Meanwhile, the five youths drew still closer, and their attitude, as displayed in their faces and the looks which every now and then they interchanged—sideways and backwards—if not exactly threatening, were anything but friendly.
As a dog-breeder, and a dog-shower, Nerina had seen a good deal of the world and was acquainted with its seamier side, and when the dual patrol had gone on for half an hour—the little gang marching and whistling alongside, until they were almost rubbing shoulders with her—she felt it was time to do something. They all looked rather alike, black-avised with dark, dangling, dirty locks to match, but she turned to the one who seemed to be the leader, and said, ‘Come in here, there’s something I want to say to you.’
She led the way from the kennels to her sitting-room, her library, only a few yards distant, a limb of the main body of the house.
They followed her in and stood around her, with the same look, between half-closed eyes, suggesting something they would like to do, if they could decide on it.
Nerina didn’t ask them to sit down; she stood in their midst, and looked up at them.
‘Now,’ she said, as briskly as she could, ‘There’s something I want to ask you. Why are you here? What is all this about?’
A shuffling of feet; an exchange of interrogative looks; and their spokesman said,
‘It’s the spirit of adventure, I suppose.’
‘You call it the spirit of adventure,’ said Nerina. ‘I should call it something else.’
And for several minutes she told them, looking up from one face to another, for they were all big boys, what she would call it.
When she had finished her tirade she nodded a dismissal, and the little gang, rather sheepishly, filed out, no more to be seen.
Not long afterwards the vet turned up. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Willoughby,’ he said, ‘but those damned birds took longer than I thought. And it was just as I expected—one of the cobs had done the other in—he was lying down on the grass with his neck and his head stretched out and his eyes glazing. I gave him an injection as quick as I could, but I’m afraid it was too late—I didn’t hear any swan-song—and I gave the other a boot, which I hope he will remember. The lady in the case was standing by, looking more coy than you can believe, so I gave her a boot too, just to teach her. I suppose they can’t help the way they behave, but it is annoying, to be called out as early as that—just for swans, because they are, or some of them are, said to be, the Queen’s birds. And they are nearly the only birds, besides cocks and fighting-cocks, and birds of prey, which set out to kill each other. Sparrows have their squabbles but they are soon over, and I wouldn’t get out of bed to separate them. Now what can I do for you, Miss Willoughby?’
Nerina explained, and together they inspected the suffering occupants of the kennels. No need to tell—it was abundantly evident on the floor of their well-kept abodes—what was the matter with them. But was it a symptom or a cause?
‘I’m sure you’ve done right,’ the vet said. ‘It’s one of those unexplained epidemics that dogs, even more than human beings, are liable to. But you might also give them these,’ and he brought out from his bag a bottle of pills. He frowned. ‘One never knows, in this kind of thing, if it’s better to let Nature take its course. Don’t hesitate to call me if they aren’t improving. I hope that by tomorrow all the swans in England will be dead.’
He waved and drove away.
Having administered his pills to the afflicted animals, some of whom were willing to swallow them and some not, Nerina went back to her library sitting-room, and sat down to answer some letters that had been too long unanswered.
It was now eleven o’clock; the traditional hour of respite and relaxation. She might well have felt tired but she didn’t, for work was more of a stimulus to her than leisure, or pleasure.
Presently, while her fingers were still busy on the writing-paper, a daily help came in with a tray, on which was some of the household silver, that was cleaned once a week.
‘May I have your clock, Miss Nerina?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Nerina, nodding towards the chimney-piece where it stood, and the clock went away with the salt-cellars, pepper-pots, spoons and the rest of the silver-ware which Nerina, who was not much interested in such matters, thought it necessary to keep bright and shining.
The clock—the little, silver travelling-clock, had been a present, and she was fond of it. It was engraved, on the margin, ‘For Nerina, from a friend.’ It didn’t say who the friend was, which made Nerina all the more aware of who it was.
She went on writing, always with an ear for sounds from the kennels, and didn’t notice the passing of time, until she was suddenly startled by the pealing of the front-door bell, which, clanging in the kitchen, also resounded through the house.
Was there anyone to answer it, apart from the cook, who never answered the door if she could help it? Yes, there was Hilda, the silver-polisher, who didn’t leave till after lunch.
Nerina settled down to her correspondence, but was disturbed by another, louder peal.
‘Oh dear, must I go?’ she asked herself, for she was more tired than she knew.
A third peal, and then silence, silence for what seemed quite a long time.
Nerina was licking the last envelope, and preparing to go out to see how the dogs were getting on, when Hilda came in.
‘Excuse me, Miss Nerina,’ she said, ‘but something has happened.’
‘Oh, what?’ asked Nerina. She was not specially observant, and was obsessed by the thought of what might be happening in the kennels, but she saw that Hilda had a white face.
‘It’s the clock, Miss Nerina, your little clock.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s disappeared.’
Nerina got up from her desk. How many times, during the day, had her thoughts been violently switched from one subject to another.
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes, Miss Nerina, I had it on the tray, ready to clean, and the doorbell rang, twice, no three times, when I was having my elevenses, and a boy was at the front door with a parcel. I told him where to put the parcel—groceries or something—in the pantry, and went back to the kitchen, to finish my cup of tea, and when I went back to the pantry, it was gone.’
‘The clock, you mean?’
‘Yes, Miss Nerina. None of us would have taken it, as you well know.’ Nerina did know. For a few minutes the loss of the clock, that symbol of an ancient friendship, which had faithfully told her the time of day in many places, and for many years, brought tears to her eyes.
‘Never mind, Hilda,’ she said, ‘We shall get over it. Worse things happen at sea,’ and she went out to look at the dogs, who were ill—which the clock, whatever might have been its fate, was not.
The next morning the dogs were clearly on the mend. Nerina and the kennel-maid, who was now recovered, between them cleaned out the grosser relics of the dogs’ indisposition. Nerina was not usually time-conscious, but when she went back, after washing, to her sitting-room—a spy-hole on the dogs—the clock wasn’t there, and the claims of human, as distinct from canine friendship, began to assert themselves.
When she had looked round for the tenth time, to see what hour it was, Hilda appeared.
‘There’s a young gentleman to see you, Miss Nerina.’
‘A young gentleman? Who is he?’
‘I couldn’t catch his name, Miss Nerina. He speaks that rough.’