"Tellme a story," said Margery."What sort of a story?""A fairy story, because it's Christmas-time.""But you know all the fairy stories.""Then tell me a new fairy story.""Right," I said.
"Tellme a story," said Margery.
"What sort of a story?"
"A fairy story, because it's Christmas-time."
"But you know all the fairy stories."
"Then tell me a new fairy story."
"Right," I said.
Once upon a time there was a King who had three sons. The eldest son was a very thoughtful youth. He always had a reason for everything he did, and sometimes he would say things like "Economically it is to the advantage of the State that——" or "The civic interests of the community demand that——" before doing something specially horrid. He didn't want to be unkind to anybody, but he took what he called a "large view" of things; and if you happened to ask for a third help of plum-pudding he took the large view that you would be sorry about it next morning—and so you didn't have your plum-pudding. He was called Prince Proper.
The second son was a very wise youth. You couldn't catch him anyhow. If you asked him whether he knew the story of the three wells, or "Why does a chicken cross the road?" or anything really amusing like that, he would always say, "Oh, I heard thatyearsago!"—and whenever you began "Adam and Eve and Pinchme" he would pinch you at once without waiting like a gentleman until you had got to the end of the verse. He was called Prince Clever.
And the third son was just wonderfully beautiful.He had the most marvellously pink cheeks and long golden hair that you have ever seen. I don't much care for that style myself, but in the country in which he lived it was admired more than I can tell you. He was called Prince Goldenlocks. I'll give you three guesses why.
Now the King had reigned a long time, so long that he was tired of being king, and he often used to wonder which of his sons ought to succeed him. Of course, nowadays they never wonder, and the eldest son becomes king at once, and quite right too; but in those days it was generally left to the sons to prove which among themselves was the most worthy. Sometimes they would all be sent out to find the magic Dragon's Tooth, and only one would come back alive, which would save a lot of trouble; or else, after a lot of discussion, they would be told to go and find beautiful Princesses for themselves, and the one which brought back the most beautiful Princess—but very often that would lead to another discussion. The best way of all was to call in a Fairy to help. A Fairy has all sorts of tricks for finding out about you, and her favourite plan is to pretend to be something else and see what you do.
So the King called in a Fairy and said, "To-morrow I am sending out my three sons into the world to seek their fortune. I want you to test them for me and find out which is the most fitted to succeed to my throne. If itshouldhappen to be Prince Goldenlocks—but, of course, I don't want to influence you in any way."
"Leave it to me," said the Fairy. "You agree, no doubt, that the quality most desirable in a king is love and kindliness——"
"Y-yes," said the King doubtfully.
"I was sure of it. Well, I have a way of putting this quality to the test which has never yet failed." And with that she vanished. She could have goneout at the door quite easily, but she preferred to vanish.
I expect you know what her way was. You have read about it often in your fairy books. On the next day, as Prince Proper was coming along the road, she appeared suddenly in front of him in the shape of a poor old woman.
"Please give me something to buy a crust of bread, pretty gentleman," she pleaded. "I'm starving."
Prince Proper looked at her sternly.
"Economically," he said, "it is to the advantage of the State that the submerged classes should be a charge on the State itself and not on individuals. The civic interests of the community demand that promiscuous charity should be sternly discouraged. Surely you see that for yourself?"
The Fairy didn't quite. The language had taken her by surprise. In all her previous adventures of this kind, two of the young Princes had refused her roughly, and the third had shared his last piece of bread with her. This adventure was going all wrong.
"Let me explain it to you more fully," went on Proper, and for an hour and twenty-seven minutes he did so. Then he went on his way, leaving a dazed Fairy behind him.
By and by Prince Clever came along. Suddenly he saw a poor old woman in front of him.
"Please give me something to buy a crust of bread," she pleaded. "I'm starving."
Prince Clever burst into a roar of laughter.
"You don't catchme," he said. "I've read about this ahundredtimes. You're not an old woman at all; you're a Fairy."
"W-what do you mean?" she stammered.
"This is a silly test of Father's. Well, you can tell him he's gotoneson who's clever enough to see through him." And he went on his way.
By and by Prince Goldenlocks came along. I need not say that he did all that you would expect of a third and youngest son who had pink cheeks, long golden hair, and (as I ought to have said before) a very loving nature. He shared his last piece of bread with the poor old woman....
(Surely he will get the throne!)
But the Fairy was an honest Fairy. She did understand Proper's point of view; she had to admit that, if Clever saw through her deception, it was honourable of him to have said so. And though, of course, her loving heart was all for Prince Goldenlocks, she felt that it would not be fair to award the throne to him without a further trial. So she did another thing that she was very fond of doing. She changed herself into a pretty little dove and—right in front of Prince Proper—she flew with a hawk in pursuit of her. "Nowwe shall see," she said to herself, "which of the three youths has the softest heart."
You can guess what Proper said.
"Life," he said, "is one constant battle. Nature," he said, "is ruthless, and the weakest must go to the wall. If I kill the hawk," he said, "I am kind to the dove, but am I," he said, and I think there was a good deal in this—"am I kind to the caterpillar or whatever it is that the dove eats?" Of course, you know, thereisthat to be thought of. Anyhow, after soliloquizing for forty-seven minutes Prince Proper went on his way; and by and by Prince Clever came along.
You can guess what Clever said.
"My whiskers!" he said, "this is older than the last. I knew this in my cradle." With one of those nasty sarcastic laughs that I hate so much he went on his way; and by and by Prince Goldenlocks came along.
(Now then, Goldenlocks, the throne is almost yours!)
You can guess what Goldenlocks said.
"Poor little dove," he said. "But I can save its life."
Rapidly he fitted an arrow to his bow and with careful aim let fly at the pursuing hawk....
I say again that Prince Goldenlocks was the most beautiful youth you have ever seen in your life, and he had a very loving nature. But he was a poor shot.
He hit the dove....
"Is that all?" said Margery."That's all," I said. "Good night."
"Is that all?" said Margery.
"That's all," I said. "Good night."
