Intrusion of Jimmy Page 12

welter of rehearsers, his opportunities of talking with Molly were

  infinitesimal. And, worse, she did not appear to mind. She was

  cheerful and apparently quite content to be engulfed in a crowd.

  Probably, he thought with some melancholy, if she met his eye and

  noted in it a distracted gleam, she put it down to the cause that

  made other eyes in the company gleam distractedly during this week.

  Jimmy began to take a thoroughly jaundiced view of amateur

  theatricals, and of these amateur theatricals in particular. He felt

  that in the electric flame department of the infernal regions there

  should be a special gridiron, reserved exclusively for the man who

  invented these performances, so diametrically opposed to the true

  spirit of civilization. At the close of each day, he cursed

  Charteris with unfailing regularity.

  There was another thing that disturbed him. That he should be unable

  to talk with Molly was an evil, but a negative evil. It was

  supplemented by one that was positive. Even in the midst of the

  chaos of rehearsals, he could not help noticing that Molly and Lord

  Dreever were very much together. Also--and this was even more

  sinister--he observed that both Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern

  were making determined efforts to foster the state of affairs.

  Of this, he had sufficient proof one evening when, after scheming

  and plotting in a way that had made the great efforts of Machiavelli

  and Eichlieu seem like the work of raw novices, he had cut Molly out

  from the throng, and carried her off for the alleged purpose of

  helping him feed the chickens. There were, as he had suspected,

  chickens attached to the castle. They lived in a little world of

  noise and smells at the back of the stables. Bearing an iron pot

  full of a poisonous-looking mash, and accompanied by Molly, he had

  felt for perhaps a minute and a half like a successful general. It

  is difficult to be romantic when you are laden with chicken-feed in

  an unwieldy iron pot, but he had resolved that this portion of the

  proceedings should be brief. The birds should dine that evening on

  the quick-lunch principle. Then--to the more fitting surroundings of

  the rose-garden! There was plenty of time before the hour of the

  sounding of the dressing-gong. Perhaps, even a row on the lake--

  "What ho!" said a voice.

  Behind them, with a propitiatory smile on his face, stood his

  lordship of Dreever.

  "My uncle told me I should find you out here. What have you got in

  there, Pitt? Is this what you feed them on? I say, you know, queer

  coves, hens! I wouldn't touch that stuff for a fortune, what? Looks

  to me poisonous."

  He met Jimmy's eye, and stopped. There was that in Jimmy's eye that

  would have stopped an avalanche. His lordship twiddled his fingers

  in pink embarrassment.

  "Oh, look!" said Molly. "There's a poor little chicken out there in

  the cold. It hasn't had a morsel. Give me the spoon, Mr. Pitt. Here,

  chick, chick! Don't be silly, I'm not going to hurt you. I've

  brought you your dinner."

  She moved off in pursuit of the solitary fowl, which had edged

  nervously away. Lord Dreever bent toward Jimmy.

  "Frightfully sorry, Pitt, old man," he whispered, feverishly.

  "Didn't want to come. Couldn't help it. He sent me out." He half-

  looked over his shoulder. "And," he added rapidly, as Molly came

  back, "the old boy's up at his bedroom window now, watching us

  through his opera-glasses!"

  The return journey to the house was performed in silence--on Jimmy's

  part, in thoughtful silence. He thought hard, and he had been

  thinking ever since.

  He had material for thought. That Lord Dreever was as clay in his

  uncle's hands he was aware. He had not known his lordship long, but

  he had known him long enough to realize that a backbone had been

  carelessly omitted from his composition. What his uncle directed,

  that would he do. The situation looked bad to Jimmy. The order, he

  knew, had gone out that Lord Dreever was to marry money. And Molly

  was an heiress. He did not know how much Mr. McEachern had amassed

  in his dealings with New York crime, but it must be something

  considerable. Things looked black.

  Then, Jimmy had a reaction. He was taking much for granted. Lord

  Dreever might be hounded into proposing to Molly, but what earthly

  reason was there for supposing that Molly would accept him? He

  declined even for an instant to look upon Spennie's title in the

  light of a lure. Molly was not the girl to marry for a title. He

  endeavored to examine impartially his lordship's other claims. He

  was a pleasant fellow, with--to judge on short acquaintanceship--an

  undeniably amiable disposition. That much must be conceded. But

  against this must be placed the equally undeniable fact that he was

  also, as he would have put it himself, a most frightful ass. He was

  weak. Pie had no character. Altogether, the examination made Jimmy

  more cheerful. He could not see the light-haired one, even with Sir

  Thomas Blunt shoving behind, as it were, accomplishing the knight's

  ends. Shove he never so wisely, Sir Thomas could never make a Romeo

  out of Spennie Dreever.

