The Knight Errant

H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.*

HE sun streamed upon the gardens of the Exhibition grounds, and through the drumming of the band could be heard the intermittent reports of rifles in the galleries and the gathering roar of the. Lady Molly Calverley lifted her sunshade ever so little and peeped at her neighbour in the next chair.

"Oh, Molly, whatever will Graham say?" inquired ten-year-old Cicely, tugging at her arm.

"You should not say 'Graham.' It's rude," declared Molly in a corrective voice. "And I have not the faintest idea what Miss Graham will say. It's nothing to me. I'm not in Miss Graham's charge, like a lot of children. And if you're frightened, you little duffer, I wish I hadn't brought you."

"I'm not frightened," stoutly asserted Cicely. "But Graham—Miss Graham, I mean—will be looking everywhere for us."

"Well, you can just go back to her if you like," said Molly indifferently.

After that Cicely naturally had nothing to say. It was the severest and most conclusive form of argument. And, after all, the responsibility rested with Molly, who was almost grown up, and had been to one ball already. So Cicely relapsed into her chair, and kicked her long black legs, and stared at the passing children.

"Cicely," said her sister presently in a muffled voice of mystery, "Cicely, do you see that man, three chairs from the end in the next row? No, not there, silly; the other way! Don't stare at him, you little ape! Just pretend you're looking about you, and have a look at him." Cicely's large eyes wandered over the field indicated, and her lips went through a silent motion of counting. "One—two—three! Oh, yes, I see him—the man with the big ears."

"He hasn't got big ears," said Molly crossly. "He's rather handsome."

"That funny little fellow with the spot on his nose?" inquired Cicely eagerly.

"Ridiculous child, of course not," said her sister severely. "If you are such a fool that you can't count! And don't stare, I tell you. He'll catch you doing it, and it's very unladylike. He's been looking over here a lot."

"Oh!" said Cicely, and divided her attention between sham glances towards the bandstand and surreptitious glimpses of the man.

"Do you suppose it's because he thinks you pretty, Molly?" she asked soon.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied her sister calmly.

"He isn't so very ugly," whispered Cicely at last.

"Children's ideas are different from grown-up people," said Molly in a lofty voice. "Children like pretty faces and fatness."

"I don't like fatness, Molly, indeed I don't!" declared Cicely earnestly.

"That man's distinguished," said Molly impassively.

Cicely gazed at him furtively, ready to whip her eyes away if he should look round.

"What's he distinguished for, Molly?" she asked with interest.

"You silly, he's distinguished-looking. I shouldn't be surprised if he were a famous soldier, or a—or a statesman, or a—or an actor," she declared.

"Molly, he's looking over here now," said Cicely in a low voice.

"Look at the bandstand," commanded her sister; "but if you do see him, tell me what he's doing. It doesn't so much matter a little thing like you staring."

Cicely obeyed, and then shot the keen glance of the child athwart the chairs.

"He's getting up," she murmured with rising excitement. "Look away now," said Molly trepidantly. "I'm going to look myself, and it wouldn't do for us both to stare." As she spoke she lifted her sweeping lashes and let a serene gaze drift slowly across the open theatre of seats. It rested with chilling indifference, scarcely even with observation, on the young man—or seemed to. He was standing up, adjusting his frock-coat and surveying his surroundings with impartial equanimity. Molly's gaze touched his and floated coldly away. But underneath that glacial front pulsed the excited blood.

"He's going to move. See where he goes," she enjoined Cicely.

Cicely's little head went frankly about on her shoulders, as she openly tracked the stranger, without shame or concealment.

"He's coming round at the back!" she almost shouted in a whisper. "He's coming towards us! Oh, Molly, what shall we do?"

"Do? Why, nothing. Sit where we are," declared Molly shortly, but her heart was in a whirl of excitement and alarm. Then she added sharply: "You shouldn't have stared at him, you little ass! That's what's done it."

"But why should he want to come because I stared at him?" said Cicely in perplexity.

"Oh, you don't understand," said Molly. "Where's he now?"

