There is in certain men--and Bruce Carmyle was one of them--a quality ofresilience, a sturdy refusal to acknowledge defeat, which aids them aseffectively in affairs of the heart as in encounters of a sterner andmore practical kind. As a wooer, Bruce Carmyle resembled that durabletype of pugilist who can only give of his best after he has received atleast one substantial wallop on some tender spot. Although Sally hadrefused his offer of marriage quite definitely at Monk's Crofton, ithad never occurred to him to consider the episode closed. All his lifehe had been accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he meant to getit now.
He was quite sure that he wanted Sally. There had been moments when hehad been conscious of certain doubts, but in the smart of temporarydefeat these had vanished. That streak of Bohemianism in her which fromtime to time since their first meeting had jarred upon his orderly mindwas forgotten; and all that Mr. Carmyle could remember was thebrightness of her eyes, the jaunty lift of her chin, and the gallanttrimness of her. Her gay prettiness seemed to flick at him like a whipin the darkness of wakeful nights, lashing him to pursuit. And quietlyand methodically, like a respectable wolf settling on the trail of aRed Riding Hood, he prepared to pursue. Delicacy and imagination mighthave kept him back, but in these qualities he had never been strong. Onecannot have everything.
His preparations for departure, though he did his best to make themswiftly and secretly, did not escape the notice of the Family. In manyEnglish families there seems to exist a system of inter-communicationand news-distribution like that of those savage tribes in Africa whopass the latest item of news and interest from point to point over milesof intervening jungle by some telepathic method never properlyexplained. On his last night in London, there entered to Bruce Carmyleat his apartment in South Audley Street, the Family's chosenrepresentative, the man to whom the Family pointed with pride--UncleDonald, in the flesh.
There were two hundred and forty pounds of the flesh Uncle Donald wasin, and the chair in which he deposited it creaked beneath its burden.
Once, at Monk's Crofton, Sally had spoiled a whole morning for herbrother Fillmore, by indicating Uncle Donald as the exact image of whathe would be when he grew up. A superstition, cherished from earlyschooldays, that he had a weak heart had caused the Family's managingdirector to abstain from every form of exercise for nearly fifty years;and, as he combined with a distaste for exercise one of the threeheartiest appetites in the south-western postal division of London,Uncle Donald, at sixty-two, was not a man one would willingly havelounging in one's armchairs. Bruce Carmyle's customary respectfulnesswas tinged with something approaching dislike as he looked at him.
Uncle Donald's walrus moustache heaved gently upon his laboured breath,like seaweed on a ground-swell. There had been stairs to climb.
"What's this? What's this?" he contrived to ejaculate at last. "Youpacking?""Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, shortly. For the first time in his life he wasconscious of that sensation of furtive guilt which was habitual with hiscousin Ginger when in the presence of this large, mackerel-eyed man.
"You going away?""Yes.""Where you going?""America.""When you going?""To-morrow morning.""Why you going?"This dialogue has been set down as though it had been as brisk andsnappy as any cross-talk between vaudeville comedians, but in realityUncle Donald's peculiar methods of conversation had stretched it over aperiod of nearly three minutes: for after each reply and before eachquestion he had puffed and sighed and inhaled his moustache with suchpainful deliberation that his companion's nerves were finding itdifficult to bear up under the strain.
"You're going after that girl," said Uncle Donald, accusingly.
Bruce Carmyle flushed darkly. And it is interesting to record that atthis moment there flitted through his mind the thought that Ginger'sbehaviour at Bleke's Coffee House, on a certain notable occasion, hadnot been so utterly inexcusable as he had supposed. There was no doubtthat the Family's Chosen One could be trying.
"Will you have a whisky and soda, Uncle Donald?" he said, by way ofchanging the conversation.
"Yes," said his relative, in pursuance of a vow he had made in the earlyeighties never to refuse an offer of this kind. "Gimme!"You would have thought that that would have put matters on a pleasanterfooting. But no. Having lapped up the restorative, Uncle Donald returnedto the attack quite un-softened.
"Never thought you were a fool before," he said severely.
Bruce Carmyle's proud spirit chafed. This sort of interview, which hadbecome a commonplace with his cousin Ginger, was new to him. Hitherto,his actions had received neither criticism nor been subjected to it.
