that she was, having completed to her entire satisfaction another day
of what, when you come to think of it, was nothing more or less than
an utterly idle, selfish, unprofitable existence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
DIES IRAE.
At Belton, Daphne, like her Scriptural counterpart, came to herself.
Attired in what she called "rags," she ran wild about the woods and
plantations, accompanied by the faithful Mr Dawks, who found a green
countryside (even when marred at intervals by a grimy pithead)
infinitely preferable to Piccadilly, where the pavement is hot and
steerage-way precarious.
They were to stay at Belton till Christmas, after which the house in
Berkeley Square would be ready for her. Hitherto she had been well
content with the little establishment in Grosvenor Street; but her
ideas in certain directions, as her husband had observed to Mrs
Carfrae, were developing in a very gratifying manner.
One hot morning Daphne arrived at breakfast half-an-hour late. To do
her justice, this was an unusual fault; for in the country she would
never have dreamed of indulging in such an urban luxury as breakfast
in bed. Her unpunctuality was not due to sloth. She had already
superintended the morning toilet of Master Brian Vereker Carr, and had
even taken a constitutional with Mr Dawks along the road which ran
over the shoulder of a green hill towards Belton Pit, two miles away.
She knew that her husband had gone out at seven o'clock to interview
the manager at the pithead, and she had reckoned on being picked up by
the returning motor and brought home in time for nine o'clock
breakfast. Unfortunately Juggernaut had changed his plans and gone to
another pit in the opposite direction, with the result that Daphne,
besides being compelled to walk twice as far as she intended, found an
uncomfortable combination of cold food and chilly husband waiting for
her when she reached home.
Juggernaut never called Daphne to book for her shortcomings now. It
had become his custom of late, if he found anything amiss in the
management of the establishment, to send a message to the housekeeper
direct. He should have known better. Daphne, regarding such a
proceeding as an imputation of incompetence on her part, boiled
inwardly at the slight, though her innate sense of justice told her
that it was not altogether undeserved. Being a great success is apt to
be a slightly demoralising business, and Daphne herself was beginning
dimly to realise the fact. There was no doubt, for instance, that she
was not the housekeeper she had been. But what was the good? There had
been some credit in feeding the boys and Dad on half nothing, and in
conjuring that second weekly joint out of a housekeeping surplus that
was a little financial triumph in itself. But now, who cared if a leg
of mutton were saved or not? What did it matter if the cook sold the
leavings and the butler opened more wine than he decanted? Her husband
could afford it. And so on.
A discussion had arisen upon this subject the evening before; and the
silent enigmatical man whom she had married, whom she understood so
little, and who, from the fact that he treated her as something
between an incompetent servant and a spoiled child, appeared to
understand her even less, had spoken out more freely than usual, with
not altogether happy results. Daphne above all loved openness and
candour, and she could not endure to feel that her husband was
exercising forbearance towards her, or making allowances, or talking
down to her level. Consequently the laborious little lecture she had
received, with its studied moderation of tone and its obvious desire
to let her down gently, had had an unfortunate but not altogether
unnatural result. Juggernaut would have done better to employ his big
guns, such as he reserved for refractory public meetings. As it was,
Daphne lost her temper.
"Jack," she blazed out suddenly, "I _know_ I'm a failure, so why rub
it in? I _know_ you married me to keep house for you, so you have a
perfect right to complain if I do it badly. Well, you have told me;
now I know. Shall we drop the subject? I will endeavour to be more
competent, honest, and obliging in future."
Juggernaut rose suddenly from the table--they were sitting over their
dessert at the time--and walked to the mantelpiece, where he stood
leaning his head upon his arms, in an apparent endeavour to mesmerise
the fender. Daphne, cooling rapidly, wondered what he was thinking
about. Was he angry, or bored, or indifferent?
Presently he turned round.
"I'm afraid I don't handle you as successfully as I handle some other
problems, Daphne," he said reflectively. "Good-night!"
That was all. He left the room, and Daphne had not seen him since. Her
anger was gone. By bedtime she was thoroughly ashamed of herself, and,
being Daphne, no other course lay open to her than that of saying so.
Hence her early rising next morning, and her effort to intercept the
motor.
The failure of the latter enterprise made matters more difficult; for
courage once screwed to the sticking-point and timed for a certain
moment cannot as a rule outlast postponement.
