Odds and ends

by B. M. Croker

It was really surprising the number of matrons with unmarried daughters who now came to call on Mrs. Brandon, and make tender enquiries about her eyesight.

Little Cecil was undoubtedly a ladies’ man, and enjoyed tea-parties and luncheons, dinners and bridge; but Annie was his first, his home friend. Many a day he stole in to see her, or they conferred together in his mother’s summer-house—he having assured his parent that he was about to walk into Idleford, or starting for an afternoon’s fishing, or golf.

“The mater is deadly jealous of you,” he explained, “but you must not mind her—she knows I am awfully gone on you, and that’s the reason she has got her frills up.”

And indeed, in these latter days, Mrs. Brandon allowed herself to be offensively rude to her secretary and companion. If she could have dispensed with her services she would have done so; but who was to write her letters? Who was to read her the morning paper? Certainly not Cecil, who rarely got out of his bed before eleven o’clock. Her increasing blindness made her frantic; she had an instinctive feeling that something hateful was going on around her, a something that she could not see, or divine. After all, Cecil might flirt with Annie as much as he pleased—a woman a head over him, thirty years of age, and a nobody! Her name was really Flood, but some of her insignificant relations had changed it into Fleude. They might change the spelling of the name, but they could not change their status in life. Cecil must marry well, a somebody, and an heiress, and as soon as her eyes had been operated upon she was determined to look about her in good earnest.

Meanwhile the happy pair were privately engaged; they walked together, they bicycled boldly into Idleford, they sat in the summer-house, and Cecil talked of himself continually. One of Annie’s chief attractions was the fact that she was a most patient and appreciative listener. He really never tired of relating his wonderful exploits: the mad horses he had ridden, the snakes he had destroyed, and the tigers he had shot; in all these stories he filled the rôle of a hero, brave to rashness; and it happened that one day Annie had an opportunity of judging of his courage for herself! A wild bullock, which was being led along the country road, had broken away from its drover, and, with tail up, and head down, came charging towards them.

“Look out, look out!” shrieked Cecil—it was almost the scream of a woman; without another word, he disappeared over a wall with the agility of a monkey, and Annie was left to face the coming adventure alone! She stood her ground bravely, and as the beast charged, she dashed at him with an open umbrella, which fortunately had the effect of scaring the animal; and the valiant lady found herself scathless and breathless. By and by, she saw two hands and a little head appearing above the wall, and a squeaky voice enquired:

“Is he gone? Is the coast clear?” On receiving an encouraging affirmative—and without blush, or shame—Cecil pulled himself up, and dropped into the road. “They don’t often attack a woman—at least, that is my experience in India,” he explained, “or of course I wouldn’t have left you; but the fact is—and I make no secret of it to you—since I have had this awful go of fever my nerves have completely gone to pieces! India has skinned them raw.”

After this episode, it is not improbable that Annie accepted her lover’s amazing experiences with more than a pinch of salt.

One evening, in the dusk in the summer-house, he confided to her that he had been in an infernal scrape in India. It was all about a race, or rather racing; of course he was as innocent as a new-born babe, but he had been obliged to chuck it, and bolt! The doctor’s certificate was a mere excuse. By degrees he would break this news to the Mum; she would be furious at first, but she would soon see that he had been a mere tool in the matter, the cat’s-paw of others; and she was so clever and influential that she would soon find him another and better billet.

Annie was not horrified by this confession; on the contrary she consoled him, comforted him with her assurance of his mother’s loyal belief in him, and herself swallowed every word of his plausible excuses.