Facing the Music
MISS GRACE was seated at the table under the lamp, and I was a trifle
discomfited to find that a very palpable frown was disfiguring her
mobile brow.
“Nineteen from forty-one, quick!” she cried, without looking up. And as
I answered, after due thought, “Twenty-three, I mean twenty-four; no, I
mean twenty-two,” she lifted her head to say,--
“Thanks so much”; and added, “Hullo! it’s you, is it, Dimmy? Don’t mind
me calling you Dimmy, do you? Rather a nice easy, slipping kind of a
name is Dimmy, isn’t it, Dimmy? Besides, I can’t always be saying Mr.,
can I? as though I were a pro.”
“If you’ll allow me to call you Grace,” said I, “that’ll be all right.”
“You can call me anything you just please,” said she, “as long as it
isn’t Laura. I hate Laura.”
“I have known some very pretty Lauras,” said I.
“Now look here, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace fiercely, “how on earth can I
bring the first-class averages up to date if you keep talking? Stanley
Jackson’s in a frightful tangle as it is. If you want a book, take it
and cut, and close the door quietly.”
“Sorry,” said I, “horribly sorry. But may I help you?”
“Awfully glad if you would,” said she. “I shall never get done
to-night. Oh, hang it! the wire from the Oval’s not here yet. Confound
’em!”
Approaching the table, I was now able to observe what her occupation
was. She was busily engaged in deducing facts and figures from a litter
of telegrams, and transferring them to formidable sheets of foolscap.
My look was too perplexed to be ignored.
“Rather a good idea,” she explained. “As we can’t get an evening paper
in these parts, anyhow, we arrange for ‘the close of the day’s play’ to
be wired from the county grounds.”
“Why don’t you wait for the morning papers?” I asked.
“Morning papers, indeed!” said Miss Grace witheringly. “How do you
s’pose I’m going to get to sleep if I don’t know what the boys have
done? Why, Archie might have bagged a brace, or Charlie might have got
his hundred.”
“I didn’t think of that,” I said penitently. “But surely it’s not
absolutely necessary for you to work out the averages every night, when
by the payment of the ridiculously inadequate sum of one penny you can
get trained journalists to do it for you?”
“Oh, I like to be knowing,” she said. “It’s not absolutely necessary,
of course, but I can’t rest somehow till I’ve got the principal men
reckoned up to date. That little beggar Bobby Abel will keep trying
to get his nose in front of Archie, and then Albert Ward and Gunn
are always treading on his heels. Then Tom Richardson and Briggs are
putting in all they know to knock Charlie off his perch. It’s not all
jam, I can tell you, having brothers who are such tremendous swells.
All the world will keep looking at ’em, and if one of ’em’s a bit below
himself, out comes the _Daily Chronicle_ with a picture in five colours
of A. H. Trentham’s deplorable exhibition at Old Trafford yesterday,
and yarns of that sort. It comes jolly hard on a girl, I can tell you,
Dimmy, if you’ve kept ’em on brine baths and a training diet all the
week, and then one of ’em goes and blots his copy-book like that.”
“From what I hear,” said I, “it’s nothing but your diligence and
motherly behaviour to ’em that’s made ’em as famous as they are.”
“I don’t say that,” remarked the modest Grace, but her expression said
that this judicious statement was not unpleasing. “But I deserve a
little bit of credit for their fame. The amount of watching that they
take is something awful; Charlie in particular. At times Charlie’s just
heart-breaking. Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking of him!”
Had the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods been just
then in my place and heard his sister’s long-drawn sigh and seen her
pronounced tendency to tears, I’m certain that that robust sinner would
have gone down on his knees before her and prayed for a remission of
his sins. I think I never was more touched.
“What a shame!” said I.
“He’s so careless,” she said; “can’t restrain himself, you know; and he
don’t feel his responsibilities a bit. He don’t care a pin about his
average. ’Might be the ordinaryest bowler that ever was, instead of
Charlie Trentham. Bought him a Whiteley exerciser for his birthday, but
he uses all his spare time in whistling and playing ‘pills,’ instead of
getting up his muscle and his stamina.”
