Farmer Nimms tightened his grip on the serviceable cudgel he carried. “Ready, lads?” he hissed, one hand on the door. His sons grinned and nodded. Movement could be heard from within the toolshed. “Sounds like another big’un,” gloated the good farmer, and his sons brandished their clubs, eager for the fray.
Swinging the door wide, Farmer Nimms stepped inside. “You worthless scum!” he roared. “Get—”
The movements in the shed became more pronounced. A strange voice rose in irate protest. The voice of Farmer Nimms also rose. To a shriek. He left his shed far more hurriedly than he had entered it. So hurriedly, in fact, that he ploughed into the three stalwart offspring who pressed in behind him. The fame of the Nimmses had spread far and wide, and it would have been difficult to determine whether they were best known for their truculence, their dishonest dealings, or the brutality they visited upon the unfortunates they caught in their strategically placed toolshed. They took care never to engage in a fair fight, with the result that it had been many a day since they had been bested. They were bested now. The trespasser looming in the doorway was enough to strike fear into the heart of any reasonable man. The bear was extremely large, brown, and annoyed. It reared onto its hind legs, toppling the toolshed in the process, and letting out another roar of displeasure.
Filial affection went by the board. Trapped by the burly figures of his nearest and dearest, Farmer Nimms damned them for knock-in-the-cradles and fought tooth and nail for freedom. Hurled back, the brothers caught sight of the monster looming above them. None of them could seem to move quite fast enough and in their frenzy they collided. Their shrieking profanities did little to improve the temper of the bear, who had taken a very dim view of the toolshed, but had been mollified by the pot of honey Devenish had had the foresight to provide, and into which the good farmer had been so unwise as to put his foot. Since Nimms did not seem inclined to stop and remove the honey pot from his boot, the bear saw his prize being made off with, and sprang in hot pursuit.
Thus it was that Harry Oakes, the apothecary, driving his pony and trap on an early call, beheld such a cavalcade as was to delight the patrons of The Duck and Drake for months to come. Farmer Nimms was well out in front, head and elbows back, legs pumping vigorously, albeit the handicap of a strange pot wrapped around one foot. Behind him, racing at a good rate of speed, were his three boys, their squeals of terror rivalling his own. Next came a large and angry bear (causing Mr. Oakes to turn hurriedly into the trees), and bringing up the rear, a lean individual who waved a long chain while imploring Bruin to stop “like a good boy!”
Not until the procession was fading into the morning mists did Mr. Oakes discover that others had witnessed it. Two young men and a little girl lay in the ditch beside the toppled Nimms toolshed. He was unable to get any sense from them, however, for they were equally overcome, their howls and sobs of laughter having reduced them to near-imbecility and a complete inability to either stand or converse intelligently.
Mr. Oakes abandoned his attempts to communicate and joined in their hilarity.
* * *
Despite the relatively fair weather, the progress of Yolande’s party was slow. This was in part due to the habits of Socrates, and in part due to the habits of his owner, who could never be convinced of the benefits to be derived from an early start. Mrs. Drummond was of the opinion that none but commoners ventured abroad before noon, and it was only by dint of long and patient representations that Yolande was able to prevail upon the lady to take her breakfast at “the heathen hour” of nine o’clock.
Two days after leaving St. Albans, Mr. Garvey was still escorting them, a circumstance for which Yolande could only be grateful. All her protests that they delayed him were waved aside, and when she again pointed out that he should be travelling eastwards to Stirling, he said he merely altered his plans so as to take the westerly loop on his way north instead of on the way back down to London. “For I have an aged pensioner dwelling in Kilmarnock,” he averred suavely. “A devoted old fellow I am promised to visit. I can deliver you and your aunt to Castle Drummond, continue to Kilmarnock and take the Glasgow road east to Stirling. I gave my friends no definite date for my arrival, so you see, dear lady, your worries are quite without foundation.”
If Yolande’s concerns were unjustified in that sense, they also appeared unwarranted in another. Mr. Garvey was charming, and his assistance of real value, yet there was something about the gentleman she could not like. She had made up her mind therefore, that if she saw signs of his having developed a tendre for her, she would be firm in refusing his escort. It soon became obvious, however, to herself if not to her aunt, that he actually derived much more pleasure from the company of the elder lady than from that of her niece. Since the two of them shared both a wide acquaintanceship among the ton, and an inclination to gossip, they were in no time at all the very best of friends, chattering away the miles in convivial, if scandalous, fashion, and thus allowing Yolande to indulge her own thoughts in peace.
