Chapter D: Appleton and Company (7)

Between five and six o’clock, however, of that long vigil she came to a final resolve. She decided to go away. Exactly where her very small resources would take her she did not know, but in her present state of mind any place in the three kingdoms was to be preferred to Clavering Park.

Accordingly, fired with resolve, she packed a few necessities of travel into the most portable case she could find. She then dressed for a journey and with a sinking heart examined once again the contents of her purse. Her means, alas, were but two pounds seven shillings--two pounds seven shillings with which to face a cruelly inhospitable world!

That brutal fact must have given her pause had anything been capable of doing so now. But so little was she a reasonable being just then that the sheer hopelessness of such a flight could not turn her from her purpose. Before setting out on her travels she sat down at an escritoire and scribbled a hasty and tremulous line.

“I cannot bear this a moment longer. I am going away--I don’t know
where. E. H. Cass.”

She sealed the note in an envelope duly addressed “To the Lady Elfreda Catkin.” This done, she adjusted that lady’s velours hat and fur coat, grasped her traveling bag and leather-handled umbrella and crept noiselessly, like the little thief she felt herself to be, out of King Edward’s room and down the richly carpeted central staircase.

By now it was nearly half-past six. At present there was not a sign of the servants, but the light was already beginning to show above the famous elms in the park. Gentle-footed as a cat, Girlie crept like a ghost across the hall parquet. To do that cost her one pang more. That particular spot was full of memories. No matter what experiences the future held she would never be able to forget the kindly simple man who had wanted to marry her.

She stole through the shadows of a dim corridor to the heavily barred front door. It proved a nerve-racking business to withdraw its chains and bolts, yet it was not these things which suddenly brought her up short with an icy gasp of fear.

Without warning of any kind a hand was laid upon her shoulder. As she half turned a strange face confronted hers in the semi-darkness of the corridor.

“Early abroad.” Whoever the speaker might be his appearance was a little strained, a little odd. His voice, with its queer, rather mocking laugh, seemed equally so. Something there was in the dark, heavily mustached, rather Semitic countenance, that sent a chill through Girlie’s heart.

Powerless to speak, she felt her knees sinking under her. Instinct, that fatal instinct for the world and its ways, told her at once who and what this man was. His next sinister words were not needed to enlighten her, although they did so quite unmistakably.

“You had better go back to bed, hadn’t you?” The voice was soft, but it was soft with menace. “You see, I’ve been looking out for this. Played it up rather high, haven’t you--er--Miss?--I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name. But we shall know it soon enough, unless, of course”--the laugh was not at all kind--“you are in a position to prove to the satisfaction of Lord Carabbas that you are really his daughter.”

Girlie, mute and shaking, realized that the end had come. She continued to listen sickly to the malicious and unpleasant voice. “As I say, we don’t know who you are, we don’t know what your record may be, but if without putting us to further trouble you will tell us where Mrs. Minever’s sapphire and diamond ring is to be found I’ll give you my word that the police will make it as easy for you as they can.”

Bereft of speech, Girlie could only tremble. She had to lean against the wall for support. This man was a detective from Scotland Yard who, at the instance of Mrs. Minever, had come to Clavering Park to clear up the matter of the missing jewelry.

“Now be a sensible young woman and go straight back to your room without making a fuss. And just see that you stay there until I’ve had a chance to have a little talk with the lady of the house. If you go quietly and behave sensibly I’ll undertake to do what I can for you.”

There was only one thing for it now, and that was to take the detective’s advice. This, accordingly, Girlie did. She returned to her room and sat forlornly by the window gazing on to the park awaiting further developments. After a time, in spite of the fur coat, the chill of a November morning fell upon her. Finding that her teeth were chattering, she decided to return to her down-quilted bed.

Here, in this temporary security, she toyed with the excellent breakfast which in the course of time was brought to her. And then she exerted her will to the uttermost in order to deal with events as they arose.

