Down here, to-day, everything was preternaturally still. The essential and age-old silence of the Roman road seemed to have flooded over the country as a river floods over its banks; the warbling and muttering of the water running beneath the bridge served only to accentuate this silence and point out its intensity.
"What are you thinking of?" said Mr. Dashwood.
The girl started from her reverie, and glanced sideways at her companion, one of those swallow-swift glances whose very momentariness is filled with meaning. Mr. Dashwood had spoken. In those five words he had let his secret escape. In the words themselves there was nothing, but in the tone of them there was much. They were five messengers, each bearing a message. Five volumes of prose could not have told her more. I doubt if they could have told her as much.
She glanced away again at the river.
"I don't know. Nothing. That's the charm of this place. I often come here and lean on the bridge and look at the water. It seems to mesmerise one andtake away the necessity for thought. Don't you feel that when you look at it?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood. "I wish to goodness it did."
She cast another swift side glance at him. The alteration in his tone made her wonder. His voice had become hard and almost irritable. He spoke as a man speaks who is vexed by some petty worry, and the words themselves were not over complimentary.
She could not in the least understand what was the matter with him. Ever since his return to Drumgool, while her mind had been engaged in the intricate problem of Mr. French's affairs, her subliminal mind had been engaged in the equally intricate problem presented by the conduct of Mr. French and Mr. Dashwood. There were times when, alone with her supposititious uncle, the original man in him seemed just about to speak the old language of original man to original woman. There were times when, alone with Mr. Dashwood, the same natural phenomenon seemed about to happen.
Yet something always intervened. French would seem to remember something, check himself, turn the conversation, and, with the bad grace of a bad actor playing a repugnant part, change from warmth to indifference. Dashwood, even a worse actor than French, would, as in the present instance, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, become almost rude.
Not in the least understanding the position of the two gentlemen one towards the other, and the fact that they looked upon each other as rivals in a game whoserules of honour had to be observed, she had passed from amusement to vague amazement when these sudden changes of temperature took place, and from amazement to irritation.
"Perhaps," said Miss Grimshaw, "you never feel the necessity."
"For what?"
"Want of thought."
"Being a person who never thinks, how could you?" was what her tone implied.
"Oh, I dare say I feel it as much as other people," he said. "In a world like this, it seems to me that the happiest people are the people who don't think."
"How happy some people must be!" murmured she, gazing at the rippling water and speaking as though she were taking it into cynical confidence.
"Thanks," said Mr. Dashwood.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I only said 'Thanks.'"
"What for?"
"Your remark."
"My remark?"
"Yes."
"What on earth was there in my remark to thank me for?"
"If there's one thing I hate more than another," burst out Mr. Dashwood, "it's sarcasm misapplied."
"Why do you misapply it, then?"
"I never do. I never use it, so I couldn't misapply it. It's you."
"What's you?"
"You who are sarcastic."
"I sarcastic!" said the girl with the air of a sacristan accused of theft. "When was I ever sarcastic?"
The linnets in the trees must have heard the raised voices; the humans were quarrelling in good earnest then; no doubt, seeing the young man seize the young woman, then flew away thinking tragedy had arrived on the old Roman road with all her pomp and circumstance.
For a moment the astonished girl had a vision of being hauled over the bridge to drown in the six-inch river, and then she lost consciousness to everything but the embrace of the man who had seized her in his arms. Lips, eyes, and mouth covered with burning kisses, she leaned against the parapet, gasping for breath and—alone.
Mr. Dashwood had gone; vaulting over the low fence of the wood, he had vanished amid the trees. No criminal ever escaped quicker after the commission of his crime.
"Mad! Oh, he's mad!" she gasped, half laughing, gasping, and not far from tears. It was not the outburst of fervent passion that astonished or shocked her—it was the running away.
The deep throb of a motor-car topping the hill brought her to her senses, and she had composed herself, and was leaning on the parapet again, looking at the river, as it whizzed by.
Then she took her way back to The Martens, walking slowly and thinking the situation over as she walked.
Mr. Dashwood in his delirium had penetrated deep into the wood beyond sight of road or house before he recovered his normal senses.
Then that unpleasant candid friend who lives in the brain of every man had his say.
"Oh, what a fool you have made of yourself! Oh, what a fool you have made of yourself!" said the friend who only speaks after an error has been committed, and then in a gloating voice.
"What will she think of you?" went on the tormentor. "You have acted like a hooligan. But that wouldn't matter, for passionate men are apt to be hooligans, and women don't mind that—but to run away! To run like a rabbit! She does not know about your absurd compact with French. She only knows that you have behaved like a hooligan or an Ass. Yes, my friend, an Ass, with a capital 'A.'"
There were nut groves here, and one required the instincts of a bush pig to make one's way in any given direction. Mr. Dashwood, moving blindly and swiftly, spurred on by a mad desire to get back to The Martens, pack his bag, escape to London, and explain everything in a letter, took, by chance, the right road, and struck a right of way that led through the woods skirting the hill of Crowsnest and bringing him on the road to the Downs.
He ascended the steep path leading to The Martens at full speed, and, out of breath, flushed, and perspiring, he was making his way to the bungalow, when he met French, amiable-looking, cool, and smoking a cigar.
"Hullo!" said French. "What's up?"
"Everything," said Mr. Dashwood. "Don't keep me, like a good fellow. I'm off to London."
"Off to London! Why, I thought you were staying till Monday."
"I'm not."
"Where's Miss Grimshaw?" asked French, following the other to the house. "Did you leave her in the village."
"No, I left her by the bridge—I mean on the bridge, down by the river."
French followed the young man into his bedroom. Bobby Dashwood, who seemed like a sleeper half-awakened from a horrible nightmare, pulled a kit-bag from the corner of the room and began stuffing it with clothes.
French took his seat on a chair and puffed his cigar.
"Botheration!" said French, who saw love's despair in the erratic movements of his companion. "Botheration! See here, Dashwood."
"Yes—oh, what!"
"Don't go getting in a flurry over nothing."
"Nothing!" said Mr. Dashwood with a hollow laugh, stuffing socks and hairbrushes into the yawning bag.
"When you've been through the mill as often as I have," said French, "you'll know what I mean. There never was a girl made but there wasn't as good a one made to match her."
"I'm not thinking of girls. I'm thinking of myself. I've made—I've made an ass of myself."
"Faith, you're not the first man that's done that."
"Possibly."
