A COMEDY ON THE GOLD COAST.
It was five o’clock on an afternoon in mid-September, and a couple of
American millionaires (they abounded that year, did millionaires) sat
chatting together on the wide terrace which separates the entrance to
the Kursaal from the promenade. Some yards away, against the balustrade
of the terrace, in the natural, unconsidered attitude of one to whom
short frocks are a matter of history, certainly, but very recent
history, stood a charming and imperious girl; you could see that she
was eating chocolate while meditating upon the riddle of life. The
elder millionaire glanced at every pretty woman within view, excepting
only the girl; but his companion seemed to be intent on counting the
chocolates.
The immense crystal dome of the Kursaal dominated the gold coast, and
on either side of the great building were stretched out in a straight
line the hotels, the restaurants, the _cafés_, the shops, the theatres,
the concert-halls, and the pawnbrokers of the City of Pleasure--Ostend.
At one extremity of that long array of ornate white architecture
(which resembled the icing on a bride-cake more than the roofs of men)
was the palace of a king; at the other were the lighthouse and the
railway signals which guided into the city the continuously arriving
cargoes of wealth, beauty, and desire. In front, the ocean, grey and
lethargic, idly beat up a little genteel foam under the promenade for
the wetting of pink feet and stylish bathing-costumes. And after a hard
day’s work, the sun, by arrangement with the authorities during August
and September, was setting over the sea exactly opposite the superb
portals of the Kursaal.
The younger of the millionaires was Cecil Thorold. The other, a man
fifty-five or so, was Simeon Rainshore, father of the girl at the
balustrade, and president of the famous Dry Goods Trust, of exciting
memory. The contrast between the two men, alike only in extreme riches,
was remarkable: Cecil still youthful, slim, dark, languid of movement,
with delicate features, eyes almost Spanish, and an accent of purest
English; and Rainshore with his nasal twang, his stout frame, his
rounded, bluish-red chin, his little eyes, and that demeanour of false
briskness by means of which ageing men seek to prove to themselves
that they are as young as ever they were. Simeon had been a friend and
opponent of Cecil’s father; in former days those twain had victimised
each other for colossal sums. Consequently Simeon had been glad to
meet the son of his dead antagonist, and, in less than a week of
Ostend repose, despite a fundamental disparity of temperament, the
formidable president and the Europeanised wanderer had achieved a sort
of intimacy, an intimacy which was about to be intensified.
“The difference between you and me is this,” Cecil was saying. “You
exhaust yourself by making money among men who are all bent on making
money, in a place specially set apart for the purpose. I amuse myself
by making money among men who, having made or inherited money, are bent
on spending it, in places specially set apart for the purpose. I take
people off their guard. They don’t precisely see me coming. I don’t
rent an office and put up a sign which is equivalent to announcing that
the rest of the world had better look out for itself. Our codes are the
same, but is not my way more original and more diverting? Look at this
place. Half the wealth of Europe is collected here; the other half is
at Trouville. The entire coast reeks of money; the sands are golden
with it. You’ve only to put out your hand--so!”
“So?” ejaculated Rainshore, quizzical. “How? Show me?”
“Ah! That would be telling.”
“I guess you wouldn’t get much out of Simeon--not as much as your
father did.”
“Do you imagine I should try?” said Cecil gravely. “My amusements are
always discreet.”
“But you confess you are often bored. Now, on Wall Street we are never
bored.”
“Yes,” Cecil admitted. “I embarked on these--these enterprises mainly
to escape boredom.”
“You ought to marry,” said Rainshore pointedly. “You ought to marry, my
friend.”
“I have my yacht.”
“No doubt. And she’s a beauty, and feminine too; but not feminine
enough. You ought to marry. Now, I’ll----”
Mr. Rainshore paused. His daughter had suddenly ceased to eat
chocolates and was leaning over the balustrade in order to converse
with a tall, young man whose fair, tanned face and white hat overtopped
the carved masonry and were thus visible to the millionaires. The
latter glanced at one another and then glanced away, each slightly
self-conscious.
