The card, p.22
The Card, page 22
She saw the skis at her doorstep. She heard the sleigh-bells, but the sleigh had already vanished into the dusk.
‘Well, that was a bit of a lark, that was, Countess!’ said Denry to Nellie. ‘That will be something to talk about. We’d better drive home through Corsier, and quick too! It’ll be quite dark soon.’
‘Supposing he’s dead!’ Nellie breathed, aghast, reining in the horse.
‘Not he!’ said Denry. ‘I saw him beginning to sit up.’
‘But how will he get home?’
‘It looks a very nice farmhouse,’ said Denry. ‘I should think he’d be sorry to leave it.’
VI
When Denry entered the dining-room of the Beau-Site, which had been cleared for the ball, his costume drew attention not so much by its splendour or ingenuity as by its peculiarity. He wore a short Chinese-shaped jacket, which his wife had made out of blue linen, and a flat Chinese hat to match, which they had constructed together on a basis of cardboard. But his thighs were enclosed in a pair of absurdly ample riding-breeches of an impressive check and cut to a comic exaggeration of the English pattern. He had bought the cloth for these at the tailor’s in Montreux. Below them were very tight leggings, also English. In reply to a question as to what or whom he supposed himself to represent, he replied:
‘A Captain of Chinese cavalry, of course.’
And he put an eyeglass into his left eye and stared.
Now it had been understood that Nellie was to appear as Lady Jane Grey. But she appeared as Little Red Riding-Hood, wearing over her frock the forgotten cloak of the Countess Ruhl.
Instantly he saw her, Denry hurried towards her, with a movement of the legs and a flourish of the eyeglass in his left hand which powerfully suggested a figure familiar to every member of the company. There was laughter. People saw that the idea was immensely funny and clever, and the laughter ran about like fire. At the same time some persons were not quite sure whether Denry had not lapsed a little from the finest taste in this caricature. And all of them were secretly afraid that the uncomfortable might happen when Captain Deverax arrived.
However, Captain Deverax did not arrive. The party from the Métropole came with the news that he had not been seen at the hotel for dinner; it was assumed that he had been to Montreux and missed the funicular back.
‘Our two stars simultaneously eclipsed!’ said Denry, as the Clutterbucks (representing all the history of England) stared at him curiously.
‘Why?’ exclaimed the Clutterbuck cousin, ‘who’s the other?’
‘The Countess,’ said Denry. ‘She went this afternoon – three o’clock.’
And all the Métropole party fell into grief.
‘It’s a world of coincidences,’ said Denry, with emphasis.
‘You don’t mean to insinuate,’ said Mrs Clutterbuck, with a nervous laugh, ‘that Captain Deverax has – er – gone after the Countess?’
‘Oh no!’ said Denry, with unction. ‘Such a thought never entered my head.’
‘I think you’re a very strange man, Mr Machin,’ retorted Mrs Clutterbuck, hostile and not a bit reassured. ‘May one ask what that costume is supposed to be?’
‘A Captain of Chinese cavalry,’ said Denry, lifting his eyeglass.
Nevertheless, the dance was a remarkable success, and little by little even the sternest adherents of the absent Captain Deverax deigned to be amused by Denry’s Chinese gestures. Also, Denry led the cotillon, and was thereafter greatly applauded by the Beau-Site. The visitors agreed among themselves that, considering that his name was not Deverax, Denry acquitted himself honourably. Later he went to the bureau, and, returning, whispered to his wife:
‘It’s all right. He’s come back safe.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve just telephoned to ask.’
Denry’s subsequent humour was wildly gay. And for some reason which nobody could comprehend, he put a sling round his left arm. His efforts to insert the eyeglass into his left eye with his right hand were insistently ludicrous and became a sure source of laughter for all beholders. When the Métropole party were getting into their sleighs to go home – it had ceased snowing – Denry was still trying to insert his eyeglass into his left eye with his right hand, to the universal joy.
