A sound came from Lady Montague that might have been a dying moan of agony or a cry for vengeance. The poet put his hand to his throat as though he found his collar too tight. And still no one moved. And still Felicity smiled demurely at the floor. And the voice went on: “To Sir Digby Harborough.”
“Like a volcano is Sir Digby—
An ugly volcano belching forth words of anger and fury.
Unlovely to behold, like an apoplectic ape.”
Providence at this moment restored to Sir Digby the power of speech. The volcano proceeded to belch forth words of such anger and fury that the poet, his face white as paper and his perfect teeth chattering with terror, rose and fled from the room.
But that wasn’t all. Oh, no, that wasn’t nearly all. For Ronald was waiting for the poet in the garden. And Ronald set to work with a will upon the beautiful, beautiful nose . . . And when Ronald had finished with him the Greek god wouldn’t have envied his face any more.
When Felicity joined them in the garden Marmaduke Percival was lying on the ground propped up against a tree, and Ronald stood over him.
“He’s shamming a faint,” said Ronald, “he’s only had a quarter of what he deserves.”
“I don’t like fighting,” moaned the poet. “It’s low and brutal and ugly and violent. I like everything that is beautiful. I don’t like fighting.”
“Felicity,” said Ronald, “did the swine ever try to kiss you?”
“Yes, he tried,” said Felicity.
“I kept falling over things,” murmured the poet.
“That settles it,” said Ronald. “Felicity, go and fetch my shaving things.”
“If you cut my throat,” said the poet, “you’ll get hung.”
But Ronald didn’t cut his throat. Ronald shaved his head. Ronald shaved off all his hyacinthine locks till his head looked like a billiard-ball. He cut off the hyacinthine locks with a pair of scissors, then moistened his shaving-brush in the ornamental fountain just near, got a lovely lather, and shaved him clean. Ronald surveyed his handiwork critically.
“Now let him look at himself, Felicity,” he said.
Felicity held out a hand-glass. Marmaduke gave one look at himself and then, with the cry of a stricken deer, fled into the night.
“That’s that!” said Ronald with a deep, deep sigh of satisfaction.” And I got the letters out of him, too. He’d got them in his pocket. Here they are. Go and burn them, there’s a good girl.”
They returned to the drawing-room. Sir Digby had retired to his own room. Lady Montague, still purple in the face, had taken the chair.
“I propose,” she said, with majestic displeasure, “that Mr. Eltham shall not be the hero of this play.”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Ronald,” said Lady Montague, looking up at him as he entered, “will you be the hero?”
“Who’s the heroine?” said Ronald cautiously.
“Felicity.”
“No,” said Felicity, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to be. I propose Sheila.”
“But does Sheila want to be?” said Lady Montague.
“I’ll go and ask her,” said Ronald. “I’ll go and ask her now.”
The Elthams left The Grange early the next morning.
The committee didn’t manage to decide on a play after all.
But Ronald and Sheila met regularly just to practise the art of being hero and heroine, and got on very nicely with it . . .
Chapter Nine
Felicity Makes Amends
It was, of course, Felicity’s familiar demon of mischief that inspired her to impersonate a Russian refugee, when Mr. Mellor called to see her grandfather. Mr. Mellor was one of her grandfather’s friends, and a frequent visitor at the Hall. He was a little precise man—shortsighted and very absent-minded. Like Sir Digby, he was a collector, and they enjoyed comparing notes. They had a tacit arrangement by which Sir Digby listened to Mr. Mellor talking about his finds, and then Mr. Mellor listened to Sir Digby talking about his finds. And as soon as Sir Digby had finished with his finds Mr. Mellor got in again with his old finds. And so on. They spent some very happy hours together. But to-day Sir Digby was in bed with an especially bad attack of gout and was seeing only Wakeman, who had filled an entire note-book with new names and was feeling cheered and invigorated. For almost a month Sir Digby hadn’t had a single bad day. For almost a month he had been uniformly polite and considerate to Wakeman. And Wakeman had been growing more and more taciturn and dejected. To-day, however, had made a new man of him. The zest of life had returned to him. His eyes shone. He moved about briskly and alertly. He had need, of course, to move about briskly and alertly, because already Sir Digby had thrown a footstool at him . . .
