Part 13

“‘Mr. Lovett, I gather, is not at home,’ said Mrs. Lawrence, speaking for the first time, and looking as stiff as a ramrod.

“‘Alas, no!’ I replied in my most effective theatrical manner.”

Lovett senior had jumped to his feet, and was now pacing the room, whilst Lovett junior, lolling in a long chair, with a cigarette between his fingers, related his experience with unquestionable unction.

“I went on to say that my name was Ruby Scarlett, that I had come out to ‘do’ India, and as I had known Mr. Lovett very, _very_ intimately at home, my first visit was naturally to him; and I was frightfully disappointed to have lost two days of his society--but I was expecting him every moment.

“‘Did he know you were coming to-day?’ the dark one asked me point-blank, and her eyes were so piercing I could not bring out a lie, and so I said:

“‘No, I am a pleasant surprise! Now,’ I added, fumbling for the tea-pot, ‘let me give you some tea. Mr. Lovett is my cousin, I want to do the honours of his house nicely.’

“But they would not stay--not a little bit of it; nothing would induce them to remain, and they were so stiff and fierce they riled me, and I said:

“‘Ah, I see how it is! Perhaps you’d rather have something else--whisky and soda--and cigarettes. Pray don’t hesitate; really, I’m not a _bit_ prudish.’

“‘No, thank you,’ said the dark one, ‘I do not smoke--nor do I ever drink whisky and soda. We are immensely obliged to you for so kindly doing the honours of your cousin’s house--we had no conception of the agreeable surprise Mr. Lovett had arranged for us--or that he had such a refined and distinguished visitor! Good-afternoon.’ And with that, my dear sir, she made me a most elegant bow, and sailed out, followed by her sister! If ever I saw two women shaking the dust off their feet, as they left your compound, it was those ladies. I expect they came to borrow your piano, or a pony, or your cook. Well, I flatter myself they won’t trouble you _again_!”

Lovett was now sitting down, with his head between his hands, in an attitude that expressed the most measureless despair!

“Hullo, old boy!” cried his brother, wheeling about, “what’s up? What has happened?”

“Everything that could spoil my life has happened,” he said, raising his face to his brother’s astonished gaze. “You have ruined me! Yes, this is the result of your infernal practical joking, and tom-fool craze.”

“My what-t? I don’t understand,” stammered Bobby. “When I was here before, you were nearly crazy with all this plague of women. I thought if I came down, and dressed up a bit, it would be a lark, and----”

“And----?”

“Well, I see I have gone too far, and I’m awfully sorry; but it was such splendid fun--I’ve never known anything to touch it.”

“Play to you, and death to me!”

“Of course I’ve overdone it. I kept acting, and feeling as if I were on the stage. I forgot my _audience_. I’m frightfully sorry, old boy; what can I do to make amends?”

“Nothing whatever, the mischief is done--and of all people Mrs. Lawrence and her sister! Their visit was long promised--they have never come before, often as I asked them.”

“Then you _wanted_ them to come?”

“There is nothing in the world I want so much as for Miss Dacre to come here--and stay for good. She is the only girl in the world for me.”

“Oh, my hairy aunt! And I’ve put my foot in it nicely!”

“She came out since your last trip, and was always very cool and reserved, yet the first day I saw her I knew she was my fate. I’d have spoken long ago, only she never gave me the slightest encouragement. By degrees, I got to know her better. I was invited there, and as a great favour she promised to come here, and choose some books. I looked on this as a hopeful step--a good omen. It was arranged that she and her sister were to come to-day--my beastly train was three hours late. Well, she came, and found _you_, painted, and bragging, and offering cigarettes and whisky! Do you think she will ever speak to me again? She will believe I have insulted her on purpose. You’d better go back to your ship, Bobby; you have done enough mischief to last for some time.”

“I must go to-night, anyhow,” rejoined Bobby, “my leave is up,” and gathering up his hat and wig he scampered out of the room.

Once in his own apartment, Bobby lit another cigarette, and sat down to meditate. His round, merry face looked unusually grave and thoughtful. At last he had made up his mind. He called his bearer, and ordered a gharry. Then he replaced his wig and hat and veil, desiring his servant to pack his effects and leave out his own clothes. Having given these orders, he scrambled into the conveyance, and told the man to drive to Major Lawrence’s--“_Jeldi!_”

* * * * *

As was only to be expected, Miss Dacre and her sister returned from their unpleasant encounter in a condition of high and talkative indignation.

