her on the stairs, or behind a just closed door, and his eyes
were heavy with caresses.
For two days the girl hadn't a comfortable moment,
and when finally, after a hairbreadth escape from the
vigilant eye of Sir Adolph, her strained nerves showed
themselves in the form of a violent headache and touch of
fever, Rosie's invitation fell like manna from heaven. She
stayed several days in Brighton, and Bertie had written
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
with Teutonic fidelity every one of the days ; besides send-
ing telegrams of an unmistakably amorous nature several
times.
This way of expressing his devotion irked Cuckoo to
boredom, but besides annoying her it caused her a subtler
and more respectable emotion, something remotely akin
to the shame with which she should have been filled. She
was ready to take the Fabricius money, but it would have
been much easier for her if Bertie had not so sincerely
cared for her. At times, after reading certain of his
letters, she almost hated him for his obvious sincerity and
good intentions for the future.
As her train steamed into Victoria Station, this feeling
of irritability was very strong, and when Fabricius met
her, something in his face really gave her a pang.
"My goodness, Bertie," she said, "don't look like that ;
everybody's staring at you."
"I don't care. You look better, darling. Oh, I am
so glad to see you."
Barring George, he was the only man who had ever
made love to her, and she wished, as many a woman has
wished before, that the words of one lover did not so
irresistibly remind her of the words of another.
On the way to the Club where she was to drop him she
said, suddenly drawing back from his embrace, "Now
listen, Bertie. It's all your wish that we are keeping our
engagement a secret until afterwards. I shouldn't have
minded telling them and facing it out, but you didn't
want to "
"I could see no sense in idoing so. You know what
mother would be," he returned sulkily.
"Oh, that's all right no more can I. But there is no
good in our trying to keep it a secret if you are going to
give it away by looking at me like that."
"You oughtn't to blame me for looking at you as if I
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
love you," he protested, not unreasonably, and she has-
tened to smooth his ruffled feelings.
"Look at me just as you like when we're alone dear,"
she said quickly; "but do be careful before your mother
and father, then everything will be all right."
Such ab he was, he was deeply and honorably in love
with her, and after a moment he promised to do his best
to fulfill her wishes.
"Although," he added, "when you stick out your funny
little jaw and that dimple comes twinkling in your face,
I can't help just adoring you." He kissed her. "I've
found out about the special license, and the man I told
you of at that city church will marry us and we can
catch the one o'clock train for Paris. This is Tuesday,
and it will be for Saturday morning."
In spite of herself, Cuckoo gave a start.
"I thought I thought we were going to wait till after
the New Year," she protested, a dreadful feeling of irrevo-
cability weakening her voice.
He laughed softly. "No, my dear. No time like the
present, and the sooner it is done the sooner we can come
home for that fatted calf."
The cab had stopped at the Club, and after kissing her
again, he left her.
"I shall come in in about an hour's time," he said.
"Please wear some of the flowers I am going to send you.
I've got you a ripping Christmas present."
Cuckoo's eyes twinkled. "What is it?" she coaxed,
leaning out of the cab.
"No, I won't tell you, you baggage. It is to be a sur-
prise, but it's a beauty "
When she reached South Audley Street, Almond opened
the door and told her that her ladyship and Sir Adolph
were in the library and wished her to go to them at once.
She nodded. "All right, Almond." Taking off her coat
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
and veil, she went to the library just as she was.
"Hallo, dears," she cried gaily, running in. Then she
stopped, looking from one to another of the two faces be-
fore her. They knew.
"Sit down," said her aunt. Cuckoo sat down and
unfastened her gloves. The game was up. She felt it
in the marrow of her bones, but she was not without
courage and her blood warmed to battle. After all, Al-
mond, or Frederick, or that foxy-faced Walter, whom she
had never liked, must have seen something and told. Oh,
what a "fool Bertie was !
"What's the matter, Aunt Marcia?" she asked, very
distinctly.
"The matter is," burst out Lady Fabricius, stammering
with overwhelming anger, "that we've found you out,
you "
Then Sir Adolph raised his hand.
"Be quiet, Marcia." Never in his life had he so spoken
to her, and the old woman was hushed. Cuckoo turned
to her uncle, and even at that awful moment could not
help paying him the tribute of a strong admiration for the
look of power and dignity in his grotesquely ugly face.
"The matter is," he said slowly, "that you have been
planning to marry our son without our knowledge or
consent."
"Bertie has asked me to marry him, certainly," she
returned steadily. Then she broke off and turned to the
door.
