CHAPTER VIII
LORD PETER'S S.O.S.
"The bath is ready, my lord."
Lord Peter Bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge thatanother day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously.For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he movednoiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether suchprecision and self-repression were natural or acquired.
To Bowen Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at whathour Bowen had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he had just shaved.In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governedby one law--order. He was noiseless, wordless, selfless. Bowen wasconvinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, Peelwould merely say: "His Lordship is not at home, sir."
Thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed theindividuality of negation. He looked nothing in particular, seemednothing in particular, did everything to perfection. His face was abarrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious: he betrayedneither emotion nor confidence. In short he was the most perfectgentleman's servant in existence.
"What's the time, Peel?" enquired Bowen.
"Seven forty-three, my lord," replied the meticulous Peel, glancing atthe clock on the mantel-piece.
"Have I any engagements to-day?" queried his master.
"No, my lord. You have refused to make any since last Thursdaymorning."
Then Bowen remembered. He had pleaded pressure at the War Office as anexcuse for declining all invitations. He was determined that nothingshould interfere with his seeing Patricia should she unbend. With thethought of Patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events.Bowen cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. Every act ofhis had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of Patricia.Even then things might have gone well if it had not been for hiswretched bad luck in being the son of a peer.
As he lay watching Peel, Bowen felt in a mood to condole with himself.Confound it! Surely it could not be urged against him as his faultthat he had a wretched title. He had been given no say in the matter.As for telling Patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out,"I'm a lord?" Supposing he had introduced himself as"Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen." How ridiculous it would havesounded. He had come to hate the very sound of the word "lord."
"It's ten minutes to eight, my lord."
It was Peel's voice that broke in upon his reflections.
"Oh, damn!" cried Bowen as he threw his legs out of bed and sat lookingat Peel.
"I beg pardon, my lord?"
"I said damn!" replied Bowen.
"Yes, my lord."
Bowen regarded Peel narrowly. He was confoundedly irritating thismorning. He seemed to be my-lording his master specially to annoy him.There was, however, no sign upon Peel's features or in his watery blueeyes indicating that he was other than in his normal frame of mind.
Why couldn't Patricia be sensible? Why must she take up this absurdattitude, contorting every action of his into a covert insult? Whyabove all things couldn't women be reasonable? Bowen rose, stretchedhimself and walked across to the bath-room. As he was about to enterhe looked over his shoulder.
"If," he said, "you can arrange to remind me of my infernal title aslittle as possible during the next few days, Peel, I shall feelinfinitely obliged."
"Yes, my lord," was the response.
Bowen banged the door savagely, and Peel rang to order breakfast.
During the meal Bowen pondered over the events of the previous evening,and in particular over Patricia's unreasonableness. His one source ofcomfort was that she had appealed to him to put things right about heraunt. That would involve his seeing her again. He did not, or wouldnot, see that he was the only one to whom she could appeal.
Bowen always breakfasted in his own sitting-room; he disliked hisfellow-men in the early morning. Looking up suddenly from the table hecaught Peel's expressionless eye upon him.
"Peel."
"Yes, my lord."
"Why is it that we Englishmen dislike each other so at breakfast?"
Peel paused for a moment. "I've heard it said, my lord, that we'rehalf an inch taller in the morning, perhaps our perceptions are moreacute also."
Bowen looked at Peel curiously.
"You're a philosopher," he said, "and I'm afraid a bit of a cynic."
"I hope not, my lord," responded Peel.
Bowen pushed back his chair and rose, receiving from Peel his cap,cane, and gloves.
"By the way," he said, "I want you to ring up Lady Tanagra and ask herto lunch with me at half-past one. Tell her it's very important, andask her not to fail me."
"Yes, my lord: it shall be attended to."
Bowen went out. Lady Tanagra was Bowen's only sister. As childrenthey had been inseparable, forced into an alliance by the overbearingnature of their elder brother, the heir, Viscount Bowen, who wouldsucceed to the title as the eighth Marquess of Meyfield. Bowen wasfive years older than his sister, who had just passed her twenty-thirdbirthday and, as a frail sensitive child, she had instinctively lookedto him for protection against her elder brother.