"And won't be the last. I've done it so often myself. Ass! Faith, it's a herd of asses I've made of myself, and jackasses at that, and there you go getting into a flurry over doing what every man does. Did you ask her?"
"No," said Dashwood, viciously, clasping the bag, "I didn't."
"Then how on earth did you make an ass of yourself?" asked French, without in the least meaning to be uncomplimentary.
"How?" cried Dashwood, infuriated. "Why, by trying to act straight over this business. Now I must go. I'll write from town. I'll explain everything in a letter. Only, promise me one thing—don't say anything to—her. Don't ask her questions."
Bag in hand, Mr. Dashwood made for the door. To reach the station by road would mean the risk of meeting Miss Grimshaw. By the Downs side, skirting the allotments and the Episcopalian chapel, ran a path that led indirectly to the station. This Mr. Dashwood took walking hurriedly, and arriving half an hour before the 1.10 to Victoria was due.
Crowsnest Station was not a happy waiting-place. Few railway stations really are. To a man in Mr. Dashwood's state of mind, however, it was not intolerable. Rose gardens, blue hills, or the music of Chopin would have been torture to him. Pictures illustrating the beauty of Rickman's boot polish and the virtues of Monkey Brand soap fitted his mood.
He arrived at Victoria shortly before three, and drove to his rooms at the Albany. It was a feature of Mr. Dashwood's peculiar position that, though heir to large sums of money, endowed with a reasonable income, and with plenty of credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute of ready cash as any member of the unemployed. Hatters, hosiers, tailors, and bootmakers were all at his command, but an unlimited credit for hats is of no use to you when your bank balance is overdrawn and boots fail to fill the void created by absence of money.
When he paid his cab off in Piccadilly he had onlya few shillings left in his pocket. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the desolate prospect of a penniless Sunday lay before him, but left him unmoved. There is one good point about all big troubles—they eat up little ones.
* * * * *
This was Mr. Dashwood's letter to Miss Grimshaw, received and read by her on Monday morning:
"You must have thought me mad; but when you know all you will think differently. I hope to explain things when the business about the horse is over. Till then I will not see you or Mr. French. I cannot write more now, for my hands are tied."
Mr. French also received a letter, by the same post, which ran:
"My dear French:—When, at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, I agreed to come down to Drumgool House as your guest, you said to me frankly and plainly that, with regard to a certain young lady, you would give me 'a fair field and no favour'; you intimated that you yourself had ideas in that quarter, but that you would do nothing and say nothing till the lady herself had a full opportunity for deciding in her own mind—or at least for seeing more of us."I undertook not to rush things, and to do nothing underhand. Well, I have carried out my word. I have played the game. By no word or sign have I tried to take advantage of my position till Saturday, when my feelings overcame me, and I made a fool of myself. The agony of the thing is I can't explain toher my position. It's very hard, when a man has tried to act fair and square, to be landed in a beastly bog-hole like this."I only can explain when I ask her to be my wife—which, I tell you frankly, I am going to do, but not yet. I know how your plans and affairs are in a muddle till this race is over, and I propose to do nothing till then. Then, and only then, I will write to her, and I will tell you the day and hour I post the letter. I expect you to do to me as I have done to you, and not take advantage of your position."I will not see you till the event comes off, when I hope to see you at Epsom, and not only see you, but your colours first past the winning-post."
"My dear French:—When, at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, I agreed to come down to Drumgool House as your guest, you said to me frankly and plainly that, with regard to a certain young lady, you would give me 'a fair field and no favour'; you intimated that you yourself had ideas in that quarter, but that you would do nothing and say nothing till the lady herself had a full opportunity for deciding in her own mind—or at least for seeing more of us.
"I undertook not to rush things, and to do nothing underhand. Well, I have carried out my word. I have played the game. By no word or sign have I tried to take advantage of my position till Saturday, when my feelings overcame me, and I made a fool of myself. The agony of the thing is I can't explain toher my position. It's very hard, when a man has tried to act fair and square, to be landed in a beastly bog-hole like this.
"I only can explain when I ask her to be my wife—which, I tell you frankly, I am going to do, but not yet. I know how your plans and affairs are in a muddle till this race is over, and I propose to do nothing till then. Then, and only then, I will write to her, and I will tell you the day and hour I post the letter. I expect you to do to me as I have done to you, and not take advantage of your position.
"I will not see you till the event comes off, when I hope to see you at Epsom, and not only see you, but your colours first past the winning-post."
A youthful and straightforward letter, and sensible enough, considering the extraordinary circumstances of the case.
French, when he read it, scratched his head.
When he had made the compact with Bobby Dashwood in the smoking-room of the Shelbourne Hotel, he had done so half in joke, half in earnest. Violet Grimshaw had appealed to him from the first just as a pleasant picture or a pretty song appeals to a man, but, till the day at the Shelbourne Hotel, he had no views regarding her. She was in his house, under his protection. He looked on her more as a daughter than a stranger brought under his roof by chance, and had Bobby Dashwood not intervened, he might have continued so to regard her.
But the instant Mr. Dashwood spoke Mr. French became aware that Miss Grimshaw had become anecessity to him, or, rather, a necessary luxury. He was not in love with her, but she was a charming person to have in the house. She carried brightness with her. He did not want to lose her, and here was Dashwood proposing to carry her away.
Recognising that Bobby was very much in earnest, and knowing that, when he had passed his irresponsible stage, he would make an excellent suitor for any girl, French, large hearted and generous, was not the man to put barriers in the way of a good match for the homeless orphan from the States. But he would have no engagement on a half-formed acquaintanceship. If, when they had got to know each other well, Violet preferred Bobby to anyone else, well and good. If she preferred him (French), well and better.
But since that compact at the Shelbourne, though French had been so occupied by the horse that he had scarcely time to think of anything else, the bonds had been strengthening between him and the girl, and his kindly feeling for Bobby had been increasing.
He did not recognise the facts fully till he put down Mr. Dashwood's letter and summed up the situation exactly and precisely in the word "Botheration!" Everything had been going so well up to this. Garryowen was in the pink of condition. Though the debt to Lewis was due, Lewis might have been dead for all the trouble he gave, or could give, unless by any chance Dick Giveen found out the Sussex address, which was next to an impossibility; and now this bother must turn up, driving Dashwood away and so splitting up their pleasant little party. Dashwood was an invaluableaide-de-camp, but French was mourning him more as a lost friend, when, breaking in upon his meditation, Effie entered the room.
