“Are you tired after your rehearsal?” went on Felicity.
He shot her a suspicious glance, but Felicity’s eyes were blue pools of innocence.
“Er—yes . . . I mean no . . . I mean slightly,” said Mr. Boulton.
“How do you like Marleigh?” went on Felicity.
“Oh—so, so,” said Mr. Boulton, looking at her with interest. Yes, she was a very pretty child. Very pretty indeed. “So, so.”
“I suppose you don’t know many of the people yet?”
“What people?”
“The village people. We’ve got some awfully interesting characters. Our blacksmith, Jakes, is the most interesting. He’s—terrible!”
“Really?” said Mr. Boulton. “In what way terrible?”
“He’s got the most ferocious temper. He’s a great, enormous man with crossed eyes and long arms, and he’s got such a ferocious temper that lots of people say he ought to be shut up. They say that no one with a temper like his can be quite sane.”
Mr. Boulton’s air of boredom dropped from him. He sat up and blinked.
“Eh?” he said.
“If he gets annoyed over anything,” went on Felicity casually, “he won’t rest till he’s had his revenge, however long he has to wait. He’s quite a mad man in that way. He’s as strong as ten ordinary men, too. He’s nearly killed several people round here who’ve annoyed him. People here would rather do anything on earth than annoy him.”
Mr. Boulton was staring at her blankly.
“Eh?” he said again. “C-cross-eyed, did you say?”
“Yes,” said Felicity innocently. “Cross-eyed and with dreadfully long arms. I saw him this morning in a fearful rage—almost out of his mind with rage—just because someone or other in a car had splashed mud over him and then laughed. He kept saying that he knew who it was and he’d be even with him before the day was out. I’m jolly sorry for whoever it was. He was smiling, and that’s the worst sign of all with Jakes. When he smiles—it looks quite a gentle dreamy sort of smile— it means that he’s in one of his most ferocious rages.”
Mr. Boulton’s mouth was still hanging open limply. He put up a finger as if to loosen his collar.
“D-did you say he knew the man who’d splashed him?” he said hoarsely.
“Oh, yes,” said Felicity. Then she shuddered. “I’m so sorry for whoever it is . . . Well, here’s Violet, so I’ll go.”
The look Mr. Boulton turned upon his (presumably) beloved was neither loving nor welcoming.
“C-cross-eyed,” he murmured to himself, and added, “Good God!”
Felicity strolled across the lawn. Drewe, the gardener, approached her.
“I dunno what to put in those there two beds on the lawn, Miss Felicity,” he said. “Sir Digby said he wanted somethin’ diff’rent this year, but he didn’t say what, an’ Wakeman said he’d better not be asked about it to-day.”
Imps of mischief danced in Felicity’s blue eyes. Fate was certainly on her side.
“Let’s have Jakes up and ask him,” she said “He’ll be able to help us.”
Jakes, besides being the blacksmith, was the unofficial gardening expert of the village and Drewe’s particular crony. Jakes’ father had been gardener at the Hall and his advice was frequently sought by both Drewe and Sir Digby.
“Right, Miss,” said Drewe, relieved, “then it sort of takes the responsibility off us like, don’t it—case Sir Digby don’t like it.”
“That’s the idea, Drewe,” said Felicity. “Send one of the boys for him now.”
Jakes, big and cross-eyed and ferocious-looking, arrived almost at once.
Felicity explained what was wanted. The imps of mischief in her blue eyes were like dancing stars. Fugitive dimples peeped in her cheeks as she spoke.
“I want you to go to the end of the lawn, Jakes,” she said, “then you’ll get the whole effect and you can see what will look best in those beds. Go just beyond those two deck-chairs where Mrs. Harborough and Mr. Boulton are and then you can judge.”
“Right, Miss,” said Jakes.
Jakes was very polite. He approached the two deckchairs humbly, a gentle smile on his lips, meaning to apologise to their occupants for his intrusion.
“You seem—different, somehow,” Violet was saying to Mr. Boulton.
“How different?” said Mr. Boulton.
