The Compleat Bachelor

  XI

  QUEEN OF LOVE AND BEAUTY

  From what I was able to gather, the course of young Ted Carmichael'slove was highly meritorious in its constancy. His affection was a solid,reliable fact, and, to me, correspondingly uninteresting. His father, Iremembered, had, years before, wooed little Alice Chatterton on much thesame lines, between which two it had been what their friends called an"understood thing," since the first bashful glances of adolescence. Inboth cases this trait was regarded as a highly commendable faithfulness,and invested with the usual attributes of true and undying love; but tome it had less of this positive quality than appeared, and argued rathera certain paucity of invention in the finer relations of amorousadventure. It was admirable, but the case was settled from thebeginning, and offered little field for speculation, even its incidentaltiffs and mischances being in their rise and end perfectly accountable.In the case of the son, his three terms at Eton, coming when they did,might have resulted in a break from this monotonous routine of laudablelove; his father had been hopeless from the start.

  But Miss Nellie Bassishaw bade fair for freer flights. During theoccasional intervals of my seeing her she seemed to grow in sections andto develop in seasons, and now, emancipated from the last suggestion ofgoverness, was gowned and coifed beyond the limit of girlhood. True, herneck still showed a whitish celery colour from the unhabitual exposure,and in the management of her feet and skirt the last trace of the tomboywas disappearing; but she displayed beneath an eminently suitable hatglances that promised in the near future a hundred roguishnesses andmischiefs. If anything could shake Ted's devotion, Miss Nellie, Idecided, had it.

  Young Ted called on me one afternoon for no reason at all that I coulddiscover during the first half-hour of his visit. He was clad_point-devise_, bore his gloves and cane with admirable instinct, andlooked as fresh and trim a youth as ever received the half-motherly kissof a widow. I greeted him with pleasure.

  "And the match, Ted?" I asked, when he had sat down; "how do youfeel?"--Ted was the youngest member of the Eton eleven, which was tomeet Harrow in the annual match at Lord's in a day or two.

  A troubled look crossed his face.

  "I don't feel a bit up to it, Butterfield," he replied. "I shall go andmess the confounded thing, I know I shall. A fellow who's playingcricket shouldn't have anything on his mind--that is----"

  He paused, and flushed half angrily.

  "Anything wrong?" I asked in an offhand tone.

  "No," he replied--an affirmative "no,"--"nothing that matters."

  "Only?" I prompted.

  "Only this," he answered with another flush, "that women oughtn't tohave anything to do with cricket."

  "From my experience," I returned, "they are invariably proud to seetheir sons playing."

  "Sons!" he replied. "Oh, it isn't that--I know my mother is all right.But it doesn't matter--much," he concluded, in a tone that was _not_intended as a hint to let the matter drop.

  "Ah, I see," I replied sympathetically. "Sorry, Ted. Of course, thatdoes make a difference. When you said 'women,' I thought for a momentyou----Yes, it's very awkward. To know that in such a crowd two eyes areaching with anxiety that you should acquit yourself well must beextremely trying to the nerves. I should try to forget it."

  He fidgeted with his gloves, and then turned sharp round.

  "And suppose they were not anxious?" he retorted. "Suppose they didn'tcare whether you came off or not? Hang it, Butterfield," he continued,"you can imagine what it's like--they think because a fellow hasn't amoustache--it's enough to make a fellow go and drink rotten stuff. Ishan't stand it."

  It was Nellie. I got it all out of him. He had evidently come to tellme. The rude health of public school life had not knocked the fancy outof him, and he had come back to find her grown up and with a tendency tobe interested in men ten years her senior. How he had managed to getinto the first eleven and to remain in love was to me one of themysteries of constancy.

  "But I thought you would have forgotten almost, Ted," I said, in thematurity of our confidence. "It's a year since you went away."

  "A fellow never forgets," he replied sulkily. "It's the girls whoforget. Could you?"

  I passed the point, and speculated on the validity of pledges oneternity.

  "And she has--pardon me--snubbed you?" I inquired, after a while.

  "Well, no," he rejoined dubiously, "it isn't quite that; but she alwaysseems to have engagements or something. She must always 'be going now,'and she's altered so. I told her so, and she said we were silly then;and if I muff this match it will be worse than ever."

