“Oh, he’ll be all right in a minute,” drawled the Haddock, who did not relish a stiff ride along dusty roads in his choicest confection. “He’s playing the fool, I believe—or a bit scared at the ferocious serpent.”
Lucille gave the youth a look that he never forgot, and turned to the sporting person.
“You know the stables, Mr. Fellerton,” she said. “Would you tell Pattern or somebody to send a man for Dr. Jones? Tell him to beat the record.”
The sporting one sprinted toward the shrubbery which lay between the grounds and the kitchen-gardens, beyond which were the stables.
Most people, with the better sort of mind, withdrew and made efforts to recommence the interrupted games or to group themselves once more about the lawns and marquees.
Others remained to make fatuous suggestions, to wonder, or merely to look on with feelings approaching awe and fascination. There was something uncanny here—a soldier and athlete weeping and screaming and going into fits at the sight of a harmless grass-snake, probably a mere blind worm! Was he a hysterical, neurotic coward, after all—a wretched decadent?
Poor Lucille suffered doubly—every pang, spasm, and contortion that shook and wrung the body of her beloved, racked her own frame, and her mind was tortured by fear, doubts, and agony. “Oh, please go away, dear people,” she moaned. “It is a touch of sun. He is a little subject to slight fits—very rarely and at long intervals, you know. He may never have another.” A few of the remaining onlookers backed away a little shamefacedly. Others offered condolences while inwardly scoffing at the “sun” explanation. Did not de Warrenne bowl, bat, or field, bare-headed, throughout the summer’s day without thinking of the sun? Who had heard of the “fits” before? Why had they not transpired during the last dozen years or so? “Help me carry him indoors, somebody,” said the miserable, horrified Lucille. That would get rid of the silly staring “helpers” anyhow—even if it brought matters to the notice of Grumper, who frankly despised and detested any kind of sick person or invalid.
What would he say and do? What had happened to the glowing, glorious world that five minutes ago was fairy-land and paradise? Was her Dam a wretched coward, afraid of things, screaming like a girl at the sight of a common snake, actually terrified into a fit? Better be a pick-pocket than a…. Into the thinning, whispering circle came General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, apoplectically angry. Some silly fool, he understood, had fainted or something—probably a puling tight-laced fool of a woman who starved herself to keep slim. People who wanted to faint should stay and do it at home—not come creating disturbances and interruptions at Monksmead garden-parties….