Chapter SIX

The boy Ethelbert was suffering; not from contrition--which, I need hardly tell one of your learning, is the pure sorrow for sin--but from attrition--which, I need hardly tell one of your learning, is the sorrow for sin only in so far as one considers its unpleasant consequences to oneself.

The boy Ethelbert clearly appreciated that in attempting to save himself from one danger he had run himself into another far greater. He had put a valuable jewel into a nobleman's pocket and that might be, in legal terms, for all he knew, embezzlement, malversation or even a compound and chronic felony of _malice prepense_; perhaps a misdemeanour--with which word he was familiar through the fate of an uncle of his called John.

He was in great agony, was the boy Ethelbert; in agony of that sort which youth cannot endure until it has relieved itself by communion. But how should he speak? His duty was to his natural lord, the Butler. The glorious, the remote Mr. Whaley: God of the Underworld. Should he confess to the Butler? It would be madness. Yet he must speak: he must unburden his mind.

The innocent child was not long in finding a plan. He would go to his true superior and, naming no names, mentioning no-one-like, he would give a nod as good as a wink to a blind horse, and them as understood could follow if they chose, and if they asked no questions they wouldn't be told no lies. And mum's the word. Such, in rapid succession, were the Napoleonic thoughts of Ethelbert.

It was shortly after luncheon that he sought the room in which the dignified O.C. of the household of Paulings was wont to repose from his labours: and never more thoroughly than after luncheon.

Midday sleep is unknown to the young, at least after they are very, very young. Those of young Ethelbert's age have no use for it and cannot understand what a boon it may be to others. Foolishly, therefore, did young Ethelbert knock at the door of the holy of holies, thereby suddenly awakening the sacred being within, who jerked into a startled gasp. He pulled a handkerchief from his face, thought for a moment that the house was on fire, expected to see an angry master perhaps; was on his feet with labouring breath, purple, expectant; when there entered the Boy.

A fine and hearty curse greeted the youth and almost blasted him from the room, but what he had to say was of such moment that he just stood his ground.

"Oh, sir!" he said, "I thought I'd come and tell you..."

"Come and tell me what? You young devil!" roared Mr. Whaley with a lack of dignity which I should have thought impossible had I not myself once spied upon him in his more relaxed moments, when he thought that none could observe. "I've a mind to have you larroped! Damned if I don't larrop you myself!" He made a vicious dash at the Boy, who was only spurred by such terror to the arresting cry of.

"Ho, sir! The Hemerald....!"

"The Emerald ..." gulped Mr. Whaley in a very changed tone. And then, almost meekly: "Well, what about the Emerald, young Bert? What about it?" The fierceness had gone out of him altogether; he sat down. "Anyone been saying who took it?" For conscience that makes cowards of us all makes us most cowardly when we are innocent--especially in a trade with perquisites.

Ethelbert recovered some little of his composure, and there came into his eyes a look of simple cunning.

"There's some," he said, nodding mysteriously, "what might speak if they chose."

"Oh! Is there?" said Mr. Whaley. "Well then, speak, you little rat!"

"I didn't say it was me as knew," answered Ethelbert a little plaintively. "But don't you think, sir, that when the clothes are brushed and all, him as brushes finds out what's in the pockets--yes" (mysteriously) "even in them of the 'ighest?"

"'Oo'd be fool enough to leave such a thing in their pocket?" said Mr. Whaley contemptuously. "And 'oo do you mean by the 'ighest?"

Ethelbert nodded with a superior air.

"Ah!" he answered doggedly, "all I said was, 'there's some could speak if they chose.' And there's things that may be left in the pockets even of the 'ighest."

"Look 'ere, young Bert," said Mr. Whaley, rising again ponderously, and with a new threat in his face: "I'm not going to have any of _that_." Then shaking a considerable sausage of a forefinger at the lad, he added, "When you say 'the 'ighest' that's enough! Don't let me 'ear you speak again: leastways not on jewels and such like. There's only one name that it can mean you're driving at"--and there rose up within his mind the majesty of the master, Humphrey de Bohun.

"I'm driving at no one," said the Boy, struck suddenly again with terror. He had not dreamed that the upper servants felt so strongly upon the immunity of lords such as he in whose pocket the gem, to Ethelbert's certain knowledge, reposed--for he had put it there.

"You've been a-brushing the clothes, young lad, have yer? Yes, of course you have; that's your place; and setting 'em out as they should be set. And you say you found something in the pocket of the 'ighest, did you?"

"I never ..." began Ethelbert, almost on the point of howling.

"You shut your dangerous young mouth," shouted Mr. Whaley. "It's talking like that against your betters as 'as put many and many a lad in prison."

"Oh, sir!" said the unfortunate Bert.

