"WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY--"
Maxfield Manor, however cheery a place in summer-time, with its
household in full swing, was decidedly desolate in dark November
weather, with only a housekeeper in charge--that is to say, to any one
but the two young persons on whom the honours of the house devolved, it
would have appeared dull.
Mr Armstrong delayed his visit to Oxford for some days after the
departure of the Captain and Roger. There was a good deal of business
to be done in connection with the estate, and as Mr Pottinger
discovered, when the second trustee did take it into his head to look
into things, it was no child's play. He had an uncomfortable manner,
this tutor, of demanding explanations and particulars with all the air
of the proprietor himself, and was not to be put off by any dilatory
tactics on the part of the official with whom the explanation lay. As
in the present case the business transacted was chiefly in connection
with leases and conveyances, the unfortunate lawyer had a rough week of
it, and felt at the end very much like one of his own clients after a
year in Chancery. However, the inquisitor appeared to be fairly well
satisfied when all was done, so that Mr Pottinger, who all along had on
his mind the uncomfortable consciousness of a few well-hidden
irregularities, was doubly relieved when the tutor dropped his glass
finally from his eye and observed--
"I need not trouble you further at present, sir."
It was after this final interview that Mr Armstrong looked in on his
friend the doctor.
"I'm off to Oxford for a day or two," said he.
"No attractions here?" asked the doctor.
"Yes--you among others."
"And who's to wash and dress the babies at Maxfield? And who is to keep
the wolf from the fold at the Vicarage? and who is to keep an eye on the
man of the law across the way?"
"The babes are well qualified to nurture one another. The man of the
law is under closer observation than he imagines. As to the wolf, I
came to speak to you about that. He may make a descent on the fold, in
which case Dr Brandram must go out with swords and staves and give him
battle."
The doctor laughed.
"I like your ideas of the medical profession. Its duties are variegated
and lively. However, make yourself easy this time. I hear to-day that
the young ladies at the Vicarage with their governess are to go on
Monday to Devonshire."
"Good," said Mr Armstrong, decidedly relieved.
"When does your ward return?" said the doctor. "I dislike this London
business altogether. Oliphant is not to be trusted with a boy of his
delicate make. You should have stopped it."
The tutor said nothing, but looked decidedly dejected. He was greatly
tempted to confide the difficulties of the situation to his friend. But
the dead Squire's secret was not his to give away.
"Unless they come home soon," said he, "I have a notion of returning
from Oxford by way of London."
"Do--the sooner the better."
When, on the next day, Miss Rosalind sailed up to Maxfield to bid her
brother and sister farewell, it fell to the tutor's lot to escort her
back to the Vicarage.
"Mr Armstrong," said she abruptly, as they went, "why have you and
Roger quarrelled?"
Mr Armstrong looked round uncomfortably.
"Quarrelled?"
"Yes. Do you suppose he would go away like this for any other reason?
Won't you tell me what it is about?"
"Roger and I have agreed to differ on a certain point. Miss Oliphant.
We have not quarrelled?"
"You cannot trust me, I see, or you would tell me what the trouble is."
"I trust you completely, Miss Oliphant. I will gladly tell you."
Five minutes ago wild horses would not have extorted the confession from
him. But somehow or other, as he looked at her standing there, he could
not help himself.
"Roger has got an impression that his elder brother is still living, and
is to be found; and, if found, that he ought to be made possessor of
Maxfield. I am unable to sympathise in what I look upon as an
unprofitable quest. That is the whole story."
"Why cannot you back him up, Mr Armstrong?"
"I believe his fancy is utterly groundless; besides which, if the person
he believes to be the missing brother is really Roger Ingleton, to
discover him would mean disgrace to Maxfield, and an injury to the name
of Ingleton."
"What! Mr Armstrong, do you mean to say--"
"I mean to say that Mr Robert Ratman claims to be the lost elder
brother, and that Roger credits the story. Miss Oliphant, I am grateful
to you for sharing this confidence with me. You can help Roger in this
matter better than I can."
She looked at him with a flush in her face, and then replied rather
dismally, "I fear not--for, to be as frank with you as you are with me,
I am dreadfully afraid Roger is right. The same fancy passed through my
mind when first I saw Mr Ratman. I had recently been studying the lost
brother's portrait, you know, and was struck and horrified by the
resemblance. Mr Armstrong," added she, after a pause, "if I were
Roger's guardian and tutor, I would stand by him all the more that his
duty is an unpleasant one. Thank you; here we are at the gate. Good-
bye. I hope you will have a pleasant time at Oxford."
