CHAPTER XIV
GALVIN HOUSE MEETS A LORD
The effect of _The Morning Post_ announcement upon Galvin House hadbeen little short of sensational. Although all were aware of theengagement, to see the announcement in print seemed to arouse them to apoint of enthusiasm. Everyone from the servants upwards possessed acopy of _The Morning Post_, with the single exception of Mrs. Barnes,who had mislaid hers and made everybody's life a misery by insisting onexamining their copy to make quite sure that they had not taken hers bymistake.
Had not Patricia been so preoccupied, she could not have failed tonotice the atmosphere of suppressed excitement at Galvin House. Manyglances were directed at her, glances of superior knowledge, of whichshe was entirely unconscious. Woman-like she never paused to askherself what she really felt or what she really meant. Her thoughtsran in a circle, coming back inevitably to the maddening question,"What does he really think of me?" Why had Fate been so unkind as toundermine a possible friendship with that damning introduction? Afterall, she would ask herself indifferently, what did it matter? Bowenwas nothing to her. Then back again her thoughts would rush to theinevitable question, what did he really think?
Since the night of her adventure, Patricia had formed the habit ofdressing for dinner. She made neither excuse nor explanation toherself as to why she did so. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe,however, had covertly remarked upon the fact; but Patricia had ignoredthem. She had reached that state in her psychological development whenshe neither explained nor denied things.
With delicacy and insight Providence has withheld from woman theuncomfortable quality of introspection. Had Patricia subjected heractions to the rigid test of reason, she would have found themstrangely at variance with her determination. With a perversitycharacteristic of her sex, she forbade Bowen to see her, and then spenthours in speculating as to when and how he would disobey her. A parcelin the hall at Galvin House sent the colour flooding to her cheeks,whilst Gustave, entering the lounge, bearing his flamboyantnickle-plated apology for the conventional silver salver, set her heartthumping with expectation.
As the day on which Bowen was to dine at Galvin House drew near, theexcitement became intense, developing into a panic when the day itselfdawned. All were wondering how this or that garment would turn outwhen actually worn, and those who were not in difficulties with theirclothes were troubled about their manners. At Galvin House mannerswere things that were worn, like a gardenia or a patent hook-and-eye.Patricia had once explained to an uncomprehending Aunt Adelaide thatGalvin House had more manners than breeding.
On the Friday evening when Patricia returned to Galvin House, Gustavewas in the hall.
"Oh, mees!" he involuntarily exclaimed.
Patricia waited for more; but after a moment of hesitation, Gustavedisappeared along the hall as if there were nothing strange in hisconduct, leaving Patricia staring after him in surprise.
At that moment Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled out of the lounge, full of anunwonted importance.
"Oh, Miss Brent!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you've come. I have afew friends coming to dinner this evening and we are dressing."Without waiting for a reply Mrs. Craske-Morton turned and disappearedalong the passage leading to the servants' regions.
At that moment Mr. Bolton appeared at the top of the stairs in hisshirt sleeves; but at the sight of Patricia he turned and boltedprecipitately out of sight.
Patricia walked slowly upstairs and along the corridor to her room,unconscious that each door she passed was closed upon a tragedy.
In one room Mrs. Barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and acamisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could bemade black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at thestationer's shop in error.
Mr. James Harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body,stood in front of his glass, frankly baffled by the problem of how tokeep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of hislow-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determinedto show all that it was supposed to hide.
Miss Sikkum was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. On her lap laythe Brixton "Paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrowblack velvet ribbon. Should she or should she not enlarge the surfaceof exposure? If she did Miss Wangle might think her fast; if she didnot Lord Peter might think her suburban.
Mr. Sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from hisreflection in the glass a likeness to a sandy cockatoo.
Mr. Cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt,which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of apouter pigeon.
To each his tragedy and to all their anguish. Even Miss Wangle had herproblem. Should she or should she not remove the lace from the modestV in her black silk evening gown. The thought of the bishop, however,proved too much for her, and her collar-bones continued to remain amystery to Galvin House.
The dinner-gong found everyone anxious and unprepared. All had avision of Bowen sitting in judgment upon them and mentally comparingGalvin House with Park Lane; for in Bayswater Park Lane is the pinnacleof culture and social splendour.
A few minutes after the last strain of the gong, sounded by Gustave ina manner worthy of the occasion, had subsided, Miss Sikkum crept outfrom her room feeling very "undressed." The sight of Mr. Sefton nearlydrove her back precipitately to the maiden fastness of her chamber."Was she really too undressed?" she asked herself.
