm only
a lightweight. The big chap gave me one here"--he touched the side of
his chin--"and down I went. I could call 'Murder!'--I wasn't
unconscious--but that's all I could do. And the three of them went for
Sidney. By Jove, you should have seen Sidney!"
"Rot!" came in a muffled tone from Sidney, whose lips were being bathed
and plastered.
"He kept them all going for the best part of five minutes, I should
think, and marked 'em too; gave 'em as good as he got! And I shouted
'Murder!' all the time. And that's what it would have been, if it had
gone on much longer. But the waiters came at last--we were in some kind
of a restaurant near Waterloo. I don't fancy the people were particular,
but I suppose they didn't want murder done there. And so they came, and
our friends made a bolt."
"But did nobody call the police?" asked Marie indignantly.
"Well," said Raymond, "they'd gone, you see, and----" He smiled weakly.
"It doesn't do any good to have that sort of thing in the papers,"
Sidney remarked.
"There you're quite right," said old Sarradet with emphasis. He came up
to Sidney and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Barslow, for
looking after that young fool of mine," he added. "You showed great
courage."
"Oh, I don't mind a scrap, sir," said Sidney. "I like the exercise."
"Oh, Sidney!" murmured Marie, in a very low voice, not far from a sob.
The other girls clapped their hands; the men guffawed; Mr. Claud
Beverley made a mental note--Not a bad line that!
Amidst the clash of arms the laws are silent, and even the arts do not
go for much. Not Arthur's legal status nor yet his new elegance, no, nor
Mr. Claud Beverley's genius, had any more chance that evening. The girls
were aflame with primitive woman's admiration of fighting man--of
muscles, skill, and pluck. Joe was an amateur of the noble art and must
have every detail of the encounter. Old Sarradet fussed about, now
scolding his son, now surreptitiously patting him on the shoulder,
always coming back to Sidney with fresh praises and fresh proffers of
champagne. Marie took her seat permanently by the wounded warrior's
side, and delicately conveyed the foaming glass to his lacerated lips.
More than admiration was in her heart; she was a prey to severe remorse.
She had sent this man into banishment--a harsh sentence for a hasty
word. His response was to preserve her brother!
Marie would have been more or less than human if she had not, by now,
experienced a certain reaction of feeling in regard to Arthur Lisle. Her
resentment she kept for Mrs. Veltheim and her father, and their
bungling. Towards Arthur she remained very friendly, even affectionately
disposed. But a sense of failure was upon her, and there came with it a
diffidence which made her, always now, doubtful of pleasing him. Her old
distrust of herself grew stronger; the fear of "grating" on him was more
insistent. Thus her pleasure in his company was impaired, and she could
no longer believe, as she used, in his pleasure in being with her. She
thought she saw signs of uneasiness in him too sometimes--and she was
not always wrong about that. In the result, with all the mutual goodwill
in the world, there was a certain constraint. Save in such moments of
excitement as had arisen over Mr. Beverley and his farce, neither could
forget that there lay between them one of those uncomfortable things of
which both parties are well aware, but which neither can mention. It was
a consciousness which tended not indeed to hostility, but to separation.
Arthur's new preoccupations, resulting in his visits to Regent's Park
being much less frequent, intensified the feeling. Inevitably, as her
dreams day by day faded, some of the bright hues with which they had
decked Arthur Lisle faded from him also. He retained his own virtues and
attractions; but gradually again it became possible for there to be
other virtues and attractions in the world which were not his and which
might advance rival pretensions.
Her natural affinities with Sidney Barslow, checked and indeed wilfully,
if reluctantly, suppressed for the last few weeks, would have revived in
any event so soon as the counter-attraction lost its monopolising power.
The event of this evening--the dramatic and triumphant return of the
banished friend--brought them to a quick and vigorous life again. To
forgive was not enough. She burned to welcome and applaud--though still
with a wary uneasy eye on Arthur. Yet she was--perversely--glad that he
was there, that he should see what manner of man had suffered dismissal
for his sake. This desire to magnify in his eyes a sacrifice which had
proved useless was a subtle reproach to Arthur--the only one she
levelled against him.
He had been among the first to shake the warrior by the hand. "Splendid,
my dear fellow! Splendid!" he exclaimed with a genuine enthusiasm. "I
wish I'd been there too--though I should have been of jolly little use,
I'm afraid." His humility was genuine too; at that moment he would have
given a great deal to be as good a fighting man as Sidney Barslow.
Sidney gave his hand readily, but he looked apologetic amidst all his
glory. "Serves us right for taking up with those chaps and going to the
beastly place. But after the races sometimes, you know--." He was trying
to convey that such associates and such resorts were not habitual with
him. He was remembering that unhappy encounter in Oxford Street far more
painfully than Arthur.
"Why, that was all Raymond's fault, anyhow," Marie interposed
indignantly. "You couldn't desert him!"
But Arthur did remember the encounter and with some shame. If there were
occasions on which a man might not wish to know Sidney Barslow or to
vouch for his respectability, there were evidently others on which he
would be glad to have him by his side and to be recognised as entitled
to his friendly services. Very likely the latter were really the more
characteristic and important. At all events here he was to-night, a
gallant spirit, brave and gay in battle--no small part of what goes to
make a man. Arthur himself felt rather small when he remembered his
fastidious horror.
"We're all proud of you, Barslow," said old Sarradet in his most
impressive manner.
"We are, we are, we are!" cried Joe, and regardless of poor Raymond's
aching head, he sat down at the piano and thumped out "See the
Conquering Hero comes!"
Mr. Claud Beverley was robbed of the honours of the evening, but, to do
him justice, he took his deposition in good part. In fact, as he walked
home to those Northern Heights whence had come his wonderful
inspiration, he found and hailed yet another Hero of the Evening.
Neither Gifted Author nor Splendid Warrior!
"Put in as much as that, did he! Just made it possible! I should like to
do that chap a turn if I could!"
Joe Halliday--his heart opened by emotion and champagne--had told him
the Secret of the Thousand.