Barnaby Part 24

The maid waited discreetly at the door, her sharp, foreign eyes taking in everything, the other woman huddled up in bed, her clothes flung all over the floor, her gems scattered recklessly on the table.

Susan slipped on the dressing-gown that had been brought her, and was following, Fifine going down in front as a picket, to see that the coast was clear; when she heard her neighbour calling. Lady c.u.mmerbatch was sitting up in bed.

"I made a fool of myself last night, didn't I?" she said. "Why didn't you smother me with my pillow? Don't be afraid, I'm as wise as an old hen this morning." She pulled the girl close enough to kiss. "You are a dear; you are a dear!" she cried.

Stretching out her arm to the dressing-table, she caught up something from its disordered glitter, squeezing it into Susan's hand.

"Keep it," she said. "I know you've heaps of your own. I saw them last night. But I want you to have something to remember me by. I can do nothing for anybody but give them things.... Do! Please me! I'd have thrown myself out of that window if you hadn't been kind to me."

The girl looked doubtfully at the diamond star that had been thrust upon her.

"If you don't care to wear anything I've worn," said the woman, "put it by. Who knows? Some day you may be glad to have it. If it does come from a worthless creature, it's fit to sell. I've heard of rich women whose husbands ruined them, and who had to p.a.w.n their jewels.... How do we know what will happen to you and me?"

Susan went down the irregular flight of stairs. The d.u.c.h.ess was waiting in her room for a word.

"Good morning, my child," she said. "Your husband has very properly come to fetch you. I should advise you to let him off lightly about last night."

The maid had gone out of the room.

"About----?" faltered Susan.

"Philandering with Julia. I believe in severity, of course," said the d.u.c.h.ess bluntly, "but as a matter of fact Kitty and I have been at him like early birds. Told him what we thought of him, and so forth.

Don't look so sorry. It's done him good, and you can descend upon him like a forgiving saint."

"I have nothing to forgive him," the girl protested. "Oh, I wish you would not say that."

The d.u.c.h.ess smiled benevolently at her stammering haste. She fancied she understood.

"I quite forgot," she said, "to ask after that idiot upstairs.

_There's_ a woman who tried to enrage her husband into paying her more attention by making herself conspicuous with another man. Bad policy, my child. It makes the man think less of her, though it may alarm his possessive instinct;--and, of course, if anybody stole your old coat you'd feel inclined to knock him down:--but that wouldn't make you believe it was as good as new. No, no, it's a fallacious notion.

However, we're talking of this person. I'd be sorry for her feelings if I didn't think the shock of being stopped on the brink would bring her to her senses. We are very good-natured among ourselves, but _she_ wouldn't find it easy to live it down. She isn't one of us."

She smiled encouragingly at the girl, who was wrapped in her own dressing-gown, a thick masculine garment that sat oddly on her slimness.

"People think," she said, "that we hunting people are a lawless band.

They think they can come and do as they like in Melton. Just because we have a sporting sense of loyalty to each other, and stick to our friends when they need us. If you or Barnaby, for example, did anything outrageous, we'd scold you a little and let it drop. But we don't do it with an outsider.... He's brought your habit. Get into your things, my dear."

Barnaby nodded to her cheerfully as she came into the breakfast room.

He was sitting on the window seat, and the rest of them were at breakfast. Whether or no they had been attacking him, he did not look cast down.

"Well, how are you?" he said. "Good girl, you are coming hunting. I brought everything, didn't I? They nearly left out your boots."

"Look out and see who that is pa.s.sing," said the d.u.c.h.ess. Someone was cracking a whip below. He flung up the window, and she came round herself.

"What's the matter?" she said. "Is it a serenade, or do you want some coffee?"

A man with a long nose and a grizzling moustache had halted on his way up the street. Two or three others had left him and were trotting on.

"Have you heard the latest?" he said. "Richard c.u.mmerbatch is drawing all the covers like a raging maniac, roaring for his wife. Her party went back in two cars from the ball last night, and each lot thought she had gone in the other. It appears she's bolted."

"Upon my word," said the d.u.c.h.ess, "if you are going to shout scandal at the top of your voice I shall have to put up my shutters. She is just over your head, Major. She had nowhere to go, since her party went off without her; so I took her in."

"Hey? What?" he said, looking up as quickly as if the lady were a chimney-pot that might fall on him. "--Keep still, horse! You don't say so?"

His face was blank for an instant, but he soon recovered from his disappointment. His well of gossip had not run dry.

c.o.c.king his head on one side like a mischievous old bird, he began on another tack.

"Well," he said, "if you're so rough on scandal, you'll have to keep our friend Barnaby in order. What does his poor little American wife say to his goings-on?"

There was an awful pause in the room above.

"Susan," said Barnaby, "he's as deaf as a post. Put your head out and tell him as loud as you can what you think of me."

Somebody began to laugh; the rest followed; and there was no more awkwardness; his presence of mind had saved the situation. As he leaned out of the window with his hand on Susan's shoulder the Major's face was a study. Incontinently he fled.

"There!" said Barnaby, "we have routed the enemy. Let's get on our horses and pursue him. Hullo, who are these? A whole tribe without one sound horse among them."

The d.u.c.h.ess started back.

"Don't tell me it is my friend Wickes," she said. "I promised him weeks ago I'd beat up a little talent for his concert to-night, and I have never done it. For heaven's sake, somebody, volunteer! Is there a woman here who can sing in tune?"

"Do you sing, Susan?" said Barnaby.

"Oh, the man's affectation! Does she or does she not?"

She did not know what impelled her. Perhaps his carelessness; his unshaken att.i.tude of amus.e.m.e.nt at a position that was--to him--so absurd.

"I could act something, perhaps," she said. The d.u.c.h.ess jumped at her offer.

"Booked!" she declared. "Stop that man clattering past, and tell him I want him to sing _John Peel_. And, Cherry, you'll do for a comic song.

You're men, and it doesn't matter about your voices, so long as you wear red coats."

The young man she was ordering pushed away his cup with an injured air.

A murmur of--"Delighted, I'm sure. Delighted!" floated up from the street.

"You know I have only one song," he said, "and that is--_The Broken Heart_."

"Well," she said unfeelingly, "you can make it comic."

"Are you coming?" said Barnaby. He was waiting; some of them had already started. The girl caught up her gloves and whip.

"Good-bye, all of you," said the d.u.c.h.ess. "I beg you'll remember your obligations. Barnaby, the thing is at eight. Call down to _John Peel_ and tell him.... Whatever you do, don't let my performer come to any harm."

"I will not quit her side for a moment," he promised, and the d.u.c.h.ess shook her head at him as they ran downstairs.

He was laughing as he put her up in the saddle.