"IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS"
Mrs. Saumarez and Angele returned to The Elms, but Martin had to forego
accompanying them. He knew that--with Bible opened at the Third Book of
Kings--John Bolland was waiting in a bedroom, every downstairs apartment
being crowded.
He ran all the way along the village street and darted upstairs,
striving desperately to avoid even the semblance of undue haste. Bolland
was thumbing the book impatiently. He frowned over his spectacles.
"Why are ye late?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Saumarez asked me to walk with her through the village," answered
Martin truthfully.
"Ay. T' wife telt me she was here."
The explanation served, and Martin breathed more freely. The reading
commenced:
"Now king David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him
with clothes, but he gat no heat.
"Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there be sought for my
lord the king a young virgin: and let her stand before the king,
and let her cherish him, and let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord
the king may get heat."
Martin, with his mind in a tumult on account of the threatened escapade,
did not care a pin what method was adopted to restore the feeble
circulation of the withered King so long as the lesson passed off
satisfactorily.
With rare self-control, he bent over the, to him, unmeaning page, and
acquitted himself so well in the parrot repetition which he knew would
be pleasing that he ventured to say:
"May I stay out a little later to-night, sir?"
"What for? You're better i' bed than gapin' at shows an' listenin' te
drunken men."
"I only ask because--because I'm told that Mrs. Saumarez's little girl
means to see the fair by night, and she--er--would like me to be with
her."
John Bolland laughed dryly.
"Mrs. Saumarez'll soon hev more'n eneuf on't," he said. "Ay, lad, ye can
stay wi' her, if that's all."
Martin never, under any circumstances, told a downright lie, but he
feared that this was sailing rather too near the wind to be honest. The
nature of Angele's statement was so nebulous. He could hardly explain
outright that Mrs. Saumarez was not coming--that Angele alone would be
the sightseer. So he flushed, and felt that he was obtaining the
required permission by false pretense. He could have pulled Angele's
pretty ears for placing him in such a dilemma, but with a man so utterly
unsympathetic as Bolland it was impossible to be quite candid.
He had clear ideas of right and wrong. He knew it was wrong for Angele
to come out unattended and mix in the scene of rowdyism which the
village would present until midnight. If she really could succeed in
leaving The Elms unnoticed, the most effectual way to stop her was to
go now to her mother or to one of the Misses Walker and report her
intention. But this, according to the boy's code of honor, was to play
the sneak, than which there is no worse crime in the calendar. No. He
would look after her himself. There was a spice of adventure, too, in
acting as the chosen squire of this sprightly damsel. Strong-minded as
he was, and resolute beyond his years, Angele's wilfulness, her quick
tongue, the diablerie of her glance, the witchery of her elegant little
person, captivated heart and brain, and benumbed the inchoate murmurings
of conscience.
Oddly enough, he often found himself comparing her with Elsie Herbert, a
girl with whom he had never exchanged a word, and Angele Saumarez
invariably figured badly in the comparison. The boy did not know then
that he must become a man, perhaps soured of life, bitter with
experience, before he would understand the difference between respect
and fascination.
With housewife prudence, Mrs. Bolland hailed him as he was passing
through the back kitchen.
"Noo, then, Martin, don't ye go racketin' about too much in your best
clothes. And mind your straw hat isn't blown off if ye go on one o' them
whirligigs."
"All right, mother," he said cheerfully, and was gone in a flash.
Two hours must elapse before Angele could appear. Jim Bates, who bore no
malice, stood treat in gingerbread and lemonade out of the largesse
bestowed by Mrs. Saumarez. Martin, carried away by sight of a champion
boxer who offered a sovereign to any local man under twelve stone who
stood up to him for three two-minute rounds, spent sixpence in securing
seats for himself and Jim when the gage of combat was thrown down by
his gamekeeper friend.
There was a furious fight with four-ounce gloves. The showman discovered
quickly that Velveteens "knew a bit." Repeated attempts to "out" him
with "the right" on the "point" resulted in heavy "counters" on the
ribs, and a terrific uppercut failed because of the keeper's quick
sight.