The first event to arise was the coming of Mrs. Minever. Upon the brisk entrance of that lady into the room shortly before ten, Girlie looked up from an uneasy pillow to scan the face of the hostess eagerly so that she might read her doom. But her doom was by no means easy to read. The hostess was her usual bright and cheerful self. She had, moreover, the air of solicitude of the previous night. Girlie, steeling herself to bear terrible reproaches, was quite at a loss to understand what had occurred.

“I do hope you have slept, my dear.” There was absolutely no hint of the early morning drama of the hall door. “The doctor will be here soon. In the meantime, you must stay where you are and keep very quiet.”

Immensely reassured by the tone Girlie decided to do as she was told. All the same she hardly knew how to hide her surprise. She had been looking forward to a very different scene.

In point of fact, Mrs. Minever was taking no chances. The detective had told his story. He had presented his theory for what it was worth, and to Mrs. Minever’s keen indignation he had not scrupled to throw doubt upon the identity of the chief guest. Mrs. Minever had pooh-poohed the theory. It really seemed the most unlikely she had ever heard. Not only was there the evidence of the guest’s coronetted luggage and personal belongings, there was the word of Mr. Montagu Jupp and also the fact that she had been accepted by the Lancelots. No, Mrs. Minever was not inclined to take risks of that kind. She was almost tempted to call the detective a fool for his pains. His theory was monstrous. The poor child was merely overwrought.

By this time, besides, there was another factor in the case. A telegram had been received from Lord Carabbas. Already that peer was en route by the 8.50 from Paddington, which was due at Clavering St. Mary’s about midday. His arrival upon the scene would set every doubt at rest.

In the meantime, Mrs. Minever, like the wise woman she was, gave no countenance to these fantastic suspicions. Yet had she been at all inclined to do so she must have observed the look of unmistakable horror that came into the eyes of her guest when she was told that her father would arrive in a few hours. Mrs. Minever’s one desire was to reassure the nervous and excitable creature. And so little perceptive was the good lady that presently she withdrew from King Edward’s room strong in the belief that she had done so.

Smitten with an ever-growing fear, Girlie lay shivering with dread. The coming of Elfreda was the only hope left to her. Would that intransigeant turn up at Clavering Park before her father? If she did not the consequences would be too dire to contemplate.

Hardly had Mrs. Minever left the room when the luckless Pikey came in. She was half paralyzed by the news. A look of absolute terror entered the eyes of the Werewolf. The bill about to be presented for payment was quite beyond the duenna’s power to meet. She simply did not know how to face Himself. The whole situation was altogether too much for her.

As for the Deputy she could only continue to hope against hope for the arrival of Elfreda.

In a short time the doctor came to see the patient. He considered her pulse and concluded that she was much better, but advised her to stay in bed and promised to come again the next day. Girlie, however, did not follow this advice. For within an hour of the doctor’s visit she found lying in bed to be more than she could bear. Tormented by a restlessness that was really painful, any change was welcome. Therefore she dressed once more. And as she did so a sort of courage came to her. She realized the plain fact that whether or no Elfreda chose to appear at Clavering Park further concealment would soon be out of the question.

At a moment when there was nobody about Girlie ventured downstairs as far as the hall. She was now faced with one of two alternatives. Either she must make a last attempt to get away before public exposure overtook her or she must abandon herself to the mercy of Lord Carabbas. Sitting in her favorite nook by the good log fire with a shawl draped round her shivering shoulders she did her best to grapple with a truly terrible problem. Alas, she soon found that it was not to be grappled with. Her brain refused to act. Her will was inert.

The minutes ticked on relentlessly. In the process of time the hall clock chimed twelve. Girlie in a paralysis of despair settled her miserable self yet more deeply into her shawl. It would need every ounce of will she could muster to sustain the accumulated weight of humiliation that was about to fall upon her.

XXXII

IT happened, however, that Girlie Cass was soon to find herself involved in a middle course. The hall clock had scarcely ceased to strike when Lord Duckingfield came in from his morning walk. Almost at once his eye lit on the small abject figure cowering by the fire.

