OF THE ni^lVEKSlTY SOME HAPPENINGS HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL NOVELS some happenings fishpingle the triumph of tim spragge's canyon quinneys' LOOT BLINDS DOWN JOHN VERNEY THE OTHER SIDE PLAYS quinneys* searchlights jelf's GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY NEW YORK SOME HAPPENINGS BY HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL Author of "Fishpingle/' ''The Triumph of Tim," etc. NEW XS^ YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Copyright, 1918, By George H, Daran Company Printed in the United States of America sovv GEORGE MALCOLM HEATHCOTE M597424 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND ----- II n THE CHILDREN OF HATE ------ 26 III AN AMAZING CHRISTMAS EVE ----- 38 IV THE EIGHTH YEAR -------48 V THE BLACK VELVET CAP ------ 65 VI messiter's sister 88 VII THE SUPREME EVENT - - - - - -I08 VIII fenella's bounder 127 IX A CUTLET FOR A CUTLET 147 X THE WAITRESS AT SANTY ----- 161 XI THE DEATH MASK - 175 XII THE LACQUER CABINET - - - - - -197 XIII A BRETON LOVE-STORY - - - - - -215 XIV jimmy's REST CURE ------ 234 XV BEANFEASTERS - - - - - - -25O XVI THE GRAND SLAM ------- 261 XVII bingo's FLUTTER - - - - - - -281 XVni BULWINKLE &C0. - - - - - - - 30O XIX DOG-LEG RAPIDS 317 vu SOME HAPPENINGS SOME HAPPENINGS THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND HOBO GEORGE was beach-combing at Catalina Is- land when word came to him, through a somewhat tainted source, that his father had struck it "rich." Really convincing details were lacking, but Hobo intended to sup- ply these for himself and by himself. The old man, so he heard, had bought some cattle and hogs, a new barn had been built, and an old house repainted. **Can you beat it ?" exclaimed Hobo. His companion, who had actually seen these amazing "im- provements," hazarded the conjecture that the old man might be fixing things to get married again. Hobo dis- missed this as unthinkable. "I know Pop," he affirmed positively, "better'n he knows hisself. He didn't hev no box at the opery with Maw, far from it. No harmony, ye understand; all give from Maw Tind all take from him." His companion looked puzzled. "All give from her? What she give, Hobo?** George replied promptly : "First, last, and all the time— hell !" Next day Hobo crossed the seas and took the north road. II Some Happenings He was no tramp, in the professional sense of the word, but he had consorted much with tramps^ and knew the tricks of the trade. He meant to beat his way to the old home- stead some five hundred miles away. He did it. During his journeyings curiosity consumed him. He was vaguely sensible, also, of the lure of home — a home, such as it was, which he had left suddenly and under regrettable circumstances, with the injunction not to come back. He had intended to obey this injunction. *'Had the old man struck it rich, and, if so, how?" Of one thing he was quite sure : the curiosity which con- sumed him would not be slaked by the author of his being. The day dawned when he beheld the "improvements." Yes, money had paid for them — unearned money, because the old man was incapable of doing more than eking out a bare existence upon a rough mountain ranch. As a miner, in the good old days of rich placers, he might have pros- pered ; as a farmer he was honourably known, far and wide, as one of the many who never got there. But he had got there, apparently, with both feet. In a saloon in Highville, a collection of shacks situated some five miles from his sire's domain. Hobo gleaned more information from the bar-keep, who was what the French call ''une bonne gazette du pays/' The bar-keep did not recognise Hobo. Probably his own mother, had she been alive, would have failed to identify her son. Hobo listened attentively to the bar-keep and others. Two of these were gamblers of the ''tinhorn" brand, with evil reputations as bad men. One and all were unanimous in declaring that the old man had the dust. ''Dust?" repeated Hobo. "Ther' ain't no dust left in these parts." ^'He has it," said the bar-keep. "Mebbe," said Hobo tentatively, "the old man plastered" 12 The Shadow on the Blind (mortgaged) "the ranch to pay for these yere improve- ments ?" "Not he," replied the bar-keep. "A friend of mine took a squint at the records just to see. If the old man has a weakness, it's bein' overly fond o' braggin' that what he owns is paid fer." "Thet's so," assented Hobo. "You know him?" Hobo answered evasively : "I ain't seen him fer ten years." "Wal — he ain't changed any. And ther's another thmg, boys. Once a miner, allers a miner. The old man begun life in the placers. He noses about these hills with his gun, but I reckon he's lookin' for gold most o' the time." One of the gamblers said reflectively: "Boys, I'd like to have half the dust that has passed over this yere bar." "You bet!" replied the bar-keep. This was in allusion to the days of yore, the golden days long since gone by, when Highville had been Highville, a mining town of five thousand men transmuted now into dust other than that for which they bartered souls and bodies. Another gambler murmured tentatively: "He may have found a cache." "Quite likely," replied the bar-keep. "That's my own idee. If he came around any, we'd be better posted; but he sets to home. Two trips he's made, and nary a word about 'em. Cunning as a coyote ! If it is dust, more'n likely he makes a bee-line for San Francisco, for the Mint. He paid for his improvements in gold twenties." Hobo noticed that the gamblers licked their lips, like hun- gry hounds ; but the talk wandered back into other channels. Hobo went forth into the night. 13 Some Happenings And he slept cosily in his sire's new barn, amongst fragrant hay, with the pungent odour of tarweed in his nostrils. So snug did he lie that he overslept himself, and was discovered curled up by his father, and incontinently cast as rubbish to the void under a copious torrent of lan- guage more easily imagined than printable. Hobo fled. As he crawled through a barbed wire fence he muttered to himself: *'He ain't changed any; and, by Jukes, he didn't know me— m^^ his only son and heir !" He spent that day upon the ranch, playing spy upon his father; but the old man never wandered far from the cor- rals. Hobo noticed that he lived alone, doing his own "chores." When night fell. Hobo crawled back into the barn and finished what was left of a ''poke out" (cold food) handed to him by a good Samaritan some twenty-four hours before. After this light supper he stalked, clutched, and strangled a nice young chicken asleep upon its perch. He found also three new-laid eggs and a sack of potatoes. He was pocketing some potatoes, when he perceived a light in the house. Knowing his sire's habits, this surprised him. The light came from the sitting-room through a drawn blind, and on that blind, plainly silhouetted, black upon amber, was the shadow of his father's head. Whatever was the old man up to ? Hobo kept vigil for some three hours. Then the light was extinguished. Next morning Hobo left the barn be- times, taking his provant with him. In a snug gulch, far from human eyes, he built his fire and cooked his chicken, with potatoes "on the side." After a full meal he smoked for an hour, and then fell asleep. Curiosity permeated his dreams. It became more importunate when he awoke. He decided to allay irritation, both physical and mental, by taking a bath. It was a very hot day in August, and he remembered a pool in the creek wherein he went swimming 14 The Shadow on the Blind as a boy. He might have bathed in half-a-dozen pools, but fancy — or was it something else ? — led him uphill to this par- ticular spot. As he walked, glimpses of a not unhappy childhood were vouchsafed to him. He had been a foothill boy, running wild amongst wild flowers and wild creatures. After many years he was in the Paradise which he had reckoned to be his own. In it and yet hopelessly out of it. He found the pool, but there was no water in it. The creek, a mountain torrent in the winter, had changed its channel. Hobo sat down. The creek was singing an inviting song some fifty yards away; but the desire to bathe had been side-tracked. Hobo sat staring at the sand and gravel at the bottom of his former bath. His father had been at work here. Why? At this moment the insistent problem of a fortnight was solved. The bar-keep had guessed aright. His father had found gold in this silt— gold washed out of the quartz formations above. In early days gold had been taken out of this creek in large quantities. Hobo whistled softly to himself. The unaccustomed light in the sitting-room illumined his understanding. The old man was by nature secretive and cautious. To rock the gold out of this silt in the daytime meant discovery. With infinite labour and patience he must have carried the sand and gravel to his house. At night he extracted from the silt the precious dust. In San Francisco he exchanged that dust for the big, shining twenties. Hobo whistled the same tune many times. Then it occurred to him that he might be discovered by his sire. So he withdrew, still whistling, to a patch of chaparral which commanded a view of the sometime pool. He kept careful watch, but nobody appeared. Probably, so he re- flected, the old man worked here by moonlight, removing enough gravel to keep him busy when the nights were 15 Some Happenings dark. He was not one to run risks — a reason, perhaps, why he had not prospered as a farmer. Presently Hobo evolved a plan. He must ingratiate himself with his sire — no easy task. To return boldly as the repentant prodigal with an eye upon the fatted calf would be courting disaster. On the other hand, the suc- cessful carrying-out of his plan included a sacrifice of what he deemed his most precious possession — leisure. He would have to work, and he abhorred work. He was frowning, not whistling, as he wended his way back to the house. His sire saw him approaching the corral. Hobo sauntered up with his pipe in his mouth. "What you want?" growled the father. *'Work," repHed the son. "I aim to pay my debts. I owe you for a night's lodgin'. Lemme split up some stove-wood." As he spoke he wondered whether some familiar inflec- tion of his voice might betray him. The old man said grimly : 'Thar's the wood-pile." Without another word Hobo went to work. He laboured diligently, knowing the short, sure cut to his sire's heart. He had split wood as pay for many a meal, and he knew to a splinter what was expected of the ordinary tramp. The old man milked a couple of cows and attended to his horses and hogs. Hobo went on splitting wood. After a couple of hours' work he saw his father approaching him. This was the fateful moment, and Hobo governed himself accordingly. He went on wielding his axe with vigour. "Who air ye?" asked the father. The son answered cheerfully: *TVIr. Nobody from back o' Nowhere." "Jest so. A stranger?" Hobo nodded. He was noting i6 The Shadow on the Blind signs of age in his father — the dimmed eyes, the bowed back, the tired, trembhng hands. The old man continued aggressively: ''What you doin' in these hills?" Hobo laughed. As he did so, the father started. He had not heard that laugh for ten years. His face relaxed a little. "I like the foothills," said Hobo. '1 was raised in 'em. I like the smell of 'em." ^'Better'n the smell o' whisky?'* *'Much better. I ain't no use fer whisky." "Mebbe I fired you outer my barn overly quick yester- day. I took ye for a hobo; and I'm scairt sick o' folks smokin' in barns." ''Don't blame ye; it's a mighty nice barn. Ther's one the dead spit o' that in my old home, an' plum full o' jest such sweet hay." "W^al, you kin sleep in it agen, if ye've a mind to." "That's O.K., pervided I do yer chores to-morrer mornin'." "I allow yer a whale to work. Supper'll be ready in jest one hour." The old man went into the house. Hobo smiled and lit his pipe. "It's a cinch," he murmured. II A week passed. Hobo was working for his board, and working hard. The old man attended to that. He slept in the barn and took his meals in the kitchen. Each night the lamp burned in the sitting-room; each night Hobo saw the shadow of his father's head, black against amber, upon the drawn blind. He watched and waited, biding his chance, knowing 17 Some Happenings that the right moment would come, and with it a rich father's forgiveness. Oddly enough, for the first time in his idle life, appetite for work came with the working. Hobo realised that he was working for himself — a fact which completely changed his point of view. Day by day, the thought that this would be his ranch in the fullness of time grew upon him. He stripped his cows carefully, conscious of former shortcomings in this regard. He mended fence without orders, duly sensible that his cattle might escape. He picked ''stickers" out of his horses' mouths, and whistled when he groomed them. And all the time he knew that he was earning not money but a tacit approval which meant money. Each day relaxed the indurated sinews of his sire's tongue; but of the precious dust, not a whisper ! But it was there. He knew that. He had guessed aright. The old miner had not covered his tracks. They led straight from the creek to the house. Hobo had at- tempted more than once to explore the house, but his father was too cunning for him. One door led from the kitchen into the house, and that door was locked. The front door, never used, was locked also, and heavily barred. And Hobo never doubted that his father was always watching him, keenly alert, and quite ready to "pull a gun" without asking unnecessary questions. Let it be said frankly that Hobo had no intention of robbing his father. Rehabilitation had become a fixed idea. The vagabondage of the previous ten years lay behind him. He envisaged peace and plenty at home. At least twenty times a day he murmured to himself: "It's a cinch." Finally, the moment came. Father and son were at supper, warmed by good food and hot coffee. The gambit was opened by the old man. He said abruptly: i8 The Shadow on the Blind "I had a son like you onct." "Is thet so?" "Yep." "Dead?" "Dead ter— me." **A scallywag, I reckon?" "Of the worst kind." "Throwin' bokays at me, ain't ye? Why, if it don't worry you to answer sech questions, d'ye say that this yere scallywag, now dead to you, was like me?" The old man finished his coffee. "George," he replied drawlingly, "hed eyes like yourn and the same kind o' laugh. He was stout-built, was George. You 'mind me of him. Yep. My George was spoiled in the bakin'. What was worst in the boy come from his Maw." Hobo, not quite at his ease, said coolly enough : "You lost track of him?" "Yep. I allers suspicioned that he'd come back to at- tend my funeral." Hobo lit his cig, conscious that his sire's dimmed eyes were smouldering. He replied, not too happily: "Mebbe he will." The old man snapped out viciously: "Mebbe he'll turn in his checks first — a nice set o' papers, too !" Hobo murmured uncomfortably : "Say, what you got agin him?" "I'll tell ye. He was allers a loafer of the worst kind, was George. Never worked 'cep' with his jaw; a loafer, and a liar, and a thief. He stole from me, he did." "You paid this yere George wages, I reckon?" "No. I calcilated to do so. I'd fattened him up, good and soHd, for twenty years. He owed me consid'able." 19 Some Happenings "I guess you owed him something?" The two men glared at each other. The father stood up, a gaunt, forbidding figure. ''Ye're George!" he said thickly. "I knew ye bang off, when I heard ye laugh. I know what ye're here for. Ye came back to play the spy! But I did the double twist on ye! You pulled the wrong stop, young man. Now, if there*s a derned thing of me in you, own up that yer a loser!" He ended with a derisive cackle. Hobo shrugged his shoulders. "Looks like it," he admitted. ''But ye'll allow that I've worked hard fer my board?" He rose slowly and faced his father. "Ye kin git outer this — quick. I've no use for a fraud." 'T'm yer only son. Pop." "Quit that! The prodigal-son turn has whiskers on it. If ye'd played it straight, come to me like a man, and axed fer fergiveness, I might hev given ye one more chanst. You don't want me — never did. Ye're after what I've got. Wal, it'll come to ye after I'm dead, and I reckon ter live some time yet. Skin out!" He pointed to the door. Hobo went. Ill A dull anger possessed him, the futile rage of the baffled and discomfited schemer. This dim-eyed old man had fooled him. That rankled. He went back to the barn to get his blankets. He had no intention of tres- passing further upon his sire's hospitality. Apart from his anger, his thoughts were turning southward, to the land of sunshine, the paradise of the beach-comber and tramp. He would come north again when his father died. 20 The Shadow on the Blind Having rolled his blankets, he sat down in the sweet- smelling hay. At this moment he became aware of voices. Instantly he was alert. The voices were hushed and inar- ticulate, attenuated whispers. Hobo wriggled through the hay. Two men were talking together just outside the bam. It was too dark to see them, but instantly he identi- fied them as being the "tinhorn" gamblers whom he had met in Highville. As instantly he divined their purpose — robbery and murder. He divined also, recalling vividly the mean, simian faces of the gamblers, that they would take no ''chances." The old man had a reputation as a shot. To ''hold him up" in his own house would be a difficult and dangerous enterprise. Hobo listened to their talk. Yes, they had a plan. Obviously, these two scoundrels had played, in their turn, the spy. They had seen the shadow on the blind. They intended to shoot through the blind, to kill the worker at his work, and then to rob him at their leisure. Hobo shivered as temptation tore at him. The old man had ordered him peremptorily to go — quick. If he obeyed his sire; if before dawn he put many miles between him- self and the ranch ; if he lay low for a few weeks till the papers advertised for him, his object in coming north would be triumphantly achieved. Something else occurred to him. He might be accused of his father's murder. The mere fact that a tramp had been seen upon the ranch working for his board — and surely these two spies must have seen him — would be deadly evidence against him. From his knowledge of such men it was more than likely that they had deliberately planned to fasten the guilt upon him. Probably, also, the very murderers would help Judge Lynch to execute foot- hill law. What an easy way of saving their own skins ! 21 Some Happenings The cold sweat broke out upon him. He crawled back to his blankets and stole out of the barn, ready to take the road. He could see the house and a light in the kitchen. Soon there would be a light in the parlour. Hobo crossed the cow-corral, climbed it, and struck into the home pasture. He walked quickly, pausing now and again to listen. He heard a thud of following steps, and something large and uncanny loomed up behind him. It was his father's old saddle-horse, whom he had fed and watered each night and morning. He put out his hand, and a soft muzzle was thrust into it. Hobo had always been fond of animals, and they liked him. He stroked the velvety nose of the old sorrel with a cold and trem- bling hand. . ''Gee !" he muttered. "I can't do it !" He couldn't explain why this reaction had set in. He stood still, patting the neck of the horse, hesitating be- cause he was wondering what he should say to his father. The old man was capable of believing that another "wrong stop" had been pulled on him. The gamblers might over- hear voices and postpone their undertaking. But sooner or later they would "down" an old man living by himself, engrossed in his own business. Hobo cautiously retraced his steps. He had been ready enough to confront his father with a lie, but the truth palsied his lips. The old man had no use for a — fraud! As he climbed the corral fence, the pine poles upon which he had sat as a boy, he saw that the light in the kitchen was out. The parlour lay upon the other side of the house. Hobo fetched a compass, skirting the small garden-yard, enclosed in a cypress fence. A light burned in the parlour. 22 The Shadow on the Blind He hastened back to the kitchen and entered the house. Not a moment was to be lost. There was a rubber hose in the kitchen. That told the tale of the washing. Prob- ably his father kept the sacks of gravel in the cellar. The door between the kitchen and the house was unlocked. Hobo wasted no time in vain speculation. He left the kitchen, crossed a narrow passage, and opened the parlour door, too excited to be aware that he ran no small risk of being shot dead as he did so. The parlour was empty. All the furniture had been taken out. Nothing remained but what was necessary to wash the gold out of the gravel. The floor was inches deep in silt. Two big tubs and the rocker stood near a table upon which a lamp burned steadily. For a moment Hobo forgot the two men outside. The cellar was underneath the parlour, and he could just hear his father moving about below. Upon the table lay a shot-gun, loaded, it might be presumed, with buck-shot. The table was against the wall, and the rocker stood between the lamp and the drawn blind. Hobo had always been fairly quick to think for himself, but the faculty of thinking for others may have been atrophied by disuse. He stood still, wondering whether the old man carried a pistol. U he did, he could not use it, burdened as he would be with a hundredweight of gravel. Yes, yes, he would have ample time to explain. It never occurred to him to turn out the lamp, because, as has been said, he was thinking of his father and not of the two men in ambush. A shot rang out. Hobo fell in a crumpled heap upon the spot where he stood, as a buck falls when the bullet flies true to its mark. The two men outside waited a moment, and then ap- proached the house. Hobo's father, hearing the shot, left 23 Some Happenings the cellar. A door slammed loudly. The two men bolted, believing that they had missed their quarry. Hobo's father entered the parlour. Instinct told him what had happened. He turned down the lamp and pulled up the blind. A broken pane of glass met his glance. He threw up the sash of the window, seized his shot-gun, and looked out. The ground in front of the house, beyond the cypress fence, was covered with brush and sloped sharply to the creek. In the stillness of the night the old man could hear the crackling of broken twigs. He turned up the lamp and knelt down beside the heap of rags upon the floor. He was quite certain that George was dead. He lay curiously still, as if asleep. The father searched for the wound and found it. Then he started back with an exclamation. George had been creased. The old hunter knew well what "creasing" was. He had creased more than one fine buck. The bullet passes through the flesh of the neck, almost grazing the spinal vertebrae. Shock causes the beast to drop as if stone-dead in its tracks. And he recovers consciousness as instan- taneously, jumping up and galloping oflF unhurt. Presently, at any moment, George would open his eyes, none the worse save for a shallow cut. Standing en proHl to the assassin, who had aimed at his head, he had escaped death by a hair's-breadth. But what was George doing in this room? Why had a bullet struck the son instead of the father? With some difficulty he lifted George into a chair and waited. What he expected came to pass. George recov- ered instant consciousness. He jumped up, confronting his father, obviously unaware of what had passed. He spoke excitedly: 24 The Shadow on the Blind "Pop, I come back to warn ye. Two tinhorns from Highville air out thar. I heard 'em talkin' back o' the barn. Me and you'll cop 'em, if we git a move on." The Oxd man answered slowly, staring into the eager eyes of his son, seeing once again the child he had held upon his knee. "They hev got a move on," he said. "What?" *'Them skunks hev vamoosed. I'm kinder under obliga- tions to 'em. Me and you, George, '11 stay right here — an' begin agen." Hobo betrayed some astonishment. "I'm feelin' dazed, Pop. But them fellers air out thar — sure." "No, they ain't." Then, with a queer smile upon his lips, he touched his son's neck, and showed him an encarmined finger. "Whatever's that. Pop?" "It's blood, my son. Yours and — mine." 25 II THE CHILDREN OF HATE THE Root-Diggle feud began about a strip of Californian land (part of a Spanish grant, but subsequently dis- covered to be the property of Uncle Sam), which was taken up by a third party, Jack Hart, who lived undis- turbed between enemies who had, perhaps, exhausted hatred upon each other with none to spare for a new- comer. The feud was a blood feud, for Sam Diggle and Abe Root had shot each other to bits in a saloon near Seco. Each recovered of his wounds ; each vowed ven- geance on the other ; each avoided contact with the other. In a sense the land about which they had quarrelled be- came a buffer between them. And, living in different townships, the children of each went to different schools. And so it came to pass that the younger members of the two families had never met, although they were care- fully trained to loathe each other. Some years after the shooting affair, Johnnie Diggle went trout-fishing in the creek which runs through his father's ranch. But, as Johnnie knew, that part of the creek was nearly fished out. Upon the Hart ranch, as Johnnie also knew, the trout were allowed to increase and multiply in peace. From early youth Johnnie had been posi- tively enjoined not to trespass upon land where he might meet an enemy. The Root children had received similar orders. Johnnie, however, was a keen fisherman, and in the Californian foothills the Fifth Commandment is re- garded as a counsel of perfection. 26 The Children of Hate Upon this pleasant April afternoon Johnnie was filling his basket. He fished diligently. After the fishing, before he returned home to do "chores," he intended to have a nap under some live-oak. It was a slightly sultry day, and he felt sleepy. Presently, he lay down, closed his eyes, and slumbered blissfully. When he awoke a little girl was staring at him, with a faint smile upon her face. She had been watching him intently for more than- a minute, wondering vaguely who he might be. Johnnie sat up, rubbed his eyes, and said: "Hello !" "Hello!" she replied demurely. Then, as if presenting an excuse for her presence, she said softly: "You bin fishin'?" He stood up. "Yep. You like to see my fish?" She nodded. Johnnie displayed the speckled beauties, uneasily conscious that he had not asked leave to fish this part of the creek, and that the girl looking pensively at the trout might be the daughter of a neighbour with whom he and his had no dealings. He decided to propitiate her by offering part of the spoil. She declined the offer with embarrassment. Johnnie wanted to ask her name, but her increasing shyness infected him. She turned to go with- out a word. "Where's your hurry?" asked the boy. He was just twelve, and the maid shyly glancing at him from beneath the shade of her sun-bonnet might have been a year younger. Behold them as children of the sun and wind, clear of skin and eyes, straight and lissome, perfectly healthy but otherwise undistinguished. Had they changed clothes, the boy would have passed easily as a girl, and vice versa. The girl paused and came back. 7.7 Some Happenings "I ain't in no particular hurry." She smiled, and to Johnnie, at that instant, she stood revealed as — SHE. Hitherto he had despised girls, and kept aloof from them. He smiled back, artlessly. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "I like you." "Why?" "I dunno. I think yer the peartest thing I ever seen. What's your first name?'* "Mandie." "I'm Johnnie." Had Mandie replied: "My name is Amanda Root," one wonders whether inherited hate would have triumphed over incipient love. To Mandie — incredible as it may seem — ^Johnnie had been metamorphosed into a fairy prince, wearing shining armour. To Johnnie the tow- headed, blue-eyed girl who stood upon one leg and gently rubbed herself with the other had come straight out of Dreamland. He wondered how he could impress her. "Like ter see me tickle a trout?" he asked. Mandie nodded. He took her hand in his and knelt down, signing to her to do as he did. Together, side by side, they wriggled through the grass till they came to the creek. Johnnie, finger upon lip, peered keenly into the pool. He had marked, an hour before, a fat trout who had paid no atten- tion to the grasshopper dangled above his nose. The trout lay close to the bank, with head up-stream. Johnnie bared an arm and sHd his hand into the water. Mandie, much excited, craned forward. The trout vanished. "You scared him," said Johnnie. "I didn't." "Never mind! It's awful hot. Let's paddle." They paddled contentedly, chattering like monkeys, each intent upon impressing the other favourably. They might 28 The Children of Hate have been two nice congenial boys. But the boy, not the girl, remembered the flight of time. He explained that he would be late for his "chores." "Me too," said Mandie. Johnnie became tongue-tied. Mandie, apparently, suf- fered from the same infirmity. When the silence grew oppressive, the boy said abruptly : "So long!" "So long," replied Mandie. They separated, but each turned simultaneously for a parting glance. Johnnie made a supreme effort: "See you here to-morrer, mebbe?" "Mebbe." "Gee !" exclaimed Johnnie, addressing a blue jay. "Am't she a daisy?" The blue jay screamed derisively and flew off. Johnnie noticed that the bird followed Mandie. He returned home in the highest spirits. The trout were served at supper, and Johnnie, finding himself in favour, hazarded a question. "Say, Pop, what sort o' feller is Jake Hart?" Mr. Diggle answered promptly: "Pore white trash, Johnnie. He jumped a claim that rightly belongs ter me. You let him stew in his own juice, my son." "Yep. Has Jakea fam'ly. Pop?" "Yer mighty curious. You know right well that he has a fam'ly — a lot o' bare-legged kids as ugly and ignerunt as himself." "Scum!" added Mrs. Diggle. Johnnie blushed, but nobod<y noticed that. His last thought, as he fell asleep, was — "Will Mandie be thar, to-morrow?" « • • • • 29 Some Happenings He arrived first at the trysting-place, a-quiver with ex- citement, straining his ears to catch the sound of her approaching steps. But when she appeared certain care- fully prepared speeches were abbreviated into one word : *'Hello !'^ "That you, Johnnie?" said the maid. "Yep— it's me." "I come up the creek," continued Mandie. "I come down it." After this superlative effort conversation languished. It quickened into life again when Mandie asked the following confounding question: *'Say, Johnnie, are you acquainted with the Diggles ?" "You bet," replied the boy. "Hateful crowd," said Mandie viciously. By this time they were sitting together under the live-oak, where Johnnie had fallen asleep. "Hateful?" repeated Johnnie. "Mean skunks." Now Johnnie Diggle was no fool. The wilderness had sharpened his wits rather than his tongue. And, habitually, he thought before he spoke. He guessed that Mandie was a Root, and he divined also that she had taken him for a Hart. It would be kind not to undeceive her. But, being a Diggle, he felt constrained to say something derogatory about the Roots, with a mental reservation to exclude the female members of that family. Accordingly he drawled out: "I like the Diggles first-rate, what I seen of 'em. They ain't like the Root boys." "What you say?" "Them Root boys is scum. The Diggles is— quality." Mandie opened her mouth and closed it again. She was not quite so sharp as Johnnie. For example she still be- 30 The Children of Hate lieved that she was speaking to a Hart, and indignation filled her innocent heart because a Hart, not acquainted with Root, dared to describe as "scum" her own brothers. Nevertheless she said : *'You know the Root boys, Johnnie?" ''I've heard a heap about 'em." *'I reckon you heard — lies." "Mebbe you're acquainted with the Root boys?" Mandie dissembled in her turn. She decided quickly that this nice Hart boy must be trained to a proper ap- preciation of the Roots. Probably, he was feeling sore because the Roots had ignored the existence of the Harts. She murmured reflectively : "1 ate turkey dinner with the Roots last Thanksgiving." "Is that so ? Wal— the Diggles had turkey and ham and mince pie and plum-puddin' and pop-overs and " "How do you know?" "Because I was thar." Something defiant in his tone revealed the truth. He was Johnnie Diggle, one of the hateful skunks! If she be- haved like a true Root, she ought to rise up, denounce him and leave him. But she didn't ! Instinct saved the situation. She liked Johnnie and he liked her; but she wondered whether he would go on liking her when the truth shone blindingly upon him. It would be unkind to enlighten him too soon. Whilst these reflections were passing through her mind, she felt Johnnie's hand on hers. She pretended not to no- tice it. Then she heard him say gently : "I ain't nothing agen the Root wimmen-folk." To this Mandie replied briskly : "Let's talk o' things." "Let's." "You begin, Johnnie." 31 Some Happenings Johnnie, thus adjured, said valiantly: "Vd like mighty well to show you my cave. If you was a boy we might live in it. I found it, when I was huntin' abalones. It's my secret hidin'-place. You git into it at low tide. It's low tide now." Mandie said fervently: "I'd jest love to see it." "But you'd tell about it, bein' a girl." Mandie rose sorrowfully, turned her back, and wandered half-a-dozen steps from Johnnie. He pursued her. *'Mandie, I was jokin'. I was — honest Injun! You come along, right now." They had a mile to go. Love-making beguiled the way. Johnnie was not a boy to do things ansemically. He began resolutely : "I'd jest as lief marry you, Mandie. Why not?" Mandie blushed. "Then we could live in the cave. I'd be busy fishin' from the rocks and you'd do the cookin'." "I'd like to fish some, Johnnie." "Thar's honey to be got. I know two bee trees. And thar's clams. We'd hev a hog-killin' time. Say, Mandie, will you marry me?" "You mean jest fer — fun?" "I mean fer keeps, ever and ever — Amen ! I kiss you ; you kiss me. I say : *I marry you,' and you say : *I marry you.' It's as easy as easy. Then you're mine and I'm yours — see ?" Mandie nodded. But if he knew — ! She stood still, staring at him. Then she whispered, gaspingly: "Thar's our folks." They looked hard at each other. Johnnie burst out desperately : "S'pose I was a Diggle?" 32 The Children of Hate "S'posel wasaRoot?" "I shouldn't keer overly much." *'Nor me neither." *'\Val— I am a Diggle." ''And I'm a Root." They breathed more freely, smiling faintly at each other. Excitement tickled them agreeably. "We'll git married in the cave," said Johnnie. "Yes," murmured the maid. They followed the creek down till it became an estuary, and then paddled happily across the sands till they came to the rocks where abalones may be found at low tide. The rocks were kelp-covered and slippery. Johnnie took Mandie's arm. "It's my own cave, Mandie. I found it." Hand in hand they entered the wonderful place, car- peted with fine white sand which sloped sharply to the sea. The children wandered on and upward till a smaller cave presented itself. To this sanctuary the boy had carried rough pine boards, out of which he had fashioned a rude table, a bench, and something approximating to a bunk, which he had filled with dried grass and fern. Mandie clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, Johnnie; it's jest too lovely for anything." 'Now, Mandie, we'll git married." «M, In the Diggle homestead, that evening, an anxious mother feared that her Johnnie would get waled for being late for "chores." In the Root board-and-batten mansion another mother pledged herself to spank a naughty little girl. Later, both Sam Diggle and Abe Root set forth to find a missing child. Each, from such evidence as was available, came to the independent conviction that the truant must have wan- 3-^ Some Happenings dered on to the Jake Hart ranch, where there was more than a probability of getting lost in the chaparral. For- tunately, it happened to be a bright moonlight night. Sam Diggle found Johnnie's tracks and lost them again. He followed the creek, knowing that there were deep pools in it, knowing, also, that rattle-snakes lurked in the stony places. Both he and Abe were expert trailers and hunters. Sam moved slowly and patiently. Abe Root was following smaller tracks as patiently. Suddenly Sam heard a sound. He stood stilL Abe, not fifty yards from him, heard a sound also. The men shouted together : **That you, Johnnie?" "Mandie— Mandie !" A minute later, the enemies, who had sworn to kill each at sight, stood face to face. The moon shone full upon their set jaws and smouldering eyes. For an instant the children were forgotten. Abe said threateningly: "What the h— 11 you doin' here?" Sam replied grimly : 'This ain't yer land, nor mine." But each had heard the other call for his child. Abe growled out: "I'm huntin' my leetle Mandie." Sam responded as ungraciously: "My Johnnie is missin'." They stood together in the bed of the creek, close to the pool where Johnnie had tried to tickle the trout. Abe pointed dov/mvards. *T reckon they're together," he said. *'Gee!" exclaimed Sam. "They air." In stupefaction they stared at each other and then at the iracks of the children. To each the one blasting, con- 3^ The Children of Hate founding fact that the children were together howled for explanation. Abe said huskily: "We better hit the trail quick." In silence they advanced and then retreated, at fault within a few minutes. A quarter of a mile away twinkled a light in Jake Hart's house. Sam spoke this time, very reluctantly : % "That son of a gun, mebbe, seen 'em?" "Mebbe," replied Abe. Without further speech they strode swiftly towards the twinkling light. When the astonished Jake beheld them, glaring at him, he may be excused for believing that these two men whom he had "bested" were joining issue at his expense. Sam, however, put him at ease by asking curtly : "Say — you seen two kids, boy and girl?" "I see 'em together down by the mouth o' the creek, makin' for the rocks. They was huntin' abalones, I reckoned." Sam saw in Abe's eyes the fear that had just entered his soul. "Big spring tide," he muttered. "Let's git a move on." Jake accompanied them, carrying a lantern. The spring tide was beginning to ebb when they reached the rocks. If the children had been caught on the rocks, assuredly they were drowned. If they had wandered back to the estuary, why were they missing? After a dreary quest along the base of precipitous cliffs, at the moment when hope abandoned each father, Jake Hart mentioned the cave. He was of opinion that they would find the children inside the cave. "Alive?" asked Abe. Jake could not answer this poignant question. And he knew nothing of the second cave. For the moment it was impossible of approach. A heavy surf broke sullenly upon 35 Some Happenings the rocks. Jake moved away from the unhappy fathers, leaving them alone. An hour, at least, according to Jake, must pass before the cave could be entered. Abe said miserably : "She was the cutest little cuss." Sam nodded. All rancour had gone from his voice as he muttered : "Johnnie was the likeliest colt in my bunch." After that, cruel and devastating silence ! When it was possible the two fathers waded into the cave. Jake remained outside. Abe carried Jake's lantern. By this time it was midnight, and a sea mist had obscured the moon. As they waded out of the water on to the hard white sand, they knew what the fate of the children had been, if the tide had caught them in such a trap. They stood together no longer as enemies but partners in a com- mon and overwhelming sorrow. Abe said solemnly; "It's a judgment on us." Sam bowed his head. Together, each man extended a hand to the other. "Shush-h-h !" Above the swish and gurgle of the outgoing tide sounded a little cough, the attenuated cough of a sleeping child. "Gosh!" exclaimed Sam. "They're up thar!" By the dim light of the lantern, they saw the small opening of the second cave. They climbed some slippery rocks, and discovered the bridal chamber. "They ain't here," said Abe hoarsely. "Look !" In the bunk, fast asleep in each other's arms, lay the two children. The fathers gazed at them. Sam Diggle, who had denounced all Roots, said softly: "She's as sweet as they make 'em." Abe replied promptly: 36 The Children of Hate "Thet boy of yourn is a dandy." "Seems a pity to wake the little cusses," whispered Sam. Abe gripped his arm. "I reckon their pore mothers ain't asleep." Then he shook the slumberers, who sat up blinking. Johnnie said hastily: "We was caught by the tide." "Was ye?" said his father with austerity, "Now, you tell me this, Johnnie Diggle. Oughtn't I to wale the stuffin' outer ye?" Abe put a similar question to Mandie: "See here, Amanda Root, ain't you mighty liable ter git spanked by yer Maw good and hard ?" Mandie puckered, but Johnnie replied stoutly : "It's O.K., Pop." "What d'ye mean by O.K.? And me an' Abe scairt nearly silly! What's O.K.?" "Wal — me an' Mandie's married." ^ Ill AN AMAZING CHRISTMAS EVE UPON the morning of December 24th, 1895, Charles Meeker, the book-keeper of my old friend Flamarion, shambled awkwardly into my office. His amiable features, twisted into a scowl of ludicrous perplexity, surmounted a cravat that was awry and an overcoat improperly ad- justed. "Bless my soul!" said I. "What's the matter?" He glanced nervously at the door. "Are we alone?" he whispered nervously, wiping the perspiration from his wrinkled forehead. "We are," I replied. "Speak out, Charles, and don'f mumble." He leaned forward; his lips were quivering, his pale, watery eyes glistened with excitement. "Mr. Flamarion," he stammered, "is crazy!" "Nonsense," I retorted. "Crazy? Pooh!" Charles Meeker shook his head solemnly. "Begging your pardon, doctor, I repeat that Mr. Fla- marion is quite crazy. He is not the same man. He has become suspicious. He has called in" — the book-keeper faltered, and then whimpered out — "he has called in — an expert accountant !" "Does that prove him crazy, Charles Meeker?" "Fve been in his service twenty years, doctor. And I feel this — deeply. And he talks of closing the tea business, and going into — soap ! Soap, indeed. He will find himself ^8 An Amazing Christmas Eve up to his neck — not in soap, but in soup. Doctor, this means ruin!" "Where is he now?" I asked. "In his office, and," he added desperately, "playing the very deuce there." I seized my hat and hurried down town. James Fla- marion, a tea-merchant with an enlarged spleen, is a patient of mine, but apart from that our friendship is of long standing. He is a talker, not a thinker, and in the role of listener I have become part and parcel of his life. Mrs. Flamarion, I regret to say, eyes me with disapproval. She is a devout believer in the late Madame Blavatsky, and a constant contributor to the Theosophist. Woman-like, she resents my scientific rejection of her psychical theories, and she has justly incensed me by aspersing my moral character — merely because her husband and I indulge occasionally in a thimbleful of whisky! Jim was an old fool to marry a young and pretty woman, and I told him so. I fear he was indiscreet enough to repeat my remarks to his wife. She cut me dead the very next day ! I found Jim in his office. He greeted me coldly. In- stead of offering me a chair and a cigar, he said curtly: "I'm very busy. What do you want ?" I sat down and eyed him keenly. But I could detect no symptom of insanity, incipient or otherwise. On the con- trary, he appeared remarkably cool and collected. "I've a Christmas present for you," I began cheerily. "Some cigarettes which will carry you back, old boy, to those days we spent in Cuba. Do you remember that little almond-eyed houri who taught you to " "My memory," retorted this miserable hypocrite, "is an uncertain quantity which stays at home. Did we visit Cuba together? Oh, really. What! Sir, you insult me. I never heard the lady's name before. Never! As for your cig- 39 Some Happenings arettes, you can smoke them yourself. Smoking," he added with odious self-complacency, *'is an indefensible habit. It blights — it stains. I have eschewed for ever the filthy weed." ''Doubtless," said I, ''you have sworn off whisky?" "Yes, sir, I have. You would do well to follow my ex- ample." I rose to go. In my professional capacity I asked a harmless question: "Your liver," said I, "must be bothering you a bit — eh?" To my surprise he blushed scarlet, accused me of grossly insulting him, and intimated in plain prose that for the future he would dispense with my services as physician. "Rest assured, my dear Flamarion," I replied quietly, "that my poor services will not be forced upon you. None the less, I have studied your peculiar ailment for some years, and I solemnly tell you that in another man's hands your miserable life is not worth six months' purchase." With this Parthian shot, I shook the dust of his con- founded office from my feet and departed. "Flamarion has certainly changed," I said to myself, in the privacy of my consulting-room; "but he is not mad. A queer case — a most puzzling case." Researches in the field of mental physiology have always attracted me ; and a problem, in the person of my old friend, aroused interest and curiosity. Indeed, I was considering the propriety of calling personally upon Mrs. Flamarion, when my assistant cut the knot of pros and cons by an- nouncing the lady herself. To give the woman her due she is as handsome as an odaHsque. A modern Zenobia, with flashing black eyes, full red lips, and a firm, beautifully modelled chin. "Pray be seated, madam," said I suavely. 40 An Amazing Christmas Eve She selected the most comfortable chair, and sank grace- fully into its padded depths. "You are delightfully installed here, doctor." Her voice had a peculiar quality — clear, vibrant, and slightly metallic. A foreign accent was perceptible, and I remembered some absurd story about her mother having been a begum. I bowed politely. Evidently, I reflected, she means to ask a favour. "My husband," she continued, "has often spoken to me of your little merry-makings here." "Our merry-makings, my dear lady, usually consist of one modest glass of old cognac." "I have heard extravagant encomiums of that old cog- nac," she murmured. I ventured on a mild joke. "Mrs. Flamarion, my stairs are steep, and you look fatigued ; may I prescribe a dose, a tiny dose, of that noble liquor, as a tonic?" "As a tonic, doctor? Well, then — yes." I filled two Hqueur glasses to the brim. "Most strengthening," she said softly; "I feel better already." A physician must be more or less of a mind reader. I refilled our glasses, and smiled. "Doctor," she sighed, "I can appreciate the very warm regard that Jim has always evinced for you." "A regard, madam, that is not shared, I fear, by his wife." "Bah !" she replied. "Let bygones be bygones. I've mis- judged you, doctor ; but you must accord me the privilege of my sex, and allow me to change my mind." So speaking, she extended her shapely hand. I squeezed it discreetly, and detected a pressure in return. "And now," she continued, with a change of tone, "let 41 Some Happenings me explain the nature of my errand. Have you seen Jim to-day. Indeed! Insulted you? Dear, dear! How very strange. What? Refused to accept a box of cigarettes? Impossible !" "A fact," I retorted. "Here is the box. Look at it. Note the fineness of these wrappers, the delicious aroma, the shape." She examined the Perfectos critically, and selected one. "It appears," she murmured, "to be in excellent condi- tion." I lit a match. "Madam," said I, "in Spain and Russia ladies of the highest rank smoke habitually. Permit me." She accepted the proffered match, and lighted the ciga- rette ! Dreamily she closed her lovely eyes, and let the smoke curl lazily in widening circles around her blooming cheeks. The abandon of her pose, almost masculine in its disregard of the conventionalities, exercised an extraordinary effect upon my senses. In the ardour of the moment, heaven knows what folly I might have committed. Happily, a tap at the door recalled me to this work-a-day world and its prosaic responsibilities. I opened the door. It was my assistant. "Dr. Simpson," he said, "wishes to see you at once." Promising an immediate return, I left my visitor. With impatience I listened to Simpson as he detailed to me a grave complication that had arisen in his practice ; and at his urgent request consented to give him ten minutes of my time But a quarter of an hour had elapsed before I found myself again at home. I'm ashamed to confess it, but in my excitement I ran upstairs two steps at a time, and with an exultation of spirits very foreign to my normal tempera- ment, opened my consulting-room door. 42 An Amazing Christmas Eve Mrs. Flamarion had departed ! The fumes of that Morales tobacco still perfumed the air, and on the carpet, at the edge of the hearth-rug, I saw a small glove. This I placed carefully in my pocket. Then, feeling strangely unstrung, I poured out another glass of cognac. As I did so I idly noted that the bottle in my absence had been tampered with. The inference was too obvious to be misinterpreted. Jim's wife, overpowered by feelings of which I alone apprehended the significance, had sought, as I sought, the same remedy. That Christmas Eve, who should come to my office but Flamarion himself? He coolly sat down and asked for a drink. "You don't seem pleased to see me," he said. "After climbing your confounded stairs you might welcome a fel- low more warmly." He was smoking a large cigar as he spoke. *T thought," said I tartly, "that you had eschewed the filthy weed and the debasing liquor habit. You told me so — only this morning." "This morning?" he repeated blankly. "Well, to be hon- est with you, old man, I was not — er — quite myself this morning. I dare say I surprised you. Eh? Told you that I could dispense with your services ? Ha, ha, ha ! And what did you reply?" "I said in the plainest language that in other hands your life was not worth six months' purchase." "You did. Thank the Lord ! Gave me six months— eh ? Well, that accounts for everything." "Perhaps, James, you will kindly explain to my limited intelligence what this mystery means." j His eyes twinkled. "In one minute, my dear fellow, your curiosity shall be 43 Some Happenings gratified; but tell me — has anything else out of the com- mon occurred to-day?" ''Your wife called." "My wife! Why, man, she looks upon you with " *' the feelings of a warm friend," I answered com- placently. Then I gave him a slightly amended version of the interview. ''If you question these facts," I concluded, "ask my assistant." "I believe them implicitly. And now be prepared for the big surprise of your life." He lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair. "You know," he began, "that Mrs. Flamarion and I are advanced Theosophists. You are also posted in the shib- boleth of our science. You know, for instance, what we mean by the astral plane? Just so. Now, my wife and I can assume at will our astral forms." "You will pardon me, James, if I decline flatly to believe any such nonsense." Flamarion continued: "According to the light vouchsafed us, we know that the body is a mere husk — the temporary dwelling-place of the immortal spirit, and nothing more. Now, last night my wife suggested that we should change bodies for five min- utes or so. At first I objected, but finally gave my consent. We lay down side by side. Two emanations, supported by twin chords of prismatic light, proceeded from our ap- parently lifeless bodies, and the metempsychosis was ef- fected. I arose in my new garb, feeling devilishly un- comfortable, and my wife arose in hers. To test the experiment, I rang the bell and asked Rosa's maid to bring me a handkerchief. 'Yes, ma'am,' she replied. "And now," continued Jim, blushing like a schoolgirl, "comes the absurd part of the story. The success of the experiment being assured, I wished to rehabilitate myself. 44 An Amazing Christmas Eve Positively, I had never appreciated my own body before. As a woman I not only felt supremely ridiculous, but the oppression about the heart was absolutely unendurable. Rosa had always assured me that she never tight-laced. I know better now. And her shoes, according to a man's notions, are a dozen sizes too small for her feet. " 'Come, my dear,' said I, *we will change again.' "To my surprise she put her hands behind her back, and said insolently: "'Not much!' " 'What do you mean, Rosa?' " 'What I say. You've had your day, Jimmie — I must call you Rosa for the future — now it is my turn. This change of sex has proved a revelation to me. Nothing would induce me to become a miserable woman again. What? Sacrifice this delightful freedom of limb to oblige you? No, sir. Never! I'll make you a kind husband. And you can rest easy in your mind about business matters. I always had more brains in my little finger than you had in your head. The tea trade will be the gainer with me at the helm. In short, Jimmie — I mean Rosa — you must resign yourself gracefully to the inevitable. I should be loth to use force, but I shall not tolerate any whining or whimpering. You must submit to my authority and con- sider me in all things.' " 'Rosa,' said I hotly, 'you be hanged !' and then my ab- surd feminine body overpowered my masculine mind. I burst into tears ! "My dear fellow, I was at my wits' end to know what to do. The spirit was willing enough, but the pitiful female flesh proved deplorably weak. I must draw the veil of reticence over what transpired in the first agony of this new birth. It is enough to say that I went early to bed, and 45 Some Happenings cried myself to sleep. I woke up this morning partially resigned. Rosa hurried off to the office, and I was told to order dinner, and to darn some socks. I must tell you that I came down to breakfast in a wrapper and slippers. Would you believe it, that abandoned woman made me return to my room and put on a tailor-made gown? " 'You have always insisted/ said she, 'on my being properly dressed, and I demand the same of you. Don't let me see you unless you are presentable !' ''In the afternoon I had a little fun. Some old hens called, and began clacking away about husbands in general, and me in particular. I was astonished at the extent of their information. However, I played the virtuous wife to perfection. I assured them I had implicit confidence in Mr. Flamarion, and resented their officious interference in my domestic affairs. They won't call again for some time, I fancy. Then I thought of you, old man, and paid you a visit. Great Scott ! I gave you a good send-off, didn't I ? And I left a glove. Where is it? In your breast pocket? You miserable sinner!" "This is an extraordinary tale," said I testily. "How did you persuade your wife to resume her despised body?" "I have to thank you for that," said Flamarion. "You scared her to death talking about the precariousness of my life. The thought of the tomb made a woman of her. When she came home to-night, she proposed a renewal of the old relations. Of course I accepted. But — say, is my life really in danger?" "In my hands," I replied, "you may expect to die an old man." Flamarion laughed till I really thought he would choke. "Rosa," said he, "is not so smart as she thinks. I'd sooner be a man for six months, than a woman for fifty years. B^ the way, she begged me to ask you to dine to- 46^ An Amazing Christmas Eve morrow. You won't? Yes, you will. And we'll give you a capital Christmas dinner, and make a Theosophist of you. But — you mustn't squeeze Rosa's hand." ^ I related this amazing tale to Simpson. "The explanation is nearly as simple as you are," he replied. "Flamarion and his wife have had a little fun at your expense. The joke was capitally planned and carried out. Astral plane, indeed — astral fiddlestick !" Simpson is a clever surgeon, but his gross self-assurance is a source of anxiety to his friends. What he does not know would stock a large library. 47 IV THE EIGHTH YEAR TOM GATHORNE was given to boasdng that he and his pretty wife had married for love. Nobody con- tradicted the good fellow, although the too constant affirma- tion exasperated certain cynics. Burdon, for instance, Gathorne's particular pal, had sgiid curtly: ''What of it? Why do you buck about it? Or, rather, why do you buck about it now ?" *'Now?" *'l mean this. A love match is admittedly an experiment which time alone will justify or repudiate. Common sense should have suggested to you the expediency of selecting a wife with a bit of money, which would have helped you enormously in your business. I don't say, mind you, that you've made a mistake." "I should think not." "But I do venture to repeat what must be obvious to all but impassioned sentimentalists, of which you are one, that the first few years of marriage are not a sufficient test. The eighth year, so I am credibly informed, is critical." "What tosh!" Burdon shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a doctor, with an increasing practice amongst women. Also he was a bachelor. What our neighbours call un celibataire endurci. 4S The Eighth Year Tom Gathorne began his business career as a clerk on the Stock Exchange. Later he had put some five thousand pounds into the business, receiving in exchange a junior partnership. From the first he had prospered. Pluck and Luck — those great twin brethren — had fought by his side. Bit by bit Burdon and he drifted apart whilst remaining staunch friends. Burdon was godfather to Gathorne's eldest son — there were three boys — and he had kept on good terms with Mrs. Gathorne, although she had refused some- what peremptorily to employ him as her medical attendant. However, from time to time he "vetted" Tom. The critical eighth year was now rising above the horizon. By the luck of things Burdon was spending a month with the Gathornes in Scotland. Tom had taken a small grouse moor with some sea-trout fishing. Mrs. Tom and the children made up a party of six. The lodge was comfortable, and Mrs. Tom prided herself upon house-keeping. In short, from a material point of view there could be no complaints. And the sport had been excellent. None the less, Burdon was sensible that his old friend was less cheery than usual, and his wife somewhat irritable. Tom took the hill with a shorter stride. Burdon noticed that the children were not particularly robust. About the middle of September he told Tom that he was concerned about him. *l'm all right," growled Tom. "You've lost weight, my good fellow. What's wrong? Markets dicky?" "Best year we've ever had. I may take a forest next season." "Liver can't be out of whack with all this exercise." "I tell you I'm as fit as a fiddle." "Foolish expression that. Fiddles are not always fit, as any violinist will tell you. A Strad is most susceptible, 49 Some Happenings for instance, to the company it keeps. You can't put me off, Tom. Fm worried about you. On my word I am." His voice softened, and he laid his hand upon Tom's arm, gazing keenly but kindly into his friend's eyes. "There is something wrong," Tom admitted. 'T knew it. Now — out with it." They were alone in the smoking-room. Mrs. Tom had gone to bed. Each man was smoking his pipe. Whisky and water in long tumblers lent an adventitious aid to confidence. *'Eve," said Tom moodily, "no longer cares for me." "Impossible !" Burdon was genuinely distressed, for Tom spoke with conviction. "It's like this, old man. She's wrapped up in the kids. She devotes herself to them — at my expense. See?" Burdon did see. What surprised and annoyed him was the realisation of not finding this fact out for himself. He had written a clever pamphlet entitled "Maternal Instinct." In it he had tried to show that women, speaking generally, were divided into two classes, wives and mothers. He had admitted that some women could adjust satis- factorily the conflicting claims of wifehood and mother- hood, but they, so he affirmed, were rare and particular exceptions to the common rule. He refilled his pipe, waiting for Tom to continue. Tom said deliberately: "You warned me once that the eighth year after mar- riage was critical. It is. For example, it is a critical time for the first child. Your godson, as you know, is not as sturdy as we could wish. The little beggar is my successful rival. Absurd, but true. I have become — negligible in Eve's eyes. I have tried to blind myself to 50 The Eighth Year this ; I have tried — God knows ! — to make allowance for a mother's anxiety. But — there it is!" Burdon nodded. *'I suppose," continued Tom, "there is nothing to be done. I've had a wonderful innings, and it's over. It's happened to half-a-dozen other fellows of my acquaint- ance, and I shall have to grin and bear it as — as they do." "Oh, no!" **What do you mean? You can't imagine that I've not done my best. I tell you, man, I've laid siege to her, wooed her all over again. And she's as cold as Charity, poor dear." "Um!" said Burdon. "I shall get over it, but I feel rather cheap." "You look cheap. I think it's time that I prescribed." "I can prescribe for myself. There's the business. I've worked fairly hard, but I can work harder." "And widen the gulf." "I could be keener about shooting and golf." "You might make love to another woman." "As a lure? Eve would despise me. And I'm not built that way. Besides, I might be let down again." Burdon answered briskly : "I put the question merely to hear you answer it. Now, look here; will you let me treat you? I believe that I can do so successfully, but you must place yourself unreservedly in my hands." "Drugs?" "Dear me, no ! Can I examine you now ?" "You vetted me last May." "And I was not quite satisfied with your condition then." He rose from his chair. "I shall fetch a stetho- scope." Tom waited, staring into the peat fire, which smouldered dully, giving out neither heat nor light. Eve's love for 51 Some Happenings him was smouldering as dully. He had not a particle of faith in Burdon as bellows, but the old man meant well. Doctors were so ridiculously cocksure! All the same, he felt mildly interested in the vetting. And he knew that he would be annoyed if things were not right. Constitu- tionally he was as sound as a bell. Burdon came back, carrying the stethoscope. He had assumed his professional manner and deportment. The examination lasted three minutes. Somewhat to Tom's annoyance, Burdon remained silent, but his face indicated perplexity and anxiety. Tom said nervously: "Anything really wrong?" ^'Nothing." "Then why the deuce do you stare at me like that? Nq kidding! H there is anything wrong, I want to know it." "Last May the heart's action was not quite regular. Probably you had been smoking too many cigars. To-day you are in tip-top condition." "Good !" said Tom, much more cheerfully. "I rather hoped to find it otherwise." "Eh?" "You see. Eve is like most women " "She isn't." "She has a current fund of sympathy and sensibility. Women will never admit that this fund is exhaustible. If it were inexhaustible, Eve would have love enough for you and the children. Intuitively, and acting upon a sound economic principle, she is meeting her obligations in ex- actly the same spirit in which you meet yours." "Put it a bit plainer, old man." "You do a big credit business ? Yes. And on settlement days you pay up when payment has to be made, and carry over the other accounts." "I take you. Eve is carrying over — me?" 52 The Eighth Year "She is. Her available cash at the Bank of Love has been paid out to the kids. Therefore your cheques are dishonoured. To change my metaphor, the fountain is not running dry, as you fear, but the stream has been diverted. Between us we must restore the beneficent waters to their old channel." ^'How?" *'Your wife must believe that you need irrigating. I shall hint that your health is causing me concern. I might exaggerate a little any cardiac weakness, but unhappily your heart is beating like a bull's. Obviously nothing is left to us but pious fraud. In a very real sense you are suffer- ing from an affection of the heart, and, speaking as your medical man, I advise you to go to Nauheim after leaving Scotland. Eve must accompany you, and the children will be left behind. I shall go, too, and play gooseberry. What do you say?" "I am to sham illness, excite Eve's pity, abandon the children, and play the tame goat at a beastly German spa?" 