The Rain-Girl/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX
THE MORNING AFTER
LIKE the summer sun, Lord Drewitt retired late; but as a corrective rose later. He preferred to give the weather an opportunity of definitely establishing itself for the day. In his opinion none but a demagogue could take pride in early-rising in town or city.
"There are only two reasons why a man should rise early in London," he had once remarked, "breakfast and exercise. I take neither."
It was nearly twelve o'clock on the morning following Beresford's endeavour to determine his own destiny, that certain movements of the bed-clothes and murmurs from the pillow warned Hoskins that his master was reluctantly preparing to face another day. He became alert and watchful.
After fully five minutes of muttering and movement, Lord Drewitt raised himself upon his elbow and looked about him.
Hoskins took a step forward.
"Hoskins, I believe you do it on purpose." He dropped back wearily upon his pillow.
"Do what, my lord?" enquired Hoskins in a voice so thin as to be almost a falsetto.
"Look so infernally cheerful," murmured Lord Drewitt wearily. "Why is it?"
Hoskins radiated good-nature and happiness, as he raised his hand to smooth his already smooth fair hair, a habit of his.
"I suppose it's because I have nothing to worry me, my lord," he said, dodging into the bathroom and turning on the water, re-entering the bedroom a moment later.
"I wonder what you'd be like if you had two thousand a year, a title, and all the heiresses in two hemispheres hurled at your head."
"I should make the best of it, my lord," he replied.
"The best of it! Good heavens, man! how can you make the best of it?" demanded Lord Drewitt, as he sat up and proceeded wearily to stretch his arms behind his head. "How could you make the best of a woman with the face of a horse and a figure like a Rubens Venus?"
"I was reading the other day, my lord, that it's all a matter of digestion."
"Then you shouldn't read those damned cheap magazines. Wait until you are expected to marry an heiress. You will then find out that digestion has nothing whatever to do with it. You're getting sententious, Hoskins; you're getting confoundedly sententious. I've noticed it coming on."
Hoskins eyed his master imperturbably. He was accustomed to these morning monologues. Among his associates he referred to them as "His lordship easing off a bit."
"Don't you know" demanded Lord Drewitt as he slowly and reluctantly swung his legs from beneath the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't you know that all progress, material and intellectual, arises from discontent?"
"Yes, my lord, I believe so," said Hoskins, "I'm putting out that new morning-coat and vest for to-day, my lord."
"Hoskins, you're hopeless." Lord Drewitt rose and proceeded once more to stretch himself. "Here am I discussing higher ethics, and you can't rise to giddier altitudes than morning-coats and vests. You've probably been reading Carlyle."
Hoskins smiled good-humouredly, and Lord Drewitt disappeared into the bathroom, where for the next quarter of an hour his monologue was accompanied by splashings and the rushing of water.
"I remember," he said, reappearing and slipping into the dressing-gown that Hoskins held out for him, "you once said that life held compensations. I know of only one, your coffee," and he seated himself at the small breakfast tray beside the bed. "It's the only thing that preserves intact the slender thread of my life."
Hoskins beamed upon his master.
"I think it was William Blake who said that a man's soul is expressed in his work. Your soul, Hoskins, demonstrates itself in your coffee. I can forgive almost anything, even your damned optimistic expression of countenance, when I drink your coffee. Here, take them away, I don't like them put on my tray," he indicated the pile of letters that lay beside his coffee cup.
Hoskins took away the offending letters and placed them upon the dressing-table.
Lord Drewitt was possessed of a constitutional aversion from opening letters. "My executors have my sympathy," he had once remarked; "they will also have the bulk of my correspondence—unopened."
"There's a letter from Mr. Beresford, my lord; it's marked 'Immediate.'"
"You know I always refrain from opening letters marked 'immediate' or 'important,'" said Lord Drewitt reproachfully. "It means that they are immediate or important only to the writers, and not to the recipients. Your knowledge of the world should have taught you that. You may open it, however, and read it to me."
Hoskins opened the letter and read:—
"Dear Drew,
"I'm off soon after dawn to-morrow, and I'm going to the colonies, perhaps further, who knows? You might tell Aunt Caroline. Sorry I hadn't time to bid either of you good-bye.
"Here's luck to your nuptials.
"Ever yours,
"R. B."
"Nuptials! damned offensive term," muttered Lord Drewitt, then a moment afterwards, as if suddenly realising the purport of the letter he added, "Further than the colonies. What is further than the colonies?" he demanded, turning to Hoskins.
"There's nothing further than Australia, my lord."
"Isn't there? That shows you're an atheist. Here, hand me those trousers," and Lord Drewitt proceeded to dress.
