THE conversation, which was becoming full of perilous possibilities,
was interrupted by the stopping of the train at Newbury. From her place
by the window Elfreda observed a consequential little man strutting
along the platform in the direction of their compartment. He was
looking for a vacant seat. She recognized at once by a portrait in the
_Society Pictorial_ now open on her knee, that he was no less a person
than Sir Toby Philpot, the author of the play; and to judge by the
quantity of luggage in charge of his servant it was not unreasonable to
suppose that he was on his way to the scene of action at Clavering St.
Mary’s.
He looked a harmless little donkey enough, but among Elfreda’s own
friends he had the reputation of a bounder. It was this fact in the
first instance which may have led her to judge “The Lady of Laxton” so
harshly; at all events the piece could scarcely have been as bad as
she thought it was or it would never have held together. But at least
it went far to account for the depth of her resentment against her
father and mother who, without giving her any option in the matter,
had so high-handedly let her in for something she was going to dislike
intensely.
A sense of disgust pervaded Elfreda. Really there was hardly anything
about the little man to call for such an emotion, but it was his
misfortune to be the central figure just now of the world she was
hating.
“Pikey!” Her imperiousness was almost savage in the ear of the Werewolf
opposite. “Put your head out.” Elfreda lowered the window fiercely.
“Look your largest.” She might have been addressing a very favorite
grizzly whom she had been clever enough to tame. “Let him see you....
Let him really see you.”
As soon as Pikey grew alive to the situation she rose and thrust forth
her head in all its man-hating ruthlessness. She was only just in time.
Sir Toby, having caught a glimpse already of a decidedly attractive
occupant, was making a bee-line for the carriage door. But the sight
of Pikey, grim as a gargoyle and breathing latent ferocity, gave pause
even to a recently elected member of the Old Buck House Club. Swollen
with self-importance Sir Toby undoubtedly was, but in point of inches
he was a very small man indeed, and he was confronted with the jaws of
a man-eating tiger and the nose of a crocodile.
Sir Toby suddenly decided to seek refuge elsewhere.
With a sigh of relief Elfreda lowered the ample pages of the _Society
Pictorial_, behind which she had entrenched herself. “No family should
be without you, Pikey,” she said gratefully.
The train moved on. But somehow the incident caused Elfreda’s
resentment to flame even higher. She had yet to meet the author of
“The Lady of Laxton,” but she was amazingly quick in taking the measure
of the world at large. In regard to her fellow creatures her opinions
were few, but they were very definite. A first view of Sir Toby Philpot
had convinced her that his reputation was deserved and that she was
bound to dislike him intensely. It was all very unfair, no doubt, but
she belonged to the sex which, with all its virtues, will never be able
to run a League of Nations.
Again her eyes strayed across to the student of _The Patrician_. Poor
Miss Cass ... and yet ... lucky Miss Cass! Then it was in just that
fragment of time while she gazed at the slow-moving pencil of the “Lady
of Laxton” that a diabolical thought began to take shape in her mind....
If only....
It would score them off properly....
Above all it would teach a certain Person a lesson....
Elfreda began to hug her wicked thoughts. Fate itself appeared to be
taking some trouble to play into her hands. Surely a great opportunity
was being given her if only she could rise to the height of it. But
even if that was the case there was still one very vital question
to ask and to answer. Could the girl opposite be screwed up to the
requisite pitch of nerve and enterprise?
No sooner had Elfreda put this question to herself than she did a
thing that naught can condone. Deliberately, of malice prepense, she
forced Pikey and Miss Cass to finish the bottle. As far as the maid was
concerned there was really no obstacle; she was more than willing to
play her part. But Miss Cass needed tact and firmness; she had to be
handled with masterful delicacy.
“Please--you _will_ help us--won’t you?” The voice of the siren.
“Yes--really--you must!” The daughter of the marquis dealt out honest
measure with her own uncompromising hand. “That’s your glass, I
think--the one at the top--isn’t it, Pikey?”
Pikey’s grunt was in the affirmative, but if eyes could have slain, her
mistress would have died on the spot. How dare she offer one of her
father’s choicest vintages to such a middle-class person!
