The adventurous lady

_By_

J. C. Snaith

The Adventurous Lady The Undefeated The Sailor The Time Spirit The Coming Anne Feversham

_These Are Appleton Books_

D. APPLETON & COMPANY Publishers New York

_The_ ADVENTUROUS LADY

By J. C. Snaith

Author Of “The Undefeated,” “The Sailor,” “Broke Of Covenden”

D. Appleton And Company New York MCMXX

Copyright, 1920, By D. Appleton And Company

Printed In The United States Of America

_The_

Adventurous Lady

I

PEACE and her blessings were flowing already. All the same there was a terrible crush at Belgravia. The congestion of passengers and their luggage at the terminus of the B. S. W. was enough to daunt the stoutest heart, but a girl in a sealskin coat with a skunk collar standing at the bookstall on Platform Three was as calm and collected as if the war was still going on. Outwardly at least she made no concession to the fact that the Armistice had been signed three days.

She chose some newspapers and magazines and paid for them with an air that almost treated money with the disdain it reserved for literature. Then she moved towards a figure of sombre dignity standing between the barrier and herself.

“Come on, Pikey,” she said.

A tall, griffin-like woman, craggy of feature but almost oppressively respectable, followed her mistress dourly. The duenna carried a large, queer-shaped, rather disreputable-looking dressing case whose faded purple cover was adorned with a coronet. As their tickets were franked at the barrier, these ladies were informed that “All stations beyond Exeter” were up on the right.

In spite of such clear and explicit instructions, it was not easy to get to all the stations beyond Exeter. Platform Three was a maelstrom of almost every known community. There were Italians and Serbians, Welshmen and such men, Japanese sailors and turbaned Hindoos; the personal suite of President Masaryk; Tommies and poilus; American tars and doughboys; British and Colonial officers, their kit and appurtenances; and over and above all these were the members of the traveling public which in other days had kept the railways running and had paid the shareholders their dividends.

A cool head and a firm will were needed to get as far as the stations beyond Exeter. And these undoubtedly belonged to the girl in the fur coat. Her course was slow but it was calm and sure. With rare fixity of will she pursued it despite the peace that had come so suddenly upon the world. It was a very long train, but she was in no hurry nor did she betray the least anxiety, although somewhere about the middle--Salisbury and Devizes only--she cast a half-glance back to say to her companion, “I don’t see _our_ porter, Pikey.”

To utter the word “porter” just then was either bravado or it was inhuman optimism. But the act of faith was justified by the event, for hardly had the lady of the fur coat made the remark when a figure in corduroys almost miraculously emerged from the welter. Both travelers had a doubt at first as to whether this rare bird was Trotsky himself or merely a Sinn Fein delegate to the Peace Conference, so aloof yet so grim was his manner. But at that moment there seemed to be no other porter on Platform Three--it followed, therefore, that _their_ porter it must be.

It was rather providential perhaps that the porter had been able to find them, but he was by way of being a connoisseur in the human female. He had not been employed at Belgravia for thirty-five years without learning to sort out the various ranks and grades of a heterogeneous society. As a matter of fact, there were only two grades of society for Mr. Trotsky. One grade was worth while, the other was not.

The progress of the party up Platform Three to all the stations beyond Exeter was slow but, like fate, it was inevitable. They walked through, over and beyond armed representatives of five continents, nursemaids with babies and perambulators, not to mention remarkable women with remarkable dogs, trolleys and milk cans and piles of luggage, until at last they reached a compartment not far from the engine. It was notable for the fact that it was two-thirds empty. Rugs, umbrellas and minor portmanteaux claimed the unoccupied seats; those remaining were adorned by two distinguished-looking gentlemen who, however, were reading _The Times_ newspaper with an assiduity that definitely and finally dissociated them from Mr. Trotsky and party.

The lady of the fur coat was in the act of opening her purse at the carriage door when a wild, weak voice said, excitedly, “Oh, porter, can you find me a place--_please_?”

On instinct Mr. Trotsky disregarded the appeal. There was frenzy in it; and that fact alone made any examination of the overburdened, rather hunted little creature at his elbow unnecessary. Dark fate itself could not have turned a deafer ear than he.

“People are standing in all the thirds.” The piping, rather piteous little note grew more insistent. “I _can’t_ stand all the way to Clavering, St. Mary’s.”

“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.

“But--but there’s no place for my luggage.”

As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing at bay. She was literally standing at bay.

“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was cautious and detached, but not unfriendly.

“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a third-class ticket.”

“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of immensely practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.

“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm. “Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”

Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine. His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger, seemed sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be more just to say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss Fur Coat was curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She was absolutely cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the temperature of Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck, whereas poor little Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin green ulster. And the slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost dangerous momentum. Before the third class passenger realized what had happened, she had been taken charge of.

“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”

Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey, who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage, and calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a leather-handled umbrella from one seat to the next.

“Thank you so much--thank you _ever_ so much,” twittered the lady of the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of the _Times_ newspaper.

A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for an hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in anger than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell pince-nez. One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people these times! Still the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another half crown.

“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on almost the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.

The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not call for comment, a message was received from another department to ask what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the incident ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned--ended almost before it began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did not amount to an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.

II

THE Inspector came along to look at the tickets.

“You must either pay excess or change into a third,” he said firmly at the sight of the third class ticket.

“But there’s no room,” its owner faltered. It is a phrase no longer in vogue in the best novels, but the little lady of the green ulster was of the faltering type.

“Plenty of room presently.” So firm was the Inspector he might have been Marshal Foch himself. “Meantime you must find a place somewhere else.”

At this cruel mandate the little lady shivered under her bright thin garment.

“How much--how much is there to pay?” It was mere desperation. There were only a few--a very few shillings in her purse. All her available capital had been put into the green ulster and the new serge suit she was wearing and a black felt hat with a neat green ribbon. But to be torn out of that haven of refuge, to be flung again, bag and baggage, into the maelstrom of Platform Three--the thought was paralyzing.

The Inspector condescended to look again at the third-class ticket. “Clavering St. Mary’s. There’ll be twenty-one and six-pence excess.”

Miss Gray Eyes wilted visibly.

“I can’t stand here all day,” announced the Inspector. “This train was due out a quarter of an hour ago.”

“But--” faltered the unlucky passenger.

“You’ll have to come out and find room lower down.”

At this point a slow, cool, rather cautious voice said “Inspector.”

“Madam?” It was a decidedly imperative “madam.”

“If there is no room in the third-class compartments this lady is allowed a seat here, isn’t she?”

“There is room--if she’ll take the trouble to look for it.”

“She says there isn’t.” If anything the voice of Miss Fur Coat had grown slower and cooler.

“I say there is.” The Inspector knew he was addressing a bona fide first-class passenger, all the same he was terribly inspectorial.

“Well perhaps you’ll find it for her.” The considered coolness was almost uncanny. “And then, perhaps, you’ll come back and show her where it is.”

The Inspector was obviously a little stunned by Miss Fur Coat’s suggestion, but he managed to blurt out, “And what about the train in the meantime?” Then he went for Miss Green Ulster with a truculence that verged on savagery. “Come on, madam. Come on out.”

“I don’t think I’d move if I were you.” The manner of the other lady was quite impersonal.

“Very well, then,”--the Inspector produced a portentous looking notebook--“I must have your name and address.”

It is quite certain that Miss Gray Eyes would have yielded to this awful threat of legal proceedings to follow had it not been for the further intervention of the good fairy or the evil genius opposite.

“You had better take mine, Inspector.” The voice was really inimitable. “My father, I believe, is a director of your company.”

Miss Fur Coat knew that her father was a director of a railway company. She didn’t know the name of it, nor did she know the name of the company by which she was traveling, nor was she a student of Hegel, or for that matter of any other philosopher, but there really seemed no reason at that moment why they should not be one and the same.

The Inspector turned to confront the occupant of the corner seat. It would be an abuse of language to say that he turned deferentially, but somehow his notebook and pencil certainly looked a shade less truculent.

“I had better give you a card.” It was almost the voice of a dreamer, yet the dry precision was really inimitable. “Pikey,”--she addressed the lady opposite--“you have some cards?”

The duenna opened the queer-shaped dressing bag with an air of stern disapproval. At the top was a small leather case which she handed to her mistress.

“Inspector, this is my mother’s card. My father is Lord Carabbas. That is _my_ name”--a neatly gloved finger indicated the middle--“Lady Elfreda Catkin.” She pronounced the name very slowly and distinctly and with a care that seemed to give it really remarkable importance.

The Inspector glanced at the card. Then he glanced at Lady Elfreda. He made no comment. All the same a subtle change came over him. It was hard to define, but it seemed to soften, almost to humanize him. Finally it culminated in an abrupt withdrawal from the compartment with a slight raising of the hat.

Before the train started, which in the course of the next three minutes it reluctantly did, the guard came and locked the carriage door.

England ranks as a democratic country, but the fact that a daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas was sitting in the left-hand corner, with her back to the engine, lent somehow a quality to the atmosphere of the compartment which would hardly have been there had its locale been the rolling stock of the Tahiti Great Western or the Timbuctoo Grand Trunk. At any rate two diligent students of _The Times_ newspaper peered solemnly at each other over the top of their favorite journal. Both lived in Eaton Place, they had belonged for years to the same clubs, they were known to each other perfectly well by sight but they jobbed in different markets; therefore they had yet to speak their first word to each other--for no better reason than that he who spoke first would have to make some little sacrifice of personal dignity in order to do so.

Now, of course, was not the moment to break the habit of years, but if their solemn eyes meant anything their minds held but a single thought. Carabbas himself did not cut much ice in the City, but if he was joining the board of the B. S. W. it meant that the astute Angora connection was coming into Home Rails, in which case purely as a matter of academic interest, there would be no harm in turning to page fifteen in order to look at the price of B. S. W. First Preferred Stock.

That was all the incident meant to these Olympians, just that and nothing more. But for the little lady of the green ulster it was of wholly different portent. When shortly after nine o’clock that morning she had left the home of her fathers in the modest suburb of Laxton she had not dreamt that before midday she would find herself under the personal protection of the daughter of a marquis. It was her good fortune to be living in the golden age of democracy, but...!

She stole a covert glance at the fur coat opposite. Such a garment in itself was no longer a mark of caste, but this was rather a special affair, a sealskin with a skunk collar, so simple, so unpretending that it needed almost the glance of an expert to tell that it had cost a great deal of money. Then she glanced at the hat above it, a plain black velour with a twist of skunk round it, then down at the neat--the adorably neat!--shoes, and then very shyly up again to their wearer. But their wearer was holding the _Society Pictorial_ in front of her, and in the opinion of the third class passenger it was, perhaps, just as well that she was. Otherwise she could hardly have failed to read what was passing in the mind of the Lady of Laxton. She must have seen something of the envy and the awe, of the eager, the too-eager interest which all the care in the world could not veil.

Miss Gray Eyes knew and felt she was a little snob, a mean and rather vulgar little snob in the presence of Miss Puss-in-the-Corner, the tip of whose decisive chin was just visible between her paper and her rich fur collar.

What must it feel like to be the daughter of a marquis? A crude and silly inner self put the question. A daughter of a marquis is just like anybody else’s daughter--the answer came pat, but somehow at that moment the third class passenger was unable to accept it. A gulf yawned between herself and the girl opposite. They were of an age; their heights and their proportions were nearly identical; at a first glance they might almost have passed for sisters except that Miss Gray Eyes was quite sure in her heart that she was the prettier; all the same there was a world of difference in the way they looked at life and a whole cosmos in the way life looked at them.

The little lady sighed at her thoughts--they were hard thoughts--and opened her pilgrim basket. She took from it a notebook and pencil and a dog-eared copy of _The Patrician_, the famous novel of Mr. John Galsworthy, which bore the imprint of the Laxton Cube Library. For two years past she had prescribed for herself a course of the best modern English fiction. She was reading it diligently, less for relaxation and human enjoyment than for purposes of self improvement. Her social opportunities had been few and narrow, although her parents had rather ambitiously given her an education excellent of its kind at the Laxton High School for Young Ladies, which she had been able to supplement by passing the Oxford Preliminary Examination.