“Why, here you are, Lady Elfreda,” he said, cheerily. “I hope you are feeling better.”

“Oh, much better--much better, thank you.” The timid, hesitating voice was very forlorn, but it could find no other words to speak.

“I’m so glad.” And then the honest Midlander studied his watch. “Your father should be here in about half an hour--if his train is punctual.”

A look of simple terror came into the eyes of the Deputy, but she was seated too much in the shadow for Lord Duckingfield to be able to see it. All the same, that gentleman stood looking at her rather oddly and then suddenly he sat down in a chair by her side. “I don’t want to bore you.” The tone was very humble. “But before your father comes, I should like you, my dear, if possible, to reconsider your decision.”

Such words, spoken as they were with kindness, delicacy, self-evident sincerity, had the effect of precipitating Girlie’s overthrow. She perceived the real goodness of this man. Wild instinct prompting her, she suddenly took the bit between her teeth. Before she quite understood what she was doing she began to tell him everything.

“Suppose”--her voice was so faint that it was scarcely audible--“suppose I don’t happen to be the daughter of Lord Carabbas?”

“Yes, by all means,” he said, with boyish glee. “Let us suppose you are plain Miss Brown. Why not? Rank doesn’t make a pennyworth of difference as far as I am concerned. True, I’ve set up a title of my own. But it’s only for advertising purposes.” The laugh of my lord was very frank. “It helps me in business you know. In many ways, I don’t mind telling you I should be more comfortable without any rank at all.”

In the silence, the rather irksome silence which followed, this almost too-honest man began to feel, as he so often did, that “he had put his foot in it as usual.” That phase, however, was brief. For suddenly he began to realize that he was listening to the recital of a story almost inconceivably strange.

Girlie’s confession achieved a certain dignity. Her amazing account of a weak nature in the toils of a strong one gathered force and coherence as it went on. Lord Duckingfield could hardly believe his ears. As he turned to look at the scared and quivering creature by his side he became the prey of strong emotions. The one, however, by which he was dominated was anger. The little fraud, how dare she! How dare any slip of a girl play such a trick! For a moment a primitive savagery filled his heart. Yet being a man who prided himself on his sense of humor, after the first shock he was able to laugh.

His mirth was not very spontaneous, nevertheless. It sounded hollow. He would be a public laughing stock. But to do Lord Duckingfield justice, he saw at once that this aspect of the case was not the one that was going to hurt most. Rooted somewhere in his robust nature was a genuine regard for this inconceivably weak and foolish child. She was extremely pretty, her helplessness was pathetic, she appealed to the highly developed protective instinct of a strong-willed male of five and forty.

It was the most genuinely comic story he had ever heard. And it was entirely amazing. He did not doubt that every word was true. But for all his balance of mind and his largeness of view he could not escape a sense of chagrin. She had led him on to make a fool of himself. Apart from the question of her chicanery, which he shrewdly saw went no deeper than sheer folly, it was going to be very hard to forgive her. His personal dignity was shattered. True, there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the whole affair with which he need reproach himself, but for many a long year the little world in which he moved would tell the story against him.

No, he couldn’t help feeling angry. Yet, as he looked at this little fool, as he looked into those gray eyes now filmed with tears that from the first had appealed to him so oddly, he clearly perceived that she was not the culprit-in-chief. There was sterner stuff, a force far more potent behind it all. The real Lady Elfreda, whoever she was, whoever she might be, was the prime mover in what had happened. At her door must be laid the guilt of this mad escapade. Common justice required that on her shoulders the whip must fall.

Still this absurd, this charmingly pretty Miss Cass ought not to be let off lightly. But the story she told revealed the naked truth. And somehow the naked truth, unflattering as it was to her and to himself, brought no dishonor. She had been incredibly weak, she had been morbidly vain, for out of the depths she had confessed that the _Saturday Sentinel_ said she had “insight” and therefore she had been tempted to seize the providential chance of becoming a Miss Cholmondeley or a Mrs. Humphry Ward; therefore, in the circumstances of the case, it was impossible for a man cursed with a sense of humor to lay a heavy hand upon her. She didn’t deserve to be let off lightly, yet he didn’t feel inclined even now to hurt her very much.

