LUIGI’S ESCAPADE
Mr. Kinaby’s dog-cart, now that the land-steward himself was almost
wholly confined to the house, was at the service of Everard Lisle, and
he generally made use of it, if the weather happened to be bad, when he
was invited to dine at the Chase, thereby saving himself a long wet
tramp there and back through the park.
To-day the fine forenoon had degenerated into a wet evening, and when
Lisle had given his horse and trap into charge of the stable help and,
after divesting himself of his wet mackintosh, had made his way to the
drawing-room, he found there the Baronet, Lady Pell and Miss Thursby.
Sir Gilbert, in his abrupt fashion, at once proceeded to introduce him
to the ladies. After bowing to her ladyship, Everard held out his hand
to Ethel, saying as he did so: “I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss
Thursby on more than one occasion before to-day; in point of fact, we
happen to come from the same town, St. Oswyth’s.”
“And a very charming, old-fashioned town it is,” said her ladyship;
“and some of the people, whose acquaintance I made there”—with a
significant glance at Ethel—“I found to be quite as nice as the place.”
At this moment Trant entered the room with the announcement that dinner
was served. “That’s all very well,” said Sir Gilbert testily, “but what
has become of my grandson? Where is Mr. Lewis? Send up to his room at
once, Trant, and tell him that dinner is waiting.” Then turning to Lady
Pell, he added: “I hate unpunctuality, especially at meal-times. It
would serve the young dog right to make him go without his dinner.”
“Is he often behind time?” queried her ladyship.
“No, I can’t say that he is. He knows that I wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Then you can afford, for once in a way, to overlook his remissness.
Besides, it would be unfair to blame him before hearing what he may
have to say for himself.”
“Oh, he’ll have some plausible excuse or other, I don’t doubt,” growled
Sir Gilbert. “You would be clever to catch him without one.”
Trant reappeared. “Mr. Lewis is not in his room, Sir Gilbert. It seems
that he left the house about ten o’clock, and has not been seen since.”
Sir Gilbert’s eyebrows came together in a frown. Then he shook himself,
and forcing a smile, said: “In that case there is no need to wait.
Perhaps they have persuaded him to stay and dine at the vicarage,
although, when that has been the case before, he has always sent me
word.” With that he offered his arm to Lady Pell and Everard did the
same to Miss Thursby.
When dinner was over there was no sitting out of doors as on the
preceding evening. In the drawing-room, the lighted lamps, the drawn
curtains and the wood fire, served as so many reminders of the dying
year. This evening, out of compliment to her ladyship, Sir Gilbert
forewent his usual game of chess. At his request Ethel played and sang
for upwards of an hour, during which time it was Lisle’s happy
privilege to turn over her music and hover round her generally. Between
whiles Sir Gilbert and her ladyship, who were seated considerably apart
from the young people, conversed in low tones.
Ten o’clock struck all too soon for Everard Lisle. It was his appointed
hour for leaving the Chase. When he had taken leave of the ladies, Sir
Gilbert quitted the room with him. While the dog-cart was being brought
round and he was inducting himself into his mackintosh, the baronet
sent a servant to ascertain whether his grandson had yet reached home.
No, Mr. Lewis was not in his room, neither had anyone seen him, was the
word brought back. “I shall sit up for him, if it be till six o’clock
in the morning,” said Sir Gilbert grimly to Lisle. With that, he nodded
a curt, but not unkindly goodnight, and strode back to the
drawing-room.
Sir Gilbert’s words were in Everard’s mind as he drove through the wind
and the rain. What had become of young Clare? Where and by whom had he
been detained? Could any harm have befallen him? He did not believe
much in the likelihood of his being at the vicarage all these hours;
nevertheless, he would drive round there, although it would be more
than a couple of miles out of his way, and should Clare chance to be
there, he would give him a hint that the sooner he got back to the
Chase the better it might be for him.
But the missing delinquent was not at the vicarage. He had left there
at his usual hour, and of his after-movements neither Mr. nor Mrs.
Merton had any knowledge. “What if he has found his way to the _King’s
Head_, and is still there?” said Everard to himself as the vicarage
door was shut behind him. “In any case, it’s a point worth settling;”
and with that he turned his horse’s head in the direction of Mapleford.
