Part 16

The moon was so much their friend that they had no difficulty in finding this skiff. Getting aboard, however, was not quite such a simple business. She was but a cockleshell of a craft which had to be nicely trimmed to accommodate two. But Mame, sure-footed as a cat, instinctively disposed herself in the right spot. Bill untied the boat and took the oars and then began their odyssey.

In the centre of the lake, which although deep in places was not very wide, was a tiny isle. There was room for Miranda and Ferdinand upon it, for a few birds and a few rushes and a few trees and for not much else. But in the moonlight it shone with the pale magic of faëry. Here, sure, was the local habitation of romance. The lure of that shadow-and-tide-haunted spot was irresistible. Bill began to witch the night with oarmanship; and in five minutes or less the coracle had touched at Prospero’s enchanted island.

As they floated gently through the veil of the trees, while the water lapped musically and one startled bird rose eerily with a loud whir, Mame had the happy illusion that she was a classic heroine. This is how those romantic janes must have felt in old days when those poetic guys wrote sonnets to their eyebrows.

Plying the oars with uncommon skill this guy appeared too much of a man to be a poetry addict. He was a regular fellow of the twentieth century; a practical modern with all the latest improvements. There was nothing highfalutin about him. Yet even he, as seen by the light of that wonderful moon, had rather the air of a venturer in strange places.

“Say, listen, bo, this seems pretty good to me.” Hardly more than a whisper those half comic words, yet full of feeling, full of comradeship, full of whimsicality. Bill chuckled softly. The charming minx had expressed his own idea of the subject. Yes, it was pretty good. There was magic in the water, in the trees, in the very air and texture of this wonderful night. He had never lived such moments. This highland country with the power of the moon upon it sort of carried one beyond oneself.

What a topping little girl! So different from the others. Not that they were not good and jolly in their way. In the sight of Bill all girls were good and jolly; but some, of course, had more vim and sparkle, more originality, more zip. Yes, a good girl. The way that old moon picked out the curve of her chin and the way the blue-green water was reflected in her rather queer but alluring eyes gave one a corking feeling of living the big, glad life.

Bill’s ambition, at that moment, was to take her in his arms and kiss her. But an unwary movement must overturn them sure. He must wait until he could beach the skiff and dispose of the oars.

Coasting around they entered a small shallow cove, where the tree-laden banks came down gently to the water’s edge. This was the spot. Bill ran the boat on to a tiny strand. Yet by occult means the dark purpose in the mind of Ferdinand was already communicated to the heart of Miranda.

Just as he was about to lay aside his oars, she rose like a bird and flew ashore. It was now a case of come and find me. Heedless of her slippers she sprang up a dry grassy knoll with Bill in quick pursuit. She flitted behind a tree and then another and then another. The pursuit was hot but she was agile. Through heather and ferns she flew. As she passed from tree to tree, a moonlit wraith in her white cloak, she was like a naiad, an incarnation of elfin laughter and mirth.

Bill was a good trier, but this woodland sprite took a lot of catching. He was one of those hefty fellows whom nature had not designed for mobility. Something better, however, than mere speed was his. He was a stayer. Even if not fleet of foot he took a lot of shaking off once he had hit the trail.

She darted like a squirrel from tree to tree. But Bill the relentless was always there. Presently she would tire, but no tiring for him this side the rising of the sun. Already she was slowing down. Yard by yard he was gaining. There was only one tree between them now. There was less than a tree; there was less than half a tree.

Now, you nymph! She was as slender in his arms as a young willow. But her motions were very wild and quick. The bright red life was tingling in every electric inch of her. It was wonderful what force and liveliness she had. This was a girl. A sweet little mouth. She fought a bit, she kicked him on the shin, but it was not the sort of kick that meant anything.

Blown and tossed, yet hooting with a laughter that shocked the island’s other inhabitants, they came presently to earth on the dry bank above the pellucid water. But Ferdinand held Miranda close. Not a chance for her to slip from his arms and elude him again.

