Читать книгу The Interloper - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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The crowning event of a very brilliant season was, without a doubt, the dinner party followed by a dance given by the reputed Duchess of Chatfield one night about two months later. Royalty, both foreign and domestic, graced both functions. Never was there a more wonderful gathering of beautiful women and distinguished men. Chatfield House had always been a favourite resort of the diplomatic set, and every Embassy seemed to have sent its quota of brilliantly uniformed and picturesquely attired guests. Lord Henry, occupied for hours in purely formal duties, found time now and then to watch his amazing daughter and join in the general tribute of admiration which she excited. Comparative strangers, as well as her own intimates, were raving about her. Her dress of white satin, although it was the creation of a great artist, was simplicity itself. She wore no ornament save the single rope of pearls which was one of the heirlooms of the family. Her hair was arranged without any trace of the coiffeur's art. It was Monica herself who was so amazing. The slight listlessness of a few months ago seemed to have passed. She had a smile for every one, a sparkling word, a laugh, an irresistible glance for each of her friends. She danced tirelessly with whoever asked her, showing no favour even to the most august of her partners. She had her moments, perhaps, but they were frankly taken. Once she was away from the ballroom for nearly half an hour and when she returned, without the partner who had escorted her, there was a transitory seriousness in her expression. It went, however, with her first dance. Even Eustace, who was not as a rule enthusiastic as to her charms, sought her out to offer his meed of appreciation.

"Monica, you look ripping to-night," he declared. "There's a great gamble going on as to how many offers of marriage you've had within the last three hours."

She laughed.

"I never advertise my scalps, Eustace," she confided.

"One poor chap I know of has got it in the neck," Eustace remarked. "I saw him making for home and Mother as I crossed the hall. By the bye, has Dad asked you to come into the library when it's all over?"

Monica nodded.

"It sounds portentous, doesn't it?"

"Sounds as though he wanted to get at us for something," Eustace agreed. "I expect we are squeezing him a bit between us."

Monica shrugged her shoulders. A touch of recklessness had momentarily hardened her face.

"If one lives, one must spend," she observed. "In any case, Eustace, I don't think it can be about money. This dinner and dance are more extravagant than anything we've done this season, and they're entirely his affair. My guess is that he's going to let Chatfield. I must go. There's a poor man waiting for me to dance with him."

Towards three o'clock, the host found the ceremonial side of his duties over. Various august personages had departed. He looked about for a companion with whom to invade the buffet and discovered Sir Stephen standing in a corner, looking on with folded arms.

"Watching me spend the other chap's money, eh?" Lord Henry observed with good-humoured sarcasm. "Never mind! Come and have a glass of the other fellow's wine. It's good. I can promise you that."

Sir Stephen accepted the invitation, but his demeanour was still gloomy.

"I cannot pretend that I altogether approve of your entertainment, Lord Henry, wonderful though it has been," he declared.

"My dear chap, how illogical!" his host remonstrated. "Everything was to go on as before until your precious monk put in his appearance. Those were your own words. We always give one dinner and dance during the season. If I entertain at all, I must entertain as the Duke of Chatfield should. Now drink that Pommery. Nineteen hundred and four, every bottle of it. I thought you'd consider this rather a sporting wind-up."

"A lawyer has often to forget that he is a sportsman," Sir Stephen rejoined drily.

"Well, it isn't your show, anyway," Lord Henry reminded him. "When do you start for Italy?"

"To-morrow."

"You haven't heard from the young man?"

"Not a line. I had a message from the Father Superior to say that the dispensation had arrived and that I should be welcome at the monastery next week."

Lord Henry saw ghosts for a moment but he thrust them from him.

"I must go," he announced.

"I'm slipping away myself, in a moment," Sir Stephen confided. "I've had very little conversation with the young man as yet, as you know, but you may rely upon it—er—Lord Henry—that I shall do my best to make him see the situation reasonably. The only fear I have is that he nourishes some secret grudge against the family which he may be disposed to visit upon you all."

"Hang it!" Lord Henry protested. "A chap who's lived in a monastery and who ought to be brimming over with religion, generosity, forgive-your-enemies, and that sort of thing. What's the good of burying yourself in one of those places if it doesn't make a holy man of you?"

"Quite so," the lawyer agreed. "All I can say is that I hope he's changed since he went in. We shall find you down at Chatfield, sha'n't we?"

"We're leaving for there next week," Lord Henry replied. "A pleasant journey to you."

It was four o'clock before the last guest had left. Lord Henry made his way into the library. Supper had been prepared on a round table there and a magnum of champagne reposed in an ice-pail. A couple of servants were waiting.

"Open the wine and you can go," Lord Henry directed.

They obeyed promptly. Presently Lady Susan came yawning in, followed by Eustace and Monica.

"My dear Henry!" his wife protested. "Do you see the hour? It's very nice and thoughtful of you and all that, but what can you have to say that won't keep till the morning?"

He smiled and held a chair for her. Then he filled the glasses with wine.

"Monica and Eustace," he said, "I hope you've enjoyed the evening."

"It has been wonderful, Dad," the former assured him. "I've enjoyed my own party better than any I've been to this year."

"Ripping good show!" Eustace declared enthusiastically.

"Still no news for us, Monica?" her father enquired.

"Still no news, Dad," she answered. "It was touch and go to-night, but I wasn't quite desperate enough, thank heaven."

They were seated in easy-chairs around the table. Lord Henry played with the stem of his wineglass.

"I have some news for you," he announced.

"News?" Lady Susan repeated.

"Good or bad?" Monica asked quickly.

"Bad," he answered.

Eustace refilled his glass. They all three looked at their host.

"Some money bother," Lady Susan concluded with a yawn.

"He's going to let Chatfield," Monica thought.

"He wants me to help him cut an entail," Eustace decided. "Hope I get something out of it."

"My news is very bad indeed," Lord Henry pronounced. "We have been living for the last fifteen years in a fool's paradise, in another man's houses, spending another man's money. It appears that my brother Francis—your uncle, Monica—was married in Italy to the young woman with whom we knew that he had formed some connection. A son was born, whom, by a strange coincidence, Dobelle encountered on the night of his novitiate at Pellini. That son is the Duke of Chatfield. Dobelle leaves for Italy to-morrow to bring him home."

The glass slipped from Eustace's fingers and went crashing on to the floor. Monica said not a word. Her hands were clasped in front of her; her eyes were gazing fixedly through the wall of the room. Lady Susan was no longer an ordinary-looking woman, inclined to corpulency. She rose from her place, came over to her husband, and laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.

"My dear Henry," she said. "This is bad for all of us, but it is cruel for you. I am very, very sorry."

"I have seen him too," Monica murmured.