Disaster, when she appears before us, often comes at first in a pleasant disguise, and Effie looked pleasant enough this morning, for she never looked pleasanter than when full of mischief.
"Papa," said Effie, "what's to-day?"
"Monday," said Mr. French.
"I know it's Monday. I mean, the day of the month?"
"The thirtieth of March."
Effie absorbed this information in silence and occupied herself making cocked hats out of an old bill for straw that was lying on the floor, while her father occupied himself at the writing-table with some accounts. Miss Grimshaw, the good genius of the family, Fate had decoyed out on the Downs to watch Garryowen, with Andy up, taking his exercise.
"Papa," said Effie, after a while.
"What?" asked Mr. French in a bothered voice.
"How long does it take for a letter to go from here home?"
"Two days, nearly," said French. "Why do you want to know?"
"I was only thinking."
"Well, think to yourself," replied her father. "I'm busy, and don't want to be interrupted."
Effie obeyed these instructions, making incredibly small cocked hats out of the bill-paper and pursing up her lips during the process.
At last French, tearing up some calculations and throwing the pieces in the wastepaper basket, rose to his feet, lit a cigar, and strolled out.
"Won't you come out on the Downs?" said he as he left the room.
"No, thank you," said Effie; "I'm busy."
She waited till she heard his footsteps on the verandah; then she rose from her cocked-hat making, and went to the writing-table.
She got on the chair just vacated by her father, took a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, dipped a pen in ink, and began to address the envelope in a sprawling hand.
"Mr. Giveen,"The Bungalow,"Drumboyne,"Nr. Cloyne, Ireland,"
"Mr. Giveen,"The Bungalow,"Drumboyne,"Nr. Cloyne, Ireland,"
wrote Effie.
Then she dried the envelope, and hid it in the blotting-pad.
She took the sheet of paper, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote on the paper with care and labour:
"April fool!"
Then, having dried these words of wisdom, she placed the sheet of notepaper in the envelope and gummed it. Then, getting down from the chair, she ran to the window to see that nobody was coming, and, assured of the fact, ran to the writing-table and stole a stamp from the drawer in which they were kept. Having stamped the latter, she placed this torpedo in her pocket, and, running out, called for Norah to get herhat and coat, as she wanted to go out on the Downs.
Every day at this hour Miss Grimshaw was in the habit of going for a walk and taking Effie with her. To-day, returning from looking at the horses, she found, to her surprise, Effie dressed and waiting.
"Which way shall we go?" asked Miss Grimshaw.
"Let's go through the village," said Effie. "I like the village."
It was a moist day, damp and warm, with just the faintest threat of rain. It was the last day of the season for the West Sussex hounds. They had met at Rookhurst, some seven miles away, and there was a chance of getting a glimpse of them.
As they passed the spot where, on Saturday, Miss Grimshaw had plucked the primrose and placed it in Mr. Dashwood's coat, she noticed that several more were out.
"I say," said Effie, as though she were a thought reader, "why did Mr. Dashwood go 'way Saturday?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the girl with a start. "What makes you ask?"
"I don't know," replied Effie.
Miss Grimshaw glanced sideways at her companion. Effie had lost considerably the elfish look that had been a striking feature in the child during her long, imaginary illness, but she had not lost it entirely. There was still something old-fashioned and vaguely uncanny about her at times, and she had, without doubt, now and then, the trick of saying things so opposite as to hint at a more than natural intelligence. Parrots have this peculiarity, too.
"If I tell you something," said Effie suddenly, "you won't tell it to anyone else, will you?"
"No."
"Say, ''Pon my honour.'"
"'Pon my honour."
"Well, I heard something."
"What did you hear?"
"I heard Mr. Dashwood saying he was an ass."
"Effie," said Miss Grimshaw hurriedly, "you must never repeat things you hear."
"There you go!" said Effie. "And you told me to."
"I didn't."
"You did. You said, 'What did you hear?'"
"Yes, but I did not know it was anything that Mr. Dashwood said."
"Why shouldn't I tell you what he said?"
"Oh, you can tell if you like. It doesn't matter to me. Where did you hear him say it?"
"In his bedroom, when he was packing his bag. Papa was with him; the door was open, and I heard him say it; and I heard papa say there was never a girl made but there wasn't a better girl made to match her, and that Mr. Dashwood wasn't to bother himself——"
"You needn't tell me any more."
"I can't, for Norah came, and I ran away."
"Where were you?"
"Listening at the door."
"Well, you certainly are frank!"
"What's that mean?" asked Effie.
"It means that you deserve a whipping. Come on. And, see here, Effie, you mustn't say anything about that to anyone. Have you told anyone else?"
"Only Norah."
"What did she say?"
"She only laughed."
Miss Grimshaw felt as though she were walking through a veil of blushes. Happily there was no one to see. Bobby Dashwood's extraordinary behaviour by the bridge was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fact that he had told about it to Mr. French. To kiss, to run away, to tell! She knew nothing of the position of the two men towards one another; she only knew just what had occurred on the bridge, and what Effie had told her.
The uphill path to the village went between a double row of poplar trees and debouched on the Roman road just by the village pump.
"Are you going to the post-office?" asked Effie as they drew near the road.
"No. I haven't anything to do there."
"I heard papa say he wanted some postcards."
"Well, I've forgotten my purse, so I must get them to-morrow."
"Couldn't you put them down in the bill?"
"No. Post-offices don't give credit."
Effie hung lovingly on her companion's arm. They passed into the village street and, just as they made the turning, the thin, insignificant sound of a hunting horn came on the wind.
"There's the hounds," said Effie, and scarcely hadshe spoken the words than, topping the crest of the hill, came the scarlet-clad figures of the master and whips, the hounds, and after the hounds the hunt.
The fox had run to earth in Blankney woods, and they were going now to draw Fairholt's spinney.
"Come on," said Effie.
The child made a bolt across the road, and so swiftly that Miss Grimshaw had no time to follow. Hounds and horses blocked the road, but not so densely as to prevent her from seeing Effie run to the post-office letter-box and pop something in. When the press had gone by, and the road was clear, Miss Grimshaw crossed.
"What was that you put in the letter-box, Effie?"
"Nothing," said Effie with a laugh.
"Don't say that. I saw you putting something in. Was it a stone?"
"No," said Effie. "It wasn't a stone."
"You know what they do to children who put rubbish in letter-boxes?"
"No."
"They put them in prison."
"Well, they won't put me in prison."
