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Title: The adventurous lady

Author: J. C. (John Collis) Snaith

Release Date: October 30, 2022 [eBook #69271]

Language: English

Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
             at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was created from images
             of public domain material made available by the University
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTUROUS LADY ***





  _The_
  ADVENTUROUS LADY




_By_

J. C. SNAITH

  The Adventurous Lady
  The Undefeated
  The Sailor
  The Time Spirit
  The Coming
  Anne Feversham


  _These Are Appleton Books_

  D. APPLETON & COMPANY
  Publishers       New York




  _The_
  ADVENTUROUS LADY

  BY
  J. C. SNAITH

  AUTHOR OF “THE UNDEFEATED,” “THE SAILOR,”
  “BROKE OF COVENDEN”

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  NEW YORK       MCMXX




  COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




_The_

ADVENTUROUS LADY




I


PEACE and her blessings were flowing already. All the same there
was a terrible crush at Belgravia. The congestion of passengers and
their luggage at the terminus of the B. S. W. was enough to daunt the
stoutest heart, but a girl in a sealskin coat with a skunk collar
standing at the bookstall on Platform Three was as calm and collected
as if the war was still going on. Outwardly at least she made no
concession to the fact that the Armistice had been signed three days.

She chose some newspapers and magazines and paid for them with an air
that almost treated money with the disdain it reserved for literature.
Then she moved towards a figure of sombre dignity standing between the
barrier and herself.

“Come on, Pikey,” she said.

A tall, griffin-like woman, craggy of feature but almost oppressively
respectable, followed her mistress dourly. The duenna carried a large,
queer-shaped, rather disreputable-looking dressing case whose faded
purple cover was adorned with a coronet. As their tickets were franked
at the barrier, these ladies were informed that “All stations beyond
Exeter” were up on the right.

In spite of such clear and explicit instructions, it was not easy to
get to all the stations beyond Exeter. Platform Three was a maelstrom
of almost every known community. There were Italians and Serbians,
Welshmen and such men, Japanese sailors and turbaned Hindoos; the
personal suite of President Masaryk; Tommies and poilus; American
tars and doughboys; British and Colonial officers, their kit and
appurtenances; and over and above all these were the members of the
traveling public which in other days had kept the railways running and
had paid the shareholders their dividends.

A cool head and a firm will were needed to get as far as the stations
beyond Exeter. And these undoubtedly belonged to the girl in the fur
coat. Her course was slow but it was calm and sure. With rare fixity
of will she pursued it despite the peace that had come so suddenly
upon the world. It was a very long train, but she was in no hurry
nor did she betray the least anxiety, although somewhere about the
middle--Salisbury and Devizes only--she cast a half-glance back to say
to her companion, “I don’t see _our_ porter, Pikey.”

To utter the word “porter” just then was either bravado or it was
inhuman optimism. But the act of faith was justified by the event, for
hardly had the lady of the fur coat made the remark when a figure in
corduroys almost miraculously emerged from the welter. Both travelers
had a doubt at first as to whether this rare bird was Trotsky himself
or merely a Sinn Fein delegate to the Peace Conference, so aloof yet
so grim was his manner. But at that moment there seemed to be no other
porter on Platform Three--it followed, therefore, that _their_ porter
it must be.

It was rather providential perhaps that the porter had been able to
find them, but he was by way of being a connoisseur in the human
female. He had not been employed at Belgravia for thirty-five years
without learning to sort out the various ranks and grades of a
heterogeneous society. As a matter of fact, there were only two grades
of society for Mr. Trotsky. One grade was worth while, the other was
not.

The progress of the party up Platform Three to all the stations beyond
Exeter was slow but, like fate, it was inevitable. They walked through,
over and beyond armed representatives of five continents, nursemaids
with babies and perambulators, not to mention remarkable women with
remarkable dogs, trolleys and milk cans and piles of luggage, until at
last they reached a compartment not far from the engine. It was notable
for the fact that it was two-thirds empty. Rugs, umbrellas and minor
portmanteaux claimed the unoccupied seats; those remaining were adorned
by two distinguished-looking gentlemen who, however, were reading
_The Times_ newspaper with an assiduity that definitely and finally
dissociated them from Mr. Trotsky and party.

The lady of the fur coat was in the act of opening her purse at the
carriage door when a wild, weak voice said, excitedly, “Oh, porter, can
you find me a place--_please_?”

On instinct Mr. Trotsky disregarded the appeal. There was frenzy in it;
and that fact alone made any examination of the overburdened, rather
hunted little creature at his elbow unnecessary. Dark fate itself could
not have turned a deafer ear than he.

“People are standing in all the thirds.” The piping, rather piteous
little note grew more insistent. “I _can’t_ stand all the way to
Clavering, St. Mary’s.”

“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly
accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.

“But--but there’s no place for my luggage.”

As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty
gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in
one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing
at bay. She was literally standing at bay.

“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was cautious
and detached, but not unfriendly.

“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a
third-class ticket.”

“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of immensely
practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.

“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company
made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm.
“Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”

Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on
his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine.
His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger,
seemed sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be
more just to say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss
Fur Coat was curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She
was absolutely cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the
temperature of Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck,
whereas poor little Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin
green ulster. And the slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost
dangerous momentum. Before the third class passenger realized what had
happened, she had been taken charge of.

“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”

Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey,
who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a
single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage,
and calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a
leather-handled umbrella from one seat to the next.

“Thank you so much--thank you _ever_ so much,” twittered the lady of
the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the
pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of
the _Times_ newspaper.

A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for an
hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in
anger than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell
pince-nez. One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people
these times! Still the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another
half crown.

“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced
the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on
almost the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the
compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.

The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society
on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then
transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head
office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not
call for comment, a message was received from another department to
ask what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the
incident ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned--ended almost
before it began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did
not amount to an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.




II


THE Inspector came along to look at the tickets.

“You must either pay excess or change into a third,” he said firmly at
the sight of the third class ticket.

“But there’s no room,” its owner faltered. It is a phrase no longer in
vogue in the best novels, but the little lady of the green ulster was
of the faltering type.

“Plenty of room presently.” So firm was the Inspector he might have
been Marshal Foch himself. “Meantime you must find a place somewhere
else.”

At this cruel mandate the little lady shivered under her bright thin
garment.

“How much--how much is there to pay?” It was mere desperation. There
were only a few--a very few shillings in her purse. All her available
capital had been put into the green ulster and the new serge suit she
was wearing and a black felt hat with a neat green ribbon. But to be
torn out of that haven of refuge, to be flung again, bag and baggage,
into the maelstrom of Platform Three--the thought was paralyzing.

The Inspector condescended to look again at the third-class ticket.
“Clavering St. Mary’s. There’ll be twenty-one and six-pence excess.”

Miss Gray Eyes wilted visibly.

“I can’t stand here all day,” announced the Inspector. “This train was
due out a quarter of an hour ago.”

“But--” faltered the unlucky passenger.

“You’ll have to come out and find room lower down.”

At this point a slow, cool, rather cautious voice said “Inspector.”

“Madam?” It was a decidedly imperative “madam.”

“If there is no room in the third-class compartments this lady is
allowed a seat here, isn’t she?”

“There is room--if she’ll take the trouble to look for it.”

“She says there isn’t.” If anything the voice of Miss Fur Coat had
grown slower and cooler.

“I say there is.” The Inspector knew he was addressing a bona fide
first-class passenger, all the same he was terribly inspectorial.

“Well perhaps you’ll find it for her.” The considered coolness was
almost uncanny. “And then, perhaps, you’ll come back and show her where
it is.”

The Inspector was obviously a little stunned by Miss Fur Coat’s
suggestion, but he managed to blurt out, “And what about the train in
the meantime?” Then he went for Miss Green Ulster with a truculence
that verged on savagery. “Come on, madam. Come on out.”

“I don’t think I’d move if I were you.” The manner of the other lady
was quite impersonal.

“Very well, then,”--the Inspector produced a portentous looking
notebook--“I must have your name and address.”

It is quite certain that Miss Gray Eyes would have yielded to this
awful threat of legal proceedings to follow had it not been for the
further intervention of the good fairy or the evil genius opposite.

“You had better take mine, Inspector.” The voice was really inimitable.
“My father, I believe, is a director of your company.”

Miss Fur Coat knew that her father was a director of a railway company.
She didn’t know the name of it, nor did she know the name of the
company by which she was traveling, nor was she a student of Hegel, or
for that matter of any other philosopher, but there really seemed no
reason at that moment why they should not be one and the same.

The Inspector turned to confront the occupant of the corner seat. It
would be an abuse of language to say that he turned deferentially, but
somehow his notebook and pencil certainly looked a shade less truculent.

“I had better give you a card.” It was almost the voice of a dreamer,
yet the dry precision was really inimitable. “Pikey,”--she addressed
the lady opposite--“you have some cards?”

The duenna opened the queer-shaped dressing bag with an air of stern
disapproval. At the top was a small leather case which she handed to
her mistress.

“Inspector, this is my mother’s card. My father is Lord Carabbas.
That is _my_ name”--a neatly gloved finger indicated the middle--“Lady
Elfreda Catkin.” She pronounced the name very slowly and distinctly and
with a care that seemed to give it really remarkable importance.

The Inspector glanced at the card. Then he glanced at Lady Elfreda.
He made no comment. All the same a subtle change came over him. It
was hard to define, but it seemed to soften, almost to humanize him.
Finally it culminated in an abrupt withdrawal from the compartment with
a slight raising of the hat.

Before the train started, which in the course of the next three minutes
it reluctantly did, the guard came and locked the carriage door.

England ranks as a democratic country, but the fact that a daughter of
the Marquis of Carabbas was sitting in the left-hand corner, with her
back to the engine, lent somehow a quality to the atmosphere of the
compartment which would hardly have been there had its locale been the
rolling stock of the Tahiti Great Western or the Timbuctoo Grand Trunk.
At any rate two diligent students of _The Times_ newspaper peered
solemnly at each other over the top of their favorite journal. Both
lived in Eaton Place, they had belonged for years to the same clubs,
they were known to each other perfectly well by sight but they jobbed
in different markets; therefore they had yet to speak their first word
to each other--for no better reason than that he who spoke first would
have to make some little sacrifice of personal dignity in order to do
so.

Now, of course, was not the moment to break the habit of years, but
if their solemn eyes meant anything their minds held but a single
thought. Carabbas himself did not cut much ice in the City, but if he
was joining the board of the B. S. W. it meant that the astute Angora
connection was coming into Home Rails, in which case purely as a matter
of academic interest, there would be no harm in turning to page fifteen
in order to look at the price of B. S. W. First Preferred Stock.

That was all the incident meant to these Olympians, just that and
nothing more. But for the little lady of the green ulster it was of
wholly different portent. When shortly after nine o’clock that morning
she had left the home of her fathers in the modest suburb of Laxton
she had not dreamt that before midday she would find herself under
the personal protection of the daughter of a marquis. It was her good
fortune to be living in the golden age of democracy, but...!

She stole a covert glance at the fur coat opposite. Such a garment in
itself was no longer a mark of caste, but this was rather a special
affair, a sealskin with a skunk collar, so simple, so unpretending
that it needed almost the glance of an expert to tell that it had cost
a great deal of money. Then she glanced at the hat above it, a plain
black velour with a twist of skunk round it, then down at the neat--the
adorably neat!--shoes, and then very shyly up again to their wearer.
But their wearer was holding the _Society Pictorial_ in front of her,
and in the opinion of the third class passenger it was, perhaps, just
as well that she was. Otherwise she could hardly have failed to read
what was passing in the mind of the Lady of Laxton. She must have seen
something of the envy and the awe, of the eager, the too-eager interest
which all the care in the world could not veil.

Miss Gray Eyes knew and felt she was a little snob, a mean and rather
vulgar little snob in the presence of Miss Puss-in-the-Corner, the tip
of whose decisive chin was just visible between her paper and her rich
fur collar.

What must it feel like to be the daughter of a marquis? A crude and
silly inner self put the question. A daughter of a marquis is just
like anybody else’s daughter--the answer came pat, but somehow at that
moment the third class passenger was unable to accept it. A gulf yawned
between herself and the girl opposite. They were of an age; their
heights and their proportions were nearly identical; at a first glance
they might almost have passed for sisters except that Miss Gray Eyes
was quite sure in her heart that she was the prettier; all the same
there was a world of difference in the way they looked at life and a
whole cosmos in the way life looked at them.

The little lady sighed at her thoughts--they were hard thoughts--and
opened her pilgrim basket. She took from it a notebook and pencil
and a dog-eared copy of _The Patrician_, the famous novel of Mr. John
Galsworthy, which bore the imprint of the Laxton Cube Library. For two
years past she had prescribed for herself a course of the best modern
English fiction. She was reading it diligently, less for relaxation
and human enjoyment than for purposes of self improvement. Her social
opportunities had been few and narrow, although her parents had rather
ambitiously given her an education excellent of its kind at the Laxton
High School for Young Ladies, which she had been able to supplement by
passing the Oxford Preliminary Examination.

For the second time in her life of twenty years Miss Cass--she was
known to her friends as Girlie Cass--had taken a situation as a nursery
governess. She had had one brief experience which had been terminated
by her mother’s illness and death. Since then she had been three months
a government clerk, but she was not quick at figures and she couldn’t
write shorthand. Life as a nursery governess was not going to be a bed
of roses for one as shy and sensitive as herself, but she was genuinely
fond of young children and somehow such a career with all its thorns
seemed more suited to one of her disposition than a stand-up fight in
the peace that was coming with terribly efficient competitors, who,
if they happened to want your particular piece of cake, would have no
scruples about knocking you down and trampling upon your prostrate
body in order to get it.

If Miss Cass had any taint of vanity it was centered in the fact that
she was by way of being a high-brow. She was not a high-brow of the
breed that looks and dresses and acts and thinks the part. In her
case it was more a secret sin than anything and it took the form of
competing week by week in the literary competition of the _Saturday
Sentinel_, under the “nom de plume” of Vera.

The subject this week was the “Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon
the English Novel.” It was, perhaps, a little advanced for the Laxton
Cube Library, but Vera was ambitious. She had not yet won a prize,
truth to tell she had not even been in sight of one, but three weeks
ago her essay on _Jane Eyre_ had been commended as showing insight. She
had not yet got over her excitement at receiving a compliment which
in her heart she felt she fully merited. If she plumed herself upon
anything it was upon her insight. One day when she had learned a little
more about life--her trouble was that she had so little invention--she
might even try to write a novel herself. But in her case it would have
to be based on first-hand experience. She would not be able, like the
Brontë Sisters, to weave a romance out of her inner consciousness.

“The Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.” Miss
Cass had the bad habit of sucking her pencil, but it was not easy to
marshal or to set down one’s thoughts with the train converging upon
Reading at forty miles an hour. However, she was able to write the
heading quite legibly. But then her difficulties began. What exactly
was the influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English novel?

“Pikey.” It was almost the nicest voice Miss Gray Eyes had ever heard,
yet curiously low and penetrating in quality. “Do you recognize that?”
Miss Fur Coat folded back a page of her paper to display a photograph
of a famous beauty. “Rather flattering, don’t you think?”

Pikey lowered _The Queen_, which she had been studying with a kind
of latent ferocity, and exchanged periodicals without comment. She
was evidently a creature of very few words, and to judge by a certain
morose dignity it seemed to argue considerable hardihood on the part of
anyone to address her at all familiarly.

Miss Cass could not help wondering what the status was of this duenna
who seemed a cross between a lady’s maid and a werewolf. But the chain
of her reflections was interrupted by the stopping of the train at a
station of which she could not see the name. Here the two gentlemen
got out, after one of them had lowered the window and had called to
an official to unlock the door. And in the order of their going the
student of _The Patrician_ noticed that while neither of them showed
any particular concern for the green ulster, both were very careful not
to tread upon the fur coat.




III


THE three ladies now had the carriage to themselves. As soon as the
train had moved out of the station, Lady Elfreda discarded _The Queen_
and said, “What have you brought for luncheon, Pikey?”

The _Society Pictorial_ was laid aside while Pikey came resolutely
to grips with an interesting looking case which had been placed on a
vacant seat. In the meantime the blessed word “luncheon” had brought
a pang to the heart of Miss Cass. On leaving her home that morning
it had been her intention to procure some food en route. Alas, the
difficulties of metropolitan travel, the irregularity of ’bus and train
culminating in a bear fight at Belgravia, had driven all minor matters
out of a head that was not very strong in practical affairs. Therefore
it was now the part of Miss Gray Eyes to regard wistfully, from behind
her book, the disclosure of the contents of the luncheon basket.
Certainly it was quite in the tradition of a marquis’ daughter. There
was a place for everything and everything was in its place: delicious
looking sandwiches in neat tins, a cake which for war time could only
be described as royal, and crowning glory and wonder, a large bottle of
wine most artfully packed with glasses and corkscrew complete.

Lady Elfreda shed one neat glove with a very businesslike air and
offered the contents of the tins. “Those are egg, Pikey--and these are
ham, I think.”

The choice of Pikey was ham. The younger lady inserted a very level row
of teeth into the other kind. “Considerin’,” she remarked with obvious
satisfaction, “that these left Ireland at midnight they have stood the
journey pretty well.”

But the Werewolf was too busy to attempt any form of conversation.

Behind _The Patrician_, now rigidly fixed as a barrier, the mouth of
Miss Cass was watering. Within her was the emotion of sinking which
marks the sense of zero. It was a terribly long journey to Clavering
St. Mary’s. The train was not due in until after four. If only she had
provided herself with a piece of chocolate! At the next stopping place,
perhaps, she might be able to get something, but it was by no means a
certainty, having regard to the length of the train and the present
time of famine.

Suddenly Miss Cass was driven clean out of her dismal reflections. A
voice of irresistible charm was addressing her. “Won’t you have one of
these?” Both tins were offered. “Ham--and those are egg.”

Miss Cash blushed and hesitated. There was not the slightest need to do
either, but it was her nature to blush and to hesitate, and there is
no appeal from nature. A pair of eyes, very blue, very clear and only
very slightly ironical looked straight into hers. “Do.” The voice was
extraordinarily kind. “Please!--won’t you?”

It would have called for a heart of stone to resist such an appeal.
Besides, there was no need to resist it.

“Oh, thank you ever so much.” A small piece of paper was laid
reverently upon _The Patrician_ and a delicious looking egg sandwich
was laid with similar reverence upon it. Then a white woolen glove was
carefully removed.

The flavor of the sandwich was quite equal to its appearance. But it
was a mere prelude to the repast. There was a profusion of excellent
things, not a vulgar or ostentatious profusion, but the case had come
from a land flowing with milk and honey. Miss Cass was firmly required
to do her part with both kinds of sandwiches--dreams of sandwiches they
were!--alluring biscuits and rich, almond-studded cake. Above all--and
to be perfectly frank there would be no story without it--she was
compelled to drink honest measure of a generous and full-bodied wine.

The sombre eyes of Pikey glistened when she took this royal vintage out
of its improvised cradle and held it up to the light. “Herself said it
would be good on the journey,” she announced.

“I know you are clever with corkscrews, Pikey,” said Lady Elfreda,
handing the implement persuasively.

Pikey was very clever indeed with corkscrews if her present performance
was anything to go by.

“Be very ca-re-ful how you pour it out.” Such words were superfluous,
which Lady Elfreda well knew; in point of fact, they were a mere
concession to the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas, for Pikey showed
herself a past mistress in the art of decanting a great wine under
trying conditions.

“Clever Pikey!”

Clever enough. The Werewolf had not dwelt from babyhood at Castle
Carabbas and brought up half a dozen members of the Family without
acquiring knowledge which in some quarters was rated highly.

When she had delicately filled the tumbler to two-thirds of its
capacity she handed it to her mistress with something of the air of
sovereign pontiff. But to Pikey’s cold disgust that Irresponsible
offered it to the lady of the green ulster. Nay, she did more than
offer it. She pressed it upon the almost too obvious third-class
passenger with a cunning that made resistance almost impossible.

“Do--please! You have _such_ a long journey.” The blue eyes were
smiling. “It will do you _so_ much good.” The tone was charming
entreaty.

“But--but!” faltered Miss Cass.

“There is a great deal more than we shall require. It is quite a large
bottle.” That statement was very true. It was a decidedly large bottle.

The Dragon scowled over the fur clad shoulder of her mistress, whom
she would willingly have slain. Nevertheless Miss Cass had to yield to
_force majeure_.

“Those plain round biscuits are strongly recommended. They make
an excellent combination”--clever old Pikey to have thought of
those!--“You see, there is any amount--far more than we shall want.”

Resistance was vain. Miss Gray Eyes accepted a plain round biscuit and
then she drank of the full-bodied wine from the famous cellar of Castle
Carabbas.

“This is for you and me, Pikey.” The Dragon, a figure of grim
disapproval, had charged the one remaining tumbler. “You must have
the first drink. That is your side of the Atlantic,” Lady Elfreda
humorously drew an imaginary line across the mouth of the tumbler.
“This is my side.”

Pikey drank. But her nose was so long that it seemed to stretch from
Queenstown to Old Point Comfort.

Yes, a great wine, as none knew better than Pikey. She could not bear
to see it wasted on Miss No-Class. If Pikey’s will had prevailed it
would have choked the lady of the green ulster. What right had she to
be drinking it, much less to be having a tumbler to herself?

Who knows what imprisoned genius lurked in that magic bottle from the
cellar of Castle Carabbas? Miss Cass had never had such a meal. A
modest repast, if you like, yet full of a peculiar virtue. Her thoughts
began to fly round, her blood to course quicker; imprisoned forces
were unsealed in her brain; phrases, ideas began to shape themselves.
The moment with its pains and its fears began to press less heavily.
Suddenly she became free of a great kingdom that her dreams had hinted
at.

Suppose--entrancing supposition!--she were not an obscure, timid little
governess at all, but the daughter of a marquis. She could have looked
the part anyway; that was to say, had she been privileged to wear
the clothes of the lady opposite she could have made an equally good
showing. Privately she felt that with an equal chance she would have
made a better. At any rate, if a glass could be depended on, her eyes,
which were her chief asset, a rather curious gray, would have gone
extremely well with that beautiful skunk collar.

Miss Cass grasped her pencil with a confidence she had never felt
before. “The great charm of Mr. Galsworthy’s novels, which they share
with the novels of Mr. H. G. Bennett and Mr. Arnold Wells----”

... “This is _quite_ a large bottle, Pikey.”

The eyes of the Dragon glistened ... as if she didn’t know the size of
the bottle!

... “You must do _your_ share.” The tumbler was replenished.

That which slept in the royal vintage was known only to the Genie whose
happy task it was to stage manage this tiny fragment of the human
comedy. For the little Catkin lady, after a second modest recourse to
the glass, also began to sit up and take notice. She, too, began to
look at the world with other eyes.

Suppose one was little Miss Rabbit opposite? How must the world appear
when you wear cheap clothes and you carry your own luggage and you
have all suburbia upon your eyebrows? Rather nice eyes, though, by the
way. What was the book she was studying? Part of some very difficult
examination evidently, to judge by the way the poor hunted little mouse
was biting her pencil....

Governess, obviously ... of sorts. What must it be like to get one’s
living as a governess? How must it seem to be bored and bullied and
snubbed by total strangers for the sake of a few pounds a year? Still
in some ways even that mode of life might offer advantages. At any rate
one might be able to call one’s soul--one’s real soul--one’s own. If
you were an obscure little governess whom nobody cared twopence about,
you could do as you liked in the big things, even if the small things
did as they liked with you.

There must have been a powerful Genius lurking in that famous bottle,
for the ears of Lady Elfreda had begun to tingle with resentment. She
remembered that she was an unmarried daughter of a cynical father and
a selfish mother. Four of her sisters had been sacrificed on the altar
of money. And if the present journey into an unknown country meant
anything it was her turn now.

With a pang that was almost agony she searched for and read again her
mother’s letter.

  Castle Carabbas,
  Friday.

  Dearest E:

  I hope you will have a pleasant time at Clavering St. Mary’s. The D.
  says you may find the host and hostess rather crude, but otherwise
  very respectable, nice people. He is on several Boards with your
  father. You are not likely to have met any of your fellow guests, but
  no doubt you will find them quite agreeable. And in any case you must
  bear in mind that you are giving your services for a noble cause. I
  hear from Mabel that last week you had quite a success in “The Duke of
  Killiecrankie.” The D. says that if everything else fails you will be
  able to come out as a star!!!

  By the way, one of the new Peers will be included in the house party.
  He is what the D. calls “a Lloyd-George Particular,” all the same,
  he says, he is quite a good fellow. He has made his money rather
  suddenly, but from what one hears he is _extremely_ wealthy. And that
  is something to bear in mind with things so black over here and the
  outlook for land so uncertain.

  The only people you are likely to know are our old friends the
  Lancelots who live in the neighborhood. Perhaps you may get out one
  day to see them.

  As you will be among strangers I am sending Pikey to look after you.
  And “under the rose” she is bringing a bottle of the D.’s choicest
  Chateau Briault as you may be a little run down after your recent
  Labors in the cause of charity. If you are bored with your present
  task you must remember that you are giving your services for St.
  Aidan’s. Much love,

                                        Your affectionate mother,

                                             CHARLOTTE CARABBAS.

  P. S.: The D. says the new Peer has at least £60,000 a year.

A second reading of this letter filled Elfreda with fury. Somehow it
was so typical of her mother; of the mother who was a curious mixture
of kindness, naïveté and cupidity; of the mother who cared for them
all so much in small things and so little in great ones. Behind these
careless phrases of Lady Carabbas her youngest daughter read her
intentions only too clearly.

As Elfreda sat back in her corner and turned things over in her mind a
kind of cold rage began to dominate her. Had she been left any choice
in the matter she would not be going to Clavering St. Mary’s at all.
No one she knew would be there. But she had not been consulted. Her
autocratic father had promised one of his friends “in the city” that
she should go down there and take part in some private theatricals in
aid of a war charity. For nearly a year now she had been living in
London with a married sister and working for the V. A. D. at one of
the hospitals, but from time to time she had taken part in various
entertainments with considerable success.

The play in which at decidedly short notice she had been called upon to
enact no less a rôle than that of the heroine was called “The Lady of
Laxton.” It was the work of an enthusiastic amateur whose chief claim
to distinction, literary or otherwise, was of the kind that attends the
possession of a baronetcy. She was to be a governess masquerading as
a girl of position. Not only was the part very long and difficult to
learn, but in the opinion of Elfreda it was pointless, silly and vulgar.

To make matters worse she had yet to meet the author of the piece,
but he was known to several of her sisters with whom he was by no
means _persona gratissima_. However, with a fulsome letter, he had
proudly sent her a copy of the piece to which he evidently attached
considerable value; and at that moment it was in the traveling bag by
her side. Resentfully she took it out and began to study it again. In
her present frame of mind, made much worse by her mother’s letter, the
task seemed even less congenial than it had done at first. “I simply
_can’t_ act such rubbish” was the thought that dominated her.

It was surely too bad to force her into such a position. She dug her
teeth into an uncompromising upper lip. Charity excused everything
nowadays, but the more she examined the situation she was in, the less
she liked it. Beneath the armor of stern self-discipline with which she
faced the world were strong feelings, and these flamed suddenly forth
into violent antipathy. Surely it was too bad to be let in for a thing
of this kind! And she would be among strangers, with as far as she
knew, not one solitary friend to help her out.

Her eyes with little darts of anger in them strayed to the girl
opposite. Miss Cass was sucking her pencil again in the process of
thought, her gaze was fixed on vacancy and she was frowning fiercely.
Evidently a very difficult subject she was studying. But, judging by
the color in her cheeks, she was the better for her meal.

Elfreda was rather inclined to envy this girl. She could call her
soul her own at any rate, even if her bread and butter depended on the
overtaxing of her brain.

Accidentally their eyes met. The faint, slightly aloof smile of the one
was answered by the other’s honest blush of gratitude.

“Are you studying trigonometry?” Elfreda had never studied trigonometry
herself, nor did she know exactly what trigonometry was, but if there
was anything in a name it must be a subject of superhuman difficulty;
and taking as a guide the air of concentration and the rumpled brows
of Miss Green Ulster her present difficulty could hardly be less than
superhuman.

Miss Cass haltingly explained that she was trying to win a prize in the
_Saturday Sentinel_.

“How amusing! But one has to be very clever to do that, hasn’t one?”

Miss Cass was afraid that it was so. She had been trying week by week
for nearly a year, but she had only achieved an honorable mention so
far. The topic served to break the ice, however, and they began to
talk freely. This may have been due to the fact that both were glowing
with a generous wine, for it was the habit of neither to indulge in
promiscuous conversation with total strangers. But just now, in quite
an odd way, their minds began to march together, in fact one almost
seemed to be the other’s counterpart.

Miss Green Ulster confided that her name was Cass, that she came from
Laxton, that her father, three years dead, had been a solicitor, that
her mother had been dead six months, that she was left unprovided for,
and that by the recommendation of Canon Carnaby, the vicar of the
parish, who had been very good to her mother and herself, she was going
as governess to the two young children of Lieutenant Colonel Everard
Trenchard-Simpson, D. S. O., The Laurels, Clavering St. Mary’s.

Elfreda was secretly amused by a simplicity which told so much and
concealed so little. All the same she was oddly attracted by the way
this little suburban laid all her cards on the table. Her hopes, her
fears, her pathetic desire for self improvement, the general bleakness
of her outlook, her cruel sense of loneliness now that her mother
as well as her father was dead, her poverty, her lack of a really
first-class education, the exposure of all these things verged upon the
indecent, but somehow they called insistently for pity.

Poor Miss Cass! And yet ... Elfreda shivered at her thoughts ... lucky
Miss Cass!

“How thrilling to act ... in public ... on a real stage ... to a real
audience!” The gray eyes looked quite charming in their awe and their
sincerity.

“Do you really think so?” The slight drawl with its tag of fatigue was
equally sincere.

“Oh, I should just love it--that is, I should just love it if I were
_you_.” The candor _was_ almost indecent, but a nearly whole tumbler of
a great wine was working spells. What Miss Cass really meant was that
she would love to be the daughter of a marquis.

Elfreda deplored her taste and sighed for her innocence. “Think how
bored you’d be to learn a long and stupid part--so that you were simply
word perfect in it.”

“I should just love it.” Miss Cass grew enthusiastic at the thought.
“If I could also be the daughter of a marquis” was the major part of
that thought, which, however, she did not put into words. But those
fatal eyes of hers, in which her soul dwelt, put it into words for her.

Elfreda smiled pityingly. How little she knew!

“By the way, you come from Laxton?”

“Yes, but this morning I gave up my rooms there. So I’ve got no home
now.”

“It happens that this stupid play is called ‘The Lady of Laxton.’”

“There are very few real ladies in Laxton,” said the student of _The
Patrician_ in a burst of candor.

“So one would think if this play is at all true to life,” rose to the
lips of Elfreda, but she did not allow it to escape.

What she did say was, “The plot of this play is that a governess and a
peer’s daughter arriving at a place in the country by the same train
get mixed up. The governess goes off with the other girl’s luggage as
a guest to one house and the peer’s daughter finds herself taken for a
governess at the other.”

“But what a splendid idea!”

“Do you really think so?” The daughter of the marquis opened
incredulous eyes. “In the first place, it could never have happened.”

“Oh, I think it might have happened--but of course it would have been
found out at once.”

“As a matter of fact, the author gets over that part rather well. It
seems they arranged the matter beforehand because the peer’s daughter
wanted to teach some snobs a lesson.”

“But it’s splendid!” Miss Cass clapped her hands with enthusiasm--the
Devil _was_ in the wine. “And, of course, the son at the smart house
proposes to the governess thinking she’s the peer’s daughter and vice
versa.”

“How _were_ you able to guess that?”

Miss Cass had been able to guess that because the _Saturday Sentinel_
said she had insight. But modesty, of course, forbade her to say that
to Lady Elfreda, who was looking at her now with an intentness greater
and more curious than she had ever noticed in any human countenance.

Of what was she thinking, the daughter of the marquis? The mind of Miss
Cass could not stop to inquire. For that deep, delicious voice, that
seemed to treat each individual syllable of the English language as a
work of art, was saying: “As a matter of fact, that is what happens
in the play, but it is all so extraordinarily stupid that one simply
loathes----”

The stern critic had suddenly caught the look of pain in the eyes of
the lady opposite. Then it was she realized that to some minds the
situation itself and even the vulgarly obvious working out of it might
not be intolerable.




IV


THE conversation, which was becoming full of perilous possibilities,
was interrupted by the stopping of the train at Newbury. From her place
by the window Elfreda observed a consequential little man strutting
along the platform in the direction of their compartment. He was
looking for a vacant seat. She recognized at once by a portrait in the
_Society Pictorial_ now open on her knee, that he was no less a person
than Sir Toby Philpot, the author of the play; and to judge by the
quantity of luggage in charge of his servant it was not unreasonable to
suppose that he was on his way to the scene of action at Clavering St.
Mary’s.

He looked a harmless little donkey enough, but among Elfreda’s own
friends he had the reputation of a bounder. It was this fact in the
first instance which may have led her to judge “The Lady of Laxton” so
harshly; at all events the piece could scarcely have been as bad as
she thought it was or it would never have held together. But at least
it went far to account for the depth of her resentment against her
father and mother who, without giving her any option in the matter,
had so high-handedly let her in for something she was going to dislike
intensely.

A sense of disgust pervaded Elfreda. Really there was hardly anything
about the little man to call for such an emotion, but it was his
misfortune to be the central figure just now of the world she was
hating.

“Pikey!” Her imperiousness was almost savage in the ear of the Werewolf
opposite. “Put your head out.” Elfreda lowered the window fiercely.
“Look your largest.” She might have been addressing a very favorite
grizzly whom she had been clever enough to tame. “Let him see you....
Let him really see you.”

As soon as Pikey grew alive to the situation she rose and thrust forth
her head in all its man-hating ruthlessness. She was only just in time.
Sir Toby, having caught a glimpse already of a decidedly attractive
occupant, was making a bee-line for the carriage door. But the sight
of Pikey, grim as a gargoyle and breathing latent ferocity, gave pause
even to a recently elected member of the Old Buck House Club. Swollen
with self-importance Sir Toby undoubtedly was, but in point of inches
he was a very small man indeed, and he was confronted with the jaws of
a man-eating tiger and the nose of a crocodile.

Sir Toby suddenly decided to seek refuge elsewhere.

With a sigh of relief Elfreda lowered the ample pages of the _Society
Pictorial_, behind which she had entrenched herself. “No family should
be without you, Pikey,” she said gratefully.

The train moved on. But somehow the incident caused Elfreda’s
resentment to flame even higher. She had yet to meet the author of
“The Lady of Laxton,” but she was amazingly quick in taking the measure
of the world at large. In regard to her fellow creatures her opinions
were few, but they were very definite. A first view of Sir Toby Philpot
had convinced her that his reputation was deserved and that she was
bound to dislike him intensely. It was all very unfair, no doubt, but
she belonged to the sex which, with all its virtues, will never be able
to run a League of Nations.

Again her eyes strayed across to the student of _The Patrician_. Poor
Miss Cass ... and yet ... lucky Miss Cass! Then it was in just that
fragment of time while she gazed at the slow-moving pencil of the “Lady
of Laxton” that a diabolical thought began to take shape in her mind....

If only....

It would score them off properly....

Above all it would teach a certain Person a lesson....

Elfreda began to hug her wicked thoughts. Fate itself appeared to be
taking some trouble to play into her hands. Surely a great opportunity
was being given her if only she could rise to the height of it. But
even if that was the case there was still one very vital question
to ask and to answer. Could the girl opposite be screwed up to the
requisite pitch of nerve and enterprise?

No sooner had Elfreda put this question to herself than she did a
thing that naught can condone. Deliberately, of malice prepense, she
forced Pikey and Miss Cass to finish the bottle. As far as the maid was
concerned there was really no obstacle; she was more than willing to
play her part. But Miss Cass needed tact and firmness; she had to be
handled with masterful delicacy.

“Please--you _will_ help us--won’t you?” The voice of the siren.
“Yes--really--you must!” The daughter of the marquis dealt out honest
measure with her own uncompromising hand. “That’s your glass, I
think--the one at the top--isn’t it, Pikey?”

Pikey’s grunt was in the affirmative, but if eyes could have slain, her
mistress would have died on the spot. How dare she offer one of her
father’s choicest vintages to such a middle-class person!

The Lady of Laxton had already fallen at once to the blandishments of
her imperiously charming benefactress. Her instinct was to resist, but
the Bottle Imp had seriously weakened her resolve. She knew it was
wrong, insane, indecent, but an eye of concentrated power seemed to
bore right through her soul. And, after all, such wine as that did give
one a perfectly heavenly feeling.

Once more, and almost in spite of herself, Miss Cass brought her
lips warily to the edge of the tumbler. It was folly, nay, it was
piggishness, but at that moment she was hardly more than a helpless
midge caught in the toils of an inexorable will. The wonderful blue
eyes of the girl opposite had the quality of steel. “Please!... don’t
let us waste it ... it is supposed to be rather good of its kind!”

History, alas, is hardly likely to be very gentle with the Lady Elfreda!

The bottle was finished at last. And Pikey, who, after all, had had
the lion’s share of it, sat back on her cushions in a state of most
agreeable somnolence. As for Miss Cass, her pencil began to fly across
the paper.

“Mr. John Galsworthy in common with Mr. Arnold Bells and Mr. H. G.
Wennett has a singular power of visualizing----”

Has the power of visualizing!

“What Mr. James Henry so beautifully calls the Human Scene.” The fair
phrase came clear and pat, but before the page could receive it Miss
Cass was again in the toils of the incarnate demon opposite.

“Suppose you take my part in the ‘Lady of Laxton’?” There was a
suggestion for one simply athirst for life, for knowledge, for
first-hand experience! Such amazing words could hardly be meant
seriously; nevertheless there was a concentration in the manner of the
marquis’ daughter that almost took away the breath of Miss Cass.

Emboldened by an unmistakable snore from the gently but firmly sleeping
Pikey, said the wicked Elfreda, “I don’t think you would find it at
all difficult and it might amuse you.”

Miss Cass could hardly believe her ears. For the tone, beyond the
shadow of a doubt, was quite serious. “I don’t know any one at
Clavering Park and I don’t suppose any one knows you.”

“But----” pleaded Miss Cass.

Elfreda was not in a mood for “buts.” The wicked Genie now had her
firmly in its grip. So simple, yet so radiant was the idea that already
it was glowing with the colors of destiny. There were obstacles, of
course, but a dynamic will could remove them.

“In size we are much of a muchness, aren’t we? So you can take my
things and I’ll take yours.”

“Oh, but----” faltered Miss Cass.

“You might have quite an amusing fortnight”--Pikey, who had been
traveling all through the long night was sleeping very comfortably
now--“One hears the place will be full of new people. With a bit of
luck ... if you really play up ... you might even....” ... Get one
of them to marry you!--was the thought in the mind of the abandoned
Elfreda. But the Bottle Imp had not quite bereft her of a sense of
shame, therefore she did not complete her sentence by mere words.
She had recourse to wireless telegraphy, which, however, was just as
effective.

Miss Cass felt herself to be growing dizzy.

“That’s what happens in the play, you know. The son of the house falls
in love with the governess----”

“Oh--but,” gasped Miss Cass. And yet if the truth must be told the
wicked Genie was now beginning to stir in her, also. A voice was heard
in the subliminal self of Miss Cass. _There is a tide in the affairs of
men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune._

“It needs a little pluck, of course.” The light in the blue eyes was
almost sinister. “But it might be rather amusing, don’t you think?”

Miss Cass was bewildered. But it seemed to come upon her all at once
that she was now in the toils of a female Napoleon. Moreover, she was
faced by a proposition which exceeded her wildest dreams. Of course,
it would not bear any sort of analysis, but when one is possessed by a
perfectly heavenly feeling all things seem possible. Such a sense of
“uplift” was quite new in Miss Cass’s experience and she felt unable
just now to adjust her mind to a phase which although delicious was yet
without a parallel.

The train sped on through a country which grew steadily richer and more
pastoral. Lady Elfreda looked again at the watch on her wrist. It was
after three. Already the light of the brief November day had begun to
wane. Pikey was snoring now with slow, deep, reassuring regularity.
Somehow all things, even the motions of the train itself, seemed to be
conspiring to fix and determine the mad project which had been born in
that wicked and rebellious mind.

Every mile that brought them nearer to their journey’s end was
carefully registered in the acute brain of Elfreda. The train stopped
at Yeovil and there was a further examination of the tickets, not by
a truculent male inspector on this occasion, but by a rustic maid in
spectacles, who willingly accepted the assurance that the ticket of
Miss Cass was quite in order. After that the train passed over the
borders of Wessex into the famed county of Devon; and then with but a
few embers of daylight remaining the Evil Genius suddenly insisted that
the time had come for action.




V


LADY ELFREDA gave Pikey a shrewd glance to make sure that the snores
were _bona fide_. Then she got up and with perfectly amazing _sang
froid_ took off her fur coat.

“Give me your ulster, please.” Napoleon--Bismarck--Caesar--Hannibal
were in that pregnant whisper.

The pencil dropped from the trembling fingers of Miss Cass. Her heart
took a great leap. Was this a serious demand? Could this amazing girl
mean what her words implied?

“Your hat as well, please.”

In the growing dusk, now as ever a true friend of conspiracy, she saw
the girl opposite withdraw a couple of pins and remove her hat. Was it
conceivable that she was in earnest!

The urgency of the whisper laid that doubt at rest. A thrill quickened
the soul of Girlie Cass. Her bewildered mind began to spin with a new
and strange idea. It was madness ... it was lunacy ... and yet ... if
only ... one could screw up one’s courage....

“You will have Mrs. Pike to look after you. She is very experienced. If
you hold your tongue you can’t go wrong.” Incredible words, incredible
girl, incredible proposition! “You will have all my clothes, of
course. I will see that my trunks are put in the luggage cart.
And”--the whisper was dæmonic--“Mrs. Pike has some money.”

Girlie Cass could hardly breathe for excitement. _The Patrician_
followed the pencil on to the floor. “There is a tide, etc.” Her heart
began to hit her ribs violently.

“Give me your ulster, please.”

If only one’s head would not spin so!

“You’ll find this coat warmer and it’s very comfortable. It’ll be quite
an amusing fortnight. Nobody will know--except Mrs. Pike, of course,
who can be trusted implicitly. I quite think you’ll like it.”

The brain of Miss Cass was whirling helplessly. And yet there was a
demon in hers also. What an opportunity, what a golden opportunity for
first-hand experience! What a chance to see the great world from the
inside. To be, for one whole fortnight, a real authentic daughter of a
marquis ... if only one had courage!

