‘Better shut up now, eh?’ said Mr. Thorpe firmly to the demented young
man. ‘Said all there’s to say long ago, I bet. Won’t help, you
know--this sort of thing.’
‘I’m telling my mother--I’m making it clear to her once and for all,’
raved Jocelyn, who indeed no longer had the least control of himself,
‘that if I ever find Sally never again as long as I _live_ shall she
come between us, never shall she set _foot_----’
‘Oh, shut up. We know all that, don’t we, Margery. Who’s going to come
between you, you silly young ass? Look here--no good crying, you know,’
said Mr. Thorpe, going to Mrs. Luke and putting his arm round her. It
seemed natural. For two pins he would have kissed her. Habit. Can’t get
away from habits.
But Mrs. Luke didn’t appear to know he was there. Her eyes, from which
the tears dropped slowly and unnoticed, were fixed only on Jocelyn.
‘He’s so tired--so tired,’ she kept on whispering to herself. ‘Oh, my
darling--you’re so _tired_.’
§
It was Mr. Pinner’s turn next day to have a bad time, and he had it. He
had a most miserable day, from noon on, when the same car that had
brought Sally drew up in front of his shop, and a stout elderly
gentleman with a red face and a bristly moustache got out, and came and
spent half an hour with him.
What a half hour that was; but all of a piece with the life he seemed
now to be living. The day before there had been first Sally, and then
Mr. Luke, and now there was this gentleman. Mr. Luke had soon been
pacified, and only wanted to be getting home again, but the stout
gentleman came in and sat down square to it, and at the end of half an
hour Mr. Pinner felt as if he had been turned inside out, and wouldn’t
ever be able to look himself in the face again.
For Sally hadn’t gone home, and it was his fault that she hadn’t. These
were the facts; the gentleman said so. Terrible, terrible, thought Mr.
Pinner, shrinking further than ever into his trousers. The first fact
was terrible enough, but the second seemed even worse to Mr. Pinner.
Responsibility, again--and he who had supposed when he got Sally safely
married that he had done with it for good and all!
At first he had tried to make a stand and hold up his head, and had said
politely--nothing lost by manners,--‘Excuse me, sir, but are you by any
chance the gentleman my daughter mentioned to me as ’er father-in-law?’
And when the gentleman, after a minute, said he was, Mr. Pinner told him
that in that case it was he who was responsible for her loss, for it was
he who had lent her the car in which she had left her husband.
Wasn’t this true? Anybody would have thought so; but before Mr. Pinner
could say knife the boot had been put on the other leg, and he found
that it was his fault and his only that she was lost, because he hadn’t,
as the gentleman said was his plain duty, taken her back himself to the
very door.
Mr. Pinner, constitutionally unable not to feel guilty if anybody told
him loud enough that he was, at once saw the truth of this. Terrible.
Awful. Fancy. Yes, indeed--a daughter like that. Yes, indeed--_any_
daughter, but a daughter like that, a daughter in a million. No,
indeed--he didn’t know how he came not to do such a thing----
And the more Mr. Thorpe cross-examined him about the details of that
seeing-off at the station, the more did Mr. Pinner’s conduct appear
criminal; for, under Mr. Thorpe’s searching questions, Mr. Pinner
somehow began to be sure the lady in the carriage hadn’t been a lady at
all, but something quite different, something terrible and wicked, who
had carried Sally off into the sort of place one doesn’t mention. He
remembered her black eyes, and how they rolled----
‘Rolled, eh?’ said Mr. Thorpe, who was snatching at Mr. Pinner’s words
almost before they appeared, trembling, on the edge of his mouth.
Yes--rolled. And bold-looking, she was too,--bold-looking, and pat as
you please at answering. Not Mr. Pinner’s idea at all of a modest woman.
Yes, and the compartment smelt of scent, now he came to think of
it--yes, he dared say it was cheap scent. And powdered, her face
was--he had remarked on it to himself, after the train had gone.
Thus did Mr. Thorpe’s own fears get by cross-examination into Mr.
