The Revellers

The vicar, in the midst of this chaff, gave Martin a “leg-up” the pole, and repairs were effected.

When the swing was in order he slid to the ground. Mr. Herbert resumed the stroll with Mrs. Saumarez. There was an awkward pause before Martin said:

“You girls get in. I’ll start you.”

He spoke collectively, but addressed Elsie. He wondered why her air was so distant.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve done damage enough already.”

“Martin,” murmured Angèle, “she is furious because I said you kissed me.”

This direct attack was a crude blunder. Mischievous and utterly unscrupulous though the girl was, she could not measure this boy’s real strength of character. The great man is not daunted by great difficulties – he grapples with them; and Martin had in him the material of greatness. He felt at once that he must now choose irrevocably between the two girls, with a most unpromising chance of ever again recovering lost ground with one of them. He did not hesitate an instant.

“Did you say that?” he demanded sternly.

“Ma foi! Isn’t it true?”

“The truth may be an insult. You had no right to thrust your schemes into Elsie’s knowledge.”

“My schemes, you – you pig. I spit at you. Isn’t it true?”

“Yes – unfortunately. I shall regret it always.”

Angèle nearly flew at him with her nails. But she contrived to laugh airily.

“Eh bien, mon cher Martin! There will come another time. I shall remember.”

“There will come no other time. You dared me to it. I was stupid enough to forget – for a moment.”

“Forget what?”

“That there was a girl in Elmsdale worth fifty of you – an English girl, not a mongrel!”

It was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most cutting thing he could think of. The words were spoken in heat; he would have recalled them at once if that were possible, but Angèle seized the opening with glee.

“That’s you!” she cried, stabbing her rival with a finger. “Parbleu! I’m a mixture, half English, half German, but really bad French!”

“Please don’t drag me into your interesting conversation,” said Elsie with bitter politeness.

“I am sorry I said that,” put in the boy. “I might have had two friends. Now I have lost both.”

He turned. His intent was to quit the place forthwith. Elsie caught his arm with an alarmed cry.

“Martin,” she almost screamed, “look at your left hand. It is covered with blood!”

Surprised as she, he raised his hand. Blood was streaming down the fingers.

“It’s nothing,” he said coolly. “I must have opened a deep cut by climbing the swing.”

“Quelle horreur!” exclaimed Angèle. “I hate blood!”

“I’m awfully sorry – ” began Martin.

“Nonsense! Come at once to the kitchen and have it bound up,” said Elsie.

They hurried off together. Angèle did not offer to accompany them. Martin glanced at Elsie through the corner of his eye. Her set mouth had relaxed somewhat. Anger was yielding to sympathy.

“I was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get scratched,” he whispered.

“You needn’t have kissed it, anyhow,” she snapped.

“That, certainly, was a mistake,” he admitted.

She made no reply. Once within the house she removed the stained bandage without flinching from the ugly sight of half-healed scars, one of which was bleeding profusely. Cold water soon stopped the outflow, and one of the maids procured some strips of linen, with which Elsie bound the wound tightly.

They had a moment to themselves in recrossing the hall. Martin ventured to touch the girl’s shoulder.

“Look here, Elsie,” he said boldly, “do you forgive me?”

Something in his voice told her that mere verbal fencing would be useless.

“Yes,” she murmured with a wistful smile. “I’ll forgive, but I can’t forget – for a long time.”

On the lawn they encountered Mrs. Saumarez. Learning from Angèle why the trio had dispersed so suddenly, she was coming to attend to Martin herself.

The vicar joined them.

“Really,” he said, “some sort of ill luck is attached to that swing to-day.”

And then Françoise appeared, to tell them that tea was ready.

“What curious French she talks,” commented the smiling Elsie.

“Yes,” cried Angèle tartly. “Bad French, eh? And I know heaps and heaps of it.”

She caught Mr. Herbert’s eye, and added an excuse:

“I’m going to change all that. People think I’m naughty when I speak like a domestic. And I really don’t mean anything wrong.”

“We all use too much slang,” said the tolerant-minded vicar. “It is sheer indolence. We refuse to bother our brains for the right word.”

CHAPTER XVII

TWO MOORLAND EPISODES

Though all hands were needed on the farm in strenuous endeavor to repair the storm’s havoc, Dr. MacGregor forbade Martin to work when he examined the reopened cut. Thus, the boy was free to guide Fritz, the chauffeur, on the morning the man came to look at Bolland’s herd.

Fritz Bauer – that was the name he gave – had improved his English pronunciation marvelously within a fortnight. He no longer confused “d’s” and “t’s.” He had conquered the sibilant sound of the “s.” He was even wrestling with the elusive “th,” substituting “d” for “z.”