'That's admirably put." "Of course I shall do nothing of the kind." "Then I'll go to bed." "I'm awfully obliged, old chap, but you see what you suggest isn't cricket." "Perhaps not. Good-night." Burdon went to his room. He undressed slowly, think- ing of his friend. "I was a fool," said Burdon to himself, "to tell Tom that he had a clean bill of health. No man can afford to be honest with a patient." He was still frowning when a sharp tap on the door was followed by Tom's entrance. "You look heated," said Burdon calmly. 53 Some Happenings His host's eyes were sparkling savagely out of a red face. "It's a bit too thick, old man ! Eve is sleeping in young Tom's room. There's not the smallest necessity for it. She admits that. But she likes to be with him. We've had a bit of a rumpus. I'll admit to you that I got the worst of it, because I lost my temper. Eve remained perfectly calm.- She talked a lot of twaddle about duty. Somehow it came home to me that she wants a shock. I'm on to this little game of yours, cricket or no cricket. You have my leave to tell my wife that my days are numbered. So they are. Pitch it as strong as you like! She wants stir- ring up. She accused me, by George, of being too robust! You let yourself go. Don't spare her feelings ! She doesn't know a word of German, and she'll loathe Nau- heim. You'll play doggo and keep out of sight. She'll just have to concentrate on me." "Right," said Burdon. II At breakfast next morning, Mrs. Gathome was pre- occupied, as usual, with the children. "Naughty Tommy kept his mumsie awake." "Why?" Brutal monosyllables are a woman specialist's stock-in- trade. "He was so restless in his sleep, poor darling." "Too much desert," said Burdon. "When kids get their deserts they pay for 'em." Tommy always listened attentively to talk about him- self. That is why many children die young. He remarked, solemnly : "I do have the indigest. It hurts." 54 The Eighth Year In a whisper, overheard by all, but intended for a doc- tor's ear alone, Mrs. Gathorne made an illuminating remark : ^'Heartburn." ''Bicarbonate of soda," suggested Burdon, with deep sympathy. Tom senior toyed with a bit of toast, refusing grilled trout and kidneys. "Indigestion is the very devil," he observed. His wife glanced at him. "How do you know, dear?" "I do know," he replied, with emphasis. Just before breakfast Burdon had led him aside. "Play with your food," he counselled. "When Eve follows the kids out of the dining-room you can pitch in. Twig?" Tom twigged. But Mrs. Gathorne did not follow the children when they scampered away. Possibly her conscience was pricking her. Possibly also she wanted justification from a pro- fessional man. "I am so worried about Tommy," she murmured. "You needn't be. Is it wise to discuss his infantile ail- ments before him?" "Right you are!" exclaimed Tom senior. "Fatal error!" "Not fatal so far," amended Burdon. Eve betrayed uneasiness. "I can't help being anxious." At this moment Tom executed a strategic movement. He rose languidly, walked to the side-table, pocketed a cold grouse and three scones, and vanished. Eve, with her back to the side-table, did not see him. As soon as she was alone with Burdon, she said eagerly: "I came to Scotland on the children's account." "Really? Not on Tom's?" 55 Some Happenings "Tom^s?" *Tooi old Tom." 'Toor old Tom!" "I vetted him last night in the smoking-room. Can I speak to you with entire frankness?" "Please do! But you terrify me." "I will say this to relieve your anxiety. There is nothing organic — as yet." "Nothing — organic?" "Nothing — incurable." "Heavens!" "I may be mistaken. But in my opinion Tom, with care, may live to be fifty. With — care." Her face paled. Burdon went on relentlessly: "Tom's appearance is deceptive. You may have no- ticed that he is thinner?" "Surely he ought to be thinner?" "He ate no breakfast this morning." "Dr. Burdon, please tell me the worst at once." "How did he sleep last night?" Eve explained, in some confusion, the reason why Tom had slept, or had not slept, alone. With increasing agita- tion she entreated the truth. "Well, there is an affection of the heart — let us call it cardiac weakness. Fortunately, it is amenable to treat- ment." Eve's eyes grew moist. Burdon felt a beast, but he continued : "You ought to take him to Bad Nauheim after Scotland." "I hate the idea of going abroad with three children." "They must be left behind." "Left— behind?" "I want you to give your undivided attention to your 56 The Eighth Year husband. Talk with him ; walk with him ; in short, mother him!" **Is it really as serious as that?" Burdon nodded grimly. Eve burst into tears ! Afterwards, Burdon admitted to Tom that the affair had been too easy. Both men would have enjoyed a less one-sided victory. Eve surrendered unconditionally. She arranged that the children should be left with her mother, a somewhat Spartan lady, with no inclinations towards spoiling little ones; she secured rooms at Nauheim; she tore Tom frorn the last week's sea-trout fishing; and, finally, she implored him to consult the greatest English specialist. "Burdon," said Tom, "understands me." She was told that Burdon intended to accompany them. This, it will be guessed, was the last straw. Burdon, as she well knew, was an extremely busy man. Tom's con- dition must be serious indeed if Burdon insisted upon neglecting a fine practice. in Three days later the Gathomes and Burdon left England. At the end of a fortnight Tom was eager to allay his wife's anxiety by confessing the truth. Her devotion — so he pointed out — was obvious. The beneficent waters of love had been redirected into the old channel. She could hardly bear Tom out of her sight. Burdon, however, while admitting this, insisted upon a radical cure. **Our pious fraud," he said, "will infuriate her. A re- action will take place. She will rush off to the kids and leave you to stew in your own juice.'' 57 Some Happenings Tom was constrained to acknowledge the probability of this. "You must never tell her/' continued Burdon. "Never?" "Never." Tom looked abjectly miserable, but one glorious fact illumined the present and future. Eve loved him. Of course, she had always loved him — with natural inter- mittences. "Men," remarked Burdon, "must exact love from their wives. I contend that a husband — or a wife, for that mat- ter — is entitled to the fidelity and devotion which he or she can exact." "By hook or by crook?" "Unquestionably." "I feel such a cad." "There are moments when you look one. Be careful about that." "And these filthy waters have pulled me down." "To her level, mark you. It's an interesting pathological fact that a too robust man like yourself is more affectionate when he is below par." Another fortnight passed. And then something happened quite unforeseen by Bur- don. He was about to return to Harley Street, triumphant in the knowledge that he had treated this affection of the heart to a successful issue. Upon the eve of departure his friend's wife led him aside. "I want to consult you," she said, "professionally." "Professionally?" "You will promise me not to tell Tom. I am feeling rather queer. If there is anything the matter with me, it would upset Tom dreadfully, wouldn't it?" Burdon nodded. 58 The Eighth Year ''Undo your clever stitches?" *lt— might." ''I believe my heart is affected, too. Please examine me." Burdon looked uneasy. Perhaps for the first time in his Hfe his face betrayed him. The lay mind may refuse to admit it, but conscience does make cowards of some doctors. He told himself, with abject conviction, that this dear little woman had been tried too high. Anxiety con- cerning Tom had undermined her own health, never too robust. He began to ask questions. *'Why do you think that your heart is affected?" "I have disagreeable palpitations. I don't sleep well. How can I sleep w^hen at any moment dear Tom may be snatched from me?" 'T never hinted at such a catastrophe." "Your voice quavered when you told me there was cardiac weakness. You tried to spare me, but a wife is never deceived." "At any rate, you can rest easy now. Tom is almost himself again." ''That is what worries me so. Gentle exercise with me is not enough for him. He wants to be shooting and golfing. In his heart he is pining for the office." "Um !" ''He has quite regained his appetite, but I have lost mine. Please examine me !" Burdon did so. By this time he had regained his im- passive expression, but he was thinking more of Tom than of Tom's wife. He felt absurdly angry with his old friend. How dared he prattle about shooting and golf? Was he growing weary of being mothered? He gave a short grunt of dissatisfaction. 59 Some Happenings '1 am not mistaken," said Eve quietly ; "there is trouble." "Well — er— yes. Nothing to be alarmed about." "We must keep it from Tom." "My dear lady, we can't." "A pious fraud." His own words came back to roost in a distracted head ! Burdon pulled himself together. He smiled reassuringly. "Tom is strong enough to know" the truth." "I'd sooner get a little worse." "You may get much worse. Come, come; trust me. I'll speak to Tom. I promise you not to alarm him. Strictly between ourselves, this small trouble of yours will serve to distract his mind from golf and shooting. He has become restive under treatment. I swear solemnly to you, first, that I can put you right in three weeks, and, secondly, that it will do Tom a lot of good to look after you as tenderly as you have looked after him." Reluctantly she consented that Tom should be told. Now, picture to yourself, if you can, Tom's consternation and distress when he was told. The poor fellow, hoist with his own petard, wanted to fling himself at his beloved Eve's feet and anoint them with the spikenard of unavail- ing tears. If anything went wrong with her he would hang himself as a murderer. "Nothing will go wrong with her, humanly speaking." "I must set her dear mind at rest about me." "Then I wash my hands of both of you. This serves you right. You wanted your wife's undivided devotion and love. You've had it." "At what a cost !" groaned Tom. "Keep cool. I have noticed lately a restlessness in you, a desire, no doubt, to escape from an uneasy conscience. Possibly, too, this second honeymoon is waning. You have been talking about business and golf." 60 The Eighth Year "Merely to divert Eve's mind from dwelling too per- sistently upon my unworthy self. Together we have been perfectly happy." "Thanks. I have tried not to play gooseberry. Now for my prescription. Eve and you must motor together through Provence. It is heavenly down there in October. You can make a gastronomic tour. The hotels are excel- lent. Digesting a houillabaise will distract both your minds." "Very sound! We could take the kids. Eve has been pining for them, I expect. Lord, I do feel a brute !" "Possibly. But don't talk like an ass! Eve mustn't be bothered with the children. Allay her anxiety about you, and she'll be as right as rain. Get a good dose of sun- bum ! These waters have bleached you. Amuse her, and amuse yourself. In just one month from date report to me in Harley Street." "You're not leaving to-morrow?'* "If I stayed I should alarm her unnecessarily. My going will confirm my assurance that there is really nothing serious. See to it that she takes the capsules which I shall entrust to you. One after each square meal." "Anything else?" "Send for your Rolls-Royce. Live in the open! Eat, drink, and be merry!" Next day Burdon returned to London. IV He did not see his two patients till the prescribed month had expired. Then they presented themselves in Harley Street, two sun-tanned specimens of radiant health. Bur- don chuckled as he listened to a duet of praise and thanks- giving. He examined each patient in turn, waving his 6i Some Happenings stethoscope as if it were the baton of an all-conquering field-marshal. "You are," he declared, "absolutely sound. I congratu- late you, and I congratulate myself. This is the sort of moment that makes a hard-driven doctor's life worth while. How are the kids?" ''Simply top-hole," said Tom. "I must admit," said Eve, "that mother understands children better than I do." "A word with you alone, old man," said Tom. The men retreated to Burdon's dining-room. "I haven't told her yet," murmured Tom, "but I must." "I'll tell her," said Burdon. "You stay here and fortify yourself with a whisky-and-potass. Not a word! In five minutes come back to the consulting-room. 'Shush-h-h-h !" He hurried away, leaving Tom open-mouthed, unable to express gratitude and relief. Burdon joined Eve and laughed. "What's the joke?" she asked. "I can answer that. It's not so easy to locate it. Is it on me, on you, or on Tom?'* ' "I beg your pardon?" "You are perfectly well and happy?" "I am, thanks to your wonderful capsules." "And dear old Tom is happy, too?" "Ab— solutely !" "And the children are " "As bonny as children can be. And when I pause to reflect that less than three months ago Tom was ill, and the children ailing, and the seeds of disease in me, I call you just a miracle- worker." "Thanks! Here's Tom. I want to make confession. You have never been ill." "What?" 62 The Eighth Year Burdon, standing upon his hearthrug, lifted a minatory forefinger. 'This is the eighth and critical year of your marriage, now triumphantly passed. I must remind you, Eve — may I call you Eve? Thanks. I must remind you that, much to my chagrin, you once refused to employ me pro- fessionally. Tom stuck to me gallantly. Because of that, and because I, so to speak, forced my services on you, I shall charge no fee. Well, quite frankly, I was hurt, and this year in Scotland I confess that I was not altogether displeased to find the children rather the worse for an eminent colleague's ministrations, and you" — he stared keenly at Eve— ''on the ragged edge of a breakdown." Eve could hold her own. She replied with spirit: "I don't deny it, but Tom, under your fostering care, was breaking down too." "That is where the joke comes in. Tom has not been ill either. Under my advice — and I accept full responsibility — Tom malingered. That Nauheim visit was a 'plant.' I faked the afifair. I wanted to separate you from the kiddies, because you were fussing them and yourself into coffins. Also, Tom needed that particular attention which only a loving wife can give. Tom said at the time that it wasn't cricket. Medicine is not cricket, although cricket may be good medicine. In fine, I beheld five persons, all of them dear to me, who were floundering helplessly in their own ignorance and inexperience. Tom needed you, and thanks to me again you got him. The children needed plain food, wholesome discipline, and a rest from over- fussing. Thanks to me your nursery has a clean bill of health. Now — where is the joke?" Eve looked at Tom. The motor trip through Provence had been an imperishable memory. Tom looked at Eve, recalling the mothering. 63 Some Happenings Eve answered the question. "The joke," she said, "is on poor mother. She told me this morning that the responsibihty of three small boys had brought on acute dyspepsia. You must prescribe for her." "Have the children left her?" "Yes ; they are at home." "Tell your mother, v^ith my compliments and respects, that she v^^ill be perfectly well in three days." "Fee or no fee," said Tom, "you must dine with us at the Ritz to-night." "I shall be delighted," Burdon replied. 64 V THE BLACK VELVET CAP IS Monsieur Gaston de Trevignon at home?" "Monsieur le Marquis is at home," replied the man. Then he added poHtely, "The late Marquis de Trevignon died six months ago." So Gaston had come into his kingdom at last. A king- dom, apparently, of forest, moorland, and stream, with a half-ruined chateau standing in a neglected garden. I fol- lowed the servant into a stone-flagged hall of fine propor- tions, with a superb granite fireplace at one end and a noble flight of stairs, of the best Renaissance period, at the other. These served to illustrate the contrast between a lordly past and a squalid present, for the /carpet, a genuine Aubusson, was in rags, and every article of furniture pre- sented an appearance of extreme age and decay. Even the servant, who had answered (after a long interval) my third impatient ringing of the bell, seemed as old as the spindle- legged chairs. And — it may have been my fancy— but I could have sworn that he glared at me, as if resenting the advent of a stranger and a foreigner. A moment later Gaston came in, with both hands out- stretched, and the gay smile I remembered so well upon his lips. Ten years, however, had changed him greatly, perhaps not for the worse. He had lost entirely the look 65 Some Happenings of youth, always so enchanting, but he had gained instead a distinction — the hall-mark of suffering and disappoint- ment bravely endured. "You remembered me?" he said. "You have hunted me out? How charming of you!" He was so glad to see me that I blushed, unable to explain brutally that chance *had brought me to his door. Motoring through Brittany, I had lost my way. A glance at the map showed me to be within a few kilometres of Trevignon, and at once I recalled my old friend and felt impelled to visit him. I had an indefinable conviction that he was at home, and a sense, an instinct, that the dropped stitches of our friendship were to be picked up again. It is a fact that I had forgotten his name ! One of the many young Frenchmen working beside me in Julien's atelier in Paris, he had challenged attention by his bad drawing and abominable colour. A greater duffer never spoiled canvas. But we liked him because he was so gay and keen, and so free from any taint of jealousy. We knew that he was the nephew and heir of some eccentric old man with a chateau in Brittany, and we knew also that he had inherited from his father a small income, large enough to pay his own bills and some of the bills of ^is less fortunate fellow-students. "You will stay with me? Thou must stay." The familiar ''Hi' settled the matter. "All the same," continued Gaston, with a frown, "this is a ruin, as you see, but we shall forget that when we are talking about Montmartre." "Do you still paint?" I asked. "Paint?" he echoed. "I have to paint now." Then, reading some astonishment in my face, he plunged into voluble speech. He owned the chateau and the rough landes that encompassed it, but these, unhappily, were mortgaged. 66 The Black Velvet Cap As he was speaking the old servant entered the hall. Gaston told him to bring in my suit-case. I instructed my chauffeur to drive to the nearest town and return next day for orders. Gaston laughed, rather awkwardly. "I can't put him up here/' he muttered. He examined the car with enthusiasm. "Lucky beggar! Made out of pictures — hein?" ''Call them portraits." '*I heard you were painting princesses — and I was de- lighted." The sincerity of his tone was pleasant to hear. A decade had not soured his sweet disposition. "Where shall I put monsieur's suit-case?" To my surprise Gaston answered in Breton. I knew enough to understand that my. host was turning out of his own room. "Mow vieux," I said firmly. *T refuse flatly to occupy your room, and I'm as obstinate as I used to be." "There is only one other room habitable, and that " "Yes?" "Was the one in which my unfortunate uncle was mur- dered." "Murdered?" "Surely you read the case in the papers?" As I shook my head, he continued, lightly, "He was robbed and mur- dered. I'll tell you about it later. Meanwhile " "Put me into your uncle's room." Gaston made a wry face. "You English are cold-blooded. I couldn't sleep there myself. The villagers say it is haunted." "So much the better. I want to see a ghost." "It's locked up. Joking apart, I dislike to have you sleep in that room. Coadic wouldn't sleep there for a thousand francs — wouldst thou, Yann?" 67 Some Happenings *'Not for ten thousand, monsieur." He shuddered slightly. In his odd, harsh voice he added: "It is locked, and I have the key, but, nevertheless, it is not empty." "That settles it!" said I gaily. "I must pass a night there. If I encounter a spirit I shall ask him many ques- tions." "Have thy own way." Gaston turned to Coadic. "Put monsieur's things into my uncle's room. It is, at any rate, as dry as a bone, and the bed is comfortable." -But " **Do as I tell you," said Gaston irritably. The old man bowed and went out. **A faithful servant, but queer. All we Bretons are superstitious, although we hate to admit it. Coadic has never got over my uncle's death." "It must have been an awful shock to you?" *T expected it," he answered curtly. "Expected it?" I echoed in astonishment. "Yes. Come up to the studio and have a look at my machins/' He turned abruptly and I followed him upstairs and into a large room upon the first floor. Two things struck me. My poor friend had been working furiously and — alas ! — to no purpose. His drawing seemed to have improved; his colour remained atrocious. "Your candid opinion," he said eagerly. I hesitated, dumb with distress. Then I exclaimed: "How you have come on in drawing!" Gaston's face beamed. "I'm thinking of a one-man exhibition in London," he said. "Good idea — hein?" "We must have a talk about that later," said I. "You have a lot of stuff. Halloa! What's this?" The head of a girl, delightfully drawn in pastel, with a 68 The Black Velvet Cap freshness of colour, a delicacy of tone, and an apprehen- sion of values quite out of the ordinary, smiled at me from the wall. "Ah," said Gaston, "that's my Argentine." He took down the pastel and placed it in a better light. "What do you think of my Argentine?" "It's the best thing you've done. You must stick to pastel. It's " He interrupted me, frowning. "I can do better work than that. I want your opinion of the girl, not of the picture." "Oh!" *'A friend painted it. If you could see the original " "She must be perfectly charming." "She is," said Gaston softly. With an ingenuous gesture he laid his hand upon my sleeve. "I hope to marry her some day. That is why I have worked so hard." I stared at the sweet face upon the easel. Did the winning of this dear creature depend upon the success oi her lover as a painter? Why had he not devoted his time and energies to something else? Then I remembered that he was an avowed Legitimist, and as such disqualified for public life. "Are you engaged to her?" I asked. "I was. It was broken off by her people a few months ago. I don't blame them. Sit down ! I saw your look of amazement when I told you that I expected my uncle to be murdered. He had the most remarkable collection of gems in France, and he kept them in his bedroom." "I see. The sale of these gems would have made you a rich man." Gaston nodded. "They were valued at fifty thousand pounds." He added details. More than one previous attempt at burglary had been frustrated by the vigilance of 69 Some Happenings old Coadic. Finally, the uncle was found dead in his bed- room. The police failed to discover either the murderer or the gems. "Do you mean to say," I asked, "that not one has been placed on the market?" "Not one." "And the murderer left no trace?" "He vanished into thin air." "What an extraordinary crime!" "It baffled even £pine, the famous Chief of Police. I must tell you that £pine did not believe that my uncle was murdered, and the doctor supported his view. They held that he died of shock." "It comes to the same thing." "Exactly. He was found dead upon the floor, near the window through which the robber escaped." "How did the man get in?" "That is darkest mystery. My uncle had special bars and bolts to his room, as you will see. The robber came through the window; but wait till you look out of that window." "You were here at the time?" "Yes. For a day or two ;fipine suspected me." He recited a few details. The late marquis, an eccentric, had spent most of his life in Paris. The collection of rare gems had become an overmastering passion. Against the warnings and protests of his nephew, he had insisted upon living at Trevignon. It was understood between him and Gaston that the collection was to be sold after his death. "We were talking of it the very night he died," said Gaston. "The question of my marriage had come up, and he told me that he was suffering from organic disease of the heart, and that I should not have to wait long for my 70 The Black Velvet Cap Argentine. He was not a bad sort. There he is; a rough sketch of mine." He indicated an old man with white hair, dressed in old- fashioned black clothes, possibly the very suit which hung loosely upon the bony frame of his old servant, and wear- ing a black velvet skull-cap. The best thing in the study was this cap, and I said so. "Une petite note qui chante," said Gaston. Presently we crossed a wide corridor and entered a room even larger than the studio. It was excellently fur- nished, and illuminated by two windows upon the side opposite to the door. The bed, a massive four-poster with brocaded curtains, faced the fireplace. Gaston showed me the bolts and bars of the door; then he walked to the windows. The first of these evidently had not been opened for many years. Gaston opened the other, a diamond-paned casement. "Look down," he said curtly. We were above the cour d'honnmr, grey with ancient paving-stones, in the interstices of which grass grew rankly. Beneath the window ran a narrow ledge of granite; below this was a leaden pipe, fantastically orna- mented, which ran perpendicular to the ground. "The robber climbed up that. Coadic came to me next morning in great agitation, saying that he couldn't get into his master's room. It took a stout blacksmith a couple of hours to force an entrance. My uncle lay just there" — he indicated the spot — "and the gems were gone. The coffer which held them was found at the bottom of yonder well." I stared out of the window. I looked up and down. The ledge ended abruptly at an angle of the wall. "The robber must have been a bit of a cHmber." "Nothing is more certain. He swarmed up the pipe, 71 Some Happenings pulled himself on to that ledge, and thence through the window." *'How do you know he came by the pipe?" *'It is lead; there were marks upon it. As a matter of fact, those marks lifted suspicion from me." *'If he had dropped on to the ledge from above " ''Impossible — without elaborate arrangements of ropes and planks on the roof. ;fipine tried to squeeze a small boy down the chimney. The walls are solid granite." "And the other servants?" "There were no other servants. Coadic and my uncle lived alone ; a woman came in daily to do the cooking. We continue the arrangement." "Did you ever see these gems?" "See them? A thousand times. I saw them the night he died in this very room. He slept with them. I tell you he adored them. He sacrificed everything for them. He thought an intaglio the most beautiful thing in the world. Perhaps yon can understand that?" He laid a slight emphasis on the pronoun. "What makes you say so?" "Don't you collect?" "Not I." "But you wear a fine specimen." He indicated a ring that had been given to me, a head of Achilles, very delicately cut. Gaston took my hand in his and examined it. "A beautiful emerald," he murmured. "Full of flaws." "Most of them are. But what a colour!" "What can have become of these gems?" "fipine is of opinion that they have been sold in America. And collectors, he says, are most unscrupulous, and some are as crazy as my poor uncle. £pine told me, in confi- 72 The Black Velvet Cap dence, the names of two millionaires who would have bought the Trevignon intaglios without asking any ques- tions. So far as I am concerned, my dear fellow, the confounded stones have ceased to be. Let us go back to the studio and talk about painting." We talked ''shop" till dinner-time. Coadic brought hot water to my room. As he placed the brass pitcher upon the washing-stand he said, heavily, ''The water is nearly boiHng." Saying this, he stared at my ring. "I always take it off," said I. "Might I look at it, if monsieur pleases?" I handed it to him. His hand trembled as he took it, and it seemed to me that he eyed it with repugnance, as if it were some malefic object. "It is genuine," he said calmly, returning it to me. "I thought for an instant it was one of the imitations." "You care about these things?" "With reason, monsieur. I knew every gem in the Trevignon collection." "Then, if necessary, you could identify them?" "Certainly; but I shall not be asked to do so." "Why are you so sure of that?" The old man nodded his head solemnly. "Because, monsieur, the man who stole the gems was a collector himself, not an ordinary thief." "Then fipine ought to search the world for a collector young and active enough to swarm up that pipe and pull himself on to that ledge." "I ventured to say as much to Monsieur :£pine myself." He bowed and withdrew silently. Dinner was served a few minutes later. Coadic waited on us, and filled my glass with wine. Gaston drank cider. "This is wonderful wine," I observed. "Romance, '87," replied Gaston. "There are a few 73 Some Happenings boftles left. My uncle liked it ; drank a bottle to himself. He said it was too good to share with a friend. Indirectly, I have thought that this particular wine cost him his life. He had a bottle the night he was murdered. The doctor was of opinion that had he drunk cider he would have heard the man opening the window. He had a pistol under his pillow, and knew how to use it." I sipped the Burgundy, reflecting that it was the finest wine I had ever tasted; the bottled sunshine of the Cote d'Or. I entreated my host to taste it, but he refused. *'It's a superb wine, but I've an absurd and indefensible prejudice against it — for the reason I have mentioned." Very simply, he added : '*! was fond of my uncle, in spite of his eccentricity." This surprised me, for I was sensible of an ever-increas- ing exasperation against a selfish monomaniac who had sacrificed his own flesh and blood for the sake of a few so-called precious stones! And the coffer (which I had seen in the studio) was light enough and small enough to be carried easily in one hand. We went to bed early. As he bade me good-night Gaston said, seriously, "Are you quite certain you won't change your mind?" I laughed. "I can hardly keep my eyes open. That Romance is strong drink." "I am so glad you liked it." II I began to undress as soon as I was alone. About to jump into bed, I noticed that the window was shut. I opened it and glanced out. A moon, nearly at the full, was 74 The Black Velvet Cap playing hide-and-seek with some dark clouds. For the moment it illuminated the courtyard and the fagade of the chateau. Poor Gaston ! To own so charming a home, to know that a few hundred pounds would make it habit- able, a shrine for the delightful creature he loved, and now — unless a miracle happened — he would be constrained to live on here alone, seeing his ancient house fall to pieces, powerless to avert its destruction. What an abominable fate ! Why had not the accursed thief fallen and broken his neck? Examining more carefully the ledge and the pipe, I came to the conclusion that the descent must have been fairly easy. But the ascent was difficult enough to have taxed the powers of a professional gymnast. Again I was about to slip into bed, when I perceived that the draught from the window had blown open the door. I shut it, but it opened again. Impatiently I bolted it, divining that the hasp was worn out. A second later I was between the sheets — and asleep. When I woke I failed to realise where I was, but I lay still, a sort of vagabond in slumber's suburbs, wandering idly here and there, not curious and yet not incurious, fol- lowing the will o' the wisp Fancy, whithersoever the wanton nymph might lead. I can swear that I was not thinking of Gaston's uncle. I was vaguely conscious of occupying a moonlit room and an extremely comfortable bed. Presently this pleasing state of somnolence changed its character. I heard a faint sound. Certainly, at this mo- ment, I woke up, and I told myself that there was a mouse or a rat under the bed. I went to sleep again, hoping that it was not a rat. Again I woke with a disagreeable start. This time I could hear nothing, but I experienced the common and always detestable impression of not being 75 Some Happenings alone in the room. I reasoned with myself, remembering that I had bolted the heavy door. And yet every fibre of my being told me that some living creature stood close to me. My first impulse urged me to leave my bed and search the room; an impulse I dismissed as cowardly, one to be cast out as it were an unclean spirit. I shut my eyes, and tested the soporific of playing over a recent game of golf. I did the first hole in four, and was comfortably approach- ing the second green, when I seemed to hear a faint sigh. I opened my eyes and saw an amorphous shadow on the wall to the right of the bed. The shadow moved. Moving, it assumed the form of some monstrous toad. It re- mained still, but it deepened in tint, and then faded to a faint blur. Purposely I had drawn the left curtain of the bed, so as to prevent the moonlight from falling on my face. The shadow, therefore, was cast by something or somebody between the window and the bed. The uncanny thing moved again, faded, and vanished. This time I recognised in the shadow the vague semblance, an outline only, of a man. I sat up in bed, making no noise, straining my ears rather than my eyes, for the moon had slipped behind a cloud. Peering round the edge of the curtain, I saw, silhouetted against the window, the figure of a man with his face turned away from me. In the very dim light he appeared to be staring intently at some object upon the dressing-table. Suddenly, as the moon reappeared, the table was flooded with light, and I saw that the object upon which my visitor's gaze was focussed was my emerald ring. The man himself had his back to me, and, his head being bent over the table, I could make nothing of it except this — he wore a black velvet skull-cap. ''Une petite note qui chante." 76 The Black Velvet Cap Certainly the confounded thing started a buzzing in my head; every nerve seemed to be jangling. Often and often I had expressed a wish to meet a ghost, and now — let me be entirely frank — I was frightened. The sombre figure did not move; nor did I. But my brain became active. Passages from books dealing with psychical phenomena flitted into my mind like bats. Thousands of men and women believe that, under certain conditions, the spirits of the departed return to this earth and may be seen of the living. The dead marquis had exhibited an inordinate passion for gems — a passion entailing misery and suffering upon his nephew and a sweet, innocent girl. Was it incredible — was it not rather probable and just — that the spirit of this egotist should be constrained to linger in expiation near the spot whence it had been torn from the clay? And if it were true that even in death the ruling passion of a life should remain strong, might it not be said with greater truth that the same passion would remain strong, or stronger, after death? Summoning what moral courage I possessed, I deter- mmed to address my visitor. *'Who are you?" I said, in French. As I spoke I stepped on to the floor, and, as ill luck would have it, the moon once more disappeared, leaving me in Cimmerian darkness. I could just discern the black figure between the window and me. It seemed to assume enormous proportions : an optical illusion due to the fact that it had silently approached me. An instant later I felt cold fingers at my throat. The attack was so swift and unexpected that I fell backwards upon the bed, which was behind me, and therefore an obstacle in the line of retreat. I can remember feeling the balls of the man's thumbs upon my gullet and a sensation of acute pain at the back of my eyes. 77 Some Happenings When I recovered consciousness it was broad daylight. I was lying in bed, and some one was hammering at the barred door. I admitted — Gaston. ''Had a good night?" he asked. Still half dazed, I glanced round me. There was no sign of a struggle. I told Gaston what had passed. "Nightmare," said he, with a smile. "No," said I. Gaston laughed genially. "Come, come! If your visitor was a man, how did he get in?" "How did the murderer get in?" "Why should a robber wear a skull-cap? If it were the spirit of my poor uncle, why should he attack you? He was the mildest person imaginable. After a cold bath and a Breakfast you will laugh at your own story." As he was speaking Coadic came in with my shaving water. "Monsieur has seen my uncle's ghost," said Gaston gaily. "I am not surprised," replied the old man sombrely. "The bath-room, my one extravagance, is near the studio. Are you ready?" "Give me five minutes more," said I. Gaston went out, leaving Coadic pottering about. In my rather irritable frame of mind his slow, silent move- ments exasperated me. "You can go," I said abruptly. Alone, I tried to determine whether the events of the night were or were not nightmare. I reconstituted the scene. Upon the table, where the moonbeams had fallen, lay my ring. If my visitor was flesh and blood, why had he not taken it? I went to the glass and examined my 78 The Black Velvet Cap throat. Two red marks were visible: enough to provoke curiosity, not conviction. Gaston would laugh and say they were self-inflicted. I examined the window and the ledge beneath it. I stared at the solid stone walls of the room. Lastly I lay down upon the floor. I was about to get up, when I spied something at the side of the bed, almost concealed by the brocaded curtain. With an exclamation, I picked it up. It was a black velvet skull-cap. As I was staring at it, half-stupefied, I heard Gaston's voice in the corridor, calling me. Instantly it occurred to me that it would be edifying and amusing to let him find the cap. I replaced it under the curtain and went to my bath. The cold water acted like an astringent tonic upon my weakened sensibilities. I called to Gaston as I passed his room. "Come to me when you're dressed." Entering my own room, I went straight to the curtain and lifted it. The cap had vanished ! I sat down upon the edge of my bed, afraid to face the facts, with the fear gaining strength that I was going out of my mind My eyes wandered to the dressing-table and fixed themselves, aimlessly, upon the ring. Another mystery! The ring was not quite in the same place. Somebody had moved it while I was in the bath-room! At once the fog upon my faculties lifted and I saw clearly. Coadic had moved the ring and taken away the cap. Coadic, then, was my nocturnal visitor. Swooping upon the truth, I realised the significance of his presence in my room. Like his old master, he had become a mono- maniac. The temptation to see and touch my emerald had been too much for him. Probably he had reckoned upon 79 Some Happenings the soporific effects of a bottle of Burgundy, and had known that he was running slight risks. But, for that matter, did a monomaniac ever pause to reckon risks ? The next question was not easily answered. How did he get into my room? That question I never answered then, for at that mo- ment my mind leaped forward to the inevitable conviction that Coadic had stolen the gems. Would it be possible to prove this? Gaston came in whistling. He began to chaff me. I submitted with my tongue in my cheek, unwilling to take the ingenuous chatterbox into my confidence till I had devised some sort of plan. At all hazards Coadic must be hoodwinked. Being insane, he might destroy both the gems and himself if he had reason to suppose that discovery was impending. The guileless Gaston would betray the truth with a glance or a gesture. Happily, the first breakfast in France is not a serious affair. We finished our coffee, and then Gaston left me to smoke a cigarette under a fine chestnut tree. I could see the well and the fagade from my seat under the tree. Knowing that Coadic was the robber, I was enabled to co-ordinate my facts with a cumulative force denied to Monsieur fipine. For instance, the ascent by the water- pipe and the rise on to the ledge were, obviously, feats beyond an old man's powers. But he had strong hands, and the descent presented no great difficulty. How did he get in? The answer to the problem came to me quickly. It would have come as quickly to the famous Chief of Police had he had the smallest reason to suspect a servant who had served his master faithfully for thirty years. He must have been concealed in the room when his master went to bed. 80 The Black Velvet Cap Here, however, a difficulty obstructed my advance. Granting that Coadic was prepared to run risks to steal the gems, was it likely that he would run equal, if not greater, risks merely to look at an intaglio not so fine as at least a score already in his possession ? Was he so mad as that? I could hardly believe it. Nevertheless, I was certain that the gems were con- cealed, with a maniac's cunning, in or near the chateau. How to find their hiding-place began to worry me. I smoked another cigarette before I joined Gaston. Soon afterwards Coadic came up and said that my chauffeur had driven over for orders. "You will stay a day or two longer?" said Gaston. I caught a quiver of expectation upon Coadic's lips. "Forgive me," I replied slowly, "but I must leave you this afternoon." "I can't press any friend to stay in this abominable hole," said Gaston. "You won't leave till this afternoon?" "No." "Pack monsieur's suit-case," said Gaston to Coadic. "I am anxious to inspect every nook and cranny of your chateau," said I. Once more I detected a gleam of suspicion in the eyes which turned uneasily from mine. "There is nothing to see," said Gaston. "You forget that I'm mad on Renaissance architecture. Send Coadic with me, if it bores you." Although he protested at first, the suggestion pleased him. An hour or so later Coadic and I started. There was indeed little to see inside the house — the walls were bare, the flooring rotten, and the rooms had been gutted of furniture. "The late marquis sold everything to buy gems?" "Yes," said Coadic sullenly. 8i Some Happenings To avert still further his suspicions, I spoke of the events of the previous night as a bad dream. Then I began to talk about gems, asking questions and receiving answers more or less guarded as Coadic became excited. If I had experienced any doubt as to his madness it was resolved quickly. His eyes glittered, his face and hands twitched. Any other subject turned him into a graven image. **That is all, monsieur," he said, as we came out of tKe fine stone-vaulted kitchen. "You have not shown me your room," said I. *Ts there not a lit clos in it, an old armoire, something or other in- teresting?" With a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the right. As I had divined, his room was on the ground floor, with a small window opening on to the cour d'honneiir, and close to the water-pipe. Like all the windows level with the ground, it was heavily barred. "Strong bars," said I. "Monsieur is right," said Coadic nervously. I made certain that one at least of the bars was remov- able. I strolled to the window and looked out. "You are close to the pipe," I said carelessly. "But you heard nothing upon that night?" "Nothing," he repeated; but the pupils of his eyes grew larger and he slightly moistened his lips. My questions, my presence in his room made him uneasy. I looked about me. The floor was of stone — solid slabs of granite. The furnishings were of the simplest — a truckle bed, a cheap chest of drawers, a wash-hand stand, and a small table. "Where do you keep the gems?" said I. He said nothing, but his eyes glared into mine, and I saw the veins stand out on his forehead. "Come, come !" said I impatiently. "The game is up. ^2 The Black Velvet Cap You were in my room last night. You left behind your skull-cap— ar.d I found it by the curtain. The marks of your thumbs are on my windpipe at this instant." He gave a hoarse cry and jumped to the window. I supposed that he wished to escape. He soon undeceived me, for he plucked out the iron bar and attacked me with insane fury. I avoided his first wild blow with a side- step, which, however, placed me in an angle of the room. Too late I regretted my folly in not speaking to Gaston. This time the madman advanced cautiously, with up- lifted weapon. Shielding my head with my right hand, I closed. He struck hard, but my left fist landed full on the point of his jaw. He went over backwards, striking his head against the iron bed. The bar clattered upon the stone flags. Instantly I secured it, but Coadic lay still, with a face the colour of dirty tallow. As I stood over him, Gaston rushed in. "He has injured my arm," said I. "He's a dangerous maniac." Between us we got him on to the bed. He breathed stertorously, but his eyes remained closed. I muttered hastily half-a-dozen words of explanation. "The gems must be at Trevignon," I said. "We can force him to speak when he recovers," said Gaston. But within a few hours it became plain that Coadic might die without regaining articulate speech. The blow — not a very heavy one — the fall, or, more probably, the horror of discovery, or the fear of being deprived of the gems, had turned him into a raving lunatic. The doctor who bandaged my arm insisted upon his removal at once to a maison de sante. Gaston, from the first, refused to believe that the servant had murdered his master. 83 Some Happenings *'He loved my uncle, I tell you," he repeated obstinately. "His grief was not simulated. I swear to that." 'Terhaps you will affirm that he didn't take the gems?" "If he took the gems we shall find them." "I shan't leave this house till we do," I answered, irri- tably. "The chateau must be searched by an expert." His coolness exasperated me. To be honest, I did not want an expert to find the gems. I was enthusiastically keen to discover them myself. We had searched Coadic's room very thoroughly and found nothing except the skull- cap. But, lying awake the same night, I had time to con- sider the problem with a certain sense of detachment. It was obvious that Coadic did not nm the risk of my dis- covering him merely to stare at my emerald ring. Had his madness been strong enough to justify such a risk, he would have stolen the emerald, regardless of everything. No, another motive had forced him to enter my room. What? I could think of only one. He must have kept the gems in his late master's bedroom, of which he had the key, to which, apparently, he alone had access. After the police had left the chateau, what safer hiding-place could be found ? Here, and here only, he could gloat over the spoil, finger and caress his beloved stones. The room was said to be haunted. It had been haunted by Coadic. I got out of bed and looked at my watch. It was three in the morn- ing. I knew that the gems were a few feet away. Then began an absurd and painful search, simplified, however, by the fact that the walls were of stone and the floor of solid oak. Incidentally, I discovered not a single mouse-hole. The room was mouse-proof. By this time I had examined minutely every object except the huge bed. Now I stood, candle in hand, staring at its 84 The Black Velvet Cap faded splendours, wondering whether it was as solid as it seemed. My arm was confoundedly painful, but not so painful as the thought which suddenly discoloured my san- guine expectations. If Coadic had come to my room to re- move the gems, was it likely that he had left them behind after choking me into unconsciousness? Without doubt they were lying in the same place where they had been con- cealed before — some hole in a wall or a tree for which, lack- ing a definite clue, one might search vainly for twenty years ! I tapped the posts of the bed. They were solid as the walls of the room. I found cobwebs between the top and the ceiling. Finally, with my head and arm throbbing, I crawled back between the sheets. Gaston came in early, solicitous about my welfare, pro- foundly regretful that my arm had kept me awake. "Your confounded gems kept me awake," I replied. "I suppose you don't know where your uncle hid them?" ''Certainly; in the coffer which we found in the well. I showed it to you." "But where did he keep the coffer?" "In his bed, poor man." "In that bed?" "Of course." 'Where? Where?" "He had a cunningly devised mattress. That's what de- ceived the police, fipine was certain that the thief had heard of this hiding-place, probably from the mechanic who designed it, who, on inquiry, was found to be a vaurien." "For Heaven's sake show me the place at once." Gaston smiled derisively. Then he turned back bolster and sheet, and the mattress beneath them. The lower mat- tress was exposed, lying like a square box full of springs, and well padded on the top with horse-hair. Gaston touched 85 Some Happenings a button, which released a catch. Just where my head had lain there was a cunningly contrived hiding-place. In it, with not a gem missing, lay the famous Trevignon collection. Not till a year later did we learn the truth, although we divined much of it. I was staying with Gaston and his delightful wife, when Coadic, long regarded as a harmless imbecile, met with a serious accident in the asylum where he was confined. He fell down some steps and was stunned. When he recovered consciousness, to the doctor's amaze- ment it was evident that he had recovered also his memory. Before he died he made full confession to a priest, and also to the authorities. He did not murder his master. He knew that the gems would be sold when that master died, and determined to steal them. As I had guessed, he con- cealed himself in the room, stole the gems, escaped by the window, flung away the coffer, hid the gems in the garden, and regained his own room. It will never be known whether the marquis discovered the theft. He was found dead, hence his servant's subsequent remorse and grief. Coadic told the priest that he believed he had killed his master. The shock of finding his gems stolen had been too sudden for an old and enfeebled man. Later, Coadic replaced the gems in their original hiding-place, to which, as has been said, he alone had access. Hence his distress at my occu- pying the room. At the last moment, it seems, he had been confronted with the possibility of Gaston showing me the hiding-place. He had gone to my rooms to remove the gems, counting upon my retiring late rather than early. My step in the stone corridor had driven him to hide under the bed. He heard me lock the door, and knew that his escape was cut off. He also had the satisfaction of know- ing that the gems were not disturbed. As soon as he was sure I was asleep he had crept from under the bed, thereby 86 The Black Velvet Cap ' arousing me. He told the doctor that he meant to escape by the window, but he was arrested by the sight of the emerald shining in the moonlight. Then followed his detection and the struggle. After choking me into insensibility he escaped with the gems, leaving his cap behind him. He retrieved the cap while I was in the bath-room, and, hoodwinked by my declared intention of leaving the chateau, had replaced the gems. ''But how did he get possession of the skull-cap?" asked Mme. de Trevignon. "I gave him what was left of my uncle's wardrobe — not much." Madame glanced at my emerald ring, which I had pre- sented to her on her marriage. "If it hadn't been for this," she murmured, "I shouldn't be sitting here." "I don't know about that," said Gaston. "My one-man exhibition in London would have made me famous perhaps, and — rich." "Of course it would," said the wise wife. And, between ourselves, the good fellow is assured that the finding of the gems wrecked his artistic career. He never touches a brush now, and next year I have promised to paint the portrait of his son and heir — a handsome urchin of five. 87 VI MESSITER S SISTER MISS MESSITER wishes to see you, sir." ''Miss— Messiter?" "The sister of the late Mr. John Messiter, sir. She asked me to mention that." "Oh! Show Miss Messiter in." "Yes, sir." The office boy vanished. Adrian Steele stared at the ceil- ing. In his mind's eye was John Messiter, that queer youth whose wares he, as literary purveyor, had offered to the British public. In more senses than one young Messiter had proved an unknown quantity. And now his sister was coming upstairs to ask, perhaps, for money, or help of some sort. Adrian wondered what Messiter's sister would be like. When he looked down she was standing before him. So quietly had she entered, that he was unaware how long she had stood in front of his desk. He rose, offering a chair and an apology. "I beg your pardon for startling you," she said. He flushed slightly, for she had startled him — an experi- ence so novel as to be embarrassing. He withdrew his eyes from a face which remained vividly impressed upon his mind. As he had expected, Messiter's sister was no common type. She presented the always remarkable contrast of soft light hair surmounting dark eyes and brows and lashes. Ad- 88 Messiter's Sister rian often boasted that he could read faces, but this face was undecipherable. One might hazard a guess that the owner of it had suffered either in mind or body, possibly in both. Serenity informed the mouth ; the voice had soothing inflec- tions; no trepidation betrayed the suppliant. At the same time, Messiter's sister wore shabby clothes, although they became her vastly well. Her gloves were darned; her veil had been carefully mended; her hat could not have cost more than a few shillings. ''What can I do for you?" said Adrian. "I have brought a manuscript." "Of your own?" Unconsciously he assumed the edi- torial tone. "Of my brother's." "I should like to see it very much. Your brother, Miss Messiter, did good work; it had quality. Had he lived, he would have made an enduring mark." She bowed quietly, holding out the manuscript, which Ad- rian took. Then, with a certain hesitation alien to him, he said: "Have you offered this elsewhere?" "No ; he wished me to offer it to you first." "But — pray pardon me ! — Mr. Messiter died more than six months ago, and " "I could not bring it before." Adrian turned over the first page. The title of the manuscript, a short story, arrested his attention. Mes- siter had the knack of finding arresting titles. He turned another page. Yes, yes ; this was a piece of Messiter's work — he recognised the brand immediately. "I'm sure to want this," he said pleasantly. "And in view of the fact that this is your brother's last piece of work " 89 Some Happenings "There may be more," said Miss Messiter, displaying foi the first time an unmistakable nervousness. *Tndeed! You have come upon a bundle of manuscripts — eh? I hope you will give us the first refusal of all of them." Again his tone became professional. "Would you let me see everything? I'm not prepared to say now what terms we could offer, but if you will trust me " "John said I could trust you." Adrian's keen eyes softened. "I'll read this at once, and write to you. Will you send me the others?" "I'll bring them — later. Could you — would you" — ^her voice for the first time quavered — "p — p — pay for this on acceptance? It's not customary, I know, but " "You shall have a cheque to-morrow if it proves avail- able. It is almost sure to prove available." Miss Messiter gave an address in Bloomsbury, and then took her leave. Adrian had a thousand matters clamouring for attention, but he fell into a reverie, staring at the manu- script on his desk. Presently he picked it up and read it through with ever-increasing interest. He told himself it was the best thing poor Messiter had done — a sort of swan song. Yet the sister had spoken of others. He seized his pen, filled in a cheque, and despatched it by a special mes- senger. "She might be in distress," he murmured. "If Messiter knew that " With an effort he dismissed from his mind such specula- tion. Men said that Adrian was hard-headed ; hard-hearted also, added the women. Undeniably, he had proved him- self a shrewd and able editor of a famous magazine. Life seemed to him a simple affair, because so far he had made no serious mistakes in it. He had worked ; he made others work. He had educated a younger brother, who was doing 90 Messiter's Sister well at the bar. His friends were workers: men with definite aims and ambitions, who measured success with the world's footrule. For the rest, he was generous, honour- able, fearless, and an uncompromising enemy of humbug. During the next twenty-four hours his thoughts turned with exasperating frequency to Messiter and Messiter's sister. He was sensible of an inordinate curiosity. He had talked with Messiter several times without getting below the surface. The man whom he had wished to know more intimately revealed himself in his work as an Idealist. His stories, for instance, as Adrian had pointed out in a short obituary notice, were distinguished by an aerial delicacy of tint and texture. Messiter soared — that was the word — into an empyrean beyond the clouds. Adrian had never left the solid earth. Miss Messiter acknowledged the receipt of the cheque, but she made no mention of her brother's other manuscripts — an omission which Adrian resented. When the proof was sent to her, the editor asked for an interview; the proof, carefully revised, reached him next day in an envelope which contained nothing else. Adrian told himself that he felt "cheap." None the less, in the interests of his maga- zine, he must try to secure Messiter's unpublished stuff. He called upon the sister at the address she gave him. Miss Messiter, as a slattern of a servant informed him, was *'not at home." The hussy had her tongue in her cheek and an insolent grin on her face. Adrian walked away thor- oughly out of temper, because hitherto he had run on no fool's errands. The stoi-y, when published, challenged controversy. A famous divine wrote to The Times. A man of science an- swered his letter ; other letters followed. But, inevitably, in- terest in Messiter and in Messiter's ideas waned and vanished. 91 Some Happenings Six months passed. And then, one afternoon, Messiter's sister called again at the office. Adrian greeted her coldly. Indeed, he told himself that only a strong sense of duty to his employer justified him in seeing a woman who had treated him so cavalierly. Her appearance, however, thawed re- sentment. The poor lady looked thin and ill; the lines on her face had perceptibly deepened. ''Why did you not come before?" said Adrian. "1 had nothing to bring," she faltered. As Adrian was staring at her, she held out another man- uscript about the same size as the first. Adrian took it with a smile, curiously compounded of derision, amusement, and sympathy. 'They kept it six months, did they— and then returned it?" Miss Messiter raised a pair of large, perplexed eyes to his. ''Who kept it?" she demanded. "Confess," he said lightly, "that you sent this to some other editor. I dare say you thought our cheque was not quite large enough— eh? But it was larger than any your brother received in his lifetime " "The cheque was for a sum much larger than I expected," she interrupted. "I have not sent this anywhere. I brought it to you first." Adrian tried — very unsuccessfully — to conceal his im- patience. "My dear Miss Messiter, I beg pardon, but, on my soul, your — your procrastination is no ha'penny matter. You must know that your brother's work excited a demand for more — a demand only sustained and increased by supply. That is the A B C of success in letters. Commercially speaking, this manuscript — which, mark you, I've not looked at yet — would have been worth just twice as much to us 92 Messiter's Sister four months ago. Be frank with me. Why did you not an- swer my notes ?" "I had nothing to bring," she repeated, in the same falter- ing tone. ''This must have been in your possession then ?" She made no answer. '*! regret that I saw so little of your brother. What I did see interested me profoundly. He told you to trust me. Why do you not do so ?" "I — I couldn't. You mustn't ask me questions." Adrian bit his lip. The face opposite was piteous in its expression of entreaty; and yet who could doubt that this woman needed a friend? Who could resist the temptation to help a creature so young, so forlorn, so unfitted to with- stand the buffets of the world ? Adrian walked to the win- dow. When he turned his voice had lost its authority, and gained, instead, a persuasiveness infinitely more eloquent. "I wish to be your friend. Let me help you, if I can. Tm not blind. You are in straits. You are alone " "What is it you wish to know ?" she asked. "That is better. We are beginning to understand each other. What do I want to know ? Well, to begin with, the truth concerning these mysterious manuscripts. That last one, for instance — when was it written?" Adrian sat down again at his desk. He leaned forward as he spoke, gazing straight into the eyes of his visitor. "If I tell you the truth you will not believe it." His glance became compassionate, magnanimous, intensely sympathetic. Amongst what manner of people had she lived of late that she should thus answer him? "I ask you to trust me. Miss Messiter. You must feel that I trust you. I am not putting these questions out of idle curiosity." 