Books: The Intrusion of Jimmy

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He looked back over his shoulder at the world they had left. The
last of the Dreevers had rounded the clump of laurels, and was
standing at the edge of the water, gazing perplexedly after the
retreating canoe.

"These poets put a thing very neatly sometimes," said Jimmy
reflectively, as he dug the paddle into the water. "The man who
said, 'Distance lends enchantment to the view,' for instance.
Dreever looks quite nice when you see him as far away as this, with
a good strip of water in between."

Molly, gazing over the side of the boat into the lake, abstained
from feasting her eyes on the picturesque spectacle.

"Why did you do it?" she said, in a low voice.

Jimmy shipped the paddle, and allowed the canoe to drift. The ripple
of the water against the prow sounded clear and thin in the
stillness. The world seemed asleep. The sun blazed down, turning the
water to flame. The air was hot, with the damp electrical heat that
heralds a thunderstorm. Molly's face looked small and cool in the
shade of her big hat. Jimmy, as he watched her, felt that he had
done well. This was, indeed, the way.

"Why did you do it?" she said again.

"I had to."

"Take me back."

"No."

He took up the paddle, and placed a broader strip of water between
the two worlds; then paused once more.

"I have something to say to you first," he said.

She did not answer. He looked over his shoulder again. His lordship
had disappeared.

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

She nodded. He filled his pipe carefully, and lighted it. The smoke
moved sluggishly up through the still air. There was a long silence.
A fish jumped close by, falling back in a shower of silver drops.
Molly started at the sound, and half-turned.

"That was a fish," she said, as a child might have done.

Jimmy knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"What made you do it?" he asked abruptly, echoing her own question.

She drew her fingers slowly through the water without speaking.

"You know what I mean. Dreever told me."

She looked up with a flash of spirit, which died away as she spoke.

"What right?" She stopped, and looked away again.

"None," said Jimmy. "But I wish you would tell me."

She hung her head. Jimmy bent forward, and touched her hand.

"Don't" he said; "for God's sake, don't! You mustn't."

"I must," she said, miserably.

"You sha'n't. It's wicked."

"I must. It's no good talking about it. It's too late."

"It's not. You must break it off to-day."

She shook her head. Her fingers still dabbled mechanically in the
water. The sun was hidden now behind a gray veil, which deepened
into a sullen black over the hill behind the castle. The heat had
grown more oppressive, with a threat of coming storm.

"What made you do it?" he asked again.

"Don't let's talk about it ... Please!"

He had a momentary glimpse of her face. There were tears in her
eyes. At the sight, his self-control snapped.

"You sha'n't," he cried. "It's ghastly. I won't let you. You must
understand now. You must know what you are to me. Do you think I
shall let you--?"

A low growl of thunder rumbled through the stillness, like the
muttering of a sleepy giant. The black cloud that had hung over the
hill had crept closer. The heat was stifling. In the middle of the
lake, some fifty yards distant, lay the island, cool and mysterious
in the gathering darkness.

Jimmy broke off, and seized the paddle.

On this side of the island was a boathouse, a little creek covered
over with boards and capable of sheltering an ordinary rowboat. He
ran the canoe in just as the storm began, and turned her broadside
on, so that they could watch the rain, which was sweeping over the
lake in sheets.

He began to speak again, more slowly now.

"I think I loved you from the first day I saw you on the ship. And,
then, I lost you. I found you again by a miracle, and lost you
again. I found you here by another miracle, but this time I am not
going to lose you. Do you think I'm going to stand by and see you
taken from me by--by--"

He took her hand.

"Molly, you can't love him. It isn't possible. If I thought you did,
I wouldn't try to spoil your happiness. I'd go away. But you don't.
You can't. He's nothing. Molly!"

The canoe rocked as he leaned toward her.

"Molly!"

She said nothing; but, for the first time, her eyes met his, clear
and unwavering. He could read fear in them, fear--not of himself, of
something vague, something he could not guess at. But they shone
with a light that conquered the fear as the sun conquers fire; and
he drew her to him, and kissed her again and again, murmuring
incoherently.

Suddenly, she wrenched herself away, struggling like some wild
thing. The boat plunged.

"I can't," she cried in a choking voice. "I mustn't. Oh, I can't!"

He stretched out a hand, and clutched at the rail than ran along the
wall. The plunging ceased. He turned. She had hidden her face, and
was sobbing, quietly, with the forlorn hopelessness of a lost child.

