A Damsel in Distress Read online

  CHAPTER 9.

  While George and Billie Dore wandered to the rose garden tointerview the man in corduroys, Maud had been seated not a hundredyards away--in a very special haunt of her own, a cracked stuccotemple set up in the days of the Regency on the shores of a littlelily-covered pond. She was reading poetry to Albert the page.

  Albert the page was a recent addition to Maud's inner circle. Shehad interested herself in him some two months back in much the samespirit as the prisoner in his dungeon cell tames and pets theconventional mouse. To educate Albert, to raise him above hisgroove in life and develop his soul, appealed to her romanticnature as a worthy task, and as a good way of filling in the time.It is an exceedingly moot point--and one which his associates ofthe servants' hall would have combated hotly--whether Albertpossessed a soul. The most one could say for certain is that helooked as if he possessed one. To one who saw his deep blue eyesand their sweet, pensive expression as they searched the middledistance he seemed like a young angel. How was the watcher to knowthat the thought behind that far-off gaze was simply a speculationas to whether the bird on the cedar tree was or was not withinrange of his catapult? Certainly Maud had no such suspicion. Sheworked hopefully day by day to rouse Albert to an appreciation ofthe nobler things of life.

  Not but what it was tough going. Even she admitted that. Albert'ssoul did not soar readily. It refused to leap from the earth. Hisreception of the poem she was reading could scarcely have beencalled encouraging. Maud finished it in a hushed voice, and lookedpensively across the dappled water of the pool. A gentle breezestirred the water-lilies, so that they seemed to sigh.

  "Isn't that beautiful, Albert?" she said.

  Albert's blue eyes lit up. His lips parted eagerly,

  "That's the first hornet I seen this year," he said pointing.

  Maud felt a little damped.

  "Haven't you been listening, Albert?"

  "Oh, yes, m'lady! Ain't he a wopper, too?"

  "Never mind the hornet, Albert."

  "Very good, m'lady."

  "I wish you wouldn't say 'Very good, m'lady'. It's like--like--"She paused. She had been about to say that it was like a butler,but, she reflected regretfully, it was probably Albert's dearestambition to be like a butler. "It doesn't sound right. Just say'Yes'."

  "Yes, m'lady."

  Maud was not enthusiastic about the 'M'lady', but she let it go.After all, she had not quite settled in her own mind what exactlyshe wished Albert's attitude towards herself to be. Broadlyspeaking, she wanted him to be as like as he could to a medievalpage, one of those silk-and-satined little treasures she had readabout in the Ingoldsby Legends. And, of course, they presumablysaid 'my lady'. And yet--she felt--not for the first time--that itis not easy, to revive the Middle Ages in these curious days. Pageslike other things, seem to have changed since then.

  "That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of myancestresses. He ran away with her from this very castle in theseventeenth century."

  "Lor'", said Albert as a concession, but he was still interested inthe hornet.

  "He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what awonderful man he was, so she didn't mind what people said about hermarrying beneath her."

  "Like Susan when she married the pleeceman."

  "Who was Susan?"

  "Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er,'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says,'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says."

  This translation of a favourite romance into terms of the servants'hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it.

  "Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert," she saidperseveringly, "and become a great poet and write wonderful poems?"

  Albert considered the point, and shook his head.

  "No, m'lady."

  It was discouraging. But Maud was a girl of pluck. You cannot leapinto strange cabs in Piccadilly unless you have pluck. She pickedup another book from the stone seat.

  "Read me some of this," she said, "and then tell me if it doesn'tmake you feel you want to do big things."

  Albert took the book cautiously. He was getting a little fed upwith all this sort of thing. True, 'er ladyship gave him chocolatesto eat during these sessions, but for all that it was too much likeschool for his taste. He regarded the open page with disfavour.

  "Go on," said Maud, closing her eyes. "It's very beautiful."

  Albert began. He had a husky voice, due, it is to be feared,to precocious cigarette smoking, and his enunciation was not asgood as it might have been.

  "Wiv' blekest morss the flower-ports Was-I mean were-crusted one and orl; Ther rusted niles fell from the knorts That 'eld the pear to the garden-worll. Ther broken sheds looked sed and stringe; Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn their ancient thatch Er-pon ther lownely moated gringe, She only said 'Me life is dreary, 'E cometh not,' she said."

