For one dear, short half-hour we had wandered in the park. The sunshot glades hung out an invitation it would have been churlish to refuse. And so in and out of the tall bracken, under the spreading oaks, close to the gentle-eyed deer, we had roamed for a while at will, carelessly, letting the world slip. Sir Peter and his lady taking the air.
And now we were back in the gentle garden, facing the old grey house, watching the smoke rise from a tall chimney, a slight, straight wisp against the background of blue. And—the sun was low.
I sighed. Somehow it seemed such a pity. I glanced at my companion. She looked rather wistful.
"Why is everything all wrong?" I said suddenly.
She smiled a little.
"Is it?"
"Of course it is. Haven't we got to slink away and leave all this? My dear, it's all utterly wrong. The time is out of joint—dislocated."
"It isn't really, Peter."
I looked at her quickly. Her eyes were wide open now, and very bright.
"You're right, lass," said I. "If one goes up a backwater, I suppose one's got to come down again. Only—
"Only it's been a rather short backwater, hasn't it?"
"It has been very sunny, Peter."
A pause, then:
"It was sweet of you to say that," I said. "Thank you." But, as I spoke, I did not look at her. I dared not.
A clock chimed the three-quarters. A quarter to seven. Thank you. A moment later we were arranging our escape.
When retrieved, our impedimenta would consist of her parasol and dressing-bag, and my dressing-case. My stick and gloves were in the hall, and I decided to let them go. Her bag was in a fair bedroom—a little brass knocker upon the door—hard by the top of the staircase. She had heard them put my case in the room adjoining. Very well. She was to sit—loll, if she liked—in the arbour, where tea had been served, while I ventured indoors and secured the luggage. Once across the lawn, I was to drop it over the sunk fence close to the drive. Together we could then stroll towards the lodge gates. I should leave her half—way, come by the wood to the fence, take up our chattels, and join her again somewhere on the verge of the grounds close to the lodge gates. Then we could scramble over the oak palisade into the road.
As I strolled towards the dining-room, wheels crunched on the gravel-drive. I turned to see a wagonette swinging down the avenue.
There was a writing-table in the bedroom window, and before I crept out of the room I sat down and wrote a few lines:
"To THE HOUSEKEEPER—Lady Pan and I regret the unfortunate confusion for which a certain similarity of name and title has been responsible.
"(SIR PETER PAN.)
Then I took a five-pound note from my case and slipped it into the envelope. I addressed the latter, and put it with the two letters and the telegram on the dressing-table.
On my way indoors and upstairs I had encountered no one. Incidentally, I should not have minded if I had. But now it was a very different matter. Mentally and physically the luggage embarrassed me. My appearance proclaimed an exodus—suggested a flight. Of course, if I did meet a servant, I should try and bluff my way out; but—— There was no doubt about it this was one of the tighter places.
I lighted a cigarette. Then I put the parasol under my arm and opened the door. Not a sound. I picked up her bag and my case, and started.
I am sure there is not another edifice in England with so many creaking boards. They shrieked beneath me at every step. At the top of the stairs I put down the luggage and listened carefully. As yet there were no lights burning, and it was more than dusk in the hall below. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and began the descent. At the bottom I ran into the footman. He was very nice about it, though I am certain the dressing-case bruised his shin. Then:
"Excuse me, sir," he said, and switched on the light.
And with the light came the brain-wave.
"I want the car at once," I said. "There's been some terrible mistake. This isn't our luggage. I don't know whose it is. The label on this bag says 'Whinnerley Hall', and that's not my dressing-case. I'm not even sure that this is her ladyship's parasol."
"Not—not yours, sir?"
"Certainly not. Beastly things." I flung them down in the hall.
"Never seen them before in my life. Order the car, man; order the car. I want to take them back to the station and find out what's become of our own."
The footman fled. When the housekeeper appeared, breathless, I was sitting on a table, swinging the parasol and smoking angrily.
"Is the car coming?" I demanded.
"Yes, indeed, sir. It'll be round in a moment. What a dreadful thing to have happened, sir. I can't understand—"
"Neither can I, except that they're both something like our things. But look at that label. This isn't Whinnerley Hall, is it?"
"No, indeed, sir."
"Well, have them put in the car. I'll go and find her ladyship. I'm afraid she'll be terribly upset."
I flung out of the house. Thirty seconds later I was explaining things to an open-mouthed girl in the arbour. As I finished, I heard the car coming round from the garage.
"Come along, dear." I glanced at my watch. "With any luck we shall just catch the seven-ten on to Whinnerley. Remember, you're terribly upset and simply frantic about your jewellery, especially the tiara Uncle George gave you. Do you think you could cry? I should have to kiss you then."
Again the faint smile. The next minute we were in the car, rushing down the avenue. There was the white banner, hanging very still now, for the faint breeze had died with the day. As we approached the lodge gates I leaned forward and looked across her—she was on my right—looked away over the park to where the sun had set. The sky was flaming.
"Sic transit," said I.
"Good-bye, backwater," said she.
Her voice was not unsteady, but there was that in her tone that made me look at her. Her lashes were wet.
As the car swung out of the gates, our hands touched. I took hers in mine and held it. Then I started. It was the left hand, but there was no ring upon its fingers. I tightened my hold. So we sat for two minutes or more. Then:
"Do you think they would see?" I said, glancing at the chauffeur and groom.
"I'm afraid they might. But—"
"But what, darling?"
"It wouldn't matter very much if they did, would it?"
We reached the station simultaneously with the seven ten. As the groom opened the door—
"Come along, dear." I handed her out. Turning to the servant, "Bring the bag and the dressing—case," I added. "Quick!"
"Yes, sir."
A small boy waved an implement and uttered a feeble protest about tickets, but we thrust past him on to the platform. There I looked round wildly.
"Where's Delphine?" I cried.
"I don't believe she's come," wailed my companion.
I turned to the groom.
"You'd better go back," I said. "Put those things down and go back to the car, in case we miss her ladyship's maid. Don't let her go off in the wagonette."
"Very good, sir."
He put the luggage on a seat and ran back to the exit. Exactly opposite to where we were standing was a first-class carriage. As the guard's whistle was blown:
"Have you got my bag, Peter?" said a plaintive voice.
