It was, accordingly, with perfect calm that she said:
‘Oh, Jaklyn Warner, eh?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve seen him around.’
There was another pause.
‘Of course he didn’t know about this money of yours?’ said Daphne.
‘No.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘It came out as we were talking. He was saying how hard up we should be, and I thought it would comfort him to mention it.’
‘I’ll bet he was astounded.’
‘He did seem to be.’
‘And overjoyed?’
‘Not particularly. I don’t think he thinks much about money.’
‘No, pure spirit, that boy,’ said Daphne.
5
There was a pensive look on Daphne’s face as she sat in her bedroom after saying goodnight to Sally. Lightly though she had seemed to take the latter’s revelation, it had shaken her not a little. It is disturbing for a girl who has been regarding her engagement as a stable thing, to be terminated by marriage whenever she feels inclined, to find that there is imminent danger of her betrothed making a sudden dash for liberty. Where everything was placid and leisurely rapid action becomes necessary, and nobody likes being hurried.
She blamed herself for yielding to over-confidence where Jaklyn was concerned. She had assumed too readily that he would feel that a fiancée with a prosperous business and always good for a loan would be something to cling to, and though she had had a marriage licence among her effects for some time, she had always been too busy to use it. She did not often do a foolish thing, but she saw that she had done one when relying on Jaklyn to stay where she had put him.
But she was not the girl to waste time in idle regrets. Long before she had switched off the light and climbed into bed she had found a solution to her problem, and next morning Jaklyn, finishing a late breakfast, was surprised by a familiar whistle at his door. Having ascertained by peeping round the window curtain that she was not a bookmaker or a tailor, he opened the door.
Her car was there, and in it, he saw, was a mysterious stranger.
This was an individual who as far as thews and sinews went could have been the village blacksmith or his twin brother, but in the matter of looks fell short of the standards of the lowest beauty contest. His was a face that could never have launched anything like a thousand ships, and something— possibly an elephant—appeared to have sat on it and squashed it. No one broadminded will allow himself to be prejudiced against a fellow-man because the latter has a squashed face, but this squashed face had in addition a grim and menacing look, such as is so often seen on the faces of actors playing bit parts in gangster films, and—possibly inadvertently —he gave the impression that it would take very little to give him offence. He was carrying in his hand a bunch of roses.
‘I’ve come to take you for a ride, Jaklyn,’ said Daphne brightly. ‘You don’t get nearly enough fresh air.’
Jaklyn, who had been eyeing her fellow-traveller with some alarm, relaxed. He had no objection to going for a spin in her car. A very agreeable way of passing the morning, and she would be morally bound to stand him lunch, possibly at one of those excellent hotels at Brighton where they understood lunch.
‘That’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Who,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘is the fellow with the face?’
‘Cyril Pemberton, one of my operatives. He’s coming with us.’
‘Coming with us?’
‘Yes, he’s our witness. I meant to have told you before. We shall be stopping off at the registry office and getting married.’
‘Married!’
‘I’ve been so tied up at the office that I hadn’t time to get around to it before.’
‘But—’
‘Now don’t start arguing, dear,’ said Daphne. ‘Cyril has been looking forward so much to being a witness. He knows what prestige it will give him with the other operatives being chosen to be witness at the boss’s wedding. He specially bought those lovely roses. And he has a very violent temper. I mean I don’t know what he will do if you spoil his treat.’
Jaklyn did not spoil his treat.
Chapter Nine
It was Mr Trout’s healthy practice to take a brisk walk after lunch when the weather was fine. It tuned up his system and imparted a gentle glow. The day following his visit to Mr Llewellyn being adequately balmy, he set off down Park Lane and had reached the neighbourhood of Fountain Court when he observed approaching him the young man Pickering whose acquaintance he had made on the previous evening.
He greeted him with the utmost warmth, and so kindly and paternal was his manner that Joe, whose morale was at its lowest ebb, threw off perhaps five per cent of the gloom which was wrapping him as if in a garment and replied to his ‘Ah, Mr Pickering’ with an ‘Oh, hullo, Mr Trout’ which, though in many respects resembling a voice speaking from the tomb in a story by Edgar Allan Poe, was reasonably cordial.
‘A lovely afternoon,’ said Mr Trout. He felt no embarrassment at this encounter. Members of Bachelors Anonymous never felt embarrassment when meeting those in whose matrimonial plans they had interfered. To him Joe was just another out-patient who had come to him needing treatment, and this treatment he had given him. He experienced no more remorse at having introduced a Mickey Finn into his beverage than would a doctor who had prescribed for an invalid one of those medicines which nearly lift the top of the head off but effect a cure. ‘Glad to see that you are restored to health, Mr Pickering, ‘he said. ‘You had some sort of a fit or seizure yesterday. It alarmed me. It alarmed Mr Llewellyn. It alarmed both of us. And what are you doing in these parts?’
