SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.
Ethel Dering has not recognised me yet. Naturally she would not expect to find me being photographed on the beach with such a crew as this—but she will in another instant, unless,—ah, Louise's sunshade! my presence of mind never quite deserts me. There is a slit in the silk—through which I can see Ethel. As soon as she discovers what the excitement is all about, she turns away.... Thank goodness, she is gone! I have saved the situation—but ruined the group ... they are all annoyed with me. I had really no idea Louise looked so plain when out of temper!
As we go back, Alf wants to know whether I noticed that "clipping girl." He means Ethel. Louise says, he "ought to know better than to ask me such things, considering my situation." Agree with Louise.
Evening. I am staying at home; nominally, to work at the Drama (still in very elementary stage) really, to think out the situation. Remember now the Derings have a yacht; they may only have put in here for a day or two—if not, can I avoid being seen by her sooner or later? The mere idea of meeting her when I am with Alf or Ponking, and my Blazer acquaintances, makes me ill. (Not that I need distress myself, for she would probably cut me!) Can't think in Mrs. Surge's little front parlour. I must get out, into the air! Let me see, Louise and her Aunt (and no doubt Ponking and Alf) will be at the Music Hall this evening, as there is a "benefit" with the usual "galaxy of talent." If I keep away from the sands (where I might see Ethel), I shall be safe enough.
Turn into Public Gardens; nobody here just now, except a couple in front, who seem to have quarrelled—at least the lady's voice sounds displeased. Too dark to see, but as I come nearer—is it only my nervous fancy that—? No, I can't be mistaken, that is Ethel speaking now! "Why will you persist in speaking to me?" she is saying, "I don't know you—have the goodness to go away at once." Some impudent scoundrel is annoying her! Didn't know anything could make me so angry. I don't stop to think—before I know where I am, I have knocked the fellow down ... he can't be more surprised than I am! It is all very well—but what is to become of me when he gets up again? He is sure to make a row, and I can't go on knocking him down! Must get Ethel away first, should not like to be pounded into shapelessness before her eyes. "Miss Dering," I say, "you—you had better go on—leave him to me," (it will probably be the other way, though!) "Mr. Coney!" she cries. "Oh, I am so glad!—but don't hurt him any more—please." He is getting up, as well as I can make out in the darkness, I am not likely to hurt him any more ... I wish he would begin, this suspense is very trying. He has begun—to weep bitterly! Never was so surprised in my life; he is too much upset even to swear, simply sits in the gutter boohooing. If he knew how grateful I am to him! However, I tell him sternly to "think himself lucky it is no worse," and leave him to recover.
Must see Ethel safe home after this. She and her father did come in the yacht—they are at the Royal Hotel, and she missed her way and her maid somehow, trying to find a Circulating Library. She really seems pleased to meet me. It is not an original remark—but what a delight it is to listen to the clear fresh tones of a well-bred girl—not that Ethel's voice is anything to me now! She "can't imagine what I find to do in Starmouth,"—then she did not recognise me this afternoon, which is some comfort! I should like to tell her all, but it would be rather uncalled-for just now, perhaps. We talk on general matters, as we used to do. Singular how one can throw off one's troubles for the time—I am actually gay! I can make her laugh, and what a pretty rippling laugh she has! We have reached the Hotel—already!
Now I am here, it would be rude not to go in and see old Dering. I do. He is most cordial. Am I alone down here? Critical, this. After all, I am alone—in my lodgings. "Then I must come to luncheon on board the Amaryllis to-morrow." Ethel (I must get into the way of thinking of her as "Miss Dering") looks as if she expects me to accept. I had better go, and find an opportunity of telling her about Louise—who knows—they might become bosom friends. No, hang it, that's out of the question!
The Derings' private room opens on to the Esplanade; old Dering comes to the French windows, and calls out after me, "Don't forget. Lunch at two. On board the Amaryllis—find her at the quay." "Thanks very much—I won't forget. Good-night!" "Good-night!" Someone is waiting for me under a lamp. It is Alf, but I did not know him at first. "Why, where on earth!"—I begin. He regards me reproachfully with his one efficient eye, and I observe his nose is much swollen. Good heavens, I see it all—I have knocked down my future brother-in-law! Well, it serves him right.
