Chapter M: Eleanor Trenchard-Simpson (1)

She read the letter over with a glow of quiet satisfaction and then gave it to Miss Parbury for perusal and criticism. Miss Parbury’s criticism was that she didn’t think it was strong enough.

Taking it altogether, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was inclined to think the letter didn’t lack force.

“I don’t know about that.” Miss Parbury fixed one arctic eye upon the mobile countenance of General Norris. “Considering that she has just pretty nearly killed poor Joan.”

“Killed poor Who?” The development of the issue was growing too much for the feelings of an impressionable soldier.

“Didn’t you hear the uproar in the schoolroom, George?” A shade of maternal reproach softened Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s note of indignation.

George confessed that he had not.

“Why, even Cook heard it in the basement. And when I went into the schoolroom what do you suppose was happening?”

George had not the faintest idea.

“I found Miss Cass”--it was the voice of a Niobe mourning her young--“shaking the life--literally shaking the life out of the poor darling.”

“Well, the poor darling seems a pretty lively corpse, I must say.”

It was, of course, a remark that ought not to have been made. A military career has a tendency to make the best and the nicest of men unfeeling. There was that to be said for George Norris. Both ladies, however, were clearly wounded a little. Their quiet air of triumph was almost vanquished by such gaucherie. Men are so amazing! Some men are, at any rate. How was it possible to defend such a creature! Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson painted a full-length portrait of the wicked Miss Cass, and as a final touch invited the young man to read the letter she had just addressed on the subject to the Rector of Laxton.

The invitation was an error of judgment. And it really seemed odd that one so conspicuously a member of the sex which specializes in finesse in all its branches should have made such a mistake.

George Norris read the letter to Canon Carnaby with amazement. Nay with more than amazement. The young man found it hard to conceal his wrath.

XXXVII

MISS CASS WAS duly informed that her train was the two-ten. The family chariot had been ordered for half-past one, an insurance as far as was humanly possible against her missing it. Luncheon, in the meantime, was served to her in the schoolroom.

George Norris was quite upset. Clearly he was expected to share the righteous indignation of the ladies of the household, but this was asking too much of human nature. As for Miss Parbury’s air of triumph, he found it intolerable.

In truth, this was a dark hour. For the young man now realized that he was very much in love. The drama of this abrupt departure brought home the fact rather unpleasantly. A very little reflection showed that his hesitations and moral cowardice of the last few days were going to cost him dear.

On three consecutive mornings had he made up his mind to propose to Miss Cass before the day was out. But the end of each day had found him unequal to the task. He didn’t quite know why. Sheer human weakness, no doubt, had led him to put off till the morrow. And it was now too late.

Somehow the little governess had always contrived to keep him rather at a distance. He had never quite known the ground on which he stood. She was a most dexterous fencer, her heart was not worn on her sleeve; and in spite of his military renown he was not quite sure of himself. But the “sacking” at a moment’s notice of this extremely fascinating little lady brought things at once to a head.

It roused the chivalry in the breast of George Norris to the danger point. He felt that he must speak now or forever hold his peace. This was a chance that could not recur. If he let her go now he was never likely to meet her again. In a state of high tension he began to range the house, yet halting always at the schoolroom door with two sinister words echoing and reëchoing in his mind. Too late! Too late! was their diabolic chorus.

Even now he was set upon one last attempt. She must not go away like that. It was the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, he would have to rush his fences horribly, but no matter he must put all to the touch.

The schoolroom door confronted him. But in spite of the row of decorations on his tunic his courage suddenly failed. One can hardly propose to a girl in the middle of her luncheon! Some men might be equal to such a task: a strenuous military life had taught George Norris that some men are equal to anything, but even in this impasse he thanked his stars that he was not of their number. No, confound it all, he must let her eat her luncheon anyway!

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed a quarter-past one. He was cutting it decidedly fine! Again one of his fatal hesitations came upon him. Only a fool would think of butting in now. Better far be content with obtaining her permanent address and sending through the post an offer in his best English. But the Dr. Jekyll in his composition--or was it the Mr. Hyde?--assured him that such a bloodless proceeding was bound to fail. Wiser by far, thought Jekyll-Hyde, to trust implicitly to the personal equation. Let him go ahead with the business, luncheon or no luncheon, then and now!

Yes, after all, that was the sound commonsense of the matter. The hand of George Norris sought the knob of the schoolroom, but before he could turn it, the door of the room opposite came abruptly open. “George,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson with a glance at the venerable article of furniture across the hall, “Tell me, isn’t that clock slow?”

With a stab of keen annoyance George looked at his watch. Alas, the clock was certainly slow, by a full ten minutes. And in confirmation of the dire fact a severe parlor-maid and a giggling subordinate emerged at that moment round a bend into the visible part of the staircase in charge of Miss Cass’s rather meager but heavily burdened tin trunk.

In almost the same instant there came a sharp peal at the front door bell. It was an intimation that John Small was round with the family chariot.

XXXVIII

WHATEVER the disabilities of General Norris there was not a suspicion of false shame about his hostess. She took the knob of the schoolroom door out of the young man’s hand and turned it for him.

