Chapter D: Appleton and Company (5)

“My dear Lady Elfreda,” cried the yellow chrysanthemum lady at the pitch of humorous expostulation, “where _have_ you been?”

Girlie hardened her heart. “Into Clavering.” Her courage rose to a dogged defiance. “To do some shopping. I am so sorry. I ought to have told you.”

“But your luncheon?” Mrs. Minever’s face was a study. “Where did you get it?”

“At a tea shop.”

The half amused eyes of the hostess suddenly encountered those of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling. Among her fellow guests the theory was growing that not only was Lady Elfreda suffering from a queer form of “side” but also that she was a little “cracked.” Certainly her manner was most odd and her behavior matched it.

Girlie, however, was now at bay. She took her seat in the midst of her critics, sipped tea and pecked at bread and butter. Never in her life had she felt so wretched. The affair was getting unbearable. As she suffered the rather scathing politeness of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and the icy tones of the other ladies her mind ran upon suicide. But the demon within bade her go on. There was Shelley’s authority that what poets learn in suffering they teach in song. Of novelists, no doubt, that maxim was equally true.

XXII

THE ladies were still drinking tea when a footman ushered in a visitor.

“Mrs. Lancelot.”

The elderly mistress of Amory Towers aroused the curiosity of even the professional _blasèes_ who greeted her. She was “County.” They might seem to scorn her in the way they scorned all things and everybody, their veiled amusement had a touch of malice no doubt, but there was also Mrs. Lancelot’s faculty of engaging the interest of all the world and his wife to be reckoned with.

She was like nothing upon this earth--the yellow chrysanthemum lady, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones were agreed upon that!--yet in her queer way the old dame stood for something. What she stood for was, no doubt, a bygone phase. She might have stepped out of a page of Punch for the year 1890. Her dress with its decided waist and its antediluvian tuckers round wrist and neck was of amethyst colored merino, a necklet of amethyst hung upon her ample chest, her hair with a Queen Alexandra fringe was barber’s blocked after the manner of royalty, her toque baffled all description, but it had pansies in it, and her manner, plain and practical rather than “grand,” carried a weight that her odd appearance should have countervailed, yet somehow failed to do so. Mrs. Lancelot, no doubt, was _une figure pour rire_, but only those very accomplished in the world could have got her “range” with a nicety sufficient to take advantage of the fact. Her present critics, for example, inclined to scorn as they were, could not help being fettered a little by a secret sense of their own inadequacy.

A dutiful neighbor, Mrs. Lancelot had called once on the yellow chrysanthemum lady and the call had been promptly returned. There, however, the intercourse had ceased. Somehow they had hardly set each other’s genius. But this afternoon there was no hint of that fact in Mrs. Lancelot’s entrance or of Mrs. Minever’s reception of her. The visitor was cautious, almost comically cautious, as she always was when not quite sure of her bearings; the yellow chrysanthemum lady was slightly more exuberant than usual, as she was apt to be when cherishing a similar doubt on her own part. In the sight of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, rather declassèe daughter of a not undistinguished sire, it was as good as a play to see them together: this resolute survivor of a discredited phase of human history--the august visitor’s relations had held more than one job about the court of Victoria the Good--and the forthcoming hostess who made no secret of the fact that she was bored by “frills” and “fine shades.”

The reason of Mrs. Lancelot’s visit to Clavering Park, if not immediately clear, was soon revealed. A discerning but imperious eye fixed itself upon Girlie, who, seated a little apart from the others in a bergère chair, was feeling a strong desire to take cover inside her tea cup.

Mrs. Lancelot took a vacant chair by her side and began to converse in a low, intimate tone.

“You are not at all like your mother.” Mrs. Lancelot’s direct mode of attack made Girlie tremble. “You are not like your father, either. You look rather tired, my dear.”

The Deputy mumbled a brief denial, which unfortunately was quite inaudible.

“Are you feeling tired?”

Girlie had the presence of mind to say that she had been working very hard at the rehearsals.

“Mustn’t work too hard. You look quite run down.” And then Mrs. Lancelot proceeded energetically, “You must come over to us, my dear. A change will do you good. I have written to your mother to tell her. We are very old friends, your mother and I--old school-fellows, in fact--and, of course, third cousins once removed. You must come at once. I am sure you need a change and Ethel thinks so, too.”

Little shivers began to trickle down Girlie’s spine. She was in no mood to exchange the ills she knew for the ills she could only surmise, for, as she realized, these might so easily prove the more terrible.

“Yes, you must come to us.” In the saurian aspect of Mrs. Lancelot there was something quite alarming. “Your mother would like it. Now, when shall it be?”

The prospect of a visit to Amory Towers reduced Girlie to a frozen silence. A look of fear came in her eyes. Mrs. Lancelot was not one to notice subtleties of any kind, but, happily, the yellow chrysanthemum lady, as soon as she learned what was in the wind, did not hesitate to come to the rescue of her guest. For one thing, the daughter of Lord Carabbas, with all her limitations, was the undoubted _pièce de resistance_ of the house party; and Mrs. Minever was inclined to accept Lady Elfreda’s reluctance as an unexpected compliment to the life she was leading at Clavering Park. Heaven knew what was passing through the odd creature’s mind, but if those scared eyes and that rather hunted look had any meaning, it was clear enough that she infinitely preferred Clavering Park to Amory Towers!

