ARRIVAL OF THE LONDONERS AT RIBTON MARCHES.
If the expulsion of our first parents from the Garden of Eden was a
depressing business, what can be said of the final expulsion of the
Emperor and Empress from Ribton Marches? It took place very early on
the Monday morning. Originally they had been going overnight, but the
Empress had so implored her husband to allow her to have one last
Sunday night in the old home that he had not the necessary strength to
refuse her, although, according to the strict letter of the agreement
come to between him and Mr. Rodney, the palace belonged to Mrs. Verulam
from the Monday to the Saturday inclusive.
At earliest dawn, then, behold the wretched couple "on the move," in
terrible agitation having their last pet chattels placed reverently
by menials in their trunks, in fearful confusion hastily gathering
together any little things likely to be of solace to them in the
period of excruciating exile that lies before them. The Emperor,
now the moment of departure had actually arrived, was in a boiling
passion. Steam might almost have been seen escaping from him as he
gave directions to his servants, and laid a thousand last injunctions
upon Mr. Harrison, who, rendered almost impotent by having had to get
up from bed in that dead hour which precedes the rising of the sun,
received them with a grievous courtesy and the bending knees that so
plainly betoken the deepest dejection of the human soul.
"Mr. Harrison!" shouted the Emperor.
"Sir!" replied that wretched functionary.
"Remember they are not to feed the parrots. On no account are they to
tamper with Mrs. Lite's favourites."
"Certainly not, sir."
"If you see any symptom of a desire to do anything of that kind, you
are to check it, Mr. Harrison."
"If I see any symptom of a desire to tamper with any of the parrots, I
am to check it—yes, sir."
"If a single parrot goes wrong, Mrs. Lite will hold you responsible,
Mr. Harrison. You understand that?"
Mr. Harrison bowed feebly, and thought of his empty bed.
"The pugs we shall take with us, Mr. Harrison."
"The pugs you will take——"
"Don't echo me, Mr. Harrison—don't echo me; I will not allow myself to
be echoed."
"Certainly not, sir. Oh no, by no means."
The Emperor stared furiously around him, fearful lest he might leave
any necessary behind. His eyes fell upon a large field-glass in a case,
which reclined upon a neighbouring bureau.
"Pack that glass!" he cried to his valet in a voice of thunder.
The valet packed it with trembling rapidity. The Emperor turned again
to the groom of the chambers.
"Through that glass I shall be able to command a considerable portion
of the grounds," he exclaimed. "If I see anything going on there of
which I disapprove, I shall summon you by the telephone, Mr. Harrison.
You will hold yourself in readiness to fly to me at any moment of the
day or night."
Mr. Harrison found himself feebly wondering which known bird he should
be likely most nearly to resemble when he winged his way, as described
by the Emperor, from the palace to the fishing-cottage.
"I shall do so, sir," he said.
"Each morning," continued the Emperor, with blazing eyes and gathering
excitement, "you will be round by eight o'clock with the report which
you will have drawn up overnight, as arranged by me."
"By eight, sir?" cried Mr. Harrison, his voice vibrating with a music
that was almost piercing.
"Well, seven, if you prefer it. I shall be up—I shall be ready."
"Oh, eight will suit me, sir, very well; I shall be round by eight."
"Be careful to omit nothing from that report. Make it ample; for I
shall have damages out of these people—heavy damages—if they dare to
exceed in any way, or to behave in any unseemly manner. You have your
own ideas of what is unseemly, Mr. Harrison?"
"Oh, decidedly so, sir."
"Then I shall hold you responsible."
Mr. Harrison's knees began visibly to tremble, doubtless under
the weight of responsibility that rested, like the globe, upon his
slightly-rounded shoulders. He said nothing, only bowed once again,
badly, as if the mechanism was getting out of order.
The dawn was now beginning to grow bright in the eastern sky above
the fir-trees and the pines. The Emperor observed it through the
lattice-pane, and knew that the hour was at hand. He called to the
Empress:
"Henrietta!"