"Yes, m'dear," and Sir Peter and Lady Tagel passed down the platform. We watched them greedily.
The train began to move.
"The last lap," said Berry. "Courage, my travel-stained comrades. Where was it we broke down? Oh, yes, Scrota Gruff. Such a sweet name, so full of promise, so—"
Then he took his head in and pulled up the window.
"Fancy you two being in the next carriage all the time," said Daphne. "I expect Boy's introduced himself, Julia dear. Yes, I thought so. Still for what it's worth, my brother—Lady Julia Lory."
Which is why she's 'my lady'. Though she always says it isn't.
"Who is Silvia? What is she?That all her swains commend he.Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admired be."
The song and its melody floated out into the night, away and over the sleeping countryside. In no way breaking the silence; rising up out of it, rather. It was as if Nature dreamed as she lay sleeping, a dream clear-cut, melodious. Over all the moon hung full, turning the world to silver. Never had music so fairy a setting.
"Then to Sylvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling,She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwellingTo her let us garlands bring."
Half-past eleven o'clock of a fine moonlit night, and I was alone with the car all among the Carinthian Alps. It was for Fladstadt that I was making. That was the Bairlings' nearest town. Their place, St. Martin, lay twenty odd miles from Fladstadt. But in the town people would show me the way. At St. Martin I should find Daphne and the others, newly come from Vienna this afternoon. Friends of Jonah's, the Bairlings. None of us others knew them.
At ten o'clock in the morning I had slid out of Trieste, reckoning to reach Fladstadt in twelve hours. And, till I lost my way, I had come well. I had lost it at half-past nine and only discovered that I had lost it an hour later. It was too late to turn back then. I tried to get on and across by by-roads—always a dangerous game. Just when I was getting desperate I had chanced on a signpost pointing to the town I sought. The next moment one of the tires had gone.
The puncture I did not mind, The car had detachable wheels, and one was all ready, waiting to be used. But when I found that I had no jack...Better men than I would have sworn. The imperturbable Jonah would have stamped about the road. As for Berry, with no one there to suffer his satire, suppressed enmity would have brought about a collapse. He would probably have lost his memory.
There was nothing for it, but to drive slowly forward on the flat tire. When I came to a village I could rouse an innkeeper, and if the place did not boast a jack, at least sturdy peasants should raise the car with a stout pole. Accordingly, I had gone on.
For the first five miles I had not lighted on so much as a barn. Then suddenly I had swung round a bend of the road to see a great white mansion right ahead of me. The house stood solitary by the roadside, dark woods rising steep behind. No light came from its windows. Turreted, white-walled, dark-roofed in the moonlight, it might have been the outpost of some fairy town. The building stood upon the left-hand side of the way, and, as I drew slowly alongside, wondering if I dared knock upon its gates for assistance, I found that house and road curled to the left together. Round the bend I had crept, close to the white facade. As I turned, I saw a light above me, shining out over a low balcony of stone. I had stopped the car and the engine, and stepped on tiptoe to the other side of the road. From there I could see the ceiling of a tall, first-floor room, whose wide, open windows led on to the balcony. I saw no figure, no shadow. For a minute or two I had heard no sound. Then, with no warning, had come an exquisite touching of keys and a girl's voice.
"To her let us garlands bring."
The melody faded and ceased. The refrain melted into the silence. For a moment I stood still, my eyes on the balcony above. Then I slipped noiselessly to the car, picked up a rug from the back seat and laid it, folded small, on the edge of the car's back. Half on the padded leather and half on the cape hood, strapped tight, I laid it. Standing upon this perilous perch, I was just able to lay my fingers upon the cold edge of the balcony's floor. With an effort I could grasp one of the stone balusters. An idea occurred to me, and I got carefully down. One of the luggage-carrier's straps was six feet long. I had it loose in a moment. A minute later and I had wheedled it round the baluster I could clutch. Buckled, it made a loop three feet in length that would have supported a bullock. I was about to soar, when I remembered the car. I jumped down once more, turned the key of the switch, and slipped it into my pocket. No one could steal her now. The next second I had my foot in the thong.
I sat on the coping, looking into the room. Broad and lofty it was, its walls hung with a fair blue paper. A handsome tapestry, looped up a little on one side, masked the tall double doors, and in the far corner stood a great tiled stove for burning wood. From the ceiling was hanging a basin of alabaster—an electric fitting, really. The powerful light of its hidden lamps spread, softened, all about the chamber. The blue walls bore a few reproductions of famous pictures. Meisonnier seemed in high favour, while Sir Joshua's Nellie O'Brien surveyed the salon with her quiet, steady gaze. A great bowl of fresh flowers stood on the grand piano.
The girl herself was sitting half on the edge of an old gate-table in the middle of the room. The toe of one rosy slipper touched the polished boards, and her other foot swung gently to and fro. One of her short sleeves she had pushed up to the shoulder and was looking critically at a scratch, which showed red, high up on her round, white arm. A simple evening frock of old-rose colour, dainty old gold slippers to keep her feet. Her skin was wonderfully white, her hair dark and brown. This was cut straight across her forehead in French fashion, and then brought down and away over the ears. Her face was towards me, as she examined her arm. I could see she was very pretty.
"Don't you think you ought to apologize?" she said suddenly.
Her words took me by surprise. For a moment I did not answer.
"Eh?" she said, looking up.
"Yes," I said, "I do. Fact is, I haven't any, and the gardens are all shut now."
"Any what?" she said, letting the sleeve slip back into its place.
"Garlands, Silvia."
She smiled for an instant. Then:
"How dare you come up like this?"
"I wanted to see what Silvia was like."
She stifled a little yawn.
"You heard me say she was holy, fair and wise."
"And excelling, I know. But the second verse asks,
"Is she kind as she is fair?"
"Well?"
"I came up to see if she was."
"And is she?"
"I don't think she is quite."
"Can you get down all right?"
"In fact, I'm sure she isn't," I said. "But then—"
"What?"
"She'd have to be most awfully kind to be that, Silvia. Good-bye."
"I say," said Silvia.
"Yes? I said, with one leg over the balustrade.
"As you're here, if you would like to come in and sit down for a little—I mean, I don't want to seem inhospitable."
"I knew it," said I. "I knew she was, really."
