Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

  "I did, my dear. I can read them like a book. I've met scores of his

  sort. Broadway is full of them. Good clothes and a pleasant manner

  don't make a man honest. I've run up against a mighty high-toned

  bunch of crooks in my day. It's a long time since I gave up thinking

  that it was only the ones with the low foreheads and the thick ears

  that needed watching. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all

  they could do was to lead the cotillon. This man Pitt's one of them.

  I'm not guessing, mind you. I know. I know his line, and all about

  him. I'm watching him. He's here on some game. How did he get here?

  Why, he scraped acquaintance with Lord Dreever in a London

  restaurant. It's the commonest trick on the list. If I hadn't

  happened to be here when he came, I suppose he'd have made his haul

  by now. Why, he came all prepared for it! Have you seen an ugly,

  grinning, red-headed scoundrel hanging about the place? His valet.

  So he says. Valet! Do you know who that is? That's one of the most

  notorious yegg-men on the other side. There isn't a policeman in New

  York who doesn't know Spike Mullins. Even if I knew nothing of this

  Pitt, that would be enough. What's an innocent man going round the

  country with Spike Mullins for, unless they are standing in together

  at some game? That's who Mr. Pitt is, my dear, and that's why maybe

  I seemed a little put out when I came upon you and him out here

  alone together. See as little of him as you can. In a large party

  like this, it won't be difficult to avoid him."

  Molly sat staring out across the garden. At first, every word had

  been a stab. Several times, she had been on the point of crying out

  that she could bear it no longer. But, gradually, a numbness

  succeeded the pain. She found herself listening apathetically.

  McEachern talked on. He left the subject of Jimmy, comfortably

  conscious that, even if there had ever existed in Molly's heart any

  budding feeling of the kind he had suspected, it must now be dead.

  He steered the conversation away until it ran easily among

  commonplaces. He talked of New York, of the preparations for the

  theatricals. Molly answered composedly. She was still pale, and a

  certain listlessness in her manner might have been noticed by a more

  observant man than Mr. McEachern. Beyond this, there was nothing to

  show that her heart had been born and killed but a few minutes

  before. Women have the Red Indian instinct; and Molly had grown to

  womanhood in those few minutes.

  Presently, Lord Dreever's name came up. It caused a momentary pause,

  and McEachern took advantage of it. It was the cue for which he had

  been waiting. He hesitated for a moment, for the conversation was

  about to enter upon a difficult phase, and he was not quite sure of

  himself. Then, he took the plunge.

  "I have just been talking to Sir Thomas, my dear," he said. He tried

  to speak casually, and, as a natural result, infused so much meaning

  into his voice that Molly looked at him in surprise. McEachern

  coughed confusedly. Diplomacy, he concluded, was not his forte. He

  abandoned it in favor of directness. "He was telling me that you had

  refused Lord Dreever this evening."

  "Yes. I did," said Molly. "How did Sir Thomas know?"

  "Lord Dreever told him."

  Molly raised her eyebrows.

  "I shouldn't have thought it was the sort of thing he would talk

  about," she said.

  "Sir Thomas is his uncle."

  "Of course, so he is," said Molly, dryly. "I forgot. That would

  account for it, wouldn't it?"

  Mr. McEachern looked at her with some concern. There was a hard ring

  in her voice which he did not altogether like. His greatest admirer

  had never called him an intuitive man, and he was quite at a loss to

  see what was wrong. As a schemer, he was perhaps a little naive. He

  had taken it for granted that Molly was ignorant of the maneuvers

  which had been going on, and which had culminated that afternoon in

  a stammering proposal of marriage from Lord Dreever in the rose-

  garden. This, however, was not the case. The woman incapable of

  seeing through the machinations of two men of the mental caliber of

  Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern has yet to be born. For some

  considerable time, Molly had been alive to the well-meant plottings

  of that worthy pair, and had derived little pleasure from the fact.

  It may be that woman loves to be pursued; but she does not love to

  be pursued by a crowd.

  Mr. McEachern cleared his throat, and began again.

  "You shouldn't decide a question like that too hastily, my dear."

  "I didn't--not too hastily for Lord Dreever, at any rate, poor

  dear."

  "It was in your power," said Mr. McEachern portentously, "to make a

  man happy--"

  "I did," said Molly, bitterly. "You should have seen his face light

  up. He could hardly believe it was true for a moment, and then it

  came home to him, and I thought he would have fallen on my neck. He

  did his very best to look heart-broken--out of politeness--but it

  was no good. He whistled most of the way back to the house--all

  flat, but very cheerfully."

  "My dear! What do you mean?"

