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Kathleen

<h2> IX </h2> “Come, Mr. Blair,” said Mrs. Kent; “you sit there, next to Mr. Kent, where you can talk about archaeology. Mr. Carter tells me he knows nothing about such subjects, so he will have to amuse Kathleen and me.” “What errand brings you to Wolverhampton, Mr. Carter?” inquired Blair, thinking to unmask his opponent's weapons as quickly as possible. Carter was a little staggered by this, but his effrontery was up to the test. “The Bishop sent me down,” he said, “to look over the surrounding parishes with a view to establishing a chapel in the suburbs.” “How very interesting!” exclaimed Mr. Kent. “But surely this does not lie in the Oxford diocese?” “Quite true,” said Carter. “The Bishop had to get special permission from Parliament. An old statute of the fourteenth century, I believe.” “Indeed! Indeed!” cried Mr. Kent. “How absorbing! My dear Mr. Carter, you must tell me more about that. I take it you are something of a historical student, after all.” “I'm afraid not, sir,” replied Carter. “My studies in divinity have been too exacting to leave much opportunity—” “You must not believe Mr. Carter's disclaimers,” said Blair. “I have heard of his papers before the Oxford Historical Society. He has a very sound antiquarian instinct. I think you would find his ideas of great interest.” “We were speaking of the battle with the Danes at Tettenhall,” observed Mr. Kent, turning to Blair. “I think that if Kathleen could arrange to take you out there you would find the burial mounds of unusual interest. My dear, could you walk out there with Mr. Blair to-morrow morning?” Kathleen assented, but Blair noticed that she was not eating her soup. He also noticed that the maid, in the background, was seized with occasional spasms, which he was at a loss to interpret. “Did I hear you say Tettenhall?” ventured Carter. “That is the very place the Bishop mentioned to me. He was particularly anxious that I should go there.” “You must come with us, by all means,” said Kathleen. “Bravo,” said Mr. Kent, beaming genially upon the young people. “I wish I could go with you. You know they say Wulfruna, the widow of the Earl of Northampton, who founded Wolverhampton, had a kind of summer place once near Tettenhall, and I claim to have located—By the way, my dear, what do you suppose has happened to this soup?” “I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments,” said Mrs. Kent. “You may take it away now, Mary.” “As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996,” observed Blair. “I presume it takes its name from her?” “Exactly—Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historical knowledge does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were such keen students of the past.” Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for he noticed that Falstaff was getting in some private conversation with Kathleen. He attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well launched on his hobby. “Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughter of Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, the son of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. To stem the invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled—” “Ethel fled, that's just the trouble,” interposed Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen, my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in the kitchen. I'm afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter must excuse this irregularity. Our substitute cook is a very strange person.” Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though the sparkle had fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight from the silver. Across the cloth he had watched her—girlish, debonair, and with a secret laughter lurking in her eyes. And yet he had not had a chance to exchange half a dozen sentences with her. The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and began to place the dishes for the next course. “Kathleen begs to be excused,” said Mrs. Kent. “She thinks she had better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza.” “Oh, I say,” cried the curate. “That's too bad. Do you think I could help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himself has praised my—er—my—” “Your what?” asked Blair. “My ham and eggs,” retorted the cleric. “Perhaps you will let me wash the dishes,” suggested Blair. “I should be only too happy to assist. I feel very embarrassed at having intruded upon you at so inconvenient a time.” “I should not dream of such a thing,” said Mrs. Kent. “I believe that Eliza is perfectly capable, but as Joe said, she is eccentric.” “I am quite accustomed to washing dishes,” said Carter. “In fact, the Bishop always used to ask me to do it for him.” “Dear me,” remarked Mr. Kent, “surely the Bishop has plenty of servants to help in such matters?” Blair applied himself to the food on his plate to which he had helped himself almost unconsciously. He well knew the daring hardihood