QUICKSANDS

Quicksands

By
B. M. CROKER
Author of “The Cat’s Paw,” etc.

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

CONTENTS

QUICKSANDS

CHAPTER I
THE BRIDGE OF DREAMS

One sultry September afternoon, some years ago, my brother Ronald and I, being tired and dusty, found a temporary resting-place on the parapet of a little old bridge that spanned a sleepy stream. Through a thin silk blouse a comforting sun beat upon my back, and I was serenely conscious of an unusual sense of happiness and well-being—though I owed little to my surroundings. In all England it would have been difficult to find a more featureless and monotonous outlook than the prospect that lay stretched before us. A series of flat, marshy fields, exhibiting here a space of willowy green, and there a patch of black soil, enclosed by ragged hedges or deep, dark dykes. Occasionally a few lonely and distorted trees, or a humped-up cluster of red roofs, varied the scene, which gradually faded until sky and horizon seemed to melt away into one pale blur.

“What a region!” exclaimed Ronnie, as he tossed away the stump of a cigarette. “The back of beyond, the Land of Never Never! Never again, so far as I am concerned! Who discovered it?”

“It was discovered by the Danes, I believe,” I answered; “they say it was once under the sea.”

“A pity it did not stay there!”

“It’s rather cheerful now, and the air is splendid; but you should see it in winter, when it has a grey, weird, starving sort of look, and the face of the country is like a dead thing.”

“Well, thank goodness, I am spared that,” rejoined Ronnie. “I shall be out in the nice sultry East, sunning myself among the big red boulders that are scattered round Secunderabad.”

“And you start on Friday? Oh, Ronnie, I believe you are glad to go back!”

“Yes; I am jolly glad, only for leaving you, old girl—and in such a hole as Beke. My leave has gone like a flash; just a month at home. I must say it is a beastly shame they did not ask you to Torrington when I was there.”

“Aunt Mina sees as little of me as possible—she does not like me, and is at no pains to conceal the fact. The girls and I have never what you call ‘got on’; we have nothing in common. You see I am much younger than they are.”

“And so much better looking,” supplemented my brother.

Waving aside his compliment, I continued:

“You know, when I first went to Torrington I was a small child, and by all accounts dreadfully spoiled; later on, in the holidays, I was too young to appear in company, and was generally hustled out of sight. My goodness, but it was dull, all alone, in the old nursery! Coming down to lunch as a treat, cross-examined and snubbed by the girls, and overawed by Aunt Mina—she had a way of looking at me that made me feel as if I had no clothes on!”

“My dear Eva, don’t be improper!”

“You see,” I resumed—now comfortably embarked on a flowing tide of talk, and eager to impart my confidence to a sympathetic ear—“I can realise what a nuisance I was in those days. The house was full of grown-ups and smart people, and I was just a lanky girl who slunk in to lunch or was met roaming about the grounds! Then twice I brought home infection, and gave most of the establishment mumps and chicken-pox—so you can’t wonder that I was not popular! After all, I am only Aunt Mina’s niece by marriage; Uncle is nice to me in his cheery, vague, irresponsible way, but he has no say. Living in the nursery, I naturally heard a good deal of backstairs talk, and gathered that Aunt manages everything—even to evicting tenants and arranging the shoots.”

“Oh, come! I don’t think it is as bad as all that,” protested Ronnie; “though of course a man who marries half a million must pay some sort of interest. The family were in very deep water, when potted meat came along and hauled them out. When were you last at Torrington?”

“Two years ago this Christmas.”

Ronnie was about to exclaim, but I put my hand over his mouth.

“Do let me talk,” I pleaded. “I want to tell you things I can’t write. It was the Christmas before last. I was in long frocks with my hair up, and had just left Cheltenham. I caught a slight cold on the journey, but was nevertheless in the wildest spirits, full of anticipation of the delights that awaited me now that I was officially fledged.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Ronnie impatiently; “that is all stale news.”

“The evening after I arrived there was a dinner party, and I happened by good luck to sit next to a charming man, who was very agreeable, and no doubt drew me out. A lively girl sat opposite to us; she had a loud voice, and talked the most ridiculous nonsense, much appreciated by Beverley, her neighbour.

“‘What is your family disease?’ she asked him; ‘ours is softening of the bones.’ And Bev replied:

“‘Our hereditary disease is gambling.’

“‘Which leads,’ said the girl, ‘to softening of the brain!’”

I paused, turned to my brother, and said:

“Did you ever hear that there was gambling in the Lingard family?”

“There’s a taste for gambling in every family,” he answered evasively. “Well, go on about your dinner party. What happened?”

“I am afraid I allowed my spirits to get the better of me, for I laughed and chattered incessantly. I know I always talk too much.”

“No doubt of that—when you get the chance,” corroborated my listener.

“I pulled crackers, put on paper caps, exchanged mottoes and poetry, and in short enjoyed myself enormously. Afterwards, when the men came into the drawing-room, my dinner friend found me out at once, and at his suggestion we retired into an obscure corner, in order to cement our acquaintance. All at once I began to notice that the surrounding atmosphere was chilly: I saw my cousins whispering together, and I believe Clara summoned her mother, for presently Aunt Mina swooped upon us, and told my companion that she had something she particularly wished to show him, and, in spite of his obvious reluctance, she took him in charge, and marched him off. A significant glance assured me that I was in deep disgrace, and when people had settled down to music or bridge I stole away to bed.”

“Best place for you,” interposed Ronnie.

“I was woke out of my first sleep by Clara, who came into my room, candle in hand, wearing her most venomous expression; the visit was on purpose to inform me that she ‘was really sorry I had made such a dreadful exhibition of myself at dinner, laughing and screaming at the top of my voice, pulling crackers, sticking things in my hair, altogether behaving like a shop girl’! I heard no more beyond a murmur, as I covered up my head with the bed clothes. When at last I was compelled to emerge from want of air, the room was in darkness, and my cousin had disappeared. As my cold was pretty bad I was confined to my old quarters, the nursery, and there I remained for several days. Beverley, just home from Eton, used to come and sit with me, and bring me the news. He informed me that Major Halliday, my charming friend, had been making tender inquiries after me, adding: ‘I suppose you didn’t happen to know that he is by way of being Clara’s young man—she had all but landed him!’

“Bev befriended me—supplied me with magazines and chocolates, but when he began to make love to me—that was another pair of shoes!”

“So I should think—the moon-faced idiot!” commented Ronnie.

“Well, one afternoon he tried to kiss me, and was actually chasing me round the table, when Aunt Mina entered. She was furious. Bev fled headlong, and on me she poured all the vials of her wrath. She said I was a bold, designing minx, a disgrace to the family. For once I protested, and protested with fury—assured her that I loathed the sight of Bev, and never wished to see him again—no, nor anyone at Torrington! Naturally I was soon squashed. Aunt was too strong for me, and the scene ended in humiliation and tears. Possibly my prolonged weeping increased my cold, which presently developed alarmingly. The local doctor (Aunt Mina’s slave) was summoned. He talked gravely about pneumonia, and my lungs, and announced that I had a delicate chest, and must on no account remain at Torrington—the place was too low and enervating—so I was promptly packed off to Beke, where I have been ever since!”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Ronnie. “Why, it is a sort of countrified Bastille. How on earth did Aunt Mina discover it?”

“Quite easily,” I replied. “Miss Puckle was the girls’ governess when I was small. I remember her well; so trim and punctual, and authoritative, with a trick of pulling down her belt if she was going to be disagreeable, but always indulgent to me. When I was in trouble I used to sit on her lap and just sob and sob.”

