CHAPTER VI.
I was finishing my breakfast, rather late, next morning, when Richards ushered in Herbert. I told Richards to pour him out a cup of coffee, and then to leave us.
“Well, what do you think about Miss Maynard?” said Herbert, when we were alone.
“I think, my good chap, that outside is good enough for you,” said I.
“Nonsense! Why?” asked Herbert. “She's a thoroughly nice girl, and very clever.”
“She's clever, and pretty, and nice. But, all the same, it won't do. You can't marry a girl who is acting as decoy at the gambling parties of a nondescript millionaire.”
“She isn't!” said Herbert.
“I don't think she knows she is, any more than Miss Devine does. But that's what they are doing, all the time.”
“But it's absurd!' cried Herbert. “Scruton's is not a gambling hell; the play's perfectly fair there. I asked Le Quesne, and I asked the duke. They were both sure that it was.”
“Were they?” I said. “What does that matter? The play is quite fair at Monte Carlo. Every one will be saying that Miss Maynard was a decoy at a gambling hell if you bring her into prominence by marrying her. And you will bring her into prominence. You're so eligible.”
“Well—well—they'll say something just as bad about any one I marry.”
“Not about Anne.”
“I wish you'd get that silly idea out of your head. I'm not going to marry Anne,” said Herbert pettishly.
I was sure that he was; but it was no use telling him so.
“It isn't that, but Miss Maynard wouldn't make the kind of wife you want. She's had a poor time; and, if she marries a rich man, she'll make up for it—hard. She'll set up the backs of all your political crowd; and she'll never take the trouble to learn the political game—the drawing-room part of it. She won't be bothered with it.”
“You're wrong—quite wrong. I know that Kitty is fond of pleasure. She admits it—frankly. But she has a plastic nature. I should mold her.”
I looked at Herbert hard. The idiot who could say that about Miss Maynard was worth looking at.
“You couldn't mold her in a hundred years—not with a club,” I said slowly. “If there's any molding done, she'll do it. Within six months of your marriage, she'll have you a regular attendant at every big race meeting in England.”
“Preposterous!” said Herbert.
“I'll bet you a tenner,” said I.
“You know I never bet,” said Herbert.
“No, you don't; and yet you propose to marry Miss Maynard.”
“I don't see the connection,” said Herbert stiffly.
“Which shows that you have no business to be marrying Miss Maynard.”
“But I do see that I was foolish to consult you. The fact is, Rupert, you are so incorrigibly frivolous yourself that you are incredulous of the possibility of seriousness in any one else,” he said pompously.
“It isn't that, at all,” I said. “But there are some brands of seriousness that won't mix. Yours is one of them.”
Herbert rose solemnly.
“I see that I was foolish to consult you,” he said. “I had my doubts, grave doubts, of the wisdom of it. Good morning.” And he stalked toward the door.
“Good morning,” I said. “But don't forget that I've told you.”
He went out solemnly.
I had done no good; but that did not trouble me. I had not expected to do any good. The important thing was that I had told Herbert the facts, and my mind was quite at ease.
I went around to Scruton's next party—he gave them twice a week—for I felt that, as the head of the family, I ought to keep an eye on Herbert's love affair; and, besides, I wanted to know if the ghost girl had forgiven me for her having been so open with me.
I talked to her two or three times in the intervals of playing; but she would not come on the balcony again. Perhaps she felt that it led to confidences. I talked to her about Kitty Maynard, of course, for I wanted to know as much as possible about her; and once more she said what a pity it was that the Maynards were so hard up.
“Well, Miss Maynard must marry a rich man,” I said.
“She says she means to. But I do hope she won't. It isn't right to marry a man—you don't love.”
“It's often done,” I said. “And Freddy Gage would be awfully cut up.”
“You've noticed that? You are quick!”
“It's pretty obvious.”
“It would be so much the best thing to do. He's very nice. But I'm afraid he hasn't enough money,” she added, with a sigh.
Some one joined us, and I got no more talk with her that night.
