Rarely have I felt more put out, or more bitterly disappointed, than I
did when I hurried into my flat, expecting to come face to face with
Vera, my beloved, and longing to take her in my arms to kiss and comfort
her.
Instead, I was confronted by a spinster aunt of Vera's whom I had met
only three times before, and to whom I had, the first time I was
introduced to her--she insisted upon never remembering me either by name
or by sight, and each time needing a fresh introduction--taken an
ineradicable dislike.
"Ah, Mr. Ashton, I'm so glad you've come," she said without rising. "I
have called to talk to you about a great many things--I daresay you can
guess what they are--about all this dreadful affair at Houghton."
Now the more annoyed I feel with anybody of my own social standing, the
more coldly polite I invariably become. It was so on this occasion.
"I should love to stay and talk to you, Miss Thorold," I answered, after
an instant's pause, "but I have just been sitting at the bedside of a
sick friend. To-day is the first day he has been allowed to see
anybody. The doctor said he ought not to have allowed me in so soon,
and he warned me to go straight home, take off every stitch of clothing
I have on, and send them at once to be disinfected."
"Oh, indeed?" she said rather nervously. "And what has been the matter
with your friend?"
It was the question I wanted.
"Didn't I tell you?" I said. "It was smallpox."
My ruse proved even more successful than I had anticipated. Miss
Thorold literally sprang to her feet, gathered up her satchel and
umbrella, and with the hurried remark: "How perfectly monstrous--keep
well away from me!" she edged her way round the wall to the door, and,
calling to me from the little passage: "I will ring you on the
telephone," went out of the flat, slamming the door after her.
But where was Vera? How could I discover her? I was beside myself with
anxiety.
The Houghton affair created more than a nine days' wonder. The people
of Rutland desperately resent anything in the nature of a scandal which
casts a disagreeable reflection upon their county. I remember how some
years ago they talked for months about an unpleasant affair to do with
hunting.
"Even if it were true," some of the people who knew it to be true said
one to another, "it ought never to have been exposed in that way. Think
of the discredit it brings upon our county, and what a handle the
Radicals and the Socialists will be able to make of it, if ever it is
discovered that it really did occur."
And so it came about that, when I was called back to Oakham two days
later, to attend the double inquest, many of the people there, with whom
I had been on quite friendly terms, looked at me more or less askance.
It is not well to make oneself notorious in a tiny county like Rutland,
I quickly discovered, or even to become notorious through no fault of
one's own.
Shall I ever forget how, at the inquest, questions put to me by all
sorts of uneducated people upon whom the duty devolved of inquiring into
the mysterious affair connected with Houghton Park?
I suppose it was because there was nobody else to question, that they
cross-examined me so closely and so foolishly.
Their inquiries were endless. Had I known the Thorolds long? Could I
name the date when I first became acquainted with them? Was it a fact
that I rode Sir Charles' horses while I was a guest at Houghton? About
how often did I ride them? And on how many days did I hunt during the
fortnight I spent at Houghton?
All my replies were taken down in writing. Then came questions
concerning my friendship with Miss Thorold, and these annoyed me
considerably. Was the rumour that I was engaged to be married to her
true? Was there any ground for the rumour? Was I at all attached to
her? Was she attached to me? Had we ever corresponded by letter? Was
it a fact that we called each other by our Christian names? Was it not
true, that on one evening at least, we had smoked cigarettes together,
alone in her boudoir?
It was. This admission seemed to gratify my cross-questioners
considerably.
"And may I ask, Mr. Ashton," asked a legal gentleman with a most
offensive manner, as he looked me up and down, "if this took place with
Sir Charles' knowledge?"
"Oh, yes it did. With his full knowledge and consent!"
"Oh, really. And you will pardon my asking, was Lady Thorold also aware
that you and her daughter sat alone together late at night, smoking
cigarettes and addressing each other by your Christian names?"
Now I am fairly even-tempered, but this local solicitor's objectionable
insinuations ended by stirring me up. This, very likely, was what he
desired that they should do.
"My dear sir," I exclaimed, "will you tell me if these questions of
yours have any bearing at all upon the matter you are inquiring into,
and if your very offensive innuendoes are intended as veiled, or rather
as unveiled, insults to Miss Thorold or to myself?"
I heard some one near me murmur, "Hear, hear," at the back of the room.
The comment encouraged me.
"You will not address me in that fashion again, please," my interlocutor
answered hotly, reddening.
"In what fashion?"
"You will not call me `your dear sir.' I object. I strongly object."
A titter of amusement trickled through the room. My adversary's fingers--
for he had become an adversary--twitched.
"I was under the impression," he remarked pompously, "that I was
addressing a gentleman."