Part 42 (1/2)

”If you mean Eve, sir,” said I, ”she is away from home--and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. n.o.body prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even.”

”Well, well, Punch, my boy, don't be sharp with your old father. I won't offend again. By the way,” he added, quickly, ”you're not married _yet_? eh?”

”No, not yet.”

”Ah!” said my father with a sigh of relief, as he resumed his knife and fork, ”then there's the barest chance of a possibility that if--but you've asked her to marry you, eh?”

”Yes, I have asked her.”

”And she has accepted you?”

”Yes, she has accepted me. I wrote all that to you long ago.”

”Ah!” said my father, with a profound sigh of resignation, ”then there is _no_ chance of a possibility, for if a man tries to win the affections of a girl and succeeds, he is bound in honour to marry her-- even though he were the Emperor of China, and she a--a Hottentot. Now, Punch, I have made up my mind to like the girl, even though she painted scarlet circles round her eyes, and smeared her nose with sky-blue--but you _must_ let your poor old father blow off the steam, for you have been such a--a donkey!--such a hasty, impatient, sentimental, romantic idiot, that--another gla.s.s of that milk, my boy. Thank'ee, where do you get it? Beats English milk hollow.”

”Got it from one of our numerous cows, daddy,” said I, with a short laugh at this violent change of the subject, ”and my Eve made the b.u.t.ter.”

”Did she, indeed? Well, I'm glad she's fit for even that small amount of civilised labour; but you have not told me yet when I shall see her?”

”That is a question I cannot exactly answer,” said I, ”but you will at all events be introduced to-night to her father's mother, and her cousin (whom we call aunt), as well as to a young lady--a Miss Waboose--who is staying with us at present. And now, father,” I added, ”come, and we'll have a stroll round the farm. I don't expect the ladies back till evening. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour; to humour what I may call a whim.”

”If it's not a very silly one, Punch, I'll do it, though I have not much confidence in your wisdom _now_.”

”It is simply that you should agree, for this night only, to pa.s.s yourself off for a very old friend of mine. You need not tell fibs, or give a false name. You are a namesake, you know. There are lots of Maxbys in the world!”

”Weak, my boy; decidedly weak. They'll be sure to see through it and I won't be able to recollect not to call you Punch.”

”No matter. Call me Punch. I'll tell them you are a very familiar old friend--a sort of relation, too, which will account for the name.”

”Well, well,” said my father, with a smile of pity, ”I'll not object to humour your whim, but it's weak--worthy of a man who could engage himself to a miserable red-Indian Hottentot!”

This being finally settled, and my father having been pretty well exhausted by his ramble round the farm, I set him down on the rustic chair with a newspaper and left him, saying that I should be back in an hour or so.

I knew the road by which the waggon was to return, walked along it several miles, and then waited. Soon it drove up to the spot where I stood. They were surprised to see me, but more surprised when I ordered the ladies to get out, and walk with me, while the coachman drove on slowly in advance.

Then I hurriedly told of my father's arrival, and explained more fully than I had yet ventured to do his misconceptions and prejudices as to Eve. ”Now, I want you all,” said I, ”to help me to remove these prejudices and misconceptions as quickly as possible by falling in with my little plans.”

Hereupon I explained that my father was to be introduced as an old friend and namesake, while Eve was to be presented to him as a visitor at the cottage named Miss Waboose. I had feared that old Mrs Liston would not enter into my plan, but found that, on the contrary, having a strong sense of humour, she quite enjoyed the notion of it. So did Aunt Temple, but Eve herself felt doubtful of her ability to act out her part. I had no doubt on that point, for she had undertaken it, and well did I know that whatever Eve undertook she could, and would, accomplish.

It might be tedious to recount in detail the scenes that followed. The dear old man was charmed with Miss Waboose--as I had fully expected--and Miss Waboose was more than charmed with the dear old man! So that when we bade the ladies good-night, he kissed her fair forehead with quite fatherly tenderness.

When I conducted the old man to his room I was struck, and made quite anxious, by the disconsolate expression of his face, and asked earnestly what was wrong.

”Wrong!” he exclaimed, almost petulantly. ”Everything's wrong. More particularly, _you_ are wrong. Oh, George, I _can't_ get over it. To think that you are tied hard and fast--_irrevocably_--to--a red-Indian-- a painted savage--a Hottentot. It is too--too bad!”

He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-gla.s.s; but he didn't seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it.

”And to think, too,” he continued, ”that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who--in spite of her heathenish name--is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw.

Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been.”