“I thought Mr. Vaux-Lowry had left?” said Cecil.
“He came back last night,” Rainshore replied curtly. “And he leaves
again to-night.”
“Then--then it’s a match after all!” Cecil ventured.
“Who says that?” was Simeon’s sharp inquiry.
“The birds of the air whisper it. One heard it at every corner three
days ago.”
Rainshore turned his chair a little towards Cecil’s. “You’ll allow I
ought to know something about it,” he said. “Well, I tell you it’s a
lie.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Cecil apologised.
“Not at all,” said Simeon, stroking his chin. “I’m glad you did.
Because now you can just tell all the birds of the air direct from me
that in this particular case there isn’t going to be the usual alliance
between the beauty and dollars of America and the aristocratic blood of
Great Britain. Listen right here,” he continued confidentially, like
a man whose secret feelings have been inconveniencing him for several
hours. “This young spark--mind, I’ve nothing against him!--asks me to
consent to his engagement with Geraldine. I tell him that I intend to
settle half a million dollars on my daughter, and that the man she
marries must cover that half-million with another. He says he has a
thousand a year of his own, pounds--just nice for Geraldine’s gloves
and candy!--and that he is the heir of his uncle, Lord Lowry; and that
there is an entail; and that Lord Lowry is very rich, very old, and
very unmarried; but that, being also very peculiar, he won’t come down
with any money. It occurs to me to remark: ‘Suppose Lord Lowry marries
and develops into the father of a man-child, where do _you_ come in,
Mr. Vaux-Lowry?’ ‘Oho! Lord Lowry marry! Impossible! Laughable!’ Then
Geraldine begins to worry at me, and her mother too. And so I kind of
issue an ultimatum--namely, I will consent to an engagement without a
settlement if, on the marriage, Lord Lowry will give a note of hand
for half a million dollars to Geraldine, payable on _his_ marriage.
See? My lord’s nephew goes off to persuade my lord, and returns with
my lord’s answer in an envelope sealed with the great seal. I open
it and I read--this is what I read: ‘To Mr. S. Rainshore, American
draper. Sir--As a humorist you rank high. Accept the admiration of Your
obedient servant, Lowry.’”
The millionaire laughed.
“Oh! It’s clever enough!” said Rainshore. “It’s very English and
grand. Dashed if I don’t admire it! All the same, I’ve requested Mr.
Vaux-Lowry, under the circumstances, to quit this town. I didn’t show
him the letter--no. I spared his delicate feelings. I merely told him
Lord Lowry had refused, and that I would be ready to consider his
application favourably any time when he happened to have half a million
dollars in his pocket.”
“And Miss Geraldine?”
“She’s flying the red flag, but she knows when my back’s against
the wall. She knows her father. She’ll recover. Great Scott! She’s
eighteen, he’s twenty-one; the whole affair is a high farce. And,
moreover, I guess I want Geraldine to marry an American, after all.”
“And if she elopes?” Cecil murmured as if to himself, gazing at the set
features of the girl, who was now alone once more.
“_Elopes?_”
Rainshore’s face reddened as his mood shifted suddenly from indulgent
cynicism to profound anger. Cecil was amazed at the transformation,
until he remembered to have heard long ago that Simeon himself had
eloped.
“It was just a fancy that flashed into my mind,” Cecil smiled
diplomatically.
“I should let it flash out again if I were you,” said Rainshore, with
a certain grimness. And Cecil perceived the truth of the maxim that a
parent can never forgive his own fault in his child.
II.
“You’ve come to sympathise with me,” said Geraldine Rainshore calmly,
as Cecil, leaving the father for a few moments, strolled across the
terrace towards the daughter.
“It’s my honest, kindly face that gives me away,” he responded lightly.
“But what am I to sympathise with you about?”
“You know what,” the girl said briefly.