They were seated in the verandah, still discussing their amazing experience, when Miss Dacre, suddenly pointing with a trembling hand, exclaimed:

“Why, I believe the creature is actually coming over here!”

“She is,” assented Mrs. Lawrence. “I recognise her pink frock. She is returning our call--like Royalty--within the hour. Fly, fly, Ida, and tell the bearer ‘_Darwaza-Bund!_’”

But unfortunately Ida was too late--one moment too late. Miss Scarlett had already descended, had bustled up the steps, and screamed out:

“I say, I want to speak to you, Miss Dacre! I wish to see you _alone_!”

Miss Dacre drew herself up; her face and air stiffened.

“Please, please,” urged the caller, under her breath; “it is of the greatest importance.”

“Oh, very well, come into the dining-room,” said the other, with a somewhat ungracious air. What could this fearful person possibly have to say to her--alone! As soon as they had entered the room the visitor began:

“Mr. Lovett has returned. He is raging mad with me. I’ve made one of my usual awful blunders, and I’ve come over here post-haste to apologise to _you_.”

Miss Dacre, still standing, merely bowed her head like a sea-tossed iceberg.

“I got hold of the wrong end of the stick!” resumed the stranger, “and now I want to explain. You see--I’m Lovett’s brother--just dressed up, and, as he says--playing the fool!”

Miss Dacre stared for a moment--then as he tore off his hat and wig, and stood revealed, she suddenly sat down and burst into a scream of hysterical laughter--the laughter of misery relieved.

“Well, I’m awfully glad you are taking it like that!” he said, also seating himself, “and I do hope you and your sister will forgive me.”

“But what possessed you to do it?” she gasped out.

“Oh, I’m always doing queer things. I’ve loved playing jokes ever since I could speak. I act a bit, and as I’m rather short and smooth-faced, in the ship’s theatricals I play the young lady. I am quite a star! I’ve just come ashore from our last cruise, where I made a splendid hit as Miss Ruby Scarlett!”

“But what put it into your head to play the part _here_?” demanded the girl.

“Well, now,” drawing his chair six inches nearer, and dropping his voice into a key of easy confidence, “you know my brother Ted, what an awfully soft-hearted, good-natured, unselfish beggar he is? He was always the same, and when I stopped here some months ago I found he was just preyed upon by half the ladies in the station. One wanted his ponies, another his dirzee, a third his piano, and so on--and all desired his company! I declare he could not call his soul his own. He is stiff enough with men--but with women he is just like a bit of putty. He is afraid of you all--he respects the lot of you! You see, we have no sisters, and he is so chivalrous and humble that you impose upon him! He was having rather a bad time when I came--a chit or a message or a call every ten minutes--and so I offered to rid him of the plague of women--half in joke, half in earnest, you see. Then I was so delighted with myself as Miss Ruby Scarlett, that a brilliant idea struck me. I’d rush down to Munser for a couple of days--take a rise out of him, and scare away his visitors!”

“Yes,” assented the lady, and her eyes danced.

“You agree with me it was a temptation! He was away, as you know, and I played, in one respect, to an empty house, but I had ripping fun, and I’ve scandalised his bearer nearly to death. Well, now Edgar is back. I took him in properly at first. Lord! you should have seen his face! and heard his frosty welcome! When I discovered myself, at first he was shocked. I’m used to that--that is nothing--but when he heard of your and your sister’s call, he was most frightfully cut up. I never saw him so bowled over. He has told me to clear! But before I depart to-night--and I must--leave up--I want to make a clean breast, and apologise to _you_.”

“But why more to _me_ than to my sister?”

“My dear Miss Dacre, though you ask the question you know the answer. Because Edgar thinks there is no one in all the world like you. I suppose he has not dared to tell you himself, but I tell you--he is a gone coon!” Miss Dacre suddenly became scarlet. “I--I--mean that he loves you with all his heart and soul, and all that sort of thing. He has never cared a snap for any girl before--and never will again--and I’ve been and gone and ruined his life! Oh, Miss Dacre,” suddenly pouncing on her hand, “do give me a little, little scrap of hope to take him--you don’t know what a good fellow he is--then he’ll forgive me, and I’ll cut my cable with such a jolly light heart!”

