Ainslee's Magazine/Garthoyle Gardens/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
I dined at Scruton's that night; and a very pleasant dinner it was, since he had to go off to a bridge party at ten o'clock and leave me and Amber together. I tried very hard to learn from her why she had insisted on quarreling with me, so severely and for so long; but, though I teased her about it most of the evening, I could not get her to tell me. But I was pretty sure—in fact, I was quite sure—that she had been set against me by some lie of Walsh's, probably backed up by that idiot, Herbert.
I was a long time getting to sleep that night. The whole of this Walsh business—the way his making love to Amber had worried me, the fright I had had when I learned that he had carried her off in his motor car, that anxious journey to Pinner, and the enormous relief that I had felt when I heard her voice through the open window—had opened my eyes as wide as they could be opened. It was quite plain to me that my friendship for her was a good deal more than friendship.
Of course, it would be delightful to marry her; she was charming, and thoroughly nice, and as pretty as a girl could be. I, at any rate, could not remember ever having known or seen half so pretty a girl. If she would marry me—and I thought that she would, in time, if I were patient—she would make a perfectly ripping wife. But that confounded ghost trick! There was no getting over it.
That trick was like nothing else in her; it did not fit in with the rest of her at all. In fact, there was no explaining it by any other single thing I had ever seen in her. It did seem likely that there was some simple explanation of it; but, worry as I might, I could not hit on it.
I might, of course, have gone straight to her and asked her about it. But I did not like to; in fact, I did not dare to. There was that awkward fact that, when I had caught her playing the ghost, I had kissed her. I remembered that kiss quite well, but I also remembered her fury at it, and the slap, with all the righteous indignation behind it, that she had given me. I was quite sure that she had taken that kiss very seriously indeed; probably she had been awfully cut up about it; very likely she detested the unknown man who had kissed her. I knew that she never dreamed that I was he. If she did learn that I was the offender, judging from the way she had treated me over that silly lie of Walsh's, she would probably have no more to do with me.
Of course, it was very unreasonable to take a snatched kiss seriously. It might happen to anybody. But Amber was like that; and, of course, women never are reasonable about that kind of thing.
It was a very difficult business; and for the next few days I worried and worried over it. I could not make up my mind what to do. The Walsh affair, too, had changed Amber. She had grown rather shy with me. It was all right after we had been talking a while; but she was shy when she just met me, and if I came on her suddenly she blushed—faintly, but quite distinctly. It always made me want to pick her up and kiss her, and tell her that she was the only girl in the world for me. After a while, I could not think of the kiss that I had given her, when I had caught her playing the ghost, without wanting to kiss her again.
Finally I made up my mind that the only thing to do was to bolt, and be quick about it. A course of foreign travel was my only chance of curing myself; and the sooner I took it, the less painful I should find it. I saw plainly that it was not a case for big-game shooting. If I got away to the loneliness of the woods and hills, I should only be worse. I should want Amber worse than ever. A good dose of racketing about the capitals of Europe was what I wanted.
I put in three days at Paris, with lots of wild hilarity in them. Then the whole place seemed to turn sour, and, after lunch on the fourth day, I told Mowart to pack my things and take tickets for Berlin, a much more amusing town, when you know the ropes, than people will admit. But I could only stand it for a day. I was restless, and bored beyond relief. At six in the evening I told Mowart to pack, and came straight back to Garthoyle Gardens.
I was no sooner in my own house, within three hundred yards of Amber, than the restlessness left me. I wanted to see her as soon as possible, of course; but I could wait an hour or two without an effort.
I dined at home, with a much better appetite than I had had in Paris or Berlin; and then I went out into the central garden. It was late, for I had dined late; it must have been nearly half past ten. There was not much chance of finding Amber, for she did not often come into the garden at night. But there was a chance; and I strolled all around it, looking for her.
I was about fifty yards from the ring of shrubberies that forms the center of the garden when a figure burst out of one of the lawns in the ring and came running toward me. I saw that it was a woman; then I saw that it was a girl; and then I saw that it was Amber herself. When she was ten yards from me I saw that she was as white as a sheet and was panting and sobbing. She almost ran into me before she saw me; and then, pulling up, she fairly tumbled into my arms.
