Hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which ourways divided. We stopped, and I felt as if I had been suddenly castback into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet.
I think Phyllis must have felt much the same sensation, for we bothbecame on the instant intensely practical and businesslike.
"But about your father," I said.
"That's the difficulty.""He won't give us his consent?""I'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it.""You can't persuade him?""I can in most things, but not in this. You see, even if nothing hadhappened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of Norah.""Norah?""My sister. She's going to be married in October. I wonder if we shallever be as happy as they will.""Happy! They will be miserable compared with us. Not that I know whothe man is.""Why, Tom of course. Do you mean to say you really didn't know?""Tom! Tom Chase?""Of course."I gasped.
"Well, I'm hanged," I said. "When I think of the torments I've beenthrough because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, I don'tknow what to say.""Don't you like Tom?""Very much. I always did. But I was awfully jealous of him.""You weren't! How silly of you.""Of course I was. He was always about with you, and called youPhyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine andhero of a musical comedy, so what else could I think? I heard yousinging duets after dinner once. I drew the worst conclusions.""When was that? What were you doing there?""It was shortly after Ukridge had got on your father's nerves, andnipped our acquaintance in the bud. I used to come every night to thehedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour.""Poor old boy!""Hoping to hear you sing. And when you did sing, and he joined in allflat, I used to swear. You'll probably find most of the bark scorchedoff the tree I leaned against.""Poor old man! Still, it's all over now, isn't it?""And when I was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis,you went away just as I got into form.""I'm very sorry, but I couldn't know, could I? I though you alwaysplayed like that.""I know. I knew you would. It nearly turned my hair white. I didn'tsee how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis.""One doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis.""What /does/ a girl see to love in a man?" I inquired abruptly; andpaused on the verge of a great discovery.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily.
And I could draw no views from her.
"But about father," said she. "What /are/ we to do?""He objects to me.""He's perfectly furious with you.""Blow, blow," I said, "thou winter wind. Thou are not so unkind----""He'll never forgive you.""----As man's ingratitude. I saved his life. At the risk of my own.
Why I believe I've got a legal claim on him. Who ever heard of a manhaving his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserverwanted to marry his daughter? Your father is striking at the very rootof the short-story writer's little earnings. He mustn't be allowed todo it.""Jerry!"I started.
"Again!" I said.
"What?""Say it again. Do, please. Now.""Very well. Jerry!""It was the first time you had called me by my Christian name. I don'tsuppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you sayit. There is something poetical, almost holy, about it.""Jerry, please!""Say on.""Do be sensible. Don't you see how serious this is? We must think howwe can make father consent.""All right," I said. "We'll tackle the point. I'm sorry to befrivolous, but I'm so happy I can't keep it all in. I've got you and Ican't think of anything else.""Try.""I'll pull myself together. . . . Now, say on once more.""We can't marry without his consent.""Why not?" I said, not having a marked respect for the professor'swhims. "Gretna Green is out of date, but there are registrars.""I hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision.
"Besides----""Well?""Poor father would never get over it. We've always been such friends.
If I married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know. Not let menear him again, and not write to me. And he would hate it all the timehe was doing it. He would be bored to death without me.""Who wouldn't?" I said.
"Because, you see, Norah has never been quite the same. She has spentsuch a lot of her time on visits to people, that she and father don'tunderstand each other so well as he and I do. She would try and benice to him, but she wouldn't know him as I do. And, besides, she willbe with him such a little, now she's going to be married.""But, look here," I said, "this is absurd. You say your father wouldnever see you again, and so on, if you married me. Why? It's nonsense.
It isn't as if I were a sort of social outcast. We were the best offriends till that man Hawk gave me away like that.""I know. But he's very obstinate about some things. You see, he thinksthe whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him along time to forgive you for that."I realised the truth of this. One can pardon any injury to oneself,unless it hurts one's vanity. Moreover, even in a genuine case ofrescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with hisrescuer, when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. He must regardhim unconsciously as the super regards the actor-manager, indebted tohim for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him thelimelight and the centre of the stage and the applause. Besides, everyone instinctively dislikes being under an obligation which they cannever wholly repay. And when a man discovers that he has experiencedall these mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, hiswrath is likely to be no slight thing.
Taking everything into consideration, I could not but feel that itwould require more than a little persuasion to make the professorbestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see inour fathers-in-law's elect.
