The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Erle Cox
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the cause of the Moral Uplift Society. “My Dear Sir,” he rumbled, “I
trust you will take most severe steps against the scoundrel who forged
those insulting letters to the papers.”
Tydvil attempted to protest, but he may as well have tried to oppose his
strength to a road roller.
“Your disinclination to punish the affront is in keeping with your own
high standards of Christian forbearance. But is it wise, my dear Mr.
Jones? No, pray do not deny it! Our dear Mrs. Jones has told me
everything. How the moment you saw those letters you determined to give
them the lie direct with your gracious gift. It was a splendid gesture,
splendid!”
The revelation of Amy’s tactical move sent a surge of anger through
Tydvil.
“Ah! There is no need to blush, Mr. Jones,” grunted Arthur Muskat. “In my
own poor efforts in the cause of Moral Uplift I sincerely trust that the
cause is worthy of the source of the gift.”
“In that, I feel you are right.” Tydvil spoke with profound conviction.
It was the first time for many months that he had felt in complete
agreement with the secretary of the society.
“Now,” continued Mr. Muskat, “I have been given the privilege of letting
you into a little secret. It was, indeed, your dear wife to whom I am
indebted for it. We have arranged for you to be present at a meeting of
the members at which we may, be able to express our gratitude.
Inadequately, I am afraid, my dear sir, but we will do our best.”
During Mr. Muskat’s outpourings the remainder of the guests had arrived,
the last of who was Mr. Senior. It was the stir caused by his entrance
that enabled Tydvil to escape from his tormentor, and to suppress an
explosion that might have astonished the secretary of the Moral Uplift
Society.
As he and Muskat moved to the group surrounding Amy, she was presenting
her friends to the guest of honour. The wrath of Tydvil was almost
forgotten as he saw the perfect ease with which Nicholas received the
tributes with which the very proud and somewhat flustered Amy conducted
the ceremony. He hung back to give the others precedence.
“And,” gushed Amy finally, placing an affectionate hand on Tydvil’s
shoulder, “this is my husband!” There was no need for Tydvil to feign his
pleasure at the meeting. For him it had been a case of “Blucher or
night.” Only the strength of Nicholas as a reinforcement saved the day
for him. Mr. Senior evinced a pleasure equal to his own as they shook
hands. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Senior, “I almost feel I have already met you,
Mr. Jones. In the short time I have been in Melbourne I have come across
evidence of your good works everywhere.”
Tydvil accepted the compliment blandly. “And I have already heard so much
of you, Mr. Senior. You have one very staunch admirer that I know of.” He
inclined his head towards the smiling Amy. His eyes twinkled as he added,
“I feel I have met a kindred spirit.”
It was then that Arthur Muskat, oozing unction, broke in, “There is
something that you will all be pleased, but not surprised, to hear…”
A desperate attempt to stave off the revelation by Tydvil failed
dismally. He felt that at this juncture it would be rubbing salt into
Nicholas’ wounded feelings.
“That infamous letter in the papers regarding the Moral Uplift Society
proves to be a forgery. I feel that none of us could believe for a moment
that Mr. Jones wrote it. But…” and Mr. Muskat beamed largely on
the circle, “he has given it a defiant and purely Christian denial by
handing us a cheque for one thousand pounds.” He rolled out the figures
triumphantly.
In the outburst of admiration that followed the announcement, Tydvil
alone noticed the flush on Nicholas’s face. There seemed to be something
in that tag, “Tell the truth and shame the Devil.” Then inspiration came.
“One moment!” he interposed. “Just before you arrived, my wife and I had
reached an agreement that to contradict that letter publicly would be
merely drawing attention to it. She of eels as keenly as I do that my
little contribution must be kept secret. Don’t you, Amy?” he asked with
malicious meaning.
Under the gaze of all eyes Amy had no option but to agree, but only
Tydvil, who knew her so well, was aware of the acid behind her smile.
“That,” said Mr. Senior, “is what I should call spiking the guns of the
enemy. An idea worthy of you, Mr. Jones.” Only Tydvil was able to read
the glance of amusement in his eyes.
“A concession to evil, I am afraid,” was Mr. Edwin Muskat’s contribution.
“I cannot agree with Edwin,” the vicar spoke judicially. “I regard
Tydvil’s course as both Christian and dignified.”
But the conscience of Edwin Muskat was not appeased. Forgery was a sin
against society, and one that demanded retribution.
The argument that ensued gave Tydvil the chance he was looking for. He
drew Nicholas aside for a moment. “Listen, Nicholas,” he whispered, “I
can’t stick this out. You must liven things up.”
Nicholas’ eyes danced over the group and met Tydvil’s again. “But our
hostess, Tydvil?” He shook his head. “Is it fair?”
“Dash the hostess,” retorted Tydvil, shedding both chivalry and loyalty
to his spouse. “Doesn’t the host deserve some pity?”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” Nicholas chuckled.
“Do your worst…” Tydvil insisted emphatically. “Tydvil dear,” broke
in Amy, who had approached unnoticed, “you must not monopolise Mr.
Senior.”
“Your husband is enlisting my assistance in a cause very dear to his
heart—and mine,” Nicholas added, smiling at her.
