The Saturday Evening Post, December 11, 1915
IT HAD been a great night for Nutty Boyd. If the vision of his sister Elizabeth, back at the farm speculating sadly on the whereabouts of her wandering boy, ever came before his mental eye he certainly did not allow it to interfere with his appreciation of the festivities. At Frolics in the Air, whither they moved after draining Reigelheimer’s of what joys it had to offer, and at Peale’s, where they went after wearying of Frolics in the Air, he was in the highest spirits. It was only occasionally that the recollection came to vex him that this could not last, that—since his Uncle Ira had played him false—he must return anon to the place whence he had come. When this happened a moody silence fell upon him; but he quickly recovered himself, and played the host again with that merry absence of parsimony that had endeared him in the past to so many of Broadway’s horse leeches.
Why, in a city of all-night restaurants, these parties ever break up one cannot say, but a merciful Providence sees to it that they do, and just as Lord Dawlish was contemplating an eternity of the company of Nutty and his two companions, the end came. Miss Leonard said that she was tired. Her friend said that it was a shame to go home at dusk like this, but, if the party was going to be broken up, she supposed there was nothing else for it. Bill was too sleepy to say anything.
The Good Sport lived round the corner, and only required Lord Dawlish’s escort for a couple of blocks. But Miss Leonard’s hotel was in the neighborhood of Washington Square, and it was Nutty’s pleasing task to drive her thither. Engaged thus, he received a shock that electrified him.
“That pal of yours,” said Miss Leonard drowsily. She was half asleep. “What did you say his name was?”
“Chalmers, he told me. I only met him to-night.”
“Well, it isn’t; it’s something else. It”—Miss Leonard yawned—“it’s Lord something.”
“How do you mean, ‘Lord something’?”
“He’s a lord—at least he was when I met him in London.”
“Are you sure you met him in London?”
“Of course I’m sure. He was at that supper Captain Delaney gave at Oddy’s. There can’t be two men in—yeow!—in England who dance like that”
The recollection of Bill’s performance stimulated Miss Leonard into a temporary wakefulness, and she giggled.
“He danced like one of those college boys bucking the center. He danced just the same way that night in London. I wish I could remember his name. I almost had it a dozen times to-night. It’s something with a window in it.”
“A window?” Nutty’s brain was a little fatigued and he felt himself unequal to grasping this. “How do you mean, a window?”
“No, not a window—a door! I knew it was something about a house. I know now, his name’s Lord Dawlish.”
Nutty’s fatigue fell from him like a garment.
“It can’t be!”
Miss Leonard’s eyes had closed and she spoke in a muffled voice.
“Are you sure?”
Nutty was wide awake now and full of inquiries; but his companion unfortunately was asleep, and he could not put them to her. A gentleman cannot prod a lady—and his guest, at that—in the ribs in order to wake her up and ask her questions. Nutty sat back and gave himself up to feverish thought.
He could think of no reason why Lord Dawlish should have come to America calling himself William Chalmers, but that was no reason why he should not have done so. And Daisy Leonard, who all along had remembered meeting him in London, had identified him.
Nutty was convinced. Arriving finally at Miss Leonard’s hotel, he woke her up and saw her in at the door; then, telling the man to drive to the lodgings of his new friend, he urged his mind to rapid thought. He had decided as a first step in the following up of this matter to invite Bill down to Elizabeth’s farm, and the thought occurred to him that this had better be done to-night, for he knew by experience that on the morning after these little jaunts he was seldom in the mood to seek people out and invite them to go anywhere.
All the way to the apartment he continued to think, and it was wonderful what possibilities there seemed to be in this little scheme of courting the society of the man who had robbed him of his inheritance. He had worked on Bill’s feelings so successfully as to elicit a loan of a million dollars, and was just proceeding to marry him to Elizabeth, when the cab stopped with the sudden sharpness peculiar to New York cabs and he woke up to find himself at his destination.
Bill was in bed when the bell rang and received his late host in his pyjamas, wondering, as he did so, whether this was the New York custom, to foregather again after a party had been broken up, and chat till breakfast. But Nutty, it seemed, had come with a motive, not from a desire for more conversation.
“Sorry to disturb you, old man,” said Nutty. “I looked in to tell you that I was going down to the country to-morrow. I wondered whether you would care to come and spend a day or two with us.”
Bill was delighted. This was better than he had hoped for.
“Rather!” he said. “Thanks awfully!”
“There are plenty of trains in the afternoon,” said Nutty. “I don’t suppose either of us will feel like getting up early. I’ll call for you here at half-past six, and we’ll have an early dinner and make the seven-fifteen, shall we? We live very simply, you know. You won’t mind that?”
“My dear chap!”
“That’s all right then,” said Nutty, closing the door. “Good night.”
