Isobel, struggling with herself, went straight to the point. Only by doing this, she felt, could she stifle the demon of laughter within her; and if she chanced to catch Allen's eye nothing could save her.
"I'm afraid I've come on business, Mr. Wentworth. Worse than that, on begging business. I'm collecting for a Red Cross hospital which is being started at Anston. It's such a good object and they do need funds so badly—and I wondered—would you be so kind—anything will do...."
She concluded with her famous smile which had in another life done yeoman service to the country at flag-days and bazaars. Alf, whose obfuscated intellect had been groping wildly for a meaning in her elliptical remarks, suddenly understood. Here was a chance for a display of his wealth. Fate was indeed playing into his hands.
"Farr," he said, "go an' get some money."
Mustapha, who had all this while been gazing upon Isobel with lively and increasing satisfaction, was much pleased to find that this lovely "slave" had found favor in his master's eyes. He went off joyfully to the house to obey Alf's command, and in a few moments he returned followed by six female slaves. Isobel and Allen, whose hopes had been raised by their glimpse of the polychromatic Lucy, were disappointed to find that these were clad in sober black, relieved only by the neatest of caps and aprons. But this only threw into greater prominence their un-English appearance.
Each of the six carried a bulky bag. Mustapha, coming forward, laid a cloth upon the ground at Allen's feet, and made a sign to the first slave. She approached, and having (with much crackling of her apron) made a deep obeisance, poured out upon thecloth a jingling, flashing stream of gold coins. Then she bowed once more to the earth and retired.
Allen and Isobel, who for three years or so had seen no gold except an occasional stray half-sovereign, stared as though hypnotized; but Alf was the most astonished of the three. Nobody seemed capable of speaking a word. Mustapha, interpreting their silence to mean that the sum offered was not large enough, signed to the second slave; and the glittering heap was forthwith doubled.
"But," said Allen at last, recovering his power of speech with an effort, "we—we can't take this. You know we can't."
"No, sir," agreed Alf unhappily. "It's all a mistake. 'Ere, Farr, this won't do, you know."
"Verily, master, if thou didst offer to this merchant all the gold that is in the six bags, it would not be an over-payment; for verily mine eyes have not looked upon so fair a slave."
He signed once more, and the four remaining bags were emptied on to the pile.
"Heavens," said Isobel, suddenly realizing Mustapha's meaning, "he thinks...."
"Yes, confound him, he does," replied Allen indignantly. "Not much doubt about the Oriental there!" He glanced angrily at the puzzled Mustapha. "While as for the question of gold-hoarding...."
Alf caught the last word.
"S'welp me, sir," he said earnestly, "I never knew 'e 'ad it, I swear I didn't. 'Ere, Farr, wherethe blue blazes did you get all this coin from? Don't you know there's a war on?"
"Lord," replied Mustapha with pardonable pride, and not comprehending in the least what the true position was, "this is but the smallest part of the riches that lie heaped in thy treasury, the full extent whereof no man may count. Therefore chaffer not with this merchant, but pay him that which he asks; for in truth the maid is passing fair. Her lips...."
"That'll be about enough from you," roared Allen with sudden fury. Mustapha, his eulogy checked in mid-surge, retreated a pace or two in alarm, while Alf, obeying subconsciously the ring of authority in the tone, came to attention. Luckily, however, his lapse was not noticed; and he remembered his status as a country gentleman and put his hands in his pockets.
"'Ere," he said to Mustapha, who was still unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, "take that stuff back where it came from. An' look 'ere, Farr, you got to get every last farthing o' gold in the place changed into notes right off. An' if I catch any more 'oardin' goin' on...." He broke off and turned to his guests. "If you'll be so good, miss and sir, as to step into the 'ouse, I'll 'ave it brought to you in notes."
"Thank you," said Isobel feebly. She followed Alf into the house with eager anticipation, but at the same time wondering how much more she could bear without giving way to hysterics.
Since Mrs. Davies' visit Alf and Bill had done their honest best to introduce into Eustace's exclusively Oriental scheme a touch of that "'omeyness" which it had so obviously lacked. As a result, the jeweled magnificence of the original scheme now served as a back-ground to an impression of solid mid-Victorian comfort. Plush-covered chairs and sofas now abounded; so did clumsy and top-heavy side-boards, draped mirrors and lace curtains. Mats of hot, black fur reënforced the priceless Persian rugs; a stuffed bird in a glass case stood in each window; and the walls were covered with a choice selection of colored "presentation plates" in heavily gilded frames. The whole effect was as though some rather dissipated roysterer, returning from a fancy dress ball in the robes of a gorgeous caliph, had protected them from the weather by the addition of a frock-coat.
Isobel, who had expected a stage setting of the "Chu Chin Chow" order, was utterly unprepared for the improvements. She sat down suddenly on the nearest plush monstrosity and looked about her. Her mouth was firm, but her eyes filled gradually with tears; and she knew that if she looked at Allen she would disgrace herself.
But now, fortunately for both of them, Alf, full of determination not to let slip this golden opportunity of impressing his lady, bustled out of the room to summon the much-enduring Eustace and explain to him the nature and functions of paper currency. Allen and Isobel, watching his departureanxiously, just managed to preserve their self-control until he had gone; but then the floods of laughter burst forth irresistibly. They wallowed breathlessly, feebly wiping their streaming eyes. After a time Isobel managed to pull herself partially together and to sit up; but the sight and sound of Allen, who was at full length on a sofa gasping like a fish and quaking like a jelly, set her off again. It was a shameless spectacle.
But by the time Alf came back two weak but happy people were gravely examining the decorations, and were even far enough recovered to be able to congratulate their host on his taste without a quiver.
"You have been in the East, I suppose, Mr. Wentworth?" asked Isobel.
"I went to Yarmouth once," said Alf.
"Ah, yes. But I mean the Orient. Egypt—Persia—India."
"Oh!" Alf caught the allusion and began to fidget. The conversation seemed to be taking an awkward turn. "You mean this 'ere?" he asked, waving a comprehensive hand about him. "I can't say as I've ever been in them parts meself like, but them as did the 'ouse up for me comes from there. I 'ad it brought over regardless. Only they didn't 'ave much furniture, an' no pictures, so I 'ad to order them meself. That's a nice thing, now." He pointed to a glaring lithograph depicting a dog of no known breed being mauled by a small child apparently in the advanced stages of scarlet fever. It was called "Happy Playmates."
"Always been fond o' that from a boy, I 'ave," he said.
"Very nice," agreed Isobel gravely. "What do you think, Denis?" She slipped a hand inside his arm and gave it a delighted little squeeze.
"Charming!" His voice shook ever so little, but he had completely regained control of his expression.
