An Act in a Backwater. E. F. Benson
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And the possible footman put his pewter pot on the black oak chest and went inside.
The chain of evidence was growing massive. Supposing, as before, Aunt Em was the cook and Arthur’s aunt, whose was the wailing voice inside? Could it be the lady’s-maid’s or the house-maid’s? Miss Clifford’s masculine intellect decided that it scarcely could. Again, had not she and her sister spent an hour last night in following the history of the Avesham family in Debrett’s Peerage into all its ramifications and collateral branches? “Sons living, Hon. Arthur John Talbot, b. 1873, ed. at Eton and Magdalen College, Oxford”—how was it possible for a person of intelligence not to connect the subject of that entry with the person called Arthur who lounged with a pewter pot? The coincidence was too glaring to be overlooked. One thing would settle it, and Miss Clifford cursed her defective memory. If either Lord Avesham or his wife had a “sister living called Emma or Emmaline, that must be the Aunt Em” who had sat so truculently in the highway and been offered beer. Miss Clifford turned quite cold at the thought that she had perhaps been within an ace of running into a sister or a sister-in-law of a peer. What would her mother have said if she had been alive to see such a day?
Miss Clifford wasted no more time, but went home like a positive race-horse, arriving in a breathing heat. She went straight to the room called by her and her sister “the libry,” and took the Peerage from its shelf.
No, the late Lord Avesham had only one sister living, who was called Lucy, which could not possibly be abbreviated into Em, but he married Frances Mary Fortescue, second daughter of late Mr. John Fortescue. It was but the work of a moment to turn to the Fs in the landed gentry and find John Lewis Fortescue, Esq., son of late John Fortescue, Esq., who had one sister living, Emma Caroline. The thing was as good as proved, and Miss Clifford was practically face to face with the fact that peers (at any rate, the brothers of peers) drank beer in shirts, and that she had nearly run down the sister of a peeress. It had been a most exciting morning, and she waited with weary impatience for the return of her sister, who was out, to pour into her horror-struck ears these revelations about the aristocracy. “No wonder many people turn Radical,” she said to herself.
Colonel Raymond’s temper at lunch that day bordered on the diabolical, and when he savagely announced that he should take the children for a walk afterward, the hearts of those unfortunate infants sank in their shoes. They well knew what kind of an afternoon was in store for them. While on the level they would be able to keep up, but they knew from experience that when their father was in the state of mind which Mrs. Raymond referred to in their presence as “looking worried” that their way would be dark and slippery, and that their father would march up the steep sides of the downs as if he was storming a breach. Long before the most active of them was half-way up he would be there, and he would revile them with marrowy and freezing expressions. Then as soon as their aching legs had scaled the summit he would be off again, and ten minutes later the same scene would be re-enacted with the same trembling and breathless mutes. Occasionally, on the worst days, he would take one by the hand and—“he called it helping”—drag her along in a grasp of iron.
Poor Mrs. Raymond always looked more than usually insignificant when her husband was looking worried, but when things were very bad indeed sometimes a strange sort of recklessness came over her. If you can imagine a mouse or some soft feathered bird in a reckless humour, you will have some picture of Mrs. Raymond when the Colonel was looking worried. She had asked him some question about where he had been this morning, and had been treated to a reply of this kind:
“Where have I been? Did you ask where I have been, Constance? You are devoured by curiosity—devoured; and it would be better if you tried to check it sometimes. But I’ll tell you—oh, I’ll tell you. I’ve been hanging about Bolton Street all morning, and not one of those infernal aristocrats had a word to say to me.”
“Do you mean the Aveshams, Robert?” asked his wife.
“Yes, I mean the Aveshams, and why shouldn’t I mean the Aveshams? Eh?”
“I don’t suppose they recognised you.”
“Not recognised me? I tell you, they cut me. Cut me, Constance. Blood is thicker than water—thicker than water—and it’s a motto that I’ve always stuck to myself, and it would be a good thing if others did the same.”
Then Mrs. Raymond began to be reckless.
“You’re not a very near relative, Robert,” she said, in her meaningless voice.
“Not a near relation?” stormed her husband. “Do you mean to put me in my place? Confound it all, your brother-in-law’s sister, your sister-in-law in fact, indeed my sister-in-law, was the late Lady Avesham. If we don’t hang together it’s the ruin of England!”
Mrs. Raymond’s recklessness increased.
“If I were you I shouldn’t go about talking of the Aveshams as your relatives, particularly now they’ve come to live in the town,” she said; “it will only make people laugh.”
The Colonel glared at her a moment; he could literally not find words.
“Anything else, madam, anything else?” he asked at length.
The fit of recklessness was passed.
“No, that is all, Robert,” she said, listlessly; “I didn’t mean to make you worried.”
“I shall call there this afternoon,” he said, “and you will go with me.”
Mrs. Raymond brightened.
“Then you won’t take the children out?” she asked, with a ray of hope in her voice.
“Certainly I shall take them out,” he said, “and—and they shall come and call, too. Go and get your things on, all of you.”
“You won’t go far then, if you are to be back in time to call?” asked his wife.
“We shall go a good brisk walk,” he said, grimly, “and we shall be home by four. Now, am I to wait all day?”
Dismal, faltering feet came down the passage outside, and the three little victims appeared in the doorway.
“Now then, march,” said the Colonel.
It was some little while after four when the hot and jaded expedition returned. The walk had been more severe than usual, and even the Colonel flung himself with an air of fatigue into a chair.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said; “I shall not go near the house. Not go near it. At least, I sha’n’t go to-day. Tea—isn’t tea ready? Let it be brought.”
Even the friends of the Colonel might have felt inclined to accuse him of a slight duplicity for his action on this occasion. He had returned by way of Bolton Street, like the burned moth to the candle, and sending the children on with instructions to go home after waiting for five minutes at the end of the street, he had rung the bell, which was opened by a surprised maid. The hall was full of miscellaneous furniture, and the maid had to go warily among pictures and stools to the drawing-room, bearing his card. Jeannie’s voice was what is known as “carrying,” and she did not reflect how near the front door was to the drawing-room, where an agonizing measurement of a carpet was going on. Her words were distinctly audible.
“Colonel who? Colonel Raymond. I never heard of him. Fancy calling when we are in this state! Tell him we are all out. Did you say fifteen foot six or fifteen foot eight, Arthur? It makes just the whole difference.”
Then somebody said “Hush!” and Jeannie’s voice said “Oh!”
A moment afterward the maid came out of the drawing-room, shutting the door carefully after her.
“Not at home, sir,” she said, without a blush or a tremor in her voice.
The children did not have to wait long at the corner. The pace home was perfectly appalling.
CHAPTER IV