Willow the king

WHILE eight men were scrubbing themselves in the bath-room prior to the dinner bell, their behaviour, as is only too usual when eight men are trying to do the same thing at the same time, was not too lady-like. Their talk also was breezy and of a rather penetrating kind.

“If Brightside’s not here to-night with intent,” said Elphinstone, in his slow, clerical sing-song, in the middle of a free fight round a bath-towel, “you can call me American. I’ve been looking at Brightside, and I’m certain that he meditates making a silly ass of himself.”

“Do you, Brightside?” I cried, with deep feeling.

“Oh, damn,” said the Optimist coarsely. But his complexion was becoming a fine tawny.

“He’s going through with it to-night though, if it kills him,” said the wicked little parson.

“More likely to kill her,” said Carteret.

“Matter of opinion,” said the little parson: “but one can’t help respecting Brightside. No earthly and all that, he knows, but I’m certain that he’s going to cause Grace to become a sister to him.”

“So there!” said Carteret.

“We call ’em the Bougheys, you know,” said the wicked little parson, in a disgustingly confidential tone, “in affectionate remembrance of that noble idiot over the way. ’Comes here every fortnight now to get Grace’s opinion as to what marl he should put on his wickets in the winter, and whether in her opinion grass seeds are superior to new turf, or vice versa. She’s a sister to him, his step-sister, his sister-in-law, his deceased wife’s sister, his aunt, his grandmother, his niece, his cousin, his second cousin; and our dear, delightful Grace now spends her time in inventing new relationships, as she’s quite used up the Prayer-book. Last time he came she promised to be his Prussian cousin. I don’t doubt that in the end she’ll be his murderess. Isn’t it a pity that the English aristocracy has no sense of humour? And from what that man Comfort told me at lunch, I rather fear that Dimsdale is also to have an attack of incipient dam silliness.”

“It’s coming; I can feel it,” said I, with brazen effrontery. “Brown holland’s kept me awake all night; and the encouraging part of it is, I feel as though I shall never sleep again until I’ve converted myself into a form of common amusement.”

“Well, here’s my sympathy, old man,” said Charlie, hurling a missile at me, which I mistakenly thought was nothing more serious than a loofah. But the moment it crashed against my cheek-bone I suddenly arrived at the conclusion that there must be a cake of brown Windsor carefully wrapped inside it.

It is rather a pity that I don’t wield the pen of Truthful James, considering what transpired when I mistakenly attempted to discuss the matter with the man who had thrown the soap. But as Charlie had the brute force of a bullock, and didn’t know his strength, in less than a minute I was very sorry that I had chosen to grapple with him. Had it not been that the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone, who was really a most intrepid little man, used his feet and elbows freely, at the crucial moment, on the best bowler in England’s sacred person, I should have been killed undoubtedly.

When the interested bystanders had repaired these breaches of the peace by a liberal application of cold water and hard epithets, the bell summoned us to dinner. We were in no position to obey it, however, until I had borrowed a collar from Charlie to replace the one that he had torn in two, and until my brave friend, the little parson, had changed his shirt, as the one that now adorned him had been exceeding mutilated. Charlie himself, who was as hard as steel, and wiry as a mustang, was much as he was before this lamentable affair, except that he was now breathing through his mouth instead of through his nose.

“There’s really no hurry, Toddles, you know,” said Archie, while that ornament of the Church sponged the blood from his teeth. “It’s only ten minutes since the bell went, and if there’s one thing the Guv does thoroughly enjoy, it is for a curate to come between him and his dinner. And it would make us all so sorrowful if you were to forfeit his high opinion, for we all feel that you will never be able to impose on anybody else. Besides, you won’t be in time to say the grace, you bloody little ruffian!”

Despite this prediction, however, the Rector continued to be courtesy itself. No doubt this was his habit, as he certainly possessed some magnetic quality that caused his high-spirited family to regard him with affectionate awe. Miss Grace, herself the highest spirited of them all, might be said to worship him. In the words of Archie, “The Guv’nor might be the inventor of cricket,” such was the estimation in which his daughter held him. As for that adorable person, she was apparently as much at home in the dining-room as in the tented field. She could play the hostess as easily as she could play the game. She indicated the course of the talk with a brisk tact that would have commended itself to the professional hostesses of Carlton House Terrace, and in her décolleté white silk looked an angel, if a somewhat highly developed one. Her bowling arm was particularly noticeable, but that didn’t bother her a bit. It might be that Miss Grace’s amiability enabled us to dispense with our war-paint, but Miss Grace’s sex absolutely forbade her to dispense with hers.

