“A great friend of mine,” explained Mr. Knight. “I’ve been looking after him for years. I don’t know where he would have been without me.”
“I should have been all right,” declared Mr. Peplow indignantly.
“Gratitude was never his strong point,” sighed Knight, turning to Mrs. Ginnell. “Didn’t I get my adopted aunt to give you an invitation down here, so that you could hang around Miss Blake?” he demanded. “Isn’t that looking after you?”
“Come in to lunch,” interrupted Mrs. Ginnell, with a laugh. “The others are out on the car; Mr. Pope is learning to drive.”
“I should like to see the performance,” said Knight, seating himself. “Is it his first lesson?”
“Third,” said Mrs. Ginnell. “He’s got the new car to-day; something went wrong with the other. He said that the steering-gear failed suddenly.”
“What did Biggs say?” inquired Knight, with a huge grin.
“Said that Mr. Pope kept his head wonderfully — and got a half-sovereign,” said Mrs. Ginnell, with a twinkle.
“Biggs’s own steering-gear is all right, there’s no doubt about that,” said Knight. “Pity I wasn’t on the car; it would have taken a tenner to keep my mouth shut. Anybody hurt?”
Mrs. Ginnell shook her head.
“Sir Edward Talwyn was a little bit shaken,” she replied, “but there was no harm done.”
“Pity,” remarked Knight. “If there had been Biggs would have got more than a half sovereign from Freddie. Do you see much of him?”
“He comes over sometimes,” said Mrs. Ginnell. “His friend, Captain Tollhurst, is staying with him, and they generally come together.”
“What sort of man is Tollhurst?” inquired Knight sharply.
“He has travelled a great deal, and had adventures all over the world,” said Mrs. Ginnell. “Mr. Pope generally sits listening to him with his mouth open. You’ll see him on Friday.”
Mr. Knight pondered.
“Young?” he inquired. “Good-looking?”
“Thirty-five to forty, I should think. I shouldn’t call him good-looking.”
“Good-looking as I am?”
“Better,” replied Mrs. Ginnell, without hesitation.
“If you want to laugh, Freddie, laugh,” said Mr. Knight severely. “Don’t make that silly noise in your plate. When you know Mrs. Ginnell better you’ll know that she often says the opposite to what she means. It’s her idea of a joke.”
“Quite true,” murmured the repentant Mrs. Ginnell, beaming at him.
“Your apology is accepted,” said Knight. “Freddie, I am waiting for yours.”
“Anything you like,” said Mr. Peplow, who was attacking his food with great satisfaction. “Make it up yourself, and I’ll sign it.” —
He finished an excellent meal with a gentle sigh of satisfaction, and at Mrs. Ginnell’s suggestion adjourned to the terrace for coffee and cigarettes.
“I trust you are being very nice to Lady Penrose,” said Knight to his hostess.
“It is a very easy thing to do,” she replied.
‘ I like her very much.”
“And Mrs. Jardine?” said Mr. Peplow.
“And Mrs. Jardine,” assented Mrs. Ginnell. “I have to like her because I like her niece, Effie Blake, so much.”
“Everybody does,” said Mr. Peplow, with a gratified flush.
“What they will both say when they discover that I know you I can’t imagine,” continued Mrs. Ginnell.
“They will be surprised,” said Knight, “not to say suspicious. Let me see, where did we meet? Mentone, wasn’t it?”
“Let’s leave it,” said Mrs. Ginnell. “Don’t let’s take up troubles before they come. Very often they don’t come at all.”
“I ought to have left Freddie behind,” said Knight thoughtfully. “Two is rather overdoing it. But if you had seen the tears well up in his beautiful eyes when I suggested it —— — —”
“Anybody would think this was your place,” said the irritated Mr. Peplow.
“It’s my aunt,” said Knight. “I adopted her in the first instance to serve my own ends. After that I adopted her for herself.”
“It’s what I should have done in the first place,” said Mr. Peplow unexpectedly.
Mrs. Ginnell rose.
“I don’t want to be seen blushing at my time of life,” she remarked. “Come round to the stables and see my new pony and cart. James gave it to me last week.”
