Part 11 (1/2)
”Do you care so much as all that,” he said, ”you silly little thing!”
After this there was nothing to be done except sit down again, and with her head on his shoulder, allow that fatal anaesthetic to rob him of all considerations beyond Francie's kisses.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Dinner at Bruff was over. It had been delayed as long as possible in the belief that each moment would bring back the culprits, and it had dragged painfully through its eight courses, in spite of Lady Dysart's efforts to hasten Gorman and his satellite in their inexorable orbit. Everyone except Garry and Miss Hope-Drummond had been possessed by an anxiety which Lady Dysart alone had courage to express. She indeed, being a person who habitually said what other people were half afraid to think, had dilated on all possible calamities till Cursiter, whose temper was momently becoming worse, many times wished himself on the lake, rowing dinnerless and vengeful on the track of the fugitives.
The whole party was now out of doors, and on its way down to the landing-place, in the dark twilight; Lady Dysart coming last of all, and driving before her the much incensed Gorman, whom she had armed with the gong, in the idea that its warlike roar would be at once a guide and a menace to the wanderers. So far it had only had the effect of drawing together in horrified questioning all the cattle in the lower part of the park, and causing them to rush, bellowing, along by the railings that separated them from the siren who cried to them with a voice so commanding and so mysterious. Gorman was fully alive to the indignity of his position, and to the fact that Master Garry, his ancient enemy, was mocking at his humiliation; but any attempt to moderate his attack upon the gong was detected by his mistress.
”Go on, Gorman! Beat it louder! The more they bellow the better, it will guide them into the landing-place.”
Christopher's affected misapprehension of his mother's p.r.o.nouns created a diversion for some time, as it was perhaps intended to do. He had set himself to treat the whole affair with unsympathetic levity, but, in spite of himself, an insistent thorn of anxiety made it difficult for him to make little of his mother's vigorous panic. It was absurd, but her lamentations about the dangers of the lake and of steam-launches found a hollow echo in his heart. He remembered, with a shudder that he had not felt at the time, the white face rising and dipping in the trough of the grey lake waves; and though his sense of humour, and of the supreme inadequacy and staleness of swearing, usually deprived him of that safety valve, he was conscious that in the background of his mind the traditional adjective was monotonously coupling itself with the name of Mr. Hawkins. He was walking behind the others down the path to the pier. Here and there great trees that looked tired from their weight of foliage stood patiently spreading their arms to the dew, and in the intervals between Gorman's fantasias on the gong, he could hear how the diffident airs from the lake whispered confidentially to the sleeping leaves. There was no moon; the sky was thickened with a light cloudiness, and in the mystical twilight the pale broad blossoms of an elder-bush looked like constellated stars in a nearer and darker firmament. Christopher walked on, that cold memory of danger and disquiet jarring the fragrance and peace of the rich summer night.
The searchers ranged themselves on the pier; the gong was stilled, and except for the occasional stamping of a hoof, or low booming complaint from the cattle, there was perfect silence. All were listening for some sound from the lake before Christopher and Cursiter carried out their intention of starting in a boat to look for the launch. Suddenly in the misty darkness into which all were staring, a vivid spark of light sprang out. It burned for a few seconds only, a sharp distinct star, and then disappeared.
”There they are!” cried Lady Dysart. ”The gong, Gorman! The gong!”
Gorman sounded with a will, and the harsh, brazen blare spread and rolled over the lake, but there was no response.
”They must hear that,” said Cursiter to Christopher; ”why the devil don't he whistle?”
”How should I know?” answered Christopher, with a crossness which was in some irrational way the outcome of extreme relief; ”I suppose he fooled with it till it broke.”
”Perhaps they are not there after all,” suggested Miss Hope-Drummond cheerfully.
”How can you say such a thing, Evelyn!” exclaimed Lady Dysart indignantly; ”I know it was they, and the light was a signal of distress!”
”More likely to have been Hawkins lighting a cigarette,” said Christopher; ”if everyone would stop talking at the same time we might be able to hear something.”
A question ran like a ripple through Pamela's mind, ”What makes Christopher cross to-night?” but the next instant she forgot it. A distant shout, unmistakably uttered by Hawkins, came thinly to them across the water, and in another second or two the noise of oars could be distinctly heard. The sound advanced steadily.
”Show a light there on the pier!” called out a voice that was not Hawkins'.
Cursiter struck a match, a feeble illuminant that made everything around invisible except the faces of the group on the pier, and by the time it had been tossed, like a falling star, into the tarry blackness of the water, the boat was within conversational distance.
”Is Miss Fitzpatrick there?” demanded Lady Dysart.
”She is,” said Lambert's voice.
”What have you done with the launch?” shouted Cursiter, in a tone that made his subaltern quake.
”She's all right,” he made haste to reply. ”She's on that mud-shallow off Curragh Point, and Lambert's man is on board her now. Lambert saw us aground there from his window, and we were at her for an hour trying to get her off, and then it got so dark, we thought we'd better leave her and come on. She's all right, you know.”
”Oh,” said Captain Cursiter, in, as Hawkins thought to himself, a deuced disagreeable voice.
