CHAPTER XXIV
"Now—what do you think of my Roof Garden?"
Lady Leason turned to McTaggart with a conscious air of triumph.
"Isn't it nice?—and I planned it myself!" She was like a child with a new toy, her still young face eager and bright under her soft gray hair.
"I think it perfect," said McTaggart, warmly. He glanced around him as he spoke at the awning, striped with green, the basket chairs, gay red cushions, and the coarse rush matting beneath his feet.
For the leaded roof of the smoking-room, that was built out into the garden, had been transformed, with the help of green lattice work and great tubs filled with geraniums and daisies, into a sort of lounge, protected by the striped tent cloth.
"I'm growing golden hops in this box at the edge to twine up the supports and along the lattices, and in the Spring I'm going to have no end of bulbs and turn that horrid bank down there into a rockery."
She pointed to the patch of discolored grass below them, where a dingy wall completed her small domain. Above it one caught a glimpse of the trees, in the distant Park, and the evening sky, where stars already were beginning to steal out, one by one.
"Sit down—both of you"—she turned to her guests. "And talk while I make you some Turkish coffee. Here are some cigarettes—those are cigars..."
They settled themselves in the basket chairs, watching their hostess turn up the flame, under the bright copper pan, and measure out the coffee, which filled the air with its fragrance, delicate and refreshing.
"Have you seen Mrs. Fleming lately?" The Bishop addressed McTaggart. "I think the last time I met you was at the Cadells' house."
"Not for many months," the other replied—"I've been abroad, travelling about. What sort of man is Euan Fleming?"
Lady Leason looked up quickly.
"Take care what you say, Bertram. Don't make Peter jealous! I thought"—she added mischievously—"that it was a case there..."
At her merry gesture toward him McTaggart laughed.
"Only a mild calf-love affair! But I always imagined she'd marry a title."
"Well," said the Bishop, "I rather believe it will come to that in the end. I hear—but it's quite between ourselves—that he's down on the next list of Birthday honours."
"Indeed? A useful man to the party?"
McTaggart saw a twinkle come into the prominent short-sighted eyes.
"Hardly as a speaker perhaps. But he has a valuable gift—of silence! Very necessary on occasions."
Lady Leason smiled subtly. "And, of course," proceeded the Bishop hurriedly—"the Cadells are very wealthy people. With his father-in-law to finance him, and a beautiful wife, he stands a chance of being Lord Fleming some day—of a mythical Castle like Laura's friends ... I forget the name."
"D'you mean 'the Crumpets?'"
The hostess laughed, mischief in her hazel eyes.
"Peter—haven't you heard?——it's too quaint!—I must tell you." She stirred the coffee again, then started with her story.
"I don't know if you ever met a dark, excitable little woman, the wife of a big engineer called Crumpe? She always came to my parties, frightfully overdressed and hung round with pearls like a Tecla advertisement. You surely must remember her? Well, this year he was made a peer. He'd given a park somewhere to the people and was a large subscriber to party funds.
"Little Mrs. Crumpe was in her glory! She cut all her old friends, drawing a strict line round Belgravia and Mayfair. And what d'you imagine they took for a name? We'd always called them 'the Crumpets,' you know—it seemed to suit them. He had such a 'buttery' manner! And now they're Lord and Lady Quinningborough of Castle Normantayne"—she choked.
Tears of mirth stood in her eyes as she leaned, still laughing, toward McTaggart.
"It sounds like feudal towers, and a moat, and a drawbridge. But it isn't—that's the pure joy! It's not a house at all, it seems, but the name of a tiny village where Crumpet's father owned a farm!"
McTaggart roared, and the Bishop's charity was not proof against the infection of her mirth.
"Really, it is remarkable, the modern mania for a title." He took off his glasses and wiped them, still faintly shaken with laughter.
McTaggart inwardly congratulated himself (and not for the first time) on his determination to drop his foreign honours on landing in England.
