‘How do you mean?’ asked Mrs. Malory.
‘At seven he will get a telegram summoning him to Paris on urgent business. He will leave in your station brougham in time to catch the 9.50 up train at Wilkington. Or, rather, so impatient is he, he will leave half an hour too early, for fear of accidental delays. I and my maid will accompany him. I have thought honesty the best policy, and told the truth, like Bismarck, “and the same,”’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith hysterically, ‘“with intent to deceive.” I have pointed out to him that my best plan is to pretend to you that I am going to meet my husband, who really arrives at Wilkington from Liverpool by the 9.17, though the Vidame thinks that is an invention of mine. So, you
see, I leave without any secrecy, or fuss, or luggage, and, when my husband comes here, he will find me flown, and will have to console himself with my luggage and jewels. He—this Frenchified beast, I mean—has written a note for your daughter, which he will give to her maid, and, of course, the maid will hand it to you. So he will have burned his boats. And then you can show it to Matilda, and so,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith, ‘the miracle of opening her eyes will be worked. Johnnie, my husband, and I will be hungry when we return about half-past ten. And I think you had better telegraph that there is whooping cough, or bubonic plague, or something in the house, and put off your shooting party.’
‘But that would be an untruth,’ said Mrs. Malory.
‘And what have I been acting for the last ten days?’ asked Mrs. Brown-Smith, rather tartly. ‘You must settle your excuse with your conscience.’
‘The cook’s mother really is ill,’ said Mrs. Malory, ‘and she wants dreadfully to go and see her. That would do.’
‘All things work together for good. The cook must have a telegram also,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith.
The day, which had been extremely hot, clouded over. By five it was raining: by six there was a deluge. At seven, Matilda and the Vidame were evicted from their dusky window seat by the butler with a damp telegraph envelope. The Vidame opened it, and handed it to Matilda. His presence at Paris was instantly demanded. The Vidame was desolated, but his absence could not be for more than five days. Bradshaw was hunted for, and found: the
9.50 train was opportune. The Vidame’s man packed his clothes. Mrs. Brown-Smith was apprised of these occurrences in the drawing-room before dinner.
‘I am very sorry for dear Matilda,’ she cried. ‘But it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. I will drive over with the Vidame and astonish my Johnnie by greeting him at the station. I must run and change my dress.’