"What we were talking about this morning, Ikey,' said Mabel. 'Reggie wants a contract to superintend your English sequences.’
'For three years.’
'Five years. At a salary of -’
'Seven hundred and fifty -’
'A thousand.'
'Of course, yes. How right you are. Much nicer sum.’ 'Rounder.’
'Exactly. Easier to remember. Pencil in as the salary, therefore, Llewellyn, a weekly one thousand dollars.' 'And none of your options.' 'What,' asked Reggie, 'are options?'
'Never mind,' said Mabel. 'There aren't going to be any in your contract. I know Ikey's options.'
In spite of the gratitude and relief surging so freely within him, Mr Llewellyn could not but offer a feeble resistance to this unholy condition. Whatever soul a motion-picture magnate possesses always revolts against the heretical suggestion of a contract without options.
'No options?' he said wistfully, for he loved the little things.
'Nary a one,' said Mabel.
For a moment Ivor Llewellyn hesitated. But, as he did so, there rose before his eyes a vision. It was the vision of a man who wore a peaked cap and chewed gum, and this man was standing on the dock at New York examining his baggage. And in that baggage there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to bring the frown of censure to the brow of the most exacting Customs inspector. He hesitated no longer.
'Very well,' he said resignedly.
'And now,' said Mabel, 'here's a fountain-pen and here's a sheet of paper. I think we'll have a few brief lines in writing.'
The business deal concluded, the door closed behind them, and Mr Llewellyn left alone to get into his pink pyjamas with the prospect before him of the first peaceful night's rest he had enjoyed since the voyage began, it was Mabel's view that another visit to the boat deck would be agreeable.
To this, however, Reggie, though he yielded to none in his affection for the boat deck, was compelled to demur. His conscience would not permit him to accept the programme as put forward. Tonight he had ceased to be the careless, self-centred young man thinking only of his personal enjoyment. Purged in the holocaust of a mighty love, Reggie Tennyson had become an altruist.
'You pop up there,' he said, 'and I'll join you in a minute. I have a slight spot of work to do.'
‘Work?'
'Diplomatic work. A couple of young hearts to knit together. Poor old Monty Bodkin, largely owing to me, though I acted throughout with the best intentions, has had a bust-up with my cousin Gertrude -'
'The one who doesn't like butterflies?'
That's the baby. Largely owing to me, though, as I say, my intentions were admirable, she has got it in to her nut that Monty is a butterfly. Before sauntering on boat decks, I must correct this view. Can't leave poor old Monty wallowing in the soup, what?'
'Not even till tomorrow?'
'Not even till tomorrow,' said Reggie firmly. 'I couldn't be easy in my mind and give of my best on that boat deck if I didn't perform this act of kindness. The fact of the matter is, all this happy ending stuff has left me so full of sweetness and light that I want to go spreading it.'
'Well, don't be long.'
'Expect me in five minutes. Unless I have difficulty in locating Gertrude. But no doubt I shall find her in the lounge. I've noticed that the tendency of the female is rather to flock there at this hour.'
His intuition had not led him astray. Gertrude was in the lounge. She was sitting in a corner with Miss Passenger, the captain of the All England Ladies' Hockey Team, and Miss Purdue, the vice-captain.
She eyed him coldly as he approached, for, as has been indicated, she was not pleased with Reggie. Not to put too fine a point upon it, she thought Reggie a mess.
'Well?' she said haughtily.
A man who has recently had a Lottie Blossom saying that word to him from between clenched teeth is scarcely likely to quail before the 'Well?’ of a mere female cousin.
'Step out of the frame, Mona Lisa,' said Reggie briskly. 'I want a couple of words with you.'
And attaching himself to her hand, he scooped her from her seat and drew her apart.
'Now then, young G.,’ he said sternly, "what's all this rot about you and Monty?'
Gertrude stiffened.
'I don't want to talk about it.’
Reggie clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘What you want to talk about and what you're going to talk about are two very different things. And, anyway, you don't have to talk - all you've got to do is just drink in what I'm going to say. Gertrude, you're an ass. You're all wrong, you unhappy chump. If ever a girl misjudged a bloke, you have misjudged poor old Monty.’
