Part 7

Furthermore, there was one point on which that lady had already reached a decision. She must speak to the new governess on the subject of walking into Clavering with General Norris. As a matter of fact the point was raised rather sooner than Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had anticipated. The children, duly gaitered and gloved, announced that they were going to show Miss Cass the way to Copt Wood, whereupon General Norris remembered that he had promised to walk over to see some people who lived in that direction and made an offer to accompany the party.

The offer was promptly accepted by the children, but their mother felt obliged to lead the new governess aside before the expedition started and lay down rules for their guidance. She must not take the children to Copt Wood if General Norris insisted on going there, nor must she take them in any other direction in which he proposed to go. And while on the subject she had reluctantly but rather pointedly to refer to their morning’s expedition into the town. Such a thing must not occur again.

It is not too much to say that Elfreda felt perfectly furious. She would like to have slain this complacent and overbearing dame. For the time being, however, she was defenseless. Her color mounted high as she said that it was by no wish of hers that they had walked into Clavering together. To this Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson rejoined in a rather “Tell-that-to-the-Marines” sort of tone that whether Miss Cass had wished it or not it must not happen again.

The upshot was that when Miss Joan and Master Peter took the air they were hauled rather peremptorily and decidedly against their inclination in a direction opposite to Copt Wood, while General Norris, who seemed a shade disconsolate, was left to follow a lonely path to that part of the landscape.

While Elfreda and her charges trekked along the high road for a stolid two miles and back again the thoughts of the rebel were dark indeed. She was leading a life that hitherto she had hardly guessed at and already she had found it quite surprisingly full of thorns. There was every reason to congratulate her private stars that it was a kind of life she had never been used to; at the same time even this brief taste of servitude was curiously galling.

On the return of Miss Cass and the children to The Laurels shortly before four o’clock they found the fair Dolores in the act of arrival from Birmingham. She and several imposing boxes were being solemnly disgorged from the household chariot while Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson stood by in an attitude of mingled authority and adoration.

“Oh, the darlings!” was the greeting of Miss Parbury to Miss Joan and Master Peter.

She was a lady with a very loud voice and an assurance of manner that was little short of stupendous. It may have been for these reasons, or for reasons more subtle, that the new governess who was a young woman of quick and extremely definite intuitions decided almost as soon as she saw Miss Parbury that she was not going to like her. For one thing, although her reception of the children was stressed almost to the point of effusion, she hardly so much as looked at the green ulster even when Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson introduced its occupant; she addressed no remark then to Miss Cass nor later over the tea cups when the governess and her charges were allowed to enter the drawing room.

The manner of Miss Parbury was forthcoming, yet she was not a great talker. Her conversation appeared to consist mainly of “I mean to say”--at least impartially considered that was the gist of it. Exactly what Miss Parbury did mean to say, even when she had said all she had to say, would have taken a very wise person to determine. Still she was by no means ineffective in a metallic sort of way. Everything about her was metallic, her voice, her appearance, her dress, her mode of attack, yet when all was said she was hardly as metallic as her hostess. Birmingham, it is true, was Miss Parbury’s home town, but Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had the further advantage of being the daughter of a button manufacturer who had received the honor of knighthood. Both ladies, however, were bright specimens of the particular style they affected; it was in the nature of a physical feat, but not for an instant did they fail to live up to it; and in the case of Miss Parbury, with a cool six thousand a year at the back of her decided good looks, this achievement was rewarded by the number of her conquests in the midland counties. In fact it was clear almost before General Norris had returned from his lonely trek in the vicinity of Copt Wood that the accomplished Miss Parbury did not look for much difficulty in adding another male scalp to her already fairly large collection.

XV

AS Elfreda dressed for dinner in her meager and cheerless bedroom she felt that interesting developments might be at hand. Her sense of humor was keen and she was ready to enjoy every moment of the situation for which she had made herself responsible. It would not be her fault if coming events did not help to lighten her lot. Secretly, however, she was more deeply annoyed than she chose to admit, even to herself, by Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s ukase. How dare the woman, how dare any woman venture to treat her in that way! She must try to remember, of course, that the position she now chose to occupy was quite outside her experience; at the same time while the new governess in the privacy of her room proceeded to inspect the array of evening garments in the tin trunk labeled “Cass,” she felt absurdly hostile, not merely to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, but also to the relations and friends of that lady and to all their works.

Consideration of the wardrobe of Miss Cass disclosed it to be strictly, even painfully, limited. In spite of this handicap, Elfreda, however, was fully determined to make the most of herself for that evening, and took considerable pains with her toilette. The best she could muster was a black silk skirt, a semi-décolleté blouse of black chiffon and a pair of velvet slippers. Elfreda was much too matter of fact to paint extravagant pictures of her own appearance, but when she looked in the glass and beheld the prim result of her labors it needed all the humor she possessed to save her from laughing on the wrong side of her mouth.

