The City in the Clouds Read online

Chapter One

  When my father died and left me his large fortune, I also inherited that very successful London newspaper, the Evening Special. I decided to edit it myself.

  To be twenty-six, to live at high pressure, to go everywhere, see everything, know everybody, and above all to have Power, this is success in life. I would not have changed my position in London for the Premiership.

  On the evening of Lady Brentford's dance, I dined alone in my Piccadilly flat. There was nothing much doing in the way of politics, and I had been playing golf at Sandown the whole of the day. I hadn't seen the paper until now, when Preston brought it in -- the last edition -- and I opened it over my coffee.

  There were, and are, few things that I love better than the Evening Special. I claim for it that it is the most up-to-date evening newspaper in England, bright and readable from the word "go," and singularly accurate in all its information.

  There was a long time yet before I need dress, and I sat by the balcony, with the mellow noises of Piccadilly on an early summer's evening pouring into the room, and read the rag through.

  On one of the last pages, where the society gossip and women's chat appear, I saw something that interested me. Old Miss Easey, who writes the society news, was one of my most valued contributors. With her hooked nose, her beady black eyes and marvellous coffee-coloured wig, she went everywhere by right of birth, for she was connected with half the peerage. Her news was accurate and real. She faked nothing, because she got all her stuff from the inside, and this was known all over London. She was well worth the thousand a year I paid her, and the daily column signed with her nom de plume "Vera" was an accepted fact in the life of London society.

  Today the old girl had let herself go. It seemed -- of course there had been paragraphs in the papers for some days -- that the great Brazilian millionaire, Gideon Mendoza Morse, had exploded in society like a bomb. He had taken a whole floor of the Ritz Hotel, and it was rumoured that he was going to buy an empty palace in Park Lane and astonish the town. Everyone was saying that he had wealth beyond the dreams of avarice -- which is, of course, awful rot when you come to think of it, because there are no bounds whatever to avarice.

  "Vera" was not expatiating on the Brazil Nut's wealth, but on his only daughter. It was put in a veiled way, and that with well-bred reticence for which we paid Miss Easey a thousand a year -- no cheap gush, thank you, in the Evening Special -- that Miss Morse was a young girl of such superlative loveliness that there was not a débutante to come within a mile of her. I gathered, also, that the young lady's first very public appearance was to be made tonight at the house of the Marchioness of Brentford in Belgrave Square.

  The news certainly gave an additional interest to the prospect of the evening, and I wondered what the girl was really like.

  I had motored up from Sandown and sat down to dinner as I was. Perhaps I was rather tired, but as I sat by the window and dusk came over the Green Park while all the lights of Piccadilly were lit, I sank into a sort of doze, assisted by the deep, organ-like hum of the never-ending traffic.

  Yes, I must really have fallen asleep, for I was certainly in the middle of some wild and alluring adventure, when I woke with a start to find all the lights in my dining room turned on, Preston standing by the door, and Pat Moore shaking me violently by the shoulder.

  "Confound you, don't do that!" I shouted, jumping up. Pat Moore was six feet two in height, and the heaviest man in the Irish Guards. "Hello," I said quietly, "what are you doing here?"

  "It's myself that has looked in for a drink," he said. "I thought we'd go to the ball together."

  I was a little more awake by this time and saw that Pat was in full evening kit, and very grand he looked. He was supposed to be the handsomest man in London, on the large swaggering side. Certainly, whether in uniform or mufti, he was a very splendid figure. Nevertheless, he had no more idea of putting on airs than a spaniel dog, and he was just about as kind and faithful as the sportsman's friend. He possessed a certain downright honesty and common sense that endeared him to everyone, though his own mother would hardly have called him clever. At an earlier period of our lives he had caned me a good deal at Eton, and it was difficult to get out of his dear, stupid old head that he had not some vague rights over me in that direction still.

  "Now, Tom," he said, pouring himself out a mighty drink, for his head was cast steel, "you go and make yourself look pretty and then come back here, 'cos I have something to tell you."

  I went obediently away, bathed, shaved, was assisted by Preston into evening clothes and returned to the dining room about a quarter to ten.