“I wonder you don’t do it now,” said Ronnie.

“I am afraid I am a size too large. As for Beke, some years ago an old relation died and left a fine legacy and ‘The Roost’ between Lizzie and her uncle the professor, so they retired together, and are now in what is called ‘easy circumstances.’ I contribute a hundred a year.”

“You are humbugging! Why, they ought to pay you as companion—and lady help.”

“Aunt arranged everything; she declared I could not be better off than at ‘The Roost.’ The doctor particularly recommended this marshy air, with a dash of sea, she said, and I might continue my music and sketching with Lizzie—who would finish me properly.”

“Finish you indeed!” cried Ronnie, “I wonder Beke has not finished you long ago. Hallo, I say, who are the riders coming down the road? Shall I put my arm round your neck and pretend I am your sweetheart, and give the poor natives a fresh piece of gossip?”

“Put your arm round my neck if you like, but all the village knows that you are my brother, my only near relation. Clarice has a cousin at ‘The Beetle,’ which is our newsagency.”

“Clarice,” repeated Ronnie, “is that the shuffling parlour-maid with the cock eye?”

“She is a capital servant,” I replied, “and sees as much as three. Here come the Soadys.”

“Who are they?—tell me quickly,” urged Ronnie.

“Sam Soady and his daughter. She is the only girl I know in these parts, and has been my great stand-by. He is a rich farmer, sells cattle and horses, and lives in an old manor house the other side of Beke.”

Almost before I concluded, the Soadys were upon us, a fine, solid, up-sitting pair, with the same open countenances, ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. As they halted, Tossie cried out:

“Hallo, Eva, fancy seeing you roosting beside the road!”

“Yes, my brother says I have walked him off his legs. Let me introduce him to you. Mr. Lingard, Miss Soady, and Mr. Soady.”

The latter touched his cap and said in his loud, hoarse voice:

“Not much to see in these parts, sir!”

“No, I have not come across anything to touch your two gees; fine weight-carriers,” walking over to his side as he spoke—horses always attracted Ronnie.

“Aye, they are good ‘uns,” assented the farmer, “and rarely bred. My girl and I have been giving them a bit of a gallop in the fields yonder now the crops are in, getting them fit for the cub-hunting. I will be pleased to do a deal, sir,” he added jocosely.

“Thanks, awfully, but I ride ten stone, and I’m off to India on Friday. I should have thought you would only have had otter hunting in this part of the country.”

“Round here there is naught but water rats, but on our side of Beke there is rare fine going, and two good packs within reach.”

During this conversation Tossie was considering Ronnie with an air of fascinated attention; her eyes resembled two blue glass balls, and her gaze expressed undisguised approval. Ronnie and I were the same height—that is to say, five-foot-eight. He was slight, well set up, and remarkably good looking. From his earliest childhood he had been excessively particular about his personal appearance, had never objected to having his hair brushed and his hands washed, and, as he stood on the road before Miss Soady, he presented a picture of a thoroughly well turned out and admirably groomed young man. Tweed suit, boots and shirt, were precisely what they should be; his glossy hair was delicately scented; socks, tie and handkerchief were all in sympathy; and yet there was nothing remarkable in his get-up—it was subdued, simple, and absolutely “the right thing.” What a contrast to my own countrified appearance in a home-made serge skirt, a baggy blouse, sunburnt sailor hat, and bare hands—we rarely wore gloves at Beke.

Ronnie now turned to Tossie’s horse, patted its damp neck, and looking up at the rider, said:

“So I hear you and my sister are great pals; she tells me you have been awfully kind to her.”

“Not a little bit of it, it’s the other way on,” she protested in her loud, far-reaching contralto.

“Eva keeps us all alive, she plays tennis like a professional, and her singing is just a treat. Are you making a stay?”

“No, I am off to-morrow.”

“A little of the professor goes a long way?” she suggested archly.

“I did not come to see him, but my sister,” he answered stiffly.

“Aye, I expect you came home to look up missie,” put in Sam. “There be only the two of you.”

“Partly, and partly business; it is bad luck I can’t wait on and have a shot at the partridge.”

“Aye, and I could give you a rare day’s sport. Well, maybe another time,” said the farmer. “Now Tossie, these horses be too warm to be kept standing. Good-day, sir, and good luck. Good-day, missie—see you soon,” and he moved off.

Tossie, I observed, was not disposed to follow, but inclined to linger and improve her acquaintance with Ronnie.

“I think your sister might have brought you up to see us, Mr. Lingard; I do, indeed,” she said emphatically.

“We have only had a short time together, Miss Soady, and Eva had such a lot of talking to get through,” he replied with his charming smile; “better luck next time.”

“I hope so,” agreed Tossie, as she wrung his hand, and, with obvious reluctance, followed her parent. As they departed at a walking pace Ronnie declaimed:

“‘I saw them go: one horse was blind,

The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.’

“All the same, those are fine weight carriers, and have lots of bone. That girl must ride thirteen stone, if she weighs an ounce. I think she seemed a little sniffy because you did not take me there to pay a visit of ceremony.”

“Oh, Ronnie, I have only had you for two days, and the day we spent together in London.”

“Well then, let’s make the most of our time,” he said, seating himself once more on the bridge, “and continue to talk of our joys and sorrows.”

“Your joys and my sorrows,” I corrected.

“Yes, there is something in that. I have, ten to one, the best of it. Here am I at six-and-twenty, on the point of getting my company, returning to a life that suits me down to the ground, strong and healthy, with lots of pals, and a fat balance at Cox’s. Oh, Sis, I tell you, it’s jolly to be alive!” and he thumped me violently on the back. “This old world is a grand place; I have a feeling in my bones that in some way my name will ring through it—my subconscious what-you-may-call-it tells me that I am going to have a ripping career—I shall make the race of Lingard famous!”

“I hope you will, with all my heart,” I answered with enthusiasm. “And I shall play the part of proud sister to the manner born.”

“Yes, you have always been my backer,” said Ronnie, “and no end of a brick.”

“What happens to you in a way affects me; your good luck will be my good luck. Perhaps this old bridge may be uncanny, for I too have my premonitions, and I believe that in some unexpected way our fortunes will be bound together.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much chance of that,” said Ronnie, “but who knows?” Then, starting to his feet, “Oh, Lord, here are the professor and Lizzie coming to look for us! We can finish our jaw in the garden, after our so-called dinner. Let us advance to meet them, it saves time, and looks empressé. Call up that dog, he is hunting water rats. Well, good-bye, old bridge,” he went on, slapping the grey stone parapet as he spoke, “I don’t expect we shall ever meet again, but I jolly well hope those visions will come true!”

CHAPTER II
BEKE

Professor Septimus Puckle must have been considerably over sixty years of age, a burly, slouching figure, moving with a ponderous and pompous gait; he had a grey beard, two shallow little brown eyes, and a dome-shaped head covered by a soft cap—he also wore a roomy suit of creased black-and-white flannel, and elastic-side boots. In these days, Lizzie, his niece, seemed elderly to me—possibly she may have been about forty. Her figure was remarkably pretty, and her sharp, clever face was illuminated by a pair of bright eyes which shone steadily behind a pince-nez. Perhaps her manner was somewhat abrupt and authoritative, but Lizzie was a capable and cultivated woman, with a level head and warm heart.

“So here you are!” began the professor; “we have come out to look for you.”

“Thanks awfully,” replied my brother, “but there’s not much fear of being lost in these parts, as apparently there is only one road.”