The Lady of Laxton had already fallen at once to the blandishments of
her imperiously charming benefactress. Her instinct was to resist, but
the Bottle Imp had seriously weakened her resolve. She knew it was
wrong, insane, indecent, but an eye of concentrated power seemed to
bore right through her soul. And, after all, such wine as that did give
one a perfectly heavenly feeling.
Once more, and almost in spite of herself, Miss Cass brought her
lips warily to the edge of the tumbler. It was folly, nay, it was
piggishness, but at that moment she was hardly more than a helpless
midge caught in the toils of an inexorable will. The wonderful blue
eyes of the girl opposite had the quality of steel. “Please!... don’t
let us waste it ... it is supposed to be rather good of its kind!”
History, alas, is hardly likely to be very gentle with the Lady Elfreda!
The bottle was finished at last. And Pikey, who, after all, had had
the lion’s share of it, sat back on her cushions in a state of most
agreeable somnolence. As for Miss Cass, her pencil began to fly across
the paper.
“Mr. John Galsworthy in common with Mr. Arnold Bells and Mr. H. G.
Wennett has a singular power of visualizing----”
Has the power of visualizing!
“What Mr. James Henry so beautifully calls the Human Scene.” The fair
phrase came clear and pat, but before the page could receive it Miss
Cass was again in the toils of the incarnate demon opposite.
“Suppose you take my part in the ‘Lady of Laxton’?” There was a
suggestion for one simply athirst for life, for knowledge, for
first-hand experience! Such amazing words could hardly be meant
seriously; nevertheless there was a concentration in the manner of the
marquis’ daughter that almost took away the breath of Miss Cass.
Emboldened by an unmistakable snore from the gently but firmly sleeping
Pikey, said the wicked Elfreda, “I don’t think you would find it at
all difficult and it might amuse you.”
Miss Cass could hardly believe her ears. For the tone, beyond the
shadow of a doubt, was quite serious. “I don’t know any one at
Clavering Park and I don’t suppose any one knows you.”
“But----” pleaded Miss Cass.
Elfreda was not in a mood for “buts.” The wicked Genie now had her
firmly in its grip. So simple, yet so radiant was the idea that already
it was glowing with the colors of destiny. There were obstacles, of
course, but a dynamic will could remove them.
“In size we are much of a muchness, aren’t we? So you can take my
things and I’ll take yours.”
“Oh, but----” faltered Miss Cass.
“You might have quite an amusing fortnight”--Pikey, who had been
traveling all through the long night was sleeping very comfortably
now--“One hears the place will be full of new people. With a bit of
luck ... if you really play up ... you might even....” ... Get one
of them to marry you!--was the thought in the mind of the abandoned
Elfreda. But the Bottle Imp had not quite bereft her of a sense of
shame, therefore she did not complete her sentence by mere words.
She had recourse to wireless telegraphy, which, however, was just as
effective.
Miss Cass felt herself to be growing dizzy.
“That’s what happens in the play, you know. The son of the house falls
in love with the governess----”
“Oh--but,” gasped Miss Cass. And yet if the truth must be told the
wicked Genie was now beginning to stir in her, also. A voice was heard
in the subliminal self of Miss Cass. _There is a tide in the affairs of
men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune._
“It needs a little pluck, of course.” The light in the blue eyes was
almost sinister. “But it might be rather amusing, don’t you think?”
Miss Cass was bewildered. But it seemed to come upon her all at once
that she was now in the toils of a female Napoleon. Moreover, she was
faced by a proposition which exceeded her wildest dreams. Of course,
it would not bear any sort of analysis, but when one is possessed by a
perfectly heavenly feeling all things seem possible. Such a sense of
“uplift” was quite new in Miss Cass’s experience and she felt unable
just now to adjust her mind to a phase which although delicious was yet
without a parallel.
The train sped on through a country which grew steadily richer and more
pastoral. Lady Elfreda looked again at the watch on her wrist. It was
after three. Already the light of the brief November day had begun to
wane. Pikey was snoring now with slow, deep, reassuring regularity.
Somehow all things, even the motions of the train itself, seemed to be
conspiring to fix and determine the mad project which had been born in
that wicked and rebellious mind.
Every mile that brought them nearer to their journey’s end was
carefully registered in the acute brain of Elfreda. The train stopped
at Yeovil and there was a further examination of the tickets, not by
a truculent male inspector on this occasion, but by a rustic maid in
spectacles, who willingly accepted the assurance that the ticket of
Miss Cass was quite in order. After that the train passed over the
borders of Wessex into the famed county of Devon; and then with but a
few embers of daylight remaining the Evil Genius suddenly insisted that
the time had come for action.