Miss Cass never really knew how it happened, but a mile or so farther
on she awoke to the momentous fact that she was wearing a sealskin coat
with a skunk collar and a velour hat with a twist of skunk round it,
while immediately opposite was a girl in a green ulster with a hat also
trimmed with green.

“Please give me your ticket. This is mine.”

By the aid of some power not herself Miss Cass exchanged tickets with
the Force that was luring her to glory and destruction.

Finally, as an afterthought, a typewritten abstract of “The Lady of
Laxton” was handed to Miss Cass.

“You mustn’t forget your part in the play. For any one with a good
memory it will be quite easy to learn. And you’ll find the acting
rather fun, I think.”

Miss Cass was living in a dream which could not envisage details, but
she submitted to the play being pressed into her hand. Without so much
as a glance at the brown paper cover she placed it mechanically in the
pocket of the fur coat.

The next thing to happen in the bewildered consciousness of Miss Cass
was the stopping of the train. Lady Elfreda let down the window to
disclose a lighted station lamp with the name “Clavering St. Mary’s”
painted thereon. Somehow at the moment this legend meant nothing to
Miss Cass; the land she was living in now was east of the sun, west of
the moon. But a voice amazingly dominant said: “Here we are. Pikey,
wake up.” And then the owner of the voice put her head out of the
window and summoned a porter.

A leisurely functionary came up to the carriage door and opened it.
As he did so the lady of the green ulster said with an air of quiet
competence which in the circumstances was almost uncanny, “There are
two trunks in the luggage van. Or is it three, Pikey? Do wake up.”

Pikey somnolently grunted the word “three” and then with a supreme
effort stepped, or rather lurched, out onto the platform, while the
porter collected the flotsam of the compartment and bore them to an
adjacent trolley.

“Three trunks in the luggage van, porter.”

“Very good, miss.

“They are labeled ‘Clavering Park’--aren’t they, Pikey?”

The reply was a drowsy affirmative.

“You have one, too, haven’t you?” said Elfreda in a bold aside, with
one eye upon her maid.

Girlie confessed a small tin one labeled “Cass.”

“Very good, miss,” said the porter again.

The Lady of the Green Ulster stepped with calm audacity onto the
platform. In a kind of trance Miss Fur Coat followed her.

The porter had no difficulty in retrieving three important looking
trunks from the luggage van. Nor did the small tin one present any
obstacle. When all the luggage had been duly collected, Elfreda
marshaled Pikey and Miss Cass through the booking office and past the
ticket collector into the station yard.

Several vehicles were waiting. Foremost of these was a stylish motor
omnibus. Elfreda instinctively made a bee-line for it.

“Are you from Clavering Park?” she said to the smart footman with a
wound stripe on his sleeve who stood by the open door.

The man said that he was from Clavering Park, whereon Miss Green Ulster
pointed to the Fur Coat and informed him that its occupant was Lady
Elfreda Catkin; whereon she was informed that there was a cart for the
luggage, but owing to the shortage of petrol there was only the omnibus
for everybody.

Miss Fur Coat, standing helpless and mazed in her borrowed plumes
beside the omnibus door was hustled, literally hustled, into the
interior of the vehicle, and Pikey, still far too drowsy even to begin
to grapple with the situation in its strange complexity, was hustled in
after her. While the porter put in rugs and umbrellas and a couple of
the smaller cases under the competent direction of the lady who stood
by the door of the omnibus, Pikey at the same time was adjured by her
mistress in a stern whisper to play the game, to hold her tongue, and
not to give anything away.

These instructions were Greek to the unfortunate Pikey in her present
extremely somnolent condition. She made one feeble, rather despairing
effort to come to grips with a matter that was frankly beyond her, but
before she could rouse her will to any real activity the footman had
been ordered to start.

“I am to wait, ma’am, for another guest.”

Elfreda bit her lip sharply. For the moment she had forgotten the
existence of the little baronet. Almost immediately, however, she
received a forcible reminder of it. Sir Toby, who had traveled lower
down the long train, was to be seen emerging from the booking office.

For the last time Elfreda thrust her head into the omnibus interior.
“Mind you play up, Pikey. I will write to you in a day or two.”

Poor bewildered Pikey was only able to emit a grunt of hopeless defeat
before Sir Toby Philpot, in the company of his faithful body servant,
Mr. O’Toole, converged upon the omnibus door. After a brief exchange of
remarks with the tall footman who stood thereby, the small baronet took
his seat gracefully beside the lady of the fur coat, and Mr. O’Toole
hoisted his respectful bulk alongside Pikey, who was already verging
once more upon the comatose.

At the same moment Elfreda felt in the very marrow of her wicked
bones that the tremendous risk she was taking must end all too soon
in disaster. But she was still in the thrall of the demon. The fun
would be gorgeous while it lasted; it would enable certain people to
realize that the times had changed; moreover, having definitely burnt
her boats, this was not a moment for human weakness. Therefore she
said in the private ear of the tall footman, “Don’t wait for me. I am
not coming with you.” And then she turned discreetly away from the
door of the omnibus, saw the right trunks put into the luggage cart
and accompanied the porter with the modest residue to a dogcart twenty
yards away.

Brief colloquy with a bewhiskered Jehu in a faded snuff-colored livery
and a battered furry topper proved this vehicle to be from The Laurels
and that it was awaiting the arrival of the London train.

“Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson?”

Jehu, who combined the functions of groom, gardener and general
factotum, said gruffly that he was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and that
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson hoped they would be able to squeeze the box
of the new governess into the back of the cart without chipping the
fresh paint. It took but a minute or two for the porter to dispose of
the very modest luggage labeled “Cass” and to accept for his general
services a fee considerably in excess of what he had reason to expect;
and then the groom-gardener, one John Small by name, said curtly, “Jump
in, miss. We can’t keep this ’orse standin’ here all night.”

Without showing the slightest intention to obey the order, the new
governess looked at the horse in critical fashion. “I hope,” she said
impersonally, “he won’t take it into his head to sit down.”

The reply, although sweetly given, did not make at all a favorable
impression on Mr. Small, who was a great autocrat within his sphere;
the porter, however, his heart warmed by half a crown, smiled broadly.
The horse pawed impatiently and Mr. Small coughed in a hostile manner,
but nothing would induce the new governess to ascend to the vacant seat
by his side until the Clavering Park omnibus had actually quitted the
station yard.




VI


IN the process of time the omnibus started for Clavering Park, and
in almost the same instant a darker thrall was cast upon the soul of
Pikey. Right up till that final moment the maid struggling with might
and main against honorable fatigue, the Genius of the Bottle and
the weight of five and sixty years, had cherished the hope that her
mistress--who apparently had changed her clothes, although Pikey was
hardly prepared to swear to the fact--would come aboard the omnibus.
But the vehicle started without that consummation coming to pass.

Even then the duenna, no longer able to keep her eyes open, still
pinned her faith to the bare chance that her wayward charge--the Little
Wretch had always given more trouble than all the rest together!--was
up in front beside the chauffeur. The old woman knew that such a
conjecture belonged to the region of fantasy, yet it might be so.
Elfreda was as full of tricks as a monkey and always had been.

The omnibus passed a lamp at the entrance to the station yard and,
as Pikey’s eyes flickered open for the last time, she caught a hazy
glimpse of the fur coat and the velour hat opposite. The maid drew
a long sigh of relief. Why, there she was, after all! Something or
somebody was playing tricks, though. Pikey could have taken an oath
that five minutes ago her mistress was standing outside the door in
a green ulster. But the delicious sensation of warmth, comfort and
extreme somnolence was too much for her now. Yes ... of course ... it
must be quite all right. Elfreda was seated opposite. Besides ... what
did it matter?... what did anything ... mat ... ter ...?

In a measure these feelings were shared by Miss Cass. She, it is true,
was very far from somnolence just now. Her state bordered upon ecstasy.
The Genius of the Bottle and the many famous novels she had read must
share the responsibility for her frame of mind. Was she not fully
launched now upon the most wonderful, amazing, wholly preposterous
adventure! She was a living romance and it was equal to anything in the
“New Arabian Nights.” Was she really awake? Or did she dream? In the
humid interior of the smooth-gliding bus she too was lulled into false
security by a delicious sense of comfort. The wheels were going round
in her head with an ease, an abandon she had not experienced before.
Yet over and beyond all else was the feeling that as she was under the
personal ægis of a marquis’ daughter everything was bound to turn out
for the best in the best of all possible worlds. The extraordinarily
charming and clever little Lady Elfreda Catkin, who in every detail
was so absolutely the Real Right Thing, as Mr. James Henry would have
said--or was it Mr. H. G. Wennett?--whose father was the Marquis of
Carabbas, could be trusted to see to that.

Yes, everything was bound to be all right. There was a very experienced
maid to look after her. She would have fine clothes and plenty of
money; she might even be provided with jewels. It would all be part of
a delightful joke, a little daring no doubt to a humdrum bourgeoise
mind, but then in High Society they had a different standard, as all
the best writers insisted, from Thackeray down. And this really was
High Society and she had really entered it. Besides taking the matter
at its lowest, here was a dazzling opportunity for one who desired to
write as well as Mrs. Humphry Ward or Mrs. Elinor Glyn. The secret door
of aristocratic life had been opened to her so miraculously that it was
enough to make the Brontë Sisters turn in their green graves with envy.

Girlie Cass was not by nature brave. But as she snuggled her chin lower
amid the delicious warmth of the skunk collar and she reviewed an
incredible situation to the best of her rather impaired ability, for a
few epic moments she never felt so brave in all her life. Somehow with
that rich fur round her ears and her very own maid seated opposite she
felt almost equal to anything. Two things only were required of her,
according to her entirely amazing mentor and all powerful protectress.
The first was never to let go of the fact that she was Lady Elfreda
Catkin; the second was “to play up.”

Alas, the feeling of courage passed all too soon for the comfort of
Miss Cass. The presence of others slowly percolated to her. Impressive
looking male figures were seated each side the door. They did not
speak, but this very quality of silence seemed to render her sense of
insecurity greater. And then to her horror almost the man by her side
turned his head and addressed her.

“Aren’t you Lady Elfreda Catkin? My name is Philpot. Our hostess wrote
to me at Newbury to say you might be coming by this train.” He was
quite a friendly little man, a chronic sufferer from a rush of words to
the head, who seldom waited for the second party to any conversation
to catch up with his ideas. Nothing could have served Girlie better
at this nerve-racking moment than the little man’s habit of amiable
loquacity. She was just able to make some kind of wholly unintelligible
murmur, but it sufficed for Sir Toby to go on. “I sometimes meet your
father at the Buck Club. I do hope you like your part. What do you
think of my big scene in the third act? Monty Jupp says it is quite
equal to anything that Oscar Wilde ever wrote. I think it better
myself, though that is between ourselves. I wouldn’t say that to
everybody, but it really is a nailin’ good comedy, and your part of the
Little Guv is absolutely the best thing I’ve done. Of course, it wants
playin’ on rather broad lines, but it’s sure to be a go.”

The little Catkin lady was not very forthcoming. Throughout the
whole of the baronet’s discourse she sat in her corner as solemn as
a mouse. But Sir Toby was much encouraged by the passing glimpses of
her an occasional street lamp afforded him. She had absolutely no
conversation, but she was a pretty little Puss.

Meanwhile a chill of paralysis was settling upon Miss Cass. She must
really make an effort to say something. It wouldn’t do to appear odd.
At that moment, however, it seemed quite impossible for her to devise
any form of words to meet the occasion. What ought she to say? What
would a daughter of a marquis say in such circumstances? Above all, the
student of _The Patrician_ asked herself, how would the daughter of a
marquis say whatever she had to say?

Girlie took the line of least resistance. She said nothing. It was
the obvious, in fact, the only possible course, because her will was
inert, her mind was a blank, her tongue was petrified. Happily Sir
Toby was extraordinarily insensitive, even for a baronet. “I knew
several of your sisters. I am always meetin’ your father. I hear you
absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire as Lady Henrietta in the Duke of
Killiecrankie, but of course this is a very much better play than poor
Bob Marshall could ever have written. Don’t you think so? But you do,
of course.”

No, not exactly forthcoming, but she was a pretty little thing and
obviously very shy.

“I haven’t seen you act myself, but Monty Jupp says when he’s coached
you a bit more you’ll be able to play the ingénues out of all the
London theatres. He thinks you ought to go into the business. If your
father will give his consent he will produce a big contract for you;
and if all goes well down here Monty says he can find the money to put
you up as the Little Guv at the Imperial.”

The reserve of Lady Elfreda lasted all the way to Clavering Park.
Happily Sir Toby was less concerned by it than less gifted people might
have been. For he had a real love of the sound of his own voice, and
somehow it had never sounded better than in this cozy tête-a-tête with
the youngest of the Catkin girls. A shy little puss, but she was as
pretty as pretty.

Under her fur coat, however, Miss Cass had begun to shiver with dread
fear and dire remorse. But emotions of that sort were simply no use
now. Things had gone much too far. Whatever happened now she must play
up. Therein lay her only hope of salvation.

It seemed as if this journey would never end. The sense of impending
disaster was getting on the nerves of Miss Cass. Luckily they had not
far to go. It was but a couple of miles or so to Clavering Park.




VII


ALL the same, Miss Cass was by no means ready to welcome the end of the
journey even when it came. The first rather abrupt intimation that her
destination had been reached was a brief stopping at the lodge gates
of Clavering Park, followed a few minutes later by a flare of lights
from a large, wide-fronted house. Then came the epic moment of the
tall footman opening the omnibus door, the descent of her traveling
companions and the obvious need for her own.

Immense courage was called for to quit that comfortable corner, but
with an effort which in the circumstances seemed superhuman Girlie
took the plunge. After being gracefully assisted from the omnibus by
Sir Toby she moved without apparent impulse or volition of her own
into a wide zone of light. The next thing she realized was that she
had arrived in a large, bright inner hall that was terrifyingly full
of people. For the most part these were seated on chairs and sofas in
groups of two and three, consuming afternoon tea and talking at what
seemed to be the top of very loud voices.

A large, fair-haired woman of forty or so, with the look of a rather
overblown yellow chrysanthemum, suddenly detached herself from the
center of the throng, literally sprang at Miss Cass and welcomed her
with the greatest effusion.

“So nice of you to come! Such a pleasure to see you! So good of you to
come all the way down here!”

Girlie realized that she was in the grip of the voluble and
demonstrative mistress of Clavering Park.

“You have made friends with Sir Toby already, of course?”

The little man answered brightly that they had made friends already.
Other brief and swift introductions followed, but Miss Cass made no
effort to catch the names and she shyly avoided the eyes of these
favored ones. And then said the hostess with delightful urgency, “Do
let me give you some tea.”

Almost as if by magic a passage was found to a table in the middle of
the hall. As the important guest moved forward with the hostess the
conversation abruptly stopped. Girlie felt that every eye was upon her
fur coat, yet somehow the sensation was not unpleasant. There were more
brief introductions en route. And then at last she was safely anchored
in a very seductive low chair and the conversation had begun again with
a redoubled violence.

“So sporting of you to come and help us!”

Girlie was soon aware that there was no immediate need for her to say
anything; the hostess and those around her were abundantly equipped
with small talk.

“This tea is quite fresh. Milk and sugar?”

Girlie’s tongue declined to act, but somehow she was able to muster a
hoarse whisper which the hostess interpreted as “Yes, please.”

Tea gave Girlie a little courage. A spasmodic warmth began to flicker
in her gray eyes.

“Do have some more.” The voice was kindness itself. “And then if you
would like to rest a little after your long and tiresome journey you
shall go up to your room.”

Nothing could have been nicer, easier or more amiable. For all her
excitement, which seemed to be breaking in burning waves round her head
and ears, Girlie was able to do ample justice to her tea and cake; she
even continued to listen with a kind of gratitude to the prattle of the
yellow chrysanthemum lady, who was obviously a very good sort.

“We feel quite honored, you know, at having you here. Sir Toby says
you are to be advertised as our principal star on the play bills. So
awfully clever of you to act in the way you do. I am sure you will be a
great draw. And such a good cause. Do have some more tea, won’t you?”

The curiously shy and timid Lady Elfreda was not averse from even a
third cup of tea.

“One hears that you are simply wonderful as Lady Henrietta in the
Duke of Killiecrankie. The _Society Pictorial_ says you have genius,
although”--Girlie suddenly felt the eyes of the hostess fixed intently
upon her--“you don’t look much like your photograph. Do have another
piece of tea-cake.”

Girlie had never heard prattle sound quite so agreeable. She began to
take very kindly to her surroundings. At the back of her mind, it was
true, the sense of the unreal was almost grisly. But the immediate
present in which she was living was strangely like a dream, although
touched with sinister edges that might develop into a nightmare at any
moment. Still, a low cushioned chair, three cups of tea and the eager,
the almost too eager kindness of the hostess were for the time being an
anodyne for the fear that hovered like doom in the background.

“Dinner is not until a quarter past eight, so that if you would like a
little rest you shall go to your room.” The yellow chrysanthemum lady
glanced half-maternally at the small peaked face. “If you like, I will
show you the way.”

Girlie was most comfortable as she was, but instinct told her that
it would be wise to end the present phase of the dream, which was so
seductive, and prepare to envisage some of the stern realities that
were undoubtedly lurking near at hand.

“I think I will please--if you don’t mind.” Those were the first
words Girlie found the courage to speak in her capacity of a marquis’
daughter. For an instant the sound of her own voice, pitched rather
higher than was quite natural, seemed to leave her half paralyzed with
her own audacity.

Happily the hostess, whose name she didn’t know, was very much a
get-things-done sort of lady. “Very well, you shall.” She rose from
her chair with genial authority. “You will be all the better for an
hour’s rest after such a trying journey.”

Girlie got up, too. A considerable effort was needed, but she was able
to make it. The mistress of the house piloted the distinguished guest
past tables and chairs, through the press of people, of whose glances
of covert curiosity she was keenly aware, as far as the staircase
paneled in black oak at the end of the hall. They went up together side
by side, but Girlie was terribly conscious now at every step she took
that she was moving out of fairyland into a country of extreme peril
whose nature she simply dare not define.

“I hope you will like your room.” The delightfully kind yellow
chrysanthemum lady prattled on all the way up the stairs. “South
aspect, overlooking the park. We call it the chamber of honor. King
Edward used to sleep in it when he came down here for the races,
although, of course, _we_ hadn’t the place then.”

“Oh, I am sure I shall like it,” Girlie managed to say, but again in
that odd high-pitched voice which sounded so strange to her own ears.

They turned into a corridor carpeted in blue velvet and the hostess
opened a door at the end of it. She led the way into the most
spaciously beautiful bedroom Girlie had ever seen. Its size seemed to
her quite extraordinary. It was hung in deep crimson and its furniture
was Louis Seize. A bright wood fire was crackling on the wide hearth.
But, perhaps, what most immediately impressed Miss Cass was the fact
that Pikey was busily unpacking the boxes of her mistress, several of
whose dresses had already been laid out on the bed.

“Here you are, Lady Elfreda.” The voice of the yellow chrysanthemum
lady sounded disconcertingly loud as they entered the room. “I do hope
you will be comfortable. Your bathroom is through that door. I see your
maid is unpacking your things.” And then to the kneeling and assiduous
Pikey, “Have you all that you want?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Pikey, looking up for one brief instant only.

“If there is anything else you’d like you _will_ ask for it, won’t
you?” The hostess bestowed a final benediction on the most important of
her guests. “You will be able to have a nice rest before dinner. Not
until a quarter past eight ... I think I told you.” With a last gush of
kindliness the yellow chrysanthemum lady departed, leaving Girlie Cass
to deal with a reality that was rapidly growing stupendous.

For two minutes at least after the hostess had gone silence reigned in
the room. Pikey continued her unpacking, still wholly absorbed by her
task, while Girlie began to make frantic efforts to emerge completely
from her dream and grapple with a situation that had suddenly grown
altogether beyond her.

There was the authority of the mistress of Clavering Park that she was
Lady Elfreda Catkin, that the bedroom of the late King Edward had been
placed at her disposal, and that before her eyes her own maid was
unpacking her boxes. So far, so good. Everything was for the best in
the best of all possible worlds, no doubt ... but!...!




VIII


PIKEY was still in a rather dazed condition. She had been traveling
all day and most of the previous night and she was not so young as she
once was; besides, she had not quite shaken off the thrall of a potent
vintage wine. As a matter of fact, she had not been really awake since
Newbury. And it would seem that the mind can play some decidedly weird
tricks when one is past sixty and one has missed a whole night’s rest!

For example, Pikey could almost have taken a Bible oath, so vivid was
the impression, that her mistress....

However, that was clearly impossible! A cup of tea in the severely
correct surroundings of the housekeeper’s room, in which, as the
representative of an old marquisate, she had been at once accorded
considerable prestige, had proved to her quite definitely that this
disorder of mind reflected no sort of credit upon her.

Her young ladyship had always been a little wild. And as her guardian
knew to her cost, she had given more trouble, one way and another, than
all the rest of the family together. She might be capable of anything.
At the same time there was surely a limit beyond which even Elfreda
would not go! Strengthened by this pious thought, the still rather
bewildered Pikey had proceeded to unpack.

Not feeling either too proud or too sure of herself, the ancient
handmaid went on with her task some little time longer before she
ventured to look up to confront her young mistress. At last she rose
from her knees and said with a formal air which was a concession to
her sense of responsibility, “I think the blue one, my lady, for this
evening.”

As Pikey spoke she came forward to assist in the removal of the fur
coat. She was a Dragon, but she was also a first-class servant who knew
her place to a hair’s breadth.

The shock she met with half stunned her. From between the hat and the
skunk collar of her mistress, a small white face was gazing at her
piteously.

There was a silence grim and tense, in which the hearts of both the
parties to it seemed to stop beating.

“Why! ... w-what ... are _you_ ... doing ... here!” gasped the luckless
Pikey at last.

The gray eyes of Girlie filmed ever so lightly with tears. “I ... I ...
Lady Elfreda!” The strangled whisper was half a sob.

Pikey recoiled with her horrified gaze still on the hat and coat of her
mistress. And then, being by no means a fool, in one blinding, hideous
flash of insight she saw it all....

The little wretch had surpassed herself! Poor Pikey grew faint and
rather chill. Her charge had played more than one mad prank in her
life of twenty years, but in its daring and its wickedness this exploit
was surely incredible. All the same there was the hard, cold fact and
it had to be faced.

“Why did you let her!” The voice and the look of the Dragon threatened
actual bodily violence to Miss Cass.

“I--I didn’t seem able to prevent her.”

Reading the gentle, rather scared eyes, the truculent Pikey felt these
feeble words to be literally true. At the beck of a rather grim sense
of humor the old retainer bared her yellow teeth. It was almost in
her heart to admire the Little Beast; yet at the same moment she was
consumed with a passion to shake the life out of poor Miss No-Class.

“Where has she gone--tell me that!” So fierce was the Werewolf that a
look akin to terror entered Girlie’s eyes. The Lady of Laxton, however,
did her best to give a coherent account of all that had happened.

“You say she has gone to The Laurels,” said Pikey, blankly. “And she
has taken your luggage with her.” Darkness and eclipse stared the
luckless duenna in the face. “I don’t know where The Laurels is. And,
anyway, I doubt if there would be time to fetch her before dinner.”

Miss Cass not only doubted if there would be time to fetch her before
dinner; privately she doubted also if in her present mood the wicked
Elfreda would come if she were fetched.

“Well, I don’t know what to do,” groaned Pikey, “and that’s the truth.”
The Deputy looked blankly at the duenna. Her white face grew piteous.

“Whatever do you suppose is going to happen!” The cold ferocity again
struck terror into the heart of Girlie Cass.

“L-Lady Elfreda said it would be quite all right,” she was just able
to gasp. “She said there was no one here who knew her. She said that
if”--gathering herself for a supreme effort--“I--I--p-played up and
didn’t give myself away it wouldn’t be found out.” And Miss Cass
collapsed against the side of the bed.

“Wouldn’t be found out!” It was as much as Pikey could do to keep her
hands off the little idiot.

Pikey, however, was not a fool. Already her mind had shaped the
question of questions, What must she do? She did not forget that she
had been sent specially from Ireland to take charge of one who had
always insisted on going her own way, and if she now confessed that
she had let herself be tricked in such a preposterous manner she would
be severely hauled over the coals and might even lose the place which
she valued beyond all things in this life. Again, immediately below
the surface of the Dragon’s nature was the foolish, fond old nurse.
Entering the Carabbas household in early life she had mothered a large
family, first in a subordinate capacity, and then when it came to
Elfreda’s turn, as absolute head of the nursery. Elfreda in consequence
held quite a special place in her affections. The family of Carabbas
was the whole world and its wife as far as Pikey was concerned; the
rest of the universe didn’t count at all; but the one who had given
her more trouble than all the others together had been her particular
charge. Had it ever been really necessary, the Werewolf would have gone
to the stake for Elfreda.

If Pikey’s first thought was that she must not give herself away, the
one that pressed it hard was that she must not give away her favorite.
But she was faced with a situation of fantastic difficulty. It was
frankly beyond her. She didn’t in the least know what to do.

Miss Cass was in similar case, except that somewhere in her confused
mind was a pathetic but sublime faith in Lady Elfreda. The daughter of
the marquis had solemnly promised with her air of uncanny competence
that everything would turn out right if only her deputy “played up,”
and somehow the bewildered but secretly flattered Girlie felt bound to
believe her. Such a one as Lady Elfreda must know the ropes perfectly.
And up to this point her mentor had been amazingly right. Everything
had gone almost as merrily as a marriage bell.

“Well, I don’t know what to do, and that’s a fact,” said Pikey again.

In the end it was the lady of Laxton who really took the epic decision.
There were several factors in the case which helped her to do so. Her
faith was sublime, she had succeeded already, she was enormously
ambitious, such an amazing chance for first-hand experience could never
recur, and when the worst had been said of her, with all her timidity
she was a decidedly shrewd daughter of a long line of commercial sires.
Besides at the very moment that the issue hung in the balance her
tranced eyes beheld what no pen could describe: An enchanting shimmer
of misty blue, silver and tulle laid out on the bed. It was such a
dress as one day she might have dreamt of wearing, yet knowing well
that she was never likely to do so.

That glorious confection decided Girlie Cass. She must play up, she
must play up to the very height of her opportunity. “_There is a
tide_,” etc. Inscrutable fate had ordained that she was to be the
daughter of a marquis. Come what may she would be the daughter of a
marquis and so prove herself worthy of her destiny.

The little lady, with a courage she knew and felt was superhuman, took
off her coat and hat and then she said with a steadiness of tone she
could not help admiring in herself, “I think you said the blue one.”

It was quite true that Pikey had said the blue one, but this audacity
rendered her speechless. Certainly it solved the most pressing of their
problems--for the time being at least--but the grim custodian of Family
dignity would dearly have liked to slay Miss No-Class for her impudence.

How dare that sort of person take so much upon herself!

The soul of the lady of Laxton, however, had been fired by the
ravishing garment on the bed. And as the whole situation was poised so
delicately that it seemed to hang upon a thread, the mere fact that she
could muster courage enough for a definite lead sufficed to determine
the course of events. Pikey continued to gaze at Miss Impudence with
sour disfavor, but she was not slow to realize how small was the option
left to her now. Moreover, it was the will of her mistress. And at that
moment and in those circumstances, with her own sin of omission so
heavy upon her, it would surely be wise to ensure it.

Nevertheless, the Werewolf eyed Miss No-Class with a ferocity that was
positively frightening. “Sit down in that chair next the fire so that I
can take off your shoes.” The tone went with the truculent eyes.

Quivering with a secret excitement that was more than half fear, the
deputy daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas obeyed. Pikey knelt and came
savagely to grips with a tarnished right foot. It seemed to minister
to her inward rage that the shoes of the Deputy were obviously--too
obviously!--cheap and that their heels were shod clumsily with rubber.
And as if this were not enough for the aristocratic soul of Pikey,
she discovered that certain concealed parts of the Deputy’s stockings
had been freely darned. With a sniff of frank disgust she took up an
elegant pair of bedroom slippers which had been set to warm in front
of the fire and very reluctantly put them on the plebeian feet of Miss
No-Class.

She did put them on, however. Then she rose like a sibyl, slowly and
grimly from her knees, looked Miss No-Class straight in the eyes and
said, “The first thing for you, my lady, is a bath.”

If a studied and ferocious irony had the power to slay, the
Deputy-daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas could hardly have survived
this first application of her title. The earnestly intelligent student
of _The Patrician_ flushed to the roots of her hair. Did this Ogress
of a creature mean it for an insult? Did the woman wish to suggest
that one who had been educated at the Laxton High School for Young
Ladies, who had passed the Oxford Preliminary, who was the daughter of
a solicitor, whose insight into human nature had been commended by the
_Saturday Sentinel_, had the woman the effrontery to mean as much as
her disgusted tone implied!

Girlie Cass mustered all her reserves. “I don’t really think I need
a bath.” It was a colorable imitation of the tone of Miss Pond, the
admired head-mistress of the Laxton High School.

Part of the answer of the Ogress was a snort; the other part was, “You
won’t wear that dress unless you do have one.”

Miss Cass wisely concluded that it would be unworthy of human dignity
to sustain the argument. Besides, the Ogress had already produced
an entrancing dressing gown of pink silk. “Put on this,” she said,
ruthlessly, “while I go and get your bath ready.”

Pikey thereupon collected a prince among sponges, a superb loofah,
a _recherché_ cake of scented soap, and grimly retired to the next
apartment, leaving the Deputy, tingling with excitement yet raging with
mortification, to shed her plebeian garments one by one.




IX


GLOWING from quite the most luxurious bath it had ever been the lot of
Girlie Cass to enjoy, that little lady presently returned to submit
her sensitiveness to hands of ruthless indelicacy. It had been Pikey’s
pleasing task “to mother” the six small Catkin ladies. Perhaps the
fact may have accounted for much in her present mode of handling the
Deputy. Even after her charges had emerged from the nursery, within
her own sphere, which was now that of lady’s maid, she had always been
a tremendous autocrat. Her methods might lack subtlety, but of their
effectiveness there could be no doubt. In the case of the Family,
however, they were mitigated by the knowledge that they were but the
outward expression of her inordinate pride in and absolute devotion to
them all. No matter what the Catkin ladies suffered at her hands, they
knew in their hearts that Pikey would yield her life cheerfully for any
one of them at a moment’s notice. The luckless Girlie, however, had
not this thought to sustain her. There was no sense of handmaidenly
altruism to soften the present pain and ignominy of the lot of Miss
No-Class.

One thing there was, however, in this hour of trial to nerve Lady
Elfreda’s deputy; it was the exquisite garment of misty blue with a
shimmer of silver and tulle. Would it fit? For a moment her feelings
were harrowed by the fear that it might not. That would be tragedy,
indeed. But the fear was groundless. Nature had molded her so daintily
that even with the thick woolly combinations she had decided to retain
there was room for her small person in that glorious gown.

She looked in the large glass to satisfy herself that such was the
case, carefully tucked in the edges of the obtrusive undergarment which
so tactlessly showed themselves above the proud corsage, and then
turned to confront Pikey with a little air of triumph.

“It fits wonderfully, I think.”

Pikey looked Miss No-Class truculently up and down. Then with a
scorn that in a moment less exalted would have been annihilating,
she deliberately plucked out the concealed edges of the woolly
combinations, sniffed loudly and palpably, plucked at the sleeves of
the gown, pulled them and patted them, and finally lifted up the skirt.
Disdaining comment in mere words, the maid at once produced a wonderful
array of gossamer-like undergarments, stockings ravishing in blue silk,
and slippers that were a glory of silver buckles and blue satin.

“Take off that dress.” The Werewolf look came upon Pikey. “Put on that
dressing gown.” The fierce eyes seemed to threaten murder. “And then
I’ll do your hair.”

Trembling in spirit, Miss Cass brought herself reluctantly to submit to
this grim ordeal. The Ogress took an unholy joy in twisting and pulling
and punching, with alternations of savage brushings and combings, yet
through it all was poor Girlie upheld by the knowledge that not only
was her hair abundant, of a fine color and texture, but it also had
a trick of curling naturally. If it came to a “showdown” she was not
afraid of anybody in the matter of hair. Without wishing to rate it
too highly she had serious doubts whether the head of Lady Elfreda was
so well equipped by nature, no matter what art may have done for it.
And as a final satisfaction, which present circumstances seemed much
to enhance, it was only the previous evening that she had shampooed it
thoroughly.

Pikey was pitiless, yet she was no mean coiffeuse. The happy abundance
and the charming natural waves of Miss Cass’s hair offered scope for
her skill. And when she had worked her final will with cruel fingers
and unsparing brush, and had gathered the silken mass and bound it
artfully with a ribbon of blue and silver threads, the result was a
triumph for her and also for her victim, who had been reduced to the
verge of involuntary tears. As the maid ungraciously surveyed the
fruits of her labors, she had secretly to admit that, owing to some odd
freak on the part of nature, no head of her lawful charges had ever
done her quite so much credit.

Girlie was then at liberty to devote herself to the rest of her
toilet. But she was not permitted to don the gauze-like blue silk
stockings until the Ogress had inspected her feet with ominous care.

“I’ll cut those,” was the curt announcement at the sight of the
toenails of Miss Cass.

The proud spirit of a solicitor’s daughter was inclined to contest the
point. She really did not think her toes were in need of such attention.

“Very well--you don’t put on _them_.” The Werewolf pointed to the blue
silk stockings. “And you don’t put on those neither.” And she pointed
to the enchanting slippers.

Poor Miss Cass had to suffer one more indignity. Pikey assumed a pair
of spectacles, took a pair of scissors, made Girlie sit on a chair and
dealt with her toes with scrupulous efficiency. The operation duly
performed, Pikey turned her attention to the lovely gown. A cunning
needle took in a bit here, let out a bit there, emphasized this,
diminished that, until at last she reluctantly muttered, “You ought to
do now.”

Girlie, ready to weep for relief, turned again to the glass.
The picture she saw was beyond her most extravagant hopes. She
was--yes--she was beautiful! At the sight of a ravishing self her
courage rose. She had not known that mere clothes and that particular
way of doing the hair and that particular ribbon in it could mean so
much. Somehow the picture in the glass was going to help her enormously
in the part she had to play.

Even Pikey, sunk in savage gloom at the prospect before her, could
not stifle a feeling of half admiration, which to be sure she did not
reveal. It was too much to hope that the preposterous trick would not
be found out, but at least in the matter of looks, the Family might
have been far less worthily represented. In fact so clear was Pikey
on this point that she opened an ancient jewel case and took forth an
article that lifted Girlie to the _n_th degree. It was a necklace of
pearls. This lovely thing had only to clasp a white and slender throat,
of which Girlie had always been secretly vain, for its owner to be made
free of the seventh heaven of delight.

“That belongs to Lady Carabbas.” Such was Pikey’s proud concession to
the light of rapture in the ignorant eyes of Miss No-Class. But she
did not tell the Deputy, whose eyes were sparkling with enchantment,
that the necklace was but a copy of a famous original that was strictly
reserved for state occasions. Beauty, however, is in the eye of the
beholder. Girlie was quite sure that these were the most authentic
pearls of the Orient. When she looked again in the glass she literally
felt their glamour.

Half an hour must pass before Girlie, now slightly delirious, would
have to show herself in the drawing room. Blood was drumming in her
temples already, an odd kind of singing was in her ears, yet in spite
of the sure and clear knowledge that she was poised on the very edge of
a measureless chasm, in that half hour the dominant emotion was not
fear. Girlie’s line of commercial sires were standing by her now; a
certain dour practicality rallied to their daughter’s call.

Moreover, in her way, Girlie Cass was a fighter. Life for her had
never been a bed of roses. And this was her chance. If only she could
control her nerves and fix her will this perilous game might be worth
while. Besides, whatever happened, she must not give her friend and
benefactress away. Looked at rightly this was a perfectly gorgeous
adventure. If only she showed pluck she had really very little to lose
beyond her situation at The Laurels--a heavy penalty no doubt--yet
over against that was set an opportunity for priceless first-hand
experience, such as hardly one girl in a million could hope to acquire.

Let her play up and take Courage for her watchword! Even if she could
not fill the rôle of a marquis’s daughter--and the event had yet to
prove whether she could or she could not--the cheval glass opposite
told her quite clearly that very few girls indeed could have looked the
part better.




X


THE clock on the chimneypiece chimed a quarter past eight, and on
Pikey’s advice the Deputy made her way down to the drawing room. She
was horribly afraid, yet as she caught another view of herself in a
mirror at the top of the stairs, she was not wholly in the grip of
that unworthy emotion. What a necklace! Its value must be fabulous.
As the light caught it and transmitted its spurious rays, her slender
white throat looked slenderer and whiter than ever before. Then,
too, the flush of rose in the center of each cheek and the almost
unnatural brightness in her eyes blended with the wonderful frock quite
remarkably. She could not help lingering a moment in front of the
glass, half astonished by her own beauty.

Hearing a sound behind her she moved on. But she had not gone more than
two steps down the stairs when a very friendly voice said, “Well, Lady
Elfreda, have you begun yet to study your part?”

The author of “The Lady of Laxton,” who was one of the main causes of
the mischief, although both were far from suspecting the fact, came
alongside her in the middle of the stairs.

“No, I haven’t begun yet,” said Girlie in a voice she could not
recognize as belonging to herself.

Sir Toby was rather taken aback by the confession. The time was short
and the part of the little governess was decidedly a long one. Casual
to say the least. So like these amateurs!

“We begin rehearsals to-morrow,” said the author gently.

That was not a moment, however, for the Deputy-daughter of the Marquis
of Carabbas to think of rehearsals. She was within twenty yards of the
drawing room. Would she be able to enter it?

Yes, decidedly casual and inclined to be stand-off, thought Sir Toby.
He hoped the little idiot had not had her head turned already by
success. Sir Toby glanced at her sideways, fully and expertly taking
her in without any suggestion that he was doing so. Nailingly pretty,
by gad! If her acting was up to her looks they would have a _succès
fou_ on Tuesday week. Quite a stepper in her way, but apparently very
shy. No doubt she would improve on acquaintance.

Sir Toby’s survey of the little Puss was so eminently satisfactory
that he had no qualms at all about entering the drawing room with her.
Girlie had many, however, about entering it with him. Still it would be
easier than going in by oneself. She nerved herself for the severest
ordeal of her life. And yet, after all, it proved quite a simple matter.

“Interesting sight,” proclaimed a bold looking woman in pink with a
marble and platinum voice as soon as she appeared in the room with Sir
Toby. “Behold the author and the leading lady.”

In almost the same moment the yellow chrysanthemum lady who was looking
magnificent in black satin swooped upon her. “Now I must make you known
to everybody. The plain but pompous looking, rather overdressed man
standing over there with his hands in his pockets, is my husband. Let
me introduce you.”

The gentleman in question bowed to Lady Elfreda who found the presence
of mind to offer her hand. And then as the host, one Richard Minever by
name, a rich and rollicking M. P., took the hand of the little lady, he
grinned at his wife and said, “Confound your impudence, Kate.”

“This is he with whom you will have to go in,” said the hostess coolly.
“I am very sorry for you but I am afraid it can’t be helped. But you
will have some one really nice the other side of you. Let me introduce
Lord Duckingfield.”

Lord Duckingfield was a large man of forty-five with a face that was by
no means unattractive. He was full of geniality and charmingly simple
and natural; his air as he heartily shook Girlie’s hand was that of a
father towards her.

“I often see your papa at our Board meetings,” said Lord Duckingfield.
“He says you are quite the clever one of the family.” And as his
lordship caught little Miss Grey Eyes broadside on, he felt tempted to
add although he refrained from doing so, “He might also have said you
were the pretty one.”

They went in to dinner almost at once, the host offering a paternal arm
to Lady Elfreda and showing the way. The party was not uncomfortably
large. Mr. and Mrs. Minever, two tall and cheerful daughters, and
half a dozen guests who were staying in the house. But there was an
atmosphere of noisy good humor about it which was very welcome to
Girlie. The banter and the repartee and the jovial give and take, which
if not always in the best of taste, seemed vastly entertaining to every
one concerned, all helped to provide a most fortunate cloak for the
little lady who sat between the host and Lord Duckingfield.

She was really required to do very little beyond getting on with an
excellent dinner. True, her private emotions hardly allowed her to
do justice to the menu, but such slight attention was paid to her
personally amid the general clamor that she was almost able to enjoy
herself. All the same she was resolutely careful not to exceed one
glass of champagne. The shrewd northern forebears simply would not
hear of more than one glass. But in the one she had, there was magic.
It seemed to open her heart to the luxurious play of civilized life
around her. She knew it was a chimera that could not possibly last, at
any moment the game might be up, but no matter what happened later, she
would be a connoisseur in human experience who had lived one glorious
hour.

Hoisted upon that high thought, Girlie removed her lips from the rim of
her glass and sat up very straight. Yes, for that evening at any rate,
she would live her hour; she really would be the daughter of a marquis
even if she had to go to prison for it afterwards. Her late father, who
had been a lawyer himself, always maintained that the law was the most
uncertain thing in the world; so there really was a prospect of its
coming to that. In the meantime, however, she would play up for all she
was worth if only for the sake of the amazing new friend who had gone
to The Laurels in her place, and who at this moment must be bitterly
rueing the freak that had led her to forego this delightful meal.

Not only did Girlie sit up physically, she sat up mentally. Keeping
her eyes and ears open, she began to take grave and particular
notice! Somewhere in her mind floated vague fragments from _Hints on
Etiquette by a Member of the Aristocracy_, and for that reason she
boldly discarded her fish-knife, as she seemed to remember that the
best people relied exclusively on forks for their fish whenever it was
possible to do so. She noted, however, that neither of her neighbors
seemed aware of that fact, and Mr. Minever and Lord Duckingfield
went down a little in her esteem. But, after all, it merely cast one
romantic light the more on the general situation. These people might be
very amusing and very jolly and very rich, but even with their titles
to help them they could hardly be considered real Aristocrats. And it
was because Lady Elfreda Catkin was an aristocrat to her finger tips
that she chose darkness and eclipse rather than sully her proud soul by
mixing with people who needed fish-knives to grapple with boiled turbot.

“We are expectin’ great things of you, Lady Elfreda.” The loud voiced
little man opposite was addressing her personally. “They say you
absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire. I hope you’ll like your part. It
was written for you specially.”

“Why, Philpot, you’ve not seen Lady Elfreda act,” said the host in his
rich, rollicking tactless way.

“’Tisn’t always necessary,” said the author of “The Lady of Laxton”
stoutly, “to see a woman act in order to write a part for her. Sardou
did it over and over again. So did Scribe. So has Pin I’m sure--and all
of ’um.”