"He's hanging about at the back," said Cicely, twisting her head around. "Now he's got out his handkerchief. I believe he's going to blow his nose. Oh, Molly, what shall we do if he sits down by us? Do you think he wants to marry you?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say," said Molly uneasily. "I wish he'd go away. It's rude to embarrass people like that. No gentleman would."

"Let's go back to Miss Graham," pleaded Cicely.

Molly rose, and the two girls moved swiftly, and even with some suggestion of panic, along the lines of the chairs, and at last extricated themselves from the amphitheatre and emerged into the open. Here they seemed to breathe more freely. Molly cast one hasty glance backward, but in her agitation it was not deliberate enough to enable her to attain her object. She saw nothing of the young man, who was by now a unit among thousands, absorbed, so to speak, "into the brown" of the scene. The tumult in her bosom slowly settled as they proceeded rapidly in the direction of the water-chute where they had basely deserted Miss Graham with Delia and Eileen. The chute was still in full swish, and the assemblage of spectators had increased; but Miss Graham had vanished from the place where they had left her. They went to and fro up and down the platforms, but it seemed in a little certain that she was gone; that, in short, Miss Graham had abandoned them, even as they had abandoned her.

"Oh, whatever shall we do?" whimpered Cicely hysterically, when the large black fact could not be blinked.

Molly's heart was failing her also, but she kept a good face.

"Oh, what does Miss Graham matter?" she answered with tremulous contempt. "But since you're very anxious about her health, we'd better go to the entrance and wait there for her."

"But there are lots of entrances—I've been in three," said sharp-eyed Cicely.

So there were. Molly's spirits descended to a deeper level, but she still maintained her front.

"Well, we can go home ourselves," she declared.

Cicely brightened. "In a cab, Molly! Oh, do let's go in a cab—all by ourselves."

"Nonsense," said Molly curtly. "It would cost"

Suddenly she ceased rejoinder and progress at the same moment. "Cicely," she asked in an agonised voice. "Have you got any money?"

"No—o," said Cicely in surprise. "You know, Molly, I lent you my two shillings yesterday, and I wish" But Molly was now too concerned to listen to the hint which was on her small sister's lips.

"Then we haven't got a red cent between us," she said bluntly. "At least—I have two ha'pennies."

"Oh, Molly, what did you do with my two shillings?" demanded Cicely reproachfully.

"Shut up!" adjured her sister. "Can't you see we're in an awful mess? We can't even take a train—not even a 'bus home." They stared at each other. "Oh, don't begin to dribble," said Molly pettishly, as she noticed the dewdrops gathering in poor Cicely's eyes. "We've just got to walk."

"All the way?" ejaculated Cicely with a sob.

"Oh, no, of course not," said Molly satirically; "only half the way, and then we'll sit down in the gutter."

Cicely snivelled, and Molly, angry in her own fears, stepped out quickly.

"Where are we going now?" asked the little girl between sobs. They had passed through the court, and were in the open again, in a place comparatively vacant. Molly hesitated, with a vagueness as to her directions. Then she started.

"I declare," she whispered ominously, "he has followed me."

Cicely opened her mouth and stared at the young man, her eyes still wet with tears; and his glance fell on the little girl.

"Come on," said Molly hurriedly, and moved away.

Cicely, rooted to the ground, still stared, her pretty face stained with weeping. She seemed forlorn and solitary to the young man whose glance had accidentally drifted on her. His advance had brought him quite close by now, and he came to a pause in front of her.

"Anything the matter?" he inquired food-naturedly, "Can I help you, little girl?"

He was quite strong and tall, and not ugly, and Cicely liked his face.

"We're lost," she panted.

"Lost!" said he, elevating his eyebrows. "Dear me, what a nuisance! What's to be done?"

"I—I don't know," gasped Cicely, again touched to tears, and blurted out: "And Molly's got no money."

He looked round, and what he saw was a pretty girl of eighteen, some distance away, regarding the panorama of scenery with an ostentatiously absorbed gaze.

"Is that Molly?" he asked.

Cicely assented. "Yes," she said. "She was afraid you followed us."

"Followed you!" he echoed, puzzled, and allowed his wits to play on the situation. "That would have been rude," he remarked. "But perhaps I can help you, if you will tell me who you are."

