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made them up as he went on. He thought it was a gift.
Meanwhile, the more serious bodies of the city of Melbourne were
enchanted by the advent of a new and dazzling light among them—Mr.
Nicholas Senior. His generosity was as great as his popularity. Amy
soaked herself happily in the effulgence that shone from him. Mr.
Senior’s striking individuality, his brilliant conversation, his
undoubted intellectual attainments, won him immediate recognition among
the very nicest people. It was a speech he delivered at an anti-gambling
gathering, however, that made Mr. Senior a public figure.
There was a Bill before the Legislative Assembly to extend the scope of
racing throughout the State. The Churches were in arms, and a meeting was
called at the town hall to protest against the iniquitous measure. It was
to be presided over by a provincial bishop. Him, Amy invited to
dinner—an intimate dinner at which devilled oysters were not served—to
meet Mr. Senior. The bishop was so struck with his earnestness and lucid
reasoning on the evils of gambling that before coffee had made its
appearance, he had wrung a modestly reluctant promise from Mr. Senior to
speak at the meeting. The privilege of introducing his friend was
graciously conceded to Tydvil by his Lordship.
To the new Tydvil the privilege was one that gave him peculiar
satisfaction, and it could only have been wrested from him by
overwhelming force. To the crowded hall Tydvil announced that he had
gladly waived his intention to address the gathering in favour of a
friend whom he was proud to introduce. He did not feel he was overstating
the case when he asserted that Mr. Nicholas Senior, from his wide
experience and personal investigations, was more familiar with the evils
of gambling than any man on earth. That view was not only his own; it was
shared by their Right Reverend Chairman.
The smile that Mr. Senior turned on his sponsor was born of the knowledge
that, on the previous night, Tydvil had won fifty-four pounds from Archie
Stone and two of his friends at “draw,” and further, that most of it was
in Tydvil’s wallet while he was speaking.
Next morning the eloquent appeal made by Mr. Nicholas Senior was printed
verbatim in all newspapers. For twenty-five minutes he held the gathering
enthralled by the magic of his quiet persuasive eloquence. He spoke
without fireworks or fulmination. With a merciless logic he tore the Bill
to pieces. With exquisite skill he vivisected the motives of the
Government and displayed them, raw, from the platform. In swift, masterly
sentences, he portrayed the consequences that would accrue from the Bill
becoming law. When he was finished it took three stiff whiskies to settle
the nerves of an eminent member of the committee of the Racing Club, who
had dropped into the meeting for half an hour’s entertainment.
But the Bill was dead.
Said Tydvil, as he and Nicholas walked homeward after the meeting, “But
dash it all, Nicholas, what did you do it for? Why, you almost converted
me!”
“Policy, my friend, policy!” laughed Nicholas lightly. “Man is naturally
and ineradicably an adventurous animal. Civilisation cramps his means of
satisfaction of his hunger for adventure. Its only escape valve is
gambling. Sit on that safety valve and he will blow up. He is bad enough
when he is allowed to gamble, but when force of any, kind is used to
prevent him, my harvest is redoubled.”
“Well,” commented Tydvil, “don’t carry your reforming zeal too far,
because another speech like that and you’ll close every racecourse in the
State. It’s like killing the auriferous goose.”
“You can insure the life of that bird with perfect confidence,” grinned
Nicholas.
“I’m glad to hear it,” responded Tydvil, “because I have not yet seen a
Melbourne Cup, and I don’t want to miss the next.”
But Nicholas had become a personage overnight. About the only doors in
the State that were not open to him were those of the Racing Club and the
Amateur Turf Club. But, as Nicholas told Tydvil, he was sure of all the
numbers of both of those institutions for the propagation of experience
and of horse, so his exclusions from their circles did not matter.
There had been only one shadow on Amy’s happiness—the strange disaster
that had befallen her dinner to Nicholas. But her new friend had erased
the deeper tones of that shadow during a call he had made on her on the
following afternoon. He explained to an Amy, whose head was throbbing
with what, had she only known it, was a perfect example of hangover, that
he was so anxious about her health and that of her friends he felt it his
duty to enquire.
Amy explained that the worst of it was, that neither she nor her friends
could remember very much of what had happened. Was it true, she asked, as
Julia Blomb had asserted, that Eva Merrywood had danced in an unseemly
fashion with Edwin Muskat? Both Eva and Mrs. Ridgegay denied it
strenuously. But she, Amy, seemed to remember something of the kind.
Mr. Senior assured her earnestly that nothing of the kind had occurred.
No doubt the insidious nature of the poison, which was undoubtedly
derived from the oysters, was responsible for hallucinations. Similar
instances were fully authenticated.
Amy was extremely relieved by his assurance, and she was sure the Vicar
would be, too. Poor Vicar! He was terribly troubled by some remarks that
poor dear Mrs. Claire had made—or rather which he imagined she had made.
What she could not understand, however, was how he (Mr. Senior) had so
fortunately escaped from the trouble. Mr. Jones, also, had been
marvellously preserved.
Mr. Senior could only suggest that they possessed some natural
constitutional immunity from the poison.