93 Some Happenings She looked positively hunted as she replied : "That last story was written the day before I brought it to you." "Written out," he corrected. "But the rough copy " "There was none." "I beg pardon " "It was dictated — communicated, if you prefer the word — by my brother." Adrian stared at her, confounded. "Corrimunicated by your brother John, who died a year ago?" "Yes." "And this," Adrian tapped the manuscript beneath his hand, "was also, I presume, communicated by him to you?" "Yes ; the day before yesterday." Adrian withdrew his eyes from her face, which was deli- cately flushed. Two hypotheses occurred to him. Either this girl was crazy, or else she had written the stories signed John Messiter herself. The second seemed the likelier of the two. "I'm going to have my tea, Miss Messiter. May I order some for you ?" "Thank you. You are very kind," she replied. Then, as he gave the order through the telephone, she added quietly, "What an amazing discovery this wireless telegraphy is !" "Yes," said Adrian, eyeing her intently. "Telepathy, too — you believe in that, Mr. Steele?" "Some of the experiments recorded have been remark- able," he admitted. "But you don't believe what I told you just now," she said softly, meeting his somewhat confused glance with a smile. Adrian found himself trying to analyse the smile. Was it wistful, derisive, sad, or superior? "If you would tell me a little more. Come — begin at the 94 Messiter's Sister beginning. Did you live with your brother? Did you share his ambitions?" "Yes," she said quietly. "We were twins, orphans, and everything to each other." Adrian stared at the pattern of the office carpet, because tears lay in the eyes of Messiter's sister. Sensible that she was struggling with a desire to speak, to give her sorrow words, he found himself strenuously willing that she should speak fully, without any reserve to him. a stranger. More ; he had a conviction that her hesitation, her modesty, her sensibility, were thrall to his will, that in an inexplicable fashion the barriers that must exist between them were crumbling. When she spoke again her voice had changed. It had become the voice of' an automaton : articulate, but cold, measured, lacking in inflection and modulation. It seemed as if it came from an immeasurable distance, sub- limated, as it were, by vast spaces. He shivered slightly, glancing at the window, wondering whether a draught had chilled him. "His ambitions were never realised," she continued. "He touched the fringe of them just before he died. And he knew that if his strength, his poor frail body, had not failed, he would have held what he desired so vehemently in the hollow of his hand. At the last, it was terrible : the struggle, the hopeless struggle, to live a little longer, a few months, so that he might taste — success " Adrian was about to entreat her to say no more. The contrast between the matter and manner of her speech had an edge so sharp that he felt his own tissues — tough enough, to be sure — to be lacerated. She went on, in the same dull monotone : "The night before he died we were alone. And then — and then — " Her voice died away in a fluttering sigh. 95 Some Happenings *'Yes, yes." Adrian bent forward and took her hand. It was cold, limp, and transparently thin. "He said that he would try to — to come back. And he did." Adrian was conscious of a shock. Her hand fell from his warm clasp, and with it much of his sympathy and re- spect. Reason revolted against what was incredible. And yet — and yet — her face diffused truth. "You saw him?" "No; I heard him." Adrian read the terror in her dilated eye. "It happened months after he was buried. I had brought myself to look over his papers. I was reading an unfinished manuscript. I cried because it was unfinished, because he had tried so hard to finish it. Oh, it all came back, that last scene — his poor face, his thin fingers clutching the pencil, and then the — end ! Oh ! I hated, hated, his work, because it killed him. . . . And yet I loved it, you understand, because it was his — his, not a part of him, but all of him. Just as I came to the last illegible line, I heard his voice in my ear." "Go on," commanded Adrian. He spoke with a vehe- mence that he knew to be brutal ; but for the moment she, the frail woman, had swept him off his feet, whirled him into a maelstrom of emotion, passion — aye, and fear. The dead man's voice — he could remember it well — thrilled and vibrated in his own ears. "I was sitting by an open window, and the voice came from outside, whispering my name, 'Christine — Christine!' And I answered, 'Yes, John,' almost without thinking. And then he told me to get a pen and write down what he was about to say. He finished the story which— which I brought to you next day." "The story I bought and printed?" said Adrian. "Yes. I like to think, now, that he was permitted to help 96 Messiter's Sister me, you understand, that it was not done for any selfish mo- tive. I had come to the end of my resources. But I cannot deny that I was terrified. It made me ill — very ill." "And this ?" Adrian touched the second manuscript. "1 had spent the cheque you sent me. And he came again. I had prayed that he would come. Was it wicked ? Perhaps we are not meant to grasp what lies beyond. When I prayed, I had the feeling that I was — how shall I put it? — tampering with — with a power that might kill me. If I had not been — in want " *'In want? And a hint to me " She silenced him with a gesture so delicate, so eloquent of pride, gratitude, and shame, that Adrian's cheeks flamed. "He came," she continued. "And he dictated what I have brought you to-day. That is all." Adrian jumped up. Crossing the room, he flung the win- dow wide open. The cool air flooded his brain. At the same moment the oflice boy appeared with the tea. This anti- climax of an interruption restored to Adrian self-possession and self-confidence. He asked his visitor to pour out tea with an air and accent that proclaimed the superior animal, securely enthroned above the weakness and credulity of the other sex. He began to talk of current topics. Messiter's sister drank her tea, listening to his well-turned phrases. A faint colour sparkled in her cheeks ; she smiled at his quips ; she seemed to wish to exhibit herself as the agreeable, con- ventional woman, pleasing without effort and easy to please. Presently she rose, drawing on a pair of carefully darned gloves. Instantly the situation became strained. "Must you really go? I shall want this." He indicated the manuscript. "It is — it is his, you understand." "Certainly; it is John Messiter's, if you say so." Her eyes flared. 97 Some Happenings *'I do say so — and you don't believe me." He bit his lip. What a brute — what a fool he was! Of ■course, she had written both stories, although her brother, doubtless, had begun the first. Grief at his death, and abominable penury, had unbalanced a brain too finely ad- justed for work-a-day uses. ''My dear Miss Messiter, I beg your parden. I repeat, with tenfold emphasis, what I said half an hour ago. I should be proud to call myself your friend. I shall esteem it an honour to serve you — if I may." ''But," she held his glance, "you don't believe me: you think me not mad " "Heaven forbid!" "But — unbalanced." She had used his own word, reading his thoughts with uncanny subtlety. "And, that being so, I can only say good-bye, and thank you." Adrian stammered out: "May I — you will f -forgive me — but — as a f -favour to Tne " He retreated to his desk and pulled a cheque book from a pigeon-hole. "S-s-something on account " "No. Well, then — yes. I am in debt. My landlady is a good creature. But she, too, is struggling." Adrian filled in a cheque, thrust it into an envelope and begged her to say no more. She took him at his word, bowed, ignored his outstretched hand, and left the room. "She is furious," he muttered, "because I have seen through her pathetic little enterprise." He sat down and plunged into the manuscript. Yes, yes ; who could doubt that this was woman's work? Why, the delicacy of it, its fragrance, its bloom — ^bloom was the word — revealed the sex of the writer in every paragraph. She 98 Messiter's Sister was a genius — half crazy, half starving, and wholly charm- ing; a creature of fascination. He had hardly finished the story when the door opened, and in came Paxton Wright, his sub-editor, whom Adrian in expansive moments called '^friend." ''Ah, Wright. Sit down. Something amazing has taken place." He was constrained, against his better judgment, to tell this shrewd, lynx-eyed man what was in his mind. Speech became a necessity. Wright curled a derisive lip. **A clear case of obtaining money under false pretences. With your experience " "You did not see Miss Messiter." "Yes, I did. A witch, no doubt. You are not easily hum- bugged." "She is not quite " Adrian touched his forehead sig- nificantly. "Pooh ! She's as sane as I am. I took particular notice of her, because she is unquestionably pretty: too thin, but graceful as a nymph. She's laughing at you now, I'll be bound." "H — I say if, Wright — if her story were true." Wright shrugged his shoulders. "Oh ! you contemplate a fake. From a business point of view Pm with you. We can hoax half England." Adrian shuffled in the editorial chair. At times Wright scraped his feelings. Not often ; he was too clever for that, but now and again — and always unexpectedly. Adrian asked himself the uncomfortable question: "Is Wright quite straight?" "This magazine would never lend itself to that sort of thing," he said stiffly. "Did you want to see me about any- thing in particular?" 99 Some Happenings II Next day Adrian sent Messiter's sister another cheque, the balance due, and with it this note : **My Dear Miss Messiter, — ''Unwittingly I placed you and myself in a false posi- tion. But please forgive me. For the future I promise to consider whatever you may bring or send without asking questions, which, after all, are irrelevant. At the same time, can't we meet? I would travel an ell to you. Won't you come an inch ?" To this she replied by return of post, acknowledging the cheque with thanks. The answer he awaited with almost boyish impatience was condensed into a postscript : "I am a forgiving woman. Because you have placed me in one false position, I shall not try to place you in another." Adrian, it has been said, had found life simple. Now, without gradation of any kind, it became complex. He had tried to obey the philosopher's injunction, but self-study and self-analysis had not taught him knowledge of char- acter, temperament, and opinions other than his own. He felt that he was floundering, if not foundering, in a sea of speculation. Messiter's sister obsessed him. He knew many so-called spiritualists and spiritists ; he had assisted at their disappointing seances; he had read their pamphlets, their manifestoes, their affidavits. And the thoughts, the messages, the words twisted out of planchette, had without exception proved trivial, or senseless, or ilHter- ate ; generally all three. He recalled a message from John Milton, an Alexandrine faulty in quantity, ill-spelled, and lOO Messiter's Sister grotesque in sentiment. A woman of his acquaintance claimed to have constant intercourse with departed spirits. He did not doubt that she was sincere in believing that cer- tain illustrious persons hovered about her even at unseason- able hours. She saw them, heard them, as clearly, let us say, as a delirious patient sees and hears the creatures of his imagination. Adrian, in compliance with this lady's request, had put some searching questions. What, for instance, was the late Y , that admirable painter, doing in the world unseen. "He is painting," replied the lady solemnly, ''pic- tures more beautiful than any he painted here." This an- swer was reasonable and satisfying. ''And W ?" Adrian named a famous poet. *'Ah ! he too is at w^ork. He tells me that he has just finished a poem, in nine cantos, finer than anything recorded here." Adrian admitted that it would be impossible to make any critical estimate of pictures painted with celestial pigments, but he begged his friend to procure, if possible, a sample verse or two of W 's new poem. Surely W , who on earth had really bored his friends by constant recitation of his own poems, would be willing to oblige an honest seeker after truth. And if this new poem were finer than any he had written on earth, what a gospel it w^ould prove to millions ! The lady replied rather tartly that W was not permitted to transmit his best. Adrian smiled derisively. It is hard to believe that the worthless, the base, and the counterfeit are the only coins current be- tween the quick and the dead ! He published the second story in the next issue of the magazine. It attracted more attention than the first. The elect became excited. Why, it was asked, had these post- humous works been withheld so long from publication? Were more to be expected ? And so forth. Meantime, it had become plain to Adrian that he loved Messiter's sister, with a love differing from anything of the lOI Some Happenings kind experienced before. One measures adequately the strength of this attachment by the statement that this shrewd, cool-headed man was willing to marry, on her own terms, a girl he had met only twice. If she imposed silence, he would ask no questions. He wrote a letter entreating permission to pay her his addresses. She sent one line in reply : *'Not till you can swear that you believe what I told you." About four months later she called at the office for the third time. Adrian was so shocked at her appearance, the attenuation of her features, the pallor of her skin, that he exclaimed instantly: ''What have you been doing?" She displayed an irritation which he rightly attributed to physical weakness. "I didn't come here to talk of myself." "You have brought another manuscript?" he asked, with carefully-studied courtesy. "No." "Will you sit down?" She refused the chair he offered. Her large, clear eyes lingered on his face. "You are in trouble, Mr. Steele." He betrayed his astonishment by a sharp intake of breath and the too quick "How did you know? I've not told a soul." "And it is serious — very serious." "Oh ! you read minds, too ? Yes, it is very serious." The look of bewilderment on his clean-cut face provoked a smile from Messiter's sister — a smile which puzzled Ad- rian more than anything that had gone before, for it was the smile of superior knowledge, yet tender, pitying, and mag- nanimous. The smile provoked him to unconsidered speech, to almost brutal frankness. That he, who had grasped all he w^anted with a sure, tenacious clutch, should find this fragile I02 Messiter's Sister woman so elusive, so intangible, became an insupportable ex- asperation. His calm, authoritative manner, his easy ges- tures, his courteous bearing, were suddenly exchanged for a boyish petulance and roughness. ''You try me too high !" he exclaimed. "I tell you that you are partly responsible for a misfortune which has over- taken me. I have been obsessed by your mysteries. I have neglected my work. And I must pay for such neglect. Well, I'll pay, if you'll own that for some inscrutable purpose you've tried to make a fool of me. You have the satisfac- tion of knowing that you have succeeded." ''Oh!" she said faintly. At once he felt ashamed of his outburst. She looked so pitifully small and weak. "It's all right," he said confusedly. "I take it back. I don't beHeve that you — you — could have deliberately de- ceived me." "And this misfortune of yours? Will you tell me what it is?" Adrian nodded. Her eyes seemed to diffuse a strange power of perception. He went on to say that he was the sole trustee for a niece, whose small fortune of some ten thousand pounds he held in trust. Certain securities had been taken by him from his bankers to look over with a view of reinvestment. Adrian recalled bringing the package from the bank, carrying it to his office, and thence to his chambers. He could swear that no one save himself and the manager of the bank knew of its removal from the bank's strong-room. And yet, within forty-eight hours, some of the negotiable securities, amounting in value to two thou- sand pounds, had been stolen, or at least had mysteriously disappeared. "I've turned my chambers and this office upside down," 103 Some Happenings said Adrian in conclusion. ''Well — I've been inconceivably careless, and I must pay the penalty." **You mean " ''That the money must be made good." He laughed bitterly. "Luckily I have scraped together a little more than the amount missing. It might have been a little less. Wright always told me I was a fool to save. If I hadn't saved, some very awkward questions would have been asked. But — why have I bothered you with my troubles?" He stopped, confused, remembering that she had divined these troubles before he had declared them. Then he burst out: ''How did you know?" She did not answer. Again it struck him that she was horribly ill. Her next words arrested his attention. "If I could help you ! If I had the strength " "The strength?" "If I could ask— John!" It was a supreme moment for both of them. Her brother's name quivered from her lips, a mere sigh. Yet it smote Adrian with inconceivable violence. He was trem- bling when he said : "Have you heard from John lately?" He could not keep an ironical inflection out of his voice. This cursed John, this spirit raised by a weak woman's fancy to stand between her and her happiness and his hap- piness ! She replied meekly : "No; I did not dare. I have not asked him, but if you " She faltered, blushing, irresolute, turning aside her graceful head. "I — I ask you to ask him? Never !" His hatred of this imaginary brother was written plain upon his face. She understood instantly. "How hard you are !" she exclaimed. "And how in- 104 Messiter's Sister credulous of everything which you can't see and feel and hear ! Good-bye 1" Their hands met; he noticed how her fingers vibrated at his touch. A voice within struggled for utterance. He wished to say: ''Christine, I love you with all my heart and soul. Be my wife!" The same voice whispered that he must speak now or never, that it was not yet — too late. They parted. After the door had closed behind her, he sprang forward, irresolute, his features twisted by indeci- sion. And then the habit of a life-time seized him. His face grew imppssive, his relaxed muscles became rigid; he re- turned ponderously to his desk, once more the obedient slave of that tyrant, his reason. For some hours he worked feverishly, making up the time he had squandered, imposing upon himself a penance of un- remitting labour, of undivided attention to tlie innumerable duties of an editor. The pile of letters to be answered dwindled to small proportions. He heard Wright leave the office ; the boy, first to come and last to go, ran off whistling. Doors were slamming all over the big building as men stopped work for the day. Soon, Adrian, was sensible that he and the hall porter were left alone. Still, he wrote on and on, trying to blot out the pathetic face of Christine with ink. And then suddenly his telephone bell rang. He picked up the instrument, astonished and perplexed. Who was ringing him up at seven in the evening ? And how did they know that he was in his office at such an hour ? ''Who is it ?" he asked. 'T am Adrian Steele." 'T am Christine Messiter." Adrian recognised her voice at once. The tone of it seemed stronger, clearer, more vital. Yet he asked arjx- iously : Some Happenings ''Are you ill?" **I am quite well," came the reply. ''You are alone. Will you go at once to Mr. Wright's desk? In the middle drawer you will find a small bunch of keys. One of them — a Bramah key — unlocks the japanned box which you will find in the third right-hand drawer. In the japanned box are the missing securities. Will you look at once ?" "Yes," said Adrian, confounded; "but " A faint voice murmured: "Good-bye." Adrian hesitated. The obvious questions — the how, and why, and when — rushed to his lips, but never passed them. "Christine," he said passionately, "Christine — are you there ?" "Yes." "I love you — do you hear? And I am coming to you. Wait for me ! Christine, do you love me ?" He strained his ears to catch her reply, but it came to him so faintly that he supposed something must have gone wrong with the instrument. 'T — love — you. I — shall — wait — for — you." And then — silence ! Adrian shut up his desk, and put on his hat and overcoat before he remembered Christine's message. Great Heaven, how had such knowledge come to her? He rushed into Wright's room. His desk was locked, but the middle drawer happened to be open. The small bunch of keys met his eye. He pulled at the third right-hand drawer — that, surely, would be locked. No. By some mischance the patent lock of the fluted lid, which ought to have locked the desk and all drawers in it, had failed to work properly. Adrian saw the japanned box. The securities were there. With a trembling hand, with a beating heart and throb- bing brain, he thrust them into his pocket, and replaced the T06 Messiter's Sister box and bunch of keys. He had a strange look of awe upon his face as he went down-stairs. Passing through the hall he noticed the porter and a couple of workmen, and paused to ask what they were doing at such a late hour. The porter's answer was the keystone to the arch of mystery through which he felt him- self to be crawling. The telephone, he was told, needed ad- justing. The job, however, was nearly done. "Is it disconnected now?" Adrian asked. "Yes, sir, and has been since six. You needn't worry, Mr. Steele; it will be in good order before business hours to-morrov/." Adrian rushed up the street and into the Strand, whence a hansom bore him swiftly to Bloomsbury. The landlady — not the slattern he remembered so well — opened the door. "Where is Miss Messiter? She telephoned to me — not half an hour ago." He was pushing by, when she clutched at his sleeve. Something in her stupid, kind face arrested him. "We've no telephone in the 'ouse, sir. Miss Messiter come 'ome about four. I took her a cup of tea. I'm sure she's not gone out again ; she's in the second floor front.'* Adrian was half-way up the stairs before she finished her sentence. He knocked at Christine's door, inclining his head to hear her quiet : "Come in." There was no answer. The landlady, breathing very heavily, joined him, and opened the door. By the light of a reading lamp Adrian could see Christine lying back in her chair, asleep and smiling in her sleep. The landlady and he approached silently. The landlady touched the hand which lay upon the arm of the chair. Then she screamed out : "O my God ! She's not asleep. She's — she's dead !" 107 VII THE SUPREME EVENT TOHN learned the terrifying truth after his engagement. •^ Indeed, the young lady kept it as a surprise. Man and maid met at Miirren during a wet week. Each was rea- sonably keen about skating, and each played piquet. They fell in love at first sight, and the affair ran smoothly and swiftly up to a certain moment. They were sitting together, and quite alone. Mabel put her pretty lips close to his ear and whispered : "I have something to tell you." Armitage smiled. Foolish man ! He was presumptuous enough to believe that the something had been told before, and would be told again and again with cumulative sweet- ness. "Yes, Mabr "I am the Miss Simpson!" The accent upon the definite article was startlingly em- phatic. No man — least of all a lover — could doubt that this information, so carefully suppressed, was of tremen- dous importance to the speaker. Happily, John was a man of sensibility and tact. Instantly he dissembled, for it was quite unthinkable that he should reply : "My darling, never, never have I heard of the Miss Simp- son." Afterwards he came to the conclusion that the truth be- io8 The Supreme Event tween lovers, however stark it may appear, should prevail. Such wisdom comes to most men and nearly all women too late. John pressed her hand which happened to lie in his. "The Miss Simpson?" he repeated. There was an accent of awe in his voice. "Yes," she murmured. ''Dearest, do you mind marrying a celebrity?" A celebrity ! His blood curdled. He racked his unhappy brains. Why had he never heard of the Miss Simpson? He divined, poor wretch ! that anything even approximating to an admission of such ignorance would cost him dear. Desperately, clutching at shadows of all celebrities, he murmured as sweetly as she : "Mind marrying — you! But, why have you kept this from me ?" Her answer was even more perplexing than what had gone before. "You see, John, we decided, mother and I, when we chose Miirren, that it would be wiser, less boring, if I came here incognita. Simpson, fortunately, is a common name. And we agreed not to talk shop, my shop. I have never talked shop to you, for instance, have I ?" "Not that I can remember." She laughed delightfully, showing her pretty teeth and an enchanting pair of dimples. John kissed her to hide his confusion and distress. At this moment the gods took pity on him. Mrs. Simpson entered the small salon in which they sat. Mabel jumped up. "Mumsie, I have just told him." John pulled himself together for a supreme effort. He was no actor, but he felt at this moment histrionic powers within. "I am the proudest man on earth," he affirmed. A minute later he escaped. Wiping the perspiration from 109 Some Happenings his brow, he sought out his friend, who had already prom- ised to officiate as best man. "Henry," he gasped. "I have some rather important news for you. I am about to lead to the altar the Miss Simpson!'' Henry's face became absolutely blank. ^'The Miss Simpson?" he repeated. "Surely, my dear fellow, you must have heard of the Miss Simpson. Mabel is a celebrity." "Is she ? Forgive me, old man, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but, honestly, I have never heard of the Miss Simpson." "Nor have I," said John miserably. Then they both laughed. John explained. It was vital, of course, that he should find out at once everything that was to be known about the celebrity, but — how? How? "Leave that to me," said the kindly Henry. "Hold hard! Let's talk this over. In what line could Mab be a celebrity?" Henry hazarded a wild guess. "Novelist?" John shook his head. "Impossible. I know 'em all by name." "Actress?" "Try again. Between us we may arrive at something. I know the names of actresses, singers, pianists, fiddlers, painters, and sculptors. We have this clue, old man: she has not talked shop to me. Now — wait! We've talked over all the winter sports, and she doesn't shine at any of them. We've discussed books, pictures, and plays. And music." "Be perfectly calm, John. I've got it." "Speak, or for ever hold your peace !" no The Supreme Event "I'll bet you she's a suffragette. Cat and mouse — eh? Escaped from starvation — what?" ''Mab doesn't look like that. Suffragette — no! Suf- fragist, well, it's just possible." "I'll ask Dalton ; he knows everything. He's playing auc- tion in the next room. You sit tight till I come back." John smoked four cigarettes before Henry returned. One glance at his friend's honest face was reassuring. He knew, and the knowledge had not distressed him. **It's all right. Dalton is a wonder. Miss Simpson is a famous tennis player. She got into the semi-finals at Wim- bledon last July, Dalton says she will be champion of the world one day." *'Lady champion ? How awful !" "Might be worse," said Henry cheerfully. "She might have been a lady doctor, or a lady whistler." "I hate lawn-tennis." "So do I, but it's a nice, clean, healthy game, although ruinous to the complexion — in time." They stared at each other with lack-lustre eyes. Then Henry poured balm upon his friend's lacerated tissues. "Let's face this like men of the world. You are engaged to be married to a really charming girl. She's as fit as a fiddle and hard as nails. You have a lot in common. The thing is just right, barring this tennis, but fortunately you have no profession and an ample income." "I don't quite take you, Henry?" "I mean this. You can trot about with her to tourna- ments, and look after her.' "Pick up the balls?" Deep despair thrilled his pleasant voice. "Cheer up! I repeat, you can afford in every sense of the word to humour Mabel for a few months, to let her play her own game in her own superlative way. Then " III Some Happenings "Please go on." "As your best man I suppose that I have a claim to of- ficiate later on, as godfather. Now, motherhood and lawn- tennis championships don't trot in the same class. See?" "I see. Yes ; there's something in that, but it's a delicate subject, Henry, one that I can't discuss, even with you." "Right ! But the odds now are against her winning cham- pionships. Wait and see 1" II John waited patiently. His charming Mabel began to talk shop. So did her mother, who was not quite so charming. The trio left Murren and travelled together to the Riviera, where John was introduced to other tennis-playing celeb- rities — Porson, the Irish champion; Macmurdo, the Ameri- can smasher; Bott, and the mighty Windlesham. He ac- quired the patter of his future wife's profession; and he sat beside Mrs. Simpson, hour after hour, watching his Mabel, attired in virgin white, as she drove ball after ball down the side lines. The "nuts" called her Venus Victrix ! They were married at the end of April. Mrs. Simpson confessed that she was apprehensive about May weddings. John possessed an ancient Tudor manor-house in Dorset, with a sunk garden which was the joy of his heart, but there was no tennis lawn. A court was constructed, what is tech- nically called an en tout cos, and a wall covered with con- crete rose behind the stables. No less a person than Bott superintended these important improvements. He had en- tered with Mabel for the Mixed Doubles at Wimbledon and elsewhere, and he told John that he regarded his playing partner as the coming woman. 112 The Supreme Event John submitted meekly that Mabel had already "ar- rived." "She will win the All Comers'," said Bott fervently. "Think of what she has won already!" He had black hair, a yellow face, and the profile of a chimpanzee, but John liked him, because the fellow was so keen, such an uphill player, so cheery when off his game. Poor John nodded gloomily. He had inherited some very beautiful silver — porringers, salvers, tankards, and the like . — which gleamed with mellow splendour upon a Queen Anne •dresser in the dining-room. Mrs. Simpson had praised the dresser. "It's rather nice," John admitted modestly. "But, John, dear, how splendid Mabel's pots will look on it!" Mabel's pots! There were dozens of them, culled from every silversmith in the metropolitan area. "Some people," continued Mrs. Simpson severely, "sell their pots and their jewellery. Dear Mab has never de- graded herself by doing that. Take Tom Slagg " "If you'll excuse me, I'd rather not," murmured John. "Enough is as good as a feast." "Tom Slagg sells everything. He keeps a sort of jewel- ler's shop. I call him a 'pro.' I am so proud of Mabel's trophies 1" They were spread upon that ancient dresser. They remained there. The eyes of dead-and-gone Armiitages glared down upon silver and silver-gilt with ever-deepen- ing reproach and derision. John was sensible of their dis- approval. He shared it, but what could he say? What could he do ? He did the one thing possible and decent. He locked up the tankards and porringers. It was Bott who suggested the propriety of inviting Win- dlesham and Mrs. Pragson to spend three weeks in Dorset. 113 Some Happenings *'I must practise with Mabel,'* he said. "You know Windlesham ; and Mrs. Pragson is a corker. Forty-five — I give you my word — and still the most formidable woman in England — ^bar two." John would have barred them all except Mabel, but he said not a word. Mrs. Pragson arrived with many racquets. She was short, squat, black-avised, with a complexion that matched the Queen Anne dresser. Windlesham accompanied her, the ex-champion of the world. Photographs of the new court and the old players appeared in half-a-dozen papers. John read many paragraphs as follows : "Armitage Court is now the centre of the liveliest inter- est. The ancient manor has never, if we may say so, sheltered at one time so many distinguished persons." In the solitude of his own den John said : ^'Confound it!" Ill The gallant fellow tried to play the game under his wife's tutelage. He practised assiduously against the back- wall ; he studied tactics. In a single Mabel could give him fifteen and owe forty! She liked to play with him, but Windlesham sternly forbade such altruism. John agreed. Nothing must imperil Mabel's chances for the championship. Occasionally he strayed into the nurseries and glanced at his old toys. He busied himself with the management of his small estate, and attended parochial and county councils. His brother magistrates welcomed him on the bench. During the pleasant weeks which preceded the Great Event John made only one blunder. In a reactionary mo- ment he invited Toomer to spend a week-end with the celeb- rities. Toomer had been John's school-fellow and con- 114 The Supreme Event temporary at Winchester, and afterwards the two men had been fellow-undergraduates at New. If Etonians, as a rule, are pleasure-loving, while Harrovians are strenuous, so also, without offence, one may describe Wykehamists as philo- sophical. John was a fair type of Wykeham's sons. He had easy manners, much general knowledge, a sense of humour, and a disposition to travel agreeably along the lines of least resistance. Toomer was his antithesis. Toomer won scholarships. Toomer took a high degree. By this time he was well known as a capable and rising man of letters, but admittedly a crank. Toomer loathed what he called ball-games. That, pos- sibly, may have been in John's mind when he invited him to Armitage Court. Had John been more candid, Toomer might have dechned the invitation. Driving up from the station, which was a comfortable four miles away, John said carelessly: "By the way, the house is chock-a-block with tennis sharps." **Tennis sharps!" repeated Toomer. "Bott, Mrs. Pragson, Windlesham." "Never heard of 'em," said Toomer. To John's immense surprise, he felt a certain irritation. *'You must have heard of Windlesham. Hang it! He was open lawn-tennis champion for three or four years in succession." "Was he ? Poor devil ! What does he do now ? An ex- champion is a pitiable object." John considered the question. His face brightened. "The truth is, old man, that Windlesham is the best of the lot. He's keen about other things. Golf, for instance." "Golf! Heaven help him!" *'And dry fly-fishing." 115 Some Happenings "That's much better. I fish myself. A successful fisher* man must be an intelligent man. Great opportunities, too, for introspection and observation. How are you getting on, John, with your microscopical work?" ''Down and out," replied John, unconsciously quoting Bott. *lt was only pat-ball. I'm shaping nicely at the wall-game." "Wall-game? You play football in June?" John explained. Toomer opened a capacious mouth to reply, glanced at John's amiable face, and remained for the first time in his Hfe absolutely silent. At dinner that night Toomer sat next to Mrs. Pragson, who was in wonderful form. She could do just two things better than any woman of her advanced years — play tennis and talk about it afterwards. Said she to Toomer : "Extraordinary, isn't it, what adulation a champion re- ceives nowadays?" "You are speaking of Jack Johnson ?" "Jack— Johnson?" "The coloured prize-fighter." "I never heard of him. I was speaking of the lawif tennis champion." Toomer was quite honest with her. "Who is he?" he asked. Mrs. Pragson turned purple. That was her only available tint in moments of excitement. Then she addressed the assembled company in tones of scathing scorn. "Mr. Toomer," she announced, "does not know the name of the present champion. I positively refuse to enlighten him." "It doesn't matter," said Toomer grimly. "I asked the question out of mere politeness. Let us call him X? Does X receive much adulation ?" "Tons and tons ! More than anybody else." ii6 The Supreme Event "Oh, come! More than, let us say, Madame Melba?" "I hope so. Our enthusiasm about music and all that sort of thing is rather a pose. If you had said — Jessop?'' "And who is Jessop?" asked Toomer. Bott's prominent eyes nearly popped out of his head. He asked solemnly : "Is it possible that you have never seen Jessop bat?" "Oh ! a cricketer. Yes, yes, I have heard of Jessop." "It is quite obvious," remarked Mrs. Pragson, "that you don't care about games, Mr. Toomer." "I don't," said Toomer. "I have never shattered my jelf-respect by hitting at, or kicking, a ball. Well, well, I had no intention of astonishing you" (Oh, Toomer !), "but short sight and varicose veins have constrained me to give my attention and interest to literature and art." He continued pleasantly: "All of you play games, but you must admit that one can't talk about them, not, I mean, in- telligently, for more than five minutes at a time." "I beg your pardon." "Pray, don't misunderstand me. It is possible, of course, to prattle on for ever and ever about golf. For my sins I have overheard such futile twaddle, but I was immensely struck by one thing." "May I ask you to explain?" "I was about to do so. What applies to golf applies equally to all chatter about games. Tom allows Dick to buck about his confounded round, because it is mutually agreed between them that Dick is to have his innings later on. But Tom doesn't listen to Dick, and Dick doesn't listen to Tom. That, I submit, is not intelligent conversation. It's a singularly British and foolish sort of compromise between two bores." John, at the head of his hospitable board, smiled nerv- 117 Some Happenings ously. Everybody else stared, open-mouthed, at Toomer. He went on : "Conversation, to-day, has become atrophied by disuse." Mrs. Pragson perceived an opportunity to score and seized it. "We all believe in practice," she said. "Please go on, Mr. Toomer. Will you deign to converse with usf" Toomer accepted the challenge. During the rest of din- ner he held forth amazingly. Never had he talked better. John kept him going. But he left early upon Monday morning, and he said to John, when he took leave : "My dear old man, you are going to seed. You've got the wrong crowd about you. Why, dash it ! that ass, Bott, patronises you. Henry and I were speaking about you the other day at the club. You've married a dear little girl, but, good Lord ! you haven't married her gang, have you ?" "The fact is," said John, "I'm marking time. I'm looking on for the moment, sort of umpire. Don't you worry !" "I do worry," said the honest Toomer. With that parting shot he went his way. Bott expressed the general sense of John's other guests, when he remarked : "That fellow Toomer is un-English !" IV At Wimbledon, in July, Mabel triumphed gloriously. She fought her way, smilingly, on the top of the tennis tree. She won the semi-final of the All Comers' Ladies' Singles. Bott and she were only barely defeated in the final of the Mixed Doubles. The great match for the All Comers' followed. It took place, of course, in the centre court, and attracted an im- mense crowd. John watched the sets from his seat in the ii8 The Supreme Event competitors' gallery. Mabel's name shed a reflected lustre upon him. Everybody talked tennis to him. Maidens, with the complexion and the stride of an Indian chief, entreated his advice. One or two demanded his autograph! When an eminent jurist asked him suddenly what he thought of the political situation, he replied: " 'Vantage, I think, to server 1" Outwardly he was calm. But civil war waged within. He was more in love with his pretty v/ife than ever, and her conduct throughout the long tournament evoked his sincere respect and admiration. For her dear sake he prayed for victory ; for his own, he dared to adumbrate de- feat. Victory meant a prolongation of purgatory for him, but it would exalt her to the highest heaven. Defeated, Mabel might give a thought to the empty nursery. John ground his teeth with rage when he thought of Armitage Court passing to his next of Tcin, whom he detested. Mabel — God bless her — would make the most delightful mother. She had good sense, good temper, good health. What at- tributes for a potential matron ! Her antagonist provoked comparisons and uneasy specu- lations. Mrs. Higginbotham was an ex-champion, one of the old Wimbledon Guard. Her face was as terrifying as her overhand service. Mabel, alas ! served underhand, and, therefore, was manifestly at a disadvantage. The ex-cham- pion was famous for her all-round stroke equipment, and — as the reporters said — the "fine generalship which di- rected it." Mabel, on the other hand, was much younger, more active, and a finer back-line player. The experts predicted a tremendous match, a fight to the closest finish. More, it was whispered that the winner of the All Comers' would be Open Champion. The holder was said to be out of form. During the first two games Mabel scored but one point. 119 Some Happenings Mrs. Higginbotham ''rushed" her. The redoubtable lady *'ran in" on her judiciously placed service, and smashed Mabel's returns. Bott whispered to John: ''Old Higgs can't keep that up. It tires even me." Mabel smiled confidently. Again Bott whispered to John : "Mabel's smile warms the cockles of my heart. She has the temperament. Old Higgs hasn't. If Mabel gets the best of her presently, hair will be flying about the court!" "Mrs. Higginbotham looks ferocious." "Yes ; early in life she got the tennis face." John sighed. Would his Mabel acquire those deep fur- rows between her pretty brows, that grim expression, those massive shoulders and hips? Biff! Bang! Old Higgs was driving terrifically, sending the balls to Mabel's back hand. Mabel returned them, smiling. The crowd howled itself hoarse when she captured the third game after deuce had been called nine times. Bott was trembling with excitement and enthusiasm. John became acutely sensible that this man beside him was keener than himself. He heard Bott saying: "Popular opinion counts in these contests. The will of the crowd. Ninety-nine out of every hundred here want Mabel to win. That's an asset !" "Shush-h-h!" murmured Porson, who was just behind. John realised that this match ought to be played in breath- less silence. The result went up on the great scoring-board. The voice of the umpire drifted across the ground : "Three games to one. Mrs. Higginbotham leads." John felt that his satisfaction was indecent. He mut- tered to himself : "My Mab must win. I really want her to win. She deserves to win." The stand rocked when Mabel took the fifth game. She 120 The Supreme Event had begfun to pass her antagonist down the side lines. Again and again her balls pitched within a few inches of them. ''What a lovely length !'' said Bott. Old Higgs won the sixth game on her service, but she moved less swiftly to the centre of the court. Then a very demon of energy and determination seemed to possess her. Bott had to admit that she was irresistible. She had grasped the vital necessity of overwhelming a younger and more active player. First set to Mrs. Higginbotham ! Six games to two! The two women met near the umpire's chair. John could see that Mabel was saying something pleasant to the ex- champion. What a darling! What a sportswoman! Toomer ought to have seen that. Old Higgs smiled grimly as she listened to Mabel's con- gratulations. Mabel had not turned a hair. John's heart bounded within him. Bott, however, was grinding his teeth and making inarticulate noises. His face brightened when he saw Mrs. Higginbotham's hand go to her mouth. "Thank the Lord !" he exclaimed. "What's up ?" inquired John. By this time any mean wish that his beloved might be defeated had passed from him. He would have melted down the porringers and tankards and turned his famous Gainsborough face to the wall had such sacrifices been exacted by the gods. "Old Higgs has indigestion." "What?" "She's just stuffed a bismuth lozenge into her mouth. There goes another. Yes, the poor old girl is a wonder, but that running up on her service has been too much for her little Mary." Mabel won the first two games of the second set, after a terrific and memorable duel a oiitrance. Her steady returns down the side lines, her self-posses- 121 Some Happenings sion, and above all her lobbing, defeated the more brilliant veteran. The crowd became delirious. The gift of prophecy descended upon Bott. He gripped John's arm fiercely as he whispered : "Mabel will take this set fairly easily. Then we shall see the most interesting game of the year. Old Higgs will pull herself together. She'll play canny. Mabel will be over- confident. I can hardly look on !" And John saw that his face was white and drawn. He asked himself the abomhiable question: **Ought Mab to have married Bott?" Mabel took the second set, but not easily — fourteen games were played. The Higginbotham revealed discouragement by little gestures of annoyance. Twice she was within a point of winning the set. And then occurred an incident which will be repeated for ever and ever when champions and ex-champions gather together. The umpire had just de- clared *'Deuce!" The Higginbotham served a fault. Her second service struck the top of the net. Bott was confident of this ; so was John. But the umpire — umpires are not infallible — declared otherwise. Mabel's clear voice was heard in protest : "It was a let." The umpire frowned. Mabel had returned the service. In a portentous tone he delivered his ultimatum : "'Vantage to striker," The Higginbotham served another fault. Obviously the wrong decision of the umpire had disturbed her. Her sec- ond service was lamentably weak. It pitched short, bound- ing high. Mabel never failed to punish such weak deliv- eries. This, indeed, was her famous push shot, taught to her by Bott — a crisp, low return across the court. She raised her racquet — and let the ball go by ! The shout that ascended from the spectators will never 122 The Supreme Event be forgotten by those who heard it. DeHberately, after her own graceful fashion, Mabel had righted a wrong, giving back the lost point to her antagonist with a smile which cap- tivated the multitude. '1 couldn't have done that," said Bott. "What a girl! What a woman!" "What a wife !" thought John. The third and final set began in impressive silence. From a technical point of view it was not so interesting as those which had preceded it. Neither player dared to be brilliant. The Higginbotham remained on the back line, the ball travelled from one end to the other with a precision that became monotonous. Throughout this set the elder woman, although betraying signs of distress, played w^ith increas- ing judgment and steadiness. "She'll just pull it off," said Bott. "The fire is going out of Mabel's drive ; her back hand is getting weaker." The veteran was well aware of this. Five games all! The excitement was beginning to tell upon John. He experienced odd thrills chasing themselves up and down his spinal column. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, because they were trembling. Twice tears came into his eyes. He reflected : "This is only a game." But he knew it was much more than that. It seemed to him, as he stared at his wife, that this "game," the game which he secretly detested, was revealing to him a new Mabel. He began to understand what games have done for England, what the winning and the losing may mean in their ultimate effect upon character. And he knew in- stinctively that defeat, not victory, would reveal his young wife to him, so that he would see her with clear vision. If her courage failed, if her smile vanished, then he would have 123 Some Happenings to acknowledge that this game was indeed too big a thing in her eyes, that winning it meant the loss of a sense of propor- tion, a monstrous inflation of heart and head. The Higginbotham won the sixth game easily. John gazed at Mabel as she crossed into the other court. For an instant their eyes met. Her glance was not reassur- ing. He beheld a tennis face in its first phase of manufac- ure. Mabel still smiled, but the smile was set and hard. Faint lines showed themselves upon her smooth forehead. There was an unmistakable likeness between her and the Higginbotham. She began to serve. The ex-champion returned the ball into the net. The crowd remained chivalrously silent. "Fifteen — love," proclaimed the umpire. The next service skimmed over the net, and twisted away from the Higginbotham's left hand. It was only possible to return such a ball into a place where Mabel rushed in to receive it. She smashed it on to the back line, and the chalk flew. Nevertheless the linesman gave it "out." "Fifteen all," announced the umpire. There was a groan from the crowd who had just seen the chalk fly. A memorable rally followed. It seemed to John that the players had turned into machines. The ball was driven from back line to back line with astounding velocity. John put up his glasses, powerful binoculars. Mabel was still smiling, as if tennis were the best fun in the world, but John noticed that just as she hit the ball with that up- ward lift which distinguished her drive, she winced as if in pain. It never occurred to him that it might be physical pain. Fifteen — thirty ! Mab served a short one. The ex-champion banged it 124 The Supreme Event violently down the right side line. It was difficult to de- termine whether the ball was just in or just out. "Fifteen — forty," declared the umpire. Everybody howled with delight when Mabel won the next two points. "Deuce." And then Luck — that diabolical factor in all games — took a hand in this game. Mabel served from the right court. The ball was well placed. Mrs. Higginbotham returned it fast and low. Mabel waited for it upon the back line. But it touched the top of the net and fell dead ! "Curse it !" cried Bott, in an agonised voice. Mabel served again. Once more began a long rally, each woman standing a couple of yards behind the back line. And again, with his glasses upon his wife's face, John no- ticed the odd little wince as Mabel drove the ball, the pres- sure of her white teeth upon her lower lip. An angry roar rose from the crowd, followed by shouts of applause. Luck for the last time favoured Mrs. Higgin- botham. A fierce drive topped the net, and fell dead. The players approached each other; and the vast differ- ence between them was tremendously impressive. Mabel showed no signs of the battle ; the elder woman was haggard and gasping. Mabel held out her hand, smiling. Mrs. Hig- ginbotham saw the fresh young face close to hers, saw the generous beam in the eyes, heard the generous words of congratulation. During her strenuous life she had scorned sentiment, or any display of feeling in public. Always she had fought hard for victory, neither ashamed of showing keenness, nor disappointment when she lost. To the amaze- ment of friends and enemies, the winner of the All Comers' bent down and kissed Mabel. Bott shouted. Then he turned to the silent husband. 125 Some Happenings "By Jove! old man, if the crowd could get at her, she would be kissed to death !'' V V The Press said that Mabel's defeat had been a greater achievement than the ex-champion's victory. After din- ner that night, when Mabel's health was drunk, John made a short speech. "I have a little present for my wife," he said. "A sur- prise. The country tournaments are ahead of us, and I mean to buy for her a motor caravan. She has chosen the Southern circuit, and we shall have a glorious time travel- ling leisurely from place to place." "It will be a triumphal, almost a royal, progress," af- firmed Bott. "I think not," said Mabel quietly. All eyes were turned upon her. She stood up, and those present remarked afterwards that she looked at nobody ex- cept her husband. "I shall not play in public again." The announcement, made so emphatically, so convinc- ingly, aroused a storm of protest and interrogation. When silence was established, Mabel continued: "I have a bad tennis-elbow. I showed it to a surgeon yesterday. He warned me that if I played to-day, I might never play again, but I did play. Please don't pity me. In my opinion tennis is the grandest and j oiliest game there is, but it is not everything in life." Her voice softened oddly, and a quaver in it held everybody mute. "I am go- ing back to my home. I am going alone with John. We shall begin our real honeymoon to-morrow." 126 VIII fenella's bounder ' THE Bounder was a millionaire (the money had been made by his father from the sale of some simple de- vice for curling the hair) ; he was young, he was good-look- ing. But his claim to the consideration of London society was the amazing fact that the Marquess of Melthorpe's only sister had promised to become his wife; not — as the gossips pointed out — not because the Bounder was rich beyond the dreams of avarice, nor for other, so to speak, secondary reasons, but because in a primal and elemental fashion the maid loved the man. None, not even the Bounder's female relations, questioned the quality or the quantity indeed of Fenella's love, which she wore on her sleeve, on her lips, and on her eyes — the prettiest eyes in town. This public exhibition of a passion too great to be concealed was as a scourge of scorpions to Fenella's people, who made confession that the family had never understood Fenella, and implied that any attempt to do so on the part of out- siders would be fatuous, and, indeed, an impertinence. Where such a family had failed, what person could expect to succeed? Fenella broke the news of her engagement to her brother, a gentleman known at Eton as 'Tetronius." *'My dear Fin," he said slowly, "you cannot possibly marry this " ''Call him a man," suggested the sister. *'Yes, I can — and I shall marry him." 127 Some Happenings "He is a bounder," said the marquess, with an air of finality. "He isn't," said Fenella indignantly; "and I shall never speak to you again if you are not nice to him." The marquess, under protest, promised to be "nice" to the man his sister had chosen. He travelled on the line of least resistance; and he consoled himself by reflecting that if he accepted the Bounder the world would laugh with him ; if, on the other hand, he refused to accord a blessing, which in a degenerate age had really no social or commercial value, the world would laugh at him! Moreover, he was deeply attached to his sister. Many men were deeply attached to Fenella, for the girl had charm; and some, including a duke, were suitors; but she refused His Grace most handsomely, and gave herself to the Bounder. The Bounder's friends said that he was dazed at his good fortune. Certainly abstraction dimmed his eyes. He saw a glorified world lying in the palm of his hand, and the vision splendid gave him pause. He had often told himself that the world was an oyster which a rich man could open with his pen; but the oyster, he feared, would not contain a pearl, a perfect pearl, such as young men, even bounders, fashion in their dreams; that, the greatest thing, would be denied to him, because he had so much. To do him jus- tice, it must be added that Fenella, had she been a milkmaid, would have inspired in him the same irresistible passion; and Fenella herself had confessed that her interest in the Bounder was kindled at first sight. The other men of whom mention has been made professed a passion which paled when compared with the Bounder's, because it was in- termittent. His Grace, for instance, was a politician, a sportsman, and a dilettante. Fenella was sensible that in becoming a duchess she would own a one-fifth interest in a 128 Fenella's Bounder duke, and she wanted more. "She wants," said the mar- quess, "the whole hog, and, by the Lord, she has got him." The allusion to the unclean beast was brutal, but the mar- quess made his meaning clear. **The young man is certainly very devoted," an aunt re- plied, not w^ithout a sniff, "and he is rich." The marquess sighed. He was not rich; and because gold at times seemed so desirable to him, he had trained himself to despise it. He felt now that the Bounder's gold would discolour his ancient silver. *T wish he were less rich," he said thoughtfully. The Bounder sent wonderful presents to his beloved — gems of great price, and daily offerings of milk-white blos- soms. The engagement ring was a lovely emerald, square and flawless (there are few flawless emeralds), surrounded by small brilliants. The marquess admired it immensely. "But you call the man who chose it a bounder," she pouted. Her brother was silent. "And I heard you say," she continued, "that a bounder remains a bounder." "He is a good fellow. Fin," replied the head of the house. "As if I did not knov/ that. He is one of the very best: honest, loyal, strong — all that becomes a man." "His ties " "You object to his ties! Good heavens! That one he was wearing to-day I — / knitted." "I was speaking of his relations," said the brother. "They are " "Don't say it! I know they are what they are — poor dears ! You needn't speak of them at all." "But you must speak to them," said the marquess. "You are making a blunder, Fin. It is kinder to say so now than later. Between you and this man lies the barrier of a thou- sand-and-one nameless differences !" "Molehills !" 129 Some Happenings "Mountains, Fin !" "Because you think as you think, you must be extra nice to. him when he comes down to Melthorpe." "Of course. I do — er — respect him." "I should like to box your ears," said Fenella. But when she was alone, especially at night, her mind brooded unpleasantly upon the ties which were not of her knitting : some loud-voiced cousins, an obese uncle who lived at Oapham, some prim evangelical spinsters of aunts, who at the first meeting addressed her as "my lady." The Boun- der had such sterling affection for these relations! He seemed actually proud of the uncle, who had been Lord Mayor of London. Well, she liked him the better because he was loyal to his own people; and yet — and yet Was he really and truly a bounder ? She could not answer the question. The marquess, of course, was an authority on -the subject, in himself a sort of supreme court of appeal. Still, he was not the Pope of Rome. Then she found herself blushing because she suddenly remembered an entry in her diary made some months before. "I have met a most in- teresting man" (she had written) ; "he has head, heart, and a fine lean body : but he is — alas ! a bounder !" The horrible word was underscored. Yes ; that had been her first impression, and as such not without value. A bounder ! Now that she knew him and loved him, it seemed incredible that she should have written him down — a boun- der ! Was love blind ? Could certain great qualities obscure small defects? Possibly. Another problem presented itself. Did he suspect that he was regarded by some hypercritics as a bounder? This nice question could not be determined. The marquess was of opinion that a bounder was no more conscious of his bounds than a kangaroo. According to this most noble and 130 Fenelia's Bounder puissant prince a bounder ceased to be a bounder when he was dead — and not till then. After Goodwood, the Bounder travelled to Melthorpe Royal, which lies in the Wessex country^, not far from the ancient town of Sherborne. As he was taking his ticket he noticed a very smart young woman, who, catching his eye, nodded and smiled in a friendly fashion. The Bounder lifted his hat, well assured that he had met her before, but unable to give her a name. At the same moment she came forward, holding out her hand. '*How delightful! You will take care of poor little me — won't you?" The Bounder did not dare to ask for her name, and per- haps a sense that he ought to know this radiant maiden infused his answer with a shade too much warmth. The girl was so pretty, and evidently so accustomed to lip-serv- ice, that the Bounder had not the heart to be distant. Accordingly it came to pass that within a few minutes they found themselves alone in a carriage, where a discreet guard, with a wife and a large family dependent upon his discretion, took care that they should not be disturbed. The maiden was anxious to talk, the man willing to listen, hoping that chance would furnish him with a clue to her name. For half an hour they discussed subjects of current interest ; then — without warning — a bolt fell from the blue. "Have you met," she asked sweetly, ''this awful Bounder whom the Melthorpe girl insists on marrying?" "Undoubtedly the Bounder ought to have replied instant- ly, "I am he" ; but he didn't. His tongue clave to his mouth, and he said nothing. He could not even think articulately. The girl was so obviously a lady, her opinion on the subject was as obviously of value. "You must have met him," she continued. "Yes ; I h-h-have m-m-met him," stammered he. 131 Some Happenings "So have I," she continued. "I met him at HurHngham last year, and for my Hfe I can't recall his face or anything about him. He must have been very commonplace, other- wise I should not have forgotten him so easily, because I do, as a rule, remember faces. I," she added sweetly, "recog- nised yours at once." "I am commonplace," said the Bounder nervously. He felt that this was an idiotic remark, but the girl did not seem to think so. "Oh no," she murmured, "you are not." She eyed him frankly. "You have a strong face." She paused, and her cheek was tinged with a faint colour. "A face," she added, "that no woman would forget, and that every woman would instinctively trust — that is why I spoke to you, because — now don't be very angry with me — when I first spoke to you I could not fit a name to your face. It was not till we had talked for a quarter of an hour that I recalled who you really are." "You know who I am — now?" "Of course. You look incredulous. You are Lord Ven. And now tell me about the Bounder ! What is he like ?" "He is not very unlike me." "I can't believe that." "It is a fact. I am often called by his name." "Such a dreadful name !" sighed the young lady. *Toor Fin !" "She is a friend of yours?" "We are cousins. We used to be great friends, but I've not seen her for an age. She must have changed, because the Melthorpe people do give themselves airs — don't they? Melthorpe has a sort of I-am-the-potter-ye-are-the-clay look about him." "Ye-es," assented the Bounder, smiling, for he knew that expression. 