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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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FAY WYMAN, from Chicago, U.S.A., had just cut in to play against the princess. Among the rigidly select circle gathered under the roof of Cornwall House she had the privilege of being the sole "outsider."
The other guests resembled a pack composed entirely of court cards; coronets bristled, titles abounded, an invitation from the Duke of Chesterton, a bachelor wearer of the strawberry leaves, was earmarked as a coveted honour of rare distinction. This particular house party had the additional attraction of basking in the reflected glory of the "divine majesty" in the person of a minor sprig of the family.
Fay felt strangely alone as she took her place at the bridge table. Her chaperon, the Countess of Nonne, through whose strenuous efforts she had been enabled to desecrate the sacred precincts of Cornwall House with her transatlantic accent, never lost sight of the commercial aspect of their relationship. The young woman's Saratoga trunks had forced their entry up the back stairs of the ducal mansion, and the countess considered that her responsibility thereafter was at an end.
The game proceeded in silence, Fay's opponents, obviously only concerned in pricking her swollen American purse, addressed their brief remarks pointedly to Lord Rakes, whose manners and hair parting had grown thin together. The princess had elected to play for high stakes.
Fay sat erect, her thoughts intent on the game. All her facilities braced to withstand the Arctic atmosphere. Pink and white, like a striped convolvulus, there yet lay under that fragile appearance the strength and tenacity of a coil of copper wire. When, by keeping a watchful eye over the destinies of the low cards that fell to her share, the American gathered in a trick at the sacrifice of her opponent's queen, the princess raised her black-rimmed eyes and stared fixedly at her. Although consort to a British Royalty, the line in which the princess stood towards the Throne was as oblique as her own eyelids. At present the reminded Fay strongly of some louche frequenter of Continental casinos.
"That was good generalship," the princess remarked. "Where did you acquire your skill at figures?"
The tone was a command. Fay instinctively answered, without a second's deliberation—
"As a bookkeeper, way down in 'Frisco, before poppa made his pile."
There was a general gasp. As Fay glanced at the face of Lady Daphne, who was the princess's dummy, she realized the full enormity of her crime. The English girl's delicately tinted features had frozen to an expressive mask of disgust. When Fay studied the ring of stony faces that had gathered round the table, it seemed to her that Stonehenge was a witness to her discomfiture. Her chaperon's eye was absolutely baleful in its ferocity.
With a remark about the heat, the princess pushed hack her chair impatiently, and swept from the room. Lord Rakes following in her train. Lady Daphne stooped for a moment over the table, raking together a pack of cards with her slender white fingers—Fay noticed that the backs of the cards were marked with the Royal Worcester pattern—then, without a backward glance at her late opponent, she also passed from the room.
Under, the glare of a cluster of lamps Fay sat alone, her lips bitten to a thin red line, her ears tingling under the smart of the insult. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the green cloth of the table, her thoughts winging over the ocean, till they hovered like gulls round the brown stone mansion in Chicago.
A great wave of home sickness swept over her. She looked back on the years when her father had flown through his days, chasing the almighty dollar, sparing neither youth nor energy, until the golden snowball had reached the proper proportions of a "pile." All the best days of his manhood, the flower of his strength, the pickings of his brains, had been expended in erecting an edifice that was merely to serve as the glittering shoot down which Fay should glissade into English society. It was pitiful—pitiful!
The girl smiled sadly as she remembered the schemes that had been hatched in their splendid insolence under the shadow of the star-spangled banner. She saw her father's lean face start out of the dense curtain of smoke from his inevitable big cigar while he shot out his brief remarks in intermittent volcanic eruption.
"Reckon you'd best see the little island where they're all asleep 'fore America buys it up." Puff. "Guess you'll wake them up eh, my gaal?" Puff. "Make 'em sit up." Puff. "Make 'em grow whiskers on their teeth."
Then the old man would work rapidly to his favourite climax, Fay's eyes sparkling the while in delighted anticipation.
