A rapid search enabled Mr. Rodney to discover a jellied cutlet lodged upon her Grace's person. He endeavoured hastily to remove it with a fork, and in doing so nearly inflicted a severe wound.
"Use your hands, man!" said Miss Bindler, "always use your hands in such cases."
She spoke with authority, having attended many veterinary classes. Mr. Rodney hesitated; he had never handled a cutlet in his life, and he feared to begin a new career in middle age.
"Oh, take it away!" reiterated the Duchess; "it has been in ice! Oh, take it from me!"
"I—really——" stammered poor Mr. Rodney, while the Duchess leaned far forward, bending down her head and shutting her eyes in anticipation of the operation. "Duke, I think it would be better if you——"
But the Duke was busily engaged in having fits of laughter, so Mr. Rodney, flushing a brick red, hovered his long white hands above the unwelcome intruder.
"Oh, be quick!" cried the Duchess. "For Heaven's sake be quick; it feels like leeches."
"Here, clear out!" bellowed Mr. Bush to Mr. Rodney, who still shrank from clasping an edible, and seizing her Grace with his huge hands, he tore the cutlet from her with manly resolution. The Duchess breathed again, while Mrs. Verulam's eyes became dewy with happy tears that sprang unbidden at this fresh instance of her hero's valour. How different from Mr. Rodney's pusillanimity! Mr. Bush threw the cutlet to a manservant and burst out a-guffawing. It seemed he really had a delicate sense of humour. The Duchess turned to him.
"Thank you!" she said with genuine emotion. "It would have killed me in another moment. Thank you—thank you, Mr. Bush!"
Mr. Bush still roared with all the grand simplicity of a homely nature.
"But how did it happen?" said Mrs. Verulam.
"One of the servants did it," said the Duchess, sending her eye among the menials in search of the culprit.
"T't! t't!" said Mr. Rodney, with all the testiness of a man who has failed in the moment of danger; "it is as bad as the gardener. Mr. Lite really should get proper characters with his servants."
The conversation here became general, and so when the Duchess suddenly exclaimed to Mr. Bush, her sonorous outcry was only heard by him.
"Heavens!" she said, "it was a gardener! The gardeners are all waiting at table."
Mr. Bush bounced; he rolled his eyes upon the servants in much confusion.
"They are," continued her Grace; "that creature with the sauce-boat was managing the roller, and that——"
"Hush!" said the paragon in a heavy whisper; "give over!"
"Why? They——"
"Give over, I tell yer!" Mr. Bush repeated, with an assumption of portentous mystery.
Dominated by his manhood, her Grace gave over, and whispered:
"What is it?"
The paragon, with gestures of secrecy such as might well have attracted the attention of a universe, impended over her, and mumbled into her ear:
"They ain't gardeners."
"What! They are really footmen? Then why do they dig, and——"
"They ain't footmen."
"Not footmen! Then what sort of servants are they?"
"They ain't servants. Give over! Don't talk so loud," said Mr. Bush, talking very loud himself.
Her Grace was now growing alarmed, but she endeavoured to force her bass voice to become tenor as she whispered:
"Not servants? Then what are they here for?"
"They're here for us," he rumbled.
"For us?"
"You and me—me and you!"
"Me and you!" said the Duchess, with the accent of petrification.
"Aye, it's a go, ain't it?" And he shook his head at her heavily.
"But what on earth are they? Not—not——" She searched for a possible profession, and could only think of dentists.
"They're coppers!" he puffed in her ear. "Don't holler!"
She nearly did, never having been waited upon by anything of the kind before.
"Coppers?" she gasped.
"Policemen!"
"Policemen?"
"A-watching of you and me—detectives! Give over now; here's one a-comin'."
At this moment, indeed, a detective handed her Grace ice-pudding. She took it as if it was handcuffs, and trembled.
"But who put them to watch us?" she whispered in a hoarse voice.
"It's his doin'," rejoined the paragon, shovelling his head at the Duke.
"The Duke!"
Mr. Bush leant right over her as he uttered the fearful answer:
"He thinks you and me is a-goin' on together."
At this point the Duchess uttered a note such as proceeds from a thirty-foot organ-pipe, and burst into a heavy swoon.
Now, the Duke had been observing the extraordinary secrecy of the colloquy that preceded the Duchess'sseizure, the heavy pantomime of the paragon, and his elaborate efforts to remain unheard. All this, succeeded as it was by her Grace's shout and collapse, and added to the Duke's belief that Mr. Bush was a wicked dog and up to any amount of secret rascality—witness the Lady Drake affair—worked together in the ducal mind, and gave rise to a large number of sudden and terrible suspicions, such as had never marred the Southboroughs' married life until this moment. In short, the Duke believed that Mr. Bush had been whispering soft words into his wife's ear, and that she, overwhelmed with emotion, had uttered her soul in one tremendous and unpremeditated note, and fainted away. He therefore sat considering whether he should at once seize the nearest carving-knife and acquaint Mr. Bush of his surmises, or whether he would be more ingenious if he governed himself for awhile and allowed these disgraceful vipers to take their course. While he was working out this problem, the five detectives, Mr. Harrison, and the house-party were taking all possible measures to recover the Duchess from her swoon, which was of the most determined character. Her Grace, never accustomed to do things by halves, for a long time resisted every blandishment that Miss Bindler's wide knowledge of veterinary surgery, Mr. Bush's intimate acquaintance with the sudden illnesses of cattle, and Mr. Ingerstall's violent appreciation of French methods of recovering the drowned could suggest. Indeed, it was only when the groom of the chambers made an application of cold iron, in the form of the Ribton Marches cellar-key, to her person that she struggled feebly, heaved some dozen sighs, and, after requiring to be told where she was in the orthodox manner, sat up and opened her eyes. They fell on the five detectives, and she nearly shriekedagain. Indeed, had not Mr. Bush given her a secret but exceedingly powerful shove, there is no saying what course hysteria might not have led her to take. The Duke observed that secret shove, and his veins swelled with the decent fury of the outraged husband. But he controlled himself until the Duchess had been supported to the purple drawing-room, accompanied by the other ladies. Then, unable to remain any longer inactive under the insult which he supposed was being offered to his ancient name and honour, he rather curtly released himself from Mr. Ingerstall, who was just saying, "It is a most extraordinary thing to me that anybody can be found to go to the Royal Academy when the Art Nouveau is within a few hours' journey of London," and proceeded to carry out a little plan which he had formed in his head. This plan led him to call a footman, which he did in the baronial hall, at present deserted. A very thin man, with a grey face and small eyes like marbles, responded to his summons. The Duke assumed an affable air:
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Bliggins, sir," was the rather unexpected reply.
The Duke found it decidedly curious. The man gave his surname and did not say "Grace." However, these were petty details in this stress of terrible circumstance.
"Very well, Bliggins," said the Duke. "Can you keep a quiet tongue in your head?"