Myyoung friend Bobby (now in the early thirteens) has been making his plans for the Christmas holidays. He communicated them to me in a letter from school:—
"I am going to write an opera in the holidays with a boy called Short, a very great and confident friend of mine here. I am doing the words and Short is doing the music. We have already got the title; it is called 'Disappointment.'"
Last week, on his return to town, he came to see me at my club, and when the waiter had brought in drinks, and Bobby had refused a cigar, I lighted up and prepared to talk shop. His recent discovery that I write too leads him to treat me with more respect than formerly.
"Now then," I said, "tell me about it. How's it going on?"
"Oo, I haven't done much yet," said Bobby. "But I've got the plot."
"Let's have it."
Bobby unfolded it rapidly.
"Well, you see, there's a chap called Tommy—he's the hero—and he's just come back from Oxford, and he's awfully good-looking and decent and all that, and he's in love with Felicia, you see, and there's another chap called Reynolds, and, you see, Felicia's really the same as Phyllis, who's going to marry Samuel, and that's the disappointment, because Tommy wants to marry her, you see."
"I see. That ought to be all right. You could almost get two operas out of that."
"Oo, do you think so?"
"Well, it depends how much Reynolds comes in. You didn't tell me what happened to him. Does he marry anybody?"
"Oo, no. He comes in because I want somebody to tell the audience about Tommy when Tommy isn't there."
(How well Bobby has caught the dramatic idea.)
"I see. He ought to be very useful."
"You see, the First Act's in a very grand restaurant, and Tommy comes in to have dinner, and he explains to Reynolds how he met Felicia on a boat, and she'd lost her umbrella, and he said, 'Is this your umbrella?' and it was, and they began to talk to each other, and then he was in love with her. And then he goes out, and then Reynolds tells the audience what an awfully decent chap Tommy is."
"Why does he go out?"
"Well, you see, Reynolds couldn't tell everybody what an awfully decent chap Tommy is if Tommy was there."
(Of course he couldn't.)
"And where's Felicia all this time?"
"Oo, she doesn't come on: She's in the country with Samuel. You see, the Second Act is a grand country wedding, and Samuel and Phyllis are married, and Tommy is one of the guests, and he's very unhappy, but he tries not to show it, and he shoots himself."
"Reynolds is there too, I suppose?"
"Oo, I don't know yet."
(He'll have to be, of course. He'll be wanted to tell the audience how unhappy Tommy is.)
"And how does it end?" I asked.
"Well, you see, when the wedding's over, Tommy sings a song about Felicia, and it ends up, 'Felicia, Felicia, Felicia,' getting higher each time—Short hasto do that part, of course, but I've told him about it—and then the curtain comes down."
"I see. And has Short written any of the music yet?"
"He's got some of the notes. You see, I've only just got the plot, and I've written about two pages. I'm writing it in an exercise-book."
A shadow passed suddenly across the author's brow.
"And the sickening thing," he said, as he leant back in his chair and sipped his ginger-beer, "is that on the cover of it I've spelt Disappointment with two 's's.'"
(The troubles of this literary life!)
"Sickening," I agreed.
If there is one form of theft utterly unforgivable it is the theft by a writer of another writer's undeveloped ideas. Borrow the plot of Sir J. M. Barrie's last play, and you do him no harm; you only write yourself down a plagiarist. But listen to the scenario of his next play (if he is kind enough to read it to you) and write it up before he has time to develop it himself, and you do him a grievous wrong; for you fix the charge of plagiarism onhim. Surely, you say, no author could sink so low as this.
And yet, when I got home, the plot of "Disappointment" (with one "s") so took hold of me that I did the unforgivable thing; I went to my desk and wrote the opera. I make no excuses for myself. I only point out that Bobby's opera, as performed at Covent Garden in Italian, with Short's music conducted by Richter, is not likely to be belittled by anything that I may write here. I have only written in order that I may get the scenario—which had begun to haunt me—off my chest. Bobby, I know, will understand and forgive; Short I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but I believe he is smaller than Bobby.
Act I.Scene—A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just back from Oxford.Tommy sings:Felicia, I love you,By all the stars above youI swear you shall be mine!—And now I'm going to dine.[He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger-beer and some meringues.Waiter.Your dinner, Sir.Tommy.Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if you see him? (To the audience) A week ago I was crossing the Channel—(enter Reynolds)—Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes." Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was Felicia. And now I must go and see about something. [Exit.Reynolds.Poor Tommy! An awfully decent chap if ever there was one. But he will never marry Felicia, because I happen to know her real name is Phyllis, and she is engaged to Samuel.(Recitative.)She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy,He does not know she's fond of Samuel.Hewillbe disappointed when he knows.Curtain.Act II.Scene—A beautiful country wedding.Tommy(in pew nearest door, toReynolds). Who's the bride?Reynolds.Phyllis. She's marrying Samuel.Enter Bride.Tommy.Heavens, it's Felicia!Reynolds(to audience). Poor Tommy! How disappointed he must be! (Aloud) Yes, Felicia and Phyllis are really the same girl. She's engaged to Samuel.Tommy.Then I cannot marry her!Reynolds.No.Tommy sings:Good-bye, Felicia, good-bye,I'm awfully disappointed, IAm now, in fact, about to die,Felicia, Felicia, Felicia![Shoots himself.Curtain.
Act I.
Scene—A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just back from Oxford.
Tommy sings:
Felicia, I love you,By all the stars above youI swear you shall be mine!—And now I'm going to dine.
Felicia, I love you,By all the stars above youI swear you shall be mine!—And now I'm going to dine.
[He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger-beer and some meringues.
Waiter.Your dinner, Sir.
Tommy.Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if you see him? (To the audience) A week ago I was crossing the Channel—(enter Reynolds)—Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes." Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was Felicia. And now I must go and see about something. [Exit.
Reynolds.Poor Tommy! An awfully decent chap if ever there was one. But he will never marry Felicia, because I happen to know her real name is Phyllis, and she is engaged to Samuel.
(Recitative.)
She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy,He does not know she's fond of Samuel.Hewillbe disappointed when he knows.
