‘Yes, Mrs Monteath came back last night. Will you come this way, please.’
‘Thank you, God, thank you, thank you.’
She took Philadelphia up to the first floor flat, opened the door of it with a special key and precipitated her into a large, light bedroom, where Sally and Walter Monteath were sitting up in bed eating their breakfast.
‘A young lady to see you, ma’am.’
‘Philadelphia darling!’ cried Sally in a loud and cheerful voice.
Philadelphia opened her mouth to say something and then fell to the floor in a dead faint.
When she recovered consciousness she was lying in the bed herself, and Sally was sponging her face with cold water while the charwoman looked on. Walter was nowhere to be seen.
‘There, darling,’ said Sally, ‘you lie quite still and don’t worry about anything.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Philadelphia, ‘to be such a bother.’
‘Don’t be silly. Are you feeling all right now?’
‘Yes, perfect. I expect I’m rather hungry really, that’s why I fainted.’
‘Poor sweet. Mrs Crumpit will make you some breakfast at once. You didn’t motor all the way up this morning, did you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Good gracious. Walter thought you had by the look of the car.’
Philadelphia felt warm, happy and contented. She was in no hurry to tell her story, and Sally did not ask any more questions, but went off to help Mrs Crumpit in the kitchen. Presently she came back with a most delicious breakfast. While Philadelphia was eating this the telephone bell rang in the next room and Walter’s voice could be heard answering it.
‘Hullo – yes? Oh, hullo, Amabelle – my dear, she’s in our bed, quite all right – she appeared about half an hour ago and fainted away. Gave us an awful fright, but she’s eating breakfast now. What? I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Oh, very well, we’ll keep her here for the present then. Right you are, Amabelle. Good-bye.’
‘You seem to have caused a perfect uproar,’ he said, coming into the bedroom. ‘Apparently Michael has been telephoning to Amabelle from Compton Bobbin half out of his mind, and she tried to get on to Paul, but there was no answer; and then by a stroke of luck it occurred to her that we might know something about you. Michael is on his way to London now. I must go and have my bath. See you later.’
‘Do tell me all about it,’ said Sally as he shut the door. ‘I’m eaten with curiosity.’
‘Well, you see, Michael arrived at home last night and gave me a diamond bracelet.’
‘Darling, how gorgeous.’
‘And I simply hadn’t the courage to tell him about Paul. I couldn’t face the scene with Mother; you don’t know how terrifying she can be. But I thought that if I went to Paul straight away everything would be all right. I thought it was my only chance. So I got up very early this morning –’
‘You must have.’
‘And drove up here and went straight to Paul’s house, and when I got there,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘he was lying on the sofa looking too awful, and he wouldn’t speak to me or even bother to open his eyes.’
‘Blind, I suppose,’ said Sally with the wisdom of experience.
‘Yes, he was. At last when I had shaken him for ages all he said was, “Go away – I’m drunk.” Sally, I never knew people got drunk in the morning?’
‘I expect he had a jolly old hangover,’ said Sally. ‘What did you do then?’
‘As soon as I realized what was the matter I went to Amabelle’s, because I thought you were still abroad, but she hadn’t been called and the footman was rude to me, so I came here on the chance that I might find you.’
‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’
‘Well, of course. It’s so terrible to think that all this time I’ve been in love with a drunkard.’
‘Paul’s not a drunkard, my dear; that’s absurd. All men get blind sometimes, but they don’t expect their girl friends to call at nine in the morning as a rule.’
‘Anyway, it’s all over between us now. I couldn’t bear to see him again after that.’
‘Couldn’t you?’
‘Never. It was too horrible. He could never have done such a thing if he had really loved me. Michael couldn’t behave like that; he does love me, I know, and I shall be frightfully happy with him now.’
‘I never doubted that you would be happy with Michael,’ said Sally in a dry voice. ‘For one thing, you weren’t at any time properly in love with Paul. He was the first person who had ever made love to you and you fell for him; but that doesn’t count.’
‘Oh, Sally, you don’t understand. I adored him right up to this morning more than anyone in the world. You couldn’t go on being in love with somebody after a thing like that had happened, could you?’
‘But of course you could. That sort of thing doesn’t make a scrap of difference if you really love somebody. When I think of all the times I’ve put Walter to bed absolutely paralytic with drink! You weren’t a bit in love with Paul, my sweet, and you’ve realized it, that’s all. And I think it’s a mercy you have, myself, because you are entirely unsuited to each other in every way. You would both have been miserably unhappy. Now, you’ll be able to marry that divine Michael and have a really enviable life. Don’t cry, darling, but have some more coffee and then I’ll lend you some rouge. You mustn’t be looking pale for Michael when he comes.’
Two days later Paul read in The Times that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between the Marquis of Lewes and Philadelphia, only daughter of Lady Bobbin and the late Sir Hudson Bobbin, of Compton Bobbin, Gloucestershire.
With a sigh, whether of sadness or of relief will never be known, he settled down to write the first chapter of his Life and Works of Lady Maria Bobbin.