He chanced to show the gleam of a sovereign under the electric light—Bliggins may have noticed it. At any rate, he suddenly looked very hungry, and replied:
"I can be dumb, sir, when necessary."
"How nice to command infirmities at will!" said the Duke. "You don't go blind when you go dumb, eh?"
"I can prevent it, sir, if I try hard," responded Bliggins.
"Do you know which of the gentlemen here is Mr. James Bush?" said the Duke, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Ain't he the thin gent as Smithers set to and soaked this afternoon, sir?" murmured Bliggins.
The Duke jumped, and casting a searching glance upon Bliggins, was suddenly aware that he was the self-conscious gardener who had been behaving with levity among the sunflowers in the afternoon. His Grace bit his moustache and pulled his pantaloon's beard. This fact certainly complicated the situation.
"H'm!" he muttered.
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"Can you serve two masters, Mr. Bliggins?" asked the Duke.
"I can, sir," replied Bliggins, again looking very hungry—"if I'm paid in a proper manner for so doing, as you might say."
The Duke suddenly made up his mind.
"Very well," he said. "First let me say I know you; you're a detective, and you've been put here to watch me. Be quiet, man! I ought to know a third-rate detective by this time, considering that for five-and-forty years——But that is no matter. Lord Arthur Kempton's your employer, no doubt, or Sir John Milton. Hold your tongue; I've no time to hear your lies! Watch me as much as you like, but"—here his Grace let Mr. Bliggins feel the sovereign—"keep an eye on the gentleman with the red beard and——"
"Him as pulled the cutlet off the lady as Wilker dropped on her?"
"The very man—watch him!"
"I will, sir."
"Day and night."
"The charge for night duty——"
The Duke allowed the self-conscious gardener to feel a second sovereign.
"I will, sir, day and night."
"Now go away and get dumb," said his Grace, returning softly to the cedar-wood parlour.
As things did not seem very lively that evening in the purple drawing-room, Mrs. Verulam sent for the powdered Frederick, and told him to set the orchestrion going. This order quickly produced Mr. Harrison, in a state of mania.
"The employment of the instrument, ma'am, is against Mrs. Lite's orders, oh, most certainly!" he exclaimed in great excitement.
Mrs. Verulam turned to Mr. Rodney.
"Will you please send him away?" she murmured. "I cannot bear this sort of thing to-night."
Mr. Rodney, whose nervous system was in tatters owing to the combination of misfortunes through which he had recently passed, faced round on Mr. Harrison like a hyena.
"Be off with you!" he cried in a piercing manner. "If you dare to argue with me, I'll—I'll——"
He seized a small wooden paper-knife, and the groom of the chambers made an exit that called forth the critical approval of Miss Bindler.
"For an old man, he's in good training," she remarked. "I believe he could still do a mile in under the ten minutes!"
The orchestrion began to deal vigorously with "Cavalleria Rusticana," and under cover of the music the company made various attempts to bring off what Miss Bindlerwould have called "events." Lady Drake, for instance, sidled up to the Duke, determined to lead up to her continued respectability, and Chloe was on the look-out for the chance of a quiet moment with Mrs. Verulam. But this moment she could not secure, on account of the tiresome behaviour of the Duchess, who was now in the irritable stage of incipient convalescence, and was throned on a purple armchair at Mrs. Verulam's side. Her Grace's horror at the revelation of James Bush, her amazement that her husband should suspect her of unchristian flirtation with a man bred up among bees, drove her into a fit of temper which she proceeded to vent against her hostess. The suspected respectable woman determined to take it out of the woman whom she believed to be what Martha Sage affirmed "a baggage, my dear, an arrant little baggage!" She began by making several ostentatious double chins at Mrs. Verulam, who received the attention with calmness. Then, growing exhausted with this physical exercise, for which she was a little out of training, she resolved to put her vexed and suspected soul into language.
"I have known you for a long time, Mrs. Verulam," she began; "I remember you as a toddler."
"Thank you!"
"Not everyone can say as much."
"I daresay not. No."
"Those were innocent days," continued the Duchess, with an attempt at pathos that resembled the efforts of a partially imaginative elephant to become a fairy.
"Yes, toddlers are generally innocent, I suppose."
"Innocent and open-hearted."
"Yes. They wear their hearts on their frills, don't they?"
"In after-life it is different."
"What a pity!"
"The respectability of childhood becomes impaired."
"Does it?"
"Does it not?"
And here the Duchess stared hard, first at Mrs. Verulam, then at Chloe, and then again at Mrs. Verulam who sweetly smiled.
"I don't know."
"I should have thought you did," said the Duchess beginning to bring up her heavy artillery.
"Why?"
The orchestrion was preparing for the "Intermezzo." The Duchess was preparing for conflict, rendered reckless by the self-conscious gardeners, the cutlet and the swoon. If she was to be wrongly suspected of levity, she would at least take it out of this wicked little person whom she had known as a toddler.
"Let me give you a piece of advice," she began, with sonorous subtlety.
"With pleasure."
"Get rid of Mr. Van Adam. I speak as a true friend."
And her Grace, purple with true friendship as the furniture on which she sat, made a really successful double chin, and paused for a reply.
"Why should I get rid of him?" asked Mrs. Verulam, making an angel's face at the double chin.
"There are many reasons," said the Duchess, with growing fury.
"I know of none. Poor boy! He needs me in his loneliness." And she shot a tender glance at Chloe.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Gracious heavens!"
"We ought to be kind to those whom the world hastreated cruelly," Mrs. Verulam continued, with high morality and a rather episcopal demeanour. "Poor dear Mr. Van Adam! Poor dear fellow!" And she breathed an effective, though quite gentle sigh.
To say that this sigh extracted a snort from the Duchess would be ridiculous. She expressed her feeling in a blast, suddenly heaved herself out of her chair, announced like a thunder-clap afflicted with thevibrato: "I'm very ill! I'm much upset!" and marched out of the purple drawing-room with all the gestures appropriate to an enormous soul in the accesses of acute affliction.
"Shock to the system," observed Miss Bindler. "I had an Arab once, from the Crabbet Park stud; it was like the Duchess—behaved just like that in sudden cold. Give her mustard." And she returned to the "Pink Un."
"An application of aspic on the left shoulder must be trying," piped Lady Drake.
The Duke said nothing; but as he looked towards Mr. Bush he appeared to be stripped of the tinsel. The pantaloon was merged in the husband. His expression was like the third act of a melodrama.
CHAPTER XV.
CUP DAY.
"I doso want to tell you something!" Chloe whispered distractedly to Mrs. Verulam as the house-party separated for the night. "Have you read theWorld?"
"No; but I have something to——Oh, good night, Mr. Rodney; I hope your rheumatic fever will be better in the morning."
"You are very good to say so," Mr. Rodney said,looking at Chloe as Othello used to look at Iago on bad days; "but I am thoroughly prepared for the worst."