The proprietor of the booth, who acted as timekeeper, gave every favor
to his henchman, but at the end of the third round the professional was
more blown than the amateur. The sovereign was handed over with apparent
good will, both showmen realizing that it might be money well spent. And
it was, as the black eyes and swollen lips among the would-be pugilists
of Elmsdale testified for many days thereafter.
Martin, who had never before seen a real boxing match, was entranced.
With a troop of boys he accompanied the two combatants to the door of
the "Black Lion," where a fair proportion of the sovereign was soon
converted into beer.
George Pickering had witnessed the contest. Generous to a fault, he
started a purse to be fought for in rounds inside the booth. Wanting a
pencil and paper, he ran upstairs to his room--he had resolved to stay
at the inn for a couple of nights--and encountered Kitty Thwaites on the
stairs.
She carried a laden tray, so he slipped an arm around her waist, and she
was powerless to prevent him from kissing her unless she dropped the
tray or risked upsetting its contents. She had no intention of doing
either of these things.
"Oh, go on, do!" she cried, not averting her face too much.
He whispered something.
"Not me!" she giggled. "Besides, I won't have a minnit to spare till
closin' time."
Pickering hugged her again. She descended the stairs, laughing and very
red.
The boys heard something of the details of the proposed Elmsdale
championship boxing competition. Entries were pouring in, there being no
fee. George Pickering was appointed referee, and the professional named
as judge. The first round would be fought at 3 P.M. next day.
The time passed more quickly than Martin expected; as for his money, it
simply melted. Tenpence out of the shilling had vanished before he
realized how precious little remained wherewith to entertain Angele. She
said she would have "plenty of money," but he imagined that a walk
through the fair and a ride on the roundabout would satisfy her. Not
even at fourteen does the male understand the female of twelve.
A few minutes before eight he escaped from his companions and strolled
toward The Elms. The house was not like the suburban villa which stands
in the center of a row and proudly styles itself Oakdene. It was hidden
in a cluster of lordly elms, and already the day was so far spent that
the entrance gate was invisible save at a few yards' distance.
The nearest railway station was situated two miles along this very road.
A number of slow-moving country people were sauntering to the station,
where the north train was due at 9:05 P.M. Another train, that from the
south, arrived at 9:20, and would be the last that night. A full moon
was rising, but her glories were hidden by the distant hills. There was
no wind; the weather was fine and settled. The Elmsdale Feast was lucky
in its dates.
Martin waited near the gate and heard the church clock chime the hour.
Two boys on bicycles came flying toward the village. They were the
Beckett-Smythes. They slackened pace as they neared The Elms.
"Wonder if she'll get out to-night?" said Ernest, the younger.
"There's no use waiting here. She said she'd dodge out one evening for
certain. If she's not in the village, we'd better skip back before we're
missed," said the heir.
"Oh, that's all right. Pater thinks we're in the grounds, and there
won't be any bother if we show up at nine."
They rode on. The quarter-hour chimed, and Martin became impatient.
"She was humbugging me, as usual," he reflected. "Well, this time I'm
pleased."
An eager voice whispered:
"Hold the gate! It'll rattle when I climb over. They've not heard me. I
crept here on the grass."
Angele had changed her dress to a dark-blue serge and sailor hat. This
was decidedly thoughtful. In her day attire she must have attracted a
great deal of notice. Now, in the dark, neither the excellence of her
clothing nor the elegance of her carriage would differentiate her too
markedly from the village girls.
She was breathless with haste, but her tongue rattled on rapidly.
"Mamma _is_ ill. I knew she would be. I told Francoise I had a headache,
and went to bed. Then I crept downstairs again. Miss Walker nearly
caught me, but she's so upset that she never saw me. As for Fritz, if I
meet him--poof!"
"What's the matter with Mrs. Saumarez?" asked Martin.
"Trop de cognac, mon cheri."
"What's that?"
