CHAPTER XII
THE PROCONSULAR TOUCH
IT had been a crowded and glorious week for the Green Chartreuse, but it was not until the Sabbath Day that it had really to embrace the crisis of its fate. Mary had not said “Yes,” and she had not said “No,” but she had seemed to imply that Grandmamma might prove obdurate. Then there was also that little obstacle in Grosvenor Square to negotiate. Yes, taking one fact with another, it was reasonably clear to the Twin Brethren that Sunday promised to be a rather important day in the calendar.
The heir to the barony did not go to church on the morning of the fateful day, although, perhaps, it would have been wise to have done so. He read The Referee instead, in order to collect a few ideas as to his general bearing in the convention after lunch in the library at No. 88.
The Governing Classes were decidedly FF. Not a day later than the third week in October, Warlock thought, otherwise it would play the dickens with his shooting.
“Egypt would be such a nice place in which to spend the honeymoon,” said Mother.
Little recked the Powers, however, of the Homeric struggle that was being waged within the precincts of the immaculate braided morning coat that sat so perfectly upon the manly form of Mr. Philip.
Do if you Dare, said the Twin Brethren.
Don’t be a Cur, said the Green Chartreuse.
And as no young man likes to be thought a Cur by a boon companion, the miserable yet half-exultant Philip gathered his forces for the conflict.
“There’s something, Father, I’d like to say,” said he, as he performed the superfluous action of tucking the end of his handkerchief still further up his shirt-sleeve.
Perfect frankness was invited.
“I would like to say,” said the young man, “that I don’t feel that I can marry Adela.”
The timepiece with the silver tones had the only speaking part for the space of ninety seconds. And then out spoke Mother.
“Phil-ipp!”
“Can’t—possibly—Mater.”
“Phil-ipp!”
And all this time the benevolent autocrat, who had put on his eyeglasses and taken them off again, and then put them on again, was trying to recapture the touch of a great Proconsul who had started out in life with a Balliol scholarship.
“Of course, my dear boy, you must decide.” The Proconsular eyelids conveyed delicately to the Suffolk Colthurst that, after all, the Suaviter in Modo cannot be surpassed in the hands of an acknowledged master. “But, as Warlock knows already, we shall be very happy to make Lady Adela welcome in the family.”
“Oh, yes, of course, but you see—”
Neither parent appeared to see, unfortunately. The poor Green Chartreuse grew desperate.
“So you see, I’ve kind of proposed to another girl.”
The Proconsul took off his eyeglasses and buttoned his coat; the Colthurst of Suffolk manipulated her third and fourth chins into a condition of majestically eloquent inarticulation. The silver timepiece alone was moved to make an observation, and that, of course, was quite irrelevant.
“Her name is Mary Caspar, and she is an absolute nailer,” said the heir to the barony.
“An actress, I believe,” said Mother, who, like every member of her family, had an almost uncanny memory for names.
“An absolute nailer,” said Mr. Philip.
Three weeks ago the young man had taken to Jaeger underclothing, but even that hardly seemed able to cope with the thermometer.
“It isn’t exactly definite. She seems to think there are things against it, but I’m going to talk it over this afternoon with her old grandmother.”
“Who, pray, is her grandmother?”
“Her name is Mrs. Cathcart, and she lives at 10 Bedford Gardens.”
“I will call upon her,” said Mother, somewhat ostentatiously, making a note of the address.
“Philip,” said the great Proconsul, “you must listen to me. I am afraid this is all very irregular. A man of your age, my dear boy, ought to know that in these days they give swingeing damages for breach. This must go no further, you understand; and the best thing we can hope for is, that the young woman’s grandmother is as sensible as we have a right to expect an old woman and a grandmother to be.”
“But I am goin’ to marry Mary if she’ll have me, father,” said Mr. Philip, all politeness and simplicity.
Fortiter in Re, as classical scholars do not require to be told, is the natural corollary of Suaviter in Modo. Spasmodic trumpetings were emitted freely by the great Proconsul. The Colthurst of Suffolk also had recourse to the clarion note. It was really a scene of great majesty and power, and it lasted until hard upon tea-time. The behavior of the heir was subversive of all there was left to subvert in the Cosmos, since the wicked Welsh Chancellor’s deadly missiles had knocked Mars and Jupiter and several other leading planets clean out of their orbits.
What would People say? said Mother.
Swingeing damages these days and rightly, re-affirmed the great Proconsul.
“She wasn’t that sort of girl at all,” said Philip the manful. He had had to make all the running. Father and Mother mustn’t misjudge her. And they must forgive him if he seemed to have lost his head a bit, but it was all for the best, he was sure. Never been able to hit it off with Adela; hadn’t any tastes in common. It would be better so.
“Don’t be absurd, Philip,” said Mother, upon G sharp.
Was it conceivable that the eldest son was without a sense of moral responsibility? blandly inquired the ex-Resident of Barataria North-West.
“I hope the grandmother of the person is a woman of the world,” said Mother. “I will call upon her without delay.”
And then the heir to the barony spoke like a very nice young chap. He sincerely hoped his excellent parents would not blame him more than they felt obliged. He had thought it all out in the watches of the night; it would be all for the best, she was such an absolute dear. He would be awfully pleased to trot her round for inspection; and was there really any reason why a man rising thirty, with a private income, should not marry the nicest girl in London?
“But, then,” said Mother, “dearest Adela is a girl in a thousand.”
“And please don’t forget,” said Father the Proconsul, “you are my successor.”
If only he could Abdicate! murmured the wretched Green Chartreuse.
Neither Father nor Mother heard it, fortunately.
And then in tones of solemn music, the silver-tongued timepiece chimed the hour of half-past four.
“By Jove,” said the heir to the barony, with a sigh of relief. “How awfully late!” And rising to his full height from Messrs. Maple’s choice upholstery, he dispensed a cloud of sweet and gentle and perfectly sincere apology.
He did not desire to bring a moment of pain to his excellent parents. He was sure it would be all for the best if only he could persuade her to have him—he had not persuaded her yet, worse luck! But, in spite of this charming urbanity, Mother took no leave of him; and Father had “a damned disinheriting countenance,” as he escaped through the door of the library.
A pretty mess you have made of things, you fool, snarled the Twin Brethren, as Joseph showed him over the door-mat and whistled up a taxi.