The boat came up alongside of the pier, and in the hubbub of inquiry that arose, Francie was conscious of a great sense of protection in Lambert's presence, angry though she knew he was. As he helped her out of the boat, she whispered tremulously: ”It was awfully good of you to come.”
He did not answer, and stepped at once into the boat again. In another minute the necessary farewells had been made, and he, Cursiter, and Hawkins, were rowing back to the launch, leaving Francie to face her tribunal alone.
CHAPTER XXV.
It was noon on the following day-a soaking, windy noon. Francie felt its fitness without being aware that she did so, as she knelt in front of her trunk, stuffing her few fineries into it with unscientific recklessness, and thinking with terror that it still remained for her to fee the elderly English upper housemaid with the half-crown that Charlotte had diplomatically given her for the purpose.
Everything had changed since yesterday, and changed for the worse. The broad window, out of which yesterday afternoon she had leaned in the burning suns.h.i.+ne to see the steam-launch puffing her way up the lake, was now closed against the rain; the dirty flounces of her best white frock, that had been clean yesterday, now thrust themselves out from under the lid of her trunk in disreputable reminder of last night's escapade; and Lady Dysart, who had been at all events moderately friendly yesterday, now evidently considered that Francie had transgressed beyond forgiveness, and had acquiesced so readily in Francie's suggestion of going home for luncheon, that her guest felt sorry that she had not said breakfast. Even the padlock of her bonnet-box refused to lock-was ”going bandy with her,” as she put it, in a phrase learnt from the Fitzpatrick cook-and she was still battling with it when the sound of wheels on the gravel warned her that the ordeal of farewell was at hand. The blase calm with which Sarah helped her through the presentation of Charlotte's half-crown made her feel her social inferiority as keenly as the coldness of Lady Dysart's adieux made her realise that she was going away in disgrace, when she sought her hostess and tried to stammer out the few words of orthodox grat.i.tude that Charlotte had enjoined her not to forget.
Pamela, whose sympathies were always with the sinner, was kinder than ever, even anxiously kind, as Francie dimly perceived, and in some unexpected way her kindness brought a lump into the throat of the departing guest. Francie hurried mutely out on to the steps, where, in spite of the rain, the dogs and Christopher were waiting to bid her goodbye.
”You are very punctual,” he said. ”I don't know why you are in such a hurry to go away.”
”Oh, I think you've had quite enough of me,” Francie replied with a desperate attempt at gaiety. ”I'm sure you're all very glad to be shut of me.”
”That isn't a kind thing to say, and I think you ought to know that it is not true either.”
”Indeed then I know it is true” answered Francie, preparing in her agitation to plunge into the recesses of the landau without any further ceremonies of farewell.
”Well, won't you even shake hands with me?”
She was already in the carriage; but at this reproach she thrust an impulsive hand out of the window. ”Oh, gracious-! I mean-I beg your pardon, Mr. Dysart,” she cried incoherently, ”I-I'm awfully grateful for all your kindness, and to Miss Dysart-”
She hardly noticed how tightly he held her hand in his; but, as she was driven away, and, looking back, saw him and Pamela standing on the steps, the latter holding Max in her arms, and waving one of his crooked paws in token of farewell, she thought to herself that it must be only out of good nature they were so friendly to her; but anyhow they were fearfully nice.
”Thank goodness!” said Lady Dysart fervently, as she moved away from the open hall-door-”thank goodness that responsibility is off my hands. I began by liking the creature, but never, no, never, have I seen a girl so abominably brought up.”
”Not much notion of the convenances, has she?” observed Miss Hope-Drummond, who had descended from her morning task of writing many letters in a tall, square hand, just in time to enjoy the sight of Francie's departure, without having the trouble of saying good-bye to her.
”Convenances!” echoed Lady Dysart, lifting her dark eyes till nothing but the whites were visible; ”I don't suppose she could tell you the meaning of the word. 'One master pa.s.sion in the breast, like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,' and of all the man-eaters I have ever seen, she is the most cannibalistic!”
Miss Hope-Drummond laughed in polite appreciation, and rustled crisply away towards the drawing-room. Lady Dysart looked approvingly after the tall, admirably neat figure, and thought, with inevitable comparison, of Francie's untidy hair, and uncertainly draped skirts. She turned to Christopher and Pamela, and continued, with a lowered voice: ”Do you know, even the servants are all talking about her. Of course, they can't help noticing what goes on.”
Christopher looked at his mother with a singularly expressionless face.
”Gorman hasn't mentioned it to me yet, or William either.”
”If you had not interrupted me, Christopher,” said poor Lady Dysart, resentful of this irreproachably filial rebuke, ”I would have told you that none of the servants breathed a word on the subject to me. Evelyn was told it by her maid.”
”How Evelyn can discuss such things with her maid, I cannot imagine,” said Pamela, with unwonted heat; ”and Davis is such a particularly detestable woman.”
”I do not care in the least what sort of woman she is, she does hair beautifully, which is more than I can say for you,” replied Lady Dysart, with an Uhlanlike dash into the enemy's country.
”I suppose it was by Davis' advice that Evelyn made a point of ignoring Miss Fitzpatrick this whole morning,” continued Pamela, with the righteous wrath of a just person.