Part 15

The whole scene was decidedly humiliating, but after all, it didn’t matter particularly--at any rate, to the Lady Elfreda Catkin. What was going to matter was the triumph of Miss Parbury. A very attractive young soldier would have to be abandoned to the siren of Birmingham.

It was just there that the shoe really began to pinch. A moment’s thought showed Elfreda that in any case the shoe must have pinched just there. That romance had already reached its appointed end. Still, it was a trifle galling to be “sacked” so ignominiously. Miss Parbury would gloat. Yes, it was rather astute of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to ask that lady to look out a train!

“I’m afraid, Miss Cass”--in the exhilaration of the hour Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson became flutelike once more--“it will be quite impossible to give you a reference. And I shall write at once to Canon Carnaby to say so. I am exceedingly sorry. In regard to your salary, I shall consult my husband. Here are two pounds which will take you to your home.” The magisterial lady produced a brace of reluctant Bradburys. “You may or may not be entitled to a full month. As I say, I must consult my husband.”

There was not the slightest need for Miss Cass to smile. Such a moment should have been really painful, at any rate to a properly constituted mind. But Miss Cass did smile, moreover so scornfully that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson found it hard to veil her fury.

“Please go at once and pack your boxes, Miss Cass. There is a train to London about two, I believe. But Miss Parbury will be able to tell you.”

“Pray don’t give any one trouble on my account.” The tone of Miss Cass had the bite of an acid. “I am reasonably good with a Bradshaw.” The calm effrontery of the creature was astounding.

“I am sure Miss Parbury will consider it a pleasure.” A shade below the belt, no doubt, but then there are no Queensbury Rules for the ladies, God bless them!

Beneath the entranced gaze of Master Peter and Miss Joan the hated Miss Cass made a slow and dignified exit. They were quite surprised that she didn’t even slam the door. But if looks are a guide she must have been really sorry for herself that she was so awfully much of a lady.

“Jo-an darling, run and ask dear Dolores to look out the London trains. Or stay, I’ll go and ask her myself. And then I’ll write to Canon Carnaby.”

XXXVI

THE news traveled quickly. Dear Dolores received it almost at once; and received it, moreover, with a modesty that did credit to her self-respect; but as she turned her prompt attention to Bradshaw’s Guide she could hardly refrain from humming “Any Time’s Kissing Time” and kindred melodies from Chu Chin Chow. After all, it is neither just nor wise to exact too much of human nature.

The second person to be informed was General Norris. That gentleman, who had just returned from his morning constitutional, was in the act of crossing the hall when he suddenly found himself involved in a riot.

Master Peter and Miss Joan burst out of the schoolroom dancing a sort of fandango.

“She’s got the sack, she’s got the sack!”--Miss Joan.

“Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!”--Master Peter.

Explanations were immediately demanded. Explanations were at once forthcoming.

“You might almost be said to be pleased,” was the sad comment of George Norris at the end of their thrilling story. And he was such a very simple young man that the sound of his voice suggested tears.

“What do _you_ think?” The idiom of Miss Joan was a little primitive, no doubt--she took after her father’s side, poor dear child! “She a perfect beast, isn’t she, Pe-tah?”

“A norrible beast,” Petah agreed.

But in the eyes of George Norris there was a look that seemed to contradict them flatly.

He was such a naïf young man that the lurid story of the morning’s war, which to be sure lost nothing in the telling, came as quite a shock. And the shock left him sore, rueful, angry. He was not at all inclined to accept the tale in all its nakedness--things had been left out, things had been put in--and as he had known from the first, these unsportsmanlike women had had “an awful down” on the little governess.

The crux of the matter was that she was a rather special kind of governess. Only too evidently she was used to the best people and the best houses. George Norris was too good a sportsman himself to be hard upon Mrs. T.-S. from whom he had received many kindnesses or upon Miss P. who was by way of being a dasher, but the trouble with these ladies was that they were quite unable to forgive Miss Cass her trick of making them look cheap. A minx, of course, a perfectly charming minx who spent her time scoring them off. She had deserved all she had got. But as man is the being he is in the world of the present, George Norris would have liked beyond all things just now to have knocked the heads of Master Peter and Miss Joan together.

