IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE SPEAK THEIR MINDS
"After all, you know," Meg said, with intent to comfort, "no great harm
can happen to Tony. Hugo will only take the child a little way off, to
see what he can get out of you."
"It's the moral harm to Tony that I mind," Jan answered sadly. "He was
getting so happy and trustful, so much more like other children. I know
his father has got him to go away by some ruse, and he will be miserable
and embittered because he has been cheated again."
"Shall you drive to the junction if you hear nothing at the station?"
"Yes, I think so, though I've little hope of learning anything there.
You see, people come there from three directions. They couldn't possibly
notice everybody as they do at a little station like this."
"Wait," said Meg, "don't go to the junction. Have you forgotten Mr.
Ledgard was to fetch us all at half-past two? He'll run you over in his
car in a quarter the time you'd take to go with Placid, and be some use
as well. You'd better come straight back here if you get no news, and
I'll keep him till you get back if he turns up first."
By this time the pony-cart was at the door. Meg helped Jan in, kissed
her, and whispered, "Cheer up; I feel somehow you'll hear something,"
and Jan drove off. She found a boy to hold the pony when she reached the
station, and went in. The old porter was waiting for the train, and she
asked if he happened to notice her little nephew that morning.
"Yes, miss, I did see 'un along with a holder gentleman unbeknownst to
me."
Jan walked up and down in an agony of doubt and apprehension.
The train came in. There were but few passengers, and among them was
Miles, come down again for the week-end.
He greeted Jan with effusion. Had she come to meet anyone, or was it a
parcel?
To his astonishment Miss Ross broke from him and rushed at the guard
right up at the far end of the train.
The guard evidently disclaimed all knowledge of the parcel, for Miles
saw him shaking his head vigorously.
"Any other luggage, sir?" asked the old porter, lifting out Miles'
suit-case.
"Yes, a box of rods in the van."
The old porter went to the end of the train near where Jan had been to
the guard three minutes before.
He opened the van door and nearly tumbled backward in astonishment, for
right in the doorway, blinking at the light, stood "Miss Rass' young
gen'leman."
"Well, I am blessed!" exclaimed the porter, and lifted him out.
Tony was dreadfully dirty. The heat, the dust, the tears he had shed
when he woke up with the putting in of luggage at the junction and
couldn't understand what had happened to him, all combined to make him
about the most miserable-looking and disreputable small boy you could
imagine. He had left his hat behind the milk-cans.
Jan had gone out of the station. She had passed Miles blindly, and her
face caused that young man to whistle softly, just once. Then he dashed
after her.
"Your haunt bin askin' for you," the old porter said to Tony. "'Peared
to me she was a bit worried-like."
Tony moved stiffly down the little station, the old porter following
with Miles' luggage on a truck.
The ticket-collector stood in the doorway. Tony, of course, had none.
"Don't you say nothin'," whispered the old porter. "'Is haunt'll make it
good; there's some sort of a misteree."
Tony felt queer and giddy. Jan, already in her little pony-trap, had
started to drive away. Miles, waiting for his baggage beside his uncle's
car, saw the dejected little figure appear in the station entrance.
He let fly a real barrack-square bellow after Jan, and she pulled up.
She looked back and saw the reason for Captain Middleton's amazing roar.
She swung the indignant Placid round, and in two minutes she was out of
the pony-trap and had Tony in her strong arms.
Miles tipped the porter and drove off. He, too, realised that there was
some sort of a "misteree," something painful and unpleasant for Miss
Ross, and that she would probably prefer that no questions were asked.
Whatever mischief could that young Tony have been after? And dared Miles
call at Wren's End that evening, in the hope of a glimpse of Meg, or
would it look inquisitive and ill-bred?
Placid turned a mild, inquiring head to discover the reason for this new
delay.
When Jan, after paying Tony's fare back from the junction, had driven
away, the old porter, the ticket-collector, and the station-master sat
in conclave on the situation. And their unanimous conclusion was summed
up by the old porter: "Byes be a mishtiful set of young varmints, an' it
warn't no job for a lone 'ooman to 'ave to bring 'em up."
The lone woman in question held her reins in one hand and her other arm
very tightly round the dirty little boy on the seat beside her.
As they drove through the village neither of them spoke, but when they
reached the Wren's End Road, Tony burst into tears.
"I _am_ so hungry," he wailed, "and I feel so nasty in my inside."
* * * * *
As Meg was putting him to bed that night she inquired if he had done
anything with his green jersey, for she couldn't find it.
"No," Tony answered. "I haven't had it for a long time--it's been too
warm."
"It's very odd," said Meg. "It has disappeared, and so have two vests
of little Fay's that I put in the nursery ottoman to mend. Where can
they be? I hate to lose things; it seems so untidy."
"I 'spect," said Tony, thoughtfully, "my Daddie took them. He'd never
leave without takin somefin."
