And just as the dead cheetah was laid at Jill's feet, a huge bull dog,
with a face like a gargoyle to be seen on the Western transept of
Notre-Dame, and a chest like a steel safe, supported on legs which had
given way under the weight, walked across from Sir John Wetherbourne,
Bart., of Bourne Manor, and other delectable mansions, to lay his
snuffling, stertorous self at the feet of his mistress, the Honourable
Mary Bingham, pronounced Beam, in whose sanctum sat the man on the
bleak November evening, and of whom he had just asked advice.
People always asked advice of Mary, she was of that kind. On this
occasion she sat looking across at the man she loved, and had always
loved, just as he loved and had always loved her, since the days they
had more or less successfully followed the hounds on fat ponies. She
sat meditatively twisting a heavy signet ring up and down her little
finger. _The_ finger, the one which advises the world of the fact that
some man in it has singled you out of the ruck as being fit for the
honour of wifehood, was unadorned, showing neither the jewels which
betoken the drawn-up contract, nor the pure gold which denotes the
contract fulfilled. Those two had grown up in the knowledge that they
would some time marry, though never a word had been uttered, and being
sure and certain of each other, they had never worried, or forced the
pace. And then Jill had disappeared! Gone was their pal, their little
sister whom they had petted and spoiled from the day she too had
appeared on a fat pony, gone without a trace, leaving these two honest
souls, in a sudden unnecessary burst of altruism, to come to a mutual,
unspoken understanding that their love must be laid aside in folds of
soft tissue, that they must turn the key upon their treasure, until
such time as definite news of the lost girl should allow them to bring
it out with decency, and deck it with orange blossom. And worry having
entered upon them, they both suddenly discovered that uncertainty is a
never-failing aperitif, and they both hungered for a care-free hour
like unto those they had carelessly let slip.
Foolish perhaps, but they loved Jill, making of themselves brother and
sister; hurt to the quick when after the _débâcle_ she had sweetly
declined all offers of help, and worried to death when she had started
out on the hare-brained scheme of earning her own living off her own
bat.
Mary Bingham was one of those delightful women peculiar to England,
restful to look at, restful to know. Her thick, glossy brown hair was
coiled neatly in plaits, no matter what the fashion; her skin, devoid
of powder, did not shine, even on the hottest day; her smile was a
benison, and her teeth and horsemanship perfect.
Her clothes? Well, she was tailor-made, which means that near a horse
she beat other women to a frazzle, but on a parquet floor, covered with
dainty, wispy, fox-trotting damsels, she showed up like a double
magenta-coloured dahlia in a bed of anemones.
Jack Wetherbourne was of the same comfortable and honest type, and they
loved each other in a tailor-made way; one of those tailor-mades of the
best tweed, which, cut without distinctive style, is warranted with an
occasional visit to the cleaners to last out its wearer; a garment you
can always reply on, and be sure of finding ready for use, no matter
how long you have kept it hidden in your old oak chest, or your
three-ply wardrobe, or whatever kind of cupboard you may have managed
to make out of your life. Although no word of love had ever passed
between them, you would have sworn they had been married for years, as
they sat on each side of the fire; Mary in a black demi-toilette, cut
low at the neck, which does not mean décolleté by any means, but which
_does_ invariably spell dowdiness, and Jack Wetherbourne with his chin
in his hand, and a distinct frown on his usually undisturbed
countenance.
A great fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, the flames jumping
from one bit of wood to another, throwing shadows through the
comfortable room, and drawing dull lustre from the highly polished
floor and Jacobean furniture. It was an extraordinarily restful room
for a woman, for with the exception of a few hunting pictures in heavy
frames on the wall, a few hunting trophies on solid tables, some books
and a big box of chocolates, there were no feminine fripperies, no
photographs, nothing with a ribbon attachment, no bits of silver and
egg-shell china.
Oh! But the room was typical of the Honourable Mary Bingham, into
whose capable hands had slipped the reins controlling the big estate
bounded on one side by that of the man opposite her.
"There is only one more thing I can suggest," said the deep, clear
voice, "and that is that you go over to Egypt yourself. Who knows if
you might not pick up a clue. Detectives have failed, though I think
we made a mistake in employing English ones, they hardly seem tactful
or subtle enough for the East."
Certainly one would have hardly applied either adjective to Detective
John Gibbs, who, bull-necked and blustering, had pushed and bullied his
way through Egypt's principal cities in search of Jill.
"How like Jill not to have sent us a line," remarked Jack Wetherbourne
for the hundredth time as he lit a cigarette.
"Oh, but as I have said before, she may have had sunstroke, and lost
her memory, or have been stolen and put away in a harem. She's not
dead, that's certain, because she had her hand told before she left on
her last trip, and she's to live to over eighty."
"That's splendid," was Wetherbourne's serious answer to a serious
statement, as he rose on the entry of Lady Bingham, who, having at the
same moment finished her knitting wool and the short commons of
consecutive thought of which she was capable, had meandered in on
gossip bent, looking quickly and furtively from one to the other for
signs of an understanding which would join the estates in matrimony, a
pact upon which her heart was set. And seeing none, she sat down with
an irritated rustle, which gathered in intensity until it developed
into a storm of expostulating petulance when she heard of the proposed
programme.
On the stroke of eleven Mary got up and walked down the broad
staircase, and through the great hall, and out on to the steps beside
the very splendid man beside her, and they stood under the moon, whilst
a nightingale bubbled for a moment, and _yet_ they were silent.
"Dear old girl," said Jack Wetherbourne, as he pushed open the little
gate in the wall which divided their lands, and waved his hand in the
direction of the old Tudor house.
"Dear old Jack," murmured Mary as her capable hand reached for a
chocolate as she sat on the window-seat and waited until she heard the
faint click of the gate, upon which she waved her handkerchief.
Prosaic sayings, prosaic doings, but those three prosaic words meant as
much, and a good deal more to them, than the most exquisite poetical
outburst, written or uttered, since the world began, might mean to us.