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In the days that followed their interrupted love-scene atReigelheimer's Restaurant that night of Lord Dawlish's unfortunateencounter with the tray-bearing waiter, Dudley Pickering'sbehaviour had perplexed Claire Fenwick. She had taken it forgranted that next day at the latest he would resume the offer ofhis hand, heart, and automobiles. But time passed and he made nomove in that direction. Of limousine bodies, carburettors,spark-plugs, and inner tubes he spoke with freedom and eloquence,but the subject of love and marriage he avoided absolutely. Hisbehaviour was inexplicable.
Claire was piqued. She was in the position of a hostess who hasswept and garnished her house against the coming of a guest andwaits in vain for that guest's arrival. She made up her mind whatto do when Dudley Pickering proposed to her next time, andthereby, it seemed to her, had removed all difficulties in theway of that proposal. She little knew her Pickering!
Dudley Pickering was not a self-starter in the motordrome of love.He needed cranking. He was that most unpromising of matrimonialmaterial, a shy man with a cautious disposition. If he overcamehis shyness, caution applied the foot-brake. If he succeeded inforgetting caution, shyness shut off the gas. At Reigelheimer'ssome miracle had made him not only reckless but un-self-conscious.Possibly the Dream of Psyche had gone to his head. At any rate, hehad been on the very verge of proposing to Claire when theinterruption had occurred, and in bed that night, reviewing theaffair, he had been appalled at the narrowness of his escape fromtaking a definite step. Except in the way of business, he was aman who hated definite steps. He never accepted even a dinnerinvitation without subsequent doubts and remorse. The consequencewas that, in the days that followed the Reigelheimer episode, whatLord Wetherby would have called the lamp of love burned rather lowin Mr Pickering, as if the acetylene were running out. He stilladmired Claire intensely and experienced disturbing emotions whenhe beheld her perfect tonneau and wonderful headlights; but heregarded her with a cautious fear. Although he sometimes dreamedsentimentally of marriage in the abstract, of actual marriage, ofmarriage with a flesh-and-blood individual, of marriage thatinvolved clergymen and 'Voices that Breathe o'er Eden,' andgiggling bridesmaids and cake, Dudley Pickering was afraid with aterror that woke him sweating in the night. His shyness shrankfrom the ceremony, his caution jibbed at the mysteries of marriedlife. So his attitude toward Claire, the only girl who hadsucceeded in bewitching him into the opening words of an actualproposal, was a little less cordial and affectionate than if shehad been a rival automobile manufacturer.
Matters were in this state when Lady Wetherby, who, having dancedclassical dances for three months without a break, required arest, shifted her camp to the house which she had rented for thesummer at Brookport, Long Island, taking with her Algie, herhusband, the monkey Eustace, and Claire and Mr Pickering, herguests. The house was a large one, capable of receiving a bigparty, but she did not wish to entertain on an ambitious scale.The only other guest she proposed to put up was Roscoe Sherriff,her press agent, who was to come down as soon as he could get awayfrom his metropolitan duties.
It was a pleasant and romantic place, the estate which LadyWetherby had rented. Standing on a hill, the house looked downthrough green trees on the gleaming waters of the bay. Smoothlawns and shady walks it had, and rustic seats beneath spreadingcedars. Yet for all its effect on Dudley Pickering it might havebeen a gasworks. He roamed the smooth lawns with Claire, and satwith her on the rustic benches and talked guardedly of lubricatingoil. There were moments when Claire was almost impelled to forfeitwhatever chance she might have had of becoming mistress of thirtymillion dollars and a flourishing business, for the satisfactionof administering just one whole-hearted slap on his round andthinly-covered head.
And then Roscoe Sherriff came down, and Dudley Pickering, who fordays had been using all his resolution to struggle against thesiren, suddenly found that there was no siren to struggle against.No sooner had the press agent appeared than Claire deserted himshamelessly and absolutely. She walked with Roscoe Sherriff. MrPickering experienced the discomfiting emotions of the man whopushes violently against an abruptly-yielding door, or treadsheavily on the top stair where there is no top stair. He wasshaken, and the clamlike stolidity which he had assumed asprotection gave way.