“Miss Cass.” The flutelike note rang clear and free. “No wish to hurry you, Miss Cass, but the carriage is waiting.”

Miss Cass lifted her eyes calmly from her cheese.

Then she glanced at the watch on her wrist--an adorably neat watch on an adorably neat wrist--quite leisurely. “Thank you,” she said drily. It was really the driest “Thank you” George Norris had ever heard.

As she rose from the table with a deliberation which to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was rather infuriating, that lady observed the hat of the retiring governess. It was decidedly expensive. And her gloves and shoes could not possibly have been warranted by her salary. On the other hand George Norris observed none of these things. He was occupied far too much with their wearer. But above all, he was occupied with that sinister chorus in his brain, “Too late, too late!”

All was lost. And he had but himself to blame. In a kind of dull rage he stepped up to the open door to watch the lading of Miss Cass’s luggage on to the chariot. The mien of John Small was a comedy in itself. He at least was ready to welcome the departure of one who had kept him in his place as determinedly as he attempted to rise above it. As John Small hoisted the tin trunk on to the back of the dog cart he had the look of a man well satisfied.

That look was oddly reflected in the bearing of Miss Dolores Parbury, who at the chosen moment emerged from the morning room to speed the parting guest. There was a kind of wary triumph in it, a triumph not so much open and avowed as tacit and concealed. After all, Miss Cass was only the governess. But there the triumph was, at any rate, for the eye of George Norris, who suddenly found that it was more than he could bear. As he caught the slightly averted glance of Miss Cass that was like nothing so much as a sword half-sheathed, his heart went out to her. In defeat she was sublime. Faults she might have; her manner with young children might leave something to be desired, but _au fond_ she was a fearless warrior and she had been endowed with so much charm that nature hardly seemed to be playing fair to the average members of Miss Cass’s sex in allowing her to treat it as a proprietary article.

The gallant George did not try to analyze the situation. He was a man of action, for one thing. Besides, there really was not time. This was the crisis of his fate, and events were moving with alarming rapidity. Before he could regain complete control of his mind, the inimitable Miss Cass was making her adieux.

With the faintly mischievous smile which invited intimacy and yet repelled it, she offered her hand.

“Good-by!” she said.

But George, hypnotized by the touch of her fingers, felt quite unable to say good-by. He knew that immediately beyond the little lady two pairs of eyes, scorpion in their burning intensity, were directed upon him. He knew that anything he said or did now would be used in evidence against him, but it was asking too much of human nature to let her go like that. He didn’t know her plans, he didn’t even know her address! A mine had been sprung under his feet by the forces of injustice; but he would never be able to forgive himself if he lost her without making a sign.

The forces of injustice were ruthlessly dominating the scene. But what did it matter? What did anything matter? This was Fate’s hour. If at such a moment he failed to show himself a man it would tell heavily against him in the ultimate assize.

“I’ll come to the station and see you off!” The daring of the speech was incredible; at least, so it seemed in the ear of two of the ladies. In the ear of the lady to whom it was addressed, by one of those piquancies which make the human comedy the infinitely delightful thing it is, it was accepted at its face value with a complacency that was hardly decent.

“How extremely kind of you!”

A shiver ran through the stout fibers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. The robust Miss Parbury had a horrid momentary feeling that some one was in the act of walking across her grave.

“But, my dear George,”--the voice of the hostess was imperious, yet by comparison with the organ tones around her it sounded oddly high and thin--“luncheon is at a quarter to two. Aren’t you forgetting?”

The intrepid young man was not forgetting. He could easily obtain a sandwich at the station.

“But how absurd!”

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson waited an instant for the departing governess to agree that it _was_ absurd, as any self-respecting governess must surely have done in the circumstances, but she waited in vain.

“It is not in the least necessary. Small is quite able to help with Miss Cass’s luggage. Are you not, Small?”

“Yes, m’m,” came a slow but truculent response from the seat of Jehu.

“Oh, no.” The young man was amazing. “Much better let me. Porters are in such short supply at all the stations these days. Besides, I want to send off a wire. So that if there’s room at the back of the cart for me as well as for that trunk----?”

“Woa-a-a horse!”

George, the incredible, had one foot on the back step already. Miss Cass, smiling and calm, was seated deftly in front. If the look of her had a meaning she knew only too well that all the cards were in her hand.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw that the game was going against her heavily, but she gathered herself for a final throw. “My dear George, you will catch your death,” she cried.

It _was_ a dank morning of November. There was even a thin spatter of rain. George, the overcoatless, reluctantly lifted his foot from the step of the dogcart. “I’ll get my British Warm,” he said.

Too elemental for a thought of treachery to enter his mind, the young man turned suddenly into the house in quest of that garment.

Openly and palpably fighting for victory Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw her chance. No modest scruple stayed her. “Drive on, Small,” she said sternly, as soon as the young man had passed indoors. “Don’t wait for General Norris.”