“Doesn’t sound very convincing, Sir Toby,” said the voice of the yellow
chrysanthemum lady from the other end of the table, who like her
husband could not claim that tact was her long suit. “But it’ll be all
right on the night no doubt. By the way _is_ there any one here who
_has_ seen Lady Elfreda act?”

Girlie held her breath. The pause which followed Mrs. Minever’s words
seemed so painfully long, so intensely dramatic. Would it never end? A
shiver crept along the spine of the Deputy. Beneath the eyes of the
entire table she felt herself to be turning green.

“What?--No one!” said the hostess.

No one had apparently.

“That’s a bit of luck for you, Lady Elfreda,” said the host with his
jovial air.

The whole table laughed. Girlie began to breathe again.

“But Lady Elfreda’s escape is only temporary,” the hostess announced.
“To-morrow Mr. Montagu Jupp is coming. And he claims to have taught
Lady Elfreda all the acting she knows.”




XI


THE heart of the Deputy seemed to stop beating as she heard the
sinister words of the hostess. But again as her lips sought the brim
of her glass she took courage. No matter what to-morrow had in store
she must live this wonderful hour. She would lose her situation for a
certainty, perhaps she would have to go to prison, but this evening,
come what might, she was determined to yield to a signal experience.

She felt like a flower that expands to the sun. To be young, to be
rich, to be highly born, to be beautifully dressed, in a word to be the
veritable daughter of a marquis--what a supreme destiny! Nor was it a
silly and vulgar snobbishness that made her think so. Such a life as
the one she was living now meant poetry, romance, color, joy. To-morrow
she would return inevitably to what she was; to-morrow the endless
dreary days of governessing would begin again; but to-night--to-night
she would drink of the cup!

Nevertheless the shrewd northern forebears insisted that one glass of
champagne must be Girlie’s limit. But it was not easy to compute the
precise measure with the butler always on the watch to keep it up to
the brim. Rigidly on guard as she was, a glorious, devil-may-care
sort of feeling stole over her. A flush crept on her cheek, her soul
leapt to her eyes, so that in the sight of more than one beholder the
youngest of the Catkin girls looked uncommonly pretty.

It was after dinner, however, that the ordeal of Miss Cass really
began. In the drawing room, over the coffee cups, alone with her own
sex, she had to call out the reserves of her courage. The ladies were
so much more formidable than the gentlemen! Somehow their manner
towards her seemed curiously quizzical! Their lightest remarks, even
their way of looking at one were singularly embarrassing. Still Girlie
said very little, but smiled a good deal, was content to answer direct
questions with a brief “yes” or a briefer “no,” so that for the time
being she was able to disarm those whom she felt to be her natural
enemies. Nevertheless the advent of the gentlemen came as a particular
relief.

The return of the gentlemen lessened the tension considerably. Their
black coats and white waistcoats seemed to add a subtle quality to the
_mise-en-scène_; somehow they appeared to humanize the atmosphere of
the drawing room. Girlie found them much the easier to get on with. For
one thing the new peer who was on several Boards with her distinguished
parent, the marquis, quite took her under his wing. It seemed he had
promised Lady Elfreda’s father that he would look after her. And from
the outset it was clear that the hostess at any rate was anxious that
Lord Duckingfield should be as good as his word.

He was a plain honest midlander, a man almost wholly without
pretensions, and although not exactly in the first blush of youth
Girlie could not help thinking that he was extremely nice. If she had
not known he was a lord she would never have guessed it. There was
something very straightforward about him, something very considerate,
something very kindly, something very humane. From the first he paid
court to her in his rather heavy, fatherly way; yet in this there may
have been an ulterior motive, for as he presently said, he hoped Lady
Elfreda would teach him to jazz.

“But I don’t know how to,” Girlie confessed with naïve dismay. “I only
know the One Step and I am not at all good at it.”

“Well, you’ll have to teach me that,” said my lord, looking straight
into the sweetly serious gray eyes. “Although,” he added with a roguish
smile, “I’ve been told that nowadays you smart young ladies know
everything.”

Exceptions there are to every rule, and in the sight of Lord
Duckingfield the little Catkin lady furnished one. She seemed to know
hardly anything about anything. But he didn’t complain of that. He was
old fashioned enough to prefer that style of young woman; the smart
modern miss was apt to be too well informed on every subject. It was
really a pleasure to meet one quite the reverse; one in fact who was
ready, nay eager, to sit metaphorically at your feet. My lord in common
with most prosperous men of his age liked the sound of his own voice
and this pretty little girl--she really was pretty!--had the subtle art
of making him forget that he was indulging a weakness. She hung on his
words. She laughed at his stories. When he grew reminiscent, round eyes
of serious wonder rewarded him. Yes, quite a nice little filly, both
docile and intelligent, and not at all inclined to rate herself too
highly, which he had rather feared would be the case, having regard to
the stable she came out of.

For a full hour Lord Duckingfield was allowed to monopolize the chief
guest. And no one challenged his right. The hostess had reached the
conclusion already that she was “heavy cake”; the other ladies were
already divided in their minds as to whether Lady Elfreda was or was
not half-witted. She would improve on acquaintance no doubt, but as
Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, a bold lady in pink, found occasion to hint to
Sir Toby, the immediate outlook for his masterpiece was not encouraging.

“But they say she can act like blazes you know.” Sir Toby clung to
that belief in the teeth of growing skepticism. “Monty Jupp says
when he’s coached her a bit more she’ll be quite equal to any of the
professionals.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Mrs. Spencer-Jobling who prided herself on
being without illusion on any subject. “But with Miss Kitwood we should
have been absolutely safe.”

Sir Toby, allowing his eyes to stray to the animated picture on
the distant sofa, was impelled to discount the pessimism of Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling. She was quite the prettiest little Puss he had seen in
a month of Sundays, and old man Duckingfield, that astute midlander,
evidently thought so too.

When bedtime came for the ladies, Sir Toby contrived a broad hint for
Lady Elfreda as he politely opened the drawing room door. “I’m afraid
you have a hard day to-morrow,” he said. “Your part is a long one and
there isn’t much time to study it before the rehearsals begin. So mind
you have a good night’s rest.”

Alas, had it been Sir Toby’s intention to deprive the little lady of
the boon he was so urgently recommending no words could have been
better calculated for the purpose. They almost ensured a sleepless
vigil. At the prospect before her, Girlie felt one more chill along her
spine. All the same as she went up the stairs with the other ladies and
forced herself by sheer power of will to give them a gay good-night,
the paramount emotion was triumph. She had come through a grim ordeal
quite brilliantly. No one had appeared to suspect her, and incredible
as the fact might seem, she had almost enjoyed herself! The morrow,
it was true, was dark indeed, but already her life had known one
unforgettable moment.

“Now mind you sleep well, Lady Elfreda.” The hostess took an effusive
leave of her on the threshold of King Edward’s bedroom. “And no one is
expected to show at breakfast unless they particularly wish to do so.
So we shall not feel offended if you stay in bed all morning and study
your part.”




XII


PIKEY, with a shawl round her shoulders, was dozing by the bedroom
fire. She was awaiting the Deputy’s return and doing her best to keep
awake. Sleepy as she was, her reception of Miss No-Class was decidedly
rough and yet less rough than might have been the case had she not been
already informed in the servants’ hall by Mr. Pierce, the butler, that
in the matter of looks her young ladyship could give all the other
ladies points and a beating.

Mr. Pierce meant well, but it was a left handed compliment, that was
the best that could be said for it, yet in a sense Pikey felt rather
gratified. The verdict of Mr. Pierce at any rate implied that Miss
No-Class had borne herself throughout the evening quite as well as was
to have been expected. So far, apparently, she had not given herself
away.

“You will have your breakfast in bed,” said Pikey grimly.

Flown by success, Miss Cass did her best to bring a steady eye to bear
upon the maid.

“I have already arranged to do so,” she said with a very fair
approximation to the manner of the admired Miss Pond. She was still
in deadly fear of the Dragon, but she must neglect no opportunity of
putting her in her place.

“Oh, you have,” said Pikey, more grimly than ever. The Miss-Pond-manner
had left her cold. “And you may have to stay in bed for luncheon as
well.”

“But----” For the moment Girlie was not able to proceed beyond that
ineffective monosyllable. Pikey was “undoing her at the back” and even
this mild protest earned her a decidedly savage shake.

“It’s like this,” Pikey ominously explained. “I’m going over to The
Laurels the first thing in the morning and it’s the best part of four
miles away, so Mrs. Bletsoe the housekeeper tells me. And you’ve got to
stop in bed till I come back.”

“But----” Miss No-Class protested.

“Let down your hair.” Of a sudden the Werewolf took a most formidable
long-handled brush from the dressing table for all the world as if it
had been a birch rod.

Miss Cass could not repress a tremor of fear as she withdrew the pins
and the charming ribbon.

“You’ll stay in bed till I return.”

Poor Girlie gave a suppressed howl as the best quality hogs’ bristle
seemed to tear open her scalp. “And Mrs. Bletsoe doubts whether I’ll
be back by luncheon time if I miss the bus from the Royal Oak at
Clavering.”

“But----”

The long-handled hairbrush began to draw real salt tears. “Don’t
you dare to show yourself again until I’ve seen her young ladyship.
To-morrow she’s coming here.” Suppressed wowl. “Or I’ll know the
reason.” Wowl ad libitum.

The Deputy ventured no more “buts.” She feared that this old Sioux
might cause her scalp to disappear altogether.

“Do you understand?”

With her hair gathered in one large merciless handful Girlie understood
only too well.

“Now you can get into bed.” It was the tone of the absolute ruler of
the nursery to one who had just received an honest instalment of her
deserts and it also implied a promise of more to follow.

Girlie felt it was nothing less than an outrage to treat the daughter
of a solicitor in that way; but without unnecessary delay she slipped
in between the sheets and made the acquaintance of a friendly hot water
bottle.

“Remember, you don’t get up--until you are told. And mind you say your
prayers.” The Dragon switched off the electric light and retired to her
own quarters to a chequered night’s repose.

Girlie fared no better. Never in the course of her life had sleep
seemed so far from her pillow. She grew so excited as the present, the
future, and the immediate past flooded her mind that after a while she
switched on the light. On a shelf by her bedside were several of her
favorite writers, but in this mental crisis even Miss Cholmondeley,
Mr. Galsworthy, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward were powerless. After that she
tried studying her part, but she could not bring her mind to bear
upon it. Finally, as she paced up and down the large room, she tried
to continue her essay for the _Saturday Sentinel_, but none of these
alternatives were of the least use. Her nerves were in a state of
mutiny. She could not think coherently. The fix she was in grew more
terrifying as the hours passed. There seemed to be no way out. She had
been mad, worse than mad. Her career was irretrievably ruined. And when
the trick was discovered, as within the next four and twenty hours it
was bound to be, she might very easily find herself in prison. And
yet----!

That “and yet” was the cruel part. Up till now she had carried the
thing off brilliantly. In a manner of speaking she had quite enjoyed
the evening; so much had she appreciated its charm and its luxury that
it had seemed like coming into one’s own. No matter what the sequel
was, it would ever remain a golden memory almost capable of making any
penalty worth while.

The dawn had begun already to steal through the Venetian blinds of
King Edward’s bedroom before Girlie slept at all. All too soon she was
aroused by a maid with a well filled tray. Face to face with the cold
light of day and the naked reality of a perfectly stupendous present,
the Deputy wisely determined that she might as well be hung for a
sheep as for a lamb; accordingly with a wrap round her shoulders she
sat up in bed, made a tolerable breakfast and then put forth one more
effort to fix her mind on “The Lady of Laxton.”

She was engaged in diligent study when Pikey entered to bestow a final
word of admonition upon her before she set out for The Laurels. In
spite of the fatigues of travel, Pikey, it seemed, had slept almost
as ill as Miss No-Class. They shared an overwhelming responsibility.
But the Deputy, comfortably in bed, showed herself very docile in the
matter of getting up. She was quite content to stay as she was. It
would suit her very well not to get up until the ambassadress returned
from The Laurels; it would suit her even better not to get up at all.

The morning was fine and about half-past ten a gauntly-respectable
Pikey set forth a grim figure of truculent despair. At the outset
fortune was with her. A motor omnibus plied between Clavering and the
neighboring villages, passing the Park gates every two hours in the
process. Armed with sound advice from the housekeeper’s room, Pikey was
able “to time” this vehicle and thereby to reach the Pendennis Arms
at Clavering in something less than thirty minutes. Inquiry at that
center of information disclosed the fact that The Laurels was some two
miles away on the outskirts of the town. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, it
seemed, was a local auctioneer whose rank was a mystery and a wonder
to the wise.

As no fly or other medium of travel was at hand, Pikey decided to walk
to The Laurels. The house was not difficult to find, but the two miles
proved to be nearly three, and it took Pikey, not feeling so young as
she used to, the best part of an hour to get there. It was a rather
mediocre dwelling, at any rate in the eyes of Pikey who had big ideas,
standing a little back from the high road. There was a small plantation
in front of it and there was no other house near, but Pikey’s first
impression was that it didn’t amount to much; and when the disgruntled
visitor opened its gate which was in need of a coat of paint and her
rather dazed mind was suddenly flooded with a renewed sense of her
mission, this impression was confirmed.

In the stress of a great crisis, Pikey had not paused en route to
consider details of procedure, but now that she had reached her
destination they simply had to be faced. Should she go up boldly to the
front door and ring the bell? Certainly that seemed to be the right
course to take. But then arose the question, for whom must she ask
if she did so? For Pikey was now “up against” the fact that she had
quite forgotten the name of Miss No-Class, even if, and it was a point
upon which she was by no means clear, she had ever known it. However
she did not spend much time in wreaking a vain rage upon herself, for
she realized that by now she was a long way from Clavering Park, and
that circumstances called sternly for action. Therefore without delay
she walked along the carriage drive and rang the front door bell. The
Laurels was a stucco residence of the glorified suburban villa type
with A. D. 1880 engraved on the stone lintel.

The summons was answered by a slightly tarnished parlor-maid in a pink
print dress. She was inclined to be pert and the aristocratic spirit of
Pikey rose and fell in almost the same moment.

“Can I see the governess, please?” said Pikey, breathing hard. That,
after all, was the only formula.

“She’s out with Miss Joan and Master Peter.” The parlor-maid regarded
the visitor with an eye of frank disfavor.

Pikey’s heart sank. “Which way has she gone?” she bleakly inquired.

“She’s gone into Clavering to do some shopping for the mistress.”

Pikey took courage. If she could find out the road by which Elfreda was
likely to return there was a hope of intercepting her. Happily, as the
visitor was duly informed, the hope was much increased by the fact that
there was only one road into Clavering.

“I wonder how I can have missed her.” Pikey drew a breath of relief.
She offered curt thanks to the parlor-maid and was about to turn away
from the door, when a sharp voice which was evidently that of the
mistress of the house who had caught from afar the deep note of the
visitor’s Irish intonation, said, “Don’t encourage beggars, Jarvis.”

With that insult stirring her blood, poor Pikey made off down the
carriage drive, slammed her way out of the gate and took the road back
to Clavering. Murder was in her heart, but her spirit was sore, her
soul faint. It was a long way to Clavering Park, and she had never
felt so disgruntled in her life. Indeed, a few yards on as she crossed
a small stone bridge which spanned a local streamlet and lingered
a moment to look at the water gurgling beneath, for one weak, wild
instant she was almost tempted to try drowning as a remedy for a coil
that grew more tragic at every thought she gave to it.

A hundred yards ahead was a sharp bend in the road. Rounding it in a
state of utter despair, Pikey unexpectedly found herself converging
upon a young woman in a green ulster who held a small girl and a
smaller boy by the hand. Accompanying them was a tall, distinguished
looking soldier in much beribanded khaki, who walked with a slight limp.

Somehow Pikey was not prepared for Elfreda, but she it was, although
more than one glance under the cheap hat was needed to satisfy the maid
that such was the case. Indeed, Elfreda recognized Pikey before Pikey
recognized her. She was prompt, moreover, being a very quick-witted
young woman, to meet the situation.

Elfreda’s method of dealing with it was delightfully simple. She sent
on Miss Joan and Master Peter with the tall warrior in khaki, and
then calmly and sternly she confronted the maid. With a coolness that
literally took away Pikey’s breath she said, “Why, what in the name of
fortune are you doing here?”

The luckless Pikey had no answer ready. Elfreda’s sheer impudence was
sublime. Pikey could only gasp.

Elfreda calmly watched her charges disappear out of sight round the
corner. Then she fixed the duenna with a blue eye of concentrated
audacity. “Surely you don’t mean to say they’ve found out?”

Pikey was able to affirm that so far they had not.

“Then what on earth are you doing here?” The tone put the maid
completely in the wrong.

Such a cynical carrying of the war into the country of the enemy was a
little too much for Pikey. But she was not going to admit defeat. With
a snort and a scowl she declared that she had come to fetch Elfreda and
that no matter what happened it was her fixed resolve not to return to
Clavering Park without her mistress.




XIII


IT was now the turn of Elfreda to be taken aback.

“Pikey,” she said, “are you mad?”

The look in the eyes of the duenna rather suggested that condition.
But Elfreda did not yield an inch. “Are you mad, Pikey?” she repeated
sternly.

Before such hardihood the spirit of the Dragon quailed. So proper and
natural would it have been for Pikey to ask the question that Elfreda
by adopting the simple expedient of asking the question herself
completely took the wind out of Pikey’s sails.

“Go back at once.” Elfreda was perfectly amazing. “How dare you come
here.” She might have been scolding a disobedient dog. “I am quite
ashamed of you, Pikey. Didn’t I say I would write to you?”

A conflict began in the faithful bosom of Pikey as an eye flashing with
scorn transfixed her.

“Tell me, Pikey, didn’t I say I would write to you?”

Faced by an attitude so preposterous yet so uncompromising, Pikey began
to feel less sure of her ground. The dismal admission was wrung out of
her that her charge had promised to do so.

“Very well, then.” In spite of her green ulster and her cheap hat
Elfreda grew positively majestic. “Go back as quickly as ever you
can and don’t dare to come here again unless you are sent for. If you
wish to communicate with me privately, please do so by letter. Do you
understand?”

Notwithstanding a very definite sense of outrage Pikey felt absolutely
cowed. This really was a little spitfire and yet she was just as cool
as you please.

“It is your duty to look after Miss--Miss What’s-her-name and to see
that she doesn’t make mistakes or get into mischief or give us away or
anything of that kind.”

To the wretched Pikey’s eternal dishonor she could only muster the
spirit for a dismal and forlorn acquiescence. Even as she did so, she
knew that she was tamely submitting to be put in the wrong. The thought
filled her with fury, but there was nothing to be done. Ruefully she
realized that the headstrong little wretch was altogether too much for
her.

“I--I shall write to Herself.”

“Don’t dare to do anything of the kind.” A blue eye suddenly blazed
forth like an angry sapphire. “Please understand that if it is found
out I take all responsibility.”

Pikey could only gasp.

“But,”--the words of the amazing Elfreda were half ice, half fire--“if
you can really behave like a sensible creature nobody need be any the
wiser.”

“Whatever will his lordship say?”

“I wouldn’t worry about his lordship if I were you, Pikey.” The voice
of the little wretch had taken the soft wheedling tone which somehow
had always been able to get round her nurse. “Don’t worry about
anything. You’ll see it will all come right. And if it doesn’t, the
whole of the responsibility is mine.”

Just then Pikey would cheerfully have slain her charge, but alas! she
knew herself at heart for a foolish fond old woman who was without any
real hope of being able to prevail against her favorite. She never had
been able to prevail against her, if it came to that.

Pikey was not merely in the presence of defeat. The final words of
Elfreda struck her with panic.

“I want you to let me have two blouses, some silk stockings, a pair of
shoes and a decent hat as soon as you can. Send them by post, and mind
you pack them carefully. You understand?”

Pikey’s heart sank. No matter what she might be on the surface,
immediately below it she was very much a woman and by no means
deficient in the intuitions of her sex. Such a demand was full of
sinister meaning. The martial figure in khaki that had passed on round
the corner now recurred vividly to the eye of her mind. “You must
either come to Clavering Park or I shall write to Herself.” That should
have been her rejoinder to this shameless rebel. Beyond doubt a wise
woman would have made it, but do as she would at this fatal moment she
simply could not find the necessary courage.

“Address the parcel to Miss Cass, in the care of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
at The Laurels. I will write it down for you so that there shall be no
mistake.”

The amazing Elfreda calmly unbuttoned the green ulster, produced a
small pocket diary and wrote down the address with a deliberate care
that seemed decidedly ironical. Then she tore out the leaf. “As soon as
ever you can, Pikey. You quite understand?”

Once more, at the tone’s finality, the duenna could merely gasp. It was
the only form of protest she had now the wit or the power to make.




XIV


WITHOUT another word Elfreda moved on round the corner and crossed the
stone bridge. As soon as she came in view of The Laurels she found
quite a number of people collected about its gate. It appeared that a
man had just stuck a bill on one of its wooden posts, that he was now
being severely admonished by the mistress of the house while an edified
Miss Joan, an equally edified Master Peter, and an amused young man in
khaki looked on.

To add to the piquancy of the scene the bill-sticker, conscious of
the fact that he was engaged on work of national importance and that
his services were at a premium, was inclined to give as good as he
got. “Thought as how you wouldn’t mind seein’ it were for a charitable
h’object,” said the offender, doggedly.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, a tall, angular, fresh-complexioned lady with
light eyelashes and mouse-colored hair, had a decided weakness for “the
high horse.”

“You had no right to think anything of the kind,” she fluted on her
favorite note of high expostulation. “I consider it a great liberty.”

In spite of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s fierce assault the offender stood
his ground.

“You might at least have taken the trouble to ask my permission. I have
a great mind to have the bill removed. As my name is not thought good
enough to appear as a Lady Patroness, although I have subscribed for
six tickets in the front seats, perhaps my gate may not be good enough
to advertise the performance.”

“It can come down if you like, mum,” said the bill-sticker doggedly.

The mistress of The Laurels turned impressively to the young man in
khaki. “Would you have it down, General, if the gate were yours?”

“I should let it stay up,” said the General, who looked surprisingly
youthful for the rank accorded him. He spoke briefly and succinctly
as one knowing his own mind, on that particular subject at any rate;
moreover as he did so he smiled rather broadly in the direction of the
new governess who had just come on to the scene.

“Very well, then, it may do so,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “But tell
me, man”--she was determined to ride off the field victorious--“by
whose orders did you stick it up?”

“The vicar’s, mum.”

“The vicar’s!” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was sensibly mollified. “Then why
didn’t you say so at once?”

“Because you didn’t ax me,” said the bill-sticker with the ready
defiance of true democracy.

General Norris and the new governess had barely time to exchange one
furtive smile before Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson augustly interposed. “Miss
Cass, remind me after luncheon that I write to the Vicar to complain of
this man’s impertinence.”

Instead of regarding her employer with the smile sycophantic as any
new governess who really knew her business might have been expected
to do in such circumstances, Miss Cass again reserved her glance for
the young man in khaki. Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was too busy with the
recalcitrant bill-sticker to observe this breach of etiquette, but Miss
Joan, a spectacled young woman of seven, who had an uncomfortable habit
of noticing everything, noticed it for her. Miss Joan, however, made no
comment, the bill-sticker was sent on his way, and the offending poster
was allowed to remain on the gate post of The Laurels.

“_Grand, original production of ‘The Lady of Laxton,’_” read the young
man in khaki in his precise, good-humored voice. “_First performance
on any stage. Under the personal direction of the author, Sir Toby
Philpot Bart and Montagu Jupp, Esquire, of the Mayfair Theater. The
cast will consist of The Lady Elfreda Catkin and the following ladies
and gentlemen_----”

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson brought a pair of eyeglasses into action in
order to study the _dramatic personæ_. “Miss Ethel Lancelot is in it, I
see. If she is as stiff in her acting as she is in herself she might
empty the Assembly Rooms quite easily. But I don’t suppose they will be
more than half full in any case.”

“You have taken six tickets, though,” said General Norris cheerfully.
“And if this entire list of distinguished patronesses has done the same
there may not be so very much room in the building.”

“By the way,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, her voice going a whole
octave higher, “who is Lady Elfreda Catkin? I don’t think she belongs
to this part of the world.”

“One of the Carabbas girls I believe,” said the young man off-handedly.

“Have you met her?”

“No,” George Norris spoke with a slight air of boredom. “But the
_Society Pictorial_ says she’s very clever. Her portrait and all about
her is in this week.”

“I must look at the _Society Pictorial_,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson.
“Have you the time, George?”

“Quarter to one,” said George after consulting the watch on his wrist.

“Miss Cass,” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “Will you walk on with the
children. Please wash their hands and brush their hair.”

For one very brief fraction of time it looked almost as if the new
governess would have preferred to delegate this simple and elementary
duty to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson herself. That lady was too much occupied
with General Norris to observe the fact, but the young woman in
spectacles who noticed everything, noticed it all right.

“Come on, Petah,” she said. “Come and let Miss Cass wash your hands and
brush your hair.”

Master Peter, whose age was five, gave himself a shake and a wriggle.
“Don’t warn-too,” he said.

“Petah-darling!” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to her son and heir.

Miss Cass made no comment, but she took Miss Joan quietly but firmly
in one hand and Master Peter with equal quietude and firmness in the
other. Without preface or apology she proceeded to lead them in the
direction of the house. It was not quite the mode of procedure of
former governesses--her charges had had four within the last twelve
months--but the grip of Miss Cass was so resolute that Master Peter was
able to shake and wriggle with rather less effect than usual.

“Tell me, George,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, suddenly becoming
confidential as the small procession of three passed from view, “what
do you think of the new governess?”

The question was really superfluous. By the aid of the sixth sense
given to her sex in these little matters, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was
already fully informed as to what George Norris thought of the new
governess. Moreover she had been informed so plainly, that although the
new governess had not been four and twenty hours under her roof the
subject threatened already to become a matter of some concern.

“I think she is extremely nice.” The answer of George Norris was
simple, unstudied, genuinely sincere. And it was very much the answer
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson anticipated, except that she had not looked for
it to be quite so candid.

The response of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to what almost amounted to
enthusiasm on the part of George Norris was rather formal. “She speaks
nicely,” she said. “And of course that is of great importance in a
governess.”

George Norris, who for all his remarkable array of decorations seemed
a very simple young man, naïvely said that he supposed it must be of
great importance for a governess to speak nicely, yet he may have
thought privately, had he ever been tempted to give thought to the
subject, that it was in the nature of a governess to do so.

In fact, although he did not put that view into words, his tone rather
implied it. But Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, who subsconciously followed his
train of ideas, felt it to be her duty to convict him of error.

“Governesses don’t always, I assure you,” she said. “Our last one had
quite a cockney accent.”

George Norris seemed surprised at the revelation.

“I am sure I hope Miss Cass will suit us.” The tone of Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson did not sound very optimistic. “One finds
governesses such a difficult class. You see they are not always ladies.”

George Norris betrayed more surprise. But Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s
confession was not without a certain method.

She was by no means well pleased that her guest should have walked into
Clavering with Miss Cass. He was a young man who in the course of four
years had won really remarkable military distinction, but his hostess
could not disguise from herself that his knowledge of the world had
hardly kept pace with his martial renown. In a word he lacked social
experience.

The truth was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had come to regard herself as
the social mentor of General Norris. In a peculiar degree she felt
responsible for him. His career had been one of the many romances of
the war. In August, 1914, he had been a clerk in her husband’s office
in receipt of a salary of three pounds a week. He had joined up on the
morning war was declared, and having some little previous experience
with the local volunteer battalion, had gained a commission almost at
once. In France he had proved himself a born soldier in much of the
hardest fighting of the war, had been twice wounded, had won some very
high distinctions, had taken a course at the Staff College and was now
a professional soldier and a general officer to boot.

In launching this remarkable young man upon the world Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson may have been a little influenced by the fact that
her husband’s former clerk had been received with open arms in certain
local circles wherein Colonel Trenchard-Simpson and herself were
constrained to move with delicacy, even if they might be said to move
in them at all. Even those most exclusive people, the Lancelots of
Amory Towers, who wielded so much influence in that part of the world,
had taken George Norris under their wing. He had neither money nor
prospects apart from his profession and very little was known of his
origin, but in the little world of Clavering St. Mary’s, Colonel (on
carpet consideration) Trenchard-Simpson’s ex-clerk was cutting just
now such an amazingly distinguished figure that the wife of his former
employer felt that she really owed it to George Norris to do what she
could for him.

He had been housed at The Laurels rather less than a week as an honored
guest, but his manly and judicious bearing had impressed his hostess so
favorably that she had already invited Miss Dolores Parbury, a niece of
her husband’s, who lived at Birmingham, to spend a few days under that
hospitable roof.

The father of Miss Parbury had been able to leave the fair Dolores some
six thousand a year; and as he had been a successful retail grocer and
his only daughter had inherited not merely his money but also his view
of life, she had rather set her heart upon “marrying a title.” It was
a nice point, of course, whether a mere Brigadier-General fulfilled
this condition, but Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, after due reflection,
came to the conclusion that she was fully justified in the special
circumstances in sending for her husband’s niece.

Dolores was due to arrive at The Laurels in the course of the
afternoon and at luncheon her coming was much discussed. Colonel
Trenchard-Simpson, a recently hyphenated auctioneer, with a bald head
and a loud voice, was proud of his niece. Six thousand a year is six
thousand a year even if it is the fruit of retail grocery. On the other
hand Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson in her heart was not quite sure whether
Dolores was not a blot on the family escutcheon; she herself was the
daughter of a button manufacturer who had dabbled in local politics to
the extent of a knighthood. But such glittering accounts were given
of her to George Norris that, had the young man been romantically
inclined, extravagant hopes must have been raised in his bosom.

The new governess during her first luncheon at The Laurels was really
more interested in her immediate surroundings than in the coming of
Miss Parbury. There were several reasons for this. Foremost of course
were the surprising circumstances. She had not been long enough in
them as yet to regret the wicked trick she had played. Everything, so
far, was new and strange. She had never seen people quite like these,
nor had she ever found herself in this kind of household. Everything,
including the table decorations, the menu, the conversation, the style
and manner of the parlor-maid, came to her at a new and curious angle.
But with Miss Joan one side of her and Master Peter the other, her
opportunities for observation were a little curtailed. And when Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson instructed her rather pointedly to cut up the food of
the one and to see that the other consumed hers properly, somehow these
opportunities were curtailed still further.

There was another drawback also. And it was of an embarrassing, if
temporary, character. Joan, it seemed, had told her mother of the
meeting of Miss Cass and the strange woman. Moreover, the visit of
Pikey had been duly reported by the parlor-maid. “Tell me, Miss Cass,”
fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson midway through the meal, “who was the
person who came to see you this morning?”

Several courses were open to Elfreda. Perhaps the one most obvious was
to lie royally. But she was such a calm and collected young woman that
she promptly decided to amuse herself by telling the blunt and literal
truth. “Oh, that old thing,” she said with a careless laugh that did
credit to her histrionic powers. “She’s an old servant of my mother’s
who happens to be living here just now.”

Unfortunately the offhand tone was a little overdone. It did not
actually arouse suspicion, but such a casualness of manner with its
underlying arrogance was hardly to be looked for in a governess. It
did not occur to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson that Miss Cass had anything
to conceal, but certainly there was something about the new governess
that was decidedly odd. There were moments when she seemed almost to
patronize her employers, had it been humanly possible for her to do
so. Certainly her manner made pursuit of this particular topic very
difficult indeed.

Making allowance for all things, Elfreda’s first luncheon at The
Laurels was a new and salutary experience, yet perhaps it was the young
man seated opposite who interested her most. And as it was her nature
to follow her own bent as far as circumstances allowed, General Norris
received the lion’s share of her conversation.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson remarked privately to her husband after the
meal, while Miss Cass put on the gaiters of Miss Joan and Master Peter
and otherwise prepared them for the afternoon’s airing, that no matter
what else the new governess might be, she certainly was not shy. She
talked easily and with point on any subject that came uppermost, but
somehow her discourse seemed lacking in that subtle deference which
surely should have been exacted by their respective conditions. Nor was
she at all well up in her duties, either; she certainly seemed to pay
more attention to the guest than to her employers or their offspring;
in a word, although she was a young woman of undeniably good address,
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson doubted gravely whether she would suit.

Furthermore, there was one point on which that lady had already
reached a decision. She must speak to the new governess on the subject
of walking into Clavering with General Norris. As a matter of fact
the point was raised rather sooner than Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had
anticipated. The children, duly gaitered and gloved, announced that
they were going to show Miss Cass the way to Copt Wood, whereupon
General Norris remembered that he had promised to walk over to see some
people who lived in that direction and made an offer to accompany the
party.

The offer was promptly accepted by the children, but their mother felt
obliged to lead the new governess aside before the expedition started
and lay down rules for their guidance. She must not take the children
to Copt Wood if General Norris insisted on going there, nor must she
take them in any other direction in which he proposed to go. And while
on the subject she had reluctantly but rather pointedly to refer to
their morning’s expedition into the town. Such a thing must not occur
again.

It is not too much to say that Elfreda felt perfectly furious. She
would like to have slain this complacent and overbearing dame. For
the time being, however, she was defenseless. Her color mounted high
as she said that it was by no wish of hers that they had walked into
Clavering together. To this Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson rejoined in a
rather “Tell-that-to-the-Marines” sort of tone that whether Miss Cass
had wished it or not it must not happen again.

The upshot was that when Miss Joan and Master Peter took the air they
were hauled rather peremptorily and decidedly against their inclination
in a direction opposite to Copt Wood, while General Norris, who seemed
a shade disconsolate, was left to follow a lonely path to that part of
the landscape.

While Elfreda and her charges trekked along the high road for a stolid
two miles and back again the thoughts of the rebel were dark indeed.
She was leading a life that hitherto she had hardly guessed at and
already she had found it quite surprisingly full of thorns. There was
every reason to congratulate her private stars that it was a kind of
life she had never been used to; at the same time even this brief taste
of servitude was curiously galling.

On the return of Miss Cass and the children to The Laurels shortly
before four o’clock they found the fair Dolores in the act of arrival
from Birmingham. She and several imposing boxes were being solemnly
disgorged from the household chariot while Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson stood
by in an attitude of mingled authority and adoration.

“Oh, the darlings!” was the greeting of Miss Parbury to Miss Joan and
Master Peter.

She was a lady with a very loud voice and an assurance of manner that
was little short of stupendous. It may have been for these reasons, or
for reasons more subtle, that the new governess who was a young woman
of quick and extremely definite intuitions decided almost as soon as
she saw Miss Parbury that she was not going to like her. For one thing,
although her reception of the children was stressed almost to the point
of effusion, she hardly so much as looked at the green ulster even when
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson introduced its occupant; she addressed no remark
then to Miss Cass nor later over the tea cups when the governess and
her charges were allowed to enter the drawing room.

The manner of Miss Parbury was forthcoming, yet she was not a great
talker. Her conversation appeared to consist mainly of “I mean to
say”--at least impartially considered that was the gist of it. Exactly
what Miss Parbury did mean to say, even when she had said all she had
to say, would have taken a very wise person to determine. Still she
was by no means ineffective in a metallic sort of way. Everything
about her was metallic, her voice, her appearance, her dress, her mode
of attack, yet when all was said she was hardly as metallic as her
hostess. Birmingham, it is true, was Miss Parbury’s home town, but
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had the further advantage of being the daughter
of a button manufacturer who had received the honor of knighthood.
Both ladies, however, were bright specimens of the particular style
they affected; it was in the nature of a physical feat, but not for
an instant did they fail to live up to it; and in the case of Miss
Parbury, with a cool six thousand a year at the back of her decided
good looks, this achievement was rewarded by the number of her
conquests in the midland counties. In fact it was clear almost before
General Norris had returned from his lonely trek in the vicinity of
Copt Wood that the accomplished Miss Parbury did not look for much
difficulty in adding another male scalp to her already fairly large
collection.




XV


AS Elfreda dressed for dinner in her meager and cheerless bedroom she
felt that interesting developments might be at hand. Her sense of humor
was keen and she was ready to enjoy every moment of the situation for
which she had made herself responsible. It would not be her fault if
coming events did not help to lighten her lot. Secretly, however, she
was more deeply annoyed than she chose to admit, even to herself,
by Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s ukase. How dare the woman, how dare any
woman venture to treat her in that way! She must try to remember, of
course, that the position she now chose to occupy was quite outside her
experience; at the same time while the new governess in the privacy of
her room proceeded to inspect the array of evening garments in the tin
trunk labeled “Cass,” she felt absurdly hostile, not merely to Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson, but also to the relations and friends of that lady
and to all their works.

Consideration of the wardrobe of Miss Cass disclosed it to be strictly,
even painfully, limited. In spite of this handicap, Elfreda, however,
was fully determined to make the most of herself for that evening, and
took considerable pains with her toilette. The best she could muster
was a black silk skirt, a semi-décolleté blouse of black chiffon and a
pair of velvet slippers. Elfreda was much too matter of fact to paint
extravagant pictures of her own appearance, but when she looked in the
glass and beheld the prim result of her labors it needed all the humor
she possessed to save her from laughing on the wrong side of her mouth.

Still, the fighting spirit of a hundred “Catkin Earls” or so had been
awakened in the frilled bosom of the new governess. Black chiffon or
no black chiffon, she was out for blood that evening. She went down to
dinner on the stroke of eight with certain grim thoughts smoldering
in the depths of a heart that had inherited a quite honest share of
natural arrogance. In the drawing room General Norris stood in the
center of the hearthrug, alone. The master and mistress of the house
and the fair Dolores were not quite up to time.

“I hope you enjoyed your walk, Miss Cass.” The young man’s voice
sounded just a shade reproachful.

“Ye-es.” There was a world of doubt in the tone of the new governess,
but in the odd way she had of looking at people she looked at
George Norris. There was a smile in the look, which in spite of
the circumstances or perhaps because of them, was somehow queerly
attractive. You couldn’t call her pretty, the young man decided, but
in that smile was something, although perhaps he didn’t know it, which
spoke to him far more deeply than a merely superficial attractiveness
would have done. As for Elfreda, she had reached the conclusion already
that this distinguished soldier was a very simple and extraordinarily
handsome young man.

Their brief talk was interrupted almost at once by the entrance of Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson and the fair Dolores. The lady of Birmingham looked
more metallic than ever in a glittering green dress with hair ornament
to match, yet so clear was her skin, so good were her teeth, so bright
was her hair that most people would have considered her uncommonly
handsome. At any rate that was Miss Parbury’s estimate of herself and
she had all the assurance of recognized beauty. The single glance she
cast at the chiffon blouse and the cheap black skirt of the little
governess had a touch of scornful pity. Perhaps it would have been pity
unadulterated had she not already discussed Miss Cass with her hostess
and had they not agreed to doubt whether the new governess quite knew
her place.

During dinner, alas, this doubt crystallized into certainty. Miss
Cass did not know her place. She insisted on taking such an important
part in the conversation that the fair Dolores and even Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson herself came perilously near to being outshone.
On every subject that presented itself for discussion she talked
confidently and with point, and from time to time, to the growing
resentment of the other ladies, she even dared to indulge in a little
badinage. Governesses at The Laurels in the last four years had been
many, but before the meal was at an end Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had
sorrowfully concluded that this was a new kind of governess altogether.

Miss Cass had been highly recommended by no less a person than Canon
Carnaby of Laxton, whose brother, the Reverend Sirius Carnaby, was
the venerable incumbent of the neighboring parish of Yeldham, but her
conduct at the dinner table, in the stern purview of her critics really
amounted to “showing off.” For a full half of the meal she entirely
monopolized General Norris, that is to say she would have monopolized
him had not the hostess and Miss Parbury been determined that she
should not; for the other half she was bewildering the company with the
originality of her remarks, the independence of her judgment and the
range of her information. Just before the meal came to an end, however,
she was guilty of a decidedly bad break.

Apart from the military prowess of George Norris, his real claim to
distinction in the sight of his former employers was that he had been
“taken up” by some very “nice” people. Foremost among these was that
exclusive clan the Lancelots of Amory Towers, the chimney pots of whose
ancestral seat were visible on a clear day from The Laurels’ back
windows. The Lancelots were the sun of the local firmament round which
all minor stars and planets were more or less content to revolve. This
family was too well established to insist unduly on its position; for
generations its name had been known for miles round not merely as a
symbol of place and power, but also as a cause of place and power in
others. The Lancelots were what their neighbors desired to be; at least
that was the opinion of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, although just what they
were beyond the fact that they were “very influential” would have been
difficult to say.

Still, there was no gainsaying the fact that George Norris, who four
years and three months ago had been a clerk earning a modest three
pounds a week in the office of a Clavering auctioneer, had several
times been invited to luncheon and dinner by the Lancelots, and Miss
Ethel herself, the bright one of the family, had only last week
attempted the fox-trot with him in public. It is true that it was at
the Assembly Rooms in the cause of mercy, but either Miss Ethel was
growing extremely progressive for a virgin of thirty or the stock of
George Norris was rising to a perilous height in the local market.

Towards the end of the meal the Lancelots were rather freely
discussed and it was then that the new governess by a series of
incautious remarks lent piquancy to the conversation. In fact she
betrayed a knowledge so intimate of this distinguished clan that Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson was impelled to challenge it. By what means had Miss
Cass acquired so much information concerning them?

The new governess inadvertently replied that the Lancelots were old
friends of her mother’s.

“_Your_ mother’s, Miss Cass?” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson sharply; “but
I am speaking of the Lancelots of Amory Towers.”

In cool tones Elfreda made it quite clear that she also was speaking of
the Lancelots of Amory Towers.

“But how does _your_ mother come to know them?” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
offered open battle to Miss Cass.

The new governess smiled frankly and cheerfully as she caught the eye
of the young man opposite. “Well you see----” The unconscious insolence
of the slight drawl amounted to downright bad form in any governess,
new or otherwise. “Well, you see my father happened to be the butler at
Amory Towers and my mother was lady’s maid.”

A solemn pause ensued. Finally it was broken by a gurgle of suppressed
laughter from General Norris. The tension which gripped the dinner
table was thereby released, but even in the myopic sight of Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson the lie of the new governess was so palpable that she
decided at once that Miss Cass would have to take another situation at
the end of her month.

