“No, not at all,” said Mr. Abbott. “Why shouldn’t you ask? As a matter of fact we can’t have you at the moment. Barbara’s going to start spring cleaning or something.”
“Oh!” said Sam in dismay.
“Later on,” added Mr. Abbott kindly, “you must come later on.”
“Uncle Arthur,” said Sam desperately, “do you think I’ve offended Barbara or anything? I mean I know I say silly things sometimes. D’you think she’s fed up with me about anything?”
“No, no, my boy,” replied his uncle heartily, “Barbara’s not like that a bit.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Barbara for Worlds,” continued Sam wretchedly, “not for Worlds. She’s been so frightfully decent. Perhaps you’d tell her,” he continued, humbling himself to the ground, “perhaps you’d tell her that if I’ve done anything, or said anything—”
“No, no!” interrupted Arthur Abbott, quite aghast at the spectacle of his young and personable relative in such distress. “No, no! It isn’t that at all. Barbara likes you very much; she said so.”
“Well, what is it, then?” inquired Sam, desperately.
This placed Arthur Abbott in rather a hole. He was not going to disclose the true reason for Sam’s exclusion—it was a little secret between himself and Barbara. (“Just our two selves?” he had said, and Barbara had replied, “Yes.”) It was a little secret, the sort of little secret that husbands and wives share with each other, but nobody else. Other people might think it rather silly—it wasn’t silly, of course, but other people might think it was—so other people must not know about it. The other reason that Barbara had told him to offer, about the spring cleaning, had fallen rather flat. Arthur had thought it was thin, himself, and Sam had, quite obviously, seen through it. Arthur had no third reason to offer the pertinacious Sam. As a matter of fact he was sorry for Sam. He was very fond of the boy—the more so because Sam really appeared to have settled down and got over “all that nonsense.” He was finding Sam very useful now, and it was nice to see his fresh young face in the dusty office and to think, he’s mine, my blood. (Blood is thicker than water, as Barbara would have said.)
“By the way, Sam,” said Arthur Abbott, trying to turn the subject into pleasanter channels, “by the way, I was speaking to Spicer, and we have decided to—er—raise your salary. You’re doing well now, and you’re most useful and—er—reliable.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!”
“Yes, I’m extremely pleased with the—er—way you’re sticking to it—extremely pleased, Sam.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s most awfully good of you.”
“Not at all. That’s all right. You’re worth it, old fellow,” and Arthur Abbott patted his young nephew on the shoulder in an affectionate manner.
“I’m frightfully pleased,” Sam assured him.
“That’s all right. Run along, now. I’ve got to get some work done, you know.”
“And Uncle Arthur, you’ll tell Barbara,” said Sam eagerly. “You’ll speak to her and tell her all I’ve said, and if I’ve done anything—or had I better write?” suggested Sam. “Perhaps I should write—
“Look here, Sam, this is nonsense,” said Mr. Abbott, kindly and reassuringly, “this is absolute rubbish, Sam. I’ve told you that there’s no reason at all—”
“There must be,” said Sam wildly.
“You’re getting all worked up about nothing,” said Mr. Abbott. He was at his wits’ end (ground between the millstones of Barbara and Sam). He felt that he could do no more. He had said what he had been told to say and it was no use—none at all. Sam was determined to come for the weekend, or know the reason why, and, if Barbara didn’t want him for the weekend, she would have to tell him herself. “Look here,” he said, shifting the responsibility to his weaker half, “look here, Sam. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You get your things together, and come down with me for the night. Then you can see Barbara for yourself, and you’ll see that it’s all right. If you won’t take my word for it,” said Mr. Abbott, smiling to show Sam that this was a joke, “if you won’t take my word for it the only thing is to see her for yourself.”
Needless to say Sam was enchanted with the plan. He had intended to go to a fancy dress ball with the Frenshams, and to spend the night—or what remained of it—at their flat; but what was a fancy dress ball in comparison with the chance of seeing Jerry? It was less than nothing. Sam threw the Frenshams overboard without a qualm. If he could not see Jerry in the evening, he could be certain of seeing her in the morning.
