Part 9

Those who dine at the Richelieu sit over their cups. It is the custom. A dinner at the quiet Duke Street restaurant is never a prelude to an entertainment. It is the entertainment itself. People go there to dine and talk leisurely. The kitchen and the cellar are probably the best in London; the service and the atmosphere are certainly the best in the world. There is an unseen orchestra, which plays so softly that you are just aware of melody while you converse. There is no light but that shed by table-lamps, so that it is more easy to identify the dish your neighbour is tasting than your neighbour herself. You may be sitting by Royalty; often enough you are. And if you ring up to take a table you will be told that they are all booked—unless the clerk at the bureau knows and respects your name. It is the custom.

Upon the ninth evening of December the elements seemed to have conspired to enhance the Richelieu’s charm. Without, a gale was raging. Squall after tearing squall flung down the dripping streets, fuming at every obstacle, blustering at every corner, lashing the pitiless rain into a very fury. The latter fell steadily and, with the wind behind it, drove and beat passionately upon a miserable world, harrying, chilling and stinging till such as might gave in and pelted for shelter, while such as might not fought their way through the _mêlée_ with tightened lips.

Behind the curtained double-windows of the restaurant only the wilder squalls obtained an audience, but those who sat there had proved the night while they came, and the muffled stutter of the rain and the dull growl of the wind about the casements vividly remembered the malice of the streets.

Little wonder that the comfort of the room entered into the soul.

Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass.

“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets, shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.”

Her host pulled his moustache.

“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore when——”

“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I should never get up on a horse.”

“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“You can get clean with cold water.”

“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me off water for weeks.”

“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while I——”

“So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too. We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.”

“I’ve got it to-night, any way.”

Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven. The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them.

“Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.”

“But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate. _Après vous_—the deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.”

“I’ll bet you’ve told no one.”

“I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.”

“Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s. The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’ out with another? Hul-_lo_!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’ lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.”

My lady regarded the end of her cigarette.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?”

“There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the Stores.”

“You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Neither have you,” said the man.

“Perhaps that’s why we get on.”

Pembury raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——”

“Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.”

“—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.”

“A vulgar taste,” said my lady. “Hilton would have a fit. When I can’t bear it any more, you must send me a bottle of Bass by parcel post.”

“We’re both of us fools about dogs, if we must see a show we like music with a small ‘m,’ we’re both left-handed, we don’t know what it is to be seasick——”

“I trust Hilton doesn’t. Otherwise, the yacht . . .”

Pembury frowned.

“You called me your Best Man just now. Did you mean that, Dot?”

“I did. Why?”

“It gives me a right to say what I’m going to say.” Lady Elizabeth stared. “You’re not to gird at Hilton before me again. I know you’ld never do it before anyone else: and we’re such very old friends—we’ve always discussed everyone—that it’s easy enough to forget. But you——”

“Forget what?”

“That we’re on a new footing now. Hilton’s up on the daīs, and I’ve stepped down.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed.

“Upon my soul,” she said, “I think that beats it. First, you set out to teach me manners: then, you calmly announce that Hilton has usurped your place.”

“Hang it, Dot, I never——”

“When you said I oughtn’t to have come, you were perfectly right. I oughtn’t. I ought never to have come here with you. I thought you could stand corn, and I find you can’t. I thought you understood, and I find I was wrong. I tell you now you were never ‘up on the daïs’—never within miles of it. Because I gave you my friendship, I suppose you thought I cared.”

“I did,” said Pembury quietly. “It was very presumptuous, but I did. And if I’d had enough to keep you, I’ld ’ve made certain. . . . And now that you know, old lady, have a heart. Forgive me for being clumsy and call it ‘Nerves.’ I’m like a spoilt child this evening. You’ve spoiled me by being so nice. And now I know that it’s over, I’m kicking against the pricks.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“What’s over?” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Act One,” said her host shortly. “The spoiling process. My—er—tastes being what they are, I must retire. If you want another reason, Hilton hasn’t much use for me. I don’t know that I blame him, but that’s neither here nor there. He hasn’t. And since he hasn’t, neither must you. Incidentally, you haven’t, any way. I said it first.”