Still, she walked into the breakfast-room bravely.
"Jack," she began, a little breathlessly, "I'm sorry I was cross last
night."
Her husband was sitting with his back to the door. Possibly if he had
seen her face--flushed and appealing under its soft hat of grey
_suede_--he might have acted a little more helpfully than he did. He
merely laid down his newspaper and remarked cheerfully--
"That is all right, dear. Let us say no more about it. Sit down to
your breakfast before it gets colder. You must have been for a long
walk. Fried sole or a sausage?"
He rose and helped her to food from the sideboard, as promptly and
carefully as if she had been a newly arrived and important guest. It
was something; but compared with what he might have done it was
nothing. In effect, Daphne had asked for a kiss and had been given a
sausage.
It was rather a miserable breakfast. Daphne had vowed to herself not
to be angry again: consequently she could only mope. Juggernaut
continued to read the newspaper. The political world was in a ferment
at the moment. There was a promise for him in all this of
work--trouble--the facing of difficulties--the overcoming of strenuous
opposition--the joy of battle, in fact. Manlike, he overlooked the
trouble that was brewing at his own fireside.
Presently he put down his newspaper and strolled to the open window.
"What a gorgeous day, Daphne. And I have to spend it in a
committee-room at Kilchester!"
"Anything important?" asked Daphne, determined to be interested.
"Important? I should just think it was, only people refuse to realise
the fact. It's a meeting of the County Territorial Association. What
humbug the whole business is! They started the old Volunteers, coddled
them, asked nothing of them but a few drills and an annual picnic in
camp, and then laughed them out of existence for Saturday-afternoon
soldiers. Now they start the Territorials and go to the other extreme.
They require of a man that he shall attain, free gratis and for
nothing, at the sacrifice of the few scanty weeks which he gets by way
of holiday, to practically the same standard of efficiency as a
regular soldier, who is paid for it and gets the whole year to do it
in. And then they blame us, the County Associations, because we can't
find recruits for them! Luckily, we shall have compulsory service
soon, and that will end the farce once and for all."
Daphne liked to be talked to like this. In the first place, it removed
the uncomfortable and humiliating sensation that she was a child in
her husband's eyes; and in the second, it adjusted her sense of
proportion as regards the male sex. Obviously, with all these dull but
weighty matters to occupy him, a man could not be expected to set such
store by conjugal unity as his wife, who had little else to think of.
"Perhaps I have been a little fool," she philosophised. "After all, a
man doesn't in the least realise how a woman----"
"What are you going to do to-day?" asked her husband.
"This afternoon I am going over to Croxley Dene to play tennis."
"Anything this morning?"
"I am going to order the motor for twelve o'clock"--rather
reluctantly. "I suppose Vick will be back from Kilchester."
"Oh, yes. Are you going out to lunch somewhere?"
"N-no."
"Just a drive?"
"Yes. The fact is," said poor Daphne, hating herself for feeling like
a child detected in a fault, "I am going to try my hand at driving the
motor myself."
There was a pause, and Juggernaut continued to gaze out of the window,
while Daphne pleated the table-cloth.
Presently the hateful expected words came.
"I would rather you didn't."
Daphne rose suddenly to her feet. Her face was aflame, and all her
good resolutions had vanished. She had always longed to drive the
big car, her appetite having been whetted by occasional experiments
upon the property--usually small, easily handled vehicles--of
long-suffering friends. She had broached the subject more than once,
but had found her husband curiously vague as regards permission.
Usually it was "yes" or "no" with him. This morning, tired of the
humiliation of constantly asking for leave, she had decided to give
orders on her own account. And but for Juggernaut's unlucky question
she would have achieved her purpose and settled accounts afterwards--a
very different thing from asking leave first, as every child knows.
"And why?" she asked, with suspicious calmness.
"Well, for one thing, I don't think a lady should be seen driving a
great covered-in limousine car. You wouldn't go out on the box seat of
a brougham, would you? As a matter of fact, if you will have patience
for a week or two----"
"Yes, I know!" broke in Daphne passionately. "If I have patience for a
week or two, and am a good little girl, and order the meals punctually
in the meanwhile, you will perhaps take me for a run one afternoon,
and let me hold the wheel while you sit beside me with the second
speed in. Thank you! _Good_ morning!"
