Mr. Dashwood's chambers in the Albany were furnished according to the
taste of that gentleman, high art giving place in the decorations to the
art of physical culture. Some old Rowlandson prints decorated the walls,
together with boxing-gloves, singlesticks, and foils; the few books
visible were not of the meditative or devotional order of literature,
Ruff, Surtees, and Pitcher being the authors most affected by Mr.
Dashwood.
He had spent a very miserable Sunday. Having written and posted his
letters to Miss Grimshaw and French, he had fallen back on gloomy
meditation and tobacco. He had spent Monday in trying to imagine in what
manner Miss Grimshaw had taken his letter; he had taken refuge from his
thoughts at the Bridge Club, and had risen from play with twelve pounds
to the good and feeling that things had taken a turn for the better; and
on Tuesday morning, as he was sitting at breakfast, a telegram was
brought to him.
"Come at once; most important.--Grimshaw, Crowsnest."
"French has dropped dead, or the place has caught fire," said Mr.
Dashwood, as he sprang from the breakfast-table to the writing-table in
the window and opened the pages of the A B C railway guide. "Robert,
rush out and get a taxicab. I've just time to catch the 11.10 from
Victoria. Don't mind packing. I'll pack some things in the kit-bag. Get
the cab."
He stuffed some things into the bag, and ten minutes later the cab,
which had been brought up to the Vigo-street entrance of the Albany, was
taking him to the station.
That some disaster had happened he was certain. Never for a moment did
he dream of the truth of things. The vision of French lying dead,
Garryowen stricken lame, or The Martens in flames alternated in his mind
with attempts to imagine how the girl would meet him, what she would
say, and whether she would speak of the occurrence at the bridge.
He had sent a wire from Victoria telling the train by which he was
coming, and as they drew in at Crowsnest Station she was the first
person he saw upon the platform. As they shook hands, he saw at once
that the past was not to be referred to.
"I'm so glad you've come," said the girl. "You have a bag? Well, they'll
send it on. We can walk to the house, and I can tell you everything on
the way."
"What has happened?"
"Disaster! But it's not so much what has happened as what may happen.
Effie----"
"Has she had an accident?"
"No, she hasn't had an accident, but the little stupid posted a letter
yesterday morning to Mr. Giveen."
"A letter to him! Who wrote it?"
"She did. She wanted to make an April fool of him, so she wrote 'April
fool' on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, directed it, and
posted it."
"Good heavens! He'll know your address now, and give Lewis warning, and
you'll have the bailiffs in, and the house will be seized."
"Exactly."
"But stay a moment," said Dashwood. "Did she put any address on the
paper?"
"No. An April fool letter like that isn't generally addressed from
anywhere, is it? But the post-mark----"
"I was thinking of that," said Mr. Dashwood.
"The only thing is this," said she. "The post-mark mayn't be legible.
Some of these country post-offices use die-stamps that are nearly worn
out. Now, can you remember? I have written you several letters since we
came here, asking you to bring down things from London. Can you remember
whether the post-marks were legible or not?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood. "I can't." Then, blushing furiously, "But we'll
soon see."
He dived his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought out a
small bundle of letters. There were only four letters in the bundle, and
they were tied together with a narrow piece of silk ribbon. When the
girl saw the silk ribbon, she bit her lip.
"Look!" said he, slipping the ribbon off and thrusting it into his
pocket. He showed her the first of the letters. It bore the Crowsnest
post-mark, large as a penny, clear, and legible.
The three others were the same.
He put the letters back in his pocket, and they resumed their way in
silence. You would never have imagined that the last time these two
people parted the young man had held the girl in his arms, kissing her
wildly.
It was the girl who broke silence first.
"Mr. French said last night we were 'done,' and I'm afraid he never
spoke a truer word."
"The only thing I can think of," said Mr. Dashwood, "is for me to go
over to Ireland and try to talk Giveen over."
"You don't know him. He's a fool, and a vicious fool at that. You can't
talk a man like that over."
"Well, we might bribe him."
"Mr. French has no money to bribe him with. All his money is on this
race."
"The City and Suburban is run on the 15th," said Mr. Dashwood
meditatively, "so we have more than twelve days. Bother! So has this man
Lewis. I say, this Giveen must be a beast. What makes him so anxious to
have his knife into French?"
"I believe I have something to do with Mr. Giveen having his knife into
Mr. French," said Miss Grimshaw. "Didn't Mr. French tell you about the
boating affair?"
"No," said Mr. Dashwood.
"Well, Mr. Giveen took me out in the boat at Drumgool to see the coast."
"Yes."
"He rowed into a sea cave, the most awful place you have ever seen, and
then----"
"Yes?"
"He rocked the boat, pretending he was going to drown me."
"Brute!"
"That's what I said to him. He was laughing all the time, you know. He
wanted me to--to----"
"Yes?"
"Give him a kiss. Ugh! And I was so frightened I promised him one if he
put me on shore. Well, Mr. French was waiting for us when I got back,
and I told him what had happened."
"What did he do?"
"He kicked Mr. Giveen."
"Good!" said Mr. Dashwood. "If I'd been there I'd have drowned him."
"Mr. French wanted to. At least, he wanted to duck him."
"I'll tell you what," said Dashwood. "If this beast comes near
Crowsnest, I won't be answerable for what I'll do to him."
"That would be the worst policy in the world," said Miss Grimshaw. "If
he comes here we must meet him with his own weapons if we can--but he
won't come here."
In this she was wrong.
"I wouldn't mind so much," she finished, "only for this wretched bazaar
on the 5th. I have to help at a stall. You can imagine what it must be
to keep a straight face and smile at people one doesn't particularly
care for, standing all the time, as it were, on a powder magazine.
Besides, just imagine, if a man in possession came down, and if the
fact leaks out, how all these Crowsnest society people will snub us and
sneer at us! You don't know them. I do."
"There are an awful lot of old cats here," conceded Mr. Dashwood, not
knowing what else to say.
"Makes one feel one would like to put out poisoned milk for them," said
the girl. "Well, here we are, and there's Mr. French."
They had reached the top of the path, and French, who was standing in
the verandah of the bungalow, like a watchman on the look-out for
enemies, hailed them.