RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters.
MARIE VINCENT nudged Lord Winton so suddenly in the ribs with her elbow that he lost control for a moment of the motorcar he was driving, and only by a miracle saved himself from running down a cow straying in the Hertfordshire lane.
"Your old, man's a bit of a nut, ain't he, Arthur?" she said, a seraphic smile illuminating her piquant face.
"He's not a bad sort, really, dearest—the old governor isn't; but he's awfully prejudiced."
"Yes, I know his sort—full up to the neck with back-number views; thinks a music-hail artist a low, degraded woman, only fit to wipe his boots on."
"I don't think the governor would succeed in doing that in your case," answered Lord Winton, with a smile.
"Not much!" exclaimed Miss Vincent, smiling. "But all the same, Arthur, your father is what he is, and my talking to him won't help us to get married, will it?"
That was the great problem which they had come out in Lord Winton's automobile with the express purpose of trying to solve. So far, they had got no nearer the solution, and the obstacles in the path of love seemed as insurmountable as ever.
Marie Vincent was the star of the music halls. Critics had hailed her as a genius and had deplored the fact that nothing would persuade her to join the legitimate stage. Her portrayal of different phases of life was masterly, and though most of her audiences saw nothing in her performances except matter for hearty laughter, there were those who were more discerning, and realised that her comedy, like all true, great comedy, was based on a sympathy and understanding of human nature, and only separated from tears by the thinnest of veils.
Her success had been phenomenal. From her earliest years she had been trained to the footlights, and now, at twenty-four, she was earning a salary of £500 a week, and her name was famous in every part of the English-speaking world. Those who knew her, knew her for a good, generous woman, whose heart was always touched by any tale of suffering, and whose purse was always open to give relief.
The ordinary straight-laced person considered her frankly vulgar, and discerned none of her sterling qualities, behind the screen of rather too-gorgeous clothes, and of a conversation that was more racy than polite.
Many men had proposed marriage to her, but she had given her heart to no one until she met Lord Winton, the only son of the Earl of Marshfields; then she had fallen head over heels in love.
It was, perhaps, unfortunate, for society said that she merely wanted a title, and the earl, who prided himself on the nobility of his name and family, openly declared that she was a common adventuress. Moreover, he stated emphatically that Lord Winton should never marry her with his consent. That was the crux of the whole matter. Under ordinary circumstances. Lord Winton would have braved the anger of his father, and married Marie out of hand.
But, unfortunately, there were obstacles in his path. Though he was 23, he had no income of his own and had to rely entirely on the handsome allowance made him by the earl.
Brought up to no definite profession, his marriage would mean that he must be dependent on his wife, and to this he would not consent. Marie quite agreed with him.
"I shouldn't like a waster for a husband. You must buck up, Arthur, and start some business or other. You know a lot about cars; why don't you go into the motor trade?"
"I would, like a shot, dearest," he had replied; "But, you see, I want capital. I couldn't bear to take any of your money and the only cash I have a chance of getting comes to me when I am 25, provided I marry with my father's consent."
"Well, we're rather up a gum-tree, Arthur," was Marie's comment, "unless we can get round the old man somehow."
They had discussed the situation over and over again during their afternoon drive without any result.
"If you don't marry me, I shall throw, myself into the Thames, Arthur," Marie said in conclusion, "or else relieve my feelings by bringing a breach of promise case."
"It's cursed bad luck," said Lord Winton, savagely. "If you jump into the Thames, I'll come with you; I couldn't live without you."
He turned to her as he spoke, to discover by the abstraction of her looks that she was not attending to him.
"What are you thinking about, Marie?" he asked.
She did not answer him for a moment, but with an unusually serious face stared straight in front of her, while the car rolled onwards between the green hedgerows. Then suddenly she smiled, and the smile, as Lord Winton watched it, gradually developed into a frank grin.
"Look here, Arthur, I am going to take that American tour, after all."
"But you said you wouldn't," he protested in alarm.
"Well, you write and tell me that you don't want me to take it because you're going to marry me."