The young man in his distress, which he had neither the art nor the tact to conceal, sought Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. He found her seated at a writing table in the morning room. And flanking her, in a low chair by the fire, was Miss Parbury poring over with an air of intense absorption, the intricate pages of Bradshaw’s Guide.

“There’s a train at a quarter-past two, I see,” Miss Parbury announced as General Norris entered the room.

“That is the one. She must go by that.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson dipped her pen augustly. “Tell me, what’s the date, dear?”

Miss Parbury had a doubt as to the date, but General Norris succinctly furnished it from the top of _The Times_ newspaper which providentially was at hand.

Dear Canon Carnaby,

It is with the greatest reluctance that I write to tell you that the governess whom you recommended so highly has not been a success. In fact, she has proved so altogether unsatisfactory that I am having to dispense with her services at a moment’s notice. You will be grieved to learn that I am unable to give her a reference. In my humble opinion she is wholly unsuited to the care of young children. Her temper, to put the case mildly, is under imperfect control and much as it distresses me to have to say so, she does not invariably speak the truth; also her manners leave much to be desired. On several occasions she has been openly and intentionally disrespectful. I am sorry to have to write in this way of one who has been able to recommend herself to your kindness, but it seems right that you should know the sort of person she really is.

With kind regards, believe me, very sincerely yours,

M. ELEANOR TRENCHARD-SIMPSON.

She read the letter over with a glow of quiet satisfaction and then gave it to Miss Parbury for perusal and criticism. Miss Parbury’s criticism was that she didn’t think it was strong enough.

Taking it altogether, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was inclined to think the letter didn’t lack force.

“I don’t know about that.” Miss Parbury fixed one arctic eye upon the mobile countenance of General Norris. “Considering that she has just pretty nearly killed poor Joan.”

“Killed poor Who?” The development of the issue was growing too much for the feelings of an impressionable soldier.

“Didn’t you hear the uproar in the schoolroom, George?” A shade of maternal reproach softened Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s note of indignation.

George confessed that he had not.

“Why, even Cook heard it in the basement. And when I went into the schoolroom what do you suppose was happening?”

George had not the faintest idea.

“I found Miss Cass”--it was the voice of a Niobe mourning her young--“shaking the life--literally shaking the life out of the poor darling.”

“Well, the poor darling seems a pretty lively corpse, I must say.”

It was, of course, a remark that ought not to have been made. A military career has a tendency to make the best and the nicest of men unfeeling. There was that to be said for George Norris. Both ladies, however, were clearly wounded a little. Their quiet air of triumph was almost vanquished by such gaucherie. Men are so amazing! Some men are, at any rate. How was it possible to defend such a creature! Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson painted a full-length portrait of the wicked Miss Cass, and as a final touch invited the young man to read the letter she had just addressed on the subject to the Rector of Laxton.

The invitation was an error of judgment. And it really seemed odd that one so conspicuously a member of the sex which specializes in finesse in all its branches should have made such a mistake.

George Norris read the letter to Canon Carnaby with amazement. Nay with more than amazement. The young man found it hard to conceal his wrath.

XXXVII

MISS CASS WAS duly informed that her train was the two-ten. The family chariot had been ordered for half-past one, an insurance as far as was humanly possible against her missing it. Luncheon, in the meantime, was served to her in the schoolroom.

George Norris was quite upset. Clearly he was expected to share the righteous indignation of the ladies of the household, but this was asking too much of human nature. As for Miss Parbury’s air of triumph, he found it intolerable.

In truth, this was a dark hour. For the young man now realized that he was very much in love. The drama of this abrupt departure brought home the fact rather unpleasantly. A very little reflection showed that his hesitations and moral cowardice of the last few days were going to cost him dear.

