The days that followed were racing days for Gertie. At Great
Titchfield Street a special order came in, and Madame held a kind of
rehearsal, that the girls might know exactly what to do if the
inspector called. The inspector represented the State, which, in the
opinion of Madame and Miss Rabbit and all the assistants, male and
female, was an interfering busybody hampering industry, and preventing
honest workers from earning useful pay for unlimited overtime. To
Great Titchfield Street, by day, came private letters by express
messenger for Gertie, and more than one telegram; she generally found a
communication awaiting her on the return home to Praed Street. Miss
Rabbit accepted the statement that these came from Gertie's cousin,
referring to nothing more romantic than a visit to the country; in
private conversation with senior girls in the workroom, she said,
rather bitterly, that Miss Higham surely took her for a born idiot.
Clarence proved himself alert and quick witted in retort, with an
answer ready for every objection. When Gertie, as a final argument,
put forward the matter of evening dress, he took her straightway to a
celebrated firm (one-half of the lady passengers in public conveyances
along the route gave, as their instruction and appeal to conductors,
"Set me down as near as you can to Brown and Hodgkinson's!"), and there
was purchased a blouse of white lace--costing so much that Gertie, on
hearing the amount, had to clutch at one of the high chairs; and as
Clarence paid readily with gold, the polite young woman on the other
side of the counter assured him it was well worth the money. Gertie,
at another establishment, bought a pair of slippers, saying to herself
that they would come in handy, even though she did not go to Ewelme.
Reluctance to accept the invitation conveyed through Clarence was
supported at Praed Street by her aunt, who declared the girl would be
like a fish out of water; that she would wish herself home again before
she had been there the space of two minutes. But for Mrs. Mills's
over-earnest counsel it is likely Gertie might have kept her threat (or
promise) to back out at the last moment. On the Friday night, Mrs.
Mills mentioned that the Douglass people were probably only asking
Gertie in order to enjoy a laugh at her expense. The following
morning, to her aunt's astonishment and open dismay, Gertie took a
carefully-packed portmanteau along to the cloakroom at Paddington
Station. In the afternoon she found herself, for the first time in her
life, seated in a second-class carriage.
"Afraid you've had rather a rush," said her cousin.
"It isn't only that," she admitted, breathlessly. "I'm excited about
this visit."
"Not more so than I am. All the same, I feel very much indebted to
you, Gertie, for coming with me. The letter was worded in a way that
meant I was to bring you, or not go at all. You see Mary--Miss
Loriner--is only a companion at Morden Place. She couldn't have asked
me on her own responsibility."
The girl closed her eyes and snuggled back in the corner. If Henry
exhibited any special sign of affection, she would have to draw herself
up to her full height and say, "Mr. Douglass, you're evidently not
aware that you are speaking to an engaged lady." If he went so far as
to propose marriage, the situation would be still more dramatic. "Mr.
Douglass, you appear to have left it too late. I am already pledged to
another!" There were alternative remarks prepared, and she felt
certain that any one of them would be telling and effective. Clearly,
he wanted to see her; otherwise so much trouble would not have been
expended over the present visit; it was her business to make him see
that a London girl was not to be taken up and dropped, and taken up
again.
"Manners," she said resolutely, opening her eyes, and addressing a
barge on the canal, "manners. That's what some people have got to be
taught!"
The short train brought them slowly to the one platform of the station,
and before she realized it, Henry Douglass was holding both of her
hands, and looking down at her affectionately. He turned to give a
welcome to her cousin, and Gertie told herself there was no necessity,
for the present, to be dignified or reserved; that could come later.
Outside the station, Miss Loriner was talking to a horse that seemed
impatient to make its way in the direction of home; she and Clarence
took seats at the back of the dogcart with a light rug spread over
knees; they made no complaint of overcrowding.
"Can you really drive?" inquired Gertie with anxiety. "You never used
to speak about it when Mr. Trew was talking."
"Life," answered Henry Douglass, "is too short to allow one to brag
about everything. I do the best I can." They took the corner and went
at a good pace through the town. "By Jove," he went on,
enthusiastically, "you have no idea how I've missed you."
The first of the selected reproofs would have come in here
appropriately, but a motor car was coming in the opposite direction
with, as it seemed to her, the definite intention of running into their
conveyance; she grabbed nervously at Henry's arm. When she looked
again the car had gone, leaving dust as a slight memento of the
encounter.
