But he wished that it had been he who had found this pamphlet on Eastern philosophies which had led Mrs Quantock to make the inquiries that had resulted in the epiphany of the Guru. Of course when once Lucia had heard about it, she was certain to constitute herself head and leader of the movement, and it was really remarkable how completely she had done that. In that meeting in the garden just now she had just sailed through Mrs Quantock, as calmly as a steamer cuts through the waters of the sea, throwing her off from her penetrating bows like a spent wave. But, baffled though she was for the moment, Georgie had been aware that Mrs Quantock seethed with revolutionary ideas: she deeply resented this confiscation of what was certainly her property, though she was impotent to stop it, and Georgie knew just what she felt. It was all very well to say that Lucia's schemes were entirely in accord with the purposes of the Guides. That might be so, but Mrs Quantock would not cease to think that she had been robbed…
Yet nothing mattered if all the class found themselves getting young and active and loving and excellent under this tuition. It was that notion which had taken such entire command of them all, and for his part Georgie did not really care who owned the Guru, so to speak, if only he got the benefits of his teaching. For social purposes Lucia had annexed him, and doubtless with him in the house she would get little instructions and hints that would not count as a lesson, but, after all, Georgie had still got Olga Bracely to himself, for he had not breathed a word of her advent to Lucia. He felt rather like one who, when revolutionary ideas are in the air, had concealed a revolver in his pocket. He did not formulate to himself precisely what he was going to do with it, but it gave him a sense of power to know it was there.
The train came in, but he looked in vain for his sisters. They had distinctly said they were arriving by it, but in a couple of minutes it was perfectly clear that they had done nothing of the kind, for the only person who got out was Mrs Weston's cook, who, as all the world knew, went into Brinton every Wednesday to buy fish. At the rear of the train, however, was an immense quantity of luggage being taken out, which could not all be Mrs Weston's fish, and, indeed, even at this distance there was something familiar to Georgie about a very large green hold-all which was dumped there. Perhaps Hermy and Ursy had travelled in the van, because ‘it was such a lark’, or for some other tomboy reason, and he went down the platform to investigate. There were bags of golf-clubs, and a dog, and portmanteaux, and, even as the conviction dawned on him that he had seen some of these objects before, the guard, to whom Georgie always gave half a crown when he travelled by this train, presented him with a note scrawled in pencil. It ran:
DEAREST GEORGIE
It was such a lovely day that when we got to Paddington Ursy and I decided to bicycle down instead, for a lark. So we sent our things on, and we may arrive to-night, but probably to-morrow. Take care of Tiptree: and give him plenty of jam. He loves it.
Yours,
Hermy.
PS – Tipsipoozie doesn't really bite: it's only his fun.
Georgie crumpled up this odious epistle, and became aware that Tipsipoozie, a lean Irish terrier, was regarding him with peculiar disfavour, and showing all his teeth, probably in fun. In pursuance of this humorous idea, he then darted towards Georgie, and would have been extremely funny if he had not been handicapped by the bag of golf-clubs to which he was tethered. As it was he pursued him down the platform towing the clubs after him till he got entangled in them and fell down.
Georgie hated dogs at any time, though he had never hated one so much as Tipsipoozie, and the problems of life became more complicated than ever. Certainly he was not going to drive back with Tipsipoozie in his cab, and it became necessary to hire another for that abominable hound and the rest of the luggage. And what on earth was to happen when he arrived home if Tipsipoozie did not drop his fun and become serious? Foljambe, it is true, liked dogs, so perhaps dogs liked her… ‘But it is most tarsome of Hermy!’ thought Georgie bitterly. ‘I wonder what the Guru would do.’
There ensued a very trying ten minutes, in which the station-master, the porters, Georgie and Mrs Weston's maid all called Tipsipoozie a good dog, as he lay on the ground snapping at the golf-clubs. Eventually a valiant porter picked up the bag of clubs, and by holding them out in front of him at the extreme length of his arms in the manner of a fishing-rod, with Tipsipoozie on a short chain at the other end of the bag, like a savage fish, cursing and swearing, managed to propel him into the cab, and there was another half-crown gone. Georgie thereupon got into his cab and sped homewards, in order to arrive there first and consult with Foljambe. Foljambe usually thought of something.
