Chapter Five
Twodays later, Bill Patch and Mrs. Fazackerly came to consult us about their joint production.
“It isn’t a play,” Captain Patch said, his red hair standing up on end. “Whatever Mrs. Kendal may think about it, I cannot write a play. But we’ve strung something together, more or less—mostly a few songs.”
“We thought you’d know more about it than anybody else and would advise us,” said Nancy Fazackerly prettily.
“Even Mrs. Kendal has never suggested thatIcould write a play, my dear.”
“But I’ve sometimes wondered whetherIoughtn’t to have gone in for writing,” said Claire. “Only I haven’t had the time.”
“It’s more about the performers than the actual play that we want advice,” explained Captain Patch. “Though even that isn’t going to be all plain sailing. General Kendal—”
“Most kindly,” said Nancy Fazackerly.
“Most kindly,” Bill repeated, in a worried, obedient sort of way, “most kindly turned up last night with a pair of Hessian boots.”
“Hessian boots?”
“He thought they’d make such a good stage property and that we ought to write something that would make use of them. He really was most awfully keen, poor old fellow, and of course it isn’t a bad idea, in its way. Hessian boots, you know—you don’t see them nowadays.”
To this we assented.
“One could do something with a uniform, and the boots would give a finish, as it were,” Mrs. Fazackerly suggested.
“Hessian boots, and a belt, and a busby, would give the idea of a Russian, I thought,” Bill Patch explained. “And we thought of doing something with that old song, ‘The Bulbul Ameer.’ You could make quite a lot out of it, and it would be much easier to dress up to that sort of thing than to a regular play. You remember the song I mean?”
“I brought it with me,” said Mrs. Fazackerly. And then and there she read it aloud to us, in her pleasant, rather pathetic voice.
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,And quite unaccustomed to fear;—But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.When they wanted a man to encourage the van,Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear—Or to storm a redoubt, they straightaway sent outFor Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fameIn the ranks that are led by the Czar;But among the most reckless of name or of fameWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool,And perform on the Spanish guitar;In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite teamWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gunAnd put on his most cynical sneer,When, going down town, he happened to runInto Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.Said the Bulbul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dullThat you’re anxious to end your career?For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toeOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the endWill only prove futile, I fear;For I mean to imply that you’re going to die,Mr. Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’The Bulbul then drew out his trusty chibouque,And, shouting out, ‘Allah Akbar,’Being also intent upon slaughter, he wentFor Ivan Petruski Skivah.“When, just as the knife was ending his life—In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’—He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck,Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.There’s a grave where the wave of the Blue Danube flows,And on it, engraven so clear,Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soulOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keepBy the light of the true lover’s star,The name she so tenderly murmurs in sleepIs ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’The sons of the Prophet are hardy and boldAnd quite unaccustomed to fear;But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.”
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,And quite unaccustomed to fear;—But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.When they wanted a man to encourage the van,Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear—Or to storm a redoubt, they straightaway sent outFor Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fameIn the ranks that are led by the Czar;But among the most reckless of name or of fameWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool,And perform on the Spanish guitar;In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite teamWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gunAnd put on his most cynical sneer,When, going down town, he happened to runInto Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.Said the Bulbul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dullThat you’re anxious to end your career?For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toeOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the endWill only prove futile, I fear;For I mean to imply that you’re going to die,Mr. Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’The Bulbul then drew out his trusty chibouque,And, shouting out, ‘Allah Akbar,’Being also intent upon slaughter, he wentFor Ivan Petruski Skivah.“When, just as the knife was ending his life—In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’—He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck,Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.There’s a grave where the wave of the Blue Danube flows,And on it, engraven so clear,Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soulOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keepBy the light of the true lover’s star,The name she so tenderly murmurs in sleepIs ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’The sons of the Prophet are hardy and boldAnd quite unaccustomed to fear;But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.”
