Читать книгу Period Stuff - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 4
MY LADY’S CHAMBER
ОглавлениеPatrick Danvers, bachelor, saw no good reason why he should ever abandon this excellent state. His life was sheltered. His leisure was not embarrassed by lack of means: his work was savoury meat, such as he loved. Danvers was a herald. He respected his office and delighted in his work at the College of Arms. In an age when traditions were dying of violence and neglect, he found himself happy in maintaining the fairest of them all. For this his profession he had his father to thank. From his mother he had inherited a little house in Westminster and a fortune which was sufficient, because he was content to live quietly and to be outrun by the times. He went out little, except to dine at his club. For a man of thirty years, he had few friends: for a tall good-looking young man, who dealt with Savile Row and knew how to wear his clothes, his feminine acquaintance was almost unbelievably slight. Attempts to correct this disorder always failed: Danvers was nothing if not resolute.
As is the way of a man, Danvers seldom visited the great stores. He had no prejudice against them, but he liked the ‘specialist’ shops. If he had need of a pen-knife, he went to a cutler’s, as his father had done. One February day however, a chance commendation took him to one of those temples of trade from which no reasonable suppliant need ever go empty away.
To say that the place was full conveys nothing at all: it was containing about three times as many customers as it could conveniently hold: these blocked the aisles and were excluded from the lifts: some of them fought their way; the efficiency of the assistants alone prevented a riot. Climbing a magnificent staircase, Danvers wondered how the ‘Christmas rush’ had passed without a death-roll.
He had found the dispatch-case he wanted and was upon the point of leaving the counter, when he noticed another customer sitting some three yards away. This was a woman.
Now Danvers, more monk than gallant, would never have noticed the lady, had he not seen the hand leave the cuff of her squirrel-fur coat.
The hand was that of a woman, but not that of the owner of the coat; the latter, indeed, was plainly unaware of the attention and continued to choose a dog’s lead with all her might.
Danvers knitted his brows.
The hand was gone, and he had no means of judging to whom it belonged. The press was too thick. He began to wonder whether he had witnessed a theft . . . whether he should acquaint the lady with what he had observed . . . whether . . .
Here he looked round, to see whether anyone else had noticed the fugitive hand.
That somebody else had done so was immediately clear.
Another woman, wearing a squirrel-fur coat, was staring at her slight counterpart, with her underlip caught in her teeth. Finding Danvers’ eyes upon her, she turned and moved swiftly away.
Danvers began to feel bewildered.
Here a smooth voice at his elbow inquired if he was being attended to, and Danvers joined the column which was seething along the aisle.
He made his way downstairs in some uneasiness. Something was wrong. Of that he had no doubt at all. The hand he had seen had not been especially clean: he had not liked the look upon his fellow-witness’s face: the lady of the dog-leads had been so wholly unconscious of any ill. He remembered that her face had been eager and very young, that she had been wearing a pert, little yellow hat.
A block on the staircase delayed him. Someone had fallen down and was being assisted to a seat. Her friends were abusing the slippery state of the stairs. These were not slippery at all, but were saving more souls than they could conveniently serve.
Danvers reached the jaws of an entrance with a sigh of relief.
To his surprise, he saw the lady of the dog-leads two paces ahead. She had, no doubt, descended by one of the lifts and now, like Danvers, was about to be gone.
As she stepped out of the doorway, a man touched her upon the sleeve. Danvers heard him say something about ‘the Management.’
“Me?” said the girl quickly. “Why?”
Her voice was clear and refreshing.
“This way, if you please,” said the man, laying a hand on her arm.
“But I——”
“This way, please,” said the man.
People were beginning to stare.
Then—
“Shop-lifting,” whispered someone—and the scales fell from Danvers’ eyes.
Her cheeks flaming, the girl turned to obey.
Danvers followed her and her escort into the store.
Almost at once they passed through a private door. Danvers followed. . . .
“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice.
“I saw what happened,” said Danvers, producing a card. “Before you accuse this lady, you may like to let me speak.”
Four people stared at him. Of these the girl stared wildly, with the big, wide eyes of a child.
“Five minutes ago,” said Danvers, “this lady was choosing a lead. By her side was a woman, wearing a similar coat. Mark that—exactly similar. I saw a hand place something in this lady’s cuff. The woman saw it too, and looked extremely annoyed. When she saw me looking at her, she instantly faded away. It’s perfectly plain that the goods were intended for her.”
The girl was feeling in her cuff—frantically.
“The other one,” said Danvers.
She turned this back, and a pair of black silk socks fell to the floor.
“For heaven’s sake!” said the girl.
“Can you describe this woman?” said a heavily built fellow, clad in a dark blue suit.
“Her features were sharp,” said Danvers. “And she was heavily rouged. Her right eyelid seemed to droop.”
“That’s right,” said the other. “Alias Madge Perowne.” He turned to the third man, who was wearing a manager’s dress and nervously fingering his chin. “Mistake,” he said shortly. “It’s a mercy this gentleman was there.”
The manager cleared his throat.
Then he bowed to the girl.
“I can only offer you, madam, a most humble apology. I beg that you will believe that we have a very difficult task. The thefts are so very many and so very skilfully done that——”
“I don’t think it was anyone’s fault,” said the girl shakily.
The man was visibly relieved.
“Thank you very much indeed, madam. Will you and—and the gentleman come this way?” He opened a second door. “This will take us to the back of the building. May I have a cab sent for?”
