Eugenia, however, was in the middle of a gruelling interview with The Poor Old Female, her grandmother, who had come to hear something of her recent activities.
‘My child, I cannot have you running round the village like a kitchen-maid,’ T.P.O.F. was saying, sadly rather than angrily, ‘talking to strangers, worse than that, accepting sweets from them. Besides, I hear that you have been riding that pony of yours astride again – you are not a baby any more, my dear, and young ladies should not ride in that way. What must the village people think of you? I blame nurse for all this and I blame myself; I suppose I can hardly blame you, Eugenia. After all, your mother was a wicked sinful woman, and bad blood always comes out sooner or later.’
‘I’m not bad at all,’ said Eugenia, sullenly. ‘I never do sins, and I would gladly lay down my life for the Captain.’
Lady Chalford, who vaguely supposed that Eugenia must be referring to the Deity, looked embarrassed. Religious fervour was, in her eyes, almost as shocking as sexual abandon, and quite likely to be associated with it. Many of the most depraved women whom she had known in her social days had been deeply and ostentatiously religious.
She went to church herself, of course, feeling it a patriotic duty so to do, but she had no personal feelings towards God, whom she regarded as being, conjointly with the King, head of the Church of England. However, if the girl was really obsessed by religion, a tendency which Lady Chalford had never noticed in her before, and which she presumed to be of recent origin, it might yet be possible to save her from following in her mother’s steps. Lady Chalford considered whether or not it would be advisable to call in the parson. Meanwhile she forced herself to say rather shyly, ‘The Captain was always obedient to those in authority. Try to follow His example, Eugenia.’
‘I don’t agree at all,’ was the reply. ‘The Captain’s ideas are most revolutionary, most, and he doesn’t have to obey anyone, being a Leader.’
Lady Chalford knew herself to be unfitted for a theological argument on these lines. She decided that the parson would have to be called in.
‘Give unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,’ she said vaguely. ‘I suppose if you follow Him you won’t come to much harm. But pray don’t let me hear of you careering about the village and speaking to strange men, or you will end as your mother did.’
‘How did she?’ asked Eugenia, with passionate interest. Lady Chalford refused to be trapped in this manner. It was not a subject which she considered suitable for discussion, still less suitable for the ears of a young lady whom it concerned so intimately. The ugly word ‘divorce’ would have to be spoken, even uglier words understood. Sooner or later, of course, Eugenia must be informed, but the news would surely come best from the child’s own husband, if Fate were sufficiently kind to provide her with one. Lady Chalford was haunted by sad forebodings on this subject, no nice man, she felt sure, would wish to marry the daughter of Eugenia’s mother; different propositions were more likely to be made.
‘Go to your room now until dinner-time. I am extremely vexed with you.’
‘Stupid old female,’ Eugenia muttered under her breath. She obeyed, however. Indeed, until the Social Unionists had come to fill the void of boredom that was her life, she had always obeyed her grandparents in everything. It had never occurred to her to do otherwise.
So Jasper and Noel awaited her in vain outside the twopenny-bar shop. They were not, however, left without any distraction. Hardly had they taken up a position on Ye Olde Stocks (which had been placed on the village green by some enthusiastic lover of the countryside in about 1890, and had since constituted a lure for Americans) than the Misses Smith and Jones appeared in search of aspirins, soap, and a daily paper. The first two were procurable, the last was not. Miss Smith and Miss Jones emerged from the village shop loudly bewailing this fact. Jasper saw and took his opportunity.
‘Do let me lend you my Daily Mail,’ he said, addressing himself to the ducal Miss Jones while comprising in his glance the rather more luscious-looking Miss Smith.
‘Oh, thank you, that is very kind,’ said Miss Smith. Miss Jones almost snatched at the paper. She then began to race through its pages while Miss Smith looked eagerly over her shoulder. They seemed to be searching for some particular piece of news.
‘Second body in trunk is on the middle page,’ said Jasper quietly. ‘The missing ladies are on page eight.’
Horror appeared on the faces of Miss Smith and Miss Jones. ‘What missing ladies?’ asked Miss Smith in a shaking voice.
‘The ones the police suspect of being in more trunks,’ said Jasper, looking at them with a thoughtful expression. They appeared very much relieved by this. ‘Will you have a cigarette?’
Miss Smith took one. Miss Jones did not smoke. They continued, in a desultory way, to examine the paper, but apparently failing to find anything of interest in it they gave it back to Jasper.
‘As we all appear to be using the same bathroom and so on, and so forth,’ he said, ‘supposing we introduce ourselves. I am Jasper Aspect and this is Noel Foster, who is down here in order to have a complete rest. He has been far from well lately, thoroughly run down.’
Noel gave Jasper a look which, if looks could kill, would have killed him. Too late, the harm was now done. Of no avail to expostulate or deny, the impression had duly been made and registered of a boring hypochondriac. Once more he cursed himself for letting Jasper join in this adventure. Alone he could have stood up to each situation as it arose, cutting quite a romantic figure. Jasper was always just too quick for
