A Man's Man Part 22

and "Sporting Life," fully unfurled, together with two pairs of perpendicular boot-soles and a cloud of cigar-smoke, proclaimed the fact that the Army and the Church were taking their ease together,--"but I want you to remember all the time that she is _sound_. You'll be tempted to disbelieve that over and over again, but don't! She has been utterly spoiled by everybody, and you must give her time to find her level again. Left to herself, she would be as good as gold. I don't say she wouldn't do something rather _outre_ now and then from sheer animal spirits, but that doesn't count. She's young, of course, so she can't--she can't be expected to--you know what I mean?"

"Stand corn," remarked a voice from behind the "Sporting Life."

"Thank you, dear: that's just it. You see, Hughie, men egg her on,--they're all alike: Jack and Mr. D'Arcy are as bad as any,--and she gets excited and carried away, and occasionally she does something stupid and conspicuous. Five minutes later she is bitterly ashamed, and comes and cries her heart out to me. People know nothing about _that_, of course: all they do know is that she did the stupid thing, and they call her a forward little cat and a detestable imp. Don't you believe them, Hughie!

"Then you'll find her absurdly impulsive and generous: you could have the clothes off her back if you wanted them. The other day she came home in floods of tears because of a story which a beggar-woman with a baby had told her. It was the usual sort of story, but it was quite enough for Joey. She had carried the baby herself for about two miles, and given the mother all the money she had, and made her promise faithfully to come and see me next day. Of course the woman never turned up, and Joey's blouse had to be burned,--_oh_, that baby!--but that sort of thing doesn't alter her faith in human nature. And she stands the _great_ test, Hughie. She hasn't got one set of manners when men are about and another when they are not. But she's a kittle creature. You must be tender with her, and--"

"Run her on the snaffle, old man--what?" corroborated the "Sporting Life."

Hughie blew through his pipe meditatively.

"Seems to me, Mrs. Leroy," he said at length, "that I'm in for a pretty thick time. Do you think she's at all likely to take to my present methods, or must I learn some new tricks? Afraid I'm not much of a lady's man. Still, Joey and I used to be great friends, once. Won't that count for something?"

"I'm not sure," said Mrs. Leroy. "You know how the young loathe being thought young, or reminded of their youth? Joey is just in that frame of mind at present. Because you were a boy of twenty-one when she was a child of twelve, she may darkly suspect you of desiring to continue on the footing of those days. Don't do that, for mercy's sake! For all practical purposes you are much nearer to each other in age than you were--"

A chuckle reverberated through the peaceful verandah, and the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life" converged for a moment as if to share a confidence.

"Jack," inquired Mrs. Leroy sternly, "what were you saying to Mr. D'Arcy just now?"

"Nothin', dear," said a meek voice.

"Mr. D'Arcy, what was he saying to you?"

Mr. D'Arcy took in a reef in the "Spectator" and replied suavely,--

"He made use of a sporting expression, dear lady, with regard to your plans for our friend Marrable's future, which I was happily unable to understand."

"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in warning tones, "people who put their oar in uninvited get taken out for afternoon calls--in the brougham, with both windows up!"

The "Sporting Life" was promptly expanded to its full extent, and silence reigned again. Presently Mrs. Leroy observed cheerfully,--

"By the way, Hughie, you are home just in time for a dance--the Hunt Ball."

Hollow groans burst from behind the newspapers.

"Oh, look here!" said Hughie frankly. "I mean--not really?"

"Yes: I promised Nina Fludyer to back her up and bring a 'bus-load of people. Why don't you want to come?"

"Well, for one thing I have only danced twice since I went down from Cambridge. One time was at a Viceregal reception in Calcutta, and the other was in Montmartre--under less formal conditions. I'll tell you what--you and your house-party go to the ball and enjoy yourselves, and your husband and I will keep each other company here--eh?"

Captain Leroy put down his paper and said, "Good scheme!" in the loyal but mournful tones of one who realizes that it is a forlorn hope, but that one might as well have a shot for it. "In fact, dear," he continued desperately, "I was thinkin' of takin' Marrable out that very night to lie out for poachers. Old Gannet was tellin' me that the North Wood--that is--"

He observed his wife's withering eye, and became suddenly interested in the advertis.e.m.e.nts on the back page of his periodical.