On three consecutive mornings had he made up his mind to propose to Miss Cass before the day was out. But the end of each day had found him unequal to the task. He didn’t quite know why. Sheer human weakness, no doubt, had led him to put off till the morrow. And it was now too late.

Somehow the little governess had always contrived to keep him rather at a distance. He had never quite known the ground on which he stood. She was a most dexterous fencer, her heart was not worn on her sleeve; and in spite of his military renown he was not quite sure of himself. But the “sacking” at a moment’s notice of this extremely fascinating little lady brought things at once to a head.

It roused the chivalry in the breast of George Norris to the danger point. He felt that he must speak now or forever hold his peace. This was a chance that could not recur. If he let her go now he was never likely to meet her again. In a state of high tension he began to range the house, yet halting always at the schoolroom door with two sinister words echoing and reëchoing in his mind. Too late! Too late! was their diabolic chorus.

Even now he was set upon one last attempt. She must not go away like that. It was the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, he would have to rush his fences horribly, but no matter he must put all to the touch.

The schoolroom door confronted him. But in spite of the row of decorations on his tunic his courage suddenly failed. One can hardly propose to a girl in the middle of her luncheon! Some men might be equal to such a task: a strenuous military life had taught George Norris that some men are equal to anything, but even in this impasse he thanked his stars that he was not of their number. No, confound it all, he must let her eat her luncheon anyway!

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed a quarter-past one. He was cutting it decidedly fine! Again one of his fatal hesitations came upon him. Only a fool would think of butting in now. Better far be content with obtaining her permanent address and sending through the post an offer in his best English. But the Dr. Jekyll in his composition--or was it the Mr. Hyde?--assured him that such a bloodless proceeding was bound to fail. Wiser by far, thought Jekyll-Hyde, to trust implicitly to the personal equation. Let him go ahead with the business, luncheon or no luncheon, then and now!

Yes, after all, that was the sound commonsense of the matter. The hand of George Norris sought the knob of the schoolroom, but before he could turn it, the door of the room opposite came abruptly open. “George,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson with a glance at the venerable article of furniture across the hall, “Tell me, isn’t that clock slow?”

With a stab of keen annoyance George looked at his watch. Alas, the clock was certainly slow, by a full ten minutes. And in confirmation of the dire fact a severe parlor-maid and a giggling subordinate emerged at that moment round a bend into the visible part of the staircase in charge of Miss Cass’s rather meager but heavily burdened tin trunk.

In almost the same instant there came a sharp peal at the front door bell. It was an intimation that John Small was round with the family chariot.

XXXVIII

WHATEVER the disabilities of General Norris there was not a suspicion of false shame about his hostess. She took the knob of the schoolroom door out of the young man’s hand and turned it for him.

“Miss Cass.” The flutelike note rang clear and free. “No wish to hurry you, Miss Cass, but the carriage is waiting.”

Miss Cass lifted her eyes calmly from her cheese.

Then she glanced at the watch on her wrist--an adorably neat watch on an adorably neat wrist--quite leisurely. “Thank you,” she said drily. It was really the driest “Thank you” George Norris had ever heard.

As she rose from the table with a deliberation which to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was rather infuriating, that lady observed the hat of the retiring governess. It was decidedly expensive. And her gloves and shoes could not possibly have been warranted by her salary. On the other hand George Norris observed none of these things. He was occupied far too much with their wearer. But above all, he was occupied with that sinister chorus in his brain, “Too late, too late!”

All was lost. And he had but himself to blame. In a kind of dull rage he stepped up to the open door to watch the lading of Miss Cass’s luggage on to the chariot. The mien of John Small was a comedy in itself. He at least was ready to welcome the departure of one who had kept him in his place as determinedly as he attempted to rise above it. As John Small hoisted the tin trunk on to the back of the dog cart he had the look of a man well satisfied.