“You seem sort of distrait,” said Violet. “I don’t believe you love me at all. I believe you’re beginning to be sorry you ever asked me to go away with you. You seem restless. You—–”
Her companion looked up. His jaw dropped. His eyes dilated. An enormous cross-eyed man, wearing a gentle, dreamy smile, was approaching him over the lawn. Without a word he sprang from his chair, darted across the lawn and plunged headlong in at one of the open French windows of the library . . .
“So you think heliotropes, Jakes,” said Felicity. “Thank you so much. I’ll tell Drewe. And, Jakes, I want you to do something for me. You will, won’t you?”
“Sure, Miss,” said Jakes heartily.
“I’ll tell you what it is.”
She drew him behind the greenhouse and told him what it was. Jakes betrayed no surprise. Nothing ever surprised Jakes.
“Sure, Miss,” was all he said.
If Felicity had asked him to walk round the garden on his hands, or plant bulbs with his teeth, he’d have said, “Sure, Miss,” in just that tone of voice. And done it.
Felicity went across to Violet. “Do you think heliotropes would look nice in those beds, Violet?” she said.
“I’m sure I’ve no idea,” said Violet tartly. “Wherever did Mr. Boulton go?”
“Underneath the table in the library,” said Felicity innocently. “Shall I tell him you want him?”
But at that moment Mr. Boulton emerged, looking around first very cautiously, to make sure there was no sign of Jakes.
Felicity moved away as he approached. From the other end of the lawn, where she was engaged apparently in discussing the future contents of the garden-beds with Jakes, she watched them covertly. Violet looked sulky and Mr. Boulton, though evidently apologising profusely, seemed more anxious to keep a wary outlook round the garden than to placate his beloved.
Whistling softly, hands in her pockets, Felicity went up to them.
“I tell you it’s nerves,” Mr. Boulton was saying.
“They—they do take me like that sometimes. I can’t help it.”
“Well, all I can say is,” replied Violet indignantly, “it’s going to be very awkward for me—nerves taking you like that with no warning at all.”
“They don’t do it often-—” he pleaded, and stopped as Felicity approached.
Felicity sank down gracefully at their feet.
“I say, Violet,” she said earnestly, “do you think heliotropes would look all right in that bed? Jakes thinks they would.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” snapped Violet.
Felicity nibbled bits of grass in silence, lids lowered over downcast eyes. After a few seconds she leapt to her feet and walked away.
“Darling,” said Mr. Boulton, as she departed, “this hasn’t made any difference, has it? You—you’ll meet me at the station at five-thirty, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Violet, but there was a disillusioned note in her voice, “though I must say I hope it doesn’t take you like this often.”
Mr. Boulton set out from The George at a quarter-to-five, gallantly determined to be at the station by five. He’d be glad to get away from Bridgeways. He’d had a most wearying day. He’d spent the first part of the afternoon appeasing Violet, and it had been most difficult. He’d had to begin all over again with the really hard spade-work—smiles, sighs, poetic language, protestation of undying affection, and all the rest of it. But it had been more or less successful.
Violet had agreed to overlook his momentary aberration and be at the station at half-past five, as though nothing had happened.
The second part
of the afternoon he had spent barricaded in his hotel bedroom and watching the road, apprehensively, from behind his drawn blind. That terrible face—cross-eyes and gentle smile—was continually before his mind. That terrible sentence of Felicity’s, “He’s nearly killed several people round here who’ve annoyed him,” was continually in his ears. Once, indeed, the terrible man had passed The George and Mr. Boulton had dived beneath his bed. But now—he’d only to walk to the station and all would be well. And it was only a few yards.
He walked slowly and warily. At a bend in the road he stopped and peeped cautiously about him. Good! The road was quite empty. The station was in sight. Then suddenly there appeared almost in front of him, and walking towards him, a large man with crossed eyes and long arms, wearing a gentle, dreamy smile. Jakes’ instructions were to patrol the road between The George and the station from a quarter-to-five to five-thirty. He didn’t know why and he didn’t care why. Felicity had asked him to, and Felicity’s word was law, and that was all there was to it.
At sight of him Mr. Boulton turned green and plunged into the nearest doorway.