"Perry!" replied a broken voice, which might indeed almost be described
as wet with tears.
"Henrietta, my dear, are you—are you nearly ready?"
"Oh, Perry, is it time? Oh, to think that——"
The Empress appeared in the aperture of the door fully dressed for
eviction, wearing a large black bonnet, and carrying in one hand a
small but bulging bag. Her face was disfigured, even corrugated, with
emotion.
"Is it time? Oh, is it really, really time?" she wailed.
The Emperor was greatly affected. He turned away for a moment and gazed
towards the sunrise. Then he said: "Mr. Harrison!"
"Sir!"
"Is it time? Have you the paper?"
The groom of the chambers extracted a crested sheet from his left-hand
pocket.
"Read it out," said the Emperor hoarsely.
Mr. Harrison read as follows:
"Arrivals, Monday, June the —: At 12.30, Mrs. Verulam, Mr. Rodney, and
Mr. Van Adam, with Mrs. Marriner, maid, and one valet."
A loud sob from the Empress.
"At 3.15, Mr. James Bush."
"Go on, Mr. Harrison—go on."
"At between four and five, the Duke and Duchess of Southborough, the
Lady Pearl McAndrew, Lady Drake, Miss Bindler, Mr. Ingerstall, with
four maids and one valet."
Mr. Harrison paused, and the Emperor, looking with terrible enquiry at
the Empress, repeated:
"Four maids and one valet."
"Oh, what may they not do—what may they not do, Perry?" wailed his
consort feebly.
The Emperor bit his lips to prevent himself from breaking down.
"Mr. Harrison!" he said.
"Sir!"
"Mr. Harrison, I warn you—I give you warning——"
"Give me warning, sir! Am I to go, sir?"
The groom of the chambers was so much overwhelmed that he suddenly sat
down in the presence on a small occasional chair—one of those chairs
which are seldom equal to the occasion. His agitation and surprise
perhaps rendering him heavier than usual, the chair was unable to
withstand the full bulk of his fourteen stone of horror. It gave way,
and Mr. Harrison attained the floor with a noise like a drum-tap. He
remained in a seated posture, gazing at the Emperor with eyes that
looked sightless, although they were very wide open indeed. The Emperor
and Empress backed from this vision with the rapidity of two crabs.
"Oh, that it should come to this!" cried the latter, putting the mind
of the groom of the chambers into words.
"Mr. Harrison!" cried the Emperor, recovering himself near the door,
"get up! get up from the floor, sir!"
But that gentleman was beyond movement, and was indeed at that moment
vaguely considering whether he did not owe it to himself to be taken
with a paralytic seizure. The Emperor, observing his meditative but
complete prostration, condescended to approach him and to lend him a
hand.
"Come, come, Mr. Harrison! Rise, I beg. Be a man, Mr. Harrison! Come,
come! There, there! Lean against the wall. A glass of water, my dear!"
(To the Empress.)
The Empress ran, bearing a tooth-glass brimful.
"There, there, Mr. Harrison! You're spilling it! That's right! You
mistook my meaning."
"Sir?"
"I meant that I give you warning that we, Mrs. Lite and me, will hold
you responsible for the maids and the valets."
Relief ran over the recovering groom of the chambers in a complete
flood.
"Oh, certainly, sir! I beg pardon! Oh, by no—by all means!"
The sun was beginning to pour in. The Emperor turned and offered his
arm to the Empress. She shrank away with a whimper.
"My darling—my love—be firm! Remember, Henrietta, we are not alone."
He drew her trembling arm through his, and patted it violently with one
fat hand.
"It must be done," he said in a heroic voice. "I've give my word. It
must be done."
They moved in procession from the private apartments, followed by Mr.
Harrison, who threw his feet out on either side as he went with a noble
attempt after his habitual dignity. The household, by order of the
Emperor, were grouped in the hall in front of the organ. It has not
been recorded whether the women were weeping, but no doubt they were.