Night had descended upon Brookport. Eustace, the monkey, was inhis little bed; Lord Wetherby in the smoking-room. It was Sunday,the day of rest. Dinner was over, and the remainder of the partywere gathered in the drawing-room, with the exception of MrPickering, who was smoking a cigar on the porch. A full moonturned Long Island into a fairyland.
Gloom had settled upon Dudley Pickering and he smoked sadly. Allrather stout automobile manufacturers are sad when there is a fullmoon. It makes them feel lonely. It stirs their hearts to thoughtsof love. Marriage loses its terrors for them, and they thinkwistfully of hooking some fair woman up the back and buying herhats. Such was the mood of Mr Pickering, when through the dimnessof the porch there appeared a white shape, moving softly towardhim.
'Is that you, Mr Pickering?'
Claire dropped into the seat beside him. From the drawing-roomcame the soft tinkle of a piano. The sound blended harmoniouslywith the quiet peace of the night. Mr Pickering let his cigar goout and clutched the sides of his chair.
Oi'll--er--sing thee saw-ongs ov Arrabee, Und--ah ta-ales of farrr Cash-mee-eere, Wi-ild tales to che-eat thee ovasigh Und charrrrm thee to-oo a tear-er.
Claire gave a little sigh.
'What a beautiful voice Mr Sherriff has!'
Dudley Pickering made no reply. He thought Roscoe Sherriff had abeastly voice. He resented Roscoe Sherriff's voice. He objected toRoscoe Sherriff's polluting this fair night with his cacophony.
'Don't you think so, Mr Pickering?'
'Uh-huh.'
'That doesn't sound very enthusiastic. Mr Pickering, I want you totell me something. Have I done anything to offend you?'
Mr Pickering started violently.
'Eh?'
'I have seen so little of you these last few days. A little whileago we were always together, having such interesting talks. Butlately it has seemed to me that you have been avoiding me.'
A feeling of helplessness swept over Mr Pickering. He was vaguelyconscious of a sense of being treated unjustly, of there being aflaw in Claire's words somewhere if he could only find it, but thesudden attack had deprived him of the free and unfettered use ofhis powers of reasoning. He gurgled wordlessly, and Claire wenton, her low, sad voice mingling with the moonlight in a mannerthat caused thrills to run up and down his spine. He feltparalyzed. Caution urged him to make some excuse and follow itwith a bolt to the drawing-room, but he was physically incapableof taking the excellent advice. Sometimes when you are out in yourPickering Gem or your Pickering Giant the car hesitates, falters,and stops dead, and your chauffeur, having examined the carburettor,turns to you and explains the phenomenon in these words: 'Themixture is too rich.' So was it with Mr Pickering now. The moonlightalone might not have held him; Claire's voice alone might not haveheld him; but against the two combined he was powerless. Themixture was too rich. He sat and breathed a little stertorously,and there came to him that conviction that comes to all of us nowand then, that we are at a crisis of our careers and that themoment through which we are living is a moment big with fate.
The voice in the drawing-room stopped. Having sung songs of Arabyand tales of far Cashmere, Mr Roscoe Sherriff was refreshinghimself with a comic paper. But Lady Wetherby, seated at thepiano, still touched the keys softly, and the sound increased therichness of the mixture which choked Dudley Pickering's spiritualcarburettor. It is not fair that a rather stout manufacturershould be called upon to sit in the moonlight while a beautifulgirl, to the accompaniment of soft music, reproaches him withhaving avoided her.
'I should be so sorry, Mr Pickering, if I had done anything tomake a difference between us--'
'Eh?' said Mr Pickering.
'I have so few real friends over here.'
> Claire's voice trembled.
'I--I get a little lonely, a little homesick sometimes--'
She paused, musing, and a spasm of pity rent the bosom beneathDudley Pickering's ample shirt. There was a buzzing in his earsand a lump choked his throat.