Alf judged that the time had arrived to bring his heavy batteries into action. He produced from his pockets a little bundle of notes, and handed them to Isobel.
"There, miss," he said in admirably casual tones, "a little something for your 'orsepital."
"Thank yousomuch," said Isobel, smiling at him. "It'smostkind of you. Denis, would you ...?"
She glanced at the packet in her hand, and her voice trailed away in speechless surprise. Then she offered the notes back to Alf.
"Surely," she gasped, "there's some mistake?"
Alf glowed; when Isobel had taken his "little something" so casually he had for one moment been afraid that hiscouphad failed—that in spite of his increasing confidence in Eustace's powers, he had not been "wholesale" enough; he was thankful to find that this was not so.
"Quite all right, miss," he said jauntily.
"But—but they are thousand-pound notes! I can't—I really can't allow...."
Allen opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
"If you please, miss," said Alf earnestly, "Ishall be most honored if you'll 'ang on to—I should say keep—the 'ole lot."
Isobel, looking slightly dazed, went through the notes in her hand. There were ten notes, each for a thousand pounds. She laid them on the table beside her.
"Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Wentworth," she said, "but really, it's quite impossible...."
"I can spare it easy. It's nothing to me, I give you my word. If you'd just take it to oblige me, like, I shall be much obliged. I shall really."
"But I don't understand why you should want to do this."
Here was a splendid chance of advancing his cause with a telling compliment. Bill would have taken it, Alf felt, at once; he himself simply shuffled his feet and went very red.
"It's just to oblige me," he said shamefacedly. "I'd—I'd like you to 'ave it."
Isobel suddenly realized that this eccentric little man meant the money to be the token of a personal tribute to herself. She took the topmost note.
"Mr. Wentworth," she said in a gentle voice, "I couldn't possibly take all that money from any one. It's far more than the fund is trying to collect, and there are other things which need money so badly. But I will take this, and thank you most tremendously."
She put out her hand, and Alf, still very red, grasped it so heartily that she winced. Then he followed his visitors to the front door. As Isobelcranked up (declining Allen's proffered help with a stern reminder that he was an invalid) Alf realized that something still remained to be done. He must not let Isobel go without arranging for a future meeting. He must strike while the iron was hot.
"Could you—would you an' yer pa step in some day an' 'ave a bit o' something to eat?" he blurted out.
"I'm sure he'd be delighted," said she impulsively. The little man's earnestness had quite melted her for the time being, and she committed Sir Edward without a thought. "He is so interested in everything that comes from the East. Come to tea with us on Friday and ask him yourself."
She nodded, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Alf watched her out of sight, and turned to find Mustapha at his elbow.
"Farr," he said excitedly, "that's the young lady what I'm going to marry. I'm goin' to 'ave tea with 'er father on Friday. What d'you think o' that?"
"Lord," said Mustapha, "all shall be prepared."
Alf dashed upstairs to Bill without considering what it was that Mustapha was going to prepare.
Bill listened unmoved to his friend's narrative.
"Did Lootenant Allen reckernize you?" he asked at the end.
"No more 'n nothin'. Look 'ere, you don't seem to take it in. I'm goin' round to tea on Friday."
"I 'eard. What did I tell yer?" asked Bill cynically. "It's all a matter o' money. All yougot to do now is pile on the swank for pa FitzP., an' you'll be 'is dearly beloved son-in-law before we know where we are. What oh!"
Bill closed his eyes and seemed to indulge in a beatific vision. Alf did not share his sublime confidence, but even he felt that the campaign had now made a really auspicious start.
* * * * * * *
When the car was out of sight of the Manor, Allen once more fell a victim of paroxysms of laughter.
"Go slow, for Heaven's sake," he gasped, "or I shall fall out."
"Stop it!" Isobel commanded sharply. "Stop it at once. I won't have that poor little man sneered at. I think he's a dear, so there."
"Cupboard love," Allen retorted, wiping his streaming eyes. "He hasn't givenmea million pounds for the Red Cross and he hasn't askedmeto dinner, so I'm free to laugh if I want to. Those clothes ... and that furniture ...! If I'd caught your eye again I should have had a fit."
Isobel laughed a little herself.
"Who can he be?" she asked. "It's rather dreadful that a common little uneducated Cockney like that should have all that money, isn't it? And did you see his friend, who bolted when we arrived?"
"Yes—a shy bird in gorgeous plumage. D'you know, I'm sure I've seen that chap Wentworth somewhere before, or some one just like him."
"That's funny. I felt just the same. Who can it be?"
"Wait a bit—it's coming to me. Why, of course, I've got it. If he had a mustache, he'd be the living image of a silly ass in my platoon, Higgins by name, and so.... I say, what's the matter?"
The car gave a violent double lurch as Isobel momentarily seemed to lose control of the steering-wheel. Luckily they were traveling very slowly. Allen leant across her and stopped the car.
"Iso," he said, unconsciously using the affectionate abbreviation for the first time, "whatever's the matter? Are you ill? You're as white as a ghost."
She ignored his question.
"Tell me," she said, "had you really a man in your platoon called Higgins?"
"Yes—but why ...?"
"And is he really like this Wentworth man?"
"Yes. But you can't have seen him."
"Only—only in a dream."
"What!"
"Oh, I know it sounds mad to you; but I had the most dreadful vivid dream about being at the front. I was being shown round the trenches by a couple of Tommies—I'd always said I wanted to see them, you know. I didn't realize ... it was awful.... One of the two Tommies was just like Mr. Wentworth, and was called Higgins. The other's name was—wait a bit—oh, yes, Grant. And thenyoucame into it and.... Denis, don't look like that!"
"Grant?" echoed he hoarsely. "Why, it must have been.... Iso, shall I tell you what you said to me when I came round the corner of the trench?"
Her eyes dilated; she caught at his arm and nodded silently.
"You said, 'It must be a dream. If it isn't, I can't bear it!' Was that it?"
She nodded again. She could not speak. Allen felt a strange dryness in his throat. He put his arm round Isobel, and she leant against him trembling.
"Then—then you disappeared. I thought I must have been seeing things, but—but...."
"It was real," she whispered. "Iknewit was, somehow. That's why I came here to work—that's why I brought you here. Denis—I'm frightened. What does it all mean?"
"Mean?" repeated Allen. "My darling, you're shaking like a leaf. What can it mean but—this?"
They kissed.... Years later, it seemed, Isobel caught sight of Allen's wrist-watch, and came suddenly back to earth.
"We must simply fly," she said. "Thank Heaven there was nobody on the road to see us. No, Denis, you mustn't. We must get back.... Oh, well, then...."