She pushed back her chair, whirled round with a vehement swirl of her
tweed skirt, and left the room.
Juggernaut continued to finger a typewritten letter which he had just
taken from his pocket. It bore the address of a firm of motor-makers,
and said--
"SIR,--We beg to inform you that one of our Handy Runabout
10-12h-p. cars, for which we recently received your esteemed
order, is now to hand from the varnishers', and will be
delivered at Belton Hall on Tuesday next. As requested, we have
given the clutch-pedal and brake a particularly easy spring,
with a view to the car being driven by a lady.
"Thanking you for past favours, we are, sir yours faithfully,"
"THE DIABLEMENT-ODORANT
MOTOR CO., LTD."
Juggernaut put the letter back into his pocket.
II.
In due course the Belton motor conveyed its owner to Kilchester and
left him there.
"Shall I come back for you, sir?" inquired Mr Vick, the chauffeur. He
was a kindly man, despite his exalted station.
"No, thanks--I'll take the train. But I believe Lady Carr wants you to
take her over to Croxley Dene this afternoon."
"Her ladyship shall be took," said Mr Vick, with an indulgent
smile--Lady Carr was a favourite of his--and forthwith returned to
Belton.
On running the car into the yard he found the coachman, Mr Windebank,
a sadly diminished luminary in these days, putting a polish upon an
unappreciative quadruped.
"You and your machine, Mr Vick," announced Mr Windebank, "is wanted
round at twelve sharp."
It was then eleven-fifteen.
"Ho!" replied the ruffled Mr Vick, feeling much as the Emperor Nero
might have felt on being requested by the most recently immured early
Christian to see that the arena lions were kept a bit quieter
to-morrow night--"ho, indeed!"
"Them's your orders, Mr Vick," said Mr Windebank, resuming the
peculiar dental _obligato_ which seems to be the inseparable
accompaniment of the toilet of a horse, temporarily suspended on this
occasion to enable the performer to discharge his little broadside.
Mr Vick turned off various taps and switches on his dash-board, and
the humming of the engine ceased.
"I take my orders," he proclaimed in majestic tones, "from the master
and missus direct, and from nobody else."
Mr Windebank, after spending some moments in groping for a crushing
rejoinder, replied--
"Well, you'd better go inside and get 'em. And you'd better 'ang a
nosebag on your sparking-plug in the meanwhile," he added, with sudden
and savage irrelevance.
Mr Vick adopted the former of these two suggestions, with the result
that at the hour of noon the car slid submissively round to the front
of the Hall. Presently Daphne appeared, and disregarding the door
which Mr Vick was holding open for her, stepped up into the driver's
seat--the throne itself--and took the wheel in her vigorous little
hands.
"I am going to drive, Vick," she observed cheerfully.
Mr Vick preserved his self-control and smiled faintly.
"I suppose you have a licence, my lady?" he inquired.
"Gracious, no! I am only just beginning," replied Daphne, who regarded
a driver's licence as a sort of reward of merit. "I want you to teach
me. Which of these things is the clutch-pedal?"
"The left, my lady. I am afraid," added Mr Vick, with the air of one
who intends to stop this nonsense once and for all, "that you will
find it very stiff."
"Thanks," said Daphne blandly. "And I suppose the other one is the
brake."
"Yes, my lady; but----"
"Then we can start. How do I put in the first speed?"
Mr Vick, in what can only be described as a _moriturus-te-saluto!_
voice, gave the required information; and the car, after a dislocating
jerk, moved off at a stately four miles per hour. Presently, with much
slipping of the clutch and buzzing of the gear-wheels, the second, and
finally the third speed went in, and the car proceeded with all the
exuberance of its forty-five horse-power down the long straight drive.
Fortunately the lodge gates stood open, and the road outside was
clear.
Certainly Mr Vick behaved very well. Although every wrench and jar to
which his beloved engines were submitted appeared to react directly
upon his own internal mechanism, he never winced. Occasionally a
muffled groan or a muttered exclamation of "My tyres!" or "My
differential!" burst from his overwrought lips; but for the most part
he sat like a graven image, merely hoping that when the crash came it
would be a good one--something about which it would be really
grateful and comforting to say "I told you so!" He also cherished a
strong hope that his name would appear in the newspapers.
