Part 9

In the circumstances, it was a confession that Girlie felt bound to make to her principal. Humiliating the confession might be, a little demoralizing it certainly was, yet bound up in it was a sense of romance, a secret thrill of adventure. Somehow she felt bound in honor to tell Lady Elfreda what she feared was going to happen. Half shamefacedly she made her odd disclosure, and yet as she did so with many blushes, deep hesitations and some tears, it would be less than just to Girlie or to Girlie’s sex to say that pain was her dominant emotion.

As for Elfreda, when she grasped the true meaning of the disjointed, tremulous words, she was able to conceal her real feelings, whatever they might have been. In that art at least she was singularly adept. A light of humor burned in the eyes that seemed to peer into the very soul of Girlie Cass. And then an arrogant lip curled ever so slightly. She was justified, she was more than justified in what she had done! The thought seared the pride of one who as yet had hardly begun to learn her own intrinsic value in the matter-of-fact world of men and things.

So this was the measure of the man whom her parents considered good enough for her! In the sight of this Crœsus any underbred little impostor was as eligible as her authentic self. Suddenly the red light was hoisted in Elfreda’s eyes. That rubbishy little thing to be accepted at her surface value! Elfreda’s face grew hard.

“What ought I to do?” twittered poor Girlie.

The eyes of this daughter of a picturesque race altered curiously in the fragment of time that elapsed before she could bring herself to answer the question.

Twittered poor Girlie again--“Do tell me, please, what I ought to do!”

“Do!” The scorn was cold drawn, barbaric. “Why, go back at once and make him propose to you. And”--the eyes were like those of Medusa--“don’t let me see or hear from you again until he has done so.”

XX

GIRLIE could only gasp. Elfreda’s speech in its frigid nonchalance was stupefying. More fully than ever did she realize that she was in the toils of an Evil Genius. This girl, this amazing girl, had a will of iron. She was growing positively afraid of her.

It was all very well for Lady Elfreda Catkin to issue an ukase, but it was not she who would have to foot the bill. She was a person of importance, she had powerful friends, her position was secure. No matter how deep and angry the waters, no matter how menacing the sky, she belonged to the class that was able to weather the most violent storms. But for the Girlie Casses of the planet it was a very different matter. What for the one might be nothing more than a new and original, if rather perilous, form of entertainment, for the other might mean the end of all things.

Girlie’s mind was a chaos as her scared eyes met the implacable ones that were fixed on hers. General damnation was their only portent. She knew she was done for, anyway. It was but a question of putting off the evil day. But if she bolted now she would at least save herself from being publicly found out, whereas if she waited for the inevitable exposure there was no saying what might happen to her.

“Oh, but I daren’t let him propose--I simply daren’t.”

Elfreda harshly told her not to be foolish.

“But---!” Girlie knew only too well that her wriggles were miserably inadequate. And in the midst of them yet another complication presented itself. She remembered that there might be two Richmonds in the field. Signs had not been wanting that the little baronet also was inclined to view her with a favorable eye. Certain cadences of his voice lingered in her ears even now. There seemed but one thing to do. As one seeking the aid of a strength beyond her own she confessed to Elfreda that Sir Toby Philpot also might be on the verge of a proposal.

To this admission Elfreda did not immediately reply. But with that pitiless glance that had the power of striking far below the surface of things, she looked at the Deputy. Was this the kind of little idiot who believes that every man who smiles as he opens a door is in love with her, or was it literally true that at Clavering Park she was _un succès fou_? Elfreda continued to analyze her mercilessly. Yes, in her way, she was undoubtedly a pretty little thing. And the half-scared manner and the timid voice made her rather a plaintive, rather a pathetic little thing, so that after all it would not be so very remarkable if she made a strong appeal to the male. At the same time, the idea of her playing such havoc was ludicrous and, from Elfreda’s own private standpoint, more than a little humiliating.