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,And quite unaccustomed to fear;—But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.When they wanted a man to encourage the van,Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear—Or to storm a redoubt, they straightaway sent outFor Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
“The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,
And quite unaccustomed to fear;—
But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,
Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
When they wanted a man to encourage the van,
Or to shout ‘hull-a-loo’ in the rear—
Or to storm a redoubt, they straightaway sent out
For Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fameIn the ranks that are led by the Czar;But among the most reckless of name or of fameWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool,And perform on the Spanish guitar;In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite teamWas Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“There are heroes in plenty and well-known to fame
In the ranks that are led by the Czar;
But among the most reckless of name or of fame
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
He could imitate Irving, play euchre or pool,
And perform on the Spanish guitar;
In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gunAnd put on his most cynical sneer,When, going down town, he happened to runInto Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.Said the Bulbul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dullThat you’re anxious to end your career?For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toeOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“One morning the Russian had shouldered his gun
And put on his most cynical sneer,
When, going down town, he happened to run
Into Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.
Said the Bulbul, ‘Young man, is your life then so dull
That you’re anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know that you’ve trod on the toe
Of Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the endWill only prove futile, I fear;For I mean to imply that you’re going to die,Mr. Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’The Bulbul then drew out his trusty chibouque,And, shouting out, ‘Allah Akbar,’Being also intent upon slaughter, he wentFor Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“Said the Russian, ‘My friend, your remarks in the end
Will only prove futile, I fear;
For I mean to imply that you’re going to die,
Mr. Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
The Bulbul then drew out his trusty chibouque,
And, shouting out, ‘Allah Akbar,’
Being also intent upon slaughter, he went
For Ivan Petruski Skivah.
“When, just as the knife was ending his life—In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’—He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck,Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.There’s a grave where the wave of the Blue Danube flows,And on it, engraven so clear,Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soulOf Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“When, just as the knife was ending his life—
In fact, he had shouted ‘Huzza!’—
He found himself struck by that subtle calmuck,
Bold Ivan Petruski Skivah.
There’s a grave where the wave of the Blue Danube flows,
And on it, engraven so clear,
Is, ‘Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.’
“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keepBy the light of the true lover’s star,The name she so tenderly murmurs in sleepIs ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’The sons of the Prophet are hardy and boldAnd quite unaccustomed to fear;But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.”
“Where the Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keep
By the light of the true lover’s star,
The name she so tenderly murmurs in sleep
Is ‘Ivan Petruski Skivah.’
The sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear;
But, of all, the most reckless of life or of limb,
Was Abdul, the Bulbul Ameer.”
“It’s not a bad tune,” said Captain Patch. “You see, someone comes on and sings the whole thing straight off—just to put the audience in touch with the general hang of affairs—and then, I thought, we’d act it. This fellow Abdul, you know, full of swagger—dressed up like a Turk—nothing easier than to dress like a Turk, on the stage—a towel twisted round your head, and shoes turning up at the toes, and a bill-hook or something for a scimitar, and everyone tumbles to it directly. Well, Abdul could get quite a lot of laughs by putting on tremendous side and all that sort of thing. Then the Russian chap—or we could justcall him Slavonic, if you think Russians are rather a slump in the market just now—of course he’s in love with Abdul’s girl, the Muscovite maiden. He’d have to be the hero of the piece—Ivan Petruski Skivah—flourishing about with a sword and that kind of thing—and in uniform—”
“The Hessian boots?”
“Exactly. The Hessian boots. A note of realism introduced at once—”
“And what about the Muscovite maiden?” said Claire.
“She’ll sing duets with Ivan Petruski, of course, and she’s easy to dress, too. A veil over her head, and slave-bangles, and perhaps a Yashmak. An eastern get-up is always effective, and so very economical to arrange,” said Mrs. Fazackerly with satisfaction.
“We’re going to put in extra parts as well—chorus of Eastern maidens, and Cossacks, and things like that. But those are the principals.”
“And how have you cast it?” I inquired.
“Sallie must be the Muscovite maiden. She’ll look sweet,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, “and she can sing, too.”
