FATE was against George Norris.
Lady Elfreda persisted that he must stay and meet her father. The
unwisdom of such a course was open and palpable, but he was a
chivalrous fellow and, in spite of the facer dealt him by her wicked
trick, he was still in the mood for adventure. Moreover, he was simply
devoured by curiosity as to what would happen next.
For a man of average spirit it was worth running a risk of personal
insult to learn the next turn in the game. What was to be the end of
this amazing comedy? That question lurked in the genial eye of Lord
Duckingfield. And the arch glance of that peer seemed to tell George
Norris that to beat a retreat at such a moment would be conduct
unworthy of a soldier, a sportsman and the possessor of a sense of
humor.
Besides, to run away just now would be extremely difficult. Not
for the first time this charming little vixen was pitting her will
against his, not for the first time was he experiencing its steel-like
quality. There was a heavy account to settle with her but she really
was delightful. And her “gameness” was magnificent. “Of course, you’ll
stay. You _must_ meet The Dadda. He’s great fun.” The affectionate
lisp might have been inspired by a favorite golliwog.
“I hope you’ll stay, General Norris.” A smiling but anxious-looking
hostess had appeared just in time to enforce the appeal. “Have some
tea, at any rate, before you leave us.” Not wishing to show himself
a poltroon in the sight of the world General Norris accepted the
invitation.
In about five minutes tea was brought into the hall. And then one by
one the guests appeared from odd corners of the house. They were hardly
more than a round half dozen, a company by no means formidable either
in number or in quality, but as the muster grew, George for the first
time in his life was afflicted with a desire that the floor might open
and swallow him.
There was no reason, of course, why George Norris should suffer this
feeling. But he was a member of the weaker sex. She, to whom such an
emotion would have been entirely appropriate, gave no sign of turning a
hair.
Upon the hostess devolved the task of making Lady Elfreda known to
those who might be said to be her victims. It was performed heroically.
One and all might be sharing a mild sense of outrage, they might be
fuming inwardly at the arrogance of this chit who was hardly out of her
teens, but it was hard not to admire her _sang-froid_ in the presence
of the enemy.
Really she was as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. She partook
of some excellent tea and some cake equally excellent with a zest that
atoned for a decidedly scratch luncheon at The Laurels. Poor George,
on the other hand, who had had no luncheon at all was unable to peck a
crumb. He had been four years in France, his record was vouched for by
the row of decorations on his tunic, but at this moment he was ready to
own freely that here was the tightest corner he had ever been in.
Everybody behaved beautifully, but it was soon clear to George that one
and all were looking forward with huge enjoyment to the appearance of
“The Dadda” upon the scene. His return could not be long delayed. And
the miserable George was bound to deduce from the suppressed tones and
the sly looks all about him that he had been cast for an important part
in the play.
Had George been as brave morally as he was in the field he would have
made a bolt for The Laurels after his second cup of tea. Such publicity
was altogether too much. He felt these hard-bitten worldlings were
simply gloating over the possibilities of the situation. Still, even
in the extremity of stage fright he was bound to remember that he
had asked this little girl to marry him and that she had consented
to do so. Of course, the preposterous circumstances made the whole
thing invalid, but as now he wrestled with his moral weakness it came
home to him that he was very honestly in love with this minx. She was
adorable. And as man is the being he is in the world of the present,
she was the more adorable because so palpably out of his reach.
In point of time it was not very long and yet quite long enough for
the peace of mind of George Norris before certain tokens heralded the
return of Lord Carabbas.
Perhaps the tidings were first promulgated by Hobson, the butler, as he
moved up to the front door. He was an impassive fellow, but the look
on his face and the sight of him nervously crossing the hall parquet
seemed to demoralize more impressionable members of the community.
From Sir Toby Philpot there arose a cry which resembled the shriek of
a plover. Nothing could check it except a violent attack of coughing
which intervened at the precise moment that a lowering, heavy-jowled,
empurpled face suddenly projected itself from behind the large screen
of Chinese lacquer which shut off the cozy inner hall from the outer
darkness of the universe.
Apart from the muffled sound of Sir Toby’s attack the silence was
of the tomb. Lord Carabbas himself stood speechless, glowering upon
the company not unlike a bull confronted by a red umbrella. Swiftly,
however, with a cry of charmed surprise, Lady Elfreda rose from her
place beside the hostess. “So here you are, papa! You have been to The
Laurels, I hear. So sorry we missed you.”
As those tones of gay welcome rode the storm it was recognized at
once that rumor had not over-painted this young woman’s powers as an
actress. Montagu Jupp had been well within the mark when he had said
that their possessor was capable of playing all the ingénues off the
London stage. The intrepid coolness with which she came forward to
greet her parent was sublime.
Lord Carabbas lowered his head a point as if about to charge. For the
moment, however, his animal energy was confined to a few syncopated
sounds in his throat.
Not in the least abashed Lady Elfreda continued to keep a firm hold on
the situation.
“Let me introduce George Norris, papa.” It really was sublime. For all
the buzzing in his ears General Norris was able to rise from his chair
and bow with solemnity.
Lord Carabbas did not return the bow. Indeed, if the eyes of my lord
had a meaning they simply affirmed a desire to kill General Norris.
Tea was over, happily, and the spectators, although fascinated by
a scene more richly comic than any it was their avowed business to
create, did not allow private considerations to balk a sense of
sportsmanship. It seemed only fair, at any rate, to a blameless young
soldier and an innocent peer, to give them a chance. Mrs. Minever had
the presence of mind to lead the way to the drawing room. And the
others began silently, if in some cases reluctantly, to melt away.
They would have given much to remain, but decent people, after all,
must sacrifice a little to the manes of fair play.
In spite of her feeling that she had a prescriptive right to be there,
Girlie rose and followed in the wake of the others. But a great effort
of will was needed in order to do so. And yet to stay in her nook, a
thrilled and guilty witness of the scene, would call for more courage
than she possessed.
“But I don’t understand.” Those were the words Girlie heard as she
rose from her place by the fire. The tone in which they were uttered
was deep, stern, menacing. Lord Carabbas, his voice trembling with
fury, looked first at Lady Elfreda and then at her cavalier. “Perhaps
you will explain.” The voice tailed off so queerly that Girlie half
expected Lord Carabbas to hit General Norris a blow. Without waiting
for any such dreadful development she hurriedly retired to King
Edward’s bedroom.
So tense was the moment that George Norris stepped back involuntarily,
as if a blow was fully expected.
Elfreda, however, was magnificent.
“General Norris has asked me to marry him, papa, and I should like to
do so.” The precision of the speech had a sort of astringent humor
which somehow had the effect of keeping “The Dadda” in hand. It served
to remind him that, in spite of the strain which had been cast upon
him, it was his duty to remember that beyond all things he was a
gentleman.
There was a long moment of silence in which it seemed to George Norris
that anything might happen, and then Lord Carabbas, obviously making a
tremendous effort to keep calm, fixed the young man with the eye of war
and growled, “I don’t think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance
and yet I seem to know your face.”
There was another long and tense moment. Involuntarily George Norris
stepped back another pace. And then he said in that curiously frank
manner which Lady Elfreda liked so much, “Don’t you remember me, sir? I
am George Norris.”
“Norris--George Norris?” My lord’s brow was a thundercloud. But that
was merely the process of thought. For the moment his memory had
betrayed him.
“Perhaps, sir,” said the young man in his straightforward fashion, “you
will remember my father better than you remember me.”
Lord Carabbas shook his head. Plainly he was still at a loss.
“My father, sir, was butler for nearly thirty years at Bally Euchra,”
said General Norris modestly.