CHAPTER VIIICONCERNING A GREAT CONSPIRACY[image]Chapter VIII headpieceNow Marjolaine did not want to talk to Miss Ruth just at that moment, and it says much for her sweetness of character that she came back docilely. "Marjory," said Miss Ruth, looking at her searchingly, "you haven't had a singing-lesson this week."Marjolaine was confused, and a little angry. She had just exhausted the subject with her mother, and it was too bad to be thrust into the midst of it again by this comparative stranger. So she answered rather coldly, "I have n't been quite myself.""So I saw," said Miss Ruth, examining her over her spectacles. A hot flush rose to Marjolaine's cheeks. Had she really been wearing her heart on her sleeve, and showing the whole Walk the state of her feelings? She must be more careful in future."Anything the matter?" asked Miss Ruth.Marjolaine answered hastily, "Oh, nothing. Nothing to speak of.""H'm," said Miss Ruth, violently biting off a cotton-end. Then she added, "Barbara was quite upset.""How sweet of her!" cried Marjolaine.—Dear, sympathetic little Barbara!"Oh! Not so much about you," said Miss Ruth rather acidly. "But she looks forward to sitting with you and Mr. Pringle, when you are singing.""Is she so fond of music?" asked Marjolaine, glad to turn the conversation into a less personal channel."Bless your dear heart, no!" exclaimed Miss Ruth sharply. "Now, would she sit and listen to you if she were? She does n't know one note from another."It seemed to Marjolaine that the conversation was becoming rather personal, so she held her tongue.But Miss Ruth evidently had something on her mind of which she was anxious to relieve herself."No, it is n't that," she said with a world of meaning which challenged enquiry.Marjolaine obliged her, although she felt no interest. "What is it, then?"Having succeeded in getting the question she wanted, Miss Ruth made a feint of retreating. "Pfft!" she said, with the action of blowing some annoying insect away, and then, cryptically, "Oh! grant me patience!""Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, astonished at her violence."Well!" cried Ruth, still more sharply. "It seems to me the whole house is bewitched—that ever I should say such a thing."Marjolaine grew more and more surprised. "Oh! I thought you were so happy!""I 'm happy enough," snapped Ruth, "because I 'm not a fool. But what with that feller upstairs, and Barbara down, a body has no peace of her life."Now, what could she mean? Of course Mr. Pringle was upstairs, and of course Barbara was downstairs. How could that perfectly natural state of things affect the peace of Miss Ruth's life?"Tell me," said Marjolaine."Ha' n't you noticed anything? No. I s'pose you 're too young. Don't know sheeps' eyes when you see 'em!"What on earth had sheeps' eyes come into the story for?"Sheeps' eyes?" Marjolaine asked, utterly puzzled."'T is n't for me to say anything," Miss Ruth continued, "but with him mooning about the house, like"—words failed her—"like I don't know what; and her moping, like a hen with the pip, it's enough to give a body the fantoddles—as my poor, dear mother used to say."[image]"IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"Marjolaine suddenly saw light. Here, under her very eyes, was another romance, like her own—only, of course, on an infinitely lower plane, because it held no thread of tragedy—and she had been blind to it. This was lovely! But she must make sure. She turned to Miss Ruth and asked eagerly—"Are they—are they fond of each other?"Ruth quite unnecessarily bit off another cotton-end. "I don't know!" she cried crossly; but at once added, "Yes, of course they are!"Marjolaine was more puzzled than ever. "Then, why don't they say so?" she asked, quite simply."That's what I want to know," said Miss Ruth.Lovers who might be perfectly happy, kept apart for want of a word, thought Marjolaine. How wicked, and how silly! "You should speak to Mr. Basil," she said, with all the gravity of her nineteen years and of her bitter experience."Me!" cried Miss Ruth. "Bless your dear heart, he 'd up and run away. He 's that shy a body can't look at him but he wants to hide in a cupboard. He 's got it into his silly head he is n't good enough. As if anybody'd notice his shoulder!""Perhaps," said Marjolaine, pensively, "if Barbara showed him she liked him—Why don't you speak to her? Sympathetically.""So I did, just now. Told her she was an idiot. What did she do? She burst out crying, and went and shut herself up with that parrot.""Ah!" sighed Marjolaine, with a pathetic look at the Gazebo, where she had been so happy so short a time, so long ago, "Ah, yes! The old love!" How well she understood!"Old frying-pan!" cried Ruth."Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, deeply shocked. "The poor parrot.""Oh, that bird!—Marjory!" said Ruth, firmly, as if the time had come to utter a bitter but necessary truth at all costs, "Marjory, there are times when I 'd give anybody a two-penny bit to wring that bird's neck!"But Marjolaine had not been listening to her. The mention of the parrot had set her thoughts working; her face suddenly lighted up with the inspired look of one who has just conceived an epoch-making idea. "Ruth!" she cried, running up to her.Ruth naturally thought she was shocked. "Well, I don't care! I mean it. If it was n't for that bird—"But Marjolaine had snatched Ruth's needlework away and was trying to drag her from the seat by both hands. "I was n't thinking of the bird! Yes, I was thinking of the bird, but I was n't thinking what you thought I was thinking. Oh! what nonsense you make me talk!""Whatever's got into the child's head?" cried Miss Ruth, swept off her feet."Come!" insisted Marjolaine. "Quick! Come, and tell Barbara I want her.""What do you want her for?" asked Miss Ruth, struggling."I must n't tell you yet, she may refuse.""Bless us and save us!" cried Miss Ruth, now on her feet, and struck by the change in Marjolaine's appearance, "now your cheeks are glowing again!""Maman said they would!" laughed Marjolaine. Positively, for the moment she had forgotten her sorrows. "Come along!""Wait! My mouth 's full of pins!"Seeing the two ladies under the tree, Sir Peter Antrobus had come out, anxious for a little conversation. He was much disappointed when he observed they were leaving the lawn."Going in, just as I'm coming out?" said he, reproachfully."Yes," laughed Marjolaine on the top step, and looking up at the threatening sky, "like the little people in the weather cottages: you come out for the rain; and I go in for the sunshine." Which, of course was extremely inaccurate, but the correct statement would have spoiled her meaning entirely."How are the peas coming on, Admiral?" asked Miss Ruth, for the sake of politeness.Sir Peter's temper was already ruffled by the disappointment of his sociable intentions. Now he burst out, "How the doose can they come on, Ma'am, when that everlasting cat roots 'em up every night?"I am sorry to say, Miss Ruth laughed as he disappeared into the house. The Admiral came towards Sempronius, who was now wide awake and watching the Eyesore's float with lively interest; he shook his fist at him—I mean the Admiral shook his fist at the cat—with comic fury, and found himself shaking his fist at Lord Otford, who had just turned the corner."Shaking your fist at me, Peter?" asked Lord Otford, with a grim laugh."Hulloa, Otford!" cried the Admiral, feeling rather foolish.Moreover, he was not particularly pleased to see Otford at that precise moment. Only half-an-hour ago he had surprised Marjolaine's confidence. He had not had time to think the matter over and make up his mind, and now that he found himself without warning face to face with Jack's father, he was torn between two conflicting emotions. On the one hand he felt he ought to tell Otford about Jack and Marjolaine. That was his plain duty; but it was one of those forms of duty which everybody tries to find some plausible excuse for evading. He had surprised Marjolaine's confidence: she had not given it voluntarily. On the other hand he suspected that Jack's breach of faith in not coming near the Walk for a whole week was due to some interference on the part of his father, and he was so fond of Marjolaine, and so jealous of the status of the Walk, that he resented such interference even before he knew whether Otford had interfered. His keen eye saw, even while they were shaking hands, that there was something on his friend's mind."How are you?" asked Lord Otford, perfunctorily. "Have you a moment to spare?""All day; thanks to this confounded government," growled the Admiral.Lord Otford plunged into the thick of his business at once. "I am in great trouble," he blurted out, in the tone of a man who expects sympathy.He didn't get it. "Damme! you're in trouble once a week!" said the Admiral. "Here! Come into the Gazebo."Lord Otford started at the word. "The Gazebo?