UKRIDGE GIVES ME ADVICE
XVIII
Hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which ourways divided. We stopped, and I felt as if I had been suddenly castback into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet.I think Phyllis must have had something of the same sensation, for weboth became on the instant intensely practical and businesslike.
"But about your father," I said briskly. I was not even holding herhand.
"That's the difficulty."
"He won't give his consent?"
"I'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it."
"You can't persuade him?"
"I can in most things, but not in this. You see, even if nothing hadhappened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of Norah."
"Norah!"
"My sister. She's going to be married in October. I wonder if we shallever be as happy as they will?"
I laughed scornfully.
"Happy! They will be miserable compared with us. Not that I know whothe man is."
"Why, Tom, of course. Do you mean to say you really didn't know?"
"Tom! Tom Chase?"
"Of course."
I gasped.
"Well, I'm--hanged," I said. "When I think of the torments I've beenthrough because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, I don'tknow what to say."
"Don't you like Tom?"
"Very much. I always did. But I was awfully jealous of him."
"You weren't! How silly of you."
"Of course I was. He was always about with you, and called youPhyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine andhero of a musical comedy, so what else could I think? I heard yousinging duets after dinner once. I drew the worst conclusions."
"When was that?"
"It was shortly after Ukridge had got on your father's nerves, andnipped our acquaintance in the bud. I used to come every night to thehedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour."
"Poor old boy!"
"Hoping to hear you sing. And when you did sing, and he joined in allflat, I used to scold. You'll probably find most of the bark worn offthe tree I leaned against."
"Poor old man! Still, it's all over now, isn't it?"
"And when I was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis,you went away just as I got into form."
"I'm very sorry, but I couldn't know--could I? I thought you alwaysplayed like that."
"I know. I knew you would. It nearly turned my hair white. I didn'tsee how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis."
"One doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis."
"What _does_ a girl see to love in a man?" I inquired abruptly; andpaused on the verge of a great discovery.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily.
And I could draw no views from her.
"But about father," said she. "What _are_ we to do?"
"He objects to me."
"He's perfectly furious with you."
"Blow, blow," I said, "thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind--"
"He'll never forgive you."
"As man's ingratitude. I saved his life--at the risk of my own. Why, Ibelieve I've got a legal claim on him. Whoever heard of a man havinghis life saved, and not being delighted when his preserver wanted tomarry his daughter? Your father is striking at the very root of theshort-story writer's little earnings. He mustn't be allowed to do it."
"Jerry!"
I started.
"Again!" I said.
"What?"
"Say it again. Do, please. Now."
"Very well. Jerry!"
"It was the first time you had called me by my Christian name. I don'tsuppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when yousay it. There is something poetical, something almost holy, about it."
"Jerry, please!"
"Say on."
"Do be sensible. Don't you see how serious this is? We must think howwe can make father consent."
"All right," I said. "We'll tackle the point. I'm sorry to befrivolous, but I'm so happy I can't keep it all in. I've got you, andI can't think of anything else."
"Try."
"I'll pull myself together.... Now, say on once more."
"We can't marry without father's consent."
"Why not?" I said, not having a marked respect for the professor'swhims. "Gretna Green is out of date, but there are registrars."
"I hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision."Besides--"
"Well?"
"Poor father would never get over it. We've always been such friends.If I married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know--not let mecome near him again, and not write to me. And he would hate it all thetime he was doing it. He would be bored to death without me."
"Anybody would," I said.
"Because, you see, Norah has never been quite the same. She has spentsuch a lot of her time on visits to people that she and father don'tunderstand each other so well as he and I do. She would try and benice to him, but she wouldn't know him as I do. And, besides, she willbe with him such a little, now she's going to be married."
"But, look here," I said, "this is absurd. You say your father wouldnever see you again, and so on, if you married me. Why? It'snonsense. It isn't as if I were a sort of social outcast. We were thebest of friends till that man Hawk gave me away like that."
"I know. But he's very obstinate about some things. You see, he thinksthe whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him along time to forgive you for that."
I realized the truth of this. One can pardon any injury to oneself,unless it hurts one's vanity. Moreover, even in a genuine case ofrescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with hisrescuer when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. He must regardhim unconsciously as the super regards the actor manager, indebted tohim for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him the limelight and the center of the stage and the applause. Besides, everyoneinstinctively dislikes being under an obligation which he can neverwholly repay. And when a man discovers that he has experienced allthese mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, hiswrath is likely to be no slight thing.
Taking everything into consideration, I could not but feel that itwould require more than a little persuasion to make the professorbestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see inour fathers-in-law elect.
"You don't think," I said, "that time, the great healer, and so on--hewon't feel kindlier disposed toward me--say in a month's time?"
"Of course, he _might_," said Phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully.
"He strikes me, from what I have seen of him, as a man of moods. Imight do something one of these days which would completely alter hisviews. We will hope for the best."
"About telling father--"
"Need we tell him?" I asked.
"Yes, we must. I couldn't bear to think that I was keeping it fromhim. I don't think I've ever kept anything from him in my life.Nothing bad, I mean."
"You count this among your darker crimes, then?"