VII
But the joy of the night was feeble in comparison with the violent joy of the next morning. Denry was wandering, apparently aimless, between the finish of the tobogganing track and the portals of the Métropole. The snowfall had repaired the defects of the worn track, but it needed to be flattened down by use, and a number of conscientious ‘lugeurs’ were flattening it by frequent descents, which grew faster at each repetition. Other holiday-makers were idling about in the sunshine. A page-boy of the Métropole departed in the direction of the Beau-Site with a note.
At length – the hour was nearing eleven – Captain Deverax, languid, put his head out of the Métropole and sniffed the air. Finding the air sufferable, he came forth on to the steps. His left arm was in a sling. He was wearing the new knickerbockers which he had ordered at Montreux, and which were of precisely the same vast check as had ornamented Denry’s legs on the previous night.
‘Hullo!’ said Denry, sympathetically. ‘What’s this?’
The Captain needed sympathy.
‘Ski-ing yesterday afternoon,’ said he, with a little laugh. ‘Hasn’t the Countess told any of you?’
‘No,’ said Denry, ‘not a word.’
The Captain seemed to pause a moment.
‘Yes,’ said he. ‘A trifling accident. I was ski-ing with the Countess. That is, I was ski-ing and she was in her sleigh.’
‘Then this is why you didn’t turn up at the dance?’
‘Yes,’ said the Captain.
‘Well,’ said Denry, ‘I hope it’s not serious. I can tell you one thing, the cotillon was a most fearful frost without you.’ The Captain seemed grateful.
They strolled together towards the track.
The first group of people that caught sight of the Captain with his checked legs and his arm in a sling began to smile. Observing this smile, and fancying himself deceived, the Captain attempted to put his eyeglass into his left eye with his right hand, and regularly failed. His efforts towards this feat changed the smiles to enormous laughter.
‘I dare say it’s awfully funny,’ said he. ‘But what can a fellow do with one arm in a sling?’
The laughter was merely intensified. And the group, growing as luge after luge arrived at the end of the track, seemed to give itself up to mirth, to the exclusion of even a proper curiosity about the nature of the Captain’s damage. Each fresh attempt to put the eyeglass to his eye was coal on the crackling fire. The Clutterbucks alone seemed glum.
‘What on earth is the joke?’ Denry asked primly. ‘Captain Deverax came to grief late yesterday afternoon, ski-ing with the Countess Ruhl. That’s why he didn’t turn up last night. By the way, where was it, Captain?’
‘On the mountain, near Attalens,’ Deverax answered gloomily. ‘Happily there was a farmhouse near – it was almost dark.’
‘With the Countess?’ demanded a young impulsive schoolgirl.
‘You did say the Countess, didn’t you?’ Denry asked.
‘Why, certainly,’ said the Captain, testily.
‘Well,’ said the schoolgirl with the nonchalant thoughtless cruelty of youth, ‘considering that we all saw the Countess off in the funicular at three o’clock, I don’t see how you could have been ski-ing with her when it was nearly dark.’ And the child turned up the hill with her luge, leaving her elders to unknot the situation.
‘Oh, yes!’ said Denry. ‘I forgot to tell you that the Countess left yesterday after lunch.’
At the same moment the page-boy, reappearing, touched his cap and placed a note in the Captain’s only free hand.
‘Couldn’t deliver it, sir. The Comtesse left early yesterday afternoon.’
Convicted of imaginary adventure with noble ladies, the Captain made his retreat, muttering, back to the hotel. At lunch Denry related the exact circumstances to a delighted table, and the exact circumstances soon reached the Clutterbuck faction at the Métropole. On the following day the Clutterbuck faction and Captain Deverax (now fully enlightened) left Mont Pridoux for some paradise unknown. If murderous thoughts could kill, Denry would have lain dead. But he survived to go with about half the Beau-Site guests to the funicular station to wish the Clutterbucks a pleasant journey. The Captain might have challenged him to a duel, but a haughty and icy ceremoniousness was deemed the best treatment for Denry. ‘Never show a wound’ must have been the Captain’s motto.
