The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris (3 page)

Thus Tizzy prattled on, her motherly feelings shining in her flushed and sweet young face. All the benefits of love, affection and learning could be lavished on the mysterious infant. Nothing would be denied it . . .

A little way behind her stalked Ralph Bunnion, his face—and particularly his nose—blazing with pain. Dimly he thought of revenging himself on Tizzy, but
was too upset to determine on how. Vague images of dark figures overwhelming her filled his dazed brain. He shifted the handkerchief and discovered that the blood still flowed. He hoped he'd not lost too much, and above all he hoped he'd not stained his father's best cravat which he happened to be wearing. More and more passionate grew his hatred of Tizzy Alexander . . .

A little way behind him, taking skillful advantage of every bush and sheltering hollow, crept Bostock and Harris, awed beyond measure by the fate that had overtaken Adelaide. Though Bostock had been deeply moved by Miss Alexander's tenderness and the wonderful prospect she'd held out for the infant, he knew it wouldn't be right to let Adelaide go. He peered toward Harris, whose face was of a terrible whiteness. So Bostock held his peace till he should be told what to do. Harris would think of something. Harris was nobody's fool . . .

Thus thought Bostock as he followed Harris who followed the famous Ralph Bunnion who followed Tizzy Alexander and Adelaide in strange procession toward Dr. Bunnion's Academy.

MR. BRETT, DESPISED
even by the cook for never flaring up like the lively Major Alexander and bearing every humiliation as if his very life depended on staying at Dr. Bunnion's, sat at dinner next to the fat boarder whose name was Sorley. Though there were two other borders at ninety pounds per annum each, Sorley came first in the headmaster's estimation. He was the son of a baronet at Cuckfield and Dr. Bunnion had hopes concerning a sister of Sorley's and his own son, the ever popular Ralph. But he was a sensible man and kept these hopes to himself, and only assisted them by throwing in Sorley's way any little advantage or courtesy that might be reported back to Cuckfield; and naturally he looked to his staff to do the same.
In his heart of hearts he considered his ambitions not unreasonable. Sorley, in common with the rest of the school, looked up to the handsome Ralph as to a prince, and surely must have talked of him at home.

“Here, boy,” said Major Alexander, leaning across the table and thoughtfully helping Sorley to more mutton pie. “We must look after you, eh?”

Mr. Brett, who was sitting next to Sorley and so might have performed the same action more easily, bit his lip. As usual, his thoughts had been elsewhere, so Major Alexander benefited by a smile from Dr. Bunnion while he received a look of contempt from the doctor's stately wife. Mr. Brett lowered his eyes and wondered if life was worth living.

It was then that there came an agitated knocking on the door. It was a rapid and urgent sound. The door seemed to tremble and before Dr. Bunnion could speak, it burst open.

Two faces of supernatural terror appeared at the window, then vanished like spectral dreams, blown by the wind. No one in the room had seen them nor felt the stare of their wild eyes. They had made no sound nor even misted the glass with their breath. They had not dared to breathe.

Bostock and Harris had seen Harris's infant sister in Miss Alexander's arms being presented at Dr. Bunnion's dining table like an extra course. Ralph Bunnion was not with her. She and Adelaide stood alone before the astonished company. Harris thought madly of tapping on the window and coming out
with: Please can we have our baby back? But natural dread of the unlucky affair being told to his father killed the idea stone dead. If there was any hope at all—for him, for Bostock and for little Adelaide—it rested in the god of boys and infants, to whom Harris unscientifically prayed.

“And what, miss, were you doing on the Downs with Mister Bunnion?” Major Alexander, being an ex-officer of Engineers, had a fiery and explosive sense of honor which he was inclined to lay like mines under friends and enemies alike. Generally no great harm was done owing to the Major's natural deviousness. He tunneled too far and explosions were apt to go off at too great a distance from the events that had provoked them. Thus, his fury often seemed more the result of brooding on some unworthy trifle than the instant anger of an honorable man.

But this time he'd exploded his mine with military speed and success. Instantly Adelaide was forgotten and Tizzy's tender pleadings on the baby's behalf were blown to smithereens.

“Well, miss?”

The Major was standing. He was a short, square, formidable man with flashing eyes. Tizzy went very red and Mrs. Alexander, a German lady, shrugged her shoulders and muttered something in her native tongue.

