Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (128 page)

With Jack Herring, in particular, Johnny was beginning to lose patience. That “Miss Bulstrode’s” charms had evidently struck Jack Herring all of a heap, as the saying is, had in the beginning amused Master Johnny. Indeed — as in the seclusion of his bedchamber over the little grocer’s shop he told himself with bitter self-reproach — he had undoubtedly encouraged the man. From admiration Jack had rapidly passed to infatuation, from infatuation to apparent imbecility. Had Johnny’s mind been less intent upon his own troubles, he might have been suspicious. As it was, and after all that had happened, nothing now could astonish Johnny. “Thank Heaven,” murmured Johnny, as he blew out the light, “this Mrs. Postwhistle appears to be a reliable woman.”

Now, about the same time that Johnny’s head was falling thus upon his pillow, the Autolycus Club sat discussing plans for their next day’s entertainment.

“I think,” said Jack Herring, “the Crystal Palace in the morning when it’s nice and quiet.”

“To be followed by Greenwich Hospital in the afternoon,” suggested Somerville.

“Winding up with the Moore and Burgess Minstrels in the evening,” thought Porson.

“Hardly the place for the young person,” feared Jack Herring. “Some of the jokes—”

“Mr. Brandram gives a reading of
Julius Cæsar
at St. George’s Hall,” the Wee Laddie informed them for their guidance.

“Hallo!” said Alexander the Poet, entering at the moment. “What are you all talking about?”

“We were discussing where to take Miss Bulstrode to-morrow evening,” informed him Jack Herring.

“Miss Bulstrode,” repeated the Poet in a tone of some surprise. “Do you mean Johnny Bulstrode’s sister?”

“That’s the lady,” answered Jack. “But how do you come to know about her? Thought you were in Yorkshire.”

“Came up yesterday,” explained the Poet. “Travelled up with her.”

“Travelled up with her?”

“From Matlock Bath. What’s the matter with you all?” demanded the Poet. “You all of you look—”

“Sit down,” said the Briefless one to the Poet. “Let’s talk this matter over quietly.”

Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down.

“You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?”

“Sure!” retorted the Poet. “Why, I’ve known her ever since she was a baby.”

“About what time did you reach London?”

“Three-thirty.”

“And what became of her? Where did she say she was going?”

“I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and was — I say, what’s the matter with Herring?”

Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between his hands.

“Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of about — how old?”

“Eighteen — no, nineteen last birthday.”

“A tall, handsome sort of girl?”

“Yes. I say, has anything happened to her?”

“Nothing has happened to her,” assured him Somerville. “
She’s
all right. Been having rather a good time, on the whole.”

The Poet was relieved to hear it.

“I asked her an hour ago,” said Jack Herring, who was still holding his head between his hands as if to make sure it was there, “if she thought she could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construed into an offer of marriage?”

The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practically speaking, it was a proposal.

“I don’t see it,” argued Jack Herring. “It was merely in the nature of a remark.”

The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a gentleman.

It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, care of Mrs. Postwhistle.

“But what I don’t understand—” said Alexander the Poet.

“Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone,” moaned Jack Herring. “How can I think with all this chatter going on?”

“But why did Bennett—” whispered Porson.

“Where is Bennett?” demanded half a dozen fierce voices.

Harry Bennett had not been seen all day.

Jack’s letter was delivered to “Miss Bulstrode” the next morning at breakfast-time. Having perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested of Mrs. Postwhistle the loan of half a crown.

“Mr. Herring’s particular instructions were,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “that, above all things, I was not to lend you any money.”

“When you have read that,” replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her the letter, “perhaps you will agree with me that Herring is — an ass.”

Mrs. Postwhistle read the letter and produced the half-crown.

“Better get a shave with part of it,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “That is, if you are going to play the fool much longer.”

“Miss Bulstrode” opened his eyes. Mrs. Postwhistle went on with her breakfast.

“Don’t tell them,” said Johnny; “not just for a little while, at all events.”

