The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XVI

  UNDERCURRENTS

  Undoubtedly the Coroner's expedient had prevented a riot in the village.The police deferred execution of the warrant, and Mr. Stockwell,recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, co-operated with them inmaking arrangements which would serve to allay public excitement.

  The dead man was removed unobtrusively to his Nottonby residence onSunday evening. Accompanying the hearse was a closed carriage in whichrode Mrs. Pickering and Kitty. At the door of Wetherby Lodge, Mr.Stockwell met the cortege, and when the coffin was installed in thespacious library the solicitor introduced the weeping servants to theirtemporary mistress, since he and Mr. Herbert had decided that she oughtto reside in the house for a time. Such a fact, when it became known,would help to mold public opinion.

  An elderly housekeeper was minded to greet Betsy with bitter words. Heryoung master had been dear to her, and she had not scrupled earlier todenounce in scathing terms the woman who had encompassed his death.

  But the sight of the wan, white face, the sorrow-laden eyes, thegraceful, shrinking figure of the girl-widow, restrained an imminentoutburst, and the inevitable reaction carried the housekeeper to theother extreme.

  "How d'ye do, ma'am," she said brokenly. "'Tis a weary homecomin' ye'vehad. Mebbe ye'll be likin' a cup o' tea."

  Betsy murmured that she had no wants, but Yorkshire regards food as apanacea for most evils, and the housekeeper bade one of the maids "put akettle on."

  So the ice was broken, and Mr. Stockwell breathed freely again, for hehad feared difficulty in this quarter.

  On Monday Pickering was buried, and the whole countryside attended thefuneral, which was made impressive by the drumming and marching of thedead man's company of Territorials. On Tuesday morning a special sittingof the county magistrates was held in the local police court. Betsyattended with her solicitor, the Coroner's warrant was enforced, she wascharged by the police with the murder of George Pickering, and remandedfor a week in custody.

  The whole affair was carried out so unostentatiously that Betsy was injail before the public knew that she had appeared at the police court.In one short week the unhappy dairymaid had experienced sharptransitions. She had become a wife, a widow. She was raised from thecondition of a wage-earner to the status of an independent lady, andtaken from a mansion to a prison. Bereft of her husband by her own actand separated from friends and relatives by the inexorable decree of thelaw, she was faced by the uncertain issue of a trial by an impartialjudge and a strange jury. Surely, the Furies were exhausting their spiteon one frail creature.

  On Sunday evening Mrs. Saumarez drove in her car through the rain to teaat the White House. She was alone. Her manner was more reserved thanusual, though she shook hands with Mrs. Bolland with a quietfriendliness that more than atoned for the perceptible change in herdemeanor. Her wonted air of affable condescension had gone. Her faceheld a new seriousness which the other woman was quick to perceive.

  "I have come to have a little chat with you," she said. "I am going awaysoon."

  The farmer's wife thought she understood.

  "I'm rale sorry te hear that, yer leddyship."

  "Indeed, I regret the necessity myself. But recent events have opened myeyes to the danger of allowing my child to grow up in the untrammeledfreedom which I have permitted--encouraged, I may say. It breaks myheart to be stern toward her. I must send her to the South, where thereare good schools, where others will fulfil obligations in which I havefailed."

  And, behold! Mrs. Saumarez choked back a sob.

  "Eh, ma'am," cried the perturbed Martha, "there's nowt to greet aboot.T' lass is young eneuf yet, an' she's a bonny bairn, bless her heart. Weall hae te part wi' 'em. It'll trouble me sore when Martin goes away,but 'twill be for t' lad's good."

  "You dear woman, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. I have.Your fine boy would never dream of rending your soul as Angele has rentmine to-day--all because I wished her to read an instructive bookinstead of a French novel."

  "Mebbe you were a bit hard wi' her," said the older woman. "To be sure,ye wouldn't be suited by this nasty inquest; but is it wise to changeall at once? Slow an' sure, ma'am, is better'n fast an' feckless. Whereis t' little 'un now?"