And he remained obstinately between them, as if he meant to grow there for a century or two. Chloe clenched her little fists and longed to box with him.
"Good night, Mr. Bush," said Mrs. Verulam to the paragon.
"Night," he muttered, with a heavy nod.
She hesitated at the foot of the staircase.
"I must tell you——" she began, and paused.
"Eh?"
"I must tell you what an impression your conduct at dinner made upon me."
The paragon, whose wits were slightly sharpened by cowardice, immediately walked to the conclusion that Mrs. Verulam had observed his ostentatious secrecy with the Duchess. He therefore replied:
"Go along with yer! Rubbish! She's a deal too old!"
Mrs. Verulam, under the impression that her hero was alluding to his gallant conduct with the cutlet, answered softly:
"Yes, indeed! Had you not acted so promptly, who can tell what the result might have been? I honour you for it. Good night, Mr. Bush;" and she pressed his mighty hand with hers.
"I hope you believe me, Duke?" Lady Drake piped anxiously. "I do assure you that you have been labouring under a totally wrong impression. Mr. Bush is nothing to me."
The Duke bowed, and shot a terrible glance at the paragon.
"Mr. Bush is the devil in human form," he muttered.
"Oh dear!" cried Lady Drake. "Oh! but then, why did Mrs. Verulam invite him for the race-week?"
"Hush!" said the Duke, frowning at her like a tragic actor accustomed to provincial audiences.
She rustled upstairs in great agitation.
Chloe, according to her timid custom, vanished to bed when the women went to their rooms. She feared smoking-room stories. And so the paragon, the Duke, Mr. Rodney, and Mr. Ingerstall sat alone in the amber smoking-room, which adjoined Winter Garden No. 2, in which Mrs. Lite's favourites soundly slept. Mr. Rodney sat for about two minutes looking like a habitually nervous man, who is suddenly confronted with the last day. Then he hastily swallowed about a pint of brandy.
"Hullo, Rodney!" said the Duke. "Turning teetotaler?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Rodney, with a distracted demeanour.
"Giving up the drink, I see," continued the Duke, with a dismal attempt at his usual jocose air. "Sousing yourself in water from the crystal spring."
"I beg your pardon, Duke," said Mr. Rodney, looking deeply hurt and almost on the verge of tears; "the outrage committed upon me this afternoon is scarcely matter for jest. I—I——" He drank another pint of brandy, and muttering something about the "necessity for expelling cold from the system," and the "terrible results following on rheumatic fever," hurried from the room, affecting the gait of an old hedger and ditcher, crippled with that roadside complaint to which he had so feelingly alluded.
The Duke glared at Mr. Bush, and, lighting a cigar, remarked to Mr. Ingerstall that Rodney would have D.T. on the course to-morrow if he didn't take care. Then he seized theTimes, and buried himself in the advertisementsheets, through which he took stock of the paragon, making a hole with his finger in "Wanted, a quiet home for a clergyman afflicted with homicidal mania, who is subject to fits, but is High Church, studious, and of a happy disposition."
"Damn it, there's no absinthe!" cried Mr. Ingerstall. "In Paris one is not deprived of necessities as one is in England. Why don't I live in Paris?"
He struck a bell. Mr. Bliggins appeared.
"Where the devil's the absinthe?" cried the artist in his piercing voice.
"Beg pardon, sir," replied Bliggins, ostentatiously indicating to the Duke that he had his eye on Mr. Bush, and was earning his night-duty money.
"Ra-ta-ta!Dieu de Dieu, where is the absinthe, man? Haven't I told you night after night that I don't drink these Scotch and Irish abominations?"
"Certainly not, sir," said Bliggins impudently—"certainly not!"
He had nothing to expect from Mr. Ingerstall; and, besides, he found politeness as difficult an assumption as the pretence of being a retired major-general, or a Hungarian count out for a holiday. The astounded caricaturist snatched off his spectacles, wiped them like a conjuring trick, replaced them with a dab, and examined the detective with preternatural scrutiny.
"It's a gardener!" he shrieked, after a busy pause.
Mr. Bush shuffled in his elbow chair. Mr. Bliggins looked foolish and the Duke angry.
"A gardener, Ingerstall!" he said hastily. "What nonsense!"
"It is; I observed him this afternoon. I remember his nose like a teapot, his eyes like marbles, his retreatingchin and protruding forehead, perfectly. His arms are too long for his body, and his legs too short for his height. He would make an admirable picture—admirable! I remember thinking so."
Overwhelmed with this uncompromising eulogy, Mr. Bliggins went off night-duty at the rate of twelve miles an hour, and forgot to shut the door behind him.
"You're a beautiful subject," Mr. Ingerstall cried out after him—"beautiful!"
The Duke began to look vicious.
"You've frightened the fellow," he said. "Why didn't you leave him alone?"
"Leave a monstrosity alone! Leave a human grotesque in ignorance of his superb infirmity!" cried the artist. "I'll draw him this moment."
He followed Bliggins as a bullet follows a bird, caught him in a pantry, caricatured him in seventeen seconds, and was up in the lemon bedroom enlarging the original to life size before three minutes had fallen into the lap of the past. Meanwhile the Duke and the paragon were left alone among the soda-water bottles. At first they did not speak. The paragon smoked an immense pipe, whose bowl presented a carved effigy of the features of Peter Jackson, the pugilist. The Duke observed him doing so through the homicidal clergyman who wanted a quiet home; but presently his Grace's intent secrecy caused an accident. Endeavouring slightly to enlarge his peep-hole with a cautious finger, he tore a gap through which a circus-rider might have jumped. The paragon gave him a surly glance, which was rewarded with an elaborate smile, for the Duke was resolved to know more before he showed his hand or revealed his suspicions. He laid down the paper and lit a cigar.
"Nice and quiet here," he said conversationally.
Mr. Bush nodded, without removing Peter Jackson from his mouth.
"Nobody about," continued the Duke, with a jocular demeanour.
Mr. Bush shuffled rather uneasily.
"What if there isn't?" he growled.
"I beg your pardon."
"I says, What if there isn't nobody about?"
"Oh, nothing—nothing! I was only thinking what games might be carried on in a big house like this, half empty, at night, without anybody being aware of them."
Mr. Bush goggled his large auburn eyes at the Duke in a manner suggestive of apprehension partially masked by bumpkin impudence.
"Was you?" he replied, in his usual nervous English.
"Midnight revels, eh? What? what? That big hall's the place for them. Don't you think so?"
The paragon began to sulk, as was his custom when alarmed or bemuddled. He did not yet grasp the fact that the Duke was hinting at the Lady Drake episode, but he dimly felt that something was going on which he did not understand. So he relaxed his body, wrapped his left hand in his beard, and began to assume the appearance of a potman preparing for heavy slumber. But the Duke did not intend to be baffled by sleep. So he dug the paragon very sharply in the ribs with assumed geniality, and remarked: "You're a dog!"
