Shortly before one o'clock the chiming gong for luncheon resounded pleasantly through the big house and Mrs. Baxter, with thoughtful consideration, came to the library for Betty, who, owing to her secluded dinner the evening before and her breakfast in bed, had not yet met the relatives.
"Don't you think, my dear," began Eleanor, "that we had better stop this foolishness before it goes any farther? Really, now?"
"It's not foolishness, it's very far from foolishness," declared the girl. "You promised to respect my wishes, Mrs. Baxter." Her eyes were so serious that the other yielded forthwith and, leading the way to the dining room, presented Mr. Baxter's new secretary, Miss Thompson, to the assembled guests; and, suddenly, by their indifferent civility, Betty realized how, by a word, she had reduced her importance in the world of Ipping House to about that of a nursery governess.
Very much on her dignity, the new secretary began her meal, seated between Harriet Merle and Lionel Fitz-Brown and directly opposite the Countess Clendennin, whom she studied with alert feminine interest, partly because Kate was obviously a pretty woman of the dashing, showy kind that all other women regard as natural enemies (especially if they happen to be widows under thirty) and chiefly because the countess had Bob Baxter on her right and seemed disposed to make the most of this proximity. "She isn't losing any time," thought Betty, giving Lionel the "listening look," while she noted the breezy unconcern of Kate Clendennin's attack. "She'll be calling him 'old top' in another minute," she said to herself, and Kate, in the next breath, actually did say "my dear boy." Betty laughed aloud, causing Lionel to beam with the happy consciousness of having scored a hit.
Some deprecating references to a Hollandaise sauce served with the turbot drew from Eleanor an apology for the inefficiency of a new cook. There was trouble in the kitchen, she explained, owing to the fact that Mr. Baxter had discharged the housekeeper, Mrs. Edge. This was the first thing he had done the previous evening. He thought Mrs. Edge extravagant and no doubt she was, and, of course, Mr. Baxter must do as he thought best, but it did seem a pity to upset the household.
This indication of Hiram's attitude toward extravagance cast a momentary gloom over the company, which was dissipated by the countess, who pointed out amusingly, and with surprising culinary knowledge, exactly what was wrong with the Hollandaise and added that the late count, her husband, had been an invalid for years before his death, during which time Kate had personally seen to the preparation of his meals.
"I say, Miss Thompson," chuckled Fitz-Brown, in a whisper, "she probably poisoned the old boy. Eh, what?" This genial fancy threw the gentleman into a paroxysm of suppressed laughter.
Betty turned to scrutinize her neighbor and the sight of his jolly, wholesome countenance, as he put forth this singular suggestion, brought her back to complete good humor. England has produced various types of great men, great fighters on land and sea, great writers, great orators, and so have other countries, but England has undisputed preëminence in one variety of masculine product, that is the amiable, monocled, haw-haw, dear old chap, well-meaning, silly ass creation that blooms extensively in London clubs and drawing-rooms.
Such was Lionel Fitz-Brown, who had not been at Betty's side for five minutes before he had given her detailed information as to his dear old uncle in Upper Tooting, who had the title, don't you know, that would come to him one of these days if something would only happen to his cousin in Wormwood Scrubs, who stood between and was disgustingly healthy.
"Can't you get him to go in for flying machines?" suggested Betty mirthfully.
"I say! that's an idea, Miss Thompson," exclaimed Lionel, readjusting his eyeglass. "By Jove, that's an idea! What an awfully jolly thing if I could get one of those airmen or birdmen to give my uncle a few lessons!" And again he burst into roars of laughter.
Betty's attention was now drawn to some remarks of Harriet Merle touching the Progressive Mothers' bazaar that was to be opened this afternoon in St. Timothy's parish house. Harriet dwelt with pride on the fact that her husband, the Reverend Horatio, was to deliver the address. The Reverend Horatio, she said, was at present resting in his room in preparation for his oratorical flights and Harriet would bring him up a light luncheon on a tray. Horatio found it necessary to be very abstemious at these periods of intense mental concentration.
At which Lionel again exploded softly for Betty's particular benefit. "Haw, haw, haw! I'll tell you about this intellectual concentration," he confided. "There's a jolly good reason why the Reverend Horatio isn't sittin' in that chair next to the countess puttin' down this beastly sauce and all the rest of it."
"Tell me," laughed Betty.
"Bend over so she can't hear. Now! It's because she jolly well locks Horatio in his room and leaves him there until he gets his work done."
Betty's eyes danced. "Doesn't he like to work?" she whispered.
"Like to work! Why, Mrs. Horatio nailed up the blinds yesterday in the Reverend Horatio's room so he couldn't climb out through the window. Haw, haw, haw! Intense intellectual cat!"
Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or a compliment to Martin Luther Betty never discovered, for at this moment the luncheon came to an end with a murmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The countess, having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, now carried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes. Mrs. Baxter proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merles at St. Timothy's, which offer Harriet accepted for herself alone, explaining that the walk would do Horatio good and would allow him to continue his oratorical meditations uninterrupted. This proved to be an unfortunate decision.
Betty returned to her work in the library, where she was glad to be alone, away from the chatter and the trivialities, alone with her thoughts; yet not alone, for every corner of this great room seemed alive with memories of the morning, memories of him. What a very great difference a few hours had made! How extraordinary that this vigorous young American, whom she had not seen for years, should have suddenly—without intending to do it, without dreaming that he had done it—should have—well, what had he done? What was the truth about her feeling for this playmate of her childhood, Bob Baxter?
Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a man has won her heart until she has good reason to believe that she has won his? Does a pretty woman, a young and charming woman, ever admit such a thing? Probably not, and Betty was no exception to this rule of feminine reserve. But there were two significant indications in her thoughts, one that she did not in the least enjoy the Countess Kate's flirtatious tendencies with Bob and the other a decision that now she could not break her incognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade it. To let Bob know that she was his old friend, Betty Thompson, would be a confession of weakness, as if she admitted that she was not charming or pretty enough to attract him simply as Miss Thompson. No, decidedly she would not tell him.
Betty had just arrived at this self-respecting conclusion when there came a step outside and the curate entered.
"I beg your pardon," he began timidly. "I am the Reverend Horatio Merle, one of the relatives. I believe you are Miss Thompson, the new secretary?"
"Yes," said Betty.
Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if making an arithmetical calculation.
"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. My watch says five minutes past three, which means that it is really a quarter past two. I like to keep my watch fifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss Thompson," he explained, with a bright smile.
"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.
"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-five minutes gives me exactly time to dress and shave and—I beg your pardon for going into these details. The point is I had just started for the bazaar—you see I like to go leisurely—and I was passing the lodge when I met a young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours—my wife mentioned to me, Miss Thompson, that you are an American?"
"Yes, I'm an American."
"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" He stood twisting his long fingers together in great satisfaction. "The young woman I speak of is also an American, a most deserving person, but—er—she has met with reverses and—er—Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough to let her stay at the lodge and do what she can to—er—assist."
