Part 5

Moreover, in her way, Girlie Cass was a fighter. Life for her had never been a bed of roses. And this was her chance. If only she could control her nerves and fix her will this perilous game might be worth while. Besides, whatever happened, she must not give her friend and benefactress away. Looked at rightly this was a perfectly gorgeous adventure. If only she showed pluck she had really very little to lose beyond her situation at The Laurels--a heavy penalty no doubt--yet over against that was set an opportunity for priceless first-hand experience, such as hardly one girl in a million could hope to acquire.

Let her play up and take Courage for her watchword! Even if she could not fill the rôle of a marquis’s daughter--and the event had yet to prove whether she could or she could not--the cheval glass opposite told her quite clearly that very few girls indeed could have looked the part better.

X

THE clock on the chimneypiece chimed a quarter past eight, and on Pikey’s advice the Deputy made her way down to the drawing room. She was horribly afraid, yet as she caught another view of herself in a mirror at the top of the stairs, she was not wholly in the grip of that unworthy emotion. What a necklace! Its value must be fabulous. As the light caught it and transmitted its spurious rays, her slender white throat looked slenderer and whiter than ever before. Then, too, the flush of rose in the center of each cheek and the almost unnatural brightness in her eyes blended with the wonderful frock quite remarkably. She could not help lingering a moment in front of the glass, half astonished by her own beauty.

Hearing a sound behind her she moved on. But she had not gone more than two steps down the stairs when a very friendly voice said, “Well, Lady Elfreda, have you begun yet to study your part?”

The author of “The Lady of Laxton,” who was one of the main causes of the mischief, although both were far from suspecting the fact, came alongside her in the middle of the stairs.

“No, I haven’t begun yet,” said Girlie in a voice she could not recognize as belonging to herself.

Sir Toby was rather taken aback by the confession. The time was short and the part of the little governess was decidedly a long one. Casual to say the least. So like these amateurs!

“We begin rehearsals to-morrow,” said the author gently.

That was not a moment, however, for the Deputy-daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas to think of rehearsals. She was within twenty yards of the drawing room. Would she be able to enter it?

Yes, decidedly casual and inclined to be stand-off, thought Sir Toby. He hoped the little idiot had not had her head turned already by success. Sir Toby glanced at her sideways, fully and expertly taking her in without any suggestion that he was doing so. Nailingly pretty, by gad! If her acting was up to her looks they would have a _succès fou_ on Tuesday week. Quite a stepper in her way, but apparently very shy. No doubt she would improve on acquaintance.

Sir Toby’s survey of the little Puss was so eminently satisfactory that he had no qualms at all about entering the drawing room with her. Girlie had many, however, about entering it with him. Still it would be easier than going in by oneself. She nerved herself for the severest ordeal of her life. And yet, after all, it proved quite a simple matter.

“Interesting sight,” proclaimed a bold looking woman in pink with a marble and platinum voice as soon as she appeared in the room with Sir Toby. “Behold the author and the leading lady.”

In almost the same moment the yellow chrysanthemum lady who was looking magnificent in black satin swooped upon her. “Now I must make you known to everybody. The plain but pompous looking, rather overdressed man standing over there with his hands in his pockets, is my husband. Let me introduce you.”

The gentleman in question bowed to Lady Elfreda who found the presence of mind to offer her hand. And then as the host, one Richard Minever by name, a rich and rollicking M. P., took the hand of the little lady, he grinned at his wife and said, “Confound your impudence, Kate.”

“This is he with whom you will have to go in,” said the hostess coolly. “I am very sorry for you but I am afraid it can’t be helped. But you will have some one really nice the other side of you. Let me introduce Lord Duckingfield.”

Lord Duckingfield was a large man of forty-five with a face that was by no means unattractive. He was full of geniality and charmingly simple and natural; his air as he heartily shook Girlie’s hand was that of a father towards her.

“I often see your papa at our Board meetings,” said Lord Duckingfield. “He says you are quite the clever one of the family.” And as his lordship caught little Miss Grey Eyes broadside on, he felt tempted to add although he refrained from doing so, “He might also have said you were the pretty one.”