of his rival, and feared that the other might find some excuse to follow Kathleen to the kitchen. As he raised his fork to his lips, suddenly his hand halted. The dish was stuffed eggs. His mind reverted to the Public Library the evening before. Was it possible that the Goblin—? He determined that the first thing to be done was to get Carter so firmly engaged with Mr. Kent that the wolf in cleric's clothing could not withdraw. Then perhaps he himself could frame some excuse for seeing what was going on downstairs. “Mr. Kent,” he said, “you should draw out Mr. Carter concerning his views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. He has some very advanced ideas on that subject which have attracted much attention at Oxford. One of his interesting suggestions is that radical churchmen should wear the clerical collar back side foremost, as a kind of symbol of their inverted opinions.” The wretched Carter's hand flew to his neck, and he glared across the table in a very unecclesiastical manner. “Really!” said Mr. Kent, “that is most interesting. I had noticed his modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter, would you amend the ritual?” 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 refreshing 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 widdershins. 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 passin' 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 glass 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 glass 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. <hr /> <h2> X </h2> The Rhodes Scholar was correct in having feared the Goblin as a dangerous competitor 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 classes 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 Saturday 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 basement back kitchen, where Ethel the cook and her assistant, 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 Saturday 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 classes in England have great reverence for young 'varsity men. The Goblin was a canny man, and he had brought with him a wig and certain other properties. He hunted out a little tea shop, where he meditated over three cups of pekoe and hot buttered toast. Then he made his way to the Public Library, where he spent several hours over a cook-book. He was complimenting himself on having shaken the other Scorpions off his trail when Blair looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stuffed-eggs recipe to which the Goblin was addressing himself for the fourth time. The meeting was embarrassing, but it could not be helped. After Blair had left him, the cook-to-be returned to his memoranda. Mrs. Kent trusted many things to Ethel's judgment, and her instructions as jotted down on a slip of paper included three possibilities. “Eggs, stuffed, devilled, or farci,” she had written, and the Goblin was endeavouring to decide which of these presented the least distressing responsibility. He was a student of mathematics, and had attempted to reduce the problem to a logical syllabus. He read over his memoranda: THEOREM: STUFFED EGGS. Data: six hard, boiled-eggs (20 minutes). (a) Cut eggs in halves lengthwise. (b) Remove yolks, and put whites aside in pairs. (c) Mash yolks, and add (1) Half the amount of devilled ham. (2) Enough melted butter to make of consistency to shape. (“Half what amount of devilled ham?” thought the Goblin. “And where does the devilled ham come from? How does one devil a ham? What a pity Henry James never wrote a cook-book! It would have been lucid compared to this. To make of consistency to shape—what on earth does that mean?”) (d) Clean and chop two chickens' livers, sprinkle with onion juice, and saute in butter—(“No!” he cried, “that's eggs farci. Wrong theorem!”) (d) Make in balls (“Make what in balls?”) size of original yolks (“Note: remember to measure original yolks before cutting them lengthwise”). (e) Refill whites (“Let's see, what did I fill 'em with before?”) (f) Form remainder of mixture into a nest. (“That's a nice little homely touch.”) (g) Arrange eggs in the nest and (1) Pour over one cup White Sauce. (“Memo: See p. 266 for White Sauce.”) (2) Sprinkle with buttered crumbs. (“Allow plenty of time for buttering those crumbs; that sounds rather ticklish work.”) (3) Bake until crumbs are brown. (h) Garnish with a border of toast points and a wreath of parsley. Q. E. D. “Integral calculus is a treat compared to this,” he said to himself as he reviewed the problem. “I hope they have plenty of parsley in the house. That nest may need a little protecting foliage. I don't see how I can make any kind of proper asylum for those homeless, wandering eggs out of that mess.” So saying, he left the library to call upon Ethel at her home and complete his disguise. <hr /> <h2> XI </h2> Mrs. Kent was a deal puzzled by the bearing and accoutrements of her substitute cook. Eliza Thick appeared on the premises about seven o'clock, and with the aid of the housemaid breakfast