RGL e-Book Cover©
RGL e-Book Cover©
"I DON'T make a point of it," the Duke said, "but as a matter of fact, I have been waiting nearly five minutes."
"That is precisely what the Prince of —— said yesterday," Beggarstaff replied genially. "But won't your Grace sit down?"
The Duke of Rotherfield declined the proffered invitation. He stood up against the background with the strange, weird resemblance to an elderly stork after a night of unwonted dissipation. His long face and drooping whiskers might have passed him almost perilously for a retired undertaker; but this unhappy suspicion was somewhat tempered by a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses and linen of the most immaculate kind. As for the rest, his wardrobe would have fetched no more than a few shillings in Soho. Beggarstaff took in all these details with a flashing eye.
"Really, your Grace, "we should get on a great deal better if you sat down," he said. "I take it that you have come to consult me professionally?"
The Duke was not quite prepared to admit that. His manner was official, not to say extra-Parliamentary.
"But you owe me a great deal more than you seem to be aware of," Paul murmured. "That little affair of the ball programme, for instance. I have no wish to violate the sanctity of the domestic hearth, but you must admit that that little matter was awkward."
His Grace of Rotherfield fell into a reverie and one of the big saddle-bag armchairs simultaneously; then he caught Beggarstaff's eye and blushed ingenuously. The blush of a duke is a rare and precious thing.
"Upon my word, it was no fault of mine," he said eagerly. "I was dining with my old regiment, you see. It was an outrage, a positive outrage, for someone to have slipped that programme into my pocket—a programme of some smoking concert dance.... Naturally her Grace was a little inclined to—er—"
"Of course," Paul said with great sympathy. "I was glad to be the means of smoothing matters."
There was a florid flush on the face of the Duke; he had lost a considerable portion of his large, departmental manner, In a less illustrious personage one might say that he was fairly gaping at Beggarstaff.
"But, my good sir," he protested, "how did you possibly become aware of the facts of the case?"
Beggarstaff waived the suggestion aside loftily. His desire had been to startle and impress the Duke; and he had succeeded beyond his utmost expectations.
"Pardon me," he said, "there are secrets—secrets as inviolate as the grave. I think when you found the Duchess amenable to reason— By the way, is not that the pencil from the ball programme with which you are toying at the present moment? I presume you have been using it during your recent visit to Somerset House. I trust that you found Mr. Elijah J. Beaumont's will a sufficiently satisfactory document?"
"This is wonderful!" the Duke cried. "Absolutely amazing! I really do believe, Beggarstaff, that you are the magician people say you are. Even the Duchess—"
Beggarstaff waived the compliment aside. It was not for him to acquaint this pompous heir of the ages with the fact that her Grace of Rotherfield had consulted him over the regimental dinner and the subsequently perfumed programme. He wanted to make a deep impression, and he had every reason to be satisfied with his efforts.
"These things are easy," he said airily. "For instance, you came to consult me in the matter of the Blue-Eyed Syndicate. But I beg your pardon. You are unacquainted with the source of mischief under that somewhat mysterious title. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that your son, the Marquis of Balcombe, has made up his mind to marry Miss Gladys Beaumont, only child and heiress of the late Elijah J. Beaumont, of Chicago. Do you follow me? Do you admit that my premises are correct?"
"I cannot do anything else," the Duke responded.
"Very well. I see you have made up your mind to bow to the inevitable—"
"I must," his Grace admitted with a sudden burst of candour. "You see, I have theories. For some years now I have been preaching the regeneration of the British aristocracy. What we want is new blood; we have become anaemic, dyspeptic, super- hysterical. It is the duty of our class to marry healthy women, such as farmers' daughters, and the like. I have never ceased to urge this at meetings of the Physical Society. I have written a series of articles to the Times on the subject. On more than one occasion, I have publicly proclaimed the fact that if my son chose to marry a dairymaid I should receive the girl with open arms into the bosom of the family. To be perfectly frank with you, my dear Mr. Beggarstaff, I never contemplated Balcombe's doing anything so brutal."
"Miss Beaumont hardly comes under this category," Beggarstaff said thoughtfully, "From the physical side, your son might do a great deal worse. Miss Beaumont is what one calls petite, but she has the most perfect health, good looks, and the most marvellous pair of blue eyes in the world. Those eyes are divine—forest pools with the grasses playing over them, liquid lakes in the moonlight."
"Don't!" the Duke said, with uplifted hand. "Don't! Balcombe writes poetry; therefore please refrain!"
"Quite so," Beggarstaff said. "Let us keep to the prosaic side. In addition to her other charms Miss Beaumont has a quarter of a million of money. This sum was left to her absolutely on her coming of age, and I believe there are other contingencies. But let us join hands round the concrete fact of a quarter of a million. I presume you saw this duly set out in Mr. Beaumont's will, which you inspected at Somerset House before you came here this morning."
"But how did you know?" the Duke murmured.
