CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH PHILIP RENEWS HIS YOUTH
WHEN Horace and Johnny resumed their walk along the King’s Parade, they felt at least two inches taller for having rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy. Everybody does, Sir, says Mr. Thackeray; and no one is a penny the worse for this national feeling, we venture to hope, provided it is not carried to excess. Certainly the girls of Brighthelmstone had a rare treat for the rest of the day, Johnny and Horace putting on wonderful “side,” and setting their hats at an angle warranted to kill at sight.
The Idol of the Profession ought never to have married a Toff. Still, they all did it if they had the chance, so you could hardly blame her. But the great thing was, she hadn’t changed at all. She was just the same honest pal as when she played at the Queen’s at Leeds. Her heart was still in the right place in spite of her elevation. It wasn’t always so, but it was in this case. She was one of the very best, and she had proved it that morning to five places of decimals recurring, by not being ashamed of old friends.
Thus you see, my lords and gentlemen, in spite of the fact that Horace and Johnny swaggered along the King’s Parade in a way that Eton and Oxford never do—do they?—and that you would hardly have cared to accept their invitation to cross the road and ’ave a drink at the good old Magnificent—at least, not when the wife was with you—they were really modest men at heart, as most men are if they ever attain to reasonable eminence in their particular walk of life.
“Fancy you marrying a Toff!” Horace Allwright had whispered to Mary over his beer.
“Why shouldn’t one, pray?” was the rejoinder of the future Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth.
“You are right—why not?” said Horace. “Because, after all, you are a Toff yourself.”
And in the middle of the King’s Parade the famous comedian reaffirmed the conviction.
“And he’s not a bad chap either, considerin’,” said Horace. “Damn good snooker, anyhow, and the best inside right that ever kicked a ball, except Steve Bloomer, and we’ll go and see him play to-morrow.”
“What do you think?” said Johnny Dubosque expansively, laying siege to a nursemaid—and a pretty one, too, in a very smart bonnet.
This is all quite trivial and doesn’t really help the narrative, but the point we wish to make is, that our friend Philip had not exactly wasted his morning, whatever may be the views of parents and guardians upon the subject. This idle, rich young man, instead of alienating sympathy for his class, had added two recruits to the chosen band of its friends and admirers. He had behaved very well in difficult circumstances, and he had now two more friends spread over the world than he had started out with in life. Consequently he had increased the public stock of human amenity, and we venture, therefore, to think that his morning had been very far from wasted.
Mary also had done very well, having brought Mr. Philip out of his shell a bit. Quite an eventful morning; nothing to what the following afternoon would be, though, when he had to play v Brighton and Hove Albion for the benefit of the widow and young family of the late Joe McPherson. After the match at snooker, Philip was borne off in triumph to Brighthelmstone’s leading sports emporium to find a white flannel shirt about his size and a pair of dark-blue knickerbockers, and a very smart pair of stockings, and some shin-guards, and, most important of all, a pair of boots that would fit him.
The morrow would be a great ordeal, particularly in a bran-new pair of boots, for a chap who had not kicked a ball for four years, but Mary was adamant, and the Olympians, too. A benefit match; a great draw for the public; do him all the good in the world.
“And we’ll have some special bills printed,” said Toddles with something suspiciously like a wink at the future Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth.
“Oh, no, for God’s sake!”
“You shouldn’t have given it away, Mr. Toddles,” expostulated Mary.
“You won’t half get a licking to-morrow,” said the shop boy with broad satisfaction as he tied up the parcel. “The Albion’s playing its full league team.”
“But the Olympians are playing the team that won the Arthur Dunn Cup,” said the future Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth, with something suspiciously like a wink at Toddles, “and if you’ve any sense, boy—and you ought to have lots with that high forehead—you won’t put your weekly sixpence on the Albion to-morrow.”
Great things were promised for the morrow, but Mary put in some more useful work that afternoon. About four o’clock she carried round Granny’s apparatus, together with the book of the words, to Pa at the Suffolk. She was received by His Britannic Majesty’s Ex-Ambassador to Persia; had the honor of drinking tea with him; discussed rheumatism in general; showed the working of the apparatus, and even demonstrated it, not without symptoms of success; and in less than half an hour had made such an incursion upon the regard of this widower of ripe experience, that he was fain to inform the seventh unmarried daughter over dinner, “that young Shelmerdine’s wife was a devilish sensible woman, and he hoped to see more of her.”