“Will Major Ambrey take on the Bulbul Ameer?” Captain Patch asked.
Christopher was not present. We were both positive that he would refuse the suggested honor, and weknew well, moreover, that Christopher is no musician. I have heard him sing in church.
“You’ll have to do it yourself, Captain Patch,” said Claire. “How about the Hessian boots?”
“We thought of Martyn. And someone will be wanted to sing the song itself, as a kind of prologue, before the curtain goes up,” said Mrs. Fazackerly.
I remember that she looked as much pleased and excited over their plans as a child over a party.
“You see, that song is meant to be a sort of recurringmotifthroughout the whole show,” Bill said. “When we’re at rather a loose end, someone can play the refrain or sing it, and it will buck things up at once. It’s extraordinary how pleased an audience always is with anything that’s repeated often enough. They know where they are, I suppose, when they recognize an old friend. And at the end, we can all stand in a row across the stage and sing the chorus together. You know the kind of thing—just to bring down the curtain.”
He looked just as much pleased and excited as Nancy Fazackerly did. They were like two very nice children.
“It sounds all right,” I said. “I take it that we really want to do the acting among ourselves, as muchas possible, and entertain the rest of the people and then all wind up with a dance.”
“Exactly,” said Claire.
“The only outside talent, as far as one can see at present, will be Mrs. Harter,” said Bill Patch—and he was genuinely quite unconcerned about it, too.
But I saw that Nancy Fazackerly knew well enough that Claire wasn’t going to stand forthat.
“Mrs. Harter?”
There was more than one note of interrogation in Claire’s way of saying it—quite three or four.
“You remember how rippingly she sang ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’ the other night?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
“We thought of her, for the ‘Bulbul Ameer’ song at the beginning because one really does want someone who’ll pronounce all the words distinctly. And she’s got a good ‘carrying’ voice, if ever I heard one.”
“I daresay,” said Claire distantly.
Bill Patch looked from one to another of us, and I remembered how, the first time I saw him, he had reminded me of a Clumber spaniel—so young, and awkward, and eager—and now, evidently, so much puzzled as well.
“Her voice really is a very good one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly pleadingly. “And I’m rather sorry for her,do you know. After all, in Egypt she must have had a very amusing time and known heaps of people—and now to come back to Cross Loman—”
“Where she came from!” ejaculated Claire.
“I know—but that makes it harder, in a way. She’s outgrown the people whom she saw most of when she was Diamond Ellison—and after all, she wasn’t so very much more than a schoolgirl when she married and went away. I think she feels a little bit stranded sometimes.”
“Where is Mr. Harter—and what is he?” Claire demanded.
“He is a solicitor—and he’s still in the East, but he may come home this summer. I don’t think the marriage is a very happy one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, looking down.
I fancy that to all of us there then came a momentary vision of crockery, propelled violently through space, after the reckless habit that report had imputed to Mrs. Fazackerly’s excitable partner.
“It would be so very kind of you, Lady Flower, to say that we may ask her to help with the show,” said Nancy, raising her pretty eyes to Claire’s face, and speaking with her habitual flattering deference. “You see, if once you gave a lead, Mrs. Harter wouldn’t feel out of things any more.”
“And,” said Captain Patch, not quite so diplomatically, “it would be such a shame to waste that beautiful voice.”
“Who is going to play your accompaniments—or do you rise to an orchestra?” I interrupted.
“I can play the accompaniments,” said Mrs. Fazackerly radiantly. “It’s all I’m good for. I have no voice and I can’t act. Which reminds me that some of the Kendals really ought to be asked to take part, oughtn’t they, after General Kendal has so very kindly provided those boots?”
“Perhaps Alfred and two of the girls might do something in the chorus without damaging it.”
“We must go and find out. And—what about Mrs. Harter?”
Claire shrugged her shoulders.
“I think it’s rather a mistake to ask her, myself. But please do exactly as you like about it. If her voice is essential, then I suppose she must be asked.”