“I’m afraid Lady Elfreda can’t be spared--until after the performance on Tuesday, at any rate.”

Mrs. Minever’s boldness was rewarded by a look of pure gratitude, but also it incurred the penalty of an almost truculent, “Why not, pray?” from the august visitor.

“Well, you see,” the yellow chrysanthemum lady stoutly rejoined, “so many rehearsals will be necessary between now and Tuesday. Sir Toby Philpot says everything is so behind hand that as soon as Mr. Jupp arrives they will have to go on all day.”

These sinister words fell upon Girlie like a sword. She was between the devil and the deep, deep sea. Paralysis of will was added now to her other miseries. On the verge of collapse, she sank back in her chair.

Mrs. Lancelot, however, was not to be put off. She was a lady who liked her own way, and on most occasions was accustomed to get it. But on this occasion she had to submit to a compromise. Lady Elfreda must come to Amory Towers, but her visit should be deferred until Tuesday the-all-important was safely over.

“Wednesday, then--let us say Wednesday,” said the august visitor.

The yellow chrysanthemum lady promised that Wednesday it should be, while Girlie smiled weakly. Mrs. Lancelot, having carried her point more or less, graciously accepted a cup of the fresh tea that had been procured for her. Perhaps, by the light of later events, it had been better for Girlie had she not done so. For Mrs. Lancelot, before taking her leave, proceeded to harrow the souls of her hearers. She had a sinister tale to unfold. A gang of thieves were at work in the neighborhood. The Channings had had the Priory ransacked while they were at dinner, and poor Lady Emily had suffered the loss of a most valuable diamond pendant. There had also been a most suspicious parlor-maid at the Towers, but luckily she had been sent away before anything of real value had been missed. But Major Hocking, the chief constable, thought the gang so dangerous that Mrs. Lancelot had been advised to send her jewels and some of her silver to the bank, and she had accordingly done so.

“I tell you this, Mrs. Minever,” said the visitor in her most _affairé_ tone, “because in such times as these one cannot be too careful.”

The yellow chrysanthemum lady thought the remark very sensible and expressed her gratitude for the information. It confirmed the rumors she had heard. On the other hand, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was inclined to think that all stories of the kind were apt to be exaggerated, but Mrs. Lancelot rent her at once with chapter and verse.

“No, after the experience of the Channings one should really take every precaution.” And with a rather elaborate leave-taking of Lady Elfreda, and one more informal of people less exalted, Mrs. Lancelot augustly went her way.

XXIII

GIRLIE took a long while to array herself for that evening’s dreaded meal. The crisis of her fate was now at hand. Realizing to the full all that was involved in the coming of Mr. Montagu Jupp, she had not the courage to ask Mrs. Minever whether that Old Man of the Sea was really on the point of arrival. Only too soon would the fact be known. In her present state of mind she was quite unable to face the dire consequences that must attend his visit; she chose, therefore, to bury her head ostrich-wise in sand by indulging the pitifully vain hope that he was not coming after all.

How frail that hope was the momentous hour of eight revealed very surely. Hardly had she entered the drawing room, striving heroically for a show of composure which her wretched nerves denied her, when lo! amid a cascade of chaff with an undercurrent of laughter and applause, the great and admired Montagu came in his own person upon the scene.

Sir Toby, as usual, led the way. It was his fixed rule of life to lead the way everywhere, under all conditions, in all circumstances, if only he was allowed to do so. At the back of his mind he always seemed to feel that the stars in their courses had ordained that he should be the master of every ceremony. But, in comparison with the mountain of geniality who alternately rolled and grinned as he followed in his wake, Sir Toby was the merest pigmy. Mr. Jupp had the art of monopolizing the attention of all the world, of catching every eye, of dominating every assembly he entered.

Still, the mere arrival of the great man was in the nature of a triumph for Sir Toby. Odds had been freely laid by despondent members of the cast that Montagu would not appear. But his magnetic presence was just what was needed to “pull things together.” However, as far as the luckless leading lady was concerned, no one envied him his task.

Quite a thrill seemed to pervade the air of the drawing room at the moment of their greeting. But Girlie, in the toils of sheer desperation, was able for once to muster an inhuman stoicism. Already she had undergone so much that she was now determined to die fighting. Yes, whatever happened, she would die fighting. Heroically, with bright eyes, with set lips, she came forward a pace, as the hostess triumphantly convoyed the great man towards her. “How do you do?” she said, holding out her hand.

The sublime Original, who at that fell moment was consuming cold mutton and mixed pickles in the outer darkness of the nursery at The Laurels, whither she had been banished in disgrace, could not have “played up” better. Mr. Jupp, a little fatigued by travel and with a forward looking mind in regard to his dinner, bowed over the hand that was offered. He did not scrutinize the little lady closely, at any rate just then. He took it for granted that she was what she was. Besides, apart from the fact that the clock on the chimney piece had already struck eight, there was a reason, known only to himself, why he should be in no hurry to traverse the personality of Lady Elfreda Catkin, much less to challenge her identity.

