CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH WE DRINK TEA AGAIN AT THE
CARLTON
IT was the simple fact that Arminius Wingrove had forgotten all about it. Let us not be hasty in our blame, however, since according to his amende to Mr. Philip at least ten days after his breach of faith, he made it clear that he was without any sort of stain.
The plain fact was, Arminius Wingrove had been commanded at a moment’s notice to shoot at Burnham Beeches with Windsor Cassel. Comes as a great surprise to you, does it? Shouldn’t though. Because, when Lord Grey de Stilton caught a chill on the liver through standin’ on damp grass, and had to turn it up at a moment’s notice under the best medical advice, who was there else to send for but England’s handy man?
Poor idle rich young fellow had to chew dust and practice the complete art of humility. When next they encountered at the Betterton, ten days after this event, and the vain young man, not yet in possession of this information, ventured to reproach Arminius familiarly, by name, that most distinguished man fixed his eyeglass with his accustomed air of mental power, and as good as asked the heir to the barony, whose career at present was not, who the dev-vil he was a-talkin’ to. Not in so many words, perhaps, but it almost sounded like it.
“You are a rotter—so you are—to go back on your word like that. You promised to be at the Carlton last Monday week, and you never showed a feather. And it’s no use sayin’ that you did, because I waited an hour and a quarter for you.”
Arminius transfixed the poor unintellectual, though not with the naked eye.
“You haven’t been to Windsor.” Arminius removed his hat in his loyal mannah. “You don’t know the Cassel.”
Poor young upstart took it in the neck terrific.
“Telephone or send a wire? Only just time to pack my bag and then damn near had to have a special. I feel obliged to chastise you, you cub, for this display of eg-o-tism.”
The luckless heir groveled and begged pardon. Supposed the affairs of the Empire must always take precedence of a muffin-worry, even if the fairest of her sex was going to be there. He had a Constitutional mind, you see, even if the facts of his life are all against him.
“But I’ll overlook it this time,” said Arminius with an air of really princely magnanimity, “if in the future you will try not to overrate yourself, and you will also promise not to be so cursed familiar in mixed company. One don’t mind so much in this Bohemian resort, but when I as a dinner guest meet you as one of the mob at the Blenheims I particularly hope you will not address me as Fathead before all the congregation.”
Deep shame overflowed the blonde complexion of the heir.
“You’ve been asking for it a long time,” said Arminius grimly, “and you’ve got it now. Cheek I abhor from a new creation. But as I like you pooty well, I am going to forgive you.”
The heir to the barony was only too glad to be forgiven on these terms by such a distinguished man; and in this, although we may lay ourselves open to correction, we consider him quite right.
He could not sleep just now, you know, when he went to bed at night. A rare vision enthralled him when he dined, and when he supped; playing at billiards under the guidance of Mr. John R-b-rts; losing at games of chance, money he had never earned; riding in the park with Adela, who had recovered of her indisposition, had been to High Cliff, and had come back again; going with his mother to concerts and museums like a dutiful young chap; buying cigarettes at Harrod’s Stores; shaving in the morning with his safety razor or pulling off his socks at night—his only thought was Cinderella and her diadem of chestnut curls.
He had been several times in front to see her, but he didn’t know Mr. Hollins anything like well enough to dare to go behind. And not one of his many friends in the metropolis seemed able and willing to bring him closer to his divinity, with the sole and august exception of Arminius Wingrove.
That is why perhaps the young man ate humble pie ad. lib.
“I’ve only one afternoon free this month, and that’s to-morrah,” said Arminius.
Most unfortunate, but it happened that on the morrow the vain young fellow was booked to take Adela and her Cousin Jane from Cumberland, to drink tea at Claridges’.
“Just as you like,” said Arminius Wingrove. “My only afternoon.”
The young man knitted his brow in grave perplexity.
“I wonder if I could persuade Adela to turn up the other shop and come to the Carlton. It isn’t quite playing the game though, is it?—and she mustn’t know what for, because if she does I’m bound to get it.”
