‘Fleur!’ thought Michael; and clanging the last window down, he ran upstairs.
She was sitting up in bed, with a face all round, and young, and startled.
‘Brutes!’ he thought—guns and the heavens confounded in his mind: ‘They’ve waked her up!’
“It’s all right, darling! Just another little summer kick-up! Were you asleep?”
“I was dreaming!” He felt her hand clutching within his own, saw a sudden pinched look on her face, with a sort of rage. What infernal luck!
“Where’s Ting?”
No dog was in the corner.
“Under the bed—you bet! Would you like him up?”
“No. Let him stay; he hates it.”
She put her head against his arm, and Michael curled his hand round her other ear.
“I never liked thunder much!” said Fleur,” and now it—it hurts!”
High above her hair Michael’s face underwent the contortions of an overwhelming tenderness. One of those crashes which seem just overhead sent her face burrowing against his chest, and, sitting on the bed, he gathered her in, close.
“I wish it were over,” came, smothered, from her lips.
“It will be directly, darling; it came on so suddenly!” But he knew she didn’t mean the storm.
“If I come through, I’m going to be quite different to you, Michael.”
Anxiety was the natural accompaniment of such events, but the words, “If I come through” turned Michael’s heart right over. Incredible that one so young and pretty should be in even the remotest danger of extinction; incredibly painful that she should be in fear of it! He hadn’t realised. She had been so calm, so matter-of-fact about it all.
“Don’t!” he mumbled; “of course you’ll come through.”
“I’m afraid.”
The sound was small and smothered, but the words hurt horribly. Nature, with the small ‘n,’ forcing fear into this girl he loved so awfully! Nature kicking up this godless din above her poor little head!
“Ducky, you’ll have twilight sleep and know nothing about it; and be as right as rain in no time.”
Fleur freed her hand.
“Not if it’s not good for him. Is it?”
“I expect so, sweetheart; I’ll find out. What makes you think—?”
“Only that it’s not natural. I want to do it properly. Hold my hand hard, Michael. I—I’m not going to be a fool. Oh! Some one’s knocking—go and see.”
Michael opened the door a crack. Soames was there—unnatural—in a blue dressing gown and scarlet slippers!
“Is she all right?” he whispered.
“Yes, yes.”
“In this bobbery she oughtn’t to be left.”
“No, sir, of course not. I shall sleep on the sofa.”
“Call me, if anything’s wanted.”
“I will.”
Soames’ eyes slid past, peering into the room. A string worked in his throat, as if he had things to say which did not emerge. He shook his head, and turned. His slim figure, longer than usual, in its gown, receded down the corridor, past the Japanese prints which he had given them. Closing the door again, Michael stood looking at the bed. Fleur had settled down; her eyes were closed, her lips moving. He stole back on tiptoe. The thunder, travelling away south, blundered and growled as if regretfully. Michael saw her eyelids quiver, her lips stop, then move again. ‘Coue!’ he thought.
He lay down on the sofa at the foot of the bed, whence, without sound, he could raise himself and see her. Many times he raised himself. She had dropped off, was breathing quietly. The thunder was faint now, the flashes imperceptible. Michael closed his eyes.
A faint last mutter roused him to look at her once more, high on her pillows by the carefully shaded light. Young—young! Colourless, like a flower in wax! No scheme in her brain, no dread—peaceful! If only she could stay like that and wake up with it all over! He looked away. And there she was at the far end, dim, reflected in a glass; and there to the right, again. She lay, as it were, all round him in the pretty room, the inhabiting spirit—of his heart.
It was quite still now. Through a chink in those powder-blue curtains he could see some stars. Big Ben chimed one.
He had slept, perhaps, dozed at least, dreamed a little. A small sound woke him. A very little dog, tail down, yellow, low and unimportant, was passing down the room, trailing across it to the far corner. ‘Ah!’ thought Michael, closing his eyes again: ‘You!’
Chapter XII.
ORDEAL BY SHAREHOLDER
Repairing, next day, to the Aeroplane Club, where, notably spruce, Sir Lawrence was waiting in the lounge, Michael thought: ‘Good old Bart! he’s got himself up for the guillotine all right!’
“That white piping will show the blood!” he said. “Old Forsyte’s neat this morning, but not so gaudy.”
“Ah! How is ‘Old Forsyte’? In good heart?”
“One doesn’t ask him, sir. How do you feel yourself?”
“Exactly as I used to before the Eton and Winchester match. I think I shall have shandy-gaff at lunch.”
When they had taken their seats, Sir Lawrence went on:
“I remember seeing a man tried for murder in Colombo; the poor fellow was positively blue. I think my favourite moment in the past, Michael, is Walter Raleigh asking for a second shirt. By the way, it’s never been properly settled yet whether the courtiers of that day were lousy. What are you going to have, my dear fellow?”
“Cold beef, pickled walnuts, and gooseberry tart.”
“Excellent for the character. I shall have curry; they give you a very good Bombay duck here. I rather fancy we shall be fired, Michael. ‘Nous sommes trahis!’ used to be the prerogative of the French, but I’m afraid we’re getting the attitude, too. The Yellow Press has made a difference.”
Michael shook his head.
“We say it, but we don’t act on it; the climate’s too uncertain.”
“That sounds deep. This looks very good curry—will you change your mind? Old Fontenoy sometimes comes in here; he has no inside. It’ll be serious for him if we’re shown the door.”
“Deuced rum,” said Michael suddenly, “how titles still go down. There can’t be any belief in their business capacity.”
“Character, my dear fellow—the good old English gentleman. After all, there’s something in it.”
“I fancy, sir, it’s more a case of complex in the shareholders. Their parents show them a lord when they’re young.”
“Shareholders,” said Sir Lawrence; “the word is comprehensive. Who are they, what are they, when are they?”
“This afternoon,” said Michael, “and I shall have a good look at them.”
“They won’t let you in, my dear.”
“No?”
“Certainly not.”
Michael frowned.
“What paper,” he said, “is sure not to be represented?”
Sir Lawrence gave his whinnying laugh.
“The Field,” he said; “The Horse and Hound; The Gardener’s Weekly.”
“I’ll slide in on them.”
“You’ll see us die game, I hope,” said Sir Lawrence, with sudden gravity.
They took a cab together to the meeting, but separated before reaching the door of the hotel.
Michael had thought better of the Press, and took up a position in the passage, whence he could watch for a chance. Stout men, in dark suits, with a palpable look of having lunched off turbot, joints, and cheese, kept passing him. He noticed that each handed the janitor a paper. ‘I’ll hand him a paper, too,’ he thought, ‘and scoot in.’ Watching for some even stouter men, he took cover between two of them, and approached the door, with an announcement of ‘Counterfeits’ in his left hand. Handing it across a neighbouring importance, he was quickly into a seat. He saw the janitor’s face poked round the door. ‘No, my friend,’ thought Michael, ‘if you could tell duds from shareholders, you wouldn’t be in that job!’
He found a report before him, and holding it up, looked at other things. The room seemed to him to have been got by a concert-hall out of a station waiting-room. It had a platform with a long table, behind which were seven empty chairs, and seven inkpots, with seven quill pens upright in them. ‘Quills!’ thought Michael; ‘symbolic, I suppose—they’ll all use fountain-pens!’