Part 44 (1/2)

When Patricia arrived at Galvin House, she was conscious of the world having changed since the morning. All her gloom had been dispelled, the drawn look had pa.s.sed from her face, and she felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AIR RAID

”Miss Brent, please get up. There's an air raid.”

Mechanically Patricia sat up in bed and listened. Outside a police-whistle was droning its raucous warning; within there was the sound of frightened whispers and the noise of the opening and shutting of doors. Suddenly there was a shriek, followed by a low murmur of several voices. The sound of the police-whistle continued, gradually dying away in the distance, and the noises within the house ceased.

Patricia strained her ears to catch the first sound of the defensive guns. She had no intention of getting up for a false alarm. For some minutes there was silence, then came a slight murmur, half sob, half sigh, as if London were breathing heavily in her sleep, another followed, then half a dozen in quick succession growing louder with every report. Suddenly came the scream of a ”whiz-bang” and the thunder of a large gun. Soon the orchestra was in full swing.

Still Patricia listened. She was fascinated. Why did guns sound exactly as if large plank were being dropped? Why did the report seem as if something were bouncing? Suddenly a terrific report, a sound as if a giant plank had been dropped and had ”bounced.” A neighbouring gun had given tongue, another followed.

She jumped out of bed and proceeded to pull on her stockings. There was a gentle tapping at her door, not the peremptory summons that had awakened her and which, by the voice that had accompanied it, she recognised as that of Mrs. Craske-Morton.

”What is it?” she called out.

”It's me, mees.” Patricia could scarcely recognise in the terrified accents the voice of Gustave. ”It's a raid. Oh! mees, please come down.”

”All right, Gustave. I shall be down in a minute,” replied Patricia, and she heard a flurry of retreating footsteps. Gustave was descending to safety. There was about him nothing of the Roman sentry.

Patricia proceeded with her toilette, hastened, in spite of herself, by a tremendous crash which she recognised as a bomb.

At Galvin House ”Raid Instructions” had been posted in each room.

Guests were instructed to hasten with all possible speed downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt-kitchen, where tea and coffee would be served and, if necessary, bandages and first-aid applied. Miss Sikk.u.m had made a superficial study of Red Cross work from a s.h.i.+lling manual but as, according to her own confession, she fainted at the sight of blood, no very great reliance was placed in her ministrations.

As Patricia entered the kitchen her first inclination was to laugh at the amazing variety, not only of toilettes, but of expressions that met her eyes. Self-confident in the knowledge that she was fully dressed, she looked about her with interest.

”Oh, here you are, Miss Brent!” exclaimed Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was busily engaged in preparing the tea and coffee of the ”Raid Instructions.” ”Gustave would insist on going up to call you a second time. We were----” Mrs. Craske-Morton broke off her sentence and dashed for the gas-stove, where the milk was boiling over.

”Oh, mees!” Patricia turned to Gustave. She bit her lip fiercely to restrain the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of the major-domo of Galvin House.

Above a pair of black trousers, tucked in the tops of unlaced boots, and from which the braces flapped aimlessly, was visible the upper part of a red flannel night-s.h.i.+rt. The remainder was bestowed beneath the upper part of the trousers, giving to his figure a curiously k.n.o.bbly appearance. His face was leaden-coloured and his upstanding hair more erect than ever, whilst in his eyes was Fear.

He was trembling in every limb, and his jaw shook as he uttered his expression of relief at the sight of Patricia. She smiled at him, then suddenly remembering that, in spite of his terror, he had voluntarily gone up to the top of the house to call her, she felt something strangely uncomfortable at the back of her throat.

”Come along, Gustave!” she cried brightly. ”Let us help get the tea.

I'm so thirsty.”

From that moment Gustave appeared to take himself in hand, and save for a violent start, at the more vigorous reports, seemed to have overcome his terror.

As Patricia proceeded to a.s.sist Mrs. Craske-Morton, a veritable heroine in a pink flannel wrapper, she took stock of her fellows. Miss w.a.n.gle was engaged in prayer and tears, her wig was awry, her face drawn and yellow and her clothes the garb of advanced maidenhood. On her feet were bed-socks, half thrust into felt slippers. From beneath a black quilted dressing-gown peeped with virtuous pride the longcloth of a nightdress of Victorian severity.

Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was in curl-papers and a faded blue kimono that allowed no suggestion to escape of the form beneath. Miss Sikk.u.m had seized a grey raincoat, above which a forest of curl papers looked strangely out of place. Her fingers moved restlessly. The two top b.u.t.tons of the raincoat were missing, displaying a wealth of blue ribbon and openwork that none had suspected in her. The lateness at which the ribbon and openwork began gave an interesting demonstration in feminine bone structure.

Mr. Sefton was splendid in a purple dressing-gown with orange cord and ta.s.sels, and red and white striped pyjamas beneath. Mr. Sefton had chosen his raid-costume with elaborate care; but the suddenness of the alarm had not allowed of the arrangement of his hair, most of which hung down behind in a sandy cascade. His manner was the forced heroic.

He was smoking a cigarette with a too obvious nonchalance to deceive.