"Goodbye, Silvia. Thank you very, very much all the same. I've found out what I wanted to know."
I slipped over the coping and set my foot in the thong. There was a rustle of silk and a quick step on the balcony. Then two soft hands took hold of my wrists. I looked up at the big eyes, the face white in the moonlight, the dark, straight-cut hair.
"Wait!" she said. "Who are you and where do you come from?"
"My name's Valentine," said I. "I am a gentleman of Verona."
The small mouth twitched. "Be serious," she said. I told her my name and spoke of my run from Trieste, adding that I sought Fladstadt and St. Martin. She heard me in silence. Then:
"Are you tired?" she said quietly.
"A little."
"Then I tell you that you may come in and rest for a while. Yes, and talk to me. Presently you can go on. I will show you the way."
She let go my wrists and stood up, clasping her hands behind her head.
"You're very hospit—"
"It isn't a question of hospitality or anything else," she said slowly. "I just tell you that you may come in if you want to."
I gazed at the slim, straight figure, the bare bent arms, the soft white throat. Then I drew myself up and bestrode the coping.
"Of course," I said, "this is a dream. In reality I am fast asleep in the car. Possibly I have met with an accident and am still unconscious. Yet your hands felt warm..."
"And your wrists very cold, sir. Come along in and sit down. Even if you are dreaming I suppose you'll be able to drink some coffee if I give it you."
"If you give it me."
I drew up the thong and followed her into the room. She motioned me to sit in a deep chair and put cigarettes by my side. Then she lighted the lamps that were set beneath two little silver coffee-pots, standing on a tray on the gate-table. I watched her in silence. When the lamps were burning, she turned and seated herself on the table as I had seen her first. She regarded me curiously, swinging that little right leg.
"I shouldn't have liked you to think me unkind," she said, with a grave smile.
I rose to my feet.
"Silvia," I said.
"Sir"
"I do not know what to say. Yet I want to say something. I think you are very gentle, Silvia. If I were old, I think the sight of you would make me feel young again, and if Shakespeare had known you, I think he would have written more sonnets and fewer plays."
Silvia spread out deprecating white arms and bowed low.
"I doubt it," she said. "But I know he would have given me a cigarette."
"I beg your pardon," said I, handing her the box.
When I had given her a light, she turned again to the coffee.
"It ought to be hot enough now, I think. D'you mind using my cup? I don't take sugar."
"It will be a privilege, Silvia."
"Milk?"
"Please."
The hot cafe-au-lait was very grateful. Despite the season, my long drive through the mountain air had left me a little cold. I took my seat on an arm of the deep chair. Outside, somewhere close at hand, a clock struck twelve.
"The witching hour," said I. "How is it you're not in bed and asleep, Silvia?"
"Sleep! What with the noise of passing cars?"
"I forgot," said I. "The continuous roar of the traffic here must be very trying. The congestion between here and Villach is a disgrace. I met three carts in the last forty odd miles myself. Can't something be done about it?"
"-And the curiosity of cold-wristed burglars—By the way, I can't get over your climbing up like that, you know. It's all right, as it happens, and I'm rather glad you did, but this might have been a bedroom or—or anything."
"Or a bathroom. Of course it might. But then, you see, you very seldom find a piano in the bathroom nowadays, Silvia. Incidentally, what a sweet room this is."
"Do you like my pictures?"
"Awfully. Especially the one on the gate-table."
My lady blew smoke out of a faint smile. Then:
"If it comes to that, there's rather a good one on the arm of your chair," she said.
"Yes. By the same artist, too. But the one on the table knocks it. That'll be hung on the line year after year."
"What line?"
"At the Academy of Hearts. I beg your pardon, my dear. It slipped out."
Silvia threw back her dainty head and laughed merrily. Presently:
"But the one on the table's damaged," she said. "Didn't you see the scratch?"
"And the one on the chair wants cleaning badly. In its present state they wouldn't hang it anywhere except at Pentonville. But the scratch. How did you get it?"
"Ah! That was the Marquis. We were by the window, and when you slipped that strap round, he jumped like anything. He was in my arms, you see."
"I'm awfully sorry; but do you often embrace nobles, and how do you say good-bye to dukes? I mean to say, I haven't got my patent with me, and my coronet's in the store—I mean, strong room; but anyone who doesn't know me will tell you—Besides, I never scratch."
"The Marquis is a Blue Persian."
"These foreign titles," I murmured scornfully.
"Don't be patronizing," said Silvia. "You know where Pride goes. Besides, I've met some very nice counts."
I leaned forward. "I know. So've I. Barons, too. The last I struck's doing seven years now. But you're English, Silvia. English, d'you hear? I'll bet they're all over you out here. I know them. I'm a fool, but I don't like to think of your—I mean, I'd rather be an English—er—"
"Burglar?"
We both laughed, and I got up. "Silvia," I said, "tell me the best way to Fladstadt and turn me out while there is yet time."
"What do you mean?"
"This. I've already been in love with you for a quarter of an hour. In another ten minutes I shall be sitting at your feet. Half an hour later—"
"You will be just running into Fladstadt. It's straight on. You can't miss the way."
"And St. Martin? Have you ever heard of it?"
She puckered her brows.
"Isn't that where some English people have a place? People called—er—Waring, is it?"
"Bairling," said I.
"Bairling. That's it. Let's see. I'm afraid it's some miles from Fladstadt."
"Twenty, I'm told."
"About that."
"And this is how far?"
"From Fladstadt? About twenty-three."
I groaned. "Forty-three miles to go, and a flat tire," I said.
"Now far's the next village?"
"Why?"
"I want to get another wheel on."
"If you like to wait here a little longer, my brother'll be back with the car. He's on the way from Fladstadt now. That's why I'm sitting up. He'll give you a jack."
"You're awfully good, Silvia. But have you forgotten what I said?"
"About sitting at my feet? No, but I don't think you meant it. If I did, I should have rung long ago."
"Thank you," said I.
"Of course," she went on; "you're only a burglar, but you are—English."
"Yes, Silvia. I mightn't have been, though."
"You mean, I didn't know whether you were English or not, till after you'd climbed up? Nor I did. But one of the men's up, and there's a bell-push under the flap of the table."
She slipped a hand behind her. "I'm touching it now," she added.