"I'm Cicely and she's Molly," explained Cicely glibly, and drying her eyes.

"Oh, now that's clear, we shall get along famously," said the stranger, and after a momentary hesitation he moved towards Molly. He removed his hat, but only had a sight of a piece of Molly's cheek, which was unduly flushed.

"I beg your pardon," he began a little awkwardly, "but your sister, Miss Cicely, tells me you have been so unfortunate as to lose yourselves; and if I might be of any use"

He paused. "It's very good of you," said Molly, with a faint bow of acknowledgment, but not facing him; "but, of course, it's impossible."

"Oh, come, I hope not," he persisted. "Let me put you in a cab."

"Thank you, I couldn't dream of it," said Molly loftily and icily.

"But he says he didn't follow us, Molly," put in Cicely eagerly. Molly said nothing, but began to walk slowly away. The stranger kept pace with her.

"I can't quite say that," he said reflectively; "only, of course, I would not have presumed to speak to you if it hadn't been for your distress. I can't bear to see children crying," he explained.

Molly quickened her pace. "It's very kind of you," she began nervously, but not nearly so coldly, "but we won't detain you if you'll be so good as to direct us to the exit."

"I'm going that way myself, and will show you," he mendaciously responded.

Molly said nothing, and they walked together, trepidation and also a certain wild excitement raging in her maiden heart.

"The fact is," pursued the young man, "we should have a sympathy for each other, for I have got lost, too."

"Lost!" echoed Cicely, opening her eyes wide.

"I've lost my party," he explained.

"That must have been when he was staring at me," thought Molly, with a flutter of satisfaction. She sensibly relaxed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"But as we've found each other, perhaps all's well," suggested the stranger. Molly had uneasy but not unpleasant thrills. They were by this time nearing the vestibule and getting beyond the reach of the galleries and other entertainments. The young man paused dubiously. "And as I missed my tea, I'm feeling rather hungry," he said politely.

"We missed our tea, too," said Cicely eagerly.

"That's what's called a coincidence," said the stranger mildly. He still paused; and as he did so, a party comprising several ladies and gentlemen emerged towards them, and several pairs of eyes were focused on them. The young man began to move quickly away. One of the ladies made a stop as if to approach him, and one of the men cried "Travers!" in a voice of surprise; but the young man merely raised his hat and passed on with his charges.

"That's his name. He's Travers," whispered sharp Cicely to her sister. "And those are whom he's lost."

Molly frowned at her, but went on with a beating heart.

This Travers had repulsed his friends, including the lady who "I shouldn't like anyone to snub me like that," reflected Molly with pleasure.

"Now I come to think of it, I'm really awfully hungry," said the young man, whose face was now a little redder than it had been.

Cicely gazed at him expectantly. "I think it's a shame your little sister should be done out of her tea, don't you?" he said diplomatically.

"She's not very" began Molly flutteringly, but the young man had started towards one of the tea-houses, and, somehow or another, Molly followed.

The tea was delicious, and so were the cakes—as Cicely explained later to Eileen: "But I didn't like to eat too much—not too much, you know. It wouldn't have been polite. And Molly ate hardly anything; except an ice and a cream-tart and a sandwich and—and I forget what else." "Ladies," explained Travers deliberately, as he sipped his tea, "are sometimes trying—particularly when they're old."

"But she wasn't old," blurted out Molly, without thinking what she said; and then she changed colour.

"Oh, she was, Molly," said Cicely, devoted in her loyalty to her new friend. "She was about forty."

"Well, not quite so old as that," observed Mr. Travers, "but on the way to it. Some day she'll be that. At any rate, she has lost the bloom of innocence and—well, and innocence."

"Is she very wicked?" inquired Cicely, much interested.

Travers considered. "Not so very," he replied. "Not so wicked as she thinks she is. But let us consider a more profitable subject," he continued, rising; "and as you have both finished, and the afternoon is still young, what's the matter with the switchback, as the Americans say?"

"Oh, Molly!" cried Cicely, with glistening eyes. "Graham—I mean Miss Graham," she explained glibly to the young man, "wouldn't let us go on the switchback. She says it's unladylike."