“Whatever is it?” I cried, holding her up.
“Oh, I've been so frightened!” she gasped.
She was as cold as ice, and trembling as I have never seen any one tremble before. I half carried, half dragged her to the nearest bench, and sat down on it with her in my arms.
“Gently—gently! You're quite safe, now. You needn't be frightened any longer,” I said; and I kissed her.
It was rather taking advantage of her terror; but I was startled and did not think of that; and it seemed the natural thing to do—just as one would kiss a frightened child. She did not seem to mind it—and I kissed her again.
She sobbed for two or three minutes; then she recovered enough to say:
“Oh, I'm so glad you came! I should never have got as far as the gate—never.”
She looked up the path with terrified eyes, and shrank closer to me.
“Who was it? Who frightened you? Was it that brute, Walsh?” I asked, beginning to get angry; and I half rose with the idea of going and smashing him.
“No—no—it was no one. It was—I thought I saw” She panted.
“Saw what?” I soothed.
She pulled herself together with an effort that shook her; then she went on, in a steadier voice:
“I was coming toward the center of the garden—and I thought I saw a man—but I didn't stop to look; he frightened me. And I ran and ran; and, the farther I ran, the more frightened I grew. I felt as if he were after me. And I couldn't have run much farther when I met you; I should have dropped.”
“Why, you poor child!” I said, and I kissed her again; and then suddenly she flushed, as it she had just noticed the kisses for the first time, and tried to slip away from me.
I held her tight.
“No,” I said; “you're more comfortable where you are. And you feel so much safer.”
I drew her closer to me, and kissed her again. She was quite still.
We sat on that bench for a long time—I had it taken away to Garth Royal, later; and it is in the rose garden there, under a stone canopy. We did not say very much, because there did not seem to be anything to say. It seemed to be quite enough to be sitting there together. At last, she said that she must be going, or the house would be locked up, and she would have to ring up a servant to let her in.
We walked on out of the garden, going more slowly the nearer we came to the gate; and then we were some time in her stepfather's porch before she rang the bell.
I walked back to my house in a quit contented frame of mind. Amber's fright had forced my hand and settled things for us. It had, for the time being, put the ghost trick out of my mind. In spite of the fact that I had spent the night before traveling across Europe, I was a long while getting to sleep. I had to think about Amber.
When, blushing and smiling, she met me in the garden, next morning, she looked perfectly adorable. We lost no time in finding a secluded corner; and we were very happy in it.
We had plenty of things to talk about; but our talk was rather jerky and interrupted It must have been nearly an hour before we got on to the subject of her fright the night before. I was sure that it had been her fancy, but she was still quite sure that she had seen some one.
At last, I said carelessly, without thinking:
“Then I'll tell you what it was. It was a judgment on you.”
“A judgment?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“Yes; a judgment on you for the fright you gave me.”
“Me? Give you a fright?” she said, looking more puzzled.
“Yes; when you played the ghost the night I slept at Number Nine.”
She happened to be sitting on my knee. She jumped up and stared at me, blinking, as if she couldn't believe her ears.
“You—you—was it you?” she stammered: and there was a fine flush on her face, and her eyes began to sparkle.
“It was, indeed,” said I.
“You—you—were that—that horrid cad?” she cried.
“Oh, come,” I protested, rather taken aback. “What did you expect me to do? I catch a pretty girl playing a trick like that on me to get her stepfather out of paying his rent, and of course I kiss her—à la guerre comme à la guerre. I couldn't beat you for the horrid fright you'd given me, could I?”
“My stepfather's rent! What do you mean?” she cried
My heart jumped joyfully. I had been right; she had not known her stepfather's little game. I had always been sure of it, really.
“Why, didn't you know? Your stepfather was trying to get his house rent free on the ground that Number Nine was haunted,” I blurted out, like a born idiot.
She stood quite still, staring at me, and wringing her hands.