After that I fell into the way of going to Scruton's parties regularly. I had to keep an eye on Herbert. His love affair was progressing in a very satisfactory way, for him; and he was wearing his most important air. Freddy Gage was the only man who gave him any trouble. It lay between them, plainly enough. The more I saw of Miss Maynard, the less reason I found to change my belief that Herbert would come the complete cropper.
One night he and I came away together.
“I have quite satisfied myself that you were entirely wrong about Miss Maynard,” he said pompously. “She has a thoroughly adaptable nature. At heart, she is a very serious girl.”
“We'll talk about that later,” I said. “When you have been married six months,”
“But I must get rid of Gage,” he went on, without taking any notice of my kind words. “He encourages her in her frivolity. The worst of it is that if I do, he'll go to Ambledon. Ambledon has been trying to get him from me for the last six months.”
“Very good man, Freddy Gage,” I said.
And we went our different ways.
Three days later, I received a note from Herbert, telling me that he was engaged to Miss Maynard, and that their engagement would be publicly announced in about a fortnight, when he had broken in his people to the idea.
I did not write to congratulate him. I was silent, as a disapproving head of the family ought to be. He should never say that he had had any encouragement from me.
At Scruton's next party I again found Kitty Maynard; and I was a good deal surprised. I had taken it for granted that that would be the first thing Herbert would stop. It looked as if she had already begun refusing to be molded. She was rather nervous, and she looked worried. Freddy Gage looked worried, too; and Herbert was not beaming. I talked to Kitty Maynard a while; I played baccarat; and then I got Amber to come out on the balcony to get away from Sir Theobald Walsh.
For a while we talked about nothing at all pleasantly. Then I said:
“My cousin and Miss Maynard don't look as if they were enjoying being engaged. What's the matter?”
“You do ask straightforward questions!”
“Well, I must do my best to smooth the path of true love.”
“True love,” repeated the ghost girl softly. “Yes, one would have to do that. But—but Oh, well, Kitty isn't happy. I think your cousin wearies her a little.”
“Herbert would weary a turbine if he got a fair chance at it.”
“And he's rather exacting. He forbade her to come here. But she would. She said she wasn't going to desert me; and he was angry.”
“Herbert is a fool; but she must know that. She's really worried about Freddy Gage, I suppose.”
“I've no right to talk about it,” she said quickly.
“No more have I; but we mustn't let that prevent us. It's a case of three in a hole. Now, if I were to haul Herbert out by the scruff of the neck, the other two would be happy enough. I should like to do a little rescue work.”
“If you only could! But you can't! Your cousin is very obstinate. It—it distresses me to think of their marriage. I can see only unhappiness for Kitty—for both of them—in it.”
“That's all there is to see.
“Oh, why doesn't he carry her off by force and marry her?” she cried.
“Herbert's other name is not Lochinvar. Besides, she wouldn't let him.”
“I mean Mr. Gage; not Mr. Polkington.”
“Oh! She'd let him, would she?” I asked.
“I oughtn't to have let you know,” she said quickly
But she had let me know; and it set me thinking; in fact, it gave me an idea.
At Scruton's next two parties matters did not seem to be going any better. I saw from Herbert's sulky face that the molding process was not working well, but he was very snappish when I told him how it struck me. On the fourth evening before the announcement of the engagement, I came on Freddy and Miss Maynard in the central garden, though neither of them had any right to be in it, since they did not belong to the families of any of my tenants. They seemed to be quarreling, and not enjoying the quarrel. She went off to see the ghost girl, and I insisted that Freddy should dine with me.
He was very like a funeral, and the champagne was some time in ironing the frown out of his boyish brow. When he began to look more cheerful, I said:
“I think it's a jolly shame your letting that poor girl come to grief by marrying that prig, Herbert.”
His face went crimson, and I thought that he would throw his plate at me.
“Damn it all, Garthoyle! I've enough to worry me, without you starting to nag at me!” he growled.
“Well, why don't you stop it?” I persisted.
