Mrs. Fitz Part 4

"Thank you, Mary, I deserve it. But am I to understand that Mrs. Fitz has flung her cap over the mill, or that she has taken to riding astride, or is it that she continues to affect that scarlet coat which last season hastened the end of the Dowager?"

"No, Arbuthnot." It was the voice of Bra.s.set, vibrating with such deep emotion that it can only be compared to the _Marche Funebre_ performed upon a cathedral organ. "But it was only by G.o.d's mercy that last Tuesday morning she didn't override Challenger."

"Allah is great," said I.

"Upon my solemn word of honour," said the n.o.ble Master, speaking from the depths, "she was within two inches of the old gal's stern."

"Parkins," said a voice from the breakfast table, "bring another gla.s.s of beer for his lordship."

To be perfectly frank, liquid sustenance was no longer a vital necessity to the n.o.ble Master. He was already rosy with indignation at the sudden memory of his wrongs. Only one thing can induce Bra.s.set to display even a normal amount of spirit. That is the welfare of the sacred charges over which he presides for the public weal. He will suffer you to punch his head, to tread on his toe, or to call him names, and as likely as not he will apologise sweetly for any inconvenience you may have incurred in the process. But if you belittle the Crackanthorpe Hounds or in any way endanger the humblest member of the Fitzwilliam strain, woe unto you. You transform Bra.s.set into a veritable man of blood and iron. He is invested with pathos and dignity. The lightnings of heaven flash from beneath his long-lashed orbs; and from his somewhat narrow chest there is bodied forth a far richer vocabulary than the general inefficiency of his appearance can possibly warrant hi any conceivable circ.u.mstances.

Mere feminine clamour was silenced by Bra.s.set transformed. His blue eyes glowed, his cheeks grew rosier, each particular hair of his perfectly charming little blond moustache--trimmed by Truefitt once a fortnight--stood up on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. In lieu of pink abas.e.m.e.nt was tawny denunciation.

"I'll admit, Arbuthnot," said the Man of Blood and Iron, "I looked at the woman as no man ought to look at a lady."

"Didn't you say 'd.a.m.n,' Lord Bra.s.set?" piped a demure seeker after knowledge.

"I may have done, Mrs. Arbuthnot, I admit I may have done."

"I think that ought to go down on the depositions," said I, with an approximation to the manner of my uncle, the judge, that was very tolerable for an amateur.

"I _honour_ you for it, Lord Bra.s.set. Don't you, Mary?"

"Endeavour not to embarra.s.s the witness," said I. "Go on, Bra.s.set."

"Bra.s.set, here's your beer," said Jodey, rising from the table and personally handing the Burton brew with vast solemnity.

"I may have d.a.m.ned her eyes," proceeded the witness, "or I mayn't have done. You see, she was within two inches of the old gal, and I may have lost my head for a bit. I'll admit that no man ought to d.a.m.n the eyes of a lady. Mind, I don't say I did. And yet I don't say I didn't. It all happened before you could say 'knife,' and I'll admit I was rattled."

"The witness admits he was rattled," said I.

"So would you have been, old son," the witness continued magniloquently. "Within two inches, upon my oath."

"Were there reprisals on the part of the lady whose eyes you had d.a.m.ned in a moment of mental duress?"

"_Rather_. She d.a.m.ned mine in Dutch."

Sensation.

"How did you know it was Dutch, Lord Bra.s.set?" piped a seeker of knowledge.

"By the behaviour of the hounds, Mrs. Arbuthnot."

"How did they behave?"

"The beggars bolted."

Sensation.

"My aunt!" said the occupant of the breakfast table with solemn irrelevance.

"So would you," said the n.o.ble Master. "I never heard anything like it. In my opinion there is no language like Dutch when it comes to cursing. And then, before I could blink, up went her hand, and she gave me one over the head with her crop."

Sensation.

"Upon my solemn word of honour. I don't mind showing the mark to anybody."

"Where is it, Lord Bra.s.set?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot rose from her chair in the ecstatic pursuit of first-hand information. Her eyes were wide and glowing like those of her small daughter, Miss Lucinda, when she hears the story of "The Three Bears."

"Show _me_ the scar, Reggie," said a Minerva-like voice.

"Let's see it, Bra.s.set," said the occupant of the breakfast table, kicking over a piece of Chippendale of the best period and incidentally breaking the back of it.

The somewhat melodramatic investigations of a thick layer of Rowland's Maca.s.sar oil and a thin layer of fair hair disclosed an unmistakable weal immediately above the left temple of the n.o.ble martyr in the cause of public duty.

"If it don't beat c.o.c.kfighting!" said Jodey in a tone of undisguised admiration.

"If it hadn't been for the rim of my cap," said the n.o.ble martyr in response to the public enthusiasm, "it must have laid my head clean open."

"In my opinion," said Mary Catesby, speaking _ex cathedra_, "that woman is a perfect devil. Reggie, if you only show firmness you can count upon support. They may stand that sort of thing in a Continental circus, but we don't stand it in the Crackanthorpe Hunt."

"Firmness, Bra.s.set," said I, anxious, like all the world, to echo the oracle.

The little blond moustache was subjected to inhuman treatment.

"It's all very well, you know, but what's the use of being firm with a person who is just as firm as yourself?"

The Great Lady snorted.

"For three years, Reggie, you have filled a difficult office pa.s.sably well. Don't let a little thing like this be your undoing."

"All very well, Mrs. Catesby, but I can't hit her over the head, can I?"

"No, but what about Fitz?" said a voice from the breakfast table.

"Ye-es, I hadn't thought of that."

"And I shouldn't think of it if I were you," said I, cordially. "Fitz with all his errors is a heftier chap than you are, my son."

Bra.s.set's jaw dropped doubtfully--it is quite a good jaw, by the way.

"Practise the left a bit, Bra.s.set," was the advice of the breakfast table. "I know a chap in Jermyn Street who has had lessons from Burns.

We might trot up and see him after lunch. Bring a Bradshaw, Parkins.

And I think we had better send a wire."

"I wasn't so bad with my left when I was up at Trinity," said Bra.s.set.