Bag in hand, Mr. Dashwood made for the door. To reach the station by
road would mean the risk of meeting Miss Grimshaw. By the Downs side,
skirting the allotments and the Episcopalian chapel, ran a path that led
indirectly to the station. This Mr. Dashwood took walking hurriedly, and
arriving half an hour before the 1.10 to Victoria was due.
Crowsnest Station was not a happy waiting-place. Few railway stations
really are. To a man in Mr. Dashwood's state of mind, however, it was
not intolerable. Rose gardens, blue hills, or the music of Chopin would
have been torture to him. Pictures illustrating the beauty of Rickman's
boot polish and the virtues of Monkey Brand soap fitted his mood.
He arrived at Victoria shortly before three, and drove to his rooms at
the Albany. It was a feature of Mr. Dashwood's peculiar position that,
though heir to large sums of money, endowed with a reasonable income,
and with plenty of credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute of
ready cash as any member of the unemployed. Hatters, hosiers, tailors,
and bootmakers were all at his command, but an unlimited credit for hats
is of no use to you when your bank balance is overdrawn and boots fail
to fill the void created by absence of money.
When he paid his cab off in Piccadilly he had only a few shillings left
in his pocket. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the desolate
prospect of a penniless Sunday lay before him, but left him unmoved.
There is one good point about all big troubles--they eat up little ones.
* * * * *
This was Mr. Dashwood's letter to Miss Grimshaw, received and read by
her on Monday morning:
"You must have thought me mad; but when you know all you will think
differently. I hope to explain things when the business about the horse
is over. Till then I will not see you or Mr. French. I cannot write more
now, for my hands are tied."
Mr. French also received a letter, by the same post, which ran:
"My dear French:--When, at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, I agreed
to come down to Drumgool House as your guest, you said to me
frankly and plainly that, with regard to a certain young lady, you
would give me 'a fair field and no favour'; you intimated that you
yourself had ideas in that quarter, but that you would do nothing
and say nothing till the lady herself had a full opportunity for
deciding in her own mind--or at least for seeing more of us.
"I undertook not to rush things, and to do nothing underhand. Well,
I have carried out my word. I have played the game. By no word or
sign have I tried to take advantage of my position till Saturday,
when my feelings overcame me, and I made a fool of myself. The
agony of the thing is I can't explain to her my position. It's
very hard, when a man has tried to act fair and square, to be
landed in a beastly bog-hole like this.
"I only can explain when I ask her to be my wife--which, I tell you
frankly, I am going to do, but not yet. I know how your plans and
affairs are in a muddle till this race is over, and I propose to do
nothing till then. Then, and only then, I will write to her, and I
will tell you the day and hour I post the letter. I expect you to
do to me as I have done to you, and not take advantage of your
position.
"I will not see you till the event comes off, when I hope to see
you at Epsom, and not only see you, but your colours first past the
winning-post."
A youthful and straightforward letter, and sensible enough, considering
the extraordinary circumstances of the case.
French, when he read it, scratched his head.
When he had made the compact with Bobby Dashwood in the smoking-room of
the Shelbourne Hotel, he had done so half in joke, half in earnest.
Violet Grimshaw had appealed to him from the first just as a pleasant
picture or a pretty song appeals to a man, but, till the day at the
Shelbourne Hotel, he had no views regarding her. She was in his house,
under his protection. He looked on her more as a daughter than a
stranger brought under his roof by chance, and had Bobby Dashwood not
intervened, he might have continued so to regard her.
But the instant Mr. Dashwood spoke Mr. French became aware that Miss
Grimshaw had become a necessity to him, or, rather, a necessary luxury.
He was not in love with her, but she was a charming person to have in
the house. She carried brightness with her. He did not want to lose her,
and here was Dashwood proposing to carry her away.
Recognising that Bobby was very much in earnest, and knowing that, when
he had passed his irresponsible stage, he would make an excellent suitor
for any girl, French, large hearted and generous, was not the man to put
barriers in the way of a good match for the homeless orphan from the
States. But he would have no engagement on a half-formed
acquaintanceship. If, when they had got to know each other well, Violet
preferred Bobby to anyone else, well and good. If she preferred him
(French), well and better.