Foljambe came out at the noise of the arriving wheels, and Georgie explained the absence of his sisters and the advent of an atrocious dog.
‘He's very fierce,’ he said, ‘but he likes jam.’
Foljambe gave that superior smile, which sometimes Georgie resented. Now he hailed it as if it was ‘an angel-face's smile’.
‘I'll see to him, sir,’ she said. ‘I've brought up your tea!’
‘But you'll take care, Foljambe, won't you?’ he asked.
‘I expect he'd better take care,’ returned this intrepid woman.
Georgie, as he often said, trusted Foljambe completely, which must explain why he went into his drawing-room, shut the door, and looked out of the window when the cab arrived. She opened the door, put her arms inside, and next moment emerged again with Tipsipoozie on the end of the chain, making extravagant exhibitions of delight. Then, to Georgie's horror, the drawing-room door opened, and in came Tipsipoozie without any chain at all.
Rapidly sending a message of love in all directions like an SOS call, Georgie put a small chair in front of him to shield his legs. Tipsipoozie evidently thought it was a game, and hid behind the sofa to rush out again from ambush.
‘Just got snappy being tied to those golf-clubs!’ remarked Foljambe.
But Georgie, as he put some jam into his saucer, could not help wondering whether the message of love had not done it.
He dined alone, for Hermy and Ursy did not appear, and had a great polishing of his knick-knacks afterwards, while waiting for them. No one ever felt anxious at the non-arrival of those sisters, for they always turned up from their otter-hunting or their golf sooner or later, chiefly later, in the highest spirits at the larks they had had, with amazingly dirty hands and prodigious appetites. But when twelve o'clock struck he decided to give up all idea of their appearance that night, and having given Tipsipoozie some more jam and a comfortable bed in the woodshed, went upstairs to his room. Though he knew it was still possible that he might be roused by wild ‘Cooees!’ and showers of gravel at his window, and have to come down and minister to their gross appetites, the prospect seemed improbable, and he soon went to sleep.
Georgie awoke with a start some hours later, wondering what had disturbed him. There was no gravel rattling at his window, no violent ringing of bicycle bells, nor loud genial shouts outraging the decorous calm of Riseholme, but certainly he had heard something. Next moment the repeated noise sent his heart leaping into his throat, for quite distinctly he heard a muffled sound in the room below, which he instantly diagnosed with fatal certainty as burglars.
The first emotion that mingled itself with his sheer terror was a passionate regret that Hermy and Ursy had not come. They would have thought it tremendous larks, and would have invented some wonderful offensive with fire-irons and golf-clubs and dumb-bells. Even Tipsipoozie, the lately abhorred, would have been a succour in this crisis, and why, oh why, had not Georgie had him to sleep in his bedroom instead of making him cosy in the woodshed? He would have let Tipsipoozie sleep on his lovely blue quilt for the remainder of his days if only Tipsipoozie could have been with him now, ready to have fun with the burglars below. As it was, the servants were in the attics at the top of the house, Dickie slept out, and Georgie was all alone, with the prospect of having to defend his property at risk of his life. Even at this moment, as he sat up i
n bed, blanched with terror, these miscreants might be putting his treasures into their pockets. The thought of the Fabergé cigarette case, and the Louis XVI snuff-box, and the Queen Anne toy porringer which he had inherited all these years, made even life seem cheap, for life would be intolerable without them, and he sprang out of bed, groped for his slippers, since until he had made a plan it was wiser not to show a light, and shuffled stealthily towards the door.