  I couldn't help thinking that if I had organised the female mind Ishould have done it more consistently; but then there would probablyhave been no comedy in the world. I was willing to help Ted all I could,and advised a spontaneous gaiety in her presence--Ted shook his head--orfailing that, a desperate counter-movement with a married woman; anotion he also rejected.

  The only suggestion Ted had to make was that I should go to the match,contrive to sit next to Miss Nell, and--what, he didn't say; a delicatereserve I admired.

  "You're a good chap, you know, Butterfield," he added. "I've told lotsof our fellows what a good chap you are. Harrop major says so too--hemet you once, you know, Butterfield."

  I fear I had forgotten Harrop major in the multiplicity of my affairs,but I was properly touched. I smiled at my own goodness.

  "Well, thanks awfully, Butterfield"--he rose to go--"it's awfully goodof you really. You're a brick."

  "Thanks, Ted," I returned. "I hope you'll come off all right in thematch."

  His lips twitched queerly; I forbore to press the alternativecontingency, and he took his leave.

  My duty, apparently, was to keep an eye on Miss Nell, to diagnose hercondition when Ted went in to bat, to mark how, as should befall, hissuccess or failure was received, and to exercise a discretionarysupervision over the state of her heart as revealed by the vicissitudesof the game. It was doubtful of what precise use I should be, but--itwas interesting, and Ted was a pleasant-mannered youth.

  It was peculiarly interesting in view of the fact that the Carmichaelswere a cricketing family. Now the purely abstract part of the game was acult to which I had never aspired, my only interest being in suchpersonal cases as that of my young friend Ted. I was convinced that theprogress of Carmichael senior's love, if it had had a progress, wasaccelerated by the fact that he had, in _his_ Eton match, made fifty ona wet wicket; and the question whether a similar performance on theson's part would please Nellie, or whether Nellie would be merelypleased to see Ted pleased with himself, was a speculation which Ifollowed into the nicer nuances.

  Our party accounted for a considerable segment of bench space, the apexof which, I contrived it, consisted of Miss Nell and myself. We werebacked by tiers of Carmichaels, Chattertons, and Bassishaws, andpenetrated wedge-wise into half a division of Eton younglings, withclose-cropped hair and large ears, which looked frank admiration atNellie. One keeper of the public manners with freckles and an evengreater extent of white collar than the rest cuffed his neighbour forsaying that she was stunning. Nellie heard and laughed. She satprovokingly upright, and shot enfilading glances to left and rightbeneath the brim of a hat remarkably adapted to such proceedings. Apretty, slim thing she was, and the careless white flash between herlips unsettled Ted considerably, who was paying uneasy flying visits.

  "I think the Harrow boys _look_ nicer," she said, with a look of illicitpleasure from the shade of that eminently suitable hat; and Ted leftwith ill-feigned unconcern. I remembered my mission, and leaned towardsher.

  "Nellie," I said, "do you consider that an encouraging remark to a youngman whose happiness depends on his playing a straight bat and keepinghis head cool?"

  "Oh, Ted's all right," she returned with, I was pleased to observe, atouch of shame; "besides, what does it matter? It's only a game."

  She might have had her answer from the
group of Eton juvenilitysurrounding us, which broke into excited babble.

  "Yes, you can." "No, you can't." "You can't be caught off your pads. Fatlot you know about cricket." "Silly ass." And so forth.

  "But, Mr. Butterfield," she said after a moment, "he will be sounbearable if he makes a lot of runs. He's important enough already atbeing in the eleven."

  She stooped and spoke to young Eton on her right, who blushed at thedistinction, but answered with bashful coldness.

  "Besides," she continued, "they say his average is thirty, and I'm sureI don't care who wins."

  Luckily this treasonable utterance was unheard by the Eton boys, withwhom sentiment and cricket hung in highly disproportionate balance. Iwas satisfied, at least, that if it came to the worst she would be sorryfor Ted.

  Now, Eton batted first, and there was little talk in our stronglyprejudiced quarter. Ted Carmichael, I gathered from my neighbours, wasto go in "third wicket down." He had made a last visit--this time from adifferent entrance--but had avoided Nell, sitting next to Bassishawinstead, who had not tried to talk to him. Then he had disappeared.

