CHAPTER VI.
THE days that followed were racing days for Gertie. At Great Titchfield Street a special order came in, and Madame held a kind of rehearsal, that the girls might know exactly what to do if the inspector called. The inspector represented the State, which, in the opinion of Madame and Miss Rabbit and all the assistants, male and female, was an interfering busybody hampering industry, and preventing honest workers from earning useful pay for unlimited overtime. To Great Titchfield Street, by day, came private letters by express messenger for Gertie, and more than one telegram; she generally found a communication awaiting her on the return home to Praed Street. Miss Rabbit accepted the statement that these came from Gertie's cousin, referring to nothing more romantic than a visit to the country; in private conversation with senior girls in the workroom, she said, rather bitterly, that Miss Higham surely took her for a born idiot.
Clarence proved himself alert and quick witted in retort, with an answer ready for every objection. When Gertie, as a final argument, put forward the matter of evening dress, he took her straightway to a celebrated firm (one-half of the lady passengers in public conveyances along the route gave, as their instruction and appeal to conductors, "Set me down as near as you can to Brown and Hodgkinson's!"), and there was purchased a blouse of white lace—costing so much that Gertie, on hearing the amount, had to clutch at one of the high chairs; and as Clarence paid readily with gold, the polite young woman on the other side of the counter assured him it was well worth the money. Gertie, at another establishment, bought a pair of slippers, saying to herself that they would come in handy, even though she did not go to Ewelme. Reluctance to accept the invitation conveyed through Clarence was supported at Praed Street by her aunt, who declared the girl would be like a fish out of water; that she would wish herself home again before she had been there the space of two minutes. But for Mrs. Mills's over-earnest counsel it is likely Gertie might have kept her threat (or promise) to back out at the last moment. On the Friday night, Mrs. Mills mentioned that the Douglass people were probably only asking Gertie in order to enjoy a laugh at her expense. The following morning, to her aunt's astonishment and open dismay, Gertie took a carefully-packed portmanteau along to the cloakroom at Paddington Station. In the afternoon she found herself, for the first time in her life, seated in a second-class carriage.
"Afraid you've had rather a rush," said her cousin.
"It isn't only that," she admitted, breathlessly. "I'm excited about this visit."
"Not more so than I am. All the same, I feel very much indebted to you, Gertie, for coming with me. The letter was worded in a way that meant I was to bring you, or not go at all. You see Mary—Miss Loriner—is only a companion at Morden Place. She couldn't have asked me on her own responsibility."
The girl closed her eyes and snuggled back in the corner. If Henry exhibited any special sign of affection, she would have to draw herself up to her full height and say, "Mr. Douglass, you're evidently not aware that you are speaking to an engaged lady." If he went so far as to propose marriage, the situation would be still more dramatic. "Mr. Douglass, you appear to have left it too late. I am already pledged to another!" There were alternative remarks prepared, and she felt certain that any one of them would be telling and effective. Clearly, he wanted to see her; otherwise so much trouble would not have been expended over the present visit; it was her business to make him see that a London girl was not to be taken up and dropped, and taken up again.
"Manners," she said resolutely, opening her eyes, and addressing a barge on the canal, "manners. That's what some people have got to be taught!"
The short train brought them slowly to the one platform of the station, and before she realized it, Henry Douglass was holding both of her hands, and looking down at her affectionately. He turned to give a welcome to her cousin, and Gertie told herself there was no necessity, for the present, to be dignified or reserved; that could come later. Outside the station, Miss Loriner was talking to a horse that seemed impatient to make its way in the direction of home; she and Clarence took seats at the back of the dogcart with a light rug spread over knees; they made no complaint of overcrowding.
"Can you really drive?" inquired Gertie with anxiety. "You never used to speak about it when Mr. Trew was talking."
"Life," answered Henry Douglass, "is too short to allow one to brag about everything. I do the best I can." They took the corner and went at a good pace through the town. "By Jove," he went on, enthusiastically, "you have no idea how I've missed you."
The first of the selected reproofs would have come in here appropriately, but a motor car was coming in the opposite direction with, as it seemed to her, the definite intention of running into their conveyance; she grabbed nervously at Henry's arm. When she looked again the car had gone, leaving dust as a slight memento of the encounter.