"It does not in the least matter," Beggarstaff said, with the air of one who is accustomed to perform miracles. "You called at Somerset House, and paid a shilling to inspect the will. You changed a sovereign, and had nineteen shillings in change. Ten of these shillings you placed on the top of the ten-pound note which is my consultation fee, and which lies on the mantel-piece at the present moment. I assure you these kind of deductions are quite easy. But tell me, why do you want to prevent your son from marrying Miss Beaumont? I understand that the engagement has already been announced in the Morning Post."
"Precisely! You will quite see that I have nothing in the shape of a sound argument to stand on. I have stated quite openly that my son might marry a dairymaid if he chose, instead of which he has selected a girl of beautiful physical proportions with a quarter of a million of money. But that is not the point.
"I had already chosen a wife for my son, in the person of Miss Amy Trevyllian, whose family is quite equal to my own. Moreover, the girl is an orphan, and her estates are practically in the centre of my Hallamshire property. You see, it has been one of the dreams of my life to consolidate those two estates; and I quite thought that Balcombe had fallen into my way of thinking. There was a possibility some years ago of my purchasing the Trevyllian property; but, unfortunately for us, my late father was just a little what I might call—how shall I put it—"
"Lurid," Beggarstaff said, "not to say tempestuous. The purple patches in his career—"
"Quite so," the Duke said hastily. "You will see that my scheme for consolidating the estates was the better one. Still, that is all a shattered dream now, unless you can see some way to prevent this marriage. There must be no scandal; nothing in the least calculated to stain the family escutcheon."
"I understand," Beggarstaff said drily. "I thought we should come to business at last. You may make your mind perfectly easy on one score: the Marquis of Balcombe will not marry Miss Beaumont; and there will be no scandal—at least, so far as your people are concerned. But these things cost money, my dear Duke. A sordid view, perhaps, but there it is. In the first place, I must stipulate that you receive Miss Beaumont as if she were already one of the family, and that nothing should be done to arouse suspicions. If you agree to these terms, all you have to do now is to give me a cheque for ten thousand pounds."
The Duke started, and for a moment hesitated. What he wanted to know was whether the sum in question included the Sage's fee.
"That is so," Beggarstaff said gravely. "You must make up your mind to lose the ten thousand pounds—that is all you have to provide for. I take 10 per cent of the amount, with which I am perfectly satisfied. Unless you agree to these terms I shall have to wish you a very good morning. Just one moment—"
Beggarstaff crossed the room and opened a safe that stood in one corner. From it he produced a couple of cheques, and held them, fan-shaped, with his finger on the right hand bottom corner, so that his Grace might note the amounts. Both of them ran into six figures, and the Duke was proportionately impressed.
"These are given me to deal with exactly as I please," Beggarstaff explained. "They relate to international events—terrible scandals which I am about to avert. You will see that your affair is a mere farthing rush-light to these fierce flames that beat about a throne. So, unless you trust me implicitly, I must decline to act for you at all."
"Very well," the Duke said, with a sigh. "Perhaps, after all, it is not too large a price to pay for the consolidation of the Hallamshire property. You shall have the money in the course of the day. If there is anything I can do—"
"I assure you, nothing," Beggarstaff said firmly. "I will beg of you not to interfere, but leave everything absolutely to me. You will be leaving town in the course of a few days, I understand, and remain at Hallam Castle till about Christmas. You will be good enough to ask Miss Beaumont to pay a long visit to the Castle. By the way, is The Chauntroy still vacant? If so, I shall be by way of finding you a tenant for it. But all that is in the air for the present. Still, if a tenant does offer himself, you will not refuse to entertain his proposals, however objectionable he may be."
"I am entirely in your hands," the Duke said resignedly. "If there is any more I have to do—"
There was nothing more, as Beggarstaff proceeded to explain. He would not detain the Duke any longer, having already wasted enough of his valuable time. He escorted his visitor to the door, and then returned, having intimated to a servant that he would see nobody else this morning. He lay back in one of the big saddlebag armchairs, smoking a meditative cigarette. There was a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
"A very pretty comedy," he murmured to himself. "What a character for the stage his Grace would make, and what a triumph it all is for the Blue-Eyed Syndicate! Really, she deserves the strawberry-leaves. But I have passed my word that it shall not be; and, after all, I have to earn my fee."
IN the eyes of a thoughtless world, No. 845, Bond Street, was a bonnet-shop. As is customary with the marts of that exclusive thoroughfare, the outside of the establishment was mean, not to say dingy. A small window contained behind a sheet of plate-glass one flamboyant hat perched upon a kind of attenuated barbers'-pole.
Behind this was a brass rod and a screen of bilious-coloured silk bearing the name "Maude" in yellow lettering. It was popularly supposed by those behind the scenes that Madame Maude's establishment was really due to the genius of the Countess of Beaumanor. As everybody knows of the Beaumanors, they are the smartest of the smart, inasmuch as they always contrive to ruffle it on the crest of the wave without one penny of income from any source whatever.
An accomplishment like this is ever a passport to the most exclusive circle; and not a little of the Earl and Countess's popularity was due to the curiosity of their friends as to when the smash would come, and how proportionately disgraceful it would be when it did arrive. So far as the clubs knew, Beaumanor himself made a precarious, but none the less substantial, income by playing Bridge. It was only recently that the Countess had opened the establishment in Bond Street on the strength of a name for good taste and a natural desire to supplement a more or less fragmentary income.
