SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT
A girl stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at thered roofs of the little village across the water. She was a prettygirl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to betroubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a lookof wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of onewho is thinking of her sailor lover.
But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of wasthat at about this time they would be lighting up the shop-windows inLondon, and that of all the deadly, depressing spots she had evervisited this village of Millbourne was the deadliest.
The evening shadows deepened. The incoming tide glistened oilily as itrolled over the mud flats. She rose and shivered.
'Goo! What a hole!' she said, eyeing the unconscious village morosely.'_What_ a hole!'
* * * * *
This was Sally Preston's first evening in Millbourne. She had arrivedby the afternoon train from London--not of her own free will. Left toherself, she would not have come within sixty miles of the place.London supplied all that she demanded from life. She had been born inLondon; she had lived there ever since--she hoped to die there. Sheliked fogs, motor-buses, noise, policemen, paper-boys, shops, taxi-cabs,artificial light, stone pavements, houses in long, grey rows, mud,banana-skins, and moving-picture exhibitions. Especially moving-pictureexhibitions. It was, indeed, her taste for these that had caused herbanishment to Millbourne.
The great public is not yet unanimous on the subject of moving-pictureexhibitions. Sally, as I have said, approved of them. Her father, onthe other hand, did not. An austere ex-butler, who let lodgings inEbury Street and preached on Sundays in Hyde Park, he looked askanceat the 'movies'. It was his boast that he had never been inside atheatre in his life, and he classed cinema palaces with theatres aswiles of the devil. Sally, suddenly unmasked as an habitual frequenterof these abandoned places, sprang with one bound into prominence asthe Bad Girl of the Family. Instant removal from the range oftemptation being the only possible plan, it seemed to Mr Preston thata trip to the country was indicated.
He selected Millbourne because he had been butler at the Hall there,and because his sister Jane, who had been a parlour-maid at theRectory, was now married and living in the village.
Certainly he could not have chosen a more promising reformatory forSally. Here, if anywhere, might she forget the heady joys of thecinema. Tucked away in the corner of its little bay, which anaccommodating island converts into a still lagoon, Millbourne liesdozing. In all sleepy Hampshire there is no sleepier spot. It is aplace of calm-eyed men and drowsy dogs. Things crumble away and are notreplaced. Tradesmen book orders, and then lose interest and forget todeliver the goods. Only centenarians die, and nobody worries aboutanything--or did not until Sally came and gave them something to worryabout.
* * * * *
Next door to Sally's Aunt Jane, in a cosy little cottage with awonderful little garden, lived Thomas Kitchener, a large, grave,self-sufficing young man, who, by sheer application to work, hadbecome already, though only twenty-five, second gardener at the Hall.Gardening absorbed him. When he was not working at the Hall he wasworking at home. On the morning following Sally's arrival, it being aThursday and his day off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude inhis garden, every fibre of his being concentrated on the interment of aplump young bulb. Consequently, when a chunk of mud came sailing overthe fence, he did not notice it.
A second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on theback of his neck. He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. He waspuzzled. It could hardly be raining mud. Yet the alternative theory,that someone in the next garden was throwing it, was hardly lessbizarre. The nature of his friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and oldMr Williams, her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking. Itwas inconceivable that they should be flinging clods at him.
As he stood wondering whether he should go to the fence and look over,or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things which no fellowcan understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of agirl. Poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing thatthere was now no need for its services, she allowed to fall to theground.
'Halloa!' she said. 'Good morning.'
She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom was by way of being thestrong, silent man with a career to think of and no time for botheringabout girls, but he saw that. There was, moreover, a certain alertnessin her expression rarely found in the feminine population ofMillbourne, who were apt to be slightly bovine.
'What do you think _you're_ messing about at?' she said, affably.
Tom was a slow-minded young man, who liked to have his thoughts wellunder control before he spoke. He was not one of your gay rattlers.Besides, there was something about this girl which confused him to anextraordinary extent. He was conscious of new and strange emotions. Hestood staring silently.
