flat as a place to pack up the loot for shipment to other cities. You
know that habit of ours, don't you? He was quite right, and when he
tipped off his newspaper they reported the thing to the police. Now, I
could have gone right up and made those men show up their hands by
merely asking them to.
"Not so the police. I wonder if you remember the case. You look as if
you were beginning to. The police went blundering at wrong doors, and
most of the gang got away. And while they were in the house after the
raid a woman was able to slip in and take away on an express wagon the
three trunks which were to have been held for evidence. And that's not
all, either. There was one particular policeman who held the case for
the prosecution in his hands. If he had played up in court next day,
the one man that had been captured would have got all that was coming
to him. What happened? Why, his evidence broke down, and the man was
discharged. It's a long story. I hope it hasn't bored you."
McEachern did not look bored. He was mopping his forehead, and
breathing quickly.
"It was a most interesting case," said Jimmy. "I've got all the
names."
"It's a lie!"
"Not at all. True as anything. Ever heard of that policeman - I've got
his name, too - who made a lot of money by getting appointments in the
force for men of his acquaintance? He used to be paid heavily for it,
and you'd hardly believe what a lot of scoundrels he let in in that
way."
"See here - - " began McEachern huskily.
"I wonder if you ever came across any men in the force who made
anything by that dodge of arresting a person and then getting a lawyer
for them. Ever heard of that? It's rather like a double ruff at
bridge. You - I'm awfully sorry. I shouldn't have used that word. What
I meant to say was the policeman makes his arrest, then suggests that
the person had better have a bondsman. He gathers in a bondsman, who
charges the prisoner four dollars for bailing him out. Two dollars of
this goes to the sergeant, who accepts the bail without question, and
the policeman takes one. Then the able and intelligent officer says to
the prisoner: 'What you want is a lawyer.' 'Right,' says the prisoner,
'if you think so.' Off goes the policeman and gets the lawyer. Five
more dollars, of which he gets his share. It's a beautiful system. It
might interest the people at dinner to-night to hear about it. I think
I'll tell them."
"You'll - - "
"And when you come to think that some policemen in New York take
tribute from peddlers who obstruct the traffic, tradesmen who obstruct
the sidewalk, restaurant keepers who keep open after one o'clock in
the morning, drivers who exceed speed limits, and keepers of pool
rooms, you'll understand that there's a good bit to be made out of
graft, if you go in for it seriously. It's uncommonly lucky,
McEachern, that you were left that money. Otherwise you might have
been tempted, mightn't you?"
There was a somewhat breathless silence in the room. Mr. McEachern was
panting slightly.
"You couldn't reconsider your decision about sending me away
to-morrow, I suppose?" said Jimmy, flicking at his shoes with a
handkerchief. "It's a lovely part of the country, this. I would be
sorry to leave it."
Mr. McEachern's brain was working with unwonted rapidity. This man
must be silenced at all costs. It would be fatal to his prospects in
English society if one tithe of these gruesome stories were made
public. And he believed Jimmy capable of making them public, being
guilty thereby of an error of judgment. Jimmy, though he had no
respect at all for Mr. McEachern, would have died sooner than spread
any story which, even in an indirect way, could reflect upon Molly.
Mr. McEachern, however, had not the advantage of knowing his
antagonist's feelings, and the bluff was successful.
"Ye can stay," he said.
"Thanks," said Jimmy.
"And I'll beg ye not to mention the force at dinner or at any other
time."
"I won't dream of it."
"They think I made me money on Wall Street."
"It would have been a slower job there. You were wise in your choice.
Shall we go down to the drawing-room, now?"
"Ye say y'are rich yerself," said McEachern.
"Very," said Jimmy, "so don't you worry yourself, my Wall Street
speculator."
Mr. McEachern did not worry himself. He had just recollected that in a
very short time he would have a trained detective on the premises. Any
looking after that James Willoughby Pitt might require might safely be
left in the hands of this expert.
CHAPTER IX.