As a matter of fact. Madame Maude was doing fairly well. There was only one thing that troubled her: the enormous credit which naturally her aristocratic patrons deemed they had a right to expect.
It was comparatively early yet, and the fashionable stream had not begun to invade the West-End shops. Madame Maude herself sat in an office behind the showroom, puckering her pretty brows over a set of parchment-coloured ledgers. She was still deeply immersed in this trying ordeal when one of the tall assistants came in with an intimation to the effect that Mr. Paul Beggarstaff desired to have a few minutes conversation with Lady Beaumanor.
"Ask him to come in," she said, "Ah, my dear Paul, this is indeed a pleasure! Positively I am at my wits' end to know what to do. What I regarded as a little gold mine looks likely to prove my undoing. I am ruined."
"Well, you were ruined before; so what does it matter?" Beggarstaff said cheerfully. "It is only a question of coming to grief for a few thousands more or less."
"Your philosophy is admirable," the Countess laughed. "Especially when you apply it to other people. My dear Paul, the situation is absolutely maddening. The thing is a gold mine. Positively there are no hats like mine on this side of the Channel. Sell? Why, I could sell billows of millinery every day, but to get the money for it is quite another thing. If I could collect half the accounts owing to me, I could pay off my debts and be a rich woman."
"Why not pay no debts, and still be a rich woman?" Beggarstaff suggested. "I know what's the matter with you; you want more capital. If you could lay your hands upon a couple of thousand pounds, or something like that—"
"Ah! if! I can manage to hold on for another six weeks or so; but at the end of that time, I shall have to go under unless the money is forthcoming. If you could only show me a way!"
"That is precisely what I am here for," Beggarstaff said crisply. "Cast your bread on the waters, and it will return after many days. My dear Maude, we will get the money. We are about to realise our shares in the Blue-Eyed Syndicate."
"Blue-Eyed Impostor!" the Countess cried. "If I had had my own way, I should have prosecuted her—"
"And lost over eight hundred pounds. I told you at the time, and I tell you still, that the money was well laid out; and I advised you to treat the Blue-Eyed Syndicate as a serious force, and to give her as much credit as she desired. In fact, to treat her as if you did not dream for a moment that she was a lovely impostor. Now I'll bet you a sealskin jacket to a three-penny bit that every penny the Blue-Eyed Syndicate owes you will he repaid within a month."
"Two thousand pounds!" the Countess cried. "Two thousand little golden angels to waft me on their wings to prosperity and a lovely autumn season at Pau. You never boast, my dear Paul, so I will take your word for it. The girl was in here yesterday. What a beauty she is! What eyes are those! Really, she must make a brilliant marriage. If it is true that she is engaged to Balcombe, well, then, of course—"
"Oh, it's true enough," Beggarstaff interrupted, "but she is not going to marry him, all the same. In fact, she is not going to marry a penny. Nevertheless you will get your money within the time stipulated, if you follow my advice implicitly. Let the girl have whatever she wants for the next two or three days, up to the time when she goes to stay at Hallam Castle, and then you are to serve a writ on her for the whole amount due. She will of course ignore the thing, and in the course of a few days you will be able to sign judgment. As there is nothing to levy upon, you will be able to apply for a writ of attachment."
"In the name of common sense, what does it mean?" the Countess asked. "Why don't you talk plain English?"
"My dear Maude, I am. What want you to understand is this: You will be able to arrest the Blue-Eyed Syndicate, which will cause her to play the game in the comedy which I have cut out for her. Lf you had acted in your own headstrong fashion, you would have prosecuted the Syndicate and lost every penny of your money. Add to which, you never would have obtained a conviction."
"I don't think I would," the Countess said thoughtfully. "We could never have proved that she knew her father to be an absolute pauper. There is not a soul in Mayfair to-day who does not regard Gladys Beaumont as anything but a great heiress. It was a noble scheme on her father's part to die with a will leaving his daughter a quarter of a million in cash. I don't even believe the late lamented Beaumont came from Chicago at all."
"He didn't," Beggarstaff laughed. "He was a pure and simple adventurer who left the British Army some years ago under shady circumstances and picked up a precarious living plucking pigeons on the Continent. Just before he died he had a streak of luck which enabled him to come home and carry it off with a fairly high hand at the Langham Hotel, where he posed as a wealthy American from Chicago. One or two of the needier Tyburnians took up Miss Beaumont, all the more warmly after her father died and his will was mentioned in the papers.