For the second time in her life of twenty years Miss Cass--she was known to her friends as Girlie Cass--had taken a situation as a nursery governess. She had had one brief experience which had been terminated by her mother’s illness and death. Since then she had been three months a government clerk, but she was not quick at figures and she couldn’t write shorthand. Life as a nursery governess was not going to be a bed of roses for one as shy and sensitive as herself, but she was genuinely fond of young children and somehow such a career with all its thorns seemed more suited to one of her disposition than a stand-up fight in the peace that was coming with terribly efficient competitors, who, if they happened to want your particular piece of cake, would have no scruples about knocking you down and trampling upon your prostrate body in order to get it.

If Miss Cass had any taint of vanity it was centered in the fact that she was by way of being a high-brow. She was not a high-brow of the breed that looks and dresses and acts and thinks the part. In her case it was more a secret sin than anything and it took the form of competing week by week in the literary competition of the _Saturday Sentinel_, under the “nom de plume” of Vera.

The subject this week was the “Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.” It was, perhaps, a little advanced for the Laxton Cube Library, but Vera was ambitious. She had not yet won a prize, truth to tell she had not even been in sight of one, but three weeks ago her essay on _Jane Eyre_ had been commended as showing insight. She had not yet got over her excitement at receiving a compliment which in her heart she felt she fully merited. If she plumed herself upon anything it was upon her insight. One day when she had learned a little more about life--her trouble was that she had so little invention--she might even try to write a novel herself. But in her case it would have to be based on first-hand experience. She would not be able, like the Brontë Sisters, to weave a romance out of her inner consciousness.

“The Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.” Miss Cass had the bad habit of sucking her pencil, but it was not easy to marshal or to set down one’s thoughts with the train converging upon Reading at forty miles an hour. However, she was able to write the heading quite legibly. But then her difficulties began. What exactly was the influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English novel?

“Pikey.” It was almost the nicest voice Miss Gray Eyes had ever heard, yet curiously low and penetrating in quality. “Do you recognize that?” Miss Fur Coat folded back a page of her paper to display a photograph of a famous beauty. “Rather flattering, don’t you think?”

Pikey lowered _The Queen_, which she had been studying with a kind of latent ferocity, and exchanged periodicals without comment. She was evidently a creature of very few words, and to judge by a certain morose dignity it seemed to argue considerable hardihood on the part of anyone to address her at all familiarly.

Miss Cass could not help wondering what the status was of this duenna who seemed a cross between a lady’s maid and a werewolf. But the chain of her reflections was interrupted by the stopping of the train at a station of which she could not see the name. Here the two gentlemen got out, after one of them had lowered the window and had called to an official to unlock the door. And in the order of their going the student of _The Patrician_ noticed that while neither of them showed any particular concern for the green ulster, both were very careful not to tread upon the fur coat.

III

THE three ladies now had the carriage to themselves. As soon as the train had moved out of the station, Lady Elfreda discarded _The Queen_ and said, “What have you brought for luncheon, Pikey?”

The _Society Pictorial_ was laid aside while Pikey came resolutely to grips with an interesting looking case which had been placed on a vacant seat. In the meantime the blessed word “luncheon” had brought a pang to the heart of Miss Cass. On leaving her home that morning it had been her intention to procure some food en route. Alas, the difficulties of metropolitan travel, the irregularity of ’bus and train culminating in a bear fight at Belgravia, had driven all minor matters out of a head that was not very strong in practical affairs. Therefore it was now the part of Miss Gray Eyes to regard wistfully, from behind her book, the disclosure of the contents of the luncheon basket. Certainly it was quite in the tradition of a marquis’ daughter. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place: delicious looking sandwiches in neat tins, a cake which for war time could only be described as royal, and crowning glory and wonder, a large bottle of wine most artfully packed with glasses and corkscrew complete.

Lady Elfreda shed one neat glove with a very businesslike air and offered the contents of the tins. “Those are egg, Pikey--and these are ham, I think.”

The choice of Pikey was ham. The younger lady inserted a very level row of teeth into the other kind. “Considerin’,” she remarked with obvious satisfaction, “that these left Ireland at midnight they have stood the journey pretty well.”

But the Werewolf was too busy to attempt any form of conversation.

Behind _The Patrician_, now rigidly fixed as a barrier, the mouth of Miss Cass was watering. Within her was the emotion of sinking which marks the sense of zero. It was a terribly long journey to Clavering St. Mary’s. The train was not due in until after four. If only she had provided herself with a piece of chocolate! At the next stopping place, perhaps, she might be able to get something, but it was by no means a certainty, having regard to the length of the train and the present time of famine.

Suddenly Miss Cass was driven clean out of her dismal reflections. A voice of irresistible charm was addressing her. “Won’t you have one of these?” Both tins were offered. “Ham--and those are egg.”

Miss Cash blushed and hesitated. There was not the slightest need to do either, but it was her nature to blush and to hesitate, and there is no appeal from nature. A pair of eyes, very blue, very clear and only very slightly ironical looked straight into hers. “Do.” The voice was extraordinarily kind. “Please!--won’t you?”

It would have called for a heart of stone to resist such an appeal. Besides, there was no need to resist it.

“Oh, thank you ever so much.” A small piece of paper was laid reverently upon _The Patrician_ and a delicious looking egg sandwich was laid with similar reverence upon it. Then a white woolen glove was carefully removed.

The flavor of the sandwich was quite equal to its appearance. But it was a mere prelude to the repast. There was a profusion of excellent things, not a vulgar or ostentatious profusion, but the case had come from a land flowing with milk and honey. Miss Cass was firmly required to do her part with both kinds of sandwiches--dreams of sandwiches they were!--alluring biscuits and rich, almond-studded cake. Above all--and to be perfectly frank there would be no story without it--she was compelled to drink honest measure of a generous and full-bodied wine.

The sombre eyes of Pikey glistened when she took this royal vintage out of its improvised cradle and held it up to the light. “Herself said it would be good on the journey,” she announced.

“I know you are clever with corkscrews, Pikey,” said Lady Elfreda, handing the implement persuasively.

Pikey was very clever indeed with corkscrews if her present performance was anything to go by.

“Be very ca-re-ful how you pour it out.” Such words were superfluous, which Lady Elfreda well knew; in point of fact, they were a mere concession to the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas, for Pikey showed herself a past mistress in the art of decanting a great wine under trying conditions.

“Clever Pikey!”

Clever enough. The Werewolf had not dwelt from babyhood at Castle Carabbas and brought up half a dozen members of the Family without acquiring knowledge which in some quarters was rated highly.

When she had delicately filled the tumbler to two-thirds of its capacity she handed it to her mistress with something of the air of sovereign pontiff. But to Pikey’s cold disgust that Irresponsible offered it to the lady of the green ulster. Nay, she did more than offer it. She pressed it upon the almost too obvious third-class passenger with a cunning that made resistance almost impossible.

“Do--please! You have _such_ a long journey.” The blue eyes were smiling. “It will do you _so_ much good.” The tone was charming entreaty.

“But--but!” faltered Miss Cass.

“There is a great deal more than we shall require. It is quite a large bottle.” That statement was very true. It was a decidedly large bottle.

The Dragon scowled over the fur clad shoulder of her mistress, whom she would willingly have slain. Nevertheless Miss Cass had to yield to _force majeure_.

“Those plain round biscuits are strongly recommended. They make an excellent combination”--clever old Pikey to have thought of those!--“You see, there is any amount--far more than we shall want.”

Resistance was vain. Miss Gray Eyes accepted a plain round biscuit and then she drank of the full-bodied wine from the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas.

“This is for you and me, Pikey.” The Dragon, a figure of grim disapproval, had charged the one remaining tumbler. “You must have the first drink. That is your side of the Atlantic,” Lady Elfreda humorously drew an imaginary line across the mouth of the tumbler. “This is my side.”

Pikey drank. But her nose was so long that it seemed to stretch from Queenstown to Old Point Comfort.

Yes, a great wine, as none knew better than Pikey. She could not bear to see it wasted on Miss No-Class. If Pikey’s will had prevailed it would have choked the lady of the green ulster. What right had she to be drinking it, much less to be having a tumbler to herself?

Who knows what imprisoned genius lurked in that magic bottle from the cellar of Castle Carabbas? Miss Cass had never had such a meal. A modest repast, if you like, yet full of a peculiar virtue. Her thoughts began to fly round, her blood to course quicker; imprisoned forces were unsealed in her brain; phrases, ideas began to shape themselves. The moment with its pains and its fears began to press less heavily. Suddenly she became free of a great kingdom that her dreams had hinted at.

Suppose--entrancing supposition!--she were not an obscure, timid little governess at all, but the daughter of a marquis. She could have looked the part anyway; that was to say, had she been privileged to wear the clothes of the lady opposite she could have made an equally good showing. Privately she felt that with an equal chance she would have made a better. At any rate, if a glass could be depended on, her eyes, which were her chief asset, a rather curious gray, would have gone extremely well with that beautiful skunk collar.

Miss Cass grasped her pencil with a confidence she had never felt before. “The great charm of Mr. Galsworthy’s novels, which they share with the novels of Mr. H. G. Bennett and Mr. Arnold Wells----”

... “This is _quite_ a large bottle, Pikey.”

The eyes of the Dragon glistened ... as if she didn’t know the size of the bottle!

... “You must do _your_ share.” The tumbler was replenished.

That which slept in the royal vintage was known only to the Genie whose happy task it was to stage manage this tiny fragment of the human comedy. For the little Catkin lady, after a second modest recourse to the glass, also began to sit up and take notice. She, too, began to look at the world with other eyes.

Suppose one was little Miss Rabbit opposite? How must the world appear when you wear cheap clothes and you carry your own luggage and you have all suburbia upon your eyebrows? Rather nice eyes, though, by the way. What was the book she was studying? Part of some very difficult examination evidently, to judge by the way the poor hunted little mouse was biting her pencil....

Governess, obviously ... of sorts. What must it be like to get one’s living as a governess? How must it seem to be bored and bullied and snubbed by total strangers for the sake of a few pounds a year? Still in some ways even that mode of life might offer advantages. At any rate one might be able to call one’s soul--one’s real soul--one’s own. If you were an obscure little governess whom nobody cared twopence about, you could do as you liked in the big things, even if the small things did as they liked with you.

There must have been a powerful Genius lurking in that famous bottle, for the ears of Lady Elfreda had begun to tingle with resentment. She remembered that she was an unmarried daughter of a cynical father and a selfish mother. Four of her sisters had been sacrificed on the altar of money. And if the present journey into an unknown country meant anything it was her turn now.

With a pang that was almost agony she searched for and read again her mother’s letter.

Castle Carabbas, Friday.

Dearest E:

I hope you will have a pleasant time at Clavering St. Mary’s. The D. says you may find the host and hostess rather crude, but otherwise very respectable, nice people. He is on several Boards with your father. You are not likely to have met any of your fellow guests, but no doubt you will find them quite agreeable. And in any case you must bear in mind that you are giving your services for a noble cause. I hear from Mabel that last week you had quite a success in “The Duke of Killiecrankie.” The D. says that if everything else fails you will be able to come out as a star!!!

By the way, one of the new Peers will be included in the house party. He is what the D. calls “a Lloyd-George Particular,” all the same, he says, he is quite a good fellow. He has made his money rather suddenly, but from what one hears he is _extremely_ wealthy. And that is something to bear in mind with things so black over here and the outlook for land so uncertain.

The only people you are likely to know are our old friends the Lancelots who live in the neighborhood. Perhaps you may get out one day to see them.