"Don't take it away!" he begged.
Here again either of the sentences might have been delivered; Gertie decided it would be sufficient to refrain from acceding to his request. Henry saluted with his whip folk who passed by, and told her who they were; stopped at one shop to take a parcel of wools intended for his mother. He had talked about Gertie to his mother, and she was anxious to meet Miss Higham.
"She'll be still more anxious to see me go away."
"You wouldn't say that," he asserted, "if you knew her."
"It's really Lady Douglass I'm afraid of. Look at that board, 'Trespassers will be prosecuted.' I feel it's meant for me."
"Trespassers," he said, "as a matter of fact, cannot be prosecuted. The board is all nonsense. Trespassers can only be prosecuted when they do some sort of damage."
She glanced around to watch a baby in the garden of a cottage; Clarence Mills and Miss Loriner were kissing. Gertie did not speak again until they reached the iron gates.
"I want to show you the tennis court," he said. "The man here can drive your cousin and Miss Loriner up to the house." She hesitated as he, stepping down, held out his hand. "My mother is waiting there!"
They found the grey-haired old lady resting on a low white enamelled seat, watching a game of singles between two stout men, who had the distressed look of those who play for the sake of health and figure. The ruddier of the two was pointed out as Mr. Jim Langham, brother to Lady Douglass; the other, a barrister with leanings in the direction of political work, and a present desire to be amiable towards everybody in the neighbourhood who possessed a vote.
"Now, you are to sit down here, Miss Higham," said the old lady, "and talk to me. I may interrupt you, now and again, but you mustn't mind that. One of the few privileges of age."
"I don't know what to talk about."
"Talk about yourself. I've heard about you from Henry, but I want to verify the information. You work for your living, don't you? Well now, that is interesting. I did the same before I was married. I married rather well, and then, of course, there was no necessity for me to go on with it."
"When my dear mother says she wants you to talk to her," explained Henry, "what she really means is that she wishes to talk to you. If you don't mind, I'll go over and teach these men how to play tennis."
Jim Langham came across directly that the game was finished, interrupting the two as they were getting on good terms with each other; on the way, he shouted an order to a gardener working near. He was effusive over the introduction to Gertie, showing his perfect teeth, and expressing the hope that she would not have to leave on Monday. The gardener brought a tumbler on a tray, and a syphon.
"At this time of the day?" said Mrs. Douglass, glancing at the contents of the glass.
"Good whisky," retorted Jim Langham, taking a small quantity of soda, "makes one feel like another man altogether."
"In that case," said the old lady, "by all means have the drink. My dear," to Gertie, "give me my stick and we'll walk up to the house and have tea."
"I'll come with you," remarked Jim Langham.
"You will stay where you are," ordered Mrs. Douglass.
Gertie, at Great Titchfield Street, had invented a house, doubled it, and multiplied it by ten; it came as a surprise to her to find that the residence was a solid building of fair extent with a parapet wall of stone in front, broad steps leading to the open doors. On the lawn tea was being set out by a man-servant; he lighted the wick underneath a silver kettle. Lady Douglass, in black, made an effective entrance down the steps in the company of a dog that looked like a rat.
"How perfectly charming of you to come and see us," she cried, extending a limp hand. "We do so want some one to brighten us up. Darling," to old Mrs. Douglass, "why didn't you tell them to send the bath-chair for you?"
"Myra," retorted the other, "I walk ten times as much as you do."
"Pray take care of yourself, for my sake."
"I hope to find some better incentive than that," said the old lady.
Lady Douglass approached the task of pouring out tea with the hopeless air of one who scarcely hoped to escape error, and when she had asked for and obtained particulars concerning tastes, Clarence Mills came, and his presence seemed to upset all the table plans; Mrs. Douglass arrested her action as she started to pour tea into the sugar basin. The arrival of Miss Loriner enabled her to resign the position. Going across to sit beside Gertie, she gave a highly interesting account of the way in which she had by sheer force of will conquered the cigarette habit; at present she consumed but twenty a day, unless, of course, special circumstances provided an excuse.