132 Fenella's Bounder *'And they have always been so particular," continued the maiden reflectively. "Of course the man is offensively rich, but Fenella, they tell me, is really in love. And she is such a dear that Melthorpe has not had the moral courage to forbid the banns." "You would forbid such banns?" ''Certainly. A marriage between Fenella and a bounder must prove disastrous. Surely you agree with me ?" ''From what I know of the man — and I may say I know him fairly well — I should have thought he could have made her happy. You call him a bounder — why ? He was at Eton and Christ Church." "Veneer! There must be common deal underneath. I am told that his house is furnished in the most outrageous taste." "His houses were furnished by his mother ; and I can con- ceive" — he hesitated — "that a man of feeling would not like to pitch his mother's belongings into the street merely be- cause they were not exactly what he would have chosen him- self." "How nice of you to put it that way !" said the girl. "A bounder would never look at the matter from that point of view." "This bounder does." "You are his friend, evidently." "I dare say I am too lenient to his failings.'* "Ah, you admit that he has failings." "But I have never regarded him as a bounder !" "The world, our world, says he is. And he is; he mtist be! If he were sitting where you are, opposite me, I would bet you sixpence that I could pick out a dozen flaws — the marks of the beast, in fact." "You could possibly pick out as many in me. Is my 133 Some Happenings coat to your fancy? Is this ring tco gay? Your eyes have betrayed censure." She laughed gaily. "But don't you see that you can wear anything, or do anything, or say anything. A bounder must never offend. Your coat is not to my fancy; and a man should wear no jewellery, but you might be, like Esterhazy, 'all jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots,' and people would only call you eccentric. Now Fenella's young man never seems to have grasped the fact that he cannot lightly indulge his fancy even in checks. Do you see ?" "I think I take you. He may draw big cheques, but he must not wear them. It must be very easy to be a peer and very hard to be a bounder when — when you know you are a bounder." ''Exactly. Now, if you were this particular Bounder and I were my cousin Fenella, I am sure that I should worry — mind you, you would not know it — about your wearing that ring and being careless about your clothes, and" — she laughed so mirthfully that her words were quite void of of- fence — "and your boots. You really ought to wear smarter boots." "They are very comfortable," said the Bounder, looking thoughtfully at his square toes. "You can afford to be comfortable." "Lady Fenella's Bounder has, I fear, been always rather careless about appearances." "That plainly proves him a bounder, doesn't it? A bounder, anxious to become a gentleman, must consider the feelings of others ; he ought to be sensible of the necessity of being very careful." "There are two distinct standards, then: for the gentle- man, and tlie would-be gentleman?" "Of course. How funny that you should not know that! That is just where the shoe will pinch my poor cousin. 134 Fenella's Bounder She is blind now, but when the scales fall from- her eyes she will mark the blemishes in her husband. She will be always looking for them. Oh yes, she is making a dreadful blunder. I can put myself in her place, because I was once tempted to marry a sort of golden calf, really a nice domes- tic beast, but ill-bred. And we are all paupers, as you know. But I thought it out — fairly and squarely — and I concluded that I would sooner marry a poor gentleman than a rich bounder." "You love the poor gentleman?" he suggested. "I am whole-hearted," she confessed. *'And therefore without bias. Fenella is making a hideous blunder." At parting (she left the train at Salisbury) the Bounder asked for her name. "You wretch !" she cried. "What an actor you are ! I am indeed hoist with my own petard. However, it is nice of you to ask for my name, for it proves plainly that I have made an impression. I am Dorothy Dacre. Au revoir!" As the train sped smoothly on through the green pastures of Wiltshire the Bounder lay back in his luxurious seat ab- jectly miserable and uncomfortable, for, astride the camel Fancy, he was bumping across a Sahara, a burning, blinding desert of sand, which an alluring mirage had obscured. He saw himself as others saw him. Yes, it was true ; he had never grasped what Miss Dacre called a fact : he had never questioned his right as an Englishman to please himself. In a crass, crude fashion he had pleased himself in keeping inviolate his mother's blue satin curtains and gilt cornices. He wore a diamond ring — not that he cared a ha'penny for jewellery, but because it was hers. He accepted mis- fits, because he had never given his clothes any attention at all. Taking, so to speak, stock of himself, he became dis- 135 Some Happenings gusted. "1 am a bounder," he confessed. "Measured by the yardstick of the world I Uve in I am certainly a bounder. I talk and laugh too loudly. I take a plebeian pleasure in life. I have at heart the sane and healthy instincts of the — tripper. I could be perfectly happy — if Fenella were with me — at Margate! I could enjoy — with her — bread-and-but- ter and shrimps !" Fenella met him at the small station which practically belonged to Lord Melthorpe, and kissed him quite unaffect- edly under the grinning gaze of the only porter. For a reason obvious to the reader the Bounder blushed ; and Fe- nella resented the blush. Indeed, the sight of it discoioured her own milk-white thoughts. She walked off the platform with her nose high in the air, and her chin cocked at an aristocratic angle. The unhappy Bounder followed humbly and meekly. He felt like a bounder, and perhaps — the truth will never be known — he looked to Fenella like a bounder. When he offered to drive, she refused him sharply, and, picking up the ribands, said abruptly, "Where is your moth- er's ring?" "It's in my pocket," he muttered sheepishly. "In your pocket ? Good gracious ! Why did you take it off?" The Bounder said that the stone was rather large ; he did not care to wear jewellery — in the morning; he had not sup- posed that such things mattered, but — but they did. "Put it on at once," commanded the maiden. As they drove through the delightful lanes, she eyed him almost fur- tively ; and the Bounder, conscious of this sly scrutiny, grew more and more uneasy. "You don't like them?" he said at last. "Them?" "My clothes. They are not as well cut, perhaps, as one could wish." 136 Fenella's Bounder ^'Rubbish! As if I cared. Has anything gone wrong ?" He hesitated, and his hesitation appealed strongly to Fe- nella, because she knew that he was a man to shoulder his burdens in silence. Her voice was very kind, when she whispered : "Tell me, dear. Any trouble of yours will surely be cut in half, if you share it with me." But he could not give his trouble words, and yet with- holding the truth from the woman who had loved him added to his burdens. He tried, lamely, to blunt the fine edge of the situation with a jest. "Coming down," he said, with a guilty laugh, "I had an accounting — struck a balance, in short ; and — and it was not quite satisfactory." "Oh !" "You see, Fenella, I have learned what the world says about you and me." "And you care?" He marked the note of surprise dying away in a diminu- endo of disappointment. Her profile seemed to him even more cleanly cut than usual. If a profile indicates charac- ter, the qualities most conspicuous in Fenella v/ere strength, delicacy, generosity, and honour. The slight emphasis on the pronoun was certainly disdainful. H she, a daughter of the ancient house of Melthorpe, did not care, why should he? "I suppose, dearest, one cannot quite ignore the opinion of the world." His humility annoyed her. She had loved in him the primal man, standing erect, confronting the world and the flesh and the devil with keen, honest eyes. It seemed in- credible that her lover should bend his neck in pitiful in- terrogation. With an effort she changed the current of talk into another channel. 137 Some Happenings During the week that followed, the unhappy Bounder made a sustained effort to dress and walk and talk and laugh in imitation of the marquess. He faithfully under- studied that distinguished ornament of the peerage, who was kind enough to observe that George ''meant well." In- deed, the peer, lacking a sense of humour, was much flat- tered by the Bounder's deference — the more so, perhaps, be- cause heretofore his future brother-in-law had not treated his (my lord's) opinions with that respect which a nobleman is still able to inspire in a commoner. "George is appreciative," he remarked to Fenella. The young lady frowned. '*We shall make something of George," continued the brother pleasantly ; "he is most extraordinarily intelligent." If extraordinary intelligence be a synonym for a lick- penny awe of rank, George, assuredly, was entitled to the superlative. For love of a woman this unhappy milUonaire was constrained to play the part of parasite and pander. As he had always walked upright, it may be beHeved that he made a sorry worm. At the end of the week something happened. The day had been sultry: one of those steaming dog-days which leave the body inert and invertebrate, whilst stimulating the mind to intermittent fits of nervous irritability. Lying at his ease in a hammock, reviewing the events of the past week, the Bounder was sensible that he had been weaving ropes out of sand. *T am a bounder," he groaned, "and I shall never, never, never be a perfect gentleman ; and if I were," he added sotto voce, thinking of the marquess's lim- ited capacity for enjoyment, "I suppose I should wish to be a bounder again." In this tempestuous mood he was summoned to the tea- table, spread with delicate fare beneath a glorious chestnut- 138 Fenella's Bounder tree. Crossing the velvety lawn, he idly marked the inscrip- tion upon the ancient sundial: "iL EST l'hEURE DE FAIRE BIEN" To do good. Not to he good. He reflected that in such a pleasant, sweet-smelling garden as this it was easy to be good, and to feel good. He approached the marquess. "Look here, Melthorpe," he began abruptly — and Fenella, had she been present, would have marked the old, clear ring in his voice, the voice which comes from the heart, not from the head — ''would you sooner be a fine gentleman, as you are, of course, which in your case is a more or less in- active condition? or would you rather do fine, gentle things ?" The marquess raised his deHcate brows. "A gentleman does gentle things," he said, in his suave, languid tones. "Does he? I am not speaking of a gentleman as he ought to be, but of a modern gentleman as he is. If Shakespeare, for instance, were to revisit this planet and go into London society, he would be considered a — bounder." "My dear George " "I have put an extreme case. You and I know that the fellow who never offends, who always does the correct thing, and says the correct thing, and wears the correct thing, is an — ape." The peer's face grew cold. "The world," continued the Bounder, "is full of apes. It took countless generations to turn apes into men, and I suppose it has taken nearly as many more to turn men into apes. It cannot," he laughed bitterly, "it cannot be done in a week." "The heat has — er — affected you, George," said the mar- quess, sipping his iced tea ; "and, speaking personally, I would rather not discuss such topics in August." 139 Some Happenings " 'II est I'heure de faire bien/ " quoted the Bounder, and he went away to his room. That night he wrote the follow- ing letter, which was delivered to Fenella at breakfast, after the Bounder had left Melthorpe : "I cannot marry you," he began abruptly ; "and I am sure that you do not wish to marry me. For some obscure rea- son we fell in love with each other. That, at least, is un- questionable. To me the dawn of our love was the divinest revelation. And believe me now that the day is dun the glow still lingers, and will linger with me to the end. From my heart I say that it is better to have loved and lost you, than to have loved and won any other woman. And yet we cannot marry, because I am I and you are you." Fenella did not appear at luncheon, but after dinner she told her brother, very quietly, that the engagement between herself and the Bounder was at an end. Lord Melthorpe stroked his moustache to conceal a gratified smile. "You released him?" he whispered. "He released himself." "He is a cad — a cad !" And the world, when the truth leaked out, echoed the brother's words. The Bounder had proved himself a bounder by jilting the sweetest girl in England. About the middle of September, Admiral Dacre and his daughter, Dorothy, came to Dorset. Since her mother's death Fenella had played the part of chatelaine at Mel- thorpe : a valuable experience, for the mistress of a great estabHshment holds keys which unlock doors other than those of linen closets. Moreover, she had taken pride and pleasure in the performance of her duties, working to such good purposes that more than one maiden was heard to 140 Fenella's Bounder declare that the marquess was likely to remain a bachelor, because he had the comforts of marriage with none of its pains and penalties. Since the breaking of her engagement, however, interest in her household had steadily waned, and the marquess, who could view with calm eyes and un- wrinkled brows plagues and famines and wars, began to grow cross. It being a substantial part of his creed that a wise man should never do for himself what another may do for him, he courteously entreated his cousin to read the Riot Act to Fenella. "You have not been here for some time," he observed, "and you must mark a great change for the worse. The oil of personal attention is lacking. Say a word in season, like a dear good girl." Dorothy shrugged her shoulders, pouted, and promised to obey. As a matter of fact she had already made up a mind much stronger than her pretty body that Fenella was in need of advice ; but she took pains to prove to her kinsman that she was undertaking a difficult and delicate task. The marquess nodded and smiled. 'Tf you can exorcise the spectre of that confounded bounder, I'll — well, you'll see what I'll do." Dorothy confessed to herself that she was a wee bit afraid of that haunted room, Fenella's mind — a room, as she knew, kept locked night and day. Having plenty of pluck, and only the modern maiden's modicum of reverence, she re- solved to burst in, breaking the lock, if necessary, and shat- tering the bolts. Violence is the favourite weapon of the young. "Fenella," she said that same night, as soon as they were alone together, "you are a fool." "Suffer me gladly, then." "I won't. Look here: I like to go fast and straight at my fences. There is a big fence between us, and I'm 141 Some Happenings going to jump it — now. You are eating your heart out for a man not fit to marry your maid. There — I feel much better." *'Have you seen this man?" "I met him once." "How — how did he impress you?" The words came slowly. Dorothy's quick wits appre- hended their virtue. She had jumped her big fence cleanly, landing without "pecking" on firm ground. "He did not impress me at all, which is against him." "Or against . . . you." "True, but I flatter myself that I know a good face when I see it. There is a man — well, never mind. What is the matter?" Fenella had left her chair, and was crossing the room. She unlocked a desk, and took from a drawer a photograph which she placed in Dorothy's hand. "Is not that a good face?" she asked quietly. Had she looked at Dorothy, Fenella would have marked a blush, a flaming crimson wave which flowed and ebbed upon Miss Dacre's cheeks. "Is not that a good face?" she repeated. "Yes," rephed Dorothy quickly: "an admirable face — a face one could never forget. Did — did Lord Ven give it to you, dear?" "Lord Ven?" "I met him a few weeks ago ; we travelled together from Waterloo to Salisbury, on a Saturday, seven weeks ago." Fenella smiled: dates are not always remembered. "This" —Dorothy looked very tenderly at the portrait — "does not flatter him a bit; he has a better face. ... Eh? What? Not Lord Ven at all ! Who — who is it ?" The girls were standing facing each other. "The man," replied Fenella, "for whom you say I am 142 Fehella's Bounder eating my heart out; the man to whom I was engaged: George " "No, no ; it can't be. It is the man I travelled with." "Lord Ven has been shooting in Somaliland for the last ten months. He is small, dark, almost bald, and stam- mers." " *Small, dark, bald, and stammers,' " repeated Miss Dacre. "Why, you have described exactly your own Good heavens ! I see it all. The two men were introduced to me at the same time and place and I confounded their names. Then I did travel with your " "With George," said Fenella coldly. "He came here just seven weeks ago last Saturday." "Then he is a bounder," cried Dorothy fiercely; "he passed himself off to me as Lord Ven. Only a rank out- sider would have done that." *T don't believe it," said Fenella. Dorothy sat down. She was innately and by careful training an honest girl. How had this blunder arisen? Word by word the truth came home to her, bringing shame, perplexity, and remorse. "Is it true," she demanded, "that he broke the engage- ment ? It is ? Do you think he learned to care — for some- body else?" "I will show you his letter to me," said Fenella. Dorothy read it and re-read it, sighing. "You called me a fool just now," said Fenella. "Per- haps I am a fool, but I have always been greatly affected by certain things — my — my ideals, in short. I fell in love with George because of all the men I had met he was the most honest and unselfish. I was tired — tired of the men cut to pattern — the men like, yes, Hke poor Melthorpe. We are brother and sister, we have lived together ; but I do not know him, he does not know me. He is a marquess, not 143 Some Happenings a man. I cannot tell you what the man thinks upon any subject of current interest. On everything, around every- thing, is his coronet. You understand? Even I, his sister, cannot say what he is, only what he represents; and he is representative of much that I hold dear. Now Melthorpe and his friends are always computing, at compound inter- est, how much the world owes them, and how much they owe themselves; it does not enter into their heads to try and compute what they owe others. Melthorpe is a good landlord. Yes; vv^hy? Because it is a tradition of our house. Does he concern himself with the welfare of one single soul off his estates ? Not he ! He is strictly honour- able, refined, cultured, polite, — why shouldn't he be? And his friends are like him — Laodiceans, all of them. Hot — yes; for the pleasures of Hfe, but lukewarm in regard to its pains. Now, George was utterly different: he was keen about sport, far keener than Melthorpe, but he was always sacrificing his hunting and shooting because — because others had claims upon his time and money. And he did uncon- ventional things, not caring a farthing for appearances. He did cut a poor figure before our world, but I should like to have the recording angel's opinion of him. And then — and then " "Yes, Fin." **He changed," she continued; and the pathetic droop in her tender voice brought tears to Dorothy's eyes. "He changed. He came here after Goodwood, and I could see that he was beginning to think of himself. He took Mel- thorpe as his model — Melthorpe, who is the child of the centuries ! He proved himself to be what Melthorpe had called him — a bounder. He made it plain to me — me, the woman who loved him — think of it! — that I had chosen an ape. And when he realised what he had done, he wrote that letter and went away. I let him go without a word." 144 Fenella's Bounder She covered her face, so that the other might not see her quivering lips and wet eyes. And as she sat in silence, hopeless and forlorn, a great temptation came to the woman at her side. Dorothy had listened eagerly to the descrip- tion of the man whose portrait lay in her hand. Every spoken word echoed in her own heart. She had told none of that too brief journey from Waterloo to Salisbury; the name of the man had not passed her lips. But his face, the tones of his voice, his virile gestures, his kind laugh, had Hngered in her memory. She had plunged a knife into him, and he had not winced. And who knew better than she what salve to apply to the wound she had made? Sooner or later they must meet. And if she kept her coun- sel now, then she might speak. If she spoke now, silence must be her portion hereafter. "I am glad you rode fast and straight at your fence," she heard Fenella say. *'It is a comfort to me that you are on my side of it." Fast and straight! "It is easy to ride straight," said poor Dorothy, with a sob in her throat. "Listen, Fin. I am responsible for this trouble. I poured henbane into his ears. Yes, dear, you are a fool; only the unloved are wise. Why, don't you see that he went away because he tried to perform a miracle, and failed? He became an ape to please, not himself, but you. And he read and misinterpreted the disgust in your eyes. The poor fellow thought you were angry because he had failed ; you were heartsick because you thought he had succeeded. And I — I, do you hear? — told him that you would like him cut to pattern. I told him to his face that he was a bounder. I told him, thinking of course that he was Lord Ven, that you were making a hideous blunder. And all the time I was making the blunder. I changed his point of view, you see, or rather obscured it, and that 145 Some Happenings changed his character. And when he found out that I was your cousin, I've no doubt that he jumped to the conclusion that you felt as I did. And you don't ; and nor do I now. You want him as he is. Well, you must write to him to- morrow." Fenella laughed. "To-night," she said. Dorothy kissed her. As she was crossing the corridor which led to her room, she met the marquess, candlestick in hand, interrogation on his brow. ''You have been speaking to Fin ?" he observed ; then he marked her heightened colour and the shadows in her eyes. *1 fear," he added politely, ''that the result has not — er — justified our expectations." "It has surpassed mine. She is writing to her lover." "What?. The Bounder?" "Yes," she sighed, "the Bounder. I wish, Melthorpe, that Heaven would send me just such another — bounder." 146 IX A CUTLET FOR A CUTLET THE Major lived with Mrs. Bowser at Dinard in the charming Villa Miraflores, which overlooks the Bay of Saint Malo. Everybody and his wife — particularly the wife — knew that the Villa and all it contained belonged to Mrs. Bowser, for she made a point of imparting this in- formation to them. The wags at the club said that Euphro- nia allowed her Digby a glass of port after dinner and a shilling a day for menus plaisirs! Some seasons ago, a shocking story circulated, the Major, it was whispered, eked out his meagre allowance by looting the offertory bag which he was privileged to carry round each Sunday in the English church. This of course, was a canard, greedily gobbled up at the time, because Dinard is a place where appetite for such fare never fails nor flags. Moreover, the Major's personal appearance lent a pinch of salt to the dish. He had an air — a subdued air — of, let us say, a middle-aged Claude Duval. At the club he told stories — not intended for the young. These encarmined tales and a florid complexion justified his nickname — The Pink 'Un! And yet, let the truth be told in the words of Dinard's greatest lady : *'Digby Bowser," said the dame, "is a domestic fowl, but he would describe himself as a bit of a bird." He had served in the Crashers, he had owned a use- ful ''plater" or two, he had been aide-de-camp to a Prince of the Blood. "I have lived my life," he would murmur modestly. 147 Some Happenings *'Why, the Duke himself once said to me: 'Digby, my boy, you've had your innings !' And he knew/' Here the Major would wink wickedly and drink the whisky-and-potass which a sympathetic listener would be sure to offer him. He numbered amongst his acquaintance many personages, but he had the wit to keep these trump cards, so to speak, up his sleeve. A man at the club reading his Galignani would suddenly look up and say : ''The Marquess of Drum- tochty is dead. Did you know him, Major?" Then the Major would dash down his paper, as if he had not seen the paragraph — the sly old sinner ! — and exclaim : "Bless my soul ! You don't say so. Dear old Shortbread ! One of the very best. Why, years and years ago, when I was stalking with him at Sauchiehall, he and I — no, no, I can't tell you fellows that story. Gone, is he? And I'm here! Thanks, no — not a drop. I'll take a turn outside." Then the young gentlemen of the club would shake their heads and murmur to each other : "The Pink 'Un is really cut up, isn't he? I say, you know, the Villa Miraflores is a snug little box, but after Sauchiehall — eh? Poor old chap !" It must be mentioned here that Mrs. Bowser was the only daughter and heiress of an evangelical distiller of spirits. The Major, shortly after his retirement from the Crashers, wooed and won her, but it must not be rashly inferred that the gallant warrior, although susceptible to beauty, had married for love alone. His Euphronia had been a belle at Northsea and was still a fine woman. None the less, a Bowser would have sought his mate in county rather than urban or suburban society had he been financially able to do so. The Bowsers of Topping-Bowser (the Major's near relations) knew nobody in Northsea, although Topping- Bowser is within a drive of that much-advertised water- ing-place ; and they were not "nice" to Euphronia after she 148 A Cutlet for a Cutlet married poor Digby. It was partly on account of this, part- ly also because she had a troublesome asthma, and partly because a franc at Dinard goes farther than a shilling at Northsea, that the Bowsers settled in Brittany. Again, at Dinard, Mrs. Digby Bowser became a personage, and the ex-major of cavalry a mere appanage, which plainly proves that the strong (the Major was a fine, handsome fel- low) do not always retain the spoil, and that virtue may not only bring, but keep, its own reward ! One pleasant morning, at the beginning of July, the Ma- jor sauntered into the club. A suppressed murmur of ex- citement swelled into articulate speech as the hall-porter handed him his letters. Conspicuous on the top of the pile was a square white envelope with a cipher, surmounted by a small crown, plainly engraved upon its flap. ''Billet doux from Her Royal Highness !" said one of the wags. The Major opened his letter and adjusted his eyeglass. "By Jove !" he exclaimed. "What's up?" burst from a dozen lips. "The Duke," replied the Major, with dignity, "is think- ing of spending a fortnight here — incog. The Duchess and the children will accompany him. I am asked to find a suitable house. Hang it! — I don't know of one. Dear, dear!" "Let him have yours," suggested a friend. "I dare say Mrs. Bowser who is the most loyal lady of my acquain- tance, would be glad of the privilege of serving one who is of near kin to her Sovereign. She might pay a visit or two. You, old chap, would stay here, of course, and be- come extra aide. It might lead to another appointment." The Major stroked his smoothly shaven pink chin and smiled enigmatically. Half an hour later he was asking Justine, his wife's maid, 149 Some Happenings to take his compliments to Madame. He wished to see her at once on a matter of importance. While he waited for his wife, he reflected without bitterness that she would be sure to finish some trivial task before she answered his sum- mons. In this, however, he was mistaken. His Euphronia appeared at once, simmering with interrogation. The Ma- jor handed her his letter. "And you've come up here to show me this," she said contemptuously. *'What have I to do with your fine friends, who were always too fine to know me?" The Major winced slightly. "I thought," he said mildly, "that we might offer them this house. It would be worth while." "What do you mean by that?" He shrugged his shapely shoulders, reflecting that his Euphronia wanted things explained. "There would be a cheque," he replied slowly, "a substan- tial cheque." "As if I was thinking of that," said Euphronia loftily. "And next June we might shoot our cards at Middlesex House. You're such a loyal woman." Euphronia's features slightly relaxed. "But where should we go to, Digby?" "You have not seen your Uncle Fowler for some time." "Ah ! you want to get rid of me. The Duke will be glad to see you, but will the Duchess pay me any attention if I stay here?" "She will be civil," said the Major vaguely. "You might go to Dinan — Charlotte Duffy would be delighted to put you up." She eyed him maliciously. "Charlotte Duffy will be delighted to put us both up. That is a capital suggestion of yours, Digby. We will go to Dinan. No, don't say a word ! I'm not going to twiddle 150 A Cutlet for a Cutlet my thumbs alone while you're hobnobbing with princes and princesses. As for my loyalty, I hope the Duke will realise that it is not everybody who would give up such a house as this to go and stay with Charlotte Duffy. Make it plain that we offer the villa — freely. Only where I go, you go too. I'm too busy to stand chattering here any longer." The Major lit a cigarette and returned to the club — de- feated. Within a few days all Dinard knew that the Digby Bow- sers had given up the Miraflores to His Royal Highness, who would be known, during the fortnight he spent in Brit- tany, as the Earl of Middlesex. In the general excitement the fact that the Bowsers were going to Dinan escaped comment. When they had gone, the more knowing ones at the club expressed their pity for the Major. 'This must be a pill for him," said they. "He'll be wretched at Dinan. It's deuced hard lines on him — and on us" From this it may be inferred that these gentlemen were counting upon the kind services of one who had been aide- de-camp and friend to the illustrious visitor. But how wretched the Major was — an exile from club and Casino when those gardens of (to him) inexhaustible delight were in full bloom, none knew save himself, and he was too proud to tell ! And at the end of the fortnight the Bowsers returned to Dinard. We have Euphronia's word for it that the Villa was in an unclean condition. As is frequently the case, such matters were left to the people in attendance, who con- tented themselves with giving to the servants instructions deliberately ignored by them. There was damage, too, done to the furniture. The Major, returning depressed from the club — where, you may be sure, he had listened patiently to a long recital of what had taken place during his absence 151 Some Happenings — found his Euphronia very red in the face, with a silk bandanna tightly twisted round her head — a tournure al- ways associated (and not agreebly) in the Major's mind with spring cleanings. "While you've been enjoying yourself, Digby," she be- gan, "I've been going over this house. The top of the piano looks as if hens had been scratching on it, a castor is off your arm-chair " "It has been off for three months, my love." ''Don't call me your love. I detest hypocrisy. You know well, Digby Bowser, that such love as you had to give was squandered, like everything else you possessed, before we met. Two of the dessert-plates are chipped, a dozen wine- glasses are broken, and the jug in the spare room — the wil- low pattern one, which belonged to poor grandma — has lost its handle. The silver photograph-frame with Uncle Fow- ler in it is missing altogether." 'T dare say they locked it up," suggested the Major. ''Your uncle, Euphronia, is not — er — decorative." 'T thought you would insult me. This is what comes of trying to be kind and obliging to your friends." "The cheque, my dear, will cover these trifling losses." "There you go again ! You talk as if I cared for nothing but money. Is there a cheque ?" "It has not come yet," replied her husband. "When will it come?" "Within a week, probably." A week passed. Meantime, Mrs. Bowser had sipped the nectar of popularity. She found herself an honoured guest at luncheons, dinners, and teas ; and wherever she went she took with her an autograph letter from the Duchess, which was duly read aloud to a select few. Observant persons remarked that Mrs. Bowser was understudying the great lady who had played hostess at Miraflor^es. Some young 152 A Cutlet for a Cutlet American girls entreated her to give them a few feathers from the pillow upon which the daughter of an emperor had laid her august head. A gentleman connected with the Press, camera in hand, sought an interview with Lady Bowser — and was not sent empty away. It was rumoured that a phial of nitro-glycerine, enough to blow Dinard all the way to Dinan, was found in the cellar side by side with the sparkling Moselle which Euphronia said was much more wholesome and nice than champagne. *'I think they were comfortable," Mrs. Bowser observed to the ladies who came to the Miraflores as if it were some sacred shrine. "And I was so happy to oblige the dear Duchess. One naturally is, you know. And her letter quite compensated me for any little damage that was done. So very — ky — ind ! Really, if that absurd story about the nitro- glycerine had proved true, one wouldn't have minded much. I can quite understand now how the cavaliers felt when they went to the block? Eh? I beg your pardon. Just between ourselves, you say? Well, I give you my word there was no mention of such a thing. We offered the villa freely, and I trust it was taken in the same spirit. . . ." "And yet, each day, after the English mail was in, Eu- phronia would ask the Major: "Has the cheque come, Digby?" And each day the Major would reply: "I have no cheque for you, my dear." At the end of the month it seemed certain that the cheque would not come at all. Mrs. Bowser suggested to her Dig- by the propriety of writing a line to one of the equerries. This the Major flatly refused to do. "After all," said he, ''you have been paid indirectly. You are the uncrowned queen of Dinard." ''Fiddlesticks !" said Mrs. Bowser. **And that reminds me," he continued rather nervously; "don't you think we ought to make some return for all these 153 Some Happenings entertainments? A dinner, or a dance, or — er — both. A cutlet for a cutlet, you know." **A dinner ! A dance ! You have such extravagant ideas, Digby. If that cheque comes, I may give a — tea. You told me there would be a cheque, a substantial cheque. The truth is, we've been most outrageously " ''Shush— h—h !" said the Major. 'T'm hanged if I'll ask for money in payment for what you offered freely as a gift! And that autograph letter — and Middlesex House next June — and — er " ''Stop! I am going to tear up that hateful letter, and I shall throw the pieces," she continued violently, "into the waste-paper basket, where I found poor Uncle Fowler. And as for princes and princesses, I shall never put my trust in them again. You needn't speak, Digby. In my own house I may surely be allowed once in a while to get in a word edgeways. We have been outrageously swindled — there! And don't you ever ask me to call at Middlesex House. You'll be ordering me, some day, I suppose, to leave my cards upon forgers and murderers at Newgate !" The Major retreated to his club. Next day, however, he said a last word : "My dear, you will be careful, I'm sure, not to mention this matter of the cheque to any of our friends. They would be sure to laugh at us and make remarks. It is not necessary to say this to you, but " "Then why do you say it?" snapped the lady. "I shall certainly not give our friends the pleasure of making un- kind remarks about me, and I only hope and pray that you'll be as careful at the club." "Mum's the word for both of us," said the Major, as he went his way. That particular season at Dinard set in a sunset blaze of entertainments. The Major said that he had never known 154 A Cutlet for a Cutlet a livelier September, and almost forgot that he had lost two precious weeks in July. At all the picnics, breakfasts, dinners, and suppers the good fellow worked as hard as the youngest and strongest, using the same tools — a knife and fork. Mrs. Bowser, however, remained at home. It seemed to her un-Christian that people should eat and drink and make merry when she had been defrauded of a hundred pounds. She had learned that her late tenants had paid this sum the year before for somewhat similar accom- modation at Trouville. Dinard managed to enjoy itself without her, and agreed that the ]\Iajor was the hfe and soul of every party — one of the first to come, one of the last to leave, and always gay and debonair. None the less, it was whispered behind his back that the Bowsers ought to do something. Since the return from Dinan no hospital- ity had been dispensed at the ^liraflores. The sparkling Moselle sparkled in the darkness of the cellar. Not a single bottle was uncorked ! Judge, then, with what surprise Din- ard received invitations from Major and Mrs. Bowser to dine and dance with them — at the club. "Why at the club?" asked a pal of the Major. "Because," said the -Major, ''this time, my boy, you are dining with me, not with ^Madame." Those who know their Dinard will predict that within three hours most of the men and all of the women were telling each other that the Major had come into Topping- Bowser and seven thousand a year. But none received a card of invitation with greater amazement than ]\Irs. Bowser. ''What is the meaning of this, Digby?" she asked. '"You have included my name, I see ; but you are not such a ninny as to think that I am going to pay the bill !" "I am not such an — er — optimist as that," the Major re- plied blandly. 155 Some Happenings 'Then where does the money come from?" "My dear/' the Major repHed with dignity, "when you see fit to honour me with your confidence in regard to your financial arrangements, I shall be happy to bestow the same confidence upon you in return. For the moment, let me say that this little entertainment will be paid for by me, and that for once in my life I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you at the head of my own table." "I shall certainly be there," she hastened to assure him. "If, Digby — if, my dear, you have come into a — fortune, I hope you will pay me that hundred pounds which I lost through your criminally careless business habits." The Major laughed heartily *'My dear Euphronia' A fortune! I have been paid a few pounds — unexpectedly. A debt of honour." *'And you waste them on a dinner?" "Let us say rather that I am paying my debt of honour in — er — doing as I have been done. Uncommonly well have my friends done me this season. Well I shall oifer them next Tuesday a little dinner which they will appreciate and remember." "You are not giving supper as well?" **A sandwich or two. my dear, and a glass of champagne. I must really be allowed to have my own way." When the Tuesday came, the dining-room of the club was transformed into a sort of bower of roses and palms. The young and romantic sat two and two at small tables lighted by candles in pink petticoat shades ; the Olympians were gathered together round the main table. Of the din- ner, let us admit frankly that it was the crowning glory of the best season Dinard had ever known. A mousse au jambon made old Chutney break an inviolate rule never to speak till the savoury was handed. The surprise a la Bow- ser (an almond ice served with a hot sauce of brandy cher- 156 A Cutlet for a Cutlet ries dropped into melted currant jelly) moved the greatest lady in Dinard to tears, because her doctor (who was pres- ent) peremptorily forbade her to touch it ! And, of course, the Major as host surpassed all records he had established as guest. He saw that Gill was sent in with Jack; he lis- tened politely to the garrulous ; he prattled gaily to the mute ; he told three new stories ; and he inspired old and young alike with his own amazing and inexhaustible spirits! At the head of the big table was Euphronia; and at her side sat Captain Saladin, R.N., better known as ''The Old Curiosity Shop." As he was the brother and heir pre- sumptive of an earl, good Christians were charitable enough to overlook his defects, and to dwell rather upon his virtues, amongst which might be numbered fortitude in hearing of the misfortunes of others and a love of retailing the truth, and even more than the truth, concerning them. This gentle- man had not finished his sole a la Normande before he be- came aware that his hostess was ill at ease. She had, in- deed, just made a careful study of the menu, and had learned from the young fellow on her right that the supper was to be quite as soigne as the dinner, and that the Casino band had been engaged. "The Major is doin' us tip-top," said Saladin, gobbling up the last morsel of his fish. "Eh — what? Chateau Yquemf Certainly. Noble wine, my dear Mrs. Bowser, particularly after the Graves which some of our friends give us — eh? The Major I hear, has not come into Top- ping-Bowser, but he's bin backin' a winner or two — wha-a-at?" "Digby never races — now," said Mrs. Bowser sharply. "Um ! Egad ! I have it ! He's spendin* what you saved at Dinan. Not bad, that — wha-a-at?" "I didn't save anything at Dinan, Captain Saladin." ^S7 Some Happenings The sub-tinkle of irritability in her voice set his curiosity a- jangling. '*Goin' to let the Villa next year?" he demanded, after a moment's pause. *'It wasn't let this," she replied with asperity. Captain Saladin stared open-mouthed. From his knowl- edge of the lady, this statement simply howled for explana- tion. **You offered it, I know," he said. "But surely they did the square thing — eh?" At this moment such resolutions as Mrs. Bowser had made concerning the propriety of holding her tongue were despatched to their ultimate destination. She knew per- fectly well that what she was about to say would be repeat- ed, yet she spoke because she hoped that the speaking would distress that extravagant wretch opposite, the man who owed everything to his wife, and who repudiated those debts when Fortune gave him an opportunity of discharging one or two of them. "The square thing was not done. Captain Saladin. Of course, all my friends know that I care nothing for the sor- did part of it. Still — it is rather extraordinary." "Quite amazin'," assented the Captain. "Beastly sell, in fact." "Pray don't mention it!" "You've bin treated shockin' bad, Mrs. Bowser, but, hang it! there must be a mistake somewhere. Digby must drop a line to one of the fellers in waitin' — wha-a-at? He won't? Then write yourself, dear lady. It's the straight tip I'm givin' you." "I will write," she said viciously. Meanwhile, the Major was having his golden hour, and he made the most of it. Afterwards, too, in the ballroom, he danced with the pretty girls and cracked jokes with the 158 A Cutlet for a Cutlet plain ones. Captain Saladin did not valse, but he circulated, and wherever he went eyebrows were raised and voices low- ered. Presently he approached some one who is known to the Dinardois as the Universal Provider, because if you want a partner for a dance, or a dozen of wine, or a word of sound advice, or a house, or a yacht, or a pound of tea, he's your man. The Captain whispered a few sentences, and the other started. *'Why, I ca-c-cash " He stopped abruptly and then said quietly: 'There must be a mistake." "Mistake be hanged !" said the Captain warmly. "I say, if you know — anything " "I know nothing. Capital show, this ?" "RippinM The bill '11 be a corker — what-a-at? I say a hundred, at least. And where the doose the Pink 'Un got the oof from beats me. Not from his missus, I'll swear." He moved away; and soon after the Universal Provider sought and found an opportunity to lead his host aside. The Major was pink as usual when his companion began to speak ; he was scarlet before he had finished. ''Saladin has told everybody in the room, you say?" "I should be doing him a gross injustice if I doubted it." "And he took my wife in to dinner. Just so. My dear fellow, will you do me a favour? — Propose my health — and my wife's — at supper, and call on me for a speech." "Right !" Accordingly at supper — a scrumptious supper — the health of host and hostess was drunk with all honour, and the Major duly rose to reply. "My dear friends," he said, "I thank you warmly, and my wife thanks you as warmly, for your good wishes. We have been delightfully entertained this season by many present, and we venture to hope that these guests in par- ticular have had a good time to-night." (Shouts of "Yes!" 159 Some Happenings "You bet!" "Well played, Pink 'Un!" and so forth.) The Major smiled cheerily and continued: "Speaking for my wife, I may say frankly that she thoroughly appreciated your kindness to her after our return from Dinan. We had both missed a great deal of fun, but, as my wife put it, we were honoured, inasmuch as we had been able to serve a near kinsman of our gracious Sovereign. We offered our home freely, and freely it was accepted. In return, my wife received a very precious reward — an autograph letter, which some of you have had the privi- lege of reading. I was sent a — cheque. That cheque I did not quite know what to do with ! My wife, I was as- sured, would deem it churlish to return it, yet she had re- ceived herself, as she has told you, more than payment in full for what inconvenience she suffered. But I had noth- ing. And so, after mature thought, I made up my mind to cash the cheque, and in my wife's name and my own to de- vote the proceeds to — er — the purposes for which we have assembled together this evening. I venture to hope that what I have done has been a pleasant surprise to you — and to my wife." The Major sat down as some convivial spirited started the song, "For he's a jolly good fellow!" After supper, Mrs. Bowser pleaded indisposition and withdrew. The Major remained, gay and genial, till the last guest had departed. Then he returned to the Villa Miraflores, smil- ing blandly; but he was heard to whistle nervously as he ascended the stairs which led to the room where his Euphronia was awaiting him. i6o X THE WAITRESS AT SANTY THE land boom struck Santy like a ninety-mile-an-hour cyclone. It came; it went. What had been a tiny hamlet with a long unpronounceable Spanish name — shortened into Santy by the cattlemen — became a collection of the worst-looking board-and-batten shacks between Shasta and San Biego. Magnolia Avenue, with never a Magnolia on it, exhibited a ridiculous schoolhouse, cold in winter and hot in summer, a church, a parsonage, two hotels, and half a dozen saloons. After the epidemic, when values fell headlong, most of these buildings were empty. One hotel, the Grand, kept open, because the fine white dust of the foothills makes cattlemen and sheepmen abnormally thirsty. The Grand was run by an ex-faro dealer and general all-round sport. I have forgotten his patronymic, but we called him Nosey, not without reason. He mixed amazing cocktails out of whisky which was judiciously blended by himself down cellar. Nosey tended his own bar, played cards, cut hair, and was the tallest talker in the county. "I'm a liar, and proud of it," he would say. We sat at the feet of this Gamaliel and absorbed his cocktails and conversation. The odds were ten to one — and no takers — that Nosey could out-talk any man in our crowd. We admitted frankly that he had ideas. The particular idea of advertising for a waitress was his. i6i , Some Happenings "I'm going behind," he told us. "Vm losin' big money, boys." "Where you steal it?" asked Bud Norcross. Nosey sighed. "I stole it right enough. I mind me when I held up single-handed the San Clemente stage, and got away with fifty thousand in Treasury Bills." Nobody believed this. So far as our limited experience went Nosey was reasonably honest. Nosey continued: "I bought a pearl necklace with that bunch o' bills — a necklace, boys, which one o' the star-spangled Queens o' Song wears night and day." ''You must ha' made a hit with Her Majesty?" *'I did. But I hed ter give her the cold chuck. No man gits so fed up with wimmenfolk as I do. The best of 'em kinder sour on me. But wimmen, boys, has their uses. Slingin' hash now !" We waited expectantly. Nosey pulled a paper from behind the bar. "You seen this advertisement? It's a danty." "Yours, Nosey?" "Mine, my son. Listen : "Wanted immediate, a young, spry, good-looking Waitress for first-class hotel in the country.' Wal, boys, I hate to stick a surprise into ye, but she's doo ter-day." Bud breasted the bar. "This is mine. We'll drink the lady's health right now. Come on up, all of ye." The San Lorenzo stage rolled into Santy about an hour later. By that time the health of the young-spry-good- looking waitress had been drunk with enthusiasm thrice. None of us, however, believed in the adjectives; but we were thrilled at the advent of any stranger in petticoats. Santy boasted a schoolma'am of years as uncertain as her 162 The Waitress at Santy temper. She handled her scholars masterfully and was a solid pillar of the County Temperance Association. Our cattle ponies shied at the sight of her. Some of the land boom settlers had brought wives and daughters to the foothills. Call them poor white trash, and have done with it. As Bud put it, the Santy stage was set for a star, and the question obtruded itself — did it carry one? A column of dust appeared in the south-east, and half a dozen of us lit cigarettes as we ranged up in front of the hotel. "Anything fer me?" asked Nosey of the stage-driver. *'Inside passenger," replied the stage-driver. A tall, slim young woman got out, carrying a large satchel. She wore a dust-proof veil and a long whitey- grey cloak. She addressed Nosey in a clear calm voice: 'Is this the Grand Hotel?" Nosey replied in the affirmative. But said hastily: *'Lemme take yer grip?" Hank Parkinson whispered to me: "One up on Bud." "Wait," said I. Bud's offer was ignored. Nosey led the way into the hotel, and the young woman followed in silence. Bud laughed. Hank murmured reflectively : "Whar did the chicken git the axe?" We went back to the bar. Presently Nosey appeared. His face indicated surprise and uneasiness. And his voice, a thought too loud for genteel society, sank to a whisper. "Boys," he said solemnly. "She's a peach, a winner." "What's she won. Nosey? Your "Boys, I'm a liar if she ain't a lady — quality! Wimmen is, and allers will be, puzzles to me, but why she answered my lettle 'ad' bangs Banagher. Mebbe I worded it too slick. Wal, ye'U see her to-morrer." We did 163 Some Happenings In honour of the stranger we took dinner at the Grand. Mame — we were instructed to so address her — waited upon us. She was certainly very attractive and graceful. And her brown hair, so I noticed, was beautifully done. Obvi- ously, also, she took care of her hands. To all our ques- tions — we didn't ask many — she replied in monosyllables. She surveyed us calmly and derisively. It was a dull meal. Bud, the most enterprising of the company, made a bad break. "What price Santy?" he asked our handmaiden. ''It's quiet," she replied demurely. Bud winked at her. "We kin whoop things up, if you say so," he assured her. Mame's face remained impassive. Her eyes rested for a moment upon Bud's ingenuous countenance. To our delight he blushed. Then she passed on, blandly indiffer- ent. Hank, who had not read his Chauteaubriand, gave us to understand that the discomfiture of his friend was not altogether displeasing to him. After dinner Nosey commended our table manners. "Barrin' Bud," he was kind enough to say, "ye behaved like perfect gen'lemen. Mame is high-toned. This ain't her stampin'-ground. But, by Jing! I reckon she means to take aholt and stay on. I suspicioned some that she'd pull stakes this morning. But I was mistook. Mebbe she's here for her health." Bud hazarded another conjecture. "Mebbe she's after a pearl necklace." Nosey replied happily: "She's a pearl is Mame, and it's up to me that she don't fall amongst swine. Hank, the parlour tricks you do with yer knife didn't amuse her any. When I seen Joe tuck 164. The Waitress at Santy his serviette into his pocket, I surmised that she winced. Hand it over, son!" Joe produced the napkin and "set up" the drinks. Mame was toasted once again. Bud, who was my smartest cow- boy, rode back to the ranch with me. He put adequately into words the question that was biting me : "Say — what the hell's she doin' here?" II A fortnight passed. Being a slack time on the ranch we spent some agreeable hours in Santy at the Grand Hotel. One thing was certain. Mame, as waitress, developed into a stellar attraction of the first magnitude. She treated all and sundry alike with demure courtesy. She took the air in the company of the hotel cook, a melancholy and aged female. She refused pleasantly invitations to go "buggy- riding." But her reserve, when waiting upon us, gradually thawed. Let it be recorded, also, that imperceptibly she raised the tone of table talk. Under much provocation she corrected grammatical blunders with a smile that took the sting out of her admonitions. Hank and Bud became promising pupils. Each confided in me that he was the writhing victim of the grand passion. Bud broke out into poetry. Hank bought a Prince Albert coat, satin-lined. I do not affirm that Mame encouraged the boys, but she did not discourage them. Watching her closely, I cherished the conviction that they amused her. Moreover, they kept other aspirants at a distance. About a week later. Nosey led me apart, and after exacting a pledge of secrecy made an astounding announce- ment. *'Mame ain't what she appears ter be. For two years 165 Some Happenings I run a barber shop in Petaluma. I hold the quick-shavin' record ; shaved sixty-three men under the hour, by Jing ! Yes, sir, what I don't know about the barber business could be set down on a dime. Mame wears a wig." "A wig?" "A wig — one of the best, too. Good wigs run into big money. I reckon she must hev two. Yes'day I took a squint at her washin'. No frills, ye understand, but fine linen — a dead give-away." ''Meaning?" "Mame is no waitress. She's in hidin' — sure!" "None of our business." "Yer dead right. That's why I told ye. I've bin in hidin', more'n onct. Thar's bin big rewards offered fer me. Yes, sir, I've bin wanted by half a dozen sheriffs — damn 'em! The pint is — air they wantin' Mame?" "Your 'pint,' Nosey, is as big as a barrel. Two men, I know, are wanting Mame — Bud Norcross and Hank Park- inson. They want her so badly that there may be trouble." "Pshaw! Is Mame wanted by the perlice?" "Search me !" "It'd tickle me plum ter death ter fool the police. I've half a notion to give Mame a hint that a way." "Don't ! If she is hiding, she's chosen a snug place. A hint from you might scare her out of it." "Mebbe yer right." After this confidential talk with Nosey I looked with ever-increasing interest and curiosity at our waitress. Her singular detachment had become explicable upon a hypothesis which in itself seemed incredible. The girl's eyes were so honest. She carried a high head. Her laugh had the sterling ring to it. Nosey, when I casually men- tioned these things to him, pitied my ignorance and inex- perience. i66 The Waitress at Santy ''When I played cards fer a livin', and I was a Jim Dandy at it, a down-and-outer, what made the suckers play with me? My honest face, by Jing! Mary's little lamb an' me might ha' bin twins. Mame's face is her fortin, and I'm lookin' for her photygraph in the Police Gazette. If I was twenty years younger, I'd want the purty sinner myself." **Bud and Hank would make it lively for you." 'I'd eat them two galoots fer breakfast and be hungry agin by dinner-time." I returned to the ranch a much-worried man. During two years Hank and Bud had been devoted friends; now Mame stood between them. Santy was not big enough to hold my two best cowboys. They behaved like dogs growling over a bone. On the range they went different ways. About the barn and in the house they glared fiercely at each other. Each mocked the other, and yet each — with the colossal conceit which characterises your true Native Son of the Golden West— believed that Mame was his for the asking. But they didn't ask. I wondered whether I could breathe a warning word into Mame's ear. In Santy, she had been the only person, male or female, who had treated me consistently with a rather chilling deference. I felt sure that my position as the owner of a large ranch had nothing to do with her attitude towards me. Her deference, if it could be really called that, was much more subtle. It involved the recog- nition of class distinctions. Had she been an English- woman I should have understood her perfectly. Always there was the difficulty of getting her alone. Next day, I seized my first opportunity. Nosey told me that the ancient cook was out for the afternoon, paying visits in Santy. Mame, I learned, was 167 Some Happenings in the kitchen. I found her reading a book which she closed as I entered. I saluted her gravely, and then plunged headlong. "Mame, there's trouble at the ranch-house, and you're at the bottom of it." "Am I?" "Yes. Hank and Bud, good boys, are crazy about you. Loco ! Bud writes poetry, and Hank hides himself in a Prince Albert coat, satin-lined." "I'll fix them. You leave it to me. They're nice boys. I'd hate to make trouble between them. Can't they keep the peace for a bit longer?" "I don't know. That sort of trouble gets acute mighty quick." "I'll watch out. Don't you worry!" She looked at me pensively, with a faint smile curving her red lips. I was near enough to glance carelessly at her nice brown hair, always exquisitely arranged. If she wore a wig, it was certainly one of the best, I took my leave more puzzled than ever. Nosey was waiting for me in the bar. "Any luck?" I repeated the conversation. Nosey nodded. "Playin' fer time, is she? Wal — that's a heap better'n doin' it. Say — I've a notion to give a ball. We'll hev a hog-killin' celebration." "Are you a dancer, Nosey?" / "A dancer — me?" I won the world's championship, when I was a kid. I danced fer seventeen hours. I quit dancin' after that." "Why?" "Wal, sir, after I'd downed the other competitors, I noticed that my pardner was kinder limp and listless. I hed to carry her to her seat, and a doctor got to work on i68 The Waitress at Santy her. He said that she'd bin dead two hours. That's what made me quit. Now, about this yere ball; we'll dance in the dining-room, and hev supper in the bar. You scare up a big crowd." "I wonder if Mame dances?" ''Does a cat eat sardines?" Ill The ball was a memorable affair. Apart from what may be described as the crowning surprise at the end of it, to be related in due time, there was the gathering together of a very remarkable crowd. Our foothills harboured some desperate characters, cattle-thieves and the like, to whom the lure of a fiesta was irresistible. Tickets for one gentle- man and his lady friend were sold at a dollar apiece. Nosey was not optimist enough to expect to make money out of the ball proper. A profit commensurate with the trouble taken would be gleaned at the bar. Hank appeared in his Prince Albert. Bud wore a black morning coat of mine. In the Wtsi there is an inviolate law: no trouble before women. Cowboys left their "guns" at home. AVe averaged three cavaliers to one lady, but that made things livelier for the girls. A local fiddler, a sheep-herder, was instructed to do his best. Mame, of course, was the Belle of the Ball. She wore a frock fashioned by herself out of cheese cloth. I never wish to take the floor with a lighter or better performer. She was kind enough to give me the first waltz. As we finished a young man entered the room, stood for an in- stant in the doorway, glanced round him, and then smiled. I thought he was smiling at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mame's face. She was very pale, and her eyes 169 Some Happenings held an odd furtive expression. This vanished immedi- ately, so quickly indeed that I thought I had been mis- taken. The young man approached. "Hello, Mary." "Hello, Gene." He put out his hand and grasped hers. I bowed and left them. As I did so I saw Bud staring hard at the stranger. Hank, just across the room, stared also. I turned to glance at our waitress. She was whispering to the stranger, as he stood smiling at her. They edged back out of the crowd. Bud came up to me and said hoarsely: "Say, you know that guy?" "I never saw him before." "Same here. I reckon to cut him outer the herd — pronto." He approached Mame, and I had curiosity enough to follow him at a discreet distance. He claimed the next dance, and carried off Mame triumphantly. Hank looked disappointed. The stranger smiled, surveying the crowd with a somewhat derisive lift of his eyebrows. He might have come out of the hills, but he was not of them. I sized him up as a city clerk. By all odds he was the hand- somest man in the room. During the next two hours I was trying to determine whether a comedy or a tragedy was being played under my nose. Mame danced with many men, but after each dance she returned to the stranger. Nobody was surprised to see them supping together. Obviously, too, Bud and Hank had joined issues in the common desire to "out" a dangerous rival. I found them together, drinking Nosey's inflammatory cocktails. No supper for them! The boys were on the friendliest terms. Nosey was busy behind his bar. The supper-tables were spread at the other end of the room, with a curtain discreetly hiding the bar from fair 170 The Waitress at Santy and censorious eyes. After supper the curtain would be taken down and the room given over to the men. Then, and not till then, those making or hunting trouble could count themselves free agents. At supper, each man waited upon himself and partner. I heard Bud say to Hank: "I've a notion to borry a gun from Nosey. This yere stranger may be heeled." Hank replied mournfully: ''Nosey ain't the sport he useter be." When they saw me, each affected a too boisterous hilarity. Somehow I felt sorry for the stranger. After supper we had a treat. Mame and the stranger took the floor together. In those days, the two-step was almost unknown. One two-step only figured upon the programme hung upon the wall behind the fiddler. He struck up a Sousa march. At once I knew that "Gene" was a professional dancer, as graceful as "Adonis" Dixey, and much of the same build. I knew also that this two- step had been promised to Bud when the programme was drawn up. Bud fancied himself as a dancer and had told all the boys to be "around" when the two-step was played. Bud watched the gyrating pair, conscious of grins upon the faces of the "boys." Hank, however, was quite as angry as Bud. Mame had promised to eat supper with him. Under the circumstances, I thought it prudent to have a word with Nosey. I found him below, taking down the curtain. When I recited the facts, he whistled. I added carelessly : "You were bragging about your dancing. You ought to see this fellow at it." "I will," said Nosey. "You wait till I take a squint at him." He hurried into the dancing-room, and was back in a 171 Some Happenings jiffy with an unmistakable expression upon his face. In moments of excitement the man's nose would twitch. Hence, possibly, his nickname. It was twitching now. He took my arm. "This thing is serious," he said hoarsely. "Do you know who Mame's huggin'?" *'I don't. They're old friends. This isn't the first time they've two-stepped together." "It may be the last," replied Nosey. "Oh, rot," I replied. "You and I can talk to the boys. Mame has let them down hard, but that clears the air between two old friends. It's our job to see that they don't pick a quarrel with this stranger." Nosey's answer surprised me : "I ain't worryin' about that. I've a notion to get a whiff o' fresh air. We'll leave that curtain up a mite longer." He went outside, where all the horses were hitched to a double row of rails. When he came back his nose was still twitching. "Go, git Hank and Bud — quick. Thar ain't a moment to lose." I obeyed — wondering. Bud and Hank asked no ques- tions. I fancy that they counted me in as a third party. Nosey had found an understudy to serve drinks. He beck- oned us into the kitchen. "Boys," he said to Hank and Bud, "Mame has double- crossed ye, ain't she?" Bud answered grimly : "The fun ain't over yet." "Now, you two boys are sports. D'ye want to heap red hot coals on Mame's head? She ain't for either of ye. This is a big chance to git even with her in a big way." "I ain't guessin' no riddles ter-night, old socks." 