“You know I have, Dick. You know I have. I’m sorry I burst out just now. You’re perfectly right, of course. You always are. To laugh about Hilton to you was shocking form. To turn and rend you because you told me so was painfully cheap. I was wild, because I was guilty. I was guilty, because I was wild.”

“Dot, don’t——”

“Listen. You say I’ve spoiled you. What rot! What blazing rot! Why, all my life you’ve spoiled me. You’re spoiling me now. And I’m wild because I know that it ends to-night. ‘Nerves’? Yes, if you like. Call it ‘Nerves.’” With a queer, dry laugh, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I’ll have to be going, my dear. Have you got the car?”

“She’s in St. James’s Square.”

“Good.” They rose to their feet. “See how I bank on your goodwill. If I were a man, I wouldn’t drive a girl home when she’d just told me off across my own table.”

“I think you would,” said Dick.

John Richard Shere, Viscount Pembury, was thirty-two. He had looked thirty-two for years and was likely to look thirty-two when he was forty. And there you have the man—steady, conservative, faithful. With it all, he was never dull. He was gay, eager, brilliant—could have taken his place anywhere: and his place was high. The tragedy of it was that access to his place was denied him. If his ways were charming, his means were unhappily of no account. What was worse, they would never be anything else. The collapse of Russia had finished the House of Shere. His father had sunk to an annuity and dwelled at a Club. His mother was dead—mercifully. He had sought employment, of course, but his style was against him. Besides, he had been bred to be an earl. He was certainly offered six hundred a year to show motor-cars, but had declined the honour. He was ready to sell his labour, but not his name. His greatest regret was that he would never hunt hounds. Tall, slight, dark, gentle-eyed, he was a man to look twice at. If you did so, you saw the strength of his pleasant mouth and the firm set of his chin. At Oxford, where he had been President of Vincent’s, he was known as ‘The Velvet Glove.’

Lady Elizabeth Crecy was twenty-nine, dark and grey-eyed. She could, I suppose, have married anyone. Her beauty, her wisdom, her excellence in all she did made three distinct, forcible appeals. I do not think the man lives who, had she pleased, could have resisted successfully so dazzling a combination. That she did not please made little enough difference. The result was the same. Men fell in love at first sight—and Sir Hilton Shutter among them. People said he had proposed six times.

Shutter believed in living and indulged his belief. He did himself very well—on thirty-five thousand a year. His ocean-going yacht was the last word. He was forty-six years old and had been handsome. He was also the second baronet and had been High Sheriff of Berkshire, in which county his name was respected almost as highly as he respected it himself. He was well known in London and believed in writing to _The Times_. A letter above his signature appeared about once a month.

Lady Elizabeth Crecy had, in her own right, three hundred and fifty a year.

The wind had died and a fine rain was falling when Pembury turned into King Street in quest of his car. The wet did not stop him from looking the old Rolls over to see that she had taken no hurt. Besides, he feared that rain might have forced an entrance. . . . But the coupé had been built by men who knew their business. Cushions and floor were bone dry. He started the engine and left for the Richelieu at once.

Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times. As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many times. . . .

A moment later they were heading west.

“Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.”

“That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age. And Nature’s catching the disease.”

Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay farther, by twenty paces.

The girl stared.

“Why have you stopped, Dick?”

The other smiled.

“Would you like a drink, Dot?”

Elizabeth caught his arm.

“Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.”

“The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial pint of beer——”

“Dick, you darling!”

“—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.”

In silence the bottle passed. . . .

“Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly.

She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again.

Elizabeth put it aside.

“You drink that, Dick.”

“I brought it for you.”

“I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.”

Pembury raised the glass.

“Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly.

He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot upon the clutch. . . .

An instant later they were before the broad steps.

At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head.

“You see I’m crying, Dick.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never seen that before.”

“Nerves, dear, nerves.”

My lady shook her head.

“And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily.

Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand.

“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers.

These were very cold.

Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . .

Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare.

As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across his path. . . .

Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory.

Two buses were coming. He could see them.

By a violent effort he straightened the great car up.

Then she skidded again—the opposite way.

He accelerated—tried to get through. . . .

Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman screamed. . . .

With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side.

As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and wings.

The buses stopped, and their two conductors appeared. In blasphemous terms, the cab-driver called the world to witness that it was not his fault. His fares alighted indignantly. A crowd began to collect. . . .