But since that compact at the Shelbourne, though French had been so
occupied by the horse that he had scarcely time to think of anything
else, the bonds had been strengthening between him and the girl, and his
kindly feeling for Bobby had been increasing.
He did not recognise the facts fully till he put down Mr. Dashwood's
letter and summed up the situation exactly and precisely in the word
"Botheration!" Everything had been going so well up to this. Garryowen
was in the pink of condition. Though the debt to Lewis was due, Lewis
might have been dead for all the trouble he gave, or could give, unless
by any chance Dick Giveen found out the Sussex address, which was next
to an impossibility; and now this bother must turn up, driving Dashwood
away and so splitting up their pleasant little party. Dashwood was an
invaluable aide-de-camp, but French was mourning him more as a lost
friend, when, breaking in upon his meditation, Effie entered the room.
Disaster, when she appears before us, often comes at first in a pleasant
disguise, and Effie looked pleasant enough this morning, for she never
looked pleasanter than when full of mischief.
"Papa," said Effie, "what's to-day?"
"Monday," said Mr. French.
"I know it's Monday. I mean, the day of the month?"
"The thirtieth of March."
Effie absorbed this information in silence and occupied herself making
cocked hats out of an old bill for straw that was lying on the floor,
while her father occupied himself at the writing-table with some
accounts. Miss Grimshaw, the good genius of the family, Fate had decoyed
out on the Downs to watch Garryowen, with Andy up, taking his exercise.
"Papa," said Effie, after a while.
"What?" asked Mr. French in a bothered voice.
"How long does it take for a letter to go from here home?"
"Two days, nearly," said French. "Why do you want to know?"
"I was only thinking."
"Well, think to yourself," replied her father. "I'm busy, and don't want
to be interrupted."
Effie obeyed these instructions, making incredibly small cocked hats out
of the bill-paper and pursing up her lips during the process.
At last French, tearing up some calculations and throwing the pieces in
the wastepaper basket, rose to his feet, lit a cigar, and strolled out.
"Won't you come out on the Downs?" said he as he left the room.
"No, thank you," said Effie; "I'm busy."
She waited till she heard his footsteps on the verandah; then she rose
from her cocked-hat making, and went to the writing-table.
She got on the chair just vacated by her father, took a sheet of
notepaper and an envelope, dipped a pen in ink, and began to address the
envelope in a sprawling hand.
"Mr. Giveen,
"The Bungalow,
"Drumboyne,
"Nr. Cloyne, Ireland,"
wrote Effie.
Then she dried the envelope, and hid it in the blotting-pad.
She took the sheet of paper, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote on the
paper with care and labour:
"April fool!"
Then, having dried these words of wisdom, she placed the sheet of
notepaper in the envelope and gummed it. Then, getting down from the
chair, she ran to the window to see that nobody was coming, and, assured
of the fact, ran to the writing-table and stole a stamp from the drawer
in which they were kept. Having stamped the latter, she placed this
torpedo in her pocket, and, running out, called for Norah to get her
hat and coat, as she wanted to go out on the Downs.
Every day at this hour Miss Grimshaw was in the habit of going for a
walk and taking Effie with her. To-day, returning from looking at the
horses, she found, to her surprise, Effie dressed and waiting.
"Which way shall we go?" asked Miss Grimshaw.
"Let's go through the village," said Effie. "I like the village."
It was a moist day, damp and warm, with just the faintest threat of
rain. It was the last day of the season for the West Sussex hounds. They
had met at Rookhurst, some seven miles away, and there was a chance of
getting a glimpse of them.
As they passed the spot where, on Saturday, Miss Grimshaw had plucked
the primrose and placed it in Mr. Dashwood's coat, she noticed that
several more were out.
"I say," said Effie, as though she were a thought reader, "why did Mr.
Dashwood go 'way Saturday?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the girl with a start. "What makes you
ask?"
"I don't know," replied Effie.