“Oh, we have others—several others,” protested Lizzie. “Where is Kipper?” now looking about. “We must be getting back to tea, as I have a choir practice at half-past five,” and she screamed “Kipper! Kipper! Kipper!”

After a momentary delay, Kipper emerged from under the bridge a deplorable object, dripping with muddy water, and immediately proceeded to shake himself in our vicinity.

“Get away! get away!” shouted the professor, making a drive at him with his stick.

“Oh, poor boy!” I interposed, “he has been hunting rats, and having such a happy time.”

“Yes, that’s all he thinks of, the horrid brute. I hate the sight of him,” declared his master.

“Uncle Sep loved him till you came, Eva, and cut him out in Kipper’s affections.”

We had now turned homewards, that is to say, in the direction from where the dagger-like spire of Beke church rose from the plain, and were walking four abreast, adapting our pace to the professor’s self-conscious waddle, with the humbled Kipper skulking in our wake.

“Yes,” continued Uncle Sep in his deep, scholastic voice, “I don’t mind telling you, when the fellow was a pup I tolerated him, took him round the garden, suffered him to lie at my fire, and even gave him milk; and for thanks, he tore up my new slippers and several most important papers. I even forgave him that!” emphasising such generosity with a large, fat hand. “But when Eva arrived he simply turned me down, ignored my existence, never answered when I called him, no, no more than if I was a piece of furniture; to be dropped by a dog makes one rather small!”

“I am sure you could never feel that!” protested Ronnie with dangerous frivolity.

“Well, but, Uncle Sep,” hastily interposed Lizzie, “you know Eva takes Kip for long runs over the marshes, she brushes him, makes up his dinner—your friendship was merely passive.”

“He was glad enough of it once,” rejoined the injured patron; “but two can play at that game. Now I never open a door for him—on principle.”

“So you have your innings!” exclaimed my irrepressible brother, “and I am sure you have something else to do than wait on a cold-hearted terrier. By the way, how do you put in your time? Do you play golf?”

“Golf? No—do I look like golf?” The professor halted, and leaning both hands on his stick, challenged an opinion.

“Well, no,” admitted Ronnie. “You look more like fishing—lots of sitting—eh?”

“I sit at my desk, my good sir, I fish for ideas. I write poetry, articles, reviews. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’—I require no outside interests.”

“No; but what about outside exercise?”

“Exercise!” repeated the professor; “the world is crazy on that subject. I was brought up to a sedentary life; even at school I never went in for games, but was always keen on brain work. For years I was Lecturer and Professor of Classics and English Literature. Now I have retired my time is my own. I am enjoying the luxury of leisure, and I don’t mind telling you that in my lighter mood I write plays.”

“Plays!” echoed Ronnie, staring at the professor with blank incredulity. “By George, do you?”

“Yes, I have one now, a four-act comedy, under consideration at the Metropolitan Theatre. Just at present I am hard at work on the history of Slacklands and our local folk-lore.”

The mere mention of the subject loosened the professor’s tongue, and all the way home—and almost without drawing breath—he held forth on this topic in a full, monotonous voice, and with a fierce determination that would brook no interruption. Ronnie, poor victim, was helpless, so to speak, benumbed, by such an unusual experience; and I could not help smiling to myself as I glanced at his face of furious boredom. Our arrival at the village of Beke put an end to the lecture. The professor could not well continue declaiming and ranting in public—as was his custom in his own garden—and the sight of the first cottage was the signal for our release. Beke, a dreary old village, which had seen better days, consisted of one long, clean street, lined with irregular red-roofed houses, some of a great age. Half-way up the thoroughfare stood the church, a notable edifice, with flying buttresses, surrounded by the tombstones of its dead parishioners. Facing the church was the “Beetle Inn,” a crooked black-and-white hostelry, which kept the only fly in the country; farther on, the Parsonage and “The Roost” confronted one another; the latter, a trim, red, Georgian residence, was approached by a brick path across a small enclosure, at present gay with a multitude of pink and lilac phlox.

Outwardly “The Roost” was insignificant, within both roomy and comfortable. The walls were wainscoted, the fireplaces of generous space. The doors of the principal rooms were of rich South American mahogany, and most of the furniture was quaint and old-fashioned: in former days “The Roost” had been the abode of taste and leisure. Now, alas! times were sadly changed.

The professor had ample leisure but no taste; his niece had a cultivated taste but no leisure—all her spare hours were dedicated to the parson and the parish.

Undoubtedly these changes had been anticipated, for a deeply cut carving on a panel in the passage said:

“All terrene things by turns we see

Become another’s property.

Mine now must be another’s soon,

I know not whose, when I am gone;

An earthly house is bound to none.”

A glass door at the back of the hall opened upon an unexpectedly large garden, gently sloping to the sluggish river; here there were long gravel walks—worn bare by the professor’s pacing—bordered with box and old standard roses. Here was also a notable mulberry tree, several rustic seats, and a sundial on which was inscribed, “Time will tell.”

That evening a full white moon illuminated the land, and after dinner Ronnie and I effected our escape, and strolled to and fro arm in arm along the professor’s pet walk; this would be our last hour together.

“I cannot stand that slovenly old bore,” said Ronnie. “Did you notice the ink on his fingers and the crumbs in his beard? I don’t know which is the worst—his drivelling talk or his appearance. I wonder he hasn’t driven you mad long ago. I’ve only been here two days, and already my reason is tottering. Does he never stop talking?”

“Sometimes,” I replied, “when he is not pleased and sulks.”

“Is it really true that he writes plays?”

“Yes, for his own entertainment. They are never accepted. He spends lots of money on dramatic agents, typewriting, and so on, and, as a great favour, he generally reads the plays to me.”

“You long-suffering martyr! I should certainly kick at that.”

“They are not so bad; it is his poetry that I cannot endure—so sickeningly sweet, it makes me feel positively squeamish! Sometimes he brings it to meals and reads it between the courses, and says, ‘Lizzie and Eva, you must really hear this, it is delicious.’”

“What lunacy!” cried Ronnie. “It seems to me you would be just as well off in an asylum for idiots.”

“By no means,” I objected; “the professor is as dull as a wet Sunday, but Lizzie is immensely clever, a thorough musician, speaks French like a native, and has no end of certificates. She was governess in the family of a Russian Grand Duke before she went to Torrington. Besides, I am really fond of her; I think she finds Uncle Sep trying at times, and after he has read me a play she will say, ‘Now don’t pretend you liked it, Eva—speak the truth. Tell him it is just wordy rubbish! I implore you not to encourage him; as long as he writes letters and poetry for the Slacklands Post it is all right, but the plays burn a hole in his pocket.’ He is really not a bad old boy—rather simple and weak, in spite of his fierce eyebrows—anyone, even a child, can lead him by flattery.”

“I wish I saw my way to leading you out of this hole,” said Ronnie; “my visit has been a shocker; if they would only have you at Torrington—but I suppose that as long as those girls are unmarried you will be what I may call ‘reserved.’”

“I have no wish to go to Torrington,” I replied. “Beke may be dull, but here I don’t live in fear and trembling of anyone. I wonder why Aunt Mina, who detests me, is so friendly to you?”

“I think I can answer that,” rejoined Ronnie. “I am a Lingard—quite the family type—ears and all. I am self-supporting, I have four hundred a year, I have done pretty well for myself so far, and I am in a crack regiment. Also I can shoot and dance, make myself useful in a house party, and do not—like my pretty sister—extinguish the girls or fascinate Bev—quite the contrary, so far as he is concerned; moreover, should anything happen to that long-necked young pup, I am the next heir. When I told Aunt Mina I was coming here she was inclined to be apologetic, and said she was so sorry that Torrington did not agree with you, and that she had settled you at Beke solely on account of your health and education, as they had found you extraordinarily young and unformed for your age. Tell me, Sis, how do you put in your time when you are not doing lessons?”

