The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (english books to improve english txt) 📖

I feel,” his voice

grew very persuasive, “that you will forgive me, a stranger among you,

for reminding you, that perhaps we have forgotten for the moment the

feelings of our kind hostess.” He smiled towards Amy’s flushed face. “Let

us all, without exception, assume the others have expressed regret for

what might have been said in an unguarded moment.” He paused, and his

deep luminous eyes passed from one to the other. “Will we not?”

 

Julia Blomb drew a deep breath, and it looked for the moment as though

she would not accept any, overtures for a collective peace. Then she

caught the eye of Nicholas on her. There was something in the glance he

turned on her that sent a very cold shiver from the base of her skull to

the furthest extremity of her spine.

 

Hastily she looked across to Arthur Muskat. “Oh, Arthur, let’s forget it

all, I was silly!” There was a general murmur of acceptance, as the

smiling Nicholas resumed his seat.

 

“You know,” he took the table in as he spoke, “I was just saying to our

dear Mrs. Jones, how fine it was to think…” He paused again. “I am

afraid, Vicar, that Mrs. Claire…”

 

In the excitement, that silent figure had been forgotten. In an instant

Amy and the vicar were on their feet.

 

Anxiously they raised her head. Mrs. Claire, roused from her doze,

regarded the table with sombre eyes and said thickly, “Parcel o’ fools!”

and her head sunk forward again.

 

Amy and the vicar together raised her from her chair. “I can’t think…”

Amy began.

 

“I’ve known that for years, Amy,” said the surprising Mrs. Claire, gazing

owlishly at the assembly.

 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” bleated Amy. “What has happened to you?”

 

“‘Runk—blinkin’ ‘runk,” murmured Mrs. Claire drowsily.

 

“Gwendoline!” The vicar shook her shoulder, none too tenderly. “How can

you say such a thing?”

 

“Dunno!” his spouse replied, twisting her head to look at him. “‘Cause

I’m darn near speechless.” Her head sunk forward again, and she added,

“You ol’ buzzard!”

 

“Perhaps she had better lie down, Vicar,” Amy suggested. Mrs. Blomb and

Mrs. Ridgeway rose as though to assist. But Amy waved them back. “Don’t

bother, please, the Vicar and I will manage.”

 

Between them they turned the afflicted guest towards the door. Before she

passed through, she turned again. “All rotten but Tydvil,” was her Pathan

shot.

 

There was an uncomfortable silence. In the absence of Amy, Tydvil felt

that the mantle had fallen on his shoulders and had no scruples about

transferring it to those of Nicholas.

 

“You were saying, Mr. Senior,” he sent an S.O.S. to Nicholas, “that you

were interested in something?”

 

“Ah, yes! It was that I was saying to Mrs. Jones how fine it was to be

one of a gathering of such enthusiastic and disinterested workers for

noble causes. But sometimes I think we take life too seriously.”

 

Eva Merrywood, with her arms folded on the edge of the table, leaned

towards him. “D’you know,”—her speech was not quite clear—“I think

you’re right. Lil bit o’ fun sometimes—like dancing. Haven’t danced for

years.”

 

“Dancing! Miss Merrywood!” Arthur Muskat looked like a shocked Silenus.

 

“Why not, Mr. Muskat?” asked Nicholas gently. “In the proper spirit, I

think dancing may be a most admirable medium for social relaxation.”

 

“My dear sir!—Wur-oop! Pardon!” as the fruit cup intervened, “I have

always learned that dancing is mos’ rep-reprehensible, Sir—most

unchristian.”

 

“Bunnies, Arthur! How do you know?” demanded Eva. “Did you ever dance?”

 

“Mos’ certainly not!” replied Arthur with extreme gravity.

 

It was Mrs. Blomb who took up the discussion. “Then how the…” She

checked herself deftly. “I mean, how do you know?”

 

Before Arthur could reply, Nicholas again intervened. “I sometimes think,

Mr. Muskat, that the only, way we can really inform ourselves on these

social problems is by actual experiment.” He looked meaningly at Tydvil.

“Have you ever danced, Mr. Jones?”

 

“I’m afraid,” admitted Tydvil, “that, like Arthur, my views are not based

on experience.”

 

Then Mrs. Ridgegay awoke to the trend of the discussion. “Why not try

then, just to see.”

 

“Yes, yes, let’s all dance!” exclaimed Eva Merrywood pushing back her

chair. “Come on, Edwin, I’ll show you.” She grasped Edwin Muskat’s arm as

much as to steady herself as to urge him to join her.

 

“Go on, Edwin,” prompted Tydvil. “What about it?” he turned to Mrs.

Blomb.

 

Eva had pulled the unwilling Edwin to feet that were not conspicuously

steady, and put her long, thin’ ‘arms around him. Edwin yielded

passively. Fortunately there was ample room for manoeuvres, and it was

needed. Tydvil almost choked as the determined Eva and the reluctant

Edwin began a wobbly oscillation on their united axis, of which she was

the directing force.

 

Mrs. Blomb turned in her chair, took one glance at the amazing spectacle,

and with a squeal of laughter reached for Tydvil. “Come on, Tydvil, we’ll

show them how,” she gasped.

 

“But I don’t know how,” protested Tydvil. “Aren’t there steps or

something, and shouldn’t we have music?”

 

“Oh, hang music! Wait, I’ll show the waltz steps. Learned them at

school.” She backed away. It was in the days when legs were “limbs.” Legs

were seldom mentioned, and more seldom seen. But Julia Blomb took a

double reef in the mainsail, displaying a white embroidered underskirt,

six inches of red flannel petticoat (the badge of virtue) and a

considerable length of pipe stem undercarriage terminating in large feet.