"I wondered why you didn't sit in a chair," I said, with a slow smile. A deep flush stole over the girl's features. For a moment she looked at me with no laughter in her eyes. Then she slipped off the table and moved across the room to an open bureau. She seemed to look for something. Then she strolled back to the table and took her seat on its edge once more.
"Is that a car coming?" she said suddenly, her dark eyes on the floor.
I listened. "I don't think so," I said, and stepped out on to the balcony.
There was no sound at all. It was the dead of night indeed. I glanced over the balustrade at the car. Her headlights burned steadily, making the moonlit road ahead more bright.
"I can hear nothing," I said, coming back into the boudoir.
"Look," said Silvia, pointing over my shoulder.
As I turned, something struck me on the cheek. I stooped and picked it up. A piece of flexible cord about five inches long. I swung round and looked at the girl. On the table a pair of scissors lay by her side.
"Why have you done this?" I demanded.
She raised her eyebrows by way of answer and reached for a cigarette. As she lighted it, I saw that her hand was trembling.
"Silvia, dear, surely you don't think—"
"Must you go?"
"It was a poor joke of mine, I know; but—"
"It was. I don't think a count or a baron would have said such a rotten thing."
Her eyes flashed and she was trembling all over. From being pretty, she had become beautiful.
"Perhaps not," said I steadily. "But if they had, they would have meant it, Silvia."
"As you did."
I coiled the flexible cord about a finger, loosed it and thrust it into my pocket.
"I'll go now," I said, "as I came."
"Like a thief."
"Like a thief. You have been wonderfully kind, and I—I have spoiled everything. Let's try and forget this evening. For you, a car passed in the night, the hum of its engine swelling up, only to fade again into the silence. For me, I lingered to listen to the words of a song, and when it was done, sped on into the shadows. I wish you hadn't cut that bell, lass."
"Why?"
I walked out on to the balcony and swung myself over the coping.
"Because then I should have asked if I might kiss you."
When I had lowered myself on to the seat of the car, I unbuckled the strap and started to pull it down. But the buckle caught on the baluster, and I had to stand on my old perch to reach and loosen it. I did so, balancing myself with one hand on the balcony's door. As the strap slipped free, there was a burning pain in my fingers. With a cry I tore them away, lost my balance, and fell sideways into the car on to the back of the front seat. I stood up unsteadily. It hurt me to breathe rather, and there was a stabbing pain in my right side.
"Are you hurt?" said a quick voice above me. Dazedly I raised my head. Silvia was leaning over the balcony, one hand to her white throat. I could hear her quick-coming breath.
"No," I said slowly, "I'm not. But until you tell me that you know I did not mean what I said, I will not believe that you did not mean to stand upon my fingers."
"Are you hurt, lad?"
"No. Did you hear what I said?"
Silvia stood up, her hands before her on the coping.
"You know I didn't."
Without a word I stepped carefully out of the car. The pain was intense. It was as if my side was being seared with a hot iron. How I started the car I shall never know. The effort brought me to my knees. Somehow I crept into my seat, took out the clutch and put in the first speed. I was moving. Mechanically I changed into second, third, and top. We were going now, but the trees by the wayside seemed to be closing in on me. The road was really ridiculously narrow. I could see a corner coming. The pain was awful. My head began to swim, and I felt the near wheel rise on the bank. I wrenched the car round, took out the clutch and dragged the lever into neutral. As I jammed on the hand-brake, I seemed to see many lights. Then came the noise of a horn, cries, and the sound of tires tearing at the road. I fell forward and fainted.
I could smell Daphne. Somewhere at hand was my sister's faint perfume: I opened my eyes.
"Hullo, Boy!" said Jill, her small, cool hand on my forehead.
"Better, darling?" said Daphne, brushing my cheek with soft lips.
"I'm all right," I said, raising myself on my left elbow. Still the stabbing pain in my right side. "Where are we?"
"In the hall at St. Martin, dear. How did it all happen?"
"How did I get here?" I asked. "And you—I don't understand."
"We nearly ran you down, old chap." Berry's voice. "About a quarter of a mile from here, towards Fladstadt. But why were you driving away?"
I stared at him. "Driving away?" I said slowly. "Then—"
There were quick steps and the rustling of a dress.
Then Silvia spoke. "What is it, Bill? Tell me. Who's hurt?"
"It's all right, m'dear," said the man's voice. "Mrs. Pleydell's brother's met with an accident. We found him in the road. Don't make a noise. This is my sister, Mrs. Pleydell."
"How d'you do?" said Daphne. "My brother seems—"
"I'm all right," I said suddenly. "I'd lost my way, see? And one of the tires went, just as I was passing a big white house on the left. I stopped under a balcony, I think."
"That's right," said Bill Bairling. "Balcony of Silvia's room."
"I never knew it was St. Martin, though. I must have cut across country somehow. Still. Well, there was no jack on the car so I couldn't do anything. Just as I was getting in again, I heard a noise above me and turned. My foot slipped on the step, and I fell on my side. Couple of ribs gone, I think. I tried to get on to Fladstadt. Is the car all right?"
"And you said you weren't hurt," cried Silvia, sinking on her knees by Jill.
"Was it you who asked me?" I spoke steadily, looking her full in the eyes.
"Yes," said Silvia.
"I know I did. But then, you know, I don't always mean what I say." Then the pain surged up once more, and I fainted.
"Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repairTo help him of his blindness,And, being helped, inhabits there."
The singing was very gentle. Overnight the song had floated into the air, rich, full, vibrant; but now a tender note had crept into the rendering, giving the melody a rare sweetness. I listened pleasedly. My side was very sore and stiff. Also my head ached rather.
"Priceless voice that little girl's got," said Berry in a low voice.
"Isn't she a dear, too?" said Daphne. "Fancy giving up her own bedroom, so that we could have the salon next door."
"I know. But I wish she wouldn't keep on reproaching herself so. If a girl likes to step on to her own balcony, it's not her fault if some fellow underneath falls over himself and breaks a couple of ribs. However. When's the comic leech coming back?"
"This afternoon," said my sister. "But he'll wake before then. I don't expect he'll remember much about last night. I'm so thankful it's not more serious."
"How soon did he say he'd be up?"