“Any of you men thought of the Sillenger yet?” she began with the soup. “Fancy ‘Kensit’ myself rather.”

“I’ve a leaning towards ‘Helbeck of Bannisdale,’” said the little curate.

“Naturally,” Miss Grace said. “But he wasn’t even placed in the Derby. You take my tip, Toddles, he’s a rotter.”

“Laura,” said the Rector, “I am very sorry to hear you employ such an amount of slang. In my opinion it is a most offensive habit, particularly in women.”

“Well, you see, Father,” said his ingenuous daughter, “it’s a short way of saying a lot. Besides, the boys use it.”

“Boys are barbarians,” said her parent.

“Oh, they are,” said Miss Grace. “Well, I think barbarians aren’t half bad. Anyhow, I like what they like, so I s’pose I’m a bit of a barbarian too.”

“Jennings,” said Archie, “serve the claret cup, quick! Grace, we’re going to drink your thundering good health.”

We drank it with rare cordiality. The poor, dear Optimist who was seated at my side had such an agitated hand that a portion of the contents of his glass overflowed upon the cloth.

“You’ve spilt your luck,” said Toddles, in a melancholy undertone.

The Optimist’s condition was indeed to be deplored. The meal was wholly excellent in its unpretentiousness; yet here was this young man, who knew what dining was, utterly unable to appreciate his chance. The way in which he toyed with and disdained fare that could meet the needs of a parson with a palate was tragical indeed. As for me, I was in a humour of sheer devilry. Now I have no wish to bristle with wise saws and modern instances, or even to be suspected of an epigram, but it always seems to me that when emotion overtakes him, a man is either an ox or a giddy ox. I am the latter, and I think when I come to be hanged that I shall go to the gallows whistling. For such is the amount of coarse, brutal, downright British bull-dog that has gone to the formation of my character, that I was able to eat, drink, and let my soul flow at the festive board, well knowing that those indescribably subtle symptoms that had been born so recently within me were growing more inconvenient hour by hour. Looking at the glorious Miss Grace, and the fine figure of a girl she made, and comparing her to the two very, very average men who were in imminent danger, if you will please pardon the outworn image, of fluttering to their doom like moths; comparing her, I say—oh, hang it, what do I say? But there, Impatient Reader, you know what makes my mind so mixed, and why it’s muddling my prose. Or if you don’t, I think you will know, one day, since there comes a moment in the career of every average man—oh, what am I saying?—really, Reader, I had no intention to be rude!—when the sense of one’s own indescribability is really so indescribable that one must feel it before it can be felt—oh damn!

Reader, I am sure I beg your pardon. But you understand me, don’t you? To-night I had dwindled into the condition that I have so lucidly described. Here was I, a mere cub, with only a big appetite and the most animal health to recommend me, looking down a dinner-table towards the One Girl in the World. True, I had sound lungs, a nice wrist for cutting, an eye as clear as Grace’s own, and was mercifully free of the curse of intellect in any form whatever; but surely even such fine attributes as these are not too princely when laid at the feet of the Goddess. No doubt Richard Cranford Dimsdale was a pretty harmless sort of fellow, but an astonishing quantity of harmlessness goes to the making of a husband.

Above all, I knew these speculations to be cheek of the worst kind; but if a horrid, impish little clergyman sits opposite, and regards one with a gaze of pure, rapturous pity, and talks in a holy undertone of that man Comfort, and what that man Comfort said, and what a privilege it is to converse with a person of his polished manners and width of outlook, it is not always possible for one to marshal one’s meditations into the channels of decency. As for the poor, dear Optimist, he suffered to a like extent from the indefatigable Toddles. The cheerful wretch writhed through the meal, and, of course, the moment he tried to deliver a kick under the table to Toddles, he fetched the Rector a crack on the knee. But in the matter of our peerless hostess, the Optimist and I effusively agreed with one another that we were both equally impossible. We were simply indulging in the dangerous amusement of skating over thin ice just for the pleasure of hearing it crack, and the cold water gurgle under our feet. The Optimist has long been regarded as a past master in the art of partaking of unexpected joys. It is recorded of him that he has been known to tip an umpire after being leg before, and to make a pun on being run out.