"And when you've seen the dooks and belted earls, if you like to bring one over here, just you pick out the best of the bunch, and I'll shake him by the hand, and—and it'll be cash down for value received."
He drew the picture crudely, but Fay, with insight born of loving sympathy, softened the glaring tints, till she saw in the whole scheme the perfect self-sacrifice of a father for his child. He had spent himself that Fay should have the very best, cashed himself in small change, invested it again and again, till the total was raised that would crown his ambition and make Fay an English peeress.
At last, with a hundred frocks and a thousand hopes, she had sailed for the other side, to be sheltered under the moulting wing of an earl's widow. From the moment the girl met her chaperon, who scanned her fresh beauty with the keen eye of a marriage broker, intent on possible commission, the bubble of her confidence was pricked. Silently but steadily it had been leaking ever since as she penetrated farther and farther into the inner circles of society. The English aristocracy, whose name she had invoked so lightly, first subjected her to an X-ray course of treatment under a monocle and lorgnette battery, then, to restore the balance, completely overlooked her existence. Her father's gold had merely purchased for her the position of an "outsider."
Not even as Fay's mind groped back along the track of past humiliations, the I other half of her brain was sub-consciously dictating a letter home to her father.
Darling Poppa—
Such a night! Fancy it! Little me playing cards with a princess. My! Wasn't she set on winning, too? We flew pretty high, didn't we? but we never grazed each giddy heights as this. I haven't marked my earl yet, for there isn't one half as nice as my dear poppa. But the duke is a beautiful man....
Fay stopped short abruptly. The duke, Lady Daphne by his side, was standing in the curtained doorway, regarding her intently.
Even Fay, with her anti-English prejudices, had been forced to admit him a personality. The pride of birth that stiffened his stalwart frame was of a different calibre to that which had previously fossilized the little American. It he held his head high, it was through his habit of regarding the sum in preference to keeping an eye on his ancestors underground. His face was as brown as a filbert, his teeth white as the filbert's split kernel.
Fay felt a pang of envy shoot through her as Lady Daphne slipped her arm lightly through the duke's. Beyond a few words of greeting she had hardly come into direct contact with her host. She was quite ignorant of the fact that his conservative principles had caused him to steadily set his face against the American invasion, and that her inclusion as a ducal guest was due to a judicious mixture of bluff and false pretence on the part of the countess.
The duke's keen eyes studied Fay's dainty face as she sat in the middle of the card room. The query he addressed to his companion was inaudible. Fay's sharp ears caught the contemptuous answer.
"I don't know. When she speaks to you she says 'Say;' when you speak to her she says 'Sure.' That is all I know about her."
Chesterton's expression grew hostile as he realized that his sacred stronghold had been stormed by the all-invading American. At that moment, however, his name was called, and Fay was again left alone.
Angry tears started to her eyes; she rose to her feet and mechanically folded back the table, unconscious of what she did. A card with the Royal Worcester pattern was wedged between one of the flaps. She picked it up—it was the ace of hearts.
THE next moment a tense look spread over her face, and she
intently examined her find. Her restless, groping fingers had
detected a slight roughness in the bottom left-hand corner.
Holding the card to the level of her eyes, she could see an
eruption of minute prickings. The card was marked!
The girl's face darkened. The memory of every bolted meal, every starved pleasure, every frenzied rush that had gone to swell the measure of her father's strenuous toil to win his game fairly stood up to denounce those who, though they scorned, had not scrupled to cheat her.
Not stopping an instant, she rushed to her room, and hastily rubbed black powdered chalk into the incriminating marks till they stood out like the pips on a berry. Armed with this evidence, she was just setting out in search of the countess, when that lady herself sailed into the room.
The newcomer placed her elbow majestically on the mantlepiece, and, elevating her Roman nose, looked over Fay's head as she addressed her:
"I have not come to comment on your behaviour of this evening; it would be superfluous, since I cannot appeal to the sense of social tact which is apparently completely lacking. I merely wish to point out that your obvious course of action, which is to remain in your room for the rest of the evening, and for the rest of the time you may be here to efface yourself so far as lies in your power."
