CHAPTER XXI
HIGH WORDS AT HIGH NOON
IN the Harrowby suite the holder of the title, a handsome and distinguished figure, adorned for his wedding, walked nervously the rather worn carpet. His brother, hastily pressed into service as best man, sat puffing at a cigar with a persistency which indicated a somewhat perturbed state of mind on his own part.
"Brace up, Allan," he urged. "It'll be over before you realize it. Remember my own wedding—gad, wasn't I frightened? Always that way with a man—no sense to it, but he just can't help it. Never forget that little parlor, with the flower of Marion society all about, and me with my teeth chattering and my knees knocking together."
"It is a bit of an ordeal," said Allan weakly. "Chap feels all sort of—gone—inside—"
The telephone, ringing sharply, interrupted. George Harrowby rose and stepped to it.
"Allan? You wish Allan? Very well. I'll tell him."
He turned away from the telephone and faced his brother.
"It was old Meyrick, kid. Seemed somewhat hot under the collar. Wants to see you in their suite at once."
"Wha—what do you imagine he wants?"
"Going to make you a present of Riverside Drive, I fancy. Go ahead, boy. I'll wait for you here."
Allan Harrowby went out, along the dusky corridor to the Meyrick door. Not without misgivings, he knocked. A voice boomed "Come!" He pushed open the door.
He saw Spencer Meyrick sitting purple at a table, and beside him Cynthia Meyrick, in the loveliest gown of all the lovely gowns she had ever worn. The beauty of the girl staggered Harrowby a bit; never demonstrative, he had a sudden feeling that he should be at her feet.
"You—you sent for me?" he asked, coming into the room. As he moved closer to the girl he was to marry he saw that her face was whiter than her gown, and her brown eyes strained and miserable.
"We did," said Meyrick, rising. He held out a paper. "Will you please look at that"
His lordship took the sheet in unsteady hands. He glanced down. Slowly the meaning of the story that met his gaze filtered through his dazed brain. "Martin Wall did this," he thought to himself. He tried to speak, but could not. Dumbly he stared at Spencer Meyrick.
"We want no scene, Harrowby," said the old man wearily. "We merely want to know if there is in existence a policy such as the one mentioned here?"
The paper slipped from his lordship's lifeless hands. He turned miserably away. Not daring to face either father or daughter, he answered very faintly:
"There is."
Spencer Meyrick sighed.
"That's all we want to know. There will be no wedding, Harrowby."
"Wha—what!" His lordship faced about "Why, sir—the guests must be—down-stairs—"
"It is—unfortunate. But there will be no wedding." The old man turned to his daughter. "Cynthia," he asked, "have you nothing to say?"
"Yes." White, trembling, the girl faced his lordship. "It seems, Allan, that you have regarded our marriage as a business proposition. You have gambled on the stability of the market Well, you win. I have changed my mind. This is final. I shall not change it again."
"Cynthia!" And any who had considered Lord Harrowby unfeeling must have been surprised at the anguish in his voice. "I have loved you—I love you now. I adore you. What can I say in explanation—of this. We gamble, all of us—it is a passion bred in the family. That is why I took out this absurd policy. My dearest—it doesn't mean that there was no love on my side. There is—there always will be, whatever happens. Can't you understand—"
The girl laid her hand on his arm, and drew him away to the window.
"It's no use, Allan," she said, for his ears alone. "Perhaps I could have forgiven—but somehow—I don't care—as I thought I did. It is better, embarrassing as it may be for us both, that there should be no wedding, after all."
"Cynthia—you can't mean that. You don't believe me. Let me send for my brother—he will tell you of the passion for gambling in our family—he will tell you that I love you, too—"
He moved toward the telephone.
"No use," said Cynthia Meyrick, shaking her head. "It would only prolong a painful scene. Please don't, Allan."
"I'll send for Minot, too," Harrowby cried.
"Mr. Minot?" The girl's eyes narrowed. "And what has Mr. Minot to do with this?"
"Everything. He came down here as the representative of Lloyds. He came down to make sure that you didn't change your mind. He will tell you that I love you—"
A queer expression hovered about Miss Meyrick's lips. Spencer Meyrick interrupted.
"Nonsense," he cried. "There is no need to—"
"One moment." Cynthia Meyrick's eyes shone strangely. "Send for your brother, Allan. And—for—Mr. Minot."
Harrowby stepped to the telephone. He summoned his forces. A strained unhappy silence ensued. Then the two men entered the room together.
"Minot—George, old boy," Lord Harrowby said helplessly. "Miss Meyrick and her father have discovered the existence of a certain insurance policy about which you both know. They have believed that my motive in seeking a marriage was purely mercenary—that my affection for the girl who is—was—to have become my wife can not be sincere. They are wrong—quite wrong. Both of you know that. I've sent for you to help me make them understand—I can not—"
George Harrowby stepped forward, and smiled his kindly smile.
"My dear young lady," he said. "I regret that policy very deeply. When I first heard of it I, too, suspected Allan's motives. But after I talked with him—after I saw you—I was convinced that his affection for you was most sincere. I thought back to the gambling schemes for which the family has been noted—I saw it was the old passion cropping out anew in Allan—that he was really not to blame—that beyond any question he was quite devoted to you. Otherwise I'd have done everything in my power to prevent the wedding."