“So that was his joke!” she said. “And—and what you must have been thinking of me all this time! Oh”
“I thought that your stepfather had told you that it was just a joke he was playing on a friend,” I said quickly.
“You did not!” she cried.
“I did!” cried I.
“You did not! You thought—oh, you thought that I was a party to the trick!”
“I did not—never. I knew you couldn't be,” I denied stoutly.
“You did! I know you did!” she repeated; and she turned and went quickly out of the lawn, not straight, but wavering, as if she did not quite see where she was going.
I did not follow her. At the moment, I did not quite see what to do. I thought that I had better give her time to get over it a little. It was a mess; it was not only that she believed me to have been thinking badly of her, I was also the person she had been detesting for that kiss. I thought that she would get over the kiss, but she would be some time getting over my having believed that she had been a party to her stepfather's little game. I was sure that that would hurt her horribly.
At first, I made up my mind to give her a week to get over it somewhat. Then I considered how horribly hurt she would be feeling all that time, and how wretched it would make her. I could not stand it. It must be stopped at once, somehow. Then I had an idea; there was just a chance that she might be bullied out of her wretchedness at once, while she was still upset. It was worth trying, at any rate.
I walked quickly to Number Nine. On the way, it occurred to me that her stepfather had got us into the mess, and that the least he could do would be to help us out of it. He might have a great deal of influence with her; she might even be afraid of him. It would be so much better that she should have one unpleasant quarter of an hour than that she should be miserable for a week. Besides, I should probably find it very difficult, if not quite impossible, to get an interview with her on my own; he might at least work that for me.
The butler said that Mr. Scruton was at home, and took me to the smoking room. Scruton was sitting in a big armchair, smoking a cigar, with a novel on his knee. When I came into the room, he jumped up to greet me with such a bright face that I fancied that novel reading was not one of his strong points.
We greeted one another, he gave me a cigarette, and we sat down facing one another.
“I've come to see you on an important matter,” I said. “I want to marry your stepdaughter.”
Scruton rose, came slowly to me with a solemn air, held out an enormous hand, and said:
“Shake, Lord Garthoyle.”
I shook the enormous hand; and he said solemnly:
“She is yours.”
“That's just what she isn't; and it's your fault,” I said.
Scruton's face fell.
“My fault?”
“Yes. I had fixed the matter up, and I was just thinking of beginning to discuss the date of our marriage, when I happened to say something about the ghost trick you set her to play on me.”
“She didn't know why she was playing it; she thought it was just a joke,” said Scruton quickly.
“Yes; but when she found out that I was the man she had played it on, she refused to have anything more to do with me. You see, when I jumped out of bed and caught her, I kissed her.”
“That was not the way to treat a lady,” said Scruton gloomily. “Any lady would resent it.”
“Well, that's your fault; it was you that put her into the false position. It couldn't have happened if you hadn't,” I said. “But that isn't the worst of it. I let out that I thought she knew that you were trying to get off paying your rent.”
“But you ought to have known for certain that she didn't know anything about it. A girl like Amber wouldn't have a thing to say to a bluff like that,” said Scruton.
“Of course, I know that now,” I said shortly. “But how on earth was I to know that she was a girl like that at the time? It's confusing to catch a girl in a woolen dressing gown, walking up and down one's bedroom at one o'clock in the morning, and sighing like a woman who committed suicide in it.”
“Well, it will be a great disappointment to me if this match falls through,” Scruton said slowly. “I have always expected Amber to marry well; but this—this surpasses my most sanguine expectations. I shall settle a hundred thousand pounds on her if she marries you, Lord Garthoyle.”
“That's very handsome of you; but as things are at present, she won't marry me. She's dead set against it,” I said gloomily.
He frowned.
“But she'll forgive you; you must persuade her; she must listen to reason. Surely something can be done.”
“Something has got to be done. Your infernal thriftiness in the matter of house rent has got us into this mess, and I think that it's up to you to get us out of it,” I said firmly.
“Well, I'll see what I can do,” he promised, evidently trying to think of a plan. “I'm not a ladies' man, of course; but I'm not unused to women. I've been married several times.”
