GEOFFREY MANŒUVRES.
An hour later Reginald made his appearance in the library, where he
found all the party assembled except Alice. Seeing him look round the
room, Helen volunteered to tell him that she had gone to see a sick
girl.
“What, at this time of night?”
“She went nearly an hour ago. She insisted on going, as she had not
been to see Lucy Summers for some days. Alice has been so good to her
all the summer--she is dying of consumption, poor girl.”
“It is quite time that Alice was home,” said her husband with
authority. “Half-past seven!” walking to the window and looking at his
watch.
“Geoffrey promised to fetch her. You ought to start, Geoff,” said
Helen. “You know that this is market-night, and her abject fear of
drunken men is no secret.”
“She need not go as far as the road for them,” remarked Reginald. “Just
now I met an under-gardener endeavouring to walk up both sides of the
avenue at once.”
“Come, Geoff, you had better be off if you are going.”
“Oh, I’m exhausted,” replied Geoffrey. “I really could not think of
taking any more exercise to-day.”
“But you promised,” urged his cousin emphatically.
“Promised, did I?” he replied, rising languidly and deliberately
arranging a cushion behind his head as he settled himself into the
snuggest corner of the sofa. “Oh, Alice is accustomed to my promises
by this time; she knows they are like piecrust--made to be broken.
Besides, Alice has a young and active husband. Pedestrian exercise is
good for these Anglo-Indians; let him go.”
“But, Geoffrey----”
“‘But me no buts;’ I won’t stir till the first bell rings, if then.
That girl has already run me off my legs, and if she is mad enough to
start for a two-miles’ walk at this time of night, I am not. I prefer
lying here”--shutting his eyes--“and thinking of dinner.”
“Well, Geoffrey,” exclaimed Reginald indignantly, taking up his hat,
“if you won’t go, _I_ must. Where does this sick girl live?”
“Go out by the lower avenue, turn to the left, and follow your
nose--it’s straight, isn’t it?--till you come to a plantation; go
through that, and you will see a field, and in the field a cottage. And
you had better look sharp, my dear boy; it’s getting late.”
As the door closed, Geoffrey started up and began capering about the
room.
“Did I not do that splendidly?” he asked, stopping and rubbing his
hands. “Haven’t I arranged for a nice little conjugal _tête-à-tête_,
and isn’t he just swearing at me! Ten to one they will have a
battle-royal, but anything is better than this armed peace; the way in
which they avoid each other is a most beautiful study in tactics.”
“If you will take _my_ advice,” observed Mrs. Mayhew, “you will not put
your finger in the pie. Leave it to time, and it will all come right.”
“I don’t agree with you there,” replied Geoffrey. “Leave all to time
and it will all go wrong, unless time is assisted by kind friends who
make such judicious arrangements as this walk for example. They require
as much looking after as if it were a half-developed love affair.”
“Why should you busy yourself about them, an unfledged youngster like
you?” asked the Honorable Mark peevishly.
Perfectly ignoring the question, Geoffrey stalked over to Helen,
delightfully unconscious that an antimacassar was clinging to his
coat-tails.
“Helen, now that we are here, ‘_en champ clos_’--or to translate it
freely, Miss Ferrars and auntie are gone to dress, and the master
and mistress are out--tell me honestly what you think about the
business--will it all come right, or will he hook it off to the wars
again?”
“What a way of expressing yourself! What polished ease! Well, if you
want my opinion, you are quite welcome to it. I think the prospect is
decidedly gloomy.”
“You do? Well, listen to me--I am certain that his cool indifference is
only assumed--is that nicely expressed?--and, as to her, I daresay she
is quite ready to kiss and be friends. Suppose you break the ice with
her, and I’ll put out a feeler in his direction?”
“Helen,” almost shouted her husband, “don’t attempt to interfere,
whatever Geoffrey may do--and he has assurance for twenty. But you’ll
see he will only burn his fingers,” added Mr. Mayhew emphatically.
“Never mind him, Helen, you back _me_ up,” urged Geoffrey eagerly.
Helen merely shook her head in reply.
“Pouff! Mr. Mayhew,” he expostulated indignantly, “I had a much better
opinion of you. You have no pluck!”
So saying, he lounged out of the room, banging the door loudly after
him.