went through fairly smoothly. It was Kathleen's query about the coffee that elicited the truth. Mary, with nervous gigglings, announced to her mistress that Ethel was ill and had sent a substitute. The coincidence that Josephine's nominee should turn out to be a friend of Ethel struck Mrs. Kent as strange, and presently she went down to interview the new kitcheneer. Eliza Thick, a medium-sized but rather powerfully fashioned female, generously busted and well furnished with rich brown hair, was washing the dishes. She curtseyed respectfully as Mrs. Kent entered the kitchen. “Good morning,” said Mrs. Kent. “You are Eliza Thick?” “Yes, ma'am.” “You brought a note from Ethel?” “Yes, ma'am;” and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew forth a crumpled scrap of paper. “I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. How did she know of you?” “I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady is studyin'.” “Why did you leave your place there?” “If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made the young ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parents complained that it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. The principal said I was pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered to release me.” Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which she tried to conceal by rattling some plates. “Well, Eliza,” said Mrs. Kent, “that will do. You must get on with the work as best you can. Judging by the coffee this morning, I don't think your cooking will have the same effect on us that it did on the students at Lady Margaret Hall. We were expecting a guest for lunch but I will have to put him off until supper. I have written out the menu for the day. Mary will give you any help she can.” “If you please, ma'am?” said Eliza. “Yes?” “Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she asked me to deliver in person.” “A message for Miss Kathleen?” “Yes, ma'am.” “Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen.” “Cook said I was to give it to her personally,” said the persistent Eliza. “How very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Kent. “What did you say was the matter with Ethel—is it anything contagious?” “Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of—of nervous debility, ma'am—too many white corpuscles, ma'am.” “Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we have just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us.” “Yes, ma'am.” The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots and pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she took out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in total ignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of the problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she began to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggested boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs. By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen to investigate. “Good morning, Eliza.” “Good morning, Miss,” said the delighted cook. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, Miss!” “Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?” “Yes, Miss. Er—Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the help you can, Miss, because—er, you see, Miss, cooking for a private family is very different from working in a college where there are so many, Miss.” “I see. Well—what on earth are you doing to those potatoes, Eliza?” “Mashing 'em, Miss.” “What, with a hammer!” “I washed the 'ammer, Miss.” “Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?” “Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them done any other way.” Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruised tubers. “Good gracious,” she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter. “They haven't been cooked yet!” Eliza was rather taken aback. “Well, you see, Miss,” she said, “at the college we used nothing but fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashioned stoves very well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me.” “It's perfectly simple,” said Kathleen. “This is the oven, and when you want to bake anything—Phew!” she cried, opening the oven door, “what have you got in here?” She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcher with a strange-looking object protruding from it. Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role. “My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What a bally sell!” Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Look here, Eliza,” she said. “They may jug hares that way at Maggie Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what can you cook? We've got guests coming to-night. A gentleman from America is going to be here and we must put our best foot forward.” Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion. “Excuse me, Miss,” she said, “but is that American gentleman called Mr. Blair?” “Yes,” said Kathleen. “Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary. How did you know?” “I've heard of him,” said Eliza. “I think I ought to warn you against him, miss. He's—he's a counterfeiter.” “Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian, and he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friend of Miss Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get on with your cooking and not worry about counterfeiters.” “Miss Kathleen,” said Eliza, “I think I'd better be frank with you. I want to tell you—” Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick made frantic gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too dense to understand. The opportunity for confession was lost. “Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “Mary will help you in anything you're not certain about. I'll come down again later to see how you're getting on.” By supper time that night Eliza Thick began to think that perhaps she had made a tactical error by interning herself in the kitchen where there was but small opportunity for a tete-a-tete with the bewitching Kathleen. The news that Blair was coming to the evening meal was highly disconcerting, and the worried cook even contemplated the possibility of doctoring the American's plate of soup with ratsbane or hemlock. Once during the afternoon she ventured a sally upstairs (carrying a scuttle of coal as a pretext) in the vague hope of finding Kathleen somewhere about the house. Unfortunately she met Mrs. Kent on the stairs, who promptly ordered her back to her proper domain. Here Eliza found a disreputable-looking person trying to cozen Mary into admitting him to the house. He claimed to be an agent of the gas company, in search of a rumoured leak. Eliza immediately spotted Priapus, and indignantly ejected him by force of arms. In the scuffle a dish pan and several chairs were overturned. Mary, whose nerves were rather unstrung by the sustained comedy she was witnessing, uttered an obbligato of piercing yelps which soon brought Kathleen to the scene. Eliza received a severe rating, and so admired the angry sparkle in Kathleen's eyes that she could hardly retort. “One other thing, Eliza,” said Kathleen, in conclusion. “There are to be two guests at supper. Mr. Carter, a curate from Oxford, is coming, too. Please allow for him in your preparations.” “If you please, Miss,” cried the much-goaded cook, “is that Mr. Stephen Carter?” “I believe it is,” said Kathleen, “but what of it? Is he a counterfeiter, too?” “Miss Kathleen, I know you think it strange, but I must warn you against that curate. Dear Miss Kathleen, he is dangerous. He is not what he seems.” “Eliza, you forget yourself,” said Kathleen, severely. “Mr. Carter comes with an introduction from the Bishop of Oxford. I hope that is satisfactory to you! In any case, we do not need your approval for our list of guests. Mrs. Kent wants you to take great care with the stuffed eggs. Those mashed potatoes made her quite ill.” “Please, Miss, I'm dreadful worried about those eggs. The book says to make a nest for 'em, and truly I don't know how to go about it. The young ladies at college never ate their eggs in nests, miss. And when I gets nervous I can't do myself justice, Miss. I never can remember which is the yolks and which is the whites, miss.” “Now, that will do, Eliza,” said Kathleen. “You are a very eccentric creature, but I don't think you are as stupid as all that. What do you want? Do you expect me to come down here and oversee all your preparations?” “Oh, if you only would, Miss, it would be so gratifying!” Kathleen laughed, a girlish bubbling of pure mirth, which was dreadful torment to the jealous masquerader. She departed, leaving the cook a prey to savage resolve. “Well,” thought Eliza, “if the supper is bad enough I guess she'll just have to come down and help me. Thank goodness Blair and Carter are both coming; they'll cut each other's throats, and perhaps the stuffed eggs will win after all. As for that gas-man, he won't get into this house unless it's over my dead body!” <hr /> <h2> XII </h2> It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in the kitchen when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On a large platter the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket of parsley and chopped celery, eked out with lettuce leaves. Ambushed in this were lurking a number of very pallid and bluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript stuffing bulging out of them. “I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss,” wailed Eliza. “That's why the stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to stiffen 'em up?” In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. “No, no,” she said. “We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them upstairs.” “That's grand,” said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. “'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a pleasure to admire.” “Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “you must not shout up the dumb waiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out 'This plate's for the parson!