XII
Pikey, with a shawl round her shoulders, was dozing by the bedroom fire. She was awaiting the Deputy’s return and doing her best to keep awake. Sleepy as she was, her reception of Miss No-Class was decidedly rough and yet less rough than might have been the case had she not been already informed in the servants’ hall by Mr. Pierce, the butler, that in the matter of looks her young ladyship could give all the other ladies points and a beating.
Mr. Pierce meant well, but it was a left handed compliment, that was the best that could be said for it, yet in a sense Pikey felt rather gratified. The verdict of Mr. Pierce at any rate implied that Miss No-Class had borne herself throughout the evening quite as well as was to have been expected. So far, apparently, she had not given herself away.
“You will have your breakfast in bed,” said Pikey grimly.
Flown by success, Miss Cass did her best to bring a steady eye to bear upon the maid.
“I have already arranged to do so,” she said with a very fair approximation to the manner of the admired Miss Pond. She was still in deadly fear ofthe Dragon, but she must neglect no opportunity of putting her in her place.
“Oh, you have,” said Pikey, more grimly than ever. The Miss-Pond-manner had left her cold. “And you may have to stay in bed for luncheon as well.”
“But——” For the moment Girlie was not able to proceed beyond that ineffective monosyllable. Pikey was “undoing her at the back” and even this mild protest earned her a decidedly savage shake.
“It’s like this,” Pikey ominously explained. “I’m going over to The Laurels the first thing in the morning and it’s the best part of four miles away, so Mrs. Bletsoe the housekeeper tells me. And you’ve got to stop in bed till I come back.”
“But——” Miss No-Class protested.
“Let down your hair.” Of a sudden the Werewolf took a most formidable long-handled brush from the dressing table for all the world as if it had been a birch rod.
Miss Cass could not repress a tremor of fear as she withdrew the pins and the charming ribbon.
“You’ll stay in bed till I return.”
Poor Girlie gave a suppressed howl as the best quality hogs’ bristle seemed to tear open her scalp. “And Mrs. Bletsoe doubts whether I’ll be back by luncheon time if I miss the bus from the Royal Oak at Clavering.”
“But——”
The long-handled hairbrush began to draw realsalt tears. “Don’t you dare to show yourself again until I’ve seen her young ladyship. To-morrow she’s coming here.” Suppressed wowl. “Or I’ll know the reason.” Wowl ad libitum.
The Deputy ventured no more “buts.” She feared that this old Sioux might cause her scalp to disappear altogether.
“Do you understand?”
With her hair gathered in one large merciless handful Girlie understood only too well.
“Now you can get into bed.” It was the tone of the absolute ruler of the nursery to one who had just received an honest instalment of her deserts and it also implied a promise of more to follow.
Girlie felt it was nothing less than an outrage to treat the daughter of a solicitor in that way; but without unnecessary delay she slipped in between the sheets and made the acquaintance of a friendly hot water bottle.
“Remember, you don’t get up—until you are told. And mind you say your prayers.” The Dragon switched off the electric light and retired to her own quarters to a chequered night’s repose.
Girlie fared no better. Never in the course of her life had sleep seemed so far from her pillow. She grew so excited as the present, the future, and the immediate past flooded her mind that after a while she switched on the light. On a shelf by her bedside were several of her favorite writers, but in this mentalcrisis even Miss Cholmondeley, Mr. Galsworthy, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward were powerless. After that she tried studying her part, but she could not bring her mind to bear upon it. Finally, as she paced up and down the large room, she tried to continue her essay for theSaturday Sentinel, but none of these alternatives were of the least use. Her nerves were in a state of mutiny. She could not think coherently. The fix she was in grew more terrifying as the hours passed. There seemed to be no way out. She had been mad, worse than mad. Her career was irretrievably ruined. And when the trick was discovered, as within the next four and twenty hours it was bound to be, she might very easily find herself in prison. And yet——!
That “and yet” was the cruel part. Up till now she had carried the thing off brilliantly. In a manner of speaking she had quite enjoyed the evening; so much had she appreciated its charm and its luxury that it had seemed like coming into one’s own. No matter what the sequel was, it would ever remain a golden memory almost capable of making any penalty worth while.
The dawn had begun already to steal through the Venetian blinds of King Edward’s bedroom before Girlie slept at all. All too soon she was aroused by a maid with a well filled tray. Face to face with the cold light of day and the naked reality of a perfectly stupendous present, the Deputy wisely determined thatshe might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb; accordingly with a wrap round her shoulders she sat up in bed, made a tolerable breakfast and then put forth one more effort to fix her mind on “The Lady of Laxton.”
She was engaged in diligent study when Pikey entered to bestow a final word of admonition upon her before she set out for The Laurels. In spite of the fatigues of travel, Pikey, it seemed, had slept almost as ill as Miss No-Class. They shared an overwhelming responsibility. But the Deputy, comfortably in bed, showed herself very docile in the matter of getting up. She was quite content to stay as she was. It would suit her very well not to get up until the ambassadress returned from The Laurels; it would suit her even better not to get up at all.