They kissed once more, blissfully unconscious that a pair of youthful but malicious eyes had been drinking in every detail of the scene, or that when the car had proceeded on its way—hopelessly late for lunch—Bobby Myers scrambled out of the hedge and scurried hot-foot to entrust this preciousinformation to the safe keeping of Mrs. Rudd. By teatime there was not a soul in the entire neighborhood who had not heard the news, with the exception of the isolated and deeply suspected inhabitants of Denmore Manor.
"Humph," said Mrs. Rudd the post-mistress, "lot o' good the police force is, I don't think, ain't they?"
The police force shuffled its feet and looked uncomfortable.
"Well, now, auntie," it began mildly, "I don't see 'ow...."
"None o' yer 'Well, now auntie' for me, please. Are you policeman in this 'ere village or are you not?—answer me that."
"O' course I am."
"Well then, 'ere's a lot o' 'eathen foreign nigger German spies gettin' ready to murder us all in our beds under our noses, an' 'ere you sit and do nothin'. I'm ashamed of you, Artie, I am. You go spendin' all yer time with yer nose in detective stories, an' dreamin' about the promotion you're goin' to get; an' now you get a real fine chance o' detectin' something an' runnin' a lot of shady foreigners in, an' all you do is twiddle yer great silly thumbs an' say, 'Well, now, auntie'!"
"But 'owcanI go to the 'ouse?" wailed the sole representative of law and order in Denmore miserably. "You can't take a man up 'cause 'e's a foreigner."
"No, worse luck." Mrs. Rudd considered that inany properly-governed state a law to that effect would have been made long ago. "But you can take 'im up for 'oardin' food. It ain't for me to teach you yer own job, Artie Jobling; if I was policeman 'ere I'd pretty soon think out a way to get into that 'ouse an' 'ave a look round. 'Ow did the ones in them books o' yours do it?"
"Disguised theirselves gen'rally," said Artie without enthusiasm, "an' went an' walked out with the maids."
"Well, why don't you do that?"
"I ain't no 'and at disguises," sighed Artie, gazing sadly at his regulation boots. "I sh'd 'ave all the kids in the village runnin' arter me."
Mrs. Rudd followed the direction of her nephew's eyes, and forbore to press the point further.
"Besides," resumed P.C. Jobling after a little reflection, "they say that the maids in this 'ere 'ouse is niggers, an' none too respectable at that. 'Orrible things might 'appen."
He brooded darkly on the possibility.
"Well, if you don't do something we shall 'ave 'orrible things 'appening any'ow," said Mrs. Rudd. "Sure as fate we'll all be murdered. I was saying to-day to Mrs. Green...."
"If I went," interrupted Artie, struck with a new thought, "they might murderme."
"They might," agreed his aunt, "an' they might not. Any'ow, that's what you're 'ere for, Artie. If anybody in this village is to be murdered it ought to be you, Artie. It's your plain dooty. If you ain'tgoin' to do it, you ought to be in the trenches."
Constable Jobling stared at her without a word. This view of his mission in life had never been brought to his notice before. Apparently it disconcerted him no little.
"Lot o' good the police force is when anything does 'appen." Mrs. Rudd returned with freshness and vigor to her original line of argument. "An' a lot o' promotion you'll get, my lad. Why, I'd make a better policeman'n you out o' a turnip-top an' a broom 'andle any day. Why 'ere's Mrs. Green."
The door-latch clicked, and Mrs. Green of the general stores entered. "'Ere, Maria," said Mrs. Rudd, "I was just tellin' young Artie...."
But young Artie had had enough. He tramped heavily out, slammed the post-office door behind him, and retired to his own cottage to brood on the cursed spite which had selected him to minister to times so out of joint.
For ten days or more the whole village had been in a ferment over the strange people and stranger doings at the Manor. The fact that neither the vicar nor his wife, who had been seen to leave the place, could be induced to say a word of what they had seen, only deepened the dark and formless suspicions held in the neighborhood. Jobling had had an increasingly strong idea that the public opinion of him as a smart and ambitious young member of a distinguished body was gradually changing, but his outspoken aunt was the first person to put this new feeling into words and to force the unfortunatepoliceman to look facts in the face. He was frightened of the unknown murdering heathens who might possibly lurk in ambush for him in the grounds of Denmore Manor, but he was even more frightened of the known and well-tried power of his aunt's tongue. He sat behind the curtains in his cottage and gave himself up to melancholy thought.
Before long he saw Mrs. Green, her chat with the post-mistress concluded, coming up the street. She met with another decrepit old dame, and the two began to discuss some choice piece of scandal with great animation. Mrs. Green closed her peroration by pointing at Jobling's window and shaking her head sorrowfully. The other lady also shook her head and doddered off up the street, where she could be seen a few moments later in deep and direful converse withherdearest friend.
Jobling knew the signs. Unless he did something, and quickly, he was a marked man. But howcouldhe push himself into a house without a pretext? Failing the subtle methods of the detective of fiction, what reason could a large but timid policeman find for penetrating into a nest of probably dangerous criminals without giving them offense?
The problem remained unsolved all day, and troubled him so much that at night he found himself attracted to the place by a sort of morbid fascination. Twice, greatly daring, he walked up and down the strip of road on which the Manor grounds fronted; and then, turning down an unfrequented lane, he reached a corner which was the only spot not actuallyin the grounds from which the Manor could be seen. He hardly knew why he had come there, as it was a dark, moonless night, and he could not expect to see as far as the house. But when he reached the corner and looked across the fields, the whole building was blazing with lights, standing out pitilessly against the decorous war-time gloom. P.C. Jobling heaved a sigh of relief and went home with his problem solved. He would call on Mr. Wentworth on the morrow and would point out to him politely, but firmly, that he must not show bright lights at night. Not even the most murdering of heathens, or the most heathen of murderers, he felt, could take exception to that.
Next day, however, the prospect looked less bright. He was not quite so sure that his reception would be peaceable. He pictured himself penetrating into the fastnesses of the Manor and never again coming out—never, that is, alive. He decided that he would let his aunt know where he was going; then he could at least be sure that he would not die quite unavenged. Then, on second thoughts, he determined to say nothing about it. If he did, he would be tied down definitely to a venture of which he disliked the idea more and more. He put on his helmet and walked majestically through the village, to restore his self-respect. Unfortunately for his purpose, the first person he met was Master Bobby Myers, who since his exploit of climbing over the Manor wall had regarded himself as no small hero.
"Yah!" said Bobby with derision. "'Oo's afraid of niggers?"
Outwardly Jobling did not deign to notice this insult, but it struck deep all the same. He strode back through the village and burst into the little post-office.
"Auntie," he said loudly, "I'm goin' up to the Manor to-day to 'ave a look round."
"An' about time too," replied his aunt in acid tones.
