The Lightning Conductor Discovers America

Can I undo everything and go back to the days before the revolution? Would it be fair to others concerned? And that reminds me, whatever happens, young Marcel mustn't suffer. He has been a complication for some time, but apparently he's likely to be a more serious one now. You'd never guess what he's done, if I gave you a dozen chances, so I'll sandwich his love story with mine.

Her best friend is named Adrienne de Moncourt, daughter of the widowed Marquise "of that ilk." The said Marquise, from what I gather, is responsible for Miss Moore's being brought up in France, under her own eye. I shrewdly suspect this was arranged in the hope of attracting our "Beloved Vagabond," Larry, back and forth across the sea. A terrible, man-eating tigress of a lady's maid has been imported, nominally to take care of Princess Pat, secretly (or I'll eat my hat) to keep an eye upon and report on Larry's capers to the Marquise de Moncourt! Since my Princess came to these shores, "a distant cousin from America" has introduced himself to the Marquise. He being young, good looking, and presumably rich, the lady invited him to her château to spend Easter. Mademoiselle came home from school for the holidays. The two met. The name of the rich American cousin is Marcel de Moncourt. The Princess Patricia says that she loves her Adrienne next best to Larry, and she hopes and prays the cousin is all he should be. She asked me to tell her if "our Marcel" had a son. I was obliged to confess that he had; but when she wanted to know if it could possibly be the same, I hedged in every direction. You and Moncourt and I must have a powwow as soon as possible.

You can't blame me for falling in love, as you always said the thing was inevitable; and you'll be even less likely to croak if I tell you how it was I first diagnosed the serious state of my feelings.

It was at the dance you got me invited to at the Piping Rock Club – many thanks again. You will deduce that I bought a "reach me down" evening suit before starting on this expedition – first time I'd worried myself into such togs for heaven knows how long. I never thought to be caught by conventions again, but I'd tar and feather my body if that was the costume best suited to her society. You see how I'm turning over new leaves – turning so fast I've hardly time to read them as I go on!

As I explained to you in asking the favour, I guessed that Caspian meant to score over me, so I wanted to be the one to do the scoring. I thought if I simply swaggered into the ballroom as one of Caspian's guests, he was certain to repudiate me, which would have been rather amusing if it hadn't made me conspicuous. It was, as you remarked, something of a risk to appear at all in such a place on such an occasion, but I've trusted to luck so often and come out on the top of the wave (literally!) that I didn't mind, provided I could jog along quietly, and get in even one dance with my little princess. I felt safe under your respectable wing, and was looking forward to the fun of not exploding if Caspian had laid a fuse to blow me up. But Strickland, think of it, she had been suffering for my sake!

When I went to ask her for our dance, I found her deadly pale. "What is the matter?" I jerked out, actually scared by her whiteness. "Are you faint? Shall I take you into the open air?"

"Oh, please do!" she said; and I whisked her out quickly onto one of those verandas as wide as a room.

"Could we go home?" she asked piteously, but when I suggested making a dash into the ballroom to find her pal, Mrs. Winston, she wouldn't hear of it. "No," she said, "Molly mustn't be disturbed. It is nothing. Only – I should like to go. If you wouldn't mind."

If I wouldn't mind! It would have been pretty well worth being born for to drive her back alone, just we two in the car, but I dared not take the child at her word. I thought she was too ill to remember Mrs. Grundy's silly old existence, and I couldn't take advantage of her forgetfulness. At the same time it seemed the act of a prig grafted on to a bounder to put the idea into her head, and make her ashamed of having said the wrong thing. You see what a nuisance my conscience is! I petted it so much when it was young, now it won't stop in its cage. I didn't know what to say, and felt as if it would be money in my pocket not to have been born, for my spirit had melted in me, as one of those soft capsules melts in your mouth.

I don't know what I should have said or done, my mental state being that of a hen in front of a motor, if at that instant Mrs. Winston herself hadn't appeared. It was as if my subconscious self had made a dash and dragged her out by the hair! Winston was with her (as Mrs. Shuster ingenuously remarked one day, "That man is as nice to his wife as if he were somebody else's husband"), and they came straight to us, marching solemnly, like a deputation.

