A GARDEN PLOT IN RUSSELL SQUARE
Outside, leaning contentedly against the railings of the garden opposite
to the Maison Welwyn, and enjoying the spring sunshine, Dicky
encountered the Carmyles.
"Hallo, you two!" he said. "What are you doing here? Liable to get run
in for loitering, hanging about like this."
"We have followed you, Dicky," began Connie rapidly, "to tell you that
your mother is coming up to town, and--"
"Mother--already?"
Connie nodded.
"Fourth speed in," confirmed Mr. Carmyle. "Live axle--direct drive--open
exhaust."
"Trailing your father behind her," added Connie. "I understand you had
an interview with them this morning."
The Freak gave a wry smile.
"I did," he said. "It was rather a heated interview, I'm afraid. Words
passed. But we can't stand here dodging taxis. Come into the garden,
Maud!"
"Don't we require a key?" enquired the re-christened Connie, surveying
the iron railings which enclosed the Bloomsbury Eden.
"I have one," said Dicky. "It belongs to the Welwyns. Tilly and I used
to use it a good deal," he explained, in a subdued voice.
He led the way into the dingy but romantic pleasance which had sheltered
himself and his beloved, and the trio sat down upon a damp seat. Mrs.
Carmyle, looking rather like one of the sparrows which hopped
inquisitively about her daintily shod feet, established herself between
her two large companions. Her husband, who was a creature of homely
instincts, hung his silk hat upon an adjacent bough with a sigh of
content, and began to fill a large briar pipe. Dicky, a prey to
melancholy, kicked the grass with his heels.
"Where is Tilly this morning?" asked Connie.
"Gone out--to look for a job!" replied Dicky through his clenched teeth.
"Just as if a snug home and the life of a lady were things she had never
dreamed of!" His eyes blazed. "Great Heavens, Connie--the pluck of the
child! What a brute it makes me feel!"
Connie patted his hand maternally, but said nothing. There was nothing
to say. Presently Dicky continued, in a more even voice:--
"So my mother is coming up this morning--to strike while the iron is
hot--eh?"
"'To make a direct appeal to Miss Welwyn's better nature,' was what she
_said_," replied Mrs. Carmyle cautiously.
"I am afraid there will be a bit of a scrap," said Dicky thoughtfully.
"My dear mother's normal attitude towards her fellow-creatures is that
of a righteous person compelled to travel third-class with a first-class
ticket; but when she goes on the warpath into the bargain--well, that is
where I take cover."
"She'll roll the Welwyns out flat," observed Mr. Carmyle, with that
conviction which only painful experience can instill.
"She won't roll Tilly out flat," said Dicky.
"Nor Mrs. Welwyn either," added Connie; "so kindly refrain from putting
in your oar, Bill! We are n't all terrified of Lady Adela. _Cowardy,
cowardy, cus--_"
Mr. Carmyle, flushing with shame, abruptly invited his small oppressor
to switch off; and Dicky proceeded to review the situation.
"I don't think my dear parent will get much change out of any of the
Welwyns," he said. "They are a fairly competent lot. Moreover, they
have burned their boats and have nothing to lose; so I expect there will
be some very pretty work. My lady mother is an undoubted champion in
her class, I admit, but she has got a bit out of condition lately.
Managing Dad and harrying the County are n't really sufficient to keep a
woman of her fighting-weight up to the mark. Still, I don't particularly
want her big guns let loose on Tilly."
"Tilly has gone out for the day, I suppose?" said Connie.
"So I was told. But how did you guess?"
Connie Carmyle flapped her small hands despairingly.
"Oh, what creatures!" she cried, apparently apostrophising the male sex
in general. "Can't you understand anything or anybody--not even the
girl you love? Of course, she is out for the day; and if you go there
to-morrow she will be out for the day, too!"
"Why?" asked Dicky blankly.
"Yes--why?" echoed that sympathetic but obtuse Philistine, Bill Carmyle.
His wife turned upon him like lightning.