If Mr Trout had been a shade less kindly and paternal, Joe might have kept his private affairs to himself, but he was in the frame of mind when anyone really kind and paternal can extract confidences with the ease of a conjuror taking a rabbit or the flags of all nations out of a top hat. He told Mr Trout that he had been calling on a girl, and Mr Trout said ‘Oh?’ in a disapproving voice, as if he thought that that was no way for a young man to be employing his time when he might have been reading a good book. This talk of calling on girls, too, made him a little anxious. It seemed to suggest that his treatment of yesterday had not been as effective as he had supposed.
‘The young lady of whom you were speaking last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘I trust you found her well?’ said Mr Trout stiffly.
Joe gave a sharp yelp like that of some fiend in torment on whose sore toe another fiend in torment has trodden. The irony of the question had touched an exposed nerve.
‘I didn’t find her at all,’ he said. ‘She refused to see me.’
‘Indeed? Why was that?’
‘You remember I was to have taken her to dinner last night?’
‘Ah yes. You had your hair trimmed.’
‘And a shampoo and a manicure.’
‘And then you had this fit or seizure. I begin to see. She went to the restaurant of your selection, but you did not.’
‘Exactly. This must have given her a pretty low opinion of me, and I wanted to see her and explain. I went to the address she had given me, but they told me she had moved to Fountain Court or House or whatever the damned thing is called, so I’ve just been there.’
‘And she would not see you?’
‘No. She sent out word to that effect.’
‘Then you are well out of it, my boy,’ said Mr Trout, and went into his routine with the practised smoothness which years of membership in Bachelors Anonymous had given him. He never had to think and pick his words when holding forth on the drawbacks to marriage. The golden syllables came gushing out as if somebody had pressed a button. It was just the same with Fred Basset, Johnny Runcible, G. J. Flannery and all the other pillars of that benevolent group. As G. J. Flannery had once put it, they seemed to be inspired.
‘Yes, Pickering, you are well out of it,’ said Mr Trout. ‘You have had a most m
erciful escape. Have you ever considered what marriage means? I do not refer to the ghastly ordeal of the actual service, with its bishops and assistant clergy, its bridesmaids and the influx of all the relations you have been trying to avoid for years, but to what comes after. And when I say that, I am not thinking of the speech you would be compelled to make at the wedding breakfast. That and the service that preceded it are merely temporary agonies, and a strong man can fortify himself with the thought that they will soon be over. But what of the aftermath, when you find that you are linked for life with someone who comes down to breakfast, puts her hands over your eyes and says “Guess Who”? From what you were saying about the dimple on this girl’s left cheek I gather that she is not without physical allure, but can she drive a car? Somebody has got to drive the car and do the shopping while you are playing golf. Somebody has got to be able to fix a flat tyre. Letters, too. What guarantee have you that she will attend to the family correspondence, particularly the Christmas cards? Like so many young men,’ said Mr Trout, ‘you have allowed yourself to be ensnared by a pretty face, never asking yourself if the person you are hoping to marry is capable of making out your income tax return and can be relied on to shovel snow while you are curled up beside the fire with a novel of suspense. Yes,’ said Mr Trout, warming to his subject, ‘you are one of the lucky ones. If, as you say, she refuses to see or speak to you, you ought to be dancing sarabands and congratulating yourself on—’
‘My God!’ said Joe.
What had caused the ejaculation had been the passing of a cab in which was seated an extremely attractive girl with nice eyes and a dimple in her cheek—reading from right to left, Sally en route to Valley Fields to brighten the life of Miss Jane Priestley, her former Nanny. From London to Valley Fields was a journey of about six miles, and until today she had always made it by train from Victoria, but when a girl has twenty-five thousand pounds in or shortly to come into her bank account she can afford to be extravagant.
This explains the hired vehicle, and the fact that after travelling a short distance it was held up in a traffic jam explains why Joe, after standing congealed for a second or two, had time to leap into another hired vehicle which happened to be passing and shout into the driver’s ear those words familiar to all readers of the right sort of book:
‘Follow that car!’
The driver was a stout man with a walrus moustache, not that that matters, who when given instructions liked them to be quite clear, with no margin for error. He said:
‘What car?’
‘The one over there.’
‘Which one?’
‘The black one.’
‘It’s a cab.’
‘Well, follow it.’
This delay had given Mr Trout time to join Joe in the cab, which he had been glad to do. Eloquent though he had been, he had still much wisdom to impart, and he was determined that Joe should get the benefit of it. But first there was a question to be put.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
It was the first intimation Joe had received that he had a travelling companion. In his perturbed state of mind he had failed to notice that there was a human form seated beside him. The discovery gave him no pleasure, but he was a young man who in all circumstances was polite to his elders.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Mr Trout looked disapproving. He may even have clicked his tongue, but if this was the case the roar of London’s traffic made the sound inaudible.
‘Is it not a point,’ he said, ‘on which it would be well to come to a decision before starting on a journey?’
Joe saw that explanations would be necessary. He was not feeling as fond of Mr Trout as he had been some minutes earlier, before the latter had leaped uninvited into the seat at his side, but he supposed he was entitled to be taken into his confidence.
‘That girl I was telling you about,’ he replied. ‘She’s in that cab in front there.’