"Yes, they will. And if you don't tell me what it was, I will go in and ask Mr. Chopping to open the box and then send for a policeman."
Effie, who had heard her elders ridiculing and vilifying Mr. Giveen for the past three months, had thought it a fine thing to play a joke of her very own upon him. She knew nothing of the disastrous nature of her act, but suddenly interrupted like this and put off herbalance she did not want to confess it. Besides, she had stolen a postage stamp.
"Don't," said Effie, turning very pale.
"I will, if you don't tell."
"Well, it was only a letter."
"A letter?"
"Yes."
"Who gave it you to post?"
The suggestion created the lie.
"Papa."
"Well, if he gave you it, why did you hide it and post it secretly like that?"
"Pa told me not to let you see it," said Effie.
She was not a liar by nature, but children have streaky days in their moral life, just as men have, and to-day was a very streaky day with Effie. She had awakened that morning predisposed to frowardness; a slight bilious attack had made her fretful, and fretfulness always made her impish. The devil, taking advantage of this pathological condition, had incited her to make an April fool of Mr. Giveen, to steal, and to lie.
"Oh!" said Miss Grimshaw.
They walked away from the post-office, taking the downhill road to the bridge. They walked hurriedly; at least, the girl did—Effie had almost to trot in order to keep up with her.
A nice thing, truly. Here, for months, she had been working for the interests of a man who to-day had taken a child into his confidence, given it a letter to post, and instructions to keep the matter hidden fromher. Worse than that, she had a dim suspicion that the letter was to Mr. Dashwood, and had to deal with that "affair."
She had taken the road to the bridge unconsciously, and when she reached it, and found herself at the very place where the affair had occurred, she could have wept from sheer mortification, only for the presence of the culprit at her side.
"Don't tell your father that you told me that, Effie," said Miss Grimshaw, after she had leaned for a moment on the parapet of the bridge, deep in troubled thought.
"No," said Effie, "I won't."
Miss Grimshaw resumed her meditations, and Effie, very quiet and strangely subdued, hung beside her, looking also at the river.
Even in the time of the Roman legionaries lovers had haunted this place. What a story it could have told of lovers and love affairs gone to dust! But from all its wealth of stories, I doubt if it could have matched in involution and cross-purpose the love affair in which figured Mr. French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl in the Homburg hat, who was now gazing at the wimpling water and listening to the moist wind in the branches of the trees.
She was of the order of people who forgive a blow struck in anger readily, but not a slight, or a fancied slight. French had slighted her, and she would never forgive him. She had helped him, plotted and planned for him, and it had all ended in this!
There was nothing for it but to leave The Martensas quickly as might be, and return to London; and it was only now that she recognised, fully shown up against the background of her resentment, the pleasant ties and interests that bound her to these people, ties and interests that would have to be broken and dissolved. So, in a fever of irritation, she told herself as she leaned on the low parapet and looked at the river, while Effie broke pieces of mortar from the cracks between the stones.
What, perhaps, rankled deepest in her heart was the expression used by French and repeated by Effie. "There is never a girl but you'll find a better one to match her"—or words to that effect.
Dinner at The Martens was a mid-day function. At half-past one, when Mr. French came home from a walk over the high Downs, he found dinner waiting for him. Miss Grimshaw during the meal seemed to be suffering from a dumbness affecting not only her speech, but her manner; her movements were still and formal, and inexpressive, and she never once looked in his direction, but engaged herself entirely with Effie, who also had a wilted air and appearance.
At tea it was the same.
After tea, Mr. French lit a cigar and went out on the verandah to smoke.
He could not make it out at all. Something had happened in the space of a few hours to make all this difference in the girl. What could that something be? At eleven o'clock she had been all right, yet at half-past one she was a different person.
He was not a man to keep up a misunderstandingwithout knowing the reason of it, and, having smoked his cigar half through, he went back into the house and to the sitting-room, where the girl was curled up on the sofa, reading "Punch."
"Look here," said French, "what's the matter?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Miss Grimshaw, uncurling herself and sitting half erect.
"What's the matter? Something is wrong. Have I done anything, or what is it?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Nothing is the matter that I am aware of, specially."
"Well, now, see here," said Mr. French, taking a seat close by, "I thought, maybe, you seemed so silent, that something had gone wrong, or I'd done something that displeased you. If I have, just let me know it."
Miss Grimshaw had risen erect, and now she was making for the door.
"I don't know what you call wrong. I call subterfuge wrong. Perhaps I am mistaken. It's all a matter of opinion, I suppose—but, anyhow, it is not worth discussing."
Then she was gone, leaving the astonished Mr. French to amuse himself with the problem of how he had employed subterfuge, and against whom.
She did not appear at supper, alleging a headache.
She went to bed at nine.
Towards midnight, Miss Grimshaw was awakened from her slumbers by a sound as of some person weeping and wailing. She sat up in bed and listened. It was Effie's voice, and she heard her own name called repeatedly.
"Miss Grimshaw! Miss Grimshaw! Miss Grimshaw!"
In a moment she was out of bed and wrapped in a dressing-gown. The next, she was in Effie's room.
The child was sitting up in bed in the moonlight. Her subliminal mind had constructed a nightmare out of a gallows, a guilty conscience, and a stolen postage-stamp.
"I took it out of the drawer of the writing-desk. I didn't mean it. I did it for fun," cried Effie, her face buried in the girl's shoulder. "And I dreamt. Ow! Ow!"
"What on earth's the matter?"
It was Mr. French, in a dressing-gown, with a lighted candle in his hand.
You cannot weep and wail in a pitch-pine bungalow, resonant as a fiddle, without disturbing the other occupants, and behind Mr. French moved figures dimly suggestive of the chorus of the Greek drama waiting to come on.
"I don't know what the matter is," said MissGrimshaw, her mind divided between Effie and a feeling of thankfulness that she had her slippers on. "She seems to have taken a postage stamp or some nonsense. It's night terror. Now, Effie, don't stop crying if you feel you want to, but just tell me it all. Once you have told me it all, the bad things will go away."
"I stuck it on the letter," sobbed Effie, who had passed from the howling to the blubbering stage, "an' I stuck the letter in the box; and I dreamt Mr. Chopping and the p'leeceman were going to hang me."
"Well, they aren't. Mr. Chopping and the policeman are in bed. So it was a letter? And how about the letter your father gave you to post?"
"I never gave her a letter," put in Mr. French.
"I only made it up," said Effie. "Father never gave me anything. It was only my letter to Cousin Dick."
