★ 16 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure
A Marriage has been Arranged
Neither Molly her father had moved or spoken while Jimmy was the of that ended at the steps of the house. McEachern looking at her in silence. His great against the dark of the larger than in the light. To Molly there was something and in his attitude. She herself that Jimmy would come back. She was frightened. Why, she not have said. It was as if some told her that a in her had been reached, and that she needed him. For the time in her life she in her father’s company. Ever since she was a child she had been to look upon him as her protector, but now she was afraid.
“Father!” she cried.
“What are you doing out here?”
His voice was and strained.
“I came out I wanted to think, father dear.”
She she his moods, but this was one that she had seen. It her.
“Why did he come out here?”
“Mr. Pitt? He me a wrap.”
“What was he saying to you?”
The rain of questions gave Molly a of being battered. She and a little mutinous. What had she done that she should be like this?
“He was saying nothing,” she said, shortly.
“Nothing! What do you mean? What was he saying? Tell me!”
Molly’s voice as she replied.
“He was saying nothing,” she repeated. “Do you think I’m not telling you the truth, father? He had not spoken a word for so long. We just walked up and down. I was thinking, and I he was, too. At any rate, he said nothing. I—I think you might me.”
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She to quietly. Her father had been like this before. It her.
McEachern’s manner in a flash. In the of Jimmy and Molly together on the he had himself. He had had to be suspicious. Sir Thomas Blunt, from he had just parted, had told him a piece of news which had him. The of Jimmy with Molly had an added to that piece of news. He saw that he had been rough. In a moment he was by her side, his great arm her shoulder, and her as he had done when she was a child. He her word without question, and his him very tender. Gradually the ceased. She against his arm.
“I’m tired, father,” she whispered.
“Poor little girl. We’ll down.”
There was a seat at the end of the terrace. He her up as if she had been a and her to it. She gave a little cry.
“I didn’t I was too to walk,” she said, laughing tremulously. “How you are, father! If I were you take me up and shake me till I was good, couldn’t you?”
“Of course; and send you to bed, too, so you be careful, woman.”
He her to the seat. Molly the closer her and shivered.
“Cold, dear?”
“No.”
“You shivered.”
“It was nothing; yes, it was,” she on quickly.
“It was. Father, will you promise me something?”
“Of course. What?”
“Don’t ever, be angry with me like that again, will you? I couldn’t it—really I couldn’t. I know it’s of me, but it hurt. You don’t know how it hurt.”
“But my dear——”
“Oh, I know it’s stupid. But——”
“But, my darling, it wasn’t so. I was angry, but it wasn’t with you.”
“With——. Were you angry with Mr. Pitt?”
McEachern saw that he had too far. He had that Jimmy’s should be for the time being—he 103had other to discuss; but it was too late now. He must go forward.
“I didn’t like to see you out here alone with Mr. Pitt, dear,” he said. “I was afraid——”
He saw that he must go still forward. It was more than awkward. He to hint at the of an with Jimmy without the possibility of it. Not being a man of brain, he this his powers.
“I don’t like him,” he said briefly. “He’s crooked.”
Molly’s opened wide. The colour had gone from her face.
“Crooked, father?”
McEachern that he had very much too far, almost to disaster. He to Jimmy, but he was gagged. If Molly were to ask the question that Jimmy had asked in the bedroom—that fatal, question! The price was too great to pay.
He spoke cautiously, vaguely, his way.
“I couldn’t to you, my dear—you wouldn’t understand. You must remember, my dear, that out in New York I was in a position to know a great many characters—crooks, Molly. I was among them.”
“But, father, that night at our house you didn’t know Mr. Pitt. He had to tell you his name.”
“I didn’t know him—then,” said her father slowly; “but—but——” He paused. “But I inquiries,” he concluded, with a rush, “and out things.”
He permitted himself a long, of relief. He saw his way now.
“Inquiries?” said Molly. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why did you him?”
A moment the question might have McEachern, but not now. He was equal to it. He took it in his stride.
“It’s hard to say, my dear. A man who has had as much to do with as I have them when he sees them.”
“Did you think Mr. Pitt looked—looked like that?” Her voice was very small. There was a on her face. She was than ever.
