“Are you going to shoot yourself?” said Felicity with interest.
“No,” he said, “’corse I’m not. Mug’s game, shootin’ yourself. What’s the matter, Miss?” he ended in surprise, for Felicity was standing with hands clasped, blue eyes alight and lips parted as if in ecstasy.
“It’s the moment,” she said, “I’m going to help you. Will you be at the Village Hall at quarter to eight, to-night?”
The Vicar’s speech on Shakespeare was erudite, but above the heads of his present audience. The more intelligent of them gathered a vague impression that a man called Shakespeare had written a play called Bacon and had subsequently changed the title to Macbeth. The less intelligent gathered no impression at all. Cousin Sophia was not in the audience because Popsy had sneezed that afternoon, and Cousin Sophia, utterly prostrate, was awaiting the famous veterinary surgeon who had been summoned from London. . . .
The curtain rose. The audience had been in doubt as to what kind of play this was going to be. But the appearance of Mr. Bennet as Macbeth left no doubt at all in their minds that it was going to be a rollicking comedy. They rocked with laughter. They applauded tumultuously. Their error was a pardonable one. None of the hired costumes fitted the actors anywhere at all. They were tight where they ought to have been loose and loose where they ought to have been tight. Mrs. Flower, of course, was magnificent. But she wasn’t Lady Macbeth . . .
The comic effect of Mr. Bennet’s costume was considerably heightened by his woebegone expression. He wore that look of wistful pathos that has made Charlie Chaplin immortal. The play began. Members of the Young Men’s Club, inadequately garbed as Lords or Murderers, mumbled their lines inaudibly after the prompter . . .
The play dragged on.
Behind the scenes the Young Man who was to be the ghost, and so arrived after the others entered, was met at the door by Felicity. Felicity pressed a ten-shilling note into his hand.
“You won’t be needed after all,” she said sweetly. “Good-night.”
The young man’s spirits revived. He looked at the note to make sure it was real, then, lest someone should discover that it was a mistake and he was needed after all, vanished as hastily as he could into the night and, subsequently, into the White Lion.
A few minutes later Mr. Emerson Smith appeared. He looked about him suspiciously.
“’Ere I am, Miss,” he said, “what’s the gyme?”
But Felicity had no time for explanations.
“Take your hat off,” she said quickly, “and stand still.”
He took his hat off and stood still, and Felicity proceeded to wrap him round and round in endless folds of grey tulle.
“By Gum!” said Emerson Smith; then, feeling this inadequate, “Crikey!”
“Can you walk?” said Felicity.
“Just,” said Emerson Smith after experiment.
Felicity opened the door that led on to the stage.
“May’t please your Highness sit?” said one of the Lords impatiently when the prompter had repeated the sentence three times. The Lord was in real life the butcher’s assistant and had been too busily engaged in trying to catch the eye of a lady friend in the back row to have much attention left for the prompter.
“Now just walk on and stand there and look at her,” said Felicity, pushing Emerson Smith on to the stage.
Emerson Smith walked on and stood there and looked at her.
The dim lighting of the stage made the effect of Emerson Smith rather a good one. He looked more like a ghost than anyone who knew him would have believed possible. Lady Macbeth gazed at him and the colour slowly drained from her cheeks. Then, with a wild cry of “Help!” she fled from the stage. To the audience it was a fit and proper denouement to the scene. They enjoyed it more than they’d enjoyed any of it so far. They enjoyed it far more than they’d have enjoyed Shakespeare’s own development of the situation. The curtain manipulators, after a minute’s stupefaction, lowered the curtain.
Mr. Bennet sat down abruptly on the Queen Anne chair reserved for the ghost and wiped his brow.
Mrs. Flower fled down the road distraught.
“Oh, Em,” she cried as she ran, “come back to me. I never thought you’d really go an’ do it. Honest, I didn’t. Oh, Em, I’ll marry you if only you’ll come back. . . . Oh, I never knew you’d really go an’ do it . . .”