("A fine ass I should look now, posing as an Italian Marquis among friends who have known me since college days as Peter McTaggart"—he smiled at the thought.)
His principal trouble had been with Mario, but the latter's ignorance of the English tongue and the knowledge that if he talked it would mean his dismissal had made him obedient, albeit sulkily.
The fear of a slip had dissuaded McTaggart himself from much talk with Jill on his Sienese inheritance. She knew he had some property there, but, beyond this, very little. Bethune was the only man wholly in the secret. Luckily for McTaggart, it had escaped the papers, filled at that period with a royal marriage. The Scotch side of his character, cautious and reserved, stood him in good stead, and besides this he had a horror of snobism, somewhat rare in these days.
"It seems a pity," he said now, "that honours are so frequent—or rather, I should say, so easily earned. So many splendid men in the past have won them by deeds of heroism, for fine administration and solid work done in the interests of the Empire. Men worthy I mean, without any question of £s.d.
"Of course one knows lots of people—dear people too—who deserve them, every inch—like the Cheltenhams... But when a title's frankly bought, it seems to take away from the dignity of those others and the men to come. There should be a special kind of distinction to mean money—We talk of 'Law Lords'—for instance—why not Finance Lords? And Lords of Silence"—he smiled—"like Fleming. Not the 'Golden Fleece' but the 'Golden Tongue'!"
Lady Leason nodded her head approvingly, engrossed just then with the final process of the coffee.
McTaggart turned to the Bishop.
"By the way," he said, "talking of money, how's that company of yours? I looked up Schliff's record as far as I could, and—as I wrote you—it was hardly reassuring, though I didn't care to say too much in my letter."
"I quite understood"—the Bishop sighed—"in these days it doesn't do. But I was most grateful. I'm afraid the matter is going from bad to worse. I hear privately they're contemplating a call on the shares—five shillings; despite an optimistic speech packed with promises made by Schliff at the General Meeting. And—would you believe it?—only yesterday I came across an old friend I hadn't seen for years—up for this Congress from the North of England—and he'd been buying shares at two pounds apiece! Why, it's simply infamous! Of course he'd taken them from Schliff himself on his advice and they're selling now on the Stock Exchange for nine and sixpence!"
"I can quite believe it." McTaggart smiled. "After all, it's in the interests of the company. You've got to raise money somehow to save it—so the new shareholders are sacrificed for the old."
"Robbing Peter to pay Paul?" the Bishop suggested. "I heartily disapprove of it, and I warned my friend. He's going to see Schliff this afternoon, and I don't envy the latter. He'll meet his match."
"I doubt it—he's pretty thick-skinned! This isn't the first of his financial ventures."
"What are you two talking about?" Lady Leason broke in. "Here's your coffee." She handed the dainty cups in their egg-shell china and filigree stands. "And now, Peter"—she leaned back with a sigh—"I want to hear all about your year in Italy."
"Rather a tall order!—Where shall I start?"
"At the beginning." She looked at him curiously. "Tell us first why you deserted London?"
"To nurse my broken heart, of course. You seem to forget Cydonia."
"My dear Peter!"—she laughed back. "I don't believe that. I knew you were only flirting. She's pretty of course, but oh! so dull—and think of Cadell! What a father-in-law."
The Bishop frowned.
"I assure you they're excellent people, Laura. I've the greatest respect for Mrs. Cadell."
"She's got a good cook," said his cousin wickedly.
McTaggart threw himself into the pause that followed.
"Well—I went the usual round—Rome, Florence, Siena"—he laughed—"and Venice of course—and Naples." Here he paused, checked by some memory, evidently funny, smiling to himself.
"Out with it!" Lady Leason was watching his handsome face. "I feel a distinct 'pricking in my thumbs.' Oh, Bertram won't mind"—as she saw him glance at the Bishop—"I'll answer for him—he's never shocked!"
"Really, Laura!" her cousin protested.