The Emperor and Empress paused at the foot of the grand staircase in
a baronial portion of the hall. The Emperor cleared his throat loudly
not once nor twice. Between the clearings a pin was heard to drop, so
intense was the silence. The third housemaid stooped to pick it up, and
keeps it still as a memento of the occasion. Then the Emperor spoke in
a sad, and at the same time very angry, manner.
"The time has come," he said, "when we must leave you; when me and Mrs.
Lite must go."
There was a subdued murmur of regret from the crowd.
"We go," continued the Emperor, "with breaking hearts."
"We do! we do!" from the Empress.
More murmurs.
"But we feel that—that—we feel, I may say, that those we leave behind
us in the home will not desert their master and missus; that they will
do their duty by us, as we have done ours by them."
"True, true! Oh, indeed!" deep-mouthed from Mr. Harrison.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. We, me and Mrs. Lite, shall not forget that."
An inclination from the groom of the chambers.
"Others," proceeded the Emperor, in a loud and aspen-like voice,
"others will come after us. Others will take our places. So it must
ever be—bear up, Henrietta, my love, bear up!—so, I say, it must be.
Things is—are like that in this world. Never a one can deny it. Do
your duty by them!"
"No, no, Perry! Oh no, no!" from the now sodden Empress.
"Hush, my dear! Do your duty one and all in those places into which
they have been pleased to call you." Here the Emperor gingerly
approached the wording of the catechism. "Do it, I say, but don't be
put upon."
Loud murmurs of assent, more especially from those engaged in the
kitchen department of the establishment.
"Don't be put upon. Don't be slaves."
"Hear, hear!" from Mr. Harrison.
"And"—here the Emperor obviously faltered—"don't go for to forget
the—old faces. Mr. Harrison——" His voice suddenly burst out in a
trumpet-note of forcible resolution.
"Sir!"
"Is the pony-shay at the door?"
"It is, sir! Oh, most decidedly!"
The massive portals were flung open, and outside in the gay summer
sunlight there appeared a basket-chaise drawn by a fat white pony,
and led by a little groom. The four pugs stood round it barking
vociferously. The Emperor threw one last distracted glance around,
then shut his eyes, took hold of the Empress, and, pioneered by Mr.
Harrison, moved slowly forward. The Empress, as one in a ghastly
dream, accompanied him. In a moment she would have been placed in the
chaise and driven from the dreadful scene, calm, blank, practically
unconscious of her doom. But this was not to be. Fate willed it
otherwise. Seized by a sudden, and it must be confessed a very noble,
impulse, the powdered Frederick had run like a lamplighter to the
purple drawing-room. The orchestrion stood before him. He leaped
upon it as the wild beast leaps upon its prey. He caught at it. An
instant! Then there was the sound of a click, and suddenly the wild and
thrilling uproar of Tosti's "Good-bye!" poured violently through the
reverberating palace.
The Empress heard it. She paused. She trembled. She opened her mouth.
Something with her brain seemed to go snap. She shrieked aloud. The
Emperor saw what was coming.
"Mr. Harrison!" he shouted.
"Sir!"
"Help me with Mrs. Lite! Get hold of her, Mr. Harrison, get hold of
her!"
Mr. Harrison got hold of her, and, yelling, kicking, laughing, crying,
and throwing her rounded limbs furiously abroad, the Empress was
carried down the steps, placed in the "shay," and rapidly driven off.
Then Mr. Harrison returned into the hall.
"Prepare for the Londoners!" he said sternly to the household, and
hurried instantly off to bed.
* * * * *
Soon after the big clock over the Ribton Marches stables had boomed out
the half-hour after twelve, a carriage drove rapidly up to the palace,
followed by a second, and succeeded by a private omnibus covered with
luggage. The tribe were arriving. In the first carriage sat Mrs.