He not her thoughts. He not know what his had done—how they had her in a what Jimmy was to her, and up her mind like a flame, the 104hidden there. She now. The of comradeship, the trust, the of dependence—they no longer her. They were which she read.
And he was crooked!
McEachern proceeded. Relief him buoyant.
“I did, my dear. I can read him like a book. I’ve met of his sort. Broadway is full of them. Good and a manner don’t make an man. I’ve up against a high-toned of in my day. It’s a long time since I gave up that it was only the ones with the low and the thick ears that needed watching. It’s the Willies who look as if all they do was to lead the cotillon. This man Pitt’s one of them. I’m not guessing, mind you—I know. I know his line, and all about him. I’m him. He’s here on some game. How did he here? Why, he with Lord Dreever in a London restaurant. It’s the on the list. If I hadn’t to be here when he came I he’d have his by now. Why, he came all prepared for it! Have you an ugly, grinning, red-headed about the place? His valet, so he says. Valet! Do you know who that is? That’s one of the most Yegg-men on the other side. There isn’t a in New York who doesn’t know Spike Mullins. Even if I nothing of this Pitt that would be enough. What’s an man going the country with Spike Mullins for, unless they are in together at some game? That’s who Mr. Pitt is, my dear, and that’s why, maybe, I a little put out when I came upon you and him out here alone together. See as little of him as you can. In a large party like this it won’t be difficult to avoid him.”
Molly sat out across the garden. At every word had been a stab. Several times she had been on the point of out that she it no longer, but a succeeded the pain. She herself apathetically.
McEachern talked on. He left the of Jimmy, that, if there had in Molly’s any of the he had suspected, it must now be dead. He the away until it ran easily among commonplaces. He talked of New York, of the for the theatricals. Molly answered composedly. She was still pale, and a in her manner might have been noticed by a more man than Mr. McEachern. Beyond 105that there was nothing to that her had been and killed but a minutes before. Women have the Red Indian instinct; and Molly had to in those minutes.
Presently Lord Dreever’s name came up.
It a pause, and McEachern took of it. It was the for which he had been waiting.
He for a moment, for the was about to enter upon a difficult phase, and he was not sure of himself.
Then he took the plunge.
“I have just been talking to Sir Thomas, my dear,” he said. He to speak casually, and as a natural result so much meaning into his voice that Molly looked at him in surprise. McEachern confusedly. Diplomacy, he concluded, was not his forte. He it in of directness.
“He was telling me that you had Lord Dreever this evening.”
“Yes, I did,” said Molly. “How did Sir Thomas know?”
“Lord Dreever told him.”
Molly her eyebrows.
“I shouldn’t have it was the of thing he would talk about,” she said.
“Sir Thomas is his uncle.”
“Of course. So he is,” said Molly dryly. “I forgot. That would account for it, wouldn’t it?”
Mr. McEachern looked at her with some concern. There was a hard ring in her voice which he did not like. His had called him an man, and he was at a to see what was wrong. As a he was perhaps, a little naive. He had taken it for that Molly was of the which had been going on, and which had that in a of marriage from Lord Dreever in the rose-garden. This, however, was not the case. The woman of through the of two men of the of Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern has yet to be born. For some time Molly had been alive to the well-meant of that pair, and had little from the fact. It may be that woman loves to be pursued, but she not love to be by a crowd.
Mr. McEachern his and again.
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“You shouldn’t decide a question like that too hastily, my dear.”
“I didn’t—not too for Lord Dreever, at any rate, dear.”
“It was in your power,” said Mr. McEachern portentously, “to make a man happy.”
“I did,” said Molly, bitterly. “You should have his light up. He it was true for a moment, and then it came home to him, and I he would have on my neck. He did his very best to look heartbroken—out of politeness—but it was no good. He most of the way to the house—all flat, but very cheerfully.”
“My dear! What do you mean?”
Molly had the in their that her father had moods she had not suspected. It was his turn now to make a herself.
“I nothing, father,” she said. “I’m just telling you what happened. He came to me looking like a dog that’s going to be washed——”
“Why, of course; he was nervous, my dear.”
“Of course. He couldn’t know that I was going to him.”