He made a movement toward her, but drew back. He felt dazed.

The rain thudded and splashed on the wooden roof. A few drops
trickled through a crack in the boards. He took off his coat, and
placed it gently over her shoulders.

"Molly!"

She looked up with wet eyes.

"Molly, dear, what is it?"

"I mustn't. It isn't right."

"I don't understand."

"I mustn't, Jimmy."

He moved cautiously forward, holding the rail, till he was at her
side, and took her in his arms.

"What is it, dear? Tell me."

She clung to him without speaking.

"You aren't worrying about him, are you--about Dreever? There's
nothing to worry about. It'll be quite easy and simple. I'll tell
him, if you like. He knows you don't care for him; and, besides,
there's a girl in London that he--"

"No, no. It's not that."

"What is it, dear? What's troubling you?"

"Jimmy--" She stopped.

He waited.

"Yes?"

"Jimmy, my father wouldn't--father--father--doesn't--"

"Doesn't like me?"

She nodded miserably.

A great wave of relief swept over Jimmy. He had imagined--he hardly
knew what he had imagined: some vast, insuperable obstacle; some
tremendous catastrophe, whirling them asunder. He could have laughed
aloud in his happiness. So, this was it, this was the cloud that
brooded over them--that Mr. McEachern did not like him! The angel,
guarding Eden with a fiery sword, had changed into a policeman with
a truncheon.

"He must learn to love me," he said, lightly.

She looked at him hopelessly. He could not see; he could not
understand. And how could she tell him? Her father's words rang in
her brain. He was "crooked." He was "here on some game." He was
being watched. But she loved him, she loved him! Oh, how could she
make him understand?

She clung tighter to him, trembling. He became serious again. "Dear,
you mustn't worry," he said. "It can't be helped. He'll come round.
Once we're married--"

"No, no. Oh, can't you understand? I couldn't, I couldn't!"

Jimmy's face whitened. He looked at her anxiously.

"But, dear!" he said. "You can't--do you mean to say--will that--"
he searched for a word-"stop you?" he concluded.

"It must," she whispered.

A cold hand clutched at his heart. His world was falling to pieces,
crumbling under his eyes.

"But--but you love me," he said, slowly. It was as if he were trying
to find the key to a puzzle. "I--don't see."

"You couldn't. You can't. You're a man. You don't know. It's so
different for a man! He's brought up all his life with the idea of
leaving home. He goes away naturally."

"But, dear, you couldn't live at home all your life. Whoever you
married--"

"But this would be different. Father would never speak to me again.
I should never see him again. He would go right out of my life.
Jimmy, I couldn't. A girl can't cut away twenty years of her life,
and start fresh like that. I should be haunted. I should make you
miserable. Every day, a hundred little things would remind me of
him, and I shouldn't be strong enough to resist them. You don't know
how fond he is of me, how good he has always been. Ever since I can
remember, we've been such friends. You've only seen the outside of
him, and I know how different that is from what he really is. All
his life he has thought only of me. He has told me things about
himself which nobody else dreams of, and I know that all these years
he has been working just for me. Jimmy, you don't hate me for saying
this, do you?"

"Go on," he said, drawing her closer to him.

"I can't remember my mother. She died when I was quite little. So,
he and I have been the only ones--till you came."

Memories of those early days crowded her mind as she spoke, making
her voice tremble; half-forgotten trifles, many of them, fraught
with the glamour and fragrance of past happiness.

"We have always been together. He trusted me, and I trusted him, and
we saw things through together. When I was ill, he used to sit up
all night with me, night after night. Once--I'd only got a little
fever, really, but I thought I was terribly bad--I heard him come in
late, and called out to him, and he came straight in, and sat and
held my hand all through the night; and it was only by accident I
found out later that it had been raining and that he was soaked
through. It might have killed him. We were partners, Jimmy, dear. I
couldn't do anything to hurt him now, could I? It wouldn't be
square."

Jimmy had turned away his head, for fear his face might betray what
he was feeling. He was in a hell of unreasoning jealousy. He wanted
her, body and soul, and every word she said bit like a raw wound. A
moment before, and he had felt that she belonged to him. Now, in the
first shock of reaction, he saw himself a stranger, an intruder, a
trespasser on holy ground.

She saw the movement, and her intuition put her in touch with his
thoughts.

"No, no," she cried; "no, Jimmy, not that!"