Truth to tell, and the dark secret was locked securely in the bosom of Mr. Montagu Jupp, he had only met Lady Elfreda once, for a few brief moments, so that the faculty of observation not being his long suit, he was not so clear as he might have been as to what she really looked like. The skeleton in Montagu’s cupboard which some of his friends, the malicious Garden to wit, shrewdly suspected to be the case, was that he was inclined “to talk through his hat”; in other words, he was prone to claim an intimacy with all the world that the crude facts did not always justify. He had said once in Sir Toby’s hearing over an after-dinner whisky and cigar, that “he had taught Lady Elfreda Catkin all the acting she knew,” but that incautious statement had been less in response to sober truth than to her highly effective portrait in the _Society_ Pictorial. It was sufficient for _un homme du monde_ that he had talked with her once for five minutes at a garden party. The fact was typical of the man, even a part of his picturesqueness, but at this moment, had the luckless Girlie been aware of it, here was a card incredibly in her favor.

Girlie, alas, did not know that. She went in to dinner and took her accustomed place at the right hand of the host with a growing conviction that she was about to be hanged in public, to say nothing of the drawing and quartering to follow. She felt it was only a question of minutes before Mr. Jupp denounced her. Every time her guilty eye strayed furtively across to his side of the table she perceived his eye, in its degree hardly less guilty, furtively upon her. But she did not know, she could not guess the strength of her own position. She could only marvel as course succeeded course, as her wine glass grew empty and then grew full again, that the inevitable thunderbolt did not descend.

As the meal went on and exposure grew ever more imminent in the mind of the Deputy--a dramatic scene was surely reserved for the drawing room!--she grew increasingly bold. After her glass had been replenished three times she did not care what happened. She would die “game.” This was her very last hour of vicarious splendor, but she had now an intense desire to live it to the full. Her tongue was loosened, her laugh rose higher and more frequent, her eyes grew wonderfully bright. All this harmonized with the spirit of the others, for, as usual, Mr. Jupp had brought an infectious gayety upon the scene. Everybody laughed at everybody else; all were in a mood of festive enjoyment; the almost perilous light-heartedness of “the little Catkin puss” excited no comment--or, if it did, it counted to her for virtue. Certainly her host, who for a week now had endured “heavy cake” with a noble fortitude, was charmed by the change. There might be something in the little noodle after all.

When dinner was over other people began to think so, too. Living in the very crater of Vesuvius with an eruption long overdue, keyed up beyond a self that was rather undercharged, for the first time in her life Girlie let herself go. Somehow it seemed the only course to take. Amid the hilarity the mere presence of Mr. Jupp had induced, that remarkable man sat down at the piano and began to do it considerable violence. Thereupon one of the younger “bloods” began to fox-trot with Mrs. Spencer-Jobling. Sir Toby Philpot, not to be outdone, immediately commandeered the hostess, Mr. Minever promptly laid siege to another lady, and then Girlie grew alive to the fact that Lord Duckingfield was smiling at her and moving resolutely in her direction.

“Just show me how to--won’t you, my dear?” His voice was wonderfully persuasive and fatherly.

Girlie’s knowledge of the fox-trot was almost as vague as my lord’s. But what did that matter? What did anything matter? She rose with a laugh, she intertwined one slender arm with his; slowly she gyrated with this performing bear of a man twice round the drawing room, and then in the wake of the more enterprising couples through the open door and out into the hall.

Mr. Jupp continued to pound the piano. Tango succeeded fox-trot, there was an occasional relapse to the two-step, a brief intermission of some forgotten waltz or other, with now and again, as became a truly modern and progressive mind, a heroic attempt at the jazz. None of the dancers obeyed the music; they didn’t really try to do so; each chose the style that seemed the most natural, so that what began as a half serious performance soon degenerated into an amazing go-as-you-please. But it was highly enjoyable. At any rate, Lord Duckingfield thought it was. A strenuous youth in factory and warehouse had left him no time to pay court to Terpsichore. He knew what he liked, however. And what he did like was to wheel slowly and solemnly round on his left foot, with plenty of elbow room and without having too much ground to cover. And if he was most agreeably assisted in these maneuvers by the charmingly pretty bearer of a distinguished name, why so much the better.

This dainty, gray-eyed little girl quite set the genius of my lord. She was so simple. And with all his riches and his ambitions and his recent nobility, at heart he was really simple himself. After a most exhilarating twenty minutes on the hall parquet, in a space hardly more than six feet square, in the course of which Girlie, with the inimitable tact of her sex, contrived neatly to fit step for step, Lord Duckingfield espied a corner almost perilous in its charm and its seclusion in an angle of the stairs. In point of fact he had had his eye on it from the first. By the time he had truly earned a rest he felt that it would come to him as the just reward of his merit and his virtue.

In the room adjacent, on a piano whose extreme resonance was almost unbearable, Mr. Jupp continued to do surprising things, while his fellow guests, each after his or her manner, kept pace with him as far as was humanly possible. At last, however, Lord Duckingfield came to a sudden halt and drew a series of deep breaths. Then, Girlie upon his arm, he made a bee-line for the palm-shrouded alcove beneath the hall stairs. Kindly providence had decreed that two chairs, of the sort called “comfortable,” should be there already. Girlie, a little breathless too after her altruistic exertions, found herself at rest in one a brief ten seconds before her cavalier came to anchor in the other.