—Ha! Very appropriate!""Eh? Why?" asked Sir Peter, sitting on the seat in the summer-house and making room for his friend beside him. Lord Otford produced a crumpled letter from his pocket. "Here! Read this!" said he, thrusting it under Sir Peter's nose."Can't," said the latter, curtly, "haven't my spy-glass on me!""Well, listen." Lord Otford read the letter aloud, with ill-suppressed fury.—"'My lord—It is my painful duty to inform your Lordship that your Lordship's son, the Hon. John Sayle, is carrying on a clandestine love-affair with Mademoiselle Marjolaine Lachesnais, of Pomander Walk—'"The Admiral had grown purple in the face. "Belay, there!" he roared.Lord Otford took no notice, but went on reading: "'Yesterday they were together for an hour in the Gazebo—'"The Admiral would have no more of it. "When did you get that, and who sent it?" he roared. The fact that the information was true was quite outweighed by the implication that an inhabitant of the Walk could have been guilty of the lowest form of treachery."It's signed, 'Your true Friend and Well-wisher,'" said Lord Otford, "and I had it on Sunday."The Admiral could hardly speak. "Do you mean to say that damned, anonymous, Sabbath-breaking rag came from Pomander Walk?""I presume so.""Who sent it?" cried the Admiral, jumping up and walking to and fro in a towering rage. "Show me the white-livered scoundrel, and by Jehoshaphat! I 'll break every bone in his body!" He turned sharply towards Otford. "Is it a man's writing, or a woman's?""It's vague: might be anybody's."The Admiral was passing the houses of the Walk in review. "Can't be Sternroyd—Brooke-Hoskyn—Pringle—We 're none of us anonymous slanderers." His eye fell on the Eyesore with momentary suspicion. "Was it the Eyesore?""The Eyesore?" repeated Lord Otford, not understanding."That scare-crow, fishing. No; of course not. He does n't know you, and I don't believe he can write.—But, what of it, Jack? You're not worried by that rubbish! Why, it's a pack o' lies!" (Oh, Admiral, Admiral!) Lord Otford tried to speak. "Don't interrupt!—I'm here all the time. Nothing happens in Pomander Walk that I don't know. Don't interrupt!—I was here when Jack came last Saturday. He went back in his boat before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' because Madame swooned!"He wiped his brow, and had the grace to add "Lord, forgive me!" as a silent prayer. After all, he had told no lie. He had only omitted to say how long Jack had been there before he saw him. And as he did n't know, what could he have said?Otford found his opportunity of speaking at last. "Now, perhaps you 'll allow me to say it's all true," he shouted.The Admiral shouted louder. "Do you take this blackguard's word rather than mine?" he roared, pointing to the letter. It was intolerable he should be doubted, even if he were not telling the whole truth."You confounded old porcupine," Lord Otford roared back at him, "Jack 's owned up to the whole thing!""What!" yelled the Admiral. "Don't shout like that! D' ye want the whole Walk to hear?—Sit down. Tell me again: quietly!""When I 'd read this letter, I taxed him with it," said Lord Otford, "and he owned up. He came here last Saturday: met the damned little French gel—""Jack!" roared the Admiral, flaring up."I'll withdraw 'damned.' Sat an hour in this infernal what-d'-ye-call-it, and thinks he 's in love with her." Sir Peter was about to speak. "Don't interrupt!—You know the Sayles when their blood 's up. My blood was up. Jack's confounded blood was up. You can imagine the scene we had. He's as pig-headed and obstinate as—as—""As his father," put in Sir Peter."Don't interrupt!" roared Lord Otford. "He's thrown over Caroline Thring—won't hear of her." Sir Peter chuckled. "The utmost I could get out of him was that he 'd wait a week to make sure of what he calls his mind.""Aha!" said Sir Peter, delighted."Mind! Puppy! All the week he's gone about like a bear with a sore head! Had the impudence to refuse to speak to me! This morning he had the impudence to speak! And what d' ye think he said?""Serves ye right, whatever it was!" cried Sir Peter.Lord Otford didn't hear him. "He said, 'The week 's up, and I 'm going to Pomander Walk!'""Good lad!" roared Sir Peter, slapping his thigh, and breaking into a loud guffaw."What!" shouted Lord Otford, jumping up. "You're mad! Think of what's at stake! Ninety-thousand acres!—For the daughter of a Frenchwoman from the Lord knows where. Who was the gel's father?—Or, rather, who was n't?""Jack!" roared the Admiral, in a burst of fury, jumping up in his turn and facing Otford."I withdraw!" cried Otford. "But think of it!" He was looking at the Walk. In the grey light of the coming shower the houses were certainly not seen at their best. "Think of it!" he said with a sweep of his cane condemning the whole Walk to instant annihilation. "An Otford taking his wife from these—these—Almshouses!"The Admiral was livid—apoplectic—hysterical. Words failed him. His voice failed him. He could only gasp, "Almshouses!—Pomander Walk!—Almshouses!"Lord Otford was alarmed at the effect his words had produced. "There! there!" he cried, almost conciliatorily, "I withdraw 'Almshouses!'""Withdraw more, sir!" said the Admiral, and for all his almost grotesque rage, there was a ring in his voice which compelled respect. "How dare you come here, abusing the sweetest, brightest, most winsome—""I believe you 're in love with her yourself!" cried Otford."And, damme, why not?—Take care how you talk about innocent ladies you 've never set eyes on!""That's it!" cried Otford, glad to get on safer ground. "That's why I 'm here. You are to present me to this Madame—whatever her confounded name is.""In your present temper?" roared Sir Peter, whose own temper was at boiling point. "I'll walk the plank first!" He pointed to Madame's house. "There's her house: the white paint. Go and pay your respects." He came close up to Otford, and spoke straight into his face. "Your respects, Jack! You 'll find you have to!""I can't force my way into the house, unaccompanied, and you know it!""Then stay away, and be hanged!"Lord Otford was nonplussed. He caught sight of the Gazebo. "I 'll stay here," he said doggedly, sitting down like a man who means never to move again, "and if Jack shows his nose—!"The Admiral had begun to stride towards his house. He came back and put his red face round the side of the Gazebo. "I shall be watching, sir!" this with blood-curdling calmness. "And if you dare raise a disturbance, I 'll—" he could not think of anything bad enough. "I 'll—damme! I 'll set the Eyesore at you!"He stumped off towards his home again, while Lord Otford sank back in his seat, folded his arms, and said, "Ha!" with grim determination.At that moment Jack came hurrying round the corner and ran straight into the Admiral's arms. At that fateful moment also Madame must needs come out of her house. Fortunately she was preoccupied and did not see the frantic pantomime with which Sir Peter tried to explain to Jack that his father was hidden in the Gazebo. Madame called, "Marjolaine! Marjolaine!" As we know, Marjolaine was with the Misses Pennymint, and Madame received no answer. Lord Otford heard her from his hiding-place. "Aha!" he said to himself, "the mother!" and he sat up at attention."Gobblessmysoul!" whispered the Admiral, hoarsely. "The father here, and the mother there! Jack! Get away!"Madame had turned to her house and was calling her old servant. "Nanette!"Jack refused to budge. What he said I do not know; but Sir Peter grew still more frantic. Nanette appeared at the upstairs window. "Quoi, Madame?""I 'll be hanged if I stir!" said Jack."Où est donc Mademoiselle?" said Madame."Je ne sais pas, Madame." Madame went back into her little garden, and looked into the ground-floor window."Come inside, then!" said Sir Peter to Jack. But Jack saw the Eyesore, who was placidly fishing, and a broad grin spread all over his face. "No! Better idea!" he chuckled. He imparted the idea to the horrified Admiral in a whisper.Madame spoke to Nanette again. "Vite! Allez voir si son chapeau est dans sa chambre!"Nanette disappeared from the window, and Madame stood impatiently looking up at it awaiting her return.Whatever Jack had said to the Admiral was of such a nature as to fill that ancient salt with horror. He threw up his arms, cried, "I wash my hands of it!" and dashed into his house. Jack quickly said something to the Eyesore which caused the latter to fling his rod down with alacrity, and, amazing to relate, he and Jack hurried round the corner and out of sight together.Nanette reappeared with a huge Leghorn straw hat. "Oui, Madame, voilà le chapeau de Mademoiselle." Then, pointing to the Gazebo, "Mademoiselle doit être au pavillon.""Non," said Madame, "je viens de l'appeler." But a sudden suspicion flashed across her mind. Could Marjolaine be there with Jack, and afraid to show herself? "Serait-il possible?"