Count Bunker

by J. Storer Clouston

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  "A decidedly delectable residence," said Count Bunker to himself ashis dog-cart approached the lodge gates of The Lash. "And a very propersetting for the pleasant scenes so shortly to be enacted. Lodge, avenue,a bogus turret or two, and a flagstaff on top of 'em--by Gad, I thinkone may safely assume a tolerable cellar in such a mansion."

  As he drove up the avenue between a double line of ancient elms andsycamores, his satisfaction increased and his spirits rose ever higher.

  "I wonder if I can forecast the evening: a game of three-handed bridge,in which I trust I'll be lucky enough to lose a little silver, that'llput 'em in good-humor and make old Miss What-d'ye-may-call-her the morewilling to go to bed early; then the departure of the chaperon; and thenthe tete-a-tete! I hope to Heaven I haven't got rusty!"

  With considerable satisfaction he ran over the outfit he had brought,deeming it even on second thoughts a singularly happy selection: thedining coat with pale-blue lapels, the white tie of a new materialand cut borrowed from the Baron's finery, the socks so ravishinglyembroidered that he had more than once caught the ladies at Hechnahoulcasting affectionate glances upon them.

  "A first-class turn-out," he thought. "And what a lucky thing I thoughtof borrowing a banjo from young Gallosh! A coon song in the twilightwill break the ground prettily."

  By this time they had stopped before the door, and an elderlyman-servant, instead of waiting for the Count, came down the steps tomeet him. In his manner there was something remarkably sheepish andconstrained, and, to the Count's surprise, he thrust forth his handalmost as if he expected it to be shaken. Bunker, though a triflepuzzled, promptly handed him the banjo case, remarking pleasantly--

  "My banjo; take care of it, please."

  The man started so violently that he all but dropped it upon the steps.

  "What the deuce did he think I said?" wondered the Count. "'Banjo' can'thave sounded 'dynamite.'"

  He entered the house, and found himself in a pleasant hall, where hismomentary uneasiness was at once forgotten in the charming welcomeof his hostess. Not only she, but her chaperon, received him with aflattering warmth that realized his utmost expectations.

  "It was so good of you to come!" cried Miss Wallingford.

  "So very kind," murmured Miss Minchell.

  "I knew you wouldn't think it too unorthodox!" added Julia.

  "I'm afraid orthodoxy is a crime I shall never swing for," said theCount, with his most charming smile.

  "I am sure my father wouldn't REALLY mind," said Julia.

  "Not if Sir Justin shared your enthusiasm, dear," added Miss Minchell.

  "I must teach him to!"

  "Good Lord!" thought the Count. "This is friendly indeed."

  A few minutes passed in the exchange of these preliminaries, and thenhis hostess said, with a pretty little air of discipleship that bothcharmed and slightly puzzled him,

  "You do still think that nobody should dine later than six, don't you? Ihave ordered dinner for six to-night."

  "Six!" exclaimed the Count, but recovering himself, added, "An idealhour--and it is half-past five now. Perhaps I had better think ofdressing."

  "What YOU call dressing!" smiled Julia, to his justifiable amazement."Let me show you to your room."

  She led him upstairs, and finally stopped before an open door.

  "There!" she said, with an air of pride. "It is really my father'sbedroom when he is at home, but I've had it specially prepared for YOU!Is it just as you would like?"

  Bunker was incapable of observing anything very particularly beyond thefact that the floor was uncarpeted, and as nearly free from furniture asa bedroom floor could well be.

  "It is ravishing!" he murmured, and dismissed her with a well-feignedsmile.

  Bereft even of expletives, he gazed round the apartment prepared forhim. It was a few moments before he could bring himself to make a tourof its vast bleakness.

  "I suppose that's what they call a truckle-bed," he mused. "Oh, thereis one chair--nothing but cold water-towels made of vegetable fibreapparently. The devil take me, is this a reformatory for bogusnoblemen!"

  He next gazed at the bare whitewashed wall. On it hung one picture--theportrait of a strangely attired man.

  "What a shocking-looking fellow!" he exclaimed, and went up to examineit more closely.

  Then, with a stupefying shock, he read this legend beneath it:

  "Count Bunker. Philosopher, teacher, and martyr."

  For a minute he stared in rapt amazement, and then sharply rang thebell.