'What's your name, anyway?'
He could answer that. He did so.
'Oh! Mine's Sally Preston. Mrs Williams is my aunt. I've come fromLondon.'
Tom had no remarks to make about London.
'Have you lived here all your life?'
'Yes,' said Tom.
'My goodness! Don't you ever feel fed up? Don't you want a change?'
Tom considered the point.
'No,' he said.
'Well, _I_ do. I want one now.'
'It's a nice place,' hazarded Tom.
'It's nothing of the sort. It's the beastliest hole in existence. It'sabsolutely chronic. Perhaps you wonder why I'm here. Don't think I_wanted_ to come here. Not me! I was sent. It was like this.' Shegave him a rapid summary of her troubles. 'There! Don't you call it abit thick?' she concluded.
Tom considered this point, too.
'You must make the best of it,' he said, at length.
'I won't! I'll make father take me back.'
Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if ever, had he been given somany things to think about in one morning.
'How?' he inquired, at length.
'I don't know. I'll find some way. You see if I don't. I'll get awayfrom here jolly quick, I give you _my_ word.'
Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face was hidden, but the brown ofhis neck seemed to take on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniablycrimson. His feet moved restlessly, and from his unseen mouth thereproceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. Merelyconsidered as a speech, it was, perhaps, nothing wonderful; but fromTom it was a miracle of chivalry and polish.
What he said was: 'I hope not.'
And instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and thatanything further must be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked intohis cottage, where he drank tea and ate bacon and thought chaoticthoughts. And when his appetite declined to carry him more than half-waythrough the third rasher, he understood. He was in love.
These strong, silent men who mean to be head-gardeners before they arethirty, and eliminate woman from their lives as a dangerous obstacle tothe successful career, pay a heavy penalty when they do fall in love.The average irresponsible young man who has hung about North Street onSaturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill andback home past the creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat in thebrake for the annual outing, shuffled his way through the polka at thetradesmen's ball, and generally seized all legitimate opportunitiesfor sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, has a hundred advantageswhich your successful careerer lacks. There was hardly a moment duringthe days which followed when Tom did not regret his neglectededucation.
For he was not Sally's only victim in Millbourne. That was the trouble.Her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptibly intothe vision of the rare connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. Ithit you. Bright brown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair, a determinedlittle chin, a slim figure--these are disturbing things; and theyouths of peaceful Mil
lbourne sat up and took notice as one youth.Throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. Recall theleading lady's song with chorus of young men, all proffering devotionsimultaneously in a neat row. Well, that was how the lads of thevillage comported themselves towards Sally.
Mr and Mrs Williams, till then a highly-esteemed but little-frequentedcouple, were astonished at the sudden influx of visitors. The cottagebecame practically a _salon_. There was not an evening when thelittle sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. It istrue that the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally foundin the better class of _salon_. To be absolutely accurate, therewas hardly any conversation. The youths of Melbourne were sturdy andhonest. They were the backbone of England. England, in her hour ofneed, could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that,unless they happened to be otherwise engaged, they would leap to heraid.
But they did not shine at small-talk. Conversationally they were aspent force after they had asked Mr Williams how his rheumatism was.Thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massively about incorners, glowering at each other. Still, it was all very jolly andsociable, and helped to pass the long evenings. And, as Mrs Williamspointed out, in reply to some rather strong remarks from Mr Williams onthe subject of packs of young fools who made it impossible for a man toget a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses.
Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay.Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going onin that house, with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons,Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like tothink. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feastsof reason and flows of soul which he knew were taking place nightlyaround the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit isa terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen intothe habit of inquiring after Mr Williams' rheumatism over the gardenfence first thing in the morning.
It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the onlyexcuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not helphimself. It was like some frightful scourge--the morphine habit, orsomething of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothingwould induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no soonerhad the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence thanout it came.