Small, ready at all times to obey his mistress, was prepared to do so now. He may or he may not have had a full grasp of the case. Such fellows are not always so wooden-witted as they appear. But he valued his place and beyond a doubt he would not have waited for General Norris had it not been for the prompt intervention of the lady who shared with him the front seat. With a suddenness very disconcerting to John, the shameless Miss Cass sprang to her feet. “My box is not very secure, I’m afraid. It might fall out at the back.”

“Your trunk is quite all right, Miss Cass,” promptly and energetically countered Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “It cannot possibly fall out. Small, drive on.”

Hardly a minute was occupied by the entire incident. But the situation was saved. Before John Small had a chance of getting under way, General Norris, becomingly clad in his British Warm had emerged from the house and had again placed his foot on the back step of the chariot.

“Never mind your box, Miss Cass,” he said cheerily. “I’ll take care of that.”

XLIX

ALL the way to Clavering Station George Norris took extremely good care that the tin trunk of Miss Cass did not fall from the back of the dogcart. His task was not difficult, for the box was so comfortably disposed under the seat that it showed not the slightest disposition to do so. But had it been a tin trunk with any spirit of opinions of its own it might easily have achieved a crash to Mother Earth at the sharp turn into the high road by The Laurels gate and at divers trappy places along the route, for there really was a much preoccupied young man in charge of it.

The truth of the matter was that it had almost immediately dawned on George Norris that should the 2:10 Up be punctual it would leave very little time for a proposal in form. Moreover, it would have to take place on the station platform. Such are the inconveniences of a dogcart. In the circumstances of the case it seemed hardly less than a grave oversight on the part of Fate to have omitted to provide a closed brougham, no matter how antiquated, one-horse or otherwise, for such an occasion.

Certainly it meant cutting the whole thing very fine. According to the rate of John Small’s progress they were not likely to reach Clavering station much before two o’clock and that left little time for the business in hand. As a matter of historical fact, it wanted exactly one minute to the hour when they drew up beneath the portico of the station yard.

George had to justify his presence by seeking a porter in the station interior. To do him justice they undoubtedly _were_ in short supply, but he was able to corral one in something under two minutes and returned with him in triumph to find Miss Cass handsomely tipping John Small for services unwillingly rendered. In fact, when John withdrew, chariot and all, he was quite a changed man. From the moment he had first set eyes on the new governess he had been her enemy, but if anything was meant by the manner of his final exit from the station yard she was almost entitled to look on him now in the light of a friend.

The departure of John left a bare six minutes or so for the all-important matter to be transacted, always providing that the train was punctual. Happily the porter was very reassuring on this point. According to his estimate the 2:10 Up was bound to be anything from twenty to forty minutes late. Moreover, if he was betting on it he would back the second figure rather than the first. So far, so good.

However, there was a dramatic surprise in store for George Norris. Indeed, there was a series of surprises. And they began almost at the moment John. Small and his chariot left the station yard.

“Please label this,” George directed the attention of the porter to the tin trunk. “Waterloo or Paddington?” he inquired of its owner.

Then came surprise the First.

“I think it had better be put in the cloak room,” said Miss Cass. “And these, I think, had better go with it.” She indicated the pilgrim basket and another miscellaneous article ranged beside it. “I am not going by this train,” she added quite casually.

The heart of George Norris gave a leap.

“So much the better.” And the young man spoke with the simplicity which made him so attractive.

With quite a sense of relief he saw the luggage of Miss Cass stowed away in the cloak room. And then, like a man of will who has just been confirmed in a great decision, he addressed that lady. “I don’t know what your plans are,” he said, “but if I may, I would like to have a little talk with you.”

The only answer of Miss Cass was a smile. But she made no difficulties about having a talk with General Norris. As intending passengers were now rapidly assembling for the Up train, they crossed the bridge to the deserted Down platform. No one else was there. They took one brief turn and then sat down on a wooden bench thoughtfully provided by the railway company.

This the hour and this the opportunity. There was no beating about the bush. George knew his own mind and proceeded to ensue it. “Ethel,” he said, taking one small gloved hand in his own, “will you marry me?”

It was by no means an easy fence to tackle, but George’s methods were decidedly workmanlike. “There’s only my pay, but I’ve just been offered a good billet in East Africa. The climate is first rate, there’s any amount of things to do and one can live at much less cost than one does here. Of course, there’s no saying exactly how it will pan out, but anyhow, will you chance it?”

It took Miss Cass but a very short time to express her willingness “to chance it.” She too, it seemed, had the valuable faculty of knowing her own mind. Not in anywise immodestly did she rush upon her fate; she was able to display the conventional diffidence of one fully acquainted with the rules of the game, but it was not difficult to set the doubts of George Norris at rest. From the moment he had climbed into the back of the cart she had known that he was hers.

En route to the station there had been an opportunity to weigh the pros and the cons of the matter in her cool and sagacious mind. All the same, it was not coolness nor was it sagacity that had carried the day with her. She liked this young man because she liked him. He was the new, highly efficient type the war had evolved. She knew nothing about him, but instinctively she would trust this man as she would trust few men when it came to a tight place. And there was an air of romance about him.

