CONNIE DEERING walked back to the house with a silent and still
tremulous Jimmie. She had slid her hand through his arm, and now and
then gave it an affectionate pat. Within the limitations of her light,
gay nature she was a sympathetic and loyal woman, and she had loved
Jimmie for many years with the unquestioning fondness that one has for
a beloved and satisfying domestic animal. She had recovered from
the fright his frantic demonstration had caused her, and her easy
temperament had shaken off the little chill of solemnity that had
accompanied her vow of secrecy. But she pitied him with all her kind
heart, and in herself felt agreeably sentimental.
They strolled slowly into the hall, and paused for a moment before
parting.
“When you come to think of it seriously, you won't consider I have made
too impossible a fool of myself?” he asked with an apologetic smile.
“I promise,” she said affectionately. Then she laughed. Not only
was Jimmie's smile contagious, but Connie Deering could not face the
pleasant world for more than an hour without laughter.
“I have always said you were a dear, Jimmie, and you are. I almost wish
I could kiss you.”
Jimmie looked around. They were quite unperceived.
“I do quite,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Now we are really brother and sister,” she said with a flush. “You are
not going to be too unhappy, are you?”
“I? Oh no, not I,” he replied heartily. He repeated this asseveration to
himself while dressing for dinner. Why indeed should he be unhappy? Had
he not looked a few hours before at God's earth and found that it was
good? Besides, to add to the common stock of the world's unhappiness
were a crime. “Yes, a crime,” he said aloud, with a vigorous pull at his
white tie. Then he perceived that it was hopelessly mangled, and wished
for Aline, who usually conducted that part of the ceremony of his
toilette.
“It will have to do,” he said cheerfully, as he turned away from the
glass.
Yet, for all his philosophising, he was surprised at the relief that his
wild confession to Connie had afforded him. The burden that had seemed
too heavy for him to bear had now grown magically light. He attributed
the phenomenon to Connie Deering, to the witchery of her sweet sympathy
and the comfort of her sisterly kiss. By the time he had finished
dressing the acute pain of the past two days had vanished, and as
he went down the stairs he accounted himself a happy man. In the
drawing-room he met Norma, and chatted to her almost light-heartedly.
He did not notice the constraint in her manner, her avoidance of his
glance, the little pucker of troubled brows; nor was he aware of her
sigh of relief when the door opened and the servant announced Mr.
Theodore Weever, who with one or two other people were dining at the
house. Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre followed on the American's heels, and
soon the rest of the party had assembled. Jimmie had no opportunity
for further talk with Norma, who studiously kept apart from him all the
evening, and during dinner devoted herself to subacid conversation with
Morland and to a reckless interchange of cynical banter with Weever.
Jimmie, talking with picturesque fancy about his student days in the Rue
Bonaparte to his neighbour, a frank fox-hunting and sport-loving young
woman, never dreamed of the chaos of thoughts and feelings that whirled
behind the proud face on the opposite side of the table; and Norma,
when her mind now and then worked lucidly, wondered at the strength
and sweetness of the man who could subdue such passion and laugh with a
gaiety so honest and sincere. For herself, Theodore Weever, with his icy
humour that crystallised her own irony into almost deadly wit, was her
sole salvation during the interminable meal. Once Morland, listening
with admiration, whispered in her ear:
“I've never heard you in such good form.”
She had to choke down an hysterical impulse of laughter and swallow
a mouthful of champagne. Later, when the women guests had gone, she
slipped up to her room without saying good-night to Morland, and,
dismissing her maid, as she had done the night before, sat for a long
time, holding her head in her hands, vainly seeking to rid it of words
that seemed to have eaten into her brain. And when she thought of
Morland, of last night, of her humiliation, she flushed hot from hair
to feet. She was only five-and-twenty, and the world had not as yet
completed its work of hardening. It was a treacherous and deceitful
world; she had prided herself on being a finished product of
petrifaction, and here she lay, scorched and bewildered, like any soft
and foolish girl who had been suddenly brought too near the flame of
life. Keenly she felt the piteousness of her defeat. In what it exactly
consisted she did not know. She was only conscious of broken pride, the
shattering of the little hard-faced gods in her temple, the tearing up
of the rails upon which she had reckoned to travel to her journey's end.
Hers was a confused soul state, devoid of immediate purpose. A breach
of her engagement with Morland did not occur to her mind, and Jimmie was
merely an impersonal utterer of volcanic words. She slept but little. In
the morning she found habit by her bedside; she clothed herself therein
and faced the day.
