Chapter 3

At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over my antiquarian data another time.

It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the third time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the chambermaid came to the bedroom door. “This note was just left for you, sir.” I tore it open.

BANCROFT ROAD,

Sunday Morning.

MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,

I am afraid you will think it very strange, but, owing to a sudden domestic disarrangement, will you come to _supper_, this evening, instead of to luncheon? I am exceedingly embarrassed to have to make this change, but (to be quite frank) one of our maids has been taken ill, and our luncheon to-day will have to be a haphazard affair. We are also rather distressed by strange news from our cousin at Oxford.

But we shall be very happy to see you at supper time, seven o'clock.

Cordially yours,

PHILIP KENT.

It came over me that this was pretty dirty work we were putting up on the poor gentleman, and I suddenly felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. I don't know whether any of the others came back to the Boar for lunch, or not. I put on my cap and went for a long walk in the country, out toward Tettenhall Wood. I didn't come back until tea time.

VII

As Johnny Blair approached number 318, Bancroft Road, a little before seven o'clock that bland March evening, he bore within his hardy breast certain delicacies, remorses, doubts, and revulsions. But all these were transcended by his overmastering determination to see this superb and long-worshipped maiden near at hand.

Bancroft Road proved to be a docile suburban thoroughfare, lined with comfortable villas and double houses, each standing a little back from the street with a small garden in front. A primrose-coloured afterglow lingered in the sky, and the gas lights along the pavement still burned pale and white. Just as the Rhodes Scholar passed number 302 he saw a feminine figure run down the steps of a house fifty yards farther on, cross the pavement, and drop a letter into the red pillar box standing there. Even at that distance, he distinguished a lively slimness in the girlish outline that could belong to no other than the Incomparable Kathleen. He hastened his step, casting hesitance to the wind. But she had already run back into the house.

It would have added to the problems Mr. Blair was pondering could he have read the letter which had just dropped into the post-box. Perhaps it will somewhat advance the course of the narrative to give the reader a glimpse of it.

318, BANCROFT ROAD,

Sunday Afternoon.

DEAR JOE:

Goodness knows what has happened to this usually placid house. Never again will I complain to you that there is no excitement in Wolverhampton.

I got home from Birmingham yesterday noon and since then everything has been perfectly absurd. I can only believe you have gone balmy.

First comes your wire about Mr. Blair and your having hurt your arm playing soccer. What you can have been doing at soccer I can't conceive. I supposed it was a mistake for hockey, or else some kind of a twit. Well, I couldn't see what I could do to help a historical student but I showed Dad the wire and the old dear said he would write Mr. Blair a line.

I had just settled down to help Mother with some sewing when along comes your second wire, addressed to her. Mother and I threw up our hands and screamed! Certainly we thought you were off your crumpet. Why on earth should you send us another cook when you know Ethel has been here for so long? I read the wire forward and backward but it could mean nothing else. It said: _Have found very good cook out of place am sending her to you earnestly recommend give her a trial reliable woman but eccentric name Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning_.

Well, we all had a good laugh over this, and wondered what kind of a joke you were up to. Then, after supper, to our amazement, came a third wire--not from you, this one, but to Dad, and who do you suppose from? The Bishop of Oxford if you please! Dad was so flustered (you know how telegrams excite him: they offend all his antiquarian instincts!)--well, the Bishop said--_Am sending my favourite curate to call on you magnificent young fellow excellent family very worthy chap will be in Wolverhampton a day or two anxious to have him meet your family_.

Well, this rather flabbergasted us, but Dad took it rather as a matter of course, after the first surprise. He used to know the Bishop well--in fact, he dedicated his book to him. “Quite all right, my dear,” Dad kept saying. “I dare say the young man has some antiquarian problems to talk over. Too bad I'm so crippled with rheumatism.”

