Willow the king

I  WENT home, and passed an unquiet night. I like to think myself a person of a sturdy unemotional habit whom neither men nor affairs can discompose; but I’m certain that every time I fell into a doze, I was dreaming of brown holland. And when I lay awake I was thinking of brown holland. It is very chastening when the proud are smitten in their self-esteem. Hitherto I had held my invincibility to be quite glorious. The most fanciful dressing of the hair, the most fearful wonderful “creation,” the most ingratiating small talk, I delighted to defy. It pleased me to think, that I had a mind as much above cut, colour, carriage and address, and whole magazines of blandishment, as any this side professed misogyny. And I was reasonably gratified with this high behaviour. Be sure it is no little thing for a young and pretty eligible bachelor to look, to admit, and yet to remain impervious. There was some consensus of opinion I believe amongst the manias of the county that young Mr. Dimsdale really ought to settle down. You should know that young Mr. Dimsdale having completed his education by a rather liberal course of globe-trotting, had come home at last to play the squire at his late father’s little place in the country. Therefore his late father’s little place was desiring a mistress; his late father’s little income was clamouring to be spent. His late father had been in trade it is true—he had boiled soap, to be precise; Dimsdale’s Dirt Defier, don’t you know? But young Mr. Dimsdale himself was so much the thing, that these charitable ladies would never be able to forgive themselves if through any fault of theirs he married something “impossible”—an actress say, or one of those dreadful pushing pig-sticking Americans!

I struck a match, and looked at the time. Twenty minutes past two. I sat up in bed, and said confidentially to the bedroom furniture:

“Damn brown holland!”

It must have been somewhat embarrassing for the bedroom furniture I know, but then the thing was getting serious. I was beginning to fear that something had gone wrong with the works.

Now the case would not have been quite so singular had it been a question of a brand-new gown from Paris. But a humble countryfied brown holland! Ah! but was it quite so humble and so countryfied? Wasn’t there a sweeping decision in its build that had “Redfern” on it as legibly as the box in which it came. In fact, the more I meditated on this unpretentious brown holland, the more imposing did it grow. By Jove! it was not half so insignificant as it seemed. In no time I had discovered so many potential charms in its deceitful simplicity, that presently its individuality was merged in that of its wearer. Redfern—good people—beauty no end—weekly refusals—earls, etc.—great cricketing family—brother going out with Stoddart—father awful big pot—no earthly—who was I—silly ass—soap-boiler’s son—not even invited to play for the county—out for seven—couldn’t bat for nuts—why didn’t I go to sleep—brown holland—damn brown holland—sleep so much more desirable—what price her eyes—what was the name of that complexion—wonder if my batting was likely to come on—Archie a pretty fair rustic bat—wonder why all girls didn’t wear brown holland—Zingari colours didn’t look so dusty with that hair—was I ever going to sleep—who said brown holland—should be sure to see her again—Hickory Rectory was just a nice walk—why wasn’t I a county cricketer—rather a pretty name Grace—suited her too! I fell into another doze and dreamt of going in first with Halliday to bat against Middlesex at Lords. I was so nervous and excited that I could hardly walk. When I asked the umpire in a hoarse voice for my guard, and he turned his face towards me, I saw with horrified surprise that he wore brown holland underneath his white coat, and that he had the voice and face of a lady. When she said, “Your bat’s horribly wobbly; Charlie’ll get through that like fun,” the shock was too great to be borne, and I woke up in a sweat.

I was such a dismal dog and my appetite was so delicate, that I breakfasted on tea and toast, and actually elected to peruse a stern indictment of the Government’s Foreign Policy in the Times rather than the Sportsman’s account of yesterday’s county matches. I was sick of cricket. It was such an unsatisfactory game. Besides, it was of no service to the liver. I was certain that that important organ had gone wrong again. Must have advice about it, and do more riding. Sell my bats or burn them, and devote myself to polo. Capital idea!