"There is not the faintest doubt in my mind that Gladys Beaumont knows all about the swindle, but the difficult thing is to prove it. You couldn't prove that she came to you and obtained a large amount of stuff on credit, knowing herself to be a pauper all the time. You were quite wise when you took my advice, and more or less trained her for the part she was to play in bringing about a brilliant marriage. Hence the Blue-Eyed Syndicate, and all that it has led up to. But for a piece of good fortune, Gladys Beaumont would have become Duchess of Rotherfield to a dead certainty. Not that she cares a fig about Balcombe—"
"She doesn't care a fig about anybody," the Countess said. "She is very lovely and very sweet, and all that kind of thing, but she hasn't one particle of heart. Very few of those placid, blue-eyed girls have. The only man she is capable of caring for is one of the big, strong Berserk type that bully women—I mean a combination of Colonel Crawley and Jonas Chuzzlewit—the kind of fellow who gets drunk and brutally ill-treats his wife when she expostulates. Gladys Beaumont would follow a man like that to the end of the world."
Beggarstaff sat down on an Empire settee, and laughed with the air of a man who is not disposed to over-criticise himself.
"Petruchio's Kate," he murmured, "I think I see her in the part, only it will be Kate in the third act, in her most chastened mood. Mind you, it is playing it rather low down upon the girl; but she is a consummate little actress and adventuress, and deserves all she gets. All you have to do now is to wait till she goes to Hallam Castle, and then take out your writ. I shall be up there, too; and you can let me know exactly how things stand from time to time. Anyway, there is one thing we may be sure of: if you act on instructions you are certain to get your money."
"Then give me a cheque for it now, and deduct the discount," said Lady Beaumanor promptly. "It will make no difference to you, and prove a kind of a mild salvation in my case."
Beggarstaff courteously declined to do anything of the kind. His knowledge of the smart set was extensive and peculiar, and besides, be was one of the best Bridge-players in London. He strolled out of the little shop presently, and made his way in the direction of the nearest telegraph office. Here he despatched a message, and then sauntered off westward with a view to lunching at his club.
It was late in the afternoon before a waiter came into the smoking-room with an intimation to the effect that a gentleman was asking for Mr. Beggarstaff.
The visitor came in a moment later—tall, broad- shouldered, and jaunty, exceedingly well dressed, but yet withal suggesting a flavour of benzoline and boot-polish.
The new-comer might have passed for a gentleman except with those over-fastidious in their choice of the article; but, big and strong as he was, there was a pungent flavour of the swashbuckler about him. His voice was a little too loud, his appearance of being at ease too pronounced. His short-cut hair seemed to accentuate the pertinacious type of his face, his features were broad, the nostrils widely-slit and upturned. One knew by instinct that he was well acquainted with bars and saloons, and that it was his habit to call the waitresses by their Christian names. He turned with insolence to the waiter standing by his elbow, he stared haughtily around the smoking- room, but, curiously enough, he had some difficulty in meeting Beggarstaff's penetrating eyes.
"Brandy-and-soda," he said—"a large one. I got your telegram, Beggarstaff. Anything I can do for you?"
"Yes," Beggarstaff said curtly. "You can be a little less familiar to begin with. I presume that you are in your usual state of impecuniosity. Like Mr. Micawber, you are still waiting for something to turn up."
The big mans sensual lips shook, with passion.
"Of course I am," he said. "I never did have a fair chance yet. Give me a thousand pounds, and see what I'll do with it. Give me a fair opening, and in three years I shall be ruffling it in one of those blooming Park Lane palaces."
"I quite believe you," Beggarstaff said. "You have been exceedingly useful to me on one or two occasions, and I am not indisposed to be grateful. A man like you, who is utterly unscrupulous and knows so much of the world, ought to get on when the crystal opportunity comes along. After all is said and done, you are no bigger a blackguard than some capitalists I can name. Now, what do you say to having the handling of something in the nature of ten thousand pounds?"
The narrow, cunning eyes of the listener widened, and he smiled. It was not a pretty smile, and, on the whole, Beggarstaff preferred the man's natural expression.
"You are rotting me!" he said hoarsely.
"I was never more in earnest in my life," Beggarstaff replied, "but there are certain conditions which will have to be implicitly obeyed. With the hold I have over you I am not in the least afraid that you will play me false. If you agree to what I propose, then to-morrow a cheque for nine thousand pounds passes into your hands. You are not likely to make much actual cash out of the deal—at least, not for the present, but ultimately you may do as you please, and no awkward questions asked. Now, how would you like to be a country gentleman, living in a fine place of your own and passing for a man of independent means?"
"I can do that easily enough," Marchmount said. "Don't forget that my people used to be in a good position in Yorkshire. I don't suppose I shall be good enough for some of the nobs, but I can pass easily enough with the rank and file. Now, what is your game?"
By way of reply, Beggarstaff took half a sheet of note-paper from his pocket, upon which, in his own neat handwriting he had written out a carefully toned paragraph. This he proceeded to read aloud to his puzzled visitor:—
"We understand that, after the lapse of some years, his Grace the Duke of Rotherfield's beautiful old house 'The Chauntrey' has been let to a South African magnate, who intends to take up his permanent residence there. The Chauntrey, which used to be the dower-house of the family of the Rohens, is situated just outside the lodge-gates at Hallam Castle, and is probably one of the finest specimens of Tudor architecture in the North of England.
"The hand of the spoiler has never been laid upon a single brick or beam, so that the new tenant will have the satisfaction of knowing that he is enjoying the full flavour of pure mediaevalism. It is an open secret that the house has passed into the possession of Mr. Marchmount Browne, the fortunate speculator who has so recently achieved such success prospecting in Rhodesia.