172 The Waitress at Santy Nosey *s voice sank to a melodramatic whisper. I can't remember whether or not he had been a world-famous actor. *'Boys, outside, under the big live oak, air the sheriff o' this yere county and two depities." *'Gee!" "They're waitin' for them two-steppers. It's my idee that we kin fool 'em. The Lord jined husband an' wife, let not man put 'em asunder." "Husband an' wife!" "Counterfeiters, both of 'em. I was in the green goods business onct. These two air champions." "Suffering Mike!" "The San Antone Kid and his wife. They was both dancers. I'd hate to think that my dance landed 'em in the penitentiary." We were stupefied into silence. I had read the story in the papers. Romance had tinctured an otherwise sordid tale. The police had made sure of capturing the criminals, because they escaped together and were known to be de- voted to each other. The wife was red-headed. "What kin we do?" murmured Bud. Nosey chuckled. "That's big money in the way of reward. You boys kin git even that a way." "You go to blazes." "Nosey has a plan," I suggested. "Yes, boys, I hev. Mame has two wigs. The Kid ain't overly big, and his face is as smooth as hers. The officers tracked him here. They don't know about Mame. Any- way, we must take that chance. If you two boys escorted two ladies down Magnolia Avenoo, with the moon full on yer faces, I'd bet what's in the till ye'd fool that crowd under the live oak. They'll be watchin' the Kid's broncho. ^7Z Some Happenings And," he looked hard at me, "the ranch-house ain't a mile away." We nodded solemnly. Nosey managed the details with consummate art. We three were as wax in his hands. The unwritten law helped us. The sheriff and his deputies had to consider popular opinion. To break up a pleasant party was against all precedent. They were content to wait till the guests dis- persed. The Kid changed into the working kit of a waitress in his wife's room. Several couples, after supper, went for a stroll au clair de la lune. Nosey and I engaged the Sheriff in conversation, assuming jocularly that they were after some of our cattle-lifting friends. I saw Bud and Hank come out of the hotel, each with an arm encircling his companion. Bud broke into song as he passed us : "I want yer, ma honey, yes, I do." The ladies were discreetly veiled. Next day, when the Kid and his wife were over the hills and far away, I said to Bud and Hank : "Which of you two boys walked with Mame ?" *T did," said Bud. "We spun a dollar about it. I squeezed Mame good and hard." Hank snickered: *'Mame kissed me when I told her good-bye." Nosey didn't advertise for another waitress. 174 XI THE DEATH MASK A PLASTER cast, the head of a young girl, used to hang upon the wall of a small room adjoining Burge's studio in Holland Park Road. It provoked innumerable ques- tions, for the face had a curious fascination; a subtlety of expression which few interpreted alike. In certain lights the sadness of it clutched at the heart. One could swear that the girl had suffered cruelly. And yet, dominating the anguish and even obHterating it, glowed a joy. Some- times Burge would say abruptly: *'Well, what do you make of that smile ?" and as likely as not a stranger would reply: "I see no smile." Then Burge always displayed nervousness and anxiety. As a rule he would take down the cast, turning it this way and that, and murmuring: **Now, now you have it — you must see it. Why, man, it's radiant." And always, mind you, the stranger did see the smile, which once seen never vanished, although intermin- able debates arose concerning the quality of it: some main- taining that it expressed peace, patience, or serenity; others — perhaps these had more imagination — detecting satisfaction, complacency — triumph ! What triumph, was asked? That of the quick or the dead. And then Burge would inflame curiosity by the statement that the cast was a death mask. It seemed incredible, because the cold plaster palpitated with life. 175 Some Happenings Burge liked to talk about the cast, but he resented ques- tions about the woman. His old friends, fellow-students in Paris, Florence, and Dusseldorf, recalled no such face amongst the models of their day, but they generally added that Burge was a queer fish who had swum in many seas. The indiscreet: "I say, Burge, did you know this girl?" always provoked the slow drawling reply: "Not I, but I know her now." Burge was dying of some mysterious disease which de- fied diagnosis. He had achieved fame as a painter of men. He never painted women. In his student days great things had been predicted of him as a painter of the nude. Con- noisseurs raved about his flesh tints, his modelling, his amazing technique. Great ladies asked him to paint their portraits. Always he refused, abruptly and emphatically. I called upon him only a few days before he died. He was sitting in an armchair staring at the cast. When I asked him how he did, he answered absently: "Do you see forgiveness in her face?" I was able to reply honestly enough that forgiveness shone out of it; and it seemed amazing to me that this particular interpretation of the general expression had escaped our notice. "I have looked for it for more than ten years," he muttered. Then he added slowly: "Some day I may tell you the story of this cast, but not now." A week afterwards I learned that he was dead, and later his executors gave me notice that his pictures and furniture would be sold at auction. I attended the sale with the in- tention of buying the mask, but others, it seemed, were as anxious to possess it as I. When it was put up, the bidding became brisk, running from five shillings to five pounds within as many minutes. "Any advance on five ?" said the auctioneer. 176 The Death Mask "Six," said I, hoping that the extra pound would make the cast my property. ''Seven," said a stranger. I stared at a shrivelled, brown-faced, white-haired man, of middle age, obviously a Frenchman, who sat on a chair facing the auctioneer. He took no notice of me ; his eyes, of an inscrutable opaque blue, were fixed upon the plastei cast. Looking into those dull orbs, one felt that the light of the man's life had been turned out — for ever. I had an impression that I had seen him somewhere before ; whert I could not remember. "Eight pounds," I said sharply. "Ten." Then he looked at me — piteously, mutely beseeching me not to outbid him. I was sensible that he would go no further, that the cast was mine for an extra pound, and the desire to possess it became irresistible. But with the stranger's eyes upon me, I hesitated. The auctioneer asked if I would advance the latest bid. I muttered confusedly : "Eleven." Silence followed, broken by the thud of the falling hammer. The mask was mine. I left the studio, half an hour later, with the cast under my arm. Outside, a short November day was drawing to a forlorn close. No rain fell, but a fog impended, and the lamps already lit shone palely out of a thickening mist. I thought of my comfortable rooms and quickened my pace. "Monsieur!" I clutched my cast. The Frenchman was waiting for me, and in his opaque eyes which rested upon the parcel under my arm I read something which caused me, involuntarily, to glance round in search of a policeman. He made a gesture of apology, and continued quickly: "I beg pardon, but Monsieur is the gentleman who bought the cast. Will ^77 Some Happenings Monsieur accord me one minute of his valuable time?" "We can talk as we walk," said I. This man, I told myself, might have a story to tell, and I was a story-teller. I had bought the cast with the intention of writing a story about it. The Frenchman began volubly: ''Monsieur has paid a great sum of money for a cast worth a couple of francs? Monsieur is a man of heart. Without doubt he wished to procure — at any price — a souvenir of a friend. At the same time, money is money. Monsieur will pardon the indiscretion, but he has not the air of a Rothschild, par exemple . . ." I cut him short. ''Have I met you before?" "No, Monsieur, but " "What do you want?" "A bagatelle, for which I am willing to pay half the sum Monsieur has paid. I am an artist, moi, and I am en- chanted, ravished with the cast, which is unique. If Mon- sieur would allow a copy to be made " I hesitated. My lodging was near at hand. I felt un- able to say yes or no in a hurry. But I had paid a sum greater than I could afford, and the prospect of splitting it in two was not disagreeable. The Frenchman accepted an invitation to climb my stairs with alacrity. "You are well installed. Monsieur," said he, as we reached the first floor. "Yes," I replied carelessly. "I have a couple of rooms for myself, and another for an occasional guest." I indi- cated the door of my guest-chamber with a gesture, as we passed into my sitting-room. At once my visitor begged to be allowed to see the cast. When the face with its subtle smile was revealed, he began to murmur extravagant phrases of admiration. "It is adorable, but adorable. Monsieur feels the charm — heinf Monsieur is artiste? Is it not so?" 178 The Death Mask 'Yes," said I. "And if one could reproduce the colour- ing "But that is easy, Monsieur." He paused, half shutting his eyes. "I can see her — the angel. Hair of pale gold, of the fineness of silk, floss silk, with a ripple — and of a length ! And the skin — pale comme un beau soir d'automne! And of a texture! Dieu de Dieu! And the lips — coral, showing small white teeth set wide. And her eyes !" **Blue, no doubt," I hazarded. He shook his head. ''Blue is cold. Monsieur. Picture to yourself the colour of the shadow which falls on a white road, when the sun is hot and high. Bon! I will tell you how to make that colour, so elusive, so tender. Mix the gold of the hair with the coral of the lip — so, and then add a bleu celeste . . ." He fell into a reverie. "And the figure," said I, gently touching him. *'Ah — the figure! Had Monsieur seen a nymph in the Louvre: a masterpiece: Amove Cieco. She had the same limbs " He stopped suddenly, and I saw that his thin fingers, trembled and twitched. "You knew her?" said I. "Yes." I had the feeling that I was constraining him to tell the truth against his will. "And Burge knew her?" "Ah — Burge !" In an instant his face changed : and a sinister light glowed in his opaque eyes ; in a sort of inar- ticulate fury he began to stammer out abuse of Burge "Burge is dead," I said coldly. "Yes — he escaped." Burge had been twice my visitor's weight and size ; yet for I7Q Some Happenings the moment, so invincible is the strength of human hate, I felt a relief that Burge had escaped. But beyond and above this singular relief was the conviction that the word '"escaped" set forth the expression of complacency upon the fact of the cast, one of the many expressions which challenged curiosity. ''And she escaped?" said I tentatively. "Did she?" I append a note of interrogation, but the note was ad- dressed by the speaker to himself, not to me. "Certainly," I replied. "She wanted to escape from some one — and she did escape — from some one. Was it you?" At last I had aroused his indignation. He turned on me furiously : "You — you — you dare to ask such questions? By what right? This is infamous — an outrage!" "True. I beg pardon. Good-night." He glared at me, confounded by the simple word of dis- missal. Then his glance softened as it fell upon the cast. In the gathering shadows I seemed to note a new expres- sion upon the lips ; the smile had become derisive. This discovery so absorbed me that I failed to notice the de- parture of my visitor. A door slammed violently, before I realised that I was alone. Contrary to custom I dined at home that night. My landlady, an excellent creature whom I had supposed to be absolutely lacking in imagination, brought up my tray. I was staring at the cast as she entered the room. Immedi- ately curiosity flamed upon her dull florid face. The state- ment that I held a death mask provoked a gurgle of dis- may. I asked her what she made of it, as she approached the table with a decanter of claret in her hand. 1 80 The Death Mask "The pore thing looks as if she'd been murdered." "Good God !" said I. The light from a hanging lamp passing through the de- canter of claret had flung a crimson stain upon the white neck. It vanished as the woman moved, but the horrible significance of it remained. More, I noticed, something which till then had escaped observation. The base of the throat was encircled by what hitherto I had taken to be the band of a dress. Now it struck me with a crushing violence of conviction that the band was a — bandage! The landlady bustled away with a backward glance of horror at the mask. I ate my dinner with feeble appetite, and lit a cigar. Then I hung the cast upon a nail on the wall, and sitting opposite to it tried to wring from it the secret behind the smile. I had listened to extravagant speculations concerning the fate of the dead girl, but none had included the suggestion of a violent end. The smoke from my cigar curled upwards in thickening spirals, ob- scuring the plaster, revealing the flesh and blood. By Heaven ! the landlady had hit the mark. This sweet creature had been done to death. Suicide I rejected: confronted by the serenity and sanity of her expression. She had been murdered. And yet — the face was so gentle, so ten- der, it suffused such an atmosphere of peace that I shrank appalled from what seemed a monstrous, abominable viola- tion. The white purity of the plaster was defiled, deflowered by the atrocious word : — murder ! I went to bed early and tried to compose myself to sleep. But soon I became aware that I was helplessly wide awake, and likely to remain so. Finding it impossible to wean my thoughts from the mask, I gave myself up to speculation in regard to it. I began to regret the premature dismissal of the Frenchman. If I had granted his request, if I had permitted him to make a copy, I might at least have learned i8i Some Happenings his name — false or assumed — and his address. But he had inspired a repugnance of such intensity, that at the moment when I bade him good-bye, I could have violently thrust him out of the room, had he not gone away of his own accord. Why? I am not a morbid man. As a journalist I have met and talked with noted criminals. I can remember perfectly the impression made upon me by such monsters as Peace and Lefroy; an impression com- pounded of horror, curiosity, and interest, but not fear. Why had this Frenchman so affected me? Inexorably, I determined that something more than coincidence had brought us together, that the man had come into my life, and that he and I would meet again. One thing was certain: he had loved the girl whose death mask was in my possession. Finally, I fell asleep, to wake in a rigour of terror quite indescribable. I had dreamed that I had seen the girl lying in bed. I my dream I watched her, fascinated by the beauty of her face. But as I gazed, spell-bound, and unable to conjecture how or why I came to be there, the conviction stole upon me that the girl was not asleep but dead; and this conviction paralysed my energies, so that I dared not move to satisfy myself of the truth of it. I could only stare at the lips which smiled delicately, derisively — and yet happily. Not till I perceived the happiness of the smile was I able to move. I touched her cheek, it was cool not cold; I laid my ear to her lips. Alas! She was dead. Or — hope quickened my pulses — in a trance. Perhaps her heart still beat, but so faintly that its vibrations could not pass through the thick bed clothes tucked tightly round her and up to her chin. With a certain hesitation, I thrust my hand beneath the sheet and laid it trembling on her bosom. 182 The Death Mask I withdrew it instantly. My fingers, the whole hand in- deed, were dripping wet and — hideously red. The horror of it woke me. Within a minute, however, I was able to laugh at the nightmare, to reconstruct it, adjusting fact and fancy. Later, I began to regard it as material out of which I might weave a story. The dream had been so vivid that I de- termined to write down what I could still see and feel, before the mirage faded and the thrill passed. I did not strike a match, because a full moon was shining through the window ; and I remember wondering whether its beams had touched my brain. Then I crossed to the door and passed through it and into the room beyond. Upon my desk lay notebook and pencil ; upon the wall hung the cast. At that moment it was a piece of plaster — nothing more. Staring at it, my imagination cooled. To warm it I decided to try an experiment. I took the mask from its nail, returned to my bedroom, and laid the girl's face upon my pillow. With the aid of other pillows and cushions I simulated a woman's form, covering all with the bed- clothes and tucking them tight under the chin. The moon- light, however, was too strong. I pulled down one blind and then another. Finally I was satisfied. By some happy chance I had succeeded beyond expectation. A stranger would have sworn that a young girl lay sleeping in the shadows. I was about to fetch my pencil and notebook, when I noted an effect for which I was unprepared. The bosom of the figure on my bed was rising and falling. At once I guessed the cause: one of the blinds, silently moved by a draught, had produced an optical delusion, so perfect that I strained my ears to catch the sound of the sleeper's breathing. And I heard — breathing; a low, gasping sigh, 183 Some Happenings which came, assuredly, from a living creature moving in my sitting-room! And now the same paralysis which overtook me in my dream came upon me in reality. I could not move hand or foot, although my brain became incredibly active. I clutched the truth instantly. The stranger with the un- canny eyes was in my sitting-room, looking for the cast, with the intention, doubtless, of stealing it; I recalled his sudden exit, the slam of the door, the silence that suc- ceeded. He had not gone downstairs, but had slipped into my spare room, the room I had told him was seldom used. My ears warned pie of his stealthy approach ; the door behind stood ajar; I could tell to an inch where he stood and what he was doing; I could follow him in fancy as he glided slowly from table to chimney-piece, from chimney- piece to desk, inevitably nearing me, me, the impotent, panic-stricken fool ! His fingers encircled the handle of the door between us as power returned to my muscles ; but freedom had been restored too late. If I moved, he would be upon me; and if he were armed what chance would be mine? The door opened inwards. I crouched behind it. I suppose that when he entered his eye fell upon the bed, and the figure lying on it. And it may be conceived thai the shock of what he saw was overpowering. He staggered forward, exclaiming: **Claire — Claire!" and fell senseless at the foot of the bed. When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting on the carpet, pinioned to the stout bedpost, and staring vacantly into my face. "Claire," he repeated, "Claire." I made him understand what had taken place. "I wanted the cast," he said simply. 'T had no thought of injuring you, Monsieur." 184 The Death Mask As he carried no weapon, a fact I had taken pains to find out, I was inclined to believe him. "All the same you have committed a felony." He shrugged his shoulders. Then he said derisively: ''You can send me to one of your prisons. Enfin, I shall find it a pleasant change after New Caledonia." ''You have been in a French penal settlement?" "Do I look as if I had been spending my life in the Faubourg Saint Germain?" "Why were you sent to New Caledonia?" "Monsieur likes to ask questions." "And if you answer them, I may let you go. For what crime were you sent to New Caledonia?" "I was convicted of — murder." The ferocity in the man's face had melted out of it, leaving behind a pathetic despair. I tried to take from the thin and twisted features the lines which abominable hard- ships had inflicted; and then I perceived that once this poor wretch had been young and handsome. Now he was so broken, so crippled by suffering, that I could hardly realise that he had inspired in me any feeling save that of pity. In silence I removed the strap and assisted him to rise. He refused food, but accepted a small glass of brandy. "You ask no more questions. Monsieur." I felt hot, because my curiosity, mordant as ever, seemed shameful, vulgar, cruel. In a crude fashion I explained this to him, and begged his pardon. He eyed me curiously, as he asked if I understood French. Upon my replying in the affirmative, he said in his own tongue that he would tell me his story, because he felt sure that I would believe it. In a year or two, he added, he would be dead, and then, if I so pleased, I could repeat the tale to others. I gave him a chair. Holding the cast between his scarred 185 Some Happenings trembling hands, staring at it with a fierce yet piteous inter- rogation, as if he were asking a question which never could be answered, he began to speak with a listless intona- tion, whose monotony became more and more impressive. Frequently he paused, and his intermittences of silence moved me profoundly. I may describe the impression they made on me by comparing them to the interstellar spaces. His words, like the stars on a dark night, illumined without revealing the universe of darkness and mystery which en- compassed them. II "Burge and I," he began, "were fellow students at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, pupils of the famous Saphir. We were also friends, and lodged together in the rue de Soleil d'or, which runs into the Quai des Grands Augustins. In the summer of '86 we went to Brittany, to Port Navalo, a hamlet of fisher-folk situated on a small island in the bay of Morbihan. All the able-bodied men had sailed away to Iceland, a la grande peche. . . . *'Here, we found a rude lodging in the house of a widow. Picture to yourself a long, low building of grey granite with a yard behind surrounded by stables and a granary. The lower front windows looked out upon the, bay, upon that terrible race. La Jument, which, at each turn of the tide, boils between Port Navalo and Locmariaker. In this whirlpool, the husband of the widow had disappeared. She told us that he was one of the few peasant proprietors of the island, and we learned from others that he had squan- dered his substance in the wineshops of Vannes. No sober man would have tried to steer a boat through that raging rapid. When he died nothing was left to the widow — Mere le Benz — but the old homestead and one child — Claire. i86 The Death Mask "Monsieur, I cannot speak of the child's charm. But it lives in this plaster cast. Burge and I were mad to paint her. It was that at first, nothing more. We had found a model. . . . **The mother, you must understand, was Bretonne hretonnante, a peasant of Morbihan, pious, superstitious, illiterate, and a grasper of centimes. But Claire had been educated at a small convent whose Mother Superior was the sister of her father. She spoke French, and had pretty manners. The aunt had wished her to take the veil, but she preferred to help her mother, who was crippled by rheumatism. When we came to Port Navalo, she had just turned seventeen. She was too good. Monsieur, so kind, so tender to the unfortunate, that the people of the island adored her. To many she seemed to be a true daughter of the Holy Mother. I have seen children cross themselves when she went by. . . . "We asked her to pose. She refused. Meantime we had made a studio out of an attic above the granary. Here we worked when the weather was bad, and smoked, and talked. We talked of art, Monsieur. We never wearied of describing the great pictures which we meant to paint. When the weather was fine we worked en plein air. Each day I asked Claire to pose, each day she refused. . . . **And then, one evening, Burge said to me abruptly, T begin a study of Claire's head to-morrow.' *' 'You have persuaded her?' said I. '* T have persuaded the mother. They are pious souls. It seems that the father died in mortal sin. Many masses must be paid for the repose of his soul. For the rest, everything comes to him who knows how to wait.' ''Next morning. Monsieur, the poor child carried wet eyes to the studio. I was furious, because Burge had succeeded, furious because he, my friend, was not willing 187 Some Happenings to share his good fortune with me. Naturally I laughed at Claire's scruples. . . . "But her instinct had warned her. The day came too soon, when she ran, laughing and singing, to the studio; she came away sighing. Monsieur, those sighs pierced my heart, for I guessed how it was with her, and by that time I knew well enough how it was with me. . . . "Burge made two studies of her head, but he was not satisfied. He entreated her to take off her coiffe. You know, Monsieur, that a Bretonne maiden never uncovers her head to a stranger. But Burge insisted. And she consented. . . . **You will guess what followed. Burge was insatiable. He wanted her for the figure. He had told me that he wished to paint her as Blandina, the martyr. And he had dared to tell her, the simple child, that she ought to feel honoured, that the Holy Mother would approve, that her scruples were sinful. . . . "Monsieur, I swear to you that if he had loved her, I could have forgive him, but he cared for nothing save his art. When he discovered that she loved him, he used her love as a lever to warp her will to his. I told him that he was doing an evil thing. *I have respected her,' said he. I laughed in his face and left him. He had respected her, this cold-blooded Englishman. He had respected her. "About this time, gossip touched her with its poisonous tongue. The children, whom she loved, jeered when she went by, the women flouted her — the pure angel ! "She must have suffered horribly; but her beauty in- creased. She had steadily refused to pose for the figure, but Burge felt confident that she would yield in the end. And I knew the strength of his will. *I do not regret this delay,' he said to me, ^because she is getting the exact 1 88 The Death Mask expression I want. I tell you that my picture, Blandina, Virgin and Martyr, will make me famous !' " 'You had better make haste,' I replied. 'When the men return from Iceland, Jan Taric may have something to say.' "Jan Taric, we had been told, was mad for love of Claire. She used to talk of him when we first came to Navalo. Of late, she had not mentioned Jan's name, and when I spoke of him to her, she seemed nervous and distressed. "Next day, Burge told me that he wanted the studio to himself, during certain hours. Then I knew that Claire had yielded, that the big picture was to be begun. "Three weeks passed. Each morning, each evening, I saw the huge canvas leaning face to the wall. Burge said that he would not show it to me till it was done. He worked in a frenzy of excitement, in a fever which seemed to consume not him, the strong man, but Claire. And Burge, the animal! must have known it. For me, I could not touch a brush. I spent my time on the beach, staring at La Jument, that terrible monster which had swallowed up Claire's father. And it seemed to me less ruthless, less cruel, than the man, my friend, who was devouring Claire. La Jument slays swiftly! "Sitting by the sea, I watched the boats come home from the north. One by one they sailed into the bay, and the hoarse voices of the men were heard on the quay and smiles lay on the faces of the women. . . . "I am certain that Claire knew that, save as a model, she was less to Burge than a tube of paint. The knowledge gave her a resignation, a pathos, a dignity, which Burge transferred to his canvas. . . . "And then, one afternoon, La Cigale, Jan's boat, sailed into the bay. Jan came ashore: a giant with huge shoul- ders, and fierce smouldering eyes, an unsmiling man, Mon- 189 Some Happenings sieur, with the sadness of those northern seas on his face and in his blood. I saw him look at Claire only once, but that was enough. Already he had heard the gossip; he knew that the girl he adored spent hours alone in the studio of the tall, handsome Englishman. When he met Claire upon the quay, he turned his back upon her, saying a word in Breton which I did not understand. ^'Monsieur, not till then did I realise what Burge had done. Claire stood stupefied, staring at Jan. The other women laughed, as she turned and went slowly up the hill to her mother's house. I followed her. When we were out of sight, I caught her up. She was weeping in a despairing silence terrible to witness. I took her hand and asked her to become my wife. She refused — smiling through her tears, the tender creature — and begged me to leave her. I ran on to the house, where I found Burge in his room. I told him that Jan Taric had insulted Claire; he looked uneasy, nothing more. Then he said slowly : Terhaps we had better pack our traps and go.' " * Your picture is finished ?' I cried. ** 'Yes,' he replied gravely. 'Come and look at it.' *'We walked in silence to the attic. Burge turned roimd the big canvas, and laughed triumphantly. . . . "He had painted a — masterpiece. One always knows what is really great, Monsieur — is it not so? Saphir had said that Burge would go far, and now he had gone, at a jump, so far that the distance between us seemed immeasur- able. For the moment, you see, I could think of nothing but the picture which he had boasted would make him famous: Blandina, Virgin and Martyr. . . . "I swear to you. Monsieur, that my eyes were wet for Blandina, not Claire. And then I remembered. After all, this man had only painted what he saw, a virgin and a martyr: a martyr to a cruel and insatiable ambition. . . . 190 The Death Mask He would pack his traps, as he said, and depart; Claire would remain — naked and ashamed! "A sort of fury possessed me, and then, as I was strug- gling to control myself, I heard him say: Tell me frankly, what is in your mind.' " 'You have painted a great picture,' I said vehemently, *and you have painted it with the blood of a martyr.' "He asked for an explanation. I told him what he had done, and then for her sake I entreated him to marry her. It was the only expiation possible. She was pure, beautiful, intelligent. A peasant, if you will, but he, Burge, was of the people, a bourgeois, the son, I believe, of a small farmer. He listened patiently enough ; then he said derisively : *Why do you not marry her yourself?' I told him that I had offered her marriage. He shrugged his shoulders. 'You are a madman,' he said contemptuously; 'in a month this girl will have forgotten both of us. She will marry her Jan before All Saints' Day. I shall tell her to do so.' ''Monsieur, the rage of La Jument possessed me. I do not remember what I said. The words boiled out of my mouth, as the strong tide of love rushed to meet an incom- ing ocean of hate. . . . ''When I paused, spent by passion, he laughed ! Then I struck him; and he struck back, giving me a dozen blows for my one. Finally, he thrust me from the studio, and flung me, half senseless, down the steps into the court- yard. . . . "I went to my own room and locked the door. "Monsieur, murder was in my heart. I had been beaten by a man infinitely stronger than myself. And his blows, had fallen on my head and heart, crushing everything within me save the instinct of revenge. I lay on my bed for hours, thinking how, when, where, I should kill him. Presently, I heard him enter his room, which was next to Some Happenings mine. He hummed some song — a chanson d'atelier — as he leisurely undressed. . . . *'That was the last straw. He could sing, when Claire and I had suffered so atrociously at his hands. "I rose from my bed and looked out of the window. Be- low, to the right, I could hear La Jument roaring, tossing her white mane, as the waters of the great bay met the irresistible tide of the Atlantic; and then, suddenly, above the roar, a lamentable cry, an importunate wail, pierced my ears. I told myself it was the escape of a sea bird, the mournful note of a plover or curlew, but in a vague mysterious fear I connected it with Claire. It seemed as if she were protesting against what I was about to do. . . . "For my plan was matured. On the morrow I would make my peace with Burge. Then I would propose a sail on the bay. We had sailed together many a time, and always I, and not Burge, handled the boat. He would sit in the bows, absorbed in thought, gazing out over the waters. How easy it would be to delay our return to Port Navalo upon some obvious pretext of wind or tide. And then, how easy to drift into the fierce current of La Jument. Next day our bodies would drift ashore on the sands of Locmariaker. . . . And at the last, when we were doomed, I would rouse him from his reverie, and tell him what I had done. . . . "Presently, I was seized with an irresistible desire to look again upon the picture Burge had painted. I slipped out of the window, and walked round the house to the back yard. "Claire and her mother slept in two attics above the kitchen, which were reached by an outside staircase often seen in Breton houses. I paused as I passed the staircase, gazing up at the old woman's window, filled with an intense resentment against her piety and greed. 192 The Death Mask ''I crossed the yard and ascended the steps down which I had been flung. The key of the studio lay in a place only known to Burge and myself, but, to my dismay, I dis- covered that Burge had removed it. Almost at the same moment I saw that the door had been burst open. Obvi- ously, great violence had been used, for the lock, a stout one, was shattered and the wood about it splintered. I went in. The moon was shining as it shines now. And the light from the window in the roof fell upon Burge's picture. Monsieur — it was slashed and mutilated beyond descrip- tion. . . . "Of course, this was the work of Jan. And, believe me, Monsieur, his hideous violence, his devil of destruction, drove the fiend out of me. I realised instantly that Jan, ignorant, stupid, primitive, had divined a revenge sweeter than mine. I had not lived with Burge for three years without finding out that his art was dearer to him than life. Jan, I reflected, had done me a service for which I must thank him. . . . ''And then — ah, my God! — that lamentable cry sufifused my thoughts with a dolorous suspicion which ripened almost instantly into certainty. The savage who thrust a knife into the incomparable beauty of the picture had not stayed his hand tiiere. . . . "I ran back to the foot of the staircase leading to Claire's room. Here, upon the first step I found a shred of canvas. I ascended the stairs, distracted with horror. The door at the top, like the door of the studio, had been burst open. I entered a small passage and paused before Claire's door. ... 'T cannot tell how long I stood there, the sv/eat pouring from my skin, not daring to cross the threshold, yet sensible that I must. . . . "When I pushed open the door, all was quiet and peace- 193 Some Happenings ful. At the other end of the room was a lit clos, and on it lay Claire — seemingly asleep. I could just see her face in profile, her brow, nose and chin white against the shadows. "Monsieur," his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, *'as I was thanking God that all was well with her, I saw the handle of a knife above her bosom ! And I recognised it for mine : a misericorde I had bought at Vannes. "There comes a moment in the lives of all unfortunates, when mind and body part company. I cannot tell you what happened next, for at the moment when I recognised that knife, something seemed to snap in my brain. I awoke to find myself in a padded cell. . . . *'And then followed my trial for the murder of Claire. Monsieur knows that in my country the innocent must prove their innocence. And I could prove nothing. Burge, of course, believed me guilty. He made certain that I had destroyed first his picture, and then Claire. He testified against me. And his evidence sent me to the heat, the flies, the fever of New Caledonia. . . . "It was easy for Jan Taric to prove an alibi. His brother — they stand by each other, the Bretons — swore that Jan had spent the early part of the night in his company at a wine- shop. After midnight, they had sailed together in a senagot to some fishing-grounds, whence they returned next morn- ing with a big catch of mullet. Last year, Jan died of pneu- monia, and dying confessed his crime. I was released. . . . "Monsieur, I had never doubted that I would be released. That conviction had sustained me when men stronger than I — died. I would be released sooner or later, and then I would kill Burge. I came home to kill him. I traced him to London, I found him famous — and " . "And dead," said L "Monsieur, he was aHve a year ago. Well, it was cer- tain that he would not recognise me. But, Monsieur, I 194 The Death Mask never thought it possible that I should fail to recognise him. He had changed as I had changed; the wreck of what he had been. The Burge that I had sworn I would kill was not. None the less, my purpose remained inflexible. I went to his studio, and offered myself as a model. Ah — you re- member now. You never met me, but you have seen my face in one of Burge's pictures. I posed to him for a fort- night. I bided my time, knowing that it would come. It came, of course. One afternoon, he was tired. He went into the room next the studio to lie down. I was told to wait. Presently, I heard him breathing heavily in his sleep. I crept into the room. Burge lay upon a couch — at my mercy. . . . *'At that moment. Monsieur, I saw the cast, hanging above his head, looking down upon him, pleading for him, pro- tecting him. For the moment I thought Claire had come to life. Then I knew that Burge must have taken it from her dead face. Monsieur, I hated him then, and I hate him now, but I could not kill him. I turned from the couch and walked to the door. At the last I glanced at the head upon the wall. And then I saw the smile, the smile which had triumphed over death. . . . "Monsieur, there is nothing more to tell . . ." When he had finished, the supreme disaster of his life struck me dumb. He repeated the last phrase: "There is nothing more to tell." ''Burge is dead and you are alive," I said slowly. Then, as he stared at me, not understanding, I added : "The doc- tors were unable to say what killed him. He suffered from no organic disease, he never married; he never painted a woman. What is implied? Can you doubt, can any man doubt, that remorse killed him, inch by inch, ruthlessly, in- exorably ? I found the cast in his hands a few hours before 195 Some Happenings he died. He held it as you hold it, tenderly yet firmly, as if loath to let it go. The dead entered the heart which had closed itself against the living. Take the cast. It is yours. In time, if not now, you will interpret, as Burge did, its true message." The poor fellow stared at the mask; then he stammered out: *'What did it mean to Burge?" ^'Forgiveness," I answered. 196 XII THE LACQUER CABINET OUINNEY chuckled as he reread the letter which of- fered him a thousand pounds for his cherished lacquer cabinet, and he kept on rubbing his yellow, wrinkled hands and muttering: 'Tike to have it, wouldn't you? But you won't, my man. No, by gum, not if you offered double the money !" He was alone in the sanctuary of his best things. The heavy shutters were up, a wood fire glowed as if with pleas- ure upon a steel fender of the best Adam's period. The electric lights in amber-coloured globes shone softly, caressing the Chippendale furniture and throwing delicate shadows upon the Aubusson carpet. Only the elect entered this famous room, and every article in it was known and beloved by the great collectors who dealt with Quinney. The passion for beautiful things was in his blood. His father had started a small curiosity shop in Salisbury, and Quinney himself, as a boy of ten, used to gloat over the Ming figures, and touch them furtively in flagrant disobedi- ence of rules. After his father's death he had moved to London and bought a fine Georgian house in Soho, which he had gradually filled with masterpieces. He was never tired of gazing at them with enraptured eyes. And he refused, as he grew older and richer, to part with the gems of his col- lection. Nobody, not even Quinney, knew what the con- tents of this particular room were worth. Beside himself, only two persons entered it — his daughter, Posy, and his principal assistant, James Migott, a young man with a nose 197 Some Happenings almost as keen as Quinney's for beauty, and a fine pair of eyes which, in contrast to Quinney's, dwelt lovingly upon what was animate as well as inanimate. Quinney, from being much by himself, had acquired the habit of thinking aloud; and, although his surroundings were Attic, his speech remained rudely Doric. As he tore up the millionaire's letter he muttered: "Wonderful man I am! To think that I should live to refuse an offer of a thousand pounds for that cabinet ! Sometimes I'm surprised at myself. By gum, I am!" He approached the lacquer cabinet, a superb example of the best Japanese art of the eighteenth century, black and gold, with gold storks exquisitely delineated flying amongst golden flowers. The petals of the flowers were made of thin sheets of pure gold let into the lacquer. The stand upon which it stood was English, with curved ball and claw legs, also a miracle of craftsmanship. Nothing stood upon the cabinet except a large jar of the rare Kang-shi famille noire porcelain. The inside of the cabinet was as lavishly decorated as the outside, and it was signed with the name of the greatest of Japanese artists. The American mil- lionaire had asked for a copy of this signature. Quinney gloated over the decoration for at least five min- utes ; and then he noticed that the key was missing. Nothing was kept in the cabinet, and the lock, possibly, was the only part of it which could be criticised, for a child could have picked it with a hairpin. Quinney's eyes wandered to the Kang-shi jar, and presently he took it lovingly into his hands, stroking it, enjoying voluptuously the texture of the paste. He put his tongue to it, an infallible test; and from long practice he could have told you, had he been blind, that the temperature of the porcelain and its texture were confirmation stronger than any marks of quality and 198 The Lacquer Cabinet date. Then he thrust his hand into the interior to satisfy himself for the thousandth time of its amazing finish. Inside the jar was the key of the cabinet ! This astonished him, because he was living in a world from which the surprising had been rigorously eliminated. Why was the key of the cabinet hidden in the jar? Who had placed it there? Posy — or James Migott? He sat down upon the finest Chippendale settee in the world to reflect upon this incident. Oddly enough, it dis- turbed him, although it was reasonable to suppose that his daughter intended to tell him where she had put the key, which certainly fitted the lock too loosely and had been known to fall out of it. Finally, he decided that Posy, good girl, had chosen an excellent place for the key ; but she ought to have told him. He would speak to her on the morrow. He put the key back into the jar, and as he did so a clock began to chime the hour of midnight. Ouinney listened to the silvery bells with the same enraptured expression which the gold petals upon the cabinet evoked. He reflected that time passed too nimbly when a man was perfectly happy. As a rule, he went to bed at half-past eleven, but the Amer- ican's letter had engrossed his attention unduly. The man wanted the cabinet so tremendously, and this lust for an- other's possession was well understood by Quinney, for he sufifered cruelly from it himself. There were bits in the Museums which he would have stolen without compunc- tion, could he have "lifted" them without fear of detection. He switched off the electric light, and by the faint glow of the fire turned to mount the stairs leading to his bed- room. But he paused on the threshold of his room, for a last glance at the sanctuary. Some of the things he would have liked to kiss, and this sentiment seemed to wax stronger with advancing years. He never left his wonderful 199 Some Happenings room without reflecting sadly that the day would inevitably come when he would have to leave it forever. At this moment he heard approaching footsteps — soft, stealthy footsteps, which might be those of a midnight rob- ber! Quinney was no coward, and he was comfortably aware that his precious things would not be likely to tempt the ordinary burglar, because of the difficulty in disposing of them. Noiselessly he withdrew to the outer room, which held the furniture and china that could be bought. From the darkness of this outer room he could see without being seen. He nearly betrayed his presence when Posy entered the sanctuary, clothed in a silk dressing-gown, with her pretty hair in two long plaits. What on earth was the girl up to? She glided across the Aubusson carpet, upon which great ladies of the French pre-Revolution period had stood, and approached the lacquer cabinet. She thrust a white, slender arm into the great jar, took from it the key, unlocked the cabinet, opened it, waited a moment, with her back to her father, who was not able to see what she was doing, closed and locked the cabinet, replaced the key in the jar, and flitted away as silently as she had come ! Quinney wiped the dew of bewilderment from his high but narrow brow. The girl must be crazy ! He waited till he heard the closing of her door upstairs ; then he turned on the light and went to the cabinet. In the« second drawer he found a letter, which he read. My Own Blue Bird! Quinney paused. He had not seen Maeterlinck's famous play, but Posy had raved about it — with absurd enthusiasm, 200 The Lacquer Cabinet so he had thought at the time — and he remembered that the Blue Bird represented happiness. "My Own Blue Bird, "It was splendidly clever of you to think of using that stupid old cabinet as a pillar-box, and the fact that we are corresponding under the very nose of father makes the whole affair deliriously exciting and romantic. I should like to see his funny old face, if he could read this. . . ." "You shall, my girl," thought Quinney, grimly. He knew that the "Blue Bird" must be James Migott, drat him ! It could be nobody else. Quinney had guarded Posy very jealously. James was not permitted to speak to her ex- cept in his presence. And no letter to her, coming in the ordinary way, would have escaped his notice. So ! this young man, whom he had trained to be a faithful servant, was carrying on a clandestine love affair with his only child and using the lacquer cabinet as a pillar-box? He wiped his mouth with the silk handkerchief which he used to remove dust from his china, and his fingers trembled, for he was quivering with rage. Then he finished the letter: — "We have got to be most awfully careful, because if he saw me talking to you, except about his ridiculous business, he would simply chatter with rage. And, make no mistake, my feeHngs wouldn't count. I'm not nearly so dear to him as that Chelsea figure by Roubiliac. He only cares for things, not a brass farthing for persons. But, oh, Jim, I care more for you than all the things in the world, and I have had no love since mother died. Think of what I have to make up ! 20 1 Some Happenings "I shall get your answer to this when father is having his cigar after lunch. "Your loving, "Posy." Quinney put the billet back in the drawer, muttering to himself, "I shall get the dog's answer before lunch. He sha'n't complain that I gave him no opportunity." Grind- ing his teeth, he consigned James Migott to the nethermost Hades; and at the same moment he decided that the Yan- kee — confound him also! — should have the cabinet. For evermore he would hate the sight of it. As for James Migott, the Blue Bird, he'd be blue indeed within twenty- four hours. Blue Bird, indeed! A serpent! A crawling snake ! He went to bed, but sleep refused to soothe him, al- though he dismissed James Migott from his thoughts, which dwelt with concentration upon Posy. Had he not given the best of everything to the ungrateful baggage? And in re- turn — this! She dared to speak of his business as "ridicu- lous." The adjective bit deep into his mind. Ridiculous? What the devil did she mean? When his father died the business was worth at most eight thousand pounds. To-day the contents of the sanctuary alone would fetch at Christie's a round fifty thousand, if the right people were bidding. And they would be bidding. From the four quarters of the earth they would come, to bid against each other for the famous Quinney collection. Ridiculous! Suppose he left everything to the nation, thereby immortalising himself ? The Quinney Gallery! That sounded well. Suppose he offered the gift during his lifetime? Would his gracious Sovereign speak of his business as ridiculous? All right. If this idiot of a girl cared for James Migott more than for his collections, she might have him — and be hanged 202 The Lacquer Cabinet to her! Would the dog want her without the collections? He smiled grimly at the thought. Next day he rose at the usual time and breakfasted alone with Posy, who smiled deceitfully, as if she were the best daughter in the kingdom. He looked at her sourly, contrast- ing her with the Chelsea shepherdess, modelled by the illus- trious Frenchman. She was nearly as pretty, but common pottery, not porcelain, not the pate tendre beloved by con- noisseurs. He remarked a melting, luscious glaze about her eyes. She was thinking of her Blue Bird, the shameless baggage. At nine James Migott appeared, punctual to the minute. Quinney said to him, curtly : — "I am going out. You had better overhaul those Chip- pendale chairs in my room. I am thinking of having that old needlework cleaned. Get it off the chairs. very care- fully." ''Right you are !" exclaimed James. There was the same shining glaze in his blue eyes as he met frankly the gaze of his employer. It would not be easy to replace James. He could be trusted with things, but not with persons. His exclamation, ''Right you are !" tickled agreeably Quinney's vanity. He was nearly always right, everybody admitted that. No big dealer had made fewer mistakes. That Germ.an fellow, who had made such an ass of himself about that wax figure, he was ridiculous, if you like. How Quinney had laughed at his egregious blunder ! At half-past twelve he returned. James Migott had re- moved the precious needlework without breaking a thread. His employer grunted approval. "You love this business ?" he asked. "I like it," said James. He left the house to get his midday meal at a neigh- bouring restaurant in Dean Street. Upstairs Posy was play- 203 Some Happenings ing Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home" with a firmness of touch and brilliancy of technique which indicated that the money lavished upon her musical education had not been wasted. With the arpeggios rippling through his mind, Quinney opened the lacquer cabinet. Yes ; James had taken Posy's letter, and another — written upon the business note- paper — lay in its place. The lovers had not troubled to close the envelopes, so secure did they fancy themselves in their fool's paradise. Quinney read as follows : — "My Sweetest Posy, "I believe that your father does really love you, al- though he may not show it. He's a true lover of beauty in any form, and it's hardly possible that he doesn't prize you as the most beautiful of all his beautiful possessions. I am doing my best to please him and to win his confidence. As you say, we must be very careful and very patient, but he's taught me how to wait for the things worth having. I know that I must wait and work for you. "Your faithful, "Jim." Quinney read the letter twice and then replaced it in the cabinet. Throughout luncheon he said little, but stared fur- tively at his daughter, wondering whether James Migott — no mean judge — was right in affirming that of all his pos- sessions she was the most beautiful. He had intended to speak to Posy and James after luncheon; he had planned a little dramatic scene, during which he would appear at the moment when Posy was taking the letter from the cabi- net. Then, before she had time to collect her wits, he would summon the Blue Bird and deal trenchantly with the guilty pair. Presently he said, quietly : — 2CJ. The Lacquer Cabinet "Fve had an offer of a thousand pounds for the lacquer cabinet from Dupont Jordan." She answered, composedly, ''Are you going to sell it?" ^Terhaps." Lord ! What an actress she was ! And not yet twenty ! When and where and how did she learn to wear this mask ? He eyed her with wrinkled interrogation, asking himself dozens of questions. Had she always pretended with him? What was she really like — inside? As a collector of pre- cious things, he had acquired the habit of examining me- ticulously every article of vertu, searching for the inimitable marks, the patine, not to be reproduced by the most cunning craftsman, the indelible handwriting of genius and time. But he had never searched for such marks in his daughter. When he lit his cigar, she went out of the room and he sat silent, not enjoying his cigar, wondering what her face looked like as she read the letter from her own Blue Bird. What James Migott had written gave him pause. He de- cided to read more of the correspondence before he pro- nounced judgment. That afternoon he made a list of the "gems" which might be offered to the nation or left to it as the Quinney bequest. At midnight Posy would descend from her room and place another billet in the pillar-box. The pillar-box! To what base uses might a gold lacquer cabinet degenerate ! He left the door of his bedroom ajar, and at midnight he heard the faint rustling of her dressing-gown as she stole downstairs and up again. At one, when he made certain .that she was asleep, he descended to his room and read the second letter : — *'Darling Jim, 'Tather never cared for me. If I died to-morrow he would forget me in a week. Luckily I have you, but he will 205 Some Happenings expect me to choose between him and you. The great over- whelming surprise of his Hfe will be when he discovers that I have chosen you, because, incredible as it may seem, he believes that he has done his duty by me just as he believed that he did his duty by my dear mother. He will never, never know how he appears to others. "Your ever-loving, "Posy." Quinney replaced the letter, went into the dining-room, and drank a glass of brown sherry. He preferred brown sherry because it exhibited the exact tint of faded mahog- any, the tint so baffling to fakers of old furniture. As he sipped his wine he told himself that the girl was a liar. He had done his duty by her and by his dead wife. He had denied them nothing, gratified their whims, exalted each high above the station in which they had been born. Then he went to bed, to pass another wretched night, comparing himself to Lear and other fathers who had begotten thank- less children. Posy expressed concern at his appearance next morning. He was yellow as a guinea, and his eyes were congested. "There's nothing the matter with me," he growled. His emphasis on the personal pronoun reminded Posy that her father had made no claims upon her as ministering angel. He had never been ill, never **sorry for himself," to use that familiar expression in a new and significant sense. To-day he looked very sorry for himself. She said SQ, tentatively. "I am sorry for myself," he declared. He went out and walked in the Park, smoking his pipe and muttering to himself: "I'll dish the dog. Before sun- set he*ll be wishing he'd never been born. Good as I've been to both of 'em! Best father as ever lived, I do be- 206 The Lacquer Cabinet lieve." Half an hour passed in computing what Posy had cost him. Fifteen hundred pounds in hard cash. The same sum invested, say, in old Irish glass would have trebled itself. Yes, by gum! Posy represented a snug five-thou- sand, the baggage ! When he returned to his house he was ripe for battle, thirsting for it. Three clients were waiting impatiently. He "socked" it to them. Asked big prices and got them, a salve to abraded pride. James Migott was much im- pressed. "Nobody like you, sir, to sell stuff," he ventured to re- mark. Quinney snarled back: — *'Yes, my lad, even if I do say it, there ain't my equal in London — that means the world. Best o' fathers I been, ain't I?" James nodded. "Done my duty. That's a thought to stick to one's ribs —hay?" "Yes, sir." "Never can remember the day when I couldn't say that. Square, too, I've been within reasonable bounds, though I have made ignorance — as just now — pay for my knowledge. I know a lot, my lad — more'n you think for." "Yes, sir," said James. That morning the staff had a sultry time of it. Everybody agreed that the governor's tongue had an edge to it keener than the east wind, which happened to be blowing bitterly. Posy, at the piano, was surprised to find her sire standing beside her, with a malicious grin upon his thin face. "Can you cook?" he asked. "Cook? Me? You know I can't cook, father." "Not much of a hand with your needle either, are ye?" "No." 207 Some Happenings "Um! They tell me that our Royal Princesses have to learn such things, willy-nilly, because revolutions do hap- pen — sometimes." Posy stared at him, thinking to herself: *'His liver is out of whack, and no mistake." Quinney returned to his sanctuary, feeling that he was in form. The affair should be handled to rights. *T'll fix 'em," he growled. "I'll sweep the cobwebs out o' their silly noddles, by gum I will !" At lunch he harped back to the primitive duties of wom- en, rubbing in his words and salting them properly. "Look ye here, my girl. It's just struck me that Fve been to blame in makin' you so bloomin' ornamental." "Come, father, I didn't get my good looks from you." "Handsome is as handsome does. Ever heard that ?" "Once or twice." Quinney grinned as he drank his second glass of brown sherry. Very rarely did he exceed one glass of wine in the middle of the day. Then he lit his cigar and settled himself in an easy-chair near the fire. Posy went upstairs, singing softly as she went. "Chock-full o' deceit that girl is ! Oozin' from every pore. Stamps upstairs singin' like a lark ; crawls down like a viper. Oh, my Lord !" He looked at his watch. By his reckoning Posy was nearly due in the sanctuary. James was whistling in the basement. "Whistle away, you dog!" he muttered. "I'm agoing to call the next tune." He had not long to wait. Posy came downstairs, entered the sanctuary, opened the lacquer cabinet, and was grasping Jim's letter, when Quinney, who had approached noiselessly from behind, tapped her on the shoulder. "What are you up to, my girl ?" 