Lady Montague did not visit the Hall while Sir Digby was having a bad day. She stayed in the safe retreat of the Dower House until she heard that the worst was over.
Franklin was busy as usual. Sir Digby’s morning post contained letters from fellow collectors all over the world, and all these had to be answered in detail, Franklin’s knowledge of old manuscripts was by now almost as great as his employer’s.
And Felicity was bored.
She saw the visitor coming up the drive from her bedroom window and her boredom increased. She’d have to give him tea. She’d have to listen to him for hours and hours and hours about his collection. Sir Digby’s not being there -never made any difference. He didn’t mind whom he talked to. He’d been to the Hall several times before this and found Sir Digby ill or out, and Felicity knew what it was like. He’d just talk and talk and talk and talk about his collection till she was so bored that she wanted to scream.
And suddenly she thought of the Russian refugee. She’d been to Sheila’s for the week-end and they’d had charades and she’d dressed up as an old woman with a terrible wig and bonnet and a long black cloak—as much like Miss Smythe-Bruce as she could—and pretended to talk Russian.
That was how Mr. Mellor found her when he was announced a few minutes later. Fortunately for Felicity, he’d been round the garden to consult Drewe about a blight that was appearing on some of his chrysanthemums, and so had given her time to change. She was quite ready for him—fusty cloak, fusty bonnet, fusty veil, grey wig and everything. She explained, in very broken English, that she was an old friend of Lady Montague’s who had been driven out of Russia by the Bolshevists. Then she began to talk Russian. First she talked plaintively, almost tearfully, then she talked earnestly, then she talked fiercely. He didn’t, of course, understand what she said. Felicity was rather good at talking imitation foreign languages. She could put very deep feeling into her voice and the words she said, though they belonged to no language at all, always sounded convincing. An expression of horror descended upon Mr. Mellor’s small precise face. He looked as if in the throes of a nightmare. When she grew tearful he looked desperately about him and mopped his brow. When she grew fierce he trembled. When she paused, as if for reply, he murmured “Quite,” or “Exactly,” or “Of course,” in a voice that quivered with apprehension. He was clearly terrified. He didn’t once mention his collection. He didn’t, it was obvious, once think of his china. The trick came off perfectly. Felicity’s familiar spirit of mischief danced an exultant dance in her heart. Franklin limped in to tea. He recognised her, but he played up to her. And after tea Wakeman brought a message that Sir Digby was better and would like to see Mr. Mellor. Gloom was evidently descending over Wakeman again. The worst was over. Sir Digby was no longer growling and throwing things. He was becoming apologetic and polite. All the zest was gone from life for Wakeman till the next bad attack.
Mr. Mellor crept thankfully from the room, keeping an apprehensive eye upon Felicity.
When he had gone Felicity whipped off the hat and veil and wig.
“Frankie, wasn’t it fun?” she said.
“It was,” he said, laughing, “but—–”
“But what?” she said.
“I can’t help laughing, Pi
ns, but, honestly, you know, it wasn’t cricket.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you were in the position of hostess and he was your guest. Playing tricks on people in those circumstances isn’t done. It puts them at a disadvantage.” Felicity was silent for a minute, then she said slowly: “I see what you mean. I’ll tell him, and apologise. I’d have done that anyway.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” said Franklin cheerfully. “It doesn’t really make any odds. I expect the poor chap needed a bit of excitement. It’s probably done him good . . . I’d better go and see if Sir Digby wants me for anything now. So long, Pins.”
Felicity went upstairs very thoughtfully. Frankie was right, of course. It hadn’t been cricket. Felicity never rested satisfied under a sense of penitence and self reproach. Amends had to be made before Felicity’s self-respect was restored to her.
Mr. Mellor was in the library talking to Franklin when she came downstairs again.
“It was me all the time,” she said to him. “I was just playing a trick on you. I’m awfully sorry.”