"The good sportsmen in the West Riding of Yorkshire will also appreciate the fact that Mr. Marchmount Browne is a gentleman by birth, and a connoisseur of the beautiful by choice and inclination. It is therefore a matter of comparative certainty that the fine old house will not suffer by comparison with other establishments in the neighbourhood whose artistic contents are a household word."
Marchmount stared open-mouthed at Beggarstaff. It is evident
that he suspected the latter of one of his exquisite practical
jokes.
"What on earth has all this got to do with me?" he growled. "And who the deuce is Marchmount Browne, anyway?"
"I was just coming to that," Beggarstaff said smoothly. "In this little, game, you are one of my puppets, and not the least important one either. Still, so long as you are well paid for your trouble, you will not mind. To break the thing to you gently, my good fellow, you are going to be Mr. Marchmount Browne."
A broad grin gradually spread over the engaging features of the listener. It seemed to Beggarstaff that he would play the part of the blatant South African millionaire with great success. Already Marchmount had visions of himself, installed comfortably in that fine old house, and incidentally plundering the local tradesmen on the strength of his fictitious wealth.
"I'm on," he whispered hoarsely. "You can count on me. But when is the play to commence? Lord, what a game it is! Here am I, almost reduced to my uppers, with no more than half-a-canary in my pocket, and me swelling in a day or two in one of the stately homes of England! Let's have another drink on the strength of it."
"No," Beggarstaff said politely, but firmly. "No doubt you will find it exceedingly irksome, but this has got to be one of the sober jobs. You had better go now, and come round to my rooms tonight, and I will give you my final instructions; and meanwhile you are not to look upon the wine that is red—or any other colour, for the matter of that That is all I have to say for the moment."
THERE were candles on the table—candles few and far between in great silver branches, pin-points of flame that served to accentuate the cases of darkness between. The Gospel of Dulness had been reduced to a fine art at Hallam Castle. According to the authority of the halfpenny papers, the Duke of Rotherfield was entertaining a select party at his place in Yorkshire. The select party in question was dining in the great hall, and consisted of the Duke and Duchess, with Lord Balcombe, his fiancée Miss Gladys Beaumont, and Mr. Paul Beggarstaff.
The latter could have wished just then for something to animate the feast—something of the flowing-bowl order, it occurred to him as he sat there, toying with an insufficient portion of grouse, served on old silver, that a little diversion in the way of fireworks might have struck the right note. In that lofty hall, with its dimly-outlined painted ceilings, a flight of rockets would have been perhaps appropriate.
At the head of the great mahogany table the Duke sat like the presiding genius of maddening respectability. Away somewhere down the dim perspective, Beggarstaff could see the outline of hard grey hair and aquiline nose, which was all he could make of the Duchess. On his left-hand sat Miss Beaumont; and, opposite, a dazzling expanse of shirt-front, which was faintly topped by the classic head of the Marquis of Balcombe. The conversation languished; one topic after another dropped and died like sensitive plants for want of water. It seemed to Beggarstaff that he was earning his fee. He was approaching the end of a fortnight's visit, and the end of the week would see him back in town again.
It was good to turn to the fair being on Paul's left hand. One of the islands of light fell upon her face, and brought out all the serene and healthy beauty of it. Gladys Beaumont belonged to the type of woman from whom society demands no brilliant originality. She was like a beautiful picture by Romney—made to be looked at, and to gladden the heart of the connoisseur. Those marvellous blue eyes were uplifted to Beggarstaff for a moment, and he thrilled. He could understand men committing crime for a pair of eyes like those. He thought of Ninon de l'Enclos, of the Pompadour and other historic beauties who had punctuated the history of empire with their glances. And yet at the same time there was a demure suggestion in those azure orbs that belied their innocent serenity.
"Take it away," the Duke said solemnly. "I make no point of it. It is not for me to suggest that mortals never make mistakes, but the sauce is burnt."
A solemn butler together with a few satellites in gorgeous livery held a consultation over the offending sauceboat. They looked less like servants than medical specialists called in consultation over some grave case. Beggarstaff appeared to be listening with bated breath. Altogether it was an awesome moment.
"This happened once before," the Duchess remarked from the depths of the circumambient gloom. "I thought perhaps I was mistaken. I put it down to the condition of my liver."
The chatelaine of Hallam Castle spoke as if the organ in question belonged to a class of its own. Beggarstaff was gravely sympathetic.
"The liver of great age, the liver of our forefathers—I mean your forefathers," he said, his mind playing vicariously around a certain well-known advertisement. "But we have all our trials."
