Mr. Justice Ireton nodded.
“Now,” he said. “I presume you mean what you say? You’re quite serious about this?”
“Daddy, I was never so terribly serious in my life!”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Who is he?” asked the judge patiently. “What do you know about him? What’s his background?”
“His—his name is Anthony Morell. I met him in London.”
“Yes. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s part owner of a night club. At least, that’s one of the things he does.”
Mr. Justice Ireton closed his eyes briefly, and opened them again.
“What else does he do?”
“I don’t know. But he’s got lots and lots of money.”
“Who are his parents?”
“I don’t know. They’re dead.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At a party in Chelsea.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Two months, at least.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“Daddy!”
Constance was genuinely shocked. She was shocked not at the suggestion, which she would have accepted with equanimity or even complacency from anyone else, but at the fact that it came from him.
Mr. Justice Ireton’s mild eyes opened. “I asked you a simple question,” he pointed out. “Surely you can answer it. Have you?”
“No.”
Though not a muscle in the judge’s face moved, he seemed to be expelling his breath. He relaxed a little, putting his hands flat along the arms of the chair.
Constance, though befuddled, noticed that at least the most ominous danger sign of all his moods was not present. He did not take his shell-rimmed spectacles out of their case in his breast pocket, put them on and take them off deliberately, as his habit was when on the bench. But she felt that she could not stand this impassivity.
“Can’t you say anything?” she pleaded. “Please say you don’t mind! If you tried to stop me from marrying Tony, I think I’d just die!”
“You are twenty-one years old,” the judge pointed out. He reflected. “In fact, you came into your mother’s money only six months ago.”
“Five hundred a year!” said the girl contemptuously.
“I was not commenting on the inadequacy, to you, of the amount. I was stating the fact. You are twenty-one and independent. If you choose to marry, I couldn’t prevent you.”
“No; but you could—”
“What?”
“I don’t know!” said Constance miserably. After a pause she added: “Can’t you say something?”
“If you like.” He was silent for a time. Then he put his fingers to his temples, and ruffled the fingers across his forehead. “I must confess I had hoped you would marry young Barlow. He has a tremendous future ahead of him, I think, if he keeps his head. I’ve advised him, even trained him, for years—”
‘(Yes, thought Constance, and that’s just the trouble! Mr. Barlow—when she wanted to be particularly severe, she always thought of him as “Mr.”—was growing more like his tutor every day; was growing old before his time. Let the bouncing Jane Tennant, who obviously adored him, have Fred Barlow. Facing life with a man who had been trained by her fish-blooded father was more than Constance thought she could put up with.)
Mr. Justice Ireton pondered.
“Your mother,” he said, “was in many ways a very silly woman—”
“Don’t you dare talk like that about her!”
“Indeed. You were too young to remember your mother, I think?”
“Yes; but—”
“Then be good enough not voice an opinion when you have no adequate basis for judgment. Your mother, I say, was in many ways a very silly woman. In many ways she irritated me. When she died I was sorry, though I can’t say I was grief-stricken. But you—!”
He shifted in his chair. Constance spoke breathlessly.
“Well? Are you going to play cat and mouse with me too?
Won’t you say something one way or the other? Won’t you at least meet Tony?”
The judge looked up quickly.
“Oh? Is he here?”
“He’s down on the beach, throwing stones at the water. I thought I’d see you first, and sort of prepare you; and then he could come up and talk to you.”
“Very commendable. Will you ask him to come up, then?”
“But if you—”
“My dear Constance, what do you expect me to say? Yes or no, ‘God bless you,’ or, ‘It won’t do,’ without any information? Your biographical sketch of Mr. Morell, you will admit, was not very comprehensive. By all means have him up! I shall be able to form an opinion about this gentleman after I have met him.”
Constance turned away, and then hesitated. It seemed to her that there had been a soft, sinister emphasis on the word “gentleman.” As usual after a meeting with her father, she had a hot, resentful feeling that all her meanings had been twisted and all her straight questions evaded: that she had got nowhere.
“Daddy,” she said abruptly, with her hand on the window, “there’s one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m bound to tell you, because I want to ask you (please, for heaven’s sake) to be fair! I don’t think you’re going to like Tony, really.”
“No?”
“But if you don’t like him, it’ll be because of a lot of prejudices and nothing else. For instance, Tony likes bottle parties, and dancing, and modern things. He’s terribly intelligent—”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Justice Ireton.
“But he likes modern authors and composers. He says the things you and Fred Barlow have tried to get me to admire are so much dreary rubbish. And one thing more. He’s had— well, escapades; yes, and I admire him for it! Can he help it if women find him so attractive? Can he help it if they throw themselves at his head?”
“I don’t know,” said her father imperturbably. “You will give me a better opportunity to find out if you ask him to come up here.”
Again Constance hesitated.
“Would you like me to be here when you talk to him?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well. I’d rather not be here, either.” She scuffed. with her slipper at the bottom of the French window, peering hesitantly back at him. “I’ll just sort of hang about, then.” She clenched her fists. “But you will be nice to him, won’t you?”