Those thoughts were far from peaceful, however. Try as she would, she could not banish her anxiety concerning her cousins. However irresponsible Devenish might be judged, she had never had the slightest doubt of his devotion and, while it was true that she had been very cross with him in St. Albans, he was scarcely the man to be easily daunted. As for Craig … Her heart gave that odd little jolt that any thought of him seemed to precipitate. She glanced guiltily at her aunt, sitting beside her in the carriage, and was startled to find that lady’s enquiring gaze fixed upon her.
“My apologies, dear ma’am,” she said hastily, having a vague recollection of some half-heard remark. “I fear I was wool-gathering.”
“So I imagined, dear child,” her aunt agreed in a faintly martyred voice. “I was urging dear Mr. Garvey to instruct the coachman to make a small detour. I should so much like to see the new construction at the school, should not you? And since we pass this way so seldom…”
Yolande blinked, striving to gather her scattered thoughts. “School?”
“We are coming into Rugby, ma’am,” volunteered Mr. Garvey with a kindly smile.
Yolande glanced out at the lush, rolling countryside. “Oh—yes, indeed. So we are. But why should we detour? We have no relations at the school, Aunt Bella, have we?”
“Not presently, but you know that all four of your Aunt Cecily’s boys came here. I have not seen the new structure Hakewill designed. The school was rebuilt about seven years ago, Mr. Garvey,” she added, turning a warm smile upon their companion, “and my brother-in-law tells me the work was most attractively accomplished.”
“I am sure you are right, dear,” said Yolande. “But perhaps we might stop here on the way home. I am eager to reach Steep Drummond.”
“Oh, but this rushing and tearing about is so exhausting,” pouted Mrs. Drummond. “I do not complain, for it is not my place. But Mr. Garvey told you that Devenish and that Canadian person had turned back, so you need not worry so.”
Yolande blushed to think that her distress had been so shrewdly noted and interpreted, but she persisted, “Perhaps they did, at first. But Dev is a very stubborn young man, as you should certainly be aware, Aunt. And Craig is eager to see his inheritance, besides which—”
“Besides which, he was behaving like any love-struck moonling from the moment he saw you!” Arabella gave a shrill little titter. “You would scarce credit the impertinence of the fellow, dear Mr. Garvey. No sooner had he all but put us in our graves, than he must come to Park Parapine, trying to ingratiate himself with Sir Martin! I wonder my brother did not at once show the door to the presumptuous upstart, rather than—”
Her own rare temper flaring, Yolande exclaimed, “I think you must forget that Craig Tyndale is my cousin, ma’am, else you would not designate one of our family a presumptuous upstart! Nor can I suppose Mr. Garvey to be in the slightest interested in such matters.”
Mr. Garvey’s well-shaped brows lifted in faint amusement. Mrs. Drummond, how
ever, stared at her niece in astonishment, clapped a handkerchief to her eyes, and dissolved into tears.
Aghast, Yolande strove to mend matters; a long struggle that ended, of course, with her agreeing that they should detour to see the famous boys’ school.
Mr. Hakewill’s architectural designs had yielded impressive results, and Mrs. Drummond and Mr. Garvey were vociferous in their admiration of the new buildings. Yolande wandered about reacting politely to their remarks. Inwardly, however, she was as disinterested as she was disturbed. To have lost her temper with an older lady was very bad. And even worse, she had done so in front of a comparative stranger! She never lost her temper. Well, almost never. She would not have done it, of course, save for the fact that she was so worried about her two suitors. Guilt struck again and her cheeks flamed. Craig was not her suitor! “And neither is he a presumptuous upstart!” she thought with a flare of irritation. He might be a Colonial, and perhaps he had a shocking blot on his name, and a sad want of fortune, but … She sighed, seeing again the concern in his grey eyes as he had bent over her while she lay on the rug after the accident; feeling again the firm clasp of his hands as he made her lie down when she had striven to rise. Such strong hands and yet, so gentle …
“Wake up, dearest!”