“Now, what about the stage itself?”
Nancy Fazackerly was quite wise enough not to press the question of Mrs. Harter any further, and they went off into a discussion as to the structure and position of the stage.
I asked Claire afterwards if she really objected verymuch to letting old Ellison’s daughter take part in the performance.
“She won’t expect to be asked here afterwards, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“How do you know she won’t? I thought that she looked like a pushing sort of woman, and common.”
“Do you remember how they did those portraits of her in Sallie’s game the other day?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It struck me as odd that they’d all thought enough about her to find it worth while—although not one of them knows her in the least intimately.”
“As I said at the time, Miles, she has personality. I suppose I have personality myself. It’s an indefinable sort of thing.”
We left it at that.
Mrs. Fazackerly and Captain Patch were to have a week in which to prepare their program, and after that there was to be a general assembly of the prospective performers.
“And you’ll preside, won’t you, to settle about parts, and then no one will be hurt or offended,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, speaking, I fear, from a wide past experience of the wonderful capacities of other people for being hurt or offended on the very slightest provocation.
I asked them to hold the meeting in the library and promised to do my best that no one should be either hurt or offended.
On the day that I was expecting them I drove down to the Mill House in the morning to see Mary. I drive out in a low basket-carriage drawn by a very old pony, because that is the only safe way in which I can convey my semi-helpless person about without assistance.
She was in the garden, as usual, doing something with a trowel.
Mary never seems surprised to see me, only pleased, and she does not stand by with an anxious frown, brightly and carefully talking about other things while I adjust my crutches and lower myself out of the pony carriage.
“Sallie and Martyn are rolling the tennis lawn. Isn’t it energetic of them on such a lovely day? Let’s sit in the shade.”
There is a big beech tree on Mary’s lawn, and we sat under it and watched the tiny little stream that runs at the bottom of the garden. The sound of it, more than any other sound I know, always recalls to me the summer days of childhood.
Presently I consulted Mary about the theatricals and the assignment of the parts.
“Sallie for the heroine, of course—she can act and she can sing. Nancy Fazackerly can’t act and can’t sing, but she’s going to play the accompaniments for all the songs. They suggested Martyn for the hero and Patch for the villain—dressed as a Turk. I don’t know what other parts they’ll put in, but apparently the whole thing is perfectly elastic and can be added to or taken away from as desired. It’s all to be Eastern dress, more or less—as being easy to arrange. And they’re very keen to have Mrs. Harter to sing the ‘Bulbul Ameer’ song. It’s the keynote of the whole thing, that song.”
“What does Claire say?”
“She says they may do as they like, but she doesn’t care for the idea very much. For one thing, she thinks Mrs. Harter—Diamond Ellison—will feel out of her element.”
“I wonder. After all, she’s been for years in Cairo, and must have met all sorts of people. And I’m convinced that she’s intelligent, Miles, and probably very adaptive. Martyn says that she’s an exceptional person altogether.”
“Does he know her?”
“No. But both my children tell me that they are natural psychologists of a high order.”
We laughed and then Mary said:
“I sometimes wonder if it’s a mistake to have let their critical faculties—Sallie’s especially—develop quite unchecked. She finds people more interesting than anything else, but it’s all so very impersonal and analytical.”
“You might divide humanity into those who put people first, those who put things first, and those who put ideas first.”
“Which do you put first, Miles?”
(Claire would have said, “Which do I put first?”)
“People, of course. So do you. But it’s the people who put things first who are in the majority. In the ultimate issue, they weigh what Mr. Wemmick called portable property—things like houses, and furniture, and money—against the personal relations, and the portable property counts most.”
“I know. They are called practical people because they would never postpone a business appointment on account of a child’s birthday party. The birthday party would have to be postponed. And what about the ones who put ideas first?”
Of course, Mary knew as well as I did—or better—what about them. But she also knew that I like long, wandering, impersonal discussions of the kind that I can indulge in with no one else.