“I—I—” stammered Tizzy, guiltily recalling the dreams with which she'd set out. “That is, Pa, we was walking—”

“Indeed, miss?” said Major Alexander in a low, shaking voice. “Alone—with Mister Bunnion? I rather fancy you are lying to me. I rather fancy he has—compromised you, miss. As I see it, this is a matter of
honor
.”

The word honor was delivered like a sword thrust, and Ralph's father felt a warning stab at his heart.

“My dear Major,” began Dr. Bunnion, hurriedly attempting to calm his touchy arithmetic master, “even allowing for your—um—impulsive—er—nature, there's really no need . . . a trifle, really—”

“A
trifle
?” The Major clenched his fists visibly. “My daughter's honor a trifle?”

“My dear sir, I didn't mean that. You misunderstand me. I would never dream of implying such a thing.” The headmaster spoke with almost trembling sincerity. He was a man who valued discretion above all and conversation was becoming painful to him. “Miss Alexander herself has said they were just walking. She brings no charge—no charge at all. And I assure you, sir, my boy Ralph is the soul of gentility. To my knowledge he has never harmed a fly. I beg of you, sir, most earnestly, to—to control yourself, if you'll forgive the expression. Of course I respect your feelings, but I am certain, quite, quite certain that you are mistaken . . . indeed, damned nonsense!”

This last remark had been quite unintentional, but the headmaster was deeply agitated. He kept glancing at Sorley as if wondering how much of the scene would be reported to Cuckfield.

“Fetch my son,” said Mrs. Bunnion coldly, “and
put an end to this at once. Whatever that girl” (here she glanced contemptuously at the scarlet Tizzy) “may say, my son will tell the truth. Rest assured of that, Major Alexander. Mister Bunnion will tell you your odious suspicions are as absurd as they are insulting.”

Dr. Bunnion, while wishing his wife had not spoken out so plainly, nonetheless agreed that Ralph ought to defend himself and put an end to the wretched scene. So he was sent for.

Unluckily, Ralph, after congratulating himself on having reached his room without being seen, had not yet restored his dapper appearance. Such was the unexpectedness of the summons that he'd scarcely time to remove his damaged coat and his father's cravat before presenting himself to the company in his fatal waistcoat with its design of love-lies-bleeding, and with a similar design, executed in blood, on his brow and nose.

Mr. Brett's lips twisted in a bitter smile.

“I see my child defended herself,” said Major Alexander harshly. There could be no reasonable doubt that the young man's injuries had been inflicted by the desperate and outraged nails of the Major's daughter. “I rather fancy I am entitled to—satisfaction.”

At once there was a terrible silence in the room. The scene which had, at the very worst, been disagreeable and awkward, took on an edge of steel. Dr. Bunnion stared aghast from his son to the smoldering Major and seemed to see phantom bullet
holes in their breasts—and all his dreams and ambitions sinking in a sea of scandalous blood.

“My God,” he whispered. “You—you cannot mean a—a duel?”

Now Major Alexander had not meant a duel. Nothing had been farther from his thoughts. He had meant to say “compensation” but thought it sounded too mercenary and so had said “satisfaction” instead. He was as shocked as anybody by the turn affairs had taken. He frowned uneasily at the athletic Ralph, who did not look the sort of opponent to be trifled with. There was an unpleasantly fearless look about him that the Major could not help disliking, and in a moment his worst fears were realized. Ralph, conscious of the adoring eyes of the three boarders fixed upon him, drew himself up and said coolly, “I am at your service, sir.”

“For God's sake!” cried Dr. Bunnion. “Can we not talk this over?”

“Yes!” said Major Alexander eagerly.

“Pa! Mister Bunnion!” moaned Tizzy in terror—when the infant in her arms, disregarded till that, moment, woke up and began to scream and scream.

Tiny Adelaide had opened her eyes. Huge strange faces filled her sky and whirled like furious suns as far as she could see. She struggled to put up her fat little hands to push them away . . .

