A ruddy-cheeked housemaid in the correct evening uniform admitted Blair,
and in the drawing-room he found Mr. Kent sitting by a shining fire.
Points of light twinkled in the polished balls of the brass andirons. As
soon as he entered, Blair felt the comely atmosphere of a charming and
well-ordered home. Books lined the walls; a French window opened on to
the lawn at the far end of the room; a large bowl of blue hyacinths,
growing in a bed of pebbles, stood on the reading table. Mr. Kent was
small, gray-haired, with a clear pink complexion and a guileless blue
eye.
“Mr. Blair,” he said, laying down his paper, “I am very glad to meet
you. A friend of Joe's is always welcome here, and particularly when
he's an antiquarian. I know you'll excuse our seeming rudeness in
putting you off at luncheon.”
Blair bowed, and made some polite reply.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Kent, “my wife was embarrassed this
morning by strange happenings in the domestic department. Our cook,
usually very faithful, did not turn up, and sent a substitute who has
caused her--well, mingled annoyance and amusement. I have not seen the
woman myself: my rheumatism has kept me pretty close to the fire this
damp weather; but by all accounts the creature is very extraordinary.
Well, well, you are not interested in that, of course. It is very
pleasant to meet a fellow antiquarian. How did you happen to visit
Wolverhampton? We have a number of quite unusual relics in these parts,
but they are not so well known as they should be.”
“To tell the truth, sir,” said Blair, “it was your book, which I came
across in the college library. I was particularly interested in your
account of St. Philip's Church, and I made up my mind that I ought to
see it. You see, we in America have so little antiquity of our own that
these relics of old England are peculiarly fascinating to us.”
“Quite so, quite so!” said Mr. Kent, rubbing his hands with pleasure.
“Magnificent! Well, well, it is certainly a delight to hear you say so.
After supper we will dismiss the ladies and have a good crack. There
are some really startling things to be learned about Wolverhampton in
Anglo-Saxon times. You know the town lay along the frontier that was
much harried by the Danes, and Edward the Elder won a conspicuous
victory over the invaders at Tettenhall, which is a village very near
here.”
“Yes,” said Blair, “I walked out there this afternoon.”
“Did you, indeed! Well, that was a proof of your perspicacity. You may
recall that in my book I referred to the battle at Tettenhall--”
“That was in 910, was it not?” queried Blair, adroitly.
“Precisely. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.”
“Edward the Elder died in 924, didn't he?” asked the ruthless American.
“About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon my word, Mr.
Blair, you have taken up history with true American efficiency! I do
wish that our young men had the same zeal. I am happy to say, however,
that I am expecting a young cleric this evening, a protege of the Bishop
of Oxford, who is, I believe, also interested in these matters.”
Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at this moment
Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in.
“My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We are great
cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughter Kathleen.”
The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heart contusions
known in the history of the human race. It was a positive vertigo of
admiration. This was indeed the creature he had seen on the railway
platform: a dazzling blend of girl and woman. The grotesque appellation
“flapper” fled from his mind. Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly
across her head and piled at the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray
eyes, under rich brown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed.
She was that most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl and
woman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither. Blair
could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only the arch face, the
intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady, friendly gaze.
“How do you do,” he said, and remembering English reticence, hesitated
to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not having done so.
Kathleen smiled, and murmured, “How do you do.”
“I'm very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Kent. “Do tell us what that crazy
Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had three telegrams from
her?”
Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronoun can
destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sit down on
the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair.
“I--I beg your pardon?” he stammered. “I didn't just catch--”
“The mad girl has sent us three telegrams,” said Mrs. Kent, “in which
there was only one sensible thing, the reference to yourself. Her other
remarks, about cooks and soccer and injured limbs, were quite over our
heads.”
With a dull sense of pain Blair felt Kathleen's bright eyes on him.
“Yes, Mr. Blair, is she ragging us? Or have the girls at Maggie Hall
taken up soccer?” said a clear voice, every syllable of which seemed so
precious and girlish and quaintly English that he could have clapped his
hands.
He blessed her for the clue. “Maggie Hall!”--in other words, Lady
Margaret Hall, one of the women's colleges at Oxford. So “Joe” was (in
American parlance) a “co-ed!”
“Why--er--I believe they _have_ been playing a little,” he said
desperately. “I think he--er--something was said about having
his--hum--her--arm--hurt in a rough game.”
“Her leg, too,” said Mr. Kent. “In my time, young girls didn't send
telegrams about their legs. In fact, they didn't send telegrams at all.”
“Well, we are quite nonplussed,” said Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen says Joe must
have had a rush of humour to the head. She wired for us to send Fred
down to her. Of course she has sent wires to Fred before, as a joke; but
she must have known we couldn't send him so far alone. I suppose Joe has
told you all about Fred? He's quite one of the family.”
“Yes,” said the distracted Oxonian. “He must be a fine fellow. I'm very
anxious to meet him.”
There was a ring at the front door bell, and in a kind of stupor Blair
realized that something--he hardly knew what--was about to happen.
“The Reverend Mr. Carter,” announced the maid.
Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly on the
rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movement that followed
he had presence of mind enough to seize a chair next to Kathleen. He
saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habited as the conventional “black
beetle” of the church, and in the sharpened state of his wits noticed
that the unpractised curate had put on his clerical collar the wrong
way round. He rejoiced in Carter's look of dismay on finding his
fellow-Scorpion already on the battlefield.
“Mr. Carter,” said Mr. Kent, “this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity.”
The two shook hands gravely.
Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to set Carter
astray.
“I know Mr. Carter by reputation,” he said. “I have heard Joe speak of
him in terms of great admiration.”
The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe.
“Oh, yes, Joe!” he said. “Splendid chap.”
Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had no idea
what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalian frock, and was
determined to gain any headway he could.
“It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton,” said Kathleen. “So few
'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing for Dad. He'll
talk antiquities with you as long as you like.”
“Are you interested in the subject?” asked Blair.
“I'm afraid not,” she laughed. “It's too bad Dad is so laid up with his
lumbago. He'd love to walk you out to Tettenhall and Boscobel, to see
his burial mounds.”
“How very interesting!” said Blair. “A kind of private family cemetery?”
“Oh, dear no,” declared Kathleen in amazement. “Antiquities, you know,
where the Danes buried themselves.”
“Of course, of course. How I wish I could see them! Are you fond of
walking?”
“Yes, when it isn't too muddy. It's been too wet lately to go out with
Fred. He loves a good long walk, but he's getting old and his rheumatism
bothers him.”
“I dare say he may have inherited that from your father?”
“It's very common among Scotties,” said Kathleen.
“Oh, is your family Scotch?” said Blair, feverishly trying to be polite.
“Our family?” queried Kathleen with a smile. “Heavens, no! I thought you
were talking about Fred. You must see him, he's somewhere around.”
“I should love to meet him,” said Blair.
Kathleen went to the door and whistled. There was a scampering on the
stairs, and a grizzled Skye terrier trotted into the room. Blair and
Carter looked at each other sheepishly.
Mr. Kent had been referring to his watch several times, and Blair began
to suspect that something was wrong. But just then supper was announced.
As they passed into the dining-room, the American thought he noticed
signs of agitation on the maid's face. He wondered secretly what the
rest of the Scorpions were up to.