 CHAPTER VII The first requisite of an invading army is a base. George, having entered Belfour village and thus accomplished the first stage in his forward movement on the castle, selected as his base the Marshmorton arms. Selected is perhaps hardly the right word, as it implies choice, and in George's case there was no choice. There are two inns at Belfour, but the Marshmorton arms is the only one that offers accommodation for man and beast, assuming, that is to say, that the man and beast desire to spend the night. The other house, the Blue Boar, is a mere beer-house, where the lower strata of Belfour society gather of a night to quench their thirst and to tell one another interminable stories without any point whatsoever. But the Marshmorton arms is a comfortable, respectable hostelry, catering to the village plutocrats. There, of an evening, you will find the local veterinary surgeon smoking a pipe with the grocer, the baker, and the butcher, with perhaps a sprinkling of neighbouring farmers to help the conversation along. There is a shilling ordinary, which is the rural English, for a cut-off the joint and a boiled potato, followed by hunks of the sort of cheese which believes that it pays to advertise, and this is usually well attended. On the other days of the week, until late to the evening, however, the visitor to the Marshmorton arms has the place almost entirely to himself. It is to be questioned whether, in the whole length and breadth of the world, there is a more admirable spot for a man in love to pass a day or two than the typical English village. The Rocky Mountains, that traditional stamping ground for the heartbroken, may be well enough in their way, but a lover has to be cast in a pretty stem-mold to be able to be introspective when, at any moment, he may meet an annoyed cinnamon-bear. In the English village there are no such obstacles to meditation. It combines the comforts of civilisation with the restfulness of solitude in a manner equaled by no other spot, except the New York Public Library. Here your lover may wander to and fro, unmolested, speaking to nobody, by nobody addressed, and have the satisfaction, at the end of the day, of sitting down to a capitally cooked chop and chips lubricated by golden English ale. Belfur, in addition to all the advantages of the usual village, has a quiet charm all its own, due to the fact that it has seen better days. In a sense, it is a ruin, and ruins are always soothing to the bruised soul. Ten years before Belfur had been a flourishing centre of the south of England oyster trade. It is situated by the shore, where hailing island, lying a thwart to the mouth of the bay, forms the waters into a sort of brackish lagoon, in much the same way as fire island shuts off the great south bay of Long Island from the waves of the Atlantic. The water of Belfur Creek is shallow even at high tide, and when the tide runs out it leaves glistening mud flats, which is the particular taste of the oyster to prefer to any other habitation. For years Belfur oysters had been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, the Carleton, and Romanos. Dukes doted on them, chorus girls wept if they were not on the bill of fare. And then, in an evil hour, somebody discovered that what made the Belfur oyster so particularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted, lunched, and dined almost entirely on the local sewage. There is but a thin line ever between popular homage and execration. We see it in the case of politicians, generals and prize fighters, and oysters are no exception to the rule. There was a typhoid scare, quite a passing and unjustified scare, but strong enough to do its deadly work, and almost overnight Belfur passed from a place of flourishing industry to the sleepy, by-the-world forgotten spot which it was when George Bevin discovered it. The shallow water is still there, the mud is still there, even the oyster beds are still there, but not the oysters nor the little world of activity which had sprung up around them. The glory of Belfur is dead, and over its gates Ichabod is written. But if it has lost in importance it has gained in charm, and George, for one, had no regrets. To him in his present state of mental upheaval Belfur was the ideal spot. It was not at first that George roused himself to the point of asking why he was here and what, now that he was here, he proposed to do. For two languorous days he loathed, sufficiently occupied with his thoughts. He smoked long peaceful pipes in the stable yard, watching the oslars as they groomed the horses. He played with the in-puppy, bestowed respectful caresses on the in-cat. He walked down the quaint cobbled street to the harbour, sauntered along the shore, and lay on his back on the little beach at the other side of the lagoon, from where he could see the red roofs of the village, while the imitation waves splashed busily on the stones, trying to conceal with bustle and energy the fact that the water, even two hundred yards from the shore, was only eighteen inches deep. For it is the abiding hope of Belfur Creek that it may be able to deceive the occasional visitor into mistaking it for the open sea. And presently the tide would ebb, the waste of waters became a sea of mud, cheerfully covered as to much of its surface with green grasses. The evening sun struck rainbow colours from the moist softness. Birds sang in the thickets, and George, heaving himself up, walked back to the friendly coziness of the Marshmorton arms. And the remarkable part of it was that everything seemed perfectly natural and sensible to him. Nor had he any particular feeling that in falling in love with Lady Maude Marsh, and pursuing her to Belfur, he had set himself anything in the nature of a hopeless task. Like one kissed by a goddess in a dream, he walked on air. And while one is walking on air, it is easy to overlook the boulders in the path. Consider his position, you faint-hearted and self-pitying young men who think you have a tough row to hoe, just because, when you pay your evening visit with the pound-box of candy under your arm, you see the handsome sophomore from Yale, sitting beside her on the porch, playing the ukulele. If ever the world has turned black to you in such a situation, and the moon gone in behind a cloud, think of George Bevin and what he was up against. You are at least on the spot. You can at least put up a fight. If there are ukuleles in the world, there are also guitars. And to-morrow it may be you and not he who sits on the moonlit porch. It may be he and not you who arrives late. Who knows? To-morrow he may not show up till you have finished the Bedowins love song, and are annoying the local birds, roosting in the trees with poor butterfly. What I mean to say is, you are on the map. You have a sporting chance. Whereas George—well, just go over to England and try wooing an earl's daughter, whom you have only met once, and then without an introduction, whose brother is hat you have smashed beyond repair, whose family wishes her to marry some other man, who wants to marry some other man herself, and not the same other man, but another other man, who is closely emurred in a medieval castle—well, all I say is, try it—and then go back to your porch with a chasen spirit, and admit that you might be a whole lot worse off. George, as I say, had not envisaged the peculiar difficulties of his position. Nor did he until the evening of his second day at the Marshmorton Arms. Until then, as I have indicated, he roamed in a golden mist of dreamy meditation among the soothing byways of the village of Belfour. But after lunch on the second day it came upon him that all this sort of thing was pleasant but not practical. Action was what was needed. Action. The first, the obvious move, was to locate the castle. Inquiries at the Marshmorton Arms elicited the fact that it was a step up the road, that ran past the front door of the inn. But this wasn't the day of the week when the general public was admitted. The sightseer could evade Belfour Castle on Thursdays only, between the hours of two and four. On other days of the week all he could do was stand like Moses on Pisgah and take in the general effect from a distance. As this was all that George had hoped to be able to do, he set forth. It speedily became evident to George that a step was a euphemism. Five miles did he tramp before, trudging wearily up a winding lane, he came out on a breeze swept hill-top, and saw below him nestling in its trees, what was now for him the centre of the world. He sat on a stone wall and lit a pipe. Belfour Castle, Maud's home. There it was. And now what? The first thought that came to him was practical, even prosaic. The thought that he couldn't possibly do this five miles there and five miles back walk every time he wanted to see the place. He must shift his base nearer the scene of operations. One of those trim, thatched cottages down there in the valley would be just the thing if he could arrange to take possession of it. They sat there all around the castle, singly and in groups, like small dogs round their master. They looked as if they had been there for centuries. Probably they had, as they were made of stone as solid as that of the castle. There must have been a time, thought George, when the castle was the central rallying point for all those scattered homes, when rumour of danger from marauders had sent all that little community scuttling for safety to the sheltering walls. For the first time since he had set out on his expedition, a certain chill, a discomforting sinking of the heart, afflicted George as he gazed down at the grim grey fortress which he had undertaken to storm. So must have felt those marauders of old when they climbed to the top of this very hill to spy out the land. And George's case was even worse than theirs. They could at least hope that a strong arm and a stout heart would carry them past those solid walls. They had not to think of social etiquette. Whereas George was so situated that an unsympathetic butler could put him to route by refusing him admittance. The evening was drawing in. Already in the brief time he had spent on the hilltop the sky had turned from blue to saffron and from saffron to grey. The plaintive voices of homing cows floated up to him from the valley below. A bat had left its shelter and was wheeling around him, a sinister blot against the sky. A sickle-moon gleamed over the trees. George felt cold. He turned. The shadows of night wrapped him round and little things in the hedgerows chirped and chittered mockery at him as he stumbled down the lane. George's request for a lonely furnished cottage somewhere in the neighbourhood of the castle did not, as he had feared, strike the belfer house-agent as the demand of a lunatic. Every well-dressed stranger who comes to belfer is automatically set down by the natives as an artist, for the picturesqueness of the place has caused it to be much infested by the brothers and sisters of the brush. In asking for a cottage, indeed, George did precisely as belfer society expected him to do, and the agent was reaching for his list almost before the words were out of his mouth. In less than half an hour George was out of the street again, the owner for the season of what the agent described as a gem, and the employer of a farmer's wife who lived nearby and would, as was her custom with the artists, come in the morning and evening to do for him. The interview would have taken but a few minutes had it not been prolonged by the chattiness of the agent on the subject of the occupants of the castle, to which George listened attentively. He was not greatly encouraged by what he heard of Lord Marshmorton. The Earl had made himself notably unpopular in the village recently by his firm. The house-agent said, pig-headed attitude in respect to a certain dispute about a right-of-way. It was Lady Caroline and not their easygoing peer, who was really to blame for the matter. But the impression George got from the house-agent's description of Lord Marshmorton was that the latter was a sort of Nero, possessing, in addition to the qualities of a Roman tyrant, many of the least lovable traits of the Gilemonster of Arizona. Hearing this about her father, and having already had the privilege of meeting her brother and studying him at first hand, his heart bled for mod. It seemed to him that existence at the castle in such society must be little short of torture. I must do something, he muttered. I must do something quick. Big pardon? said the house-agent. Nothing, said George. Well, I'll take that cottage. I'd better write you a check for the first month's rent now. So George took up his abode, full of strenuous, if vague, purpose, in the plainly furnished but not uncomfortable cottage, known locally as the One Down by Plats. He might have found a worse billet. It was a two-storied building of stained red brick, not one of the thatched nests on which he had looked down from the hill. Those were not for rent, being occupied by families whose ancestors had occupied them for generations back. The One Down by Plats was a more modern structure, a speculation, in fact, of the farmer whose wife had come to do for George, and designed especially to accommodate the stranger who had the desire and the money to rent it. It so departed from type that it possessed a small but undeniable bathroom. Besides this miracle there was a cozy sitting-room, a larger bedroom on the floor above, and next to this an empty room facing north, which had evidently served artist occupants as a studio. The remainder