# The Windsor Magazine/'The Engagement Is Announced...'

Extracted from The Windsor Magazine, Vol 66 1927, pp. 379–393. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted. [#Duchess Laura]
"THE ENGAGEMENT IS ANNOUNCED ..."
By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER
"DORA MELCHARD is very anxious I should call on Lady Dovedale. Dora's girl is actually staying at Baycombe Place now, and her mother evidently hopes we will ask her to come to us for a few days."
The Duchess looked up from the letter that she was reading. She valued very much the quiet half-hour which she and the Duke always spent in her own sitting-room together, before they went down to breakfast. Unlike the great majority of her friends, the Duchess did not breakfast in bed. A large shooting-party was being entertained at the Castle just now, so she and the Duke did not see as much of one another as usual.
"Dora Melchard's girl?" he murmured, looking up from his newspaper. "If she's as dull and tiresome and pompous as Lady Melchard has always been, then I advise we don't have her."
The Duchess smiled. "The child's utterly unlike her mother. I'm told she's very showy, as well as tremendously modern and go-ahead."
"If that's true Lady Melchard must feel like an old hen who's hatched out a bird of paradise!"
The Duchess nodded. "Poor Dora was born a generation too late. She belongs by right to the days of our grandmothers. Yet, though I know you won't believe it, she was very attractive, in a demure kind of way. At one time I was dreadfully afraid that my dear father was thinking of marrying her. She would certainly have made an excellent chaperon!"
"She certainly liked 'em old," chuckled the Duke. "Old Toddlekins must have been about a hundred when she married him."
"By that time she must have been well on in the thirties," said the Duchess thoughtfully. "People thought that marriage a very foolish one, but it turned out quite a success."
"Did you ever see the old chap's wonderful collection of gems, Laura?"
"I never did; but I can remember Papa saying that Lord Melchard had an innocent fancy for precious stones and women—both unpolished. But, seriously, James, what am I to do about the Dovedales?"
"'When in doubt abstain,'" murmured the Duke sententiously.
"Yet I suppose sometimes it's a good thing to have a new man reigning over old acres? All the same, I was terribly grieved when the poor dear Pincotes had to sell that beautiful old house," and then she sighed. "Sir John Dovedale is tremendously rich, you know, James. Perhaps I ought to have called on Lady Dovedale when they first came into the neighbourhood——"
"Now, Laura? Don't make me force you to listen again to my favourite story!"
"Your favourite story, dearest?"
"My favourite drawing-room story."
"I'm quite ready to hear it again, my love. I delight in your stories!"
My story is that of the man whose wife said to him, 'Do let's go and see them; they're so rich,' to which he replied, 'I would if it was catching——' Now that's how I feel about these Dovedales! If Sir John Dovedale could show me a way by which I can so manage matters that your son Robin won't be ruined when he comes to pay death duties, then I'd willingly entertain the mammon of unrighteousness."
"I'm told that Lady Dovedale, though she's a nice woman herself, has such dreadful friends—and that their house-parties are so rowdy."
"As they won't expect us to go to their rowdy parties, I don't see that that matters."
"Then it's all right! I mean I may call on Lady Dovedale? Dora Melchard makes a great point of my doing so. She seemed to think it would make a difference to her girl. I'd like to oblige Dora. Though we never meet nowadays, she's a very old friend, after all——"
"And you've certainly something to be grateful for, if she really refused your father," observed the Duke.
And then he saw that he had made a mistake, for the Duchess looked what she hardly ever did look, ruffled.
"I never said that my father had asked Dora to marry him. I'm sure he did no such thing! She would have jumped at him, if he had. I only said that when I was a very young and silly girl I was afraid he was thinking of doing so."
Forming part of the shooting-party was a widowed American lady called Mrs. Alexis Todd. The Duchess had come across her in London, and had taken a fancy to Mrs. Todd; also she was vaguely aware that one of her bachelor guests, an ex-ambassador named Lord Amersham, would certainly be pleased if he and this lady were asked at the same time.
Now Mrs. Alexis Todd also always came down to breakfast, and as hostess and guest greeted one another this morning, the Duchess suddenly bethought herself that here was the ideal companion for her forthcoming call on Lady Dovedale. As is so often the case with American women, Mrs. Alexis Todd had the valuable social gift of making herself agreeable to everyone she came across. She never looked or felt bored, neither was she ever what old-fashioned people call gauche.
The Duchess had a further reason for wishing this new friend to accompany her this afternoon. She had been somewhat startled, and also in a mild way thrilled, by a confidence which Lord Amersham had made her that evening.
"Duchess?" he had observed suddenly, "I want to tell you how glad I am you have asked that charming lady to stay here," and he had inclined his head towards the distant corner where Mrs. Alexis Todd was making herself very pleasant to a shy neighbouring squire who had been asked to dinner. "I'm sure that some gossip has already told you that we are becoming great friends?"
As the Duchess smiled assent, he went on, speaking more seriously, "I fear that during this last season that delightful woman became acquainted with a very queer set of people. She gave some small dances to which she invited the rag-tag and bobtail. She did not ask me to these gatherings, where indeed I should have felt like a ghost, for they were composed, or so I hear, of more young folk than old."
"You do surprise me!" exclaimed the Duchess. Not only was Mrs. Alexis Todd childless, but she was nearer fifty than forty.
