The Rain-Girl/Chapter 12

by Herbert Jenkins

 

CHAPTER XII

THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES

1

ON returning from their walk on the Leas, Lola had gone straight to her room, and had not entered the dining-room until Beresford was half-way through lunch. The sudden change in her manner had puzzled him; but he was determined that she should have no cause to feel that he was taking advantage of what, after all, was a chance acquaintance.

His own meal finished, he left the dining-room, and a few minutes later the hotel. That afternoon he spent in strolling about the town, taking the opportunity of ordering some red roses for Lola. Returning about six he went to his room, feeling unaccountably tired. Lying down he slept until nearly eight o'clock, and again he was late at dinner. When half-way through his meal Lola had risen and, bowing to him with a friendly little smile, had left the dining-room and he saw her no more that night. He noticed that she was not wearing any flowers.

Later on in the smoking-room a number of men approached, enquiring if he were better. He was a little surprised at this solicitude, and also at the friendliness they manifested. He was not altogether pleased that his mishap should be regarded as a conversational opening.

He recalled the manager's solicitude that morning, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his acquaintance with Lola Craven was responsible for his present importance. From various scraps of conversation he overheard, it was obvious that the arrival at Folkestone of the heiress whom the illustrated papers had combined to make famous, was a social event of the first magnitude and importance.

He noticed that the other guests would cease their conversation to gaze at her as she passed. Her entry into the dining-room caused a hush in the hum of conversation. Mr. Byles, the maître d'hôtel, would fidget about the entrance until she came down, then lead the way to her table and, for the rest of the meal, hover about in the neighbourhood with an eye so hawk-like in its penetrative intensity, that the waiter in attendance upon her would make mistakes. This was Mr. Byles's opportunity. He would swoop down, annihilate the underling with a glance, purr at him with restrained intensity, make good the damage, smile tactfully and withdraw.

From where he sat, Beresford had watched this little comedy. He also gleaned considerable amusement from the interest of his fellow-guests in Lola Craven; who herself seemed quite oblivious of the sensation her advent had created. The married men regarded her with surreptitious and hopeless ration, disguised by feigned indifference. They had perforce to listen to their wives' views upon girls staying unchaperoned at hotels.

The single men looked on her with open admiration, and eyed each other with covert suspicion. Suddenly there had been kindled in their hearts the flame of romance, the roof that sheltered them also sheltered the famous heiress. Their emotions soared high into space.

None had ever met an heiress before. In the minds of all there was a dim idea that beauty and wealth were never to be found roaming together. To them the word "heiress" called up visions of plain features and shapeless bodies. Possibly that was why the thought of marrying an heiress had never suggested itself to them. Here, however, was Providence frankly playing into their hands.

Beresford was struck by the ingenuity displayed by various of the male guests in endeavouring to get to know Lola. Some were gentlemen; but many were merely opportunists. One little man, who looked like "Our Mr. Something-or-other," was particularly assiduous. One day when walking just in front of Lola he deliberately pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it fluttered a one-pound note. Lola walked over the note as if it had not existed, and the little man, after an awkward pretence of having discovered his loss, had turned and retrieved it.

On another occasion he had burst unceremoniously into a telephone-box occupied by Lola, and proceeded to apologise as if there were a counter between them; but Lola continued with her telephone conversation, and again he had to beat a retreat.

Another man of mature years and over-mature complexion seemed to be in a perpetual state of having lost something, which he suspected was in Lola's neighbourhood. Yet another invariably carried his hat in his hand. Beresford suspected that his object was to slip it on a chair just before Lola sat down. After all, when you have sat on a man's hat, it is a little difficult to refuse to receive his apologies!

The Thirty-Nine Articles, as Beresford dubbed them after a careful count, resorted to every possible form of device to scrape an acquaintance with the heiress. The one thing they did not do was to take the plunge. There was something in Lola's manner that awed them. There was a reserve and dignity about her bearing that was unmistakable, and instinctively the Thirty-Nine Articles recognised it, a circumstance that increased Beresford's unpopularity.

For a time Beresford lived in an atmosphere of reflected glory and the offer of unlimited hospitality. As soon as he showed his face in any of the common-rooms, men seemed to hurtle through space and demand that he should drink with them. Cigar and cigarette-cases were thrust upon him, men challenged him to billiards, sought his company for strolls, invited him to bridge, suggested the theatre, a bathe or an hour's fishing. He found it all very bewildering. At first he had been at a loss to account for his amazing popularity; but the requests for an introduction to Lola soon convinced him that it was not for himself alone that his company was sought.