V
LADY ELFREDA gave Pikey a shrewd glance to make sure that the snores
were _bona fide_. Then she got up and with perfectly amazing _sang
froid_ took off her fur coat.
“Give me your ulster, please.” Napoleon--Bismarck--Caesar--Hannibal
were in that pregnant whisper.
The pencil dropped from the trembling fingers of Miss Cass. Her heart
took a great leap. Was this a serious demand? Could this amazing girl
mean what her words implied?
“Your hat as well, please.”
In the growing dusk, now as ever a true friend of conspiracy, she saw
the girl opposite withdraw a couple of pins and remove her hat. Was it
conceivable that she was in earnest!
The urgency of the whisper laid that doubt at rest. A thrill quickened
the soul of Girlie Cass. Her bewildered mind began to spin with a new
and strange idea. It was madness ... it was lunacy ... and yet ... if
only ... one could screw up one’s courage....
“You will have Mrs. Pike to look after you. She is very experienced. If
you hold your tongue you can’t go wrong.” Incredible words, incredible
girl, incredible proposition! “You will have all my clothes, of
course. I will see that my trunks are put in the luggage cart.
And”--the whisper was dæmonic--“Mrs. Pike has some money.”
Girlie Cass could hardly breathe for excitement. _The Patrician_
followed the pencil on to the floor. “There is a tide, etc.” Her heart
began to hit her ribs violently.
“Give me your ulster, please.”
If only one’s head would not spin so!
“You’ll find this coat warmer and it’s very comfortable. It’ll be quite
an amusing fortnight. Nobody will know--except Mrs. Pike, of course,
who can be trusted implicitly. I quite think you’ll like it.”
The brain of Miss Cass was whirling helplessly. And yet there was a
demon in hers also. What an opportunity, what a golden opportunity for
first-hand experience! What a chance to see the great world from the
inside. To be, for one whole fortnight, a real authentic daughter of a
marquis ... if only one had courage!
Miss Cass never really knew how it happened, but a mile or so farther
on she awoke to the momentous fact that she was wearing a sealskin coat
with a skunk collar and a velour hat with a twist of skunk round it,
while immediately opposite was a girl in a green ulster with a hat also
trimmed with green.
“Please give me your ticket. This is mine.”
By the aid of some power not herself Miss Cass exchanged tickets with
the Force that was luring her to glory and destruction.
Finally, as an afterthought, a typewritten abstract of “The Lady of
Laxton” was handed to Miss Cass.
“You mustn’t forget your part in the play. For any one with a good
memory it will be quite easy to learn. And you’ll find the acting
rather fun, I think.”
Miss Cass was living in a dream which could not envisage details, but
she submitted to the play being pressed into her hand. Without so much
as a glance at the brown paper cover she placed it mechanically in the
pocket of the fur coat.
The next thing to happen in the bewildered consciousness of Miss Cass
was the stopping of the train. Lady Elfreda let down the window to
disclose a lighted station lamp with the name “Clavering St. Mary’s”
painted thereon. Somehow at the moment this legend meant nothing to
Miss Cass; the land she was living in now was east of the sun, west of
the moon. But a voice amazingly dominant said: “Here we are. Pikey,
wake up.” And then the owner of the voice put her head out of the
window and summoned a porter.
A leisurely functionary came up to the carriage door and opened it.
As he did so the lady of the green ulster said with an air of quiet
competence which in the circumstances was almost uncanny, “There are
two trunks in the luggage van. Or is it three, Pikey? Do wake up.”
Pikey somnolently grunted the word “three” and then with a supreme
effort stepped, or rather lurched, out onto the platform, while the
porter collected the flotsam of the compartment and bore them to an
adjacent trolley.
“Three trunks in the luggage van, porter.”
“Very good, miss.
“They are labeled ‘Clavering Park’--aren’t they, Pikey?”
The reply was a drowsy affirmative.
“You have one, too, haven’t you?” said Elfreda in a bold aside, with
one eye upon her maid.
Girlie confessed a small tin one labeled “Cass.”
“Very good, miss,” said the porter again.