Still, the fighting spirit of a hundred “Catkin Earls” or so had been awakened in the frilled bosom of the new governess. Black chiffon or no black chiffon, she was out for blood that evening. She went down to dinner on the stroke of eight with certain grim thoughts smoldering in the depths of a heart that had inherited a quite honest share of natural arrogance. In the drawing room General Norris stood in the center of the hearthrug, alone. The master and mistress of the house and the fair Dolores were not quite up to time.

“I hope you enjoyed your walk, Miss Cass.” The young man’s voice sounded just a shade reproachful.

“Ye-es.” There was a world of doubt in the tone of the new governess, but in the odd way she had of looking at people she looked at George Norris. There was a smile in the look, which in spite of the circumstances or perhaps because of them, was somehow queerly attractive. You couldn’t call her pretty, the young man decided, but in that smile was something, although perhaps he didn’t know it, which spoke to him far more deeply than a merely superficial attractiveness would have done. As for Elfreda, she had reached the conclusion already that this distinguished soldier was a very simple and extraordinarily handsome young man.

Their brief talk was interrupted almost at once by the entrance of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and the fair Dolores. The lady of Birmingham looked more metallic than ever in a glittering green dress with hair ornament to match, yet so clear was her skin, so good were her teeth, so bright was her hair that most people would have considered her uncommonly handsome. At any rate that was Miss Parbury’s estimate of herself and she had all the assurance of recognized beauty. The single glance she cast at the chiffon blouse and the cheap black skirt of the little governess had a touch of scornful pity. Perhaps it would have been pity unadulterated had she not already discussed Miss Cass with her hostess and had they not agreed to doubt whether the new governess quite knew her place.

During dinner, alas, this doubt crystallized into certainty. Miss Cass did not know her place. She insisted on taking such an important part in the conversation that the fair Dolores and even Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson herself came perilously near to being outshone. On every subject that presented itself for discussion she talked confidently and with point, and from time to time, to the growing resentment of the other ladies, she even dared to indulge in a little badinage. Governesses at The Laurels in the last four years had been many, but before the meal was at an end Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had sorrowfully concluded that this was a new kind of governess altogether.

Miss Cass had been highly recommended by no less a person than Canon Carnaby of Laxton, whose brother, the Reverend Sirius Carnaby, was the venerable incumbent of the neighboring parish of Yeldham, but her conduct at the dinner table, in the stern purview of her critics really amounted to “showing off.” For a full half of the meal she entirely monopolized General Norris, that is to say she would have monopolized him had not the hostess and Miss Parbury been determined that she should not; for the other half she was bewildering the company with the originality of her remarks, the independence of her judgment and the range of her information. Just before the meal came to an end, however, she was guilty of a decidedly bad break.

Apart from the military prowess of George Norris, his real claim to distinction in the sight of his former employers was that he had been “taken up” by some very “nice” people. Foremost among these was that exclusive clan the Lancelots of Amory Towers, the chimney pots of whose ancestral seat were visible on a clear day from The Laurels’ back windows. The Lancelots were the sun of the local firmament round which all minor stars and planets were more or less content to revolve. This family was too well established to insist unduly on its position; for generations its name had been known for miles round not merely as a symbol of place and power, but also as a cause of place and power in others. The Lancelots were what their neighbors desired to be; at least that was the opinion of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, although just what they were beyond the fact that they were “very influential” would have been difficult to say.

Still, there was no gainsaying the fact that George Norris, who four years and three months ago had been a clerk earning a modest three pounds a week in the office of a Clavering auctioneer, had several times been invited to luncheon and dinner by the Lancelots, and Miss Ethel herself, the bright one of the family, had only last week attempted the fox-trot with him in public. It is true that it was at the Assembly Rooms in the cause of mercy, but either Miss Ethel was growing extremely progressive for a virgin of thirty or the stock of George Norris was rising to a perilous height in the local market.

Towards the end of the meal the Lancelots were rather freely discussed and it was then that the new governess by a series of incautious remarks lent piquancy to the conversation. In fact she betrayed a knowledge so intimate of this distinguished clan that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was impelled to challenge it. By what means had Miss Cass acquired so much information concerning them?

The new governess inadvertently replied that the Lancelots were old friends of her mother’s.

“_Your_ mother’s, Miss Cass?” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson sharply; “but I am speaking of the Lancelots of Amory Towers.”

In cool tones Elfreda made it quite clear that she also was speaking of the Lancelots of Amory Towers.

“But how does _your_ mother come to know them?” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson offered open battle to Miss Cass.