"It means a 'bit wobbly, my dear.'"
"Is her head bad?"
"Yes. It will be for a week. But never mind mamma. She'll be all right,
with Francoise to look after her. Here! You pay for everything. There's
ten shillings in silver. I have a sovereign in my stocking, if we want
it."
They were hurrying toward the distant medley of sound. Flaring naptha
lamps gave the village street a Rembrandt effect. Love-making couples,
with arms entwined, were coming away from the glare of the booths. Their
forms cast long shadows on the white road.
"Ten shillings!" gasped Martin. "Whatever do we want with ten
shillings?"
"To enjoy ourselves, you silly. You can't have any fun without money.
Why, when mamma dines at the Savoy and takes a party to the theater
afterwards, it costs her as many pounds. I know, because I've seen the
checks."
"That has nothing to do with it. We can't spend ten shillings here."
"Oh, can't we? You leave that to me. Mais, voyez-vous, imbecile, are
you going to be nasty?" She halted and stamped an angry foot.
"No, I'm not; but----"
"Then come on, stupid. I'm late as it is."
"The stalls remain open until eleven."
"Magnifique! What a row there'll be if I have to knock to get in!"
Martin held his tongue. He resolved privately that Angele should be home
at nine, at latest, if he dragged her thither by main force. The affair
promised difficulties. She was so intractable that a serious quarrel
would result. Well, he could not help it. Better a lasting break than
the wild hubbub that would spring up if they both remained out till the
heinous hour she contemplated.
In the village they encountered Jim Bates and Evelyn Atkinson,
surrounded by seven or eight boys and girls, for Jim was disposing
rapidly of his six shillings, and Evelyn bestowed favor on him for the
nonce.
"Hello! here's Martin," whooped Bates. "I thowt ye'd gone yam (home).
Where hev ye----"
Jim's eloquence died away abruptly. He caught sight of Angele and was
abashed. Not so Evelyn.
"Martin's been to fetch his sweetheart," she said maliciously.
Angele simpered sufficiently to annoy Evelyn. Then she laughed
agreement.
"Yes. And won't we have a time! Come on! Everybody have a ride."
She sprang toward the horses. Martin alone followed.
"Come on!" she screamed. "Martin will pay for the lot. He has heaps of
money."
No second invitation was needed. Several times the whole party swung
round with lively yelling. From the roundabouts they went to the swings;
from the swings to the cocoanut shies. Here they were joined by the
Beckett-Smythes, who endeavored promptly to assume the leadership.
Martin's blood was fired by the contest. He was essentially a boy
foredoomed to dominate his fellows, whether for good or evil. He pitched
restraint to the winds. He could throw better than either of the young
aristocrats; he could shoot straighter at the galleries; he could
describe the heroic combat between the boxer and Velveteens; he would
swing Angele higher than any, until they looked over the crossbar after
each giddy swirl.
The Beckett-Smythes kept pace with him only in expenditure, Jim Bates
being quickly drained, and even they wondered how long the village lad
could last.
The ten shillings were soon dissipated.
"I want that sovereign," he shouted, when Angele and he were riding
together again on the hobby-horses.
"I told you so," she screamed. She turned up her dress to extricate the
money from a fold of her stocking. The light flashed on her white skin,
and Frank Beckett-Smythe, who rode behind with one of the Atkinson
girls, wondered what she was doing.
She bent over Martin and whispered:
"There are _two_! Keep the fun going!"
The young spark in the rear thought that she was kissing Martin; he was
wild with jealousy. At the next show--that of a woman grossly fat, who
allowed the gapers to pinch her leg at a penny a pinch--he paid with his
last half-crown. When they went to refresh themselves on ginger-beer,
Martin produced a sovereign. The woman who owned the stall bit it,
surveyed him suspiciously, and tried to swindle him in the change. She
failed badly.
"Eleven bottles at twopence and eleven cakes at a penny make
two-and-nine. I want two more shillings, please," he said coolly.