"Give over! I ain't a dog!" mumbled the paragon slightly reassured.
"Yes you are. I know you! I know all about it!"
Mr. Bush rolled in his seat.
"Lady Drake's a fine woman," continued the Duke in a rollicking manner—"a damned fine woman!"
He wished to convince himself that the paragon was a rural Don Juan, to which shrewd suspicion Lady Drake had been giving him the lie. Mr. Bush, hearing the name of her ladyship, felt relieved. He had fancied that the Duchess was secretly in question. Now he forced a guffaw and, under the impression that he was being mighty clever, vociferated:
"Lady Drake, she's all right—go along with yer! She knows a thing or two! She's as downy as a goat in autumn, she is."
This remarkable comparison convinced the Duke that Lady Drake had perjured herself when she explained away the episode of the previous night. His suspicions of Mr. Bush increased tenfold.
"You like 'em downy, eh?" he said. "You like a crafty one? What?"
"Rather!" said the paragon, nodding his heavy head and rejoicing in his shrewdness. "Rather!"
"Because you're a downy one yourself? I know you!"
And his Grace forced a cackling laugh and trembled with fury. The paragon was delighted with the apparent success of his subtle ruse, and resolved to trick his Grace still further. He therefore endeavoured to look very sly, and rejoined:
"Look after Lady Drake, and she'll look after you."
"And you did look after her in the hall at three o'clock in the morning, Mr. Bush. Ha! ha! ha!" cried the Duke, with a passionate burst of angry laughter. "I saw you both! I saw you! I know all about it!" Under his breath he added bitterly, "I knew she was lying to me! I knew the fellow was a regular demon!"
The paragon was considerably taken aback at first by this revelation. He had no notion that the sugar-plum affair was common property. However, when he at length realised that the Duke must have been on the watch the previous night, he rejoiced still more. Lady Drake had no husband to take vengeance on any man, so Mrs. Verulam's hero gave her away with the most cheerful alacrity. He laid one enormous hand on the Duke's arm and remarked impressively:
"She's a rascal!"
"Lady Drake?"
The paragon nodded.
"She's a rascal! Set the gardeners on to her! She wants a-watchin'!" And he sank back into his chair, thoroughly convinced that he had most adroitly rescued the Duchess and himself from the unjust suspicions of his Grace.
The Duke took the matter very differently, however. He was now certain that Mr. Bush was a most consummate and polished scoundrel, up to every move on the board, but hiding his address beneath a magnificent impersonation of glum stupidity and heavy lethargy. For instance, how brilliantly this apparent bumpkin was now endeavouring to concentrate suspicion on Lady Drake, doubtless in order that his proceedings with the Duchess might pass unnoticed and unrevenged. But the Duke was determined to be equal with him. He could play the game, too, against the devil himself. So he smiled, as if in a harlequinade, and said genially:
"You're right. The gardeners should direct their attention to her. Shall I give them a hint to that effect?"
"Aye!" said Mr. Bush. "Aye! set them on to her. She wants a-watchin'!"
And he shook his sides with rumbling chuckles which took him like an earthquake. The Duke got up, trying not to glare at this consummate and exquisitely adroit villain, this monument of evil cleverness.
"I'll take your advice," he said. "I'll set them on to her. Night!" And he was gone, leaving Mr. Bush to his raptures.
In the hall his Grace encountered Bliggins in a condition of apparent prostration.
"Watch that red-bearded scoundrel!" the Duke ejaculated. "Watch him! Never let him from under your eyes, and I'll give you half my for—half a sovereign!"
"But it's the black gent with the specs as is the dangerous one, sir," began Bliggins. "He chased me in the pantry as if I was a rat, and——"
"The red-bearded villain—he's the man! He's the fiend, I tell you! Stalk him! Dog his footsteps! Creep after him! Run him down! You sha'n't repent it. Hush! not a word."
The Duke retired up the staircase with the steps of a bandit in old-fashioned grand opera, while Mr. Bush went on gaily chuckling to himself in the amber smoking-room.
Cup Day, dawning in an ethereal mist, found Mr. Bliggins wrapped in a pallid slumber in the hall, and Mr. Harrison setting forth to the fishing-cottage to confer with the Emperor. The groom of the chambers roused the sleeping detective with a hasty shake.
"Mr. Bliggins, you was hired to watch; oh, indeed!" he said in stern rebuke.
"I was watching, Mr. Harrison, sir," replied the creature, confusing Mr. Harrison's orders with the Duke's. "'The red-bearded man—he's the fiend! Stalk him!Dog his feet! Creep after him!' you says to me. I was doing of it."
"Mr. Bliggins," replied Mr. Harrison, with scathing dignity, "them was no words of mine—oh dear no, on no account whatever! My words to you was, 'Watch the lot;' oh, most certainly! Go, Mr. Bliggins, plant yourself in the garden, and don't let yourself be knowst, according to Mr. Lite's strict orders; oh, indeed!"
The weary detective departed to carry out this horticultural command, and Mr. Harrison proceeded to lay his grim report of the employment of the sacred instrument, etc., before the agitated Emperor, whose passions steadily increased with the lapse of time and the prolongation of exile.
By the post that morning Chloe received a communication from one of the private enquiry agents whom she had directed to give her information as to the proceedings of her ex-husband, if that personage were actually within the British Isles.
"I beg to inform you," it ran, "that a Mr. Huskinson Van Adam did arrive at Liverpool by theArethusa, but I have not yet been able to discover where he went upon disembarking. I have no doubt, however, that I shall be successful in tracing him within a day or two. Awaiting your further esteemed orders, I am," etc., etc.
Chloe laid this letter down with an unsteady hand. It filled her with a cataract of mingled emotions, one of which surprised her by its happy violence and covered her cheeks with blushes. In the midst of these blushes she caught sight of her trousers, and the vision helped her to pull herself together. She was no longer a woman; she was a man—at any rate for a day or two more. After that the Deluge! After that no more society! Nomore Duchesses! No more Lady Pearls! Did this knowledge horrify her? Did she feel in it the end of pleasure, the coming of doom? or did she hear faintly the glories of the dream which she had desired, which she had by a wild stroke of audacity achieved, rustling down and away into the darkness like the damp golden leaves of autumn—and hear their rustlings with an abrupt and strange indifference, child of some hidden, furtive, and scarcely acknowledged emotion? Chloe herself, perhaps, scarcely knew. In either case she pulled up her trousers, assumed a jaunty air, and talked hard all through breakfast—chiefly to the Lady Pearl, of whose presence, however, she was in truth scarcely aware, being so full of her own situation, which was half-absurd and surely half-tragic. After breakfast she tried with all her might to speak a word alone with Daisy. But both the Duchess of Southborough and Mr. Rodney were on the watch to prevent any such nefarious attempt from succeeding. Her Grace, despite her own trouble with the Duke, whose disgraceful suspicions—although they remained unexpressed in words—she was increasingly conscious of, was determined to fight her hostess to the death on behalf of the Lady Pearl. Until Mr. Van Adam was actually ravished away to Paris, the Duchess would not confess herself beaten, would not lose all hope. Strung up by unmerited misfortune to the highest pitch of nervous tension and agitated obstinacy, her eyes prominent with mental strain, her large and respectable face rigid with anxiety and outrage, she inflexibly kept at Mrs. Verulam's side. And the more she observed Chloe's obvious manœuvres to be alone with Mrs. Verulam, the more was the Duchess determined to frustrate them. In all her exertions she was backed up by the excellent owner of Mitching Dean.
