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The Pawns Count, a fiction by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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CHAPTER XXXVII |
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_ "What has become," Mrs. Theodore Hastings asked her niece one afternoon about a month later, "of your delightful friend, Mr. Lutchester?" Pamela laid down her book and looked across at her aunt with wide-open eyes. "Why, I thought you didn't like him, aunt?" "I cannot remember saying so, my dear," Mrs. Hastings replied. "I had nothing against the man himself. It was simply his attitude with regard to some of your uncle's plans, of which we disapproved." Pamela nodded. They were seated on the piazza of the Hastings' country house at Manchester. "I see!... And uncle's plans," she went on reflectively, "have become a little changed, haven't they?" Mrs. Hastings coughed. "There is no doubt," she admitted, "that your Uncle Theodore was inveigled into supporting, to a certain extent, a party whose leaders have shown themselves utterly irresponsible. The moment these horrible things began to come out, however, your uncle finally cut himself loose from them." "Very wise of him," Pamela murmured. "Who could have believed," Mrs. Hastings demanded, "that men like Oscar Fischer, Max Bookam and a dozen other well-known and prominent millionaires, would have stooped to encourage the destruction of American property and lives, simply through blind devotion to the country of their birth. I could understand," she went on, "both your uncle and I perfectly understood that their sympathies were German rather than English, but we shared a common belief that notwithstanding this they were Americans first and foremost. It was in this belief that your uncle was led into temporary association with them." "Bad luck," Pamela sighed. "I am afraid it hasn't done Uncle Theodore any good." Mrs. Hastings went on with her knitting for a moment. "My child," she said, "it has probably imperilled, if it has not completely ruined, one of the great hopes which your uncle and I have sometimes entertained. We are both of us, however, quite philosophical about it. Even at this moment I am convinced that if these men had acted with discretion, and been content to wield political influence rather than to have resorted to such fanatical means, they would have represented a great power at the next election. As things are, I admit that their cause is lost for the time. I believe that your uncle is contemplating an early visit to England. He is of the opinion that perhaps he has misunderstood the Allied point of view, and he is going to study matters at first hand." Pamela nodded. "I think he is very wise, aunt," she declared. "I quite expect that he will come back a warm advocate of the Allies. No one would have a ghost of a chance who went to the country here on the other ticket." "I believe that that is your uncle's point of view," Mrs. Hastings assented.... "Why don't you ask Mr. Lutchester down for a couple of days?" "If you mean it, I certainly will," Pamela agreed. "Quite incidentally," her aunt continued, "I heard the nicest possible things about him in Washington. Lady Ridlingshawe told me that the Lutchesters are one of the oldest families in England. He is a cousin of the Duke of Worcester, and is extraordinarily well connected in other directions. I must say he has a most distinguished appearance. A well-bred Englishman is so different from these foreigners." Pamela laid down her book and drew her writing block towards her. "I'll write and invite him down at once," she suggested. "Your uncle will be delighted," Mrs. Hastings purred.... Lutchester received his invitation in New York and arrived in Manchester three days later. Pamela met him at the station with a couple of boatmen by her side. "If you wouldn't mind sailing home?" she proposed. "The house is practically on an island, and the tide is just right. These men will take your luggage." They walked down to the little dock together. Pamela talked all the time, but Lutchester was curiously tongue-tied. "You'll find Uncle Theodore, and aunt, too, most amusing," she confided. "It is perfectly obvious that there is nothing uncle regrets so much as his temporary linking up with Fischer and his friends; in fact, he is going to Europe almost at once--I am convinced for no other reason than to give him an excuse, upon his return, for blossoming out as a fervent supporter of the Allies." "Are you going too?" Lutchester inquired. "Shall I? Well, I am not really sure," she declared, as they reached the little wooden dock. "I suppose I shall, especially if I can find something to do. I may even turn nurse." "You will be able to find plenty to do," he assured her. "If nothing else turns up, you can help me." They stepped on to the yacht. Pamela, a radiant vision in white, with white flannel skirt, white jersey and tam-o'-shanter, took the helm, and was busy for a few moments getting clear. Afterwards she leaned back amongst the cushions, with Lutchester by her side. "In the agitation of missing that buoy," he reminded her, "you forgot to answer my last suggestion." "Is there any way in which I could help you?" she asked. "You can help me in the greatest of all ways," he replied promptly. "You can give me just that help which only the woman who cares can give to the man who cares for her, and if that isn't exciting enough," he went on, after a moment's pause, "well, I dare say I can find you some work in the censor's department." "Isn't censoring a little dull?" she murmured. "Then you choose--" Her hand slipped into his. A little breeze filled their sails at that moment. The wonderful blue water of the bay sparkled with a million gleams of sunshine. Lutchester drew a great breath of content. "That's aunt on the landing-stage, watching us through her glasses," Pamela pointed out, making a feeble attempt to withdraw her hand. "It will save us the trouble," he observed, resisting her effort, "of explanations." Lutchester found his host and hostess unexpectedly friendly. They even accepted with cheerful philosophy the news that Lutchester's work in America was almost finished for the time, and that Pamela was to accompany him to Europe almost immediately. After dinner, when the two men were left at the table, Hastings became almost confidential. "So far as regards the sympathies of this country, Mr. Lutchester," he said, "the final die has been cast within the last few weeks. There has always been," he proceeded, "a certain irritation existing between even the Anglo-Saxon Americans and your country. We have fancied so often that you have adopted little airs of superiority towards us, and that your methods of stating your intentions have not always taken account of our own little weaknesses. Then America, you know, loves a good fight, and the Germans are a wonderful military people. They were fighting like giants whilst you in England were still slacking. But it is Germany herself, or rather her sons and friends, who have destroyed her chances for her. Fischer, for instance," he went on, fingering his wineglass. "I have always looked upon Oscar Fischer as a brilliant and far-seeing man. He was one of those who set themselves deliberately to win America for the Germans. A more idiotic bungle than he has made of things I could scarcely conceive. He has reproduced the diplomatic methods which have made Germany unpopular throughout the world. He has tried bullying, cajolery, and false-hood, and last of all he has plunged into crime. No German-American will henceforth ever have weight in the counsels of this country. I do not mind confessing," Mr. Hastings continued, as he himself filled his guest's glass and then his own, "that I myself was at one time powerfully attracted towards the Teuton cause. They are a nation wonderful in science, wonderful in warfare, with strong and admirable national characteristics. Yet they are going to lose this war through sheer lack of tact, for the want of that kindliness, that generosity of temperament, which exists and makes friends in nations as in individuals. The world for Germany, you know, and hell for her enemies!... But I am keeping you." Lutchester drank his wine and rose to his feet. "Pamela is sitting on the rocks there," Mr. Hastings observed. "I think that she wants to sail you over to Misery Island. We get some unearthly meal there at ten o'clock and come back by moonlight. It is a sort of torture which we always inflict upon our guests. My wife and I will follow in the launch." "To Misery Island!" Lutchester repeated. His host smiled as he led the way to the piazza steps. Pamela had already stepped into the boat, and with the help of a boatman was adjusting the sail. She waved her hand gaily and pointed to the level stretch of placid water, still faintly brilliant in the dying sunlight. "You think that we shall reach Misery Island before the tide turns?" she called out. Lutchester stepped lightly into the boat and took the place to which she pointed. "I am content," he said, "to take my chance." [THE END] _ |
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