PIKEY, with a shawl round her shoulders, was dozing by the bedroom
fire. She was awaiting the Deputy’s return and doing her best to keep
awake. Sleepy as she was, her reception of Miss No-Class was decidedly
rough and yet less rough than might have been the case had she not been
already informed in the servants’ hall by Mr. Pierce, the butler, that
in the matter of looks her young ladyship could give all the other
ladies points and a beating.
Mr. Pierce meant well, but it was a left handed compliment, that was
the best that could be said for it, yet in a sense Pikey felt rather
gratified. The verdict of Mr. Pierce at any rate implied that Miss
No-Class had borne herself throughout the evening quite as well as was
to have been expected. So far, apparently, she had not given herself
away.
“You will have your breakfast in bed,” said Pikey grimly.
Flown by success, Miss Cass did her best to bring a steady eye to bear
upon the maid.
“I have already arranged to do so,” she said with a very fair
approximation to the manner of the admired Miss Pond. She was still
in deadly fear of the Dragon, but she must neglect no opportunity of
putting her in her place.
“Oh, you have,” said Pikey, more grimly than ever. The Miss-Pond-manner
had left her cold. “And you may have to stay in bed for luncheon as
well.”
“But----” For the moment Girlie was not able to proceed beyond that
ineffective monosyllable. Pikey was “undoing her at the back” and even
this mild protest earned her a decidedly savage shake.
“It’s like this,” Pikey ominously explained. “I’m going over to The
Laurels the first thing in the morning and it’s the best part of four
miles away, so Mrs. Bletsoe the housekeeper tells me. And you’ve got to
stop in bed till I come back.”
“But----” Miss No-Class protested.
“Let down your hair.” Of a sudden the Werewolf took a most formidable
long-handled brush from the dressing table for all the world as if it
had been a birch rod.
Miss Cass could not repress a tremor of fear as she withdrew the pins
and the charming ribbon.
“You’ll stay in bed till I return.”
Poor Girlie gave a suppressed howl as the best quality hogs’ bristle
seemed to tear open her scalp. “And Mrs. Bletsoe doubts whether I’ll
be back by luncheon time if I miss the bus from the Royal Oak at
Clavering.”
“But----”
The long-handled hairbrush began to draw real salt tears. “Don’t
you dare to show yourself again until I’ve seen her young ladyship.
To-morrow she’s coming here.” Suppressed wowl. “Or I’ll know the
reason.” Wowl ad libitum.
The Deputy ventured no more “buts.” She feared that this old Sioux
might cause her scalp to disappear altogether.
“Do you understand?”
With her hair gathered in one large merciless handful Girlie understood
only too well.
“Now you can get into bed.” It was the tone of the absolute ruler of
the nursery to one who had just received an honest instalment of her
deserts and it also implied a promise of more to follow.
Girlie felt it was nothing less than an outrage to treat the daughter
of a solicitor in that way; but without unnecessary delay she slipped
in between the sheets and made the acquaintance of a friendly hot water
bottle.
“Remember, you don’t get up--until you are told. And mind you say your
prayers.” The Dragon switched off the electric light and retired to her
own quarters to a chequered night’s repose.
Girlie fared no better. Never in the course of her life had sleep
seemed so far from her pillow. She grew so excited as the present, the
future, and the immediate past flooded her mind that after a while she
switched on the light. On a shelf by her bedside were several of her
favorite writers, but in this mental crisis even Miss Cholmondeley,
Mr. Galsworthy, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward were powerless. After that she
tried studying her part, but she could not bring her mind to bear
upon it. Finally, as she paced up and down the large room, she tried
to continue her essay for the _Saturday Sentinel_, but none of these
alternatives were of the least use. Her nerves were in a state of
mutiny. She could not think coherently. The fix she was in grew more
terrifying as the hours passed. There seemed to be no way out. She had
been mad, worse than mad. Her career was irretrievably ruined. And when
the trick was discovered, as within the next four and twenty hours it
was bound to be, she might very easily find herself in prison. And
yet----!
That “and yet” was the cruel part. Up till now she had carried the
thing off brilliantly. In a manner of speaking she had quite enjoyed
the evening; so much had she appreciated its charm and its luxury that
it had seemed like coming into one’s own. No matter what the sequel
was, it would ever remain a golden memory almost capable of making any
penalty worth while.
The dawn had begun already to steal through the Venetian blinds of
King Edward’s bedroom before Girlie slept at all. All too soon she was
aroused by a maid with a well filled tray. Face to face with the cold
light of day and the naked reality of a perfectly stupendous present,
the Deputy wisely determined that she might as well be hung for a
sheep as for a lamb; accordingly with a wrap round her shoulders she
sat up in bed, made a tolerable breakfast and then put forth one more
effort to fix her mind on “The Lady of Laxton.”
She was engaged in diligent study when Pikey entered to bestow a final
word of admonition upon her before she set out for The Laurels. In
spite of the fatigues of travel, Pikey, it seemed, had slept almost
as ill as Miss No-Class. They shared an overwhelming responsibility.
But the Deputy, comfortably in bed, showed herself very docile in the
matter of getting up. She was quite content to stay as she was. It
would suit her very well not to get up until the ambassadress returned
from The Laurels; it would suit her even better not to get up at all.