She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy,He does not know she's fond of Samuel.Hewillbe disappointed when he knows.
She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy,He does not know she's fond of Samuel.Hewillbe disappointed when he knows.
Curtain.
Act II.
Scene—A beautiful country wedding.
Tommy(in pew nearest door, toReynolds). Who's the bride?
Reynolds.Phyllis. She's marrying Samuel.
Enter Bride.
Tommy.Heavens, it's Felicia!
Reynolds(to audience). Poor Tommy! How disappointed he must be! (Aloud) Yes, Felicia and Phyllis are really the same girl. She's engaged to Samuel.
Tommy.Then I cannot marry her!
Reynolds.No.
Tommy sings:
Good-bye, Felicia, good-bye,I'm awfully disappointed, IAm now, in fact, about to die,Felicia, Felicia, Felicia!
Good-bye, Felicia, good-bye,I'm awfully disappointed, IAm now, in fact, about to die,Felicia, Felicia, Felicia!
[Shoots himself.
Curtain.
That is how I see it. But no doubt Bobby and Short, when they really get to work, will make something better of it. It is an engaging theme, but, of course, the title wants to be spelt properly.
Jeremywas looking at a card which his wife had just passed across the table to him.
"'Lady Bendish. At Home,'" he read. "'Pets.' Is this for us?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Jeremy.
"Then I think 'Pets' is rather familiar. 'Mr. and Mrs. J. P. Smith' would have been more correct."
"Don't be silly, Jeremy. It means it's a Pet party. You have to bring some sort of pet with you, and there are prizes for the prettiest, and the most intelligent, and the most companionable, and so on." She looked at the fox-terrier curled up in front of the fire-place. "We could take Rags, of course."
"Or Baby," said Jeremy. "We'll enter her in the Fat Class."
But when the day arrived Jeremy had another idea. He came in from the garden with an important look on his face, and joined his wife in the hall.
"Come on," he said. "Let's start."
"But where's Rags?"
"Rags isn't coming. I'm taking Hereward instead." He opened his cigarette-case and disclosed a small green animal. "Hereward," he said.
"Why, Jeremy," cried his wife, "it's—why, it's blight from the rose-tree!"
"It isn't just blight, dear; it's one particular blight. A blight. Hereward, the Last of the Blights." He wandered round the hall. "Where's the lead?" he asked.
"Jeremy, don't be absurd."
"My dear, I must have something to lead him up for his prize on. During the parade he can sit on my shoulder informally, but when we come to the prize-giving, 'Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward,' must be led on properly." He pulled open a drawer. "Oh, here we are. I'd better take the chain; he might bite through the leather one."
They arrived a little late, to find a lawn full of people and animals; and one glance was sufficient to tell Jeremy that in some of the classes at least his pet would have many dangerous rivals.
"If there's a prize for the biggest," he said to his wife, "my blight has practically lost it already. Adams has brought a cart-horse. Hullo, Adams," he went on, "how are you? Don't come too close or Hereward may do your animal a mischief."
"Who's Hereward?"
Jeremy opened his cigarette-case.
"Hereward," he said. "Not the woodbine; that's quite wild. The blight. He's much more domesticated, but there are moments when he gets out of hand and becomes unmanageable. He gave me the slip coming here, and I had to chase him through the churchyard; that's why we're late."
"Does he take meals with the family?" asked Adams with a grin.
"No, no; he has them alone in the garden. You ought to see him having his bath. George, our gardener, looks after him. George gives him a special bath of soapy water every day. Hereward simply loves it. George squirts on him, and Hereward lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air. It's really quite pretty to watch them."
He nodded to Adams, and wandered through the crowd with Mrs. Jeremy. The collection of animals was remarkable; they varied in size from Adams's cart-horse to Jeremy's blight; in playfulness fromthe Vicar's kitten to Miss Trehearne's chrysalis; and in ability for performing tricks from the Major's poodle to Dr. Bunton's egg of the Cabbage White.
"There ought to be a race for them all," said Mrs. Jeremy. "A handicap, of course."
"Hereward is very fast over a short distance," said Jeremy, "but he wants encouragement. If he were given ninety-nine yards, two feet, and eleven inches in a hundred, and you were to stand in front of him with a William Allan Richardson, I think we might pull it off. But, of course, he's a bad starter. Hullo, there's Miss Bendish."
Miss Bendish, hurrying along, gave them a word as she went past.
"They're going to have the inspection directly," she said, "and give the prizes. Is your animal quite ready?"
"I should like to brush him up a bit," said Jeremy. "Is there a tent or anywhere where I could prepare him? His eyebrows get so matted if he's left to himself for long." He took out a cigarette and lit it.
"There's a tent, but you'll have to hurry up."
"Oh, well, it doesn't really matter," said Jeremy, as he walked along with her. "Hereward's natural beauty and agility will take him through."
On the south lawn the pets and their owners were assembling. Jeremy took the leash out of his pocket and opened his cigarette-case.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "Hereward has escaped! Quick! Shut the gates!" He saw Adams near and hurried up to him. "My blight has escaped," he said breathlessly, holding up the now useless leash. "He gnawed through the chain and got away. I'm afraid he may be running amok among the guests. Supposing he were to leap upon Sir Thomas from behind and savage him—it's too terrible." He moved anxiously on. "Have you seen my blight?" he askedMiss Trehearne. "He has escaped, and we are rather anxious. If he were to get the Vicar down and begin to worry him——" He murmured something about "once getting the taste for blood" and hurried off. The guests were assembled, and the judges walked down the line and inspected their different animals. They were almost at the end of it when Jeremy sprinted up and took his place by the last beast.
"It's all right," he panted to his wife, "I've got him. Silly of me to mislay him, but he's so confoundedly shy." He held out his finger as the judges approached, and introduced them to the small green pet perching on the knuckle. "A blight," he said. "Hereward, the Chief Blight. Been in the family for years. A dear old friend."
Jeremy went home a proud man. "Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward," had taken first prize in the All-round class.