They went in to dinner almost at once, the host offering a paternal arm to Lady Elfreda and showing the way. The party was not uncomfortably large. Mr. and Mrs. Minever, two tall and cheerful daughters, and half a dozen guests who were staying in the house. But there was an atmosphere of noisy good humor about it which was very welcome to Girlie. The banter and the repartee and the jovial give and take, which if not always in the best of taste, seemed vastly entertaining to every one concerned, all helped to provide a most fortunate cloak for the little lady who sat between the host and Lord Duckingfield.

She was really required to do very little beyond getting on with an excellent dinner. True, her private emotions hardly allowed her to do justice to the menu, but such slight attention was paid to her personally amid the general clamor that she was almost able to enjoy herself. All the same she was resolutely careful not to exceed one glass of champagne. The shrewd northern forebears simply would not hear of more than one glass. But in the one she had, there was magic. It seemed to open her heart to the luxurious play of civilized life around her. She knew it was a chimera that could not possibly last, at any moment the game might be up, but no matter what happened later, she would be a connoisseur in human experience who had lived one glorious hour.

Hoisted upon that high thought, Girlie removed her lips from the rim of her glass and sat up very straight. Yes, for that evening at any rate, she would live her hour; she really would be the daughter of a marquis even if she had to go to prison for it afterwards. Her late father, who had been a lawyer himself, always maintained that the law was the most uncertain thing in the world; so there really was a prospect of its coming to that. In the meantime, however, she would play up for all she was worth if only for the sake of the amazing new friend who had gone to The Laurels in her place, and who at this moment must be bitterly rueing the freak that had led her to forego this delightful meal.

Not only did Girlie sit up physically, she sat up mentally. Keeping her eyes and ears open, she began to take grave and particular notice! Somewhere in her mind floated vague fragments from _Hints on Etiquette by a Member of the Aristocracy_, and for that reason she boldly discarded her fish-knife, as she seemed to remember that the best people relied exclusively on forks for their fish whenever it was possible to do so. She noted, however, that neither of her neighbors seemed aware of that fact, and Mr. Minever and Lord Duckingfield went down a little in her esteem. But, after all, it merely cast one romantic light the more on the general situation. These people might be very amusing and very jolly and very rich, but even with their titles to help them they could hardly be considered real Aristocrats. And it was because Lady Elfreda Catkin was an aristocrat to her finger tips that she chose darkness and eclipse rather than sully her proud soul by mixing with people who needed fish-knives to grapple with boiled turbot.

“We are expectin’ great things of you, Lady Elfreda.” The loud voiced little man opposite was addressing her personally. “They say you absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire. I hope you’ll like your part. It was written for you specially.”

“Why, Philpot, you’ve not seen Lady Elfreda act,” said the host in his rich, rollicking tactless way.

“’Tisn’t always necessary,” said the author of “The Lady of Laxton” stoutly, “to see a woman act in order to write a part for her. Sardou did it over and over again. So did Scribe. So has Pin I’m sure--and all of ’um.”

“Doesn’t sound very convincing, Sir Toby,” said the voice of the yellow chrysanthemum lady from the other end of the table, who like her husband could not claim that tact was her long suit. “But it’ll be all right on the night no doubt. By the way _is_ there any one here who _has_ seen Lady Elfreda act?”

Girlie held her breath. The pause which followed Mrs. Minever’s words seemed so painfully long, so intensely dramatic. Would it never end? A shiver crept along the spine of the Deputy. Beneath the eyes of the entire table she felt herself to be turning green.

“What?--No one!” said the hostess.

No one had apparently.

“That’s a bit of luck for you, Lady Elfreda,” said the host with his jovial air.

The whole table laughed. Girlie began to breathe again.

“But Lady Elfreda’s escape is only temporary,” the hostess announced. “To-morrow Mr. Montagu Jupp is coming. And he claims to have taught Lady Elfreda all the acting she knows.”

