The first thoughts of Martin Drake were those which he had once or twice entertained during war-time. They were as follows:
Well, here I am again. What the hell's happened now? Pause for long reflection. Either this is damn serious or it's not serious at all, because I don't feel much. Ah, clever idea. I'm not flat on my back; I'm propped tip somehow.
Still with his eyelids open only a slit Martin sent tentative movements through his body. He felt stiff and shaken, but he wasn't bound up in anything. His right shoulder and a part of the chest pained, but his exploring left hand found no splint or bandage. He had a slight headache; yes, but only what felt like a smallish, narrow, oblong bandage.
Whereupon memory returned like an electric shock.
This wasn't war-time. He had been jabbed in the back by somebody's hands; he had taken a half-turning dive over the ledge into mist, with a bell-note in his ears and panic in his vitals. Sheer incredulity at the fact of being alive shook him fully alert; and he looked round wildly.
At his bedside, to the right was a large face, squarish and wrinkled, with an acquiline nose and a steady grey eye.
"Captain Drake," said the Dowager Countess of Brayle.
Martin shut his eyes, and opened them again.
(And upon thy dazzling face, O madonna, I must first rest my eyes after being picked up off the flagstones and somehow pieced together. It couldn't be Jenny. It couldn't even be a good-looking nurse. It had to be you).
"Captain Drake," pursued Lady Brayle, "I will tell you very briefly what you wish to know. First: you are in the bedroom of the late Sir George Fleet Second: the time is nearly ten o'clock on Sunday night Third: Dr. Laurier has had to put five stitches across your forehead. Aside from this and some bad bruises, you have suffered no hurt"
Martin, propped up on both elbows, was staring at her incredulously.
"No — hurt," repeated Lady Brayle, with measured emphasis. "Dr. Laurier has kept you under opiates all day, in case there were effects of shock. I thought it unnecessary; and indeed," she glanced at him, "that appears to be the case."
Martin leaned back on his pillow, head aching, to consider this. Then he pushed himself up again.
"Let's get this straight," he begged. "I fell off a forty-odd-foot roof on to flagstones? And all I've got are some bruises and five stitches in my head? How did that happen?"
"You owe your life to Providence. Remember that, Captain Drake, in your prayers tonight"
"Yes, but how did Providence operate?"
Lady Brayle's lips tightened.
"Also," she said, and looked away, "to an accident I believe your acquaintance, the unspeakable Merrivale, was somehow concerned in it"
"Old H.M.? What did he do?’
"You may or may not have observed," said Lady Brayle, "that outside this house, some distance above the front door, there is a very large awning coloured orange. This is usually, kept folded up on an iron frame."
"Wow!"
"I beg your pardon?"
Only too well Martin remembered that orange-coloured awning; and, yesterday, H.M. standing in the middle of the gravel path, his fists oh his hips and an expression of malevolence on his face, looking up at the awning above Martin's and Ruth Callice's heads.
"As for Henry," continued Lady Brayle, now with a handkerchief at her lips, "I sometimes think, you know, he must be feeble-minded. According to the maid Phyllis he actually gave money to the gardener—"
"I know! I was there when Phyllis said so!"
"Ah, but for what purpose? The gardener was to go out in the middle of the night — the middle of the night if you. please! — and lower the awning so as to shade the terrace!
"By such acts of stupidity," said Lady Brayle, her voice rising strongly, "does good come about in this world. When you fell, I am informed, the loose canvas of the awning broke your fall like a firemen's whatever-the-term-is. Then the awning ripped, and let you slide through. You have had a most extraordinary escape, Captain Drake."
"The Old Maestro!" Martin said softly.
'Tm afraid I don't understand," said Lady Brayle.
On the bedside table there were cigarettes and his lighter. Martin, in the act of stretching out a painful right arm for them, stopped and looked at her. His glance said, 'Whatever is going on in that twisty brain of his, he saved my life and you know it' Lady Brayle's lofty stare replied: 'Kindly refrain from mentioning objectionable subjects.'
This duel of glances became, as it were, so silently audible that anger gathered round Lady Brayle's mouth. Martin's stare did not fall. Instead Lady Brayle rose up from her chair, shaking shoulders which appeared massive in heavy tweed, and paced up and down the room.
"It may be conceded," said Lady Brayle, "that Henry sometimes possesses the vulgar cunning to outwit criminals."
"Thank you."
"But he is despicable," said Lady Brayle, breathing hard. "I hadn't observed it'.'
"Constantly he consorts with low company. Never once does it enter his head—" this was the real grievance—"that their station is in any way inferior to his. His childish vanity, which makes him seriously imagine he is a model of deportment like Lord Chesterfield, is infuriating. On his vile tempers and obscene language I need not dwell. Even now, I believe, he is downstairs explaining to poor Cicely how he was once a Cavalier poet"
"Lady Brayle," Martin interrupted, "where's Jenny?"
Lady Brayle flowed into this without even seeming to notice the change of subject
"Jennifer," she corrected him, "has gone home. On my specific order. Her behaviour here today was unladylike and even disgusting. No less than twenty times, by my own counting, Dr. Laurier had to assure her you were not at death's door. The speech she addressed to you — well, I make no comment."
This bedroom, uncompromisingly masculine, was a large square room with striped wall-paper and heavy oak furniture, dimly lighted by the bedside lamp. Lady Brayle stopped short in her pacing and loomed over the bed.
"Captain Drake," she began formally.
There was something strange in her tone. Martin, in the act of lighting a cigarette, blew out the lighter-flame.
"Yes?"
Lady Brayle seemed to be pushing, pushing hard against some door inside herself, to struggle out It was a difficult business.
“I sat here tonight," again she pushed at the door, "for one specific purpose. I wished to say—" She stopped. "From what I had heard of your behaviour from certain sources, I was beginning to believe you possessed the qualities (and also the imperfections, which are just as necessary) of a gentleman."
There was a pause.
At this point (perhaps) Martin might have ended the feud. But he didn't trust the old girl an inch, not one inch. And his face showed it
"Thank you," he said gravely. "You sat here tonight to tell me that?"
"Yes, yes, of course!" retorted his companion, with rather too much haste, "What other reason could there have been?" "I can't say."
"But I no longer," snapped Lady Brayle, "think my belief to have been a true one." Her voice became colourless. "It remains only for me to give you your orders. On the table beside you you will find a yellow pill. Take that with water from the glass, and lie back. Tomorrow you will be perfectly fit"
Martin, putting down cigarette and lighter, instantly threw back the bed-clothes and slid his legs out of bed. He was wearing his own pyjamas, and his slippers were beside the bed.
"If you don't mind, Lady Brayle," he suggested pointedly, "I'd like to get dressed. — You've guessed, of course, that Jenny and I are to be married."
"That Captain Drake, can await discussion later."
"Can I reach you tomorrow morning?"