of the ground floor was taken up by kitchen and scullery. The furniture had been constructed by somebody who would probably have done very well if he had taken up some other line of industry, but it was mitigated by a very fine and comfortable wicker easy chair, left there by one of last year's artists, and other artists had helped along the good work by relieving the plainness of the walls with a landscape or two. In fact, when George had removed from the room two entomacoccasors three group photographs of the farmer's relations, an illuminated text, and a china statuette of the infant Samuel, and stacked them in a corner of the empty studio, the place became almost a home from home. Solitude can be very unsolitary if a man is in love. George never even began to be bored. The only thing that in any way troubled his peace was the thought that he was not accomplishing a great deal in the matter of helping Maude out of whatever trouble it was that had befallen her. The most he could do was to prowl along about roads near the castle in the hope of an accidental meeting. And such was his good fortune that, on the fourth day of his vigil, the accidental meeting occurred. Taking his morning prowl along the lanes, he was rewarded by the sight of a grey racing-car at the side of the road. It was empty, but from underneath it protruded a pair of long legs, while beside it stood a girl, at the sight of whom George's heart began to thump so violently that the long-legged one might have been pardoned had he supposed that his engine had started again of its own volition. Until he spoke the soft grass had kept her from hearing his approach. He stopped close beside her and cleared his throat. She started and turned, and their eyes met. For a moment hers were empty of any recognition. Then they lit up. She caught her breath quickly, and a faint flush came into her face. Can I help you? asked George. The long legs wriggled out into the road followed by a long body. The young man under the car sat up, turning a grease-streaked and pleasant face to George. Eh? What? Can I help you? I know how to fix a car. The young man beamed in friendly fashion. It's awfully good of you, old chap. But so do I. It's the only thing I can do well. Thanks very much, so forth, and all the same. George fastened his eyes on the girls. She had not spoken. If there is anything in the world I can possibly do for you, he said slowly, I hope you will let me know. I should like above all things to help you. The girl spoke. Thank you. She said, in a low voice, almost inaudible. George walked away. The grease-streaked young man followed him with his gaze. Civil cove that, he said. Rather gushing, though, what? American, wasn't he? Yes, I think he was. Americans are the civilest coves I ever struck. I remember asking the way of a chapiette Baltimore a couple of years ago when I was there in my yard, that he followed me for miles, shrieking advice and encouragement. I thought it doosed civil of him. I wish he would hurry up and get the car right, Reggie. We shall be awfully late for lunch. Reggie Bing began to slide backwards under the car. All right then, dear heart. Lie on me. It's something quite simple. Well do be quick. Imitation of grease lightning. Very difficult, said Reggie, encouragingly. Be patient. Try and amuse yourself somehow. Ask yourself a riddle. Tell yourself a few anecdotes. I'll be with you in a moment. I say, I wonder what the cove is doing at Belfer. Doosed civil cove, said Reggie approvingly. I liked him. And now, business of repairing breakdown. His smiling face vanished under the car like the Cheshire cat. Mod stood looking thoughtfully down the road in the direction in which George had disappeared. End of Chapter 7 The following day was a Thursday, and on Thursdays, as has been stated, Belfer Castle was thrown open to the general public between the hours of two and four. It was a tradition of longstanding this periodical lowering of the barriers, and had always been faithfully observed by Lord Marshmorten ever since his accession to the title. By the permanent occupants of the castle the day was regarded with mixed feelings. Lord Belfer, while approving of it in theory, as he did of all the family traditions, for he was a great supporter of all things feudal, and took his position as one of the hereditary aristocracy of Great Britain extremely seriously, heartily disliked it in practice. More than once he had been obliged to exit hastily by a further door in order to keep from being discovered by a drove of tourists intent on inspecting the library or the great drawing-room. And now it was his custom to retire to his bedroom immediately after lunch, and not to emerge until the tide of invasion had ebbed away. Keggs, the butler, always looked forward to Thursdays with pleasurable anticipation. He enjoyed the sense of authority which had gave him to herd these poor outcasts to and fro among the surroundings which were an everyday commonplace to himself. Also he liked hearing the sound of his own voice as it lectured in rolling periods on the objects of interest by the wayside. But even to Keggs there was a bitter mix with the sweet. No one was better aware than himself that the nobility of his manner, excellent as a means of impressing the mob, worked against him when it came to a question of tips. Again and again had he been harrowed by the spectacle of tourists huddled together like sheep, debating among themselves in nervous whispers as to whether they could offer this personage anything so contemptible as half a crown for himself, and deciding that such an insult was out of the question. It was his endeavour, especially toward the end of the proceedings, to cultivate a manner blending a dignity fitting his position with a sunny genealty which would allay the timid doubts of the tourist and indicate to him that, bizarre as the idea might seem, there was nothing to prevent him placing his poor silver in more worthy hands. Possibly the only member of the castle community who was absolutely indifferent to these public visits was Lord Marshmorton. He made no difference between Thursday and any other day. Precisely, as usual, he donned his stained corduroys and potted out to his beloved garden, and when, as happened on an average once a quarter, some visitor strayed from the main herd and came upon him as he worked, and mistook him for one of the gardeners. He accepted the error without any attempt at explanation, sometimes going so far as to encourage it by adopting a rustic accent in keeping with his appearance. This sort of thing tickled the simple-minded peer. Marsh joined the procession punctually at two o'clock, just as Keggs was clearing his throat, repertoire to saying, We are now in the main all, and before going any further, I would like to call your attention to Sir Peter Lele's portrait of—it was his custom to begin his Thursday lectures with this remark, but today it was postponed, for no sooner had George appeared the nebresi's voice on the outskirts of the throng spoken in tone that made competition impossible. For goodness' sake, George! And Billy Dorr detached herself from the group, a trim vision in blue. She wore a dustcoat and a motor veil, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing from the fresh air. For goodness' sake, George, what are you doing here? I was just going to ask you the same thing. Oh, I motored down with a boy, I know. We had a breakdown just outside the gates. We were on our way to Brighton for lunch. He suggested I should pass the time, seeing the sights while he fixed up the sprockets, or the differential gear, or whatever it was. He's coming to pick me up when he's through. But on the level, George, how do you get this way? You sneak out of town and leave the show flat, and nobody has a notion where you are. Why, we were thinking of advertising for you or going to the police or something. For all anybody knew, you might have been sandbagged or dropped in the river. This aspect of the matter had not occurred to George till now. His sudden descent on Belfour had seemed to him the only natural course to pursue. He had not realized that he would be missed, and that his absence might have caused some grave inconvenience to a large number of people. I never thought of that. I—well, I just happened to come here. You aren't living in this old castle? Not quite. I have a cottage down the road. I wanted a few days in the country, so I rented it. But what made you choose this place? Kegs, who had been regarding these disturbors of the peace with dignified disapproval, coughed. If you would not mind, madam, we are waiting. Eh? How's that? Miss Dorr looked up with a bright smile. I'm sorry. Come along, George. Get in the game. She nodded cheerfully to the butler. All right. I'll set now. You may fire when ready, gridly. Kegs bowed austerely, and cleared his throat again. We are now in the main hall, and before going any further, I would like to call your attention to Sir Peter Lele's portrait to the Fifth Countess, said by experts to be his best manor. There was an almost soundless murmur from the mob, expressive of wonder and awe, like a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. Billy Dorr resumed her conversation in a whisper. Yes, there was an awful lot of excitement when they found that you had disappeared. They were phoning the Carlton every ten minutes trying to get you. You see, the summertime number flopped on the second night, and they hadn't anything to put in its place. But it's all right. They took it out and sewed up the wound, and now you'd never know they'd put anything wrong. The show was ten minutes too long, anyway. How's the show going? It's a riot. They think it will run two years in London. As far as I can make it out, you don't call it a success in London unless you can take your grandchildren to see the Thousandth Night. That's splendid. And how is everybody? All right? Fine. That fellow Grey is still hanging around Babe. It beats me to watch she sees in him anybody, but an infant can see the man wasn't on the level. Well, I don't blame you for quitting London, George. That sort of thing is worth fifty London's. The procession had reached one of the upper rooms, and they were looking down from a window that had commanded a sweep of miles of the countryside, rolling and green and wooded. Far away, beyond the last covert, Belfour Bay gleamed like a streak of silver. Billy Dorr gave a little sigh. There's nothing like this in the world. I'd like to stand here for the rest of my life, just lapping it up. I will call your attention, boomed kegs at their elbow, to this window, known to the family tradition, as Leonard's Leap, 1787 that Lord Leonard IV, eldest son of his, graced the Duke of Loughlin, hurled himself out of this window in order to avoid compromising the beautiful countess of Marshmoreton, with whom he is related to have had an innocent romance. Surprised at an advanced hour by his lordship, the Earl and her ladyship's bourgeois, as this room then was, he leaped through the open window into the boughs of the sedetry, which stands below, and was fortunate enough to escape with a few armless contusions. A murmur of admiration greeted the recital of the ready tact of this 18th-century Steve Brody. There, said Billy enthusiastically, that's exactly what I mean about this country. It's just a mass of Leonard's leaps and things. I'd like to settle down in this sort of a place and spend the rest of my life milking cows and taking forkfuls of soup to the deserving villagers. We will now, said kegs, herding the mob with the gesture, proceed to the amber drawing-room, containing some goblin tapestries, highly spoken of by Gonazous. The obedient mob began to drift out in his wake. What do you say, George? asked Billy in an undertone. If we sidestep the amber drawing-room, I'm wild to get into that garden. There's a man working among those roses. Maybe he would show us around. George followed her, pointing finger, just below them a sturdy, brown-faced man in corduroy's was pausing to light a stubby pipe, just as you like. They made their way down the great staircase. The voice of kegs, saying complementary things about the goblin tapestries, came to their ears like the roll of distant drums. They wandered out towards the rose garden. The man in corduroy's had lit his pipe, and was bending once more to his task. Well, dada! said Billy amably. How are the crops? The man straightened himself. He was a nice-looking man of middle age, with the kind eyes of a friendly dog. He smiled genially, and started to put his pipe away. Billy stopped him. Oh, don't stop smoking on my account. She said, I like it. Well, you've got the right sort of job, haven't you? If I was a man, there's nothing I'd like better than to put in my eight hours in a rose garden. She looked about her, and this, she said with approval, is just what a rose garden ought to be. Are you found of roses? Missy? You bet I am. You must have every kind here that was ever invented. All fifty-seven varieties. There are nearly three thousand varieties, said the man in corduroy's tolerantly. I was speaking colloquially, dada. You can't teach me anything about roses. I'm the guy that invented them. Got any airshires? The man in corduroy's seemed to have come to the conclusion that Billy was the only thing on earth that mattered. This revelation of a kindred spirit had captured him completely. George was merely among those present. Those, them, over there are airshires, Missy. We don't get airshires in America. At least I never ran across them. I