“Better than being like treacle,” retorted Love, with a glance at Kitty, now playing soft passages and deep chords. Presently she began to sing.
“I know where I’m goin’ (said she),
And I know who’s goin’ with me—”
“Oh dear!” sighed Love, moving restlessly in the window-seat where she and Peregrine had sat down. “I wish Gunn would hurry up and say that dinner’s ready!”
“You’ll have to learn to take it, Love,” he murmured. “You don’t want Marsh to know how you feel, as well as Mrs. Mariner, do you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Love began haughtily, but it is difficult to be really convincingly haughty in a whisper, and she only succeeded in sounding sulky.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he said calmly. “If I could see what was wrong as soon as I set eyes on you, you surely don’t imagine that it has escaped other people’s notice?”
“Pig,” said Love mechanically.
Kitty sang on and on.
“Some say he’s black.
But I say he’s bonnie.
The flower among them all.
My winsome, handsome Johnnie. . . .”
Peregrine touched Love’s arm lightly. “Suppose you take me on, for the evening at least, just to show them both that you don’t care a damn?”
“Oh, thank you, Peregrine,” whispered Love gratefully, and Gunn made her announcement of dinner just then, regardless of the music. An opera in full blast would not have prevented Gunn from saying “Dinner is served” at the exact moment. Music or no music, when the clock struck the first note of eight, Gunn appeared in the doorway, vanishing as punctually on the final stroke of the hour. “I always expect to see her go back inside the clock-case, like a cuckoo,” said Love to Peregrine with a rather hysterical giggle.
Taking this as a hint that she meant to play up to him, he exerted himself to keep the conversation going on safely impersonal topics during dinner, and succeeded fairly well, in spite of Kitty’s determined and unceasing efforts in the opposite direction. That he found it heavy going, was apparent both to Jane and Love from his frequent wild snatches at his head to readjust non-existent spectacles, but he refused to be side-tracked, and though Kitty did her best to give to every remark he made a particular, personal application, he persisted in keeping to the general.
‘A bit like a prizefight between two well-matched heavy-weights,’ thought Jane. ‘But it keeps things going, and it’s very good for Kitty. It must be a long time since she met a man whom she couldn’t fascinate.’ In fact, Jane was displeased with Kitty, who was, she considered, behaving abominably, showing up very poorly indeed on this first visit to Craigrois, and it was a blessing that Lady Cranstoun was not there to say ‘I told you so. I told you that Mrs. Mariner wasn’t the sort of friend for you.’ Kitty, advised of all this by the strange extra sense which ran like an invisible thread between her mind and Jane’s, behaved worse than ever.
“Let’s go out into the garden after we’ve had coffee,” suggested Love idly. “It’s a beautiful evening, too fine for stuffing indoors.”
“Don’t forget to take a key, then,” said Jane. “For MacKenzie is certain to have locked every door.” And she added to the others, who looked slightly mystified: “MacKenzie is the head gardener, a man with the most suspicious nature I’ve ever met. At this time of the year, when there’s fruit ripe, and the Flower Show’s coming on, he locks the garden doors as soon as he has finished work for the day. I believe he’d like to keep us out if he could, and we won’t be able to get into the greenhouse, for only father and he have keys, and we don’t want a personally conducted tour under MacKenzie’s beady eye.”
“Feeling better now?” asked Peregrine a little later, as he and Love walked up and down a broad walk, screened from the others by a high hedge of sweet peas, glowing in the long level rays of the sinking sun.
“A little. But oh, Perry! I do dislike that Mariner woman!” cried Love. “How can she and Janey be such friends?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “there’s a curious sort of likeness between them, you know.”
“Oh!” Love looked unutterable reproach. “And I thought you liked Janey!”
“So I do.”
“Then you must like Kitty Mariner too.”
“Not a bit of it,” he said. “It doesn’t follow, though I daresay your dislike of Mrs. Mariner is partly because of the resemblance.”
“No, it isn’t, because I don’t see any resemblance,” Love said all the more stoutly because it was not altogether true. “It isn’t that at all. It’s the disgusting way she’s trying to snatch John—”
“From you, do you mean?” he said drily.