Rumours of Luigi’s frequent visits to the billiard-room of the hotel in
question had come to Lisle’s ears, for Mr. Lewis Clare, in virtue of
his position as Sir Gilbert’s grandson, was a personage of some
consequence in the little town, and his comings and goings were not
merely noted, but freely commented upon.
Everard’s surmise proved to be correct. He found Luigi at the _King’s
Head_, but not in quite as sober a condition as he might have been. It
was the birthday of Miss Jennings, the pretty barmaid, and it had
seemed to him that the occasion was one which nothing less than
champagne could do justice to. There were several other young men there
who were of the same opinion as Mr. Clare—so long as the latter was
willing to pay for the wine. The sudden apparition of Lisle turned
Luigi cold from head to foot and had the effect of partially sobering
him. He did not doubt for a moment that Sir Gilbert had sent for him,
and his limbs shook under him as, without a word of farewell to his
companions, he rose in obedience to Lisle’s beckoning finger and
followed him into the open air. “Your grandfather is sitting up for
you,” said Everard. “The longer you stay here, the longer you will keep
him out of bed. Let me help you into the dog-cart.”
“I dare not face him,” whimpered Luigi. “I’d almost sooner go and drown
myself.”
“But you can’t stay here all night,” urged Lisle. “You have been here
far too long already, and I shall not go without taking you with me.”
“He’ll turn me out neck and crop, I know he will,” moaned the other,
with a clutch at Lisle’s sleeve to enable him to keep his balance.
“Pooh! Don’t be a coward. Sir Gilbert’s bark, as you ought to know by
this time, is far worse than his bite. He will give you a good
jacketing, and serve you right, and there will be an end of it.”
“Ah!—you don’t know him; you think you do, but you don’t,” said Luigi
with the intense gravity of semi-inebriety. “Yes, I’d almost sooner
drown myself than face him,” he whimpered for the second time.
He was indeed, as Everard could not help reflecting, in no condition to
be seen by his grandfather. What was the best thing to do? He stood for
a moment or two considering, and then he said: “If you like to stay at
my place to-night, I will find you a bed. But in that case, after
leaving you there, I must drive to the Chase, inform Sir Gilbert where
you are, and make the best excuse I can for your non-appearance.”
“Lisle, you’re a brick!” ejaculated Luigi, seizing Everard by both arms
and making as though he would playfully shake him. “I’ve never liked
you, you know, but to-night you’ve proved a regular brick.—Yes, that’s
the card—a shake-down at your place, and you to go and make my excuses
to Granddad. Of course you’ll know what to say. Suddenly taken ill on
my road home—glad to take refuge anywhere—awfully sorry he’s been put
about—better already and hope to be all right by morning.—You know.”
A sharp drive of twenty minutes brought them to Elm Lodge, Mr. Kinaby’s
house, where, by this time, everybody had retired for the night, for
which Everard was not sorry. He let himself and his companion in by
means of his latch-key. His intention had been to give up his bed to
Luigi, but this the latter would by no means agree to, not through any
unselfishness on his part, but because he felt that the trouble of
undressing would be too much for him. “All I want and all I’ll have is
a snooze on a sofa,” was his own way of putting it. Accordingly,
Everard having provided him with a blanket and pillow, he kicked off
his boots and stretched himself out on the couch in the sitting-room.
Half a minute later he was fast asleep.
Everard, having turned down the lamp, left him. The dog-cart was
waiting at the door, and ten minutes later he drew up at the main
entrance to the park. Nixon, the lodge-keeper, was in bed and had to be
knocked up. Leaving his horse and trap in the old man’s charge, Lisle
took a bee-line across the park in the direction of the house. On
reaching the terrace he saw that the entire frontage was in darkness,
except that the couple of lozenge-shaped openings, high up in the
shutters of the study windows showed like two dim patches of yellow
light. It was evident that the baronet was keeping his word and had not
yet retired.
Going up to one of the windows, Lisle took a coin out of his pocket and
tapped with it on the glass. For a man of his years, Sir Gilbert’s
hearing was still remarkably acute, and in less than a minute the
shutter was unbolted and thrown back, and in his deepest tones came the
question: “Who is there?” It was almost on such a night, some quarter
of a century before, that Alec Clare had tapped at the same window, and
he, Sir Gilbert, had put to him precisely the same question that he was
putting now. He shivered as the fact recalled itself to his mind. A
chill breath from the tomb seemed for a moment to lift his silvered
locks.
“It is I—Everard Lisle,” came the clear response.