"I see," nodded the girl.
"Her name is Hester Storm, and, as she naturally feels lonely here, being an American, I thought that you would speak to her and—er—perhaps encourage her?"
"Of course I would."
"I may add that Miss Storm rendered me an important service the other day when I was sore beset in—er—I'll explain that later on. She is outside now, in fact, she seems anxious to meet you and—er—may I?"
"Certainly," said Betty, with cordial sympathy and following the curate toward the conservatory she made out the figure of a woman in a red cloak, a strangely familiar red cloak, sharply contrasted against the foliage, and as the woman turned and came forward Betty saw, with a start of recognition, that it was her companion on the train, Jenny Regan.
"This is the young woman—Miss Hester Storm," said the curate.
"Miss Hester Storm?" repeated Betty, in surprise, while the other threw her a beseeching glance for silence.
"Yes. An interesting name, is it not?" chattered Merle, quite oblivious to the rapid pantomime that was passing between the two women. "She has been traveling with a Russian princess, but the princess drank—it was very unfortunate and—Hester will tell you about it—won't you, my dear?"
"I'll tell her all about it," answered the dark-eyed girl, and she managed, with the pleading of her eyes, to give the words a double meaning.
This being arranged, Horatio took a hurried departure, announcing that he must have time to compose his mind before the Progressive Mothers' address.
"Well?" questioned Betty, when the two women were alone.
"Don't blame me, Miss Thompson, until you've heard what I have to say," begged Hester.
"He called you Hester Storm."
"I know, but——"
"Your name is Jenny Regan—isn't it?"
"Please let me speak. I couldn't give my real name—after what happened on the train. It's been printed in the papers and—don't you see, nobody here would have trusted me? It's terrible to be suspected of a thing when—when you're innocent."
Betty pondered this. "I suppose that is true," she agreed, and Hester breathed more easily. At least she was to have a chance to tell her story, some story, and her inventive faculties had never failed her yet. It was a pity if she couldn't cook up a tale that would satisfy this rich girl's curiosity without arousing her suspicion.
"You want to know how I happen to be here?" anticipated Hester.
Betty admitted that she would like to know this and straightway the other began her extemporization, the general lines of which, it must be said, had been planned in advance, for she realized that her benefactress was no fool. It was simply a plausible continuation of her hard luck story as outlined on the train, with a vivid insistence on the shock she had suffered through being unjustly suspected. This was the last straw and it had broken her spirit. No one would believe in her or help her, and she hadn't the courage to struggle any longer. She didn't care what happened to her, she didn't want to live and—just as she was in this wicked spirit, she had thought of Betty, and it had seemed as if she heard a voice telling her to go to this gentle lady who had befriended her and—trusted her and——
At this point, as Hester was working up to an effective climax of sighs and tears, Parker entered and addressed Betty in his most haughty manner.
"Mr. Robert Baxter gave me these 'ere letters. He said I was to give 'em to the new secretary."
"Very well," said Betty, and she took the papers, while the dark girl stared in amazement. The tables were suddenly turned.
"The new secretary?" questioned Hester, when the butler had gone. "He called you the new secretary?" Her eyes were on Betty steadily now, and they were no longer pleading, submissive eyes, but had suddenly become hard and suspicious.
"Why—er—I can explain that," Betty hesitated.
Hester nodded shrewdly. "It'll take a lot of explaining, if you ask me. On the level, are you a lady or—what?"
"I've been doing Mr. Baxter's secretarial work——"
She felt the color flaming in her cheeks under Hester's bold scrutiny. "It's a—a sort of a joke."
"A joke? You pound that typewriter—for a joke?"
"Why—er—I do it to help Mr. Baxter."
Hester studied Betty silently, then, in a cold, even tone, "Say, lady, you'll have to show me. I'm in bad myself and—I want to know about you. Ain't this Mr. Baxter that you're tryin' to help, ain't he a rich man?"
"Yes, but—Mr. Baxter has had losses in business and—he has enemies and—— Oh, you wouldn't understand! You can't understand!"
Hester turned away and walked toward the conservatory. She must think. After all it was none of her business why Elizabeth Thompson was doing Baxter's secretary work. Hester was at Ipping House for the golf bag and for nothing else, and straightway she returned to her original plan of propitiating Miss Thompson and thus establishing herself in the Baxter household.
"All right, lady," she said, softening her tone, "I'll take your word for it, but—if you've had troubles yourself you know how I feel and—all I ask is a chance to work and—make a living."
"What kind of work can you do?"
"Sewing, all kinds of sewing and—I can trim hats. I make all my own things. I made this dress and this cloak."
"Really! I think your cloak is very smart," and Hester reflected that it might well be, seeing that she had paid five hundred francs for it on the Rue de la Paix.
"I suppose I could recommend you to Mrs. Baxter and the other ladies," hesitated Betty, "for sewing and mending, only—there's our meeting on the train—it's very awkward."
"Why is it? We don't have to tell them about the train, do we? I'm here anyway. The Reverend Merle got me here. All I ask you to do is to let me fix over some dresses and shirtwaists."
"Very well," decided the secretary. "I'll do that."
"Say, will you let me begin right away? Will you? So I can satisfy that she dragon down at the lodge?"
"Mrs. Pottle?"
Hester nodded, with expressive pantomime indicating the nature of the dragon. "If that old thing knows I'm sewing for the ladies here she'll let up on the scrubbing talk. Why should I scrub when I can sew?"
This sounded reasonable and Betty began to feel that she had been not quite kind to Hester.
"It's a good time now," she said, with increasing friendliness. "I've nearly finished this work and, if you don't mind going to my room, we'll see what we can find."
The Storm girl gave a little gasp of joy. Was there ever anything as easy as this? Would she mind going to Miss Thompson's room! Would she mind taking $25,000 on a gold spoon? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
But she simply answered with a grateful, innocent look, "I'll be glad to go."
So they climbed the winding stair, Hester thrilling with expectation. She had no doubt the bishop's purse was still in the golf bag's depths where she had dropped it, and the golf bag itself was probably in this very room where they were going; or, if not there, it must be knocking about in some odd corner or dusty closet, where she would quickly find it, now that she had the run of the house, and, having found it——
"Oh!" she cried suddenly and stopped short at the open door, unable to speak or to move, for there, in plainest sight, resting against a tall chest of drawers, was the coveted object, the treasure-holding golf bag.
"What is it?" asked Betty.
"Nothing, lady. I—I was a little out of breath," stammered the girl, recovering herself quickly. Here was her golden opportunity and she must not spoil it by any queer behavior.
And now Hester's luck attended her, for not only was Betty quite oblivious to her protégée's agitation, but, after some perfunctory wardrobe investigation, she remembered, with misgivings, those letters that Bob had sent to be copied, and she fell in readily with an artful suggestion that the sewing girl be left here in the chamber to repair a torn skirt while Betty descended to her duties in the library. It really was too easy!
