Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Mr. Van Torp also confessed that he had entertained a ‘high regard’ for the beautiful Mrs. Bamberger, now unhappily insane. It was noticeable that he had not used the same expression in speaking of Lady Maud. Nevertheless, as in the Bamberger affair, he appeared as the chief cause of trouble between husband and wife. Logotheti was considered ‘dangerous’ even in Paris, and his experiences had not been dull; but, so far, he had found his way through life without inadvertently stepping upon any of those concealed traps through which the gay and unwary of both sexes are so often dropped into the divorce court, to the surprise of everybody. It seemed the more strange to him that Rufus Van Torp, only a few years his senior, should now find himself in that position for the second time. Yet Van Torp was not a ladies’ man; he was hard-featured, rough of speech, and clumsy of figure, and it was impossible to believe that any woman could think him good-looking or be carried away by his talk. The case of Mrs. Bamberger could be explained; she might have had beauty, but she could have had little else that would have appealed to such a man as Logotheti. But there was Lady Maud, an acknowledged beauty in London, thoroughbred, aristocratic, not easily shocked perhaps, but easily disgusted, like most women of her class; and there was no doubt but that her husband had found her under extremely strange circumstances, in the act of receiving from Van Torp a large sum of money for which she altogether declined to account. Van Torp had not denied that story either, so it was probably true. Yet Logotheti, whom so many women thought irresistible, had felt instinctively that she was one of those who would smile serenely upon the most skilful and persistent besieger from the security of an impregnable fortress of virtue. Logotheti did not naturally feel unqualified respect for many women, but since he had known Lady Maud it had never occurred to him that any one could take the smallest liberty with her. On the other hand, though he was genuinely in love with Margaret and desired nothing so much as to marry her, he had never been in the least afraid of her, and he had deliberately attempted to carry her off against her will; and if she had looked upon his conduct then as anything more serious than a mad prank, she had certainly forgiven it very soon.

  The only reason for his flying visit to Derbyshire had been his desire to keep Margaret’s name out of an impending scandal in which he foresaw that Mr. Van Torp and Lady Maud were to be the central figures, and he believed that he had done something to bring about that result, if he had started the millionaire on the right scent. He judged Van Torp to be a good hater and a man of many resources, who would not now be satisfied till he had the anonymous writer of the letter and the article in his power. Logotheti had no means of guessing who the culprit was, and did not care to know.

  He reached town late in the afternoon, having covered something like three hundred miles since early morning. About seven o’clock he stopped at Margaret’s door, in the hope of finding her at home and of being asked to dine alone with her, but as he got out of his hansom and sent it away he heard the door shut and he found himself face to face with Paul Griggs.

  ‘Miss Donne is out,’ said the author, as they shook hands. ‘She’s been spending the day with the Creedmores, and when I rang she had just telephoned that she would not be back for dinner!’

  ‘What a bore!’ exclaimed Logotheti.

  The two men walked slowly along the pavement together, and for some time neither spoke. Logotheti had nothing to do, or believed so because he was disappointed in not finding Margaret in. The elder man looked preoccupied, and the Greek was the first to speak.

  ‘I suppose you’ve seen that shameful article about Van Torp,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Somebody sent me a marked copy of the paper. Do you know whether Miss Donne has seen it?’

  ‘Yes. She got a marked copy too. So did I. What do you think of it?’

  ‘Just what you do, I fancy. Have you any idea who wrote it?’

  ‘Probably some underling in the Nickel Trust whom Van Torp has offended without knowing it, or who has lost money by him.’

  Griggs glanced at his companion’s face, for the hypothesis struck him as being tenable.

  ‘Unless it is some enemy of Countess Leven’s,’ he suggested. ‘Her husband is really going to divorce her, as the article says.’

  ‘I suppose she will defend herself,’ said Logotheti.

  ‘If she has a chance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you happen to know what sort of man the present Patriarch of Constantinople is?’

  Logotheti’s jaw dropped, and he slackened his pace.

  ‘What in the world—’ he began, but did not finish the sentence. ‘That’s the second time to-day I’ve been asked about him.’

  ‘That’s very natural,’ said Griggs calmly. ‘You’re one of the very few men in town who are likely to know him.’

  ‘Of course I know him,’ answered Logotheti, still mystified. ‘He’s my uncle.’

  ‘Really? That’s very lucky!’

  ‘Look here, Griggs, is this some silly joke?’

  ‘A joke? Certainly not. Lady Maud’s husband can only get a divorce through the Patriarch because he married her out of Russia. You know about that law, don’t you?’

  Logotheti understood at last.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I never heard of it. But if that is the case I may be able to do something — not that I’m considered orthodox at the Patriarchate! The old gentleman has been told that I’m trying to revive the worship of the Greek gods and have built a temple to Aphrodite Xenia in the Place de la Concorde!’

  ‘You’re quite capable of it,’ observed Griggs.

  ‘Oh, quite! Only, I’ve not done it yet. I’ll see what I can do. Are you much interested in the matter?’