One question there was, however, that he was impelled to put to her. And on the answer to it a great deal must depend. Why had she not told him sooner? Why had she encouraged him to make such a fool of himself? He felt obliged to ask this. And, towering over her, an avenging figure, he asked it sternly.

“Don’t you see what a hole you’ve landed me in?” he said. “Don’t you think you might have had the decency to stop me a bit sooner?”

Tears came into the scared eyes. But it was the tone of the words rather than the words themselves that drew them.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The sight of her tears seemed to make him a shade less magisterial. In spite of himself he couldn’t help softening a little. And in Miss Cass’s present state of emotion the merest hint of softness was too much for her.

“I d-daren’t,” she sobbed. “I s-simply daren’t.”

“Why not?” It was half indignation, half overmastering curiosity.

“I l-like you so much I c-couldn’t bear to give you up.” The truth came out in a gulp.

Once more he laughed. But in the act of doing so he realized how much this rather rubbishy little thing had hurt him.

XXXIII

DEFEATED by the absurdity of the situation Lord Duckingfield suddenly ended his interview with Miss Cass. He still had a desire to chastise her. But there were certain reservations in his mind in regard to the little donkey. She had been inconceivably weak, inconceivably foolish, inconceivably vain; nevertheless it was the real Lady Elfreda who must be asked to pay the bill. Even the indignant fancy of my lord hardly knew how to paint the wanton cynicism of that young woman.

In the midst of the preposterous scene with the incredible Miss Cass the angry gentleman felt a craving for fresh air. He warded off that lady’s threat of hysteria by turning his back upon her and striding to the hall door. Let him banish her from his mind--at any rate until he had been able to think over the matter in all its bearings and he had made some attempt to adjust his mental processes to a quite unparalleled affair.

However, as he learned all too soon, even that modest program was not going to be easy to fulfill. For as he came to the hall door he found himself in the midst of flurry and commotion. The Park omnibus was in the act of arrival from the station. With pomp and circumstance it had just drawn up to the threshold and was solemnly disgorging a really imposing vision on to the front steps.

The honest Duckingfield, confronted by a purple visage with a monocle glowing in the middle, an overcoat trimmed with astrachan and a superb expanse of buff gaiter, had to take a very tight hold upon himself. The worthy Midlander was not in any way a brilliant fellow, but five and forty years of traffic with the world had imbued him with a keen sense of the human comedy. This somewhat superlative arrival of Lady Elfreda’s father cast quite a strain upon his resources.

“Hallo, Ducks!” Lord Carabbas offered the large and genial hand of his race. “Good of you to send that wire. How’s that unfortunate girl of mine?”

“Oh, better--she’s much better.” But the eye of Ducks was a little evasive; anyhow, it sedulously avoided the eye of the noble marquis.

“Devilish glad to hear it.” Paterfamilias appeared to be greatly relieved. “I thought from your wire, that she was in for a bad time. Been overdoing it, evidently.”

“Ye-es, overdoing it--been overdoing it.” Ducks again avoided the eye of the anxious parent.

“Great strain, these theatrical performances, hey?”

“No doubt.”

“Hope she hasn’t upset the whole house.”

“Oh, no--not at all.” Ducks drew on his reserve of conventional politeness.

“Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’Freda. See you anon.”

Lord Carabbas passed into the house. Lord Duckingfield passed out of it. Perhaps it was a pity some imp of mischief did not prompt the worthy Midlander to stay and witness the progress of his distinguished friend. Lord Carabbas, a mass of judicious pomp and fair weather geniality, waddled slowly across the hall parquet. En route he passed a pretty little girl shivering by the log fire in the lee of the stairs. The gallant Irishman, with an unrivaled eye for female charms, noted her with a smile of approval.