I smiled at her, just to show that I knew quite well how she was humoring me.
“The people who put ideas first are, I think fortunately, in a very small minority. Religious enthusiasts, of course—and perhaps the few people who really are thorough-going, matter-of-fact conventionalists.”
“You are thinking of the Kendals,” said Mary unerringly.
I admitted that she was right.
“Can you imagine Mumma, for instance, on a jury, admitting ‘extenuating circumstances’? ‘A crime is crime,’ she would probably say, and as she would say it not less than fourteen times, she would end in hypnotizing all the other eleven into agreeing with her. People like that ought really never to be allowed to have any say in any question affecting their fellow-creatures, but unfortunately there’s generally a sort of spurious worth and solidity about them that compels attention.”
“I remember,” said Mary, “that once at Dheera Dhoon we were talking about a man who had become a Catholic, and someone said that it would be very difficult and require a good deal of moral courage to take a step of that sort. And Mrs. Kendal answered, ‘How can there be any courage in deliberately going from the true to the false? Nothing of the kind.’And one felt that she would never, by any possibility, see it in any other light.”
I made Mary promise that she would come and help me at the meeting in the library that afternoon. Sallie and Martyn were to be there, of course, and the authors of the production; and we felt that it was probable that one or two of the Kendals might appear in order to inform us that they couldn’t act.
“What about Mrs. Harter?”
“Oh, no. You see, she won’t be actually in the play, anyhow. They only want her to sing before the curtain goes up and then again at the end.”
“Do you know that they are all coming here this evening to sing? Sallie invited them that time they went to Nancy Fazackerly’s. Mrs. Harter, too.”
“I’m glad.”
So I was. What Nancy had told me of Diamond Harter made me feel sorry for her, in spite of her aggressive airs. I wanted her to go to Mary Ambrey’s house, in the atmosphere of sanity, and kindness, and serenity, that belongs to Mary.
When I got home, I found Claire entertaining Lady Annabel Bending.
I felt sure that she had come to hear about the dance that we proposed to give. The invitations had only just been sent out, but in Cross Loman we arenever long in ignorance of one another’s arrangements.
Miss Emma Applebee, before now, has darted out of her shop and inquired of me solicitously how her Ladyship’s cold is, when I myself had only been made aware of its existence about an hour earlier.
Lady Annabel was inclined to be rather grave, although courteous, about our entertainment. Did we realize quite what we were undertaking, especially—if she might say so—with an invalid in the house?
She glanced at me.
I have reason to believe that Lady Annabel speaks of me behind my back as “our afflicted friend, Sir Miles Flower.”
“I have done so much—so very much—entertaining myself, and necessarily on such an enormous scale, that I perhaps realize better than most people what it all means. When I heard what you were contemplating, I felt that it would be friendly to come round at once and offer you the benefit of my experience.”
“Thank you,” said Claire.
Her eyes were so large and scornful and her voice held so satirical an intonation that I interposed.
“Claire’s young cousins are very anxious to get up some theatricals and to take advantage of having thatyoung fellow here—Patch—to do some writing for them. They’re working up something musical.”
“Delightful, indeed,” said Lady Annabel in a severe and melancholy voice. “And is there much musical talent hereabouts?”
“Sallie Ambrey sings rather nicely, and Mrs. Fazackerly is really musical—she is adapting Captain Patch’s libretto—and then there are one or two others.”
“Let me warn you—” began Lady Annabel.
She suddenly glanced to the right and to the left of our not very large drawing-room as though we might be suspected of having concealed one of the servants behind a bookcase.
Then she sank her always low voice to a pitch that was all but a whisper and most impressive.
“You understand that I am speaking in the utmost confidence? It must never go beyond the walls of this room”—we all three instinctively gazed with deep distrust at the walls—“I’m not thinking of myself, but of what it might do for the Rector if it got round that I had said anything about one of his people—you understand what I mean—in the Rector’s position—”
Of course I said at once that I quite understood what she meant, although one couldn’t help feeling that this was one of the moments when Lady Annabelwas perhaps confusing the Rector with “H. E.,” the late Sir Hannabuss Tallboys. (We have all learned to think of him as “H. E.”)
