Chapter D: Appleton and Company (6)

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!