“Please,” said Danvers. “I—if this lady will permit me, I’ll see her home.”
The girl inclined her head. . . .
A cab seemed to be waiting.
With a foot on the step—
“Would you like me to take you,” said Danvers, “to have some tea? I mean——”
“Yes, please,” said the girl.
“Where shall I take you?”
“Anywhere quiet, please.”
Danvers gave the driver the name of his club.
For some moments neither spoke.
At length—
“I—I’m very grateful,” said the girl. “I mean, but for you——”
She stopped abruptly there, to burst into tears.
“Oh, my dear,” said Danvers.
“I can’t help it,” sobbed his companion. “That—that wicked woman . . .”
Danvers patted her sleeve.
“Please don’t cry,” he said gently. “You see, we’re out of the wood.”
“I know. That’s why I’m crying. Never mind.”
With that, she wept violently.
Danvers glanced out of the window. The streets were absurdly clear. In another two minutes they would have reached his club.
“Shall—shall I tell him to drive round the park?” he suggested desperately.
The girl shook her head.
“I’ll be all right—in a moment. When we get there, I’ll pow-powder my nose. Where—where are we going?”
Danvers swallowed.
“To an old-fashioned club,” he said.
“I thought—women weren’t allowed—in men’s clubs.”
“There’s an annex,” said Danvers. “I’ve never used it before.”
“You mean, I’m the first? How funny.” She wiped her eyes and presented a tearful face. “Do I look as if I’d been crying?”
“You—you do a little,” said Danvers. “Your eyes——”
“Is my nose swollen?”—tremulously.
“Oh, no. It’s only your eyes. If you don’t cry any more . . .”
The girl averted her face and straightened her hat.
“I think I shall like you,” she said. “You’re rather like me.”
“I hope you will,” said Danvers.
A moment later he handed her out of the cab and into a vestibule.
A servant preceded them into a stately hall . . .
“When you’re ready,” said Danvers, “he’ll show you the drawing-room.”
A bright eye thanked him, and he left to dispose of his coat. . . .
The drawing-room was empty, but cheerful. Danvers had seen it but once, in the cold light of day. Then the apple-green chamber had been eminently chaste. Now, with its two big fires and shaded lights, with its velvet curtains drawn and the world shut out, the place was a glowing boudoir. Chastity was warming her hands. Luxury and Charm had kissed each other. . . .
Danvers had ordered tea before my lady appeared.
She came in, twittering.
“I say, what a lovely room. D’you mean to say you’ve never brought anyone here before?”
“Never,” said Danvers.
“Why did you bring me?”
“You said ‘somewhere quiet.’ Most people, I believe, like music. Won’t you take off your coat and sit down?”
She turned her back in silence, and Danvers took off her coat and laid it upon a chair. A simple, short blue frock became her admirably. And, when she stood on tiptoe and peered at herself in a glass, she might have been fresh sixteen.
“D’you like my hat?” she said.
“Yes,” said Danvers. “I noticed it ages ago.”
“I’m so glad. I bought it this morning. May I take it off now? It makes my head hot.”
“Of course,” said Danvers.
She pulled off the little hat and gave it into his hand. He laid it away with her coat. Then she shook her curls into place and sat down on a Chesterfield.
“Now I feel at home,” she said contentedly.
“I’m so glad,” said Danvers, and meant it.
I do not think he would have been human, if he had not. The girl was lovely. Her soft dark hair, her steady gray eyes, the curve of her exquisite mouth, her little firm hands, her slim silk legs, naked and unashamed, went to make up the miracle. Like a rare perfume, her complete artlessness immensely enhanced her beauty and glorified all she did.
Danvers, the celibate, sat down beside his guest, like a man in a dream. . . .
Tea was served: the silver and Dresden china winked in the light of the fire.
“It’s like a fairy-tale,” said the girl. “You’re the knight, and I’m the maiden in distress, and this is the enchanted palace. Isn’t it nice to have it all to ourselves?”
“That’s as it should be,” said Danvers. “The knight and the maiden always had the run of the place.”
“Till they opened some door,” said the girl. “They used to make me so wild. They were specially told that they mustn’t open some door: and then they went and did it and tore everything up.”
“But we won’t do that,” said Danvers, laughing. “Would you like to know my name?”
“Yes, please.”
“Patrick Danvers.”
“Oh, I am glad,” said the girl. “I’ve always wanted to know someone called ‘Patrick.’ May I call you ‘Pat’?”
“Please. What shall I call you?”
“Stephanie. Stephanie Beauclerk. I live with my aunt, but I don’t like her very much.”
“Why not?” said Danvers, taking out cigarettes.
“She’s not very genuine,” said Miss Beauclerk, knitting her pretty brows. “She always makes me think of a witch. And she dances with lizards, and I have to call her ‘Rocky,’ instead of ‘Aunt May.’” Danvers repressed a start. “‘Rocky’s’ her nickname, you know; but she’s really quite old.”
“Ah,” said Patrick Danvers, and left it at that.
People used to say that the coaches were still upon the roads when ‘Rocky’ Trottergill was born. This was an exaggeration, but she was getting on. Witty, unscrupulous, tough, she had married early and well, and, in spite of twice changing her name, had had a very good run. This, in all decency, should have ended in 1910. Mrs. Trottergill thought otherwise. She shortened her frocks, slept with beefsteak on her face and ‘went’ harder than ever. By 1915 she had become notorious, and in 1927 a byword. It is hardly necessary to add that she was not a desirable companion for a beautiful child. As a guardian . . .