  ‘Only on general principles, because I believe Lady Maud is perfectly straight, and it is a shame that such a creature as Leven should be allowed to divorce an honest Englishwoman. By the bye — speaking of her reminds me of that dinner at the Turkish Embassy — do you remember a disagreeable-looking man who sat next to me, one Feist, a countryman of mine?’

  ‘Rather! I wondered how he came there.’

  ‘He had a letter of introduction from the Turkish Minister in Washington. He is full of good letters of introduction.’

  ‘I should think they would need to be good,’ observed Logotheti. ‘With that face of his he would need an introduction to a Port Said gambling-hell before they would let him in.’

  ‘I agree with you. But he is well provided, as I say, and he goes everywhere. Some one has put him down at the Mutton Chop. You never go there, do you?’

  ‘I’m not asked,’ laughed Logotheti. ‘And as for becoming a member, they say it’s impossible.’

  ‘It takes ten or fifteen years,’ Griggs answered, ‘and then you won’t be elected unless every one likes you. But you may be put down as a visitor there just as at any other club. This fellow Feist, for instance — we had trouble with him last night — or rather this morning, for it was two o’clock. He has been dropping in often of late, towards midnight. At first he was more or less amusing with his stories, for he has a wonderful memory. You know the sort of funny man who rattles on as if he were wound up for the evening, and afterwards you cannot remember a word he has said. It’s all very well for a while, but you soon get sick of it. Besides, this particular specimen drinks like a whale.’

  ‘He looks as if he did.’

  ‘Last night he had been talking a good deal, and most of the men who had been there had gone off. You know there’s only one room at the Mutton Chop, with a long table, and if a man takes the floor there’s no escape. I had come in about one o’clock to get something to eat, and Feist poured out a steady stream of stories as usual, though only one or two listened to him. Suddenly his eyes looked queer, and he stammered, and rolled off his chair, and lay in a heap, either dead drunk or in a fit, I don’t know which.’

  ‘And I suppose you carried him downstairs,’ said Logotheti, for Griggs was known to be stronger than other men, though no longer young. />
  ‘I did,’ Griggs answered. ‘That’s usually my share of the proceedings. The last person I carried — let me see — I think it must have been that poor girl who died at the Opera in New York. We had found Feist’s address in the visitors’ book, and we sent him home in a hansom. I wonder whether he got there!’

  ‘I should think the member who put him down would be rather annoyed,’ observed Logotheti.

  ‘Yes. It’s the first time anything of that sort ever happened at the Mutton Chop, and I fancy it will be the last. I don’t think we shall see Mr. Feist again.’

  ‘I took a particular dislike to his face,’ Logotheti said. ‘I remember thinking of him when I went home that night, and wondering who he was and what he was about.’

  ‘At first I took him for a detective,’ said Griggs. ‘But detectives don’t drink.’

  ‘What made you think he might be one?’

  ‘He has a very clever way of leading the conversation to a point and then asking an unexpected question.’

  ‘Perhaps he is an amateur,’ suggested Logotheti. ‘He may be a spy. Is Feist an American name?’

  ‘You will find all sorts of names in America. They prove nothing in the way of nationality, unless they are English, Dutch, or French, and even then they don’t prove much. I’m an American myself, and I feel sure that Feist either is one or has spent many years in the country, in which case he is probably naturalised. As for his being a spy, I don’t think I ever came across one in England.’

  ‘They come here to rest in time of peace, or to escape hanging in other countries in time of war,’ said the Greek. ‘His being at the Turkish Embassy, of all places in the world, is rather in favour of the idea. Do you happen to remember the name of his hotel?’

  ‘Are you going to call on him?’ Griggs asked with a smile.

  ‘Perhaps. He begins to interest me. Is it indiscreet to ask what sort of questions he put to you?’

  ‘He’s stopping at the Carlton — if the cabby took him there! We gave the man half-a-crown for the job, and took his number, so I suppose it was all right. As for the questions he asked me, that’s another matter.’

  Logotheti glanced quickly at his companion’s rather grim face, and was silent for a few moments. He judged that Mr. Feist’s inquiries must have concerned a woman, since Griggs was so reticent, and it required no great ingenuity to connect that probability with one or both of the ladies who had been at the dinner where Griggs and Feist had first met.

  ‘I think I shall go and ask for Mr. Feist,’ he said presently. ‘I shall say that I heard he was ill and wanted to know if I could do anything for him.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll be much touched by your kindness!’ said Griggs. ‘But please don’t mention the Mutton Chop Club, if you really see him.’

  ‘Oh no! Besides, I shall let him do the talking.’

  ‘Then take care that you don’t let him talk you to death!’

  Logotheti smiled as he hailed a passing hansom; he nodded to his companion, told the man to go to the Carlton, and drove away, leaving Griggs to continue his walk alone.