suppose they do have them. You want the right soil. Clay and lots of rain. You're right. There was an earnest expression on Billy Dore's face that George had never seen there before. Say, listen, dada, in this manner of rose beetles, what would you do if George moved away? The conversation was becoming too technical for him, and he had an idea that he would not be missed. There had come to him, moreover, in a flash, one of those sudden inspirations which great generals get. He had visited the castle this afternoon without any settled plan, other than a vague hope that he might somehow seem mauled. He now perceived that there was no chance of doing this. Evidently on Thursdays the family went to earth and remained hidden until the sightseers had gone, but there was another avenue of communication open to him. This gardener seemed an exceptionally intelligent man. He could be trusted to deliver a note to Maude. In his late rambles about Belfort Castle, in the company of Kiggs and his followers, George had been privileged to inspect the library. It was an easily accessible room, opening off the main hall. He left Billy and her new friend deep in a discussion of slugs and plant lice, and walked quickly back to the house. The library was unoccupied. George was a thorough young man. He believed in leaving nothing to chance. The gardener had seemed a trustworthy soul, but you never knew. It was possible that he drank. He might forget, or lose the precious note. So with a wary eye on the door, George hastily scribbled it in duplicate. This took him but a few minutes. He went out into the garden again to find Billy Doar on the point of stepping into a blue automobile. Oh! There you are, George! I wondered where you had got to. Say, I've made quite a hit with Dada. I've given him my address, and he's promised to send me a whole lot of roses. By the way, shake hands with Mr. Forseth. This is George Bevin, Freddie, who wrote the music for our show. The solemn youth at the wheel extended the hand. Topping show. Topping music. Topping all round. Well, goodbye, George. See you soon, I suppose. Oh, yes, give my love to everybody. All right, let her rip, Freddie. Goodbye! Bye. The blue car gathered speed and vanished down the drive. George returned to the man in the corduroy's, who had bent himself double in pursuit of a slug. Just a minute, said George hurriedly. He pulled out the first of the notes. Give this to Lady Maude on the first chance you get. It's important. Here's a sovereign for your trouble. He hastened away. He noticed that gratification had turned the other nearly purple in the face, and was anxious to leave him. He was a modest young man, and effusive thanks always embarrassed him. There now remained the disposal of the duplicate note. It was hardly worthwhile, perhaps, taking such precaution. But George knew that victories are won by those who take no chances. He had wandered perhaps a hundred yards from the rose garden, when he encountered a small boy in the many-buttoned uniform of a page. The boy had appeared from behind a big cedar, where, as a matter of fact, he had been smoking a stolen cigarette. Do you want to earn half a crown? asked George. The market value of messengers had slumped. The stripling held his hand out. Give this note to Lady Maude. Right how? See that it reges her at once. George walked off with the consciousness of a good day's work done. Albert, the page, having bitten his half-crown, placed it in his pocket. Then he hurried away, a look of excitement and gratification in his deep blue eyes. END OF CHAPTER IX While George and Billy Dore wandered to the rose garden to interview the man in corduaries, Maude had been seated not a hundred yards away, in a very special haunt of her own. A cracked stucco temple set up in the days of the regency on the shores of a little lily-covered pond. She was reading poetry to Albert, the page. She had interested herself in him some two months back, in much the same spirit as the prisoner in his dungeon cell tames and pets the conventional mouse. To educate Albert, to raise him above his groove in life and develop his soul, appeal to her romantic nature as a worthy task, and as a good way of filling in the time. It is an exceedingly moot point, and one which his associates of the servants' hall would have combated hotly, whether Albert possessed a soul. The most one could say, for certain, is that he looked as if he possessed one. To one who saw his deep blue eyes, and their sweet pensive expression as they searched the middle distance, he seemed like a young angel. How was the watcher to know that the thought behind that far-off gaze was simply a speculation as to whether the bird on the cedar tree was or was not within range of his catapult? Certainly Maude had no such suspicion. She worked hopefully day by day to rouse Albert to an appreciation of the nobler things of life. Not but what it was a tough going, even she admitted that. Albert's soul did not so readily. It refused to leap from the earth. His reception of the poem she was reading could scarcely have been called encouraging. Maude finished it in a hushed voice, and looked pensively across the dappled water of the pool. A gentle breeze stirred the water lilies so that they seemed a sigh. Isn't that beautiful, Albert? she said. Albert's blue eyes lit up. His lips parted eagerly. That's the first hornet I've seen this year, he said, pointing. Maude felt a little dampened. Haven't you been listening, Albert? Oh, yes, my lady. I into your whopper, too. Never mind the hornet, Albert. Very good, my lady. I wish she wouldn't say very good, my lady. It's like—like—she paused. She had been about to say that it was like a butler, but she reflected regretfully. It was probably Albert's dearest ambition to be like a butler. It doesn't sound right. Just say yes. Yes, my lady. Maude was not enthusiastic about the my lady, but she let it go. After all, she had not quite settled in her own mind what exactly she wished Albert's attitude toward herself to be. Broadly speaking, she wanted him to be as like as he could to a medieval page, one of those silk and satin little treasures she had read about in the Ingoldsby legends. And, of course, they presumably said, my lady. And yet she felt, not for the first time, that it is not easy to revive the middle ages in these curious days. Pages, like other things, seem to have changed since then. That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of my ancestors. He ran away with her from this very castle in the seventeenth century. Law! said Albert as a concession. But he was still interested in the hornet. He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what a wonderful man he was. So she didn't mind what people said about her marrying beneath her. Like Susan when she married the policeman. Who was Susan? Red-headed girl that used to be the cook here. Mr. Keg says to her, he says, You're marrying beneath you, Susan. He says, I heard him. I was listening at the door. And she says to him, she says, Oh, go and bore your fat head! she says. This translation of a favorite romance into terms of the servants' hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it. Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert? she said, perseveringly, and become a great poet and write wonderful poems? Albert considered the point and shook his head. No, my lady. It was discouraging. But Maud was a girl of pluck. You cannot leap into strange cabs in Piccadilly unless you have pluck. She picked up another book from the stone seat. Read me some of this, she said, and then tell me if it doesn't make you feel you want to go and do big things. Albert took the book cautiously. He was getting a little fed up with all this sort of thing. True, her ladyship gave him chocolates to eat during these sessions. But for all that it was too much like school for his taste. He regarded the open page with disfavor. Go on, said Maud, closing her eyes. It's very beautiful. Albert began. He had a husky voice, due, it is to be feared, to precocious cigarette-spoking, and his enunciation was not as good as it might have been. With blackest morts the flower-ports was, I mean, were, crusted one and all. Their rusted nails fell from the noughts, that ailed the pier to the garden wall. Their broken sheds looked sad and strange. Unlifted was the clinking latch. Weeded and worn their ancient fetch upon their lonely moated grunge. She only said, me, life is dreary. It cometh nought, she said. Albert rather liked this part. He was never happy in narrative, unless it could be sprinkled with a plentiful supply of he-sads, and she-sads. He finished with some gusto. She said, I am a weary, a weary. I would that I was dead. Maude had listened to this rendition of one of her most adored poems, with much the same feeling which a composer with an oversensitive ear would suffer on hearing his pet opus assassinated by a schoolgirl. Albert, who was a willing lad, and prepared, if such should be her desire, to plow his way through the entire seven stanzas, began the second verse. But Maude gently took the book away from him. Enough was sufficient. Now, wouldn't you like to be able to write a wonderful thing like that, Albert? Not me, my lady. You wouldn't like to be a poet when you grew up? Albert chuck his golden head. Oh, I want to be a butcher when I grow up, my lady. Maude uttered a little cry. A butcher? Yes, my lady. Butchers earn good money, he said, a light of enthusiasm in his blue eyes, for he was now on his favourite subject. You've got to have me, you see, my lady. Don't like poetry, my lady, which no one wants. But Albert cried Maude faintly, killing poor animals. Surely you wouldn't like that? Albert's eyes glowed softly as might and acolytes at the sight of his censor. Mr. Wick did down at the own farm, he murmured reverently. He says if I'm a good boy, it'll let me watch him kill a pig Tuesday. He gazed out over the water-lilies, his thoughts far away. Maude shuddered. She wondered if medieval pages were ever quite as earthy as this. Perhaps you had better go now, Albert. They may be needing you in the house. Very good, my lady. Albert Rose, not unwilling to call it a day, he was conscious of the need for a quiet cigarette. He was fond of Maude, but a man can't spend all his time with the women. Pig squeal like Billy-O, my lady. He observed by way of adding a parting treasure to Maude's stock of general knowledge. Oh! Here I'm a mile off you can! Maude remained where she was, thinking—a wistful figure. Tennyson's Mariana always made her wistful, even when rendered by Albert. In the occasional moods of sentimental depression, which came to vary her normal cheerfulness, it seemed to her that the poem might have been written with a prophetic eye to her special case, so nearly did it crystallize in magic words her own story. With the blackest moss, the flower-pots were thickly crusted, one and all. Well, no, not that particular part, perhaps. If he had found so much as one flower-pot of his even thinly crusted with any foreign substance, Lord Marshmorton would have gone through the place like an east wind, dismissing gardeners and under gardeners with every breath. But she only said, my life is dreary, he cometh not, she said. She said, I am a weary, a weary. I would that I were dead. How exactly at these moments when she was not out on the links, picking them off with turf with a mid-iron, or engaged in one of those other healthful sports, which tend to take the mind off its troubles, those words summed up her case. Why didn't Jeffrey come? Or at least write? She could not write to him. Letters from the castle left only by way of the castle post-bag, which Rogers, the chauffeur, took down to the village every evening. Impossible to entrust the kind of letter she wished to write to any mode of delivery so public, especially now, when her movements were watched. To open and read in other's letters is a low and dastardly act, but she believed that Lady Caroline would do it like a shot. She longed to pour out her heart to Jeffrey in a long intimate letter. But she did not dare to take the risk of writing for a wider public. Things were bad enough, as it was, after that disastrous saute to London. At this point a soothing vision came to her, the vision of George Bevan knocking off her brother Percy's hat. It was the only pleasant thing that had happened almost as far back as she could remember. And then, for the first time, her mind condescended to dwell for a moment on the author of that act, George Bevan, the friend in need whom she had met only the day before in the lane. What was George doing at Belfer? His presence there was significant, and his words even more so. He had stated explicitly that he wished to help her. She found herself oppressed by the irony of things. A night had come to the rescue, but the wrong night. Why could it not have been Jeffrey who waited an ambush outside the castle, and not a pleasant but negligible stranger? Whether, deep down in her consciousness, she was aware of a fleeting sense of disappointment in Jeffrey, a swiftly passing thought that he had failed her, she could hardly have said so quickly did she crush it down. She pondered on the arrival of George. What was the use of his being somewhere in the neighbourhood if she had no means of knowing where she could find him? Situated as she was, she could not wander at will about the countryside looking for him. And even if she found him, what then? There was not much that any stranger, however pleasant could do. She flushed at a sudden thought. Of