"Some of us have our trials made for us," the Duchess said significantly. "What I have gone through the last fortnight would have tried more sensitive nerves than mine. Indeed it was with positive gratitude for me to learn that that man could not dine with us this evening. What the Duke could possibly see—"
"My dear, it is a matter of business," the Duke expostulated. "I am quite willing to admit that Mr. Marchmount Browne does not belong to our set. Indeed I may go further and say that in ordinary circumstances nothing would have induced me to offer him the hospitality of my house; but it never occurred to me, when I agreed to let him The Chauntrey, that he would have the audacity to make an offer for the Trevyllian estates. You can imagine my astonishment when one of Amy Trevyllian's trustees wrote me saying that Mr. Browne had offered them two hundred thousand pounds for the property. As honourable men, bound to do their best for their ward, they could not possibly refuse. So far as I am concerned, I could not possibly have improved the offer. For this reason only, I have cultivated Mr. Marchmount Browne's acquaintance. It seemed to me that there was a chance of inducing him to change his mind. I am sanguine that I almost convinced Mr. Browne when he dined here on Monday."
A prolonged sigh came from the vicinity of the Duchess.
The servants were bringing in the dessert now; the candles gleamed fitfully on the polished mahogany. Then there was a rustle of skirts, and the ghostly figure of the Duchess vanished into the Ewigkeit. Glorious blue eyes flashed just for an instant into Beggarstaff's face.
"You will come and play me a game of billiards presently?" Gladys Beaumont whispered. "We shall be quite alone, as Lord Balcombe is writing a sonnet. I understand he has reached the third line, and cannot succeed in getting a good rhyme to 'devotion.'"
Beggarstaff crossed the great corridor presently, picking his way carefully through the gloom.
The place seemed to be lighted on the principle of one candle to a cubic acre of space.
Paul could catch sight of figures in armour and great frescoes on the walls. The majesty and gloom of the house were Titanic. It was easily possible to imagine oneself going melancholy-mad in the midst of this gloomy splendour.
It was not much better in the billiard-room, for the table lighted with oil lamps, and the balls cast long shadows over the mouldy cloth. The condition of the table mattered nothing. The woodwork was most elaborately carved.
"It reminds me of Gilbert's song in the 'Mikado,'" Miss Beaumont said with a flashing smile. "I love this table. You never know what the balls are going to do next. Mr. Beggarstaff, is it really true that Mr. Marchmount Browne wants to buy Amy Trevyllian's property?"
"I dare say," Beggarstaff said carelessly. "He seems to be a very rich man."
"And what a man!" Gladys said. "Do you know, I don't think I have ever admired anybody more in my life. I should hate to be tied up to the ordinary type of husband. I should want to poison him in a week. But a man like Mr. Browne, who would be master of his own house—ah, that is quite a different affair! I could imagine him beating his wife if she tried on any of her nonsense."
"You would prefer him to Lord Balcombe?"
"Balcombe! An insipid copy of Lord Byron without his good looks and his redeeming vices. I don't think I could possibly go through with it, and yet I must do something. Positively, Lady Beaumanor refuses to give me any more credit. She has been sending me most dreadful papers lately through her solicitors. Indeed, I rather gather that I am going to be locked up unless I make arrangements to pay all that money forthwith. Can't you do anything for me?"
"I am afraid not," Beggarstaff said. "It is no light matter to interfere with an angry woman where money is concerned. But still there is no reason why you should not hurry on your marriage with Balcombe; or you might confide in him, and he would advance you the necessary amount—"
"Indeed he wouldn't. These people are patrician to their finger-tips; and they are just as greedy about money as any shop- keeper. Besides, you see, my poor father—"
The girl paused and hesitated. Beggarstaff smiled.
"Oh, we know all about that," he said. "Your father was an exceedingly clever man; and, between ourselves, he left behind a daughter who was worthy of him in every way. My dear girl, you need not frown at me like that. I know all about it, and you know that I do. That will of your father's has been a valuable asset to you. Where would you have been without it?"
Gladys Beaumont laughed unaffectedly. It was no use keeping up the mask with this man.
He knew perfectly well how the whole thing had been arranged. He read her like an open book. He might have said more, only one of the gorgeously arrayed footmen came in at the same moment with a telegram. Beggarstaff tore it open, and read it with affected carelessness. The message contained but two words:
ELEVEN O'CLOCK
Paul pitched the flimsy into the fireplace; a moment
later a big bell tolled out from the flag-tower.
"Ten o'clock!" Gladys Beaumont said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Family prayers filtered through the Duke, then bed, and breakfast at half-past seven. Think of all this mapped out for me for the next fifty years or so! My dear Paul Beggarstaff, there would be a blazing scandal at Hallam Castle long before that. I wonder, I really wonder, what Mr. Marchmount Browne is doing at this moment? Also, I wonder what the good people here would say If they knew how often I have met that really magnificent specimen of a man the last fortnight?"
BEGGARSTAFF carefully opened the door of his bedroom, and glanced into the darkened corridor. He held one of the branches of candles in his hand. From his room came a pungent blast of tobacco-smoke. The Indian weed was strictly tabooed in Hallam Castle, but then Beggarstaff always made it a point of overriding restrictions of this kind. He had not yet undressed. The big clock was striking eleven as he made his way down to the dining room. Everybody had retired long before. The place was silent as the tomb and as dreary as a mausoleum.