As soon as she was alone Hester moved swiftly toward the golf bag, then paused and glanced cautiously about her. Every moment was precious, but she must make no mistakes. A chance like this wouldn't come twice to a girl and—what was that?
She listened intently, afraid of her own breathing. Silence! It must have been a creaking timber. Absolute silence! Ah, there was the typewriter clicking! A good thing Miss Thompson had left the little door ajar! She could hear any slightest sound from the library, any step on the stair.
Very carefully Hester lifted the golf bag by its supporting strap. She remembered how the clubs had rattled that day in Charing Cross station. They rattled a little now. Should she take them out or try to reach down into the bag? Better see where the purse was first. No, she couldn't see. There were too many clubs packed in close together and—it was all dark—down at the bottom. Perhaps she could see better by the window or—ah! the electric light! There by the dressing table! She could hold the bag right under it.
A moment later, with a smothered click, the lamp gave forth its yellow glare, and, quivering with excitement, Hester looked down among the clubs. One glance was enough. There at the very bottom, nestling comfortably between a niblick and a cleek, lay the fat brown purse held tight in its elastic band, the bishop's purse, with its incredible hoard of banknotes. The thing was done! The trick was turned! She had only to lay the bag softly on Betty's bed—there, and reach her arm in and—what was that?
With a swift, instinctive movement Hester stood the golf bag back in its corner, then turned slowly, and, as her eyes swept the mirror, she saw that she was deathly pale. What was that creaking noise? A step? She strained her ears, but there was no sound save the steady typewriter murmur from below. Then, still looking in the mirror, she gazed, fascinated, at a door on the farther side of the chamber, not the door to the library stair, but another door, a green door, and, as she looked, this door opened slightly and she saw distinctly the reflection of a man's face, a man with a slightly twisted nose and a shock of black hair. He was standing there in the green door staring at her, and it seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before.
"It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before."
"It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere
before."
The man opened the green door and came forward slowly into the chamber, but he came in a shambling, apologetic way, and Hester realized that he was not there in any aggressive or accusing spirit. On the contrary, he looked at her almost pleadingly out of small, shifty eyes. Where had she seen those eyes before?
"Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded.
He stood still, working his lips nervously under his little black mustache.
"I am Anton, the chauffeur," he said glibly. "There's a pane of glass broken in the roof of the conservatory and Mr. Baxter asked me to fix it. I was going out through that window. I didn't know any one was here, Miss—er—" he looked at her inquiringly.
"He got away with that all right," she reflected. Where had she seen this man? Was it in Paris? In Monte Carlo? In New York? And suddenly, by one of those quick intuitions that had often guided her, she decided to take the aggressive.
"Don't you remember me?" she smiled. "Hester Storm?"
"Hester Storm?" he reflected. "No, I—I can't say that I do."
He lifted a hand to his forehead, then ran his fingers back through his thick hair, and Hester noticed a single white lock threading the black mass just above the temple. Where had she seen a white lock like that?
Again he ran his fingers through his hair and paused, with arm lifted and elbow forward, while his hand grasped the back of his head. It was an awkward position and—she had seen it before—she had seen a man somewhere—hold his head like that and—look straight before him the way this man was looking.
"I must have been mistaken," she said quietly. She began to wonder if Anton suspected her. Could he know anything? How long had he been standing at that green door before she saw him? "Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked.
"Just to make sure, but—no, I don't know you; I've never seen you." He put down his arm and listened a moment to the reassuring sound of the typewriter. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I'm doing sewing for Miss Thompson," she answered innocently. She spoke in a low tone, and she noticed that he spoke in a low tone.
"What made you think I knew you?" he continued.
"Why I—I don't know. It was just an idea."
"Do you know me? I mean have you ever seen me before?"
She shook her head. "I thought I had, but—I've got you mixed with somebody else. No harm, is there?" she added, with a little laugh that parted her red lips while her dark eyes glowed on him alluringly.
"Not a bit. Say, you look like an Italian, but you talk like an American."
"I am an American."
"From New York?"
"From New York."
The chauffeur studied her admiringly for a moment. "That's my town. Good old Manhattan Island! Say, Miss Storm, why were you so pale just now?"
"Pale? Was I pale?" she trembled.
"You sure were; you looked as if you'd seen a ghost. And now that I think of it—say, that's funny!" He stopped short, his two hands on his hips, and eyed her with a keen sidelong glance.
"What is funny?"
"Why, when I come in you gave me the haughty look—like this," he struck the attitude of a tragedy queen. "Who are you? What do you want?" he mimicked her. "Then a minute later you're all smiles and friendly and ask if I don't remember you? How is that, Miss Hester Storm?"
"I don't see anything strange about it," she began uneasily. "I thought—er."
"You thought you knew me," he interrupted. "And if you knew me who did you think I was? That's what I want to know." There was a note of menace in his tone, as if he felt that he had the best of the situation.
"I've told you I was mistaken," answered Hester sharply. "I don't care to talk about this any more. You'd better fix that pane of glass—if there is any pane to fix."
It was a chance shot, but it went home. "What do you mean by—by that?" stammered Anton.
"Oh, nothing."
He took a step nearer and she saw that he was white with anger. "You'd better not take that smarty tone with me, young lady. I've got something on you, all right. You weren't doing much sewing when I opened that door. Oh, I saw you! Some time before you saw me. Say, what was there so very partic'larly interesting about that golf bag?"
It was a critical moment for Hester and she rose to it finely.
"Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed carelessly, although terror was clutching her heart. "Do you want to know why I was looking in that golf bag, Mr. Anton?"
"Yes, I do," he answered roughly, "and I'm going to know right now."
He strode toward the golf bag and seized it by the strap.
"You'd make a good detective, Mr. Chauffeur," she tittered. "I dropped my scissors into that bag and I'll be much obliged if you'll fish them out for me."
So natural was her tone and so convincing her air of good-natured derision that Anton turned, hesitating, while one hand rested on the golf bag. Then, as before, he ran the fingers of his other hand through his mane of hair and clasped the back of his head in perplexity. It must have been this characteristic attitude that brought the flash of memory.
"Ah!" cried Hester, in sudden inspiration. "Now I know where I saw you."
The thrill of exultation in her voice convinced the wavering chauffeur and he came toward her in alarm, leaving the golf bag.
"Where?" he demanded.
She half closed her eyes as if looking at a distant picture.
"In a rathskeller—on Forty-second Street—near Broadway—one night," she answered in broken sentences.
"Well?"
"You were sitting at a table with a man who looked like a Tenderloin sport or—a Bowery tough. He had a blue handkerchief around his head—so. He had lost a piece of his ear."
Anton listened, fascinated.
"How do you know he had?"
"I heard him tell you. He said the top of it had been bitten off. That's why I noticed him. Remember?"
