The following morning Miss Erskine was awakened at the unusual hour of
five a.m. by having her window broken by a large pebble. 'I tried
small ones first, but it was not a bit of good,' said Peter later, with
compunction.
Jane stirred sleepily, and flung her heavy brown hair upon the pillow.
This was probably some nonsense on the part of a young Wrottesley, and
Jane was not going to be taken in by it.
Next, the point of a fishing-rod was tapped against the pane; it was,
therefore, probably that particular Wrottesley boy whose passion for
fishing in the early hours of the morning was well known. Jane rubbed
the sleep from her drowsy eyes, and called out that she knew quite well
who it was, and that Cyprian was to go away at once.
'Jane,' said Peter's voice, 'I wish you would wake up and come down.
Toffy's had a horrid smash. He says he 's all right, and he won't go
to the doctor, but his hand is badly cut and he has had a nasty knock
on his head.'
'Oh, Toffy!' said Jane, 'you 've been in the wars again!' She had
descended from her bedroom, and had now unbarred the windows of her own
sitting-room and stepped out on to the dewy grass in the clothes which
she had hastily put on, her heavy brown hair, tied loosely with a
ribbon, falling down her back. The windows of her boudoir were
protected by green wooden jalousies and were considered a safeguard
against thieves.
'This is awfully kind of you, Jane,' said Toffy. 'I don't think there
is really much the matter with me.'
He came inside the sitting-room and Peter made him lie down on the
sofa. There was a bruise on one side of his head, and his hand was
bound up with a pocket-handkerchief drenched with blood.
'Don't look at it,' said Jane. 'Just stretch out your hand like that,
and I 'll bathe it.' She had the simple remedies which Miss Abingdon
kept in the house--boracic lint and plaster. Nigel Christopherson lay
on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling, because, as Jane had somehow
divined, he hated the sight of blood; and he discoursed gravely on his
misfortunes while she dressed the ugly wound and bound and slung his
hand.
'Talk of sick-nurses!' muttered Peter, and wondered how it was that
Jane was able to do everything better than other people could;
although, indeed, the bandaging showed more tenderness than skill, and
there was something almost pathetically youthful and inconsequent in
the manner of both patient and nurse.
The room itself was indicative of the youthful and unlearned character
of its owner. A box of chocolates occupied an important position on
the writing-table, some envelopes stuffed with dress patterns lay upon
a chair. There was a large collection of novels which Jane did not
often read, and a much larger collection of illustrated books and
papers which she and Peter thoroughly enjoyed. A favourite parrot, who
never could be induced to talk, sulked in a cage and had a great deal
of affection expended upon him. The remains of the guild work which
Mrs. Wrottesley had not finished occupied the greater part of the sofa,
and Jane meant to ask her maid to run up all the little blouses and
petticoats, as she herself was too frightfully busy to undertake them.
An immense number of photographs ornamented the mantelpiece and were
mixed up, without attempt at classification, with curious odds and ends
which Peter had sent home from South Africa during the war time. Some
riding-whips hung on a rack on the wall, side by side with a few
strange sketches in oil-colours of Jane's favourite hunters, painted by
herself. Peter thought the sketches were among the best he had ever
seen, and even Jane was rather pleased with them.
'I 'll take the guild work off the sofa,' she said, 'and that will give
you more room.' She settled his head comfortably upon the pillows and
turned to Peter for an explanation or an account of the accident.
'I don't know much about it,' said Peter, giving his head a shake.
'The Wrottesley boy and I were going out fishing early, and we found
Toffy sitting in the middle of the road with a motor-car hung in a
tree.'
'You see,' said Toffy, in his grave, low voice, 'I have made up my mind
for some time past to travel by night because it saves hotel bills.'
'But it doesn't cost you much to sleep in your own bed, Toffy,'
protested Jane.