The witch seemed to have no especial desire for more feats of the kind. That strong and manly arm was far too good to have around one. And there was such a slender hope of getting free. One half-hearted attempt was the sum of all her struggles.

What was that plopping in the water? A fish? Some funny old bird? Was that a coney? What a moon it was! How weird and yet how grand it made the Castle look. To think that pile of stones had stood just so in the time of Robert the Bruce.

Had Bill read any of the romances of old man Scott?

Yes, he seemed to remember having read Robinson Crusoe. That was mainly about an island, wasn’t it? Then there was Don Quixote. Those were the only works he had read of Sir Walter Scott. Personally he always felt that real life was so much better than simply reading about it....

She had a most kissable mouth.

“Tell me, Puss, do you think you could stick me for always?”

The Simplicitas question seemed to jump so abruptly upon her that Mame was caught unawares.

It was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Sooner or later it was bound to arise. But she hadn’t expected the boob to take off quite so soon. Here he was fairly plopping into her pocket, without giving her a chance of making adequate preparation to receive him.

Even at Cowbarn, Iowa, where the roughneck abounds, Bill’s form would have been rated a trifle crude. The question had been half invited, yet certainly she would like to have had a little more in the way of notice. Still there it was. No parrying, no parleying, no evading. Excited she was, but she must pull her fool self together; she must bring her wits into play. This was a matter for now.

Never had she felt so near complete happiness. A big moment. The romance of the circumstances made her feel a wee bit delirious; the pressure of life in her veins was terrific. A spell was in the trees and the mountains; on the heather; on the keep of Dunkeldie; on the moon-haunted lake. Magic had got into her blood.

She must take a pull on herself, she must look around. This was a powerful question. There were many implications. But why bother her head about them, even if at this moment she was capable of doing so, which beyond a doubt she was not.

“Sorry to rush my fences like this.” The voice, deep and level, was very close to her ear. “But we are just made for one another. And I mean to have you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, honey.” That was the answer she meant to give. Had she not been carried so completely away by the enchantments of that old and wicked moon, it would have been given beyond a doubt. But just now she was not able to do as she liked; that was to say, being half off your balance simply reft you of the power of doing what you didn’t like. It would go to her heart to throw away this golden chance. Empire over oneself would be needed for that. Besides, the trees of the island whispered to her, Mame Durrance, what a fool puss you’ll sure be if you do.

XLI

The best of times come to an end. And they have a trick of coming to an end abruptly. Such was Mame’s thought, when on the morning of the thirteenth day of Dunkeldie, or to be a little more precise, on the morning after the visit to Prospero’s magic island, there came a knock on her bedroom door, while she was sewing lace on a camisole. Lady Violet entered.

She was a bearer of ill tidings. “We must pack up to-morrow.”

Mame’s countenance fell. She had been cherishing a hope that her clever friend would be able to wangle at least one week more. It was the good life; everything was going swimmingly; this was the first suggestion that it was about to end so soon.

“Won’t your Aunt Emily stand for us a bit longer?” Mame was inclined to question the fates.

“It isn’t altogether that. Aunt Emily would like us to stay on, but there’s bread and butter to consider, you know.”

Ruefully Mame supposed there was. Still the firm seemed to be carrying on pretty well at Dunkeldie. And their locum tenens, one Gerty Smith, was diligent and trustworthy.

“But aren’t we rather taking chances? There’s New York to think of now. It won’t do to be too much behind with our information.”

“We’re not so behind as all that. There’s nothing much doing in London, and what there is Gerty Smith can attend to. Seems to me an extra seven days here isn’t going to matter.”

Disappointment was in Mame’s tone and there was no attempt to conceal it. She had counted on another magic week. But Celimene was adamant.

“There’s that new play on Monday at the St. James’s, also one on Tuesday at the Shaftesbury.”

“Gerty can fix those.”

“Unfortunately they are both American pieces. And New York won’t like it if we don’t give of our best.”

“Shucks!” protested Mame. “Gerty can mug up a notice as slick as we can. If you tell her just what to say beforehand--uproarious welcome, speeches before the curtain and all the rest of the dope--New York’ll never know the difference.”