208 The Lacquer Cabinet "I was just having a look at the inside of the cabinet. Thought of rubbing it over." "Did you? What you got in your hand there? Paper?" "It's something b-belonging to m-me," stammered the un- happy maid. "What's in that cabinet belongs to me, my girl. Hand it over." Posy slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown, and stared defiantly at her father. "Sure it's yours?" he asked. "Quite sure ; a private affair." "Keep your private papers in my cabinet — hay?" "Sometimes." Posy was now more at her ease, much to Quinney's de- light. The higher the baggage mounted the farther she would have to fall. "Wait a moment, my girl." He walked to the foot of the staircase and called out: "James Migott !" A distant voice replied: — "Yes, sir." "Come you up here, my lad. Quick!" James appeared, rather flushed. His colour deepened when he saw Posy standing close to the pillar-box. "Like to take it sittin' or standin'?" inquired Quinney, with marked politeness. "Take what?" inquired Posy. "The dose Pm goin' to give ye. I prefer to stand. You ain't fit, not by a long chalk, to sit on such chairs, but I've always been a considerate man." James and Posy stood where they were. Posy was very pale, and her pretty fingers trembled. Quinney glared at them, and the peroration he had pre- 209 Some Happenings pared vanished to the limbo of unspoken speeches. He said, savagely: — '^Fallen in love with each other — hay?" "Yes/' replied Posy, without a moment's hesitation. James said, with commendable promptness : "Same here." "A pretty couple you make, by gum! Intentions hon- ourable ?" he hissed at James. Posy tossed her head. James answered, politely: — "Quite." "Arranged the happy day yet?" sneered the enraged Quinney. "Not yet, sir." "Ah ! Waitin', maybe, for my blessing ?" Posy burst out impetuously: — "Father, I love him." "That dog!" "Easy, sir. I've served you like a dog because I love her." At this the brazen pair smiled at each other. Quinney's rage, so long restrained, rose to boiling point. "Ain't I been a good father to you?" he asked Posy. "No quibblin'; let's have the God's truth! Ain't I been a good father to you ?" "No," said Posy. "What you say?" "I said 'No.' » "Well, I'm blest! Ain't I given you everything a girl wants ?" "No." "That puts the lid on. Of all the shameless, ungrate- ful hussies! Five thousand pounds you've cost me, miss. Not a penny less, by gum ! Now, you answer straight. It'd take you a month o' Sundays to tell what I have given you ; but you tell me what I've not given you?" 2IO The Lacquer Cabinet "Love." "Eh?" **You don't love me ; you never have loved me. You love things." She waved an all-embracing arm. "Old chairs, faded tapestries, cracked china. You don't love, you can't love, persons." "Say that again. I want it to soak in." She said it again, with amazing calmness. Quinney, too confounded to deal adequately with her, turned to James. "Do you love persons too ?" "That's right." "Things worth their weight in gold don't interest you — hayr "They interest me, but I don't love them." "Never occurred to you, did it, that these things would belong to my girl some day ?" "It may have occurred to me, but I didn't fall in love with Posy because she was your daughter." "Oh, really? You'd take her as she stands — hay?" "Yes." "How do you propose to support her ?" "That's easy answered. Old Cohen wants me. You pay me three pounds a week. I'm worth ten pounds, and Cohen is willing to give six pounds, not to mention a small com- mission on sales and purchases." Quinney sat down, gasping. He, the most acute /aluer of his generation, had never appraised these two. He had always considered that James was overpaid. Old Cohen must be mad. Trembling and perspiring, he played his trump card. "Yr.u can have her," he shouted. "Take her now — and go!" Posy faltered: "Father, you don't mean it?" 211 Some Happenings "Yes, I do. Let him take you away if he wants you as you are." He was certain that James would "back down," and that a great victory was impending. But James repHed, without hesitation : — "Come, Posy! My mother will be delighted to see you. I'll get a special licence this afternoon." The girl held up her head proudly. It is barely possible that till this moment she had never been absolutely sure of James. She beamed upon him. "Oh, Jim," she exclaimed, fervently, "you are a darling !" She flung herself into his outstretched arms, and they kissed each other, quite regardless of Mr. Quinney. He stared about him, bewildered. Then he said, gaspingly : — "What would your pore mother have said?" Posy released herself and approached her father. Pity shone softly in her eyes as she asked, gently : — "Do you vv^ant to know what mother would have said?" "I'm glad she was spared this, pore soul!" ejaculated the bereaved man. "God, in His mercy, took her in time." "Do you want to know what mother would have said ?" She repeated the question in a deeper, more impressive tone. "What do you mean?" "Wait!" She fled upstairs. During her absence Quinney wondered how he would replace James Migott, whom he had trained so diligently from tender years. The dog knew so much that only time and patience and experience could impart. He had always intended to offer James a very small share in the business. Posy appeared breathless, and carrying a sheet of paper in her hand. 212 The Lacquer Cabinet "Read that, father." As he fumbled for his spectacles, she said, softly, "May I read it aloud?" "I don't care what you do." But in his heart he knew that this was a lie. He did care. The conviction stole upon him that they had ''bested" him. He wanted Posy with something of the hunger which seized him when he went to the Gold Room of the British Museum and beheld the incomparable Port- land Vase, priceless though broken. Then he heard Posy's voice, and it struck him for the first time that it was like her mother's. The similarity of form and feature also was startling. He grew pale and tremulous, for it seemed as if his wife had come back from the dead. When he closed his eyes he could imagine that she was speaking. "My Darling Little Girl, "When you read this I shall be dead. I want to tell you before I go something about your father, which may save you much unhappiness. He loved me dearly once, and he used to tell me so. And then he grew more and more absorbed in his business, and now he is so wrapped up in it that I greatly fear he may infect you, and that, like him, you may come to believe that the beauty of the world is to be found in sticks and stones. To me they are just that — sticks and stones. And so, when the time comes for you to marry, be sure that you choose a man who loves you for yourself and whom you love for himself. I was so happy with your father when we lived in a cottage in Salisbury; I have been so unhappy in this great house filled with the things that have come between him and me. "My old servant will deliver this letter to you when you are seventeen. Read it sometimes, and keep it safe, for it is all that I have to leave you. ,,.^ , . Your lovmg "Mother." 213 Some Happenings Before she had reached the end Quinney had covered his face with his hands. When Posy's soft voi^ce died away he made no sign. She beHeved then that his heart was dead indeed. James signed to her to come with him, but she gazed sorrowfully at her father, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Good-bye," she faltered. "You don't want me, and James does." Quinney lifted his head and sprang to his feet. The force of character which had made him pre-eminent in his business thrilled in his voice as he said, authoritatively: — "I do want you. And I want James. I — I — I've always held on tight to the best, and I shall hold on to you." Then his voice failed as they stared at him, hardly realising what he meant. "Give me your mother's letter and leave me.'* They went out, closing the door. Quinney read the let- ter through and gazed at the things which had come be- tween him and the writer. Then he placed the letter in the lacquer cabinet, locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket. His face worked strangely as he tried to keep back the tears which were softening his heart. He muttered brokenly : — "I wonder whether the pore dear soul knows?" 214 XIII A Breton Love- Story PHILOMENE CARVENNEC entered the church of Notre-Dame des Bonnes Nouvelles at Rosporden, fol- lowed by a man clad in the costume of- the province — the bras bragous, the high-frilled collar, the stout felt hat, and the short black jacket brilliant with embroidery and rows of silver buttons. Leaning against the wall, the man fixed his eyes upon the maid. The ancient building, grey without and within, was crowded with women standing erect and motionless. Their dark dresses, heavy with velvet bands, accentuated the sil- ence and the gloom. Suddenly the pilgrims sank to their knees, and nothing was visible save a sea of coifs and col- lars upon which the light, filtering through stained glass, threw opalescent tints. **She is the prettiest of all," murmured Leon. After the ceremony, as Philomene passed beneath the archway, Leon addressed her: "Has Philomene Carvennec no word of welcome for an old friend?" "Leon!" *Tt is I. My days of slavery are over. Come, walk with me till the procession forms." But the maiden drew back, blushing and irresolute. At. pardons the maidens sit together. Leon frowned and strolled on alone. As he pushed through the crowd many pressed forward to greet him, to shake his hand; upon all sides Philomene heard his name. 215 Some Happenings "Leon Bellec carries himself like a hero." "Leon has fought and bled for Brittany." "The President — name of a name! — has saluted our Leon." "Leon saved Frangois Goaper at the risk of his own life when the bullets were falling — pif, pafT "Aie, aie," cried the women, "he is a brave man." Philomene sighed as she seated herself with the other girls upon the green slope to the north of the church. Be- low was the high road, gay with booths and crowded with foot-passengers. Sounds of revelry floated up from the liquor-shops. Not a dozen yards distant a couple of drunken peasants mocked a ballad-monger, who was scream- ing out the chorus of a popular folk-song. Hard-by a beg- gar exposed loathsome sores to curious and pitiful eyes. Farther down the road two sailors were fighting. Philomene, accustomed to these sights and sounds, sat still, her toil-hardened hands crossed upon her lap. She regretted the lost pleasure of a walk and a talk with the hero. "Look, Philo ! There is Mere Bellec. Ah ! she is a proud woman to-day." The mother of Leon, the famous marieuse of Nizon, was held in high repute as a matchmaker of tact, ability and honesty — one who selected her pairs with a prescient eye to the community of material interests — her own not ex- cepted, for the marriage feasts of her clients were always held at the dame's roadside tavern. Not infrequently many hundreds of guests assisted, and each paid a round five-franc piece for his entertainment. The margin of profit may not seem large, but the matchmaker was ac- counted, albeit wrongly, a rich woman. Tall like her only son, grey-haired but keen-eyed, she made a large impres- sion of power — a maitresse femme who had carried bur- 216 A Breton Love-Story dens in her time and carried them bravely, uncomplain- ingly. Leon's father, long dead, had proved a drunken, dis- solute ne'er-do-well; Leon himself, as a youth, had given his mother sore anxiety, ^'Qk — la — la! See, Philo! Mere Bellec has stopped to talk with thy father and old Goaper." The others laughed shrilly, bantering the future bride. It was known that Frangois Goaper, the cripple, whose par- ents owned fat acres around Pont-Aven, adored her. Frangois had received a bullet in his leg and another in his hip while Leon was carrying him out of action. "Frangois Goaper," said a girl from Riec. *Svill never run away from thee, Philo. That leg of his will assure his fidelity." "Rozenn," retorted Philomene, "is jealous. She would like to get married herself. It is time." "When I marry," retorted the other, scornfully, " 'twill be a man like Leon Bellec, not a cripple." Philomene turned. She was very pale, for of yore gos- sip had linked the name of Bellec to this red-maned, loud- voiced slattern. "Frangois Goaper," she said slowly, "is one among ten thousand, and the girl who marries him will be lucky. He will not go to Riec for a wife — nor will Leon Bellec." Rozenn bit her lips. Her birthplace had an unsavoury reputation. ''Merci, ma belle/' she retorted, quietly. "I'll not forget your kind words." II A week later Bellec came afoot to Nizon through the pretty bois d'amour, along the winding path that skirts the Aven, and past the windmills which inspired the poet ; Pont-Aven, ville de renom; Quatorse moulins et cinq maisons ! 217 Some Happenings It was September ist, le mois de la paille blanche, and the air was heavy with the odours of harvest. Ripeness rested drowsily upon the woods and the fields. Nature seemed to be napping after travail, preparing for the long sleep of winter. But Bellec was a Gallio in regard to these things. Peasants he despised, and peasant's work. He had a corps de fer pour le plaisir, and the pleasures of life he took seriously — its duties, lightly. As he walked he whistled an air of Botrel's that he had heard in a cafe chantant at Brest : ''On m' attend au pays Breton.^* He knew of more than one who had waited for his return, and this knowledge pleased him. His mother, the matchmaker, embraced him warmly, for she had not seen this well-beloved son for three days. Leon sat down on the ancient oak table, glanced at the massive armoire where his mother kept her money, and called for a c ho pine of cider. "Ma mere," said he presently, "when does this mar- riage thou hast just arranged between Philomene Carvennec and her cripple take place ?" ''Next month, mon His," replied the dame. ''A sorry wedding! The Goapers are not popular." ''Francois is a good man. He will make Philomene happy." "He? Ma Done! That was a life hardly worth the sav- ing." The matchmaker shrugged a shapely pair of shoulders. "Frangois will be kind and loyal, my son. Wives learn to love a big heart, even if it beats in a small body. A propos, I must find a wife for thee: one, too, with more than a well-turned leg in her stocking." 'T am here this morning to speak of that," said Leon. "What can be put in my stocking, ma mere?" He glanced at the massive armoire 218 A Breton Love-Story The matchmaker frowned, biting her Hps, but gazing with affection at her handsome son. "There is not much left/' she replied slowly. ''My son, I do not reproach thee. The past is — past. If thou hast been weak and foolish, so have I. It is strange that 1 who find it easy to say no to others have never been able to say no to thee. For the rest, I can- not give thee more than five thousand francs. It is all I have." Leon nodded. His mother never lied to him. "All the same, ma mere, a good income is thine : the matchmaker of Nizon will never come to want. Returning to my affairs — I have seen the girl I wish to make my wife." *'Not— not Rozenn of Riec?" "Rozenn is well enough, but " He paused, then said abruptly, "I want Philomene Carvennec." "Philomene!" screamed the dame, rising in her excite- ment. "Ah, Jesus! He is mad, this poor son of mine — but crazy ! He wants a girl who is about to be betrothed to his own friend. Farceur!" Leon rose also, confronting his mother. "See here ! If I lift my little finger — so! Philo will come to me.'^ "And the scandal ? And the dowry ?" "Persuade Pere Carvennec. That will be easy, because he is mean. The Goapers demand twenty-five thousand francs. I will be satisfied with fifteen." "It is impossible," said the matchmaker hoarsely. "Impossible? Bah!" "A shameful thing to do — a shameful thing to ask." "Then there remains — Rozenn." The mother gasped. "One must marry some one, and beggars can't be choosers. Rozenn has ten thousand francs — she told me so." 219 Some Happenings The matchmaker's wrath burst into scorching flames. Ah! if he had not been so extravagant, if he had not de- voured her economies — the animal ! — she could have found him a richer bride than Philomene Carvennec. As for Rozenn, it went without saying that such a hussy should never darken her doors. The son listened sullenly. Presently he said coldly, *Then it is — good-bye." Something in his voice arrested her attention — a note of recklessness, of finality. ''What! My" — the emphasis on the pronoun was pathetic — ''my son goes to that red- headed wanton?" 'To her, or to the devil. It is the same thing." "My son leaves me like this after — after " She cov- ered her trembling features, too proud to recite the sacri- fices made on his behalf. Leon took her hand. When he spoke his voice was singu- larly soft and pleasing. Hearing it, a stranger would un- derstand why women found it hard to say no to the speaker. "Ma mere, let us be reasonable ! What do I ask ? A baga- telle ! For a good Catholic it is a matter of conscience. A match between Philomene and that poor cripple is an in- famy." "Go," she said fiercely. '*I must be alone. But never talk to me again of — conscience. Go — go !" When he had gone she cleaned and put away her son's glass, muttering to herself, "They will say that I am no bet- ter than Jan Corfec, the tailor." Jan, a tailor of Pont-Aven, holding many years pre- viously the sacred office of matchmaker, had trifled, as she was tempted to trifle, with honour and the traditions of the province. He had lost fame, fortune, and occupation. 220 A Breton Love-Story III Leon, meantime, walked to Riec, where he met Philo- mene's father at the tavern kept by Rozenn's mother. "They tell me,'* said the hero, ''that your crops are heavy." *'And I'm shorthanded," growled Carvennec. Leon placed his strong arms at an old friend's service. ■ Carvennec swore his thanks, offering brandy. "You are the brave son of a good mother," said he, as the cognac warmed his gratitude. "She has found a husband for la petite, as you know. It is a pity that he limps so con- foundedly. He won't help much on the farm. Well, the wedding won't take place till after harvest — no clashing with honest work." And they drank solemnly, clinking their glasses and re- filling them. "Enough," said Bellec, aftter the third bumper. "I drink no more." "Eh?" said the other in amazement. ''Sapristi, we've only just begun." Leon rose from his chair. "I drink," said he, "but I do not get drunk." He left the tavern. "It's droll," remarked Carvennec to Rozenn, who waited upon the customers, "but one would say that our Leon shirked his liquor. For what did the good God send us cognac ?" "A fig for Leon Bellec," cried a sailor from Concarneau. "I do not like him. And I know why he does not drink. That for your hero !" He snapped his fingers and scowled at the company. "You are brave," sneered the girl, showing her teeth. "You snap your fingers at an unseen enemy. So did Leon Bellec — at death.'* "I'll snap my fingers in the animal's face. See." 221 Some Happenings v He staggered across the broad white road and approached Leon, who was talking with a friend. The others followed. "Bellec," said the sailor, "thou art a lazy pig of a poser. Thou knowest me. I served with thee, animal, on board La Siiperhe!* He snapped his fingers twice beneath the nose of the hero. Those present stared aghast. Bellec looked down into the twitching face of his old shipmate. "Yes," he replied, "I know thee well, Jacques Morvezen. In the past nothing would silence thy lying tongue but blows. Take that !" He struck the sailor between the eyes, felling him to the ground, where he lay, a huddled heap; the others moved away. Rozenn brought brandy. "Is he gone — that coward who dares not drink?" "Yes." Morvezen began to mutter, and Rozenn, bending her flaming head, listened. Presently she smiled, and gave the man more liquor. With her assistance he regained his feet, and re-entered the tavern, talking and cursing. The girl waited upon him till he sank into a drunken stupor. Then she left him. "Sober men lie," she murmured to herself, "but children and drunkards tell the truth. Leon Bellec is wise to keep sober." IV Frangois Goaper assisted at Carvennec's threshing, and it chanced that he and Leon worked side by side, the strong contrasted with the weak. Philomene, tripping backwards and forwards between house and barn, muttered again and again: "There is Leon, and beside him poor Frangois." Upon the morning of the third day the main cog- 222 A Breton Love-Story wheel of the crude oxen- worked threshing machine was deflected from a horizontal position. No man, save Bellec, was powerful enough to adjust it; and he handled the im- mense mass with so little effort that the stolid peasants were thrilled to applause. Then Leon explained to Carvennec that the wheel would certainly again shift its position un- less some heavy weight were placed upon it. Carvennec summoned Philomene. "Thou knowest where the pig-iron lies, in the shed yonder. Take Leon with thee and show it to him." She glanced nervously at her father. "The iron," she stammered, "1-lies b-beneath the fourth truss of hay, count- ing from the d-d-door." "Worn d'un chien!" said her father impatiently. "Don't chatter like a magpie, but do as I bid thee." She obeyed, blushing. As soon as they were out of ear- shot the man spoke : "Thou art unwilling, Philo, to trust thyself with me. I know the reason." He said no more till they were alone in the shed. The girl was trembling. Leon smiled complacently. "Thou lovest me, my sweet little hen." She hid a scarlet face in her apron. "Thou lovest me," he repeated. "Embrace me, ma belle, for I also love thee." He seized her in his immense arms, and kissed her hair, her small ears, but not her face, which she kept covered. He felt her slight body trembling in his clasp. When he released her he looked up and saw Frangois Goaper standing just outside the shed. Francois' face was as twisted as his body. Leon remembered that he had looked just so after the bullets had struck him. Then 223 Some Happenings Philomene saw him, and turning, fled. The men were alone. "She loves me, not thee," said Leon sullenly. As the other made no reply, he continued with greater fluency and audacity, "For the rest, it is only natural; thou canst not blame tlie little one." "Have I said that I blamed her?" demanded Frangois. *'See now, matters can be arranged. The formal be- trothal has not yet taken place. Carvennec needs a strong son-in-law." "Why did you not leave me to die on the dunes ?" Leon shrugged his broad shoulders. **You saved my life," continued Frangois vehemently, "but you have taken away what I value more than life." "It is nature," growled Bellec, unable to meet the eyes of his old comrade. "Art thou a fit mate for her?" Then Frangois spoke with a curious dignity. "I have asked myself that question, Leon Bellec ; I did not wait for another to put it to me. I am a cripple, true, but otherwise I am strong " "Strong! Thou?" ''^There is a strength other than that of muscle. No girl in Brittany would have been more tenderly loved and cherished." "But if she prefers — me?" "What has happened? Have you not found the iron? The work is at a standstill." Carvennec spoke peevishly, addressing both men — sensible that something which affected him had come to pass. Leon answered with assurance : "Mon pere, the truth is always best. Frangois caught me kissing the little one. Wait! She loves me, as a wife should love her husband. And you? Don't you need a strong son, who can work hard and long ? Yes. Let us all be reasonable. Only fools 224 A Breton Love-Story quarrel. And there is another thing. Money is scarce these times. Well, I will take Philo gladly with little more than half the dowry the Goapers want. I am not mercenary." ''You have the impudence of the devil," spluttered Car- vennec. "He is right," said Frangois coldly. "Right or wrong, she is yours," said Carvennec. "I stick to my bargains, and so shall she !" 'Teon saved my life, I give him Philomene. We are quits." V A small crowd was beginning to gather in the court- yard behind the farmhouse which belonged to Carvennec. Truly, as Leon had boasted to his mother, the hero of Nizon had many friends, and those who were not taking part in the bridegroom's procession were now awaiting his arrival. In the room to the right of the ancient kitchen Philomene was being arrayed for her wedding in the heavy dress and petticoats of the Bretonne bride. The women said that these weighed no less than fifteen pounds, and in them Philomene would be expected to dance more or less con- tinuously for eight hours ! Some artists spending the au- tumn at Pont-Aven were attempting, sketch-book in hand, to catch the elusive lights and shadows, the colour and movement, the intimate charm of the scene. Frangois Goaper leaned against a huge granite drinking- trough which had been taken from the ruined chateau of Rustephan. The horses of crusaders may have drunk out of it; yet it remained, symbolical of the Breton race, in- destructible, defying the elements, worn and scarred by the centuries, but still serviceable and to the imaginative mind beautiful. 225 Some Happenings Frangois, who had imagination, gazed into the water and saw his own troubled features, and behind them fancies even more troubled. Public opinion condemned his presence at this wedding. He had been scurvily treated by his friend, the giant who had saved his life, and pride ought to have kept him within his own house. Why had he come ? He was asking himself the same question. Why had he obeyed the voice of Rozenn? She had asked him, had entreated him, to meet her here at this hour, for Philo- mene's sake. And for Philomene's sake he had consented. But she, that red-headed wanton, was capable of a cruel jest at his expense. He looked up and saw an old woman, a great-aunt of the bride's, regarding him with dim, misty eyes. She had reputation as a teller of tales, une conteuse de legende, and some of the children had whispered that she was a witch. She greeted Frangois in quavering Breton. When he re- plied gently to her salutation, she muttered, "My son, the cloud will pass." "Never," he replied, with a gust of passion. "The sun is for them, for me the shadow." "The sun will shine on you. I say it." She hobbled away, shaking her head, and mumbling to herself, as Rozenn approached. "Well," said Frangois impatiently, "I am here, as you see, a scarecrow for real crows to mock at," He indicated the young men in their black costumes. "Philomene is crying in there." "What do you say?" She is crying, the bride ! Bah ! What you can see in her, the poor white chicken, beats me. Let me finish. She is crying, and well she may, little fool, for it is shameful to marry one man, loving another." "She loves Leon." 226 A Breton Love-Story "Does she ? How blind men are ! She did love him for a moment. Or shall I say that she loved what he seemed to be — the hero, the great man covered with glory. So she was dazzled, not the first nor the only one. But in her heart she loves somebody else " **Be careful what you say!" "Pouf-f-f ! Also, she has a conscience ; she is good hi her feeble way. She adores, too, what is fine. And now " "Well?" "What you have done is finer in her eyes than what Leon did in Tonquin." Frangois gazed at her steadily, trying to divine her pur- pose. "Why do you say these things to me? If they are true, and for my part I do not think them true, it is too late." "Too late!" The girl laughed derisively. "Why, if I were you, Vd have her yet. I'd dry her tears, I'd " "Hold your tongue !" Frangois commanded sternly, "and go! She held up her hand. "Hark !" she exclaimed. The note of the pipe was heard in the distance. The bridegroom's procession was approaching, headed by the binious. A moment later it came into sight, the huge figure of Leon towering above the others. "They have been drinking already," murmured Rozenn. "And what of that ? If a man may not drink a cup or two of cider on his wedding morn " "Don't go, Frangois !" "Why not? Why should I stay?" "Because you must. To slink away now would be cowardly. It is fitting you should be here. Leon risked his life for you, and in return you sacrificed your happiness for him. You must walk to the church in his. procession, if " "If " 227 Some Happenings "Never mind! Be guided by me. I have good brains, believe me ! Stay here. Don't move !" She flitted from him swiftly, with a backward glance of mingled pity, liking and contempt. Frangois, dominated by her intense vitality and determination, shrugged his shoulders and stood still. After all, the wench was right. It would be shameful to sHnk away now. Then his heart and brain turned to Philomene, sobbing as the women placed the orange-blossoms upon her ! Carvennec came out of his house to greet the bridegroom. For half an hour, according to custom, much cider would be drunk; then the two processions, bride's and groom's, would be formed, and each would set forth for the Maine, where the civil ceremony would take place. After that again would follow the impressive ceremony at the church, and lastly the festivities, the endless eating and drinking and dancing at the tavern of Mere Bellec — festivities to which each invited guest would contribute his share of the entertainment. Carvennec carried in his hand a long-necked bottle, which he held delicately as if it were a precious relic. One or two of his kinsmen licked their lips. "It is -fine champagne/' they murmured. "He has kept it for this." Then, once more, a curious thing happened. Leon re- fused to drink brandy, although it was obvious from his slightly flushed face that he, not to mention his friends and supporters, had taken plenty of cider. "Nonsense," said Carvennec roughly. He filled the glass, and held it out. "I insist. Drink, my son ! It is forty-year- old cognac, and mild as milk. Yerr matt!" ''Yerr mattT replied Leon, draining the glass. "Yes, yes; that is good, mon pere, you are right — and mild as milk." 228 A Breton Love-Story Carvennec filled his own glass again. "There is enough for one more round," he said. The others filled their glasses. Leon hesitated. "Brandy affects me/' he said heavily. "Ever since my sunstroke out there" — he indicated with a sweep of his massive arm the Far East — "I have had to be careful ; but still, it is old and mild " He laughed and filled his glass, clinking it against that of his prospective father-in-law. "Yerr matt!" The sun shone down upon their brown, flushed faces — upon the snowy coifs and collars of the women, anxiously awaiting the bride, about to leave her father's house. "Where is Philomene ?" said Leon. "You must have patience," said Rozenn, hastening by. The hinious struck up a stirring chant. Inside the house one could get a glimpse of the bride and her companions; one could hear their laughter. "There is plenty of time," said Carv^ennec. Rozenn stared impudently into the face of the bride- groom. "Tell us of your exploits, mon brave," she cried shrilly. The crowd applauded. Mere Bellec gazed fondly at her son. Frangois, unnoticed, raised his head; but he looked at the grey house, not at the speaker. Of all the crowd, he was the first to see the bride, as she looked out of the window upon the hero, not half a dozen yards away. "War is a terrible thing," said Rozenn. "W^ho can paint its horrors save those who have been in the thick of the fight, like our brave Leon." Acclamations followed. The men cheered the hero: "Bravo, Leon! bravo, bravo!" A faint flush kindled upon Philomene's pale face. "This is no time to speak of war," said Leon thickly. "Let me be, Rozenn ! Let me be, I say." 229 Some Happenings "How modest he is!" she exclaimed. ''Brave men are always modest." "And modest women hold their tongues," retorted Bellec. More than one noticed how oddly he spoke ; and yet at this early hour he could not surely be fuddled. "I will tell the story," said Rozenn, "while he waits for his bride. It is fitting." "Yes, yes," assented the crowd. "Tell it!— tell it!" "Why not?" murmured the proud mother. "The marines of La Siiperhe," began Rozenn, "were or- dered ashore. Our Leon and Francois Goaper — where is Frangois? Ah, there! He will correct me if I make a mistake. Well, our Leon and Frangois were in the ranks. The enemy lay — there !" She pointed dramatically at the blank wall, and many turned their heads, so convincing were the accents of the speaker. "There, entrenched behind a line of sand-dunes. As our brave Bretons advanced to the attack the bullets were singing over their heads — pst, pst, pst — like that ! Leon will tell you that he laughed, but not for long; for soon," her voice sank, "very soon his comrades began to fall by twos and threes, and those glancing back saw the white sand hideously stained !" Sl^e paused, surveying her audience. Mere Bellec held high her head ; Leon was grinning in a most foolish and as- tonishing fashion; Philomene stared at him with frowning brows and heaving bosom ; Frangois Goaper had edged nearer to the crowd. "And just then," continued Rozenn, changing the pitch of her voice, "our brave Leon began to think of his precious body, and the vast mark it presented." A murmur of amazement trickled through the crowd. "Yes, my friends, he was thinking of his precious body; and so it came to pass that when the ridge was gained, Leon Bellec was lying behind a sand-dune, out of sight and out 230 A Breton Love-Story of danger ! Who missed him ? Who saw him ? One man, Jacques Morvezen, who is here." "Thou Rest," said Mere Bellec fiercely. ''We have read in the papers what happened next. Our soldiers, unable to hold the ridge, were forced to return to the boats through a hell-storm of bullets. And we have read, also, that when they reached the boats and were put- ting off to the ship, Leon was seen staggering down the slopes with Frangois Goaper upon his back. And for this act he w^as decorated by the admiral and complimented by Monsieur le President ! But, my friends, you do not know what motive inspired that act of valour. Oh — la — la! Jacques IMorvezen will tell you. Jacques, come here!" The sailor from Concarneau shambled forward, sober and savage. "That fellow," said Morvezen, raising a lean forefinger and pointing at Bellec, *'is a coward, and I am a coward to have kept his secret; but I feared his blows, which are heavy, as those weaker than himself know. Yes, I caught him sneaking behind the dunes; and the truth about the rescue of Goaper leaked out of him when he was full of brandy. Since, he has feared to drink like an honest Breton. Yes ; he boasted to me, his messmate, that he had picked up a senseless wounded comrade and flung him across his back — to save his own carcase from the bullets of the enemy'/' A groan burst from the peasants. The matchmaker turned and confronted her son. ''Leon Bellec," she cried, in a terrible voice, "is this true or false?" Leon laughed the fatuous laugh of the drunkard. "Well," he blustered, "and if it were true, what of that?" "Oh, my God !" said his mother. The crowd stared at Leon, speechless with horror and contempt. Then out of the house walked Philomene. Coif 231 Some Happenings and collar were no whiter than her face, but her eyes were like pools of blue water when the sun sparkles on them. She came swiftly forward till she met Bellec. Her apron, exquisitely embroidered with silver, flashed in the sun. Then in her soft gentle voice she repeated the question put by Leon's mother. "Is this true, Leon ?" The tone of her voice may have misled him, or perhaps he was too self-assured of his power. In a brutal tone he replied thickly, "Why should I lie ? Any one of you would have done the same. I am not ashamed of it — no. And I fooled all of you, including Monsieur le President. A fine jest, that! Come, Philomene, embrace a man who is not afraid of adniitting the truth." "He is drunk," said his mother hoarsely. Rozenn laughed. "True, ma tante; that is why he tells the truth." The others gazed at Philomene and Bellec. The man's too-thick lips had parted in a foolish grin; the girl was smiHng also. Frangois Goaper had crept up, so close that he could almost touch her. "You cur! You coward!" The words fell like snowflakes out of her mouth, so quietly were they spoken. Bellec regarded her in stupefac- tion as the crowd re-echoed her words : "Cur ! — coward !" Half turning from the disdain in her face, he encountered Frangois, half his size, the cripple. In a hoarse voice, and with a savage gesture of the arm, he demanded, "And you ? Do you call me coward and cur?" Frangois met his glance without wincing, regardless of the huge fist impending above his head. "Yes," he an- swered deliberately. "Cur you are, and coward, and — thief." The heavy fist fell, smiting the weakling to the earth. At the same moment a hoarse, savage cry of indignation 232 A Breton Love-Story broke from the crowd — the ominous growl of an incensed people. "Go !" shrieked the mother. *'Run !" He had sense enough left to obey. He ran swiftly, fol- lowed by most of the men, pelted with sharp words and sharper flints. Philomene knelt by Frangois, laying her hand upon his forehead where the fist had struck him. At her touch he opened his eyes. "Frangois, I am so sorry," she faltered. **Sorry ?" He smiled faintly. "Are you sorry on my account ? Why, Philomene, how ridiculous that is ! for I, look you, was never so glad or so happy before." "Your head is crushed." "Better my head than my heart," he whispered. Raising himself up, as others approached, he saw that the girl was blushing. The tenderness in her eyes was not to be misinterpreted. "And better my head than your heart," he added. 233 XIV jimmy's rest cure I HAVE heard Jimmy admit, more than once, that hiis marriage with Mrs. Jimmy was the mistake of his life. "All the Boltons are fools," he said to me in confidence, "and Kitty has the family failing. It's awfully tough on me; wearing, you know, and exhausting. I'm losing flesh, by gad, from the constant irritation of seeing the face and hearing the voice of a fool. Kitty is quite as big a fool as her brother Tom, and you know what an arch-fool he is." "Tom Bolton a fool !" I cried. "My dear Jimmy, I've always considered him one of the shrewdest men in San Francisco. Pray explain yourself." Jimmy elevated his handsome eyebrows and smiled. We had dined together at a down-town restaurant, and were now alone in the smaller reading-room of the Pegasus Club. The big clock ticked discreetly in its corner, and a wood fire crackled cheerily on the hearth. Under such con- ditions a married man may be pardoned if he tells the truth. My friend lighted a fresh cigar and sucked at it reflec- tively for a few moments before he answered me. "Tom," he began slowly, "is certainly an exasperating rustler. I concede that. He is well educated and well mean- ing — a common quality with fools ; but — ahem — what do you suppose he does with his enormous income?" "Being a fool — as you affirm — he probably pays your debts." 234 Jimmy's Rest Cure Jimmy's fine blue eyes gazed reproachfully into mine. "He reinvests it," he said disdainfully — "every d d cent of it! What further proof do you want of his folly? Here is a fellow worth at least a couple of millions; and v.'hat does he do? Does he sit down, as any sane man should, and soberly consider how best he can spend his income so as to procure for himself and his dowdy wife the maximum of pleasure and the minimum of discomfort? Not a bit of it ! He works instead at his confounded office from nine to five each blessed day. He drinks cheap Zinfandel, which must kill him eventually. He smokes Key- \\'est cigars at three f(>r a quarter. He pays his cook, his cook, mark you, thirty dollars a month, and boasts of the fact." 'This is a terrible indictment, Jimmy." "Gad! I should say so. That is not all, however. He takes the historic fool's privilege and presumes to lecture me, me, upon what he is pleased to call the folly of my ways. He took me severely to task yesterday, and I told him — pleasantly, of course — to go and consult a physician, and that I was really worried about his mental condition. He swore at me, the idiot (a fool never controls himself), and then tackled his sister. That is why," he added, incon- sequently, "1 dined out with you this evening. Kitty is in the sulks." *'Your wife shares her brother's views?". "Naturally. She's a Bolton. It's in the blood, I tell you. Old Bolton — you never dined with him, did you? Lucky fellow! — died of drinking too much ice water. Gad! how those dinners do stick in my memory! Family style — you know it : soup turbid as the Bolton wit ; gigantic turkeys and roasts; Vanilla ice cream! Bah! ! ! "Poor Jimmy!" I murmured sympathetically. "Poor indeed," he echoed. "Poor as a church m.ouse. 235 Some Happenings You see, with my tastes I had no choice. I was compelled to marry an heiress or blow my brains out ; and Kitty — I give her her due — was a nice little girl, very spooney, and plastic, so I fancied, as clay in the hands of a potter. Great Scott ! how I deceived myself! The truth is, a stream can't rise higher than its source ; and Kitty still likes Vanilla ice cream, and pumpkin pie, and the primitive ideas which go with them. I" — he paused and made a deprecating ges- ture — ''I simply can't digest them : the ideas, I mean ; and I feel myself failing. I shall die, confound it, of mental indigestion." "This is really serious, Jimmy. What do you propose ?" "I'll tell you," he said, visibly brightening. "I've made up my mind to take a rest cure. Not the bed and milk busi- ness, but a rest cure on a novel plan." He rubbed his hands together as gleefully as a school- boy. Certainly Jimmy was a handsome man, a charming personality, as every one, except the Boltons, agreed. He had hosts of friends, and an aristocratic nose, slightly aqui- line, which might precede a man into any society. Jimmy, in fact, had dined more than once with royalty, and sunned himself in the smiles of an arch-duchess. He never men- tioned these trifles, which obtained none the less for him a certain vogue, because he knew that the friends aforesaid might be trusted to exploit them, not to mention the society papers and the Associated Press dispatches. "But I need your assistance," he was kind enough to add, "and your sympathy. You must give me credit for having honestly overworked myself in the laudable endeavour to make bricks without straw out of Bolton adobe. A little more effort would result in collapse : collapse followed by a gradual sinking in the Bolton mire — a quite unthinkable state of affairs. You see the law of self-preservation will assert itself." 236 Jimmy's Rest Cure "Apropos, Jimmy : your wife needs the rest cure as badly as you do. She looks anaemic." "She is anaemic," he assented. "She worries over trifles — another proof of folly. Of course you know she is still absurdly fond of me." "Certainly," I remarked; "she is a foolish woman." "The children," continued Jimmy, ignoring my inter- ruption, "are a link between us. On that account divorce — presuming I could obtain a decree — is out of the question. There is nothing left but temporary separation, and you must compass it." "Why should I interfere between man and wife?" "Because you are my friend and Kitty's friend. You have stood in with both of us. She respects you. Ah! that reminds me of a dig in the ribs she gave me at luncheon to-day. 'George,' she said — meaning you — 'is a good in- fluence in your life, Jimmy. I wish your other friends' — she was making a centre shot at the Kosmos boys — 'were as nice as he.' Now, you must admit that no self-respecting man can stomach such malodorous comparisons. I made up my mind then and there to 'git/ " "Where will you 'git' to?" "I first thought of Burlingame, and then a shoot in British Columbia ; but polo and climbing mountains are not rest, and need rest. Besides, change of scene is not enough. I crave — er — the anodyne of congenial companionship with — er — with " "With Mrs. McVickar," I suggested. He laughed. '*Why not ? she is in the same boat with me. That brute McVickar bullies her from morning till night. She is fail- ing too." "Failing! — I haven't noticed it." "My dear old man, you never notice anything larger than 237 Some Happenings a comma bacillus. Your undivided attention is given to bacteria and high-priced objectives. You don't deign to look at an object so absurdly large as a human being. However, you have stumbled blindly on to my tracks. Mrs. Mac. and I propose to go to the Islands together." The audacity of this proposition amazed me. "The devil you do? And vv^hat will McVickar say, and Tom Bolton, and the rest of your friends?" "I hope they all know me to be an honourable man," said Jimmy, in an offended tone. *'My attachment to Mrs. Mac. is purely platonic. She will take all her children and that Gorgon of a German governess. The proprieties will be observed; but we shall have a glorious time, a glorious time ! Mentally we were made for each other. We will sit together in the palm groves and listen to the waves break- ink upon the coral reefs. We shall interchange ideas di- vested of the dross of commonplace. It will be rest — rest intellectually, morally and physically — rest perfect and complete. An idyll!" "It is the nature of idylls, Jimmy, to come sooner or later (generally sooner) to an end. What then?" "I hope," he replied warmly, "that I am not a man to evade my responsibilities. I have my limitations, but selfish- ness, thank Heaven, is not a failing of mine. I intend, when the cure is accomplished, to devote myself to my family. But to do effective work, lasting v/ork, I must build myself up; I must recuperate my shattered energies. I shall re- turn to San Francisco, to Kitty and Tom — I do not wholly despair of Tom — prepared to sacrifice myself, if need be, upon the altar of duty. I have failed hitherto, I confess it — failed ignominiously, but I shall try again. Give me credit, George, for a spirit of altruism which is rarely met with in these Hn-du-siecle days." And what role do you ask me to play in this comedy?" 238 Jimmy's Rest Cure *'You must persuade Kitty that this trip to Honolulu is a necessity. Tell her what you please — anything — every- thing !" "You propose to leave the matter entirely in my hands." "I do." ''Very good. I'll do what I can." Five minutes later he left me (for a game of poker), and I sat by the fire — September evenings are chilly in San Francisco — thinking not of Jimmy but of his wife. Poor little woman ! Poor lonely little woman ! My heart ached for her. A fool ? Yes ; inasmuch as she had laid her heart and her fortune at the feet of Jimmy : Jimmy the altruist, Jimmy, whose mission in life was to mould mankind — and in particular that tough Bolton adobe — after his own aesthetic pattern ! Presently my thoughts turned to Mrs. Mac. Failing, too ! Ah me ! what a loss to society ! A really amazing woman ; so dainty, so mondaine, so freshly and crisply up to date. Yes, she and Jimmy had surely much in common. It would be an act of charity to throw them together for three months or so: an intellectual rest — as Jimmy said — perfect and complete. I saw his wife the following morning at her own home, a delightful house on Pacific Heights. The butler, a round, red-faced, beef-eating Briton, detained me in the hall and v^hispered a dozen words. "Mr. George, I'm glad you've called. My mistress is horful low; 'ipped, so to speak, and hunder the weather as never was." I found kitty in a wrapper, lying supinely upon a sofa! It must be understood that the Boltons disapproved dis- tinctly of wrappers and sofas. Tailor-made gowns and un- limited exercise were their strong points. 239 Some Happenings "Why, Kitty," I cried, "what is the meaning of this ?" She languidly held up her hand and welcomed me with a feeble smile. "I'm petered out," she answered, with a hysterical at- tempt at a laugh. Then, to my dismay, she burst out cry- ing. Now, I had known Kitty Bolton intimately for many years. Once upon a time I had hoped to . . . Well, no mat- ter, that was before Jimmy appeared on the scene: I re- peat, I had known her very intimately, but had never seen her in tears. A cheerful, bustling, energetic little soul, she carried with her sunshine, not showers, wherever she went. At a loss to find a suitable phrase, I waited patiently for a minute or two and held my peace. "Perhaps," I suggested, as her sobs subsided, "it might help you, Kitty, to have an old-time talk with me. Give your trouble words, my dear." "It's Jimmy," she faltered. "He doesn't love me any more. That's all. I'm a fool, as he says, to cry about it, but the sudden sight of your kind face, George, reminded me of happier days." "You have been married five years — eh ?" "Yes, five years. Jimmy has been awfully good to me. He has nice ways, you know, with women — never rough, never rude. He says himself that he's the easiest person in the world to get along with ; and so he is. It is all my fault. I'm beginning to think that we Boltons are different from Jimmy, and Mrs. McVickar, and all of that set. We are archaic. Jimmy is up to date, and much too clever for me. He laughs at my crudities. I ought to have married a dear old simple Simon like you, George; but I fell in love with Jimmy. Now he wants to leave me, and I can't bear it " "But, Kitty, as a good wife you should consider your hus- band. He needs rest — so he says: well, give him rest. If 240 Jimmy's Rest Cure he wishes to go to Jericho, let him go ! Urge him to go and stay away from you as long as he likes. Give him rope." Her eyes brightened, and the colour began to return slowly to her cheeks. "I think I understand," she replied softly. "But, George — oh, how can I tell you ! — he wishes to go to the Islands ; and I know the reason: that — that woman is going there too." "What of it?" I said lightly. "I know Jimmy well. He is to be trusted. So is Mrs. Mac. Neither will injure them- selves in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy. You can gamble on that." **I don't care," she answered obstinately: *'I won't have my Jimmy sailing over summer seas with that false, smirk- ing, scented wretch. I'm surprised, George, at you ; I thought you were my friend." "Suppose, Kitty, that I went with Jimmy? I need a rest, too; we all need rest. Would my being along make any difference?" "Yes, it would. I can trust him with you, George. But how can you leave your profession? and you are getting along so capitally; we are all so proud of you. No, no, no — you cannot leave California." "None the less," I replied, "1 have made up my mind to go to the Islands, whether Jimmy goes or not. I am in- terested in — er — the sugar industry. It will be a business proposition for me." We argued at length ; but I gained my point, and when I left the house found myself practically pledged to accom- pany Jimmy, as watch-dog, to Honolulu, and return. Mi- croscopically considered, I was glad of the opportunity of examining the protozoa of Hawaii ; but I knew that a rising lawyer has no business lotos eating on coral strands, and a 241 Some Happenings three-months' absence from the office meant a serious fall- ing off of clients. A fortnight later we sailed, and half San Francisco — so it seemed to me — came down to the wharf to bid us God- speed. Mrs. McVickar and Jimmy were assuredly social stars of the first magnitude. Jimmy, with his intimate knowledge of grand-ducal courts, and Mrs. Mac, with her Doucet dresses and sweet, indefinable, mysterious smile, — like the breaking of dawn through a mist, as Jimmy once said, — could not fail to command both respect and admira- tion from rich and poor alike. In five minutes they had taken undisputed possession of the ship. The whole crew, from captain to cabin-boy, were ready to swear that Jimmy was one of Nature's noblemen, and that Mrs. Mac. must have fallen full grown from Heaven, stopping en route at Paris merely to clothe herself! To these two the German governess and myself acted as excellent foils. *T love ugly people," Mrs. Mac. had once said to me at a Friday night german, "because nine times out of ten they're so kind and unselfish." These words of wisdom I repeated to the Fraulein Pilsener. She looked at me, and a smile rippled across her stolid, putty-coloured German features. From that moment we were fast friends. For the first two days both Jimmy and Mrs. McVickar en- joyed rest, perfect and complete intellectually and morally, but not physically. From both these superior beings Father Neptune exacted the most rigorous tribute. His humbler subjects, Fraulein Pilsener and myself — hail, blessed doc- trine of compensation ! — were happily exempted. However, toward the close of the third day our handsome pair ap- peared on deck, and with the assistance of the captain, the first officer, myself, the Fraulein, a maid, and Jimmy's valet, succeeded in installing themselves side by side in two im- mense Bombay chairs. An hour later, seeing Jimmy hasten 242 Jimmy's Rest Cure below, I took his vacant seat. Mrs. Mac. smiled up at me wanly, but graciously. "Jimmy," she said, ''has a distinctly precious person- ality, but at present he is not himself. He was quite rude to me just now." "Sea-sick," I said curtly. "I know. But a man of breeding should never forget himself. He should rise superior even to sea-sickness." "But he did rise," I said, thinking of Jimmy's rapid flight. "I asked him to pick up my vinaigrette — thank you so much ! yes, that's it — and he coolly told me that my want of consideration shocked him. Fancy that from Jimmy!" I sympathised, and we talked upon indifferent topics for twenty minutes. Then I went below. I found my hero in his cabin, and asked him how he did. "I'm almost sorry I started," he answered ruefully. "What fool christened this d d ocean the Pacific? . . . By-the- bye, George, Mrs. Mac. showed me the cloven foot just now. She was positively snarky because I refused to pick up her cursed scent-bottle. You don't mind my swearing, do you? It braces me up. She knows my unfortunate condition, and the unreason of the request quite staggered me. It argued, so I told myself, a surprising intellectual weakness." "Temporary aberration, doubtless." "I suppose so. — Now, Kitty, with all her faults, would have shown more regard for a poor stomach-twisted devil." "But Kitty, according to you, is a fool." "Don't be brutal, George. I never called my wife a fool. That would be bad form. Foolish — yes : a fool — no. Poor little girl ! She cried bitterly when she kissed me good- bye. — Gad ! there goes the dinner bell. Tell my man to bring me a quail, broiled, and a pint of Piper Heidsieck, brut. After dinner you can come and read to me if you like. I have Bourget's last novel, but I don't know that I 243 Some Happenings could stand your French accent. The least thing upsets my confounded inside." I shall not attempt to describe in detail the enchanting days of the voyage out. Nor may I inflict upon a patient reader the rhapsodies of Mrs. MacVickar and Jimmy. One sample will suffice. "I could sail on like this," I overheard her murmur, "for ever! This, Jimmy, is rest indeed." "Rest, my dear Mabel," he replied, "but not stagnation. New processes are at work within us. I can feel the quickening throes of thought. I am pregnant with po- tentialities. I could face that dunce Tom Bolton, and brave his platitudes with impunity. A week ago the mere sight of the fellow provoked an attack of nervous prostra- tion. Yes, Mabel, this is repose, and recuperation." The two-headed nightingale was no more inseparable than they; but the brazen effrontery of their everlasting tete-a- tete evoked no scandal, not even gossip. It was tacitly taken for granted that these were privileged characters, chartered flirts, so to speak, above and beyond criticism. The captain, who sat between them at meals, explained mat- ters to the Fraulein and myself. "They're too deep for our soundings," said the honest old salt, significantly tapping his weather-beaten forehead. "Intellectual, I mean. Bless you, I don't know half the time what they're talkin about. But they're the prettiest pair and the politest pair I ever sailed with, and — good as gold. I understand" (he turned to me, and lowered his gruff tones) "that Major MacVickar drinks!" "Like a fish." "You don't say so ! What drove him to it ?" "A woman, I believe." Fraulein Pilsener, worthy creature, waddled away cough- ing violently. I had touched, I think, her funny spot. Her 244 Jimmy's Rest Cure eyes are small, but she knows how to use them, and I had in- ferred from a few disjointed phrases that she Hked the Major and was sorry for him. The captain, however, condemned him roundly, in language impossible to repeat. Upon arrival at the hotel at Honolulu something worthy of record transpired. Mrs. MacVickar required four of the very best rooms for herself and children. One of these — only one, as he piteously observed at the time — Jimmy wanted for himself ; but Mrs. Mac. would not let him have it. "Can Mabel be selfish?" he asked me earnestly. ''Can a woman with a face like an angel's be selfish? If so, my faith in the sex is shattered. Selfishness," he concluded emphatically, *'is the unpardonable sin." We met many very pleasant people in the Islands, and were entertained handsomely. Mrs. Mac. had provided her- self with what she called a "stunning frock or two." It is to be regretted that our San Francisco climate does not lend itself to the wearing of diaphanous apparel. Tulle, baptiste, gauze are positively indecent in connection with fogs, dust, and trade winds. But beneath the Tropic of Cancer — that is another afifair! Now, Jimmy, for a man of brain, set an extravagant value upon chiffons. Exquisite forms of marine algas provoked his ridicule, but a Virot hat stimu- lated all that was best in him; and the sight of Mrs. ^lac, her slender figure and delicate features tenderly outlined against a background of tropical vegetation, stirred his pulses to ecstasy. "Gad !" he said to me : "it's an inspiration to look at her — a privilege to see her smile. Men have died for less. She isn't flesh and blood, George. She's a Greek lyric set to Mascagni's music." I thought of the Greek lyric's appetite (an amazing one for a lady of her weight), and was stricken dumb. 245 Some Happenings To tell the truth, I was seriously alarmed. In a sense I was responsible for Jimmy. Had I undertaken a task beyond my strength? We dined that night at the British consul's, and met there an Englishman, the Honourable Bertie FitzUrse, a superb animal, with Plantagenet blood coursing through his veins, and a four-inch-high collar around his noble throat. This gentleman was immensely struck with Mrs. Mac. During dinner — I remember Jimmy was exceptionally brilliant — he gave his undivided attention to the menu, but on the veran- dah afterwards he had his innings. Somebody mentioned Sandow and feats of strength. The Hon. Bertie opened his mouth and began to talk. Respect for the peerage kept most of us silent, and, besides, we were interested. From words the mighty FitzUrse passed to deeds. He picked up Jimmy with one hand and held him aloft ! Mrs. Mac. gasped, and a peculiar light shone in her velvety eyes ; her perfect lips parted ; her bosom heaved. Then the Briton bared his good right arm and gave us an instructive object- lesson upon the physiology of bodily exercise. We were charmed : Mrs. Mac. most of all. When FitzUrse had fin- ished he modestly withdrew from the centre of our circle; and Mrs. Mac. — who always took the initiative with men — beckoned him to her side. Jimmy was cut out! *1 shouldn't care a rush," he confessed to me, some forty- eight hours later, ''but this fellow is a clown, a Tony Lump- kin. His brain — d — n him — is in inverse ratio to his muscle. Oh Lord! oh Lord!" "Never mind," L replied soothingly: "you can give your- self up completely to the rest cure. The female everywhere introduces the element of strife. Let us eliminate her. Rest for you, with Mrs. Mac. around, is unthinkable." "Heaven knows," he moaned, "that the Bolton intellig^ence 246 Jimmy's Rest Cure is below the average ; but do you suppose Kitty would prefer that muscular monstrosity to me?" I assured him gravely that in my opinion Kitty would be loyal to him through thick and thin — even if he lost his nose and bought his cravats ready made. Several days passed, and the flirtation between Mrs. Mc- Vlckar and the big Englishman became the talk of the town. Jimmy w^as abjectly miserable, and complained of insomnia. The rest cure, he admitted, was a failure. Finally Fitz- Urse invited Mrs. Mac. and a select party to witness the hida-hida in all its original glory. He took infinite pains to procure the very best dancers, and the performance took place by moonlight in a secluded grove. I am not squeam- ish, but long before the close of this most remarkable enter- tainment Jimmy and I left — disgusted! "I can stand a good deal, George," he muttered, "but this is horrible." Mrs. Mac, however, sat the dance out, and described it afterwards as a m^ost luminous experience ! Jimmy, meet- ing FitzUrse the next morning, cut him dead in the pres- ence of several persons. The Englishman bit his lip, and steadily confronted him. "What is the meaning of this, sir?" he asked savagely. *lt means," replied Jimmy, looking him straight in the eye, ''that I decline the honour of your acquaintance. You're a blackguard, sir; a disgrace to your family and your country." The Honourable Bertie raised his mighty arm — and let it fall. 'T shall not thrash you," he said huskily, "for obvious reasons; but we are in the Sandwich Islands, and unless you give me satisfaction in the old-fashioned way, I shall pull your nose publicly and post you at the club as a coward." 247 Some Happenings "I shall meet you," said Jimmy, smiling, "with infinite pleasure; when and where you please." Of course duelling is absurd and indefensible from the American point of view. And yet I took a certain delight in arranging the preliminaries of this now historic combat. I hoped for the best. Jimmy was an excellent shot with a pistol, and the Britisher presented an enormous mark. Nev- ertheless, Jimmy received a bullet in his thigh which nearly severed the femoral artery, and FitzUrse retired from the field of honour without a scratch. Public opinion, however, set dead against him, and he sailed for Tahiti. Mrs. Mac. returned to San Francisco by the next boat. I did not wish her hon voyage. So Jimmy and I were left alone in Honolulu, and at one time I feared that he — poor fellow — would remain there for ever. But a capital constitution and a clever surgeon pulled him through the crisis, and, as soon as it was practicable, we moved up to the mountains. There the rest cure proper commenced. One lovely night we were sitting side by side, and Jimmy was talking hopefully of a return to California. He had received that morning a letter from his wife, which he read carefully, I noted, and reread. ''George," he said seriously, ''these months here must have played the deuce with your business." "That's all right, Jimmy : don't mention it. I have pre- pared a capital paper for the Microscopical Society." "You are a trump !" he continued. "Tell me : did you come to the Islands with me merely to fuss with a micro- scope ?" "No." "You came, then, on my account ?" "No." He pulled nervously at his blonde moustache. 248 Jimmy's Rest Cure **I came, Jimmy, on Kitty's account. You may as well know that your wife was, once, the one woman in the world for me. I know her possibly better than you do. She is one in ten thousand. She is sound to the core. Patriotic, honest, artless, and true as steel. She and her brother pre- fer to spend their money where it was made — in California. They think, both of them, more of others than of them- selves. This is the woman you have called a fool !" I spoke hotly, torn by conflicting emotions. "How you despise me !" he murmured hoarsely. "How you must hate me !" "Not at all," I replied sharply. "On the contrary, Jimmy, I have a sincere regard for you ; otherwise I should not have spoken to-night. You have made a blunder, an almost unpardonable blunder for a man of your intelligence, but you may live to retrieve it." "I can retrieve it," cried Jimmy, "and, by Heaven, I will." 249 XV BEANFEASTERS T ONG ago I was seized with a desire to visit Epping -■--' Forest as a beanfeaster. Sally Martin arranged the affair for me. Sally had helped me before. She sold hats in a milliner's shop in the Mile End Road, and my thirst for knowledge in regard to many things connected with hats was slaked by her, although at first she obviously con- sidered my questions indiscreet, if not impudent. How- ever, when she learned that I worked for my living, as she did, and that my business was to ask questions and record the answers, her suspicions melted into sympathy and pity. "Yer must 'ear a lot o' lies," she remarked. "In my line," said I, "lies fetch as much as — and some- times more than — truth." "Yer line?" "Penny-a-line, Sally. It comes to more than that now, but the writing of fancy articles is not much better paid than the making of them," and I glanced at the hat in her hand. "Lor!" said Sally, with an appreciative grin, "I'd like ter 'ear of a tryde that was overpydt, I would." Thus our friendship began. After that I often dropped in to see Sally. I knew and liked the man who owned the shop, and he told me that although Sally was a handful, he counted her a good sort, and straight. One day, by mere chance, I was able to do 250 Beanfeasters the girl a service, and the gratitude in her nice brown eyes was pleasant to see. Being the kind of young person who fidgets under a sense of obligation, she asked me promptly if there were anything she could do for me. ''I want to go to a beanfeast," said I — "a jolly beanfeast, from which your sex, Sally, is not excluded." "Gam! You?" "Why not?" Sally reflected, a frown between her eyes. She had the wit to perceive what I wanted, and also the difficulties of the enterprise. Then she smiled, and soon the smile became a grin, and the grin a laugh. "It would be a lark," she exclaimed; and I knew that the thing was done. I met her that same day at the corner of Brick Lane, after business hours, to clinch the matter. Sally was sim- ply bubbling over with the humour of the adventure. "I surpose," said she, rather shyly, "that yer know I've got a young man?" "Only one?" said I. "One's enough fer me. Too much. I'll give it to yer — stright. 