It was an act of foolhardiness, no doubt, for a girl of position, but she had been made reckless by recent events. Besides, she was “out” for freedom. She had had one brief taste of it, and making due allowance for its drawbacks, her appetite was keen for more. Irksome the experiences of the last ten days had certainly been, yet she was quite determined now to do as she chose with her own life. She asked nothing highfalutin’ nor did she look for it, but she meant, if possible, to escape altogether from the stuffy circle of Castle Carabbas with its hierarchical connections and its feudal ideas. Now was the moment for those autocratic people, her father and mother, to learn once for all the limit of their power.

As there was no one else on the Down platform, they were able to seal the compact in the fashion ordained by nature and custom. “But, do you know,” the young man confessed even at this delicious moment, “if you hadn’t been so much up against it I mightn’t have had the pluck to ask you.”

Such naïveté delighted her. Also, it was very intriguing.

“But why not?” she archly inquired. “I’m only a friendless governess, am I not, with food and house-room provided and a wage of thirty pounds a year?”

“Yes, you are down on your luck,” he frankly admitted. “But I don’t mind betting a shilling that you haven’t been so always. Now tell me honestly, haven’t you once been Top Dog?”

She didn’t try to conceal her amusement even if she masked a proper feminine curiosity. “I don’t know why you should think so,” she said with the smile provocative which yet was a counterfeit of complete indifference.

“There’s something about you”--his naïveté was charming--“that is always giving you away. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if this was your first situation.”

“But didn’t you say the other day”--she would have been less than her sex had she not enjoyed drawing him out--“that you thought I had been abroad in the service of foreign royalties?”

“I’ve had all sorts of theories about you,” he confessed. “But it won’t surprise me at all if none of them meets the case.”

She archly expressed relief, the light of humor in her eye. He was enchanted by the look of her and yet he was a little anxious too. At the back of his mind there was a subtle feeling that “he was having his leg pulled.” The feeling had always been there, even from the first moment he had talked with her. Somehow she was immensely mature for her years. She appeared to have so much in hand. And a word here and there, an odd phrase, a chance inflection of voice, even her way of looking at people and her manner of entering a room were continually giving her away.

Besides, he had seen from the first that the other ladies of the household had regarded her as a natural enemy. Perhaps it was the sense of their injustice that had first drawn him to her. But from day to day he had increasingly admired the bold and implacable skill with which she had carried the war into the country of her foes. She mightn’t have one shilling to rub against another, this mysterious little lady, but she had rare courage, great will power and infinite resources of her own.

All the same, sitting delightfully close to her on a seat of the deserted Down platform and the great deed done, even at this exquisite moment he was not absolutely sure that she was not laughing at him. And in spite of the elation within this feeling grew upon him as they talked. Somehow, he was less certain of the prize he had won than a victorious suitor should have been. And he had not to look far for reasons.

The 2:10 Up was duly signalled, a full twenty minutes late. Presently it drew up with a prodigious rattle at the platform opposite.

“I suppose you are going up by the next,” said George. “But it’s not so good as this one, you know. It doesn’t start till something past five and it won’t get there until a good bit past one in the morning. I know, because I’ve traveled by it for my sins.”

Ethel--already he had permission to call her Ethel because somehow Girlie didn’t suit her at all!--rejoined that no matter what her sins might be it was not necessary for her to travel to town by the 5:40.

“What, you are staying the night here in Clavering!” His tone was a complex not unpleasing of hope, fear, surprise, bewilderment.

“Ye-es, in the neighborhood, I think, unless I suddenly change my plans.”

“With your mother’s friends, the Lancelots, I suppose?” He couldn’t help laughing as he recalled the audaciously comic turn she had given to the topic of the Lancelots at the family luncheon.

“I’m sure they’ll put me up for a night if I ask them,” she said demurely.

“Oh, I’m sure they will. They’ll be delighted.” But even now he didn’t really know if he was justified in taking her friendship with the Lancelots seriously.

She was a mystery, that was the truth of the matter. And her answer to his next question provided ample confirmation of the fact.

The question itself was a simple one. What were her immediate plans? In his rôle of accepted suitor he felt it incumbent upon him to ask. Had she relations in the district? If she had, might he accompany her forthwith and be presented to them.

Her reply was brief but it was surprising. “Oh, yes, do come with me by all means--to Clavering Park.”

“To Clavering Park!”

“Yes--to meet my father.”

To meet her father! The gaze he fixed upon her was blankly incredulous. But in the fragment of time necessary for a survey of her expressive countenance the fable of the dead solicitor’s daughter collapsed completely and for ever.

XL

TO Clavering Park--to meet her father!

George had been pretty sure from the first that she was playing a part. But what was the part she was playing? Who was her father if he was not a deceased solicitor? He did not forget her other picturesque statement that she was the offspring of a butler and a lady’s maid. George was inclined to think that so far as he himself was concerned it might simplify matters considerably if this proved to be the case. Still, it would not be wise to build hopes upon it.

The young man began to view a developing situation with a deepening anxiety. Instinct told him that there might be rocks ahead. “By the way, who is your father? What is his name?”

“You must come and meet him.” With a laugh defiant rather than gay she got up abruptly from the station bench.