Here was the richest possible commentary on the sort of people whom her own parents considered good enough for her. Had fuel been needed to sustain Elfreda’s fighting spirit it was here in abundance. If only for pure devilment now she would go on with the farce. An odd sparkle in her eyes must have proclaimed her intention, for at the mere sight of it the hapless Deputy gave one further gasp.

“Oh, please--please, do come back with me and put things right!”

Girlie would have done as well to have appealed to a stone. “No, not yet.” There was not a hint of compromise. “You must keep it up--until after Tuesday at any rate. I will come to you one day next week, perhaps Wednesday or Thursday. And if you will do your best and stand it as well as you can, no harm shall come to you. I promise that.”

It was meager comfort. But to judge by Elfreda’s eyes there was no hope just then of anything else. Be the cost what it might her decision was made. Poor Girlie clung for support to an arm of the sofa. Sheer beneath her feet yawned a chasm.

As if to intensify this grim illusion Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson chose that moment to return to the drawing room. Her return, moreover, was fraught with purpose. “Lady Elfreda.” So flutelike was the lady of the house that the new governess could not help wondering privately how her voice would have sounded at the Queen’s Hall!--“Won’t you stay to luncheon? We shall be _so_ glad if you will.”

The answer of the distinguished visitor was to regard the new governess with a scared and apprehensive eye. But that lady was quite equal to the situation. She turned to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and said with a kind of frigid decision that forbade any possible doubt, “Lady Elfreda is expected for luncheon at Clavering Park.”

Thereupon, in a manner that left no loophole for argument, Miss Cass moved to the drawing room door and opened it. As her eyes drew Girlie towards it they seemed full of a latent menace. The visitor was just able to muster a half audible “Good-by. Thank you so much,” for the benefit of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, before she was sternly shepherded if not actually hustled by Elfreda across the hall.

“Do your best. Don’t be afraid. I will let you know the day I can come next week. And remember that I take all responsibility.” Amid this spate of final low-toned instructions poor Girlie was put out on to the gravel and the front door of The Laurels closed rather peremptorily upon her.

From behind the drawing room curtains Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson watched the slight form of the visitor fade from view along the carriage drive. A tempest raged in the bosom of the lady of the house. If the manner of Miss Cass meant anything she looked down upon her employer; her arbitrary dismissal of the luncheon project could bear no other interpretation. However, the fury of the storm was a little assuaged by a wholesome curiosity; otherwise it might have gone hard with Miss Cass. Not only was that amazing person called upon by the aristocracy, but her attitude towards it was that of one who claims a half scornful equality. She had no more respect for Lady Elfreda Catkin than she had for any one else!

There was balm in that thought. For several days past Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had been at the point of telling the new governess that she would not suit, and of advertising for some one else. Indeed, for the sake of General Norris and dear Dolores, she had been obliged to ask Miss Cass to dine upstairs. But even now Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson could not quite bring herself to give that lady notice. She was far too interesting; in fact a type of governess altogether new in her present employer’s rather chequered experience. The children hated her, but she might be good for them. She would be able to teach them self-assurance.

Taking one consideration with another, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson still shrank from the drastic step of giving Miss Cass her congé. She would wait, at any rate, until she had told the story to Dolores. Whether she would take the advice of Dolores and get rid of her, that, of course, was the point to decide. Poor dear Dolores loathed Miss Cass.

XXI

BY the time that Girlie, homeward bound, had reached the Pendennis Arms at Clavering, she realized that even if the erratic vehicle which went by the gates of the Park was prepared to start immediately, luncheon would be over by the time she got back. She made up her mind accordingly “to go the whole hog,” and proceeded to regale herself with a cup of tea and a war bun at an adjacent confectioner’s. Then, after an hour’s inspection of the small and sleepy town, she set her face towards her temporary home.

She was in no hurry to get there. For one thing she had to evolve some sort of excuse that would cover the fact of her absence from the luncheon table. Again, she had to decide the question whether it was absolutely necessary to return at all. Why not bolt? It would not be difficult. There was a little, only a very little money in her purse, it was true. Should she accept this as the price of her career? That was the question. Just now almost anything seemed better than to return and meet the public exposure which could not long be delayed.

