The Black House in Harley Street/Chapter 16

That good old English saying that you have got to live with people before you really know them was never better exemplified than in the case of the people thrown together on the Lorelei. To the two newly married couples, to Miss Lamotte, and to Macnaughten, their host and hostess had hitherto presented themselves in somewhat different guises to those which clothed them at closer quarters. The Earl had just the same stableboyish manners and speech, the Countess was just as frivolous and as babyish as on all previous occasions, but each, viewed from nearer standpoints, proved to have certain qualities which none of their guests had suspected them of possessing. They were admirable as host and hostess; they were unaffectedly pleased with their companions; they were both childishly simple in their ideas and tastes. One of Christopher's jokes would plunge the Earl into a seventh heaven of delight; the mere notion that she had two honeymooning couples under her wing gave the Countess an ample fund of pleasure. Everybody got on very well with everybody else, and the Earl grew loquacious and began to tell stories of his hunting and shooting. He had a limited vocabulary and very little ​choice of expression, but he had been everywhere and done and seen most things, and, once properly drawn out and listened to with sympathy, could tell of adventures with big game and of hairbreadth escapes in jungle and forest that were well worth listening to. He began to enjoy his evenings. The Lorelei was a magnificently equipped vessel, furnished with every luxury and carrying the Earl's famous chef, who knew better than he knew anything else how to please his master. And so there was the most excellent food and the finest wines every night, and under the sheltering deck afterwards there was music, and now and then dancing, and Christopher's witticisms, and Macnaughten's anecdotes of his adventurous life, and the Earl's stories of grizzly bears, hippopotami, and famous runs with the Pytchley—and everybody went to bed in the greatest of good humours, especially the host, who at the end of a fortnight told his Countess that, begad, this was the nicest lot o' people they'd ever had on board, and that he'd be damned if he'd ever have any Deans or Dukes or Dowagers again—not his line, begad!

As for Mr. Christopher Aspinall, now a married man, he began to develop qualms of conscience. And one day, lying in luxurious ease on soft cushions in a sheltered part of the after deck, the blue waters of a Norwegian fjord lapping idly against the sides of the motionless Lorelei, he addressed his bride, who sat at his side, pretending to be busily engaged with her fancy-work.

"Mrs. Aspinall—Mrs. Christopher Aspinall!"

​"Well, Mr. Aspinall?"

"Has it ever struck you—that is, of late—that you and I are rank impostors?"

"I can't say that it has."

"Well, we are—impostors of the deepest dye. Or else we are Something Else—Something Else in capitals, you understand."

"I don't understand a bit. Why are we Impostors or Something Else—in capitals?"

"Ah! However, I will explain. Am not I a tea merchant of London town?"

"I believe so. Yes, of course you are—junior partner in Pepperall, Tardrew, & Aspinall."

"Of a certainty. Are not you, then, a tea merchant's wife?"

"I am—also of London town."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Christopher Aspinall, there you're wrong. You are only of London town because of reflected glory through me—Me. None of the misguided people who are foolish enough to be born in those strange parts called the Provinces can ever be said to be of London town. I am a real Londoner. I was literally born within sound of Bow Bells—in Aldersgate, to be accurate. Now, you were born———"

"Very well. Why are we impostors—or something else?"

Christopher's voice assumed its most tragic tones.

"Because we are. Do eagles keep company with sparrows?"

"I should pity the sparrows if they did."

​"Well, perhaps. But we are soaring in high spheres. We are the guests of a belted earl. I've never seen the belt yet, and I doubt if Maxton knows where his has got to, if he ever had it—which I doubt still more. Now, why should we be the guests of the mighty?"

"Because we were invited to be. And it's awfully nice, Chris dear!"

"Sweetest of little women, it is indeed awfully nice! To be vulgar, it is real jam. It is equal to our very best at five and eleven per pound. But—I am a tea merchant. I cannot afford to live like a Hearl. When we live in our little humble home, where the once frolicsome kipper will make its appearance much more constantly than the lordly salmon, we shall———"

"Yes, we shall. We shall think of what a good time we had, and how kind our host and hostess———"

"Never remind me of my duties, Mrs. Christopher Aspinall. I trust that my feelings are what they should be. To be vulgar again, I have done myself a fair treat, and never had the bloomin' 'ump once—not even when left alone with you, as on this occasion."

"But you are threatening to have it. What do you want? Here you are with everything that man can desire—the most attentive and generous hosts, a yacht fit for the King, magnificent scenery, splendid weather, most beautiful cooking, and a charming wife! Can any reasonable man want more?"

Christopher lighted another cigar and smoked thoughtfully for a time.