"Angel child," said Molly (we all think of her as "Molly"), "I noticed you looking a little wan, so Jack and I just waltzed out to see how you were, and also to pat Mr. Storm figuratively on the back."

"Why – what has happened?" inquired the princess almost wildly.

"Such fun! Envy is the sincerest flattery, so Mr. Storm ought to be pleased that Mr. Caspian hasn't loved him since the day he had his great inspiration about Marcel and Kidd's Pines. It appears that our vaudevillain (isn't that a nice name for dear Eddy?) passed round the word that Mr. Storm had no invitation to this dance, when all the time he had come on the behest of some fearfully celebrated man in New York every one seems to bow down to. Collapse of the gunpowder plot!"

"Oh, I'm so thankful!" sighed dear Molly's Angel Child. She clapped her hands and gave a little skip. Then I guessed in a flash why she had looked pale, why she had wanted to get me out of the ballroom, and why she'd been ready to defy old Lady Grundy in order to keep me safe, and avoid hurting the poor secretary-chauffeur's feelings by telling him what was up. That was the moment, my friend, when I realized that I'd always been wrong and you'd always been right. I knew that the girl lit the world for me.

Again I ask you, What am I going to do about it?

I don't believe she's in love with me. It was only that she couldn't bear to have me humiliated, and was willing to make a sacrifice to save me pain. But I do believe I could make her love me if I tried.

The kind angel as good as admitted the cause of her illness by making a quick recovery and going in with Captain Winston while I followed with his wife. Molly, by the way, almost confessed she'd suspected that Pat was anxious for my welfare, and had come out to relieve the girl's mind. Do you wonder at the state of mine? I'm bound to add that my rescue didn't seem to restore her spirits permanently. She looked rather "wan," as Molly said, all the rest of the evening; or it may have been the effect of a green dress she wore. Certainly she was somewhat piano in manner, too; and despite her pal's slap at Caspian, the princess didn't treat him as if he were the dragon of the opera. On the contrary, she sat out several dances with him. I bear her no grudge, though! She hadn't the air of enjoying his society.

We were to have started for Kidd's Pines the morning after the dance at Piping Rock, but a Mrs. Sam de Silverley (who said she knew you) was moved by curiosity to want me introduced to her. She "pined to see the inside of the Stanislaws house," first hinted and then pleaded to do so, and in return invited the whole of our crowd to a garden party at her place. Some Russian dancers were to "entertain," and the Goodriches – who are seeing life with all their souls – yearned to go. So did our bride and bridegroom, who want their money's worth of honeymoon; therefore it was arranged that we stay over, and drive home in a moonlight procession.

I am not built for bun worries, be they out of doors or in, and declined on the plea of important work. Besides, I saw by the look in Patsey's eyes that she also intended to refuse. I hoped that through some remarkable coincidence we might meet in the garden "at home," as we had the day before, but Caspian caught the coincidence this time, so I sulked in the house with man's most faithful dumb companion, a pipe. Caspian didn't stay with my little lady for long, so I hope she refused him and got it over with. Anyhow, she was in a delicious mood all the way to Kidd's Pines, as you may have assumed from the tone and indeed the very existence of this letter. We talked of impersonal things, never of ourselves and seldom of each other, and she was not as gay as when we began the trip, yet – never had she been so dear.

I began this letter with a partial promise to abide by your advice; but if you harshly tell me it's too late to change things, I'm afraid I shall go full speed ahead just the same. I won't, however, decide till I hear from you – not because I'm patient, but because the girl mustn't be "rushed" in any case. Besides, I shall very likely not see her to-day. I dropped the party at the door of Kidd's Pines in the dead middle of the night (forgot to tell you Caspian didn't come with us, but turned tail and went to New York: another sign!), garaged the Grayles-Grice, and biked to the village. I'll now try to sleep for an hour or two – less because I'm tired than because I want to dream myself back in the path of the moon, where walks Romance to greet me. My bed here, by the by, usually reminds me of a rack out of commission. But to-day I don't care. I shall find it a bed of roses.

Write as soon as you've thought things over, please. Or, better still, wire: "Advise yes," or – but I won't think of the alternative.

Either way, however, I'll still be yours loyally,

Pietro.

