Jacob's Ladder Part 24

"That's all right, d.i.c.k," Jacob answered, with unconvincing cheerfulness. "Very pleasant time."

Jacob had endured a cheap dinner at a popular restaurant and circle seats at a music hall with uncomplaining good humour, but the evening, if anything, had increased his depression. He wandered into one of the clubs of which he was a member, only to find there was not a soul there whom he had ever seen before in his life. He came out within half an hour, but a spirit of unrest had seized him. Instead of going up to his rooms, he wandered into the foyer of the great hotel, in the private part of which his suite was situated, and watched the people coming out from supper. Again, as he sat alone, he was conscious of that feeling of isolation. Every man seemed to be accompanied by a woman who for the moment, at any rate, was content to give her whole attention to the task of entertaining her companion. There were little parties, older people some of them, but always with that connecting link of friendship and good-fellowship. Jacob sat grimly back in the shadows and watched. Perhaps it would have been better, he thought, if he had remained a poor traveller. He would have found some little, hardly used, teashop waitress, or perhaps the daughter of one of his customers, or a little shopgirl whom he had hustled in the Tube,--some one whose life might have touched his and brought into it the genial flavour of companionship. As it was--

"If it isn't Mr. Pratt!"

He started. One of the very smartest of the little crowd who flowed around him had paused before his chair. He rose to his feet.

"Lady Powers!" he exclaimed.

"Ancient history," she confided. "I have been married weeks--it seems ages. This is my husband--Mr. Frank Lloyd."

Jacob found himself shaking hands with a vacuous-looking youth who turned away again almost immediately to speak to some acquaintances.

"You don't bear me any ill-will, Mr. Pratt?"

"None except that broken dinner engagement," he replied.

"I wrote to you," she reminded him. "I did not dare to come after the way those others had behaved."

He sighed. "All the same I was disappointed."

She made a little grimace. Her husband was bidding farewell to his friends. She leaned towards him confidentially.

"Perhaps if I had," she whispered, "there would have been no Mr. Frank Lloyd."...

Back to his chair and solitude. Jacob made his way presently through the darkened rooms and pa.s.sages to his own apartments, where a servant was waiting for him, the evening papers were laid out, whisky and soda and sandwiches were on the sideboard. His valet relieved him of his dresscoat and smoothed the smoking jacket around him.

"Anything more I can do for you to-night, sir?"

Jacob looked around the empty room, looked at his luxurious single easy-chair, at all the resources of comfort provided for him, and shook his head.

"Nothing, Richards," he answered shortly. "Good night!"

"Good night, sir!"

Jacob subsided into the easy-chair, filled his pipe mechanically, lit and smoked it mechanically, knocked out the ashes when he had finished it, turned out the lights and pa.s.sed into his bedroom, undressed and went to bed, still without any interest or thought for what he was doing. When he found himself still awake in a couple of hours' time, he took himself to task fiercely.

"This is liver," he muttered. "I shall now relax, take twelve deep breaths, and sleep."

Which he did.

CHAPTER XVI

Spring came, and Jacob found the monotony of life relieved by a leisurely motor trip through the south of England, during which he stopped to play golf occasionally at various well-known courses. He returned to London in June, and on the second day of Ascot he came across Felixstowe, for the first time since their meeting in Monte Carlo. The young man's greeting was breezy and devoid of any embarra.s.sment. The little matter of the pony did not appear to trouble him.

"Jacob, old heart!" he exclaimed, leaning on his malacca cane and pushing his silk hat a little farther back on his head. "G.o.d bless you, my bloated capitalist! Three times have I rung up your office in vain. Where have you been to, these days?"

"Getting about as usual," was the modest reply. "In the country, as a matter of fact, for the last few weeks."

The young man considered his friend's attire and nodded approvingly.

"Quite the Ascot touch," he observed. "You can't get the perfect sweep of the coat with your figure, but on the whole your man's done you proud. Here alone?"

"Quite alone."

"Tell you what, then, I'll introduce you to my people. Best leg forward, old buck."

Jacob followed his guide back through the tunnel, into the stand, up the stairs, and into a box on the second tier. The introduction was informal.

"Mother, want to introduce a pal--Mr. Jacob Pratt--Marchioness of Delchester--my sister, Lady Mary--dad. Now you know the family. What's doing up here?"

The Marchioness, a handsome, thin-faced lady of advanced middle age, whose Ascot toilette was protected from the possible exigencies of the climate by an all-enclosing dust coat, held out her hand feebly and murmured a word of greeting. The Marquis, a tall, spare person, with aquiline nose and almost hawklike features, welcomed him with a shade of dubiousness. Jacob felt a little thrill, however, as he bowed over Lady Mary's fingers. Her eyes were blue, and though her complexion was fairer and her manner more gracious, there was something in the curve of her lips which reminded him of Sybil.

"Do tell me, do you know anything for the next race, Mr. Pratt?" she asked. "I had such a rotten day yesterday."

"I'm not a racing man," Jacob replied, "but I was told that Gerrard's Cross was a good thing."

There was a general consultation of racing cards. The Marquis studied the starting board through his gla.s.ses.

"Gerrard's Cross is a starter," he announced, "ridden by Brown, colours brown and green. Belongs to Exminster, I see. Nine to one they seem to be offering in the ring."

"I want a sovereign on," Lady Mary decided. "Hurry, Jack!"

"Nothing doing, child of my heart," the young man sighed. "Cleaned out my pocketbook last race."

The young lady turned to her parents, who both seemed suddenly absorbed in the crowd below.

"Bother!" she exclaimed. "And the numbers are up already!"

"Will you allow me?" Jacob ventured, producing his pocketbook and handing a five-pound note to Felixstowe. "You'll have to hurry."

Lady Mary smiled at him sweetly and abandoned a furtive attempt to open her bag.

"Do you go to many race meetings, Mr. Pratt?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Very few," he answered. "As a matter of fact, this is my first Ascot."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Are you an American, then, or Colonial?"

"No, I am English, but it is only during the last year or so that I have had any time or money to spare for amus.e.m.e.nts of this sort."