"The kind of people among whom she has drifted like her only because of her money, I fear. And also, incidentally, because she took for the season an enormous house, famous for its double ballroom. Now I want you, Duchess, to do me a kindness——"
His hostess answered at once, "Of course I will!" But she felt a little nervous. She was so afraid that he was going to ask her to be a matrimonial envoy! The Duchess did not believe in even autumnal love by proxy—though once or twice she had undertaken something of the kind, and generally with happy results.
"I want you to find out," he said gravely, "if our friend really likes the section of London society into which she has lately drifted? If she does, not only would she be unhappy as my wife, but I most certainly should not be happy as her husband! I can't forget"—he spoke with a certain emotion, "what happened to poor Fraylington. He would be alive to-day if he hadn't married that selfish, silly woman who would drag him about to wherever there was a candle alight! Money may mean more than it ever did," he went on, "but even money can be bought too dear, as I once heard a countryman of our pleasant friend, yonder, express it."
"I do hope," said the Duchess in a low voice, "that you really like dear Mrs. Todd? It's very hard on a woman to be married for her money."
"I'm ready to adore her!" he exclaimed in a hurt tone. "She's so kind, so unaffected, so good-humoured, and——"
"And what?" she asked anxiously.
"'Her nonsense suits my nonsense,'" he quoted gaily, and his hostess felt reassured.
"Why, Duchess, this is delightful, and I feel quite honoured."
There was a twinkle in the still bright eyes of the lady who made this half-jesting remark. The motor was gliding along at a good pace, but not too quickly, for the Duchess hated going too fast on a charming country road which led to stately Baycombe Place.
"Tell me something about the people we're going to see. I suppose they are old-fashioned country gentry, such as one reads of in dear Anthony Trollope's novels?"
"Not exactly that," answered the Duchess. "As a matter of fact, I haven't met them yet. Their name is Dovedale—Sir John and Lady Dovedale."
And then out came one of the few Americanisms uttered by Mrs. Alexis Todd since her arrival at the Castle. "You don't say!" she exclaimed, in a surprised tone.
"D'you know them?"
"I know old John a little, and young John better than I want to do. He's anything but a bright lad, and in not at all what I should call a nice set."
"What is Sir John Dovedale like?" asked the Duchess.
Illustration: JUDITH MELCHAED.
She really wanted to know, if only because she knew that the Duke would be compelled, in time, to be "on terms" with the man who, by reason of his vast wealth, was already becoming a great county magnate.
"Sir John," was the cautious answer, "seems all right to me. He's just a big business man of the kind of which there are so many in my country. But—well, I don't think much of the company he keeps! He spends what spare time he has surrounded by a lot of old roués while his son is being toadied by a lot of young rascals."
"Oh dear!" cried the Duchess, dismayed. "That sounds very bad? They have a big party staying with them now, and in their party is a girl I have not seen since she was a child, and whom I am curious to see, for I've known her mother, Lady Melchard, all my life——"
"You don't mean a girl they call Judith Melchard?" exclaimed Mrs. Alexis Todd in some excitement.
"I do indeed. She must be odd in a way, for her real name is Beatrice, yet she insists on being called Judith!" The Duchess began to laugh, "She said, I believe, that 'Beatrice' was a horrid, old-fashioned name, and that 'Judith' sounded much better——"
"Judith Melchard," said Mrs. Alexis Todd slowly, "will give you a shock, Duchess. I don't suppose you've ever seen anything quite like Judith Melchard."
"Really? What is there so extraordinary about her? I know her mother thinks her far too modern."
The Duchess noted a peculiar look on the other's face.
"Is there any mystery about Judith Melchard? I hope not!" she exclaimed. And she was sincere in what she said, for she had already written to Lady Melchard to say that she was calling on the Dovedales, and would try and arrange that Judith should come on from Baycombe Place to the Castle for a short visit.
"There's no mystery about Judith, and perhaps why I think her so—so peculiar, is that when I first came to England nearly four years ago, I got to know Lady Melchard quite well. Now in those days Judith was still 'Beatrice,' and a girl more well-behaved and homely—that's American for plain, you know—you couldn't see. Though she was eighteen she was so quiet and so meek that to watch her was quite a painful sight to a free-born American woman who'd been young once! She never spoke until she was spoken to, scarcely raised her eyes—even when a none-too-young gentleman deigned to take notice of her, in the way mature gentlemen do of a sweet young girl. She'd never been out by herself, at any rate not in London, alone. She still had a Gorgon of a governess, and she was fat, distinctly fat——"
"Dora Melchard couldn't expect her daughter to go on looking like what you describe, Mrs. Todd. I don't wonder the poor child took the bit between her teeth!"
The Duchess waited a moment. "How well I remember the day that girl was born! She is the exact age of our eldest daughter. Or, rather, my girl is two or three days older than Dora Melchard's girl. The Duke came into my room, laughing, and when I wanted to join in the fun, 'You're not the only proud parent to-day, Laura,' he exclaimed. 'Who d'you think has got a baby, and a girl too, worse luck?' I couldn't guess, so at last he told me, 'Old Melchard—Old Toddlekins has got a daughter,' he said, 'born this morning'——"
"The Duke is a very bright man," said the American lady reflectively, and, the Duchess couldn't help thinking, rather irrelevantly. "The fact that Miss Judith's papa was nicknamed 'Old Toddlekins' perhaps explains something about her which makes her seem different from other girls."
"D'you mean eccentric?" asked the Duchess, puzzled.
"Why no, not eccentric, exactly—— But, maybe, what we at home call 'fresh.' Judith Melchard is certainly a little 'fresh.'"
"She doesn't sound very nice."