  "Hang it," he said to himself, "I must throw a little light on thissomehow!"

  Presently the elderly man-servant appeared, this time in a state ofstill more obvious confusion. For a moment he stared at the Count--whowas too discomposed by his manner to open his lips--and then, once morestretching out his hand, exclaimed in a choked voice and a strong Scotchaccent--

  "How are ye, Bunker!"

  "What the deuce!" shouted the Count, evading the proffered hand-shakewith an agile leap.

  The poor fellow turned scarlet, and in an humble voice blurted out--

  "She told me to do it! Miss Julia said ye'd like me to shake hands andjust ca' ye plain Bunker. I beg your pardon, sir; oh, I beg your pardonhumbly!"

  The Count looked at him keenly.

  "He is evidently telling the truth," he thought.

  Thereupon he took from his pocket half a sovereign.

  "My good fellow," he began. "By the way, what's your name?"

  "Mackenzie, sir."

  "Mackenzie, my honest friend, I clearly perceive that Miss Wallingford,in her very kind efforts to gratify my unconventional tastes, hasput herself to quite unnecessary trouble. She has even succeeded insurprising me, and I should be greatly obliged if you would kindlyexplain to me the reasons for her conduct, so far as you can."

  At this point the half-sovereign changed hands.

  "In the first place," resumed the Count, "what is the meaning of thisremarkably villainous portrait labelled with my name?"

  "That, sir," stammered Mackenzie, greatly taken aback by the inquiry."Why, sir, that's the famous Count Bunker--your uncle, sir, is he no'?"

  Bunker began to see a glimmer of light, though the vista it illuminedwas scarcely a much pleasanter prospect than the previous bank of fog.He remembered now, for the first time since his journey north, that theBaron, in dubbing him Count Bunker, had encouraged him to take thetitle on the ground that it was a real dignity once borne by a famouspersonage; and in a flash he realized the pitfalls that awaited asolitary false step.

  "THAT my uncle!" he exclaimed with an air of pleased surprise, examiningthe portrait more attentively; "by Gad, I suppose it is! But I can't sayit is a flattering likeness. 'Philosopher, teacher, and martyr'--how apta description! I hadn't noticed that before, or I should have known atonce who it was."

  Still Mackenzie was looking at him with a perplexed and uneasy air.

  "Miss Wallingford, sir, seems under the impression that you wouldbe wanting jist the same kind of things as he likit," he remarkeddiffidently.

  The Count laughed.

  "Hence the condemned cell she's put me in? I see! Ha, ha! No, Mackenzie,I have moved with the times. In fact, my uncle's philosophy andteachings always struck me as hardly suitable for a gentleman."

  "I was thinking that mysel'," observed Mackenzie.

  "Well, you understand now how things are, don't you? By the way, youhaven't put out my evening clothes, I notice."

  "You werena to dress, sir, Miss Julia said."

  "Not to dress! What the deuce does she expect me to dine in?"

  With a sheepish grin Mackenzie pointed to something upon the bed whichthe Count had hitherto taken to be a rough species of quilt.

  "She said you might like to wear that, sir."

  The Count took it up.

  "It appears to be a dressing-gown!" said he.

  "She said, sir, your uncle was wont to dine in it."

  "Ah!
It's one of my poor uncle's eccentricities, is it? Very nice ofMiss Wallingford; but all the same I think you can put out my eveningclothes for me; and, I say, get me some hot water and a couple oftowels that feel a little less like sandpaper, will you? By the way--onemoment, Mackenzie!--you needn't mention anything of this to MissWallingford. I'll explain it all to her myself."

  It is remarkable how the presence or absence of a few of the very minoraccessories of life will affect the humor even of a man so essentiallyphilosophical as Count Bunker. His equanimity was most marvelouslyrestored by a single jugful of hot water, and by the time he came tosurvey his blue lapels in the mirror the completest confidence shone inhis humorous eyes.

  "How deuced pleased she'll be to find I'm a white man after all," hereflected. "Supposing I'd really turned out a replica of that unshavedheathen on the wall--poor girl, what a dull evening she'd have spent!Perhaps I'd better break the news gently for the chaperon's sake, butonce we get her of to bed I rather fancy the fair Julia and I will smiletogether over my dear uncle's dressing-gown!"

  And in this humor he strode forth to conquer.