  "What have you got to tell me, Pat?"

  He thought for a moment. I believe that he always had to summon his words out of some cupboard in his brain. "Tom, I've seen the most beautiful girl in the world."

  "Then leg it, Pat. Hare away from temptation, or she'll have you!" Pat had an income of ten thousand a year, and had been a dead mark for all sorts of schemes for the last two years.

  "Don't be a silly ass, Tom. You don't know what you're talking about. This is serious."

  "I don't know who you're talking about."

  He was heaving himself out of his chair to explain, when the door opened and Preston announced "Lord Arthur Winstanley."

  "Hello, what brings you here?" I said.

  "Thought I'd come in for a drink. Saw you were going to mother's tonight, Tom. Thought we might as well be going together. Hello, Pat. You coming along too?"

  "Thought of doin' so," said Captain Moore.

  Arthur threw himself into a chair. He was slim, clean shaved, with curly black hair and dark blue eyes, his clean-cut, clever face alive with youth and vitality.

  "Tom," he said to me, "tonight you are going to see the most beautiful girl in the world."

  "Hello!" Pat shouted, "you've seen her too?"

  "Seen her? Of course I have. Mother's giving the dance for her tonight."

  Then I understood. "Oh, Miss Morse?" I said.

  "Jooaneeta!" said Pat in his rich, Irish voice.

  "Generally pronounced 'Whanita', soft, like tropic moonlight, my old geranium," said Arthur.

  "Sure, your pronunciation won't do at all, at all." Pat twirled the end of his huge moustache, then he heaved a cushion. "You and your talk!" he said.

  "Well, I've not seen her," I remarked, "but I'm quite willing to take the word of two experts. Isn't it about time we went?"

  Winstanley produced a platinum watch no thicker than a half-crown from the pocket of his white waistcoat. "Well, perhaps it might be," he said. "We can take up strategic positions, and get there before the crush. Although I don't live at home, I've got a snug little couple of rooms they keep for me, and mother will see that----"

  He smiled to himself.

  "Now look here," I said, "fair does! You are already halfway up the course with the fair Brazilian, but do let your pals have a chance. I suppose all the world will be round her, but do see that Pat and I have a small look in."

  Arthur Winstanley smiled. "Of course I will. We've done too much hunting together, we three. I tell you, Tom, you will be bowled clean over at the very sight of her. There never was such a girl since Cleopatra was a flapper. Now, send old Preston for a taxi and we'll get to cover side."

  It was about half past ten as we entered the hospitable portals of Brentford House in Belgrave Square. There was a tremendous crush; I never remember seeing so many people at Lady Brentford's, for, though everybody went to her parties, they were never overcrowded, owing to the immense size of the famous old London House.

  Pat Moore and I kept close to Arthur, who, as a son of the house, knew his way a great deal better than we did, and we soon found ourselves at the top of the staircase and close to the alcove where Lady Brentford and her daughter, Lady Joan Winstanley, were standing. I noticed the bald head of the marquis, who was as innocent of hair as a new laid egg, shining in the background.

  Dear Lady Brentford greeted Pat -- who had formed
a sort of battering-ram for us on the staircase -- with marked kindness. It was thought that she saw in him a prospective husband for Arthur's sister. After greeting his mother and asking a question, Arthur went off at once and my turn came.

  "My dear Sir Thomas, I am so glad to see you. Are you like all the other young men in London tonight?"

  "I sincerely hope not," I told her, though I knew very well what she meant.

  We were old friends, and she was not deceived for a moment. "I understand you perfectly, you wicked boy."

  "Well then, Lady Brentford" -- I lowered my voice----"has she come?"

  Her eyes gleamed. "Not yet, but I am expecting her every moment. Now, I am going to be kind to you. You wait here, just a little behind me, and I'll introduce you at once."

  I hope I looked as grateful as I felt, for I confess my curiosity was greatly aroused. Besides, it would be such a score over Pat and Arthur. There's something in power after all! Had I been merely Tom Kirby whose father had received a baronetcy for, say, soap, Lady Brentford would not have been nearly as nice, even though Arthur and I had been bosom friends at Oxford. But you see I was the Evening Special and that meant much, especially in a political house like this.