When a normally peaceful and conventional man is roused, by the hammering blows of Fate, into acute distress and warfare, he is apt to become far more terrific, far more unconventional, than any swashbuckler or man of deeds whatever. So it was with Mr. Rodney. Circumstance was gradually working him up into a state of mind compared with which Gehenna is typically joyous and calm. His imaginary rheumatic fever was, on this lovely morning, nowise abated. His anxiety as to the procedure of the Countess of Sage moment by moment increased. His suspicions of Chloe were advancing rapidly, and his enmity against the man from Bungay had attained almost to fury. Also he had had a sleepless night, and Harry, his man, had abrased his skin while shaving him. If his pulse mounted to 102, is it to be wondered at? If he resolved not to leave Mrs. Verulam's side for one single instant during the entire day, shall he be blamed? In vain did Mrs. Verulam endeavour to get rid of him for a second or two. In vain did she try to invent some pretext, to design some chivalrous duty which must urge his steps from her. He was too sharp to go. And the more ardently she tried, the more ardently did he deny her, opposing his rheumatism to her every suggestion.
"Would you mind fetching my fan, Mr. Rodney? I believe I left it lying on the table in the magenta boudoir."
"Forgive me if I send Harry for it. I can scarcely walk this morning, and the fever seems increasing upon me."
"Dear! dear! Then you must not dream of going to the races."
"The fresh air will do me good."
"I fear not. I am sure you ought to be lapped atonce in cotton-wool, and stay in a darkened room with the temperature kept up to at least 80."
"Possibly, but I understand that the supply of cotton-wool which Mr. Lite keeps in his patent machines has given out. Besides, I consider it my duty not to spoil your week by—by——" Here his voice shook with emotion—"giving way to illness, perhaps even to—to death."
"Quite right, Mr. Rodney," exclaimed the Duchess. "In this world duty comes first."
And she endeavoured to convey information to him by signs, without being seen by Mrs. Verulam. Mr. Rodney, never having learnt any dumb alphabet, was unable to comprehend her Grace, and was indeed considerably startled by her fleeting grimaces and tortured movements of the hands and fingers. Politeness, however, compelled him to respond, which he did by alternately nodding and shaking his head in a miserable and despairing manner, such as could scarcely reassure the Duchess or give her comfort.
While this game of cross-purposes was proceeding behind her back, Mrs. Verulam was inventing a new pretext to get rid of Mr. Rodney, in whose absence she hoped to be able to disentangle herself from the Duchess and consult with Chloe.
"Mr. Rodney," she said, with apparent bland solicitude, "I have been thinking that a cooling draught would probably do wonders for you."
"It is most good of you, but I am perfectly cool, I assure you, already. And I have always understood that nothing is more dangerous to the rheumatic than a thorough draught."
"It would be fatal," said the Duchess sonorously, beckoning and frowning at Mr. Rodney with intenseanimation, "simply fatal. It would carry him off in the twinkling of an eye."
"I meant a drink, Duchess, not a breeze. Marriner could mix it for you, Mr. Rodney."
"You are too kind, but I never take medicine. I prefer to put my trust in Providence and hope for the best."
And he again shook and nodded his head in vague negative and affirmative to the Duchess. Mrs. Verulam was in despair. She shot a last bolt feebly.
"I think even the bishops and clergy would say that we Christians ought to assist the operations of Providence with—with appropriate medicine," she said.
"I always understood that an operation took the place of physic," growled the Duchess, distressed by Mr. Rodney's entire lack of pantomimic talent and comprehension.
Mrs. Verulam did not say more. She saw that she was in prison, and recognised that it was futile at present to attempt to break out.
"I must dress for the races now," she said.
"I'll come up with you," said the Duchess, taking Mrs. Verulam's arm as if in gentle amity, while at the same time she screwed her face at Mr. Rodney, and endeavoured to force his dull comprehension to grasp the simple fact that a frown, one corner of the mouth turned down, a wrinkled nose and a left hand flapping like a seal must obviously mean, "I'll look after her, but I depend upon you to keep an eye on Mr. Van Adam."
Evidently he was nowhere near it, for his long face looked blank as a white sheet of note-paper as prisoner and gaoler left the room.
All through that weary Cup Day Mr. Rodney was for ever in Mrs. Verulam's pocket, emotionally sticking to her in a manner that irritated her till she could have burstinto tears. His eyes, usually so indefinite, now blazed with the fires either of rheumatic fever, jealousy, or protection. His voice, usually mellifluous as the twilight murmur of a tideless sea, now rose in harsh intonations, and was set a-trembling by avibratothat might have belonged to a fourth-rate Italian tenor. His wonted soothing demeanour and reassuring Mayfair gait were exchanged for an animation that savoured of delirious sick-beds, and a strut of suspicion on thequi vivethat might have become a scout compelled to follow his profession on a pavement composed of red-hot needles. The Royal Pen gaped at him, and heard his passionate volubility with unutterable amazement. Again, as on the preceding Tuesday, he was feverishly intent on dodging, and inducing Mrs. Verulam to dodge, the venerable Countess of Sage, who, crowned with a gimp helmet, clothed in chain mail of shining bugles, and bedizened with ornaments of black bog-oak, grown on the family estate at Ballybrogganbroth, Ireland, pervaded the enclosure on the arm of a Commander-in-Chief, with a Field-Marshal on her further side. But Fate, which was leading him in such slippery places, chose to frustrate his chivalrous purpose. Soon after the second race, while busily engaged in manœuvring Mrs. Verulam away from the neighbourhood of Chloe, who was shooting at her despairing glances demanding an interview, Mr. Rodney ran her and himself into the very arms of Lady Sage, who was energetically airing her views on the recent Crimean campaign, and pointing out certain mistakes in tactics committed by those who were in charge of the British army in the Crimea. They were, in fact, practically impaled upon her bog-oak brooches and necklets before they observed her. Lady Sage paused on the words "If I had been Lord Raglan, I should certainlyhave——" stared Mrs. Verulam and the owner of Mitching Dean full in the face for a minute or more, then remarked in a piercing voice to the Field-Marshal, "What extraordinary people manage to get into the Enclosure!" and waddled away, rattling her armour in a most aggressive manner, and tossing the gimp helmet until it positively scintillated in the sunshine.
