Chapter M: Eleanor Trenchard-Simpson (2)

Recovering his air of grand seigneur, Lord Carabbas, with as much heartiness as he could muster, congratulated George Norris on his achievements in the field. They did him great credit and his lordship was quite sure that George’s parents, who had retired years ago from the Duke’s service to the keeping of an hotel near a golf links in County Down, a more lucrative if less distinguished proposition, must be proud of their son.

George modestly hoped that the old people were. Lord Carabbas grew quite reassured. “By the way,” he said, “were you ever in the Duke’s service? I seem to remember you.”

“I was never really in the house, sir, except that as a boy I did odd jobs; but at sixteen I contrived to get into the estate office. You see, sir,” George laughed, “I was always inclined to be ambitious. There was an idea at the back of my mind that one day I might become a land agent.”

Lord Carabbas nodded approvingly. “Now the war is over I don’t know what your plans are, but I daresay that something might be arranged.”

“As a matter of fact, sir,” said George, “I have just received the offer of a billet in British East Africa. You see, I have decided to make the Army my profession.”

Again Lord Carabbas nodded approvingly. Such a career sounded almost as attractive as the offer of a stool in the Bally Euchra Estate Office. Still, the civilian career might be the less precarious. Anyhow, Lord Carabbas would be pleased to do what he could in the matter if the son of old Norris cared to consider the project.

George thanked Lord Carabbas. Thereupon that peer congratulated him upon his success, hoped that whatever course he took would prove to be the right one and shook him gravely but cordially by the hand. Having thus disposed of one whom he was bound to regard as his protégé, my lord went up to his room and proceeded resolutely to compose his ruffled feelings in a mustard bath.

XLIV

THERE now remained for George Norris the task of taking a final leave of the lady of his choice. Recent developments should have made the task easy, but when it came to the point he found it supremely difficult.

While The Dadda was still in the act of ascending the stairs George offered the hand of farewell. “Good-by, Lady Elfreda.” This trying business was like a chemist’s draught; let it be attacked at once and got over quickly.

Lady Elfreda, however, had to be consulted in the matter of pace and even in the mode of procedure. Completely ignoring the hand of farewell she asked calmly with that leisureliness which was at times so exasperating, “When do you start for East Africa?”

“I am going up to town to-morrow,” said George, “to see them at the War Office. I’m hoping to get out pretty soon.”

“It’ll be very jolly if you do.” She looked at him with the odd directness which sometimes was so delightful and sometimes so disconcerting.

Her manner gave no hint of the gulf that had opened between them. He was troubled exceedingly. Educated by the usage of a hard world he was not unduly sensitive or inclined to take himself too seriously, but still he was not proof altogether against a feeling of resentment. He had been so properly fooled that her air of unconcern seemed an added impertinence. Still, it was no use mounting the high horse. He must grin and bear the blow. Perhaps the process would be a little easier for the fact that in his own mind he was quite sure he didn’t really deserve it.

George was still trying to make a final exit without loss of dignity and Lady Elfreda in a subtle way seemed to be trying her utmost to compromise it still further when Mrs. Minever arrived from the drawing room. The young man was at such a serious disadvantage that he was ready to welcome the lady of the house as an agent of providence. But she, it seemed, was not so much prepared to offer a means of escape as to fix still further the shackles of embarrassment upon him. She hoped General Norris would stay to dinner.

Nothing was further from the wish or the intention of General Norris, but for a reason only known to herself, Mrs. Minever was not at all inclined to take a polite refusal. “The Laurels is on the telephone. It will be easy to let them know--unless you have some particular engagement? And the car shall take you there afterwards.”

The urgency of Mrs. Minever backed by the dynamic glance of the enchantingly wicked Elfreda made it very difficult for George Norris to be firm.

“But my clothes,” he said rather weakly, to end a pause which he felt was undoing him.

Really, it was the feeblest of moves. The yellow chrysanthemum lady merely cast a glance at the displays of ribands peeping shyly from beneath his open overcoat. “I hope,” she said archly, “the King’s uniform will always be good enough for us.”

