Some people do not believe in presentiments. They attribute thatcurious feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to suchmundane causes as liver, or a chill, or the weather. For my own part,I think there is more in the matter than the casual observer mightimagine.
I awoke three days after my meeting with the professor at the club-house, filled with a dull foreboding. Somehow I seemed to know thatthat day was going to turn out badly for me. It may have been liver ora chill, but it was certainly not the weather. The morning wasperfect,--the most glorious of a glorious summer. There was a hazeover the valley and out to sea which suggested a warm noon, when thesun should have begun the serious duties of the day. The birds weresinging in the trees and breakfasting on the lawn, while Edwin, seatedon one of the flower-beds, watched them with the eye of a connoisseur.
Occasionally, when a sparrow hopped in his direction, he would make asudden spring, and the bird would fly away to the other side of thelawn. I had never seen Edwin catch a sparrow. I believe they looked onhim as a bit of a crank, and humoured him by coming within springingdistance, just to keep him amused. Dashing young cock-sparrows wouldshow off before their particular hen-sparrows, and earn a cheapreputation for dare-devilry by going within so many years of Edwin'slair, and then darting away. Bob was in his favourite place on thegravel. I took him with me down to the Cob to watch me bathe.
"What's the matter with me to-day, Robert, old son?" I asked him, as Idried myself.
He blinked lazily, but contributed no suggestion.
"It's no good looking bored," I went on, "because I'm going to talkabout myself, however much it bores you. Here am I, as fit as a prize-fighter, living in the open air for I don't know how long, eating goodplain food--bathing every morning--sea-bathing, mind you--and yetwhat's the result? I feel beastly."Bob yawned, and gave a little whine.
"Yes," I said, "I know I'm in love. But that can't be it, because Iwas in love just as much a week ago, and I felt all right then. Butisn't she an angel, Bob? Eh? Isn't she? And didn't you feel buckedwhen she patted you? Of course you did. Anybody would. But how aboutTom Chase? Don't you think he's a dangerous man? He calls her by herChristian name, you know, and behaves generally as if she belonged tohim. And then he sees her every day, while I have to trust to meetingher at odd times, and then I generally feel such a fool I can't thinkof anything to talk about except golf and the weather. He probablysings duets with her after dinner, and you know what comes of duetsafter dinner."Here Bob, who had been trying for some time to find a decent excusefor getting away, pretended to see something of importance at theother end of the Cob, and trotted off to investigate it, leaving me tofinish dressing by myself.
"Of course," I said to myself, "It may be merely hunger. I may be allright after breakfast. But at present I seem to be working up for areally fine fit if the blues. I feel bad."I whistled to Bob, and started for home. On the beach I saw theprofessor some little distance away, and waved my towel in a friendlymanner. He made no reply.
Of course, it was possible that he had not seen me; but for somereason his attitude struck me as ominous. As far as I could see, hewas looking straight at me, and he was not a short-sighted man. Icould think of no reason why he should cut me. We had met on the linkson the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself. He hadcalled me "me dear boy," supplied me with a gin and gingerbeer at theclubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been David and IJonathan. Yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains outof molehills, and I went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with adistinct impression that I had received the cut direct.
I felt hurt. What had I done that Providence should make things sounpleasant for me? It would be a little hard, as Ukridge would havesaid, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered somefresh grievance against me. Perhaps Ukridge had been irritating himagain. I wished he would not identify me so completely with Ukridge. Icould not be expected to control the man. Then I reflected that theycould hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from theprofessor at the club-house and my meeting with him on the beach.
Ukridge rarely left the farm. When he was not working among the fowls,he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind.
I came to the conclusion that after all the professor had not seen me.
"I'm an idiot, Bob," I said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and Ilet my imagination run away with me."Bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment.
Breakfast was ready when I got in. There was a cold chicken on thesideboard, devilled chicken on the table, a trio of boiled eggs, and adish of scrambled eggs. As regarded quantity Mrs. Beale never failedus.
Ukridge was sorting the letters.
"Morning, Garny," he said. "One for you, Millie.""It's from Aunt Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at theenvelope.
I had only heard casual mention of this relative hitherto, but I hadbuilt up a mental picture of her partly from remarks which Ukridge hadlet fall, but principally from the fact that he had named the mostmalignant hen in our fowl-run after her. A severe lady, I imaginedwith a cold eye.
"Wish she'd enclose a cheque," said Ukridge. "She could spare it.
You've no idea, Garny, old man, how disgustingly and indecently richthat woman is. She lives in Kensington on an income which would do herwell in Park Lane. But as a touching proposition she had proved almostnegligible. She steadfastly refuses to part.""I think she would, dear, if she knew how much we needed it. But Idon't like to ask her. She's so curious, and says such horrid things.""She does," agreed Ukridge, gloomily. He spoke as one who had hadexperience. "Two for you, Garny. All the rest for me. Ten of them, andall bills."He spread the envelopes out on the table, and drew one at a venture.
"Whiteley's," he said. "Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favour ofthe 7th inst. and are at a loss to understand. It's rummy about theseblighters, but they never seem able to understand a damn thing. It'shard! You put things in words of one syllable for them, and they justgoggle and wonder what it all means. They want something on account.
Upon my Sam, I'm disappointed with Whiteley's. I'd been thinking inrather a kindly spirit of them, and feeling that they were a moreintelligent lot than Harrod's. I'd had half a mind to give Harrod'sthe miss-in-baulk and hand my whole trade over to these fellows. Butnot now, dash it! Whiteley's have disappointed me. From the way theywrite, you'd think they thought I was doing it for fun. How can I letthem have their infernal money when there isn't any? Here's one fromDorchester. Smith, the chap we got the gramophone from. Wants to knowwhen I'm going to settle up for sixteen records.""Sordid brute!"I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge held mewith a glittering eye.