That look was oddly reflected in the bearing of Miss Dolores Parbury, who at the chosen moment emerged from the morning room to speed the parting guest. There was a kind of wary triumph in it, a triumph not so much open and avowed as tacit and concealed. After all, Miss Cass was only the governess. But there the triumph was, at any rate, for the eye of George Norris, who suddenly found that it was more than he could bear. As he caught the slightly averted glance of Miss Cass that was like nothing so much as a sword half-sheathed, his heart went out to her. In defeat she was sublime. Faults she might have; her manner with young children might leave something to be desired, but _au fond_ she was a fearless warrior and she had been endowed with so much charm that nature hardly seemed to be playing fair to the average members of Miss Cass’s sex in allowing her to treat it as a proprietary article.

The gallant George did not try to analyze the situation. He was a man of action, for one thing. Besides, there really was not time. This was the crisis of his fate, and events were moving with alarming rapidity. Before he could regain complete control of his mind, the inimitable Miss Cass was making her adieux.

With the faintly mischievous smile which invited intimacy and yet repelled it, she offered her hand.

“Good-by!” she said.

But George, hypnotized by the touch of her fingers, felt quite unable to say good-by. He knew that immediately beyond the little lady two pairs of eyes, scorpion in their burning intensity, were directed upon him. He knew that anything he said or did now would be used in evidence against him, but it was asking too much of human nature to let her go like that. He didn’t know her plans, he didn’t even know her address! A mine had been sprung under his feet by the forces of injustice; but he would never be able to forgive himself if he lost her without making a sign.

The forces of injustice were ruthlessly dominating the scene. But what did it matter? What did anything matter? This was Fate’s hour. If at such a moment he failed to show himself a man it would tell heavily against him in the ultimate assize.

“I’ll come to the station and see you off!” The daring of the speech was incredible; at least, so it seemed in the ear of two of the ladies. In the ear of the lady to whom it was addressed, by one of those piquancies which make the human comedy the infinitely delightful thing it is, it was accepted at its face value with a complacency that was hardly decent.

“How extremely kind of you!”

A shiver ran through the stout fibers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. The robust Miss Parbury had a horrid momentary feeling that some one was in the act of walking across her grave.

“But, my dear George,”--the voice of the hostess was imperious, yet by comparison with the organ tones around her it sounded oddly high and thin--“luncheon is at a quarter to two. Aren’t you forgetting?”

The intrepid young man was not forgetting. He could easily obtain a sandwich at the station.

“But how absurd!”

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson waited an instant for the departing governess to agree that it _was_ absurd, as any self-respecting governess must surely have done in the circumstances, but she waited in vain.

“It is not in the least necessary. Small is quite able to help with Miss Cass’s luggage. Are you not, Small?”

“Yes, m’m,” came a slow but truculent response from the seat of Jehu.

“Oh, no.” The young man was amazing. “Much better let me. Porters are in such short supply at all the stations these days. Besides, I want to send off a wire. So that if there’s room at the back of the cart for me as well as for that trunk----?”

“Woa-a-a horse!”

George, the incredible, had one foot on the back step already. Miss Cass, smiling and calm, was seated deftly in front. If the look of her had a meaning she knew only too well that all the cards were in her hand.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw that the game was going against her heavily, but she gathered herself for a final throw. “My dear George, you will catch your death,” she cried.

It _was_ a dank morning of November. There was even a thin spatter of rain. George, the overcoatless, reluctantly lifted his foot from the step of the dogcart. “I’ll get my British Warm,” he said.

Too elemental for a thought of treachery to enter his mind, the young man turned suddenly into the house in quest of that garment.

Openly and palpably fighting for victory Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson saw her chance. No modest scruple stayed her. “Drive on, Small,” she said sternly, as soon as the young man had passed indoors. “Don’t wait for General Norris.”

