IN the process of time the omnibus started for Clavering Park, and
in almost the same instant a darker thrall was cast upon the soul of
Pikey. Right up till that final moment the maid struggling with might
and main against honorable fatigue, the Genius of the Bottle and
the weight of five and sixty years, had cherished the hope that her
mistress--who apparently had changed her clothes, although Pikey was
hardly prepared to swear to the fact--would come aboard the omnibus.
But the vehicle started without that consummation coming to pass.
Even then the duenna, no longer able to keep her eyes open, still
pinned her faith to the bare chance that her wayward charge--the Little
Wretch had always given more trouble than all the rest together!--was
up in front beside the chauffeur. The old woman knew that such a
conjecture belonged to the region of fantasy, yet it might be so.
Elfreda was as full of tricks as a monkey and always had been.
The omnibus passed a lamp at the entrance to the station yard and,
as Pikey’s eyes flickered open for the last time, she caught a hazy
glimpse of the fur coat and the velour hat opposite. The maid drew
a long sigh of relief. Why, there she was, after all! Something or
somebody was playing tricks, though. Pikey could have taken an oath
that five minutes ago her mistress was standing outside the door in
a green ulster. But the delicious sensation of warmth, comfort and
extreme somnolence was too much for her now. Yes ... of course ... it
must be quite all right. Elfreda was seated opposite. Besides ... what
did it matter?... what did anything ... mat ... ter ...?
In a measure these feelings were shared by Miss Cass. She, it is true,
was very far from somnolence just now. Her state bordered upon ecstasy.
The Genius of the Bottle and the many famous novels she had read must
share the responsibility for her frame of mind. Was she not fully
launched now upon the most wonderful, amazing, wholly preposterous
adventure! She was a living romance and it was equal to anything in the
“New Arabian Nights.” Was she really awake? Or did she dream? In the
humid interior of the smooth-gliding bus she too was lulled into false
security by a delicious sense of comfort. The wheels were going round
in her head with an ease, an abandon she had not experienced before.
Yet over and beyond all else was the feeling that as she was under the
personal ægis of a marquis’ daughter everything was bound to turn out
for the best in the best of all possible worlds. The extraordinarily
charming and clever little Lady Elfreda Catkin, who in every detail
was so absolutely the Real Right Thing, as Mr. James Henry would have
said--or was it Mr. H. G. Wennett?--whose father was the Marquis of
Carabbas, could be trusted to see to that.
Yes, everything was bound to be all right. There was a very experienced
maid to look after her. She would have fine clothes and plenty of
money; she might even be provided with jewels. It would all be part of
a delightful joke, a little daring no doubt to a humdrum bourgeoise
mind, but then in High Society they had a different standard, as all
the best writers insisted, from Thackeray down. And this really was
High Society and she had really entered it. Besides taking the matter
at its lowest, here was a dazzling opportunity for one who desired to
write as well as Mrs. Humphry Ward or Mrs. Elinor Glyn. The secret door
of aristocratic life had been opened to her so miraculously that it was
enough to make the Brontë Sisters turn in their green graves with envy.
Girlie Cass was not by nature brave. But as she snuggled her chin lower
amid the delicious warmth of the skunk collar and she reviewed an
incredible situation to the best of her rather impaired ability, for a
few epic moments she never felt so brave in all her life. Somehow with
that rich fur round her ears and her very own maid seated opposite she
felt almost equal to anything. Two things only were required of her,
according to her entirely amazing mentor and all powerful protectress.
The first was never to let go of the fact that she was Lady Elfreda
Catkin; the second was “to play up.”
Alas, the feeling of courage passed all too soon for the comfort of
Miss Cass. The presence of others slowly percolated to her. Impressive
looking male figures were seated each side the door. They did not
speak, but this very quality of silence seemed to render her sense of
insecurity greater. And then to her horror almost the man by her side
turned his head and addressed her.
“Aren’t you Lady Elfreda Catkin? My name is Philpot. Our hostess wrote
to me at Newbury to say you might be coming by this train.” He was
quite a friendly little man, a chronic sufferer from a rush of words to
the head, who seldom waited for the second party to any conversation
to catch up with his ideas. Nothing could have served Girlie better
at this nerve-racking moment than the little man’s habit of amiable
loquacity. She was just able to make some kind of wholly unintelligible
murmur, but it sufficed for Sir Toby to go on. “I sometimes meet your
father at the Buck Club. I do hope you like your part. What do you
think of my big scene in the third act? Monty Jupp says it is quite
equal to anything that Oscar Wilde ever wrote. I think it better
myself, though that is between ourselves. I wouldn’t say that to
everybody, but it really is a nailin’ good comedy, and your part of the
Little Guv is absolutely the best thing I’ve done. Of course, it wants
playin’ on rather broad lines, but it’s sure to be a go.”
The little Catkin lady was not very forthcoming. Throughout the
whole of the baronet’s discourse she sat in her corner as solemn as
a mouse. But Sir Toby was much encouraged by the passing glimpses of
her an occasional street lamp afforded him. She had absolutely no
conversation, but she was a pretty little Puss.
Meanwhile a chill of paralysis was settling upon Miss Cass. She must
really make an effort to say something. It wouldn’t do to appear odd.
At that moment, however, it seemed quite impossible for her to devise
any form of words to meet the occasion. What ought she to say? What
would a daughter of a marquis say in such circumstances? Above all, the
student of _The Patrician_ asked herself, how would the daughter of a
marquis say whatever she had to say?
Girlie took the line of least resistance. She said nothing. It was
the obvious, in fact, the only possible course, because her will was
inert, her mind was a blank, her tongue was petrified. Happily Sir
Toby was extraordinarily insensitive, even for a baronet. “I knew
several of your sisters. I am always meetin’ your father. I hear you
absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire as Lady Henrietta in the Duke of
Killiecrankie, but of course this is a very much better play than poor
Bob Marshall could ever have written. Don’t you think so? But you do,
of course.”
No, not exactly forthcoming, but she was a pretty little thing and
obviously very shy.
“I haven’t seen you act myself, but Monty Jupp says when he’s coached
you a bit more you’ll be able to play the ingénues out of all the
London theatres. He thinks you ought to go into the business. If your
father will give his consent he will produce a big contract for you;
and if all goes well down here Monty says he can find the money to put
you up as the Little Guv at the Imperial.”
The reserve of Lady Elfreda lasted all the way to Clavering Park.
Happily Sir Toby was less concerned by it than less gifted people might
have been. For he had a real love of the sound of his own voice, and
somehow it had never sounded better than in this cozy tête-a-tête with
the youngest of the Catkin girls. A shy little puss, but she was as
pretty as pretty.
Under her fur coat, however, Miss Cass had begun to shiver with dread
fear and dire remorse. But emotions of that sort were simply no use
now. Things had gone much too far. Whatever happened now she must play
up. Therein lay her only hope of salvation.
It seemed as if this journey would never end. The sense of impending
disaster was getting on the nerves of Miss Cass. Luckily they had not
far to go. It was but a couple of miles or so to Clavering Park.