Beggarstaff had not long to wait. His quick ear caught a footfall on the stairs, and he crept close to the door. A second later, and he had a cloaked figure in his grasp. The cloaked figure made no sign, but Beggarstaff could feel that it was trembling violently. He led his companion to the light, and in his gentlest possible manner removed the hood from her head.
"It is my privilege as a Seer to read the thoughts of others," he said. "Will you tell me where you are going, Miss Beaumont, or shall I tell you? Not that I am going to interfere. It is possible to make a dubious living out of the follies of fools, and yet be a good sportsman at the same time. Shall I ask him to come in?"
Gladys Beaumont stood there, deadly white, for a moment. Then the hot blood flamed into her face; those deep liquid lakes of blue were turned appealingly to Beggarstaff.
"He loves me," she whispered. "Oh, I dare say you would say he is a bad man, and that he has lived his life, but he is the only one for me. He will bully me and perhaps ill-treat me when the mood is on him, but I care for him for his very strength and power. Besides, I am penniless. Why should I disguise from you the trick invented by my father and myself to blind fools and gain me friends for the sake of my so-called money?"
"Balcombe," Beggar staff said tentatively, "He also is rich."
"Oh, I know, I know. But then, you see, he is not a man. How long could I stand this life without flying in the face of public opinion? No, no, Mr. Beggarstaff."
By way of reply, Beggarstaff crossed the room and opened one of the long windows leading to the lawn. He expressed no surprise to find Marchmount standing there in an attitude of expectation. As if it had been all part of a stage play, he led Gladys forward, and placed her hand in that of Marchmount.
"This is affecting," he said. "The union of two fresh young hearts always moves me to tears. It is no time or place, Mr. Marchmount, to remind you that you are betraying my instructions. Still, in my time I have not been insensible to the seduction of blue eyes—or brown eyes, for the matter of that. Bless you, my children, Miss Beaumont cannot be suspected of anything but the purest intentions, seeing that she is a great heiress in her own right; and the same remark applies to the happy bridegroom. A man who could afford to take the Chauntrey and furnish it regardless of expense, must be in an exceedingly happy financial condition. Therefore, once more, bless you, my children."
"How did you know?" Marchmount grinned uneasily.
"My happy Benedick, I know everything," Beggarstaff said. "From the first moment you two met, I saw the inevitable, plain as the writing on the wall. Therefore, as a friend of Miss Beaumont's, I determined to prepare for an emergency. You need not take the trouble to worry as to how you are going to get to York, because you will find my Mercedes car waiting for you at the lodge-gates. My man has all his instructions. Further than this, I ask your acceptance of this little strip of parchment. It is from the Archbishop of York to his well-beloved James Marchmount and Gladys Beaumont. In prosaic words it is a special marriage licence. I have calculated that you can be at St. Peter's at York by eight-thirty o'clock in the morning, where you will find the vicar awaiting you. No. I need no thanks. It is always part of my system to do these things thoroughly."
Beggarstaff turned and closed the window behind him. Then he went quietly up the stairs, and thence to bed.
THE blinds were all down at Halham Castle as the newly-married pair drove along in the direction of The Chauntrey. It had been gravely announced in the Times, and other frivolous papers of that kind, that the Duke and Duchess of Rotherfield, together with the Marquis of Balcombe, had gone abroad for the winter. At the same time the pronouncement had gone round to the effect that the marriage arranged between Lord Balcombe and Miss Gladys Beaumont would not take place. On the whole, society had every reason to be grateful.
If the genius who had inspired this little comedy had been present at that moment, he would have been fain to admit that Marchmount was somewhat improved by matrimony. His charming wife sat opposite to him, dressed from head to foot in white. There was no shadow of trouble in her lovely blue eyes. She looked like some innocent child on a pleasure-trip.
A servant or two stood in the hall as Gladys entered. She flitted like a butterfly from place to place. She was loud in her admiration of the fine old artistic furniture. Marchmount grinned as he listened. He took up a copy of the World, evidently laid down there by some thoughtful domestic, for on a turned-back page he could see an elaborate, not to say spicy, account of his own elopement with the heiress of Mr. Elijah B. Beaumont, late of Chicago.
The dinner-hour was drawing near as Gladys came tripping down the stairs into the drawing-room. She was all in white still; there were flowers in her hair; her gleaming shoulders were like some delicately carved ivory. Marchmount, stood, big and strong and overbearing, with his back to the fireplace. His eyes lighted up as Gladys entered. He caught her to him with a passionate force, and kissed her lips. It was evident enough that this man had given the whole of his passionate heart to the slim creature by his side.
"Come," he cried. "This is better than Hallam Castle, anyway. I wonder what that ass Balcombe would say if he could see us now? If he ever cared for you—"
"He didn't," Gladys laughed. "He was too egregious to care for anybody but himself. Behind that superior manner of his were a little mind and a little nature. It struck him as not a bad thing to have a couple of hundred thousand pounds in the family. Not being aware for a moment that I was an absolute pauper—"
Gladys delivered the blow with a sidelong smile, and an upward glance of those lovely blue eyes, yet at the same time her face was very pale, her lips had lost their colour. Marchmount glared, his eyes grew bloodshot, the big red veins stood cut like whipcords on his forehead. He laid a hand upon Gladys' arm. She winced with the pressure, but her pleading eyes never left the coarse red face.