"Bill," she said, "keep perfectly quiet, or I shall send you off to meet
Lady Adela's train at Waterloo! I want to talk to Dicky. Now, Dicky,
listen to me. That little girl"--Connie's eyes grew suddenly tender,
for she loved her sex--"cares for you, old man--quite a lot. Quite
enough, in fact, to draw back if she thinks she is going to stand in
your way during life. That pathetic little fraud of a tea-party
yesterday has set her thinking. She has suddenly realised that although
she might _get_ you by false pretences, she could not _keep_ you by
false pretences--nor want to. She has also realised that her Family are
impossible. That means that she will have to give up either you or the
Family. And you are the one she will give up, Dicky. She loves you too
much to pull you down to their level. She won't give that as her
reason--women are built like that--but she will give you up, all the
same."
The usually placid Dicky had grown excessively agitated during this
homily.
"Connie," he burst out, "for goodness' sake don't try to frighten me
like that! Tilly's Family are not impossible. They 're only a bit
improbable. And besides, talking of impossible families, look at mine!
Do you know who my grandfather was? He was a Lancashire cotton
operative--a hand in a mill. He invented something--a shuttle, or a
bobbin, or something of that kind--and made a fortune out of it. He
ultimately died worth a hundred thousand pounds; but to the end of his
days he dined without his coat, and, if he could possibly escape
detection, without his collar either. I never saw him, but my Dad says
he was a dear old chap, and I can quite believe it. As a father-in-law
he was a sore trial to my poor mother, whose ancestors had worn their
collars at meals for quite a considerable period; but the hundred
thousand overcame her susceptibilities in the end, and she and Dad have
lived happily ever since."
Dicky rose restlessly to his feet, and continued his address standing.
"Now I think," he said, "that we can set my grandfather, cotton
operative, against the late lamented Banks, plumber and gas-fitter.
Banks, of course, was the bigger man socially--you know how plumbers get
asked simply _everywhere_--but Mainwaring's son married the daughter of
an Earl; so we will call them quits. Anyway, Tilly is quite as good as
I am--miles better, in fact."
"Dear Dicky!" murmured Connie approvingly. Here was a lover of the right
metal.
"What about friend Perce?" enquired a gruff voice.
It was a telling question. If Dicky could clothe such an uncompromising
fact as Percy Welwyn in a garment of romance, he was capable of making a
success of any marriage. Mr. Carmyle waited grimly for his answer.
"Ah--Percy!" replied Dicky thoughtfully. "Yes, Tiny, old soul, that's a
sound question. Well, Percy is n't exactly polished--in fact, one might
almost be forgiven for describing him as a holy terror--"
"He wants losing," said Carmyle with conviction.
"But listen," pursued Dicky. "Percy may be all we say, but he
cheerfully hands over half his weekly screw, which is n't a fabulous
one, to the common fund of the Family. It is not every young man who
would do that, especially such a social success as Percy. Oh, yes,
Connie, he is a social success; so don't look incredulous. I tell you
he is a regular Apollo at shilling hops. He took me to one a few weeks
ago."
"Where?" asked Connie.
"Somewhere near Kennington Oval. The girls simply swarmed over him.
But he is not in the least stuck up about it; and--well, he is kind to
Tilly. I am, therefore," concluded Dicky stoutly, "an upholder of
Percy."
Mr. Carmyle, encouraged by the silence of his wife, felt emboldened to
continue his cross-examination.
"What about mother-in-law?" he queried.
It was a foolish question.
"She is a woman in a thousand," said Dicky promptly, and Mrs. Carmyle,
with a withering side-glance at her unfortunate lord, nodded her head
vigorously in affirmation.
"Mrs. Welwyn is not what we call a lady," proceeded Dicky, "but she is
the right stuff all through. I admit that she has not been quite
successful in her efforts to polish Percy, but look at the others! The
little sister, 'Melia, is a dear. The twins are rippers. Old
Welwyn--well, he's a rotter, but he's a gentlemanly rotter; which pretty
well describes the majority of my friends, now I come to think of it.
And he is no hypocrite: he is quite frank about his weaknesses. Now, to
sum up. On her father's side Tilly is a lady; on her mother's side she
is a brick. That's a pretty good combination. Anyhow, it's good enough
for me; and if she'll have me I'm going to marry her."
Dicky concluded the unburdening of his soul with a shout and a wave of
his hat, and all the sparrows flew away.
"Now," said Connie, patting the seat in a soothing fashion, "sit down
and tell me how you are going to do it."
