Practice makes perfect, and when Mrs. Brampton, from her seat by the
window, announced the approach of the Captain, Mr. Leonard Scott kissed
Miss Brampton in the small hall and made his usual dignified exit to
the kitchen. To leave by the side-entrance was the best way of avoiding
trouble with a man who was always looking out for it. Mr. Scott
bestowed a nod upon the smiling young mistress of the kitchen, and with
his hand upon the back-door waited to hear the Captain at the front.
“One o’ these days,” began Clara, who loved to dwell upon the gruesome,
“he’ll come----”
She broke off and listened. “He’s coming,” she said, in a thrilling
whisper. “He’s coming the back way.”
Mr. Scott started, hesitated, and was lost.
“Fly!” exclaimed Clara, pointing by accident to the ceiling.
The young man scowled at her, and before he had time to alter his
expression found himself gazing at the burly form and inflamed visage
of Captain Brampton.
“Well?” barked the latter. “What are you doing in my kitchen? Eh? What
have you got to say for yourself?”
Mr. Scott coughed and tried to collect his thoughts. In the front room
Mrs. Brampton and her daughter eyed each other in silent consternation.
Then, in response to a peremptory bellow, Mrs. Brampton rose and made a
trembling passage to the kitchen.
“What does this mean?” demanded the Captain in grating accents.
His wife stood looking helplessly from one to the other, and, instead
of answering the question, passed it on.
“What does this mean, Clara?” she demanded.
“Eh?” said that astonished maiden. “What does what mean?”
“This,” said the Captain sternly, with a jerk of his head towards Mr.
Scott. “Did you invite him here?”
Clara started--but in a lesser degree than Mr. Scott--and looked down
modestly at a hole in the hearth-rug. Mrs. Brampton and her daughter
gazed at her in hushed expectation.
“I didn’t, not to say, invite him,” replied Clara, “but I can’t help
him coming here.”
“_H’m!_ Perhaps you didn’t try,” said the Captain with unexpected
mildness. “How long have you known him?”
“Some time, sir,” said Clara vaguely.
“Does he want to marry you?”
Clara looked at her mistress for guidance, but the latter was engaged
at the moment in an eye-to-eye duel with the fermenting Mr. Scott. Over
the Captain’s face stole an expression of great and unusual benevolence.
“Well, well,” he said slowly. “We’ve all been young once. He’s not much
to look at, but he looks clean and respectable. When do you think of
getting married?”
“That’s for him to say, sir,” said the modest Clara.
“Well, there’s no hurry,” said the Captain, “no hurry. He can come
round once a week for you on your evening out, but no other time, mind.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clara, who was beginning to enjoy herself. “It’s
my evening out to-night, sir. He was going to take me to the pictures.”
A stifled exclamation came from the direction where Mr. Scott was
standing, which the Captain chose to interpret as an expression of
gratitude. With instructions to Clara to regale her admirer with bread
and cheese and one glass of beer, he shepherded his wife and daughter
from the kitchen. Humming a light air, Clara began to set the table.
“What the devil did you want to say I was going to take you to the
pictures for?” demanded the ungrateful Mr. Scott.
“’Cos I wanted to go,” said his hostess calmly.
Mr. Scott regarded her coldly. “I will walk with you as far as the
corner of this road,” he said with an air of finality.
“We’ll go to the best seats and I’ll have a box of chocolates,” said
Clara. “Do you like chocolates?”
“No,” said the other sternly.
“Praise be!” said the girl piously. “My other young man----”
Mr. Scott coughed violently.
“All right,” said the girl, “don’t get excited. He’s away on a job for
a week or two, else I wouldn’t dare to be seen with you. When the cat’s
away the mice will play,” she added.
The young man eyed her in amazement. This was a new Clara. His lips
quivered and his eyes watered. He took up his glass of beer and nodded.
“Right-o!” he agreed.
He smoked a cigarette while the girl went upstairs to dress, and a
little later, watched by three pairs of eyes from the front window,
sailed up the street with her arm-in-arm.
“She’s too good for him,” said the Captain, with decision.
“Much,” assented his daughter, with a smile.
“Tailor’s dummy!” soliloquised the Captain.