—she cried, and came hurriedly towards the summer-house.Lord Otford had heard her conversation with Nanette, and had risen; so that Madame found herself abruptly face to face with her faithless lover.CHAPTER IXIN WHICH OLD LOVERS MEET, AND THECONSPIRACY COMES TO A HEAD[image]Chapter IX headpieceMadame knew him at a glance. To some extent she had been prepared for his coming by Jack's previous visit. As Jack was acquainted with Sir Peter, it was quite likely Lord Otford was also, and nothing was more probable than that he should come to look up his old friend. Nevertheless this sudden confrontation startled her, and she could not suppress a little "Oh!" of surprise.Lord Otford, on his part, was too much occupied with his own anger, his outraged dignity, to pay more than very superficial attention to her. Moreover she had changed a great deal more than he. He had left her, a mere strip of a girl, and now she was a dignified and very beautiful woman. He was not thinking of Lucy Pryor at all at the moment, while her thoughts, if the truth must be told, were full of the Jack Sayle of old days. So they began their little duel with unequal weapons. Madame was absolutely self-possessed: Otford could not suppress a certain amount of nervousness in the presence of this calm and stately lady who was so utterly different from anything he had expected. However, he pulled himself together and put on his grandest and most overwhelming manner."I am the trespasser," he said, with a condescending bow, in answer to her startled cry. She inclined her head very slightly, and turned to go."May I detain you a moment?" said he, quickly.She stopped and half turned towards him. "I am at a loss—" she said coldly, with raised eyebrows.He explained. "I heard you calling your daughter." Then, very stiffly, "I presume you are Madame—ah—" he made pretence to consult the anonymous letter; this haughty person should know she was not of sufficient importance for him even to remember her name, "Madame Lachesnais."Madame bowed almost imperceptibly and something very like a mischievous smile lurked in the corners of her lips."I am Lord Otford—" he gave his name quite simply, as a gentleman should, yet he managed to convey that it was a great name and that he expected the announcement of it to make its effect.Madame made a slight movement with her hand as if she were brushing away something of no moment whatever; as if she declined to receive a name which could have no importance for her; as if she did n't care whether his name were Otford or Snooks. This disconcerted him. It was a new experience, and it was unpleasant. For the sake of something to say he pointed to the seat under the tree. "Ah—pray be seated." Madame saw the advantage she had already gained. She spoke as she might have addressed a poor beetle: "What you have to say can be of so little consequence—"Lord Otford flushed angrily. Here was he, a great nobleman with a grievance, and this totally insignificant woman was treating him like a child! He spoke with some warmth. "I beg your pardon! What I have to say is of the utmost consequence.""I shall be surprised," said Madame—"and I am waiting."Lord Otford was still fuming. Her manner was really most disconcerting. "You—you make it somewhat difficult, ma'am," he blustered.Nothing could stir her calmness. "Then why give yourself the trouble?" she said; and again moved as if to go."Pray wait!" cried he, hastily. All the fine outworks of sarcasm and irony which he had elaborately prepared against this meeting had vanished before the icy blast of her imperturbable coolness. He was hot; he was uncomfortable. He could only stammer, "The fact is—my foolish son—"Madame held up a delicate hand and stopped him. "Ah!" she said, with a well-bred rebuke of his excitement, "I can spare you any further discomfort. Your son forced his acquaintance on my daughter in my absence a week ago. Be assured we are willing to overlook his lack of manners. The circumstance need not be further alluded to."Here was a nice thing! In those few words she had turned the tables on him. Instead of metaphorically grovelling in the dust at his feet and entreating his pardon, she had become the accuser, and he now found himself forced to speak on the defensive."It must be alluded to! I must explain!" he cried."No explanation or apology is required," she went on implacably, "since under no circumstances shall we allow the acquaintance to continue."Was he on his head or his heels? These were practically the very words he had meant to use. This was the shell he had meant to hurl into the enemy's camp, and here it was, exploding under his own feet!"But my son has pledged his word to come again, and—"Again she interrupted him. "Make yourself easy on that score," she said; and now there was even a note of contempt in her voice. "He has broken his word.""That was my doing!" cried Lord Otford, almost apologetically. "I persuaded him to wait a week. I regret to say he means to come to-day.""Well," answered Madame, with the utmost indifference, "Pomander Walk is public, and we cannot prevent him.""But he 'll see your daughter!""I think not. Unless he breaks into the house.""Upon my soul, I believe he 'll go that length!" What Lord Otford had intended should be a menace, turned to an appeal. "That is where I ask for your co-operation."Madame looked him up and down with indignant protest. Really, he might have been poor Snooks. "Pardon me," she said, "not co-operation." She drew herself up and her eyes flashed. "But I shall defend my own."She laid a peculiar stress on the word "defend," which arrested his attention."'Defend'?" said he, with amazement. "What do you mean?"She looked him straight in the face, and spoke with intense feeling. "I mean, that no member of your family is likely to cross my threshold."There was something so threatening, so avenging in her voice, that he fell back a pace and said, hushed, "You speak as though you nursed a grudge against my family!"Madame smiled scornfully. "Oh! no grudge whatever." Then she added slowly and very quietly, "But I remember!""Remember what?" cried he, more and more bewildered.For a moment she did not answer. Then she turned to him and spoke. "Am I so changed—Jack Sayle?"He stared. "Indeed, ma'am—" then suddenly he saw and remembered. He could only exclaim, "Good God!""Are you still puzzled?" she asked, with that mysterious smile of hers."Lucy!""Lucy Pryor," she assented. She bowed and turned away.Lord Otford was stunned. "No—no," he stammered. "Stop!—this alters the case entirely!"She turned on him with raised eyebrows. "How?"He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment. All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again, deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart—his only sweetheart—the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I—I don't know. I am stunned!—After all these years!"She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness."Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother—and a mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic countenance, my lord!"Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the less hearty curse.Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she would not let him come to life again.Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss! Puss! Puss!"But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish! Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely stalked that fish. Not before.The Admiral also had seen the skies darken. It was time to take in the thrush. So he leant out of his upstairs window to unhook the osier cage. His window and Mrs. Poskett's were so close together that—well—the Admiral and the widow could, at a pinch, have kissed if they had been so minded. But nothing was further from, the Admiral's thoughts."Sempronius!" screamed Mrs. Poskett."Ah!" chuckled the Admiral, "it's no use calling him, ma'am. He 's got his eye on the fish!""You don't mean to say the Eyesore's caught one!" cried Mrs. Poskett.The Admiral laughed as he looked at the Eyesore. Laughed more than the occasion seemed to justify. "Ay, ay! he's wonderfully patient and persistent!"The widow's face, as he leant out to see the fish, was very near the Admiral's."Astonishing what patience and persistence 'll do, Admiral," said she, coquettishly. She withdrew quickly and closed her window.The Admiral was puzzled. What did she mean? But he shook off his forebodings. He turned to where the Eyesore, buried more than usual in his horrible old hat, was putting on new bait, and gave a low whistle. The Eyesore signalled to him to be quiet and at that moment he became aware of Madame, who was moving away from the Gazebo. "Gobblessmysoul! Madame!" he muttered to himself with inexplicable confusion, and hastily withdrew out of sight with his thrush.Miss Barbara Pennymint came hopping down her steps, followed by Marjolaine. Madame had recovered her self-possession. "Ah!" she cried, seeing Marjolaine, "I was a little alarmed about you. Did you not hear me call?""No, Maman chérie."Madame turned to Barbara. "Don't let her stay out if it rains." And with a pleasant nod to the two girls she moved into her house. She had need to be alone.Marjolaine and Barbara locked their arms round each others' waists and came across the lawn.Barbara turned up her pretty nose. "The Eyesore looks more revolting than ever!""Dreadful," assented Marjolaine, with a shudder. At this instant the Eyesore caught another fish! and Marjolaine gave a cry of surprise. Sempronius sat and watched."What's he doing now?" asked Barbara, in a whisper.Marjolaine looked. Then she covered Barbara's eyes with her hand. "Don't look!" and in a tragic whisper, "He's putting on a worm!""Oh!" cried Barbara, with a shiver of disgust. They came down to the elm."It was impossible," said Marjolaine, "to talk in Ruth's presence, with Doctor Johnson screaming in the next room.""Dearest," answered Barbara confidentially, "shall I confess that sometimes that bird—" she broke off—"but no! it were disloyal. Only, if Charles had given me a lock of his hair, perhaps it would have made less noise. Yet, now I think of it, that is a selfish wish, for he had been scalped.""How dreadful!" cried Marjolaine. But she was full of her great idea, and went on at once. "Barbara, were you very much in love?"Barbara's face grew very serious. "Dearest," she said reproachfully, "is that quite a delicate question?""Well," said Marjolaine, "I mean, are you still as much in love as ever?"Barbara avoided her eyes. But she spoke with almost exaggerated feeling. "Dearest! Do you think love can change?"Marjolaine thought a moment. I suppose she was consulting her own heart. Then she spoke very firmly. "No! I don't think so!""And do I not hear the sound of my darling's voice every time Doctor Johnson yells? Is not that enough to keep the flame of love alive even in the ashes of a heart however dead? Oh! if only that innocent fowl had been present when Charles used different language!""But did he?" asked Marjolaine innocently."I sometimes wonder," answered Barbara, deep in thought.Marjolaine felt she had said a tactless thing. She must try to soften it. "Perhaps the loss of his hair—" she began."Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil's window from which the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came throbbing. "And—oh, dearest!—can any physical infirmity affect true love?" she cried rapturously.At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not.""I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm.Marjolaine took both Barbara's hands in hers and forced her to face her. She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?"Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!—how searching you are!""Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?"Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine's sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest—did your mother match those lovely silks?"Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin beautifully," she said.Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way, she perched on Marjolaine's finger and pecked her on each cheek."I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine.The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came nearer the girls.Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you will never tell a living soul?""Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore's caught another fish!""Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara.Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the Eyesore, too!""I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery element.""Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms.""Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!—I shall let the worm i' the bud feed on my damaged cheek."The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer."Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil's cheek is being fed on, too?""Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara.Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it is?"Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then she added, shortly, "Then why does n't he speak?""Suppose he 's too shy?"Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n't men silly?"—She luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long."Marjolaine breathed into her ear, "But suppose a third person spoke!""You!" exclaimed Barbara, with delight."No!" said Marjolaine, rather shocked. "That would not do at all. I could n't." The Eyesore was very near them. Marjolaine saw him. "Hush!" she whispered, and drew Barbara away. "Hush! The Eyesore!"Barbara looked from her to the Eyesore and back again with bewilderment. "You don't mean he 's to be Cupid's messenger!"Marjolaine laughed. "No, no. Listen." She sank her voice to a mysterious whisper. In spite of her own sorrow she was enjoying herself immensely. "Listen, and try not to scream." Barbara quivered with excitement. Marjolaine went on, "Doctor Johnson talks, does n't he?"Barbara looked at her in amazement. "Doctor John—?""And he learns easily?""But what—?""Let Basil hear it from him!" said Marjolaine, triumphantly."Hear what?" almost screamed Barbara.Marjolaine laughingly took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Oh, you little goose!" she cried. Then she added, very deliberately and clearly, "Teach the parrot to say—'Barbara loves you!'"Barbara did, I assure you, leap into the air, and Marjolaine had her hand over her mouth only just in time to stifle a scream which would have brought the entire Walk to its doors and windows.But Barbara was seized with instant remorse.She put Marjolaine away from her with a gesture which would have done credit to Mrs. Siddons. She spoke in a tone of mingled heroism and reproach: "Charles's only gift, turned to such uses! Oh, Marjory!"Marjolaine was quite unabashed. "Would n't Charles be pleased to know his gift had been the means of making you happy?""From what I can remember of him, I should say decidedly not," said Barbara, rather snappishly.The Eyesore was now close to the Gazebo."Look!" cried Marjolaine. "The Eyesore's invading the whole Walk!"But little Barbara cared. Also her momentary remorse had entirely vanished. If she had been on a tree she would have hopped from branch to branch. As it was she hopped all across the lawn, clapping her hands and twittering. "Oh! I can't bother about him!" she said. "Let him invade! Oh! it's such a splendid idea! Oh! you 're such a clever girl! Oh! my goodness, what shall I do?"Marjolaine was anxious on the Eyesore's account. Were the Admiral to see him, there would be a terrible outburst of anger. "I'll speak to him," she said, summoning all her courage, "I 'll save him from Sir Peter's wrath!""No! no!" cried Barbara; "stick to business! Tell me more about the bird!""Stand by me!" entreated Marjolaine. "Hold my hand!""I daren't! I'm frightened!" cried Barbara, "and—and—and I want to begin teaching the bird!""Treacherous Barbara!" cried Marjolaine. But before the words were out of her mouth Barbara had scuttled into the house and slammed the door.And before Marjolaine had recovered from that shock the Eyesore had hurled his hat and smock into the Gazebo, and she was in Jack's arms.
CHAPTER VIII
CONCERNING A GREAT CONSPIRACY
[image]Chapter VIII headpiece
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Chapter VIII headpiece
Now Marjolaine did not want to talk to Miss Ruth just at that moment, and it says much for her sweetness of character that she came back docilely. "Marjory," said Miss Ruth, looking at her searchingly, "you haven't had a singing-lesson this week."
