§ 7
The quiet but observant life of old Cashel at Chastlands was greatly enlivened by the advent of Oswald.
Signs of a grave and increasing agitation in the mind of Cashel’s mistress became evident immediately after the departure of Mr. Sycamore. Manifestly whatever that gentleman had said or done—old Cashel had been able to catch very little—had been of a highly stimulating nature. So soon as he was out of the house, Lady Charlotte abandoned her sofa and table, upsetting her tonic as she did so, and still wearing her dressing-gown and cap, proceeded to direct a hasty packing for Italy. Unwin became much agitated, and a housemaid being addressed as a “perfect fool” became a sniffing fount of tears. There was a running to and fro with trunks and tea-baskets, a ringing of bells, and minor orders were issued and countermanded; the carriage was summoned twice for an afternoon drive and twice dismissed. When at last the lace peignoir was changed for a more suitable costume in which to take tea, Lady Charlotte came so near to actual physical violence that Unwin abruptly abandoned her quest of a perfect pose for wig and cap, and her ladyship surprised and delighted Cashel with a blond curl cocked waggishly over one eye. She did not have tea until half-past five.
She talked to herself with her hard blue eyes fixed on vacancy. “I will not stay here to be insulted,” she said.
“Rampageous,” whispered Cashel on the landing. “Rumbustious. What’s it all about?”
“Cashel!” she said sharply as he was taking away the tea-things.
“M’lady.”
“Telephone to Mr. Grimes and ask him to take tickets as usual for myself and Unwin to Pallanza—for tomorrow.”
It was terrible but pleasing to have to tell her that Mr. Grimes would now certainly have gone home from his office.
“See that it is done tomorrow. Tomorrow I must catch the eleven forty-seven for Charing Cross. I shall take lunch with me in the train. A wing of chicken. A drop of claret. Perhaps a sandwich. Gentleman’s Relish or shrimp paste. And a grape or so. A mere mouthful. I shall expect you to be in attendance to help with the luggage as far as Charing Cross....”
So she was going after all.
“Like a flight,” mused Cashel. “What’s after the Old Girl?”...
He grasped the situation a little more firmly next day.
The preparations for assembling Lady Charlotte in the hall before departure were well forward at eleven o’clock, although there was no need to start for the station until the half hour. A brief telegram from Oswald received about half-past ten had greatly stimulated these activities....
Unwin, very white in the face—she always had a bilious headache when travelling was forward—and dressed in the peculiar speckled black dress and black hat that she considered most deterrent to foreign depravity, was already sitting stiffly in the hall with Lady Charlotte’s purple-coloured dressing-bag beside her, and Cashel having seen to the roll of rugs was now just glancing through the tea-basket to make sure that it was in order, when suddenly there was the flapping, rustling sound of a large woman in rapid movement upon the landing above, and Lady Charlotte appeared at the head of the stairs, all hatted, veiled and wrapped for travelling. Her face was bright white with excitement. “Unwin, I want you,” she cried. “Cashel, say I’m in bed. Say I’m ill and must not be disturbed. Say I’ve been taken ill.”
She vanished with the agility of a girl of twenty—except that the landing was of a different opinion.
The two servants heard her scuttle into her room and slam the door. There was a great moment of silence.
“Oh, Lor’!” Unwin rose with the sigh of a martyr, and taking the dressing-bag with her—the fittings alone were worth forty pounds—and pressing her handkerchief to her aching brow, marched upstairs.
Cashel, agape, was roused by the ringing of the front door bell. He opened to discover Mr. Oswald Sydenham with one arm in a sling and a rug upon the other.
“Hullo, Cashel,” he said. “I suppose my room isn’t occupied? My telegram here? How’s Lady Charlotte?”
“Very poorly, sir,” said Cashel. “She’s had to take in her bed, sir.”
“Pity. Anything serious?”
“A sudden attact, sir.”
“H’m. Well, tell her I’m going to inflict myself upon her for a day or so. Just take my traps in and I’ll go on with this fly to Limpsfield. Say I’ll be back to dinner.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The old man bustled out to get in the valise and Gladstone bag that constituted Oswald’s luggage. When he came into the hall again he found the visitor scrutinizing the tea-basket and the roll of rugs with his one penetrating eye in a manner that made him dread a question. But Oswald never questioned servants; on this occasion only he winked at one.
“Nothing wrong with the arm, sir?” asked old Cashel.
“Nothing,” said Oswald, still looking markedly at the symptoms of imminent travel. “H’m.”
He went out to the fly, stood ready to enter it, and then swivelled round very quickly and looked up at his aunt’s bedroom window in time to catch an instant impression of a large, anxious face regarding him.