“Cheap tailor, too,” murmured the acquiescent Miss Brampton. “Did you
notice how baggy his trousers are at the knees?”
The Captain shot a glance at her. Twenty years’ experience of a wife
whose only anxiety was to please him was not the best preparation for
handling a daughter who, to say the least of it, had other ambitions.
He began to fear that she had inherited more of his strength of
character--a quality for which some of his friends found another
name--than was convenient.
“He’s a softy,” he growled. “He ought to have a year or two at sea.
That might make a man of him.”
He got up and went into the garden, leaving mother and daughter to
discuss the possibilities of a situation which had found them somewhat
unprepared.
“It might have been worse,” said Mrs. Brampton. “If your father had
caught him in here----”
“He couldn’t eat him,” said her daughter rebelliously.
“There are worse things than being eaten,” said Mrs. Brampton, with
some feeling.
Miss Brampton nodded. “Taking Clara to the pictures, for instance,” she
remarked. “Poor Leonard!”
Her mother sniffed. “I dare say he will get over it,” she said dryly.
“Unless Clara’s young man gets to hear of it. From what she has told me
he is a very hot-tempered young man--and very strong.”
“Pity father didn’t find _him_ in the kitchen,” said the dutiful
daughter.
She sat down, and in sympathetic mood tried to share the misery of the
absent one at the cinema. A vision of Clara’s hat, perilously near Mr.
Scott’s shoulder, mercifully eluded her, but, the window being open to
the summer air, she was unable to help hearing the cheerful babble of
laughter that heralded their return. It seemed to strike a wrong note;
and the couple of noisy kisses which Clara saw fit to bestow upon the
back of her hand for the Captain’s benefit were registered on the wrong
target.
Mrs. Brampton obtained the explanation from Clara next day, and
accepted it without prejudice. Her daughter declined to accept it at
all.
“You quite understand that he must not come to see you again?” she said
stiffly.
“But he’s got to,” said the staring handmaiden. “The Captain says so.
And if he plays fast-and-loose with me I’m to have him up for breach of
promise. Lively for me, ain’t it? When I think of Bill and his temper
I get goose-flesh all over.”
The ladies eyed each other in silent consternation.
“Your father _knows_,” said the elder at last. “He has done this on
purpose.”
“Set a trap for him,” said Clara, nodding. “Looks like it. And I’m the
little bit o’ cheese, I suppose?”
Mrs. Brampton stared at her.
“Father forgets that I am nineteen,” said her daughter. “Why shouldn’t
I----?”
“I was only fifteen when _I_ started,” murmured Clara, “and not big for
my age neither.”
“That will do,” said Mrs. Brampton.
“Yes’m,” said the girl. “Still----”
“Still what?” demanded her mistress.
“I’ve been dragged into it,” said Clara mutinously. “Nobody asked me
or troubled about my feelings. I do the best I can, and that’s all the
thanks I get for it. Suppose I had told the Captain it was Miss Edith
he was after? Where would you have been then?”
“We won’t discuss it,” said Mrs. Brampton with an air of feeble dignity.
She made as stately an exit as the size of the kitchen would allow,
and, carefully closing the door of the sitting-room, made a few remarks
on Clara’s character, and more on her lack of it.
“It’s no good blaming Clara,” said her daughter. “It’s father’s doing.
He wants to make Leonard look like a fool first and scare him away
afterwards. He’ll tell all his friends about it.”
“Mr. Hopkins, for one,” said Mrs. Brampton, nodding sagely. “I
wonder----”
“I don’t,” said the girl, reddening.
“Your father seems to have taken a great fancy to him,” continued Mrs.
Brampton. “Now, does he come here to see your father, or----”
“Or,” said her daughter bitterly. “It’s just like father. I suppose
he will want to choose my tooth-powder for me next. But he won’t get
any satisfaction out of me--_or_ Leonard. I’ll see to that. As for Mr.
Hopkins--_brrh!_”
She beamed, however, on that innocent man when her father brought him
in next day to see the garden, and when the wily Captain went indoors
for his pipe made no attempt to follow him. It was a pipe that was
notorious for the discovery of new and unusual hiding-places, and on
this occasion made no attempt to belie its reputation.