Verulam, pale, but full of an animation that approached excitement;
Chloe, clad in a delicious suit of tweed, with perfectly-falling
trousers, the newest thing in collars, a red tie, and a straw hat; and
Mr. Rodney playing cicerone and looking mightily serious. Why will
presently be revealed. In the second carriage was placed the faithful
Marriner, amid a cloud of wraps, dressing-cases, hat-boxes, parasols,
and jewel-caskets. In the omnibus sat Mr. Rodney's valet, a pale
gentleman with an under-sized manner, the features of a rat, and very
thin legs. Thus the vanguard approached. Chloe was apparently in fine
spirits. She was talking incessantly, showing white teeth, and gazing
about her with black eyes that sparkled with animation.
"Oh, is this really Ascot?" she cried. "Where is the course?"
"My dear Van Adam!" gently corrected Mr. Rodney; "the course is at some
distance. This is Sunninghill."
"What a number of cupolas!" said Mrs. Verulam. "And what an enormous
house! We shall be lost in it!"
"I assure you it is quite cosy inside," said Mr. Rodney, who considered
the last remark as a sort of reflection upon him for engaging the house
for the week. "The Lites consider it most home-like, I assure you; and
they are very particular. Here is the entrance."
The gravel flew up beneath the hoofs of the high-stepping horses.
The front door of the home opened wide, and discovered two footmen,
behind and between whom were visible the large body and red face of
Mr. Harrison, his features being decorated with an expression which
it would be tame indeed to call one of suspicion. Imagine a London
policeman who observes a ragged ruffian stealing out of the Tower
of London with his hands full of the Crown jewels, and you may form
some slight notion of the groom of the chambers' demeanour and facial
attitudes on the entry of the Londoners into the hall of Ribton
Marches. He had evidently been sleeping to some purpose, for he was
now preternaturally wide awake, and not a person descended from the
carriages, not a thing was removed therefrom, without having to run the
gauntlet of his piercing and most extraordinary observation.
"What a very remarkable-looking man," Mrs. Verulam remarked to Mr.
Rodney, as she removed her dust-wrap and walked towards the purple
drawing-room. "He seems anxious. Is he ill?"
"Oh no; I think not. I fancy he superintends the servants," said Mr.
Rodney.
"Or us," said Chloe, flicking the dust off her patent-leather boots in
a way that was hardly Englishmanly. "He appears to me like a detective
who hasn't mastered the first principle of his profession."
"And may I ask what this is?" blandly enquired Mr. Rodney.
"Certainly, old chap—not to look like one. See?"
Mr. Rodney did see, and secretly writhed. When he was called "old chap"
he felt much as the maiden lady did when Mr. Pickwick appeared from the
four-post bed, and recently Huskinson's familiarities had tried him
deeply.
"What a very purple room!" said Mrs. Verulam, glancing round. "What
is that thing over there—not a sideboard, nor a bureau, nor a
writing-table?"
"That, madam," bayed a sudden voice, "is the instrument. Mr. and Mrs.
Lite are very partial to it, but do not allow it to be employed during
their absence."
Mr. Harrison was the speaker. Mr. Rodney was outraged by his intrusion
into the conversation.
"Thank you," he said. "Kindly leave us."
Mr. Harrison hesitated visibly, but Mr. Rodney meant to be obeyed, so
the groom of the chambers very deliberately decamped, casting his feet
abroad after his manner.
"What a most extraordinary person!" said Mrs. Verulam.
"Oh, I daresay Mr. Lite has made a friend of him," said Mr. Rodney
hastily. "These _nouveaux riches_ do strange things."
"Hallelujah, bow-wow-wow!" murmured a distant voice; to which another
voice responded: "Polly dreadful drunk. What's o'clock, Polly?" Then
innumerable corks were drawn with apparently supernatural swiftness.
Mr. Rodney reddened.
"Pray don't be alarmed," he said to Mrs. Verulam, who was visibly
startled.
"Is it the same man?" she said. "Why, he must be mad."
"No, no. They are only Mrs. Lite's parrots talking in one of the winter
gardens. It must be nearly lunch time. Would you not like to see your
rooms?"
"Perhaps it would be as well. I feel as if you were my kind host."