But Daphne drove well. She had a good head and quick hands; and
steering a middle course between the extreme caution of the beginner
and the omniscient recklessness of the half-educated, she gave Mr Vick
very little excuse for anything in the shape of a genuine shudder. She
experienced a little difficulty in getting the clutch right out of
action in changing gear; and once she stopped her engine through going
round a corner with the brakes on--but that was all. Mr Vick began to
feel distinctly aggrieved.
There was a spice of _abandon_ in Daphne's present attitude. She had
burned her boats; she had flown in the face of authority; and she
intended to brazen it out. The breeze whistled in her ears; her eyes
blazed; her cheeks glowed. She felt in good fighting trim.
Presently, fetching a compass, the car began to head towards Belton
again, and having been directed in masterly fashion through the narrow
gates by the back lodge, sped along the final stretch which led to
home and luncheon, at a comfortable thirty miles an hour.
At the end of the dappled vista formed by the overarching trees of
the avenue appeared a black object, which presently resolved itself
into Mr Dawks, lolling comfortably in a patch of sunlight pending his
mistress's return.
"Mind the dog, my lady!" cried Mr Vick suddenly.
Daphne had every intention of minding the dog; but desire and
performance do not always coincide. Suddenly realizing that Mr Dawks,
who was now sitting up expectantly in the middle distance, wagging his
tail and extending a welcome as misplaced as that of Jephtha's
daughter under somewhat similar circumstances, had no conception of
the necessity for vacating his present position, Daphne put down both
feet hard and endeavored to bring the car to a standstill. But thirty
miles an hour is forty-four feet a second, and the momentum of a car
weighing two tons is not lightly to be arrested by a brake constructed
only to obey the pressure of a masculine boot. Next moment there was a
pathetic little yelp. Daphne had a brief vision of an incredulous and
reproachful doggy countenance; the car gave a slight lurch, and then
came to full stop, as Mr Vick, having already snapped off the ignition
switch on the dashboard, reached across behind Daphne's back and
jammed on the side brake.
III.
It was Mr Dawks who really showed to the greatest advantage during the
next half-hour. He assured his mistress by every means in his power
that the whole thing was entirely his fault; and, like the courteous
gentleman that he was, he begged her with faintly wagging tail and
affectionate eyes not to distress herself unduly on his account. The
thing was done; let there be no more talk about it. It was nothing! By
way of showing that the cordiality of their relations was still
unimpaired he endeavored to shake hands, first with one paw and then
the other; but finding that both were broken he reluctantly desisted
from his efforts.
They carried him--what was left of him--into the house, where Daphne,
white-faced and tearless, hung in an agony of self-reproach over the
friend of her youth--the last link with her girlhood. Dawks lay very
still. Once, opening his eyes and evidently feeling that something was
expected of him, he licked her hand. The tears came fast after that.
Presently Windebank arrived. He loved all dumb beasts, and was skilled
in ministering to their ailments--wherein he transcended that highly
educated automaton Mr Vick, to whom the acme of life was represented
by a set of perfectly timed sparking-plugs--and he made poor mangled
Dawks as comfortable as possible.
"Is he badly hurt, Windebank?" whispered Daphne.
"Yes, miss," said Windebank, touching his forelock. He was a man of
few words in the presence of his superiors.
"Will he die?"
Windebank gazed down in an embarrassed fashion at the close coils of
fair hair, bowed over the dog's rough coat. Then he stiffened himself
defiantly.
"He'll get well right enough, miss," he said with great assurance.
"Just wants taking care of, that's all."
It was a lie, and he knew it. But it was a kind lie. To such much is
forgiven.
Daphne sat with her patient until three o'clock, and then, overcome
with the restlessness of impotent anxiety, and stimulated by an urgent
telephonic reminder, ordered out the horses--not the motor.
"Good-bye, old man," she said to Dawks, caressing the dog's long ears
and unbecoming nose. "I'll be back in an hour or two. Lie quiet, and
you'll soon be all right. Windebank says so."
Mr Dawks whined gently and flapped his tail upon the floor, further
intimating by a faint tremor of his ungainly body that if
circumstances had permitted he would certainly have made a point of
rising and accompanying his mistress to the door and seeing her off
the premises. As things were, he must beg to be excused.
Daphne drove to Croxley Dene, where for an hour or so she exchanged
banalities with the rest of the county and played a set of tennis.