“She’s away for the moment,” said Stephanie, “or I shouldn’t be here.”
“Where would you be?” said Danvers, lighting a cigarette.
Stephanie glanced at her watch.
“Cocktail time,” she said, “at The Arbour Bar. That’s what they call where I live.”
“Who call it?”
“The people who come there. All sorts. I can ask you, you know; but I don’t think you’d care about it, and I hope you won’t come. Some are very clever, of course; I don’t understand a lot of what they say.”
Danvers frowned at the fire.
“Haven’t you any friends of your own—Stephanie?”
The girl shook her head.
“You see, I came straight from the Convent. In Belgium, that was. I often wish I was back. And now I’m tired of myself. Let’s talk about you.”
Half an hour slid away before Stephanie rose to her feet.
“I’ve got to dine out,” she said, “and to-morrow I’m going away.”
Danvers stood up.
“But not for long,” he said. “I—I want you to come here again.”
“I’ll love to.” She pulled on her hat, peered in the glass for a moment and turned a glowing face. “You’ve been very nice to me, Pat, and it’s been—divine.” She stretched out her arms luxuriously. “To be able to talk to a man without his pretending he loves you. As for sitting alone in a room . . .”
“How did you know I was all right?”
Stephanie reflected, delicate finger to lip.
“I liked your voice,” she said. “And you let me alone when I cried.”
“That was a fluke,” said Danvers. “I’d no idea what to do. To tell you the truth, I believed I ought to kiss you. I had a sort of idea that a girl in tears should be kissed. You know. Like putting a key down your back, for a bleeding nose. But I don’t know much about women, and I thought it would be so awful if I did it and it was wrong.”
Stephanie nodded approvingly.
“I’m so glad you didn’t,” she said. “I shouldn’t have known you were doing it out of duty, and it would have torn everything up. Of course,” she added, “you mustn’t go by me. I’m rather an exception. I think it would have gone with most of the girls I know.”
“Let us hope,” said Danvers, “that I shan’t find myself so placed with anyone else.”
“I do hope you won’t,” said Stephanie earnestly. “It is such misery, Pat. You see, you’re like me. You and I don’t like it, but nearly everyone does. So they all try it on, and then they say you’re no sport. And some of them put it across you and others keep on keeping on.”
“When it gets too thick, Stephanie, please remember that the enchanted palace is always here.”
“I will, I will. Where can I ring you up? Between ten and twelve in the morning would be my best time.”
Danvers stepped to a table and wrote down his office address, adding the telephone number and that of the extension of his room. Stephanie leaned over his shoulder and read out the words.
“I love your being a herald,” she said. “That’s better than a knight. The herald and the maiden.”
“Princess,” said Danvers.
A child laid her head against his shoulder.
“Ah, Pat, but I’m not. If I were, you should be my equerry and we’d come here every day.”
“Princess by nature,” said Danvers, unsteadily. “And you’ll come whenever you can.”
Stephanie nodded vigorously.
“And we’ll beat the fairy-tales,” she said. “We won’t open any doors.”
“If I remember,” said Danvers, “it was usually the princess who did that. You know. She got curious.”
“But the herald let her,” said Stephanie. “Instead of being firm, he gave way. He was really just as curious as she was. Look at Adam and Eve. Eve may have picked the apple, but Adam jolly well ate it. It was up to him to make her chuck it away.”
“He was probably afraid,” said Danvers, “that she might burst into tears.”
“Well, then he could have kissed her. She probably wasn’t like me.”
“I bet she was,” said Danvers. “Never mind.” He helped her into her coat. “You don’t know when you’ll be back?”
“Thursday, I think. I’ll ring up as soon as I can, but I don’t want to give you away. If Aunt May hears of our meeting, she’ll make me bring you along, and I’d be so—so ashamed, and you would hate it so.”
“Ashamed, Stephanie?”
“Upset. They’re a rotten crowd. I don’t want you to meet them. Good-bye.”
“Mayn’t I drive you home?”
“No, thanks, Pat dear. If I may have a taxi . . .”
A minute later, Danvers saw her into a cab.
With the small hand in his—
“If you don’t telephone very soon, I shall write and ask why,” he said.
“I will very soon. I promise.”
“Good-bye, Stephanie.”
“Good-bye.”
Danvers walked home across the park, pondering the changes and chances of this mortal life and marvelling at the superlative jugglery of Fate. When he reflected that, had he not stood at that counter, Stephanie Beauclerk and he would never have met, he took a deep breath; and, when he remembered that, but for the block upon the staircase, a beautiful child would have been charged with felony, he broke into a sweat.
That was the beginning of the business.
Within twenty-four hours his condition had become more serious. In a word, he had become aware that, glorious and free and blessed as is celibacy, it is nevertheless a solitary state.
* * * * * * * *
When a week had gone by and no word had come from Stephanie, Danvers wrote her three letters and tore the lot of them up. This demonstrates pretty well his condition of mind. He had also become sharply suspicious of the telephone-clerk employed at the College of Arms. Finally, he cancelled a visit which he was to have paid to an aunt. This upset the aunt and his housekeeper: Danvers would not have cared if it had occasioned a war. Until he knew where he was, the man was not going to leave Town.
Then, on a Monday morning, a letter arrived.
Hunchback Hall, Leicestershire.