At a bend of the leaf-strewn road, where beyond a rich expanse of park land the imposing chimneys of the Hall rose into view, she suddenly stopped to grapple once again with this sore problem. Only too clearly did she realize that flight was her only chance. As far as she was concerned there could be no other solution. It would be a base betrayal of Lady Elfreda, yet Girlie saw now with painful clearness that her new acquaintance was far too dangerous to be regarded as a friend.

The young woman masquerading at The Laurels was entitled to such small consideration that Girlie felt she could square her conscience on that point at least. But now that her thoughts were centered upon running away, she was met by the fact that she had given up her rooms at Laxton, that she had lost her situation, that she had nowhere to go. In the lee of the park wall there followed a tense five minutes of mental conflict. In the end it may have been her odd strain of megalomania that decided the question. Certainly that fatal flaw had much to answer for. Let her rise to the height of opportunity! Let her not be afraid of life, but drink bravely of the cup of high experience!

Finally, swayed no doubt by these perilous ideas, she passed on by the park wall and through the lodge gates. Defiant of fate and all its machinations, she went straight to her room to tidy herself for tea. In the act of doing so she could not help marveling at her own cynicism. It was so incredible that she could not recognize herself. While she changed her dress and rearranged her hair she began to evolve some sort of a story to cover her absence. As soon as she appeared in the hall she had, of course, to run the gauntlet.

“My dear Lady Elfreda,” cried the yellow chrysanthemum lady at the pitch of humorous expostulation, “where _have_ you been?”

Girlie hardened her heart. “Into Clavering.” Her courage rose to a dogged defiance. “To do some shopping. I am so sorry. I ought to have told you.”

“But your luncheon?” Mrs. Minever’s face was a study. “Where did you get it?”

“At a tea shop.”

The half amused eyes of the hostess suddenly encountered those of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling. Among her fellow guests the theory was growing that not only was Lady Elfreda suffering from a queer form of “side” but also that she was a little “cracked.” Certainly her manner was most odd and her behavior matched it.

Girlie, however, was now at bay. She took her seat in the midst of her critics, sipped tea and pecked at bread and butter. Never in her life had she felt so wretched. The affair was getting unbearable. As she suffered the rather scathing politeness of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and the icy tones of the other ladies her mind ran upon suicide. But the demon within bade her go on. There was Shelley’s authority that what poets learn in suffering they teach in song. Of novelists, no doubt, that maxim was equally true.

XXII

THE ladies were still drinking tea when a footman ushered in a visitor.

“Mrs. Lancelot.”

The elderly mistress of Amory Towers aroused the curiosity of even the professional _blasèes_ who greeted her. She was “County.” They might seem to scorn her in the way they scorned all things and everybody, their veiled amusement had a touch of malice no doubt, but there was also Mrs. Lancelot’s faculty of engaging the interest of all the world and his wife to be reckoned with.

She was like nothing upon this earth--the yellow chrysanthemum lady, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones were agreed upon that!--yet in her queer way the old dame stood for something. What she stood for was, no doubt, a bygone phase. She might have stepped out of a page of Punch for the year 1890. Her dress with its decided waist and its antediluvian tuckers round wrist and neck was of amethyst colored merino, a necklet of amethyst hung upon her ample chest, her hair with a Queen Alexandra fringe was barber’s blocked after the manner of royalty, her toque baffled all description, but it had pansies in it, and her manner, plain and practical rather than “grand,” carried a weight that her odd appearance should have countervailed, yet somehow failed to do so. Mrs. Lancelot, no doubt, was _une figure pour rire_, but only those very accomplished in the world could have got her “range” with a nicety sufficient to take advantage of the fact. Her present critics, for example, inclined to scorn as they were, could not help being fettered a little by a secret sense of their own inadequacy.