As you will be among strangers I am sending Pikey to look after you. And “under the rose” she is bringing a bottle of the D.’s choicest Chateau Briault as you may be a little run down after your recent Labors in the cause of charity. If you are bored with your present task you must remember that you are giving your services for St. Aidan’s. Much love,

Your affectionate mother,

Charlotte Carabbas.

P. S.: The D. says the new Peer has at least £60,000 a year.

A second reading of this letter filled Elfreda with fury. Somehow it was so typical of her mother; of the mother who was a curious mixture of kindness, naïveté and cupidity; of the mother who cared for them all so much in small things and so little in great ones. Behind these careless phrases of Lady Carabbas her youngest daughter read her intentions only too clearly.

As Elfreda sat back in her corner and turned things over in her mind a kind of cold rage began to dominate her. Had she been left any choice in the matter she would not be going to Clavering St. Mary’s at all. No one she knew would be there. But she had not been consulted. Her autocratic father had promised one of his friends “in the city” that she should go down there and take part in some private theatricals in aid of a war charity. For nearly a year now she had been living in London with a married sister and working for the V. A. D. at one of the hospitals, but from time to time she had taken part in various entertainments with considerable success.

The play in which at decidedly short notice she had been called upon to enact no less a rôle than that of the heroine was called “The Lady of Laxton.” It was the work of an enthusiastic amateur whose chief claim to distinction, literary or otherwise, was of the kind that attends the possession of a baronetcy. She was to be a governess masquerading as a girl of position. Not only was the part very long and difficult to learn, but in the opinion of Elfreda it was pointless, silly and vulgar.

To make matters worse she had yet to meet the author of the piece, but he was known to several of her sisters with whom he was by no means _persona gratissima_. However, with a fulsome letter, he had proudly sent her a copy of the piece to which he evidently attached considerable value; and at that moment it was in the traveling bag by her side. Resentfully she took it out and began to study it again. In her present frame of mind, made much worse by her mother’s letter, the task seemed even less congenial than it had done at first. “I simply _can’t_ act such rubbish” was the thought that dominated her.

It was surely too bad to force her into such a position. She dug her teeth into an uncompromising upper lip. Charity excused everything nowadays, but the more she examined the situation she was in, the less she liked it. Beneath the armor of stern self-discipline with which she faced the world were strong feelings, and these flamed suddenly forth into violent antipathy. Surely it was too bad to be let in for a thing of this kind! And she would be among strangers, with as far as she knew, not one solitary friend to help her out.

Her eyes with little darts of anger in them strayed to the girl opposite. Miss Cass was sucking her pencil again in the process of thought, her gaze was fixed on vacancy and she was frowning fiercely. Evidently a very difficult subject she was studying. But, judging by the color in her cheeks, she was the better for her meal.

Elfreda was rather inclined to envy this girl. She could call her soul her own at any rate, even if her bread and butter depended on the overtaxing of her brain.

Accidentally their eyes met. The faint, slightly aloof smile of the one was answered by the other’s honest blush of gratitude.

“Are you studying trigonometry?” Elfreda had never studied trigonometry herself, nor did she know exactly what trigonometry was, but if there was anything in a name it must be a subject of superhuman difficulty; and taking as a guide the air of concentration and the rumpled brows of Miss Green Ulster her present difficulty could hardly be less than superhuman.

Miss Cass haltingly explained that she was trying to win a prize in the _Saturday Sentinel_.

“How amusing! But one has to be very clever to do that, hasn’t one?”

Miss Cass was afraid that it was so. She had been trying week by week for nearly a year, but she had only achieved an honorable mention so far. The topic served to break the ice, however, and they began to talk freely. This may have been due to the fact that both were glowing with a generous wine, for it was the habit of neither to indulge in promiscuous conversation with total strangers. But just now, in quite an odd way, their minds began to march together, in fact one almost seemed to be the other’s counterpart.

Miss Green Ulster confided that her name was Cass, that she came from Laxton, that her father, three years dead, had been a solicitor, that her mother had been dead six months, that she was left unprovided for, and that by the recommendation of Canon Carnaby, the vicar of the parish, who had been very good to her mother and herself, she was going as governess to the two young children of Lieutenant Colonel Everard Trenchard-Simpson, D. S. O., The Laurels, Clavering St. Mary’s.

Elfreda was secretly amused by a simplicity which told so much and concealed so little. All the same she was oddly attracted by the way this little suburban laid all her cards on the table. Her hopes, her fears, her pathetic desire for self improvement, the general bleakness of her outlook, her cruel sense of loneliness now that her mother as well as her father was dead, her poverty, her lack of a really first-class education, the exposure of all these things verged upon the indecent, but somehow they called insistently for pity.

Poor Miss Cass! And yet ... Elfreda shivered at her thoughts ... lucky Miss Cass!

“How thrilling to act ... in public ... on a real stage ... to a real audience!” The gray eyes looked quite charming in their awe and their sincerity.

“Do you really think so?” The slight drawl with its tag of fatigue was equally sincere.

“Oh, I should just love it--that is, I should just love it if I were _you_.” The candor _was_ almost indecent, but a nearly whole tumbler of a great wine was working spells. What Miss Cass really meant was that she would love to be the daughter of a marquis.

Elfreda deplored her taste and sighed for her innocence. “Think how bored you’d be to learn a long and stupid part--so that you were simply word perfect in it.”

“I should just love it.” Miss Cass grew enthusiastic at the thought. “If I could also be the daughter of a marquis” was the major part of that thought, which, however, she did not put into words. But those fatal eyes of hers, in which her soul dwelt, put it into words for her.

Elfreda smiled pityingly. How little she knew!

“By the way, you come from Laxton?”

“Yes, but this morning I gave up my rooms there. So I’ve got no home now.”

“It happens that this stupid play is called ‘The Lady of Laxton.’”

“There are very few real ladies in Laxton,” said the student of _The Patrician_ in a burst of candor.

“So one would think if this play is at all true to life,” rose to the lips of Elfreda, but she did not allow it to escape.

What she did say was, “The plot of this play is that a governess and a peer’s daughter arriving at a place in the country by the same train get mixed up. The governess goes off with the other girl’s luggage as a guest to one house and the peer’s daughter finds herself taken for a governess at the other.”

“But what a splendid idea!”

“Do you really think so?” The daughter of the marquis opened incredulous eyes. “In the first place, it could never have happened.”

“Oh, I think it might have happened--but of course it would have been found out at once.”

“As a matter of fact, the author gets over that part rather well. It seems they arranged the matter beforehand because the peer’s daughter wanted to teach some snobs a lesson.”

“But it’s splendid!” Miss Cass clapped her hands with enthusiasm--the Devil _was_ in the wine. “And, of course, the son at the smart house proposes to the governess thinking she’s the peer’s daughter and vice versa.”

“How _were_ you able to guess that?”

Miss Cass had been able to guess that because the _Saturday Sentinel_ said she had insight. But modesty, of course, forbade her to say that to Lady Elfreda, who was looking at her now with an intentness greater and more curious than she had ever noticed in any human countenance.

Of what was she thinking, the daughter of the marquis? The mind of Miss Cass could not stop to inquire. For that deep, delicious voice, that seemed to treat each individual syllable of the English language as a work of art, was saying: “As a matter of fact, that is what happens in the play, but it is all so extraordinarily stupid that one simply loathes----”

The stern critic had suddenly caught the look of pain in the eyes of the lady opposite. Then it was she realized that to some minds the situation itself and even the vulgarly obvious working out of it might not be intolerable.

IV

THE conversation, which was becoming full of perilous possibilities, was interrupted by the stopping of the train at Newbury. From her place by the window Elfreda observed a consequential little man strutting along the platform in the direction of their compartment. He was looking for a vacant seat. She recognized at once by a portrait in the _Society Pictorial_ now open on her knee, that he was no less a person than Sir Toby Philpot, the author of the play; and to judge by the quantity of luggage in charge of his servant it was not unreasonable to suppose that he was on his way to the scene of action at Clavering St. Mary’s.

He looked a harmless little donkey enough, but among Elfreda’s own friends he had the reputation of a bounder. It was this fact in the first instance which may have led her to judge “The Lady of Laxton” so harshly; at all events the piece could scarcely have been as bad as she thought it was or it would never have held together. But at least it went far to account for the depth of her resentment against her father and mother who, without giving her any option in the matter, had so high-handedly let her in for something she was going to dislike intensely.

A sense of disgust pervaded Elfreda. Really there was hardly anything about the little man to call for such an emotion, but it was his misfortune to be the central figure just now of the world she was hating.

“Pikey!” Her imperiousness was almost savage in the ear of the Werewolf opposite. “Put your head out.” Elfreda lowered the window fiercely. “Look your largest.” She might have been addressing a very favorite grizzly whom she had been clever enough to tame. “Let him see you.... Let him really see you.”

As soon as Pikey grew alive to the situation she rose and thrust forth her head in all its man-hating ruthlessness. She was only just in time. Sir Toby, having caught a glimpse already of a decidedly attractive occupant, was making a bee-line for the carriage door. But the sight of Pikey, grim as a gargoyle and breathing latent ferocity, gave pause even to a recently elected member of the Old Buck House Club. Swollen with self-importance Sir Toby undoubtedly was, but in point of inches he was a very small man indeed, and he was confronted with the jaws of a man-eating tiger and the nose of a crocodile.

Sir Toby suddenly decided to seek refuge elsewhere.

With a sigh of relief Elfreda lowered the ample pages of the _Society Pictorial_, behind which she had entrenched herself. “No family should be without you, Pikey,” she said gratefully.

The train moved on. But somehow the incident caused Elfreda’s resentment to flame even higher. She had yet to meet the author of “The Lady of Laxton,” but she was amazingly quick in taking the measure of the world at large. In regard to her fellow creatures her opinions were few, but they were very definite. A first view of Sir Toby Philpot had convinced her that his reputation was deserved and that she was bound to dislike him intensely. It was all very unfair, no doubt, but she belonged to the sex which, with all its virtues, will never be able to run a League of Nations.

Again her eyes strayed across to the student of _The Patrician_. Poor Miss Cass ... and yet ... lucky Miss Cass! Then it was in just that fragment of time while she gazed at the slow-moving pencil of the “Lady of Laxton” that a diabolical thought began to take shape in her mind....

If only....

It would score them off properly....

Above all it would teach a certain Person a lesson....

Elfreda began to hug her wicked thoughts. Fate itself appeared to be taking some trouble to play into her hands. Surely a great opportunity was being given her if only she could rise to the height of it. But even if that was the case there was still one very vital question to ask and to answer. Could the girl opposite be screwed up to the requisite pitch of nerve and enterprise?

No sooner had Elfreda put this question to herself than she did a thing that naught can condone. Deliberately, of malice prepense, she forced Pikey and Miss Cass to finish the bottle. As far as the maid was concerned there was really no obstacle; she was more than willing to play her part. But Miss Cass needed tact and firmness; she had to be handled with masterful delicacy.

“Please--you _will_ help us--won’t you?” The voice of the siren. “Yes--really--you must!” The daughter of the marquis dealt out honest measure with her own uncompromising hand. “That’s your glass, I think--the one at the top--isn’t it, Pikey?”

Pikey’s grunt was in the affirmative, but if eyes could have slain, her mistress would have died on the spot. How dare she offer one of her father’s choicest vintages to such a middle-class person!

The Lady of Laxton had already fallen at once to the blandishments of her imperiously charming benefactress. Her instinct was to resist, but the Bottle Imp had seriously weakened her resolve. She knew it was wrong, insane, indecent, but an eye of concentrated power seemed to bore right through her soul. And, after all, such wine as that did give one a perfectly heavenly feeling.

Once more, and almost in spite of herself, Miss Cass brought her lips warily to the edge of the tumbler. It was folly, nay, it was piggishness, but at that moment she was hardly more than a helpless midge caught in the toils of an inexorable will. The wonderful blue eyes of the girl opposite had the quality of steel. “Please!... don’t let us waste it ... it is supposed to be rather good of its kind!”