 

“Now watch,” she said, poising with her right foot pointed.

 

There was no need for the injunction to watch. Eva and Edwin had come to

a standstill by cannoning against the wall, against which they leaned for

safety. A strand of Eva’s hair had worked loose on one side, giving her a

rakish and bacchanalian aspect, and she still clung to Edwin. Arthur rose

like a walrus, clutched for the back of his chair, missed, and came down

“as falls on Mount Avernus a thunder stricken oak.”

 

It was at this moment, as Mrs. Ridgegay squealed, “Go it Julia,” that Amy

re-entered the dining-room.

 

“Oooh! Julia Blomb!” Then as her eyes swept round the room, “Eva! Are you

mad?”

 

“Just showing Tydvil how to waltz,” announced Mrs. Blomb, losing her

balance and regaining it by a miracle.

 

“She’s a scarlet woman! I saw it; scarlet!” grunted Arthur Muskat from

the floor.

 

“In my house! Dancing…?” Words again failed Amy.

 

Then her gaze turned to Nicholas, who stood surveying the scene with an

expression of pained embarrassment. “What will Mr. Senior think?”

 

Mr. Senior left his place and advanced towards the stricken Amy. “My dear

lady, this is most distressing,” he said.

 

“But what is it?” gasped Amy. “Oh, what is it? The Vicar says his legs

are paralysed. Go to him, Tydvil.”

 

“I am afraid, Mrs. Jones, that it is some form of food poisoning,” said

Nicholas soothingly. “Perhaps the oysters. I have heard of this, but have

never before seen the effects.”

 

As he spoke, Eva and Edwin Muskat subsided slowly down the wall until

they came to rest together on the floor. Then, with a quick move,

Nicholas caught Julia Blomb and placed her in the chair from which Tydvil

had risen. Julia showed a decided tendency to sag.

 

“Oh, we must have a doctor!” exclaimed Amy, with her hand to her head.

“I’m afraid I have it, too! My head’s reeling!” So was her body, but

Tydvil rescued it manfully. Gently he lowered her to the floor where Amy

gurgled and passed out.

 

Tydvil looked round the room. Mrs. Caton Ridgegay had disappeared—under

the table.

 

He looked up at Nicholas, who regarded him with a sardonic smile. “You?”

he queried.

 

Tydvil grinned. “I’m all right. Just a bit damp round the edges.” Then,

as he surveyed the battlefield, “Jove! Nicholas, you did them proud. I

wouldn’t care to risk another go at that fruit cup, though.”

 

“You could,” Nicholas smiled. “Try it.”

 

Taking a jug and goblet from the table, Tydvil sipped the mixture

cautiously. Then his eyes met those of Nicholas with astonishment. “Why,

it’s all right!” he exclaimed.

 

Nicholas nodded. “Exactly, so, you see, it must have been the oysters.”

 

“Of course, the oysters. That’s what paralysed the vicar’s legs, too.”

 

The two looked round them in silence for a moment, then Nicholas spoke,

his hands deep in his pockets. “You know, Tydvil, I suppose there are a

good many people who would think we have not played the game, but,”—he

looked distastefully at the prone Arthur—“while I have sympathy for most

human failings, I have never been able to overcome my repugnance against

self-righteousness.”

 

Tydvil nodded his understanding. “I’ve lived among it all my life—I

know.” Then he added, “Perhaps this will do them good.”

 

Nicholas shook his head. “Not unless they know the truth—and I’m afraid

that would be difficult…”

 

“Then it must be the oysters.” Then he chuckled. “There’ll be some pretty

sore heads in the morning. The question is, what are we to do with them?”

 

“I have my car,” Nicholas said, “and might take some of them if I knew

where to drop them.”

 

“Over the parapet of Princes Bridge would be a good place,” laughed

Tydvil.

 

“Is that an injunction or just a pious wish?” asked Nicholas hopefully.

 

Tydvil shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid it will have to remain a

pious wish. It might cause too much comment the other way.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Best thing is to keep them all here for the night, there is plenty of

spare room in the house. I’ll get the maids in to look after the

women—wonder what they’ll think? We’ll have to give them a hand to carry

them upstairs. Then we can fix up the men ourselves.”

 

“What about the morning?” Nicholas suggested.

 

“Pah! They will have forgotten most of it. Anyway, they’ll accept my

explanation. Seems to me we’re playing it pretty low down on the

oysters.”

 

Tydvil left to summon an already perplexed and whispering household

staff, who rallied loyally to Tydvil’s tale of sudden illness. To one and

all Tydvil had been a friend in need. Beds were hastily, prepared and the

stricken guests were one by one laid to rest. It took the united efforts

of Tydvil, Nicholas and four maids before Mrs. Ridgegay was lowered on to

a bed and left to the ministrations of the maids.

 

In the drawing-room they found the Vicar, whose paralysis had become

general, lying on the hearth rug. Mrs. Claire lay on a couch. Nicholas

looked down at her. He turned to Tydvil. “The only one of them that is

worth a hoot!” he said. Then he bent over and stroked her forehead with

his long, slender fingers, saying as he did so, “I’ll see to it that she,

at any rate, will wake up without a headache.”

 

It was more than an hour before a maid reported that the invalids were

all accounted for. The men had been less carefully disposed of. Tydvil

and Nicholas were seated in Tydvil’s den. There was a flicker of surprise

in the girl’s eyes as she saw the cigar that Tydvil was enjoying. “Wait!”

Tydvil spoke as she turned to leave. “Emily,” he said seriously, “I know

you and the others will realise how distressed I am, and Mrs. Jones will

be over this affair.”

 

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

 

“Mr. Senior, who has had medical experience, is sure that their illness

has been caused by the oysters, and that they will all be quite well