Marjolaine was confused, and a little angry. She had just exhausted the subject with her mother, and it was too bad to be thrust into the midst of it again by this comparative stranger. So she answered rather coldly, "I have n't been quite myself."
"So I saw," said Miss Ruth, examining her over her spectacles. A hot flush rose to Marjolaine's cheeks. Had she really been wearing her heart on her sleeve, and showing the whole Walk the state of her feelings? She must be more careful in future.
"Anything the matter?" asked Miss Ruth.
Marjolaine answered hastily, "Oh, nothing. Nothing to speak of."
"H'm," said Miss Ruth, violently biting off a cotton-end. Then she added, "Barbara was quite upset."
"How sweet of her!" cried Marjolaine.—Dear, sympathetic little Barbara!
"Oh! Not so much about you," said Miss Ruth rather acidly. "But she looks forward to sitting with you and Mr. Pringle, when you are singing."
"Is she so fond of music?" asked Marjolaine, glad to turn the conversation into a less personal channel.
"Bless your dear heart, no!" exclaimed Miss Ruth sharply. "Now, would she sit and listen to you if she were? She does n't know one note from another."
It seemed to Marjolaine that the conversation was becoming rather personal, so she held her tongue.
But Miss Ruth evidently had something on her mind of which she was anxious to relieve herself.
"No, it is n't that," she said with a world of meaning which challenged enquiry.
Marjolaine obliged her, although she felt no interest. "What is it, then?"
Having succeeded in getting the question she wanted, Miss Ruth made a feint of retreating. "Pfft!" she said, with the action of blowing some annoying insect away, and then, cryptically, "Oh! grant me patience!"
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, astonished at her violence.
"Well!" cried Ruth, still more sharply. "It seems to me the whole house is bewitched—that ever I should say such a thing."
Marjolaine grew more and more surprised. "Oh! I thought you were so happy!"
"I 'm happy enough," snapped Ruth, "because I 'm not a fool. But what with that feller upstairs, and Barbara down, a body has no peace of her life."
Now, what could she mean? Of course Mr. Pringle was upstairs, and of course Barbara was downstairs. How could that perfectly natural state of things affect the peace of Miss Ruth's life?
"Tell me," said Marjolaine.
"Ha' n't you noticed anything? No. I s'pose you 're too young. Don't know sheeps' eyes when you see 'em!"
What on earth had sheeps' eyes come into the story for?
"Sheeps' eyes?" Marjolaine asked, utterly puzzled.
"'T is n't for me to say anything," Miss Ruth continued, "but with him mooning about the house, like"—words failed her—"like I don't know what; and her moping, like a hen with the pip, it's enough to give a body the fantoddles—as my poor, dear mother used to say."
[image]"IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"
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"IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"
Marjolaine suddenly saw light. Here, under her very eyes, was another romance, like her own—only, of course, on an infinitely lower plane, because it held no thread of tragedy—and she had been blind to it. This was lovely! But she must make sure. She turned to Miss Ruth and asked eagerly—"Are they—are they fond of each other?"
Ruth quite unnecessarily bit off another cotton-end. "I don't know!" she cried crossly; but at once added, "Yes, of course they are!"
Marjolaine was more puzzled than ever. "Then, why don't they say so?" she asked, quite simply.
"That's what I want to know," said Miss Ruth.
Lovers who might be perfectly happy, kept apart for want of a word, thought Marjolaine. How wicked, and how silly! "You should speak to Mr. Basil," she said, with all the gravity of her nineteen years and of her bitter experience.
"Me!" cried Miss Ruth. "Bless your dear heart, he 'd up and run away. He 's that shy a body can't look at him but he wants to hide in a cupboard. He 's got it into his silly head he is n't good enough. As if anybody'd notice his shoulder!"
"Perhaps," said Marjolaine, pensively, "if Barbara showed him she liked him—Why don't you speak to her? Sympathetically."
"So I did, just now. Told her she was an idiot. What did she do? She burst out crying, and went and shut herself up with that parrot."
"Ah!" sighed Marjolaine, with a pathetic look at the Gazebo, where she had been so happy so short a time, so long ago, "Ah, yes! The old love!" How well she understood!
"Old frying-pan!" cried Ruth.
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, deeply shocked. "The poor parrot."
"Oh, that bird!—Marjory!" said Ruth, firmly, as if the time had come to utter a bitter but necessary truth at all costs, "Marjory, there are times when I 'd give anybody a two-penny bit to wring that bird's neck!"
But Marjolaine had not been listening to her. The mention of the parrot had set her thoughts working; her face suddenly lighted up with the inspired look of one who has just conceived an epoch-making idea. "Ruth!" she cried, running up to her.
Ruth naturally thought she was shocked. "Well, I don't care! I mean it. If it was n't for that bird—"
But Marjolaine had snatched Ruth's needlework away and was trying to drag her from the seat by both hands. "I was n't thinking of the bird! Yes, I was thinking of the bird, but I was n't thinking what you thought I was thinking. Oh! what nonsense you make me talk!"
"Whatever's got into the child's head?" cried Miss Ruth, swept off her feet.
"Come!" insisted Marjolaine. "Quick! Come, and tell Barbara I want her."
"What do you want her for?" asked Miss Ruth, struggling.
"I must n't tell you yet, she may refuse."
"Bless us and save us!" cried Miss Ruth, now on her feet, and struck by the change in Marjolaine's appearance, "now your cheeks are glowing again!"
"Maman said they would!" laughed Marjolaine. Positively, for the moment she had forgotten her sorrows. "Come along!"
"Wait! My mouth 's full of pins!"
Seeing the two ladies under the tree, Sir Peter Antrobus had come out, anxious for a little conversation. He was much disappointed when he observed they were leaving the lawn.
"Going in, just as I'm coming out?" said he, reproachfully.
"Yes," laughed Marjolaine on the top step, and looking up at the threatening sky, "like the little people in the weather cottages: you come out for the rain; and I go in for the sunshine." Which, of course was extremely inaccurate, but the correct statement would have spoiled her meaning entirely.
"How are the peas coming on, Admiral?" asked Miss Ruth, for the sake of politeness.
Sir Peter's temper was already ruffled by the disappointment of his sociable intentions. Now he burst out, "How the doose can they come on, Ma'am, when that everlasting cat roots 'em up every night?"
I am sorry to say, Miss Ruth laughed as he disappeared into the house. The Admiral came towards Sempronius, who was now wide awake and watching the Eyesore's float with lively interest; he shook his fist at him—I mean the Admiral shook his fist at the cat—with comic fury, and found himself shaking his fist at Lord Otford, who had just turned the corner.
"Shaking your fist at me, Peter?" asked Lord Otford, with a grim laugh.
"Hulloa, Otford!" cried the Admiral, feeling rather foolish.
Moreover, he was not particularly pleased to see Otford at that precise moment. Only half-an-hour ago he had surprised Marjolaine's confidence. He had not had time to think the matter over and make up his mind, and now that he found himself without warning face to face with Jack's father, he was torn between two conflicting emotions. On the one hand he felt he ought to tell Otford about Jack and Marjolaine. That was his plain duty; but it was one of those forms of duty which everybody tries to find some plausible excuse for evading. He had surprised Marjolaine's confidence: she had not given it voluntarily. On the other hand he suspected that Jack's breach of faith in not coming near the Walk for a whole week was due to some interference on the part of his father, and he was so fond of Marjolaine, and so jealous of the status of the Walk, that he resented such interference even before he knew whether Otford had interfered. His keen eye saw, even while they were shaking hands, that there was something on his friend's mind.
"How are you?" asked Lord Otford, perfunctorily. "Have you a moment to spare?"