George saw he was done. The light in the eye of the wicked Elfreda told him so. Evidently some new game was in the wind--but in for a penny, in for a pound! It was a moment for philosophy. Besides, a natural appetite for adventure had been enormously whetted by the amazing events of the past three hours.

There was no help for it. With a reluctance which in the depths of his heart George Norris knew to be not wholly sincere he allowed Mrs. Minever to lead him to the telephone.

XLV

GIRLIE, in the meantime, had gone to ground in King Edward’s bedroom. The public eye was no place for her. All she asked now, if so much was permitted her, was to retire permanently into private life. She even cherished the modest hope that she might be allowed to make her escape from that house by the first train in the morning.

Shivering at her thoughts over the recently lighted bedroom fire, her faith was still pinned upon Lady Elfreda. It was a much-tired, a sorely-shattered faith, but it was now her only stand-by. The task would devolve upon Lady Elfreda of convincing Mrs. Minever and the others that her Deputy was really not “an adventuress” at all, or any kind of criminal in disguise, but the well educated daughter of a solicitor, who, no matter what her folly, was quite incapable of theft.

It was a horrid position for a budding Charlotte Brontë to occupy. As she viewed in perspective the eleven epic days she had contrived to live through since leaving London she could but marvel at herself. Oh, why had she ever embarked on this maddest of schemes! Her place was lost, her character was lost, she had used abominably a man who had gained her admiration and respect, whom she would have found it very easy to love. Never again could she hold up her head, not even if Lady Elfreda was able to satisfy the police that her Deputy was a reasonably innocent member of society!

Shivering over the logs as they spluttered to a reluctant heat, Girlie had never felt so low and miserable in her life. Remorse was whipping her severely. Ruin stared her in the face. Whatever would become of her! A hopeless future loomed ahead. No ray of hope was visible. Her mad enterprise had ended in the only way it could have done.

Soon after the clock had struck seven Girlie, fathoms deep in gloom, was startled by the entrance of Lady Elfreda. By now the poor Deputy had begun to feel a profound dislike of this cynical girl who had involved her in ruin. Howbeit, she still found it difficult not to admire her. Such assurance, such decision, such competence, such spirit were marvelous. She seemed to have every attribute of a She Napoleon.

“Where’s that stupid old Pikey?” she said. In her manner of pressing the bell Girlie felt there was something magnificent. “She ought to be here rooting me out some clothes for this evening.”

“I suppose,” said Girlie dismally, yet heroically suppressing her tears, “I must leave this room now.”

“Oh, no.” There was a regal indifference to the room even if it was King Edward’s. “There’s one next door will do for me. But I must have something to put on this evening.” She pressed the bell again just as Pikey entered, half truculent, half scared.

Girlie was still in awe of the Werewolf. Even the partial collapse of Pikey under the stress of events did not allow the Deputy to get on terms with her. But Elfreda’s method of handling the creature was almost an education. In the sight of her lawful charge she counted for rather less than nobody.

“Pikey, what am I to wear this evening?” At the moment this was the question of questions for Elfreda.

“There’s nothing you can wear,” Pikey muttered dismally.

“Nothing? Don’t be absurd. I know you packed at least five evening dresses.”

Pikey flashed a savage glance at Miss Cass.

“_She’s_ worn them all,” said Pikey in a tone of shameful confession.

“Of course. Why not?” said a very polite and very prompt Elfreda. No one likes other people wearing one’s clothes, but Pikey’s implication that their patrician owner would never be able to use them again was a little too much. It was one more barb for Miss No-Class.

Elfreda, however, with a woman’s understanding of the case did her best to soften it. She was the soul of tact and she was quite charming to Miss Cass.

“Please choose the one you like best for this evening.” Her winning grace brought back to poor Girlie’s mind their never-to-be-forgotten journey from London.

Girlie declined the offer with tears.

“I--I c-couldn’t think of going down to dinner this evening,” she said with a little shiver.

“But, of course, you are going down to dinner.” Napoleon--Hannibal--Etc.; the sinister cycle of their first meeting was being enacted again.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t--I really couldn’t--I could never face them all!”