"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in a tone of finality, "on Tuesday night you put on your best bib and tucker and come with us--that's flat."

"All right, m' dear," replied her husband in a voice which said to Hughie, "I was afraid it wouldn't work, old man!"

"And why don't _you_ want to come, Hughie?" continued Mrs. Leroy, suddenly turning on her guest.

"Well, I am not cut out for b.a.l.l.s," said Hughie. "Prefer the open air, somehow."

"If open air is all you want," remarked Mrs. Leroy grimly, "the Town Hall at Midfield is the draughtiest building in the county."

"b.a.l.l.s are dull affairs," urged the faithful but misguided Leroy, "compared with the excitement and--er--suspense--"

"If you want excitement and suspense," replied the inexorable Mrs.

Leroy, "dance the Lancers with Lady Fludyer--fifteen stone of imperfectly balanced _blanc-mange_!"

"And just a spice of risk--"

"Risk? My dear boy, try the Ball Committee's champagne!"

Captain Leroy, defeated at all points, once more subsided; but D'Arcy took up the argument.

"Joking apart, Mrs. Leroy," he said, "it's an awful thing to be a supernumerary man at a dance in the country. You crawl in at the tail of your party, and shake hands with the governess, under the impression that she is your hostess. You are introduced to a girl, and book a dance. You don't catch her name, so you write down 'Red hair and bird of paradise' on your programme, and leave her. Of course you know n.o.body; so, after booking a few more wallflowers, you still find a good deal of time at your disposal. You can always tell a male wallflower. Women can usually brazen it out: they put on an air which implies that they have refused countless offers, and are sitting on a hard bench because they like it."

"They can't deceive the other women, though," said Mrs. Leroy.

"Still," agreed Hughie, "they impose on men all right. But, as D'Arcy says, a male wallflower is hopeless. He looks miserable, and either mopes in a corner like a new boy at school, or else reads away at his programme and peers about for a partner who isn't on it."

"Why not try the smoking-room?"

"The smokin'-room," interpolated Leroy, "is all right for the regular Philistine. But if _I_ go there, I find it in possession of a bilious octogenarian and a retired major-general. They are sittin' in front of the fire with a cigar apiece. They glare at me when I come in, and then go on buckin' to each other. Presently they stop, and one says: 'I suppose you are not a dancin' man, sir,' in a way which implies that he doesn't know what the devil young men are comin' to nowadays. And by this time I'm so ashamed of myself that I simply bolt out of the room, with some yarn about a brief rest between two dances, and go and sit among the hats and coats in the cloak-room until it is time to go and hunt up the next freak on my programme. Rotten job, I call it!"

Mrs. Leroy surveyed the three orators with an air of serene amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I _have_ roused a storm," she said. "But you are coming on Tuesday--all three! Now, Hughie, I know Jack is dying to take you round the stables and plantations. When you have smacked all the horses' backs and taken the pheasants' temperatures, come in. I want to introduce you to my offspring. You are fond of children, I know."

"I know I shall be fond of yours, Mildred," said Hughie.

"Thank you--that's nicely put. But they really are rather pets, though I say it who shouldn't."

"Rum little beggars," mused the male parent. "Bite your head off if they see you havin' a sherry and bitters before dinner. Got a sort of religious maniac of a nurse," he explained. "Been saved, and all that.

Save _you_ for tuppence, Marrable!"

"She's a queer old thing," said Mrs. Leroy, "but such a good nurse that her weaknesses don't matter much. The children are never sick or sorry--wait till I tap wood! your head will do, Jack--and simply love her."

"I was pleased to learn from their own lips," remarked D'Arcy, "that they have been enthusiastic teetotalers from birth, and are both ardent supporters of Foreign Missions."

"And the baby?" inquired Hughie.

"Too young," replied Leroy; "but that doesn't excuse the poor little sinner from havin' to wear a blue ribbon."

"How does the nurse regard you, Leroy?" asked D'Arcy.

"Lost sheep--hard case--bad egg generally," replied that gentleman resignedly. "She's given me up, I'm glad to say; but she'll be on Hughie's track in no time. Come along."