The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (lightest ebook reader TXT) 📕

the cause of the Moral Uplift Society. “My Dear Sir,” he rumbled, “I

trust you will take most severe steps against the scoundrel who forged

those insulting letters to the papers.”

Tydvil attempted to protest, but he may as well have tried to oppose his

strength to a road roller.

“Your disinclination to punish the affront is in keeping with your own

high standards of Christian forbearance. But is it wise, my dear Mr.

Jones? No, pray do not deny it! Our dear Mrs. Jones has told me

everything. How the moment you saw those letters you determined to give

them the lie direct with your gracious gift. It was a splendid gesture,

splendid!”

The revelation of Amy’s tactical move sent a surge of anger through

Tydvil.

“Ah! There is no need to blush, Mr. Jones,” grunted Arthur Muskat. “In my

own poor efforts in the cause of Moral Uplift I sincerely trust that the

cause is worthy of the source of the gift.”

“In that, I feel you are right.” Tydvil spoke with profound conviction.

It was the first time for many months that he had felt in complete

agreement with the secretary of the society.

“Now,” continued Mr. Muskat, “I have been given the privilege of letting

you into a little secret. It was, indeed, your dear wife to whom I am

indebted for it. We have arranged for you to be present at a meeting of

the members at which we may, be able to express our gratitude.

Inadequately, I am afraid, my dear sir, but we will do our best.”

During Mr. Muskat’s outpourings the remainder of the guests had arrived,

the last of who was Mr. Senior. It was the stir caused by his entrance

that enabled Tydvil to escape from his tormentor, and to suppress an

explosion that might have astonished the secretary of the Moral Uplift

Society.

As he and Muskat moved to the group surrounding Amy, she was presenting

her friends to the guest of honour. The wrath of Tydvil was almost

forgotten as he saw the perfect ease with which Nicholas received the

tributes with which the very proud and somewhat flustered Amy conducted

the ceremony. He hung back to give the others precedence.

“And,” gushed Amy finally, placing an affectionate hand on Tydvil’s

shoulder, “this is my husband!” There was no need for Tydvil to feign his

pleasure at the meeting. For him it had been a case of “Blucher or

night.” Only the strength of Nicholas as a reinforcement saved the day

for him. Mr. Senior evinced a pleasure equal to his own as they shook

hands. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Senior, “I almost feel I have already met you,

Mr. Jones. In the short time I have been in Melbourne I have come across

evidence of your good works everywhere.”

Tydvil accepted the compliment blandly. “And I have already heard so much

of you, Mr. Senior. You have one very staunch admirer that I know of.” He

inclined his head towards the smiling Amy. His eyes twinkled as he added,

“I feel I have met a kindred spirit.”

It was then that Arthur Muskat, oozing unction, broke in, “There is

something that you will all be pleased, but not surprised, to hear…”

A desperate attempt to stave off the revelation by Tydvil failed

dismally. He felt that at this juncture it would be rubbing salt into

Nicholas’ wounded feelings.

“That infamous letter in the papers regarding the Moral Uplift Society

proves to be a forgery. I feel that none of us could believe for a moment

that Mr. Jones wrote it. But…” and Mr. Muskat beamed largely on

the circle, “he has given it a defiant and purely Christian denial by

handing us a cheque for one thousand pounds.” He rolled out the figures

triumphantly.

In the outburst of admiration that followed the announcement, Tydvil

alone noticed the flush on Nicholas’s face. There seemed to be something

in that tag, “Tell the truth and shame the Devil.” Then inspiration came.

“One moment!” he interposed. “Just before you arrived, my wife and I had

reached an agreement that to contradict that letter publicly would be

merely drawing attention to it. She of eels as keenly as I do that my

little contribution must be kept secret. Don’t you, Amy?” he asked with

malicious meaning.

Under the gaze of all eyes Amy had no option but to agree, but only

Tydvil, who knew her so well, was aware of the acid behind her smile.

“That,” said Mr. Senior, “is what I should call spiking the guns of the

enemy. An idea worthy of you, Mr. Jones.” Only Tydvil was able to read

the glance of amusement in his eyes.

“A concession to evil, I am afraid,” was Mr. Edwin Muskat’s contribution.

“I cannot agree with Edwin,” the vicar spoke judicially. “I regard

Tydvil’s course as both Christian and dignified.”

But the conscience of Edwin Muskat was not appeased. Forgery was a sin

against society, and one that demanded retribution.

The argument that ensued gave Tydvil the chance he was looking for. He

drew Nicholas aside for a moment. “Listen, Nicholas,” he whispered, “I

can’t stick this out. You must liven things up.”

Nicholas’ eyes danced over the group and met Tydvil’s again. “But our

hostess, Tydvil?” He shook his head. “Is it fair?”

“Dash the hostess,” retorted Tydvil, shedding both chivalry and loyalty

to his spouse. “Doesn’t the host deserve some pity?”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Nicholas chuckled.

“Do your worst…” Tydvil insisted emphatically. “Tydvil dear,” broke

in Amy, who had approached unnoticed, “you must not monopolise Mr.

Senior.”

“Your husband is enlisting my assistance in a cause very dear to his

heart—and mine,” Nicholas added, smiling at her.