Much was expected of her. The great garden-party was to take place
that afternoon. Her Serene Highness the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck had
signified that she would do Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre the honour of
being present. Her Grace the Duchess of Wiltshire would accompany the
princess. The _ban_ and _arriere-ban_ of the county had been invited,
and the place would be filled with fair women agog to bask in the smiles
of royalty, and ill-tempered men dragged away from their partridges
by ambitious wives. A firm of London caterers had contracted for the
refreshments. A military band would play on the terrace. A clever French
showman whom Providence had sent to cheer the dying hours of the London
season, and had kept during the dead months at a variety theatre, was
coming down with an authentic Guignol. He had promised the choicest
pieces in his repertoire--_la vraie grivoiserie française_--and men
who had got wind of the proposed entertainment winked at one another
wickedly. The garden-party was to be an affair of splendour worthy of
the royal lady who had deigned to shed her serenity upon the county
families assembled; and Mr. Hardacre had raised a special sum of money
to meet the expenses.
“I shall have to go to the Jews, my dear,” he had said to his wife when
they were first discussing ways and means.
“Oh, go to the--Jews then,” said Mrs. Hardacre, almost betrayed, in her
irritation, into an unwifely retort. “What does it matter, what does any
sacrifice matter, when once we have royalty at the house? You are such a
fool, Benjamin.”
He had a singular faculty for arousing the waspishness of his wife; yet,
save on rare occasions, he was the meekest of men in her presence.
“Well, you know best, Eliza,” he said.
“I have n't been married to you for six-and-twenty years without being
perfectly certain of that,” she replied tartly.
So Mr. Hardacre went to the Jews, and the princess promised to come to
Mrs. Hardacre.
Norma was not the only one that morning who was aroused to a sense of
responsibility. The footman entering Jimmie's bedroom brought with him
a flat cardboard box neatly addressed in Aline's handwriting. The box
contained a new shirt, two new collars, a new silk tie, and a pair of
grey suède gloves; also a letter from Aline instructing him as to the
use of these various articles of attire.
“Be sure to wear your frock-coat,” wrote the director of Jimmie's
conduct. “I wish you had one less than six years old; but I went over it
with benzine and ammonia before I packed it up, so perhaps it won't be
so bad. And wear your patent-leather evening shoes. They'll look quite
smart if you'll tie the laces up tight, and stick the ends in between
the shoe and the sock. Oh, I wish I could come and turn you out
decently! and _please_, Jimmie dear, don't cut yourself shaving and go
about all day with a ridiculous bit of cotton wool on your dear chin.
Tony says you need n't wear the frock-coat, but I know better. What
acquaintance has he with princesses and duchesses? And that reminds
me to tell you that Tony--” _et caetera, et caetera,_ in a manner that
brought the kindest smile in the world into Jimmie's eyes.
He dressed with scrupulous regard to directions, but not in the
frock-coat. He had a morning sitting with the princess at Chiltern
Towers to get through before airing himself in the splendour of benzine
and ammonia. He put on his old tweed jacket and went downstairs. Morland
was the only person as yet in the breakfast-room. He held a morning
paper tight in his hand, and stared through the window, his back to
the door. On Jimmie's entrance he started round, and Jimmie saw by a
harassed face that something had happened.
“My dear fellow--” he began in alarm.
Morland smoothed out the paper with nervous fingers, and threw it
somewhat ostentatiously on a chair. Then he walked to the table and
poured himself out some tea. The handle of the silver teapot slid in
his grasp, and awkwardly trying to save the pouring flood of liquid, he
dropped the teapot among the cups and saucers. It was a disaster, but
one that could have been adequately greeted by a simpler series of
expletives. He cursed vehemently.
“What's the matter, man?” asked Jimmie.
Morland turned violently upon him.
“The very devil's the matter. There never was such a mess since the
world began. What an infernal fool I have been! You do well to steer
clear of women.”
“Tell me what's wrong and I may be able to help you.”
Morland looked at him for a moment in gloomy doubt. Then he shook his
head.
“You can't help me. I thought you could, but you can't. It's a matter
for a lawyer. I must run up to town.”
“And cut the garden-party?”
“That's where I'm tied,” exclaimed Morland, impatiently. “I ought to
start now, but if I cut the garden-party the duchess would never forgive
me--and by Jove, I may need the duchess more than ever--and I've got a
meeting to attend in Cosford this morning to which a lot of people are
coming from a distance.”
“Can't I interview the lawyer for you?”
“No. I must do it myself.”
The butler entered and looked with grave displeasure at the wreckage on
the tea-tray. While he was repairing the disaster, Morland went back to
the window and Jimmie stood by his side.
“If you fight it through squarely, it will all come right in the end.”
“You don't mind my not telling you about it?” said Morland, in a low
voice.
“Why should I? In everything there is a time for silence and a time for
speech.”
“You're right,” said Morland, thrusting his hands into his trousers'
pockets; “but how I am to get through this accursed day in silence I
don't know.”