Behind her, still swathed in grey tulle and progressing by little leaps and bounds like a kangaroo, came Emerson Smith. Muffled cries of “Daisy!” proceeded from his ghost-like shroud. Mrs. Flower, out of breath (for there was little of the Atalanta in her physical composition), stopped at last and leant sobbing against a tree. Mr. Smith hopped up to her and, as well as he could, through his grey tulle, took her tenderly in his arms. She sobbed on his breast.
“Oh, Em,” she said, “you don’t feel a bit as if you was dead.”
“I’m not,” said Emerson Smith, releasing her and beginning to struggle like a captive fish with his all-enveloping net. “You will marry me, Daisy, now, won’t you?”
“When I saw your ghost standing there, Em,” said Mrs. Flower solemnly, “I knew I loved you, knew it too late. I said to myself, ‘There, you’ve let the best man in the world go to his death for you and you’ll never know a day’s happiness the rest of your life.’ I said that to myself, Em. I looked at the poor fish I’d said I’d marry and I thought to myself, ‘What’s wealth beside love? An’ I’ve let him go an’ kill hisself.’ Oh, but I wouldn’t ’ave married him never then. I’d sooner’ve gone into a monastery.”
“They wouldn’t’ve let you, Daisy,” said Emerson, still floundering, and added, “Damn the stuff!”
Then Felicity arrived. She carried Mrs. Flower’s cloak and without a word spread it over that lady’s voluminous shoulders. Then she turned and helped to unwind Emerson.
Mrs. Flower looked at her in some surprise.
“Hello!” she said. “You’re the kid that was staying at Fairyng, ain’t you? Well,” she thrust a hand into her bosom, brought out a piece of paper and tore it into shreds dramatically, “tell that old fish that I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man in the world . . . I’ll send you a postcard where to send my things, and,” she linked her arm through Emerson Smith’s, “come on, old Em,” she said affectionately, “let’s go to your mother’s to-night and get married first thing to-morrow morning. I’m through with ambition, I am. Let ’im keep ’is money, sausages an’ all.”
The three of them were in Priscilla’s bedroom. Mr. Bennet sat by the couch and held his daughter’s hand affectionately. He looked chastened but happy. Felicity was curled up in the armchair by the fire.
“As soon as you can travel, love,” said Mr. Bennet to his daughter, “we’ll go right away. Take a real holiday—just you an’ me together. I feel as if I’d a lot to make up to you for,” he added humbly. “I’ve been a very foolish old man.”
“I’m going to bed,” announced Felicity sleepily, “I’m awfully tired and I’ve got to go home to-morrow.”
Priscilla turned shining eyes upon her.
“Oh, Felicity,” she said, “if it hadn’t been for you—–!”
Felicity stretched her shapely young body.
“It wasn’t I,” she said, “it was just Fate—Fate and Emerson Smith!”
Chapter Six
Felicity and the Little Blind God
The train slid into the little country station and Felicity leapt down upon the platform with all the agility of her sixteen years.
She stood and looked about her, cheeks aglow, blue eyes alight. It was nice to be home again. She’d seen Mr. Bennet and Priscilla off that morning. They were going to Italy. Both were very happy. Then she’d caught the first train home—an earlier one than she’d said she’d catch, and so there was no one to meet her at the station. She rather liked doing that. Her aunt, she knew, was still paying visits to her relations, which made the homecoming even nicer.
“Glad to see you back, Miss,” said th
e station-master, who was a great friend of hers.
“It’s jolly nice to be back,” sang Felicity cheerily. “They weren’t expecting me till later, so there won’t be anything to meet me.”
“I’ll ring up the ’All—–” began the station-master.
“Oh, no,” said Felicity. “I’ll walk. Send up my box by the cart and I’ll walk. I’m longing for a walk. Trains are such stuffy things, aren’t they?”