Suddenly his mind had become alert, there was something in the letter that puzzled him, particularly taken in conjunction with the general trend of Beresford's recent remarks about the future.
With unaccustomed celerity he performed his toilet. Hoskins had never known him more quick or decisive in his movements, and marvelled at his unaccustomed silence. As a rule, during the process of dressing, Lord Drewitt reached the culminating point of his "easing off"; but to-day he was silent, his only remark being to tell Hoskins to order the porter to ring-up for a taxi.
Lord Drewitt's habitual air of boredom had vanished. In its place was a look of definite purpose, with something suggestive of anxiety.
When eventually he drove up to St. James's Mansions, he discovered just in front of him a very small boy with an extremely large parcel swathed in thin brown paper.
"Mr. Richard Beresford," piped the lad.
A porter came forward and took it from him.
"Here, be careful," said the boy, "they're flowers;" but the man did not appear to hear, having suddenly caught sight of Lord Drewitt.
"Mr. Beresford in?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord. Perhaps you'll step into the lift, my lord, and I'll take you up."
The porter followed with the parcel.
"I suppose Mr. Beresford is in?"
"Yes, my lord," said the porter. "He has only just finished breakfast."
Lord Drewitt was well known to the porter, who had instructions always to show him up without any preliminary announcement. The man therefore opened the outer door of the flat with his key, and announced the visitor, at the same time laying the parcel upon the table, after which he withdrew.
For a moment the two men gazed at each other, then with a sigh Drewitt sank into a chair opposite his cousin.
"I have often wondered," he remarked, "how you manage to live without Hoskins."
Beresford did not reply; but pushed across the cigarettes to Drewitt, who selected one with great care, lighted it, and the two continued to smoke in silence.
"Lunching anywhere?" enquired Drewitt.
Beresford shook his head and proceeded to undo the parcel.
With great care he opened out the sheets and exposed a magnificent shower-bouquet of white and clove carnations, tied with broad myrtle-green ribbon. He had telephoned to the florist's to send them to his chambers instead of to the Belle Vue.
Drewitt looked across at his cousin as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man to send himself an elaborate bouquet. Selecting another cigarette, he proceeded to light it from the one he had only partially smoked. As he turned to throw the discarded cigarette into the fireplace, the door opened and the porter announced—
"Miss Craven."
At the sight of Drewitt, Lola started slightly, with a quick indrawing of her breath.
For a moment she stood looking from one to the other. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the flowers.
"How delicious," she cried, then turning to Drewitt she enquired mischievously, "Did you bring them, Lord Drewitt?"
"It is a time-honoured custom between Richard and myself," said Drewitt, "never to call upon each other unaccompanied by elaborate bouquets of this description. I was just asking him to lunch with me. Will you join us, Miss Craven?"
For a moment Lola looked irresolute, then turning to Beresford, said—
"Shall we, Richard?"
Beresford started at her easy use of his name.
"You see," she added, as if forcing herself to get the words out, "it will be something of a celebration. We—we are engaged." She was gazing fixedly at the flowers, her cheeks a-flame.
"I—I" began Beresford, firmly convinced that this was the most ridiculous dream that had ever descended upon him.
"Then I shall take no refusal," said Drewitt evenly, giving no outward sign of the chaotic state of his brain under these repeated hammer-blows of surprise. "I have to go round and see my tailor, and on the way I'll engage a table at the Ritz-Carlton. If I'm a little late, don't wait. You understand, Richard? I shall withhold my congratulations till then."
As he turned towards the door Lola looked up.
"You—you are the first we've told," she said a little tremulously.
With a smile in which there was nothing of cynicism he held out his hand.
"You'll be very happy," he said. Then after a pause added, "when you've educated Richard; but he has excellent taste," allowing his eyes to wander on the table, "in flowers," and with that he left the room.
For fully a minute the two stood looking at each other. It was Beresford who broke the silence.
"Lola, what have you done?"
"I" she looked about her a little wildly. "I suppose I—I've proposed to you." Then she laughed, a strange, mirthless laugh.
Beresford stepped across to her and led her to the chair just vacated by Drewitt. "Sit down, Rain-Girl," he said gently; "I don't understand."
He had once more gained control over himself.
"You—you don't seem at all pleased," she swallowed in a way that suggested tears were not far distant.
"Why did you tell Drew that?" he asked. "You know it's not true."
"It is, it must be, it" She stopped suddenly and raised her eyes to his as he stood looking down at her. "Some one saw me leave here last night."
"Good God!" he cried aghast.
"And—and so I've had to save my reputation at your expense." Her voice was unnatural, hysterical.