But there were several people present, and it was obvious that P.C. Jobling's resolution had caused the general opinion to veer round once again in his favor.
"Good lad," said an aged gentleman. "Find out all you can. Thieves an' robbers they'll be, I reckon. Tell p'liceman what you 'eard, Mary."
Mary, one of the maids at Dunwater Park, spoke up, pleased at occupying a position of public importance.
"They're gold hoarders, Mr. Jobling," she said. "The mistress an' Lootenant Allen was there yesterday an' saw it."
"Ah," put in somebody, "an' where do they get their food from, eh? Not in the village, nor yet from London. You go an' 'ave a look round, Artie, an' if you come back all right you'll be made a sergeant."
"Why shouldn't I come back all right?" demanded Artie, with a chill at his spine. "Miss FitzPeter did."
"She's quality—they wouldn't dare touch'er."
P.C. Jobling returned to his cottage in a despondent mood. There was no going back for him now—he had burnt his boats. All the old ladies of the village would be on duty behind the curtained windows to see him start on his quest. Struck with self-compassion he prepared himself a more than usually lavish meal, just in case it should be his last. Then he smoked a reflective pipe. The sun was hot, and a comfortable drowsiness began to steal over him.... His head nodded.... For a second or two he dozed off.... Then, suddenly wakeful, he put on his helmet and started out, feeling every inch a hero. The village street was deserted except for a dog asleep in the very middle of it; but Jobling knew that he was performing under the eyes of an appraising and critical public. He walked as jauntily as his official boots would allow, his head well back and his chest well out.
As soon as he was clear of the village, however, and had reached the stretch of lonely road leading to the Manor gates, his pace slackened and his chest deflated suddenly. He began to recall all the wild and vaguely terrific rumors about the people at Denmore and his heroism oozed slowly out of his backbone. When he came at last in sight of the gates themselves, he stopped stock still on the road and wrestled fiercely with himself.
Supposing he turned tail now, would he ever be able to live it down in the village? He thought of his aunt's tongue—of Mrs. Green's wicked old face as she talked to her wicked old crony in the street—of Bobby Myers' taunt, and he knew that whatever lay before him would be the lesser of twoevils. He reached the gates and paused once more, as though he could see written above them in letters of fire "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Then with shaking knees he passed in and up the gloomy avenue.
Alf chanced to be looking out of a window overlooking the drive, and saw him as he turned the corner.
"Lumme!" he called to Bill. "The police!"
"Let 'em," responded Bill lazily. He was lying back on a long chair, with his beloved flagon beside him; and the indefatigable Lucy, garbed like Solomon in all his glory, was fanning him with enthusiasm. "Let 'em," he repeated, and closed his eyes happily.
"But look 'ere, what can 'ewant? An' 'sposin' 'e wants to know 'oo we are?"
"Tell 'im," said Bill, "Mr. Wentworth an' 'is friend, Mr. Montmorency, of Denmore Manor."
"But if 'e wants to see our papers?"
Bill sat up with a spasm of energy.
"What's it matter what 'e wants, you chump? You're a blinkin' landowner now, an' p'licemen don't matter. Be 'aughty with 'im an' kick 'im out."
"You'dbetter see 'im, Bill."
"Me?" Bill sank back once more on his cushions. "Why should I do yer dirty work? I'm quite comfortable as I am. See 'im yerself, an' be 'aughty with 'im. Call 'im 'My man'! Probably 'e wants a subscription. Give 'im 'arf-a-crown. On'y you'd better 'urry down before Mustapha gets'old of 'im an' gives 'im a few bags o' gold; that'd put us fair in the cart. Keep the fan goin', Lucy, my dear."
Alf tore down the stairs and met P.C. Jobling on the steps of the Manor. Each made great outward show of boldness, but it would be difficult to say which felt less bold in his heart. There was an awkward pause.
"W—w—well," said Alf at last, mindful of Bill's advice. "Wh—what can I do for you—er—my man?"
The words were haughty enough to show the most imposing of policemen his position in the scheme of things; but the tone in which they were uttered entirely spoilt their effect. P.C. Jobling took heart of grace and puffed out his admirably developed chest.
"It is my dooty to inform you, sir, that you 'ave several exceedingly bright lights showin' from yer 'ouse at nights, contrary to regulations."
"I'm—I'm sorry," stammered Alf, relieved that the policeman had come on so trivial an errand, but disturbed at having incurred the notice of the Law. "If you'll wait 'arf a second I'll 'ave my butler in an' tick 'im orf for it. 'Ere, miss," he said to a dusky but decorously clad maidservant, "send Mr. Farr. Savvy?"
The maid, catching the name, sped off. P.C. Jobling, feeling now quite reassured that his life was in no danger, began to sigh (like Alexander the Great) for fresh worlds to conquer. He knew thatif he penetrated no further than the Manor's outer defenses it would go hard with him when next he faced his aunt.
He took off his helmet and mopped his moist brow.
"'Ot day, ain't it, sir?" he said.
Alf, whose chief rule in life had been always to keep on the right side of the law, swallowed the bait whole.
"It is 'ot," he agreed. "'Ow'd a glass o' beer be, eh?"
"You're very kind, sir."
"Not a bit—not a bit, my man." This time the tone was much better. "Farr," he continued as that functionary appeared. "'Ere's the police been about the lights. It's quite time as you knew as 'ow we don't 'ave to show no lights at night. 'Ave 'em covered to-night, or I'll know the reason why. An' bring this gentleman a pint of beer."
Mustapha bowed gravely and departed. Now was the crafty Jobling's opportunity.
"Oh, no, sir," he said. "I couldn't let 'im 'ave all that trouble, sir, I'll go into the kitchen myself, sir."
He was across the hall before Alf recovered his wits. The master of Denmore was exceedingly proud of his kitchens, but he realized in a flash that no minion of the law must be allowed to gaze upon them. The Manor kitchens were of noble proportions—the banqueting hall had been built to seat 200 people, and the cooking accommodation was onthe same generous scale—but they were none too big for Alf's enormous retinue. Crowds of dusky workers were ceaselessly engaged on the preparation of the sumptuous banquets which Messrs. Montmorency and Wentworth failed dismally to appreciate; and there was an air of bustle and lavishness and reckless waste about the whole assembly. Butchers might be seen forever slicing up carcasses of meat; pastry cooks and confectioners were endlessly intent on the concoction of wonderful dainties; scullions ceaselessly carried away buckets whose contents bore witness to an utter disregard of the principles of economy and the possibility of by-products. Even Alf, who knew that his foodstuffs were drawn from stocks not under the control of any government official, had felt a twinge of conscience when he had gazed upon the scene. And now the round eyes of P.C. Arthur Jobling would be taking in its details; and if something were not done very quickly, the official notebook of P.C. Arthur Jobling would be taking those details in to ... and then....