Then the police came up.

* * * * *

“Were you drunk?” said the Earl shortly.

“I was not, sir. But just now the police have got drunkenness on the brain.”

“What evidence have you?”

“None.”

“Who did you dine with?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“You mean, you can’t drag her in?”

“Exactly.”

“For her sake, or ours?”

“Hers.”

Lord Larch pointed to a table.

“Give me pen and paper,” he said.

Pembury did as he was bid, and the Earl lay back on his pillows and wrote a note.

_Mr. Forsyth,_

_Be good enough to attend to this matter. Lord Pembury was not drunk and so should not be convicted. Call me if you think it advisable._

_Larch._

“Take that to Forsyth,” he said. “And dine with me here to-night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Father and son understood each other perfectly.

The latter went his way and duly surrendered to his bail at eleven o’clock.

Evidence of arrest was given, and then, at Forsyth’s request, the case was adjourned.

Some evening papers gave much prominence to the affair. So did some morning papers of the following day. Down in Somerset, with the Fairies, Lady Elizabeth Crecy never saw the reports. Out of regard for her, none of the house-party drew her attention to them. It was known that she and Pembury were very old friends.

As for Pembury himself, the man prayed hourly that, ere the news reached her, the case would be over and done. She was not a reader of news-sheets: she was well out of Town; that anyone would inform her was most unlikely. Of course, she would know one day, but, with luck, not until it was . . . too late . . . with luck. . . .

* * * * *

Mr. Quaritch, of Treasury Counsel, removed his pince-nez.

“The police contend that you were drunk. Three things, they say, corroborate their contention. First, Lord Pembury, you collided with another vehicle. Secondly, you smelt of liquor. Thirdly, a bottle and glass, both of which had recently contained beer, were found in a pocket of your car. Very good. Our answer to the first is that the collision was due to a skid, which was itself due directly to the fact that a taxi shot without warning across your path and indirectly to the fact that you were admittedly driving rather faster than the condition of the streets was warranting. Am I right?”

“Perfectly,” said the delinquent.

The lawyer inclined his head.

“Our reply to the second is that, very shortly before the accident happened, you had consumed one half of a small bottle of beer.”

“I had.”

“Very good. What is our answer to the third?”

Pembury shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve no explanation to give. Finding a bottle and glass doesn’t prove I was blind.”

“It’s pretty strong evidence of drinking. Mind you, I _know_ you weren’t drunk. But we’ve got to satisfy the Court. What construction will the Court put upon the discovery of that bottle and glass? Assuming the Magistrate is reasonable, he will consider it peculiar. Even if they’re addicted to drink, people of your position do not as a rule go about with a glass and a bottle of beer. So, finding the discovery peculiar, the Magistrate will expect an explanation. If you don’t give him one, he will very naturally put the worst construction upon those unfortunate utensils.”

“What’ll he think?”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he’ll think. He’ll certainly assume that your explanation is not forthcoming because you know very well that it wouldn’t assist your case. And if he thinks any further, I suppose he’ll class you with the thirsty and prudent undesirable who carries a flask in his pocket wherever he goes.”

“And he’ll send me down?”

“Wait. The time is late in the evening—ten-twenty-five. That is the hour when those who do get drunk may be most easily encountered. You have a smash—which ought to have been avoided. You smell of liquor. Real evidence of liquor, recently consumed, is found. The police say you were drunk. If you were on the Bench, would you accept the accused’s unsupported statement that he was sober?”

“Frankly, I don’t think I should.”

“Add to all this two scandalously irrelevant facts, which, because the Magistrate is human, will be constantly present to his mind. One is that of late the crater of public indignation upon the subject of drunken drivers has been in violent eruption: the other is that at the present moment there are hundreds of thousands of people who are simply living for an opportunity of demonstrating that there is one law for the poor and another for the rich.”

“And he’ll send me down?”

“I think he will have no alternative.”

Lord Pembury laced his fingers and put them behind his head.

“Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve nothing to say.”

Forsyth put in his oar.

“Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of beer.”

“Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared it with a friend.”

“Then produce the friend.”

“I can’t,” said Pembury.

“‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?”