XI

THE heart of the Deputy seemed to stop beating as she heard the sinister words of the hostess. But again as her lips sought the brim of her glass she took courage. No matter what to-morrow had in store she must live this wonderful hour. She would lose her situation for a certainty, perhaps she would have to go to prison, but this evening, come what might, she was determined to yield to a signal experience.

She felt like a flower that expands to the sun. To be young, to be rich, to be highly born, to be beautifully dressed, in a word to be the veritable daughter of a marquis--what a supreme destiny! Nor was it a silly and vulgar snobbishness that made her think so. Such a life as the one she was living now meant poetry, romance, color, joy. To-morrow she would return inevitably to what she was; to-morrow the endless dreary days of governessing would begin again; but to-night--to-night she would drink of the cup!

Nevertheless the shrewd northern forebears insisted that one glass of champagne must be Girlie’s limit. But it was not easy to compute the precise measure with the butler always on the watch to keep it up to the brim. Rigidly on guard as she was, a glorious, devil-may-care sort of feeling stole over her. A flush crept on her cheek, her soul leapt to her eyes, so that in the sight of more than one beholder the youngest of the Catkin girls looked uncommonly pretty.

It was after dinner, however, that the ordeal of Miss Cass really began. In the drawing room, over the coffee cups, alone with her own sex, she had to call out the reserves of her courage. The ladies were so much more formidable than the gentlemen! Somehow their manner towards her seemed curiously quizzical! Their lightest remarks, even their way of looking at one were singularly embarrassing. Still Girlie said very little, but smiled a good deal, was content to answer direct questions with a brief “yes” or a briefer “no,” so that for the time being she was able to disarm those whom she felt to be her natural enemies. Nevertheless the advent of the gentlemen came as a particular relief.

The return of the gentlemen lessened the tension considerably. Their black coats and white waistcoats seemed to add a subtle quality to the _mise-en-scène_; somehow they appeared to humanize the atmosphere of the drawing room. Girlie found them much the easier to get on with. For one thing the new peer who was on several Boards with her distinguished parent, the marquis, quite took her under his wing. It seemed he had promised Lady Elfreda’s father that he would look after her. And from the outset it was clear that the hostess at any rate was anxious that Lord Duckingfield should be as good as his word.

He was a plain honest midlander, a man almost wholly without pretensions, and although not exactly in the first blush of youth Girlie could not help thinking that he was extremely nice. If she had not known he was a lord she would never have guessed it. There was something very straightforward about him, something very considerate, something very kindly, something very humane. From the first he paid court to her in his rather heavy, fatherly way; yet in this there may have been an ulterior motive, for as he presently said, he hoped Lady Elfreda would teach him to jazz.

“But I don’t know how to,” Girlie confessed with naïve dismay. “I only know the One Step and I am not at all good at it.”

“Well, you’ll have to teach me that,” said my lord, looking straight into the sweetly serious gray eyes. “Although,” he added with a roguish smile, “I’ve been told that nowadays you smart young ladies know everything.”

Exceptions there are to every rule, and in the sight of Lord Duckingfield the little Catkin lady furnished one. She seemed to know hardly anything about anything. But he didn’t complain of that. He was old fashioned enough to prefer that style of young woman; the smart modern miss was apt to be too well informed on every subject. It was really a pleasure to meet one quite the reverse; one in fact who was ready, nay eager, to sit metaphorically at your feet. My lord in common with most prosperous men of his age liked the sound of his own voice and this pretty little girl--she really was pretty!--had the subtle art of making him forget that he was indulging a weakness. She hung on his words. She laughed at his stories. When he grew reminiscent, round eyes of serious wonder rewarded him. Yes, quite a nice little filly, both docile and intelligent, and not at all inclined to rate herself too highly, which he had rather feared would be the case, having regard to the stable she came out of.

For a full hour Lord Duckingfield was allowed to monopolize the chief guest. And no one challenged his right. The hostess had reached the conclusion already that she was “heavy cake”; the other ladies were already divided in their minds as to whether Lady Elfreda was or was not half-witted. She would improve on acquaintance no doubt, but as Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, a bold lady in pink, found occasion to hint to Sir Toby, the immediate outlook for his masterpiece was not encouraging.