My dear Pat,
I want to see you very much. We are coming back to London on Wednesday. I have not been back since I saw you. I could not have the puppy-dog after all. I told you the man we were to stay with had promised me him, but I found he wasn’t to be a present so I had to let him go. And, Pat, when I was alone I cried, and when I see you I expect I shall cry again. He was so sweet and he seemed to like me so much, and, when I went away, he howled—a tiny bit of a howl, because he was very tiny himself, as if I was letting him down. We should have stayed here only one night, but somebody kicked Aunt May on the knee, doing the Charleston, and the next day she couldn’t walk. I have to play poker here, and hate it because, of course, I have to be carried, and then if you lose you feel under such an obligation. If you win it’s worse still, so you get it both ways. I met an old lady here yesterday who was very nice. We talked quite a lot. She said she knew my mother who died when I was born, and told me a lot about her I never knew. She said she was a great beauty and that when it was known that she was dead some great artist who was to have painted her burst into tears, and when they asked him why he was so upset he said, ‘You will never know—now.’ So she must have been lovely, mustn’t she? I mean, for him to say that.
With my love, Yours very sincerely, Stephanie.
Danvers read the note over a score of times, carried it in his case and felt the better. He may be forgiven. If you remember, he was a man of few friends.
The thought of the puppy-dog incident made him breathe through his nose. What is more to the point, it pricked him to a decision that something would have to be done.
Danvers was no Don Quixote, but he was a decent man. His tastes were simple and his life was quiet, but he was no fool. By no means worldly, he was yet a man of the world—that is to say, he could expect, recognize and contemplate without horror the failings of mankind. He had all the man of the world’s flair for letting ill alone. No one knew better than he that chivalry is stone-dead and that such as seek to revive it are riding for a fall. Yet in Stephanie’s case he was going to interfere. He had known as much that first evening, walking across the park, and had blinked the fact as preposterous. The case was a bad one, but what on earth could he do? Besides . . .
Beyond recording that he argued alternately that he had been bewitched and that his dread of interference had already almost landed Stephanie in gaol, it is unnecessary to set out Danvers’ searchings of heart. The latter did little more than make him face squarely the fact that he had blinked. By hook or by crook Stephanie must be plucked out of the world of Hogarth in which she moved. And he must do it—somehow. It was absurd, of course, melodramatic, but one couldn’t stand by and see a child go down.
He lay awake most of that night, wondering how on earth he should go to work.
The obvious course of marriage he rejected at once.
For one thing, his head insisted that men do not fall in love in an afternoon, that a runaway match was indecent, that such things are not done and that, if they are, there is presently the devil to pay; for another, it would be unfair. Of this he was perfectly convinced. To such a child, marriage would be an adventure—an adventurous way of escape from ‘Rocky’ and poker and a hundred ills. She would enter the state, rather as she had entered his club, in some excitement. Such a way was not to be taken. It would be like proposing to play a baby at golf. . . .
At last he fell asleep, with a hammering brain. Three hours later he was called, and, such is the perversity of mother-wit, before the curtains had been drawn he had perceived the way.
He spent the morning of Tuesday laying his plans. Then he obtained a copy of Stephanie’s birth-certificate and visited his solicitor during the afternoon. The latter was sympathetic and, finding his client resolved, gave him and his project two invaluable hours of his valuable time. Before Danvers left his office, a deed of sorts had been drafted and by noon on Wednesday, unknown to Stephanie Beauclerk, John Galbraith Forsyth, Solicitor, had been appointed her trustee.
* * * * * * * *
Stephanie came to tea on the following day.
The enchanted palace was not crowded, but other knights and maidens were proving its charm. They all looked at Stephanie very hard. One or two of the knights surreptitiously moved their seats, so that they could observe her more conveniently.
Before tea was over, Danvers had elicited two facts. The first was that ‘Rocky’ was Stephanie’s only relative, and the second that, so far as she knew, the girl had no fortune of her own.
“So I’m very lucky, really,” she said. “I mean I’ve got no money, and yet I don’t have to work. And I go all over the place and have a wonderful time. Only, you see, I don’t want it. I don’t think I’d like it even if they let me alone. Aunt May says I can’t manage men, and I suppose she’s right. I’m always in trouble, Pat. The puppy-dog business was awful. Aunt May was simply wild. You see, the man was our host. . . .”
“I see,” said Danvers thickly. “Did you know you had a trustee?”
Stephanie opened her eyes.
“I did not.”
“Well, you have. I happen to know him quite well. He’s a solicitor. I saw him yesterday, and, when he heard I was to see you, he gave me this note.”
Stephanie stared at her name. Then she opened the envelope reverently enough.
Private and Confidential.
Dear Miss Beauclerk,
By the terms of a Settlement of which you are not, I think, aware, you will upon your twenty-second birthday become entitled to the use of a small freehold house in Westminster and to a private income of six hundred pounds a year. These benefits will continue until your marriage, when they will come to an end. The maintenance of the house and the payment of three servants is also provided for. Of this Settlement I am the sole trustee, and, if you will come to see me as soon as you can, I will explain the position and do my best to assist you in every way.
Yours faithfully, J. G. Forsyth.
Stephanie put a hand to her head.
“A house?” she said dazedly. “And six hundred pounds a year? Me? It must be a mistake.”
“Forsyth doesn’t make mistakes,” said Danvers. “May I see what he says?”
The letter passed.
