The Revellers

“My family, the von Edelsteins, have great influence.”

This time the vicar awoke to the fact that he might be deemed unduly inquisitive. He knew better than to apologize, or even change the subject abruptly.

“Land tenure is a complex business in old-established countries,” he went on. “Take this village, for example. You may have noticed how every garth runs up the hillside in a long, narrow strip. Ownership of land bordering the moor carries the right of free grazing for a certain number of sheep, so every freeholder contrives to touch the heather at some point.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Saumarez, promptly interested, “that explains the peculiar shape of the Bolland land at the back of the White House. An admirable couple, are they not? And so medieval in their notions. I attended what they call a ‘love feast’ the other evening. John Bolland introduced me as ‘Sister Saumarez.’ When he became wrapped up in the service he reminded me, or, rather, filled my ideal, of a high priest in Israel.”

“Was Eli Todd there?”

“The preacher? Yes.”

“He is a fine fellow. Given to use a spiritual sledge-hammer, perhaps, but the implements of the Lord are many and varied. Far be it from me to gainsay the good work done by the dissenting congregations. If there were more chapels, there would be more churches in the land, Mrs. Saumarez.”

They had strolled away from the girls, and little did the vicar dream what deeps they had skirted in their talk.

Angèle led Elsie to the swing.

“Try this,” she said. “It’s just lovely to feel the air sizzing past your ears.”

“I have a swing,” said Elsie, “but not like this one. It is a single rope, with a little crossbar, which I hold in my hands and propel with my feet. It is hard work, I assure you.”

“Grand Dieu! So I should think.”

“Oh!” cried Elsie, “you shouldn’t say that.”

“Vous me faites rire! You speak French?”

“Yes – a little.”

“How stupid of me not to guess. I can say what I like before Martin Bolland. He is a nice boy – Martin.”

“Yes,” agreed Elsie shortly.

She blushed. They were in the swing now, and swooping to and fro in long rushes. Angèle’s black eyes were searching Elsie’s blue ones. She tittered unpleasantly.

“What makes you so red when I speak of Martin?” she demanded.

“I am not red – that is, I have no reason to be.”

“You know him well?”

“Do you mean Martin?”

“Sapristi! – I beg your pardon – who else?”

“I – I have only met him twice, to speak to. I have known him by sight for years.”

“Twice? The first time when he killed that thing – the cat. When was the second?”

Angèle was tugging her rope with greater energy than might be credited to one of her slight frame. The swing was traveling at a great pace. Her fierce gaze disquieted Elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome.

“Let us stop now,” she said.

“No, no. Tell me when next you saw Martin. I must know.”

“But why?”

“Because he became different in his manner all at once. One day he kissed me – ”

“Oh, you are horrid.”

“I swear it. He kissed me last Wednesday afternoon. I did not see him again until Saturday. Then he was cold. He saw you after Wednesday.”

By this time Elsie’s blood was boiling.

“Yes,” she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hard glint. “He saw me on Wednesday night. We happened to be standing at our gate. Frank Beckett-Smythe passed on his bicycle. He was chased by a groom – sent home to be horsewhipped – because he was coming to meet you.”

“O là là!” shrilled Angèle. “That was nine o’clock. Does papa know?”

Poor Elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. She wanted to cry – to slap this tormentor’s face. Yet she returned Angèle’s fiery scrutiny with interest.

“Yes,” she said with real heat. “I told him Martin came to our house, but I said nothing about Frank – and you. It was too disgraceful.”

She jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the pull given by Angèle. The opposing strains snapped the crossbar. Both ropes fell, and with them the two pieces of wood. One piece tapped Angèle somewhat sharply on the shoulder, and she uttered an involuntary cry.

The vicar and Mrs. Saumarez hurried up, but the swing stopped gradually. Obviously, neither of the girls was injured.

“You must have been using great force to break that stout bar,” said Mr. Herbert, helping Angèle to alight.

“Yes. Elsie and I were pulling against each other. But we had a lovely time, didn’t we, Elsie?”

“I think I enjoyed it even more than you,” retorted Elsie. The elders attributed her excited demeanor to the accident.

“If the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would be safer, and almost as effective,” said the vicar. “Ah! Here comes Martin. Perhaps he can put matters right.”

“I don’t want to swing any more,” vowed Elsie.

“But Martin will,” laughed Angèle. “We can swop partners. That will be jolly, won’t it?”

Blissfully unaware of the thorns awaiting him, the boy advanced. To be candid, he was somewhat awkward in manner. He did not know whether to shake hands all round or simply doff his cap to the entire company. Moreover, he noted Elsie’s presence with mixed feelings, for Mrs. Saumarez’s note had merely invited him to tea. There was no mention of other visitors. He was delighted, yet suspicious. Elsie and Angèle were flint and steel. There might be sparks.

Mrs. Saumarez rescued him from one horn of the dilemma. She extended a hand and asked if Mr. Bolland were not pleased that the rain had ceased.

“Now, Martin,” said the vicar briskly, “shin up the pole and tie the ropes to the center-piece. These strong-armed giantesses have smashed a chunk of timber as thick as your wrist. Don’t allow either of them to hit you. They’ll pulverize you at a stroke.”

“I fear it was I who broke it,” admitted Elsie.

“Then it is you he must beware of.”