  It was while sitting in the billiard-room one night after dinner,

  watching his rival play a hundred up with the silent Hargate, that

  Jimmy came definitely to this conclusion. He had stopped there to

  watch, more because he wished to study his man at close range than

  because the game was anything out of the common as an exposition of

  billiards. As a matter of fact, it would have been hard to imagine a

  worse game. Lord Dreever, who was conceding twenty, was poor, and

  his opponent an obvious beginner. Again, as he looked on, Jimmy was

  possessed of an idea that he had met Hargate before. But, once more,

  he searched his memory, and drew blank. He did not give the thing

  much thought, being intent on his diagnosis of Lord Dreever, who by

  a fluky series of cannons had wobbled into the forties, and was now

  a few points ahead of his opponent.

  Presently, having summed his lordship up to his satisfaction and

  grown bored with the game, Jimmy strolled out of the room. He paused

  outside the door for a moment, wondering what to do. There was

  bridge in the smoking-room, but he did not feel inclined for bridge.

  From the drawing-room came sounds of music. He turned in that

  direction, then stopped again. He came to the conclusion that he did

  not feel sociable. He wanted to think. A cigar on the terrace would

  meet his needs.

  He went up to his room for his cigar-case. The window was open. He

  leaned out. There was almost a full moon, and it was very light out

  of doors. His eye was caught by a movement at the further end of the

  terrace, where the shadow was. A girl came out of the shadow,

  walking slowly.

  Not since early boyhood had Jimmy descended stairs with such a rare

  burst of speed. He negotiated the nasty turn at the end of the first

  flight at quite a suicidal pace. Fate, however, had apparently

  wakened again and r
esumed business, for he did not break his neck. A

  few moments later, he was out on the terrace, bearing a cloak which,

  he had snatched up en route in the hall.

  "I thought you might be cold," he said, breathing quickly.

  "Oh, thank you," said Molly. "How kind of you!" He put it round her

  shoulders. "Have you. been running?"

  "I came downstairs rather fast."

  "Were you afraid the boogaboos would get you?" she laughed. "I was

  thinking of when I was a small child. I was always afraid of them. I

  used, to race downstairs when I had to go to my room in the dark,

  unless I could persuade someone to hold my hand all the way there

  and back."

  Her spirits had risen with Jimmy's arrival. Things had been

  happening that worried her. She had gone out on to the terrace to be

  alone. When she heard his footsteps, she had dreaded the advent of

  some garrulous fellow-guest, full of small talk. Jimmy, somehow, was

  a comfort. He did not disturb the atmosphere. Little as they had

  seen of each other, something in him--she could not say what--had

  drawn her to him. He was a man whom she could trust instinctively.

  They walked on in silence. Words were pouring into Jimmy's mind, but

  he could not frame them. He seemed to have lost the power of

  coherent thought.

  Molly said nothing. It was not a night for conversation. The moon

  had turned terrace and garden into a fairyland of black and silver.

  It was a night to look and listen and think.

  They walked slowly up and down. As they turned for the second time,

  Molly's thoughts formed themselves into a question. Twice she was on

  the point of asking it, but each time she checked herself. It was an

  impossible question. She had no right to put it, and he had no right

  to answer. Yet, something was driving her on to ask it.

  It came out suddenly, without warning.

  "Mr. Pitt, what do you think of Lord Dreever?"

  Jimmy started. No question could have chimed in more aptly with his

  thoughts. Even as she spoke, he was struggling to keep himself from

  asking her the same thing.

  "Oh, I know I ought not to ask," she went on. "He's your host, and

  you're his friend. I know. But--"

  Her voice trailed off. The muscles of Jimmy's back tightened and

  quivered. But he could find no words.

  "I wouldn't ask anyone else. But you're--different, somehow. I don't

  know what I mean. We hardly know each other. But--"

  She stopped again; and still he was dumb.

  "I feel so alone," she said very quietly, almost to herself.

  Something seemed to break in Jimmy's head. His brain suddenly

  cleared. He took a step forward.

  A huge shadow blackened the white grass. Jimmy wheeled round. It was

  McEachern.

  "I have been looking for you, Molly, my dear," he said, heavily. "I

  thought you must have gone to bed."

  He turned to Jimmy, and addressed him for the first time since their

  meeting in the bedroom.

  "Will you excuse us, Mr. Pitt?"

  Jimmy bowed, and walked rapidly toward the house. At the door, he

  stopped and looked back. The two were standing where he had left

  them.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A MARRIAGE ARRANGED

  Neither Molly nor her father had moved or spoken while Jimmy was

  covering the short strip of turf that ended at the stone steps of

  the house. McEachern stood looking down at her in grim silence. His

  great body against the dark mass of the castle wall seemed larger

  than ever in the uncertain light. To Molly, there was something

  sinister and menacing in his attitude. She found herself longing

  that Jimmy would come back. She was frightened. Why, she could not

  have said. It was as if some instinct told her that a crisis in her

  affairs had been reached, and that she needed him. For the first

  time in her life, she felt nervous in her father's company. Ever

  since she was a child, she had been accustomed to look upon him as

  her protector; hut, now, she was afraid.