She was feeling entirely reckless. She didn’t care. Her limit had been reached, nay, it had been overstepped. She would drink of the cup. Life was dancing a fiery symbol before her eyes. In spite of the sword that hung by a thread in mid-air she was enjoying her hour. She was enjoying it terribly. If she died of the shame that must follow, at least she would be able to point to an experience beyond the run of women.

“Nice of you, my dear, to help an old duffer like me.” The rich, half chuckling tone of Lord Duckingfield had an odd humility that was wonderfully attractive in the ear of a woman.

“Not at all.” Softly she lisped in true Galsworthian phrase. A powerful genius enfolded her. With a kind of mad dignity she sat up in the wicker chair.

“Oh, but it is, though,” My lord was heavily serious for all that there was a kind of elephantine humor in him. “Not many of you smart young ladies would be bothered with a clumsy old fool like me.”

“But you are not clumsy--you are not at all clumsy,” It was not the speech of a smart young lady, it was not true, it was not subtle, above all, it was unworthy of the author of “The Patrician,” and by the light of the inner mind she knew this only too well, but the stage-manager of the pleasant little comedy understood the business better than did she. The crude simplicity for which she could have wept at the moment her lips betrayed it, really met the situation exactly. In spite of her lineage--or perhaps because of it--Lord Duckingfield was more than ever convinced that she was a very nice little girl.

“You see,” he said, and his abrupt fall to an almost disconcerting intimacy was the truest compliment such a highly practical man could have paid her, “you see, I don’t pretend to be one of the fancy sort. No Eton and Oxford for me. At your age, my dear, I was earning my thirty shillings a week at the carpenter’s bench and thinking myself almighty lucky to be getting it.”

She actually had the wit to reward the reminiscence with a ripe Galsworthian “Really!” But again she must have fallen short of the rich quality of her mentor, since my lord went on, for all the world as if she had not been a marquis’s daughter, “You don’t know, my dear, what I’ve had to fight against. Most of you young ladies laugh at men like me, but you are one of the sensible kind, so that’s why I don’t mind telling you of my early life.”

The gray eyes smiled at Lord Duckingfield. And as the stage-manager had fixed an electric bulb at a psychological angle midway between the two chairs, so that its rays caught the light of those eyes and set it dancing, Lord Duckingfield was suddenly and acutely aware of quite the sharpest thrill he had ever experienced.

“Of course, I’m very rich now.” Lord Duckingfield seemed inclined to carry naïveté to the verge of indelicacy. “Very rich indeed. Your father will make allowances for that. But you are such a very nice little girl that even had you been just plain Miss Brown....”

With a shiver, half enchantment, half dismay, Girlie realized that a sympathetic hand had put forth from the adjacent chair and that it was exquisitely enclosing hers. The close-breathing pause which followed must have meant embarrassment for both, had either been in a condition to respond to that form of emotion. But Girlie had burnt her boats. She was past all caring. As for Lord Duckingfield he was now suddenly alive to the fact that he was quite in love with this pretty gray-eyed mouse.

“You are so sensible.” The grip tightened upon the slender arm. “There’s no nonsense about you. If you don’t mind my saying so you are not at all like most of the smart girls I’ve met. They are so knowing. And they take so much living up to--for an old duffer like me. Give me something homely and sensible.” Inch by inch the wicker chair came closer. She felt one arm, half chivalrous, half masterful, slowly encircle her.

She made no effort to repel this audacity. Somehow it marched with her own state of mind. But in the next moment something had happened, something which had the effect of bringing her up short in the midst of her folly and incidentally of summoning her northern forbears primly upon the scene. Lord Duckingfield took her in his arms and kissed her.

It was the first time in Girlie’s life of twenty years that such a thing had happened or had seemed likely to happen. Nothing could have been more subversive of her strait “high-brow” code than to be kissed by a man, and a rather elderly man, without so much as a by-your-leave, in circumstances of semi-publicity. Even if she had a sense of having dined, deep down she knew it to be an epic moment; she was thrilled as she had never been thrilled; it was the event of her life. He might be a real live peer of the realm; all the same his boldness was just a little too much for Miss Cass of Laxton.

Involuntarily she stiffened, involuntarily she drew her chair a few paces away from him. Slightly abashed but wholly impenitent Lord Duckingfield followed her. But Miss Cass of Laxton was not quite lost to a sense of her high destiny. What kind of man was this! How dare he! She must let him know that this was not the form of a budding Charlotte Brontë.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as soon as the mild horror in her eyes had convicted him. He spoke so nicely, so gently, that it was not in her heart to be angry even had it been in her nature to be so.

He proved the depth of his contrition by a sudden descent into autobiography. His early life was unfolded before her, his struggles, his defeats, his slow ascent of fortune’s ladder. She could not help admiring this large simplicity, she could not help honoring him for it, but when she perceived that it was leading all-too-surely to what she feared, but by another road, she was overcome. She began to steel herself to bear the blow she had more than half invited.

_Don’t let me see you or hear from you again until he has proposed to you._ Those grim words, brutal and incredible, came upon her ears for the hundredth time. Was she weakly to yield to such cynicism! If a spark of human decency remained to her, she must avert while there was yet time that which too clearly was going to happen.