“From me, if you like. I don’t care who it is from. Hasn’t she got a perfectly good husband of her own?”
“My dear child,” said Peregrine. “Jane’s little friend is an attractive and over-sexed young woman of insatiable appetite, and to such a husband is merely a useful background. That’s her trouble, and incidentally, the trouble of any other woman whose man comes in contact with her. But to revert to John—who seems to me to be singularly uncertain of his own wishes in the matter—Mrs. Mariner isn’t the only person who has attempted a little snatching in that direction, is she?”
“Perry, you talk like a book. A little stilted, but all those lovely rolly long words,” said Love evasively. “And I believe you know what they mean, too—”
“Yes. And you know what I mean, young woman.”
Love abandoned her attempt to hedge and faced him defiantly. “Well. Suppose I did try to snatch him,” she said. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. I’m unattached.”
“No doubt. But—er—is he? Or rather, was he?”
“John? Of course. Who should he be attached to?” asked Love in frank amazement.
“Friend of Jane’s, in the first place, wasn’t he?”
“Oh but—oh but, Peregrine, that’s nonsense. You can’t possibly mean that John’s attached to Janey?” Love sounded thoroughly distressed, as Peregrine was glad to note.
“No reason why he shouldn’t have been,” he said. “I don’t fancy he is now. You’ve nipped that in the bud by your snatching, if it’s any satisfaction to you.”
“Oh, it is!” To Peregrine’s complete bewilderment nothing but relief and actual pleasure shone in her eyes, rang in her voice. “Oh, I’m so glad, if there was anything in what you say, though I hope you aren’t right—that I managed to stop it!”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Peregrine simply.
“You see,” Love explained earnestly and volubly, “it wouldn’t do at all. John is the last person for Janey, whatever they may have thought. The looker-on sees these things so much more in their proper perspective.”
“I’d hardly have described you as a looker-on at this game,” said Peregrine drily.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Love said with dignity, and repeated: “It simply would not have done. And anyhow, I’ve made plans for Jane, much, much better plans.”
“Would it be asking too much,” said Peregrine very politely, “to want to know what these fine plans may be?”
But at that Love shivered elaborately. “I think I’m a little cold,” she said. “Let’s go back to the house. You’ll hear about my plans in—in due course. And I must thank you, Perry, for being so kind and understanding this evening. I’m afraid I’ve misjudged you.”
“I shall feel amply repaid,” said Peregrine with gravity, “if you will be so kind as to refrain from calling me ‘Perry.’ For the ninetieth time, I absolutely detest it.”
“Then I won’t,” said Love generously. “And if I forget and it slips out, just remind me, will you?”
“Certainly I shall,” he assured her, and they started back to the house.
“The others seem to have gone in already,” he said as they neared the garden door.
“Probably they’re having some more singing,” said Love, but she laughed as she said it. E
vidently her rancour had left her. “I’d better lock the door.”
In the drawing-room they found George, a book before his face, lost to the world, and Jane sitting placidly knitting.
“What a riotous evening of fun we’re having,” said Love sarcastically.
“It reminds me of Chatham,” said Jane.
“Good gracious! Is this what you used to do at Chatham?” cried Love. “I pictured it as a continuous round of gaiety.”
“Then your picture was more beautiful than true, though we did go out a good deal. Where are John and Kitty?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know.” Shortly, from Love.
“Still in the garden, probably. We left them there when the midges drove us in,” said Jane, placid as ever.
“They can’t be there. We didn’t see them, did we?” said Peregrine.
“No,” said Love, but not so truthfully, for she had certainly had a glimpse of a blue skirt, though it might have been only a lavender bush. She decided hastily that it had been a lavender bush.
“They’ll come in when they’ve had enough of it. Kitty’s not so keen on the great out-of-doors,” grunted George, unconcerned.
“Couldn’t we play poker or rummy or something?” said Love. “Peregrine and I are hoarse with talking.”
