DIES IRAE
IX
Why is it, I wonder, that stories of Retribution calling at the wrongaddress strike us as funny instead of pathetic? I myself had beenamused by them many a time. In a book which I had just read, a shopwoman, being vexed with an omnibus conductor, had thrown asuperannuated orange at him. It had found its billet not on him, buton a perfectly inoffensive spectator. The missile, we are told, "'it ayoung copper full in the hyeball." I had enjoyed this when I read it,but now that fate had arranged a precisely similar situation, withmyself in the role of the young copper, the fun of the thing appealedto me not at all.
It was Ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettableexplosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to havesuffered for it. As it was, I was the only person materially affected.It did not matter to Ukridge. He did not care twopence one way or theother. If the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to himby the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. If, on the otherhand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worryhim. He was content to let him go. Ukridge was a self-sufficingperson.
But to me it was a serious matter. More than serious. If I have donemy work as historian with any adequate degree of skill, the readershould have gathered by this time the state of my feelings.
My love had grown with the days. Mr. J. Holt Schooling, or somebodyelse with a taste for juggling with figures, might write a veryreadable page or so of statistics in connection with the growth oflove in the heart of a man. In some cases it is, I believe, slow. Inmy own I can only say that Jack's beanstalk was a backward plant incomparison. It is true that we had not seen a great deal of oneanother, and that, when we had met, our interviews had been brief andour conversation conventional; but it is the intervals between themeetings that do the real damage. Absence, as the poet neatly remarks,makes the heart grow fonder. And now, thanks to Ukridge's amazingidiocy, a barrier had been thrust between us. As if the business offishing for a girl's heart were not sufficiently difficult anddelicate without the addition of needless obstacles! It was terribleto have to reestablish myself in the good graces of the professorbefore I could so much as begin to dream of Phyllis.
Ukridge gave me no balm.
"Well, after all," he said, when I pointed out to him quietly butplainly my opinion of his tactlessness, "what does it matter? Thereare other people in the world besides the old buffer. And we haven'ttime to waste making friends, as a matter of fact. The farm ought tokeep us busy. I've noticed, Garny, old boy, that you haven't seemedsuch a whale for work lately as you might be. You must buckle to, oldhorse. We are at a critical stage. On our work now depends the successof the speculation. Look at those cocks. They're always fighting.Fling a stone at them. What's the matter with you? Can't get the noveloff your chest, what? You take my tip, and give your mind a rest.Nothing like manual labor for clearing the brain. All the doctors sayso. Those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow. Mind you, Ithink old Derrick would be all right if one persevered--"
"And didn't call him a fat old buffer, and contradict everything hesaid and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts of yourown in the middle," I interrupted with bitterness.
"Oh, rot, old boy! He didn't mind being called a fat old buffer. Youkeep harping on that. A man likes one to be chatty with him. What wasthe matter with old Derrick was a touch of liver. You should havestopped him taking that cheese. I say, old man, just fling anotherstone at those cocks, will you? They'll eat one another."
I had hoped, fearing the while that there was not much chance of sucha thing happening, that the professor might get over his feeling ofinjury during the night, and be as friendly as ever next day. But hewas evidently a man who had no objection whatever to letting the sungo down upon his wrath, for, when I met him on the beach thefollowing morning, he cut me in the most uncompromising fashion.
Phyllis was with him at the time, and also another girl who was, Isupposed from the strong likeness between them, her sister. She hadthe same soft mass of brown hair. But to me she appeared almostcommonplace in comparison.
It is never pleasant to be cut dead. It produces the same sort offeeling as is experienced when one treads on nothing where oneimagined a stair to be. In the present instance the pang was mitigatedto a certain extent--not largely--by the fact that Phyllis looked atme. She did not move her head, and I could not have declaredpositively that she moved her eyes; but nevertheless she certainlylooked at me. It was something. She seemed to say that duty compelledher to follow her father's lead, and that the act must not be taken asevidence of any personal animus.
That, at least, was how I read off the message.
Two days later I met Mr. Chase in the village.
"Halloo! so you're back," I said.
"You've discovered my secret," said he. "Will you have a cigar or acocoanut?"
There was a pause.
"Trouble, I hear, while I was away," he said.
I nodded.
"The man I live with, Ukridge, did it. Touched on the Irish question."
"Home rule?"
"He mentioned it among other things."
"And the professor went off?"
"Like a bomb."
"He would. It's a pity."
I agreed.
I am glad to say that I suppressed the desire to ask him to use hisinfluence, if any, with Professor Derrick to effect a reconciliation.I felt that I must play the game.
"I ought not to be speaking to you, you know," said Mr. Chase. "You'reunder arrest."
"He's still--" I stopped for a word.
"Very much so. I'll do what I can."
"It's very good of you."
"But the time is not yet ripe. He may be said at present to besimmering down."
"I see. Thanks. Good-by."
"So long."
And Mr. Chase walked on with long strides to the Cob.
* * * * *
The days passed slowly. I saw nothing more of Phyllis or her sister.The professor I met once or twice on the links. I had taken earnestlyto golf in this time of stress. Golf, it has been said, is the game ofdisappointed lovers. On the other hand, it has further been pointedout that it does not follow that, because a man is a failure as alover, he will be any good at all on the links. My game was distinctlypoor at first. But a round or two put me back into my proper form,which is fair. The professor's demeanor at these accidental meetingson the links was a faithful reproduction of his attitude on the beach.Only by a studied imitation of the absolute stranger did he show thathe had observed my presence.
Once or twice after dinner, when Ukridge was smoking one of hisspecial cigars while Mrs. Ukridge petted Edwin (now moving in societyonce more, and in his right mind), I walked out across the fieldsthrough the cool summer night till I came to the hedge that shut offthe Derricks' grounds. Not the hedge through which I had made my firstentrance, but another, lower, and nearer the house. Standing thereunder the shade of a tree I could see the lighted windows of thedrawing-room.
Generally there was music inside, and, the windows being opened onaccount of the warmth of the night, I was able to make myself a littlemore miserable by hearing Phyllis sing. It deepened the feeling ofbanishment.
I shall never forget those furtive visits. The intense stillness ofthe night, broken by an occasional rustling in the grass or the hedge;the smell of the flowers in the garden beyond; the distant drone ofthe sea.
"God makes sech nights, all white and still, Fur'z you can look and listen."
Another day had generally begun before I moved from my hiding place,and started for home, surprised to find my limbs stiff and my clothesbathed with dew.
Life seemed a poor institution during these days.
Love Among the Chickens Page 9