ELIZABETH entered Nutty’s room and, seating herself on the bed, surveyed him with a bright, quiet eye that drilled holes in her brother’s uneasy conscience. This was her second visit to him that morning. She had come an hour ago, bearing breakfast on a tray, and had departed without saying a word. It was this uncanny silence of hers even more than the effects—which still lingered—of his revels in the metropolis that had interfered with Nutty’s enjoyment of the morning meal. Never a hearty breakfaster, he had found himself under the influence of her wordless disapproval physically unable to consume the fried egg that confronted him. He had given it one look; then, endorsing the opinion which he had once heard a character in a play utter in somewhat similar circumstances—that there was nothing on earth so homely as an egg—he had covered it with a handkerchief and tried to pull himself round with hot tea. He was now smoking a sad cigarette and waiting for the blow to fall.
Her silence had puzzled him. Though he had tried to give her no opportunity of getting him alone on the previous evening when he had arrived at the farm with Lord Dawlish, he had fully expected that she would have broken in upon him with abuse and recrimination in the middle of the night. Yet she had not done this, nor had she spoken to him when bringing him his breakfast. These things found their explanation in Elizabeth’s character, with which Nutty, though he had known her so long, was but imperfectly acquainted. Elizabeth had never been angrier with her brother, but an innate goodness of heart had prevented her falling upon him before he had had rest and refreshment.
She wanted to massacre him, but at the same time she told herself that the poor dear must be feeling very, very ill, and should have a reasonable respite before the slaughter commenced.
It was plain that in her opinion this respite had now lasted long enough. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that she had closed the door, then leaned a little forward and spoke.
The wretched youth attempted bluster.
“What do you mean—‘Now, Nutty!’? Where’s the sense ——”
His voice trailed off. He was not a very intelligent young man, but even he could see that his was not a position where righteous indignation could be assumed with any solid chance of success. As a substitute he tried pathos.
“Oo-oo, my head does ache!”
“I wish it would burst,” said his sister unkindly.
“That’s a nice thing to say to a fellow!”
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have said it ——”
“Only I couldn’t think of anything worse.”
It began to seem to Nutty that pathos was a bit of a failure too. As a last resort he fell back on silence. He wriggled as far down as he could beneath the sheets and breathed in a soft and wounded sort of way. Elizabeth took up the conversation.
“Nutty,” she said, “I’ve struggled for years against the conviction that you were a perfect idiot. I’ve forced myself, against my better judgment, to try to look on you as sane, but now I give in. I can’t believe you are responsible for your actions. Don’t imagine that I am going to heap you with reproaches because you sneaked off to New York. I’m not even going to tell you what I thought of you for not sending me a thirty-cent telegram, letting me know where you were. I can understand all that. You were disappointed because Uncle Ira had not left you his money, and I suppose that was your way of working it off. If you had just run away and come back again with a headache, I’d have treated you like the Prodigal Son. But there are some things which are too much, and bringing a perfect stranger back with you for an indefinite period is one of them. I’m not saying anything against Mr. Chalmers personally. I haven’t had time to find out much about him, except that he’s an Englishman; but he looks respectable. Which, as he’s a friend of yours, is more or less of a miracle.”
She raised her eyebrows as a faint moan of protest came from beneath the sheets.
“You surely,” she said, “aren’t going to suggest at this hour of the day, Nutty, that your friends aren’t the most horrible set of pests outside a penitentiary. Not that it’s likely after all these months that they are outside a penitentiary. You know perfectly well that while you were running round New York you collected the most pernicious bunch of social gangsters that ever fastened their talons into a silly child who ought never to have been allowed out without his nurse.” After which complicated insult Elizabeth paused for breath, and there was silence for a space.
“Well, as I was saying, I know nothing against this Mr. Chalmers. Probably his finger prints are in the Rogues’ Gallery, and he is better known to the police as Jack the Blood or something, but he hasn’t shown that side of him yet. My point is that, whoever he is, I do not want him or anybody else coming and taking up his abode here while I have to be cook and housemaid too. I object to having a stranger on the premises spying out the nakedness of the land. I am sensitive about my honest poverty. So, darling Nutty, my precious Nutty, you poor boneheaded muddler, will you kindly think up at your earliest convenience some plan for politely ejecting this Mr. Chalmers of yours from our humble home?—because if you don’t I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
And, completely restored to good humor by her own eloquence, Elizabeth burst out laughing. It was a trait in her character which she had often lamented, that she could not succeed in keeping angry with anyone for more than a few minutes on end. Sooner or later some happy selection of a phrase of abuse would tickle her sense of humor, or the appearance of her victim would become too funny not to be laughed at. On the present occasion it was the ridiculous spectacle of Nutty cowering beneath the bedclothes that caused her wrath to evaporate. She made a weak attempt to recover it. She glared at Nutty, who at the sound of her laughter had emerged from under the clothes like a worm after a thunderstorm.
“I mean it,” she said. “It really is too bad of you! You might have had some sense and a little consideration. Ask yourself if we are in a position here to entertain visitors. Well, I’m going to make myself very unpopular with this Mr. Chalmers of yours. By this evening he will be regarding me with utter loathing, for I am about to persecute him.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nutty, alarmed.