  I waited, and talked a little with Lord Brentford, who was a sterling, old-fashioned member of more Cabinets than one would care to count. He said "hum," and then "ha," and then "hum" again, which was the extent of his conversation on every occasion except that of an especially good dinner, when he added "ho."

  And then, I suppose it was at about eleven o'clock, there was a stir and a movement all down the grand staircase. Except that the band in the ballroom did not burst into the strains of the National Anthem, it was exactly like the arrival of royalty. Coming up the staircase was a thickset man of medium height with white hair, a brown face, and good features, but of such immobility that they might have been carved in sandstone. By his side, very simply dressed, and wearing no ornament but one rope of great pearls, came his daughter, Juanita Morse.

  If I live for a thousand years I'll never forget that first vision of her. I've seen all the beauties of London, Paris and Rome; danced with many of them, spoken at least to the majority, but never before or since have I seen such luminous and compelling loveliness. It is almost impossible for me to describe her, a presumption indeed, when so many abler pens than mine have hymned her praises.

  The poets of two Continents have lain their garlands of song at her little feet. She has been the theme of innumerable articles in the Press, the heroine of a dozen novels. And yet I must give some impression of her, I suppose. She was slender and tall, though not too tall. Her hair, which must have fallen to her feet and enveloped her like a cloud of night, was dead black, as fine as spun silk, gleaming, vital and full of electricity -- a live thing of itself, so it seemed to me.

  Her father's eyes were unpolished jet, but hers were of a deep blue-black, large, lustrous, and of unfathomable depth. They were never the same for two moments together and the light within them was forever new. But what's the good of a catalogue -- after all, it expresses very little. There was not a feature of her face, not a line of her form that was not perfect, and her smile was the last real enchantment left in the modern world....

  In two minutes, I, Tom Kirby, was walking towards the ballroom with her hand on my arm. How all the women stared, nodded and whispered! How all the men hated me! I caught sight of Pat and Arthur, and, lo! their faces were as those who lie in wait, who grin like dogs and run about the city -- as I told them some hours afterwards.

  Thank heavens that all the vulgar modern dances were not only perishing of their own inanity at that time, but had never been allowed in Brentford House. The best band in town had begun a delightful waltz, and we slipped into it together as if passing through curtains into dreamland.

  I don't remember that we said very much to each other -- certainly I was not going to ask her how she liked London and so forth. She did not seem the sort of girl to appreciate the farthing change of talk.

  But, somehow or other, we conversed with our eyes. I was as certain of this as of the fact that I was dancing with her, and long after, in a situation and moment of the most deadly peril, she confessed it to me.

  Towards the end of the dance, when the flutes and violins glided into the last movement, I said, "Miss Morse, I know that I am doing the most dreadful thing. All London wants to dance with you tonight, and I have had the great privilege of being the very first. But could you, do you think you possibly could, give me just one more dance later on in the evening?"

  "Of course I will, Sir Thomas," she said, and her voice was as clear as an evening bell. "I think you dance beautifully."

  We circled round the room for the last time and then I resigned her to Lady Brentford, who was looking after the girl, with an eloquent look of thanks. Immediately she became swallowed up by a regiment of black coats, and I saw her no more for a time.

  I am extremely fond of dancing, but I sought out no other damsel, but went to a buffet and drank a long glass of iced hock cup -- as if that was going to quench the fever within! Then I found my way to a lonely spot in one of the conservatories and sat thinking hard. I will say nothing as to the nature of my reverie -- it may very easily be guessed. But from time to time I concentrated all my powers in living over again the divine moments of that dance.

  I was finally, irrevocably, passionately in love. It seems the maddest thing to say for a hard-headed, level-minded man of the world such as I was. I suppose I had known her for just about quarter of an hour, and yet I knew that there would never be any other woman for me, and that when my days were at an end, her name would be the only one on my lips.

  A little later on in the evening, before my second and final dance with his daughter, I had the opportunity of a talk with Mr. Morse himself. I have to say at once, and I am not letting myself be coloured by what happened afterwards, and the intimate relations into which I was thrown with him, I say at once that I found him charming. There was an immense force and power about him, but this was not obtruded on one, as I have known it to be in the case of other extremely wealthy and successful men, both English and American.