'No,' said the young man, looking at her with admiration; 'I hadn't
thought of that. I have dismissed my chauffeur,' he went on, 'because
he was always wanting things. I said to him, "My good man, get
anything you want if you can get tick for it." He was a maniac about
ready money. I got on all right for the first forty miles or so after
leaving London, and I was going on splendidly when my motor, to gain
some private end, went mad. How do these things happen? Thank 'e,
Jane,' as Jane fastened a silk handkerchief to serve as a sling for the
wounded arm.
'Providentially the thing broke down at the Carstairs's very gates,' he
went on. The loss of blood was making him sick, but if he went on
talking he would probably not faint. 'And it was then three o'clock in
the morning, so I coaxed it up the drive and shoved it into the
coach-house, and took their motor, which is rather a nice one.'
'Then it wasn't your own machine that you smashed up?' said Peter.
'No, praise be!' replied Toffy.
'When will the fraud be discovered?' asked Jane. 'Gilbert Carstairs is
quite a good sort, but his wife has very little sense of humour.'
'Oh, I left a note all right in the coach-house,' answered Toffy, 'and
I pointed out to Gilbert that he had no right to encourage burglaries
by having inefficient locks on his coach-house doors. I added that I
thought he ought to be very thankful that it was an honest man who had
stolen his motor-car.'
'Also, I hope you said that he might have the loan of your disabled one
till he had had it thoroughly repaired?' said Peter.
'I said something of that sort,' Toffy replied. 'And I should think
Gilbert would do the right thing by the motor. I am only afraid Mrs.
Carstairs may misunderstand the whole thing.'
'One is liable to be misunderstood by even the best people,' said Peter.
At breakfast-time it appeared that nothing had been done to prepare
Miss Abingdon for the news that one of her best spare bedrooms was at
this moment occupied by a man with a broken head, for she appeared at
the door of the breakfast-room in a serene frame of mind, and was
kissed by Peter, who announced that here he was, you know, and hoped
she was not much surprised to see him so early.
'I am never surprised,' said Miss Abingdon, with intention.
'I have been thinking,' said the young man presently, in the peculiarly
genial voice which was characteristic of him and helped to make him so
likeable, 'that, suppose a policeman should come sniffing about here
this morning, you had better tell him that there is no such thing as a
motor-car in the place, and that there has never been one.'
'That is hardly true, Peter,' said Miss Abingdon, in the severe manner
which she cultivated, 'considering how often Sir Nigel is here with
his.'
'As a matter of fact,' said Peter steadily, 'Toffy is here now. He
is--he is in bed, in fact.'
'Something has happened!' exclaimed Miss Abingdon apprehensively. Why
was it that youth could never be contented without incidents? To be
young seemed to involve action, while acquaintanceship with Jane and
Peter seemed to bring one, however unwillingly, into a series of events.
'There was a little accident early this morning,' explained Peter.
'Toffy was travelling at night--to save hotel bills, you know--and
there was a breakdown because he didn't quite understand the
Carstairs's machine, which he had borrowed; so poor Toffy came off
second best; but Jane patched him up most beautifully, and Martin said
he had better have the blue room.'
'Do I understand that Sir Nigel Christopherson stole Captain
Carstairs's motor-car in the middle of the night and left his own
damaged one in its place?' said Miss Abingdon, 'and that he regards
this matter quite lightly?'
'Toffy is a cheery soul,' said Peter.
'You are all cheery souls!' said Miss Abingdon hopelessly. She
summoned the butler and sent for the village doctor, and made Peter
telegraph to Captain Carstairs.
'You always seem to think of everything, Cousin Mary,' said Peter
admiringly.
'Some one has to,' said Miss Abingdon, with a strong touch of
superiority in her manner; and then she walked round the
breakfast-table to where her niece was sitting and kissed her, because
a few minutes ago she had looked at her severely, and what would happen
if Jane were ever to prefer the Erskines' house to hers? What if Jane
were to prolong the six months which it had been stipulated she should
spend with her father's relations in London? Jane loved General
Erskine too well already. Miss Abingdon felt weak as she said, 'Don't
worry any more about it, Jane,' for Jane did not look worried. 'And
now,' she said, 'I must go and see how Sir Nigel is.'