“Oh, I dust the china, practise, go for long walks with Kipper, poke round the village among my friends, and play tennis with the Soadys, who sometimes give me a mount. On wet days I help Clarice to clean the silver, and besides all this I read a lot. I’ve unearthed no end of old books in a closet, some horribly musty, and printed with those long S’s. I’ve just been devouring a fearsome tale, called ‘Sir Lancelot Graves’—it’s all about a ghost in armour.”

“Oh, bother ghosts and books!” interrupted Ronnie impatiently. “Have you no people of your own class around here?”

“There are one or two big places,” I answered, “but the Darlingfords and the De Veres would not dream of visiting at ‘The Roost.’ Lizzie was only a finishing governess, and Uncle Sep was never a real professor; he is called that hereabouts, and he likes it, and has come to believe in it himself.”

“And have you no variety at all?” Ronnie’s tone was despairing.

“Yes, twice a year we spend a riotous fortnight in London. We stay at a Bayswater boarding-house that calls itself a private hotel, which the Puckles always patronise. Lizzie and I stare into windows and compare opinions, do a little shopping and go to concerts. Sep spends most of his time in theatres and worries managers with his plays.”

For some moments after this announcement Ronnie sat beside me in dead silence, then suddenly he sprang to his feet and began to walk to and fro along the professor’s well-beaten track; at last he came to a halt and said:

“Eva, I had no idea of all this! You always write such cheery letters—even that time in London you were mum. It is thundering bad luck that I’m obliged to be off so soon. However something has got to be done. Uncle Horace must find you a more suitable home. Look here, I have just hit on an idea! I shall suggest your going out to India as a P.G.—paying guest, you know—lots of girls do that, and Anglo-Indians are glad enough of the coin now that everything is so expensive. Of course the people you go to must be top hole—that is understood. Aunt Mina is a wonderful woman for references and position, and I believe you will get along famously; you can dance and sing and ride, and chatter nineteen to the dozen. You and I will be on the same continent, which will be a change. I shall offer to pay your passage, and I expect Aunt Mina will be so glad to be rid of you that she will give you a ripping outfit—what do you think of my idea?”

“Oh, Ronnie,” I exclaimed, “it is too splendid for words. How did it enter your head?”

“It came into my head just now as I walked up and down and saw you crouched here on the garden seat, and thought of you cooped up in that gloomy old house, with the sham professor, the clerical governess, and the great empty, ugly country that cuts you off from all the world—and you only nineteen! Before I go to sleep this very night I shall write Uncle Horace a letter that will make things move.”

“I doubt if your letter will move Aunt Mina or remove me! Ronnie, wouldn’t it be lovely if I could go out and keep house for you—I am such a clever manager?”

“My dear, crazy child, if the colonel were to hear you he would have fits. He bars married officers and——-”

“Is married himself,” I interrupted impatiently.

“Well, the fact is, she married him. Away from the regiment, he fell a prey, like Samson minus his hair. She was an old maid, a squiress, with a long pedigree and a large fortune. She was sick of her village and schools, and of unflinching determination to see the world; she met ‘James’ at a dinner party, and, so to speak, nailed him! She’s a rattling good sort I must confess, entertains a lot, mothers what she calls ‘her boys,’ and keeps us as well as she can under her own eye.”

“And he?”

“Is wrapped up in the regiment, its past glories, its present fitness, and its future exploits. ‘James,’ as we call him, is as hard as flint, and as tough as boot leather; the orderly room and parade ground are his real home; he looks black on married couples and, if possible, hurls them to the depot. If a subaltern were to adventure on matrimony, all I can say is, that I would be sorry for him—and if I were to turn up with a pretty sister I expect it would be a case of a court-martial!”

“What a narrow-minded, detestable tyrant!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but very civil in civil life; he plays a good game of billiards, and is prominent in square dances with ‘Burra mems.’ Apart from soldiering he is delightfully tame, and will, so to speak, eat out of your hand.”

“What is a Burra mem?” I inquired.

“You will know soon enough when you get east of Suez.”

“Ah, if I ever do, perhaps you will see that my presentiment will come true, and that we shall be together always.”

“No such luck,” rejoined Ronnie. “Even if I do succeed in transplanting you I am afraid it will be a case of ‘so near and yet so far,’ though, of course, wherever you may be I shall fly to see you. Now I am off to write a scorcher to Uncle Horace.”

“It is awfully good of you, Ronnie, but I am afraid you will find you have only wasted your time and a penny stamp,” I replied as I followed him into “The Roost.” Nevertheless, in spite of my dismal forebodings, that night I lay awake for hours thinking over Ronnie’s plan, and when at last I fell asleep I dreamt of India.

CHAPTER III
A MEETING ON THE MARSHES

Trains from the station nearest to Beke ran at inconceivably inconvenient hours; for instance, a quarter to eight in the morning, and half-past four in the afternoon, the latter wandering into London about midnight. Ronnie, of course, departed by the first, and I took leave of him in the front hall with copious tears (the professor, in a plaid dressing-gown, and with dishevelled locks, peering over the banisters).

“Buck up, old girl!” he said; “it will be all right; within six months you will be hugging me in India. Mind you write every mail, take great care of yourself—and—er—good-bye.” Then he tore himself away, and ran down the tiled footpath to where an aged fly—once the equipage of a countess—and a sprightly young horse were waiting to transport him to the junction.

As I watched the light-hearted animal plunging and straining at the shafts I was conscious of a guilty hope that he and the venerable vehicle would part company, and thus spare me Ronnie for a few hours; but no, tottering and swaying, the ancient landau rolled away intact.

Then I went upstairs to my own room, locked the door, and huddled down in the deep window seat, there to mourn and meditate. I seemed to have come to the end of my hopes and had now nothing to look forward to. A painful conviction for a young and sanguine soul!

For one whole year Ronnie’s return had been my lodestar; my first thought in the morning, my last at night; now he had come and gone—it was all so soon over. Surveying the future, what a bleak, monotonous outlook lay before me. It appeared to me that I might almost as well have been born a cabbage or a thistle! So far as the result of Ronnie’s letter was concerned, I had not been foolishly sanguine; I knew Aunt Mina, from what might be called her “wrong side,” and how she disliked anyone to interfere with her settled plans; her plan with respect to me was that I should remain harmlessly at Beke, and I had frequently heard her express a horror of India—a country that, in her opinion, was full of second-rate people, fast, disreputable women and impecunious gambling men; no, there would be no gorgeous East for me, and I could not reasonably expect to see Ronnie for three long years.

I must confess that for some days after my brother’s departure I was a moping, undesirable house-mate; even a letter from Marseilles, a gold wristlet watch, and Tossie’s enthusiastic admiration for my beloved, scarcely helped to raise the clouds. Still, it comforted me to talk about him to Lizzie and Tossie, who were both sincerely sympathetic—not so the professor, who became portentously glum whenever Ronnie’s name was mentioned, and sat silently aloof with an air of Olympian detachment. Apparently their antipathy had been mutual, for he imparted to the parson, who told Tossie, who told me, that “young Lingard was a conceited, empty-headed dandy, just a good-for-nothing, impudent jackanapes!”