  Molly had made the discovery earlier in their conversation that her

  father had moods whose existence she had not expected. It was his

  turn now to make a similar discovery regarding herself.

  "I mean nothing, father," she said. "I'm just telling you what

  happened. He came to me looking like a dog that's going to be

  washed--"

  "Why, of course, he was nervous, my dear."

  "Of course. He couldn't know that I was going to refuse him."

  She was breathing quickly. He started to speak, but she went on,

  looking straight before her. Her face was very white in the moon-

  light.

  "He took me into the rose-garden. Was that Sir Thomas's idea? There

  couldn't have been a better setting, I'm sure. The roses looked

  lovely. Presently, I heard him gulp, and I was so sorry for him I I

  would have refused him then, and put him out of his misery, only I

  couldn't very well till he had proposed, could I? So, I turned my

  back, and sniffed at a rose. And, then, he shut his eyes--I couldn't

  see him, but I know he shut his eyes--and began to say his lesson."

  "Molly!"

  She laughed, hysterically.

  "He did. He said his lesson. He gabbled it. When he had got as far

  as, 'Well, don't you know, what I mean is, that's what I wanted to

  say, you know,' I turned round and soothed him. I said I didn't love

  him. He said, 'No, no, of course not.' I said he had paid me a great

  compliment. He said, 'Not at all,' looking very anxious, poor

  darling, as if even then he was afraid of what might come next. But

  I reassured him, and he cheered up, and we walked back to the house

  together, as happy as could be."

  McEachern put his hand round her shoulders. She winced, but let it

  stay. He attempted gruff conciliation.

  "My dear, you've been imagining things. Of course, he isn't happy.

  Why, I saw the young fellow--"

&
nbsp; Recollecting that the last time he had seen the young fellow--

  shortly after dinner--the young fellow had been occupied in

  juggling, with every appearance of mental peace, two billiard-balls

  and a box of matches, he broke off abruptly.

  Molly looked at him.

  "Father."

  "My dear?"

  "Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?"

  He met the attack stoutly.

  "I think he's a fine young fellow," he said, avoiding her eyes.

  "He's quite nice," said Molly, quietly.

  McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it.

  If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it. But he was

  not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in surroundings where the

  subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave

  a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.

  "He's the Earl of Dreever, my dear."

  He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the

  statement in a comfortable garment of words.

  "Why, you see, you're young, Molly. It's only natural you shouldn't

  look on these things sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You

  expect this young fellow to be like the heroes of the novels you

  read. When you've lived a little longer, my dear, you'll see that

  there's nothing in it. It isn't the hero of the novel you want to

  marry. It's the man who'll make you a good husband."

  This remark struck Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he

  repeated it.

  He went on. Molly was sitting quite still, looking into the

  shrubbery. He assumed she was listening; but whether she was or not,

  he must go on talking. The situation was difficult. Silence would

  make it more difficult.

  "Now, look at Lord Dreever," he said. "There's a young man with one

  of the oldest titles in England. He could go anywhere and do what he

  liked, and be excused for whatever he did because of his name. But

  he doesn't. He's got the right stuff in him. He doesn't go racketing

  around--"

  "His uncle doesn't allow him enough pocket-money," said Molly, with

  a jarring little laugh. "Perhaps, that's why."

  There was a pause. McEachern required a few moments in which to

  marshal his arguments once more. He had been thrown out of his

  stride.

  Molly turned to him. The hardness had gone from her face. She looked

  up at him wistfully.

  "Father, dear, listen," she said. "We always used to understand each

  other so well!" He patted her shoulder affectionately. "You can't

  mean what you say? You know I don't love Lord Dreever. You know he's

  only a boy. Don't you want me to marry a man? I love this old place,

  but surely you can't think that it can really matter in a thing like

  this? You don't really mean, that about the hero of the novel? I'm

  not stupid, like that. I only want--oh, I can't put it into words,

  but don't you see?"

  Her eyes were fixed appealingly on him. It only needed a word from

  him--perhaps not even a word--to close the gulf that had opened

  between them.

  He missed the chance. He had had time to think, and his arguments

  were ready again. With stolid good-humor, he marched along the line

  he had mapped out. He was kindly and shrewd and practical; and the

  gulf gaped wider with every word.

  "You mustn't be rash, my dear. You mustn't act without thinking in

  these things. Lord Dreever is only a boy, as you say, but he will

  grow. You say you don't love him. Nonsense! You like him. You would

  go on liking him more and more. And why? Because you could make what

  you pleased of him. You've got character, my dear. With a girl like

  you to look after him, he would go a long way, a very long way. It's

  all there. It only wants bringing out. And think of it, Molly!

