Part 15

Jimmy was a little puzzled. He had expected to check the enemy, to bring him to reason, but not to demolish him in that way. There was something in this which he did not understand. When Spike had handed him the stones, and his trained eye, after a moment’s searching examination, had made him suspicious, and when, finally, a simple test had proved his suspicions correct, he was comfortably aware that, though found with the necklace on his person, he had knowledge which, communicated to Sir Thomas, would serve him well. He knew that Lady Julia was not the sort of Lady who would bear calmly the announcement that her treasured rope of diamonds was a fraud. He knew enough of her to know that she would demand another necklace, and see that she got it, and that Sir Thomas was not one of those generous and expansive natures which think nothing of an expenditure of twenty thousand pounds.

This was the line of thought which had kept him cheerful during what might otherwise have been a trying interview. He was aware from the first that Sir Thomas would not believe in the purity of his motives; but he was convinced that the knight would be satisfied to secure his silence on the subject of the paste necklace on any terms. He had looked forward to baffled rage, furious denunciation, and a dozen other expressions of emotion, but certainly not to collapse of this kind.

The other had begun to make strange, gurgling noises.

“Mind you,” said Jimmy, “it’s a very good imitation—I’ll say that for it. I didn’t suspect it till I had the thing in my hands. Looking at it—even quite close—I was taken in for a moment.”

Sir Thomas swallowed nervously.

“How did you know?” he muttered.

Again Jimmy was surprised. He had expected indignant denials and demands for proof, excited reiteration of the statement that the stones had cost twenty thousand pounds.

“How did I know?” he repeated. “If you mean what first made me suspect, I couldn’t tell you; it might have been one of a score of things. A jeweller can’t say exactly how he gets on the track of faked stones. He can feel them, he can almost smell them. I worked with a jeweller once; that’s how I got my knowledge of jewels. But if you mean, can I prove what I say about this necklace, that’s easy. There’s no deception; it’s simple. See here. These stones are supposed to be diamonds. Well, the diamond is the hardest stone in existence—nothing will scratch it. Now, I’ve got a little ruby out of a pin which I know is genuine. By rights, then, that ruby ought not to have scratched these stones. You follow that? But it did. It scratched two of them, the only two I tried. If you like I can continue the experiment, but there’s no need. I can tell you straight away what these stones are. I said they were paste, but that wasn’t quite accurate. They’re a stuff called white jargoon. It’s a stuff that’s very easily worked. You work it with the flame of a blow-pipe. You don’t want a full description, I suppose? Anyway, what happens is that the blow-pipe sets it up like a tonic, gives it increased specific gravity, and a healthy complexion, and all sorts of great things of that kind. Two minutes in the flame of a blow-pipe is like a week at the seaside to a bit of white jargoon. Are you satisfied? If it comes to that, I suppose you can hardly be expected to be; convinced is a better word. Are you convinced, or do you hanker after tests like polarised light and refracting liquids?”

Sir Thomas had staggered to a chair.

“So that was how you knew!” he said.

“That was—” began Jimmy, when a sudden suspicion flashed across his mind. He scrutinised Sir Thomas’s pallid face keenly.

“Did you know?” he asked.

He wondered that the possibility had not occurred to him earlier.

“By George, I believe you did!” he cried. “You must have done. So that’s how it happened, is it? I don’t wonder it was a shock when I said I knew about the necklace.”

“Mr. Pitt!”

“Well?”

“I have something to say to you.”

“I’m listening.”

Sir Thomas tried to rally. There was a touch of the old pomposity in his manner when he spoke.

“Mr. Pitt, I find you in an unpleasant position——”

Jimmy interrupted.

“Don’t you worry about my unpleasant position,” he said. “Fix your attention exclusively upon your own. Let us be frank with one another. You’re in the cart. What do you propose to do about it?”

“I do not understand you,” he began.

“No?” said Jimmy. “I’ll try and make my meaning clear. Correct me from time to time if I am wrong. The way I size the thing up is as follows: When you married Lady Julia I gather that it was, so to speak, up to you to some extent. People knew you were a millionaire, and they expected something special in the way of gifts from the bridegroom to the bride. Now you, being of a prudent and economical nature, began to wonder if there wasn’t some way of getting a reputation for lavishness without actually cashing up to any great extent. Am I right?”