'Morning, Mr Williams.'
'Morning, Tom.'
Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:
'How's the rheumatism, Mr Williams?'
'Better, thank'ee, Tom.'
And there he was, with his guns spiked.
However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the samedetermination which had made him second gardener at the Hall attwenty-five. He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that agood line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to showerwas vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused thegoddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater,erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I hear some heckler cry.Why not flowers--fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot withflowers. Girls love them. There is poetry in them. And, what is more,there is a recognized language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or acalceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and youhave made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble ofrehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in frontof your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener giveSally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately, it was now lateautumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted herfloral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokesand things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrongtime. A few months before there had been enough roses in TomKitchener's garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there wereonly vegetables, 'Twas ever thus.
It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayedshould escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, oldMr Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subjectof his passion.
'Young Tom,' he said, 'drop it.'
Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr Williams adjusted the top-hat withoutwhich he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinkedbenevolently at Tom.
'You're making up to that young gal of Jane's,' he proceeded. 'Youcan't deceive _me_. All these p'taties, and what not. _I_ seenyour game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom.'
'Why?' muttered Tom, rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old MrWilliams blazed within him.
'Why? 'Cos you'll only burn your fingers if you don't, that's why. Ibeen watching this young gal of Jane's, and I seen what sort of a younggal she be. She's a flipperty piece, that's what she be. You marry thatyoung gal, Tom, and you'll never have no more quiet and happiness.She'd just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. The man as marriesthat young gal has got to be master in his own home. He's got to showher what's what. Now, you ain't got the devil in you to do that, Tom.You're what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. Ilike to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. Sothat's how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom,and leave that young gal be, else you'll burn your fingers, same aswhat I say.'
And, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old gentleman ambledindoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant andtactful manner.
It is to be supposed that this interview stung Tom to swift action.Otherwise, one cannot explain why he should not have been just asreticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally thetwenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when administering the hundredand sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, as thatfateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, something resemblinga proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustainedpiece of emotional prose it fell short of the highest standard. Most ofit was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainlyinaudible. However, as she distinctly caught the word 'love' twice, andas Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, andlooking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation.Whereupon, without any visible emotion, she accepted him.
Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe hisluck. It is singular how diffident a normally self-confident man canbecome, once he is in love. When Colonel Milvery, of the Hall, hadinformed him of his promotion to the post of second gardener, Tom haddemanded no _encore_. He knew his worth. He was perfectly awarethat he was a good gardener, and official recognition of the fact lefthim gratified, but unperturbed. But this affair of Sally was quiteanother matter. It had revolutionized his standards of value--forcedhim to consider himself as a man, entirely apart from his skill as agardener. And until this moment he had had grave doubt as to whether,apart from his skill as a gardener, he amounted to much.
He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sally across the fence humbly. Sally, forher part, seemed very unconcerned about it all. A more critical manthan Thomas Kitchener might have said that, to all appearances, thething rather bored Sally.
'Don't tell anybody just yet,' she stipulated.
Tom would have given much to be allowed to announce his triumphdefiantly to old Mr Williams, to say nothing of making a considerablenoise about it in the village; but her wish was law, and he reluctantlyagreed.
* * * * *
There are moments in a man's life when, however enthusiastic agardener he may be, his soul soars above vegetables. Tom's shot with ajerk into the animal kingdom. The first present he gave Sally in hiscapacity of fiance was a dog.
It was a half-grown puppy with long legs and a long tail, belongingto no one species, but generously distributing itself among about six.Sally loved it, and took it with her wherever she went. And on one ofthese rambles down swooped Constable Cobb, the village policeman,pointing out that,
contrary to regulations, the puppy had no collar.