"As I have previously remarked," he said at last, ​"I am a tea merchant of London town. My usual avocation is, in short, to sell tea—not in pennorths, nor even in pounds, but in Quantities. It is a peaceful avocation, necessitating little more savagery than is usually associated with the careers of those who are in—shall we say, in silk. Accordingly, when I come to sea with a Belted Earl I want Adventure, Romance, Blood! Here we are in the land of the Vikings. I haven't seen a Viking so far, neither have you. There have been no adventures, and the days of romance seem to have departed."

"And as for blood, I'm sure I want nothing of that sort," said Maisie. "You ought to be thankful for such peaceful days—it's like heaven!"

"All the same," said Christopher, "a leetle adventure, now—something to do with pirates, or buccaneers, or such—an interview with Captain Kidd or Paul Jones—wouldn't it lend a spice to the banquet?"

But Mrs. Aspinall, having everything that she wanted, protested that she was perfectly happy, and that her husband, after his wont, only talked for the sake of talking.

"And if Paul Jones or Captain Kidd suddenly appeared, you would go and hide in the cellar—if there is such a place in a ship," she added.

Something of the nature of a Captain Kidd or a Paul Jones was much closer at hand than Mr. Christopher Aspinall fancied.

They were lying off Trondhjem one morning some days later, when there came into the roadstead of that ​picturesque Norse city a craft which at first sight looked to be something like one of our own torpedo-destroyers—a long, raking, grey-hued thing which promised a race turn of speed. Seen at closer quarters, it proved to be a private steam-yacht, evidently designed for exceptional speed; and later in the day, some of the Lorelei's crew, returning from a short visit, brought back word that it was the Sparrow-Hawk, owned by Mr. Clifford Vanderkiste of San Francisco.

"That's a young 'Friscan millionaire," said Macnaughten, when this news arrived. "I've heard of him—they say he's having a high old time with old man Vanderkiste's dollars. Curious notion to paint his yacht that colour—just like a British battleship—dull grey."

The Earl agreed, and remarked, after much silent inspection of the Sparrow-Hawk, which had anchored within a mile, that they ought to have called her the Greyhound. He further gave it as his opinion that she could do a good twenty-seven knots an hour, which was just about seven knots more than the Lorelei could do.

"Don't know much about these things," he continued, in his usual modest fashion, "but that's the sort of craft you'd expect to find armed. Makes you think of guns and that sort of thing—torpedoes, you know, and mines, and so on, begad! Rum notion!"

That night the Lorelei and the Sparrow-Hawk lay side by side in the roadstead. There was a good deal of fun going on on board the former—the Countess was inclined for an evening's frivolity, and had pressed every member of her small party into "doing some​thing." She had also made investigations into the powers of the Lorelei's crew, and had discovered that one man was what his mates called a "champion clog-dancer," that a second was a most wonderful whistler, and that a third would have earned a very respectable living on the halls as a juggler. Lit up from stem to stern, the Lorelei presented a very gay appearance. The curiously dull-coloured craft swinging at her anchor across the dark waters showed nothing but her ordinary lights, and was as quiet as a tombstone in a village churchyard.

In the very midst of these festivities there was a splashing of oars in the neighbourhood of the Lorelei, and presently a boat came alongside, and a note was brought up from it to the Earl. It was a very polite note, and written in a bold hand on very distinguished-looking note-paper. Mr. Clifford Vanderkiste presented his compliments to the Earl and Countess of Maxton, of whose presence in his neighbourhood he had learnt that afternoon. He would be infinitely obliged to them if they would allow him to come over, and the only friend he had brought with him, and share in their merry-making, for they were feeling somewhat dull, and the sounds of rejoicing from the Lorelei made them feel that they too would like to rejoice. He was sure that the Earl and Countess would forgive him and so on, and so on.

The Earl and Countess at that moment would have forgiven a Red Indian who wanted to execute a war-dance in their drawing-room. They dispatched a hastily ​worded but very cordial invitation, and within half an hour were warmly welcoming Mr. Clifford Vanderkiste and his friend, whom he introduced as Mr. Halston Kelsey. Both were typical specimens of young America—big, well-built, strong-boned fellows, with clean-shaven, clear-cut faces, square jaws, and steady eyes, and each was immaculately attired. And Mr. Kelsey, as if to show that he intended to add to the gaiety of whatever was going on, carried a banjo. These two young gentlemen made themselves very quickly at home. Mr. Vanderkiste proved to be exceptionally clever in telling humorous stories; Mr. Kelsey excelled in singing coon songs to his own accompaniment. The Earl declared that they were good chaps, with no bloomin' side on 'em, and the Countess was delighted at the acquisition to her party. When the hilarities came to an end, and they all sat down to a jolly little supper, more was learnt of the visitors. They had come, just the two of them, right across from New York to Alexandria, and had been trifling about the Mediterranean during the early spring; had left the yacht at Genoa, and made an exhaustive trip in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland; joined the yacht again, and come round by way of Gibraltar to Cowes Regatta; and from there had made their way north. Now they were going as far into the Arctic regions as they dare, and then by Iceland and Spitzbergen back home. And they declared, when questioned by the inquisitive Countess, that they had never got sick of each other's company, and had never been dull until that night—adding, with great gallantry, that ​they would not have felt dull then if there had not been such irresistible attractions within such easy reach.