"Your what?" said French, who had taken his seat on the end of the bed, and was now holding the flat candlestick so that the candle-light showed up Effie with Rembrandtesque effect.
"I wrote to make an April fool of him."
"What did you say?" asked French; and there was a tension in his voice unperceived by his daughter, but very evident to Miss Grimshaw, and even to Norah and Mrs. Driscoll, who were listening outside.
"I only said 'April fool,'" replied Effie, who had passed now into the sniffling stage, a wan smile lighting up her countenance.
"Did you put any address on the paper?"
"No. You remember, when I wrote to him last yearon the 1st of April, and you said I ought to put 'April ass'? Well, I put 'April fool' just the same as then."
"He'll know her writing," groaned French, speaking aloud, yet to himself. Then, as if fearing to trust himself to speak to the child, he turned and told the servants in the passage to be gone to their beds.
"Come with me," he said to Miss Grimshaw, when Effie had at last lain down, eased of her sin and its terrors, "come into the sitting-room."
They went into the sitting-room, and Mr. French put his candle on the table.
"Here's a kettle of fish," said he.
"She put no address on the paper," said Miss Grimshaw, "but——"
"The post-mark."
"Yes, the post-mark. I was thinking of that. There is one comfort, however; the post-mark may be illegible. You know how difficult it is to read a post-mark very often."
"Listen to me," said French, with dramatic emphasis. "This post-mark won't be illegible; it will be as plain as Nelson's pillar. I know it, for it's just this sort of thing that happens in life, and happens to me. The letter won't get lost; if the mail packet was to sink, a shark would rout it out from the mail-bags and swallow it, and get caught, and be cut open, and the letter would go on by next mail. We're done."
"Don't lose heart."
"We're done. I know it. And to think, after all our plotting and planning, that a child's tomfoolerywould come, after all, to ruin me. I could skin her alive when I think of it."
He stopped suddenly and turned. A little white figure stood at the door. It was Effie. Seized with an overwhelming spirit of righteousness, hearing her father's voice colloguing, and touched with desire for adventure and a kiss, she had bundled out of bed and run into the sitting-room.
"I want a kiss," said Effie.
The next moment she was in her father's arms, and he was kissing her as though she had brought him a fortune, instead of ruin.
The next moment she was gone, seeking her warm bed rapidly, and as the sound of her pattering feet died away the girl turned to French, her eyes filled with tears.
"We aren't done," said she, speaking rapidly and with vehemence. "We'll get the better of them yet. We'll do something, and we have time to prepare our defence against them, for the letter won't reach Cloyne till the day after to-morrow."
"If they manage to do me in this," said French, "I'll shoot Garryowen with my own hand, and I'll hang for Dick Giveen, by heavens!"
"Hush! There is no use in giving way to anger. We must have a council of war, and collect all our forces. I say——"
"Yes?"
"Mr. Dashwood——"
The girl paused for a moment, then, as if thedesperate nature of the situation made everything else of small account, she went on:
"Mr. Dashwood behaved very foolishly the other day, and ran away off to town. We must send him a wire to-morrow morning to come at once. I'll send it. And look here. You know how grumpy I was after tea. Well, Effie, in that fit of lying, told me you had given her a letter to post which she was to hide from me. Of course, I ought to have known you wouldn't do anything of the sort. I apologise. Goodnight."
They had been talking to each other attired only in their dressing-gowns and slippers. If Crowsnest society could have seen them, its doors would have been shut against them from that night forth for evermore.
Mr. Dashwood's chambers in the Albany were furnished according to the taste of that gentleman, high art giving place in the decorations to the art of physical culture. Some old Rowlandson prints decorated the walls, together with boxing-gloves, singlesticks, and foils; the few books visible were not of the meditative or devotional order of literature, Ruff, Surtees, and Pitcher being the authors most affected by Mr. Dashwood.
He had spent a very miserable Sunday. Having written and posted his letters to Miss Grimshaw and French, he had fallen back on gloomy meditation and tobacco. He had spent Monday in trying to imagine in what manner Miss Grimshaw had taken his letter; he had taken refuge from his thoughts at the Bridge Club, and had risen from play with twelve pounds to the good and feeling that things had taken a turn for the better; and on Tuesday morning, as he was sitting at breakfast, a telegram was brought to him.
"Come at once; most important.—Grimshaw, Crowsnest."
"Come at once; most important.—Grimshaw, Crowsnest."
"French has dropped dead, or the place has caught fire," said Mr. Dashwood, as he sprang from the breakfast-table to the writing-table in the window and opened the pages of the A B C railway guide."Robert, rush out and get a taxicab. I've just time to catch the 11.10 from Victoria. Don't mind packing. I'll pack some things in the kit-bag. Get the cab."
He stuffed some things into the bag, and ten minutes later the cab, which had been brought up to the Vigo-street entrance of the Albany, was taking him to the station.
That some disaster had happened he was certain. Never for a moment did he dream of the truth of things. The vision of French lying dead, Garryowen stricken lame, or The Martens in flames alternated in his mind with attempts to imagine how the girl would meet him, what she would say, and whether she would speak of the occurrence at the bridge.
He had sent a wire from Victoria telling the train by which he was coming, and as they drew in at Crowsnest Station she was the first person he saw upon the platform. As they shook hands, he saw at once that the past was not to be referred to.
"I'm so glad you've come," said the girl. "You have a bag? Well, they'll send it on. We can walk to the house, and I can tell you everything on the way."
"What has happened?"
"Disaster! But it's not so much what has happened as what may happen. Effie——"
"Has she had an accident?"
"No, she hasn't had an accident, but the little stupid posted a letter yesterday morning to Mr. Giveen."
"A letter to him! Who wrote it?"
"She did. She wanted to make an April fool ofhim, so she wrote 'April fool' on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, directed it, and posted it."
"Good heavens! He'll know your address now, and give Lewis warning, and you'll have the bailiffs in, and the house will be seized."
"Exactly."
"But stay a moment," said Dashwood. "Did she put any address on the paper?"
"No. An April fool letter like that isn't generally addressed from anywhere, is it? But the post-mark——"
"I was thinking of that," said Mr. Dashwood.
"The only thing is this," said she. "The post-mark mayn't be legible. Some of these country post-offices use die-stamps that are nearly worn out. Now, can you remember? I have written you several letters since we came here, asking you to bring down things from London. Can you remember whether the post-marks were legible or not?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood. "I can't." Then, blushing furiously, "But we'll soon see."
