False Colours

saying: “Yes, but what happened about calves’ ears, Bonamy?”

“No, no!” he replied, still gently shaking. “I’m not one to go on the high gab, my lady, and I’ll tell no tales! I’ll take a mouthful of the pie, Denville, and just a sliver of ham!”

Interpreting this in a liberal spirit, Kit supplied him with a large wedge of pie, and flanked it with half-a- dozen slices of ham. Mrs Cliffe, who had never ceased to marvel at his appetite, turned eyes of mute astonishment towards her sister-in-law, who told Sir Bonamy severely that a little fruit, and a biscuit (if he was ravenous), was all he ought to permit himself to eat in the middle of the day. She added that she herself rarely ate any nuncheon at all.

“Yes, yes, but you have not so much to keep up!” said Sir Bonamy, blenching at the thought of such privation.

“Well, if you didn’t eat so much you wouldn’t have so much to keep up either!” she pointed out.

Her brother, strongly disapproving of this candid speech, directed a quelling look at her, and pointedly changed the subject, saying that he trusted she had found Nurse Pinner suffering from no serious disorder. “Nothing infectious, I hope?”

“Oh, no! Just a trifle out of sorts!” she replied.

“Infectious!” exclaimed Mrs Cliffe. “My dear sister, how can you tell that it is not? How imprudent of you to have visited her! I wish you had not done so!”

“Nonsense, Emma! A mere colic!”

Mrs Cliffe’s fears seemed to have been allayed. Kit saw, with some foreboding, that his mama had become suddenly a little pensive, and quaked inwardly. Never, he reflected, did she look more soulful than when she was hatching some outrageous scheme. He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking at Cressy, who had finished her nuncheon, and was sitting with her hands folded patiently in her lap.

“Dear child, you wish to go upstairs to see your grandmama!” she said. “You know we don’t stand on ceremony, so run away immediately! Give her my love, and tell her how much I hope to see her presently; and then come to my drawing-room—that is, if Lady Stavely can spare you, of course!” She waited until Cressy had left the room, and then addressed herself to Kit. “Dearest, your uncle’s asking me if Pinny’s disorder is infectious puts me in mind of something I think I should tell you—oh, and Ambrose too, perhaps! I wouldn’t mention it in Cressy’s presence—not that I think she would have taken fright, for she has a great deal too much commonsense, but she might speak of it to Lady Stavely, and I would not for the world cast her into high fidgets! It is all nonsense, but I wish you will neither of you go into the village just at present! Though you may depend upon it if there is an epidemic disease there one of servants will contract it, and spread it all over the house. However—”

But at this point she was interrupted, Mrs Cliffe demanding in palpitating accents: “What disease? For heaven’s sake, Amabel, tell me this instant!”

“Why, none at all, Emma!” replied her ladyship, laughing. “It is only one of Pinny’s tales! Merely because one or two of the villagers complain of sore throats she will have it that they have contracted scarlet fever! Such stuff!”

“Scarlet fever—!”

“Oh, my dear Emma, there is not the least occasion for any of us to fly into a fuss!” Lady Denville said earnestly. “Pinny always thinks that if one has nothing more than a cold in the head one is sickening for a fatal complaint! Why she once said there was typhus in the village!” She broke off, wrinkling her brow. “Well, now I come to think of it, she was quite right! But this is a very different matter, and I do beg of you not to take fright!”

She had said enough. Mrs Cliffe, pallid with dismay, declared distractedly that nothing could prevail upon her to remain another hour in such a plague-stricken neighbourhood. Amabel might think her timorous and uncivil, but she must understand that every consideration must yield to the paramount need to remove her only son out of danger.