  "Father!" she cried.

  "What are you doing out here?"

  His voice was tense and strained.

  "I came out because I wanted to think, father, dear."

  She thought she knew his moods, but this was one that she had never

  seen. It frightened her.

  "Why did he come out here?"

  "Mr. Pitt? He brought me a wrap."

  "What was he saying to you?"

  The rain of questions gave Molly a sensation of being battered. She

  felt dazed, and a little mutinous. What had she done that she should

  be assailed like this?

  "He was saying nothing," she said, rather shortly.

  "Nothing? What do you mean? What was he saying? Tell me!"

  Molly's voice shook as she replied.

  "He was saying nothing," she repeated. "Do you think I'm not telling

  the truth, father? He had not spoken a word for ever so long. We

  just walked up and down. I was thinking, and I suppose he was, too.

  At any rate, he said nothing. I--I think you might believe me."

  She began to cry quietly. Her father had never been like this

  before. It hurt her.

  McEachern's manner changed in a flash. In the shock of finding Jimmy

  and Molly together on the terrace, he had forgotten himself. He had

  had reason, to be suspicious. Sir Thomas Blunt, from whom he had

  just parted, had told him a certain piece of news which had

  disturbed him. The discovery of Jimmy with Molly had lent an added

  significance to that piece of news. He saw that he had been rough.

  In a moment, he was by her side, his great arm round her shoulder,

  petting and comforting her as he had done when she was a child. He

  believed her word without question; and his relief made him very

  tender. Gradually, the sobs ceased. She leaned against his arm.

  "I'm tired, father," she whispered.

  "Poor little girl. We'll sit down."

  There was a seat at the end of the terrace. McEachern picked Molly

  up as if she had been a baby, and carried her to it. She gave a

  little cry.

  "I didn't mean I was too tired to walk," she said, laughing

  tremulously. "How strong you are, father! If I was naughty, you

  could take me up and shake me till I was good, couldn't you?"

  "Of course. And send you to bed, too. So, you, be careful, young

  woman."

  He lowered her to the seat. Molly drew the cloak closer round her,

  and shivered.

  "Cold, dear?"

  "No."

  "You shivered."

  "It was nothing. Yes, it was," she went on quickly; "it was. Father,

  will you promise me something?"

  "Of course. What?"

  "Don't ever be angry with me like that again, will you? I couldn't

  bear it. Really, I couldn't. I know it's stupid of me, but it hurt.

  You don't know how it hurt."

  "But, my dear--"

  "Oh, I know it's stupid. But--"

  "But, my darling, it wasn't so. I was angry, but it wasn't with

  you."

  "With--? Were you angry with Mr. Pitt?"

  McEachern saw that he had traveled too far. He had intended that

  Jimmy's existence should be forgotten for the time being. He had


  other things to discuss. But it was too late now. He must go

  forward.

  "I didn't like to see you out here alone with Mr. Pitt, dear," he

  said. "I was afraid--"

  He saw that he must go still further forward. It was more than,

  awkward. He wished to hint at the undesirability of an entanglement

  with Jimmy without admitting the possibility of it. Not being a man,

  of nimble brain, he found this somewhat beyond his powers.

  "I don't like him," he said, briefly. "He's crooked."

  Molly's eyes opened wide. The color had gone from her face.

  "Crooked, father?"

  McEachern perceived that he had traveled very much too far, almost

  to disaster. He longed to denounce Jimmy, but he was gagged. If

  Molly were to ask the question, that Jimmy had asked in the bedroom-

  -that fatal, unanswerable question! The price was too great to pay.

  He spoke cautiously, vaguely, feeling his way.

  "I couldn't explain to you, my dear. You wouldn't understand. You

  must remember, my dear, that out in New York I was in a position to

  know a great many queer characters--crooks, Molly. I was working

  among them."

  "But, father, that night at our house you didn't know Mr. Pitt. He

  had to tell you his name."

  "I didn't know him--then," said her father slowly, "but--but--" he

  paused--"but I made inquiries," he concluded with a rush, "and found

  out things."

  He permitted himself a long, silent breath of relief. He saw his way

  now.

  "Inquiries?" said Molly. "Why?"

  "Why?"

  "Why did you suspect him?"

  A moment earlier, the question might have confused McEachern, but

  not now. He was equal to it. He took it in his stride.

  "It's hard to say. my dear, A man who has had as much to do with

  crooks as I have recognizes them when he sees them."

  "Did you think Mr. Pitt looked--looked like that?" Her voice was

  very small. There was a drawn, pinched expression on her face. She

  was paler than ever.

  He could not divine her thoughts. He could not know what his words

  had done; how they had shown her in a flash what Jimmy was to her,

  and lighted her mind like a flame, revealing the secret hidden

  there. She knew now. The feeling of comradeship, the instinctive

  trust, the sense of dependence--they no longer perplexed her; they

  were signs which she could read.

  And he was crooked!

  McEachern proceeded. Belief made him buoyant.