So supremely bored looked Arminius in the stress of these parochial affairs, that like a wise young fellow the heir to the barony decided to curtail them somewhat.
“Yes, I’ll be there at five to-morrow, Fat—I should say Minnie. Carlton is quite as expensive as the other box, although the crush is greater. You know Adela Rocklaw, don’t you?”
“Met her at High Cliff,” said Arminius casual-like. “Old Warlock’s daughter. Girl you are engaged to.”
“Not engaged exactly.”
“Thought you were.”
“Not exactly. Not official yet.”
“Time it was then,” said Arminius, with magisterial gravity. “Just the girl for you.”
Perhaps.
Life itself is a great perhaps says—no, there hardly seems sufficient provocation to fix the blame upon any private individual for his venerable saw. But all the same, peut-être is perhaps the most important word in any tongue.
The morrow at the hour appointed brought forth the vain young fellow with Adela looking very smart, and Cousin Jane from Cumberland looking rather the reverse of fashionable. Precautions had been taken to book a comfortable table in a sequestered angle, where the Blue Bulgarian Bazoukas would be unable to wreck any conversation that might happen to be forthcoming.
The heir was feeling all to pieces, and Adela, as usual, was not so very gay. She had said Claridges’ distinctly. Why had he not obeyed instructions?
Five P. M. but never a sign of Arminius Wingrove. But even the heir to the barony, with that sinking sensation behind his waistcoat, as he ordered tea and muffins for three persons, was man of the world enough to be aware that Arminius mightn’t appear very much before the hour of six had tolled. He was beginning slowly to realize that individuals so humble as himself had meekly to hoard any small portions of the loaf of human amenity that were cast upon the waters.
Indeed, the odds were six to four on that Arminius would either forget this little engagement for the second time, or that he would be again commanded to the Cassel, his keen sense of hu-mor having, according to ru-mor, made an e-nor-mous impres-sion. But even if calamity again overtook the heir to the barony it was by no means clear that he was going to grieve. For a fortnight past, asleep and awake, had he dreamed of Cinderella, but the gallant sportsman was feeling rather cheap just now, as the young minx opposite, with the cool blue eye and the chin of domination—’ware ’em, you young bachelors—was engaged in giving him tea without any sugar in it.
“What!” said the young cat.
They could hear her quite three tables away.
“A Mr. Wingrove. Says he’s met you. Thought you wouldn’t mind meeting him again—awful brainy feller—and he’s bringin’ a girl he knows.”
“What!” snarled the young puss, starting on her first muffin.
Even poor Cousin Jane from Cumberland, who was nearly twice the age of the young minx, got snubbed most severely when she ventured some perfectly commonplace remark. And such a nice, sensible girl as she was.
“How do you spend your time in Cumberland?” said the unfortunate heir, beginning to feel horribly cheap, and wondering if he might venture upon a large whisky and a small apollinaris.
“I hunt otters all the mornin’!” said the nice, sensible Cousin Jane, “and in the evenin’ I gen’rally knit bed-socks.”
You must talk a little louder, please, now that the Blue Bulgarian Bazoukas have opened fire upon that magnificent 1812 Overture by Tchaikowski.
“How rippin’ they play, don’t they, Adela?” said Cousin Jane from Cumberland. “So nice and loud.”
“What!” snarled the young minx above the strident outcries of the Great Retreat.
“Rather makes you think of otter huntin’—just when they begin the worry.”
The irresistible élan of the Blue Bulgarian Bazoukas inspired Mr. Philip to an act of hardihood. Under cover of the clamor, he hailed a passing waiter.
“Large whisky and small polly,” said the desperate young man.
This classic beverage within him, he was once more able to look the whole world in the eye. It was indeed a happy inspiration, for hardly had his courage risen, when at 5:27 by the hand of the clock among the greenery, a most distinguished figure emerged through a host of common persons and converged upon the scene.
