Chapter D: Appleton and Company (3)

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.