6
The door-handle felt icy to fingers already frozen with fright, but he stood firmly grasping it, ready to turn it noiselessly when he had quite made up his mind what to do. The first expedient that suggested itself, with an overpowering sweetness of relief, was that of locking his door, going back to bed again, and pretending that he had heard nothing. But apart from the sheer cowardice of that, which he did not mind so much, as nobody else would ever know his guilt and he could live it down quietly, the thought of the burglars going off quite unmolested with his property was intolerable. Even if he could not summon up enough courage to go downstairs with his life and a poker in his hand, he must at least give them a good fright. They had frightened him, and so he would frighten them. They should not have it all their own way, and if he decided not to attack them (or him) single-handed, he could at least thump on the floor, or call out ‘Burglars!’ at the top of his voice, or shout ‘Charles! Henry! Thomas!’ as if summoning a bevy of stalwart footmen. The objection to this course, however, would be that Foljambe, or somebody else, might hear him, and in this case, if he did not then go downstairs to mortal combat, the knowledge of his cowardice would be the property of others beside himself… And all the time he hesitated, they were probably filling their pockets with his dearest possessions.
He tried to send out a message of love, but he was totally unable to do so.
Then the little clock on his mantel-piece struck two, which was a miserable hour, sundered so far from dawn.
Though he had lived through years of agony since he got out of bed, the actual passage of time, as he stood frozen at his door-handle, was but the duration of a few brief seconds, and then, making a tremendous call on his courage, he felt his way to his fireplace, and picked up the poker. The tongs and shovel rattled treacherously, and he hoped that had not been heard, for the essence of his plan (though he had yet no idea what that plan was) must be silence till some awful surprise broke upon the burglars. If only he could summon the police, he could come rushing downstairs with his poker, as the professional supporters of the law gained an entrance to his house, but unfortunately the telephone was downstairs, and he could not reasonably hope to carry on a conversation with the police-station without being overheard by the burglars.
He opened his door with so masterly a movement that there was no sound, either from the hinges or from the handle as he turned it, and peered out. The hall below was dark, but a long pencil of light came from the drawing-room, which showed where the reckless brutes must be, and there, too, alas! was his case of treasures. Then suddenly he heard the sound of a voice, speaking very low, and another voice answered it. At that Georgie's heart sank, for this proved that there must be at least two burglars, and the odds against him were desperate. After that came a low, cruel laugh, and the unmistakable sound of the rattle of knives and forks, and the explosive uncorking of a bottle. At that his heart sank even lower yet, for he had read that cool habitual burglars always had supper before they got to work, and therefore he was about to deal with a gang of professionals. Also that explosive uncorking clearly indicated champagne, and he knew that they were feasting on his best. And how wicked of them to take their unhallowed meal in his drawing-room, for there was no proper table there, and they would be making a dreadful mess over everything.
A current of cool night air swept up the stairs, and Georgie saw the panel of light from the open drawing-room door diminish in width, and presently the door shut with a soft thud, leaving him in the dark. At that his desperation seemed pressed and concentrated into a moment of fictitious courage, for he unerringly reasoned that they had left the drawing-room window open, and that perhaps in a few moments now they would have finished their meal and with bulging pockets would step forth unchallenged into the night. Why had he never had bells put on his shutters like Mrs Weston, who lived in nightly terror of burglars? But it was too late to think of that now, for it was impossible to ask them to step out till he had put bells up, and then, when he was ready, begin again.
He could not let them go, gorged with his champagne and laden with his treasures, without reprisals of some sort, and keeping his thoughts steadily away from revolvers and clubs and sandbags, walked straight downstairs, threw open the drawing-room door, and with his poker grasped in his shaking hand, cried out in a faint thin voice:
‘If you move I shall fire!’
There was a moment of dead silence, and a little dazzled with the light, he saw what faced him.
At opposite ends of his Chippendale sofa sat Hermy and Ursy. Hermy had her mouth open and held a bun in her dirty hands. Ursy had her mouth shut and her cheeks were bulging. Between them was a ham and a loaf of bread, and a pot of marmalade and a Stilton cheese, and on the floor was the bottle of champagne, and two brimming bubbling tea-cups full of wine. The cork and the wire and the tinfoil, they had, with some show of decency, thrown into the fireplace.
Hermy put down her bun, and gave a great shout of laughter: Ursy's mouth was disgustingly full and she exploded. Then they lay back against the arms of the sofa and howled.
Georgie was very much vexed.
‘Upon my word, Hermy!’ he said, and then found it was not nearly a strong enough expression. And in a moment of un-governable irritation he said:
‘Damn it all!’