"Nothing you or Miss Molly could do would be that," he remarked politely.

"I'm afraid" began Molly carefully; but somehow he paid no attention, and they found themselves walking in the direction of the switchback.

"Thank you," she said presently, when the time came. "I—I don't switchback."

"Oh, Molly!" protested the excited Cicely. "Why, she switchbacks down the stairs," she declared to Travers.

Molly coloured and looked mustard at her sister, who was, however, oblivious.

"Well, I'm going, anyway," asserted Mr. Travers nonchalantly.

And they all went. And somehow, after the affair of the switchback, it was not possible to get back to the dignified aloofness that had previously existed. Cicely behaved as if her acquaintance of the half-hour were an old family friend, and clung to him, shrieking with childish hysteria. The bloom ripened on Molly's face, and her eyes were liquid, her hair was blown, and her manner was cordial.

"Thank you ever so much," she gushed graciously when it was all over.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune," said the young man sententiously, with his eyes on her bright beauty.

"And now I'm afraid we must be going," said Molly hastily. "It's ever so late."

"You must let me put you in a cab," said he, coming back to practical matters, and without waiting for her reply he led the way to the outlet.

"West Kensington—Kensington—possibly Bayswater," reflected Mr. Travers, as he shut the door, but Molly called out: "Hargrave Street."

He paid the cabman and watched the cab drive off, thoughtfully, and twenty minutes later he had recovered his friends, one of whom was evidently in a bad temper. "And who may those children have been?" she asked with cold indifference.

"I haven't the ghost of a notion," said Mr. Travers coolly. "They had lost their way, and I found it for them."

"It was a long operation," suggested the lady with a glacial sneer, and added: "That elder girl looked a sly thing."

Meanwhile Cicely, radiant and unmanageable, was talking volubly in the hansom.

"Fancy, he paid for the cab! I saw him through the peep-hole at the back."

"Of course he did," said Molly shortly. "Any gentleman would."

"Oh, Molly, how much did he spend on us?" asked Cicely in sudden and triumphant dismay.

"What does it matter? A mere nothing," said Molly tersely. "That sort of person has lots of money."

"What sort of person?" asked Cicely.

"Oh, don't bother; and don't squeeze up against me like that. You're spoiling my dress; and if you can't stop fidgeting, I'll stop the cab and walk," said Molly, lapsing into disagreeableness.

This checked the younger girl for a time, and she sat still and communed diligently with her own thoughts; but as they were nearing Hyde Park Corner it was Molly who spoke.

"Did he say he didn't follow us?" she asked abruptly.

"What, Travers?—no—yes," responded Cicely, with a sweet in her mouth.

"What's that you've got?" inquired Molly sharply.

"Only some chocolates Travers gave me," said Cicely, confused by this assault.

"You'd no right to take them," said Molly severely.

"But—Molly," pleaded the perplexed child, "you took tea."

"That's quite another matter. Tea's different," said Molly with dignity; and when Cicely had been thus reduced to silence and shame, she said: "Of course he did. He told a lie."

Cicely turned this over with the sweet in her mouth; but though it was obviously an attack on her friend, he was already too far distant for it to rankle. She let it pass and resumed work on the chocolate. She looked out of the cab window.

"Will it be dark when we get in?" she asked interestedly. "No, donkey!" said Molly; and suddenly and with impressiveness: "Now, mind this, Cicely: if you're asked by mother or Evelyn, he didn't follow us; but if Delia or Eileen asks you, he did."

"Isn't it nice to be followed?" inquired Cicely with languid interest, for the chocolates sufficed to absorb attention. "I should like to be followed," she pursued, as she received no answer, "if it was Travers." She dipped into the chocolate-bag. Molly was peeping at herself in the little glass beside the window and patting her hair.

"I do look a sight," she said. "Did I look like this all along?" she demanded anxiously of her sister. Cicely scrutinised her. "No; it was the switchback," she averred. "I saw your hair come loose, going down the first time, when you grabbed Travers's arm."