On the second day Beresford had seen Lola only for a few minutes as she was passing through the lounge. She had stopped to enquire how he was, and he noticed a marked difference in her manner. It set him wondering if he had seriously offended her, and if so what he had done.

On the third day he did not see her either at breakfast or lunch, and she was late for dinner. He was conscious of becoming irritable under the strain. He had deliberately snubbed two or three men, whose overtures were both obvious and annoying. He lingered over his dinner, determined to follow her as she left the room. Gradually the dining-room emptied. Lola rose and, instead of walking towards the door, came over to his table.

"There's no need to ask if you are better," she said with a friendly smile, as he rose hurriedly.

"I'm not; I'm very much worse."

"Worse?" She raised her eyebrows in interrogation.

"My nurse has neglected me," he said whimsically, "and I have been grossly rude to three fellow-guests in consequence."

"Neglected you?" she repeated, "but——" she paused.

"I don't want to be a nuisance and take advantage of your kindness," he said seriously, as they walked towards the door, "but if you can spare an hour or so occasionally, it will hasten your patient's recovery."

"I can hardly come and insist on talking to you, can I?" she asked, looking up at him frankly.

"Will you come in the lounge now?" he asked.

She nodded and led the way to a quiet corner, where they seated themselves.

Beresford ordered coffee, then picked up the thread of conversation where it had been interrupted.

"Yes, you could," he said.

"Could what?" she enquired.

"Insist on coming up and talking to me."

"But——" she began.

"I'm your patient, and you've neglected me horribly."

"But I don't understand. If you had wanted——" She broke off, then added, "I have been here all the time."

"But you have been evading your responsibilities," insisted Beresford smiling. "Suppose I had followed you about like a lost dog, you would probably have regretted your Samaritanism."

"But isn't there something between the two?" she asked.

"Suppose you tell me how many hours of the day you can tolerate me," he said; "in other words, ration me."

She smiled. "I thought you were avoiding me," she said quite frankly.

"I avoiding you?" He looked at her incredulously. There was something in his tone that brought the colour to her cheeks.

She nodded. "I did really. I should have liked to talk to you. I'm alone here, you see. I suppose you wonder why?" She looked up at him suddenly.

He shook his head.

"It's really through you."

"Through me?"

"Yes, what you said at Frint," she replied brightly. "Don't you remember saying that one should have courage in one's unconventions? Well, things had reached such a point I felt that if I spent another day in London I should have to scream, so I got a doctor I know to prescribe Folkestone for a week. I telegraphed to an old governess to meet me here, and when I arrived there was a telegram from her saying she had rheumatism, and—and I decided to stay on. Auntie would be ill if she knew, especially as I refused to bring my maid," she added with a laugh.

Recalling his one experience of Mrs. Crisp's conversation, Beresford found himself able to sympathise with any one whose fate it was to live in perpetual nearness to her.

"In all probability my reputation is in tatters by now; that is, among the other guests," she said with a smile.

"And you imply that the responsibility is mine?"

She nodded.

"But aren't heiresses a law unto themselves?"

She glanced across at him quickly, as if seeking some hidden meaning in his words.

"No one can be a law unto themselves," she said quietly.

He then proceeded to tell of the embarrassments arising from his acquaintance with her.

"I could smoke like a chimney, drink like a fish, and live like the proverbial lord," he explained, "and all for nothing. Such is the power of reflected glory."

She laughed, only half-believing him.

"But there's another side to the picture," he went on. "It's more difficult to retain than to win popularity. I shall have to work for it."

"Work for it?" she queried, looking up at him with puzzled brows.

"The proffered smokes will fail and the drinks will cease unless I do what is expected of me, introduce to you the whole gang."

"Mr. Beresford!" she cried. "What an absolutely horrible idea."

"You needn't be alarmed," he hastened to assure her. "I have no intention of doing anything so foolish."

"Foolish!"

"There are exactly thirty-nine unattached males staying here," he explained. "I've counted them very carefully. They range in age from seventeen to seventy. Assuming the equal rights of man, this would mean that I should speak to you once every fortieth day, whereas I hope to do so forty times each day."

"You are really almost as absurd as Lord Drewitt," she laughed, colouring a little.

"You must be kind to me," he continued, "or I shall let loose the whole horde upon you. Within three days I shall be the most unpopular man in Folkestone. Those who have urged me to smoke cigars and cigarettes will wish to stab me. Those who have asked me to drink at their expense will suddenly develop into potential Wainewrights and Neal Creams. I shall never dare to drink with any one for fear of being poisoned."

"I wonder why men are like that?" she said, with a far-away look in her eyes.

"I want to make a compact with you," he said.