  "At home, crying her eyes out because I insisted that she should remainthere."

  "Ay, I reckon she'd be wantin' te see Martin."

  "Do you think I may have been too severe with her?"

  "It's not for t' likes o' me to advise a leddy like you, but yon bairnneeds to be treated gently, for all t' wulld like a bit o' delicatechiney. Noo, when Martin was younger, I'd gie him a slap ower t' head,an' he'd grin t' minnit me back was turned. Your little gell isdifferent."

  "In my place, would you go back for her now?"

  "No, ma'am, I wouldn't. That'd show weak. But I'd mek up for'tte-morrow. Then she'll think all t' more o' yer kindness."

  So the regeneration of Angele commenced. Was it too late? She was only achild in years. Surely there was yet time to mold her character inbetter shape. Mrs. Saumarez hoped so. She dried her tears, and, withBolland's appearance, the conversation turned on the lamentable weather.She was surprised to hear that August was often an unsettled month,though this storm was not only belated but almost unprecedented in itsseverity.

  Mr. Herbert went to Nottonby early next day. He attended the funeral,heard the will read at Wetherby Grange in the presence of somedisappointed cousins of the dead man, visited Betsy to say a fewconsoling words, and drove back to the vicarage through the unceasingrain.

  Tea awaited him in the drawing-room, but his first glance at Elsiealarmed him. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. She was a mostwoebegone little maid.

  "My dear child," he cried, "what is the matter?"

  "I want you--to forgive me--first," she stammered brokenly.

  "Forgive you, my darling! Forgive you for what?"

  "I've been--reading the paper."

  He drew her to his knee.

  "What crime is there in reading the paper, sweet one?"

  "I mean that horrid inquest, father dear."

  "Oh!"

  The smiling wonder left his face. Elsie looked up timidly.

  "I ought to have asked your permission," she said, "but you were away,and auntie has a headache, and Miss Holland (her governess) has gone onher holidays, and I was so curious to know what all the bother wasabout."

  Yet he did not answer. Hitherto his daughter, his one cherishedpossession, had been kept sedulously from knowledge of the externalworld. But she was shooting up, slender and straight, the image of herdead mother. Soon she would be a woman, and it was no part of his theoryof life that a girl should be plunged into the jungle of adult existencewithout a reasonable consciousness of its snares and pitfalls. So idealwere the relations of father and daughter that the vicar had deferredthe day of enlightenment. It had come sooner than he counted on.

  Elsie was frightened now. Her tears ceased and the flush left hercheeks.

  "Are you very angry?" she whispered. He kissed her.

  "No, darling, not angry, but just a little pained. It was an unpleasingrecord for your eyes. There, now. Give me some tea, and we'll talk aboutit. You may have formed some mistaken notions. Tell me what you thoughtof it all. In any case, Elsie, why were you crying?"

  "I was so sorry for that poor woman. And why did the Coroner believe shekilled her husband, when Mr. Pickering said she had not touched him?"

  The vicar saw instantly that the girl had missed the more unpleasingphases of the tragedy. He smiled again.

  "Bring me the paper," he said. "I was present at the inquest. Perhapsthe story is somewhat garbled."

  She obeyed. He cast a critical glance over the leaded columns, for theweekly newspaper had given practically a verbatim report of theevidence, and there was a vivid description of the scene in theschoolroom, with its dramatic close.

  "It is by no means certain, from the evidence tendered, that the Coroneris right," said Mr. Herbert slowly. "
In these matters, however, thepolice are compelled to sift all statements thoroughly, and the onlylegal way is to frame a charge. Although Mrs. Pickering may be tried formurder, it does not follow that she will be convicted."

  "But," questioned Elsie, "Martin Bolland said he heard her crying outthat she had killed Mr. Pickering?"

  "He may have misunderstood."

  "Just imagine him fighting with Frank, and about Angele Saumarez, too."