  * * * * *

  I knew in my soul what was going to happen. Ted's nervousness at hisfirst match, and the condescending interest of Miss Nellie Bassishaw,could only have one result; and I was so busy speculating on themysteries of this dread fatality that hems us so remorselessly about,that I forgot the scene for a moment, and was startled back by thejuvenile clamour. The inevitable had happened.

  "Oh!" "Oh, I say!" "What a trimmer!" "Just on the bails!" "First ball!""--broke from the off!" "It didn't--it was a straight ball." "Four forfifty-three."

  Ted was out, for a duck.

  I glanced at the slender white figure trailing a fruitless bat towardsthe pavilion, and adjusted the knees of my trousers. I commentedmentally on the pattern, and waited.

  She did not speak, but absently pulled off a glove. The Carmichaelsbehind slowly resumed their talk, and the Eton boys, after marking theirscoring cards, took up the current of the game. True liberals, with themthe issue transcended the individual.

  Still she did not speak, but folded and unfolded the gloves. I glancedup, and that eminently becoming hat did not seem the same, soinseparably had it been connected with the lurking ambuscade of eyes.Miss Nell was visibly shaken.

  I leaned towards her.

  "It's only a game, Nellie----" I began. She interrupted me with a look.

  "Please don't be mean, Mr. Butterfield. I know what you think--you thinkit's all my fault."

  I was silent for Ted's sake, and she continued slowly:

  "I don't see why men should think so much of cricket. It makes themso----"

  "So unbearable when they come off," I replied. "But he must have beenvery nervous, Nellie, whether or no. You couldn't help that. Yourencouragement would probably have disturbed him just as much as your--asnot. That is the double influence of woman on the man of action--neitherher smiles nor her frowns help him in the least. Her approval ispleasant when it's all over, but I'm afraid the presence of the Queen ofLove and Beauty has unhorsed many a gallant youth before to-day. Hemakes the mistake in----"

  "In having anything to do with them?" she queried with pretty cynicism.

  I leaned back.

  "No. In being a man of action," I returned.

  There was a sudden turn and hush among the Eton boys. Ted reappeared,and they were awed in the presence of a great grief. He sat down next tome with the hard look of one who asks no sympathy, folded his hands, andstared at his shoes. The Eton boys whispered.

  "And they play me for my batting," he said, so softly that I scarcelyheard. "I'm a bat--a bat. I'm here to make runs."

  The Weltschmerz had sunk into his soul. I was about to say something,but checked myself as Nellie bent forward.

  "Ted," she said, "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

  I folded my arms, looking before me. Ted did not move an inch.

  "I was horrid," she continued, "and I pretended----"

  She stopped, conscious of the significance of what she was about to say.She had pretended to be unconscious of her empire over his heart, andwas now retracting. Miss Nellie is the modern girl, with whom proposalis unnecessary.

  Ted cut her short with the brutality of male desperation.

  "All right, Nellie," he said curtly. "It's not your fault. I drankbrandy."

  This was a surprise to me. Brandy steadies the nerves, but it is aremedy not recommended by the captains of cricket elevens, and hisboyish devilry, as training, was as reprehensible as it was in thespirit of the comedy. But Nellie saw further than Ted.

  "Oh, Ted," she said humbly, "and that is my fault too. I made you angry.Will you forgive me?"

  It has always seemed to me that when a pretty, half-tearful creatureasks you if you will forgive her, the question is beside the mark, theforgiveness not depending on whether you will or not. You are notwilling; you would much rather not; but--you do precisely as Ted did; hesqueezed her ungloved hand across my knee, and an Eton boy sniggered.

  I don't know why I should have experienced a sensation as near akin tojealousy as I can locate it. I pursued the moral labyrinth for a time,and, getting no nearer, was fain to come to earth.

  "And the next innings, Ted----" Nellie was saying.

  Alas! What then? What, in Ted's words, had women, even Queens of Loveand Beauty, to do with cricket? More subtle in their influence than theforbidden brandy, why do not the captains demand that their followersshall be bachelors unattached? Ted was too blessedly happy to know;certainly too happy to be let alone. I spoke for his own good.

  "The next innings," I remarked, "will exemplify the second stage of thefemale relation to the man of action."

  I don't think either of them took the trouble to understand.