Amy nodded brightly. “He and Mr. Edwin Muskat are both enthusiasts in

your own cause of prohibition. You will excuse Tydvil for his zeal.”

“I am afraid,” laughed Mr. Senior, “that I am as bad as he is. Do you

know, Mrs. Jones, even after so brief an acquaintance I feel I know your

husband almost as well as you do. We seem to have so much in common.”

“I fear you are flattering Tydvil,” Amy protested gaily. “You see, he has

not had your advantages of travel, Mr. Senior.”

“Ah! My dear lady,” Nicholas responded, “it is not a question of travel.

Men like your husband are a product of environment.”

“Believe me,” said Tydvil sincerely, “I owe everything to my wife, Mr.

Senior.”

“That, I do not doubt for a moment,” conceded Mr. Senior gallantly.

At this moment Amy’s eye was caught by that of the maid at the door.

“Come, Mr. Senior,” she said. “Dinner is waiting, and you must not

flatter me so. Tydvil dear, you will take Mrs. Blomb.”

Amy’s dinners were famous among her friends. In none of them was the

principal of temperance in beverages extended to food. Amy’s cook was an

artist. As they settled into their places, Mr. Arthur Muskat unfolded his

table napkin as though he were performing a rite. Mrs. Blomb raised her

eyes from her plate and confided in Tydvil that she was afraid she was

greedy because dear Amy’s devilled oysters had become almost an obsession

with her. Even the voice of the vicar, who, at a nod from Amy, had

recited grace, seemed richer with a note of anticipation.

But, for the first time in his life, Tydvil regarded the table with real

distaste. He had come to feel that the iced barley-water and fruit cup

that accompanied the meal were a poor substitute for something with more

kick and inspiration in it. He thought of his dinner with Hilda Cranston

with regret for its gaiety, and he almost groaned over the memory of the

burgundy of the previous night.

Mrs. Blomb, however, gave him scant time to regret anything but her

existence. She had been speaking at a meeting of the Women’s Liberal

Union that afternoon, and Tydvil heard first of the odious apathy and

indifference to great political issues exhibited by the majority of the

sex, and then she began to inundate him with a generous resume of her

address. On the other side, Mr. Arthur Muskat was so profoundly absorbed

in beche-de-mere soup that the last trump would not have stirred him.

Though, Tydvil, through the momentary pauses in Mrs. Blomb’s monologue,

could distinctly hear his appreciation of it—the soup, not the

monologue.

Years of experience of Amy’s habits of speech had endowed Tydvil with the

priceless gift of apparent courteous attention while his mind was set

free to follow its own vagrant devices. He could follow Mrs. Blomb’s

arguments on the necessity for the reform of arbitration legislation, for

which he did not care one hoot in Hades, and drop an intelligent comment

into its proper place, while at the same time he was following intently

the features of the social circus.

Amy was not looking pleased, because Mrs. Ridgegay had cut into her

conversation with Mr. Senior with an apparently interminable account of a

niece, aged seven, who read and took an intelligent interest in Browning,

or was it Wordsworth. She always got Browning and Wordsworth mixed up,

she confessed. But she felt sure that Mr. Senior shared her love of

poetry because it was so uplifting. Of course, he, Mr. Senior, would not

know that her niece was the daughter of her sister, Emily; Mr. Senior

should really meet Emily because she was so interested in dogs.

As he grasped these fragments of Mrs. Ridgegay’s conversation, Tydvil

gathered from the expression on Nicholas’ face that his desire to meet

Emily was non-existent. Amy looked as though failing the pleasure of

strangling Mrs. Caton Ridgegay, nothing would give her greater

satisfaction than to vent her displeasure on the sister. It was clear at

the moment that Amy simply hated the whole Ridgegay family.

Neither did Amy, seem at all interested in the vicar’s views on the

subject of condoning forgery. It was just then that Tydvil caught his

wife’s eye, that directed him urgently to Eva Merrywood. Mrs. Blomb’s

voice blanketed that of Eva, but the expression of outraged modesty on

the face of Edwin Musket beside her told its own tale, if it did not tell

Eva’s. But Tydvil judged from Edwin’s blushes that it must have been one

of her best. He was sorry he had missed it, and had no sympathy for

Edwin. Deliberately, and with malice a forethought, he calmly disregarded

Amy’s S.O.S. Who was he that he should discourage the good works of Eva

Merrywood?

Almost immediately Mrs. Blomb claimed his entire attention with a sudden

exclamation of joy. She was holding a partially emptied goblet of fruit

cup in her hand. As he turned, she said, “Oh, Mr. Jones, our dear Amy has

given us a delightful surprise! A new fruit cup! Oh, most delicious! I

must get the recipe from her. How does she think of these wonderful

things?”

Tydvil, who had heard nothing of any new excursions by Amy into the

concoction of temperance beverages, lifted his glass to his lips. The

first sip halted him. He took a second and glanced up the table. As he

did so he caught a flicker of light in Nicholas’ eye, and understood.

Then he swallowed several appreciative mouthsfull. He was too new in his

knowledge of alcohol to recognise the source of that rich aroma of soft

alluring flavour that blended so well with the fruit, but it dawned on

him that, whatever it was, Nicholas had been more than generous.

Mrs. Blomb’s enthusiasm had, for the moment, silenced the table. One and

all were tentatively supping