"I'll do it," I said.
My parcel and I arrived promptly to time. Miss Middleton didn't.
"Don't say I've caught the wrong train," she said breathlessly, when at last she appeared. "It does go at 4.40, doesn't it?"
"It does," I said, "and it did."
"Then my watch must be slow."
"Send it to the jumble sale," I advised. "Look here—we've a long time to wait for the next train; let's undress my parcel in the waiting–room, and I'll point out the things that really want watching. Some are absolutely unique."
It was an odd collection of very dear friends, Miss Middleton's final reminder having been that nothing was too old for a jumble sale.
"Lot One," I said. "A photograph of my house cricket eleven, framed in oak. Very interesting. The lad on the extreme right is now a clergyman."
"Oh, which is you?" said Miss Middleton eagerly.
I was too much wrapped up in my parcel to answer. "Lot Two," I went on. "A pink–and–white football shirt; would work up into a dressy blouse for adult, or a smart overcoat for child. Lot Three. A knitted waistcoat; could be used as bath–mat. Lot Four. Pair of bedroom slippers in holes. This bit is the slipper; the rest is the hole. Lot Five. Now this is something really good. Truthful Jane—my first prize at my Kindergarten."
"Mother is in luck. It's just the sort of things she wants," said Miss Middleton.
"Her taste is excellent. Lot Six. A pair of old grey flannel trousers. Lot Seven. Lot Seven forward. Where are you?" I began to go through the things again. "Er—I'm afraid Lot Seven has already gone."
"What about Lot Eight?"
"There doesn't seem to be a Lot Eight either. It's very funny; I'm sure I started with more than this. Some of the things must have eaten each other on the way."
"Oh, but this is heaps. Can you really spare them all?"
"I should feel honoured if Mrs. Middleton would accept them," I said with a bow. "Don't forget to tell her that in the photograph the lad on the extreme right―" I picked up the photograph and examined it more carefully. "I say, I look rather jolly, don't you think? I wonder if I have another copy of this anywhere." I gazed at it wistfully. "That was my first year for the house, you know."
"Don't give it away," said Miss Middleton suddenly. "Keep it."
"Shall I? I don't want to deprive― Well, I think I will if you don't mind." My eyes wandered to the shirt. "I've had some fun in that in my time," I said thoughtfully. "The first time I wore it―"
"You really oughtn't to give away your old colours, you know."
"Oh, but if Mrs. Middleton," I began doubtfully—"at least, don't you—what?—oh, all right, perhaps I won't." I put the shirt on one side with the photograph, and picked up the dear old comfy bedroom slippers. I considered them for a minute and then I sighed deeply. As I looked up I caught Miss Middleton's eye…. I think she had been smiling.
"About the slippers," she said gravely.
"Good–bye," I said to Miss Middleton. "It's been jolly to see you." I grasped my parcel firmly as the train began to move. "I'm always glad to help Mrs. Middleton, and if ever I can do so again be sure to let me know."
"I will," said Miss Middleton.
The train went out of the station, and my parcel and I looked about for a cab.
Part 4
Getting Married
I
The Day
Probably you thought that getting married was quite a simple business. So did I. We were both wrong; it is the very dickens. Of course, I am not going to draw back now. As I keep telling Celia, her Ronald is a man of powerful fibre, and when he says he will do a thing he does it—eventually. She shall have her wedding all right; I have sworn it. But I do wish that there weren't so many things to be arranged first.
The fact that we had to fix a day was broken to me one afternoon when Celia was showing me to some relatives of hers in the Addison Road. I got entangled with an elderly cousin on the hearth–rug; and though I know nothing about motor–bicycles I talked about them for several hours under the impression that they were his subject. It turned out afterwards that he was equally ignorant of them, but thought they were mine. Perhaps we shall get on better at a second meeting. However, just when we were both thoroughly sick of each other, Celia broke off her gay chat with an aunt to say to me:
"By the way, Ronald, we did settle on the eleventh, didn't we?"
I looked at her blankly, my mind naturally full of motor–bicycles.
"The wedding," smiled Celia.
"Right–o," I said with enthusiasm. I was glad to be assured that I should not go on talking about motor–bicycles for ever, and that on the eleventh, anyhow, there would be a short interruption for the ceremony. Feeling almost friendly to the cousin, I plunged into his favourite subject again.
On the way home Celia returned to the matter.
"Or you would rather it was the twelfth?" she asked.
"I've never heard a word about this before," I said. "It all comes as a surprise to me."
"Why, I'm always asking you."
"Well, it's very forward of you, and I don't know what young people are coming to nowadays. Celia, what's the good of my talking to your cousin for three hours about motor–bicycling? Surely one can get married just as well without that?"
"One can't get married without settling the day," said Celia, coming cleverly back to the point.
Well, I suppose one can't. But somehow I had expected to be spared all this bother. I think my idea was that Celia would say to me suddenly one evening, "By the way, Ronald, don't forget we're being married to–morrow," and I should have said "Where?" And on being told the time and place, I should have turned up pretty punctually; and after my best man had told me where to stand, and the clergyman had told me what to say, and my solicitor had told me where to sign my name, we should have driven from the church a happy married couple … and in the carriage Celia would have told me where we were spending the honeymoon.
However, it was not to be so.
"All right, the eleventh," I said. "Any particular month?"
"No," smiled Celia, "just any month. Or, if you like, every month."
"The eleventh of June," I surmised. "It is probably the one day in the year on which my Uncle Thomas cannot come. But no matter. The eleventh let it be."
"Then that's settled. And at St. Miriam's?"
For some reason Celia has set her heart on St. Miriam's. Personally I have no feeling about it. St. Andrew's–by–the–Wardrobe or St. Bartholomew's–Without would suit me equally well.
"All right," I said, "St. Miriam's."
There, you might suppose, the matter would have ended; but no.
"Then you will see about it to–morrow?" said Celia persuasively.
I was appalled at the idea.
"Surely," I said, "this is for you, or your father, or—or somebody to arrange."
"Of course it's for the bridegroom," protested Celia.
"In theory, perhaps. But anyhow not the bridegroom personally. His best man … or his solicitor … or … I mean, you're not suggesting that I myself― Oh, well, if you insist. Still, I must say I don't see what's the good of having a best man and a solicitor if― Oh, all right, Celia, I'll go to–morrow."