“And now,” said Knight, taking her arm after the pony had been duly admired, “come for a stroll with me ‘neath you lofty elms and talk business. What do you think Peplow ought to wear on Friday? And shall we discover ourselves at once, or mix with the crowd and be picked up later, like a couple of lovely shells on a beach?”
“Later, I think,” said Mrs. Ginnell. “There will be a lot of people here, and you can emerge from them after a time and renew your acquaintance with Lady Penrose.”
Mr. Knight nodded, and carried out his instructions so thoroughly that he was quite disconcerted at the measure of his success. With Mr. Peplow by his side on Friday afternoon he appeared from the direction of the lake, and, observing the figure of Carstairs on the terrace, bore swiftly down upon it.
“Having a good time?” inquired Carstairs.
Mr. Knight looked at Mr. Peplow. Mr. Peplow sighed.
“Excellent,” said Knight bitterly. “This is too bad of you, Carstairs. It really is,”
Carstairs raised his eyebrows.
“Of course, it’s not exactly your fault,” continued Knight. “We don’t say that, do we, Freddie?”
Mr. Peplow, who was looking somewhat disagreeable, hesitated. “It’s his lake, or pond, or whatever you call it,” he said, at length.
“So it is,” said Knight, nodding, “so it is. It ought to be filled up. It’s a mantrap, a positive man-trap.”
“You used to admire it,” said Carstairs.
“We all have our weak moments,” said Knight. “My settled opinion now is that it spoils the place. If it belonged to me I should either have it filled up or keep women-eating crocodiles in it.”
“It might spoil the bathing,” said Carstairs. “But what is the matter?”
“Matter is we’ve been hurt in our finest feelings,” said Knight. “We’ve been laughed at. We’ve been held up to the derision of Tollhursts and Talwyns. Not to mention others. I thought this garden-party was got up for us.”
“It was partly,” said Carstairs, with a smile.
“Listen to him, Freddie,” said Knight.
“I am,” responded his friend.
“I’ve never been made such a fool of in my life,” continued Knight. “I came down here to see Miss Seacombe, and Freddie came to see Miss Blake, and when they are not gummed to the dragons we are.”
“Gummed?” repeated the amazed Carstairs. “Dragons?”
“Lady Penrose and Mrs. Jardine,” explained Mr. Peplow while his friend was taking breath. “Mrs. Jardine is the worst — she is an old fortune-hunter. When she is not with Miss Blake the poor girl has always got Talwyn at her elbow.”
Carstairs surveyed him mildly. “But what has all this got to do with my lake?” he inquired.
“We’ve been on it,” said Knight savagely. “I might have guessed Lady Penrose was up to something or other; she was so agreeable. Seemed quite pleased to see me. She asked us to take her and Mrs. Jardine on the lake for five minutes, and we’ve been sculling round and round that idiotic little duck-pond for hours.”
“Seemed like a lifetime,” said Peplow dismally. “Jack had to read poetry to Lady Penrose while I rowed.”
“She brought the book with her,” said Knight, reddening. “She did it on purpose; she must have known I was coming. She’s been laughing at me all the time. I could see it in her eye.”
“They’ve all been laughing at us, I believe,” said Peplow. “Talwyn was looking quite intelligent. I must say I never heard the ‘Lady of Shalott’ read as Jack r
ead it. Never! Sounded more like the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade.’”
“Never felt such a fool in my life,” affirmed Knight. “And that fellow Tollhurst had the impudence to walk along following the boat, with Miss Seacombe.”
“Both smiling, and pretending not to,” added Mr. Peplow solemnly. “I never felt so sorry for Jack in all my life. He looked a perfect fool.”
“You mind your own business,” said his friend sharply.
“You can’t expect to have it all your own way,” said Carstairs. “Lady Penrose was too smart for you that time. You should have entered into the joke and read the poem soulfully. I am disappointed in you, Knight.”
“I thought he was on the wrong tack, too,” said Mr. Peplow. “I did try to wink once, but Mrs. Jardine got it, and I had to pretend I’d got a fly in my eye.”
“Well, run away and play,” said Carstairs, interrupting a choice remark of Knight’s. “You mustn’t be seen weeping on my shoulder. Don’t bother the girls with your attentions; make yourselves agreeable to other people.”