Perforce it had to be left at that, for the time being at all events. George was prepared to go with her to the world’s end if she commanded him, so why not to Clavering Park? He rose, too, from the bench and went with her across the bridge to the Up platform just as the belated 2.10 was in the act of moving off.

In the station yard was a decrepit taxi which they were able to hire and in about half an hour the lodge gates of Clavering Park confronted them. By now the bewilderment and curiosity of George were almost unbearable. He was in the seventh heaven, it was true, but native commonsense grimly warned him that his heaven was strangely insecure. The romance of the circumstances was weaving a spell of its own; the sense of enchantment increased as the mystery grew; he was beginning slowly to realize what a truly delightful thing she was to possess and on that very account, as became one who had learned much in a hard school, he understood how necessary it was to take care. There must be no counting of chickens. Somehow the nearer they drew to their destination the less favorable grew the portents. By the time the lodge gates had opened and their taxi had rattled through, the sense of “Ethel’s” innate Top-Doggishness had developed quite remarkably.

“Those trees and the deer remind me of my home.” She might have been speaking for the sake of conversation; on the other hand her intention may have been to prepare his mind for certain revelations to follow.

“Tell me, Ethel, where is your home?” In his own apprehensive ear his voice sounded odd, strained, nervous.

“I live in Ireland.”

“I used to live there too,” he said. “Ireland was where I was brought up.”

“Really. Now that’s very interesting.” The tones of her voice were so soft and warm and rich that they made him think of velvet. “Do tell me exactly where.”

“I was brought up at a place called Bally Euchra in County Kildare.”

She gave a faint cry of suppressed astonishment. “What a small world! Bally Euchra of all places! Why, my grandfather lives there.”

Barely had he time to echo her surprise with a faint cry of his own when the taxi drew up beneath the portico in front of the house, thereby denying him the opportunity of asking who her grandfather could possibly be.

It was just as well, no doubt, that such was the case, for had that particular question been answered, there is little doubt that George Norris would have bolted for his life!

XLI

GEORGE rang the bell. Of the servant who promptly answered it “Ethel” asked if Lord Carabbas was there and if so could they see him. The man said he would inquire and showed them in.

“Lord Carabbas!” Midway between astonishment and dismay Ethel’s cavalier muttered to himself that name of ill omen as they entered the house.

The servant politely indicated chairs in the hall and then went in search of Lord Carabbas.

In the waning light of the November afternoon the hall seemed to be deserted. But it was not. Deep in a corner near the large open fireplace was an unsuspected presence. And scarcely had they time to realize that a third person was there when the presence sprang out upon them.

With a cry that was half a sob, half a shriek, Girlie fell upon Elfreda and flung both arms round her. By means of the spate of wild words that followed, Elfreda learned that Girlie was ruined irretrievably, that her career was blighted and that she fully expected to be sent to prison.

“Sent to prison! Pray, whatever for!”

With the aid of a second spate of half suppressed sobs Girlie told the story of the missing necklace; she also disclosed that a Scotland Yard detective was going to arrest her on suspicion.

George Norris, embarrassed considerably by a scene of which he was rather an unwilling witness and the cause of which was very obscure, nervously withdrew some paces into the hall proper. He was greatly troubled. The plot was thickening. But as to what had actually occurred he was quite in the dark. Here, however, was mystery indeed. Moreover, the march of events still gave no clew as to the ground on which he stood.

Still, he was at the threshold of enlightenment.

In a short time the servant returned. He was accompanied, however, not by Lord Carabbas but by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Minever greeted Elfreda in a sort of flutter of curiosity. She then went on rather incoherently to explain that Lord Carabbas was out. Would the visitors care to wait for him as he was expected back quite soon? With surprising coolness Elfreda promptly accepted the invitation.

George for his part could still only view the situation with bewilderment. He was altogether in the dark. His bewilderment, moreover, was now tinged by alarm. For reasons of his own he had no particular desire at that moment to meet Lord Carabbas. The stern fact had not yet dawned upon the young man that Lord Carabbas was the father of “Ethel.”

There was no way of retreat now that things had gone so far. Besides, as George stood listening to the conversation of Ethel and Mrs. Minever he was quickly devoured by a passion for further enlightenment.

“But do you mind telling me who you are?” he heard Mrs. Minever say.

Elfreda gave her name. Any attempt at concealment would have been useless. As the amazing story was now by way of being public property the mistress of the house had already guessed her visitor’s identity, but the unsuspecting George was stupefied. In the next moment, while his mind was still chaos, he awoke to the fact that Lady Elfreda was gravely presenting him to Mrs. Minever.

Poor George was staggered. He could but dimly grasp the truth. Overcome by a sense of his own inadequacy, he felt he was growing more and more ridiculous. “But I don’t understand,” he said faintly.

“I’m afraid I must ask Lady Elfreda to explain,” said Mrs. Minever with her color rapidly mounting, with an odd tremor in her voice and with a rather forced laugh.

“Please ask Miss Cass to enlighten you.” And Elfreda cast a wicked glance at that ineffectual lady.