"Now that she's cut herself off from her dull home, the girl's just going the pace, as Lord Amersham would say."
"She's very little money to go the pace on," observed the Duchess reflectively, "for Old Toddlekins' money all had to go with the title."
"She may make a little money racing," murmured Mrs. Alexis Todd.
"What an extraordinary change must have come over the girl!" exclaimed the Duchess. "I mean how very different she must be from when you first knew her?"
"Different?" cried Mrs. Alexis Todd in a dramatic tone. "I should say she was different! However, don't go by what I say, Duchess; you just judge her yourself."
But, to the disappointment of both ladies, most of the house-party at Baycombe Place, including their hostess and Miss Melchard, had gone for the day to a race-meeting which was being held in the next county.
That very same evening, however, there came by hand a prettily worded note from Lady Dovedale, asking the Duke and Duchess if they would waive ceremony, and come to dinner at Baycombe Place the following Saturday. Sir John was starting for South America in ten days, and much desired to discuss with the Duke a matter likely to be of great local interest to them both.
"I think we may as well accept," said the Duchess eagerly, "I do so want to know what they are really like——"
"Curiosity—thy name is woman!" exclaimed the Duke, thus signifying his assent.
II.
As the Duke and Duchess walked across the great hall of splendid Baycombe Place, each was remembering the last time they had dined here, just before their old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Pincote, had left the house for ever. The Duchess recalled every moment of that tragic last visit—how an ancient servitor about to be pensioned had opened the front door, and then silently led them through the ill-lighted vestibule, into the high dark hall over which there then brooded an air of tragedy.
Now the whole house was brilliantly, almost garishly, lighted, and the hall looked like a stage scene, even the splendid armoured men-at-arms standing in each corner appearing unnaturally spick and span.
"I'm afraid, your Grace, that her ladyship is not down yet," said the stately butler suavely. "Dinner is at a quarter to nine."
The Duke looked at the Duchess, but her conscience was quite clear. "Lady Dovedale mentioned half-past eight in her note," she said quietly.
"Her ladyship do say that as a rule, your Grace, because Sir John likes dinner to be very punctual."
As he spoke he opened the door of what had been called, in the Pincotes' day, the cedar drawing-room. There remained nothing, now, to remind either of Lady Dovedale's guests of the apartment where gentle Mrs. Pincote had been wont to receive her friends and neighbours. For many years before the final crash everything of value in Baycombe Place had made its way, quietly, unobtrusively, to Christie's; but now it was as if the wealth of the Indies, so the Duchess told herself, had been poured into the beautifully shaped old apartment. The walls were hung with turquoise blue silk; over the mantelpiece was a famous picture of a group of three lovely sisters by Reynolds; and a pair of superb tapestry panels hung each side of a door which led into the dining-room. As to the furniture, each cabinet, each couch, even each occasional chair, was what is termed "a museum piece." So much could the visitors see, though the lights had not yet all been turned up.
"What a wonderful room," murmured the Duchess, "and what beautiful things, James!"
"I call it——" then he stopped, for words failed him with which to express his dislike of the almost oppressive splendour about them. Then, all at once—"Laura? Do look at that!" he exclaimed, under his breath.
The Duchess followed the direction of his eyes, and gradually she saw that, far away, in the farthest corner of the great drawing-room, and illumined by a reading-lamp, stood, half in shadow, a peculiar-looking figure. For a moment she wondered whether that curiously dead-white, oval face, vividly detached against a dark silk curtain, was that of a boy or a girl. But the doubt lasted only for a moment, for as the figure, slight to attenuation, moved a little forward, she saw that it was certainly that of a young woman, not that of a young man.
Above the dead-white face, in which the eyes looked like dark fathomless pools, the short-clipped red-gold hair was brushed straight back, the latest type, though the Duchess had not yet heard the expression, of what was beginning to be known as "the Eton crop." The black satin dress was made so close up to the neck as to produce a ghastly effect—that of the wearer's head having been cut off. Both long thin arms were bare to the shoulder; but on the left arm gleamed two dozen or more brilliant paste bracelets.
Suddenly the right hand shot up, and in one of the dark eyes was cocked an eye-glass. And then the same hand sought, as if blindly, for a crystal box on the table where stood the reading-lamp, and, extracting a cigarette twice the usual length, lit it, and pushed it between the scarlet lips.
"James! I do believe that's Dora's girl."
As the Duchess whispered the words in a tone of horror, the door behind her opened, and two ladies walked into the room.
Under cover of their entrance, the Duke answered, "Dora's girl? You mean Dora's monster!"
The ladies who had just come in took no notice of the three people who were already in the room; instead they went on talking unconcernedly to one another. According to the Duchess's old-fashioned notions, both of them had very bad manners.
Going swiftly across the room, "I think you must be Judith Melchard, my dear?" she exclaimed.
The girl started; she jerked the eyeglass out of her eye, and answered at once, in a soft, rather affected, voice, which was so like her mother's that the Duchess felt startled, "I'm so glad to see you, Duchess! I got your kind message. It's most awfully kind of you to ask me to stay with you——"
Illustration: "And then the same hand sought, as if blindly, for a crystal box on the table where stood the reading-lamp."
And, as the Duke had now approached, "I feel as if I know you, for Mummy used to talk of you so often!"
She was still addressing the Duchess, while gazing at the stony face of the Duke.
"James? This is Judith Melchard. She's coming to stay with us for a few days."