"Yes?" Miss Meyrick's eyes flashed dangerously. "And—your other witness, Allan?"
The soul of the other witness squirmed in agony. This was too much—too much!
"You, Minot—" pleaded Harrowby. "You have understood—"
"I have felt that you were sincerely fond of Miss Meyrick," Minot replied. "Otherwise I should not have done—what I have done."
"Then, Mr. Minot," the girl inquired, "you think I would be wrong to give up all plans for the wedding?"
"I—I—yes, I do," writhed Minot.
"And you advise me to marry Lord Harrowby at once?"
Mr. Minot passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. Had the girl no mercy?
"I do," he answered miserably.
Cynthia Meyrick laughed, harshly, mirthlessly.
"Because that's your business—your mean little business," she said scornfully. "I know at last why you came to San Marco. I understand everything. You had gambled with Lord Harrowby, and you came here to see that you did not lose your money. Well, you've lost! Carry that news back to the concern you work for! In spite of your heroic efforts, you've lost! At the last moment Cynthia Meyrick changed her mind!"
Lost! The word cut Minot to the quick. Lost, indeed! Lost Jephson's stake—lost the girl he loved! He had failed Jephson—failed himself! After all he had done—all he had sacrificed. A double defeat, and therefore doubly bitter.
"Cynthia—surely you don't mean—" Lord Harrowby was pleading.
"I do, Allan," said the girl more gently. "It was true—what I told you—there by the window. It is better—father! Will you go down and—say—I'm not to be married, after all?"
Spencer Meyrick nodded, and turned toward the door.
"Cynthia," cried Harrowby brokenly. There was no reply. Old Meyrick went out.
"I'm sorry," his lordship said. "Sorry I made such a mess of it—the more so because I love you, Cynthia—and always shall. Good-by."
He held out his hand. She put hers in it.
"It's too bad, Allan," she said. "But—it wasn't to be. And, even now, you have one consolation—the money that Lloyds must pay you."
"The money means nothing, Cynthia—"
"Miss Meyrick is mistaken," Minot interrupted. "Lord Harrowby has not even that consolation. Lloyds owes him nothing."
"Why not?" asked the girl defiantly.
"Up to an hour ago," said Minot, "you were determined to marry his lordship?"
"I should hardly put it that way. But—I intended to."
"Yes. Then you changed your mind. Why?"
"I changed it because I found out about this ridiculous, this insulting policy."
"Then his lordship's taking out of the policy caused the calling off of the wedding?"
"Y—yes. Why?"
"It may interest you to know—and it may interest Lord Harrowby to recall—that five minutes before he took out this policy he signed an agreement to do everything in his power to bring about the wedding. And he further promised that if the wedding should be called off because of any subsequent act of his, he would forfeit the premium."
"By gad," said Lord Harrowby.
"The taking out of the policy was a subsequent act," continued Minot. "The premium, I fancy, is forfeited."
"He's got you, Allan," said George Harrowby, coming forward, "and I for one can't say I'm sorry. You're going to tear up that policy now—and go to work for me."
"I for one am sorry," cried Miss Meyrick, her flashing eyes on Minot. "I wanted you to win, Allan. I wanted you to win."
"Why?" Minot asked innocently.
"You ought to know," she answered, and turned away.
Lord Harrowby moved toward the door.
"We're not hard losers," he said blankly. "But—everything's gone—it's a bit of a smash-up. Good-by, Cynthia."
"Good-by, Allan—and good luck."
"Thanks." And Harrowby went out with his brother.
Minot stood for a time, not daring to move. Cynthia Meyrick was at the window; her scornful back was not encouraging. Finally she turned, saw Minot and gave a start of surprise.
"Oh—you're still here?"
"Cynthia, now you understand," he said. "You know why I acted as I did. You realize my position. I was in a horrible fix—"
She looked at him coldly.
"Yes," she said, "I do understand. You were gambling on me. You came down here to defend your employer's cash. Well, you have succeeded. Is there anything more to be said?"
"Isn't there? On the ramparts of the old fort the other night—"
"Please do not make yourself any more ridiculous than is necessary. You have put your employer's money above my happiness. Always. Really, you looked rather cheap to-day, with your sanctimonious advice that I marry Harrowby. Aren't you beginning to realize your own position—the silly childish figure you cut?"
"Then you—"
"Last night when you came staggering across the lawn to me with this foolish gown in your arms—I told you I hated you. Do you imagine I hate you any less now. Well, I don't." Her voice became tearful. "I hate you! I hate you!"
"But some day—"
She turned away from him, for she was sobbing outright now.
"I never want to see you again as long as I live," she cried. "Never! Never! Never!"
Limp, pitiable, worn by the long fight he had waged, Minot stood staring helplessly at her heaving shoulders.
"Then—I can only say I'm sorry," he murmured. "And—good-by."
He waited. She did not turn toward him. He stumbled out of the room.