A Comedy in Love-making.
by Percy Barron.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
The amusing consequences which attended the use of a book on letter-writing.
Conveniently situated on the shores of an Essex creek are the head quarters of the "Sea-Gull Amateur Sailing Club."
The members are sea-loving townsmen, who, after the toil of sitting in quiet offices, find it restful to pull up miles of anchor chain or to endeavour to pole five-ton yachts off the mud.
Now, some hundreds of miles from the brown tide-ways of Essex there is a little village on the Seine. Also a convent. The walls of this castle of the nuns are grey and unattractive, but some of the pupils who study there under the eye of the Mother Superior are very fair. They are not all French.
The sailing club and the Seine-side convent are the two elements of this story, and, as any chemist will tell you, when two elements are brought into juxtaposition strange things happen.
* * * *
When four amply proportioned youths live, eat, and sleep in a cabin measuring ten feet by seven they are brought very close together. When the swinging lamp is burning low and they are packed on the narrow bunks, they are apt to become confidential.
The Duck began it all.
"Noticed that French girl staying with the Philpotts?" he asked of the crew at large.
"Petticoats again," growled Sewell. "Pretty?"
"That accounts for the new piano I saw being taken into the house the other day," remarked Bambridge.
"What is she like, Duck?" shouted Paddy.
The Duck relit his pipe. He has a knack of speaking slowly and looking unutterably dull. Facts and impressions seem first to enter a sort of mental crop and to be partially digested there before they reach the brain.
"She was playing that piano when I passed the house to-day," he said at last, "and it seemed to me to be the sort of piano that would make an angel chuck away his harp."
"Oh! Gag him," said Sewell. "I was not talking about the piano. What's she like?"
The Duck seemed to be thinking hard for twenty seconds. Then a bright idea appeared to strike him.
"She's French," he said.
"Very?" asked Bambridge.
Again the Duck pondered.
"The fact is I couldn't see her face," he admitted. Then despondently: "And you know, Barrie says that the saddest thing in life is that most women look best from the back. Good night."
Within the ten by seven cabin four young men slept as only yachtsmen can. From the drawing-room window of the Philpotts' mansion the words of a French song leaked out into the night.
It was a rather nice voice.
* * * *
The Girl was undeniably a beauty. Very dear friends would say: "Oh! I know she is extremely pretty, but—"
The compliment was diluted according to the taste and fancy of the payer. "Buts" often indicate almost unforgivable charms.
Bobby Philpotts found four letters on the breakfast table. The Girl watched him as he opened them. He read the first and smiled. "Ducky asks me to go for a sail with them to-day," he said.
Then he opened the second.
Dear Bob,—I wish you could run round to the club this afternoon. I want to hear more about that spinaker you were talking about the other day. By-the-way, I have got some rather good Dutch cigars—smuggled. I should like your opinion about them. Bambridge.
"Hum!" grunted Bobby. "Didn't seem so remarkably chummy last time I saw him."
The next letter was from Sewell.
Just heard of a ripping place for duck. Will you try your luck with me to-night? Have got punt ready. Find me at club.
Bobby turned to the last note without comment.
Dear Old Man,—I wish you would help me. I have just heard of a dinghy that is going cheap, and should like you to see it and give me your advice. Shall be at club all the morning. Paddy.
"Now, what in the name of—" Bobby paused and looked at the Girl. Then he said: "O-o-o-oh!"
The Girl flushed almost imperceptibly.
Bobby went down to the club.
* * * *
When four young men have for some days lived and slept together in a cabin ten feet by seven, it is conceivable that they desire a change of companionship when ashore.
Therefore Bobby was not surprised to find Paddy in the billiard room, Sewell studying Lloyds' Yacht Register in the library, Bambridge fiddling with the halliards of the little white flag-staff outside the club, and the Duck forlornly smoking on an upturned dinghy.
"I don't know where the others are," began the Duck. "I expect they are going for a sail. Can you come to look at that dinghy?"
He seemed nervously anxious to start.
Sewell, who had been keeping a weather eye on the gate, came out and greeted Bobby warmly. He seemed to look inquiringly at the Duck.
Paddy placed his cue on the rack and joined them just as Bambridge left the halliards.
There was a slight pause.
"I got your notes," said Bobby.
The four men looked at one another. Bobby laughed.
"Oh, you clever idiots!" he said. "Give me a drink and I'll tell you who she is."
Bobby drank thoughtfully. He was compiling a great big lie.
* * * *
The crew of the Flying Fish had spent four gorgeous week-ends. Bobby had helped. The cigars were quite good and the whiskey provided by the Duck was all that could be desired. Bambridge brought some wonderful pies as a pleasing variety to the corned beef and sardines which formed the "Ordinary" of the Flying Fish.
Bobby's lie received striking additions.