'E's too cock-a-'oop ter please me. And I told 'im so, only las' Sunday. Per-raps I spoke shawp-like — anywy, he got short in 'is temper, and I'd like ter teach 'im that he ain't the only pebble on the shore. Now, 'im and me was goin' to a beanfeast next Toosday week, and if yer like ter come with me instid of 'im, why, just sy so." I foresaw complications, but with Sally's eye on me I was not going to mention them. "I shall be delighted," said I. She looked me over carefully. " 'E's an orful jealous chap." "I don't blame him, Sally." 251 Some Happenings "But lor! yer know how ter tike care o' yerself, and if the mug should 'it yer, why, 'it 'im back — it'll do 'im good." "I shall certainly defend myself," said I. After that we fell to discussion of the details. I was to pass as an Ameri- can, a sort of cousin from California, a role I was well able to assume, having spent many years in the Golden State. I begged Sally not to worry about my appearance, and she told me frankly that she was only worrying about her own. From what she added I inferred that I might expect a toilette quite out of the ordinary. "As fer yer togs," she concluded, "I'd like yer ter do the swell. I sy — what shall I call yer?" "All Americans are colonels," said I, remembering Paul Bloiiet's remarks on the subject. "You might call me — Colonel— eh?" "Yus — that's prime. Lor ! yer'll be a credit to me. Kur- nel! Oh, I sy! James Parker'll 'ave a fit. Yus: Kur- nel " "Colonel Washington Bludyer." "Wash — fer short, comin' 'ome, when yer arm " she stopped short. "Is where it ought to be," I observed carelessly. Sally laughed so immoderately that a bobby eyed us suspiciously. "From Cuba," said I. "Colonel Washington Bludyer from Cuba and California, visiting his mother's relations in the old country." "Wot a gyme!" said Sally. When the Tuesday came, I arrayed myself in black, which in East End circles always bespeaks the man of substance. I was careful to wear a diamond collar stud, and a white satin tie carefully pulled down so as to Swow the stud. A large diamond ring, a splendid gold chain, and a big wide- awake hat completed a costume which — I flattered myself — would challenge attention and admiration. The ring and 252 Beanfeasters the stud were wonderful value for the money I paid for them: three and ninepence half-penny at a shop near Lud- gate Circus. Sally was waiting for me about a quarter of a mile from the tavern from which our brake was to start, and when she saw me her eyes sparkled, with appre- ciation. She herself was dressed entirely in white — white "Gainsborough" hat, white shoes, white belt, white thread gloves, and a white parasol. I had a nosegay of flowers for her, which I pinned into her belt. In doing so, Sally caught sight of the splendid gem upon my little finger. "Is that reel?" *'Sally, this is the best that can be bought — for the money. Have you seen Mr. James Parker ?" "Yus — ^Jymes is coming. And 'e's got comp'ny too. A young lidy from Poplar. He interdooced me to 'er, just now. I tole 'im I'd return the compliment, and when he arst oo was comin' with me, I sez 'the curick.' I wouldn't miss 'is fyce for anythink when I say yer nyme: Colonel Washington Bludyer." "Wash.," said I, "when " "Yus;Iknow." We walked on in silence, attracting much attention — and some chaflP — from the foot-passengers. Sally, I noted, was smiling, but pensive. Presently she said softly : "Jymes thinks 'e knows every- think — so — if you know somethink 'e don't know — why, let 'im 'ave it." At the tavern we found the company assembled and wait- ing for us — the last to arrive. This being a subscription affair, and not the ordinary beanfeast, introductions were necessary and in order. Sally presented Mr. James Parker, a good-looking young fellow with heavy jaws and shoulders, who eyed me with suspicion tempered by surprise. 253 Some Happenings "Never knowed you 'ad American relations," he observed. ''Kurnel— eh?" "Just back from the wars," said Sally. Mr. Parker sniffed incredulously, and begged to intro- duce Miss Amelia Huggins, in a brand-new shepherd's plaid costume, crowned with a stunning red velvet toque. She was not nearly so pretty as Sally, and seemed to be much in awe of Mr. Parker. After many "after you, sir's," and "now then, miss," we packed ourselves into the brake and drove gaily off. Sally sat next to me, and on the other side, but lower down, was Mr. Parker and Miss Huggins. At first the company politely confined itself to banalities. The fact that we had only two horses instead of four obscured for a season the prospect of a delightful day ; but at The Ram, where we descended, and where Hquid refreshment was of- fered to, and accepted by, the ladies, the talk began to bubble into personalities. I said little (somewhat to Sally's annoyance). Mr. Parker, however, talked at score and with ease upon all subjects within (and without) his ken. He displayed carefully cultivated gifts of repartee, exchanging pleasantries with the ladies of the party, and inciting to wrath and abuse the drivers of vehicles and riders of bi- cycles whom we encountered upon the road. Miss Huggins sat beside him, sweetly appreciative and quivering with gig- gles. Finally, encouraged by my silence (as I had hoped he would be), Mr. Parker began to single me out for more particular attention. It was "Kurnel" here, and "Kumel" there, till Miss Huggins became hysterical, and Sally was biting her pretty lips with annoyance. I bided my time, replying in monosyllables to Mr. Parker's facetious ques- tions. "I suppose, Kurnel, yerVe killed yer man— eh?" "Yes." 254 Beanfeasters "Reely! Now, Kurnel, to oblige the lidies, won't yer tell us all abaht it. 'Ow did yer do it? Sword, dagger, pistol, rifle — catterpult?" I shook my head mournfully. ''Come, Kurnel, the lidies is wyting. Did yer sly 'im with yer humberella ?" I caught the eyes of the fair, and answered in a Mark Twain drawl, "I talked him to death." Mr. Parker perceptibly winced, and the colour flowed back into Sally's cheeks. *'Did yer? I am surprised." "Since that day," I continued, 'Tve been scared of shoot- ing off — my mouth. How many men, or women, have you killed, Mr.— er— Barker?" *'My nyme is Parker." "A relation of the famous preacher? He was a talker — too/* Mr. Parker shuffled his foot and glared at Sally. "Don't mike luvin' eyes at me, Jymes," said that young lady. "Ain't yer goin' ter answer Cousin Washington's question? 'Ow many men and women 'ave yer torked ter death?" "I ain't killed a man — yet," said Mr. Parker darkly, re- lapsing into moody silence, which was not broken till we pledged each other health and happiness and "another five bob a week" at the next stopping-place, in Walthamstow. After Walthamstow we began to catch glimpses of the country. Some fine elms bordered the road, and beyond these were green fields wherein sleek cows comfortably grazed. The houses too seemed less grimy. Pink bricks, white stone facings, lavender-coloured tiles challenged the admiration of the beanfeasters. "Lor !" exclaimed Sally. " 'Ow I should like ter five in one o' them cottages, with the right person," she added, cast- ing a coquettish glance at me. 255 Some Happenings "Oh, yus," sighed little Miss Huggins. "It would be 'evving." "It might be 'ell for the wrong person," said Mr. Parker, doubling an enormous fist. "Jymes !" observed Sally severely. "I don't pick my words," said Mr. Parker. "Pick 'em? I shouldn't think yer did. I 'ope, Cousin Washington '11 excuse yer ignerunce, Jymes. I told 'im yer bark was wuss than yer bite — and mentioning bites, I'm getting peckish. Oo ordered dinner?" A cheery little man, who carried a comet, replied prompt- ly, "I ordered a cold cullation." Then he mentioned beef, ham, chicken, and tartlets, con- cluding with a suggestion : "We shall 'ave time f er a mouch round in the forest before " "And after," said Sally, nudging me. Everybody smiled in joyful anticipation, except Mr. Parker. "Yer don't look yerself, Jymes," pursued the relentless Sally. "Per-raps that lawst 'awf-an'-'awf was too much fer yer. Yer ain't accustomed ter liquor — are yer?" To this quip Mr. Parker vouchsafed no reply, but began to pay belated attention to Miss Huggins, insisting upon holding her hand, because — he said — the forest was full of wild beasts. Miss Huggins murmured that she feared noth- ing in Mr. Parker's company, and thereupon blushed so prettily that Sally was moved to remark that there were beasts and beasts, and that the most to be feared were two- legged ones. Upon this Mr. Parker redoubled his kind at- tentions. By this time we had reached our destination, a tavern in the heart of the forest ; and finding that the cold collation would not be ready for three-quarters of an hour, the cor- net-player's suggestion of a "mouch" round the forest met 256 Beanfeasters with general approval. Mr. Parker and his Amelia were amongst the first to disappear, and Sally's eyes were spar- kling when she proposed that we should "mouch" in the opposite direction. So we set forth nimbly, but our pace slackened as we walked; and presently, finding a mossy bank and a sheltering oak, Sally sat down and (reading sympathy in ray face) burst into tears. ''I 'ate 'im! / 'ate 'im! I ate 'im !" she exclaimed. "But he loves you," I ventured to remark. **Yer reely think so ! No kid ?" "I am absolutely convinced of it." " 'E ought ter be ashymed of 'isself ter treat a lidy the wy 'e's treating " ''Miss Huggins?" I remarked. "Oh, 'er? I wasn't thinkin' of 'er." "I am very sorry for Miss Huggins," said I. '*Your friend, Mr. Parker, is raising hopes which " "Wot is 'e doin'^ I'd like ter know?" "She's very pretty, Sally." "She ain't. A silly slink — she is : a giggley thing out of a sweet-factory !" "Play the game, Sally, and dry your eyes. If James Parker saw you now " Sally dabbed at her eyes with a wonderful lace handker- chief ; then she began to laugh, and I laughed with her. "I'm the silly," she confessed, as we wended our steps towards the tavern; "but 'e needn't 'ave squeezed 'er 'and so 'ard, need 'e?" I said that excuses might be found for Mr. Parker, and that such engineers as he might be hoist with their own petard. Sally took the hint. During the dinner which followed I found myself actually blushing beneath the ar- dent glances of my companion; we drank beer out of the same glass (for luck — so said Sally) ; we shared our salad; ^S7 Some Happenings we pulled a merry-thought ; we whispered together and laughed. It was not wise, but who is wise — at a bean- feast? Mr. Parker scowled at me, but I smiled sweetly in return, and Amelia Huggins consoled herself with the tartlets. "I'm just dyin' ter get back into the forest," said naughty Sally. "It's too 'evvingly there — ain't it, Cousin Washing- ton?" "Carding of Heden — snike and all," sneered Mr. Parker. The company perceived that Mr. Parker was not happy, but an abundance of food and drink made the fact of no consequence. When the cornet-player gave us the Absent- minded Beggar^ with variations, everybody — except Mr. Parker — broke into song, and the ''cullation" was pro- nounced a tearing success. "Lost yer voice, Jymes?" demanded Sally, across the nar- row table. "I know wot I've lost, and I sez a good riddance." "If you and Miss 'Uggins lost it in the forest, per-raps yer'd better go back and look fer it." I feared that Sally was about to betray herself; but for- tunately Mr. Parker was in no mood for subtlety of anal- ysis. Indeed, he refused to budge from the tavern, and accepted with alacrity a challenge to a game of quoits. Miss Huggins sat down, very disconsolate, to watch the game. Sally and I wandered away — arm-in-arm. "Lor !" she murmured, when we were out of earshot, but not out of sight: "wot a gyme this is — Wash!" I slipped my arm round her waist, and the "Cainsbor- ough" hat dropped over my shoulder. Whatever qualms I may have had vanished when I reflected that Mr. Parker's case called for drastic treatment. We wandered on very slowly, and then Sally, who had peeped back, whispered: "Oh my ! Jymes is f ollerin' us." 258 Beanfeasters I did not remove my arm from Sally's trim waist, and the big white feather continued to tickle my left ear. Some two hundred yards farther on we were overtaken by Mr. Parker. Sally's surprise at seeing him was incomparable. "You, Jymes?" "Yus — me. I wish ter speak private with this — this — gen'leman." ''Sally/' said I, ''will you be good enough to return to Miss Huggins: I'm sure she's feeling lonesome." Sally eyed us nervously. I confess that the fire in ^Ir. Parker's eye was not likely to cool her apprehensions — or mine. However, at a nod from me, she slowly moved away. "I don't allow no liberties ter be tiken with that young lidy," observed ^Ir. Parker. '1 suppose that's pline — as pline," he added insultingly, "as yer hugly fyce." I began to remove my coat. " 'Old 'ard." said Mr. Parker : "we'll find a more sercluded spawt, wheer we can 'ave the fun to ourselves." "Fun? Do you call it fun to have your head punched?" "It'll be fun punching yours, Kurnel. I dessay it won't be an easy job, but I mean ter do it." Accordingly we sought and found a sequestered glade, where — save for the soot upon the ancient trunks of the beeches — we might have believed ourselves to be in the. heart of a virgin forest. Here we stripped and fought. Pro- test, I had perceived, would be wasted and misapprehended. Indeed, from the first, I was sensible that the matter was serious. I had no wish to hurt Mr. Parker, but he had the most strenuous determination to hurt me ; and because of this, although I had the advantage in height, skill, and even strength, it seemed probable that if I continued to act on the defensive a mistake on my part would end in my igno- minious defeat. His rushes became wilder and fiercer as the 259 Some Happenings seconds passed. Twice he almost had me ; the third time I countered him full on the point of the jaw, and he went back and down as if he had been shot by a Dum-dum bul- let. While I eyed him somewhat sheepishly, I heard a rustle of skirts, and a woman's scream. "You b-b-b-rute !" said Sally, falling on her knees beside the unconscious Parker. Then she bent down and kissed him. I saw the flicker of Parker's eyelids, and withdrew quickly, snatching my coat and waistcoat from the ground. From behind the trunk of one of the beeches, I looked back. Sally was sitting on the ground, and Mr. Parker's head was in her lap! Halfway to the tavern I met Miss Huggins. She glanced curiously from my face to my hand. *'Yer 'and is bleeding," said she. *'A bleeding hand is nothing," said I, "but a bleeding heart. Miss Huggins " She laughed scornfully. 'T guessed 'ow it was," she ob- served ; "and I don't keer fer Mr. Jymes Parker. I like you much better," she continued frankly. " 'E torks too much, 'e does. I despise a torker." There was only the obvious thing to say. "Miss Hug- gins," I murmured, "if silence pleases you, let us take a little walk together — before tea." 260 XVI THE GRAND SLAM JOCK FFRENCH was the only child of an Irish father and a Scotch mother. The father, Rory Ff rench — every- body called him Rory — broke his neck in a steeplechase when Jock was seven years old; and after this sad event Mrs. Ffrench left Ireland and settled in Edinburgh amongst her own kinsfolk. These good people declared that Jock was Scotch through and through: an assumption fortified by freckles, high cheek-bones, hair the colour of Dundee marmalade, and a canniness beyond his years. But the laddie's eyes were undeniably Irish — an impudent blue en- circled by short thick black lashes : the devil-may-care, leap- before-you-look article, as much out of place in a north-of- Tweed countenance as a Kilkenny cat at a curling match. After leaving Cambridge, where he distinguished him- self in the Natural Science Schools, Jock entered a London firm of Scotch merchants as clerk. The work in and about Mincing Lane was not to his taste, but he stuck to it dog- gedly. For the rest he played golf and cards, and read every line written on the two subjects which most inter- ested him — bridge, and hematite ores. When Jock was thirty years old he met the Skibbereens. Lord Skib had parted with everything he possessed except a rich brogue and a half-interest in as handsome a daughter as ever came out of Kildare. On Diana's account the Skib- 261 Some Happenings bereens moved to London, where Lady Skib, who had a little money of her own, took a small house in Chester Square for the season. Lord Skib happened to be a second cousin of the late Rory Ffrench, and he sought out Jock at, Lady Skib's request, because Amy Bagot, her ladyship's great friend, had said that dear Mr. Ffrench was worth his half-million. As a matter of fact, Jock had saved about two thousand pounds, and was earning only five hundred a year; the John French, also of Mincing Lane, whom Mrs. Bagot knew, spelt his name with one "f." Jock was asked to dine en famille. "Your poor father," said his host, ''was a square peg in a round hole with no bottom to it. Ye take me? He lost life and fortune where I lost mine — at Punchestown. It's no bull I'm making, me boy. Faith ! when a man loses his money, he's in a hole which it's no stretch of the imagination to call a grave. He's dead. By the same token, they tell me you're very much alive." This allusion to the wealth that was not his puzzled Jock. After dinner bridge was played. During the second rub- ber Jock revoked for the first time in his life. He had just come to the conclusion that Diana was the most delightful girl he had ever met. When he returned to his modest chambers he told his man to bring him Burns. /'Burns, sir?" "Yes— Burns." The man brought him three books, with a deprecating expression. "Here's Foster, sir, and Doe, and Dalton ; but I can't find Burns. Is it just out, sir?" "You're a perfect fool. I want Burns: Robert Burns, the poet. He lives on — yes — on the top shelf of the big bookcase, in three volumes bound in pale green cloth." "Shall I bring all three, sir?" "Certainly." 262 The Grand Slam II After Ascot Lady Skib told her husband and Diana that Jock Ffrench was an impostor. Jock had been in and out of the house in Chester Square a score of times at least. ''An impostor," repeated Lord Skib. 'Taith, and he is that! He ought to be half Irish, but he's all Scotch. I asked him for a timporary loan of a thousand, and he re- fused me — I give ye my word." "An impostor !" exclaimed Diana. "He's a poor man," said Lady Skib viciously. "Oh— poor Jock !" "You call him Jock, Diana?" "It would be impossible to call him John. Has he lost his half-million?" "He never had it. He's a clerk— a pauper." "^^^^y, he gave me ten pounds yesterday." "What are you saying?" "For our bazaar." She laughed pleasantly. "He must be a good sort of — impostor. And I hardly thanked him. I'm not sure that I didn't accuse him of being rather stingy. Pook Jock !" She rose from the breakfast-table, and moved slowly away. Lady Skib looked at her lord. "Why did you ask that young man to my house, Terence?" "You asked me to ask him, Amalia." *'l hope no mischief has been done. But I fear that Diana is interested in this very commonplace cousin of yours." "She's interested in no man — yet. She's me own daugh- ter, the sweet modest creature." "I can't afford to take a house in London next season," said Lady Skib tartly, "Rest easy, Amalia. The child '11 marry before ye can 263 Some Happenings wink your eye. And she'll pick a winner too. Jock Ff rench is too canny for the darlin'. Faith, it comes out in his bridge. Di was furious with him last night. He declared spades, holding a Yarborough, and Di, his partner, held the prettiest no-trumper I ever saw. Jock made it plain afterwards that they'd have lost the odd thrick, but she told him to his freckled face that he'd no dash. And divil a bit o' dash has he. Now, Pyndrem has dash, if you like. And Pyndrem's the boy I'm backing." Sir Titus Pyndrem, the millionaire ironmaster, had shown Diana much attention in the enclosure at Ascot and else- where. It was said of him that he had accumulated a large fortune by using other folks' brains, which plainly proves that he had plenty of his own. Lady Skib's handsome face brightened. "Your boy is past forty," she murmured; "but I'm told that he always gets what he wants. Certainly he wants Diana. And he has good looks and good manners. A propos, we dine with him to-night at Claridge's." "And I'll drink his health, Amalia, in his own wine. Long life to him — and to our blessed chyild !" The Skibbereens dined with Sir Titus, went on with him to the opera, and thence to a ball in Park Lane, where Diana found Jock awaiting her. She saw that he was nervous and excited. Presently, when they were alone, she asked if any- thing had happened. "Well," he said slowly, "I've something on my mind, something of tremendous importance to — me. Something which has kept me awake ever since I met you." "Oh !" "And now I must m-m-make a declaration. The — what do you call it? — the psychological moment — has come." "Has it?" Diana played nervously with her fan. 264 The Grand Slam "Yes. It's not easy to make this — er — declaration, you understand, because — because " "Because you're poor," whispered Diana. "That's it. I've saved a couple of thou., and I'm mak- ing five hundred a year. And, if I stick to my last, I may be offered, some day, a junior partnership. Now then, between ourselves, I loathe the business. I've plodded on and on, like a slave ; but I wanted to be a chemist." "A chemist ! Good gracious !" "An experimental chemist. For years, you know, on the quiet I've been giving my undivided attention to hematite ores." "To Emma — who?" "Hematite ores : anhydrous iron sesquioxide, the most valuable of all the iron ores, and the most refractory. Then, about a month ago" — Diana smiled : she had met Jock for the first time just one month ago — "on the 14th of May -" "The 15th, Jock." "I think it was the 14th — no matter! On or about that date I was struck all of a heap, as you might say." "Certainly I should not use such a vulgar expression." "It came like a bolt from the blue. I'm thirty, Diana : no chicken — eh ? And suddenly I found what I'd been looking for for years." • "Ye— es." "I wasn't certain at first that I had found it." "That is the Scotch in you." "Perhaps. Anyway, I know now. And that brings me to the point where I started : my declaration, on which de- pends my whole future. Am 1 to stake everything or not? Shall I go no trumps — or spades?" "No trumps, if — if " "I know what you would say. No trumps, if I am rea- sonably sure of my cards. Diana — I am cocksure." 265 Some Happenings ''Oh! you are, are you?" She blushed furiously, but Jock was staring at the pattern of the carpet. '*Yes," he answered. ''Years ago, I remember attending a lecture given by Professor Sandeman. He concluded with these words: 'The man who will discover a cheap process for reducing hematite ores will prove a benefactor of man- kind and make an immense fortune !' Those words have buzzed in my head ever since. And I tell you, only you, that I'm cocksure I've got it." "Got what?" "I've discovered this process. I took out a provisional patent to-day." Diana was no longer red, but white. So this, this was what had kept him awake at night ! With an effort she ac- claimed the wonderful discovery: "Oh, Jock, how clever of you !" "It was luck, Diana. Now you see where I am. I be- lieve in my process so firmly that I'm tempted to chuck Mincing Lane and to use my time and money — it will take both — to make the necessary models." "But some one else with money could be persuaded to do that?" "I've no sort of pull. The thing is on paper. I don't know a soul to whom I'd dare trust my drawings. I tell you it's no trumps or spades ; freedom, and all that makes life worth living — or slavery." He looked at her ardently, but she could not interpret his thoughts. Did the future, the golden future, include her?" '*Jock," she said earnestly, "don't chuck the office — yet! Trust me with your drawings !" "You, Diana?" "I shall ask Sir Titus Pyndrem — he's an iron-master, and a great friend of ours — to look them over." "Pyndrem ! The king-pin ! Diana, this is an inspiration 266 The Grand Slam of yours. Pyndrem! What a head you've got! Why, if he says the thing'll go, go it will, like a toboggan down an ice-run. Trust my drawings to you? Rather! Why, Diana " "I believe this is our dance, Miss vSkibbereen ?" They looked up: Sir Titus, tall, bland, imposing, was, standing in front of them, smoothing his carefully trained moustache. Beneath it, a keen eye might have marked his lips, cleanly cut, but thin, pressed together in a faintly de- risive smile. A vertical wrinkle lay between his handsome brows. Ill Exactly what Diana said to Sir Titus must be conjec- tured, but it is certain she said too much. The ironmaster was a man of intuitions, an interpreter of the unspoken word, a reader of character: too shrewd not to perceive that the passion the Irish beauty inspired in him had en- gendered in her nothing more ardent than admiration, re- spect, and — shall it be added ? — fear : the fear which power always inspires, the fear strangely compounded of attrac- tion and repulsion, the fear so easily transformed into fasci- nation. Sir Titus promised to look over Jock's drawings and spec- ifications, but his manner subtly conveyed to Diana the impression that valuable time would be wasted — a matter of no consequence where she was concerned. Never had she liked him so well as when he said suavely : *T've made it a rule to pass this sort of thing on to my subordinates, but your cousin's drawings shall have my careful consideration. I hope I shall be able to report favourably on them." A large roll of papers and a long letter reached him next day. He glanced at them at once, for he knew that he 267 Some Happenings would meet Diana at Ranelagh the same afternoon. It hap- pened that other matters, very important matters, were clamouring for attention ; and Jock's calculations and draw- ings, when spread out, covered about fifteen square yards ! When he met Diana, Sir Titus said regretfully : "I wish I had good news for you, but your cousin's process is, I fear, impracticable." **Oh, oh ! He will be terribly cut up. He has put heart and soul into it." "No doubt. It is very sad. I am quite sure, reading be- tween the Hnes of the letter he wrote to me, that he thinks of nothing else." Diana blushed and bit her pretty lip. Sir Titus continued : 'T am not infallible. I shall have pleasure in submitting these papers to an expert." "Thank you, thank you," said Diana absently. "You have been very kind, Sir Titus — very kind indeed. But surely your opinion is final — I mean that it might be kinder to tell my cousin the brutal truth. Then, then, you know, he might — er — turn his attention to something else." Sir Titus smiled, but the tiny wrinkle between his' eyes showed itself for a minute. When he spoke again, his fine brow was quite smooth. "Will you trust me, my dear Miss Skibbereen? Believe me, I feel for your cousin very deeply. I cannot doubt that he has been wasting his time. I receive about twenty tons of drawings a year from poor men who have discovered nothing more or less than mares' nests." "I shall tell Jock that." "Tell him nothing ! Leave the matter in my hands ! For his sake — you say he is poor — no, no : I must be frank with you — for your sake I'll give the matter a second thought. Not a word, I beg, not a word ! I am delighted to serve you." 268 The Grand Slam Diana smiled graciously and allowed him to press her hand. Within the week Sir Titus wrote to Jock, offering him five hundred pounds for his "process." He knew that Jock would tell his cousin of the offer, and that she would put the construction he wished on it. Jock did tell his cousin. The poor fellow — had Sir Titus foreseen this also? — was furious. "He offers me five hundred — the leech! And if the thing's worth a penny it's worth half a million. Five hun- dred ! Great Scott !" "You do Sir Titus a grave injustice," said Diana warmly. "He has behaved with extraordinary dehcacy." "He's putting on the screw: if ever I get a turn at him " "Sir Titus is my friend," said Diana coldly. Jock went away very sorrowful. He was certain that Diana meant to marry Sir Titus, and the hideous thought oppressed him that Sir Titus might have offered the cheque out of charity. "What's a monkey to him?" he reflected. "He's cages full of 'em, confound him!" None the less, he answered Sir Titus's letter by asking for an interview, which was granted. Sir Titus was at his country place, Pyndrem Park, and thither Jock betook himself in the afternoon of the next Saturday. He had to walk from the station, a dusty journey of two miles and a half, and Sir Titus kept him waiting in the library for three-quarters of an hour. When he came in, tall, cool, dignified, Jock read pity on every fine of his face. "Am I to write a cheque?" asked the ironmaster. "No," said Jock. "My process is either worthless or very yaluable. Sir Titus, I feel from the bottom of my soul that 269 Some Happenings I have dropped on to something which will turn the iron trade upside down." Sir Titus shrugged his shapely shoulders. Perhaps he had heard the words before. "You are a rich man," said Jock desperately ; "and a thou- sand more or less is nothing to you. Let me offer you a half-interest in this thing. You will have to build the models, and so forth — finance it, in short, through the ex- perimental stage. At the outside this ought not to cost more than two thousand. What do you say?" "With infinite regret, my dear Ff rench, I must say — No." "Why did you offer me five hundred, then?" Again Sir Titus shrugged his shoulders. "I had reasons: they ought to be sufficiently obvious to the cousin of Miss Skibbereen." "Give me my papers," said Jock, "and let me say thank you and good-bye. Miss Skibbereen's cousin can worry along without pity or charity." "Your drawings? Certainly. They shall be sent to your chambers, when I get them. I have — er — submitted them to an expert. Good-bye." Jock returned to town humble as Uriah Heep; and his humility kept him out of Chester Square. Six miserable weeks passed. Then he received his drawings without a word of apology for keeping them, and without the ex- pert's written report, which possibly Sir Titus had withheld. Coincident with this, Jock read in his paper the announce- ment of an engagement between the Honourable Diana Skibbereen and Sir Titus Pyndrem, Bart. The double event made a full-blooded Irishman of him. He looked over his drawings, and it seemed to him that they had hardly been touched. That was odd, because experts in such matters as hematite ores have not the cleanest fingers in the world ! Just then he conceived the happy idea of 270 The Grand Slam consulting the great chemist, Professor Sandeman, whose lecture, years before, had inspired him. He asked for an appointment, which was duly made and kept. "I can give you five minutes," said the illustrious investi- gator. Jock reminded him of the concluding words of his lecture. *'And you've got it — hey?" "I believe so. The essential principle is this, sir " He smoothed out a drawing and began to talk. The Professor listened, poring over the drawings, nodding his massive head, growling inarticulate sounds. Presently he com- manded silence. Jock watched him as he tore the heart out of the elaborate calculations. Obviously the great man was interested, excited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. "Bless my soul! I believe you have got it. Now, look here, my boy, Pyndrem ought to see these," — he tapped the drawings. *'He has §een them. He offers — five hundred pounds." "Five hundred pounds ! These ironmasters are made of — brass. Five hundred pounds !'' He scratched his chin, screwing up one eye in comical perplexity. "My boy, FU be frank with you. I haven't a penny. Still, I know the fellows with the shekels. But you don't want Tom and Dick poking their beaks into this — do you ? And your pro- visional patent will expire soon. Why did Pyndrem keep your drawings so long?" "I think I can guess why," said Jock, clenching his fist. The Professor nodded absently, and continued, "I could sell these drawings for more than five hundred, but you know how it is — a pig in a poke — hey? And if you find a financier he'll gobble the profits. They always do," said the great man ruefully. "That's why F'm a pauper." "I have two thousand pounds," said Jock solemnly. "To risk?" 271 Some Happenings "Fm risking more than that." Jock explained the position in Mincing Lane. "Phew-w-w !" exclaimed the Professor. " Ton my soul, I can't advise you, my boy. This sort of thing is heart- breaking. The best-laid plans of inventors gang agley. The sulphur in those confounded ores might play havoc with your models, and then — what then? No, no, you mustn't abandon substance for shadow. Sell these outright. I'll take it upon myself to advise Pyndrem to offer you five thousand for them." 'T'd sooner give them to you, sir." "Oh— ho !" Jock blushed to the roots of his marmalade-coloured hair, for the great man had — winked. Certainly his eyes were diabolically keen: they could see to the bottom of vessels other than test-tubes and crucibles. "If you'll steer me, sir, I'll risk my two thousand." "My boy, your name is Ffrench, so, of course, you're Irish." "Half Scotch," said Jock. "The Scotch is on the surface," said the other, staring at the freckles. "Well, I can steer you, and I will steer you, because I like you and admire your pluck. Dine with me to-night Good gracious ! is that confounded clock striking four? Right-about-face, sir! March!" IV Models, whether animate or inanimate, take time in the making. Nearly three months passed before Jock and the Professor were able to put anticipation to the proof. Finally the day came, the wonderful day, the day of days when they knew that time and labour had not been wasted, that 272 The Grand Slam the new process was infinitely better than the old, that it must be adopted by every ironmaster in the wide world. Meantime patents had been applied for in the United States and foreign countries. The Professor steered his young friend through the snags and shoals which have wrecked so many inventors with the skill and patience of a Mississippi pilot. Then a company was formed ; and Jock, as managing di- rector, wrote letters to every ironmaster in the United King- dom, asking each to attend a private lecture. One man only, Sir Titus Pyndrem, received no invitation. All the big men came, hard-featured, keen-eyed, massive fellows, with uneasiness writ plain upon their shrewd faces. Jock recited the facts. Outside, in a shed, were the models. When he had finished his speech, Jock led the way into the sheds. "These," said he, "talk more convincingly than I can." The furnaces were red-hot ; so were the faces of the iron- masters, as they stood silent and dismayed, their eyes bulg- ing out of their heads with amazement. Jock smiled blandly. 'Tt's an extraordinary thing— isn't it?— that you, gentle- men, never discovered this." Several men, who had paid large bills for new machinery, wiped their foreheads. These asked the most questions. When they returned to the house, Jock offered his guests refreshments : tea, or whisky, if they preferred it. All of them, with the exception of a total abstainer from South Wales, preferred whisky. The total abstainer drank five cups of tea ! A group of four men, the biggest in the trade, approached Jock. "What are your terms?" they asked. The others in the room stopped talking. "Our terms," said Jock, "for the privilege of using the 273 Some Happenings Ffrench process are ten thousand pounds down, and a roy- alty of 15 per cent, upon the net profits." The crowd groaned. ''Your terms are outrageous, sir," said a well-known peer. Jock smiled. "Sir Titus Pyndrem," said he, "offered five hundred pounds for all rights, English and foreign, in my process. Opinions may differ upon what is or is not — out- rageous. The Board, gentlemen, is ready to receive your ap- plications. I may say, between ourselves, that Messrs. Slag, of Pittsburg, Ohio, whose representative is now in London, the Carl Hoffmeyers, and the great French firm of Delo- belle, have already accepted these terms which you, my lord, deem so outrageous." "Good morning, Mr. Ffrench." ^'Au revoir, my lord," said Jock, grinning. V The iron trade soon discovered that the position of the new company was impregnable. Many of the smaller men consolidated their interests; but each firm, new or old, was constrained to apply for permission to use the Ffrench process. Amongst these applications came one from Sir Titus Pyndrem. Jock laid it before the Board (which sat every day), and said a few words. "I have a favour to ask you, gentlemen. You know the facts, so I need not repeat them. Sir Titus applies for permission to use our process. Well, ten thousand pounds plus the royalties on the biggest output in the kingdom is a large sum to sacrifice ; but Sir Titus nearly broke my heart, and I want to go to him, and I want to say: 'Sir Titus, your application is — refused. Our patent will run for four- teen years. Then we hope to get a renewal of it, and when 274 The Grand Slam that expires, and not till then, yon will be able to use the John Ffrench process.' " The chairman glanced at his colleagues, interpreting aright the expression upon their faces. Then he chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Gentlemen," said he, "you have heard what Mr. Ffrench says; and, speaking personally, I am of opinion, and I be- lieve you are of opinion, that in this matter our managing director, who is also our largest shareholder, ought to have a free hand. This is irregular, but those in accord with me say 'aye.' Ah ! I thought so. The Board is united, Mr. Ffrench. Pray tell Sir Titus, with our compliments, that he may go to — er — Jericho." Next day Jock wired to Sir Titus that he wished to see him at any convenient time and place. Sir Titus wired back: "Come to Pyndrem by 11.40 to-morrow. Will send carriage to station." Jock bought a first-class ticket and the Marnhig Post. But he did not read his paper. Nor did he look out of the window at the pleasant fields and woods of Surrey. Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes, reviewing the events of the past year, counting his gains and losses. He had lost Diana. Ah, well, Fortune came to few men with both hands full. He must live his life — and it promised to be a full life — without her. Hang it all I What a muff he was, to be sure ! His eyes were wet. Truly, she had bewitched him — the siren ! Why had they met — to be parted by inexorable destiny? Why? The answer was obvious. To Diana he owed everything. She had fired him to supreme endeavour ; she had quickened the clay. He could not doubt that. Alone, he would have plodded on in the same old path: dreary work from ten to four, golf, if the season permit- ted, bridge at the club — ad infinitum! Jock picked up his paper. Retrospection, he decided, was 275 Some Happenings fatuous. The present and the future alone should engross his attention. The world had become his oyster — and what was the world doing? Suddenly he ejaculated, "By Jove !" He had just read that Sir Titus Pyndrem was entertain- ing a number of friends at Pyndrem Park, amongst them Lord and Lady Skibbereen and Miss Skibbereen. *T ought to have foreseen this," said Jock ruefully. He had half a mind to return to town without seeing Sir Titus; but the other half, the Scotch half, protested obsti- nately. After all, it was extremely unlikely that Diana and he would meet. He came to see Sir Titus. He would see Sir Titus alone in his library. All in all he need not spend more than a quarter of an hour within the palings of Pyn- drem Park. At the station a victoria, drawn by a splendid pair of blood bays, was awaiting him. "I had to foot it last time," said Jock, with a grin, as he drew a sealskin rug over his knees. As he entered the park he reflected that this lovely place would be Diana's future home. She would pass in and out of the magnificent iron gates; she would use, daily per- haps, this finely appointed carriage. Thinking of these things, Jock ground his teeth. At the house he was received by the butler and a couple of tall footmen. The butler ushered him into the library, where Sir Titus was standing, ready to welcome an hon- oured guest. *Tfrench, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you." Sir Titus grasped Jock's hand and held it firmly, as if loath to let it go. Words poured from his mouth. Jock would stop to luncheon — of course? If he had no better engagement, would he join the house-party? Let him wire for his servant and his things — and so forth. 276 The Grand Slam Jock listened, unable to stem this torrent of courtesy. *'I should like to show you what I've done here/' Sir Titus continued : "the model farm, my hackneys, the herd of Jerseys. You'll be going in for these tu'penny-ha'penny distractions yourself. Ah — Diana !" Diana had come in, pausing irresolutely upon the threshold when she saw Jock. Then she advanced, faintly smiling, holding out her slim hand. *T'm trying to persuade your cousin — he is your cousin, isn't he? — to spend a few days with us." "That would be — delightful," said Diana, glancing inter- rogatively at Jock. *T m-m-must return t-t-to t-t-town at once," he stam- mered. Sir Titus raised his handsome brows. "My dear Ffrench, my dear fellow, that is simply impossible. Business of such magnitude can't be settled in a minute — or an hour." *T think it c-c-can," said Jock. Sir Titus divined instantly that Jock had travelled down into Surrey to tell him to his face that his application was refused — a little bit of revenge after his (Sir Titus's) own heart. He divined also that Jock would not find it easy to deliver himself in Diana's presence. When Jock had wired asking for an interview. Sir Titus had jumped to the con- clusion that Jock had terms of his own to propose. Setting an extravagant value on money, it had not occurred to him that Jock and his Board would dare to defy the man who owned more hematite ores than any three others in the trade. He made up his mind what to do and say as Diana was turning to leave the room. "Don't go, Diana," he said suavely. "The business which has brought your cousin here will interest you." "Oh!" said Diana. "It is connected with that invention of his, which you, if 277 Some Happenings I remember rightly, introduced to my notice last June, I thought there was nothing in it; but it seems I was mis- taken. Well," he laughed genially, "all of us make mistakes — sometimes/' "Sometimes," said Diana, looking at Jock. "Sometimes," repeated Jock, trying to interpret the ex- pression upon the girl's face. Sir Titus, too occupied with his own thoughts to notice what was passing in the minds of others, continued blandly : "I made a mistake which will cost me dear. The process, no doubt vastly improved since I saw it " ^'Just the same," said Jock sharply. "Has proved of — er — superlative value. We — all of us in the trade — must adopt it. And your cousin, my dear, has come down here to — er — turn the screw. I don't blame him. Impose your penalty, my dear Ffrench — and then let us drink your health in some Marcobrunner, which I think you will admit is incomparable." Jock smiled faintly. Certainly Sir Titus had a "way" with him. He had wriggled out of a very tight place. Jock told himself that Diana had chosen a man whose body and brains were immeasurably superior to his own. He said heavily : "It's all right, Sir Titus. I shan't turn the screw. Your application is accepted — on the same terms as the others. And now, I m-must get back to t-t-town." "If you must, my dear fellow " Sir Titus held out his hand. "Wait a moment," said Diana. She turned to Jock, hold- ing his eyes. "I am puzzled. I — I feel that in some way I have forced your hand. You — you did not come down here to tell Sir Titus something which could have been told in half a dozen words on a postcard ? You" — her voice became firmer, clearer, as she began to grasp what had eluded her — "you intended to say something entirely dif- 278 The Grand Slam ferent. I believe — yes, I know that you came here to play some card which you have not played. Why?" The w^ord, slightly aspirated, seemed to whistle through the silence that followed. "'Why?" she repeated impatiently. *'Will you tell me — or shall I guess?" Jock was stricken dumb with confusion. Flight suggested itself as the one thing possible. Fortunately, Diana stood between himself and the door. ''It seems I must guess," said Diana, with a hard laugh. "My dearest," interposed Sir Titus, in his admirable man- ner, ''is it — er — discreet to interfere in a business matter which " "You said yourself a moment ago concerned me. I was so interested in this very business that I took upon myself to beg you to give it attention. You told me the next day there was nothing in it." "The next day ?" repeated Jock ; "and I got my drawings back at the end of the Cowes week." "At the end of the Cowes week?" Diana's eyes were flashing interrogation. Sir Titus betrayed signs of temper. "I must protest," he said. "This cross-examination in my own house " "Here or elsewhere," interrupted Diana, "Fm going to the bottom of this." "You dare to insinuate " "I dare to demand the truth from the man I've promised to marry." "Go on," said Sir Titus, with a gesture indicating resig- nation : the inevitable surrender of the courteous male to the indiscreet female. "You kept these drawings for six weeks. Ah — I have it! You came down here" — she looked at Jock — "to enjoy the pleasure of telling the man who had kept you frizzling 279 Some Happenings on a gridiron of suspense for forty days and nights that his application was — refused." She brought out the last word triumphantly. "Deny it, if you can. Now, Titus, please tell me why you kept those drawings so long." "I — er — sent them to an expert." ''An expert ! He can't know his business. Who is he — your expert?" Sir Titus hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he said coldly, 'T sent them to — er — Professor Sanderaan." "Sandeman !" repeated Jock, stupefied. "Why, Sandeman is my man. I showed them to him after you had returned them to me. He recognised their merit at once. Why " Sir Titus held up his hand. "I surrender," said he. *T admit that I am beaten. All is fair in love and war. Your drawings were not sent to anybody. I glanced at them myself, and failed to see the value of them. The rest — you can guess." He bowed politely and left the room. An awkward silence followed, broken by Diana. "So you went no trumps after all ?" "Yes," said Jock; "but the game is not over yet." He drew nearer, staring hard into her eyes, reading the writing on her cheeks. ''The tricks are all yours, Jock." "All mine?" He bent down till his lips touched her ear. Then he murmured a question to which she nodded assent, being unable to speak. "What will you tell your mother?" said Jock. He had actually forgotten that he was rich, eligible. "I shall tell her," said Diana, half crying, half laughing, "that I made a mistake, and that Sir Titus made a mis- take, and that you have made — the Grand Slam." 280 XVII BINGO S FLUTTER BINGHAM MASTERMAN, known to his friends as Bingo, was the only son of a Liverpool merchant who had accumulated a vast fortune by the exercise of patience, thrift, caution, and a habit of mind constraining him to buy when others wished to sell, and to sell when his neigh- bours were unduly anxious to buy. Not ungenerous to him- self or to his family, it may be said of him — as Junius said of the Duke of Bedford — that his charity ended where it began — at home. Bingoes father married late in life the daughter of an Irish peer. This nobleman died in '85, but his memory was kept green by old Alasterman. Before Bingo was breeched he understood that his maternal grandfather had been a miserable sinner and a scandalous spendthrift. Bingo was sent to Eton and Christ Church, where he made many friends, being an amiable fellow, and recog- nised as the son of a millionaire. He did not shine either in the schools or in the playing-fields, but he rode, not to, but after (a long way after) hounds, and bought sporting prints. Knowing men said that Bingo was likely to own a Derby winner some day. He had looked at a set of plans of model racing-stables, and it was generally under- stood that when it pleased Providence to remove his father, 281 Some Happenings something would happen. "The governor," Bingo would say, "is one of the best, but he had to fork out thirty thou, to pay the racing debts of my grandfather, Punchestown. Bless you, that little affair nearly killed both of 'em. Poor old Punch worried himself to death thinking that my father would not pay up, and my father barely escaped a fit knowing that he must. Bar chaff, i'f I had a little flutter now, he would cut me off with a shilling." When, in the fullness of time, Masterman pere was laid in the marble mausoleum to which his wife had preceded him. Bingo found himself sole possessor of more than i 1, 000,000 sterling. ''Bingo, me boy, ye'll have your flutter now," said an Irish second cousin ; but Bingo shook his head austerely, and said, very properly, that for a season his sire's prejudice against what he (Bingo) admitted to be one of the finest of British institutions must be respected. ''Me cousin is not buying — yet," reported the Irishman, "and divil a bet will he make, good son that he is, till he wears pink again ! Me only fear is that some match- making mamma will break his spirit, before his first race." Many of Bingo's friends shared this son of Erin's appre- hensions : sensible that Bingo was susceptible to female beauty, and — being of plastic clay — might be moulded by the wrong sort of wife into something quite unthinkable from a racing point of view. But, if he married the right sort! The conjunction, it will be admitted, introduced possibilities. Amongst the right sort (in a good sportsman's eyes) Lady Margie Yester shone pre-eminent. Her mother, old Lady Stockbridge, knew Bingo, and approved his per- sonalty, if not his personality. *T believe," she told her sister, "that his great-grandfather was transported for sheep-stealing, but I have always made a point of denying 282 Bingo's Flutter the story, because the dear man himself says that he never had a great-grandfather on his father's side. He can give Margie a tiara, and a tiara Margie must have. The child understands that perfectly. Yes ; his means, my dear, are very large." "As large as his ends," suggested the sister, whose mar- ried daughters wore no tiaras. She was referring to Bingo's extremities — hands and feet of generous proportions. "Quite so," said Lady Stockbridge, blandly. "Is it true, dear, that your darling Ethel is engaged to a minor canon ?" "An infamous lie!" affirmed the other lady of quality. "Why, a bishop, nowadays, is hardly eligible!" Bingo dined quietly (en famille, my dear Mr. Master- man) at Stockbridge House; and Lord Stockbridge pro- posed him at Black's and found a duke as seconder. Margie Yester told young Bicester that he was not to speak to her unless it was certain that no one was looking; and Bingo told his pals that the world was a better place than he had supposed. "I believe your governor only allowed you seven hun- dred a year," said Jack Ainsworth. "And I never exceeded my allowance," replied Bingo proudly. "By Jove, Jack, what a splendid woman Margie Yester is! You know her, of course!" "She does not know me." "I'll introduce you any day," said the enthusiastic Bingo ; but Ainsworth drily declined the honour. Bingo did not go to Ascot, but he promised to join Lady Stockbridge's party for the July meeting at Newmarket. Margie talked of Sandown and Goodwood and Doncaster, and said that she counted upon Bingo as a companion at the big autumn handicaps. "You mean to play the game ?" she asked sweetly. "Not — alone," said Bingo. 283 Some Happenings Margie smiled behind her fan. Bingo was warming up! Young Bicester had warned her that he was rather a ''cautious cove"; and her brother, Stockbridge, had said that Bingo would have to be shaken up at his fences — a bit of a slug! ''Bless your innocent heart," said Margie, "you won't be left alone, Bingo. Don't fret !" "You — and y — y — your people," added the careful young man, "are going to stand by me?" "To the death," said Margie gaily. "AH the same, don't, lend money to Stockie : that's my tip." "He hasn't asked for any," said Bingo, grinning. "Hasn't he?" said Margie. "Well, really," her voice softened delightfully, "that is very considerate of Stocky. And mamma — has — has she invited you to invest a few hundreds in the Kaffir market? She hasn't? Not yet. If she does — don't !" "I won't/' said Bingo firmly. "I say. Lady Margaret — I say, Margie, you've been awfully decent to me." "I have/' said Margie, truthfully, with a faint tinge of colour in her cheeks. "I like you. Bingo. I feel like Pharaoh's daughter when I look at you." Poor Bingo blushed. Divinity not being his strong point, he confounded Pharaoh's daughter with Potiphar's wife. "You are, so to speak, still in the bulrushes," continued the young lady. "May I adopt you. Bingo dear?" "You can do what you like with me," said the enchanted Bingo. "I am yours, and all I have is yours. Can I say more?" "You might perhaps say it differently," replied Margie, thinking of Bicester; "but I shan't pretend to misunder- stand you, my honest old Bingo, because, whatever those cats, my aunts, may say or think, I am — straight. If we enter into partnership, I — I am older than you. Bingo — / 284 Bingo's Flutter must be head partner — at any rate at first. You, I take it, want to do what I want to do." She held up a slender hand and began to count upon the tips of her fingers. "I want to race, I want to hunt, I want to yacht. I want one of the best chefs in London, a house in Carlton House Terrace, and two months' holiday — not a day less." ''And where shall we spend the holiday?" said the en- raptured Bingo. '*We? My dear Bingo, the object of the holiday will be singular so far as we are concerned. Don't look so un- happy! You will have your little lark and I shall have mine. And now, if you like, you may kiss me." Margie wrote that night to young Bicester : — ''L'homme propose, and, when he has a million, what daughter of Eve will say him nay? Stocky gave Bingo a bottle of '84, and it is wonderful stuff! I am to race and hunt and yacht and to have two months' holiday. Nous verrons. I trust you will see the propriety of marrying the jam-maker's daughter. She is a nice little thing, and nearly as innocent as my dearest Bingo. What a partie carree we shall make! Apropos — why not make a double event of it? Then we can meet. I'm sure Bingo will hit it off with your — what is her name? — something vernal — oh yes — your Violet. It is a pity that the other name is Potts, but she will need the less persuading to change it. . . ." II Two days later Margie received a wire from young Bicester: ''Congratulations given and received. V. is mine. Include us, if possible, in Newmarket houseparty." And so it came to pass that Lady Stockbridge's house- party for the July meeting included Bingo and Miss Potts. 285 Some Happenings More, by what seemed at the time a coincidence, these two persons travelled down to Newmarket by the same train, and were alone together for two hours in a first-class car- riage. Young Bicester was in attendance at St. Pancras, and 'twas he who introduced his fiancee to Bingo and begged that gentleman to take care of her during the journey. Bicester said that business engagements would keep him in town that night, but he hoped to join the party on the heath next day about luncheon time. "You are going to marry Lady Margaret?" said Miss Potts, very shyly, as the train rolled out of the great station. "And you are engaged to Lord Bicester?" "Ye— es." For a time conversation languished. In a second-class compartment Bingo's man and Miss Potts* maid were already upon confidential terms ; but between the master and mistress hung an impediment of speech which both regarded as a dreadful obstacle. Finally Bingo burst into praise of young Bicester, whom he had known and admired at Eton and Oxford. "What a chap he was, to be sure ! So good- looking, so cheery, such a sportsman, and so forth," until Miss Potts was covered with confusion. "Lady Margaret is one of the loveliest women in Eng- land," murmured Miss Potts, offering her Roland demurely. "Beautiful and — straight," said Bingo. "She has a splendid figure," admitted Miss Potts. "I meant beautiful and good," explained Bingo. "So many women one meets in society are beautiful but not — er — good." "I don't like to think that a beautiful face" (Miss Potts blushed, thinking of her George) "may mask a false and evil soul." "It has been proved," said Bingo, with the air of a New- ton revealing the law of gravitation. 2d6 Bingo's Flutter "Lord Bicester and Lady Margaret are friends, I think," observed Violet, after another embarrassing pause. "And that," said Bingo briskly, "is a reason why we should be friends too. You know, I felt quite nervous at having to travel with you, but it has worn off. I no longer feel shy — do you?" "Not quite so shy, Mr. Masterman." "Shyness is — is a beastly bore, but — when I get over mine I'm quite, you know — quite " "Sportive," suggested Miss Potts, playing up to the gay and genial Bingo. "I was going to say — bold, Miss Potts. Not brazen, like some men, but bold. When I am in my bold mood I f — f — f — feel like Alexander. All that I desire seems within my grasp " Miss Potts glanced furtively at the button above the win- dow. Bingo was extending his arms as if "Mr. Masterman," she said nervously, "would you mind opening the other window? It is sultry — isn't it?" "Sultry?" echoed Bingo, with a laugh. "Well, when you think of some of the people in this train who are going down to Newmarket, I am surprised that the weather isn't — er — warmer. Miss Potts, I feel that you are my friend ! I can say things to you that I Good gracious ! for heaven's sake don't touch that button ! — You would stop the train and also this delightful talk. Let me see ; I was about to observe that I wish we could have racing, which is a great national sport, without racing people. I do not like racing people. Their ways are not my ways, Miss Potts — nor your ways, I feel assured." "I don't understand a word they say," the young lady admitted. She smiled happily, sensible that she had escaped a dreadful blunder. Her companion was really very nice, very nice indeed. He had nice ideas. She wished that 287 Some Happenings George were here to listen to them: George, who said that he had promised his mother not to read a Hne of Shake- speare till he had mastered the Racing Calendar. Next day Bingo rode on to the heath. It was piping hot, and the shade-trees bordering the inclosure wooed our hero seductively; but his Margie, like Gilpin's wife, although on pleasure bent, was fully alive to business opportunities. Not for Bingo were cool shadows and the tinkle of ice in long tumblers. No, no ! He must trot to and from that Pandemonium on the other side of the course, the betting-ring; then he must jump on to his hack and gallop down to see the start, returning, as a true lover should, in melting mood; and then there were messages to trainers and jockeys, and the inevitable stroll up and down the paddock before and after each race. Still he felt that he was "in it,'' whereas poor little Miss Potts sat disconsolate beside Lady Stockbridge, who talked pleasantly to everybody except her guest. George IBicester gave her luncheon and a smile ; but he too, like Bingo's Margie, was in the embrace of opportunity. *lt's my day," said young Bicester, when Margie and he met for a moment under the trees. "And mine," said Margie, radiantly. " 'Pon my soul, Margie, if " "Don't, George. Ifs and ands " "Remind me of Potts," said the young fellow gloomily. "How about this selling race, Margie? I saw you talking to old Kempton. What's his tip ? Phe-e-e-w ! Pyramus ! Is that really sound? Eh — you have backed the colt for a win and a place? Then I shall get on at once." "George!" she called him back. A slight blush encar- mined her cheeks; her eyes were suffused with soft light. "George — dear, put on another pony for me. You and I can't go wrong to-day — can we ?" 288 Bingo's Flutter Young Bicester nodded and smiled grimly. 'There is to-morrow," he said significantly. "A pony on Pyramus, then. All right." Bingo came up, and the trio watched Pyramus win his race. Bingo had not made a single bet, because, as he said, he was in mourning; but he rejoiced at Margie's success. Pyramus was a wonderful colt, a rare shaped 'un, a galloper and a stayer — and no mistake! ''Buy him," said Margie. "He is to be sold with all his engagements this afternoon. Buy him, Bingo ! You can't start your stud with a better." "They'll all want him now," said Bingo cautiously. "The price will be stiff, Margie. And my poor dear father, you know " She coaxed in vain : Bingo was not to be budged from the unassailable position of chief mourner for one who held racing to be an abomination. After Doncaster, when a decent twelve months had elapsed, Margie and he would get together such a stud as was never seen on or off New- market Heath; meantime — patience! Later, finding himself alone, for his Margie and young Bicester had mysteriously disappeared, Bingo thought he would see Pyramus sold. He had never attended a sale in his life, and it might be well to see how the thing was done. He sauntered up to Tattersall's ring, smoking a cigarette; and the men outside, knowing him by sight, made way for him. This pleased Bingo vastly well, for in his sire's Hfetime he had not quite realised his own im- portance. Glancing round, he saw many faces familiar to the racing world. Hard and shrewd faces these ! Cut-and- thrust fellows. Ah i there was young Bicester, and Margie beside him. Who was this? Why, one of the stewards of the Jockey Club, to be sure, and nodding in the most 289 Some Happenings encouraging manner to him, Bingo. Others nodded too. Bingo returned these nods, keeping one eye on Pyramus. "Seven hundred guineas, I'm bid. Any advance on that ? And fifty? Thank you, my lord. And seventy-five? Really, gentlemen, this magnificent colt is dirt cheap at a thousand " Bingo looked round the ring. The voice of the auctioneer was very familiar. Where had he heard those bland tones before? By Jove! In his dame's house at Eton. He caught the eye of the auctioneer and recognised an old fag-master. Then he nodded cheerily, and the other nodded back. ''Eight hundred guineas. Sold — for eight hundred guineas." "A damn fine colt!" said Bingo loudly. "You evidently think so," said a man at his side; and while Bingo was wondering what he meant, young Bicester and Margie came up. "Oh, Bingo!" cried Margie: "you are a dear!" "Eh— what?" "It was meant as a surprise for me, wasn't it?'