Alf snatched at the Button and rubbed it.
"Eustace," he commanded tersely. "Take that blinkin' policeman out of the kitchen an' put 'im back where 'e came from."
"Lord, I hear and obey."
Eustace was gone.
"'Ope 'e 'asn't seen too much already," soliloquized Alf. "'Owever, it's done now, an' I don't suppose 'e'll come back 'ere in a 'urry. Better be on the safe side, though. Mustapha, tell 'em to be abit more careful in the kitchen, will you? If the Food Controller comes there'll be 'ell on."
Mustapha did not quite get the hang of this remark; but he did gather that the kitchens under his care were being adversely criticised. He assumed a tone of deferential remonstrance.
"Lord, thy kitchens are the most lavishly furnished of all the world; thy larders are stocked from floor to ceiling with all manner of rich meats, with rare fruits, with spices, with grain of every kind, so that whoso should see them would say, 'Truly the lord of the Button is a great Caliph, for what man of lesser rank could make so brave a show.'"
"Well, that's just what I'm grousin' about," said Alf irritably. "You're just as 'olesale as ole Eustace. Put the stuff away out o' sight somewhere, or you'll 'ave us all doing time. Step lively now; you never know 'oo's goin' to pop in on us next."
Mustapha, feeling he was losing his grip of things, went off to execute this latest strange command of his strange master. Alf went upstairs again to Bill, feeling rather weak.
As for P.C. Arthur Jobling, in the very act of taking out his official notebook he found himself sitting once more in the chair in his little parlor. He rubbed his eyes and blinked around him; then he seized hold of his own arm and pinched himself—and, leaping to his feet with a yell, decided he was really awake.
"Gorblimey!" he said to himself. "Must 'ave been a dream! I must 'ave dropped off arter all.I remember feelin' mazed-like, but I got up and—no, I can't 'ave, 'cos 'ere I am. Well, well! It was that life-like I could 'a sworn it 'appened. And 'oardin'! My eye—piles an' piles o' food there was. P'raps it's a 'int from 'Eaven to tell me what to look for. Well, if I'm goin' it's high time I started. 'Allo, I must 'ave put me 'elmet on in me sleep!"
He opened the door and stepped into the street. Conscious that he was performing under critical and appraising eyes, he puffed out his chest and walked as jauntily as was consistent with dignity—and behind the curtains there reigned consternation; for while everybody had seen him start out half-an-hour before, nobody had seen him come back; and yet here he was, starting out again! When he cleared the village, he stopped and scratched his head uneasily.
"I'm sure I done all this before," he said uneasily. "That blessed dream o' mine seems to be with me still."
He turned up the dark avenue, and the eerie feeling deepened. His knees shook, and he had much ado to prevent his teeth from chattering, but he went doggedly on, and once more turned the corner.
"By Gum," said Alf blankly, "'ere's that blinkin' copper again. I can't face 'im again, Bill. You'll 'ave to go."
Bill, who had reached a stage where even his appetite for beer had been temporarily sated, got up.
"Righto," he said, "anything to oblige. 'E won't find no foodthistime, any'ow."
He lurched downstairs and met the policeman in the drive. Jobling drew a breath of relief at finding that he was received by a stranger.
"That settles it," he said to himself. "'Twason'y a dream. That black butler ain't to be seen, neither. It is my dooty to inform you, sir," he went on aloud in measured official tones, "that you 'ave several exceedingly bright lights showin' from yer 'ouse at nights, contrary to regulations."
"'Ave I really, ole son?" said Bill breezily. "My mistake! Come right in, won't you, an' 'ave a drink while I see about it."
Alf, watching at the upper window, watched them disappear, with a puzzled expression.
"Now, why the 'ell," he asked himself, "does 'e bother to tell the tale about them lights over again? That's on'y cammyflage, 'cause itmustbe the food 'e's come about this time. 'E must think we're mugs if 'e tries to do us with the same yarn twice.... Wonder what's 'appening?"
He gazed moodily out of the window in a state of great suspense. But he had not long to wait. There came a sound of some one running swiftly in heavy boots; and P.C. Jobling appeared, with eyes staring in terror, fleeing down the drive as though pursued by the Furies. Alf watched him out of sight, and turned in amazement as Bill staggered into the room and collapsed on his divan, weak with laughter.
"What's 'appened, Bill? What you done?"
"Me? Nothin'. I took 'im an' showed 'im the kitchens, all as bare as a board—an' just as we turns to come out we meets Mr. Farr comin' in. The minute the copper sees Farr 'e gives a yell an' about-turns an' legs it so you couldn't see 'is coat-tails for 'eel-plates! Laugh? I laughed meself dry. Get me another, Lucy!"
But Alf looked grave.
"I don't like it," he said in a troubled voice. "I do 'ate monkeyin' about with the p'lice. This ain't goin' to do us no good, you mark my words!"
After breakfast on the following Friday Allen approached Isobel solemnly.
"May I speak to you for one moment, please, Commandant?" he asked, in portentously official tones.
"Certainly, Mr. Allen," she replied in the same manner. "Come into the office."
She led the way into the not very tidy sanctum from which she conducted the voluminous correspondence with various military bodies which formed a large share in her work in the Dunwater Park Auxiliary Hospital for Officers. She sat down at her desk and stirred some papers with an air of importance.
"You find me very busy," she intimated austerely. "But I can give you a moment. What can I do for you?"
Allen, as befitted one in the presence of authority, came to attention.
"Please," said he humbly, "I want leave to go up to town by the noon train."
"But Sister's the person who runs the leave department."
"Yes, but she's gone up herself by the early train."
"So she has. Well, what's your reason for this dreadful request?"
"I want," said Allen, his eyes twinkling, "to buy myself an engagement ring."
Isobel managed to preserve her severity with an effort.
"Really," she replied; "I don't think that is at all a good reason. The War Office discourages...."
"Very well; then I'll buy you one in the village. I saw a sweet thing in diamonds and sapphires yesterday—only one-and-six."
"Don't forget that it's to-day that Mr. Wentworth's coming to tea. Are you going to desert him?"
"I am. I can't behave in his presence."
"Here's your half-fare voucher, then."
"Thank you, darling."
"Hush! Stop it! Go away—some one might come in. Patients mustn't kiss commandants. It isn't discipline."
"It would be, with some commandants. Well, good luck to the tea-party. And if Wentworth offers any more thousand-pound notes, just remember you've me to support now, and accept."
"I do hope he won't do anything awful," said Isobel anxiously. "I asked him for to-day because I thought there'd be nobody here that mattered, and ofcourseLady Andersonwouldtake the opportunity to come and look round on that exact day."
"Who's she?"