Ping went the central organ of the young man’s being. The hour and the man had come to hand. And ye gods, there was Cinderella!
Retain your presence of mind, my lords and gentlemen, the authentic heroine is coming to you, as fast as her feet in very sensible number threes can bring her. And her trim form is inhabiting a plain blue serge costume, made by a very ordinary provincial tailor on very reasonable terms, and her mighty sensible head is surmounted by a hat, not a coalscuttle, nor a sauceboat, nor a beehive, but a form of headgear well behind the fashion two years ago in Manchester; and there is just a common strip of fur round her throat, because the weather east of Piccadilly is still blowing rather chilly, and she has to sing this evening.
She is coming past the tables, whose critical occupants are wondering why young ladies from the suburbs are admitted to this Valhalla which holds all that is best and brightest in the metropolis. Not, of course, that Arminius comes within the purview of this misdirected criticism; his far-flung gaze surmounted by a noble topper, astrachan collar inches deeper than the heir’s, white spats by Grant and Cockburn, and a very snappy pair of gloves.
The far-flung gaze of Arminius Wingrove has seen the vacant places at the table, although he affecteth not to notice ’em.
“How d’ye do, Lady Adela. When did you return from High Cliff?”
Rude girl slowly raised a fin.
“Awful good of you, Fat—Minnie, I mean—old boy.” The heir, stronger for his liquid sustenance, spoke in tones of deep emotion. “Sit here, Miss Caspar, won’t you? I know you are Miss Caspar, I’ve seen you so often lately.”
General introductions, which even the best society seems at present unable to dispense with.
Nice, sensible Cousin Jane from Cumberland smiled so kind and pleasant, and thought they ought to have more tea.
“And what’s your choice in cakes, Miss Caspar?” said the young man brightly. “Scones or muffins or some of those toppin’ things with sugar on ’em.”
“Thanks, anything’ll do for me,” said the Principal Girl, as easy as if she was playing Cinderella. “No fresh tea—quite warm and liquid. Just as I like it. I’ll pour it out myself. No use offering tea to Mr. Wingrove. A whisky and apollinaris, and—I didn’t catch your name—hadn’t you better have another one yourself?”
Oh, how rippin’! The heir to the barony was wreathed in smiles. But the rude girl opposite stared considerable at this simple spontaneity and natural ease of bearing.
“Such a bore,” said Arminius. “Got to go to-morrah to the Cassel. Daresay, Lady Adela, I shall meet you there.”
“Papa is so poorly,” said the rude girl, thawing some. “But, of course, Aunt Selina will explain it to the Cassel as she is in waiting there just now.”
“Don’t know Blackhampton?” said Cinderella. “Oh, but you ought to know; it is every Englishman’s duty to know Blackhampton. Dear, dirty old Blackhampton!” said the Principal Girl. “The very best town in England. You are always sure of your friends in front when you play in Blackhampton.”
The heir to the barony supposed it was so. Not in any perfunctory spirit. How do you suppose the young chap could be perfunctory with his divinity drinking her tea, and eating Monsieur Eschoffier’s famous comfit cakes as though she enjoyed them thoroughly.
Don’t let us heed the rude girl opposite. She is quite safe in the competent hands of Arminius.
“Here’s your whisky and polly,” said the Principal Girl; “and Mr. Wingrove’s, too. Better have some more tea, I think. Miss Percival and Lady Adela are going to have some to keep me company. Oh, yes, please. And I say, waiter, have you any of those cakes with currants in them, like you get at Blackhampton?”
The waiter said he would inquire.
Never mind the rude girl opposite; Arminius has her in hand. With that chaste pair of yellow gloves and his knowledge of the world, he will be able to manage her, no doubt. A Miss Caspar—Drury Lane—going far said those who knew—the Backinghams were taking her up—the stock was bound to go higher. Sorry that the stage had no interest for Lady Adela. Yes, the Cassel was looking awfully well just now, in every way quite its own bright and cheery Presence.
