CHAPTER II
THE MORALS OF MOLLY
It was exactly eleven o'clock when Tony woke up. He looked at his watch, yawned, stretched himself, ran his fingers through his hair, and then reaching out his hand pressed the electric bell beside his bed. After a short pause it was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man, with a face like a tired sphinx, who entered the room carrying a cup of tea upon a tray. Tony sat up and blinked at him.
"Good-morning, Spalding," he observed.
"Good-morning, Sir Antony," returned the man; "I trust that you slept well, sir?"
"Very well, thank you," replied Tony. "What time did I get home?"
"I fancy it was a little after four, sir."
Tony took a long drink out of the tea-cup, and then put it down again. "I am curiously thirsty this morning, Spalding," he said. "Was I quite sober when I came back?"
The man hesitated. "I should describe you as being so, sir," he replied.
"Thank you, Spalding," said Tony gratefully.
Crossing the room the valet drew up the blinds, and admitted a cheerful stream of sunshine.
"Mr. Oliver left a message, sir, to say that he would not be back until the afternoon. He has gone out on business and is lunching with Mr. Henry Conway."
"Where's Bugg?" inquired Tony.
"At the present moment, sir, I believe he is in the gymnasium. He informed me that he was about to loosen his muscles with a little shadow boxing."
"Is he all right?"
"He appears to be in the most robust health, sir."
A look of relief passed across Tony's face. "You have taken a weight off my mind, Spalding," he said. "I dreamed that he had broken his neck."
The valet shook his head reassuringly.
"I observed no sign of it, sir, when I passed him in the hall."
"In that case," said Tony, "I think I shall get up. You can fill the bath, Spalding, and you can tell the cook I shan't want any breakfast."
The impassive servant bowed and withdrew from the room, and after finishing his tea, Tony got luxuriously out of bed, and proceeded to drape himself in a blue silk dressing-gown with gold dragons embroidered round the hem. It was a handsome garment originally intended for the President of China, but that gentleman had unexpectedly rejected it on the ground that it was too ornate for the elected head of a democratic community. At least that was how the Bond Street shopman who had sold it to Tony had accounted for its excessive price.
Lighting a cigarette, Tony sauntered across to the bathroom, where a shave, a cold tub, and a few minutes of Muller's exercises were sufficient to remove the slight trace of lassitude induced by his impersonation of Charles the Second. Then, still clad in his dressing-gown, he strolled down the main staircase, and opening the front door passed out into the garden.
The house was one of those two or three jolly old-fashioned survivals which still stand in their own grounds in the neighbourhood of Jack Straw's Castle. Tony had bought up the freehold several years previously, the quaint old Georgian residence in its delightful surroundings appealing to him far more than his own gloomy family mansion in Belgrave Square. As he himself was fond of explaining, it gave one all the charm of living in the country without any of its temptations to virtue.
A few yards' walk along a gravel path, hedged in on each side by thick laurel bushes, brought him to the gymnasium. The door was slightly open, and from the quick patter and shuffle of footsteps inside, it sounded as if a number of ballet girls were practising a novel and rather complicated form of step dance.
The spectacle that actually met Tony's eyes when he entered, however, was of a less seductive nature. Clad only in a pair of flannel trousers, a young man was spinning and darting about the room in the most extraordinary fashion, indulging at the same time in lightning-like movements with his head and arms. To the uninitiated observer he would have appeared to be either qualifying for a lunatic asylum or else attempting the difficult feat of catching flies on the wing. As a matter of fact either assumption would have been equally inaccurate. He was engaged in what is known amongst pugilists as "shadow boxing" which consists of conducting an animated contest with a vicious but imaginary opponent.
On seeing Tony the young man in question came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, and raised his forefinger to his close-cropped forehead.
"Mornin', Sir Ant'ny," he observed.