And she passed in, leaving the good man in a sad state of bewilderment
and perplexity.
He started a day or two later in a somewhat depressed frame of mind for
Oxford, where he astonished and delighted most of his old creditors by
calling and paying off a further instalment of his debts to them. But
his satisfaction in this act of restitution was sadly tempered by the
sense of coercion put upon him by the doctor and Rosalind, and the
conviction that, wise or foolish, pleasant or unpleasant, his place was
at his young pupil's side. No excuse, or pleadings of a false pride,
could dispel the feeling. No, he must climb down, own himself wrong,
and sue for permission to assist in a quest in which he had little faith
and still less inclination.
While he is making up his mind, it may be worth the reader's while to
remark what was happening at Maxfield.
Tom and Jill woke one morning to discover themselves lord and lady of
the situation. In their lamentations, not unmingled with a sense of
injury, at the desertion of which they were the victims, it had not
occurred to them to realise that there were alleviating circumstances in
their forlorn condition.
The great manor-house was theirs--library, dining-hall, corridors,
haunted chamber, roof, cellars--all except the servant's hall and the
room where Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, held austere sway. The park
was theirs, the woods, the stream, the paddocks, and the live-stock.
Nay, when they came to reckon all up, half the county was theirs, and a
mile or so of sea-beach into the bargain.
They were absolutely free to roam where they liked, do what they liked,
eat what they liked, and sit up at night to any hour that pleased them.
Mrs Parker, good soul, though excellent in academic exhortations and
prohibitions, was too infirm to put her laws into active practice; and
when, a day or two after the place had been left in her charge, she
succumbed to a touch of her enemy, the lumbago, and had to take to her
bed, these two young persons, though extremely sorry for her misfortune,
felt that the whole world lay like a glorious football at their feet.
"Good old Jilly!" exclaimed Tom in his balmiest mood one morning, when
these two young prodigals assembled for breakfast in the big dining-room
at the fashionable hour of eleven, with Raffles in full livery to attend
upon them. "This is what I call a lark and a half. Raffles, pass Miss
Jill the honey; and walk about, and make yourself useful. I tell you
what, we'll go and have a snap at the pheasants, and try a few drop
kicks over the Martyr's oak. What do you say?"
"I can't shoot awfully well," said Jill apologetically. "I'd sooner, if
you don't mind, Tom, walk about on the roof, or help you let the water
out of the big pond."
"Raffles, old chappie, more toast--a lot more toast for Miss Jill. I'll
have a wing of something myself. The fact is, Jilly," said he, when
Raffles had departed on his quest, "I wanted to get the beast out of the
way while I told you I'd got an idea."
"Oh, _what_, Tom?" asked Jill, in tones of surprised pleasure. Tom
glanced round cautiously, and then whispered, "You and I'll give a small
kick-up here on our own hooks. What do you say?"
"A party! Oh Tom! how clever of you to think of that!"
"You see," said Tom, accepting the homage meekly, "the other day in the
library, when we were turning out all the drawers, I found a whole lot
of `At Home' cards, and the list of fellows that were asked to Roger's
birthday party."
"How lovely!" exclaimed Jill; "we'll just--"
But here the return of Raffles, and a significant scowl from Tom, warned
her to defer her suggestion.
The meal over, the conspirators met in the library, and put their heads
together over Tom's documents.
"That's about the ticket, isn't it?" said he, displaying one of the
invitation cards which he had experimentally filled up.
"_Dr Brandram_--
"_Mr and Miss Oliphant at home on Wednesday, December 2, at 7
o'clock. Music, dancing, fireworks, etcetera_.
"_R.S.V.P_."
"But we haven't got any fireworks," suggested Jill; "we'll have to get
some. And what about the band?"
"I shall write to the Colonel of the Grenadiers and order it. Anyhow,
you can play the Goblin polka if we get stuck up."
Jill wondered whether, after an hour or two, her one piece (even though
dear Mr Armstrong liked it) might not pall on a large assembly, and she
devoutly hoped the Grenadiers would accept.