The Beau-Site had scored effectively. And, now that its rival had lost eleven clients by one single train, it beat the Métropole even in vulgar numbers.
Denry had an embryo of a conscience somewhere, and Nellie’s was fully developed.
‘Well,’ said Denry, in reply to Nellie’s conscience, ‘it serves him right for making me look a fool over that Geneva business. And besides, I can’t stand uppishness, and I won’t. I’m from the Five Towns, I am.’
Upon which singular utterance the incident closed.
12
The Supreme Honour
I
Denry was not as regular in his goings and comings as the generality of business men in the Five Towns; no doubt because he was not by nature a business man at all, but an adventurous spirit who happened to be in a business which was much too good to leave. He was continually, as they say there, ‘up to something’ that caused changes in daily habits. Moreover, the Universal Thrift Club (Limited) was so automatic and self-winding that Denry ran no risks in leaving it often to the care of his highly drilled staff. Still, he did usually come home to his tea about six o’clock of an evening, like the rest, and like the rest, he brought with him a copy of the Signal to glance at during tea.
One afternoon in July he arrived thus upon his waiting wife at Machin House, Bleakridge. And she could see that an idea was fermenting in his head. Nellie understood him. One of the most delightful and reassuring things about his married life was Nellie’s instinctive comprehension of him. His mother understood him profoundly. But she understood him in a manner sardonic, slightly malicious and even hostile, whereas Nellie understood him with her absurd love. According to his mother’s attitude, Denry was guilty till he had proved himself innocent. According to Nellie’s, he was always right and always clever in what he did, until he himself said that he had been wrong and stupid – and not always then. Nevertheless, his mother was just as ridiculously proud of him as Nellie was; but she would have perished on the scaffold rather than admit that Denry differed in any detail from the common run of sons. Mrs Machin had departed from Machin House without waiting to be asked. It was characteristic of her that she had returned to Brougham Street and rented there an out-of-date cottage without a single one of the labour-saving contrivances that distinguished the residence which her son had originally built for her.
It was still delicious for Denry to sit down to tea in the dining-room, that miracle of conveniences, opposite the smile of his wife, which told him (a) that he was wonderful, (b) that she was enchanted to be alive, and (c) that he had deserved her particular caressing attentions and would receive them. On the afternoon in July the smile told him (d) that he was possessed by one of his ideas.
‘Extraordinary how she tumbles to things!’ he reflected.
Nellie’s new fox-terrier had come in from the garden through the French window, and eaten part of a muffin, and Denry had eaten a muffin and a half, before Nellie, straightening herself proudly and putting her shoulders back (a gesture of hers) thought fit to murmur:
‘Well, anything thrilling happened today?’
Denry opened the green sheet and read:
‘“Sudden death of Alderman Bloor in London.” What price that?’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Nellie. ‘How shocked father will be! They were always rather friendly. By the way, I had a letter from mother this morning. It appears as if Toronto was a sort of paradise. But you can see the old thing prefers Bursley. Father’s had a boil on his neck, just at the edge of his collar. He says it’s because he’s too well. What did Mr Bloor die of?’
‘He was in the fashion,’ said Denry.
‘How?’
‘Appendicitis, of course. Operation – domino! All over in three days.’
‘Poor man!’ Nellie murmured, trying to feel sad for a change and not succeeding. ‘And he was to have been mayor in November, wasn’t he? How disappointing for him.’
‘I expect he’s got something else to think about,’ said Denry.
After a pause Nellie asked suddenly:
‘Who’ll be mayor – now?’
‘Well,’ said Denry, ‘his Worship Councillor Barlow, J.P., will be extremely cross if he isn’t.’
‘How horrid!’ said Nellie, frankly. ‘And he’s got nobody at all to be mayoress.’
‘Mrs Prettyman would be mayoress,’ said Denry. ‘When there’s no wife or daughter, it’s always a sister if there is one.’
‘But can you imagine Mrs Prettyman as mayoress? Why, they say she scrubs her own doorstep – after dark. They ought to make you mayor.’
