Kathleen Part 7

The unfortunate curate was caught.

"Er--hum--well--that is, the Bishop and I both think that the service is too long," he faltered. "I am in favour of omitting the sermon."

"Hear, hear!" cried Mr. Kent. "It is most refres.h.i.+ng to hear a high churchman make such a confession. And what else do you propose?"

"Why--ah--hum--it has always seemed to me that the--thirty-nine articles might--well--be somewhat condensed."

"Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that," said his host.

The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs.

Kent.

"Philip," said the latter, "that gas-man is here again, and says he _must_ see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leak which should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down to the cellar with him. Your rheumatism--"

"My dear Mrs. Kent," cried the curate, seeing his chance; "do nothing of the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to take precedence when there is danger of any kind. If any one should be overcome by fumes, the consolations of the church may be needed."

And without waiting for another word, he leaped up and ran from the room.

Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but there was nothing he could do.

"Pray go on with your supper, Mr. Blair," urged Kent. "You must overlook anything that seems strange this evening. Everything seems to be widders.h.i.+ns. Perhaps because it is St. Patrick's Day.

I do believe that woman in the kitchen is at the bottom of it all. These stuffed eggs are positively uneatable! If I were not crippled with this lumbago I would go down and fire her out of the house."

"Let me do it for you!" cried Blair, half rising from his seat.

"Nonsense! I'm not going to sacrifice our good talk on antiquities so easily. I want very much to tell you about the Battle of Wolverhampton. The town was strongly loyalist in the great rebellion; in fact, in 1645 it was the headquarters of Prince Rupert, while Charles the First is said to have stopped at the Blue Boar for a drink--"

At this moment came a ring at the front door, and Mr. Kent stopped to listen. They heard a male voice mumbling to the maid, who then came to her mistress to report.

"There's a policeman out here, ma'am, to see Mr. Kent."

"A policeman?" queried the antiquarian. "What next, I wonder?

Well, supper is suspended, send him in."

And to Blair's dismay the gigantic form of Whitney, the Iron Duke, crossed the threshold, in the correct uniform of the Wolverhampton police force.

If Blair was dismayed, the counterfeit policeman was no less disgusted to see his fellow Scorpion sitting at the dinner table, but they gazed at each other without any sign of recognition.

"Begging your pardon for interrupting, sir, but the chief sent me around for a word with you. There's been a gang o' sneak thieves operating 'round 'ere, sir, and some of 'em 'as been getting admittance to 'ouses by pa.s.sin' themselves off as gas inspectors, sir."

Mrs. Kent screamed.

"I 'ad a notion that one o' these birds is along Bancroft Road to-night, sir, an' I wanted to warn you. Don't let the maid admit any tradesmen or agents from the gas company unless they 'as the proper badges, sir."

"Heavens, Philip!" cried Mrs. Kent. "That dreadful man is downstairs now! Eliza threw him out once this afternoon, but he's here again. He may have murdered Mr. Carter by this time. Oh, inspector, do hurry down at once and see what's happened! There's a defenceless high-church curate in the cellar with him. Mary, show the way downstairs."

Blair poured out a gla.s.s of water for Mrs. Kent.

"Don't you think I had better go down, too?" he asked.

"Oh, please don't go!" begged Mrs. Kent, faintly. "Stay here, in case he should escape upstairs. I believe we shall all be murdered in our beds!"

"Come, come," said Mr. Kent. "We mustn't let all this spoil Mr.

Blair's supper. Have another gla.s.s of wine. The policeman will attend to the gas-man. We don't often get a chance to talk to a genuine antiquarian. I think, Mr. Blair, that you will be greatly interested in the architectural restoration of our parish church.

It exemplifies the worst excesses of the mid-Victorian period.

The church itself is one of the finest examples of the cruciform type. The south transept dates from the thirteenth century; the nave, clerestory, and north transept from the fifth. The chancel was restored in 1865, but I must confess that the treatment of the clerestory seems to me barbarous. Now what are your own ideas as to the proper treatment of a clerestory?"

The wretched American was non-plussed. He had a shrewd suspicion that matters were moving rapidly downstairs yet he did not see any way of leaving the dining-room to investigate for himself. He had hardly heard what was said.

"Why--ah--to tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I read very little fiction nowadays. I'm rather worried about that gas-man downstairs. Do you suppose your daughter can be in any danger?

There might be some sort of explosion--don't you think I had better run down to see if I can help?"

As they sat listening Kathleen's voice was heard from the kitchen, raised in clear and angry tones.

Blair could contain himself no longer. With an inarticulate apology he hurried out of the room, leaving the puzzled antiquarian and his wife alone at the supper table.

X

The Rhodes Scholar was correct in having feared the Goblin as a dangerous compet.i.tor in the quest of the Grail. King, as we have intimated before, was a quaint-minded and ingenious person, modest in stature but with a twinkling and roving eye. He was one of the leading spirits of the OUDS, known in full as the Oxford University Dramatic Society, and his ability to portray females of the lower cla.s.ses had been the delight of more than one Shakespearean rendering. No one who saw him as Juliet's nurse in a certain private theatrical performance in the hall of New College can recall the occasion without chuckles.