Ida Dacre stared. This was her first proposal, and it was being made second-hand, by an impudent, curly-haired middy, masquerading in a gaudy cotton frock and mittens.

No, no, the whole thing was too much like a burlesque! Bobby--she had heard of him--was once more imagining himself behind the footlights, and playing a part. She made a violent effort, and dragged away her hand.

“I think your high spirits run away with you, Mr. Lovett,” she said stiffly. “I forgive you for your joke--but I really cannot suffer you to take any further liberties. Let me advise you to resume your own identity--and to cut your cable without _delay_.”

Bobby flushed to the roots of his rust-coloured hair; he gulped down something in his throat, and said:

“I know quite well that I deserve to be put in irons. I’m thinking of Edgar, and how I’ve damaged his cause--acted as a first-class, double-armour-plated destroyer. Won’t you give me one word--half a word?”

“Certainly not--pray why should I?”

“I will tell you,” again seizing her hand. “When you called this afternoon I peeped at you and Mrs. Lawrence through a hole in the purdah.”

“Oh, did you, indeed!” she said, becoming as red as a rose. “What a nice gentlemanly thing to do!”

“Yes, I just ‘took an observation,’ as we say. I saw your sister looking at the books and prints. You came to the writing-table, directly under my eye; there was a pile of Edgar’s new photographs on it--just unpacked. They are rather ripping, I’ll allow. You took up one and gazed at it, and then--ahem!--when no one was looking you put it to your lips--you know you did--you kissed him!”

Mrs. Lawrence at this moment stood in one of the many doorways, and beheld a red-haired boy in petticoats sitting close to her sister, holding her hand in a tight grip, and speaking with forcible emphasis.

She caught the words, “You kissed him!” and poor Ida’s face was scarlet.

The lady paused, dropped the screen quietly, and crept cautiously away, marvelling much at what she had heard and seen.

“Oh, you _odious_ boy!” exclaimed Miss Dacre angrily.

“Yes, you may think me as odious as they make ’em, and call me any name you jolly well please, as long as you are nice to Edgar.”

“If you ever tell him----” she began in a choked voice, “if you ever----”

“I swear on my solemn word of honour, as an officer in his Majesty’s Navy, that I never, never will. Is it Pax?”

“I suppose so--but, remember, I bind myself to nothing.”

Bobby stooped, in his best dramatic style, and bowed over her hand--which he released. Then he stood up and looked about for his hat, which he put on, stuffing the wig in his pocket.

“My train goes at seven o’clock,” he announced, “and I must be off. Will you give me a bit of a note so that Edgar and I may part friends?”

“I never came across such a boy!” she declared, as she moved to the writing-table.

Bobby watched her as she scribbled a few lines. Miss Ida was uncommonly handsome, and had a lovely little straight nose and long eyelashes. So she was fond of Edgar after all!

“There, will this do?” she asked, holding it out.

“DEAR MR. LOVETT,

“Your brother has just been here, and explained the situation. I have forgiven him, and I hope you will do the same. My sister will be very pleased if you will dine with us this evening, at eight o’clock.

“Yours sincerely,

“IDA DACRE.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Bobby, “that is all right. But, I say--what a cram about your sister!”

“Not at all,” coolly responded the lady, putting the note into an envelope, “not at all; she is always pleased to see your brother. Now here is the note. I hope,” with an ironical smile, “you have got _all_ you want?”

“No, not _yet_--I want something else.”

As she stared at him interrogatively, he suddenly bent forward and kissed her audibly on the cheek, and before Miss Dacre had recovered from her astonishment at his audacity, Bobby was already in the gharry, waving wildly from the window as he rattled away.

The next time Mr. R. Lovett appeared in Munser, it was to enact the responsible _rôle_ of best man--which part he played with the most commendable decorum.

The Lawrence family, and one or two others, were in the secret of “Miss Ruby Scarlett”--but the station, when hard up for a topic, still discourses of the mysterious, mad French lady who invaded the collector’s bungalow, and then disappeared. To Bobby Lovett the whole story was solemnly related by Mrs. Tompkins, and Bobby as solemnly gave it as his opinion that the amazing creature who flashed into the station for two days was a visitant from another world--possibly from the vast deep!