Their eyes met, and he was satisfied.

They sat there, silent. The rain had lessened its force, and was
falling now in a gentle shower. A strip of blue sky, pale and
watery, showed through the gray over the hills. On the island close
behind them, a thrush had begun to sing.

"What are we to do?" she said, at last. "What can we do?"

"We must wait," he said. "It will all come right. It must. Nothing
can stop us now."

The rain had ceased. The blue had routed the gray, and driven it
from the sky. The sun, low down in the west, shone out bravely over
the lake. The air was cool and fresh.

Jimmy's spirits rose with a bound. He accepted the omen. This was
the world as it really was, smiling and friendly, not gray, as he
had fancied it. He had won. Nothing could alter that. What remained
to be done was trivial. He wondered how he could ever have allowed
it to weigh upon him.

After awhile, he pushed the boat out of its shelter on to the
glittering water, and seized the paddle.

"We must be getting back," he said. "I wonder what the time is. I
wish we could stay out forever. But it must be late. Molly!"

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens, you'll break off this engagement with Dreever?
Shall I tell him? I will if you like."

"No, I will. I'll write him a note, if I don't see him before
dinner."

Jimmy paddled on a few strokes.

"It's no good," he said suddenly, "I can't keep it in. Molly, do you
mind if I sing a bar or two? I've got a beastly voice, but I'm
feeling rather happy. I'll stop as soon as I can."

He raised his voice discordantly.

Covertly, from beneath the shade of her big hat, Molly watched him
with troubled eyes. The sun had gone down behind the hills, and the
water had ceased to glitter. There was a suggestion of chill in the
air. The great mass of the castle frowned down upon them, dark and
forbidding in the dim light.

She shivered.

CHAPTER XX

A LESSON IN PICQTUET

Lord Dreever, meanwhile, having left the waterside, lighted a
cigarette, and proceeded to make a reflective tour of the grounds.
He felt aggrieved with the world. Molly's desertion in the canoe
with Jimmy did not trouble him: he had other sorrows. One is never
at one's best and sunniest when one has been forced by a ruthless
uncle into abandoning the girl one loves and becoming engaged to
another, to whom one is indifferent. Something of a jaundiced tinge
stains one's outlook on life in such circumstances. Moreover, Lord
Dreever was not by nature an introspective young man, but, examining
his position as he walked along, he found himself wondering whether
it was not a little unheroic. He came to the conclusion that perhaps
it was. Of course, Uncle Thomas could make it deucedly unpleasant
for him if he kicked. That was the trouble. If only he had even--
say, a couple of thousands a year of his own--he might make a fight
for it. But, dash it, Uncle Tom could cut off supplies to such a
frightful extent, if there was trouble, that he would have to go on
living at Dreever indefinitely, without so much as a fearful quid to
call his own.

Imagination boggled at the prospect. In the summer and autumn, when
there was shooting, his lordship was not indisposed to a stay at the
home of his fathers. But all the year round! Better a broken heart
inside the radius than a sound one in the country in the winter.

"But, by gad!" mused his lordship; "if I had as much as a couple--
yes, dash it, even a couple of thousand a year, I'd chance it, and
ask Katie to marry me, dashed if I wouldn't!"

He walked on, drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he
reviewed the situation, the less he liked it. There was only one
bright spot in it, and this was the feeling that now money must
surely get a shade less tight. Extracting the precious ore from Sir
Thomas hitherto had been like pulling back-teeth out of a bull-dog.
But, now, on the strength of this infernal engagement, surely the
uncle might reasonably be expected to scatter largesse to some
extent.

His lordship was just wondering whether, if approached in a softened
mood, the other might not disgorge something quite big, when a
large, warm rain-drop fell on his hand. From the bushes round about
came an ever increasing patter. The sky was leaden.

He looked round him for shelter. He had reached the rose-garden in
the course of his perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse.
He turned up his coat-collar, and ran.

As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirge-like whistling proceeding
from the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the deluge
began, he found Hargate seated at the little wooden table with an
earnest expression on his face. The table was covered with cards.
Hargate had not yet been compelled to sprain his wrist, having
adopted the alternative of merely refusing invitations to play
billiards.

"Hello, Hargate," said his lordship. "Isn't it coming down, by
Jove!"

