Once Aboard the Lugger-- The History of George and his Mary






CHAPTER V.

Horror At Herons' Holt.

I.

Sleep does not necessarily shun the bed of the wicked. She is a wanton mistress, and will cuddle where her fancy chances, careless whether vice or virtue is her bedfellow; coy when most eagerly supplicated, seductive when least desired.

George, steeped in crime, snuggled warmly to her until aroused by a rude shaking.

Night-capped and dressing-gowned, white-faced and trembling, awful in grief Mr. Marrapit stood near him.

“Get up! The Rose of Sharon is lost.”

“Impossible!”

“I tell you it is so. Up!”

George pushed a shaking leg out of bed. He was had unawares. As a sleeper pitched sleeping into the sea, so from unconsciousness he was hurled plump into the whirlpool of events. And as the sleeper thus immersed would gulp and sink and kick, so now he blinked, shivered, and gasped.

He repeated: “Impossible!”

“I tell you it is so. I have eyes; I have been to her room.” Mr. Marrapit's voice rose in a wailing cry. “I have been to her room. Gone! Gone!”

George put out the other leg—crime-steeped legs that quivered. He had looked for a space between awaking and meeting his uncle in which to prepare his plans, rehearse his words. This abrupt rousing stampeded his senses. He quavered “Wher—where can she be?”

Mr. Marrapit flung up his arms. “Oh, my God! If I knew that would I be here? Up! Up! Join the searchers in the garden.”

George pushed a criminal leg into his trousers. Conscience made thumbs of his fingers, trembled his joints. He hopped frantically, thrusting with the other foot.

“Dance!” Mr. Marrapit moaned bitterly. “Dance! That is right! Why do you not sing also? This is nothing to you! Dance on! Dance on!”

George cannoned the wash-stand. “It is something to me. I can hardly believe it!”

“Is sorrow expressed in a gavotte? Grief in a hornpipe?”

“I'm not dancing. My damned bags are stuck!”

Mr. Marrapit wrung his hands. “Discard them! Discard them! Must decency imperil the Rose?”

With a tremendous kick George thrust in past the obstruction.

“They're on now—my slippers—coat—what shall I do?”

“Join the searchers. Scour the grounds. Search every shrub. Climb every tree.”

The agonised man led downstairs. “I found the window open,” he moaned. “Night by night, year in year out, I have shut it. Impossible that I forgot. If I forgot, the Rose is in the garden or in the vicinity. If I did not forget, the window was forced—the Rose was stolen. A detective shall decide.”

George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred to him. They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm. “Oh, not a detective. Don't get a detective.”

“If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countryside with detectives.”

George grew quite hot. “Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it with me. Rely on me. I will find your cat.”

“Into the garden,” cried Mr. Marrapit. “Join the searchers. They have failed once. Lead, animate, encourage.”

“And you won't get a detective?”

Mr. Marrapit did not reply. He had opened the hall door; Mr. Fletcher in the middle distance approached moodily.

Mr. Marrapit thrust out a hand. “Back! Back!” he cried hoarsely.

Wearily Mr. Fletcher gave answer. “It's no use, Mr. Marrapit. It's no good saying 'back.' I've been back. I've been back and I've been front and I've been both sides. I've looked here, I've looked there; I've looked up, I've looked down. I'm giddy with looking.” He approached; stood before them. Woe heavily draped herself about this man.

“Oh, easily discouraged!” Mr. Marrapit cried.

“Oh, infirm of purpose! Back, faint-heart! Do not say die.”

Faint-heart mopped a streaming brow. “But I do say die. I do say die, Mr. Marrapit, and I damn well shall die if I go creepin' and crawlin' and hissin' much longer. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a cobra.”

Mr. Marrapit slammed the door. George hurried out of sight; in the kitchen garden sat down to think. He was frightened. Thus far the plot had not worked well. Detectives!

He gave an hour to the search he was ostensibly conducting; when he again entered the house was more easy-minded. Employed in meditation that hour gave him back his coolness of the night. Rudely awakened, given no time in which firmly to plant his feet, securely to get a purchase with his hands before the storm burst, he had been whirled along helpless and bewildered before Mr. Marrapit's gusty agony. Instead of resisting the torrent, directing its course, he had been caught where it surged fiercest, hurled down-stream. In the vulgar simile of his reflections he was rotting the whole show.

But now he had steadied himself. He girded his loins against the part he had to play; with new determination and confidence entered the house.

II.

There was no breakfast at Herons' Holt that morning. When George, dressed, bathed and shaved, sought out his uncle, it was to find Mr. Marrapit in the study.

The distracted man was pacing the floor, a closely written sheet of paper in his hands. He turned upon George.

“In the hour of my travail I am also beneath the burden of earlier griefs. Yesterday a disastrous scene took place between us. Oaths rasped from your lips.”

“Forget that, sir. Forget it.”

“That is my desire. Misery wails through the corridors. In her presence let us bury private differences. In this appalling catastrophe every help is required. You have youth, manhood; you should be invaluable.”

George declared: “I mean to be. I will not rest until the Rose is restored.”

This was perfectly true, as he was to discover.

“Commendable,” Mr. Marrapit pronounced. Now that this volunteer was enlisted, Mr. Marrapit discarded supplication, resumed mastery. “While you have searched,” he said, “I have schemed.” He indicated the paper he carried. “These are my plans. Peruse them.”

George read; returned the paper. “If these arrangements do not restore the Rose,” he declared, “nothing will. I see you do not mention my name. I fear you doubted my assistance. I think I will join the—the——“—he glanced at the paper—“the extra-mural searchers. I know the countryside well. I can go far and fast.”

Mr. Marrapit agreed. “Summon the household,” he commanded.

George called Margaret; the two carried out the order.

In a semicircle the household grouped about their master; from Mrs. Armitage at the one horn to George at the other they took their places—Mrs. Armitage, Clara, Ada, Mr. Fletcher, Frederick, Mary, Margaret, George.

Paper in hand Mr. Marrapit regarded them. He pointed at Frederick.

“That boy is sucking a disgusting peppermint. Disgorge.”

Glad of relief, all eyes went upon the infamous youth. He purpled, struggled, gulped, swallowed—from his eyes tears streamed.

“Stiffneck!” Mr. Marrapit thundered. “Disgorge, I said. You are controlled by appetite; your belly is your god.”

“Well, I ain't 'ad no breakfast,” Stiffneck answered fiercely. Like Miss Porter upon a similar occasion this boy was in great pain.

“And no breakfast shall you have until the Rose is restored. Heartless! How can you eat while she, perhaps, does starve?” The angry man addressed the group. “These are the plans for her recovery. Give ear. You, vile boy, will rush to the dairy and order to be sent at once as much milk as Mrs. Armitage will command you. Mrs. Armitage, you with your maids—Fletcher, you with that boy, are the intramural workers, the workers within the walls. George, Margaret, Miss Humfray—extra-mural. Mrs. Armitage, with milk let every bowl and saucer be filled. Fletcher, at intervals of thirty feet along the wall let these be placed. If our wanderer is near she will be attracted. Margaret, with Miss Humfray to the village. Collect an army of village boys. Describe our Rose. Set them to scour the countryside for her. Yourselves join that search. Let the call of 'Rose! Rose!' echo through every lane. George, you also will scour far and wide. Upon your way despatch to me a cab from the station. I drive to the post-office to telephone for a detective. I have not yet decided which detective. It is a momentous matter.” He flung out both hands. “To your tasks! Let zeal, let love for our lost one spur each to outvie the efforts of another. Fletcher, raise the window. That pungent boy has poisoned the air.”

They trooped from him.




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