"I'm not a fool.""You are a fool. A damn fool," continued Uncle Donald, specifying moreexactly. "Don't like the girl. Never did. Not a nice girl. Didn't likeher. Right from the first.""Need we discuss this?" said Bruce Carmyle, dropping, as he was apt todo, into the grand manner.
The Head of the Family drank in a layer of moustache and blew it outagain.
"Need we discuss it?" he said with asperity. "We're going to discussit! Whatch think I climbed all these blasted stairs for with my weakheart? Gimme another!"Mr. Carmyle gave him another.
"'S a bad business," moaned Uncle Donald, having gone through themovements once more. "Shocking bad business. If your poor father werealive, whatch think he'd say to your tearing across the world after thisgirl? I'll tell you what he'd say. He'd say... What kind of whisky'sthis?""O'Rafferty Special.""New to me. Not bad. Quite good. Sound. Mellow. Wherej get it?""Bilby's in Oxford Street.""Must order some. Mellow. He'd say... well, God knows what he'd say.
Whatch doing it for? Whatch doing it for? That's what I can't see. Noneof us can see. Puzzles your uncle George. Baffles your aunt Geraldine.
Nobody can understand it. Girl's simply after your money. Anyone can seethat.""Pardon me, Uncle Donald," said Mr. Carmyle, stiffly, "but that issurely rather absurd. If that were the case, why should she have refusedme at Monk's Crofton?""Drawing you on," said Uncle Donald, promptly. "Luring you on.
Well-known trick. Girl in 1881, when I was at Oxford, tried to lure meon. If I hadn't had some sense and a weak heart... Whatch know of thisgirl? Whatch know of her? That's the point. Who is she? Wherej meether?""I met her at Roville, in France.""Travelling with her family?""Travelling alone," said Bruce Carmyle, reluctantly.
"Not even with that brother of hers? Bad!" said Uncle Donald. "Bad,bad!""American girls are accustomed to more independence than English girls.""That young man," said Uncle Donald, pursuing a train of thought, "isgoing to be fat one of these days, if he doesn't look out. Travellingalone, was she? What did you do? Catch her eye on the pier?""Really, Uncle Donald!""Well, must have got to know her somehow.""I was introduced to her by Lancelot. She was a friend of his.""Lancelot!" exploded Uncle Donald, quivering all over like a smittenjelly at the loathed name. "Well, that shows you what sort of a girl sheis. Any girl that would be a friend of... Unpack!""I beg your pardon?""Unpack! Mustn't go on with this foolery. Out of the question. Findsome girl make you a good wife. Your aunt Mary's been meeting somepeople name of Bassington-Bassington, related KentBassington-Bassingtons... eldest daughter charming girl, just do foryou."Outside the pages of the more old-fashioned type of fiction nobody everreally ground his teeth, but Bruce Carmyle came nearer to it at thatmoment than anyone had ever come before. He scowled blackly, and thelast trace of suavity left him.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," he said briefly. "I sail to-morrow."Uncle Donald had had a previous experience of being defied by a nephew,but it had not accustomed him to the sensation. He was aware of anunpleasant feeling of impotence. Nothing is harder than to know what todo next when defied.
"Eh?" he said.
Mr. Carmyle having started to defy, evidently decided to make a good jobof it.
"I am over twenty-one," said he. "I am financially independent. Ishall do as I please.""But, consider!" pleaded Uncle Donald, painfully conscious of theweakness of his words. "Reflect!""I have reflected.""Your position in the county...""I've thought of that.""You could marry anyone you pleased.""I'm going to.""You are determined to go running off to God-knows-where after this MissI-can't-even-remember-her-dam-name?""Yes.""Have you considered," said Uncle Donald, portentously, "that you owe aduty to the Family."Bruce Carmyle's patience snapped and he sank like a stone to absolutelyGingerian depths of plain-spokenness.
"Oh, damn the Family!" he cried.
There was a painful silence, broken only by the relieved sigh of thearmchair as Uncle Donald heaved himself out of it.
"After that," said Uncle Donald, "I have nothing more to say.""Good!" said Mr. Carmyle rudely, lost to all shame.
"'Cept this. If you come back married to that girl, I'll cut you inPiccadilly. By George, I will!"He moved to the door. Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose withoutspeaking. A tense moment.
"What," asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, "did you say itwas called?""What was what called?""That whisky.""O'Rafferty Special.""And wherj get it?""Bilby's, in Oxford Street.""I'll make a note of it," said Uncle Donald.
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