I can sprint over to Ganthorne before breakfast, he thought, darling, darling Jerry!
“I’ve got my suitcase here, sir,” he said eagerly. “No evening things, of course—”
“Good Lord, that doesn’t matter!” Arthur said, laughing, “as long as you’ve got a toothbrush—I can lend you anything else you need. Now, off you go—here, Sam,” he added, handing over a bulky-looking manuscript, “have a look through this, will you? Tell me what you think of it. I shall be ready to go about five.”
Sam gathered up the manuscript and fled to telephone Toby Frensham. His heart was singing like a bird.
Barbara was unfeignedly pleased to see Sam. She liked him immensely and it had been a great deprivation to her to exclude him from The Archway House. She laughed at his idea that he might have offended her in some way, and assured him that he was mistaken. But, to Sam’s consternation, she also made it abundantly clear that the invitation to spend a long weekend at Wandlebury was not to be forthcoming.
“How could you be so silly!” she exclaimed. “Of course I’m not offended with you, Sam, and we love having you—you know that. I’ve been busy, that’s all—and, of course, we’re going to start spring cleaning. I told Arthur to explain—”
“I did explain, but he wouldn’t believe me,” Arthur told her laughing.
“Couldn’t I help in the spring cleaning?” Sam inquired anxiously. “I’m awfully good at hanging pictures and all that, you know.”
Barbara was rather touched at this evidence of affection on the part of her nephew-by-marriage, but she steeled her heart. It would be impossible to keep an eye on Sam and prevent him from meeting Jerry—more especially if she, herself, were busy with domestic tasks. Mrs. Nun had been able to manage it all beautifully, of course, but, although Barbara Abbott was much more adequate and adroit than Barbara Buncle had ever been, she had not yet reached the pitch of adequacy and adroitness enjoyed by Elizabeth Nun. I can’t risk it, Barbara thought, and she regretfully—and very kindly—refused the noble offer.
“Later on,” she said, just as Arthur had said, “you must come for a long visit later on, when the spring cleaning is over,” and she thought to herself (somewhat callously, it must be owned), that woman can’t possibly last much longer. What a nuisance she is!
“That’s right,” agreed Arthur. “That’s right—a long visit later on. Meanwhile we must make the most of tonight.”
“Oh, tonight!” exclaimed Barbara frowning, “I’d quite forgotten. We’re going out to dinner with the Thanes. Oh dear, what a pity, isn’t it? Had you forgotten, too, Arthur?”
Arthur had forgotten, too. He looked anything but pleased at being reminded of it.
“Couldn’t we put it off?” he inquired, not very hopefully.
“Oh, don’t bother about me!” cried Sam—too eagerly.
“I don’t see how we could,” said Barbara slowly. “If it was anybody else it wouldn’t matter so much. But it’s such a small house—Mrs. Thane’s, I mean—and they will have taken such a lot of trouble to have everything nice. I really don’t see how we could put it off now.”
“Of course you must go,” cried Sam. “Of course you must. I only came down to see you, Barbara. I shall be quite happy here till you come back. It would be dreadful to disappoint Mrs. Thane at the last minute, like
this. She will have got everything ready. I shouldn’t wonder if it would make her quite ill—she’s not strong, is she? Of course you must go. I shall be all right—really.”
Yes, thought Barbara, as she went upstairs and began to dress for the dinner party (with the aid of the faithful Dorcas). Yes, he’ll be quite happy. He’ll go over and see Jerry, that’s what he’ll do. I can see it in his face. The moment our backs are turned he’ll be off to Ganthorne like a flash of lightning. Now, how on earth am I going to prevent him—because, of course, I must prevent him. I must keep them apart until Lady Chevis Cobbe dies. Dear me, she thought, how unfortunate it is that we’ve got to go out tonight! It would happen like that. How I wish I was clever like Elizabeth Nun! thought Barbara, she would have known exactly what to do. What a nuisance it is! What a frightful nuisance! But she can’t go on living forever, and once she’s dead (thought Barbara), once she’s safely dead, I can have Sam here as much as I like and throw them together, because really and truly they’re just made for each other. What a pity it is, thought Barbara, as she rummaged in her jewel case for her diamond star—what a frightful pity it is that Lady Chevis Cobbe is so queer! It must be so unhappy to be queer like that and not like to see people happily married. I suppose it’s rather wicked of me to wish she was dead, but what good is she—poor creature—to herself or anybody else? I’m sure I would rather be killed quite suddenly in a motor accident or something than linger on like that.