Their comradeship was that of mutual understanding. For one to say tothe other, "Don't fail me," meant that any engagement, howeverpressing, would be put off. There was a tacit acknowledgment thattheir comradeship stood before all else. Each to the other was unique.Thus when Bowen sent the message to Lady Tanagra through Peel askingher not to fail him, he knew that she would keep the appointment. Heknew equally well that it would involve her in the breaking of someother engagement, for there were few girls in London so popular as LadyTanagra Bowen.
Whenever there was an important social function, Lady Tanagra Bowen wassure to be there, and it was equally certain that the photographers ofthe illustrated and society papers would so manoeuvre that she cameinto the particular group, or groups, they were taking.
The seventh Marquess of Meyfield was an enthusiastic collector ofTanagra figurines and, overruling his lady's protestations, he haddetermined to call his first and only daughter Tanagra. Lady Meyfieldhad begged for a second name; but the Marquess had been resolute."Tanagra I will have her christened and Tanagra I will have hercalled," he had said with a smile that, if it mitigated the sternnessof his expression, did not in my way undermine his determination. LadyMeyfield knew her lord, and also that her only chance of ruling him wasby showing unfailing tact. She therefore bowed to his decision.
"Poor child!" she had remarked as she looked down at the frail littlemite in the hollow of her arm, "you're certainly going to be maderidiculous; but I've done my best," and Lord Meyfield had come acrossthe room and kissed his wife with the remark, "There you're wrong, mydear, it's going to help to make her a great success. Imagine, theLady Tanagra Bowen; why it would make a celebrity of the mostcommonplace female," whereat they had both smiled.
As a child Lady Tanagra had been teased unmercifully about her name, somuch so that she had almost hated it; but later when she had come tolove the figurines that were so much part of her father's life, she hadlearned, not only to respect, but to be proud of the name.
To her friends and intimates she was always Tan, to the less intimateLady Tan, and to the world at large Lady Tanagra Bowen.
She had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of beingproposed to by an undesirable of the name of Black.
"It's no good," she had said, "I could never marry you, no matter whatthe state of my feelings. Think how ridiculous we should both be,everybody would call us Black and Tan. Ugh! it sounds like a whisky aswell as a dog." Whereat Mr. Black had laughed and they remainedfriends, which was a great tribute to Lady Tanagra.
Exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human! Lady Tanagra Bowen wasa favourite wherever she went. She seemed incapable of making enemieseven amongst her own sex. Her taste in dress was as unerring as inliterature and art. Everything she did or said was without effort.She ha
d been proposed to by "half the eligibles and all the ineligiblesin London," as Bowen phrased it; but she declared she would never marryuntil Peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him.
At a quarter-past one when Bowen left the War Office, he found LadyTanagra waiting in her car outside.
"Hullo, Tan!" he cried, "what a brainy idea, picking up the poor, tiredwarrior."
"It'll save you a taxi, Peter. I'll tell you what to do with theshilling as we go along."
Lady Tanagra smiled up into her brother's face. She was always happywith Peter.
As she swung the car across Whitehall to get into the north-boundstream of traffic, Bowen looked down at his sister. She handled herbig car with dexterity and ease. She was a dainty creature withregular features, violet-blue eyes and golden hair that seemed to defyall constraint. There was a tilt about her chin that showeddetermination, and that about her eyebrows which suggested somethingmore than good judgment.
"I hope you weren't doing anything to-day, Tan," said Bowen as theycame to a standstill at the top of Whitehall, waiting for the removalof a blue arm that barred their progress.
"I was lunching with the Bolsovers; but I'm not well enough, I'mafraid, to see them. It's measles, you know."
"Good heavens, Tan! what do you mean?"
"Well, I had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficientexcuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks' standing.Quite a lot of people were invited to meet me."
"I'm awfully sorry," began Bowen apologetically.
"Oh, it's all right!" was the reply as the car jumped forward. "Ishall be deluged with fruit and flowers now from all sorts of people,because the Bolsovers are sure to spread it round that I'm in extremis.To-morrow, however, I shall announce that it was a wrong diagnosis."
Lady Tanagra drew the car up to the curb outside Dent's. "I think,"she said, indicating an old woman selling matches, "we'll give her theshilling for the taxi, Peter, shall we?"