"Yes," he admitted to his wife at dinner, "there is something on my mind." He looked at the handsome cigarette-box on the table in front of him and sighed.
"What is it, dear? You enjoyed yourself this afternoon, you know you did, and Hereward won you that beautiful cigarette-box. You ought to be proud."
"That's the trouble. Hereward didn't win it."
"But they said—they read it out, and——"
"Yes, but they didn't know. It was really Elspeth who won it."
"Elspeth?"
"Yes, dear." Jeremy sighed again. "When Hereward escaped and I went back for him, I didn't find him as I—er—pretended. So I went to the rose garden and—and borrowed Elspeth. Fortunately no one noticed it was a lady blight ... they all took itfor Hereward.... But it was really Elspeth—and belonged to Lady Bendish."
He helped himself to a cigarette from the box.
"It's an interesting point," he said. "I shall go and confess to-morrow to Sir Thomas, and see what he thinks about it. If he wants the box back, well and good."
He refilled his glass.
"After all," he said, "the real blow is losing Hereward. Elspeth—Elspeth is very dear to me, but she can never be quite the same."
William Bales—as nice a young man as ever wore a cummerbund on an esplanade—was in despair. For half an hour he and Miss Spratt had been sitting in silence on the pier, and it was still William's turn to say something. Miss Spratt's last remark had been, "Oh, Mr. Bales, you do say things!" and William felt that his next observation must at all costs live up to the standard set for it. Three or four times he had opened his mouth to speak, and then on second thoughts had rejected the intended utterance as unworthy. At the end of half an hour his mind was still working fruitlessly. He knew that the longer he waited the more brilliant he would have to be, and he told himself that even Bernard Shaw or one of those clever writing fellows would have been hard put to it now.
William was at odds with the world. He was a romantic young man who had once been told that he nearly looked like Lewis Waller when he frowned, and he had resolved that his holiday this year should be a very dashing affair indeed. He had chosen the sea in the hopes that some old gentleman would fall off the pier and let himself be saved by—and, later on, photographed with—William Bales, who in a subsequent interview would modestly refuse to take any credit for the gallant rescue. As his holiday had progressed he had felt the need for some such old gentleman more and more; for only thus, he realised, could he capture the heart of the wayward Miss Spratt. But so far it had been a dull season; in a whole fortnight nobodyhad gone out of his way to oblige William, and to-morrow he must return to the City as unknown and as unloved as when he left it.
"Got to go back to-morrow," he said at last. As an impromptu it would have served, but as the result of half an hour's earnest thought he felt that it did not do him justice.
"So you said before," remarked Miss Spratt.
"Well, it's still true."
"Talking about it won't help it," said Miss Spratt.
William sighed and looked round the pier. There was an old gentleman fishing at the end of it, his back turned invitingly to William. In half an hour he had caught one small fish (which he had had to return as under the age limit) and a bunch of seaweed. William felt that there was a wasted life; a life, however, which a sudden kick and a heroic rescue by W. Bales might yet do something to justify. At the Paddington Baths, a month ago, he had won a plate-diving competition; and though there is a difference between diving for plates and diving for old gentlemen he was prepared to waive it. One kick and then ... Fame! And, not only Fame, but the admiration of Angelina Spratt.
It was perhaps as well for the old gentleman—who was really quite worthy, and an hour later caught a full-sized whiting—that Miss Spratt spoke at this moment.
"Well, you're good company, I must say," she observed to William.
"It's so hot," said William.
"You can't sayIasked to come here."
"Let's go on the beach," said William desperately. "We can find a shady cave or something." Fate was against him; there was to be no rescue that day.
"I'm sure I'm agreeable," said Miss Spratt.
They walked in silence along the beach, and, roundinga corner of the cliffs, they came presently to a cave. In earlier days W. Bales could have done desperate deeds against smugglers there, with Miss Spratt looking on. Alas for this unromantic age! It was now a place for picnics, and a crumpled sheet of newspaper on the sand showed that there had been one there that very afternoon.
They sat in a corner of the cave, out of the sun, out of sight of the sea, and William prepared to renew his efforts as a conversationalist. In the hope of collecting a few ideas as to what the London clubs were talking about he picked up the discarded newspaper, and saw with disgust that it was the localHerald. But just as he threw it down, a line in it caught his eye and remained in his mind:
"High tide to-day—3.30."
William's heart leapt. He looked at his watch; it was 2.30. In one hour the waves would be dashing remorselessly into the cave, would be leaping up the cliff, what time he and Miss Spratt——
Suppose they were caught by the tide....
Meanwhile the lady, despairing of entertainment, had removed her hat.
"Really," she said, "I'm that sleepy—— I suppose the tide's safe, Mr. Bales?"
It was William's chance.
"Quite, quite safe," he said earnestly. "It's going down hard."
"Well then, I almost think——" She closed her eyes. "Wake me up when you've thought of something really funny, Mr. Bales."
William was left alone with Romance.
He went out of the cave and looked round. The sea was still some way out, but it came up quickly on this coast. In an hour ... in an hour....
He scanned the cliffs, and saw the ledge whither hewould drag her. She would cling to him crying, calling him her rescuer....
What should he do then? Should he leave her and swim for help? Or should he scale the mighty cliff?
He returned to the cave and, gazing romantically at the sleeping Miss Spratt, conjured up the scene. It would go like this, he thought.
Miss Spratt(wakened by the spray dashing over her face). Oh, Mr. Bales! We're cut off by the tide! Save me!
W. Bales(lightly). Tut-tut, there's no danger. It's nothing. (Aside) Great Heavens! Death stares us in the face!
Miss Spratt(throwing her arms around his neck). William, save me; I cannot swim!
W. Bales(with Waller face). Trust me, Angelina. I will fight my way round yon point and obtain help. (Aside) An Englishman can only die once.
Miss Spratt.Don't leave me!
W. Bales.Fear not, sweetheart. See, there is a ledge where you will be beyond the reach of the hungry tide. I will carry you thither in my arms and will then——
At this point in his day-dream William took another look at the sleeping Miss Spratt, felt his biceps doubtfully, and went on——
W. Bales.I will help you to climb thither, and will then swim for help.
Miss Spratt.My hero!