He turned away, and Knight and Peplow after a moment’s hesitation set off to make themselves agreeable to such unfortunates as might have the ill-luck to encounter them. Carstairs stood smiling, and then, seeing Lady Penrose and Mrs. Jardine approaching from the opposite direction, went to meet them.
“I want some tea,” said Lady Penrose, as he turned and walked with them. “We have been on the water, and come off hungry.”
“Rowing?” asked Carstairs.
Lady Penrose shook her head. “No, I have been sitting in the lap of luxury listening to poetry,” she said, with a faint smile. “Mr. Knight read the ‘Lady of Shalott’ to us. It seemed so appropriate to float on the placid waters of the lake and have that read to one. Wasn’t it sweet?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Jardine dubiously, “but I thought that Mr. Knight hadn’t quite caught the spirit of it.”
“M-m,” said Lady Penrose, as Carstairs led them to chairs. “I enjoyed it tremendously; surroundings, perhaps.”
“I never suspected Knight of a feeling for poetry,” said Carstairs innocently. “I thought he was quite an out-of-door man. But it is never safe to judge by appearances. Did he volunteer?”
“Not exactly,” said Lady Penrose. “Yes, two lumps, please. Oh, here comes the Baron!”
“Baron!” repeated Carstairs.
“Mrs. Jardine always refers to Captain Tollhurst as Baron Munchausen, for some reason,” explained Lady Penrose.
“Isabel! I never do,” said the justly shocked Mrs. Jardine.
“Well, you always know whom I mean when I do,” replied her friend.
“Quite a different thing,” said Mrs. Jardine primly as the unsuspecting captain came towards them, followed by Pope, and sat down at the next table.
“I saw you on the water, Lady Penrose,” he said, leaning towards her with a significant smile.
“I am fond of the water, especially when somebody else does the hard work,” was the reply.
“Not much hard work on that water,” said the captain, smiling. “I should like to take you canoeing on the rapids, Lady Penrose.”
“I thought they were dangerous,” said Lady Penrose sweetly.
“We haven’t all got your courage, Captain Tollhurst,” said Mrs. Jardine.
“No question of courage, I assure you,” said the captain modestly. “A little nerve, perhaps.”
“Well, you’ve got that, Tollhurst,” said the admiring Pope. “In the matter of nerve I should think you would be hard to beat. Tell them about the tiger you shot. The one that got you down, I mean. It made me go cold all over.”
“Do tell us, Captain Tollhurst,” said Lady Penrose languidly. “I am so warm.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” said the captain, with a slight laugh. “Pope happened to get on the subject of tigers this afternoon, and it reminded me. Brute sprang out on me from the jungle and knocked me over, and I shot it from my pocket with a revolver.”
“Fancy!” said Pope, with the air of a showman. “Through his pocket. He hadn’t time to draw.”
“Must have seemed like a conjuring trick to the poor thing,” said Lady Penrose, “Was it hurt?”
“Smashed its jaw,” said Pope, speaking for the captain. “His second shot killed it.”
“How dreadful!” said Lady Penrose, with a careless shudder. “I’m so fond of animals. I belong to the Society, you know.”
“Been more dreadful if it had killed Tollhurst,” said Pope, staring at her.
“Yes,” said Lady Penrose reflectively as Captain Tollhurst raised his cup and took a couple of hasty gulps. “Yes, I suppose it would.”
CHAPTER IX
THERE was a little lull in the conversation, of which Lady Penrose, gazing dreamily at the landscape, seemed serenely unconscious. It was broken by Mr. Pope paying, in low tones, a compliment to the perfections of the tea-cake he was consuming, “Somebody is in a hurry,” said Carstairs, looking round at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. “Why, Miss Blake!” The girl, who had appeared suddenly round the side of the house, walking at a tremendous pace, took a laughing breath, and, throwing herself into a chair, pressed her hand to her side and said “Oh!”
“What is the matter, Effie?” exclaimed Mrs. Jardine.
“Oh!” said Miss Blake again. “Oh my!” she added.
Miss Seacombe appeared at that moment, also walking with what Mrs. Jardine considered unfeminine rapidity; the two girls exchanged glances and laughed.
“What have you been doing?” demanded Mrs. Jardine.
Miss Blake’s dark eyes twinkled demurely. “Nothing,” she replied softly.