History, alas, is hardly likely to be very gentle with the Lady Elfreda!

The bottle was finished at last. And Pikey, who, after all, had had the lion’s share of it, sat back on her cushions in a state of most agreeable somnolence. As for Miss Cass, her pencil began to fly across the paper.

“Mr. John Galsworthy in common with Mr. Arnold Bells and Mr. H. G. Wennett has a singular power of visualizing----”

Has the power of visualizing!

“What Mr. James Henry so beautifully calls the Human Scene.” The fair phrase came clear and pat, but before the page could receive it Miss Cass was again in the toils of the incarnate demon opposite.

“Suppose you take my part in the ‘Lady of Laxton’?” There was a suggestion for one simply athirst for life, for knowledge, for first-hand experience! Such amazing words could hardly be meant seriously; nevertheless there was a concentration in the manner of the marquis’ daughter that almost took away the breath of Miss Cass.

Emboldened by an unmistakable snore from the gently but firmly sleeping Pikey, said the wicked Elfreda, “I don’t think you would find it at all difficult and it might amuse you.”

Miss Cass could hardly believe her ears. For the tone, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was quite serious. “I don’t know any one at Clavering Park and I don’t suppose any one knows you.”

“But----” pleaded Miss Cass.

Elfreda was not in a mood for “buts.” The wicked Genie now had her firmly in its grip. So simple, yet so radiant was the idea that already it was glowing with the colors of destiny. There were obstacles, of course, but a dynamic will could remove them.

“In size we are much of a muchness, aren’t we? So you can take my things and I’ll take yours.”

“Oh, but----” faltered Miss Cass.

“You might have quite an amusing fortnight”--Pikey, who had been traveling all through the long night was sleeping very comfortably now--“One hears the place will be full of new people. With a bit of luck ... if you really play up ... you might even....” ... Get one of them to marry you!--was the thought in the mind of the abandoned Elfreda. But the Bottle Imp had not quite bereft her of a sense of shame, therefore she did not complete her sentence by mere words. She had recourse to wireless telegraphy, which, however, was just as effective.

Miss Cass felt herself to be growing dizzy.

“That’s what happens in the play, you know. The son of the house falls in love with the governess----”

“Oh--but,” gasped Miss Cass. And yet if the truth must be told the wicked Genie was now beginning to stir in her, also. A voice was heard in the subliminal self of Miss Cass. _There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune._

“It needs a little pluck, of course.” The light in the blue eyes was almost sinister. “But it might be rather amusing, don’t you think?”

Miss Cass was bewildered. But it seemed to come upon her all at once that she was now in the toils of a female Napoleon. Moreover, she was faced by a proposition which exceeded her wildest dreams. Of course, it would not bear any sort of analysis, but when one is possessed by a perfectly heavenly feeling all things seem possible. Such a sense of “uplift” was quite new in Miss Cass’s experience and she felt unable just now to adjust her mind to a phase which although delicious was yet without a parallel.

The train sped on through a country which grew steadily richer and more pastoral. Lady Elfreda looked again at the watch on her wrist. It was after three. Already the light of the brief November day had begun to wane. Pikey was snoring now with slow, deep, reassuring regularity. Somehow all things, even the motions of the train itself, seemed to be conspiring to fix and determine the mad project which had been born in that wicked and rebellious mind.

Every mile that brought them nearer to their journey’s end was carefully registered in the acute brain of Elfreda. The train stopped at Yeovil and there was a further examination of the tickets, not by a truculent male inspector on this occasion, but by a rustic maid in spectacles, who willingly accepted the assurance that the ticket of Miss Cass was quite in order. After that the train passed over the borders of Wessex into the famed county of Devon; and then with but a few embers of daylight remaining the Evil Genius suddenly insisted that the time had come for action.

V

LADY ELFREDA gave Pikey a shrewd glance to make sure that the snores were _bona fide_. Then she got up and with perfectly amazing _sang froid_ took off her fur coat.

“Give me your ulster, please.” Napoleon--Bismarck--Caesar--Hannibal were in that pregnant whisper.

The pencil dropped from the trembling fingers of Miss Cass. Her heart took a great leap. Was this a serious demand? Could this amazing girl mean what her words implied?

“Your hat as well, please.”

In the growing dusk, now as ever a true friend of conspiracy, she saw the girl opposite withdraw a couple of pins and remove her hat. Was it conceivable that she was in earnest!

The urgency of the whisper laid that doubt at rest. A thrill quickened the soul of Girlie Cass. Her bewildered mind began to spin with a new and strange idea. It was madness ... it was lunacy ... and yet ... if only ... one could screw up one’s courage....

“You will have Mrs. Pike to look after you. She is very experienced. If you hold your tongue you can’t go wrong.” Incredible words, incredible girl, incredible proposition! “You will have all my clothes, of course. I will see that my trunks are put in the luggage cart. And”--the whisper was dæmonic--“Mrs. Pike has some money.”

Girlie Cass could hardly breathe for excitement. _The Patrician_ followed the pencil on to the floor. “There is a tide, etc.” Her heart began to hit her ribs violently.

“Give me your ulster, please.”

If only one’s head would not spin so!

“You’ll find this coat warmer and it’s very comfortable. It’ll be quite an amusing fortnight. Nobody will know--except Mrs. Pike, of course, who can be trusted implicitly. I quite think you’ll like it.”

The brain of Miss Cass was whirling helplessly. And yet there was a demon in hers also. What an opportunity, what a golden opportunity for first-hand experience! What a chance to see the great world from the inside. To be, for one whole fortnight, a real authentic daughter of a marquis ... if only one had courage!

Miss Cass never really knew how it happened, but a mile or so farther on she awoke to the momentous fact that she was wearing a sealskin coat with a skunk collar and a velour hat with a twist of skunk round it, while immediately opposite was a girl in a green ulster with a hat also trimmed with green.

“Please give me your ticket. This is mine.”

By the aid of some power not herself Miss Cass exchanged tickets with the Force that was luring her to glory and destruction.

Finally, as an afterthought, a typewritten abstract of “The Lady of Laxton” was handed to Miss Cass.

“You mustn’t forget your part in the play. For any one with a good memory it will be quite easy to learn. And you’ll find the acting rather fun, I think.”

Miss Cass was living in a dream which could not envisage details, but she submitted to the play being pressed into her hand. Without so much as a glance at the brown paper cover she placed it mechanically in the pocket of the fur coat.

The next thing to happen in the bewildered consciousness of Miss Cass was the stopping of the train. Lady Elfreda let down the window to disclose a lighted station lamp with the name “Clavering St. Mary’s” painted thereon. Somehow at the moment this legend meant nothing to Miss Cass; the land she was living in now was east of the sun, west of the moon. But a voice amazingly dominant said: “Here we are. Pikey, wake up.” And then the owner of the voice put her head out of the window and summoned a porter.

A leisurely functionary came up to the carriage door and opened it. As he did so the lady of the green ulster said with an air of quiet competence which in the circumstances was almost uncanny, “There are two trunks in the luggage van. Or is it three, Pikey? Do wake up.”

Pikey somnolently grunted the word “three” and then with a supreme effort stepped, or rather lurched, out onto the platform, while the porter collected the flotsam of the compartment and bore them to an adjacent trolley.

“Three trunks in the luggage van, porter.”

“Very good, miss.

“They are labeled ‘Clavering Park’--aren’t they, Pikey?”

The reply was a drowsy affirmative.

“You have one, too, haven’t you?” said Elfreda in a bold aside, with one eye upon her maid.

Girlie confessed a small tin one labeled “Cass.”

“Very good, miss,” said the porter again.

The Lady of the Green Ulster stepped with calm audacity onto the platform. In a kind of trance Miss Fur Coat followed her.

The porter had no difficulty in retrieving three important looking trunks from the luggage van. Nor did the small tin one present any obstacle. When all the luggage had been duly collected, Elfreda marshaled Pikey and Miss Cass through the booking office and past the ticket collector into the station yard.

Several vehicles were waiting. Foremost of these was a stylish motor omnibus. Elfreda instinctively made a bee-line for it.

“Are you from Clavering Park?” she said to the smart footman with a wound stripe on his sleeve who stood by the open door.

The man said that he was from Clavering Park, whereon Miss Green Ulster pointed to the Fur Coat and informed him that its occupant was Lady Elfreda Catkin; whereon she was informed that there was a cart for the luggage, but owing to the shortage of petrol there was only the omnibus for everybody.

Miss Fur Coat, standing helpless and mazed in her borrowed plumes beside the omnibus door was hustled, literally hustled, into the interior of the vehicle, and Pikey, still far too drowsy even to begin to grapple with the situation in its strange complexity, was hustled in after her. While the porter put in rugs and umbrellas and a couple of the smaller cases under the competent direction of the lady who stood by the door of the omnibus, Pikey at the same time was adjured by her mistress in a stern whisper to play the game, to hold her tongue, and not to give anything away.

These instructions were Greek to the unfortunate Pikey in her present extremely somnolent condition. She made one feeble, rather despairing effort to come to grips with a matter that was frankly beyond her, but before she could rouse her will to any real activity the footman had been ordered to start.

“I am to wait, ma’am, for another guest.”

Elfreda bit her lip sharply. For the moment she had forgotten the existence of the little baronet. Almost immediately, however, she received a forcible reminder of it. Sir Toby, who had traveled lower down the long train, was to be seen emerging from the booking office.

For the last time Elfreda thrust her head into the omnibus interior. “Mind you play up, Pikey. I will write to you in a day or two.”

Poor bewildered Pikey was only able to emit a grunt of hopeless defeat before Sir Toby Philpot, in the company of his faithful body servant, Mr. O’Toole, converged upon the omnibus door. After a brief exchange of remarks with the tall footman who stood thereby, the small baronet took his seat gracefully beside the lady of the fur coat, and Mr. O’Toole hoisted his respectful bulk alongside Pikey, who was already verging once more upon the comatose.

At the same moment Elfreda felt in the very marrow of her wicked bones that the tremendous risk she was taking must end all too soon in disaster. But she was still in the thrall of the demon. The fun would be gorgeous while it lasted; it would enable certain people to realize that the times had changed; moreover, having definitely burnt her boats, this was not a moment for human weakness. Therefore she said in the private ear of the tall footman, “Don’t wait for me. I am not coming with you.” And then she turned discreetly away from the door of the omnibus, saw the right trunks put into the luggage cart and accompanied the porter with the modest residue to a dogcart twenty yards away.

Brief colloquy with a bewhiskered Jehu in a faded snuff-colored livery and a battered furry topper proved this vehicle to be from The Laurels and that it was awaiting the arrival of the London train.

“Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson?”

Jehu, who combined the functions of groom, gardener and general factotum, said gruffly that he was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson hoped they would be able to squeeze the box of the new governess into the back of the cart without chipping the fresh paint. It took but a minute or two for the porter to dispose of the very modest luggage labeled “Cass” and to accept for his general services a fee considerably in excess of what he had reason to expect; and then the groom-gardener, one John Small by name, said curtly, “Jump in, miss. We can’t keep this ’orse standin’ here all night.”

Without showing the slightest intention to obey the order, the new governess looked at the horse in critical fashion. “I hope,” she said impersonally, “he won’t take it into his head to sit down.”

The reply, although sweetly given, did not make at all a favorable impression on Mr. Small, who was a great autocrat within his sphere; the porter, however, his heart warmed by half a crown, smiled broadly. The horse pawed impatiently and Mr. Small coughed in a hostile manner, but nothing would induce the new governess to ascend to the vacant seat by his side until the Clavering Park omnibus had actually quitted the station yard.

VI

IN the process of time the omnibus started for Clavering Park, and in almost the same instant a darker thrall was cast upon the soul of Pikey. Right up till that final moment the maid struggling with might and main against honorable fatigue, the Genius of the Bottle and the weight of five and sixty years, had cherished the hope that her mistress--who apparently had changed her clothes, although Pikey was hardly prepared to swear to the fact--would come aboard the omnibus. But the vehicle started without that consummation coming to pass.