For the rest of the evening the other ladies were openly hostile to
Miss Cass. In the drawing room this attitude grew quite marked, when
during Miss Parbury’s brilliant performance--brilliancy was her note in
everything, the key, in fact, of her personality--of Opp’s Prelude in A
minor upon the piano-forte the new governess persistently indulged in
loud and animated chatter with General Norris. Broad hints were given
that such conduct was unseemly, but they did not make one pennyworth of
difference. It was almost as if Miss Cass took a malicious pleasure in
flouting Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and in restricting the opportunities of
Miss Parbury who found herself quite at a loss. General Norris was much
to blame, no doubt, but he was to be excused on the ground of social
inexperience. For the new governess there was no excuse. Such behavior
could not be passed over. As the clock on the chimney piece chimed ten
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was moved to put her just resentment into words.

“Miss Cass”--perhaps the resentment was more apparent in the tone than
in the words themselves--“you must really go to bed, I think. The
children’s breakfast is at half-past eight, you know. They were ten
minutes late this morning.”

Elfreda rose at once with the meaningful look that both ladies had
now come to dislike so intensely. General Norris convoyed her to the
drawing room door and opened it with a deference not lost upon them.
Moreover they observed the frank and ready smile with which she
rewarded the young man and the look he gave her in return.

Elfreda went to her chill nest very well content with her evening’s
work. She had made the discovery already that but for the presence in
the house of General Norris, life at The Laurels as nursery governess
would be quite insupportable. However, he was a very interesting young
man and the fact lent piquancy to the situation. And the manner in
which the other ladies had chosen to bear themselves in it had roused
Elfreda’s fighting spirit to a perilous pitch. More than ever was she
determined to “ride off” the fair Dolores; and she also expected a
reasonable measure of amusement in the process.

Meanwhile in the drawing room the mistress of the house was seeking
balm for her protégé. “I will see that she dines upstairs to-morrow,
dear.” With these discreetly whispered words did Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
salve the wounds of the fair Dolores as General Norris closed the door
softly and smilingly upon the new governess.




XVI


IN the meantime gloom and anxiety reigned at Clavering Park. By just
missing the bus from the Pendennis Arms, Pikey delayed her return from
The Laurels until nearly three o’clock. Therefore Miss Cass decided to
obey orders and by pleading a headache take luncheon in bed. Several
good reasons led her to do so. Apart from the fact that Girlie’s
respect for her stern custodian was tinged with awe, she was more
comfortable in the security of her own room than she was likely to be
anywhere else in that house at that moment. Besides, although she had
given up a whole morning to the diligent study of “The Lady of Laxton,”
at present she was very far from being word perfect in her part;
thus she did not feel equal to the task of going through a rehearsal
that afternoon. And sum and crown of all her woes, was the haunting
continual fear of the arrival of Mr. Montagu Jupp.

That veritable Old Man of the Sea was expected from London by the four
o’clock train. It needed no great amount of foresight on the part of
Miss Cass to realize that when that event happened the game would be
up. All the morning as she wrestled with Sir Toby’s dialogue, Mr.
Montagu Jupp was a specter in the background of her thoughts. Should
she make a clean breast of the matter there and then and so anticipate
the public exposure that was inevitable later in the day? She was
in such a state of panic that there seemed much to be said for that
course, yet after all, as further reflection showed, there was nothing
to gain by a bootless confession. At all events it would be wise to
await the return of Pikey, if only because she had promised to bring
Lady Elfreda with her. But there could be no building upon that. It
was always possible, of course, that the Evil Genius was already bored
sufficiently by her taste of drudgery to come and face the music, but
poor Girlie was very far from counting upon the fact.

Pikey, however, returned Elfreda-less but terribly cross. Indeed
“cross” was altogether too mild a word for her mood. It was really so
savage that for a time the hapless Deputy could do nothing with her.
Moreover, so completely was Girlie under the spell of Mr. Montagu Jupp
that her will became inert. In sheer desperation she resigned herself
to her bed for the rest of that day at least. By that means she would
avoid Mr. Montagu Jupp until the morrow and so put off the hour of
discovery.

Downstairs, in the meantime, consternation was rife. The sudden
indisposition of the leading lady had caused the first rehearsal to
be postponed. But Sir Toby was by profession an optimist. He looked
at the world he lived in and all the beings who inhabited it through
rose-colored spectacles. It was “good form” to do so. Every woman of
his acquaintance was “a dear” or she was “charming,” every man was “a
sportsman” and a good fellow. Clouds had been known to obscure the sun
now and again, but after all they were only a temporary matter. He
was a believer in a bright and cheerful world. That was the only side
of the picture he could ever condescend to recognize. Nevertheless,
even Sir Toby allowed, in the privacy of his heart, that “The Lady of
Laxton” might prove an ambitious undertaking for a decidedly scratch
company at short notice.

However, the author of the piece had a real stand-by in Montagu
Jupp. That famous man was said by common report “to know the theater
backwards.” He had only to set his hand to the business for all to
be well. His arrival by the four o’clock train was eagerly awaited.
Even Sir Toby’s optimism deigned to regard the coming of the great and
admired Montagu as a _sine qua non_. He knew all about everything,
theatrically speaking. Not only was he a “producer,” he was a Napoleon
among producers. And on his own showing he had yet to learn the meaning
of the word “failure.”

Alas, when the omnibus returned from Clavering station on the stroke
of five, a chill descended upon the bevy of tea drinkers in the hall.
The great man had not arrived. But in lieu of him a telegram had been
handed to the chauffeur on the journey home. It was addressed to Sir
Toby Philpot and it contained the dire news that Mr. Montagu Jupp was
“unavoidably detained, important business.”

Sir Toby was stout of heart, but a cloud, an unmistakable cloud passed
across the sun of his optimism. There was much to do and but a very
little time in which to do it. His star artiste, upon whom so much
depended, had taken to her bed; his other stand-by had let him down
at the last moment; and the performance was already widely advertised
to take place in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering on the following
Tuesday. Moreover, Sir Toby in the bounty of his nature had given an
undertaking that the performance should be repeated in the Town Hall at
the neighboring city of Meichester three days later.

It was the hostess herself who presently bore the news of Mr. Montagu
Jupp’s non-arrival to King Edward’s bedroom. Girlie was sitting up
in bed in a beribboned dressing jacket, grappling bravely with the
typescript of her part. No doubt it was an act of sheer despair, but
her mind in the present state of its infirmity craved occupation.
The severe task of committing to memory Sir Toby’s dialogue was by
way of being an antidote to her many terrors. And when the yellow
chrysanthemum lady, full of counsel and solicitude, came and sat by her
bed, and bitterly deplored Mr. Jupp’s failure to appear, it was almost
as if the invalid gained strength from the woes of others. At all
events it suddenly occurred to her that she might be able to come down
to dinner.

The kindly hostess was far from urging that course upon her guest, but
certainly Lady Elfreda’s early reappearance would lessen the gloom that
had fallen upon Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and other members of the cast, and
even upon Sir Toby himself. So sharp was the recoil from the certainty
of immediate discovery that Girlie began to feel quite bold. Her long
day in bed had been a torture and a weariness, Pikey since her return
from The Laurels had been intolerable, and the postponement of the
worst had brought such relief that in the sudden reaction Girlie took
heart of grace.

A sword hung over her head which sooner or later must fall. In the
meantime, desperation nerved her and she decided upon a run for her
money. She was not without courage, or it may have been that the
rewards of courage inspired her to an unnatural hardihood. At any rate,
a festive dinner downstairs, even if a little too highly spiced with
adventure, was greatly to be preferred to a further prolonged mope in
bed.

When, however, the hostess had left the room and the Deputy informed
Pikey of her decision, there was a clash of wills. That autocrat
vetoed the proposal ruthlessly. Miss No-Class would be far safer where
she was. But the student of _The Patrician_ had made up her mind.
Now that Mr. Montagu Jupp was a peril less imminent, she was in such
an agreeable state of recoil that the previous evening had become a
proud and happy memory. Looking back upon it in perspective, she felt
entitled to consider herself a success.

Let her rise to the height of her opportunity! That thought was ever
in her mind. A heavy penalty would be exacted from her presently, her
career as a governess would be ruined, but in the meantime if she
were really wise she would “see life,” and boldly play her part in
a tragi-comedy which one day might make her as famous as Miss Mary
Cholmondeley or Mrs. Elinor Glyn. No matter what the future had in
store she would weave into her life a high experience that should even
raise her above the Brontës and all their gifts.

Pikey continued to breathe slaughter and fire, but the Deputy,
sustained by thoughts of the renown that might one day be hers, showed
a firmness amounting to heroism.

“I will have a bath--please. And I will wear the blue dress.”

Could Pikey have had her way, she would have beaten the small plebeian
soundly and put her back into bed. But the duenna was shaken a good
deal by the tribulations of the day. She was feeling weak and she was
filled with despair. The unexpected defiance vanquished her. Sullenly
she prepared the bath, sullenly she went through the toilette ritual.
But on this occasion her proud spirit had to submit to rebuke.

“You are hurting me.” The Deputy tried her utmost to speak sternly,
even if the result was not as impressive as she could have wished. “I
think I can manage my hair quite well myself, thank you.”

Pikey was still strong enough not to yield her office, but her methods
became less drastic. The Deputy, however, was not permitted to wear the
blue dress. She was curtly told that _real_ ladies did not appear in
the same frock on two successive evenings. An affair of pink silk was
unwillingly placed at her disposal. And when Girlie came to look at
herself in the glass, she found it just as becoming and slightly more
modern in style. Perhaps it did not go quite so well with her eyes, but
in the course of an epic twenty-four hours the rose had deepened in her
cheeks, so that all things considered “what she lost on the roundabouts
she gained on the swings.”




XVII


THE anxieties of the day had not improved the nerves of Miss Cass.
They were a little frayed, no doubt, when she was led in to dinner
on the arm of the genial, loud-voiced host. Mr. Minever was a great
one for chaff and there was something about poor Girlie’s woe-begone
appearance that was a direct challenge to his powers. Had the Bartlet’s
masterpiece proved too much for her? If the little man wrote as he
talked she was a very wise young woman, in Mr. Minever’s opinion, to
keep her bed in order to grapple with his dialogue. Sir Toby laughed
brightly at all the sallies which reached his end of the table, where
the luckless yellow chrysanthemum lady and Mrs. Spencer-Jobling were
bearing up with superhuman patience. Still, it has to be said for Sir
Toby that he was a little sportsman in his way.

From time to time, as the noisily cheerful meal went on, Sir Toby stole
a glance down the table at the innocent cause of the mirth. She really
was nailingly pretty, although her color was so high this evening that
it could hardly be her own. The little man grew pensive, not to say
distrait. By the time the port appeared it had begun to seem rather a
pity that Carabbas notoriously “hadn’t a bob.” Still Grandpapa Angora
was on his last legs according to all accounts, and even if keeping
up a dukedom was becoming an expensive hobby and supertax was now on
a very democratic basis, the head of the clan must surely have kept a
little bit in the family stocking just to bring them in out of the rain.

Indeed, that seemed quite a fascinating speculation as Sir Toby
preened his small tail feathers and held the door for the ladies
to file cheerfully and jauntily out of the room. But one there was
neither jaunty nor cheerful. She was a duke’s granddaughter it was
true, but she was so timid and demure that she might have been a
nursery governess. Her one desire, seemingly, was to efface herself
altogether. And yet, as Sir Toby reflected, there _is_ something to be
said after all for pedigree stock. These Sheffielders--or was it Leeds
they came from?--with their familiarity, their badinage, their amazing
self-confidence, how tiresome they were! The little Catkin Puss might
be dull--dull as a mud fence--but when the worst had been said, she was
a Lady!

“Penny for your thoughts, Philpot.” The loud-voiced host emphasized
this speculative offer by pushing his so-called 1890 towards Sir Toby.

“Worth a sight more than that, ain’t they, Pot?” quoth a puffy man
opposite with a face as red as a boiled lobster. And then, to Sir
Toby’s unspeakable annoyance, he winked impudently at the others. “But
I’m bound to say I admire your taste.”

The retort which rose to the long suffering lips of Sir Toby was, “I
wish I could return the compliment!” That would have been a fit reply
to one who always made a point of treating him as if he were still in
Puppyhole. His tormentor, one Garden by name, was a man of some parts,
but in the course of a rather hopeless life, having done most things
and most people, he had steadily declined in the world’s esteem, until
now there was only dramatic criticism, occasional journalism and the
tolerance of club acquaintances between the jail, the poorhouse and
himself.

Soft, however, was Sir Toby’s answer. This same Garden had once kicked
him round Sixpenny, and although the experience had not done him as
much good as it might have, the little baronet had a deep-seated desire
that it should never happen again.

The host, however, that prince of crude fellows whose size in dancing
pumps was a large ten, lost no time in putting his foot still deeper
in the mire. Before Sir Toby could deal efficiently with his ancient
foe, Mr. Minever had coarsely guffawed, “So does Duckingfield.” At this
breach of taste on the part of the host, Sir Toby glared. And the new
peer glared also.

“I _fink_ you are up for the O. B. H.,” said Sir Toby in tones that
would have re-frozen an icicle.

The host grinned at Garden. “Means he’s going to see about pilling me,
eh?”

Said that worthy, “If he does, you’ll get in for sure.”

“S-s-sh! Don’t give it away!” Again the host grinned at Garden. “But,
seriously, she’s as pretty as pretty. And I’m willing to lay a hundred
to ten she gets off before next season.”

Ruefully and wrathfully reflected Sir Toby, “This man Minever doesn’t
begin to be Sahib. An awful pity we are not stayin’ with somebody else.
However....”

As for my lord of Duckingfield, whose hostile gaze was short-circuiting
Sir Toby’s inmost thoughts, he too was nursing an almost savage
antagonism. “Like to punch his head for him”--that was its formula.
But whose head it was that the honest and forthright Midlander yearned
to punch was not exactly clear. He certainly glared at the host as the
desire passed through his mind, but with even greater intensity he
glared at Sir Toby.

Howbeit, Sir Toby returned the gesture with interest. The little
man had been only too quick to read the thought in the mind of the
presumptuous maker of munitions. How dare this newest of new men lift
his eyes to a duke’s granddaughter?

To some minds it is not the least of the advantages pertaining to an
old title that it is competent to ask these questions!




XVIII


DURING the epic days which followed, the mind of Sir Toby was haunted
by this inquiry. But there were matters almost as vital to vex
that ingenuous soul. From the first the rehearsals were not at all
satisfactory. The author of “The Lady of Laxton” did not pretend to be
more than a tyro in theatrical affairs and the company he had gathered
to embody the heir of his invention was as resolutely “amateur,” if
rather less enthusiastic, than himself. In the first place “social
position” was felt to be even more important than histrionic ability,
a fact which made the eleventh-hour defection of Mr. Montagu Jupp the
more to be deplored. He was to have been the prop and mainstay of “the
production.” But, as the cynical Garden shrewdly declared, the astute
Montagu must have smelt a rat.

“I hope, Pot,” said that critic when the second rehearsal had come to
its dismal end and a dark specter was invading Sir Toby’s life, “you
were not such a fool as to let Jupp see the list of your people.”

Sir Toby ingenuously admitted that he had.

“Hence the pyramids, my boy.” The relentless Garden chuckled.
“Unavoidably detained. Important business. Great Cumberland place!”
_Flaneur_ of the _Dramatic and Sporting Weekly_ whistled a few bars of
Chopin’s Funeral March. “You little fathead, you ought to be bled for
the simples!”

“I assure you, old man,” said Sir Toby, almost tearfully, “Lady Elfreda
simply knocked ’em endways in Yorkshire in the ‘Duke of Killiecrankie.’”

“But you can’t hear a word she says.”

It was fatally true, and there was the crux of the whole matter. The
star artiste, upon whom so very much depended, might never have been
on a stage before. So far she was grievously disappointing. She showed
little intelligence and less aptitude, and she was so shy of opening
her mouth that it seemed certain that “on the night” she would not be
heard by the first row of stalls.

So much was clear already even to the capacity of Sir Toby Philpot.
Indeed it was slowly beginning to dawn upon him that somebody must
have been “pulling his leg.” He had been too ready to take the word
of others, of Monty Jupp for example, that Lady Elfreda had so much
talent, “that she could play the ingénues out of all the West End
theaters.” That was the memorable phrase the sagacious and admired
Montagu had used. The old wretch had simply been pulling his leg. No
wonder that important business kept him from Clavering St. Mary’s.
“What a fool I have been,” reflected the despondent author, “not to
take the simple precaution of seeing the girl act before counting upon
her to pull us through.”

In the course of the third rehearsal, which proved even more trying
than the other two, the company began to show unmistakable signs
of mutiny. Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, for instance, who felt she had a
reputation to lose on the stage if nowhere else, became so openly
and mordantly sarcastic that she actually reduced the leading lady
to tears. Later in the day a sort of informal meeting was held in
the library, at which Garden presided, in the course of which it was
decided to present an ultimatum to Sir Toby. Either he must obtain
professional assistance and advice or the cast would throw up their
parts en masse.

Only five days now remained, for on the following Tuesday the
performance was due in the Assembly Rooms. Faced by this ultimatum Sir
Toby was in despair. But one fact was clear. If the situation was to be
saved a Titan was called for. At all hazards the recalcitrant Montagu
must come down to Clavering Park. And all the art, all the tact, all
the experience of even that superman would be necessary if the curtain
was to rise on Tuesday afternoon.

With the ferocity of despair Sir Toby telephoned at once to the great
man’s chambers in the Albany. Alas, Mr. Montagu Jupp was out of town,
but he was expected from Newmarket in the course of that evening. Soon
after dinner Sir Toby telephoned again, but Montagu had not returned.
Finally, on the verge of midnight, the author telephoned a third time
and on this occasion success rewarded him. The authentic voice of
Montagu informed him that he had just donned his pyjamas. That plea,
however, was of no avail; for a long twenty minutes he had to suffer
the prayers and the entreaties of the unlucky author of “The Lady of
Laxton.” But to these he was deaf. Mr. Montagu Jupp had reasons of his
own for not throwing himself into the breach. He remained adamant.
Important business must keep him in town for at least another week,
shamelessly adding particularly as he had just lost a valuable day at
Newmarket.

Then it was that Sir Toby, knowing all to be lost unless Montagu
relented, hastily decided upon a final and desperate throw. He would
run up to town by the early morning train and so bring home to the
great man the extreme urgency of the whole position. And in the evening
he would return with him to Clavering Park if flesh and blood could
compass that essential deed.




XIX


TIME was precious indeed if “The Lady of Laxton” was ever to know the
vicarious glamour of the footlights, but an acute sense of relief was
felt by all the members of the cast when at breakfast time the next
morning it was announced that for that day at least there was to be
an interregnum. In the absence of Sir Toby there would be no further
rehearsal until the following day. And to no member of the company was
the news quite so welcome as the leading lady.

Girlie had been nearly a week now at Clavering Park and events were
nerving her almost to the pitch of desperation. She had reached the
point at which she hardly cared what happened. Yet if not exactly a
fighter she had the tenacity that often goes with weak natures, and
there were certain aspects of the adventure, strange nightmare as it
was, that were delightful. In spite of the drawbacks to a position
which she had been absolutely mad to accept, this was Life with a
very large letter. As far as she herself was concerned it was all a
wonder and a wild desire, a never-to-be-forgotten romance, a complex of
soul-harrowing torments and delirious possibilities. She really felt
that if she could emerge from this position of peril without being
damned eternally in the sight of the world, she would have gained so
much first-hand experience that she might hope to become one of the
foremost novelists of her time and country.

All the same it needed every spark of will power she could summon not
to run away. Each night as she came to assuage her throbbing temples
with the luxury of King Edward’s bedroom and the incidents of the day
recurred to her, how she contrived to go on “sticking it” she simply
did not know. Time and again as she realized how near she must be to
discovery she shuddered in the depths of her soul. And heaven knew what
penalty would be exacted when the discovery was inevitably made!

Had a reasonable alternative presented itself she must have bolted
after her abject failure at the third rehearsal. By no means a fool,
she was only too keenly aware of the veiled hostility and the covert
sarcasms of the other ladies. But what could she do? Where could she
go? She had no money beyond a few rapidly diminishing Bradburys. She
had no home, no friends; above all, she had thrown away her situation
without any sort of hope of getting another one. Merely to review such
a position was to induce a paralysis of the will. Whatever happened she
must hold on a little while longer, if only in self defense. Yet as she
clearly foresaw the time was surely coming when she must be found out,
or still worse, when her overdriven nerves would give way and compel
her to throw up the sponge.

It was a huge relief, therefore, to learn that the rehearsals were
suspended until Sir Toby’s return. But it was certainly tempered as
far as Miss Cass was concerned, by Mr. Minever’s announcement at
breakfast that the little man had sworn a great oath that he would
bring Monty Jupp back with him or he would die in the attempt. Opinion
was divided as to whether or not Sir Toby would have to embrace the
grim alternative. The majority, however, were so emphatic that Sir
Toby’s mission was doomed to fail, that the trembling Girlie plucked
up a little courage. After all there was still a slender hope that the
mysterious Providence which so far had watched over her would continue
to do so.

Before the morning was far advanced Girlie had quite an inspiration.
She suddenly decided to set forth to The Laurels and seek advice from
the person best able to give it. Moreover, this course of action
commended itself to Pikey. When the Dragon was informed of the project
she agreed that in the circumstances it was quite the best thing the
Deputy could do and gave her some sound advice as to the best means of
getting there.

Cunning was needed to escape the attentions of the hostess and her
fellow guests. Yet it was not really difficult to slip away unseen,
for by this time, having become thoroughly unpopular with the other
members of the house party, they were now leaving her severely alone.
As Girlie’s conversation was confined almost exclusively to “Yes” and
“No,” it had become rather a moot point with the others as to whether
this was a form of “side” on the part of Lady Elfreda, or whether it
was that she was merely a fool. The more charitable view was perhaps
the latter. At any rate, her aloofness no longer caused surprise, while
her movements generally roused no particular interest.

Duly instructed by Pikey and favored by a fair share of luck, Girlie
arrived at The Laurels about half-past eleven. She was received by a
rather supercilious parlor-maid, who met her demand to see Miss Cass by
showing her into the drawing room. The parlor-maid then asked the name
of the visitor. Girlie met the case by the modest formula, “Please say
a lady would like to see her.”

It happened, however, that the ever-watchful mistress of the house
was lurking near at hand. She had observed the visitor’s arrival from
the window of the morning room and filled with curiosity she now
intercepted the parlor-maid before she could deliver the message to
Miss Cass.

“Who is it, Jarvis?”

“A lady, ma’am, to see Miss Cass. She won’t give her name, ma’am.”

“How odd.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson ruminated for a brief twenty seconds.
Then she added, “I will tell Miss Cass myself.”

Further rumination followed. In the class of born-busybodies, Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson had claims to rank high. Curiosity stirred her in
regard to this quite attractive-looking and decidedly well-turned-out
young woman--Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson prided herself upon being a judge
of such matters--who declined to give her name. And the new governess
was enough of “a dark horse” already without having secretive callers
to intensify the mystery. Therefore it took Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson less
than a minute to seek the light for herself.

The mistress of the house entered the drawing room flutelike but
dominant, and her unexpected appearance came to the visitor, who
was girding herself to do battle with some one very different, as a
complete surprise. Frankly, almost naïvely quizzical, the lady of the
house made no secret of a desire for information. “Perhaps you will
tell me who you are and then I will tell Miss Cass.”

Somehow Girlie had not been able to foresee that it would be necessary
to provide herself with a name. But only too clearly a name was
required. And on the spur of the moment there was only one that came to
her. Almost in spite of herself it now sprang automatically to her lips.

“Lady Elfreda Catkin.”

It was a terrible blunder, and this Girlie realized at the very moment
in which it was made. But, taken so completely by surprise, and faced
with the calm insistence of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, no middle course
seemed open. If anything, however, this revelation of identity added
fuel to the flame of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s curiosity. The mystery
surrounding the new governess appeared to deepen considerably. And it
grew more intriguing than ever.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was visibly impressed. Her first thought was
that Miss Cass’s boast of the Lancelots being old friends of her
mother’s was in some sort corroborated, her second thought was that
the distinguished friends of the new governess made her so interesting
that she was rather glad than otherwise that Miss Cass had not yet
received a month’s notice. For the past four days, in fact, almost
from the moment of the arrival of Dolores Parbury, who had taken a
violent dislike to Miss Cass, the mistress of The Laurels had been at
the point of terminating the engagement of that lady. But for some
reason or other the drastic step had remained in abeyance, and as Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson made a dignified progress to the schoolroom she was
inclined to rejoice that it had.

Miss Cass in that slow, cool, oddly imperious voice of hers, which had
the malign power of driving the other ladies to secret fury, was in
the act of setting a sulky Master Peter and a disgruntled Miss Joan to
write to dictation. The children made no secret of the fact that they
had a hearty dislike of Miss Cass, and that lady, if austerity of mien
and acidity of tongue were any indication, hardly cared to disguise
that their feelings were fully reciprocated. But as the smiling Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson floated into the room, with quite a new air of kindly
politeness, and informed Miss Cass that Lady Elfreda Catkin had called
to see her and that she now awaited her in the drawing room the heavy
thunderclouds were momentarily dispersed. All the same, as Miss Cass
laid down her book and her pencil they suddenly returned with added
density.

“Another friend of your mother’s, Miss Cass?” There was not a suspicion
of sarcasm in that discreet inquiry. It was the honest child of a
shameless curiosity.

“Ye-es.” The somewhat ambiguous reply of Miss Cass was extremely
reluctant. And there was a look on her face that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
had no means of interpreting.

“Such a pretty girl.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was a little inclined to
gush. “And so very young to be such a clever actress.”

Miss Cass looked coldly down her arrogant nose. The little idiot must
have taken leave of her wits!

The new governess did not seem to be anywise flattered by having such a
very interesting young woman to call upon her. Thunderclouds gathered
even more heavily about her as she rose from the table and made her way
to the drawing room.

Consumed by an intense curiosity, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson would
dearly have liked to put her ear to the keyhole of the drawing room
door. But the line has to be drawn somewhere, and with a sigh Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson remembered that she was “a lady.” Well it was that
she had this scruple, for the conversation the other side of the door
must have increased the flame that was devouring her.

“Why are _you_ here?” was Elfreda’s greeting to her pale and
embarrassed counterfeit.

The answer was tears.

“I--I don’t think I can keep on.” So complex is the human mind that
even in that moment of genuine tragedy poor Girlie could not help
noticing with what an air of authority the blue serge skirt she had
contrived out of her meager capital and the cunning of her own needle
and the woolen jumper she had knitted herself were now invested. The
trim form of their present wearer showed them off to rare advantage.

It was a painful meeting, nevertheless. Girlie was at the limit of
endurance. In the pitiless view of the evil genius who had brought a
highly respectable daughter of suburbia to the verge of ruin she looked
even more rabbit-like than when she had seen her last. And at that
moment Elfreda’s paramount desire was to shake her.

“I hope you don’t mean that you are going to run away?” There was a
nascent ferocity that threatened actual bodily violence.

“I--I don’t know,” gasped the visitor.

“You don’t mean to say they’ve found out!”

Girlie reluctantly admitted that they had not yet actually done so,
but that it was as certain as anything could be that the hour was near
when all must be discovered.

“Not necessarily,” was the Stoic’s answer, “if only you keep on doing
your best.”

But there is a limit to human endurance and Miss Cass seemed to have
reached it already. Besides she was now in very deep waters indeed and
in no sense was she a strong swimmer. Alarming developments threatened
continually and she now felt that she simply could not go on.

However, she was in the toils of an implacable will.

“You are bound to go through with it now,” said the pitiless Elfreda.
“It will let them down shamefully if you run away before the
performance. You must at least wait until afterwards.”

“But I am sure to be found out.”

“You have not been found out yet, and you will not be--if you continue
to do your best.”

Even if Miss Cass continued to do her best, however, and if by a
supreme effort she brought herself finally to face the music, what
must be the upshot of it all? She had no place to go to when this
tragic farce was at an end. What was to become of her? The nearer she
approached the abyss that yawned beneath her feet the wider and blacker
it looked. In the end, as she knew only too well, that bottomless pit
must devour her.

“But I will certainly find you another situation--when the time comes,”
said Elfreda staunchly.

It was very well for the reckless author of the mischief to promise so
boldly, but what did such a promise amount to? As far as Girlie was
concerned the future appeared hopeless.

Besides, the matter had another aspect, of which the Deputy had lately
been made aware. She was afraid, she was terribly afraid, that a
certain peer was on the verge of proposing to her.

In the circumstances, it was a confession that Girlie felt bound to
make to her principal. Humiliating the confession might be, a little
demoralizing it certainly was, yet bound up in it was a sense of
romance, a secret thrill of adventure. Somehow she felt bound in
honor to tell Lady Elfreda what she feared was going to happen. Half
shamefacedly she made her odd disclosure, and yet as she did so with
many blushes, deep hesitations and some tears, it would be less than
just to Girlie or to Girlie’s sex to say that pain was her dominant
emotion.

As for Elfreda, when she grasped the true meaning of the disjointed,
tremulous words, she was able to conceal her real feelings, whatever
they might have been. In that art at least she was singularly adept.
A light of humor burned in the eyes that seemed to peer into the very
soul of Girlie Cass. And then an arrogant lip curled ever so slightly.
She was justified, she was more than justified in what she had done!
The thought seared the pride of one who as yet had hardly begun to
learn her own intrinsic value in the matter-of-fact world of men and
things.

So this was the measure of the man whom her parents considered good
enough for her! In the sight of this Crœsus any underbred little
impostor was as eligible as her authentic self. Suddenly the red
light was hoisted in Elfreda’s eyes. That rubbishy little thing to be
accepted at her surface value! Elfreda’s face grew hard.

“What ought I to do?” twittered poor Girlie.

The eyes of this daughter of a picturesque race altered curiously in
the fragment of time that elapsed before she could bring herself to
answer the question.

Twittered poor Girlie again--“Do tell me, please, what I ought to do!”

“Do!” The scorn was cold drawn, barbaric. “Why, go back at once
and make him propose to you. And”--the eyes were like those of
Medusa--“don’t let me see or hear from you again until he has done so.”




XX


GIRLIE could only gasp. Elfreda’s speech in its frigid nonchalance was
stupefying. More fully than ever did she realize that she was in the
toils of an Evil Genius. This girl, this amazing girl, had a will of
iron. She was growing positively afraid of her.

It was all very well for Lady Elfreda Catkin to issue an ukase, but
it was not she who would have to foot the bill. She was a person of
importance, she had powerful friends, her position was secure. No
matter how deep and angry the waters, no matter how menacing the sky,
she belonged to the class that was able to weather the most violent
storms. But for the Girlie Casses of the planet it was a very different
matter. What for the one might be nothing more than a new and original,
if rather perilous, form of entertainment, for the other might mean the
end of all things.

Girlie’s mind was a chaos as her scared eyes met the implacable ones
that were fixed on hers. General damnation was their only portent. She
knew she was done for, anyway. It was but a question of putting off
the evil day. But if she bolted now she would at least save herself
from being publicly found out, whereas if she waited for the inevitable
exposure there was no saying what might happen to her.

“Oh, but I daren’t let him propose--I simply daren’t.”

Elfreda harshly told her not to be foolish.

“But---!” Girlie knew only too well that her wriggles were miserably
inadequate. And in the midst of them yet another complication presented
itself. She remembered that there might be two Richmonds in the field.
Signs had not been wanting that the little baronet also was inclined to
view her with a favorable eye. Certain cadences of his voice lingered
in her ears even now. There seemed but one thing to do. As one seeking
the aid of a strength beyond her own she confessed to Elfreda that Sir
Toby Philpot also might be on the verge of a proposal.

To this admission Elfreda did not immediately reply. But with that
pitiless glance that had the power of striking far below the surface of
things, she looked at the Deputy. Was this the kind of little idiot who
believes that every man who smiles as he opens a door is in love with
her, or was it literally true that at Clavering Park she was _un succès
fou_? Elfreda continued to analyze her mercilessly. Yes, in her way,
she was undoubtedly a pretty little thing. And the half-scared manner
and the timid voice made her rather a plaintive, rather a pathetic
little thing, so that after all it would not be so very remarkable if
she made a strong appeal to the male. At the same time, the idea of
her playing such havoc was ludicrous and, from Elfreda’s own private
standpoint, more than a little humiliating.

Here was the richest possible commentary on the sort of people whom her
own parents considered good enough for her. Had fuel been needed to
sustain Elfreda’s fighting spirit it was here in abundance. If only for
pure devilment now she would go on with the farce. An odd sparkle in
her eyes must have proclaimed her intention, for at the mere sight of
it the hapless Deputy gave one further gasp.

“Oh, please--please, do come back with me and put things right!”

Girlie would have done as well to have appealed to a stone. “No, not
yet.” There was not a hint of compromise. “You must keep it up--until
after Tuesday at any rate. I will come to you one day next week,
perhaps Wednesday or Thursday. And if you will do your best and stand
it as well as you can, no harm shall come to you. I promise that.”

It was meager comfort. But to judge by Elfreda’s eyes there was no hope
just then of anything else. Be the cost what it might her decision
was made. Poor Girlie clung for support to an arm of the sofa. Sheer
beneath her feet yawned a chasm.

As if to intensify this grim illusion Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson chose that
moment to return to the drawing room. Her return, moreover, was fraught
with purpose. “Lady Elfreda.” So flutelike was the lady of the house
that the new governess could not help wondering privately how her voice
would have sounded at the Queen’s Hall!--“Won’t you stay to luncheon?
We shall be _so_ glad if you will.”

The answer of the distinguished visitor was to regard the new governess
with a scared and apprehensive eye. But that lady was quite equal to
the situation. She turned to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and said with a
kind of frigid decision that forbade any possible doubt, “Lady Elfreda
is expected for luncheon at Clavering Park.”

Thereupon, in a manner that left no loophole for argument, Miss Cass
moved to the drawing room door and opened it. As her eyes drew Girlie
towards it they seemed full of a latent menace. The visitor was just
able to muster a half audible “Good-by. Thank you so much,” for the
benefit of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, before she was sternly shepherded if
not actually hustled by Elfreda across the hall.

“Do your best. Don’t be afraid. I will let you know the day I can come
next week. And remember that I take all responsibility.” Amid this
spate of final low-toned instructions poor Girlie was put out on to the
gravel and the front door of The Laurels closed rather peremptorily
upon her.

From behind the drawing room curtains Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson watched
the slight form of the visitor fade from view along the carriage
drive. A tempest raged in the bosom of the lady of the house. If the
manner of Miss Cass meant anything she looked down upon her employer;
her arbitrary dismissal of the luncheon project could bear no other
interpretation. However, the fury of the storm was a little assuaged
by a wholesome curiosity; otherwise it might have gone hard with Miss
Cass. Not only was that amazing person called upon by the aristocracy,
but her attitude towards it was that of one who claims a half scornful
equality. She had no more respect for Lady Elfreda Catkin than she had
for any one else!

There was balm in that thought. For several days past Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson had been at the point of telling the new governess
that she would not suit, and of advertising for some one else. Indeed,
for the sake of General Norris and dear Dolores, she had been obliged
to ask Miss Cass to dine upstairs. But even now Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
could not quite bring herself to give that lady notice. She was far too
interesting; in fact a type of governess altogether new in her present
employer’s rather chequered experience. The children hated her, but she
might be good for them. She would be able to teach them self-assurance.

Taking one consideration with another, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson still
shrank from the drastic step of giving Miss Cass her congé. She would
wait, at any rate, until she had told the story to Dolores. Whether she
would take the advice of Dolores and get rid of her, that, of course,
was the point to decide. Poor dear Dolores loathed Miss Cass.




XXI


BY the time that Girlie, homeward bound, had reached the Pendennis
Arms at Clavering, she realized that even if the erratic vehicle which
went by the gates of the Park was prepared to start immediately,
luncheon would be over by the time she got back. She made up her mind
accordingly “to go the whole hog,” and proceeded to regale herself with
a cup of tea and a war bun at an adjacent confectioner’s. Then, after
an hour’s inspection of the small and sleepy town, she set her face
towards her temporary home.

She was in no hurry to get there. For one thing she had to evolve
some sort of excuse that would cover the fact of her absence from the
luncheon table. Again, she had to decide the question whether it was
absolutely necessary to return at all. Why not bolt? It would not be
difficult. There was a little, only a very little money in her purse,
it was true. Should she accept this as the price of her career? That
was the question. Just now almost anything seemed better than to return
and meet the public exposure which could not long be delayed.

At a bend of the leaf-strewn road, where beyond a rich expanse of park
land the imposing chimneys of the Hall rose into view, she suddenly
stopped to grapple once again with this sore problem. Only too clearly
did she realize that flight was her only chance. As far as she was
concerned there could be no other solution. It would be a base betrayal
of Lady Elfreda, yet Girlie saw now with painful clearness that her new
acquaintance was far too dangerous to be regarded as a friend.

The young woman masquerading at The Laurels was entitled to such small
consideration that Girlie felt she could square her conscience on that
point at least. But now that her thoughts were centered upon running
away, she was met by the fact that she had given up her rooms at
Laxton, that she had lost her situation, that she had nowhere to go. In
the lee of the park wall there followed a tense five minutes of mental
conflict. In the end it may have been her odd strain of megalomania
that decided the question. Certainly that fatal flaw had much to answer
for. Let her rise to the height of opportunity! Let her not be afraid
of life, but drink bravely of the cup of high experience!

Finally, swayed no doubt by these perilous ideas, she passed on by the
park wall and through the lodge gates. Defiant of fate and all its
machinations, she went straight to her room to tidy herself for tea. In
the act of doing so she could not help marveling at her own cynicism.
It was so incredible that she could not recognize herself. While she
changed her dress and rearranged her hair she began to evolve some
sort of a story to cover her absence. As soon as she appeared in the
hall she had, of course, to run the gauntlet.

“My dear Lady Elfreda,” cried the yellow chrysanthemum lady at the
pitch of humorous expostulation, “where _have_ you been?”

Girlie hardened her heart. “Into Clavering.” Her courage rose to a
dogged defiance. “To do some shopping. I am so sorry. I ought to have
told you.”

“But your luncheon?” Mrs. Minever’s face was a study. “Where did you
get it?”

“At a tea shop.”

The half amused eyes of the hostess suddenly encountered those of Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling. Among her fellow guests the theory was growing that
not only was Lady Elfreda suffering from a queer form of “side” but
also that she was a little “cracked.” Certainly her manner was most odd
and her behavior matched it.

Girlie, however, was now at bay. She took her seat in the midst of her
critics, sipped tea and pecked at bread and butter. Never in her life
had she felt so wretched. The affair was getting unbearable. As she
suffered the rather scathing politeness of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and the
icy tones of the other ladies her mind ran upon suicide. But the demon
within bade her go on. There was Shelley’s authority that what poets
learn in suffering they teach in song. Of novelists, no doubt, that
maxim was equally true.




XXII


THE ladies were still drinking tea when a footman ushered in a visitor.

“Mrs. Lancelot.”

The elderly mistress of Amory Towers aroused the curiosity of even the
professional _blasèes_ who greeted her. She was “County.” They might
seem to scorn her in the way they scorned all things and everybody,
their veiled amusement had a touch of malice no doubt, but there was
also Mrs. Lancelot’s faculty of engaging the interest of all the world
and his wife to be reckoned with.

She was like nothing upon this earth--the yellow chrysanthemum lady,
Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones were agreed upon that!--yet
in her queer way the old dame stood for something. What she stood for
was, no doubt, a bygone phase. She might have stepped out of a page
of Punch for the year 1890. Her dress with its decided waist and its
antediluvian tuckers round wrist and neck was of amethyst colored
merino, a necklet of amethyst hung upon her ample chest, her hair with
a Queen Alexandra fringe was barber’s blocked after the manner of
royalty, her toque baffled all description, but it had pansies in it,
and her manner, plain and practical rather than “grand,” carried a
weight that her odd appearance should have countervailed, yet somehow
failed to do so. Mrs. Lancelot, no doubt, was _une figure pour rire_,
but only those very accomplished in the world could have got her
“range” with a nicety sufficient to take advantage of the fact. Her
present critics, for example, inclined to scorn as they were, could not
help being fettered a little by a secret sense of their own inadequacy.

A dutiful neighbor, Mrs. Lancelot had called once on the yellow
chrysanthemum lady and the call had been promptly returned. There,
however, the intercourse had ceased. Somehow they had hardly set each
other’s genius. But this afternoon there was no hint of that fact in
Mrs. Lancelot’s entrance or of Mrs. Minever’s reception of her. The
visitor was cautious, almost comically cautious, as she always was
when not quite sure of her bearings; the yellow chrysanthemum lady
was slightly more exuberant than usual, as she was apt to be when
cherishing a similar doubt on her own part. In the sight of Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling, rather declassèe daughter of a not undistinguished
sire, it was as good as a play to see them together: this resolute
survivor of a discredited phase of human history--the august visitor’s
relations had held more than one job about the court of Victoria the
Good--and the forthcoming hostess who made no secret of the fact that
she was bored by “frills” and “fine shades.”

The reason of Mrs. Lancelot’s visit to Clavering Park, if not
immediately clear, was soon revealed. A discerning but imperious eye
fixed itself upon Girlie, who, seated a little apart from the others in
a bergère chair, was feeling a strong desire to take cover inside her
tea cup.

Mrs. Lancelot took a vacant chair by her side and began to converse in
a low, intimate tone.

“You are not at all like your mother.” Mrs. Lancelot’s direct mode of
attack made Girlie tremble. “You are not like your father, either. You
look rather tired, my dear.”

The Deputy mumbled a brief denial, which unfortunately was quite
inaudible.

“Are you feeling tired?”

Girlie had the presence of mind to say that she had been working very
hard at the rehearsals.

“Mustn’t work too hard. You look quite run down.” And then Mrs.
Lancelot proceeded energetically, “You must come over to us, my dear.
A change will do you good. I have written to your mother to tell her.
We are very old friends, your mother and I--old school-fellows, in
fact--and, of course, third cousins once removed. You must come at
once. I am sure you need a change and Ethel thinks so, too.”

Little shivers began to trickle down Girlie’s spine. She was in no mood
to exchange the ills she knew for the ills she could only surmise, for,
as she realized, these might so easily prove the more terrible.

“Yes, you must come to us.” In the saurian aspect of Mrs. Lancelot
there was something quite alarming. “Your mother would like it. Now,
when shall it be?”

The prospect of a visit to Amory Towers reduced Girlie to a frozen
silence. A look of fear came in her eyes. Mrs. Lancelot was not one to
notice subtleties of any kind, but, happily, the yellow chrysanthemum
lady, as soon as she learned what was in the wind, did not hesitate
to come to the rescue of her guest. For one thing, the daughter of
Lord Carabbas, with all her limitations, was the undoubted _pièce de
resistance_ of the house party; and Mrs. Minever was inclined to accept
Lady Elfreda’s reluctance as an unexpected compliment to the life she
was leading at Clavering Park. Heaven knew what was passing through the
odd creature’s mind, but if those scared eyes and that rather hunted
look had any meaning, it was clear enough that she infinitely preferred
Clavering Park to Amory Towers!