‘I-'
'Don't talk,' said Reggie. ‘Listen.' He spoke urgently. Not for a moment did he forget that time was of the essence. By now, Mabel Spence would be up on the boat deck, leaning on the rail in the starlight. If ever a man proposed to make it snappy, it was Reginald Tennyson. That's all you've got to do - listen. Here are the facts in re Monty. Let them sink in.'
Nobody could have given a clearer exposition of the position of affairs than he proceeded to do. Although, as has been said, he was in a hurry; although, as he spoke, the vision of Mabel Spence alone on the boat deck kept rising before him; he did not scamp his tale. Conscientiously omitting nothing, he took her step by step through all that had occurred.
'So there you are,' he concluded. 'You'll find Monty in his state-room. If he has not yet disrobed, go in and fling yourself on his neck. If he has already retired to rest, shout "Bung-o 1 ‘‘ through the keyhole and tell him it's all right and will he meet you on the boat deck first thing tomorrow for the big reconciliation. And now -'
Gertrude Butterwick laughed a low, hard, bitter, sneering laugh.
'Oh?' she said.
‘What the hell do you mean, "Oh?"' demanded Reggie with pardonable annoyance. This interview, to which in the prospect he had mentally allowed five minutes, had already occupied nearer ten, and Mabel Spence was still gazing at the stars in solitude. It was the last moment when he wanted cousins saying 'Oh?' to him.
Gertrude laughed again.
‘It's a splendid story,’ she said. 'I particularly liked that bit about Miss Blossom stealing the mouse. I wouldn't have thought you and Monty were so clever.'
Reggie gaped. Incredulity was a’ thing for which he had not budgeted.
'You aren't suggesting I'm lying, are you?’
'Well, don't you usually?'
'But, good gosh, all this is true to the last drop.'
‘Oh?'
'You mean you don't believe it?’
‘Is it likely that I would believe anything you told me, after all I've found out about you? Good night. I'm going to bed.’ 'Yes, but half a second -’ ‘Good night!'
Gertrude swept haughtily from the lounge. In the corner where she had been sitting, Miss Purdue looked at Miss Passenger, eyebrows raised.
‘Butterwick seems off her oats,' said Miss Purdue.
Miss Passenger sighed.
‘Butterwick is in love. And the man has let her down, poor girl.' ·He has?'
‘With a thud. Poor old Butterwick!'
'Poor old Butterwick!' echoed Miss Purdue. Too bad. Have another gasper and tell me all about it'
Chapter 21
Unless delayed by such Acts of God as typhoons and waterspouts or slowed up en route by mutiny on the high seas and piracy, the R.M.S. Atlantic was what is technically known in transatlantic shipping circles as a four-day boat. That is to say, she did the voyage in six days and a bit. On the present occasion, having sailed from England at noon on a Wednesday, she was expected to dock in New York shortly after lunch on the following Tuesday, and she did not disappoint her public. She came steaming up the bay well on time.
Everything during the concluding stages of the trip had worked out according to plan. The first-class concert (No. 6, Solo: 'The Bandolero' - A. E. Peasemarch) had been performed. The final dinner had been eaten. The morning papers had come
aboard, reassuring citizens who had been absent for some time from their native shores that American womanhood had not abandoned the fine old custom of hitting its husband over the head with hammers and that sugar daddies were still being surprised in love-nests. The port officials had appeared and issued landing tickets in the rather grudging way that characterizes the port officials of New York; as if they had reluctantly decided to stretch a point for once, but wished it to be understood that this sort of thing must not occur again. And now the voyagers had disembarked and were in the Customs shed, waiting for their baggage to be examined.
As far as the permanent staff of a transatlantic liner is concerned, joy is always the prevailing sentiment when the vessel arrives at journey's end. The captain is happy because he is at last freed from the haunting fear that this time he may have taken the wrong turning and fetched up in Africa’The purser is happy because he will now be able to get away for a little from the society of people like Monty Bodkin. The doctor is congratulating himself on having come through one more orgy of quoits-playing and backgammon-playing without committing himself to anything definite. The crew like the idea of a few days' rest and repose, and the stewards are pleased for the same reason - while those of their number who are bigamists have long since got over the pang of parting from their wives and children in Southampton and are looking forward with bright affection to meeting once more their wives and children in New York.