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup.” “If you please, Miss,” said Eliza. “That was because it was the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I thought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to you before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits or sworn statements.” “You dish out the eggs, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “and I'll send them up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is it ready?” “All doing finely, Miss,” answered Eliza, but as she opened the oven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage pudding, blackened and burnt to carbon. “A great success,” said the bogus cook, but holding it on the other side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. “Here, I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold.” She hurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter before Kathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft. “That smelt a little burnt, cook,” said Kathleen. “Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss.” Kathleen was in the pantry, with her nose up the dumb-waiter shaft, sniffing the trail of the cottage pudding and wondering whether she ought to recall it for inspection, when Eliza, turning toward the back door, saw the gas-man on the threshold. The cook's mind moved rapidly in this emergency. She knew that if Priapus found himself face to face with Kathleen, dangerous exposures would follow at once. “Mary,” she whispered to the maid, who had just come down from upstairs, “run tell the Mistress the gas-man is here again. I'll send him down the cellar.” And while Kathleen was still in the pantry and before the pseudo gas-man could demur, Eliza seized him by the coat and hurried him across the kitchen to the cellar door. She opened this and pointed downstairs. The bewildered gas-man disappeared down the steps and Eliza closed the door and turned the key. “Now, Miss,” said Eliza. “I have something very serious to say to you—” Just at that moment she saw the clerical black of the Reverend Mr. Carter coming down the kitchen stairs. “—and that is, we'd best get this fruit up without delay,” and seizing a large bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, she passed it to Kathleen and backed her into the pantry again. Kathleen unsuspectingly pushed the fruit up the dumb waiter and meanwhile it took no more than an instant for Eliza to take the curate by the arm, motion him to silence, and push him toward the cellar door. “He's down there,” she whispered, and Carter innocently followed his fellow Scorpion. Again Eliza closed the door and turned the key. “Well, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “I don't think you're much of a cook, but you're a willing worker.” “Miss Kathleen,” said the cook, who was now more anxious than ever to cleanse her bosom of much perilous stuff, “are you very down on practical jokes?” “Practical jokes? Why, yes, Eliza. I think they are the lowest form of humour. Good gracious! I do believe we've forgotten the coffee! Have you got it ready?” “Yes, Miss; yes, Miss; right here,” said Eliza, bustling to the stove. “But don't you think, miss, that a frank confession atones for a great deal?” “Really, Eliza, you are the most priceless creature! I don't wonder Joe was taken with you! Hush! There's the front-door bell; what do you suppose that is?” They both listened, Kathleen at the dumb-waiter shaft and Eliza at the kitchen door. Eliza started to say something, but Kathleen waved her to be quiet. A heavy step sounded on the stair, and the agitated Mary appeared, followed by a huge policeman. Eliza, of course, recognized the Iron Duke, but the gas-light and the disguise prevented the latter from knowing his fellow venturer. “What on earth is the matter?” said Kathleen. “Please, Miss,” said the blue-coat, “your mother said there's a gas-man down here and I've been sent by headquarters to take him in charge. I think he's a sneak thief.” “There's no such person here, officer,” said Kathleen. Eliza still kept her sovereign wits about her. She advanced to the policeman, and whispering mysteriously “He's in here,” took his sleeve and led him to the cellar door. “He's down there,” she repeated; “put the cuffs on him, quick!” She opened the door, and the doubtful policeman, hypnotized by her decision, stepped on to the cellar stairs. The door closed behind him, and again Eliza turned the key. “What does all this mean?” demanded Kathleen, angrily. “Has everybody gone daft? Eliza, ever since you came into the house, there has been nothing but turmoil. I wish you would explain. Why have you sent the policeman into the cellar?” “There's three dangerous counterfeiters down there, Miss,” said Eliza. “I want to tell you the truth about this, Miss Kathleen, before that American gets down here—he's bound to be here soon. He's the worst of the lot.” “Open that door at once!” said Kathleen, stamping her foot. “I don't