"It's our son coming in," Sir Adolph explained.
"There was a telephone message for him at his Club.
We of course knew that he would meet you and that you
would drop him there before coming home "
The door opened as he finished speaking, and Bertie
came in.
"Hullo!" he burst out. "What's up?" Then he saw,
244
and without a moment's hesitation he went and stood by
Cuckoo.
"I suppose you've found out about our engagement."
His father looked at him, an odd look of pity in his
face. Cuckoo quailed.
"I have sent for you, Hubert," the old man said slowly,
"to tell you something that will make you very unhappy."
All her life Cuckoo was glad that when his father said
this, Bertie took hold of her hand and drew her close to him.
"It won't make me unhappy, Father," he said. "For
no matter what you may say I am going to marry
Cuckoo."
Cuckoo pushed him away. "Oh, don't!" she said.
"Please let me go. I don't want to discuss this matter
and I'll go to Roseroofs at once."
"What on earth are you all talking about?" burst out
Bertie, losing his patience, his dull red flush mounting in
his face.
"You can tell him," Cuckoo said rapidly to her uncle.
"How you found out, I don't know, but I'm not going
to stop and hear you talk about it."
"Don't be a fool, Cuckoo ; it doesn't in the least matter,
their having found out. It was my fault that we didn't
tell them in the beginning "
But old Sir Adolph again raised his hand, with that
peculiar, un-English gesture.
"As to how we found out, Cuckoo," he said slowly,
"you yourself told us."
'7 told you?"
Sir Adolph drew from his pocket his shabby old spec-
tacle-case, and with great deliberation planted his spec-
tacles upon his nose. Then he put his hand to his pocket
and Cuckoo knew.
"Oh, I see," she said very rapidly. "I mixed my let-
ters to Aunt Marcia and Rachel Jackson. Read him the
245
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
letter if you like, but I'm going to tell him. It's this,
Bertie. I wanted to marry you because you are rich.
And Rachel Tcnew, and when you asked me to marry you
I wrote and told her all about it. I wish you wouldn't
listen to the letter; it will hurt you, and I'm very well,
very proud of the way you have just behaved. I I'm
glad," she went on, running her words together, a blaze
of color in her cheeks. "I'm glad for your sake that they
found out. I think if I'd known that you were were
what I know now, I couldn't have been so horrid.
Good-bye. Good-bye, Aunt Marcia. Good-bye, Uncle
Adolph."
She turned to the door, and then came her downfall.
Bertie stepped quickly in front of her and stood with his
back to the door.
"Read the letter, Father," he said, "or give it to me.
You've got to listen, Cuckoo."
He stood there, barring the door, his big head lowered,
his heavy shoulders lurching forward, his jaw set; look-
ing, in his anger and amazement, much finer and more
manly than any one had ever seen him look and in an
unbroken silence Sir Adolph Fabricius read aloud the let-
ter Cuckoo had written to Rachel Jackson.
"DEAREST RACHEL,
"I hope you understood my telegram. I could not make it
any clearer as it was raining, so I couldn't go out myself to
send it and couldn't wait to let you know the good news. It is
really true, and we are going to be married just after the New
Year. You were perfectly right in saying that he had not
meant what he said to Uncle Adolph about not wanting to
marry me. Uncle Adolph had smelt a rat and warned him off
me, so to speak, and he was naturally keeping things pleasant.
"He was furious with me for having thought he meant it,
and I suppose I was rather a beast. However, it doesn't mat-
ter now, and I am so happy I don't know what to do "
246
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
Bertie's face relaxed at this point, and he made a slight
movement towards Cuckoo. But Sir Adolph raised his
prominent, light, masterful eyes for a moment, and his
son did not stir from the door.
"Of course there is bound to be a frightful row; the Fabs
are going to be furious, and it isn't nice to insist on being the
daughter of people who loathe you. . . . Uncle Adolph
wouldn't mind much, poor old darling, only he is so utterly
under auntie's stern thumb that he will back her up and re-
pudiate and cast us both off. Bertie has four thousand pounds
a year of his own already. . . . Four thousand pounds would
seem genteel poverty to Rosie, but, after all, it's better than a
poke in the eye with a muddy stick "
Cuckoo dared not look at Bertie while this was being
read; her face was like a little mask, her eyes nearly
closed. Sir Adolph read on, his voice monotonous and
regular as if he were reading the minutes of some dull
board meeting.