I was sipping my tea reflectively, and tracing the strange resemblance of its colour to the complexion of the young person in brown holland, when the General Nuisance obtruded his hateful presence through the open window, as his wont was, without any ceremony whatever. He was reeking of self-satisfaction and tobacco smoke.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said he, casting his lighted cigarette on the carpet in a way that promised to ignite it. Pouring himself out a cup of coffee, without waiting to be invited, he said:

“Look pretty chippy this morning, my son. Still fretting about that l.b.w.?”

“Drink your coffee and cut,” said I, as impolitely as I could.

“Want to be alone, eh?” said he. “Why that’s a symptom. Let’s see your tongue. And I’d better feel your pulse.”

“You’ll probably feel my boot,” said I.

“Very prettily expressed,” said the General Nuisance. Thereon he seated himself on a corner of the breakfast-table, and seemed certain to capsize the bacon-dish every time he swung his legs. “Most incisive and direct.”

“Will be,” said I, not so irrelevantly as it may appear.

“I’ll prescribe for your disease,” said he.

“You can go to hell,” said I.

“Well,” said he suavely, “my prescription is in that direction too. I want you to go and drown yourself. You’re in love.”

“Who told you?” I shouted.

How singular it was that I had not had the faintest suspicion till that moment that love was the name of my disease! But when the General Nuisance clapped a name upon my malady, not for an instant did I doubt him.

“Hard that a man of your fine presence should suffer from hallucinations,” said that glibly hateful person. “Must feel pretty squiffy. You go and drown yourself, my pilgrim. Quite the nicest death in summer. Water beautifully warm. Besides, you’ve got a pretext in your l.b.w. Jury’ll bring in a ‘temporarily insane’ without any coarse remarks. Now then, go away and die. And what an awfully swagger corpse you’d make. They’re not always so well nourished and full of blood, you ostentatious idiot.”

“Who told you I was in love?” said I.

“Your looks,” said he.

“Are they very descriptive?” said I apprehensively.

“Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray,” said he, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Decent girl though.”

“Decent!” said I, clenching my fist in my enthusiasm; “she’s the magnificentest girl you ever saw!”

“Strange,” said he, “how all the objects of our affection suffer from superlatives.”

“She’s not an object,” said I fiercely, “she’s a perfect angel. If you knew her, you’d say she was too good to live. And such eyes too!”

“Oh, Granny, what big ears you’ve got!” said he; then dropping his tone, “you excite my fears, old chap. ’Devilish cut up to find your nervous system in such a disorganized condition.”

“Don’t spill your phrases all over the place,” said I. “You’re not in Parliament yet.”

“You’re putting up for Elysium, I see,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll get in though. Rival candidates too strong.”

“Who?” I said faintly.

“Right Honourable Earl Boughey for one,” he said.

“He can’t bat though,” I said.

“His acres compensate.”

“She’s not that kind of girl,” I said quickly.

“They never are—until you get left! Then there’s the cherished, respectable Optimist.”

“Poor old soul, he’s got no earthly!”

“How sad! But sit on your pity and keep it snug. It’ll be needed for another, or woman has changed since my time. Don’t you know that every sanguine temperament in the shire is similarly bent? She’s at home the first Monday and the third Friday for the purpose of dispatching ’em. Does ’em in detachments. As Archie pathetically says, ‘To a peaceable and quiet mind the slaughter is distressing.’ And she’s going to be a sister to ’em all. Archie says he can’t sleep o’ nights for thinking of his poor relations.”

“Don’t care,” said I doggedly; “she’s A 1.”

“Rather liberal-minded too.”

“The best women always are.”

“Out of the mouths of babes! But this’ll gladden you. Middlesex man, stylish, dashing bat, fair change bowler, irreproachable field, is the dark horse. Were you only he, the deity might deign. But as you are merely a club-man with ambitions, be advised, and go and pack your brain in ice. For these cases the cold water cure has the highest testimonials. I’m speaking plain, because it pains me to see Joyous Imbecility riding for a fall. So long as it tumbles on its head there’s no harm done. Besides, the vanity that lives there sometimes gets a jog. But if it drops on top of its emotions, it’s been known to write a book, and that, my pilgrim, in the interests of humanity I feel it my duty to discountenance.”