They stood together near the balustrade, looking out over the sea into
the crimson eye of the sun; and all the afternoon activities of Ostend
were surging round them--the muffled sound of musical instruments
from within the Kursaal, the shrill cries of late bathers from the
shore, the toot of a tramway-horn to the left, the roar of a siren to
the right, and everywhere the ceaseless hum of an existence at once
gay, feverish, and futile; but Cecil was conscious of nothing but the
individuality by his side. Some women, he reflected, are older at
eighteen than they are at thirty-eight, and Geraldine was one of those.
She happened to be very young and very old at the same time. She might
be immature, crude, even gawky in her girlishness; but she was just
then in the first flush of mentally realising the absolute independence
of the human spirit. She had force, and she had also the enterprise to
act on it.
As Cecil glanced at her intelligent, expressive face, he thought of her
playing with life as a child plays with a razor.
“You mean----?” he inquired.
“I mean that father has been talking about me to you. I could tell by
his eyes. Well?”
“Your directness unnerves me,” he smiled.
“Pull yourself together, then, Mr. Thorold. Be a man.”
“Will you let me treat you as a friend?”
“Why, yes,” she said, “if you’ll promise not to tell me I’m only
eighteen.”
“I am incapable of such rudeness,” Cecil replied. “A woman is as old as
she feels. You feel at least thirty; therefore you are at least thirty.
This being understood, I am going to suggest, as a friend, that if you
and Mr. Vaux-Lowry are--perhaps pardonably--contemplating any extreme
step----”
“Extreme step, Mr. Thorold?”
“Anything rash.”
“And suppose we are?” Geraldine demanded, raising her chin scornfully
and defiantly and dangling her parasol.
“I should respectfully and confidentially advise you to refrain. Be
content to wait, my dear middle-aged woman. Your father may relent. And
also, I have a notion that I may be able to--to----”
“Help us?”
“Possibly.”
“You are real good,” said Geraldine coldly. “But what gave you the idea
that Harry and I were meaning to----?”
“Something in your eyes--your fine, daring eyes. I read you as you
read your father, you see?”
“Well, then, Mr. Thorold, there’s something wrong with my fine, daring
eyes. I’m just the last girl in all America to do anything--rash. Why!
if I did anything rash, I’m sure I should feel ever afterwards as if I
wanted to be excused off the very face of the earth. I’m that sort of
girl. Do you think I don’t know that father will give way? I guess he’s
just got to. With time and hammering, you can knock sense into the head
of any parent.”
“I apologise,” said Cecil, both startled and convinced. “And I
congratulate Mr. Vaux-Lowry.”
“Say. You like Harry, don’t you?”
“Very much. He’s the ideal type of Englishman.”
Geraldine nodded sweetly. “And so obedient! He does everything I tell
him. He is leaving for England to-night, not because father asked him
to, but because I did. I’m going to take mother to Brussels for a few
days’ shopping--lace, you know. That will give father an opportunity to
meditate in solitude on his own greatness. Tell me, Mr. Thorold, do you
consider that Harry and I would be justified in corresponding secretly?”
Cecil assumed a pose of judicial gravity.
“I think you would,” he decided. “But don’t tell anyone I said so.”
“Not even Harry?”
She ran off into the Kursaal, saying she must seek her mother. But
instead of seeking her mother, Geraldine passed straight through the
concert-hall, where a thousand and one wondrously attired women were
doing fancy needle-work to the accompaniment of a band of music,
into the maze of corridors beyond, and so to the rear entrance of
the Kursaal on the Boulevard van Isoghem. Here she met Mr. Harry
Vaux-Lowry, who was most obviously waiting for her. They crossed the
road to the empty tramway waiting-room and entered it and sat down;
and by the mere act of looking into each other’s eyes, these two--the
stiff, simple, honest-faced young Englishman with “Oxford” written all
over him, and the charming child of a civilisation equally proud, but
with fewer conventions, suddenly transformed the little bureau into a
Cupid’s bower.