Slowly the guests descended, each anxious to cede to others the prideof place, all absorbed with his or her particular tragedy. By the aidof pins Mr. Cordal had overcome his likeness to a pigeon, but he hadnot allowed for movement, which tore the pins from their hold, allowinghis shirt-front to balloon out joyfully before him, for the rest of theevening obscuring his boots.
Miss Wangle looked at Miss Sikkum and mentally thanked Heaven and thebishop that she had restrained her abandoned impulse to remove theblack lace from her own neck.
Mr. Bolton's attention was concentrated upon the centre stud of hisshirt. The button-hole was too large, and the head of the studinsisted on disappearing in a most coquettish and embarrassing manner.Mr. Bolton was not sure that Bowen would approve of blue underwear, andconsequently kept a finger and thumb upon his stud for the greater partof the evening.
As each entered the lounge, it was with a hurried glance round to seeif the guest of the evening had arrived, followed by a sigh of reliefon discovering that he had not. Mrs. Craske-Morton had taken theprecaution of deferring the dinner until eight o'clock. She wishedBowen's entry to be dramatic.
Mrs. Craske-Morton had asked a few friends of her own to meet herdistinguished guest; a Miss Plimsoll, who was composed in claret colourand royal blue trimming, and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ragbone. Mrs. Ragbonewas a stout, jolly woman with a pronounced cockney accent. Mr. Ragbonewas a man whose eyebrows seemed to rise higher with each year, andwhose manner of patient suffering became more pathetically unreal withthe passage of each season. Mrs. Craske-Morton always explained him asa solicitor. Morton, Gofrim and Bowett, of Lincoln's Inn, knew him astheir chief clerk.
The atmosphere of the lounge was one of nervous tension. All werelistening for the bell which would announce the arrival of Bowen. Whenat last he came, everybody was taken by surprise, Mr. Bolton's studeluded his grasp, Mr. Sefton felt his back hair, whilst Miss Sikkumblushed rosily at her own daring.
A dead silence spread over the company, broken by Gustave, who,throwing open the door with a flourish, announced "Lieutenant-ColonelLord Peter Bowen, D.S.O." Bowen gave him a quick glance with widenedeyes, then coming forward, shook hands with Mrs. Craske-Morton.
Miss Sikkum was disappointed to find that he was in khaki. She had avague idea that the nobility adopted different evening clothes from theordinary rank and file. It would have pleased her to see Bowen withvelvet stripes down his trousers, a velvet collar and velvet cuffs. Acoloured silk waistcoat would have convinced her.
Mrs. Craske-Morton was determined to do her work thoroughly. She hadtaken the precaution of telling Patricia that dinner would not beserved until a few minutes after eight, that would give her time tointroduce Bowen to all the guests. She proceeded to conduct him roundto everyone in turn. In her flurry she quite forgot the carefulschooling to which she had subjected herself for a week past, and sheintroduced Miss Wangle to Bowen.
"Lord Peter, allow me to introduce Miss Wangle. Miss Wangle, LordPeter Bowen," and this was the form adopted with the rest of thecompany.
Bowen's sixth bow had just been interrupted by Mr. Cordal grasping himwarmly by the hand, when Patricia entered. For a moment she lookedabout her regarding the strange toilettes, then she saw Bowen. Shefelt herself crimsoning as he slipped away from Mr. Cordal's grasp andcame across to her. All the guests hung back as if this were themeeting between Wellington and Bluecher.
"I've done six, there are about twenty more to do. If you save me,Patricia, I'll forgive you anything after we're married."
Patricia shook hands sedately.
Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled up to re-claim Bowen. "A little surprise,Miss Brent; I hope you will forgive me."
Patricia smiled at her in anything but a forgiving spirit.
"And now, Lord Peter, I want to introduce you to----"
"Deenair is served, madame." Gustave was certainly doing the thing instyle.
At a sign from Mrs. Craske-Morton, Miss Wangle secured Mr. SamuelRagbone and they started for the dining-room. The remainder of theguests paired off in accordance with Mrs. Craske-Morton's instructions,written and verbal, she left nothing to chance, and the procession wasbrought up by Mrs. Craske-Morton herself and Bowen. Patricia fell tothe lot of Mr. Sefton.
As soon as the guests were seated a death-like stillness reigned.Bowen was looking round with interest as he unfolded his napkin intowhich had been deftly inserted a roll. Miss Sikkum, Mrs.Mosscrop-Smythe and Mr. Bolton each lost their rolls, which wereretrieved from underneath the table by Gustave and Alice.