Meantime, the delighted Mr. Hopkins, under the skilful management of
Miss Brampton, walked with his head in the clouds and his feet on
various choice border plants.
“Hadn’t you better walk on the path?” inquired the girl, who had been
monopolising three-quarters of it. “It’s more comfortable.”
Mr. Hopkins started. “Good heavens!” he said in an alarmed voice, as he
bent down to render first aid to a stock with a broken neck. “Did I do
that?”
Miss Brampton nodded. “Those, too, I think,” she replied, with a wave
of her hand. “Don’t you care for flowers?”
Mr. Hopkins, who was fearfully endeavouring to conceal the traces of
his crime, made no reply. When the Captain came out they were both
speechless, but he was, if anything, the redder of the two.
“These paths are very narrow, father,” remarked the humane Edith.
The Captain made a noise.
“Afraid--crowding--Miss Edith,” panted the offender.
The Captain made another noise. In the present company all the useful
words he knew were useless.
“Did you find your pipe, father?” inquired the persevering Miss
Brampton.
The Captain was understood to say “Yes.” At the same time he favoured
her with a glance which would have made her mother tremble. On Miss
Brampton it had a bracing effect.
“Father’s always mislaying his pipe,” she said, with a bright laugh. “I
shouldn’t trouble any more about those, if I were you, Mr. Hopkins. You
can’t do them any good, and you are standing on an antirrhinum.”
Mr. Hopkins removed his foot hastily, and placing it carefully in the
centre of the path offered up another apology. It was received with
what the Captain fondly believed to be a smile.
“Accidents will happen,” he said hoarsely.
“In the best-regulated families,” said Miss Brampton, with a satisfied
smile.
She paid a touching tribute to the excellence of the victims after the
visitor had gone, and sought for some time for an explanation of the
tragedy.
“He must have been ‘wool-gathering,’” she declared at length.
“What do you mean by that?” demanded her father.
“Absent-minded,” said Edith. “He seemed like a man walking on air,
instead of some of the best stocks in the neighbourhood. Even Clara’s
young man would have more sense than that.”
“Clara’s young man won’t go into my garden,” said the Captain. “The
kitchen is the place for him.”
He stalked out into the garden, and, digging up hopeless cases with a
trowel, sought to revive the less badly injured with a water-can.
It might have been a sign of a forgiving nature, but was more likely
due to an obstinate one, that he invited Mr. Hopkins back to the scene
of his footwork a day or two later. Missing plants had been replaced by
a consignment from the florists, and rolled paths and raked flower-beds
testified to the Captain’s industry. Everything was “shipshape and
Bristol fashion” as the greatly relieved visitor walked with Miss
Brampton in the garden in the cool of the evening. The Captain, after
satisfying himself that Mr. Hopkins was walking almost as carefully as
a performer on the tight-rope, had disappeared indoors.
The path was narrow, but even when Miss Brampton sent electric thrills
through his being by leaning against him, Mr. Hopkins kept to it. The
air was soft and the scent of the flowers delightful. Never before had
his conversation been so appreciated. The low-voiced laughter of his
companion was a tribute to his wit as rare as it was welcome.
“You ought to write plays,” she said thoughtfully, as she planted her
foot firmly on a geranium.
“You want influence to get them accepted,” said Mr. Hopkins.
“I should try, if I were you, though,” said the girl, nearly missing
another geranium.
Mr. Hopkins purred. Miss Brampton, with downcast eyes, trod down six
flowers in succession.
“Dialogue would be your strong point,” mused the girl, continuing her
ravages. “Crisp and sparkling.”
She took the other side as they turned at the end of the path, and in a
hushed voice called his attention to some beautiful cloud effects. Mr.
Hopkins, with his head at an acute angle, murmured his admiration.
“An evening to remember,” he said, very softly.
He brought his gaze slowly to earth and started convulsively.
“Giddy?” inquired the girl, with much solicitude.
Mr. Hopkins shook his head and, speech failing him, pointed with a
trembling finger to the prostrate victims of misdirected industry. Miss
Brampton stared in her turn.
“Oh, Mr. Hopkins!” she said, in accusing tones.