"We shall be very pleased to see you," he said coldly. "But I'm afraid you'll find us very quiet people, Miss Melchard——"
"I'm longing to be quiet," murmured the girl. And then she said disdainfully, "Isn't this room awful?"
"Awful? Why, my dear, I think it's one of the most beautiful rooms I have ever seen!"
"It stinks of money. This little table alone cost thirteen hundred pounds, and in a sale-room, too, so that it's real value. The Dovedales always exact full value for everything they spend."
The Duchess felt a movement of recoil. What a cruel, ungrateful way to speak of the people in whose house one was being entertained! After all, this extraordinary-looking girl was not obliged to stay with the Dovedales.
But as these thoughts were flitting through her mind, she saw a lady who was obviously the hostess hurry into the room, accompanied by her husband. And perhaps just because of the girl's passionate tone of disdain the Duchess glanced at the couple with more care than she would otherwise have bestowed on them.
Illustration: "'James! I do believe that's Dora's girl.'"
Sir John Dovedale looked what he was—a hard, intelligent man of business, who had built up a vast fortune by his own individual efforts, and who was proud of it. The only disagreeable thing about him was his air of slightly supercilious satisfaction. Lady Dovedale was a nervous, delicate-looking woman, and wearing, to-night, a dress of almost absurd magnificence. What is called in France a "robe de style," it was of pale oyster-tinted satin, trimmed with gorgeous hand embroidery embossed with pearls.
Little by little, evidently in no hurry to be punctual, the rest of the party drifted in, the Duchess recognising among her fellow-guests only two local worthies.
At last, some ten minutes after a superb Chippendale clock had chimed a quarter to nine, the two high doors which led into the dining-room were flung open, and Sir John gave his arm to the Duchess.
She found the dining-room of the grand old house comparatively little changed, though it appeared, naturally, very different from what it had looked when she had last dined here.
After everyone had sat down, and as two huge wooden bowls filled to the brim with caviare were being handed round, the Duchess began to take note of the people found her.
On the other side of her host was a squire's wife with whom she was already well acquainted. To her own left sat a middle-aged man of florid complexion and dissipated appearance, and she felt a little surprised when Sir John introduced him as "my brother Ralph." Beyond Mr. Ralph Dovedale sat Judith Melchard. And more and more, as the dinner progressed, was the Duchess absorbed in the problem presented by her old friend's daughter.
The girl did not look at all happy to-night. She only toyed with her food, but that no doubt was owing to a fear of losing her slim, boy-like, figure. As to her face, it was powdered so thickly as to give her a mask-like, scarcely human, look.
Staring straight before her she took no apparent notice of either of the men between whom she was placed.
Small wonder that the young man who was on Judith Melchard's farther side devoted himself unaffectedly to the pretty vivacious young married woman next him. Mr. Ralph Dovedale, on the other hand, tried again and again to make the girl talk to him. The Duchess noticed that twice Judith pretended not to hear him, but the third time she turned on him and muttered something in a low, angry tone, while she ostentatiously moved her chair a few inches farther away from his.
At last the Duchess turned to her host's brother. She thought it high time Sir John addressed the lady on his left, and he did so at last, though not over-willingly. Mr. Ralph Dovedale was short almost to rudeness to his brother's guest, and for a while she put his curious abrupt way of answering her remarks down to shyness. Gradually, however, she became uncomfortably convinced that there must be some reason for his lack of courtesy. Was he annoyed that so long a time had elapsed before she had called on his sister-in-law? If yes, that would surely be carrying family susceptibility very far? But whatever the reason, there could be no doubt about the fact, and the Duchess, who had never before been treated with such lack of courtesy, felt a sensation of real relief when she at last caught Lady Dovedale's eye.
A few moments later the ladies were once more scattered over the great drawing-room, though soon four or five of the younger women formed themselves into a group, and began to discuss something in low, eager tones. And at last one of them came up to Lady Dovedale.
"Are we going to play 'Chemmy' to-night?" she asked.
And as her hostess, remaining silent, looked nervous, and undecided, she turned with a pretty, little coaxing, air, to the Duchess, "Don't you think 'Chemmy's' great fun?" she asked. "I'm sure you play?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't even know what 'Chemmy' is!"
"Surely you've seen 'Chemin de Fer' played?"
The Duchess shook her head. "I'm hopelessly old-fashioned! But I should like to see 'Chemmy' played——"
And then Lady Dovedale intervened, "My husband doesn't care for billiards, so we've made what was the billiard-room into a bridge-room, and a general indoor games room. Do you play bridge, Duchess?" she asked.
"I'm sure you'll much prefer 'chemmy!" broke in the younger lady positively. "It's absolutely fascinating! I'd rather play to lose, than not play at all!"
"I don't agree as to that," said Lady Dovedale languidly, "I hate losing, especially as it makes my husband cross."
"Sir John disapproves of the sins he's not inclined to," cried her guest gaily.
"I should hate losing more than I could afford," observed the Duchess.
"Very well. We'll play for low stakes to-night."
The speaker turned round. "Who's for 'Chemmy'?" she called out. Then, "You'll play, of course, Judith?"
Judith Melchard had been standing by, silent. She started, "What is it you want me to do?" she asked.
"We want you to play 'Chemmy'!"
"I don't think I'll play to-night."
"Nonsense, Judith! I know you lost a packet yesterday. But you look to-night as if your luck was in."
"My luck's out," said Judith Melchard, and her soft voice had so bitter and hopeless an inflection that the Duchess felt disturbed.
While they were all going along the broad corridor which led to the billiard-room, she put her hand on the girl's arm. "How long are you staying here?" she asked in a low voice. "We can have you at any time."
