MR. BOLT DROPS IN.
An undercurrent of suppressed excitement pulsed through Mrs.
Barraclough's household on the day of the seventeenth. You could feel
it throbbing like the beat of a distant drum. Voices sounded
different, eyes shone strangely, feet touched the ground as though it
lacked solidity. A sense of electricity was in the air, like the
unnatural calm that is herald to a storm. Mrs. Barraclough herself was
the one person outwardly unaffected by the general mood and set about
her daily duties as though nothing were happening. She never even
mentioned Anthony's name but instead freely discussed the imminent
confinement of Mrs. Brassbound, the wife of the village policeman. She
loved babies and it struck her as a happy omen that the little arrival
was expected on the very day that should mark her son's return from
excursions and alarums.
Isabel rang her up during the morning--a trunk call--with the brave
intention of expressing firm and unshakable optimism but the effort was
pathetically tremulous and finally petered out with inarticulate sobs
and chokings.
"Oh, dear, dear! That will never do," said Mrs. Barraclough, mastering
a powerful desire to kiss the microphone into which she spoke. "You
mustn't even imagine anything could go wrong. Now, what are you going
to do this afternoon?"
Sniff! "I donno--nuffin'," came over the wire moistly.
"Then I'll tell you. You'll go round to your dressmaker's and try on
your wedding dress and pretend you're walking down the aisle with your
hand on Tony's arm."
"I c-couldn't--b-but it's a l-lovely idea."
"Of course you could and you've got to. After all, it's what you'll be
doing in real earnest next Thursday."
Mrs. Barraclough could almost swear to having seen the smile that dried
up those tears that fell a hundred and fifty miles away.
"I'll t-try," said a tiny voice. "You are a d-darling." And later in
the afternoon the telephone bell rang again sad the same voice, with a
brave ring to it, announced "I've got it on."
After that Mrs. Barraclough was perfectly sure everything would be all
right and walked down to the village to enquire about the prospective
mother.
Shortly after she had gone Jane, who was entering the drawing room with
a silver tea tray, had a real adventure. On pushing open the door she
had an impression of two black coat tails disappearing through the
French windows into the garden. With perilous despatch she set down
the tray and rushed out to the gravel path, calling loudly to Flora.
Flora, arrayed in a greasy blue overall, came hurrying from the garage
where she had been spending the day tinkering with the car.
"Yes, what is it?" she cried.
Jane was pointing down a grove of Dorothy Perkins at the end of which a
stout figure in black was retreating.
"That old clergyman!"
"What about him?"
"I'll swear he was in this room when I brought in the tea."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I saw him pass the house two or three times this morning
and yesterday too."
"Half a mo," said Flora and hurried over to the writing table. "I say,
haven't these papers been moved?"
"Yes, they have. My eye! it's exciting. What do you make of it?"
"Something fishy."
"Do you think--do you possibly think it's anything to do with Mr.
Anthony?"
Jane's eyes sparkled like jewels at the very thought of anything so
adorable.
"I bet it has," said Flora. "What else could it be?"
"Might be just a rotten burglary."
"Chuck it," said Flora. "Don't spoil a decent show."
"I don't want to. But didn't she tell you Mr. Anthony had spoofed the
crowd that were against him?"
"Um! But they were a downey lot and p'raps after all they didn't buy
the spoof."
"Wouldn't it be terrific," exclaimed Jane, clasping her hands,
"wouldn't it be terrific if there was a dust up down here and we were
in it."
"Shut up," Flora implored, "it's a jolly sight too good to be true.
Better light the spirit lamp, the old lady'll be in to tea directly."
The words were scarcely spoken before a shadow was cast across the
floor and Mrs. Barraclough appeared at the window carrying a basket of
roses.
"Conybeare," she said, addressing the old Devonian gardener who was
trimming the borders a few yards away. "Conybeare, I am going down to
Mrs. Brassbound later in the evening. I want you to cut me a nice
bunch of grapes and some vegetables--nice ones."
The old fellow touched his cap and moved away. Mrs. Barraclough
entered smilingly.
"And I shall want the car, Flora."
"It's all ready. I'll bring it round, madam."
"There's no hurry. Aren't these roses delicious?" She buried her face
in the orgy of pink, crimson and yellowy-white blooms. "Give me that
bowl, my dear."
And while she took a few from the basket and arranged them in the big
silver bowl she continued pleasantly--
"I always wish I were a girl again when I pick roses. There's a
sentiment about them--and perhaps a danger--a nice sort of danger. You
know, it's very sad to reach an age at which danger no longer exists.
By the way, a very singular thing happened to me on my way to the
village. I was followed, Flora!"
"Followed! But who'd dare?" said Jane.
Mrs. Barraclough pouted pathetically.
"Please don't say that," she begged. "It makes one feel so old. After
all, there is no law to prevent one being followed unless it is the law
of selection."
"Who followed you?" asked Flora.
"A man," replied Mrs. Barraclough with ceremony. "A very respectable
man. He revived a sense of youth in me by wearing elastic sided boots."
"What was his face like?"
"In the circumstances, Jane, I kept my eyes discreetly downcast, but I
had a fleeting impression of clerical broadcloth."
"That man!" exclaimed Flora with sudden emphasis.
"My dear, it is most unbecoming to speak disparagingly of a member of
the clergy. As a girl the word curate inspired in me feelings of
respect and sentiment."
"There's not much to get sentimental over in that old beast," said
Jane. "He's been hanging around since yesterday evening and what's
more, I'll bet he's up to no good."