Claire did not join in my protestations. I judged from her expression that she was, once more, living upon the edge of a volcano.
“Absolutely between ourselves, I should very strongly advise you not to let anyone suggest that the young woman whom I most mistakenly allowed to sing at the concert the other night—Mrs. Harter—should be asked to perform. I should think it most inadvisable.”
“May I ask why?”
Lady Annabel looked distressed.
“You do understand that I am speaking entirely unofficially?”
Not only did we understand, but, personally, I really did not see how she could speak in any other way.
“Then,” said Lady Annabel, “the fact is that I have, since the concert, heard one or two things about her. Naturally, I have links all over the Empire, as I may say, and this Mrs. Harter, as you know, has just come from the Near East. It seems that she and her husband are on most unhappy terms—no doubt there are faults on both sides; in fact, my correspondentsaid as much—but she has made herself quite notorious in a place where everyone in the European colony is of course watched and commented upon. And I noticed at the concert the other evening that there was a tendency to bring her into notice, simply, I suppose, because Cross Loman thinks it a fine thing for Ellison the plumber’s daughter to have married a man socially above her—Mr. Harter is a solicitor—and to have lived abroad. If they only knew what I know as to the sort of people one is obliged to receive out there!”
Lady Annabel Bending is not a spiteful woman. She would just as readily, I am sure, have come to the Manor House in order to sing the praises of Mrs. Harter as to disparage her. All that she ever wants is still to be as important as she believes herself to have been in her colonial service days.
Her admonitions clinched the question of Mrs. Harter’s inclusion in the theatricals. Claire sent a note to Mrs. Fazackerly that afternoon, I believe, to the effect that Mrs. Harter must by all means be asked to sing, and if possible to act as well.
And if Nancy Fazackerly was at all taken aback by so rapid and complete avolte-face, she was far too tactful ever to give any signs of it.
Lady Annabel was not offended when Claire madeher intentions evident. She is never offended; she only becomes more remote and her graciousness less smiling.
“I shall speak to the Rector about your invitation as soon as I can, and hope to send you an answer to-morrow. You know what the correspondence of a man in his position is. Pray don’t get up, Sir Miles. Good-by—Good-by. So very glad—it all sounds charming. I hope—webothhope—that it will be the very greatest success. But I’m sure it will be. Good-by again.”
I rather think that she bowed, in an absent-minded way, to the footman who opened the hall door for her.
The rectory possesses only a small governess cart and pony, and Lady Annabel is driven out by the gardener’s boy. But she always, by means of smiles and bows, and small waves of the hand, makes a kind of royal progress for herself. It is her boast that she never forgets a face, and in consequence a great number of the tradespeople in Cross Loman are gratified by the marks of recognition lavishly showered upon them from the rectory pony carriage.
I was told afterwards by Miss Applebee, who saw it happen, that on that particular day Lady Annabel was nearly run down by General Kendal’s new motor car, which he was slowly driving up Fore Street.
Mumma was at her usual post of observation, besidehim, and no doubt she had said, “There’s the rectory pony cart coming towards you, dear—I should sound the horn, if I were you.” But perhaps she said it too soon, or repeated it so often that poor Puppa’s senses became rather dazed and he ceased to take in the meaning of the words. At all events, he appeared to drive the car deliberately, and very, very slowly, straight at Lady Annabel.
But she never flinched at all, even when the gardener’s boy almost—but not quite—drove her into the gutter in order to avoid a collision.
And when she subsequently mentioned the incident to Mary Ambrey, Lady Annabel said that she did not wish any official notice to be taken of it. Her manner distinctly gave Mary the impression that General Kendal had narrowly escaped excommunication at the hands of the Rector.