Sir Thomas did not answer.

“I am,” said Jimmy. “Well, it occurred to you, naturally enough, that a properly-selected gift of jewellery might work the trick. It only needed a little nerve. When you give a present of diamonds to a lady she is not likely to call for polarised light and refracting liquids and the rest of the circus. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred she will take the thing on trust. Very well. You trotted off to a jeweller and put the thing to him confidentially. I expect you suggested paste; but, being a wily person, he pointed out that paste has a habit of not wearing well. It is pretty enough when it’s new, but quite a small amount of ordinary wear and tear destroys the polish of the surface and the sharpness of the cutting. It gets scratched easily. Having heard this, and reflected that Lady Julia was not likely to keep the necklace under a glass case, you rejected paste as too risky. The genial jeweller then suggested white jargoon, mentioning, as I have done, that after an application or so of the blow-pipe its own mother wouldn’t know it. If he was a bit of an antiquary, he probably added that in the eighteenth century jargoon stones were supposed to be actually an inferior sort of diamond. What could be more suitable? ‘Make it jargoon, dear heart,’ you cried joyfully, and all was well. Am I right? I notice that you have not corrected me so far.”

Whether Sir Thomas would have replied in the affirmative is uncertain. He was opening his mouth to speak when the curtain at the end of the room heaved, and Lord Dreever burst out like a cannon-ball in tweeds.

The apparition effectually checked any speech that Sir Thomas might have been intending to make. Lying back in his chair, he goggled silently at the new arrival. Even Jimmy, though knowing that his lordship was in hiding, was taken aback.

His lordship broke the silence.

“Great Scot!” he cried.

Neither Jimmy nor Sir Thomas seemed to consider the observation unsound or inadequate. They permitted it to pass without comment.

“You old scoundrel!” added his lordship, addressing Sir Thomas; “and you’re the man who called me a welsher!” There were signs of a flicker of spirit in the knight’s prominent eyes, but they died away. He made no reply.

“Great Scot!” moaned his lordship, in a fever of self-pity, “here have I been all these years letting you give me Hades in every shape and form, when all the while—— My goodness, if I’d only known earlier!”

He turned to Jimmy.

“Pitt, old man,” he said warmly, “I—dash it—I don’t know what to say. If it hadn’t been for you—I always did like Americans.”

“I’m not one,” said Jimmy; but his lordship went on, unchecked.

“I always thought it bally rot that that fuss happened in—in—wherever it was. If it hadn’t been for fellows like you,” he continued, addressing Sir Thomas once more, “there wouldn’t have been any of that frightful Declaration of Independence business. Would there, Pitt, old man?”

These were deep problems too spacious for casual examination. Jimmy shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I should say Sir Thomas might not have got along with George Washington, anyhow,” he said.

“Of course not. Well”—his lordship moved towards the door—“I’m off downstairs to see what Aunt Julia has to say about it all.”

A shudder, as if from some electric shock shook Sir Thomas. He leaped to his feet.

“Spencer,” he cried, “I forbid you to say a word to your aunt.”

“Oh!” said his lordship. “You do, do you?”

Sir Thomas shivered.

“She would never let me hear the last of it.”

“I bet she wouldn’t. I’ll go and see.”

“Stop!”

“Well?”

Sir Thomas dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. He dared not face the vision of Lady Julia in possession of the truth. At one time the fear lest she might discover the harmless little deception he had practised had kept him awake at night, but gradually, as the days went by, and the excellence of the imitation stones had continued to impose upon her and upon every one else who saw them, the fear had diminished. But it had always been at the back of his mind. Even in her calmer moments his wife was a source of mild terror to him. His imagination reeled at the thought of what depths of aristocratic scorn and indignation she would plumb in a case like this.

“Spencer,” he said, “I insist that you shall not inform your aunt of this!”

“What? You want me to keep my mouth shut? You want me to become an accomplice in this beastly, low-down deception? I like that!”

