“In the army?”
“Not in our army,” said Horace with a smile. “He is what they call in America a ‘pipe colonel,’ and he’s—well, he’s a friend of Sir Isaac—” he began, and hesitated.
“That doesn’t tell me very much, except that he can’t be very nice,” she said.
He looked at her eagerly.
“I’m so glad you said that,” he said. “I was afraid—” Again he stopped, and she threw a swift glance at him.
“You were afraid?” she repeated.
It was remarkable to see this self-possessed young man embarrassed, as he was now.
“Well,” he went on, a little incoherently, “one hears things—rumours. I know what a scoundrel he is, and I know how sweet you are—the fact is, Mary, I love you better than anything in life.”
She went white and her hand trembled. She had never anticipated such a declaration in a crowd. The unexpectedness of it left her speechless. She looked at his face: he, too, was pale.
“You shouldn’t,” she murmured, “at this time in the morning.”
VI
The Policeman and a Lady
Frank Fellowe was agitating a punchball in one of the upper rooms of his little cottage, and with good reason.
He was “taking out” of the ball all the grievances he had against the petty irritants of life.
Sergeant Gurden had bothered him with a dozen and one forms of petty annoyance. He had been given the least congenial of jobs; he had been put upon melancholy point work; and he seemed to be getting more than his share of extra duty. And, in addition, he had the extra worry of checking, at the same time, the work of Black’s organization. He might, had he wished, put away all the restrictions which hampered his movements, but that was not his way. The frustration of Black’s plans was one of Frank’s absorbing passions. If he had other passions which threatened to be equally absorbing, he had the sense to check them—for a while—
The daughter of a millionaire, violently introduced, subsequently met with heart-flutterings on the one side and not a little perturbation on the other; her gratitude and admiration began on a wayward two-seater with defective brakes, and progressed by way of the Zoo, for which she sent him a Sunday ticket—for she was anxious to see just what he was like.
She went in some fear of disillusionment, because an heroic constable in uniform, whose face is neatly arranged by helmet-peak and chin-strap, may be less heroic in clothes of his own choosing, to say nothing of cravats and shoes.
But she braced herself for the humiliation of discovering that one who could save her life could also wear a ready-made tie. She was terribly self-conscious, kept to the unfrequented walks of the Zoo, and was found by a very good-looking gentleman who was dressed irreproachably in something that suggested neither the butcher’s boy at a beanfeast nor a plumber at a funeral.
She showed him the inmates of exactly two cages, then he took her in hand and told her things about wild beasts that she had never known before. He showed her the subtle distinction between five varieties of lynx, and gave her little anecdotes of the jungle fellowship that left her breathless with admiration. Moreover, he took her to the most unlikely places—to rooms where the sick and lame of the animal kingdom were nursed to health. It would appear that there was no need to have sent him the ticket, because he was a Fellow of the Society.
There was too much to be seen on one day. She went again and yet again; rode with him over Hampstead Heath in the early hours of the morning. She gathered that he jobbed his horse, yet it was not always the same animal he rode.
“How many horses have you in your stable?” she asked banteringly one morning.
“Six,” he said readily. “You see,” he added hastily, “I do a lot of hunting in the season—”
He stopped, realizing that he was further in the mire.
“But you are a constable—a policeman!” she stammered. “I mean—forgive me if I’m rude.”
He turned in his saddle, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“I have a little money of my own,” he said. “You see, I have only been a constable for twelve months; previous to that I—I wasn’t a constable!”
He was not very lucid: by this time he was apparently embarrassed, and she changed the subject, wondering and absurdly pleased.
It was inconsistent of her to realize after the ride that these meetings were wrong. They were wrong before, surely? Was it worse to ride with a man who had revealed himself to be a member of one’s own class than with a policeman? Nevertheless, she knew it was wrong and met him—and that is where Constable Fellowe and Miss Sandford became “May” and “Frank” to one another. There had been nothing clandestine in their meetings.
Theodore Sandford, a hardheaded man, was immensely democratic.
He joked about May’s policeman, made ponderous references to stolen visits to his palatial kitchen in search of rabbit-pie, and then there arose from a jesting nothing the question of Frank’s remaining in the force. He had admitted that he had independent means. Why remain a ridiculous policeman?
From jest it had passed into a very serious discussion and the presentation of an ultimatum, furiously written, furiously posted, and as furiously regretted.
Theodore Sandford looked up from his writing-table with an amused smile.
“So you’re really angry with your policeman, are you?” he asked.
But it was no joke to the girl. Her pretty face was set determinedly.
“Of course,” she shrugged her pretty shoulders, “Mr. Fellowe can do as he wishes—I have no authority over him”—this was not true—“but one is entitled to ask of one’s friends—”
There were tears of mortification in her eyes, and Sandford dropped his banter. He looked at the girl searchingly, anxiously. Her mother had died when May was a child; he was ever on the lookout for some sign of the fell disease which carried off the woman who had