"The chicken-men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay for thefirst lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and that Iwas going to send them back anyhow after I'd got them to hatch out afew chickens, I call that cool. I mean to say, business is business.
That's what these fellows don't seem to understand. I can't afford topay enormous sums for birds which die off quicker than I can get themin.""I shall never speak to Aunt Elizabeth again," said Mrs. Ukridgesuddenly.
She had dropped the letter she had been reading, and was staringindignantly in front of her. There were two little red spots on hercheeks.
"What's the matter, old chap?" inquired Ukridge affectionately,glancing up from his pile of bills and forgetting his own troubles inan instant. "Buck up! Aunt Elizabeth been getting on your nervesagain? What's she been saying this time?"Mrs. Ukridge left the room with a sob. Ukridge sprang at the letter.
"If that demon doesn't stop writing her infernal letters and upsettingMillie, I shall strangle her with my bare hands, regardless of her ageand sex." He turned over the pages of the letter till he came to thepassage which had caused the trouble. "Well, upon my Sam! Listen tothis, Garny, old horse. 'You tell me nothing regarding the success ofthis chicken farm of yours, and I confess that I find your silenceominous. You know my opinion of your husband. He is perfectly helplessin any matter requiring the exercise of a little common-sense andbusiness capability.' " He stared at me, amazed. "I like that! 'Pon mysoul, that is really rich! I could have believed almost anything ofthat blighted female, but I did think she had a reasonable amount ofintelligence. Why, you know that it's just in matters requiringcommon-sense and business capability that I come out really strong.""Of course, old man," I replied dutifully. "The woman's a fool.""That's what she calls me two lines further on. No wonder Millie wasupset. Why can't these cats leave people alone?""Oh, woman, woman!" I threw in helpfully.
"Always interfering--""Rotten!""And backbiting--""Awful!""I shan't stand it.""I shouldn't!""Look here! On the next page she calls me a gaby!""It's time you took a strong line.""And in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin.
What's a guffin, Garny, old boy?"I considered the point.
"Broadly speaking, I should say, one who guffs.""I believe it's actionable.""I shouldn't wonder."Ukridge rushed to the door.
"Millie!"He slammed the door, and I heard him dashing upstairs.
I turned to my letters. One was from Lickford, with a Cornishpostmark. I glanced through it and laid it aside for a more exhaustiveperusal.
The other was in a strange handwriting. I looked at the signature.
"Patrick Derrick." This was queer. What had the professor to say tome?
The next moment my heart seemed to spring to my throat.
"Sir," the letter began.
A pleasant cheery opening!
Then it got off the mark, so to speak, like lightning. There was nosparring for an opening, no dignified parade of set phrases, leadingup to the main point. It was the letter of a man who was almost toofurious to write. It gave me the impression that, if he had notwritten it, he would have been obliged to have taken some very violentform of exercise by way of relief to his soul.
"You will be good enough to look on our acquaintance as closed. I haveno wish to associate with persons of your stamp. If we should happento meet, you will be good enough to treat me as a total stranger, as Ishall treat you. And, if I may be allowed to give you a word ofadvice, I should recommend you in future, when you wish to exerciseyour humour, to do so in some less practical manner than by bribingboatmen to upset your--(/friends/ crossed out thickly, and/acquaintances/ substituted.) If you require further enlightenment inthis matter, the enclosed letter may be of service to you."With which he remained mine faithfully, Patrick Derrick.
The enclosed letter was from one Jane Muspratt. It was bright andinteresting.
"DEAR SIR,--My Harry, Mr. Hawk, sas to me how it was him upsetting theboat and you, not because he is not steady in a boat which he is noman more so in Combe Regis, but because one of the gentlemen whatkeeps chikkens up the hill, the little one, Mr. Garnick his name is,says to him, Hawk, I'll give you a sovrin to upset Mr. Derick in yourboat, and my Harry being esily led was took in and did, but he's sorynow and wishes he hadn't, and he sas he'll niver do a prackticle jokeagain for anyone even for a banknote.--Yours obedly.,JANE MUSPRATT."Oh, woman, woman!
At the bottom of everything! History is full of tragedies caused bythe lethal sex. Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman. Who letSamson in so atrociously? Woman again. Why did Bill Bailey leave home?
Once more, because of a woman. And here was I, Jerry Garnet, harmless,well-meaning writer of minor novels, going through the same old mill.
I cursed Jane Muspratt. What chance had I with Phyllis now? Could Ihope to win over the professor again? I cursed Jane Muspratt for thesecond time.
My thoughts wandered to Mr. Harry Hawk. The villain! The scoundrel!
What business had he to betray me? . . . Well, I could settle withhim. The man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way ofkindness, is justly disliked by Society; so the woman Muspratt,culpable as she was, was safe from me. But what of the man Hawk? Thereno such considerations swayed me. I would interview the man Hawk. Iwould give him the most hectic ten minutes of his career. I would saythings to him the recollection of which would make him start upshrieking in his bed in the small hours of the night. I would arise,and be a man, and slay him; take him grossly, full of bread, with allhis crimes broad-blown, as flush as May, at gaming, swearing, or aboutsome act that had no relish of salvation in it.
The Demon!
My life--ruined. My future--grey and black. My heart--shattered. Andwhy? Because of the scoundrel, Hawk.
Phyllis would meet me in the village, on the Cob, on the links, andpass by as if I were the Invisible Man. And why? Because of thereptile, Hawk. The worm, Hawk. The dastard and varlet, Hawk.
I crammed my hat on, and hurried out of the house towards the village.
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