Men of Affairs Part 46

"But honestly," said Flora, "I believe he is a bad hat."

"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly wore one--a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run along and leave me to myself."

After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:

"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer--I wish I didn't think--Oh, well!"

She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet cough caused her to start and rise quickly.

In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat hung in festoons over his globular form, his scarlet face was wreathed in smiles. In his hand he carried a black and white straw hat and a pair of black kid gloves. He placed the hat in the middle of his waist line and bowed apologetically.

"I beg your pardon--I do indeed beg your pardon."

Mrs. Barraclough was equal to the occasion and presented a perfect example of mid-Victorian austerity.

"May I ask, sir, why you enter my house other than by the front door?

And also what persuaded you to address me in the lane this afternoon?"

"My dear lady," protested Mr. Bolt with a world of unction. "I come from a part of the country where formality is unknown and where a minister--a minister of the gospel--enters into the hearts and the homes of men and of women by the shortest possible route."

"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.

At which her visitor expressed himself as greatly shocked and turned his eyes heavenward.

"I remark with sorrow," he observed, "that you are not a true believer.

Your faith is not of the simple kind."

He could hardly have chosen an unhappier argument. Mrs. Barraclough's devotion was a byword in the parish. To be treated thus by a totally unknown clergyman was not to be tolerated. Her doubt as to the probity of this person fostered by Jane and Flora took definite shape. She decided to interrogate and, if necessary, expose him without further preamble.

"It is customary for visitors to be announced," she said. "I would be obliged if you would tell me your name."

Mr. Bolt sighed and seated himself heavily on the sofa, his little pig-like eyes roving round the room.

"My name, madam, is the Reverend Prometheus Bolt."

"And why have you called upon me?"

Mr. Bolt faltered. He did not like this lady who pointed every question.

"An act of civility, my dear madam. I am staying a few days in this enchanting vicinity and hearing of your benevolent character was persuaded to pay my best respects."

"My benevolent character! You are collecting for a charity? You are proposing to hand me a tract?"

"No, indeed no. My visit is connected with this world and not the next. I was informed in the village that this house was to let."

"You were misinformed."

"Furnished--to let furnished. Yes." This was a happy thought and he followed it up closely. "I should consider myself indeed fortunate if you, dear lady, would conduct me round its various apartments."

"The house is not to let under any consideration."

"Dear, dear! How disappointing."

"So if that is your only object in calling----" Her hand went out toward the bell.

"I pray you will allow me to remain a moment and recover my breath.

The heat of the walk, you know. I am not as young as I was."

"No one is," replied Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.

"How very, very true," said Mr. Bolt with outward benevolence but inwardly with a powerful inclination toward violence. "Yes, very true, although it is bitter indeed to be taunted with lack of youth. In the words of the Gospel 'do unto others as you would be done by.'"

"In what particular part of the Gospel does that phrase occur?"

demanded Mrs. Barraclough shrewdly.

But Alfred Bolt was not a man to be caught out in the first over.

"I can only recommend you a closer attention to the Book," he replied.

"Search its pages yourself, dear lady, and treasures of gladness shall be yours."

It was a nimble evasion and he could not resist a smile of self-satisfaction, but to avoid further interrogation on Biblical derivations he hastened to lead the conversation into safer alleys and ones more relative to the object of his visit.

"I am informed in the village that you are the fortunate possessor of a son."

"I have a son," Mrs. Barraclough admitted.

"A priceless gift, dear lady. I should like to shake him by the hand."

"Why?"

Really this woman was too trying and the directness of the question for an instant deprived Mr. Bolt of his sense of character. Before he had time to collect his thoughts he had rapped out the reply:

"Needn't jump down a man's throat like that."

His effort to recover and mask this piece of startled irritability with a vague plat.i.tude did not deceive his audience in the smallest degree.

Doubt became conviction in Mrs. Barraclough's mind. She did not know in what way this man was connected with her son's affairs but none the less she was certain he represented a positive barrier between Anthony and success. To denounce him as a spy might, however, do more harm than good, accordingly she took up the bell and rang it, with the words:

"My son is away and has been away for several weeks, nor is there any likelihood you will meet him when ultimately he returns." Then to the glowering Jane who had answered the summons of the bell; "Kindly show this gentleman out."

"Pray do not disturb yourself," said Mr. Bolt with dignity. "I can find my own way."

And with astonishing speed for a man of his build he seized the handle and threw open the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. The action was deliberate since he desired to find out who might possibly be concealed in the inner room and its advantages were immeasurable for at the very moment his back was turned Anthony Barraclough, dusty and spent, stumbled in through the French window.

Jane gave a short, stifled squeak and pointed and he was out again and ducking behind a rose bush before Bolt had time to turn and apologise for his mistake.

"Show this gentleman through the gate and down the road," said Mrs.

Barraclough in a voice that did not betray her excitement by a single tremor.

"I thank you for your hospitality, dear lady," said the Reverend Prometheus, "and I trust I may have the pleasure of bettering our acquaintance."