  This super-millionaire had all the graces of speech and courtesy of manner of the Spanish great gentleman. And curiously enough, he took to me. I was quite certain of that. Whether he wanted to use me in any way -- and nine-tenths of the people I met generally did -- I could not have said. At any rate I determined that if he did, I was very much at his disposal.

  We watched Miss Morse dancing with old Pat, who, for all his sixteen stone, was as light as a cat on his feet.

  "Do you know who that is dancing with Juanita?" Morse asked simply.

  "Oh, yes. Captain Moore, Patrick Moore, of the Irish Guards. He is one of my most intimate friends and one of the best fellows in the world."

  Then Morse said a curious thing, which I could not fathom just then. He said it half to me and half to himself in a curiously, thoughtful way.

  "A fine fellow to have with one in an emergency."

  Well, of course, I didn't like to tell him that dear old Pat, while he had common sense enough to come indoors while it rained, had no mind -- in the real sense of that word -- whatever. It did not occur to me for a moment that Gideon Morse might have been speaking simply of Pat's physical qualities.

  Pat's face was marvellous to look on. It was one great, glowing mass of happiness. He did not take the least trouble to disguise his ecstasy, and if ever a man showed he was in paradise, Pat Moore did then.

  It was different when Juanita danced with Arthur Winstanley. His handsome, clever face was not in repose for a moment. It was sharpened by eagerness, and he talked incessantly, provoking answering smiles and flashes from the girl's wonderful eyes. My heart sank. I knew how Arthur could talk when he chose -- as all England was to learn two or three years later when he entered the House of Commons.

  "And that man?" The low, resonant voice of Mr. Morse was again in my ears, for
I had been neglecting my duties to all the girls I knew, most dreadfully, and remained with him for the space of three dances.

  "Oh, that's another friend of mine, Lord Arthur Winstanley. He is a son of the house, the second son. Charles, the heir, is with his regiment in India."

  Mr. Morse thanked me, and soon afterwards two very great people indeed came up to talk with him, and I melted away. I went to my seat in the conservatory again. I did not care how rude it was, how I was betraying Lady Brentford's hospitality -- being known as a dancing man and expected to dance -- but I was determined not to touch any other girl that night until Juanita Morse and I had danced again together.

  It came and passed. Afterwards I slipped downstairs, got my hat and overcoat and left the house, without, I think, being observed by anyone.

  The night air was fresh and sweet and I determined to walk before I reached home, for my mind was in a whirl of sensation. I turned into the great, dark chasm of Victoria Street, which was almost empty, and heard my footsteps echoing up the cliff-like sides of the houses.

  I caught a glimpse of the moon silvering the Campanile of Westminster Cathedral, and when I reached the Abbey, it and the Houses of Parliament were washed in soft and brilliant light. And yet, somehow, I could not think. I could not survey, with my usual cool detachment, the situation which had suddenly risen in my life.

  I remember that the predominant feeling was a wish that I had never gone to Lady Brentford's, that I had never seen or spoken to Juanita Morse. What was the use after all? She was as much above my hopes as a Princess of the Royal House, and yet I knew that without her I would never be really happy again.

  It was in a sort of desperation that I hurried up Parliament Street and through Trafalgar Square, feeling that I was a fool and mad, wanting to hide my shame in my own quiet rooms, where at any rate I would be alone.

  I opened the door with my Yale key and ran lightly up the stairs to the flat on the first floor which I occupied. As I went into the lounge hall and took off my overcoat, Preston, whom I had not told to wait up for me, came from the passage leading to the servants' quarters carrying a tray.

  "I shan't want any supper, thank you, Preston," I said in surprise.

  "Thank you, sir, very good sir," he replied, "but his lordship and Captain Moore are here and have just asked for something."

  My first emotion was one of unutterable surprise, and then I scowled and felt inclined to swear. What on earth were those two doing here at this time of night, just when I would have given almost anything to be left alone?

  I hesitated for a moment and then walked into the smoking room.