Miss Grimshaw glanced sideways at her companion. Effie had lost
considerably the elfish look that had been a striking feature in the
child during her long, imaginary illness, but she had not lost it
entirely. There was still something old-fashioned and vaguely uncanny
about her at times, and she had, without doubt, now and then, the trick
of saying things so opposite as to hint at a more than natural
intelligence. Parrots have this peculiarity, too.
"If I tell you something," said Effie suddenly, "you won't tell it to
anyone else, will you?"
"No."
"Say, ''Pon my honour.'"
"'Pon my honour."
"Well, I heard something."
"What did you hear?"
"I heard Mr. Dashwood saying he was an ass."
"Effie," said Miss Grimshaw hurriedly, "you must never repeat things you
hear."
"There you go!" said Effie. "And you told me to."
"I didn't."
"You did. You said, 'What did you hear?'"
"Yes, but I did not know it was anything that Mr. Dashwood said."
"Why shouldn't I tell you what he said?"
"Oh, you can tell if you like. It doesn't matter to me. Where did you
hear him say it?"
"In his bedroom, when he was packing his bag. Papa was with him; the
door was open, and I heard him say it; and I heard papa say there was
never a girl made but there wasn't a better girl made to match her, and
that Mr. Dashwood wasn't to bother himself----"
"You needn't tell me any more."
"I can't, for Norah came, and I ran away."
"Where were you?"
"Listening at the door."
"Well, you certainly are frank!"
"What's that mean?" asked Effie.
"It means that you deserve a whipping. Come on. And, see here, Effie,
you mustn't say anything about that to anyone. Have you told anyone
else?"
"Only Norah."
"What did she say?"
"She only laughed."
Miss Grimshaw felt as though she were walking through a veil of blushes.
Happily there was no one to see. Bobby Dashwood's extraordinary
behaviour by the bridge was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fact
that he had told about it to Mr. French. To kiss, to run away, to tell!
She knew nothing of the position of the two men towards one another; she
only knew just what had occurred on the bridge, and what Effie had told
her.
The uphill path to the village went between a double row of poplar trees
and debouched on the Roman road just by the village pump.
"Are you going to the post-office?" asked Effie as they drew near the
road.
"No. I haven't anything to do there."
"I heard papa say he wanted some postcards."
"Well, I've forgotten my purse, so I must get them to-morrow."
"Couldn't you put them down in the bill?"
"No. Post-offices don't give credit."
Effie hung lovingly on her companion's arm. They passed into the village
street and, just as they made the turning, the thin, insignificant sound
of a hunting horn came on the wind.
"There's the hounds," said Effie, and scarcely had she spoken the words
than, topping the crest of the hill, came the scarlet-clad figures of
the master and whips, the hounds, and after the hounds the hunt.
The fox had run to earth in Blankney woods, and they were going now to
draw Fairholt's spinney.
"Come on," said Effie.
The child made a bolt across the road, and so swiftly that Miss Grimshaw
had no time to follow. Hounds and horses blocked the road, but not so
densely as to prevent her from seeing Effie run to the post-office
letter-box and pop something in. When the press had gone by, and the
road was clear, Miss Grimshaw crossed.
"What was that you put in the letter-box, Effie?"
"Nothing," said Effie with a laugh.
"Don't say that. I saw you putting something in. Was it a stone?"
"No," said Effie. "It wasn't a stone."
"You know what they do to children who put rubbish in letter-boxes?"
"No."
"They put them in prison."
"Well, they won't put me in prison."
"Yes, they will. And if you don't tell me what it was, I will go in and
ask Mr. Chopping to open the box and then send for a policeman."
Effie, who had heard her elders ridiculing and vilifying Mr. Giveen for
the past three months, had thought it a fine thing to play a joke of her
very own upon him. She knew nothing of the disastrous nature of her act,
but suddenly interrupted like this and put off her balance she did not
want to confess it. Besides, she had stolen a postage stamp.
"Don't," said Effie, turning very pale.
"I will, if you don't tell."
"Well, it was only a letter."
"A letter?"
"Yes."
"Who gave it you to post?"
The suggestion created the lie.
"Papa."
"Well, if he gave you it, why did you hide it and post it secretly like
that?"
"Pa told me not to let you see it," said Effie.