“I am going to begin by asking him to help me open one of the hives.”
“For heaven’s sake!”
“After that I shall—with his assistance—transfer some honey. And after that—— Well, I don’t suppose he will be alive by then. If he is I shall make him wash the dishes for me. The least he can do, after swooping down on us like this, is to make himself useful.”
A cry of protest broke from the appalled Nutty, but Elizabeth did not hear it. She had left the room and was on her way downstairs.
Lord Dawlish was smoking an after-breakfast cigar in the grounds. It was a beautiful day, and a peaceful happiness had come upon him. He told himself that he had made progress. He was under the same roof as the girl he had deprived of her inheritance, and it should be simple to establish such friendly relations as would enable him to reveal his identity and ask her to reconsider her refusal to relieve him of a just share of her uncle’s money. He had seen Elizabeth for only a short time on the previous night, but he had taken an immediate liking to her. There was something about the American girl, he reflected, which seemed to put a man at his ease, a charm and directness all her own. Yes, he liked Elizabeth, and he liked this dwelling place of hers. He was quite willing to stay on here indefinitely.
Nature had done well by Flack’s. The house itself was an ordinary frame house, more pleasing to the eye than most of the houses in those parts, owing to the black and white paint which decorated it and an unconventional flattening and rounding of the roof. But Nature had made so many improvements that the general effect was unusually delightful. From where Bill stood linden trees, chestnut trees, locust trees and a solitary blue fir, the aristocrat of the garden, met his eye. The porch that ran round two sides of the house was almost hidden by masses of roses of Sharon. There were hydrangeas on the turf beyond the sandy drive, and more roses. To the left, shaded by a little regiment of apple trees, stood the beehives. The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew up from the bay, and the air was full of the soothing murmur of bees and the cheerful gossiping of crickets. Assuredly the lines were fallen unto him in pleasant places.
Bill perceived Elizabeth coming toward him from the house. He threw away his cigar and went to meet her. Seen by daylight she was more attractive than ever. She looked so small and neat and wholesome, so extremely unlike Miss Daisy Leonard’s friend. And such was the reaction from what might be termed his later Reigelheimer’s mood that if he had been asked to define feminine charm in a few words, he would have replied without hesitation that it was the quality of being as different as possible in every way from the Good Sport. Elizabeth fulfilled this qualification. She was not only small and neat, but she had a soft voice to which it was a joy to listen.
“I was just admiring your place,” he said.
“Its appearance is the best part of it,” said Elizabeth. “It is a deceptive place. The bay looks beautiful, but you can’t bathe in it because of the jellyfish. The woods are lovely, but you daren’t go near them because of the ticks.”
“They jump on you and suck your blood,” said Elizabeth carelessly. “And the nights are gorgeous, but you have to stay indoors after dusk because of the mosquitoes.” She paused to mark the effect of these horrors on her visitor. “And then, of course,” she went on, as he showed no signs of flying to the house to pack his bag and catch the next train, “the bees are always stinging you. I hope you are not afraid of bees, Mr. Chalmers?”
“Rather not. Jolly little chaps!”
A gleam appeared in Elizabeth’s eye.
“If you are so fond of them perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming and helping me open one of the hives?”
“I’ll go and fetch the things.”
She went into the house and ran up to Nutty’s room, waking that sufferer from a troubled sleep.
“Nutty, he’s bitten.”
Nutty sat up violently.
“Good Lord! What by?”
“You don’t understand. What I meant was that I invited your Mr. Chalmers to help me open a hive, and he said ‘Rather!’ and is waiting to do it now. Be ready to say good-by to him. If he comes out of this alive his first act, after bathing the wounds with ammonia, will be to leave us forever.”
“But look here, he’s a visitor ——”
“Cheer up! He won’t be much longer.”
“You can’t let him in for a ghastly thing like opening a hive. When you made me do it that time I was picking stings out of myself for a week.”
“That was because you had been smoking. Bees dislike the smell of tobacco.”
“But this fellow may have been smoking.”
“He has just finished a strong cigar.”
“For heaven’s sake!”
“Good-by, Nutty, dear, I mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Lord Dawlish looked with interest at the various implements which she had collected when she rejoined him outside. He relieved her of the stool, the smoker, the cotton waste, the knife, the screw driver, and the queen-clipping cage.
“Let me carry these for you,” he said, “unless you’ve hired a van.”
Elizabeth disapproved of this flippancy. It was out of place in one who should have been trembling at the prospect of doom. She threw her mind back to the first occasion on which she had opened a hive. Only a firm conviction that the bee-moth had been at work inside it had given her the courage to go through the ordeal. She could still recall the sensations attendant on taking out her first brood frame.
“Don’t you wear a veil for this sort of job?”
