The Missing Angel, Erle Cox [suggested reading TXT] 📗

appear at breakfast always, but unless

she had something particular to say to him, usually annoying, she seldom

arrived on the scene until a few minutes before he was timed to depart

for his office.

 

She did not like early rising, but she did like to say to her friends,

“I think, my dear, it is a wife’s duty to give her husband her society

at breakfast.” She considered it marked her as a devoted spouse who was

willing to sacrifice her comfort for her husband’s pleasure. She

certainly did sacrifice her comfort, but whether Tydvil found pleasure

in it is open to argument.

 

The maid who attended to his simple wants found the master unusually

unresponsive. He was as much loved by his household staff as Amy was

disliked—which says volumes for his popularity. Tydvil had slept

badly, and was still simmering from a domestic argument of the previous

night.

 

There was, among others, an institution known as the Moral Uplift

Society, of which Amy was president. Its aim was to assist unfortunate

girls, who had run off the rails, back to the tracks of righteousness.

Jones had, on several occasions, contributed lavishly to its upkeep. A

quiet investigation, however, had suggested to him, that though its

expenditure was real, the results accruing from its efforts were

doubtful.

 

His insistence on being given some concrete evidence of its usefulness

was met with replies so vague, and so conflicting, that he arrived at

the conclusion that its secretary was a son of Ananias, and several of

the helpers were daughters of Sapphira. Moreover, his requests for a

balance sheet had been fruitless, though he admired the skill with which

his curiosity on the subject was baffled.

 

For several days Amy had been angling for a cheque for one thousand

pounds for the Moral Uplift Society. Usually he submitted to her

exactions patiently. This time, however, she met with a flat refusal

until he had seen a balance sheet prepared by his own auditor.

 

Amy was annoyed, but had no misgivings as to the outcome of Tydvil’s

extraordinary stubbornness. On the previous evening she had given up an

engagement to devote herself seriously to the matter. From eight o’clock

until ten-thirty, when he fled to his room, still recalcitrant, and

locked himself in—and her out—she had wrought with him faithfully.

He had remained silent, sullen and unyielding under the ordeal by

tongue.

 

All this may explain, if it does not excuse, the outburst of Tydvil

Jones as his eyes ran over the columns of the newspaper the maid had

placed beside his plate. Suddenly he sat erect. He dropped his half

lifted cup back into the saucer with a clash of china and jingle of

silver that shattered the dignified silence of the room.

 

In both hands he grabbed the paper, and glared at it with incredulous

eyes. It was no wonder he doubted their accuracy, for he read, under

triple and flattering headlines, the following paragraph: “Members and

friends of the Moral Uplift Society passed a hearty vote of thanks to

Mr. Tydvil Jones, the well known philanthropist, at their monthly

meeting yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Tydvil Jones, the president of the

Society, read a letter from her husband in which he offered a donation

of one thousand pounds to be used for any purpose the committee may

direct. This is the third cheque for a similar amount which Mr. Jones

has contributed to the funds of the society.”

 

“That well known philanthropist, Mr. Tydvil Jones,” read that paragraph

three times before its enormity filtered thoroughly into his system. The

third time, he read it standing up. The startled maid regarded her

employer with wide-eyed concern. She thought he was choking, so suffused

had his face become. Then the long suppressed volcanic eruption took

place. Tydvil hurled the newspaper to the floor and ground it tinder his

heel. This was bad enough, but his language…“It’s an outrage!” he

shouted. “A damned outrage and a damned conspiracy! Not a penny! Not one

damned penny!”

 

Fate decreed that, at that moment Amy entered the room and both saw and

heard her husband’s demonstration. It was only when his wife had

advanced towards the table that he was aware of her presence. Not that

that made any difference, Tydvil was beyond caring two hoots for Amy or

anyone else.

 

Scenting battle, the wide-eyed maid fled—but not out of earshot. Amy

advanced, showing no sign of emotion, and, stooping down, drew the

newspaper from under her husband’s foot. Deliberately she smoothed out

the creases of the torn page, and quietly placed it on the table. Then,

as quietly, she walked round the table and took her seat. She leaned

back in her chair with her cold eyes fixed on his flushed face. There

was a long thirty seconds’ silence.

 

Then Amy spoke calmly, “I am waiting, Tydvil.”

 

“For what?” he snapped.

 

“For your apology.” Her eyes never left his for a moment.

 

“Then you’ll wait a dashed long time!” He had leaned towards her with

both hands resting on the edge of the table, and his out-thrust chin

gave him an unusually bellicose air.

 

The lines about Amy’s mouth hardened. Her lips compressed to a straight

pink line, and there was cold fury in her grey eyes. Very few of her

friends would have recognised “Dear Amy” at that moment.

 

“I think, Tydvil, dear,” she said evenly, though the white knuckles

clenched on the arm of her chair showed what it cost to control her

voice—“I think, Tydvil, dear, that you have been overworking yourself.