“Stop it! How can I stop it? Haven't I tried to stop it? Haven't I told her forty times what an aggravating rotter Polkington is? Haven't I argued with her, and begged and begged her not to ruin her life by marrying him? Don't I know him? Haven't I had two years of him?”
“You have,” said I.
“She couldn't stand him; she's not that kind of girl.”
“She isn't,” said I.
“But she's made up her mind to marry a rich man, and nothing will stop her. She's sick to death of being hard up. It's hopeless.”
“It may be. But you've got to stop it. You must be firm,” I said.
If I had been within reach, I think that he would have bitten a piece out of me.
“Firm!” he howled “Firm!”
“Firm,” said I.
He choked a little, and called me a damned, interfering idiot.
He seemed nicely wound up, so I said:
“Look here! Did you ever hear of young Lochinvar? And have you ever thought what motor cars are really for? And what about special marriage licenses?”
He cooled uncommonly quickly, drank off his glass of champagne, and exclaimed softly:
“By Jove!”
“Now, we know that motor cars are always appearing in the divorce court. But no one ever uses them pour le bon motif—when their intentions are honorable. Is it fair on the motor car, I ask you?” said I.
“Fire away,” said Freddy.
I told him of my plan for rescuing Herbert, and he was quick tumbling to it.
When I had told him all the details, he said:
“The awkward thing is that I can't drive a car.”
“You politicians!” I derided. “But I'm not going to do the thing by half. Herbert must be rescued. I'll drive the car myself.”
“By Jove, if you would!” he cried. “But are you sure you can stick it out? There'll be an awful fuss. You won't soften?”
“Not a soften,” I promised.
He had grown quite cheerful by the time we had worked out all the arrangements; and, when he went away, I had almost to throw him out of the house to stop his thanks.
Two days later, I picked up Miss Maynard and Freddy at her mother's flat in West Kensington. She was looking delightfully pretty; there was not a shadow of a cloud on her face, and I saw that she had made up her mind to enjoy the afternoon. I rather envied Freddy.
She proposed, politely, to sit by me, but I put the two of them into the tonneau. It was a glorious day, and, once out of London, I enjoyed the drive. I felt that I was performing a noble action. Most of the time I drove slowly; but once, when a road hog came scorching along, I gave him my dust for eight miles. All the while I heard a gentle murmur of talk from the tonneau, and sometimes a soft laugh. They were not talking about Herbert.
We had tea at the White Hart at Lewes. We talked for some time after it. I left them to get the car, and I was some time over that. It was past six when I brought it around to the front door of the hotel.
As she got into the car, Kitty Maynard said anxiously:
“I'm afraid we shall have to hurry back, Lord Garthoyle. Mr. Polkington is calling for me at half past nine to take me to a dance at the Cheshams. Do you think we shall do it?”
“The car can do it,” I assured her.
It could.
I ran up to Three Bridges, and down to Horsham. It is at the top of the triangle of which a line drawn between Guildford and Dorking would be the base. Garth Royal, my country house, lies in the middle of it. I set out to drive around that triangle.
The talk in the tonneau was rather fitful. There were long silences. Once I heard Kitty Maynard say:
“No, no, no, Freddy! It's too late!”
By eight o'clock I had driven around the triangle, and was back at Horsham. Freddy seemed to see the danger, for I heard the talk brisk up.
I thought I was going to get safely through the town, when Kitty Maynard gave a little cry, and said:
“Why—why—we were here hours ago! We must have lost our way! We shall be ever so late getting to London. Herbert will be perfectly horrible.”
“We're not going back to London,” announced Freddy.
I let the car go. The middle of a town of nine thousand inhabitants is not the place for delicate explanation. Besides, I did not want to overhear the discussion; I thought that they would prefer it private. As it was, I caught scraps of it, of Kitty Maynard's side of it. She was plainly enough in a royal rage.
I had got about eight miles beyond Horsham when Freddy called to me to stop. We were in a nice empty part of the country, a long way from anywhere far as walking went. So I stopped.
