Part 11 (2/2)
”Evelyn,” said Mrs. Worters, ”how much did you and Jack pay for that tea?”
”For the half-pound, tenpence.”
Mrs. Worters received the announcement in gloomy silence.
”Mother!” cried Mr. Worters. ”Why, I forgot! How could we go paddling with mother?”
”Oh, but, Mrs. Worters, we could carry you over.”
”Thank you, dearest child. I am sure you could.”
”Alas! alas! Evelyn. Mother is laughing at us. She would sooner die than be carried. And alas! there are my sisters, and Mrs. Osgood: she has a cold, tiresome woman. No: we shall have to go round by the bridge.”
”But some of us----” began Ford. His guardian cut him short with a quick look.
So we went round--a procession of eight. Miss Beaumont led us. She was full of fun--at least so I thought at the time, but when I reviewed her speeches afterwards I could not find in them anything amusing. It was all this kind of thing: ”Single file! Pretend you're in church and don't talk. Mr. Ford, turn out your toes. Harcourt--at the bridge throw to the Naiad a pinch of tea. She has a headache. She has had a headache for nineteen hundred years.” All that she said was quite stupid. I cannot think why I liked it at the time.
As we approached the copse she said, ”Mr. Inskip, sing, and we'll sing after you: Ah you silly a.s.s G.o.ds lve in woods.” I cleared my throat and gave out the abominable phrase, and we all chanted it as if it were a litany. There was something attractive about Miss Beaumont. I was not surprised that Harcourt had picked her out of ”Ireland” and had brought her home, without money, without connections, almost without antecedents, to be his bride. It was daring of him, but he knew himself to be a daring fellow. She brought him nothing; but that he could afford, he had so vast a surplus of spiritual and commercial goods. ”In time,” I heard him tell his mother, ”in time Evelyn will repay me a thousandfold.” Meanwhile there was something attractive about her. If it were my place to like people, I could have liked her very much.
”Stop singing!” she cried. We had entered the wood. ”Welcome, all of you.” We bowed. Ford, who had not been laughing, bowed down to the ground. ”And now be seated. Mrs. Worters--will you sit there--against that tree with a green trunk? It will show up your beautiful dress.”
”Very well, dear, I will,” said Mrs. Worters.
”Anna--there. Mr. Inskip next to her. Then Ruth and Mrs. Osgood. Oh, Harcourt--do sit a little forward, so that you'll hide the house. I don't want to see the house at all.”
”I won't!” laughed her lover, ”I want my back against a tree, too.”
”Miss Beaumont,” asked Ford, ”where shall I sit?” He was standing at attention, like a soldier.
”Oh, look at all these Worters!” she cried, ”and one little Ford in the middle of them!” For she was at that state of civilization which appreciates a pun.
”Shall I stand. Miss Beaumont? Shall I hide the house from you if I stand?”
”Sit down. Jack, you baby!” cried his guardian, breaking in with needless asperity. ”Sit down!”
”He may just as well stand if he will,” said she. ”Just pull back your soft hat, Mr. Ford. Like a halo. Now you hide even the smoke from the chimneys. And it makes you look beautiful.”
”Evelyn! Evelyn! You are too hard on the boy. You'll tire him. He's one of those bookworms. He's not strong. Let him sit down.”
”Aren't you strong?” she asked.
”I am strong!” he cried. It is quite true. Ford has no right to be strong, but he is. He never did his dumb-bells or played in his school fifteen. But the muscles came. He thinks they came while he was reading Pindar.
”Then you may just as well stand, if you will.”
”Evelyn! Evelyn! childish, selfish maiden! If poor Jack gets tired I will take his place. Why don't you want to see the house? Eh?”
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