Spurred to action by a cruel desperation, she rose abruptly. But that did not serve. Lightly, but firmly, Lord Duckingfield grabbed her by the wrist and propelled her with half whimsical precision back to her chair. The deed was accomplished with a kind of humorous deftness, but the “insight” of Miss Cass might have told her, had she been able just then to bring it into play, that the seeming archness of her suitor was a mere mask. Really he was possessed by a most becoming nervousness and this a lady of her powers ought to have divined. Perhaps she did divine it. Underneath Lord Duckingfield’s humor was a fitting sense of presumptuous audacity. He, at least, in spite of his democratic sense, could not forget who she was. What more likely than that being a thoroughly clumsy fellow he had already gone too far.

“Lady Elfreda.” His voice--his deep voice--sounded rather hoarse. “I want you to help me if you can. I’m in love with you, as I never thought I could be in love with any girl. You are just my sort. I think we understand one another. I am sure I can make you happy. Will you marry me?”

The moment had come. She had but herself to blame. Hers the sole fault that the thing had happened. The blunt words of one whom she was quite sure was a good and simple man fell upon her like a douche. They were like a douche of ice-cool reason. In that instant she saw that this wicked madness must cease. No matter what the cost she must forget her miserable self. Such a horrid farce could not go on.

She felt his honest grip upon her fingers. The pause that followed became more than she could bear. If ever she was to respect herself again, here and now she must make an end. Desperately she assembled the fugitive fragments of her will, but the very stars in their courses were against her now. One phrase, one unforgettable phrase he had used was running like quicksilver in her brain. “You are such a very nice little girl that even had you been just plain Miss Brown...!”

Fatal corollary! She was “just plain Miss Brown” had he but known it. Therefore, as his own words proved, where could be the purpose of his knowing it? The argument was too sweetly specious! Torn as she was, she had not the strength to fight it. Half-heartedly she strove to overcome the spell of those fatal words, but she knew only too well that the task was hopeless.

“Think it over, my dear.” He was no longer nervous; he was calm, precise, matter of fact. “I’m not so young as I might be, but anything that money can buy I am in a position to give you. No need for an answer just now. I see you want time to think it over--it’s only proper and natural. But to-morrow I hope you’ll be able to tell me that I may write to your father.”

Again, with an increasing horror, Girlie felt the kiss of an honest man upon her shrinking finger tips.

XXIV

TO bed--to dream, but not to sleep. The situation that shaped itself so fantastically to Girlie’s mind in the tardy hours of a long and wakeful night was almost more than she could bear. Here was the last straw. Playing with human souls is a perilous game. In drifting at another’s bidding into such a position she had not reckoned upon the cost to herself. She was not of the stuff of which the real adventuress is made. The whole affair was really an outrage upon her deepest instincts. She had neither the cynicism, the native impudence nor “the sense of the theater” to keep the thing going. Somewhere about the hour of four, when the night was at its darkest and her courage was very low, she resolved to make an end. With remorse inflicting such torments upon her there seemed nothing else to do. She spent the rest of the night feverishly planning a way out. None there was, alas, that could hope to spare her the tragic weight of humiliation, and worse than humiliation she had so honestly earned; but as far as possible she must defend herself against a public exposure.

Until getting-up time came she strove with this problem. But she was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. Daylight stealing into the cell of the condemned could not have been more unwelcome than the faint rose of dawn creeping through the blinds of King Edward’s bedroom. Girlie did not know how to face another day. The matutinal cup of tea, brought to her at eight o’clock by a very trim housemaid, found her in an abject state of “nerves.” She had reached the conclusion by this time that her only hope lay in immediate flight. By some miracle Mr. Jupp had not yet denounced her, but she felt sure it could only be a question of hours. And even if the miracle went on and he still refrained from doing so, the position into which she had allowed herself to drift with Lord Duckingfield was quite unendurable. She was now haunted by the thought of this good and simple man for whom she had a real regard.

Yes, she must get away. But where could she go? To The Laurels? Only too clearly did she realize that there was nothing to hope for from that quarter--at any rate if she flagrantly disobeyed her instructions. Besides in her present state of mental and moral weakness she really went in fear of her Evil Genius.

After a time her mind began to run upon an aunt in Scotland. Now that she had wantonly forfeited her only means of getting a living, that austere dame, an elder sister of her mother’s, whom she remembered but faintly, was the only relation or friend to whom she could turn. Her recollection of Aunt Alice was dim and it was not agreeable. Aunt Alice lived a long way off, she was the wife of a struggling doctor with a large family of her own, and the best her niece could hope for was an astonished and grudging welcome. Still there seemed no alternative now.

Wrought upon by the need for action, Girlie got out of bed and took her purse from the left hand drawer of the dressing table. In a state of nervous excitement she hunted for the address of Aunt Alice. Presently she was rewarded with the sight of an old letter bearing the postmark “Inverness.” Her heart sank. She knew nothing of Inverness, except that it was somewhere in the north of Scotland.