It was at dinner that Jimmy had his first chance of seeing the rope of
pearls which had so stimulated the roving fancy of Spike Mullins. Lady
Blunt sat almost opposite to him. Her dress was of unrelieved black,
and formed a wonderfully effective foil to the gems. It was not a rope
of pearls. It was a collar. Her neck was covered with them. There was
something Oriental and barbaric in the overwhelming display of
jewelry. And this suggestion of the East was emphasized by the
wearer's regal carriage. Lady Blunt knew when she looked well. She did
not hold herself like one apologizing for venturing to exist.
Jimmy stared hungrily across the table. The room was empty to him but
for that gleaming mass of gems. He breathed softly and quickly through
clinched teeth.
"Jimmy!" whispered a voice.
It seemed infinitely remote.
A hand shook his elbow gently. He started.
"_Don't_ stare like that, _please_. What is the matter?"
Molly, seated at his side, was looking at him wide-eyed. Jimmy smiled
with an effort. Every nerve in his body seemed to be writhing.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm only hungry. I always look like that at the
beginning of a meal."
"Well, here comes Keggs with some soup for you. You'd better not waste
another moment. You looked perfectly awful."
"No!"
"Like a starved wolf."
"You must look after me," said Jimmy, "see that the wolf's properly
fed."
* * * * *
The conversation, becoming general with the fish, was not of a kind to
remove from Jimmy's mind the impression made by the sight of the
pearls. It turned on crime in general and burglary in particular.
Spennie began it.
"Oh, I say," he said, "I forgot to tell you, mother. Number Six was
burgled the other night."
Number Six-a, Easton Square, was the family's London house.
"Burgled!"
"Well, broken into," said Spennie, gratified to find that he had got
the ear of his entire audience. Even Lady Blunt was silent and
attentive. "Chap got in through the scullery window about one o'clock,
in the morning. It was the night after you dined with me, Pitt."
"And what did our Spennie do?" inquired Sir Thomas.
"Oh, I - er - I was out at the time," said Spennie. "But something
frightened the feller," he went on hurriedly, "and he made a bolt for
it without taking anything."
Jimmy, looking down the table, became conscious that his host's eye
was fixed gloomily upon him. He knew intuitively what was passing in
McEachern's mind. The ex-policeman was feeling that his worst
suspicions had been confirmed. Jimmy had dined with Spennie - obviously
a mere excuse for spying out the land; and the very next night the
house had been burgled. Once more Mr. McEachern congratulated himself
on his astuteness in engaging the detective from Wragge's Agency. With
Jimmy above stairs and Spike Mullins below, that sleuthhound would
have his hands full.
"Burglary," said Wesson, leaning back and taking advantage of a pause,
"is the hobby of the sportsman and the life work of the avaricious."
Everybody seemed to have something to say on the subject. One young
lady gave it as her opinion that she would not like to find a burglar
under her bed. Somebody else had known a man whose father had fired at
the butler, under the impression that he was a housebreaker, and had
broken a valuable bust of Socrates. Spennie knew a man at Oxford whose
brother wrote lyrics for musical comedy, and had done one about a
burglar's best friend being his mother.
"Life," said Wesson, who had had time for reflection, "is a house
which we all burgle. We enter it uninvited, take all that we can lay
hands on, and go out again."
"This man's brother I was telling you about," said Spennie, "says
there's only one rhyme in the English language to 'burglar', and
that's 'gurgler'. Unless you count 'pergola', he says - - "
"Personally," said Jimmy, with a glance at McEachern, "I have rather a
sympathy for burglars. After all, they are one of the hardest-working
classes in existence. They toil while everybody else is asleep. They
are generally thorough sportsmen. Besides, a burglar is only a
practical socialist. Philosophers talk a lot about the redistribution
of wealth. The burglar goes out and does it. I have found burglars
some of the decentest criminals I have ever met. Out of business hours
they are charming."
"I despise burglars!" ejaculated Lady Blunt, with a suddenness which
stopped Jimmy's eloquence as if a tap had been turned off. "If I found
one coming after my jewels and I had a gun handy, I'd shoot him. I
would."
"My dear Julia!" said Lady Jane. "Why suggest such dreadful things? At
any rate, this house has never been burgled, and I don't think it's
likely to be."
"Beroofen!" said Jimmy, touching the back of his chair. As he did so,
he met McEachern's eye, and smiled kindly at him. The ex-policeman was
looking at him with the gaze of a baffled but malignant basilisk.