"You're crazy. I never was in a rathskeller on Forty-second Street. And I don't know any man who's had his ear bitten off." He paused and again moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What was the man's name?"
"I don't know his name," answered Hester, "but I heard some sweet things he said and a few that you said and——" she laughed at him tauntingly. "You have a nice, elegant line of friends, Mr. Anton."
"I tell you it wasn't me," he blustered.
"Oh, yes, it was. I know you by that white lock in your hair and—see here, I know you by another thing. I'll prove it. Let's see you smile."
"Smile? Why should I smile?" He tightened his lips into a grim line.
"Because you'd look much better, for one thing. You're not pretty that way, Mr. Anton. And if you smile, you'll show a gold tooth on—let me see—on this side, a big, shiny gold tooth. Come, now, smile."
It is a matter of conjecture whether Anton, thus challenged, would or would not have revealed the treasures of his bicuspid region. At any rate he did not do so on this occasion owing to the fact that developments were suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices in the library below, followed by a light, quick step on the winding stair. Whereupon Anton, without smiling, without explaining, and without any further sign of interest in the damaged conservatory, faded away as he had come, through the green door, and with the same cringing, apologetic manner. The honors of this brief but spirited engagement were easily with Hester.
Swiftly the adventuress caught up the skirt she was supposed to be mending and, seating herself, began some movements of measurement, while her face took on an expression of diligent interest. A moment later Betty Thompson swept into the chamber and, to the absolute astonishment of the sewing girl, went straight to the golf bag.
White-faced, Hester rose to her feet. She could feel her hands and her lips getting cold. Was this the end of the game?
"Can I—can I do anything?" she managed to ask.
"No, no," said Betty cheerfully. "Don't get up. Mrs. Baxter wants to play golf and I'm going to lend her my bag. There!"
She caught up the bag and disappeared with it down the stair, while Hester, stunned by this sudden change of fortune, listened to the mocking rattle of the clubs.
A charity bazaar, generally speaking, is an invention designed to mitigate the sufferings of the rich during the painful operation of removing a small portion of their superfluous wealth for the benefit of the poor.
Charity, however, to appeal successfully to the taste feminine, must come in various shades and styles, and each of the ladies of St. Timothy's parish had her pet shade. So it happened that the date of this bazaar had been fixed and most of the arrangements completed long before the good ladies had agreed upon the charity to be benefited.
It was only after several stormy meetings that, for the sake of peace, it was agreed to leave Charity out of the question. And then it was that the Bishop of Bunchester, by a happy inspiration, suggested starting a branch of the Progressive Mothers' Society at Ippingford and, as the expenses of stationery, stamps and the salary of a secretary must be met, the object of the bazaar settled itself without further discussion.
Thanks to the untiring energy and unfailing tact of Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society, the ladies of the committee were not only on actual speaking terms with each other, but were working harmoniously together for the great cause. Each of these ladies was happy in the consciousness that she had obtained, not through undue favor, but in recognition of her peculiar social preëminence, the table occupying the very best position in the hall. This also, it may be noted, was due entirely to the unfailing tact of Mr. Ferdinand Spooner.
Whenever Mr. Ferdinand Spooner was asked to admire any particular table, he praised it without stint, but he was ever careful to add that each of the tables was quite perfect in its own way, and, in the minutes of a subsequent meeting of the Progressive Mothers' Society, the resolution proposing that a vote of thanks be tendered to Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, for his untiring energy and unfailing tact, was moved, seconded and carried unanimously.
The bazaar had been advertised to open at half past three o'clock, and keenest interest had been aroused by the announcement that, on account of the indisposition of Dr. Dibble, the address would be delivered by the Reverend Horatio Merle. Almost every one in the parish knew Horatio Merle by sight. More often than not the curate and his wife were the only occupants of the Baxter pew, but such was his shrinking from grown up human society and so retired his walks that very few knew him personally. Harriet, too, for reasons of her own, worldly reasons, of which she was secretly ashamed, had responded meagerly to the friendly advances of the ladies of St. Timothy's. Nor, in this respect, were the Merles any exception in the Baxter household. Hiram, who with his son spent most of his time in America, regarded English society very much as he regarded the English climate and English business methods, and Eleanor preferred to share his seclusion to braving the leveled lorgnettes and monocled stares at Hiram's homely American speech and manners.
As for Lionel Fitz-Brown and Kate Clendennin, they were sufficiently occupied with each other and dismissed the entire parish as a "beastly bore."
From her chair at the back of the hall Harriet Merle watched the clock anxiously. The hands now pointed exactly to half past three, the time fixed for the opening address. For twenty-seven hours Harriet had waited for this moment, had mentally rehearsed the scene to its minutest detail—the expectant hush that would follow the introductory remarks by the harmless but necessary Spooner—then Horatio, solemn, transfigured, in the black surplice that Harriet had only the morning before shaken from its long camphorous sleep, would slowly mount the steps to the platform, looking neither to the right nor to the left—and, when the hush had become absolutely unbearable, he would cough nervously and——
In sudden panic Harriet looked at the clock. It was five minutes past the time. The decorous applause that had followed the secretary's remarks on the duties of Progressive Mothers (a Progressive Mother must be progressive, she must nurse her babies—progressively, she must bathe them—progressively, she must punish them—progressively, etc.) had died away a long minute ago. The expectant hush was becoming unbearable. Where was Horatio? Why didn't he come? What had happened?
Ferdinand Spooner tiptoed importantly from one to another of the ladies of the committee. People were beginning to whisper. Harriet shrank into her meager feather boa. She clasped her hands till they hurt in her effort to keep from crying. Tears came into her eyes and dropped upon the white gloves that she had worked so hard to clean for the occasion. Oh, why didn't he come? She had sat up half the night with him and made coffee to keep him awake till the address was written.
She thought of the money that Horatio would have received—one pound, perhaps even two pounds—and how she needed that money. Now there would be nothing.
What was the secretary saying? He feared that Mr. Merle had been unavoidably detained and the committee had decided that the address should be omitted, and he now declared the bazaar formally opened, and he asked them all to join in singing the national anthem. As the harmonium groaned the first bar of "God Save the King" and every one stood up, Harriet, grateful for the cover afforded by this ancient custom, but, for the moment, past all caring whether his majesty was saved or not, made her way to the door without attracting attention. Her only thought was to get out, out into the air and away from people—away from the sound of singing.
* * * * * * *
During this time Horatio, rejoicing in the thought that he was leaving his young protégée, Hester Storm, in a peaceful and sheltered haven, had turned down the shady drive on his way to the Progressive Mothers' bazaar.
At the first bend of the road the curate came to a standstill. Here a little green lane, leading to the woods, sidled off alluringly to the right. Merle shook his head. "No, thank you; no short cuts for me to-day," he said aloud, and quickly turned his back on the green temptress.