"I didn't!" said Molly indignantly. "You stupid little thing! if you"

"Oh, but, Molly, you did!" persisted Cicely earnestly. "When you nearly fell back at the bumping-place, and your legs went up,

"If you tell such stories, where do you expect to go to? Hold your tongue!" said Molly sternly. Cicely was mute, but obstinate. She sank into sulky silence until the cab drew up. But when they had descended, it was impossible to resist the excitement of that triumphant, if scandalous, return. Molly's heart beat fast, but Cicely walked on air and relapsed into friendliness.

"What will mother say?" she demanded in staccato shrieks; and "Will Evelyn be angry? Oh! won't Graham have fits?"

On the doorstep they encountered the Honourable Roger Martin, who was by way of cataloguing Lord Templeton's library. They hailed him.

"Hallo, Tiggy!"

"So you've returned," said Tiggy, examining them critically.

"Is Evelyn in a wax?" "Does mother know?" burst from Molly and Cicely simultaneously.

"Evelyn," said the Honourable Roger deliberately, "is—if I am to credit the reports and may use the phrasing of Eileen—is 'kicking up no end of a shine.' I will not pretend to know precisely what that means, but it was the news brought to me in the library just now. And I believe mother does know—which is precisely why you see me thus, young ladies—on the road to appeal on your behalf to the tender hearts of the police."

"Nonsense, Tiggy!" said Molly not very certainly. "Is—is—is mother very angry? We really couldn't help it, could we, Cicely?"

"No, it was Travers who kept us. He wouldn't let us go, and" began the traitor Cicely.

"Who may Travers be?" asked Tiggy, fixing his eyeglass to inspect the flushed faces.

"Oh, a man," said Cicely vaguely.

"A man, eh?" said Tiggy thoughtfully, and turned to the door and rang. "Well, as you have decided to return to your sorrowing family, my mission is unnecessary, and I will give myself the privilege of introducing you and restoring the prodigal daughters."

Molly's eyes flashed gratitude momentarily, for this was much better than facing the storm alone; and, being now admitted, Tiggy brought up the rear of a dejected procession.

Eileen and Delia flew out on them with a rain of questions and ejaculations which was not encouraging.

"You'll catch it!"

"Hasn't Evelyn been going on?"

"Where have you been?"

"Look out for beans!"

"It means," Tiggy was explaining to Lady Templeton, "that these precious children, being unhappily separated by the crowd from Miss Graham, lost themselves; but owing to the kindness of a stranger, one—what did you say the name was?" He turned to Molly.

"Travers," said Cicely glibly.

"Oh—a certain Travers," resumed Tiggy, "they were eventually set upon the right road and reached home safely."

"It's a mercy!" said Lady Templeton vaguely and in a relieved voice.

"Who was this man Travers?" inquired Evelyn sharply.

Molly regarded her elder sister with defiance, but Cicely, who had been kept unduly out of the talk, burst in: "A man in a frock-coat and with a nose; and he gave me chocolates, and us both tea,

"What disgraceful conduct!" remarked Evelyn to her mother, elevating her eyebrows. "This escapade certainly should settle the question of the Hollands' dance."

Of course, the brunt of this attack fell upon Molly, and it had been aggravated by Cicely's wagging tongue. The child was admonished in the severest terms by her indignant sister and resumed her sullen mood of the cab.

"It is aggravating to have the little beast giving one away like that," complained Molly to the sympathising Delia. "She can't keep her tongue quiet for ten seconds."

But Cicely had her private and separate audience in the nursery, where she slept with Eileen and Marjorie. There her own full and adorned version had full sway, and she had her revenge. "You should just have seen her—the way she went on! She had four switchbacks, and she screamed, and seized Travers round the neck. It was awful!"

"What did Travers do?" asked Eileen with interest.

"Oh, he just went on, and asked her if she'd have another. And she kicked her legs up, and her hair came down,

"Where did it come down to?" inquired Marjorie sleepily.

"Oh, I'm telling you, silly," said Cicely. "She says she didn't, but she did. She did kick her legs up. She squeaked out: 'Oh, goodness!' and then she grabbed him. And I should think he was about sick of her."

And when sleep was visiting those little heads, memory and her wrongs returned to Cicely, She lifted her face from the pillow. "Eily," she called. Eily grunted. "She can give herself what airs she like. But she did kick her legs up."