As a rule Elizabeth did. She had reached a stage of intimacy with her bees which rendered a veil a superfluous precaution, but until to-day she had never abandoned it. Her view of the matter was that, though the inhabitants of the hives were familiar and friendly with her by this time and recognized that she came among them without hostile intent, it might well happen that among so many thousands there might be one slow-witted enough and obtuse enough not to have grasped this fact. And in such an event a veil was better than any amount of explanations, for you cannot stick to pure reason when quarreling with bees.
But to-day it had struck her that she could hardly protect herself in this way without offering a similar safeguard to her visitor, and she had no wish to hedge him about with safeguards.
“Oh, no,” she said, brightly; “I’m not afraid of a few bees. Are you?”
“You know what to do if one of them flies at you?”
“Well, it would anyway, what? What I mean to say is, I could leave most of the doing to the bee.”
Elizabeth was more disapproving than ever. This was mere bravado. She did not speak again until they reached the hives.
In the neighborhood of the hives a vast activity prevailed. What, heard from afar, had been a pleasant murmur became at close quarters a menacing tumult. The air was full of bees—bees sallying forth for honey, bees returning with honey, bees trampling on each other’s heels, bees pausing in mid-air to pass the time of day with rivals on competing lines of traffic. Blunt-bodied drones whizzed to and fro with a noise like miniature high-powered automobiles, as if anxious to convey the idea of being tremendously busy without going to the length of doing any actual work. One of these blundered into Lord Dawlish’s face, and it pleased Elizabeth to observe that he gave a jump.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, “it’s only a drone. Drones have no stings.”
“They have hard heads, though. Here he comes again!”
“I suppose he smells your tobacco. A drone has thirty-seven thousand eight hundred nostrils, you know.”
“That gives him a sporting chance of smelling a fifteen-cent cigar, what? I mean to say, if he misses with eight hundred of his nostrils he’s apt to get it with the other thirty-seven thousand.”
Elizabeth was feeling annoyed with her bees. They resolutely declined to sting this young man. Bees flew past him, bees flew into him, bees settled upon his coat, bees paused questioningly in front of him, as who should say, “What have we here?” but not a single bee molested him. Yet when Nutty, poor darling, went within a dozen yards of the hives he never failed to suffer for it. In her heart Elizabeth knew perfectly well that this was because Nutty, when in the presence of the bees, lost his head completely and behaved like an exaggerated version of Lady Wetherby’s Dream of Psyche, whereas Bill maintained an easy calm; but at the moment she put the phenomenon down to that inexplicable cussedness which does so much to exasperate the human race, and it fed her annoyance with her unbidden guest.
Without commenting on his last remark she took the smoker from him and set to work. She inserted in the fire chamber a handful of the cotton waste and set fire to it; then with a preliminary puff or two of the bellows to make sure that the conflagration had not gone out, she aimed the nozzle at the front door of the hive.
The results were instantaneous. One or two bee policemen, who were doing fixed point duty near the opening, scuttled hastily back into the hive; and from within came a muffled buzzing as other bees, all talking at once, worried the perplexed officials with foolish questions, a buzzing that became less muffled and more pronounced as Elizabeth lifted the edge of the cover and directed more smoke through the crack. This done, she removed the cover, set it down on the grass beside her, lifted the supercover and applied more smoke, and raised her eyes to where Bill stood watching. His face wore a smile of pleased interest.
Elizabeth’s irritation became painful. She resented his smile. Nutty, on the famous occasion when she had induced him to help her open a hive, had wabbled with pure terror. She hung the smoker on the side of the hive.
“The stool, please, and the screw driver.”
She seated herself beside the hive and began to loosen the outside section. Then taking the brood frame by the projecting ends she pulled it out and handed it to her companion. She did it as one who plays an ace of trumps.
“Would you mind holding this, Mr. Chalmers?”
This was the point in the ceremony at which the wretched Nutty had broken down absolutely, and not inexcusably, considering the severity of the test. The surface of the frame was black with what appeared at first sight to be a thick, bubbling fluid of some sort, pouring viscously to and fro as if some hidden fire had been lighted beneath it. Only after a closer inspection was it apparent to the lay eye that this seeming fluid was in reality composed of mass upon mass of bees. They shoved and writhed and muttered and jostled, for all the world like a collection of home-seeking New Yorkers trying to secure standing room on a subway express at half past five in the afternoon.
Nutty, making this discovery, had emitted one wild yell, dropped the frame, and started at full speed for the house, his retreat expedited by repeated stings from the nervous bees. Bill, more prudent, remained absolutely motionless. He eyed the seething frame with interest but without apparent panic.
“I want you to help me here, Mr. Chalmers. You have stronger wrists than I have. I will tell you what to do. Hold the frame tightly.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Jerk it down as sharply as you can to within a few inches of the door, and then jerk it up again. You see, that shakes them off.”
“It would me,” agreed Bill cordially, “if I were a bee.”