“He must be a great trial,” said I, working the sympathetic vein for
all that it was worth. I think, though, the Great Trial would have had
a fit had he been privileged to hear me.
“Yes, Dimmy, that’s exactly what he is--he is a trial,” said poor
Miss Grace. “If he’d only got a bit of head, I wouldn’t care. He’s
got the courage of a lion, never knows when he’s licked and all that,
and his muscles are just lovely; but as for intellect, you’ve only
got to treat him to a drink to make him your friend for ever. And I
don’t think he knows what two and two make, either. Here’s an instance
now: he actually invites down that wicked little Toddles, when he’s
going to play for Middlesex against Kent on Monday. And what does that
wicked little Toddles do? Like the giddy goat I am, I didn’t sit up
and see ’em all to bed, as I mean to do to-night, but left ’em up with
a promise of ‘We shan’t be long.’ But weren’t they! Well, I lay awake
and listened for ’em, but never heard a sound. When the clock struck
two, I got up and dressed, and came down to see what they were up to.
There were those three beautiful brothers o’ mine, who are playing
against Kent on Monday, having a hand at poker with Jimmy Carteret,
whilst the Rev. Mr. Toddles, if you please, was mixing their drinks.
An owl would see the Rev. Mr. Toddles’s little game. He means to have
Charlie as stale as anything by Monday, and Archie’s liver wrong.
But I told Master Curate precisely what I thought about him, and gave
him the straight tip, too, that if he did manage to get the boys
crocked for Monday, he should have a pretty thick dose of Keating’s
vermin-killer in his soup, the little insect! Yes,” she concluded, with
grim determination, “if I never get to bed at all, I’ll see that there
are no more larks like this to-night. In my opinion, Dimmy, all men are
blackguards!”
“Oh, my dear Grace!” I cried, with a face of agony.
“No, old chap, I didn’t mean quite that,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I
hope I’ve not hurt you.”
Her penitence was charming.
Now I could see that she was much distressed in mind in regard to
the behaviour of her wayward charges. She was longing for a little
sympathy. What a golden opportunity! How the Fates were playing into my
hands!
“My dear Grace,” said I, “you are much too good to these ungrateful
beggars.”
“They are not ungrateful, and they are not beggars,” said their sister;
“they’re awful good sorts, every one of ’em, and don’t you dare to say
they’re not, Dimmy, or you and I’ll quarrel. It’s Toddles who’s so bad.”
“Toddles is a little pig,” said I, feeling the repulse was terrible,
and yet striving to retreat in good order.
“Oh no, he’s not,” said Miss Grace; “that’s just where you’re wrong.
Toddles is a dear little chap. I just love Toddles. It’s only his fun.”
“Just a girl all over!” I cried, my patience ending in the masculine
manner with a snap; “just a girl. Say one thing and mean another;
contradict themselves ten times in as many ticks, and then blame us for
failing to understand ’em.”
“Don’t you get excited, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace; “but get on with your
work. Just check those Brighton figures, will you? There, you’ve gone
and got Billy Murdoch down forty-seven instead o’ forty-three; and
you’ve missed Georgie Brann out altogether.”
“I call that cool,” said I, “seeing that you copied ’em out yourself.”
“Well, didn’t I tell you to check ’em?” said she. “Now look here,
Dimmy, either drop your rotting, and buckle to, or just clear out and
leave me on my own.”
“I _will_ be good,” said I meekly.
But really my position was ludicrous. I had been with her twenty
minutes already, yet my high purpose had not been even broached. I had
missed several chances. I felt my brazenness to be subsiding. If I
didn’t make a start at once, I should get into a funk, and smirch the
name of Little Clumpton and become the common mock of Hickory. Yet how
could I begin? Any little bravado I might have had at the start was
already slain by the sense of the egregious errors I had committed. The
only course open was to fall back on my nationality. Was it not lucky
that I prided myself on my Anglo-Saxon fibre and directness? Let me say
what I meant exactly. Hard slogging, and not the goose game, as became
a Briton, don’t you know.