"You don't think," I said, "that time, the Great Healer, and so on--?
He won't feel kindlier disposed towards me--say in a month's time?""Of course he /might/," said Phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully.
"He strikes me from what I have seen of him as a man of moods. I mightdo something one of these days which would completely alter his views.
We will hope for the best.""About telling father----?""Need we, do you think?" I said.
"Yes, we must. I couldn't bear to think that I was keeping it fromhim. I don't think I've ever kept anything from him in my life.
Nothing bad, I mean.""You count this among your darker crimes, then?""I was looking at it from father's point of view. He will be awfullyangry. I don't know how I shall begin telling him.""Good heavens!" I cried, "you surely don't think I'm going to let youdo that! Keep safely out of the way while you tell him! Not much. I'mcoming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together.""No, not to-night. He may be tired and rather cross. We had betterwait till to-morrow. You might speak to him in the morning.""Where shall I find him?""He is certain to go to the beach before breakfast for a swim.""Good. I'll be there."* * * * *"Ukridge," I said, when I got back, "I want your advice."It stirred him like a trumpet blast. I suppose, when a man is in thehabit of giving unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is asinvigorating as an electric shock to him to be asked for itspontaneously.
"Bring it out, laddie!" he replied cordially. "I'm with you. Here,come along into the garden, and state your case."This suited me. It is always easier to talk intimately in the dark,and I did not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of theHired Man or Mrs. Beale, of which there was always a danger indoors.
We walked down to the paddock. Ukridge lit a cigar.
"Ukridge," I said, "I'm engaged!""What!" A huge hand whistled through the darkness and smote me heavilybetween the shoulder-blades. "By Jove, old boy, I wish you luck. 'Ponmy Sam I do! Best thing in the world for you. Bachelors are mereexcrescences. Never knew what happiness was till I married. When's thewedding to be?""That's where I want your advice. What you might call a difficulty hasarisen about the wedding. It's like this. I'm engaged to PhyllisDerrick.""Derrick? Derrick?""You can't have forgotten her! Good Lord, what eyes some men have!
Why, if I'd only seen her once, I should have remembered her all mylife.""I know, now. Rather a pretty girl, with blue eyes."I stared at him blankly. It was not much good, as he could not see myface, but it relieved me. "Rather a pretty girl!" What a description!
"Of course, yes," continued Ukridge. "She came to dinner here onenight with her father, that fat little buffer.""As you were careful to call him to his face at the time, confoundyou! It was that that started all the trouble.""Trouble? What trouble?""Why, her father. . . .""By Jove, I remember now! So worried lately, old boy, that my memory'sgone groggy. Of course! Her father fell into the sea, and you fishedhim out. Why, damme, it's like the stories you read.""It's also very like the stories I used to write. But they had onepoint about them which this story hasn't. They invariably endedhappily, with the father joining the hero's and heroine's hands andgiving his blessing. Unfortunately, in the present case, that doesn'tseem likely to happen.""The old man won't give his consent?""I'm afraid not. I haven't asked him yet, but the chances are againstit.""But why? What's the matter with you? You're an excellent chap, soundin wind and limb, and didn't you once tell me that, if you married,you came into a pretty sizeable bit of money?""Yes, I do. That part of it is all right."Ukridge's voice betrayed perplexity.
"I don't understand this thing, old horse," he said. "I should havethought the old boy would have been all over you. Why, damme, I neverheard of anything like it. You saved his life! You fished him out ofthe water.""After chucking him in. That's the trouble.""You chucked him in?""By proxy."I explained. Ukridge, I regret to say, laughed in a way that must havebeen heard miles away in distant villages in Devonshire.
"You devil!" he bellowed. " 'Pon my Sam, old horse, to look at you onewould never have thought you'd have had it in you.""I can't help looking respectable.""What are you going to do about it?""That's where I wanted your advice. You're a man of resource. Whatwould you do in my place?"Ukridge tapped me impressively on the shoulder.
"Laddie," he said, "there's one thing that'll carry you through anymess.""And that is----?""Cheek, my boy, cheek. Gall. Nerve. Why, take my case. I never toldyou how I came to marry, did I. I thought not. Well, it was this way.
It'll do you a bit of good, perhaps, to hear the story, for, mark you,blessings weren't going cheap in my case either. You know Millie'sAunt Elizabeth, the female who wrote that letter? Well, when I tellyou that she was Millie's nearest relative and that it was her consentI had to snaffle, you'll see that I was faced with a bit of aproblem.""Let's have it," I said.