"I haven't told Rosie because, though she is a darling, site
does chatter, and Bertie doesn't strike me as being one of the
valiant ones of the earth, and I am sure if auntie found out in
time and made herself sufficiently nasty my beloved would
back down . . ."
Sir Adolph raised his eyelids and looked fixedly at
Cuckoo as he read these words. She returned his gaze
with a curious detached steadiness. Then she looked at
her aunt, and a little shudder passed over her; her aunt,
she knew, would be very dreadful. Sir Adolph had paused,
but nobody spoke, and he read on :
"However, I really don't mind him so much as I thought I
should, but I shall have to check the brandy habit. Of course,
he never gets really drunk, but I do hate the smell ..."
At this Hubert Fabricius came towards his father with
clenched fists.
247
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
"That's enough," he said hoarsely. "Quite enough."
Sir Adolph bowed and put the letter back in his pocket.
"I thought it would be," he said quietly.
Suddenly Cuckoo saw that the door was open, and her
cousin standing to one side. Grateful to him for his for-
bearance, she was about to leave the room, when her aunt's
voice arrested her. What Lady Fabricius, with her un-
disciplined temper, her outraged vanity and her natural
anger for her son's sake, said to her dead sister's daughter
need not be told. She was so violent, so ruthless, so
vulgar in her unbridled hatred and spite, that none of the
three could think of anything to say that would stop her.
Sir Adolph listened horror-stricken but helpless, and
Bertie, after the first minute of the invective, walked to
the window and stood looking out into the early night.
Cuckoo turned and faced her aunt, her position, of
course, vastly improved by her aunt's break-down.
Finally, when the old woman stopped, literally because
she couldn't breathe, Cuckoo spoke.
"I'm very sorry, Bertie," she said, "that I've hurt
you, and I'm sorry that I've hurt Uncle Adolph, and I
can respect your anger, but as for Aunt Marcia, I am glad
she knows from my letter how I feel about her. It is
perfectly true that you bully Uncle Adolph, and he has the
patience of an angel, and everybody knows it. You've
given me clothes, but the money which you settled on me
because I am my mother's daughter was not your money
at all it was Uncle Adolph's, and I'm not a bit grateful
to you for it.
"Perhaps Bertie will one day forgive me, but I will
never forgive you. I'm ashamed that you are my aunt. I
am a schemer, and a plotter whatever you like but I'm
ashamed of being your niece."
She marched out of the room and upstairs. It seemed
to her in her anger anger which had utterly swept from
248
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
her mind all feeling of disappointment about Bertie that
she couldn't live another minute in her aunt's house.
"I shall go straight back to Roseroofs." Hastily
packing her dressing-case with the things necessary for
one night, she drank a glass of water to steady herself
and started towards the door.
Roseroofs ! But the aunts were leaving had left that
very day for Bournemouth, and Esther Oughtenshaw,
she knew, had gone away as well. Moreover, she had no
money only five or six shillings at most and Rosamund
Brinkley, the only person to whom she could have gone
to borrow a little, was in Brighton.
After all, she was only twenty and she stood still in
the middle of the room, sick with fright. What should
she do? Even her uncle, she knew, would never forgive
what she had said to her aunt, and she would die rather
than see Bertie again.
Suddenly she saw, on a little table by the window, a
large square parcel in thick brown paper. Hardly real-
izing what she was doing, she read the address. It was
in George's writing. She could hardly have been more
surprised if the heavens had opened and one of the Saints
had bent down to help her. George!
Tearing open the paper she saw what it was. It was
a small, careful painting of Roseroofs in the early
Spring, in a plain gold frame. In one corner there was a
note.
DEAR CUCKOO [the note said],
I shall do as you ask and not try to see you again, but this
is Christmas and you must let me send you the present I had
prepared for you; for I do want you to be happy. I shall al-
ways love you, and no matter where I am, I will always come
to do any mortal thing for you that I can.
GEORGE.
249
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
She stared at the letter for a moment, then she laughed
aloud. There was his address at the corner of the paper :
i6A, Barker Street,
Chelsea.
Taking the picture under her arm, she went quietly
downstairs. Almond was in the hall, as servants seem to
have the knack of being at crucial moments.
"Call me a cab, will you?" Cuckoo said, nearly com-
posing her voice to its usual tone.
"Very good, miss."
The man went outside to blow his whistle, and at that
moment Bertie came out of the library.
" Where are you going?" he asked.
Cuckoo didn't answer for fear of being melodramatic.
