I MET him when I was in town at a party, where he and I were about the
only grownups; he took a good deal of trouble over the youngsters, doing
conjuring tricks to amuse them, and singing songs at the pianoforte that
made them laugh. Later in the evening, when some of the kids had been
fetched, he and I became friendly, and we had a most interesting chat.
He agreed with my views regarding the Australian team of the previous
summer; he was in full sympathy concerning the difficulty of making one
pair of white gloves do for two evenings. I asked for his name and
address.
“Don’t think I have a card to spare, old chap,” he said, in his easy way.
“Daresay we shall meet again.”
“I’d awfully like to make sure of it,” I said. “My mother may want you
to run down to our place.”
“That’s a different matter. Here’s a pencil; write it on something. Or
allow me. I’m coming back here at ten,” he went on. “You won’t be gone
before that, I hope?”
“I must,” I replied. “My governess will call at half-past nine to take
me home.”
“What an existence we men about town do live, to be sure. Always
hurrying from one place to another.”
“If my mother writes to you, Mr. Cartwright,” I said, offering my hand,
“you won’t fail to come along.”
My mater is peculiar; she has a fixed and permanent idea that any
suggestion coming from me must necessarily be overruled and treated as of
no serious importance; I fancy this comes from the feeling, often
expressed by her, that she has to be both father and mother. It is
rather a lonely life for her, with only my governess and the servants for
company. I have heard the maids saying more than once to each other that
they wondered mistress did not marry again. “She could well afford to,”
remarked cook.
I do think I showed cleverness and tact—something very like high
diplomacy. I reminded my mother of the parties I had attended, and said
I felt glad there was no necessity for us to have our house turned upside
down and to give an evening in return. At lunch time I referred to the
matter again. Later I said good-night to her, and once more made similar
allusion to the subject.
Cards of invitation went out the next day, and my governess started on
the preparation of a charade. My governess is not, if I may say so,
possessed of incredible cleverness, and after writing out the charade and
starting rehearsals, she found she had forgotten the word, and as no one
could guess it, and she appeared unable to think of another, it became
evident that we could not rely upon this as a source of entertainment.
It was then I announced to my mother that I had already sent a note to a
friend of mine, a man whose equal for entertaining a party was rarely
encountered, and that I expected a reply from him in the course of a post
or two. She blamed me for taking the step without asking permission, and
praised me for coming to the rescue with such an excellent idea.
“Did you say Cartwright—Mr. Cartwright, dear?”
“Yes, mother. Do you know him?”
“I don’t think I have met the name.”
When Mr. Cartwright’s postcard arrived, and the maid put it by the side
of my plate, my mother, glancing down the table before opening her own
letters, asked quickly from whom it had come, and when I told her she
contradicted me, quoting, rather excitedly, the usual Biblical and
historical cases where severe punishment had been given for the telling
of lies, or commendation awarded for the statement of exact truth. I
ventured to repeat the information, and passed the card to her as a
document in support; she looked at it, cried a little, and asked me to
forgive her for being so cross. I begged her not to mention it.
“Just for the moment,” she explained, “it took me back about twelve
years.”
“Before my time, mother?”
“Yes. You were not thought of then. Does your friend sign himself
Cartwright?”
“My dear mother, how else could he sign himself?”
“Send him another line, and say that your mother is looking forward to
the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
“You must tell me how to spell some of the words,” I said.
The carriage was to meet some of the guests who came from London, and I
went down to the station myself and arranged with one of the cabmen
there, so that Mr. Cartwright should be brought up alone and without
being crowded by the children. My mother said I could ask him to stay
the night, and ordered a room at the hotel; but he wrote to say he had
another engagement in town, and he desired to catch the seven fifty-four
back. I remarked that this showed how popular he was in society; my
mother gave a word approving businesslike habits. It seemed exactly like
Mr. Cartwright that he should arrive in the cab at the precise hour
arranged.
“Had a good journey?” I cried, running to him in the hall as he was
getting out of his thick overcoat. “I was afraid, somehow, that you’d
back out of it at the last moment.”
“Never disappoint the public,” he replied cheerfully. “Sometimes I
disappoint myself, but that is another matter.”