Coming to the passengers, however, we find mixed emotions, varying according to the circumstances of the individual. In the crowd which was thronging the Customs sheds today there were hearts that were light and also hearts that were heavy.
Ambrose Tennyson's, for example, was heavy. He had derived no enjoyment from the sight of New York's celebrated skyline, and did not think much of the Customs sheds. Reggie Tennyson, on the other hand, though still exercised in his mind about Monty's broken romance, felt at the top of his form. He had kissed Mabel Spence almost incessantly all the way up the bay and had told her he thought her high buildings were wonderful.
Another of the debonair brigade was Ivor Llewellyn. He had not felt blither since the time when he had stolen three stars and a Czecho-Slovakian director from the Ne-Plus-Ultra-Zizz-baum in a single morning. Able, now that the weight of that necklace was off his mind, to devote the whole force of his powerful intellect exclusively to his brother-in-law George and the sock in the waistcoat which he was going to give the latter when he slapped him on the back, he had administered that sock precisely in the manner of which he had dreamed, causing George to double up like a pocket-rule and nearly swallow his bridge-work. He was now talking to the reporters about Ideals and the Future of the Screen.
Turning to Monty Bodkin, we find gloom once more. The skyline of New York had left Monty as cold as it had left Ambrose. It had seemed to him in his black despondency just a skyline, if that, and all he had thought about the Statue of Liberty was that it reminded him of a frightful girl in the Hippodrome chorus named Bella something, with whom he had once got landed at a theatrical luncheon party. Moodily clutching the Mickey Mouse which Albert Peasemarch had done up for him overnight in a neat brown paper parcel, he opened his trunks for inspection, his nervous system in no way soothed by the fact that, their names both beginning with a B, he had found himself standing practically cheek by jowl with Gertrude Butterwick.
For one fleeting instant he had caught her eye. It had stared through him, coldly and proudly. He had been relieved when some fellow-travellers named Burgess, Bostock and Billington-Todd had insinuated themselves and their trunks between them, hiding her from his view.
Nor was Gertrude herself in serener mood. This close proximity to the man she had once loved had put the last touch but one to the depression and anguish which had been weighing on her since she got out of bed that morning. The final touch was now being applied by Albert Peasemarch, who for some ten minutes had been frolicking about her like a white-jacketed grasshopper.
For Albert Peasemarch was a man who took his duties conscientiously. He was not one of those stewards who pocket their tip on the last morning and are never seen again. When the vessel docked, he sought out his clients and became helpful. He had been helping Gertrude now, as we say, for some ten minutes, and her gentle soul had begun rather to resemble that of a female rogue elephant. There are times when one is in the vein for airy conversation with stewards, and times when one is not. Gertrude yearned to be able to look round and find that Albert Peasemarch was not there.
And quite suddenly the miracle happened. Albert disappeared. One moment, he had been deep in an anecdote about a dog belonging to a friend of his in Southampton; the next he had gone. The solitude she had so greatly desired was hers.
But not for long. The sigh of relief had scarcely passed her lips when he was back again.
‘You will excuse me running off like that, miss,' he said, with gentlemanly apology, reappearing like a rabbit out of a conjuror's hat. ‘I was beckoned for.'
'Please don't stay if you're busy,' urged Gertrude.
Albert Peasemarch smiled a chivalrous smile.
'Never too busy to be of assistance and help to a lady, miss,’ he said gallantly. ‘It was simply that out of the tail of my eye I happened to observe Mr Bodkin beckoning to me. That was why I ran off. I have a message from Mr Bodkin, miss. Mr Bodkin presents his comps, and could he have the privilege of a word with you?’
Gertrude quivered. Her face flushed and her eyes grew hard, as if she had had a goal disallowed in an important match.
‘No!'
'No, miss?’
'No!'
'You do not desire to speak with Mr Bodkin?’ ·No!'