"All day; thanks to this confounded government," growled the Admiral.
Lord Otford plunged into the thick of his business at once. "I am in great trouble," he blurted out, in the tone of a man who expects sympathy.
He didn't get it. "Damme! you're in trouble once a week!" said the Admiral. "Here! Come into the Gazebo."
Lord Otford started at the word. "The Gazebo?—Ha! Very appropriate!"
"Eh? Why?" asked Sir Peter, sitting on the seat in the summer-house and making room for his friend beside him. Lord Otford produced a crumpled letter from his pocket. "Here! Read this!" said he, thrusting it under Sir Peter's nose.
"Can't," said the latter, curtly, "haven't my spy-glass on me!"
"Well, listen." Lord Otford read the letter aloud, with ill-suppressed fury.—"'My lord—It is my painful duty to inform your Lordship that your Lordship's son, the Hon. John Sayle, is carrying on a clandestine love-affair with Mademoiselle Marjolaine Lachesnais, of Pomander Walk—'"
The Admiral had grown purple in the face. "Belay, there!" he roared.
Lord Otford took no notice, but went on reading: "'Yesterday they were together for an hour in the Gazebo—'"
The Admiral would have no more of it. "When did you get that, and who sent it?" he roared. The fact that the information was true was quite outweighed by the implication that an inhabitant of the Walk could have been guilty of the lowest form of treachery.
"It's signed, 'Your true Friend and Well-wisher,'" said Lord Otford, "and I had it on Sunday."
The Admiral could hardly speak. "Do you mean to say that damned, anonymous, Sabbath-breaking rag came from Pomander Walk?"
"I presume so."
"Who sent it?" cried the Admiral, jumping up and walking to and fro in a towering rage. "Show me the white-livered scoundrel, and by Jehoshaphat! I 'll break every bone in his body!" He turned sharply towards Otford. "Is it a man's writing, or a woman's?"
"It's vague: might be anybody's."
The Admiral was passing the houses of the Walk in review. "Can't be Sternroyd—Brooke-Hoskyn—Pringle—We 're none of us anonymous slanderers." His eye fell on the Eyesore with momentary suspicion. "Was it the Eyesore?"
"The Eyesore?" repeated Lord Otford, not understanding.
"That scare-crow, fishing. No; of course not. He does n't know you, and I don't believe he can write.—But, what of it, Jack? You're not worried by that rubbish! Why, it's a pack o' lies!" (Oh, Admiral, Admiral!) Lord Otford tried to speak. "Don't interrupt!—I'm here all the time. Nothing happens in Pomander Walk that I don't know. Don't interrupt!—I was here when Jack came last Saturday. He went back in his boat before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' because Madame swooned!"
He wiped his brow, and had the grace to add "Lord, forgive me!" as a silent prayer. After all, he had told no lie. He had only omitted to say how long Jack had been there before he saw him. And as he did n't know, what could he have said?
Otford found his opportunity of speaking at last. "Now, perhaps you 'll allow me to say it's all true," he shouted.
The Admiral shouted louder. "Do you take this blackguard's word rather than mine?" he roared, pointing to the letter. It was intolerable he should be doubted, even if he were not telling the whole truth.
"You confounded old porcupine," Lord Otford roared back at him, "Jack 's owned up to the whole thing!"
"What!" yelled the Admiral. "Don't shout like that! D' ye want the whole Walk to hear?—Sit down. Tell me again: quietly!"
"When I 'd read this letter, I taxed him with it," said Lord Otford, "and he owned up. He came here last Saturday: met the damned little French gel—"
"Jack!" roared the Admiral, flaring up.
"I'll withdraw 'damned.' Sat an hour in this infernal what-d'-ye-call-it, and thinks he 's in love with her." Sir Peter was about to speak. "Don't interrupt!—You know the Sayles when their blood 's up. My blood was up. Jack's confounded blood was up. You can imagine the scene we had. He's as pig-headed and obstinate as—as—"
"As his father," put in Sir Peter.
"Don't interrupt!" roared Lord Otford. "He's thrown over Caroline Thring—won't hear of her." Sir Peter chuckled. "The utmost I could get out of him was that he 'd wait a week to make sure of what he calls his mind."
"Aha!" said Sir Peter, delighted.
"Mind! Puppy! All the week he's gone about like a bear with a sore head! Had the impudence to refuse to speak to me! This morning he had the impudence to speak! And what d' ye think he said?"
"Serves ye right, whatever it was!" cried Sir Peter.
Lord Otford didn't hear him. "He said, 'The week 's up, and I 'm going to Pomander Walk!'"
"Good lad!" roared Sir Peter, slapping his thigh, and breaking into a loud guffaw.
"What!" shouted Lord Otford, jumping up. "You're mad! Think of what's at stake! Ninety-thousand acres!—For the daughter of a Frenchwoman from the Lord knows where. Who was the gel's father?—Or, rather, who was n't?"
"Jack!" roared the Admiral, in a burst of fury, jumping up in his turn and facing Otford.
"I withdraw!" cried Otford. "But think of it!" He was looking at the Walk. In the grey light of the coming shower the houses were certainly not seen at their best. "Think of it!" he said with a sweep of his cane condemning the whole Walk to instant annihilation. "An Otford taking his wife from these—these—Almshouses!"
The Admiral was livid—apoplectic—hysterical. Words failed him. His voice failed him. He could only gasp, "Almshouses!—Pomander Walk!—Almshouses!"
Lord Otford was alarmed at the effect his words had produced. "There! there!" he cried, almost conciliatorily, "I withdraw 'Almshouses!'"
"Withdraw more, sir!" said the Admiral, and for all his almost grotesque rage, there was a ring in his voice which compelled respect. "How dare you come here, abusing the sweetest, brightest, most winsome—"
"I believe you 're in love with her yourself!" cried Otford.
"And, damme, why not?—Take care how you talk about innocent ladies you 've never set eyes on!"
"That's it!" cried Otford, glad to get on safer ground. "That's why I 'm here. You are to present me to this Madame—whatever her confounded name is."
"In your present temper?" roared Sir Peter, whose own temper was at boiling point. "I'll walk the plank first!" He pointed to Madame's house. "There's her house: the white paint. Go and pay your respects." He came close up to Otford, and spoke straight into his face. "Your respects, Jack! You 'll find you have to!"
"I can't force my way into the house, unaccompanied, and you know it!"
"Then stay away, and be hanged!"
Lord Otford was nonplussed. He caught sight of the Gazebo. "I 'll stay here," he said doggedly, sitting down like a man who means never to move again, "and if Jack shows his nose—!"
The Admiral had begun to stride towards his house. He came back and put his red face round the side of the Gazebo. "I shall be watching, sir!" this with blood-curdling calmness. "And if you dare raise a disturbance, I 'll—" he could not think of anything bad enough. "I 'll—damme! I 'll set the Eyesore at you!"
He stumped off towards his home again, while Lord Otford sank back in his seat, folded his arms, and said, "Ha!" with grim determination.
At that moment Jack came hurrying round the corner and ran straight into the Admiral's arms. At that fateful moment also Madame must needs come out of her house. Fortunately she was preoccupied and did not see the frantic pantomime with which Sir Peter tried to explain to Jack that his father was hidden in the Gazebo. Madame called, "Marjolaine! Marjolaine!" As we know, Marjolaine was with the Misses Pennymint, and Madame received no answer. Lord Otford heard her from his hiding-place. "Aha!" he said to himself, "the mother!" and he sat up at attention.