He dived his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought out a small bundle of letters. There were only four letters in the bundle, and they were tied together with a narrow piece of silk ribbon. When the girl saw the silk ribbon, she bit her lip.
"Look!" said he, slipping the ribbon off and thrusting it into his pocket. He showed her the first of the letters. It bore the Crowsnest post-mark, large as a penny, clear, and legible.
The three others were the same.
He put the letters back in his pocket, and they resumed their way in silence. You would never have imagined that the last time these two people parted the young man had held the girl in his arms, kissing her wildly.
It was the girl who broke silence first.
"Mr. French said last night we were 'done,' and I'm afraid he never spoke a truer word."
"The only thing I can think of," said Mr. Dashwood, "is for me to go over to Ireland and try to talk Giveen over."
"You don't know him. He's a fool, and a vicious fool at that. You can't talk a man like that over."
"Well, we might bribe him."
"Mr. French has no money to bribe him with. All his money is on this race."
"The City and Suburban is run on the 15th," said Mr. Dashwood meditatively, "so we have more than twelve days. Bother! So has this man Lewis. I say, this Giveen must be a beast. What makes him so anxious to have his knife into French?"
"I believe I have something to do with Mr. Giveen having his knife into Mr. French," said Miss Grimshaw. "Didn't Mr. French tell you about the boating affair?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood.
"Well, Mr. Giveen took me out in the boat at Drumgool to see the coast."
"Yes."
"He rowed into a sea cave, the most awful place you have ever seen, and then——"
"Yes?"
"He rocked the boat, pretending he was going to drown me."
"Brute!"
"That's what I said to him. He was laughing all the time, you know. He wanted me to—to——"
"Yes?"
"Give him a kiss. Ugh! And I was so frightened I promised him one if he put me on shore. Well, Mr. French was waiting for us when I got back, and I told him what had happened."
"What did he do?"
"He kicked Mr. Giveen."
"Good!" said Mr. Dashwood. "If I'd been there I'd have drowned him."
"Mr. French wanted to. At least, he wanted to duck him."
"I'll tell you what," said Dashwood. "If this beast comes near Crowsnest, I won't be answerable for what I'll do to him."
"That would be the worst policy in the world," said Miss Grimshaw. "If he comes here we must meet him with his own weapons if we can—but he won't come here."
In this she was wrong.
"I wouldn't mind so much," she finished, "only for this wretched bazaar on the 5th. I have to help at a stall. You can imagine what it must be to keep a straight face and smile at people one doesn't particularly care for, standing all the time, as it were, on a powder magazine. Besides, just imagine, if a man inpossession came down, and if the fact leaks out, how all these Crowsnest society people will snub us and sneer at us! You don't know them. I do."
"There are an awful lot of old cats here," conceded Mr. Dashwood, not knowing what else to say.
"Makes one feel one would like to put out poisoned milk for them," said the girl. "Well, here we are, and there's Mr. French."
They had reached the top of the path, and French, who was standing in the verandah of the bungalow, like a watchman on the look-out for enemies, hailed them.
That night, at a consultation held between these three conspirators against misfortune, it was decided that nothing could be done but wait.
There was no use in attempting to remove Garryowen to another training ground; it would be impossible to do so without being traced; besides, there was no other place available. There was nothing for it but to sit still and wait for the thunderbolt to fall, if it were going to fall.
The bazaar was to take place on the 5th, and as day followed day without disaster appearing in the form of a bailiff, Miss Grimshaw began to recognise that the forthcoming function was a blessing in disguise. It was, at least, a visible and tangible bother, and helped to distract the mind from gloomy speculations.
It was to take place in the school building, and on the 4th, much to the delight of the school children, a holiday was proclaimed. Benches and blackboards were turned out of the big schoolroom, the walls stripped of maps and hung with ivy and flags, and stalls erected.
As money-making was the primary object of the function, things were done as cheaply as possible. Colonel Bingham lent his gardener, the Smith-Jacksons lent the weedy-looking boy who rolled their tennis lawnand cleaned their shoes, Miss Slimon lent her housemaid, and the village carpenter, fuming at heart, but constrained to please his customers, lent his services—for nothing.
Miss Grimshaw was to assist Miss Slimon at the needlework stall. Mr. Dashwood had already lent his services, toiling all day valiantly in his shirt-sleeves, nailing up green stuff on the walls, tacking baize covers on the tables, even carrying baskets of crockery-ware and provisions, and to such good effect that when, at ten o'clock at night, they closed the doors and locked them, everything was in place and ready for the next day's orgy.
"Look here," said Mr. Dashwood as they sat at breakfast next morning; "Giveen got that letter on the 1st, didn't he? Well, if he had been up to any mischief he would have communicated with Lewis at once. I bet my life he would have telephoned to him. Well, this is the 5th. Three days have gone, and nothing has happened."
"What's three days?" said French. "There are ten days before the race, and I can't move the horse to Epsom till the 13th, so that gives them eight days to work in."
"Does Giveen know Lewis' address in London?"
"Faith, I don't know, but he can easily get it from Lewis' bailiff, who must have been down at Drumgool, kicking his heels, a week now."
"What sort of moneylender is this Lewis?"
"What sort? Why, there's only one sort of moneylender, and that's a beast. There's nothing to bedone with Lewis. If he gets my address here, he'll put in a man to seize Garryowen, and I'll be kiboshed. Sure, it's enough to make one want to tear one's hair. The colt's in the pink of condition. Another week, and he'll be perfect. There's nothing that puts hoof to turf will beat him, and to think of him being barred out of the race by a beast of a moneylender and a bum-bailiff is enough to drive one crazy."
"Look here," said Mr. Dashwood, "why not go to Lewis, explain all, and offer him half-profits if the horse wins and he doesn't interfere with its running?"
"Give him half-profits!" shouted French, nearly upsetting his teacup. "I'd cut his throat first!"
"They wouldn't be much use to him after," said Miss Grimshaw, rising from the table. "What time is it now? Ten? Well, shall we go down to the schoolroom, Mr. Dashwood, and see if there is anything more to be done? Effie can come too; it will keep her out of mischief."
It was a glorious spring morning, the herald of a perfect spring day. The hedges were sprinkled with tiny points of green, and the Crowsnest children, free of school, were gathering wild violets and snowdrops and primroses in the woods for bazaar purposes.
