The Revellers

To see the graceful girl propelling herself through the air in a curve of nearly forty feet at each pendulum stroke of the swing was a pleasing sight to her father, but it caused Mrs. Saumarez to regret again that her daughter had not been taught to think more of athletic exercises and less of dress.

While the young people were following their seniors to the drawing-room, Angèle said to Elsie:

“I think I could do that myself with a little practice.”

“You are not tall enough,” was the uncompromising answer, for Elsie’s temper was ruffled by the simpering unbelief with which the other treated her assurances.

“Not so tall, no; but I can bend back like this, and you cannot.”

Without a second’s hesitation Angèle twisted her head and shoulders around until her chin was in a line with her heels. Then she dropped lightly so that her hands rested on the grass of the lawn, straightening herself with equal ease. The contortion was performed so quickly that neither Mr. Herbert nor Mrs. Saumarez was aware of it. It was a display not suited to the conditions of ordinary costume, and it necessarily exhibited portions of the attire not usually in evidence.

Martin had eyes only for the girl’s acrobatic agility, but Elsie blushed.

“I don’t like that,” she said.

“I can stand on my head and walk on my hands,” cried Angèle instantly. “Martin, some day I’ll show you.”

Conscious though she was that these things were said to annoy her, Elsie remembered that Angèle was a guest.

“How did you learn?” she asked. “Were you taught in school?”

“School! Me! I have never been to school. Education is the curse of children’s lives. I never leave mamma. One day in Nice I saw a circus girl doing tricks of that sort. I practiced in my bedroom.”

“Does your mother wish that?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“I wonder you haven’t broken your neck,” said the practical Martin, who felt his bones creaking at the mere notion of such twisting.

Angèle laughed.

“It is quite easy, when you are slim and elegant.”

Her vanity amused the boy.

“You speak as though Elsie were as stiff as a board,” he said. “If you had watched her carefully, Angèle, you would have seen that she is quite as supple as you, only in a different way. And she is strong, too. I dare say she could swing with one hand and carry you in the other, if she had a mind to try.”

This ready advocacy of a new-found divinity angered Angèle beyond measure. Possibly she meant no greater harm than the disconcerting of a rival; but she slipped out of the room when Mr. Herbert sent Elsie to the library to bring a portfolio of old prints which he wished to show Mrs. Saumarez. Although it was never definitely proved against Angèle, someone tampered with the rope before a move was made to the garden after tea. The cause, the effect, were equally clear; the human agent remained unknown.

“Now, I’ll prove my words,” cried Elsie, darting across the lawn in front of the others.

“Here, it’s my turn,” shouted the boy gleefully. “I’ll race you.”

“Martin! Martin! I want you!” shrieked Angèle, running after him.

He paid no heed to her cries. Outstripping both girls in the race, he sprang at the swing, and was carried almost to the debated limit of the tree by the impetus of the rush. When he felt himself stopping he threw up his feet in a wild effort to touch the leaves so tantalizingly out of reach, and in that instant the rope broke.

He turned completely over and fell with a heavy thud on the back of his bent head. The screaming of the girls brought the vicar from his prints in great alarm, and his agitation increased when he discovered that the boy could neither move nor speak.

Elsie was halfway to the White House before Martin regained his breath. Once vitality returned, however, he was quickly on his feet again.

“What happened?” he asked, craning his head awkwardly. “I thought someone fired a gun!”

“You frightened us nearly out of our wits,” cried the vicar. “And I was stupid enough to send Elsie flying to your people. Goodness knows what she will have said to them!”

Promptly the boy shook himself and tried to break into a run.

“I must – follow her,” he gasped. But not yet was the masterful spirit able to control relaxed muscles; he collapsed again.

Mrs. Saumarez cried aloud in a new fear, but the vicar, accustomed to the minor accidents of the cricket field and gymnasium, was cooler now.

“He’s all right – only needs a drink of water and a few minutes’ rest,” he explained.

He bade one of the maids go as quickly as possible to the Bollands’ farm and say that the mischief to Martin was a mere nothing, and then busied himself in more scientific fashion with restoring his patient’s animation.

Unfastening the boy’s collar and the neckband of his shirt, Mr. Herbert satisfied himself that the clavicle was uninjured. There was a slight abrasion of the scalp, which was sore to the touch. In a minute, or less, Martin was again protesting that there was little the matter with him. He would not be satisfied until the vicar allowed him to start once more for the village, though at a more sedate pace.

Then Mrs. Saumarez, in a voice of deep distress, asked Mr. Herbert if the rope had really been cut.

“Yes,” he said. “You can see yourself that there is no doubt about it.”

“But your daughter charged Angèle with this – this crime. My child denies it. She has no knife or implement of any sort in her pocket. I assure you I have satisfied myself on that point.”

“The affair is a mystery, Mrs. Saumarez. It must be cleared up. Thank God, Martin escaped! He might be lying here dead at this moment.”

“Are you sure it was not an accident?”

“What am I to say? Here is a stout hempen cord with nearly all its strands severed as if with a razor, and the other torn asunder. And, from what I can gather, it was Elsie, and not Martin, for whose benefit this diabolical outrage was planned.”

The vicar spoke warmly, but the significance of the incident was dawning slowly on his perplexed mind. Providence alone had ordained that neither the boy nor the girl had been gravely, perhaps fatally, injured.

Mrs. Saumarez was haggard. She seemed to have aged in those few minutes.

“Angèle!” she cried.

The girl, who was sobbing, came to her.

“Can it be possible,” said the distracted mother, “that you interfered with the swing? Why did you leave the drawing-room during tea?”

“I only went to stroke a cat, mamma. Indeed, I never touched the swing. Why should I? And I could not cut it with my fingers.”

“On second thoughts,” said the vicar coldly, “I think that the matter may be allowed to rest where it is. Of course, one of my servants may be the culprit, or a mischievous village youth who had been watching the children at play. But the two girls do not seem to get on well together, Mrs. Saumarez. I fear they are endowed with widely different temperaments.”

The hint could not be ignored. The lady smiled bitterly.

“It is well that I should have decided already to leave Elmsdale,” she said. “It is a charming place, but my visit has not been altogether fortunate.”

Mr. Herbert remembered the curious phrase in after years. He understood it then. At the moment he was candidly relieved when Mrs. Saumarez and Angèle took their departure. He jammed on a hat and hastened to the White House to learn what sort of sensation Elsie had created.