Mr. Rodney's knees knocked together, and he shut his eyes. The worst had happened. The heavens had fallen. The flood had come again upon the earth, and there was no ark of refuge. His brain was full of buzzings, and he felt as if he was being pricked all over. When at last he opened his eyes and looked at Mrs. Verulam, he perceived that she was rather pale, and that her expression was slightly more set than usual. Yet she seemed calm and cool, while he was hot as fire. Glancing away from her, he beheld the expressive faces of a serried mass of his oldest and most valued friends, whose lips seemed curling with derision, while their family and ancestral noses were surely tip-tilted with contempt. He clasped his hands together mechanically, and, with a hunted demeanour, turned as if to flee. Vague thoughts of leaving the country, of endeavouring to make a home and get into a fresh set in Buenos Ayres, or of retiring to a hermitage in Iceland, ran through his collapsing mind. There is no saying whether he would not have usurped the place of the Ascot dog, and run yelping down the cleared course to the golden gates, if Mrs. Verulam had not murmured to him in hervoix d'or:
"Shall we go for a little stroll in the paddock?"
He assented with a bow that was scarcely worthy of a yokel, and led her among the parading horses, getting so entangled with the four legs of the favourite that itseemed as if his one ambition was to become a centaur before evening. After being rescued by a swearing trainer, who addressed him in a long and highly ornate speech, he seemed desirous of immersing Mrs. Verulam in the jockeys' dressing-rooms, or of having her incontinently weighed, but she resisted, and at last said:
"Mr. Rodney, your fever makes you act very strangely. I think, perhaps, we had better be going."
"Going—gone!" he muttered, like a second-rate auctioneer.
"Oh, please do try to compose yourself! All the jockeys are looking at you."
"Let them look!" replied Mr. Rodney distractedly. "Let all the jockeys in Christendom look! What does it matter now?"
And he stared wildly about, as if searching for sackcloth and ashes.
Mrs. Verulam flushed.
"Mr. Rodney," she said, and her voice, too, began to tremble, "I must beg you to find the carriage for me at once."
"But it will not be here until half-past four."
"Very well, then, I shall walk home."
"Walk!" he cried, in as much amazement as if she had suggested going home in a balloon.
"Yes, and you must please accompany me."
"Certainly! anything! anywhere! What can it matter now?"
In after years that walk often rose before the owner of Mitching Dean in a vision of dust and anguish. As they went, stumbling among the vulgar crowd, treading on nuts, elbowing donkeys and negro minstrels aside, it seemed to Mr. Rodney that he and Mrs. Verulam were asa modern Adam and Eve, being expelled by a Master of the Buckhounds with a flaming hunting crop from that garden of the social paradise, the Royal Enclosure. They did not speak as they surged forward in quest of the far-off palace of the Bun Emperor. What could they say? Criminals do not chatter merrily as they wend their way towards the hulks. So Mr. Rodney put it to himself, although he had not the slightest idea what the hulks were. Only when, after long wandering in dreadful lanes between hedges totally unknown in society, they reached Ribton Marches, footsore, travel-stained, and broken in spirit, did he find a tongue, and, turning towards his wretched companion, make this cheery remark: "All is over!"
"Please don't talk nonsense, Mr. Rodney," said Mrs. Verulam sharply, as she sank into a garden-chair.
"I repeat," he answered, with thrilling emphasis and in a voice that was exceedingly hoarse, "all is over!"
Mrs. Verulam bit her lips, and looked very much as if she wanted to burst out crying.
"There is no hope," he went on. "There is no light anywhere. All is darkness."
The sun was pouring down its golden beams, but no matter.
"It is strange," Mr. Rodney pursued, staring very hard at nothing with glazed eyes. "It is strange to think that two lives, at one time happy, peaceful, even honoured, can be broken up in an instant, and turned to dust and ashes in the twinkling of an eye!"
"My life is not turned to dust and ashes in the twinkling of——Oh, do please say something more cheerful!"
"Cheerful!" cried the owner of Mitching Dean in hollow tones—"cheerful!"
And he gave vent to several very distressing groans. Mrs. Verulam leaned back and shut her eyes. Fatigue and excessive heat, combined with unexpected groans, may well break even the proudest spirit. Had Mr. Bush been at hand to inspire confidence, and to impersonate the true, grand life, Mrs. Verulam might possibly have plucked up courage. As it was, she felt very miserable, and was devoured with a longing to give the Countess of Sage into the hands of Chinese torturers, whom she had read of in a book of travels as exquisitely expert in their trade. After a quarter of an hour's pause, partially filled in by Mr. Rodney's exclamations of unutterable despair, she made a great effort to compose herself, and remarked bravely:
"This is what I have wished for."
Mr. Rodney punctuated the sentence with a piteous outcry.
"This," continued Mrs. Verulam, "has been my dream. For this I have worked and striven, toiled and——" she had nearly said "moiled," but at the last minute substituted "prayed," which certainly raised the speech onto a higher plane of oratory. "I ought, therefore, to be thankful," she resumed, the corners of her pretty mouth turning downward, "and I am."
Mr. Rodney looked at her mournfully.
"It is terrible to see the approach of madness," he remarked, gazing upon her eventually with a weird and flickering curiosity.
"I am not going mad," said Mrs. Verulam.
"I beg your pardon," he rejoined—"I beg your pardon. You may not—in fact, you evidently do not know it; but, indeed, you are."
"Really, Mr. Rodney, I think I may be allowed to know my own condition."
"They never do. It is one of the regular symptoms. You will find it in all the medical books."
And once more he observed her with agonised curiosity.
Mrs. Verulam, perhaps not unnaturally, began to grow very angry.
"Medical books," she said, in a heated tone, "are not only disgusting, but deceptive. I must really request you to believe me."
"I am sorry, I am very sorry, that I cannot. We must all learn to look madness bravely in the face," he replied, staring perfectly straight at her.
Mrs. Verulam made a sudden movement as though to slap him, restrained herself, puckered her face, drummed her little feet violently in mid-air, and was about to burst into a flood of wrathful tears when the powdered Frederick was seen approaching across the lawn, bearing a gold salver which twinkled and glinted in the sun.
"A telegram for you, ma'am," he said.
Mrs. Verulam took it from him hysterically, tore it open, and read: "Huskinson Van Adam is somewhere in Berkshire just discovered Yillick."
"I hope it is no bad news," said Mr. Rodney, as if he felt certain that it announced either plague or strangling.
"It is to say that they have discovered Yillick," answered Mrs. Verulam in an unemotional voice.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I say they have discovered Yillick," she cried irritably.
"Indeed! What is that?"
"I don't know. One can't know everything."
"True, true!"
She glanced again at the telegram, recovering herself enough to begin to wonder what it really meant, and why they hurried to inform her of this, the newest discovery of modern times. Happening to see the envelope, she now perceived that it was addressed to "Van Adam, Esq." Evidently the wire was for Chloe. But then why did——? At this instant voices became audible, and the house-party trooped with determination across the lawn.