Mr. Sefton, also unconscious of the secreted roll, opened his napkinwith a debonair jerk to show that he was quite at his ease. The breadrose in the air. He made an unsuccessful clutch, touched but could nothold it, and watched with horror the errant roll hit Miss Wangleplayfully on the side of the nose, just as she was beginning to tellBowen about "the dear bishop."
Patricia bit her lip, Bowen bent solicitously over the angry MissWangle, whilst Mr. Bolton threatened to report Mr. Sefton to the FoodController. Gustave created a diversion by arriving with the soup.His white cotton gloves, several sizes too large even for his hands,caused him great anxiety. Every spare moment during the evening hespent in clutching them at the wrists, just as they were on the pointof slipping off. Nothing, however, could daunt his courage or mitigatehis good-humour. For the first time in his life he was waiting upon areal lord, and from the circumstance he was extracting every ounce ofsatisfaction it possessed.
In serving Bowen his attitude was that of one self-convicted ofunworthiness. Accustomed to the complaints and bickerings of aBayswater boarding-house, Bowen's matter-of-fact motions of acceptanceor refusal impressed him profoundly. So this was how lords behaved.Nothing so impressed him as the little incident of the champagne.
At Galvin House it was the custom for the guests to have their owndrinks. Mr. Cordal, for instance, drank what the label on the bottleannounced to be "Gumton's Superior Light Dinner Ale." Mrs.Mosscrop-Smythe favoured Guinness's Stout, Miss Sikkum took hot water,whilst Miss Wangle satisfied herself with a claret bottle. There isrefinement in claret, the dear bishop always drank it, with water: butas claret costs money Miss Wangle made a bottle last for months.
The thought of the usual heterogeneous collection of bottles on theoccasion of Lord Peter's visit had filled Mrs. Craske-Morton withhorror, and she had decided to "spring" wine, as Mr. Bolton put it. Inother words, she supplied for the whole company four bottles ofone-and-eightpenny claret, the bottles rendered beautifully old byapplied dust and cobwebs. To this she had added a bottle of grocer'schampagne for Bowen. Gustave had been elaborately instructed that thiswas for the principal guest and the principal guest only, and Mrs.Craske-Morton had managed to convey to him in some subtle way that ifhe poured so much as a drop of the precious fluid into any otherperson's glass, the consequences would be too terrifying even tocontemplate.
Whilst Galvin House was murmuring softly over its soup, Gustaveapproached Bowen with the champagne bottle swathed in a white napkin,and looking suspiciously like an infant in long clothes. Holding theend of the bottle's robes with the left hand so that it should nottickle Bowen's ear, Gustave bent anxiously to his task.
Bowen, however, threw a bomb-shell at the earnest servitor. Hemotioned that he did not desire champagne. Gustave hesitated andlooked enquiringly at his mistress. Here was an unlooked-fordevelopment.
"You'll take champagne?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton ingratiatingly.
Gustave breathed again, and whilst Bowen's attention was distracted inexplaining to Mrs. Craske-Morton that he preferred water, he had adelicate taste in wine, Gustave filled the glass happily. Of course,it was all right, he told himself, the lord merely wanted to bepressed. If he had really meant "no," he would have put his hand overhis glass, as Miss Sikkum always did when she refused some of Mr.Cordal's "Light Dinner Ale."
Gustave retired victorious with the champagne bottle, which he placedupon the sideboard. At every interval in his manifold duties, Gustavereturned with the white-clothed bottle, and strove to squeeze a fewmore drops into Bowen's untouched glass.
The terrifying constraint with which the meal had opened gradually woreoff as the wine circulated. Following the path of least resistance, itmounted to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's head; but with Miss Sikkum it seemedto stop short at her nose. Mr. Cordal's shirt-front announced that hehad temporarily given up Gumton in favour of the red, red wine of thesmoking-concert baritone. Mrs. Barnes seemed on the point of tears,whilst Mr. Sefton's attentions to Patricia were a direct challenge toBowen.
Conversation at Galvin House was usually general; but it now becameparticular. Every remark was directed either to or at Bowen, and eachguest strove to hear what he said. Those who were fortunate enough tocatch his replies told those who were not. A smile or a laugh fromanyone who might be in conversation with Bowen rippled down the table.Mr. Cordal was less intent upon his food, and his inaccuracy of aimbecame more than ever noticeable.
"Oh, Lord Bowen!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "do tell us where you got theD.S.O."
Bowen screwed his glass into his eye and looked across at Miss Sikkum,at the redness of her nose and the artificial rose in her hair.Everyone was waiting anxiously for Bowen's reply. Mr. Cordal gruntedapproval.
