Читать книгу A Poached Peerage - Sir William Magnay - Страница 14

Table of Contents

"There he is, father; I'm sure it is Lord Quorn."

Perhaps it was the recollection of the procedure which had led her to that conclusion that surprised her into the laugh, not so low but that it reached the object of their attention.

He turned quickly, suspiciously, and, seeing the two interested faces, in an instant had assumed his air of jaunty swagger. "Well, landlord; is my dinner coming to-day, or are you waiting for the chicken to hatch?"

Popkiss advanced, purple and radiant, laughing his best laugh at the lordly joke. Mr. Popkiss, as became an innkeeper who knew his business, had a series of nicely graduated tokens of appreciation, from the superior half smile with which he discounted the poor wit of the yokel who was good but for a pint of small beer and took a whole evening to discuss it, through the qualified guffaw with which he stamped with his approval the heavy jokes of his regular market-day customers, up to the apoplectic and wheezy roar with which he would greet the sallies of a really important guest, whose bill bade fair to overrun the shilling column. Twice in one short hour had he, Samuel Popkiss, been on speaking terms with different members of the upper classes; small wonder was it that all thought of Mr. Doutfire's expected "party" had been centrifugally dispersed by the whirl in which he found his brain.

"Ha! ha!" he chuckled, rubbing his hands as he advanced with his best reception manner. "No, sir, that is to say, my lord, dinner is just ready, and I think we shall please you," he suggested unctuously. "You will want something to keep you up for the last part of your journey here."

The words sounded full of ominous significance; Mr. Peckover went a shade paler, while his swagger for an instant sagged visibly, as he wondered whether his host could have seen him sniffing at the euthanasia now lying snug in his waistcoat pocket.

Miss Popkiss was busy laying the cloth in a style most effective both as to the decoration of the table and the showing off of certain personal graces. For that young lady's methods of laying a table when alone and when being—as she hoped—watched during the operation were widely contrasted.

"After so much buffetting about, as I may say," observed Popkiss genially, as he panted round the table, laying unnecessary forks in places where their usefulness was not obvious, "you will be glad to settle down comfortable yonder."

He pointed with a fat hand vaguely and tentatively in the direction of Staplewick Towers, being perhaps anxious to put beyond doubt the question of his guest's identity. Peckover, with, doubtless, the idea of a somewhat different stronghold in his mind looked quickly towards the point indicated. His glance, however, travelled no farther than the church tower; anyhow, it could hardly have reached the other landmark which was five miles off.

But the church which shut in his view was enough. The cigarette slipped from the lips that parted convulsively with the dropping jaw. The churchyard! "Glad he has arranged it," he muttered shakily.

"And you may be sure of a warm welcome from the old gentleman," Popkiss added, stopping to beam upon his guest in the midst of his superfluous bustle.

"The devil!" Peckover exclaimed aghast, scrutinizing the expansive face for a sign of "kidding."

"Oh, yes," maintained Popkiss, proud of the office of herald of welcome between two august personages; "he has been here already to look for you, and very anxious he is to carry you off to the place which, begging pardon, is yours by rights."

This was too much for Peckover, who stood staring at his obese tormentor utterly bereft of speech.

"Of course," continued Popkiss with a mitigating chuckle, "he can't help showing the cloven hoof sometimes, they say; but he's not so black as he is painted."

"Come, I'm glad of that," ejaculated Peckover, wide-eyed and staggered.

"But," the landlord observed, as rounding off the subject, "we must, as I always say, give the devil his due; and as you are going so soon to make his acquaintance, you will be able to judge for yourself."

Peckover turned away from what he could only consider as a corpulent and highly objectionable jester, and passed a shaking hand across his clammy brow. "I must stop these funniments," he told himself, "if I want any appetite for my last dinner." With a supreme effort he pulled himself together, and faced the fatuously grinning host with a dash of his native impudence. "Don't let me keep you, landlord," he said with a wave of condescension. "Nothing suits me so well as a pretty girl waiting on me. That's the relish for this customer, it beats all your Worcesters and Harveys."

Popkiss rubbed his puffy hands appreciatively. "My daughter, sir, that is, my lord; she shall look after your lordship." Then in a tone of deferential confidence, he added, "She will follow later on where you are going to."

"The deuce she will!" cried the guest, now fairly bewildered. "What has she been up to?"

The rotund landlord, not quite seeing the appropriateness of the inquiry, and perhaps feeling that it was a form of snubbing for undue familiarity, abruptly changed the subject. "I hope you'll like your dinner, my lord," he said with unctuous confidence as he waddled towards the door. "I know one thing," he chuckled.

"What's that?" Peckover asked half apprehensively.

"Your lordship won't want any supper." With which parting and equivocal witticism the expansive joker vanished.

"Whew! There he goes again," gasped Peckover, dropping limply into the nearest chair. "He has made me tremble all over." He gave a wild glance at the grey church tower looming—frowning, it seemed—cold and depressing. "George! I've a good mind to stop alive and risk it."