“I’m afraid Lady Elfreda can’t be spared--until after the performance
on Tuesday, at any rate.”

Mrs. Minever’s boldness was rewarded by a look of pure gratitude, but
also it incurred the penalty of an almost truculent, “Why not, pray?”
from the august visitor.

“Well, you see,” the yellow chrysanthemum lady stoutly rejoined, “so
many rehearsals will be necessary between now and Tuesday. Sir Toby
Philpot says everything is so behind hand that as soon as Mr. Jupp
arrives they will have to go on all day.”

These sinister words fell upon Girlie like a sword. She was between
the devil and the deep, deep sea. Paralysis of will was added now to
her other miseries. On the verge of collapse, she sank back in her
chair.

Mrs. Lancelot, however, was not to be put off. She was a lady who liked
her own way, and on most occasions was accustomed to get it. But on
this occasion she had to submit to a compromise. Lady Elfreda must
come to Amory Towers, but her visit should be deferred until Tuesday
the-all-important was safely over.

“Wednesday, then--let us say Wednesday,” said the august visitor.

The yellow chrysanthemum lady promised that Wednesday it should be,
while Girlie smiled weakly. Mrs. Lancelot, having carried her point
more or less, graciously accepted a cup of the fresh tea that had
been procured for her. Perhaps, by the light of later events, it had
been better for Girlie had she not done so. For Mrs. Lancelot, before
taking her leave, proceeded to harrow the souls of her hearers. She
had a sinister tale to unfold. A gang of thieves were at work in
the neighborhood. The Channings had had the Priory ransacked while
they were at dinner, and poor Lady Emily had suffered the loss of a
most valuable diamond pendant. There had also been a most suspicious
parlor-maid at the Towers, but luckily she had been sent away before
anything of real value had been missed. But Major Hocking, the chief
constable, thought the gang so dangerous that Mrs. Lancelot had been
advised to send her jewels and some of her silver to the bank, and she
had accordingly done so.

“I tell you this, Mrs. Minever,” said the visitor in her most _affairé_
tone, “because in such times as these one cannot be too careful.”

The yellow chrysanthemum lady thought the remark very sensible and
expressed her gratitude for the information. It confirmed the rumors
she had heard. On the other hand, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was inclined to
think that all stories of the kind were apt to be exaggerated, but Mrs.
Lancelot rent her at once with chapter and verse.

“No, after the experience of the Channings one should really take every
precaution.” And with a rather elaborate leave-taking of Lady Elfreda,
and one more informal of people less exalted, Mrs. Lancelot augustly
went her way.




XXIII


GIRLIE took a long while to array herself for that evening’s dreaded
meal. The crisis of her fate was now at hand. Realizing to the full
all that was involved in the coming of Mr. Montagu Jupp, she had not
the courage to ask Mrs. Minever whether that Old Man of the Sea was
really on the point of arrival. Only too soon would the fact be known.
In her present state of mind she was quite unable to face the dire
consequences that must attend his visit; she chose, therefore, to bury
her head ostrich-wise in sand by indulging the pitifully vain hope that
he was not coming after all.

How frail that hope was the momentous hour of eight revealed very
surely. Hardly had she entered the drawing room, striving heroically
for a show of composure which her wretched nerves denied her, when lo!
amid a cascade of chaff with an undercurrent of laughter and applause,
the great and admired Montagu came in his own person upon the scene.

Sir Toby, as usual, led the way. It was his fixed rule of life to
lead the way everywhere, under all conditions, in all circumstances,
if only he was allowed to do so. At the back of his mind he always
seemed to feel that the stars in their courses had ordained that he
should be the master of every ceremony. But, in comparison with the
mountain of geniality who alternately rolled and grinned as he followed
in his wake, Sir Toby was the merest pigmy. Mr. Jupp had the art of
monopolizing the attention of all the world, of catching every eye, of
dominating every assembly he entered.

Still, the mere arrival of the great man was in the nature of a triumph
for Sir Toby. Odds had been freely laid by despondent members of the
cast that Montagu would not appear. But his magnetic presence was just
what was needed to “pull things together.” However, as far as the
luckless leading lady was concerned, no one envied him his task.

Quite a thrill seemed to pervade the air of the drawing room at
the moment of their greeting. But Girlie, in the toils of sheer
desperation, was able for once to muster an inhuman stoicism. Already
she had undergone so much that she was now determined to die fighting.
Yes, whatever happened, she would die fighting. Heroically, with
bright eyes, with set lips, she came forward a pace, as the hostess
triumphantly convoyed the great man towards her. “How do you do?” she
said, holding out her hand.

The sublime Original, who at that fell moment was consuming cold mutton
and mixed pickles in the outer darkness of the nursery at The Laurels,
whither she had been banished in disgrace, could not have “played up”
better. Mr. Jupp, a little fatigued by travel and with a forward
looking mind in regard to his dinner, bowed over the hand that was
offered. He did not scrutinize the little lady closely, at any rate
just then. He took it for granted that she was what she was. Besides,
apart from the fact that the clock on the chimney piece had already
struck eight, there was a reason, known only to himself, why he should
be in no hurry to traverse the personality of Lady Elfreda Catkin, much
less to challenge her identity.

Truth to tell, and the dark secret was locked securely in the bosom of
Mr. Montagu Jupp, he had only met Lady Elfreda once, for a few brief
moments, so that the faculty of observation not being his long suit,
he was not so clear as he might have been as to what she really looked
like. The skeleton in Montagu’s cupboard which some of his friends,
the malicious Garden to wit, shrewdly suspected to be the case, was
that he was inclined “to talk through his hat”; in other words, he was
prone to claim an intimacy with all the world that the crude facts did
not always justify. He had said once in Sir Toby’s hearing over an
after-dinner whisky and cigar, that “he had taught Lady Elfreda Catkin
all the acting she knew,” but that incautious statement had been less
in response to sober truth than to her highly effective portrait in the
_Society_ Pictorial. It was sufficient for _un homme du monde_ that he
had talked with her once for five minutes at a garden party. The fact
was typical of the man, even a part of his picturesqueness, but at this
moment, had the luckless Girlie been aware of it, here was a card
incredibly in her favor.

Girlie, alas, did not know that. She went in to dinner and took
her accustomed place at the right hand of the host with a growing
conviction that she was about to be hanged in public, to say nothing of
the drawing and quartering to follow. She felt it was only a question
of minutes before Mr. Jupp denounced her. Every time her guilty eye
strayed furtively across to his side of the table she perceived his
eye, in its degree hardly less guilty, furtively upon her. But she did
not know, she could not guess the strength of her own position. She
could only marvel as course succeeded course, as her wine glass grew
empty and then grew full again, that the inevitable thunderbolt did not
descend.

As the meal went on and exposure grew ever more imminent in the mind
of the Deputy--a dramatic scene was surely reserved for the drawing
room!--she grew increasingly bold. After her glass had been replenished
three times she did not care what happened. She would die “game.”
This was her very last hour of vicarious splendor, but she had now an
intense desire to live it to the full. Her tongue was loosened, her
laugh rose higher and more frequent, her eyes grew wonderfully bright.
All this harmonized with the spirit of the others, for, as usual,
Mr. Jupp had brought an infectious gayety upon the scene. Everybody
laughed at everybody else; all were in a mood of festive enjoyment; the
almost perilous light-heartedness of “the little Catkin puss” excited
no comment--or, if it did, it counted to her for virtue. Certainly
her host, who for a week now had endured “heavy cake” with a noble
fortitude, was charmed by the change. There might be something in the
little noodle after all.

When dinner was over other people began to think so, too. Living in
the very crater of Vesuvius with an eruption long overdue, keyed up
beyond a self that was rather undercharged, for the first time in her
life Girlie let herself go. Somehow it seemed the only course to take.
Amid the hilarity the mere presence of Mr. Jupp had induced, that
remarkable man sat down at the piano and began to do it considerable
violence. Thereupon one of the younger “bloods” began to fox-trot with
Mrs. Spencer-Jobling. Sir Toby Philpot, not to be outdone, immediately
commandeered the hostess, Mr. Minever promptly laid siege to another
lady, and then Girlie grew alive to the fact that Lord Duckingfield was
smiling at her and moving resolutely in her direction.

“Just show me how to--won’t you, my dear?” His voice was wonderfully
persuasive and fatherly.

Girlie’s knowledge of the fox-trot was almost as vague as my lord’s.
But what did that matter? What did anything matter? She rose with a
laugh, she intertwined one slender arm with his; slowly she gyrated
with this performing bear of a man twice round the drawing room, and
then in the wake of the more enterprising couples through the open
door and out into the hall.

Mr. Jupp continued to pound the piano. Tango succeeded fox-trot, there
was an occasional relapse to the two-step, a brief intermission of
some forgotten waltz or other, with now and again, as became a truly
modern and progressive mind, a heroic attempt at the jazz. None of the
dancers obeyed the music; they didn’t really try to do so; each chose
the style that seemed the most natural, so that what began as a half
serious performance soon degenerated into an amazing go-as-you-please.
But it was highly enjoyable. At any rate, Lord Duckingfield thought it
was. A strenuous youth in factory and warehouse had left him no time to
pay court to Terpsichore. He knew what he liked, however. And what he
did like was to wheel slowly and solemnly round on his left foot, with
plenty of elbow room and without having too much ground to cover. And
if he was most agreeably assisted in these maneuvers by the charmingly
pretty bearer of a distinguished name, why so much the better.

This dainty, gray-eyed little girl quite set the genius of my lord.
She was so simple. And with all his riches and his ambitions and his
recent nobility, at heart he was really simple himself. After a most
exhilarating twenty minutes on the hall parquet, in a space hardly
more than six feet square, in the course of which Girlie, with the
inimitable tact of her sex, contrived neatly to fit step for step, Lord
Duckingfield espied a corner almost perilous in its charm and its
seclusion in an angle of the stairs. In point of fact he had had his
eye on it from the first. By the time he had truly earned a rest he
felt that it would come to him as the just reward of his merit and his
virtue.

In the room adjacent, on a piano whose extreme resonance was almost
unbearable, Mr. Jupp continued to do surprising things, while his
fellow guests, each after his or her manner, kept pace with him as
far as was humanly possible. At last, however, Lord Duckingfield came
to a sudden halt and drew a series of deep breaths. Then, Girlie upon
his arm, he made a bee-line for the palm-shrouded alcove beneath the
hall stairs. Kindly providence had decreed that two chairs, of the
sort called “comfortable,” should be there already. Girlie, a little
breathless too after her altruistic exertions, found herself at rest in
one a brief ten seconds before her cavalier came to anchor in the other.

She was feeling entirely reckless. She didn’t care. Her limit had been
reached, nay, it had been overstepped. She would drink of the cup. Life
was dancing a fiery symbol before her eyes. In spite of the sword that
hung by a thread in mid-air she was enjoying her hour. She was enjoying
it terribly. If she died of the shame that must follow, at least she
would be able to point to an experience beyond the run of women.

“Nice of you, my dear, to help an old duffer like me.” The rich, half
chuckling tone of Lord Duckingfield had an odd humility that was
wonderfully attractive in the ear of a woman.

“Not at all.” Softly she lisped in true Galsworthian phrase. A powerful
genius enfolded her. With a kind of mad dignity she sat up in the
wicker chair.

“Oh, but it is, though,” My lord was heavily serious for all that there
was a kind of elephantine humor in him. “Not many of you smart young
ladies would be bothered with a clumsy old fool like me.”

“But you are not clumsy--you are not at all clumsy,” It was not the
speech of a smart young lady, it was not true, it was not subtle, above
all, it was unworthy of the author of “The Patrician,” and by the light
of the inner mind she knew this only too well, but the stage-manager
of the pleasant little comedy understood the business better than did
she. The crude simplicity for which she could have wept at the moment
her lips betrayed it, really met the situation exactly. In spite of her
lineage--or perhaps because of it--Lord Duckingfield was more than ever
convinced that she was a very nice little girl.

“You see,” he said, and his abrupt fall to an almost disconcerting
intimacy was the truest compliment such a highly practical man could
have paid her, “you see, I don’t pretend to be one of the fancy sort.
No Eton and Oxford for me. At your age, my dear, I was earning my
thirty shillings a week at the carpenter’s bench and thinking myself
almighty lucky to be getting it.”

She actually had the wit to reward the reminiscence with a ripe
Galsworthian “Really!” But again she must have fallen short of the rich
quality of her mentor, since my lord went on, for all the world as if
she had not been a marquis’s daughter, “You don’t know, my dear, what
I’ve had to fight against. Most of you young ladies laugh at men like
me, but you are one of the sensible kind, so that’s why I don’t mind
telling you of my early life.”

The gray eyes smiled at Lord Duckingfield. And as the stage-manager
had fixed an electric bulb at a psychological angle midway between the
two chairs, so that its rays caught the light of those eyes and set it
dancing, Lord Duckingfield was suddenly and acutely aware of quite the
sharpest thrill he had ever experienced.

“Of course, I’m very rich now.” Lord Duckingfield seemed inclined to
carry naïveté to the verge of indelicacy. “Very rich indeed. Your
father will make allowances for that. But you are such a very nice
little girl that even had you been just plain Miss Brown....”

With a shiver, half enchantment, half dismay, Girlie realized that a
sympathetic hand had put forth from the adjacent chair and that it was
exquisitely enclosing hers. The close-breathing pause which followed
must have meant embarrassment for both, had either been in a condition
to respond to that form of emotion. But Girlie had burnt her boats. She
was past all caring. As for Lord Duckingfield he was now suddenly alive
to the fact that he was quite in love with this pretty gray-eyed mouse.

“You are so sensible.” The grip tightened upon the slender arm.
“There’s no nonsense about you. If you don’t mind my saying so you are
not at all like most of the smart girls I’ve met. They are so knowing.
And they take so much living up to--for an old duffer like me. Give
me something homely and sensible.” Inch by inch the wicker chair came
closer. She felt one arm, half chivalrous, half masterful, slowly
encircle her.

She made no effort to repel this audacity. Somehow it marched with
her own state of mind. But in the next moment something had happened,
something which had the effect of bringing her up short in the midst of
her folly and incidentally of summoning her northern forbears primly
upon the scene. Lord Duckingfield took her in his arms and kissed her.

It was the first time in Girlie’s life of twenty years that such a
thing had happened or had seemed likely to happen. Nothing could have
been more subversive of her strait “high-brow” code than to be kissed by
a man, and a rather elderly man, without so much as a by-your-leave,
in circumstances of semi-publicity. Even if she had a sense of having
dined, deep down she knew it to be an epic moment; she was thrilled as
she had never been thrilled; it was the event of her life. He might be
a real live peer of the realm; all the same his boldness was just a
little too much for Miss Cass of Laxton.

Involuntarily she stiffened, involuntarily she drew her chair a few
paces away from him. Slightly abashed but wholly impenitent Lord
Duckingfield followed her. But Miss Cass of Laxton was not quite lost
to a sense of her high destiny. What kind of man was this! How dare he!
She must let him know that this was not the form of a budding Charlotte
Brontë.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as soon as the mild horror in her eyes
had convicted him. He spoke so nicely, so gently, that it was not in
her heart to be angry even had it been in her nature to be so.

He proved the depth of his contrition by a sudden descent into
autobiography. His early life was unfolded before her, his struggles,
his defeats, his slow ascent of fortune’s ladder. She could not help
admiring this large simplicity, she could not help honoring him for
it, but when she perceived that it was leading all-too-surely to what
she feared, but by another road, she was overcome. She began to steel
herself to bear the blow she had more than half invited.

_Don’t let me see you or hear from you again until he has proposed to
you._ Those grim words, brutal and incredible, came upon her ears for
the hundredth time. Was she weakly to yield to such cynicism! If a
spark of human decency remained to her, she must avert while there was
yet time that which too clearly was going to happen.

Spurred to action by a cruel desperation, she rose abruptly. But that
did not serve. Lightly, but firmly, Lord Duckingfield grabbed her by
the wrist and propelled her with half whimsical precision back to her
chair. The deed was accomplished with a kind of humorous deftness, but
the “insight” of Miss Cass might have told her, had she been able just
then to bring it into play, that the seeming archness of her suitor was
a mere mask. Really he was possessed by a most becoming nervousness
and this a lady of her powers ought to have divined. Perhaps she did
divine it. Underneath Lord Duckingfield’s humor was a fitting sense
of presumptuous audacity. He, at least, in spite of his democratic
sense, could not forget who she was. What more likely than that being a
thoroughly clumsy fellow he had already gone too far.

“Lady Elfreda.” His voice--his deep voice--sounded rather hoarse.
“I want you to help me if you can. I’m in love with you, as I never
thought I could be in love with any girl. You are just my sort. I think
we understand one another. I am sure I can make you happy. Will you
marry me?”

The moment had come. She had but herself to blame. Hers the sole fault
that the thing had happened. The blunt words of one whom she was quite
sure was a good and simple man fell upon her like a douche. They were
like a douche of ice-cool reason. In that instant she saw that this
wicked madness must cease. No matter what the cost she must forget her
miserable self. Such a horrid farce could not go on.

She felt his honest grip upon her fingers. The pause that followed
became more than she could bear. If ever she was to respect herself
again, here and now she must make an end. Desperately she assembled the
fugitive fragments of her will, but the very stars in their courses
were against her now. One phrase, one unforgettable phrase he had used
was running like quicksilver in her brain. “You are such a very nice
little girl that even had you been just plain Miss Brown...!”

Fatal corollary! She was “just plain Miss Brown” had he but known it.
Therefore, as his own words proved, where could be the purpose of his
knowing it? The argument was too sweetly specious! Torn as she was, she
had not the strength to fight it. Half-heartedly she strove to overcome
the spell of those fatal words, but she knew only too well that the
task was hopeless.

“Think it over, my dear.” He was no longer nervous; he was calm,
precise, matter of fact. “I’m not so young as I might be, but anything
that money can buy I am in a position to give you. No need for an
answer just now. I see you want time to think it over--it’s only proper
and natural. But to-morrow I hope you’ll be able to tell me that I may
write to your father.”

Again, with an increasing horror, Girlie felt the kiss of an honest man
upon her shrinking finger tips.




XXIV


TO bed--to dream, but not to sleep. The situation that shaped itself
so fantastically to Girlie’s mind in the tardy hours of a long and
wakeful night was almost more than she could bear. Here was the last
straw. Playing with human souls is a perilous game. In drifting at
another’s bidding into such a position she had not reckoned upon the
cost to herself. She was not of the stuff of which the real adventuress
is made. The whole affair was really an outrage upon her deepest
instincts. She had neither the cynicism, the native impudence nor “the
sense of the theater” to keep the thing going. Somewhere about the hour
of four, when the night was at its darkest and her courage was very
low, she resolved to make an end. With remorse inflicting such torments
upon her there seemed nothing else to do. She spent the rest of the
night feverishly planning a way out. None there was, alas, that could
hope to spare her the tragic weight of humiliation, and worse than
humiliation she had so honestly earned; but as far as possible she must
defend herself against a public exposure.

Until getting-up time came she strove with this problem. But she was
caught in a trap from which there was no escape. Daylight stealing into
the cell of the condemned could not have been more unwelcome than
the faint rose of dawn creeping through the blinds of King Edward’s
bedroom. Girlie did not know how to face another day. The matutinal cup
of tea, brought to her at eight o’clock by a very trim housemaid, found
her in an abject state of “nerves.” She had reached the conclusion by
this time that her only hope lay in immediate flight. By some miracle
Mr. Jupp had not yet denounced her, but she felt sure it could only
be a question of hours. And even if the miracle went on and he still
refrained from doing so, the position into which she had allowed
herself to drift with Lord Duckingfield was quite unendurable. She was
now haunted by the thought of this good and simple man for whom she had
a real regard.

Yes, she must get away. But where could she go? To The Laurels? Only
too clearly did she realize that there was nothing to hope for from
that quarter--at any rate if she flagrantly disobeyed her instructions.
Besides in her present state of mental and moral weakness she really
went in fear of her Evil Genius.

After a time her mind began to run upon an aunt in Scotland. Now that
she had wantonly forfeited her only means of getting a living, that
austere dame, an elder sister of her mother’s, whom she remembered but
faintly, was the only relation or friend to whom she could turn. Her
recollection of Aunt Alice was dim and it was not agreeable. Aunt Alice
lived a long way off, she was the wife of a struggling doctor with a
large family of her own, and the best her niece could hope for was an
astonished and grudging welcome. Still there seemed no alternative now.

Wrought upon by the need for action, Girlie got out of bed and took her
purse from the left hand drawer of the dressing table. In a state of
nervous excitement she hunted for the address of Aunt Alice. Presently
she was rewarded with the sight of an old letter bearing the postmark
“Inverness.” Her heart sank. She knew nothing of Inverness, except that
it was somewhere in the north of Scotland.

Further examination of the inside of the purse revealed that her means
of getting to Inverness amounted to just two pounds, five shillings and
ninepence. Such a meager sum, even if it allowed her to get so far,
which at the present cost of travel was very doubtful, would provide
absolutely nothing to live upon. That fact alone seemed to make the
project hopeless. For one weak instant, in the face of this rebuff, her
mind reverted to Lady Elfreda’s jewels, to which she had access. But
the thought--if thought it could be called--was at once dismissed. Not
for a moment could any scheme of that kind be entertained. All the same
she indulged in a forlorn little sigh as the fact came home to her once
more that nature had not designed her for the adventuress _pur sang_.

In spite, however, of such a lack of means her mind continued to run
upon Inverness. Throughout an uncomfortable, appetiteless breakfast
the thought of that distant haven obsessed her. She managed to nibble
a piece of toast under the eye of the attentive and solicitous Lord
Duckingfield, who had so assiduously helped her to this simple fare
with a comment upon its meagerness. This morning, as every morning, he
was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she was quite unable to talk
to him; in fact, she did not dare to look in his direction. It was a
great relief when at last she was able to carry Bradshaw to the good
log fire in the hall.

There, upon the scene of the previous evening’s tragi-comedy she delved
further into the problem of transporting herself from Clavering St.
Mary’s to the north of Scotland.

One important fact in regard to a very long and tortuous journey was
soon established. The sum of two pounds five shillings and ninepence
rendered the project hopeless.

Bradshaw in hand, she was still trying to meet a not unexpected facer,
when a voice of rather delicately reproachful curiosity came from over
her shoulder. It was that of the hostess and Girlie felt a tremor of
guilty dismay.

“Not thinking of leaving us, are you, Lady Elfreda?”

Quickly and nervously Girlie replied that she was not.

“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Minever laughed. “Until after Tuesday
at all events. You have only three days now.” Mrs. Minever laughed a
second time, perhaps a shade sardonically. “How relieved you’ll be! I
am sure you have found us very dull. But when you get to Amory Towers
you’ll be able to play piquet with Mrs. Lancelot. I hope you are a good
player. Mrs. Lancelot, I believe, is very proud of her piquet.”

The yellow chrysanthemum lady was a little inclined to quiz. She
was the soul of good nature, but Girlie’s aloof detachment from her
surroundings invited criticism. The manner of the chief guest was
so constrained, so unnatural, that the only explanation was “side.”
Evidently this daughter of Lord Carabbas had such a sense of her
position that she did not find it easy to mix with other people on
terms of equality. Yet when the worst had been said of the yellow
chrysanthemum lady she was really the least censorious of women.
Besides, she was not in a mood for chaff this morning, no matter how
fully it was deserved or how much the occasion called for it. Mrs.
Minever, in point of fact, was graver this morning, more resolutely
serious than the guest had yet seen her. In Mrs. Minever’s own words,
“a very provoking thing had happened.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Minever in a fluttered tone, “you must please tell
your maid to be sure and keep your jewels under lock and key. One of my
rings--a rather valuable one--has disappeared. And you heard what Mrs.
Lancelot said yesterday? I’m afraid there is not the slightest doubt
that a gang of burglars is at work in the neighborhood.”

Readily enough Girlie promised to keep her jewels under lock and key.

“Of course it may be some one in the house. We are always changing our
servants. My husband is consulting the police.”

Girlie’s heart sank. She did not need to be very wise or very clever
to foresee the bearing such a circumstance would have upon her flight.
If she bolted now, without ostensible cause, the mere fact would be
terribly against her. Even as it was, when her imposture was revealed,
she felt sure it would go hard with her; yet with these deeper grounds
for even blacker suspicion, she was likely to be faced with a charge
she was wholly unable to meet.

Her nerve was badly shaken, but this new turn of events gave her a
sudden distaste for the half-formed plan. Beyond the crude fact that
she simply lacked the money to undertake the journey there was now an
even stronger reason why she should continue to stand her ground.

All the same the standing of her ground promised to be a soul testing
process. It was by no means certain that her courage would hold out.
For one thing the mere sight of Lord Duckingfield had the power to
involve her in a perfect orgy of conflicting emotions. If the look
of him, gravely polite, rather anxiously formal, meant anything, he
was clearly waiting for his answer. Why had she not had the strength
of mind to let him know the previous evening that he sought the
impossible? What was the good of having perceptions and fine feelings,
if one did not act in accordance with them?

Then as if the unhappy affair of Lord Duckingfield was not enough,
there was the perennial question of Mr. Montagu Jupp. Why he had not
denounced her already, heaven alone could tell!

The Deputy was far from suspecting the simple truth that it had not
yet begun to dawn upon Montagu that this was not the lady he had
met. Having drawn the long bow so freely himself he was not able to
criticize her closely; his own impression of the youngest girl of “old
man Carabbas” was decidedly vague. Still it was to be supposed that a
whole day devoted to the ill-starred “Lady of Laxton” would have done
much to enlighten him. As a matter of fact it did not. For Girlie,
at the nadir of her fortunes, was now inspired with the courage of
despair. Moved to a strange recklessness by the sheer weight of her
woes, she rose beyond the level of herself.

This unexpected result was due in part, no doubt, to Mr. Montagu
Jupp. That gentleman certainly knew his business. And at rehearsals
he had a way with him. Not only had he the art of smoothing tempers
and generally “oiling the wheels,” but the secret was his also of
evolving order out of chaos. The incompetence of Sir Toby and the
insubordination of several members of the cast had produced such a
hopeless tangle in the improvised theater in the east wing of the house
that for the time being even the inefficiency of the leading lady had
been overshadowed. But as soon as Montagu set his hand to the plow “The
Lady of Laxton” took a decided turn for the better.

Very well that it was so. There were but three days now to the
performance in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering, and by all the portents
“the most dismal fiasco of modern times,” in the gloomy and mordant
words of Garden was in prospect. But Montagu was no common man. He had
a faculty for “sizing things up,” moreover he knew how to get them
done. Privately he was of opinion that Sir Toby’s masterpiece beat all
records in the way of sheer ineptitude, but wild horses would not have
dragged it out of him. Besides he had been too long and too intimately
associated with the English theater in all its aspects to let a little
matter of that kind upset him. None knew better than he what could
be really achieved in the way of human imbecility. And after all, as
Montagu argued with himself, the players were but a scratch company
of extremely amateurish amateurs, while the audience at the best he
described as “C3 Provincial.”

Girlie was not a “quick study,” but she was an extremely conscientious
one. Long hours of application had made her absolutely word perfect in
her part. And there indeed she had a decided “pull” over the others.
Not one made the least pretence of being word perfect; several of them
could hardly be said to have looked at their lines. For instance, Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling was a particularly flagrant offender; but one and all
were animated by a robust conviction that “they would be all right on
the night”--in this case on Tuesday afternoon.

By comparison with these temper-trying people, Girlie shone. She really
did know her words, and although her manner of delivering them left
much to be desired, she was docile, intelligent, almost painfully
anxious to learn, so that on a first acquaintance and superficially
regarded, Mr. Jupp was inclined to consider her “the pick of the lot.”
But as he confided to Garden, over a pre-luncheon cocktail, “She was
not exactly a Siddons.”

In truth, however, Mr. Jupp, although he was far from guessing the
fact, had already exercised a kind of hypnotic influence upon the
leading lady. His natural gift “of bringing out the best in people”
had had an even greater effect upon Girlie than upon the less
impressionable members of the cast. Unconsciously she had at once
responded to the magnetic influence of this king among “producers.” And
yet the process may not have been wholly unconscious after all.

The poor Deputy was at the end of her tether. Not knowing which way to
turn, not knowing what to do, convinced that at any moment the fate she
so richly deserved must overtake her, she threw in all her reserves.
She abandoned herself entirely to the business of the hour. Not daring
to look before or after, she was like one under sentence of death.
Before being cast forever into outer darkness, her courage seemed to
make one last spasmodic flare.

In the course of that day there were two long rehearsals. But Girlie
threw so much spirit into her acting and she was on such terms with
the words of a diffuse and thankless part, that for the time being
her tragic inefficiency was veiled. By comparison with the casual,
imperceptive, bored people whose duty it was to play up to her, the
leading lady actually shone.

“Yes, old bye--the best of the bunch,” Montagu confided to the
incredulous Garden over a well-earned whisky and soda during an
interval for tea. “Not saying much of course. She can’t act for sour
apples but she does _try_.”

“But, my son”--Garden the incredulous, to whom sooner or later
all secrets were revealed, knew only too well the weakness of his
man--“that ass over there said that you said this little filly could
play all the ingénues off the West End stage.”

“Did I?” Mr. Jupp spoke with the innocence of a rather large size in
cherubs, whom he so much resembled.

“You did.”

“Well, old bye,” Montagu fondled a pendulous chin, “one says so many
damn silly things in the course of a lifetime, doesn’t one?”

Garden was fain to admit that it might be so, but of all the
foolishness ever perpetrated Montagu Jupp’s original dictum upon Lady
Elfreda’s acting was “the terminus.”

All the same, to the general astonishment, including that of Sir Toby
that hardened optimist, by the end of a long and strenuous day the
stock of Lady Elfreda was showing a decided tendency to rise. Those who
had worked with the leading lady at her worst, and a pretty hopeless
worst it had seemed, could not understand the change. They resented
the excellence of her memory--she actually knew all her stupid words
by heart!--yet beyond everything else they resented the new air of
intelligence that had come upon her.

The spirit and the interest she had been able to display in response
to the demands of Mr. Montagu Jupp told heavily against her now. The
others bitterly recalled her long week of silence, of indifference to
her fellow guests, of her strange ignorance of every subject on which
their tongues had run. They were now forced to conclude that all this
had been a pose. It was a new form of “side.” Moreover it was a form so
subtle that it was very difficult to meet. Lady Elfreda’s pretense of
not knowing anything about anything was pure affectation in the eyes of
those whose aim in life was to know everything about everything and not
be ashamed of saying so. And they would not be able to forgive it. It
was a subtle way of “scoring them off.”

“Sidey little cat, I hate her,” thus Mrs. Spencer-Jobling in the depths
of her heart. “Anyway, on Tuesday, with a bit of luck, I think I ought
to be able to kill her big scene in the third act.”

A mad world! As soon as Lady Elfreda began to show signs of leading her
comrades out of the slough of despond in which for a whole week they
had been engulfed, her unpopularity crystallized into virile personal
dislike. Henceforward, among the ladies of the house party at any rate,
she was never mentioned by name; she was always referred to as the S.
L. C.




XXV


HAD Girlie’s state of mind allowed her to enjoy a sense of triumph,
she might have fittingly indulged it when dinner time approached. She
had been through a most severe ordeal and had emerged with flying
colors. Really, she had “kept up her end” splendidly. How she had
contrived to do so was more than she could say; a latent genius must
have taken possession of her; but Mr. Montagu Jupp, that terrible
Old Man of the Sea whose arrival she had dreaded beyond all things,
whose mere appearance upon the scene was to prove the last straw, had
congratulated her personally, if not exactly upon her acting, upon
her knowledge of her part. Moreover, she still lived. Mr. Jupp, for
some inexplicable reason, had not given her away. He had addressed her
several times as “Lady Elfreda” without a hint of _arriére pensée_, and
in all good faith. And the praises of this remarkable man had added so
much to her prestige, that she was quite sure that Mrs. Spencer-Jobling
and the other ladies were now furiously jealous.

Mr. Jupp’s attitude was so incomprehensible and her own success so
great a surprise to herself, that in spite of everything she had a
secret satisfaction when she came to dress for dinner. But that emotion
was brief. Hardly had the Deputy submitted herself to the hands of
Pikey when she learnt that the maid was in a towering passion.

“What do you think?”--Grab!--“Me of all people”--Twist!--“I’ve a mind
to have the law of ’em”--Shake!--“So I have”--Shake!

Thus the prelude. And the aria to follow was quite as impressive.

It seemed that Mrs. Pike having been duly informed that a diamond and
sapphire ring was missing and that the master of the house, although
not knowing whom to suspect, was consulting the police, had had the
singular ill-fortune to overhear two of the servants discussing the
matter. And in the course of the conversation one of them had said
“that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if that old Marchioness had
taken it. Anyhow, she was quite sure that the Marchioness was not quite
right in her head.”

For several hours poor Pikey had brooded savagely upon the implication.
It was the deepest insult--second-hand though it was--that she had ever
received. She hardly knew how to bear it. Even now, as she prepared a
bath for the Deputy, she was not at all sure that she would not lodge a
complaint with the mistress of the house.

Such a reminder of the perils all around dashed Girlie at once. The
new sense of elation was nipped before it had time to bloom. This
unlucky disappearance of the pearl necklace added very dark tints to
the picture, for when the inevitable exposure occurred it was in the
nature of things that suspicion would fall upon herself. Even as it was
Pikey was so incensed by what she had heard that she was quite likely
to court disaster by making a fuss.

After a bath which was less enjoyable than it might have been, Girlie
did her best to combat this half-formed resolution of the maid. Before
doing so, however, she gently but firmly took charge of the hairbrushes
and insisted upon applying them personally to her own scalp. It needed
courage, but it called for even greater courage to allow Pikey to do
her office in her present savage mood.

A hairbrush in each hand, the Deputy begged the Werewolf not to stir
up strife unnecessarily. But somehow the appeal did but minister to
Pikey’s wrath.

“Yes, I’ll tell the mistress of the house.” The Werewolf bared her
fangs.

“If you do,” said the miserable Deputy, “everything may come out.”

“I hope it does. I’m sick and tired of this.”

“But if it does come out, they are certain to suspect me and I may have
to go to prison.”

It was the falsest of all false moves. Girlie realized the fact almost
as soon as it was made. But this cruel situation was always driving her
too hard.

“So much the better if you do have to go to prison.” Pikey’s words were
scornful and deliberate. “I hope you will, I’m sure.”

The callous speech took away Girlie’s breath. But for the moment only.
In the next she had unconsciously proved that she was not the Girlie
of a week ago. “If you give me away”--the thin, high-pitched voice
quivered ominously--“and I do have to go to prison, I’ll take good
care, Mrs. Pike, that you come, too.”

The words gave pause to Mrs. Pike.

“They can’t touch me--not the police can’t,” she said after a brief
period of reflection. “I am not pretending to be her ladyship. I am not
pretending to be any one.”

“No, you’re not,” said Girlie. “But”--inspired by the bizarre knowledge
that may lurk in an out-of-the-way corner of the brain of a solicitor’s
daughter--“you are an accessory after the fact, please don’t forget
that.”

The chance shot went home. Pikey was reduced to savage mumblings. For
the time being, at least, she had met with her quietus.




XXVI


WHEN Girlie went down to dinner she was sustained by a subtle feeling
of inward power. For the first time in her life she was upheld by
perhaps the most desirable of all human emotions. As she entered the
drawing room she caught the eye of Mr. Montagu Jupp. And, miracle of
miracles, it was an approving eye. There was no doubt about that, since
Girlie belonged to the sex that does not make mistakes in those little
matters!

Yes, it was an approving eye. In the sight of Montagu and his peers,
when the little Catkin lady came into the room timidly, with that
rather hunted-fawn-look in her gray eyes, with the slight flush in her
cheeks that went so well with the smart pink frock and the twist of
ribbon in her fluffy fair hair, she really was a pretty little Puss.
No wonder, thought the critics, that the worthy Duckingfield was up
against his fate.

His prolonged tête-a-tête the previous evening in the alcove under
the hall stairs had not passed without notice. In fact, it had been
commented upon very freely. And while from the demeanor of my lord it
was by no means clear that his suit was prospering, his “dash” was
rather admired. That is to say, it was rather admired by the members of
his own sex, who are always apt to cherish that quality, particularly
in one of their middle-aged representatives. As far as the ladies were
concerned, however, they could see absolutely nothing in the little
noodle and they would not allow “that she was even pretty.” Still the
episode itself, the look of my lord and the flush on the face of the S.
L. C. lent a touch of romance to the evening. And romance is an elusive
thing that is always welcome, even when furnished by the lives of other
people.

Dinner was almost hilarious. All agreed that the great Montagu was
beginning to do wonders already. He had even contrived in his magnetic
way to draw a few sparks out of Lady Elfreda. This evening she was like
a new person. She was a thing of wreathed smiles, of spasmodic giggles,
and there could be no doubt that her acting was improving. But it was
Montagu himself who was the key. He had his jest with everybody. No one
was safe from his chaff. He took upon himself the rôle of the whimsical
father of a comically stupid family. No one resented his humor although
neither age nor sex was spared. He disparaged the food and the wine, he
complained that his hostess was getting fat, he objected to the way in
which Mrs. Spencer-Jobling did her hair. Everybody was sent into fits
of laughter by his knack of saying the things that are not said; but
the audacious art with which he masked their grim and sometimes brutal
candor left him perfect master of the field.

The amazing Montagu, to the delight of the others, even went to
the length of asking Lord Duckingfield “whether he had written yet
to papa?” It was vain for the stolid Midlander to assume an air of
childlike innocence. The table rocked with a laughter whose volume
seemed to imperil the wine glasses and the crockery, when my lord was
told that he had better make haste and do so “or that little Perisher
will get there before you,” the statement being punctuated by an
accusing finger in the direction of Sir Toby.

The revels of the evening, of which a lively meal was the prelude,
were not perhaps the fine flowers of taste, but that they were greatly
enjoyed by all concerned there could be no doubt. If exceptions
there were to the rule they were furnished by the Deputy and Lord
Duckingfield. Yet Lady Elfreda’s suitor was too much a man of the world
to mind particularly; he may even have been rather flattered than
otherwise to find himself so famous; while, as for Girlie, having been
through so much and having so much more to go through, she feasted and
laughed bravely, so that when the time came to retire to the drawing
room with the other ladies she felt that she simply didn’t care what
happened.

All the same, a brief withdrawal from the sphere of influence of Mr.
Montagu Jupp convinced the Deputy that her fit of abandon was but
temporary. Defenseless in the drawing room, at the tender mercies of
her own sex, fear soon laid an icy finger upon her. So resolutely did
the other ladies give her the cold shoulder--even the hostess who
had been so kind appeared for some reason no longer her friend--that
horrible doubts flooded back into her mind. How much did they know?
What had they guessed? Suddenly Mrs. Spencer-Jobling made a sinister
reference to clever thieves who got into smart houses and how they
sometimes flaunted a title for the purpose, whereupon the well-informed
Mrs. Conrad Jones cited the case of an adventurous lady from a hat shop
who was able to steal diamonds by passing herself off as the daughter
of a peer and thereby earned seven years penal servitude.

Icy fingers ran along the spine of the Deputy. Here was the writing
on the wall. The half exultant tones of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs.
Conrad Jones seemed to leave no margin of hope. Surely they must know
everything! The coffee cup began to shake in Girlie’s hand. Even the
tall footman eyed her disdainfully. Only a remarkable effort of the
will saved her from dropping the milk jug.

After a terrible twenty minutes, in which however nothing happened, the
men came in, and as usual they brought with them an immediate change
of atmosphere. Their geniality again banished for the time being the
awful specter that stalked ever in the background of Girlie’s mind. She
laughed hysterically as Mr. Jupp cakewalked to the piano and proceeded,
by request, to give his famous imitation of a hen laying an egg with
musical accompaniment. He then rolled back his cuffs and struck a
series of dominant chords. “Now, ladies and gemmen.” It was an exact
imitation of “Pony” Moore, the prince of Christy minstrels. “Set to
partners, please. Now, my lord--her ladyship is ready for you. And I’ve
asked the butler to have a curtain drawn across the alcove in the hall,
so you may treat it as a private box.”

Shrieks of approval greeted this sally. Girlie’s mingled with them,
although she was ready to sink through the floor. She dare not look
in the direction of Lord Duckingfield, but that robust gentleman was
made of sterner stuff. There was a light in his eye which informed Mr.
Montagu Jupp that any other man in England would have incurred a punch
on the nose. Montagu, however, a licensed jester who turned the most
sacred things to mirth and ribaldry with none to gainsay him, continued
to bang the piano, and Lord Duckingfield with the air of the very good
fellow he undoubtedly was, turned to Lady Elfreda, bowed and gallantly
offered his arm.

The history of the previous evening repeated itself. If possible, the
proceedings were a little more riotous. Mr. Jupp continued to wave
his magic wand and he had only to do that for mirth and harmony to
prevail. Who could withstand his abounding spirits, his joy in life,
his Gargantuan humor? He was a great natural force, he filled the bill,
the general effect of him was overwhelming, irresistible.

After a few minutes of discreet maneuvering upon the hall floor,
Girlie’s partner, to her intense dismay, steered boldly for the alcove
beneath the stairs. There was no false shame about Lord Duckingfield.
Too many battles had he fought and won to permit a little crude
badinage to turn him from a fixed purpose. He was in deadly earnest,
whether the others guessed it or not; and in any case they didn’t
matter. His mind was made up. If this little girl would marry him she
would make him a very proud and happy man.

“Well?” he said, as he sank into a chair by her side.

How nice he was! That was the thought that passed through Girlie’s mind
as his honest eyes came slowly to the level of hers. She was in a state
of excitement akin to hysteria, but even at that moment his worth and
his kindness dominated her.

Far as she was in the mire she was not quite lost even now to a sense
of shame. As she felt his eyes upon her she realized that this was the
time to tell him all. She must not count the cost. He was far too good
to be played with so cruelly. Besides, she owed it to herself, to her
ignoble self, to make what reparation she could. Let it be made while
there was still an opportunity.

For his own part he was baffled by her odd constraint. There was
something on her mind. He could only guess at what it was. But he was
ready to put his fortune to the proof.

“I am sure I could make you happy.” His hand touched hers, but she had
the wit to keep her eyes from his.

Had she not known before, she knew then that it was in his power to
bring her happiness. And it was just that fact which seemed to catch
her by the heel as she was about to fling herself over the precipice.