“I don’t quite agree.” Celimene’s voice had grown particularly calm and quiet.

Once before and once only had Mame heard that voice. On that occasion it was the prelude to trouble. She looked shrewdly at her mentor. And what she saw gave her pause.

The gay and laughing eyes had hardened. They were still gay and laughing, but behind them was an elusive something Mame did not like. Her keen perception had noted for some days past a subtle change in the manner of Bill’s sister. The thought had already crossed Mame’s mind that those prize cats had been getting at the friend to whom she owed so much.

“Davis will give you a hand with your packing.” The tone, light and gentle as it was, sounded absolutely final. “To-morrow morning we must catch the ten o’clock from Inverauchty.”

There was nothing to be done. Short of open defiance, to which Mame was sorely tempted, and yet was wise enough not to yield, no alternative was left.

Bill was bitterly disappointed when he heard the bad news. He had taken it for granted that Mame was staying on. But in his way he was a philosopher.

“I’ll be in London about ten days from now. And then--and then we’ll roll along to Cartier’s and choose a ring.”

Mame’s eyes shone. It was the tangible evidence of her triumph and of her happiness. Yes, there was magic in the air of Dunkeldie. Life might be a long round of daily disappointment, but back of everything was always the Big Stuff, if only one had the luck and the pluck to be able to pull it.

“Have you told Violet?” She was able to ask that serious question in spite of a tumultuous heart. There was reason to suppose that he had.

“Not yet. I’ll tell my mother first, if you don’t mind. No need to set tongues wagging too soon. You can tell Vi when you like, of course; but people when they get publicly engaged look and feel such fools, don’t they?”

Mame supposed they did. And her triumph would keep. The announcement, when it came, would be rather like exploding a bomb in the new world she had entered. Gwendolen Childwick would be furious. So would the other furry ones. And Violet certainly was not going to like it.

How could she? Mame did not disguise from herself that she was worried by the thought of the friend to whom she owed so much. An uncomfortable feeling overtook her. To have caught this much-cherished bird was perilously akin to ingratitude.

Disappointing as it was to cut short the time of one’s life at Dunkeldie, out of regard for another’s caprice, London, on Mame’s return, did not seem so bad. She had found it a funny old burg and in some respects an overrated one; yet it is the sort of place to which most people don’t mind going back once in a while. There is usually something doing in London in the early fall.

To begin with, there was the question of daily bread. And Mame’s heart was really in her job. She had made good in the highlands; yet one glamorous hour, no matter how crowded and glorious, cannot undo the mental habits of a lifetime. She was now the bride-elect of a marquis, but first and foremost she remained a go-getter. It gave her a wonderful thrill to receive every morning a rather illiterate-looking letter with a Scotch postmark; but it was still her nature to be up and coming.

She liked the true London-and-New York sort of feeling of being a busy young bee; of doing the work of the hive. There was a sense of power in gathering news first-hand; of putting it in tabloid form; of sending it over the wires of divers oceans and continents. She had lived magic hours. But wise folks don’t put their trust in magic. London and the daily round were a useful antidote.

Life had suddenly grown big and rich and beautiful. All the same it was not without its peril. Mame had a keen desire to confide the great secret to her housemate and partner. Yet her courage was not equal to the task. She could not help thinking, from her friend’s perceptible change of attitude, that she must know what was in the air. Arid silence upon the subject of Bill lent colour to this theory. Once or twice, greatly daring, Mame had broached it stealthily, in the hope of finding out how the land lay. But on each occasion Lady Violet hastened to talk of something else.

The friendship, which to Mame had always been delightful, seemed to wear quite thin in the fortnight which elapsed before Bill, true to his promise, was again in London. An ever-growing coolness was discernible in his sister. Conscience may have played its part in the matter; yet there was no disguising that icicles were around. Mame was not unheedful. She could not forget the recent past; she could not forget how much she owed to a true friend. Bill was Bill; he was just lovely; but without the sanction of his family it might be difficult for their happiness to be really complete.