The Lady of the Green Ulster stepped with calm audacity onto the
platform. In a kind of trance Miss Fur Coat followed her.
The porter had no difficulty in retrieving three important looking
trunks from the luggage van. Nor did the small tin one present any
obstacle. When all the luggage had been duly collected, Elfreda
marshaled Pikey and Miss Cass through the booking office and past the
ticket collector into the station yard.
Several vehicles were waiting. Foremost of these was a stylish motor
omnibus. Elfreda instinctively made a bee-line for it.
“Are you from Clavering Park?” she said to the smart footman with a
wound stripe on his sleeve who stood by the open door.
The man said that he was from Clavering Park, whereon Miss Green Ulster
pointed to the Fur Coat and informed him that its occupant was Lady
Elfreda Catkin; whereon she was informed that there was a cart for the
luggage, but owing to the shortage of petrol there was only the omnibus
for everybody.
Miss Fur Coat, standing helpless and mazed in her borrowed plumes
beside the omnibus door was hustled, literally hustled, into the
interior of the vehicle, and Pikey, still far too drowsy even to begin
to grapple with the situation in its strange complexity, was hustled in
after her. While the porter put in rugs and umbrellas and a couple of
the smaller cases under the competent direction of the lady who stood
by the door of the omnibus, Pikey at the same time was adjured by her
mistress in a stern whisper to play the game, to hold her tongue, and
not to give anything away.
These instructions were Greek to the unfortunate Pikey in her present
extremely somnolent condition. She made one feeble, rather despairing
effort to come to grips with a matter that was frankly beyond her, but
before she could rouse her will to any real activity the footman had
been ordered to start.
“I am to wait, ma’am, for another guest.”
Elfreda bit her lip sharply. For the moment she had forgotten the
existence of the little baronet. Almost immediately, however, she
received a forcible reminder of it. Sir Toby, who had traveled lower
down the long train, was to be seen emerging from the booking office.
For the last time Elfreda thrust her head into the omnibus interior.
“Mind you play up, Pikey. I will write to you in a day or two.”
Poor bewildered Pikey was only able to emit a grunt of hopeless defeat
before Sir Toby Philpot, in the company of his faithful body servant,
Mr. O’Toole, converged upon the omnibus door. After a brief exchange of
remarks with the tall footman who stood thereby, the small baronet took
his seat gracefully beside the lady of the fur coat, and Mr. O’Toole
hoisted his respectful bulk alongside Pikey, who was already verging
once more upon the comatose.
At the same moment Elfreda felt in the very marrow of her wicked
bones that the tremendous risk she was taking must end all too soon
in disaster. But she was still in the thrall of the demon. The fun
would be gorgeous while it lasted; it would enable certain people to
realize that the times had changed; moreover, having definitely burnt
her boats, this was not a moment for human weakness. Therefore she
said in the private ear of the tall footman, “Don’t wait for me. I am
not coming with you.” And then she turned discreetly away from the
door of the omnibus, saw the right trunks put into the luggage cart
and accompanied the porter with the modest residue to a dogcart twenty
yards away.
Brief colloquy with a bewhiskered Jehu in a faded snuff-colored livery
and a battered furry topper proved this vehicle to be from The Laurels
and that it was awaiting the arrival of the London train.
“Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson?”
Jehu, who combined the functions of groom, gardener and general
factotum, said gruffly that he was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and that
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson hoped they would be able to squeeze the box
of the new governess into the back of the cart without chipping the
fresh paint. It took but a minute or two for the porter to dispose of
the very modest luggage labeled “Cass” and to accept for his general
services a fee considerably in excess of what he had reason to expect;
and then the groom-gardener, one John Small by name, said curtly, “Jump
in, miss. We can’t keep this ’orse standin’ here all night.”
Without showing the slightest intention to obey the order, the new
governess looked at the horse in critical fashion. “I hope,” she said
impersonally, “he won’t take it into his head to sit down.”
The reply, although sweetly given, did not make at all a favorable
impression on Mr. Small, who was a great autocrat within his sphere;
the porter, however, his heart warmed by half a crown, smiled broadly.
The horse pawed impatiently and Mr. Small coughed in a hostile manner,
but nothing would induce the new governess to ascend to the vacant seat
by his side until the Clavering Park omnibus had actually quitted the
station yard.