Tact; natural goodness of heart; a sunny temper, and a practical disposition; these be great qualities, you young ladies of Newnham and Girton. The widower of ripe experience was a mighty shrewd judge of your kind, although a severe one, because he had not chosen so wisely as he might have done in the First Instance; and in the Second Instance, had he chosen less wisely he might have been more comfortable; but he knew a good, sensible, sound-hearted young woman when he saw one, and he knew quite enough of her importance to the world not to undervalue her. Hence the “chorus girl” had already made a considerable incursion—and the pearl necklace and the simple black dinner-frock which had cost a hundred guineas, and the hair très bien coiffés were a little cooler to Pa than usual, and nibbled more salted almonds than was good for ’em.
The apparatus could do Pa no harm; Mr. Joseph O’Flatherty, his lordship’s valet, was strongly of that opinion, and said so to her ladyship’s maid, whose name was Adèle, but had been changed to Lisette for obvious reasons. Whether the apparatus actually brought material benefit to Pa, we are not in a position to state positively; but there can be no doubt that, indirectly, the apparatus had a tonic effect upon Pa’s general system.
The day of the match had now arrived, and that was such an important affair, being for the benefit of the widow and five young children of the late Joe McPherson, as honest a player as ever handled the ball when the referee wasn’t looking, that it will be necessary to supply some sort of an account of this historic function.
It was a crowded and glorious day for Mary and Philip; and it really started pretty soon after breakfast, when those famous men, namely and to wit, Toddles and W. W., rang the bell of Granny’s lodgings and were ushered into the front sitting-room on the first floor. At the moment of their arrival Mary was trying over on the piano, which had several of its notes intact, although none of them in tune, the latest manifestation of the genius of Mr. Rubens.
“Please, don’t let us interrupt you,” said W. W., laying a suspicious-looking brown paper parcel on the table.
Mary, however, took this for mere natural politeness.
“Oh, you’ve brought them, I see. Do let me look.”
Now what was it, do you suppose, that she wanted to look at? Wait, if you please, until W. W. has cut the string of the parcel with a pocketknife that was given him by his Aunt Marian, contrary to the advice of his parents, about the time he wore his H. M. S. Indomitable.
Five hundred handbills were in the parcel, printed by the Brighthelmstone Steam Printing Company, Ltd. Mary seized eagerly the one that was solemnly presented to her by W. W., while Toddles, more demonstrative than he, grinned effusively from ear to ear.
Mary read the following:
GRAND FOOTBALL MATCH FOR THE BENEFIT
OF THE WIDOW AND FIVE CHILDREN
OF THE LATE JOE McPHERSON.
The Olympians v Brighton and Hove Albion.
The Honorable Philip Shelmerdine has arrived in
Brighton, and will positively reappear at inside
right this afternoon at 3:15.
“I think that will about fix it, Mrs. Shel,” said W. W. proudly. “We’ll have these distributed all over the place; and we’ve got some bigger ones, too, to go on the hoardings.”
But Philip, who at that moment was taking his fox terrier for a short constitutional, had seen the hoardings already. Thus, when he came in about five minutes later, bloodshed nearly ensued. A feeble jest, undoubtedly, but one of the penalties of athletic greatness. And when Mary insisted upon distributing with her own gloved hands these handbills to every passer-by along the King’s Parade, they came within hail of their first quarrel. To be sure, the majority of the recipients thought they were Votes for Women, and didn’t look at them, and those who did look at them treated them as of no importance, so it really didn’t matter; but poor Philip was made quite miserable—that is, almost miserable, since it was no longer possible for him to achieve that condition—and felt that it was really too bad of her to pull his leg in that way, for he was quite sure that she was the authoress of the plot.
Perhaps it was. Still, the jest was very feeble and harmless, and only modesty in its most exaggerated form could have been wounded by it. Not a soul in Brighthelmstone took the announcement of the Honorable Philip Shelmerdine’s arrival and positive reappearance that afternoon at all seriously.