* * * * *
There was a dinner-party at the Manor House. Peter had come down from
town for it, and this time he was staying at Wren's End. Lady Penelope
and her husband were to dine and sleep at the Manor, likewise Miles, who
had come down with Peter; and Lady Pen contrived thoroughly to upset her
aunt before dinner, by relating how she had met Miles with Miss Morton
and her father in Cheltenham. And poor Lady Mary had been hoping that
the unfortunate affair would die a natural death. She had asked the
prettiest girl in the neighbourhood for Miles to take in, and now,
looking down the table at him, she would have said he was as
well-pleased with his neighbour as any young man could be. The Freams
were there and Mr. Withells, the pretty girl's mamma and a bride and
bridegroom--fourteen in all. A dangerous number to ask, the Squire had
declared; one might so easily have fallen through. No one did, however,
and Peter found himself allotted to Lady Penelope, while Jan's fate was
the bridegroom. "His wife won't be jealous of Miss Ross, you know," Lady
Mary had said while arranging her couples.
It happened that Peter sat opposite to Jan, and he surveyed her across
the sweet-peas with considerable satisfaction. He had never seen Jan in
what her niece bluntly called "a nekked dless" before. To-night she wore
black, in some soft, filmy stuff from which her fine arms and shoulders
and beautiful neck stood out in challenging whiteness. Her hair, too,
had "pretty twinkly things" in it, and she wore a long chain of small
but well-matched pearls, her father's last gift to her. Yes, Jan was
undoubtedly distinguished, and oh, thank heaven! she _had_ a clean face.
Beautiful Lady Pen was painted to the eyes, and her maid was not quite
skilful in blending her complexion rightly with her vivid hair;
beautiful hair it was, with a large ripple that was most attractive, but
Mr. Withells, sitting on the other side of Lady Pen, decided that he
didn't approve of her. She was flamboyant and daring of speech. She made
him nervous. He felt sincerely sorry for Pottinger.
Peter found Lady Pen very amusing, and perhaps she rather neglected her
other neighbour.
The dinner was excellent and long; and after it the ladies, when they
left the men to smoke, strolled about on the terrace, and Jan found
herself side by side with Lady Penelope.
"How's your little friend?" she asked abruptly. "I suppose you know my
cousin's playin' round?"
Jan was a little taller than Lady Pen, and turned her head slowly to
look at her: "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," she said.
"Surely," Lady Pen retorted, "you must have seen."
"If you mean that Captain Middleton admires Miss Morton, I believe he
does. But you see, to say that anyone is 'playing round' rather reflects
on me, because she is in my charge."
"I should say you've got a pretty good handful," Lady Pen said
sympathetically.
"I don't think you quite understand Miss Morton. I've known her, as it
happens, known her well, for close upon nine years."
"And you think well of her?"
"It would be difficult to express how well."
"You're a good friend, Miss Ross. I had occasion to think so once
before--now I'm pretty sure of it. What's the sayin'--'Time tryeth
thingummy'?"
"Troth?" Jan suggested.
"That's it. 'Time tryeth troth.' I never was any good at quotations and
things. But now, look here, I'd like to ask you somethin' rather
particular ..." Lady Pen took Jan's arm and propelled her gently down a
side-walk out of earshot of the others. "Suppose you knew folks--and
they weren't exactly friends, but pleasant, you know, and all that, and
you were aware that they went about sayin' things about a third person
who also wasn't exactly a friend, but ... well, likeable; and you
believed that what the first lot said gave a wrong impression ... in
short, was very damaging--none of it any business of yours, mind--would
you feel called upon to do anything?"
The two tall women stopped and faced one another.
The moon shone full on Lady Pen's beautiful painted face, and Jan saw,
for the first time, that the eyes under the delicately darkened eyebrows
were curiously like Miles'.
"It's always tiresome to interfere in other people's business," said
Jan, "but it's not quite fair, is it, not to stand up for people if you
believe an accusation to be untrue--whether you like them or not. You
see, it may be such a serious thing for the person implicated."
"I believe you're right," said Lady Pen, "but oh, lord! what a worry it
will be."
Lady Mary called to them to come, for the bride was going to sing.
The bride's singing was not particularly pleasing, and she was followed
by Miles, who performed "Drake's Drum," to his aunt's rather uncertain
accompaniment, in a voice that shook the walls. Poor Mr. Withells fled
out by the window, and sat on the step on his carefully-folded
handkerchief, but even so the cold stones penetrated, and he came in
again.
And after "Drake's Drum" it was time to go home.
Jan and Peter walked back through the scented night, Peter carrying her
slippers in a silk bag, for the sternly economical Meg wouldn't hear of
wasting good suède slippers at 22s. 6d. a pair by walking half a mile in
them, no matter how dry it was.