"I take very good care no one gets a chance at my jewels," said Lady
Blunt. "I've had a steel box made for me with a special lock which
would drive the cunningest burglar on this earth mad before he'd been
at it ten minutes. It would. He'd go right away and reform."
Jimmy's lips closed tightly, and a combative look came into his eye at
this unconscious challenge. This woman was too aggressively confident.
A small lesson. He could return the jewels by post. It would give her
a much-needed jolt.
Then he pulled himself up.
"James, my boy," he said to himself, with severity, "this is
hypocrisy. You know perfectly well that is not why you want those
pearls. Don't try and bluff yourself, because it won't do."
The conversation turned to other topics. Jimmy was glad of it. He
wanted to think this thing over.
From where he sat, he had an excellent view of the rope of pearls
which was tugging him back to his old ways. And when he looked at them
he could not see Molly. The thing was symbolical. It must be one or
the other. He was at the crossroads. The affair was becoming a civil
war. He felt like a rudderless boat between two currents. Eight years
of gem collecting do not leave a man without a deep-rooted passion for
the sport. As for that steel box, that was all nonsense. It was
probably quite a good steel box, and the lock might very well be
something out of the ordinary; but it could not be a harder job than
some of those he had tackled.
The pearls shone in the lamplight. They seemed to be winking at him.
CHAPTER X.
In a cozy corner of the electric flame department of the infernal
regions there stands a little silver gridiron. It is the private
property of his Satanic majesty, and is reserved exclusively for the
man who invented amateur theatricals. It is hard to see why the
amateur actor has been allowed to work his will unchecked for so long.
These performances of his are diametrically opposed to the true sport
of civilization, which insists that the good of the many should be
considered as being of more importance than that of the few.
In the case of amateur theatricals, a large number of inoffensive
people are annoyed simply in order that a mere handful of
acquaintances may amuse themselves. Usually the whole thing can be
laid at the door of the man, the organizer. He is the serpent in the
Eden. Before his arrival, the house party were completely happy, and
asked for nothing else but to be left alone. Then he arrives. At
breakfast on his first morning, he strikes the first blow - casually
helping himself to scrambled eggs the while, with the air of a man
uttering some agreeable commonplace. "I say," he remarks, "why not get
up some theatricals?" Eve, in the person of some young lady who would
be a drawing-room reciter if drawing-room reciters were allowed
nowadays, snatches at the apple. "Oh, yes," she says. "It ought to be
for a charity," suggests somebody else. "Of course for a charity,"
says the serpent. Ten minutes later he has revealed the fact that he
has brought down a little thing of his own which will just do, and is
casting the parts. And after that the man who loves peace and quiet
may as well pack up and leave. He will have no more rest in that
house.
In the present case, the serpent was a volatile young gentleman of the
name of Charteris. This indomitable person had the love of the stage
ineradicably implanted in him. He wrote plays, and lived in hopes of
seeing them staged at the leading theatres. Meanwhile, he was content
to bring them out through the medium of amateur performances.
It says much for the basic excellence of this man's character that he
was popular among his fellows, who, liking the man, overlooked the
amateur stage manager.
The reign of unrest at the abbey was complete by the time Jimmy
arrived there. The preliminary rehearsals had been gone through with
by the company, who, being inexperienced, imagined the worst to be
over.
Having hustled Jimmy into the vacant part, Charteris gave his energy
free play. He conducted rehearsals with a vigor which occasionally
almost welded the rabble which he was coaching into something
approaching coherency. He never rested. He painted scenery, and left
it about - wet - and people sat on it. He nailed up horseshoes for luck,
and they fell on people. He distributed typed parts of the play among
the company, and they lost them. But nothing daunted him.
"Mr. Charteris," said Lady Blunt after one somewhat energetic
rehearsal, "is indefatigable. He whirled me about!"
This was perhaps his greatest triumph, that he had induced Lady Blunt
to take part in the piece. Her first remark, on being asked, had been
to the effect that she despised acting. Golden eloquence on the part
of the author-manager had induced her to modify this opinion; and
finally she had consented, on the understanding that she was not to be
expected to attend every rehearsal, to play a small part.