Even then the duenna, no longer able to keep her eyes open, still pinned her faith to the bare chance that her wayward charge--the Little Wretch had always given more trouble than all the rest together!--was up in front beside the chauffeur. The old woman knew that such a conjecture belonged to the region of fantasy, yet it might be so. Elfreda was as full of tricks as a monkey and always had been.

The omnibus passed a lamp at the entrance to the station yard and, as Pikey’s eyes flickered open for the last time, she caught a hazy glimpse of the fur coat and the velour hat opposite. The maid drew a long sigh of relief. Why, there she was, after all! Something or somebody was playing tricks, though. Pikey could have taken an oath that five minutes ago her mistress was standing outside the door in a green ulster. But the delicious sensation of warmth, comfort and extreme somnolence was too much for her now. Yes ... of course ... it must be quite all right. Elfreda was seated opposite. Besides ... what did it matter?... what did anything ... mat ... ter ...?

In a measure these feelings were shared by Miss Cass. She, it is true, was very far from somnolence just now. Her state bordered upon ecstasy. The Genius of the Bottle and the many famous novels she had read must share the responsibility for her frame of mind. Was she not fully launched now upon the most wonderful, amazing, wholly preposterous adventure! She was a living romance and it was equal to anything in the “New Arabian Nights.” Was she really awake? Or did she dream? In the humid interior of the smooth-gliding bus she too was lulled into false security by a delicious sense of comfort. The wheels were going round in her head with an ease, an abandon she had not experienced before. Yet over and beyond all else was the feeling that as she was under the personal ægis of a marquis’ daughter everything was bound to turn out for the best in the best of all possible worlds. The extraordinarily charming and clever little Lady Elfreda Catkin, who in every detail was so absolutely the Real Right Thing, as Mr. James Henry would have said--or was it Mr. H. G. Wennett?--whose father was the Marquis of Carabbas, could be trusted to see to that.

Yes, everything was bound to be all right. There was a very experienced maid to look after her. She would have fine clothes and plenty of money; she might even be provided with jewels. It would all be part of a delightful joke, a little daring no doubt to a humdrum bourgeoise mind, but then in High Society they had a different standard, as all the best writers insisted, from Thackeray down. And this really was High Society and she had really entered it. Besides taking the matter at its lowest, here was a dazzling opportunity for one who desired to write as well as Mrs. Humphry Ward or Mrs. Elinor Glyn. The secret door of aristocratic life had been opened to her so miraculously that it was enough to make the Brontë Sisters turn in their green graves with envy.

Girlie Cass was not by nature brave. But as she snuggled her chin lower amid the delicious warmth of the skunk collar and she reviewed an incredible situation to the best of her rather impaired ability, for a few epic moments she never felt so brave in all her life. Somehow with that rich fur round her ears and her very own maid seated opposite she felt almost equal to anything. Two things only were required of her, according to her entirely amazing mentor and all powerful protectress. The first was never to let go of the fact that she was Lady Elfreda Catkin; the second was “to play up.”

Alas, the feeling of courage passed all too soon for the comfort of Miss Cass. The presence of others slowly percolated to her. Impressive looking male figures were seated each side the door. They did not speak, but this very quality of silence seemed to render her sense of insecurity greater. And then to her horror almost the man by her side turned his head and addressed her.

“Aren’t you Lady Elfreda Catkin? My name is Philpot. Our hostess wrote to me at Newbury to say you might be coming by this train.” He was quite a friendly little man, a chronic sufferer from a rush of words to the head, who seldom waited for the second party to any conversation to catch up with his ideas. Nothing could have served Girlie better at this nerve-racking moment than the little man’s habit of amiable loquacity. She was just able to make some kind of wholly unintelligible murmur, but it sufficed for Sir Toby to go on. “I sometimes meet your father at the Buck Club. I do hope you like your part. What do you think of my big scene in the third act? Monty Jupp says it is quite equal to anything that Oscar Wilde ever wrote. I think it better myself, though that is between ourselves. I wouldn’t say that to everybody, but it really is a nailin’ good comedy, and your part of the Little Guv is absolutely the best thing I’ve done. Of course, it wants playin’ on rather broad lines, but it’s sure to be a go.”

The little Catkin lady was not very forthcoming. Throughout the whole of the baronet’s discourse she sat in her corner as solemn as a mouse. But Sir Toby was much encouraged by the passing glimpses of her an occasional street lamp afforded him. She had absolutely no conversation, but she was a pretty little Puss.

Meanwhile a chill of paralysis was settling upon Miss Cass. She must really make an effort to say something. It wouldn’t do to appear odd. At that moment, however, it seemed quite impossible for her to devise any form of words to meet the occasion. What ought she to say? What would a daughter of a marquis say in such circumstances? Above all, the student of _The Patrician_ asked herself, how would the daughter of a marquis say whatever she had to say?

Girlie took the line of least resistance. She said nothing. It was the obvious, in fact, the only possible course, because her will was inert, her mind was a blank, her tongue was petrified. Happily Sir Toby was extraordinarily insensitive, even for a baronet. “I knew several of your sisters. I am always meetin’ your father. I hear you absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire as Lady Henrietta in the Duke of Killiecrankie, but of course this is a very much better play than poor Bob Marshall could ever have written. Don’t you think so? But you do, of course.”

No, not exactly forthcoming, but she was a pretty little thing and obviously very shy.

“I haven’t seen you act myself, but Monty Jupp says when he’s coached you a bit more you’ll be able to play the ingénues out of all the London theatres. He thinks you ought to go into the business. If your father will give his consent he will produce a big contract for you; and if all goes well down here Monty says he can find the money to put you up as the Little Guv at the Imperial.”

The reserve of Lady Elfreda lasted all the way to Clavering Park. Happily Sir Toby was less concerned by it than less gifted people might have been. For he had a real love of the sound of his own voice, and somehow it had never sounded better than in this cozy tête-a-tête with the youngest of the Catkin girls. A shy little puss, but she was as pretty as pretty.

Under her fur coat, however, Miss Cass had begun to shiver with dread fear and dire remorse. But emotions of that sort were simply no use now. Things had gone much too far. Whatever happened now she must play up. Therein lay her only hope of salvation.

It seemed as if this journey would never end. The sense of impending disaster was getting on the nerves of Miss Cass. Luckily they had not far to go. It was but a couple of miles or so to Clavering Park.

VII

ALL the same, Miss Cass was by no means ready to welcome the end of the journey even when it came. The first rather abrupt intimation that her destination had been reached was a brief stopping at the lodge gates of Clavering Park, followed a few minutes later by a flare of lights from a large, wide-fronted house. Then came the epic moment of the tall footman opening the omnibus door, the descent of her traveling companions and the obvious need for her own.

Immense courage was called for to quit that comfortable corner, but with an effort which in the circumstances seemed superhuman Girlie took the plunge. After being gracefully assisted from the omnibus by Sir Toby she moved without apparent impulse or volition of her own into a wide zone of light. The next thing she realized was that she had arrived in a large, bright inner hall that was terrifyingly full of people. For the most part these were seated on chairs and sofas in groups of two and three, consuming afternoon tea and talking at what seemed to be the top of very loud voices.

A large, fair-haired woman of forty or so, with the look of a rather overblown yellow chrysanthemum, suddenly detached herself from the center of the throng, literally sprang at Miss Cass and welcomed her with the greatest effusion.

“So nice of you to come! Such a pleasure to see you! So good of you to come all the way down here!”

Girlie realized that she was in the grip of the voluble and demonstrative mistress of Clavering Park.

“You have made friends with Sir Toby already, of course?”

The little man answered brightly that they had made friends already. Other brief and swift introductions followed, but Miss Cass made no effort to catch the names and she shyly avoided the eyes of these favored ones. And then said the hostess with delightful urgency, “Do let me give you some tea.”

Almost as if by magic a passage was found to a table in the middle of the hall. As the important guest moved forward with the hostess the conversation abruptly stopped. Girlie felt that every eye was upon her fur coat, yet somehow the sensation was not unpleasant. There were more brief introductions en route. And then at last she was safely anchored in a very seductive low chair and the conversation had begun again with a redoubled violence.

“So sporting of you to come and help us!”

Girlie was soon aware that there was no immediate need for her to say anything; the hostess and those around her were abundantly equipped with small talk.

“This tea is quite fresh. Milk and sugar?”

Girlie’s tongue declined to act, but somehow she was able to muster a hoarse whisper which the hostess interpreted as “Yes, please.”

Tea gave Girlie a little courage. A spasmodic warmth began to flicker in her gray eyes.

“Do have some more.” The voice was kindness itself. “And then if you would like to rest a little after your long and tiresome journey you shall go up to your room.”

Nothing could have been nicer, easier or more amiable. For all her excitement, which seemed to be breaking in burning waves round her head and ears, Girlie was able to do ample justice to her tea and cake; she even continued to listen with a kind of gratitude to the prattle of the yellow chrysanthemum lady, who was obviously a very good sort.

“We feel quite honored, you know, at having you here. Sir Toby says you are to be advertised as our principal star on the play bills. So awfully clever of you to act in the way you do. I am sure you will be a great draw. And such a good cause. Do have some more tea, won’t you?”

The curiously shy and timid Lady Elfreda was not averse from even a third cup of tea.

“One hears that you are simply wonderful as Lady Henrietta in the Duke of Killiecrankie. The _Society Pictorial_ says you have genius, although”--Girlie suddenly felt the eyes of the hostess fixed intently upon her--“you don’t look much like your photograph. Do have another piece of tea-cake.”

Girlie had never heard prattle sound quite so agreeable. She began to take very kindly to her surroundings. At the back of her mind, it was true, the sense of the unreal was almost grisly. But the immediate present in which she was living was strangely like a dream, although touched with sinister edges that might develop into a nightmare at any moment. Still, a low cushioned chair, three cups of tea and the eager, the almost too eager kindness of the hostess were for the time being an anodyne for the fear that hovered like doom in the background.

“Dinner is not until a quarter past eight, so that if you would like a little rest you shall go to your room.” The yellow chrysanthemum lady glanced half-maternally at the small peaked face. “If you like, I will show you the way.”

Girlie was most comfortable as she was, but instinct told her that it would be wise to end the present phase of the dream, which was so seductive, and prepare to envisage some of the stern realities that were undoubtedly lurking near at hand.

“I think I will please--if you don’t mind.” Those were the first words Girlie found the courage to speak in her capacity of a marquis’ daughter. For an instant the sound of her own voice, pitched rather higher than was quite natural, seemed to leave her half paralyzed with her own audacity.

Happily the hostess, whose name she didn’t know, was very much a get-things-done sort of lady. “Very well, you shall.” She rose from her chair with genial authority. “You will be all the better for an hour’s rest after such a trying journey.”

Girlie got up, too. A considerable effort was needed, but she was able to make it. The mistress of the house piloted the distinguished guest past tables and chairs, through the press of people, of whose glances of covert curiosity she was keenly aware, as far as the staircase paneled in black oak at the end of the hall. They went up together side by side, but Girlie was terribly conscious now at every step she took that she was moving out of fairyland into a country of extreme peril whose nature she simply dare not define.

“I hope you will like your room.” The delightfully kind yellow chrysanthemum lady prattled on all the way up the stairs. “South aspect, overlooking the park. We call it the chamber of honor. King Edward used to sleep in it when he came down here for the races, although, of course, _we_ hadn’t the place then.”

“Oh, I am sure I shall like it,” Girlie managed to say, but again in that odd high-pitched voice which sounded so strange to her own ears.

They turned into a corridor carpeted in blue velvet and the hostess opened a door at the end of it. She led the way into the most spaciously beautiful bedroom Girlie had ever seen. Its size seemed to her quite extraordinary. It was hung in deep crimson and its furniture was Louis Seize. A bright wood fire was crackling on the wide hearth. But, perhaps, what most immediately impressed Miss Cass was the fact that Pikey was busily unpacking the boxes of her mistress, several of whose dresses had already been laid out on the bed.