Notwithstanding his exertions he spoke without the least trace of breathlessness, and there was no sign of perspiration upon his clean white skin. He looked what he was—a splendidly built lad of about nineteen, trained to the last pitch of physical fitness.
Tony glanced him over with an approving eye. "Good-morning, Bugg," he answered. "I am glad to see you looking so well. I dreamed you had broken your neck."
The lad grinned cheerfully. "Not me, sir. Never felt better in me life. Must 'a bin the other bloke."
"I hope not," said Tony anxiously. "I backed you for another two-fifty yesterday, and I can't very well claim the money unless the fight comes off. By the way, a hundred of that goes on to the purse if you do the trick all right."
The young prize-fighter looked a trifle embarrassed. "There ain't no call for that, sir—thankin' ye kindly all the saime, sir. I'd knock out 'alf a dozen blokes like Lopez for a purse o' three 'undred."
"Your unmercenary nature is one of your chief charms, Bugg," said Tony. "All the same you mustn't carry it to extremes. How much money have you got in the bank now?"
Bugg scratched his ear. "The last time I goes in, sir, the old geezer with the whiskers says somethin' abaht a matter of eleven 'undred quid."
"Well, by to-morrow you ought to have fifteen hundred. In other words, Bugg, you will be a capitalist—one of the idle rich. That money, properly invested, will bring you in thirty shillings a week. If you want to set up as an independent gentleman now's the time to begin."
A sudden look of surprised dismay spread itself across Bugg's square-jawed face.
"Meanin' I got the chuck, sir?" he inquired dully.
Tony laughed. "Of course not," he said. "Don't be an ass, Bugg. I was only pointing out to you that if you like to set up on your own you can afford to do it. I'll go on backing you as long as you want me to, but you needn't feel bound to stop on here if you'd rather clear out. It's not much of a job for a budding champion of England with fifteen hundred pounds in the bank."
Bugg gave an audible sigh of relief.
"I thought you was 'andin' me the bird, sir," he observed. "Give me a proper turn it did, jest for the minit."
"Then you don't want to go?"
Bugg laughed, almost contemptuously.
"Where'd I go to, sir?" he demanded. "'Ow long would that fifteen 'undred last if I was knockin' arahnd on me own with every flash cove in London 'avin' a cut at it? 'Sides, that, sir, I don't want nothin' different. I wouldn't change the job I got, not to be King of England. If it weren't for you I'd be 'awkin' welks now, or fightin' in a booth, an' Tiger Bugg ain't the sort to forget a thing like that. Wen you don't want me no more, sir, jest you tip me the orfice straight and proper and I'll 'op it, but so long as there's any bloomin' thing I can do for you, sir, well, 'ere I am and 'ere I means to stop."
It was the longest speech that Tiger Bugg had ever indulged in, and certainly the most eloquent. Tony, who was genuinely touched by the obvious sincerity with which it was uttered, stepped forward and patted the lad on his shoulder.
"That's all right, Tiger," he said. "There will always be a job for you here if it's only to annoy my relations." He paused and lighted himself another cigarette. "Give us a bit of your best to-night," he added. "I should like to make Da Freitas look silly, and if you win easily, Donaldson has practically promised me a match for the Lonsdale Belt."
Bugg's eyes gleamed, and his hands automatically clenched themselves.
"I'll slip one over the fust chance I get, sir," he observed earnestly. "I don't think I'll 'ave to wait long either."
Tony nodded, and gathering up his dressing-gown, turned towards the door.
"Well, be ready by eight o'clock," he said, "and we'll go down together in the car."
Leaving the gymnasium he strolled on up the path till it curved round the corner and opened out into an asphalt yard, where a man in blue overalls was attending to the toilet of the big Peugot. He was a tall, red-haired individual with an expression of incurable melancholy on his face.
"Good-morning, Jennings," said Tony. "It's a nice morning, isn't it?"
The chauffeur cast a resentful glance at the unclouded blue overhead.