“I--I haven’t been near them,” stammered the unfortunate.
“They must have done it themselves, then,” said the girl calmly.
“Perhaps they were not strong enough to stand the breeze.”
Mr. Hopkins breathed heavily. “I--I really think----” he began.
“Yes?” said Miss Brampton.
“I don’t know what to think,” concluded the other feebly.
His companion gazed wistfully at the wreckage.
“Poor father!” she said softly. “He is so fond of his garden. He seems
to know every flower, but, of course, he hasn’t had these long enough
to know them.”
Mr. Hopkins groaned and cast a fearful glance at the house.
“It’s his one hobby,” continued the girl. “I have heard him use worse
language about cats than anything else, I think. And the doctor says
excitement is so bad for him.”
“I can’t understand it,” ventured Mr. Hopkins, with an appealing glance.
“I wonder whether father will?” said the girl. “He is coming out, I
think.”
Mr. Hopkins looked around panic-stricken. Then he pulled out his watch.
“Good gracious!” he murmured. “I must be going, I think. No idea so
late. Appointment.”
He moved hastily in the direction of the side-gate, and hardly
realising the geniality of Miss Brampton’s hand-clasp, disappeared. The
girl stood watching until he had turned the corner and then went into
the house.
“Where’s Hopkins!” inquired the Captain.
“He has just gone.”
“Gone!” repeated her father. “Why, I asked him to stay to supper. Did
you send him off? Eh?”
His daughter shook her head. “He went off in a hurry,” she murmured. “I
think he had an idea that perhaps he had offended you.”
“Rubbish!” grunted the Captain, eyeing her suspiciously. “What should
he offend me about?”
“Knowing how fond you are of your flowers----” began Miss Brampton.
The Captain uttered a smothered cry and, springing from his chair,
dashed into the garden. Cries that were anything but smothered, and
words that ought to have been, brought his wife to her daughter’s
side. Together they watched the head of the house as, with fists raised
to heaven, he danced a strange and frenzied dance down the path.
“He’s wonderfully supple for his age,” said the admiring daughter.
Mrs. Brampton shivered. “I don’t suppose that poor young man will dare
to show his face here again,” she said slowly.
“If he does, there will be an accident to the rose trees,” said her
daughter, compressing her lips. “I’ve had all I can stand of Mr.
Hopkins.”
“And then there’s Mr. Scott,” said her mother plaintively. “Clara says
that she thinks her young man has heard something, and if he should
happen to meet them one evening----”
“It might be bad for the young man,” said the girl calmly. “Leonard
would have a better nose if he didn’t box so much. Look at father!”
Mrs. Brampton looked.
“He--he seems to be examining the foot-marks,” she gasped.
“Time I changed your sensible low-heeled shoes for something more
dressy,” said her daughter, disappearing.
She was back before the Captain re-entered the house, and sitting
cross-legged, displayed a pair of sharp-toed, high-heeled shoes of
blameless aspect, which met his ardent gaze with a polished stare. He
turned his back at last and stood gazing blankly out at his cherished
garden.
It never occurred to him to accept defeat, and his daughter was
therefore more annoyed than surprised to see Mr. Hopkins--a nervous,
chastened Mr. Hopkins--back again after a few days. On this occasion,
however, the Captain lingered in the garden, and from a deck-chair
beneath the window watched his faltering steps.
Conscious of this scrutiny, the visitor babbled incoherences to Miss
Brampton, until in self-defence she retreated to the house on the plea
of a thorn in her foot.
The sound of Mr. Scott’s voice in the kitchen did not add to her
comfort. A glance from her window showed her that her father had taken
her place with the visitor and was pointing out to him the merits of
the rockery. She stole downstairs and, opening the kitchen-door, peeped
in.
“I thought you were going to the cinema,” she said, addressing Mr.
Scott coldly.
“Can’t,” was the reply. “Clara’s Bill is outside, and she’s afraid to
come.”
“He’s waiting for him,” said Clara breathlessly. “There’ll be murder
done--and I shall be the cause of it.”
“Cheer up,” said Mr. Scott. “He’ll only have a week or two in a nice
comfortable hospital. You’ll be able to see him on Sunday afternoons
and take him grapes.”