The heir to the barony said he had been to Blackhampton.
“Only once—but I’ve been there.”
“Oh, how interesting!—to play for the Olympians against Blackhampton Rovers—no—really—I didn’t catch your name—why who are you?”
“My name is Shelmerdine,” said the heir to the barony, as modestly as the circumstances permitted.
“Why—the Mr. Shelmerdine!”
If there was such a person as the Mr. Shelmerdine, the heir to the barony feared it was a true bill.
Cinderella, with her provincial naïveté, didn’t know that lords and people did such democratic things as these.
“Do all sorts of wild things when you are up at the ’Varsity,” said the heir to the barony. “And, of course, you know, that was before my guv’nor got his leg up.”
“Now it is no good your being modest, is it?” said Cinderella. “Because I know all about you. It was you who kicked those three goals against Scotland in Nineteen Four.”
The confusion of the heir to the barony was dire.
“Not a bit of good your blushing, is it? I saw the match—I was only a flapper then playing Fairy Footlight at the Royal Caledonian, Glasgow, and I went with my Aunt Bessie to Celtic Park, and saw you kick three goals, and I won tons of chocolates off the Scotchies in the Company, because I had put my pinafore on old England, as I always have, and as I always shall—”
“—They say the new system of drainage at the Cassel—”
“—Steve Bloomer himself couldn’t have done better than you did that day—and it is no use your being modest, is it?—”
“—And the Kaiser is one of the most charming and well informed men I have ever—”
“And so you are really the great Phil Shelmerdine, with your hair brushed just as nice as ever. Even when I was a flapper and wore a blue ribbon round my pigtail, I used to think your hair was lovely. You ought never to have left off playing socker; but I suppose you kind of had to when Mr. Vandeleur made a peer of your poor father. But England needs you more than ever now that Steve is on the shelf.”
“Don’t you find the theater a very trying profession, Miss Caspar?” said nice, sensible Cousin Jane from Cumberland. “Aren’t the late hours a fearful strain?”
“One sort of gets used to them,” said Cinderella. “I’m as strong as a pony; and it’s great fun; and it is wonderful how one gets to love the British public.”
“And how the British public gets to love you, Miss Caspar—not, of course, that I mean that that is wonderful.”
Not so bad for a very dull young man. We only hope the young fellow won’t get out of his depth, that’s all.
“Oh, Homburg is the greatest bore of all.” The seventh unmarried daughter suspended the story of her sorrows to train a gaze of twenty-four candle-power upon the heir.
“I shall never forget your Cinderella—and such a cold as you had! But it seems to be better now.”
“The best way with a cold is to pretend you haven’t got it.”
“And I shall always remember the way you sang ‘Arcadee,’ and ‘Nelson and his Gentlemen in Blue.’ We were in a box, you know, second tier on the left, my friend Clapham and his five kids—lost their mother last year—and their nannas. They simply howled with joy. That little Marge is a nailer. I should like you to see her, Miss Caspar, and when she grows up she’ll be just like you.”
Miss Insolence opposite rose in the majesty of black velvet and white ermine.
“Goo’-by.”
Arminius received a fin at an angle of sixty-five degrees.
“Jane.”
Cousin Jane was so glad to have met Miss Caspar, and before she returned to Cumberland she hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her play Cinderella.
“Well, I’m awfully proud to have met you, Miss Caspar. And I hope you’ll bring some of your friends along to the Albany, B4. My number on the telephone is 059 Mayfair, and I’ll lay in a stock of cake.”
“Delighted!—and you must come and see us, me and my old granny—Mrs. Cathcart—used to play Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall and those old swells, although I daresay you can hardly remember them. But she’s a dear, Mr. Shelmerdine; and if you want to hear about the dignity of the profession, and how her granddaughter’s lowered it, come round to Bedford Gardens, Number Ten, any Sunday afternoon, and you’ll say she is the dearest old thing about.”