"Man of the world—and a darling too." She gave him a look of real affection.
The Bishop blinked—"Well, Mr. McTaggart?"
"I was thinking of an adventure there"—Peter admitted—"nothing 'trés moutarde' ... but perhaps ... I'd better not."
"Do." Lady Leason drew the liqueurs nearer. "Some old brandy might give you courage?"
McTaggart was tempted. He saw in his mind a way of wrapping up the weak point in the story.
"Well—I'll risk it!" He emptied the glass, crossed his long legs and faced his audience.
"It happened on my first visit to Naples—I was yachting with some Roman friends, the Vivianis. The party consisted of my host and hostess and a man called Bellanti, his sister and myself. We touched there one evening to get supplies on our way back from Sicily, about nine o'clock. I remember Scirocco had blown all day—it was frightfully hot—we were all pretty limp. Viviani wouldn't stir and the Countess wanted bridge. They were four with Bellanti, so I thought I'd go ashore.
"I must say they did their best to dissuade me, and, of course, I'd heard no end of yarns about Naples at night, but I thought they were just travellers' stories! We lay a good way out in the Bay. It's awfully smelly right in the harbour. But I rowed in with four of the crew, who were to wait and bring me back.
"Well, I wandered about until I was tired. The town didn't much appeal to me, and then suddenly I remembered an address a naval friend had given me—of a sort of dancing-place—rather like the 'Bal Tabarin,' you know."
"Bertram doesn't know," said Lady Leason gravely.
"Yes, I do, my dear," said the Bishop unexpectedly. "Warleigh's youngest son mentioned it one day. He told me it was a Dancing Academy."
"Well ... something like it"—McTaggart chuckled. "Anyway, I went there. But it wasn't up to much. Just a bare hall, with a crowd of men and women and the usual 'Tarantella,' which I'd grown heartily sick of! But there was one girl who danced beautifully—pretty as paint—very dark, you know. I never saw such eyes in my life..."
"Oh, Peter!" Lady Leason laughed—"was this how you set about curing your broken heart?"
"Perhaps." His smile was enigmatic. "We danced together several times—the room was as hot as an oven and the wine the worst I ever have tasted. So when she suggested we should go outside and hunt up a cousin of hers who kept a bar—somewhere quite near—with decent drinks, like a fool, I forgot Viviani's warnings, she fetched a wrap and we started out.
"Well—it seemed a bit further than she thought. We passed through a lot of narrow streets, up some steps and into an alley and came at last to a sort of tavern, where some sailors were drinking and playing cards.
"We crossed the room and went up some stairs, and I was beginning to feel doubtful when she opened a door into a dingy room, almost dark, with a flickering wick burning in a saucer of oil. 'I'll fetch the wine,' said my little friend—'and a lamp—sit down.' She disappeared—I heard the door close, then the click of a key being turned in the lock from outside.
"I sprang toward it, caught the handle, and the next thing I knew the light was extinguished and a man's voice said in English:
"'Hands up!'" ... He glanced at his audience.
"Good Heavens!" Lady Leason gasped. The Bishop's round, short-sighted eyes were still more prominent, his mouth open.
"How very unpleasant!" he observed.
"It was." McTaggart's voice was emphatic. "I saw at once it was a trap. Nobody knew where I was, and I hadn't the faintest idea myself. I stood there with my back to the door, trying to keep my wits about me.
"Then from the other side of the room came a second voice, also a man's. He said slowly, in Italian:
"'If you move an inch—you're a dead man.' So there were two of them!—That settled it. I guessed that both of them were armed, and there I was, in evening dress without so much as a pocket knife!
"'Take off your clothes, one by one,' said the first voice in broken English—'and lay them before you on the floor—together with your money and watch.'
"Well—I did it!" McTaggart scowled—the memory still had power to rouse him. "No earthly good showing fight—it was pitch dark and they knew where I stood.