“The point,” said Jimmy, “is well taken—_noblesse oblige_, and all that sort of thing. The blood of the Dreevers boils furiously at the idea. Listen! You can hear it sizzling.”

Lord Dreever moved a step nearer the door.

“Stop!” cried Sir Thomas again. “Spencer!”

“Well?”

“Spencer, my boy, it occurs to me that perhaps I have not always treated you very well.”

“‘Perhaps!’ ‘Not always!’ Great Scot! I’ll have a fiver each way on both those. Considering you’ve treated me like a frightful kid practically ever since you’ve known me, I call that pretty rich. Why, what about this very night, when I asked you for a few pounds?”

“It was only the thought that you had been gambling——”

“Gambling! How about palming off faked diamonds on Aunt Julia for a gamble?”

“A game of skill, surely,” murmured Jimmy.

“I have been thinking the matter over,” said Sir Thomas, “and if you really need the—— Was it not fifty pounds?”

“It was twenty,” said his lordship, “and I don’t need it. Keep it. You’ll want all you can save for a new necklace.”

His fingers closed on the door-handle.

“Spencer—stop!”

“Well?”

“We must talk this over. We must not be hasty.”

He passed the handkerchief over his forehead.

“In the past, perhaps,” he resumed, “our relations have not been quite—— The fault was mine. I have always endeavoured to do my duty. It is a difficult task to look after a young man of your age——”

His lordship’s sense of his grievances made him eloquent.

“Dash it all!” he cried. “That’s just what I jolly well complain of. Who the dickens wanted you to look after me? Hang it! you’ve kept your eye on me all these years like a frightful policeman! You cut off my allowance right in the middle of my time at the ’Varsity, just when I needed it most, and I had to come and beg for money whenever I wanted to buy a cigarette. I looked a fearful ass I can tell you! Men who knew me used to be dashed funny about it. I’m sick of the whole bally business. You’ve given me a jolly thin time all this while, and now I’m going to get a bit of my own back. Wouldn’t you, Pitt, old man?”

Jimmy, thus suddenly appealed to, admitted that, in his lordship’s place, he might have experienced a momentary temptation to do something of the kind.

“Of course,” said his lordship. “Any fellow would.”

“But, Spencer, let me——”

“You’ve soured my life,” said his lordship, frowning a tense, Byronic frown. “That’s what you’ve done—soured my whole bally life. I’ve had a rotten time. I’ve had to go about touching my friends for money to keep me going. Why, I owe you a fiver, don’t I, Pitt, old man?”

It was a tenner, to be finickingly accurate about details, but Jimmy did not say so. He concluded, rightly, that the memory of the original five pounds which he had lent Lord Dreever at the Savoy Hotel had faded from the other’s mind.

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

“But I do mention it,” protested his lordship shrilly. “It just proves what I say. If I had had a decent allowance it wouldn’t have happened. And you wouldn’t give me enough to set me going in the Diplomatic Service. That’s another thing. Why wouldn’t you do that?”

Sir Thomas pulled himself together.

“I hardly thought you qualified, my dear boy.”

His lordship did not actually foam at the mouth, but he looked as if he might do so at any moment. Excitement and the memory of his wrongs, lubricated, as it were, by the champagne he had consumed both at and after dinner, had produced in him a frame of mind far removed from the normal. His manners no longer had that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. He waved his hands.

“I know, I know!” he shouted. “I know you didn’t. You thought me a fearful fool. I tell you I’m sick of it. And always trying to make me marry money! Dashed humiliating! If she hadn’t been a jolly sensible girl you’d have spoiled Miss McEachern’s life as well as mine. You came very near it. I tell you, I’ve had enough of it. I’m in love! I’m in love with the rippingest girl in England. You’ve seen her, Pitt, old top. Isn’t she a ripper?”

Jimmy stamped the absent lady with the seal of his approval.

“I tell you, if she’ll have me, I’m going to marry her.”

The dismay written on every inch of Sir Thomas’s countenance became intensified at these terrific words. Great as had been his contempt for the actual holder of the title considered simply as a young man, he had always been filled with a supreme respect for the Dreever name.