“Here you are, Lady Elfreda.” The voice of the yellow chrysanthemum lady sounded disconcertingly loud as they entered the room. “I do hope you will be comfortable. Your bathroom is through that door. I see your maid is unpacking your things.” And then to the kneeling and assiduous Pikey, “Have you all that you want?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Pikey, looking up for one brief instant only.

“If there is anything else you’d like you _will_ ask for it, won’t you?” The hostess bestowed a final benediction on the most important of her guests. “You will be able to have a nice rest before dinner. Not until a quarter past eight ... I think I told you.” With a last gush of kindliness the yellow chrysanthemum lady departed, leaving Girlie Cass to deal with a reality that was rapidly growing stupendous.

For two minutes at least after the hostess had gone silence reigned in the room. Pikey continued her unpacking, still wholly absorbed by her task, while Girlie began to make frantic efforts to emerge completely from her dream and grapple with a situation that had suddenly grown altogether beyond her.

There was the authority of the mistress of Clavering Park that she was Lady Elfreda Catkin, that the bedroom of the late King Edward had been placed at her disposal, and that before her eyes her own maid was unpacking her boxes. So far, so good. Everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, no doubt ... but!...!

VIII

PIKEY was still in a rather dazed condition. She had been traveling all day and most of the previous night and she was not so young as she once was; besides, she had not quite shaken off the thrall of a potent vintage wine. As a matter of fact, she had not been really awake since Newbury. And it would seem that the mind can play some decidedly weird tricks when one is past sixty and one has missed a whole night’s rest!

For example, Pikey could almost have taken a Bible oath, so vivid was the impression, that her mistress....

However, that was clearly impossible! A cup of tea in the severely correct surroundings of the housekeeper’s room, in which, as the representative of an old marquisate, she had been at once accorded considerable prestige, had proved to her quite definitely that this disorder of mind reflected no sort of credit upon her.

Her young ladyship had always been a little wild. And as her guardian knew to her cost, she had given more trouble, one way and another, than all the rest of the family together. She might be capable of anything. At the same time there was surely a limit beyond which even Elfreda would not go! Strengthened by this pious thought, the still rather bewildered Pikey had proceeded to unpack.

Not feeling either too proud or too sure of herself, the ancient handmaid went on with her task some little time longer before she ventured to look up to confront her young mistress. At last she rose from her knees and said with a formal air which was a concession to her sense of responsibility, “I think the blue one, my lady, for this evening.”

As Pikey spoke she came forward to assist in the removal of the fur coat. She was a Dragon, but she was also a first-class servant who knew her place to a hair’s breadth.

The shock she met with half stunned her. From between the hat and the skunk collar of her mistress, a small white face was gazing at her piteously.

There was a silence grim and tense, in which the hearts of both the parties to it seemed to stop beating.

“Why! ... w-what ... are _you_ ... doing ... here!” gasped the luckless Pikey at last.

The gray eyes of Girlie filmed ever so lightly with tears. “I ... I ... Lady Elfreda!” The strangled whisper was half a sob.

Pikey recoiled with her horrified gaze still on the hat and coat of her mistress. And then, being by no means a fool, in one blinding, hideous flash of insight she saw it all....

The little wretch had surpassed herself! Poor Pikey grew faint and rather chill. Her charge had played more than one mad prank in her life of twenty years, but in its daring and its wickedness this exploit was surely incredible. All the same there was the hard, cold fact and it had to be faced.

“Why did you let her!” The voice and the look of the Dragon threatened actual bodily violence to Miss Cass.

“I--I didn’t seem able to prevent her.”

Reading the gentle, rather scared eyes, the truculent Pikey felt these feeble words to be literally true. At the beck of a rather grim sense of humor the old retainer bared her yellow teeth. It was almost in her heart to admire the Little Beast; yet at the same moment she was consumed with a passion to shake the life out of poor Miss No-Class.

“Where has she gone--tell me that!” So fierce was the Werewolf that a look akin to terror entered Girlie’s eyes. The Lady of Laxton, however, did her best to give a coherent account of all that had happened.

“You say she has gone to The Laurels,” said Pikey, blankly. “And she has taken your luggage with her.” Darkness and eclipse stared the luckless duenna in the face. “I don’t know where The Laurels is. And, anyway, I doubt if there would be time to fetch her before dinner.”

Miss Cass not only doubted if there would be time to fetch her before dinner; privately she doubted also if in her present mood the wicked Elfreda would come if she were fetched.

“Well, I don’t know what to do,” groaned Pikey, “and that’s the truth.” The Deputy looked blankly at the duenna. Her white face grew piteous.

“Whatever do you suppose is going to happen!” The cold ferocity again struck terror into the heart of Girlie Cass.

“L-Lady Elfreda said it would be quite all right,” she was just able to gasp. “She said there was no one here who knew her. She said that if”--gathering herself for a supreme effort--“I--I--p-played up and didn’t give myself away it wouldn’t be found out.” And Miss Cass collapsed against the side of the bed.

“Wouldn’t be found out!” It was as much as Pikey could do to keep her hands off the little idiot.

Pikey, however, was not a fool. Already her mind had shaped the question of questions, What must she do? She did not forget that she had been sent specially from Ireland to take charge of one who had always insisted on going her own way, and if she now confessed that she had let herself be tricked in such a preposterous manner she would be severely hauled over the coals and might even lose the place which she valued beyond all things in this life. Again, immediately below the surface of the Dragon’s nature was the foolish, fond old nurse. Entering the Carabbas household in early life she had mothered a large family, first in a subordinate capacity, and then when it came to Elfreda’s turn, as absolute head of the nursery. Elfreda in consequence held quite a special place in her affections. The family of Carabbas was the whole world and its wife as far as Pikey was concerned; the rest of the universe didn’t count at all; but the one who had given her more trouble than all the others together had been her particular charge. Had it ever been really necessary, the Werewolf would have gone to the stake for Elfreda.

If Pikey’s first thought was that she must not give herself away, the one that pressed it hard was that she must not give away her favorite. But she was faced with a situation of fantastic difficulty. It was frankly beyond her. She didn’t in the least know what to do.

Miss Cass was in similar case, except that somewhere in her confused mind was a pathetic but sublime faith in Lady Elfreda. The daughter of the marquis had solemnly promised with her air of uncanny competence that everything would turn out right if only her deputy “played up,” and somehow the bewildered but secretly flattered Girlie felt bound to believe her. Such a one as Lady Elfreda must know the ropes perfectly. And up to this point her mentor had been amazingly right. Everything had gone almost as merrily as a marriage bell.

“Well, I don’t know what to do, and that’s a fact,” said Pikey again.

In the end it was the lady of Laxton who really took the epic decision. There were several factors in the case which helped her to do so. Her faith was sublime, she had succeeded already, she was enormously ambitious, such an amazing chance for first-hand experience could never recur, and when the worst had been said of her, with all her timidity she was a decidedly shrewd daughter of a long line of commercial sires. Besides at the very moment that the issue hung in the balance her tranced eyes beheld what no pen could describe: An enchanting shimmer of misty blue, silver and tulle laid out on the bed. It was such a dress as one day she might have dreamt of wearing, yet knowing well that she was never likely to do so.

That glorious confection decided Girlie Cass. She must play up, she must play up to the very height of her opportunity. “_There is a tide_,” etc. Inscrutable fate had ordained that she was to be the daughter of a marquis. Come what may she would be the daughter of a marquis and so prove herself worthy of her destiny.

The little lady, with a courage she knew and felt was superhuman, took off her coat and hat and then she said with a steadiness of tone she could not help admiring in herself, “I think you said the blue one.”

It was quite true that Pikey had said the blue one, but this audacity rendered her speechless. Certainly it solved the most pressing of their problems--for the time being at least--but the grim custodian of Family dignity would dearly have liked to slay Miss No-Class for her impudence.

How dare that sort of person take so much upon herself!

The soul of the lady of Laxton, however, had been fired by the ravishing garment on the bed. And as the whole situation was poised so delicately that it seemed to hang upon a thread, the mere fact that she could muster courage enough for a definite lead sufficed to determine the course of events. Pikey continued to gaze at Miss Impudence with sour disfavor, but she was not slow to realize how small was the option left to her now. Moreover, it was the will of her mistress. And at that moment and in those circumstances, with her own sin of omission so heavy upon her, it would surely be wise to ensure it.

Nevertheless, the Werewolf eyed Miss No-Class with a ferocity that was positively frightening. “Sit down in that chair next the fire so that I can take off your shoes.” The tone went with the truculent eyes.

Quivering with a secret excitement that was more than half fear, the deputy daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas obeyed. Pikey knelt and came savagely to grips with a tarnished right foot. It seemed to minister to her inward rage that the shoes of the Deputy were obviously--too obviously!--cheap and that their heels were shod clumsily with rubber. And as if this were not enough for the aristocratic soul of Pikey, she discovered that certain concealed parts of the Deputy’s stockings had been freely darned. With a sniff of frank disgust she took up an elegant pair of bedroom slippers which had been set to warm in front of the fire and very reluctantly put them on the plebeian feet of Miss No-Class.

She did put them on, however. Then she rose like a sibyl, slowly and grimly from her knees, looked Miss No-Class straight in the eyes and said, “The first thing for you, my lady, is a bath.”

If a studied and ferocious irony had the power to slay, the Deputy-daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas could hardly have survived this first application of her title. The earnestly intelligent student of _The Patrician_ flushed to the roots of her hair. Did this Ogress of a creature mean it for an insult? Did the woman wish to suggest that one who had been educated at the Laxton High School for Young Ladies, who had passed the Oxford Preliminary, who was the daughter of a solicitor, whose insight into human nature had been commended by the _Saturday Sentinel_, had the woman the effrontery to mean as much as her disgusted tone implied!

Girlie Cass mustered all her reserves. “I don’t really think I need a bath.” It was a colorable imitation of the tone of Miss Pond, the admired head-mistress of the Laxton High School.

Part of the answer of the Ogress was a snort; the other part was, “You won’t wear that dress unless you do have one.”

Miss Cass wisely concluded that it would be unworthy of human dignity to sustain the argument. Besides, the Ogress had already produced an entrancing dressing gown of pink silk. “Put on this,” she said, ruthlessly, “while I go and get your bath ready.”

Pikey thereupon collected a prince among sponges, a superb loofah, a _recherché_ cake of scented soap, and grimly retired to the next apartment, leaving the Deputy, tingling with excitement yet raging with mortification, to shed her plebeian garments one by one.

IX

GLOWING from quite the most luxurious bath it had ever been the lot of Girlie Cass to enjoy, that little lady presently returned to submit her sensitiveness to hands of ruthless indelicacy. It had been Pikey’s pleasing task “to mother” the six small Catkin ladies. Perhaps the fact may have accounted for much in her present mode of handling the Deputy. Even after her charges had emerged from the nursery, within her own sphere, which was now that of lady’s maid, she had always been a tremendous autocrat. Her methods might lack subtlety, but of their effectiveness there could be no doubt. In the case of the Family, however, they were mitigated by the knowledge that they were but the outward expression of her inordinate pride in and absolute devotion to them all. No matter what the Catkin ladies suffered at her hands, they knew in their hearts that Pikey would yield her life cheerfully for any one of them at a moment’s notice. The luckless Girlie, however, had not this thought to sustain her. There was no sense of handmaidenly altruism to soften the present pain and ignominy of the lot of Miss No-Class.

One thing there was, however, in this hour of trial to nerve Lady Elfreda’s deputy; it was the exquisite garment of misty blue with a shimmer of silver and tulle. Would it fit? For a moment her feelings were harrowed by the fear that it might not. That would be tragedy, indeed. But the fear was groundless. Nature had molded her so daintily that even with the thick woolly combinations she had decided to retain there was room for her small person in that glorious gown.