The only drawback to an otherwise attractive scheme was the fact that
she would not be able to wear her jewels. Secretly, she would have
given much to have done so; but the scene in which she was to appear
was a daylight scene, in which the most expensive necklace would be
out of place. So she had given up the idea with a stoicism that showed
her to be of the stuff of which heroines are made.
These same jewels had ceased, after their first imperious call, to
trouble Jimmy to the extent he had anticipated. It had been a bitter
struggle during the first few days of his stay, but gradually he had
fought the craving down, and now watched them across the dinner table
at night with a calm which filled him with self-righteousness. On the
other hand, he was uncomfortably alive to the fact that this triumph
of his might be merely temporary. There the gems were, winking and
beckoning to him across the table. At any moment - - . When his thoughts
arrived at this point, he would turn them - an effort was sometimes
necessary - to Molly. Thinking of her, he forgot the pearls.
But the process of thinking of Molly was not one of unmixed comfort. A
great uneasiness had gripped him. More than ever, as the days went by,
he knew that he loved her, that now the old easy friendship was a
mockery. But on her side he could see no signs that she desired a
change in their relationship. She was still the old Molly of the New
York days, frank, cheerful unembarrassed. But he found that in this
new world of hers the opportunities of getting her to himself for any
space of time were infinitesimal. It was her unfortunate conviction,
bred of her American upbringing, that the duty of the hostess is to
see that her guests enjoy themselves. Lady Jane held the English view
that visitors like to be left to themselves. And Molly, noticing her
stepmother's lack of enterprise and putting it down as merely another
proof of her languid nature, had exerted herself all the more keenly
to do the honors.
The consequence was that Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, and
disliked the sensation.
The thing was becoming intolerable. Here was he, a young man in love,
kept from proposing simply by a series of ridiculous obstacles. It
could not go on. He must get her away somewhere by himself, not for a
few minutes, as he had been doing up to the present, but for a solid
space of time.
It was after a long and particularly irritating rehearsal that the
idea of the lake suggested itself to him. The rehearsals took place in
one of the upper rooms, and through the window, as he leaned gloomily
against the wall, listening to a homily on the drama from Charteris,
he could see the waters of the lake, lit up by the afternoon sun. It
had been a terribly hot, oppressive day and there was thunder in the
air. The rehearsal had bored everybody unspeakably. It would be
heavenly on the lake, thought Jimmy. There was a Canadian canoe moored
to that willow. If he could only get Molly.
"I'm awfully sorry, Jimmy," said Molly, as they walked out into the
garden. "I should love to come. It would be too perfect. But I've half
promised to play tennis."
"Who wants to play?"
"Mr. Wesson."
A correspondent of a London daily paper wrote to his editor not long
ago to complain that there was a wave of profanity passing over the
country. Jimmy added a silent but heartfelt contribution to that wave.
"Give him the slip," he said earnestly. It was the chance of a
lifetime, a unique chance, perhaps his last chance, and it was to be
lost for the sake of an ass like Wesson.
Molly looked doubtful.
"Well, come down to the water, and have a look at it," said Jimmy.
"That'll be better than nothing."
They walked to the water's edge together in silence, Jimmy in a fever
of anxiety. He looked behind him. No signs of Wesson yet. All might
still be well.
"It does look nice, Jimmy, doesn't it?" said Molly, placing a foot on
the side of the boat and rocking it gently.
"Come on," said Jimmy hoarsely. "Give him the slip. Get in."
Molly looked round hesitatingly.
"Well - oh, bother, there he is. And he's seen me."
Jimmy followed her gaze. The dapper figure of Mr. Wesson was moving
down the lawn. He had a tennis racquet in his hand. His face wore an
inviting smile.
Jimmy glared at him hopelessly.
Mr. Wesson had vanished now behind the great clamp of laurels which
stood on the lowest terrace. In another moment he would reappear round
them.
"Bother!" said Molly again. "Jimmy!" For gently, but with extreme
firmness and dispatch, Jimmy, who ought to have known better, had
seized her hand on the other side of the waist, swung her off her
feet, and placed her carefully on the cushions in the bow of the
canoe.
