Berry And Co. | Page 3

I, "we want some one to keep an eye on the car."
"I'll do it gladly, sir."
"Right oh! She's a pretty piece of goods, isn't she?"
"She is that, sir," said Will, visibly impressed.
As I followed the others into the porch, I glanced back to see our sentinel walking about his charge, bending an appreciative gaze upon her points.
They were singing the Venite.
On the ledge of our old pew lay a note addressed to "Major Pleydell" in the Vicar's handwriting. When Berry had read it he passed it to Daphne, and I was able to read it over her shoulder.
DEAR MAJOR,
Sometimes in the old days you used to read the Lessons. I think we should all like it if you would do so to-day; but don't, if you don't want to.
Yours very sincerely,
JOHN BAGOT.
In a postscript the writer named the appointed passages of Holy Writ.
So soon as the first Psalm had started Berry stepped to the lectern, found his places and cast his eye over the text. Before the second Psalm was finished, he was once more in his place.
Doors and windows were open as wide as they could be set, and the little church was flooded with light and fresh warm air, that coaxed the edge from the chill of thick stone walls and pillars, and made the frozen pavements cool and refreshing. Mustiness was clean gone, swept from her frequent haunts by the sweet breath of Nature. The "dim, religious light" of Milton's ordering was this day displaced by Summer's honest smile, simpler maybe, but no less reverent. And, when the singing was stilled, you overheard the ceaseless sleepy murmur of that country choir of birds and beasts and insects that keeps its rare contented symphony for summer days in which you can find no fault.
My impious eye wandered affectionately over familiar friends--the old oak pews, almost chin-high, the Spanish organ, the reluctant gift of a proud galleon wrecked on the snarling coast ten miles away, the old "three-decker" with its dull crimson cushions and the fringed cloths that hung so stiffly. A shaft of sunlight beat full on an old black hatchment, making known the faded quarterings, while, underneath, a slender panel of brass, but two years old, showed that the teaching of its grim forbear had not been vain.
For so fair a morning, Bilberry village had done well. The church was two-thirds full, and, though there were many strange faces, it was pleasant here and there to recognize one we had known in the old days, and to learn from an involuntary smile that we had not been forgotten.
It was just after the beginning of the Second Lesson that we heard the engine start. There was no mistaking the purr of our Rolls-Royce. For a second the girls and Jonah and I stared at one another, panic-stricken. Then with one impulse we all started instinctively to our feet. As I left the pew I heard Daphne whisper, "Hsh! We can't all----" and she and Jonah and Jill sank back twittering. Berry's eyes met mine for an instant as I stepped into the aisle. They spoke volumes, but to his eternal credit his voice never faltered.
I almost ran to the porch, and I reached the lich-gate to see our beautiful car, piloted by a man in a grey hat, scudding up the straight white road, while in her wake tore a gesticulating trooper, shouting impotently, ridiculously out-distanced. Even as I watched, the car flashed round a bend and disappeared.
For a moment I stood still in the middle of the road, stupefied. Then I heard a horn sounded behind me, and I mechanically stepped to one side. Fifty yards away was the two-seater we had encountered on our way to church.
Frantically I signalled to the girl at the wheel. As I did so, a burst of music signified that the Second Lesson had come to an end.
"Whatever's the matter?" cried Miss Deriot, as she pulled up.
"Somebody's pinched the Rolls. Will you----"
"Of course. Get in. Which way did they go?"
"Straight ahead," said I, opening the door.
We were well under way before I had taken my seat. As we came to the bend I threw a glance over my shoulder, to see four figures that I knew standing without the lich-gate. They appeared to be arguing. As we turned the corner a stentorian voice yelled--
"The Bloodstock road, sir! I can see their blinkin' dust."
Perched on one of the lower branches of a wayside oak, Will Noggin was pointing a shaking finger in the direction he named.
* * * * *
We were less than three miles from Bloodstock when the off hind tire burst. Miss Deriot brought the car to the side of the road and stopped in the shadow of an old barn.
"That," she said, "has just done it."
I opened the door