Isobel sighed.
"She is my Hated Rival," she explained. "That is, I'm hers. She also runs an officers' hospital, and she's coming over to see how I run mine. She disapproves of me altogether—always has—and now she's furiously jealous about the hospital, so wearein for a nice time. She's father's pet aversion, too."
"Thank God I've picked to-day to go to town!" said Allen piously. "I wish you joy of your day."
She smiled mournfully.
"Get back early and comfort me."
* * * * * * *
Alf was not looking forward with pleasure to his afternoon, either. All the morning a sense of the importance of the impending function weighed upon his mind; and as the day wore on the more particular problem of what clothes to wear refused to be either settled or banished.
Immediately after lunch he went to his bedroom and, spreading out his entire wardrobe before him, spent an hour in an agony of indecision. Finally he went to Bill and implored his help.
Bill was heavily occupied with his flagon and his handmaid and at first refused to apply his intellect to the matter at all; but the mere idea of having to solve the insistent sartorial problem unaided drove Alf into desperation. He pleaded and threatened until Bill rose in disgust from his divan and, with Lucy following, went into Alf's room.
"A nursemaid is what you wants, Alf," he saidbitterly. "I never see such a blinkin' kid as you in my life. I should have thought you'd have known what's what at your age better'n to 'ave to come runnin' to me about it. 'Owever...."
He sat down on the bed and regarded the wild confusion of clothes with lofty scorn.
"Well," said Alf—his agitation lending a touch of asperity to his tone—"instead of talkin' like that, s'spose you get on with it. What ought I to wear?"
Bill sniffed scornfully.
"Why," he said breezily, "a pot 'at, o' course, and them black things o' yours. You can't go wrong that way."
"I thought you'd say that," answered Alf dejectedly. "I was 'opin' as 'ow a straw 'at might—them black things is that 'ot I can't 'ardly breathe. 'Owever, I s'pose yer right."
He began to sort out his garments of ceremony from the pile before him.
"Don't forget your spats," said Bill. He settled himself more comfortably on the bed. "'Ere, Lucy, my dear, come over 'ere beside me."
"Oh, indeed," said Alf, realizing her presence for the first time. "No, you don't. I don't 'ave no females in my room while I'm dressing."
"Don't trouble yerself about that," replied Bill airily. "Carry on. Lucy won't mind."
Alf stared with strong disapprobation at Lucy, who smiled coyly at him and displayed a large expanse of bare leg.
"No," he agreed in a meaning tone. "Lucy wouldn't mind. I ain't bothering about Lucy, though. It's me as minds. Tell 'er to 'op it at once, Bill Grant, an' think shame of yerself. I dunno what the 'ell's come to yer."
Bill, however unwillingly, was constrained to bow before Alf's outraged modesty, and Lucy accordingly withdrew. Then Alf proceeded to dress himself. A struggle with a stiff and terribly high collar made both Alf himself and his temper exceedingly hot; but at last the operation was over. He placed his glossy topper on his head and displayed himself for his friend's inspection.
Bill looked him over minutely and critically.
"Yes," he said at length. "Yes, you looks all right. Seems to me you wants brightening up some'ow. I know! 'Old on 'arf a mo."
He went out of the room and returned a moment later with something rolled up in his hand.
"This is what you want to brighten yer up," he said confidently. "This'll fair knock 'em."
He unrolled the object in his hand. It was his pictorial waistcoat.
Alf looked askance at it.
"I dunno...." he began feebly.
"Put it on, you blinkin' idjit," said the waistcoat's owner with sudden heat. "Why, it'll make all the difference. Just what you want."
"But perhapsshewon't like it," objected the love-sick swain.
"More fool she, if she don't. But she will. Iknows what the nobs likes. You trust me."
Alf, reassured and over-persuaded by Bill's tone of easy confidence, put on the gorgeous garment, and then, ready at last, he went downstairs prepared for a very hot and uncomfortable walk to Dunwater. Bill followed; but finding Lucy waiting for her master outside Alf's bedroom door with a full flagon in her hand, he with the faithful damsel disappeared forthwith in the direction of his divan, and was no more seen.
As Alf opened the front door he started back in surprise and swore deeply and inexcusably. The drive was full of brightly colored figures. All his immense retinue seemed to be gathered together waiting for him, their sober garments laid aside and their richest robes put on. Six motionless figures mounted on magnificent and gayly caparisoned black horses formed the center of the group; and a seventh horse, even more gorgeously bedight, was being led up and down by a coal-black groom. Alf's heart sank. Somebody had apparently been wholesale once more.
"Farr!" called Alf sharply.
Mustapha came forward. He was clad in garments so encrusted with gems that they crackled together as he walked. He wore the air of the good and faithful servant about to receive the praise he knows to be well merited.
"What the 'ell's all this about?" demanded his master.
"Lord," replied Mustapha, his face radiating aquiet joy, "I have made all ready. For so great a day it is meet that thou should'st be surrounded with all magnificence, that the father of the maiden may know how great is thy wealth and power. Therefore have I caused to be prepared a concourse of splendor outdoing even that of the great Prince Aladdin at the time of his betrothal to the Princess Badralbudour—upon them be peace. Thus shalt thou shine in beauty as the full moon upon the night of its completion, for verily the like of this gathering hath not been seen upon earth."
"Umph!" said Alf. He reflected that Mustapha seemed very fond of giving himself a great deal of trouble for nothing.
"Furthermore," continued Mustapha serenely, "thy steed awaits thee. For speed and grace he hath not his equal upon earth; black is he as a raven's wing, and of a mettlesome spirit withal."
Alf glanced at the prancing steed. He had only once in his life been on horseback. That had been when he had fallen lame on a route march and had been mounted on Captain Richards' patient and war-weary charger. This horse, however, seemed different. There was more life about it, somehow.
He turned to Mustapha.
"Farr," he said, "you may mean well, but there's times when I thinks you tries to be aggravating. For being a blinkin' fool you 'ave not yer equal on earth. Now you can just wash the 'ole thing out again—see? I don't want no circusprocessions round me. What d'yer take me for?"
Mustapha bowed low and then, as patiently as though he were explaining to a child, he spoke.
"But, lord, it is thy bodyguard," he remonstrated. "And indeed already have I dispatched before thee a concourse of incredible richness."
"What?" Alf clutched his hat in horror.
"There have gone to the palace of the maiden's father other forty of thy slaves, twenty white and twenty black. Upon his head each black slave beareth a bowl of jewels of surpassing worth, while each white slave as he goes will scatter money amongst the people, that thy popularity may be great in the land. With them are musicians to discourse sweet sounds. Even now they pass the outer gate."
At that moment there came, borne faintly down the breeze, the discordant clash of distant but barbaric music.