CHAPTER XVI.
CUP NIGHT.
Mrs. Verulamimmediately held out the telegram to Chloe.
"They have discovered Yillick," she murmured abstractedly.
"What?" said the Duchess, who was very red in the face. "Yillick, do you say?"
Chloe took the telegram eagerly, and turned exceedingly pale.
"Is a Yillick an animal?" said the Lady Pearl softly to her.
"No, no; only a—a friend; at least, a sort of acquaintance of mine," Chloe stammered.
As a matter of fact, Yillick was the surname of the Private Enquiry Agent who was looking out for Huskinson.
"You left very early, Mrs. Verulam," said the Duchess sternly.
"I was tired. The heat was so great."
"I did not think so. And I am very susceptible to heat. How did you get home?"
"I walked."
"Good gracious! What made you do that?"
"I like exercise."
"When you are tired? When you feel the heat so much? How very strange!"
And her Grace, who knew all about the Martha Sage affair, which had been much cackled of in the Enclosure, glowered heavily at her hostess, whom she, too, intended to cut at the end of the week, when the fate of the Lady Pearl had been finally decided for good or evil.
"Did you meet Lady Sage?" she pursued mercilessly, while Mr. Rodney endeavoured to look at ease, and succeeded in looking like a constitutionally timid person being led out to the stake.
"Oh yes," answered Mrs. Verulam, with an effort after indifference.
"Well?" remarked the Duchess, after a short and solemn pause.
"Well!" retorted Mrs. Verulam.
"Did you like her gown?" said the Duchess, getting a little confused, and becoming inept.
"I daresay it was all right, but personally I am not particularly fond of gimp and bugles, nor do I care specially for oak ornaments in the day-time," returned Mrs. Verulam, with veiled, but bitter, sarcasm.
"Oh! Still, in these hard times, it is a great saving of expense to be able to grow one's jewellery on one's own land," said the Duchess, turning away, and feeling that she was beginning to get the worst of it. She met the stare of her husband and blenched, suddenly remembering that she, too, though always so firmly innocent, had her troubles and was born to suffering. But she little knew what a terrible course those troubles wereabout to take, into what a maelstrom of unmerited misfortune she was about to plunge.
"Daisy, I simply must speak to——Oh, certainly, Lady Pearl, I shall be delighted to show you the orchid house," cried the distracted Chloe after tea.
It seemed that she was never to be allowed to unburden her overcharged heart to her friend, who was now clawed by her Grace and the despairing Mr. Rodney, while Chloe was obliged to escort the languishing gout-patient through endless avenues of plants.
Night fell, and with it the weather changed. A small, fine rain began to rustle among the shrubs around the palace, the moon was obscured by ragged and slowly floating clouds, and an uncomfortable and under-sized wind, indefinite of purpose, sluggishly moved about the garden, fingering the trees and flowers as if uncertain whether to be violent or go away altogether. Of course, curtains were drawn within the palace, the electric moons gleamed, the parrots were softly illuminated, and nobody was supposed to know what the night was about. Nevertheless, the subtle influence of weather was apparent among the house-party. Everybody seemed to be superlatively glum. Miss Bindler had lost forty pounds over Bound to Win, and was considering whether she would have to put down her bike at the end of the week. Mr. Ingerstall, having taken her tip, was also a loser, and was consequently speechless and black with irritated despair. Chloe was in a strange condition of mingled apprehension and excitement, and as she could find no opportunity of unburdening herself to Mrs. Verulam, and could not fix her mind on ordinary matters, she did not talk at all, and made no response to the murmurings of the Lady Pearl. The Lady Pearl, therefore, plunged into abyssesof despair, and the Duchess, observant of her daughter's header, and greatly exercised about the Duke and the detectives—who were again waiting at table—became plethoric and mum.
Mr. Rodney was in a state of absolute collapse. He ate nothing, said nothing, and looked like a man who might do anything, from throwing himself out of a window to murdering all those within his reach. The Sage affair had totally disorganised him. He was no longer himself; he was no longer a really responsible being.
The Duke divided his time between glowering at the Duchess and the paragon and carrying on a secret pantomime with Mr. Bliggins, who returned affirmative gestures to every face that was made at him, nodding "Yes" with a lobster salad, implying that the red-bearded scoundrel was under his observation with a dozen of oysters, or hinting at an increase of his night-duty salary with a rum-omelette.
Lady Drake ate enormously, and looked grievous.
As to Mr. Bush—although he was reassured about the Duke, who had doubtless been fed into calm by receiving Lady Drake's reputation to gnaw—he was sulky, not from any special reason, but because he nearly always was.
There remained Mrs. Verulam. What of her? She should have been happy, for her plot had been successful. Chloe's transformation from woman to man had opened the cage-door to the squirrel. Society, which had for so long defied the lovely widow's attempts to get out of it, would now doubtless follow the lead of Lady Sage and bid her go. She was compromised, and yet retained completely her own secret self-respect—her knowledge that she had done no wrong. Why, then, should she feelguilty? Why should she tingle with something that was surely shame? Why should she grow red under the angry eye of the Duchess? Probably because she was more sensitive than she had imagined; because she had that trying sort of soul which inevitably feels ashamed if it is believed to be shameful. All through dinner Mrs. Verulam sat deep in distressed thought, immersed in consideration of the present and solicitude for the future. If only she could have a good talk with Chloe, she felt that her burden would be lightened. They must meet somehow; they must draw up some plan of campaign. Mrs. Verulam had not yet seen theWorld, and Mr. Rodney, buffeted and afflicted sore by Providence, had forgotten to tell her of the Van Adam paragraph. She did not know of the real Huskinson's probable presence in Berkshire at this very moment, for she had not grasped the meaning of the Yillick communication. But she had heard Lord Bernard Roche's news, and supposed the orange-grower to be on his way. Chloe would have to disappear; her work was done; she had been successful, it seemed, in ruining Mrs. Verulam's reputation. Thinking this, Mrs. Verulam strove to rejoice, and wanted to cry. To nerve herself, she gazed upon the paragon's enormous bulk and calm and gluttonous lethargy. She lost herself in his streaming auburn mane, seeking comfort and sustaining power. The cage-door was open; the squirrel could leave its prison. Where should it go? Surely to Bungay Marshes, Lisborough. There must be other cottages there besides the Farm—other abodes of peace round which the bees hummed and the sheep bleated in tender tunefulness. Thither must she go, like some white dove seeking an ark of refuge. Thither must she flee, and be at rest. But she and Chloe must first hold a long consultation,concert proper measures for the eternal concealment from society of the audacious manner in which it had been tricked and imposed upon. How to do that? How to get rid of the Duchess and the now frantic and unconventional owner of Mitching Dean? Marriner—that faithful wretch! She must convey a missive to Chloe; a meeting must be arranged in the dead of night, when all the house-party slept. In the darkness the finale of this history must be devised. It must be settled when Chloe should disappear, how and where. Mrs. Verulam's future must be discussed. To-night—Marriner—Chloe—Fate.