“Miss Cass!” Poor George seemed more bewildered than ever.

“Ask her to tell you what has happened.” The amazing Elfreda spoke with the slightly bored air of one dismissing a tedious matter. And then, for all the world as if it no longer existed for her, at Mrs. Minever’s suggestion she turned calmly upon her heel and accompanied that lady to the drawing room.

George Norris left alone with Miss Cass in the agreeable vicinity of the good log fire made his halting plea for further enlightenment. Girlie, stricken as she was by the sense of her own guilt and the humiliation of her own absurdity, had great difficulty in complying with the request. Even upheld as she was now by the arrival of Lady Elfreda, it still called for a mighty effort to hold her tears in check.

Howbeit she was able to tell the incredible story after a fashion. It was such a poor and halting fashion, its lapses were so many that the unlucky George had to fill in the gaps as well as he could. The task was not easy for George’s naturally quick intelligence did not serve him well in these trying moments. But as with ever-growing dismay he really got the hang of the story at last, he hardly knew whether to laugh like a sportsman or to allow a sense of outrage to consume him. For he himself, as he was not slow to realize, had merely been fooled and put in a false position like every one else.

He was able to muster a laugh, but the underside of it was not mirth exactly. Over head and ears in love with the wicked little witch he certainly was, but he saw at once that all their plans were knocked awry. Laugh as he might at the absolute success of the trick that had been played, the cynicism and the arrogance which deprived every one of any rights in such an affair could not be passed over. Even the most injudicious of lovers must not omit that aspect of the case.

“But why--but why,” said the bewildered young man, as he gazed in humorous horror at the tear-stained Miss Cass, “why in the name of heaven did you let her do it?”

“She made me,” was Girlie’s simple and pathetic answer.

“Made you!” Like several other people he felt a desire to shake this pretty little noodle. But a sense of justice forced him to conclude that what she said was true. Such a will as hers would be nought in the scale with the implacable Elfreda’s. Recalling as he now did each phase of that young woman’s career of eleven days’ humorous devilment at The Laurels, he was inclined to exonerate Miss Cass. There was but one door where the blame could lie.

“The little devil!” George gave a sly whistle. “And I suppose her father has gone to The Laurels to fetch her?”

Girlie said that Lord Carabbas had.

“Well, if he’s the Lord Carabbas I remember”--George burst into a sudden laugh--“she’ll have to consider herself lucky if she doesn’t get a thoroughly sound whipping.”

Girlie shuddered and turned pale. This display of emotion was followed by silence. She herself had in prospect a penalty even more severe. A stricken conscience was causing her a great deal of pain. She felt that she deserved to suffer, and although it was good to hear this young soldier laugh heartily at the whole affair, there was something in his manner which implied that privately he thought so too. Poor Girlie had nothing of the picturesque aplomb of the culprit in chief. Her sense of guilt was there for all to see.

As for George Norris, this remarkable conversation with the real Miss Cass had suddenly made life very difficult. His dream was shattered. For all his merit as a soldier and the distinction he had won, he was an extremely modest fellow. It was not for men like himself to aspire to the Lady Elfreda Catkins of the world, however much he might adore them. Secretly he was full of resentment. Such mischievous impudence was entirely amazing. He had a strong desire to punish her, but with the perversity of a very human being, her attraction for him was never so great as now she stood revealed in all her wickedness.

Laugh he might, but the mirth of George Norris was of the kind that seeks to cover a deep wound. He was far more in love with this dainty rogue than was either wise or desirable. But he had now to meet the fact squarely that she was beyond his reach. True, he could claim to be her accepted suitor, but circumstances alter cases.

Yes, the case was altered. The only course now was to pocket his pride along with the rest of his fine feelings and return at once to The Laurels a sadly humiliated man. The little wretch! How dare she? Once more he posed that futile question as he gazed at the visibly wilting form of the real Miss Cass.

Even Lady Elfreda’s calm retirement to the drawing room was an added impertinence. It was her way, no doubt, of turning him down. She had fooled him, as she had fooled every one else, to the utmost limit and then cast him off like an old glove. Suddenly the decent George began “to see red.” He would give a good deal to get back a little of his own.

The longer George talked with Miss Cass the more fully did he seem to realize that only one line of conduct would now consort with his dignity. All the same, it was not going to be easy to follow. To say the least his position was very uncomfortable. The immediate problem, as it seemed to him now, was whether or no he should take a formal leave of Lady Elfreda. Merely to say good-by or not to say good-by--which course would best salve his damaged feelings?

He was still talking with Miss Cass and striving vainly to get a just perception of his own relation to such a set of exceptional circumstances when this problem automatically solved itself. Lady Elfreda came into the hall with an unknown gentleman.

George rose rather stiffly. “I think I’ll be going,” he said lamely.

“Oh, no,” said the scapegrace with cheerful promptitude. “I want you to stay and meet my father. He should soon be here now.”

Such a charmingly easy acceptance of the situation took George aback. “But will your father want to meet me?” he said, fixing an eye sufficiently humorous upon the unknown gentleman.

The unknown gentleman, a large and genial one, was plainly threatened with a fit of laughter.