“But they say she can act like blazes you know.” Sir Toby clung to that belief in the teeth of growing skepticism. “Monty Jupp says when he’s coached her a bit more she’ll be quite equal to any of the professionals.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Mrs. Spencer-Jobling who prided herself on being without illusion on any subject. “But with Miss Kitwood we should have been absolutely safe.”

Sir Toby, allowing his eyes to stray to the animated picture on the distant sofa, was impelled to discount the pessimism of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling. She was quite the prettiest little Puss he had seen in a month of Sundays, and old man Duckingfield, that astute midlander, evidently thought so too.

When bedtime came for the ladies, Sir Toby contrived a broad hint for Lady Elfreda as he politely opened the drawing room door. “I’m afraid you have a hard day to-morrow,” he said. “Your part is a long one and there isn’t much time to study it before the rehearsals begin. So mind you have a good night’s rest.”

Alas, had it been Sir Toby’s intention to deprive the little lady of the boon he was so urgently recommending no words could have been better calculated for the purpose. They almost ensured a sleepless vigil. At the prospect before her, Girlie felt one more chill along her spine. All the same as she went up the stairs with the other ladies and forced herself by sheer power of will to give them a gay good-night, the paramount emotion was triumph. She had come through a grim ordeal quite brilliantly. No one had appeared to suspect her, and incredible as the fact might seem, she had almost enjoyed herself! The morrow, it was true, was dark indeed, but already her life had known one unforgettable moment.

“Now mind you sleep well, Lady Elfreda.” The hostess took an effusive leave of her on the threshold of King Edward’s bedroom. “And no one is expected to show at breakfast unless they particularly wish to do so. So we shall not feel offended if you stay in bed all morning and study your part.”

XII

PIKEY, with a shawl round her shoulders, was dozing by the bedroom fire. She was awaiting the Deputy’s return and doing her best to keep awake. Sleepy as she was, her reception of Miss No-Class was decidedly rough and yet less rough than might have been the case had she not been already informed in the servants’ hall by Mr. Pierce, the butler, that in the matter of looks her young ladyship could give all the other ladies points and a beating.

Mr. Pierce meant well, but it was a left handed compliment, that was the best that could be said for it, yet in a sense Pikey felt rather gratified. The verdict of Mr. Pierce at any rate implied that Miss No-Class had borne herself throughout the evening quite as well as was to have been expected. So far, apparently, she had not given herself away.

“You will have your breakfast in bed,” said Pikey grimly.

Flown by success, Miss Cass did her best to bring a steady eye to bear upon the maid.

“I have already arranged to do so,” she said with a very fair approximation to the manner of the admired Miss Pond. She was still in deadly fear of the Dragon, but she must neglect no opportunity of putting her in her place.

“Oh, you have,” said Pikey, more grimly than ever. The Miss-Pond-manner had left her cold. “And you may have to stay in bed for luncheon as well.”

“But----” For the moment Girlie was not able to proceed beyond that ineffective monosyllable. Pikey was “undoing her at the back” and even this mild protest earned her a decidedly savage shake.

“It’s like this,” Pikey ominously explained. “I’m going over to The Laurels the first thing in the morning and it’s the best part of four miles away, so Mrs. Bletsoe the housekeeper tells me. And you’ve got to stop in bed till I come back.”

“But----” Miss No-Class protested.

“Let down your hair.” Of a sudden the Werewolf took a most formidable long-handled brush from the dressing table for all the world as if it had been a birch rod.

Miss Cass could not repress a tremor of fear as she withdrew the pins and the charming ribbon.

“You’ll stay in bed till I return.”

Poor Girlie gave a suppressed howl as the best quality hogs’ bristle seemed to tear open her scalp. “And Mrs. Bletsoe doubts whether I’ll be back by luncheon time if I miss the bus from the Royal Oak at Clavering.”