  Countess of Dreever! There's hardly a better title in England. It

  would make me very happy, my dear. It's been my one hope all these

  years to see you in the place where you ought to be. And now the

  chance has come. Molly, dear, don't throw it away."

  She had leaned back with closed eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept

  over her. She listened in a dull dream. She felt beaten. They were

  too strong for her. There were too many of them. What did it matter?

  Why not give in, and end it all and win peace? That was all she

  wanted--peace now. What did it all matter?

  "Very well, father," she said, listlessly.

  McEachern stopped short.

  "You'll do it, dear?" he cried. "You will?"

  "Very well, father."

  He stooped and kissed her.

  "My own dear little girl," he said.

  She got up.

  "I'm rather tired, father," she said. "I think I'll go in."

  Two minutes later, Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt's study.

  Five minutes later, Sir Thomas pressed the bell.

  Saunders appeared.

  "Tell his lordship," said Sir Thomas, "that I wish to see him a

  moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think."

  CHAPTER XVII

  JIMMY REMEMBERS SOMETHING

  The game between Hargate and Lord Dreever was still in progress when

  Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at the board showed

  that the score was seventy--sixty-nine, in favor of spot.

  "Good game," said Jimmy. "Who's spot?"

  "I am," said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason,

  he appeared in high spirits. "Hargate's been going great guns. I was

  eleven ahead a moment ago, but he made a break of twelve."

  Lord Dreever belonged to the class of billiard-players to whom a

  double-figure break is a thing to be noted and greeted with respect.

  "Fluky," muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long

  speech for him. Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had

  seldom heard him utter anything beyond a monosyllable.

  "Not a bit of it, dear old son," said Lord Dreever, handsomely.

  "You're coming on like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you

  twenty in a hundred much longer."

  He went to a side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda,

  singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There

  could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the

  past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather

  noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace

  at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a

  funeral. But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the

  world, and chirping like a bird.

  The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The

  score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse.

  At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein.

  When he had finished his break, his score was ninety-five. Hargate,

  who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent's part, had

  reached ninety-six.

  "This is shortening my life," said Jimmy, leaning forward.

  The balls had been left in an ideal position. Even Hargate could not

  fail to make a cannon. He made it.

  A close finish to even the worst game is exciting. Jimmy leaned

>   still further forward to watch the next stroke. It looked as if

  Hargate would have to wait for his victory. A good player could have

  made a cannon as the balls lay, but not Hargate. They were almost in

  a straight line, with, white in the center.

  Hargate swore under his breath. There was nothing to be done. He

  struck carelessly at white. White rolled against red, seemed to hang

  for a moment, and shot straight back against spot. The game was

  over.

  "Great Scott! What a fluke!" cried the silent one, becoming quite

  garrulous at the miracle.

  A quiet grin spread itself slowly across Jimmy's face. He had

  remembered what he had been trying to remember for over a week.

  At this moment, the door opened, and Saunders appeared. "Sir Thomas

  would like to see your lordship in his study," he said.

  "Eh? What does he want?"

  "Sir Thomas did not confide in me, your lordship."

  "Eh? What? Oh, no! Well, see you later, you men."

  He rested his cue against the table, and put on his coat. Jimmy

  followed him out of the door, which he shut behind him.

  "One second, Dreever," he said.

  "Eh? Hullo! What's up?"

  "Any money on that game?" asked Jimmy.

  "Why, yes, by Jove, now you mention it, there was. An even fiver.

  And--er--by the way, old man--the fact is, just for the moment, I'm

  frightfully--You haven't such a thing as a fiver anywhere about,

  have you? The fact is--"

  "My dear fellow, of course. I'll square up with him now, shall I?"

  "Fearfully obliged, if you would. Thanks, old man. Pay it to-

  morrow."

  "No hurry," said Jimmy; "plenty more in the old oak chest."

  He went back to the room. Hargate was practising cannons. He was on

  the point of making a stroke when Jimmy opened the door.

  "Care for a game?" said Hargate.

  "Not just at present," said Jimmy.

  Hargate attempted his cannon, and failed badly. Jimmy smiled.

  "Not such a good shot as the last," he said.

  "No."

  "Fine shot, that other."

  "Fluke."

  "I wonder."

  Jimmy lighted a cigarette.

  "Do you know New York at all?" he asked.

  "Been there."

  "Ever been in the Strollers' Club?"

  Hargate turned his back, but Jimmy had seen his face, and was

  satisfied.

  "Don't know it," said Hargate.

  "Great place," said Jimmy. "Mostly actors and writers, and so on.