"Inside a week. It's a clean fracture. Of course, he'll be strapped up for some time. Fancy his going on, though."
"Must have been temporarily deranged," said my brother-in-law airily. "Shock of the fall, I expect."
"Rubbish!" said his wife. "Just because you'd have lain there, giving directions about your funeral and saying you forgave people, you think anybody's mad for trying to get on. Boy has courage."
"Only that of his convictions," said Berry. "You forget I've got a clean sheet. My discharge from the Navy was marked 'Amazing'. The only stain upon my character is my marriage. As for my escutcheon, I've shaved in it for years."
"Fool!" said his wife.
"I shall turn my face to the wall if you're not careful."
"Don't," said Daphne. "Remember, it's not our house.
"There was a tap at the door. Then:
"May I come in?" said Silvia.
"Of course you may, dear. No. He's still asleep."
"It's nearly twelve," said Silvia. "Won't you go and rest a little, and let me stay here? You must be so tired. I'll call you the moment he wakes."
Daphne hesitated. "It's awfully good of you—"
"But it isn't. I'd love to."
"The truth is, she's afraid to trust you, Miss Bairling," said Berry. "She thinks you're going to steal his sock-suspenders."
"Will you leave the room?" said my sister.
"After you, beloved."
I could hear Silvia's gentle laughter. Then:
"I shall come back about one, dear, if you don't send for me before," said Daphne.
The next moment I heard the door close, and Silvia seated herself on my left by the side of the bed. I opened my off eye. I lay in a fair, grey-papered chamber, darkened, for the green shutters were drawn close about the open windows. Some of their slides were ajar, letting the bright sunshine slant into the room.
"There was once," I said, "a fool." A smothered exclamation close to my left ear. "A fool, who did everything wrong. He lost his way, his heart, his head, and, last of all, his balance. In that order. Yet he was proud. But then he was only a fool."
"But he was—English," she murmured.
"Yes," I said.
"And there was another fool," said Silvia. "A much bigger one, really, because, although she never lost her way or her head or her balance, she lost something much more precious. She lost her temper."
"But not her voice," said I. "And the fools went together to Scotland Yard, and there they found the way and the head and the balance and the temper. But not the heart, Silvia."
"Plural," said Silvia, softly. I opened my near eye and turned my head. The first thing I saw was a rosy arm, lying on the edge of my pillow. Within reach.
"I say," I whispered. "Is the bell in this room all right?"
When I had drawn blood for the third time, I felt that honour was satisfied, so I cleaned the safety razor carefully and put it away.
Quarter of an hour later I entered the dining-room.
"I said so," said Daphne.
"I know," said I, frowning.
"You don't even know what I said."
"I know that some surmise of yours has proved correct, which is enough."
The coffee really was hot. After drinking a little, my smile returned.
"Tell him," said Berry.
"We've been thinking it over," said Daphne, "and we've come to the conclusion that you'd better call."
"On whom? For what?"
"Be call-boy."
I rose to my feet.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "I have to thank you this day—it is meant for a day, isn't it?—for the honour you have done me. Although I can scarcely hope to sustain the role in a manner worthy of the best traditions of—"
"We'd cast you for something else, if it was safe," said Daphne.
"You don't really think I'm going to call, do you?"
"Why not?"
"And have to stand in the wings while you all get crowds of cabbages and things. Not much! I've been relying on this show ever since Berry trod on the big marrow."
"Well, of course, there is Buckingham," said Berry.
"Or the soothsayer," said Jill.
"You are now talking," I said. "Soothsaying is one of my fortes—my Martello tower, in fact. Of course, Hurlingham—"
"Buckingham, stupid!"
"Well, Buckingham, then, has his points. Whom does he espouse?"
"He doesn't espouse anyone."
"Whom does he love, then?"
Berry and Daphne looked uneasily at one another. I turned to Jonah, who was deep in The Sportsman.
"Who's Buckingham in love with, Jonah"
"Down and four to play. What?" said that worthy.
"Oh, Buckingham? He's hanging round the Queen mostly, I think, but he's got two or three other irons in the fire."
"I will play Hurl—Buckingham," said I.
When Berry had finished, I reminded him that he had suggested the part, and that my mind was made up.
After a lengthy argument, in the course of which Berry drew a stage on the table-cloth to show why it was I couldn't act:
"Oh, well, I suppose he'd better play it," said Daphne: "but I scent trouble."
"That's right," I said. "Let me have a copy of the play."
Berry rose and walked towards the door. With his fingers on the handle, he turned.
"If you don't know what some of the hard words mean," he said, "I shall be in the library."
"Why in the library?" said Daphne.
"I'm going to write in another scene."
"Another scene?"
"Well, an epilogue, then."
"What's it going to be?"
"Buckingham's murder," said Berry. "I can see it all. It will be hideously realistic. All women and children will have to leave the theatre."
As he went out:
"I expect the Duke will fight desperately," said I.
Berry put his head round the door.
"No," he said, "that's the dastardly part of it. It is from behind that his brains are dashed out with a club."
I stretched out my hand for a roll.
"Do you know how a log falls?" said Berry. "Because, if—"
I could not get Daphne to see that, if Berry had not withdrawn his head, the roll would not have hit the Sargent. However.
The good works of which Daphne is sometimes full occasionally overflow and deluge those in her immediate vicinity. Very well, then. A local institution, whose particular function has for the moment escaped me, suddenly required funds. Perhaps I should say that it was suddenly noised abroad that this was the case, for it was one of the kind that is always in this uncomfortable plight. If one day someone were to present it with a million pounds and four billiard tables, next week we should be asked to subscribe to a fund to buy it a bagatelle board. At any rate, in a burst of generosity, Daphne had undertaken that we would get up a show. When she told us of her involving promise, we were appalled.
"A show?" gasped Jonah.
"Yes," said Berry. "You know, a show—, display. We are to exhibit us to a horrified assembly."
"But, Daphne darling," said Jill. "What have you done?"
"It's all right," said my sister. "We can do a play. A little one, you know, and the Merrows will help."
"Of course," said Berry. "Some telling trifle or other. Can't we dramatize 'The Inchcape Rock'?"
"Excellent," said I. "I should like to play the abbot. It would be rather suitable, too. If you remember, 'they blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok."'
