The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

it really isn’t proper for you to kiss me,’ observed Mab, folding her slender hands on her white gown. ‘You know we are not engaged.’

      ‘I know nothing of the sort, my dearest prude. You are the only woman I ever intend to marry. Have you any objections? If so, I should like to hear them.’

      ‘I am two years older than you, George.’

      ‘A man is as old as he looks, a woman as she feels. I am quite convinced, Miss Arden, that you feel nineteen years of age, so the disparity rests rather on my shoulders than on yours.’

      ‘You don’t look old,’ laughed Mab, letting her hand lie in that of her lover’s.

      ‘But I feel old—old enough to marry you, my dear. What is your next objection?’

      ‘Your father does not know that you love me.’

      ‘My mother does; Lucy does; and with two women to persuade him, my dear, kind old father will gladly consent to the match.’

      ‘I have no money.’

      ‘My dearest, neither have I. Two negatives make an affirmative, and that affirmative is to be uttered by you when I ask if I may tell the bishop that you are willing to become a soldier’s wife.’

      ‘Oh, George!’ cried Mab, anxiously, ‘it is a very serious matter. You know how particular your father is about birth and family. My parents are dead; I never knew them; for my father died before I was born, and my mother followed him to the grave when I was a year old. If my dear mother’s sister had not taken charge of me and brought me up, I should very likely have gone on the parish; for—as aunty says—my parents were paupers.’

      ‘My lovely pauper, what is all this to me? Here is your answer to all the nonsense you have been talking,’ and George, with the proverbial boldness of a soldier, laid a fond kiss on the charming face so near to his own.

      ‘Oh, George!’ began the scandalised Mab, for the fifth time at least, and was about to reprove her audacious lover again, when Miss Whichello bustled into the room, followed by the black shadow of the parson. George and Mab sprang apart with alacrity, and each wondered, while admiring the cathedral opposite, if Miss Whichello or Cargrim had heard the sound of that stolen kiss. Apparently the dear, unsuspecting old Jenny Wren had not, for she hopped up to the pair in her bird-like fashion, and took George’s arm.

      ‘Come, good people,’ she said briskly, ‘luncheon is ready; and so are your appetites, I’ve no doubt. Mr Cargrim, take in my niece.’

      In five minutes the quartette were seated round a small table in Miss Whichello’s small dining-room. The apartment was filled with oak furniture black with age and wondrously carved; the curtains and carpet and cushions were of faded crimson rep, and as the gaily-striped sun-blinds were down, the whole was enwrapped in a sober brown atmosphere restful to the eye and cool to the skin. The oval table was covered with a snow-white cloth, on which sparkled silver and crystal round a Nankin porcelain bowl of blue and white filled with deep red roses. The dinner-plates were of thin china, painted with sprawling dragons in yellow and green; the food, in spite of Mrs Pansey’s report, was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came from the stock laid down by the father of the hostess in the days when dignitaries of the Church knew what good wine was. It is true that a neat pair of brass scales was placed beside Miss Whichello, but she used them to weigh out such portions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, and did not mar her hospitality by interfering with the appetites of her guests. The repast was tempting, the company congenial, and the two young men enjoyed themselves greatly. Miss Whichello was an entertainer worth knowing, if only for her cook.

      ‘Mab, my dear,’ cried the lively old lady, ‘I am ashamed of your appetite. Don’t you feel better for your morning’s rest?’

      ‘Much better, thank you, aunty, but it is too hot to eat.’

      ‘Try some salad, my love; it is cool and green, and excellent for the blood. If I had my way, people should eat more green stuff than they do.’

      ‘Like so many Nebuchadnezzars,’ suggested Cargrim, always scriptural.

      ‘Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr Cargrim; although we need not go on all fours to eat them as he did.’

      ‘So many people would need to revert to their natural characters of animals if that custom came in,’ said George, smiling.

      ‘A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a portion of the nature of some animal,’ observed Cargrim, ‘especially women.’

      ‘Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,’ cried Mab, with an arch look at her aunt.

      ‘She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyæna, my dear.’

      ‘Oh, aunty, what a trinity!’

      ‘I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are rooks,’ said George.

      ‘No doubt, captain; and you soldiers are lions.’

      ‘Aunty is a Jenny Wren!’

      ‘And Mab is a white peacock,’ said Miss Whichello, with a nod.

      ‘Captain Pendle, protect me,’ laughed Miss Arden. ‘I decline to be called a peacock.’

      ‘You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.’

      ‘Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you!’

      While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these zoological comparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to the adventure of the previous night. ‘The man who attacked you was certainly a wolf,’ he said decisively.

      ‘Who was the man?’ asked Miss Whichello, carefully weighing herself some cheese.

      ‘Some tramp who had been in the wars,’ replied George, carelessly; ‘a discharged soldier, I daresay. At least, he had a long red scar on his villainous-looking face. I saw it in the moonlight, marking him as with the brand of Cain.’

      ‘A scar!’ repeated Miss Whichello, in so altered a tone that Cargrim stared at her, and hastened to explain further, so as to learn, if possible, the meaning of her strange look.

      ‘A scar on the right cheek,’ he said slowly, ‘from the ear to the mouth.’

      ‘What kind of a looking man is he?’ asked the old lady, pushing away her plate with a nervous gesture.

      ‘Something like a gipsy—lean, tall and swarthy, with jet-black eyes and an evil expression. He talks like an educated person.’

      ‘You seem to know all about him, Cargrim,’ said Captain Pendle, in some surprise, while Miss Whichello, her rosy face pale and scared, sat silently staring at the tablecloth.

      ‘I have several times been to an hotel called The Derby Winner,’ explained the chaplain, ‘to see a sick woman; and there I came across this scamp several times. He stays there, I believe!’

      ‘What is his name?’ asked Miss Whichello, hoarsely.

      ‘Jentham, I have been informed.’

      ‘Jentham! I don’t know the name.’

      ‘I don’t suppose you know the man either, aunty?’

      ‘No, my love,’ replied Miss Whichello, in a low voice. ‘I don’t suppose I know the man either. Is he still at The Derby Winner, Mr Cargrim?’

      ‘I believe so; he portions his time between that hotel and a gipsy camp on Southberry Common.’

      ‘What is he doing here?’

      ‘Really, my dear lady, I do not know.’

      ‘Aunty, one would think you knew the man,’ said Mab, amazed at her aunt’s emotion.

      ‘No, Mab, I do not,’ said Miss Whichello, vehemently;