But stay! In our chivalrous desire to excuse the Heroine, perhaps this statement is a little too general. There was one person, and just one person only, in Brighthelmstone who treated the handbill as a thing of consequence.
Mary, distributing her handbills along the King’s Parade, assisted by her two companions in guilt and at least four other Olympians who had been specially coöpted for the purpose, while Philip, with his hands in his pockets, was trying to look supremely unconscious of the fact that his leg was being pulled frightfully, came upon a Bath Chair, a Sealskin Coat and a Himalayan Dust Spaniel.
“Are you feeling any benefit this morning, Lord Warlock? And please let me give you one of these. And you, Lady Adela, must take one, please. It is so important.”
“Thank yah,” said His Britannic Majesty’s Ex-Ambassador to Persia. “If it’s votes for women, I think they oughtn’t to have ’em, although, mind you—benefit for the widow and five children of the late Joe McPherson—very praiseworthy object—shall be happy to subscribe a sovereign.”
The Sealskin Coat, however, did not appear to look at the object in that Christian light. Having perused the handbill with an eye of cold disdain, Adela folded up the handbill neatly, and, without making any observation upon the merits of the case, placed it in her muff. But as soon as she returned to the Suffolk, she addressed an envelope to the Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth, 88 Grosvenor Square, London, W., and therein enclosed, anonymously, of course, the announcement of the Honorable Philip’s arrival and reappearance. A rather feeble thing to have done really, and hardly worthy of mention, except that it shows what human nature can achieve in a moment of reaction.
Philip was greeted effusively by the rest of his brothers in arms, who had now arrived at the Magnificent; and the Bride was introduced to them all. The report of her charms had been carried to them by Toddles and W. W., who were sealed of the tribe of her admirers already. And it had been agreed by the whole team that if she never did anything else, the fact that she had caused the finest inside right save one in the country to return to this important position after a lapse of four years, must ever count to her for grace.
Poor Philip was in a rather nervous state when he drove on to the ground in a brake with his ten companions and with Mary on the box-seat. That enterprising young woman had already elected herself to the important position of commander-in-chief of the famous team of amateurs, which contained no less than nine International players. But even this achievement was not exactly the fruit of self-assertion. She was one of those gifted people who instinctively, yet quite pleasantly and unobtrusively, take charge of everything and everybody. Already persona gratissima at the Suffolk; already saluted by the most dignified constables in Brighton; on terms of intimacy with the master of the longest pier—she had taken the Olympians under her wing in the most comprehensive manner.
The spectators came in their thousands because it was Saturday afternoon and the Albion were announced to play their full League team; and the Olympians with their nine International players were ever a great attraction. But the start was delayed ten minutes, and a great concourse was kept waiting because Mary had brought her kodak. She took charge of the Albion as well as their opponents; posing them for the camera, and appearing to know each of them by name, although she didn’t really; but it was all done with the charm and the naïve assurance that had made her so famous with the public.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said the Secretary and Manager; “don’t like to hurry you, but the crowd is getting a bit restive.”
“Oh, tell the band to play ‘Rule Britannia,’ and it will be all right,” said Mary.
And in this her judgment was perfectly sound.
“Now, boys, look your best,” said she. “All smile, please. Just imagine you have knocked out the Villa, which, of course, you will next Saturday, because I’ve made up my mind that you are going to, and I’m a proper mascot, as they know in the North. Not too broad, Joe Pierce, because of the plate. Ve-ry nice—ve-ry nice in-deed. Thank you, boys; and just see if you don’t beat the Villa, although, of course, you are going to lose this afternoon.”
So much for her handling of the democracy, which was brilliantly successful. The whole team were her humble servants to command, now that she had exercised her powers upon them. Her handling of the aristocracy—not that these idle class distinctions obtain upon the field of play—was equally happy. She was entirely responsible for the fact that the game began seventeen minutes late, but nobody seemed to mind particularly, “Rule Britannia” having been twice repeated.
A very good game it was, and a keenly critical crowd was vastly entertained. The famous inside right had not been forgotten, although the public memory is short as a rule. At first, in his new boots, he had, like a certain Biblical hero, to walk delicately; but he soon began to improve, and presently got on better than he had expected. Although he had not played football for four years, he was in fairly hard condition, as he took pretty regular exercise of one sort or another. Still, the pace was so hot at first that he felt it would be bound to kill him. But when at last he had got his second wind, and beautiful slow-stealing passes began to come his way from the famous center forward with whom he had shared many a triumph, the old magic seemed somehow to return, he began to enjoy the proceedings thoroughly, and so did the spectators.