She looked in the large glass to satisfy herself that such was the case, carefully tucked in the edges of the obtrusive undergarment which so tactlessly showed themselves above the proud corsage, and then turned to confront Pikey with a little air of triumph.

“It fits wonderfully, I think.”

Pikey looked Miss No-Class truculently up and down. Then with a scorn that in a moment less exalted would have been annihilating, she deliberately plucked out the concealed edges of the woolly combinations, sniffed loudly and palpably, plucked at the sleeves of the gown, pulled them and patted them, and finally lifted up the skirt. Disdaining comment in mere words, the maid at once produced a wonderful array of gossamer-like undergarments, stockings ravishing in blue silk, and slippers that were a glory of silver buckles and blue satin.

“Take off that dress.” The Werewolf look came upon Pikey. “Put on that dressing gown.” The fierce eyes seemed to threaten murder. “And then I’ll do your hair.”

Trembling in spirit, Miss Cass brought herself reluctantly to submit to this grim ordeal. The Ogress took an unholy joy in twisting and pulling and punching, with alternations of savage brushings and combings, yet through it all was poor Girlie upheld by the knowledge that not only was her hair abundant, of a fine color and texture, but it also had a trick of curling naturally. If it came to a “showdown” she was not afraid of anybody in the matter of hair. Without wishing to rate it too highly she had serious doubts whether the head of Lady Elfreda was so well equipped by nature, no matter what art may have done for it. And as a final satisfaction, which present circumstances seemed much to enhance, it was only the previous evening that she had shampooed it thoroughly.

Pikey was pitiless, yet she was no mean coiffeuse. The happy abundance and the charming natural waves of Miss Cass’s hair offered scope for her skill. And when she had worked her final will with cruel fingers and unsparing brush, and had gathered the silken mass and bound it artfully with a ribbon of blue and silver threads, the result was a triumph for her and also for her victim, who had been reduced to the verge of involuntary tears. As the maid ungraciously surveyed the fruits of her labors, she had secretly to admit that, owing to some odd freak on the part of nature, no head of her lawful charges had ever done her quite so much credit.

Girlie was then at liberty to devote herself to the rest of her toilet. But she was not permitted to don the gauze-like blue silk stockings until the Ogress had inspected her feet with ominous care.

“I’ll cut those,” was the curt announcement at the sight of the toenails of Miss Cass.

The proud spirit of a solicitor’s daughter was inclined to contest the point. She really did not think her toes were in need of such attention.

“Very well--you don’t put on _them_.” The Werewolf pointed to the blue silk stockings. “And you don’t put on those neither.” And she pointed to the enchanting slippers.

Poor Miss Cass had to suffer one more indignity. Pikey assumed a pair of spectacles, took a pair of scissors, made Girlie sit on a chair and dealt with her toes with scrupulous efficiency. The operation duly performed, Pikey turned her attention to the lovely gown. A cunning needle took in a bit here, let out a bit there, emphasized this, diminished that, until at last she reluctantly muttered, “You ought to do now.”

Girlie, ready to weep for relief, turned again to the glass. The picture she saw was beyond her most extravagant hopes. She was--yes--she was beautiful! At the sight of a ravishing self her courage rose. She had not known that mere clothes and that particular way of doing the hair and that particular ribbon in it could mean so much. Somehow the picture in the glass was going to help her enormously in the part she had to play.

Even Pikey, sunk in savage gloom at the prospect before her, could not stifle a feeling of half admiration, which to be sure she did not reveal. It was too much to hope that the preposterous trick would not be found out, but at least in the matter of looks, the Family might have been far less worthily represented. In fact so clear was Pikey on this point that she opened an ancient jewel case and took forth an article that lifted Girlie to the _n_th degree. It was a necklace of pearls. This lovely thing had only to clasp a white and slender throat, of which Girlie had always been secretly vain, for its owner to be made free of the seventh heaven of delight.

“That belongs to Lady Carabbas.” Such was Pikey’s proud concession to the light of rapture in the ignorant eyes of Miss No-Class. But she did not tell the Deputy, whose eyes were sparkling with enchantment, that the necklace was but a copy of a famous original that was strictly reserved for state occasions. Beauty, however, is in the eye of the beholder. Girlie was quite sure that these were the most authentic pearls of the Orient. When she looked again in the glass she literally felt their glamour.

Half an hour must pass before Girlie, now slightly delirious, would have to show herself in the drawing room. Blood was drumming in her temples already, an odd kind of singing was in her ears, yet in spite of the sure and clear knowledge that she was poised on the very edge of a measureless chasm, in that half hour the dominant emotion was not fear. Girlie’s line of commercial sires were standing by her now; a certain dour practicality rallied to their daughter’s call.

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?--No one!” said the hostess.

No one had apparently.

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

The whole table laughed. Girlie began to breathe again.

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

XI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But----” Miss No-Class protested.

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

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

“You’ll stay in bed till I return.”

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

“But----”

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

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

“Do you understand?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the stress of a great crisis, Pikey had not paused en route to consider details of procedure, but now that she had reached her destination they simply had to be faced. Should she go up boldly to the front door and ring the bell? Certainly that seemed to be the right course to take. But then arose the question, for whom must she ask if she did so? For Pikey was now “up against” the fact that she had quite forgotten the name of Miss No-Class, even if, and it was a point upon which she was by no means clear, she had ever known it. However she did not spend much time in wreaking a vain rage upon herself, for she realized that by now she was a long way from Clavering Park, and that circumstances called sternly for action. Therefore without delay she walked along the carriage drive and rang the front door bell. The Laurels was a stucco residence of the glorified suburban villa type with A. D. 1880 engraved on the stone lintel.

The summons was answered by a slightly tarnished parlor-maid in a pink print dress. She was inclined to be pert and the aristocratic spirit of Pikey rose and fell in almost the same moment.

“Can I see the governess, please?” said Pikey, breathing hard. That, after all, was the only formula.

“She’s out with Miss Joan and Master Peter.” The parlor-maid regarded the visitor with an eye of frank disfavor.

Pikey’s heart sank. “Which way has she gone?” she bleakly inquired.

“She’s gone into Clavering to do some shopping for the mistress.”

Pikey took courage. If she could find out the road by which Elfreda was likely to return there was a hope of intercepting her. Happily, as the visitor was duly informed, the hope was much increased by the fact that there was only one road into Clavering.

“I wonder how I can have missed her.” Pikey drew a breath of relief. She offered curt thanks to the parlor-maid and was about to turn away from the door, when a sharp voice which was evidently that of the mistress of the house who had caught from afar the deep note of the visitor’s Irish intonation, said, “Don’t encourage beggars, Jarvis.”

With that insult stirring her blood, poor Pikey made off down the carriage drive, slammed her way out of the gate and took the road back to Clavering. Murder was in her heart, but her spirit was sore, her soul faint. It was a long way to Clavering Park, and she had never felt so disgruntled in her life. Indeed, a few yards on as she crossed a small stone bridge which spanned a local streamlet and lingered a moment to look at the water gurgling beneath, for one weak, wild instant she was almost tempted to try drowning as a remedy for a coil that grew more tragic at every thought she gave to it.

A hundred yards ahead was a sharp bend in the road. Rounding it in a state of utter despair, Pikey unexpectedly found herself converging upon a young woman in a green ulster who held a small girl and a smaller boy by the hand. Accompanying them was a tall, distinguished looking soldier in much beribanded khaki, who walked with a slight limp.

Somehow Pikey was not prepared for Elfreda, but she it was, although more than one glance under the cheap hat was needed to satisfy the maid that such was the case. Indeed, Elfreda recognized Pikey before Pikey recognized her. She was prompt, moreover, being a very quick-witted young woman, to meet the situation.

Elfreda’s method of dealing with it was delightfully simple. She sent on Miss Joan and Master Peter with the tall warrior in khaki, and then calmly and sternly she confronted the maid. With a coolness that literally took away Pikey’s breath she said, “Why, what in the name of fortune are you doing here?”

The luckless Pikey had no answer ready. Elfreda’s sheer impudence was sublime. Pikey could only gasp.

Elfreda calmly watched her charges disappear out of sight round the corner. Then she fixed the duenna with a blue eye of concentrated audacity. “Surely you don’t mean to say they’ve found out?”

Pikey was able to affirm that so far they had not.

“Then what on earth are you doing here?” The tone put the maid completely in the wrong.

Such a cynical carrying of the war into the country of the enemy was a little too much for Pikey. But she was not going to admit defeat. With a snort and a scowl she declared that she had come to fetch Elfreda and that no matter what happened it was her fixed resolve not to return to Clavering Park without her mistress.

XIII

IT was now the turn of Elfreda to be taken aback.

“Pikey,” she said, “are you mad?”

The look in the eyes of the duenna rather suggested that condition. But Elfreda did not yield an inch. “Are you mad, Pikey?” she repeated sternly.

Before such hardihood the spirit of the Dragon quailed. So proper and natural would it have been for Pikey to ask the question that Elfreda by adopting the simple expedient of asking the question herself completely took the wind out of Pikey’s sails.

“Go back at once.” Elfreda was perfectly amazing. “How dare you come here.” She might have been scolding a disobedient dog. “I am quite ashamed of you, Pikey. Didn’t I say I would write to you?”

A conflict began in the faithful bosom of Pikey as an eye flashing with scorn transfixed her.

“Tell me, Pikey, didn’t I say I would write to you?”

Faced by an attitude so preposterous yet so uncompromising, Pikey began to feel less sure of her ground. The dismal admission was wrung out of her that her charge had promised to do so.

“Very well, then.” In spite of her green ulster and her cheap hat Elfreda grew positively majestic. “Go back as quickly as ever you can and don’t dare to come here again unless you are sent for. If you wish to communicate with me privately, please do so by letter. Do you understand?”

Notwithstanding a very definite sense of outrage Pikey felt absolutely cowed. This really was a little spitfire and yet she was just as cool as you please.

“It is your duty to look after Miss--Miss What’s-her-name and to see that she doesn’t make mistakes or get into mischief or give us away or anything of that kind.”

To the wretched Pikey’s eternal dishonor she could only muster the spirit for a dismal and forlorn acquiescence. Even as she did so, she knew that she was tamely submitting to be put in the wrong. The thought filled her with fury, but there was nothing to be done. Ruefully she realized that the headstrong little wretch was altogether too much for her.

“I--I shall write to Herself.”

“Don’t dare to do anything of the kind.” A blue eye suddenly blazed forth like an angry sapphire. “Please understand that if it is found out I take all responsibility.”

Pikey could only gasp.

“But,”--the words of the amazing Elfreda were half ice, half fire--“if you can really behave like a sensible creature nobody need be any the wiser.”

“Whatever will his lordship say?”

“I wouldn’t worry about his lordship if I were you, Pikey.” The voice of the little wretch had taken the soft wheedling tone which somehow had always been able to get round her nurse. “Don’t worry about anything. You’ll see it will all come right. And if it doesn’t, the whole of the responsibility is mine.”

Just then Pikey would cheerfully have slain her charge, but alas! she knew herself at heart for a foolish fond old woman who was without any real hope of being able to prevail against her favorite. She never had been able to prevail against her, if it came to that.

Pikey was not merely in the presence of defeat. The final words of Elfreda struck her with panic.

“I want you to let me have two blouses, some silk stockings, a pair of shoes and a decent hat as soon as you can. Send them by post, and mind you pack them carefully. You understand?”

Pikey’s heart sank. No matter what she might be on the surface, immediately below it she was very much a woman and by no means deficient in the intuitions of her sex. Such a demand was full of sinister meaning. The martial figure in khaki that had passed on round the corner now recurred vividly to the eye of her mind. “You must either come to Clavering Park or I shall write to Herself.” That should have been her rejoinder to this shameless rebel. Beyond doubt a wise woman would have made it, but do as she would at this fatal moment she simply could not find the necessary courage.