Elizabeth had the feeling that she had played her ace of trumps and by some miracle lost the trick. If this grisly operation did not daunt the man, nothing, not even the transferring of honey, would. She watched him as he raised the frame and jerked it down with a strong swiftness which her less powerful wrists had never been able to achieve. The bees tumbled off in a dense shower, asking questions to the last; then, sighting the familiar entrance to the hive, they bustled in without waiting to investigate the cause of the earthquake.
Lord Dawlish watched them go with a kindly interest.
“It has always been a mystery to me,” he said, “why they never seem to think of manhandling the Johnny who does that to them. They don’t seem able to connect cause and effect. I suppose the only way they can figure it out is that the bottom has suddenly dropped out of everything, and they are so busy lighting out for home that they haven’t time to go to the root of things. But it’s a ticklish job for all that, if you’re not used to it. I know when I first did it I shut my eyes and wondered whether they would bury my remains or cremate them.”
“When you first did it?” Elizabeth was staring at him blankly. “Have you done it before?”
Her voice shook. Bill met her gaze frankly.
“Done it before? Rather! Thousands of times. You see, I spent a year on a bee farm once, learning the business.”
For a moment mortification was the only emotion of which Elizabeth was conscious. She felt supremely ridiculous. For this she had schemed and plotted—to give a practiced expert the opportunity of doing what he had done a thousand times before!
And then her mood changed in a flash. Nature has decreed that there are certain things in life which shall act as hoops of steel, grappling the souls of the elect together. Golf is one of these; a mutual love of horseflesh another; but the greatest of all is bees. Between two beekeepers there can be no strife. Not even a tepid hostility can mar their perfect communion.
The petty enmities which life raises to be barriers between man and man and between man and woman vanish once it is revealed to them that they are linked by this great bond. Envy, malice, hatred and all uncharitableness disappear, and they look into each other’s eyes and say “My brother!”
The effect of Bill’s words on Elizabeth was revolutionary. They crashed through her dislike, scattering it like an explosive shell. She had resented this golden young man’s presence at the farm. She had thought him in the way. She had objected to his becoming aware that she did such prosaic tasks as cooking and washing up. But now her whole attitude toward him was changed. She reflected that he was there. He could stay there as long as he liked, the longer the better.
“You have really kept bees?”
“Not actually kept them, worse luck; I couldn’t raise the capital. You see, money was a bit tight ——”
“I know,” said Elizabeth sympathetically. “Money is like that, isn’t it?”
“The general impression seemed to be that I should be foolish to try anything so speculative as beekeeping, so it fell through. Some very decent old boys got me another job.”
“Secretary to a club.”
“In London, of course?”
“And all the time you wanted to be in the country keeping bees!”
Elizabeth could hardly control her voice, her pity was so great.
“I should have liked it,” said Bill wistfully. “London’s all right, but I love the country. My ambition would be to have a whacking big farm, a sort of ranch miles away from anywhere ——”
He broke off. This was not the first time he had caught himself forgetting how his circumstances had changed in the past few weeks. It was ridiculous to be telling hard-luck stories about not being able to buy a farm, when he had the wherewithal to buy dozens of farms. It took a lot of getting used to, this business of being a millionaire.
“That’s my ambition too,” said Elizabeth eagerly. This was the very first time she had met a congenial spirit. Nutty’s views on farming and the Arcadian life generally were saddening to an enthusiast. “If I had the money I should get an enormous farm, and in the summer I should go through the East Side and borrow all the children I could find there, and take them out to it and let them wallow in it.”
“Wouldn’t they do a lot of damage?”
“I shouldn’t mind. I should be too rich to worry about the damage. If they ruined the place beyond repair I’d go and buy another.” She laughed. “It isn’t so impossible as it sounds. I came very near being able to do it.” She paused for a moment, but went on almost at once. After all, if you cannot confide your intimate troubles to a fellow bee-lover, to whom can you confide them? “An uncle of mine ——”
Bill felt himself flushing. He looked away from her. He had a sense of almost unbearable guilt, as if he had just done some particularly low crime and was contemplating another.
“—— An uncle of mine would have left me enough money to buy all the farms I wanted, only an awful person, an English lord—I wonder if you have heard of him? Lord Dawlish—got hold of uncle somehow and induced him to make a will leaving all the money to him.”
She looked at Bill for sympathy, and was touched to see that he was crimson with emotion. He must be a perfect dear to take other people’s misfortunes to heart like that.
“I don’t know how he managed it,” she went on. “He must have worked and plotted and schemed, for Uncle Ira wasn’t a weak sort of man whom you could do what you liked with. He was very obstinate. But anyway this Lord Dawlish succeeded in doing it somehow, and then”—her eyes blazed at the recollection—“he had the insolence to write to me through his lawyers offering me half. I suppose he was hoping to satisfy his conscience. Naturally I refused it.”
“Why! Why did I refuse it? Surely you don’t think I was going to accept charity from the man who had cheated me?”
“But—but perhaps he didn’t mean it like that. What I mean to say is—as charity, you know.”
“He did! But don’t let’s talk of it any more. It makes me angry to think of him, and there’s no use spoiling a lovely day like this by getting angry.”
