“Ultima What?” demanded both her hearers.
“Urf. It was the runt of the litter, you see. It died.”
“Angel, I don't see!” complained Abby.
“It means a stunted child,” explained Miss Patterdale. “Not bad, really, except that one would feel such a fool, shouting Urf, Urf, Urf, in the street. At least, I should. Not that I've any right to poke fun at Flora. Anything more unsuitable for a couple of goats than Rosalind and Celia I've yet to discover. I must have been out of my mind. Celia got loose this afternoon, and strayed. That's how I met Flora. She was giving some of her dogs a run on the common.”
“Has Ullapool had her puppies? I'd love to see them,” said Abby.
“You wouldn't be able to for several weeks. No, she hasn't. Flora doesn't think they'll arrive until tomorrow. It wasn't really that which kept her away from the party. She didn't want to meet Mr. Warrenby. They've had a violent quarrel. He kicked Ulysses off one of his flower-beds.”
“Beast!” said Abby.
“Yes, I'm not at all in favour of that,” said Charles. “I shall pay a visit of condolence. I like Ulysses. He's a dog of dignity. Ready for another Haswell Special, Abby?”
She handed him her glass. “Thanks. As a matter of fact, Mr. Warrenby wasn't there. He had to do some work, or something. Mavis was rather dim and boring about Poor Uncle having to get his own tea.”
“Do him good!” said Miss Patterdale. “If Mavis had an ounce of common sense—but she hasn't, and she never will have! The longer I live the more convinced I become that self-sacrificing people do a great deal of harm in the world.”
Charles choked over the Haswell Special. Abby, regarding her aunt with indulgent fondness, said: “You're a nice one to talk!”
“If you mean by that that I'm self-sacrificing, you are mistaken.”
“Aunt Miriam! You spend your entire life slaving for the indigent, and the sick, and every charity that raises its head—”
“That isn't self-sacrificing. It comes of being a parson's daughter, and acquiring the habit young. Besides, I like it. Shouldn't do it, if I didn't. When I talk of self-sacrificing people, I mean people like Mavis, making doormats of themselves, and giving up everything they like to satisfy the demands of thoroughly selfish characters like Sampson Warrenby. Making a virtue of it, too. It isn't a virtue. Take Sampson Warrenby! If he weren't allowed to ride roughshod over Mavis, he'd be very much better-behaved, and consequently much better-liked.”
“He might be,” said Charles dubiously. “Speaking for myself, I find him even more unlikable in his ingratiating moments than when he sees himself as Lord of all he surveys. You ought to hear Dad on the subject of his antics on the Borough Council! He says Warrenby would like to be a sort of puppet-master pulling strings to set the rest of 'em dancing to his tune. Peculiar ambition!”
“Power-complex,” said Abby, nodding wisely. “I expect my old toot would find him an interesting study.”
“I may be out of date,” said Miss Patterdale, “but I do not think you ought to call Geoffrey Silloth a toot—whatever a toot may be!”
“But he is a toot, angel! You are too, and it's someone lamb-like, and altogether a good-thing-and-memorable!”
“I have never met Mr. Silloth, but I know what I look like, and it isn't a lamb. Not at all sure it isn't rather like a goat,” said Miss Patterdale reflectively. “Not Celia, but Rosalind.”
This unflattering self-portrait met with such indignant refutation that Miss Patterdale, though maintaining her customary brusqueness, turned quite pink with pleasure. Another drink was clearly called for by the time her young admirers had, as they hoped, convinced her that she bore no resemblance to a creature it would have been the height of mendacity to have called a pet animal; and Charles got up to mix it. It was as he was handing her glass to Abby that an interruption occurred. The garden-gate was heard to click, and Abby, glancing over her shoulder, saw through the open casement Mavis Warrenby, coming in a stumbling run up the flagged path, one hand pressed to her panting bosom, and her whole appearance betokening extreme agitation.
