“Then all we can do,” I continued, cutting him short, “is to wait in patience till the boodle—”
“The what?” said Thatcher, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
“It’s an American term—the money we have won, arrives. It’s coming in the yacht, and should be here in a day or two now. Then we’ll go up with it to the house, in a bag, and spread it out on the table—”
“And I shall be back in Wharton Park again!” cried Thatcher. “Gracious powers! Who would have thought it possible? And, of course, it will be settled on Lucy. Me for life, and then Lucy. How delighted my poor old mother will be!”
“Yes,” I said, “and that your name may be perpetuated, I will add it to my own. Father-in-law, here’s health and prosperity to those two fine old English families, the Thatcher-Blackers!”
So there was nothing we could do but wait in patience for the arrival of the Amaranth. It was tedious, anxious work, for though I never doubted all would be well, yet Bailey Thompson’s portentous silence somewhat alarmed me; and as the days passed, and neither he nor the yacht gave any sign of their existence, my nerves began to get unstrung, and I grew worn and irritable.
Fortunately, as often happens in the early days of February, the weather was beautifully fine; so fine that the more flatulent class of newspapers were full of letters from country correspondents, who were finding hedge-sparrows’ eggs and raspberries in their gardens, and the usual Lincolnshire parson broke into jubilant twitterings over his dish of green pease. Otherwise, I don’t think I really could have borne it.
At last, late on the Tuesday evening, came a telegram from Brentin at Southampton—“Safe, will arrive to-morrow”—and I began to breathe a little easier. But not a word of any sort from Bailey Thompson, neither a reproach nor a threat; till I felt like that Damocles of Syracuse who, though seated on a throne, was yet immediately under a faintly suspended sword. For here was I, on a throne, indeed—the throne of dear Lucy’s pure and constant affection—and yet!—at any moment!—
Dramatically enough, the sword fell on my very wedding morning—on its flat side, happily—giving me a shock, but no cut of any sort, as I am now briefly going to tell.
The next morning came another telegram from Brentin in London, to say he would arrive at six and beg he might be met. All was well, he wired, adding “Any news Thompson?”