FullReads

II

CONGRATULATIONS

“Ye gods! I should think Lady Florence is feelin’ pretty furious. The fellow hasn’t a penny, and isn’t even an honourable. I thought all her daughters were to be princesses or duchesses or ranees or somethin’ imposin’.”

Archie Fielding, gossip-in-chief of the Junior Sherwood Club, beat a rousing tattoo on the table, and began to whistle Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”

“Wonder if he will want me to be best man,” he proceeded. “It’ll be the seventh time this season. Think I shall make a small charge for my services for the future. Not to poor old Cecil, though. He’s always hard-up. I wonder what they’ll live on. I’ll bet Miss Ernestine hasn’t been brought up on cheese and smoked herrings.”

“Which is Ernestine?” asked another member, generally known at the club as “that ass Bray.” “The little one, isn’t it; the one that laughs?”

“The cheeky one–yes,” said Archie. “I saw her ridin’ in the Park with Dinghra the other day. Awful brute, Dinghra, if he is a rajah’s son.”

“Shocking bounder!” said Bray. “But rich–a quality that covers a multitude of sins.”

“Especially in Lady Florence’s estimation,” remarked Archie. “She’s had designs on him ever since Easter. Ernestine is a nice little thing, you know, but somehow she hangs fire. A trifle over-independent, I suppose, and she has a sharp tongue, too–tells the truth a bit too often, don’t you know. I don’t get on with that sort of girl myself. But I’ll swear Dinghra is head over ears, the brute. I’d give twenty pounds to punch his evil mouth.”

“Yes, he’s pretty foul, certainly. But apparently she isn’t for him. I’m surprised that Cecil has taken the trouble to compete. He’s kept mighty quiet about it. I’ve met him hardly anywhere this season.”

“Oh, he’s a lazy animal! But he always does things on the quiet; it is his nature to. He’s the sort of chap that thinks for about twenty years, and then goes straight and does the one and only thing that no one else would dream of doin’. I rather fancy, for all his humdrum ways, he would be a difficult man to thwart. I’d give a good deal to know how he got over Lady Florence, though. He has precious little to recommend him as a son-in-law.”

At this point some one kicked him violently, and he looked up to see the subject of his harangue sauntering up the room.

“Are you talking about me?” he inquired, as he came. “Don’t let me interrupt, I beg. I know I’m an edifying topic, eh, Archibald?”

“Oh, don’t ask me to praise you to your face,” said Archie, quite unperturbed. “How are you, old chap? We are all gapin’ with amazement over this mornin’s news. Is it really true? Are we to congratulate?”

“Are you referring to my engagement?” asked the Poor Relation, pausing in the middle of the group. “Yes, of course it’s true. Do you mean to say you were such a pack of dunderheads you didn’t see it coming?”

“There wasn’t anything to see,” protested Archie. “You’ve been lyin’ low, you howlin’ hypocrite! I always said you were a dark horse.”

The Poor Relation smiled upon him tolerantly.

“Can’t you call me anything else interesting? It seems to have hurt your feelings rather, not being in the know. I can’t understand your not smelling a rat. Where are your wits, man?”

He tapped Archie’s head smartly with his knuckles, and passed on, the smile still wrinkling his pale eyes and the forehead above them from which the hair was steadily receding towards the top of his skull.

Certainly the gods had not been kind to him in the matter of personal beauty, but a certain charm he possessed, notwithstanding, which procured for him a well-grounded popularity.

“You’ll let me wish you luck, anyway, Rivington,” one man said.

“Rather!” echoed Archie. “I hope you’ll ask me to your weddin’.”

“All of you,” said the Poor Relation generously. “It’s going to be a mountainous affair, and Archie shall officiate as best man.”