“Lord Duckingfield, let me introduce General Norris,” said the scapegrace coolly. Her air of taking everything for granted struck Lord Duckingfield and George Norris as exceedingly comic.

Bows were exchanged. Both men, however, maintained an eloquent silence, although to judge by a certain archness of look with which each regarded the other it was clear that their minds spoke the same language.

George, all the same, was suffering acutely from the sense of his position. Even if he was over head and ears in love with the little rogue, that was no reason for courting a public humiliation. “I think I must get back to The Laurels,” he said with all the firmness he could muster. “Good-by, Lady Elfreda.”

XLII

FATE was against George Norris.

Lady Elfreda persisted that he must stay and meet her father. The unwisdom of such a course was open and palpable, but he was a chivalrous fellow and, in spite of the facer dealt him by her wicked trick, he was still in the mood for adventure. Moreover, he was simply devoured by curiosity as to what would happen next.

For a man of average spirit it was worth running a risk of personal insult to learn the next turn in the game. What was to be the end of this amazing comedy? That question lurked in the genial eye of Lord Duckingfield. And the arch glance of that peer seemed to tell George Norris that to beat a retreat at such a moment would be conduct unworthy of a soldier, a sportsman and the possessor of a sense of humor.

Besides, to run away just now would be extremely difficult. Not for the first time this charming little vixen was pitting her will against his, not for the first time was he experiencing its steel-like quality. There was a heavy account to settle with her but she really was delightful. And her “gameness” was magnificent. “Of course, you’ll stay. You _must_ meet The Dadda. He’s great fun.” The affectionate lisp might have been inspired by a favorite golliwog.

“I hope you’ll stay, General Norris.” A smiling but anxious-looking hostess had appeared just in time to enforce the appeal. “Have some tea, at any rate, before you leave us.” Not wishing to show himself a poltroon in the sight of the world General Norris accepted the invitation.

In about five minutes tea was brought into the hall. And then one by one the guests appeared from odd corners of the house. They were hardly more than a round half dozen, a company by no means formidable either in number or in quality, but as the muster grew, George for the first time in his life was afflicted with a desire that the floor might open and swallow him.

There was no reason, of course, why George Norris should suffer this feeling. But he was a member of the weaker sex. She, to whom such an emotion would have been entirely appropriate, gave no sign of turning a hair.

Upon the hostess devolved the task of making Lady Elfreda known to those who might be said to be her victims. It was performed heroically. One and all might be sharing a mild sense of outrage, they might be fuming inwardly at the arrogance of this chit who was hardly out of her teens, but it was hard not to admire her _sang-froid_ in the presence of the enemy.

Really she was as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. She partook of some excellent tea and some cake equally excellent with a zest that atoned for a decidedly scratch luncheon at The Laurels. Poor George, on the other hand, who had had no luncheon at all was unable to peck a crumb. He had been four years in France, his record was vouched for by the row of decorations on his tunic, but at this moment he was ready to own freely that here was the tightest corner he had ever been in.

Everybody behaved beautifully, but it was soon clear to George that one and all were looking forward with huge enjoyment to the appearance of “The Dadda” upon the scene. His return could not be long delayed. And the miserable George was bound to deduce from the suppressed tones and the sly looks all about him that he had been cast for an important part in the play.

Had George been as brave morally as he was in the field he would have made a bolt for The Laurels after his second cup of tea. Such publicity was altogether too much. He felt these hard-bitten worldlings were simply gloating over the possibilities of the situation. Still, even in the extremity of stage fright he was bound to remember that he had asked this little girl to marry him and that she had consented to do so. Of course, the preposterous circumstances made the whole thing invalid, but as now he wrestled with his moral weakness it came home to him that he was very honestly in love with this minx. She was adorable. And as man is the being he is in the world of the present, she was the more adorable because so palpably out of his reach.

In point of time it was not very long and yet quite long enough for the peace of mind of George Norris before certain tokens heralded the return of Lord Carabbas.

Perhaps the tidings were first promulgated by Hobson, the butler, as he moved up to the front door. He was an impassive fellow, but the look on his face and the sight of him nervously crossing the hall parquet seemed to demoralize more impressionable members of the community. From Sir Toby Philpot there arose a cry which resembled the shriek of a plover. Nothing could check it except a violent attack of coughing which intervened at the precise moment that a lowering, heavy-jowled, empurpled face suddenly projected itself from behind the large screen of Chinese lacquer which shut off the cozy inner hall from the outer darkness of the universe.

Apart from the muffled sound of Sir Toby’s attack the silence was of the tomb. Lord Carabbas himself stood speechless, glowering upon the company not unlike a bull confronted by a red umbrella. Swiftly, however, with a cry of charmed surprise, Lady Elfreda rose from her place beside the hostess. “So here you are, papa! You have been to The Laurels, I hear. So sorry we missed you.”

As those tones of gay welcome rode the storm it was recognized at once that rumor had not over-painted this young woman’s powers as an actress. Montagu Jupp had been well within the mark when he had said that their possessor was capable of playing all the ingénues off the London stage. The intrepid coolness with which she came forward to greet her parent was sublime.