As Horatio resumed his walk a small, plaintive voice close behind him caused him to look round. "Why, Martin Luther!" he exclaimed, pointing sternly down the lane. "You go straight home!" Then as Martin Luther rubbed coaxingly against his legs: "It's no use, you can't come. In the first place you've not been invited and in the second place it's a very mixed party. You wouldn't like them," he whispered consolingly as he lifted Martin Luther to his shoulder.
Fortunately it was only a couple of minutes' walk back to the lodge and there the cat could be left in the care of Mrs. Pottle or little An Petronia Pottle until his master was well out of range. Mrs. Pottle was properly shocked at the tale of Martin Luther's behavior—she had never seen the like of it, such a forward cat; she would think shame before trying to go where she wasn't invited, and what for would he be wanting to be mixing himself up with the likes of the Progressive Mothers—my word!
Martin Luther could listen respectfully to Merle for various reasons, one being that Merle was of his own authoritative sex, but Mrs. Pottle's theatricals only bored him and he retired to the square cave under the stone chimney seat which he assumed had been built for his exclusive use when he condescended to visit the lodge.
Mrs. Pottle followed the curate to the porch. "How about this Storm girl?" she asked.
"What do you mean? Don't you like her, Mrs. Pottle?" There was real concern in the clergyman's voice.
Mrs. Pottle folded her arms; her whole attitude was an answer to his question.
"I'm not saying if I likes the girl or don't like her," she went on; "but there's one thing I do say: She's never been taught how to make a bed, nor yet how to dust a room. And what's more," here Mrs. Pottle fumbled in her pocket, "I found this on her table." She held out a rabbit's foot, tinged at the end with pink powder.
"Bless my soul! The foot of a rabbit!" exclaimed Merle, in genuine surprise. "Dear me! This is most astonishing. Perhaps Miss Storm is interested in natural history."
"Natural 'istory?" cried Mrs. Pottle derisively. "Unnatural 'istory I calls it; that's what she powders her face with."
"You don't say!" said the curate gravely, returning the rabbit's foot to Mrs. Pottle. "I should never have known it. How does my little friend An Petronia like her?"
"An Petronia?" The old woman shook her head. "There's no telling," she said. "It'll take a better head nor what I have to say what that child's thinkin' on. She's that deep and only eight years old come Michaelmas. She takes up with such funny people——" Mrs. Pottle stopped, confused and reddening at Merle's amused smile of acknowledgment. "Oh, Lor', sir; I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't mean——"
"That's all right, Mrs. Pottle," said the curate kindly. "What do you think? Your grandchild confided to me the other day that she is writing a book."
"Petronia writing a book! Well, I never!" exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Pottle. "It must be in her blood. And now I think of it, sir, her stepfather once kept a little stationery shop down Millbrook way—so it does come natural to her, doesn't it, sir?"
Merle laughed. "But you mustn't tell any one, Mrs. Pottle. It's a secret. No one knows about it but Petronia and you and me." He looked at his watch. "Half-past two; I must be going. The bazaar opens at half past three; there's plenty of time, I know, but I fear to take any chances."
As the wicket gate closed behind the curate Mrs. Pottle ran down the path. "If you're going by the road, sir," she called after him, "you'll be meeting Petronia. She walked to the village over an hour ago with the little Royse girl and Freddy Nichol. It's Freddy's birthday and he's got a bright new threepenny bit to spend, and they're going to——"
Horatio, taking advantage of a compulsory pause for breath on the part of Mrs. Pottle, thanked her hurriedly and set off at a brisk pace toward Ippingford, and, so steadfastly did the good man set his face against the temptations of the wayside, that in less than half an hour he had passed the main street of the village and was within five minutes' walk of St. Timothy's parish house.
Then, to his great relief, the curate found by his watch that he had almost half an hour to spare. It was a welcome reprieve, such was Horatio's dread of this sudden plunge back into public life. Every moment was precious—what should he do?
"What a pity I did not meet An Petronia," he said to himself. She was a great friend of Horatio's, this strange little maid with gold-red hair and questioning deep-set eyes and that odd smile. Many were the walks and talks they had together, Petronia holding on by the curate's forefinger, asking questions. Such questions! How many buttercups full of rain can a mouse drink? Telling him tremendous secrets and confiding to him all her troubles, what mountains of troubles! And yet Merle had never heard Petronia cry, not even the time when she was bitten by the frightened squirrel, whose foot she freed from the weasel trap, did An Petronia cry. Once when she had been disobedient and Mrs. Pottle had felt it necessary to whip her granddaughter, the child had not uttered a sound, which so frightened the old lady that she had never lifted a hand to the child since and never would.
The sound of children laughing startled Horatio from his reverie. He was passing the little sweetshop at the end of the village street, kept by one Mrs. Beadle, and behold, there was An Petronia surrounded by a mob of laughing, chattering playmates. They were looking in at the window and playing some game of Petronia's invention, in which the objects displayed in the shop window played an important part.
"Freddy Nichol, that's not fair! Peppermints doesn't gwow on twees," Petronia was saying in her odd, low-pitched voice as Merle came up to the group.
Instantly she was at her old friend's side and looking up in his face. "Does they, Daddy Merle?" she asked.
"Does what, my dear?" said Merle, taking her hand. He had not heard An Petronia's assertion.
"Does peppermints gwow on twees?"
"I didn't say peppermints, I said pepper," put in Freddy.
At this there was a perfect hubbub of "he dids" and "he didn'ts," as the children took sides, all but Petronia, who, having started the row, now stood tightly holding the curate's hand and watching the conflict with wide, fascinated eyes.
When things had arrived at the hair-pulling and slapping stage, Merle, feeling Petronia's hand tighten round his finger, had a sudden inspiration. Clapping his hands to attract attention, he called out suddenly in the most thrilling tones at his command, "Who wants to know a secret?"
In an instant the clash of battle ceased, for a moment there was perfect silence, tiny tears were brushed away by grimy little fists, touzled hair was smoothed or tied back as the case might be, little girl arms stole around little girl waists and little boy elbows around little boy shoulders and then there burst forth a chorus of voices clamoring as one child, "Tell us the secret! Tell us the secret!"
"Children!" said the curate, when silence was restored, "I'm going to show you a peppermint tree!"
"A weally twuely peppermint twee, Daddy Merle?" said An Petronia, her eyes filled with wonder.
"A peppermint tree!" echoed the others.
"Yes," said Horatio, "a really truly peppermint tree with really truly peppermints on it, and I'm going to shake the tree and you shall catch the peppermints as they come down."
"Are we going to see it now?" asked An Petronia.
"Where is it?" eagerly chorused the others.
"It is only a little way from here," said the curate, as the plan formed itself in his mind, "but before we start I must go into the shop and see Mrs. Beadle. I am not quite sure just which tree is the peppermint tree, and, as Mrs. Beadle is so fond of peppermints, she will be able to tell me exactly how to find it. You had better wait for me at the corner," he added, "I shall only be a moment or two."