Further examination of the inside of the purse revealed that her means of getting to Inverness amounted to just two pounds, five shillings and ninepence. Such a meager sum, even if it allowed her to get so far, which at the present cost of travel was very doubtful, would provide absolutely nothing to live upon. That fact alone seemed to make the project hopeless. For one weak instant, in the face of this rebuff, her mind reverted to Lady Elfreda’s jewels, to which she had access. But the thought--if thought it could be called--was at once dismissed. Not for a moment could any scheme of that kind be entertained. All the same she indulged in a forlorn little sigh as the fact came home to her once more that nature had not designed her for the adventuress _pur sang_.

In spite, however, of such a lack of means her mind continued to run upon Inverness. Throughout an uncomfortable, appetiteless breakfast the thought of that distant haven obsessed her. She managed to nibble a piece of toast under the eye of the attentive and solicitous Lord Duckingfield, who had so assiduously helped her to this simple fare with a comment upon its meagerness. This morning, as every morning, he was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she was quite unable to talk to him; in fact, she did not dare to look in his direction. It was a great relief when at last she was able to carry Bradshaw to the good log fire in the hall.

There, upon the scene of the previous evening’s tragi-comedy she delved further into the problem of transporting herself from Clavering St. Mary’s to the north of Scotland.

One important fact in regard to a very long and tortuous journey was soon established. The sum of two pounds five shillings and ninepence rendered the project hopeless.

Bradshaw in hand, she was still trying to meet a not unexpected facer, when a voice of rather delicately reproachful curiosity came from over her shoulder. It was that of the hostess and Girlie felt a tremor of guilty dismay.

“Not thinking of leaving us, are you, Lady Elfreda?”

Quickly and nervously Girlie replied that she was not.

“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Minever laughed. “Until after Tuesday at all events. You have only three days now.” Mrs. Minever laughed a second time, perhaps a shade sardonically. “How relieved you’ll be! I am sure you have found us very dull. But when you get to Amory Towers you’ll be able to play piquet with Mrs. Lancelot. I hope you are a good player. Mrs. Lancelot, I believe, is very proud of her piquet.”

The yellow chrysanthemum lady was a little inclined to quiz. She was the soul of good nature, but Girlie’s aloof detachment from her surroundings invited criticism. The manner of the chief guest was so constrained, so unnatural, that the only explanation was “side.” Evidently this daughter of Lord Carabbas had such a sense of her position that she did not find it easy to mix with other people on terms of equality. Yet when the worst had been said of the yellow chrysanthemum lady she was really the least censorious of women. Besides, she was not in a mood for chaff this morning, no matter how fully it was deserved or how much the occasion called for it. Mrs. Minever, in point of fact, was graver this morning, more resolutely serious than the guest had yet seen her. In Mrs. Minever’s own words, “a very provoking thing had happened.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Minever in a fluttered tone, “you must please tell your maid to be sure and keep your jewels under lock and key. One of my rings--a rather valuable one--has disappeared. And you heard what Mrs. Lancelot said yesterday? I’m afraid there is not the slightest doubt that a gang of burglars is at work in the neighborhood.”

Readily enough Girlie promised to keep her jewels under lock and key.

“Of course it may be some one in the house. We are always changing our servants. My husband is consulting the police.”

Girlie’s heart sank. She did not need to be very wise or very clever to foresee the bearing such a circumstance would have upon her flight. If she bolted now, without ostensible cause, the mere fact would be terribly against her. Even as it was, when her imposture was revealed, she felt sure it would go hard with her; yet with these deeper grounds for even blacker suspicion, she was likely to be faced with a charge she was wholly unable to meet.

Her nerve was badly shaken, but this new turn of events gave her a sudden distaste for the half-formed plan. Beyond the crude fact that she simply lacked the money to undertake the journey there was now an even stronger reason why she should continue to stand her ground.

All the same the standing of her ground promised to be a soul testing process. It was by no means certain that her courage would hold out. For one thing the mere sight of Lord Duckingfield had the power to involve her in a perfect orgy of conflicting emotions. If the look of him, gravely polite, rather anxiously formal, meant anything, he was clearly waiting for his answer. Why had she not had the strength of mind to let him know the previous evening that he sought the impossible? What was the good of having perceptions and fine feelings, if one did not act in accordance with them?

Then as if the unhappy affair of Lord Duckingfield was not enough, there was the perennial question of Mr. Montagu Jupp. Why he had not denounced her already, heaven alone could tell!

The Deputy was far from suspecting the simple truth that it had not yet begun to dawn upon Montagu that this was not the lady he had met. Having drawn the long bow so freely himself he was not able to criticize her closely; his own impression of the youngest girl of “old man Carabbas” was decidedly vague. Still it was to be supposed that a whole day devoted to the ill-starred “Lady of Laxton” would have done much to enlighten him. As a matter of fact it did not. For Girlie, at the nadir of her fortunes, was now inspired with the courage of despair. Moved to a strange recklessness by the sheer weight of her woes, she rose beyond the level of herself.

This unexpected result was due in part, no doubt, to Mr. Montagu Jupp. That gentleman certainly knew his business. And at rehearsals he had a way with him. Not only had he the art of smoothing tempers and generally “oiling the wheels,” but the secret was his also of evolving order out of chaos. The incompetence of Sir Toby and the insubordination of several members of the cast had produced such a hopeless tangle in the improvised theater in the east wing of the house that for the time being even the inefficiency of the leading lady had been overshadowed. But as soon as Montagu set his hand to the plow “The Lady of Laxton” took a decided turn for the better.