Hargate glanced up, nodded without speaking, and turned his
attention to the cards once more. He took one from the pack in his
left hand, looked at it, hesitated for a moment, as if doubtful
whereabouts on the table it would produce the most artistic effect;
and finally put it face upward. Then, he moved another card from the
table, and put it on top of the other one. Throughout the
performance, he whistled painfully.

His lordship regarded his guest with annoyance.

"That looks frightfully exciting," he said, disparagingly. "What are
you playing at? Patience?"

Hargate nodded again, this time without looking up.

"Oh, don't sit there looking like a frog," said Lord Dreever,
irritably. "Talk, man."

Hargate gathered up the cards, and proceeded to shuffle them in a
meditative manner, whistling the while.

"Oh, stop it!" said his lordship.

Hargate nodded, and obediently put down the deck.

"Look here." said Lord Dreever, "this is boring me stiff. Let's have
a game of something. Anything to pass away the time. Curse this
rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate. Ever
played picquet? I could teach it you in five minutes."

A look almost of awe came into Hargate's face, the look of one who
sees a miracle performed before his eyes. For years, he had been
using all the large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce
callow youths to play picquet with him, and here was this--admirable
young man, this pearl among young men, positively offering to teach
him the game. It was too much happiness. What had he done to deserve
this? He felt as a toil-worn lion might feel if some antelope,
instead of making its customary bee-line for the horizon, were to
trot up and insert its head between his jaws.

"I--I shouldn't mind being shown the idea," he said.

He listened attentively while Lord Dreever explained at some length
the principles that govern the game of picquet. Every now and then,
he asked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp
the idea of the game.

"What exactly is re-piquing?" he asked, as his, lordship paused.

"It's like this," said his lordship, returning to his lecture.

"Yes, I see now," said the neophyte.

They began playing. Lord Dreever, as was only to be expected in a
contest between teacher and student, won the first two hands.
Hargate won the next.

"I've got the hang of it all right now," he said, complacently.
"It's a simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think,
if we played for something?"

"All right," said Lord Dreever slowly, "if you like."

He would not have suggested it himself, but, after all, dash it, if
the man really asked for it--It was not his fault if the winning of
a hand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all
there was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a game
where skill was practically bound to win. But--after all, Hargate
probably had plenty of money. He could afford it.

"All right," said his lordship again. "How much?"

"Something fairly moderate? Ten bob a hundred?"

There is no doubt that his lordship ought at this suggestion to have
corrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was
fairly moderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to
lose four hundred points in a twenty minutes' game, and usual for
him to lose two hundred. But he let the thing go.

"Very well," he said.

Twenty minutes later, Hargate was looking some-what ruefully at the
score-sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I pay
you now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?"

"What about stopping now?" said Lord Dreever. "It's quite fine out."

"No, let's go on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I don't
suppose you have."

His lordship's conscience made one last effort.

"You'd much better stop, you know, Hargate, really," he said. "You
can lose a frightful lot at this game."

"My dear Dreever," said Hargate stiffly, "I can look after myself,
thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by all
means--"

"Oh, if you don't mind," said his lordship, outraged, "I'm only too
frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you."

"I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it
a sovereign a hundred?"

Lord Dreever could not afford to play picquet for a soverign a
hundred, or, indeed, to play picquet for money at all; but, after
his adversary's innuendo, it was impossible for a young gentleman of
spirit to admit the humiliating fact. He nodded.

"About time, I fancy," said Hargate, looking at his watch an hour
later, "that we were going in to dress for dinner."

His lordship, made no reply. He was wrapped in thought.

"Let's see, that's twenty pounds you owe me, isn't it?" continued
Hargate. "Shocking bad luck you had!"

They went out into the rose-garden.

"Jolly everything smells after the rain," said Hargate, who seemed
to have struck a conversational patch. "Freshened everything up."

His lordship did not appear to have noticed it. He seemed to be
thinking of something else. His air was pensive and abstracted.

"There's just time," said Hargate, looking at his watch again, "for
a short stroll. I want to have a talk with you."

"Oh!" said Lord Dreever.

His air did not belie his feelings. He looked pensive, and was
pensive. It was deuced awkward, this twenty pounds business.

Hargate was watching him covertly. It was his business to know other
people's business, and he knew that Lord Dreever was impecunious,
and depended for supplies entirely on a prehensile uncle. For the
success of the proposal he was about to make, he depended on this
fact.

"Who's this man Pitt?" asked Hargate.

"Oh, pal of mine," said his lordship. "Why?"