"Why not?" said Berry. "We could have a very fervent little scene with them all blessing you."
"And perhaps Heath Robinson would paint the scenery."
And so on.
In the end, Berry and Jonah had constructed quite a passable little drama, by dint of drawing largely on Dumas in the first place, and their own imagination in the second. There were one or two strong situations, relieved by some quite creditable light comedy, and all the 'curtains' were good. The village hall, complete with alleged stage, was engaged, and half the county were blackmailed into taking tickets. There were only twelve characters, of which we accounted for five, and it was arranged that we should all twelve foregather four days beforehand, to rehearse properly. The other seven artists were to stay with us at White Ladies for the rehearsals and performance, and generally till the affair had blown over.
It was ten days before the date of the production that I was cast for Buckingham. Six days to become word perfect. When three of them had gone, I explained to the others that, for all their jealousy, they would find that I should succeed in getting into the skin of the part, and that, as it was impossible to polish my study of George Villiers in the teeth of interference which refused to respect the privacy even of my own bedroom, I should go apart with Pomfret, and perfect my rendering in the shelter of the countryside.
"Have pity upon our animal life!" cried Berry, when I made known my intention. "Consider the flora and fauna of our happy shire!"
"Hush, brother," said I. "You know not what you say. I shall not seek the fields. Rather—"
"That's something. We don't want you hauled up for sheep-worrying just now."
"—shall I repair to some sequestered grove. There, when I shall commune with myself, Nature will go astray. Springtime will come again. Trees will break forth into blossom, meadows will blow anew, and the voice of the turtle—"
"If you don't ring off," said Berry. "I'll set George at you."
George is our gorgonzola, which brings me back to Pomfret. Pomfret is a little two-seater. I got him because I thought he'd be so useful just to run to and fro when the car was out. And he is. We made friends at Olympia, and I took to him at once. A fortnight later, Jill was driving him delightedly round and round in front of the house. After watching her for a while, Berry got in and sat down by her side.
"Not that I want a drive," he explained carefully; "but I want to see if my dressing-case will be able to stand it as far as the station."
"If you think" I began, but the next moment Jill had turned down the drive, and I watched the three go curling out of sight.
When they returned, half an hour later, Berry unreservedly withdrew his remark about the dressing-case, and the next day, when Daphne suggested that Pomfret should bear a small basket of grapes to the vicarage, he told her she ought to be ashamed of herself.
From that day Pomfret was one of us.
And now, with three days left to learn my words, and a copy of the play in my pocket, I drove forth into the countryside. When I had idly covered about twenty miles, I turned down a little lane and pulled up by the side of a still wood. I stopped the engine and listened. Not a sound. I left the road and strolled in among the trees till I came to where one lay felled, making a little space. It was a sunshiny morning in October, and summer was dying hard. For the most part, the soft colourings of autumn were absent, and, as if loyal to their old mistress, the woods yet wore the dear green livery, faded a little, perhaps, but the more grateful because it should so soon be laid aside. The pleasant place suited my purpose well, and for twenty minutes I wrestled with the powerful little scene Jonah had written between the Queen and Buckingham. By the end of that time I knew it fairly well, so I left it for a while and stealthily entered the old oak chamber—Act III, Scene I—by the secret door behind the arras. After bringing down the curtain with two ugly looks, four steps, and a sneer, I sat down on the fallen beech-tree, lighted a cigarette, and wondered why I had rejected the post of call-boy. Then I started on the love-scene again.
"'Madam, it is said that I am a harsh man. I am not harsh to every one. Better for me, perhaps, if I were; yet so God made me.'"
"When do you open?"
"That's wrong," said I. "'Can you be gentle, then?' comes after that. Now, however, that you have shattered the atmosphere I had created—of course, I think you're absolutely beautiful, and, if you'll wait a second, I'll get Pomfret's rug."
"I don't know what you mean, but thanks all the same, and if Pomfret doesn't mind, this tree is rather grubby."
I got the rug and spread it on the fallen trunk for her. She was what the Irish are popularly believed to call 'a shlip of a ghirl,' clad in a dark blue riding-habit that fitted her slim figure beautifully. No hat covered her thick, blue-black hair, which was parted in the middle and loosely knotted behind. Here and there a wisp of it was in the act of escaping. I watched them greedily. Merry grey eyes and the softest colouring, with a small red mouth, ready to join the eyes in their laughter if its owner listed. She was wearing natty little patent-leather boots, and her hunting hat and crop lay on the log by her side. She sat down and began to pull the gloves off a pair of small brown hands.
"Do you know if cats ever drink water?" she said musingly.
"From what I remember of last year's statistics, there was, I believe, a marked decrease in the number of alcoholism cases reported as occurring amongst that species. I'm speaking off-hand, you know."
"Never mind that: it's very good hearing."
"I know, and, talking of tight-ropes, Alice, have you seen the March Hare lately?"
She threw her head back and laughed merrily. Then—
"We are fools, you know," she said.
"Perhaps. Still, a little folly—"
"Is a dangerous thing. And, now, when do you open?"
"To-morrow week. And, owing to the iniquitous provisions of the new Shops Act, foisted by a reckless Government upon a—"
"You can cut that bit."
"Thank you. We close the same night."
"Positively for one performance only?"
"Exactly. And that's why I shall only just be able to get you a seat."
"You needn't trouble."
"What! Don't you want to come?"
"Is it going to be very good?"
"Good? My dear Alice, we shall that night light such a candle as shall never be put out. Electric light is doomed. The knell of acetylene gas has sounded."
"You've only got a few lines, I suppose?"
I looked at her sorrowfully.
"Whose rug is she sitting on?" I said.
"Pomfret's."
"Pomfret is but the bailee of the rug, Alice."
"Oh," she cried, "he's going to be a barrister!"
"Talking of cats," I said stiffly, "and speaking as counsel of five years' standing—"
I stopped, for she was on her feet now, facing me, and standing very close, with her hands behind her and a tilted chin, looking into my eyes.
"Talking of what, did you say?"
For a second I hesitated. Then:
"Gnats," I said.
She turned and resumed her place on the fallen tree. "Now you're going on with your rehearsal," she announced. "I'll hear you."
"Will you read the cues?"
"Give me the book."