‘Do you fancy yourself as mayoress?’ he inquired.
‘I should be better than Mrs Prettyman, anyhow.’
‘I believe you’d make an A1 mayoress,’ said Denry.
‘I should be frightfully nervous,’ she confidentially admitted.
‘I doubt it,’ said he.
The fact was, that since her return to Bursley from the honeymoon, Nellie was an altered woman. She had acquired, as it were in a day, to an astonishing extent, what in the Five Towns is called ‘a nerve’.
‘I should like to try it,’ said she.
‘One day you’ll have to try it, whether you want to or not.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Don’t know. Might be next year but one. Old Barlow’s pretty certain to be chosen for next November. It’s looked on as his turn next. I know there’s been a good bit of talk about me for the year after Barlow. Of course, Bloor’s death will advance everything by a year. But even if I come next after Barlow it’ll be too late.’
‘Too late? Too late for what?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Denry. ‘I wanted to be the youngest mayor that Bursley’s ever had. It was only a kind of notion I had a long time ago. I’d given it up, because I knew there was no chance unless I came before Bloor, which of course I couldn’t do. Now he’s dead. If I could upset old Barlow’s apple-cart I should just be the youngest mayor by the skin of my teeth. Huskinson, the mayor in 1884, was aged thirty-four and six months. I’ve looked it all up this afternoon.’
‘How lovely if you could be the youngest mayor!’
‘Yes. I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel as though I didn’t want to be mayor at all if I can’t be the youngest mayor … you know.’
She knew.
‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘do upset Mr Barlow’s apple-cart. He’s a horrid old thing. Should I be the youngest mayoress?’
‘Not by chalks,’ said he. ‘Huskinson’s sister was only sixteen.’
‘But that’s only playing at being mayoress!’ Nellie protested. ‘Anyhow, I do think you might be youngest mayor. Who settles it?’
‘The Council, of course.’
‘Nobody likes Councillor Barlow.’
‘He’ll be still less liked when he’s wound up the Bursley Football Club.’
‘Well, urge him on to wind it up, then. But I don’t see what football has got to do with being mayor.’
She endeavoured to look like a serious politician.
‘You are nothing but a cuckoo,’ Denry pleasantly informed her. ‘Football has got to do with everything. And it’s been a disastrous mistake in my career that I’ve never taken any interest in football. Old Barlow wants no urging on to wind up the Football Club. He’s absolutely set on it. He’s lost too much over it. If I could stop him from winding it up I might …’
‘What?’
‘I dunno.’
She perceived that his idea was yet vague.
II
Not very many days afterwards the walls of Bursley called attention, by small blue and red posters (blue and red being the historic colours of the Bursley Football Club), to a public meeting, which was to be held in the Town Hall, under the presidency of the Mayor, to consider what steps could be taken to secure the future of the Bursley Football Club.
There were two ‘great’ football clubs in the Five Towns – Knype, one of the oldest clubs in England, and Bursley. Both were in the League, though Knype was in the first division while Bursley was only in the second. Both were, in fact, limited companies, engaged as much in the pursuit of dividends as in the practice of the one ancient and glorious sport which appeals to the reason and the heart of England. (Neither ever paid a dividend.) Both employed professionals, who, by a strange chance, were nearly all born in Scotland; and both also employed trainers who, before an important match, took the teams off to a hydropathic establishment far, far distant from any public-house. (This was called ‘training’.) Now, whereas the Knype Club was struggling along fairly well, the Bursley Club had come to the end of its resources. The great football public had practically deserted it. The explanation, of course, was that Bursley had been losing too many matches. The great football public had no use for anything but victories. It would treat its players like gods – so long as they won. But when they happened to lose, the great football public simply sulked. It did not kick a man that was down; it merely ignored him, well knowing that the man could not get up without help. It cared nothing whatever for fidelity, municipal patriotism, fair play, the chances of war, or dividends on capital. If it could see victories it would pay sixpence, but it would not pay sixpence to assist at defeats.
