GEORGE rang the bell. Of the servant who promptly answered it “Ethel”
asked if Lord Carabbas was there and if so could they see him. The man
said he would inquire and showed them in.
“Lord Carabbas!” Midway between astonishment and dismay Ethel’s
cavalier muttered to himself that name of ill omen as they entered the
house.
The servant politely indicated chairs in the hall and then went in
search of Lord Carabbas.
In the waning light of the November afternoon the hall seemed to
be deserted. But it was not. Deep in a corner near the large open
fireplace was an unsuspected presence. And scarcely had they time to
realize that a third person was there when the presence sprang out upon
them.
With a cry that was half a sob, half a shriek, Girlie fell upon Elfreda
and flung both arms round her. By means of the spate of wild words
that followed, Elfreda learned that Girlie was ruined irretrievably,
that her career was blighted and that she fully expected to be sent to
prison.
“Sent to prison! Pray, whatever for!”
With the aid of a second spate of half suppressed sobs Girlie told the
story of the missing necklace; she also disclosed that a Scotland Yard
detective was going to arrest her on suspicion.
George Norris, embarrassed considerably by a scene of which he was
rather an unwilling witness and the cause of which was very obscure,
nervously withdrew some paces into the hall proper. He was greatly
troubled. The plot was thickening. But as to what had actually occurred
he was quite in the dark. Here, however, was mystery indeed. Moreover,
the march of events still gave no clew as to the ground on which he
stood.
Still, he was at the threshold of enlightenment.
In a short time the servant returned. He was accompanied, however,
not by Lord Carabbas but by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Minever
greeted Elfreda in a sort of flutter of curiosity. She then went on
rather incoherently to explain that Lord Carabbas was out. Would the
visitors care to wait for him as he was expected back quite soon? With
surprising coolness Elfreda promptly accepted the invitation.
George for his part could still only view the situation with
bewilderment. He was altogether in the dark. His bewilderment,
moreover, was now tinged by alarm. For reasons of his own he had no
particular desire at that moment to meet Lord Carabbas. The stern fact
had not yet dawned upon the young man that Lord Carabbas was the father
of “Ethel.”
There was no way of retreat now that things had gone so far. Besides,
as George stood listening to the conversation of Ethel and Mrs.
Minever he was quickly devoured by a passion for further enlightenment.
“But do you mind telling me who you are?” he heard Mrs. Minever say.
Elfreda gave her name. Any attempt at concealment would have been
useless. As the amazing story was now by way of being public property
the mistress of the house had already guessed her visitor’s identity,
but the unsuspecting George was stupefied. In the next moment, while
his mind was still chaos, he awoke to the fact that Lady Elfreda was
gravely presenting him to Mrs. Minever.
Poor George was staggered. He could but dimly grasp the truth. Overcome
by a sense of his own inadequacy, he felt he was growing more and more
ridiculous. “But I don’t understand,” he said faintly.
“I’m afraid I must ask Lady Elfreda to explain,” said Mrs. Minever with
her color rapidly mounting, with an odd tremor in her voice and with a
rather forced laugh.
“Please ask Miss Cass to enlighten you.” And Elfreda cast a wicked
glance at that ineffectual lady.
“Miss Cass!” Poor George seemed more bewildered than ever.
“Ask her to tell you what has happened.” The amazing Elfreda spoke
with the slightly bored air of one dismissing a tedious matter. And
then, for all the world as if it no longer existed for her, at Mrs.
Minever’s suggestion she turned calmly upon her heel and accompanied
that lady to the drawing room.
George Norris left alone with Miss Cass in the agreeable vicinity of
the good log fire made his halting plea for further enlightenment.
Girlie, stricken as she was by the sense of her own guilt and the
humiliation of her own absurdity, had great difficulty in complying
with the request. Even upheld as she was now by the arrival of Lady
Elfreda, it still called for a mighty effort to hold her tears in check.
Howbeit she was able to tell the incredible story after a fashion. It
was such a poor and halting fashion, its lapses were so many that the
unlucky George had to fill in the gaps as well as he could. The task
was not easy for George’s naturally quick intelligence did not serve
him well in these trying moments. But as with ever-growing dismay he
really got the hang of the story at last, he hardly knew whether to
laugh like a sportsman or to allow a sense of outrage to consume him.
For he himself, as he was not slow to realize, had merely been fooled
and put in a false position like every one else.