Small, ready at all times to obey his mistress, was prepared to do so now. He may or he may not have had a full grasp of the case. Such fellows are not always so wooden-witted as they appear. But he valued his place and beyond a doubt he would not have waited for General Norris had it not been for the prompt intervention of the lady who shared with him the front seat. With a suddenness very disconcerting to John, the shameless Miss Cass sprang to her feet. “My box is not very secure, I’m afraid. It might fall out at the back.”

“Your trunk is quite all right, Miss Cass,” promptly and energetically countered Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “It cannot possibly fall out. Small, drive on.”

Hardly a minute was occupied by the entire incident. But the situation was saved. Before John Small had a chance of getting under way, General Norris, becomingly clad in his British Warm had emerged from the house and had again placed his foot on the back step of the chariot.

“Never mind your box, Miss Cass,” he said cheerily. “I’ll take care of that.”

XLIX

ALL the way to Clavering Station George Norris took extremely good care that the tin trunk of Miss Cass did not fall from the back of the dogcart. His task was not difficult, for the box was so comfortably disposed under the seat that it showed not the slightest disposition to do so. But had it been a tin trunk with any spirit of opinions of its own it might easily have achieved a crash to Mother Earth at the sharp turn into the high road by The Laurels gate and at divers trappy places along the route, for there really was a much preoccupied young man in charge of it.

The truth of the matter was that it had almost immediately dawned on George Norris that should the 2:10 Up be punctual it would leave very little time for a proposal in form. Moreover, it would have to take place on the station platform. Such are the inconveniences of a dogcart. In the circumstances of the case it seemed hardly less than a grave oversight on the part of Fate to have omitted to provide a closed brougham, no matter how antiquated, one-horse or otherwise, for such an occasion.

Certainly it meant cutting the whole thing very fine. According to the rate of John Small’s progress they were not likely to reach Clavering station much before two o’clock and that left little time for the business in hand. As a matter of historical fact, it wanted exactly one minute to the hour when they drew up beneath the portico of the station yard.

George had to justify his presence by seeking a porter in the station interior. To do him justice they undoubtedly _were_ in short supply, but he was able to corral one in something under two minutes and returned with him in triumph to find Miss Cass handsomely tipping John Small for services unwillingly rendered. In fact, when John withdrew, chariot and all, he was quite a changed man. From the moment he had first set eyes on the new governess he had been her enemy, but if anything was meant by the manner of his final exit from the station yard she was almost entitled to look on him now in the light of a friend.

The departure of John left a bare six minutes or so for the all-important matter to be transacted, always providing that the train was punctual. Happily the porter was very reassuring on this point. According to his estimate the 2:10 Up was bound to be anything from twenty to forty minutes late. Moreover, if he was betting on it he would back the second figure rather than the first. So far, so good.

However, there was a dramatic surprise in store for George Norris. Indeed, there was a series of surprises. And they began almost at the moment John. Small and his chariot left the station yard.

“Please label this,” George directed the attention of the porter to the tin trunk. “Waterloo or Paddington?” he inquired of its owner.

Then came surprise the First.

“I think it had better be put in the cloak room,” said Miss Cass. “And these, I think, had better go with it.” She indicated the pilgrim basket and another miscellaneous article ranged beside it. “I am not going by this train,” she added quite casually.

The heart of George Norris gave a leap.

“So much the better.” And the young man spoke with the simplicity which made him so attractive.

With quite a sense of relief he saw the luggage of Miss Cass stowed away in the cloak room. And then, like a man of will who has just been confirmed in a great decision, he addressed that lady. “I don’t know what your plans are,” he said, “but if I may, I would like to have a little talk with you.”

The only answer of Miss Cass was a smile. But she made no difficulties about having a talk with General Norris. As intending passengers were now rapidly assembling for the Up train, they crossed the bridge to the deserted Down platform. No one else was there. They took one brief turn and then sat down on a wooden bench thoughtfully provided by the railway company.

This the hour and this the opportunity. There was no beating about the bush. George knew his own mind and proceeded to ensue it. “Ethel,” he said, taking one small gloved hand in his own, “will you marry me?”