“Won’t.”

Forsyth threw up his hands.

Quaritch leaned forward.

“You do see the point, Lord Pembury? The introduction of the friend makes it a shade more palatable, but it doesn’t eliminate that distressing element of eccentricity. Is it your practice to—er—sport a bottle of beer? Of course not. Then why did you do it? From hospitable motives? For a wager? Why?”

“I’m not going to say any more,” said Viscount Pembury. “I’m sorry to be so graceless. I know you’re trying to help me and I’m carefully crampin’ your style. But there you are. Please do what you can with what you’ve got.”

There was a long silence.

“He mayn’t . . . mayn’t be content with a fine, you know,” said Forsyth.

“I know. It can’t be helped.”

Counsel folded his Brief and rose to his feet.

The conference was at an end.

As the door closed behind Pembury—

“Who the devil is he shielding?” said Quaritch.

“I wish to God I knew,” said Forsyth bitterly.

* * * * *

Sir Hilton Shutter was thoroughly pleased with life. For one thing, he was standing with his back to a roaring fire: for another, he was a guest at Castle Charing, a pleasant residence to which he had long hoped to be invited: for another, his future wife, seated on a sofa before him, was looking particularly lovely in a frock of powder-blue and gold: finally, from the solemn, almost subdued demeanour of his host and hostess, he perceived that his discourse was creating a profound impression.

A booming note slid into his voice.

“Leadership. To-day, more than ever before, people require a lead. Point them the way, and they’ll move. But you must point it definitely. Your indication must be downright, courageous.” He paused to flick his cigar ash into the grate. “I wrote to _The Times_ to-day,” he continued, frowning.

“Did you?” said his hostess pleasantly. “What about?”

“This question of drunken motorists,” was the reply.

Mrs. Fairie started, and her husband’s hand flew to his moustache.

“It’s more than a public scandal,” continued Shutter. “It’s a national disgrace. I don’t mean——”

“I know,” said Fairie nervously. “There’s been a lot of agitation about it, but——”

“I agree. But the evil remains.”

“Oh, they’ll stamp it out,” said Fairie. “Trust them. People are beginning to see it’s not good enough. By the way——”

“By ‘national disgrace,’” said Shutter, “I mean that the failure of the authorities to observe the will of those who appoint and pay them to do their will is a state of affairs which would not be tolerated in any other country in the world.”

“I agree,” said his host heartily. “It’s wicked.”

“Monstrous,” said Mrs. Fairie. “What about some Bridge?”

“One minute,” said Lady Elizabeth. “What’s monstrous?”

“This drunkenness stunt,” said Fairie. “Let’s——”

“No, no, no,” cried Shutter. “I thought you didn’t quite follow me. My point is that, outrageous as is the offence, the failure of those whose signal duty it is to eradicate it is still more infamous.”

“That’s the word I was trying to think of,” said Fairie. “‘Infamous.’ So it is. What about roping in the others an’ havin’ a quiet game of——”

“As I said in my letter to-day,” said Sir Hilton, frowning, “the community no longer asks for protection—it demands the abolition of these pests: and that, by the infliction in every case, without fear or favour, of a penalty—imprisonment, of course—so harsh as, once for all, to frighten would-be offenders back into the path of decency.”

“You are fierce,” said Elizabeth. “Why——”

“Yes, isn’t he?” cried Mrs. Fairie. “Never mind. Let’s——”

“Isn’t it time someone was?” demanded Sir Hilton. “Look at the latest——”

“_Ouch!_” squealed Fairie, leaping to his feet.

“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Elizabeth, considerably startled.

“Must’ve sat on a pin or something,” said Fairie desperately. “What about that poker? It’s much——”

“As I was saying,” boomed Shutter, “look at the latest case. There’s a man with all the advantages which birth and education can offer——”

“Excuse me, Sir Hilton,” blurted Fairie, “but—I know you’ll forgive my saying so, but the fellow in question’s rather a friend of mine, and——”

“Pembury is?”

“WHO?”

Elizabeth was on her feet, flushed, blazing-eyed.

“_Who?_” she repeated.

Fairie sank into his seat with a groan.

“Pembury, Elizabeth,” said Shutter. “Young Pembury. Haven’t you seen the papers?”