"Be aff wid ye! I gev ye seventeen and thruppence. If ye thry anny uv
yer tricks an me I'll be afther askin' where ye got the pound."
"Give me two more shillings, or I'll call the police."
Mrs. Maguire was beaten; she paid up.
The crowd left her, with cries of "Irish Molly!" "Where's Mick?" and
even coarser expressions. Angele screamed at her:
"Why don't you stick to ginger-beer? You're muzzy."
The taunt stung, and the old Irishwoman cursed her tormentor as a
black-eyed little witch.
Angele, seeing that Martin carried all before him, began straightway to
flirt with the heir. At first the defection was not noted, but when she
elected to sit by Frank while they watched the acrobats the new swain
took heart once more and squeezed her arm.
Evelyn Atkinson, who was in a smiling temper, felt that a crisis might
be brought about now. There was not much time. It was nearly ten
o'clock, and soon her mother would be storming at her for not having
taken herself and her sisters to bed, though, in justice be it said,
the girls could not possibly sleep until the house was cleared.
Ernest Beckett-Smythe was her cavalier at the moment.
"We've seen all there is te see," she whispered. "Let's go and have a
dance in our yard. Jim Bates can play a mouth-organ."
Ernest was a slow-witted youth.
"Where's the good?" he said. "There's more fun here."
"You try it, an' see," she murmured coyly.
The suggestion caught on. It was discussed while Martin and Jim Bates
were driving a weight up a pole by striking a lever with a heavy hammer.
Anything in the shape of an athletic feat always attracted Martin.
Angele was delighted. She scented a row. These village urchins were imps
after her own heart.
"Oh, let's," she agreed. "It'll be a change. I'll show you the American
two-step."
Frank had his arm around her waist now.
"Right-o!" he cried. "Evelyn, you and Ernest lead the way."
The girl, flattered by being bracketed publicly with one of the squire's
sons, enjoined caution.
"Once we're past t' stables it's all right," she said. "I don't suppose
Fred'll hear us, anyhow."
Fred was at the front of the hotel watching the road, watching Kitty
Thwaites as she flitted upstairs and down, watching George Pickering
through the bar window, and grinning like a fiend when he saw that
somewhat ardent wooer, hilarious now, but sober enough according to his
standard, glancing occasionally at his watch.
There was a gate on each side of the hotel. That on the left led to the
yard, with its row of stables and cart-sheds, and thence to a spacious
area occupied by hay-stacks, piles of firewood, hen-houses, and all the
miscellaneous lumber of an establishment half inn, half farm. The gate
on the right opened into a bowling-green and skittle-alley. Behind these
lay the kitchen garden and orchard. A hedge separated one section from
the other, and entrance could be obtained to either from the back door
of the hotel.
The radiance of a full moon now decked the earth in silver and black; in
the shade the darkness was intense by contrast. The church clock struck
ten.
Half a dozen youngsters crept silently into the stable yard. Angele
kicked up a dainty foot in a preliminary _pas seul_, but Evelyn stopped
her unceremoniously. The village girl's sharp ears had caught footsteps
on the garden path beyond the hedge.
It was George Pickering, with his arm around Kitty's shoulders. He was
talking in a low tone, and she was giggling nervously.
"They're sweetheartin'," whispered a girl.
"So are we," declared Frank Beckett-Smythe. "Aren't we, Angele?"
"Sapristi! I should think so. Where's Martin?"
"Never mind. We don't want him."
"Oh, he will be furious. Let's hide. There will be such a row when he
goes home, and he daren't go till he finds me."
Master Beckett-Smythe experienced a second's twinge at thought of the
greeting he and his brother would receive at the Hall. But here was
Angele pretending timidity and cowering in his arms. He would not leave
her now were he to be flayed alive.
The footsteps of Pickering and Kitty died away. They had gone into the
orchard.
Evelyn Atkinson breathed freely again.
"Even if Kitty sees us now, I don't care," she said. "She daren't tell
mother, when she knows that we saw her and Mr. Pickerin'. He ought to
have married her sister."