When the Goblin left the Blue Boar on Sat.u.r.day afternoon he also made his way out to Bancroft Road; but instead of patrolling the main street in the vague hope of catching a glimpse of Kathleen (as did Falstaff, Priapus, and the Iron Duke), he hunted out the hinder regions of the district. In accordance with a plan he had concocted before leaving Oxford, he carried a little portfolio of "art subjects," of the kind dear to domestic servants, and with this in hand he approached the door of the bas.e.m.e.nt back kitchen, where Ethel the cook and her a.s.sistant, Mary, the housemaid, were having a mid-afternoon cup of tea. The windings of the humbler lanes of service, behind the Bancroft Road houses, were the proper causeway for tradesmen, and it was easy for him to reach the back garden gate unseen by those in front.

He knocked respectfully at the kitchen door, and Mary came to answer.

"Good day, Miss," said the supposed pedlar. "I 'ave some very pretty pictures 'ere which I wish you would let me show you."

Mary was a simple-minded creature, but she knew that her mistress had strict rules about pedlars.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but Missus don't let no pedlars in the house."

"If you please, Miss," said the artful Goblin, "I am no pedlar, but representing a very respectable photographer, and I would like to show you some photographs in the 'ope of getting your order. I 'ave taken a number of orders at the nicest 'ouses along Bancroft Road. I thought maybe you would like to 'ave a photo of yourself taken, to send to your young man." And he opened his case, exhibiting a sheaf of appropriate photos.

It was a slender chance, but the pedlar had a wheedling eye and a genteel demeanour, and Mary hesitated. She called the cook, a stout, middle-aged person, who came to the door to see what was up. The pedlar rapidly showed the best items of his collection, which he had selected with great care in a photographer's studio in Oxford. Fate hung in the scales, but the two servants could not resist temptation. They knew that Mrs. Kent and Miss Kathleen were upstairs sewing; and the master was confined to his study with his rheumatism. They invited the photographer into the kitchen.

It is a psychological fact well known to housekeepers that there is a vacant hour in the middle of the afternoon when Satan sometimes finds a joint in the protective armour of the domestic servant. After the luncheon dishes are washed and put away, and before five-o'clock tea and toast are served, cook and housemaid enjoy a period of philosophic contemplation or siesta. Even in the most docile and kitchen-broken breast thoughts of roses and romance may linger; dreams of moving pictures or the coming cotillion of the Icemen's Social Harmony. Usually this critical time is whiled away by the fiction of Nat Gould or Bertha Clay or Harold Bell Wright. And close observers of kitchen comedy will have noted that it is always at this fallow hour of the afternoon that pedlars and other satanic emissaries sharpen their arrows and ply their most plausible seductions.

The Goblin has never admitted just what honeyed sophistries he employed to win the hearts of the simple pair in Mrs. Kent's kitchen. But the facts may be briefly stated by the chronicler.

After getting them interested in his photos he confessed frankly that he was an old friend of the family from Oxford. He said that he and Miss Kathleen were planning an innocent practical joke on the family, and asked if he could take the place of one of the servants for that Sunday. He made plain that his share in the joke must not be revealed to any one. And then he played his trump card by showing them the text of the bogus telegram recommending Miss Eliza Thick, which he had dispatched from a branch postal office on his way through the town.

"And is Miss Josephine in the joke, too?" inquired the cook.

This question startled the Goblin, but he kept his composure and affirmed that he and Miss Josephine had concocted the telegram jointly in Oxford. And by a little adroit pumping he learned "Joe's" status in the family. The cook, Ethel, admitted that she was to go out that evening for her Sat.u.r.day night off. At last the Goblin, by desperate cunning and the exhibition of two golden sovereigns, completely won the hearts of the maids. While they were talking the door-bell rang, and Mary, returning from the upper regions, announced that it was "another telegram from Miss Joe. Missus and Miss Kathleen laughed fit to kill when they read it," she said.

"You see?" said the Goblin. "That's the same telegram I just showed you. It's all right; it's a joke. You don't need to worry, cook. Mrs. Kent won't be angry with you. You let me take your place for to-morrow, and write a little note saying you're ill and that your friend Eliza Thick will do your work for the day."

It was arranged that the Goblin should meet Ethel at her home that night to borrow some clothes. The cook showed him the menu for Sunday that Mrs. Kent had sent down. This rather daunted the candidate for kitchen honours, but he copied it in his notebook for intensive study. Then, as it was close upon tea-time, he packed up the photos, distributed his largesse, and retired.

Mary, the housemaid, promised to stand by him in the coming ordeal. Both the servants felt secretly flattered that they should be included in the hoax. The kitchen cla.s.ses in England have great reverence for young 'varsity men.