"Now look here, my Boy," went on Mr. Whaley, in his heaviest manner, slowly transforming himself into the distant Superior and pronouncing divine moral judgment and guidance, as it were, for the very young. "You listen to me, and listen solemn. This may be a turning point in your life, it may. Talk like this among the lower servants, let alone a little bastard not yet sixteen, 'as been the ruin of some--aye, of many. So I tell ye. The gaols are full of 'em. Now, you mark what I say, young Ethelbert"--it was the first time he had ever used the entire name, but the occasion demanded it--"one word from your lips, and you're ruined. It's well you come to one like me, that might be your father like, and that has a care for your future, my lad. Remember that! One word from your lips, and you're ruined. It's not for you to be piecing this and that together. Gentlemen 'ave got ways o' their own, and, anyhow, I'm slow to believe you. There may be a game about all this, and, anyhow, not a word from your lips. Mark, my lad!" he went on, his voice booming, "ye're lost if ye speak. Have you taken that?" he ended, almost shouting again.

"Oh, yes, sir!" said the miserable Ethelbert, trembling. "Oh, sir, I meant no harm...."

"Well, then, you go and _do_ no harm," concluded Mr. Whaley, and waved the infant away.

* * * * * * *

Mr. Whaley rose to his full height and girth and stretched. He looked in a little square looking-glass, one of his necessaries of life, thought his tie doubtful, carefully and gingerly put on a new one, worthy of the occasion. His boots--he glanced down at them--yes, his boots would do. His trousers were just what they should be. The fringe of hair round the majestic dome of his head never needed attention less than now.

It was a solemn moment in history. He, George Whaley, a man of weight and years, possessed, moreover, now of a sufficient competence, but not undesirous of making it larger still, was in possession of the dread secret. The head of the de Bohuns, one of His Majesty's principal Secretaries of State, had fallen, fallen, fallen! Humphrey de Bohun had pinched his own daughter's emerald. The Emerald of Catherine the Great. The fortune of the de Bohuns lay concealed by his master's hand, awaiting the receiver's gold. Oh, horror! In what embarrassment the unfortunate man had committed the fatal act Mr. Whaley knew not: could so good a man have been blackmailed by scoundrels? Why should he need money--and money at such risk? Alas! who can plumb the depths of the human heart? thought George Whaley--indeed, he almost spoke the words aloud, so apposite did they seem, and so often had he read them in his book of devotions. Yet was it so! And ever, in the least expected places, thought George Whaley again, lies the solution of a mystery. He shot his cuffs, drew himself up, coughed a little, and rehearsed the scene.

"I beg your pardon, sir, may I have the honour of a moment's confidential word with you?" And then another discreet cough.

Then how to put it? He thought long and deeply. He must put it with sympathy--almost as a friend. He must not forget that he was talking to a superior. It would need very skilful handling; but what are butlers for if they cannot skilfully handle? It is the very core of buttling!

He had handled other situations in his other situations, had Mr. Whaley: none quite so delicate as this, but still, some of 'em pretty delicate. Yes; he must talk to Humphrey as a friend. Respectfully, but as a friend: and above all firmly. It was clear that such a service would merit some reward.

God knows, there would be no tone of menace! Oh, no! Whatever honorarium might accrue to George Whaley as a reward for such revelation should be the gift of a grateful heart alone: and, said Mr. George Whaley to his own conscience, why not? He would be doing his master a very great service. Indeed, he would be doing a double service--nay, a treble one. For he would be rescuing the Home Secretary of England from his lower self; that was a moral service. He would be preventing him from inevitable discovery; that was a material service. He would be serving him faithfully as an honest domestic should; and that was a service of loyalty.

Was it to be wondered at (the whole scene rose vividly before his eyes as it was to be--as it certainly would be), was it to be wondered at that the grateful man should, on an impulse, seize the honest servitor's hand, grasp it warmly, and then, with a catch in his voice, cry aloud, "Whaley, you have served me well!" The rest would follow. Not less, he took it, than five hundred pounds.

Should he go further? Should he offer his services for taking back the gem discreetly and seeing that it should be laid, through means he could command, upon the dressing-table of the culprit's daughter--no one should know whence?

Time must show; the opportunity would develop; the details of the drama would be filled in. But the main lines were clear. George Whaley would save the head of the family of de Bohun; he would save the soul--and, incidentally, the more earthly reputation--of the head of the family of de Bohun. He would receive the little spontaneous, heartfelt reward due to so honest a liegeman of the de Bohuns. Ah! Chivalry was not dead....

But nothing must be done on impulse. He glanced at his watch. It was only just past three. He must watch the poor tortured soul until there had developed in it, as inevitably there would through the effect of time, a false security--a false security brought by suspicions and counter-suspicions among the guests, who could never dream the real truth. Upon such a mood the revelation would fall with tenfold effect.

Then, and then only--he would watch his moment--would George Whaley unburden himself of the curse of the de Bohuns and turn that curse into a blessing; moral to his master, and to himself material.

Such was the plan of George Whaley. Once more he recited, but in an undertone, a whisper, the words of which could not be heard by another, the very phrases he was to use, the gestures proper to the great moment when it should come. So discreetly did he rehearse that young Ethelbert without, his ear glued to the keyhole, heard nothing but a murmur of monologue within, and feared in one wild moment that the awful revelation about Lord Galton had driven the butler mad.