Then he had jumped in himself with a force which made the boat rock,
and was now paddling with the silent energy of a dangerous lunatic
into the middle of the lake; while Mr. Wesson, who had by this time
rounded the laurels, stood transfixed, gazing glassily after the
retreating vessel.
To the casual spectator, he might have seemed stricken dumb.
But at the end of the first ten seconds any fear that the casual
spectator might have entertained as to the permanence of the seizure
would have been relieved.
CHAPTER XI.
"The man who lays a hand upon a woman," said Jimmy, paddling strongly,
"save in the way of kindness - I'm very sorry, Molly, but you didn't
seem able to make up your mind. You aren't angry, are you?"
There was a brief pause, while Molly apparently debated the matter in
her mind.
"You wouldn't take me back even if I were angry," she said.
"You have guessed it," said Jimmy approvingly. "Do you read much
poetry, Molly?"
"Why?"
"I was only thinking how neatly some of these poets put a thing. The
chap who said, 'distance lends enchantment to the view,' for instance.
Take the case of Wesson. He looks quite nice when you see him at a
distance like this, with a good strip of water in between."
Mr. Wesson was still standing in a statuesque attitude on the bank.
Molly, gazing over the side of the boat into the lake, abstained from
feasting her eyes on the picturesque spectacle.
"Jolly the water looks," said Jimmy.
"I was just thinking it looked rather dirty."
"Beastly," agreed Jimmy.
The water as a topic of conversation dried up. Mr. Wesson had started
now to leave the stricken field. There was a reproachful look about
his back which harassed Molly's sensitive conscience. Jimmy, on the
other hand - men being of coarser fibre than women, especially as to
the conscience - appeared in no way distressed at the sight.
"You oughtn't to have done it, Jimmy," said Molly.
"I had to. There seemed to be no other way of ever getting you by
yourself for five minutes at a stretch. You're always in the middle of
a crowd nowadays."
"But I must look after my guests."
"Not a bit of it. Let 'em rip. Why should they monopolize you?"
"It will be awfully unpleasant meeting Mr. Wesson after this."
"It is always unpleasant meeting Wesson."
"I shan't know what to say."
"Don't say anything."
"I shan't be able to look him in the face."
"That's a bit of luck for you."
"You aren't much help, Jimmy."
"The subject of Wesson doesn't inspire me somehow - I don't know why.
Besides, you've simply got to say you changed your mind. You're a
woman. It's expected of you."
"I feel awfully mean."
"What you want to do is to take your thoughts off the business. Keep
your mind occupied with something else. Then you'll forget all about
it. Keep talking to me about things. That's the plan. There are heaps
of subjects. The weather, for instance, as a start. Hot, isn't it?"
"We're going to have a storm. There's a sort of feel in the air. We'd
better go back, I think."
"Tush! And possibly bah!" said Jimmy, digging the paddle into the
water. "We've only just started. I say, who was that man I saw you
talking to after lunch?"
"How soon after lunch?"
"Just before the rehearsal. He was with your father. Short chap with a
square face. Dressed in gray. I hadn't seen him before."
"Oh, that was Mr. Galer. A New York friend of father's."
"Did you know him out in New York?"
"I didn't. But he seems to know father very well."
"What's his name, did you say?"
"Galer. Samuel Galer. Did you ever hear of him?"
"Never. But there were several people in New York I didn't know. How
did your father meet him over here?"
"He was stopping at the inn in the village, and he'd heard about the
abbey being so old, so he came over to look at it, and the first
person he met was father. He's going to stay in the house now. The
cart was sent down for his things this afternoon. Did you feel a spot
of rain then? I wish you'd paddle back."
"Not a drop. That storm's not coming till to-night. Why, it's a
gorgeous evening."
He turned the nose of the boat toward the island, which lay, cool and
green and mysterious, in the middle of the lake. The heat was intense.
The sun, as if conscious of having only a brief spell of work before
it, blazed fiercely, with the apparent intention of showing what it
could do before the rain came. The air felt curiously parched.
"There!" said Molly. "Surely you felt something, then."
"I did."
"Is there time to get back before it begins?"
"No."
"We shall get soaked!"
"Not a bit of it. On the other side of the island there is a handy
little boat-house sort of place. We will put in there."