When all the guests had gone, Lady Pen seized Miles by the arm and
implored him to take her outside for a cigarette. "That little Withells
had given her the hump."
Lady Mary said it was bed-time and the servants wanted to lock up. The
Squire and Mr. Pottinger melted away imperceptibly to smoke in peace
elsewhere.
Lady Pen, still holding Miles in an iron grip, pulled him over to the
door, which she shut, led him back, and stood in front of Lady Mary, who
was just going to ring for the servants to shut the windows.
"Wait a minute, Aunt Mary. I've got somethin' to say, and I want to say
it before Miles."
"Oh, don't let us go into all that to-night," Lady Mary implored, "if
what you have to say has anything to do with what you told me before
dinner."
"It has and it hasn't. One thing I've decided is that I've got to tell
the Trents they are liars; and the other thing is that, though I
disapprove with all my strength of the game Miles is playing, I believe
that little girl is square...."
"You see," Lady Pen went on, turning to Miles, "I've repeated things to
Aunt Mary that I heard from the Trents lately--but I heard a different
story at the time--and though I think you, Miles, are throwing yourself
away, I won't be a party to spreadin' lies. Somethin' that _poudrée_
woman with the good skin said to-night made me feel a swab----"
"I'm glad you've spoken up like this, Pen," Miles said slowly, "for if
you hadn't, we couldn't have been friends any more. I promised Meg I
wouldn't tell anybody--but I've asked her to marry me ... and though she
isn't over keen, I believe I'll get her to do it some day."
"Isn't over keen?" Lady Mary repeated indignantly. "Why, she ought to be
down on her knees with joy!"
Miles laughed. "She's not a kneeling sort, Aunt Mary. It's I who'll have
to do the kneeling, I can tell you."
Lady Pen was looking straight at her cousin with the beautiful candid
eyes that were so like his own. "Just for curiosity," she said slowly,
"I'd dearly like to know if Meg Morton ever said anything to you about
me--anything rather confidential--I won't be offended, I'd just like to
know."
"About you?" Miles echoed in a puzzled voice.
"About my appearance, you know--my looks."
"I think she called you good-looking, like everybody else, but I don't
remember that she was specially enthusiastic. To tell you the honest
truth, Pen, we've had other things to talk about than you."
"Now listen, you two," said Lady Pen. "That little girl is straight. You
won't understand, Miles, but Aunt Mary will. Meg Morton knew I was
against her--about you, Miles--women always know these things. And yet
she held her tongue when she could have said something true that I'd
rather not have talked about. You'll hold your tongue, old chap, and so
will Aunt Mary. I've got her hair; got it on this minute. That's why
she's such a croppy."
Lady Mary sat down on the nearest chair and sighed deeply.
"It's been a real satisfaction to me, this transformation, because I
know where it came from."
Miles took his cousin's hand and kissed it. "If somebody had to have it,
I'm glad it's you," he said.
"Yes, she's straight," Lady Pen repeated. "I don't believe there's many
girls who would have kept quiet--not when the man they cared about was
being got at. You may ring now, Aunt Mary. I'm through. Good night."
* * * * * * * *
"Do you realise," said Peter as they turned out of the dark Manor drive
into the moonlit road, "that I've been here on and off over a month, and
that we are now nearly at the end of July?"
"You've only just come to _us_," said Jan. "You can't count the time you
stayed at 'The Green Hart' as a visit."
"And now I have come ... I'm not quite sure I've done wisely,
unless...."
"Unless what?"
"Unless I can put something through that I came back from India to do."
Jan did not answer. They walked on in silence, and Peter looked at the
moon.
"I think," he said, "you've always had a pretty clear idea why I came
home from India ... haven't you?"
"It was time for your leave," Jan said nervously. "It isn't good to
stay out there too long."
"I shouldn't have taken leave this year, though, if it hadn't been for
you."
"You've always been kind and helpful to me ... I hope it hasn't been
very ... inconvenient."
Peter laughed, and stopped in the middle of the road.
"I'm fond of fencing," he said lightly, "and free play's all very well
and pretty; but I've always thought that the real thing, with the
buttons off the foils, must have been a lot more sport than anything we
get now."
Again Jan was silent.
"You've fenced with me, Jan," he said slowly, "ever since I turned up
that day unexpectedly. Now, I want a straight answer. Do you care at
all, or have you only friendship for me? Look at me; tell me the truth."
"It's all so complicated and difficult," she faltered, and her eyes fell
beneath Peter's.
"What is?"
"This caring--when you aren't a free agent."
"Free fiddlestick! You either care or you don't--which is it?"
"I care a great deal too much for my own peace of mind," said Jan.
"I am quite satisfied," said Peter. And if Mr. Withells had seen what
happened to the "sensible" Miss Ross just then, his neatly-brushed hair
would have stood straight on end.
In the road, too!