If she did her plain duty and confessed everything, and heaven knew
that she was trying now to school her tongue to the task, it would be
at a terrible cost. And, face to face with this necessity, she felt she
simply could not pay the price. She would be bound to lose him. And she
liked this man so much that she could not muster the force of will, at
any rate just then, wantonly to put herself out of court altogether.

Such a failure was illogical, but human weakness is generally that.
She knew perfectly well that whatever happened this man could never be
hers. He was altogether beyond and above her and her circumstances. It
would make no difference really if he learned the truth from her lips
to-night, or if he learned it a few days hence by the logic of events.

She saw her duty now a dead sure thing. But she had not the power of
will to do it, not to-night at least. She heard the odd change in his
voice as her silence began to hurt him; even if she could not actually
see the eyes of anxiety and bewilderment with which he looked at her,
she knew what his feelings were.

For himself he was puzzled, baffled, disconcerted. He was sure that
Lady Elfreda liked him. Her shyness, her blushes, her charming
hesitations told him that. What was it then that held her back? Why
could she not give a straightforward answer to a plain question? There
could be but one explanation. It was one he was loth to accept, yet
being the kind of man he was, he knew how to do so.

“You don’t think I’m good enough.” The pressure of a decidedly
masculine hand tightened upon her fingers. “Well, my dear, I don’t
blame you. I am what I am.” He sighed heavily. “And you are what you
are. All the same, I think I could have made you happy.”

Quick tears sprang to Girlie’s eyes. The problem for her now was not to
let him see them. But this, alas, was beyond her present resources. Her
tears were not to be concealed. Lord Duckingfield permitted himself a
whimsical sigh. She was a little fool. And at that moment it called for
a good deal of self-control not to tell her so.




XVII


IN the schoolroom at The Laurels that evening, Miss Cass was condemned
to a lonely and unappetizing meal. Banished in disgrace from the
dinner table, debarred the drawing room and its social joys, “sent to
Coventry” because of her own wickedness, she had only hard thoughts and
the meager fare of war upon which to subsist.

To-night meat had given out at The Laurels, as it so often did in the
present time of famine, and Miss Cass had to be content with overboiled
codfish and an insipid sauce, followed by tapioca pudding. Elfreda’s
general dislike of her surroundings had not been made less when she had
found tapioca pudding to be a standing dish in The Laurels nursery,
just as under the régime of Pikey at Castle Carabbas it had enjoyed
similar preëminence. Moreover, it was of the true consistency, thick,
slabby and odious, in every way a worthy rival of that which Elfreda
and her sisters had fondly believed to be without a peer in any human
household.

Poetic justice, of course. It served her right. She was paid out
finely. Anyhow, a plateful of this delicacy gave one a sense of having
eaten it, which was more than could be said for the inadequate portion
of codfish; and this was something, for Elfreda’s appetite being
extremely healthy, a week of the daily schoolroom ration had sharpened
it to the keenness of a razor’s edge.

Fortitude was certainly needed for such a situation, but Elfreda was
fully determined “to stick it out.” Just what was involved in that
process would have been difficult to say. She had no definite scheme in
her mind, but apart from sheer physical discomfort and boredom, which
were by no means to be lightly faced, she was still enjoying the comedy
she had so audaciously created. Her mood remained highly rebellious.
A second letter from her mother, redirected by Pikey from Clavering
Park, was so full of calm assumptions, that it merely added fuel to
the flame. But when all was said, it was the position in which she
found herself now that really made the thing worth while. The fighting
blood of her turbulent forbears had been aroused. She was determined to
avenge the covert insults of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and of her niece,
Miss Dolores Parbury.

This evening, all the same, low diet and a sense of loneliness caused
her resolution to weaken a bit. The thing was growing horribly dull.
Banishment had clipped her wings. Isolation had taken a good deal of
spice out of the entertainment. And, to add to a growing depression,
she lacked resources within herself. She cared little for reading,
and even had she had a taste for it, the books on the schoolroom
shelf were not enticing. Nor was she expert with her needle. Nay,
she was frankly bored by the use of it, which was a pity, since
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had been at pains to inform Miss Cass that
governesses at The Laurels were expected to help with the children’s
mending.

Elfreda was doing her best to meet these requirements, but up till now
the result had been disaster. No, she had no claims to be considered a
needlewoman, and as the schoolroom clock struck nine, with a sigh of
irritation she resigned her needle to the work-basket of the real Miss
Cass and sought other fields of conquest. At the bottom of Miss Cass’s
trunk she had found a new novel in which the future Charlotte Brontë
had rather recklessly invested quite a number of her shillings. Into
this work Elfreda had already made several spasmodic dips, but by the
time a quarter past nine had chimed from the chimneypiece she had at
last reached the definite and final conclusion that she preferred “The
Swiss Family Robinson.”

Alas, even that classic work, which divided the honors of the shelf
in the angle next the extremely chilly fireplace with Mrs. Turner’s
“Cautionary Tales” and “Eric, or Little by Little,” failed to excite
Elfreda’s enthusiasm. She fixed a look of ferocious disgust on the
work-basket, that equally unexciting alternative. What a life the Miss
Casses of the world were condemned to live! She suppressed a shiver and
controlled a yawn. As soon as the horrid hand of that horrid clock
touched the half hour she would go to bed.

Man disposes! And no doubt the saying applies with equal truth to
woman. For at twenty-seven minutes past nine there came a discreet
knock on the schoolroom door.

“Come in,” said Miss Cass, coldly.

The invitation was accepted by General Norris, who came in rather
furtively. He was at pains to close the door behind him softly and then
he said with an odd hesitation which made Elfreda smile, “I say, Miss
Cass, excuse me, but can you lend me a book?”

Elfreda promptly offered the new novel which had been ravished from the
tin trunk.

“Thanks so much,” said the young man. As a proof of his gratitude, he
seated himself on the schoolroom table. He produced a cigarette case
tentatively. “I suppose there’ll be an awful row if I smoke here,” he
said.

“Yes, there will be,” said Elfreda. And then she added slowly, with the
_sang froid_ that was so fascinating to this young man, “but what does
it matter if there is?”

No, this was not an ordinary girl. George Norris couldn’t help being
thrilled by her. “But, I say, it might be rather uncomfortable for
you--mightn’t it?”

“More uncomfortable than this?” Elfreda’s smile embraced the fire in
the miserable grate, the schoolroom linoleum, the red tablecloth
stained freely with ink.

“But it’s your living, you know.” This was a very practical young
fellow. In the next instant, however, he was blushing for his
indiscretion. “I beg your pardon. Impertinent to say that. One oughtn’t
to have said it. But what I meant was it’s seldom wise to quarrel with
one’s bread and butter.”

“I am quarreling violently with mine,” said Elfreda.

“In real earnest?” George Norris was thrilled again. “Do you mean that?
Not giving up governessing, are you--if it’s a fair question?”

“Yes, I hope I am,” said Elfreda, with a heartfelt sigh.

“Hooray. That’s capital.” His satisfaction seemed extraordinarily
sincere.

The curiosity of Elfreda was piqued by it. A gleam from those perilous
eyes of hers called upon General Norris for an explanation.

“You’re so much too good for this sort of thing.” Involuntarily he took
a cigarette from its case, placed it in his mouth and struck a match on
the sole of his shoe.

“But I am not in the least clever.” She saw the necessity of putting up
some sort of a defense.

“No, you are something much better than clever. You know the world. You
know the things that are things. And that’s why”--one of his pleasant
hesitations came upon him--“Mrs. T.-S.--she’s my hostess, but I can’t
help saying it--and Miss P. have such a down on you. Rotten, I call it.
But I don’t pretend to understand women.”

He looked at her and she looked at him. Suddenly he grew embarrassed
by a sense of his own imprudence, but she was not in the least
embarrassed. To hide a too palpable confusion he opened the book she
had given him and his eye caught the name “Ethel H. Cass” on the fly
leaf.

“Your name’s Ethel,” he said irrelevantly. But he felt bound to say
something. “One of my favorite names.” Trivial, perhaps--but he was
really afraid of silence just now.

“I am always called Girlie at home.” She spoke with a spice of
deliberate enjoyment. After all, this was quite a promising little
scene in the comedy.

He was not sure that he liked Girlie so much. She seemed perhaps a
shade disappointed that he didn’t, but those deep and dancing eyes with
wonderful flecks of light in them somehow told him to look out.

“Where is your home--if I may ask?” He flew off rather nervously at a
tangent.

“I live at Laxton.” The sparkle of her eyes was almost wicked.

“Laxton,” he said. For an instant he was let down a bit. Laxton was
_very_ suburban London. “Always lived there?” It was by no means a bad
imitation of serene indifference.

“Always. My father was a solicitor. He died some years ago.”

“A solicitor.” One of the learned professions--still George Norris
would have put him down as something else. Suddenly he laughed, perhaps
a shade queerly. “You’d never guess what _my_ father was.”

“I’m quite sure I couldn’t.” Not the eyes alone in the unconscious
insolence of their candor, but also the coolly deliberate words
held the very genius of provocation. He half understood why those
unsportsmanlike women downstairs disliked this Miss Cass so profoundly.

“I expect you’ve had no end of an education,” he said with a little
sigh.

“Why do you think that?”

“I know you have.”

She didn’t think well to undeceive him.

“You know everything.” A very naïf young man. “Seen no end of the
world. I daresay you’ve been abroad teaching English to the children of
foreign royalties.”

She smiled enigmatically. But even if his shot was a good one it didn’t
explain her. This girl was a mystery. And no doubt she was “pulling
his leg,” just as she had pulled the leg of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson the
other day at luncheon when she solemnly assured her that her father was
a butler and her mother a lady’s maid. As he remembered that piece of
impertinence he had a sudden desire to box her adorable ears.

Although, he did not let his mind dwell very long on any such form of
emotional luxury. “I wish I knew the ropes as you do.” A cloud came
upon a singularly frank and manly countenance. “You see, I want to go
on with my job, but I’m afraid”--he sighed heavily--“I’m hardly up to
it in peace time.”

She asked why, having done so well in the war, he was not going to be
equal to the peace?

“Now the fighting’s over you need other things. Influence and education
and so on.”

“Don’t you know anybody who could pull strings?” A chord of real
sympathy fused a voice that had a knack at such odd, unexpected moments
as these of sounding quite delightful.

“No--frankly, I don’t. You see, in August, ’14, I was a clerk in the
office of an auctioneer. If my mother could have had her way I should
have been given the education I stand so much in need of now. But my
father thought it wouldn’t answer. And in the circumstances and from
his own point of view he was right.”

“Surely”--her slow, deep voice seemed to grow more delightful than
ever--“when one is the soldier you are, that sort of thing doesn’t
matter.”

“I’m afraid it does.” He dissented sadly. “If one is not to be
sidetracked by peace requirements one must have every card in the game.
You see, there won’t be enough billets to go round and men of my sort
will be the first to feel the pinch. I may not be quite up to my job,
but somehow”--he drew long and whimsically at his cigarette--“I hardly
see myself going back to a stool in an auctioneer’s office.”

She didn’t either, but she didn’t tell him so. There was really no
need. He had done so much, and at the back of the curious diffidence
which she did not altogether like and which was his involuntary tribute
to her strong personality, was the power of will that gets what its
possessor wants. And he interested her enormously. At the moment she
had seen him first she had felt his attraction. Day by day it had
grown. And now as he sat on the schoolroom table talking with the
intimacy of a schoolboy she began to feel a little overpowered. He was
very simple, very wholesome, very good to look at, and he had proved
himself a particularly fine soldier.

It must have been her silence which told him more than she desired he
should learn. Certainly her inscrutable eyes gave no information. For
quite abruptly, apropos of nothing at all, he said, “I wonder if I
might call you Girlie!”

Her odd, sudden laugh sounded a little wild to her own fastidious ear.
The sense of the theater, her private curse, was really just a little
too much for her just then. Delicious, perfectly delicious situation!

“Mind you”--his frankness was always skirting the indelicate--“it’s
not at all the right name for you. In fact, it’s just about the last
name you ought to have had. I daresay you got it as a baby, but why it
should have stuck to you the dear Lord knows.”

He suddenly moved towards her. But the look of her, the droop of the
eyelids, the curved thrust of a strong chin informed him that this was
not the time for a wise man to risk too much.

With a sigh he took refuge in his cigarette. More than ever was she
an enigma, a mystery. This cool perfection of manner, this almost
uncanny power of taking care of oneself seemed to give the lie almost
as plainly to the Laxton solicitor’s daughter as it did to the butler
and the lady’s maid. What was a girl of this sort doing in this galley?
He was not altogether a fool, even if she treated him like one. Her
arrogance was boundless, it simply asked for punishment, but at this
tantalizing moment he realized ruefully that it called for heavier
metal than George Norris to administer it.

His curiosity was horribly piqued. Confound the little vixen!--he began
to swing his slippered feet--what wouldn’t he give to bring her down
from her pedestal! No girl, at any rate of the wage-earning class, was
entitled to bear herself with this sort of devilment.

Suddenly he determined to give her a kiss. Never mind the consequences.
He would risk the proving that he was not a gentleman. As far as that
went, had he not sufficiently attested the fact already? Yes, that was
just the secret of the whole affair. And this impudent “solicitor’s
daughter” stunt was her way of letting him know it. He began to
understand the deadly resentment of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and dear
Dolores.

If ever a girl did deserve to be taken down a peg! Still at the very
last moment, he learned that it was not so easy for George Norris
to play the cad. He had a desire to press the very life out of this
splendid little beast. The mere look of her was a challenge and a
defiance, but he was bound to remember that she was a dependent in the
house, very much the underdog, without a means of defending herself.
No, whatever her deserts, it could hardly be called cricket....

With a start he grew aware that those curious eyes were fixed steadily
upon his own; they might even be said to look right through them. He
had just time to catch the faintly perceptible curl of a scornful lip,
when without warning the door behind him opened. Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
came magnificently in, a figure of avenging fate in black satin and jet
embroidery.

George Norris was still seated on the table and Miss Cass in a low
chair of decrepit wicker work, was looking up at him with a smile of
challenge in her eyes.

“So here you are, George.” The overtones of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s
voice had more resonance than beauty. “I’ve been looking for you
everywhere. We are going to have a little music.”

“So sorry.” George was not impenitent. “But I just came out you know to
smoke a cigarette.”

“Yes, you said so.” It was evidently not the remark Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson wanted to make, yet a gathering frown declared
that becoming words refused to occur to her at the moment. As an
alternative, she turned frigidly to the governess.

“Have you darned the children’s socks, Miss Cass?” The answer was a
cheerful affirmative.

“Then, as coal and electric lights are rationed, perhaps you will not
mind going to bed.”

Miss Cass said, with a smile whose candor seemed to add to its
intensity, that she would not mind at all.

Still as George Norris got off the table he was decidedly glad that at
the last moment he had been able to curb a natural inclination. Never
had he felt so sorry for any one as he felt at that moment for Miss
Cass. Nor had he ever been so much attracted by any one. A young man of
practical rather than ardent temperament, he hoped he was not going to
make a fool of himself or to lose his head.




XXVIII


BY the powers that obtained in the drawing room the point was much
debated whether Miss Cass could or could not be allowed to accompany
the children on Tuesday afternoon to the Assembly Rooms. There was much
to be said both “for” and “against.” Had it been left to Miss Parbury
to decide the question “the againsts” would have had it easily. She
disliked Miss Cass with a concentration that was almost terrible. Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson had come to dislike her also with an almost equal
intensity, but in her case natural feelings were tempered by political
considerations.

In the first place Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had taken six tickets for the
performance of “The Lady of Laxton” and these included one for Miss
Cass. It was now proposed that Colonel Trenchard-Simpson should occupy
a stall in her stead, but it seemed that he had important business on
Tuesday afternoon; besides, as he said, “he was blowed if he fancied
sitting up amongst half the old Tabbies in the county.”

This strengthened the hand of the “fors” considerably, but in the
end that which really gained the day for Miss Cass may have been her
boasted acquaintance with the Lancelots and above all, her singular
intimacy with the star artiste, Lady Elfreda Catkin. General Norris
also may indirectly have brought a certain amount of pressure to bear,
because right up till Tuesday at breakfast when it was announced that
the “fors” definitely had it, he was uncertain whether his leg, which
for several days past had been “throbbing,” would allow him to attend
the performance of the “Lady of Laxton.”

Strange as it may seem, as soon as the decision went finally in favor
of Miss Cass “the throbbing” grew much less and General Norris felt he
would be able to undertake the journey into Clavering.

As far as it went, all this was very well, but when the gracious
decision was communicated to Miss Cass, that perverse lady felt she
would have much preferred to stay at home. Happily she did not say so
to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, but as she considered the problem over an
irritating and inadequate early luncheon in the schoolroom, with Miss
Joan one side of her and Master Peter the other, she came within an ace
of flatly refusing to go.

Her charges were not entirely responsible for Miss Cass’s frame of
mind. It is true that ten days of intimacy with their ways had caused
their governess to dislike them more cordially than she had ever
thought it possible to dislike any human beings, but there were other
reasons. The choicest scene in the comedy was at hand, but she was by
no means sure that she had not lost her taste for it now.

A régime of underfeeding and solitude may have shaken her nerve a
little. Her appetite for adventure may have lost something of its
edge. Still, such an opportunity to see yourself as others see you was
an all-potent lure, and even if she was going to be revolted by the
spectacle, as most likely would prove to be the case, it would at least
help to relieve a tedium that was becoming intolerable. Besides she was
not one to funk the last fence even at the end of a most punishing day.

As the day was fine and there was only a limited amount of
accommodation in the family chariot, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson decreed
that the children should walk with their governess to the Assembly
Rooms. The distance was rather more than a mile, and in the course
of the journey Elfreda was able to indulge in a little constructive
thinking.

She could not forget that she was now faced with the footing of the
bill. In the course of the next day or so it would have to be met. She
had made a definite promise to Miss Cass to declare the true state of
affairs and shoulder the entire responsibility. There would be the
devil to pay all round. Her father would be furious, her mother would
never forgive her, but having the natural temperament of a fighter
she was not afraid of either. Besides, she consoled herself with the
thought that it served them right. It might teach them not to be quite
so cynical in arranging other people’s lives.

There was a place, however, where she now perceived the shoe was going
to pinch. She had just discovered that she was in love with General
Norris. Had she been quite honest with herself she would have made
that discovery on the very evening of her arrival. Looking back across
the expanse of fantastic difficulties in which she had landed herself,
she saw that it was General Norris who had supplied the motive power
from day to day. Without the charm of that most alluring personality
she would never have been able “to stick it.” Life as they lived it at
The Laurels would have defeated her after one irksome and humiliating
twenty-four hours.

A hardened sinner, she was wholly unrepentant. Quite a number of
undesirable people had been gorgeously “scored off.” It was not a case
for regrets on their account, but as, flanked by Miss Joan and Master
Peter on either hand, she trudged resolutely into Clavering to witness
the climax of her audacity at the Assembly Rooms and proceeded to draw
up a kind of moral balance sheet as she did so, she realized pretty
clearly that there was one item in it that must throw a considerable
strain on her resources. She was in love with George Norris. And, still
worse, he was in love with her.

Readers of Thackeray will not need to be told that the Clavering
Assembly Rooms are in the High Street, which is the second turn on
the left when you have crossed the charming little bridge over the
River Morwen. On arrival Miss Cass and her charges found they had a
few minutes to spare, as the performance was not announced to begin
until half-past two. All the same the press of carriages in the High
Street was considerable. In fact, it might almost be said to amount to
congestion.

The performance for the first time on any stage of “The Lady of
Laxton,” by Sir Toby Philpot, Bart., was under such distinguished
auspices that it was recognized locally as quite a function. For a full
quarter of an hour before the curtain went up the weirdest of vehicles
with the weirdest of occupants--how they would have delighted the heart
of Michael Angelo Titmarsh, Esquire!--streamed incessantly into the
High Street. They were so many, so various, so infrequently seen that
even Mr. Shuker, the dealer in antiques whose shop was next door to the
Assembly Rooms, who was the recognized local authority on “The County,”
was almost if not quite defeated by such an array. Had it been humanly
possible for The County to baffle Mr. Shuker, on this historical
occasion Mr. Shuker would have been baffled undoubtedly.

For instance, that closed one-horse brougham whose lozenged panel
displayed a couchant lion and a rampant unicorn with the simple but
appropriate motto Festina Lente was--well, never mind who. There really
isn’t time just now to go fully into the matter. The Armistice is
hardly more than a fortnight old, you know. But you may take it, my
dear Titmarsh, our friend Mr. Shuker could have told you.

Elfreda, holding her charges by the hand, passed resolutely up the
three steps into the vestibule and mingled with the throng. And what
a throng! She seemed to have known these funny people all her life.
Surely that old thing in the Victorian bonnet was bowing to her. Could
it be old Lady S.? An antique voice level with her right ear was saying
with its curious drawl, “My brother Alec was at Eton with her father.”
Into her left ear a voice very similar was saying, “The dear Duke,
I suppose, would be her grandfather.” And at the back a third voice
remarked, “The youngest of six, I believe, but they have all married
well. A very gifted family.”

It was a relief to Elfreda’s feelings when she got through the crowd
into the hall itself. The platform embellished with footlights and a
drop curtain had been transformed into a stage. So great was the flux
of grandees from miles around that the party from The Laurels had
been relegated to the back row of the stalls. Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson
saw in this circumstance one more subtle affront to her social
position; all the same the family chariot had arrived a clear five
minutes before Miss Cass, Master Peter and Miss Joan because, as Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson shrewdly observed to Miss Parbury and General Norris,
“the people were likely to be more amusing than the performance.”

In a sense, this prophecy was strikingly borne out. The performance,
at any rate in its early phases, promised very little in the way of
amusement. The play itself was almost unbelievably infantile, but this
would not have mattered had not the acting been at the same level.
Hardly had the curtain been up five minutes before it was clear that
the patience of the audience was going to be sorely tried.

By that time, it was fully realized “behind” that they were “for it.”
The brief opening scene between a couple of comic servants, although
calling for liberal prompts from the indefatigable Mr. Jupp, really
passed off very well; but its defect was, as the candid critic of the
_Dramatic Pictorial_ was not slow to inform the author, it didn’t last
long enough. The action of the play really began with the entrance of
Sir Toby himself and with it began the trouble. The little baronet,
of course, had cast himself for the part of the hero; it was only
human that he should do so, but nature having endowed him with very
few inches, a voice so loud as to verge upon the uncanny and an
aggressiveness of manner which a certain amount of stage nervousness
served rather cruelly to accentuate, those skilled in the signs began
to fear the worst, even before the worst had happened.

When the time came for the entrance of Lady Elfreda it was painfully
realized, not by her fellow players merely, but by their friends in
front, that upon her frail shoulders the whole weight of the play would
rest. Unfortunately the house was not composed exclusively of the
polite public of the stalls; a less polite, a more general public was
herded in other parts of the building. There was a liberal sprinkling
of outspoken warriors in khaki and hospital blue. From the beginning
they had been inclined “to guy” Sir Toby.

It was a terribly anxious moment when the heroine came on. All felt
her entrance to be the crux of the play. According to the dramatist’s
instructions she had to greet Lord Longacre rapturously as an old and
dear friend. But even Mr. Montagu Jupp had doubts as to whether the
leading lady would be able to achieve rapture. Had that man of infinite
wisdom but known it, the problem for poor Girlie was whether the
leading lady would be able to come on at all.

By the time an expert, who had come from London for the purpose, had
duly painted her face and penciled her eyebrows and the call boy had
announced that the curtain was up, she had to muster the courage to
enter the wings and await her “cue.” She never knew how she was able
to accomplish this. In point of fact she was in such a state of nerves
that it was only the personal intervention of Mr. Jupp which saved her
from coming upon the scene a full two minutes too soon.

When at last she did come on, partly by her own volition and partly
propelled by Mr. Jupp, she was received with a special round of
applause. It was thoroughly well meant, because everyone in the house
understood how much depended upon her, and there is nothing like
encouragement. But, alas, as far as Girlie was concerned, the effect
of that round of applause was paralyzing. Somehow it seemed to complete
the grisly process of her undoing.

Standing stock still and looking ready to faint, not a word crossed her
lips. Sir Toby, however, in response to instructions, whispered sternly
from the wings, crossed the stage heroically and grasped her by the
hand. Another long moment of petrified silence followed and then he led
her to a chair. Girlie, hardly conscious that the eyes of a bewildered
and resentful audience were fixed upon her, sank down overcome by
guilt, terror and exhaustion.




XXIX


TO draw a veil over the first act of the “Lady of Laxton” is the part
of mercy. Speaking out of a long and therefore chequered theatrical
experience, Messrs. Garden and Montagu Jupp quite agreed with one
another that it was absolutely unique. They had never witnessed
anything like it. From first to last not a word of Lady Elfreda’s
performance was audible, a fact which threw into uncanny relief Sir
Toby Philpot’s robust interpretation of the _beau rôle_. The best
friend of the worst enemy of the little man had never accused him of
being inaudible on any occasion. And now feeling the entire fortunes of
the play rested wholly upon himself, he gave rein to his amazing vocal
powers. Thus the joint efforts of the hero and the heroine achieved a
result never likely to be forgotten by those who were present.

At first the audience did its best to bear up. The polite public in
the stalls sat silent and motionless, but it soon became clear that
the less polite public in other parts of the house was not going to
behave with equal fortitude. Ominous coughs began to arise. A wag in
hospital blue at the back requested Cuthbert to give the girl a chance.
Catcalls followed. Then came boos, cheers and counter cheers. Finally
the curtain descended with a remarkable abruptness which, however, was
a real relief to everybody.

Girlie returned to the improvised green room in a state of collapse.
Suddenly her overdriven nerves gave way. To the consternation of the
other members of the cast, whose cup was already full, she uttered a
kind of howl and broke into hysterical weeping. No one had power to
pacify her. For once even the art and the tact of Mr. Montagu Jupp were
at fault. Pikey, grim and reluctant, was summoned from the audience,
but the appearance of the maid upon the scene seemed to increase, if
anything, the leading lady’s distress.

It was clear, of course, that the play was at an end. At least, it was
clear to all except the author of the piece. Even now, in spite of
all that had happened, the valiant Sir Toby declined to admit defeat.
He boldly proposed to carry on. In the second act Lady Elfreda’s part
could be read by Mrs. Minever.

“Be sugared to that, my boy,” said Mr. Montagu Jupp.

Even now, in spite of a series of suppressed sobs from the green room
sofa, the still undefeated Sir Toby showed signs of a fight. But the
firmness of Montagu’s veto verged upon brutal candor. “They’ll never
stand another act of you, my son,” said the great man in a Napoleonic
aside.

“Let alone of your so-called play,” said the equally candid Garden.
“Don’t you recognize ‘the bird’ when you hear it, you little ass?”

“’Twas Lady Elfreda let the whole thing down,” the little man persisted.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, my boy,” said the genial Montagu.
“But I think myself, if we are going to carry on, that piano yonder had
better be moved on to the stage and if they’ll stand for it I’ll give
them a few selections from my refined musical entertainment.”

“The very thing, Juppy.” Garden laughed and then he winked at various
members of the company. But it was seen at once that the great man,
inimitable in resource, had found a possible way out.

All the same, there was one exception to the general chorus of
approval. The author of the “Lady of Laxton” lifted up his voice in a
loud wail of protest. “But the second act is mag-nif-i-cent, simply
mag-nif-i-cent.”

“Even if it’s as good as ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ it will
not be played, my son,” said Garden with grim finality. “Not on this
occasion.”

While the yellow chrysanthemum lady did her best to calm Lady Elfreda’s
shattered nerves, the grand piano was trundled forth into the middle of
the proscenium, the curtain went up, and notwithstanding incipient boos
and catcalls from the obscurer parts of the house, Mr. Jupp announced
that owing to the sudden indisposition of Lady Elfreda Catkin, the
remainder of the program would take the form of a refined musical
entertainment. Thereupon the great man, beaming with good humor, sat
down at the piano, struck a chord, slewed round on the piano stool to
face the already much relieved audience, and said, “Ladies and gemmen,
the first item on the program is that old but touching ballad, ‘Down
Went Maginty to the Bottom of the Sea.’”

Corney Grain himself could hardly have bettered Montagu’s performance.
The effect was magical, not merely upon the turbulent spirits at the
back of the hall, but also upon the more patient sufferers in the more
expensive seats. Not only did Montagu render the ditty in an inimitable
manner, but he also induced the warriors in khaki and hospital blue to
join in the chorus.

As a matter of fact very little in the way of inducement was needed.
The lines:

  I feel sure he must be wet,
  For they haven’t found him yet.

were given with enormous gusto.

The change which came over the audience was quite remarkable. In the
reaction from the boredom of the first act of Sir Toby’s comedy, “the
house” began to bubble with enthusiasm. The broad human appeal of Mr.
Jupp was irresistible. “Down Went Maginty” was so rapturously received
that he had no compunction about following with “Oh, Dem Golden
Slippers,” which went equally well and “I Fear No Foe in Swan Pyjamas.”
In fact, “the old Pony Moore touch” was simply invaluable. Even the
stern old dowagers whose brothers “had been at Eton with the dear
Duke” were enchanted. For a full three-quarters of an hour Mr. Jupp
was kept hard at it with songs and patter, jokes and conjuring tricks.
No man could have worked more heroically in the cause of charity. The
situation was saved.




XXX


WHILE Mr. Jupp so nobly held the breach, a doctor was summoned from the
audience to attend Lady Elfreda. On his advice she was sent home at
once to bed in the care of her maid. She was so overwrought that the
doctor, fearing serious consequences, followed her to Clavering Park,
stopping on the way at a chemist’s in the town to procure a bromide.

Lord Duckingfield, a much embarrassed witness of the play’s fiasco,
had already come to the conclusion even before the ignominious descent
of the curtain at the end of Act I, that Lady Elfreda had been driven
too hard by the strain of perpetual rehearsal and that she had been
induced to undertake a rôle beyond her powers. He had now an anxious
consultation with Mrs. Minever as to what ought to be done. Both
were so genuinely concerned that it was decided to telegraph to Lady
Elfreda’s father and ask him to come at once to Clavering Park.

He was usually to be found in London at the Old Buck House Club. There
a telegram was sent after a judicious formula had been decided upon so
as not to alarm the paternal feelings of Lord Carabbas unduly.

The yellow chrysanthemum lady, who was really the soul of kindness,
did not wait for the end of the performance, but accompanied by Lord
Duckingfield she took a taxi as far as the post-office and personally
dispatched the fateful telegram. Then, deeply anxious for Lady
Elfreda’s welfare, they went on together to Clavering Park.

By the time Mrs. Minever reached home, Girlie, much soothed by the
ministrations of the doctor, had been put to bed. Here, in as much
comfort as a bad and thoroughly alarmed conscience would permit, she
was found with the grim and scandalized Pikey sitting by her side.

“How are you, my dear?” said the hostess, kindly.

The invalid, although still looking very white and strained, said
feebly that she was feeling much better.

“I am so glad.” Mrs. Minever took the hand of the sufferer gently
within her own. “The whole thing has been a little too much for you,
I’m afraid. You must keep very quiet for a day or two, and the doctor
says you must not think of going to Mrs. Lancelot’s, at least not until
the end of the week.”

Girlie’s deep sigh expressed acute relief. With a feeling that was
almost content she closed her eyes. In the next moment, however, she
had opened them again in horror.

“The doctor says you must stay in bed--at any rate until your father
comes.”

“My father!” Girlie’s gasp had a thrill in it.

“Yes, my dear.” The voice of Mrs. Minever was very gentle. “Lord
Duckingfield and I have just telegraphed to Lord Carabbas. We have
told him not to be alarmed, but we have begged him to come down here
to-night, if he can, or by the first train to-morrow.”

It was as much as ever Girlie could do to repress a groan. But this
fortitude was beyond the panic-stricken Pikey, who was following
closely every word of the conversation. She walked to the window in
a state of terror. At that moment she hardly knew how to keep from
throwing herself out of it.

The hostess strictly enjoined the patient to get some sound and
refreshing sleep and not to worry about anything, and then she left
the room. As the kind lady withdrew she little guessed the scene of
desolation upon which she softly closed the door. The Deputy and the
duenna were left frozen with horror. They looked at one another in
tragic dismay.

In the end it was left to the unfortunate Pikey to break the silence.

“Himself!” she gasped. Putting her hands before her eyes she began to
shake miserably.

It needed only this show of impotence to re-awaken Girlie’s latent
hysteria. Tears began to flow down her white cheeks once again. A
longing to kill her came upon the Werewolf.

In a little while, however, Girlie grew calmer. She was able to make a
supreme effort for self-control. And, caught in the toils if ever human
creature was, she was even nerved to a little constructive thinking.

“L-Lady Elfreda m-must know at once.”

Pikey remained mute and rigid as a stone.

“You m-must go to her and tell her that her f-father is c-coming.”

Far from Pikey’s intention though it might be to accept dictation from
Miss No-Class she could yet judge that the proposal was not lacking in
practical wisdom. Still she did not relish turning out on a winter’s
evening on such an errand. But desperate diseases call for desperate
remedies. After all, it was the only thing to be done. Elfreda was
the key of the situation. And the sooner Elfreda understood what the
situation now was the better for all concerned.

Finally, and with great reluctance, Pikey consented to set out for
The Laurels immediately. She was really persuaded to do so less
by the forlorn entreaties of the Deputy than by the hard logic of
events. Weakly and foolishly false to her trust, Pikey felt that she
had perhaps stronger reason than any one else to fear the coming of
Himself.




XXXI


DURING the remainder of that terrible day Girlie stayed in bed. And to
count the tardy minutes against Pikey’s return was her only occupation.
Alas, it began to seem presently that the duenna would never come
back. Hour after hour passed. Girlie’s heart sank to zero. Visions of
ignominious disaster rose before her eyes. Lying there, passing in
review all that had happened in the last incredible ten days it was
impossible to recognize in such a queer adventuress the rather prim
and certainly retiring person she had always known herself to be. Some
strange virus had infected her. Force of example in the first place,
no doubt, but allied also to a vaulting ambition which had o’erleaped
itself.

Nine o’clock struck. Would Pikey never come back? Soon, however,
the hostess came to see if her guest was quite comfortable, and to
bid her good-night. The kind lady was full of solicitude. She felt
sure that Lady Elfreda was a delicate flower and that the heavy task
laid upon her had proved too much for her strength. The doctor had
prescribed a sleeping draught which, in the absence of the maid, Mrs.
Minever herself administered. The patient was then assured that the
doctor would pay her a visit the next morning, and then the yellow
chrysanthemum lady gave the sufferer a kiss and left her to a much
needed night’s repose.

Despite the draught, however, Girlie had never in her life felt so
little like sleeping. Wide-eyed and miserable, she tossed on a damp
pillow, awaiting the arrival of the one person who could help her now.
Surely Elfreda must come to the rescue. And she must come to-night.
There was no time to lose. For it seemed to the guilty sufferer that
it was of the last importance that Mrs. Minever and her guests should
be prepared for the truth before the truth was rudely revealed by Lord
Carabbas.

Shortly after ten Pikey returned. But she returned alone. Very tired
and sorely disgruntled she had only cold comfort to offer. Her
reception, to say the least, had been ungracious. And Elfreda had
merely laughed when she was told that her father had been sent for, but
her message to Miss Cass was that she would come to Clavering Park in
the course of the next day and clear things up. In the meantime, in the
cool and cynical words of Elfreda, the best thing for Miss Cass was to
stop in bed.

Even this simple alternative proved to be a counsel of perfection. Left
to her own devices throughout the darkness of many interminable hours,
Girlie’s torments grew. The sleeping draught could not cope with her
agitated brain. After a while, unable to lie still, she paced the large
room. Why had she done as she had done? What madness had urged her?
Was there no way of escape!

Between five and six o’clock, however, of that long vigil she came to
a final resolve. She decided to go away. Exactly where her very small
resources would take her she did not know, but in her present state of
mind any place in the three kingdoms was to be preferred to Clavering
Park.

Accordingly, fired with resolve, she packed a few necessities of travel
into the most portable case she could find. She then dressed for a
journey and with a sinking heart examined once again the contents of
her purse. Her means, alas, were but two pounds seven shillings--two
pounds seven shillings with which to face a cruelly inhospitable world!

That brutal fact must have given her pause had anything been capable
of doing so now. But so little was she a reasonable being just then
that the sheer hopelessness of such a flight could not turn her from
her purpose. Before setting out on her travels she sat down at an
escritoire and scribbled a hasty and tremulous line.

  “I cannot bear this a moment longer. I am going away--I don’t know
  where. E. H. Cass.”

She sealed the note in an envelope duly addressed “To the Lady Elfreda
Catkin.” This done, she adjusted that lady’s velours hat and fur coat,
grasped her traveling bag and leather-handled umbrella and crept
noiselessly, like the little thief she felt herself to be, out of King
Edward’s room and down the richly carpeted central staircase.

By now it was nearly half-past six. At present there was not a sign of
the servants, but the light was already beginning to show above the
famous elms in the park. Gentle-footed as a cat, Girlie crept like a
ghost across the hall parquet. To do that cost her one pang more. That
particular spot was full of memories. No matter what experiences the
future held she would never be able to forget the kindly simple man who
had wanted to marry her.

She stole through the shadows of a dim corridor to the heavily barred
front door. It proved a nerve-racking business to withdraw its chains
and bolts, yet it was not these things which suddenly brought her up
short with an icy gasp of fear.

Without warning of any kind a hand was laid upon her shoulder. As she
half turned a strange face confronted hers in the semi-darkness of the
corridor.

“Early abroad.” Whoever the speaker might be his appearance was a
little strained, a little odd. His voice, with its queer, rather
mocking laugh, seemed equally so. Something there was in the dark,
heavily mustached, rather Semitic countenance, that sent a chill
through Girlie’s heart.

Powerless to speak, she felt her knees sinking under her. Instinct,
that fatal instinct for the world and its ways, told her at once who
and what this man was. His next sinister words were not needed to
enlighten her, although they did so quite unmistakably.

“You had better go back to bed, hadn’t you?” The voice was soft, but it
was soft with menace. “You see, I’ve been looking out for this. Played
it up rather high, haven’t you--er--Miss?--I haven’t the pleasure
of knowing your name. But we shall know it soon enough, unless, of
course”--the laugh was not at all kind--“you are in a position to prove
to the satisfaction of Lord Carabbas that you are really his daughter.”

Girlie, mute and shaking, realized that the end had come. She continued
to listen sickly to the malicious and unpleasant voice. “As I say, we
don’t know who you are, we don’t know what your record may be, but
if without putting us to further trouble you will tell us where Mrs.
Minever’s sapphire and diamond ring is to be found I’ll give you my
word that the police will make it as easy for you as they can.”

Bereft of speech, Girlie could only tremble. She had to lean against
the wall for support. This man was a detective from Scotland Yard who,
at the instance of Mrs. Minever, had come to Clavering Park to clear up
the matter of the missing jewelry.

“Now be a sensible young woman and go straight back to your room
without making a fuss. And just see that you stay there until I’ve had
a chance to have a little talk with the lady of the house. If you go
quietly and behave sensibly I’ll undertake to do what I can for you.”

There was only one thing for it now, and that was to take the
detective’s advice. This, accordingly, Girlie did. She returned to her
room and sat forlornly by the window gazing on to the park awaiting
further developments. After a time, in spite of the fur coat, the
chill of a November morning fell upon her. Finding that her teeth were
chattering, she decided to return to her down-quilted bed.

Here, in this temporary security, she toyed with the excellent
breakfast which in the course of time was brought to her. And then she
exerted her will to the uttermost in order to deal with events as they
arose.

The first event to arise was the coming of Mrs. Minever. Upon the brisk
entrance of that lady into the room shortly before ten, Girlie looked
up from an uneasy pillow to scan the face of the hostess eagerly so
that she might read her doom. But her doom was by no means easy to
read. The hostess was her usual bright and cheerful self. She had,
moreover, the air of solicitude of the previous night. Girlie, steeling
herself to bear terrible reproaches, was quite at a loss to understand
what had occurred.

“I do hope you have slept, my dear.” There was absolutely no hint of
the early morning drama of the hall door. “The doctor will be here
soon. In the meantime, you must stay where you are and keep very
quiet.”

Immensely reassured by the tone Girlie decided to do as she was told.
All the same she hardly knew how to hide her surprise. She had been
looking forward to a very different scene.

In point of fact, Mrs. Minever was taking no chances. The detective had
told his story. He had presented his theory for what it was worth, and
to Mrs. Minever’s keen indignation he had not scrupled to throw doubt
upon the identity of the chief guest. Mrs. Minever had pooh-poohed the
theory. It really seemed the most unlikely she had ever heard. Not only
was there the evidence of the guest’s coronetted luggage and personal
belongings, there was the word of Mr. Montagu Jupp and also the fact
that she had been accepted by the Lancelots. No, Mrs. Minever was not
inclined to take risks of that kind. She was almost tempted to call
the detective a fool for his pains. His theory was monstrous. The poor
child was merely overwrought.

By this time, besides, there was another factor in the case. A telegram
had been received from Lord Carabbas. Already that peer was en route by
the 8.50 from Paddington, which was due at Clavering St. Mary’s about
midday. His arrival upon the scene would set every doubt at rest.

In the meantime, Mrs. Minever, like the wise woman she was, gave no
countenance to these fantastic suspicions. Yet had she been at all
inclined to do so she must have observed the look of unmistakable
horror that came into the eyes of her guest when she was told that her
father would arrive in a few hours. Mrs. Minever’s one desire was to
reassure the nervous and excitable creature. And so little perceptive
was the good lady that presently she withdrew from King Edward’s room
strong in the belief that she had done so.

Smitten with an ever-growing fear, Girlie lay shivering with dread.
The coming of Elfreda was the only hope left to her. Would that
intransigeant turn up at Clavering Park before her father? If she did
not the consequences would be too dire to contemplate.

Hardly had Mrs. Minever left the room when the luckless Pikey came in.
She was half paralyzed by the news. A look of absolute terror entered
the eyes of the Werewolf. The bill about to be presented for payment
was quite beyond the duenna’s power to meet. She simply did not know
how to face Himself. The whole situation was altogether too much for
her.

As for the Deputy she could only continue to hope against hope for the
arrival of Elfreda.

In a short time the doctor came to see the patient. He considered her
pulse and concluded that she was much better, but advised her to stay
in bed and promised to come again the next day. Girlie, however, did
not follow this advice. For within an hour of the doctor’s visit she
found lying in bed to be more than she could bear. Tormented by a
restlessness that was really painful, any change was welcome. Therefore
she dressed once more. And as she did so a sort of courage came to
her. She realized the plain fact that whether or no Elfreda chose to
appear at Clavering Park further concealment would soon be out of the
question.