“Get rid of that baby!” shouted Dr. Bunnion. “Get it out of here!” The wailing of Adelaide, filling the little academy with its despair, had set up a multitude of echoes in the headmaster's head till he could
no longer think. Tizzy pleaded and begged for the infant to go to the Foundlings—as it no longer seemed probable that she'd be allowed to keep it—but Dr. Bunnion, who had a mania for discretion, was all for quietness. So, still shouting above the infantine uproar, he insisted it be taken and left in the church porch for the vicar to deal with. Tizzy protested that it was inhuman and that they were all beasts and brutes who thought only of themselves and that it was shameful to turn away one so young and helpless.

“Hold your tongue, miss!” snarled the Major. “It's you who are inhuman to think of a damned baby when your pa is prepared to sacrifice his life to clear your honor!”

“I'll take it,” offered Ralph. “I'll ride like the wind, sir . . .”

“You're savages, savages!” wept Tizzy, clinging to the baby which seemed to her the only real and warm thing in the whole demented room. They were a very sweet and touching sight—the girl and the crying baby—but it was only Mr. Brett who pitied them as they were parted, and Adelaide was given up to the eager, handsome Ralph.

Like brooding spirits, Bostock and Harris moved from under the window and followed the wailing that had come out into the air.

“We'll get her back from the church,” breathed Harris, and thanked the god of boys and infants for so aptly answering his prayers.

Pressed against the wall they waited for Ralph Bunnion to emerge from the little yard, high on the school horse. There was something wild and noble about the headmaster's son as he leaned forward against the evening sky with one hand on the reins and the other about the crying child. There was something of an ancient story and a deathless ride as he clattered away in a cloud of frightened sobs.

Bostock and Harris followed after, at first cautiously, then faster and faster till their boots seemed winged. On and on they sped, leaving behind them the little academy which was now trembling in the grip of its own, quite separate calamity.

Presently the sound of the infant's wailing stopped as the motion of the horse rocked it back into sleep; then the sound of the horse itself died away and all that could be heard was the groaning breath and stumbling footfalls of the two pursuers as they mounted the hill toward St. Nicholas's.

“There he goes!” panted Harris as he looked up and saw the dark shape of the great horseman bending low over his burden. But it was only for a moment—the strange pair vanished almost instantly into the stony bulk of the aged, sometime haunted church.

“Hurry! Hurry!” urged Harris. He was horribly afraid they'd be too late and Adelaide would be snatched inside before they could recover her. At last they reached the shadow of the church. There was no sign of horse or rider. Ralph Bunnion, master horseman, had been true to his word; he had come and gone like the invisible wind.

White of face and silent of step, the friends crept through the churchyard. Suddenly a movement disturbed them. They melted amid the monuments and with fearful eyes observed a solitary mourner—a Gypsyish widow—rustle tragically away. Once or twice she stopped to look back, then she vanished like a ghost.

“Look, Bosty!” whispered Harris, pointing to the dark porch. “She's still there!”

Bostock looked. A quiet bundle lay upon the step. “Thank the Lord!” he breathed, and sped like an arrow to gather it up and follow his friend down the hill.

With hearts almost bursting but with spirits high, they ran and ran till they reached the fateful corner of the street where the adventure had begun. As they did so, the clock of St. Nicholas's chimed a quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes remained for the friends to return Adelaide to her crib and call it a day.

“Best give her to me now, Bosty,” said Harris when they were but yards from his home. Thankfully Bostock handed over the still quiet bundle to its lawful flesh and blood.

“You know, Bosty,” murmured Harris with unusual tenderness and affection, “I'm glad we got her back. I mean, after all, she
is
my sister.”

He unwound a corner of the shawl to see how his sister did. He trembled. He moaned. He shook so violently that the infant almost fell and Bostock put out a hand to save it.

The tiny face, sleeping in its wrappings, was of a crumpled brownish color, with scanty hair as black as sin. Even in the fragile light of the broken moon, there was no doubt. It was not Adelaide. They had got the wrong baby.

Far, far away, tiny Adelaide opened her eyes and gurgled with joy. Mistily she saw a golden bird hovering over her head. She reached up to pluck a feather from its wings . . . pretty birds . . .

She lay under the lectern, not in St. Nicholas's but in the church at Preston, beyond, where Ralph Bunnion had left her. The master horseman, up on the school horse—which he was not allowed to ride as often as he would have liked—had been unable to resist the temptation of galloping farther afield than to St. Nicholas's and back. So he had gone on to Preston.