Miss Abingdon still used a key-basket and hoped, please God, she would
never be called upon to give up this womanly appendage, whatever the
world might come to. The jingling of the keys was a harmonious
accompaniment to her whenever she walked about. She bent her steps now
down the cool wide passages of her charming house to visit her disabled
guest, who, she heard, was awake. It was part of her creed that sick
persons should be visited, whether they themselves desired it or not.
In her young days nurses were unknown, and one proved one's
Christianity by the length of time one remained in overheated
sick-rooms. Still, Miss Abingdon was not accustomed to the presence of
a sick man in her house, and she paused on the door-mat before entering
the room, and said to herself, 'I feel very awkward.' Then she timidly
tapped at the door and went in.
Sir Nigel Christopherson was lying in bed reading the Bible. When he
was not getting into debt, or riding races, or playing polo, or loving
Mrs. Avory, Toffy generally employed his spare moments in reading the
Bible. He was a preternaturally grave young man, with large eyes and
long eyelashes of which he was properly ashamed, being inclined to
class them in his own mind with such physical disadvantages as red lips
or curling hair. Miss Abingdon thought that he was generally
misunderstood. It impressed her very favourably to find him employed
in reading Holy Scripture, and she turned away her eyes from the book,
which Toffy laid frankly on the outside of the counterpane, feeling
that the subject was too sacred to comment upon.
'How do you feel?' she said gently. 'You look very white.'
'Oh, I 'm as fit as a fiddle, thanks, Miss Abingdon,' said Toffy.
'You don't look it,' said Miss Abingdon, with a return to her severe
manner.
'I 'm really a very strong chap,' said Toffy. He had been delicate
ever since he was a little boy. School games had often been an agony
to him. He had ridden races and had lain awake all night afterwards,
unable, through sheer exhaustion, to sleep; he had played polo under
burning suns, and had concealed the fact (as though it had been a
crime) that he had fainted in the pavilion afterwards. He very seldom
had a good night's sleep, and habitual bad luck or the effort to
conceal his constitutional delicacy had given him a curious gravity of
manner, combined with a certain gentleness, which contrasted oddly with
his whimsically absurd utterances. No one ever looked more wise than
this young man, no one ever acted with more conspicuous foolishness,
and no one ever received a larger measure of ill-luck than he. If
Toffy hunted, his horse fell or went lame. If he rode in a
steeplechase, some accident, the condition of the ground, or the
position of the jumps, made the course unusually difficult for the
particular horse he was riding. Did he play polo, his most brilliant
hits just failed to make the goal. His gravity and his gentleness
increased in proportion with his ill-luck. No one ever backed Toffy,
and no one believed in his best efforts. But they borrowed his horses
and his money, and lived for months as his guests at the huge ugly
house which was his home; and Toffy accepted it all, and philosophized
about it in his grave way, and read his Bible, and loved Mrs. Avory.
No one but Toffy would have loved her; she was quite plain and she was
separated from her husband--a truculent gentleman who employed his
leisure moments in making his wife miserable. And she had a daughter
of ten years old towards whose maintenance Mrs. Avory made blouses and
trimmed parasols for which her friends hardly ever paid her.
The world, with its ever-ready explanation of conduct and its facility
in finding motives, ascribed Sir Nigel's chronic impecuniosity to the
fact that he contributed to the support of Mrs. Avory and her little
girl. Mrs. Avory, who knew quite well what was said of her, ate her
cold mutton for supper, and economized in coals in the winter, and paid
her little weekly bills, and wondered sometimes what was the use of
trying to be good when so few people believed in goodness.
Toffy came to see her every Sunday when he was in London; or, if he did
not do so, Mrs. Avory wrote him long letters in very indistinct
handwriting, and told him that it was all right, and that she really
hoped he would marry and be as happy as he deserved to be. And the
letters were generally blotted and blistered with tears.