Fay tossed her head.
"Thank you for your advice," the girl answered. "As a matter of fact, I shall be very much in the foreground in the linear future. I've stood your snubs, I've stood your insults; but I won't stand your cheating. I have done with you—I have done with, you all! Into the sea goes my chest of tea to-night. I mean to assert my independence."
The dowager's powdered nose dropped with a jerk. She was so startled that she looked directly at this American parvenue.
"What on earth do you mean?"
"I mean that Lady Daphne Carson brought a marked pack of cards to the table to-night, and played with them. Here is one. She won poppa's money, and—and I mean to show her up."
The enamelled mask of the countess's face worked convulsively for a second under the stress of some powerful emotion; then it broke up suddenly, looking old, and scored with innumerable wrinkles. She laid one trembling hand on Fay's arm.
"I forbid you!" she cried. "Think—think for a minute! The scandal! Here in Cornwall House, which no breath of slander has ever even touched—where it is a great privilege to peas even an hour. And with royalty staying in the house!" The voice rose to a shriek. "You wicked girl! How dare you—how dare you?"
"I dare," was the calm answer.
The countess's appeal dropped into the minor key of pathos.
"I only ask you to reflect an instant," she urged. "Think of the duke. How he stands one of the highest in the realm. He is practically engaged to Lady Daphne. Consider his feelings! Think of her parents, of the ancient name she bears. Think of Lord Sherry, whom I brought you here for. How will he regard you? Think of all we hold most sacred here—our honour, our prestige!"
Fay's lip curled at the last words.
"I have thought," was the grim answer.
The countess recognised the ultimatum. The creases of her agitated face ran together, and melted into her former expressionless mask. She showed her teeth in an ugly grin.
"So—it is useless to argue?"
"In the absence of a sense of social tact, yes."
"Then, when are we to expect the second instalment of Chicago revelations?"
The girl's face flushed.
"A good expression," she flashed. "For I have you all bottled up; most of you have been kept too long."
Grasping the card lightly, she passed down the broad corridor, her eyes noting the splendour of picture and statue with a hew interest. When she reached the head of the great marble stair that branched to right and left in its downward flight, she stood gazing into the vast hall beneath. She counted the number of powdered lackeys that passed below, and let her eyes linger appreciatively on the pillared majesty of the hall. When she slowly, descended the stair her foot spurned the thick carpet with a fierce pressure.
As she crossed the marble flags of the hall one of the powdered lackeys passed. She noticed that the fellow allowed his habitually wooden expression to relax as he stared at her in supercilious scorn. She returned the look with interest, and the servant's eyes fell. The story of her slip had already, it was clear, circulated freely below-stairs; but with her card held tighter in her fingers, she held her head yet higher. Heedless of a couple of guests she encountered on the threshold of the door, who shrank back at her approach as though her Paquin gown had been a bundle of loathsome rags, she passed out into the night.
She leaned over the rail Of the balcony and gazed oh the fair scene lying at her feet. The moon was spraying the landscape with showers of silver confetti, revealing the shimmer of the lake, the symmetry of the trees. Garden and terrace, statue and fountain lay bathed in the white glow. Behind her towered the historic pile, gabled and turreted.
She flung back her head and laughed at its hoary majesty. So this was one of the "stately homes" of England! Every stone could tell its tale; but she had a stone to fling at it that would roll an ancient name in the dust as in a glorified game of skittles. Then some far-off strain in her blood awoke.
"There will be a slump in British titled securities to-night," she thought, exultantly.
A voice uttered her name. She turned, to find her solitude invaded by Lord William Sherry. Long of limb, stow of speech; a typical Englishman generally, here was the bait the countess had constantly dangled before Fay's eyes, the toy she was to take back to her father out of the English lucky bag. To-night his eyelids no longer drooped indolently; there was a hint of excitement in his manner that puzzled the girl. The cavalier treatment she had received at his hands, in comparison with the universal homage that had been her portion in America, did not prepare her for this sudden adhesion to her side in the face of the general coolness.