"Don't take it away!" he begged.
Here again either of the sentences might have been delivered; Gertie
decided it would be sufficient to refrain from acceding to his request.
Henry saluted with his whip folk who passed by, and told her who they
were; stopped at one shop to take a parcel of wools intended for his
mother. He had talked about Gertie to his mother, and she was anxious
to meet Miss Higham.
"She'll be still more anxious to see me go away."
"You wouldn't say that," he asserted, "if you knew her."
"It's really Lady Douglass I'm afraid of. Look at that board,
'Trespassers will be prosecuted.' I feel it's meant for me."
"Trespassers," he said, "as a matter of fact, cannot be prosecuted.
The board is all nonsense. Trespassers can only be prosecuted when
they do some sort of damage."
She glanced around to watch a baby in the garden of a cottage; Clarence
Mills and Miss Loriner were kissing. Gertie did not speak again until
they reached the iron gates.
"I want to show you the tennis court," he said. "The man here can
drive your cousin and Miss Loriner up to the house." She hesitated as
he, stepping down, held out his hand. "My mother is waiting there!"
They found the grey-haired old lady resting on a low white enamelled
seat, watching a game of singles between two stout men, who had the
distressed look of those who play for the sake of health and figure.
The ruddier of the two was pointed out as Mr. Jim Langham, brother to
Lady Douglass; the other, a barrister with leanings in the direction of
political work, and a present desire to be amiable towards everybody in
the neighbourhood who possessed a vote.
"Now, you are to sit down here, Miss Higham," said the old lady, "and
talk to me. I may interrupt you, now and again, but you mustn't mind
that. One of the few privileges of age."
"I don't know what to talk about."
"Talk about yourself. I've heard about you from Henry, but I want to
verify the information. You work for your living, don't you? Well
now, that is interesting. I did the same before I was married. I
married rather well, and then, of course, there was no necessity for me
to go on with it."
"When my dear mother says she wants you to talk to her," explained
Henry, "what she really means is that she wishes to talk to you. If
you don't mind, I'll go over and teach these men how to play tennis."
Jim Langham came across directly that the game was finished,
interrupting the two as they were getting on good terms with each
other; on the way, he shouted an order to a gardener working near. He
was effusive over the introduction to Gertie, showing his perfect
teeth, and expressing the hope that she would not have to leave on
Monday. The gardener brought a tumbler on a tray, and a syphon.
"At this time of the day?" said Mrs. Douglass, glancing at the contents
of the glass.
"Good whisky," retorted Jim Langham, taking a small quantity of soda,
"makes one feel like another man altogether."
"In that case," said the old lady, "by all means have the drink. My
dear," to Gertie, "give me my stick and we'll walk up to the house and
have tea."
"I'll come with you," remarked Jim Langham.
"You will stay where you are," ordered Mrs. Douglass.
Gertie, at Great Titchfield Street, had invented a house, doubled it,
and multiplied it by ten; it came as a surprise to her to find that the
residence was a solid building of fair extent with a parapet wall of
stone in front, broad steps leading to the open doors. On the lawn tea
was being set out by a man-servant; he lighted the wick underneath a
silver kettle. Lady Douglass, in black, made an effective entrance
down the steps in the company of a dog that looked like a rat.
"How perfectly charming of you to come and see us," she cried,
extending a limp hand. "We do so want some one to brighten us up.
Darling," to old Mrs. Douglass, "why didn't you tell them to send the
bath-chair for you?"
"Myra," retorted the other, "I walk ten times as much as you do."
"Pray take care of yourself, for my sake."
"I hope to find some better incentive than that," said the old lady.
Lady Douglass approached the task of pouring out tea with the hopeless
air of one who scarcely hoped to escape error, and when she had asked
for and obtained particulars concerning tastes, Clarence Mills came,
and his presence seemed to upset all the table plans; Mrs. Douglass
arrested her action as she started to pour tea into the sugar basin.
The arrival of Miss Loriner enabled her to resign the position. Going
across to sit beside Gertie, she gave a highly interesting account of
the way in which she had by sheer force of will conquered the cigarette
habit; at present she consumed but twenty a day, unless, of course,
special circumstances provided an excuse.