"Lumme!" said Alf. He felt wildly for his Button, and, as the whole concourse fell prostrate on its face at sight of the talisman, he called up Eustace and gave him excited but definite orders. The music in the distance stopped suddenly, and at the same time the crowd in the drive (with the exception of the chastened Mustapha) disappeared into thin air. Alf, desperately anxious to get away from the house before any further horrible thing happened, stood not upon the order of his going, but went at once up the drive full of anxiety lest anybody from the village had chanced to be passingthe gates at the moment when the band had been so ruthlessly suppressed.
As he turned into the road he saw the massive blue form of P.C. Arthur Jobling, and his heart missed a beat. But the policeman was a pitiable sight. His helmet had fallen off and lay in the road beside his official notebook, and he was gazing from side to side in a horrified and vacant manner, as though he were searching for something and were terrified lest he should find it. Alf was reassured.
"Good afternoon—my man," he said jauntily.
Jobling stared at him.
"G—good afternoon, sir," he gulped. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but do you 'appen to 'ave sent a—a sort o' procession like, with a band, out of 'ere?"
Alf controlled his voice with difficulty, but managed to keep his jaunty tone.
"Do I look like it?" he said.
Jobling groaned.
"I'm goin' barmy!" he muttered. "Look 'ere, sir, as a great favor, like, might I ask yer not to tell 'em in the village what I asked yer?"
"Betcher life!" answered Alf cheerily, much relieved at this unexpected stroke of good fortune. Then, leaving the unfortunate constable to collect his property and what remained to him of his wits, Alf set out for Dunwater, growing at every step more convinced that, whatever clothes might be correct for an afternoon call on a hot day, his present get-up was hopelessly wrong.
As he passed through the village he foundhimself the object of much interest—of an unmistakably hostile kind. On every side unfriendly faces scowled at him. Knots of people were standing in the street, and as he passed them he heard a confused medley of remarks not openly intended for his ear, but evidently to his address.
"Spy!" said somebody.
"German!" supplemented several others.
"Food 'oarder!"
Finally as he passed the post-office Mrs. Rudd's voice might have been heard through the open door upraised in some denunciation of which Higgins caught only two words:
" ... Scotland Yard...."
Alf was devoutly thankful when at last the village was passed and the road to Dunwater lay before him. As he plodded along the hot road he pondered dully what sinister events those two words "Scotland Yard" might portend. He was worried for a moment; but then his arrival in sight of the Dunwater Park gates drove all worries other than those of etiquette from his mind. What ought he to do when he arrived? What ought he to say? How did one address baronets? He wanted to make a really memorable first impression on Isobel's father—but how? Of course, if he had left himself to be guided by Mustapha's ideas, his first impression would have been only too memorable.
"Pity ole Farr's so bloomin' 'olesale," mused Alf, "because it wasn't 'arf a bad notion me bringing ole FitzPeter a bit of a present, but Farr alwaysplasters it on so bloomin' thick.... But lumme, what's to preventme?... That's a bit of an idea—never thought o' that. I'll do it."
He glanced cautiously up and down the road. Nobody was in sight. He climbed through the hedge at the roadside and found himself in a little, dark wood.
"Just the place," he said to himself. "Now for Eustace."
Unbuttoning his tightly fitting garments, he fished out the Button and rubbed it....
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, on the lawn at Dunwater Park, strange events had been taking place. A large party was gathered together, but instead of the merry gabble of voices and laughter which characterized the tea-hour as a rule, a solemn silence brooded over the scene. A blight had fallen over the entire gathering. Light-hearted and empty-headed subalterns, whose whole duty in the scheme of things had till now been the outpouring of frothy nonsense, sat mum and miserable. Tea had not yet appeared.
Dominating the scene and acting as a sort of High Priestess of Blight, was a small, gray-haired woman, sitting bolt upright in a basket-chair, and gazing about in an acidulated manner. This was Lady Anderson. She had come over—as Isobel had foreseen—manifestly with the intention of drawing odious comparisons between her own hospital and Isobel's. She had brought with her two dispiritedpatients—a sapper major and an infantry captain—who were both sitting well on the outskirts of the group. Sir Edward FitzPeter, upon whom Lady Anderson always had an infuriating effect, had joined these two, in order, like them, to be as far away from her ladyship as possible.
A terrible silence fell, which was broken only by a whispered remark from one of the more irrepressible spirits that he was suffering from "septic melancholia."
It hardly seemed humanly possible that one person could, unaided, have reduced this usually lighthearted—not to say boisterous—gathering to such a pitch of gloom. Sister looked as if she might at any moment give up the unequal contest and burst into tears.
Isobel looked round her miserable party and sighed. She had spent a strenuous afternoon with the Wet Blanket, and was weary in body and mind. Lady Anderson had started by inspecting the ground floor arrangements of the Hospital, and had with diabolical ingenuity succeeded in finding or inventing some damning flaw in each; afterwards, it had been the pleasant duty of Isobel and Sister to exhibit the more intimate and important domestic machinery, and give their visitor an opportunity of expressing (under a very thin veil of acid politeness) her disapprobation of their methods here also.
It was a dreary outlook. The only ray of hope that Isobel could see was in the knowledge that the infliction could not last much longer. On herarrival the Wet Blanket had announced that she must leave early, as it appeared she had promised to go and blight somebody else that afternoon. But tea had not yet come; and Isobel began to fear that, if the atmosphere progressed in gloom at its present rate, some of her more nervous patients would be driven to commit suicide in the ornamental pond.
At last, when nobody but Isobel herself had made the slightest attempt to speak for nearly five minutes, Barnby, the butler, appeared with tea, followed by two maids with trays and cake-stands. He was just in time to save his mistress from committing the social solecism of uttering a loud scream. He also furnished Lady Anderson with further material for acid comment.
Fixing her lorgnette (an instrument of torture with which she did dire execution) on her nose, she eyed the approaching procession with pained surprise. Then, turning to Isobel, she informed her:
(1) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to have tea out of doors. Men did not like it. Atherhospital tea invariably took place indoors, whatever the weather.
(The two dispirited officers she had brought with her caught one another's eye at this point and exchanged a wan smile.)
(2) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to run a hospital with servants. Men did not like it. Atherhospital all the work was done by V.A.D.'S—so much pleasanter.
(Another wan smile, hardly complimentary to the V.A.D.'s,—was exchanged.)
"But, of course, dear Miss FitzPeter," concluded the lady; "here they have you. How could they ask more thanthat?"