Miss Abingdon put her key-basket upon the dressing-table and sat down
in an armchair on the farther side of the room. It upset her very much
to see Sir Nigel looking so ill, and she believed that to read the
Bible at odd hours was a sign of approaching death.
'You must have some beef-tea at eleven,' Miss Abingdon said, and felt
glad that she was able to do something in a crisis.
'I think I was brought up on beef-tea,' said Toffy. He had accepted,
with his usual philosophy, the fact that whether you broke your back or
your heart a woman's unfailing remedy was a cup of beef-tea.
'And I am sure you would like your own servant,' said Miss Abingdon; 'I
suppose you have some one over at Hulworth for whom you could send?'
'My man is an awful thief,' said Toffy, 'which is why I keep him.
Otherwise, I don't think there is a single thing he can do, except put
studs in my shirts. Hopwood will only steal Peter's things,' he added
reassuringly. 'He tells me my things are generally stolen and that I
never have anything to wear, and so he borrows all he can from Peter.
It is an extraordinary thing,' said Sir Nigel, beginning his sentence
with his usual formula--the formula of the profound philosopher who has
learned to accept most things as strange and all things as
inexplicable--'It is an extraordinary thing the way all your
possessions disappear. You try having duplicates, but, you know, Miss
Abingdon, that's not a bit of use. The first man who comes along helps
himself just because you 've two of a thing, so you 're not a bit
better off than you were before, are you?'
The young man turned his blue eyes with their long lashes on Miss
Abingdon with a look of mute inquiry, and threw one arm in its striped
pyjama suit up on the pillow.
Miss Abingdon told herself that she was an old woman, and suggested,
with outward boldness but with inward diffidence, that Sir Nigel
required a wife to look after him.
The young man smiled gratefully at her. 'I think so too,' he said
simply; 'but then, you see, she won't have me.'
They were all so amazingly frank! Jane's friend, Kitty Sherard, the
girl who smoked cigarettes in her bedroom, had actually told a funny
story one day about a flirtation of her father's, and had made
everybody except Miss Abingdon laugh at it.
'Perhaps,' she said, 'the lady may change her mind.'
'I don't think she will,' said Toffy slowly. 'You see, she's married
already.'
Miss Abingdon did not discuss such subjects. She glanced at her
key-basket and moved uneasily in her chair.
'I 'm going to revise the marriage service when I 'm in power,' said
the gentle, lagging voice from under the heavy canopy of old-fashioned
chintz with which Miss Abingdon, who disapproved of draughts, hung all
the beds in her house. 'You see, it's like this,' he went on; 'girls,
when they are about eighteen or twenty, would generally like to improve
on their parents a bit, and to have meals at different hours to those
which they have grown tired of in their own homes; also, they have an
idea that if they haven't a romance some time or other they will be
rather out of it, don't you know, so they say "yes" to some fellow who
proposes to them--you have done it yourself hundreds of times, I dare
say, Miss Abingdon--but if you haven't the luck to get out of it, you
are jolly well tied for the term of your natural life.'
'There are some very sad cases, of course,' said Miss Abingdon, drawing
down her upper lip.
'And it's so often the good ones,' said Toffy, from the depths of his
profound experience of life, 'who have the hardest lines. And that
makes it all the more unfair, doesn't it?'
Afterwards, when Miss Abingdon used to hear a great deal about Sir
Nigel and Mrs. Avory, and when many regrettable things were said
concerning two people to whom, at the best of times, life was a little
bit difficult, she would seem to see the young man, with his delicate
face and his head bound up with white linen, lying on the frilled
pillow of the great canopied bed, and the recollection would come back
to her of the tones in which he had said, 'It's so often the good ones
that have the hardest lines,' and Miss Abingdon never failed in loyalty
to Toffy, and believed in him to the very end.
She rose now and bade him good-bye, and then she glanced at the open
Bible on the counterpane and decided once more that young people were
inexplicable, and she clung to her key-basket with a feeling of
security, and, holding it carefully in her hand, went downstairs again.