Bertie Fab was obviously shaken; his large face was
white, and the flesh looked loose on the bones.
"Cuckoo," he said awkwardly, "you mustn't go off
like this. I am very sorry my mother spoke as she did."
To her horrified amazement, Cuckoo burst into tears
as she turned to the door.
Almond still stood at the curb, blowing his whistle.
Practically the two were alone.
"Don s t cry," Fabricius said.
She turned to him.
"There's no use my asking you to forgive me," she
said, trying hard to control herself. "I don't deserve
it, and it would be ridiculous, for if they hadn't found
out, I should never have been sorry."
"Good God," the poor fellow broke out, "neither
should I !"
"But I am sorry I have hurt you, Bertie, and I am
sorry I hurt Uncle Adolph. Don't forget that I'm sorry."
As she spoke a cab stopped at the door and she went
out. After a second he followed her, and waving the
250
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
butler on one side, helped her into the vehicle, which hap-
pened to be an antediluvian "growler," and leaning his
hand on the window, he answered her.
"I shall not forget," he said. "Are you quite sure,
Cuckoo, that you meant it all the letter, I mean?"
Amongst her many bad qualities was the good one of not
shrinking, at another's expense, from pain.
"I am perfectly sure," she said. "I did mean it all.
I was going to marry you only for your money. Tell the
man to drive to Victoria Station."
He watched the cab out of sight, and after a moment
went slowly up the steps. Almond had discreetly with-
drawn, so he shut the door himself.
Poor Bertie Fab!
CHAPTER XXI
LADY ROSAMUND BRINKLEY knocked sharply
at the window of her car, and it stopped.
"This must be the place, William," she said to
the footman, doubtfully; "don't you think so?"
William knew very conclusively that it was the place,
for he was a denizen of the lowish neighborhood himself,
but having risen in the world, he chose to deny his birth-
place.
"I'll just ask at that greengrocer's shop, M'lady," he
returned, assuming a puzzled look, as of an explorer who
has lost the path in a jungle.
Lady Rosamund sat forward, her chin in her hand,
Staring curiously at the sordid street and the few, de-
pressed-looking passers-by.
Large, luxurious, two-manned limousines were not usual
in Barker Street, Chelsea, and several children, whose
little noses needed maternal attention, stood staring at
it; a fine rain was filtering through the thick, smoke-
charged air a huge factory chimney was near, sending
forth oily smoke the houses were small, and mean, and
dirty, and most of their parlor windows showed cards
announcing a desire for lodgers. The car had stopped,
however, not at one of these houses, but at a dingy arch-
way leading into a courtyard, and above it stretched rows
of tall, narrow windows set into a wall of blackened red
bricks.
Lady Rosamund was looking for Whistler Mansions,
and this dog's-eared-looking building looked like Man-
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
sions, or a Court fine words count, so to speak, in tfie
world.
William, after a few words with the greengrocer's wife,
who called him Bill and gave him some hasty information
about the funeral of one of his sisters, returned presently
to confirm his mistress's foreboding.
"Yes, M'lady," he told her, opening the door, "it is
Whistler Mansions."
She got out, refusing his professional suggestion that
he should go in search of whomever she might be looking
for, and disappeared under the arch.
It led into a broad asphalt courtyard, to the left of
which there was a door marked Estate Office, and to the
estate office the young woman tripped in her thin shoes.
She was a brave soul, less pampered, despite her mer-
cenary marriage, than Rachel, and her nerves were sound,
but she shuddered a little as she went up stair after
stair, following the directions of the woman in the
office.
The stairs were narrow and dirty; the cheap iron of
the banisters, and the concrete, gave out a loud echo
under her footsteps. It was, she thought, like what a
prison or a workhouse must be.
At last, out of breath, she stopped and looked in vain
for a card or a name on the three doors facing her.
"It must be here," she thought. "Oh, poor, poor
Cuckoo!"
After ringing at the middle door and receiving no an-
swer, she tried the one to the left. A*s she waited, the
door on the right opened suddenly and someone came out,
clattering recklessly down the echoing stairs.
Rosamund turned and caught sight, at the turning, of
a pale, agitated face under a soft hat.
"Good gracious," she said aloud. Then, without wait-
ing any longer at the door where she had rung, she went
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
to the door out of which the man had come, and rang
there.
No one answered, and she rang again. Her feet were
ice-cold from the stones, which felt damp as well as cold,
though of course they were not, and her teeth chattered
a little. Presently she rang again, and the queer hollow
silence that broods in such places, so easily to be shat-
tered into thin echoes by any noise, remained unbroken.
