The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  “It is granted willingly,” he said. “But please, my dear Conybeare, do not make such mistakes in the future. Let me ask you to assume that I am sincere till you have the vaguest cause for supposing I am not. The English law assumes a man’s innocence till he is proved guilty. That is all I ask. Treat me as you would treat a suspect. But when you have such cause, please come to me and state it. Much harm can be done by nursing a suspicion, by not trying to clear it up. Harm, you will remember, was nearly done to me in that way before. Luckily, I had an opportunity of explaining her error to Lady Conybeare.”

  Jack had an uncomfortable sense that this man, for all the blandness of his respectability, could show claws. He suspected that claws had been shown quite unmistakably to Kit on the occasion to which Mr. Alington so delicately alluded, for she had come upstairs, after her talk with him in the hall, with the distinct appearance of having been severely scratched. But Mr. Alington only paused long enough to let the bare justice of his demand sink in.

  “Let me explain,” he went on. “You have suspected me of insincerity, and, luckily, you have stated your suspicion with great frankness, beyond the reach of mistake. This is my case: I wanted very much an article by Metcalfe in the City Journal, and when he called that morning, I was prepared to pay as much as two hundred pounds for it, but not more. Eventually I paid him four hundred pounds, twice that sum, partly, no doubt, because it was necessary that he should not be able to say that I had attempted to bribe him; but I must demand that you believe that the fact of my thereby giving the young fellow a good chance made me pay that sum willingly. I did not haggle over it, though I am perfectly certain I could have got what I wanted for less. You believe this?”

  Jack found himself saying that he believed this, and Mr. Alington grew even more silken and seraphic.

  “I was delighted to do it,” he said, “and in my private accounts I have entered two hundred and fifty pounds as a cheque to Metcalfe senior for business purposes, one hundred and fifty pounds as charity. It was charity. I entered it as such.”

  “Certainly you must have made a friend of Metcalfe senior, and junior if he only knew,” said Jack.

  “Yes, I am delighted to have done so. I have also incidentally made Metcalfe senior a—a confederate. From a business point of view that also pleases me. How marvellously all things work together for good! It comes in the morning lesson today.”

  Jack felt it difficult to know what decorum demanded of him. Bribing and the morning lesson in one breath were a little hard to reconcile. But if you have assumed and stated that you believe a man to be an actor, and if he assures you he is not, and you beg his pardon, it must be understood that you accept his bonâ fides. At any rate, you have to appear to do so, and Jack, who did not consider himself more than an amateur, found the task difficult, under the eye of one who was capable of such astonishing histrionic feats, who could act so containedly before no scenery and a sceptical audience. That unctuous voice quoting the lesson for the day was a miracle, and the miracle, like that of the barren fig-tree, seemed so unnecessary. However, everyone has an inalienable right to pose, and it is the point of good manners to assume that nobody exercises it.

  Mr. Alington rose with a sort of soft alacrity, and walked across to the window. Sheets of rain were still flung against the streaming panes, and the glory of the garden was battered and beaten. A thick vapour, half steam, half mist, rose from the water of the river, warmed by its summer travel, but his careful eye detected a break on the horizon.

  “We shall have a fine afternoon,” he said to Jack. “With your leave, therefore, I will get the prospectus, for I shall be glad to run over a few points with you.”

  Jack looked out over the drenched landscape.

  “I bet you a sovereign it does not clear,” he said.

  Mr. Alington took a little green morocco note-book from his pocket.

  “Done, my dear fellow,” he said. “I will just record it. You will certainly lose. I would have given you two to one, if you had asked it.”

  He left the room, and in a few minutes returned with a sheaf of papers.

  “Now, if you will give me your attention for half an hour or so,” he said, “I will tell you all that you, as a director, need know.”

  “And as a shareholder?” asked Jack.

  Mr. Alington rattled his gold pencil-case between his teeth. He felt disposed to trust his chairman a good long way, and, ignoring the scruple-voice, “Yes, I will tell you that also,” he said. “But keep the two well apart, my dear Conybeare.”