The boathouse was simply a little creek covered over with boards and
capable of sheltering an ordinary rowing boat. Jimmy ran the canoe in
just as the storm began, and turned her broadside on so that they
could watch the rain, which was sweeping over the lake in sheets.
"Just in time," he said, shipping the paddle. "Snug in here, isn't
it?"
"We _should_ have got wet in another minute! I hope it won't last
long."
"I hope it will, because I've got something very important to say to
you, and I don't want to have to hurry it. Are you quite comfortable?"
"Yes, thanks."
"I don't know how to put it exactly. I mean, I don't want to offend
you or anything. What I mean to say is - do you mind if I smoke?
Thanks. I don't know why it is, but I always talk easier if I've got a
cigarette going."
He rolled one with great deliberation and care. Molly watched him
admiringly.
"You're the only man I've ever seen roll a cigarette properly, Jimmy,"
she said. "Everybody else leaves them all flabby at the ends."
"I learned the trick from a little Italian who kept a clothing store
in the Bowery. It was the only useful thing he could do."
"Look at the rain!"
Jimmy leaned forward.
"Molly - - "
"I wonder if poor Mr. Wesson got indoors before it began. I do hope he
did."
Jimmy sat back again. He scowled. Every man is liable on occasion to
behave like a sulky schoolboy. Jimmy did so.
"You seem to spend most of your time thinking about Wesson," he said
savagely.
Molly had begun to hum a tune to herself as she watched the rain. She
stopped. A profound and ghastly silence brooded over the canoe.
"Molly," said Jimmy at last, "I'm sorry."
No reply.
"Molly."
"Well?"
"I'm sorry."
Molly turned.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Jimmy. It hurts - from you."
He could see that there were tears in her eyes.
"Molly, don't!"
She turned her head away once more.
"I can't help it, Jimmy. It hurts. Everything's so changed. I'm
miserable. You wouldn't have said a thing like that in the old days."
"Molly, if you knew - - "
"It's all right, Jimmy. It was silly of me. I'm all right now! The
rain has stopped. Let's go back, shall we?"
"Not yet. For God's sake, not yet! This is my only chance. Directly we
get back, it will be the same miserable business all over again; the
same that it's been every day since I came to this place. Heavens!
When you first told me that you were living at the abbey, I was
absolutely happy, like a fool. I might have known how it would be.
Every day there's a crowd round you. I never get a chance of talking
to you. I consider myself lucky if you speak a couple of words to me.
If I'd known the slow torture it was going to be, I'd have taken the
next train back to London. I can't stand it. Molly, you remember what
friends we were in the old days. Was it ever anything more with you?
Was it? Is it now?"
"I was very fond of you, Jimmy." He could hardly hear the words.
"Was it ever anything more than that? Is it now? That was three years
ago. You were a child. We were just good friends then. I don't want
friendship now. It's not enough. I want you - _you_. You were right a
moment ago. Everything _has_ changed. For me, at least. Has it for
you? Has it for you, Molly?"
On the island a thrush had begun to sing. Molly raised her head, as if
to listen. The water lapped against the sides of the canoe.
"Has it, Molly?"
She bent over, and dabbled one finger in the water.
"I - I think it has, Jimmy," she whispered.
CHAPTER XII.
The Honorable Louis Wesson, meanwhile, having left the water side, lit
a cigarette, and proceeded to make a moody tour of the grounds. He
felt aggrieved with the world. One is never at one's best and sunniest
when a rival has performed a brilliant and successful piece of
cutting-out work beneath one's very eyes. Something of a jaundiced
tinge stains one's outlook on life in such circumstances. Mr. Wesson
did not pretend to himself that he was violently in love with Molly.
But he certainly admired her, and intended, unless he changed his mind
later on, to marry her.
He walked, drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he reviewed
the late episode, the less he liked it. He had not seen Jimmy put
Molly in the canoe, and her departure seemed to him a deliberate
desertion. She had promised to play tennis with him, and at the last
moment she had gone off with this fellow Pitt. Who _was_ Pitt? He
was always in the way - shoving himself in.
At this moment, a large, warm raindrop fell on his hand. From the
bushes all round came an ever-increasing patter. The sky was leaden.