For some minutes neither spoke; she continued to gaze straight in front of her with dreamy intentness. Beresford smoked contentedly.

"A compact?" she queried presently, turning to him.

"If you'll come for a walk every morning, I'll promise not to introduce anybody to you."

For a few moments she appeared to be debating the suggestion, her head a little on one side, a smile in her eyes.

"Of two evils choose the lesser," he suggested. "I'm only one, they are thirty-nine."

"Very well," she laughed, "I'll agree; but you must keep them from being annoying."

"I'll buy a machine-gun, if necessary."

 

2

"I hate men," said Lola, apparently addressing a sparrow that had perched upon a bush just in front of her.

Beresford smoked on in silence, feeling that the remark required no comment from him.

That morning he had waited for her in the hall, and they had set out together for a walk on the Leas, Beresford conscious of murderous looks from others who had also waited.

"I suppose that was a very rude remark," she said, turning to him with a smile.

"Not at all. When I think of the Thirty-Nine Articles of Masculine Faith at the Imperial I can quite sympathise with you."

"What a good thing the number isn't forty." She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

"It may be before long," he said imperturbably, "but the Fortieth Article is determined to enjoy the present."

"Why do you say it may be?"

"Vide Aunt Caroline," was the retort. "She would be astonished at your being able to tolerate my company for half an hour."

"Why?"

"Well, Drew and I always seem to get on her nerves. We speak a different language, and in reality live in a different world from hers."

"And yet you are so dissimilar?"

"We are as different from each other as each individually is different from Aunt Caroline. Drew poses as having eliminated all emotions from his nature."

"And you?" she interrogated.

"I have eliminated all but emotions," he said, looking at her with a smile.

"And yet Lord Drewitt is—is——" she hesitated.

"As emotional as a theatrical-star ousted by an understudy," he suggested.

"But you said he was unemotional."

"I said he posed as being unemotional."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. For instance, suppose you were upset in a boat. Drew would go in after you, bring you out, and then probably manage to convey to you that you were not looking your best, and had better go home and have a tidy-up."

"Then I shall never fall into the water when Lord Drewitt is about," she said gaily. "I should want my rescuer to—to——"

"What?" he asked with interest.

"Well, I suppose I should want him to look down at me anxiously to see if—if I were still alive."

"Yes, with the water dripping from his nose and ears."

"Mr. Beresford!" she cried reproachfully, "I think that you and Lord Drewitt between you would kill romance."

"How can a man afford to be romantic? There is poor Drewitt with his title and two thousand a year, as he would tell you quite frankly, and I, without a title and with not so much as two pounds a year. No, romance is only for the wealthy."

"Romance has nothing whatever to do with money," she said gravely. "Romance is merely a love of the beautiful."

"The emotionally beautiful," he corrected.

"Yes, the emotionally beautiful," she agreed, fixing her eyes on the red sail of a boat far away in the distance.

"The poor man cannot afford to be emotional. It would lose for him his friends, his job and his chances in life."

"But why doesn't Lord Drewitt do something?"

"Do something!" he repeated. "What is there for him to do?"

"Couldn't he work?" she suggested.

"At what? Peers can't work. He might drive a taxi; but Aunt Caroline would raise Cain."

She remained silent for some time, then turning to him shook her head, as if unable to make a suggestion.

"Proper allowance is never made for the rise of democracy. Drew and I are the products of our age. Drew's profession was that of being a peer, whilst I was precipitated into the Foreign Office. Then came the war, and everything got mixed up again, and I——" he paused.

"And you?" repeated Lola, looking up at him.

"I'm at a loose end."

"But aren't you going to work?"

"What can I do? I could be a clerk at three pounds a week; but that would be worse than the Foreign Office, which at least is quite a decent club. I could live in Peckham and come up each day by a tram, with linen a little more frayed each year, and clothes a little dingier. No, I'm afraid I lack the courage to face such a fate."

"But what are you going to do?" she persisted; then a moment after added, "I'm sorry, it's horribly rude of me to be so persistent."

"Not at all," he said, gazing straight in front of him. "I'm going to enjoy what I can enjoy, and—and not bother about the deluge, which is inevitable. Louis XIV built palaces on bogs, and was quite happy about it; I shall rear castles on sand, and be still happier."

"I don't understand." She puckered her brows.

"Shall I tell you?" he asked, smiling at her mystification.

"Would you mind? I should awfully like to know."

"I can go on as I am for two or three weeks more. I'm going to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of these few weeks, and not bother about what happens after."

"But," she persisted, "what are you going to do then?"