He explains, sulkily; he meant no harm; never thought anyone would be offended by being spoken to civil; he never met girls like that before (which is likely enough); and to think I should have treated him that savage and brutal—it was that upset him. Tell him I am sorry, but I can't help it now. "Yes you can," he says, hoarsely. "You know this girl—this Miss Derin'," (he has followed us, it appears, and caught her name)—"you don't ought to play dog in the manger now—I want you to introduce me in a reg'lar way. I tell yer I'm down-right smitten." Introduce him—to Ethel! Never, not if I won the V.C. for it! "Then you look out!"
He has gone off growling—the cub! He will tell Louise. On second thoughts, his own share in the business may prevent that—but it is unfortunate.
Next Day.—Have got leave of absence (without mentioning reason). I believe I pleaded the Drama, as usual, and I have jotted down a line or two. Am dressing for luncheon—somehow I take longer than usual. Ready at last; the coast is clear, I am a trifle early, but I can stroll gently down to the quay.... Turn a corner, and come upon Ponking, with Louise. Fancy both look rather confused, but they are delighted to see me. "Was I going any where in particular?" "No—nowhere in particular." "Then I'd better come along with them—they have dined early, and are doing the lions." Louise makes such a point of it that I can't refuse—must watch my chance, and slip off when I can.
Later.—We have done an ancient gaol, the church, and a fishermen's almshouse—and I have not seen my chance yet. Ponking determined to see all he can for his money. Louise, more demonstrative than she has been of late, clings to my arm. It is past two, but we are working our way, slowly, towards the quay. Ponking suggests visit to Fisherring Establishment. Now is my chance; say I won't go in—don't like herrings—will wait outside. To my surprise, they actually meet me half-way! "If you want to get back to your play-writing, old chap," says Ponking (really not a bad fellow, Ponking!) "don't you mind us—we'll take care of one another!" Just as deliverance is at hand, that infernal Alf comes up from the quay, with an eye that is positively iridescent! "Oh, look at his poor eye!" cries Louise. I look—and I see that he means "being nasty." He addresses me: "Why ain't you on board your swell yacht, taking lunch along with that girl, eh?" he inquires. Exclamations from Louise: "Girl? yacht? who? what?" and then—it all comes out!
Painful scene; fortunate there are so few looking on. Louise renounces me for ever opposite the Town-hall. "She knew I was a muff, but she had thought I was too much the gentleman to act deceitful!" Ponking is of opinion I "haven't a gentlemanly action in me." So is Alf, who adds that he "always felt somehow he could never make a pal of me." There is balm in that!
Thank goodness, it is over! I am free—free to think of Ethel as much as I like! I see now what a wretched infatuation all this has been. I can tell her about it some day—if I think it necessary. I am not sure I shall think it necessary—at all events, just yet.
I am a little late, but I can apologise for that. Odd—but I can't find the Amaryllis anywhere! Ask. A seaman on a post says "There was a yacht he see being towed out 'bout 'arf an hour back—he didn't take no partickler notice of her name." No doubt I mistook the moorings—better ask at hotel, perhaps. I do. Waiter says if I am the gentleman by name of Coney, there are two notes for me in Coffee-Room.
Open first—from Mr. Dering.
"Regrets; unforeseen circumstances—compelled to sail at once, and give up pleasure, &c."
Second—from Ethel; there is hope still—or would she write?
"Dear Mr. Coney,—So sorry to go away without seeing you. You might have told me of your engagement yourself, I think—I should have been so interested. Your brother-in-law and his aunt thought it necessary to call and inform us. We are delighted that you are having a pleasanter time here than you gave us to understand last night. With best wishes for all possible happiness," &c.
So that was Alf's revenge—it was a good one! After that, I shake off the sand of Starmouth—for ever!