course, there was something George could do for her. If he were willing, he could receive, dispatch, and deliver letters. If only she could get in touch with him. She could, through him, get in touch with Jeffrey. The whole world changed for her. The sun was setting, and shill little winds had begun to stir the lily-pads, giving a depressing air to the scene. But to mod it seemed as if all nature smiled. With the egotism of love she did not perceive that what she had proposed to ask George to do was practically to fulfil the humble role of the hollow tree in which lovers dump letters to be extracted later. She did not consider George's feelings at all. He had offered to help her, and this was his job. The world is full of George's whose task it is to hang about in the background and make themselves unobtrusively useful. She had reached this conclusion when Albert, who had taken a shortcut the more rapidly to accomplish his errand, burst upon her dramatically from the heart of a road-dendron thicket. Milady, gentlemen give me this to give you. Mod read the note. It was brief and to the point. I am staying near the castle at a cottage they call the One Down by Plats. It is a rather new, red brick place. You can easily find it. I shall be waiting there if you want me. It was signed The Man in the Cab. Do you know a cottage called the One Down by Plats, Albert? Asked Mod. Yes, Milady. It is Down by Plats Farm. I see a chicken killed there Wednesday week. Do you know, Milady, after a chicken's-ed is cut off, it goes running lickety-split? Mod shivered slightly. Albert's fresh young enthusiasm's frequently jarred upon her. I find a friend of mine is staying there. I want you to take a note to him from me. Very good, Milady. And Albert? Yes, Milady. Perhaps it would be, as well, if you said nothing about this to any one of your friends. In Lord Marshmonton's study, a council of three was sitting in debate. The subject under discussion was that other note which George had written and so ill-advisedly entrusted to one whom he had taken for a guileless gardener. The council consisted of Lord Marshmonton looking rather shame-faced, his son Percy looking swollen and serious, and Lady Caroline Bing looking like a tragedy queen. This, Lord Belfour was saying in a determined voice, settles it. From now on, Mod must not be allowed out of our sight. Lord Marshmonton spoke. I rather wish, he said regretfully, I hadn't spoken about the note. I only mentioned it because I thought you might think it amusing. Amusing! Lady Caroline's voice shook the furniture. Amusing that the fellow should have handed me, of all people, a letter for Mod, exclaimed her brother. I don't want to get Mod into trouble. You are criminally weak, said Lady Caroline severely. I really honestly believe that you were capable of giving the note to that poor, misguided girl, and saying nothing about it. She flushed, the insolence of the man, coming here and settling down at the very gates of the castle. If it was anybody but this man Platt who was giving him shelter, I should insist on his being turned out. But that man Platt would be only too glad to know that he is causing us annoyance. Quite, said Lord Belfer. You must go to this man as soon as possible, continued Lady Caroline fixing her brother with a commanding stare, and do your best to make him see how abominable his behaviour is. Oh, I couldn't! pleaded the Earl. I don't know the fellow. He'd throw me out. Nonsense! Go at the very earliest opportunity. Oh, all right, all right. Well, I think I'll be slipping up to the rose garden now. There's a clear hour before dinner. There was a tap at the door. Alice Faraday entered, bearing papers. A smile of sweet helpfulness on her pretty face. I hoped I should find you here, Lord Marshmorton. You promised to go over these notes with me, the ones about the Essex branch. The hunted peer looked as if he were about to dive through the window. Some other time, some other time. I—I have important matters. Oh, if you're busy. Of course, Lord Marshmorton will be delighted to work on your notes, Miss Faraday, said Lady Caroline crisply. Take this chair. We are just going. Lord Marshmorton gave one wistful glance through the open window. Then he sat down with a sigh and felt for his reading-glasses. CHAPTER X Your true golfer is a man who, knowing that life is short and perfection hard to attain, neglects no opportunity of practising his chosen sport, allowing neither wind nor weather nor any external influence to keep him from it. There is a story, with an excellent moral lesson, of a golfer whose wife had determined to leave him for ever. Will nothing alter your decision? he says. Will nothing induce you to stay? Well, then, while you are packing, I think I'll go out on the lawn and rub up my putting a bit. George Bevan was of this turn of mind. He might be in love, romance might have sealed him for her own, but that was no reason for blinding himself to the fact that his long game was bound to suffer if he neglected to keep himself up to the mark. His first act on arriving at Belfour Village had been to ascertain whether there was a links in the neighbourhood, and thither, on the morning after his visit to the castle and the delivery of the two notes, he repaired. At the hour of the day which he had selected, the club house was empty, and he had just resigned himself to a solitary game, when, with a whir and a rattle, a grey racing car drove up, and from it emerged the same long young man whom a couple days earlier he had seen wriggle out from underneath the same machine. It was Reggie Bing's habit, also, not to allow anything, even love, to interfere with golf, and not even the prospect of hanging about the castle grounds in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice Faraday and exchanging timorous words with her had been enough to keep him from the links. Reggie surveyed George with a friendly eye. He had a dim recollection of having seen him before, somewhere, at some time or other, and Reggie had a pleasing disposition which caused him to rank anybody whom he had seen somewhere, at some time or other, as a bosom friend. Hello, hello, hello! he observed. Good morning! said George, waiting for somebody. No. How about it, then? Shall we stug her forth? Delighted. George found himself speculating upon Reggie. He was unable to place him, that he was a friend of Maude, he knew, and guessed that he was also a resident of the castle. He would have liked to question Reggie, to probe him, to collect from him inside information as the progress of events within the castle walls, but it is a peculiarity of golf, as of love, that it temporarily changes the natures of its victims, and Reggie, a confirmed babbler off the links, became, while in action, a stern, silent, intent person, his whole being centred on the game. With the exception of a casual remark of a technical nature, when he met George on the various tees, and an occasional expletive when things went wrong with his ball, he eschewed conversation. It was not to the end of the round that he became himself again. If I had known you were such hot stuff, he declared generously as George hold his eighteenth putt from a distance of ten feet, I'd have got you to give me a stroke or two. I was on my game today, said George modestly. Sometimes I slice as if I were cutting bread, and can't putt to hit a haystack. Let me know when one of those times comes along, and I'll take you on again. I don't know when I've seen anything fruitier than that way you got out of the bunker at the fifteenth. It reminded me of a match I saw between Reggie became technical. At the end of his observation, he climbed into the grey car. Can I drop you anywhere? Thanks, said George. If it's not taking you out of your way, I'm staying at Belfort Castle. I live quite new there. Perhaps you'd care to come in and have a drink on your way. A ripe scheme, agreed Reggie. Ten minutes in the grey car ate up the distance between the links and George's cottage. Reggie being past these minutes in the intervals of eluding carts and foiling the apparently suicidal intentions of some stray fowls, in jerky conversation on the subject of his iron shots, with which he expressed deep satisfaction. Topping little place, absolutely, was the verdict he pronounced on the exterior of the cottage as he followed George in. I've often thought it would be a rather sound scheme to settle down in this sort of shanty and keep chickens and grow a honey-coloured beard, and have soup and jelly brought to you by the vicar's wife and so forth. Nothing to worry you then. Do you live all alone here? George was busy squirting seltzer into his guest's glass. Yes, Mrs. Platt comes in and cooks for me, the farmer's wife next door. An exclamation from the other cost him to look up. Reggie Bing was staring about him wide-eyed. Great Scott! Mrs. Platt! Then you're the chappy! George found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. The chappy? The chappy there's all a row about. The mater was telling me only this morning that you lived here. Is there a row about me? Is there a what? Reggie's manner became so this is just I say, my dear old sportsman, I don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings and whatnot, if you know what I mean, but didn't you know there was a certain amount of angry passion rising and so forth because of you? At the castle, I mean, I don't want to seem to be discussing your private affairs and all that sort of thing, but what I mean is, well, you don't expect you can come charging in the way you have without touching the family on the row, but the daughter of the house falls in love with you, the son of the house languishes in the choky because he has a row with you in Piccadilly, and on top of all that you come here and camp out at the castle gates. Naturally the family are a bit peeved, only naturally, I mean to say, what? George listened to this address in bewilderment. Maude, in love with him? It sounded incredible, that he should love her after their one meeting was a different thing altogether. That was perfectly natural in in order, but that he should have had the incredible luck to win her affection. The things struck him as grotesque and ridiculous. In love with me, he cried, what on earth do you mean? Reggie's bewilderment equaled his own. Well, dash it all, old top, it surely isn't news to you. She must have told you why she told me. Told you? Am I going mad? Absolutely. I mean, absolutely not. Look here. Reggie hesitated. The subject was delicate, but once started it might as well be proceeded with to some conclusion. A fellow couldn't go on talking about his iron shards after this, just as if nothing had happened. This was the time for the laying down of cards, the opening of hearts. I say, you know, he went on, feeling his way. You'll probably think it juice-drumming you've been talking like this, perfect stranger and what not, but don't even know each other's names. Mine's Bevan, if that'll be any help. Thanks very much, old chap. Great help. Mine's Bing. Reggie Bing. Well, as we're all pals here, and the meeting's tiled, and so forth, I'll start by saying that the Mater is most dutifully set on my marrying Lady Maude. Been pals all our lives, you know, children together, and all that sort of rot. Now, there's nobody I think of a more corking sport than Maude, if you know what I mean, but this is where the catch comes in. I'm most frightfully in love with somebody else, hopeless and all that sort of thing, but still there it is. And all the while, the Mater behind me were the brud or sticking me on to propose to Maude who wouldn't have me if I were the only fellow on earth. You can't imagine my dear old chap at a relief it was to both of us when she told me the other day that she was in love with you, and wouldn't dream of looking at anybody else. I'd tell you I went singing about the place. George felt inclined to imitate his excellent example. A burst of song was the only adequate expression of the mood of heavenly happiness which this young man's revelations had brought upon him. The whole world seemed indifferent. Wings seemed to sprout from Reggie's shapely shoulders. The air was filled with soft music. Even the wallpaper seemed moderately attractive. He mixed himself a second whiskey and soda. It was the next best thing to singing. I see, he said. It was difficult to say anything, Reggie was regarding him enviously. Wish I knew how the deuce fellows said about making a girl fall in love with them. Other chapies seemed to do it, but I can't even start. She seemed to sort of gaze through me, don't you know? She kind of looks at me as if I were more to be pity than censured, but as if she thought I really ought to do something about it. Of course she's a devilish, brainy girl, and I'm a fearful chump. He's a kind of hopeless, what? George, in his newborn happiness, found a pleasure in encouraging a less lucky mortal. Not a bit. What you ought to do is to, yes, said Reggie eagerly. George shook his head. No, I don't know. Nor do I dat it, said Reggie. George pondered. It seems to me it's purely a question of luck. Either you're lucky, or you're not. And look at me, for instance. What is there about me to make a wonderful girl fall in love with me? Nothing. I see what you mean. At least what I mean to say is, no, you're right, the first time. It's all a question of luck. There's nothing anyone can do. I hang about a good deal and get in her way, said Reggie. She's always tripping over me. I thought that might help a bit. It might, of course. But on the other hand, when we do meet, I can't think of anything to say. Oh, that's bad. It's just a funny thing. I'm not what you'd call a silent sort of chappy-by-nature. But when I'm with her, I don't know. It's rum. He drained his glass and rose. Well, I suppose I might as well be staggering. Don't give up. Have another game one of these days, what? Splendid, any time you like. Well, so long. Goodbye. George gave himself up to glowing thoughts. For the first time in his life, he seemed to be vividly aware of his own existence. It was as if he were some newly created thing. Everything around him and everything he did had taken on a strange and novel interest. He seemed to notice the ticking of the clock for the first time. When he raised his glass, the action had a curious air of newness. All his senses were oddly alert. He could even—how would it be?