Peter beckoned the old woman and handed her a shilling with a smile.
"Does it make you feel particularly virtuous to be charitable withanother's money?" he enquired.
Lady Tanagra made a grimace.
Over lunch they talked upon general topics and about common friends.Lady Tanagra made no reference to the important matter that had causedher to be summoned to lunch, even at the expense of having measles asan excuse. That was characteristic of her. She had nothing of awoman's curiosity, at least she never showed it, particularly withPeter.
After lunch they went to the lounge for coffee. When they had beenserved and both were smoking, Bowen remarked casually, "Got anyengagement for this afternoon, Tan?"
"Tea at the Carlton at half-past four, then I promised to run in to seethe Grahams before dinner. I'm afraid it will mean more flowers andfruit. Oh!" she replied, "I suppose I must stick to measles. I shallhave to buy some thanks for kind enquiries cards as I go home."
During lunch Bowen had been wondering how he could approach the subjectof Patricia. He could not tell even Tanagra how he had met her--thatwas Patricia's secret. If she chose to tell, that was another matter;but he could not. As a rule he found it easy to talk to Tanagra andexplain things; but this was a little unusual. Lady Tanagra watchedhim shrewdly for a minute or two.
"I think I should just say it as it comes, Peter," she remarked in acasual, matter-of-fact tone.
Bowen started and then laughed.
"What I want is a sponsor for an acquaintanceship between myself and agirl. I cannot tell you everything, Tan, she may decide to; but ofcourse you know it's all right."
"Why, of course," broke in Lady Tanagra with an air of conviction whichcontained something of a reproach that he should have thought itnecessary to mention such a thing.
"Well, you've got to do a bit of lying, too, I'm afraid."
"Oh! that will be all right. The natural consequence of a hightemperature through measles." Lady Tanagra saw that Bowen was ill atease, and sought by her lightness to simplify things for him.
"How long have I known her?" she proceeded.
"Oh! that you had better settle with her. All that is necessary is foryou to have met her somewhere, or somehow, and to have introduced me toher."
"And who is to receive these explanations?" enquired Lady Tanagra.
"Her aunt, a gorgon."
"Does the girl know that you are--that I am to throw myself into thebreach?"
"No," said Peter, "I didn't think to tell her. I said that I wouldarrange things. Her name's Patricia Brent. She's private secretary toArthur Bonsor of 426 Eaton Square, and she lives at Galvin HouseResidential Hotel, to give it its full title, 8 Galvin Street,Bayswater. Her aunt is to be at Galvin House at half-past five thisafternoon, when I have to be explained to her. Oh! it's most devilishawkward, Tan, because I can't tell you the facts of the case. I wishshe were here."
"That's all right, Peter. I'll put things right. What time does sheleave Eaton Square?"
"Five o'clock, I think."
"Good! leave it to me. By the way, where shall you be if I want to getat you?"
"When?"
"Say six o'clock."
"I'll be back here at six and wait until seven."
"That will do. Now I really must be going. I've got to telephone tothese people about the measles. Shall I run you down to Whitehall?"
"No, thanks, I think I'll walk," and with that he saw her into her carand turned to walk back to Whitehall, thanking his stars for beingpossessed of such a sister and marvelling at her wisdom. He had notthe most remote idea of how she would achieve her purpose; but achieveit he was convinced she would. It was notorious that Lady Tanagranever failed in anything she undertook.
While Bowen and his sister were lunching at the Quadrant, Patricia wasendeavouring to concentrate her mind upon her work. "The egregiousArthur," as she called him to herself in her more impatient moments,had been very trying that morning. He had been in a particularlyindeterminate mood, which involved the altering and changing of almostevery sentence he dictated. In the usual way he was content to tellPatricia what he wanted to say, and let her clothe it in fitting words;but this morning he had insisted on dictating every letter, with theresult that her notes had become hopelessly involved and she wasexperiencing great difficulty in reading them. Added to this was thefact that she could not keep her thoughts from straying to AuntAdelaide. What would happen that afternoon? What was Bowen going todo to save the situation? He had promised to see her through; but howwas he going to do it?