"You are almost as material as Aunt Caroline," he smiled. "Why cannot you be romantic? I once knew an artist who married a girl when all he possessed in the world was four pounds eighteen shillings and threepence, he was very insistent upon the threepence, and a drawerful of pawn-tickets. That was a splendid act of romance."

"Yes; but romance must be——"

"No it must not," he insisted. "Romance must be just its mad, capricious, inconsequent self."

"But you must have something in mind. What is to happen after the four or five weeks?"

"Aunt Caroline suggests the colonies; both Drew and I regard the colonies as an Imperial asset and nothing more. We love them from afar. They produce splendid fellows—we've fought with them; but for all that we prefer our own country, just as they prefer theirs."

"But what have you to live for? There seems——" she began.

"Three or four weeks' good time, a walk a day with you, and the privilege of keeping off the Thirty-Nine Articles," he smiled.

She looked at him gravely, then shook her head, as if entirely unable to comprehend his attitude.

"I don't understand you in the least," she said at length, "and I don't think any one else does, either."

"What makes you say that?" enquired Beresford.

"I was talking to Lady Tanagra Elton a few days back about Lord Drewitt, and your name came up, and——" she paused.

"And what?" enquired Beresford, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on the heel of his boot. "Do not spare me."

"Well," said Lola, with a smile, "she said that you were 'a dear boy, but quite mad.'"

"God bless her for the first part of her judgment," he laughed; "Tan is one of the jewels of the human race."

"She seemed charming," agreed Lola.

"I must warn you against her, however," he said with mock-seriousness.

"Warn me?"

"She's a born match-maker. She's always marrying her friends off and——" he paused dramatically.

"And what?" she enquired.

"They're always the right pairs. Tan never makes a mistake."

"I really don't understand you," she said after a long pause, "or what you are going to do when—when——" she hesitated.

"Oh, there are many ways of shuffling-off," he smiled.

"Suppose——" she began, then hesitated.

"Yes, suppose——?"

"Suppose you meant something to someone else, and that your shuffling-off, as you call it, would pain them, perhaps more than pain them, what then?"

"If you refer to Aunt Caroline, I can assure you that you are wrong," he said, with a laugh that even to himself sounded unnatural.

Lola flashed him a reproachful look, but said nothing. For some moments she remained silent, her head turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely; but still she averted her head.

"Please don't be cross with me," he said, bending towards her, conscious of a delicious thrill as his shoulder accidentally touched hers.

A moment after she turned, and he saw that her eyes were moist.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said again, "I——"

"Isn't it stupid of me," she smiled an April smile; "but——" she paused, then a moment afterwards continued, "you and Lord Drewitt seem to be men that should have a lot in front of you; yet you both talk—you talk so—as if nothing mattered, as if life were just like a theatre, and when the curtain dropped that was the end of everything."

"And isn't it?" questioned Beresford.

"We don't know, any of us."

"A man's destiny is determined by his forebears, and he is moulded by his environment," said Beresford.

"Unless he makes his own environment," she suggested.

"It's easy for you to say that. You have before you the means of satisfying every wish."

"Have I?" she asked dreamily; then as if coming back to realities, "Are you sure?"

"Haven't you?"

"Just change places with me in your imagination," she said, "and find womanhood represented by the feminine equivalent to the Thirty-Nine Articles."

"I apologise."

"And now I think we had better think about lunch," she said with a smile.

They walked back to the hotel without exchanging a word. At the entrance were grouped some of the Thirty-Nine anxious lords of creation.

When Beresford reached his own table in the dining-room, he found seated at it a little man with a dark moustache, a greasy skin, and a general atmosphere of One-of-Us about him. The man looked up and smiled. Beresford bowed coldly, as he recognised one of his most persistent would-be hosts, a man who had invited him to take anything from a whisky-and-soda to a high dive in his company.

Beresford sought out Mr. Byles, who smiled with servile tact and rubbed his hands.

"There's someone sitting at my table, Byles," he said; "I'm going upstairs. I shall be down in five minutes. You will find me a table to myself as I arranged."

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Byles, "but we're so full up."

"You will do as I say," said Beresford coldly, "or I shall report the matter to the management. By the way, the seat that Mr. Gordon previously occupied is still vacant," he added over his shoulder as he turned towards the door, conscious of a look of hatred in Byles's eyes.

When he returned to the dining-room his table was unoccupied, and the man with the dark moustache and the moist complexion was darting glances of hatred in his direction. Beresford wondered whether or no Byles had returned the handsome tip that was to procure for Mr. Gordon the coveted seat. Evidently it was intended to be a stepping-stone to an introduction to Lola.