  Pat was seated in a lounge chair smoking a cigar. Arthur was pacing up and down the carpet. Neither of them appeared to have been talking, and as I came in they looked at me curiously, and I saw that their faces in some subtle way were changed.

  They were my best friends. For years we had been accustomed to treat each other's quarters and possessions as if they were our own, and yet now I felt as if they were intruding strangers, though I tried hard to be genial.

  "Hello," I said in a voice that cracked on the word, "didn't expect to see you again. Anything special?"

  Preston was putting his tray of sandwiches and deviled biscuits on the table, so we could not say much, but directly he had left the room old Pat got up from his chair. He held out his hand, pointing at me with a trembling finger. His face was purple.

  "You, you danced twice with her," he said.

  So that was it! I grew ice cold in a moment. "I won't pretend to misunderstand to what you refer," I said, "but what the devil is that to you?"

  "Pat, don't be a fool!" Arthur whipped out, though the look he gave me, which he tried to disguise, was not a friendly one.

  "Fool is hardly the word," I said. "Kindly explain yourself, Moore, and forget that you are my guest if you like -- I don't mind."

  The huge man trembled. Then he turned away with a sort of snarl, snatched his handkerchief from his cuff and mopped his face.

  I sat down and lit a cigarette. "Can you explain this, Arthur?" I asked.

  He sat down too, and began to tap with his shoe on the carpet. "Oh, I don't know," he said sullenly. "You were the only man in the room, Kirby, to whom she gave more than one dance."

  "That's as may be. I suppose you don't propose to expostulate with the lady herself? And, by the way, I always thought it wasn't exactly form to discuss these things in the way you appear to have been doing."

  That got Arthur on the mark. His face grew white and he sat perfectly still.

  Then Pat heaved himself round. "She's not for you, at any rate," he said. "They will marry her to a duke or one of the Princes."

  Suddenly the humour of all this struck me forcibly, and I lay back in my chair and burst into a peal of laughter. "That's quite likely," I said, "though I don't think, from what I have seen of Mr. Morse, that he is likely to have ambitions that way. And I am quite certain that Miss Morse will marry the man she wants to marry and no one else, whether he is a thoroughbred or hairy at the heels. I think all this talk on your part -- remember you began it, Pat -- is perfectly disgraceful, to say nothing of its utter childishness. As for your saying that a young lady whom I have met for the first time tonight and danced with twice, is not for me, it's a damnable piece of impertinence that you should dare to insinuate that I look on her in the way you suggest."

  I jumped up from my seat and knew that I was dominating them all right. "Supposing what you say is true," I continued. "I admit that my chance isn't worth two penn'orth o' cold gin, though it's every bit as good, and probably better, than yours, all things considered. You are certainly a fine figure of a man, Pat."

  I was furious, mad, keen to provoke him to an outburst. The calculated insult was patent enough.

  I thought Pat was about to go for me, and I stood ready, when "What about me?" came in a dry crackling voice from Arthur.

  "Oh, I should put you and me about level," I said, "with the courtesy title as a little extra weight. It is a pity you should be the second son."

  "Damn you, Kirby!" he burst out, blazing with anger.

  I lifted up my hand and looked at both of them. "I came in here," I said, "to my own house and find my two best friends, that I thought, waiting for me. A few hours ago I should have thought such a scene as this utterly impossible. I will ask you both to remember that it has not been provoked by me in any way, and that directly I came in, you turned on me in the most atrocious and ill-bred way. Of your idea of the value of friendship I say nothing at all. It is obvious I must say nothing about that. Now you have forced the pace I will say this. To marry that young lady -- I don't like to speak her name even -- is about as difficult as to dive wearing a cork jacket or keep a smelt in a net. But I mean to try. I mean to use every ounce of weight I've got. I will almost certainly fail, but now you know."

  "Since you have said that," Pat broke in, "handicaps be damned! I'm a starter for the same stakes, and it's hell for leather I'll ride, and it's meself that says it, Tom."

  Arthur Winstanley spoke last. "I'm a fellow of a good many ambitions," he said quietly, "though I've never bothered you chaps with them. Now they are all consolidated into one."