She left no room for doubt in the minds of her audience that in her private opinion one could ask a great deal more than that. At that moment, any one of the thirty or so people present would cheerfully have drowned or strangled the speaker, but nobody was bold or rash enough to engage her in wordy warfare. Isobel, heroically preserving a dogged society smile, was devoutly thankful that Denis was not there to do battle for her. He would only have made matters infinitely worse. As it was she was anxious about Sir Edward, who was fidgeting on his chair, obviously only prevented from an explosion by his sense of duty as host.
Fortunately a diversion occurred in the shape of the vicar and his wife, and Isobel breathed an audible sigh of relief. She had little love for Mrs. Davies, but on this occasion there was nobody whom she would more gladly have seen, for she knew that the task of entertaining Lady Anderson would now be transferred to other and enthusiastic hands. Mrs. Davies had for Lady Anderson a passionate regard almost amounting to adulation—a regard which the cantankerous old dame made no attempt to reciprocate. This fact failed utterly to dash Mrs. Davies; snubs and slights slid off her back like butter from a hot stove, and she continued on every possibleoccasion to absorb large quantities of blacking from Lady Anderson's shoes with every appearance of delight.
On seeing the little, black-clad figure now she rushed forward, hardly noticing Isobel at all in her eagerness.
"DearLady Anderson," she cooed. "How perfectlydelightfulto see you and howsweetyou look."
Here one of the patients, a callow second-lieutenant with an imperfect command of feature, guffawed, and had hastily to simulate a painful cough. Mrs. Davies' choice of epithet was certainly unfortunate, and Lady Anderson herself appeared to feel this, for she was more than ordinarily brusque in her manner.
"Umph!" she said. "Sit down, do."
Mrs. Davies obeyed with alacrity and proceeded to take entire possession of her idol, sitting very far forward on her chair, bending her body to a servile curve and prefacing every remark with "Dear Lady Anderson." This treatment appeared to agree with the lady, for she ceased for the time being to terrorize the assembled company and allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation in which, while not going to the length of being amiable, she did at least refrain from being actively objectionable. Gradually the gloom cleared, until something like the usual cheery babble was to be heard.
Over her cup of tea Lady Anderson thawed yet more. A sour smile appeared on her face.
"Well," she said to the vicar's wife, "and what's the latest bit of gossip in Denmore?"
Mrs. Davies looked pained.
"DearLady Anderson," she gushed reproachfully, "you will have your little joke! You know how I hate gossip of all kinds."
"Yes," said the old lady dryly, "I know."
"But there is one thing about which I think everybody ought to be told. The Vicar and I have kept silence until now, because—er—because the time was not ripe."
Isobel leant forward with interest. At last the meaning of the parson's mysterious visit of the other day was to be cleared up.
"I refer," continued Mrs. Davies firmly, "to...."
Exactly as she had done on the previous occasion, the speaker stopped suddenly in the middle of her sentence as though an invisible hand had been clapped over her mouth.
They waited for a space in suspense.
"Well?" said Lady Anderson at last.
"I refer," began Mrs. Davies once more, uneasily, "to...."
Dead silence again. Lady Anderson showed signs of losing her temper, never her securest possession at the best of times. The prospect of incurring the great lady's wrath impelled Mrs. Davies to struggle with the mysterious ban that seemed to be laid upon her speech. Three more attempts to explain herself did she make; and when the last of these had failed a kind of hysteria seemed to seize Mrs. Davies. She mouthed impotently, gasping like a fish, but no sound came forth. LadyAnderson stared at her in malevolent amazement, while a monstrous suspicion grew in her mind.
"Are you ill?" she said sharply. It is hard to explain exactly how she succeeded in making these words, in themselves innocuous, convey an insinuation of insobriety; but the fact remains that it was clear to Isobel and Sister (who fortunately were the only spectators of the scene, the rest having all unostentatiously edged away from Lady Anderson's sphere of influence) that no other meaning could have been intended. Indeed, it penetrated even the bemused brain of Mrs. Davies herself, and completed her demoralization.
She stretched out a shaking hand.
"DearLady Anderson," she began.
"Don't touch me," snapped that lady, at last losing all control of her rising temper. "I will be charitable, Mrs. Davies, and suppose that you have got a touch of sunstroke; but in any case I will not remain here to be made a fool of. Good afternoon, Miss FitzPeter."
"Oh, must you really go?" murmured Isobel, with a feeling that it was too good to be true, and taking care not to allow enough warmth to creep into her voice to give Lady Anderson any excuse for changing her mind. Sir Edward bustled forward to perform the highly congenial duty of seeing the Wet Blanket off the premises; but she declined his aid and went off in a raging passion, her two cowed and apprehensive patients following at her heels.
Meanwhile the Vicar, who had mixed with the crowd and had been happily engaged in discussing cricket with four or five other enthusiasts, became aware of his wife's voice calling hysterically for him.
"Julian! Julian! Take me home. Where's my husband?"
"Here, my dear," he said, blundering across chairs and tripping over feet in his haste. "What is it?"
"Take me home!"
"But...."
"It's all right, Mr. Davies," said the quiet voice of Sister in his ear. "Your wife has been a little upset by Lady Anderson, and I think she'll feel better at home."
"Dear, dear!" the Vicar muttered in distress. "How unfortunate!"
He knew that life would be difficult for him if Lady Anderson had really removed the light of her countenance from his wife, and he sighed as he took her arm and helped her away. She was trembling violently and her nerves seemed to have failed her altogether for the time being.
"Oh dear!" said Isobel, sinking back into her chair and watching the two receding figures. "What a day! Poor Mrs. Davies will never live this down, I'm afraid! What's going to happen next, I wonder."
She was not allowed to wonder long. As the Davies family reached the angle of the house, Barnbyappeared; behind him came Alf, perspiring freely with sheer fright; and behind him again came two enormous and imperturbable negroes, dressed in robes of shimmering cloth of silver, and bearing each on his head an enormous chased bowl of gold.
The effect of the little cortège on Mrs. Davies was remarkable. She uttered a loud scream, tore herself free from her husband and shot round the corner at a run. The Vicar, who had lost his glasses owing to the violence of his wife's departure, groped wildly for them and then disappeared in pursuit.
"I believe they reallyaremad," said Isobel in an undertone to Sister. Then she came forward once more to greet her new visitor. But Sir Edward was before her.
"How do you do!" he said heartily. "I needn't ask if you are Mr. Wentworth—your escort gives you away! I suppose my daughter told you I was interested in things oriental. How good of you to think of bringing these fellows for me to see!"
He trotted up to the negroes, who executed a wonderful simultaneous salaam, after which, rising on to one knee, they held out their bowls towards him. It was beautifully done; the tea-party, who had quite forgotten the gloom of the earlier proceedings, and were watching with all their eyes, felt that they ought to applaud. Sir Edward was delighted.
"Magnificent!" he said. "And what wonderful bowls! I'd no idea anything so fine survived."