With fingers that trembled somewhat, Sir Gilbert undid the
window-fastenings, and Lisle stepped into the room.
“You have brought me tidings of Lewis?” was the old man’s eager query.
“I have, Sir Gilbert. He is at my rooms at Elm Lodge. He is not at all
well, and I have persuaded him to stay where he is till morning, in the
hope that by then he will have thoroughly recovered.”
Sir Gilbert drew himself up to his full height and grasped the young
man by one shoulder. “Lisle—um—um, you are trying to keep something
from me,” he said. “There is something in the background which you do
not wish me to know. If it concerns my grandson, I _must_ know it, and
I look to you to answer my questions with that candour which up to now
I have found to be one of your unfailing attributes. Tell me this: did
you find my grandson at Elm Lodge on your arrival there after leaving
here?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Where did you find him?”
“I went in search of him and found him at a certain hotel in the town.”
“So—so. And the worse for drink, hey?”
“He certainly had imbibed a little more wine than was good for him.”
“I thought as much,” was Sir Gilbert’s stern rejoinder.
“This, perhaps, may be urged in extenuation, sir—that the occasion was
a birthday-party—(Mr. Lewis was one among a lot more young men)—that he
had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and that the very fact of his
being unaccustomed to take much wine was the reason why what he had
taken affected him as it did.”
“You would make excuses for him, would you? Leave him to do that for
himself, if you please. And what is the class of young men whom he
chooses for his associates? Nothing better than common riff-raff, I’ll
be bound.” Then all at once his voice broke. “And it is of my
grandson—the last of the Clares—that these things are being said!”
Everard hardly knew whether to go or stay. A minute later, Sir Gilbert
was himself again. “I am much obliged to you, Lisle,” he said, “for the
trouble you have taken in this wretched affair. Tell my grandson to
come to me in the library at ten o’clock to-morrow. Till then I have no
wish to set eyes on him.”
When Everard got back to his rooms he found Luigi still sleeping
soundly, and so left him for the night. But it was certainly a surprise
to him when, on going down next morning between seven and eight
o’clock, he found the room empty and his guest gone.
Shortly after daybreak Luigi had woke up with a splitting headache. As
soon as he had pulled his wits together and called to mind where he
was, he proceeded to empty the carafe of water which Lisle had
considerately placed within his reach. Then he sat for a long time with
his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His heart
sank within him when he thought of the inevitable interview with his
grandfather which could not much longer be delayed, for he had strong
doubts as to the amount of credence Sir Gilbert would accord to the
story of his sudden illness. That he would be subjected to a severe
wigging and have certain penalties of a more or less disagreeable kind
imposed on him, he did not doubt; but he anticipated nothing worse than
that. He had, however, another cause for disquietude which, as it
seemed to him, might not improbably entail results far more dire. He
was nearly sure that, in the course of the previous evening, he had
made Miss Jennings an offer of his hand and heart, but whether she had
accepted or repulsed him, or had merely treated his offer as a foolish
joke, he could not for the life of him remember. But what if she had
taken his offer seriously and, in the event of his repudiating it,
which he would be absolutely bound to do, were to seek out his
grandfather and pour her story into his ears! The consequences of her
doing so were too terrifying to contemplate. “Oh, what an idiot I must
have been!” he groaned more than once.
Somehow this morning he did not care to face Lisle; so, after a time he
let himself out of the house and bent his steps towards the town. He
entered the first hairdresser’s shop he came to, where he had what is
termed a “wash and brush-up,” after which he felt considerably
refreshed. Next to a chemist’s where he called for and drank off at a
draught a certain effervescing mixture which was warranted as an
infallible “pick-me-up.” After that he thought he would take a turn by
the river and try to find an appetite for breakfast. Very careful was
he not to go near the _King’s Head_ and Miss Jennings.
By this it was past nine o’clock and time for him to turn his face
homeward. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards from the inn when he saw
Mr. Kinaby’s groom, whom he knew by sight, coming towards him on
horseback. On nearing him the man reined up and carrying a finger to
his forehead, said: “I’ve bin lookin’ for you all over the town, sir.
I’ve a note for you from Mr. Lisle.”
Luigi took the note and tore it open. It was merely a line. “Your
grandfather wants to see you in the library at ten o’clock.—E. L.”
“All right,” said Luigi with a nod to the man. “Tell. Mr. Lisle it
shall be attended to.”