Very well that it was so. There were but three days now to the performance in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering, and by all the portents “the most dismal fiasco of modern times,” in the gloomy and mordant words of Garden was in prospect. But Montagu was no common man. He had a faculty for “sizing things up,” moreover he knew how to get them done. Privately he was of opinion that Sir Toby’s masterpiece beat all records in the way of sheer ineptitude, but wild horses would not have dragged it out of him. Besides he had been too long and too intimately associated with the English theater in all its aspects to let a little matter of that kind upset him. None knew better than he what could be really achieved in the way of human imbecility. And after all, as Montagu argued with himself, the players were but a scratch company of extremely amateurish amateurs, while the audience at the best he described as “C3 Provincial.”

Girlie was not a “quick study,” but she was an extremely conscientious one. Long hours of application had made her absolutely word perfect in her part. And there indeed she had a decided “pull” over the others. Not one made the least pretence of being word perfect; several of them could hardly be said to have looked at their lines. For instance, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was a particularly flagrant offender; but one and all were animated by a robust conviction that “they would be all right on the night”--in this case on Tuesday afternoon.

By comparison with these temper-trying people, Girlie shone. She really did know her words, and although her manner of delivering them left much to be desired, she was docile, intelligent, almost painfully anxious to learn, so that on a first acquaintance and superficially regarded, Mr. Jupp was inclined to consider her “the pick of the lot.” But as he confided to Garden, over a pre-luncheon cocktail, “She was not exactly a Siddons.”

In truth, however, Mr. Jupp, although he was far from guessing the fact, had already exercised a kind of hypnotic influence upon the leading lady. His natural gift “of bringing out the best in people” had had an even greater effect upon Girlie than upon the less impressionable members of the cast. Unconsciously she had at once responded to the magnetic influence of this king among “producers.” And yet the process may not have been wholly unconscious after all.

The poor Deputy was at the end of her tether. Not knowing which way to turn, not knowing what to do, convinced that at any moment the fate she so richly deserved must overtake her, she threw in all her reserves. She abandoned herself entirely to the business of the hour. Not daring to look before or after, she was like one under sentence of death. Before being cast forever into outer darkness, her courage seemed to make one last spasmodic flare.

In the course of that day there were two long rehearsals. But Girlie threw so much spirit into her acting and she was on such terms with the words of a diffuse and thankless part, that for the time being her tragic inefficiency was veiled. By comparison with the casual, imperceptive, bored people whose duty it was to play up to her, the leading lady actually shone.

“Yes, old bye--the best of the bunch,” Montagu confided to the incredulous Garden over a well-earned whisky and soda during an interval for tea. “Not saying much of course. She can’t act for sour apples but she does _try_.”

“But, my son”--Garden the incredulous, to whom sooner or later all secrets were revealed, knew only too well the weakness of his man--“that ass over there said that you said this little filly could play all the ingénues off the West End stage.”

“Did I?” Mr. Jupp spoke with the innocence of a rather large size in cherubs, whom he so much resembled.

“You did.”

“Well, old bye,” Montagu fondled a pendulous chin, “one says so many damn silly things in the course of a lifetime, doesn’t one?”

Garden was fain to admit that it might be so, but of all the foolishness ever perpetrated Montagu Jupp’s original dictum upon Lady Elfreda’s acting was “the terminus.”

All the same, to the general astonishment, including that of Sir Toby that hardened optimist, by the end of a long and strenuous day the stock of Lady Elfreda was showing a decided tendency to rise. Those who had worked with the leading lady at her worst, and a pretty hopeless worst it had seemed, could not understand the change. They resented the excellence of her memory--she actually knew all her stupid words by heart!--yet beyond everything else they resented the new air of intelligence that had come upon her.

The spirit and the interest she had been able to display in response to the demands of Mr. Montagu Jupp told heavily against her now. The others bitterly recalled her long week of silence, of indifference to her fellow guests, of her strange ignorance of every subject on which their tongues had run. They were now forced to conclude that all this had been a pose. It was a new form of “side.” Moreover it was a form so subtle that it was very difficult to meet. Lady Elfreda’s pretense of not knowing anything about anything was pure affectation in the eyes of those whose aim in life was to know everything about everything and not be ashamed of saying so. And they would not be able to forgive it. It was a subtle way of “scoring them off.”

“Sidey little cat, I hate her,” thus Mrs. Spencer-Jobling in the depths of her heart. “Anyway, on Tuesday, with a bit of luck, I think I ought to be able to kill her big scene in the third act.”

A mad world! As soon as Lady Elfreda began to show signs of leading her comrades out of the slough of despond in which for a whole week they had been engulfed, her unpopularity crystallized into virile personal dislike. Henceforward, among the ladies of the house party at any rate, she was never mentioned by name; she was always referred to as the S. L. C.