“Ah!” said Oswald, and returned smiling grimly into the hall.
“Cashel,” he called.
“Sir?”
“Her ladyship is up. Tell her I have a few words to say to her before she goes.”
“Beg pardon, sir——”
“Look here, Cashel, you do what I tell you.”
“I’ll tell Miss Unwin, sir.”
He went upstairs, leaving Oswald still thinking over the rugs. Yes, she was off! She had got everything; pointed Alpine sticks, tea-basket, travelling campstool. It must be Switzerland or Italy for the winter at least. A great yearning to see his aunt with his own eye came upon Oswald. He followed Cashel upstairs quietly but swiftly, and found him in a hasty whispered consultation with Unwin on the second landing. “Oh my ’ed’ll burst bang,” Unwin was saying.
“’Er ladyship, sir,” she began at the sight of Oswald.
“Ssh!” he said to her, and held her and Cashel silent with an uplifted forefinger while he listened to the sounds of a large powerful woman going to bed swiftly and violently in her clothes.
“I must go in to her, sir,” said Unwin breaking the silence. “Poor dear! It’s a very sudden attact.”
The door opened and closed upon Unwin.
“Lock the door on him, you—you Idiot!” they heard Lady Charlotte shout—too late.
The hated and dreaded visage of Oswald appeared looking round the corner of the door into the great lady’s bedroom. Her hat had been flung aside, she was tying on an unconvincing night cap over her great blond travelling wig; her hastily assumed nightgown betrayed the agate brooch at her neck.
“How dare you, sir!” she cried at the sight of him.
“You’re not ill. You’re going to cut off to Italy this afternoon. What have you done to my Wards?”
“A lady’s sick room! Sacred, Sir! Have you no sense of decency?”
“Is it measles, Auntie?”
“Go away!”
“I daren’t. If I leave you alone in this country for a year or two you’re bound to get into trouble. What am I to do with you?”
“Unbecoming intrusion!”
“You ought to be stopped by the Foreign Office. You’ll lead to a war with Italy.”
“Go for a doctor, Cashel,” she cried aloud in her great voice. “Go for the doctor.”
“M’lady,” very faintly from the landing.
“And countermand the station cab, Cashel,” said Oswald.
“If you do anything of the sort, Cashel!” she cried, and sitting up in bed clutched the sheets with such violence that a large spring-sided boot became visible at the foot of the bed. The great lady had gone to bed in her boots. Aunt and nephew both glared at this revelation in an astonished silence.
“How can you, Auntie,” said Oswald.
“If I choose,” said Lady Charlotte. “If I choose——Oh! Go away!”
“Back to dinner,” said Oswald sweetly, and withdrew.
He was still pensive upon the landing when Unwin appeared to make sure that the station cab was not countermanded....
Under the circumstances he was not surprised to find on his return from The Ingle-Nook that he was now the only occupant of Chastlands. Aunt Charlotte had fled, leaving behind a note that had evidently been written before his arrival.
My dear Nephew,—I am sorry that my arrangements for going abroad this winter, already made, prevent my welcoming you home for this uninvited and totally unexpected visit. I am sure Cashel and the other servants will take good care of you. You seem to know the way to their good graces. There are many things I should have liked to talk over with you if you had given me due and proper notice of your return as you ought to have done, instead of leaving it to a solicitor to break the glad tidings to me, followed by a sixpenny telegram. As it is, I shall just miss you. I have to go, and I cannot wait. All my arrangements are made. I suppose it is idle to expect civility from you ever or the slightest attention to the convenances. The Sydenhams have never shone in manners. Well, I hope you will take those two poor children quite out of the hands of those smoking, blaspheming, nightgown-wearing Limpsfield women. They are utterly unfit for such a responsibility. Utterly. I would not trust a pauper brat in their hands. The children require firm treatment, the girl especially, or they will be utterly spoilt. She is deceitful and dishonest, as one might expect; she gave Mrs. Pybus a very trying time indeed, catching measles deliberately and so converting the poor woman’s house into a regular hospital. I fear for her later. I have done my best for them both. No doubt you will find it all spun into a fine tale, but I trust your penetration to see through a tissue of lies, however plausible it may seem at the first blush. I am glad to think you are now to relieve me of a serious responsibility, though how a single man not related to her in the slightest degree can possibly bring up a young girl, even though illegitimate, without grave scandal, passes my poor comprehension. No doubt I am an old fashioned old fool nowadays! Thank God! I beg to be excused!
Your affectionate Aunt
Charlotte.
Towards the end of this note her ladyship’s highly angular handwriting betrayed by an enhanced size and considerable irregularity, a deflection from her customary calm.