  Albert rather liked this part. He was never happy in narrativeunless it could be sprinkled with a plentiful supply of "he said's"and "she said's." He finished with some gusto.

  "She said - I am aweary, aweary, I would that I was dead."

  Maud had listened to this rendition of one of her most adored poemswith much the same feeling which a composer with an over-sensitiveear would suffer on hearing his pet opus assassinated by aschoolgirl. Albert, who was a willing lad and prepared, if suchshould be her desire, to plough his way through the entire sevenstanzas, began the second verse, but Maud gently took the book awayfrom him. Enough was sufficient.

  "Now, wouldn't you like to be able to write a wonderful thing likethat, Albert?"

  "Not me, m'lady."

  "You wouldn't like to be a poet when you grow up?"

  Albert shook his golden head.

  "I want to be a butcher when I grow up, m'lady."

  Maud uttered a little cry.

  "A butcher?"

  "Yus, m'lady. Butchers earn good money," he said, a light ofenthusiasm in his blue eyes, for he was now on his favouritesubject. "You've got to 'ave meat, yer see, m'lady. It ain't likepoetry, m'lady, which no one wants."

  "But, Albert," cried Maud faintly. "Killing poor animals. Surelyyou wouldn't like that?"

  Albert's eyes glowed softly, as might an acolyte's at the sight ofthe censer.

  "Mr. Widgeon down at the 'ome farm," he murmured reverently, "hesays, if I'm a good boy, 'e'll let me watch 'im kill a pigToosday."

  He gazed out over the water-lilies, his thoughts far away. Maudshuddered. She wondered if medieval pages were ever quite as earthyas this.

  "Perhaps you had better go now, Albert. They may be needing you inthe house."

  "Very good, m'lady."

  Albert rose, not unwilling to call it a day. He was conscious ofthe need for a quiet cigarette. He was fond of Maud, but a mancan't spend all his time with the women.

  "Pigs squeal like billy-o, m'lady!" he observed by way of adding aparting treasure to Maud's stock of general knowledge. "Oo! 'Ear'em a mile orf, you can!"

  Maud remained where she was, thinking, a wistful figure.Tennyson's "Mariana" always made her wistful even when rendered byAlbert. In the occasional moods of sentimental depression whichcame to vary her normal cheerfulness, it seemed to her that thepoem might have been written with a prophetic eye to her specialcase, so nearly did it crystallize in magic words her own story.

  "With blackest moss the flower-pots Were thickly crusted, one and all."

  Well, no, not that particular part, perhaps. If he had found somuch as one flower-pot of his even thinly crusted with any foreignsubstance, Lord Marshmoreton would have gone through the place likean east wind, dismissing gardeners and under-gardeners with everybreath. But--

  "She only said 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said. She said 'I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were de
ad!"

  How exactly--at these moments when she was not out on the linkspicking them off the turf with a midiron or engaged in one of thoseother healthful sports which tend to take the mind off itstroubles--those words summed up her case.

  Why didn't Geoffrey come? Or at least write? She could not write tohim. Letters from the castle left only by way of the castlepost-bag, which Rogers, the chauffeur, took down to the villageevery evening. Impossible to entrust the kind of letter she wishedto write to any mode of delivery so public--especially now, whenher movements were watched. To open and read another's letters is alow and dastardly act, but she believed that Lady Caroline would doit like a shot. She longed to pour out her heart to Geoffrey in along, intimate letter, but she did not dare to take the risk ofwriting for a wider public. Things were bad enough as it was, afterthat disastrous sortie to London.

  At this point a soothing vision came to her--the vision of GeorgeBevan knocking off her brother Percy's hat. It was the onlypleasant thing that had happened almost as far back as she couldremember. And then, for the first time, her mind condescended todwell for a moment on the author of that act, George Bevan, thefriend in need, whom she had met only the day before in the lane.What was George doing at Belpher? His presence there wassignificant, and his words even more so. He had stated explicitlythat he wished to help her.

  She found herself oppressed by the irony of things. A knight hadcome to the rescue--but the wrong knight. Why could it not havebeen Geoffrey who waited in ambush outside the castle, and not apleasant but negligible stranger? Whether, deep down in herconsciousness, she was aware of a fleeting sense of disappointmentin Geoffrey, a swiftly passing thought that he had failed her, shecould hardly have said, so quickly did she crush it down.