The General Nuisance having disposed of his piece of news, and having trampled on my feelings as far as considerations for his personal safety would permit, dismounted from the table in a way that involved the overturning of the hot-water dish on to my fox terrier, lying inoffensively on the hearthrug. Thereon he took his leave, professing deep solicitude for my deplorable condition, and departed to advertise it to the world.

Poets always lead one to understand that the tender passion is an ecstatic, quick-breathing sort of thing. But in this present case of mine it simply made me morose and brooding, with a distinct tendency to put me off my ordinary game. Loss of appetite, a general lassitude, moodiness, abstraction, and an instability of purpose that would not let me do any one thing for more than five minutes at a time, were a few of my symptoms on this memorable morning. I loafed about the fields throughout the forenoon with no other companion than the Rubaiyat of Mr. Rudyard Kipling—I am sure I beg your pardon, I mean of course, the Rudyard Kipling of Mr. Omar Kháyyám—for once despising sporting literature, as I had discovered that sport itself was such a hollow, unsatisfying thing. On coming back to lunch I found that my sister Mary had returned from town. To my shame be it said I did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Mary is a most sympathetic person, but at the same time I was craving just now for a life of solitude.

“Had a good time?” said I, immediately on the top of the fraternal ceremony.

“Yes, and no,” said Mary, in a way that the best girls have. Yes, to imply that she really had had a good time; no, to suggest that she was not insensible to her severance from a loving brother. A mere man would have been incapable of summing up the exigencies of the moment in this wholly admirable fashion.

“But, Ricky,” said she, placing her hands on my shoulders and looking into my face with tremendously embarrassing intentness, “what’s the matter with you? You look quite old and weary. You didn’t get a duck yesterday.”

“I only got seven,” said I, seeking to creep out on a subterfuge.

“Yes, I bought a Sportsman,” said Mary. “Leg before’s very annoying, I know, but you mustn’t let it wreck your health.”

“But mine was the only single figure,” said I, to still further disarm suspicion.

But all this time Mary’s penetrating glance had never left my dissembling countenance; and when she said, in a rather downright manner, “Look here, Ricky, I don’t think it’s that at all,” I was not a bit surprised by her profundity, although it did not prevent me looking guilty.

“They’ve not invited you to play against Somerset next week?” she asked, with bated breath; “because if they have I can understand it.”

“No,” I said, “they’ve not.”

“Then I think they’re very mean,” said Mary; “but what is the matter, Ricky?”

Now Mary had a way with her that I never could resist. Besides here is a difference between the sexes. We have only one way of getting to know anything we want to know, and that is blunt demand; but a woman has five thousand ways or more, mostly indirect, to make the Sphinx unfold its bosom. Therefore it was a rule of mine to accept the inevitable straight away in the case of Mary. Sooner or later she was bound to catch me napping, besides, an early concession spared us both a vast amount of trouble.

“Do you know Laura Trentham?” said I desperately.

“Oh, yes,” said Mary.

“Wouldn’t you call her no end of a nice girl?”

“She’s a very dear girl,” said Mary warmly. “Quite one of the nicest girls I know—if she wouldn’t talk slang.”

“Slang!” said I. “Why, does she talk slang?”

“Dreadfully,” said Mary, in that tone of high reproof that the best sisters are so fond of. “Dreadfully, Ricky. Isn’t it a pity?”

“Awful,” said I. “S’pose slangy women are awfully beastly.”

“They’re outrées,” said Mary. “Besides, men like it.”

“Don’t think they know what slang is,” said I. “S’pose it’s the same as the split infinitive—sort o’ thing that everybody likes to jolly well jaw about and don’t know what it is.”

“My dear Ricky,” said Mary sternly. Her eye fairly flashed with the Higher Culture, therefore I hastened to dismiss a subject on which she had such strong opinions.

“I met Laura Trentham yesterday, at the Hickory match, you know,” said I guiltily.

“Hadn’t we better begin lunch?” said Mary. “Travelling’s made me so hungry.”

It was well for Mary that her patience had no limits, for during that meal I consumed incredible quantities of this invaluable article. However, I felt perhaps a thought more cheerful for the energy and colour of my language. But Mary’s last word was:

“Ricky, I’m so sorry that Laura Trentham does talk slang.”