George, protesting, was separated from his book and they played rummy. The world outside darkened slowly, Gunn came in with a tray of drinks and drew the blinds down, and still there was no sign of Kitty and her cavalier.
“Time I was going home,” said Peregrine suddenly. “It’s later than I thought.”
“Where on earth can those two be?” asked Jane, a little worried now. “Kitty hadn’t a coat.”
“Perhaps,” said Love as if struck by a sudden brilliant thought, “they’re locked in the garden.”
“How could they be? You said they weren’t there when you came out—”
“Oh, no, Janey, we never said that. Peregrine and I said we hadn’t seen them,” Love said gently. “They may have been lurking somewhere out of sight.”
Suspicion smote Peregrine. He stared hard at her smooth composed face but Love returned his stare with one of bland unwinking innocence.
“We’d better go and see,” said Jane. “Bring the key and a torch, Love. It’s getting dark.”
They trooped across the gravel, across the dewy lawn, through a narrow lane between heavy bushes of rhododendrons, full now of mysterious rustlings, and reached the garden. As Love unlocked the door, a wail arose from some distant spot in the darkness.
“Oh, John, John! It’s going to bite me! I know it is! Oh, save me!”
“What in the world—?” muttered George, and raised his voice. “Ahoy there, you two! Aren’t you ever coming in?”
He was answered by a shriek from his wife, a low ominous growling, and a shout of relief from John. “Thank God, George! Get a ladder, will you? I’m stuck up a damned tree, and Kitty won’t move because there’s a dog here!”
“A dog? Oh, it must be MacKenzie’s bull-terrier,” said Jane. “He always sneaks in when he can to eat gooseberries.”
“A dog? I thought it was a lion from the screams,” said Love, and to Peregrine’s ears her voice sounded distinctly disappointed.
“Coming!” called George. “Where can I get a ladder, Jane?”
“There’s one here,” observed Peregrine, who held the torch and was playing it on the wall beside them. “I thought I saw it earlier in the evening . . . ah! Here it is!”
He and George, the ladder between them, charged down the path in the direction of the noise, with Jane and Love at their heels.
“Kitty’s terrified of dogs!” panted Jane as they ran, and “Poor dear Kitty!” was Love’s perfunctory reply.
In the farthest corner of the big garden a cedar, companion to the giant on the lawn, raised its mighty head high above the wall. Under it was a teak seat, and standing on it, her skirts clutched high, displaying most of her elegant legs, was Kitty, mercilessly revealed by the light of the torch, now in Love’s hand.
The bull-terrier, thoroughly enjoying the fun, sat in front of the seat, pink tongue lolling, ears cocked. At her slightest movement he growled threateningly.
“Oh, George, save me!” yelled Kitty. “This dreadful brute has frightened me to death, and John’s furious because I wouldn’t go and fetch a ladder for him!”
“It’s a dog, you know, not a mouse. He won’t run up your skirt,” said Love very kindly. “Here, then, Roderick old boy.”
Roderick, realizing that there would be no more fun and games, and that the two-legged creature on the seat was not likely to scream again for his entertainment, gambolled up to her and allowed her to pull his disreputable battle-scarred ears.
“I told you the dog was harmless,” said a savage voice from the upper branches of the cedar.
“Well, you’ve got as far out of his reach as you could,” said George with a chuckle.
“Oh, don’t be more of a damn’ fool than you can help, George,” said the voice, more savagely than ever. “We were locked in, and I was trying to get out of the garden—”
“That’s what I said,” George answered mildly. “You can get down now, Kitty. The dog’s all right.”
“I won’t move a step until that monster is taken out of sight!” cried Kitty hysterically.
Peregrine smothered a laugh in a creditable cough, but Love’s mirth rang clear all through the garden. “How I wish I’d brought my camera!” she gasped. “We could have taken a flash-light picture. You’ve no idea how funny you look, Mrs. Mariner! As good as Laurel and Hardy!”
“Thank you so much,” said Kitty in acid tones.
“When you’ve all finished being so infernally amusing down there,” observed John bitterly from the tree. “Perhaps you could spare the time to rescue me?”