—inquired Reggie, appearing in the doorway, like part of a conjury trick, if I gave her a flower or two every now and then. Just sort of it, as I was starting the car. She's fond of flowers. Fine! said George heartily. He had not heard a word. The alertness of sense which had come to him was accompanied by a strange inability to attend to other people's speech. This would no doubt pass. But, meanwhile, it made him a poor listener. Well, it's worth trying, said Reggie. I'll give it a well. Toodle-doo! Bye. Pip-pip! Reggie withdrew, and presently came the noise of the car starting. George returned to his thoughts. Time, as we understand it, ceases to exist for a man in such circumstances. Whether it was a minute later or several hours, George did not know. But presently he was aware of a small boy standing beside him, a golden-haired boy, with blue eyes, who wore the uniform of a page. He came out of his trance. This, he recognized, was the boy to whom he had given the note from odd. He was different from any other intruder. He meant something in George's scheme of things. Hello! said the youth. Hello, Alfonso! said George. My name is not Alfonso. Well, you be very careful, or it soon may be. Got a note for you from Liddy Mord. You will find some cake and ginger ale in the kitchen. Said the grateful George. Give it a trial. Not our! said the stripling. End of Chapter 10 CHAPTER 11 OF A DAMSLE IN DISTRESS Read by Asper Stascio in Waxall, North Carolina George opened the letter with trembling and reverent fingers. Dear Mr. Bevan, thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me, how very, very kind. Hi, Mr. George looked up testily. The boy Albert had reappeared. What's the matter? Can't you find the cake? I found the cake, rejoined Albert, adducing proof of the statement in the shape of a massive slice, from which he took a substantial bite to assist thought. But I can't find the ginger ale. George waved him away. This interruption at such a moment was annoying. Look for it, child, look for it, sniff after it, bay on its trail, it's somewhere about. Right, mummled Albert through the cake. He flicked a crumb off his cheek with a tongue, which would have excited the friendly interest of an anteater. I like ginger ale. Well, go and bathe in it. Right! George returned to his letter. Dear Mr. Bevan, thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this, and to say, Hi, Mr. Good heavens, George glared. What's the matter now? Haven't you found that ginger ale yet? I found the ginger ale right enough, but I can't find the thing. The thing? What thing? The thing? The thing what you open ginger ale with? Oh, you mean the thing! It's in the middle drawer of the dresser. Use your eyes, my boy. Right. George gave an overwrought sigh, and began the letter again. Dear Mr. Bevan, thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this, and to say that you would help me. And how clever of you to find me after I was so secretive that day in the cab. You really can help me, if you are willing. It is too long to explain in a note, but I am in great trouble, and there is nobody except you to help me. I will explain everything when I see you. The difficulty will be to slip away from home. They are watching me every moment, I'm afraid. But I will try my hardest to see you very soon. Your sincerely, Maud Marsh. Just for a moment it must be confessed the tone of the letter dampened George. He could not have said just what he had expected, but certainly Reggie's revelations had prepared him for something rather warmer, something more in the style in which a girl would write to the man she loved. The next moment, however, he saw how foolish any such expectation had been. How on earth could any reasonable man expect a girl to let herself go at this stage of the proceedings? It was for him to make the first move. Naturally she wasn't going to reveal her feelings until he had revealed his. George raised the letter to his lips and kissed it vigorously. Hi, mister! George started guiltily. The blush of shame overspread his cheeks. The room seemed to echo with the sound of that fatuous kiss. Kitty, kitty, kitty, he called, snapping his fingers and repeating the incriminating noise. I was just calling my cat, he explained with dignity. You didn't see her in there, did you? Albert's blue eyes met his in a derisive stare. The lid of the left one fluttered. It was but too plain that Albert was not convinced. A little black cat with white shirt front babbled George perseveringly. She's usually either here or there or or somewhere. Kitty, kitty, kitty. The cupid's bow of Albert's mouth parted. He uttered one word. Swank! There was a tense silence. What Albert was thinking one cannot say. The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. What George was thinking was that the late King Herod had been unjustly blamed for a policy which had been both statesman-like and in the interests of the public. He was blaming the mockish sentimentality of the modern legal system which ranks the evesacration and secret burial of small boys as a crime. What do you mean? You know what I mean. I have a good mind to—Albert waved a deprecating hand. It's all right, mister. I'm your friend. You are, are you? Well, don't let it about. I've got a reputation to keep up. I'm your friend, I tell you. I can help you. I want to help you. George's views on infanticide underwent a slight modification. After all, he felt, much must be excused to youth. Youth thinks it funny to see a man kissing a letter. It is not funny, of course. It is beautiful. But it's no good arguing the point. Let youth have its snigger, provided after it has finished sniggering it intends to buckle to and be of practical assistance. Albert, as an ally, was not to be despised. George did not know what Albert's duties as a page-boy were, but they seemed to be of a nature that gave him plenty of leisure and freedom, and a friendly resident of the castle with leisure and freedom was just what he needed. That's very good of you, he said, twisting his reluctant features into a fairly benevolent smile. Well, I can help! persisted Albert. Got a cigarette. Do you smoke, child? When I get old of a cigarette, I do. I'm sorry, I can't oblige you. I don't smoke cigarettes. And I'll have to have one of my own, said Albert moodily. He reached into the mysteries of his pocket, and produced a piece of string, a knife, the wish-bone of a fowl, two marbles, a crushed cigarette, and a match. Replacing the string, the knife, the wish-bone, and the marbles, he ignited the match against the tightest part of his person, and lit the cigarette. Well, I can help you. I know the ropes. And smoke them, said George wincing. Pardon? Nothing. Albert took an enjoyable whiff. Ah, I know all about you. You do. You and Liddy moored. Oh, you do, do you? I was listening at the keyhole when the row was going on. There was a row, was there? A faint smile of retrospective enjoyment lit up Albert's face. An awful row, shouting and yelling and cussing all over the shop, about you and Liddy moored. And you drank it in, eh? Pardon? I say you listened? Not off, I listened. Seeing I'd just drawn you in a sweepstike, of course I listened. Not off. George did not follow him here. The sweepstike? What a sweepstike! Why, a thing he puts knives and acts and drills them, and the one that gets the winning knife, wins the money. Oh, you mean a sweepstike? That's what I said, a sweepstike. George was still puzzled. But I don't understand. How do you mean you drew me in a sweepstike? I mean a sweepstike. What sweepstike? Down in the servants' hall. Caggs the butler started it. I heard him say, he always had, what every place he was as a butler, least a ways, whenever there was any daughters of the house, there's always a chance when there's a house party, or one of the daughters of the house getting married to one of the gents in the party. So Caggs, he puts all of the gents' names in the hat, and you pay five shillings for a chance, and the one that draws the winning knife gets the money. And if the daughter of the house don't get married that time, the money's put away, and added to the pool for the next house party. George gasped. This revelation of life below stairs in the stately homes of England took his breath away. Then astonishment gave way to indignation. Do you mean to tell me that you, you worms, made Lady Marge the prize of a sweepstike? Albert was hurt. Who are you calling worms? George perceived the need of diplomacy. After all, much depended on this child's good will. I was referring to the butler. What's his name? Caggs. He ain't a worm. He's a serpent. Albert drew at his cigarette. His brow darkened. He does the drawing, Caggs does, and I'd like to know how it is he always manages to cop the favourite. Albert chuckled. But this time I'd done it proper. He didn't want me in the thing at all. Said I was too young. Tried to do the drawing without me. Clip that boy one side of the head, he says, and turn him out. He says, I says, yes you will, I says. And what price me going to is lordship and blowing the gaff, I says. He says, oh all right, he says. Have it your own way, he says. Where's your five shillings, he says. Here you are, I says. Oh, very well, he says. But you'll have to draw last, he says, being the youngest. Well, they started drawing the names, and of course Caggs asked to draw Mr. Bing. Oh, he drew Mr. Bing, did he? Yes. And everyone knew Reggie was the favourite. Smiled all over his fat face, the old serpent did. And when it come to my turn, he says to me. Sorry, Albert, he says. But there ain't no more names. They've give out. Oh, they have, have they, I says. Well, what's the matter with giving a fellow a spot and chance, I says. How do you mean, he says? Why, write me out a ticket marked Mr. X, I says. Then if a lady ship marries anyone not in the house party, I cop. All right, he says. But you know the conditions of this year's week. Nothing don't count only what takes place doing the two weeks of the house party, he says. All right, I says. Write me a ticket. It's a fair sport and venture. So he writes me out my ticket, with Mr. X on it. And I says to him all, I says. I'd like to have witnesses, I says, to this year thing. Do all your gents agree that if anyone not in the house party and whose name ain't on one of the other tickets marries a lady ship, I get the pool, I says. They all says that's right. And then I says to him all straight out, I says. I happen to know, I says, that her ladyship is in love with a gent that's not in the house party at all. An American gent, I says. They wouldn't believe it at first. But when Keggs had put two and two together, and thought of the one or two things that had happened, he turned as, what is a sheet, and said it was a swindle, and what in the drawing done over again? But the other says no. They says it's quite fair, they says. And one of them offered me ten bobslap out from our ticket. But I stuck to it I did. And that, concluded Albert, throwing the cigarette into the fireplace just in time to prevent a scorched finger, that's why I'm going to help you. There is probably no attitude of mind harder for the average man to maintain than that of a loof disapproval. George was an average man, and during the degrading recital just concluded he had found himself slipping. At first he had been revolted, then in spite of himself amused, and now when all the facts were before him, he could induce his mind to think of nothing else than his good fortune in securing as an ally one who appeared to combine a precocious intelligence with a helpful lack of scruple. War is war, and love is love, and in each the practical man inclines to demand from his fellow workers the punch rather than a lofty soul. A page-boy replete with the finer feelings would have been useless in this crisis. Albert, who seemed on the evidence of a short but sufficient acquaintance, to be a lad who would not recognize the finer feelings if they were handed to him on a plate with water-cress round them, promised to be invaluable. Something in his manner told George that the child was bursting with schemes for his benefit. Have some more cake, Albert, he said ingratiatingly. The boy shook his head. Do, urged George, just a little slice. There ain't no little slice, replied Albert with regret. I vetted all. He sighed and resumed. I got a scheme. Fine, what is it? Albert knitted his brows. It's like this. You want to see your ladyship, but she can't come to the castle, and she can't come to you, not with her fat brother dodging over his footsteps. That's it, ain't it? Or am I a liar? George hastened to reassure him. That is exactly it. What's the answer? I'd tell you what you can do. There's the