I lost no time in seeking the open air. Indoors I breathed with difficulty, and was, moreover, ridiculously restless. I wandered aimlessly about the fields of sunshine, without noting in the least the direction that I took. I meandered across blistering meadows to the neighbouring village of Nowhere-in-Particular. A singularly disordered mind was my one companion. And such was its condition that I neither heeded my direction nor the landmarks by the way. Therefore, when in the course of two hours’ rambling it suddenly occurred to me that it would be as well to observe where I was, and set my face for home, I should not have been very surprised to find that I had strolled off the map of England. Where was I? There was a low hedge directly ahead. Beyond that I could indistinctly see, trees being intermingled with them, glass-houses, out-houses, and an ivy-grown, ancient manor-house. Whose place was this? Next instant I shook with hollow laughter at myself. It was Hickory Rectory, Miss Grace’s home. This was really too preposterous. The ivy-grown arrangement just in front was Hickory Rectory for all that. And the family were still at home, and apparently engaged in their principal vocation. For even as I stood girding at my own absurdity, a voice came from the other side the hedge to this effect: “Grace, if you will keep covering the sticks every time with your confounded skirt, you’ll be out petticoat before.”

“Oh, shall I!” said the audacious person thus addressed. “If you can’t bowl me, you’d better bowl for catches and get me caught. Put Toddles on. He might get me collared in the long-field like anything.”

Although I was still applying cynical laughter to my infernal folly, I was quite prepared to seize the opportunity of seeing great men in private life, and that other surpassing member of their family showing them how things should be done. Therefore I found myself gazing with both eyes over the hedge on to the Rectory lawn. It was a single wicket match. Grace herself was batting. A. H. was bowling slow breaks; Captain George was keeping wicket; Elphinstone was in the country; T. S. M., H. C., and Carteret were all disposed on the leg-side; whilst an old, foxey-looking individual was acting in the responsible capacity of umpire. I had not been there a minute ere Miss Grace, in attempting a tremendous blind swipe right off her middle over the cucumber frame at deep square-leg, was saved by her skirt from being clean bowled.

“How’s that?” cried A. H., lustily.

“Not hout!” cried the umpire, in a tone that plainly told A. H. what he, the umpire, thought of him as a man and a gentleman.

“Very good decision, Biffin,” said Miss Grace, calmly patting down the turf to show that the ball had turned a bit. However, Nemesis waited on Miss Grace next ball. With another mighty swipe she fetched a real good one round like lightning, and the youthful T. S. M., fielding short-leg, jumping up, effected a wonderful one-handed catch.

“Well, what a fluke!” cried Miss Grace; “that would have been the winning hit.”

“But isn’t,” said Elphinstone, alias Toddles, cheerfully; “and Surrey have beaten Middlesex by two runs. First defeat of the champion county. Oh, Stoddy, why weren’t you steadier?”

“Yes, why weren’t you steadier, Stoddy?” said Carteret.

“’Cause I didn’t think there was anybody in this parish who could catch anything after yesterday’s exhibition,” said the famous Middlesex batsman dejectedly.

“What’s the next fixture in the Middlesex list?” asked Captain George.

“Middlesex v. Gloucestershire at Cheltenham,” said Miss Grace. “Same sides. Let’s toss for innings.”

“You’ve got a man more than we, though,” said T. S. M.

“As you play for Harrow, Tommy, you count two you know,” said Miss Grace.

“Hullo, there’s Dimsdale here,” cried H. C., as his eye lit on me. “He’s just the man we want for Gloucester. Go round, Dimsdale, to the gate.”

A minute later I was on the Rectory lawn, and preparing to engage in my first county match.

“As it’s Gloucestershire,” said George the kindly, “somebody’ll have to represent the Old Man. Now Grace herself is the only one with any pretensions to do that. Suppose Middlesex swaps her for me?”

“Ripping good idea!” said that celebrated person eagerly. “That’s stunning! Biffin, just go and fetch me that red and yellow cap, while I go out and toss with Mr. Stoddart.”