  The elderly man of letters had not talked about Mr. Feist with any special intention, and was very far from thinking that what he had said would lead to any important result. He liked the Greek, because he liked most Orientals, under certain important reservations and at a certain distance, and he had lived amongst them long enough not to be surprised at anything they did. Logotheti had been disappointed in not finding the Primadonna at home, and he was not inclined to put up with the usual round of an evening in London during the early part of the season as a substitute for what he had lost. He was the more put out, because, when he had last seen Margaret, three or four days earlier, she had told him that if he came on that evening at about seven o’clock he would probably find her alone. Having nothing that looked at all amusing to occupy him, he was just in the mood to do anything unusual that presented itself.

  Griggs guessed at most of these things, and as he walked along he vaguely pictured to himself the interview that was likely to take place.

  CHAPTER XII

  OPINION WAS STRONGLY against Mr. Van Torp. A millionaire is almost as good a mark at which to throw mud as a woman of the world whose reputation has never before been attacked, and when the two can be pilloried together it is hardly to be expected that ordinary people should abstain from pelting them and calling them bad names.

  Lady Maud, indeed, was protected to some extent by her father and brothers, and by many loyal friends. It is happily still doubtful how far one may go in printing lies about an honest woman without getting into trouble with the law, and when the lady’s father is not only a peer, but has previously been a barrister of reputation and a popular and hard-working member of the House of Commons during a long time, it is generally safer to use guarded language; the advisability of moderation also increases directly as the number and size of the lady’s brothers, and inversely as their patience. Therefore, on the whole, Lady Maud was much better treated by the society columns than Margaret at first expected.

  On the other hand, they vented their spleen and sharpened their English on the American financier, who had no relations and scarcely any friends to stand by him, and was, moreover, in a foreign country, which always seems to be regarded as an aggravating circumstance when a man gets into any sort of trouble. Isidore Bamberger and Mr. Feist had roused and let loose upon him a whole pack of hungry reporters and paragraph writers on both sides of the Atlantic.

  The papers did not at first print his name except in connection with the divorce of Lady Maud. But this was a landmark, the smallest reference to which made all other allusions to him quite clear. It was easy to speak of Mr. Van Torp as the central figure in a cause célèbre: newspapers love the French language the more as they understand it the less; just as the gentle amateur in literature tries to hide his cloven hoof under the thin elegance of italics.

  Particular stress was laid upon the millionaire’s dreadful hypocrisy. He taught in the Sunday Schools at Nickelville, the big village which had sprung up at his will and which was the headquarters of his sanctimonious wickedness. He was compared to Solomon, not for his wisdom, but on account of his domestic arrangements. He was indeed a father to his flock. It was a touching sight to see the little ones gathered round the knees of this great and good man, and to note how an unconscious and affectionate imitation reflected his face in theirs. It was true that there was another side to this truly patriarchal picture. In a city of the Far West, wrote an eloquent paragraph writer, a pale face, once divinely beautiful, was often seen at the barred window of a madhouse, and eyes that had once looked too tenderly into those of the Nickelville Solomon stared wildly at the palm-trees in the asylum grounds. This paragraph was rich in sentiment.

  There were a good many mentions of the explosion in New York, too, and hints, dark, but uncommonly straight, that the great Sunday School teacher had been the author and stage-manager of an awful comedy designed expressly to injure a firm of contractors against whom he had a standing grudge. In proof of the assertion, the story went on to say that he had written four hours before the ‘accident’ happened to give warning of it to the young lady whom he was about to marry. She was a neurasthenic young lady, and in spite of the warning she died very suddenly at the theatre from shock immediately after the explosion, and his note was found on her dressing-table when she was brought home dead. Clearly, if the explosion had not been his work, and if he had been informed of it beforehand, he would have warned the police and the Department of Public Works at the same time. The young lady’s untimely death had not prevented him from sailing for Europe three or four days later, and on the trip he had actually occupied alone the same ‘thousand dollar suite’ which he had previously engaged for himself and his bride. From this detail the public might form some idea of the Nickelville magnate’s heartless character. In fact, if one-half of what was written, telegraphed, and printed about Rufus Van Torp on both sides of the Atla
ntic during the next fortnight was to be believed, he had no character at all.

  To all this he answered nothing, and he did not take the trouble to allude to the matter in the few letters he wrote to his acquaintances. Day after day numbers of marked papers were carefully ironed and laid on the breakfast-table, after having been read and commented on in the servants’ hall. The butler began to look askance at him, Mrs. Dubbs, the housekeeper, talked gloomily of giving warning, and the footmen gossiped with the stable hands; but the men all decided that it was not derogatory to their dignity to remain in the service of a master who was soon to be exhibited in the divorce court beside such a ‘real lady’ as Lord Creedmore’s daughter; the housemaids agreed in this view, and the housekeeper consulted Miss More. For Mrs. Dubbs was an imposing person, morally and physically, and had a character to lose; and though the place was a very good one for her old age, because the master only spent six weeks or two months at Oxley Paddox each year, and never found fault, yet Mrs. Dubbs was not going to have her name associated with that of a gentleman who blew up underground works and took Solomon’s view of the domestic affections. She came of very good people in the north; one of her brothers was a minister, and the other was an assistant steward on a large Scotch estate.