“Nothing to do with me,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to her aunt in Kensington, was surprised at receiving, enclosed in an envelope, the following hastily scrawled note: —

“Want to speak to you at once —
alone
. Don’t yell when you see me. It’s all right. Can explain in two ticks. — Your loving brother, Johnny.”

It took longer than two ticks; but at last the Babe came to an end of it.

“When you have done laughing,” said the Babe.

“But you look so ridiculous,” said his sister.

“
They
didn’t think so,” retorted the Babe. “I took them in all right. Guess you’ve never had as much attention, all in one day.”

“Are you sure you took them in?” queried his sister.

“If you will come to the Club at eight o’clock this evening,” said the Babe, “I’ll prove it to you. Perhaps I’ll take you on to a theatre afterwards — if you’re good.”

The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes before eight and encountered an atmosphere of restraint.

“Thought you were lost,” remarked Somerville coldly.

“Called away suddenly — very important business,” explained the Babe. “Awfully much obliged to all you fellows for all you have been doing for my sister. She’s just been telling me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said two or three.

“Awfully good of you, I’m sure,” persisted the Babe. “Don’t know what she would have done without you.”

A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing modesty of the Autolycus Club at hearing of their own good deeds was touching. Left to themselves, they would have talked of quite other things. As a matter of fact, they tried to.

“Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as she does of you, Jack,” said the Babe, turning to Jack Herring.

“Of course, you know, dear boy,” explained Jack Herring, “anything I could do for a sister of yours—”

“I know, dear boy,” replied the Babe; “I always felt it.”

“Say no more about it,” urged Jack Herring.

“She couldn’t quite make out that letter of yours this morning,” continued the Babe, ignoring Jack’s request. “She’s afraid you think her ungrateful.”

“It seemed to me, on reflection,” explained Jack Herring, “that on one or two little matters she may have misunderstood me. As I wrote her, there are days when I don’t seem altogether to quite know what I’m doing.”

“Rather awkward,” thought the Babe.

“It is,” agreed Jack Herring. “Yesterday was one of them.”

“She tells me you were most kind to her,” the Babe reassured him. “She thought at first it was a little uncivil, your refusing to lend her any money. But as I put it to her—”

“It was silly of me,” interrupted Jack. “I see that now. I went round this morning meaning to make it all right. But she was gone, and Mrs. Postwhistle seemed to think I had better leave things as they were. I blame myself exceedingly.”

“My dear boy, don’t blame yourself for anything. You acted nobly,” the Babe told him. “She’s coming here to call for me this evening on purpose to thank you.”

“I’d rather not,” said Jack Herring.

“Nonsense,” said the Babe.

“You must excuse me,” insisted Jack Herring. “I don’t mean it rudely, but really I’d rather not see her.”

“But here she is,” said the Babe, taking at that moment the card from old Goslin’s hand. “She will think it so strange.”

“I’d really rather not,” repeated poor Jack.

“It seems discourteous,” suggested Somerville.

“You go,” suggested Jack.

“She doesn’t want to see me,” explained Somerville.

“Yes she does,” corrected him the Babe.

“I’d forgotten, she wants to see you both.”

“If I go,” said Jack, “I shall tell her the plain truth.”

“Do you know,” said Somerville, “I’m thinking that will be the shortest way.”

Miss Bulstrode was seated in the hall. Jack Herring and Somerville both thought her present quieter style of dress suited her much better.

“Here he is,” announced the Babe, in triumph. “Here’s Jack Herring and here’s Somerville. Do you know, I could hardly persuade them to come out and see you. Dear old Jack, he always was so shy.”

Miss Bulstrode rose. She said she could never thank them sufficiently for all their goodness to her. Miss Bulstrode seemed quite overcome. Her voice trembled with emotion.

“Before we go further, Miss Bulstrode,” said Jack Herring, “it will be best to tell you that all along we thought you were your brother, dressed up as a girl.”

“Oh!” said the Babe, “so that’s the explanation, is it? If I had only known—” Then the Babe stopped, and wished he hadn’t spoken.