The new governess smiled frankly and cheerfully as she caught the eye of the young man opposite. “Well you see----” The unconscious insolence of the slight drawl amounted to downright bad form in any governess, new or otherwise. “Well, you see my father happened to be the butler at Amory Towers and my mother was lady’s maid.”

A solemn pause ensued. Finally it was broken by a gurgle of suppressed laughter from General Norris. The tension which gripped the dinner table was thereby released, but even in the myopic sight of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson the lie of the new governess was so palpable that she decided at once that Miss Cass would have to take another situation at the end of her month.

For the rest of the evening the other ladies were openly hostile to Miss Cass. In the drawing room this attitude grew quite marked, when during Miss Parbury’s brilliant performance--brilliancy was her note in everything, the key, in fact, of her personality--of Opp’s Prelude in A minor upon the piano-forte the new governess persistently indulged in loud and animated chatter with General Norris. Broad hints were given that such conduct was unseemly, but they did not make one pennyworth of difference. It was almost as if Miss Cass took a malicious pleasure in flouting Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and in restricting the opportunities of Miss Parbury who found herself quite at a loss. General Norris was much to blame, no doubt, but he was to be excused on the ground of social inexperience. For the new governess there was no excuse. Such behavior could not be passed over. As the clock on the chimney piece chimed ten Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was moved to put her just resentment into words.

“Miss Cass”--perhaps the resentment was more apparent in the tone than in the words themselves--“you must really go to bed, I think. The children’s breakfast is at half-past eight, you know. They were ten minutes late this morning.”

Elfreda rose at once with the meaningful look that both ladies had now come to dislike so intensely. General Norris convoyed her to the drawing room door and opened it with a deference not lost upon them. Moreover they observed the frank and ready smile with which she rewarded the young man and the look he gave her in return.

Elfreda went to her chill nest very well content with her evening’s work. She had made the discovery already that but for the presence in the house of General Norris, life at The Laurels as nursery governess would be quite insupportable. However, he was a very interesting young man and the fact lent piquancy to the situation. And the manner in which the other ladies had chosen to bear themselves in it had roused Elfreda’s fighting spirit to a perilous pitch. More than ever was she determined to “ride off” the fair Dolores; and she also expected a reasonable measure of amusement in the process.

Meanwhile in the drawing room the mistress of the house was seeking balm for her protégé. “I will see that she dines upstairs to-morrow, dear.” With these discreetly whispered words did Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson salve the wounds of the fair Dolores as General Norris closed the door softly and smilingly upon the new governess.

XVI

IN the meantime gloom and anxiety reigned at Clavering Park. By just missing the bus from the Pendennis Arms, Pikey delayed her return from The Laurels until nearly three o’clock. Therefore Miss Cass decided to obey orders and by pleading a headache take luncheon in bed. Several good reasons led her to do so. Apart from the fact that Girlie’s respect for her stern custodian was tinged with awe, she was more comfortable in the security of her own room than she was likely to be anywhere else in that house at that moment. Besides, although she had given up a whole morning to the diligent study of “The Lady of Laxton,” at present she was very far from being word perfect in her part; thus she did not feel equal to the task of going through a rehearsal that afternoon. And sum and crown of all her woes, was the haunting continual fear of the arrival of Mr. Montagu Jupp.

That veritable Old Man of the Sea was expected from London by the four o’clock train. It needed no great amount of foresight on the part of Miss Cass to realize that when that event happened the game would be up. All the morning as she wrestled with Sir Toby’s dialogue, Mr. Montagu Jupp was a specter in the background of her thoughts. Should she make a clean breast of the matter there and then and so anticipate the public exposure that was inevitable later in the day? She was in such a state of panic that there seemed much to be said for that course, yet after all, as further reflection showed, there was nothing to gain by a bootless confession. At all events it would be wise to await the return of Pikey, if only because she had promised to bring Lady Elfreda with her. But there could be no building upon that. It was always possible, of course, that the Evil Genius was already bored sufficiently by her taste of drudgery to come and face the music, but poor Girlie was very far from counting upon the fact.

Pikey, however, returned Elfreda-less but terribly cross. Indeed “cross” was altogether too mild a word for her mood. It was really so savage that for a time the hapless Deputy could do nothing with her. Moreover, so completely was Girlie under the spell of Mr. Montagu Jupp that her will became inert. In sheer desperation she resigned herself to her bed for the rest of that day at least. By that means she would avoid Mr. Montagu Jupp until the morrow and so put off the hour of discovery.