“It’s just as I thought, you darling boy,” Geraldine began to talk
rapidly. “Father’s the least bit in the world scared; and when he’s
scared, he’s bound to confide in someone; and he’s confided in that
sweet Mr. Thorold. And Mr. Thorold has been requested to reason with
me and advise me to be a good girl and wait. I know what _that_ means.
It means that father thinks we shall soon forget each other, my poor
Harry. And I do believe it means that father wants me to marry Mr.
Thorold.”
“What did you say to him, dear?” the lover demanded, pale.
“Trust me to fool him, Harry. I simply walked round him. He thinks we
are going to be very good and wait patiently. As if father ever _would_
give way until he was forced!”
She laughed disdainfully. “So we’re perfectly safe so long as we act
with discretion. Now let’s clearly understand. To-day’s Monday. You
return to England to-night.”
“Yes. And I’ll arrange about the licence and things.”
“Your cousin Mary is just as important as the licence, Harry,” said
Geraldine primly.
“She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on
Thursday.”
“Very well. In the meantime, I behave as if life were a blank. Brussels
will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on
Thursday afternoon. That night there is a _soirée dansante_ at the
Kursaal. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will
have to go all the same. I will dance before all men till a quarter
to ten--I will even dance with Mr. Thorold. What a pity I can’t dance
before father, but he’s certain to be in the gambling-rooms then,
winning money; he always is at that hour! At a quarter to ten I will
slip out, and you’ll be here at this back door with a carriage. We
drive to the quay and just catch the 11.5 steamer, and I meet your
cousin Mary. On Friday morning we are married; and then, then we shall
be in a position to talk to father. He’ll pretend to be furious, but he
can’t say much, because he eloped himself. Didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t,” said Harry, with a certain dryness.
“Oh, yes! It’s in the family! But you needn’t look so starched,
my English lord.” He took her hand. “You’re sure your uncle won’t
disinherit you, or anything horrid of that kind?”
“He can’t,” said Harry.
“What a perfectly lovely country England is!” Geraldine exclaimed.
“Fancy the poor old thing not being _able_ to disinherit you! Why, it’s
just too delicious for words!”
And for some reason or other he kissed her violently.
Then an official entered the bureau and asked them if they wanted
to go to Blankenburghe; because, if so, the tram was awaiting their
distinguished pleasure. They looked at each other foolishly and sidled
out, and the bureau ceased to be Cupid’s bower.
III.
By Simeon’s request, Cecil dined with the Rainshores that night at the
Continental. After dinner they all sat out on the balcony and sustained
themselves with coffee while watching the gay traffic of the Digue,
the brilliant illumination of the Kursaal, and the distant lights on
the invisible but murmuring sea. Geraldine was in one of her moods of
philosophic pessimism, and would persist in dwelling on the uncertainty
of riches and the vicissitudes of millionaires. She found a text in the
famous Bowring case, of which the newspaper contained many interesting
details.
“I wonder if he’ll be caught?” she remarked.
“I wonder,” said Cecil.
“What do you think, father?”
“I think you had better go to bed,” Simeon replied.
The chit rose and kissed him duteously.
“Good night,” she said. “Aren’t you glad the sea keeps so calm?”
“Why?”
“Can you ask? Mr. Vaux-Lowry crosses to-night, and he’s a dreadfully
bad sailor. Come along, mother. Mr. Thorold, when mother and I return
from Brussels, we shall expect to be taken for a cruise in the
_Claribel_.”
Simeon sighed with relief upon the departure of his family and began a
fresh cigar. On the whole, his day had been rather too domestic. He was
quite pleased when Cecil, having apparently by accident broached the
subject of the Dry Goods Trust, proceeded to exhibit a minute curiosity
concerning the past, the present, and the future of the greatest of all
the Rainshore enterprises.
“Are you thinking of coming in?” Simeon demanded at length, pricking up
his ears.
“No,” said Cecil, “I’m thinking of going out. The fact is, I haven’t
mentioned it before, but I’m ready to sell a very large block of
shares.”
“The deuce you are!” Simeon exclaimed. “And what do you call a very
large block?”