At length—
“That’s clear enough,” said Danvers, giving it back. “He told me you’d be your own mistress when you were twenty-two, but he naturally left it there. Lawyers mayn’t talk, you know.”
The girl caught at his arm.
“But, Pat! My own house and servants and—and six hundred pounds a year! It’s like a dream. It’s— Oh, Pat, I think I’m going to cry.”
“If you do,” said Danvers, “I shall kiss you.” Stephanie swallowed ominously. “I’ll—I’ll make a meal of it. Before everyone.” A burst of talk from a table six paces away pointed the threat. “There’s nothing to cry about. Your luck’s come in—with a bang. But I shouldn’t say a word to a soul, until you’ve seen Forsyth. When can you go?”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe it, Pat. Aunt May won’t——”
“Aunt May be burned,” said Danvers. “You’re going to be your own mistress. How soon are you twenty-two?”
“Next week—Tuesday.”
“Well, at midnight next Monday Aunt May will cease to count. It mayn’t amuse her, but it’s a very hard fact. You’ll have your own house, your own money and your own friends. You’ll see whom you please and only whom you please. If anyone comes to see you that you don’t like, your servants will send them away. You will be independent. No one will count except you.”
“You will, Pat.” The man caught his breath. “Always. But—Oh, my dear, I wish we’d got the room to ourselves. I want to hold on to you. What d’you think the house will be like?”
“How on earth can I tell?” said Danvers, laughing. “You must go and see Forsyth.”
“I believe it’s an old house,” said Stephanie excitedly. “A little old house, with beams. And a flagged court at the back and a sundial. You’ll come very often, won’t you, Pat? You must come to dinner. And, when we’ve finished, I shall leave you, and then, when you’ve drunk enough, you’ll come upstairs. I expect the drawing-room will be upstairs. And we’ll sit by the fire and talk. And I shan’t bother about any clocks, because we’ll always have Big Ben. And sometimes you can take me to the theatre, and—Oh, Pat, my dear, I’m going to be so awfully happy.”
In that moment, I think, Danvers had his reward. The look upon Stephanie’s face was not of this world. The light in her great gray eyes, the exquisite parting of her lips, declared such things as will not go into words. The wild thing about to be set free was viewing its kingdom to come.
“You must go and see Forsyth,” said Danvers uncertainly. “Can you manage to-morrow?”
His companion nodded abstractedly.
“I must—somehow. Will you come with me?”
“I think you’d better see him alone. I can make an appointment for you.”
“Would ten o’clock be too early? Aunt May gets up rather late.”
Danvers rose.
“You stay here,” he said. “I’ll ring him up right away.”
“Thank you, Pat.”
He returned ten minutes later, to find Stephanie seated upon a table, listening with rapt attention to the respectful reminiscences of the aged Groom of the Chambers who had served the club, body and soul, for fifty-seven years.
The other members and their guests had disappeared.
“Hullo, Massey,” said Danvers. “Going the rounds?”
“Good evening, sir. Yes, sir. I was telling her ladyship how I came to the club as a ‘Buttons’ in ’fifty-nine.’”
“And no one might smoke in the club, Pat, except in one tiny room.”
“And my grandfather’d just been elected,” said Danvers. “The family M.P.”
“I remember him well, sir,” said Massey. “Many’s the hansom I’ve fetched him for him to go down to the House.” He bowed with the peculiar dignity of the old manservant. “Good evening, my lady. Good evening, sir.”
The next moment he was gone.
“He shouldn’t call me ‘my lady,’” said Stephanie.
“That’s your fault,” said Danvers. “If you don’t want to be worshipped, you mustn’t look so sweet.”
Stephanie regarded him gravely. Then her eyes fell to the ground.
“That’s the way they all talk,” she said. “The others, I mean. You’re not going to be like them, Pat? You’re not going to open the door and tear everything up?”
Danvers heart stood still.
Stephanie raised her eyes and put out her hands.
“Don’t say you are, Pat! Just when we’ve found each other, and I’m going to be on my own.”
The man pulled himself together, turned away and sat down.
“Of course I’m not,” he said slowly. “I—I was only pulling your leg.”
Stephanie slid from the table, settled herself by his side and slid a warm arm through his.
“I’m so glad,” she said contentedly. “And now what does Forsyth say?”
* * * * * * * *
“Until you marry,” said Forsyth. “Then the income will cease and so will your right to the house.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” said Miss Beauclerk, “because I shan’t have to marry now. That’s what’s been so awful about the last two months. She hasn’t spoken to me, but I’m perfectly sure Aunt May’s been fixing me up. You can tell, you know.”
“Ah,” said Forsyth. “By the way, I shouldn’t say anything to her. When Tuesday comes, I should pack up some things and clear out. Leave a note, thanking her very much for all she’s done, enclosing the letter I sent you and giving her your new address.”
“I expect she’ll roll up,” said Stephanie. “Almost at once.”
“So do I,” said Forsyth. “That’s why I shall be there—to see you in.”
“You mean you’ll explain things to her?”
“Yes,” said Forsyth. “And now, as I said, I’m afraid you can’t see the house until the day. You see, it’s been let all this time, and the people won’t be leaving till the day before you come in. But I think the servants might stay on: there’s a man and his wife and a girl, and as they know the house, it would be as well. Of course, if they don’t suit you, you can very soon send them away.”
“Thank you very much,” said Stephanie. “But I expect they’ll be far better than any that I should get. Can I go and see the outside?”