P.S. Can't sleep, can't dream. Something tells me all isn't well at Kidd's Pines. I had forebodings before we started that there'd be ructions when we got back, but I'd mislaid them under a thousand other thoughts. Seems a long time ago! But while I was trying to sleep just now, this came into my mind as if a voice spoke it: "Bridge the gulf that parts you from your wish, and you can walk across." I wish it were your voice said that, old man!

P.P.S. Talk of women with their postscripts! They're not in it with me. I keep leaping off the gridiron – I mean out of bed – again and again to add a word that threatens to burst my brain if bottled up. This time shall be the last! I only want to assure you that I'm not brooding over any coup of revenge against Caspian. My personal dislike of him has nothing to do with my attitude, except that the more I see of the worm the more I see what a worm he is. Not only is he unworthy to crawl in the same atmosphere with Miss Moore (don't smile sarcastically at that expression. I like it!) but he's more fitted for underground conditions than any caterpillar I ever met. Caterpillars change to butterflies. Worms, as far as my knowledge goes, are changeless. I don't feel revengeful against him. But I don't feel conscientious and dutiful for a cent!

XII

PATRICIA MOORE TO ADRIENNE DE MONCOURT

Chérie:

I have not the heart or the time for a long letter, but I must quickly tell you that our Marcel has a son. I asked P. S. But he seems not to think your new cousin can be the same. Soon, surely, he will himself say everything to you, and open his heart wide. Ah, how I wish you all there is of happiness, the more because I am not to have it myself.

The critics knew better about life than I, you see, Mignonne. Yet I am going to be brave. I have got myself engaged with Mr. Caspian already, since I wrote from the beautiful house. You will think that strange, but it came to happen in a simple way. It was at the dance at the Piping Rock Club. That sounds romantic, is it not? But it was not romantic at all. I just had to do it. Then, after a little while, I was very sorry. I thought perhaps I need not have made myself this misery. I was not nice to him the rest of that night, and the next day I would not let him take a snapshot of me in the wonderful garden. I said I had a copyright of my own face, if we were engaged! And I hoped that would make him break, but it did not. He was only in the sulks. And he does not look nice in the sulks. I was glad he had to go to New York and not motor home with us in the Grayles-Grice, and I could not be interested when he said in hints that his business in town had something to do with me– something I should like! I'm sure I cannot like it. And oh, chérie, he has such slept on looking ears, I dare not think of them: too flat, and crinkly at the top like inside lettuce leaves!

I was making up my mind all the way home in heavenly moonlight that it had been a mistake and I must jump out of it. This made me almost happy again – this, and watching Peter Storm drive, which I do like to see, he does it so well, so strongly, it seems to give you strength being near him.

But now I am at home and everything is changed, worse than when Larry was bankrupted. I found him almost engaged to Mrs. Shuster. He was doing it because of being poor, and to save me from the sacrifice. That was what he explained. So of course I told him I had promised to marry Mr. Caspian, and all would be right for us. He is going to get out of it with Mrs. Shuster if he can in honour. If he cannot I must try to dig him out. Larry matters so much more than I do! I wish I were being engaged in France instead of here, because there I think les jeunes filles do not have to kiss. Here, one says they do. But I will not!

I wish again thy happiness, dear one. Mine is lost. Would it do good if you prayed to Saint Anthony of Padua to find it for me again?

Nobody knows yet except Larry. I shall not tell Angéle. She would be pleased, and I should want to slap her!

Your poor

Patrice.

XIII

MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCÉDES LANE

Awepesha, Long Island,Wednesday.

Dearest Old Girl:

I shouldn't call you that if you weren't young and beautiful!

Jack and I have just sent you a cheap, enthusiastic cable containing the one word "Hurrah!" You will understand that our cheers ring across the Atlantic because Monty is mending well. Your letter came this morning with the good news. Biarritz will be a jolly place for his convalescence. I shall never forget when Jack and I were there together before we were engaged. Oh, with Aunt Mary Kedison, of course! And in Jack's car, my poor old Horror of accursed memory being burnt long before. Jack was "Brown" then, and my "Lightning Conductor" as he still is and ever shall be; though just at present when we motor I have to sit behind the scenes and make the lightning work. His wounds have left him stiff in the left arm and leg, but the doctors say he will really and truly be himself again in a few months: six or seven at most. I wish you the same luck with Monty, or better if possible.