The short cut from the station to the Hall lay across a field through a wood, across another field, over a stile and into a narrow lane.
As Felicity neared the stile she noticed a car coming down the lane. By the stile stood a man—a big man, cross-eyed and with great gorilla-like arms and hands. The lane was muddy. The car swept past the stile, sending a spurt of mud over the man. The occupant of the car turned a handsome face and laughed derisively at the appearance of his victim. A black trickle of mud dripped from the big man’s nose. The car disappeared round the bend of the lane, its driver still laughing.
The man took out a grimy handkerchief and wiped his face.
“What a beast, Jakes!” said Felicity indignantly, lightly vaulting the stile into the lane.
The ferocious appearance imparted to the man by his cross-eyes and big arms was oddly at variance with the simple friendliness of his smile as he turned to Felicity.
“I reckon he didn’t mean to do it, Miss Felicity,” he said mildly, “it’s main muddy, you know.”
“Yes, but he needn’t have laughed,” said Felicity, still stern, “and he might have apologised.”
“I guess I looked a bit funny, Miss,” said Jakes mildly, still defending his absent assailant.
“Well, who is he, anyway?” said Felicity. “I’ve never seen him before. He doesn’t live anywhere round here, does he?”
“I reckon he’s the chap what’s staying at The George,” said Jakes slowly, “an actor chap, they do say.”
“Well, I don’t think much of him,” said Felicity, closing her pretty lips very tight, “and it’s all down your clothes.”
“Eh, it’ll brush off all right. Don’t worry your head over it,” smiled Jakes. “It’s good to see you back, Miss. Have you enjoyed yourself away?”
Felicity’s sternness disappeared and the dimples peeped out again.
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s awfully nice to get back.”
She flitted up the wide shallow staircase of the Hall and listened for a moment outside her grandfather’s door. It sounded rather a bad day. The door opened suddenly and Wakeman, his latest valet, came out. Crampton had left last week. There was a look of gloomy pleasure on Wakeman’s face. Wakeman was a tall, thin, red-haired man with an unhealthy craving for excitement. He lived for Sir Digby’s bad days and found his good ones very dull. He kept a little note-book, into which he entered all the names Sir Digby called him on his bad days (and Sir Digby only called him names on his bad days), and when he felt dull he read them over to himself. There was no cinema in Marleigh, but to Wakeman Sir Digby’s bad days compensated for the lack.
Wakeman was just opening his note-book.
“Called me four quite new ones this morning, Miss,” he said with gloomy pride.
“How lovely,” said Felicity, “but if he’s like that I don’t think I’ll go in, just yet.”
She went downstairs to the library. Franklin looked up from his desk.
“Hello, Pins,” he said. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Isn’t it nice to be back?” she said, snatching oh her hat and throwing it on to a chair. “Tell me all the news . . . Aunt still away?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s thank Heaven for that,” said Felicity piously. “And grandfather having a bad day . . . Oh, by the way, Frankie”—she seemed to remember something suddenly. “Do you know anything about anyone staying at The George—the sort of man who’d splash mud on people and then laugh at them? Nice-looking. An actor?”
“Oh—er—yes,” said Franklin with a slight frown, “I know. A Mr. Boulton. He’s been up here several times to see Mrs. Harborough.”
“Mrs. Harborough? Is Violet staying here?”
“Yes. She arrived last week.”
“And is this Mr. Boulton a friend of hers?”
“I gather so.”
“All right, Frankie darling, if you want to be uncommunicative and unconfidential, be so. You’re a materialist, as I’m always telling you. You haven’t a soul above the morning’s correspondence. Here am I, ready to discuss deep things of the spirit with you, and all you’ll do is to eye the morning correspondence longingly and sadly, and say ‘I gather so.’ No, it’s too late now. I’m going.”