"I'd like to come at once—to-morrow! But I'm booked to stay here till the end of next week, worse luck. I've promised I would, and I can't break my word."
She stayed her steps while all the others swept on, and the Duchess, perforce, did so too; and then Judith Melchard went on speaking, in an urgent, feverish tone, "I've thought of something! If you'll tell Lady Dovedale that you can only have me from the day after to-morrow, Duchess, as after that you'll be full up, then I think I could get away from here at once. But you must make her really believe that you do want me to come, otherwise——"
"Otherwise what?"
"—otherwise they'll be offended that I want to leave them."
Judith spoke in a preoccupied, peculiar tone.
Was it possible, the Duchess asked herself in dismay, that the girl was thinking of marrying young Dovedale? The dull-looking youth had been introduced to her by his fond mother just before dinner, and she hadn't liked the look of him at all.
She asked in a low voice, "Are you really intimate with the Dovedales, my dear? Your mother wrote as if you were a great deal with them."
"I'm not much more with them than I am with a great many other people," she answered, in an embarrassed tone. "But Lady Dovedale seems to like having me about with them, and they've a wonderful house in London. After all, next to being rich oneself, I suppose the best thing is to be with rich people?"
The Duchess did not know what to say to a remark which struck her as not only untrue, but vulgar.
It took the Duchess perhaps as long as ten minutes to understand the intricacies of "Chemin de Fer." Placed in a seat by the lady who was acting as banker, she was in a position to see everything happening on the green cloth. But she refused to play herself. The maximum single stake—the Duchess could not help suspecting it had never before been so low in this house—was five shillings. Even so, what must have been a considerable amount of money soon began changing hands. Judith Melchard, who played with care, and the amount of judgment possible with regard to the game, won steadily, and in front of her soon rose a heap of ivory chips, each of which represented five shillings. But she showed none of the joy and excitement that those round her betrayed when they had won, and, after a while, she stopped playing.
But she did not get up from the table as one or two of the others had done after they had been, as they gaily declared, "cleaned out." She went on watching the game with absorbed interest.
A bold, even a reckless, player, always taking, when it came her way, even a dangerous chance, was Lady Dovedale. It was plain that the game fascinated and took out of herself the delicate, anxious-looking woman. She looked a different being when it came to her turn to take a card out of what, to everyone's amusement, the Duchess called "that funny-looking little slipper."
When the men joined the ladies the Duchess's host came and stood behind her. "A gamble has absolutely no attraction for me," he observed. "In fact it bores me. I can't understand how anybody can waste his time in this sort of way. Now and again I take part in a game of bridge. But I don't play well, and I hate doing anything I don't do well! If I had my way I'd forbid any gambling game to be played in my house."
To that the Duchess felt she could make no answer, but she was not really surprised when he went on, speaking in so low a tone that only she could hear what it was he said:
"My wife took to what they call 'Chemmy' two years ago, at Cannes, and I soon made up my mind that I would rather she played in my house, than elsewhere."
At last, loth though she felt to disturb Lady Dovedale, the Duchess got up. It was just after midnight, and Lady Dovedale had won largely, for a huge heap of ivory chips lay before her. Yet she rose reluctantly from her chair.
"I should be so grateful if you could spare Judith Melchard to us the day after to-morrow," said the Duchess. "I'll send over for her——"
She paused, expecting a protest, but the other, far from being annoyed, looked positively relieved. "Pray don't trouble to send for her; someone will only be too delighted to motor her over," and then beckoning to Judith she said in a cold voice, "The Duchess would like you to go and stay with her for a few days on Monday. Ralph will motor you over. I suppose you'll come back here afterwards, Judith?"
"I suppose I shall," said the girl in a sullen voice, and as she turned away a man's voice exclaimed in a low, excited, angry tone, "You promised to stay the whole of this week, Judith! You're not going to chuck now?"
The Duchess looked round quickly, to see with astonishment that it was Ralph Dovedale, now standing close to Judith Melchard, who had uttered that rough reproach.
"Perhaps you could have me a little later on, Duchess?" said the girl irresolutely,
"I'm sorry to say I can't, my dear. The Duke and I are going for a round of visits——"
"Of course you must go on Monday, Judith," and Lady Dovedale spoke with far more decision than the Duchess had heard her speak yet.
As soon as the motor started the Duke exclaimed, "I little thought I'd ever catch you in a gambling-den!"
"You didn't catch me playing—though I don't see why one shouldn't gamble, if one only risks as much as one can afford——"
"Don't you? Now be honest, Laura! If you had been watching some of the women there as closely as I watched them you'd have seen why gambling has been called 'the child of avarice and the parent of despair.'"
"I think you're very narrow-minded, James. Not one of those foolish, well-to-do women there to-night looked in the least like 'a child of avarice.'"
"Would you be surprised to hear that Lady Dovedale was among the poor wretches who were raided in a West End gambling house last May? So, at any rate, one of the cads she is now so kindly entertaining went out of his way to tell me—and I've no doubt it's true."
III.
Judith Melchard had now been at the Castle three days; and, to the Duchess's pleasure and amusement, and to the Duke's disgust, she was proving a great success. None of her fellow-guests, with the exception of Mrs. Alexis Todd, had ever seen anything quite like her—at any rate at close quarters, and that in spite of the fact that some of them were acquainted with Judith's mother.