But it was two days before Amy shook off the effects of her party. She
was a little annoyed, though, that both Julia Blomb and Eva Merrywood
seemed to hold her somehow responsible for the appalling headaches from
which they suffered. A little inconsiderate and unkind, since she felt
that their heads, for throbbing anguish, could not have compared with her
own.
However, the success of Mr. Senior as her guest, and her triumph over
Tydvil in the matter of the cheque, consoled Amy for the minor disaster
of the party. Only one thing that troubled her was the recollection of
the visit of that attractive but really impertinent Mr. Brewer—the Mr.
Brewer who should have had a black eye but did not. That eye puzzled Amy.
She was convinced that her Mr. Brewer was the office Mr. Brewer. If that
were so, and she had but little doubt it was—“Then—then—why had Tydvil
said…?” Here her thoughts paused. How could she tackle Tydvil on the
grounds of wilful falsehood calculated to deceive his wife, without
disclosing the unceremonious visit of Mr. Brewer? Amy felt she had a
grievance against someone, probably Tydvil, that she was not quite in a
position to air.
Somehow the memory of Mr. Brewer’s visit dwelt in her mind. It kept
recurring at intervals. Then, one afternoon about ten days afterwards,
she felt an unaccountable urge to take a long walk. That was most
unusual, because as a rule Amy was not prone to exercise. For a time she
hesitated. Then there came the longing for a stroll under the trees along
Alexandra Avenue. There seemed a strange fascination in walking quietly
and alone through the sunlight and shade of the wide elms and planes.
She dressed carefully and by a sudden impulse she put on that new hat—it
had cost five guineas—that she had bought on the memorable afternoon of
her meeting with Mr. Senior. Standing before her mirror its chastening
influence on the usual severity of her frocking gave her a warm feeling
of satisfaction. Ordering her car she directed the chauffeur to drive
into town, but as she approached Alexandra Avenue, she changed her mind.
She commanded Carter to stop. Alighting, she said that she thought a walk
would do her good. He might return home. She would, if she required it,
take a taxi back.
Carter, whose love and respect for Amy might have been represented by
minus signs, wondered, in very unseemly thoughts, what the dashed
hen-wowser was up to. Registering an impious hope that she would drown
herself in the river, he drove away.
Amy turned away and walked slowly along the avenue towards the Botanic
Gardens. She had not been there for years, and determined to make them
her objective. With her bag held loosely under her arm, she strolled
along the tan path, wondering vaguely why she had not recognised the
pleasure of pedestrian exercise earlier.
Suddenly her reverie was shattered by violence.
A man who had approached her from the opposite direction, suddenly
lurched against her with his shoulder. As he did so, he grabbed at the
handbag beneath her arm. Almost off her balance, Amy was unable to
protect her property except by screaming. This she did in a manner that
would have done credit to a locomotive.
Turning as she squealed, she saw the flight of the thief arrested by a
tall athletic figure. There was a brief scuffle, from which emerged a
clean and nicely placed uppercut to the jaw of her assailant, who lapsed
supine into instant oblivion. The tall figure stooped and retrieved Amy’s
property, which not worth anything like the punch in the jaw that was the
bag-snatcher’s sole reward for his enterprise. Its contents were a tube of
peppermints and a handkerchief.
The tall figure stood beside his captive awaiting the now silent Amy’s
approach. The recognition was mutual and astonished.
“Mr. Brewer!” exclaimed Amy.
“Why! It is Mrs. Jones!” gasped Mr. Brewer.
“Oh! I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Brewer.” Amy was really somewhat
upset by the suddenness of the attack.
“Of course, I’m only too delighted to be of any service, Mrs. Jones,”
William replied. “It was providential that I happened to see this
scoundrel attack you.” He looked down at the upturned face of the
malefactor, which was showing signs of a return to the realisation of
earthly things. “I’ll wait here and try to get a lift from someone, and
take this brute to the watchhouse.”
Amy glanced down at the unpleasant spectacle. Inwardly she thought gaol
was too good for him, but she was Amy, and magnanimity was her long suit
at the moment. “Poor creature!” she sighed. “Perhaps he has a mother!
Please give him his liberty, Mr. Brewer.”
William bent over and jerked the deadbeat to his feet by the scruff of
his neck. “I’m afraid your heart is too kind, Mrs. Jones,” he protested,
“but, of course, your wishes are law to me.” There was a gallant
deference in his voice. “Still, I think some punishment is indicated.
Will you kindly look the other way for a moment.”
“Oh! Please, Mr. Brewer, don’t hurt him, too much,” murmured Amy,
inwardly wishing that Mr. Brewer would not take her plea for mercy too
seriously.
As she turned away, Billy thrust a one pound note into the hand of the
culprit. Then, with a scowling face, he swung the bewildered man round,
and administered a hearty kick where it would do him the most moral good
and the least physical harm. It was a very astonished bag-snatcher who
moved with unwonted speed towards Princes Bridge, wondering at an
inconsistency which could reward and punish so liberally.
Billy turned to Amy, gravely solicitous about the shock she had received.
He begged that she would permit him to see her to the kiosk in the
gardens and give her a cup of
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