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He surveyed the couple of dozen people in the large, glowing room with a fixed smile and gesture of benevolent congratulation. Mrs. Prockter was close to the door. "Emanuel is just going to sing," she whispered, and shook hands silently with James Ollerenshaw first. Every head was turned.
She had waving flowers in her bonnet and pictures of flowers on her silken gown, and a grey mantle. Much of her figure preceded her as she walked. Her stepson had a tenor voice and a good tailor; his age was thirty. Now, Mrs. Prockter was simply nothing to James Ollerenshaw. They knew each other by sight, but their orbits did not touch. James would have gone by Mrs.
Prockter ill-at-ease. Helen inquired as to the health of the sick relative at Nottingham, and received a reply in which vagueness was mingled with hesitancy and a blush. It then became further obvious to the perspicuous Helen that Mrs. Prockter must have heard of her stepson's singular adventure, and either resented Helen's share in it, or was ashamed of Emanuel's share in it.
"Perhaps it's just as well," said Mrs. Prockter, after a momentary meditation. "Under the circumstances she cannot possibly suspect our little plot." Their little plot! In yielding to the impulse to tell her that Helen was unaware of her presence in the house he had forgotten that he had made it excessively difficult for him to demolish the said plot.
News of the episode between Andrew Dean and Helen had at length reached them, and they had deemed it a sacred duty to inform the hostess of the sad event. They were of the species of woman that spares neither herself nor others. Their fault was, that they were too compassionate for this world. Promising to send the message to Mr. Benskin, Mrs. Prockter vanished to her doom.
And you promised you wouldn't till to-morrow." "Nay!" said James. "I've said nowt! It's you as has let it out, now, missis!" "Told me what, Mrs. Prockter?" Helen asked, utterly unexpectant of the answer she was to get. "My dear girl," said the elder dame, "do not call me Mrs. Prockter. I am Mrs. Ollerenshaw. I am the property that your uncle has been buying at Derby.
And so it went on. And the string, laughing and talking, gradually disappeared diminuendo in the distance towards Bursley. "I suppose you know you've done it this time?" observed Mrs. Prockter. It was a dark saying, but James fully understood it. He felt as though he had drunk champagne. "As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!" he said to himself. And deliberately squeezed the royal arm.
Ollerenshaw," said a voice, queenly and nervous. "Not Mrs. Prockter?" he suggested. "Yes." "I reckon ye'd like to come in," he said. She admitted the desire with a laugh which struck him as excessively free. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry that Helen had departed to bed. He did not even know whether to be glad or sorry that Mrs. Prockter had called.
Helen danced with every man except Andrew, and Andrew danced with every woman except Helen. But Mrs. Prockter had not forgotten the episode; nor had the Misses Webber. The reputation of Mrs. Prockter's entertainments for utter correctness, and her own enormous reputation for fine tact, were impaired, and Mrs. Prockter was determined that that which ought to happen should happen.
Buchanan had been giving a whist drive. There were sundry Swetnams among the string. And the whole string was merry and talkative. It was a fine night. The leading pearls of the string bore down on the middle-aged pair, and peered, and passed. "Good-night, Mrs. Prockter. Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw." Then another couple did the same. "Good-night, Mrs. Prockter. Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw."
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