“Well,” said Cecil, “it would cost me nearly half a million to take
them up now.”
“Dollars?”
“Pounds sterling. Twenty-five thousand shares, at 95-3/8.”
Rainshore whistled two bars of “Follow me!” from “The Belle of New
York.”
“Is this how you amuse yourself at Ostend?” he inquired.
Cecil smiled: “This is quite an exceptional transaction. And not too
profitable, either.”
“But you can’t dump that lot on the market,” Simeon protested.
“Yes, I can,” said Cecil. “I must, and I will. There are reasons. You
yourself wouldn’t care to handle it, I suppose?”
The president of the Trust pondered.
“I’d handle it at 93-3/8,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, come! That’s dropping two points!” said Cecil, shocked. “A minute
ago you were prophesying a further rise.”
Rainshore’s face gleamed out momentarily in the darkness as he puffed
at his cigar.
“If you must unload,” he remarked, as if addressing the red end of the
cigar, “I’m your man at 93-3/8.”
Cecil argued: but Simeon Rainshore never argued--it was not his
method. In a quarter of an hour the younger man had contracted to
sell twenty-five thousand shares of a hundred dollars each in the
United States Dry Goods Trust at two points below the current market
quotation, and six and five-eighths points below par.
The hoot of an outgoing steamer sounded across the city.
“I must go,” said Cecil.
“You’re in a mighty hurry,” Simeon complained.
IV.
Five minutes later Cecil was in his own rooms at the Hôtel de la Plage.
Soon there was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come in, Lecky,” he said.
It was his servant who entered, the small, thin man with very mobile
eyes and of no particular age, who, in various capacities and
incarnations--now as liftman, now as financial agent, now as no matter
what--assisted Cecil in his diversions.
“Mr. Vaux-Lowry really did go by the boat, sir.”
“Good. And you have given directions about the yacht?”
“The affair is in order.”
“And you’ve procured one of Mr. Rainshore’s Homburg hats?”
“It is in your dressing-room. There was no mark of identification
on it. So, in order to smooth the difficulties of the police when
they find it on the beach, I have taken the liberty of writing Mr.
Rainshore’s name on the lining.”
“A kindly thought,” said Cecil. “You’ll catch the special G.S.N.
steamer direct for London at 1 a.m. That will get you into town before
two o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Things have turned out as I expected,
and I’ve nothing else to say to you; but, before leaving me, perhaps
you had better repeat your instructions.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said Lecky. “Tuesday afternoon.--I call at
Cloak Lane and intimate that we want to sell Dry Goods shares. I
ineffectually try to conceal a secret cause for alarm, and I gradually
disclose the fact that we are very anxious indeed to sell really a
lot of Dry Goods shares, in a hurry. I permit myself to be pumped,
and the information is wormed out of me that Mr. Simeon Rainshore has
disappeared, has possibly committed suicide; but that, at present,
no one is aware of this except ourselves. I express doubts as to the
soundness of the Trust, and I remark on the unfortunateness of this
disappearance so soon after the lamentable panic connected with the
lately vanished Bruce Bowring and his companies. I send our friends on
’Change with orders to see what they can do and to report. I then go
to Birchin Lane and repeat the performance there without variation.
Then I call at the City office of the _Evening Messenger_ and talk
privily in a despondent vein with the financial editor concerning the
Trust, but I breathe not a word as to Mr. Rainshore’s disappearance.
Wednesday morning.--The rot in Dry Goods has set in sharply, but I am
now, very foolishly, disposed to haggle about the selling price. Our
friends urge me to accept what I can get, and I leave them, saying that
I must telegraph to you. Wednesday afternoon.--I see a reporter of the
_Morning Journal_ and let out that Simeon Rainshore has disappeared.
The _Journal_ will wire to Ostend for confirmation, which confirmation
it will receive. Thursday morning.--The bottom is knocked out of the
price of Dry Goods shares. Then I am to call on our other friends in
Throgmorton Street and tell them to buy, buy, buy, in London, New York,
Paris, everywhere.”