Mr. Rodney beamed with pride and pleasure.
"I hope some day—at Mitching Dean—from which, by the way, I have
ventured to order up a supply of grapes for the week. The Mitching Dean
grapes are remarkably fine. Here is Mrs. Marriner," as the faithful
Marriner appeared, apparently hypnotised by the orchestrion; "she will
conduct you. By the way," Mr. Rodney added, turning to Huskinson, "I
trust you will allow my man Harry to valet you during the week, since
you've not yet succeeded in finding a man to your liking. Harry is——"
"No, no, thank you. You're awfully good; but it's not necessary,"
replied Chloe with some haste.
"Most efficient," calmly pursued Mr. Rodney, intent on benevolence to
the man he heartily hated. "He shaves better than any——"
"Thank you, I always shave myself," said Chloe—"morning and evening."
"So often?" said Mr. Rodney, with a glance of surprise at the smooth
face above the tweed coat.
"Once a month—once a week, I mean. Well, I'll go and have a
wash;" and she scurried off, leaving Mr. Rodney alone in the purple
drawing-room.
He sat down on a purple chair, placed his thin feet on a purple stool,
and fell into deep meditation. Since we first met him, in early May,
perplexity had almost continually attended him. Mr. Rodney's mainspring
was propriety, touched up with the adjective "smart." He believed
devoutly in conventionality and titles. Respectability and pedigrees
were necessaries to him, and as yet he had never been without them.
It is true that he could accept the "right sort of man—or woman,"
even if he were aware that their lives were not ordered entirely on
Nonconformist principles. In fact, he knew a great many rascals of
both sexes, but they were rascals who knew everybody and were known by
everybody. The women were all received at Court; the men all belonged
to the right clubs, and so, according to Mr. Rodney's code, they were
eminently respectable. Mr. Rodney had no special objection to people
who broke the Ten Commandments, but he had a very great and very
deeply-seated horror of people who outraged society. And this was what
Mrs. Verulam—whom he admired, after Mitching Dean, more than anything
on earth—seemed bent upon doing.
As he sat in the purple drawing-room with his eyes fixed moodily on
the orchestrion, he reviewed the events of the last few weeks without
gaining any comfort from them. Undoubtedly Mrs. Verulam had succeeded
in making herself the talk of the town with the Van Adam. She had never
moved without the divorced orange-grower in her pocket. She had taken
him to every party; she had continually been alone with him in her
opera-box; she had supped with him at the Savoy and at Willis's; she
had driven down with him to Ranelagh, and returned after the moon was
up; she had been with him on the river, and even in it, for Chloe had
caught a crab near Athens, and been rescued by the steam-launch of a
Cabinet Minister. All London was talking of her strange indiscretions.
All London was talking—would all London presently be acting? That
was the horrid thought, the grisly idea, which turned Mr. Rodney cold
on the purple brocade and set the orchestrion dancing in front of
his eyes. Even his jealousy faded before the spectre of Mrs. Verulam
abandoned by society; "out of it," a person reduced to "first nights"
and supper parties in shady restaurants. To be obliged to depend on
"first nights" for one's gaiety was, to Mr. Rodney, much the same thing
as having to keep house in the valley of dry bones. It was immolation.
It was more: it was interment. He heard the earth pattering upon Mrs.
Verulam's coffin. And the terrible thing was that some evil spirit
seemed to have entered into Mrs. Verulam, a spirit that rejoiced in
this threatening of disaster. She was with her own hands cutting
through the cables that moored her to all that makes life worth living.
And for an American! A man mixed up with oranges, the commonest of
all fruits, the yellow thing that may be seen on the breakfast-tables
of the lower middle classes, the abomination that is sucked in pits,
whose pips are flung in showers from a thousand galleries a night! Mr.
