Young Men in Spats
Page 23
‘Oh, Mother!’
‘My darling, what is it?’
A choking sob escaped the girl.
‘Mother, I love him! Directly I saw him in the dentist’s waiting-room, something seemed to go all over me, and I knew that there could be no other man for me. And now . . .’
‘Hi!’ cried Mordred, popping up over the side of the couch like a jack-in-the-box.
He had listened with growing understanding to the conversation which I have related, but had shrunk from revealing his presence because, as I say, his toes were bare. But this was too much. Toes or no toes, he felt that he must be in this.
‘You love me, Annabelle?’ he cried.
His sudden advent had occasioned, I need scarcely say, a certain reaction in those present. Sir Murgatroyd had leaped like a jumping bean. Lady Sprockett-Sprockett had quivered like a jelly. As for Annabelle, her lovely mouth was open to the extent of perhaps three inches, and she was staring like one who sees a vision.
‘You really love me, Annabelle?’
‘Yes, Mordred.’
‘Sir Murgatroyd,’ said Mordred formally, ‘I have the honour to ask you for your daughter’s hand. I am only a poor poet . . .’
‘How poor?’ asked the other, keenly.
‘I was referring to my Art,’ explained Mordred. ‘Financially, I am nicely fixed. I could support Annabelle in modest comfort.’
‘Then take her, my boy, take her. You will live, of course’ – the old man winced – ‘in London?’
‘Yes. And so shall you.’
Sir Murgatroyd shook his head.
‘No, no, that dream is ended. It is true that in certain circumstances I had hoped to do so, for the insurance, I may mention, amounts to as much as a hundred thousand pounds, but I am resigned now to spending the rest of my life in this infernal family vault. I see no reprieve.’
‘I understand,’ said Mordred, nodding. ‘You mean you have no paraffin in the house?’
Sir Murgatroyd started.
‘Paraffin?’
‘If,’ said Mordred, and his voice was very gentle and winning, ‘there had been paraffin on the premises, I think it possible that tonight’s conflagration, doubtless imperfectly quenched, might have broken out again, this time with more serious results. It is often this way with fires. You pour buckets of water on them and think they are extinguished, but all the time they have been smouldering unnoticed, to break out once more in – well, in here, for example.’
‘Or the billiard-room,’ said Lady Sprockett-Sprockett.
‘And the billiard-room,’ corrected Sir Murgatroyd.
‘And the billiard-room,’ said Mordred. ‘And possibly – who knows? – in the drawing-room, dining-room, kitchen, servants’ hall, butler’s pantry, and the usual domestic offices, as well. Still, as you say you have no paraffin . . .’
‘My boy,’ said Sir Murgatroyd, in a shaking voice, ‘what gave you the idea that we have no paraffin? How did you fall into this odd error? We have gallons of paraffin. The cellar is full of it.’
‘And Annabelle will show you the way to the cellar – in case you thought of going there,’ said Lady Sprockett-Sprockett. ‘Won’t you, dear?’
‘Of course, Mother. You will like the cellar, Mordred, darling. Most picturesque. Possibly, if you are interested in paraffin, you might also care to take a look at our little store of paper and shavings, too.’
‘My angel,’ said Mordred, tenderly, ‘you think of everything.’
He found his slippers, and hand in hand they passed down the stairs. Above them, they could see the head of Sir Murgatroyd, as he leaned over the banisters. A box of matches fell at their feet like a father’s benediction.
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