know what on earth you mean by counterfeiters, but if there are any down there, let's have them up, and see what they have to say.” The dining-room bell rang, and Mary instinctively hurried upstairs. At the same moment Blair ran down, three steps at a time, and bounded into the kitchen. He started when he saw Eliza. “Are you all right, Miss Kent?” he asked, anxiously. “I've been so worried about you. Is that gas-man still here? I think I can smell gas escaping. Can I help in any way?” “What you smell is a burnt cottage pudding,” replied Kathleen. “There's a policeman in the cellar, I wish you'd call him up. I have a great mind to ask him to take Eliza in charge. I don't think she's quite right.” Blair looked at Eliza closely. “I agree with you, Miss Kathleen,” he said. “She looks like a bad egg to me—a devilled egg, in fact. Which is the cellar door, cook?” Eliza saw her chance. “Right here, sir,” she said, taking hold of the door knob. She swung the door open. “Looks very dark,” said Blair. “I can't quite see the step. Where is it?” Eliza, eager to add this last specimen to her anthology in the cellar, stepped forward to point out the stairway. With one lusty push Blair shoved her through the door, and banged it to. He turned the key in the lock and thrust it into his pocket. “Miss Kent,” he said, “I'm afraid you must think us all crazy. If you will only let me have five minutes' uninterrupted talk with you, I can explain these absurd misadventures. Please, won't you let me?” “To tell you the truth,” said Kathleen, “I'm hungry. I've had only a plate of soup, and that was—counterfeit. I think that mad woman intended it for the curate, for whom she had conceived a dislike.” “Let's go up and sit in the dining-room, and I can talk while you eat.” At that moment Mrs. Kent's voice sounded at the top of the stairs. “Kathleen, dear, is everything all right?” “Yes, Mother,” called Kathleen in the same silvery soprano that set Blair's heart dancing. “Your father wants Mr. Blair to come up to the drawing-room and talk to him. He wants to tell him about the Battle of Wolverhampton.” <hr /> <h2> XIII </h2> Blair, nervously playing with a key, stood by the fire in the drawing-room. Mrs. Kent had excused herself and gone upstairs. In the dining-room, across the hall, he could see Kathleen gleaning over the supper table while the maid cleared away the dishes. In spite of his peevishness, he smiled to see her pick up one of the stuffed eggs on a fork, taste it, and lay it down with a grimace. At the other end of the drawing-room Mr. Kent, leaning on his cane, was rummaging among some books. “Here we are,” said the antiquarian, hobbling back with several heavy tomes. “Here is Clarendon's History. Now I want to read you what he has to say about that incident in 1645, then I will read you my manuscript notes, to show you how they fill up the gaps. Kathleen!” “Yes, Dad,” answered Kathleen, coming into the room. “Will you get me my glasses, dear?” “Yes, indeed,” and she ran across the room to fetch them from the bookcase where he had left them. She seated herself on the arm of her father's chair. She was a charming and graceful figure, swinging the slender ankle that the Scorpions afterward described with imaginative fervour as “a psalm,” “a fairy-tale,” and “an aurora borealis.” They none of them ever agreed as to the dress she wore that evening; but Eliza Thick, who was perhaps the most observant, declared that it looked like a chintz curtain. I think it must have had small sprigs of flowers printed on it. Her eyes, exclaimed the broken-hearted gas-man, were like “a twilight with only two stars.” Perhaps he meant a street with two lamps lighted. “Oh, I'm so glad you're going to read your notes to Mr. Blair,” she said, mischievously. “They are so fascinating, and there's such a jolly lot of them.” “Perhaps Mr. Kent's eyes are tired?” said Blair, hastily. “Not a bit, not a bit!” said Mr. Kent. “I don't often get such a good listener. By the way, what happened to that nice young curate? I hope the gas-man didn't injure him?” Kathleen looked at Blair with dancing eyes. “He had to go,” declared Blair. “He was awfully sorry. He asked me to make his apologies.” “Perhaps the Bishop sent for him suddenly,” said Kathleen. “Well,” resumed Mr. Kent, “I shall begin with the Battle of Naseby. After that memorable struggle, a portion of the royalist forces—” The front-door bell trilled briskly. “Oh, dear me,” sighed poor Mr. Kent, looking up from his papers. “The fates are against us, Mr. Blair.” The Scotch terrier had been lying by the fire, caressed by the toe of Kathleen's slipper, as she sat on the arm of her father's chair. Suddenly he jumped up, wagging his tail, and barked with evident glee. A tall, dark-eyed girl, a little older than Kathleen, pushed the hall curtains aside and darted into the room. “Joe, you darling!” cried Kathleen. “How's your leg?” “What do you mean?” asked Joe. “Which leg? What's wrong with it?” “Well, Joe, my dear, this is a jolly surprise,” said Mr. Kent, laying