Pinner’s mind, and by the end of the half hour Mr. Pinner was as much
convinced as Mr. Thorpe that Sally had fallen into the hands of somebody
of whom Mr. Thorpe used an expression that Mr. Pinner wouldn’t have
soiled his lips with for any sum one cared to mention. And then, after
swearing at him, and asking him what sort of a father he thought he was,
and Mr. Pinner, who by this time was wishing with all his heart that he
wasn’t a father at all, tremblingly begging him not to blaspheme, Mr.
Thorpe went away.
‘What ’ad I better do now, sir?’ Mr. Pinner asked, following him out on
to the steps in much distress, clinging to him in spite of his
horrifying language.
‘You? What can _you_ do? You’ve done your damnedest----’
‘Sir, sir----’
And he got into his car, and Mr. Pinner heard him tell the chauffeur to
drive like the devil to London and go to Liverpool Street Station; and
it seemed as if in a flash the street were empty, and he alone.
§
That afternoon Mr. Pinner himself arrived at Liverpool Street
Station--an anxious little man in his Sunday clothes, his blue eyes
staring with anxiety. He couldn’t just stay in his shop, and as likely
as not never hear anything more, either one way or the other. He must do
something. He must ask questions. Nobody would tell him if Sally were
found or not, if he didn’t. She herself might some day perhaps drop him
a line, but she wasn’t much of a one for writing, and besides he had
been harsh to her. ‘Don’t believe you loves me,’ she had said, crying
bitterly when he scolded her so and wouldn’t let her stay with him. Love
her? He loved her dearly. She was all he had in the world. If anything
had happened to that girl----
He timidly stopped a porter, and began to inquire. The porter, who was
busy, stared at him and hurried on. He then tried a guard, who said,
‘Eh?’ very loud, looked past him along the platform, waved a green flag,
jumped on to a train, and departed.
He then tried another porter; several porters; and at last, more timid
than ever by this time, approached a ticket-collector.
Nobody seemed to have time for Mr. Pinner. His trousers were against
him. So was his hat; so was everything he said and did. The
ticket-collector, who didn’t like shabbiness and meekness, ignored him.
He knew perfectly well who Mr. Pinner was talking about, for the whole
station was invariably aware of any of the Duke’s family passing through
it, and everybody the day before had seen Lady Laura and the young lady.
Mr. Pinner hadn’t got beyond his first words of description before the
ticket-collector knew what he was driving at, but he only looked down
his long nose at the flushed little man in the corkscrew trousers, and
said nothing. Give a thing like that information about her ladyship’s
movements? Not much.
Yet this same ticket-collector, only an hour or two before, had been wax
in the gloved hands of Mr. Thorpe, and with these words had parted from
him:
‘Thank you, sir. Don’t mention it, sir. No trouble at all. Yes--a very
striking young lady indeed, sir. Her ladyship was going to Goring House
for a couple of days, so the chauffeur told me. Much obliged, sir. Yes,
sir--Lady Laura Moulsford. That’s right, sir--the Duke of Goring’s
daughter.’
This same ticket-collector had said all that; and to Mr. Pinner he said
not a word. He merely down his long nose looked at him, and when the
little man explained that he was the fair young lady’s father he looked
at him more glassily than ever. So that presently for very shame
Mr. Pinner couldn’t go on standing there asking questions that
got no answers, and after lingering awhile uncertainly in the
ticket-collector’s neighbourhood, for something told him that this man
could throw light on Sally’s disappearance if he would, he went
sorrowfully, but unresentfully, away.
Presently he found himself in South Winch. He seemed to have drifted
there, not knowing what to do or where to go next, and unable to bear
the thought of his lonely shop and of nobody’s letting him know about
anything. He had thought it fine and peaceful at first to be independent
and at last alone, but it didn’t seem so now. He missed his wife. Nobody
now to mind what he did, good or bad. Nobody.