She went slowly to the morning-room to look for Violet. She was rather dismayed to hear that Violet was staying at the Hall. Violet had never come to the Hall before without John. Violet was essentially a “little woman.” She screamed and fainted at the psychological moments and always clung to the nearest male for protection in times of danger. Felicity had not much use for her. Her chief virtue in Felicity’s eyes was that she made John happy. Violet thought John the most wonderful man in all the world, and told him so in baby language at frequent intervals, gazing at him with adoring eyes and playing with his hair, or ears, or moustache as she did so. And, until lately, John had found time to repay all these compliments and endearments in kind, and life for the John Harboroughs had been one glad sweet song. Until lately. For Felicity had seen them not very long ago and had been conscious of a change. John was very busy and Violet had been peevish, bored and very sorry for herself. She felt neglected. Bereft of John’s constant attention, she was scanning the horizon of her life for some fresh excitement. But—why on earth had she come to stay at Bridgeways without John? She’d never done that before. She’d always refused to go anywhere without John before.
The morning-room was empty. There was a broad cushioned seat in the window upon which Felicity loved to curl up. It was this morning sun-bathed and inviting. Felicity realised that she was sleepy. She’d gone to bed very late the night before and she’d got up very early that morning to see Priscilla off. So she curled up in the window-seat with the grace of a kitten and in a few minutes was fast asleep.
She awoke to hear two voices—one familiar, the other a stranger’s.
“He neglects you. You can’t deny it,” said the strange voice. “I tell you you’ll never regret it if you’ll only come away with me. We’ll go abroad. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Violet’s flute-like voice. “But—–”
“But what?”
“He’s coming this evening. He’ll be here by seven. Perhaps—he’ll be nicer to me then.’’
“No, he won’t,’’ said the other voice, “he lets you go away from him without a protest and expects you to be here meekly waiting for him when he chooses to come . . . Don’t hesitate . . . I tell you, dearest, you’ll never regret it. Meet me at the station here at half-past five . . . will you? We’ll go away. I’ve arranged everything . . . We’ll begin life afresh; will you? . . . will you? Promise.”
“Yes,” said Violet breathlessly.
Felicity realised suddenly that a screen completely hid her from the speakers and that she was eavesdropping. She put out a dainty foot and overbalanced the screen with a crash.
“Hello,” she said, flushing slightly, her blue eyes moving from Violet to the man with her.
It was the man whom she had seen in the car in the lane, the man who had splashed Jakes with mud.
Violet gave a little scream.
“Felicity!” she said.
The man had gone rather pale.
“Ah,” he said to Violet, “your sister-in-law?” Then to Felicity, “You’ve—er—interrupted a little rehearsal, Miss Harborough, that your sister-in-law and I are—I mean, we belong to an amateur dramatic society and we were rehearsing a little scene out of a play we are producing in the autumn.”
He had recovered his poise
quickly. His smile revealed a perfect set of teeth, and should have been a pleasant one, but somehow wasn’t.
Felicity’s clear-blue eyes met his squarely and his slid away.
“Shall we go on?” he said to Violet, “or have you had enough for this morning?”
“I’ve had enough,” said Violet faintly.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” said Felicity, leaping lightly to the ground, “I won’t disturb you any longer.”
She swung out of the room. They heard her whistling as she crossed the hall.
Felicity went into the garden. Despite of, or perhaps because of, her youth, her heart was large and loving and staunch and true. In spite of his pomposity she was fond of John, and because she was John’s wife she was fond of Violet. She walked through the rose-garden, her brow drawn into a puzzled frown, her childish lips tight.
Then suddenly she stood still. Her brow cleared and her dimples peeped out. She clasped small brown firm hands and then broke into a little impromptu pas seul.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” she chanted joyously.
She walked slowly and demurely across the front lawn to where Mr. Boulton’s manly form was outspread upon a deck-chair. Violet was not in sight.
Felicity dropped into an empty deck-chair beside him.
“Where’s Violet?” she said.
“She’s writing a letter,” said the actor, “she’ll be out soon.”
Felicity - Stands By Page 10