XI

THE OLD TOWN HOUSE

On a certain damp October evening in Dublin, not very long ago, a tall girl of two and twenty stood by Nelson’s pillar, obviously awaiting the arrival of a tram; her threadbare waterproof, and rusty felt hat, hinted at a low exchequer, and were but a mean accompaniment to a pair of splendid grey eyes and a brilliant complexion; in fact, such an attractive and arresting face was not often to be encountered even in a city justly celebrated for its pretty women. Tram after tram arrived, discharged passengers, and departed crammed to the doors, but still the girl’s friend came not.

At last “Patience at the foot of a monument” had its reward. An active, curly-headed young man sprang from a still-moving Donnybrook car, and hastened to join her with outstretched hands.

“I am most frightfully sorry, Bridge,” he began; “could not get off till now--such a heavy day at the Bank. I got your note.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered cheerfully, “I just wanted to have a little talk with you about Granny.”

“Yes, so you said,” he assented, as they turned out of the crowd, and walked away at a brisk pace in the direction of Rutland Square.

Denis D’Arcy and Bridget Doyne had known one another all their lives; their people came from the same county, and were distantly connected. The D’Arcys were a military race, and had gained more glory than gold; the Doynes of Castle Doyne, on the contrary, owned a vast estate, and were once renowned for keeping hounds and racehorses, and dispensing the almost princely hospitality of old times. Both the D’Arcys and Doynes had come down in the world by many and painful degrees; their names were almost forgotten, and their places knew them no more. These two were the last representatives of the D’Arcy and Doyne families; one was a bank clerk at a salary of a hundred and twenty pounds a year; the other lived with her grandmother, an old lady of eighty, whose exquisite needlework brought them a little bread and tea, whilst the girl herself gave sixpenny music-lessons in their humble neighbourhood, and read the daily papers to a blind old gentleman, and for her services received three shillings a week.

In spite of their poor circumstances and shabby clothes, the young couple presented a surprisingly contented appearance, as they hurried along through the soft autumn mist. The pair were engaged, and deeply in love with one another; the mere fact of being together stood for complete, if transitory, happiness.

“You say that Granny wishes to see me most particularly,” said D’Arcy; “have you any idea what it’s about?--has anything extra happened?”

“Yes, Denis, to both your questions. We have come to an acute financial crisis--that is not new--and Mr. Eale, the solicitor, has been to call on Gran, and made himself most odious, and disagreeable. He threatens all sorts of things.”

“Eale is a ‘shark lawyer’--a rich rascal who gets his living by money-lending, taking up shady cases, and grinding the faces of the poor. Granny should not have anything to do with such a rotter--or let him inside her doors.”

“I know, and I cannot bear the sight of him,” replied Bridget. “As to Granny’s door, there is no real door in a tenement house; and he stalks down our passage, raps with his stick, and drops in about once a week. He brought Gran a basket of grapes the other day--we _sold_ them!”

“Granny should have flung them at his head, and she would--if she knew as much about him as I do.”

“I’m pretty sure she knows something of him now; he came yesterday, and stayed over an hour. I kept away all the time, and after he had gone I found Gran crying. Denis,” and she hesitated for a moment, “it’s terrible to see an old person cry! Oh, look--here is Mr. Eale coming out of Mountjoy Square!”

“Talk of the devil--so he is! Ah, he funks meeting us. See, he has crossed the road, and is going into one of those houses.”

Mr. Eale was a short, thick-set individual of about fifty, with heavy brows and a square jaw; he looked well dressed and prosperous, and walked with a sort of swaggering strut. He glanced over his shoulder as he waited on the doorstep, and threw the young couple a baleful glare.

* * * * *

Old Mrs. Doyne had known a grave change of fortune; from mistress of a fine country place she had sunk by gradual but irresistible forces to two bare rooms, in what had once been the town house of the Doynes, and here she eked out a precarious livelihood with her wonderfully clever fingers. The slow descent had taken fifty years to accomplish; gradual and almost imperceptible at first; the latter phase a breathless rush. Sophia Doyne was a proud woman, and had taken extraordinary pains to hide her troubles and whereabouts from her few surviving friends, who had a vague impression that “Sophy Doyne and her granddaughter lived somewhere in England,” or even that the old lady was already dead!