"Who was it that saw you?" demanded Beresford almost roughly.
"Sir Alfred and Lady Tringe; they were driving past as we were standing waiting for the taxi."
With a groan Beresford sank back into his chair.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
"I didn't want to worry you," she said nervously.
"Perhaps they didn't see you," he said hopefully.
"They did," she said with averted eyes. "Their taxi stopped to allow mine to draw up, and I saw Lady Tringe point us out to Sir Alfred. It'll be all over London by dinner-time." She looked at him from under her lashes as he sat, his arms hanging down each side of the chair, the picture of despair.
"I'm sorry; but—but I had to do it. Are you very angry?" she asked tremulously.
"Angry! I?" he enquired dully.
He tried in vain to remember all he had told her the previous evening. The knowledge that she had not received his letters, or his telephone messages had been responsible. The sudden reaction had unbalanced him. Little had been said of the coincidence of two letters failing to reach her. Both had felt instinctively that the responsibility lay with Mrs. Crisp.
"Please—please don't be angry with me," she said, and a moment later she had slipped from her chair and was kneeling beside him. The touch of her seemed to reawaken him from his trance. With a swift movement he caught and crushed her to him.
"Don't, for God's sake, Lola, don't. You Oh, my dear." He bent down and kissed her passionately.
With a little sound of content she clung to him. Suddenly he became rigid. "Don't you see that it's utterly—that it's quite impossible—it's"
"Don't you think you might get to like me in—in time," she enquired archly.
"Lola, don't you understand? I've nothing, literally nothing to offer you. If Drewitt doesn't turn up, I can't even pay for the lunch. I haven't the price of a cab-fare. I had my pocket-book stolen last night. I only discovered it this morning. I'm down, down and out," he concluded with something of a sob in his voice.
"And yet you could buy me those wonderful flowers," she said.
She leaned forward and buried her face in the carnations. Beresford watched her. Everything was coming back to him. Slowly the realization was being forced upon him that Fate was really taking a hand in the game. Why should the porter have a friend at the Belle Vue? Why should that friend call in to see him soon after Beresford had handed the man his letters to post? Why should the eyes of the man from the Belle Vue happen to fall upon Lola's letter, and, above all, why had he offered to take it back with him? Again, why had Lola given up her stay in Surrey and motored back to London? Then there was He jumped up and began to pace the room.
"Don't you see what I am doing?" She rose and snuggled into the corner of the chair he had just left.
"What you are doing?" he repeated, stopping in front of her.
"Yes," she faltered. "I'm—I'm throwing myself at your head and—and" she flashed him a tremulous glance, "and you won't help me, not a little bit," she drew in her lower lip, then a moment after, covering her face with her hands, she huddled up in the corner of the chair.
In an instant Beresford was on his knees beside her.
"My darling; oh my dear!" he murmured, striving to pull away her hands. "You know, you must know—you do understand, don't you? Can't you see how impossible it is, how—how" he stopped miserably.
"You've—you've compromised me and now you humiliate me," she sobbed, her hands still shielding her face.
"My dear—Rain-Girl—Lola—please don't" He paused, incoherent in his anguish. "Oh, please—please don't, Rain-Girl." Again he strove to remove her hands, but without success. She merely turned her head further from him.
Beresford looked about him wildly, as if seeking for inspiration or assistance. What was he to do? What?
Suddenly she removed her hands—she was laughing, yes, laughing right into his eyes.
In his astonishment he sat back on his heels and stared, unconscious of the ludicrous figure he cut.
"Oh, you do look so funny," she cried hysterically. "Please get up."
Slowly he rose, his dignity a little hurt, then seeing two tears trickling down her cheeks, he seated himself on the arm of the chair and drew her to him.
"My dear," he said gravely, "I'm—I'm—all—oh, everything's so muddled up. I don't know where I am—why I am. Sometimes I think I'm mad—I suppose I am really."
She looked up at him, a tired little smile softening the drawn, weary look of her face.
"I'm so tired, Jerry," she said, "I haven't slept a wink, not a little, teeny one," she added with a momentary flash of playfulness. "Please be nice to me. It's been very hard," she murmured; "so hard to make you like me." She closed her eyes wearily.
"My darling."
Beresford crushed her fiercely to him.
"My darling," he repeated, and bent and kissed her hair.
Then in a torrent of words he told her everything. How he had come back to London to find her, how he had gone to the Ritz-Carlton expecting to see her, how he had tramped about the streets on the chance of encountering her, how he had pursued her to Folkestone and, finally, how he had welcomed the way out that he now shuddered to contemplate.
"My dear!" she said when he had finished. "Oh, my dear!"