'Of course, I am loving the life here. I think America'swonderful, and nobody could be kinder than Lady Wetherby. But--Imiss my home. It's the first time I have been away for so long. Ifeel very far away sometimes. There are only three of us at home:my mother, myself, and my little brother--little Percy.'
Her voice trembled again as she spoke the last two words, and itwas possibly this that caused Mr Pickering to visualize Percy as asort of little Lord Fauntleroy, his favourite character in Englishliterature. He had a vision of a small, delicate, wistful childpining away for his absent sister. Consumptive probably. Orcurvature of the spine.
He found Claire's hand in his. He supposed dully he must havereached out for it. Soft and warm it lay there, while the universepaused breathlessly. And then from the semi-darkness beside himthere came the sound of a stifled sob, and his fingers closed asif someone had touched a button.
'We have always been such chums. He is only ten--such a dear boy!He must be missing me--'
She stopped, and simultaneously Dudley Pickering began to speak.
There is this to be said for your shy, cautious man, that on therare occasions when he does tap the vein of eloquence that veinbecomes a geyser. It was as if after years of silence andmonosyllables Dudley Pickering was endeavouring to restore theaverage.
He began by touching on his alleged neglect and avoidance ofClaire. He called himself names and more names. He plumbed thedepth of repentance and remorse. Proceeding from this, heeulogized her courage, the pluck with which she presented asmiling face to the world while tortured inwardly by separationfrom her little brother Percy. He then turned to his own feelings.
But there are some things which the historian should hold sacred,some things which he should look on as proscribed material for hispen, and the actual words of a stout manufacturer of automobilesproposing marriage in the moonlight fall into this class. It isenough to say that Dudley Pickering was definite. He left no roomfor doubt as to his meaning.
'Dudley!'
She was in his arms. He was embracing her. She was his--the latestmodel, self-starting, with limousine body and all the newest. No,no, his mind was wandering. She was his, this divine girl, thisqueen among women, this--
From the drawing-room Roscoe Sherriff's voice floated out inunconscious comment--
Good-bye, boys! I'm going to be married to-morrow. Good-bye, boys! I'm going from sunshine to sorrow. No more sitting up till broad daylight.
Did a momentary chill cool the intensity of Dudley Pickering'sardour? If so he overcame it instantly. He despised RoscoeSherriff. He flattered himself that he had shown Roscoe Sherriffpretty well who was who and what was what.
They would have a wonderful wedding--dozens of clergymen, scoresof organs playing 'The Voice that Breathed o'er Eden,' platoons ofbridesmaids, wagonloads of cake. And then they would go back toDetroit and live happy ever after. And it might be that in time tocome there would be given to them little runabouts.
I'm going to a life Of misery and strife, So good-bye, boys!
Hang Roscoe Sherriff! What did he know about it! Confound him!Dudley Pickering turned a deaf ear to the song and wallowed in hishappiness.
Claire walked slowly down the moonlit drive. She had removedherself from her Dudley's embraces, for she wished to be alone, tothink. The engagement had been announced. All that part of it wasover--Dudley's stammering speech, the unrestrained delight ofPolly Wetherby, the facetious rendering of 'The Wedding Glide' onthe piano by Roscoe Sherriff, and it now remained for her to tryto discover a way of conveying the news to Bill.
It had just struck her that, though she knew that Bill was inAmerica, she had not his address.
What was she to do? She must tell him. Otherwise it might quiteeasily happen that they might meet in New York when she returnedthere. She pictured the scene. She saw herself walking with DudleyPickering. Along came Bill. 'Claire, darling!' ... Heavens, whatwould Dudley think? It would be too awful! She couldn't explain.No, somehow or other, even if she put detectives on his trail, shemust find him, and be off with the old love now that she was onwith the new.
She reached the gate and leaned over it. And as she did so someonein the shadow of a tall tree spoke her name. A man came into thelight, and she saw that it was Lord Dawlish.
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