Fortunately Molly was not aware of this unauthorised version of history, which was for private circulation only. The forces arrayed against her in the open were those of Evelyn; but Molly did go to the Hollands' dance, after all, which may have been due to the friendly offices of the Hon. Roger Martin, Lady Templeton being negligibly indolent. It was, according to the more or less patronising phrase of the ladies who write Society news for the halfpenny papers, "a boy and girl affair," but there were also present some "smart young married women" who were naturally in great request. Yet Molly enjoyed herself, since she did not come into conflict with those voracious and all-engrossing creatures.

It was at the end of the fifth dance that she caught sight of him. Travers lolled against a chair-back and surveyed the company indifferently. Possibly he would have preferred the smart young married women who were not there. His eyes roamed indolently over the ballroom and met Molly's almost as she discovered him. Recognition leapt into his; he started, apologised to a lady whose fan he had knocked down, and threaded his way towards her. Molly, safe from the embraces of a very gymnastic partner, was settling into her chair when he reached her.

"So we meet again," he said inanely.

Molly was perfectly conscious of his handsome face, but she was interestedly watching something or someone in the far distance. Lady Templeton was deep in conversation with a friend, and Evelyn was—well, one never knew what became of Evelyn on these occasions.

"I hope you got home safely, Miss Molly," persisted the fatuous Travers.

It was time he had a lesson. Molly's gaze came back slowly from the middle distance and rested on his face. Her heart pulsed desperately; but it is so heroes—and, incidentally, heroines—die.

"I beg your pardon. I have not the pleasure"

The lash fell, and Travers, poor Travers, whose chocolates had lasted Cicely until that very evening, turned scarlet under it. The weals broke out on his healthy, florid face. Then (for he was not so very young) he recovered himself.

"Are you not the Miss Molly I had the pleasure of meeting in Earl's Court Exhibition?" he asked pleasantly. "I have not had the pleasure of meeting you," said Molly, meeting his gaze coolly.

Now he smiled. "I am afraid I have a bad memory for faces. Forgive me," he said with a bow. He moved a little aside and stood, unembarrassed, watching the throng. But Molly was far from being unembarrassed.

If he had shown confusion, she would have triumphed and perhaps relented. But, having made his apology, he stood there unconcerned. She began to feel uncomfortable, and she was furiously indignant with him for making her uncomfortable. She was relieved when Mr. Martin came to claim her.

"Tiggy," said she after the dance, "you remember that man whom we met at the Exhibition? Well, he's here, and he insulted me."

"Insulted you!" gasped Tiggy, searching for his eyeglass.

"Yes, that man over there. See. He came up and addressed me as if he knew me. He ought to be taught a lesson in manners. Awful cheek, wasn't it?"

"Terrible cheek!" said Tiggy staring, glass in eye. "What did you do?"

"I?" said Molly in cold surprise. "Of course, I turned my back on him."

"Oh!" said Tiggy, and after a pause: "I suppose I had better give him a lesson—an emphatic one."

"Would you really, Tiggy?" asked Molly doubtfully. "By Jove, yes, I'll teach him!" said Tiggy, and marched off.

Molly waited tremulously, fidgeting with her gloves. If they should come to blows then and there for her

Out of that dividing crowd emerged Tiggy with the stranger, come, no doubt, to renew his apologies. There was, however, no stain on his face or disorder in his apparel. He was immaculate.

"Lady Molly, let me introduce to you Sir Edward Travers," said Tiggy with gravity. Gravity also was on Travers's face. Molly bowed nervously.

"May I have the pleasure of"

"I don't think" said Molly, but he had already her card and was jotting initials down.

"I wouldn't have touched him with a barge-pole," Molly explained to her sisters next day, "only he danced so beautifully."

"But you didn't know that till you tried," said Eileen bluntly.

Molly deigned no reply. "Anyhow, it's cleared up the scandal," said Delia, with a sigh of relief.

"Scandal!" said Molly coldly. "I have yet to learn that when a gentleman is kind to a girl in distress, it's a scandal. Besides," she added complacently, "I had Cicely with me."