CHAPTER TWENTY
1.
It is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a
thing has happened before writing about it. Otherwise he may commit
himself to statements which are not borne out by the actual facts.
Mrs Peagrim, recording in advance the success of her party at the
Gotham Theatre, had done this. It is true that she was a "radiant and
vivacious hostess," and it is possible, her standard not being very
high, that she had "never looked more charming." But, when, she went
on to say that all present were in agreement that they had never
spent a more delightful evening, she deceived the public. Uncle
Chris, for one; Otis Pilkington, for another, and Freddie Rooke, for
a third, were so far from spending a delightful evening that they
found it hard to mask their true emotions and keep a smiling face to
the world.
Otis Pilkington, indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try,
left early. Just twenty minutes after the proceedings had begun, he
seized his coat and hat, shot out into the night, made off blindly up
Broadway, and walked twice round Central Park before his feet gave
out and he allowed himself to be taken back to his apartment in a
taxi. He tried to tell himself that this was only what he had
expected, but was able to draw no consolation from the fact. He tried
to tell himself that Jill might change her mind, but hope refused to
stir. Jill had been very kind and very sweet and very regretful, but
it was only too manifest that on the question of becoming Mrs Otis
Pilkington her mind was made up. She was willing to like him, to be a
sister to him, to watch his future progress with considerable
interest, but she would not marry him.
One feels sorry for Otis Pilkington in his hour of travail. This was
the fifth or sixth time that this sort of thing had happened to him,
and he was getting tired of it. If he could have looked into the
future--five years almost to a day from that evening--and seen
himself walking blushfully down the aisle of St. Thomas' with Roland
Trevis' sister Angela on his arm, his gloom might have been
lightened. More probably, however, it would have been increased. At
the moment, Roland Trevis' sister Angela was fifteen, frivolous, and
freckled and, except that he rather disliked her and suspected
her--correctly--of laughing at him, amounted to just _nil_ in Mr
Pilkington's life. The idea of linking his lot with hers would have
appalled him, enthusiastically though he was in favor of it five
years later.
However, Mr Pilkington was unable to look into the future, so his
reflections on this night of sorrow were not diverted from Jill. He
thought sadly of Jill till two-thirty, when he fell asleep in his
chair and dreamed of her. At seven o'clock his Japanese valet, who
had been given the night off, returned home, found him, and gave him
breakfast. After which, Mr Pilkington went to bed, played three games
of solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke to take up
the burden of life again. He still brooded on the tragedy which had
shattered him. Indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dance
he was introduced to a red-haired girl from Detroit, that he really
got over it.
* * *
The news was conveyed to Freddie Rooke by Uncle Chris. Uncle Chris,
with something of the emotions of a condemned man on the scaffold
waiting for a reprieve, had watched Jill and Mr Pilkington go off
together into the dim solitude at the back of the orchestra chairs,
and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latter
whizzing back, his every little movement having a meaning of its
own--and that meaning one which convinced Uncle Chris that Freddie,
in estimating Mr Pilkington as a sixty to one chance, had not erred
in his judgment of form.
Uncle Chris found Freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to Nelly
Bryant. Dancing was going on down on the stage, but Freddie, though
normally a young man who shook a skilful shoe, was in no mood for
dancing tonight. The return to the scenes of his former triumphs and
the meeting with the companions of happier days, severed from him by
a two-weeks' notice, had affected Freddie powerfully. Eyeing the
happy throng below, he experienced the emotions of that Peri who, in
the poem, "at the gate of Eden stood disconsolate."
Excusing himself from Nelly and following Uncle Chris into the
passage-way outside the box, he heard the other's news listlessly. It
came as no shock to Freddie. He had never thought Mr Pilkington
anything to write home about, and had never supposed that Jill would
accept him. He said as much. Sorry for the chap in a way, and all
that, but had never imagined for an instant that he would click.
"Where is Underhill?" asked Uncle Chris, agitated.
"Derek? Oh, he isn't here yet."
"But why isn't he here? I understood that you were bringing him with
you."
"That was the scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he met
on the boat to go to a theatre and have a bit of supper with them
afterwards. I only heard about it when I got back this morning."
"Good God, boy! Didn't you tell him that Jill would be here tonight?"
"Oh, rather. And he's coming on directly he can get away from these
people. Forget their name, but they're influential coves who can do
him a bit of good and all that sort of thing. The man--the head of
the gang, you know--is something connected with the Cabinet or the
Prime Minister or something. You'd know his name in a minute if I
told you--always seeing it in the papers--they have pictures of him
in _Punch_ a lot--but I'm rotten at names. Derek did tell me, but
it's slipped the old bean. Well, he had to leg it with these people,
but he's coming on later. Ought to be here any moment now."
Uncle Chris plucked at his mustache gloomily. Freddie's detachment
depressed him. He had looked for more animation and a greater sense
of the importance of the issue.
"Well, pip-pip for the present," said Freddie, moving toward the box.
"Have to be getting back. See you later."
He disappeared, and Uncle Chris turned slowly to descend the stairs.
As he reached the floor below, the door of the stage-box opened, and
Mrs Peagrim came out.
"Oh, Major Selby!" cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. "I
couldn't think where you had got to. I have been looking for you
everywhere."
Uncle Chris quivered slightly, but braced himself to do his duty.
"May I have the pleasure . . . ?" he began, then broke off as he saw
the man who had come out of the box behind his hostess. "Underhill!"
He grasped his hand and shook it warmly. "My dear fellow! I had no
notion that you had arrived!"
"Sir Derek came just a moment ago," said Mrs Peagrim.
"How are you, Major Selby?" said Derek. He was a little surprised at
the warmth of his reception. He had not anticipated this geniality.
"My dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you," cried Uncle Chris. "But,
as I was saying, Mrs Peagrim, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"
"I don't think I will dance this one," said Mrs Peagrim surprisingly.
"I'm sure you two must have ever so much to talk about. Why don't you
take Sir Derek and give him a cup of coffee?"
"Capital idea!" said Uncle Chris. "Come this way, my dear fellow. As
Mrs Peagrim says, I have ever so much to talk about. Along this
passage, my boy. Be careful. There's a step. Weil, well, well! It's
delightful to see you again!" He massaged Derek's arm affectionately.
Every time he had met Mrs Peagrim that evening he had quailed
inwardly at what lay before him, should some hitch occur to prevent
the re-union of Derek and Jill: and, now that the other was actually
here, handsomer than ever and more than ever the sort of man no girl
could resist, he declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. His
spirits soared. "You haven't seen Jill yet, of course?"
"No." Derek hesitated. "Is Jill . . . Does she . . . I mean . . ."
Uncle Chris resumed his osteopathy. He kneaded his companion's
coat-sleeve with a jovial hand.
"My dear fellow, of course! I am sure that a word or two from you
will put everything right. We all make mistakes. I have made them
myself. I am convinced that everything will be perfectly all right
. . . Ah, there she is. Jill, my dear, here is an old friend to see
you!"