“I don’t think I should,” said Forsyth. “I should keep it all till the day.”
“All right,” said Stephanie. “Like a present you don’t undo.”
“That’s the idea. And I’ll be there, sharp at ten, to see you in. And, perhaps, in the afternoon we might go to the Bank. You know, Miss Beauclerk, six hundred a year’s not too bad, but it won’t go a very long way. I mean . . .”
“I think it’s a heap,” said Stephanie. “I’m not at all extravagant. You see, the girl can wash my stockings and things, and that’ll save no end of money. Besides, the laundries always do them in. They put something in the water, you know. And the last one we tried burnt one of my step-ins all down the front.”
By a supreme effort, Forsyth maintained his gravity.
“I can quite believe it,” he said. “They’re a ruthless lot. But all I meant, Miss Beauclerk, was that six hundred is all right to live on, but when you’ve paid the books and the dressmaker, I don’t think there’ll be very much left.”
“I only want to live,” said Stephanie. “I don’t like razzling at all. And I’m sure I could live on a hundred pounds a year, so I shall really be rolling. And now won’t you please tell me how I’ve come into all this? I know you’re my trustee, but where does the money come from? And whose is the house? And why didn’t Aunt May tell me ages ago?”
“I don’t think she knows,” said Forsyth. “When this Settlement was made, no one was told except me. And if you were married already, you’d never have known of it yourself. That’s the Law all over. It moves in a mysterious way, setting one man up and taking another down. Its documents are full of dead contingencies—old secrets never disclosed. So, if I were you, I shouldn’t bother my head.”
Stephanie nodded gravely.
“But I’m very grateful,” she said. “It was very sweet of someone to be so kind to me.” She rose to her feet, and Forsyth passed to the door. “Then you’ll be there on Tuesday at ten o’clock?”
“Without fail,” said Forsyth.
Stephanie put out a small hand.
“I’m so glad I can thank you,” she said.
* * * * * * * *
On Monday evening Danvers left Queen Square and drove to a private hotel.
Of his occupation of the little, old-fashioned house no personal trace remained. Books that had borne his name had been removed, every drawer had been emptied, even the relevant page of the Telephone Directory had been cut out.
His cook-housekeeper and his man had put up a desperate fight, but, after four several battles, had grudgingly consented to serve the young lady for one calendar month, “provided, in course, she should want us to stay so long, sir, which I very much doubt, for Gravel an’ me’s old-fashioned, sir, an’ only knows old-fashioned ways. We can’t do the parties an’ what-not they ’ave to-day, nor keep the ’ouse what it should be, sir, with company in an’ out all day an’ ’alf the night. Why, Gravel’d be no more use than a dog in a fair, sir, an’ I can’t do without notice an’ never could.”
Their promise to stay extracted, Danvers had worried no more. The two would be Stephanie’s slaves within a week. They had, of course, been charged to keep his counsel.
“Miss Beauclerk must never dream that this was my home. You must watch the letters and take all telephone-calls. And, if I come, I shall come as a visitor. And please remember, Gravel, that you’ve never seen me before. If you want me, you can find me at the College or else at ——’s Hotel.”
“Very good, sir,” said Gravel miserably.
And on Monday, as I have said, Danvers went.
On Tuesday at a quarter to ten Forsyth arrived, and, ten minutes later, Stephanie Beauclerk herself.
As Danvers had foreseen, her installation was a rapturous success: as Forsyth had foreseen, Mrs. Trottergill appeared upon the scene shortly before midday.
Her niece received her in the drawing-room politely enough.
“May I introduce Mr. Forsyth—Mrs. Trottergill?”
The latter looked the lawyer up and down.
“What on earth does this mean?” she said.
“It means,” said Forsyth, “that, until she marries, this is Miss Beauclerk’s house.”
“By whose orders?”
“By my instructions,” said Forsyth.
“Who are you acting for?”
“I am acting as the trustee of a Settlement, the terms of which not even Miss Beauclerk knows; but I may say that it is a Voluntary Settlement, that is to say, it is without any consideration. It offers Miss Beauclerk this house and a competent income: it requires nothing in return.”
‘Rocky’ Trottergill lighted a cigarette.
“Stephanie,” she said, “you can leave us.”
The girl did so at once.
‘Rocky’ sat down on a sofa and put up her pitiful legs. Then she took Forsyth’s measure, for Forsyth to see. So far from disconcerting the lawyer, the process suited him well. The sooner the lady perceived what manner of man stood before her, the better for both.
At length—
“I wasn’t foaled last month,” she said sharply.
Forsyth inclined his head. The movement suggested his delicate recognition of an unfortunate fact.
Mrs. Trottergill frowned.
“Who’s behind you in this?”
“I have told you, madam, that there is no consideration. If there had been, I should have refused to act. As there is none, I am prepared to defy the curiosity of Miss Beauclerk herself.”
“I am her guardian.”
This was untrue, as both knew.
“I did not know that,” said Forsyth politely. “In any event, Miss Beauclerk is of age.”
“D’you seriously suggest that a child such as she is can possibly live by herself?”
Forsyth uncovered his guns.
“I have reason to think,” he said, “that she will be very particular about her company.”
Mrs. Trottergill veered.
“I suppose you know she’s practically engaged?”
“No,” said Forsyth.
“Well, she is,” said ‘Rocky.’