* Bingo stared apprehensively at his Margie. Young Bicester said solemnly : "You paid a stiffish price, Bingo, but the colt, if he wins to-morrow, will be worth double the money. By Gad, you behaved like a veteran." "What tommy-rot are you talking?" said Bingo uneasily. Young Bicester began to laugh. "Why, man, you've not forgotten already that you bought Pyramus five minutes ago?" "I ?" "Saw you do it. What? You never meant it? Oh, Lord — what a game ! Well, the colt's yours, and his trainer is shoving through the crowd at this moment to speak to you." 290 Bingo's Flutter 'But- *'Bingo," whispered Margie, ''don't write yourself down an ass before the multitude. Pyramus is yours." "But my poor dear father, Margie " "Your poor dear father never came to Newmarket in his lifetime, and you insult his memory by presuming to think that he is here now. Hush !'' "You have bought a nice colt, Mr. Masterman," said the trainer. "Ye-es," said Bingo. Ill A very cheery dinner followed, and Bingo's health was drunk in the Lanson '84. After dinner the men made much of Bingo, filling his glass several times with the famous Stockbridge port, laid down — as connoisseurs know — by the grandfather of the present peer. When they went into the hall, where a roulette table had been set out, Bingo was firmly of the opinion that he had bought Pyramus of his own free will; he had promised young Bicester to rise with the lark on the morrow to see his horse at exercise on the Lime Kilns ; he had selected his colours ; he had spoken of his set of plans for racing-stables. And he was listened to with attention and courtesy, for, as young Bices- ter observed, the words of the rich are as pearls of price in the ears of the poor. Young Bicester, always practical in money matters, sug- gested that the richest man present should take the bank. "That will be dear Bingham," purred Lady Stockbridge. "You will win. Bingo dear," said Margie. "The bank always wins." Some men from the rooms dropped in, and the ball began to roll. Bingo raked up innumerable threepenny-bits 291 Some Happenings and sixpences. The only winner, indeed, was Miss Potts, who declared her intention of giving her winnings to the poor. At midnight Lady Stockbridge retired, having lost seventeen shillings and ninepence, and her temper; the other ladies were constrained to follow her. Then young Bicester proposed that the men should go on playing. Bingo, gazing at the pile of loose silver in front of his chair, made no objections; and, as he lit Margie's candle, suggested Monte Carlo as a pleasant spot for a honeymoon. "Give you my word," he added, 'T*d no idea roulette was such an amusin' game." *T love you when you talk like that !" replied his Margie. However, in the course of the next two hours Bingo lost his little pile of silver and five thousand pounds. It was young Bicester's night as well as day, and he backed his luck. He said afterwards that he felt in his bones that he must win, because Fortune had taken from him Margie and given her to Bingo. Those present who knew Bingo's inherited reluctance "to part" were amazed at that young man's coolness and good temper, although Stocky observed that if anything could work miracles nowadays it was surely the port his grandfather had laid down, not to mention the Lanson. "You'll never miss it, old chap," said young Bicester, as he pocketed Bingo's I.O.U. "And besides, you'll get all of it back to-morrow. Tell your man to call you at five sharp." "Yes, I'll get it back to-morrow," said Bingo, with a gay laugh. "Py ramus can carry five, ten, fifteen thousand pounds !" "There is no doubt about it," said - Stocky to young Bicester: "Bingo means to have a flutter." None the less Bingo was not feeling quite himself when he was shaken into consciousness the following morning 292 Bingo's Flutter at five, although his face brightened when he met Margie booted and habited in the hall. She kissed him before young Bicester and the third footman. "That is because you lost your money like a dear little man," she said fondly. After that the trio talked of Pyramus till the Lime Kilns were reached. Here many noble quadrupeds galloped past them; here the trainer of Pyramus swore that the colt was fit to run for a man's life or fortune ; here Bingo declared, for the forty-first time, that he meant to back his colt to win him twenty thousand pounds. Young Bicester thought it might be done if Bingo's money was carefully divided amongst the gentlemen of the ring. "You mustn't be too bold, my pet," said Margie reprov- ingly. "Remember Jubilee Juggins. And besides, I don't want you to break the ring till I am paid yesterday's win- nings." "What did you win?" said Bingo. "Yes: what did you win?" repeated young Bicester. "Including last night, I cleaned up about seven thou." "I never tell what I win, or lose," said wise Margie. But when Bingo moved off for a few words in private with his trainer, young Bicester asked the question again: "Did it run into four figures?" He knew that she had been amazingly lucky, that she always was amazingly bold. "I'll tell you/' murmured Margie. "I won eighteen hun- dred pounds. Almost am I persuaded to " "Look here," interrupted young Bicester eagerly. "I've a plan which I think is sound. Pyramus will start with odds on him. I know this Newmarket crowd — and so do you. When they find out that somebody is backing the colt to win a corking big stake, they'll plunge: and that's our opportunity, for honestly I don't think he can beat two 293 Some Happenings others whom I can name. We'll lay twelve thousand againsj; the colt. If he wins, there is Bingo for you, richer than ever. If he loses, there is true love and a nice working capital for two who know the ropes. Now then — choose !" She looked hard into his laughing, debonair face, at his fine seat on his cob, at his brown slender hands; then her eyes roved reluctantly to the somewhat pulpy figure of Bingo. "If Pyramus loses," she said, with decision, "Bingo may go to Jericho." "And the fair Potts may go with him," added young Bicester. IV "By Jove!" said Bingo> at a quarter-past four, "I stand to win a goodish stake." *'Andto lose, what?" ''Or to lose " corrected Bingo. "Who ever heard of winning and losing?" "I have," said Margie, enigmatically. "You are too excited," said Bingo critically, not ill pleased at his own self-possession. *Tyramus may lose." "Not he," said Bingo confidently. "Look at him," he cried, as the horses cantered past, — "what a stride !" "Why, little Johnny is up!" said Margie, in a tone of voice which raised Bingo's eyebrows. "I got him at the last moment — wonderful luck! These Yankee beggars can ride. Hullo ! is this heat too much for you, Margie?" "Don't fuss!" she said sharply. He stared at her stupidly, stolidly — so she was thinking. But if love blinds some, it is as euphrasy and rue to clear 294 Bingo's Flutter the vision of others. Bingo bHnked at his Margie's white cheeks and dilated eyes. Was it possible that she, his beloved, could be so affected by a mere horserace? 'This sort of thing is bad for you," he said, in a tone she had never heard from him before. Now it was her turn to stare at a new Bingo. For a moment each peered into the soul of the other, and then each, as if animated by a common sense of repulsion, turned aside their eyes. Bingo had seen a reckless, desperate demon of hazard; Margie glimpsed the cold, cautious merchant appraising goods he had purchased. Margie closed her eyes for an instant and prayed. She had long ago lost the habit of prayer and its form. Only the most elementary phrase escaped from her heart: ''O God— give me George, not this man!" She repeated this again and again, as she gazed through her glasses at the jumble of colour and motion far down the course which indicated that the horses were about to start. ''They're oif !" Her hands were trembling, and the man at her side had his cold eyes on them. Why had this pitiful feminine weakness assailed her at such a moment? With a desperate effort she regained control of her muscles. Her cheek had begun to twitch: she was possessed of a palsy. Ah! her prayers had been answered. She could see now. Pyramus was neither first, nor second, nor third. Across the broad riband of turf came the hoarse growl of the ring, deepen- ing into an angry bellow as the second sped by. Pyramus! The hateful name smote her. Pyramus— Pyramus! Margie closed her eyes, unable to look as the horses thundered by. She heard the man next Bingo say in a quiet drawl : ''Near thing that." Then the roar of the ring sounded like the murmur of a summer sea, a sea upon whose placid tides she must embark. 295 Some Happenings When she recovered consciousness, her eyes met those of young Bicester, who was bending over her. She could see Bingo too, looking very uneasy, and her mother with a face aflame with interrogation. Her faculties quickened at once. Pyramus had lost. Good heavens ! It had indeed been a near thing for her. She smiled faintly at young Bicester, wondering why he looked so impassive. Then her lips parted, and the word she had heard as she fainted quivered from them. "Pyramus?" *'Has won by a short head," said young Bicester, coolly. V Lady Stockbridge always assures the country cousins whom she has cut dead in Town that she is short-sighted, but her sister maintains that nothing escapes her keen grey eyes. Ulpon this occasion she sent Bingo to the paddock, where little Johnnie was about to step into the scales, and asked young Bicester to find the carriage. Bingo hesitated for a brief moment, and then went his way. Later, as he passed the small stand in the enclosure where sit the mem- bers of the Jockey Club, a portly man joined him. ''Congr — r — ratulate you," he said, slightly rolHng the **r." ''You are Fortune's son, mon cher." Bingo never smiled, but he accepted the cigar the other offered with a "Thank you, Count." The Austrian eyed him shrewdly. Then he spoke quickly: 'T am told you bought the colt under a misap- prehension — heinf Do you intend to keep him?" The son of old Masterman scented a buyer. One of his sire's business maxims floated into his mind : "Buy on the slumps; sell on the bumps." The Austrian was known to 296 Bingo's Flutter * be a buyer who paid any price for a horse which took his fancy. "Pyramus is for sale," said Bingo, slowly, and he named a price which represented a profit such as would have warmed the heart of old Masterman. "I take him," said the Austrian. That night, at dinner, Stocky uncorked the last of the Lanson '84, and once more the health of Pyramus was drunk and that of his owner. Margie had quite recovered from the effects of what her mother called an "indispo- sition"; she was wearing her prettiest frock and a radiant smile. She sat by Bingo, and young Bicester sat opposite, beside the jam-maker's only daughter. ''Speech, speech. Bingo!" cried young Bicester, as he emptied his glass. The others repeated the words. Bingo stood up. 'Tyramus," said the hero of the hour, "is a niceish colt, but he is mine no longer. I sold him this afternoon. I — I shall not race any more. I — er — have had my little flutter." He sat down in a silence which manifested the stupefac- tion of the company. Lady Stockbridge was the first to recover the use of her tongue. "I am glad, Bingham," she said blandly, "that you have made this resolution. I am an old woman, although I hope that I do not look one, and I've been on almost every race- course in Europe; but, knowing what I know, I say again that I applaud your resolution. In the evening of my life it will be a consolation to reflect that one who is near and dear to me does — not — race." 'The old hypocrite!" said young Bicester, quite audibly. ''Mother backed the wrong 'uns this afternoon," ex- plained Stocky. After dinner no one suggested roulette; and young Bicester, rather ostentatiously, begged Miss Potts to teach 297 Some Happenings him Patience, which he admitted he had never learned, and which, he added, might prove of service to beguile *'the evening of his life." Margie proposed to Bingo that they should walk on the lawn — au clair de la lune. Lady Stock- bridge composed herself for a well-earned nap. "Well," said Margie, sharply, when she found herself alone with her lover, "what have you got to say? How — how dared you sell Pyramus?" "You told me you were straight, and '* "And what?" "And I believed you," said Bingo, coldly. "You pro- posed to enter into partnership with me. We — er — sealed the articles in the usual way. I am talking business now. But this afternoon the partnership was dissolved." "By you," said Margie vehemently. "By you — first," Bingo retorted. "Your prayer, Lady Margaret, was heard not by Him to whom it was addressed, but by me. You prayed as children pray — perhaps you have not prayed since you were a child — and children pray aloud." "I prayed aloud !" she repeated in amazement, for the words of her prayer had escaped memory. "You said, not once, but three times, *0 God, give me George — not this man.' " Margie was silent. "1 am not quite such a fool as I look," continued Bingo. "After the race I went into the ring, and I found out one or two things. Bicester laid an immense sum against Pyramus, and I guessed the rest." Bingo went back to the drawing-room alone; and pres- ently young Bicester left his Violet with a muttered excuse to the effect that he was stifling for lack of air. Bingo took his place at the card-table. 298 Bingo's Flutter "Doesn't it come out?" he asked, after looking at the row of cards. "No — it doesn't," replied Miss Potts, very crossly. "And I don't think," she added, naively, "that Lord Bicester will ever learn Patience." "Perhaps not," replied Bingo thoughtfully. "I should be so much obliged. Miss Potts, if you would try to teach me. Young Bicester did not come back to the card-table ; and Bingo lighted Miss Potts' candle. "It began badly," said the girl, referring to the game known to Patience players as Job, "but it worked out beautifully in the end, Mr. Masterman?" "It began badly," assented Bingo, thinking of another game; "but it is most curious, Miss Potts, that so many things in real life which begin badly do turn out well, and for the best, in the end." Before she said her prayers that night, Miss Potts made an entry in her diary : "George is very cold to me. He complained to-night of the heat of the room. Lady Margaret was on the lawn. Mr. Bingham Masterman seems to be an understanding person." 29Q XVIII BULWINKLE & CO. SIMON CHEERS was the Co. He had worked for Bulwinkle diligently during twenty years, becoming in due time head clerk to that great man, and, as head clerk, approximating to perfection. He had little initiative, it is true; none of that "push" which distinguished Bulwinkle. On the other hand, he had no bad habits. He was punctual, accurate, healthy, and pleasing in appearance, a rosy little man with a disarming smile, cheerful at all times, and astoundingly contented with his position in life, fiulwinkle made him junior partner (Simon received ten per cent, of the profits) because he was terrified of losing so faithful and competent a servant. Simon lived with his wife in a pretty cottage just outside Easthampton, wherein Bulwinkle had achieved fame and fortune. Some men wondered why Bulwinkle had re- mained in a provincial town when he might have soared to heights in London. He was a stockbroker, doing a fine business with men who knew him and trusted his judgment. No London for him ! He, too, had begun married life in a cottage near Simon's. But now he occupied a castellated villa surrounded by park-like grounds. He owned a six- cylinder car. His wife wore many diamonds, sporting, in and out of season, a mufif and stole of sable, not mink. In 300 Bulwinkle & Co. fine, prosperity exuded from every pore of Bulwinkle's skin. Simon never envied his chief. The difference between sable and mink seemed to him negHgible. He affirmed that he and "the wife" got more fun out of their tri-car than did Bulwinkle out of the limousine. When he made these and similar statements, Mrs. Cheers never contradicted him. She smiled subtly. Simon adored her. They had no children, and therefore were interdependent. Let us say that they were as happy as mortals can be, and have done with it. Behold Simon sitting in his private room, receiving those clients whose small interests could be safely entrusted to a jimior partner! Upon his massive desk you will perceive a bunch of Parma violets freshly gathered by Mrs. Cheers — a sweet oblation ! To him is ushered in, by a slightly supercilious clerk, a seedy gentleman of middle age, Mr. Thomas Shafto, acclaimed with enthusiasm by Simon as "My dear old Tom !" The two had been chums at school. Shafto accepted a mild cigar, and sat down. He was the antithesis of Simon, tall, thin, excitable, with big, dark eyes burning feverishly in a white face. He had not seen Simon for more than ten years, but he addressed him as familiarly as if they had parted the day before. "Partner, hay?" ''Yes," said Simon, beaming artlessly. "Money to burn, old man?" "Lord bless you, no." "I want to interest you in a scheme of mine." "Tom, if it's yours I am interested." "Knew you'd say that! Not changed a bit. Know any- thing about engines?" "I've a tri-car." 301 Some Happenings Shafto unrolled some papers and handed them to Simon. who adjusted his pince-nez. After reading the specifica- tions and glancing over the drawings, Simon said, help- lessly : "Can't make head or tail of 'em." 'Til explain." He explained at length. Simon listened attentively, no wiser than he was before. Presently he admitted as much, adding: "What do you want?" "Cash," replied Shafto. "I want a couple of hundred, old man, to patent this turbine in England, Germany, France, and the United States. Two hundred will do the trick. It's a dead cert." Simon smiled feebly. So many dead certs remained dead; and yet he had faith in Shafto, regarded at school as a star of the first magnitude. Shafto continued: "It's like this, old man. I daren't show these drawings to experts because they'd steal my thunder. The principle simply roars at 'em. I must patent the thing and secure my rights. After that it will be shelling peas to get all the capital we want, because my turbine is going to revolutionize traction throughout the world. Sim, this is the chance of a lifetime; I'll let you in share and share alike, see? A half interest in these," he flicked the papers, "for a couple of hundred." Simon smiled nervously ; then he cleared his throat. "I'm much obliged, Tom." "Not at all. There's no man I'd sooner make rich than you." "But I don't want to be made rich." "Wha-a-at? Come off it!" "It's the solemn truth. I've more than I need already." Shafto swooped on this admission. "Then you've a bit to spare for an old friend?" 302 Bulwinkle & Co. "And — and I'm not interested in engines." "You can take my word that the turbine is all right." Simon looked unhappy. Two hundred pounds was a vast sum, but he had it to spare. Had his old friend said : *'Sim, Fm in a hole ; I must have two hundred, or perish," why, then he would have written a cheque for that amount. But his tri-car had filled him with a loathing for machinery. Also, he mistrusted business dealings with friends. Then, suddenly, his benignant brow cleared, as inspiration struck him. Bulwinkle was knowledgeable about machinery. Bul- winkle boasted that he could snap up any good thing at sight. Bulwinkle had an inordinate appetite for more wealth. After dinner, over a glass of port, he would prattle of steam yachts and other toys only to be bought by millionaires. So Simon said : "My chief is your man. Like to see him?" Shafto hesitated. "Is he an expert?" "He says he is. But, Tom, he's square. He won't try to rob you. And, later, when you've secured the patents, Bulwinkle could finance the enterprise. Has money, and knows men with money. You see him." "Right," said Shafto. Half an hour later the man of many inventions emerged from the inner office. He carried a high head, but rage burned in his fine eyes ; contempt curled his sensitive upper lip. Hardly had the door closed behind him when he exploded. "Sim, this Bulwinkle \ a bull frog, blown out with gas and conceit. He knows nothing about engines. I could hardly keep my hands ofif the fellow." "Teh, tch !" murmured Simon. "I'm sorry." Shafto seized his hat, a dilapidated bowler, and rammed it on to his head, cocking it at an aggressive angle with a bang of his hand. 303 Some Happenings "Fm off," he declared. "Where to?" demanded Simon, anxiously. His friend's air terrified him. "Don't say that as if you cared." *'I do care. The wife would like to see you. Stay with us." ''You're a good old Sim, but I haven't a minute to waste. I must get hold of that cash. The sight of Bulwinkle infuriated me. I'm in a hurry to be richer than he is. I'd like to fill his mean soul with envy and jealousy." ''Not you, Tom." "Lord, I'd love it! Ten years I've worked on this, and that thick-headed ignoramus condemns it in ten minutes." Simon stared uncomfortably at his friend's thin cheeks, at his shabby clothes, at his bowed shoulders Shafto coughed. Simon winced. Then he plunged. "Tom, you can have the two hundred." "What? No. no, no! I'm hanged if I'll take it against your judgment, out of charity." "I believe in you," said Simon, very earnestly. "I want to prove my faith in you." "You always were a rum 'un." Eventually the man of inventions yielded to kindness and obstinacy, a combination difficult to resist. The cheque was drawn, and also an agreement in duplicate. Then Simon said, hesitatingly: "Tom, I don't want the wife to know of this." "Why not?" Now Simon was blessed — or cursed — ^with a perfervid imagination never applied to business except in a negative and subjective sense. He loathed wild-cat speculation, be- cause he could visualise its efiPects. He could oroject his mind into the future, but rarely did so, because the present was so pleasant. 304 Bulwinkle & Co. "It might unsettle her," he murmured. "Unsettle her? How?" "We're both satisfied with things as they are. No com- plaints at Wistaria Cottage, I can assure you. If you began talking of millions, Mrs. Cheers might — I don't say she would — but she might think too much of Mrs. Bulwinkle." "Why Mrs. Bulwinkle?" Simon fidgeted. He was loyal even to Mrs. Bulwinkle, because she was his chief's wife. But in his heart he both hated and feared the august lady, trembling beneath her nod. Bulwinkle had exalted his wife above all other wom- en in Easthampton. She looked down upon them from the castellated heights of her mansion, even as the ladies of the county at county balls looked down upon her. Simon unburdened his soul. "Mrs. Bulwinkle," said he, pensively, "is ambitious. You are not quite fair to Bulwinkle, my dear Tom. You took him just now at a disadvantage. My fault. I am quite sure that he does not know a great deal about machinery." "Nothing at all, Sim." "You exposed his ignorance, and aroused in consequence his — er — hostility. He can be — rude." "A perfect ass !" "No, no ; I cannot permit that. A capital fellow, I assure you. Louisa Bulwinkle is — er — dififerent." He paused, slightly blushing. "Go straight on," commanded Tom Shafto. "Louisa Bulwinkle," continued Simon, slowly, "is all that my dear wife is not, but then my wife has not been exposed to her temptations." "Temptations ?" "Gold," said Simon, making a grimace. "A snob— hay?" "Not quite that, but what she has — Bulwinkle is very 305 Some Happenings generous to her — seems to have a devastating effect, not upon her, but upon other women. She sets the pace in Easthampton. The v^ife, fortunately, hke myself, prefers to jog-trot along in our pleasant groove, but there are moments, Tom, when Mrs. Bulwinkle's diamonds do scratch our glass." '*! understand perfectly. Mum's the word!" "Thank you." II What followed is part of the commercial history of Eng- land, and may be summed up in a sentence. Tom Shafto had not laboured in vain for ten years. His turbine was, as he affirmed, mighty enough to revolutionise traction. After the patents had been secured a syndicate was formed, and of this syndicate Shafto became managing director, with a half interest in all profits. Simon might have sold his share of this half interest for a large sum, but he expressed no wish to sell, and Shafto entreated him not to sell. Nobody knew, not even Bulwinkle, that Simon Cheers had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice, for when the merits of the Shafto turbine were universally ad- mitted, Simon, had he chosen to sell his shares, would have become a richer man than Bulwinkle, and Bulwinkle was miserably aware that he might have doubled his ample for- tune had he known a wee bit more about machinery. One morning he said to his junior partner: "That Shafto turbine was offered to me." "Yes; I sent Shafto to you." "So you did. I had forgotten. The fellow rubbed my fur the wrong way. And his confounded specifications were vilely expressed, not even typed. He offered me a half interest for three hundred pounds." 306 Bulwinkle & Co. Simon smiled. It pleased him to learn that Tom had raised the original price to Bulwinkle. ''That half interest," continued Bulwinkle, mournfully, *'is worth to-day about two hundred thousand — at least." *Ts it possible?" murmured Simon, It seems incredible, but the little man had never com- puted what this half interest was worth. There had been dividends, but these had been used to buy more shares, on Shafto's urgent advice. Not a penny, so far, had gone to swell Simon's small private account in the Easthampton Bank. Yet he knew that Bulwinkle had calculated aright, for such knowledge was meat and drink to him — poison in this particular case. The senior partner concluded, abruptly : ''Promise me, Sim, that you will never mention this re- grettable affair to Mrs. Bulwinkle?'' "With pleasure." "Nor to Mrs. Cheers, because " Simon replied formally : *T promise never to tell the wife that you refused Shafto's offer." "I am much obliged." Meanwhile no changes had taken place at Wistaria Cot- tage, because Mrs. Cheers remained in ignorance of what had come to pass. And, as day succeeded day, it became increasingly difficult for Simon to confess to his beloved Emmeline that he had hidden from her such a colossal piece of news. And then, at the psychological moment when Bulwinkle was moving out of the castellated villa into what was euphe- mistically termed "a country seat," Tom Shafto descended upon Wistaria Cottage. He came in his own car, wearing a superb fur coat and smoking an immense cigar. The mere sight of such a car 307 Some Happenings purring melodiously in front of Wistaria Cottage challenged the attention of everybody in Montmorency Road. Being Sunday, the cottagers were at home. Simon, looking out of the window, gasped his surprise: "It's Tom Shafto !'' We pause to explain that Emmeline had heard and read of Shafto's good fortune. Simon, of course, confirmed it. Let us add that Simon had not told Tom of the deception he still practised upon the wife. Tom, however, was well aware that his old friend drew no money out of the busi- ness, nor had sold a single share. It was high time, in his opinion, that Simon should retire from a wretched junior partnership and enjoy the fruits of Fortune and Leisure. Simon hastened to greet his friend and to give him a necessary hint, but the wife was too quick for him, follow- ing hot- foot upon his track. "Same old pitch," said Shafto, after salutations had been exchanged. "Same old welcome for you," said Simon. Shafto had not visited them since the day when Simon handed him the cheque, but he noted no changes. The cottage inside and out was spick and span, but it had been so for many years. "You'll stay with us?" asked Mrs. Qieers. "Delighted." The chauffeur carried into the tiny hall a fine suitcase, and was instructed to drive the car to a garage. "It's a lovely car," said Mrs. Cheers. "What's yours, Mrs. Cheers?" "We haven't got one yet. The tri-car is still going." Shafto stared at her in stupefaction. "Not got a car?" "We can't quite afford a good car, and Simon won't have a cheap one." 308 Bulwinkle & Co. Suddenly he saw that Simon was winking both eyes at him. Shafto asked no more questions till he found himself alone with his host. Then he said, sharply: "Why can't you afford a car?" "Emmeline doesn't know.'* "Great Scot!" "She ought to know, of course ; but I funked telling her. It meant — changes." "I should just think it did!" "I told you that we were very happy, that we didn't want changes." Shafto laughed ironically. "Why say 'we' ? My good fellow, if you are cocksure that your wife really shares your views, there is even less sense in hiding this thing from her. But you aren't sure. I see that in your eye. Own up !" "I am sure that she is happy as we are; that any change would make her less happy, particularly a very big change." "You know her better, I expect, than she knows herself ?" "Perhaps I do." "She'll give you beans, old man, when she does find out the truth. Lordy! But what a game! Do you sit there and tell me that nobody knows?" "Not a living soul in Easthampton except you." "Not Bulwinkle?" "Why should I tell him?" "Because it would annoy him, humble him, deflate him." "Three excellent reasons for holding my tongue." ■"But — hang it all! Sooner or later " "Better later than sooner." Shafto perceived that argument would be wasted. He stared at Simon, whistling a Httle tune, but thinking of Mrs. Cheers, now busily engaged in adding something to 309 Some Happenings the Sunday bill of fare. He thought also of Bulwinkle as he hoped to see him one day — deflated. It was exasperat- ing to reflect that such deflation might never take place. Ill At the midday dinner the talk touched lightly upon many topics before it settled on that massive subject of the King, Mrs. Bulwinkle. Shafto heard of the country seat, and a garden which exacted four gardeners and a boy. "Hunting trouble," remarked Simon. He hoped that the w4fe would endorse this draft upon her confidence. To his chagrin she dishonoured it on pres- entation, murmuring guilelessly : **I have always longed for a larger garden." "And — anything else?" inquired Tom. The table was so small and cosy that he managed to kick Simon under it. Mrs. Cheers did not answer, so Tom continued: "A large garden, Mrs. Cheers, generally includes a large house." "And a lot of lazy servants eating their ugly heads off," said Simon, almost viciously. "It must be nice to have a big, airy dining-room," mur- mured Emmeline. "Small dining-rooms get so smelly." Tom, the hardened sinner, chuckled. "Mrs. Bulwinkle says " Emmeline went on. "Bother Mrs. Bulwinkle !" cried Simon. "By all means," said Shafto ; "but let us hear what she says." He turned politely to his hostess. "Mrs. Bulwinkle says that wealth enlarges one's circle, whereas poverty diminishes it. Sim and I live in rather a small circle." Tom said, carelessly: 310 Bulwinkle & Co. "Is Mrs. Bulwinkle a great friend of yours?" "She never dropped me, Mr. Shafto." "As she did others," snapped Simon. "Oh, Sim!" "She comes here," said Simon, giving rein to his irri- tation, "to flaunt her money in Emmeline's face. Every- thing she buys she shows to Emmeline. Pah !" "Sim, dear, I have never seen you so ruffled." Simon pulled himself together, and became at once the smiling, genial host. Presently Emmeline retired, leaving the men with a decanter of port, and some cigars which belonged to Shafto. As soon as they were alone, Shafto said, curtly — "It's a monstrous shame." "What is, Tom?" "Denying your dear wife the satisfaction of soaring above Mrs. Bulwinkle." Simon sipped his wine, but did not enjoy it. His rosy face became clouded. Tom continued, fluently: "I made my will the other day, Sim." "Did you ?" "I've left every bob to you, old man." "You're joking." "Not I. I've no kin to care about. I told you once that I wanted to make you rich ; and I meant it. You are rich, and when I turn up my toes you'll be richer than half a dozen Bulwinkles, but you ain't grateful. Not a bit." "Hope you'll outlive me," said Simon. "I may or I may not. In any case, it's mighty plain that your wife does not quite share your quixotic views about money. She could do with a bit more." Simon nodded helplessly. "Be a man, and give her what she wants." "But I can't bring myself to tell her." 311 Some Happenings "Let me tell her," said Shafto, eagerly. "It would give me the sincerest pleasure to do so. I'll choose the right moment, and I'll cover you v^ith glory." "All right," said Simon, gloomily. "I'd like to tell Bulwinkle, too." "You can." "Done !" IV Opinions may differ as to whether Tom Shafto was jus- tified in choosing the moment that he did to enlighten Mrs. Cheers and Mr. Bulwinkle. He said afterwards, with an unregenerate chuckle, that his hand had been forced. Ad- mittedly, he had a sense of the dramatic. Also, he had drunk three glasses of port, and was feeling, as he put it, full of beans. By the luck of things, moreover, Mr. and Mrs. Bulwinkle dropped in to tea, looking aggressively prosperous. Bulwinkle had forgotten his shabby visitor, or shall we say that he was unable to identify him with the smiling, well-dressed managing director of a booming busi- ness? His heavy jaw fell at least two inches when Simon pre- sented Mr. Thomas Shafto. A furtive glance at his wife was not lost upon the astute Tom, who divined that Mrs. Bulwinkle had never been informed of the vast fortune which her husband had let slip between his thick fingers. Said Tom, pleasantly : "We've met before, Mr. Bulwinkle." He looked at Mrs. Bulwinkle and smiled. The august lady smiled in return, much impressed by Tom's easy man- ner. She decided that he must be "county." "Yes, yes," she purred; "at Sir Orlando Dampney's, I think?" 312 Bulwinkle & Co. Sir Orlando was a county magnate. Not till very re- cently had Mrs. Bulwinkle been deemed worthy of an in- vitation to a garden party at Dampney Park. ''No," said Tom, sweetly. "Mr. Bulwinkle and I met in his office. I offered him a half interest in the Shafto turbine for three hundred pounds. He glanced at my draw- ings and saw nothing in them, but they would have been worth to him to-day a trifle over two hundred thousand pounds." He laughed. Mr. Bulwinkle's complexion deepened in tint. Mrs. Bulwinkle said, icily: "Indeed !" Skilfully, Tom changed the talk to gardens. "I ought to have a first-class gardener. Do you know of one, Mrs. Bulwinkle?" Simon gasped. Tom, he knew, lived in a London flat. Mrs. Bulwinkle nodded majestically. "We have an excellent man, a Scotchman. He came from the Marquess of Mel, with the highest character. He may know of somebody. It's such a comfort to feel assured that one's grapes will not disgrace one. And carnations! Our last man was so unlucky with his carnations. Emmeline, dear, don't be tempted to try carnations !" Simon said, derisively : "Emily prefers carrots. We had some young ones for dinner to-day. Delicious !" "Dinner?" Mrs. Bulwinkle raised her handsome brows. "Of course ! How stupid of me ! It is so nice of you two dears to dine on Sunday in the middle of the day." "We can't do otherwise with only two servants." "Quite — quite. I had forgotten." In a voice which surprised everybody except Tom Shaf- to, Simon said, sharply: "Do you want more than two, Emmy? Would you like 3^3 Some Happenings a butler and a brace of footmen, and three in the kitchen, and four housemaids, and a lady's-maid ? Would you ?" Emmeline appeared slightly disconcerted. "I— d-d-don't know." "Emmy likes housekeeping," affirmed Simon ; "don't you, dear?" "Sometimes," she replied, guardedly. "Nobody likes it," rumbled Bulwinkle. "Women do it because they have to. The right sort, like Mrs. Cheers, do it well, and make no complaints. The missis and I pigged it once. Small house, half the size of this. And we made the best of it, too. But she loathed it." "Yes," said Mrs. Bulwinkle, viciously. She was angry with her husband for alluding to that ignoble past. Simon jumped up, glaring at Mrs. Bulwinkle. "Perhaps you did," he jerked out; "but my wife is dif- ferent. She loves the home I've made for her." "Yes," said Emmeline. Bulwinkle laughed scornfully. Everybody, except Tom Shafto, was more or less on edge. "Let's have the truth," he snorted. "Let's face the facts. I hate humbug. You're an honest woman, Mrs. Cheers, and we're old friends. Sim here has only one fault that I know of. He lacks ginger. I've often wondered whether you really thought as he did. Now, do you? If old Sim were rich, wouldn't you like it ?" "No, she wouldn't," said Simon. "You shut up, Sim ! I'm addressing your wife." Mrs. Cheers blushed, meeting the pitying glance of the rich woman, the cold eyes that challenged her to speak the truth if she dared. She answered : "Dear Sim, I— I think I should like it." "Good !" exclaimed Tom Shafto. 314 Bulwinkle & Co. He rose up, tall and gaunt, dominating the others with his eyes, his thin hands, and his deep voice. "Sim is rich!" he declared. Simon glanced at Emmeline, but she was staring at Tom Shafto with an odd, dilated expression about her kind eyes which he had never remarked before. Bulwinkle and his Louisa were staring also at Tom, open-eyed and open- mouthed, unable for the moment to apprehend this amazing declaration, although tremendously impressed by it. Tom added an effective touch. ''Old Sim," he repeated, ''is very rich !" Now Tom ought to have concentrated his attention upon the Bulwinkles, because we know that he wished to score heavily at the stockbroker's expense. But he forgot their existence for the moment, being fascinated by what he read upon the artless face gazing so strangely into his. Tom had suffered during his life from ill-health, from poverty, and from what, perhaps, inflicts the greatest pain of all — cumu- lative disappointments. None of the many inventions of this clever man had been successful except his wonderful turbine. Because he had suffered, he was able to detect the signs of suffering in others. In a flash it was revealed to him that Sim's wife, gentle creature, had been tormented by this vulgar, purse-proud, blatant woman. And Emmy had endured ten thousand odious comparisons for the sake of Simon, who remained guilelessly insensible of her humili- ations. A well-worn Latin tag came into his mind: Gutta cavat lapidem non vi, sed saepe cadendo ! Yes ; her fond heart had been worn away by this interminable trickle of pity and patronage. "Very rich?" repeated Bulwinkle, hoarsely. Tom turned to him. "A millionaire in the possession of his wife, Mr. Bul- winkle." 315 Some Happenings Bulwinkle's congested face expressed momentary relief. He nodded ponderously, and broke into a laugh. *'Yes, yes; very neat. Couldn't have put it better my- self." "Sim is rich, also," continued Tom, addressing Bulwinkle, "in a sense which you can more easily understand and ap- preciate. He owns what I do, a one-quarter interest in the Shafto turbine, the interest which I offered to you, Mr. Bulwinkle. At my request" — Tom was an accomplished liar — "Sim has allowed me to break this news to all of you, and especially to his wife. He has hidden, at what cost to himself you can guess, this secret from Mrs. Cheers, be- cause he was afraid to raise false hopes in her tender bosom. Not till quite recently was the commercial success of my turbine assured. Sim felt, perhaps, that he owed this to me, this gratification, this immense gratification of being able to tell his wife, and his partner, and his wife's friend, of the good fortune which has come to him so suddenly. He is rich, and he will be much richer, for I have left to him my fortune also, and I shall not make old bones. Let us congratulate these two dear people." "Is this true?" gasped Bulwinkle. "Yes," replied Sim. But Simon Cheers was right. Riches brought many things to him and his wife, but the simple happiness born of contentment and freedom from care was left behind in Wistaria Cottage. 316 XIX DOG-LEG RAPIDS YOUNG JOE was a trapper. His father, Old Joe, whose memory is still green up and down the river, was a trapper before him. Father and son were accounted 'lucky." But Old Joe spent his money, whereas Young Joe saved nearly every dollar he made. Old Joe had been "one of the boys"; Young Joe wore the blue ribbon of a stainless and abstemious life. From this brief statement of fact it may be inferred that Young Joe's solemn declaration that he meant to "quit the woods and git married" aroused more excitement amongst the girls than it did amongst the boys of Dog-leg. "He won't git no girl," said one of the boys. A sage answered the rash prophet: — "That is whar you show yer cussed ignerunce of fe- males. They prefer these quiet, mealy-mouthed fellers every time. I reckon it ter be the motherin' instinct. Some mighty nice purty girl'll up an' marry Young Joe, jest be- cause he looks an' acts as if he was Mary's little lamb." "Wal, mebbe some peaky-faced, cow-hocked, flat-chested schoolmarm'U take pity on him." "My son — yer way off agen. Young Joe'll pick a peach." Very soon it became known that Young Joe was courting Euphemia Biddle, only child of Josiah Biddle, ex-timber cruiser and proprietor of the Biddle House, Dog-leg, Ore- gon. The audacity of this courtship simply confounded the stal- wart lumbermen of Dog-leg. Matrimonially considered, 317 Some Happenings Pheenie was the prize-packet of the township — pretty, petite, and pert. Mr. Biddle regarded her, very properly, as the apple of his eye. And, in the fulness of time, the Biddle House and other valuable property would belong to Pheenie. She had many suitors, but we are concerned in this nar- rative with two : Young Joe and Shorty Sissons, called "Shorty" because he was six foot two in his stockings and a big bull of a man. Young Joe may be envisaged as his antithesis in all things. At first Shorty treated the affair from a humorous point of view. "Young Joe," he remarked, "is after a fine pelt. I'd jest as lief he did monkey around Pheenie, because he'll keep likelier fellers off the grass. If he gets het up any, Fll hev to talk to Young Joe." "He ain't no talker, anyway," said a friend. This was true. Young Joe, like most trappers, had the great gift of silence. For many months each year he tended his traps alone. When he paddled down river into the haunts of men, with his pelts piled high in the stern of the canoe, he would nod his head in passing and smile. After the sale of his pelts, when accosted cheerily in the market-place by would-be burners of another's oil, he would smile as before and go his way — to the local bank. Speak- ing ornithologically, with a flying reference to migrating birds, he may be said to have had a sense of direction. He held warily aloof from crowds. His wonderful gift of silence may have attracted Phee- nie, who could wag a lively tongue. She became aware of his long, penetrating glances. When she asked, coquet- tishly, "What you think about all the time?" he replied, curtly, "You." The monosyllable sank deep into Pheenie's heart. She 318 Dog-Leg Rapids divined somehow that Shorty's thoughts were concentrated upon Mr. Sissons. As much, and more, could be said of his talk. Shorty, according to himself, had done great deeds on a score of rivers, and was now boss of the biggest logging camp in the county. He assured her that he could lick his weight in wild cats, and Pheenie never doubted it. Whenever she looked at this big, black mountain of a man she felt absurdly small and frail. She was aware that he dominated her, that he regarded her as his for the asking, and that her father — just such another giant — approved the match. Mr. Biddle spoke derisively of Young Joe. "Why docs he come around ?" he asked Pheenie. "You ask him," suggested Pheenie. "Is he huntin' trouble with Shorty?" "I reckon you mean that Mr. Sissons'll make trouble with a man half his size." "Young Joe ain't a man — not what I call a man." "He don't act like some men. He ain't everlastin'ly braggin' 'bout what he kin do; he ain't the rip-roaringest male in creation. I'll own up that what he doesn't say in- terests me more'n Mr. Sissons' remarks. He's gittin' the habit o' repeating himself." "Meanin' ?" "Jest that. I'm tired o' hearin' the same old tune." Mr. Biddle stared hard at his daughter. When he spoke he was almost inarticulate with surprise. "Say, Pheenie, you ain't gone back on Shorty, her ye?" "He fatigues me awful, that's all." "You don't want him around?" "I do not." At this moment business summoned Mr. Biddle to his bar. He was so dazed that he handed out his own particular bottle of whisky instead of the special brand provided for ordinary customers. 319 Some Happenings He noticed Shorty sitting in a corner of the room chew- ing and smoking a ten-cent cigar. Presently he joined them. Shorty began to eat his cigar faster than usual; otherwise he made no sign. Mr. Biddle said, pleasantly: "How you makin' it, Shorty?" Shorty removed what was left of the cigar from his large mouth and expectorated freely. "I'm snowed in," he replied. Then he added, with in- vincible optimism, "Temporarily." Mr. Biddle remarked, casually: "A bold game pays." "Not always. Not with all females. Some on 'em hates nice fresh meat and has an onnateral hankerin' fer ice- cream. They kin be made to see the fullishness o' sech tastes, but it takes time to train 'em, and what worries me is — hev I the time ter spare?" He gazed sorrowfully at Mr. Biddle, who said, firmly: "I allow that ye hev." Shorty murmured, gloomily : "I ain't huntin' trouble with Young Joe. I look over his head, an' to the right an' left of the leetle cuss when we happen together, but he's too small fer me to man-handle. Anyways, that's how I feel about Young Joe." "Sech feelin's does you credit." Shorty continued : "It's up to you, as Pheenie's father, to try out Young Joe." "Up to mer "In Pheenie's eyes, he's — IT, the biggest thing in Dog- leg. She sees him with the patent magnifyers o' female affection. If you could make Pheenie see Young Joe as he is, if you could hang him up ter dry on yer clothes-line as a warnin' to all chicken-livered dwarfs an' dudes ter keep outer yer home-pasture, I should be obligated some." 320 Dog-Leg Rapids "Chicken-livered?" ''You wasn't on to that? Yes, sir, Young Joe ain't got no sand. He's a river-man, but you ask him to run yer rapids." "I will," said Mr. Biddle. The Dog-leg Rapids began just below Mr. Biddle's hotel, and might be adequately described in toboggan terms as the Cresta Run of the river. The broad stream flowing placidly above the town here narrowed between high banks and then boiled downwards in a succession of cascades beautiful to behold but dangerous to navigate, because the river twisted like a writhing snake. A nasty, ugly bit of water, where in earlier days many a man had met his death. Mr. Biddle spoke to Young Joe that same evening. He found the trapper alone with Pheenie in the parlour, and the lights were burning low. The father, however, could see plainly that his daughter's eyes were shining, and upon the impassive face of the trapper lurked the ghost of a smile. Young Joe said, quietly : "Mr. Biddle, Pheenie and I have fixed things to git married, if you've no objection." **You calcilate to take Pheenie on yer trips?" "I calcilate to buy a half-interest in a small store that's likely to grow bigger." "Here in Dog-leg?" "Yep." Mr. Biddle looked unhappy. Pheenie, so to speak, was more than a daughter. Outside of the bar, she "ran" the hotel, reigning supreme in kitchen and dining-room. She earned good money that her father kept in his own posses- sion. He would have affirmed — to do him justice — that he was "saving" many dollars for his only child. Under the softening influence of his own brand of whisky he had said 321 Some Happenings as much many times. He could hardly envisage life with- out Pheenie. He remarked, not too discreetly: "Thar's others wants Pheenie, beside you." "I know it. But Pheenie wants me." "Yes," murmured Pheenie. Mr. Biddle then said, solemnly: "This yere is a wild country, and it takes a man as is a man to look after a woman." Young Joe remained silent; Pheenie glanced at him, and took up the cudgels. "Air you hintin' that my Joe ain't a man?" "He ain't bin tried, Pheenie." "Mr. Shorty Sissons has, an' convicted too !" This was the unhappy truth, and Mr. Biddle knew it. Shorty, in a too hot youth, had served a term in the State penitentiary for manslaughter. But the fact that he was quick with his gun was not reckoned a disability in lumber- camps. Mr. Biddle knew, moreover, that Young Joe walked the green earth unarmed and defenceless. To draw a pistol on him and use it meant murder — in the first degree. The blustering Shorty was well aware of this. Young Joe said, hesitatingly : "Do you want ter try me, Mr. Biddle?" "Yes, young man, I do. You've bin up an' down our river considerable, but Pve yet to learn that you've run Dog-leg Rapids. It takes sand ter do that." Young Joe answered, politely : "I aim ter take no unnecessary chances. My father used to run Dog-leg because he had to. 'Twasn't a portage in his days." "Thet's so. But the boys around these parts run Dog- leg fer fun." "I see. You want me to risk my life — fer fun?" 222 Dog-Leg Rapids "]stq — fgj. pheenie. I ain't stuck on yer shape, but Pheenie is." "If I run Dog-leg, you give me Pheenie?" "1 ain't his ter give, Joe. Don't you be flim-flammed into this foolishness. Shorty Sissons put father on to this low- down play. It's jest like him. It'd tickle him plum to death ter see you drownding before his eyes. Now, don't you give that mountain o' flesh the devilish satisfaction of attendin' yer funeral." Young Joe smiled at her, nodding his head. Then his mild blue eyes met the congested orbs of Mr. Biddle. "I'm scared of Dog-leg," he admitted ingenuously. Mr. Biddle snorted. "But I want Pheenie," continued Young Joe. "And I want her to be married accordin' to Hoyle, from her father's house and with his blessin'. I ain't askin' fer more'n that." "Wal, young feller, if you want the girl, you know what ter do." "Yep— and I'll do it." Mr. Biddle frowned. "When?" "To-morrer." Pheenie jumped up. Her eyes were sparkling ; her cheeks glowed. Young Joe gazed at her in speechless admiration. She spoke curtly to her sire. "You mean this?" Mr. Biddle nodded, portentously. "Yer a party to this put-up job?" He made no reply. The girl waited a moment; then she said, grimly: "I take a hand in this game. If Joe runs Dog-leg he must take me with him. Kin you swim, Jodie ?" "Yep." "That's fine! I never learnt swimmin'. Mebbe, you'll save my life. I'd love to hev you do it." 323 Some Happenings Let it be stated here that Mr. Biddle, according to his lights, loved Pheenie. Let it be added that he had run Dog-leg — once. More, he knew that Pheenie was quite as obstinate as himself. These reflections passed swiftly through his brain as he stared and glared at his daughter's pretty face. Looking at that face, he remembered that two years before he had helped to drag ashore what was left of a young man who had tried to run Dog-leg — and failed. He said, thickly : "1 forbid that, child!" Pheenie laughed derisively. "You forbid your daughter to run risks which you ask another man's son ter do — f er fun ?" "Yer a woman ; he's a man." "Yes, I'm a woman, and proud of it, because he's my man. You'd better back down, father; mebbe a harder job fer you than runnin' Dog-leg, but — if ye don't, if you stand in with this big, blasphemin', murderin' scallywag, whom I hate and despise, I stand in, too, with my Joe." Mr. Biddle rose to his feet. It will never be known whether or not he believed his daughter to be bluffing. He said, with finality : "You stand in — and be hanged to ye !" Having played what he deemed to be a trump card, Mr. Biddle retired majestically to bed. Pheenie took tactical advantage of her sire's retreat by occupying a frontal position on Young Joe's knee. With her arms about his neck and her cheek against his, she mur- mured, persuasively : '7oe, dear, let's skin outer this. We kin be married to- morrer morning." Joe squeezed her to him. For a small man he had a very satisfying grip. But he remained, as usual, almost exas- peratingly silent. 324 Dog-Leg Rapids "What you say, Jodie?" At that Young Joe laughed, and his laugh was pleasant to hear. Pheenie, pondering many things in her heart, noted the genuine mirth of her lover's laughter. Cowards, she decided instantly, do not laugh at such moments. "I tole a whoppin' lie jest now," said Joe. "Mercy!" "I ain't scared any of Dog-leg." "What?" "I run Dog-leg — fer fun — two seasons back." "You never told me." "Pheenie, it was this way. I hated to brag about it, even to you. And with the boys it was more so. See ?" "I see. Oh, Joe, I do love you! You're my own little man!" Young Joe continued, thoughtfully : "Dog-leg, to a river-man as knows his business, ain't what it's cracked up ter be. That young feller yer dad snaked out o' the rocks was plum full o' whisky afore he started. I kin take you down, Pheenie, and I aim ter do it with the hull town a-lookin' on. Then we'll be married in style, ac- cordin' to Hoyle." "I ain't scared," declared Pheenie. "Honest! I'd be scared stiff if I thought you was. Phee- nie, thar's another thing. Shorty brags that he's run Dog- leg, but he's a liar, too." "Sakes ! How you know that ?" "Wal — I heard him tell how he done it. That was enough fer me. He was just repeatin' what some other feller had told him, and he got mixed in the details. When me and you's run Dog-leg, I calcilate to hev some fun with Mister Shorty Sissons." Pheenie giggled. Next morning the town heard part of the truth, enough 325 Some Happenings to excite the citizens of each sex. Pheenie's resolution to share risks with the man of her choice brought many thirsty souls to Mr. Biddle's bar. To all and sundry Mr. Biddle imparted the gilt-edged information that, in his opinion, Young Joe would back down at the last minute. Shorty offered to bet many dollars upon this issue. His bets were taken by a quiet trapper who knew Young Joe, and may have been acting for him. Young Joe was seen on the river in his own canoe, testing the toughness of a new pole. The event — if it took place — was publicly announced as a midday entertainment. At noon punctually Young Joe and Pheenie would embark in the canoe. At half-past eleven Mr. Biddle weakened. Love for an only child triumphed over the coagulated obstinacy of a lifetime. He took Pheenie aside and said, testily: "You want Young Joe and, by Jing ! you kin hev him." "I want more'n Joe." "Meanin'?" "I'm marryin' a man, and I want the hull world ter know it." "You'll git drownded — sure!" "Mebbe. It's this a-way, father. I'd sooner drown with Joe than live with any other man." "Includin' me?" "Yes — includin' you." "You prefer that peaky- faced leetle runt to— me?" "I do — for a stone-cold fact." "He'll back down." "If you was dead sure o' that, you'd feel a heap better'n ye're lookin'. To make yer mind easier I'll tell ye this. Joe kin do it, and he will do it, and I want to do it with him. Seein' as business is so brisk this morning, I reckon you'd better go back to the bar. One more pointer. Mr. Z26 Dog-Leg Rapids Sissons is a particular friend of yours. See to it that he don't swaller too much whisky before noon." *'Why?" "Fer reasons which I'm not at Uberty ter state." Mr. Biddle returned to the bar, stupefied and quite in- capable of putting his thoughts into words. But he be- lieved (and hoped) with an ever-increasing conviction that Young Joe's liver would be publicly displayed white as its owner's blameless life. At noon Pheenie and Joe stepped into the canoe. Phee- nie, smiling pleasantly, sat down in the stern with her lover's earnest injunction "not to budge." They slid out into the stream. The crowd had collected farther down at the worst Dog-leg turn. To compare once more these rapids with the famous Cresta Run at St. Moritz, it will be eluci- dating to speak of this particular twist in the river as "Shut- tlecock." "Battledore," an easier turn, was higher up. Below both lay a narrow passage, with fanged rocks on each side. Below the passage again, in another bend of the river, was the whirlpool with its dangerous undertow. From the coign of vantage selected by the crowd a good view of these four danger-spots could be obtained. But those who had assembled in the expectation of wit- nessing either a ridiculous fiasco or a bad accident were sadly disappointed. Young Joe gave a flawless perform- ance. When he stepped ashore, to be acclaimed with ring- ing cheers, there may have been three pints of water in his canoe — not more. Indeed, the feat seemed so easy that the many onlookers who were not river-men decided hastily that the perils of Dog-leg had been grossly overrated. Mr. Biddle shook hands with Young Joe, and said, pontifically : "She's yours, my son." At this moment Shorty approached Young Joe, and ex- claimed : 327 Some Happenings "I couldn't hev done it slicker myself." Young Joe, had he been as ingenuous and innocent as he appeared, might have acclaimed in this speech some sports- manlike feeling. He recognised, instead, what is called in the West a ''gallery play." He knew, in every fibre of his small, neat body, that this giant had deliberately plotted to kill him. But he smiled as he repHed, not loudly, but very clearly : "Will you do it, Shorty?*' ^ "How's that?" "Will you run Dog-leg?" Pheenie answered for the big fellow : '*No— he won't!" The crowd formed a circle round these three. For a moment the silence became tense. Then Pheenie laughed. Shorty may have been half -drunk, but he grasped the sense of the situation. To refuse this challenge after Phee- nie's laugh meant a headlong fall from a pinnacle of conceit and self-advertisement. He said, hoarsely, "O' course I'll do it." "When?" asked Pheenie. "Right now." The fickle crowd applauded. The tension relaxed. To anybody with Shorty's experience the running of Dog-leg was a ha'penny matter. The river-men began to chaff the big fellow. What girl would he ask to share his joy-ride? And so forth. Young Joe, however, with the keen eye of a trapper, marked signs which escaped the crowd — the shifty glance, the pendulous lower lip, the "hunted" expression. He said, quietly: "Do it to-morrer, Shorty." "Right now," repeated Mr. Sissons. He strode off, followed by half a dozen friends. The crowd moved slowly back to the bluff crowning the rapids. 328 Dog-Leg Rapids But Pheenie and Joe remained near the landing-place, just below the whirlpool. *'Vm kinder sorry," said Joe. "I ain't," said Pheenie, fiercely. Those on the bluff described more or less adequately what followed. A canoe glided swiftly into "Battledore." Mere gravitation carried it safely to the edge of ''Shuttlecock." But here, where the river turned sharply, one — only one — firm shove of the pole was necessary, where a rock starkly rose out of mid-channel. And here — according to the testi- mony of experts — Shorty made his first blunder. He pushed too hard against the rock. The canoe raced into "Shuttle- cock" slightly aslant, instead of straight. Mere balance, bred by long experience, averted disaster, for the canoe was rocking badly as it sped towards the narrow passage. Shorty, stabbing with his pole, tried to steady his frail craft. The canoe plunged, like a runaway horse. A synchronised gasp of dismay came from the spectators. Mr. Biddle remarked, oracularly : "He's a goner." It was obvious, even to the children present, that Shorty had lost his head. Mere luck, toper's luck, carried him through the narrows. The canoe must have grazed the rocks a dozen times, but the volume of water held it on its course. The skirting of the whirlpool remained. By this time the canoe was in sight of Young Joe and Pheenie. It no longer floated like a dogwood petal upon the maddened stream. Much water had been shipped, buoyancy had gone. Young Joe shouted : "Push for all yer worth!" The roar of the falls was in Shorty's ears. If he heard, he was too palsied by terror to act. He pushed feebly ; his pole slipped; to the amazement of the beholders he fell 329 Some Happenings overboard, and the canoe, relieved of his weight, danced blithely on upon a steadier keel. To use a phrase of the hunting-field the boss of a big lumber-camp had "cut a voluntary." But friends and enemies knew that he was a powerful swimmer, well able to strike out boldly for the shore. Shorty made no such attempt. In falling overboard his head must have struck a rock. His huge body rose to the surface with no more initiative about it than a log. Young Joe slipped off his coat. "No — ye don't!" screamed Pheenie, clutching at him. He said, sharply: "We done it." Then he tore himself loose and plunged into the river. If the crowd thirsted for excitement, that lust was likely to be gratified. Time became the essense of the situation. Could Young Joe reach Shorty before he was sucked into the whirlpool? No human being could escape alive from the clutch of that. Joe shot across the stream, using the side-stroke. Shorty sank. Was he sucked under? Joe dived for him. And then a great shout went up from the bluff. Joe appeared with his quarry. He turned upon his back, grasp- ing Shorty's huge head with his hands, holding him be- tween his knees. Inch by inch, skill and courage prevailed. Another shout, louder than the first, died away amongst the tops of the spruces. Pheenie discovered that she was shed- ding the gladdest tears of her life. But later, when she whispered proudly, "Oh, Jodie, I'm ever so glad you saved him!" Young Joe said, with a hu- mour wasted upon his future wife, "Why, Pheenie, if I hadn't, could I hev collected them bets?" 330 RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT TO— »► 202 Main Library LOAN PERIOD 1 HOME USE ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. Books may be Renewed by calling 642-3405. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW « ->,p— •-»?••♦ •r»f^fir^\f ( f^ f. \ •' FORM NO. DD6, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY BERKELEY, CA 94720 (g)s ji' 111 irilii- 11; if! \in\i\\