Rodney turned almost faint at the thought. If this Van Adam had even
cultivated nectarines, or made his money in medlars. But no. It might
have been nuts, certainly. But even this reflection brought little
solace. Mr. Rodney had long since written to his old and valued friend,
Lord Bernard Roche, asking a thousand discreet questions about "poor
dear old Huskinson." But he had received no reply, no satisfaction
to his very natural curiosity about the man so suddenly plunged into
the very heart of his heart's life. And though this grave matter so
afflicted Mr. Rodney, there was something further to perplex him.
There was James Bush. He was still in a measure shrouded in mystery.
Yet Mr. Rodney had sometimes felt his influence upon Mrs. Verulam
as one feels a thing in the dark. Since that afternoon when Mr.
Rodney practically had a fit on hearing of her intention to abandon
society, Mrs. Verulam had not again openly alluded to it, or referred
pointedly to Mr. Bush. She thought that to do so might be dangerous,
so long as high collars were in fashion for men. Had Mr. Rodney worn
a scarf, like a costermonger, she would have been troubled by no such
delicacy. But perhaps she had hardly considered that, if Mr. Rodney
were seized with convulsions on appreciating the possibility of her
abandoning society, he would most probably be attacked by an enemy
still more dreadful if he beheld society abandoning her, as now seemed
possible. Women are so careless. Mr. Rodney, thinking of Mr. James
Bush, drew forth his watch. In something less than a couple of hours
that mysterious figure from the Marshes of Bungay, that figure first
seen shrouded in the romantic privacy of a reversed meat-safe, was due
at the palace. What then? What then? Mr. Rodney, forgetful of lunch,
forgetful of his duties as cicerone of Ribton Marches, forgetful of the
passing hour that may never return, forgetful even of the orchestrion,
and of a life-size and life-like portrait of the Bun Empress in an
orange-coloured tea-gown which stared upon him from the opposite wall
of the purple drawing-room, plunged into the most solemn meditation,
with his chin sunk down upon an opal breast-pin presented to him by an
Austrian Archduchess. At length, coming once more to the surface, he
recalled the fact that he had not arranged his hair since travelling,
and that lunch was imminent. He therefore rose with a sigh to seek the
"green bedroom," in which apartment he was to be accommodated during
his stay in the palace. But owing to his ignorance of the building,
or his absence of mind, or both, he strayed from the right path, and
endeavoured to make his way into the upper regions through a side door,
and up a staircase which, not having been brought from abroad at an
immense cost, was dedicated to the uses of the Bun Emperor's menials.
As Mr. Rodney vaguely ascended this staircase, and when he was not
quite half-way up, his attention was attracted by the tiny but sharp
tinkling of a bell in some hidden place below. He stopped, as one stops
when arrested by some triviality in a dream. The tinkling was renewed,
and then the following monologue broke upon Mr. Rodney's listening ear:
"Yes, sir—yes, sir. Mr. Harrison, sir—Mr. Harrison. Because I
didn't hear the bell, sir. I didn't hear the bell, sir. I didn't hear
the—— Because I was in the hall, sir—watching, sir, according to
your directions. Yes, sir, they have arrived—the ones on the paper,
sir—Mrs. Veddleham, Mr. Rodney, and Mr. Van Adams, sir. What do you
say, sir?—one maid and one valet, sir—one maid and one—— Not much
to look at, sir. Which, sir—the valet or the maid? Oh, rather like a
rat, sir. Rather like a ra—— No, not the maid, sir, the valet. Yes,
sir, I know I am—I know I'm responsible, I say, sir. Poke their noses?
oh, on no account, sir—by no means—not at all—by no means, sir—not
at—— Now, sir? Mr. Rodney is in the purple drawing-room, sir——"
"Am I?" murmured that gentleman vaguely to himself on the stairs.