It was a dank morning of November, but for nearly an hour the man from the Midlands traipsed solemnly round the park. His mind was in strange disorder; the oddest things were happening in it, but amid the flux of thought one phrase slowly crystallized. And the phrase was significant. “If she belonged to me,” it ran, “by gad, I think I know what I should like to do with her.” And the grip of a very honest man tightened on the stout ash plant in his hand.

XXXIV

WHILE events at the Hall were moving so swiftly to a final crisis, at The Laurels also there had been developments.

Having witnessed the fiasco of the Assembly Rooms, Elfreda had now to face the fact that the game was up. So far as it went the game had been quite amusing, but--and the “but” was decidedly a big one--it was by no means clear that it was going to prove worth the candle.

Over a belated tea in the nursery, as Elfreda grimly reviewed the situation in all its bearings, she was almost tempted for a moment to deplore her mischievous folly. But only for a moment. There was nothing of the weakling about her. Illogically enough, she was deeply angry with Miss Cass for making such a pitiable exhibition of herself, yet when she came to think matters over amid the boredom and discomfort of thick bread and butter and lukewarm tea and the table talk of Master Peter and Miss Joan, she was ready to believe that the ignominious collapse of the play added a new spice to the adventure. A set of vulgar people had been properly “scored off” and for the time being that was all she cared.

Nevertheless, before the evening was out she had to withstand a threat of “cold feet.” About seven o’clock the terrified Pikey arrived with the news that Himself had been telegraphed for in hot haste. The immediate effect was certainly to diminish Elfreda’s sense of victory. She was not really afraid of her father, she was not afraid of any one, but when “The Dadda” was fully roused he was an awkward customer to tackle.

There was a rather bad quarter of an hour with Pikey. It was also a rather ignominious one. The foolish old thing had got “cold feet” so badly herself that she vowed, even with tears, that she would never return to Clavering Park at all. Stern threats were required to bring her to reason. And it was not until Elfreda had made a solemn promise to appear in the course of the next day at Clavering Park that Pikey could be induced to return that evening. She, at any rate, had a wholesome fear of “The Dadda.”

Forced not very willingly into a definite promise, Elfreda had now to carry it out. Her immediate surroundings were decidedly uncomfortable, but they did not lack interest. Indeed, they had a romantic interest. Miss Dolores Parbury had marked down General Norris for her own, but the passing of each day merely confirmed the determination of the new governess to thwart that lady. He was such an engaging young man that, leaving out the personal equation, it would go to Elfreda’s heart, nay, it might almost be said to impinge on her professional pride to abandon such a charming novice to the wolves. She was quite sure that as soon as she withdrew from the scene the wolves would gobble up George Norris.

The following morning, tense prelude to a momentous day, found Elfreda’s mind divided against itself. Even if she was not looking forward to a meeting with “The Dadda” she was unrepentent for the mischief she had wrought; but now that she was in the presence of the fact she simply hated the idea of giving up George Norris. He was really very attractive. And, taking the problem he presented on the lowest ground of all, it would be unpleasantly like defeat to allow him to be carried off by somebody else.

The morning lessons in the schoolroom had always been irksome. And to-day they soon became intolerable. The governess with such grave issues weighing upon her made little or no attempt to give her mind to the daily routine. Besides she was in the blackest of moods. This morning she was hating everybody and everything. Her temper, which had suffered ten long days unnatural repression, had now a dangerous edge.

It was the amiable custom of Master Peter and Miss Joan to begin the day with a quarrel. And it was regarded as the first duty of the custodian of these spoiled darlings to calm their ugly little tempers without losing her own. From the first, as far as Elfreda was concerned, this had seemed to ask almost too much of human nature. A creature of curiously strong antipathies she disliked Miss Joan and Master Peter so intensely that the time had now come when she found it exceedingly difficult to stay in the same room with them.

“Don’t, Jo-an, you are pulling my hair!”