As the children trooped across the street, chirping and chattering, the curate, full of his happy little scheme and all oblivious of the flight of time, stepped into the shop. A few moments later he reappeared and, if in the interim Mrs. Beadle's stock of peppermints had appreciably diminished, no corresponding increase of bulk was apparent in the region of Horatio Merle's pockets, so artfully had the sweets been bestowed about his clerical person.
At the corner of the lane the children awaited him in expectant silence. Without a word An Petronia slipped her little hand in his and down the lane they went, this strange hushed processional led by the gray-haired curate hand in hand with little An Petronia.
"Here it is!" cried Merle at last, pointing to a small acacia, a toy-like tree with slender trunk and bushy top that stood on the very edge of the wood. An unmistakable peppermint tree, thought An Petronia.
Following the clergyman's directions, the children formed a ring around the tree, while he stood in the middle clasping the thin trunk in both his hands.
"Now," said Merle, "I'm going to sing something and you must listen and sing it after me." He thought a moment and then sang:
"Tree, tree, Peppermint Tree!
Let some peppermints fall on me!"
"Now, then, children, all together!"
They needed no rehearsal. Children have their own little notes like birds and cherubim, and, as for the tempo, the author and composer took care of that.
"Splendid!" cried the curate at the end of the first repetition. "Now, once more! And this time, children, you must keep your eyes fixed on the ground, and, when I shake the tree, if you are very careful not to look up, the peppermints will be sure to fall."
Once more the cherub chorus rang through the wood and this time the branches of the peppermint tree were heard to swish and shiver and shake in the most exciting manner. Then all of a sudden the swishing and shivering and shaking stopped and down came a terrific shower of peppermints like big round sugar pennies, skipping and rolling on the grass at the children's feet.
"Here they come!" cried Merle, flushed with the success of his invention. "Fresh from the tree, pink peppermints! White peppermints! All ready to eat—fresh from the—" his voice stopped suddenly, the flush died on his face, leaving it a white mirthless mask of laughter. He was staring at the footpath only a few strides away, staring in consternation, for there stood Harriet with a look on her face that Horatio would remember to the end of his days. He called her name imploringly, he knew that she must have heard him, but she made no answer, she turned away and walked straight on.
The clock of St. Timothy's was striking. One—two—no need to count, he knew it was four o'clock. Harriet's look had told him everything. He had failed in his duty, he was disgraced—before everybody—and Harriet—how she must have suffered!
Close by, the children shouted and laughed and scrambled for peppermints. How little they knew the cost of their laughter. Their voices grew fainter as Horatio ran, ran despairingly, to overtake his wife. A moment later he was by her side breathless, pleading.
"Harriet—I forgot the time—I—— Don't leave me like this——"
Her only answer was to quicken her pace. He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away quickly, contemptuously.
Horatio stood still. Dazed, stupefied, he watched his wife until she was out of sight, then, with unsteady steps, he turned into the shadow of the quiet, questionless woods and sank face downward among the ferns. Presently there was a sound of something moving through the ferns and bushes. Nearer and nearer it came until it was quite close to him, then a warm little hand, a pepperminty hand, stroked his wet cheek and a tear-shaken voice, the voice of An Petronia, quavered close to his ear, "Don't cwy, Daddy Merle."
Neither Lionel Fitz-Brown nor Kate Clendennin knew the precise degree of cousinship that constituted the bond of relationship between them. That such a bond existed had been the natural inference from their common relationship to Mrs. Baxter, since, to paraphrase Euclid, cousins that are related to the same cousin must be related to one another.
But when Cousin Lionel attempted to solve the genealogical problem with a proposition beginning "If your greatuncle, who was second cousin to Mrs. Baxter's grandmother, was a first cousin once removed to my aunt——" Kate put her hands to her ears and fled from the room. And when a few days later he attempted it again she threw a book at him.
On the third occasion (by this time they had dropped the "cousin" and were just Lionel and Kate) she suppressed him by putting her hand over his mouth, which only goes to show that relationship, if sufficiently remote, is no bar to friendly intimacy.
Lionel's frame of mind after meeting the new secretary at luncheon was a perplexing one. He retired to the billiard room to think it over, under cover of the noisy osculation of compulsory billiard balls. Lionel had never made claim to cleverness; indeed, he regarded it as rather stupid to be clever and downright bad form to be brilliant. "If a chap is a good shot and isn't afraid of a hedge with a barb wire in it, and knows how to fasten his tie, what more does he want?"
But this American girl—strange a girl like that should be a secretary!—had discovered to him unsuspected possibilities in himself. He had actually talked, he had even gone so far as to say one or two rather good things—that about aeroplanes, for instance—no, come to think of it, it was she who said that—what was it he had said? Anyhow, it had made the American girl laugh, so it must have been rather good. Extraordinary people, these Americans; how they sharpen one's wits! On the whole, he was rather pleased with himself. He wondered if Kate had noticed it.
As he thought of Kate, there rushed through his brain a succession of pictures of the countess and Robert Baxter at the luncheon table, mental snapshots forgotten at the moment, now vividly developed.... Kate with her head thrown back, laughing at something Baxter had said and incidentally displaying a curve of throat that would humiliate the most conceited lily petal.... Kate, leaning forward on her elbow, her chin slightly elevated on the palm of her hand, with an expression of rapt attention that is well worth while for a girl whose eyelids have such a delicious downward sweep.... Kate, in profile perdu, showing the pink lobe of an exquisite ear and her "jolly well brushed tan-colored hair" curving smoothly up from the nape of her neck.... Kate, with her upturned palm resting on the hand of Robert Baxter—confound him!
The billiard balls were in tempting position and Lionel, sighting for a follow shot, found his gaze irresistibly prolonged to the stretch of sunlit lawn, backed by dark firs, to which the window opposite formed a frame. At the same moment two figures crossed his line of vision, walking slowly and apparently quite oblivious to their surroundings. With cue drawn back for the stroke, Lionel watched them pass slowly out of the picture. It was Kate Clendennin and Robert Baxter!
The next instant an osculatory outbreak of earsplitting intensity echoed through the billiard room, and the red and white affinities went spinning round the table, as Lionel slammed his cue into the rack and stormed out of the room. A few minutes later (when Kate came in to look for him) there was no sign of Lionel, and the demeanor of the billiard balls was as frigid and standoffish as if they had never been introduced—or were lately married.
At the evening meal, called supper by Hiram, Lionel did not appear, to the keen disappointment of Kate, who had descended into the kitchen in the loneliness of the late afternoon and prepared a crême renversée for his especial benefit.