She stood at the top landing of the building, and on
the murky skylight over her head a heavy rain was now
falling.
A thought of him whom her friends, particularly the
hard-up ones, called her appalling husband, came to the
young woman's mind, and it was an affectionate thought.
How frightful to have to live in a place like this!
The silence continuing, she at length knocked on the
thickly ribbed glass of the door with her knuckles. Then,
shaking the handle, she called close to the keyhole.
"Cuckoo, Cuckoo, let me in! Cuckoo "
After a pause she called again. "Cuckoo, let me in
it's me, Rosie !"
"Who is it?" boomed a deep, hoarse voice from behind
the door.
"Rosamund Brinkley. Let me in."
Cuckoo opened the door and stood staring at her so
utterly unexpected guest.
"So it's you," she said at last, in a more everyday
key.
"Yes I I just thought I'd come to see you "
They shook hands, and Rosamund noted in Cuckoo's
face the odd kind of weariness that she had observed in
the faces of poor women whom she had, through notions
of charity, visited uninvited.
When Cuckoo had led the way into the large room that
was evidently studio, dining-room, library and drawing-
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
room in one, Rosamund threw her muff into a chair and
turned.
"Cuckoo," she cried, "aren't you a little glad to see
me?"
Cuckoo looked at her coldly. "No," she returned, "not
particularly; why should I be?"
"Would you would you rather I went?" Rosamund
stammered, feeling the most inexcusable of intruders.
"I only came because because I heard "
Cuckoo laughed shortly. "No, I don't want you to
go. Sit down and rest your legs. Those stairs must
have tired them "
Rosamund sat down, and Cuckoo went on, as she put
some coals on the shabby fire, "Why did you say you
came ?"
"Because I heard about your poor little baby."
Cuckoo turned from the fire, brushing the coal-dust
from her fingers. "The baby," she answered, indiffer-
ently, "died nearly a year ago."
"I have been away over a year. We were in Japan
when it happened. Oh, Cuckoo," the elder young woman
broke out, "I am so sorry, dear."
"I am not. I'm glad."
Cuckoo sat motionless as she spoke, her hands folded
in her lap, her eyes fixed vacantly on the space behind
her caller.
Rosamund Brinkley was sincerely horrified, but she
did not speak, for she did not know what to say.
"Did you meet George?" Cuckoo asked, after a mo-
ment. "He went out just before you came "
"I I saw him running downstairs. He didn't see
me "
"No, he wouldn't. I suppose you gathered we'd had
a row? Well, we had. We have one every day of our
lives. Jolly, isn't it?"
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THE BAG OF SAFFRON
"OH, Cuckoo dear "
Cuckoo laughed again. "But never mind us. Tell me
about yourself, Rosie. I really am glad to see you in
a way, you know. How's Phil, and when did you get
back?"
"We got back about six weeks ago. Phil is very well.
He's going in for politics. He really quite a lot of
people important people want him to. He's he's
clever, you know "
"He always was clever. And I, for one, always liked
him."
Rosamund blushed suddenly. "I know you did, dear,
and I I am so glad "
Cuckoo eyed her for a moment, her eyes full of scrutiny.
"I believe," she declared, "that you are in love with him
as well!"
"Oh! How ridiculous you are and besides, what <3o
you mean by 'as well?' '
Cuckoo rose and, going to a dresser, took down some
cups and saucers.
"I'll give you a cup of our delicious tea," she said,
wearily, "and I meant that it seems you've got every-
thing. The caring as well as as the rest. That's all."
The appalling Mr. Brinkley's wife did not answer her.
She was looking into the fire, a shy smile on her plump,
pretty face.
Cuckoo went into the next room, and the sound of a
match being struck was followed by the breathy noise of
the lighting gas.
Rosamund seized the opportunity for a survey of the
studio. It was a large, oblong room with a high, grimy
ceiling, the walls were distempered yellow, the floor
painted black.
The scant furniture was good of its kind, though in-
expensive, and at the far end, under a large window, was
256
THE BAG OF SAFFRON
scattered the paraphernalia of a painter. Behind where
she sat stood the dining-table, still piled with unwashed
dishes. An air of neglect and indifference hung over
everything; the brass candlesticks were dull, the hearth
unwhitened, there was not a flower anywhere.
Beside the kitchen door, another, half open, led into
the bedroom, and Rosamund could see an untidy dressing-
table crowded with blurred silver and ebony things.