I showed her the point I had reached when she entered.
"You are the Queen," I said. "It's rather confusing, because I had thought you were Alice; but it can't be helped. Besides, you came on just before you did, really, and you've spoken twice before you opened your small red mouth."
"Is that how it describes the Queen?" This suspiciously.
"I was really thinking of Alice, but—"
"But what?"
"The Queen has got a delicate, white throat. It says so."
"How can you tell? I've got a stock on."
"I said the Queen had. Besides, when you put your face up to mine just now—"
"Hush! Besides, you were looking me in the eyes all the time, so—"
"And, if I was, do you blame me?"
"I'm not in the witness-box now, counsel."
"No, but you're sitting on Pomfret's rug, and Pomfret is but the—"
She began to laugh helplessly.
"Come along, Alice," I said. "'Yet so God made me. Now you say, 'Can you be gentle, then?' and give me the glad eye.
"It only says 'archly' here, in brackets."
"Same thing," said I
"'Can you be gentle, then?'"
A pause. Then:
"Go on," she said.
"I'm waiting for my cue."
"I've said it—Hare."
"John or March?"
"March, of course. John is an actor."
"Thank you, Alice, dear. I repeat, I await my cue, the which you incontinently withhold. Selah!"
She tried not to laugh.
"I've given it, you silly man."
"My dear, I come in on the eye. It's most important. You must give it to me, because I've got to give it back to you in a second or two."
She gave it me exquisitely.
"'There are with whom I can be more than gentle, madam.'"
Here I returned the eye with vigour.
"'What manner of men are these you favour?'"
"'They are not men, madam. Neither are they favoured of me.
"'Of whom, then?'"
"'Of Heaven, madam, and at birth. I mean fair women."'
"Such as—"
"'Such as you, madam.'"
The way she said 'Hush!' at that was a flash of genius. It was indescribably eloquent. She forbade and invited in the same breath. It was wonderful, and it made me Buckingham. And Buckingham it brought to her feet. Little wonder. It would have brought a cardinal. In the passionate rhetoric of my lines I wooed her, sitting there on the tree trunk, her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted, and always the faint smile that sends a man mad. I never had to tell her to rise. To the line she swayed towards me. To the line she slipped into my arms. She even raised her lips to mine at the last. Then, as I stooped for the kiss, she placed her two small hands firmly on my face and pushed me away.
"Very nice, indeed," she said. "You know your lines well, and you know how to speak them. Hare, I think you're going to be rather good."
I wiped the perspiration off my forehead.
"You made me good, then. I shall never give such a show again."
"Of course you will."
"Never! Never, Alice! But you—you're wonderful. Good Heavens, lass, this might be the two hundredth night you'd played the part. Are you some great one I've not recognized? And will you sign a picture-postcard for our second housemaid—the one who saw 'Buzz-Buzz' eighteen times?"
"What! Not the one with fair hair?"
"And flat feet? The very one. Junket, her name is. By Curds out of Season. My mistake. I was thinking of our beagle. Don't think I'm quite mad. I'm only drunk. You're the wine."
"The Queen is, you mean."
"No, no—you, Alice."
She looked at her wrist-watch.
"Oh, all right," I said. "The Queen's the wine, the play's the thing. Anything you like. Only I'm tired of play-acting, and I only want to talk to Alice. Come and let me introduce Pomfret."
"He hasn't been here all the time?"
"Waiting in the road."
"Oh, he's a horse."
I laughed by way of answer, and we walked to where Pomfret stood, patient, immobile. I introduced him elaborately. My lady swept him a curtsey.
"I have to thank you for lending me your rug, Pomfret," she said.
I replied for the little chap:
"It's not my rug; I am but the bail—"
"That's all right. Is your master nice to you?"
"But yes, lady. Don't you like him?"
"He seems to mean well."
"Isn't that rather unkind?" said Pomfret.
"I'm not in the witness-box now."
"Then there's no reason why you shouldn't tell the truth."
"Really, Pomfret!"
"Forgive me, Alice. I'm only a young car, and sometimes, when the petrol gets into my tank—"
"I hope you don't take more than you should."
"I'm sober enough to see you've got a fine pair of headlights."
"I'm afraid you're of rather a coming-on disposition, Pomfret."
"Oh, I can do my thirty-five. His licence will show you that.
"Oh, Pomfret, did you get it endorsed?"
"It was his own fault. Kept egging me on all the time, and then, when we were stopped, tells the police that it's a physical impossibility for me to do more than fifteen. And I had to stand there and hear him say it! He told me afterwards that it was only a facon de parler, but I was angry. I simply shook with anger, the radiator was boiling, too, and one of the tires burst with rage."
"And I suppose the petrol pipe was choked with emotion."
"And the engine almost throttled in consequence. But that is another story. And now, won't you let me take you for a little run? My clutch is not at all fierce."
My companion leaned against Pomfret's hood and laughed.
"He's a bit of a nut, isn't he?" said I.
"Do you think he's quite safe?"
"Rather! Besides, I shall be with you."
"That's not saying much."
"Thank you. And talking of gurnats—"
"Where will you take me?"
"Whithersoever she listed."
"Is it far from here to Tendon Harrow?"
"About sixteen miles."
"Would you mind, Hare?"
"You know I'd love it."
I started up Pomfret, and we settled ourselves in the car. As luck would have it, I had a second coat with me, and she said she was quite warm and comfortable.
Presently she told me all that had happened. In the morning she had ridden alone to hounds. The meet had been at Will Cross. The mare was keen, and for a few miles all went well. Then the hounds had split. Most of the field had followed the master, but she and a few others had followed the huntsman. After a while she had dropped a little behind. Then there had been a check. She had seized upon the opportunity it afforded her to slip off and tighten her girths.
"Wasn't there any man there to—"
"Wait. The next second the hounds picked up the scent again, and, before I knew where I was, the mare had jerked the bridle out of my hand and was half-way across the first field."
"And didn't anyone catch her?"
"The man who caught her is a brute. He would have wanted to tighten my girths for me, and that's why I dropped behind. I felt it would be him, so I slid out of sight behind a hedge, and when I saw it was him coming back with her, I didn't want his smile, so I just ran into the woods and started to walk home."
"Did he see you?"
"No. He may be there still, for all I know."