“I know who’ll want the grapes,” said Clara miserably. “You don’t know
his strength. I don’t believe he knows it himself.”
“Where is he?” demanded Miss Brampton.
“Outside the side-gate, miss,” replied Clara. “Like a cat waiting for a
mouse.”
“A mouse!” ejaculated the startled Mr. Scott. “Now look here, Clara----”
“I’ll go and send him away,” said Miss Brampton with decision.
She slipped into the garden and, her father’s back still being towards
her, opened the side-gate and looked out. A bullet-headed young man,
standing just outside, drew up sharply at her appearance and stood
scowling at her.
“Do you want to see Clara?” she inquired.
“I’m waiting,” said Mr. Bill Jones, “waiting for a toff.”
Miss Brampton stood regarding him with a puzzled air. Then she had an
inspiration that almost took her breath away.
“Do you mean the gentleman who is in the garden talking to father?” she
inquired.
Mr. Jones’s eyes glistened. He licked his lips and stood breathing hard
and short. Miss Brampton, with an encouraging smile, pushed the door
open.
Mr. Jones needed no further invitation. With head erect and eyes ablaze
he entered the garden and, catching sight of the unconscious Mr.
Hopkins, strode rapidly towards him.
“Here! What do you want?” demanded the astonished Captain.
Mr. Jones ignored him, and continuing his progress, thrust his face
into that of Mr. Hopkins.
“Take my gal away, will yer?” he shouted. “Take ’er to the pictures,
will yer? Take that!”
Mr. Hopkins took it and went down with a cry of anguish. Through a mist
of pain he heard the voice of his assailant.
“Get up! Get up, else I’ll jump on yer.”
Mr. Hopkins got up, and the appearance of Mr. Jones was so terrible
that he turned and fled, with the other in hot pursuit.
“Stop!” yelled the choking Captain. “Mind the flowers! Mind the fl----”
Mr. Hopkins paid no heed; neither, to do him justice, did Mr. Jones.
Firmly convinced that his life was in danger, the former performed
miracles of agility, while his opponent pounded doggedly behind. A bad
third, owing to his keeping to the path, the Captain followed raving in
the rear.
Broken plants lay in the wake of Mr. Hopkins; churned-up earth marked
the progress of Mr. Jones as he endeavoured to head him off. And at
this juncture Mr. Scott appeared from the kitchen, shedding his coat.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
Mr. Jones pulled up suddenly and favoured him with a menacing glare.
“Look at those flowers,” cried Mr. Scott severely. “You chump-headed,
mutton-headed son of a gun!”
Mr. Jones stood irresolute. He looked longingly at Mr. Hopkins taking
cover behind the Captain; then with a loud roar he threw himself upon
this new arrival.
Mr. Scott side-stepped neatly and smote him heavily on the chin. Mr.
Jones, turning in amazement, took three more and, being by this time
acclimatised, settled down to a steady mill.
“You’d better go,” said the Captain harshly, to Mr. Hopkins. “This
isn’t a sight for you.”
Mr. Hopkins went, somewhat reluctantly. He was a man of peace, but the
sight of Mr. Jones’s damages seemed in some way to afford him an odd
feeling of satisfaction. The Captain stayed to see fair play--also
the only fight with fists he had seen since he left the sea. It was
with almost a sigh that he went at length to help Mr. Scott assist his
adversary to his feet. The dazed Mr. Jones, with Clara’s arm about his
waist, was led indoors and his head placed under the scullery tap. The
cooling sounds of running water and the heated comments of Mr. Jones
alone broke the silence.
[Illustration: THE CAPTAIN STAYED TO SEE FAIR PLAY.]
“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Scott, tenderly dabbing his face with his
handkerchief, as Miss Brampton came out. “I’m afraid Clara has jilted
me, sir.”
The Captain grunted and eyed him curiously.
“I was going to take her to the cinema, now I suppose I shall have to
go alone. Unless----”
“Well?” barked the Captain, waiting.
“Unless Miss Brampton comes with me.”
The Captain stood up and faced him, choking.
“Cinema!” he roared. “Cinema! If you want to do something to pass the
evening, you can help her help me help make the garden tidy.”