It is possible that a judicious meekness on Sally's part might haveaverted disaster. Mr Cobb was human, and Sally was lookingparticularly attractive that morning. Meekness, however, did not comeeasily to Sally. In a speech which began as argument and ended (MrCobb proving solid and unyielding) as pure cheek, she utterly routedthe constable. But her victory was only a moral one, for as she turnedto go Mr Cobb, dull red and puffing slightly, was already enteringparticulars of the affair in his note-book, and Sally knew that thelast word was with him.
On her way back she met Tom Kitchener. He was looking very tough andstrong, and at the sight of him a half-formed idea, which she hadregretfully dismissed as impracticable, of assaulting Constable Cobb,returned to her in an amended form. Tom did not know it, but thereason why she smiled so radiantly upon him at that moment was that shehad just elected him to the post of hired assassin. While she did notwant Constable Cobb actually assassinated, she earnestly desired himto have his helmet smashed down over his eyes; and it seemed to herthat Tom was the man to do it.
She poured out her grievance to him and suggested her scheme. She evenelaborated it.
'Why shouldn't you wait for him one night and throw him into the creek?It isn't deep, and it's jolly muddy.'
'Um!' said Tom, doubtfully.
'It would just teach him,' she pointed out.
But the prospect of undertaking the higher education of the police didnot seem to appeal to Tom. In his heart he rather sympathized withConstable Cobb. He saw the policeman's point of view. It is all verywell to talk, but when you are stationed in a sleepy village where noone ever murders, or robs, or commits arson, or even gets drunk anddisorderly in the street, a puppy without a collar is simply a godsend.A man must look out for himself.
He tried to make this side of the question clear to Sally, but failedsignally. She took a deplorable view of his attitude.
'I might have known you'd have been afraid,' she said, with acontemptuous jerk of her chin. 'Good morning.'
Tom flushed. He knew he had never been afraid of anything in his life,except her; but nevertheless the accusation stung. And as he was stillafraid of her he stammered as he began to deny the charge.
'Oh, leave off!' said Sally, irritably. 'Suck a lozenge.'
'I'm not afraid,' said Tom, condensing his remarks to their minimum ashis only chance of being intelligible.
'You are.'
'I'm not. It's just that I--'
A nasty gleam came into Sally's eyes. Her manner was haughty.
'It doesn't matter.' She paused. 'I've no doubt Ted Pringle will dowhat I want.'
For all her contempt, she could not keep a touch of uneasiness from hereyes as she prepared to make her next remark. There was a look aboutTom's set jaw which made her hesitate. But her temper had run away withher, and she went on.
'I am sure he will,' she said. 'When we became engaged he said that hewould do anything for me.'
There are some speeches that are such conversational knockout blowsthat one can hardly believe that life will ever pick itself up and goon again after them. Yet it does. The dramatist brings down thecurtain on such speeches. The novelist blocks his reader's path with azareba of stars. But in life there are no curtains, no stars, nothingfinal and definite--only ragged pauses and discomfort. There was sucha pause now.
'What do you mean?' said Tom at last. 'You promised to marry me.'
'I know I did--and I promised to marry Ted Pringle!'
That touch of panic which she could not wholly repress, the panic thatcomes to everyone when a situation has run away with them like astrange, unmanageable machine, infused a shade too much of the defiantinto Sally's manner. She had wished to be cool, even casual, but shewas beginning to be afraid. Why, she could not have said. Certainly shedid not anticipate violence on Tom's part. Perhaps that was it. Perhapsit was just because he was so quiet that she was afraid. She had alwayslooked on him contemptuously as an amiable, transparent lout, and nowhe was puzzling her. She got an impression of something formidablebehind his stolidity, something that made her feel mean andinsignificant.
She fought against the feeling, but it gripped her; and, in spite ofherself, she found her voice growing shrill and out of control.
'I promised to marry Ted Pringle, and I promised to marry Joe Blossom,and I promised to marry Albert Parsons. And I was going to promise tomarry Arthur Brown and anybody else who asked me. So now you know! Itold you I'd make father take me back to London. Well, when he hearsthat I've promised to marry four different men, I bet he'll have mehome by the first train.'
