Part 5 (1/2)

”Oh, my lord! Don't do so, my lord!” Miss Popkiss affected to protest, without, however, raising her voice to a pitch that would reach the bar, or making more than the most perfunctory efforts to release herself from the encircling arm.

”That's a good sample,” he grinned amorously. ”I should like a dozen.”

There was no doubt about him, Miss Popkiss concluded, the episode entirely falling in with her preconception of aristocratic ways. ”Oh,”

she giggled, ”you are a naughty n.o.bleman.” Then, releasing herself, this time by a business-like effort, she ran off, doubtless with the idea, after the manner of her kind, of doling out her favours and spreading the lordly caresses over as long a period as circ.u.mstances permitted.

Perhaps it was as well; for, scarcely had she turned her back on the dusty Philander when the lips which had just been pressed to hers opened wide in a very unromantic yawn. Then their owner threw himself wearily back into the chair and laughed languidly. ”n.o.bleman!” he murmured, with a puff of amused scorn at the provincial greenness.

”And she called me my lord when I kissed her.” The idea seemed to tickle him in spite of his weariness. ”She knows their ways,” he commented languidly as he took out a silver cigarette-case, flas.h.i.+ly enamelled with a spirited representation of men's three popular vices in combination, and lighted up. ”Is it my appearance, or the swagger dinner I have ordered, or both?” he murmured, dropping now to a rueful tone. Opposite to him, filling up the s.p.a.ce between the windows, was a long mirror. With what was evidently characteristic conceit, the young man put himself into a photographic att.i.tude, with the cigarette held effectively after the fas.h.i.+on he had noted in certain royal and theatrical portraits, and regarded himself with rueful complacency.

”Percy Peckover, my boy,” he murmured, ”you are going to deprive the world of an ornament. There is plenty of fun in the world, but not for you; so the sooner you are out of it the better. Ah!” he continued with a shudder, ”that young woman little thinks that the warm lips just pressed to hers will soon be cold.” With a quick, almost despairing action, he put the cigarette in his mouth and then drew a small phial from his pocket. ”Yes,” he said under his breath; ”this will do the business in a jiffy.” He s.h.i.+vered, and, as though to pull himself together, puffed vigorously at the cigarette. ”By George, I should hope so,” he muttered grimly. ”Ekin would not play me a trick. Yes,”

he rambled on reminiscently, ”I said--didn't I?--now, mind, no pain, Ekin, old man. None of your strychnines or antimonies. You've got the whole shop to choose from; let me just go off to sleep and wake no more. Yes, there were tears in poor old Tom's eyes; he was so upset he could hardly give me the bottle, telling me to rely on his professional skill. Let's see; he said, 'mix it in a gla.s.s of anything you like, and you'll drop off as comfortable as an Archbishop.'” He took out the stopper and sniffed at the phial. ”It smells like Westminster Abbey,”

he said with the irrepressible jocularity of his type. ”Well, it's better than----” he shuddered at the unspoken alternative. ”It only wants a little courage; just five seconds' pluck,” he told himself, as he slipped the phial back into his waistcoat pocket. ”The champagne will give me that. 'Ang the future, let me fair enjoy myself for the few moments that are left me.”

He lighted a fresh cigarette, got up and stood admiringly before the mirror, pulled down his soiled cuffs, settled his necktie, setting the diamond pin straight, smoothed his hair with a hand that seemed to tremble, then turned away with an exclamation of impatience, and stood looking vacantly out of the window. The feeble humours of the inn-yard seemed to amuse him: anyhow, he did not notice Mr. and Miss Popkiss who had come to the door and stayed there regarding him with intense curiosity and satisfaction.

CHAPTER V

”There he is, father; I'm sure it is Lord Quorn.”

Perhaps it was the recollection of the procedure which had led her to that conclusion that surprised her into the laugh, not so low but that it reached the object of their attention.

He turned quickly, suspiciously, and, seeing the two interested faces, in an instant had a.s.sumed his air of jaunty swagger. ”Well, landlord; is my dinner coming to-day, or are you waiting for the chicken to hatch?”

Popkiss advanced, purple and radiant, laughing his best laugh at the lordly joke. Mr. Popkiss, as became an innkeeper who knew his business, had a series of nicely graduated tokens of appreciation, from the superior half smile with which he discounted the poor wit of the yokel who was good but for a pint of small beer and took a whole evening to discuss it, through the qualified guffaw with which he stamped with his approval the heavy jokes of his regular market-day customers, up to the apoplectic and wheezy roar with which he would greet the sallies of a really important guest, whose bill bade fair to overrun the s.h.i.+lling column. Twice in one short hour had he, Samuel Popkiss, been on speaking terms with different members of the upper cla.s.ses; small wonder was it that all thought of Mr. Doutfire's expected ”party” had been centrifugally dispersed by the whirl in which he found his brain.

”Ha! ha!” he chuckled, rubbing his hands as he advanced with his best reception manner. ”No, sir, that is to say, my lord, dinner is just ready, and I think we shall please you,” he suggested unctuously. ”You will want something to keep you up for the last part of your journey here.”

The words sounded full of ominous significance; Mr. Peckover went a shade paler, while his swagger for an instant sagged visibly, as he wondered whether his host could have seen him sniffing at the euthanasia now lying snug in his waistcoat pocket.

Miss Popkiss was busy laying the cloth in a style most effective both as to the decoration of the table and the showing off of certain personal graces. For that young lady's methods of laying a table when alone and when being--as she hoped--watched during the operation were widely contrasted.

”After so much buffetting about, as I may say,” observed Popkiss genially, as he panted round the table, laying unnecessary forks in places where their usefulness was not obvious, ”you will be glad to settle down comfortable yonder.”

He pointed with a fat hand vaguely and tentatively in the direction of Staplewick Towers, being perhaps anxious to put beyond doubt the question of his guest's ident.i.ty. Peckover, with, doubtless, the idea of a somewhat different stronghold in his mind looked quickly towards the point indicated. His glance, however, travelled no farther than the church tower; anyhow, it could hardly have reached the other landmark which was five miles off.

But the church which shut in his view was enough. The cigarette slipped from the lips that parted convulsively with the dropping jaw.

The churchyard! ”Glad he has arranged it,” he muttered shakily.

”And you may be sure of a warm welcome from the old gentleman,” Popkiss added, stopping to beam upon his guest in the midst of his superfluous bustle.

”The devil!” Peckover exclaimed aghast, scrutinizing the expansive face for a sign of ”kidding.”

”Oh, yes,” maintained Popkiss, proud of the office of herald of welcome between two august personages; ”he has been here already to look for you, and very anxious he is to carry you off to the place which, begging pardon, is yours by rights.”

This was too much for Peckover, who stood staring at his obese tormentor utterly bereft of speech.

”Of course,” continued Popkiss with a mitigating chuckle, ”he can't help showing the cloven hoof sometimes, they say; but he's not so black as he is painted.”