Yolande started. Her aunt and Mr. Garvey were watching her smilingly. Good gracious! She had drifted off again, like some silly thimblewit! Whatever was wrong with her intellect?
“I declare,” said Mrs. Drummond, “one would fancy you fairly enamoured of that door, for you have looked at it this age, and with such tenderness!”
Mr. Garvey chuckled. “I think your niece’s thoughts were not with the door, dear lady.”
“Clever rascal,” trilled Mrs. Drummond, giving him a playful tap with her fan. “And you are perfectly right, of course. My dear niece is enchanted! ‘Absence, that common cure of love’ did not prevail. Alas. Yet—oh, to be young—and in love…!”
Yolande could have sunk. She was rescued when Mr. Garvey proceeded to recount an amusing episode of his schooldays, but walking along, her emotions were chaotic. Had she really been gazing tenderly at a door? If so, she had no least recollection of what it had looked like. “Oh, to be young and in love…” What stuff, when she had only been thinking of … Craig. An even sharper pang of guilt made her squirm. Despite her procrastinations she knew very well that she would eventually marry dear Dev, just as he knew it. To allow her thoughts to wander to another gentleman in so foolish a way was wickedly disloyal.
Raising her eyes she found that Mr. Garvey was watching her with faint curiosity. He must think her a thorough widgeon! She forced a smile, but her cheeks were so hot she knew they must be scarlet.
Chapter VIII
FAR INTO THE MORNING, Devenish and Tyndale were still chortling over the rout of the Nimmses. The day lived up to its early promise and by mid-afternoon the sun was so hot that the small pilgrimage began to slow. The men took turns carrying Josie until she complained that she was quite able to walk and didn’t want to be “babied.”
“Why not?” laughed Devenish, setting her down and inwardly relieved to do so. “You are a baby”—he ruffled her tangled hair—“and must be coddled.”
She scowled at him ferociously. “I is not! You think I’ll be a great nuisance, but I knows how to take care of myself and I don’t need carrying! You just see if I don’t walk so good as what you and Mr. Craig does!”
She ran out ahead, defiance in every line of her. “Revolting grammar!” called Devenish, teasingly.
“What the deuce are you going to do with her?” asked Craig.
“Lord knows. Gad! I keep thinking of how old Nimms shot out of that shed! It was worth the loss of our funds, damme if it wasn’t!”
“Yes.” Craig grinned. “The family honour is restored.”
Devenish sobered. “In part, at least,” he said pointedly.
Reddening, Craig was silent, but after a while he chuckled. “How in the world you were able to control that bear is quite beyond me!”
“Nothing to it. I’ve got the Rat Paws, you see.”
“The—what?”
“Josie says it means I’ve a way with animals. I do, as a matter of fact, and it stood us in good stead today, I’ll allow. I wonder if poor old Schultz ever got his bear back? His legs were going a mile a minute the last time we saw him.”
They went on, talking more or less companionably, but progressing ever more slowly, and not noticing when Josie dropped back to walk with them, and gradually fell behind.
“Jove,” sighed Tyndale, drawing a sleeve across his perspiring brow, “I didn’t think it ever got hot in England. Have we far to go, yet?”
“Eight or nine miles, at least. I only hope Val is not from home. He’s a dashed good fellow, but—his family!” Devenish grimaced. “His brother’s a decent sort, but he has a cousin I’d as soon—”
A shrill scream cut off his words. Whirling, he caught a glimpse of Josie, her hair clutched in a large, grimy fist. From the corner of his eye he saw just such another fist clutching a whizzing branch. He ducked, but the branch caught him across the base of the neck and for a little while he saw nothing but wheeling lights.
He aroused to a scuffling sound; an irregular thudding, short heavy breathing, and an occasional gasped-out curse. A dark shape shot past. Not quite sure of what was to do, Devenish gathered that he was missing a jolly good brawl. How it chanced that he was lying down, he could not remember, but he commenced a dogged struggle to get to his feet.