She stopped. She had more to say, but she could not say it. She stoodlooking at him. And he looked at her. His face was grey and his mouthoddly twisted. Silence seemed to fall on the whole universe.
Sally was really afraid now, and she knew it. She was feeling verysmall and defenceless in an extremely alarming world. She could nothave said what it was that had happened to her. She only knew that lifehad become of a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas as to what wasamusing had undergone a striking change. A man's development is a slowand steady process of the years--a woman's a thing of an instant. Inthe silence which followed her words Sally had grown up.
Tom broke the silence.
'Is that true?' he said.
His voice made her start. He had spoken quietly, but there was a newnote in it, strange to her. Just as she could not have said what it wasthat had happened to her, so now she could not have said what hadhappened to Tom. He, too, had changed, but how she did not know. Yetthe explanation was simple. He also had, in a sense, grown up. He wasno longer afraid of her.
He stood thinking. Hours seemed to pass.
'Come along!' he said, at last, and he began to move off down the road.
Sally followed. The possibility of refusing did not enter her mind.
'Where are you going?' she asked. It was unbearable, this silence.
He did not answer.
In this fashion, he leading, she following, they went down the roadinto a lane, and through a gate into a field. They passed into a secondfield, and as they did so Sally's heart gave a leap. Ted Pringle wasthere.
Ted Pringle was a big young man, bigger even than Tom Kitchener, and,like Tom, he was of silent habit. He eyed the little processioninquiringly, but spoke no word. There was a pause.
'Ted,' said Tom, 'there's been a mistake.'
He stepped quickly to Sally's side, and the next moment he had swungher off her feet and kissed her.
To the type of mind that Millbourne breeds, actions speak louder thanwords, and Ted Pringle, who had gaped, gaped no more. He sprangforward, and Tom, pushing Sally aside, turned to meet him.
I cannot help feeling a little sorry for Ted Pringle. In the light ofwhat happened, I could wish that it were possible to portray him as ahulking brute of evil appearance and worse morals--the sort of personconcerning whom one could reflect comfortably that he deserved all hegot. I should like to make him an unsympathetic character, over whosedownfall the reader would gloat. But honesty compels me to own that Tedwas a thoroughly decent young man in every way. He was a good citizen,a dutiful son, and would certainly have made an excellent husband.Furthermore, in the dispute on hand he had right on his side fully asmuch as Tom. The whole affair was one of those elemental clashings ofman and man where the historian cannot sympathize with either side atthe expense of the other, but must confine himself to a mere statementof what occurred. And, briefly, what occurred was that Tom, bringing tothe fray a pent-up fury which his adversary had had no time togenerate, fought Ted to a complete standstill in the space of twominutes and a half.
Sally had watched the proceedings, sick and horrified. She had neverseen men fight before, and the terror of it overwhelmed her. Hervanity received no pleasant stimulation from the thought that it wasfor her sake that this storm had been let loose. For the moment hervanity was dead, stunned by collision with the realities. She foundherself watching in a dream. She
saw Ted fall, rise, fall again, andlie where he had fallen; and then she was aware that Tom was speaking.
'Come along!'
She hung back. Ted was lying very still. Gruesome ideas presentedthemselves. She had just accepted them as truth when Ted wriggled. Hewriggled again. Then he sat up suddenly, looked at her with unseeingeyes, and said something in a thick voice. She gave a little sob ofrelief. It was ghastly, but not so ghastly as what she had beenimagining.
Somebody touched her arm. Tom was by her side, grim and formidable. Hewas wiping blood from his face.
'Come along!'
She followed him without a word. And presently, behold, in anotherfield, whistling meditatively and regardless of impending ill, AlbertParsons.
In everything that he did Tom was a man of method. He did not departfrom his chosen formula.
'Albert,' he said, 'there's been a mistake.'
And Albert gaped, as Ted had gaped.
Tom kissed Sally with the gravity of one performing a ritual.
The uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed to them, lose their powerto shock, and there is no doubt that Sally looked with a different eyeupon this second struggle. She was conscious of a thrill ofexcitement, very different from the shrinking horror which had seizedher before. Her stunned vanity began to tingle into life again. Thefight was raging furiously over the trampled turf, and quite suddenly,as she watched, she was aware that her heart was with Tom.
It was no longer two strange brutes fighting in a field. It was her manbattling for her sake.
She desired overwhelmingly that he should win, that he should not behurt, that he should sweep triumphantly over Albert Parsons as he hadswept over Ted Pringle.
Unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, that he was being hurt, andthat he was very far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert Parsons. Hehad not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and hisblows were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was made of sterner stuffthan Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a timein his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, weekin, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew theirmethods--their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were themerest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he side-steppedTom, he jabbed Tom; he did everything to Tom that a trained boxer cando to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, untilpresently, through the sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary.
Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Tomsin an evening, he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding thewatch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderlyand proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and thepeaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had beenonly muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became less easy to side-step, hisswinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot outto check them. As he tired Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide ofthe battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. Hefeinted, and while he was feinting Tom was on him. It was the climax ofthe battle--the last rally. Down went Albert, and stayed down.Physically, he was not finished; but in his mind a question had frameditself--the question. 'Was it worth it?'--and he was answering, 'No.'There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all thistrouble.
He did not rise.
'Come along!' said Tom.
He spoke thickly. His breath was coming in gasps. He was a terriblespectacle, but Sally was past the weaker emotions. She was back in theStone Age, and her only feeling was one of passionate pride. She triedto speak. She struggled to put all she felt into words, but somethingkept her dumb, and she followed him in silence.
In the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, Joe Blossom wasclipping a hedge. The sound of footsteps made him turn.
He did not recognize Tom till he spoke.
'Joe, there's been a mistake,' said Tom.
'Been a gunpowder explosion, more like,' said Joe, a simple, practicalman. 'What you been doin' to your face?'
'She's going to marry me, Joe.'
Joe eyed Sally inquiringly.
'Eh? You promised to marry _me_.'
'She promised to marry all of us. You, me, Ted Pringle, and AlbertParsons.'
'Promised--to--marry--all--of--us!'
'That's where the mistake was. She's only going to marry me. I--I'vearranged it with Ted and Albert, and now I've come to explain to you,Joe.'
'You promised to marry--!'
The colossal nature of Sally's deceit was plainly troubling JoeBlossom. He expelled his breath in a long note of amazement. Then hesummed up.
'Why you're nothing more nor less than a Joshua!'
The years that had passed since Joe had attended the villageSunday-school had weakened his once easy familiarity with thecharacters of the Old Testament. It is possible that he had somebodyelse in his mind.
Tom stuck doggedly to his point.
'You can't marry her, Joe.'
Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped a protruding branch. Thepoint under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him.
'Who wants to?' he said. 'Good riddance!'
They went down the lane. Silence still brooded over them. The wordsshe wanted continued to evade her.
They came to a grassy bank. Tom sat down. He was feeling unutterablytired.
'Tom!'
He looked up. His mind was working dizzily.
'You're going to marry me,' he muttered.
She sat down beside him.
'I know,' she said. 'Tom, dear, lay your head on my lap and go tosleep.'
If this story proves anything (beyond the advantage of being in goodtraining when you fight), it proves that you cannot get away from themoving pictures even in a place like Millbourne; for as Sally satthere, nursing Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was the verysituation with which that 'Romance of the Middle Ages' film ended. Youknow the one I mean. Sir Percival Ye Something (which has slipped mymemory for the moment) goes out after the Holy Grail; meets damsel indistress; overcomes her persecutors; rescues her; gets wounded, and isnursed back to life in her arms. Sally had seen it a dozen times. Andevery time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, andthat that sort of thing can't happen nowadays.
The Man Upstairs and Other Stories Page 2