True Tilda Part 28

"You are mistaken, Elphinstone. But even so, my excellent brother, you might understand it--if your estate lay in the west and ran with Miles Chandon's."

Tilda's small body stiffened with a gasp, 'Miles Chandon'--the name had sounded on her hearing distinct as the note of a bell. There was no mistake: it hummed in her ears yet. Or was it the blood rus.h.i.+ng to her ears as she sat bolt upright in the darkness, listening, breathing hard?

Sir Elphinstone, for some reason, had not answered his sister. When at length he spoke, it was in a changed tone, at once careless and more affectionate.

"See anything of Chandon in these days?"

"Nothing at all; or--to put the same thing differently--just so much of him as his tenants see. We were talking of tenantry. Miles Chandon leaves everything to his steward. Now, between ourselves, all stewards, land agents, bailiffs--whatever you choose to call 'em--are the curse of our system, and Miles Chandon's happens to be the worst specimen."

"H'm," said Sir Elphinstone reflectively. "Poor devil!" he added, a few moments later, and then--Miss Sally giving him no encouragement to pursue the subject--"Ten minutes past seven--the car will be waiting.

What do you say to getting home for dinner?"

"If I may bring the Ham." Miss Sally laughed and pushed back her chair.

"Wait a minute--we will wrap it up in the poem. 'Exit Atalanta, carrying her Ham in a newspaper'--how deliciously vulgar! Elphinstone, you have always been the best of brothers; you are behaving beautifully--and--and I never could resist shocking you; but we're pretty fond of one another, eh?"

"I've consistently spoilt you, if that's what you mean," he grumbled.

They were leaving the platform. Tilda whispered to the boy to take hold of 'Dolph.

"And I'm goin' to leave yer for a bit." She edged past him on hands and knees towards the vallance draperies. "You 'eard what she said?

Well, keep quiet 'ere an' don't be frightened. If Sam comes, tell 'im I'll be back in five minutes."

She dived out beneath the vallance, caught a glimpse of Miss Sally and Sir Elphinstone making their way at a brisk pace through the crowd, and hurried up the slope in pursuit. It was difficult to keep them in sight, for everyone made way upon recognising them, but showed less consideration for a small panting child; and the head of the field, by the exit gate, was packed by a most exasperating throng pressing to admire a giant motor-car that waited in the roadway with lamps blazing and a couple of men in chauffeurs' dress keeping guard in att.i.tudes of sublime _hauteur_. Sir Elphinstone, with Miss Sally on his arm, reached the car while yet Tilda struggled in the gateway. A policeman roughly ordered her back. She feigned to obey, and dropping out of sight, crawled forth past the policeman's boots, with her head almost b.u.t.ting the calves of a slow-moving yeoman farmer. Before she could straighten herself up Sir Elphinstone had climbed into the car after his sister, and the pair were settling down in their rugs. One of the chauffeurs was already seated, the other, having set the machine throbbing, was already clambering to his seat. The crowd set up three parting cheers, and Miss Sally, remembering her Ham, held it aloft in farewell.

But while Miss Sally waved and laughed, of a sudden, amid the laughter and cheers and throbbing of the motor, a small child sprang out of the darkness and clung upon the step.

"Lady! Lady!"

Miss Sally stared down upon the upturned face.

"Miles Chandon, lady?--where does 'e live?--For the Lord's sake--"

But already Sir Elphinstone had called the order. The car shot away smoothly.

"Elphinstone--a moment, please! Stop! The child--"

"Eh? . . . Stop the car! . . . Anything wrong?"

Miss Sally peered back into the darkness.

"There was a child . . . We have hurt her, I fear. Tell George to jump down and inquire."

But Tilda was not hurt. On the contrary, she was running and dodging the crowd at that moment as fast as her hurt leg permitted. For in the press of it, not three yards away, by the light of the side lamp, she had caught sight of Dr. Gla.s.son and Gavel.

They were on foot, and Gavel had seen her, she could make no doubt.

He was bearing down straight upon her.

Not until she had run fifty yards did she pluck up courage to look back.

Gavel was nowhere in sight. The car had come to a standstill, and the people were yelling. Was it after her? Was _this_ the hue-and-cry?

They were certainly yelling--and behaving too, in the strangest fas.h.i.+on.

They seemed by one impulse to be running from the car and crowding back towards the gate. They were fighting--positively fighting--their way into the field. The police could not stop them, but were driven in with a rush; and in the centre of this rush Tilda caught sight of Gavel again. His back was turned to her. He was struggling for admission, and like a maniac. Gla.s.son she could not see.

Sir Elphinstone had climbed out of the car, and came striding back demanding to know what was the matter. It stuck in his head that a child had been hurt, perhaps killed.

A dozen voices answered--

"The roundabouts!" "Explosion at the roundabouts!" "Engine blown up-- twenty killed an' injured, they say!"

"Explosion? . . . Nonsense!"

Tilda saw him thrust his way into the gateway, his tall figure towering above the pack there as he halted and gazed down the hill. In the darkness and confusion it was easy enough for her to scramble upon the hedge un.o.bserved, and at the cost of a few scratches only. From the top of the hedge she too gazed.

The roundabout had come to a standstill. Around it, at a decent distance, stood a dark circle of folk. But its lights still blazed, its mirrors still twinkled. She could detect nothing amiss.

What had happened? Tilda had forgotten Miss Sally, and was anxious now but for Arthur Miles. A dozen fears suggested themselves. She ought never to have left him. . . .

She dropped from the hedge into the field, and ran downhill to the platform. It stood deserted, the last few fairy-lamps dying down amid the palms and greenery. In the darkness at its rear there was no need of caution, and she plunged under the vallance boldly.

"Arthur! Arthur Miles! Are you all right? . . . Where are you?"

A thin squeal answered her, and she drew back, her skin contracting in a shudder, even to the roots of her hair. For, putting out her hand, she had touched flesh--naked, human flesh.

"Wh--who are you?" she stammered, drawing back her fingers.

"I'm the Fat Lady," quavered a voice. "Oh, help me! I'm wedged here and can't move!"

CHAPTER XV.

ADVENTURE OF THE FAT LADY.

"_Gin a body meet a body._"--BURNS.

"But what's 'appened?" demanded Tilda, recovering herself a little.

"And ow? And oh! what's become of the boy, Arthur Miles?"

"There _is_ a boy, somewhere at the back of me," the Fat Lady answered; "and a dog too. You can talk to them across me; but I couldn't move, not if I was crus.h.i.+n' them ever so."

Tilda called softly to the prisoners, and to her relief Arthur Miles answered out of the darkness, a.s.suring her, albeit in a m.u.f.fled voice, that they were both safe.

"But what's the _meanin'_ of it?" Tilda demanded again.

"The igsplosion's the meanin' of it."