It was late dusk when Fitz-Brown returned, by the golf course, from a ten-mile ramble over Ippingford downs. All his rancor, jealousy, if you will, had disappeared. He had clarified his mind by a physical process, a process at once primitively simple and profoundly scientific. For, if it is true that a physical ailment may be healed by a mental process, it is equally true that a mental ailment can be cured by a physical process. All Lionel did was to walk and walk and walk and allow the fresh summer wind, bounding over miles of gorse and heather, to sweep the fog from his brain. So that, by the time he emerged upon the Millbrook golf course he was able to see himself quite clearly and his self-appraisement was not flattering. He stood on the top of a high bunker and took a long breath as he delivered this ultimatum: "I'm a beastly ass," he said to himself. "Kate would be a fool to marry a duffer like me."
He broke off suddenly as he caught sight of the countess, bareheaded and clad in a dinner gown, putting pensively in the twilight.
Kate had already caught a glimpse of him as his tall figure stood for an instant silhouetted against the fading sky, and, divining his intention to take her by surprise, she addressed herself to the business of putting with convincing absorption.
As the ball for a breathless moment hesitated at the rim of the cup, then, Curtius-like, plunged into the dark abyss, a cheery "Bravo! Kate!" directly behind her caused a genuine start as perfect as any imitation she could have given.
"Gad! How you startled me!" There was an alchemy in Kate's personality that transmuted the sounding brass of profanity into the gold of pure speech. She swung round as she spoke.
"Sorry, old girl," said Lionel, "it's not like you to be so jumpy. I say, that was a ripping putt, almost in the dark, too."
Kate laughed. "That's just it. I couldn't see to miss it."
"Couldn't see to miss it?" mused Lionel; then brightening suddenly, "I say, that's rather good!" he laughed for sheer delight at having seen the point so quickly.
"Good boy!" said Kate, patting him on the back. "You're improving."
Lionel stopped laughing. "Am I? By Jove! then you've noticed it, too. Most extraordinary how it sharpens one's wits, rubbing up against Americans! Did you see me at lunch?" he inquired eagerly.
"Rubbing up against Americans?" Kate opened her eyes in feigned astonishment.
"Really, Kate, I wish you'd heard me," he went on earnestly. "I said one or two rather good things."
"To Mrs. Merle?"
"Oh, come, I say!" protested Lionel. "You know who I mean, the American girl—Miss—Miss——"
"Oh, the secretary," Kate stifled a yawn. "Sorry I didn't notice her. What's she like?"
A Machiavellian suggestion entered Lionel's artless mind. "Awfully jolly sort!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Devilish pretty eyes—and fluffy hair—I wish I could remember it," he frowned.
"You've just said it was fluffy."
"I don't mean her hair; of course I couldn't forget that. I was trying to remember something I said to her."
"How unfortunate," purred Kate. "You should have written it down."
"It really wasn't bad," he went on. "Anyway it made her laugh, but—she wouldn't look at a duffer like me." He sighed athletically. "She's much too clever; half the time you don't know what she's driving at, but you can bally well believe what she says."
It was nearly dark and they had drifted toward a semi-circular rustic bench at the foot of a towering horse-chestnut. Lionel lighted his briar and sank, in sack-like ease, into the uncomfortable seat, lulled by the incense man burns only to himself, the envy of the watching gods who invented eating and drinking and fighting and loving, and created the tobacco plant, but never thought of smoking.
Kate lighted a cigarette. But rustic seats with tree trunks for backs are not made for women. After picking some pieces of bark from her hair and attempting to fish others from the back of her neck, only to push them hopelessly out of reach, she jumped up impatiently and fell to pacing the soft turf behind the tree, the wavering light of her cigarette swaying hither and thither in the deepening gloom like a dissipated firefly.
"How very funny," she said at length, pausing in her walk to break the smoke silence, "that she can make you believe everything she says when you don't know what she's driving at. It sounds like mind reading."
Lionel watched a ball of gray smoke unravel itself and trail swiftly into the darkness above. "What's funny about mind reading?" he asked. "It strikes me it isn't any funnier than palm reading." Then after a contemplative pause, "That Baxter chap seemed to find your palm very interesting. Did he tell you anything exciting?"
"Very exciting," her voice came from the other side of the tree.
"I say, mayn't I know?"
"Oh, it wouldn't interest you."
"I hope it was something good. I'll punch Baxter's head if it wasn't."
"Then you do believe in palmistry?"
"What's that got to do with it? I say, Kate, what did he tell you?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because"—he hesitated—"because I——" He stopped abruptly to listen. The blackness above them was stirring. A tremor ran through the great tree. The darkness high overhead swayed with a sound like the sigh of rain on a lake. Unseen branches moved heavily and then were still. Mysteriously as it came, the wind died away. It was now quite dark under the tree. For a time neither spoke.
A fear he could not explain had come upon Lionel and stopped his speech. A few moments ago his only word for palmistry was tommyrot and now the writing on Kate's hand was to him the most momentous thing on earth.
Suddenly, out of the darkness came a strange sound——the sound of laughter, viewless laughter, that died away, leaving an uncanny silence.
"Kate! What is it? Where are you?"
There was no answer. He circled the tree swiftly with outstretched hand, guiding himself by the edge of the seat.
"Kate! For God's sake. What's the matter? Where are you?"
The next instant his free hand touched something and his arms closed around her. It was as if, in the space of a minute, he had lost this woman forever and suddenly found her again. And now he, Lionel Fitz-Brown, was holding Kate Clendennin in his arms. If the stone Diana in the sunken garden had turned to flesh and blood and found her way into his embrace it would not have been more astonishing, incredible. Here she was resting limply against him, her lovely head on his shoulder. He could feel her hair against his cheek.
"By Jove! She must have fainted," he muttered.
Carefully he placed Kate beside him on the rustic seat, supporting her tenderly with his arm, her head on his shoulder, her cheek touching his. How feverish it felt! He began to be alarmed.
"Kate!" he said in a low tone.
"Yes? What is it?" she whispered.
"How do you feel?"
"Pretty comfy." She nestled closer.
Lionel was astonished. "Didn't you faint?" he asked anxiously.
"Faint?" Kate sat up suddenly. "Is that what you thought?"
"What were you up to just now when I—when I found you?" stammered Lionel.
"I was—giving you the slip," said Kate.
"Giving me the slip? What for?"
"I wanted to get away before I—before I made a bally fool of myself and now—and now I've done it. Are you aware," she demanded abruptly, "that it's horribly late?"
Lionel struck his repeater. The tiny chimes clinged the hours and quarters against his right and Kate's left ear. They counted nine and three-quarters.
Kate straightened up and began smoothing her hair. "We must be getting back," she said.
Then an inspiration came to Lionel, born of romantic literature. "I say, Kate, I—er—I wish we could count all our hours that way."
There was an agonizing pause.
"It would be economical," she mused, "to make one watch do for two people."
"Oh, I say, you know what I mean, Kate," he went on desperately, "get married and all that sort of thing. I know an awfully jolly little farm down in Kent, only forty pounds a year."
"Yes? And what would we live on?"
"Why, we'd keep a cow—and a hen—and a bee—and all that sort of thing."
"A bee?" Kate burst out laughing, then, suddenly, dropping her bantering tone, she cuddled her firm white hands into Lionel's big brown ones.