"Why, what the dickens would be the use of that?"
"Never you mind; you just toe the line, and do as you are bid, like a good boy. Also, promise me that whatever I tell you to do, you will do?"
"Of course, I'll do that, but you might tell me what you're driving at."
"You'll know soon enough, you bet, replied Marie, with a wink. "Meanwhile, take me home as quick as you can, for it's after four o'clock and I have got three halls to work to-night."
A MONTH later the Earl of Marshfields stood at his library window, and looking out across the broad and pleasant sweep of his park, felt distinctly that all was well with the world. He had every reason to be satisfied. His paternal diplomacy had triumphed, and his son, Lord Winton, with a certain show of reluctance, had consented to write to Marie Vincent at the dictation of his solicitors, breaking off his engagement. The earl felt that he had got his son out of a hole and saved the family from the scandal of a mésalliance.
True, Marie Vincent had threatened to be unpleasant, but Mr. Parcher had received instructions to see her on the subject and arrange any reasonable cash settlement, without prejudice.
The earl foresaw no difficulty. The woman, being a music-hall artist, must obviously be an adventuress if she desired to marry his son, and he was at that moment waiting the advent of his solicitor to hear that the whole matter bad been satisfactorily wound up. As soon as Mr. Parcher arrived he was shown into the library.
"Well, Parcher," the earl said, cheerily, "you've settled everything, I hope satisfactorily?"
Mr. Parcher, whose face was somewhat troubled, shook his head gloomily. "Not exactly settled, my lord. The lady was inclined to be rather—shall I say truculent?—and insisted on a settlement to which I could not consent."
"Sit down, Parcher, sit down, and tell me all about it. Now, what exactly happened?"
The solicitor ensconced himself in one of the carved oak chairs, and, putting the points of his fingers together, began the narrative of his interview with Marie Vincent.
"I followed your instructions, my lord, absolutely. I went to the lady's flat, and put the matter before her clearly. In the first place I told her, as you desired, that we admitted no claim, but that in the case of a person of her class, your lordship was prepared to be generous."
"What did she say to that?"
Mr. Parcher hesitated and looked rather confused, and the earl had to insist upon an answer to his question before he replied.
"Your lordship is, of course, not acquainted with women of that class, and I must tell you that her manners are—shall we say free? To illustrate my meaning, I may mention that she persistently addressed me, in spite of my objections, as Old Parchment, or Mr. Six-and-Eight, and the whole interview was conducted on her side, in the same spirit of vulgar levity,"
"Yes, but what did she say, Parcher?" persisted the earl.
"Well, she told me to tell your lordship to—to go and boil your head, and requested me at the same time to cut the cackle and get to business."
The earl's forehead creased into a frown.
"And this is the creature that my son wished to marry, Parcher!" he exclaimed. "But don't let me interrupt you."
"I then, told her, my lord, that I was instructed to offer her, without prejudice, the sum of one thousand pounds."
"And what did she say to that?"
"She had the impudence," continued Parcher, choking with anger at the memory of the insult, "to—shall we say chuck?—me under the chin; and to tell me to guess again."
"She demanded more, then?"
"Yes, my lord. She says she didn't want your money, for she was earning over twenty thousand a year—these women make enormous incomes, my lord—but she wanted to punish Lord Winton for having won her heart, and then thrown her aside. She demanded twenty thousand pounds."
"Ridiculous! preposterous!" exclaimed the earl. "You told her so, of course, Parcher ?"
"I told her that it she rejected our offer she would not get a penny-piece, and that, if necessary, we were quite prepared to fight the case."
"Quite right, Parcher. And made her see reason before you finished your unpleasant interview, I hope."
"I'm afraid not, my lord. When I issued my—shall we say ultimatum?—she said 'Right O,' and, telling me that I should hear from her solicitors, opened the door and wished me good-morning."
The earl walked up and down the library floor in a very fury of anger. He had hoped that Marie Vincent would have been only too glad to accept a thousand pounds, and her disdainful refusal of the money hurt his pride.
