WHATEVER the disabilities of General Norris there was not a suspicion
of false shame about his hostess. She took the knob of the schoolroom
door out of the young man’s hand and turned it for him.
“Miss Cass.” The flutelike note rang clear and free. “No wish to hurry
you, Miss Cass, but the carriage is waiting.”
Miss Cass lifted her eyes calmly from her cheese.
Then she glanced at the watch on her wrist--an adorably neat watch on
an adorably neat wrist--quite leisurely. “Thank you,” she said drily.
It was really the driest “Thank you” George Norris had ever heard.
As she rose from the table with a deliberation which to Mrs.
Trenchard-Simpson was rather infuriating, that lady observed the hat
of the retiring governess. It was decidedly expensive. And her gloves
and shoes could not possibly have been warranted by her salary. On the
other hand George Norris observed none of these things. He was occupied
far too much with their wearer. But above all, he was occupied with
that sinister chorus in his brain, “Too late, too late!”
All was lost. And he had but himself to blame. In a kind of dull rage
he stepped up to the open door to watch the lading of Miss Cass’s
luggage on to the chariot. The mien of John Small was a comedy in
itself. He at least was ready to welcome the departure of one who had
kept him in his place as determinedly as he attempted to rise above it.
As John Small hoisted the tin trunk on to the back of the dog cart he
had the look of a man well satisfied.
That look was oddly reflected in the bearing of Miss Dolores Parbury,
who at the chosen moment emerged from the morning room to speed the
parting guest. There was a kind of wary triumph in it, a triumph not
so much open and avowed as tacit and concealed. After all, Miss Cass
was only the governess. But there the triumph was, at any rate, for the
eye of George Norris, who suddenly found that it was more than he could
bear. As he caught the slightly averted glance of Miss Cass that was
like nothing so much as a sword half-sheathed, his heart went out to
her. In defeat she was sublime. Faults she might have; her manner with
young children might leave something to be desired, but _au fond_ she
was a fearless warrior and she had been endowed with so much charm that
nature hardly seemed to be playing fair to the average members of Miss
Cass’s sex in allowing her to treat it as a proprietary article.
The gallant George did not try to analyze the situation. He was a man
of action, for one thing. Besides, there really was not time. This was
the crisis of his fate, and events were moving with alarming rapidity.
Before he could regain complete control of his mind, the inimitable
Miss Cass was making her adieux.
With the faintly mischievous smile which invited intimacy and yet
repelled it, she offered her hand.
“Good-by!” she said.
But George, hypnotized by the touch of her fingers, felt quite unable
to say good-by. He knew that immediately beyond the little lady two
pairs of eyes, scorpion in their burning intensity, were directed upon
him. He knew that anything he said or did now would be used in evidence
against him, but it was asking too much of human nature to let her go
like that. He didn’t know her plans, he didn’t even know her address! A
mine had been sprung under his feet by the forces of injustice; but he
would never be able to forgive himself if he lost her without making a
sign.
The forces of injustice were ruthlessly dominating the scene. But what
did it matter? What did anything matter? This was Fate’s hour. If at
such a moment he failed to show himself a man it would tell heavily
against him in the ultimate assize.
“I’ll come to the station and see you off!” The daring of the speech
was incredible; at least, so it seemed in the ear of two of the ladies.
In the ear of the lady to whom it was addressed, by one of those
piquancies which make the human comedy the infinitely delightful thing
it is, it was accepted at its face value with a complacency that was
hardly decent.
“How extremely kind of you!”
A shiver ran through the stout fibers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. The
robust Miss Parbury had a horrid momentary feeling that some one was in
the act of walking across her grave.
“But, my dear George,”--the voice of the hostess was imperious, yet by
comparison with the organ tones around her it sounded oddly high and
thin--“luncheon is at a quarter to two. Aren’t you forgetting?”
The intrepid young man was not forgetting. He could easily obtain a
sandwich at the station.
“But how absurd!”
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson waited an instant for the departing governess
to agree that it _was_ absurd, as any self-respecting governess must
surely have done in the circumstances, but she waited in vain.
“It is not in the least necessary. Small is quite able to help with
Miss Cass’s luggage. Are you not, Small?”
“Yes, m’m,” came a slow but truculent response from the seat of Jehu.
“Oh, no.” The young man was amazing. “Much better let me. Porters are
in such short supply at all the stations these days. Besides, I want to
send off a wire. So that if there’s room at the back of the cart for me
as well as for that trunk----?”
“Woa-a-a horse!”
George, the incredible, had one foot on the back step already. Miss
Cass, smiling and calm, was seated deftly in front. If the look of her
had a meaning she knew only too well that all the cards were in her
hand.
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw that the game was going against her heavily,
but she gathered herself for a final throw. “My dear George, you will
catch your death,” she cried.
It _was_ a dank morning of November. There was even a thin spatter of
rain. George, the overcoatless, reluctantly lifted his foot from the
step of the dogcart. “I’ll get my British Warm,” he said.
Too elemental for a thought of treachery to enter his mind, the young
man turned suddenly into the house in quest of that garment.
Openly and palpably fighting for victory Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw
her chance. No modest scruple stayed her. “Drive on, Small,” she said
sternly, as soon as the young man had passed indoors. “Don’t wait for
General Norris.”
Small, ready at all times to obey his mistress, was prepared to do
so now. He may or he may not have had a full grasp of the case. Such
fellows are not always so wooden-witted as they appear. But he valued
his place and beyond a doubt he would not have waited for General
Norris had it not been for the prompt intervention of the lady who
shared with him the front seat. With a suddenness very disconcerting to
John, the shameless Miss Cass sprang to her feet. “My box is not very
secure, I’m afraid. It might fall out at the back.”
“Your trunk is quite all right, Miss Cass,” promptly and energetically
countered Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “It cannot possibly fall out. Small,
drive on.”
Hardly a minute was occupied by the entire incident. But the situation
was saved. Before John Small had a chance of getting under way, General
Norris, becomingly clad in his British Warm had emerged from the house
and had again placed his foot on the back step of the chariot.
“Never mind your box, Miss Cass,” he said cheerily. “I’ll take care of
that.”