The young man had not been home ten hours from Scotland when he rang up Mame in Half Moon Street. She must be at the Berkeley or the Ritz, whichever she preferred, at a quarter past one; they would have a bit of lunch and then toddle round into Bond Street and choose the ring.

How good to hear that gay voice on the phone. What a rare power he had of keying one up. He was so responsive. Everything one said, the most commonplace remarks, seemed to tickle his sense of humour.

“The Ritz, a quarter after one, honey. I’ll be around.”

At twelve Mame downed tools.

“I’ve got to go out to lunch,” she announced casually. “So I guess I’ll go and doll up a bit.”

“Right-o.” Celimene was curt. She had already said that she was lunching out. For that matter she had only once lunched at the Ladies Imperium since the return from Scotland; so that the old friendly habit of the partnership of reserving a table near the window with a view of the Green Park no longer held.

Did Violet know what was in the wind? She was marvellous at reading signs. With all her casualness and her rather aristocratic viewpoint, which was such a handicap to getting money, she was just as clever as she could stick. Anyhow, she would have to be told soon. And there sure would be a dandy fuss.

Each time Mame ventured a glance at Celimene, the less she fancied the cut of her distinguished jib.

XLII

Bill looked a peach in his Guards’ tie, when at a quarter past one he was discovered among the ferns at the Ritz. Mame had no wish to be unduly set up with herself; nay she was too wise ever to be so, but there was a happy sense which informed her that she was some advertisement for the new dressmaker Gwympe. Right up to the knocker. Right up to the nines. Everything just so. Since she had gone to live at Half Moon Street she had developed taste in clothes. The neat coat frock of navy blue gabardine was the last word in style; the same applied to the dinky little hat of black velvet.

A good world, thought Mame, and Bill thought so too, as they ate a delicate but expensive luncheon. And then at their leisure they crossed the road and sauntered down a famous street as far as a famous jeweller’s, where the ring was duly chosen. Being a marquis, Bill was rather a believer in doing things well. The ring was therefore no half-and-half affair, but the last cry of fashion, wonderfully devised of small pearls and diamonds. It cost, no doubt, a pretty figure. What the exact sum was remained a secret between Bill and the jeweller; and there was no happier girl than Mame in the whole of London, when with that token glittering on her finger she and her affianced sought again the air of Bond Street.

They strolled down Piccadilly. In their glossy elegance, surmounted by faces of healthy Scottish tan, they were decidedly good to look at. Many sympathetic glances were directed upon them by the passers-by. Some people consider that taking one day with another there is a greater pressure of really good-looking people to the square yard in that gentle declivity which ends at Hyde Park Corner than in any stretch of equal length on the wide earth. The type of beauty there represented is so honest, so upstanding, so cheerfully simple yet so immaculately dressed. Bill and his young lady did no dishonour to Piccadilly north side; and had they had eyes for aught but each other they might have learned how much they were admired.

In point of fact Mame did happen to catch the eye of one little girl remarkably like herself of a few short months ago, who with her satchel containing heaven knew what secret ambitions, was on her way back to her work. She was a resolute and plucky bit of a thing, withal a little peaked and pale, a little tired and a little bored; and there was more than mere admiration in the glance which envisaged Mame, her clothes, and her escort. There was a wistful envy.

Yes, honey, thought Mame complacently, you do well to envy me. Just now I am the happiest girl in London. It all seems too good to be true. I feel sure there must be a catch in it somewhere. But the glow of feeling continued as far as the Park gates, where they turned in, and the day being wonderfully bright and mild, as it often is in England towards the middle of September, they sat on garden chairs for two solid hours at a point equi-distant between the Achilles Statue and Knightsbridge Barracks where the Pinks were now in residence.