“Dorcas!” she said, as she sat down, and allowed her faithful slave to button her shoes. “Dorcas, don’t you think it’s a queer thing to pray to be delivered from sudden death?”
“How you do startle me, Miss Barbara—Mrs. Abbott, I mean!” Dorcas exclaimed. “Sudden death, indeed! What’s set you thinking about sudden death—and you all dressed ready to go out to a party.”
“I’d rather die suddenly than lingeringly,” Barbara told her, “wouldn’t you, Dorcas?”
“I’m sure I never thought of it,” replied Dorcas. “There’s no sense in thinking such morbid things that I can see. I’ll die when my time comes, I suppose. There,” she added practically, “there’s your shoes buttoned. I’ll just run down and give your evening boots a wipe over. Don’t you be long now, for I heard Mr. Abbott go down a minute or two ago, and he hates being kept waiting.”
Dorcas bustled off, full of importance, and Barbara caught up her evening cloak and prepared to follow. She peeped into Sam’s room on the way down—to say good-bye and to tell him not to wait up for them if they were late—but Sam was not there. She listened, and heard him splashing in the bathroom. Sam’s clothes were hung over a chair in his room: his gray trousers, with the dangling braces attached to them, his jacket and waistcoat, his neat blue shirt, and other more intimate garments. For a moment or two Barbara stood there and looked at them—an idea was coming to her, a tremendous inspiration; she waited for it breathlessly. It came.
Barbara seized the trousers and ran back to her room; she turned back the mattress of her bed; she spread the trousers tenderly upon the frame—taking care that the creases were exactly right, for Sam’s trousers were sacred garments and worthy of the greatest consideration—she turned down the mattress again and smoothed the counterpane. Did it look exactly as it had looked before? It did. Nobody would know that Sam’s trousers were now reposing peacefully beneath her mattress, nobody could possibly guess. Barbara caught up her bag and tripped gaily down the stairs; she donned her evening boots and preceded her somewhat impatient husband into the waiting car.
Sam, still luxuriating in his bath, heard them drive off. He lifted his voice in song. It was all too right, too utterly marvelous. He would bolt the “little dinner,” arranged for him by his kind hostess, and sprint over to Ganthorne Lodge. How pleased, how surprised darling Jerry would be! He dried himself with energy and returned to his bedroom. How lucky that he had crammed a clean white collar into his bag at the last moment! Here it was! Arrayed in undershirt and underwear, Sam did one or two simple exercises—stretching and bending—just for the sheer joy of it, to feel his fit young body moving in harmony with his will.
Better hurry, he thought—as he drew on his shirt and fixed his collar and tie with deft fingers—better hurry, all the more time with Jerry if I’m quick. Gadzooks, where are my trousers?
Where were they, indeed? Sam hunted high and low; he rushed into the bathroom to see if by any chance he had taken them in there with him when he went to his bath; he looked in the cupboard to see whether some fool of a housemaid had hung them up; he looked in every drawer, behind the dressing-chest, under the bed. When he had done this his hair was standing on end, and the clean collar was slightly wilted, but he had not found the trousers.
Some fool’s taken them to brush, he thought and he rang the bell.
The bell was answered by Dorcas, because everybody else had gone out except the cook—and she couldn’t be expected to answer bells.
“Did you ring, sir?” inquired Dorcas, peeping in at the door. She was somewhat taken aback at the sight of young Mr. Abbott in his shirt, with no trousers on.