“I will deal fairly with him, Constance. I promise you that.”
The girl turned and ran.
Shadows were gathering in the room, and across road and beach and sea. The sun, fiery red and half blotted out, emerged from behind clouds low down along the water. It kindled the room and then was hidden again, smudgily. The turn of the dusk brought a damp smell, mingled with the iodine tang of seaweed, sweeping up on a breeze from the south. In that momentary glow of sun, the far edges of the beach showed flat and gray and glistening where the tide was out; but the breeze already carried, against a vast hush, the soft, snaky hiss of the tide coming in.
Mr. Justice Ireton stirred in his chair.
He got up rather stiffly, and went to the sideboard. He contemplated the two untasted whiskies he had poured out. After considering them, he picked up one glass, emptied its contents into the other, and added soda. From a box on the sideboard he took a cigar, tore off its band, clipped it, and lighted it. When it was drawing to his satisfaction, he returned to his chair carrying the whisky glass. He set the glass down on the edge of the chess table, and continued to smoke placidly.
Brisk footsteps sounded on the patchy lawn outside.
“Good evening, sir!” said the subdued but hearty voice of Mr. Anthony Morell. “Come to beard the lion in his den, you see!”
Thick-set and ingratiating, sweeping off his hat as he entered, Mr. Morell advanced, smiling, with extended hand.
IV
“Good evening,” said the judge. He shook t
he extended hand, not enthusiastically, without getting up. “Will you sit down?”
“Thanks.”
“Across from me, please. Where I can get a look at you.”
“Oh. Right-o.”
Tony Morell sat down. The overstuffed chair tilted him backwards, and he instantly sat upright again, as though not to be put at a disadvantage.
Mr. Justice Ireton continued to smoke with placid deliberation. He did not say anything. His small eyes were fixed steadily on his guest’s face. It was a regard which might have paralyzed a sensitive man: as perhaps Morell was.
Morell cleared his throat.
“I suppose,” he observed, speaking suddenly into a great silence, “Connie’s told you?”
“Told me what?”
“About us.”
“What, in particular, about you? Try to be precise.”
“The marriage!”
“Oh. Yes. She’s told me. Will you have a cigar? Or a whisky and soda?”
“No, thank you, sir,” replied Morell, firing back the answer instantly and with somewhat self-conscious complacency. “I never use tobacco or spirits. This is my tipple.”
As though encouraged or emboldened by the invitation, he seemed more at ease. He had the air of a man whose hand conceals the ace of trumps, and who is wondering only about the proper time to play it. But he made no move of this kind. Instead he produced a packet of chewing gum, which he displayed to his host before removing the tissue paper from a stick of it, and crumpling it into his mouth with manifest pleasure.
Mr. Justice Ireton did not say anything.
“Not that I’ve got any objections to ’em,” Mr. Morell assured him, alluding to the tobacco and the spirits. “Just don’t use ’em.”
After this magnanimous explanation, he fell silent for what seemed to him an uncomfortable moment. Then he plunged in.
“Now about Connie and me. She’s been a bit worried about it; but I told her I thought I could persuade you to be reasonable. We don’t want trouble. We want you to be our friend, if you will. You haven’t any real objection to our getting married; now have you?”
He smiled.
The judge took the cigar out of his mouth.
“You see no objection yourself?” he asked.
Morell hesitated.
“Well,” he admitted, frowning his swarthy forehead into horizontal wrinkles, “there is one thing. You see I’m a Roman Catholic. I’m afraid I must insist that we be married in the Catholic church, and that Connie becomes a Catholic herself. You understand, don’t you?”
The judge inclined his head.
“Yes. You are good enough to say that you will marry my daughter provided she changes her religion.”
“Oh, look here, sir! I don’t want you to suggest—”
“I am not suggesting anything. I am merely repeating what you said.”
Very deliberately he reached into the breast pocket of his coat. He took his shell-rimmed spectacles from their case, fitted them on, and looked at Morell through them. Then he took them off and began to swing them, gently, in his left hand.
“But there are ways of putting these things!” complained Morell. He fidgeted. Real hostility began to grow in his prominent, dark, sensitive eyes. “After all, religion is a serious matter to me. It is to all Catholics. I only—”
“Let us leave that, if you please. You see no objection to this marriage, say, from my point of view?”
“No; not really.”
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Well, maybe there’s one thing—I ought to tell you—”
“You don’t need to tell me. I know.”
“You know what?”
Mr. Justice Ireton put down his cigar on the edge of the chess table. He shifted his glasses to his right hand and continued to swing them gently, though a close observer would have seen that the hand trembled a little.
“ ‘Antonio Morelli,’ ” he began. “Sicilian by birth. Naturalized British—I forget when. Five years ago, at Kingston assizes, this Antonio Morelli appeared before my friend Mr. Justice Wythe.”
There was a silence.
“I don’t know,” Morell said slowly, “where you got hold of that old piece of muck. But, if you know anything about the case, you’ll know that I’m the one who ought to complain. I was the injured party. I was the victim.”