They sat down to breakfast. Morland rejected the offer of tea, and
called for a whisky and soda which he nearly drained at a gulp. Mr.
Hardacre came in, and eyed the long glass indulgently.
“Bucking yourself up, eh? Why did n't you ask for a pint of champagne?”
He opened the newspaper and ran through the pages. Morland watched him
with swift nervous glances, and uttered a little gasp of relief when he
threw it aside and attacked his grilled kidneys. His own meal was
soon over. Explaining that he had papers to work at in the library, he
hurried out of the room.
“Can't understand a man being so keen on these confounded politics,” his
host remarked to Jimmie across the table. A polite commonplace was all
that could be expected in reply. Politics were engrossing.
“That's the worst of it,” said Mr. Hardacre. “In the good old days a man
could take his politics like a gentleman; now he has got to go at them
like a damned blaspheming agitator on a tub.”
“Cosford was once a pretty little pocket borough, wasn't it?” said
Jimmie. “Now Trade's unfeeling train usurp the privileges of His Grace
of Wiltshire and threaten to dispossess his nominee. Instead of
one simple shepherd recording his pastoral vote we have an educated
electorate daring to exercise their discretion.”
Mr. Hardacre looked at Jimmie askance; he always regarded an allusive
style with suspicion, as if it necessarily harboured revolutionary
theories.
“I hope you're not one of those--” He checked himself as he was going
to say “low radical fellows.” Politeness forbade. “I hope you are not a
radical, Mr. Padgate?”
“I am sure I don't quite know,” replied Jimmie, cheerfully.
“Humph!” said Mr. Hardacre, “I believe you are.”
Jimmie laughed; but Mr. Hardacre felt that he held the key to the
eccentric talk of his guest. Jimmie Padgate was a radical; a fearful
wildfowl of unutterable proclivities, to whom all things dreadful were
possible.
“I,” he continued, “am proud to be a Tory of the old school.”
The entrance of the ladies put a stop to the distressful conversation.
Jimmie, whose life during the past few days had been a curious compound
of sunshine and shadow, went about his morning's work with only
Morland's troubles weighing upon him. Of their specific nature he had
no notion; he knew they had to do with the unhappy love affair; but
as Morland was going to put matters into the hands of his lawyers, a
satisfactory solution was bound to be discovered. Like all simple-minded
men, he had illimitable faith in the powers of solicitors and
physicians; it was their business to get people out of difficulties, and
if they were capable men they did their business. Deriving much comfort
from this fallacy, he thought as little as might be about the matter. In
fact he quite enjoyed his morning. He sat before his easel at the end
of a high historic gallery, the bright morning light that streamed in
through the windows tempered by judiciously arranged white blinds; and
down the vista were great paintings, and rare onyx tables, and priceless
chairs and statuary, all harmonising with the stately windows and
painted ceiling and polished floor. In front of him, posed in befitting
attitude, sat the royal lady, with her most urbane expression upon
her features, and, that which pleased him most, the picture was just
emerging from the blurred mass of paint, an excellent though somewhat
idealised portrait. So he worked unfalteringly with the artist's joy in
the consciousness of successful efforts, and his good-humour infected
even his harsh sitter, who now and then showed a wintry gleam of gaiety,
and uttered a guttural word of approbation.
“You shall come to Herren-Rothbeck and baint the bortrait of the brince
my brother,” she said graciously. “Would that blease you?”
“I should just think it would,” said Jimmie.
The princess laughed--a creaking, rusty laugh, but thoroughly well
intentioned. Jimmie glanced at her enquiringly.
“I like you,” she responded. “You are so natural--what you English call
refreshing. A German would have made a ceremonious speech as long as
your mahl-stick.”
“I am afraid I must learn ceremony before I come to court, Madam,” said
Jimmie.
“If you do, you will have forgotten how to baint bor-traits,” said the
princess.
Thus, under the sun of princely favour, was Jimmie proceeding on
the highroad to fortune. Never had the future seemed so bright. His
bombastic jest about being appointed painter in ordinary to the crowned
heads of Europe was actually going to turn out a reality. He lost
himself in daydreams of inexhaustible coffers from which he could toss
gold in lapfuls to Aline. She should indeed walk in silk attire, and set
up housekeeping with Tony in a mansion in Park Lane.
On the front lawn at Heddon Court he met Connie and waved his hat in the
air. She went to him, and, peering into his smiling face, laid her hand
on his sleeve.
“Whatever has happened? Have you two stepped into each other's shoes?”
“What on earth do you mean?
“You know--Norma.”
“My dear Connie--” he began.
“Well, it seemed natural. Here are you as happy as an emperor; and there
is Morland come back from Cosford with the look of a hunted criminal.”