“Now then, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace, “the Bristol figures are not on the
ceiling; they’re on the table. Just call ’em out while I dot ’em down.
Go on.”
“Grace, senior,” I read, “not out, one hundred and sixty-eight. Oh, and
that reminds me, Grace, that I’ve got something serious to say.”
“Of course,” said she; “but you look what you’re doing, or I shall have
something serious to say as well.”
“Grace,” said I, standing up, “I’ve got something extremely serious to
say.”
That young person put her pencil down so gently that the restraint she
used was noticeable. The light in her eye made me quiver.
“Grace,” said I, and came to a sudden stop. Yes, sitting down was
decidedly better. It didn’t seem so formal, and your legs didn’t feel
so wobbly. I sat down accordingly. “Grace,” said I once more; and then
my throat went wrong, and I had to pause and cough.
“Yes,” said Grace meekly, “I s’pose my name’s Grace. Go on, Dimmy;
it’s ever so interesting. But if it’s a joke, Dimmy, it’s not at all
obvious. Just read those Bristol figures out, there’s a good chap.”
I picked up the telegram again, and called out solemnly,--
“R. C. Dimsdale, bowled Grace, none.”
Miss Grace’s steady gaze went through me, then came back and went
through me again.
“Look here, Dimmy,” she said, with a deliberation that was both
incisive and well weighed, “I’m not going to be ragged like this by you
or anybody else. Give me that wire, and now you just cut. When I _want_
to be bored, I read _Punch_.”
It was evident by the rigidity of her countenance that she saw not the
remotest connection between what I had said and the terribly great
matter that was overbalancing my mind.
“I must explain,” said I doggedly.
“I don’t think you will,” said she gravely; “that thing with a handle
to it, Dimmy, is called a door. If you open it, you will see the way
out the other side.”
“Thanks so much,” said I; “but then, you see, I’m not going. I’ve got
so much to say, Grace, that really----”
“My dear Dimmy,” she interrupted, “if you would only tell me where
it hurts you, I might give you a pick-me-up or something to set you
straight.”
“It is in your power,” said I.
“That’s all right,” said Grace cheerfully; “now let’s have it. If it’s
a cold, it’s compo; if it’s sleeplessness, it’s potassium bromide; if
it’s nerves, it’s rest; if it’s a strain, it’s Elliman.”
“It’s a strain,” said I.
“Good old strain!” said Grace. “Thought it must be a strain.”
“Of the heart!” said I.
“Next, please,” said Grace. “Whoever heard of a chap straining his
heart? Why, Charlie, who lams ’em down like anything, has never
strained his heart.”
“He has not my delicate organization, you see,” said I. “He’s as strong
as a bullock, and just about as susceptible. I, my dear Grace, am much
more delicately constituted. In fact, my dear Grace, in fact----”
Emotion drowned, however, what was to have been a nicely rounded period.
Miss Grace sighed, set down her pencil for the second time, propped her
chin on her hands, and said with almost tearful resignation, “What
_are_ you saying, Dimmy?”
I rose to my feet, for, after all, that was the better way, as in a
sitting posture one was unable to obtain the fierce energy that this
miserable business undoubtedly demanded. Therefore, springing to my
feet, I said,--
“I mean just this, Grace. You’ve gone and bowled me neck and heels.”
“Why, you said just now,” said she, “that you had strained your heart.”
“Yes,” said I, eagerly but crudely, “my heart’s strained as well. And
you’ve gone and clean bowled me. Now put two and two together, Grace.
Surely you must see what I mean.”
“No, I’ll go to Klondyke if I do,” said Grace, in despair. “Your heart
strained--clean bowled. No, I’ll go to Klondyke if I do! Is it a
riddle?”
“A riddle,” said I, much hurt. “Oh, my dear Grace, if you only knew how
serious I am! I’ll own that I’m not expressing myself very clearly.
Hang it! a fellow’s not used to this sort o’ thing. I know I’m a
blithering ass, you know. Oh, Grace, dash it all! you must see what I
mean!”