He was able to muster a laugh, but the underside of it was not mirth
exactly. Over head and ears in love with the wicked little witch he
certainly was, but he saw at once that all their plans were knocked
awry. Laugh as he might at the absolute success of the trick that had
been played, the cynicism and the arrogance which deprived every one of
any rights in such an affair could not be passed over. Even the most
injudicious of lovers must not omit that aspect of the case.
“But why--but why,” said the bewildered young man, as he gazed in
humorous horror at the tear-stained Miss Cass, “why in the name of
heaven did you let her do it?”
“She made me,” was Girlie’s simple and pathetic answer.
“Made you!” Like several other people he felt a desire to shake this
pretty little noodle. But a sense of justice forced him to conclude
that what she said was true. Such a will as hers would be nought in the
scale with the implacable Elfreda’s. Recalling as he now did each phase
of that young woman’s career of eleven days’ humorous devilment at The
Laurels, he was inclined to exonerate Miss Cass. There was but one door
where the blame could lie.
“The little devil!” George gave a sly whistle. “And I suppose her
father has gone to The Laurels to fetch her?”
Girlie said that Lord Carabbas had.
“Well, if he’s the Lord Carabbas I remember”--George burst into a
sudden laugh--“she’ll have to consider herself lucky if she doesn’t get
a thoroughly sound whipping.”
Girlie shuddered and turned pale. This display of emotion was followed
by silence. She herself had in prospect a penalty even more severe.
A stricken conscience was causing her a great deal of pain. She felt
that she deserved to suffer, and although it was good to hear this
young soldier laugh heartily at the whole affair, there was something
in his manner which implied that privately he thought so too. Poor
Girlie had nothing of the picturesque aplomb of the culprit in chief.
Her sense of guilt was there for all to see.
As for George Norris, this remarkable conversation with the real Miss
Cass had suddenly made life very difficult. His dream was shattered.
For all his merit as a soldier and the distinction he had won, he was
an extremely modest fellow. It was not for men like himself to aspire
to the Lady Elfreda Catkins of the world, however much he might adore
them. Secretly he was full of resentment. Such mischievous impudence
was entirely amazing. He had a strong desire to punish her, but with
the perversity of a very human being, her attraction for him was never
so great as now she stood revealed in all her wickedness.
Laugh he might, but the mirth of George Norris was of the kind that
seeks to cover a deep wound. He was far more in love with this dainty
rogue than was either wise or desirable. But he had now to meet the
fact squarely that she was beyond his reach. True, he could claim to be
her accepted suitor, but circumstances alter cases.
Yes, the case was altered. The only course now was to pocket his pride
along with the rest of his fine feelings and return at once to The
Laurels a sadly humiliated man. The little wretch! How dare she? Once
more he posed that futile question as he gazed at the visibly wilting
form of the real Miss Cass.
Even Lady Elfreda’s calm retirement to the drawing room was an added
impertinence. It was her way, no doubt, of turning him down. She had
fooled him, as she had fooled every one else, to the utmost limit and
then cast him off like an old glove. Suddenly the decent George began
“to see red.” He would give a good deal to get back a little of his own.
The longer George talked with Miss Cass the more fully did he seem
to realize that only one line of conduct would now consort with his
dignity. All the same, it was not going to be easy to follow. To
say the least his position was very uncomfortable. The immediate
problem, as it seemed to him now, was whether or no he should take
a formal leave of Lady Elfreda. Merely to say good-by or not to say
good-by--which course would best salve his damaged feelings?
He was still talking with Miss Cass and striving vainly to get a
just perception of his own relation to such a set of exceptional
circumstances when this problem automatically solved itself. Lady
Elfreda came into the hall with an unknown gentleman.
George rose rather stiffly. “I think I’ll be going,” he said lamely.
“Oh, no,” said the scapegrace with cheerful promptitude. “I want you to
stay and meet my father. He should soon be here now.”
Such a charmingly easy acceptance of the situation took George aback.
“But will your father want to meet me?” he said, fixing an eye
sufficiently humorous upon the unknown gentleman.
The unknown gentleman, a large and genial one, was plainly threatened
with a fit of laughter.
“Lord Duckingfield, let me introduce General Norris,” said the
scapegrace coolly. Her air of taking everything for granted struck Lord
Duckingfield and George Norris as exceedingly comic.
Bows were exchanged. Both men, however, maintained an eloquent
silence, although to judge by a certain archness of look with which
each regarded the other it was clear that their minds spoke the same
language.
George, all the same, was suffering acutely from the sense of his
position. Even if he was over head and ears in love with the little
rogue, that was no reason for courting a public humiliation. “I think I
must get back to The Laurels,” he said with all the firmness he could
muster. “Good-by, Lady Elfreda.”