  "You may take it from me that Martin behaved very well indeed. Angele isa little vixen, a badly behaved, spoilt child, I fear. YoungBeckett-Smythe is a booby who encouraged her wilfulness. Martin thrashedhim. It would have been far better had Martin not been there at all; butif he were my son I should still be proud of him."

  The girl's face brightened visibly. There was manifest relief in hervoice.

  "I am so glad we've had this talk," she cried. "I--like Martin, and itdid seem so odd that he should have been fighting about Angele."

  "He knew she ought to be at home, and told her so. Frank interfered, andgot punched for his pains. It served him right."

  She helped herself to a large slice of tea-cake.

  "I don't know why I was so silly as to cry--but--I really did think Mrs.Pickering was in awful trouble."

  The vicar laid the paper aside. His innocent-minded daughter had noteven given a thought to the vital issues of the affair. He breathedfreely, and told her of the funeral. Nevertheless, he had failed tofathom the cause of those red eyes.

  A servant clearing the tea-table bethought her of a note which came forMr. Herbert some two hours earlier. She brought it from the study. Itwas from Mrs. Saumarez, inviting him and Elsie to luncheon next day.

  "Angele will be delighted," she wrote, "if Elsie will remain longer thanusual. It is dull for children to be cooped within doors during thismiserable weather. I am asking Martin Bolland to join us for tea."

  Mr. Herbert was a kind-hearted man, yet he wished most emphaticallythat Mrs. Saumarez had not proffered this request. To make an excuse forhis daughter's non-attendance would convey a distinct slight which couldonly be interpreted in one way, after the publicity given to Angele'sappearance at the inquest. He shirked the ordeal. Bother Angele!

  He glanced covertly at Elsie. All unconscious of the letter's contents,the girl was looking out ruefully at the leaden sky. There might be nomore picnics for weeks.

  "Mrs. Saumarez has invited us to luncheon," he said.

  "When?" she asked unconcernedly.

  "To-morrow. She wishes you to spend the afternoon with Angele."

  Elsie turned, with quick animation.

  "I don't care to go," she said.

  "Why not? You know very little about her."

  "She seems to me--curious."

  "Well, I personally don't regard her as a desirable companion for you.But there is no need to give offense, and it will not hurt you to meether for an hour or so. Your friend Martin is coming, too."

  "Oh," she cried, "that makes a great difference."

  Her father laughed.

  "Between you, you will surely manage to keep Angele out of mischief.And, now, my pet, what do you say to an hour with La Fontaine, while Iattend to some correspondence? Where are my pupils?"

  "They went for a long walk. Mr. Gregory said they would not be homeuntil dinner-time."

  Next morning, for a wonder, the clouds broke, and an autumn sun stroveto cheer the scarred and drowned earth. Mrs. Saumarez met her guestswith the unobtrusive charm of a skilled hostess. Angele, demure andshrinking, extended her hand to Elsie with a shy civility that was anexact copy of Elsie's own attitude.

  During luncheon she behaved so charmingly and spoke with such sweetnaturalness when any question was addressed to her that Mr. Herbertfound himself steadily recasting his unfavorable opinion.

  The conversation steered clear of any reference to the inquest. Mrs.Saumarez was a widely read and traveled woman, and versed in the art ofagreeable small talk.

  Once, in referring to Angele, she said smilingly:

  "I have been somewhat selfish in keeping her with me always. But, now, Ihave decided that she must go to school. I'll winter in Brighton, withthat object in view."

  "Will you like that?" said the vicar to the child.

  "I'll not like leaving mamma; but school, yes. I feel I want to learn alot. I suppose Elsie is, oh, so clever?"

  She peeped at the other girl under her long eyelashes, and made pretenseof being awe-stricken by such eminent scholastic attainments in one ofher own age.

  "Elsie has learnt a good deal from books, but you have seen much more ofthe world. If you work hard, you will soon make up the lost ground."

  "I'll try. I have been trying--all day yesterday! Eh, mamma?"

  Mrs. Saumarez sighed.

