A Knight on Wheels Part 44

"Yes," agreed Peggy more soberly, "I believe you did. Life was a simpler business then. As we grow up we grow more complicated--at least, women do. But you seem to be very much the same as when I first met you, Philip."

"Is that a compliment?" asked Philip dubiously.

"It is the greatest compliment I have ever paid you," said Peggy, flushing suddenly. "What a sunset! Look!"

They paused, and leaned over the parapet. The October sun was dropping low, and the turbid flood of the Thames had turned to crimson. Philip glanced at his Lady. The hue of the water seemed to be faintly reflected in her face.

Suddenly something took hold of him--a power greater than himself. For once the gift of tongues was vouchsafed him.

"You are right, Peggy," he broke out. "I believe I am exactly the same as when I was a boy; in one thing anyhow; in my views on"--he boggled at the word "Love," and finally continued--"in my feelings about the biggest thing of all. Perhaps it is because I have always been shy and awkward, and have not sought out adventures that would correct my illusions. Anyhow, I am an idealist--a sentimentalist, if you like. I believe my father was, too, and even the knowledge that his ideals were shipwrecked does not discourage me. In my Utopia the men work and fight, and take all hard knocks and privations cheerfully, and run straight and live clean. They work because they like it, and not simply to make money. A man may work for fame, too, if he likes, but not the sort of thing we call fame nowadays--t.i.tles, and newspaper paragraphs, and stuff of that kind. If one of my knights achieves a big thing he is not excited about it: he just polishes up his armour and goes and does another big thing, without hanging about until a reporter turns up. I think the t.i.tle of knight is the grandest honour a man can win; and it makes me mad to-day to see how that t.i.tle has been stolen from its proper place and bestowed on men who have subscribed to party funds, or who happened to be Mayor when Royalty opened a new waterworks. My knight is a man who has _done_ things, and done them for just one reason--for the joy of doing them; and who dedicates the glory and the praise, however great or small, to"--Philip's voice dropped suddenly--"to the honour of his Lady."

"And what is his Lady like?" asked Peggy softly.

She knew she ought not to do so. If a maid permits herself to embark with a young man upon a romantic discussion, it is sometimes difficult to prevent the conversation from taking an uncomfortably personal turn.

But for the moment Philip had carried her off her feet.

"The Lady?" Philip descended from the clouds abruptly, and replied: "Well, I think you would make a very perfect Lady for a knight, Peggy."

The Rubicon at last! One foot at least was over. Dumbly he waited for Peggy's next word.

It came.

"Unfortunately," said the girl lightly, "I am not eligible for such a post. Knights are not for me. You see, Philip," she continued hurriedly, avoiding his eyes, "times have changed. Knights are too scarce and Ladies are too numerous. There are about a million women in this country alone who will have to get along without a knight for the whole of their lives."

"But not you," said Philip eagerly. "Any man would be proud--"

"Thank you," said Peggy, "for the compliment. But perhaps I prefer to be one of that million. There are so many things that a woman can do now which were impossible in the days of chivalry, that she can live her own life quite happily and contentedly, knight or no."

"It's all wrong, all wrong!" cried Philip pa.s.sionately. "It's all against every law of G.o.d and man! I won't believe it!"

"Wrong or right," pursued Peggy quietly, "it is a fact that many a woman nowadays would find a knight rather--what shall we say?--an enc.u.mbrance.

For instance, I--"

"Not you, not you!" said Philip.

But Peggy continued relentlessly:--

"If ever I _do_ encounter a man who wants to be my cavalier--which is of course extremely unlikely--"

She paused.

"You ought to say, 'No, no!' or 'Impossible!'" she pointed out severely.

Philip summoned up the ghost of a smile, and Peggy proceeded steadily:

"If ever I do meet a would-be Knight, I shall tell him that I am greatly obliged, but that I have other things to occupy me, and that I prefer to remain independent. So it is no use, my romantic friend," she concluded with a whimsical smile, "for you to select me as a suitable helpmeet for one of your imaginary knights. Now we really must get along: the other two will be wondering what has become of us."

She turned from the parapet to resume her walk. But Philip looked her straight in the face.

"Is that--final?" he asked.

For a moment they regarded one another unflinchingly, these two reserved and reticent people. Then Peggy's eyes fell.

"Yes," she said in a subdued voice, "that is final. So don't go hunting up a knight for me, Philip."

When Peggy returned home after the tea-party she found her parent sitting in front of a dead fire, wearing his overcoat and a face of resigned suffering.

"Hallo, Dad!" she remarked cheerfully. "Why have you let the fire go out?"

"It is of no consequence," replied Montagu Falconer. "I am fairly warm in this overcoat." He coughed and shivered. "Are we having any dinner to-night?"

Peggy bit her lip, and kneeling down, began to coax the remnants of the fire into flame.

"Dinner will be at the usual hour," she said. "If you don't put coal on a fire it usually goes out, doesn't it?"

"At my time of life and in my state of health," replied her amiable parent, "I think I have a right to expect a certain modic.u.m of comfort and attention. This room, for instance, might be kept decently heated, without--"

"If you don't like putting on coal yourself," Peggy pointed out, "you can always ring for a servant."

Suddenly the querulous Montagu blazed up.

"Servants! Exactly! I am left to the servants! I have a daughter, a grown-up daughter, who nominally directs my household. But I am left to the tender mercies of half-witted domestics, in order that my daughter may go out to tea--may trapese from one scandal-exchange to another! Do you ever consider me at all?"

"Yes, Dad,--sometimes," said Peggy, bending low over the smouldering fire. At the same moment one of the hot cinders sizzled.

CHAPTER XXV

CONFESSIONAL--MASCULINE AND FEMININE

I

"WELL, I have one thing to be thankful for; there might have been another man in the background. Now we must get back to work. _Labor omnia vincit_, my son."

Thus Philip to himself.

Then he continued, less philosophically:--

"I suppose I had better keep right away from her. I simply couldn't stand any half-a-loaf sort of friendship. All the same, I'll keep in the offing, in case I am wanted."

Then he went back to Oxford Street, and told himself that work was the salt of life.

But the spell was broken. _Labor omnia vincit_ proved to be exactly what Julius Mablethorpe had said it was--only half a truth; and Dumps's conclusion that Love and Work are interdependent terms was borne out to the letter. Philip worked as hard as ever--harder, in fact: never had the business in Oxford Street been more efficiently conducted--but the zest of it all was gone. Without Peggy--or prospective Peggy--the day's work, which had been a series of absorbingly interesting enterprises, was now a monotonous round. The whirr of machinery had been music; now it was merely an unpleasant noise. To overcome difficulties and grapple with emergencies had been a sheer joy; to do so now was a weariness to the flesh. Philip could not but recall, as he slogged on, Uncle Joseph's description of his beloved regiment after the episode of Vivien:--_The only difference was that whereas the regiment had formerly been commanded by a Damascus blade, it was now commanded by a broomstick._ Family history appeared to be walking in a circle.