It was about this time, I imagine, that he began to work with arduous enthusiasm upon a new play, in which the ne’er-do-well and scapegrace was a full-sized portrait of my brother—so far as his personal appearance was concerned; particulars dealing with his dress were given in microscopic detail. For once there was much mystery concerning this effort. Naturally the professor never read it to me, and for this “let off” I was profoundly thankful, for it was something of an ordeal to sit in a stuffy study, which reeked of stale tobacco, dust, and worm-eaten furniture, whilst Uncle Sep read aloud with sonorous complacency, occasionally pausing to look over his glasses and say, “That is a fine speech, eh? How does it strike you?”

Lizzie, who was not a fellow sufferer, warmly approved of these readings. “It was better,” she declared, “not to disturb the amiable delusions of our fellows, but to encourage such friends to believe in themselves!” The result was that I was immured in the study, administering to Uncle Sep’s vanity, whilst she bustled about the village, doing parish work or conferring with the rector.

The rector, a distinguished looking white-haired old widower, had contrived to appropriate Lizzie as lay worker and curate. Beke was a large and scattered parish, and she visited various outlying hamlets on her bike, controlled the Sunday school, undertook mothers’ meetings, the Red Cross, the village nurse, Girls’ Friendly Society and the choir, whilst the Reverend Clement Chesterfield enjoyed an amount of spacious ease, and had ample leisure to read the Guardian, the Spectator, the heavier monthlies and the particular class of literature which appealed to him. When the rectory had guests or entertained the bishop, Miss Puckle managed the housekeeping; when the rector was sick, she made poultices and beef tea, and nursed him most efficiently. All the village believed it would be “a match,” although Mr. Chesterfield was seventy. The rumour went further, and one of his married nieces had lately invaded Beke; her manner to Miss Puckle had been pointedly disagreeable, and she was reported to have “said things.”

Lizzie’s time, as may be supposed, was fully occupied, but I had many empty hours in spite of practising and readings. Some of these hours I filled in with visits to my intimates in the villages, to the Soadys, or by long tramps over the country, accompanied by Kipper. To Myson’s Dyke was his favourite excursion; here were rabbits, rabbits, and rabbits—oh, such good hunting! Our path lay over a series of ugly flat fields, ending in the palings and outlying plantations of one of the big places.

On this particular occasion, although it happened to be my birthday, my reflections were by no means cheerful. The morning’s post had brought me the gift of a lace pocket-handkerchief from my cousin Dora and a note in which she said, “Father had a letter from Ronald; he said that you are looking splendid—so much for Beke!”

So much for Beke indeed! Apparently Ronnie’s appeal had fallen flat; there was not a word about India. Alas! that door of escape was closed. As I turned my face towards the village, and contemplated the hateful, too familiar and forbidding path across the dried-up marshes, a memory suddenly flashed into my mind:

“Over the meadows that blossom and wither

Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song;

Only the sun and the rain come hither.

All year long.”

I asked myself impatiently how long was I to lead this empty, dull existence? A life given over to the monotonous duties of an alien household and to pandering to the vanity of a garrulous old man! My school-fellows wrote to me from time to time. Several had asked me to visit them, but Aunt Mina vetoed all such hospitalities. “These people,” she said, “were not in our set. You must remember that your grandmother was a duke’s daughter and only associate with your own class, not with second-rate acquaintances.” It was evident that she liked to play dog-in-the-manger, and would neither suffer me to stay with others nor offer me an invitation herself!

As I strolled along in a melancholy mood, musing on the misery of my virtual internment, an acute sense of homelessness overcame me. My eyes were dim with tears of self-pity, when, through these tears, I discerned a distant speck on the pathway; it approached, gradually grew larger, and presently materialised into the figure of a man, tall, square-shouldered, and carrying a gun under his arm. Nearer and nearer he strode, and when within ten yards I saw that he was a well set-up, soldierly individual, in orthodox shooting garb, with dark, rather sleepy eyes and a masterful chin. He looked me straight in the face, as we passed almost touching—the sole human beings within sight over miles of space. Kipper, with his hackles on end, sniffed suspiciously at the man’s leggings, and then, so to speak, “accepted him,” and I proceeded homewards, listening to the steady tramp of a pair of heavy shooting boots till the sound had ceased. I had advanced a certain distance, when an imperative curiosity impelled me to halt and look back—I am well aware that this was a most unladylike action; nevertheless I fell! To my horror and embarrassment, I discovered that the stranger was doing precisely the same thing, standing apparently immovable as a milestone. Undoubtedly our curiosity and, I think I may say, interest, had been mutual! I was sincerely thankful that the distance was too great for us to distinguish one another’s features, and felt deeply ashamed, exquisitely flattered, and painfully shy. Before I could turn he had snatched off his cap and waved it to me! What audacious impertinence! My heart beat unusually fast, and my face flamed. Here was an adventure at last, and although its form was highly indiscreet—nevertheless I liked it!

Possibly it may not be surprising when I state that I thought of the stranger all the way home; my mind was so full of him that the monotonous miles seemed as yards. I recalled his upright bearing, his handsome eyes, his kindly word to Kipper. Was this the hero that every girl of nineteen sees in her dreams? It is a remarkable fact that at dinner I, who usually poured out my budget of small news—such as, how someone had broken Mrs. Hogg’s window, the postman’s baby had croup, or a party of motorists had stopped to tea at “The Beetle”—never once mentioned my experience, but kept it locked up in my heart; yes, even from Tossie, who brought all her joys and sorrows to me. Behold my first secret! After all how puny and insignificant; nevertheless, I hugged it like a child with her first doll! On Slacklands Flats I had encountered a good-looking stranger—no doubt one of the guns at Myson—who had stared hard, looked after me, and signalled a gay greeting. “Ships that pass in the night”—“a couple who pass at sundown.” I must confess that I allowed my mind to dwell on the adventure as I sewed, as I listened to the professor’s plays, yes, even in church, when naturally I ought to have been engrossed in holy thoughts and the rector’s short, crisp sermon.

CHAPTER IV
A DANCE AT “THE PLOUGH”

Before Christmas my relations departed to Nice. Aunt Mina, who suffered from bronchitis, went in search of a little sun, my cousins in quest of amusement. The Riviera was gay, and they were by all accounts a large and congenial party. Perhaps their consciences may have troubled them with regard to me, for they sent me unusually nice presents—a large box of chocolate, a fan, and a gay parasol. There was not much occasion for these latter at Beke in winter time, but one must not look a gift-horse in the mouth! Our Christmas was profoundly dull, not to say depressing; it was cold work decorating the bleak old church—assisted by Lizzie, the schoolmistress, the landlady of “The Beetle,” and many others, including Tossie and her most recent admirer, a smart young “vet” from Newmarket.

As we pricked our frozen hands and made a great holly wreath for the font she said,

“You look awfully down, dear, and I suppose there is no fun going on at ‘The Roost’ on Christmas Day—no party, eh?”

“Need you ask?” I retorted derisively. “We are to have early dinner, as Clarice has a holiday, and the professor indigestion.”

“You will be getting a letter from your brother to cheer you. My! he is the best-looking fellow I ever saw, although he is on the small side; I admire his whole style, his neat little moustache, and the lovely scent on his hair. Only that the others are so pressing I would wait for him, I declare I would.” And Tossie burst into a loud laugh. “See now, listen, Evie, I have a splendid plan for you.”

“A plan?” I echoed.