"Not for me, thanks," said Gertie, shaking her head. "I can't smoke; and if I could, I shouldn't."
"Tell me!" begged Lady Douglass; "how is that eccentric old gentleman we met at the Zoological Gardens?—Crew, or Brew, or some astonishing name of the kind?"
"I don't suppose," answered the girl defensively, "that you really want to know how he is, but Mr. Trew is quite well, and he isn't in the least eccentric, and he doesn't profess to be a gentleman."
Henry touched her shoulder with a gesture of appeal; she gave an impatient movement.
"But how extremely interesting," cried Lady Douglass, with something like rapture. "And do most of your friends work for a living?"
"All of 'em. I don't care for loafers."
"I myself have been up to my eyebrows in industry this week," said the other, self-commiseratingly. "I sometimes wish charity could be abolished altogether. It does entail such an enormous amount of hard labour. One might as well be in Wormwood Scrubbs."
She paused and looked at the girl intently.
"By the bye, where is Wormwood Scrubbs? One often hears of it."
"Over beyond Shepherd's Bush."
"Have you ever been there?"
"No," answered Gertie; "and I've never been to Portland, and I'm not acquainted with Dartmoor, and I don't know much about Newgate. Why do you ask?"
"I am hugely interested in prison life," declared the other.
"You mustn't be surprised," interposed Henry, addressing Gertie, "at any new subject that my sister-in-law mentions. I haven't heard her speak of this before; and it's only fair to her to say that when she takes up anything fresh, she drops it long before it has the chance of becoming stale. Another cup?"
He went to the table.
"A strange lad," said Lady Douglass musingly. "His heart is in the right place, but sometimes I wonder whether it is the right kind of heart. Do you mind dining at seven for once in your life. Miss Higham? It's a ridiculous hour, I know, but we must be at the hall sharp by eight. Miss Loriner will show you your room when you are ready. I have a thousand and one things to do," she added exhaustedly.
When Jim Langham joined the party and sat on the grass beside Miss Higham's chair, the girl rose, and Miss Loriner conducted her into the house; Henry regarded them with a cheerful smile as they left. The doors gave entrance to a square hall, with a broad staircase going up and turning suddenly to an open corridor that went around three sides. Gertie looked about her astonishedly.
"I've never been in a house like this before," she explained.
They went up the highly-polished staircase, Gertie holding at the banisters for safety.
"So Mr. Henry explained to me; and because he was so very good as to ask your cousin Clarence down, we have made a bargain between each other. I am to look after you, if you don't mind, and see that you get through all right."
"In a general way," confessed Gertie Higham, "I can look after myself, but just now it's likely I may be glad of a wrinkle or two." The other nodded.
"I have some on my forehead to spare, thanks to Lady Douglass. This is your room"—throwing open a door—"and mine is here, next door. Come along in, and let us have a talk."
Miss Loriner had a good deal to say, mainly in describing her present happiness. Clarence was a dear; Clarence was a clever dear, Clarence had brought a joy into her life that had previously been absent. Hitherto Miss Loriner, living in houses as a companion to some testy and difficult woman, found herself only annoyed by the attentions of men of the Jim Langham type; it was new and enchanting to be approached courteously. Gertie, when the other stopped to regain breath, managed to ask how Henry Douglass filled his time, and was surprised, and partially hurt, to discover that he still went up to Old Quebec Street on five days of the week.
"He might have called at the shop," she argued.
Miss Loriner, for the defence, commended him for his industry. Henry would, later, have to face the alternative of either giving up his office in London, or relinquishing duties in the country, but at present he was engaged in a double task; and if Gertie appreciated how difficult it proved to deal with Lady Douglass, she would not utter a word of blame in regard to Henry. One of Lady Douglass's inconvenient tricks was to shift responsibility. As a case in point, take the entertainment to which they were going that evening. Lady Douglass, having promised to organize it, had done not a single thing in the way of—
"Is the place on fire?" asked Gertie, startled.
"That's the first warning for dinner. You have twenty minutes to dress. Be sure to let me know if there is anything you want."