The family mansion, which was situated in the neighbourhood of Mountjoy Square, had once upon a time been one of the finest houses on the north side. Who would think so, to behold it now! The rusty area railings were bent and broken, the areas littered with old hampers, tin cans, and broken crockery; the hall door stood wide, and half a dozen noisy children were playing hop-scotch in the great flagged vestibule. Beyond this, a pair of double doors had once opened into a smaller hall, but the doors of handsome mahogany were now in America. A great winding staircase with shallow stone steps led up to the drawing-rooms--from which now descended an overpowering odour of bad tobacco, and fried herrings. The walls of both halls and staircase were of stucco, very dirty and discoloured, but an exquisite frieze still survived, and gave an impression of processions of beautifully modelled classical figures--mostly in a condition of unassuming nudity!

Miss Doyne and her companion did not ascend to the first floor, but turned into a long flagged passage--papered with a hideous stone-grey pattern--out of which opened several rooms. In the first of these, Mrs. Doyne was discovered seated at a large mahogany table which was strewn with skeins of silks and ragged paper patterns. By the light of an old-fashioned lamp, she was busily engaged in embroidering an exquisite tea-cloth in various shades of blue.

As she raised her eyes, when the door opened, it was pitiful to see their faded colour, and red-rimmed lids--the toll of work and tears. A cap of real lace crowned her white hair, and a little knitted shawl was closely drawn round her bent shoulders. The old lady was woefully small and shrunken, but she had delicate features, and, for all her squalid surroundings, a certain air of distinction.

“Oh, Denis,” she exclaimed, “I’m mighty glad to see you. Take off your coat and warm yourself.” Then, looking over her shoulder, “Faith, I forgot; there’s no fire! We are a bit short of coal, and I can’t stand the smell of that oil stove--though it boils a kettle. Biddy, my heart, will you go and get tea, and make us a bit of toast at the end of the passage? That is, as you know,” to D’Arcy, “our kitchen.”

“Shall I lend a hand?”

“No, no, you stay with me, Denis; you’ll only hinder her. Biddy’s a grand maid-of-all-work, since poor Peggy died.”

“Poor Peggy!--she must have been a great age--though she always looked the same, as long as I can remember.”

“That’s only six and twenty years, and Peggy was over ninety; she was active to the last, but her mind was gone--she could not remember anything, except what happened fifty years ago.”

“Yes,” agreed Bridget, “and she was always telling us that somewhere or other there was what was called ‘a power of money’ in this house!”

“A house as bare as a picked bone,” said Mrs. Doyne; “but Bridgie, my dear, why are you not getting the tea?”

As soon as she had left the room, the old lady put down her work, and, looking at Denis over her spectacles, said:

“That Eale man has been coming here pretty often lately with one excuse or other.”

“So I’ve heard. What does he want?”

“He wants to marry Bridget.”

“What!” shouted D’Arcy.

“Yes, he made me a regular formal offer, sitting there in the same chair just where you are now. He said he could give his wife a fine house out on Lansdowne Road, and a motor--and make me a liberal allowance.” She paused.

“And what did _you_ say?”

“Nothing. It takes a good deal now to make me laugh, but I laughed till I nearly choked, and couldn’t speak; at last I said, ‘So this is the reason of your visits, and the presents of grapes.’ He nodded quite at his ease. ‘Do you know who my granddaughter is?’ I asked, and he said:

“‘Oh yes, a girl without a second gown to her back, who gives the greengrocer’s children lessons for sixpence an hour.’

“‘That’s true,’ I agreed, ‘but she is a Doyne of Castle Doyne; her grandfather was High Sheriff of the county.’

“‘And her grandmother does her own washing,’ he put in, as rude as could be.

“‘She does,’ I replied, ‘and your grandmother was _her_ kitchenmaid; but this sort of talk is foolish. My granddaughter is engaged to Mr. D’Arcy--one of her own class.’

“‘Then she’s a mad fool!’ he roared. He was furious, and, indeed, so was I. There was not a pin to choose between us; he said so many hateful things that at last I told him to go, and never again darken my doors.

“‘These doors are mine,’ he said, ‘and it is you who will go--not me. I’ve, as you know, a mortgage on this old barrack. I’ve not had a penny interest for two years; it’s a case of five hundred pounds, and interest, cash down, within a month, or I turn you into the street, you and your stuck-up lunatic of a granddaughter.’

“‘Well,’ I answered, ‘it’s the street for _you_ to-day,’ and I got up and curtsied him out.”

“That was all right.”