“Pe-tah, you story--you wicked story!”

It was the beginning of the daily duet. And it was part of the price exacted by Nemesis of Miss Cass’s deputy. The Lady Elfreda Catkins of the planet must not suppose that for the average nursery governess life is a bed of roses. No doubt it was in the interests of human nature as a whole that they should not. All the same, by the time the duet had been repeated for the eleventh successive morning, the Deputy-Miss Cass would have given much to slay Master Peter and Miss Joan.

The governess made several attempts to ensue peace. But this morning her task was not easy. She was feeling, perhaps too keenly, the pressure of events. No longer perfect mistress of a sure and balanced self, she allowed her small tyrants to perceive with the uncanny acuteness that small tyrants have, that just now the game was in their favor. And they were tempted to presume on their knowledge. The thoughts of Miss Cass seemed elsewhere. This morning there was less sting in her rebuke; on the surface, at all events, her manner towards them was not quite so uncompromising.

The duet went on. And so forbearing was Miss Cass that its most popular passages were repeated. New embellishments were even added to the original performance. For instance, when Miss Joan encored a particularly neat and effective pinch, Master Peter, disdaining mere words, suddenly got right home with a well directed hack on Miss Joan’s shin.

Miss Joan responded with a little howl of fury. This protest having completely failed to attract the notice of Miss Cass, Miss Joan proceeded to deliver an honestly resounding box on Master Peter’s ear.

The reply of Master Peter was to fling ink over Miss Joan’s copy book.

And then things really began to happen. Miss Joan cast a hasty glance at the governess in order to be quite sure that private thoughts still engaged the whole of that lady’s attention, and then she fairly went for Master Peter. First the kick was returned with interest and then ink in liberal quantities was daubed over Master Peter’s face and collar. This last indignity, however, proved too much for the self-respect of a Briton. Master Peter’s rejoinder took the form of a piercing howl.

Now the howl of Master Peter had such a quality that it drew Miss Cass abruptly from her reverie. Her private thoughts were of darkness and eclipse, of battle, murder and sudden death, but the sound of Master Peter and more particularly the sight of him seemed quite to harmonize with them. Master Peter proved just a little too much for Miss Cass in the present state of her nerves.

The reckless Miss Joan did not understand that she had come already to the edge of a sheer precipice. Therefore she gave Master Peter’s hair one final tweak. The voice of Master Peter ascended to heaven. In almost the same instant something snapped in the brooding soul of Miss Cass. Pent-up forces were unsealed. The deep resentments of eleven long and weary days suddenly burst their bonds. Horse, foot and artillery, the new governess fell upon Miss Joan.

At the moment of onset Miss Joan merely wondered what had happened. She seemed to realize vaguely that it was something very unpleasant. As her spectacles flew off and her mouse-colored locks escaped the custody of their puce-colored ribbon, she found herself projected into a new experience. An experience quite surprisingly new. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyeballs seemed to rattle against the back of her ears. And her knees were in continual danger of knocking chips off her chin.

The new governess was small, she might even be said to be “petite,” but she was extraordinarily vigorous, nay she was more than vigorous. She was remarkably strong. Generations of stern self-discipline had curbed the natural spirit of a Berserk, which, all unknown to its possessor, still lurked below the surface. But eleven days, eleven long embittered days of Miss Joan and Master Peter, had unchained primeval forces. The new governess fell upon that child and shook her. She fell upon Miss Joan and shook her until it became a wonder that one breath remained in the small body. It was far from the act of a “lady,” yet it was almost inhumanly exhilarating.

This terrific assault was at its height, and Master Peter, who had decided to join forces against the common foe, was indulging in shrill screams which Miss Joan would have been only too ready to second had she been in a condition to do so, when Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson opened the schoolroom door.

For a moment the fond mother stood mute and rigid, a tragedy queen.

“Miss Cass!”

The voice of hard horror was no longer flutelike.

“Miss Cass!”

It was clear that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson expected the heavens to fall.