big ball tonight, because of its being his nibs coming of age to-morrow. All the country will be here. You think I could slip in and be taken for a guest? Albert snorted contempt. No, I don't think nothing of the kind, not being a fat head. George apologized. But what you could do is this. I heard kegs talk into the housekeeper about having to get a lot of tempy waiters to help out for the night. George reached forward and patted Albert on the head. Don't mess my air now, warned that youth coldly. Albert, you're one of the great thinkers of the age. I could get into the castle as a waiter, and you could tell Lady Maud I was there and we could arrange a meeting. Machiavelli couldn't have thought of anything smoother. Mach who? One of your ancestors. Great schemer in his day. But one moment. Now what? How am I to get engaged? How do I get the job? That's all right. I'll tell the housekeeper you're my cousin. Been a waiter in America at the best restaurants? Own for all a day. But he'll come in one night to oblige. He'll pay you a quid. I'll hand it over to you. Just, said Albert approvingly, what I was going to suggest myself. Then I'll leave all the arrangements to you. You'd better if you don't want to mic a mess of everything. All you've got to do is come to the servant's entrance at eight sharp to-night and say you're my cousin. That's an awful thing to ask anyone to say. Pardon? Nothing, said George. End of chapter 11. Chapter 12 The great ball in honor of Lord Belfour's coming of age was at its height. The reporter of the Belfour Intelligencer, the farmer's guide who is present in his official capacity, and had been allowed by Butler Cakes to take a peep at the scene through a side door, justly observed in his account of the proceedings next day, that the tout ensemble was very like, and described the company as a galaxy of fair women and brave men. The floor was crowded with all that was best and noblest in the county, so that a half-brick hurled at any given moment must infallibly have spilt blue blood. Peers stepped on the toes of knights, honourables bumped into the spines of baronettes. Probably the only titled person in the whole of the surrounding country who was not playing his part in the glittering scene was Lord Marshmorten, who, on discovering that his private study had been converted into a cloakroom, had retired to bed with a pipe and a copy of Rose's Red and Rose's White by Emily Anne McIntosh, Popgood, Cruelly and Co., which he was to discover after he was between the sheaths and it was too late to repair the air, was not, as he had supposed, a treatise on his favourite hobby, but a novel of sterile sentimentality dealing with the adventures of a pure young English girl and an artist named Claude. George, from the shaded seclusion of a gallery, looked down upon the brilliant throng with impatience. It seemed to him that he had been doing this all his life. The novelty of the experience had long since ceased to divert him. It was all just like the second act of an old-fashioned musical comedy. Act II, The Ballroom, Grandchester Towers, one week later. A resemblance which was heightened for him by the fact that the band had more than once played dead and buried melodies of his own composition, of which he had wearied a full eighteen months back. A complete absence of obstacles had attended his intrusion into the castle. A brief interview with a motherly old lady, whom even Albert seemed to treat with respect, and who, it appeared, was Mrs. Digby, the housekeeper, followed by an even briefer encounter with Keggs, fussy and irritable with responsibility, and even, while talking to George, carrying on two other conversations on topics of the moment. And he was past the censures and free for one night only, to add his presence to the chosen inside the walls of Belfour. His duties were to stand in this gallery, and, with the assistance of one of the maids, to minister to the comfort of such of the dancers as should use it as a sitting-out place. None had so far made their appearance, the superior attractions of the main floor having exercised great appeal, and for the past hour George had been alone with the maid and his thoughts. The maid, having asked George if he knew her cousin Frank, who had been in America nearly a year, and having received a reply in the negative, seemed to be disappointed in him, and to lose interest, and had not spoken for twenty minutes. George scanned the approaches to the balcony for a sight of Albert, as the shipwrecked mariner scans the horizon for a passing sail. It was inevitable, he supposed, this waiting. It would be difficult for Maude to slip away, even for a moment on such a night. I say, laddie, would you mind getting me a lemonade? George was gazing over the balcony when the voice spoke behind him, and the muscles of his back stiffened, as he recognized its genial note. This was one of the things he had prepared himself for, but now that it had happened he felt a wave of stage fright, such as he had only once experienced before in his life, on the occasion when he had been young enough and inexperienced enough to take a curtain call on a first night. Reggie Bing was friendly, and would not willfully betray him, but Reggie was also a babbler, who could not be trusted to keep things to himself. It was necessary, he perceived, to take a strong line from the start, and convince Reggie that any likeness which the latter might suppose that he detected, between his companion of that afternoon, and the waiter of tonight, existed only in his heated imagination. As George turned, Reggie's face, pink with healthful exercise, and Lord Marshmort and spineless Bollinger, lost most of its colour. His eyes and mouth opened wider. The fact is, Reggie was shaken. All through the earlier part of the evening he had been senselessly priming himself with stimulants, with the view of amassing enough nerve to propose to Alice Faraday, and now that he had drawn her away from the throne to this secluded nook, and was about to put his fortune to the test, a horrible fear swept over him that he had overdone it. He was having optical illusions. Good God! Reggie loosened his collar and pulled himself together. Would you mind taking a glass of lemonade to the Lady in Blue sitting on the settee over there by the statue? He said carefully. He brightened up a little. Pretty good that. Not absolutely a test sentence, perhaps like truly rural, or the intricacies of the British constitution, but nevertheless no mean feat. I say, he continued after a pause. Sir, you haven't ever seen me before by any chance? If you know what I mean, have you? No, sir. You haven't a brother or anything of that shape or order, have you? No? No, sir. I have often wished I had. I ought to have spoken to Father about it. Father could never deny me anything. Reggie blinked. His misgiving returned. Either his ears, like his eyes, were playing him tricks, or else his waiter, Chappy, was talking pure drivel. What's that? Sir, what did you say? I said, no, sir. I have no brother. Didn't you say something else? No, sir. What? No, sir. Reggie's worst suspicions were confirmed. God, God! He muttered, then I am. Miss Faraday, when he joined her on the settee, wanted an explanation. What were you talking to that man about, Mr. Bing? You seem to be having a very interesting conversation. I was asking him if he had a brother. Miss Faraday glanced quickly at him. She had had a feeling for some time during the evening that his manner had been strange. A brother? What made you ask him that? He—I mean, that is to say, what I mean is, he looked the sort of chap who might have a brother. Lots of those fellows have. Alice Faraday's face took on a motherly look. She was wonderer Reggie than that love-sick youths deposed, and by sheer accident he had stumbled on the right road to her consideration. Alice Faraday was one of those girls whose dream it is to be the ministering angel to some chosen man, to be a good influence to him, and raise him to an appreciation of nobler things. Heather, too, Reggie's personality had seemed to her agreeable, but negative. A positive vice, like overindulgence in alcohol, altered him completely. It gave him a significance. I told him to get to a lemonade. Said Reggie. He seems to be taking his time about it. Hi! George approached deferentially. Sir? Where's that lemonade? Lemonade, sir. Didn't I ask you to bring this lady a glass of lemonade? I did not understand you too, sir. But, great Scott, what were we chatting about then? You were telling me a diverging story about an Irishman who landed in New York, looking for work, sir. You would like a glass of lemonade, sir? Very good, sir. Alice placed a hand gently on Reggie's arm. Don't you think you had better lie down for a little unrest, Mr. Bean? I'm sure it would do you good. The solicitous note in her voice made Reggie quiver like a jelly. He had never known her to speak like that before. For a moment he was inclined to lay bare his soul, but his nerve was broken. He did not want her to mistake the outpouring of a strongman's heart for the irresponsible ravings of a two-hearted dinner. It was one of life's ironies. Here he was, for the first time, all keyed up to go right ahead, and he couldn't do it. It's the heat of the room, said Alice. Shall we go and sit outside on the terrace? I never mind about the lemonade. I'm not really thirsty. Reggie followed her like a lamb. The prospect of the cool night air was grateful. That, murmured George as he watched them depart, ought to hold you for a while. He perceived Albert hastening towards him. End of CHAPTER XII This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A damsel in distress by P. G. Woodhouse Read by Yaz Pistachio in Waxaw, North Carolina CHAPTER XIII Albert was in a hurry. He skimmed over the carpets like a water beetle. Quick, he said. He cast a glance at the maid, George's co-worker. She was reading a novelette with her back turned. Tell her you'll be back in five minutes, said Albert, jerking a thumb. Unnecessary. She won't notice my absence. Ever since she discovered that I had never met her cousin Frank in America, I have met nothing in her life. Then come on. Where? I'll show you. That it was not the nearest and most direct route, which they took, to the tristing place, George became aware after he had followed his young guide through doors and upstairs and downstairs, and had at last come to a halt in a room to which the sound of the music penetrated but faintly. He recognized the room. He had been in it before. It was the same room where he and Billy Dorr had listened to kegs, telling the story of Lord Leonard and his leap. That window there, he remembered now, opened onto the very balcony from which the historic Leonard had done his spectacular dive. That it should be the scene of this other secret meeting struck George as appropriate. The coincidence appealed to him. Albert vanished. George took a deep breath. Now that the moment had arrived for which he had waited so long, he was aware of a return of that feeling of stage fright, which had come upon him when he had heard Reggie Bing's voice. This sort of thing, it must be remembered, was not in George's usual line. His had been a quiet and uneventful life, and the only exciting thing which, in his recollection, had ever happened to him previous to the dramatic entry of Lady Maud into his taxicab, that day in Piccadilly, had occurred at college nearly ten years before, when a festive roommate, no doubt with the best motives, had placed a Mexican horned toad in his bed on the night of the Yale football game. A light footstep sounded outside, and the room whirled round George in a manner which, if it had happened to Reggie Bing, would have caused that injudicious drinker to abandon the habits of a lifetime. When the furniture had returned to its place and the rug had ceased to spin, Maud was standing before him. Nothing is harder to remember than a once seen face. It had caused George a good deal of distress and inconvenience that, try as he might, he could not conjure up anything more than a vague vision of what the only girl in the world really looked like. He had carried away with him from their meeting in the cab only a confused recollection of eyes that shone, and a mouth that curved in a smile, and the brief moment in which he was able to refresh his memory, when he found her in the lane with Reggie Bing and the broken down car, had not been enough to add definiteness. The consequence was that Maud came upon him now with the stunning effect of beauty seen for the first time. He gasped. In that dazzling bald dress, with the flush of dancing on her cheeks, and the light of dancing in her eyes, she was so much more wonderful than any picture of her which memory had been able to produce for his inspection that it was as if he had never seen her before. Even her brother, Percy, a stern critic where his nearest and dearest were concerned, had admitted on meeting her in the drawing-room before dinner that that particular dress suited Maud. It was a shimmering dream thing of rose-leaves and moon-beams. That, at least, was how it struck George. A dressmaker would have found a longer and less romantic description for it. But that does not matter. Whoever wishes for a cold and technical catalogue of the stuffs which went to make up the picture that deprived George of speech may consult the files of the Belfour Intelligentser and Farmer's Guide and read the report of the Editor's Wife, who does the dresses for the Intelligentser under the pen name of Birdie Bright Eye. As