The one comparatively young man of the party, a rising politician named Mark Frett, who was still on the sunny side of forty, became at once obviously attracted. They were constantly together, talking, walking, motoring even, in the car he drove himself. Soon he confided to the Duchess that, though Miss Melchard had a peculiar appearance, she was certainly a very clever, original, and intelligent girl.
In spite of this unexpected, and to the Duchess agreeable, development, Judith, unless she was talking animatedly, looked far from happy—indeed she sometimes had a despairing look on the face which, in answer to a gentle hint, now proved a little less mask-like, though she was still far more "made-up" than any other girl with whom her hostess was acquainted.
That something lay heavily on her mind was obvious; could it be, the Duchess asked herself, an unhappy love-affair?
And then something happened which suddenly cleared up what had become, to one kind heart, a disturbing mystery.
On the fourth morning of Judith Melchard's visit, as the Duchess came into her own sitting-room, the Duke jumped up from the chair on which he had been sitting reading The Times, and exclaimed:
"I suppose, Laura, that you knew all about this? Or, will it, I wonder, strike you as it did me, as something of a surprise?" And he waved a sheet of the paper towards her.
"What d'you mean, James?"
"Come now? I'm sure you've been behind the scenes with regard to an engagement announced in to-day's Times?"
"Don't tease me. Who is the girl?"
"The girl? You can't think of any man you've met lately?"
"Man? Oh dear, I do hope it's not Mark Frett. You mayn't have noticed it, my dear; but he seems to have taken such a fancy to Judith Melchard. It's a real 'smite,' if ever there was one——"
"Noticed it? Of course I have. And I confess I thought she liked him too."
"Did you? I'm so glad!"
"Don't be glad——"
"Then it is Mark Frett?" and the Duchess looked very much discomfited.
"It's not Frett—it's another of your guests who's engaged."
"One of my guests?"
The Duchess felt quite sure she knew who the happy man was—Lord Amersham, of course.
She sprang up into the air, and caught the paper from him. Eagerly she turned to the Marriage Announcements. And then a look of horror spread over her face, for this is what she read:
    "The engagement is announced, and a marriage will shortly take place between Mr. Ralph Dovedale, and the Honble. Beatrice (Judith) Melchard, only child of the thirteenth Baron Melchard, and of the Dowager Lady Melchard, of The Old House, Market Retford."
She flung the offending sheet on the floor. "I don't believe it," she cried in agitated tones.
"You don't believe it? My poor dear child, why, there it is, in black and white!"
"We'll send for her at once," said the Duchess in a decided tone, and she rang the bell.
The Duke said quietly, "Be careful, my dear. Don't say something you may be sorry for afterwards——"
She came close up to him, "You're right, James. I will be careful, but—but, but it's so horrible!"
"I agree. With the one exception of the loathly cad who told me about Lady Dovedale being caught in that gambling raid, I thought Sir John's brother the most offensive of the many offensive people we met the other night. But the girl evidently likes those——"
The Duchess's maid appeared, "Will you please ask Miss Melchard to come to me in my sitting-room? I wish to see her before I go down to breakfast."
A very few moments later Judith Melchard, in a dressing-gown, came into the room. The Duke thought she looked nicer than usual, for she had not made up her face. But she looked uncomfortable when she saw him, for she did not share her host's views as to powder and lipstick, and she told herself that she must be "looking awful."
The Duchess took the girl's hand in hers, "We've both been very much surprised," she spoke slowly, carefully, choosing her words, "to see your engagement announced in to-day's Times, Judith."
"My engagement?" cried Judith Melchard, and then she gave a sudden hysterical laugh. "Then that was what he meant!"
"I wish you had told me that you were engaged—or about to be engaged—to Mr. Ralph Dovedale. I gather your mother knew nothing of it?"
"I didn't consider myself engaged to Mr. Ralph Dovedale," exclaimed Judith defiantly. "He's wanted to marry me for a long time, and I've always refused him——"
The Duke observed coldly, "Then how is it that your engagement is formally announced in The Times 'Marriage Announcements'? If I remember rightly, both parties have to send their consent in writing before a notice is inserted. Is that not so, Laura? I seem to remember something of the kind in connection with the announcement of Lettice's engagement."
"If that's true," said Judith Melchard excitedly, "then Ralph Dovedale forged my signature! He's quite capable of doing that—in fact it's the sort of thing he would do."
The Duchess saw that the Duke did not believe what the girl had just said, but she was inclined to think that Judith had spoken the truth.
All at once the girl burst into a passion of angry sobs. "What shall I do?" she cried woefully. "Oh, Duchess, what shall I do?"
The Duke got up, and unobtrusively he left the room.
The Duchess looked fixedly at Judith Melchard. "You're sure, quite sure, that you had no knowledge of this?"
And she forced the weeping girl to look at the column headed "Forthcoming Marriages."
"I swear solemnly before God that I knew nothing of this——"
"You needn't do that. I believe you."
The Duchess had already made up her mind that this marriage must not be allowed to take place. "Now tell me," she said quietly, "all about it, Judith. How did you first become"—she did not like to use the word "entangled," so she substituted the word "friends,"—"with Mr. Ralph Dovedale?"
"We're not friends. I hate him! But I'm in his debt—that's all."
"In his debt?" echoed the Duchess.
"I owe him more money than I can ever pay," said the girl sullenly. Then again she exclaimed, "I hate him! He knows that, but he's determined to marry me."
"Surely your mother would pay anything to prevent your marrying a man you hate?"
"Mother could never pay what I owe him. She hasn't enough ready money."