“Go in peace,” said Cecil. “If we are lucky, the price will drop to
seventy.”
V.
“I see, Mr. Thorold,” said Geraldine Rainshore, “that you are about to
ask me for the next dance. It is yours.”
“You are the queen of diviners,” Cecil replied, bowing.
It was precisely half-past nine on Thursday evening, and they had
met in a corner of the pillared and balconied _salle de danse_, in
the Kursaal behind the concert-hall. The slippery, glittering floor
was crowded with dancers--the men in ordinary evening dress, the
women very variously attired, save that nearly all wore picture-hats.
Geraldine was in a white frock, high at the neck, with a large hat of
black velvet; and amidst that brilliant, multicoloured, light-hearted
throng, lit by the blaze of the electric chandeliers and swayed by the
irresistible melody of the “Doctrinen” waltz, the young girl, simply
dressed as she was, easily held her own.
“So you’ve come back from Brussels?” Cecil said, taking her arm and
waist.
“Yes. We arrived just on time for dinner. But what have you been doing
with father? We’ve seen nothing of him.”
“Ah!” said Cecil mysteriously. “We’ve been on a little voyage, and,
like you, we’ve only just returned.”
“In the _Claribel_?”
He nodded.
“You might have waited,” she pouted.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have liked it. Things happened, you know.”
“Why, what? Do tell me.”
“Well, you left your poor father alone, and he was moping all day on
Tuesday. So on Tuesday night I had the happy idea of going out in the
yacht to witness a sham night attack by the French Channel Squadron on
Calais. I caught your honoured parent just as he was retiring to bed,
and we went. He was only too glad. But we hadn’t left the harbour much
more than an hour and a half when our engines broke down.”
“What fun! And at night, too!”
“Yes. Wasn’t it? The shaft was broken. So we didn’t see much of any
night attack on Calais. Fortunately the weather was all that the
weather ought to be when a ship’s engines break down. Still, it took
us over forty hours to repair--over forty hours! I’m proud we were able
to do the thing without being ignominiously towed into port. But I fear
your father may have grown a little impatient, though we had excellent
views of Ostend and Dunkirk, and the passing vessels were a constant
diversion.”
“Was there plenty to eat?” Geraldine asked simply.
“Ample.”
“Then father wouldn’t really mind. When did you land?”
“About an hour ago. Your father did not expect you to-night, I fancy.
He dressed and went straight to the tables. He has to make up for a
night lost, you see.”
They danced in silence for a few moments, and then suddenly Geraldine
said--
“Will you excuse me? I feel tired. Good night.”
The clock under the orchestra showed seventeen minutes to ten.
“Instantly?” Cecil queried.
“Instantly.” And the girl added, with a hint of mischief in her voice,
as she shook hands: “I look on you as quite a friend since our last
little talk; so you will excuse this abruptness, won’t you?”
He was about to answer when a sort of commotion arose near behind
them. Still holding her hand he turned to look.
“Why!” he said. “It’s your mother! She must be unwell!”
Mrs. Rainshore, stout, and robed, as always, in tight, sumptuous black,
sat among a little bevy of chaperons. She held a newspaper in trembling
hands, and she was uttering a succession of staccato “Oh-oh’s,” while
everyone in the vicinity gazed at her with alarm. Then she dropped the
paper, and, murmuring, “Simeon’s dead!” sank gently to the polished
floor just as Cecil and Geraldine approached.
Geraldine’s first instinctive move was to seize the newspaper, which
was that day’s Paris edition of the _New York Herald_. She read the
headlines in a flash: “Strange disappearance of Simeon Rainshore.
Suicide feared. Takes advantage of his family’s absence. Heavy drop in
Dry Goods. Shares at 72 and still falling.”
VI.
“My good Rebecca, I assure you that I am alive.”
