The Revellers

A week later he made a discovery. He had a curious hobby – he was his own bootmaker, and Elsie’s, having taught himself to be a craftsman in an art which might well claim higher rank than it holds. When next he rummaged among his implements for a shoemaker’s knife it was missing. It was found in the garden next spring, jammed to the top of the hilt into the soft mold beneath a rhododendron. The tools were kept on a bench in the conservatory; so Angèle might have accomplished her impish desire in a few seconds.

On reaching the White House he was mildly surprised at finding Martin propped against the knee of a tall, soldierly stranger, who was consoling the boy with a reminiscence of a far worse toss at polo, by which a hard sola topi was flattened on the iron surface of an Indian maidan. Elsie, white, but much interested, was sipping a glass of milk.

“Eh, Vicar,” cried Mrs. Bolland, in whose face Mr. Herbert saw signs of recent excitement, “your lass gev us a rare start. She landed here like a mad thing, screamed oot that Martin was dead, an’ dropped te t’ flure half dead herself.”

“The fault was mine, Mrs. Bolland. There was an accident. At first I thought Martin was badly hurt. I am, indeed, very sorry if Elsie alarmed you.”

His words were meant to reassure the others, but his eyes were fixed on the girl’s pallid face. John Bolland laughed in his dry way.

“Nay, Passon, dinnat fret aboot Elsie. She’s none t’ warse for a sudden stop. She was ower-excited. Where’s yon lass o’ Mrs. Saumarez’s?”

“Gone home with her mother. I hear they are leaving Elmsdale.”

“A good riddance!” said John heartily. He turned to Martin. “Ye’ll be winded again, I reckon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I left my ash stick i’ t’ low yard. Mebbe you an’ t’ young leddy will fetch it. There’s noa need te hurry.”

This was an oblique instruction to the boy to make himself scarce for half an hour. With Elsie as a companion he needed no urging. They set off, happy as grigs.

“Noo, afore ye start te fill t’ vicar wi’ wunnerment,” cried Martha, “I want te ax t’ colonel a question.”

“What is it, Mrs. Bolland?”

Colonel Grant was smiling at the vicar’s puzzled air. These good people knew naught of formal introductions.

“How old is t’ lad?”

“He was fourteen years old on the sixth of last June.”

“Eh, but that’s grand.” She clapped her hands delightedly. “I guessed him tiv a week or two. We reckoned his birthday as a twel’month afore we found him, and that was June the eighteenth. And what’s his right neäm?”

“He was christened after me and after his mother’s family. His name is Reginald Ingram Grant.”

“May I ask who in the world you are talking about?” interposed the perplexed vicar.

“Wheä? Why, oor Martin!” cried Martha. “He’s a gentleman born, God bless him!”

“And, what is much more important, Mrs. Bolland, he is a gentleman bred,” said the colonel.

The scene in the kitchen of the White House had been too dramatic that some hint of it should not reach the village that night. Soon all Elmsdale knew that the mystery of Martin’s parentage had been solved, and great was the awe of the boy’s playmates when they heard that his father was a “real live colonel i’ t’ army.” A garbled version of the story came to Mr. Beckett-Smythe’s ears, and he called on Colonel Grant at the “Black Lion” next day.

He arrived in state, in a new Mercedes car, handled by a chauffeur replica of Fritz Bauer. Beckett-Smythe had hardly mastered his surprise at the colonel’s confirmation of that which he had regarded as “an incredible yarn” when Mrs. Saumarez drove up. She, too, recalling the message brought by Martin from her husband’s comrade-in-arms, came to verify the strange tale told by the Misses Walker. Angèle accompanied her, and the girl’s eyes shot lightning at Martin, who was on the point of guiding his father to the moor when Mr. Beckett-Smythe put in an appearance.

The lawyer had departed for London by the morning train; the three older people and the two youngsters gathered in the room thus set at liberty, Mrs. Atkinson having remodeled it into a sitting-room for the colonel’s use.

Mrs. Saumarez hailed the stranger effusively.

“It is delightful to run across anyone who knew my husband,” she said. “In this remote part of Yorkshire none seems to have ever heard of him. Believe me, Colonel Grant, it is positively a relief to meet a man who recognizes my name.”

She may have intended this for an oblique thrust at Beckett-Smythe, relations between the Hall and The Elms having been somewhat strained since the inquest. The Squire, a good fellow, who had no inkling of Angèle’s latest escapade, hastened to make amends.

“You two must want to chat over old times,” he said breezily. “Why not come and dine with me to-night? I have only one other guest – an Admiralty man. He’s prowling about the coast trying to select a suitable site for a wireless station.”

Now, Mrs. Saumarez would have declined the invitation had Beckett-Smythe stopped short at the first sentence. As it was, she accepted instantly.

“Do come, Colonel Grant,” she urged. “What between the Navy and the Intelligence Department it should be an interesting evening… Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she went on, with an engaging smile. “I still read the Gazette, you know.”

“And what of the kiddies?” said Beckett-Smythe. “They know my boys. Your chauffeur can bring them home at nine. By the way, the meal will be quite informal – come as you are.”

“What do you say, Martin?” said the colonel.

“I shall be very pleased, sir; but may I – ask – my mother first?”

The boy reddened. His new place in the world was only twenty-four hours old, and his ideas were not yet adjusted to an order of things so astounding that he thought every minute he would wake up and find he had been dreaming.

“Oh, certainly,” and a kindly hand fell on his shoulder. “I am glad you spoke of it. Mrs. Bolland is worthy of all the respect due to the best of mothers.”

“I’ll go with you, Martin,” announced Angèle suddenly.

Martin hesitated. He was doubtful of the reception Mrs. Bolland might give the minx who had nearly caused him to break his neck, and, for his own part, he wanted to avoid Angèle altogether. She was a disturbing influence. He feared her not at all as a spitfire. It was when she displayed her most engaging qualities that she was really dangerous, and he knew from experience that her mood had changed within the past five minutes. On alighting from the car she would like to have scratched his face. Now he would not be surprised if she elected to walk with him hand in hand through the village street.

His father came to the rescue.

“Let us all go and see Mrs. Bolland,” he said. “It is only a few yards.”

They went out into the roadway. Then Beckett-Smythe was struck by an afterthought.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll run along to the vicarage and ask Herbert and his daughter to join us,” he said.

Mrs. Saumarez bit her lip.

“I think I’ll leave Angèle at home,” she said in a low tone. “The child is delicate. During the past week I have insisted that she goes to bed at eight every evening.”

Colonel Grant understood why the lady did not want the two girls to meet, but it was borne in on him that she herself was determined not to miss that impromptu dinner party. In a vague way he wondered what her motive could be.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” he heard Beckett-Smythe say. “She can be well wrapped up, and the weather is mild.”

He moved a little ahead of the two. Martin, determined not to be left alone with Angèle, hastened to greet his friend, Fritz. The two chauffeurs were conversing in German. Apparently, they were examining the engine of the new car.

“Martin,” murmured Angèle, “don’t bother about Fritz. He’ll snap your head off. He’s furious because he lost a map the other day.”

But Martin pressed on. No longer could Angèle deceive him – “twiddle him around her little finger,” as she would put it.

“Hello, Fritz!” he cried. “What map did you lose? Not the one I marked for you?”

Fritz turned. The new chauffeur closed the bonnet of the engine.