The bazaar had its hand upon the countryside for miles round. The church, calling for new choir-stalls, had sent the little children into the woods to pick flowers for sale; the farmers' wives to their dairies to make butter; the farmers' daughters answered the call with crewel-work and pin-cushions; even the cottagers were not behind with gifts. There was something sopleasant in this response from the fields and the hedgerows, as it were, that it made one almost forget the snobbishness, small-mindedness, and pride of the prime movers in the affair.
For the Fantodds, who lived at Mill House, were snobbish, and would rout out trade in your family-tree, even if the disease were hidden deep and forgotten at its roots; and not only rout it out, but sniff and snort over it. Colonel Bingham—I think I called him General before, but we will reduce him, for punishment, to the rank of Colonel—Colonel Bingham was an Army snob; a well-born, kindly, and handsome old gentleman, but still a snob. The Creeps were puffed up with pride; a drunken baronet who had married a cousin of Colonel Creeps acted in this family just as a grain of soda acts in a mass of dough, leavening the lump. The Smith-Jacksons, the Dorian-Grays (most unfortunate name, assumed in the seventies), the Prosser-Joneses all suffered from this perfectly superfluous disease.
The schoolroom, when they reached it, was having a last finishing touch put to the decorations by Miss Slimon; so, finding nothing to do, they returned to The Martens.
They were in that condition of mind that, going even for a short walk, dread would be ever present in their minds that on returning to the house they would find Garryowen "seized" and a bailiff sitting in the kitchen. This dread, which had something of pleasant excitement about it, this ever-present fear of danger, had drawn French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl together again in a family party, a corporate body.Love, though he hovered over them, could not divide or disunite them till the adventure they were bound together in was completed.
They were united against a common enemy, so united that, by a process of telepathy, gloom affecting one would affect the rest: hilarity likewise. To-day at luncheon they were hilarious, as an offset to their gloominess at breakfast. A bottle of Pommery assisted their spirits; they drank confusion to Lewis and benightment to Mr. Giveen. They were fey.
The bazaar was to be declared open at half-past two by Mrs. Bingham, and at half-past two a long line of carriages stood in the roadway outside the red-brick school-house; the place inside was hot and stuffy, crammed with the élite of Crowsnest and smelling of glue, raw pine boards, and coffee. A huge coffee urn, with steam up, at the refreshment stall, spoke of the rustics who would invade the place at three o'clock, when the price of admission was to be lowered to sixpence, and answered with a cynical hissing the announcement of Mrs. Bingham that the bazaar was now open, and the little speech which that excellent lady had been preparing for three days and rehearsing all the morning.
Miss Grimshaw, whose place was at the fancy-work stall, and whose duty it was to assist Miss Slimon in the most nefarious, if undisguised, robbery of customers, found time in the midst of her duties to take in the doings of her neighbours. Bobby Dashwood was much in evidence, buying nothing, but officiating as an unsolicited and highly successful salesman,flirting with mature spinster stallholders, and seeming to enjoy his position immensely.
Miss Grimshaw noted with a touch of regret this flaw in his character, but she had not time to dwell upon it. The six-penny barrier was now down, and the place that had been full before was now all but packed. Farmers and their wives and daughters, cottagers, and humble folk permeated the crowd. Every now and then the throb of a motor-car coming to rest announced some fresh arrival from a distance. Mr. French was not there. He had said that he might look in later in the afternoon, but he had not yet arrived. It was now four o'clock, and the girl, half-dazed by the stuffy air of the place, the buzz of tongues, and the endeavour to make correct changes, was resting for a moment on a ledge of the stall, when a voice brought her to her senses and made her start to her feet.
"No, thank you, I don't want dolls," said the voice. "Sure, what would I be doing with dolls at my age? No, thank you, I don't smoke, and if I did I wouldn't do it in a smoking-cap. No, thanks; I just looked in to see what was going on. I'm strange to the place. I've only left Ireland the day before yesterday, and it's half moidthered I am still with me journey."
As a gazelle by the banks of the Zambesi starts from her couch of leaves at the voice of the leopard, so Miss Grimshaw, at the sound of this voice started from the ledge of the fancy-work stall and looked wildly round her.
In the crowd, beset by two ardent spinsters, onearmed with a smoking-cap and the other with a Teddy bear, she saw a bubble-faced gentleman in grey tweeds. Almost with the same sweep of the eye she caught a glimpse of Bobby Dashwood at the bran-pie corner. The wretched Bobby, in his glory was standing on a tub inviting speculators to take a dip. Next moment she had reached him, plucked him by the sleeve and was leading him to the door. She did not speak till they were in the porch, which was deserted.
"Bobby—Mr. Dashwood—he's here!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Giveen."
"Good heavens!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Giveen!"
"Yes. They're trying to sell him dolls. Quick, we haven't a moment to waste. He doesn't know you, does he?"
"No. He never came to Drumgool when I was there."
"Get close to him, get to speak to him. Don't lose sight of him. Pump him. Oh, use your—your intellect now! I don't know what you can do, but try to get hold of his plans."
"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood. "I'll do my best."
"Well, go at once. I'll follow you back. If you get to talk with him much, pretend you're an enemy of Mr. French's. He's in grey tweeds, with an Irish voice. You can't mistake him."
"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood.
Next moment, he was in the midst of the swelteringmob, boring his way diligently through it, his eyes and ears on the alert for the sight of the grey tweeds and the sound of the Irish voice.
It was at the refreshment stall that he found his prey.
Mr. Giveen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a bun in the other, was talking to Miss Smith-Jackson, who was replying in icy monosyllables.
"Faith, and the country about here is very different from the country I come from. You don't know where that is, do you? Do you, now? Well, I'll tell ye; it's the country of pretty girls and good whisky. Not that I ever drink it. What are you smilin' at? I give you me oath, a sup of whisky hasn't passed me lips these twenty years."
"One and six, please," replied Miss Smith-Jackson, in still icier monosyllables.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Giveen, who had swallowed his bun and was now "saucering" his tea, Anglice drinking it, for coolness, out of the saucer.
"One and six, please."
"And for what, if you please? Do you mane to tell me you're going to charge me one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?"
"Our charge is one and sixpence."
"May I never swallow bite or sup again if this isn't the biggest 'do' I ever came across! And I paying sixpence at the door to get in, and they told me, when I asked them, the refreshments were free. I won't pay it."
"Then please take it as a gift."
"A gift!" cried Mr. Giveen. "When did ever a Giveen take food and drink as a gift? Is it a tramp you're takin' me for? Here's sixpence, and that's tuppence too much, but you can keep the change."