"It's all right at present, sir," he admitted grudgingly, "but these here extra fine mornings have a way of turning off sudden."
Tony sauntered up to the car, and lifting the bonnet looked down into the gleaming network of copper and brass which bore eloquent testimony to the care and energy expended on it.
"I didn't think she was pulling quite at her best yesterday," he said. "You might have a run through and tune her up a bit, when you've got time."
The chauffeur nodded. "Once these here big racin' engines begin to give trouble, sir," he remarked with a sort of gloomy relish, "they ain't never the same again—not in a manner o' speaking. Least, that's how it seems to me."
"That's how it would seem to you, Jennings," said Tony kindly. "Is the Suiza all right?"
"She'll run, sir."
"Well, have her ready about one o'clock, and I shall want you and the Rolls-Royce at eight to-night, to take us down to the Club." He paused. "I suppose you have backed Bugg?" he added.
Jennings shook his head. "Not me, sir. I think he's flying too high, sir. From all they tell me this here Lopez is a terror. I'll be sorry to see Bugg knocked out, but there it is; it comes to all of 'em in time."
"I like talking to you after breakfast, Jennings," said Tony. "You cheer one up for the entire day."
Jennings received the compliment with an utterly unmoved expression. "I don't take much stock in bein' cheerful meself, sir," he observed, "not unless there's something to be cheerful about."
He stepped forward and resumed his work on the car, and after watching him for a moment or two with a pleasant languid interest Tony turned round and sauntered back to the house.
He finished his toilet in a leisurely fashion, and then spent an agreeable half-hour over the Sportsman, which was the only morning paper that he took in. Current affairs of a more general nature did not interest him much, though in times of national or political crisis it was his habit to borrow the Daily Mail from Spalding.
Soon after one, Jennings brought the Suiza round to the front door, and a quarter of an hour later Tony turned in through the gateway of Basil Mansions and drew up alongside the rockery and fountain with which a romantic landlord had enriched the centre of the courtyard.
Leaving the car there, he strolled across to Molly's flat and rang the bell. It was answered almost at once by a neatly dressed French maid, who conducted him into a bright and daintily furnished room where Molly was sitting at the piano practising a new song. She jumped up gaily directly she saw him.
"Oh, how nice of you, Tony," she exclaimed. "You are ten minutes early and I'm fearfully hungry. Lunch as soon as it's ready, Claudine."
She gave Tony her hand which he raised gallantly to his lips.
"You are looking very beautiful this morning, Molly," he said. "You remind me of one of those things that come out of ponds."
"What do you mean?" asked Molly. "Frogs?"
"No," said Tony, "not frogs. Those sort of jolly wet girls with nothing on; what do you call them—naiads, isn't it?"
Molly burst into a ripple of laughter. "I don't think that's much of a compliment to my frock, Tony," she said. "It was specially designed for me by Jay's too! Don't you like it?"
Tony stepped back and inspected her critically.
"It's wonderful," he said. "I should imagine Mr. Jay was now prostrate with nervous exhaustion."
"Oh, well," replied Molly comfortingly, "he'll have heaps of time to recover before he's paid."
The clear note of a silver gong sounded from the passage and she thrust her arm through Tony's.
"Come along," she said, "there are roast quails and it would be awful if they got cold, wouldn't it?"
Tony gave a slight shudder. "There are some tragedies," he said, "that one hardly likes to think about."
All through lunch, which was daintily served in Molly's pretty, sunny little dining-room, they chatted away in the easy cheerful fashion of two people who have no illusions about each other and are yet the firmest of friends. The lunch itself was excellent, and Claudine waited on them with a graceful skill that lent an additional harmony to its progress.
"I think I am in love with your new maid," observed Tony thoughtfully, when she at length left them to their coffee and cigarettes.
"I am glad you approve of her," said Molly, "but if you haven't seen her before it only shows how disgustingly you must have treated me. She has been here since Christmas."