It happened to be the Village Hall, where the vicar’s daughter was conducting the Girls’ Parish Club.
He met the blank gaze of a roomful of girls, and turned to dash out, ran into Jakes at the doorway and plunged back again.
Then he leant against the wall and looked around him, mopping his brow. Surely he wasn’t awake. Surely it was all a nightmare. He pinched himself. He was awake. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was all real. That awful man really was just outside waiting for him, waiting to kill him.
Suddenly Felicity stepped forward. Felicity was a member of the Girls’ Club, though it must be admitted that she did not often attend the meetings. This afternoon, however, rather to everyone’s surprise, she had appeared.
“Why, it’s Mr. Boulton,” said Felicity brightly. Then to the vicar’s daughter, who was gazing open-mouthed at the vision of Mr. Boulton leaning against the wall and mopping his brow in the sacred precincts of the Girls’ Parish Club, “Mr. Boulton’s a famous London actor. I think he must have heard that we’re without a speaker this afternoon, and come to tell us something about his work.”
The vicar’s daughter smiled and bridled.
“That will be delightful,” she said, “will you speak from the platform, Mr. Boulton?”
A broken man, Mr. Boulton went up on to the platform.
Even the vicar’s daughter, who was notoriously uncritical, said afterwards that it was incoherent. She said that from the very beginning she noticed something strange in the man’s manner. Drugs, probably. Or drink. Often, in later life, the vicar’s daughter would tell her more intimate friends of the occasion when she saw Frank Boulton, the actor, under the influence of drugs. Of course, she always added that it might have been drink, but she thought that it was drugs. As the vicarage was almost opposite the Green Man, she had had many opportunities of familiarising herself with the effects of drink upon the human male, and this was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Quite unlike. Oh, most certainly, drugs.
After about ten minutes the address ended abruptly, and remarking that he had a train to catch, the lecturer descended from the platform before the vicar’s daughter could collect her faculties to propose a vote of thanks. He opened the door, looked out, and plunging back again, leapt agilely upon the platform. He felt safer on higher ground.
“I’ve—er—just remembered some—er—other little details that—er—might interest you,” he said, in a faint voice, his eyes fixed fearfully on the door. Then he plunged into a torrent of yet more incoherent speech. The climax of the drug effect, thought the vicar’s daughter with interest. . . . Well, it was in a way an education to see what havoc drugs could wreak on a strong man’s frame. But, on second thoughts, not very good for her flock.
“Thank you, Mr. Boulton,” she said frigidly, when he paused for breath. “Thank you very much. We are now going to adjourn to the schools for tea. Er—thank you. Come, girls.”
Keeping one eye fixed upon him (for it had just occurred to her that it might be neither drugs nor drink, but incipient insanity) she marshalled her flock out into the road and across to the schools.
Mr. Boulton was left alone. No, not quite alone. Felicity was there. Felicity had not accompanied the others to the schools. He edged behind the piano and, firmly barricaded there, spoke hoarsely to Felicity.
“Go and see if that man’s still in the road,” he said. “What man?” said Felicity innocently.
“The—the cross-eyed man,” he said.
Felicity went to the door.
“Yes,” she said, “he’s still there.”
“I must be at the station at five-thirty,” moaned the actor, wringing his hands. “Oh, if only I’d got my makeup, I’d—I’d disguise myself, I’d—–”
Felicity drew in her breath and again blue devils of mischief danced in her eyes. Fate really was on her side. She’d meant only to detain him till he was too late to keep his appointment. But now—–After all, he’d suggested it himself.
“Oh, but there is make-up here,” she said, “in the little room. It belongs to the Girls’ Club Dramatic Society. I’m quite used to making people up. Here it is—–”
“Quick,” he panted, “there’s only a few minutes. I can’t be late. I tell you I can’t be late.”
She led him into a small inner room, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a box.
“Here’s a beard,” she said. “You fix it on while I make your face up.”
“Do it quickly,” he said desperately, “just disguise me . . . any way.”
Felicity worked with frowning concentration. The actor himself could not see the effect. There was no mirror. He was too busy watching the door even to see what grease paints she used.