A dutiful neighbor, Mrs. Lancelot had called once on the yellow chrysanthemum lady and the call had been promptly returned. There, however, the intercourse had ceased. Somehow they had hardly set each other’s genius. But this afternoon there was no hint of that fact in Mrs. Lancelot’s entrance or of Mrs. Minever’s reception of her. The visitor was cautious, almost comically cautious, as she always was when not quite sure of her bearings; the yellow chrysanthemum lady was slightly more exuberant than usual, as she was apt to be when cherishing a similar doubt on her own part. In the sight of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, rather declassèe daughter of a not undistinguished sire, it was as good as a play to see them together: this resolute survivor of a discredited phase of human history--the august visitor’s relations had held more than one job about the court of Victoria the Good--and the forthcoming hostess who made no secret of the fact that she was bored by “frills” and “fine shades.”

The reason of Mrs. Lancelot’s visit to Clavering Park, if not immediately clear, was soon revealed. A discerning but imperious eye fixed itself upon Girlie, who, seated a little apart from the others in a bergère chair, was feeling a strong desire to take cover inside her tea cup.

Mrs. Lancelot took a vacant chair by her side and began to converse in a low, intimate tone.

“You are not at all like your mother.” Mrs. Lancelot’s direct mode of attack made Girlie tremble. “You are not like your father, either. You look rather tired, my dear.”

The Deputy mumbled a brief denial, which unfortunately was quite inaudible.

“Are you feeling tired?”

Girlie had the presence of mind to say that she had been working very hard at the rehearsals.

“Mustn’t work too hard. You look quite run down.” And then Mrs. Lancelot proceeded energetically, “You must come over to us, my dear. A change will do you good. I have written to your mother to tell her. We are very old friends, your mother and I--old school-fellows, in fact--and, of course, third cousins once removed. You must come at once. I am sure you need a change and Ethel thinks so, too.”

Little shivers began to trickle down Girlie’s spine. She was in no mood to exchange the ills she knew for the ills she could only surmise, for, as she realized, these might so easily prove the more terrible.

“Yes, you must come to us.” In the saurian aspect of Mrs. Lancelot there was something quite alarming. “Your mother would like it. Now, when shall it be?”

The prospect of a visit to Amory Towers reduced Girlie to a frozen silence. A look of fear came in her eyes. Mrs. Lancelot was not one to notice subtleties of any kind, but, happily, the yellow chrysanthemum lady, as soon as she learned what was in the wind, did not hesitate to come to the rescue of her guest. For one thing, the daughter of Lord Carabbas, with all her limitations, was the undoubted _pièce de resistance_ of the house party; and Mrs. Minever was inclined to accept Lady Elfreda’s reluctance as an unexpected compliment to the life she was leading at Clavering Park. Heaven knew what was passing through the odd creature’s mind, but if those scared eyes and that rather hunted look had any meaning, it was clear enough that she infinitely preferred Clavering Park to Amory Towers!

“I’m afraid Lady Elfreda can’t be spared--until after the performance on Tuesday, at any rate.”

Mrs. Minever’s boldness was rewarded by a look of pure gratitude, but also it incurred the penalty of an almost truculent, “Why not, pray?” from the august visitor.

“Well, you see,” the yellow chrysanthemum lady stoutly rejoined, “so many rehearsals will be necessary between now and Tuesday. Sir Toby Philpot says everything is so behind hand that as soon as Mr. Jupp arrives they will have to go on all day.”

These sinister words fell upon Girlie like a sword. She was between the devil and the deep, deep sea. Paralysis of will was added now to her other miseries. On the verge of collapse, she sank back in her chair.

Mrs. Lancelot, however, was not to be put off. She was a lady who liked her own way, and on most occasions was accustomed to get it. But on this occasion she had to submit to a compromise. Lady Elfreda must come to Amory Towers, but her visit should be deferred until Tuesday the-all-important was safely over.

“Wednesday, then--let us say Wednesday,” said the august visitor.