Again and again William reviewed the scene to himself. It was perfect. His photograph would be in the papers; Miss Spratt would worship him; he would be a hero in his City office. The actual danger was slight, for at the worst she could shelter in the far end of the cave; but he would not let her know this. He would do the thing heroically—drag her to the ledgeon the cliff, and then swim round the point to obtain help.
The thought struck him that he could conduct the scene better in his shirt-sleeves. He removed his coat, and then went out of the cave to reconnoitre the ledge.
Miss Spratt awoke with a start and looked at her watch. It was 4.15. The cave was empty save for a crumpled page of newspaper. She glanced at this idly and saw that it was the localHerald... eight days old.
Far away on the horizon William Bales was throwing stones bitterly at the still retreating sea.
"Itwas very nice of you to invite me to give you lunch," I said, "and if only the waiter would bring the toast I should be perfectly happy. I can't say more."
"Why not?" said Miss Middleton, looking up. "Oh, I see."
"And now," I said, when I had finished my business with a sardine, "tell me all about it. I know something serious must have brought you up to London. What is it? Have you run away from home?"
Miss Middleton nodded. "Sir Henery," she added dramatically, "waits for me in his yacht at Dover. My parents would not hear of the marriage, and immured me in the spare room. They tried to turn me against my love, and told wicked stories about him, vowing that he smoked five non-throat cigarettes in a day. Er—would you pass the pepper, please?"
"Go on," I begged. "Never mind the pepper."
"But, of course, I really came to see you," said Miss Middleton briskly. "I want you to do something for me."
"I knew it."
"Oh,dosay you'd love to."
I drained my glass and felt very brave.
"I'd love to," I said doubtfully. "At least, if I were sure that——" I lowered my voice: "Look here—have I got to write to anybody?"
"No," said Miss Middleton.
"Let me know the worst. Have I—er—have I got to give advice to anybody?"
"No."
There was one other point that had to be settled. I leant across the table anxiously.
"Have I got to ring anybody up on the telephone?" I asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Oh, nothing like that at all," said Miss Middleton.
"Dash it," I cried, "then ofcourseI'll do anything for you. What is it? Somebody you want killed? I could kill a mayor to-day."
Miss Middleton was silent for a moment while allowing herself to be helped to fish. When the waiters had moved away, "We are having a jumble sale," she announced.
I shook my head at her.
"Your life," I said, "is one constant round of gaiety."
"And I thought as I was coming to London I'd mention it to you. Because you're always saying you don't know what to do with your old things."
"I'm notalwayssaying it. I may have mentioned it once or twice when the conversation was flagging."
"Well, mention it now, and then I'll mention my jumble sale."
I thought it over for a moment.
"It will mean brown paper and string," I said hopelessly, "and I don't know where to get them."
"I'll buy some after lunch for you. You shall hold my hand while I buy it."
"And then I should have to post it, and I'mrottenat posting things."
"But you needn't post it, because you can meet me at the station with it, and I'll take it home."
"I don't think it's quite etiquette for a young girl to travel alone with a big brown-paper parcel. What would Mrs. Middleton say if she knew?"
"Mother?" cried Miss Middleton. "But, of course, it's her idea. Youdidn'tthink it was mine?" she said reproachfully.
"The shock of it unnerved me for a moment. Of course, I see now that it is Mrs. Middleton's jumble sale entirely." I sighed and helped myself to salt. "How do I begin?"
"You drive me to my dressmaker and leave me there and go on to your rooms. And then you collect a few really old things that you don't want and tie them up and meet me at the 4.40. I'm afraid," she said frankly, "itisa rotten way of spending an afternoon; but I promised mother."
"I'll do it," I said.
My parcel and I arrived promptly to time. Miss Middleton didn't.
"Don't say I've caught the wrong train," she said breathlessly, when at last she appeared. "It does go at 4.40, doesn't it?"
"It does," I said, "and it did."
"Then my watch must be slow."
"Send it to the jumble sale," I advised. "Look here—we've a long time to wait for the next train; let's undress my parcel in the waiting-room, and I'll point out the things that really want watching. Some are absolutely unique."
It was an odd collection of very dear friends, Miss Middleton's final reminder having been thatnothingwas too old for a jumble sale.
"Lot One," I said. "A photograph of my house cricket eleven, framed in oak. Very interesting. The lad on the extreme right is now a clergyman."
"Oh, which is you?" said Miss Middleton eagerly.
I was too much wrapped up in my parcel to answer. "Lot Two," I went on. "A pink-and-white football shirt; would work up into a dressy blouse for adult, or a smart overcoat for child.Lot Three.A knitted waistcoat; could be used as bath-mat.Lot Four.Pair of bedroom slippers in holes. This bit is the slipper; the rest is the hole.Lot Five.Now this issomething really good.Truthful Jane—my first prize at my Kindergarten."
"Motherisin luck. It's just the sort of things she wants," said Miss Middleton.
"Her taste is excellent.Lot Six.A pair of old grey flannel trousers.Lot Seven.Lot Seven forward. Where are you?" I began to go through the things again. "Er—I'm afraid Lot Seven has already gone."
"What about Lot Eight?"
"There doesn't seem to be a Lot Eight either. It's very funny; I'm sure I started with more than this. Some of the things must have eaten each other on the way."
"Oh, but this isheaps. Can you really spare them all?"
"I should feel honoured if Mrs. Middleton would accept them," I said with a bow. "Don't forget to tell her that in the photograph the lad on the extreme right——" I picked up the photograph and examined it more carefully. "I say,Ilook rather jolly, don't you think? I wonder if I have another copy of this anywhere." I gazed at it wistfully. "That was my first year for the house, you know."
"Don't give it away," said Miss Middleton suddenly. "Keep it."
"Shall I? I don't want to deprive—— Well, I think I will if you don't mind." My eyes wandered to the shirt. "I've had some fun inthatin my time," I said thoughtfully. "The first time I wore it——"
"You reallyoughtn'tto give away your old colours, you know."