XXXV

SPEAKING figuratively, the heavens fell. The scene which appalled the mother of these cherished darlings was more than she could bear. As soon as Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson realized what was taking place before her eyes it was just as much as ever personal dignity could achieve to save her from falling tooth and nail upon the governess.

“Miss Cass, are you mad?”

For a few brief, glad moments Miss Cass may have been mad. But as the governess released the gasping Miss Joan and confronted Miss Joan’s mamma she was perfect mistress of herself once more. All the same, there was a dangerous spark in the center of each sapphire blue eye.

“I consider it an outrage, Miss Cass!” The speech was punctuated with a stamp of fury.

“Little beast!” That may or may not have been the phrase that fell from under the breath of the scornful Miss Cass. But as she stood tense as an arrow returning look for look, it sounded uncommonly like it. The fingers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson fairly itched to fly at the little vixen; indeed it was almost a miracle that they did not, but an ever-present sense of personal dignity was again her salvation.

As for Miss Cass, she was amazing. The light in her eyes positively invited the older and the weightier lady to a rough and tumble. It was that light, no doubt, which enabled Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to realize that the situation was now at the extreme verge of the permitted for really well-bred people. Certainly, if the human eye can speak Miss Cass asked Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson “to come on.”

Of course, as a very little reflection showed, it was quite impossible for Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to oblige her. Besides, as soon as the outraged maternal feelings had steadied themselves a bit, they found a trick worth two of that.

For a week past, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had been a painful pilgrim in the valley of decision. Should she or should she not send away the new governess? With a feeling of “uplift” perilously akin to joy she decided suddenly to dismiss Miss Cass upon the spot.

It was the only thing to do. But the act itself in its barbaric simplicity was very stimulating.

“I must ask you to pack up your boxes, Miss Cass.” In Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s anger there was a quality of suppressed splendor which made it sublime. Besides, the phrase itself was an unconscious plagiarism from the previous day’s ill-fated masterpiece at the Assembly Rooms: in very similar terms had Sir Toby’s ill-fated heroine received her _congé_.

But Miss Cass remained unmoved, stoical, cynically indifferent.

“Please have them packed immediately. I will ask Miss Parbury to look out a train to London for you.”

That excellent afterthought came as a final bolt. The incensed lady paused dramatically to mark its effect. Miss Cass did not blench. Unquestionably, such a shaft must have gone right home, but the little governess knew how to conceal the wound.

The whole scene was decidedly humiliating, but after all, it didn’t matter particularly--at any rate, to the Lady Elfreda Catkin. What was going to matter was the triumph of Miss Parbury. A very attractive young soldier would have to be abandoned to the siren of Birmingham.

It was just there that the shoe really began to pinch. A moment’s thought showed Elfreda that in any case the shoe must have pinched just there. That romance had already reached its appointed end. Still, it was a trifle galling to be “sacked” so ignominiously. Miss Parbury would gloat. Yes, it was rather astute of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to ask that lady to look out a train!

“I’m afraid, Miss Cass”--in the exhilaration of the hour Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson became flutelike once more--“it will be quite impossible to give you a reference. And I shall write at once to Canon Carnaby to say so. I am exceedingly sorry. In regard to your salary, I shall consult my husband. Here are two pounds which will take you to your home.” The magisterial lady produced a brace of reluctant Bradburys. “You may or may not be entitled to a full month. As I say, I must consult my husband.”

There was not the slightest need for Miss Cass to smile. Such a moment should have been really painful, at any rate to a properly constituted mind. But Miss Cass did smile, moreover so scornfully that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson found it hard to veil her fury.

“Please go at once and pack your boxes, Miss Cass. There is a train to London about two, I believe. But Miss Parbury will be able to tell you.”

“Pray don’t give any one trouble on my account.” The tone of Miss Cass had the bite of an acid. “I am reasonably good with a Bradshaw.” The calm effrontery of the creature was astounding.