This statement was founded on fact. ‘Joss’ Stuggenbaum, a notorious evil-liver who had great possessions, had promised her ‘guardian’ fifteen thousand pounds on the day he married the ‘child.’ Determined to secure twenty, ‘Rocky’ had demanded twenty-five. Her demand had been rejected and the offer renewed. The matter had been simmering for nearly two months.
Forsyth looked out of the window.
“Does she know she’s—practically engaged?”
Mrs. Trottergill’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s sauce for the gander,” she said, “is sauce for the goose. You tell her no more than you think it good for her to know.”
“Quite so,” said Forsyth, “quite so. But, if you remember, I said that, had there been any question of consideration, I should have refused to act.” He paused. Then, “You will forgive my asking if you can say the same.”
Before this broadside, Mrs. Trottergill sprang to her feet.
“Do you suggest——”
“Madam,” said Forsyth, “you told me just now that you were not foaled last month. Neither was I. Consequently, both of us know that Miss Beauclerk’s body can command a very high price. I am proud to act for an idealist who sets a still higher value upon her soul.”
A queer, bleak expression swept into ‘Rocky’s’ face. Her mouth began to work uncontrollably. It was all punk, of course. The man was spouting religion—Sunday-school slush. The cheapest curate wouldn’t have handed out such sob-stuff. . . . The trouble was he wasn’t a curate. He was—it was absurd, of course, fantastic, but he—he had the air of a Judge. Burn it, why couldn’t she answer—put him where he belonged? Why couldn’t she keep her mouth still? Why . . . .
Forsyth touched the bell and stepped to the door.
“I hope it will be unnecessary for your niece to tell her servants that she is ‘not at home’ if you call.”
Somebody laughed. With a shock, Mrs. Trottergill realized that it had been she.
“Quite,” she said shakily. “Quite unnecessary—thank you. Don’t bother to see me out. I . . .”
She stopped there. Clearly her tongue was unruly. She had not meant to say that. She had meant to say . . .
An old woman had passed out of the house.
* * * * * * * *
Five months had gone by, and, after a miserable period of civil war, in which body rose up against spirit and matter against mind, Danvers had found himself.
The man was deeply in love, but he had himself in hand. God knows what it had cost him to make good. There were times when he had dined at his own table, sat in his own drawing-room and presently let himself out of his own house with the sweat running down his face. There were times when he had not dared to visit the house at all. He had, he knew, confounded charity with love. He had saved Stephanie, because he loved her, and for no other reason at all. So far, so good. Love in the habit of Charity may be an exquisite thing. But the habit must not be abused—must not be employed to carry Love out of her prison . . . upstairs and downstairs and into my lady’s chamber.
Danvers had had a bad time. He had done alms, and his left hand was continually staring at what his right hand had done. The man found its stare offensive, but could not make up his mind to cut it off. And then at last he did it—and found himself.
One soft September morning he swallowed the fact that Stephanie was in balk. His honour was demanding this point of view. And until his honour was satisfied he would have no peace. Then and there he took his resolve and dined with the lady that evening with singular content.
His hostess noticed the change, and, when they had passed upstairs, to sit by the open windows and hear the great cry of London threatening the silent eclogue of St. James’s Park, mentioned it directly without any waste of words.
“What is it, Pat? You’re different. You make me think of a dog in front of a fire, all lazy and contented and blinking.”
Danvers smiled.
“I’m just the same, Stephanie.”
The girl shook her head.
“I’ve never seen you like this. Are you beginning to feel at home here?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ve been rather hurt,” said Miss Beauclerk, “that you’ve taken such a long time. I felt at home at your club the first time you took me to tea.”
“I’ve felt at home here—perfectly.”
“Then why did you say ‘perhaps’?”
“Line of least resistance,” said Danvers, filling a pipe. “Would you like to go to a cinema?”
“No,” said Stephanie. “I’d rather sit here and talk. Tell me, Pat. Why don’t you marry?” Danvers started, and his pipe fell to the ground. “Marringer says you should.”
Marringer was the housemaid who had ‘gone with the house.’
Subduing the impulse to request that Marringer should be dismissed the next morning at eight o’clock, Danvers picked up his pipe and moistened his lips.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I am not a marrying man. Some people aren’t, you know.”
“That’s what I said,” said Stephanie, lighting a cigarette. “But she said you were. She said she’d watched you, while she was helping Gravel, and that what you wanted was a wife.”
Danvers could have ground his teeth.
Instead—
“Marringer,” he said unsteadily, “is talking through her hat. It’s—it’s very kind of her to take so much interest in me, but——”
“Oh, but she loves you,” said Stephanie. “They all do. I didn’t know Mrs. Gravel had seen you, but she has and she thinks you’re wonderful, Pat.”
Danvers laid down his pipe and casually mopped his face.
“You shouldn’t listen to servants,” he said. “If more people came here——”
“They’re very respectful,” said Stephanie. “Besides, Forsyth thinks so, too. He told, me he knew no man for whom he had a higher respect.”
“If you don’t stop,” said Danvers, “I shall say ‘Good night’ and go home. I came here to talk about you, not to listen to the—the vapourings of minds diseased.”
“Forsyth’s mind isn’t diseased,” said Stephanie. “Besides, I went to see him on purpose to talk about you.”
“About me?”
Miss Beauclerk nodded.
“I was worried about you,” she said. “You’re too thin, Pat. And I thought perhaps Forsyth would help.”
“That was very sweet of you, Stephanie, but I’m perfectly well. What—what did Forsyth say?”