“Yes, give me over that ball of twine, and I will tell you all about it. On New Year’s Eve there is to be a grand kick-up at ‘The Plough and Harrow’ in Mirfield village; it is an hotel that was a fine place in old times, and has a great big room at the back, where they used to have routs, and soirées—whatever they were. The inn is getting up a dance; tickets half a crown for ladies, and I have got yours.”

“As if Lizzie would allow me to go!”

“Wait now,” urged Tossie impressively; “the company will be extra respectable, just farmer folk; there will be a piano and a fiddle, and a bit of supper, tea, and coffee and sandwiches. Mother is sending the soup, and she will chaperon us. We will have the top put on the old wagonette, which will hold six inside, and you must come and dine and sleep at the Manor, as you have done before of a wet night. I know you are mad keen on dancing. They say the floor is splendid, and you won’t mind with whom you dance, so long as he is sober and a good partner—so say you will come?”

“Yes, you may be sure I shall, if Lizzie will let me.”

“Oh, bother Lizzie! You must assert yourself, Evie, and not allow people to walk over you. It is all very well for her to be living in Beke; she is forty and has all she wants, and enjoys playing about the parish with the rector. You just talk up to her and say you intend to have a little fling. I am sure she will see it. Liz has been young herself, and she is awfully fond of you.”

“Who are your party?” I inquired.

“Freddy Block the vet, and I am sure he looks good enough for any society; my cousin Bob from Leeds, he is in a big outfitter’s; Annie Green, Dr. Mercer, Mother, brother Sam, and ourselves. It will be rather a crowd, but Sam can go outside.”

“Tossie, it is too kind of you, and I should love to go. I have not been to a dance since I left school, and I will fall on my knees to Lizzie—but what about my frock?”

“Oh, your black will do elegantly, and stick a bit of mistletoe in your hair! Now mind you don’t disappoint me, but try to get hold of Liz when she feels Christmassy and soft.”

I believe Lizzie was a little sorry for me on Christmas Day; my letters and cards had been so few and there was nothing from India. The drawing-room fire smoked, the turkey was nearly raw, the groaning professor had retired upstairs; on the whole we had a miserable festival.

The village itself wore a convivial air, and from my post in a deep-seated window I commanded a view of the street, and enviously noted the many cheery couples and families passing to and fro. From my niche I was summoned by Lizzie; according to immemorial custom the school-children were to have a treat on Boxing Day, and I was bound to lend a hand with the preparations. Accordingly, I spent the remainder of the holiday helping to ticket presents—taking care to see that there was no cause for jealousy or rivalry in their distribution; for instance, that the Cobbs received nothing that might outshine the Bolters, that little Tommy Ware was not endowed with a knife, or the “Beetle” baby with a box of paints. With unscrupulous subtlety I seized upon this exceptional opportunity, as my confederate had advised, to “talk up to Lizzie.”

“Lizzie,” I began, “I am still legally what is called an infant, and I should like a treat, too!”

“I only wish I could see my way to your having one, my poor child,” she replied, “I know this is a deadly existence for you, and I realise that you do have a very poor time, but what is the alternative?”

“We need not discuss that now, Liz, but the treat is to hand; the Plough and Harrow Inn, at Mirfield, is giving a dance on New Year’s Eve, it will be quite a respectable affair, with a piano, a fiddle and sandwiches. Mrs. Soady will chaperon me. Do let me go, my dear Lizzie,” and I seized her by the arm, “let me just have one dance, to circulate my blood, and try to feel like other girls!” I paused, and hung almost breathless on her answer. It was a long time in coming, but at last she said,

“Well, of course, the Soadys are all right, but they are not in your class, nor are their friends.”

“Now you are talking exactly like Aunt Mina! Never mind the classes—I should like to dance with the masses.”

“Oh Eva,” and as she spoke her face seemed to lengthen by inches, “what would your aunt say?”

“She will never know,” I rejoined with easy confidence, “and you might not have known either. If I had just gone to dine and sleep at the Manor, you would not dream in your wildest moments that I was dancing the New Year in at the Plough and Harrow, in Mirfield. You see, it is five miles from here, and quite out of our beat; not a soul will recognise me. But I could not play you such a trick, Liz—whatever I am, I am not sly!”

“Well, I really do not know what to say,” declared Lizzie sitting down with a Noah’s Ark in her lap. “I halt between two opinions. On the one hand, I should like you to enjoy yourself and have a little bit of amusement for once; on the other, I must say I rather shrink from the idea of your making your debut, chaperoned by old Mother Soady, and dancing with such partners as Sam and Bob Tate. If you do go——”

Here I broke in,

“Oh, you dear good Lizzie, and I shall have no end of funny things to tell you afterwards.”

“If you do go,” she reiterated, “the whole thing must be a dead secret; above all, not a word to Uncle Sep; he talks—and when he went over to ‘The Beetle’ for tobacco he would tell the village all about it; it is also to be a dead secret from me. Understand, that I give you permission to dine and sleep at the Manor; however they may entertain you there is no longer my affair.”

“Oh, Liz, what a nice Jesuitical way of looking at it! But whatever happens I have your official consent.” Then I fell upon her and kissed her.

We certainly were a tight fit, and a noisy party, in the old wagonette, which was somewhat severely tried by the weight of the company and the slap-dash pace of a fine pair of young horses. Nevertheless, we arrived safely at the “Plough and Harrow,” and in capital time. The old inn was all lit up, spectators were crowding round the door, gigs, phaetons and even milk carts were depositing happy guests. The ladies’ cloakroom was crammed; here we unpinned, uncloaked and reported upon one another’s appearance, as there was not the smallest chance of approaching the one looking-glass. Tossie looked blooming in blue and white. Annie Green was in flowered muslin of a bold and lurid design—somewhat resembling a perambulating wall-paper. The style, she informed us, “was the very latest thing in Paris.”

Mrs. Soady, chiefly remarkable for her kind heart and her circumference, was dressed in her best black satin, which was many inches too short in front, a large plaid bow crowned her good-looking smiling face, and an enormous cameo brooch fastened under her chin imparted the effect of a martingale.

As soon as we had emerged from the struggling mass of women in the cloakroom we were joined by our cavaliers; thus supported, as we entered the ballroom in a body, I was sensible of an atmosphere of delicious adventure! The ballroom was long, narrow, and wainscoted, and held a powerful atmosphere of potatoes—no wonder, since, as Sam informed me, several tons of this useful root had been but recently removed.

It was illuminated by wall lamps, and profusely garlanded with Christmas greenery. At one end was the band (piano, flute and violin), and the first set of lancers was promptly arranged. There were few forms for sitting out, as most of the company were young and meant business; in other words, they had come to dance—and dance they did! I found myself as a partner in flattering demand. I waltzed with Doctor Mercer, who bore me round in a series of leaps and bounds; the next waltz was with the “vet,” a most creditable performer; then I danced with young Sam, who gambolled about like a clumsy colt, talking all the time at the top of his voice.

I was resting after my second waltz with Mr. Block, the vet, when he drew my attention to two men who were contemplating the scene from an opposite doorway. They were in shooting dress; one I had never seen before, but instantly I recognised his companion as “the stranger.” The couple had evidently just looked in casually, to see what was going on, and had happened upon a most animated gathering. There could be no possible doubt of the company’s enjoyment.

“You see those two fellows over there?” said my partner, “they are officers stopping here for the duck shooting.”

Almost before he had ceased speaking, I beheld the stranger dodging about among the dancers. He came straight up to me, bowed, and said,

“May I have the honour of a dance?”

In for a penny in for a pound! Without a moment’s hesitation I replied,

“Yes, with pleasure.”