'Very good, miss. I will nip back and convey the information.’
‘Ass!'
'Sir?'
'Not you,’ said Reggie Tennyson, for it was he who had spoken. He had come up from the direction of the '‘I' section, taking them in the rear. 'I was addressing Miss Butterwick.'
'Very good, sir,' said Albert Peasemarch, and disappeared.
Reggie was regarding Gertrude with a cousinly sternness.
'Ass!' he repeated. 'Why won't you speak to Monty?'
'Because I do not wish to.'
'Fool! Chump! Cloth-head!' saidReggie.
There are doubtless girls in the world who will stand quite a lot of this sort of thing from their first cousins, but Gertrude Butterwick was not one of them. Her face, already flushed, grew pinker.
'Don't talk to me like that! ‘ she cried.
'I shall talk to you,' said Reggie, with unabated sternness but taking the precaution of stepping behind a large cabin-trunk, 'just like that. I come here, hoping to discover that you have thought things over and changed your mind, and the first thing I hear is you telling stewards that you do not wish to speak to poor old Monty. You make me sick, young Gertrude.’
'Oh, go away.’
‘I will not go away. Do you mean to tell me that, having had two days to brood on it and sift the evidence and weigh this against that, you still refuse to believe that I was telling you the truth that night? Why, good gosh, look how the thing hangs together. It's like what we used to have to swot up at school about the inevitableness of Greek tragedy. One thing leading to another, I mean to say. Lottie Blossom steals the mouse from Monty... In order to lure her from her state-room while I search it, he arranges a tryst with her on the second-class promenade deck.. .’
'I know, I know.’
'Well, then?'
'I don't believe a word of it.’
Reggie Tennyson expelled a deep breath.
'Young Gertrude,' he said, 'your sex protects you. I will not, therefore, give you the biff in the eye for which you are asking with every word you utter. But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll fetch Ambrose. Perhaps you will listen to him.'
‘I won't.'
'You think you won't,’ corrected Reggie, 'but I'll bet you will. Wait here. Don't stir a step.’ 'I shall not wait here.'
'Ye
s, you jolly well will,' said Reggie, 'because you haven't had your luggage examined yet. So sucks to you, young Gertrude.'
For some moments after he had gone, Gertrude remained heaving gently, and staring with unseeing eyes at the back of Mr Billington-Todd, who was having a little trouble with his inspector about a box of cigars. The recent unpleasant scene seemed to have put the clock back. Once more, she seemed to be a child - raging, as she had so often raged in those distant days when they had shared a mutual nursery, because Reggie had worsted her in cousinly debate. Like lightning flashes athwart a stormy sky, there flickered through her mind all the bitter, clever things she would have said if only she had thought of them.
As one waking from a trance, she became aware of her friend Miss Passenger at her side. On Miss Passenger's face was a grave, kindly, solicitous look; in her muscular hand a brown paper parcel.
'Well, Butterwick.'
‘Oh, hullo, Jane.’
There was no welcoming ring in Gertrude's voice. She liked Miss Passenger as a woman and respected her as a captain and a dashing outside-right, but she did not desire her company now. She feared...
That young man of yours, Butterwick.. .’
That was what Gertrude had feared, that Miss Passenger was about to twist the knife in her heart by talking of Monty. Ever since she had been so unguarded as to make the captain of the All England Ladies' Hockey Team a confidante in the matter of her wrecked romance, the latter had shown an unwelcome disposition to turn the conversation to that topic when they found themselves alone together.
‘Oh, Jane!'
'I've just been talking to him. I was coming along to see how you were getting on, and as I passed he called out to me. He says you won't speak to him.’
‘I won't.’
Miss Passenger sighed. For all her rugged exterior, she was at heart a sentimentalist, and both as a private individual and as a hockey captain she mourned over this sundering of two young lives. As an individual, she had been devoted to Gertrude for many years - right back, indeed, to the days of cocoa-parties in the dormitory at the dear old school - and hated to see her unhappy. As a hockey captain, she feared lest blighted love might put her off her game.
Luck of the Bodkins Page 25