He laughed, and seemed rather relieved.
“You did it very well,” he said, “I’m very glad it was you because, to tell the truth, I was feeling rather nervous. Where did you learn Russian?”
“It wasn’t Russian,” said Felicity simply. “It was just nothing.”
“It was most convincing,” he said. “Most convincing . . . Now what do you think of that?”
He pointed to a vase that stood on the desk where Franklin sat.
“I don’t think much of it,” said Felicity frankly, “do you?”
He looked rather shocked.
“My dear child, it’s a very old and very rare piece of Sevres. I brought it to show Sir Digby. There should be a pair of them. It’s got a fellow. If I could get the other fellow they’d be the gem of my collection.”
“I suppose, now, you’ll set off and hunt the whole wide world till you find its fellow,” said Felicity.
Mr. Mellow sighed.
“It’s much more complicated than that, my child,” he said, “I’ve found the fellow. It belongs to a Mr. Percival Hunter, who’s just come to live at Fairdene—not four miles away from here.”
“And won’t he let you have it if he knows you want it to make the pair?” said Felicity.
He smiled rather sadly.
“I’m afraid not. You see he’s in the same boat. He wants mine to make a pair just as badly as I want his to make a pair.”
“I see,” said Felicity, “it is rather awkward, isn’t it . . . Do you want it frightfully?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I do.”
“More than anything else in the world?” said Felicity.
“It sounds childish,” said Mr. Mellor deprecatingly, “but—but I do.”
Then he packed up his vase, complimented Felicity once more on her Russian, and went home.
“Now, Pins,” said Franklin, as soon as he had gone, “don’t, for Heaven’s sake, go and pinch Hunter’s vase for Mellor just to make up for having pulled his leg. You’ll land us all into trouble if you do.”
“You have an almost uncanny power of reading one’s more secret thoughts, Frankie,” said Felicity, “but I’m not going to pinch anything of anyone’s. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
Felicity had arranged to spend the next day with Sheila. She set off soon after breakfast. But before she set off she rang up Sheila.
“Sheila, darling, I’m afraid I can’t come to-day, after all. May I come to-morrow instead?”
“Oh!” said Sheila, disappointed, “I’m so sorry, Pins. I did want you to-day—but I’ll have to make the best of it. Why can’t you come to-day?”
“To-day,” said Felicity, “I’m setting forth on a very private and delicate mission. I may succeed and I may not. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow, anyway. But the point is that officially I’m spending the day with you. Don’t tell anyone here that I’m not . . . Good-bye.”
It was three and a half miles to Fairdene. It seemed shorter than that to Felicity because she’d got such a lot to think about. She’d got all the money she possessed (three pounds) in her pocket, and she was inventing little speeches in which she offered to pay Mr. Hunter three pounds now and five shillings a month out of her allowance for the rest of her life if only he’d let her have the vase. As a matter of fact, she didn’t feel very confident. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him handing over the vase in return for her three pounds now and a promise of five shillings a month for life. Probably Mr. Mellor had already offered him far more than that. Still—Fate might just possibly be on her side. Felicity always believed in giving Fate a sporting chance . . .
She’d reached Fairdene now and was walking slowly up the drive. A little of her courage had deserted her, but she whipped up the remnant and knocked loudly at the front door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still there was no answer . . . They must be all out, thought Felicity. And yet somehow it didn’t look like a house that was shut up and vacant of inhabitants. She knocked again and waited for several minutes. Still no answer. Reluctantly she prepared to depart. She walked away from the door and past the French window of a room that was evidently a library. She glanced in and there a curious spectacle met her eyes. A man was crouching under a sofa by the wall. She could see his boots sticking out quite plainly. In an instant she made up her mind. The family was away, the house locked up, and this was a burglar who had been disturbed at his nefarious work by her knocking at the front door and was trying to hide under the sofa until the coast was clear again. Felicity’s spirits rose. Though she couldn’t get back the vase, at least she could capture a burglar single-handed. She’d always wanted to capture a burglar single-handed. She opened the French window and entered the room.