WIGS ON THE GREEN
TO PETER
‘That man is by nature a buffoon and that his best work is done in an antic, is a theory which gentlemen of leisure and high spirits will find very comforting.’
A. F. Wedgwood
1
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Noel Foster, ‘not sufficiently attractive.’
He said this in unusually firm and final accents, and with a determination which for him was rare he hung up his office telephone receiver. He leant back in his chair. ‘That’s the last time,’ he thought. Never again, except possibly in regard to the heiresses he now intended to pursue, would he finish long and dreary conversations with the words, ‘Not sufficiently attractive.’
Now that he was leaving the office for good he felt himself in no particular hurry to be off. Unlike other Friday evenings he made no dash for the street; on the contrary he sat still and took a long gloating look round that room which for the last two years had been his prison. With the heavenly knowledge that he would never see them again he was able to gaze in perfect detachment at the stained-glass windows (a cheerful amber shade, full of bubbles too, just like champagne), and the old oak furnishing – which made such a perfectly delightful setting for the charms of Miss Clumps the pretty typist, Miss Brisket the plain typist, and Mr Farmer the head clerk. This amiable trio had been his fellow prisoners for the last two years; he most sincerely hoped never to see any of them again. He said good-bye to them cordially enough, however, took his hat and his umbrella, and then, rich and free, he sauntered into the street.
He had not yet had time since good fortune had befallen him to leave his dreary lodging in Ebury Street, and as a matter of habit returned to it now. He then rang up Jasper Aspect. This he did knowing perfectly well that it was a mistake of the first order. Poor young men who have just received notice of agreeable but moderate legacies can do nothing more stupid than to ring up Jasper Aspect. Noel, who had been intimate with Jasper for most of his life, was aware that he was behaving with deplorable indiscretion, nevertheless some irresistible impulse led him to the telephone whe
re the following conversation took place:
‘Hullo Jasper?’
‘My dear old boy, I was just going to ring you up myself.’
‘Oh, what are you doing tonight?’
‘I thought it would be exceedingly agreeable to take a little dinner off you.’
‘All right, I wanted to see you; where shall we dine – how about Boulestins? Meet you there at eight?’
‘Look here, I haven’t got any money, you know.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Noel. He would keep his glorious news until such time as he could see the incredulity and disgust which would no doubt illumine Jasper’s honest countenance when it was broken to him. Jasper now once more proclaimed his inability to pay, was once more reassured and rang off.
‘This is all exceedingly mysterious,’ he said when they met.
‘Why?’ said Noel.
‘Well, my dear old boy, it isn’t every day of the week one can get a free meal off you, let alone an expensive one like this is going to be. Why did you choose me for the jolly treat? I find it very puzzling indeed.’
‘Oh! I wanted to see you. I want your advice about one or two things actually, and after all one must eat somewhere, so why not here?’ And fishing for his handkerchief he produced, as though by accident, and replaced with nonchalance, a roll of ten pound notes.
Jasper’s expression did not change however, as Noel had hopefully anticipated that it would. He merely ordered another champagne cocktail. When it came he said, ‘Well, here’s to the Scrubs old boy, hope you’ll find it comfy there, you can come and see me sometimes in between terms, I’m never at all up-stage about my jail-bird friends.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Noel, coldly.
‘Don’t you? Well it’s fairly obvious that you’ve got the skates on, isn’t it? And I suppose you want me to help you get away with the dough. Now I suggest that we should go fifty-fifty on it, and do a bunk together. That suit you?’
‘No.’
‘First of all you had better tell me frankly if you are wanted. I’ve been wanted in Paris, and not wanted anywhere else, for simply ages, there’s nothing I don’t know on the subject of wanting.’
‘My dear old boy,’ said Noel, comfortably. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
‘But you came to me for advice.’
‘Yes, I did, I thought you might be able to put me in touch with some rich girl who would like to marry me.’
‘That’s a good one I’m bound to say. To begin with, if I was lucky enough to know any rich girls can you see me handing them out to you? And to go on with, I shouldn’t think the girl is born who would like to marry you.’
‘Oh! nonsense, girls will marry anybody. Besides, I’m a pretty attractive chap you know.’
‘Not very. Anyhow, let me tell you something. Courting heiresses is an exceedingly expensive occupation. You didn’t give me time just then to count exactly how much you have managed to extract from the till, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t enough to finance a racket of that sort. Why, you don’t know what these girls run you in for, nights out, lunches, orchids, week-ends to all parts of the Continent; that’s not the beginning, I’ve been through it, I know what I’m talking about. I suppose the worst part of it,’ he went on, warming to his subject, ‘is the early-morning telephoning. The precious little poppet, buried in lace pillows, likes to have a nice long cosy chat between 9 and 10 a.m., she doesn’t realize that you, meanwhile, are shivering half-way up your landlady’s staircase with an old woman scrubbing the linoleum round your feet. And what’s the end of it all? When she marries her Rumanian prince she may remember to ask you to be one of those pretty young gentlemen who leave the guests to find their own pews at weddings. It’s all fearfully dismal I can tell you.’