Dinner was over. As in a dream, Mrs. Verulam accompanied the ladies to the purple drawing-room. All things seemed to her vague and unreal, except the hideous vision of the Countess of Sage, stiff with gimp and fury, insulting the pet of the gay world, ringing the knell of her butterfly life of pleasure. She sat down on a sofa, and began vehemently to think of the pale perfection of a Bungay existence superintended by her idea of Agag.
The Duchess watched her from a distance. Being in a condition of acute suspicion, her Grace gravely distrusted the concentrated abstraction of her hostess. No doubt Mrs. Verulam was laying some fresh and horrible plot against the happiness of the Lady Pearl. It must be frustrated, whatever it was.
"Mother," said the Lady Pearl at this moment.
"My darling! my only child!" replied the Duchess in her deepest bass.
"I think Mr. Van Adam has something on his mind."
The Duchess started, and surveyed her daughter with protruding eyes.
"What makes you think so, my beautiful Pearl?" she queried.
"He never spoke to me all through dinner, and he kept on looking towards Mrs. Verulam. I think the world is full of misery."
"Gout, my beloved one, gout! Carlsbad would make you think very differently," replied the Duchess according to her rule. But she spoke without conviction; and the Lady Pearl did not think it necessary to protest, as usual, that her mental condition was governed by the soul rather than by the body.
Heavily the rainy evening wore on. The statement of the Lady Pearl had added to the Duchess's conviction that some deep-laid plot was brewing between Mrs. Verulam and Chloe. Her Grace's knowledge of the world taught her that Mrs. Verulam must in all probability be a desperate woman to-night. For had she not been whipped by the Countess of Sage in the eyes of the whole world? And let a woman be reckless and wicked as Messalina, her first public scourging does not leave her unmoved; but, on the other hand, it probably does leave her defiant, careless of consequences, ready for any fierce and wild adventure. Was not, perhaps, some fierce and wild adventure afoot to-night? The Duchess felt like a regiment of sentries as she sat brooding by the silent orchestrion, her eyes fixed so furiously on Mrs. Verulam that that wicked little baggage seemed set in mist—seemed blurred as the shining disc is blurred to the subject being hypnotised.
Only when the men came in from the dining-room, and she met again the furtive eyes of her husband, did the Duchess feel painfully that over the watch-dog paradoxically a watch was set.
That night the women went to their rooms early. As good nights were being exchanged, Chloe and Mrs.Verulam made one last agonised attempt to take part in a quiet whisper. But the Duchess pounced on Mrs. Verulam, Mr. Rodney leapt to Chloe's side, and the whisper died almost ere it was born. Mrs. Verulam ascended the staircase in a somewhat despairing manner, throwing an occasional glance down into the hall, in which Mr. Bliggins and other detectives were arranging various silver spirit-bottles, gold cigar-boxes, malachite ash-trays, and other male paraphernalia. For Mr. Rodney, now in a nervous fever which rendered him entirely reckless of conventionalities and consequences, had suddenly informed Mr. Harrison that the baronial hall must accommodate the smokers that night, his object being to occupy a post of vantage in the very centre of the palace, so that he might be on the spot to prevent any surreptitious conduct on Mrs. Verulam's part. He regarded her now very strangely as a socially ruined lunatic, whom yet he adored in a frenzied and unutterable manner, and he was becoming madly, feverishly jealous. Mrs. Verulam's apparent indifference to the appalling incident which had taken place that afternoon in the Enclosure convinced him that she was off her head, but his throbbing heart forced him to the terrible conclusion that it was a crazy passion for the supposed orange-grower which had made her so. For his sake she defied the world; for love of him she lay down in public at a race-meeting and let the old Countess of Sage go trampling over her. Van Adam had bewitched her; but he should not escape his surveillance to-night. On that Mr. Rodney was passionately determined. When, therefore, Chloe endeavoured as usual to slip away in the wake of the ladies, Mr. Rodney bounded up with the activity of a panther and placed himself before her in a jungle attitude.
"You are not going already, Van Adam!" he cried—"so early! Why, it is only about nine o'clock."
It was really a quarter to eleven.
Chloe yawned.
"I'm dead-beat," she began.
"Then a smoke will do you good. You must have a cigar—you must——"
And he laid hold of her arm with a pretended cordiality, which his twisted and wrinkled face belied. Chloe stood still and looked at him. She wanted terribly to get away and, by some stratagem, obtain an interview with Mrs. Verulam; at the same time, she did not wish to rouse any suspicion of her desire. She perceived that the owner of Mitching Dean was painfully excited: the veins stood out on his narrow forehead, his thin hands fluttered like a bird's wings, his moustache seemed to bristle with suspicion, and he stared at her like all Scotland Yard at a malefactor. This convulsed effigy made such an impression upon her that she took her foot from the staircase reluctantly and came back with him to the spirit-bottles, where the Duke was mixing himself a drink, while Mr. Ingerstall fumed in an armchair over a cigarette sent from a Parisian tobacconist, and Mr. Bush poured volumes of smoke out of Peter Jackson.
"A drink, my dear Van Adam," cried Mr. Rodney in a very theatrical manner—"a long drink, a strong drink, and a drink all together."
He was trying to be hilarious, without knowing the way to do it. The Duke turned round.
"Hullo!" he said. "Van Adam sitting up! Bravo! Have a weed?"
He extended a mighty cigar-case. Chloe meekly rifled it, wondering what would happen next.
"Have a light?" said his Grace, striking one on his trousers like Chirgwin, the White-eyed Kaffir.
"Thanks," said Chloe.
"Not that end, my son."
"Oh, I wasn't thinking!"
"You haven't pinched the end off. That's better. What? Won't it draw?"
"No; I don't think it will. I'll—I think I'll have a cigarette, thanks."
"That's a damned good cigar."
"Splendid! Still, I think after all I will have a cigarette."
"A pipe's the thing," rumbled the paragon—"a pipe and a fistful of Bristol Bird's-eye."
"Oh no, thanks; not a pipe!" cried Chloe, hastily seizing a cigarette, which she understood the management of. "That's all right."
"Come and sit here," said the Duke, beckoning her to a divan.
He intended to use her as a stalking-horse, and to lull to sleep any suspicions which the paragon might have that he was being watched.
Chloe came to the divan puffing at her cigarette. Mr. Rodney frantically followed, and placed himself erect on a very small upright cane-chair. He was smoking an unlighted cigar, which he occasionally removed from his white lips, in order that he might blow rings of imaginary smoke into the air. The Duke strove to seem larky and at ease.
"Now the women are gone we can say what we like, eh?" he began.