aside his books. “We heard you were laid up. Some misunderstanding somewhere. We've got a friend of yours here, you see—Mr. Blair.” Blair wished he could have sunk through the floor. He would have given anything to be with the other four in the darkness of the cellar. His ears and cheeks burned painfully. “How do you do, Mr. Blair,” said Josephine, cordially. “There must be some mistake, I've never met Mr. Blair before.” “My dear Joe,” cried Kathleen, “I do think we have all gone nuts. Look here!” She took three sheets of paper from the mantelpiece. “Did you or did you not send us those telegrams?” Joe ran her eye over the messages, reading them aloud. “Miss Kathleen Kent: “My friend Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American—” Here Joe raised her eyes and looked appraisingly at Blair, whose confusion was agonizing. “may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all. Joe.” “Frederick Kent: Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish you could join me at once very urgent. Joe.” She bent down to the terrier which was standing affectionately at her feet. “Well, Fred, old boy,” she said, patting him, “did Joe send you a telegram, heh?” “Mrs. Philip Kent: Have found very good cook out of place am sending her to you earnestly recommend give her a trial reliable woman but eccentric name Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning. Joe.” “My dear Kathleen,” said Joe, “you flatter me. I never sent any of those messages. Do you know any other Joes?” “I beg your pardon, Miss Kent,” said Blair. “But I must tell you. I sent two of those telegrams, and I think I can guess who sent the other. Miss Eliza Thick herself.” “You!” exclaimed Mr. Kent and both girls in the same breath. “Yes, Mr. Kent. I blush to confess it, but you and your family have been abominably hoaxed, and I can see nothing for it but to admit the truth. Painful as it is, I prefer to tell you everything.” The two girls settled themselves on the couch and Mr. Kent, bewildered, sat upright in his chair. The dog, satisfied that everything was serene, jumped on the divan and lay down between Joe and Kathleen. The unhappy Blair stood awkwardly on the hearth rug. “Last January,” he began, “a gentleman by the name of Kenneth Forbes, an undergraduate of Merton College (now studying the gas meter in your cellar), was in Blackwell's book shop, in Oxford, browsing about. Lying on a row of books in a corner of the shop he happened to see a letter, without an envelope. He picked it up and glanced at it. It had evidently been dropped there by some customer. “The address engraved on the paper was 318, Bancroft Road, Wolverhampton. It was dated last October and the letter began: 'Dear Joe, Thank you so much for the tie—it is pretty and I do wear ties sometimes, so I sha'n't let the boys have it.' In the upper left-hand corner were four crosses, and the words 'These are from Fred.' The letter was signed 'Kathleen.'” The two girls looked at each other. “It so happened,” continued Blair, “that the man who found the letter had promised to write, the very next day, the first chapter of a serial story for a little literary club to which he belonged. At the time when he found this letter lying about the bookshop he was racking his brain for a theme for his opening chapter. A great idea struck him. He put the letter in his pocket and hurried back to his room. “His idea was to build up a story around the characters of the letter. He had no idea whom it came from or to whom it was addressed. The thought of making these unknown persons of the letter the figures of the story appealed to him, and with an eager pen he set down the first chapter, with 'Kathleen' as heroine and 'Joe' as hero.” A faint line of colour crept up Kathleen's girlish cheek. “This idea, which suggested itself to Forbes when he found the letter in the bookshop, was taken up enthusiastically by the group of undergraduates composing the little club. The fabrication of the story was the chief amusement of the term. “It would be unfair to me and to the other men not to say frankly that the whim was not taken up in any malicious or underhand spirit. Given the idea as it first came to the man in the bookshop, the rest flowed naturally out of it, urged by high spirits. I must tell you honestly that the characters of that letter became very real to us. We speculated endlessly on their personalities, tastes, and ages. We all became frantic admirers of the lady who had signed the letter, and considered ourselves jealous rivals of the man 'Joe,' to whom, as we supposed, it had been written. And when the end of term came, the five members who had entered most completely into the spirit of the game agreed to come to Wolverhampton for the express purpose of attempting to make the acquaintance of the Kathleen who had so engaged their fancy.” “Really, I think this is dreadfully silly,” said Kathleen, colouring. “Joe, are we characters in a serial, or are we real persons?” “This confession is very painful for me, Mr. Kent,” said