Dicky resumed his place beside her and said meekly:--
"I'm looking to you to tell me that, Connie."
Apparently he had made the remark that was expected of him, for Connie
immediately assumed a little air of profound wisdom, and her
unregenerate husband emitted an unseemly gurgle.
"Your first difficulty, of course," she said to Dicky, ignoring her
wretched and ill-controlled spouse, "will be to see Tilly. After the
humiliation of yesterday her only instinct will be to hide herself. She
will be not-at-home to you every time you call; and of course, it is n't
fair that you should hang about in the hopes of catching her outside."
"No," agreed Dicky. "Not the game."
"You have written to her, I suppose?" said Connie.
"Yes. Left a note this morning," replied Dicky, brightening up.
"Well, of course, that is no use. It will make her happier, poor little
soul, but it won't change her decision. Letters never do. You've
simply got to see her, Dicky! Bill, run away for a minute, there's a
dear. Go and think about a cantilever, or something, over there."
Mr. Carmyle, puffing smoke, obediently withdrew to the other side of a
clump of sooty rhododendrons. Connie turned eagerly to Dicky. Her face
was flushed and eager, like a child's.
"Dicky," she whispered earnestly, "_see_ her! _See_ her! See her alone!
Take her in your arms and tell her that you will never, never, never let
her go! She will struggle and try to break away; but hold on. Hold on
tight! Go on telling her that you love her and will never leave her.
When she sees that you mean it, she will give in. I know. I'm a woman,
and I know!" Connie squeezed Dicky's arm violently. "I _know_!" she
repeated.... "You can come back now, Bill dear."
"Nice goings-on, I don't think," observed Mr. Carmyle severely,
reappearing round the rhododendron. "Shouting all over the
garden--what?"
But the two conspirators, still in the clouds together, took no notice
of him. Instead, Connie rose to her feet and began to walk towards the
nearest gate. The two men followed.
"Connie, how am I going to do it?" asked Dicky deferentially.
"I have a plan," replied Connie, with portentous solemnity. She was
launched on an enterprise after her own heart. "Listen! Have you a
portmanteau?"
"Yes, at my rooms."
"Well, go there and pack it."
"Why?" asked Dicky in a dazed voice.
Mrs. Carmyle replied by quoting a famous and oracular phrase which had
lately fallen from the lips of a prominent statesman, and the party
reached the railings.
"Hallo, there's a taxi at the Welwyns' door," said Carmyle. "I
wonder--oh, Lord!"
He fell hastily to the rear, his knees knocking together. Two figures
were ascending the steps of the house. One was majestic and purposeful;
the other small and reluctant. The front door opened and closed upon
them.
"My mother--already!" exclaimed Dicky in dismay.
That burned child, William Carmyle, broke into a gentle perspiration.
"Never mind," said Connie reassuringly. "She was bound to come. She
can't do any harm."
"Supposing she gets Tilly to agree never to see me again?" said Dicky
feverishly. "Supposing she insults her with money?" He ground his
teeth, and Carmyle groaned sympathetically.
Connie patted his arm soothingly.
"The last word is the only thing that matters in this case," she said
with great confidence; "and you are going to have that, Dicky, my
friend. Now, run away and pack your portmanteau. Then come and lunch
with us at Prince's. I must fly. I have an appointment with a gentleman
at Russell Square Tube Station at twelve-thirty. It is after that now."
Dicky glanced at Bill Carmyle for an explanation of this mysterious
assignation, but that gentleman merely shook his head in a bewildered
fashion.
"Don't ask me, old man," he said.
"Who is the gentleman, Connie?" Dicky enquired.
"An admirer of mine," replied Mrs. Carmyle, with a gratified smile. "I
met him in the train this morning."
"For the first time?"
"No--second. When I saw him I had an idea, so we arranged to meet again
at twelve-thirty. He has another engagement, but he said it did n't
matter when I asked him. After he has done what I want, he is coming to
lunch, too. Now run and pack. Au revoir!"
Revelling in every turn of the highly complicated plot which she was
weaving, little Mrs. Carmyle, followed by her inarticulate but inflated
husband, pattered swiftly away round the corner--and incidentally out of
this narrative--turning to wave a reassuring hand to her client before
disappearing.
The Freak, puzzled but confident, went home to pack his portmanteau.