"Poof!" tittered Angele. "Who heeds a domestic?"
Someone came at a fast run into the yard, running in desperate haste,
and making a fearful din. Two boys appeared. The leader shouted:
"Angele! Angele! Are you there?"
Martin had missed her. Jim Bates, who knew the chosen rendezvous of the
Atkinson girls, suggested that they and their friends had probably gone
to the haggarth.
"Shut up, you fool!" hissed Frank. "Do you want the whole village to
know where we are?"
Martin ignored him. He darted forward and caught Angele by the shoulder.
He distinguished her readily by her outline, though she and the rest
were hidden in the somber shadows of the outbuildings.
"Why did you leave me?" he demanded angrily. "You must come home at
once. It is past ten o'clock."
"Don't be angry, Martin," she pouted. "I am just a little tired of the
noise. I want to show you and the rest a new dance."
The minx was playing her part well. She had read Evelyn Atkinson's soul.
She felt every throb of young Beckett-Smythe's foolish heart. She was
quite certain that Martin would find her and cause a scene. There was
deeper intrigue afoot now than the mere folly of unlicensed frolic in
the fair. Her vanity, too, was gratified by the leading role she filled
among them all. The puppets bore themselves according to their
temperaments. Evelyn bit her lip with rage and nearly yielded to a wild
impulse to spring at Angele and scratch her face. Martin was white with
determination. As for Master Frank, he boiled over instantly.
"You just leave her alone, young Bolland," he said thickly. "She came
here to please herself, and can stay here, if she likes. I'll see to
that."
Martin did not answer.
"Angele," he said quietly, "come away."
Seeing that he had lived in the village nearly all his life, it was
passing strange that this boy should have dissociated himself so
completely from its ways. But the early hours he kept, his love of
horses, dogs, and books, his preference for the society of grooms and
gamekeepers--above all, a keen, if unrecognized, love of nature in all
her varying moods, an almost pagan worship of mountain, moor, and
stream--had kept him aloof from village life. A boy of fourteen does not
indulge in introspection. It simply came as a fearful shock to find the
daughter of a lady like Mrs. Saumarez so ready to forget her social
standing. Surely, she could not know what she was doing. He was
undeceived, promptly and thoroughly.
Angele snatched her shoulder from his grasp.
"Don't you dare hold me," she snapped. "I'm not coming. I won't come
with you, anyhow. Ma foi, Frank is far nicer."
"Then I'll drag you home," said Martin.
"Oh, will you, indeed? I'll see to that."
Beckett-Smythe deemed Angele a girl worth fighting for. In any case,
this clodhopper who spent money like a lord must be taught manners.
Martin smiled. In his bemused brain the idea was gaining ground that
Angele would be flattered if he "licked" the squire's son for her sake.
"Very well," he said, stepping back into the moonlight. "We'll settle it
that way. If _you_ beat _me_, Angele remains. If _I_ beat _you_, she
goes home. Here, Jim. Hold my coat and hat. And, no matter what happens,
mind you don't play for any dancing."
Martin stated terms and issued orders like an emperor. In the hour of
stress he felt himself immeasurably superior to this gang of urchins,
whether their manners smacked of Elmsdale or of Eton.
Angele's acquaintance with popular fiction told her that at this stage
of the game the heroine should cling in tears to the one she loved, and
implore him to desist, to be calm for her sake. But the riot in her
veins brought a new sensation. There were possibilities hitherto
unsuspected in the darkness, the secrecy, the candid brutality of the
fight. She almost feared lest Beckett-Smythe should be defeated.
And how the other girls must envy her, to be fought for by the two boys
pre-eminent among them, to be the acknowledged princess of this village
carnival!
So she clapped her hands.
"O la la!" she cried. "Going to fight about poor little me! Well, I
can't stop you, can I?"
"Yes, you can," said one.
"She won't, anyhow," scoffed the other. "Are you ready?"
"Quite!"
"Then 'go.'"
And the battle began.