"My dear!" The Duchess smiled. "That really must be nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense. I owe Ralph Dovedale over three thousand pounds."
"Three thousand pounds!" exclaimed the Duchess.
She stared at the girl with horrified eyes. "What has the money been spent on?"
"Can't you guess, Duchess?" And then Judith Melchard uttered the one word "Chemmy."
"That gambling game they were all playing the other night?"
"Of course. Lady Dovedale taught me how to play. I've been with her again and again to what some people call, I believe, gambling dens. But there are a lot of 'straight' houses—I mean where the game is fair, where there's no cheating. I shall never forget the first day I lost heavily at 'Chemmy'——"
She laughed, an eerie laugh. "I lost seventy pounds, and I felt as if the world had come to an end! But Lady Dovedale gave me the money. Then the next time I lost four hundred odd pounds in one sitting. I suppose Lady Dovedale told Ralph; I didn't—and he forced a thousand pounds in notes on me. I was awfully grateful. But I didn't really know him then."
"I suppose," said the Duchess slowly, "that he's madly in love with you."
"I suppose so," said Judith, and then closing her eyes, she shivered. "He says I've reformed him. You've only got to look at him to see that I haven't done that! I don't suppose he'd want to marry me if I was—well—say Miss Jones? But he feels he's bought the right to marry a peer's daughter—that's actually how he put it to me once. He hated my coming to stay with you. I suppose he thought that I might tell you the trouble I was in. But I never should have done, but for this."
"Why not, my dear?"
"Where would have been the use?" asked the girl hopelessly. "I'm 'for it,' as people say. Mother allows me five pounds a week, which she thinks a tremendous lot—poor darling! And when she dies I believe I'm to have seven hundred a year. Mother once had about eight thousand pounds, but some idiot persuaded her to sink six thousand pounds of it in an annuity, just before her marriage to father! She'll be overjoyed that I'm going to be married to Ralph Dovedale, if only because he's a rich man."
She added mournfully, "He hates gambling, so after I'm married I shan't have even that to fall back on."
"I'll think over what is to be done; it's quite clear to me that you can't marry a man about whom you feel as you say you do," said the Duchess firmly.
"If I'd the pluck I'd shoot myself," said Judith sombrely.
At breakfast the Duchess noticed that Mark Frett looked serious, and quite unlike his usual cheerful self. When she got up from the table, he followed her out of the dining-room. "I had no idea," he said a little awkwardly, "that Miss Melchard was engaged to be married."
And then the woman he addressed took what she called to herself "a chance."
"The marriage announced in to-day's Times," she said quietly, "is not going to take place. Mr. Ralph Dovedale, unknown to Miss Melchard, inserted that notice. She's terribly upset about it, poor child. Of course he's madly in love with her——"
"But what an unscrupulous thing to do!"
The Duchess, who had known Mark Frett since he was a boy, threw him a curious look. "When you're as old as I am you'll realise that people do do very queer things—sometimes, especially if they're what they call 'in love.' Mr. Ralph Dovedale has used this abominable means to rush, as he thinks, poor Judith Melchard into an engagement. But he made a great mistake. She's furiously angry with him, and no wonder!"
"I first met Miss Melchard last year," he said, in a rather shamefaced voice. "We were in the same Newmarket party. I was so glad to meet her again, here."
To that observation the Duchess made no answer. She only told herself that the ways of modern young men and maidens were incalculable.
Avoiding the Duke, she went up to the unhappy girl's bedroom, and as she came into the room Judith held out a piece of paper.
"Look at what mother has wired! I knew she would be delighted." There was a bitter, sarcastic tone in her voice.
    "Announcement in to-day's Times took me a little by surprise. But please congratulate your fiancé. Suggest I meet you both to-morrow in town, Half Moon Street."
Loving Mother."
"Then your mother knows Mr. Dovedale?"
"Indeed she doesn't! She's never even seen him. But you know what she's like? She'd be horrified if her servants, or anyone in the village where she lives, guessed the truth."
"I've come to tell you what I've made up my mind to do."
The girl leant back wearily on her pillow. She thought the Duchess was going to tell her that she meant either to send for Ralph Dovedale, or to motor over to Baycombe Place, and make an appeal to what old-fashioned people would call his better feelings. Well Judith Melchard knew that any appeal of the kind would be useless.
But what was it the Duchess was saying?
"I'm going to lend you the money to pay this man off. I can't afford to give you the money—there was a time when I could have done so. But I can't do so now. You will have to enter into an undertaking to pay the sum back. The bulk of it after your mother's death, the rest in small instalments—either to me, or, more probably, to my heirs."
"D'you really mean you are going to do that for me?"
The girl spoke in a voice of dazed gratitude.
"Yes, I do mean it. I feel I know you well enough to know that you will pay this money back when, and how, you can."
"I will indeed!"
"And there's another thing, Judith. I want you to give me your word of honour that you will never again play for money."
The girl held out her hand. "I give you my word of honour, I never will," she said solemnly.
"Unfortunately , we shall have to wait a day or two. I mean till the money's transferred to your account."
"Must we do that? I don't mind Ralph Dovedale knowing how good you are being to me."
"If you feel like that I'll go into the town this morning and see the manager of the bank where I keep my local account. Of course there's nothing like three thousand pounds in it now." The Duchess waited a moment. "But he is always very kind to me," she said simply.
"I should think everybody is always very kind to you," the girl said gratefully.
"While I'm gone, do write Mr. Dovedale a short note. Say you've made up your mind not to marry him, and that you're enclosing a cheque in full for the money you owe him."