“Let’s have a look at you first, Absalom, my son,” said George. “Here, bring the torch, Love!”
But before Love’s hand, wavering with laughter, could direct the thin sharp pencil of light on the cedar, there was a rending crash, a crackling as a heavy body descended, heralded by a shower of twigs and needles, to land among several small branches, at the feet of the interested onlookers; Roderick, with a yelp of joy at this unexpected excitement, just when his evening seemed to be doomed to a dull ending, leapt upon the prostrate figure, and to the sound of Kitty’s fresh screams: “Oh John! Oh John, darling! Save him, save him, he’ll be killed!” covered his victim’s face with moist and lavish licks.
“Noo then, whit’s a’ this noise in ma gairden?” suddenly said a voice, stern and disapproving, and MacKenzie, an awe-inspiring spectacle in a great-coat over a nightshirt, large boots on his bare feet, glasses on his hooked nose, a lantern dangling from one horny hand, stood eyeing the group from under beetling grey brows.
“Siccan a din, and it near the Sawbath,” he said. Roderick had already melted silently away into the nearest bushes, where the rest of the party wished they could have followed him.
Jane, pulling herself together, faced him bravely. “By some mistake, Mackenzie, Mrs. Mariner and Commander Marsh were locked in and they were—they were—” her voice faded and died away under his look.
“They were trying to get out,” Love finished. “That’s all, MacKenzie. You can go home and get your beauty sleep now.”
MacKenzie, waving his lantern in slow majestic sweeps, was surveying the scene. “A bonnie mess,” he muttered. “A bonnie mess.”
“Come on, chaps,” whispered Jane, and they crept away like children in disgrace. None dared to look back, but from behind them rose a mourning voice which held a threat amid its grief.
“Ma turrf!” it said. “A’ torrun. Ma bonnie turrf. An’ eh, sirce me! Ma tree. Branches doon an’ a’. I doot Sir Magnus’ll be sair, sair vexed when he sees ma bonnie tree. It’s lost its cemetery noo. Ay. Ma turrf. Ma bonnie tree—”
The voice faded behind them, and thankfully they hurried into the house at last, as to
sanctuary.
Chapter Nine
END OF A WEEK-END PARTY
“The dreadful week-end,” as Jane and Love were to call it for some time to come, wound slowly on its weary way. In contrast to the tiring hours of Saturday, the peaceful night that followed them went all too quickly, and it seemed to Jane that only a few minutes had passed between laying her head on its pillow late on Saturday evening, and wrangling with Kitty after breakfast on Sunday.
“I’m terribly angry with everyone,” Kitty was saying for about the fiftieth time. She enjoyed a scene, and her eyes were sparkling. “And George, if you and Jane say ‘Yes, dear,’ in that Christian fashion once again, I shall scream the house down.”
“Very well, I won’t,” said Jane rapidly, before George could speak, and casting from her all thoughts of the courtesy due a guest however tiresome. “Instead, I’ll ask you why you and John were such simpletons as to let yourselves be locked into the garden?”
“I don’t blame you for that, my sweet,” said Kitty with emphasis. “It was your dear little sister. What a little viper! She knew perfectly well that we were still there.”
“Nonsense,” Jane answered crisply. “Neither she nor Peregrine saw you on their way out, and I don’t suppose she expected you to be hiding in a corner somewhere safely out of sight. Even if she had, you’d hardly have thanked her for finding you at the moment, occupied as you were.”
“Now don’t be cross, Jenny dear. Of course you have to stand up for Love, she’s your sister, but you can’t deny that she’s furiously jealous of John and me.”
“I daresay she is,” said Jane. “She isn’t as accustomed as I am to your little ways.”
“I think I’ll clear out and leave you two to fight by yourselves,” muttered George, sidling out of the dining-room unnoticed by either.
“That may be,” retorted Kitty. “But if you aren’t jealous, why should she be?”
“I don’t remember that you waited to see if I was jealous or not,” Jane said dryly.
Love Comes Home Page 18