Mr Trout looked more disapproving than ever. He was thankful for the impulse which had made him join Joe.
‘And you propose to pursue her and insist on a conference?’
‘That’s the idea.’
Mr Trout was shocked and hurt. Though not a conceited man, he knew that he was recognised by his colleagues in Bachelors Anonymous as in a class by himself in the matter of marshalling arguments against marriage. Fred Basset had often said so. So had Johnny Runcible and G. J. Flannery. It was galling to him, therefore, to find that his recent eloquence had had so little effect. This incandescent young man was plainly still as incandescent as he had been before a word was spoken.
‘You were not impressed by my warning?’ he said, not attempting to conceal the coldness in his voice. ‘My efforts were wasted?’
‘Your what?’ said Joe.
‘I spoke at some length on the folly of plunging into matrimony.’
‘Oh, did you?’
‘I did.’
‘I’m sorry. I missed it.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was thinking of something else.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know how it is when you’re thinking of something else.’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Trout icily.
He was deeply offended. He was not accustomed to mixing with deaf adders. Even Otis Bewstridge, though in the end becoming violent, had listened. For an instant he almost decided to withdraw from his mission and allow Joe to rush into ruin in the manner popularised by the Gadarene swine. Serve the misguided young fellow right, he felt. Then the never-say-die spirit which animated all members of Bachelors Anonymous asserted itself. It was as though he could hear Fred Basset, Johnny Runcible and G. J. Flannery urging him to have one more try.
‘May I resume my remarks?’ he said. ‘I touched briefly on the more obvious objections to marriage, and later I will go into them again, but at the moment what I would like to stress is what I may call the family peril inseparable from the wedded state. Most girls have families, and why should the object of your devotion be an exception? I very much doubt that you have bestowed your affection on an orphan with no brothers or uncles. You speak enthusiastically of the dimple in her left cheek, but are you aware that statistics show that eighty-seven point six of girls with dimples also have brothers who are always out of a job and have to be supported? And if not brothers, uncles. In practically every home, if you examine closely, you will find an Uncle George or an Uncle Willie with a taste for whisky and a distaste for work, whose expenses the young husband is compelled to defray. In the vast majority of cases the man who allows himself to be entrapped into matrimony is not so much settling down with the girl he loves as founding a Haven of Rest for the unemployed.’
He paused for breath, and Joe spoke.
‘Now where on earth does she think she’s going? ‘he said, once more making it plain that he had not been following his companion’s observations with the attention they deserved.
In the course of the last twenty minutes they had passed through Clapham and Herne Hill and were entering a pleasantly wooded oasis, the Valley Fields to which Sally’s former Nanny had retired to spend the evening of her days. She lived with her three cats in a semi-detached house called The Laurels in Burbage Road, and when not entertaining Sally occupied herself by reading the Old Testament, from which she could quote freely, and thinking up ways of annoying her next-door neighbour. The latter’s dog Percy had fallen into the habit, as dogs will, of chasing her cats, and she resented this keenly. The result had been one of those regrettable feuds from which even earthly Paradises like Valley Fields are not exempt.
Sally’s cab was a fleeter vehicle than the one which chance had allotted to Joe, and despite the efforts of the driver with the walrus moustache she was inside The Laurels with the door closed behind her before Joe had entered the home stretch. Arriving, he leaped out, sped up the little front garden and rang the bell. The door opened, and Miss Priestley appeared.
If Joe had been in a less febrile frame of mind, he
might have quailed at the sight of her, for like so many English Nannies, engaged for their skill at enforcing discipline rather than any physical charm, the aspect she presented was formidable to a degree. Very tall, very thin, and very stony about the eyes, she bore a distinct resemblance to Lady Macbeth, with a suggestion of one of those sinister housekeepers who figured so largely in the Gothic type of novel popular in Victorian days.
Joe, though she reminded him of a long-ago Nanny who had frequently spanked him with the back of a hair-brush, faced her without a tremor. He was far too preoccupied to allow himself to be disturbed by old memories.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
Miss Priestley had no comment to make on this.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Would you mind if I came in for a moment?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s very urgent that I see the girl who arrived just now.’
His luck was not in. Sally’s former Nanny might have been a friendly soul who would have been delighted to do all that was in her power to help a young man who was plainly in love, but in Miss Jane Priestley he had found the precise opposite of this admirable type. Her leading characteristic was a profound distrust of all men. She suspected their motives and eyed them askance. When they came ringing front-door bells and asking to see girls, she knew what they were after. Her eyes, stony enough to start with, became stonier. She said:
‘What do you want with her? No good, I’ll be bound. I know your sort. You go about seeking whom you may devour. Preying on innocent girls. Going to tell her you’ll cover her with jewels. Repent ye,’ said Miss Priestley, becoming biblical, ‘for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. God shall smite thee, thou whited wall. Abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul.’
And so saying she went into the house, slamming the door behind her, and Joe tottered back to the cab.
Mr Trout was standing beside it, eager for details. He had been too far away to catch any of the dialogue, but he had interpreted without difficulty the general run of the scene he had just witnessed.