“The next?”

I was engaged to the local telegraph clerk for the next. Should I throw him over? No.

“I can give you number twelve,” I said looking at my card.

“I say, and what about me?” clamoured the stranger’s companion, who had now joined us, clicking his heels together and bowing before me with exaggerated respect.

Somehow I did not feel favourably disposed towards this would-be partner; he had not, like his friend, an arresting personality. I disliked his prominent nose and teeth and bold goggling eyes, and fixed him with my best imitation of Aunt Mina’s glare.

“But why should I be left out?” he argued, totally unabashed; “you have given him one, and you dance like an angel.”

“This lady and I have met before,” coolly interposed the stranger. Then to me, “I shall look forward to number twelve”; and taking the other forcibly by the arm, he removed him from my vicinity. Subsequently, as I swam round the room in the charge of the telegraph clerk, I noticed the two watching us closely from the doorway, and as soon as the waltz was over I was promptly claimed.

My new partner danced admirably, our step suited, the floor was in first-rate condition, and the old “Amoureuse” was one of my favourites.

“Why do you try to steer?” inquired my partner, when we halted.

“I am sorry,” I replied, “but I suppose it is because, being one of the tall girls, I always danced gentleman at school.”

“And since?”

“This is my first dance—elsewhere.”

“Then I am afraid your people must live in a desperately dull neighbourhood?”

“I do not live with my people,” I replied, “in fact, I may tell you, I have no people to live with. My parents died when I was quite small, and my only brother is in India.” I paused abruptly, and felt myself growing red with self-consciousness. Why should I offer all this autobiography to an absolute stranger? What were my affairs to him? As usual my tongue had run away with me, and I felt stricken with confusion and remorse.

After a short silence, he said,

“Possibly you may not remember me, but we passed one another on the marshes some time ago. I was so astonished to see a young lady walking alone in that dreary side of the country, I might have thought you were an apparition but for the dog. Do you live in that part of the world?”

“Yes,” I replied, “within a few miles.”

Mrs. Soady, passing by on the arm of the doctor, patted me on the arm and said,

“Come along and get some soup before it’s all gone. I hope you are enjoying yourself, dearie?”

I nodded an emphatic assent, and as she disappeared in the direction of refreshments my companion looked at me interrogatively.

“My chaperon,” I briefly explained.

“I see,” he assented, nevertheless it was evident that he was greatly puzzled. He surveyed my neat black frock, my well-fitting gloves, my beautiful French fan—also perhaps my smart satin shoes and silk stockings, which were crossed in front of me, for I never made any secret of the fact that I had remarkably pretty feet.

After this we talked perfunctorily of the weather and of dogs; presently he conducted me to the buffet in the hotel dining-room, where, as I stood sipping coffee, I noticed that many eyes were upon us, including those of the landlady. To this attention I was serenely indifferent; beyond our own party not a soul in the room, or among the company, had the least idea as to who I was, or that they were honoured by the presence of the great granddaughter of a duke! After a very short “interval for refreshments,” we returned to the ballroom and danced two delightful waltzes; as the last sad strain sobbed itself to an end, my companion said:

“I am aware that we have become acquainted in rather an unusual fashion. Would you think me awfully presumptuous if I were to ask you to tell me your name?” I nodded my head with, I fear, ungracious emphasis. “I see,” he exclaimed. “Well, all right—then I shall call you Miss Incognita. Mine is Captain Falkland—Brian Falkland.”

“I see,” I echoed. I cannot imagine what possessed me to mimic him to his face. I felt “fey,” the dancing had exhilarated me, and had gone to my head like champagne.

“This is a queer old inn,” he went on. “The landlady told me that ages ago all the county came here, and in winter had routs in this room. I should say it had routs within the last week,” and he sniffed fastidiously.

At this moment Sam, breathless from his exertions, mopping his big, red face, accosted me.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Eva,” he panted; “Mother sent me to look for you. It is after one o’clock and we ought to be getting home,” and turning apologetically to my partner he added: “You see, sir, we farmers are bound to be early folk.”

“So sorry,” said my companion; “I suppose there is no help for it; you must go, but I will only say au revoir, Miss Eva,” and he bowed.

Still possessed by the spirit of giddiness, I made him a profound court curtsy, such as had possibly been executed in the adjacent ballroom a hundred and fifty years previously, and then I walked off attended by Sam. Ten minutes later, when our loud and hilarious party had all been packed into the “Black Maria,” I noticed Captain Falkland and his friend standing on the steps of the “Plough and Harrow,” watching our proceedings with unaffected interest, until our high-spirited horses whirled us away into the darkness of the January night.

On our arrival at the Manor, Tossie followed me into my room for “a talk”; as we unhooked one another, and so to speak disarmed, naturally we discussed the dance.

“I need not ask you if you enjoyed yourself,” she said, “you were quite the beauty. And it was a real treat to see you and that officer dancing together; a good partner, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied, “he holds you so comfortably, and always seems to know where he is going.”

“And you did have what they call a ‘success,’ my dear; everyone was asking who you were, and I told them, a friend from London, who is stopping with me; one may as well tell a good lie when one goes about it. Did you not feel for all the world like a swan in a duck pond?”

“No, but a goose—and very much a goose.”

Before Tossie retired to her own apartment she became most confidential and interesting, and informed me that Fred Block had been on the verge of a proposal, but she had headed him off as she could not yet make up her mind.

“As for you,” she added, “I was very ‘mum’ when they were chaffing you in the bus about your best partner—I believe you gave him five waltzes. I know all about him, and they don’t; shall I tell you?”

“If you like,” I answered with affected nonchalance.

“Don’t drawl,” protested Tossie, “be interested or you shan’t hear a word.”

“Well, go on, I am all ears.”

“Then listen. Captain Falkland is in some cavalry regiment. He has been staying at Landmere for Christmas with the Earl and Countess of Runnymede, his cousins; it is said they want him to marry Lady Amelia, a plain, washed-out thing with weak eyes. He is the only son of General and Lady Louisa Falkland—awfully proud people—and is very good-looking, as you may see; I do love the nice way his hair grows down over his square forehead—I should like to see you married to him, so I would!” and Tossie gave me a playful push.

“I never heard such nonsense!” I exclaimed. “It is not the least likely we shall ever meet again.”

“Then you did not give him a little clue, or tell him your name?” and Tossie thrust her red-and-white face close to mine, and stared into my eyes with her unflinching blue orbs.

“Of course not,” I answered impatiently. “Why should I?”

“If it had been me, I’d have done it! Well now, there is three striking and I must go to my bed. The meet is at Harper’s Cross at eleven—but you can sleep it out!”

On my return from the Manor to “The Roost,” I related to Lizzie the history of my illegitimate outing. With more than usual glibness my tongue wagged freely, as I described the dance, the supper, the music, the most notable costumes, and my various partners—all except one; and she, kind and unsuspicious creature, declared that she was delighted to hear I had enjoyed myself so thoroughly, but added:

“If the tidings of this little escapade were ever to reach the ears of Mrs. Lingard, I believe I should be compelled to emigrate!”

CHAPTER V
THE GREAT INVASION

It is strange but true that my future lot was profoundly affected by the microbe of influenza. Influenza accomplishes various evils; this obnoxious germ carries weakness, depression and death, but it is rare to find it a medium that launches a young woman into the great wide world.