A crowd was involved in violent dispute. “Yoicks!” croaked Devenish, and launched himself into the fray. The crowd thinned, and he blinked and found that Tyndale was battling two men whose head scarves and swarthy countenances proclaimed them gypsies. Even as his vision cleared, a knife was plunged at Tyndale’s back. Devenish jumped into action and sent the weapon spinning off.
Tyndale panted, “Thanks … coz!”
The knife wielder however, was indignant, and Devenish blocked a hamlike retaliatory fist. “Akim and Benjo, I take it?” he shouted.
“And—Rollo,” said Tyndale, jerking his head to the side and a heavily built man sprawled on the grassy verge.
“You took our—Tabby!” snarled Tyndale’s opponent, his dark face twisted with passion.
“Yus, and we’ll ’ave the law on yer!” shouted his comrade, rushing Devenish, who dodged adroitly.
“Good … idea!” Tyndale feinted, then drove home a shattering jab that staggered his sinewy adversary. “We might discover from whom you stole her!”
Patently offended by such tactics, the gypsies abandoned talk in favour of a concentration upon the business at hand. The recumbent member of the trio also surged back into the fray. It was a short but fierce struggle. Tyndale, as Devenish noted with admiration, was a splendid man with his fives, but he was not at the top of his form and was tiring visibly. The impromptu bandage had already been dislodged and the cut over his temple was bleeding so that he was compelled to wipe hurriedly at his eyes. Devenish grassed his man with a well-aimed right, but was sent sprawling by the third gypsy, who had timed the attack nicely. Winded, Devenish cried out as a heavy boot rammed home. Tyndale saw the kick that had savaged him and with a shout of rage leapt astride his cousin. He would have little chance alone, Devenish thought dazedly, and if they were bested, these ruffians would take the child. He fought to rise. She must not end her days in a Flash House, poor mite! She must not! He got to his knees, but was unable to stand, so threw himself at the legs of the tall Rollo, and clung doggedly. It was all the chance Tyndale needed. With one blindingly fast uppercut he sent Akim to join Benjo, turned in time to see Devenish crumple again and, seething, drove a fist into Rollo’s mid-section, then finished him with a powerful chopping blow to the back of the neck.
Hobbling to his cousin, he wheezed, “You … all right…?”
“Quite,” gasped Devenish, clutching his leg. “Good scrap … what?”
A small, weeping
shape hurtled at them. Frantic hands reached out to stroke back Devenish’s tumbled hair. “I thinked ye was … cross with me!” gulped the child. “And then Benjo got me and—and I thinked I was going to be … sold to the Flash House, surely! Oh, Mr. Dev! You won’t never let ’em take me? Don’t let ’em! Promise Josie you won’t!’”
He sat up and pulled her into a hug. “Silly elf,” he said gruffly. Her arms flew around his neck and, sobbing, she pressed tight against him. Over her shoulder, he said, “I rather fancy you saved me from getting my ribs … stove in, cousin.”
“And you—diverted the knife that would have split … my wishbone.”
It was said so reluctantly that Devenish flared, “I collect you would prefer I had not?”
“No, but…” Tyndale hesitated, frowning.
Devenish burst into a breathless laugh. “A trifle awkward, eh?”
“A trifle.”
“No matter. We’re even, at all events.” Devenish put the clinging child from him. “Come, Miss Storm.” He gave her hair a slight tug. “There’s work to be done. I think our friends yonder would be the better without their boots. Can you pull ’em off?”
She dashed her tears away with the heel of one grubby hand, smiled tremulously, and flew to do his bidding. Tyndale helped him to his feet and, as soon as the boots were removed from the unlovely trio, the two men and the child set forth once more, each carrying a pair of the purloined articles.
For a space they were silent, all three, Tyndale seeming to ache from head to toe, and Devenish’s limp becoming ever more pronounced until Tyndale halted and said, “Friend Rollo dealt you a leveller, did he not?”
Snatching back the hand that was unobtrusively gripping his right thigh, Devenish said brightly, “Pooh! Fustian! I shall do nicely.”
“He was limping ’fore Rollo kicked him,” Josie put in anxiously. “Don’t he allus?”
“No, child. Dev, let me have a look.”
“Certainly not!” Devenish threw up a restraining hand as Tyndale stepped closer. “I am a most private type and will suffer no one to inspect my—er—limbs.”
The Noblest Frailty Page 15