"Oh, but if Mrs. Middleton," I began doubtfully—"at least, don't you—what?—oh, all right, perhaps I won't." I put the shirt on one side with the photograph, and picked up the dear old comfy bedroom slippers. I considered them for a minute and then Isighed deeply. As I looked up I caught Miss Middleton's eye.... I think she had been smiling.
"About the slippers," she said gravely.
"Good-bye," I said to Miss Middleton. "It's been jolly to see you." I grasped my parcel firmly as the train began to move. "I'm always glad to help Mrs. Middleton, and if ever I can do so again be sure to let me know."
"I will," said Miss Middleton.
The train went out of the station, and my parcel and I looked about for a cab.
Probablyyou thought that getting married was quite a simple business. So did I. We were both wrong; it is the very dickens. Of course, I am not going to draw back now. As I keep telling Celia, her Ronald is a man of powerful fibre, and when he says he will do a thing he does it—eventually. She shall have her wedding all right; I have sworn it. But I do wish that there weren't so many things to be arranged first.
The fact that we had to fix a day was broken to me one afternoon when Celia was showing me to some relatives of hers in the Addison Road. I got entangled with an elderly cousin on the hearth-rug; and though I know nothing about motor-bicycles I talked about them for several hours under the impression that they were his subject. It turned out afterwards that he was equally ignorant of them, but thought they were mine. Perhaps we shall get on better at a second meeting. However, just when we were both thoroughly sick of each other, Celia broke off her gay chat with an aunt to say to me:
"By the way, Ronald, we did settle on the eleventh, didn't we?"
I looked at her blankly, my mind naturally full of motor-bicycles.
"The wedding," smiled Celia.
"Right-o," I said with enthusiasm. I was glad to be assured that I should not go on talking about motor-bicyclesfor ever, and that on the eleventh, anyhow, there would be a short interruption for the ceremony. Feeling almost friendly to the cousin, I plunged into his favourite subject again.
On the way home Celia returned to the matter.
"Or you would rather it was the twelfth?" she asked.
"I've never heard a word about this before," I said. "It all comes as a surprise to me."
"Why, I'malwaysasking you."
"Well, it's very forward of you, and I don't know what young people are coming to nowadays. Celia, what's thegoodof my talking to your cousin for three hours about motor-bicycling? Surely one can get married just as well without that?"
"One can't get married without settling the day," said Celia, coming cleverly back to the point.
Well, I suppose one can't. But somehow I had expected to be spared all this bother. I think my idea was that Celia would say to me suddenly one evening, "By the way, Ronald, don't forget we're being married to-morrow," and I should have said "Where?" And on being told the time and place, I should have turned up pretty punctually; and after my best man had told me where to stand, and the clergyman had told me what to say, and my solicitor had told me where to sign my name, we should have driven from the church a happy married couple ... and in the carriage Celia would have told me where we were spending the honeymoon.
However, it was not to be so.
"All right, the eleventh," I said. "Any particular month?"
"No," smiled Celia, "just any month. Or, if you like, every month."
"The eleventh of June," I surmised. "It is probably the one day in the year on which my UncleThomas cannot come. But no matter. The eleventh let it be."
"Then that's settled. And at St. Miriam's?"
For some reason Celia has set her heart on St. Miriam's. Personally I have no feeling about it. St. Andrew's-by-the-Wardrobe or St. Bartholomew's-Without would suit me equally well.
"All right," I said, "St. Miriam's."
There, you might suppose, the matter would have ended; but no.
"Then you will see about it to-morrow?" said Celia persuasively.
I was appalled at the idea.
"Surely," I said, "this is for you, or your father, or—or somebody to arrange."
"Ofcourseit's for the bridegroom," protested Celia.
"In theory, perhaps. But anyhow not the bridegroom personally. His best man ... or his solicitor ... or ... I mean, you're not suggesting that I myself—— Oh, well, if you insist. Still, I must say I don't see what's the good of having a best mananda solicitor if—— Oh, all right, Celia, I'll go to-morrow."
So I went. For half an hour I padded round St. Miriam's nervously, and then summoning up all my courage, I knocked my pipe out and entered.
"I want," I said jauntily to a sexton or a sacristan or something—"I want—er—a wedding." And I added, "For two."
He didn't seem as nervous as I was. He enquired quite calmly when I wanted it.
"The eleventh of June," I said. "It's probably the one day in the year on which my Uncle Thomas—— However, that wouldn't interest you. The point is that it's the eleventh."
The clerk consulted his wedding-book. Then he made the surprising announcement that the only dayhe could offer me in June was the seventeenth. I was amazed.
"I am a very old customer," I said reproachfully. "I mean, I have often been to your church in my time. Surely——"
"We've weddings fixed on all the other days."
"Yes, yes, but you could persuade somebody to change his day, couldn't you? Or if he is very much set on being married on the eleventh you might recommend some other church to him. I daresay you know of some good ones. You see, Celia—my—that is, we're particularly keen, for some reason, on St. Miriam's."
The clerk didn't appreciate my suggestion. He insisted that the seventeenth was the only day.
"Then will you have the seventeenth?" he asked.
"My dear fellow, I can't possibly say off-hand," I protested. "I am not alone in this. I have a friend with me. I will go back and tell her what you say. She may decide to withdraw her offer altogether."
I went back and told Celia.
"Bother," she said. "What shall we do?"
"There are other churches. There's your own, for example."
"Yes, but you know I don't like that. Whyshouldn'twe be married on the seventeenth?"
"I don't know at all. It seems an excellent day; it lets in my Uncle Thomas. Of course, it may exclude my Uncle William, but one can't have everything."
"Then will you go and fix it for the seventeenth to-morrow?"
"Can't I send my solicitor this time?" I asked. "Of course, if you particularly want me to go myself, I will. But really, dear, I seem to be living at St. Miriam's nowadays."