"'You can keep your boots'—the speaker laughed—'and here's a paper'—he pitched it across—'it's a warm night—you won't catch cold!'
"Hope returned to me at that. For I didn't expect to get out alive. Well—after a minute a match flared, and was promptly blown out. I caught a glimpse of dark figures to right and left and then I felt a hand grip my arm.
"'Straight ahead'—We crossed the room, and this was the hardest part of all! I was simply dying to go for the brute, but the odds were more than two to one. So I set my teeth and swore to myself—feeling—well—rather a fool! He opened a door—not the one we had come by—and said:
"'Ten steps—count them—down—You'll find the handle on your left. Good night 'e buon' riposo!' and I heard their steps receding behind me. Well—I stumbled down those confounded stairs, fumbled about, found the door and was outside in the night—thanking my stars for such an escape. I didn't waste much time, you can guess—but crossed the court yard at the double, found an alley and bolted down it and out into an empty street. It led into a wider one, and there, by luck, was a passing cab. Mercifully, it was dark and not another soul about. You should have seen the driver's face! I was clad in a torn newspaper with, far below, my patent shoes and a pair of violet silk socks."
He glanced at the Bishop guiltily, and was relieved to see his broad smile and hear Lady Leason's laugh ring out merrily at the picture.
"I bolted into that cab like a hare, crouched down and found a rug—it was open, you see—the usual 'vettura'—and offered the driver untold wealth to gallop straight to the landing stage. Of course, once I reached the boat, the crew paid him and found me some clothes—a coat and a tarpaulin, and in this costume I reached the yacht. My one hope now was to get to my cabin before my friends were aware of my plight. Luckily they were playing bridge under an awning on the deck.
"We were very quiet and all went well. I dressed quickly and rejoined them, having bought the silence of the crew, who happened to be decent fellows."
"But didn't you tell them?" The Bishop stared. "I'd have gone straight to the British Consul. A most disgraceful state of things!"
"Not I!" McTaggart laughed. "What was the use? To begin with, I'd no idea of the address. Naples is like a rabbit-warren—and besides they'd have chaffed me out of my life."
"What an adventure!" His hostess shuddered. She thought for a moment.
"What became of the girl? You never saw her again, I suppose. She must have been a paid decoy?"
"Looks like it." McTaggart agreed. He lit up a cigarette. "That's how I mended my broken heart. But promise you won't tell Mrs. Fleming!"
"I shouldn't dream of it," said the Bishop in a shocked voice. The others laughed.
"The luckiest part to my mind was getting past the Vivianis'—I can see them now, very absorbed. Bellanti had doubled 'no trumps.' That saved it, I believe—and the story from getting all over Rome."
They talked for a little longer, then McTaggart rose to his feet.
"It's getting late, I'm afraid." He shook hands with Lady Leason. "Thank you so much for a happy evening"—and turned to the Bishop, who detained him.
"I'm going back to Oxton to-morrow," he blinked for a moment, hesitating.
"I wonder now—would you care to come and spend a quiet week-end with us? Do you know that part of the country at all? It's very pleasant in the summer."
"It's awfully kind of you," said McTaggart. He thought quickly through his engagements—"d'you mean this week-end?" he asked—"if so, I shall be delighted."
"Then that's settled"—the Bishop smiled—"we might travel down together to-morrow—I'm going by the three-fifteen. Would that suit you?"
"Splendidly."
Lady Leason watched the pair, a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
"Well—no Neapolitan adventures." Mischievously she shook a finger at the younger man standing there. For no reason, apparently, McTaggart went a trifle red.
"Oh—I've turned over a new leaf."
The Bishop beamed at his cousin.
"It wasn't his fault, Laura, my dear."
"Of course not." She caught McTaggart's eye. "Though I don't quite understand ... Oh, never mind!" She laughed aloud. "But don't demoralize Bertram."
"I couldn't," said McTaggart, smiling.