"At Buckingham Palace," said Bowen, "from the King. They give youspecial leave, you know."
Patricia looked across at him and smiled. What was he thinking ofGalvin House refinement? What did he think of her for being there?Well, he had brought it on himself and he deserved his punishment. Atfirst Patricia had been amused: but as the meal dragged wearily on,amusement developed into torture. Would it never end? She glancedfrom Miss Wangle, all graciousness and smiles, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe,in her faded blue evening-frock, on to Miss Sikkum bare and abandoned.She heard Mr. Sefton's chatter, Mr. Bolton's laugh, Mr. Cordal's jawsand lips. She shuddered. Why did not she accept the opening of escapethat now presented itself and marry Bowen? He could rescue her fromall this and what it meant.
"And shall we all be asked to the wedding, Lord Bowen?"
It was again Miss Sikkum's thin voice that broke through the curtain ofPatricia's thoughts.
"I hope all Miss Brent's friends will be there," replied Bowendiplomatically.
"And now we shall all have to fetch and carry for Miss Brent," laughedMr. Bolton. "Am I your friend, Miss Brent?" he enquired.
"She always laughs at your jokes when nobody else can," snapped MissPilkington.
Ev
erybody turned to the speaker, who during the whole meal had silentlynursed her resentment at having been placed at the bottom of the table.Mr. Bolton looked crestfallen. Bowen looked across at Patricia and sawher smile sympathetically at Mr. Bolton.
"I think from what I have heard, Mr. Bolton," he said, "that you mayregard yourself as one of the elect."
Patricia flashed Bowen a grateful look. Mr. Bolton beamed and, turningto Miss Pilkington, said with his usual introductory laugh:
"Then I shall return good for evil, Miss Pilkington, and persuade LadyPeter to buy her stamps at your place."
Miss Pilkington flushed at this reference to her calling, aparticularly threadbare joke of Mr. Bolton's.
"When is it to be, Lord Peter?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton.
Miss Sikkum looked down modestly at her plate, not quite certainwhether or no this were a delicate question.
"That rests with Miss Brent," replied Bowen, smiling. "If you, herfriends, can persuade her to make it soon, I shall be very grateful."
Miss Sikkum simpered and murmured under her breath, "How romantic."
"Now, Miss Brent," said Mr. Bolton, "it's up to you to name the happyday."
Patricia smiled, conscious that all eyes were upon her; butparticularly conscious of Bowen's gaze.
"I believe in long engagements," she said, stealing a glance at Bowenand thrilling at the look of disappointment on his face. "Didn't Jacobserve seven years for Rachel?"
"Yes, and got the wrong girl then," broke in Mr. Bolton. "You'll haveto be careful, Miss Brent, or Miss Sikkum will get ahead of you."
"Really, Mr. Bolton!" said Mrs. Craske-Morton, looking anxiously atBowen.
Miss Sikkum's cheeks had assumed the same tint as her nose, and hereyes were riveted upon her plate. Miss Pilkington muttered somethingunder her breath about Mr. Bolton's remark being outrageous.
"I think we'll take coffee in the lounge," said Mrs. Craske-Morton,rising. Turning to Bowen, she added, "We follow the American custom,Lord Peter, the gentlemen always leave the dining-room with the ladies."
There was a pushing back of chairs and a shuffling of feet and GalvinHouse rose from its repast.
"Coffee will not be served for half an hour, and if you and Miss Brentwould like to--to----"
Mrs. Craske-Morton paused significantly. "My boudoir is at yourservice."
Bowen looked at her and then at Patricia. He saw the flush on hercheeks and the humiliation in her eyes.
"I think we should much prefer not to interrupt our pleasantconversation. What do you say, Patricia?" he enquired, turning toPatricia, who smiled her acquiescence.
They all trooped into the lounge, where everybody except Patricia,Bowen and Mrs. Craske-Morton stood about in awkward poses. The arrivalof Gustave with coffee relieved the tension.
For the next hour each guest endeavoured to attract to himself orherself Bowen's attention, and each was disappointed when at length herose to go and shook hands only with Mrs. Craske-Morton, including theothers in a comprehensive bow. Still more were they disappointed andsurprised when Patricia did not go out into the hall to see him off.
"Oh, Miss Brent!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "aren't you going to say goodnight to him?"
"Good night!" interrogated Patricia, "but I did."
"Yes; but I mean----" began Miss Sikkum.
"Oh, you know," she said with a simper, but Patricia had passed over toa chair, where she seated herself and began to read a newspaper upsidedown.
Miss Sikkum's romantic soul had received a shock.