“I rang,” agreed Sam. “What I want to know is—where are my trousers?”
“Your trousers, sir?”
“Yes, my trousers—where are they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, find out, then,” said Sam irritably. “Some fool has taken away my trousers—to brush or something, I suppose—and I haven’t got any others.”
“I’ll find out, sir,” Dorcas said.
She was away a long time—or so it seemed—and Sam, having nothing else to do, hunted furiously in all the places he had hunted in before: under the bed, behind the dressing-chest, in all the drawers.
Dorcas came back empty-handed. “Nobody’s taken them,” she said. “They aren’t anywhere downstairs. They aren’t in Mr. Abbott’s room neither—I looked there. They must be here. Have you looked, sir?”
“Looked!” cried Sam in exasperation. “Looked! Of course, I’ve looked. I’ve looked everywhere. You look, yourself.”
Dorcas came in, and looked carefully in all the places that Sam had already looked in twice.
“They don’t seem to be here, sir,” she said at last.
“You’re quite sure of that, I suppose,” said Sam sarcastically.
“Well, they don’t seem to be,” she repeated, “are you sure you brought them with you, sir?”
“My God!” exclaimed Sam. “Am I sure? Do you think I came down from London without any trousers on?”
“You were wearing them, you mean?” inquired Dorcas.
“I was wearing them,” agreed Sam, “at least I imagined I was, and I really think I must have been. Somebody might have noticed if I hadn’t been wearing them—”
“Well, they must be here, then,” said Dorcas.
“You have said it,” Sam told her.
“Well, where are they?”
“God knows,” said Sam wearily. “At least I suppose He does.”
Dorcas was somewhat shocked at the irreverence, but she passed it over. After all, the young gentleman had a right to be annoyed—the thing was most extraordinary, most mysterious.
“Perhaps it’s the ghost,” said Dorcas suddenly.
“The ghost?”
“Yes, there’s a ghost in The Archway House, you know. We haven’t been seeing it lately, of course, but it may have come back.”
“Queer kind of ghost to go off with a pair of trousers!”
“No,” said Dorcas earnestly. “It’s just the sort of thing it might do. It used to hide the workmen’s tools, and the charwoman’s pails. I’m sure it must be the ghost—what else could it be?”
Sam wasn’t listening. Up to now he had been annoyed and irritated by the loss of his trousers, but now, quite suddenly, he became desperate. How was he going to see Jerry? T
hey were the only pair of trousers he had with him, and he couldn’t possibly go over to Ganthorne and see Jerry without any trousers—the thing was unthinkable.
“Look here, Dorcas,” he said. “It’s serious. It really is. I’ve got to go out. I’ve got a most frightfully important appointment. How am I going without my trousers?”
“Lor!” exclaimed Dorcas. “You can’t, sir.”
“But I must,” Sam told her. “I simply must.”
Dorcas began to search feverishly again. She got down on her hands and knees and peered under the bed; she began pulling out the drawers in the dressing-chest.
Sam nearly screamed. The thing was getting on his nerves. “For heaven’s sake, stop it!” he said, trying to speak quietly. “For heaven’s sake, stop it, Dorcas! I’ve looked there twice, and you’ve looked there twice—d’you think the third time’s lucky, or what? You’ve got to help me, Dorcas. Try and think of something, can’t you?”
Dorcas tried to think of something. She was very sorry indeed for the young gentleman. She stood quite still, and frowned desperately with the effort of concentration.
“I know, sir!” she exclaimed, delighted with the sudden inspiration, “I know the very thing. I’ll get you a pair of Mr. Abbott’s trousers.”
“Good Lord!” said Sam, “Uncle Arthur’s trousers on me—I ask you! He’s about four inches taller and four inches broader than me. I should look an absolute freak. I should look like something out of Bertram Bostock’s Circus—”
“We could take them in round the waist,” Dorcas pointed out, “and turn them up round the ankles.”
Sam shuddered.
“With safety-pins,” added Dorcas, anxious that her heaven-gifted inspiration should not be wasted.
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