“But----”

The long-handled hairbrush began to draw real salt tears. “Don’t you dare to show yourself again until I’ve seen her young ladyship. To-morrow she’s coming here.” Suppressed wowl. “Or I’ll know the reason.” Wowl ad libitum.

The Deputy ventured no more “buts.” She feared that this old Sioux might cause her scalp to disappear altogether.

“Do you understand?”

With her hair gathered in one large merciless handful Girlie understood only too well.

“Now you can get into bed.” It was the tone of the absolute ruler of the nursery to one who had just received an honest instalment of her deserts and it also implied a promise of more to follow.

Girlie felt it was nothing less than an outrage to treat the daughter of a solicitor in that way; but without unnecessary delay she slipped in between the sheets and made the acquaintance of a friendly hot water bottle.

“Remember, you don’t get up--until you are told. And mind you say your prayers.” The Dragon switched off the electric light and retired to her own quarters to a chequered night’s repose.

Girlie fared no better. Never in the course of her life had sleep seemed so far from her pillow. She grew so excited as the present, the future, and the immediate past flooded her mind that after a while she switched on the light. On a shelf by her bedside were several of her favorite writers, but in this mental crisis even Miss Cholmondeley, Mr. Galsworthy, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward were powerless. After that she tried studying her part, but she could not bring her mind to bear upon it. Finally, as she paced up and down the large room, she tried to continue her essay for the _Saturday Sentinel_, but none of these alternatives were of the least use. Her nerves were in a state of mutiny. She could not think coherently. The fix she was in grew more terrifying as the hours passed. There seemed to be no way out. She had been mad, worse than mad. Her career was irretrievably ruined. And when the trick was discovered, as within the next four and twenty hours it was bound to be, she might very easily find herself in prison. And yet----!

That “and yet” was the cruel part. Up till now she had carried the thing off brilliantly. In a manner of speaking she had quite enjoyed the evening; so much had she appreciated its charm and its luxury that it had seemed like coming into one’s own. No matter what the sequel was, it would ever remain a golden memory almost capable of making any penalty worth while.

The dawn had begun already to steal through the Venetian blinds of King Edward’s bedroom before Girlie slept at all. All too soon she was aroused by a maid with a well filled tray. Face to face with the cold light of day and the naked reality of a perfectly stupendous present, the Deputy wisely determined that she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb; accordingly with a wrap round her shoulders she sat up in bed, made a tolerable breakfast and then put forth one more effort to fix her mind on “The Lady of Laxton.”

She was engaged in diligent study when Pikey entered to bestow a final word of admonition upon her before she set out for The Laurels. In spite of the fatigues of travel, Pikey, it seemed, had slept almost as ill as Miss No-Class. They shared an overwhelming responsibility. But the Deputy, comfortably in bed, showed herself very docile in the matter of getting up. She was quite content to stay as she was. It would suit her very well not to get up until the ambassadress returned from The Laurels; it would suit her even better not to get up at all.

The morning was fine and about half-past ten a gauntly-respectable Pikey set forth a grim figure of truculent despair. At the outset fortune was with her. A motor omnibus plied between Clavering and the neighboring villages, passing the Park gates every two hours in the process. Armed with sound advice from the housekeeper’s room, Pikey was able “to time” this vehicle and thereby to reach the Pendennis Arms at Clavering in something less than thirty minutes. Inquiry at that center of information disclosed the fact that The Laurels was some two miles away on the outskirts of the town. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, it seemed, was a local auctioneer whose rank was a mystery and a wonder to the wise.

As no fly or other medium of travel was at hand, Pikey decided to walk to The Laurels. The house was not difficult to find, but the two miles proved to be nearly three, and it took Pikey, not feeling so young as she used to, the best part of an hour to get there. It was a rather mediocre dwelling, at any rate in the eyes of Pikey who had big ideas, standing a little back from the high road. There was a small plantation in front of it and there was no other house near, but Pikey’s first impression was that it didn’t amount to much; and when the disgruntled visitor opened its gate which was in need of a coat of paint and her rather dazed mind was suddenly flooded with a renewed sense of her mission, this impression was confirmed.