She was quickly. He started to speak, but she on looking her. Her was very white in the moonlight.
“He took me into the rose-garden. Was that Sir Thomas’s idea? There couldn’t have been a setting, I’m sure—the roses looked lovely. Presently I him gulp, and I was so sorry for him. I would have him then, and put him out of his misery, only I couldn’t very well till he had proposed, I? So I my and at a rose, and then he his eyes—I couldn’t see him, but I he his eyes—and to say his lesson.”
“Molly!”
“He did—he said his lesson. He it. When he had got as as ‘Well don’t you know, what I is, that’s what I wanted to say, you know,’ I and him. I said, I didn’t love him. He said, ‘No, no, of not.’ I said he had paid me a great compliment. He said, ‘Not at all,’ looking very anxious, darling, as if then he was of what might come next. But I him, and he up, and we walked to the house together, as happy as be.”
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McEachern put his hand her shoulder. She winced, but let it stay. He conciliation.
“My dear, you’ve been things. Of he isn’t happy. Why, I saw the fellow——”
Recollecting that the last time he had the fellow—shortly after dinner—the had been in juggling, with every of peace, with two billiard-balls and a box of matches, he off abruptly.
“Father?”
“My dear?”
“Why do you want me to Lord Dreever?”
“I think he’s a fellow,” he said, her eyes.
“He’s nice,” said Molly quietly.
McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it. If it have been at, he would have done it, but he was not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in where the hint is a drive in the with a not a man an at the art. He had to be or silent.
“He’s the Earl of Dreever, my dear.”
He on, to the of the in a of words.
“Why, you see, you’re young, Molly. It’s only natural you shouldn’t look on these sensibly. You too much of a man. You this to be like the of the you read. When you’ve a little longer, my dear, you’ll see that there’s nothing in it. It isn’t the hero of the you want to marry, it’s the man who’ll make you a good husband.”
This Mr. McEachern as so and that he it.
He on. Molly was still, looking into the shrubbery. He she was listening, but she was or not he must go on talking. The was difficult. Silence would make it more so.
“Now, look at Lord Dreever,” he said. “There’s a man with one of the titles in England. He go and do what he liked, and be for he did of his name; but he doesn’t. He’s got the right in him. He doesn’t go around——”
“His uncle doesn’t allow him pocket-money,” said Molly, with a little laugh. “Perhaps that’s why.”
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There was a pause. McEachern a moments in which to his once more. He had been out of his stride.
“Father dear, listen,” she said. “We always used to each other so well.” He her affectionately. “You can’t what you say. You know I don’t love Lord Dreever, you know he’s only a boy. Don’t you want me to a man? I love this old place; but surely you can’t think that it can in a thing like this? You don’t that about the hero of the novel? I’m not stupid, like that. I only want—oh, I can’t put it into words; but don’t you see?”
Her were on him. It only needed a word from him—perhaps not a word—to close the which had opened them.
He missed the chance. He had had time to think, and his were again. With good he along the line he had out. He was and and practical, and the with every word.
“You mustn’t be rash, my dear—you mustn’t act without in these things. Lord Dreever is only a boy, as you say, but he will grow. You say you don’t love him. Nonsense! You like him, you would go on him more and more. And why? Because you make what you pleased of him. You’ve got character, my dear. With a girl like you to look after him, he would go a long way, a very long way. It’s all there; it only wants out. And think of it, Molly—Countess of Dreever! There’s a title in England. It would make me very happy, my dear. It’s been my one all these years to see you in the place where you ought to be. And now the has come. Molly dear, don’t it away.”
She had with closed eyes. A of had over her. She in a dream. She beaten. They were too for her. There were too many of them. What did it matter? Why not give in and end it all and win peace? That was all she wanted—peace now. What did it all matter?
“Very well, father,” she said listlessly.
McEachern stopped short.
“You’ll do it, dear?” he cried. “You will?”
“Very well, father.”
He and her.
“My own dear little girl,” he said.
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She got up.
“I’m tired, father,” she said. “I think I’ll go in.”
Two minutes later Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt’s study. Five minutes later Sir Thomas pressed the bell.
Saunders appeared.
“Tell his lordship,” said Sir Thomas, “that I wish to see him for a moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think.”
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