"It is true," she whispered. "I have no money. I never had any. When my father died he had spent the last ten-pound note. It was part of the game for him to pass as a rich American. It was part of the game for him to leave me a large fortune. The thing was talked about. I was invited everywhere. Oh, how good they all were to the poor little orphan! How they fought to take care of me and my money! I could have married a score of rich men. You know I could have become a duchess had I liked... Jim!... For God's sake don't look at me like that! You are not going to—murder me?"
The grip had been relaxed from Gladys' arm; the imprint of the cruel fingers left a deep stain like blood on virgin snow. Marchmount was seeing red now, his wife's face floated before him in a crimson haze, he did not know that his hand was clenched upon the milky throat. A faint cry came from somewhere, but he did not identify it with his wife's despairing agony. Then the red mist cleared away, and Marchmount staggered back, trembling violently.
"I nearly did it," he said hoarsely. "You should have broken it to me more gently. Your eyes came out of the mist, and I couldn't.... Oh, you magnificent little liar, you consummate actress! If I had only known!"
Gladys took fresh heart of grace. There was no withering scorn in the speaker's voice. It rang with grudging, but none the less passionate admiration. Gladys crept to the side of her husband, she touched him timidly.
"I love you!" she said. "Oh, Jim, if you only knew how much I love you! You are the only man in the world for me. I want some one to look up to, to admire, to be desperately afraid of. But what does this money matter so long as you have so much of your own?"
"You witch, you beautiful white devil!" Marchmount said. There was no anger in his voice now, his red eyes were smiling. "Now answer me a question. Suppose I had no money; suppose I tell you at the present moment that I am as poor as you are?"
"I think I should be glad," Gladys whispered. "Anyway, I would have married you just the same. Before Heaven, I would have done so, Jim."
Marchmount fairly lifted his wife from her feet and kissed her passionately. She thrilled with gratitude and admiration. For a good man she would have cared nothing; for this adventurous blackguard she would have imperilled her slim, anaemic soul. She looked up swiftly as Marchmount burst into a stentorian laugh.
"Sold all round!" he cried. "You have married a pauper after all, my girl. We have both been the puppets of that cunning devil Beggarstaff. Don't you see that he was employed by the Duke to prevent you from marrying Balcombe? His idea was to throw us together, so that I might fall in love with you, or your money, or both. On the other hand, he reckoned you up pretty well. He knew that I should act as a fine foil to Balcombe. Egad! he must have known it, or he would never have smoothed the way for our marriage, and provided the special certificate in the way he did. There is another thing. Did you not tell me just now that Madame Maude, otherwise Lady Beaumanor, was pressing you for the payment of a large account? Don't you know that Beggarstaff is practically in partnership with my lady?"
"I had forgotten that," Gladys laughed. "You see. Lady Beaumanor more or less dressed me on the strength of my money. When she found out the truth, she was furious, and threatened to prosecute me. I see now why Paul Beggarstaff used to call me the Blue-Eyed Syndicate. It was he who induced Lady Beaumanor to go on giving me credit until I should make a rich marriage. I shrewdly suspect, also, that it was he who advised her ladyship to put pressure on me, and so force on my marriage with the South African millionaire—Mr. Marchmount Browne. But tell me, Jim, how could you possibly be a pauper with all these lovely things about you?"
Marchmount proceeded to explain. As he outlined the plot things became more and more clear to him.
"I had nine thousand pounds in cash," he explained. "I was to furnish this place in style, and you can see that I have done so. Look round. All my carpets and pictures, the silver and the china, and all the rest of it. The artistic game is to half furnish a room and then call it restraint. Take the dining-room as an example. Magnificent Murillo over the fireplace; looks as if it were worth five thousand pounds. Wardour Street, my girl,—Brummagem! There isn't a blessed article in the house that isn't faked, from the big sideboard in the dining-room right down to these shoddy prayer-rugs all over the floor. Do you suppose I was going to lose a chance like that? Why, I haven't spent a penny more than a thousand pounds here, and the rest I have got snug in the bank. What did it all matter? People regard me as a great capitalist, and therefore all this flashy furniture passes for genuine. You shall have your debts paid, old girl, and we will just disappear from here, leaving a lot of rapacious tradesmen to mourn our loss. With my brains and capital, and those lovely blue eyes and innocent manner of yours, it is odd if we don't get to the top of the tree. This is the first real chance I have ever had, and I am not going to let go of it without a fight. Now, come in to dinner, and let's drink to the health of Paul Beggarstaff, the best friend we ever had."
They went in together gaily, much as a boy and girl might do. Marchmount beamed with pleasure; his great coarse face was full of the joy of combat. Gladys sat there demure and smiling, with a light flashing on her glorious eyes. A strangely assorted couple, and likely to be dangerous to the peace of mind of those with whom the adventurers might come in contact. Marchmount filled a brimming tumbler of champagne, and raised it to the health of Paul Beggarstaff.