"Gobblessmysoul!" whispered the Admiral, hoarsely. "The father here, and the mother there! Jack! Get away!"
Madame had turned to her house and was calling her old servant. "Nanette!"
Jack refused to budge. What he said I do not know; but Sir Peter grew still more frantic. Nanette appeared at the upstairs window. "Quoi, Madame?"
"I 'll be hanged if I stir!" said Jack.
"Où est donc Mademoiselle?" said Madame.
"Je ne sais pas, Madame." Madame went back into her little garden, and looked into the ground-floor window.
"Come inside, then!" said Sir Peter to Jack. But Jack saw the Eyesore, who was placidly fishing, and a broad grin spread all over his face. "No! Better idea!" he chuckled. He imparted the idea to the horrified Admiral in a whisper.
Madame spoke to Nanette again. "Vite! Allez voir si son chapeau est dans sa chambre!"
Nanette disappeared from the window, and Madame stood impatiently looking up at it awaiting her return.
Whatever Jack had said to the Admiral was of such a nature as to fill that ancient salt with horror. He threw up his arms, cried, "I wash my hands of it!" and dashed into his house. Jack quickly said something to the Eyesore which caused the latter to fling his rod down with alacrity, and, amazing to relate, he and Jack hurried round the corner and out of sight together.
Nanette reappeared with a huge Leghorn straw hat. "Oui, Madame, voilà le chapeau de Mademoiselle." Then, pointing to the Gazebo, "Mademoiselle doit être au pavillon."
"Non," said Madame, "je viens de l'appeler." But a sudden suspicion flashed across her mind. Could Marjolaine be there with Jack, and afraid to show herself? "Serait-il possible?"—she cried, and came hurriedly towards the summer-house.
Lord Otford had heard her conversation with Nanette, and had risen; so that Madame found herself abruptly face to face with her faithless lover.
CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH OLD LOVERS MEET, AND THECONSPIRACY COMES TO A HEAD
[image]Chapter IX headpiece
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Chapter IX headpiece
Madame knew him at a glance. To some extent she had been prepared for his coming by Jack's previous visit. As Jack was acquainted with Sir Peter, it was quite likely Lord Otford was also, and nothing was more probable than that he should come to look up his old friend. Nevertheless this sudden confrontation startled her, and she could not suppress a little "Oh!" of surprise.
Lord Otford, on his part, was too much occupied with his own anger, his outraged dignity, to pay more than very superficial attention to her. Moreover she had changed a great deal more than he. He had left her, a mere strip of a girl, and now she was a dignified and very beautiful woman. He was not thinking of Lucy Pryor at all at the moment, while her thoughts, if the truth must be told, were full of the Jack Sayle of old days. So they began their little duel with unequal weapons. Madame was absolutely self-possessed: Otford could not suppress a certain amount of nervousness in the presence of this calm and stately lady who was so utterly different from anything he had expected. However, he pulled himself together and put on his grandest and most overwhelming manner.
"I am the trespasser," he said, with a condescending bow, in answer to her startled cry. She inclined her head very slightly, and turned to go.
"May I detain you a moment?" said he, quickly.
She stopped and half turned towards him. "I am at a loss—" she said coldly, with raised eyebrows.
He explained. "I heard you calling your daughter." Then, very stiffly, "I presume you are Madame—ah—" he made pretence to consult the anonymous letter; this haughty person should know she was not of sufficient importance for him even to remember her name, "Madame Lachesnais."
Madame bowed almost imperceptibly and something very like a mischievous smile lurked in the corners of her lips.
"I am Lord Otford—" he gave his name quite simply, as a gentleman should, yet he managed to convey that it was a great name and that he expected the announcement of it to make its effect.
Madame made a slight movement with her hand as if she were brushing away something of no moment whatever; as if she declined to receive a name which could have no importance for her; as if she did n't care whether his name were Otford or Snooks. This disconcerted him. It was a new experience, and it was unpleasant. For the sake of something to say he pointed to the seat under the tree. "Ah—pray be seated." Madame saw the advantage she had already gained. She spoke as she might have addressed a poor beetle: "What you have to say can be of so little consequence—"
Lord Otford flushed angrily. Here was he, a great nobleman with a grievance, and this totally insignificant woman was treating him like a child! He spoke with some warmth. "I beg your pardon! What I have to say is of the utmost consequence."
"I shall be surprised," said Madame—"and I am waiting."
Lord Otford was still fuming. Her manner was really most disconcerting. "You—you make it somewhat difficult, ma'am," he blustered.
Nothing could stir her calmness. "Then why give yourself the trouble?" she said; and again moved as if to go.
"Pray wait!" cried he, hastily. All the fine outworks of sarcasm and irony which he had elaborately prepared against this meeting had vanished before the icy blast of her imperturbable coolness. He was hot; he was uncomfortable. He could only stammer, "The fact is—my foolish son—"
Madame held up a delicate hand and stopped him. "Ah!" she said, with a well-bred rebuke of his excitement, "I can spare you any further discomfort. Your son forced his acquaintance on my daughter in my absence a week ago. Be assured we are willing to overlook his lack of manners. The circumstance need not be further alluded to."
Here was a nice thing! In those few words she had turned the tables on him. Instead of metaphorically grovelling in the dust at his feet and entreating his pardon, she had become the accuser, and he now found himself forced to speak on the defensive.
"It must be alluded to! I must explain!" he cried.
"No explanation or apology is required," she went on implacably, "since under no circumstances shall we allow the acquaintance to continue."
Was he on his head or his heels? These were practically the very words he had meant to use. This was the shell he had meant to hurl into the enemy's camp, and here it was, exploding under his own feet!
"But my son has pledged his word to come again, and—"
Again she interrupted him. "Make yourself easy on that score," she said; and now there was even a note of contempt in her voice. "He has broken his word."
"That was my doing!" cried Lord Otford, almost apologetically. "I persuaded him to wait a week. I regret to say he means to come to-day."
"Well," answered Madame, with the utmost indifference, "Pomander Walk is public, and we cannot prevent him."
"But he 'll see your daughter!"
"I think not. Unless he breaks into the house."
"Upon my soul, I believe he 'll go that length!" What Lord Otford had intended should be a menace, turned to an appeal. "That is where I ask for your co-operation."
Madame looked him up and down with indignant protest. Really, he might have been poor Snooks. "Pardon me," she said, "not co-operation." She drew herself up and her eyes flashed. "But I shall defend my own."
She laid a peculiar stress on the word "defend," which arrested his attention.
"'Defend'?" said he, with amazement. "What do you mean?"
She looked him straight in the face, and spoke with intense feeling. "I mean, that no member of your family is likely to cross my threshold."
There was something so threatening, so avenging in her voice, that he fell back a pace and said, hushed, "You speak as though you nursed a grudge against my family!"
Madame smiled scornfully. "Oh! no grudge whatever." Then she added slowly and very quietly, "But I remember!"
"Remember what?" cried he, more and more bewildered.
For a moment she did not answer. Then she turned to him and spoke. "Am I so changed—Jack Sayle?"
He stared. "Indeed, ma'am—" then suddenly he saw and remembered. He could only exclaim, "Good God!"
"Are you still puzzled?" she asked, with that mysterious smile of hers.
"Lucy!"
"Lucy Pryor," she assented. She bowed and turned away.
Lord Otford was stunned. "No—no," he stammered. "Stop!—this alters the case entirely!"
She turned on him with raised eyebrows. "How?"
He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment. All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again, deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart—his only sweetheart—the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I—I don't know. I am stunned!—After all these years!"
She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness.
"Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother—and a mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic countenance, my lord!"
Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the less hearty curse.
Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she would not let him come to life again.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss! Puss! Puss!"
But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish! Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely stalked that fish. Not before.
The Admiral also had seen the skies darken. It was time to take in the thrush. So he leant out of his upstairs window to unhook the osier cage. His window and Mrs. Poskett's were so close together that—well—the Admiral and the widow could, at a pinch, have kissed if they had been so minded. But nothing was further from, the Admiral's thoughts.
"Sempronius!" screamed Mrs. Poskett.
"Ah!" chuckled the Admiral, "it's no use calling him, ma'am. He 's got his eye on the fish!"
"You don't mean to say the Eyesore's caught one!" cried Mrs. Poskett.
The Admiral laughed as he looked at the Eyesore. Laughed more than the occasion seemed to justify. "Ay, ay! he's wonderfully patient and persistent!"
The widow's face, as he leant out to see the fish, was very near the Admiral's.
"Astonishing what patience and persistence 'll do, Admiral," said she, coquettishly. She withdrew quickly and closed her window.
The Admiral was puzzled. What did she mean? But he shook off his forebodings. He turned to where the Eyesore, buried more than usual in his horrible old hat, was putting on new bait, and gave a low whistle. The Eyesore signalled to him to be quiet and at that moment he became aware of Madame, who was moving away from the Gazebo. "Gobblessmysoul! Madame!" he muttered to himself with inexplicable confusion, and hastily withdrew out of sight with his thrush.
Miss Barbara Pennymint came hopping down her steps, followed by Marjolaine. Madame had recovered her self-possession. "Ah!" she cried, seeing Marjolaine, "I was a little alarmed about you. Did you not hear me call?"
"No, Maman chérie."
Madame turned to Barbara. "Don't let her stay out if it rains." And with a pleasant nod to the two girls she moved into her house. She had need to be alone.
Marjolaine and Barbara locked their arms round each others' waists and came across the lawn.
Barbara turned up her pretty nose. "The Eyesore looks more revolting than ever!"
"Dreadful," assented Marjolaine, with a shudder. At this instant the Eyesore caught another fish! and Marjolaine gave a cry of surprise. Sempronius sat and watched.
"What's he doing now?" asked Barbara, in a whisper.
Marjolaine looked. Then she covered Barbara's eyes with her hand. "Don't look!" and in a tragic whisper, "He's putting on a worm!"
"Oh!" cried Barbara, with a shiver of disgust. They came down to the elm.
"It was impossible," said Marjolaine, "to talk in Ruth's presence, with Doctor Johnson screaming in the next room."
"Dearest," answered Barbara confidentially, "shall I confess that sometimes that bird—" she broke off—"but no! it were disloyal. Only, if Charles had given me a lock of his hair, perhaps it would have made less noise. Yet, now I think of it, that is a selfish wish, for he had been scalped."
"How dreadful!" cried Marjolaine. But she was full of her great idea, and went on at once. "Barbara, were you very much in love?"
Barbara's face grew very serious. "Dearest," she said reproachfully, "is that quite a delicate question?"
"Well," said Marjolaine, "I mean, are you still as much in love as ever?"
Barbara avoided her eyes. But she spoke with almost exaggerated feeling. "Dearest! Do you think love can change?"
Marjolaine thought a moment. I suppose she was consulting her own heart. Then she spoke very firmly. "No! I don't think so!"
"And do I not hear the sound of my darling's voice every time Doctor Johnson yells? Is not that enough to keep the flame of love alive even in the ashes of a heart however dead? Oh! if only that innocent fowl had been present when Charles used different language!"
"But did he?" asked Marjolaine innocently.
"I sometimes wonder," answered Barbara, deep in thought.
Marjolaine felt she had said a tactless thing. She must try to soften it. "Perhaps the loss of his hair—" she began.
"Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil's window from which the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came throbbing. "And—oh, dearest!—can any physical infirmity affect true love?" she cried rapturously.
At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not."
"I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm.
Marjolaine took both Barbara's hands in hers and forced her to face her. She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?"
Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!—how searching you are!"
"Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?"
Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine's sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest—did your mother match those lovely silks?"
Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin beautifully," she said.
Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way, she perched on Marjolaine's finger and pecked her on each cheek.
"I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine.
The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came nearer the girls.
Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you will never tell a living soul?"
"Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore's caught another fish!"
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara.
Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the Eyesore, too!"
"I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery element."
"Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms."
"Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!—I shall let the worm i' the bud feed on my damaged cheek."
The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer.
"Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil's cheek is being fed on, too?"
"Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara.
Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it is?"
Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then she added, shortly, "Then why does n't he speak?"
"Suppose he 's too shy?"
Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n't men silly?"—She luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long."
Marjolaine breathed into her ear, "But suppose a third person spoke!"
"You!" exclaimed Barbara, with delight.
"No!" said Marjolaine, rather shocked. "That would not do at all. I could n't." The Eyesore was very near them. Marjolaine saw him. "Hush!" she whispered, and drew Barbara away. "Hush! The Eyesore!"
Barbara looked from her to the Eyesore and back again with bewilderment. "You don't mean he 's to be Cupid's messenger!"
Marjolaine laughed. "No, no. Listen." She sank her voice to a mysterious whisper. In spite of her own sorrow she was enjoying herself immensely. "Listen, and try not to scream." Barbara quivered with excitement. Marjolaine went on, "Doctor Johnson talks, does n't he?"
Barbara looked at her in amazement. "Doctor John—?"
"And he learns easily?"
"But what—?"
"Let Basil hear it from him!" said Marjolaine, triumphantly.
"Hear what?" almost screamed Barbara.
Marjolaine laughingly took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Oh, you little goose!" she cried. Then she added, very deliberately and clearly, "Teach the parrot to say—'Barbara loves you!'"
Barbara did, I assure you, leap into the air, and Marjolaine had her hand over her mouth only just in time to stifle a scream which would have brought the entire Walk to its doors and windows.
But Barbara was seized with instant remorse.
She put Marjolaine away from her with a gesture which would have done credit to Mrs. Siddons. She spoke in a tone of mingled heroism and reproach: "Charles's only gift, turned to such uses! Oh, Marjory!"
Marjolaine was quite unabashed. "Would n't Charles be pleased to know his gift had been the means of making you happy?"
"From what I can remember of him, I should say decidedly not," said Barbara, rather snappishly.
The Eyesore was now close to the Gazebo.
"Look!" cried Marjolaine. "The Eyesore's invading the whole Walk!"
But little Barbara cared. Also her momentary remorse had entirely vanished. If she had been on a tree she would have hopped from branch to branch. As it was she hopped all across the lawn, clapping her hands and twittering. "Oh! I can't bother about him!" she said. "Let him invade! Oh! it's such a splendid idea! Oh! you 're such a clever girl! Oh! my goodness, what shall I do?"
Marjolaine was anxious on the Eyesore's account. Were the Admiral to see him, there would be a terrible outburst of anger. "I'll speak to him," she said, summoning all her courage, "I 'll save him from Sir Peter's wrath!"
"No! no!" cried Barbara; "stick to business! Tell me more about the bird!"
"Stand by me!" entreated Marjolaine. "Hold my hand!"
"I daren't! I'm frightened!" cried Barbara, "and—and—and I want to begin teaching the bird!"
"Treacherous Barbara!" cried Marjolaine. But before the words were out of her mouth Barbara had scuttled into the house and slammed the door.
And before Marjolaine had recovered from that shock the Eyesore had hurled his hat and smock into the Gazebo, and she was in Jack's arms.