  MAMMON AND CO. (Part 3)

  CHAPTER XV

  THE WEEK BY THE SEA

  Toby thought it wise to call at the Links Hotel on the morning following his interview with Lord Comber, to make sure of the result of his interference, while Buck waited and grinned in the garden. They both of them wanted to bet that the worm had kept his word and gone, and both were willing to lay odds on it, and thus no wager was possible. Toby’s face was agape with smiles when he came back, and they both laughed for a full minute behind a laurel-bush.

  This was satisfactory, everybody was pleased, and it was not the least unlikely that Lord Comber himself at that moment was laughing too. He had heard from Kit the same evening in reply to his telegram that she would start for Aldeburgh (not Stanborough) next morning. All his neat and nasty little embroideries and Dresden china, his violet powder, scent-bottles, manicure brushes, and little vellum-bound indecencies of French verse, had been packed the same evening by his man, and he left Stanborough and the bowing proprietor of the Links Hotel in excellent spirits, with a new number of the Queen. Kit (she really was so clever about those things) had appeared in a gown exactly like one that was today given as a novelty in the paper a full three months before, and remarkably well she had looked in it. It was of pale lilac satin—Ted always knew how dresses were made—trimmed with point-lace, and straps of narrow black velvet. The bottom of the skirt was outlined with a scroll-patterned lace insertion, and cut into scallops to fit the lace. There was a mantle which went with it—perhaps the Queen would get hold of that in another month or two—which had suited Kit admirably: whatever Kit wore suited her. He felt quite proud to know a woman who antedated novelties in this way. Art as reflected in the fashion papers may be long; art on the same authority was always late if you took your time from Kit.

  Packing and travelling by slow cross-country trains was naturally a nuisance, but, after all, how right Toby had been, thought Ted, though for wrong reasons. Stanborough was too full, and full of the wrong sort of people, those, in fact, who fill their suburban minds with the movements of the aristocracy, and he did not care at all that he should be renowned in suburban circles for doing risky things with smart women. Yes, how right Toby had been, and how marvellously had his scheme miscarried. Really, that sort of interference ought to be punishable; it was a brutal moral assault, and people ought to be taken up for such things, just as if they had kicked their wives. It was a crime with violence, and the cat, he believed, had been used with success on ruffians no more dastardly. Toby fully deserved the cat, and Lord Comber would have laughed to see him get it. Yet there was a distinctly amusing side to the affair, and it was really not possible to be angry for long with such feeble and futile attempts to interfere with his liberty and Kit’s. That red-headed, freckle-faced brother-in-law, with his large hands and idiotic smile, would be violently hitting little golf-balls over the down this morning, thinking to himself how exceedingly clever he had been, and what a fine manly fellow he was. Lord Comber hated fine manly fellows, and they returned the compliment. It would be very amusing to tell Kit all about it. How she would scream! Perhaps they might arrange some delicate and devilish revenge together on Toby, something really nasty which would rankle. And the most amusing thing was that Kit and he had gained their point, namely, a week at the seaside together, seeming all the time to have yielded. He had avoided quarrelling with Toby, and had left him, victorious himself, to think that all the hono
urs of the field were his.

  In his pretty drawing-room way Toby Comber was very artistic, and where many people would see only a flat green field or a level landscape, he caught a delicious glimpse of a picture of the Dutch school. He looked out from his railway carriage window on placid cows standing knee-deep in pasture, or chewing a lazy cud beneath the narrow noon-day shade of drowsy elms, with a good deal of appreciation. He cared little either for cows or elms, except in so far as they reminded him of pictures which he admired, and which he knew to be valuable, and in the beauty of a landscape he looked mainly for an illustration of a picture. Like a large number of the more artistic of his world, he had a genuine respect for any work of art that was valuable, especially if it was more valuable than it would naturally appear to someone who did not know. He had a real reverence for rare first editions, even though he cared not two straws for what the book was about, and though all subsequenteditions were better printed, and mezzotints which he would not have given two thoughts to a few years ago had become admirable in his eyes simply because people had begun to collect them and to pay high prices for them.

