The Woman with One Hand (and) Mr. Ely's Engagement Part 12

MR. ELY'S ENGAGEMENT

CHAPTER I

THE FIRST WOOER

Number Two, Draper's Gardens, the office of Mr. John Ash, dealer in stocks and shares. Time, noon. Mr. Ash, with his hat pushed on to the back of his head, seated at a table studying a letter.

"Whatever women find to write about beats me. A man puts a volume inside two lines. A woman puts two lines inside a volume."

Mr. Ash rustled the letter irritably in his hands. It was a voluminous production, written by a feminine pen, crossed and recrossed in a way which, in these days of cheap paper and cheap postage, none but a feminine pen would dream of.

"However a man is supposed to read it is more than I can tell. I can just make out the opening: 'My dearest guardian,'--yes, dear at any price! And the signature--where is it? I know I saw it somewhere. Yes, of course, there it is--straggling across the date and the address: 'Your affectionate ward, Lily Truscott'!"

He laid the letter down, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, leaned back in his chair, and began to whistle softly beneath his breath.

"I wish I could get some one to marry her--a decent sort of man.

Though, upon my word, if this sort of thing is to go on"--he glanced at the letter with a look of mild despair--"I sha'n't mind who it is.

She knows I hate letters--that's why she keeps on writing them. If two men can't know each other without one of them dying and leaving the other with his daughter on his hands, no wonder a man likes to keep his circle of acquaintance small. And when the girl's got looks and money, G.o.d help the man who's got to stay and mind her! Well, here goes. I suppose I'll have to answer it, or she'll be writing again to-morrow to know if I am ill."

Taking up the letter he regarded it with a look of ineffable disgust.

"What she says I don't know. Rather than decipher these hieroglyphics I'd lose a hundred pounds. Anyhow, here goes to make the best of it."

Drawing towards him a sheet of paper and a pen he began to nibble the end of the pen.

"What the d.i.c.kens shall I say? How can a man answer a letter when he doesn't know what is in it!"

He began to write, indulging in a sort or commentary by the way.

"MY DEAR LILY,--I have read your charming letter with the greatest interest. (I have! I have!) You are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art. (I hope she won't imagine that's writ sarkastick. Now, what shall I say?) The account which you give of the doings of your neighbourhood (I hope that's safe--it ought to be, women always do talk about that kind of thing) is most entertaining. (Most!) It is with the greatest pleasure that I hear of your continuance in good health. (I wonder if she says anything about her being ill?) I am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, Mrs. Clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature's greatest blessing. (I wonder if she mentions the old girl's name!) Pray convey to her my compliments. (Old fool! Now for something to wind up with.) I envy you your peaceful sojourn amidst summer's scenic splendours. (Not so bad! 'summer's scenic splendours.') Tied as I am to the Juggernaut of commerce, I can, however, but look and long.

(I wouldn't live in a place like that for thirty thousand a year.)

"Your affectionate guardian,

"JOHN ASH."

"I think that'll do. It will, at any rate, prevent her writing again to-morrow to know if I am ill."

While he was examining, with a certain satisfaction, this example of polite correspondence, a voice was heard inquiring for him in the office without: "Mr. Ash in?"

When Mr. Ash heard the voice, an acidulated expression appeared upon his countenance.

"Ely! What does the fool want here? It's not so very long ago since I very nearly had to hurt his head."

"All right; you needn't trouble him. I'll show myself in."

The owner of the voice did show himself in. He was a dapper little man, with fair hair and a little fair moustache, the ends of which were arranged with the utmost nicety, and a pair of rather washed-out blue eyes, which could, however, look keen enough when they pleased.

He was what might be described as a bandbox sort of man. Beautiful grey trousers fitted over exquisite patent shoes. A spotless white waistcoat relieved an irreproachable black coat. His necktie was arranged in an absolutely perfect little bow. His hat gleamed as though it had just that moment left the manufacturer's hands. He carried a metal pencil-case, and one of those long, thin note-books which gentlemen of the Stock Exchange use to enter their bargains in.

A diamond ring sparkled on the little finger of his left hand, and in the b.u.t.ton-hole of his coat, backed by a sprig of maiden-hair, was a sweet blush-rose.

This beautiful little gentleman seemed to be satisfied with himself and all the world.

"Surprised to see me, I daresay."

His rather metallic voice did not altogether accord with the radiancy of his appearance. One expected flute-like notes to come from him. His actual tones were sharp and shrill.

"I am; considering that last time I had the privilege of your conversation you were good enough to say I was a thief."

The dapper little man stood before the empty stove picking his beautiful white teeth with his metal pencil-case.

"Well, Ash, business is business, and no man likes to be robbed, you know."

"Is that what you have come to tell me? Because, if so, you can impart the information equally well while I am pitching you through the window."

The little man did not seem at all annoyed. He did not even seem amused. He appeared to be quite accustomed to that sort of speech. He seemed to take it for granted, at any rate.

"Well, no--quite the other way. Fact is, I'm looking for a wife."

"A what?"

"A wife."

"The deuce you are! And do you think I've a selection on view here?"

"Not a selection. You've got one."

"What the d.i.c.kens do you mean?"

"Come, Ash, you know. It's your ward, Miss Truscott."

Mr. Ash gave a loud whistle of surprise. Then he turned in his chair and stared at the dapper little man. The dapper little man went on, in the calmest, matter-of-fact sort of way--

"The fact is, I'm sick of chambers, and I'm sick of dining at the club. I want a house, and I don't care to take a house unless I take a wife. Why shouldn't it be Miss Truscott, Ash?"

He paused as if for a reply. But if he did, none came.

"There's another thing. You know Rosenbaum?"

Mr. Ash signified a.s.sent.