"There's a hundred and fifty names down," said Tom. "May as well have
the lot while we're about it."
"Isn't two days rather a short invitation?" asked Jill.
"Bless you, no. You see, we're not out of mourning. Besides, Mother
Parker may be well again if we don't look sharp, or Armstrong may turn
up."
"How I wish he would!"
"He'd spoil everything. Look here, Jill, look alive and write the
cards. I'll call out."
The two spent a most industrious morning, so much so that the household
marvelled at their goodness, and remarked to one another, "The children
are no trouble at all."
Towards the end of the sitting Tom flung down his paper with a whistle
of dismay.
"I say, Jill, they ought to be black-edged!"
Jill turned pale.
"What is to be done?" she gasped.
"We'll have to doctor them with pen and ink," said Tom.
So for another hour or so they occupied themselves painfully in putting
their invitations into mourning. The result was not wholly
satisfactory, for a card dipped edgeways into a shallow plate of ink is
apt to take on its black unevenly. So that while some of the guests
were invited with signs of the slightest sorrow, the company of others
was requested with tokens of the deepest bereavement. However, on the
whole the result was passable, and that evening Tom slunk down to Yeld
post office with a bundle under his arm. At the last moment a
difficulty had arisen with regard to postage, as, between them, the two
could not raise the thirteen shillings required to stamp the lot.
However, by a lucky accident Tom discovered a bundle of halfpenny
wrappers, the property of the estate, which (after scrupulously writing
an I.O.U. for the amount) he borrowed.
"Saved a clean six-and-six by that," he remarked, when the last was
licked up; "that'll go into the fireworks."
Jill, whose admiration for her brother's genius knew no bounds, felt
almost happy.
It was Monday evening when the Yeld post-master was exercised in his
mind by hearing a loud rap down-stairs, which on inquiry he found to
have proceeded from the discharge of 150 mysterious-looking halfpenny
missives, written in a very round hand, into his box. Being an active
and intelligent person, he felt it his duty to examine one, addressed,
as it happened, to the Duke of Somewhere. After some consideration, and
a study of his rules and regulations, he came to the conclusion that the
enclosure was of the nature of a letter, and thereupon proceeded to mark
each with a claim for a penny excess postage. Which done, he retired to
his parlour, relieved in his mind.
Tom and Jill had more to do than to speculate on the adventures of their
carefully-written cards.
"Now about grub!" said Tom that evening.
Once more Jill turned a little pale. She had been dreading this fateful
question all along.
"What do you think?" said she diplomatically.
Tom, of course, had thought the problem out.
"We must keep it dark from the slaveys," said he, "at least till
everybody comes, then they're bound to give us a leg up. I fancy we can
scrape a thing or two up from what's in the house. And I've called in
at one or two of the shops at Yeld and told them to send up some things
addressed to `Miss J. Oliphant--private.' There was rather a nice lot
of herrings just in, so I got three dozen of them cheap. Then I told
them at the confectioner's to send up all the strawberry ices they could
in the time, and 150 buns. You see everybody is sure not to come, so
there'll be plenty to go round."
"Didn't Mr Rusk ask what they were for?" inquired Jill.
"I said Mr Oliphant presented his kind regards, and would be glad to
have the things sharp."
Next morning, greatly to the delight of the hospitable pair, the
herrings came up in a basket, addressed privately to Miss Jill. Later
in the day tradesmen's carts rattled up the back drive with similar
missives, not a little to the bewilderment of the servants of the house,
who shook their heads and wished Mrs Parker would make a speedy
recovery.
Tom adroitly captured the booty, and half won over Raffles to aid and
abet in the great undertaking.
"Good old Raffy," said he, as the two staggered across the hall with one
of Miss Jill's private boxes between them; "would you like a threepenny
bit?"
Raffles, whose ideas of a tip were elastic, admitted that he was open to
receive even the smallest coin.
"All right, mum's the word. Jill and I have a thing on, and we don't
want it spoiled by the slaveys."
Raffles said that, as far as he knew, the "slaveys" were thinking about
anything else than the proceedings of the two young Oliphants.
"Besides," said he, "being 'olidays, there's only me and the cook, and a
maid--and she's took up with nursing Mrs Parker."
"Poor old Parker! How is she? Pretty chippy? Sorry she's laid up.