Hermy showed signs of recovery first, and, as Georgie came back after shutting the window, could find her voice, while Ursy collected small fragments of ham and bread which she had partially chewed.
‘Lord! What a lark!’ she said. ‘Georgie, it's the most ripping lark!’
Ursy pointed to the poker.
‘He'll fire if we move,’ she cried, ‘or poke the fire, was it?’
‘Ask another!’ screamed Hermy. ‘O dear, he thought we were burglars, and came down with a poker, brave boy! It's positively the limit. Have a drink, Georgie.’
Suddenly her eyes grew round and awestruck, and pointing with her finger to Georgie's shoulder, she went off into another yell of laughter.
‘Ursy! His hair!’ she said, and buried her face in a sofa-cushion.
Naturally Georgie had not put his hair in order when he came downstairs for nobody thinks about things like that when he is going to encounter burglars single-handed, and there was his bald pate, and his long tresses hanging down one side.
It was most annoying, but when an inevitable annoyance has absolutely occurred, the only possible thing for a decent person to do, is to take it as lightly as possible. Georgie rose gallantly to the occasion, gave a little squeal and ran from the room.
‘Down again presently,’ he called out, and had a heavy fall on the stairs as he went up to his bedroom. There he had a short argument with himself. It was possible to slam his door, go to bed, and be very polite in the morning. But that would never do: Hermy and Ursy would have a joke against him for ever. It was really much better to share in the joke, identifying himself with it. So he brushed his hair in the orthodox fashion, put on a very smart dressing-gown, and came tripping downstairs again.
‘My dears, what fun!’ he said. ‘Let's all have supper. But let's move into the dining-room, where there's a table, and I'll get another bottle of wine, and some glasses, and we'll bring Tipsipoozie in. You naughty girls, fancy arriving at a time like this! I suppose your plan was to go very quietly to bed, and come down to breakfast in the morning, and give me a fine surprise. Tell me all about it now.’
So presently Tipsipoozie was having his marmalade, which did just as well as jam, and they were all cutting slices off the ham and stuffing them in split buns
.
‘Yes, we thought we might as well do it all in one go,’ said Hermy, ‘and it's a hundred and twenty miles if it's a yard. And then it was so late when we got here, we thought we wouldn't disturb you, specially as the drawing-room window wasn't bolted.’
‘Bicycles outside,’ said Ursy, ‘they'll just have to be out at grass till morning. Oh, Tipsi-ipsi-poozie-woozy, how is you? Hope he behaved like the good little Tiptree that he is, Georgie?’
‘Oh, yes, we made great friends,’ said Georgie sketchily. ‘He was wee bit upset at the station, but then he had good tea with his Uncle Georgie and played hide-and-seek.’
Rather rashly, Georgie ‘made a face’ at Tiptree, the sort of face which amuses children. But it didn't amuse Tiptree, who made another face, in which teeth played a prominent part.
‘Fool-dog,’ said Hermy, carelessly smacking him across the nose. ‘Always hit him if he shows his teeth, Georgie. Pass the fizz.’
‘Well, so we got through the drawing-room window,’ continued Ursy, ‘and Golly, we were hungry. So we foraged, and there we were! Jolly plucky of you, Georgie, to come down and beard us.’
‘Real sport,’ said Hermy. ‘And how's old Fol-de-rol-de-ray? Why didn't she come down and fight us too?’
Georgie guessed that Hermy was making a humorous allusion to Foljambe, who was the one person in Riseholme whom his two sisters seemed to hold in respect. Ursy had once set a booby-trap for Georgie, but the mixed biscuits and Brazil nuts had descended on Foljambe instead. On that occasion, Foljambe, girt about in impenetrable calm, had behaved as if nothing had happened, and trod on biscuits and Brazil nuts without a smile, as if there was nothing whatever crumbling and exploding beneath her feet. That had somehow quelled the two, who, as soon as she left the room again, swept up the mess and put the uninjured Brazil nuts back into the dessert dish… It would never do if Foljambe lost her prestige and was alluded to by some outrageously slangy name.