She drove home in the cool of the evening, more composed in mind. The
fresh air and exercise had done her good. Windebank had said that the
dog would live: that was everything. Less satisfactory to contemplate
was the approaching interview with her husband in the matter of the
car. Until now she had not thought of it.
On reaching home she hurried to the library, where she had left the
invalid lying on a rug before the fire. Mr Dawks was not there.
"I wonder if Windebank has taken him to the stable," she said to
herself. "I'll go and----"
She turned, and found herself face to face with her husband.
"Jack," she asked nervously, "do you know where Dawks is? I suppose
you have heard----"
"Yes, I have heard."
Daphne shrank back at the sound of his voice. His face was like flint.
"Then--where is he?" she faltered. "Windebank said----"
"I had him shot."
Daphne stared at him incredulously.
"You had him _shot_?" she said slowly. "_My_ Dawks?"
"Yes. It was rank cruelty on your part keeping the poor brute alive,
after--after reducing him to that state."
The last half of the sentence may have been natural and justifiable,
but no one could call it generous. It is not easy to be merciful when
one is at white heat.
Daphne stood up, very slim and straight, gazing stonily into her
husband's face.
"Have you buried him?"
"I told one of the gardeners to do so."
"Where?"
"I did not say, but we can----"
"I suppose you know," said Daphne with great deliberation, "that he
was the only living creature in all this great house that loved
me--really _loved_ me?"
Verily, here was war. There was a tense silence for a moment, and an
almost imperceptible flicker of some emotion passed over Juggernaut's
face. Then he said, with equal deliberation--
"Without any exception?"
"Yes, without _any_ exception!" cried poor Daphne, stabbing
passionately in the dark. "And since he is dead," she added--"since
you have killed him--I am going home to Dad and the boys! They love
me!"
She stood before her husband with her head thrown back defiantly,
white and trembling with passion.
"Very good. Perhaps that would be best," said Juggernaut quietly.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
CILLY; OR THE WORLD WELL LOST.
"Stiffy," bellowed the new curate ferociously, "what the--I mean, why
on earth can't you keep that right foot steady? You edge off to leg
every time. If you get a straight ball, stand up to it! If you get a
leg-ball, turn round and have a slap at it! But for Heaven's sake
don't go running _away_! Especially from things like pats of butter!"
"Awfully sorry, Mr Blunt!" gasped Stiffy abjectly, as another pat of
butter sang past his ear. "It's the rotten way I've been brought up!
I've never had any decent coaching before. Ough!... No, it didn't hurt
a bit, really! I shall be all right in a minute." He hopped round in a
constricted circle, apologetically caressing his stomach.
They were in the paddock behind the Rectory orchard. The Reverend
Godfrey Blunt, a ruddy young man of cheerful countenance and ingenuous
disposition, had rolled out an extremely fiery wicket; and within the
encompassing net--Daphne's last birthday present--Stephen Blasius
Vereker, impaled frog-wise upon the handle of his bat, and divided
between a blind instinct of self-preservation and a desire not to
appear ungrateful for favours received, was frantically endeavouring
to dodge the deliveries of the church militant as they bumped past his
head and ricochetted off his ribs.
"That's better," said Mr Blunt, as his pupil succeeded for the first
time in arresting the course of a fast long-hop with his bat instead
of his person. "But don't play back to yorkers."
"All right!" said Stiffy dutifully. "I didn't know," he added in all
sincerity, "that it was a yorker, or I wouldn't have done it. Oh, I
say, well bowled! I don't think anybody could have stopped that one.
It never touched the ground at all!"
Stiffy turned round and surveyed his prostrate wickets admiringly. He
was an encouraging person to bowl to.
"No, it was a pretty hot one," admitted the curate modestly. "I think
I shall have to be going now," he added, mopping his brow. "Parish
work, and a sermon to write, worse luck! I think I have just time for
a short knock, though. Bowl away, Stiffy!"
He took his stand at the wicket, and after three blind and
characteristic swipes succeeded in lifting a half-volley of Stiffy's
into the adjacent orchard. When the bowler, deeply gratified with a
performance of which he felt himself to be an unworthy but necessary
adjunct, returned ten minutes later from a successful search for the
ball, he found his hero hastily donning the old tweed jacket and
speckled straw hat which he kept for wear with his cricket flannels.