Downstairs, in the meantime, consternation was rife. The sudden indisposition of the leading lady had caused the first rehearsal to be postponed. But Sir Toby was by profession an optimist. He looked at the world he lived in and all the beings who inhabited it through rose-colored spectacles. It was “good form” to do so. Every woman of his acquaintance was “a dear” or she was “charming,” every man was “a sportsman” and a good fellow. Clouds had been known to obscure the sun now and again, but after all they were only a temporary matter. He was a believer in a bright and cheerful world. That was the only side of the picture he could ever condescend to recognize. Nevertheless, even Sir Toby allowed, in the privacy of his heart, that “The Lady of Laxton” might prove an ambitious undertaking for a decidedly scratch company at short notice.

However, the author of the piece had a real stand-by in Montagu Jupp. That famous man was said by common report “to know the theater backwards.” He had only to set his hand to the business for all to be well. His arrival by the four o’clock train was eagerly awaited. Even Sir Toby’s optimism deigned to regard the coming of the great and admired Montagu as a _sine qua non_. He knew all about everything, theatrically speaking. Not only was he a “producer,” he was a Napoleon among producers. And on his own showing he had yet to learn the meaning of the word “failure.”

Alas, when the omnibus returned from Clavering station on the stroke of five, a chill descended upon the bevy of tea drinkers in the hall. The great man had not arrived. But in lieu of him a telegram had been handed to the chauffeur on the journey home. It was addressed to Sir Toby Philpot and it contained the dire news that Mr. Montagu Jupp was “unavoidably detained, important business.”

Sir Toby was stout of heart, but a cloud, an unmistakable cloud passed across the sun of his optimism. There was much to do and but a very little time in which to do it. His star artiste, upon whom so much depended, had taken to her bed; his other stand-by had let him down at the last moment; and the performance was already widely advertised to take place in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering on the following Tuesday. Moreover, Sir Toby in the bounty of his nature had given an undertaking that the performance should be repeated in the Town Hall at the neighboring city of Meichester three days later.

It was the hostess herself who presently bore the news of Mr. Montagu Jupp’s non-arrival to King Edward’s bedroom. Girlie was sitting up in bed in a beribboned dressing jacket, grappling bravely with the typescript of her part. No doubt it was an act of sheer despair, but her mind in the present state of its infirmity craved occupation. The severe task of committing to memory Sir Toby’s dialogue was by way of being an antidote to her many terrors. And when the yellow chrysanthemum lady, full of counsel and solicitude, came and sat by her bed, and bitterly deplored Mr. Jupp’s failure to appear, it was almost as if the invalid gained strength from the woes of others. At all events it suddenly occurred to her that she might be able to come down to dinner.

The kindly hostess was far from urging that course upon her guest, but certainly Lady Elfreda’s early reappearance would lessen the gloom that had fallen upon Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and other members of the cast, and even upon Sir Toby himself. So sharp was the recoil from the certainty of immediate discovery that Girlie began to feel quite bold. Her long day in bed had been a torture and a weariness, Pikey since her return from The Laurels had been intolerable, and the postponement of the worst had brought such relief that in the sudden reaction Girlie took heart of grace.

A sword hung over her head which sooner or later must fall. In the meantime, desperation nerved her and she decided upon a run for her money. She was not without courage, or it may have been that the rewards of courage inspired her to an unnatural hardihood. At any rate, a festive dinner downstairs, even if a little too highly spiced with adventure, was greatly to be preferred to a further prolonged mope in bed.

When, however, the hostess had left the room and the Deputy informed Pikey of her decision, there was a clash of wills. That autocrat vetoed the proposal ruthlessly. Miss No-Class would be far safer where she was. But the student of _The Patrician_ had made up her mind. Now that Mr. Montagu Jupp was a peril less imminent, she was in such an agreeable state of recoil that the previous evening had become a proud and happy memory. Looking back upon it in perspective, she felt entitled to consider herself a success.

Let her rise to the height of her opportunity! That thought was ever in her mind. A heavy penalty would be exacted from her presently, her career as a governess would be ruined, but in the meantime if she were really wise she would “see life,” and boldly play her part in a tragi-comedy which one day might make her as famous as Miss Mary Cholmondeley or Mrs. Elinor Glyn. No matter what the future had in store she would weave into her life a high experience that should even raise her above the Brontës and all their gifts.

Pikey continued to breathe slaughter and fire, but the Deputy, sustained by thoughts of the renown that might one day be hers, showed a firmness amounting to heroism.

“I will have a bath--please. And I will wear the blue dress.”

Could Pikey have had her way, she would have beaten the small plebeian soundly and put her back into bed. But the duenna was shaken a good deal by the tribulations of the day. She was feeling weak and she was filled with despair. The unexpected defiance vanquished her. Sullenly she prepared the bath, sullenly she went through the toilette ritual. But on this occasion her proud spirit had to submit to rebuke.

“You are hurting me.” The Deputy tried her utmost to speak sternly, even if the result was not as impressive as she could have wished. “I think I can manage my hair quite well myself, thank you.”