"The purp—— Mrs. Veddleham, sir? She has retired, sir, to—— Not
fatigued, sir, retired.—Seems very quiet, sir, so far. Not Mr. Adams,
Mrs. Veddleham, sir. He has gone upstairs, sir—to his bedroom,
sir—to brush his hair, I presume, sir—I presume to bru—— I didn't
take partic'lar notice, sir—I didn't take partic—— I will, sir;
oh, indeed you may depend—— Rely on me, sir—till I drop, sir—I
say till I dr—— I beg pardon, sir—the what, sir?—the what do
you say, sir?—Partridges, sir?—Parliament do you say, sir?—I beg
pardon—peppermint, sir?—pepperm—oh, parrots! Oh dear no, sir—oh
dear no, they shall not be tamp—— I say, sir, they shall not be,
while I am here, sir.—Thank you, sir, and the same to Mrs. Lite,
sir.—Mr. Rodney, sir? Makes himself quite at home, sir—makes himself
qui—— I says they do not allow it to be employed in their absence,
sir—they do not al—— I thought you would, sir—I am glad I have done
ri—— Which, sir?—the which do you say, sir?—the parrots, sir? Do
you say the parr—— Oh, quite theirselves, so far, sir—I say they
seem quite theirselves so far. A little quiet p'raps, sir—a little
quieter than usual p'raps, sir.—Only twice, sir, as I heard—only
Hallelujah twice, sir, and rather low if anything, sir—lower than
usual if anything, sir. I will notify you, sir—certainly, I will
take care to noti—— What, sir? Lame, sir, do you say? Which of 'em,
sir? None of 'em are lame, sir—I say none of 'em are lame so far as
I've—— Not lame, sir! Not lame! James, sir—oh, I under—— Mr. James
Bush, sir!"
Mr. Rodney pricked up his ears at this point, and leaned a little
lower upon the balustrade towards the hidden voice of the groom of the
chambers.
"Mr. Bush, sir—oh, I will indeed—a special eye on him—certainly,
sir. If he should I will indeed, sir—I say I will indeed if he
should.—I believe at three-fifteen, sir. If you will give me a mo—a
moment I will see, sir——"
Here there was a pause, and a sound of paper rustling.
"It is three-fifteen, sir. In the hall, sir, I will indeed. Rely on——
He shall not, sir—I say he shall not, if I have to—— Night, sir—do
you say at night, sir? Very well, sir—I say ver—— I will endeavour
not to let him know it, sir. Softly, sir? Oh, most deci—— Mr. Bush,
sir? Do you say Mr. Bu—— Rather him, sir, than the rest I see—I say
I see, sir. At all times after Mr. Bush, sir—yes."
Just at this point Harry, Mr. Rodney's man, appeared abruptly on the
staircase, coming down, and almost ran into his bent-double master. Mr.
Rodney hastily reared himself up to his full height.
"Kindly show me my room, Harry," he said; "I am looking for it."
"Certainly, sir," said Harry, wondering very much why his master was
looking for it over the balusters of the servants' staircase. He turned
back to usher his master to the green bedroom, and Mr. Rodney followed
him in the deepest perplexity. What was this about James Bush? What was
the man's record? Of what nature was his history? Did the exiled Bun
Emperor know more of him than met the eye? Did——
"This is your room, sir," said Harry, throwing open a green door.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Verulam and Chloe had secured a moment to themselves in
one of the winter gardens.
"I say," said the latter, "Mr. Rodney's getting very officious, almost
as bad as that horrid little Mr. Ingerstall. He wants Harry to shave
me!"
"What?" cried Mrs. Verulam, dropping a lump of sugar, by means of which
she was tampering with one of the Bun Empress's favourites, much to the
gratification of that individual.
"He does!"
"Harry!"
"His man."
"Don't let him, Chloe. Don't be shaved. Let me imp——"
"My dear, is it likely? I told him I always did it myself. But still,
these offers are afflicting."
"I wonder Mr. Rodney hadn't more tact," began Mrs. Verulam. Then she
recollected herself and laughed. "When shall I remember that you're a
man?" she said.
"Perhaps when you get no more invitation cards," said Chloe with
solemnity.
"Oh yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Verulam ecstatically. "It has nearly come to
that; the goal is in sight at last."