The entrance of Miss Popkiss with an array of dishes which might have elucidated the landlord's parting remark, and with a new bow in her hair, brought the guest up to attention again. Hungry, tired and especially thirsty, he lost no time in falling to, and so intent was he upon the good cheer before him that for a time the Hebe became aggrieved at the thought that the extra attention to her personal appearance had been thrown away, and the aid of curling tongs and smart ribbon been invoked to no purpose. However, with the second glass of champagne, the guest manifestly began to take more interest in things in general and of the expectant handmaiden in particular.

"Ah!" he exclaimed with a lengthy expiration of quasi-content, as Miss Popkiss deftly and with a flourish of the bangle on the wrist that was more in evidence, removed the fish and set the fowl before him. "I'm beginning to feel better." He tossed off another glass of champagne. "I say, my dear, your father is a cheerful person. His conversation is enough to make a boiled cod-fish shiver."

"Yes, sir—my lord," responded Miss Popkiss, abandoning the discussion of the parental characteristics in favour of a subject of more immediate interest, namely, herself; "it is a bit dullish here. That's why I am leaving."

"Oh, you are leaving?" remarked Peckover, taking as polite an interest in the statement as was consistent with having his mouth full.

"Yes," she informed him. "I am going to the place you are bound for."

The bubbling glass was half-way to his eager lips, but he set it down again. "The devil you are?" he exclaimed.

"It must at least be as lively as this," Miss Popkiss hazarded, with a pretty affectation of ennui.

"A good deal more so," the guest declared, pausing in his eating to stare blankly in front of him in utter mystification. The result of his hazy cogitation was that if the people of the inn were labouring under some absurd delusion it would be as well not to disturb it. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes," he remarked, falling back on that non-committal, if unoriginal aphorism, and redirecting his attention to the roast chicken.

"Some folks," gossiped Miss Popkiss, by way of a running conversational accompaniment to the dinner, "who don't fancy the place, would say it was out of the frying pan into the fire."

Number twenty-four had steadied the guest's nerves. "Yes," he agreed grimly, "most people would say that. Now," he muttered, "she's at it. What's that?" he inquired, pointing with his knife to a side dish.

"Curry, sir—my lord," the waitress answered, moving the dish towards him. "Curried goose, my lord."

He gave her a suspicious glance, and then pushed the dish away. There seemed too much of the personal and anticipatory element in the pungent dainty.

"Oh, it's not very hot," she protested, with the ready word for the credit of the cuisine. "Nothing like what you may find it elsewhere."

These jokes, it seemed to the guest, if jokes they were, grew monotonous, while their bad taste was undeniable. As a cockney sybarite in a cheap way, he liked to have a good-looking waitress to chatter to while dining, as he liked to chaff a barmaid over a "small scotch and polly", or a gin and ginger beer; but this was not the sort of thing the occasion seemed to call for. Accordingly he proceeded to eat and drink in silence. After all, the one solid tangible fact—presumably the last—that the world held for him, was the first-class dinner he was recklessly enjoying.

Piqued by her failure to maintain the interest she had so auspiciously begun to excite in the distinguished guest, Miss Popkiss turned in a huff to the window, and affected a melancholy interest in the heavy shower which had come on, to be roused suddenly from her air of indifference to things in general and the preoccupied gourmandizer in particular by catching sight of the adventurous Mr. Thomas Sparrow sheltering under a lean-to a few feet from the window. Evidently on the watch, he came quickly to the window, heedless of the downpour. Miss Popkiss, with a guilty conscience, received him graciously; put her finger to her lip and pointed with an air of importance to the still voracious Peckover. Sparrow looked, and his damp face clouded with jealous doubt. "Lord Quorn," whispered Miss Popkiss behind her hand. Even if Mr. Sparrow had seen that affectionate passage he could scarcely expect his sweetheart to withhold an occasional kiss from a real, if newly discovered, peer of the realm.

Whatever attraction a noble bon-vivant might have had for Mr. Sparrow at any other time, he was just then in too close proximity to a gutter-spout and a tempting pair of lips to devote more than a critical glance and a nod of surprised comprehension to the person indicated. Then, eager to catch the fleeting opportunity, he put forth a moist hand, pulled Miss Popkiss a thought nearer to him, and so steadying her for the operation and obviating a possible retreat, he kissed her.

Whether caused by the unusual electricity in the air or the eager hurry with which it was performed, the osculation created more noise than is considered desirable by well-bred lovers. Peckover, dining steadily, silently, jumped round, uncertain for the moment whether the report was that of a drawn cork, or some trick of the neglected waitress to attract his attention. He was alert enough and man of the world enough to comprehend the situation; indeed, had he been aware that a man was so near it would never have been in question. As it was he turned just in time to see Mr. Sparrow's gratified countenance drawing back into the unsympathetic rain. The sight gave him an uneasy thrill.

"Hullo!" he cried sharply. "Who was that?"

"Only a friend of mine," answered Miss Popkiss, with an air of showing herself not dependent for amatory attentions upon casual customers.