“He said you wanted looking after—that you worked too hard and took no care of yourself.”
Danvers rose and stepped on to the balcony.
An infant breeze slipped along Birdcage Walk, touching his temples as it went.
Danvers breathed gratefully and decided to go out of Town the following day.
Presently he turned, to lean against the iron balustrade and look at the beautiful child that was twisting his tail.
Stephanie, all in white, was making, as always, a picture of artless elegance. One slim leg was tucked beneath her, her delicate arms lay along those of the chair, her dark head, thrown back, rested against its head. The dazzling beauty of her throat was thus fully exposed, and, indeed, the pose was presenting all her physical loveliness as no jeweller can present a rare stone, set he never so wisely.
Danvers found himself gripping the iron of the balustrade. . . .
“Oh, I knew I had something to tell you,” said Miss Beauclerk. “Old Mr. Stuggenbaum’s started in again. I met him in Bond Street on Tuesday. I’d imagined it would be safe and that everyone would have gone. He tried to make me come to lunch, and, when I went into a shop, he came in and tried to pay. In the end I had to get on a ’bus. He tried to get on too, but he was too late. Of course, he rolled up here at a quarter to three. Gravel said I was out, but I don’t think he believed him. He walked up and down Queen Square for over two hours. I was so mad. I wanted to go to The Tower. And the next day he sent me some flowers, but I sent them back to the shop.”
“That’s the style,” said Danvers.
“I know, but isn’t it sickening? You see, I like going out and I love the shops. Of course, if I meet them, I’m perfectly ready to speak; but that’s not enough. They insist on walking with me, and Georges Rosqui stopped a taxi and tried to make me get in. In Bond Street. And it’s so awkward, Pat, and people begin to stare.”
“It’s outrageous,” said Danvers hotly. “Did you tell Forsyth this?”
Stephanie nodded.
“He said I should have a companion—whom I could trust.”
“I think you should,” said Danvers. “In fact, you ought to have had one all along. Of course, you should.”
Miss Beauclerk wrinkled her nose.
“She’d be awfully in the way, Pat. I like to have you to myself. Wouldn’t you just hate it, if she were here now?”
Danvers considered, frowning.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I should. Of course, a third . . . gets in the way. But that isn’t the point. And I think you ought to have one to choke off your gentlemen friends.”
“I don’t think I could bear one,” said Stephanie. “She’d always be saying I mustn’t do this or that. She wouldn’t let me sit as I am, with a leg underneath. She’d say it wasn’t ladylike or something. And she’d go on about my clothes: I know she would. And I’m quite good at clothes, Pat: I am really. I haven’t very many, but I get the right things. And—and she’d never leave us alone, Pat. Not if you stayed till four. She’d stick like glue and make out it was her job.”
“I’m afraid it would be,” said Danvers ruefully. “Till now I never gave it a thought, but I oughtn’t to dine here like this alone with you.”
Stephanie sat up very straight.
“But, Pat it’s my home. Surely I can ask who I like.”
“You wouldn’t ask any odd man.”
“Of course not. Besides, I don’t. I only ask you.”
“In the eyes of Convention I am ‘any odd man.’”
“You’re not in mine,” said Miss Beauclerk.
“I know, Stephanie, but—I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it, but I really oughtn’t to come. And—and I mustn’t come any more.”
“Pat!”
The child was up out of her chair and standing with her hands on his shoulders, looking up into his face.
Danvers tried to lift up his heart and steady his voice.
“We must get you a lady-in-waiting,” he said. “Some nice, understanding woman, who——”
“I don’t want her, Pat. I don’t want her. I love it when you come here, because we’re alone. The knight and the maiden never had anyone else and why should we?”
The man was shaking. Stephanie’s eager breath beat upon his face. Her eyes peered into his—two glorious suppliants, praying him to spare the pretty, precious bubble that he and she had blown.
“Stephanie dear, for your sake it’s better so. Forsyth is right—as always. I’ll go and see him to-morrow.”
The girl set her hand to her eyes and stood very still.
Then she put her arms round his neck and lowered his head.
“Won’t you marry me, Pat?” she said.
Danver’s heart gave one tremendous bound.
For a moment he stood paralysed; then he took the child in his arms.
“You see, Pat darling, you don’t take care of yourself, and I can’t take care of myself, but, if you married me, we could take care of each other.”
“Stephanie, Stephanie!”
A princess gave him her lips. . . .
“But if you marry,” said the herald. . . .
“I know. I must leave this house. But I’ll never care, my darling, if I’m to be with you.”
“Oh, Stephanie, I love you so.”
A child rubbed her cheek against his.
“And you wouldn’t say so,” she said. “I tried so hard to make you, because I was sure you did. None of the others ever say anything else, but the one I wanted to say it would not speak. And so I had to. I couldn’t go on, my darling; so I had to propose to you. But I don’t think it matters, really. I mean, no one need know.”
Danvers picked her up and carried her into the room.
“I told you,” he said, “it was the maiden who always opened the door.”
“Ah,” said Stephanie, “but this is a different door. They never had doors like this in the fairy-tales. They opened into gardens or closets; but this . . .”
“What does this let us into?”
Stephanie knitted her brows.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Yes, I do. It lets me into your life, Pat.” She kissed him breathlessly. “And that’s all I want, my darling, as long as I live.”
Danvers set her down and held her at arm’s length.
“Now can I tell you how perfectly beautiful you are?”
His mistress nodded and buried her face in his coat.