The morning was fine and about half-past ten a gauntly-respectable
Pikey set forth a grim figure of truculent despair. At the outset
fortune was with her. A motor omnibus plied between Clavering and the
neighboring villages, passing the Park gates every two hours in the
process. Armed with sound advice from the housekeeper’s room, Pikey was
able “to time” this vehicle and thereby to reach the Pendennis Arms
at Clavering in something less than thirty minutes. Inquiry at that
center of information disclosed the fact that The Laurels was some two
miles away on the outskirts of the town. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, it
seemed, was a local auctioneer whose rank was a mystery and a wonder
to the wise.
As no fly or other medium of travel was at hand, Pikey decided to walk
to The Laurels. The house was not difficult to find, but the two miles
proved to be nearly three, and it took Pikey, not feeling so young as
she used to, the best part of an hour to get there. It was a rather
mediocre dwelling, at any rate in the eyes of Pikey who had big ideas,
standing a little back from the high road. There was a small plantation
in front of it and there was no other house near, but Pikey’s first
impression was that it didn’t amount to much; and when the disgruntled
visitor opened its gate which was in need of a coat of paint and her
rather dazed mind was suddenly flooded with a renewed sense of her
mission, this impression was confirmed.
In the stress of a great crisis, Pikey had not paused en route to
consider details of procedure, but now that she had reached her
destination they simply had to be faced. Should she go up boldly to the
front door and ring the bell? Certainly that seemed to be the right
course to take. But then arose the question, for whom must she ask
if she did so? For Pikey was now “up against” the fact that she had
quite forgotten the name of Miss No-Class, even if, and it was a point
upon which she was by no means clear, she had ever known it. However
she did not spend much time in wreaking a vain rage upon herself, for
she realized that by now she was a long way from Clavering Park, and
that circumstances called sternly for action. Therefore without delay
she walked along the carriage drive and rang the front door bell. The
Laurels was a stucco residence of the glorified suburban villa type
with A. D. 1880 engraved on the stone lintel.
The summons was answered by a slightly tarnished parlor-maid in a pink
print dress. She was inclined to be pert and the aristocratic spirit of
Pikey rose and fell in almost the same moment.
“Can I see the governess, please?” said Pikey, breathing hard. That,
after all, was the only formula.
“She’s out with Miss Joan and Master Peter.” The parlor-maid regarded
the visitor with an eye of frank disfavor.
Pikey’s heart sank. “Which way has she gone?” she bleakly inquired.
“She’s gone into Clavering to do some shopping for the mistress.”
Pikey took courage. If she could find out the road by which Elfreda was
likely to return there was a hope of intercepting her. Happily, as the
visitor was duly informed, the hope was much increased by the fact that
there was only one road into Clavering.
“I wonder how I can have missed her.” Pikey drew a breath of relief.
She offered curt thanks to the parlor-maid and was about to turn away
from the door, when a sharp voice which was evidently that of the
mistress of the house who had caught from afar the deep note of the
visitor’s Irish intonation, said, “Don’t encourage beggars, Jarvis.”
With that insult stirring her blood, poor Pikey made off down the
carriage drive, slammed her way out of the gate and took the road back
to Clavering. Murder was in her heart, but her spirit was sore, her
soul faint. It was a long way to Clavering Park, and she had never
felt so disgruntled in her life. Indeed, a few yards on as she crossed
a small stone bridge which spanned a local streamlet and lingered
a moment to look at the water gurgling beneath, for one weak, wild
instant she was almost tempted to try drowning as a remedy for a coil
that grew more tragic at every thought she gave to it.
A hundred yards ahead was a sharp bend in the road. Rounding it in a
state of utter despair, Pikey unexpectedly found herself converging
upon a young woman in a green ulster who held a small girl and a
smaller boy by the hand. Accompanying them was a tall, distinguished
looking soldier in much beribanded khaki, who walked with a slight limp.
Somehow Pikey was not prepared for Elfreda, but she it was, although
more than one glance under the cheap hat was needed to satisfy the maid
that such was the case. Indeed, Elfreda recognized Pikey before Pikey
recognized her. She was prompt, moreover, being a very quick-witted
young woman, to meet the situation.
Elfreda’s method of dealing with it was delightfully simple. She sent
on Miss Joan and Master Peter with the tall warrior in khaki, and
then calmly and sternly she confronted the maid. With a coolness that
literally took away Pikey’s breath she said, “Why, what in the name of
fortune are you doing here?”
The luckless Pikey had no answer ready. Elfreda’s sheer impudence was
sublime. Pikey could only gasp.
Elfreda calmly watched her charges disappear out of sight round the
corner. Then she fixed the duenna with a blue eye of concentrated
audacity. “Surely you don’t mean to say they’ve found out?”
Pikey was able to affirm that so far they had not.
“Then what on earth are you doing here?” The tone put the maid
completely in the wrong.
Such a cynical carrying of the war into the country of the enemy was a
little too much for Pikey. But she was not going to admit defeat. With
a snort and a scowl she declared that she had come to fetch Elfreda and
that no matter what happened it was her fixed resolve not to return to
Clavering Park without her mistress.