  Then we all stood and looked at each other, the cards on the table, and in the faces of the other two at least there was uneasiness and shame.

  Just at that moment a funny thing happened. Preston had brought in an ice pail full of bottles of soda water. The heat of the night, or something, caused one of the corks to break its confining wire and go off with a startling report, while a fountain of foam drenched the sandwiches.

  "Me kingdom for a drink!" said Pat. "Oh, the sweet, blessed, gurgling sound!" and striding to the table he mixed a gargantuan peg.

  Arthur and I met behind Pat's back and he held out his hand to me, biting his lower lip. "We've behaved abominably, old soul," he said.

  The big guardsman turned round and raised his glass on high. "Here's to the sweetest and mos
t lovely lady in the world, bedad!" he shouted, accentuating his Irish brogue. "May the best man win her, fair fight, and no favours; and may the Queen of Heaven and all the saints watch over the little darlint and guide her choice aright!"

  So all our midnight madness passed like a fleeting cloud. An extraordinary accession of high spirits came to us as we pledged the dark-haired maiden from Brazil. And it was Pat, dear old Pat, who welded us together in a league of chivalry against which nothing was ever to prevail.

  "Tom," he said, "Arthur, we are all like brothers, we always have been. Let there be no change in that, now or ever. I have something to propose."

  "Go on, Pat," said Arthur.

  "Sure then, since we all love the same lady, that ought to bind us more together than anything else has ever done. But since we cannot all marry her, let us agree, in the first place, that no outsider ever shall."

  "Hurrah!" said Arthur. I could see he was fearfully excited, throwing his glass into the fireplace with a crash.

  "I am with you, Pat!" I cried. "It's to be one of us three, and we are in league against all the other men in London. And now the question is----"

  "Hear my plan," said Pa. "This very night we'll draw lots as to which of us will have the first chance. The man who wins will have the entire support of the other two in every possible way. If she accepts him, then the fates have spoken. If she doesn't, then the next man in the draw will have his chance, and the rejected suitor and the poor third man will help him to the utmost of their ability. Is that clear?"

  He stopped and looked down at us from his great height with a smiling and anxious face.

  Dear old Pat, I'll always love to think that the proposal came from him, straight, clean and true, as he always was.

  "So be it," Arthur echoed solemnly. "The league will begin this very night. Do either of you chaps know any Spanish, by the way?"

  We shook our heads.

  "Well, I do," he continued, "and we'll form ourselves into a Santa Hermandad -- 'The Holy Brotherhood'. It was the name of an old Spanish Society of chivalry ever so many years ago."

  "Santa Hermandad!" Pat shouted. "And now to shake hands on it. I think we'll not be needing to take an oath."

  Our three hands were clasped together in an instant and we knew that, come what might, each would be true to that bond.

  "And now," I said, "to draw lots as to who will be the first to try his chance. How will we settle it?"

  "There's no fairer way," said Arthur, "than the throw of a die. Have you any poker dice, Tom?"

  "Yes, I have a couple of sets somewhere."

  "Very well then, we'll take a single one and the first man that throws Queen is the winner."

  I found the dice and the leather cup and dropped a single one into it. Poker dice, for the benefit of the uninitiate, have the Queen on one side in blue, like the Queen in a pack of cards, the King in red and the Knave in black. On two other faces, the nine and the ten.

  "Who will throw first?" said Pat.

  "You throw," I said.

  There was a rattle, and nine fell on the table. I nodded to Arthur, who picked up the little ivory square, waved the cup in the air, and threw -- an ace.

  My turn came. I threw an ace also, and Arthur and I looked at Pat with sinking hearts.

  He threw a King. I don't want another five minutes like that again. We threw and threw and threw and never once did the Queen turn up.

  At last Arthur said, "Look here, you fellows, I can't stand this much longer. It's playing the devil with my nerves. Let's have one more throw, and if Her Majesty doesn't turn up, let's decide it by values. Ace, highest, King, Queen and so on. Tom, your turn."

  I took up the box, rattled the cube within it for a long time and then dropped it flat on the table.

  I had thrown Queen.