While she had been dressing the girl the old lady had with great tact got all of Imogene’s history out of her, at least as much of it as she knew, and just before they stepped from the room, as she surveyed her protégée with admiration, she held up her little quaint face and requested Imogene to kiss her, which she did.
“And now, my dear, we will go down to dinner, and the while we are eating I will tell you exactly what we are to do, and,” she added with enthusiasm, “if that squire’s son, whom I regard as a fortunate young fellow, does not marry you—well, I’ll horsewhip him myself, aye, both him and his father, and adopt you as my own daughter, for what a relief it would be to have you in the house to look at, for you know, my dear, you are vastly prettier than my foolish Mister Whyllie,” saying which she tripped lightly down the stairs followed by the dazzling Imogene.
Had Imogene been in reality the old lady’s daughter, returned to her from the dim side of the veil, she could not have been shown more kindly love and attention. Even Mr. Whyllie got a happy time of it, for the little old lady was in the best of tempers, entirely at peace and lighthearted. Indeed at the conclusion of the meal the lawyer found himself pushed into a comfortable chair with a small table at his side upon which stood a fine old bottle of port, and to his utter astonishment his wife standing near with a churchwarden pipe filled with tobacco and a lighted paper spill all ready for him. So he also began to bless the coming of his niece from India, wishing that she had been invented sooner and that she was going to remain in the house to the end of the proverbial chapter.
Then Mrs. Whyllie, over a dish of tea with Imogene, unfolded her plan of campaign for the rescue of young Denis, and the manner in which this plan was carried out is set forth in a following chapter.
XXXIV
A Military Lady-Killer Prepares for Battle
That insufferable coxcomb Captain Tuffton was in the act of sprinkling his lace handkerchief with the scent that old Mrs. Whyllie found so atrociously obnoxious when his valet entered the room with a note. The insufferable one went on with his sprinkling and languidly inquired who the note was from.
“I really cannot say, sir,” returned the valet.
“Cannot say?” repeated the insufferable, lifting his pencilled eyebrows into the higher regions of astonishment. “Indeed, my good Transome—and you call yourself a valet, don’t you now? It is not a bill, I trust, strayed in upon the Sabbath out of cunning, for I have not seen a bill these many years now, and the sight, I feel convinced, might upset my stomach.”
“I think, sir, that there is no valet in Europe so quick to smell out a bill or so nimble at tearing them up as your humble servant.” Transome could be tremendous upon occasions and he certainly was when he added: “And under your livery, sir, I venture to suggest that my practice of bill nosing has been unlimited.”
“Now, come, my good Transome, you disrespectful dog. I’ll not have you chiding me, upon my soul I won’t, for I have a most damned head on me this forenoon. I generally do get a damned bad head on me o’ Sundays. All abuzz, I declare, and it’s those damned exasperating church bells. I never met anything so persistent in my life. They go on, they go on, and there’s no stopping them, now is there? As plentiful as bills are church bells and just as taxing to the nerves. If ever I have to oblige the blasted Parliament by sleeping in it, I shall endeavour to keep awake to vote for the abolishment of church bells.”
“And you might, sir, at the same time do away with bills. It would be most convenient, wouldn’t it, sir?”
“Well, I suppose it would. If I ever do get in, which I think extremely unlikely, for which I most heartily thank my Maker, knowing how unutterably bored I should become, but if ever I do get in, I will most certainly abolish bills and bells, and if there should be any other little thing that you think might sensibly be abolished, why, you must jog my memory, Transome, and jog it hard, won’t you, my dear fellow, for you know what a memory I have? Damned bad, upon my soul it is!”
“Ah, sir,” sighed the valet, “you will become a great orator, a very great orator.”
“I might, my dear fellow, I really might, although I am positive that I shan’t, because, you see, I know that I shall go most damnably to sleep. I shan’t be able to help myself.”
“You must really make an