“Several times!” I howled.
“Yes; when I was in business on the Pacific slope—married and divorced. It's very common out there. But am I to understand that before you let this out, Amber had definitely accepted you?”
“Oh, yes; quite definitely,” I assured him.
“Well, an acceptance of a proposal of marriage is a very serious thing, and I shall have to speak to her seriously about it,” he said solemnly, and he rang the bell.
The butler came, and Scruton told him to tell Amber that he wanted to speak to her in the smoking room. We waited two or three minutes, and then the butler came back and said that Miss Devine had a headache and was staying in her room. I wondered whether she had guessed that I had followed her home.
“Tell her that, headache or no headache, I want to speak to her at once,” said Scruton impatiently, and the butler went.
“Look here, you're not going to be harsh with her. She's a good deal upset,” I said, beginning to repent a little at having brought him into it.
“I shall do what the circumstances require—no more and no less,” said Scruton.
He took up his stand on the hearthrug, and kept pulling at his beard. We waited for nearly five minutes, without saying much to one another. Then the door opened, and Amber came in.
She was pale, and she looked as if she had been crying her eyes out. But at the sight of me, her face flamed red enough, and she stopped short.
“What is it you want?” she asked defiantly, and it looked as if Scruton was going to have a difficult job.
“Lord Garthoyle has come to me with a complaint—a very serious complaint about you,” said Scruton, in a very solemn tone.
“Lord Garthoyle—a complaint—about me?” repeated Amber, rather as if the idea had taken her breath away.
“Yes; he tells me that he did you the honor to make you a proposal of marriage. Is that so?” Scruton went on, in the same solemn tone.
“Yes; he did. But” began Amber.
“And he also tells me that you accepted it; and then that you suddenly changed your mind, and rejected him.”
“Did he tell you why?” cried Amber.
“Let us keep to the facts,” said Scruton, with a lordly wave of his hand “And I'm shocked—yes, shocked beyond measure—to find that you have been playing fast and loose with this—er—er—amiable young man.”
“Fast and loose! Amiable!” repeated Amber, in a stupefied sort of voice.
“Fast and loose,” said Scruton; and he reminded me of a talking steam roller. “You accepted his proposal of marriage, and in—in How long was it?” He turned to me.
“About ten hours,” I said.
“As short a time as that! Monstrous!” cried Scruton very indignantly. “In ten hours you chuck—you—er—er—reject him. It's shocking, this coquetry!”
“Coquetry!”” said Amber, in a gasp.
“Yes; coquetry—heartless coquetry!” roared Scruton. “I say, it's shocking! Why, dash it all! It's bad form! Well, I have sent for you to tell you that I will not have it!” He was fairly bellowing now. “I will not have a stepchild of mine behaving in this disgraceful way. You will marry Lord Garthoyle in a month from now”
“But” cried Amber, looking a little stunned.
“Not a word! Not a word!” bellowed Scruton. “You marry Lord Garthoyle in a month from now; and that's all there is to it. I'm going straight to my lawyers to instruct them to draw up the settlements.”
He walked to the door rather quickly, and was out of the room before Amber could recover herself.
She turned on me furiously, with blazing eyes.
“To come to my stepfather! Oh, you have—you have a—a”
“Cheek—yes—I was born with it. I've told you so before,” I said, walking quietly across the room. “But there was no one else to go to. Surely your stepfather's the proper person. He's your guardian, and all that sort of thing, don't you know? And, after all, you can't deny that he has settled the matter in a thoroughly satisfactory way.”
“Settled it! You think he's settled it? It isn't settled at all!” she cried, if anything more furiously.
“You heard what your stepfather said. Of course it's settled.”
“It isn't settled!”
“Come, come! It's no good kicking against the pricks,” I said gently. “Come and sit down here, and we'll settle next where we'll spend our honeymoon.”
“Oh, you—how dare you?” she raged, and she made a dash for the door.
It was just what I was expecting, and I was ready. She dashed right into my arms, and I picked her up.
“Rupert, don't!” she cried.
The “Rupert” was all I wanted; so I did.