‘How you do talk,’ said Noel admiringly. ‘Just like a book. I wonder you don’t write one.’
‘I shall, when I’m thirty. Nobody ought to write books before they’re thirty. I hate precocity. Now then, out with it, Noel, how did you get all that cash?’
‘Well, if you really want to know, an aunt of mine has died. She has left me some money.’
‘That’s just an ordinary lie, of course. Legacies never happen to people one knows. It’s like seeing ghosts or winning the Irish Sweep, one never meets the people who have, only people who know people who have. So how much did she leave you?’
‘Three thousand three hundred and fourteen pounds.’
‘Just say that again.’
‘Three thousand three hundred and fourteen pounds.’
‘Did I hear you say three thousand three hundred and fourteen pounds?’
‘You did.’
‘Honest to God?’
‘Honest to God.’
‘D’you think the aunt was in full possession of her faculties when she made that will?’
‘There’s no doubt that she was.’
‘Such a very odd sum. Well now, Noel, my dear old boy, you have my warmest congratulations. And what about the fourteen pounds?’
‘What about them?’
‘Hadn’t it occurred to you that three thousand three hundred pounds rolls off the tongue much easier without that niggly little fourteen tacked on to it? Sounds more really, I should have said – the fourteen rather spoils it. Actually fourteen pounds is the exact sum I owe my landlady by a curious coincidence.’
‘Oh, it is is it?’ said Noel in a voice of boredom. ‘Now shall I tell you what I said to myself when the lawyer rang me up about all this? I said, no cash presents to any of the boys, and that I keep to, so lay off will you?’
‘That was exceedingly sensible of you. So now you intend to devote the whole of this little nest-egg to the pursuit of heiresses?’
‘I should very much like to find a nice girl and marry her, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s such a fearful gamble. Much better put the money on a horse and be out of your misery at once.’
‘I’m not in any misery at all. I intend to lead a soft, luxurious life for the next six months or so, at the rate of six thousand six hundred and twenty-eight pounds a year.’
‘And after that a soft uxorious life at an even better rate. I’m bound to say it’s quite a pleasing outlook – only you don’t know any heiresses.’
‘Not at present. I thought perhaps you did.’
‘Pass the brandy, old boy.’
‘In that case,’ said Noel, summoning the waiter. ‘I’ll have my bill, please – in that case I think I shall have to be going. I’ve watched you drinking that very expensive brandy for quite long enough.’
‘Hold on,’ said Jasper in an aggrieved tone of voice, ‘give a chap time to think, I’ve just had an idea – pass the brandy, old boy.’ He helped himself, carelessly splashing the brandy into his glass. ‘The Jolly Roger,’ he said.
‘What Jolly Roger?’
‘It’s a public-house in Chalford where I once stayed when I was shooting the moon. Pretty little place, pretty little barmaid, I remember – Minnie or Winnie or some name like that.’
‘Thanks, I know plenty of pretty little barmaids myself. It’s not what I’m looking for at present. I think I shall have to be going.’
‘Suppose you allow me to finish what I was saying.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘About a mile from Chalford village are the lodge gates of Chalford Park, and there lives the girl whom I believe to be England’s largest heiress – Eugenia Malmains. I couldn’t make a pass at her then because she was under the age of consent; it was about four years ago. She must be quite seventeen by now though. Nobody knows anything about her because she lives with her grandparents who are batty – she’s fairly batty herself I believe.’
‘That’s nothing. She couldn’t be battier than the girls one meets about the place in London. I don’t think it sounds worth investigating
, but I might go down to the pub for a week-end sometime – where is Chalford?’
‘About ten miles away from Rackenbridge, that’s the station. Best train in the day is the 4.45 from Paddington.’
‘Well, many thanks, old boy. See you before long, I hope.’
‘I hope so. Thank you very much for my good dinner.’
They spoke with nonchalance. Neither, however, was the least deceived as to the other’s intentions, nor was Noel at all surprised when, arriving at Paddington next day to catch the 11.50 to Rackenbridge, he saw Jasper waiting for him on the platform.
Sadly he lent the requisite pound for Jasper’s ticket, drearily he followed him into a first-class luncheon car. Poor young men who have just received notice of agreeable but moderate legacies should know better than to ring up Jasper Aspect.
‘I’ve no one to blame but myself,’ thought Noel, gloomily.
2
‘Britons, awake! Arise! oh, British lion!’ cried Eugenia Malmains in thrilling tones. She stood on an overturned wash-tub on Chalford village green and harangued about a dozen aged yokels. Her straight hair, cut in a fringe, large, pale-blue eyes, dark skin, well-proportioned limbs and classical features, combined with a certain fanaticism of gesture to give her the aspect of a modern Joan of Arc.
She was dressed in an ill-fitting grey woollen skirt, no stockings, a pair of threadbare plimsolls, and a jumper made apparently out of a Union Jack. Round her waist was a leather belt to which there was attached a large bright dagger.