This was Mr. Rainshore’s attempt to calm the hysteric sobbing of his
wife, who had recovered from her short swoon in the little retreat of
the person who sold Tauchnitzes, picture-postcards, and French novels,
between the main corridor and the reading-rooms. Geraldine and Cecil
were also in the tiny chamber.
“As for this,” Simeon continued, kicking the newspaper, “it’s a
singular thing that a man can’t take a couple of days off without
upsetting the entire universe. What should you do in my place, Thorold?
This is the fault of your shaft.”
“I should buy Dry Goods shares,” said Cecil.
“And I will.”
There was an imperative knock at the door. An official of police
entered.
“Monsieur Ryneshor?”
“The same.”
“We have received telegraphs from New York and Londres to demand if you
are dead.”
“I am not. I still live.”
“But Monsieur’s hat has been found on the beach.”
“My hat?”
“It carries Monsieur’s name.”
“Then it isn’t mine, sir.”
“_Mais comment donc----?_”
“I tell you it isn’t mine, sir.”
“Don’t be angry, Simeon,” his wife pleaded between her sobs.
The exit of the official was immediately followed by another summons
for admission, even more imperative. A lady entered and handed to
Simeon a card: “Miss Eve Fincastle. _The Morning Journal._”
“My paper----” she began.
“You wish to know if I exist, madam!” said Simeon.
“I----” Miss Fincastle caught sight of Cecil Thorold, paused, and bowed
stiffly. Cecil bowed; he also blushed.
“I continue to exist, madam,” Simeon proceeded. “I have not killed
myself. But homicide of some sort is not improbable if---- In short,
madam, good night!”
Miss Fincastle, with a long, searching, silent look at Cecil, departed.
“Bolt that door,” said Simeon to his daughter.
Then there was a third knock, followed by a hammering.
“Go away!” Simeon commanded.
“Open the door!” pleaded a muffled voice.
“It’s Harry!” Geraldine whispered solemnly in Cecil’s ear. “Please go
and calm him. Tell him I say it’s too late to-night.”
Cecil went, astounded.
“What’s happened to Geraldine?” cried the boy, extremely excited, in
the corridor. “There are all sorts of rumours. Is she ill?”
Cecil gave an explanation, and in his turn asked for another one. “You
look unnerved,” he said. “What are you doing here? What is it? Come
and have a drink. And tell me all, my young friend.” And when, over
cognac, he had learnt the details of a scheme which had no connection
with his own, he exclaimed, with the utmost sincerity: “The minx! The
minx!”
“What do you mean?” inquired Harry Vaux-Lowry.
“I mean that you and the minx have had the nearest possible shave of
ruining your united careers. Listen to me. Give it up, my boy. I’ll
try to arrange things. You delivered a letter to the father-in-law of
your desire a few days ago. I’ll give you another one to deliver, and I
fancy the result will be, different.”
The letter which Cecil wrote ran thus:--
“DEAR RAINSHORE,--I enclose cheque for £100,000. It represents parts
of the gold that can be picked up on the gold coast by putting out
one’s hand--so! You will observe that it is dated the day after the
next settling-day of the London Stock Exchange. I contracted on
Monday last to sell you 25,000 shares of a certain Trust at 93-3/8,
I did not possess the shares then, but my agents have to-day bought
them for me at an average price of 72. I stand to realise, therefore,
rather more than half a million dollars. The round half-million Mr.
Vaux-Lowry happens to bring you in his pocket; you will not forget
your promise to him that when he did so you would consider his
application favourably. I wish to make no profit out of the little
transaction, but I will venture to keep the balance for out-of-pocket
expenses, such as mending the _Claribel’s_ shaft. (How convenient it
is to have a yacht that will break down when required!) The shares
will doubtless recover in due course, and I hope the reputation of
the Trust may not suffer, and that for the sake of old times with my
father you will regard the episode in its proper light and bear me no
ill-will.--Yours sincerely,
“C. THOROLD.”
The next day the engagement of Mr. Harry Nigel Selincourt Vaux-Lowry
and Miss Geraldine Rainshore was announced to two continents.