Sherry looked at the moonlit stretch of turf reflectively.
"Fine old place," he remarked. "Takes one back, eh? Pity powder and patches are out of fashion."
"Are they? I thought you still wore patches—on your reputations."
Sherry started slightly.
"More's the pity," he said, gravely. "By the way, I wonder if you have noticed that I have absolutely haunted you lately?"
"I haven't. I was under the impression that the countess was chasing you."
Sherry frowned.
"Was she? Well, it was to do me a good turn, for her woman's instinct told her of my admiration for you, Miss Wyman—Fay. I am a great believer in Anglo-American alliances. All I have to offer you is an old name; but it is a name that any girl might be proud to bear. Will you accept it—and me?"
An automatic sweet machine could not have proposed in a less emotional manner, but in the sudden reaction from the bitterness of failure Fay's heart glowed. The dominant feeling that possessed her was summed up in her answer.
I will!
"Yes, I will! Oh, poppa will be real glad."
"Poppa? Oh, yes; your father. I shall be charmed to meet him—Dr—one day. Now, Fay," he continued, briskly; "I want a second promise. You're one of us now. Promise me to live up to our traditions. No more scenes. They're bad form. Remember our watchword, 'Noblesse Oblige.' Promise!"
The girl put out her hands, deeply moved by her translation to these lofty spheres.
"I promise. Say, what do you mean exactly by 'Noblesse Oblige'?"
Sherry hesitated slightly.
"Oh, It translates literally enough. You know—You know the sort of thing we're all broght up on? When you become Lady Sherry, and now also, you are bound by the obligations of rank, and must put them before private feeling. Which reminds me. Just give me that card you are clutching." He spoke commandingly. "You are one of us now; and there must be no vulgar scenes in Cornwall House. Remember, we have to hang together. Your lips are sealed."
Fay's eyes dilated. She realized that for the second time she had been tricked. The kid-glove diplomacy of Sherry had cheated her out of her revenge. When she spoke her voice was metallic.
"Say, you are in love with lady Daphne?"
"You have no right to ask such a question. Lady Daphne is practically engaged to Chesterton. I have known her since she was a child."
"Did she cheat at snap and marbles? Well, never mind, I take it the idea is to wrap her delicate feelings up in cotton wool while you throw me the sop of your ancient name to exercise my teeth on. It is sometimes considered rather convenient to hare an American wife. Isn't that so. Now, listen!"
She suddenly dashed the card from her.
"You have cheated me again, for you have muzzled me with false pretences. As to your quixotic offer of marriage, I'll have none of it. I don't deal in remnants, even at a bargain sale. But you need alarm yourself no longer. It may be necessary to translate your trade mark to me, but I can assure you that an outsider like myself—a tricky Yankee—understands how to play a square game. You have my promise."
The angry red ran up Sherry's face.
"Thank you," he said, with an effort. "If I could offer you an explanation, I might appear less of a cad in your eyes. But my lips are sealed."
He stepped towards the card, but at that moment a passing gust of the evening breeze flicked it through the open doorway. As Sherry sprang after it he nearly fell into the arms of the duke. Both men stooped simultaneously, but Chesterton picked up the card.
With terror-stricken face, Fay stole into the hall. It was filled with guests. Every one gazed at the duke as he carelessly examined his find.
Fay saw him start. Then his face grew grey and hard as granite. He cleared his throat before he spoke.
"Here is a card of a curious description," he announced, "which I should like claimed. It must be of value to the owner, as it conveys private intelligence. Although, in my capacity of host, I am pulled in two directions, it appears to be my obvious duty to safeguard the interests of my guests."
A murmur swelled in the hall like the buzzing in the hollow of a shell. The duke's face grew whiter.
"Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing," he announced, ironically. He held up the card.