And even that wasn't the end of the business. For, just as I was leaving her, Celia broke it to me that St. Miriam's was neither in her parish nor in mine, andthat, in order to qualify as a bridegroom, I should have to hire a room somewhere near.
"But I am very comfortable where I am," I assured her.
"You needn't live there, Ronald. You only want to leave a hat there, you know."
"Oh, very well," I sighed.
She came to the hall with me; and, having said good-bye to her, I repeated my lesson.
"The seventeenth, fix it up to-morrow, take a room near St. Miriam's, and leave a hat there. Good-bye."
"Good-bye.... And oh, Ronald!" She looked at me critically as I stood in the doorway. "You might leavethatone," she said.
"Bythe way," said Celia suddenly, "what have you done about the fixtures?"
"Nothing," I replied truthfully.
"Well, we must dosomethingabout them."
"Yes. My solicitor—he shall do something about them. Don't let's talk about them now. I've only got three hours more with you, and then I must dash back to my work."
I must say that any mention of fixtures has always bored me intensely. When it was a matter of getting a house to live in I was all energy. As soon as Celia had found it, I put my solicitor on to it; and within a month I had signed my name in two places, and was the owner of a highly residential flat in the best part of the neighbourhood. But my effort so exhausted me that I have felt utterly unable since to cope with the question of the curtain-rod in the bathroom or whatever it is that Celia means by fixtures. These things will arrange themselves somehow, I feel confident.
Meanwhile the decorators are hard at work. A thrill of pride inflates me when I think of the decorators at work. I don't know how they got there; I suppose I must have ordered them. Celia says thatsheordered them and chose all the papers herself, and that all I did was to say that the papers she had chosen were very pretty; but this doesn't sound like me in the least. I am convinced that I was the man of action when it came to ordering decorators.
"And now," said Celia one day, "we can go and choose the electric-light fittings."
"Celia," I said in admiration, "you're a wonderful person. I should have forgotten all about them."
"Why, they're about the most important thing in the flat."
"Somehow I never regarded anybody as choosing them. I thought they just grew in the wall. From bulbs."
When we got into the shop Celia became businesslike at once.
"We'd better start with the hall," she told the man.
"Everybody else will have to," I said, "so we may as well."
"What sort of a light did you want there?" he asked.
"A strong one," I said; "so as to be able to watch our guests carefully when they pass the umbrella-stand."
Celia waved me away and explained that we wanted a hanging lantern. It appeared that this shop made a speciality not so much of the voltage as of the lamps enclosing it.
"How do you like that?" asked the man, pointing to a magnificent affair in brass. He wandered off to a switch, and turned it on.
"Dare you ask him the price?" I asked Celia. "It looks to me about a thousand pounds. If it is, say that you don't like the style. Don't let him think we can't afford it."
"Yes," said Celia, in a careless sort of way. "I'm not sure that I care about that. How much is it?"
"Two pounds."
I was not going to show my relief. "Without the light, of course?" I said disparagingly.
"How do you think it would look in the hall?" said Celia to me.
"I think our guests would be encouraged to proceed. They'd see that we were pretty good people."
"I don't like it. It's too ornate."
"Then show us something less ornate," I told the man sternly.
He showed us things less ornate. At the end of an hour Celia said she thought we'd better get on to another room, and come back to the hall afterwards. We decided to proceed to the drawing-room.
"We must go all out over these," said Celia; "I want these to be really beautiful."
At the end of another hour Celia said she thought we'd better get on to my workroom. My workroom, as the name implies, is the room to which I am to retire when I want complete quiet. Sometimes I shall go there after lunch ... and have it.
"We can come back to the drawing-room afterwards," she said. "It's really very important that we should get the right ones for that. Your room won't be so difficult, but, of course, you must have awfully nice ones."
I looked at my watch.
"It's a quarter to one," I said. "At 2.15 on the seventeenth of June we are due at St. Miriam's. If you think we shall have bought anything by then, let's go on. If, as seems to me, there is no hope at all, then let's have lunch to-day anyhow. After lunch we may be able to find some way out of theimpasse."
After lunch I had an idea.
"This afternoon," I said, "we will begin to get some furniture together."
"But what about the electric fittings? We must finish off those."
"This is an experiment. I want to see if we can buy a chest of drawers. It may just be our day for it."
"And we settle the fittings to-morrow. Yes?"
"I don't know. We may not want them. It all depends on whether we can buy a chest of drawersthis afternoon. If we can't, then I don't see how we can ever be married on the seventeenth of June. Somebody's got to be, because I've engaged the church. The question is whether it's going to be us. Let's go and buy a chest of drawers this afternoon, and see."
The old gentleman in the little shop Celia knew of was delighted to see us.
"Chestesses? Ah, you'avecome to the right place." He led the way into the depths. "There now. There's a chest—real old, that is." He gave it a hearty smack. "You don't see a chest like that nowadays. They can'tmake'em. Three pound ten. You couldn't have got that to-morrer. I'd have sold it for four pound to-morrer."
"I knew it was our day," I said.
"Real old, that is. Spanish me'ogany, all oak lined. That's right, sir, pull the drawers out and see for yourself. Let the lady see. There's no imitation there, lady. A real old chest, that is. Come in 'ere in a week and you'd have to pay five pounds for it. Me'ogany's going up, you see, that's how."
"Well?" I said to Celia.
"It's perfectly sweet. Hadn't we better see some more?"
We saw two more. Both of them Spanish me'ogany, oak lined, pull-the-drawers-out-and-see-for-yourself-lady. Half an hour passed rapidly.
"Well?" I said.
"I really don't know which I like best. Which do you?"
"The first; it's nearer the door."
"There's another shop just over the way. We'd better just look there too, and then we can come back to decide to-morrow."
We went out. I glanced at my watch. It was 3.30, and we were being married at 2.15 on the seventeenth of June.
"Wait a moment," I said, "I've forgotten my gloves."
I may be a slow starter, but I am very firm when roused. I went into the shop, wrote a cheque for the three chests of drawers, and told the man where to send them. When I returned, Celia was at the shop opposite, pulling the drawers out of a real old mahogany chest which was standing on the pavement outside.