"Well, we'll fight the case, Parcher. I'd sooner lose twenty thousand pounds than my son should marry her, or I should weakly consent to this woman's blackmail."
THE breach of promise case between Marie Vincent and Lord Winton created a tremendous sensation. The court was crowded with members of society and the theatrical profession, and every detail of the trial was followed with the closest interest. Marie Vincent dressed—even overdressed—in the height of fashion, and looking very charming, went into the witness-box and detailed her story under the examination of her counsel.
From the very first the case was clear, and practically there was no defence. The letters that her counsel had read, in his opening, showed clearly that up to the middle of June Lord Winton had made the most impassioned love to her, and that he had persuaded her to abandon her American tour, by which she had lost fifteen thousand pounds, under a promise of marrying her at once.
Then suddenly his declarations of affection had cooled, and finally she had received the letter announcing his intention of having nothing more to do with her, which was the cause of the action.
In vain the famous K.C. for the defence attempted, in his cross-examination, to paint Marie Vincent as an adventuress for the benefit of the jury. It was generally conceded that the music-hall artist more than held her own.
"What was your motive," he said, in his best sarcastic manner, fingering his eye-glass, "in desiring to marry the defendant?"
"A funny old one," Miss Vincent answered promptly, "which perhaps you haven't over heard of."
"Possibly I appreciate your motive better than you imagine; but kindly answer my question."
"Love, just that—l-o-v-e. Rum thing, isn't it?"
The counsel looked appealingly at the judge, who politely requested the plaintiff to limit her remarks to answering the questions put to her. "You were influenced by no other motives?" continued counsel.
"None."
"His title and position never entered into your calculations?"
"Never."
"You never realised, I suppose, that by marrying him, you would be raised from a situation of obscurity to one that many might envy?"
"Situation of obscurity!" exclaimed the Plaintiff. "Why, I am known in every part of the British Empire and the States. You just ask the gentlemen of the jury which name they know best—mine or the defendant's."
Here a smile lit up the jury-box, and counsel hastily shifted his ground.
"Your motives were quite disinterested, then?"
The plaintiff showed signs of agitation. "I tell you I love him," she said, speaking very quickly. "I suppose you think because you wear a wig and spend most of your time in a stuffy court that nobody can fall in love, but they can, and I did, and—and—" She stopped her tirade abruptly, and, putting her handkerchief to hot eyes, broke into uncontrolled sobs.
The rest of her cross-examination was a failure, and it was with a secret feeling of relief that the famous K.C. finally saw her leave the box.
But if the defence in their attempt to mitigate the damages had made a failure with Marie Vincent, they came off even more hardly with the defendant himself, on whose evidence they mostly relied.
Lord Winton excited nothing but contempt in the witness-box. He openly bragged of having made violent love to the plaintiff without ever having had any intention of marrying her. He stated that he engaged himself to her, swearing the most solemn vows, because he found it amusing, and not even his own counsel could extract anything from him that helped to depict him as the foolish young man, who had been trapped by a crafty woman of the world. The case ended in a verdict for the plaintiff, with the full damages claimed.
Though the Earl of Marshfields was exceedingly wroth at the amount he was called upon to pay on behalf of his son, his anger was somewhat mitigated by the thought that he had had his own way. And that, with him, was everything. As long as his will predominated he did not care, and even though it had cost him twenty thousand pounds and more, his son had not married Marie Vincent.
It was in this mood of angry satisfaction that he sat in the library, two days after the payment of the damages. His mind was busy framing a future for his son. Lord Winton was to marry a titled heiress, and the house of Marshfields, which had existed so long and honourably, was to be set on an even firmer foundation by this union.
Now that the breach of promise case was over he had no fears about Lord Winton. The boy had seen the folly of his ways, and would not allow himself to be trapped a second time. While he was reflecting on those matters he did not hear the library door open, and he was not aware of anybody else's presence in the room until he looked up to see a charming vision in a simple white dress and a big white hat standing in front of him.