The Albion scored a good goal quite early in the game, but just before half-time the center forward made the scores equal. Then the band played again; collecting-boxes were sent round the ground for the benefit of the widow and young family of the late Joe McPherson; and Mary herself took charge of one of them, and, of course, her box got twice as much as anybody else’s, which was bound to be the case, since she looked so charming, and her way with the great British Public was very charming also.
Who was the lady wearing the ribbon of the Olympians, who was getting sixpences and shillings for her box, while the others had to be content with pence for the most part? Who was the lady with that wonderful way with her, whose handsome face—and it really did look handsome just now, for all that it was so square and sensible—was so familiar on picture-postcards and in illustrated papers?
The famous Miss Caspar from Drury Lane. No wonder her manner was so captivating. No wonder it was so pleasantly sure of itself, when all London had been times and again to watch her put on the Prince’s slipper, and the Honorable P. Shelmerdine, the son of a lord and in his day a very fine player, and doing very well this afternoon, had been lucky enough to marry her.
Yes, the lady with the collecting-box was undoubtedly lending rare distinction to the proceedings. Sixpences and shillings and even half-crowns were raining into her box from the reserved enclosure. The widow and young family of the late Joe McPherson would, undoubtedly, gain very substantially from her efforts, as other deserving objects had done in the past and were likely to do in the future.
The rakish green hats of Horace and Johnny were well to the fore, and the fact that Mary couldn’t possibly miss them cost their owners half-a-crown apiece. And Horace Allwright, as he proudly disbursed this sum, remembered that in the near future a benefit performance was going to be given at the Royal Italian Opera House, Blackhampton, for one who had served the public long and faithfully, but who now had fallen upon evil days.
“I say, Mary, old girl,” said Horace, “that reminds me, we are giving a complimentary matinée at Blackhampton on Tuesday week for poor old Harry Merino—you remember poor old Harry—and you are such a great power in Blackhampton that I thought perhaps—”
“Why, of course,” said Mary. “Half-a-crown, please, Horace. Yes, of course, put me down for ‘Arcadee’ and ‘Nelson’ and—now, do I ever forget?”
“No, you don’t, old girl,” said Horace Allwright humbly, and Johnny Dubosque echoed him.
“That’s all right, then. And don’t say another word to the man at the wheel, because we are losing money. Thank you, sir, so much. A very good cause—poor old Joe was one of the best.”
How she knew that poor old Joe was one of the best it would be difficult to say. But, at least, she seemed able to convince the reserved enclosure that the case of Joe’s widow and family was worthy of their charity, for when she delivered her box into the care of the secretary and manager soon after the game had re-started, that gentleman was astonished at the amount of money there was in it; moreover, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and paid a sincere and richly merited compliment to the celebrated lady from the Lane.
Mr. Philip in his new boots struggled manfully through the second half of the game, although there was precious little skin left on his toes by this time; and he wondered how he was going to live to the end, since there didn’t seem to be a breath left in him. But something of the old magic had come back. If he could only kick a goal for his side, he would feel that his life had not been lived in vain.
As luck would have it, this desire was gratified. Still, this may not be altogether surprising, having regard to the fact that every movement of those mutilated toes engaged the sympathetic interest of a mascot mighty in the North, and in the South also, if it came to that. There were only about ten minutes to play; the score was still one all, when another of those beautiful slow-stealing passes came from the center forward, and Philip, knowing that it was now or never, drew the bow at a venture in the inspired way he did in his prime. And somehow he happened to time his effort at the psychological instant,—just as a stalwart son of Caledonia knocked him right into the middle of next week.
That is how the Albion came to lose the match. Yet the result didn’t matter really; very spirited and skillful play had been shown by both sides, there was nothing at stake, and a good cause had prospered. But Philip was the proudest and happiest man in Brighthelmstone as he staggered to the dressing-room with his poor feet, and knowing full well that he would hardly be able to walk for a fortnight.