Somerville seized him by the shoulders and, with a sudden jerk, stood him beside his sister under the gas-jet.

“You little brute!” said Somerville. “It was you all along.” And the Babe, seeing the game was up, and glad that the joke had not been entirely on one side, confessed.

Jack Herring and Somerville the Briefless went that night with Johnny and his sister to the theatre — and on other nights. Miss Bulstrode thought Jack Herring very nice, and told her brother so. But she thought Somerville the Briefless even nicer, and later, under cross-examination, when Somerville was no longer briefless, told Somerville so himself.

But that has nothing to do with this particular story, the end of which is that Miss Bulstrode kept the appointment made for Monday afternoon between “Miss Montgomery” and Mr. Jowett, and secured thereby the Marble Soap advertisement for the back page of
Good Humour
for six months, at twenty-five pounds a week.

STORY THE SEVENTH — Dick Danvers presents his Petition

William Clodd, mopping his brow, laid down the screwdriver, and stepping back, regarded the result of his labours with evident satisfaction.

“It looks like a bookcase,” said William Clodd. “You might sit in the room for half an hour and never know it wasn’t a bookcase.”

What William Clodd had accomplished was this: he had had prepared, after his own design, what appeared to be four shelves laden with works suggestive of thought and erudition. As a matter of fact, it was not a bookcase, but merely a flat board, the books merely the backs of volumes that had long since found their way into the paper-mill. This artful deception William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in the corner of the editorial office of
Good Humour
. Half a dozen real volumes piled upon the top of the piano completed the illusion. As William Clodd had proudly remarked, a casual visitor might easily have been deceived.

“If you had to sit in the room while she was practising mixed scales, you’d be quickly undeceived,” said the editor of
Good Humour
, one Peter Hope. He spoke bitterly.

“You are not always in,” explained Clodd. “There must be hours when she is here alone, with nothing else to do. Besides, you will get used to it after a while.”

“You, I notice, don’t try to get used to it,” snarled Peter Hope. “You always go out the moment she commences.”

“A friend of mine,” continued William Clodd, “worked in an office over a piano-shop for seven years, and when the shop closed, it nearly ruined his business; couldn’t settle down to work for want of it.”

“Why doesn’t he come here?” asked Peter Hope. “The floor above is vacant.”

“Can’t,” explained William Clodd. “He’s dead.”

“I can quite believe it,” commented Peter Hope.

“It was a shop where people came and practised, paying sixpence an hour, and he had got to like it — said it made a cheerful background to his thoughts. Wonderful what you can get accustomed to.”

“What’s the good of it?” demanded Peter Hope.

“What’s the good of it!” retorted William Clodd indignantly. “Every girl ought to know how to play the piano. A nice thing if when her lover asks her to play something to him—”

“I wonder you don’t start a matrimonial agency,” sneered Peter Hope. “Love and marriage — you think of nothing else.”

“When you are bringing up a young girl—” argued Clodd.

“But you’re not,” interrupted Peter; “that’s just what I’m trying to get out of your head. It is I who am bringing her up. And between ourselves, I wish you wouldn’t interfere so much.”

“You are not fit to bring up a girl.”

“I’ve brought her up for seven years without your help. She’s my adopted daughter, not yours. I do wish people would learn to mind their own business.”

“You’ve done very well—”

“Thank you,” said Peter Hope sarcastically. “It’s very kind of you. Perhaps when you’ve time, you’ll write me out a testimonial.”

“ — up till now,” concluded the imperturbable Clodd. “A girl of eighteen wants to know something else besides mathematics and the classics. You don’t understand them.”

“I do understand them,” asserted Peter Hope. “What do you know about them? You’re not a father.”

“You’ve done your best,” admitted William Clodd in a tone of patronage that irritated Peter greatly; “but you’re a dreamer; you don’t know the world. The time is coming when the girl will have to think of a husband.”

“There’s no need for her to think of a husband, not for years,” retorted Peter Hope. “And even when she does, is strumming on the piano going to help her?”