By the way, we shall meet Aunt Mary again soon. She has been to the Bahamas for the winter, with a family of retired missionaries (I think they retired after one of them was eaten), but has come back to a house she owns in New England. We shall have to stop and say, "How do you do and good-bye" on our way somewhere else. I confess I dread it, for though Aunt Mary is as good as gold, or, anyhow, silver, she's one of those creatures who begin: "You know I'm a very truthful woman," whenever they have a disagreeable personal remark to make. You've met the type! They're mostly women; and they dissolve in tears and think you cruel as dozens of graves if you retort in kind. I expect Aunt Mary's (almost) first words to Jack will be, "Well, Mr. Winston – (oh, Captain is it, Molly?) – I'm glad to see that my niece and you continue to get along fairly. You're aware I never could approve on principle of these international matches, or mismatches; American women ought to marry men of their own country, if they must marry at all." (She's never forgiven me for snubbing her pet, Jimmy Payne, now a terribly respectable husband and Poopa.) "Still, there can be exceptions, and evidently you don't bully my niece, as it's established that most Englishmen do their wives, for she's looking well considering her age. Let me see, she was born in the year – " But at this point I shall interrupt Aunt Mary by a bright remark about the weather, or a bludgeon if the weather won't work!

I thank our lucky stars (Jack and I have a skyful) that we're going to do another trip before we start for New England. Of course I want my ewe-lion (I've named him that behind his back since he turned warrior) to see all of my dear country he can before we have to sail again; but it's too bad such a lovely part as New England should be infested by aunts, isn't it? It's called the "Ideal Tour," I believe – through the White Mountains and some green and blue ones, etc. – but for Jack and me it will have a drawback. People used to be torn to death by wild horses. That's not done in the best circles now; but it's perfectly admissible, alas, to be talked to death by wild aunts.

I'm charmed that you're so interested in Patsey Moore and Peter Storm. The latter, as I wrote, has developed into her "Lightning Conductor." Indeed, in some ways Jack and he are alike: for you know Jack "Brown-ed" himself in order to conduct me; and I can't help thinking that our Stormy Petrel isn't as Stormy as he's painted. Now I know him so well, I don't let my mind dwell on the possibility of his being less worthy of our intense interest than he seems. If there's anything hidden, it's "buried treasure," such as we hope against hope may exist at Kidd's Pines.

It's not very long, as the crow flies – I mean the post – since I wrote you last; but I do think more things can happen in America to the square minute than anywhere else in the world. Especially at Kidd's Pines! It's like living in a "movie" when they are running the reels off fast. Why, our reels go so quickly you hardly know what's happened to the "walking men and women", and it's even difficult to tell the hero from the villain.

That sounds frivolous, but it's serious really. I should be very sad if I weren't hoping that Jack and Peter Storm and I may be able to combine together and stop things from going all to bits.

At present everything to do with "heart interest" is horrid– except some things that are funny. And the people they're happening to can't see the fun in them as the outsiders – Jack and I – can. Naturally there would be heaps of heart interest, all over the place, wherever Patty was; and that would be all right if Larry weren't simply followed around by it too, the way actor-managers are by the spotlight. When we were doing our delicious motor run around Long Island, getting acquainted with the old whalers, and Indian chieftains, and golfers and millionairesses, it was sweet to see how Pat was unconsciously taming our Stormy Petrel to eat out of her hand. Even Jack saw it happening, so it must have been pretty obvious, because men never can see other people's love stories going on under their noses. I knew as well as if he'd told me, that Peter Storm would rather be torpedoed again than fall in love and settle down. Besides though none but the brave deserve the fair, few but the rich ever get them. And I suppose the Stormy One can't be rich, whatever else he may be. Perhaps he was once, and lost all his money; for he certainly has the look of a banished prince, and the long-distance manner of one, if he doesn't like anybody or is bored. But strong as he may be in many ways, he could not resist Pat when he was in a motor car with her day after day. Jack and I would have bet (if that hadn't been callous) as to whether he'd cave in far enough to propose; and if I had bet I should have lost. But it wouldn't have been my fault. It would have been Ed Caspian's. Jimmy Payne at his worst wasn't a patch on him.