Gertie left, to return immediately with a concerned expression and the announcement that her portmanteau had been robbed of every blessed thing it contained. Miss Loriner accompanied her to make investigations, and, switching on the electric light, pointed out that the maid had unpacked the bag—the articles were on the dressing-table, and hanging up in the wardrobe. Gertie had only to ring, and the maid would come at once to help her to dress. Gertie said she had done this without assistance since the age of three.
Apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved for weeks. Her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as each course arrived; envied the composure with which Clarence dealt with such trying dishes as vol au vent and artichokes. Her serviette was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and distress increased each time that Henry recovered it; generally, at these moments of confusion, Lady Douglass took the opportunity to send down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to Henry for replying on her behalf. Henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. Jim Langham excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought Miss Higham as a Londoner would relish. The anecdote was but half told when Miss Higham turned abruptly.
"That's the right way," said old Mrs. Douglass to her approvingly.
At the door of the town hall carriages and motor cars were setting folk down, and Gertie, who had hoped the new blouse would enable her to smile at country costumes, felt depressed by their magnificence. In the front row Lady Douglass stood up, nodded, gave brief ingratiating smiles, and told people how remarkably well they were looking. Gertie, comforted by the near presence of her cousin, glanced over her shoulder, and wished she were with the shilling folk.
"Care to see the programme, Gertie?"
"I'll do the same as I do at a music hall," she said, "and take it as it comes. How did you think I managed at dinner, Clarence?"
"Capitally!"
"I had a knife and two forks left at the end," she said regretfully.
"A recitation," Clarence read from his programme. "Our friend ought to be here."
"Who do you mean?"
"Bulpert. You remember Bulpert, don't you?"
"I'd nearly forgotten him," she admitted.
There was an interval after men had sung and ladies had played, and a nervous youth had given imitations of popular actors who, it seemed, possessed the same tone of voice, and practised identical gestures. The curtain went up on an outdoor scene. A lady was reclining in a hammock.
"Why, it's Miss Loriner," whispered Gertie.
A man in tweeds came on backwards and collided with the hammock.
"Who's this supposed to be, Clarence?"
"Young Douglass. Made up with a beard."
An apology was made for the accident, and with the rapidity that the drama exacts in matters of the heart, the bearded gentleman was in less than fifteen minutes deeply in love with the lady of the hammock. "And if I promise to worship you all my life, will you then give me my heart's desire?" The lady, with a dexterous movement, came out of her resting-place. "You must first make a name in the world, and, hand upon heart, show yourself worthy of a woman's love!"
"What's the matter, Gertie?" asked Clarence Mills.
"I've made a—made a fearful muddle of nearly everything."
"Buck up!" urged Clarence. "Don't let people see you giving way."
The bearded man was leaving when the lady bethought herself to inquire his name; he proved to be none other than Mr. Francis Mainright, the well-known African explorer; and after a few more words the curtain came down on an affianced couple, with applause from all parts of the hall.
"Easy enough," said Gertie, in ceasing to clap hands, "for troubles to be put right on the stage. It's a bit harder in real life."
Lady Douglass accepted congratulations upon the success of her entertainment, and turned at the end, before leaving the hall, to request Gertie's attention for a moment. She was extremely anxious that her dear young brother-in-law should not commit an error that might last a lifetime. Apparently there was some one up in town who had managed to engage his affections: Lady Douglass did not know her; Miss Higham, of course, had not her acquaintance. The young woman, she believed, occupied an inferior position in life, and Lady Douglass would dearly like to have the opportunity of pointing out that supposing the two married, all the stories of ill-bred wives would be fastened upon Mrs. Henry Douglass. Every night, in every billiard-room, in every smoking-room in Berkshire, amusing stories, not always true, would be told of her mistakes; dull folk might find themselves reckoned as humorists by inventing anecdotes about her, and the general gaiety would find itself increased. Furthermore, there was this to be said. Supposing—
"Are you ready, dear girl?" asked Henry. He came down the steps from the platform, addressing his inquiry to Gertie.
"Quite!" answered Lady Douglass. "We were just chatting about your performance. Miss Higham seems to think you should have had more rehearsals. Doesn't exactly say so, but that is evidently what she means."