“We’ve had a walking-race with Sir Edward,” explained Miss Seacombe. “Effie won.”
“Walking-race?” repeated Mrs. Jardine, rising and looking about her. “On a hot day like this? Where is Sir Edward?”
Miss Blake shook her head. “He’s a bad third,” she said, smiling. “He is doing his best, but I don’t think he is in very good condition. Oh, here he comes. Poor man!” A little chorus of sympathy greeted Sir Edward and added to his annoyance. He paused as he reached the group, and, straightening his tall, willowy figure, essayed a smile. His hat was in his hand, and exercise on a hot day had played havoc with the thin locks trained across the top of his head.
“Oh, Sir Edward,” exclaimed Mrs. Jardine, in great concern; “how inadvisable to make these girls run on such a hot day! But there — young men never will be reasonable.”
“Exercise,” replied Talwyn, with an effort. “I — I’ve quite en — enjoyed it. I am glad I didn’t win, though; it wouldn’t have been polite.”
“It was easy for you to be polite in this case,” murmured Miss Blake, as he sank into a chair and wiped his hot face. “What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing,” said Talwyn feebly.
“If you mean to suggest that you let us win,” said the justly indignant Miss Blake, “it’s disgraceful.”
“I didn’t say so,” muttered Talwyn defensively.
“It’s men all over,” continued the experienced maiden. “They always pretend that they are superior in everything. A woman can do anything that a man can do. Mind that!”
“And do it better,” added Miss Seacombe, with a challenging glance around.
“We simply ran away from him,” declared her friend.
“Ah! there you are,” said Talwyn. “You — you oughtn’t to have run in a walking-match, you know.”
Miss Seacombe put her cup and saucer down with a little crash. “O-oh!” she gasped. “The idea! We’ll have it over again, Effie, and Captain Tollhurst and Mr. Pope shall umpire. Come along, Sir Edward.”
A faint remark of Mr. Pope’s concerning the heat passed unnoticed. The girls rose and stood waiting, and Talwyn, tugging at the ends of his long, drooping moustache, followed suit.
“Effie!” said Mrs. Jardine sharply. “I won’t have such nonsense. It is much too hot, and besides—”
“Sir Edward wants to,” said her niece. “Don’t you, Sir Edward?”
“Of course,” said Talwyn; “if you wish it. And if you don’t think it is too hot for you.”
“Go ahead,” breathed Tollhurst in his ear. “I’ll disqualify ’em. Come along, Pope.” he added loudly.
“How absurd!” said Mrs. Jardine, as competitors and umpires moved off. “Really I feel quite annoyed with Effie. I don’t know what young women of the present day are coming to. I don’t, indeed.”
Carstairs shook his head in sympathy. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jardine,” he said gently, “I feel sure she will win again.”
“Win!” repeated the perturbed lady. “Win! I don’t mind a scrap whether she wins or not. That is not troubling me at all. Poor Sir Edward,” she added, turning to Lady Penrose. “Such a good-natured man. Most unselfish.”
“It is hard work for a man of his age,” said Carstairs. “Why didn’t they challenge the boys? They would have enjoyed it.”
“Boys!” repeated Mrs. Jardine, with lifted eyebrows.
“Knight and Peplow,” explained Carstairs. “The two young men who are staying here. You know them slightly, I think.”
Mrs. Jardine admitted the soft impeachment by a faint sniff. “Very slightly,” she said, after a pause.
“Have you known the boys, as you call them, for long, Mr. Carstairs?” inquired Lady Penrose.
“Some time,” said Carstairs, with nicely graduated truthfulness. “Knight is a great friend of my aunt’s. Nice bright lads, I think.”
“Lads!” exclaimed Mrs. Jardine.
“They seem like it to my advanced years,” said Carstairs, with a grimace. “After all, they are not much more, are they? I suppose they have deserted the ladies in favour of a little exercise. Young men prefer sport even to reading poetry to the most charming of audiences.”
Lady Penrose laughed. “I had an idea that they were rather fond of ladies’ society,” she said.
“Oh, they are polite and attentive and all that sort of thing, of course,” said Carstairs carelessly; “but in their heart of hearts they prefer cricket. I know that I did.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 85