  Hurry, so prominent and distressing a factor in our modern world, so subversive of true progress, is still unknown to cross-country lines, and they remain invincibly leisurely. By the map he had not many miles to go, but before his journey was half over he had enjoyed the sweets of his triumph over Toby and the quiet wayside pictures to the full, and his thoughts returned to their accustomed abiding-place, himself. He was a great admirer of personal beauty both in men and women; good looks always attracted him, and he was a devout admirer of his own. He was, so he considered, exceedingly nicely and suitably dressed for a hot August day. He wore a flannel suit of a yellowish-brown tinge, which matched divinely with the rich chestnut of his boots and the darker chestnut of his hair, and his tie was bandana, the prevailing tone of which was deep russet. He had been a little hurried over dressing this morning, and had not really had time to put a pin in it; but now there was ample leisure, and, opening his dressing-bag, he took out a looking-glass, which he propped on the seat opposite, and a little leather box in which he kept his pins and studs. He took off his straw hat and smoothed his hair once or twice with his hand, but, being still dissatisfied, got out a silver-handled brush, and drew it several times upwards across his front-hair, emphasizing that upward sweep in it which he admired so much. If he had had the choosing of his hair, he would not have given orders for a different shade, and for this reason he did not dye it, though people wronged him. Even natural advantages, if too marked, like Kit’s teeth, have their drawbacks. His eyebrows were much darker, almost black, and his brown eyes were really fine, large, and liquid. He wore no moustache, though till lately he had not done so; but young men of the age which he desired himself to be had ceased wearing them, and now a moustache meant you were born in the sixties.

  Then he smiled at himself, not because he was amused, but for professional reasons, noting two things, the first (with great satisfaction) being the whiteness and regularity of his teeth, the second (with misgiving) the regions round the eye. By daylight it was impossible not to notice that the outer corners were marked—disfigured almost—by two lines, hideously styled crow’s-feet, and there were certainly other lines below the eye. However, Kit had told him that massage had been tried with success for that, and he intended to see about it when he got back to town.

  After another lingering look, he put the glass down and unlocked his leather jewel-case. In it were pins of all kinds, made with screw heads, so that they could serve indiscriminately as studs, and he turned them over. There was a beautiful ruby set in tiny brilliants, which he saw at once was the proper colour for the tone of his dress. He had worn it as a solitaire the evening before, and he unscrewed it, and replaced the back of the stud with a pin. But then he stopped. Not long ago Kit had given him a charming turquoise of the vieille roche, a piece of noon-day sky, and incapable of turning green. It would be suitable to wear that when he met her, but unfortunately it did not go at all well with his clothes. However, sentimental considerations prevailed, and he put the ruby back, pinned the turquoise into his tie, and looked at himself again.

  “It is rather an experiment,” he said half aloud.

  He had telegraphed to the Aldeburgh Arms for three rooms, two bedrooms and a sitting room, and, arriving there, he found they had been given him en suite, the sitting-room in the middle. He felt bound to ask whether these were the only rooms to be had, and finding there were no others, he was powerless to alter the arrangement.

  Kit would not arrive for two hours yet, and he set his valet to work at once to make the sitting-room habitable. The Saxe figures he took out himself, and gave a hand to the draping of embroideries; but the man had a great deal of taste, and he left him before long to his own ideas. After giving orders that masses of flowers should be sent up, and some plants for the fireplace, he went out to stroll by the beach till Kit’s train arrived. There was a fresh breeze off the sea, and he put a light dust-cloak over his arm, in case he should feel chilly.

  Kit’s train arrived punctually, and she in the highest spirits. She laughed till she cried over the immaculate Toby turned missionary, and it was with difficulty that Ted persuaded her not to write him a line.