In South Winch he sought out the grocer, so as to get Jocelyn’s address,
preferring him to the Post Office because the smell of currants and
bacon made him feel less lonely, and, having followed the directions the
grocer gave him, found the road and the house, and opened the white gate
with deferential trepidation. Timidly at the door he asked if he might
say a word to Mr. Luke, and the little maid, at once at ease with his
sort of clothes, inquired pleasantly if Mrs. Luke wouldn’t do just as
well; better, suggested the little maid, because she was there, and Mr.
Jocelyn wasn’t. In fact she offered Mrs. Luke to Mr. Pinner, she pressed
her upon him,--a lady he wouldn’t have dreamt of disturbing if left to
himself.
So that Mr. Pinner, without apparently in the least wanting to, found
himself in a beautiful drawing-room, and there by the fire sat a lady,
leaning back on some cushions as though she were tired.
At first he thought she was asleep, and he was beginning to feel
extremely awkward when she turned her head and looked at him.
A pale lady. A very pale lady; with a face that seemed all eyes.
‘Beg pardon, mum,’ said Mr. Pinner, wishing he hadn’t come.
The lady went on looking at him. She didn’t move. Her hands were hanging
down over the arms of the chair as though she were tired. She just
turned her head, but didn’t move else.
‘It’s about Sally,’ said Mr. Pinner. ‘’Appened to be passin’, and
thought I’d----’
He stopped, for now he came to think of it he didn’t rightly know what
he had thought.
The lady leant forward in her chair. ‘Do you know where she is?’ she
asked quickly.
‘No, mum. Do you?’ asked Mr. Pinner.
‘No,’ said the lady in a queer sort of voice, her head drooping.
Mr. Pinner stood there very awkward indeed.
‘Are you her father?’ she asked, after a minute.
‘That’s right, mum,’ said Mr. Pinner.
Then she got up and came across to him.
‘I’m afraid you are very unhappy,’ she said, looking at him.
‘That’s right, mum,’ said Mr. Pinner.
She held out her hand, her eyes on his face.
He shook it respectfully, but without enthusiasm.
‘Why, you’re cold,’ she said.
‘That’s right, mum,’ said Mr. Pinner.
‘Won’t you come to the fire and get warm?’ she said; and before he had
time to consider what he ought to do next, Mr. Pinner found himself
sitting on the edge of the low chair the lady pushed up for him, warming
his knees and not saying anything.
The lady talked a little. She had some nice hot tea made for him, and
while he drank it talked a little, and said she was sure they would hear
good news soon, and he mustn’t worry, because she was sure....
Then she fell silent too, and they sat there together looking into the
fire; and it was funny, thought Mr. Pinner, how just to sit there
quietly, and know she was sorry too about everything, seemed to make him
feel better. A kind lady; a good lady. What did Sally mean, saying he
wouldn’t be able to stand her either, if he knew her? The only thing
wrong with her that Mr. Pinner could see, was that she looked so ill.
Half dead, thought Mr. Pinner.
And after being with her he had more courage to go back to the lonely
shop, and she promised faithfully to let him know the minute there was
any news, and again told him not to worry and everything would come all
right, and he went away comforted.
And she, watching him as he trotted off down to the gate, felt somehow
comforted too; not quite so lonely; not quite so lost.
§
Meanwhile Mr. Thorpe, having lunched and tidied and generally freshened
himself up, was on the steps of Goring House, asking for Lady Laura
Moulsford.
‘Her ladyship is hout,’ said the footman haughtily, for he knew at once
when Mr. Thorpe added the word Moulsford that he was what the footman
called not one of Our Lot. No good his having a car waiting there, and a
fur coat, and suède gloves; he simply wasn’t one of Our Lot. And the
footman, his head thrown back, looked at Mr. Thorpe very much as the
ticket-collector was at that moment looking at Mr. Pinner.
‘Out, eh?’ said Mr. Thorpe. ‘When will she be in?’
‘Her ladyship didn’t say,’ said the footman, his head well back.
‘You’ve got a young lady here of the name of Luke. She in?’
‘Mrs. Luke is hout,’ said the footman, beginning to shut the door.
‘Is anybody in?’ asked Mr. Thorpe, getting angry.
