IN THE “SCRUBBERY”
General Grampound and Mr Boxall were non-smokers, and as Mr Boxall was
also a teetotaler, and the General was talking politics, Dicky Fanshawe
found things rather dull in the dining-room when the ladies had
withdrawn.
Things were almost as dull in the drawing-room, for Lady Seagrave was
deaf, and Lady Molyneux was stupid.
I must have presented Patsy very badly if you have not discovered that
he was the possessor of an “eye”—the eye of an observer. The faculty of
observation given to him by nature and developed amongst the wild things
of the woods was exercised to the full amidst the new surroundings in
which he found himself.
He had sized up Mr Boxall. He had overheard the conversation between
General Grampound and his nephew; he, whilst circulating with dishes and
plates behind the chairs of the guests at table, had gauged the
relationship of each to each. Though half their conversation was Greek
to him, the falsity of it was not; and there was not a glance between
Violet and Dicky, a side glance of Mr Boxall’s, a grimace of General
Grampound’s, that escaped the awful eye of Patsy.
These preoccupations did not, however, interfere in the least with his
occupations and duties, such as handing plates and dishes, devouring
half a neglected custard on its way to the kitchen, and stuffing his
trousers pockets with fondants and nuts.
As the people in the drawing-room were seated, Lady Molyneux at the
table turning over the leaves of an album, Violet Lestrange by the fire
gazing at the burning logs and Lady Seagrave nodding in her easy-chair
opposite Violet, Patsy entered with a tray containing coffee.
“The childer are in the nursery, miss,” said Patsy in a low tone, as he
presented the tray to Violet.
There was something in the tone of his voice that said much more than
the simple words implied. In fact, if Patsy had said, “It’s tired to
death you are with these ould women, and it’s I that am sorry for you,”
his meaning would not have been plainer. Yet there was nothing
disrespectful in his tone at all.
“Thank you, Patsy,” said Violet, taking her cup. Then, without tasting
it, she laid it on a table near by. “I think I will run up and say
good-night to the children,” said she, rising. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” replied Lady Seagrave. “Give them my love, and tell them I
am pleased they have managed for one day to behave themselves.”
“I will,” said Violet, and she departed.
Scarcely had she vanished upstairs than the dining-room door opened and
Dicky Fanshawe came out.
Patsy was lingering about in the hall, and Dicky called him.
“Which is the way to the ‘scrubbery,’ Patsy?” said he. “I want to smoke
a cigar.”
“This way, sir,” said Patsy, leading the way down a passage, through a
swing-door, down another passage, to a door that was bolted and which he
opened.
“Leave the door open,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I will shut it when I come
in.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Patsy. “Sure, it’s a fine night for a smoke under
the stars. Mr Fanshawe, sir!”
“Yes?”
“The childer are in the nursery, sir,” said Patsy in a muted voice, as
though he were imparting some State secret.
“Oh, they are, are they?” said Mr Fanshawe, rather surprised at the
mysterious tone of the communication. “And what are they doing—no
mischief, I hope?”
“The young lady is wid them,” said Patsy. “There’s no wan else up there,
but, sure, they’re safe enough wid her.”
There was the faintest suspicion of jocularity in Patsy’s tone, so faint
as to be almost indiscernible. Still it was there, and as there was
nothing jocular in the remark of which the tone was, so to speak, the
envelope, it was more particularly noticeable.
“Patsy!” said Mr Fanshawe, who had taken a few steps from the door,
turning and trying to make out in the surrounding darkness the small
figure of his informant.
But Patsy had vanished.
“Confound the boy!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What did he mean?”
Instead of a cigar he took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, smoked
it half through, flung it away, and re-entered the house. As he was
crossing the hall he came upon Uncle Molyneux, who had just escaped from
the dining-room, and who did not look cheerful.
“Come and have a game of billiards,” said Uncle Molyneux.
“I can’t for a moment,” replied Dicky hurriedly, “for I’m just running
up to the nursery to say good-night to the children.”
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