Four men bought French dictionaries and "Pictorial French Courses." They studied these in the library and slipped charts over them when others came in.
Then Bobby brought the Girl to tea at the club.
"Voulez-vous avez une morceau de pang et buerre, Mademoiselle?" asked the Duck.
"Fait moi l'honneur to take une autre tasse de tea," said Paddy.
"Take you le sucre?" murmured Bambridge.
"Essayer le jam l'orange," begged Sewell.
"Merci, Messieurs," said the Girl.
Then she went home to laugh. Bobby came back to the club and took another cigar.
"You sling the bat Al," he said. "She twigs every time."
* * * *
Summer cooled into autumn. The Flying Fish seemed to be permanently on the mud, but the deck chairs outside the club house were beginning to show signs of wear. Sewell was studying in the library. He had found a treasure.
The Duck found the treasure later and tried to hide it when Bambridge came in.
But Bambridge watched.
Later Paddy found it also.
Conversation dragged that evening. Bobby said the cigars were bad for the heart—caused palpitation.
"Got a cigarette about you?" asked the Duck.
* * * *
The Girl looked at four notes by the side of her plate.
Bobby pretended not to see.
She opened one, looked puzzled, and replaced it in its envelope. Then she opened another and seemed bewildered.
Bobby was looking with fixed attention at a devilled kidney.
The Girl tore the envelopes of the two remaining notes. She was rather pale.
"Bobby," she said gently, "what does it mean?"
"Eh, what?" asked Bobby, "I wasn't noticing."
The Girl rose and came round to the back of his chair. She placed one hand on his shoulder. It was a very pretty hand. The shoulder was shaking slightly.
"You know I can't read French properly," said the girl. "Do be a dear and read them to me."
So Bobby translated.
Mademoiselle,—It is with trepidation the most great that I take the liberty of writing to you on a subject which to my heart is most close. To me, Mademoiselle, it is all the world. You must, I am of the most certain, have seen how great, how all strong is my admiration of you. Mademoiselle, I love you! My love is fire. It fills all the world. Mademoiselle, I kneel at your feet and ask you of your mercy to accept this my proposal of marriage.
Mademoiselle, I could say much, but my heart is over-full. Make me an answer, and end this torture the most great. Accept, Mademoiselle, the assurance of my sentiments the most tender.
Ernest Bambridge.
Bobby was stifling with laughter.
The Girl sat down suddenly and turned her face away.
"The others," she said.
"This one appears to be from the Duck," remarked Bobby, glancing down at the signature.
Mademoiselle,-It is with trepidation the most great that I take the liberty of writing to you on a subject which to my heart is most close. To me, Mademoiselle, it is all the world. You must, I am of the most certain, have seen how great, how all strong is my admiration of you. Mademoiselle, I love you! My love is—"
"Read the others," said the Girl weakly.
Bobby continued.
"From Paddy," he began:
Mademoiselle,—It is with trepidation the most great that I take the liberty of writing to you on a subject which to my heart—
"Who wrote the other one?" asked the girl. Her voice was shaking slightly. Bobby thought she was laughing.
"Seems to be from Sewell," he said:
Mademoiselle,-It is with trepidation the most—"
She snatched the letter from his hand. Her face was flaming.
"You silly!" she said.
Then she ran from the room.
Bobby whistled.
Presently he went to look for her. She dabbed her eyes with a perfectly ridiculous lace handkerchief and confronted him.
"What a joke!" he said, with a laugh that was obviously forced. "You see, when I left that book 'How to write letters in French' at the club, I thought—"
"You ought not to have thought. You—you have spoilt everything."
Again the handkerchief.
"But it's only a joke," said Bobby weakly.
"It isn't a joke—I mean—" She glared at him. "How dare you tell them I was French!"
"But you agreed it would be good fun," said the mystified Bobby.
"Go away; I hate you, I hate you," sobbed the girl.
Bobby threw away a half-smoked cigarette. Sewell had given it to him. Then he did a very absurd thing. He took the girl in his arms.
"What am I to tell them?" he asked gently.
"Nothing," said the girl. "Let me go, please."
"Which one is it!" asked Bobby very quietly.
The girl whispered.
* * * *
"Sewell," said Bobby that evening, "there appears to have been some mistake. You seem to have imagined that my sister is French."
"Your sister?" gasped Sewell.
"I'm sorry, old man," said Bobby gravely. "It was a joke."
Sewell swore. Then he rose rather unsteadily from his chair.
"But," continued Bobby very distinctly, "she wishes me to say that her French is really almost as bad as yours, but if you would say what—whatever you have to say in good English, she—that is, I mean—"
* * * *
The Flying Fish has found new moorings, and every week-end three men meet in a cabin ten feet by seven and curse Bobby Philpotts. But Mrs. Sewell pours out tea charmingly on the lawn of the little clubhouse of the Sea-Gull Amateur Sailing Club.