‘The family is hout,’ said the footman; and was going to shut the door
quite when Mr. Thorpe went close up to him and damned him. And because
Mr. Thorpe’s temper was quick and hot he damned him thoroughly, and the
footman, as he heard the familiar words, strongly reminiscent not only
of Lord Streatley but also of the different sergeants he had had during
the war, who, however unlike each other to look at, were identical to
listen to, thought he must be one of Lady Laura’s friends after all, and
began to open the door again; and Mr. Thorpe advancing, damning as he
went and saying things about flunkeys that were new to the footman,
entered that marble hall which had struck such a chill into Sally’s
unaspiring soul.
The butler appeared. The butler was suave where the footman had been
haughty. He had heard some of the things Mr. Thorpe was saying as he
hurried from his private sitting-room into the echoing hall, and had no
doubt that he was a friend of the family’s.
Lady Laura had been in to lunch, but had gone out again; Mrs. Luke was
motoring with Lord Charles--who the devil was _he_, Mr. Thorpe
wondered--down to Crippenham, where she was going to stay the night. Her
ladyship had had a telegram from his lordship to that effect, and she
herself was going down the following morning.
‘Where’s Crippenham?’ asked Mr. Thorpe.
The butler was surprised. Up to that moment he had taken Mr. Thorpe for
a friend, if an infrequent one, of Lady Laura’s.
‘His Grace’s Cambridgeshire seat,’ he said, in his turn with _hauteur_.
‘His Grace is at present in residence.’
‘Crikey!’ thought Mr. Thorpe. ‘Got right in with the Duke himself, has
she?’ And he felt fonder of Sally than ever.
§
At this point Mr. Thorpe, who had been behaving so well, began to behave
less well. The minute the pressure of anxiety was relaxed, the minute,
that is, that he no longer suffered, he became callous to the sufferings
of the Lukes; and instead of at once letting them know what he had
discovered he kept it to himself, he hugged his secret, and deferred
sending till some hours later a telegram to each of them saying, ‘_Hot
on her tracks._’
Quite enough, thought Mr. Thorpe, as jolly again as a sand-boy, and
immediately unable to imagine the world other than populated by
sand-boys equally jolly,--quite enough that would be to go on with,
quite enough to make them both feel better. If he told them more, they’d
get rushing off to Crippenham and disturbing the Duke’s house-party. The
whole thing should now be allowed to simmer, said Mr. Thorpe to himself.
Sally should be given a fair field with her duke, and not have relations
coming barging in and interrupting.
But what a girl, thought Mr. Thorpe, slapping his knee--he was in his
car, on the way to his club--what a girl. She only had to meet dukes for
them to go down like ninepins at her feet. Apart from her beauty, what
spirit, what daring, what initiative, what resource! It had been worth
all the anxiety, this magnificent _dénouement_. Safe, and sounder than
ever. A glorious girl; and he too had at once seen how glorious she was,
and at once, like the Duke, fallen at her feet. That girl, thought Mr.
Thorpe, who began to believe she would rise triumphant even over a
handicap like Jocelyn, might do anything, might do any mortal thing,--no
end at all, there wasn’t, to what that girl couldn’t do. And, glowing,
he telephoned to Scotland Yard, and later on, after having had his tea
and played a rubber of bridge, sent his telegrams.
Then he went quietly home. Things should simmer. Things must now be left
to themselves a little. He went quietly home to Abergeldie, and didn’t
let Mrs. Luke know he was there. Her feelings, he considered, were
sufficiently relieved for the present by his telegram; things must now
be allowed to simmer. And he took a little walk in his shrubbery, and
then had a hot bath, and dressed, and dined, ordering up a pint of the
1911 _Cordon Rouge_, and sat down afterwards with a great sigh of
satisfaction by his library fire.
He smoked, and he thought; and the only thing he regretted in the whole
business was the rude name he had called Lady Laura Moulsford to that
fool Pinner. But, long as he smoked and thought, it never occurred to
him to resent, or even to criticise, the conduct of the Moulsford
family. Strange as it may seem, considering that family’s black
behaviour, Mr. Thorpe dwelt on it in his mind with nothing but
complacency.