The Earl, as a yachtsman, wanted to know about the yacht. What made 'em paint it that dust-and-ashes colour? Mr. Vanderkiste said it was most serviceable for the hard work which the Sparrow-Hawk would have to do, and gave many learned reasons. Then the Earl wanted to know all about her—her tonnage, her speed. Whereupon Mr. Vanderkiste said that nothing would give him and his friend Mr. Kelsey such an infinitude of pleasure as to show his new friends over the Sparrow-Hawk, and he invited the whole party to breakfast on board her at ten o'clock that morning, which invitation was readily accepted. And it being already two o'clock, the proceedings broke up, Mr. Vanderkiste and Mr. Kelsey departing to an accompaniment of cheers, and the Countess declaring that it was one of the best evenings she had ever given.

Now, when he woke some six and a half hours later, Mr. Christopher Aspinall discovered that he had what vulgar people call "a head." He had a constitutional tendency to biliousness, and was easily upset by excitement, late hours, too many cigars, and too much champagne; and he realised upon this occasion, that instead of feasting with the 'Friscan millionaire at ten o'clock, he was much more likely to be occupied in bemoaning his lot and wondering whether strong tea or soda-water would do him most good. Anyway, he flatly refused to go across to the Sparrow-Hawk.

"It's no good, Maisie," he groaned. "If I got into a ​boat and saw the waves making faces at me, I should be very poorly. I should indeed! You go along with the rest, and leave me in my misery."

"As if I should leave my husband when he's ill—especially when we've only been married three weeks!" exclaimed Maisie. "What do you take me for, Christopher?"

"For an angel, my own. But you'd far better go, because you can't do any good; and when a chap's as bad as I am, he wants to be on his lonesome—he doesn't want to see anybody—no, not even his favourite grandmother!" groaned Christopher. "Go, Maisie—go and enjoy yourself while I die in peace—or in pieces."

"I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, and I shan't go," said Maisie. "How could I enjoy myself while you are groaning and moaning like that? I shall go and tell Lady Maxton that we are not going."

"Say that if I live till a little later I'll come over," moaned Christopher. "But at present I'm doubtful about anything except that I'm very, very ill. And I don't think I will have any tea—tea does not suit my liver."

Lord Maxton came and looked at Christopher, and having the digestion of an ostrich and the head of a brass statue, laughed joyously.

"Got a head on, old chap?" he said. "Have a half-pint of the Boy. Or let Saunders mix you a pick-me-up—knows a rare trick or two with Worcester sauce and raw eggs, does Saunders, begad! Do him all the good in the world, I assure you, Mrs. Aspinall. Buck up, old ​chap—see you later. Sorry you ain't comin', Mrs. Aspinall. Try Saunders—experienced hand, Saunders."

So the rest of the party, with much condolence for Christopher and regrets that Maisie's wifely sense of duty prevented her from accompanying them, set off for the Sparrow-Hawk, while the sick man, disdaining the tea and toast which his bride pressed upon him, took his host's advice and sent for Saunders, who diagnosed the case in a second.

"If you will go to breakfast, ma'am," he said, "I'll have Mr. Aspinall all right very soon. You'll feel as fit as a fiddle, sir, in an hour."

"Well, let me know when you're better, Chris," said Maisie, and went off to breakfast alone on deck. She was glad, she said to herself, that she had not gone with the others—it was very pleasant, after the noise and racket of last night's festivities, to sit there and breakfast quietly with the waves lapping lazily against the sides of the yacht and the sunlight flooding earth and sky and sea. The moments went by in calm content.

A sharp crack, as of a rifle, aroused her. She glanced up in the direction of the Sparrow-Hawk. So, too, did one of the yacht's crew standing near. What they saw sent Maisie flying down the companion to Christopher, to whom Saunders had just administered comfort. She burst in—panting.

"Chris! Saunders! Come—quick! There's something wrong on the Sparrow-Hawk!"