Dessert over, Miss Grace withdrew. Immediately afterwards the Rector retired to his den.

“What’s it to be—‘pills’ or poker?” said Charlie, as the rest of us lingered over the coffee and cigars.

“Brightside looks so quietly happy,” said Toddles at last audible to all, “that to begin with, he might minister to the enjoyment of life by standing on his head, or otherwise making his ecstasy articulate. He looks like one who has built a philosophy upon his sorrow.”

Never, ere now, had I seen the Optimist positively strain after cheerfulness. It was an impressive sight. But is it not strange the vast difference there is in the constitution of the most common men? For I was indecently hilarious. I laughed myself to tears over my own stories, unblushing chestnuts as they were.

“For your information, Brightside,” said the little parson, “Grace is a good girl, who goes to bed at ten. It is now nine-twenty. Therefore if you desire to compliment her to-night, you’ve got to buck up!”

“Do you men take me for a common jay?” said the Optimist. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how big I bulge in this great universe? Not for J. Brightside, thank you. If he were going out with Stoddart, it might be otherwise; but his batting’s really too steep!”

“Brightside,” said the persevering little parson, “we’re deceived in you. We thought you were a man with g—,—with an interior.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” the Optimist said; “but I recognise my limitations, thank you. Don’t fancy myself a Ranjy quite.”

“But women are that funny,” said the little parson, “one don’t know exactly how they’ll act.”

“You mayn’t,” said the Optimist. “I do. They leave undone the things they ought to have done, and do the things they ought not to have done.”

“Grace’ll accept you then!” said Carteret. He had the air of a man who has found himself out in saying a smart thing.

Impatient Reader, I am aware that this is very impossible considered as talk, and very contemptible considered as wit; but even county cricketers can do no better in a dry season. The long spells of fielding are too much, even for their magnificent physiques. It must be admitted that in very wet years, such as ’79 and ’88, when the bowlers have made hay, they are occasionally heard to quote Mrs. Humphry Ward, Mr. Hall Caine, and poor dear Mr. Shakespeare. At all other times their quotations can be traced to the Pink ’Un.

Finding that there had been a “slump” in the Optimist’s courage, the mischievous little parson was good enough to honour me with some attention.

“My dear Dimsdale,” he purred, “we are hoping that for the honour of Little Clumpton you’re not going to funk.”

“Hickory’ll lay five to two he does,” said Carteret.

“Oh, if you are going to make it a sort of international affair,” said I protestingly. But all the same these cunning men were trapping me. And to crown all, the one person I counted on to lend me his aid, betrayed me basely and played into the hands of the other side.

“My dear chap,” the benevolent Optimist said, “I’ve known Grace from her earliest youth, but I am perfectly willing to waive the priority of my claim. Perfectly willing, as I cannot too explicitly state. I recognise my limitations. But you, my dear Dimsdale, are one of those big-gutted Britons who runs this little earth, the sun, the moon, and the planetary system for the private amusement of himself and a few of his English friends. You are of the fibre to go in and win.”

“Besides, we’ve all great confidence in Little Clumpton in the ultimate,” said the complimentary little parson; “and we know that when Dimsdale gets his blood up he’s the doggedest swashbuckler that ever said, ‘What ho!’”

The effusiveness of my aiders and abettors made me squirm.

“You’ve got to do it now,” said the Optimist. “Since the affair has become another Little Clumpton v. Hickory, you must do something for your side, you know, particularly as you were the only single figure man yesterday.”

“Must try and get into the doubles, old chap,” said the little parson coaxingly.

“Deuced pleasant outlook,” said I. “Shouldn’t care if I’d played for the county once; but a mere club-man—ugh!”

“She may be rather rude,” said Toddles. “Cool cheek makes some girls stick their fur up. Or she mayn’t, of course. Might let you down ever so gently, as she’s had a lot of experience.”

“A word in your ear,” said the Optimist. “Whatever you do, don’t play the goose game. Hard slogging’s the sort o’ thing for Grace. That’s where that owl, Boughey, always comes such a cropper. Will spread himself so.”

“Boughey will lisp in numbers, you know,” said Carteret. “Overflows with it, the idiot! and makes old Grace so riled that she chucks the beautiful calf-bound poetry books he brings her regularly at his head. I’ve seen Boughey come out bleeding in other places than his heart. Whatever you do, my gallant, give a wide berth to the Bodlihead.”