XXV

HAD Girlie’s state of mind allowed her to enjoy a sense of triumph, she might have fittingly indulged it when dinner time approached. She had been through a most severe ordeal and had emerged with flying colors. Really, she had “kept up her end” splendidly. How she had contrived to do so was more than she could say; a latent genius must have taken possession of her; but Mr. Montagu Jupp, that terrible Old Man of the Sea whose arrival she had dreaded beyond all things, whose mere appearance upon the scene was to prove the last straw, had congratulated her personally, if not exactly upon her acting, upon her knowledge of her part. Moreover, she still lived. Mr. Jupp, for some inexplicable reason, had not given her away. He had addressed her several times as “Lady Elfreda” without a hint of _arriére pensée_, and in all good faith. And the praises of this remarkable man had added so much to her prestige, that she was quite sure that Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and the other ladies were now furiously jealous.

Mr. Jupp’s attitude was so incomprehensible and her own success so great a surprise to herself, that in spite of everything she had a secret satisfaction when she came to dress for dinner. But that emotion was brief. Hardly had the Deputy submitted herself to the hands of Pikey when she learnt that the maid was in a towering passion.

“What do you think?”--Grab!--“Me of all people”--Twist!--“I’ve a mind to have the law of ’em”--Shake!--“So I have”--Shake!

Thus the prelude. And the aria to follow was quite as impressive.

It seemed that Mrs. Pike having been duly informed that a diamond and sapphire ring was missing and that the master of the house, although not knowing whom to suspect, was consulting the police, had had the singular ill-fortune to overhear two of the servants discussing the matter. And in the course of the conversation one of them had said “that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if that old Marchioness had taken it. Anyhow, she was quite sure that the Marchioness was not quite right in her head.”

For several hours poor Pikey had brooded savagely upon the implication. It was the deepest insult--second-hand though it was--that she had ever received. She hardly knew how to bear it. Even now, as she prepared a bath for the Deputy, she was not at all sure that she would not lodge a complaint with the mistress of the house.

Such a reminder of the perils all around dashed Girlie at once. The new sense of elation was nipped before it had time to bloom. This unlucky disappearance of the pearl necklace added very dark tints to the picture, for when the inevitable exposure occurred it was in the nature of things that suspicion would fall upon herself. Even as it was Pikey was so incensed by what she had heard that she was quite likely to court disaster by making a fuss.

After a bath which was less enjoyable than it might have been, Girlie did her best to combat this half-formed resolution of the maid. Before doing so, however, she gently but firmly took charge of the hairbrushes and insisted upon applying them personally to her own scalp. It needed courage, but it called for even greater courage to allow Pikey to do her office in her present savage mood.

A hairbrush in each hand, the Deputy begged the Werewolf not to stir up strife unnecessarily. But somehow the appeal did but minister to Pikey’s wrath.

“Yes, I’ll tell the mistress of the house.” The Werewolf bared her fangs.

“If you do,” said the miserable Deputy, “everything may come out.”

“I hope it does. I’m sick and tired of this.”

“But if it does come out, they are certain to suspect me and I may have to go to prison.”

It was the falsest of all false moves. Girlie realized the fact almost as soon as it was made. But this cruel situation was always driving her too hard.

“So much the better if you do have to go to prison.” Pikey’s words were scornful and deliberate. “I hope you will, I’m sure.”

The callous speech took away Girlie’s breath. But for the moment only. In the next she had unconsciously proved that she was not the Girlie of a week ago. “If you give me away”--the thin, high-pitched voice quivered ominously--“and I do have to go to prison, I’ll take good care, Mrs. Pike, that you come, too.”

The words gave pause to Mrs. Pike.

“They can’t touch me--not the police can’t,” she said after a brief period of reflection. “I am not pretending to be her ladyship. I am not pretending to be any one.”

“No, you’re not,” said Girlie. “But”--inspired by the bizarre knowledge that may lurk in an out-of-the-way corner of the brain of a solicitor’s daughter--“you are an accessory after the fact, please don’t forget that.”

The chance shot went home. Pikey was reduced to savage mumblings. For the time being, at least, she had met with her quietus.

XXVI

WHEN Girlie went down to dinner she was sustained by a subtle feeling of inward power. For the first time in her life she was upheld by perhaps the most desirable of all human emotions. As she entered the drawing room she caught the eye of Mr. Montagu Jupp. And, miracle of miracles, it was an approving eye. There was no doubt about that, since Girlie belonged to the sex that does not make mistakes in those little matters!

Yes, it was an approving eye. In the sight of Montagu and his peers, when the little Catkin lady came into the room timidly, with that rather hunted-fawn-look in her gray eyes, with the slight flush in her cheeks that went so well with the smart pink frock and the twist of ribbon in her fluffy fair hair, she really was a pretty little Puss. No wonder, thought the critics, that the worthy Duckingfield was up against his fate.

His prolonged tête-a-tête the previous evening in the alcove under the hall stairs had not passed without notice. In fact, it had been commented upon very freely. And while from the demeanor of my lord it was by no means clear that his suit was prospering, his “dash” was rather admired. That is to say, it was rather admired by the members of his own sex, who are always apt to cherish that quality, particularly in one of their middle-aged representatives. As far as the ladies were concerned, however, they could see absolutely nothing in the little noodle and they would not allow “that she was even pretty.” Still the episode itself, the look of my lord and the flush on the face of the S. L. C. lent a touch of romance to the evening. And romance is an elusive thing that is always welcome, even when furnished by the lives of other people.