Читать книгу My Lady Bountiful - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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The sonorous clang of the ship's bell filled the house sedately. A magnificent butler announced dinner as if it had been some dark yet sacred rite. He bowed to Merrion, and hoped severely that he was well, though his manner conveyed but a poor opinion of the latter's statesmanlike qualities. The 'Times' had been down upon the Foreign Secretary lately, and the 'Times' invariably had the cachet of Mr. Cedric's approval. In lighter mood he trifled with the 'Morning Post,' but that was only when he unbent in the servants' hall.

"We are not dining in state to-night, Maria?" Merrion asked as he proffered his arm.

"The Saxon parlour," Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram explained. "The dining-hall is draughty, I admit. Only ourselves and my nieces."

The big bell was still humming as the two passed along. At the foot of the stairs two girls in white stood. They were pretty girls, and it required no great stretch of imagination to say that they were high-spirited girls naturally. But their plain muslin dresses were painfully severe, as was their brushed back hair tied with ribbons. There was a painful suggestion of the genteel pensioner about them, something, almost monastic, but at the same time redolent of the better class of girls' home usually patronised by the bishop's wife. One felt that their proper policy was to come in with the dessert.

Still, the bishop's wife, represented in this case by Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram, kissed the charity twins in the warmest possible manner, much as if they had just come home from the holidays. Mr. Cedric looked on in a fatherly and approving manner.

"Now shake hands with Mr. Merrion," Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram said. "My dear children, how nice you look. My nieces do me credit Charles."

Merrion muttered something polite and mellow in the mouth. He had a deal of humour for a statesman, and he was profoundly sorry for the twins, Edna and Phillipa. Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram collected authentic specimens of her distinguished family as other people collect old Chelsea and Bow china, and once the mark on the articles was passed they were taken to her kindly heart in future. The existing specimens had been unearthed five years before, as also was the vicar of Caradoc, who had originally been usher of a school in Cornwall.

The twins followed behind meekly and dutifully. The Saxon parlour was adorned entirely with old weapons and suite of leather armour. The oak walls were rough from the adze, as they had been shapen centuries before. What light there was in daytime came from slits in the walls. Dinner was served on a round oak gate-legged table at which Richard of the Lion Heart had frequently partaken of meat. There were candles in silver branches with climbing ferns gracefully twisted about them, and for flowers nothing more ornate than white wood violets, dewy and fragrant.

"None of the vulgar class of flowers here," Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram said as she sipped her soup. "For instance, nothing like the outrageous violets that you are wearing, Charles."

"Do my Neapolitans offend your eye?" Merrion asked.

"And my senses, Charles. They are redolent of the vulgar ostentation of the age. The true fragrance of the blossom has been sacrificed to the size. They suggest casinos and music halls and things of that kind. They also suggest——"

Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram broke off to critically examine a speck of dust on a slim pink forefinger. There was pollution in the touch. Whence had it the presumption to come?

"Cedric, come here," the soiled hostess commanded. "Lift up my soup plate. It is within the region of possibility that it has not been properly polished!"

Cedric was profoundly regretful. The candles seemed to take on a funeral gloom. On the fair white damask was a circular film of plate powder. Cedric contemplated it with grey hairs borne down with sorrow. The iron had entered his soul. The twins laid down their forks, mildly overcome. There was a decorous silence.

"It seems a most extraordinary occurrence, Madam," Cedric whispered.

"It is an extraordinary occurrence," Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram murmured. "I make no charge. It may be a pure accident. Of that you are the best judge. As a favour, may I ask that it does not occur again?"

"I don't think it could occur twice in this household, Madam," Cedric said with conviction.

Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram waved her plate aside. Cedric bowed before the humiliation—all the more keen in the presence of so poor a statesman as Merrion. The latter was wiping his lips gravely, and hiding them at the same time. His eyes lighted on the faces of the twins. Veritably it was a night of surprises. For Edna winked with almost professional dexterity at Phillipa, and the latter flashed it back again with telegraphic ease. It was so sudden, so spontaneous, and so grave, that Merrion with difficulty preserved his decorum.

"Did you speak to me, Phillipa?" he asked.

"No, indeed, Mr. Merrion," Phillipa replied demurely. "I should never think of speaking unless you addressed me first."

The girl was chaffing him. Her quiet tones and the droop of her eye-lashes told him that. So there were profound depths of humour concealed in the 'Girls' Home' somewhere.

Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram bridled complacently.

"Five years' training here, Charles," she said, "is bound to have its effect. My children here will be excellent companions for Kathleen. And yet, I recollect the time when Edna used actually to whistle. In this house I don't suppose such a thing even a scullion dares to do. Merciful Heaven!"

Mrs. Eldred-Wolfram paused with her jewelled fingers to her ears. The startled Cedric nearly went to the length of dropping an entree dish. From the hall arose a long, clear, sweet, and birdlike whistle.