far as George was concerned, the thing was made of rose-leaves and moon-beams. George, as I say, was deprived of speech, that any girl could possibly look so beautiful, was enough to paralyze his faculties. But that this ethereal being straight from Fairyland could have stooped to love him—him, an earthly brute who wore sock suspenders and drank coffee for breakfast—that was what robbed George of the power to articulate. He could do nothing but look at her. From the hills of Fairyland soft music came. Or, if we must be exact, Maud spoke. I couldn't get away before. Then she stopped short and darted to the door listening. Was that somebody coming? I had to cut a dance with Mr. Plummer to get here, and I'm so afraid he may— He had. A moment later it was only too evident that this was precisely what Mr. Plummer had done. There was a footstep on the stairs—a heavy footstep this time—and from outside the voice of the pursuer made itself heard. Oh! there you are, Lady Maud! I was looking for you. This is our dance. George did not know who Mr. Plummer was. He did not want to know. His only thought regarding Mr. Plummer was a passionate realization of the superfluity of his existence. It is the presence on the globe of these plumbers that delays the coming of the millennium. His stunned mind leaped into sudden activity. He must not be found here—that was certain. Waiters who ramble at large about a feudal castle and are discovered in conversation with the daughter of the house excite comment. And, conversely, daughters of the house who talk in secluded rooms with waiters also find explanations necessary. He must withdraw—he must withdraw quickly. And, as a gesture from Maud indicated, the withdrawal must be affected through the French window opening on the balcony. Estimating the distance that separated him from the approaching plumber at three stairs—the voice had come from below—and a landing, the space of time allotted to him by a hustling fate for disappearing was some four seconds. Inside two and a half the French window had opened and closed, and George was out under the stars, with the cool winds of the night playing on his heated forehead. He had now time for meditation. There are few situations which provide more scope for meditation than that of the man penned up on a small balcony, a considerable distance from the ground, with his only avenue of retreat cut off behind him. So George meditated. First he mused on plumber. He thought some hard thoughts about plumber. Then he brooded on the unkindness of a fortune which had granted him the opportunity of this meeting with Maud, only to snatch it away almost before it had begun. He wondered how long the late Lord Leonard had been permitted to talk on that occasion, before he, too, had had to retire through these same windows. There was no doubt about one thing—lovers who chose that room for their interviews seemed to have very little luck. It had not occurred to George at first that there could be any further disadvantage attached to his position other than the obvious drawbacks which had already come to his notice. He was now to perceive that he had been mistaken. A voice was speaking in the room he had left, a plainly audible voice, deep and throaty, and within a moment George had become aware that he was to suffer the additional discomfort of being obliged to listen to a fellow man—one could call plumber that by stretching the facts a little—proposing marriage. The gruesomeness of the situation became intensified. Of all moments when a man—and just as compelled George to admit that plumber was technically a human—of all moments when a man, may by all the laws of decency, demand to be alone without an audience of his own sex, the chiefest is the moment when he is asking a girl to marry him. George's was a sensitive nature, and he writhed at the thought of playing the eavesdropper at such a time. He looked frantically about him for a means of escape. Plumber had now reached the stage of saying at great length that he was not worthy of Maude. He said it over and over again in different ways. George was in hearty agreement with him, but he did not want to hear it. He wanted to get away. But how? Lord Leonard on a similar occasion had leaped. Some might argue, therefore, on the principle that what man has done man can do, that George should have imitated him. But men differ. There was a man attached to a circus who used to dive off the roof of Madison Square Garden onto a sloping board, strike it with his chest, turn a couple of somersaults, reach the ground, bow six times, and go off to lunch. That sort of thing is a gift. Some of us have it, some have not. George had not. Painful as it was to hear Plumber floundering through his proposal of marriage, Instinct told him that it would be far more painful to hurl himself out into mid-air on the sporting chance of having his downward progress arrested by the branches of the big tree that had upheld Lord Leonard. No, there seemed nothing for it but to remain where he was. Inside the room Plumber was now saying how much marriage would please his mother. Psst! George looked about him. It seemed to him that he had heard a voice. He listened. No. Except for the barking of a distant dog, the faint wailing of a waltz, the rustle of a roosting bird, and the sound of Plumber saying that if her refusal was due to anything she may have heard about that breach of promise case of his a couple of years ago, he would like to state that he was more sinned against than sinning, and that the girl had absolutely misunderstood him. All was still. Psst! I! Mr. It was a voice. It came from above. Was it an angel's voice? Not altogether. It was Albert's. The boy was leaning out of a window some six feet higher up the castle wall. George, his eyes by now grown used to the darkness, perceived that the stripling gesticulated as one having some message to impart. Then glancing to one side he saw what looked like some kind of a rope swayed against the wall. He reached for it. Thing was not a rope. It was a knotted sheet. From above came Albert's horse whisper, Look alive! This was precisely what George wanted to do for at least another fifty years or so, and it seemed to him as he stood there in the starlight, gingerly fingering this flimsy linen thing, that if he were to suspend his hundred and eighty pounds of bone and sinew at the end of it, over the black gulf outside the balcony, he would look alive for about five seconds, and after that goodness only knew how he would look. He knew all about knotted sheets. He had read a hundred stories in which heroes, heroines, low comedy friends, and even villains did all sorts of reckless things with their assistance. There was not much comfort to be derived from that. And it was one thing to read about people doing silly things like that, quite another to do them yourself. He gave Albert's sheet a tentative shake. In all his experience he thought he had never come across anything so supremely unstable. One calls it Albert's sheet for the sake of convenience. It was really Reggie being the sheet. And when Reggie got up to his room in the small hours of the morning and found the thing a mass of knots, he jumped to the conclusion, being a simple-hearted young man, that his bosom friend, Jack Ferris, who had come up from London to see Lord Belfour through the trying or experience of a coming of age party, had done it as a practical joke, and went and poured a jug of water over Jack's bed. This is life, just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not, absolutely. Albert was becoming impatient. He was in the position of a great general, who thinks out some wonderful piece of strategy and can't get his army to carry it out. Many boys, seeing Plummer enter the room below and listening at the keyhole, and realizing that George must have hidden somewhere and deducing that he must be out on the balcony, would have been baffled as to how to proceed. Not so, Albert. To dash up to Reggie Bing's room and strip his sheet off the bed and tie it to the bed-post, and fashion a series of knots in it and lower it out of the window, took Albert about three minutes. His part in the business had been performed without a hitch, and now George, who had nothing in the world to do but the childish task of climbing up the sheet, was jeopardizing the success of the whole scheme by delay. Albert gave the sheet an irritable jerk. It was the worst thing he could have done. George had almost made up his mind to take a chance, when the sheet was snatched from his grasp, as if it had been some live thing deliberately alluding his clutch. The thought of what would have happened had this occurred when he was in mid-air, caused him to break out in a cold perspiration. He retired a pace and perched himself on the rail of the balcony. Psst! said Albert. It's no good saying Psst! rejoined George in an annoyed undertone. I could say Psst! Any fool could say Psst! Albert, he considered, in leaning out of the window and saying Psst! was merely touching the fringe of the subject. It is probable that he would have remained seated on the balcony rail regarding the sheet with colder version, indefinitely had not his hand been forced by the man, Plummer. Plummer, during these last minutes, had shot his bolt. He had said everything that a man could say, much of it twice over, and now he was through. All was ended. The verdict was in. No wedding bells for Plummer. I think, said Plummer gloomily, and the words smote on George's ears like a knell. I think I'd like a little air. George leaped from his rail like a hunted grasshopper. If Plummer was looking for air, it meant that he was going to come out on the balcony. There was only one thing to be done. It probably meant the abrupt conclusion of a promising career, but he could hesitate no longer. George grasped the sheet. It felt like a rope of cobwebs, and swung himself out. Maude looked out on the balcony. Her heart, which had stood still when the rejected one opened the window and stepped forth to commune with the shooting stars, beat again. There was no one there. Only emptiness and Plummer. This, said Plummer, somberly gazing over the rail into the darkness, is the place where that fellow, what's his name, jumped off in the rain of the Thingamy, isn't it? Maude understood now, and a thrill of the purest admiration for George's heroism swept over her. So, rather than compromise her, he had done Leonard's leap. How splendid of him! If George, now sitting on Reggie Bing's bed, taking a rueful census of the bits of skin remaining on his hands and knees after his climb, could have read her thoughts, he would have felt well rewarded for his abrasions. I have a jolly good mind, said Plummer, to do it myself. He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. Well, anyway, he said recklessly, I'll jolly well go downstairs and have a brandy and soda. Albert finished untieing the sheet from the bed-post, and stuffed it under the pillow. And now, said Albert, for a quiet smoke in the scullery. These massive minds require their moments of relaxation. CHAPTER XIV. George's idea was to get home, quick. There was no possible chance of a second meeting with Maud that night. They had met, and had been world asunder. No use to struggle with fate. Best to give in, and hope that another time, fate would be kinder. What George wanted now was to be away from all the gay glitter and the fairy-like tout ensemble in the galaxy of fair women and brave men, safe in his own easy chair, where nothing could happen to him. A nice sense of duty, would, no doubt, have taken him back to his post in order to fully earn the sovereign which had been paid to him for his services as temporary waiter, but the voice of duty called to him in vain. If the British aristocracy desired refreshments, let them get it for themselves, and like it, he was through. But if George had for the time being done with the British aristocracy, the British aristocracy had not done with him. Hardly had he reached the hall when he encountered the one member of the order whom he would most gladly have avoided. Lord Belfer was not in genial mood. Late hours always made his headache, and he was not a dancing man, so that he was by now fully as weary of the fairy-like tout ensemble as was George. But, being the centre and cause of the night's proceedings, he was compelled to be present to the finish. He was in the position of captains who must be last to leave their ships, and of boys who stand on burning decks whence all but they had fled. He had spent several hours shaking hands with total strangers, and receiving with a frozen smile their felicitations on the attainment of his majority, and he could not have been called upon to meet a larger horde of relations than had surged around him that night if he had been a rabbit. The bell for connection was wide, struggling over most of England, and first cousins, second cousins, and even third and fourth cousins, had debauched from practically every county on the map, and marched upon the home of their ancestors. Like the heroine of his sister Maud's favourite poem, he was a weary, a weary, and he wanted a drink. He regarded George's appearance as exceedingly opportune. Give me a bottle of champagne and bring it into the library. Yes, sir. The two words sound innocent enough, but wishing, as he did, to face himself and avoid publicity, they were the most unfortunate which George could have chosen. If he had merely bowed acquiescence and departed, it was probable that Lord Belfour would not have taken a second look at him. Person