  "I ought to have engaged a governess," she said. "I cannot teach. I haveno patience."

  Mr. Herbert did not know that Angele's educational efforts of thepreceding day consisted in a smug decorum that irritated her motherexceedingly. This luncheon party had been devised as a relief fromAngele's burlesque. She termed it "jouer le bon enfant."

  After the meal they strolled into the garden. The storm had played havocwith shrubs and flowers, but the graveled paths were dry, and the lawnwas firm, if somewhat damp. Mrs. Saumarez had caused a fine swing to beerected beneath a spreading oak. It held two cushioned seats, and twopropelling ropes were attached to a crossbar. It made swinging a luxury,not an exercise.

  "By the way," cried Mrs. Saumarez to the vicar, "do you smoke?"

  He pleaded guilty to a pipe.

  "Then you can smoke a cigar. Francoise packed a box among mybelongings--the remnants of some forgotten festivity in the Savoy. Dotry one. If you like it, may I send you the others?"

  The vicar discovered that the gift would be costly--nearly forty Villary Villars, of exquisite flavor.

  "Do you know that you are giving me five pounds?" he laughed.

  "I never learn the price of these things. I am so glad they are good.You will enjoy them."

  "It tickles a poor country vicar to hear you talk so easily of Lucullianfeasts, Mrs. Saumarez. What must the banquet have been, when the cigarscost a half-crown each!"

  "Oh, I am not hard up. Colonel Saumarez had only his army pay, but myestates lie near Hamburg, and you know how that port has grown ofrecent years."

  "Do you never reside there?"

  Mrs. Saumarez inclined a pink-lined parasol so that its reflected tintmingled with the rush of color which suffused her face. Had the worthyvicar given a moment's thought to the matter, he would have known thathis companion wished she had bitten her tongue before it wagged sofreely.

  "I prefer English society to German," she answered, after a slightpause.

  Oddly enough, this statement was literally true, but she dared notqualify it by the explanation that an autocratic government exactedheavy terms for permitting her to draw a large revenue from her Hamburgproperty.

  Blissfully unaware of treading on anyone's toes, Mr. Herbert pursued thetheme.

  "In my spare hours I take an interest in law," he said. "Your marriagemade you a British subject. Does German law raise no difficulty as toalien ownership of land and houses?"

  "My family, the von Edelsteins, have great influence."

  This time the vicar awoke to the fact that he might be deemed undulyinquisitive. He knew better than to apologize, or even change thesubject abruptly.

  "Land tenure is a complex business in old-established countries," hewent on. "Take this village, for example. You may have noticed how everygarth runs up the hillside in a long, narrow strip. Ownership of landbordering the moor carries the right of free grazing for a certainnumber of sheep, so every freeholder contrives to touch the heather atsome point."

  "Ah!" said Mrs. Saumarez, promptly interested, "that explains thepeculiar shape of the Bolland land at the back of the White House. Anadmirable couple, are they not? And so medieval in their notions. Iattended what they call a 'love feast' the other eveni
ng. John Bollandintroduced me as 'Sister Saumarez.' When he became wrapped up in theservice he reminded me, or, rather, filled my ideal, of a high priest inIsrael."

  "Was Eli Todd there?"

  "The preacher? Yes."

  "He is a fine fellow. Given to use a spiritual sledge-hammer, perhaps,but the implements of the Lord are many and varied. Far be it from me togainsay the good work done by the dissenting congregations. If therewere more chapels, there would be more churches in the land, Mrs.Saumarez."

  They had strolled away from the girls, and little did the vicar dreamwhat deeps they had skirted in their talk.

  Angele led Elsie to the swing.

  "Try this," she said. "It's just lovely to feel the air sizzing pastyour ears."

  "I have a swing," said Elsie, "but not like this one. It is a singlerope, with a little crossbar, which I hold in my hands and propel withmy feet. It is hard work, I assure you."

  "Grand Dieu! So I should think."

  "Oh!" cried Elsie, "you shouldn't say that."

