Confessions of a Young Lady Part 39

"It means that what I told you of 's come off, and before next Sunday, too. It means that I've been engaged to be married since I saw you; and now I'm disengaged again; and I've been paid five thousand pounds for allowing myself to be disengaged again. It was this rig-out did it. You remember that scene at the Frivolity, where the costers were supposed to take their donahs to Hampstead Heath on a bank holiday?

This was one of the costumes which the girls wore. The sight of it was enough for Sir Frank Pickard and his aristocratic friends. I could have got ten thousand if I'd liked, but I was satisfied with five.

Joe, that means that you needn't emigrate; and that we can be married whenever you like."

They were married within the month.

When Sir Archibald Ferguson had finished the story which is here set down, I regarded him for some moments in silence.

"That's not a bad yarn; but--how come you to be so well acquainted with the intimate details?"

Before he answered he rolled his cigar over and over between his fingers as if considering. Then he stood up in front of the fireplace and, from that vantage post, beamed down at me.

"I'll tell you. Open confession is--occasionally--good for the soul. I can trust you. I have taken the liberty to alter the names of some of my characters. The Frank Pickard of my story is--yours truly, Archie Ferguson."

"No?"

"Yes. Seems incredible, doesn't it, that a staid and happily-married man of many years' standing, with a big family of strapping sons and daughters, should have been that particular kind of idiot. But it's true; I was. It only demonstrates--what perhaps does not need demonstration--that because a youngster shows himself to be a first-cla.s.s fool as a youngster, you mustn't take it for granted that he's going to continue to be a fool his whole life long."

"But how came you to be so well posted in the lady's part of the story?"

"That's not the least queer part of it. When Mr and Mrs Bennett-Lamb first established themselves here I felt--funny. I didn't know what I might expect. But one day we were going up by the same train to town.

She invited me into her compartment. I didn't quite like going, but--I did. We had the compartment to ourselves. After the train had started she told me her side of the story, exactly as I have told it you. She told it uncommonly well--uncommonly. And by the time the train reached town I was more than half inclined to the opinion that the five thousand pounds had been judiciously expended. Fact! She has made her husband a first-rate wife, and been an excellent mother to his child.

In fact, she's an all-round clever woman."

"So," I admitted, with a degree of candour which I am not sure that he altogether relished, "I should imagine."

XI

A MUTUAL AFFINITY

CHAPTER I

"What the--blazes!"

George Coventry sat with an open envelope in his hand. It was an ordinary white envelope--"business" size--of not too fine a quality.

It was addressed: "George Coventry, Esq., Hotel Metropole, Brighton."

The address was type-written.

"Dun!"

That was the one word which had crossed his mind when he first glanced at the exterior of this missive. When he took it up his suspicions were strengthened. It was fat and bulky.

"Contains either a writ or a bill in several volumes."

He laid it down again. He looked at it ruefully as he puffed at his pipe. Then, gathering together his courage with a sigh, he opened it.

It was at this point he emitted the above exclamation,--"What the--blazes!"

The envelope was full of crinkly pieces of paper--bank-notes. There were ten of them. Each was for a thousand pounds. Mr Coventry stared at them with bewildered amazement.

"Someone is having a joke with me! Bank of Elegance, for a fiver!"

But they were not on the Bank of Elegance. Mr Coventry fancied that he knew a genuine bank-note when he saw one. After examination, he concluded that if these were forgeries, then he was not so good a judge as he thought he was. He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book for the purpose of comparison.

"Right uns, as I'm a sinner! Then, in that case, it strikes me they've been sent to the wrong address."

In his desire to establish the genuineness of the notes, he had temporarily overlooked a sheet of paper which he had drawn with them from the envelope. This he now examined. It was a single sheet of large post. On it these words were typewritten,--

"The accompanying bank-notes (10,000) are forwarded to Mr George Coventry, to enable him to pay the losses which he has experienced during the Brighton races."

When Mr Coventry read this, his bewilderment, instead of being diminished, was considerably increased. There was no signature, no address, no clue to the sender. One type-writer is like another, so that there was no clue in the words themselves. Someone, of infinite faith, had entrusted 10,000 to the guardianship of a flimsy envelope and of a penny stamp. Mr Coventry had flattered himself that no one knew--as yet--of the particularly tight place that he was in. Here was proof positive that he had been guilty of self-deception indeed.

He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all--that was left--that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his "friends," how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of 10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone!

"Would--would you lend me your arm? I--I am afraid I have hurt my foot."

Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black.

"I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?"

"Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle."

The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain.

"Let me carry you to a seat."

Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant's notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion.

"I'll fetch you a bath-chair."

He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman's. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away.

It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him.

"I ought to have asked her her name."

He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.

That afternoon he called at the house in the Steyne. A person, evidently of the landlady type, opened the door. He handed in his card with, pencilled on it, the words: "I venture to hope that your foot is better." A reply came to the effect that he was requested to walk upstairs. He walked upstairs. He was shown into what was undeniably a lodging-house sitting-room. As he entered, someone was lying on a sofa; it was the little woman in black.

"It is very kind of you to call, Mr Coventry. I ought to have thanked you for your goodness to me this morning, but you were gone in a moment."

Mr Coventry murmured something. He hoped that her foot was better.