"Lionel," she reasoned, "I don't think I've ever really been in love in my life and you're the only man I ever met that made me want to—no, no! Please, Lionel, listen to me," she held him gently away from her—"made me want to run away. Now I'm going to tell you what the palm-reader said," she continued, purposely avoiding the name of Robert Baxter.
"You don't really believe that tommyrot?"
"I do this time because what he told me is going to come true." She placed her hands on his shoulders with an affectionate movement. "He told me I'm going to have heaps and heaps of money! Lionel, aren't you glad?"
There was something far from gladness in Kate's own voice and Lionel's heart sank in utter desolation.
His thoughts flew back to the day of their first meeting three months ago—to the first time she had called him "Cousin Lionel"—to the time when somehow or other they had dropped the "cousin" and were Lionel and Kate to one another—three milestones on the road that led to—where might it not lead to? And now she was turning back. Where? He reflected that he knew nothing of Kate's world before she had come to Ipping House. From time to time there had been letters for her with German or Swiss postage stamps. That was all.
"So you see," Kate was going on, "it's a case of Hobson's choice. There's nothing else to be done. My money's all gone. Old Baxter has behaved like a brick, but I can't bank on him forever, and now if I—if I marry Bob——" she broke off with the sound of a laugh.
Lionel shivered. He seized her hand which showed dimly white at his side. It was like ice. It slipped from him upward and his ear caught the multitudinous whisper of chiffons.
"Come on," she said.
He rose stupidly and followed her in the darkness.
Half an hour later, as they approached Ipping House, Kate saw what seemed like a shadowy figure that glided past the conservatory and disappeared.
"What was that?" She clutched his arm.
"I didn't see anything," answered Lionel.
The shadowy form seen by Kate Clendennin near the conservatory was no phantom born of emotional excitement, but a flesh-and-blood creature, a keenly alert sentinel, stealthily waiting and watching for a specific and serious purpose.
For more than one of the dwellers at Ipping House this had been an important day. To Betty Thompson it had brought, the suddenly revealed glory of a deep love, to Lionel and Kate the first delicious whisperings of mutual passion and the pain of renunciation, to Horatio Merle it had brought humiliation and self-abasement, and to this poor, soul-stifled girl, Hester Storm, it had brought the opportunity to steal $25,000.
With her own eyes Hester had seen the purse; it was there in the golf bag, she had almost had it in her hands. Almost! If that tumble-haired, shifty-eyed chauffeur had kept away she would have had the money. And if Mrs. Baxter hadn't borrowed the golf bag, just at the wrong moment, she would have had it. Hard luck twice. Well, the third time would be different, and she would land the goods. In the whole world she was the only person who knew where this purse was, so all she had to do was to watch the golf bag and wait for another chance.
Through the long afternoon Hester watched and waited in Betty Thompson's chamber, showing an industry and zeal in her sewing that Betty thought most commendable. All this time the girl was eyeing the clock, wondering if, before she finished her work, Mrs. Baxter would return the golf bag. But no Mrs. Baxter appeared and at six o'clock she was obliged to go. Miss Thompson wished to dress for dinner and—no, she did not need a maid.
Hester walked slowly back to the lodge considering what her next move should be. Evidently she must act quickly or someone else might see the purse. Someone might already have seen it. Some caddy boy! Or Mrs. Baxter herself. There it lay, down among the clubs, quite unguarded except by the darkness in the bottom of the bag. Hester's hope lay in that little layer of darkness and in the unlikelihood that any one would search there.
What would Mrs. Baxter do with the golf bag after she had finished using it? She would naturally return it to Miss Thompson. She would return it this evening and Miss Thompson would naturally put it in her chamber, just where it was this afternoon, there in the corner by the dressing-table.
And then what? The Storm girl's face darkened and her hands shut tight. This was no time for trifling with fortune. The opportunity was hers now, this night, but it might be gone to-morrow. She must act at once. At once! Before she reached the lodge this decision had taken form vaguely in her mind, and, before she had finished her supper, it was clearly crystallized: she must do something before morning. Something! But what!
At a quarter before seven Hester heard the panting of an automobile near the lodge gate and, hurrying to the window, she watched Mrs. Baxter and Robert as they swept past in the big, closed car, the young man driving. Stare as she would the agitated girl was unable to catch sight of the golf bag, but she knew it was inside the car, it must be there; in a few moments it would be back in Ipping House, where she might get it—if she only could think how—later in the night.
Later in the night! That meant entering the big house secretly and lying in wait until she could make her search. She could look in the library, in the hall, in the hall closet under the stairs. That would be easy, but suppose the golf bag were not there? What if Mrs. Baxter had brought it to her own bedroom or to Miss Thompson's bedroom? Then what?
Hester finished her supper soon after seven and immediately went to her room—to be alone—to think. She felt impelled to do this thing, but she must plan every move with the utmost caution. No one, better than she, knew how dearly she might have to pay for one mistake.
At nine o'clock the girl stole softly out into the park. Old Mrs. Pottle had gone to bed early and the lodge was still. An Petronia, with her four beloved "Pottles" ranged beside her, was dreaming of "Reginal" and his misfortunes. Over the beeches and the dim, gray mass of the manor a purple darkness was settling and the little creatures of the night were pulsing their strange chorus. The air was warm and the girl went forth, bareheaded, gliding among the shadows like one of them. There were several small objects in her trunk that she might have taken to help her on this sinister expedition, several objects that she was impelled to take, but, on reflection, she left them behind, all but one.
For a long time Hester hovered about the manor watching the lights, listening to the sounds, rehearsing over and over again in her mind the details of the night's effort, as she thought it would work out. Mr. Baxter was in London. Mrs. Baxter had gone to her room, there was her light, burning brightly, one flight up under the gray stone tower. And there was Mr. Robert's light, two flights up over the far end of the conservatory. The golf bag would not be in his room, that was sure.
What about Miss Thompson? For nearly an hour her little chamber had been dark. She must have gone to bed early. Sound asleep by now. Hello! There goes Mr. Robert's light. And there sound the stable chimes. Ten o'clock! All dark downstairs except a light in the big front hall.
And now two dim figures approached across the lawn, Fitz-Brown and the Countess, and Hester shrank away among the shadows. Lionel took down a key from a nail outside the conservatory (where he often left it when he came in late) and, opening the door, bowed Kate in, then followed, closing the door, but quite forgetting to lock it. Thus fortune favored the young adventuress, as it had before many times.
With the illumination of a match held by Lionel, the tardy pair passed through the dark conservatory, then on through the library and out into the spacious hall, where each took a silver candlestick from a table where a row of these were placed in shining readiness every evening.
Very cautiously Hester opened the conservatory door and stepped inside, closing the door silently after her. Motionless, almost breathless, she listened as the others parted at the stairs. Queer lovers! Was that the best they could do?
"Good-night, Kate."