All serene, Raff. Keep it mum, and you shall have the threepenny.
Jolly heavy box that--that's the cocoa-nuts."
"Oh, you're going to have a feast, are you?" said Raffles.
"Getting on that way," said Tom. "We can't ask you, you know, because
you'll have to wait. But you shall have some of the leavings if you
back us up."
With locked doors that night Tom and Jill unpacked and took stock of
their commissariat.
"Thirty-six herrings cut up in four," said Tom, with an arithmetical
precision which would have gratified Mr Armstrong, "makes 144 goes of
herring. If every man-jack turns up, that'll only be six goes short,
and if you and I sit out of it, only four. We might cheek in a head or
two by accident to make that up."
"Who will cook them?" asked Jill.
"Oh, we can do that, I fancy, on a tray or something. Then six cocoa-
nuts into 150 will be twenty-five. You'll have to cut each one into
twenty-five bits, Jill. Then one bun apiece, and--oh, the ice! How on
earth are we to slice that up? There's about a soup-plate full.
Couldn't get strawberry, so he's sent coffee."
"Ugh!" said Jill; "I'll give up my share."
"I did my best," said Tom. "It's not my fault strawberries are out of
season."
"Of course not. You're awfully clever, Tom. What should I have done
without you?"
"Good old Jilly! What about plates?"
The consultation lasted far into the night.
Next morning the post brought a dozen or so of polite notes which sent
the hearts of the hospitable pair into their mouths. The first they
opened was from the Duke of Somewhere, who gravely "accepted with
pleasure Mr and Miss Oliphant's polite invitation."
Several of the others were acceptances--one or two refusals.
"Five scratched already," said Tom. "That'll make it all right for the
herrings."
In the afternoon Dr Brandram called. He carried his invitation card in
his hand.
"What game are you at now?" he demanded.
"Oh, I say, Doctor, keep it quiet! You'll come, won't you? There'll be
a tidy spread--enough to go all round; and the Duke and his lot are
coming, and we expect the Grenadiers."
"Doctor," said Jill, "we shall depend on you so much. Do come early!"
Dr Brandram drove back to Yeld in a dazed condition of mind. He was
tempted to telegraph to the Duke and the county generally; to set a body
of police to prevent any one entering the Maxfield gates; to shut the
two miscreants up in the coal-cellar; to run away, and not return till
next week.
But after an hysterical consultation with himself, he decided that it
was too late to do anything but cast in his lot with the other victims,
and go dressed in all his best to Miss Oliphant's "At Home," and do what
he could to steer her and her graceless brother out of their
predicament.
As the fateful hour approached, Tom began to be a little nervous. He
had not anticipated the vast number of small details demanding his
personal attention.
For instance, there was the cooking of the herrings. Jill had nobly
undertaken that task at the drawing-room fire, which was the most
capacious. But then, if they ran it too fine, the guests might arrive
while the fish were still fizzling on the tray. If, on the other hand,
they were cooked too soon, they would be lukewarm by the time the guests
came to sit down to them. Again, there were the starlights and Roman
candles to get into position outside, and arrangements had to be made
for their protection from the damp November mist. Then, too, the
faithless Grenadiers had not turned up, which necessitated Jill
deserting her herrings and privately practising the Goblin polka, in
view of possible emergencies. Further, the table had to be laid, and
every guest's "go" of buns, and cocoa-nut, and coffee-ice, doled out in
readiness. And at the last moment there arose a difficulty in raising
the requisite number of knives, forks, spoons, and plates. Then he
discovered that the covers were still on the drawing-room chairs and the
dust-cloth on the floor, and much time and trouble was necessary for
their removal. Finally, he and Jill had to dress to receive their
guests.
"I think it will be a jolly evening," said he somewhat doubtfully, as
they hurried to their rooms.
"I'm sure it will," said Jill, whose mind had not once been clouded by a
doubt. "The herrings will be cold, that's the only thing. But they may
think that's the newest fashion."
"Look sharp and dress, anyhow," said Tom, "because you've got to cut
them in fours and stick them round on the plates, and it's half-past six
already."
Half an hour later a grand carriage and pair drove up to the door, and
Raffles solemnly announced--
"His Grace the Duke of Somewhere, and the Ladies Marigold."
Miss Oliphant's evening party had begun!