Fay looked at Lady Daphne. Her mouth was smiling stiffly, her eyes filled with the terror of the aristocrat at sight of the guillotine. The countess's haggard face was askew. Chesterton glanced at Sherry.
"Yours, Sherry?" he demanded.
"No," was the hoarse reply.
In the silence that followed Fay heard the beating of her own heart, The very portraits seemed to lean from their frames to listen.
Fay gazed at the circle of blanched faces, and a sudden sense of exultation surged up in her heart. These sneering Britishers had taught her the rules, but they dared not play the game. They only clutched at the tattered mantles of their prestige to shelter their dishonourable deeds. She had nothing to lose but one thing—her self-respect.
Slowly and distinctly she spoke.
"That card was last in my possession, duke. Give it to me."
A long pent up breath of suspense broke from the circle.
With an immobile expression the duke handed the card to the girl. Tearing it in pieces, she threw the fragments on the ground and addressed the duke.
"If convenient, I will leave to-morrow by the early train."
"A carriage will be in readiness," was the answer
Again Fay glanced round the circle, letting her eyes rest on Lady Daphne's face with scornful insistence. Then, head erect, she walked through the crowd of people, who shrank from her as she passed. Slowly she ascended the staircase, a solitary, white-clad figure.
NO sleep visited her that night. Long before dawn she was
dressed, watching the rain that fell in a soft grey curtain. Her
maid and boxes were to follow later. She could not wait; her sole
desire was to leave this place of abomination.
The house was still silent and deserted, when at last she descended to the dining room. For form's sake she swallowed a cup of coffee under the scornful eyes of footman. The tears that welled up her eyes were not those of self-pity.
Poor poppa! He'll be real disappointed, she thought.
The wheels of the carriage roused her to the fact that the horses were waiting. To her surprise, Lady Daphne, accompanied by Lord Sherry, was standing out side.
Daphne put out a small hand timidly. "Will you shake hands?"
After a minute's hesitation, Fay gripped the girl's fingers.
"Don't fret," she said. "It's best this way. You're bound here for life: but I've got my ticket-of-leave and it's saloon all the way. That's one of the slight advantages of being an outsider."
When Sherry opened the carriage door, to Fay's astonishment she found the duke seated inside. Lord Sherry bent numbly over her hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "Don't think too badly of us. I know I was not worthy to marry you; but I shall always be glad I have had the honour of knowing you."
The carriage rolled away, and Fay stared at her companion. That was a different leave-taking from that of her imagination.
"What does it all mean?" she asked.
"It means that you have rendered us the greatest service possible. Henceforth, everything that belongs to me will be under a debt of the deepest obligation to you."
His voice shook. Fay stared in surprise.
"And all for—Lady Daphne?" she asked. "All for a little bit of fluff like that?"
Chesterton shook his head.
"Lady Daphne, Lord Sherry—yes, even the Countess—all acted truly and squarely, according to their standards. You must not judge them too harshly. They only shrank from the final ordeal because, unlike you, they were not made of tempered steel. But their fault lay in treating you unfairly. They regarded you as an outsider, and they guarded their secret jealously."
She looked at the duke.
"Have I not a right, now, to ask you for an explanation?"
"You have established your right. Lady Daphne and Lord Sherry fought for the honour of something we hold even dearer than our life, for the sake of which men have gone to the scaffold. When I picked up that card I was placed in a terrible dilemma. Now, can you not guess to whom it belonged?"
Fay nodded, "The princess?" she whispered.
The duke bowed his head sadly.
Then a smile broke through his gloom as he gripped Fay's hand.
"I want to know you better. May I come to America some day?"
As he gazed at Fay there was a look in his eyes that was older far than his vaunted English strawberry leaves, a lock which reached right back to the garden itself.
"Yes, come," said Fay. "I should like to see you again—but there, not here."
Her thoughts leaped away westward across a waste of tumbled waters, to where a colossal statue held a torch to the world. It was the Statue of Liberty.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.