"Well, the first time I ever saw Millie was in a first-class carriageon the underground. I'd got a third-class ticket, by the way. Thecarriage was full, and I got up and gave her my seat, and, as I hungsuspended over her by a strap, damme, I fell in love with her then andthere. You've no conception, laddie, how indescribably ripping shelooked, in a sort of blue dress with a bit of red in it and a hat withthingummies. Well, we both got out at South Kensington. By that time Iwas gasping for air and saw that the thing wanted looking into. I'dnever had much time to bother about women, but I realised that thismust not be missed. I was in love, old horse. It comes over you quitesuddenly, like a tidal wave. . . .""I know! I know! Good Heavens, you can't tell me anything about that.""Well, I followed her. She went to a house in Thurloe Square. I waitedoutside and thought it over. I had got to get into that shanty andmake her acquaintance, if they threw me out on my ear. So I rang thebell. 'Is Lady Lichenhall at home?' I asked. You spot the devilishcunning of the ruse, what? My asking for a female with a title was tomake 'em think I was one of the Upper Ten.""How were you dressed?" I could not help asking.
"Oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. I'd been to see a man abouttutoring his son, and by a merciful dispensation of Providence therewas a fellow living in the same boarding-house with me who was aboutmy build and had a frock-coat, and he had lent it to me. At least, hehadn't exactly lent it to me, but I knew where he kept it and he wasout at the time. There was nothing the matter with my appearance.
Quite the young duke, I assure you, laddie, down to the last button.
'Is Lady Lichenhall at home?' I asked. 'No,' said the maid, 'nobody ofthat name here. This is Lady Lakenheath's house.' So, you see, I had abit of luck at the start, because the names were a bit alike. Well, Igot the maid to show me in somehow, and, once in you can bet I talkedfor all I was worth. Kept up a flow of conversation about beingmisdirected and coming to the wrong house. Went away, and called a fewdays later. Gradually wormed my way in. Called regularly. Spied ontheir movements, met 'em at every theatre they went to, and bowed, andfinally got away with Millie before her aunt knew what was happeningor who I was or what I was doing or anything.""And what's the moral?""Why, go in like a mighty, rushing wind! Bustle 'em! Don't give 'em amoment's rest or time to think or anything. Why, if I'd given Millie'sAunt Elizabeth time to think, where should we have been? Not at CombeRegis together, I'll bet. You heard that letter, and know what shethinks of me now, on reflection. If I'd gone slow and played a timidwaiting-game, she'd have thought that before I married Millie, insteadof afterwards. I give you my honest word, laddie, that there was atime, towards the middle of our acquaintance--after she had stoppedmixing me up with the man who came to wind the clocks--when that womanate out of my hand! Twice--on two separate occasions--she actuallyasked my advice about feeding her toy Pomeranian! Well, that showsyou! Bustle 'em, laddie! Bustle 'em!""Ukridge," I said, "you inspire me. You would inspire a caterpillar. Iwill go to the professor--I was going anyhow, but now I shall goaggressively. I will prise a father's blessing out of him, if I haveto do it with a crowbar.""That's the way to talk, old horse. Don't beat about the bush. Tellhim exactly what you want and stand no nonsense. If you don't see whatyou want in the window, ask for it. Where did you think of tacklinghim?""Phyllis tells me that he always goes for a swim before breakfast. Ithought of going down to-morrow and waylaying him.""You couldn't do better. By Jove!" said Ukridge suddenly. "I'll tellyou what I'll do, laddie. I wouldn't do it for everybody, but I lookon you as a favourite son. I'll come with you, and help break theice.""What!""Don't you be under any delusion, old horse," said Ukridge paternally.
"You haven't got an easy job in front of you and what you'll need morethan anything else, when you really get down to brass-tacks, is awise, kindly man of the world at your elbow, to whoop you on when yournerve fails you and generally stand in your corner and see that youget a fair show.""But it's rather an intimate business. . . .""Never mind! Take my tip and have me at your side. I can say thingsabout you that you would be too modest to say for yourself. I canplead your case, laddie. I can point out in detail all that the oldboy will be missing if he gives you the miss-in-baulk. Well, that'ssettled, then. About eight to-morrow morning, what? I'll be there, myboy. A swim will do me good."
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