“But of course you will.” Each slow syllable of the Evil Genius seemed to burn itself in Girlie’s heart. “If you don’t play up now you will spoil everything.”

Girlie shuddered. She fought against her tears. “I--I am ruined and disgraced. I--I don’t know whatever will become of me.”

“I don’t either,” Elfreda grimly agreed, “if you let go now.”

With the power of will that made her so formidable Elfreda ordered Pikey to lay out Madame Lucile’s new pink dress for Miss Cass.

“That is the one I think. It goes perfectly with your coloring. You must let Pikey do your hair. And you shall have my nicest necklace.”

At the word “necklace” Girlie shuddered again. The prison gates loomed before her eyes.

“And you shall have my new Pinet slippers if they’ll fit you. Now do be sensible. This evening you must simply play up for all you are worth.”

It was all very well, but nature has set a limit to what flesh and blood can endure. Stage fright had once more fixed its talons on Girlie. “Oh, no, I can’t face them to-night,” she said miserably.

She was reckoning, however, without the dæmonic force that encompassed her. Its power over weak vessels was truly remarkable. And among these Pikey was foremost. The Werewolf, after all, was no more than a lath painted to look like iron and none knew that quite so well as her mistress. She ordered the disgruntled old woman about with the genial arrogance she might have bestowed on a favorite dog. And Pikey, mumbling under her breath, was only too ready to do her bidding

As for Miss Cass, she found herself in the midst of her toilet before she could quite realize what was taking place. Elfreda superintended it. “Yes, the pink one, Pikey. And those stockings, I think.”

As ever, she was curiously impersonal but her taste was sure, she could bring her mind down to details and it was inflexible. Miss Cass was clay in her hands. Yet even now there was just one matter in which the unfortunate Deputy was able to muster a mind of her own. She insisted that no alien fingers should touch her hair.

“Better let Pikey, hadn’t you? She’s used to hair. She’s really rather clever with it.”

Here it was, however, that Miss Cass made her stand. She took the terrible, long-handled brush gently but firmly from Pikey’s grasp. “I am used to doing it myself--I am really.”

Pikey’s sniff of disdain confirmed that statement. Elfreda was loth to yield the point, but time was fleeting. And Miss Cass, hairbrush in hand, was displaying such skill that it seemed vain to contest it.

“Perhaps you had better come and give me a hand, Pikey.”

With a devout sense of thankfulness Girlie watched mistress and maid retire to the room next door.

XLVI

WHEN Elfreda returned about half an hour later she was dressed for the evening. Girlie was thrilled by the picture of charm and fascination that she made. If not exactly pretty, she had a highly finished daintiness and beyond everything the strength of personality which transcends physical beauty yet is in itself a form of beauty. Somehow the sight of Elfreda cap-à-pie, bright, strong and audacious meant a great deal to her fellow conspirator.

“Now please remember,” said the Evil Genius with that impersonal air which seemed to add to her power, “you simply _must_ play up.”

Poor Girlie had no spirit left in her. So black was the future that it was mere mockery to speak of “playing up.” Besides, where was the necessity now?

Elfreda looked her up and down with an eye of frank but not unkindly criticism.

“Don’t let go, whatever you do--for your own sake. Your dress is most becoming.” She really _was_ pretty. Madame Lucile’s latest creation might have been made for her. And the forlorn look in her tear-dimmed eyes was an added weapon ... if the little noodle only knew how to use it!

Elfreda led the way along the corridor and downstairs to the drawing room. There seemed to be a buzz of suppressed excitement as they came in. Most of the others were already there. They did not want to miss a moment of the comedy. All might be said to be on tiptoe to learn the next turn in the game.

Girlie would dearly have liked to sink through the floor, yet she was sustained by the imperious power which still enslaved her. And before dinner was announced an event occurred which did much to lessen the painful tension of the Deputy. In fact it appeared to have an immediate effect upon everybody. Mrs. Minever pointed to an article which enclosed the third finger of her left hand and said with a rather forced laugh, “Behold, the missing ring!”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve found it, Kate,” cried her lord.