  "Vous me faites rire! You speak French?"

  "Yes--a little."

  "How stupid of me not to guess. I can say what I like before MartinBolland. He is a nice boy--Martin."

  "Yes," agreed Elsie shortly.

  She blushed. They were in the swing now, and swooping to and fro in longrushes. Angele's black eyes were searching Elsie's blue ones. Shetittered unpleasantly.

  "What makes you so red when I speak of Martin?" she demanded.

  "I am not red--that is, I have no reason to be."

  "You know him well?"

  "Do you mean Martin?"

  "Sapristi!--I beg your pardon--who else?"

  "I--I have only met him twice, to speak to. I have known him by sightfor years."

  "Twice? The first time when he killed that thing--the cat. When was thesecond?"

  Angele was tugging her rope with greater energy than might be creditedto one of her slight frame. The swing was traveling at a great pace. Herfierce gaze disquieted Elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome.

  "Let us stop now," she said.

  "No, no. Tell me when next you saw Martin. I _must_ know."

  "But why?"

  "Because he became different in his manner all at once. One day hekissed me----"

  "Oh, you _are_ horrid."

  "I swear it. He kissed me last Wednesday afternoon. I did not see himagain until Saturday. Then he was cold. He saw you after Wednesday."

  By this time Elsie's blood was boiling.

  "Yes," she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hard glint. "He saw meon Wednesday night. We happened to be standing at our gate. FrankBeckett-Smythe passed on his bicycle. He was chased by a groom--senthome to be horsewhipped--because he was coming to meet you."

  "O la la!" shrilled Angele. "That was nine o'clock. Does papa know?"

  Poor Elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. She wanted to cry--to slapthis tormentor's face. Yet she returned Angele's fiery scrutiny withinterest.

  "Yes," she said with real heat. "I told him Martin came to our house,but I said nothing about Frank--and you. It was too disgraceful."

  She jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the pull given by Angele.The opposing strains snapped the crossbar. Both ropes fell, and withthem the two pieces of wood. One piece tapped Angele somewhat sharply onthe shoulder, and she uttered an involuntary cry.

  The vicar and Mrs. Saumarez hurried up, but the swing stopped gradually.Obviously, neither of the girls was injured.

  "You must have been using great force to break that stout bar," said Mr.Herbert, helping Angele to alight.

  "Yes. Elsie and I were pulling against each other. But we had a lovelytime, didn't we, Elsie?"

  "I think I enjoyed it even more than you," retorted Elsie. The eldersattributed her excited demeanor to the accident.

  "If the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would be safer, andalmost as effective," said the vicar. "Ah! Here comes Martin. Perhapshe can put matters right."

  "I don't want to swing any more," vowed Elsie.

  "But Martin will," laughed Angele. "We can swop partners. That will bejolly, won't it?"

  Blissfully unaware of the thorns awaiting him, the boy advanced. To becandid, he was somewhat awkward in manner. He did not know whether toshake hands all round or simply doff his cap to the entire company.Moreover, he noted Elsie's presence with mixed feelings, for Mrs.Saumarez's note had merely invited him to tea. There was no mention ofother visitors. He was delighted, yet suspicious. Elsie and Angele wereflint and steel. There might be sparks.

  Mrs. Saumarez rescued him from one horn of the dilemma. She extended ahand and asked if Mr. Bolland were not pleased that the rain had ceased.

  "Now, Martin," said the vicar briskly, "shin up the pole and tie theropes to the center-piece. These strong-armed giantesses have smashed achunk of timber as thick as your wrist. Don't allow either of them tohit you. They'll pulverize you at a stroke."

  "I fear it was I who broke it," admitted Elsie.

  "Then it is you he must beware of."

  The vicar, in the midst of this chaff, gave Martin a "leg-up" the pole,and repairs were effected.

  When the swing was in order he slid to the ground. Mr. Herbert resumedthe stroll with Mrs. Saumarez. There was an awkward pause before Martinsaid:

  "You girls get in. I'll start you."