“Blithering ass!” murmured Grace, as if to herself. “You _are_ getting
a bit more enlightening, Dimmy.”
“No, no,” I said hastily; “you’re on the wrong tack. That’s not what I
want you to see. You know! you know!”
“Dimmy,” said Grace, with her marvellous blue eyes getting wider, “I
shall be downright annoyed with you in a minute. You say I know when I
don’t know; and when I do know, you say that I don’t know. If this is a
rag, Dimmy, it’s very wicked of you, ’cause my time’s occupied. These
jolly averages’ll never get done to-night. Do be a good boy and go.
There, I’ve put the Old Man down wrong! Dimmy, I shall be most horribly
angry in a minute.”
“Oh, drop this bally cricket!” I cried. “Do try to think of serious
things a little, Grace; do try to think of what _I’m_ saying. I do wish
you’d attend to what a fellow’s saying, and help him out a bit.”
“I’d help you out with great pleasure, Dimmy, very great pleasure,
I can assure you, Dimmy,” she said, “if I’d only got a boot like
Charlie’s.”
“Oh, Grace!” I cried, “how obtuse you are!”
“That’s it, call me names,” said she.
Here a dreadfully painful silence came. It was only disturbed by the
aggressive behaviour of my heart and the scratching of Miss Grace’s
pencil. Never in my life had I felt such an unmitigated ruffian, and
certainly never a more uncompromising idiot. Doesn’t it seem absurd,
considering the amount of totally unnecessary things one learns at
school--Latin, Greek, and so forth--that the gentlemen of England are
utterly untrained in one of the most complex and delicate sciences that
ever has to be practised by the human male? Oh, for a few of the most
rudimentary hints as to how to conduct a proposal! Lord! what _is_ a
fellow to do when the object of his passion is busily occupied with the
preparation of cricket averages, and not paying the least attention to
his distraught manner, or the gentle hints conveyed in his conversation?
There was the wretched Grace, apparently overjoyed at this lull in
the proceedings, jotting down figures with a haste that can only be
described as feverish, tossing telegrams about and looking really
dangerous to talk to. Very encouraging state of affairs, considering
that the sum total of my eloquence was spent already. But the Briton in
me, after a two minutes’ interval, set doggedly to work once more.
“Grace,” I re-opened, “I’m not a county man an’ all that, you know. I’m
not a Stoddy or a Ranjy, you know. Not a W. G., you know. I’m not a
Toddles or an Archie, you know. You know that, Grace, don’t you?”
“Oh, rats!” said Grace, figuring away more feverishly than ever.
“Ah, but it’s not rats,” said I. “It’s not rats at all. It’s far too
serious for rats, I can assure you, Grace. It’s something _very_
serious, Grace.”
“That’s all right,” said Grace, with supreme indifference; and then,
biting her pencil and puckering up her brow, she said: “How many times
does fourteen go into ninety-seven? Quick!”
“I’m not a ready-reckoner,” said I indignantly.
“You are a jolly rotter, Dimmy, that’s what you are,” said Grace
urbanely.
“Thanks,” said I; “how nice!” Then, having felt the spur a bit, I took
a headlong plunge almost before I knew what I was about. “Grace,” said
I, “will you be my wife?”
“I’ll be your anything,” said Grace, without looking up, and continuing
her pencilling, “if you’ll just have the goodness to clear out and pull
the door to gently. O-oh, I say! The Old Man’s average is forty-three
now. He’s gone up nine places. He’s in front of Ranjy.”
I beat my boots on the carpet incontinently. If this was the usual
style of a girl when a man pays her the highest compliment within his
power, God help all of us, say I.
“Grace,” said I weakly, “I hope you’re listening.”
“Hullo!” said Grace, searching frantically among her mass of
telegrams, “they haven’t sent the Taunton yet. And where’s the jolly
old Oval got to? It’s always late. They’re dreadfully slack to-night,
though. Half a mind to write to Lord Salisbury about it.”
“Grace,” said I, more weakly than before, “I don’t believe you _are_
listening. I--I--I’m asking you to be my--my wife.”