"I can't stand the fellow."

"I think he's a good chap," said his lordship. "In fact,"
remembering Jimmy's Good Samaritanism, "I know he is. Why don't you
like him?"

"I don't know. I don't."

"Oh?" said his lordship, indifferently. He was in no mood to listen
to the likes and dislikes of other men.

"Look here, Dreever," said Hargate, "I want you to do something for
me. I want you to get Pitt out of the place."

Lord Dreever eyed his guest curiously.

"Eh?" he said.

Hargate repeated his remark.

"You seem to have mapped out quite a program for me," said Lord
Dreever.

"Get him out of it," continued Hargate vehemently. Jimmy's
prohibition against billiards had hit him hard. He was suffering the
torments of Tantalus. The castle was full of young men of the kind
to whom he most resorted, easy marks every one; and here he was,
simply through Jimmy, careened like a disabled battleship. It was
maddening. "Make him go. You invited him here. He doesn't expect to
stop indefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he'd have to, too. What
you must do is to go back to London to-morrow. You can easily make
some excuse. He'll have to go with you. Then, you can drop him in
London, and come back. That's what you must do."

A delicate pink flush might have been seen to spread itself over
Lord Dreever's face. He began to look like an angry rabbit. He had
not a great deal of pride in his composition, but the thought of the
ignominious role that Hargate was sketching out for him stirred what
he had to its shallow bottom. Talking on, Hargate managed to add the
last straw.

"Of course," he said, "that money you lost to me at picquet--what
was it? Twenty? Twenty pounds, wasn't it? Well, we would look on
that as canceled, of course. That will be all right."

His lordship exploded.

"Will it?" he cried, pink to the ears. "Will it, by George? I'll pay
you every frightful penny of it to-morrow, and then you can clear
out, instead of Pitt. What do you take me for, I should like to
know?"

"A fool, if you refuse my offer."

"I've a jolly good mind to give you a most frightful kicking."

"I shouldn't try, if I were you. It's not the sort of game you'd
shine at. Better stick to picquet."

"If you think I can't pay your rotten money--"

"I do. But, if you can, so much the better. Money is always useful."

"I may be a fool in some ways--"

"You understate it, my dear man."

"--but I'm not a cad."

"You're getting quite rosy, Dreever. Wrath is good for the
complexion."

"And, if you think you can bribe me, you never made a bigger mistake
in your life."

"Yes, I did," said Hargate, "when I thought you had some glimmerings
of intelligence. But, if it gives you any pleasure to behave like
the juvenile lead in a melodrama, by all means do. Personally, I
shouldn't have thought the game would be worth the candle. But, if
your keen sense of honor compels you to pay the twenty pounds, all
right. You mentioned to-morrow? That will suit me. So, we'll let it
go it at that."

He walked off, leaving Lord Dreever filled with the comfortable glow
that comes to the weak man who for once has displayed determination.
He felt that he must not go back from his dignified standpoint. That
money would have to be paid, and on the morrow. Hargate was the sort
of man who could, and would, make it exceedingly unpleasant for him
if he failed. A debt of honor was not a thing to be trifled with.

But he felt quite safe. He knew he could get the money when he
pleased. It showed, he reflected philosophically, how out of evil
cometh good. His greater misfortune, the engagement, would, as it
were, neutralize the less, for it was ridiculous to suppose that Sir
Thomas, having seen his ends accomplished, and being presumably in a
spacious mood in consequence, would not be amenable to a request for
a mere twenty pounds.

He went on into the hall. He felt strong and capable. He had shown
Hargate the stuff there was in him. He was Spennie Dreever, the man
of blood and iron, the man with whom it were best not to trifle. But
it was really, come to think of it, uncommonly lucky that he was
engaged to Molly. He recoiled from the idea of attempting,
unfortified by that fact, to extract twenty pounds from Sir Thomas
for a card-debt.

In the hall, he met Saunders.

"I have been looking for your lordship," said the butler.

"Eh? Well, here I am."

"Just so, your lordship. Miss McEachern entrusted me with this note
to deliver to you in the event of her not being h'able to see you
before dinner personally, your lordship."

"Right ho. Thanks."

He started to go upstairs, opening the envelope as he went. What
could the girl be writing to him about? Surely, she wasn't going to
start sending him love-letters, or any of that frightful rot? Deuced
difficult it would be to play up to that sort of thing!

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