An excursion to London every January was one of the hard-and-fast rules of “The Roost”; about the middle of the month, when Christmas festivities had waned, the professor and his niece journeyed together to a boarding-house in Bayswater, and there enjoyed—each in their own way—a fortnight of the Metropolis. She, in attending sales and classical concerts, looking up old friends and going to “teas” arrayed in her best clothes. He, in personally worrying managers and dramatic agents, patronising theatres, telephoning incessantly, and giving expensive entertainments to needy professionals, who fed his insatiable vanity with enormous helpings of the sweetest flattery, and sent him back to his dull old den with a swollen head and a somewhat empty pocket.

Just before this half-yearly expedition, when rooms had been engaged, luggage packed, and our arrival formally notified, Lizzie suddenly collapsed under a violent attack of “flu.” As her temperature was found to be 103, a journey was out of the question. The doctor who was summoned ordered bed and nursing, and declared the ailment to be of a particularly virulent type. Lizzie, painfully distressed and apologetic, endeavoured to assert herself and talked of “being all right in a couple of days,” but when the doctor uttered the word “pneumonia” she succumbed.

At first the attitude of the professor was sympathetic, then by degrees he became silent, sullen, and finally morose; as vexed at his postponed holidays as any spoilt child.

“But I thought you hated London,” I said, not sorry to tease him a little. “You have always said you were so thankful to live outside the noise and clamour of the world.”

My remarks irritated the professor to such a degree that I believe he could have thrown a book at me had one been handy, but they had merely the effect of inflaming his passion for the great city with its vast opportunities.

“Why not let him go alone?” I suggested to the invalid. “He says the rooms will have to be paid for, and he is miserable about all the important appointments he is missing. If you could look out of the window, you would see him raging up and down the garden.”

“Oh yes, I know,” said Lizzie impatiently, “he always does that when he’s put out. Somehow I am reluctant to let Uncle Sep out of my sight, especially in London; he does crazy, impulsive things and is so easily talked into follies, such as spending and lending, and I act as a sort of brake; then those chattering elderly women at Number 20 make no end of him and imply that he is quite a lady-killer and irresistibly attractive. Poor Uncle Sep never was either; clever enough, but not very wise, especially since he slipped on a banana and fell on the back of his head. You say he is dull and disappointed?”

“‘Dull and disappointed’ but feebly conveys the case! He is like Kipper when he sees me with my hat on, frantic to go out. He ate no dinner last night.”

“Then, indeed, he is in a bad way! Well, ask him to saturate himself with eucalyptus, and to come and talk it all over with me after lunch.”

The result of this talk was the departure of the professor the very next morning. He made an almost imposing figure in his London clothes, tall hat, frock coat, neat umbrella, and modern boots. As I escorted him to the little gate he remarked:

“Well, Evie, this time I shall do something with the managers. I have a presentiment that I shall bring back a huge success.”

“Only it’s so cold I’d throw my shoe after you,” I replied, “but I wish you the best of luck.”

Without any further remark, or even the formality of a farewell, he climbed into the creaking fly and was presently lumbering away. Lizzie’s illness lasted longer than we anticipated; she kept her room for nearly three weeks; meanwhile, village and parochial business was more or less dislocated. Mr. Chesterfield the rector called daily and sent flowers, newspapers, and notes, but never approached the infected premises nearer than a hundred yards.

At last the ruler of “The Roost” crawled downstairs, a weak and shattered remnant of her keen and energetic self. However, the “sofa,” and “feeding up” were duly prescribed, with excellent results. Letters from the professor—once so copious—had lately degenerated into picture postcards, and these chiefly conveyed bulletins of the weather. He had been absent nearly a month, and to me this was a happy relief. Lizzie was now convalescent, and once more managing Beke with her accustomed capability.

One afternoon we were returning from a long and muddy walk, when a boy darted out of the post office, and handed her a telegram. It came from Uncle Sep, and said, “Arrive to-night, send fly to the seven; have good fires and dinner.”

“What a funny telegram!” she exclaimed handing it to me; “as if we don’t always have fires and a good dinner. As it happens, there is a goose to-night. I will tell Eliza to make a roly-poly and Welsh rarebit—Uncle Sep loves them—and also to put a big fire in his bedroom. I expect he’s had a play accepted, and wishes to commemorate his return with a feast.”

It was nearly eight o’clock when I heard the fly stop at the front gate. I had been listening expectantly; even the return of the tiresome professor made a change in my monotonous existence. He would bring, if not news, at least some illustrated papers. I went into the hall and looked out; it was a cold, dark night, with drifting showers of sleet; nevertheless, I stood bravely at the open door, whilst Clarice, with the skirt of her dress flung over her head, pattered down to the cab. The professor descended heavily backwards, and instead of as usual hurrying indoors, he turned about, apparently in order to assist another to alight—a woman! In a second I divined the truth. Uncle Sep had brought home a wife!

Naturally a desperate moral coward, he had shrunk from announcing the marriage to his niece, and left it to the bride to break the intelligence in person. I dashed into the dining-room, where Lizzie was deliberately lighting candles on the mantelpiece, and gasped out:

“Your uncle has brought someone back with him—I think it is Mrs. Bickers!”

Lizzie turned about, and stood staring at me stupidly, her mouth half open—a lighted taper in her unconscious hand. I remembered Mrs. Bickers at the boarding-house, a plump widow of fifty with a strongly corseted figure, black eyes like boot buttons, a high colour, and a long chin.

Yes, I was right, it was Mrs. Bickers! Already she was standing in the doorway, clad in a black waterproof and an aggressive-looking hat covered with pointed wings. The cowardly professor pushed her into the room before him, saying in a loud, would-be jovial voice:

“Hallo, Liz, I have brought you a present from London. Here is your new aunt and old friend, Mrs. Bickers—now Mrs. Puckle. We were married ten days ago!”

The announcement was succeeded by a prolonged and dramatic silence. For my part, my nerves were throbbing with excitement, and it may appear callous and hard-hearted, but personally I felt as if I were witnessing a powerful scene in some play. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with animosity and fear; fear being well represented by Uncle Sep, who was breathing audibly in quick short gasps; animosity had sprung to arms within the eyes of the two ladies.

“My dear Lizzie,” said Mrs. Puckle; then suddenly advancing upon her and seizing her unawares she attacked her with a vigorous embrace.

“Well, Uncle,” said Lizzie, releasing herself as vigorously, and straightening her back; “you have indeed given us a surprise!”

I knew that Lizzie was furious, wild with indignation and consternation, but years of governessing had taught her extraordinary self-control.

“Yes, my dear, life is full of surprises,” said the professor, to whom things seemed to be going unexpectedly well. “I hope there is a good fire in my room,” he added bumptiously. “Jessie,” to the bride, “you will like to take your things off, and we will have dinner at once.”

“All right,” she answered obediently. “Dear me, how warm and cosy it all looks!” and the bride’s quick eyes travelled round the room, and noted the solid mahogany furniture, the massive table appointments, and the whole appearance of unostentatious comfort. On her way towards the door she halted and addressed herself particularly to Lizzie.

“Your uncle and I were always friendly you remember, and a fortnight’s propinquity was too much for us both!”

“Was it really?” rejoined Lizzie, speaking with set lips, and a bright red spot on either cheek.

“Yes,” replied the bride, “we have so much in common, and are both old enough to know our own minds.” And then she turned her broad back on her new niece, and passed into the hall.

“This I suppose is the drawing-room?” And the bride threw open the door and stood in a “monarch of all I survey” attitude on the threshold. Within, it looked black and aggressively forbidding; it was as if the spirit of the old house distrusted this stranger.

“Oh dear me, what a horrible smell of damp and dry rot! I shall have a fire in here every day.”