was in no condition to subject everyone he met to a minute scrutiny. But when he had been addressed for an entire lifetime as your lordship, it startles you when a waiter calls you sir. Lord Belfour gave George a glance in which reproof and pain were nicely mingled emotions, quickly supplanted by amazement. A gurgle escaped him. Stop! He cried as George turned away. Percy was rattled. The crisis found him in two minds. On the one hand he would have been prepared to take oath that this man before him was the man who had knocked off his hat in Piccadilly. The likeness had struck him like a blow the moment he had taken a good look at the fellow. On the other hand, there was nothing which is more likely to lead one astray than a resemblance. He had never forgotten the horror and humiliation of the occasion, which had happened in his fourteenth year, when a motherly woman at Paddington Station had called him deary and publicly embraced him on the earnest supposition that he was her nephew Philip. He must proceed cautiously, a brawl with an innocent waiter coming on the heels of that infernal episode with the policemen would give people the impression that assailing the lower orders had become a hobby of his. Sir, said George politely, his braze in front shook Lord Belfour's confidence. I haven't seen you before, have I? was all he could find to say. No, sir, replied George smoothly. I am only temporary attached to the castle staff. Where do you come from? America, sir. Lord Belfour started. America? Yes, sir. I am in England on a vacation. My cousin Albert is paid boy at the castle, and he told me there are a few vacancies for extra help tonight, so I applied and was given the job. Lord Belfour frowned perplexedly. It all sounded entirely plausible, and, what was satisfactory, the statement could be checked by application to Keggs, the butler, and yet there was a lingering doubt. However, there seemed nothing to be gained by continuing the conversation. I see. He said at last. Well, bring that champagne to the library as quick as you can. Very good, sir. Lord Belfour remained where he stood, brooding. Reason told him he ought to be satisfied, but he was not satisfied. It would have been different had he not known that this fellow with whom Maud had become entangled was in the neighbourhood, and if that scoundrel had had the audacity to come and take a cottage at the castle gates, why not the audacity to invade the castle itself? The appearance of one of the footmen on his way through the hall with a tray gave him the opportunity for further investigation. Send Keggs to me. Very good, your lordship. An interval and the butler arrived. Unlike Lord Belfour, late hours were no hardship to Keggs. He was essentially a night-blooming flower. His brows was free from wrinkles as his short front. He bore himself with the conscious dignity of one who, while he would have freely admitted he did not actually own the castle, was nevertheless aware that he was one of its most conspicuous ornaments. You wish to see me, your lordship? Yes, Keggs. There are a number of outside men helping here tonight, aren't there? Indupidity, your lordship. The unprecedented scale of the entertainment necessitated the engagement of a certain number of supernumeraries. Replied Keggs with an easy fluency, which Roger Bing, now cooling his head on the lower terrace, would have bitterly envied. In the circumstances such an arrangement was inevitable. You engaged all these men yourself? In a matter of speaking, your lordship? And for all practical purposes, yes. Mrs. Digby, the hourskeeper, conducted the actual negotiations in many cases, but the arrangement was in no instance considered complete until I had passed each applicant. Do you know anything of an American who says he's the cousin of the page-boy? The boy Albert did introduce a nominee whom he stated to be his cousin, owned from New York on a visit an anxious to oblige. I trust he has given no dissatisfaction to your lordship. He seemed a respectable young man. No, no, not at all. I merely wish to know if you knew him. One can't be too careful. No, indeed, your lordship. That's all, then. Thank you, your lordship. Lord Belfour was satisfied. He was also relieved. He felt that prudence and a steady head had kept him from making himself ridiculous. When George presently returned with the life-saving fluid, he thanked him and turned his thoughts to other things. But if the young master was satisfied, Keggs was not. Upon Keggs a bright light has shown. There were few men, he flattered himself, who could more readily put two and two together and bring the sum to a correct answer. Keggs knew of the strange American gentleman who had taken up his abode at the cottage down by Platt's farm. His looks, his habits, and his motives for coming there had formed food for discussion throughout one meal in the servant's hall. A stranger, whose abstention from brush and palette showed him to be no artist being an object of interest. And while the solution put forward by romantic ladies-maid, a great reader of novelettes, that the young man had come there to cure himself of some unhappy passion by communing with nature, had been scoffed at by the company, Keggs had not been so sure that there might not be something in it. Later events had deepened his suspicion, which now, after this interview with Lord Belfour, had become certainty. The extreme fishiness of Albert's sudden production of a cousin from America was so manifest that only his preoccupation at the moment when he met the young man could have prevented him seeing it before. His knowledge of Albert's told him that, if one so versed as that youth in the art of swank had really possessed a cousin in America, he would long ago have been boring the servant's hall, with fictions about the man's wealth and importance, for Albert not to lie about a thing practically proved that thing non-existent. Such was the simple creed of Keggs. He accosted of passing fellow servitor, seeing young blighted owl but anywhere, Freddie. It was in this shameful manner that that mastermind was habitually referred to below stairs, seeing him going into the scullery not off a minute ago. Applied, Freddie, thanks. So long, said Freddie. Be good! returned Keggs, whose mode of speech among those of his own world differed substantially from that which he considered it became him to employ when conversing with the titled. The fall of great men is but too often due to the failure of their miserable bodies to give them necessary support to their great brains. There are some, for example, who say that Napoleon would have won the battle of Waterloo if he had not had dyspepsia. Not otherwise was it with Albert on that present occasion. The arrival of Keggs found him at a disadvantage. He had been imprudent enough on leaving George to endeavor to smoke a cigar, preloined from the box which stood hospitably open on a table in the hall. But for this, who knows with what cunning counterattacks he might have foiled the butler's onslaught. As it was, the battle was a walk over for the enemy. I've been looking for you, young blighted Albert, said Keggs coldly. Albert turned a green but defiant face to his foe. Oh, go, boy, your head! he advised. Never mind about my head. If I was to do my duty to you, I'd give you a clip at the side of your head. That's what I'd do. Then bury it in the woods, added Albert wincing, as the consequences of his rash act swept through his small form, like some nauseous tidal wave. He shut his eyes. It upset him to see Keggs shimmering like that. A shimmering butler is an awful sight. Keggs laughed a hard laugh. You and your cousins from America. What about my cousin from America? Yes, what about them? That's just what Lord Belfour and me have been asking ourselves. I don't know what you're talking about. You soon will, young blighted Albert. Who sneaked that American fellow into the house to meet Lady Maud? I never! Think I didn't see through your little game, while I knew from the first. Yes, you did! Then why did you let him in the place? Keggs snorted triumphantly. There, you admit it, it was that fellow. Too late, Albert saw his false move. A move which, in a normal state of health, he would have scorned to make, just as Napoleon, minus a stomach ache, would have scorned the blunder that sent his caracers plunging to destruction in the sunken road. I don't know what you're talking about. He said weakly. Well, said Keggs, I haven't time to stand here chatting with you. I must be going back to his lordship to tell him of the horrid trick you played on him. A second spasm shook Albert to the core of his being. The double assault was too much for him. Betrayed by the body, the spirit yielded. You wouldn't do that, Mr. Keggs. There was a white flag in every syllable. I would have, I did my duty. But you don't care about that, urged Albert ingratiatingly. I'll have to think it over, mused Keggs. I don't want to be arred on a young boy. He struggled silently with himself, ruining his prospects. An inspiration seemed to come to him. All right, young blighted Albert, he said briskly. I'll go against me better nature this once and chance it. And now, young fella, Milad, you just hand over that ticket of yours. You know what I'm alluding to? That ticket you had at the sweep, the one with Mr. X on it. Albert's indomitable spirit triumphed for a moment over his stricken body. That's likely, ain't it? Keggs sighed. This I have a good man to help a fellow being, and has been baffled by the other's perversity. Just as you please, he said sorrowfully. But I did hope I shouldn't have to go to his lordship and tell him how you've deceived him. Albert capitulated. Yeah, yeah. A piece of paper changed hands. It's been like you would lead to half the crime in the country. Much obliged, Milad. You'd walk a mile in the snow, you would, continued Albert, pursuing his train of thought, to rob a starvin' beggar of our penny. Who's robbin' any one? Don't you talk so quick, young man. I'm doin' the right thing by you. You can have my ticket, Mark, read you Bing, it's a fair exchange, and no one the worse. Fat lot of good that is. That's as it may be. Anyhow, there it is. Keg's prepared to withdraw. You're too young to have all that money, Albert. You wouldn't know what to do with it. It wouldn't make you happy. There's other things in the world besides winning sweepstakes. And properly speaking, you ought never to have been allowed to draw at all, being so young. Albert groaned hollily. When you finish talkin', I wish you'd kindly have the goodness to leave me alone. I'm not myself. That, said Keg's cordially, is a bit of luck for you, my boy, except my art is for licitations. Defeat is the test of the great man. Your true general is not he who rides to triumph on the tide of an easy victory, but the one who, when crushed to earth, can bend himself to the task of planning methods of rising again. Such a one was Albert, the page-boy. Observe Albert in his attic bedroom, scarcely more than an hour later. His body has practically ceased to trouble him, and his soaring spirit has come into its own again. With the exception of an hour very occasional spasm, his physical anguish has passed, and he is thinking, thinking hard. On the chest of drawers is a grubby envelope addressed in an ill-formed hand to Reggie Bing, Esquire. On a sheet of paper, soon to be placed in the envelope, are written in the same hand, these words, do not fear, remember, think, f-a-n-t, heart, h-a-r-t, never one, w-o-n, fair lady. Haja, watch your futur, f-u-t-u-r, progress with considerable interest. You are well-wisher. The last sentence is not original. Albert's Sunday school teacher said it to Albert on the occasion of his taking up his duties at the castle, and it stuck in his memory. Fortunately, for it expressed exactly what Albert wished to say. From now on, Reggie Bing's progress with Lady Maude Marge was to be the thing nearest to Albert's heart. And George, meanwhile, little knowing how fate has changed in a flash, an ally into an opponent, he is standing at the edge of the shrubbery near the castle gate. The night is very beautiful. The barked spots on his hands and knees are hurting much less now, and he is full of long, sweet thoughts. He has just discovered the extraordinary resemblance, which had not struck him, as he was climbing up the knotted sheet between his own position and that of the hero of Tennyson's Maude, a poem to which he has always been particularly addicted, and never more so than during the days since he learned the name of the only possible girl. When he has not been playing golf, Tennyson's Maude has been his constant companion. Queen Rose of the Rosebud Garden of Girls, come hither the dances are done. In glass of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen Lily and Rose in one, shine out little head, sunning over with curls, to the flowers and be their sun. The music from the ballroom flows out to him through the motionless air. The smell of sweet earth and growing things is everywhere. Come into the Garden Maude, for the black bat night hath flown. Come into the Garden Maude, I am here at the gate all alone. And the wood-bind spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the rose is blown. He draws a deep breath, misled young man. The night is very beautiful. It is near to the dawn now, and in the bushes, live things are beginning to stir and whisper. Maude! Surely she can hear him. Maude! The silver stars looked down dispassionately. This sort of thing had no novelty for them. End of Chapter 14