  She pondered on the arrival of George. What was the use of hisbeing somewhere in the neighbourhood if she had no means of knowingwhere she could find him? Situated as she was, she could not wanderat will about the countryside, looking for him. And, even if shefound him, what then? There was not much that any stranger, howeverpleasant, could do.

  She flushed at a sudden thought. Of course there was somethingGeorge could do for her if he were willing. He could receive,despatch and deliver letters. If only she could get in touch withhim, she could--through him--get in touch with Geoffrey.

  The whole world changed for her. The sun was setting and chilllittle winds had begun to stir the lily-pads, giving a depressingair to the scene, but to Maud it seemed as if all Nature smiled.With the egotism of love, she did not perceive that what sheproposed to ask George to do was practically to fulfil the humblerole of the hollow tree in which lovers dump letters, to beextracted later; she did not consider George's feelings at all. Hehad offered to help her, and this was his job. The world is full ofGeorges whose task it is to hang about in the background and makethemselves unobtrusively useful.

  She had reached this conclusion when Albert, who had taken a shortcut the more rapidly to accomplish his errand, burst upon herdramatically from the heart of a rhododendron thicket.

  "M'lady! Gentleman give me this to give yer!"

  Maud read the note. It was brief, and to the point.

  "I am staying near the castle at a cottage they call 'the one down by Platt's'. It is a rather new, red-brick place. You can easily find it. I shall be waiting there if you want me."

  It was signed "The Man in the Cab".

  "Do you know a cottage called 'the one down by Platt's', Albert?"asked Maud.

  "Yes, m'lady. It's down by Platt's farm. I see a chicken killedthere Wednesday week. Do you know, m'lady, after a chicken's 'eadis cut orf, it goes running licketty-split?"

  Maud shivered slightly. Albert's fresh young enthusiasms frequentlyjarred upon her.

  "I find a friend of mine is staying there. I want you to take anote to him from me."

  "Very good, m'lady."

  "And, Albert--"

  "Yes, m'lady?"

  "Perhaps it would be as well if you said nothing about this to anyof your friends."

  In Lord Marshmoreton's study a council of three was sitting indebate. The subject under discussion was that other note whichGeorge had written and so ill-advisedly entrusted to one whom hehad taken for a guileless gardener. The council consisted of LordMarshmoreton, looking rather shamefaced, his son Percy lookingswollen and serious, and Lady Caroline Byng, looking like a tragedyqueen.

  "This," Lord Belpher was saying in a determined voice, "settles it.From now on Maud must not be allowed out of our sight."

  Lord Marshmoreton spoke.

  "I rather wish," he said regretfully, "I hadn't spoken about thenote. I only mentioned it because I thought you might think itamusing."

  "Amusing!" Lady Caroline's voice shook the furniture.

  "Amusing that the fellow should have handed me of all people aletter for Maud," explained her brother. "I don't want to get Maudinto trouble."

  "You are criminally weak," said Lady Caroline severely. "I reallyhonestly believe that you were capable of giving the note to thatpoor, misguided girl, and saying nothing about it." She flushed."The insolence of the man, coming here and settling down at thevery gates of the castle! If it was anybody but this man Platt whowas giving him shelter I should insist on his being turned out. Butthat man Platt would be only too glad to know that he is causing usannoyance."

  "Quite!" said Lord Belpher.

  "You must go to this man as soon as possible," continued LadyCaroline, fixing her brother with a commanding stare, "and do yourbest to make him see how abominable his behaviour is."

  "Oh, I couldn't!" pleaded the earl. "I don't know the fellow. He'dthrow me out."

  "Nonsense. Go at the very earliest opportunity."

  "Oh, all right, all right, all right. Well, I think I'll beslipping out to the rose garden again now. There's a clear hourbefore dinner."

  There was a tap at the door. Alice Faraday entered bearing papers,a smile of sweet helpfulness on her pretty face.

  "I hoped I should find you here, Lord Marshmoreton. You promised togo over these notes with me, the ones about the Essex branch--"

  The hunted peer looked as if he were about to dive through thewindow.

  "Some other time, some other time. I--I have important matters--"

  "Oh, if you're busy--"

  "Of course, Lord Marshmoreton will be delighted to work on yournotes, Miss Faraday," said Lady Caroline crisply. "Take thischair. We are just going."

  Lord Marshmoreton gave one wistful glance through the open window.Then he sat down with a sigh, and felt for his reading-glasses.