He looked round him for shelter. He had reached the rose garden in the
course of his perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse. He
turned up his coat collar and ran.
As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirgelike whistling proceeding
from the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the deluge
began, he found Spennie seated at the little wooden table with an
earnest expression on his face. The table was covered with cards.
"How Jim took exercise," said Spennie, glancing up. "Hello, Wesson. By
Jove, isn't it coming down!"
With which greeting he turned his attention to his cards once more. He
took one from the pack in his left hand, looked at it, hesitated for a
moment, as if doubtful whereabouts on the table it would produce the
most artistic effect; and finally put it down, face upward.
Then he moved another card from the table, and put it on top of the
other one. Throughout the performance he whistled painfully.
Wesson regarded him with disfavor. "That looks damned exciting," he
said. He reserved his more polished periods for use in public. "What
are you playing at?"
"Wha-a-a'?" said Spennie abstractedly, dealing another card.
"Oh, don't sit there looking like a frog," said Wesson irritably.
"_Talk_, man."
"What's the matter? What do you want? Hello, I've done it. No, I
haven't. No luck at all. Haven't brought up a demon all day."
He gathered up the cards, and began to shuffle. "Ah, lov'," he sang
sentimentally, with a vacant eye on the roof of the summerhouse,
"could I bot tell thee how moch - - "
"Oh, stop it!" said Wesson.
"You seem depressed, laddie. What's the matter? Ah, lov', could I bot
tell thee - - "
"Spennie, who's this fellow Pitt?"
"Jimmy Pitt? Pal of mine. One of the absolute. Ay, nutty to the core,
good my lord. Ah, lov', could I bot tell - - "
"Where did you meet him?"
"London. Why?"
"He and your sister seem pretty good friends."
"I shouldn't wonder. Knew each other out in America. Bridge, bridge,
ber-ridge, a capital game for two. Shuffle and cut and deal away, and
let the lo-oser pay-ah. Ber-ridge - - "
"Well, let's have a game, then. Anything for something to do. Curse
this rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate."
"Double dummy's a frightfully rotten game," said Spennie. "Ever played
picquet? I could teach it to you in five minutes."
A look of almost awe came into Wesson's face, the look of one who sees
a miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using all
the large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths to
play picquet with him and here was this admirable young man, this
pearl among young men, positively offering to teach him. It was too
much happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as a
toil-worn lion might have felt if an antelope, instead of making its
customary bee line for the horizon, had expressed a friendly hope that
it would be found tender and inserted its head between his jaws.
"I - it's very good of you. I shouldn't mind being shown the idea."
He listened attentively while Spennie explained at some length the
principles which govern the game of picquet. Every now and then he
asked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp the
idea of the game.
"_What_ exactly is repicquing?" he asked, as Spennie paused.
"It's like this," said Spennie, returning to his lecture.
"Yes, I see now," said the neophyte.
They began playing. Spennie, as was only to be expected in a contest
between teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won the
next.
"I've got the hang of it all right, now," he said complacently. "It's
a simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if we
played for something?"
"All right," said Spennie slowly, "if you like."
He would not have suggested it himself, but after all, hang it, if the
man simply _asked_ for it - It was not his fault if the winning of a
hand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all that
there was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a game
where skill was practically bound to win. But - After all, Wesson had
plenty of money. He could afford it.
"All right," said Spennie again. "How much?"
"Something fairly moderate. Ten bob a hundred?"
There is no doubt that Spennie ought at this suggestion to have
corrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairly
moderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose four
hundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose two
hundred. But he let the thing go.
"Very well," he said.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at the
score sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I pay
you, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?"
"What about stopping now?" said Spennie. "It's quite fine out."
"No, let's go on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I'm sure you
haven't."
Spennie's conscience made one last effort. "You'd much better stop,
you know, Wesson, really," he said. "You can lose a frightful lot at
this game."
"My dear Spennie," said Wesson stiffly, "I can look after myself,
thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by all
means - "
"Oh, if _you_ don't mind," said Spennie, outraged, "I'm only too
frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you."
"I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a
sovereign a hundred?"
Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, or
anything like it; but after his adversary's innuendo it was impossible
for a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. He
nodded.