"He must have been having a roaring time leading the mare about all day."
"I hope it'll teach him not to pester a girl again."
I sighed. "Some of us are brutes, aren't we?"
"Yes."
A pause. Then:
"But some men have been very nice to me."
"The devil they have!" said I.
Here, as certain of our own writers say and have said, a gurgle of delight escaped her. I leaned forward and grabbed at something, caught and handed it to her. She stared at my empty palm.
"Your gurgle, I think."
"Oh," she said, laughing, "you are mad. But I like you. Now, why is that?"
"Personal charm," said I. "The palmist who sits where the draughts are in the Brown Park Hotel, West Central, said I had a magnetism of my own."
"There you are. I never believed in palmistry."
"She also told me to beware of lifts, and a fellow trod on one of my spats in the one at Dover Street the very next morning. Hullo!"
Pomfret slowed gradually down and stopped. I turned to the girl.
"This is what we pay the boy sixteen shillings a week for."
"What's the matter?"
"Petrol's run out. I'm awfully sorry. The silly serf must have forgotten to fill up before I started."
"My dear Hare, what shall we do?"
I made a rapid calculation.
"We can't be more than a quarter of a mile from Fell. In fact, I'm almost sure it's at the foot of the next hill. Yes, I know it is. And if we can get Pomfret to the crest of this rise, it's all down-hill from there to the village. Shall we try, Alice?"
"Rather!"
She got out, and I followed. Fortunately the slope was a gentle one, and, without much of the harder labour, we managed to top the rise. Then we got in again, and began to descend the hill. When the brakes failed, one after another, I was, if possible, more pained than surprised. I rebuked Pomfret and turned to my companion:
"Do you mind making ready to die?" I said. "I'm sorry, but if we don't take the next corner, I'm afraid we shall be what is called 'found later'."
We took it on two wheels, and I then ran Pomfret's near front wheel on to the low bank by the side of the road.
"Put your arms round my neck," I cried.
She did so, and the next moment we plunged into the bushes. I heard a wing snap, and the car seemed to mount a little into the air; then we stopped at a nasty angle, for the off hind wheel was yet in the channel. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then, still grasping the wheel, I looked down at my left shoulder.
"I love Harris tweeds," said the girl quietly. "It's just as well, isn't it?"
All things considered, it was. Her nose was embedded in the cloth about two inches above my left breast-pocket. In silence I kissed her hair four times. Then:
"I confess," I said, that the real blue-black hair has always been a weakness of mine.
At that she struggled to rise, but the angle was against her, and, honestly, I couldn't do much. The next minute she had found the edge of the wind-screen—fortunately open at the time of the accident—and had pulled herself off me.
"My hair must have been—"
"Almost in my mouth," I said. "Exactly. I have been—"
"What?"
"Licking it, my dear. It's awfully good for hair, you know—imparts a gloss-like and silky appearance. Besides, since—"
"Idiot!"
I climbed gingerly out of the car, and then helped her into the bushes.
"Suffering from shock, Alice? I'm really devilish sorry."
"Not a bit. It wasn't your fault. Between you and me, Hare, I think you managed it wonderfully."
"Thank you, Alice. That's very sweet of you."
"I hope Pomfret isn't much hurt."
"The little brute. Only a wing, I think. Look here, if we walk into the village, you can have some lunch—you must want it—at the inn, while I get some help to get him out."
Just at the foot of the hill we came upon 'The Old Drum,' its timbered walls showing white behind the red screen of its Virginia creeper. When I had escorted my lady into the little parlour, I sought the kitchen. I could hardly believe my ears when the comfortable mistress of the house told me that at that very moment a toothsome duck was roasting, and that it would and should be placed before us in a quarter of an hour. Without waiting to inquire whom we were about to deprive of their succulent dish, I hastened with the good news to my companion.
"Splendid!" she said.
"You don't mind waiting?"
"I should have waited for you, anyway. Now go and retrieve Pomfret; you've just got time."
To the two husbandmen I found in the bar, the idea of earning twopence a minute for a quarter of an hour appealed so strongly that they did not wait to finish the ale I had ordered for them, and the feats of strength they performed in persuading Pomfret to return to the path from which he had strayed made me ache all over. The result was that the car was in the yard before the duck had left the oven, and I was able to have a wash at the pump before luncheon was served. Pomfret had come off very lightly, on the whole. Except for the broken wing, a fair complement of scratches, and the total wreck of one of the lamps, he seemed to have taken no hurt.
So it happened that Alice and I lunched together. I think we were both glad of the food. When it was over, I lighted her cigarette, and drew her attention to the oleograph, which pictured Gideon's astonishment at the condition of what, on examination, proved to be a large fleece. Out of perspective in the background a youth staggered under a pile of first-fruits.
"No wayside inn parlour is complete without one such picture," said I. "As a rule, we are misled about Moses. This, however, is of a later school. Besides, this is really something out of the common."
"Why?"
"Well, that's not Gideon really, but Garrick as Gideon. Very rare. And that with the first-fruits is Kean as—
"Yes?"
"As Ever," I went on hurriedly; "Gideon's great pal, you know, brother of Always. And Mrs. Siddons—"
"Who made her debut six years after Garrick's farewell...And you're all wrong about Kean. But don't let me stop you. Which is Nell Gwynne?"
"Nelly? Ah, no, she isn't in the picture. But she stopped here once—for lunch—quite by chance and unattended, save for a poor fool she had found in the forest. Hunting she had been, and had lost her horse, and he brought her on her way on a pillion. Be sure he rode with his chin on his shoulder all the time. She never said who she was, but he knew her for some great lady, for all his dullness. Ah, Nell, you—she was very sweet to him: let him see the stars in her eyes, let him mark the blue cloud of her hair, suffered him to sit by her side at their meal, gave him of her fair company, and—and, like them all, he loved her. All the time, too—from the moment when he turned and saw her standing there by the fallen tree in the forest, with her loose hair scrambling over her temples—scrambling to see the stars in her eyes. The day passed, and then another; and then the weeks and months, and presently the years, very slowly. But always the fool saw her standing there in the sunshine, with the dear, faint smile on her lips, and the bright memory of her eyes lighted his path when the way was dark, and he might have stumbled, always, always."