“Yes. No doubt. Let me see if I can recall the facts.” Mr. Justice Ireton pursed up his lips. “The case interested me, because it bore a curious parallel to the case of Madeline Smith and Pierre L’Angelier: though you, Mr. Morell, fared rather better than L’Angelier.
“This Antonio Morelli became engaged, in secret, to the daughter of a wealthy and influential family. There was talk of marriage. She wrote him a number of letters of the sort that some jurists feel bound to describe as scandalous. Then the girl’s ardor began to cool. Whereupon Morelli intimated that, unless she kept her promise and made an honest man of him, he would show the letters to her father. The girl lost her head and tried to shoot Morelli, The charge was one of attempted murder, of which she was acquitted.”
“That’s a lie,” said Morell, half getting up and breathing the words into the judge’s face.
“A lie?” repeated Mr. Justice Ireton, putting on his spectacles. “A lie that the girl was acquitted?”
“You know what I mean!”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I didn’t want the woman. She ran after me. I couldn’t help it. Then, when the little idiot tried to kill me because I wasn’t having any, her family had to cook up some story to get sympathy for her. That’s all there was to it. I never made any such threat, or thought of making any.” He paused, and added significantly: “Connie knows all about it by the way.”
“No doubt. Do you deny the truth of the evidence that was presented at the trial?”
“Yes, I do. It was circumstantial evidence. It … what’s the matter with you? Why are you looking like that?”
“Nothing. Pray go on. I have heard the story before; but go on.”
Morell sat back, breathing slowly and heavily. He passed a hand across his hair. The chewing gum, which he had lodged for safety in one corner of his mouth, now came into play again. His square, close-shaven jaws clamped with steady rhythm, and he made a clicking noise with the gum.
“You think you’ve got me sized up, don’t you?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“And if you were wrong?”
“I will risk that Mr. Morell, this interview has already gone on long enough; and it has been, I need hardly tell you, the most distasteful of my life. I have only one more question to ask you. How much?”
“Eh?”
“How much money,” explained the judge, with patient elucidation, “will you require to go away and let my daughter alone for good?”
Shadows were deepening in the room, and the air had turned chilly. A curious smile traveled across Morell’s face, showing the strong white teeth. He drew a deep breath. It was as though he were shaking off a difficult role, like a man getting rid of an uncomfortable garment. He settled back in the chair, shaking his shoulders.
“After all,” he smiled, “business is business. Isn’t it?”
Mr. Justice Ireton closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“But I’m very fond of Connie. So it would have to be a good offer: a very good offer.” He made the gum click. “What are you prepared to pay?”
“No,” said the judge dispassionately. “State your terms. You mustn’t ask me to assess your worth. After all, I don’t really expect you to accept two shillings or half a crown.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong!” the other pointed out agreeably. “It’s not, fortunately, a question of my worth. It’s a question of Connie’s worth. She’s a fine girl, you know; and it would be a shame if you, her father, were to cheapen her by underestimating her value. Yes. You must be prepared to pay a reasonable price for her, plus a little legitimat
e profit for my injured heart. Shall we say—” he considered, walking his fingers along the arm of the chair, and then looked up— “five thousand pounds?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Isn’t she worth that much to you?”
“It is not a question of what she’s worth to me. It’s a question of how much I can raise.”
“Is that so?” inquired Morell with interest, eyeing him sideways. The smile flickered again. “Well, I’ve had my say. If you want to continue this discussion, I’m afraid you must come to me with an offer.”
“A thousand pounds.”
Morell laughed at him. “Don’t you be a fool, my dear sir. Connie’s got five hundred a year of her own.”
‘Two thousand.”
“No. Not good enough. Now if you were to say three thousand, cash, I might consider it. I don’t say I would; but I might.”
“Three thousand pounds. That’s my last word.”
There was a silence.
“Well,” said Morell, shrugging his shoulders, “all right. It’s too bad you don’t value her any higher than that, as you’ll find to your cost; but I know when I’ve got a customer to the breaking point.”
(Mr. Justice Ireton made a slight, short movement)
“Agreed at three thousand,” concluded Morell, chewing with decision. “When can I have the money?”
“There will be conditions.”
“Conditions?”
“I mean to make very certain you don’t trouble my daughter again.”
For a good businessman, Morell seemed strangely incurious about these conditions.
“Suit yourself,” he conceded. “I want to see the money on the table, that’s all. In cash. So—when?”
“I don’t keep a sum like that in my current account. I shall want twenty-four hours to raise the money. One little point Mr. Morell. Constance is down on the beach now. What if I were to call her up here and tell her about this transaction?”
“She wouldn’t believe you,” answered Morell promptly, “and you know it. As a matter of fact she’s been expecting you to try some sort of trick. A statement like that would finish you in her eyes. Don’t try it on, my dear sir, or I’ll upset your apple cart and marry her tomorrow. You can tell her about my—er—perfidy after I’ve seen the color of your money. Not until then.”
Death Turns the Tables_aka The Seat of the Scornful Page 3