“Address the parcel to Miss Cass, in the care of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson at The Laurels. I will write it down for you so that there shall be no mistake.”

The amazing Elfreda calmly unbuttoned the green ulster, produced a small pocket diary and wrote down the address with a deliberate care that seemed decidedly ironical. Then she tore out the leaf. “As soon as ever you can, Pikey. You quite understand?”

Once more, at the tone’s finality, the duenna could merely gasp. It was the only form of protest she had now the wit or the power to make.

XIV

WITHOUT another word Elfreda moved on round the corner and crossed the stone bridge. As soon as she came in view of The Laurels she found quite a number of people collected about its gate. It appeared that a man had just stuck a bill on one of its wooden posts, that he was now being severely admonished by the mistress of the house while an edified Miss Joan, an equally edified Master Peter, and an amused young man in khaki looked on.

To add to the piquancy of the scene the bill-sticker, conscious of the fact that he was engaged on work of national importance and that his services were at a premium, was inclined to give as good as he got. “Thought as how you wouldn’t mind seein’ it were for a charitable h’object,” said the offender, doggedly.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, a tall, angular, fresh-complexioned lady with light eyelashes and mouse-colored hair, had a decided weakness for “the high horse.”

“You had no right to think anything of the kind,” she fluted on her favorite note of high expostulation. “I consider it a great liberty.”

In spite of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s fierce assault the offender stood his ground.

“You might at least have taken the trouble to ask my permission. I have a great mind to have the bill removed. As my name is not thought good enough to appear as a Lady Patroness, although I have subscribed for six tickets in the front seats, perhaps my gate may not be good enough to advertise the performance.”

“It can come down if you like, mum,” said the bill-sticker doggedly.

The mistress of The Laurels turned impressively to the young man in khaki. “Would you have it down, General, if the gate were yours?”

“I should let it stay up,” said the General, who looked surprisingly youthful for the rank accorded him. He spoke briefly and succinctly as one knowing his own mind, on that particular subject at any rate; moreover as he did so he smiled rather broadly in the direction of the new governess who had just come on to the scene.

“Very well, then, it may do so,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “But tell me, man”--she was determined to ride off the field victorious--“by whose orders did you stick it up?”

“The vicar’s, mum.”

“The vicar’s!” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was sensibly mollified. “Then why didn’t you say so at once?”

“Because you didn’t ax me,” said the bill-sticker with the ready defiance of true democracy.

General Norris and the new governess had barely time to exchange one furtive smile before Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson augustly interposed. “Miss Cass, remind me after luncheon that I write to the Vicar to complain of this man’s impertinence.”

Instead of regarding her employer with the smile sycophantic as any new governess who really knew her business might have been expected to do in such circumstances, Miss Cass again reserved her glance for the young man in khaki. Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was too busy with the recalcitrant bill-sticker to observe this breach of etiquette, but Miss Joan, a spectacled young woman of seven, who had an uncomfortable habit of noticing everything, noticed it for her. Miss Joan, however, made no comment, the bill-sticker was sent on his way, and the offending poster was allowed to remain on the gate post of The Laurels.

“_Grand, original production of ‘The Lady of Laxton,’_” read the young man in khaki in his precise, good-humored voice. “_First performance on any stage. Under the personal direction of the author, Sir Toby Philpot Bart and Montagu Jupp, Esquire, of the Mayfair Theater. The cast will consist of The Lady Elfreda Catkin and the following ladies and gentlemen_----”

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson brought a pair of eyeglasses into action in order to study the _dramatic personæ_. “Miss Ethel Lancelot is in it, I see. If she is as stiff in her acting as she is in herself she might empty the Assembly Rooms quite easily. But I don’t suppose they will be more than half full in any case.”

“You have taken six tickets, though,” said General Norris cheerfully. “And if this entire list of distinguished patronesses has done the same there may not be so very much room in the building.”

“By the way,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, her voice going a whole octave higher, “who is Lady Elfreda Catkin? I don’t think she belongs to this part of the world.”

“One of the Carabbas girls I believe,” said the young man off-handedly.

“Have you met her?”

“No,” George Norris spoke with a slight air of boredom. “But the _Society Pictorial_ says she’s very clever. Her portrait and all about her is in this week.”

“I must look at the _Society Pictorial_,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “Have you the time, George?”

“Quarter to one,” said George after consulting the watch on his wrist.

“Miss Cass,” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “Will you walk on with the children. Please wash their hands and brush their hair.”

For one very brief fraction of time it looked almost as if the new governess would have preferred to delegate this simple and elementary duty to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson herself. That lady was too much occupied with General Norris to observe the fact, but the young woman in spectacles who noticed everything, noticed it all right.

“Come on, Petah,” she said. “Come and let Miss Cass wash your hands and brush your hair.”

Master Peter, whose age was five, gave himself a shake and a wriggle. “Don’t warn-too,” he said.

“Petah-darling!” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to her son and heir.

Miss Cass made no comment, but she took Miss Joan quietly but firmly in one hand and Master Peter with equal quietude and firmness in the other. Without preface or apology she proceeded to lead them in the direction of the house. It was not quite the mode of procedure of former governesses--her charges had had four within the last twelve months--but the grip of Miss Cass was so resolute that Master Peter was able to shake and wriggle with rather less effect than usual.

“Tell me, George,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, suddenly becoming confidential as the small procession of three passed from view, “what do you think of the new governess?”

The question was really superfluous. By the aid of the sixth sense given to her sex in these little matters, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was already fully informed as to what George Norris thought of the new governess. Moreover she had been informed so plainly, that although the new governess had not been four and twenty hours under her roof the subject threatened already to become a matter of some concern.

“I think she is extremely nice.” The answer of George Norris was simple, unstudied, genuinely sincere. And it was very much the answer Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson anticipated, except that she had not looked for it to be quite so candid.

The response of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to what almost amounted to enthusiasm on the part of George Norris was rather formal. “She speaks nicely,” she said. “And of course that is of great importance in a governess.”

George Norris, who for all his remarkable array of decorations seemed a very simple young man, naïvely said that he supposed it must be of great importance for a governess to speak nicely, yet he may have thought privately, had he ever been tempted to give thought to the subject, that it was in the nature of a governess to do so.

In fact, although he did not put that view into words, his tone rather implied it. But Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, who subsconciously followed his train of ideas, felt it to be her duty to convict him of error.

“Governesses don’t always, I assure you,” she said. “Our last one had quite a cockney accent.”

George Norris seemed surprised at the revelation.

“I am sure I hope Miss Cass will suit us.” The tone of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson did not sound very optimistic. “One finds governesses such a difficult class. You see they are not always ladies.”

George Norris betrayed more surprise. But Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s confession was not without a certain method.

She was by no means well pleased that her guest should have walked into Clavering with Miss Cass. He was a young man who in the course of four years had won really remarkable military distinction, but his hostess could not disguise from herself that his knowledge of the world had hardly kept pace with his martial renown. In a word he lacked social experience.

The truth was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had come to regard herself as the social mentor of General Norris. In a peculiar degree she felt responsible for him. His career had been one of the many romances of the war. In August, 1914, he had been a clerk in her husband’s office in receipt of a salary of three pounds a week. He had joined up on the morning war was declared, and having some little previous experience with the local volunteer battalion, had gained a commission almost at once. In France he had proved himself a born soldier in much of the hardest fighting of the war, had been twice wounded, had won some very high distinctions, had taken a course at the Staff College and was now a professional soldier and a general officer to boot.

In launching this remarkable young man upon the world Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson may have been a little influenced by the fact that her husband’s former clerk had been received with open arms in certain local circles wherein Colonel Trenchard-Simpson and herself were constrained to move with delicacy, even if they might be said to move in them at all. Even those most exclusive people, the Lancelots of Amory Towers, who wielded so much influence in that part of the world, had taken George Norris under their wing. He had neither money nor prospects apart from his profession and very little was known of his origin, but in the little world of Clavering St. Mary’s, Colonel (on carpet consideration) Trenchard-Simpson’s ex-clerk was cutting just now such an amazingly distinguished figure that the wife of his former employer felt that she really owed it to George Norris to do what she could for him.

He had been housed at The Laurels rather less than a week as an honored guest, but his manly and judicious bearing had impressed his hostess so favorably that she had already invited Miss Dolores Parbury, a niece of her husband’s, who lived at Birmingham, to spend a few days under that hospitable roof.

The father of Miss Parbury had been able to leave the fair Dolores some six thousand a year; and as he had been a successful retail grocer and his only daughter had inherited not merely his money but also his view of life, she had rather set her heart upon “marrying a title.” It was a nice point, of course, whether a mere Brigadier-General fulfilled this condition, but Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, after due reflection, came to the conclusion that she was fully justified in the special circumstances in sending for her husband’s niece.

Dolores was due to arrive at The Laurels in the course of the afternoon and at luncheon her coming was much discussed. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, a recently hyphenated auctioneer, with a bald head and a loud voice, was proud of his niece. Six thousand a year is six thousand a year even if it is the fruit of retail grocery. On the other hand Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson in her heart was not quite sure whether Dolores was not a blot on the family escutcheon; she herself was the daughter of a button manufacturer who had dabbled in local politics to the extent of a knighthood. But such glittering accounts were given of her to George Norris that, had the young man been romantically inclined, extravagant hopes must have been raised in his bosom.

The new governess during her first luncheon at The Laurels was really more interested in her immediate surroundings than in the coming of Miss Parbury. There were several reasons for this. Foremost of course were the surprising circumstances. She had not been long enough in them as yet to regret the wicked trick she had played. Everything, so far, was new and strange. She had never seen people quite like these, nor had she ever found herself in this kind of household. Everything, including the table decorations, the menu, the conversation, the style and manner of the parlor-maid, came to her at a new and curious angle. But with Miss Joan one side of her and Master Peter the other, her opportunities for observation were a little curtailed. And when Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson instructed her rather pointedly to cut up the food of the one and to see that the other consumed hers properly, somehow these opportunities were curtailed still further.

There was another drawback also. And it was of an embarrassing, if temporary, character. Joan, it seemed, had told her mother of the meeting of Miss Cass and the strange woman. Moreover, the visit of Pikey had been duly reported by the parlor-maid. “Tell me, Miss Cass,” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson midway through the meal, “who was the person who came to see you this morning?”

Several courses were open to Elfreda. Perhaps the one most obvious was to lie royally. But she was such a calm and collected young woman that she promptly decided to amuse herself by telling the blunt and literal truth. “Oh, that old thing,” she said with a careless laugh that did credit to her histrionic powers. “She’s an old servant of my mother’s who happens to be living here just now.”

Unfortunately the offhand tone was a little overdone. It did not actually arouse suspicion, but such a casualness of manner with its underlying arrogance was hardly to be looked for in a governess. It did not occur to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson that Miss Cass had anything to conceal, but certainly there was something about the new governess that was decidedly odd. There were moments when she seemed almost to patronize her employers, had it been humanly possible for her to do so. Certainly her manner made pursuit of this particular topic very difficult indeed.

Making allowance for all things, Elfreda’s first luncheon at The Laurels was a new and salutary experience, yet perhaps it was the young man seated opposite who interested her most. And as it was her nature to follow her own bent as far as circumstances allowed, General Norris received the lion’s share of her conversation.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson remarked privately to her husband after the meal, while Miss Cass put on the gaiters of Miss Joan and Master Peter and otherwise prepared them for the afternoon’s airing, that no matter what else the new governess might be, she certainly was not shy. She talked easily and with point on any subject that came uppermost, but somehow her discourse seemed lacking in that subtle deference which surely should have been exacted by their respective conditions. Nor was she at all well up in her duties, either; she certainly seemed to pay more attention to the guest than to her employers or their offspring; in a word, although she was a young woman of undeniably good address, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson doubted gravely whether she would suit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

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

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

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

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

“Ye-es.” There was a world of doubt in the tone of the new governess, but in the odd way she had of looking at peop