Amy nodded brightly. “He and Mr. Edwin Muskat are both enthusiasts in
your own cause of prohibition. You will excuse Tydvil for his zeal.”
“I am afraid,” laughed Mr. Senior, “that I am as bad as he is. Do you
know, Mrs. Jones, even after so brief an acquaintance I feel I know your
husband almost as well as you do. We seem to have so much in common.”
“I fear you are flattering Tydvil,” Amy protested gaily. “You see, he has
not had your advantages of travel, Mr. Senior.”
“Ah! My dear lady,” Nicholas responded, “it is not a question of travel.
Men like your husband are a product of environment.”
“Believe me,” said Tydvil sincerely, “I owe everything to my wife, Mr.
Senior.”
“That, I do not doubt for a moment,” conceded Mr. Senior gallantly.
At this moment Amy’s eye was caught by that of the maid at the door.
“Come, Mr. Senior,” she said. “Dinner is waiting, and you must not
flatter me so. Tydvil dear, you will take Mrs. Blomb.”
Amy’s dinners were famous among her friends. In none of them was the
principal of temperance in beverages extended to food. Amy’s cook was an
artist. As they settled into their places, Mr. Arthur Muskat unfolded his
table napkin as though he were performing a rite. Mrs. Blomb raised her
eyes from her plate and confided in Tydvil that she was afraid she was
greedy because dear Amy’s devilled oysters had become almost an obsession
with her. Even the voice of the vicar, who, at a nod from Amy, had
recited grace, seemed richer with a note of anticipation.
But, for the first time in his life, Tydvil regarded the table with real
distaste. He had come to feel that the iced barley-water and fruit cup
that accompanied the meal were a poor substitute for something with more
kick and inspiration in it. He thought of his dinner with Hilda Cranston
with regret for its gaiety, and he almost groaned over the memory of the
burgundy of the previous night.
Mrs. Blomb, however, gave him scant time to regret anything but her
existence. She had been speaking at a meeting of the Women’s Liberal
Union that afternoon, and Tydvil heard first of the odious apathy and
indifference to great political issues exhibited by the majority of the
sex, and then she began to inundate him with a generous resume of her
address. On the other side, Mr. Arthur Muskat was so profoundly absorbed
in beche-de-mere soup that the last trump would not have stirred him.
Though, Tydvil, through the momentary pauses in Mrs. Blomb’s monologue,
could distinctly hear his appreciation of it—the soup, not the
monologue.
Years of experience of Amy’s habits of speech had endowed Tydvil with the
priceless gift of apparent courteous attention while his mind was set
free to follow its own vagrant devices. He could follow Mrs. Blomb’s
arguments on the necessity for the reform of arbitration legislation, for
which he did not care one hoot in Hades, and drop an intelligent comment
into its proper place, while at the same time he was following intently
the features of the social circus.
Amy was not looking pleased, because Mrs. Ridgegay had cut into her
conversation with Mr. Senior with an apparently interminable account of a
niece, aged seven, who read and took an intelligent interest in Browning,
or was it Wordsworth. She always got Browning and Wordsworth mixed up,
she confessed. But she felt sure that Mr. Senior shared her love of
poetry because it was so uplifting. Of course, he, Mr. Senior, would not
know that her niece was the daughter of her sister, Emily; Mr. Senior
should really meet Emily because she was so interested in dogs.
As he grasped these fragments of Mrs. Ridgegay’s conversation, Tydvil
gathered from the expression on Nicholas’ face that his desire to meet
Emily was non-existent. Amy looked as though failing the pleasure of
strangling Mrs. Caton Ridgegay, nothing would give her greater
satisfaction than to vent her displeasure on the sister. It was clear at
the moment that Amy simply hated the whole Ridgegay family.
Neither did Amy, seem at all interested in the vicar’s views on the
subject of condoning forgery. It was just then that Tydvil caught his
wife’s eye, that directed him urgently to Eva Merrywood. Mrs. Blomb’s
voice blanketed that of Eva, but the expression of outraged modesty on
the face of Edwin Musket beside her told its own tale, if it did not tell
Eva’s. But Tydvil judged from Edwin’s blushes that it must have been one
of her best. He was sorry he had missed it, and had no sympathy for
Edwin. Deliberately, and with malice a forethought, he calmly disregarded
Amy’s S.O.S. Who was he that he should discourage the good works of Eva
Merrywood?
Almost immediately Mrs. Blomb claimed his entire attention with a sudden
exclamation of joy. She was holding a partially emptied goblet of fruit
cup in her hand. As he turned, she said, “Oh, Mr. Jones, our dear Amy has
given us a delightful surprise! A new fruit cup! Oh, most delicious! I
must get the recipe from her. How does she think of these wonderful
things?”
Tydvil, who had heard nothing of any new excursions by Amy into the
concoction of temperance beverages, lifted his glass to his lips. The
first sip halted him. He took a second and glanced up the table. As he
did so he caught a flicker of light in Nicholas’ eye, and understood.
Then he swallowed several appreciative mouthsfull. He was too new in his
knowledge of alcohol to recognise the source of that rich aroma of soft
alluring flavour that blended so well with the fruit, but it dawned on
him that, whatever it was, Nicholas had been more than generous.
Mrs. Blomb’s enthusiasm had, for the moment, silenced the table. One and
all were tentatively supping
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