Lady Denville, to Kit’s intense admiration, managed to beseech her not to fly from Ravenhurst, without in any way lessening her alarm; Cosmo, when dramatically appealed to, wavered; and Ambrose, who had been dragged to Ravenhurst against his will, and had been wishing himself otherwhere from the moment he had crossed the threshold, seized the first opportunity that offered of lending his mother his support. He did not think the air at Ravenhurst salubrious; he had not cared to mention it before, but he had been feeling out of sorts for several days. A hint that a few weeks spent at Brighton might prove beneficial was well taken by Mrs Cliffe, but met with a flat veto from Cosmo, visibly appalled by the very thought of sojourning at so expensive a resort. In the end, and after much argument,, it was settled that they should go to Worthing, where, according to what Mrs Cliffe had learnt from the Dowager, there were several excellent boarding-houses which provided an extraordinary degree of comfort at very moderate charges. Here, protected from the chilling blasts of the north and east winds by the Downs, Ambrose would be able to bathe, or to ride along the sands, without running the risk of contracting an inflammation of the lungs. There were also three respectable libraries, at two of which newspapers and magazines were received every morning and evening; and at least one very reliable doctor, of whom the Dowager spoke in terms of rare encomium.

Had it been possible, Cosmo would have returned with his wife and son to his own home; but since he had graciously lent this for the summer months to a distant and far from affluent cousin, who was too thankful to have been offered, free, a country residence large enough to accommodate his numerous progeny to cavil at being obliged to pay the wages of Cosmo’s servants, this was impossible. With the utmost reluctance, and only when the wife of his bosom had announced that he might remain at Ravenhurst, if he chose to run the risk of contracting scarlet fever, but that nothing would prevail upon her to expose her only child to such a danger, did he consent to remove that very day to Worthing’s one hotel, and then only on condition that no time should be lost, on arrival at this elegant hostelry, in seeking less expensive quarters.

It was not to be expected that Mr Ambrose Cliffe, hankering after the amusements afforded by Brighton, would be entirely satisfied by the decision to spend the summer months at a small place patronized largely by such elderly persons as disliked the racket of Brighton; but as he had never had much hope of persuading his father to look for lodgings in Brighton, and knew that Worthing was a mere ten or eleven miles distant from the more fashionable resort, he raised no objection.

Throughout the discussion, which was punctuated by charming, if mendacious, entreaties from Lady Denville that her relations should remain at Ravenhurst, in defiance of a rumour which she was positive was ill-founded, Sir Bonamy, with the utmost placidity, continued to work his way through the various dishes set upon the table. Only when Mrs Cliffe, hurrying away to prepare for the journey, turned to take her leave of him, did he heave himself out of his chair, or betray the smallest interest in the scarifying story set about by his hostess. She, declaring her intention of rendering dear Emma every assistance in the arduous task of packing her trunk, shepherded the three Cliffes out of the room, but turned back, exclaiming that she had forgotten to pick up her reticule, for the purpose of confiding hurriedly to her son and her cicisbeo that it was all a hum, but that she had felt that the Cliffes must be induced to go away.

“Yes, yes, my pretty,I knew you were up to your tricks!” said Sir Bonamy fondly. “I never thought you’d endure having that brother of yours here above a sennight. Told you he was a devilish dull dog!”

“Yes, isn’t he? But that’s not it! I invited him because I thought it would make it less awkward for Kit, but it turns out that he makes it much more awkward, now that Evelyn has returned! I can’t stay to explain it to you, but Kit will do so!”

She then flitted away in the wake of Mrs Cliffe, and Sir Bonamy, lowering himself into his chair again, drew a dish of peaches and nectarines towards him, pausing only, before making a careful selection from amongst them, to inform Kit that there was no need for him to explain anything to him, “Just as soon you didn’t, my boy! Nothing to do with me!” he said, delicately pinching one of the peaches.

“I won’t,” promised Kit. “But I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, sir! I believe you may be able to help me.”

Sir Bonamy, casting him a glance of acute suspicion, said: “I shouldn’t think so—shouldn’t think so at all! Not if it has anything to do with this havey-cavey rig you’re running!”

“Nothing at all,” replied Kit reassuringly. “It is merely that I find myself faced with a—a social problem on which I am very sure you can advise me.”