Bill sighed. He had never dreamed before that it could be so difficult to give money away. He was profoundly glad that he had not revealed his identity, as he had been on the very point of doing just when she began her remarks. He understood now why that curt refusal had come in answer to his lawyer’s letter. Well, there was nothing to do but wait and hope that time might accomplish something.
“What do you want me to do next?” he said. “Why did you open the hive? Did you want to take a look at the queen?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She blushed with pure shame. She had had but one motive in opening the hive, and that had been to annoy him. She scorned to take advantage of the loophole he had provided. Beekeeping is a freemasonry. A beekeeper cannot deceive a brother mason.
She faced him bravely.
“I didn’t want to take a look at anything, Mr. Chalmers. I opened that hive because I wanted you to drop the frame, as my brother did, and get stung, as he was; because I thought that would drive you away, because I thought then that I didn’t want you down here. I’m ashamed of myself, and I don’t know where I’m getting the nerve to tell you this. I hope you will stay on—on and on and on.”
Bill was aghast.
“Good Lord! If I’m in the way ——”
“You aren’t in the way.”
“But you said ——”
“But don’t you see that it’s so different now? I didn’t know then that you were fond of bees. You must stay, if my telling you hasn’t made you feel that you want to catch the next train. You will save our lives—mine and Nutty’s too. Oh, dear, you’re hesitating! You’re trying to think up some polite way of getting out of the place! You mustn’t go, Mr. Chalmers; you simply must stay. There aren’t any mosquitoes, no jellyfish—nothing! At least there are, but what do they matter? You don’t mind them. Do you play golf?”
“There are links here. You can’t go until you’ve tried them. What is your handicap?”
“So is mine.”
“By Jove! Really?”
Elizabeth looked at him, her eyes dancing.
“Why, we’re practically twin souls, Mr. Chalmers! Tell me, I know your game is nearly perfect, but if you have a fault, is it a tendency to putt too hard?”
“Why, by Jove, yes, it is!”
“I knew it. Something told me. It’s the curse of my life too! Well, after that you can’t go away.”
“But if I’m in the way ——”
“In the way! Mr. Chalmers, will you come in now and help me wash the breakfast things?”
“Rather!” said Lord Dawlish.
IN THE days that followed their interrupted love scene at Reigelheimer’s Restaurant that night of Lord Dawlish’s unfortunate encounter with the tray-bearing waiter, Dudley Pickering’s behavior had perplexed Claire Fenwick. She had taken it for granted that next day at the latest he would resume the offer of his hand, heart and automobiles. But time passed and he made no move in that direction. Of limousine bodies, carburetors, spark plugs and inner tubes he spoke with freedom and eloquence, but the subject of love and marriage he avoided absolutely. His behavior was inexplicable.
Claire was piqued. She was in the position of a hostess who has swept and garnished her house against the coming of a guest and waits in vain for that guest’s arrival. She had made up her mind what to do when Dudley Pickering proposed to her next time, and thereby, it seemed to her, had removed all difficulties in the way of that proposal. She little knew her Pickering.
Dudley Pickering was not a self-starter in the motordrome of love. He needed cranking. He was that most unpromising of matrimonial material, a shy man with a cautious disposition. If he overcame his shyness caution applied the foot brake. If he succeeded in forgetting caution shyness shut off the gas. At Reigelheimer’s some miracle had made him not only reckless but unselfconscious. Possibly the Dream of Psyche had gone to his head. At any rate he had been on the very verge of proposing to Claire when the interruption had occurred, and in bed that night, reviewing the affair, he had been appalled at the narrowness of his escape from taking a definite step. Except in the way of business he was a man who hated definite steps. He never accepted even a dinner invitation without subsequent doubts and remorse. The consequence was that, in the days that followed the Reigelheimer episode, what Lord Wetherby would have called the lamp of love burned rather low in Mr. Pickering, as if the acetylene were running out. He still admired Claire intensely and experienced disturbing emotions when he beheld her perfect tonneau and wonderful headlights; but he regarded her with a cautious fear. Although he sometimes dreamed sentimentally of marriage in the abstract, of actual marriage, of marriage with a flesh-and-blood individual, of marriage that involved clergymen and Voices that Breathe O’er Eden and giggling bridesmaids and cake, Dudley Pickering was afraid with a terror that woke him sweating in the night. His shyness shrank from the ceremony, his caution jibbed at the mysteries of married life. So his attitude toward Claire, the only girl who had succeeded in bewitching him into the opening words of an actual proposal, was a little less cordial and affectionate than if she had been a rival automobile manufacturer.
Matters were in this state when Lady Wetherby, who having danced classical dances for three months without a break, required a rest, shifted her camp to the house which she had rented for the summer at Brookport, Long Island, taking with her Algie, her husband, the monkey Eustace, and Claire and Mr. Pickering, her guests. The house was a large one, capable of receiving a big party, but she did not wish to entertain on an ambitious scale. The only other guest she proposed to put up was Roscoe Sherriff, her press agent, who was to come down as soon as he could get away from his metropolitan duties.