Kitty leaned over the front of the tonneau, and said:
“Please drive me back to London at once, Lord Garthoyle.”
She was still in a rage; her cheeks were white, and her eyes were fairly flaming.
“It can't be done. I'm a brutal bad brigand at five stone seven to-night. It's my first attempt at a kidnaping job, and I'm going through with it like a man,” I said cheerfully.
“It's hateful! It's disgraceful! It's incredible! You can't really suppose that you can force me to do this ridiculous thing!” she cried.
“I don't see anything ridiculous in it. I should think you'd find it rather nice,” I replied.
“You won't?” She turned to Freddy. “Make him, Freddy! Make him at once! Or I'll never—never—forgive you!”
“I can't make him—hulking brute!—and I wouldn't if I could,” said Freddy cheerfully. And I gathered that he was hopeful.
“But—but what will people say? I shall be compromised—hopelessly compromised!”
“Not if you marry me,” said Freddy.
“I won't marry you!”
“We're keeping that parson waiting,” said Freddy.
“I'll never marry you!” she repeated, and jumped out of the car.
She set out walking quickly to Horsham.
“It's all right,” said Freddy calmly. “She'll be better presently—like a lamb. There's always a reaction after these rages. It's only a matter of keeping one's temper with her.”
He set out after her, caught her up, and walked beside her. I could see that he was talking hard. I let them get a couple of hundred yards down the road before I set the car crawling after them I wondered how far she would walk before she gave in. Two or three times Freddy put his arm round her, and she shook herself out of it. Then, at the end of the mile, they stopped. I stopped, too, for I thought that they were at the final row that would clear things up.
Then Freddy beckoned to me, and I ran up to them.
“Now, on your honor, Lord Garthoyle, what time does the last train leave Horsham?” she asked. And I saw that she looked pale and uncertain.
“On my honor, it leaves at nine-eighteen,” I said.
“Then it is hopeless! And I'll never forgive Freddy—never!”
“That's all right. I've treated you shamefully, and we'll let it go at that,” said Freddy cheerfully. “Now we'll go and get married.”
He half lifted her into the car, and I let it rip. I did not hear any talk from the tonneau. I took it that they were whispering.
It was ten minutes past nine when I stopped at the door of Garth Royal rectory. I had fixed the time within ten minutes. The rector stood on the steps, looking out for us.
Kitty and Freddy got out of the car, looking as if they did not know whether they were standing on their heads or their heels. She was not at all pale—she was blushing; and her eyes were shining, but not with anger.
I had made all the arrangements with the rector. He had only to look at the special license and see that it was all right. He married them in his own drawing-room, his wife and daughters standing by Kitty and making the required fuss. Kitty looked quite resigned.
Then Kitty wrote a short letter for me to take to her mother, and I gave her my peace offering in the shape of a rope of pearls.
They thanked the rector, and came back to the car, and I drove them to the dower house. I could not lend them Garth Royal itself, for I had let it to a Hamburg money lender. But the dower house was lighted up, and looked very nice and comfortable; and I knew that their wedding supper was all right, for I had arranged it with Harrod's myself, and had sent down Richards to see to it.
They got out of the car, and the door opened, and Richards came out to receive them. In the blaze of light, I saw that Kitty was looking very pretty.
They turned; but I did not give them time to begin thanking me. I called out good night and good luck, and bucketed off. I did bucket. It was only half past eleven when I sneaked softly up the stairs, slipped Kitty's note into the letter box of her mother's flat, and bolted down to the car.
I was in the middle of my supper when Herbert rushed into my dining room. I have never seen him such a rich purple since.
“The little jade has jilted me! She's married Freddy Gage!” he roared.
I jumped up and caught his hand, gave it the heartiest grip I could get out of my muscles, and shouted:
“Saved! Saved!”
“You silly idiot!” howled Herbert. And he danced out of the room, waggling his crushed fingers.
From Herbert's point of view, I dare say that there was something in what he said. All the same, I had rescued him.