Those two hours of prattling to Bill and of Bill prattling to her Mame never forgot. Her sense of everything seemed to grow richer and deeper. Wasn’t it Hamlet or some other wise guy who had put it over in the office calendar that heaven and earth held more things than he dreamed of? That was exactly how Mame felt now. She could hardly believe that she herself was she. Was this the little hick who a year ago had hardly been ten miles away from Cowbarn, Iowa, in all her young life? Was this the little mucker New York had laughed at? She was far too practical to believe in fairies, but she could not deny the feeling that a spell was at work.

Bill was charming to sit by and talk to. He made not the slightest pretence of being a highbrow. Out of doors was his special hobby; an easy-going sportsman was what he looked and that sure was what he was. They discussed the immediate future; wondered when and how and where they should tie the knot and so on. “I’ll nip along to the Button Club presently--the box with the windows we passed just now--and write a line to my mother. You haven’t met her yet, have you? She’s a great dear, she really is, even if she does live all the year round in Shropshire. I’ll tell her we want to get married as soon as we can. And as we are both quiet, homely sort of birds we sha’n’t want much in the way of a wedding.”

Mame was all in favour. No doubt some of the folks would want to be there. But the quieter the better. She was never one for display. And when Bill declared he would not mind how soon they were “spliced,” with this also she was in cordial agreement.

These were moments of real happiness. And yet, and yet, there was just one moment of swords. After they had sat a full two hours on the garden chairs, absorbed in the contemplation of each other and their future plans, they got up and made a move in the direction of tea. It could be purchased and consumed in an open-air enclosure thoughtfully provided by the London County Council. They were in the act of crossing the park’s central artery when Mame’s eye was caught by a gently gliding limousine. It was a wonderful dingus, the latest word, with chauffeur and footman whose liveries matched the peerless machine. Two ladies were seated inside. Both, however, appeared to be gazing ostentatiously in another direction.

“Say, look, honey. Gwendolen Childwick. Is that her Mommer?”

Bill’s answer was a rather amused but quite indifferent yes. “Mommer carries a bit of sail, I always think. Some of these Fifth Avenue queens do, they say.”

“Very rich, I suppose.” Mame had an odd fluttering of the nerves for which she couldn’t quite account.

“I forget how many millions of dollars. But something pretty tall.”

“Well, they needn’t treat us as if we were just dirt.”

“Didn’t see us.” Bill took an obvious and common-sense view of a quite trivial incident.

“No, they just didn’t,” Mame showed venom. “But I guess they’d have seen _you_ soon enough if I hadn’t been with you.”

In the particular circumstances it was not a very judicious thing to have said. But even Mdlle. L’Espinasse may nod on occasion. Not, of course, that it really mattered. Bill seemed absolutely indifferent. If one happens to be an old-established British marquis one is apt to take things as they come. Not his to reason why Gwendolen and her mamma looked pointedly in an opposite direction.

Bill calmly brushed the incident aside. But Mame lacked something of his detachment. Her gaiety grew suddenly less. That glimpse of Gwendolen seemed to cast a shadow over the rosy prospect. Why it should do so Mame did not know. What was Miss Three Ply Flannelette and all her millions of dollars to either of them now?

Still there was no denying that the cup of tea did not taste so good as Mame had expected. Perhaps it was that a faint cloud had crossed the sun of her great happiness, although so far as the September blue was concerned, hardly a puff was visible. Yet, in spite of the glory of the day, a touch of autumn began to steal upon the air.

They didn’t sit long over their tea. Mame felt in duty bound to return to the day’s rather neglected work. Bill, moreover, had a very important letter to write to his mother. But they continued to enjoy each other’s company all the way back along Rotten Row and up by Hamilton Place, where Bill, after duly making an appointment at the same highly convenient spot for the morrow, entered the Button Club to do the deed.

Mame walked slowly along to Half Moon Street. For some reason she was feeling more anxious, more excited than she cared about when she entered the flat. She shed her gloves and took off her hat. And then she went into the small room in which most of their work was done and resolutely confronted the typewriter.

Violet had not yet come in. This was fortunate. Mame felt in need of a respite in which to collect her thoughts. For the hour was at hand when the dramatic announcement must be made. Violet would have to know. And she had better know now.