"Not for me, thanks," said Gertie, shaking her head. "I can't smoke;
and if I could, I shouldn't."
"Tell me!" begged Lady Douglass; "how is that eccentric old gentleman
we met at the Zoological Gardens?--Crew, or Brew, or some astonishing
name of the kind?"
"I don't suppose," answered the girl defensively, "that you really want
to know how he is, but Mr. Trew is quite well, and he isn't in the
least eccentric, and he doesn't profess to be a gentleman."
Henry touched her shoulder with a gesture of appeal; she gave an
impatient movement.
"But how extremely interesting," cried Lady Douglass, with something
like rapture. "And do most of your friends work for a living?"
"All of 'em. I don't care for loafers."
"I myself have been up to my eyebrows in industry this week," said the
other, self-commiseratingly. "I sometimes wish charity could be
abolished altogether. It does entail such an enormous amount of hard
labour. One might as well be in Wormwood Scrubbs."
She paused and looked at the girl intently.
"By the bye, where is Wormwood Scrubbs? One often hears of it."
"Over beyond Shepherd's Bush."
"Have you ever been there?"
"No," answered Gertie; "and I've never been to Portland, and I'm not
acquainted with Dartmoor, and I don't know much about Newgate. Why do
you ask?"
"I am hugely interested in prison life," declared the other.
"You mustn't be surprised," interposed Henry, addressing Gertie, "at
any new subject that my sister-in-law mentions. I haven't heard her
speak of this before; and it's only fair to her to say that when she
takes up anything fresh, she drops it long before it has the chance of
becoming stale. Another cup?"
He went to the table.
"A strange lad," said Lady Douglass musingly. "His heart is in the
right place, but sometimes I wonder whether it is the right kind of
heart. Do you mind dining at seven for once in your life. Miss
Higham? It's a ridiculous hour, I know, but we must be at the hall
sharp by eight. Miss Loriner will show you your room when you are
ready. I have a thousand and one things to do," she added exhaustedly.
When Jim Langham joined the party and sat on the grass beside Miss
Higham's chair, the girl rose, and Miss Loriner conducted her into the
house; Henry regarded them with a cheerful smile as they left. The
doors gave entrance to a square hall, with a broad staircase going up
and turning suddenly to an open corridor that went around three sides.
Gertie looked about her astonishedly.
"I've never been in a house like this before," she explained.
They went up the highly-polished staircase, Gertie holding at the
banisters for safety.
"So Mr. Henry explained to me; and because he was so very good as to
ask your cousin Clarence down, we have made a bargain between each
other. I am to look after you, if you don't mind, and see that you get
through all right."
"In a general way," confessed Gertie Higham, "I can look after myself,
but just now it's likely I may be glad of a wrinkle or two." The other
nodded.
"I have some on my forehead to spare, thanks to Lady Douglass. This is
your room"--throwing open a door--"and mine is here, next door. Come
along in, and let us have a talk."
Miss Loriner had a good deal to say, mainly in describing her present
happiness. Clarence was a dear; Clarence was a clever dear, Clarence
had brought a joy into her life that had previously been absent.
Hitherto Miss Loriner, living in houses as a companion to some testy
and difficult woman, found herself only annoyed by the attentions of
men of the Jim Langham type; it was new and enchanting to be approached
courteously. Gertie, when the other stopped to regain breath, managed
to ask how Henry Douglass filled his time, and was surprised, and
partially hurt, to discover that he still went up to Old Quebec Street
on five days of the week.
"He might have called at the shop," she argued.
Miss Loriner, for the defence, commended him for his industry. Henry
would, later, have to face the alternative of either giving up his
office in London, or relinquishing duties in the country, but at
present he was engaged in a double task; and if Gertie appreciated how
difficult it proved to deal with Lady Douglass, she would not utter a
word of blame in regard to Henry. One of Lady Douglass's inconvenient
tricks was to shift responsibility. As a case in point, take the
entertainment to which they were going that evening. Lady Douglass,
having promised to organize it, had done not a single thing in the way
of--
"Is the place on fire?" asked Gertie, startled.
"That's the first warning for dinner. You have twenty minutes to
dress. Be sure to let me know if there is anything you want."