Sure enough, Mrs. Minever had. It seemed that the precious ring had merely been mislaid. She was willing to take the whole of the blame upon herself, although it should really belong to a stupid and forgetful servant.

“Well, I call that the limit!”

Mr. Minever was not alone in so regarding the incident. A deep growl of humorous disgust slowly permeated the room. “There now, didn’t I say that man from Scotland Yard was a perfect fool!”

A shout of laughter greeted the indignant words of Lord Duckingfield. It was freely owned that the worthy Midlander had said so from the first. He had stood alone in his defense of the little governess. His sportsmanship had been admired, if skeptics deplored his gullibility. And now at this dramatic moment, like the big-hearted man he was, he contrived to underscore this admirable quality. For as the hostess and Lord Carabbas led the way to the dinner table, he moved across to Girlie, bowed to her and offered his arm.

It was a very hilarious meal. Everybody realized that they were on their honor “to play up,” There could be no middle course. In the eyes of the fastidious these people might be vulgar, they might be second-rate, yet they were fully entitled to plume themselves on their sportsmanship.

Certainly an excellent dinner blended with their high spirits enabled them to carry the thing off brilliantly. Even Lord Carabbas, feeling his reputation as a sportsman to be at stake, made quite a brave showing. He still cherished homicidal feelings towards his youngest daughter, but the character of the food, the quality of the wine, the chaff and the gayety helped him to keep them well in hand. It was a dickens of a business, but he must “stick it” to the bitter end.

By one of those odd strokes of fortune which seem so inconsequent and yet obey the laws of reason, Miss Cass suddenly became the heroine of the hour. Everybody seemed thankful that an undeserved stigma had been removed; besides, the only means of punishing the culprit-in-chief was to canonize the understudy. The patrician impudence of Lady Elfreda could not be forgiven. It went so deep that it could only be wiped out with blood. Meanwhile, it had to be suffered and this was best achieved by absolving Miss Cass and even making much of her.

Perhaps for that reason General Norris, an undoubted figure of romance, was not acclaimed as the hero. The proud position was reserved for Sir Toby Philpot or with more accuracy it might be said that Sir Toby reserved it for himself. The little baronet had all the airs of a Congreve or a Sheridan with a dash of Molière thrown in. Superior people who had said “The Lady of Laxton” was far-fetched or impossible had been refuted wonderfully by what had occurred. The series of situations he had devised for his masterpiece had been outdone by these amazing events.

What a consolation it is that no matter what absurdities imagination may bring forth, Real Life never has any difficulty in going one better!

Odd as the circumstances were, there was not a suspicion of constraint. Mr. Montagu Jupp saw to that. As a matter of course he presided over the revels. His badinage rolled from one end of the table to the other, his wit vollied unceasingly. True to himself, in as rare a moment as life had given him, he spared neither age nor sex nor social position. Even an enraged parent finding a most excellent dinner to be a real stimulus to a sense of humor could not resist Montagu’s audacity. It was not so much what he said, it was the way in which he said it. Nevertheless, the great man’s words were exceedingly to the point.

What, for example, could have been more apposite than the impromptu speech in which he proposed the health of Lord Duckingfield? He rose at a moment when a lull was threatening and in terms which set the table in a roar he offered that peer sincere felicitations on his approaching marriage. Moreover, he ventured to link with the toast the name of their friend Miss Cass.

The toast was honored with acclamation. No doubt the acclamation was the louder for the fact that these primitive people were fully aware that for once even the admired Montagu had sailed rather close to the wind. There was a moment when the success of the _ballon d’essai_ hung in the balance. In this world there is a limit to most things, after all!

For the brief space of thirty seconds the look on the face of the worthy Midlander seemed to promise an early delivery of the long-delayed punch on Montagu’s nose. It was nearly fifty years since he had last received one at his private school. But as the sequel proved, Montagu’s wonderful faculty of divination had judged to a nicety the thickness of the ice.