She was not a liar by nature, but children have streaky days in their
moral life, just as men have, and to-day was a very streaky day with
Effie. She had awakened that morning predisposed to frowardness; a
slight bilious attack had made her fretful, and fretfulness always made
her impish. The devil, taking advantage of this pathological condition,
had incited her to make an April fool of Mr. Giveen, to steal, and to
lie.
"Oh!" said Miss Grimshaw.
They walked away from the post-office, taking the downhill road to the
bridge. They walked hurriedly; at least, the girl did--Effie had almost
to trot in order to keep up with her.
A nice thing, truly. Here, for months, she had been working for the
interests of a man who to-day had taken a child into his confidence,
given it a letter to post, and instructions to keep the matter hidden
from her. Worse than that, she had a dim suspicion that the letter was
to Mr. Dashwood, and had to deal with that "affair."
She had taken the road to the bridge unconsciously, and when she reached
it, and found herself at the very place where the affair had occurred,
she could have wept from sheer mortification, only for the presence of
the culprit at her side.
"Don't tell your father that you told me that, Effie," said Miss
Grimshaw, after she had leaned for a moment on the parapet of the
bridge, deep in troubled thought.
"No," said Effie, "I won't."
Miss Grimshaw resumed her meditations, and Effie, very quiet and
strangely subdued, hung beside her, looking also at the river.
Even in the time of the Roman legionaries lovers had haunted this place.
What a story it could have told of lovers and love affairs gone to dust!
But from all its wealth of stories, I doubt if it could have matched in
involution and cross-purpose the love affair in which figured Mr.
French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl in the Homburg hat, who was now
gazing at the wimpling water and listening to the moist wind in the
branches of the trees.
She was of the order of people who forgive a blow struck in anger
readily, but not a slight, or a fancied slight. French had slighted her,
and she would never forgive him. She had helped him, plotted and planned
for him, and it had all ended in this!
There was nothing for it but to leave The Martens as quickly as might
be, and return to London; and it was only now that she recognised, fully
shown up against the background of her resentment, the pleasant ties and
interests that bound her to these people, ties and interests that would
have to be broken and dissolved. So, in a fever of irritation, she told
herself as she leaned on the low parapet and looked at the river, while
Effie broke pieces of mortar from the cracks between the stones.
What, perhaps, rankled deepest in her heart was the expression used by
French and repeated by Effie. "There is never a girl but you'll find a
better one to match her"--or words to that effect.
Dinner at The Martens was a mid-day function. At half-past one, when Mr.
French came home from a walk over the high Downs, he found dinner
waiting for him. Miss Grimshaw during the meal seemed to be suffering
from a dumbness affecting not only her speech, but her manner; her
movements were still and formal, and inexpressive, and she never once
looked in his direction, but engaged herself entirely with Effie, who
also had a wilted air and appearance.
At tea it was the same.
After tea, Mr. French lit a cigar and went out on the verandah to smoke.
He could not make it out at all. Something had happened in the space of
a few hours to make all this difference in the girl. What could that
something be? At eleven o'clock she had been all right, yet at half-past
one she was a different person.
He was not a man to keep up a misunderstanding without knowing the
reason of it, and, having smoked his cigar half through, he went back
into the house and to the sitting-room, where the girl was curled up on
the sofa, reading "Punch."
"Look here," said French, "what's the matter?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Miss Grimshaw, uncurling herself and sitting
half erect.
"What's the matter? Something is wrong. Have I done anything, or what is
it?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Nothing is the matter that I am aware of,
specially."
"Well, now, see here," said Mr. French, taking a seat close by, "I
thought, maybe, you seemed so silent, that something had gone wrong, or
I'd done something that displeased you. If I have, just let me know it."
Miss Grimshaw had risen erect, and now she was making for the door.
"I don't know what you call wrong. I call subterfuge wrong. Perhaps I am
mistaken. It's all a matter of opinion, I suppose--but, anyhow, it is
not worth discussing."
Then she was gone, leaving the astonished Mr. French to amuse himself
with the problem of how he had employed subterfuge, and against whom.
She did not appear at supper, alleging a headache.
She went to bed at nine.