"Colonel Bingham!" said Miss Smith-Jackson, perfectly unmoved.
The Colonel, who had overheard the end of Mr. Giveen's remarks, came to the table.
"Now, sir," said Colonel Bingham, "what's the trouble?"
"Trouble! Here's sixpence—a fair price for what I've had. One and sixpence, she asked me—one and sixpence for a cup of tea and a bun!"
Mr. Giveen, who had never been to a bazaar in his life, and who, justly enough, felt outraged, held out his sixpence, this time to Colonel Bingham.
Colonel Bingham looked from the sixpence to Mr. Giveen, and from Mr. Giveen to the sixpence.
"I think, sir," said Colonel Bingham, "you have mistaken the place where you are. If you will kindly step outside with me, I will point you out the way to the village inn, and your admission fee will be returned to you at the door."
It was at this moment that Mr. Dashwood struck in. The crowd immediately in their vicinity had stepped back slightly, making a small arena, as people do around a street accident or a dog-fight. In the middle of this arena stood the outraged Mr. Giveen, facing the Colonel. A moment more, and who knows what might have happened only for the intervention of Bobby?
"Excuse me," said Bobby, addressing the Colonel, "but this gentleman is Irish and unacquainted with our customs. The whole of this, I believe, is a mistake, and if he will step outside with me, I will explain everything to him. I am sure that, as an Irish gentleman, he will agree with me that little affairs about money are better settled in private."
"Now, that's common sense," said the gentleman from Ireland. "I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, but I place me honour in your hands."
"Come on, then," said Mr. Dashwood, and, taking the other by the arm, he led the way through the crowd towards the door.
"Now we're all right," said he, when they found themselves in the open air. "I say, you're well out of it, and I wouldn't go back if I were you. Do you mean to tell me they wanted to rook you of one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?"
"They did that," replied the other, with a chuckle. "They thought they'd caught an omadhaun asleep; but, faith, they thought wrong!"
"You were too sharp for them," said Mr. Dashwood. "I saw you come in. I'm down here for the day, and I just dropped into the place; then I heard you talking to the girl behind the stall, and chaffing her, and telling her you were Irish; then I heard the row and came to your assistance. I like Irish people. Are you staying here?"
"No," said Mr. Giveen. "I just came down for the day. Do you live here?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood. "I just came down forthe day. I live in London. But I'm jolly glad to have met you; it's a relief to come across a genuine Irishman with some wit in him. I say, I'm jolly glad you put that girl in her place. She's a cheeky beast. Come along into the inn and have a drink."
They had been walking towards the inn, and Mr. Dashwood, taking his companion's arm, guided him, nothing loth, through the entrance and into the bar-parlour.
"Now we're all right," said Bobby, taking his seat and rapping on the counter with a half-sovereign. "Cock yourself up on that stool. What'll you have?"
"Thanks, I'll have a stone gingerbeer and a biscuit, if it's all the same to you."
"A whisky and soda, a stone gingerbeer, and some biscuits, please, Mrs. Stonnor." Then, while the landlady was serving them, "You are staying in London, I think you told me?"
"Yes," said Mr. Giveen. "I'm on a little holiday, and I just ran down here to-day to see the country. Do you know the country round about here?"
"Rather!"
"And the people?"
"Most of them."
"Now, look here," said Mr. Giveen. "Do you happen to know any one of the name of French that's staying in the neighbourhood?"
"Michael French, do you mean?"
"That's him."
"Oh, good heavens! I should think I did. An awful chap. I had a row with him."
"Did you, now? So you had a row with him? Faith, he's always rowing with people, and it's my belief he'll do it once too often."
"Do you know him?" said Bobby, who in his few minutes' knowledge of Mr. Giveen had taken a hearty and whole-souled dislike to him that amounted almost to a hatred.
"Know him!" said Mr. Giveen. "None better. I just came down to ask after him, but since I've met you, you can tell me all I want to know."
"Delighted, I'm sure."
"He's got some horses down here?"
"Yes, so I believe."
"And he's got his little daughter and the governess with him?"
"Yes, I believe he has a child and a young lady is staying with him, a Miss—Grim—something."
"Grimshaw."
"That's it—Grimshaw."
"That's all I want to know," said Mr. Giveen, and there was a satisfied malignity in his tone which, combined with the soft stupidity of his manner and face, made Mr. Dashwood think of reptiles and those jellyfish that blister and sting.
A mad desire to kick Mr. Giveen off the high stool he was perched on was overcome by a tremendous effort. The young man recognised that the whole of French's fortune and future was in his hands, and that it all depended on how he played his game whether this noxious, soft, and venomous enemy was to be frustrated in his plans or not.
Bobby, at the moment, had no plans, but he had thisadvantage—he knew Giveen's game, and Giveen did not know his.
"The row I had with French," said the artful Bobby, "showed me what the man was. I was up on the Downs one day when he was exercising his beastly horses, and he asked me what I was doing there. What I was doing there! As if the Downs belonged to him! And I told him to go and hang himself, and—as a matter of fact, he threatened to kick me."
"Yes," said Mr. Giveen, "he's great at kicking, is Michael. But he'll kick once too often one of these days."
He rubbed his hands together softly and chuckled to himself.
"He will," said Bobby. "I'd give anything to get even with him and pay him back. I say, what brought you into that bazaar place?"
"What brought me in?" said Giveen. "Why, what else but a girl?"
"A girl?"
"Faith, the prettiest girl I ever saw. I was coming along the street here, looking for someone to ask them where French lived, when a motor-car stopped at that red-brick place, and out of a motor-car steps a girl with a face like a tea-rose. The instant her eye lit on me she smiles. Now, when a girl smiles at a fellow like that, what does it mean?"
"That she's fallen in love with you, of course," replied Mr. Dashwood, looking at the face and figure of his companion as one looks at a Toby jug on a Hogarth print, allured yet repelled by its grotesqueness.
"Well," went on Mr. Giveen, "what does a fellow do when a girl looks at him like that but follow her? So in I went, and a chap at the door stops me. 'Sixpence,' says he. 'What for?' says I. 'To go into the bazaar,' says he. 'What are they doin' there?' says I. 'Selling things,' says he. 'I want a cup of tea,' says I, 'but I'm not goin' to pay sixpence to go in and get it.' 'Oh,' he says, 'they give refreshment away for nothing to such as you.' So in I went."