At a moment when there was nobody about Girlie ventured downstairs
as far as the hall. She was now faced with one of two alternatives.
Either she must make a last attempt to get away before public exposure
overtook her or she must abandon herself to the mercy of Lord Carabbas.
Sitting in her favorite nook by the good log fire with a shawl draped
round her shivering shoulders she did her best to grapple with a truly
terrible problem. Alas, she soon found that it was not to be grappled
with. Her brain refused to act. Her will was inert.

The minutes ticked on relentlessly. In the process of time the hall
clock chimed twelve. Girlie in a paralysis of despair settled her
miserable self yet more deeply into her shawl. It would need every
ounce of will she could muster to sustain the accumulated weight of
humiliation that was about to fall upon her.




XXXII


IT happened, however, that Girlie Cass was soon to find herself
involved in a middle course. The hall clock had scarcely ceased to
strike when Lord Duckingfield came in from his morning walk. Almost at
once his eye lit on the small abject figure cowering by the fire.

“Why, here you are, Lady Elfreda,” he said, cheerily. “I hope you are
feeling better.”

“Oh, much better--much better, thank you.” The timid, hesitating voice
was very forlorn, but it could find no other words to speak.

“I’m so glad.” And then the honest Midlander studied his watch. “Your
father should be here in about half an hour--if his train is punctual.”

A look of simple terror came into the eyes of the Deputy, but she was
seated too much in the shadow for Lord Duckingfield to be able to see
it. All the same, that gentleman stood looking at her rather oddly and
then suddenly he sat down in a chair by her side. “I don’t want to bore
you.” The tone was very humble. “But before your father comes, I should
like you, my dear, if possible, to reconsider your decision.”

Such words, spoken as they were with kindness, delicacy, self-evident
sincerity, had the effect of precipitating Girlie’s overthrow. She
perceived the real goodness of this man. Wild instinct prompting
her, she suddenly took the bit between her teeth. Before she quite
understood what she was doing she began to tell him everything.

“Suppose”--her voice was so faint that it was scarcely
audible--“suppose I don’t happen to be the daughter of Lord Carabbas?”

“Yes, by all means,” he said, with boyish glee. “Let us suppose you are
plain Miss Brown. Why not? Rank doesn’t make a pennyworth of difference
as far as I am concerned. True, I’ve set up a title of my own. But it’s
only for advertising purposes.” The laugh of my lord was very frank.
“It helps me in business you know. In many ways, I don’t mind telling
you I should be more comfortable without any rank at all.”

In the silence, the rather irksome silence which followed, this almost
too-honest man began to feel, as he so often did, that “he had put his
foot in it as usual.” That phase, however, was brief. For suddenly he
began to realize that he was listening to the recital of a story almost
inconceivably strange.

Girlie’s confession achieved a certain dignity. Her amazing account of
a weak nature in the toils of a strong one gathered force and coherence
as it went on. Lord Duckingfield could hardly believe his ears. As he
turned to look at the scared and quivering creature by his side he
became the prey of strong emotions. The one, however, by which he was
dominated was anger. The little fraud, how dare she! How dare any slip
of a girl play such a trick! For a moment a primitive savagery filled
his heart. Yet being a man who prided himself on his sense of humor,
after the first shock he was able to laugh.

His mirth was not very spontaneous, nevertheless. It sounded hollow. He
would be a public laughing stock. But to do Lord Duckingfield justice,
he saw at once that this aspect of the case was not the one that was
going to hurt most. Rooted somewhere in his robust nature was a genuine
regard for this inconceivably weak and foolish child. She was extremely
pretty, her helplessness was pathetic, she appealed to the highly
developed protective instinct of a strong-willed male of five and forty.

It was the most genuinely comic story he had ever heard. And it was
entirely amazing. He did not doubt that every word was true. But for
all his balance of mind and his largeness of view he could not escape a
sense of chagrin. She had led him on to make a fool of himself. Apart
from the question of her chicanery, which he shrewdly saw went no
deeper than sheer folly, it was going to be very hard to forgive her.
His personal dignity was shattered. True, there was nothing, absolutely
nothing in the whole affair with which he need reproach himself, but
for many a long year the little world in which he moved would tell the
story against him.

No, he couldn’t help feeling angry. Yet, as he looked at this little
fool, as he looked into those gray eyes now filmed with tears that from
the first had appealed to him so oddly, he clearly perceived that she
was not the culprit-in-chief. There was sterner stuff, a force far more
potent behind it all. The real Lady Elfreda, whoever she was, whoever
she might be, was the prime mover in what had happened. At her door
must be laid the guilt of this mad escapade. Common justice required
that on her shoulders the whip must fall.

Still this absurd, this charmingly pretty Miss Cass ought not to be
let off lightly. But the story she told revealed the naked truth.
And somehow the naked truth, unflattering as it was to her and to
himself, brought no dishonor. She had been incredibly weak, she had
been morbidly vain, for out of the depths she had confessed that the
_Saturday Sentinel_ said she had “insight” and therefore she had
been tempted to seize the providential chance of becoming a Miss
Cholmondeley or a Mrs. Humphry Ward; therefore, in the circumstances of
the case, it was impossible for a man cursed with a sense of humor to
lay a heavy hand upon her. She didn’t deserve to be let off lightly,
yet he didn’t feel inclined even now to hurt her very much.

One question there was, however, that he was impelled to put to her.
And on the answer to it a great deal must depend. Why had she not told
him sooner? Why had she encouraged him to make such a fool of himself?
He felt obliged to ask this. And, towering over her, an avenging
figure, he asked it sternly.

“Don’t you see what a hole you’ve landed me in?” he said. “Don’t you
think you might have had the decency to stop me a bit sooner?”

Tears came into the scared eyes. But it was the tone of the words
rather than the words themselves that drew them.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The sight of her tears seemed to make
him a shade less magisterial. In spite of himself he couldn’t help
softening a little. And in Miss Cass’s present state of emotion the
merest hint of softness was too much for her.

“I d-daren’t,” she sobbed. “I s-simply daren’t.”

“Why not?” It was half indignation, half overmastering curiosity.

“I l-like you so much I c-couldn’t bear to give you up.” The truth came
out in a gulp.

Once more he laughed. But in the act of doing so he realized how much
this rather rubbishy little thing had hurt him.




XXXIII


DEFEATED by the absurdity of the situation Lord Duckingfield suddenly
ended his interview with Miss Cass. He still had a desire to chastise
her. But there were certain reservations in his mind in regard to the
little donkey. She had been inconceivably weak, inconceivably foolish,
inconceivably vain; nevertheless it was the real Lady Elfreda who must
be asked to pay the bill. Even the indignant fancy of my lord hardly
knew how to paint the wanton cynicism of that young woman.

In the midst of the preposterous scene with the incredible Miss Cass
the angry gentleman felt a craving for fresh air. He warded off that
lady’s threat of hysteria by turning his back upon her and striding
to the hall door. Let him banish her from his mind--at any rate until
he had been able to think over the matter in all its bearings and
he had made some attempt to adjust his mental processes to a quite
unparalleled affair.

However, as he learned all too soon, even that modest program was not
going to be easy to fulfill. For as he came to the hall door he found
himself in the midst of flurry and commotion. The Park omnibus was in
the act of arrival from the station. With pomp and circumstance it had
just drawn up to the threshold and was solemnly disgorging a really
imposing vision on to the front steps.

The honest Duckingfield, confronted by a purple visage with a monocle
glowing in the middle, an overcoat trimmed with astrachan and a superb
expanse of buff gaiter, had to take a very tight hold upon himself.
The worthy Midlander was not in any way a brilliant fellow, but five
and forty years of traffic with the world had imbued him with a keen
sense of the human comedy. This somewhat superlative arrival of Lady
Elfreda’s father cast quite a strain upon his resources.

“Hallo, Ducks!” Lord Carabbas offered the large and genial hand of his
race. “Good of you to send that wire. How’s that unfortunate girl of
mine?”

“Oh, better--she’s much better.” But the eye of Ducks was a little
evasive; anyhow, it sedulously avoided the eye of the noble marquis.

“Devilish glad to hear it.” Paterfamilias appeared to be greatly
relieved. “I thought from your wire, that she was in for a bad time.
Been overdoing it, evidently.”

“Ye-es, overdoing it--been overdoing it.” Ducks again avoided the eye
of the anxious parent.

“Great strain, these theatrical performances, hey?”

“No doubt.”

“Hope she hasn’t upset the whole house.”

“Oh, no--not at all.” Ducks drew on his reserve of conventional
politeness.

“Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’Freda. See you anon.”

Lord Carabbas passed into the house. Lord Duckingfield passed out of
it. Perhaps it was a pity some imp of mischief did not prompt the
worthy Midlander to stay and witness the progress of his distinguished
friend. Lord Carabbas, a mass of judicious pomp and fair weather
geniality, waddled slowly across the hall parquet. En route he passed a
pretty little girl shivering by the log fire in the lee of the stairs.
The gallant Irishman, with an unrivaled eye for female charms, noted
her with a smile of approval.

It was a dank morning of November, but for nearly an hour the man from
the Midlands traipsed solemnly round the park. His mind was in strange
disorder; the oddest things were happening in it, but amid the flux of
thought one phrase slowly crystallized. And the phrase was significant.
“If she belonged to me,” it ran, “by gad, I think I know what I should
like to do with her.” And the grip of a very honest man tightened on
the stout ash plant in his hand.




XXXIV


WHILE events at the Hall were moving so swiftly to a final crisis, at
The Laurels also there had been developments.

Having witnessed the fiasco of the Assembly Rooms, Elfreda had now to
face the fact that the game was up. So far as it went the game had been
quite amusing, but--and the “but” was decidedly a big one--it was by no
means clear that it was going to prove worth the candle.

Over a belated tea in the nursery, as Elfreda grimly reviewed the
situation in all its bearings, she was almost tempted for a moment to
deplore her mischievous folly. But only for a moment. There was nothing
of the weakling about her. Illogically enough, she was deeply angry
with Miss Cass for making such a pitiable exhibition of herself, yet
when she came to think matters over amid the boredom and discomfort of
thick bread and butter and lukewarm tea and the table talk of Master
Peter and Miss Joan, she was ready to believe that the ignominious
collapse of the play added a new spice to the adventure. A set of
vulgar people had been properly “scored off” and for the time being
that was all she cared.

Nevertheless, before the evening was out she had to withstand a
threat of “cold feet.” About seven o’clock the terrified Pikey arrived
with the news that Himself had been telegraphed for in hot haste. The
immediate effect was certainly to diminish Elfreda’s sense of victory.
She was not really afraid of her father, she was not afraid of any one,
but when “The Dadda” was fully roused he was an awkward customer to
tackle.

There was a rather bad quarter of an hour with Pikey. It was also a
rather ignominious one. The foolish old thing had got “cold feet” so
badly herself that she vowed, even with tears, that she would never
return to Clavering Park at all. Stern threats were required to bring
her to reason. And it was not until Elfreda had made a solemn promise
to appear in the course of the next day at Clavering Park that Pikey
could be induced to return that evening. She, at any rate, had a
wholesome fear of “The Dadda.”

Forced not very willingly into a definite promise, Elfreda had now to
carry it out. Her immediate surroundings were decidedly uncomfortable,
but they did not lack interest. Indeed, they had a romantic interest.
Miss Dolores Parbury had marked down General Norris for her own, but
the passing of each day merely confirmed the determination of the new
governess to thwart that lady. He was such an engaging young man that,
leaving out the personal equation, it would go to Elfreda’s heart, nay,
it might almost be said to impinge on her professional pride to abandon
such a charming novice to the wolves. She was quite sure that as soon
as she withdrew from the scene the wolves would gobble up George Norris.

The following morning, tense prelude to a momentous day, found
Elfreda’s mind divided against itself. Even if she was not looking
forward to a meeting with “The Dadda” she was unrepentent for the
mischief she had wrought; but now that she was in the presence of the
fact she simply hated the idea of giving up George Norris. He was
really very attractive. And, taking the problem he presented on the
lowest ground of all, it would be unpleasantly like defeat to allow him
to be carried off by somebody else.

The morning lessons in the schoolroom had always been irksome. And
to-day they soon became intolerable. The governess with such grave
issues weighing upon her made little or no attempt to give her mind
to the daily routine. Besides she was in the blackest of moods. This
morning she was hating everybody and everything. Her temper, which had
suffered ten long days unnatural repression, had now a dangerous edge.

It was the amiable custom of Master Peter and Miss Joan to begin
the day with a quarrel. And it was regarded as the first duty of
the custodian of these spoiled darlings to calm their ugly little
tempers without losing her own. From the first, as far as Elfreda was
concerned, this had seemed to ask almost too much of human nature. A
creature of curiously strong antipathies she disliked Miss Joan and
Master Peter so intensely that the time had now come when she found it
exceedingly difficult to stay in the same room with them.

“Don’t, Jo-an, you are pulling my hair!”

“Pe-tah, you story--you wicked story!”

It was the beginning of the daily duet. And it was part of the price
exacted by Nemesis of Miss Cass’s deputy. The Lady Elfreda Catkins of
the planet must not suppose that for the average nursery governess life
is a bed of roses. No doubt it was in the interests of human nature as
a whole that they should not. All the same, by the time the duet had
been repeated for the eleventh successive morning, the Deputy-Miss Cass
would have given much to slay Master Peter and Miss Joan.

The governess made several attempts to ensue peace. But this morning
her task was not easy. She was feeling, perhaps too keenly, the
pressure of events. No longer perfect mistress of a sure and balanced
self, she allowed her small tyrants to perceive with the uncanny
acuteness that small tyrants have, that just now the game was in
their favor. And they were tempted to presume on their knowledge. The
thoughts of Miss Cass seemed elsewhere. This morning there was less
sting in her rebuke; on the surface, at all events, her manner towards
them was not quite so uncompromising.

The duet went on. And so forbearing was Miss Cass that its most
popular passages were repeated. New embellishments were even added
to the original performance. For instance, when Miss Joan encored a
particularly neat and effective pinch, Master Peter, disdaining mere
words, suddenly got right home with a well directed hack on Miss Joan’s
shin.

Miss Joan responded with a little howl of fury. This protest having
completely failed to attract the notice of Miss Cass, Miss Joan
proceeded to deliver an honestly resounding box on Master Peter’s ear.

The reply of Master Peter was to fling ink over Miss Joan’s copy book.

And then things really began to happen. Miss Joan cast a hasty glance
at the governess in order to be quite sure that private thoughts
still engaged the whole of that lady’s attention, and then she fairly
went for Master Peter. First the kick was returned with interest and
then ink in liberal quantities was daubed over Master Peter’s face
and collar. This last indignity, however, proved too much for the
self-respect of a Briton. Master Peter’s rejoinder took the form of a
piercing howl.

Now the howl of Master Peter had such a quality that it drew Miss Cass
abruptly from her reverie. Her private thoughts were of darkness and
eclipse, of battle, murder and sudden death, but the sound of Master
Peter and more particularly the sight of him seemed quite to harmonize
with them. Master Peter proved just a little too much for Miss Cass in
the present state of her nerves.

The reckless Miss Joan did not understand that she had come already
to the edge of a sheer precipice. Therefore she gave Master Peter’s
hair one final tweak. The voice of Master Peter ascended to heaven. In
almost the same instant something snapped in the brooding soul of Miss
Cass. Pent-up forces were unsealed. The deep resentments of eleven long
and weary days suddenly burst their bonds. Horse, foot and artillery,
the new governess fell upon Miss Joan.

At the moment of onset Miss Joan merely wondered what had happened. She
seemed to realize vaguely that it was something very unpleasant. As her
spectacles flew off and her mouse-colored locks escaped the custody
of their puce-colored ribbon, she found herself projected into a new
experience. An experience quite surprisingly new. She couldn’t breathe.
Her eyeballs seemed to rattle against the back of her ears. And her
knees were in continual danger of knocking chips off her chin.

The new governess was small, she might even be said to be “petite,” but
she was extraordinarily vigorous, nay she was more than vigorous. She
was remarkably strong. Generations of stern self-discipline had curbed
the natural spirit of a Berserk, which, all unknown to its possessor,
still lurked below the surface. But eleven days, eleven long embittered
days of Miss Joan and Master Peter, had unchained primeval forces. The
new governess fell upon that child and shook her. She fell upon Miss
Joan and shook her until it became a wonder that one breath remained in
the small body. It was far from the act of a “lady,” yet it was almost
inhumanly exhilarating.

This terrific assault was at its height, and Master Peter, who had
decided to join forces against the common foe, was indulging in shrill
screams which Miss Joan would have been only too ready to second had
she been in a condition to do so, when Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson opened
the schoolroom door.

For a moment the fond mother stood mute and rigid, a tragedy queen.

“Miss Cass!”

The voice of hard horror was no longer flutelike.

“Miss Cass!”

It was clear that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson expected the heavens to fall.




XXXV


SPEAKING figuratively, the heavens fell. The scene which appalled the
mother of these cherished darlings was more than she could bear. As
soon as Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson realized what was taking place before
her eyes it was just as much as ever personal dignity could achieve to
save her from falling tooth and nail upon the governess.

“Miss Cass, are you mad?”

For a few brief, glad moments Miss Cass may have been mad. But as the
governess released the gasping Miss Joan and confronted Miss Joan’s
mamma she was perfect mistress of herself once more. All the same,
there was a dangerous spark in the center of each sapphire blue eye.

“I consider it an outrage, Miss Cass!” The speech was punctuated with a
stamp of fury.

“Little beast!” That may or may not have been the phrase that fell
from under the breath of the scornful Miss Cass. But as she stood
tense as an arrow returning look for look, it sounded uncommonly like
it. The fingers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson fairly itched to fly at the
little vixen; indeed it was almost a miracle that they did not, but an
ever-present sense of personal dignity was again her salvation.

As for Miss Cass, she was amazing. The light in her eyes positively
invited the older and the weightier lady to a rough and tumble. It was
that light, no doubt, which enabled Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to realize
that the situation was now at the extreme verge of the permitted for
really well-bred people. Certainly, if the human eye can speak Miss
Cass asked Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson “to come on.”

Of course, as a very little reflection showed, it was quite impossible
for Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to oblige her. Besides, as soon as the
outraged maternal feelings had steadied themselves a bit, they found a
trick worth two of that.

For a week past, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had been a painful pilgrim in
the valley of decision. Should she or should she not send away the
new governess? With a feeling of “uplift” perilously akin to joy she
decided suddenly to dismiss Miss Cass upon the spot.

It was the only thing to do. But the act itself in its barbaric
simplicity was very stimulating.

“I must ask you to pack up your boxes, Miss Cass.” In Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson’s anger there was a quality of suppressed splendor
which made it sublime. Besides, the phrase itself was an unconscious
plagiarism from the previous day’s ill-fated masterpiece at the
Assembly Rooms: in very similar terms had Sir Toby’s ill-fated heroine
received her _congé_.

But Miss Cass remained unmoved, stoical, cynically indifferent.

“Please have them packed immediately. I will ask Miss Parbury to look
out a train to London for you.”

That excellent afterthought came as a final bolt. The incensed lady
paused dramatically to mark its effect. Miss Cass did not blench.
Unquestionably, such a shaft must have gone right home, but the little
governess knew how to conceal the wound.

The whole scene was decidedly humiliating, but after all, it didn’t
matter particularly--at any rate, to the Lady Elfreda Catkin. What was
going to matter was the triumph of Miss Parbury. A very attractive
young soldier would have to be abandoned to the siren of Birmingham.

It was just there that the shoe really began to pinch. A moment’s
thought showed Elfreda that in any case the shoe must have pinched
just there. That romance had already reached its appointed end. Still,
it was a trifle galling to be “sacked” so ignominiously. Miss Parbury
would gloat. Yes, it was rather astute of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to ask
that lady to look out a train!

“I’m afraid, Miss Cass”--in the exhilaration of the hour Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson became flutelike once more--“it will be quite
impossible to give you a reference. And I shall write at once to Canon
Carnaby to say so. I am exceedingly sorry. In regard to your salary,
I shall consult my husband. Here are two pounds which will take you
to your home.” The magisterial lady produced a brace of reluctant
Bradburys. “You may or may not be entitled to a full month. As I say,
I must consult my husband.”

There was not the slightest need for Miss Cass to smile. Such a moment
should have been really painful, at any rate to a properly constituted
mind. But Miss Cass did smile, moreover so scornfully that Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson found it hard to veil her fury.

“Please go at once and pack your boxes, Miss Cass. There is a train to
London about two, I believe. But Miss Parbury will be able to tell you.”

“Pray don’t give any one trouble on my account.” The tone of Miss Cass
had the bite of an acid. “I am reasonably good with a Bradshaw.” The
calm effrontery of the creature was astounding.

“I am sure Miss Parbury will consider it a pleasure.” A shade below the
belt, no doubt, but then there are no Queensbury Rules for the ladies,
God bless them!

Beneath the entranced gaze of Master Peter and Miss Joan the hated Miss
Cass made a slow and dignified exit. They were quite surprised that she
didn’t even slam the door. But if looks are a guide she must have been
really sorry for herself that she was so awfully much of a lady.

“Jo-an darling, run and ask dear Dolores to look out the London trains.
Or stay, I’ll go and ask her myself. And then I’ll write to Canon
Carnaby.”




XXXVI


THE news traveled quickly. Dear Dolores received it almost at once;
and received it, moreover, with a modesty that did credit to her
self-respect; but as she turned her prompt attention to Bradshaw’s
Guide she could hardly refrain from humming “Any Time’s Kissing Time”
and kindred melodies from Chu Chin Chow. After all, it is neither just
nor wise to exact too much of human nature.

The second person to be informed was General Norris. That gentleman,
who had just returned from his morning constitutional, was in the act
of crossing the hall when he suddenly found himself involved in a riot.

Master Peter and Miss Joan burst out of the schoolroom dancing a sort
of fandango.

“She’s got the sack, she’s got the sack!”--Miss Joan.

“Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!”--Master Peter.

Explanations were immediately demanded. Explanations were at once
forthcoming.

“You might almost be said to be pleased,” was the sad comment of George
Norris at the end of their thrilling story. And he was such a very
simple young man that the sound of his voice suggested tears.

“What do _you_ think?” The idiom of Miss Joan was a little primitive,
no doubt--she took after her father’s side, poor dear child! “She a
perfect beast, isn’t she, Pe-tah?”

“A norrible beast,” Petah agreed.

But in the eyes of George Norris there was a look that seemed to
contradict them flatly.

He was such a naïf young man that the lurid story of the morning’s
war, which to be sure lost nothing in the telling, came as quite a
shock. And the shock left him sore, rueful, angry. He was not at all
inclined to accept the tale in all its nakedness--things had been left
out, things had been put in--and as he had known from the first, these
unsportsmanlike women had had “an awful down” on the little governess.

The crux of the matter was that she was a rather special kind of
governess. Only too evidently she was used to the best people and the
best houses. George Norris was too good a sportsman himself to be hard
upon Mrs. T.-S. from whom he had received many kindnesses or upon
Miss P. who was by way of being a dasher, but the trouble with these
ladies was that they were quite unable to forgive Miss Cass her trick
of making them look cheap. A minx, of course, a perfectly charming
minx who spent her time scoring them off. She had deserved all she had
got. But as man is the being he is in the world of the present, George
Norris would have liked beyond all things just now to have knocked the
heads of Master Peter and Miss Joan together.

The young man in his distress, which he had neither the art nor the
tact to conceal, sought Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. He found her seated
at a writing table in the morning room. And flanking her, in a low
chair by the fire, was Miss Parbury poring over with an air of intense
absorption, the intricate pages of Bradshaw’s Guide.

“There’s a train at a quarter-past two, I see,” Miss Parbury announced
as General Norris entered the room.

“That is the one. She must go by that.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson dipped
her pen augustly. “Tell me, what’s the date, dear?”

Miss Parbury had a doubt as to the date, but General Norris succinctly
furnished it from the top of _The Times_ newspaper which providentially
was at hand.

  Dear Canon Carnaby,

  It is with the greatest reluctance that I write to tell you that the
  governess whom you recommended so highly has not been a success. In
  fact, she has proved so altogether unsatisfactory that I am having to
  dispense with her services at a moment’s notice. You will be grieved
  to learn that I am unable to give her a reference. In my humble
  opinion she is wholly unsuited to the care of young children. Her
  temper, to put the case mildly, is under imperfect control and much as
  it distresses me to have to say so, she does not invariably speak the
  truth; also her manners leave much to be desired. On several occasions
  she has been openly and intentionally disrespectful. I am sorry to
  have to write in this way of one who has been able to recommend
  herself to your kindness, but it seems right that you should know the
  sort of person she really is.

  With kind regards, believe me, very sincerely yours,

                                             M. ELEANOR TRENCHARD-SIMPSON.

She read the letter over with a glow of quiet satisfaction and then
gave it to Miss Parbury for perusal and criticism. Miss Parbury’s
criticism was that she didn’t think it was strong enough.

Taking it altogether, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was inclined to think the
letter didn’t lack force.

“I don’t know about that.” Miss Parbury fixed one arctic eye upon the
mobile countenance of General Norris. “Considering that she has just
pretty nearly killed poor Joan.”

“Killed poor Who?” The development of the issue was growing too much
for the feelings of an impressionable soldier.

“Didn’t you hear the uproar in the schoolroom, George?” A shade of
maternal reproach softened Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s note of indignation.

George confessed that he had not.

“Why, even Cook heard it in the basement. And when I went into the
schoolroom what do you suppose was happening?”

George had not the faintest idea.

“I found Miss Cass”--it was the voice of a Niobe mourning her
young--“shaking the life--literally shaking the life out of the poor
darling.”

“Well, the poor darling seems a pretty lively corpse, I must say.”

It was, of course, a remark that ought not to have been made. A
military career has a tendency to make the best and the nicest of men
unfeeling. There was that to be said for George Norris. Both ladies,
however, were clearly wounded a little. Their quiet air of triumph
was almost vanquished by such gaucherie. Men are so amazing! Some men
are, at any rate. How was it possible to defend such a creature! Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson painted a full-length portrait of the wicked Miss
Cass, and as a final touch invited the young man to read the letter she
had just addressed on the subject to the Rector of Laxton.

The invitation was an error of judgment. And it really seemed odd that
one so conspicuously a member of the sex which specializes in finesse
in all its branches should have made such a mistake.

George Norris read the letter to Canon Carnaby with amazement. Nay with
more than amazement. The young man found it hard to conceal his wrath.




XXXVII


MISS CASS WAS duly informed that her train was the two-ten. The family
chariot had been ordered for half-past one, an insurance as far as was
humanly possible against her missing it. Luncheon, in the meantime, was
served to her in the schoolroom.

George Norris was quite upset. Clearly he was expected to share the
righteous indignation of the ladies of the household, but this was
asking too much of human nature. As for Miss Parbury’s air of triumph,
he found it intolerable.

In truth, this was a dark hour. For the young man now realized that he
was very much in love. The drama of this abrupt departure brought home
the fact rather unpleasantly. A very little reflection showed that his
hesitations and moral cowardice of the last few days were going to cost
him dear.

On three consecutive mornings had he made up his mind to propose to
Miss Cass before the day was out. But the end of each day had found him
unequal to the task. He didn’t quite know why. Sheer human weakness, no
doubt, had led him to put off till the morrow. And it was now too late.

Somehow the little governess had always contrived to keep him rather at
a distance. He had never quite known the ground on which he stood. She
was a most dexterous fencer, her heart was not worn on her sleeve; and
in spite of his military renown he was not quite sure of himself. But
the “sacking” at a moment’s notice of this extremely fascinating little
lady brought things at once to a head.

It roused the chivalry in the breast of George Norris to the danger
point. He felt that he must speak now or forever hold his peace. This
was a chance that could not recur. If he let her go now he was never
likely to meet her again. In a state of high tension he began to range
the house, yet halting always at the schoolroom door with two sinister
words echoing and reëchoing in his mind. Too late! Too late! was their
diabolic chorus.

Even now he was set upon one last attempt. She must not go away like
that. It was the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, he would have
to rush his fences horribly, but no matter he must put all to the touch.

The schoolroom door confronted him. But in spite of the row of
decorations on his tunic his courage suddenly failed. One can hardly
propose to a girl in the middle of her luncheon! Some men might be
equal to such a task: a strenuous military life had taught George
Norris that some men are equal to anything, but even in this impasse he
thanked his stars that he was not of their number. No, confound it all,
he must let her eat her luncheon anyway!

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed a quarter-past one. He was
cutting it decidedly fine! Again one of his fatal hesitations came upon
him. Only a fool would think of butting in now. Better far be content
with obtaining her permanent address and sending through the post an
offer in his best English. But the Dr. Jekyll in his composition--or
was it the Mr. Hyde?--assured him that such a bloodless proceeding was
bound to fail. Wiser by far, thought Jekyll-Hyde, to trust implicitly
to the personal equation. Let him go ahead with the business, luncheon
or no luncheon, then and now!

Yes, after all, that was the sound commonsense of the matter. The hand
of George Norris sought the knob of the schoolroom, but before he could
turn it, the door of the room opposite came abruptly open. “George,”
said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson with a glance at the venerable article of
furniture across the hall, “Tell me, isn’t that clock slow?”

With a stab of keen annoyance George looked at his watch. Alas, the
clock was certainly slow, by a full ten minutes. And in confirmation of
the dire fact a severe parlor-maid and a giggling subordinate emerged
at that moment round a bend into the visible part of the staircase in
charge of Miss Cass’s rather meager but heavily burdened tin trunk.

In almost the same instant there came a sharp peal at the front door
bell. It was an intimation that John Small was round with the family
chariot.




XXXVIII


WHATEVER the disabilities of General Norris there was not a suspicion
of false shame about his hostess. She took the knob of the schoolroom
door out of the young man’s hand and turned it for him.

“Miss Cass.” The flutelike note rang clear and free. “No wish to hurry
you, Miss Cass, but the carriage is waiting.”

Miss Cass lifted her eyes calmly from her cheese.

Then she glanced at the watch on her wrist--an adorably neat watch on
an adorably neat wrist--quite leisurely. “Thank you,” she said drily.
It was really the driest “Thank you” George Norris had ever heard.

As she rose from the table with a deliberation which to Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson was rather infuriating, that lady observed the hat
of the retiring governess. It was decidedly expensive. And her gloves
and shoes could not possibly have been warranted by her salary. On the
other hand George Norris observed none of these things. He was occupied
far too much with their wearer. But above all, he was occupied with
that sinister chorus in his brain, “Too late, too late!”

All was lost. And he had but himself to blame. In a kind of dull rage
he stepped up to the open door to watch the lading of Miss Cass’s
luggage on to the chariot. The mien of John Small was a comedy in
itself. He at least was ready to welcome the departure of one who had
kept him in his place as determinedly as he attempted to rise above it.
As John Small hoisted the tin trunk on to the back of the dog cart he
had the look of a man well satisfied.

That look was oddly reflected in the bearing of Miss Dolores Parbury,
who at the chosen moment emerged from the morning room to speed the
parting guest. There was a kind of wary triumph in it, a triumph not
so much open and avowed as tacit and concealed. After all, Miss Cass
was only the governess. But there the triumph was, at any rate, for the
eye of George Norris, who suddenly found that it was more than he could
bear. As he caught the slightly averted glance of Miss Cass that was
like nothing so much as a sword half-sheathed, his heart went out to
her. In defeat she was sublime. Faults she might have; her manner with
young children might leave something to be desired, but _au fond_ she
was a fearless warrior and she had been endowed with so much charm that
nature hardly seemed to be playing fair to the average members of Miss
Cass’s sex in allowing her to treat it as a proprietary article.

The gallant George did not try to analyze the situation. He was a man
of action, for one thing. Besides, there really was not time. This was
the crisis of his fate, and events were moving with alarming rapidity.
Before he could regain complete control of his mind, the inimitable
Miss Cass was making her adieux.

With the faintly mischievous smile which invited intimacy and yet
repelled it, she offered her hand.

“Good-by!” she said.

But George, hypnotized by the touch of her fingers, felt quite unable
to say good-by. He knew that immediately beyond the little lady two
pairs of eyes, scorpion in their burning intensity, were directed upon
him. He knew that anything he said or did now would be used in evidence
against him, but it was asking too much of human nature to let her go
like that. He didn’t know her plans, he didn’t even know her address! A
mine had been sprung under his feet by the forces of injustice; but he
would never be able to forgive himself if he lost her without making a
sign.

The forces of injustice were ruthlessly dominating the scene. But what
did it matter? What did anything matter? This was Fate’s hour. If at
such a moment he failed to show himself a man it would tell heavily
against him in the ultimate assize.

“I’ll come to the station and see you off!” The daring of the speech
was incredible; at least, so it seemed in the ear of two of the ladies.
In the ear of the lady to whom it was addressed, by one of those
piquancies which make the human comedy the infinitely delightful thing
it is, it was accepted at its face value with a complacency that was
hardly decent.

“How extremely kind of you!”

A shiver ran through the stout fibers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. The
robust Miss Parbury had a horrid momentary feeling that some one was in
the act of walking across her grave.

“But, my dear George,”--the voice of the hostess was imperious, yet by
comparison with the organ tones around her it sounded oddly high and
thin--“luncheon is at a quarter to two. Aren’t you forgetting?”

The intrepid young man was not forgetting. He could easily obtain a
sandwich at the station.

“But how absurd!”

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson waited an instant for the departing governess
to agree that it _was_ absurd, as any self-respecting governess must
surely have done in the circumstances, but she waited in vain.

“It is not in the least necessary. Small is quite able to help with
Miss Cass’s luggage. Are you not, Small?”

“Yes, m’m,” came a slow but truculent response from the seat of Jehu.

“Oh, no.” The young man was amazing. “Much better let me. Porters are
in such short supply at all the stations these days. Besides, I want to
send off a wire. So that if there’s room at the back of the cart for me
as well as for that trunk----?”

“Woa-a-a horse!”

George, the incredible, had one foot on the back step already. Miss
Cass, smiling and calm, was seated deftly in front. If the look of her
had a meaning she knew only too well that all the cards were in her
hand.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw that the game was going against her heavily,
but she gathered herself for a final throw. “My dear George, you will
catch your death,” she cried.

It _was_ a dank morning of November. There was even a thin spatter of
rain. George, the overcoatless, reluctantly lifted his foot from the
step of the dogcart. “I’ll get my British Warm,” he said.

Too elemental for a thought of treachery to enter his mind, the young
man turned suddenly into the house in quest of that garment.

Openly and palpably fighting for victory Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw
her chance. No modest scruple stayed her. “Drive on, Small,” she said
sternly, as soon as the young man had passed indoors. “Don’t wait for
General Norris.”

Small, ready at all times to obey his mistress, was prepared to do
so now. He may or he may not have had a full grasp of the case. Such
fellows are not always so wooden-witted as they appear. But he valued
his place and beyond a doubt he would not have waited for General
Norris had it not been for the prompt intervention of the lady who
shared with him the front seat. With a suddenness very disconcerting to
John, the shameless Miss Cass sprang to her feet. “My box is not very
secure, I’m afraid. It might fall out at the back.”

“Your trunk is quite all right, Miss Cass,” promptly and energetically
countered Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “It cannot possibly fall out. Small,
drive on.”

Hardly a minute was occupied by the entire incident. But the situation
was saved. Before John Small had a chance of getting under way, General
Norris, becomingly clad in his British Warm had emerged from the house
and had again placed his foot on the back step of the chariot.

“Never mind your box, Miss Cass,” he said cheerily. “I’ll take care of
that.”




XLIX


ALL the way to Clavering Station George Norris took extremely good
care that the tin trunk of Miss Cass did not fall from the back of the
dogcart. His task was not difficult, for the box was so comfortably
disposed under the seat that it showed not the slightest disposition to
do so. But had it been a tin trunk with any spirit of opinions of its
own it might easily have achieved a crash to Mother Earth at the sharp
turn into the high road by The Laurels gate and at divers trappy places
along the route, for there really was a much preoccupied young man in
charge of it.

The truth of the matter was that it had almost immediately dawned
on George Norris that should the 2:10 Up be punctual it would leave
very little time for a proposal in form. Moreover, it would have to
take place on the station platform. Such are the inconveniences of a
dogcart. In the circumstances of the case it seemed hardly less than a
grave oversight on the part of Fate to have omitted to provide a closed
brougham, no matter how antiquated, one-horse or otherwise, for such an
occasion.

Certainly it meant cutting the whole thing very fine. According to the
rate of John Small’s progress they were not likely to reach Clavering
station much before two o’clock and that left little time for the
business in hand. As a matter of historical fact, it wanted exactly one
minute to the hour when they drew up beneath the portico of the station
yard.

George had to justify his presence by seeking a porter in the station
interior. To do him justice they undoubtedly _were_ in short supply,
but he was able to corral one in something under two minutes and
returned with him in triumph to find Miss Cass handsomely tipping John
Small for services unwillingly rendered. In fact, when John withdrew,
chariot and all, he was quite a changed man. From the moment he had
first set eyes on the new governess he had been her enemy, but if
anything was meant by the manner of his final exit from the station
yard she was almost entitled to look on him now in the light of a
friend.

The departure of John left a bare six minutes or so for the
all-important matter to be transacted, always providing that the train
was punctual. Happily the porter was very reassuring on this point.
According to his estimate the 2:10 Up was bound to be anything from
twenty to forty minutes late. Moreover, if he was betting on it he
would back the second figure rather than the first. So far, so good.

However, there was a dramatic surprise in store for George Norris.
Indeed, there was a series of surprises. And they began almost at the
moment John. Small and his chariot left the station yard.

“Please label this,” George directed the attention of the porter to
the tin trunk. “Waterloo or Paddington?” he inquired of its owner.

Then came surprise the First.

“I think it had better be put in the cloak room,” said Miss Cass. “And
these, I think, had better go with it.” She indicated the pilgrim
basket and another miscellaneous article ranged beside it. “I am not
going by this train,” she added quite casually.

The heart of George Norris gave a leap.

“So much the better.” And the young man spoke with the simplicity which
made him so attractive.

With quite a sense of relief he saw the luggage of Miss Cass stowed
away in the cloak room. And then, like a man of will who has just been
confirmed in a great decision, he addressed that lady. “I don’t know
what your plans are,” he said, “but if I may, I would like to have a
little talk with you.”

The only answer of Miss Cass was a smile. But she made no difficulties
about having a talk with General Norris. As intending passengers were
now rapidly assembling for the Up train, they crossed the bridge to
the deserted Down platform. No one else was there. They took one brief
turn and then sat down on a wooden bench thoughtfully provided by the
railway company.

This the hour and this the opportunity. There was no beating about the
bush. George knew his own mind and proceeded to ensue it. “Ethel,” he
said, taking one small gloved hand in his own, “will you marry me?”

It was by no means an easy fence to tackle, but George’s methods were
decidedly workmanlike. “There’s only my pay, but I’ve just been offered
a good billet in East Africa. The climate is first rate, there’s any
amount of things to do and one can live at much less cost than one does
here. Of course, there’s no saying exactly how it will pan out, but
anyhow, will you chance it?”

It took Miss Cass but a very short time to express her willingness “to
chance it.” She too, it seemed, had the valuable faculty of knowing her
own mind. Not in anywise immodestly did she rush upon her fate; she was
able to display the conventional diffidence of one fully acquainted
with the rules of the game, but it was not difficult to set the doubts
of George Norris at rest. From the moment he had climbed into the back
of the cart she had known that he was hers.

En route to the station there had been an opportunity to weigh the pros
and the cons of the matter in her cool and sagacious mind. All the
same, it was not coolness nor was it sagacity that had carried the day
with her. She liked this young man because she liked him. He was the
new, highly efficient type the war had evolved. She knew nothing about
him, but instinctively she would trust this man as she would trust few
men when it came to a tight place. And there was an air of romance
about him.

It was an act of foolhardiness, no doubt, for a girl of position, but
she had been made reckless by recent events. Besides, she was “out” for
freedom. She had had one brief taste of it, and making due allowance
for its drawbacks, her appetite was keen for more. Irksome the
experiences of the last ten days had certainly been, yet she was quite
determined now to do as she chose with her own life. She asked nothing
highfalutin’ nor did she look for it, but she meant, if possible, to
escape altogether from the stuffy circle of Castle Carabbas with its
hierarchical connections and its feudal ideas. Now was the moment for
those autocratic people, her father and mother, to learn once for all
the limit of their power.

As there was no one else on the Down platform, they were able to seal
the compact in the fashion ordained by nature and custom. “But, do you
know,” the young man confessed even at this delicious moment, “if you
hadn’t been so much up against it I mightn’t have had the pluck to ask
you.”

Such naïveté delighted her. Also, it was very intriguing.

“But why not?” she archly inquired. “I’m only a friendless governess,
am I not, with food and house-room provided and a wage of thirty pounds
a year?”

“Yes, you are down on your luck,” he frankly admitted. “But I don’t
mind betting a shilling that you haven’t been so always. Now tell me
honestly, haven’t you once been Top Dog?”

She didn’t try to conceal her amusement even if she masked a proper
feminine curiosity. “I don’t know why you should think so,” she said
with the smile provocative which yet was a counterfeit of complete
indifference.

“There’s something about you”--his naïveté was charming--“that is
always giving you away. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if this was
your first situation.”

“But didn’t you say the other day”--she would have been less than her
sex had she not enjoyed drawing him out--“that you thought I had been
abroad in the service of foreign royalties?”

“I’ve had all sorts of theories about you,” he confessed. “But it won’t
surprise me at all if none of them meets the case.”

She archly expressed relief, the light of humor in her eye. He was
enchanted by the look of her and yet he was a little anxious too. At
the back of his mind there was a subtle feeling that “he was having his
leg pulled.” The feeling had always been there, even from the first
moment he had talked with her. Somehow she was immensely mature for her
years. She appeared to have so much in hand. And a word here and there,
an odd phrase, a chance inflection of voice, even her way of looking at
people and her manner of entering a room were continually giving her
away.

Besides, he had seen from the first that the other ladies of the
household had regarded her as a natural enemy. Perhaps it was the
sense of their injustice that had first drawn him to her. But from
day to day he had increasingly admired the bold and implacable skill
with which she had carried the war into the country of her foes. She
mightn’t have one shilling to rub against another, this mysterious
little lady, but she had rare courage, great will power and infinite
resources of her own.

All the same, sitting delightfully close to her on a seat of the
deserted Down platform and the great deed done, even at this exquisite
moment he was not absolutely sure that she was not laughing at him.
And in spite of the elation within this feeling grew upon him as they
talked. Somehow, he was less certain of the prize he had won than a
victorious suitor should have been. And he had not to look far for
reasons.

The 2:10 Up was duly signalled, a full twenty minutes late. Presently
it drew up with a prodigious rattle at the platform opposite.