Mrs. Barraclough had her own opinion of the mysterious parson who had
addressed her in the lane but she preferred to arrive at the opinions
of others by her own method.
"I am sure it is very wrong to bet on clergymen as though they were
race horses," she replied.
"But honestly," said Flora, "I believe he is a bad hat."
"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly
wore one--a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I
believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run
along and leave me to myself."
After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of
her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:
"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer--I wish I didn't
think--Oh, well!"
She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet
cough caused her to start and rise quickly.
In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the
world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat
hung in festoons over his globular form, his scarlet face was wreathed
in smiles. In his hand he carried a black and white straw hat and a
pair of black kid gloves. He placed the hat in the middle of his waist
line and bowed apologetically.
"I beg your pardon--I do indeed beg your pardon."
Mrs. Barraclough was equal to the occasion and presented a perfect
example of mid-Victorian austerity.
"May I ask, sir, why you enter my house other than by the front door?
And also what persuaded you to address me in the lane this afternoon?"
"My dear lady," protested Mr. Bolt with a world of unction. "I come
from a part of the country where formality is unknown and where a
minister--a minister of the gospel--enters into the hearts and the
homes of men and of women by the shortest possible route."
"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.
At which her visitor expressed himself as greatly shocked and turned
his eyes heavenward.
"I remark with sorrow," he observed, "that you are not a true believer.
Your faith is not of the simple kind."
He could hardly have chosen an unhappier argument. Mrs. Barraclough's
devotion was a byword in the parish. To be treated thus by a totally
unknown clergyman was not to be tolerated. Her doubt as to the probity
of this person fostered by Jane and Flora took definite shape. She
decided to interrogate and, if necessary, expose him without further
preamble.
"It is customary for visitors to be announced," she said. "I would be
obliged if you would tell me your name."
Mr. Bolt sighed and seated himself heavily on the sofa, his little
pig-like eyes roving round the room.
"My name, madam, is the Reverend Prometheus Bolt."
"And why have you called upon me?"
Mr. Bolt faltered. He did not like this lady who pointed every
question.
"An act of civility, my dear madam. I am staying a few days in this
enchanting vicinity and hearing of your benevolent character was
persuaded to pay my best respects."
"My benevolent character! You are collecting for a charity? You are
proposing to hand me a tract?"
"No, indeed no. My visit is connected with this world and not the
next. I was informed in the village that this house was to let."
"You were misinformed."
"Furnished--to let furnished. Yes." This was a happy thought and he
followed it up closely. "I should consider myself indeed fortunate if
you, dear lady, would conduct me round its various apartments."
"The house is not to let under any consideration."
"Dear, dear! How disappointing."
"So if that is your only object in calling----" Her hand went out
toward the bell.
"I pray you will allow me to remain a moment and recover my breath.
The heat of the walk, you know. I am not as young as I was."
"No one is," replied Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.
"How very, very true," said Mr. Bolt with outward benevolence but
inwardly with a powerful inclination toward violence. "Yes, very true,
although it is bitter indeed to be taunted with lack of youth. In the
words of the Gospel 'do unto others as you would be done by.'"
"In what particular part of the Gospel does that phrase occur?"
demanded Mrs. Barraclough shrewdly.
But Alfred Bolt was not a man to be caught out in the first over.
"I can only recommend you a closer attention to the Book," he replied.
"Search its pages yourself, dear lady, and treasures of gladness shall
be yours."
It was a nimble evasion and he could not resist a smile of
self-satisfaction, but to avoid further interrogation on Biblical
derivations he hastened to lead the conversation into safer alleys and
ones more relative to the object of his visit.
"I am informed in the village that you are the fortunate possessor of a
son."
"I have a son," Mrs. Barraclough admitted.
"A priceless gift, dear lady. I should like to shake him by the hand."
"Why?"
Really this woman was too trying and the directness of the question for
an instant deprived Mr. Bolt of his sense of character. Before he had
time to collect his thoughts he had rapped out the reply:
"Needn't jump down a man's throat like that."
His effort to recover and mask this piece of startled irritability with
a vague platitude did not deceive his audience in the smallest degree.
Doubt became conviction in Mrs. Barraclough's mind. She did not know
in what way this man was connected with her son's affairs but none the
less she was certain he represented a positive barrier between Anthony
and success. To denounce him as a spy might, however, do more harm
than good, accordingly she took up the bell and rang it, with the words:
"My son is away and has been away for several weeks, nor is there any
likelihood you will meet him when ultimately he returns." Then to the
glowering Jane who had answered the summons of the bell; "Kindly show
this gentleman out."
"Pray do not disturb yourself," said Mr. Bolt with dignity. "I can
find my own way."
And with astonishing speed for a man of his build he seized the handle
and threw open the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. The action was
deliberate since he desired to find out who might possibly be concealed
in the inner room and its advantages were immeasurable for at the very
moment his back was turned Anthony Barraclough, dusty and spent,
stumbled in through the French window.
Jane gave a short, stifled squeak and pointed and he was out again and
ducking behind a rose bush before Bolt had time to turn and apologise
for his mistake.
"Show this gentleman through the gate and down the road," said Mrs.
Barraclough in a voice that did not betray her excitement by a single
tremor.
"I thank you for your hospitality, dear lady," said the Reverend
Prometheus, "and I trust I may have the pleasure of bettering our
acquaintance."
As he bowed himself out he discreetly dropped his gloves behind a
cushion on the sofa.
"This way, please," said Jane. "This way."