I will ask Dr. Morris to call this evening. Perhaps a holiday will be

necessary.

 

“Morris, be hanged!” he snorted.

 

Amy raised her brows slightly. “Perhaps, my dear Tydvil,” she knew of

old how the reiterated “Dear Tydvil” grated, “you will explain the cause

of your irritation. Your conduct may be, indeed is, unpardonable.” She

waved a hand slightly and went on, “I am quite unused, as you know, to

hearing such language. Neither am I used to being sworn at before my

servants.”

 

The statements were unassailable facts. Usually she would have

side-tracked Tydvil into a defence that he had not sworn at her. But he

was too full of wrath to be distracted by minor issues. He snatched up

the crumpled paper and, in a voice that she scarcely recognised, he read

that outrageous paragraph aloud. “What’s the meaning of that infernal

falsehood?” he demanded. “You know I have refused to subscribe to that

den of racketeers. Eh? Eh?”

 

There was a nasty little smile on the corners of Amy’s lips as she

answered.

 

“The paragraph is quite in order, my dear Tydvil. It states what

actually took place at our meeting yesterday.” She paused, and the smile

deepened. “Indeed, I handed the paragraph into the newspaper offices

myself.”

 

“Meeting—yesterday—afternoon!” He gasped his surprise with each word.

“You told me you knew I particularly wished to be present. You told me

yourself it was—postponed.” Amazement struggled with his wrath.

 

Amy nodded slightly, quite unabashed. “I am quite aware of that, as I

was aware that you intended to make a very disagreeable fuss over a

quite unnecessary balance sheet. I most strongly object to your

interference in matters in any of my societies that do not concern you.”

 

Staring at her, open mouthed, Tydvil sank slowly back into his chair.

“But the letter!” he gasped, “the letter…”

 

“I saw to that, too.” She spoke as though humouring a petulant child.

 

Jones turned the revelation over in his mind. “Do you mean to tell me

you wrote that letter yourself?” he said at last.

 

She nodded. “I typed it myself, and read it to the meeting. It was not

signed, and no one saw it but myself.”

 

“And,” his voice shook with his rising wrath again, “you expect me to

hand over that cheque!”

 

She nodded emphatically. “I most certainly do.”

 

“Then let me tell you this,” he shouted, thumping the table while

everything on it jangled to his blows, “I’ll see you to Jericho before I

give you a farthing; and you can explain why as you dashed well please.”

 

“After the publicity the matter has been given, you will find it rather

awkward to say that you have changed your mind.” Amy smiled her

derision.

 

Jones pressed his finger furiously on the bell button. The maid arrived

with a rapidity that would have excited suspicion had either combatant

been in a mood to notice trifles.

 

He turned to her. “Tell Carter to bring round the single-seater,” he

said abruptly. “Tell him I wish him to drive me to the office.” The girl

vanished on the word.

 

Meanwhile, the tension between the two increased. Up till now, Tydvil’s

actions, to use diplomatic phraseology, had been merely unfriendly. The

ordering of the car had been a declaration of war. Like some other good

people, Amy’s self-denial extended only to others. She had laid it down

that the exercise of the walk along St. Kilda road to the city was

necessary for his health. Moreover, it set the staff an example of

unostentation. Now, his ordering of the car was flat and flagrant

rebellion.

 

When the maid disappeared, Amy said acidly, “I think, Tydvil dear, we

have already settled the question of your using a car to take you to the

office.”

 

“Well, I’m unsettling it,” he snorted. He picked up the paper and,

turning a most aggressive back on his wife, he pretended to read.

 

Five minutes passed in strained silence. The maid returned. “The car is

waiting, sir.”

 

Before Jones could move, his wife said quickly, “Oh, Kate! Mr. Jones has

changed his mind. Tell Carter to take the car back.”

 

This was one of Amy’s choicest methods of management. She relied for its

success on Tydvil’s horror of scenes, even in private, and felt certain

he would shrink from a brawl before the maid. But, for, once, she had

misjudged the extent of the revolt.

 

Jones sprang to his feet, and arrested the maid as she moved, with a

barked “Wait!” The girl stopped. “If you convey that message, both you

and Carter will be summarily dismissed. Bring me my hat and coat.”

 

The girl hesitated, and looked at her mistress for guidance. She was

between a horde of devils and a very deep sea. “Do you hear me!”

thundered the voice of the master, and never before had she heard it

with such a ring of fury. Suddenly she recognised that she was a

spectator to a revolution. When, a minute later, she returned, Amy was

sobbing, with her face in her plate.

 

“Oh, Tydvil! To think you would insult me before the maids!”

 

“I haven’t begun insulting you yet!” he growled truculently. “Just wait

a bit!” and he left without even glancing at her again.

 

That he reached his office by car instead of using his legs, added one

more link to the chain of circumstances. He arrived just twenty minutes

before the time his staff had learned to expect him, and saw certain

things that were as unexpected as he was.