“Good lord, what's up?” exclaimed Abby. “It's Mavis!”
The front-door of Fox Cottage stood hospitably open, but it was seen that even in emergency Miss Warrenby was not one to burst uninvited into a strange house. A trembling knock was heard, accompanied by a tearful voice uttering Miss Patterdale's name. “Miss Patterdale! Oh, Miss Patterdale!” it wailed.
Charles, who was standing by the dresser, with the gin-bottle in his hand, cast a startled and enquiring look at his hostess, and then set the bottle down, and went out into the narrow front passage. “Hallo!” he said. “Anything wrong?”
Mavis, who was leaning in a limp way against the door-post, gasped, and stammered: “Oh! I didn't— I don't know what to do! Miss Patterdale— Oh, I don't know what to do!”
“What's the matter?” asked Miss Patterdale, who had by this time joined Charles in the passage. “Come inside! Good gracious, are you ill, child?”
“No, no! Oh, it's so awful!” shuddered Mavis.
“Here, hold up!” said Charles, seeing her wilt against the wall, and putting his arm round her. “What's so awful?”
“Bring her into the parlour!” commanded Miss Patterdale. “Abby, run up and get the sal volatile out of my medicine chest! Now, you sit down, and pull yourself together, Mavis! What has happened?”
“I ran all the way!” gasped Mavis. “I shall be all right. I didn't know what to do! I could only think of getting to you! I felt so sick! Oh, Miss Patterdale, I think I am going to be sick!”
“No, you aren't,” said Miss Patterdale firmly. “Lay her on the sofa, Charles! Now, you keep quiet, Mavis, and don't try to tell me anything until you've got your breath! I'm not surprised you feel sick, running all the way from Fox House in this heat. That's right, Abby: put a little water in it! Here you are, child! Swallow this, and you'll feel better!”
Miss Warrenby gulped the dose down, and shuddered, and began to cry.
“Stop that at once!” said Miss Patterdale, recognising the signs of hysteria. “No! It's no use trying to tell me what is wrong while you're sobbing in that silly way: I can't make out a word you're saying. Control yourself!”
This bracing treatment had its effect. Mavis made a great effort to obey, accepted a proffered handkerchief, and after mopping her face, and giving several gulps, sniffs, and sobs, grew more composed. “It's Uncle!” she managed to say “I didn't know what to do: I thought I was going to faint, it's so awful! I could only think of getting to you, Miss Patterdale!”
“What's he been doing?” demanded Miss Patterdale.
“Oh, no, no! It isn't that! Oh, poor Uncle! I knew I oughtn't to have left him alone like that! I shall never forgive myself!”
“Look here!” said Charles, who was becoming bored with Mavis's exclamatory and obscure style of narrative. “Just what has happened to your uncle?”
She turned dilating eyes towards him. “I think—I think he's dead!” she said, shuddering.
“Dead?” Charles repeated incredulously. “Do you mean he's had a stroke, or something?”
She began to cry again. “No, no, no! It's much, much more dreadful. He's been shot!”
“Good God!” said Charles blankly. “But—”
“For heaven's sake, girl!” interrupted Miss Patterdale. “You say you think he's dead. Surely you didn't come here, leaving the unfortunate man alone, without making certain there was nothing you could do for him?”
Mavis covered her face with her hands. “I—I know he's dead. I thought he was asleep, and it seemed so unlike him, somehow. I went up to him, and then I saw!”
“You saw what?” said Miss Patterdale, as Mavis broke off. “Try to pull yourself together!”
“Yes. I'm sorry. It's been such a shock. In the side of his head—just here—” she pressed her left temple—”a—hole! Oh, don't ask me! And I heard it! I didn't think anything about it at the time. I was just getting over the stile at the top of the lane, and I heard a gun fired. It made me jump, because it sounded quite close, but of course I only thought it was somebody shooting rabbits. And then I opened the garden-gate, and saw Uncle on the seat under the oak-tree . . .”