The morning was fine and about half-past ten a gauntly-respectable Pikey set forth a grim figure of truculent despair. At the outset fortune was with her. A motor omnibus plied between Clavering and the neighboring villages, passing the Park gates every two hours in the process. Armed with sound advice from the housekeeper’s room, Pikey was able “to time” this vehicle and thereby to reach the Pendennis Arms at Clavering in something less than thirty minutes. Inquiry at that center of information disclosed the fact that The Laurels was some two miles away on the outskirts of the town. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, it seemed, was a local auctioneerwhose rank was a mystery and a wonder to the wise.
As no fly or other medium of travel was at hand, Pikey decided to walk to The Laurels. The house was not difficult to find, but the two miles proved to be nearly three, and it took Pikey, not feeling so young as she used to, the best part of an hour to get there. It was a rather mediocre dwelling, at any rate in the eyes of Pikey who had big ideas, standing a little back from the high road. There was a small plantation in front of it and there was no other house near, but Pikey’s first impression was that it didn’t amount to much; and when the disgruntled visitor opened its gate which was in need of a coat of paint and her rather dazed mind was suddenly flooded with a renewed sense of her mission, this impression was confirmed.
In the stress of a great crisis, Pikey had not paused en route to consider details of procedure, but now that she had reached her destination they simply had to be faced. Should she go up boldly to the front door and ring the bell? Certainly that seemed to be the right course to take. But then arose the question, for whom must she ask if she did so? For Pikey was now “up against” the fact that she had quite forgotten the name of Miss No-Class, even if, and it was a point upon which she was by no means clear, she had ever known it. However she did not spend much time in wreaking a vain rage upon herself, for she realized that by now she was a long way from ClaveringPark, and that circumstances called sternly for action. Therefore without delay she walked along the carriage drive and rang the front door bell. The Laurels was a stucco residence of the glorified suburban villa type with A. D. 1880 engraved on the stone lintel.
The summons was answered by a slightly tarnished parlor-maid in a pink print dress. She was inclined to be pert and the aristocratic spirit of Pikey rose and fell in almost the same moment.
“Can I see the governess, please?” said Pikey, breathing hard. That, after all, was the only formula.
“She’s out with Miss Joan and Master Peter.” The parlor-maid regarded the visitor with an eye of frank disfavor.
Pikey’s heart sank. “Which way has she gone?” she bleakly inquired.
“She’s gone into Clavering to do some shopping for the mistress.”
Pikey took courage. If she could find out the road by which Elfreda was likely to return there was a hope of intercepting her. Happily, as the visitor was duly informed, the hope was much increased by the fact that there was only one road into Clavering.
“I wonder how I can have missed her.” Pikey drew a breath of relief. She offered curt thanks to the parlor-maid and was about to turn away from the door, when a sharp voice which was evidently that of the mistress of the house who had caught from afarthe deep note of the visitor’s Irish intonation, said, “Don’t encourage beggars, Jarvis.”
With that insult stirring her blood, poor Pikey made off down the carriage drive, slammed her way out of the gate and took the road back to Clavering. Murder was in her heart, but her spirit was sore, her soul faint. It was a long way to Clavering Park, and she had never felt so disgruntled in her life. Indeed, a few yards on as she crossed a small stone bridge which spanned a local streamlet and lingered a moment to look at the water gurgling beneath, for one weak, wild instant she was almost tempted to try drowning as a remedy for a coil that grew more tragic at every thought she gave to it.
A hundred yards ahead was a sharp bend in the road. Rounding it in a state of utter despair, Pikey unexpectedly found herself converging upon a young woman in a green ulster who held a small girl and a smaller boy by the hand. Accompanying them was a tall, distinguished looking soldier in much beribanded khaki, who walked with a slight limp.
Somehow Pikey was not prepared for Elfreda, but she it was, although more than one glance under the cheap hat was needed to satisfy the maid that such was the case. Indeed, Elfreda recognized Pikey before Pikey recognized her. She was prompt, moreover, being a very quick-witted young woman, to meet the situation.
Elfreda’s method of dealing with it was delightfullysimple. She sent on Miss Joan and Master Peter with the tall warrior in khaki, and then calmly and sternly she confronted the maid. With a coolness that literally took away Pikey’s breath she said, “Why, what in the name of fortune are you doing here?”
The luckless Pikey had no answer ready. Elfreda’s sheer impudence was sublime. Pikey could only gasp.
Elfreda calmly watched her charges disappear out of sight round the corner. Then she fixed the duenna with a blue eye of concentrated audacity. “Surely you don’t mean to say they’ve found out?”
Pikey was able to affirm that so far they had not.
“Then what on earth are you doing here?” The tone put the maid completely in the wrong.
Such a cynical carrying of the war into the country of the enemy was a little too much for Pikey. But she was not going to admit defeat. With a snort and a scowl she declared that she had come to fetch Elfreda and that no matter what happened it was her fixed resolve not to return to Clavering Park without her mistress.