“Now you’re quite disguised,” she said.
“See if he’s there.”
She went out and joined the bored, but still amiable, Jakes in the road.
“Go and have a drink, Jakes,” she said, “I’m sure you need it.”
Jakes disappeared gratefully into The Green Man.
“No,” said Felicity, re-entering the Village Hall, “he’s not there.”
Snatching up his bag, Mr. Boulton ran with all his might down the road towards the station.
Violet was annoyed. She’d waited quite five minutes for him, and she wasn’t used to waiting quite five minutes for anyone. Certainly John had never kept her waiting for quite five minutes . . .
Suddenly she saw someone running down the road. It wasn’t . . . Oh, it couldn’t be. . . . Her face grew pale with horror . . . it was a man—a straggly, grey beard floated in the wind. His cheeks were whitened, his nose was vermilioned. His front hair was greased into three little spikes that stuck up in a row. Strange hieroglyphics in brown grease paints adorned his brow. . . . Felicity had done her work well . . .
He arrived panting.
“Here I am, darling,” he said, “I hope I’m not very late.”
She started back with a scream, dropping umbrella and bag in the road
“Oh, you brute,” she cried. “How dare you!”
Then without another word she turned and ran back to the Hall.
Mr. Boulton, bewildered and breathless, picked up her umbrella and bag and looked down the road.
Jakes was just emerging from The Green Man. With a moan Mr. Boulton slipped through a hedge into a field and hid behind a tree.
He arrived at the Hall a quarter-of-an-hour later.
He carried a lady’s umbrella in one hand and a lady’s bag in the other, and a host of explanations in his brain. His beard had come oil in the hedge, but the rest of the make-up retained its first fine, careless rapture.
The last hour had been so crowded with inglorious life that the actor himself had forgotten the trifling incident of his disguise. He fondly imagined himself the matinee idol who generally met his eyes when he looked into his mirror.
The big fro
nt door was open. He walked into the hall.
It happened that Sir Digby was just coming downstairs.
He was feeling slightly better, but only slightly.
At sight of the strange intruder he stood petrified with astonishment half-way down the stairs.
Mr. Boulton advanced with his famous charming smile. “Excuse me,” he began.
Sir Digby’s face went purple, his eyes bulged, then he burst out in a ferocious rage.
“Get out, sir,” he bellowed. “How dare you come Christie Minstrelling in a gentleman’s house? Do you take this for a music-hall? I tell you, you’re drunk, sir. GET OUT!”
Mr. Boulton’s spirit was broken by the events of the afternoon and Sir Digby’s outburst of rage was the last straw.
He turned with a low moan and fled back to the station a train was just on the point of starting for London, and this seemed to Mr. Boulton to be a direct intervention of Providence on his behalf. He leapt into it thankfully just as the train was moving out of the station he realised that he still carried Violet’s bag and umbrella. He flung them viciously out on to the platform.
Felicity leant out of her bedroom window. Beneath her, on the lawn, were two shadowy figures, which she recognised as those of her brother John and her sister-in-law Violet. John had arrived just before dinner and had been greeted by his wife with an affection that surprised him. Felicity could see, in the dusk, that Violet’s head was on John’s shoulder and that John’s arms were round her. Their voices, hushed and indistinguishable, rose in whispers through the evening air . . .
“And then he went mad, darling,” Violet was saying.
“Mad?”
“Yes—ever so mad . . . Oh, John, he arrived at the station to elope with me in a sort of carnival get-up—a funny beard and a funny hat, and a red nose. . . . quite mad, and then I realised, darling, that I could never really love anyone but you, you . . . You do forgive me, don’t you?”
“Darling,” said the loyal John, “I blame myself entirely . . .” Then, after a pause:
“Nobody—er—knew, darling, did they?”
“Oh no, John.”
“Not Felicity?”
“Oh no, John . . . she’s such a child . . . Why, John, you’d hardly believe it, but with this terrible drama going on before her eyes Felicity didn’t give a thought to anything, not to anything, but those wretched flower-beds on the lawn.”
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