Mrs. Fitz. Snaith John Collis
had just performed this feat with the greatest efficiency, when by no means the least of her admirers put in an oar.
"I'm so glad you've come, Mary," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "We were just having it out with Lord Brasset about Mrs. Fitz."
An uncomfortable silence followed.
"Is she a subject for discussion in a mixed company?" said I, to relieve the tension.
"I should say not," said Mary. "But Reggie has been so weak that there is no help for it."
"The victim of circumstances, perhaps," said I, with generous unwisdom.
"People who are weak always are the victims of circumstances. If Reggie had only been firmer at the beginning, we should not now be a laughing-stock for everybody. To my mind the first requisite in a master of hounds is resolution of character."
"Hear, hear," said the occupant of the breakfast table, sotto voce.
The miserable Brasset, whose pinkness and perplexity were ever increasing, fairly quailed before the Great Lady's forensic power.
"Do you think, Mrs. Catesby, I ought to resign?" said he, with the humility that invites a kicking.
"Not now, surely; it would be too abject. If you felt the situation was beyond you, you should have resigned at the beginning. You must show spirit, Reggie. You must not submit to being trampled on publicly by – by – "
The Great Lady paused here, not because she was at a loss for a word, but because, like all born orators, she had an instinctive knowledge of the value of a pause in the right place.
"By a circus rider from Vienna," she concluded in a level voice.
CHAPTER III
THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
"I know, Mrs. Catesby, I'm not much of a chap," said Brasset, "but what's a feller to do? I did drop a hint to Fitz, you know."
"Fitz!!" The art of the littérateur can only render a scorn so sublime by two marks of exclamation.
"What did Fitz say?" I ventured to inquire.
"Scowled like blazes," said Brasset, miserably. "Thought the cross-grained, three-cornered devil would eat me. Beg pardon, Mrs. Catesby."
The noble Master subsided into his glass of beer in the most lamentably ineffectual manner.
I cleared my voice in the consciousness that I had an uncle a judge.
"Brasset," said I, "will you kindly inform the court what are the specific grounds of complaint against this much-maligned and unfortunate – er – female?"
"Don't make yourself ridiculous, Odo!"
"Odo, you know perfectly well!"
It was a dead heat between Mrs. Arbuthnot and the Great Lady.
"Order, order," said I, sternly. "This scene belongs to Brasset. Now, Brasset, answer the question, and then perhaps something may be done."
It was not to be, however. The nephew of my uncle failed lamentably to exact obedience to the chair.
"My dear Odo," said Mary Catesby, in what I can only describe as her Albert Hall manner, with her voice going right up to the top like a flag going up a pole, "do you mean to tell me– ?"
"That you don't know how Mrs. Fitz has been carrying on!" the Madam chipped in with really wonderful cleverness.
"I don't, upon oath," said I, solemnly. "You appear to forget that I have been giving my time to the nation during this abominable autumn session."
"So he has, poor dear," said the partner of my joys.
"Like a good citizen," said Mary Catesby, most august of Primrose Dames.
"Thank you, Mary, I deserve it. But am I to understand that Mrs. Fitz has flung her cap over the mill, or that she has taken to riding astride, or is it that she continues to affect that scarlet coat which last season hastened the end of the Dowager?"
"No, Arbuthnot." It was the voice of Brasset, vibrating with such deep emotion that it can only be compared to the Marche Funèbre performed upon a cathedral organ. "But it was only by God's mercy that last Tuesday morning she didn't override Challenger."
"Allah is great," said I.
"Upon my solemn word of honour," said the noble Master, speaking from the depths, "she was within two inches of the old gal's stern."
"Parkins," said a voice from the breakfast table, "bring another glass of beer for his lordship."
To be perfectly frank, liquid sustenance was no longer a vital necessity to the noble Master. He was already rosy with indignation at the sudden memory of his wrongs. Only one thing can induce Brasset to display even a normal amount of spirit. That is the welfare of the sacred charges over which he presides for the public weal. He will suffer you to punch his head, to tread on his toe, or to call him names, and as likely as not he will apologise sweetly for any inconvenience you may have incurred in the process. But if you belittle the Crackanthorpe Hounds or in any way endanger the humblest member of the Fitzwilliam strain, woe unto you. You transform Brasset into a veritable man of blood and iron. He is invested with pathos and dignity. The lightnings of heaven flash from beneath his long-lashed orbs; and from his somewhat narrow chest there is bodied forth a far richer vocabulary than the general inefficiency of his appearance can possibly warrant hi any conceivable circumstances.
Mere feminine clamour was silenced by Brasset transformed. His blue eyes glowed, his cheeks grew rosier, each particular hair of his perfectly charming little blond moustache – trimmed by Truefitt once a fortnight – stood up on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. In lieu of pink abasement was tawny denunciation.
"I'll admit, Arbuthnot," said the Man of Blood and Iron, "I looked at the woman as no man ought to look at a lady."
"Didn't you say 'damn,' Lord Brasset?" piped a demure seeker after knowledge.
"I may have done, Mrs. Arbuthnot, I admit I may have done."
"I think that ought to go down on the depositions," said I, with an approximation to the manner of my uncle, the judge, that was very tolerable for an amateur.
"I honour you for it, Lord Brasset. Don't you, Mary?"
"Endeavour not to embarrass the witness," said I. "Go on, Brasset."
"Brasset, here's your beer," said Jodey, rising from the table and personally handing the Burton brew with vast solemnity.
"I may have damned her eyes," proceeded the witness, "or I mayn't have done. You see, she was within two inches of the old gal, and I may have lost my head for a bit. I'll admit that no man ought to damn the eyes of a lady. Mind, I don't say I did. And yet I don't say I didn't. It all happened before you could say 'knife,' and I'll admit I was rattled."
"The witness admits he was rattled," said I.
"So would you have been, old son," the witness continued magniloquently. "Within two inches, upon my oath."
"Were there reprisals on the part of the lady whose eyes you had damned in a moment of mental duress?"
"Rather. She damned mine in Dutch."
Sensation.
"How did you know it was Dutch, Lord Brasset?" piped a seeker of knowledge.
"By the behaviour of the hounds, Mrs. Arbuthnot."
"How did they behave?"
"The beggars bolted."
Sensation.
"My aunt!" said the occupant of the breakfast table with solemn irrelevance.
"So would you," said the noble Master. "I never heard anything like it. In my opinion there is no language like Dutch when it comes to cursing. And then, before I could blink, up went her hand, and she gave me one over the head with her crop."
Sensation.
"Upon my solemn word of honour. I don't mind showing the mark to anybody."
"Where