“Who are you?” she said sternly, “and what are you doing there?”
The man came out from under the sofa. He was a youngish man—tall and pale and frightened-looking.
“I’m—er—Mr. Hunter,” he said, mopping his brow, “I live here. Who are you?”
Felicity was slightly taken aback, but she answered calmly.
“I’m Felicity Harborough. I’ve just been knocking at your front door and couldn’t make anyone hear.”
“No,” he panted, still mopping his brow, “I’m awfully sorry. I thought you were my aunt. I’m expecting my aunt. I—I told them not to answer the door.”
“Why?” said Felicity with interest. “Don’t you like your aunt?”
He shuddered.
“No, I don’t. I hoped that if I hid and no one went to the door, and she didn’t see anyone about—–”
“She’d have seen your boots,” said Felicity. “I could see then quite plainly from outside. They were sticking right out. That’s why I came in. I thought you were a burglar.”
“Could you see my boots?” he said with interest. “I thought they were under the sofa.”
“No, they were sticking right out,” said Felicity. “She’d have seen them through the window.”
“Of course it was a silly idea altogether,” said the young man gloomily. “She’d have come in somehow whatever I’d done. As a matter of fact the door wasn’t even locked.”
“Why don’t you like her?” said Felicity.
The young man groaned.
“You don’t know what she’s like,” he said; “she’s a tyrant. She’s Mussolini and Judge Jeffreys and Bluebeard and Lenin and Nero and Lucrezia Borgia all rolled into one. She’s—indescribable. She’s been abroad for four years. They’ve been the happiest years of my life. But I heard from her this morning that she’d got back and was coming to make her home with me for a few months. It was, of course, in the wildness of despair that I pretended that I’d gone away and the house was empty. It wouldn’t have been the slightest good. She’d have got in within five minutes. She’d have—Oh, Lord—–!”
A taxi laden with luggage had drawn up at the door, and from it was descending a tall a
nd excessively sternlooking woman carrying a Pom. The taxi man began to take the luggage down. The woman looked about her, saw the open French window and entered.
“Well, Percy,” she said, “how are you?” She sniffed the air like an old war-horse. ‘You’ve been smoking in this room. Now, please remember, that while I am staying with you there is to be no smoking in the house at all. You may smoke, if you wish to indulge in such a filthy habit, in the garden or in the tool shed. Not in the house. Not in any part of the house. Please remember that.” Her eye bored him like a gimlet. He quailed before it. She turned to Felicity. “This is my secretary, I suppose. How long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes,” said Felicity demurely.
“There must have been a mistake. I told them not to send you till to-morrow morning. But, still, it doesn’t matter much. I shall find plenty for you to do.” She turned back to Percy who was still mopping his brow. “I wrote to the local registry office,” she said, “and asked them to send me a young woman secretary here for the duration of my visit to you. They have sent her a day earlier than I engaged her, but, as I said, no matter. I shall find plenty for her to do.” Her gimlet eyes flashed back to Felicity. “I don’t know what your name is. I can’t be bothered with people’s names. I shall call you ‘Harriet.’ I always call my secretaries ‘Harriet.’ It saves trouble. Your duties will be to attend to my correspondence. I am secretary of a Total Abstinence Society, and an Anti-Swearing Society, and an Anti-Smoking Society, and an Anti-Dancing Society, and there is a good deal of correspondence connected with each. In fact, I’ve brought with me an attache case full of letters which you may start on at once.
“Then you will have to look after my little doggie here, Lulu. She is very sensitive and highly strung.” As if to prove this, Lulu began to whine plaintively. “I shall want you to brush and comb her coat every morning —very gently, of course—and see that her roast chicken is tender at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and carry her about for me. Walking tires her. And you must always be within call to do any other little duties that I may require of you. Now go and take off your hat and coat. You’ll begin your duties directly after lunch. We will lunch at one o’clock prompt, Percy, during my visit, please, and I shall want perfect silence during the afternoons, as I work and rest then. I do not like gramophones or loud-speakers in the house at all, and I must ask you not to entertain any of your friends here during my visit.”
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