  He spoke collectively, but addressed Elsie. He wondered why her air wasso distant.

  "No, thank you," she said. "I've done damage enough already."

  "Martin," murmured Angele, "she is furious because I said you kissedme."

  This direct attack was a crude blunder. Mischievous and utterlyunscrupulous though the girl was, she could not measure this boy's realstrength of character. The great man is not daunted by greatdifficulties--he grapples with them; and Martin had in him the materialof greatness. He felt at once that he must now choose irrevocablybetween the two girls, with a most unpromising chance of ever againrecovering lost ground with one of them. He did not hesitate an instant.

  "Did you say that?" he demanded sternly.

  "Ma foi! Isn't it true?"

  "The truth may be an insult. You had no right to thrust your schemesinto Elsie's knowledge."

  "My schemes, you--you pig. I spit at you. Isn't it true?"

  "Yes--unfortunately. I shall regret it always."

  Angele nearly flew at him with her nails. But she contrived to laughairily.

  "Eh bien, mon cher Martin! There will come another time. I shallremember."

  "There will come no other time. You dared me to it. I was stupid enoughto forget--for a moment."

  "Forget what?"

  "That there was a girl in Elmsdale worth fifty of you--an English girl,not a mongrel!"

  It was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most cutting thing hecould think of. The words were spoken in heat; he would have recalledthem at once if that were possible, but Angele seized the opening withglee.

  "That's you!" she cried, stabbing her rival with a finger. "Parbleu! I'ma mixture, half English, half German, but really bad French!"

  "Please don't drag me into your interesting conversation," said Elsiewith bitter politeness.

  "I am sorry I said that," put in the boy. "I might have had two friends.Now I have lost both."

  He turned. His intent was to quit the place forthwith. Elsie caught hisarm with an alarmed cry.

  "Martin," she almost screamed, "look at your left hand. It is coveredwith blood!"

  Surprised as she, he raised his hand. Blood was streaming down thefingers.

  "It's nothing," he said coolly. "I must have opened a deep cut byclimbing the swing."

  "Quelle horreur!" exclaimed Angele. "I hate blood!"

  "I'm awfully sorry--" began Martin.

  "Nonsense! Come at once to the kitchen and have it bound up," saidElsie.

  They hurried off together. Angele did not offer to accompany them.Martin glanced at Elsie through the corner of his eye. Her set mouth
hadrelaxed somewhat. Anger was yielding to sympathy.

  "I was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get scratched," hewhispered.

  "You needn't have kissed it, anyhow," she snapped.

  "That, certainly, was a mistake," he admitted.

  She made no reply. Once within the house she removed the stained bandagewithout flinching from the ugly sight of half-healed scars, one of whichwas bleeding profusely. Cold water soon stopped the outflow, and one ofthe maids procured some strips of linen, with which Elsie bound thewound tightly.

  They had a moment to themselves in recrossing the hall. Martin venturedto touch the girl's shoulder.

  "Look here, Elsie," he said boldly, "do you forgive me?"

  Something in his voice told her that mere verbal fencing would beuseless.

  "Yes," she murmured with a wistful smile. "I'll forgive, but I can'tforget--for a long time."

  On the lawn they encountered Mrs. Saumarez. Learning from Angele why thetrio had dispersed so suddenly, she was coming to attend to Martinherself.

  The vicar joined them.

  "Really," he said, "some sort of ill luck is attached to that swingto-day."

  And then Francoise appeared, to tell them that tea was ready.

  "What curious French she talks," commented the smiling Elsie.

  "Yes," cried Angele tartly. "Bad French, eh? And I know heaps and heapsof it."

  She caught Mr. Herbert's eye, and added an excuse:

  "I'm going to change all that. People think I'm naughty when I speaklike a domestic. And I really don't mean anything wrong."

  "We all use too much slang," said the tolerant-minded vicar. "It issheer indolence. We refuse to bother our brains for the right word."