“I am sure Miss Parbury will consider it a pleasure.” A shade below the belt, no doubt, but then there are no Queensbury Rules for the ladies, God bless them!

Beneath the entranced gaze of Master Peter and Miss Joan the hated Miss Cass made a slow and dignified exit. They were quite surprised that she didn’t even slam the door. But if looks are a guide she must have been really sorry for herself that she was so awfully much of a lady.

“Jo-an darling, run and ask dear Dolores to look out the London trains. Or stay, I’ll go and ask her myself. And then I’ll write to Canon Carnaby.”

XXXVI

THE news traveled quickly. Dear Dolores received it almost at once; and received it, moreover, with a modesty that did credit to her self-respect; but as she turned her prompt attention to Bradshaw’s Guide she could hardly refrain from humming “Any Time’s Kissing Time” and kindred melodies from Chu Chin Chow. After all, it is neither just nor wise to exact too much of human nature.

The second person to be informed was General Norris. That gentleman, who had just returned from his morning constitutional, was in the act of crossing the hall when he suddenly found himself involved in a riot.

Master Peter and Miss Joan burst out of the schoolroom dancing a sort of fandango.

“She’s got the sack, she’s got the sack!”--Miss Joan.

“Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!”--Master Peter.

Explanations were immediately demanded. Explanations were at once forthcoming.

“You might almost be said to be pleased,” was the sad comment of George Norris at the end of their thrilling story. And he was such a very simple young man that the sound of his voice suggested tears.

“What do _you_ think?” The idiom of Miss Joan was a little primitive, no doubt--she took after her father’s side, poor dear child! “She a perfect beast, isn’t she, Pe-tah?”

“A norrible beast,” Petah agreed.

But in the eyes of George Norris there was a look that seemed to contradict them flatly.

He was such a naïf young man that the lurid story of the morning’s war, which to be sure lost nothing in the telling, came as quite a shock. And the shock left him sore, rueful, angry. He was not at all inclined to accept the tale in all its nakedness--things had been left out, things had been put in--and as he had known from the first, these unsportsmanlike women had had “an awful down” on the little governess.

The crux of the matter was that she was a rather special kind of governess. Only too evidently she was used to the best people and the best houses. George Norris was too good a sportsman himself to be hard upon Mrs. T.-S. from whom he had received many kindnesses or upon Miss P. who was by way of being a dasher, but the trouble with these ladies was that they were quite unable to forgive Miss Cass her trick of making them look cheap. A minx, of course, a perfectly charming minx who spent her time scoring them off. She had deserved all she had got. But as man is the being he is in the world of the present, George Norris would have liked beyond all things just now to have knocked the heads of Master Peter and Miss Joan together.

The young man in his distress, which he had neither the art nor the tact to conceal, sought Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. He found her seated at a writing table in the morning room. And flanking her, in a low chair by the fire, was Miss Parbury poring over with an air of intense absorption, the intricate pages of Bradshaw’s Guide.

“There’s a train at a quarter-past two, I see,” Miss Parbury announced as General Norris entered the room.

“That is the one. She must go by that.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson dipped her pen augustly. “Tell me, what’s the date, dear?”

Miss Parbury had a doubt as to the date, but General Norris succinctly furnished it from the top of _The Times_ newspaper which providentially was at hand.

Dear Canon Carnaby,

It is with the greatest reluctance that I write to tell you that the
governess whom you recommended so highly has not been a success. In
fact, she has proved so altogether unsatisfactory that I am having to
dispense with her services at a moment’s notice. You will be grieved
to learn that I am unable to give her a reference. In my humble
opinion she is wholly unsuited to the care of young children. Her
temper, to put the case mildly, is under imperfect control and much as
it distresses me to have to say so, she does not invariably speak the
truth; also her manners leave much to be desired. On several occasions
she has been openly and intentionally disrespectful. I am sorry to
have to write in this way of one who has been able to recommend
herself to your kindness, but it seems right that you should know the
sort of person she really is.

With kind regards, believe me, very sincerely yours,