* * * * *
"It's about time, I fancy," said Mr. Wesson, looking at his watch an
hour later, "that we were going in to dress for dinner."
Spennie made no reply. He was wrapped in thought.
"Let's see, that's twenty pounds you owe me, isn't it?" continued Mr.
Wesson. "No hurry, of course. Any time you like. Shocking bad luck you
had."
They went out into the rose garden.
"Jolly everything smells after the rain," said Mr. Wesson. "Freshened
everything up."
Spennie did not appear to have noticed it. He seemed to be thinking of
something else. His air was pensive and abstracted.
CHAPTER XIII.
The emotions of a man who has just proposed and been accepted are
complex and overwhelming. A certain stunned sensation is perhaps
predominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general who
has brought a difficult campaign to a successful end, or of a member
of a forlorn hope who finds that the danger is over, and he is still
alive. To this must be added a newly born sense of magnificence, of
finding oneself to be, without having known it, the devil of a fellow.
We have dimly suspected, perhaps, from time to time that we were
something rather out of the ordinary run of men, but there has always
been a haunting fear that this view was to be attributed to a personal
bias in our own favor. When, however, our suspicion is suddenly
confirmed by the only judge for whose opinion we have the least
respect, our bosom heaves with complacency, and the world has nothing
more to offer.
With some accepted suitors there is an alloy of apprehension in the
metal of their happiness; and the strain of an engagement sometimes
brings with it even a faint shadow of regret. "She makes me buy new
clothes," one swain, in the third quarter of his engagement, was
overheard to moan to a friend. "Two new ties only yesterday." He
seemed to be debating within himself whether human nature could stand
the strain.
But, whatever tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its beginning
at least is bathed in sunshine. Jimmy, regarding his lathered face in
the glass as he dressed for dinner that night, called himself the
luckiest man on earth, and wondered if he were worthy of such
happiness. Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he was
not, but that all the same he meant to have it.
No doubt distressed him. It might have occurred to him that the
relations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a very serious bar
to his prospects; but in his present frame of mind he declined to
consider the existence of the ex-constable at all. In a world that
contained Molly there was no room for other people. They were not in
the picture. They did not exist.
There are men in the world who, through long custom, can find
themselves engaged without any particular whirl of emotion. King
Solomon probably belonged to this class; and even Henry the Eighth
must have become a trifle blase in time. But to the average man, the
novice, the fact of being accepted seems to divide existence into two
definite parts, before and after. A sensitive conscience goads some
into compiling a full and unexpurgated autobiography, the edition
limited to one copy, which is presented to the lady most interested.
Some men find a melancholy pleasure in these confessions. They like to
draw the girl of their affections aside and have a long, cozy chat
about what scoundrels they were before they met her.
But, after all, the past is past and cannot be altered, and it is to
be supposed that, whatever we may have done in that checkered period,
we intend to behave ourselves for the future. So, why harp on it?
Jimmy acted upon this plan. Many men in his place, no doubt, would
have steered the conversation skillfully to the subject of the eighth
commandment, and then said: "Talking about stealing, did I ever tell
you that I was a burglar myself for about six years?" Jimmy was
reticent. All that was over, he told himself. He had given it up. He
had buried the past. Why exhume it? It did not occur to him to confess
his New York crimes to Molly any more than to tell her that, when
seven, he had been caned for stealing jam.
These things had happened to a man of the name of Jimmy Pitt, it was
true. But it was not the Jimmy Pitt who had proposed to Molly in the
canoe on the lake.
The vapid and irreflective reader may jump to the conclusion that
Jimmy was a casuist, and ought to have been ashamed of himself.
He will be perfectly right.
On the other hand, one excuse may urged in his favor. His casuistry
imposed upon himself.
To Jimmy, shaving, there entered, in the furtive manner habitual to
that unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike Mullins.
"Say, Mr. Chames," he said.
"Well," said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz
Mullins? Spike, have you ever been best man?"
"On your way! What's that?"
"Best man at a wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a hand
on the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it. Fellow
who looks after everything, crowds the crisp banknotes onto the
clergyman after the ceremony, and then goes off and marries the first
bridesmaid, and lives happily ever after."