Lord Carabbas lowered his head a point as if about to charge. For the moment, however, his animal energy was confined to a few syncopated sounds in his throat.

Not in the least abashed Lady Elfreda continued to keep a firm hold on the situation.

“Let me introduce George Norris, papa.” It really was sublime. For all the buzzing in his ears General Norris was able to rise from his chair and bow with solemnity.

Lord Carabbas did not return the bow. Indeed, if the eyes of my lord had a meaning they simply affirmed a desire to kill General Norris.

Tea was over, happily, and the spectators, although fascinated by a scene more richly comic than any it was their avowed business to create, did not allow private considerations to balk a sense of sportsmanship. It seemed only fair, at any rate, to a blameless young soldier and an innocent peer, to give them a chance. Mrs. Minever had the presence of mind to lead the way to the drawing room. And the others began silently, if in some cases reluctantly, to melt away. They would have given much to remain, but decent people, after all, must sacrifice a little to the manes of fair play.

In spite of her feeling that she had a prescriptive right to be there, Girlie rose and followed in the wake of the others. But a great effort of will was needed in order to do so. And yet to stay in her nook, a thrilled and guilty witness of the scene, would call for more courage than she possessed.

“But I don’t understand.” Those were the words Girlie heard as she rose from her place by the fire. The tone in which they were uttered was deep, stern, menacing. Lord Carabbas, his voice trembling with fury, looked first at Lady Elfreda and then at her cavalier. “Perhaps you will explain.” The voice tailed off so queerly that Girlie half expected Lord Carabbas to hit General Norris a blow. Without waiting for any such dreadful development she hurriedly retired to King Edward’s bedroom.

So tense was the moment that George Norris stepped back involuntarily, as if a blow was fully expected.

Elfreda, however, was magnificent.

“General Norris has asked me to marry him, papa, and I should like to do so.” The precision of the speech had a sort of astringent humor which somehow had the effect of keeping “The Dadda” in hand. It served to remind him that, in spite of the strain which had been cast upon him, it was his duty to remember that beyond all things he was a gentleman.

There was a long moment of silence in which it seemed to George Norris that anything might happen, and then Lord Carabbas, obviously making a tremendous effort to keep calm, fixed the young man with the eye of war and growled, “I don’t think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance and yet I seem to know your face.”

There was another long and tense moment. Involuntarily George Norris stepped back another pace. And then he said in that curiously frank manner which Lady Elfreda liked so much, “Don’t you remember me, sir? I am George Norris.”

“Norris--George Norris?” My lord’s brow was a thundercloud. But that was merely the process of thought. For the moment his memory had betrayed him.

“Perhaps, sir,” said the young man in his straightforward fashion, “you will remember my father better than you remember me.”

Lord Carabbas shook his head. Plainly he was still at a loss.

“My father, sir, was butler for nearly thirty years at Bally Euchra,” said General Norris modestly.

XLIII

A PIN might have been heard to fall on the hall parquet. And then the voice of Lord Carabbas rose to a bellow.

“What! Son of old Norris!”

“Yes, sir,” said the modest George. But there was a note in the voice of my lord that at once enabled George Norris to assume perfect mastery over himself. “And my father married Miss Hook, the maid to your mother the Duchess.” With an air mildly ironical the young man turned as he spoke to the girl at his side.

Lady Elfreda was biting her lip sharply. She had turned rather pale.

Another pin might have been heard to fall on the hall parquet and then George Norris said very quietly and calmly: “I should like you to understand, sir, that when I asked Lady Elfreda to marry me I was under the impression that she was a governess without a situation, without money, without friends.”

Lord Carabbas nodded truculently. He was wise, no doubt, not to trust himself with words.

“And, of course, you will understand, also, that when Lady Elfreda did me the honor to accept my offer she had no idea that I was the only son of her grandfather’s late head butler and her grandmother’s second--I believe it was second--maid.”

The young man ended this speech with a slight bow for the benefit of Lady Elfreda. And then quite suddenly he exploded in laughter. Lady Elfreda had the wit to respond with a tempered outburst of her own. But it lacked spontaneity. For all her power of will she was obviously laughing now on the wrong side of her mouth. As for Lord Carabbas, sore, bewildered, seeking to fix a quarrel, he saw a new affront in the method by which this son of old Norris chose to handle a matter quite without precedent.

“I’m hanged if _I_ can see anything to laugh at,” he said.

Again Lord Carabbas stood looking from one to the other of the culprits as if he would dearly like to commit murder. But at this grim moment he was saved from any rash or overt act by the composure of his daughter and the manly commonsense of this son of old Norris.

“I suppose, sir, I ought to apologize,” he said matter-of-factly, “for landing you in this hocus. But, of course, I hadn’t the least idea----”

“No, that I quite see,” snapped Lord Carabbas.

“And of course it alters the case.”

Lord Carabbas saw that too. His nod, at any rate, affirmed as much. And basking in a sense of acute relief that the more pressing evil was in process of being removed, he suddenly remembered what was due to this brilliant son of an old family retainer.