How the man managed it I can't conceive (as Pat is of an almost exaggerated and clamlike loyalty), but she arrived at Kidd's Pines at the end of that short trip engaged to Caspian!

I didn't know till the next day; didn't know that, or the rest. You see, we finished up with a moonlight run from the gorgeous house I wrote you a postcard about. We were late, for the Faust-cry in our hearts was communicated to our speed: "Linger awhile: thou art so fair!" Jack and I didn't stop at Kidd's Pines at all, though they asked us in to have night-blooming sandwiches and such things. We went straight on to Awepesha and slept the sleep of the moderately just. Pat had promised to 'phone in the morning, and did. She merely asked how we were, and said she was well; but I could tell from her voice that something dreadful was the matter. I dashed over in the car before Jack was dressed, ready with an excuse about a book I wished to borrow, and was so early that I found myself colliding – nay, telescoping – with the breakfast brigade of the "hotel."

Pat doesn't break her fast with the paying guest, however: she's an early bird, though her pet aversion is a worm. I sent a message to her room (the smallest in the house) and was invited to go up. There was a cloud of cigar smoke in the air, and as Pat doesn't smoke, I deduced a miraculously matinal call from Larry. That alone was an omen of catastrophe, for Larry is either up all night or not before 10 A. M. And Pat's face was worse than an omen. I could see behind her poor little smile of greeting, right into her mind, as if her head had been a watch with nothing but glass over the works.

"Good gracious, darling, whatever is it?" I gasped.

"Nothing," said she, "except – except that Tom has toothache, and I'm sorry for him."

"That boy has got a regular rush of teeth to the head!" I snapped. "Never mind him. It's you I'm interested in. Dear baby, your nosebud is quite pink. You've been crying – not for Tom's tooth."

"Maybe I got sunburned motoring," she paltered with me.

"Nonsense! You've a sunproof complexion, as well as waterproof hair. Out with it, darling!"

"You talk like a dentist," Pat put off the evil moment.

"I hope your dentist doesn't call you 'darling.' Mine wouldn't twice. Seriously, my child, I don't want to intrude; but we're friends, aren't we? and I'm older than you (worse luck!), so you might let me help. Is it anything to do with housekeeping worries? Has the cook fainted on the breakfast bacon – or – "

With that – perhaps the picture was too awful! – she burst into tears. "Oh, Larry has promised Mrs. Shuster he'd marry her, and I must save him," she sobbed.

My dear Mercédes, you could have knocked me down with a dandelion seed! Positively my feet felt wobbly under me, like standing on poached eggs. Instantly I realized why the Dove of Peace hadn't wanted to go motoring with us happy, innocent mortals, and why Larry – hypnotized by Mrs. Shuster's money or his own fatal good nature – had pretended that he must stop at home to look after his guests. I wished I were as common as mud, and could have gasped out "Gosh!"

I've told you a good deal about Mrs. Shuster, haven't I? She's not a bad sort in her way – but for Larry, unthinkable! Yet I might have guessed. She's been doing her hair a new way lately, and powdering her face. For Larry to have to kiss it now would be exactly like kissing a marshmallow. She's so awkward, too: the least obstacle attracts her like a magnet to stumble over it, and Larry hates awkwardness. Then her clothes! She could force a fashion to change, simply by following it far enough; and she's taken to wearing such bright colours it would be more comfortable to look at her through smoked glasses. Oh, yes, I ought to have guessed!

"Save him?" I echoed. "We'll all save him."

"He says it's too late to back out, now, in honour," wailed Pat. "The Moores have always been ter-r-ibly honourable."

I thought from what I'd heard of some, not excepting Larry himself, that "terribly" was the word. I bit my heart and was silent, however, and Patsey went on: "I've done my very best. I've told him it wasn't necessary. I feel sure (though of course he's too chivalrous to say so of poor Mrs. Shuster) that he would nevaire marry her except for my good. Oh, dear, how I wish money were extinct!"

"It is almost, in lots of pockets and other places," I said. "You mean, you think Mr. Moore – er – chose this way of giving you a dot?"