Gertie left, to return immediately with a concerned expression and the
announcement that her portmanteau had been robbed of every blessed
thing it contained. Miss Loriner accompanied her to make
investigations, and, switching on the electric light, pointed out that
the maid had unpacked the bag--the articles were on the dressing-table,
and hanging up in the wardrobe. Gertie had only to ring, and the maid
would come at once to help her to dress. Gertie said she had done this
without assistance since the age of three.
Apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it
seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved
for weeks. Her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as
each course arrived; envied the composure with which Clarence dealt
with such trying dishes as _vol au vent_ and artichokes. Her serviette
was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and
distress increased each time that Henry recovered it; generally, at
these moments of confusion, Lady Douglass took the opportunity to send
down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to Henry for
replying on her behalf. Henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the
programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the
disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. Jim Langham
excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that
he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one
of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought Miss Higham
as a Londoner would relish. The anecdote was but half told when Miss
Higham turned abruptly.
"That's the right way," said old Mrs. Douglass to her approvingly.
At the door of the town hall carriages and motor cars were setting folk
down, and Gertie, who had hoped the new blouse would enable her to
smile at country costumes, felt depressed by their magnificence. In
the front row Lady Douglass stood up, nodded, gave brief ingratiating
smiles, and told people how remarkably well they were looking. Gertie,
comforted by the near presence of her cousin, glanced over her
shoulder, and wished she were with the shilling folk.
"Care to see the programme, Gertie?"
"I'll do the same as I do at a music hall," she said, "and take it as
it comes. How did you think I managed at dinner, Clarence?"
"Capitally!"
"I had a knife and two forks left at the end," she said regretfully.
"A recitation," Clarence read from his programme. "Our friend ought to
be here."
"Who do you mean?"
"Bulpert. You remember Bulpert, don't you?"
"I'd nearly forgotten him," she admitted.
There was an interval after men had sung and ladies had played, and a
nervous youth had given imitations of popular actors who, it seemed,
possessed the same tone of voice, and practised identical gestures.
The curtain went up on an outdoor scene. A lady was reclining in a
hammock.
"Why, it's Miss Loriner," whispered Gertie.
A man in tweeds came on backwards and collided with the hammock.
"Who's this supposed to be, Clarence?"
"Young Douglass. Made up with a beard."
An apology was made for the accident, and with the rapidity that the
drama exacts in matters of the heart, the bearded gentleman was in less
than fifteen minutes deeply in love with the lady of the hammock. "And
if I promise to worship you all my life, will you then give me my
heart's desire?" The lady, with a dexterous movement, came out of her
resting-place. "You must first make a name in the world, and, hand
upon heart, show yourself worthy of a woman's love!"
"What's the matter, Gertie?" asked Clarence Mills.
"I've made a--made a fearful muddle of nearly everything."
"Buck up!" urged Clarence. "Don't let people see you giving way."
The bearded man was leaving when the lady bethought herself to inquire
his name; he proved to be none other than Mr. Francis Mainright, the
well-known African explorer; and after a few more words the curtain
came down on an affianced couple, with applause from all parts of the
hall.
"Easy enough," said Gertie, in ceasing to clap hands, "for troubles to
be put right on the stage. It's a bit harder in real life."
Lady Douglass accepted congratulations upon the success of her
entertainment, and turned at the end, before leaving the hall, to
request Gertie's attention for a moment. She was extremely anxious
that her dear young brother-in-law should not commit an error that
might last a lifetime. Apparently there was some one up in town who
had managed to engage his affections: Lady Douglass did not know her;
Miss Higham, of course, had not her acquaintance. The young woman, she
believed, occupied an inferior position in life, and Lady Douglass
would dearly like to have the opportunity of pointing out that
supposing the two married, all the stories of ill-bred wives would be
fastened upon Mrs. Henry Douglass. Every night, in every
billiard-room, in every smoking-room in Berkshire, amusing stories, not
always true, would be told of her mistakes; dull folk might find
themselves reckoned as humorists by inventing anecdotes about her, and
the general gaiety would find itself increased. Furthermore, there was
this to be said. Supposing--
"Are you ready, dear girl?" asked Henry. He came down the steps from
the platform, addressing his inquiry to Gertie.
"Quite!" answered Lady Douglass. "We were just chatting about your
performance. Miss Higham seems to think you should have had more
rehearsals. Doesn't exactly say so, but that is evidently what she
means."