After supper along came Mr. Dunton, and began to talk about a charming young American who had been calling on him, and who did it prove to be but your friend Mr. Blair, who had been quite put out of our minds by the later telegrams. So Dad sat down right away and wrote a note to Mr. Blair at the Blue Boar asking him for luncheon to-day, and sent it up by the gardener's boy.

But this morning, when I had just decided not to go to church (you'll see why in a minute) comes your perfectly mad message to Fred, about hurting your leg at soccer and all the rest of it. This convinced us that you are quite crazy. How could we send Fred all that way alone! And when did you take up soccer anyway?

But we know what a mad creature you are anyway, so we simply suspected some deep-laid twit. Now I come to the queerest thing of all!

Ethel went out last night, for her usual Saturday evening off, and hasn't returned! In all the years she's been with us, Mother says, it's the first time such a thing ever happened. And before breakfast this morning, turns up this Eliza Thick person of yours, with a note from Ethel to say that she was sick but that her friend Eliza would see us through for a day or so. Well, you surely have a queer eye for picking out domestics! Of all the figures of fun I ever imagined, she is the strangest. I don't think she's quite right in her head. I'll tell you all about her when I see you. Really, I roar with laughter every time I look at her!

I haven't got time to say more. With this Eliza person in the kitchen goodness knows what may happen. We had to send a note to Mr. Blair not to come for luncheon, the house was so upset. We heard a fearful uproar in the lower regions this afternoon and found Eliza engaged in ejecting some kind of gas-man who said he had come to see the meter (on Sunday, if you please!)

Everything seems quite topsy turvy. And Mr. Blair is coming to supper in a few minutes, and that favourite curate of the Bishop's, too. I think I shall have to stay down in the kitchen to see that Eliza Thick gets through with it all right. I can forgive you almost anything except her!

Never, never say again that nothing happens in Bancroft Road!

Yours,

KATHLEEN.

VIII

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.

IX

“Come, Mr. Blair,” said Mrs. Kent; “you sit there, next to Mr. Kent, where you can talk about archaeology. Mr. Carter tells me he knows nothing about such subjects, so he will have to amuse Kathleen and me.”

“What errand brings you to Wolverhampton, Mr. Carter?” inquired Blair, thinking to unmask his opponent's weapons as quickly as possible.

Carter was a little staggered by this, but his effrontery was up to the test.

“The Bishop sent me down,” he said, “to look over the surrounding parishes with a view to establishing a chapel in the suburbs.”

“How very interesting!” exclaimed Mr. Kent. “But surely this does not lie in the Oxford diocese?”

“Quite true,” said Carter. “The Bishop had to get special permission from Parliament. An old statute of the fourteenth century, I believe.”

“Indeed! Indeed!” cried Mr. Kent. “How absorbing! My dear Mr. Carter, you must tell me more about that. I take it you are something of a historical student, after all.”

“I'm afraid not, sir,” replied Carter. “My studies in divinity have been too exacting to leave much opportunity--”

“You must not believe Mr. Carter's disclaimers,” said Blair. “I have heard of his papers before the Oxford Historical Society. He has a very sound antiquarian instinct. I think you would find his ideas of great interest.”

“We were speaking of the battle with the Danes at Tettenhall,” observed Mr. Kent, turning to Blair. “I think that if Kathleen could arrange to take you out there you would find the burial mounds of unusual interest. My dear, could you walk out there with Mr. Blair to-morrow morning?”

Kathleen assented, but Blair noticed that she was not eating her soup. He also noticed that the maid, in the background, was seized with occasional spasms, which he was at a loss to interpret.

“Did I hear you say Tettenhall?” ventured Carter. “That is the very place the Bishop mentioned to me. He was particularly anxious that I should go there.”

“You must come with us, by all means,” said Kathleen.

“Bravo,” said Mr. Kent, beaming genially upon the young people. “I wish I could go with you. You know they say Wulfruna, the widow of the Earl of Northampton, who founded Wolverhampton, had a kind of summer place once near Tettenhall, and I claim to have located--By the way, my dear, what do you suppose has happened to this soup?”