“But, Spencer,” he almost howled, “consider your position! You cannot——”

“Can’t I, by Jove! if she’ll have me; and dash my position! What’s my position got to do with it? Katie’s the daughter of a general, if it comes to that. Her brother was at the House with me. If I had a penny to call my own I’d have asked her to marry me ages ago. Don’t you worry about my position!”

Sir Thomas croaked feebly.

“Now, look here,” said his lordship, with determination. “Here’s the whole thing in a jolly old nutshell. If you want me to forget about this little flutter in fake diamonds of yours you’ve got to pull your socks up and start in to do things. You’ve got to get me attached to some Embassy, for a beginning. It won’t be difficult. There’s dozens of old boys in London who knew the governor when he was alive who will jump at the chance of doing me a good turn. I know I’m a bit of an ass in some ways, but that’s expected of you in the Diplomatic Service. They only want you to wear evening clothes as if you were used to them, and be a bit of a flier at dancing, and I can fill the bill all right as far as that goes. And you’ve got to give your jolly old blessing to Katie and me—if she’ll have me. That’s about all I can think of for the moment. Now do we go? Are you on?”

“It’s preposterous,” began Sir Thomas.

Lord Dreever gave the door-handle a rattle. He stopped.

“It’s a hold-up all right,” said Jimmy soothingly. “I don’t want to butt in on a family conclave, but my advice, if asked, would be to unbelt before the shooting begins. You’ve got something worse than a pipe pointing at you now. As regards my position in the business, don’t worry. My silence is thrown in gratis. Give me one loving smile and my lips are sealed.”

Sir Thomas turned on him.

“As for you——” he cried.

“Never mind about Pitt,” said his lordship. “He’s a dashed good fellow, Pitt. I wish there were more like him. And he wasn’t pinching the stuff either. If you had only listened when he tried to tell you, you mightn’t be in such a frightful hole. He was putting the things back, as he said. I know all about it. Well, what’s the answer?”

For a moment Sir Thomas seemed on the point of refusal. But just as he was about to speak his lordship opened the door, and at the movement he collapsed again.

“I will!” he cried. “I will!”

“Good,” said his lordship, with satisfaction. “That’s a bargain. Coming downstairs, Pitt, old man? We shall be wanted on the stage in about half a minute.”

“As an antidote to stage-fright,” said Jimmy, as they went along the corridor, “little discussions of that kind may be highly recommended. I shouldn’t mind betting that you feel fit for anything.”

“I feel like a two-year-old,” assented his lordship enthusiastically. “I’ve forgotten all my part, but I don’t care. I’ll just go on and talk to them.”

“That,” said Jimmy, “is the right spirit. Charteris will get heart disease, but it’s the right spirit. A little more of that sort of thing and amateur theatricals would be worth listening to. Step lively, Roscius; the stage waits.”

★ 28 ★ _Spennie’s Hour of Clear Vision_

Mr. McEachern sat in the billiard-room smoking. He was alone. From where he sat he could hear distant strains of music. The more rigorous portion of the evening’s entertainment, the theatricals, was over, and the nobility and gentry, having done their duty by sitting through the performance, were now enjoying themselves in the ballroom. Everybody was happy. The play had been quite as successful as the usual amateur performance. The prompter had made himself a great favourite from the start, his series of duets with Spennie having been especially admired, and Jimmy, as became an old professional, had played his part with great finish and certainty of touch, though, like the bloodhounds in the performance of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” on tour, he had had poor support. But the audience bore no malice.

No collection of individuals is less vindictive than an audience at amateur theatricals. It was all over now. Charteris had literally gibbered in the presence of eye-witnesses at one point in the second act, when Spennie, by giving a wrong cue, had jerked the play abruptly into Act III (where his colleagues, dimly suspecting something wrong, but not knowing what, had kept it for some two minutes, to the mystification of the audience); but now even he had begun to forget. As he two-stepped down the room the lines of agony on his face were softened. He even smiled.

As for Spennie, the brilliance of his happy grin dazzled all beholders.