Blair, “because things don't seem to have turned out at all as we thought, and I'm afraid we have abused your hospitality barbarously. I can only beg that you will forgive this wild prank, which was actuated by the most innocent motives.” “Then do I understand,” asked Mr. Kent, “that your interest in Wolverhampton history was merely simulated, for the purpose of making the acquaintance of my daughter?” “You make me very much ashamed, sir, but that is the truth.” Mr. Kent rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. “Well, well,” he said, “I have no wish to seem crabbed. I'm sorry to lose so excellent a listener. I thought it was too good to be true! But when one has a daughter one must expect her to grow up, and become the heroine of serial stories. I trust that that story is not to be published—I can ask that, at least!” “Our intention,” said Blair, “was to give the manuscript to Miss Kent as a token of our united admiration.” “Well,” said Mr. Kent, “make my apologies to the other conspirators. I take it that that dreadful Eliza Thick was one of them. I hope our cook will be back to-morrow. Upon my word, those stuffed eggs were indescribable! Joe, my dear, suppose you let me take you up to see your aunt. I expect these people will want to recriminate each other a little, and reach some sort of misunderstanding.” Joe and Mr. Kent left the room, but a moment later Mr. Kent reappeared at the door. “Mr. Blair,” he said, “please don't think me lacking in sportsmanship. I was young once myself. I just wanted to say that I think you all staged it remarkably well. Give Mr. Carter my compliments on that telegram from the Bishop.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Blair, as Mr. Kent vanished behind the curtains. “I forgot. Those fellows are still down in the cellar.” He held out the key. “I must let them out.” “Wait a minute,” said Kathleen. “I have no desire to see that Eliza Thick again, nor that odious curate—not even the enterprising gas-man!” For the space of fifteen thoughts or so there was silence. Kathleen sat at one end of the big couch, the firelight shimmering round her in a softening glow. Blair stood painfully at the other side of the hearth. “Miss Kathleen,” he said, “I want to beg you, on behalf of the other fellows, not to be too severe with them. I guess I'm the worst offender, with my bogus telegrams and my deliberate deception of your father. But I ought to explain that we all came here with a definite intention in mind. The man who was first able to engage you in friendly conversation and get you to accept an invitation to come to Oxford for Eights Week, was to be the winner of the competition.” “I've already accepted an invitation for Eights Week,” she said, after a pause. He uttered a dejected silence that was a classic of its kind, a marvel of accurate registration. Kathleen looked up at him for the first time since his confession of the hoax. Their eyes met. “Is it Carter?” he asked, woefully. “I've promised to go and stay with Joe at Maggie Hall.” “Look here,” he said. “I expect to row in the Trinity boat. Will you and your mother and—and Miss Joe—watch the racing from our barge, one afternoon anyway? Then you could come to tea in my rooms afterward, and I'll ask the other fellows in to meet you.” “The parson and the policeman and the gas-man, and—and—Eliza Thick?” “Yes. They're all splendid chaps, I know you'll like them.” “Well,” she murmured, “I dare say Eliza Thick would be all right in his proper costume. I shall never forget his nest-building genius! Now I understand what he meant by all that talk about counterfeiters.” “You will come to the Trinity barge?” he begged. There was a pause. A dropping coal clicked in the grate, and Kathleen's small slipper tapped on the fender. “I should think,” she said, “that a man as persistent as you would make a good oar. I'm glad the others aren't Americans, too. It was bad enough as it was!” “Miss Kathleen,” he pleaded, “I guess I can't make you understand what I'd like to. But if you'll just come punting up the Cher, on Sunday in Eights Week, there are so many things I'd like to tell you.” “Yes, I've always wanted to hear about America, and the difference between a Republican and a Democrat.” “And you will come?” Kathleen rose, laughing. “I have already accepted Joe's invitation,” she said. “Good-night, Mr. Blair.” She gave him her hand. He held it as long as he dared, looking her straight in the eye. “I'm not nearly as jealous of Joe as I was!” She was gone through the curtains, a flash of dainty grace. Then her face reappeared. “If you care to call again some time, Dad would love to read you those notes on the Battle of Wolverhampton!” Blair looked round the room. The dog, lying by the fire, got up, stretched, and wagged his tail. Blair pulled out his watch. “Giminy!” he said, “I'd better go down and let those poor devils out of the cellar.” <h4> THE END </h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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