Lord Duckingfield rose slowly and heavily to his feet and thanked the company for their kind words. He thanked them not only on his own behalf, but--turning to the bewildered little girl at his side with the most courtly bow he could command--also on behalf of the lady who he hoped would do him the honor to become his wife.

The effect of the announcement may have been a trifle marred by a loud shriek from the little baronet. Stimulated by Sir Toby’s threat of hysteria, Mr. Jupp broke suddenly into “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” The strain was promptly taken up and musical honors were bestowed upon my lord.

In the meantime the bewildered Girlie was passing through a sort of dream. She could not believe her ears. At any rate, she could not believe the words of Lord Duckingfield. She was really in love with this good fellow. It was not merely that he alone could stand between her and a cruel world, it was not merely that he was her only protector; she loved him for his manliness, his generosity, his large simplicity. But a girl like herself could never hope to be his wife, particularly after having made of him a public laughing stock.

Still it is the unexpected that happens. An hour later, in the lee of the hall stairs, Lord Duckingfield was able to prove to Girlie Cass that he fully intended to be as good as his word.

About the same time, in the seclusion of the library, Elfreda took pains to prove to George Norris that she also was determined to keep faith with him. A stormy interview with her father did something to nerve her for the task. But, in any case, her mind was made up. Her year in London with the V. A. D. had opened her eyes to the world and the things around her. She saw a chance of permanent escape from the stuffy circle in which she had been brought up. Her pompous, caste-ridden parents, her narrow, conventional sisters--what did they stand for, after all?

XLVII

BRIGADIER GENERAL NORRIS, C.M.G., and Lady Elfreda Norris proceeded to East Africa at the end of January. The climate suits them, they get on well with the natives and they like the life immensely. So far there is not a cloud on their horizon. Just at first General Norris was a trifle anxious about money, because the daughter of even an impoverished marquis is apt to think expensively. But early in March Grandpapa Angora died at the ripe age of eighty-seven and the old gentleman really “cut up” better than most people expected. Anyhow, when the will was proved each of his grandchildren benefited to the tune of thirty thousand pounds. Moreover, in the year 1916, George Norris, or Captain Norris as he was then, on the advice of a friend in the City invested the whole of his savings in Burmah Oil, and like a wise young man forgot all about the matter for several years. So you see, there’s really no need for the young couple to worry about money.

However, these are mundane matters. What is vastly more important is that the Lady Elfreda Norris has already presented to the Empire a sturdy young male. And if the printers come out again on strike, before this work sees the light she is quite likely to have presented it with another one.

It is very doubtful if Lady Duckingfield will ever be a Miss Cholmondeley or a Mrs. Humphry Ward. Charlotte Brontë is out of the question. 4b Berkeley Square and Mount Pleasant, Wolverhampton, are really so comfortable that all thought of “sturm und drang” has passed for ever. And no one can be a Charlotte Brontë without it. Still, Lady Duckingfield is not quite dead to ambition. The _Saturday Sentinel_ paid her such charming compliments on her essay, “The Art of Mr. Galsworthy,” that she has in contemplation critical estimates of other modern novelists. Her next subject will be...?

No, please guess again....

However.

There is no moral to this story. Life itself has no moral. The most deserving people don’t always come out “on top.” And vice versa.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

On page 30, Satuday as been changed to Saturday.

On page 36, My has been changed to Mr.

On page 70, ensue has been changed to ensure.

On page 108, ratherdess has been changed to rather less.

On page 152, flute-like has been changed to flutelike

On page 191, hair brush has been changed to hairbrush.

On page 198, askin has been changed to akin.

On page 203, work basket has been changed to work-basket.

On page 247, trapsed has been changed to traipsed.

On page 255, appaled has been changed to appalled.

On page 256, Trenchard-Simpon’s has been changed to Trenchard-Simpson’s.

On page 257, decidely has been changed to decidedly.

On page 265, school-room has been changed to schoolroom.

On page 274, Case has been changed to Cass.

On page 293, Morris has been changed to Norris.

Most hyphenation has been regularized; variant and non-English spelling has been retained as typeset.