  “Think of his face,” she cried, “if I just send a note!—‘Dear Toby: How does Stanborough suit you and your fiancée? I meant to come there, as you know, but only yesterday evening I decided to come to Aldeburgh instead. Oddly enough, Ted Comber arrived here today. It was so pleasant (and quite unexpected) meeting him, and we shall have the greatest fun. He has been at Stanborough, he tells me, and had a long talk with you only yesterday. He is so fond of you.’—Oh, Ted, think of his face!”

  There was very little that was genuine about Ted except his teeth and the colour of his hair, but his voice had the true ring of sincerity when he thought of Toby’s face.

  “Oh, that would spoil it all!” he cried. “Toby must never know—at least, not for a long time. He would certainly come here, too. How tiresome that would be! And I should quite lose my temper with him.”

  Kit laughed.

  “I know; that is just it,” she said. “It would be so amusing. I love seeing scenes, and I should like to see you really angry, Ted. What do you do?”

  “Well, you will soon know, if you write to Toby,” he said. “Kit, you simply mustn’t. No, I won’t say that, or else you will. But please don’t.”

  Kit laughed again.

  “Well, I won’t tonight, at any rate,” she said. “But I shall keep it as a hold over you, so you must behave nicely. Oh, Ted, how pretty you have made your room! And tea is ready; I am so hungry. Really, it is quite too funny about Toby.”

  She sat down and poured out tea; then, looking up as she handed him his cup, saw he was looking at her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “When did I not behave nicely to you?” he said.

  “Oh, a thousand times—yesterday, today, now, even,” she said, “in expecting me to be sentimental. How can a woman who is just dying for her tea be sentimental?”

  She looked at him a moment with her head on one side.

  “Yes, you look quite nice today,” she said, “and, really, I am awfully pleased to be with you. But what evil genius prompted you to put a turquoise in a russet tie?”

  Ted threw up his hands in half-mock despair.

  “I knew it was wrong,” he said. “But don’t you see?”

  Kit looked at it a moment.

  “I remember now—I gave it you,” she said. “Really, I think that is the greatest compliment you ever paid me, spoiling your scheme of dress. Sugar? Yes, you take two lumps, I know.”

  Ted laughed.

  “It was an experiment, I felt,” he said. “But I did right.”

  Kit was silent a moment, for she had just taken a large bite out of new-made bun.

  “I think it will be the greatest fun down here,” she said. “Poor dear Toby could not
have played into our hands more beautifully. The poor child was quite right, and most thoughtful. Stanborough is certainly too much du monde—of the wrong sort, that is to say—in August. He drove us to Aldeburgh. It is on his head. And he actually threatened to telegraph to Jack. I wonder if he would have carried it out. Personally, I don’t think he would; but, anyhow, it is all for the best. He couldn’t have suited us better. Dear boy, how nice to have such a careful little brother-in-law!”

  “He threatened me,” said Ted plaintively, “in a loud, angry voice, with ‘My name is Massingbird,’ and all the rest of it. I told him that to telegraph meant there was a reason for telegraphing, and he had none. Besides, we did not want Jack. He was not part of the plan.”

  “Jack’s nose has grown since he became a financier,” remarked Kit. “That is the worst of becoming anything. If you become a pianist, your hair grows. If you become a philanthropist, your front-teeth grow. I never intend to become anything, not even a good woman,” she said with emphasis.

  “I hope not,” remarked Ted.

  “Oh, how I hate people who are in earnest about things!” said Kit in a sort of frenzy. “I mean I hate people being in earnest about the things they ought to be in earnest about. One should only take seriously things like one’s hair and games and dress. For sheer social hopelessness give me a politician or a divine. Ted, promise me you will never become a divine.”

  “Not today, at any rate,” said Ted; “but I shall keep it as a hold over you.”

  Kit laughed uproariously, and got up.

  “I’ve finished for what I have received,” she said, “and so we’ll go out. Have you got a spade for me to dig in the sand with as I wade? Oh, there’s the bezique-box. I think we’ll play bezique instead. Is there a café or anything of the sort, where there will be a band. Bezique goes so well to a Strauss valse.”

  “There is a draper’s shop and a church,” said Ted. “That is all.”