"How do, daddy!" said the vision, two of the dearest little dimples appearing on her cheeks, and a pair of the loveliest dark eyes looking out laughingly at him from under their long lashes.
The earl was a gentleman of the old school, and would sooner have died than have remained sitting in the presence of the humblest woman. In spite of the stiffness in his limbs, and a certain suspicion of gout in his right foot, he made an effort to rise. The girl went up to the side of his chair, and, putting her arm round him, helped him to his feet in the most businesslike way.
"That's right, daddy," he said. "Your machinery is a bit creaky, but it'll run along for years yet, let's hope."
The earl looked in utter astonishment at the girl, whose face wore a radiant smile, and the more he looked, the more fascinated was he by its beauty.
"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, when he was able to find his tongue, "may I ask who you are, and why you address me in a manner which, however charming, seems hardly appropriate?"
"Don't you know me?" she asked, her head slightly on one side, smiling up at him with a coquetry which warmed the old blood in his veins. The earl shook his head.
"Do you think I'm nice looking?" The question was asked point blank.
"I think you are perfectly charming," said the earl smiling.
"You don't think I'm vulgar and overdressed, and coarse?"
Looking into the liquid depths of those dark eyes, the earl quite lost his head. "I should think not, indeed," he said, indignantly.
"And what's the matter with my manners—anything much?"
"My dear young lady, I don't know why you ask me these questions, but it you really want me to tell you. I think they are as charming as they are original."
"I thought you would like me, somehow, when you got to know me, And now I'm going to kiss you, because you are such a dear old boy."
She bent forward, and putting her arms round the neck of the unresisting earl, pressed a pair of rosy lips to his cheek.
"There," she said, when she had finished the performance, "now we're quite pally and nice, aren't we, daddy?"
The earl looked with puzzled eyes into the girl's beautiful face.
"Why daddy?" he asked.
"Because, old boy," answered the laughing vision in front of him. "I'm your daughter-in-law. Arthur and I were married at a registry office in London yesterday. Now, please don't have a fit. Here, I'll give you something that will buck you up."
She slipped her arms affectionately round his neck again, and kissed him. "Cheer up, old 'oss. You'll get over it all right. Now I must kiss that nasty little wrinkle from your forehead. Bless any stars, you've so many of them you ought to go in for face massage."
She rained kisses on his brow and then stepped back and examined it critically, as if to see whether her kisses had removed the wrinkles. They had had some effect, for the Earl smiled weakly.
"My daughter-in-law!" he gasped. "But who are you?"
"Why, you dear old owl, can't you guess? Come along over here, and I'll tell you all about it."
She took him by the arm and, pulling him across the room, made him sit down by her side on a settee. There she slipped an arm round his waist and snuggled up to his side, with her beautiful face closed to his.
"Now, daddy, old buck, I'll tell you all about it. I am Marie Vincent—that horrid, coarse, vulgar adventuress (here she kissed the earl on his lips)—and I have married your son. We had to do it in this way, because you were such a stand-offish, get-off-the-grass old chappie; you wouldn't give Arthur that twenty thousand which should come to him when he is twenty- five, and he wouldn't marry me if he had to be dependent, on me, so I just brought that breach of promise action, and got the beans out of you for him that way. Rather pulled your dear old leg, I'm afraid, but just tell me you don't mind, and that you'll be a good daddy to me."
The Earl of Marshfields made one heroic effort to recover his outraged dignity, but the sight of that sweet, winsome face pressed close to his was too much for him.
"My dear," he said, in rather a quavering voice, "I couldn't help forgiving you, even if I didn't want to."
He drew her towards him and kissed her on the cheek, a caress to which Marie replied enthusiastically.
Then she jumped to her feet and bounded across the room. In another moment she had opened the door and admitted the rather shamefaced heir to the earldom.
"Come along, Arthur," she cried, "the dear old boy has forgiven us, and we have only got to let the curtain ring down on the limelight and 'Bless you, my children!'"