"I like her face," pursued Tony. "It's so pure. She looks as if she had been turned out of a convent for being too good."
"She isn't good," said Molly. "Don't you think it."
"That only makes her all the more wonderful," said Tony. "To look good and to be wicked is the ideal combination. You get the benefits of both without any of their drawbacks."
"In that case," observed Molly, "I must be dead out of luck. With my red hair and red lips I look desperately wicked, while as a matter of fact I'm quite uninterestingly good—by instinct." She paused. "I want to talk to you about my morals, Tony. That has been one of the chief reasons why I asked you to lunch."
Tony poured out a glass of liqueur brandy. "The morals of Molly," he remarked contentedly. "I can't imagine a more perfect subject for an after-lunch discussion."
Molly lit herself a cigarette and passed him across the little silver box. "It's not so much a discussion as an explanation," she said. "I want to explain Peter." She sat back in her chair. "You see, Tony, you're the only person in the world whose opinion I care a hang for. If it hadn't been for you I don't know what would have happened to me after I ran away from home. You helped me to get on the stage, and I don't want you to think I've turned out an absolute rotter. Oh, I know people have always said horrid things about me, but then they do that about any girl in musical comedy. I believe I'm supposed to have lived with a Rajah and had a black baby, and Lord knows what else, but as a matter of fact it's all lies and invention. People talk like that just to appear more in the swim than somebody else. Of course I don't mean to say I haven't had lots of kind offers of that sort, but until Peter came along I'd said 'no' to all of them."
"What made you pitch on Peter?" asked Tony.
"I don't know," said Molly frankly. "I think I was sorry for him to start with. He's so stupid you know—any one can take him in, and that little cat Marie d'Estelle was getting thousands out of him and carrying on all the time with half a dozen other men. So I thought I'd just take him away if only to teach her common decency."
"If rumour is correct," observed Tony, "the lesson was not entirely successful."
Molly laughed. "Well, that was how the thing started anyway," she said. "Peter got awfully keen on me, and after I had seen a little bit of him and snubbed him rather badly once or twice for being too affectionate, I really began to get quite fond of him. You see if he wasn't a king he'd be a jolly good sort. There's nothing really the matter with him except that he's been horribly spoilt. He isn't a bit vicious naturally; he only thought he was until he met me. He is weak and stupid, of course, but then I like a man not to be too clever if I am going to have much to do with him. Stupid men stick to you, and you can make them do just what you want. You know Peter consults me about practically everything."
"And what does Da Freitas think of the situation?" asked Tony mildly.
"Oh, Da Freitas!" Molly's expression was an answer in itself. "He hates me, Tony; he can't stand any one having an influence over Peter except himself. He didn't mind d'Estelle and people like that, in spite of the money they cost, but he would give anything to get rid of me. He likes Peter to be weak and dissipated and not to bother about things, because then he has all the power in his own hands."
"But how is all this going to end, Molly?" asked Tony. "Suppose there's another revolution in Livadia, and Peter, as you call him, has to go back to be King. It's quite on the cards according to what one hears."
"Oh, I know," said Molly, shrugging her shoulders, "but what's the good of worrying? If they knew Peter as well as I do they wouldn't be so stupid. He'd be no earthly use as a king, by himself, and he'd look too absolutely silly for words with a crown on his head. As far as his own private tastes go, he's a lot happier at Richmond. He quite sees it too, you know, when I point it out to him, but he says he wouldn't be able to help himself if there really was a revolution."
"No," said Tony. "I imagine Da Freitas would see to that. It will be a precious cold day when he gets left. He hasn't schemed and plotted and kept in with Pedro all this time in order to let the chance slip when it comes along. If he isn't back there one day in his old job of Prime Minister, it won't be the fault of the Marquis Fernando."
Molly looked pensively into the fire. "He only makes one mistake," she said. "He's a little too apt to think other people are more stupid than they are. I suppose it comes from associating so much with poor old Peter."