I beg to be excused the poverty of my diction, but really if I had not
spoken in the most unsophisticated fashion, I was rapidly getting into
such a state of nerves that I do not think I should have spoken ever.
“Grace,” I said again, as she had paid no heed, and this time thumping
on the table with my hand, that her polite attention might be attracted
somehow. “My wife--you--my wife--I want you to be my wife--see!”
“Thanks awf’ly,” said Grace. “Awf’ly good--marvellously good. Dimmy,
what a clever chap you are! Just let me set John Dixon straight, and
then I’ll laugh. Positive I’ll laugh.”
“Hang John Dixon!”
“We shall do nothing of the kind,” said Grace. “He’s one o’ the best,
is Johnny.”
“Grace,” I said abjectly, “I--I’m proposing to you--want you to be my
wife, you know. Most awf’ly obliged if you will, you know.”
“All right, Dimmy; half a mo’. I’m certain that I’ll laugh. Thirteen
from thirty leaves sixteen, don’t it?”
Her pencil continued in its scratching at a most outrageous rate.
“Pononner,” I repeated, “if you’ll have me, Grace, pononner I shall be
most awf’ly, beastly obliged, don’t you know!”
It was dreadfully hard luck that at this moment, just when I had lashed
myself into a perfervid and poetic heat, and a note of true passion had
accordingly come into my tone, that the library door was seen to come
open suddenly, if stealthily, and a magnificent being appeared, bearing
a salver with more telegrams thereon.
“What, three!” cried Grace excitedly. “One’s from the Oval, the other’s
Taunton; but what’s the third? Only expecting two. How funny! Yet
they’re all addressed ‘Trentham, Hickory’ right enough. Did he say what
made him so late, Augustus? Was he _very_ drunk?”
“Hextrahordinary hintoxicated, Miss,” said Augustus, retiring with a
sniff.
How cruel were the Fates! Here was I just playing myself in, getting
nicely set, as it were, and beginning to feel at home, when the arrival
of these beastly telegrams simply banished me and my remarks from
Grace’s mind. And this was the more annoying since I had spent fifty
minutes in battering her into listening to what I had to say.
“Surrey 401 for 6,” Grace was saying, as she tore out the contents
of the first. “Warwickshire’s getting beans, as usual. Hooray! Bobby
Abel, run out, 17. That’s a scotch in his wheel! It’ll drop him three
places. Brockwell, 109. Tom Hayward, 82. Jephson, 54. Key, not out, 100
exactly. Good of you, Kingsmill! Awf’ly pleased! Do you heaps of good!”
I was biting my lips in the meantime and saying, “My dear Grace,” at
intervals, in so thin a voice that it went entirely unheeded. The
unhappy thing was my conscientiousness. For I felt that I should not
be justified in calling my pitiful efforts a veritable proposal, since
Grace had persisted in regarding them as nothing more consequent than
a feeble joke in rather questionable taste. But, cost what it might, I
was going to see the matter through, having once embarked upon it.
“Hampshire, 203 all out,” Grace continued. “Somerset, 115 for 5.
Wicket must be fiery; yet it shouldn’t be. Wonder if they’ve watered
it? Something’s up. Shouldn’t get out like that ’gainst that sort o’
bowling. Wynyard, 70. Oh, and Vernon Hill 42, not out. Tyler, 6 wickets
for 90. They’ve been watering the wicket, that’s what they’ve been
doing. And now for the third. Hanged if I can tell where it’s from. All
the cricket’s come. I’ll open it, though, as my name’s Trentham.”
“It might be for somebody else, as there’s one or two other people
called Trentham in addition to yourself,” said I, trying to introduce a
word by hook or by crook, and being also in that perverted condition of
mind when a man longs to say something with a bit of a sting in it.
“Really!” said she. “How clever of you to have thought of that, Dimmy!
But as ‘Trentham, Hickory’s’ me as much as anybody else, here goes!”
Now as the contents of this telegram had so dire an effect on the
industrious Miss Grace, and the results of it were so far-reaching, I
think it only right that it should have a chapter all to itself.