"I believe it is," said Chloe rather grimly. "You don't mean to tell
me, Daisy, that you really are in earnest, that you really do want to
be put out of this heavenly life?"
"Indeed, indeed I do! This week, perhaps, the cage door will open. Oh!"
she clasped her hands in rapture. "This week!"
"Well, you are the most extraordinary creature! But I believe this week
will decide it. Daisy, the Duchess means mischief."
"I know."
"I almost thought at the last moment she wouldn't come, that she would
think you were too compromised and compromising."
"You don't know her. She hadn't got another invitation for Ascot; she
is obliged to use me as a sort of hotel. Besides, you are here, and
she's a woman of courage and resource. In spite of all, she still has
hopes of you for Lady Pearl."
"It's rather a shame—that part, I mean; but it couldn't be helped.
Well, at any rate, I've played the time-honoured _rôle_ of Carlsbad.
I've cured her daughter of the gout. That should be counted unto me for
righteousness."
"It will, dear. It must. Oh, Chloe, I'm so excited!"
"Why?"
"How forgetful you are! In two hours _he_ will be here. How wonderful
it seems!"
"He? Oh, of course, Mr. Bush. Now, Daisy, if you really do wish to get
out of society, don't spoil everything by flirting with James Bush
instead of with me."
"Flirting!" cried Mrs. Verulam indignantly. "James Bush never flirts;
he doesn't know the meaning of the word."
"Then he ought to get one of those explanatory dictionaries—they're
only half a dollar apiece."
"Don't, Chloe. Don't be flippant about Mr. Bush. It—it isn't suitable.
When you see him you'll understand that in a moment. James Bush has a
lofty nature, a little reserved, perhaps. He is apt to be reticent with
strangers."
"Does that mean that he never opens his mouth to anyone who isn't a
blood relation?"
"I should not go so far as to say that. Still, he is reticent."
"Then don't put him next to me at dinner. Oh, I forgot, of course I
shall sit between two women. What's Miss Bindler like?"
"Oh, one of those women who is so much more respectable than she looks
that men always find her disappointing."
"I know, now that I've been in London a month."
"She lives by what she makes racing."
"How much is that?"
"A few hundreds a year, I fancy. She is quite a good soul really."
"And Lady Drake? She's the only other one whom I haven't seen, except,
of course, the paragon."
Mrs. Verulam blushed softly.
"Lady Drake? Well, she's a widow, you know."
"That tells me all, naturally."
"Nonsense. Her being a widow is really only a sort of accident in her
life. Her husband was a V.C."
"What's that?"
"A brave man."
"What odd epithets you have over here. Well?"
"He's been dead thousands of years. She's intensely old."
"Why did you ask her, then?"
"Only because she worries the Duke."
"As Mr. Ingerstall worries the Duchess?"
"Oh no, quite differently."
"Well, but why is the Duke to be worried, too? I don't know him yet;
I've only caught sight of him at Hurlingham. Why must he be worried?"
"If he isn't, he is apt to get obstreperous—in quite, quite a
different way from the Duchess. I can't explain, really. You'll soon
find out. Oh, I forgot, though, you're a man at present, so you won't."
Chloe smiled a rather charming smile of comprehension. But Mrs. Verulam
was looking at her with a sort of dawning expression that seemed to
mingle alarm with amusement.
"Unless," she added slowly, "unless he should chance to confide in
you—in the smoking-room after _we've_ all gone to bed."
"Gracious heavens! I shall go to bed, too."
"Yes, perhaps that would be better."
"I'm quite certain it would. I don't want to feel like Daniel in the
lions' den. There's the gong! Oh, I'm so hungry! That's one advantage
of being a man—one can eat more if one wishes to."
"Come along, then. But where's—oh, here you are, Mr. Rodney."
Mr. Rodney at this moment entered, looking far more solemn than any
owl, and, indeed, with knitted brows and a face almost entirely covered
with an artistic disposition of wrinkles.
"Yes, I am here," he said abstractedly. "Yes, here I am."
And they walked into the cedar-wood parlour to lunch.