“I suppose you are going up by the next,” said George. “But it’s not
so good as this one, you know. It doesn’t start till something past
five and it won’t get there until a good bit past one in the morning. I
know, because I’ve traveled by it for my sins.”

Ethel--already he had permission to call her Ethel because somehow
Girlie didn’t suit her at all!--rejoined that no matter what her sins
might be it was not necessary for her to travel to town by the 5:40.

“What, you are staying the night here in Clavering!” His tone was a
complex not unpleasing of hope, fear, surprise, bewilderment.

“Ye-es, in the neighborhood, I think, unless I suddenly change my
plans.”

“With your mother’s friends, the Lancelots, I suppose?” He couldn’t
help laughing as he recalled the audaciously comic turn she had given
to the topic of the Lancelots at the family luncheon.

“I’m sure they’ll put me up for a night if I ask them,” she said
demurely.

“Oh, I’m sure they will. They’ll be delighted.” But even now he didn’t
really know if he was justified in taking her friendship with the
Lancelots seriously.

She was a mystery, that was the truth of the matter. And her answer to
his next question provided ample confirmation of the fact.

The question itself was a simple one. What were her immediate plans?
In his rôle of accepted suitor he felt it incumbent upon him to ask.
Had she relations in the district? If she had, might he accompany her
forthwith and be presented to them.

Her reply was brief but it was surprising. “Oh, yes, do come with me by
all means--to Clavering Park.”

“To Clavering Park!”

“Yes--to meet my father.”

To meet her father! The gaze he fixed upon her was blankly
incredulous. But in the fragment of time necessary for a survey of
her expressive countenance the fable of the dead solicitor’s daughter
collapsed completely and for ever.




XL


TO Clavering Park--to meet her father!

George had been pretty sure from the first that she was playing a part.
But what was the part she was playing? Who was her father if he was not
a deceased solicitor? He did not forget her other picturesque statement
that she was the offspring of a butler and a lady’s maid. George was
inclined to think that so far as he himself was concerned it might
simplify matters considerably if this proved to be the case. Still, it
would not be wise to build hopes upon it.

The young man began to view a developing situation with a deepening
anxiety. Instinct told him that there might be rocks ahead. “By the
way, who is your father? What is his name?”

“You must come and meet him.” With a laugh defiant rather than gay she
got up abruptly from the station bench.

Perforce it had to be left at that, for the time being at all events.
George was prepared to go with her to the world’s end if she commanded
him, so why not to Clavering Park? He rose, too, from the bench and
went with her across the bridge to the Up platform just as the belated
2.10 was in the act of moving off.

In the station yard was a decrepit taxi which they were able to hire
and in about half an hour the lodge gates of Clavering Park confronted
them. By now the bewilderment and curiosity of George were almost
unbearable. He was in the seventh heaven, it was true, but native
commonsense grimly warned him that his heaven was strangely insecure.
The romance of the circumstances was weaving a spell of its own; the
sense of enchantment increased as the mystery grew; he was beginning
slowly to realize what a truly delightful thing she was to possess and
on that very account, as became one who had learned much in a hard
school, he understood how necessary it was to take care. There must
be no counting of chickens. Somehow the nearer they drew to their
destination the less favorable grew the portents. By the time the lodge
gates had opened and their taxi had rattled through, the sense of
“Ethel’s” innate Top-Doggishness had developed quite remarkably.

“Those trees and the deer remind me of my home.” She might have been
speaking for the sake of conversation; on the other hand her intention
may have been to prepare his mind for certain revelations to follow.

“Tell me, Ethel, where is your home?” In his own apprehensive ear his
voice sounded odd, strained, nervous.

“I live in Ireland.”

“I used to live there too,” he said. “Ireland was where I was brought
up.”

“Really. Now that’s very interesting.” The tones of her voice were so
soft and warm and rich that they made him think of velvet. “Do tell me
exactly where.”

“I was brought up at a place called Bally Euchra in County Kildare.”

She gave a faint cry of suppressed astonishment. “What a small world!
Bally Euchra of all places! Why, my grandfather lives there.”

Barely had he time to echo her surprise with a faint cry of his own
when the taxi drew up beneath the portico in front of the house,
thereby denying him the opportunity of asking who her grandfather could
possibly be.

It was just as well, no doubt, that such was the case, for had that
particular question been answered, there is little doubt that George
Norris would have bolted for his life!




XLI


GEORGE rang the bell. Of the servant who promptly answered it “Ethel”
asked if Lord Carabbas was there and if so could they see him. The man
said he would inquire and showed them in.

“Lord Carabbas!” Midway between astonishment and dismay Ethel’s
cavalier muttered to himself that name of ill omen as they entered the
house.

The servant politely indicated chairs in the hall and then went in
search of Lord Carabbas.

In the waning light of the November afternoon the hall seemed to
be deserted. But it was not. Deep in a corner near the large open
fireplace was an unsuspected presence. And scarcely had they time to
realize that a third person was there when the presence sprang out upon
them.

With a cry that was half a sob, half a shriek, Girlie fell upon Elfreda
and flung both arms round her. By means of the spate of wild words
that followed, Elfreda learned that Girlie was ruined irretrievably,
that her career was blighted and that she fully expected to be sent to
prison.

“Sent to prison! Pray, whatever for!”

With the aid of a second spate of half suppressed sobs Girlie told the
story of the missing necklace; she also disclosed that a Scotland Yard
detective was going to arrest her on suspicion.

George Norris, embarrassed considerably by a scene of which he was
rather an unwilling witness and the cause of which was very obscure,
nervously withdrew some paces into the hall proper. He was greatly
troubled. The plot was thickening. But as to what had actually occurred
he was quite in the dark. Here, however, was mystery indeed. Moreover,
the march of events still gave no clew as to the ground on which he
stood.

Still, he was at the threshold of enlightenment.

In a short time the servant returned. He was accompanied, however,
not by Lord Carabbas but by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Minever
greeted Elfreda in a sort of flutter of curiosity. She then went on
rather incoherently to explain that Lord Carabbas was out. Would the
visitors care to wait for him as he was expected back quite soon? With
surprising coolness Elfreda promptly accepted the invitation.

George for his part could still only view the situation with
bewilderment. He was altogether in the dark. His bewilderment,
moreover, was now tinged by alarm. For reasons of his own he had no
particular desire at that moment to meet Lord Carabbas. The stern fact
had not yet dawned upon the young man that Lord Carabbas was the father
of “Ethel.”

There was no way of retreat now that things had gone so far. Besides,
as George stood listening to the conversation of Ethel and Mrs.
Minever he was quickly devoured by a passion for further enlightenment.

“But do you mind telling me who you are?” he heard Mrs. Minever say.

Elfreda gave her name. Any attempt at concealment would have been
useless. As the amazing story was now by way of being public property
the mistress of the house had already guessed her visitor’s identity,
but the unsuspecting George was stupefied. In the next moment, while
his mind was still chaos, he awoke to the fact that Lady Elfreda was
gravely presenting him to Mrs. Minever.

Poor George was staggered. He could but dimly grasp the truth. Overcome
by a sense of his own inadequacy, he felt he was growing more and more
ridiculous. “But I don’t understand,” he said faintly.

“I’m afraid I must ask Lady Elfreda to explain,” said Mrs. Minever with
her color rapidly mounting, with an odd tremor in her voice and with a
rather forced laugh.

“Please ask Miss Cass to enlighten you.” And Elfreda cast a wicked
glance at that ineffectual lady.

“Miss Cass!” Poor George seemed more bewildered than ever.

“Ask her to tell you what has happened.” The amazing Elfreda spoke
with the slightly bored air of one dismissing a tedious matter. And
then, for all the world as if it no longer existed for her, at Mrs.
Minever’s suggestion she turned calmly upon her heel and accompanied
that lady to the drawing room.

George Norris left alone with Miss Cass in the agreeable vicinity of
the good log fire made his halting plea for further enlightenment.
Girlie, stricken as she was by the sense of her own guilt and the
humiliation of her own absurdity, had great difficulty in complying
with the request. Even upheld as she was now by the arrival of Lady
Elfreda, it still called for a mighty effort to hold her tears in check.

Howbeit she was able to tell the incredible story after a fashion. It
was such a poor and halting fashion, its lapses were so many that the
unlucky George had to fill in the gaps as well as he could. The task
was not easy for George’s naturally quick intelligence did not serve
him well in these trying moments. But as with ever-growing dismay he
really got the hang of the story at last, he hardly knew whether to
laugh like a sportsman or to allow a sense of outrage to consume him.
For he himself, as he was not slow to realize, had merely been fooled
and put in a false position like every one else.

He was able to muster a laugh, but the underside of it was not mirth
exactly. Over head and ears in love with the wicked little witch he
certainly was, but he saw at once that all their plans were knocked
awry. Laugh as he might at the absolute success of the trick that had
been played, the cynicism and the arrogance which deprived every one of
any rights in such an affair could not be passed over. Even the most
injudicious of lovers must not omit that aspect of the case.

“But why--but why,” said the bewildered young man, as he gazed in
humorous horror at the tear-stained Miss Cass, “why in the name of
heaven did you let her do it?”

“She made me,” was Girlie’s simple and pathetic answer.

“Made you!” Like several other people he felt a desire to shake this
pretty little noodle. But a sense of justice forced him to conclude
that what she said was true. Such a will as hers would be nought in the
scale with the implacable Elfreda’s. Recalling as he now did each phase
of that young woman’s career of eleven days’ humorous devilment at The
Laurels, he was inclined to exonerate Miss Cass. There was but one door
where the blame could lie.

“The little devil!” George gave a sly whistle. “And I suppose her
father has gone to The Laurels to fetch her?”

Girlie said that Lord Carabbas had.

“Well, if he’s the Lord Carabbas I remember”--George burst into a
sudden laugh--“she’ll have to consider herself lucky if she doesn’t get
a thoroughly sound whipping.”

Girlie shuddered and turned pale. This display of emotion was followed
by silence. She herself had in prospect a penalty even more severe.
A stricken conscience was causing her a great deal of pain. She felt
that she deserved to suffer, and although it was good to hear this
young soldier laugh heartily at the whole affair, there was something
in his manner which implied that privately he thought so too. Poor
Girlie had nothing of the picturesque aplomb of the culprit in chief.
Her sense of guilt was there for all to see.

As for George Norris, this remarkable conversation with the real Miss
Cass had suddenly made life very difficult. His dream was shattered.
For all his merit as a soldier and the distinction he had won, he was
an extremely modest fellow. It was not for men like himself to aspire
to the Lady Elfreda Catkins of the world, however much he might adore
them. Secretly he was full of resentment. Such mischievous impudence
was entirely amazing. He had a strong desire to punish her, but with
the perversity of a very human being, her attraction for him was never
so great as now she stood revealed in all her wickedness.

Laugh he might, but the mirth of George Norris was of the kind that
seeks to cover a deep wound. He was far more in love with this dainty
rogue than was either wise or desirable. But he had now to meet the
fact squarely that she was beyond his reach. True, he could claim to be
her accepted suitor, but circumstances alter cases.

Yes, the case was altered. The only course now was to pocket his pride
along with the rest of his fine feelings and return at once to The
Laurels a sadly humiliated man. The little wretch! How dare she? Once
more he posed that futile question as he gazed at the visibly wilting
form of the real Miss Cass.

Even Lady Elfreda’s calm retirement to the drawing room was an added
impertinence. It was her way, no doubt, of turning him down. She had
fooled him, as she had fooled every one else, to the utmost limit and
then cast him off like an old glove. Suddenly the decent George began
“to see red.” He would give a good deal to get back a little of his own.

The longer George talked with Miss Cass the more fully did he seem
to realize that only one line of conduct would now consort with his
dignity. All the same, it was not going to be easy to follow. To
say the least his position was very uncomfortable. The immediate
problem, as it seemed to him now, was whether or no he should take
a formal leave of Lady Elfreda. Merely to say good-by or not to say
good-by--which course would best salve his damaged feelings?

He was still talking with Miss Cass and striving vainly to get a
just perception of his own relation to such a set of exceptional
circumstances when this problem automatically solved itself. Lady
Elfreda came into the hall with an unknown gentleman.

George rose rather stiffly. “I think I’ll be going,” he said lamely.

“Oh, no,” said the scapegrace with cheerful promptitude. “I want you to
stay and meet my father. He should soon be here now.”

Such a charmingly easy acceptance of the situation took George aback.
“But will your father want to meet me?” he said, fixing an eye
sufficiently humorous upon the unknown gentleman.

The unknown gentleman, a large and genial one, was plainly threatened
with a fit of laughter.

“Lord Duckingfield, let me introduce General Norris,” said the
scapegrace coolly. Her air of taking everything for granted struck Lord
Duckingfield and George Norris as exceedingly comic.

Bows were exchanged. Both men, however, maintained an eloquent
silence, although to judge by a certain archness of look with which
each regarded the other it was clear that their minds spoke the same
language.

George, all the same, was suffering acutely from the sense of his
position. Even if he was over head and ears in love with the little
rogue, that was no reason for courting a public humiliation. “I think I
must get back to The Laurels,” he said with all the firmness he could
muster. “Good-by, Lady Elfreda.”




XLII


FATE was against George Norris.

Lady Elfreda persisted that he must stay and meet her father. The
unwisdom of such a course was open and palpable, but he was a
chivalrous fellow and, in spite of the facer dealt him by her wicked
trick, he was still in the mood for adventure. Moreover, he was simply
devoured by curiosity as to what would happen next.

For a man of average spirit it was worth running a risk of personal
insult to learn the next turn in the game. What was to be the end of
this amazing comedy? That question lurked in the genial eye of Lord
Duckingfield. And the arch glance of that peer seemed to tell George
Norris that to beat a retreat at such a moment would be conduct
unworthy of a soldier, a sportsman and the possessor of a sense of
humor.

Besides, to run away just now would be extremely difficult. Not
for the first time this charming little vixen was pitting her will
against his, not for the first time was he experiencing its steel-like
quality. There was a heavy account to settle with her but she really
was delightful. And her “gameness” was magnificent. “Of course, you’ll
stay. You _must_ meet The Dadda. He’s great fun.” The affectionate
lisp might have been inspired by a favorite golliwog.

“I hope you’ll stay, General Norris.” A smiling but anxious-looking
hostess had appeared just in time to enforce the appeal. “Have some
tea, at any rate, before you leave us.” Not wishing to show himself
a poltroon in the sight of the world General Norris accepted the
invitation.

In about five minutes tea was brought into the hall. And then one by
one the guests appeared from odd corners of the house. They were hardly
more than a round half dozen, a company by no means formidable either
in number or in quality, but as the muster grew, George for the first
time in his life was afflicted with a desire that the floor might open
and swallow him.

There was no reason, of course, why George Norris should suffer this
feeling. But he was a member of the weaker sex. She, to whom such an
emotion would have been entirely appropriate, gave no sign of turning a
hair.

Upon the hostess devolved the task of making Lady Elfreda known to
those who might be said to be her victims. It was performed heroically.
One and all might be sharing a mild sense of outrage, they might be
fuming inwardly at the arrogance of this chit who was hardly out of her
teens, but it was hard not to admire her _sang-froid_ in the presence
of the enemy.

Really she was as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. She partook
of some excellent tea and some cake equally excellent with a zest that
atoned for a decidedly scratch luncheon at The Laurels. Poor George,
on the other hand, who had had no luncheon at all was unable to peck a
crumb. He had been four years in France, his record was vouched for by
the row of decorations on his tunic, but at this moment he was ready to
own freely that here was the tightest corner he had ever been in.

Everybody behaved beautifully, but it was soon clear to George that one
and all were looking forward with huge enjoyment to the appearance of
“The Dadda” upon the scene. His return could not be long delayed. And
the miserable George was bound to deduce from the suppressed tones and
the sly looks all about him that he had been cast for an important part
in the play.

Had George been as brave morally as he was in the field he would have
made a bolt for The Laurels after his second cup of tea. Such publicity
was altogether too much. He felt these hard-bitten worldlings were
simply gloating over the possibilities of the situation. Still, even
in the extremity of stage fright he was bound to remember that he
had asked this little girl to marry him and that she had consented
to do so. Of course, the preposterous circumstances made the whole
thing invalid, but as now he wrestled with his moral weakness it came
home to him that he was very honestly in love with this minx. She was
adorable. And as man is the being he is in the world of the present,
she was the more adorable because so palpably out of his reach.

In point of time it was not very long and yet quite long enough for
the peace of mind of George Norris before certain tokens heralded the
return of Lord Carabbas.

Perhaps the tidings were first promulgated by Hobson, the butler, as he
moved up to the front door. He was an impassive fellow, but the look
on his face and the sight of him nervously crossing the hall parquet
seemed to demoralize more impressionable members of the community.
From Sir Toby Philpot there arose a cry which resembled the shriek of
a plover. Nothing could check it except a violent attack of coughing
which intervened at the precise moment that a lowering, heavy-jowled,
empurpled face suddenly projected itself from behind the large screen
of Chinese lacquer which shut off the cozy inner hall from the outer
darkness of the universe.

Apart from the muffled sound of Sir Toby’s attack the silence was
of the tomb. Lord Carabbas himself stood speechless, glowering upon
the company not unlike a bull confronted by a red umbrella. Swiftly,
however, with a cry of charmed surprise, Lady Elfreda rose from her
place beside the hostess. “So here you are, papa! You have been to The
Laurels, I hear. So sorry we missed you.”

As those tones of gay welcome rode the storm it was recognized at
once that rumor had not over-painted this young woman’s powers as an
actress. Montagu Jupp had been well within the mark when he had said
that their possessor was capable of playing all the ingénues off the
London stage. The intrepid coolness with which she came forward to
greet her parent was sublime.

Lord Carabbas lowered his head a point as if about to charge. For the
moment, however, his animal energy was confined to a few syncopated
sounds in his throat.

Not in the least abashed Lady Elfreda continued to keep a firm hold on
the situation.

“Let me introduce George Norris, papa.” It really was sublime. For all
the buzzing in his ears General Norris was able to rise from his chair
and bow with solemnity.

Lord Carabbas did not return the bow. Indeed, if the eyes of my lord
had a meaning they simply affirmed a desire to kill General Norris.

Tea was over, happily, and the spectators, although fascinated by
a scene more richly comic than any it was their avowed business to
create, did not allow private considerations to balk a sense of
sportsmanship. It seemed only fair, at any rate, to a blameless young
soldier and an innocent peer, to give them a chance. Mrs. Minever had
the presence of mind to lead the way to the drawing room. And the
others began silently, if in some cases reluctantly, to melt away.
They would have given much to remain, but decent people, after all,
must sacrifice a little to the manes of fair play.

In spite of her feeling that she had a prescriptive right to be there,
Girlie rose and followed in the wake of the others. But a great effort
of will was needed in order to do so. And yet to stay in her nook, a
thrilled and guilty witness of the scene, would call for more courage
than she possessed.

“But I don’t understand.” Those were the words Girlie heard as she
rose from her place by the fire. The tone in which they were uttered
was deep, stern, menacing. Lord Carabbas, his voice trembling with
fury, looked first at Lady Elfreda and then at her cavalier. “Perhaps
you will explain.” The voice tailed off so queerly that Girlie half
expected Lord Carabbas to hit General Norris a blow. Without waiting
for any such dreadful development she hurriedly retired to King
Edward’s bedroom.

So tense was the moment that George Norris stepped back involuntarily,
as if a blow was fully expected.

Elfreda, however, was magnificent.

“General Norris has asked me to marry him, papa, and I should like to
do so.” The precision of the speech had a sort of astringent humor
which somehow had the effect of keeping “The Dadda” in hand. It served
to remind him that, in spite of the strain which had been cast upon
him, it was his duty to remember that beyond all things he was a
gentleman.

There was a long moment of silence in which it seemed to George Norris
that anything might happen, and then Lord Carabbas, obviously making a
tremendous effort to keep calm, fixed the young man with the eye of war
and growled, “I don’t think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance
and yet I seem to know your face.”

There was another long and tense moment. Involuntarily George Norris
stepped back another pace. And then he said in that curiously frank
manner which Lady Elfreda liked so much, “Don’t you remember me, sir? I
am George Norris.”

“Norris--George Norris?” My lord’s brow was a thundercloud. But that
was merely the process of thought. For the moment his memory had
betrayed him.

“Perhaps, sir,” said the young man in his straightforward fashion, “you
will remember my father better than you remember me.”

Lord Carabbas shook his head. Plainly he was still at a loss.

“My father, sir, was butler for nearly thirty years at Bally Euchra,”
said General Norris modestly.




XLIII


A PIN might have been heard to fall on the hall parquet. And then the
voice of Lord Carabbas rose to a bellow.

“What! Son of old Norris!”

“Yes, sir,” said the modest George. But there was a note in the voice
of my lord that at once enabled George Norris to assume perfect mastery
over himself. “And my father married Miss Hook, the maid to your mother
the Duchess.” With an air mildly ironical the young man turned as he
spoke to the girl at his side.

Lady Elfreda was biting her lip sharply. She had turned rather pale.

Another pin might have been heard to fall on the hall parquet and then
George Norris said very quietly and calmly: “I should like you to
understand, sir, that when I asked Lady Elfreda to marry me I was under
the impression that she was a governess without a situation, without
money, without friends.”

Lord Carabbas nodded truculently. He was wise, no doubt, not to trust
himself with words.

“And, of course, you will understand, also, that when Lady Elfreda did
me the honor to accept my offer she had no idea that I was the only son
of her grandfather’s late head butler and her grandmother’s second--I
believe it was second--maid.”

The young man ended this speech with a slight bow for the benefit of
Lady Elfreda. And then quite suddenly he exploded in laughter. Lady
Elfreda had the wit to respond with a tempered outburst of her own.
But it lacked spontaneity. For all her power of will she was obviously
laughing now on the wrong side of her mouth. As for Lord Carabbas,
sore, bewildered, seeking to fix a quarrel, he saw a new affront in the
method by which this son of old Norris chose to handle a matter quite
without precedent.

“I’m hanged if _I_ can see anything to laugh at,” he said.

Again Lord Carabbas stood looking from one to the other of the culprits
as if he would dearly like to commit murder. But at this grim moment he
was saved from any rash or overt act by the composure of his daughter
and the manly commonsense of this son of old Norris.

“I suppose, sir, I ought to apologize,” he said matter-of-factly, “for
landing you in this hocus. But, of course, I hadn’t the least idea----”

“No, that I quite see,” snapped Lord Carabbas.

“And of course it alters the case.”

Lord Carabbas saw that too. His nod, at any rate, affirmed as much. And
basking in a sense of acute relief that the more pressing evil was in
process of being removed, he suddenly remembered what was due to this
brilliant son of an old family retainer.

Recovering his air of grand seigneur, Lord Carabbas, with as much
heartiness as he could muster, congratulated George Norris on his
achievements in the field. They did him great credit and his lordship
was quite sure that George’s parents, who had retired years ago from
the Duke’s service to the keeping of an hotel near a golf links in
County Down, a more lucrative if less distinguished proposition, must
be proud of their son.

George modestly hoped that the old people were. Lord Carabbas grew
quite reassured. “By the way,” he said, “were you ever in the Duke’s
service? I seem to remember you.”

“I was never really in the house, sir, except that as a boy I did odd
jobs; but at sixteen I contrived to get into the estate office. You
see, sir,” George laughed, “I was always inclined to be ambitious.
There was an idea at the back of my mind that one day I might become a
land agent.”

Lord Carabbas nodded approvingly. “Now the war is over I don’t know
what your plans are, but I daresay that something might be arranged.”

“As a matter of fact, sir,” said George, “I have just received the
offer of a billet in British East Africa. You see, I have decided to
make the Army my profession.”

Again Lord Carabbas nodded approvingly. Such a career sounded almost
as attractive as the offer of a stool in the Bally Euchra Estate
Office. Still, the civilian career might be the less precarious.
Anyhow, Lord Carabbas would be pleased to do what he could in the
matter if the son of old Norris cared to consider the project.

George thanked Lord Carabbas. Thereupon that peer congratulated him
upon his success, hoped that whatever course he took would prove to
be the right one and shook him gravely but cordially by the hand.
Having thus disposed of one whom he was bound to regard as his protégé,
my lord went up to his room and proceeded resolutely to compose his
ruffled feelings in a mustard bath.




XLIV


THERE now remained for George Norris the task of taking a final leave
of the lady of his choice. Recent developments should have made
the task easy, but when it came to the point he found it supremely
difficult.

While The Dadda was still in the act of ascending the stairs George
offered the hand of farewell. “Good-by, Lady Elfreda.” This trying
business was like a chemist’s draught; let it be attacked at once and
got over quickly.

Lady Elfreda, however, had to be consulted in the matter of pace
and even in the mode of procedure. Completely ignoring the hand of
farewell she asked calmly with that leisureliness which was at times so
exasperating, “When do you start for East Africa?”

“I am going up to town to-morrow,” said George, “to see them at the War
Office. I’m hoping to get out pretty soon.”

“It’ll be very jolly if you do.” She looked at him with the odd
directness which sometimes was so delightful and sometimes so
disconcerting.

Her manner gave no hint of the gulf that had opened between them. He
was troubled exceedingly. Educated by the usage of a hard world he was
not unduly sensitive or inclined to take himself too seriously, but
still he was not proof altogether against a feeling of resentment. He
had been so properly fooled that her air of unconcern seemed an added
impertinence. Still, it was no use mounting the high horse. He must
grin and bear the blow. Perhaps the process would be a little easier
for the fact that in his own mind he was quite sure he didn’t really
deserve it.

George was still trying to make a final exit without loss of dignity
and Lady Elfreda in a subtle way seemed to be trying her utmost to
compromise it still further when Mrs. Minever arrived from the drawing
room. The young man was at such a serious disadvantage that he was
ready to welcome the lady of the house as an agent of providence. But
she, it seemed, was not so much prepared to offer a means of escape as
to fix still further the shackles of embarrassment upon him. She hoped
General Norris would stay to dinner.

Nothing was further from the wish or the intention of General Norris,
but for a reason only known to herself, Mrs. Minever was not at all
inclined to take a polite refusal. “The Laurels is on the telephone.
It will be easy to let them know--unless you have some particular
engagement? And the car shall take you there afterwards.”

The urgency of Mrs. Minever backed by the dynamic glance of the
enchantingly wicked Elfreda made it very difficult for George Norris to
be firm.

“But my clothes,” he said rather weakly, to end a pause which he felt
was undoing him.

Really, it was the feeblest of moves. The yellow chrysanthemum lady
merely cast a glance at the displays of ribands peeping shyly from
beneath his open overcoat. “I hope,” she said archly, “the King’s
uniform will always be good enough for us.”

George saw he was done. The light in the eye of the wicked Elfreda told
him so. Evidently some new game was in the wind--but in for a penny,
in for a pound! It was a moment for philosophy. Besides, a natural
appetite for adventure had been enormously whetted by the amazing
events of the past three hours.

There was no help for it. With a reluctance which in the depths of
his heart George Norris knew to be not wholly sincere he allowed Mrs.
Minever to lead him to the telephone.




XLV


GIRLIE, in the meantime, had gone to ground in King Edward’s bedroom.
The public eye was no place for her. All she asked now, if so much was
permitted her, was to retire permanently into private life. She even
cherished the modest hope that she might be allowed to make her escape
from that house by the first train in the morning.

Shivering at her thoughts over the recently lighted bedroom fire,
her faith was still pinned upon Lady Elfreda. It was a much-tired, a
sorely-shattered faith, but it was now her only stand-by. The task
would devolve upon Lady Elfreda of convincing Mrs. Minever and the
others that her Deputy was really not “an adventuress” at all, or any
kind of criminal in disguise, but the well educated daughter of a
solicitor, who, no matter what her folly, was quite incapable of theft.

It was a horrid position for a budding Charlotte Brontë to occupy. As
she viewed in perspective the eleven epic days she had contrived to
live through since leaving London she could but marvel at herself. Oh,
why had she ever embarked on this maddest of schemes! Her place was
lost, her character was lost, she had used abominably a man who had
gained her admiration and respect, whom she would have found it very
easy to love. Never again could she hold up her head, not even if Lady
Elfreda was able to satisfy the police that her Deputy was a reasonably
innocent member of society!

Shivering over the logs as they spluttered to a reluctant heat, Girlie
had never felt so low and miserable in her life. Remorse was whipping
her severely. Ruin stared her in the face. Whatever would become of
her! A hopeless future loomed ahead. No ray of hope was visible. Her
mad enterprise had ended in the only way it could have done.

Soon after the clock had struck seven Girlie, fathoms deep in gloom,
was startled by the entrance of Lady Elfreda. By now the poor Deputy
had begun to feel a profound dislike of this cynical girl who had
involved her in ruin. Howbeit, she still found it difficult not to
admire her. Such assurance, such decision, such competence, such spirit
were marvelous. She seemed to have every attribute of a She Napoleon.

“Where’s that stupid old Pikey?” she said. In her manner of pressing
the bell Girlie felt there was something magnificent. “She ought to be
here rooting me out some clothes for this evening.”

“I suppose,” said Girlie dismally, yet heroically suppressing her
tears, “I must leave this room now.”

“Oh, no.” There was a regal indifference to the room even if it was
King Edward’s. “There’s one next door will do for me. But I must have
something to put on this evening.” She pressed the bell again just as
Pikey entered, half truculent, half scared.

Girlie was still in awe of the Werewolf. Even the partial collapse
of Pikey under the stress of events did not allow the Deputy to get
on terms with her. But Elfreda’s method of handling the creature was
almost an education. In the sight of her lawful charge she counted for
rather less than nobody.

“Pikey, what am I to wear this evening?” At the moment this was the
question of questions for Elfreda.

“There’s nothing you can wear,” Pikey muttered dismally.

“Nothing? Don’t be absurd. I know you packed at least five evening
dresses.”

Pikey flashed a savage glance at Miss Cass.

“_She’s_ worn them all,” said Pikey in a tone of shameful confession.

“Of course. Why not?” said a very polite and very prompt Elfreda. No
one likes other people wearing one’s clothes, but Pikey’s implication
that their patrician owner would never be able to use them again was a
little too much. It was one more barb for Miss No-Class.

Elfreda, however, with a woman’s understanding of the case did her best
to soften it. She was the soul of tact and she was quite charming to
Miss Cass.

“Please choose the one you like best for this evening.” Her winning
grace brought back to poor Girlie’s mind their never-to-be-forgotten
journey from London.

Girlie declined the offer with tears.

“I--I c-couldn’t think of going down to dinner this evening,” she said
with a little shiver.

“But, of course, you are going down to dinner.”
Napoleon--Hannibal--Etc.; the sinister cycle of their first meeting was
being enacted again.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t--I really couldn’t--I could never face them all!”

“But of course you will.” Each slow syllable of the Evil Genius seemed
to burn itself in Girlie’s heart. “If you don’t play up now you will
spoil everything.”

Girlie shuddered. She fought against her tears. “I--I am ruined and
disgraced. I--I don’t know whatever will become of me.”

“I don’t either,” Elfreda grimly agreed, “if you let go now.”

With the power of will that made her so formidable Elfreda ordered
Pikey to lay out Madame Lucile’s new pink dress for Miss Cass.

“That is the one I think. It goes perfectly with your coloring. You
must let Pikey do your hair. And you shall have my nicest necklace.”

At the word “necklace” Girlie shuddered again. The prison gates loomed
before her eyes.

“And you shall have my new Pinet slippers if they’ll fit you. Now do be
sensible. This evening you must simply play up for all you are worth.”

It was all very well, but nature has set a limit to what flesh and
blood can endure. Stage fright had once more fixed its talons on
Girlie. “Oh, no, I can’t face them to-night,” she said miserably.

She was reckoning, however, without the dæmonic force that encompassed
her. Its power over weak vessels was truly remarkable. And among
these Pikey was foremost. The Werewolf, after all, was no more than
a lath painted to look like iron and none knew that quite so well as
her mistress. She ordered the disgruntled old woman about with the
genial arrogance she might have bestowed on a favorite dog. And Pikey,
mumbling under her breath, was only too ready to do her bidding

As for Miss Cass, she found herself in the midst of her toilet before
she could quite realize what was taking place. Elfreda superintended
it. “Yes, the pink one, Pikey. And those stockings, I think.”

As ever, she was curiously impersonal but her taste was sure, she could
bring her mind down to details and it was inflexible. Miss Cass was
clay in her hands. Yet even now there was just one matter in which the
unfortunate Deputy was able to muster a mind of her own. She insisted
that no alien fingers should touch her hair.

“Better let Pikey, hadn’t you? She’s used to hair. She’s really rather
clever with it.”

Here it was, however, that Miss Cass made her stand. She took the
terrible, long-handled brush gently but firmly from Pikey’s grasp. “I
am used to doing it myself--I am really.”

Pikey’s sniff of disdain confirmed that statement. Elfreda was loth to
yield the point, but time was fleeting. And Miss Cass, hairbrush in
hand, was displaying such skill that it seemed vain to contest it.

“Perhaps you had better come and give me a hand, Pikey.”

With a devout sense of thankfulness Girlie watched mistress and maid
retire to the room next door.




XLVI


WHEN Elfreda returned about half an hour later she was dressed for the
evening. Girlie was thrilled by the picture of charm and fascination
that she made. If not exactly pretty, she had a highly finished
daintiness and beyond everything the strength of personality which
transcends physical beauty yet is in itself a form of beauty. Somehow
the sight of Elfreda cap-à-pie, bright, strong and audacious meant a
great deal to her fellow conspirator.

“Now please remember,” said the Evil Genius with that impersonal air
which seemed to add to her power, “you simply _must_ play up.”

Poor Girlie had no spirit left in her. So black was the future that
it was mere mockery to speak of “playing up.” Besides, where was the
necessity now?

Elfreda looked her up and down with an eye of frank but not unkindly
criticism.

“Don’t let go, whatever you do--for your own sake. Your dress is most
becoming.” She really _was_ pretty. Madame Lucile’s latest creation
might have been made for her. And the forlorn look in her tear-dimmed
eyes was an added weapon ... if the little noodle only knew how to use
it!

Elfreda led the way along the corridor and downstairs to the drawing
room. There seemed to be a buzz of suppressed excitement as they came
in. Most of the others were already there. They did not want to miss a
moment of the comedy. All might be said to be on tiptoe to learn the
next turn in the game.

Girlie would dearly have liked to sink through the floor, yet she
was sustained by the imperious power which still enslaved her. And
before dinner was announced an event occurred which did much to lessen
the painful tension of the Deputy. In fact it appeared to have an
immediate effect upon everybody. Mrs. Minever pointed to an article
which enclosed the third finger of her left hand and said with a rather
forced laugh, “Behold, the missing ring!”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve found it, Kate,” cried her lord.

Sure enough, Mrs. Minever had. It seemed that the precious ring
had merely been mislaid. She was willing to take the whole of the
blame upon herself, although it should really belong to a stupid and
forgetful servant.

“Well, I call that the limit!”

Mr. Minever was not alone in so regarding the incident. A deep growl of
humorous disgust slowly permeated the room. “There now, didn’t I say
that man from Scotland Yard was a perfect fool!”

A shout of laughter greeted the indignant words of Lord Duckingfield.
It was freely owned that the worthy Midlander had said so from the
first. He had stood alone in his defense of the little governess. His
sportsmanship had been admired, if skeptics deplored his gullibility.
And now at this dramatic moment, like the big-hearted man he was, he
contrived to underscore this admirable quality. For as the hostess
and Lord Carabbas led the way to the dinner table, he moved across to
Girlie, bowed to her and offered his arm.

It was a very hilarious meal. Everybody realized that they were on
their honor “to play up,” There could be no middle course. In the
eyes of the fastidious these people might be vulgar, they might be
second-rate, yet they were fully entitled to plume themselves on their
sportsmanship.

Certainly an excellent dinner blended with their high spirits enabled
them to carry the thing off brilliantly. Even Lord Carabbas, feeling
his reputation as a sportsman to be at stake, made quite a brave
showing. He still cherished homicidal feelings towards his youngest
daughter, but the character of the food, the quality of the wine, the
chaff and the gayety helped him to keep them well in hand. It was a
dickens of a business, but he must “stick it” to the bitter end.

By one of those odd strokes of fortune which seem so inconsequent and
yet obey the laws of reason, Miss Cass suddenly became the heroine of
the hour. Everybody seemed thankful that an undeserved stigma had been
removed; besides, the only means of punishing the culprit-in-chief was
to canonize the understudy. The patrician impudence of Lady Elfreda
could not be forgiven. It went so deep that it could only be wiped out
with blood. Meanwhile, it had to be suffered and this was best achieved
by absolving Miss Cass and even making much of her.

Perhaps for that reason General Norris, an undoubted figure of romance,
was not acclaimed as the hero. The proud position was reserved for
Sir Toby Philpot or with more accuracy it might be said that Sir
Toby reserved it for himself. The little baronet had all the airs of
a Congreve or a Sheridan with a dash of Molière thrown in. Superior
people who had said “The Lady of Laxton” was far-fetched or impossible
had been refuted wonderfully by what had occurred. The series of
situations he had devised for his masterpiece had been outdone by these
amazing events.

What a consolation it is that no matter what absurdities imagination
may bring forth, Real Life never has any difficulty in going one better!

Odd as the circumstances were, there was not a suspicion of constraint.
Mr. Montagu Jupp saw to that. As a matter of course he presided over
the revels. His badinage rolled from one end of the table to the other,
his wit vollied unceasingly. True to himself, in as rare a moment as
life had given him, he spared neither age nor sex nor social position.
Even an enraged parent finding a most excellent dinner to be a real
stimulus to a sense of humor could not resist Montagu’s audacity.
It was not so much what he said, it was the way in which he said it.
Nevertheless, the great man’s words were exceedingly to the point.

What, for example, could have been more apposite than the impromptu
speech in which he proposed the health of Lord Duckingfield? He rose at
a moment when a lull was threatening and in terms which set the table
in a roar he offered that peer sincere felicitations on his approaching
marriage. Moreover, he ventured to link with the toast the name of
their friend Miss Cass.

The toast was honored with acclamation. No doubt the acclamation was
the louder for the fact that these primitive people were fully aware
that for once even the admired Montagu had sailed rather close to the
wind. There was a moment when the success of the _ballon d’essai_ hung
in the balance. In this world there is a limit to most things, after
all!

For the brief space of thirty seconds the look on the face of
the worthy Midlander seemed to promise an early delivery of the
long-delayed punch on Montagu’s nose. It was nearly fifty years since
he had last received one at his private school. But as the sequel
proved, Montagu’s wonderful faculty of divination had judged to a
nicety the thickness of the ice.

Lord Duckingfield rose slowly and heavily to his feet and thanked the
company for their kind words. He thanked them not only on his own
behalf, but--turning to the bewildered little girl at his side with
the most courtly bow he could command--also on behalf of the lady who
he hoped would do him the honor to become his wife.

The effect of the announcement may have been a trifle marred by a loud
shriek from the little baronet. Stimulated by Sir Toby’s threat of
hysteria, Mr. Jupp broke suddenly into “For he’s a jolly good fellow.”
The strain was promptly taken up and musical honors were bestowed upon
my lord.

In the meantime the bewildered Girlie was passing through a sort
of dream. She could not believe her ears. At any rate, she could
not believe the words of Lord Duckingfield. She was really in love
with this good fellow. It was not merely that he alone could stand
between her and a cruel world, it was not merely that he was her only
protector; she loved him for his manliness, his generosity, his large
simplicity. But a girl like herself could never hope to be his wife,
particularly after having made of him a public laughing stock.

Still it is the unexpected that happens. An hour later, in the lee of
the hall stairs, Lord Duckingfield was able to prove to Girlie Cass
that he fully intended to be as good as his word.

About the same time, in the seclusion of the library, Elfreda took
pains to prove to George Norris that she also was determined to keep
faith with him. A stormy interview with her father did something to
nerve her for the task. But, in any case, her mind was made up. Her
year in London with the V. A. D. had opened her eyes to the world
and the things around her. She saw a chance of permanent escape from
the stuffy circle in which she had been brought up. Her pompous,
caste-ridden parents, her narrow, conventional sisters--what did they
stand for, after all?




XLVII


BRIGADIER GENERAL NORRIS, C.M.G., and Lady Elfreda Norris proceeded to
East Africa at the end of January. The climate suits them, they get on
well with the natives and they like the life immensely. So far there is
not a cloud on their horizon. Just at first General Norris was a trifle
anxious about money, because the daughter of even an impoverished
marquis is apt to think expensively. But early in March Grandpapa
Angora died at the ripe age of eighty-seven and the old gentleman
really “cut up” better than most people expected. Anyhow, when the
will was proved each of his grandchildren benefited to the tune of
thirty thousand pounds. Moreover, in the year 1916, George Norris, or
Captain Norris as he was then, on the advice of a friend in the City
invested the whole of his savings in Burmah Oil, and like a wise young
man forgot all about the matter for several years. So you see, there’s
really no need for the young couple to worry about money.

However, these are mundane matters. What is vastly more important
is that the Lady Elfreda Norris has already presented to the Empire
a sturdy young male. And if the printers come out again on strike,
before this work sees the light she is quite likely to have presented
it with another one.

It is very doubtful if Lady Duckingfield will ever be a Miss
Cholmondeley or a Mrs. Humphry Ward. Charlotte Brontë is out of the
question. 4b Berkeley Square and Mount Pleasant, Wolverhampton, are
really so comfortable that all thought of “sturm und drang” has passed
for ever. And no one can be a Charlotte Brontë without it. Still, Lady
Duckingfield is not quite dead to ambition. The _Saturday Sentinel_
paid her such charming compliments on her essay, “The Art of Mr.
Galsworthy,” that she has in contemplation critical estimates of other
modern novelists. Her next subject will be...?

No, please guess again....

However.

There is no moral to this story. Life itself has no moral. The most
deserving people don’t always come out “on top.” And vice versa.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

On page 30, Satuday as been changed to Saturday.

On page 36, My has been changed to Mr.

On page 70, ensue has been changed to ensure.

On page 108, ratherdess has been changed to rather less.

On page 152, flute-like has been changed to flutelike

On page 191, hair brush has been changed to hairbrush.

On page 198, askin has been changed to akin.

On page 203, work basket has been changed to work-basket.

On page 247, trapsed has been changed to traipsed.

On page 255, appaled has been changed to appalled.

On page 256, Trenchard-Simpon’s has been changed to Trenchard-Simpson’s.

On page 257, decidely has been changed to decidedly.

On page 265, school-room has been changed to schoolroom.

On page 274, Case has been changed to Cass.

On page 293, Morris has been changed to Norris.

Most hyphenation has been regularized; variant and non-English spelling
has been retained as typeset.






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