"May I stay up here?" asked Judith nervously. "It would be so dreadful if I went downstairs, and they all began to congratulate me. I suppose they all know?"
"I suppose they do, by now. But only one person has spoken to me of the matter—that was Mark Frett."
"What did he say?"
"I thought it best, my dear, to tell him the truth—that Mr. Dovedale had chosen this curious way of rushing you into an engagement. I also told him quite frankly that I did not consider such a marriage would be to your happiness, and that I hoped it would not take place."
"I wonder what he thinks of it all." Judith Melchard spoke in a reflective tone. "He must be a good bit shocked, for he's what I should call a conventional young man."
"He's a very excellent young man, my dear. And I think he felt a good deal upset about all this. By the way, I was surprised to hear that he'd met you before, some time last year."
"We made great friends then," the girl stressed the "then." "But I made up my mind I wouldn't see him again."
"I think you made a mistake there. He's very clever, and has a future before him."
Judith said bitterly, "Then he deserves a clever wife who'll help him—not one the likes of me."
"You're quite clever enough already, Judith," the Duchess looked straight at the girl, "and I don't see why you shouldn't pull yourself together, and become a really nice young woman——"
There came a knock at the bedroom door, and a housemaid brought in a large envelope which, evidently contained some kind of little box or case.
"This has just come over from Baycombe Place. Is there an answer, miss?"
Judith tore open the envelope. Then she handed the letter it contained, in silence, to the Duchess.
    "Give a glance at to-day's Times. You'll find there something of interest to you. I've been and gone and done it this time! Try to forgive
"Your devoted "Ralph."
There was a postscript.
    "P.S.—I got the enclosed last week. It's been burning my pocket ever since. I hope you'll like it."
Judith Melchard took the square jewel-case out of the envelope, and opened it. It contained a platinum ring, set with a large boat-shaped diamond.
"I think you'd better let me just write a line to Mr. Dovedale explaining that you're not well, but that you're writing to him, and that he will hear from you this afternoon. May I do this?"
The girl gave her a grateful look, and the Duchess went to the writing-table. There, without sitting down, she scribbled on a piece of notepaper:
"Thursday morning,
    "Dear Mr. Dovedale,—
    "Miss Melchard is not well. She has asked me to tell you she is writing to you, and will send her note by hand after lunch.
"Yours truly, "Laura St. Andrews."
When the Duchess came in just before lunch she was surprised to hear that Miss Melchard had got down, and gone out for a walk. She felt relieved when the girl, at long last, came in, looking quite different from what the Duchess had ever seen her—happy, cheerful, in a word, normal.
"I've been into the town, to the Post Office," she exclaimed. "I wanted to send off a telegram to mother telling her that I'm not engaged—that it was all a mistake!"
The Duchess murmured, "I've got the cheque, and I think we'd better send the Duke's valet over with the letter, for that diamond ring must be of very great value."
"I suppose it is," said Judith indifferently. "He'd better keep it for the next girl he gets into his toils."
Then, impulsively, she kissed the Duchess. "Now I'm going up to bed again. You'll tell them all, won't you, that it was a mistake—there never was any engagement?"
"Certainly I will."
The Duke had to go up to town that day, so the Duchess came down to breakfast just a little earlier than usual the next morning.
Was it her fancy, or was it a fact, that Mark Frett was hovering about waiting for her? Also, did she only suppose, or was it true that he looked very much happier than he had done this time yesterday?
"I suppose you've seen to-day's papers?" he observed.
"No, I haven't yet——"
"Look down there," he exclaimed, "quite at the end, Duchess?"
And there below the Marriage Announcements was a laconic little paragraph:
    "The marriage announced yesterday as about to take place between Mr. Ralph Dovedale and the Hon. Judith Melchard will not take place."
"I'm glad to see he had the decency to contradict it at once," she exclaimed. "I must run up and tell Judith. She'll be so relieved!" And she threw a bright smile at the young man.
She was surprised to find a copy of The Times lying on the girl's bed, for Judith had gruffly declared, the day she arrived, that she never read the papers.
"Well, my dear, I hope you feel a little more kindly now than you did yesterday towards Mr. Dovedale!"
"Why should I, Duchess?"
"Because of this," and the speaker opened wide The Times.
Judith laughed merrily. "I put that in! After sending the wire to mother, I asked if the Post Office could send a boy messenger all the way to London, and they said yes, they could do so, though no one had ever asked them to do it before. So I wrote out that announcement, and with it I wrote a nice little note imploring them to put it in at once."
The Duchess felt puzzled. "I thought the signatures of the man, as well as of the girl, had to be supplied," she observed.
"Ralph Dovedale had forged my signature, so I forged his," Judith said calmly. "I luckily had a bit of Baycombe Place notepaper with me——"
For once the Duchess was at a loss for words. While she, in a sense, sympathised, she was very much shocked.
She gazed with distress at the young forger. "Never let anyone know, dear child, that you did such a thing."
Judith looked surprised and a little amused.
"Above all," went on the Duchess, "never let your husband, if you ever do marry, know of what you did yesterday. I don't think any man would like to think his wife could ever have forged anyone else's name, even in fun."
"It wasn't in fun," said Judith Melchard slowly. "And, Duchess, I—I hope you won't think it was very odd of me to do such a thing, but when I was coming back from the town, yesterday morning, I met Mark Frett. We went a little walk together, and he was so kind, so understanding, that I told him—everything."
Copyright, 1927, by Paul Reynolds, in the United States of America.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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