It was a pleasant and romantic place, the estate which Lady Wetherby had rented. Standing on a hill, the house looked down through green trees on the gleaming waters of the bay. Smooth lawns and shady walks it had, and rustic seats beneath spreading cedars. Yet for all its effect on Dudley Pickering it might have been a gas works. He roamed the smooth lawns with Claire, and sat with her on the rustic benches and talked guardedly of lubricating oil. There were moments when Claire was almost impelled to forfeit whatever chance she might have had of becoming mistress of thirty million dollars and a flourishing business, for the satisfaction of administering just one whole-hearted slap on his round and thinly covered head.
And then Roscoe Sherriff came down, and Dudley Pickering, who for days had been using all his resolution to struggle against the siren, suddenly found that there was no siren to struggle against. No sooner had the press agent appeared than Claire deserted him shamelessly and absolutely. She walked with Roscoe Sherriff. Mr. Pickering experienced the discomfiting emotions of the man who pushes violently against an abruptly yielding door, or treads heavily on the top stair where there is no top stair. He was shaken, and the clamlike stolidity which he had assumed as protection gave way.
He hated Roscoe Sherriff. It was unreasonable of him, seeing that the other had rescued him from the company of Claire; but it was one of the incongruities that make human nature the diverting thing it is, that a stout, middle-aged man who does not wish to marry a beautiful girl himself may seethe with jealous fury at the spectacle of this same beautiful girl reveling in the society of a young, slim man with hypnotic eyes and a cooing voice. Roscoe Sherriff had these advantages. A press agent has to have them in order to get free advertising past suspicious editors. Circumstances had molded Roscoe Sherriff into the livest press agent in New York, but Nature had intended him for the barytone hero of a musical comedy, one of those debonair young fellows who curvet down to the footlights in beautifully fitting trousers, when the guests cry: “Why, here comes Jack himself! Hurrah!” At Lady Wetherby’s country house he was what is technically known as the life and soul of the party, and Dudley Pickering hated him bitterly.
Night had descended upon Brookport. Eustace, the monkey, was in his little bed; Lord Wetherby in the smoking room. It was Sunday, the day of rest. Dinner was over, and the remainder of the party were gathered in the drawing room, with the exception of Mr. Pickering, who was smoking a cigar on the porch. A full moon turned Long Island into a fairyland.
Gloom had settled upon Dudley Pickering and he smoked sadly. All rather stout automobile manufacturers are sad when there is a full moon. It makes them feel lonely. It stirs their hearts to thoughts of love. Marriage loses its terrors for them, and they think wistfully of hooking some fair woman up the back and buying her hats. Such was the mood of Mr. Pickering, when through the dimness of the porch there appeared a white shape, moving softly toward him.
“Is that you, Mr. Pickering?”
Claire dropped into the seat beside him. From the drawing room came the soft tinkle of a piano. The sound blended harmoniously with the quiet peace of the night. Mr. Pickering let his cigar go out and clutched the sides of his chair.
thee saw-ongs ov Arrabee,
Und—ah ta-ales of farrr Cash-mee-eere,
Wi-ild tales to che-eat thee ovasigh
Und charrrrm thee to-oo a tear-er.”
Claire gave a little sigh.
“What a beautiful voice Mr. Sherriff has!”
Dudley Pickering made no reply. He thought Roscoe Sherriff had a beastly voice. He resented Roscoe Sherriff’s voice. He objected to Roscoe Sherriff’s polluting this fair night with his cacophony.
“Don’t you think so, Mr. Pickering?”
“That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. Mr. Pickering, I want you to tell me something. Have I done anything to offend you?”
Mr. Pickering started violently.
“I have seen so little of you these last few days. A little while ago we were always together, having such interesting talks. But lately it has seemed to me that you have been avoiding me.”
A feeling of helplessness swept over Mr. Pickering. He was vaguely conscious of a sense of being treated unjustly, of there being a flaw in Claire’s words somewhere if he could only find it, but the sudden attack had deprived him of the free and unfettered use of his powers of reasoning. He gurgled wordlessly, and Claire went on, her low, sad voice mingling with the moonlight in a manner that caused thrills to run up and down his spine. He felt paralyzed. Caution urged him to make some excuse and follow it with a bolt to the drawing room, but he was physically incapable of taking the excellent advice. Sometimes when you are out in your Pickering Gem or your Pickering Giant the car hesitates, falters and stops dead, and your chauffeur, having examined the carburetor, turns to you and explains the phenomenon in these words: “The mixture is too rich.” So was it with Mr. Pickering now. The moonlight alone might not have held him; Claire’s voice alone might not have held him; but against the two combined he was powerless. The mixture was too rich. He sat and breathed a little stertorously, and there came to him that conviction that comes to all of us now and then, that we are at a crisis of our careers and that the moment through which we are living is a moment big with fate.