“I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments,” said Mrs. Kent. “You may take it away now, Mary.”

“As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996,” observed Blair. “I presume it takes its name from her?”

“Exactly--Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historical knowledge does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were such keen students of the past.”

Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for he noticed that Falstaff was getting in some private conversation with Kathleen. He attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well launched on his hobby.

“Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughter of Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, the son of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. To stem the invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled--”

“Ethel fled, that's just the trouble,” interposed Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen, my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in the kitchen. I'm afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter must excuse this irregularity. Our substitute cook is a very strange person.”

Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though the sparkle had fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight from the silver. Across the cloth he had watched her--girlish, debonair, and with a secret laughter lurking in her eyes. And yet he had not had a chance to exchange half a dozen sentences with her.

The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and began to place the dishes for the next course.

“Kathleen begs to be excused,” said Mrs. Kent. “She thinks she had better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza.”

“Oh, I say,” cried the curate. “That's too bad. Do you think I could help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himself has praised my--er--my--”

“Your what?” asked Blair.

“My ham and eggs,” retorted the cleric.

“Perhaps you will let me wash the dishes,” suggested Blair. “I should be only too happy to assist. I feel very embarrassed at having intruded upon you at so inconvenient a time.”

“I should not dream of such a thing,” said Mrs. Kent. “I believe that Eliza is perfectly capable, but as Joe said, she is eccentric.”

“I am quite accustomed to washing dishes,” said Carter. “In fact, the Bishop always used to ask me to do it for him.”

“Dear me,” remarked Mr. Kent, “surely the Bishop has plenty of servants to help in such matters?”

Blair applied himself to the food on his plate to which he had helped himself almost unconsciously. He well knew the daring hardihood of his rival, and feared that the other might find some excuse to follow Kathleen to the kitchen. As he raised his fork to his lips, suddenly his hand halted. The dish was stuffed eggs. His mind reverted to the Public Library the evening before. Was it possible that the Goblin--?

He determined that the first thing to be done was to get Carter so firmly engaged with Mr. Kent that the wolf in cleric's clothing could not withdraw. Then perhaps he himself could frame some excuse for seeing what was going on downstairs.

“Mr. Kent,” he said, “you should draw out Mr. Carter concerning his views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. He has some very advanced ideas on that subject which have attracted much attention at Oxford. One of his interesting suggestions is that radical churchmen should wear the clerical collar back side foremost, as a kind of symbol of their inverted opinions.”

The wretched Carter's hand flew to his neck, and he glared across the table in a very unecclesiastical manner.

“Really!” said Mr. Kent, “that is most interesting. I had noticed his modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter, would you amend the ritual?”

The unfortunate curate was caught.

“Er--hum--well--that is, the Bishop and I both think that the service is too long,” he faltered. “I am in favour of omitting the sermon.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Kent. “It is most refreshing to hear a high churchman make such a confession. And what else do you propose?”

“Why--ah--hum--it has always seemed to me that the--thirty-nine articles might--well--be somewhat condensed.”

“Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that,” said his host.

The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs. Kent.

“Philip,” said the latter, “that gas-man is here again, and says he _must_ see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leak which should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down to the cellar with him. Your rheumatism--”

“My dear Mrs. Kent,” cried the curate, seeing his chance; “do nothing of the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to take precedence when there is danger of any kind. If any one should be overcome by fumes, the consolations of the church may be needed.” And without waiting for another word, he leaped up and ran from the room.

Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but there was nothing he could do.

“Pray go on with your supper, Mr. Blair,” urged Kent. “You must overlook anything that seems strange this evening. Everything seems to be widdershins. Perhaps because it is St. Patrick's Day. I do believe that woman in the kitchen is at the bottom of it all. These stuffed eggs are positively uneatable! If I were not crippled with this lumbago I would go down and fire her out of the house.”

“Let me do it for you!” cried Blair, half rising from his seat.