The yellow chrysanthemum lady promised that Wednesday it should be, while Girlie smiled weakly. Mrs. Lancelot, having carried her point more or less, graciously accepted a cup of the fresh tea that had been procured for her. Perhaps, by the light of later events, it had been better for Girlie had she not done so. For Mrs. Lancelot, before taking her leave, proceeded to harrow the souls of her hearers. She had a sinister tale to unfold. A gang of thieves were at work in the neighborhood. The Channings had had the Priory ransacked while they were at dinner, and poor Lady Emily had suffered the loss of a most valuable diamond pendant. There had also been a most suspicious parlor-maid at the Towers, but luckily she had been sent away before anything of real value had been missed. But Major Hocking, the chief constable, thought the gang so dangerous that Mrs. Lancelot had been advised to send her jewels and some of her silver to the bank, and she had accordingly done so.

“I tell you this, Mrs. Minever,” said the visitor in her most _affairé_ tone, “because in such times as these one cannot be too careful.”

The yellow chrysanthemum lady thought the remark very sensible and expressed her gratitude for the information. It confirmed the rumors she had heard. On the other hand, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was inclined to think that all stories of the kind were apt to be exaggerated, but Mrs. Lancelot rent her at once with chapter and verse.

“No, after the experience of the Channings one should really take every precaution.” And with a rather elaborate leave-taking of Lady Elfreda, and one more informal of people less exalted, Mrs. Lancelot augustly went her way.

XXIII

GIRLIE took a long while to array herself for that evening’s dreaded meal. The crisis of her fate was now at hand. Realizing to the full all that was involved in the coming of Mr. Montagu Jupp, she had not the courage to ask Mrs. Minever whether that Old Man of the Sea was really on the point of arrival. Only too soon would the fact be known. In her present state of mind she was quite unable to face the dire consequences that must attend his visit; she chose, therefore, to bury her head ostrich-wise in sand by indulging the pitifully vain hope that he was not coming after all.

How frail that hope was the momentous hour of eight revealed very surely. Hardly had she entered the drawing room, striving heroically for a show of composure which her wretched nerves denied her, when lo! amid a cascade of chaff with an undercurrent of laughter and applause, the great and admired Montagu came in his own person upon the scene.

Sir Toby, as usual, led the way. It was his fixed rule of life to lead the way everywhere, under all conditions, in all circumstances, if only he was allowed to do so. At the back of his mind he always seemed to feel that the stars in their courses had ordained that he should be the master of every ceremony. But, in comparison with the mountain of geniality who alternately rolled and grinned as he followed in his wake, Sir Toby was the merest pigmy. Mr. Jupp had the art of monopolizing the attention of all the world, of catching every eye, of dominating every assembly he entered.

Still, the mere arrival of the great man was in the nature of a triumph for Sir Toby. Odds had been freely laid by despondent members of the cast that Montagu would not appear. But his magnetic presence was just what was needed to “pull things together.” However, as far as the luckless leading lady was concerned, no one envied him his task.

Quite a thrill seemed to pervade the air of the drawing room at the moment of their greeting. But Girlie, in the toils of sheer desperation, was able for once to muster an inhuman stoicism. Already she had undergone so much that she was now determined to die fighting. Yes, whatever happened, she would die fighting. Heroically, with bright eyes, with set lips, she came forward a pace, as the hostess triumphantly convoyed the great man towards her. “How do you do?” she said, holding out her hand.

The sublime Original, who at that fell moment was consuming cold mutton and mixed pickles in the outer darkness of the nursery at The Laurels, whither she had been banished in disgrace, could not have “played up” better. Mr. Jupp, a little fatigued by travel and with a forward looking mind in regard to his dinner, bowed over the hand that was offered. He did not scrutinize the little lady closely, at any rate just then. He took it for granted that she was what she was. Besides, apart from the fact that the clock on the chimney piece had already struck eight, there was a reason, known only to himself, why he should be in no hurry to traverse the personality of Lady Elfreda Catkin, much less to challenge her identity.