"This is even better," she said. "It's perfectly adorable. I wonder if it's more expensive."
"I'll just ask," I said.
I went in and, without an unnecessary word, bought that chest too. Then I came back to Celia. It was 3.45, and on the seventeenth of June at 2.15—— Well, we had four chests of drawers towards it.
"Celia," I said, "we may just do it yet."
"I knowI oughtn't to be dallying here," I said; "I ought to be doing something strenuous in preparation for the wedding. Counting the bells at St. Miriam's, or varnishing the floors in the flat, or—— Tell me what I ought to be doing, Celia, and I'll go on not doing it for a bit."
"There's the honeymoon," said Celia.
"I knew there was something."
"Do tell me what you're doing about it?"
"Thinking about it."
"You haven't written to any one about rooms yet?"
"Celia," I said reproachfully, "you seem to have forgotten why I am marrying you."
When Celia was browbeaten into her present engagement, she said frankly that she was only consenting to marry me because of my pianola, which she had always coveted. In return I pointed out that I was only asking her to marry me because I wanted somebody to write my letters. There opened before me, in that glad moment, a vista of invitations and accounts-rendered all answered promptly by Celia, instead of put off till next month by me. It was a wonderful vision to one who (very properly) detests letter-writing. And yet, here she was, even before the ceremony, expecting me to enter into a deliberate correspondence with all sorts of strange people who as yet had not come into my life at all. It was too much.
"We will get," I said, "your father to write some letters for us."
"But what's he got to do with it?"
"I don't want to complain of your father, Celia, but it seems to me that he is not doing his fair share. There ought to be a certain give-and-take in the matter.Ifind you a nice church to be married in—good.Hefinds you a nice place to honeymoon in—excellent. After all, you are still his daughter."
"All right," said Celia, "I'll ask father to do it. 'Dear Mrs. Bunn, my little boy wants to spend his holidays with you in June. I am writing to ask you if you will take care of him and see that he doesn't do anything dangerous. He has a nice disposition, but wants watching.'" She patted my head gently. "Something like that."
I got up and went to the writing-desk.
"I can see I shall have to do it myself," I sighed. "Give me the address and I'll begin."
"But we haven't quite settled where we're going yet, have we?"
I put the pen down thankfully and went back to the sofa.
"Good! Then I needn't write to-day, anyhow. It is wonderful, dear, how difficulties roll away when you face them. Almost at once we arrive at the conclusion that I needn't write to-day. Splendid! Well, where shall we go? This will want a lot of thought. Perhaps," I added, "I needn't write to-morrow."
"We had almost fixed on England, hadn't we?"
"Somebody was telling me that Lynton was very beautiful. I should like to go to Lynton."
"Butevery onegoes to Lynton for their honeymoon."
"Then let's be original and go to Birmingham. 'The happy couple left for Birmingham, where the honeymoon will be spent.' Sensation."
"'The bride left the train at Ealing.' More sensation."
"I think the great thing," I said, trying to bebusinesslike, "is to fix the county first. If we fixed on Rutland, then the rest would probably be easy."
"The great thing," said Celia, "is to decide what we want. Sea, or river, or mountains, or—or golf."
At the word golf I coughed and looked out of the window.
Now I am very fond of Celia—I mean of golf, and—what I really mean, of course, is that I am very fond of both of them. But I do think that on a honeymoon Celia should come first. After all, I shall have plenty of other holidays for golf ... although, of course, three weeks in the summer without any golf at all—— Still, I think Celia should come first.
"Our trouble," I said to her, "is that neither of us has ever been on a honeymoon before, and so we've no idea what it will be like. After all, why should we get bored with each other? Surely we don't depend on golf to amuse us?"
"All the same, I think your golfwouldamuse me," said Celia. "Besides, I want you to be as happy as you possibly can be."
"Yes, but supposing I was slicing my drives all the time, I should be miserable. I should be torn between the desire to go back to London and have a lesson with the professional and the desire to stay on honeymooning with you. One can't be happy in a quandary like that."
"Very well then, no golf. Settled?"
"Quite. Now then, let's decide about the scenery. What sort of soil do you prefer?"
When I left Celia that day we had agreed on this much: that we wouldn't bother about golf, and that the mountains, rivers, valleys, and so on should be left entirely to nature. All we were to enquire for was (in the words of an advertisement Celia had seen) "a perfect spot for a honeymoon."
In the course of the next day I heard of seven spots;varying from a spot in Surrey "dotted with firs," to a dot in the Pacific spotted with—I forget what, natives probably. Taken together they were the seven only possible spots for a honeymoon.
"We shall have to have seven honeymoons," I said to Celia when I had told her my news. "One honeymoon, one spot."
"Wait," she said. "I have heard of an ideal spot."
"Speaking as a spot expert, I don't think that's necessarily better than an only possible spot," I objected. "Still, tell me about it."
"Well, to begin with, it's close to the sea."
"So we can bathe when we're bored. Good."
"And it's got a river, if you want to fish——"
"I don't. I should hate to catch a fish who was perhaps on his honeymoon too. Still, I like the idea of a river."
"And quite a good mountain, and lovely walks, and, in fact, everything. Except a picture-palace, luckily."
"It sounds all right," I said doubtfully. "We might just spend the next day or two thinking about my seven spots, and then I might ... possibly ... feel strong enough to write."
"Oh, I nearly forgot. Ihavewritten, Ronald."
"You have?" I cried. "Then, my dear, what else matters? It's a perfect spot." I lay back in relief. "And there, thank 'evings, is another thing settled. Bless you."
"Yes. And, by the way, thereisgolf quite close too. But that," she smiled, "needn't prevent us going there."
"Of course not. We shall just ignore the course."
"Perhaps, so as to be on the safe side, you'd better leave your clubs behind."
"Perhaps I'd better," I said carelessly.
All the same I don't think I will. One never knows what may happen ... and at the outset of one's matrimonial career to have to go to the expense of an entirely new set of clubs would be a most regrettable business.