The voice in the drawing room stopped. Having sung songs of Araby and tales of far Cashmere, Mr. Roscoe Sherriff was refreshing himself with the colored comic supplement of the Sunday paper. But Lady Wetherby, seated at the piano, still touched the keys softly, and the sound increased the richness of the mixture which choked Dudley Pickering’s spiritual carburetor. It is not fair that a rather stout manufacturer should be called upon to sit in the moonlight while a beautiful girl, to the accompaniment of soft music, reproaches him with having avoided her.
“I should be so sorry, Mr. Pickering, if I had done anything to make a difference between us ——”
“Guk!” said Mr. Pickering.
“I have so few real friends over here.”
“Guk!” said Mr. Pickering.
Claire’s voice trembled.
“I—I get a little lonely, a little homesick sometimes ——”
She paused, musing, and a spasm of pity rent the bosom beneath Dudley Pickering’s ample shirt. Claire suddenly became to him a figure of pathos to be compared with Ruth
when sick for home
She stood in tears among the alien corn.
There was a buzzing in his ears and a lump choked his throat.
“Of course I am loving the life here. I think America’s wonderful, and nobody could be kinder than Lady Wetherby. But—I miss my home. It’s the first time I have been away for so long. I feel very far away sometimes. There are only three of us at home: my mother, myself and my little brother—little Percy.”
Her voice trembled again as she spoke the last two words, and it was possibly this that caused Mr. Pickering to visualize Percy as a sort of little Lord Fauntleroy, his favorite character in English literature. He had a vision of a small, delicate, wistful child pining away for his absent sister. Consumptive probably. Or curvature of the spine.
He found Claire’s hand in his. He supposed dully he must have reached out for it. Soft and warm it lay there, while the universe paused breathlessly. And then from the semidarkness beside him there came the sound of a stifled sob, and his fingers closed as if someone had touched a button.
“Guk!” he said softly.
“We have always been such chums. He is only ten—such a dear boy. He must be missing me ——”
She stopped, and simultaneously Dudley Pickering began to speak.
There is this to be said for your shy, cautious man, that on the rare occasions when he does tap the vein of eloquence that vein becomes a geyser. For several minutes Dudley Pickering spouted verbiage like an Old Faithful. It was as if after years of silence and monosyllables he was endeavoring to restore the average.
He began by touching on his alleged neglect and avoidance of Claire. He called himself names and more names. He plumbed the depth of repentance and remorse. Proceeding from this, he eulogized her courage, the pluck with which she presented a smiling face to the world while tortured inwardly by separation from her little brother Percy. He then turned to his own feelings.
But there are some things which the historian should hold sacred, some things which he should look on as proscribed material for his pen, and the actual words of a stout manufacturer of automobiles, proposing marriage in the moonlight, fall into this class. It is enough to say that Dudley Pickering was definite. He left no room for doubt as to his meaning.
She was in his arms. He was embracing her. She was his—the latest model, self-starting, with limousine body and all the newest. No, no, his mind was wandering. She was his, this divine girl, this queen among women, this—
From the drawing room Roscoe Sherriff’s voice floated out in unconscious comment:
I’m going to be married to-morrow.
I’m going from sunshine to sorrow.
No more sitting up till broad daylight.”
Did a momentary chill cool the intensity of Dudley Pickering’s ardor? If so he overcame it instantly. He despised Roscoe Sherriff. He flattered himself that he had shown Roscoe Sherriff pretty well who was who and what was what.
They would have a wonderful wedding—dozens of clergymen, scores of organs playing The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden, platoons of bridesmaids, wagonloads of cake. And then they would go back to Detroit and live happy ever after. And it might be that in time to come there would be given to them little runabouts.
“I’m going to a life
Of misery and strife,
So good-by, boys!”
Hang Roscoe Sherriff! What did he know about it, confound him! Dudley Pickering turned a deaf ear to the song and wallowed in his happiness.
Claire walked slowly down the moonlit drive. She had removed herself from her Dudley’s embraces, for she wished to be alone, to think. The engagement had been announced. All that part of it was over—Dudley’s stammering speech, the unrestrained delight of Polly Wetherby, the facetious rendering of The Wedding Glide on the piano by Roscoe Sherriff, and it now remained for her to try to discover a way of conveying the news to Bill.
It had just struck her that, though she knew that Bill was in America, she had not his address.
What was she to do? She must tell him. Otherwise it might quite easily happen that they might meet in New York when she returned there. She pictured the scene. She saw herself walking with Dudley Pickering. Along came Bill. “Claire, darling!” . . . Heavens, what would Dudley think? It would be too awful! She couldn’t explain. No, somehow or other, even if she put detectives on his trail, she must find him, and be off with the old love now that she was on with the new.
She reached the gate and leaned over it. And as she did so someone in the shadow of a tall tree spoke her name. A man came into the light and she saw that it was Lord Dawlish.
(TO BE CONTINUED)