"I was looking at it from father's point of view. He will be awfullyangry. I don't know how I shall begin telling him."
"Good heavens!" I cried, "you surely don't think I'm going to let youdo that! Keep safely out of the way while you tell him? Not much. I'mcoming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together."
"No, not to-night. He may be tired and rather cross. We had betterwait till to-morrow. You might speak to him in the morning."
"Where shall I find him?"
"He is certain to go to the beach before breakfast to bathe."
"Good. To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. I'll bethere."
* * * * *
"Ukridge," I said, when I got back, "can you give me audience for abrief space? I want your advice."
This stirred him like a trumpet blast. When a man is in the habit ofgiv
ing unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is as invigoratingas an electric shock to him to be asked for it spontaneously.
"What's up, old horse?" he asked eagerly. "I'll tell you what to do.Get on to it. Bang it out. Here, let's go into the garden."
I approved of this. I can always talk more readily in the dark, and Idid not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of the hiredretainer or Mrs. Beale. We walked down to the paddock. Ukridge lit acigar.
"I'm in love, Ukridge," I said.
"What!"
"More--I'm engaged."
A huge hand whistled through the darkness and smote me heavily betweenthe shoulder blades.
"Thanks," I said; "that felt congratulatory."
"By Jove! old boy, I wish you luck. 'Pon my word, I do. Fancy youengaged! Best thing in the world for you. Never knew what happinesswas till I married. A man wants a helpmeet--"
"And this man," I said, "seems likely to go on wanting. That's where Ineed your advice. I'm engaged to Miss Derrick."
"Miss Derrick!" He spoke as if he hardly knew whom I meant.
"You can't have forgotten her! Good heavens, what eyes some men have!Why, if I'd only seen her once, I should have remembered her all mylife."
"I know now. She came to dinner here with her father, that fat littlebuffer."
"As you were careful to call him at the time. Thereby starting all thetrouble."
"You fished him out of the water afterwards."
"Quite right."
"Why, it's a perfect romance, old horse. It's like the stories youread."
"And write. But they all end happily. 'There is none, my brave youngpreserver, to whom I would more willingly intrust my daughter'shappiness.' Unfortunately, in my little drama, the heavy father seemslikely to forget his cue."
"The old man won't give his consent?"
"Probably not."
"But why? What's the matter with you? If you marry, you'll come intoyour uncle's money, and all that."
"True. Affluence stares me in the face."
"And you fished him out of the water."
"After previously chucking him in."
"What!"
"At any rate, by proxy."
I explained. Ukridge, I regret to say, laughed.
"You vagabond!" he said. "'Pon my word, old horse, to look at you, onewould never have thought you'd have had it in you."
"I can't help looking respectable."
"What are you going to do about it? The old man's got it up againstyou good and strong, there's no doubt of that."
"That's where I wanted your advice. You're a man of resource. Whatwould you do if you were in my place?"
Ukridge tapped me impressively on the shoulder.
"Marmaduke," he said, "there's one thing that'll carry you through anymess."
"And that is--"
"Cheek, my boy--cheek! Gall! Why, take my case. I never told you how Icame to marry, did I? I thought not. Well, it was this way. You'veheard us mention Millie's Aunt Elizabeth--what? Well, then, when Itell you that she was Millie's nearest relative, and it was herconsent I had to gather, you'll see that it wasn't a walk-over."
"Well?" I said.
"First time I saw Millie was in a first-class carriage on theunderground. I'd got a third-class ticket, by the way. We weren'talone. It was five a side. But she sat opposite me, and I fell in lovewith her there and then. We both got out at South Kensington. Ifollowed her. She went to a house in Thurloe Square. I waited outsideand thought it over. I had got to get into that house and make heracquaintance. So I rang the bell. 'Is Lady Lichenhall at home?' Iasked. You note the artfulness? My asking for Lady Lichenhall made 'emthink I was one of the upper ten--what?"
"How were you dressed?" I could not help asking.
"Oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. I'd been to see a man abouttutoring his son. There was nothing the matter with my appearance.'No,' said the servant, 'nobody of that name lives here. This is LadyLakenheath's house.' So, you see, I had luck at the start, because thetwo names were a bit alike. Well, I got the servant to show me insomehow, and, once in, you can wager I talked for all I was worth.Kept up a flow of conversation about being misdirected and coming tothe wrong house, and so on. Went away, and called a few days later.Called regularly. Met 'em at every theater they went to, and bowed,and finally got away with Millie before her aunt could tell what washappening, or who I was or what I was doing or anything."
"And what's the moral?" I said.
"Why, go in hard. Rush 'em. Bustle 'em. Don't give 'em a moment'srest."
"Don't play the goose game," I said with that curious thrill we feelwhen somebody's independent view of a matter coincides with one's own.
"That's it. Don't play the goose game. Don't give 'em time to think.Why, if I'd given Millie's aunt time to think, where should we havebeen? Not at Lyme Regis together, I'll bet."
"Ukridge," I said, "you inspire me. You would inspire a caterpillar. Iwill go to the professor--I was going anyhow--but now I shall goaggressively, and bustle him. I will surprise a father's blessing outof him, if I have to do it with a crowbar!"
Love Among the Chickens Page 18