He was still wearing it when he invaded the solitude of Mr. McEachern. In every dance, however greatly he may be enjoying it, there comes a time when a man needs a meditative cigarette apart from the throng. It came to Spennie after the seventh item on the programme. The billiard room struck him as admirably suitable in every way. It was not likely to be used as a sitting out place, and it was near enough to the ballroom to enable him to hear when the music of item No. 9 should begin.

Mr. McEachern was glad to see him. In the turmoil following the theatricals he had been unable to get a word with any of the persons with whom he most wished to speak. He had been surprised that no announcement of the engagement had been made at the end of the performance. Spennie would be able to supply him with information as to when the announcement might be expected.

Spennie hesitated for an instant when he saw who was in the room. He was not over-anxious for a _tête-à-tête_ with Molly’s father just then; but reflecting that after all he, Spennie, was not to blame for any disappointment that might be troubling the other, he switched on his grin again and walked in.

“Came in for a smoke,” he explained, by way of opening the conversation. “Not dancing the next.”

“Come in, my boy, come in,” said Mr. McEachern. “I was waiting to see you.”

Spennie regretted his entrance. He had supposed that the other had heard the news of the breaking-off of the engagement. Evidently, from his manner, he had not. This was a nuisance.

He sat down and lit a cigarette, casting about the while for an innocuous topic of conversation.

“Like the show?” he inquired.

“Fine,” said Mr. McEachern. “By the way—”

Spennie groaned inwardly. He had forgotten that a determined man can change the conversation to any subject he pleases by means of those three words.

“By the way,” said Mr. McEachern, “I thought Sir Thomas—wasn’t your uncle intending to announce——?”

“Well, yes, he was,” said Spennie.

“Going to declare it during the dancing, maybe?”

“Well—er—no. The fact is, he’s not going to do it at all, don’t you know.” He inspected the red end of his cigarette closely. “As a matter of fact, it’s kind of broken off.”

The other’s exclamation jarred on him. Rotten, having to talk about this sort of thing!

“Broken off?”

Spennie nodded.

“Miss McEachern thought it over, don’t you know,” he said, “and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t good enough.”

Now that it was said he felt easier. It had merely been the awkwardness of having to touch on the thing that had troubled him. That his news might be a blow to McEachern did not cross his mind. He was a singularly modest youth, and though he realised vaguely that his title had a certain value in some people’s eyes, he could not understand anyone mourning over the loss of him as a son-in-law. Katie’s father, the old general, thought him a fool, and once, during an attack of gout, had said so.

Oblivious, therefore, to the storm raging a yard away from him, he smoked on with great contentment, till suddenly it struck him that, for a presumably devout lover, jilted that very night, he was displaying too little emotion. He debated swiftly within himself whether he should have a dash at manly grief, but came to the conclusion that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year, the day on which he had utterly routed the powers of evil, as represented by Sir Thomas, was impossible.

“It wouldn’t have done, don’t you know,” he said. “We weren’t suited. What I mean to say is, I’m a bit of a dashed sort of silly ass in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss McEachern couldn’t have been happy with me. She wants one of those capable, energetic fellers.”

This struck him as a good beginning—modest but not grovelling. He continued, tapping quite a respectably deep vein of philosophy as he spoke.

“You see, dear old top—I mean sir—you see, it’s like this. As far as women are concerned, fellers are divided into two classes. There’s the masterful, capable Johnnies and the—er—the other sort. Now, I’m the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is to be—well, not exactly downtrodden, but—you know what I mean—kind of second fiddle. I want a wife”—his voice grew soft and dreamy—“who’ll pet me a good deal, don’t you know, stroke my hair a lot, and all that. I haven’t it in me to do the master-in-my-own-house business. For me the silent-devotion touch—sleepin’ on the mat outside her door, don’t you know, when she wasn’t feeling well, and bein’ found there in the morning, and being rather cosseted for my thoughtfulness. That’s the sort of idea. Hard to put it quite OK, but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller’s got to realise his jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married; what? Now, suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scot, she’d be bored to death in a week! Honest. She couldn’t help herself. She wants a chap with the same amount of go in him that she’s got.”