Part 47 (1/2)
Gerard found his father somewhat absent as they spun along between the newly-sprouting hedges in the spring sunlight, and wondered. The fact was that Wagram had made up his mind to take Haldane into confidence, at any rate partially, and was thinking over how much he should tell him as yet. To this end he had brought with him the tin case.
”Hallo, Gerard,” he cried, waking from his abstraction as they neared their objective. ”By George! I'm a dullish companion for a young 'un on a bike ride--eh, old chap?”
”That's all right, pater. Look. There's Yvonne under the elm; and, great Scott! what the mischief has she been doing to herself? Oh, I say!”
The girl had started forward to meet them, and lo! her mantle of rippling gold no longer draped her shoulders: it formed a s.h.i.+ning crown instead.
”You needn't stare like that, Gerard,” she began. ”It's beastly rude, you know. Never saw anyone with their hair up before?” this with dignity. ”No; but, Mr Wagram, isn't it detestable? Will have to do the grown-up now, I suppose.”
”We must all grow up one day, Sunbeam,” was the answer. ”Even I am not exempt from the process; and as for Gerard here, why he's gone through it long ago.”
”That you, Wagram?” And Haldane came forward with a newspaper in one hand and a half-smoked pipe in the other. ”Come along and find a cool seat, and I should think something else cool would go down after your spin--something long and sparkling and with a musical tinkle of ice in it, for choice. Oh, the child,” following their glances. ”Yes. She's just been trying an experiment. I tell her she's canonised now with this bright and s.h.i.+ning halo round her head. Think it improves her?”
”I don't know that it does,” struck in Gerard frankly. ”Ah-ah! I see.
She's hoisted it all up so that Reggie and I can't tweak it any more.”
”Quite likely,” retorted Yvonne. ”If you did now it'd be a case of 'great cry and little wool,' as Henry the Eighth said when he got hold of the wrong pig by the ear.”
”When he did what?” said Wagram, mystified. ”History does not spare the memory of that b.l.o.o.d.y-minded monarch, Sunbeam, but it is absolutely silent on the deed you have just named--at least so far as my reading of it goes.”
Gerard threw back his head and roared. Haldane was absolutely speechless.
”Well, what is it, then? What ought I to have said? Gerard, d'you hear? I don't believe you know yourself.”
”Oh, Lord! I shall die in a moment. 'As Henry the Eighth said'!” he gasped. ”What you were feeling after is 'as the devil said when he tried to shear the pig.'”
”Of course! Oh, what an a.s.s I am!” cried the girl, going off into a rippling peal.
”However, the confusion of the ident.i.ty of the two particular parties is not inexcusable,” p.r.o.nounced Wagram.
”You'll be the death of us one of these days, Sunbeam,” gasped Haldane when he recovered his speech. ”Hallo, Wagram, what's the row?”
”Row? Oh, nothing,” answered Wagram in a strange voice. He had ceased to join in the general mirth. He had, in fact, picked up the paper which Haldane had let fall. It was only the _Ba.s.singham Chronicle_, given over mainly to crops, and Petty Sessions and ecclesiastical presentations, and yet something in it had availed to change the expression of his countenance as well as his voice. Only a name--a name and a paragraph. Thus ran the latter:
”Motor accident--We regret to learn that Mr Develin Hunt, a gentleman who made some stay in our midst a year or two ago, and was so impressed with the natural attractions of our neighbourhood that he came to repeat it, was knocked down last evening by a motor car in front of the Golden Crown Hotel, where he is staying, and received severe internal injuries.
He was carried up to his room, and Dr Foss, who was at once sent for, has advised that his relatives be at once communicated with. Those in charge of the motor car made off with all haste, and have not yet been traced.”
”Oh, ah! I meant to have told you,” said Haldane, following his glance.
”That's the chap with the rum name we were all exercising our wit on, if you remember. Poor devil! I expect he's a 'goner.' 'Severe internal injuries' always has a dashed ugly sound.”
”By the way, Haldane, I wanted to get your opinion on a matter of importance,” said Wagram. ”How would it do now?”
”Right. Come inside.”
”This is it,” when they were alone: ”I want you to go over to Ba.s.singham with me while I interview this very Develin Hunt. You've no idea what a lot depends upon it--for me. And it may be necessary for him to swear a statement.”
Haldane was too old a campaigner to evince astonishment at any mere coincidence, so he only answered:
”All right. I'll tell them to inspan the dogcart. That'll get us there in no time.”