Kathleen: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A ruddy-cheeked housemaid in the correct evening uniform admitted
Blair, and in the drawing-room he found Mr. Kent sitting by a
shining fire. Points of light twinkled in the polished balls of
the brass andirons. As soon as he entered, Blair felt the comely
atmosphere of a charming and well-ordered home. Books lined the
walls; a French window opened on to the lawn at the far end of
the room; a large bowl of blue hyacinths, growing in a bed
of pebbles, stood on the reading table. Mr. Kent was small,
gray-haired, with a clear pink complexion and a guileless blue
eye.

"Mr. Blair," he said, laying down his paper, "I am very glad to
meet you. A friend of Joe's is always welcome here, and
particularly when he's an antiquarian. I know you'll excuse our
seeming rudeness in putting you off at luncheon."

Blair bowed, and made some polite reply.

"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Kent, "my wife was embarrassed
this morning by strange happenings in the domestic department.
Our cook, usually very faithful, did not turn up, and sent a
substitute who has caused her--well, mingled annoyance and
amusement. I have not seen the woman myself: my rheumatism has
kept me pretty close to the fire this damp weather; but by all
accounts the creature is very extraordinary. Well, well, you are
not interested in that, of course. It is very pleasant to meet a
fellow antiquarian. How did you happen to visit Wolverhampton? We
have a number of quite unusual relics in these parts, but they
are not so well known as they should be."

"To tell the truth, sir," said Blair, "it was your book, which I
came across in the college library. I was particularly interested
in your account of St. Philip's Church, and I made up my mind
that I ought to see it. You see, we in America have so little
antiquity of our own that these relics of old England are
peculiarly fascinating to us."

"Quite so, quite so!" said Mr. Kent, rubbing his hands with
pleasure. "Magnificent! Well, well, it is certainly a delight to
hear you say so. After supper we will dismiss the ladies and have
a good crack. There are some really startling things to be
learned about Wolverhampton in Anglo-Saxon times. You know the
town lay along the frontier that was much harried by the Danes,
and Edward the Elder won a conspicuous victory over the invaders
at Tettenhall, which is a village very near here."

"Yes," said Blair, "I walked out there this afternoon."

"Did you, indeed! Well, that was a proof of your perspicacity.
You may recall that in my book I referred to the battle at
Tettenhall--"

"That was in 910, was it not?" queried Blair, adroitly.

"Precisely. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle."

"Edward the Elder died in 924, didn't he?" asked the ruthless
American.

"About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon my
word, Mr. Blair, you have taken up history with true American
efficiency! I do wish that our young men had the same zeal. I am
happy to say, however, that I am expecting a young cleric this
evening, a protege of the Bishop of Oxford, who is, I believe,
also interested in these matters."

Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at this
moment Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in.

"My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We are
great cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughter
Kathleen."

The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heart
contusions known in the history of the human race. It was a
positive vertigo of admiration. This was indeed the creature he
had seen on the railway platform: a dazzling blend of girl and
woman. The grotesque appellation "flapper" fled from his mind.
Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly across her head and piled
at the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray eyes, under rich
brown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed. She was
that most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl and
woman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither.
Blair could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only the
arch face, the intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady,
friendly gaze.

"How do you do," he said, and remembering English reticence,
hesitated to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not having
done so.

Kathleen smiled, and murmured, "How do you do."

"I'm very glad to see you," said Mrs. Kent. "Do tell us what that
crazy Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had three
telegrams from her?"

Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronoun
can destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sit
down on the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair.

"I--I beg your pardon?" he stammered. "I didn't just catch--"

"The mad girl has sent us three telegrams," said Mrs. Kent, "in
which there was only one sensible thing, the reference to
yourself. Her other remarks, about cooks and soccer and injured
limbs, were quite over our heads."

With a dull sense of pain Blair felt Kathleen's bright eyes on
him.

"Yes, Mr. Blair, is she ragging us? Or have the girls at Maggie
Hall taken up soccer?" said a clear voice, every syllable of
which seemed so precious and girlish and quaintly English that he
could have clapped his hands.

He blessed her for the clue. "Maggie Hall!"--in other words, Lady
Margaret Hall, one of the women's colleges at Oxford. So "Joe"
was (in American parlance) a "co-ed!"

"Why--er--I believe they _have_ been playing a little," he said
desperately. "I think he--er--something was said about having
his--hum--her--arm--hurt in a rough game."

"Her leg, too," said Mr. Kent. "In my time, young girls didn't
send telegrams about their legs. In fact, they didn't send
telegrams at all."

"Well, we are quite nonplussed," said Mrs. Kent. "Kathleen says
Joe must have had a rush of humour to the head. She wired for us
to send Fred down to her. Of course she has sent wires to Fred
before, as a joke; but she must have known we couldn't send him
so far alone. I suppose Joe has told you all about Fred? He's
quite one of the family."

"Yes," said the distracted Oxonian. "He must be a fine fellow.
I'm very anxious to meet him."

There was a ring at the front door bell, and in a kind of stupor
Blair realized that something--he hardly knew what--was about to
happen.

"The Reverend Mr. Carter," announced the maid.

Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly on
the rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movement
that followed he had presence of mind enough to seize a chair
next to Kathleen. He saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habited
as the conventional "black beetle" of the church, and in the
sharpened state of his wits noticed that the unpractised curate
had put on his clerical collar the wrong way round. He rejoiced
in Carter's look of dismay on finding his fellow-Scorpion already
on the battlefield.

"Mr. Carter," said Mr. Kent, "this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity."

The two shook hands gravely.

Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to set
Carter astray.

"I know Mr. Carter by reputation," he said. "I have heard Joe
speak of him in terms of great admiration."

The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe.

"Oh, yes, Joe!" he said. "Splendid chap."

Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had no
idea what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalian
frock, and was determined to gain any headway he could.

"It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton," said Kathleen. "So
few 'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing for
Dad. He'll talk antiquities with you as long as you like."

"Are you interested in the subject?" asked Blair.

"I'm afraid not," she laughed. "It's too bad Dad is so laid up
with his lumbago. He'd love to walk you out to Tettenhall and
Boscobel, to see his burial mounds."

"How very interesting!" said Blair. "A kind of private family
cemetery?"

"Oh, dear no," declared Kathleen in amazement. "Antiquities, you
know, where the Danes buried themselves."

"Of course, of course. How I wish I could see them! Are you fond
of walking?"

"Yes, when it isn't too muddy. It's been too wet lately to go out
with Fred. He loves a good long walk, but he's getting old and
his rheumatism bothers him."

"I dare say he may have inherited that from your father?"

"It's very common among Scotties," said Kathleen.

"Oh, is your family Scotch?" said Blair, feverishly trying to be
polite.

"Our family?" queried Kathleen with a smile. "Heavens, no! I
thought you were talking about Fred. You must see him, he's
somewhere around."

"I should love to meet him," said Blair.

Kathleen went to the door and whistled. There was a scampering on
the stairs, and a grizzled Skye terrier trotted into the room.
Blair and Carter looked at each other sheepishly.

Mr. Kent had been referring to his watch several times, and Blair
began to suspect that something was wrong. But just then supper
was announced. As they passed into the dining-room, the American
thought he noticed signs of agitation on the maid's face. He
wondered secretly what the rest of the Scorpions were up to.

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