“Your views are a great privilege, I’m sure,” said I.

Truth to tell, the more I saw of their game, the less I liked it. My sentiments, to which the wretched Comfort had given such an unpleasant publicity, were doubtless receiving this amount of attention that the conspirators might score all round. They were certainly scoring off me, and the idea came into my head that they were scoring off Miss Grace’s brothers also. For that quartette smoked with a steady enjoyment that was designed to show their complete indifference to the topic under discussion. Judging by the excessive disinterestedness of their mien, they were not even aware of its delicate character.

“Devilish well-bred of you fellows to be so full of dolce far niente,” said the unblushing barrister. “Quite the right thing, of course; but we do wish you’d be rather more keenly alive to your responsibilities. Your knowledge of Grace’s pretty little ways under fire might be simply invaluable to Dimsdale. Simply invaluable. And you know you would never forgive yourselves if our ingenuous Dimsdale got badly mauled through lacking that expert advice that you are so well qualified to give him.”

“What’s the speech about, Jimmy?” asked Archie. “Is it on Ritualism, or are you practising the art of addressing the jury?”

“This intellectual obsession is sad,” said Toddles. “Dimsdale has decided to propose to Grace, who we have reason to believe is a connection of yours. We are now forming ourselves into a committee that has for its object the protection of Dimsdale. The problem we are called upon to settle at this stage is, whether it would be safer for him to prosecute his addresses in a suit of mail, or is she likely to be sufficiently overawed if he goes armed with a six-shooter only. Archie, the committee would be glad to have your views.”

“Dimsdale,” said that oracle, turning to me, “I don’t know who’s put you up to this, but whoever they are they’re not humane.”

“They ought to be kicked,” said George.

“He’s in a big enough funk already, without you men doing your little bit,” said the Optimist.

Everybody, with one exception, was enjoying the fun immensely. I was the exception. It is not nice to be at the mercy of one’s intimates. But now by some mysterious means I was delivered into their hands. One can scarcely expect the average man to join in the laugh against himself in such circumstances. They were so delicate. Indeed, only rude coarse men would be capable of creating them. And to a person of sensibility, they were aggravated by the presence of Grace’s arrogant male relations. Never a doubt that they were arrogant. They, in common with the conspirators, seemed quite unable to treat me with respect. And at least I thought that that justice should be granted to me, for a man who has been awake all night feels entitled to some little consideration.

“Sir Knight,” said the little parson, “I would fain remind thee that ’tis now nine-forty by this my good chronometer. Twenty minutes hence the divinity retireth.”

This specific mention seemed to lend additional flavour to their chaff. They were getting up my blood. And when that is thoroughly aroused, I enjoy the character of being a somewhat headstrong person. Therefore when at a quarter to ten I discarded my cigar, finished my coffee, and quietly announced that I was going to face the music, they ought not to have been as staggered as they were.

“What now?” they shouted.

“Oui, oui,” said I, stepping to the door.

“Look here,” said the alarmed Archie, “this is beyond a joke.”

“By, by,” said I; “see you later.”

“Look here,” said Miss Grace’s military brother, “no dam foolery, Dimsdale. Sit down and finish your cigar. Toddles, if you don’t hold your tongue I’ll choke you. This has gone too far.”

“I’ll lay a ‘pony’ that Dimsdale don’t do it,” said Carteret.

“Done,” said I.

“You can call that ‘pony’ squandered, Jimmy,” said the Optimist, with tears of gladness in his eyes.

“Isn’t it gaudy?” said the little parson rapturously. “Isn’t it ger-lor-i-ous?”

But even at this late hour I don’t think any of them quite realized the finality of my resolve. For when I got so far as to open the door, they were one and all so thunderstruck that they could not say a word. It was only when with an assumption of bravado that I flippantly commended myself to their prayers, and walked out of the room, that they set up a positive howl of laughter. I am not sure, though, whether it was not rather hollow.

As for myself, I might have a dim consciousness that my folly was colossal, yet this in no wise deterred me. If I am at any time goaded into action, no matter how indefinite its nature, it is no part of my character to stop halfway; therefore it was in a devil-may-care, hands-in-the-pockets, two-o’clock-in-the-morning fashion that I sauntered into the library, incredibly impudent of mien.