"Pip" Part 31

Pip, who knew Jim Rossiter for a good fellow, wrote back soberly but heartily. He congratulated Pipette, gave his unconditional a.s.sent to the match, gratefully declined an invitation to come and take up his abode with the young couple after their marriage, and faithfully promised, whenever that joyful ceremony should take place, to have a bath and come and give the bride away. Which brings little Pipette's part in this narrative to a happy conclusion.

Of Elsie Pip heard little, and tried to think not at all. At present she was not for him, and probably never would be. His mind was quite clear on the subject. When, if ever, his ship came in, he would seek her out wherever she was, and--provided she had not married some one else, which was only too likely, Pip thought--ask her to marry him. Till then he was a member of the working cla.s.ses, and must not cry for the moon.

Still, though he conscientiously refrained from direct inquiries, he greedily h.o.a.rded every careless item of information on the subject that cropped up in Pipette's letters.

Elsie had no parents, and soon after Pip's disappearance "abroad" had gone for a trip round the world with Raven Innes and his wife. She spent some months in India, and Pip, who knew that that bright jewel of the Empire's crown contains many men and few women, shuddered and ground his teeth. However, no bad news came, and presently he heard from Pipette that the travellers had left Colombo and were on their way to Australia.

After that Pipette became engaged, and the curtain fell upon Elsie's movements, for Pipette's letters now harped upon a single string, and Pip was far too shy to ask for information outright. So he hardened his heart, hoped for the best, and went on with his day's work, as many a man has had to do before him, and been all the better for it.

One sentimental indulgence he allowed himself. Every Christmas he sent Elsie a present, together with his best wishes for the season. Only that, and nothing more. No long screed: above all, no address. He had his pride.

After two years' work his duties took a more varied and infinitely pleasanter form. He was by this time a thoroughly competent workman. He could take an engine to pieces and put it together again. He could diagnose every ill that a motor-car is heir to,--and a motor-car is more than human in this respect,--and he was a fearless and cool-headed driver. Consequently he was frequently sent out on trial trips, touring excursions, and the like; and owing to his excellent appearance and pleasant manner, was greatly in request as a teacher. More than one b.u.t.terfly of fashion conceived a tenderness in her worldly and elastic little heart for the big silent chauffeur, who explained the whole art of motoring so clearly and quietly, and was never dirty to look at or familiar to speak to. He grew accustomed--though slowly--to receiving tips, even from his own former friends and acquaintances, more than one of whom sat by his side, and even conversed with him without recognition. His name was now John Armstrong,--he was holding back his own till a more prosperous time,--and he had shaved off a mustache of which, as an undergraduate, he had been secretly but inordinately proud.

These changes, together with his leather livery and peaked cap, neutralised him down into one of a mere type, and he looked just like scores of other clean-shaven, hawk-eyed chauffeurs.

One day he drove down a roystering party of cricketers to play a match in the country. When the game began it was discovered that the visiting team was a man short. The captain, hard put to it to find a subst.i.tute, cast his eye upon the chauffeur, and straightway pressed him, a not unwilling victim, into the service. In black leather breeches and shirt-sleeves Pip fielded in the sun, "revolving many memories," as Tennyson says; and towards the end of the match, when runs were coming somewhat too freely and all the bowlers had been tried in vain, was given the ball; whereupon, throwing caution to the winds, he disposed of five wickets in exactly three overs. Fortunately the team had lunched generously, as teams that come down from the city for a day's sport not infrequently do, so the enthusiasm which Pip's feat evoked was too alcoholic to be discriminating.

One more experience Pip had, and as it marked the closing stages of his apprenticeship to manhood, and also introduced him to a character whose existence was foreshadowed in the second chapter of this book, it shall be set down at length.

CHAPTER IX

THE PRINc.i.p.aL BOY: AN INTERLUDE

I

CAPTAIN LOTTINGAR opened the door of the library and roared up the staircase--

"Lottie!"

Miss Lottie Lottingar came down. She was an exceedingly handsome young person,--what is usually known as "a fine figure of a woman,"--but there was nothing of the squire's daughter about her, as there should be about a youthful _chatelaine_ who comes tripping down the shallow oak stairs of a great Elizabethan country house. There is usually something breezy, healthy, and eminently English about such a girl. Lottie, although her colour was good and her costume countrified enough, smacked of the town.

She was undeniably attractive, but in her present surroundings she somehow suggested a bottle of champagne at a school-treat. She would have made an admirable "Princ.i.p.al Boy" in a pantomime. As a matter of fact, she had been one.

Her father led the way into the library, and having shut the door, lit a cigarette and leaned against the carved mantelpiece. Lottie sat on a table and swung her legs.

"Where's the Honourable?" inquired the captain.

"Out," said Lottie tersely.

"I know that. Where?"

"Plantations."

"What's he after?"

"Shrimps, I expect," said Miss Lottingar flippantly.

"That will do. We're talking business just now. Showing any signs yet?"

"Lots."

"When will he come to the scratch?"

"Pretty soon, if you and your pals don't mess things."

The gallant captain's brow lowered.

"None of your lip, my girl!" he remarked. "What do you mean--mess things?"

"I mean that you'll have to play carefully if you aren't going to scare him away."

"Scare him? How?"

"Well, you and the others are a bit out of your depth in this affair.

I'll do you the justice, Dad, to admit that in the ordinary way of business you are a hard nut to crack; but coming the country gentleman over a man who, though he's a mug, _is_ a country gentleman, is rather more of a job than your lot can manage comfortably. Look at Jerry!"

"What's wrong with Jerry?"

"Him? It's the first time he's played at being a gamekeeper, and he doesn't know the rules, that's all."

"How do you know?"

"The Honourable told me. Said it wasn't his business, of course, but he was afraid my father had got hold of a thoroughly incompetent keeper, and perhaps he ought to be told so--haw!"

The captain snorted.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I advised him," replied his daughter, smiling indulgently, "not to mention it. I said you were rather fond of your own judgment in some things, and might be offended."

"Well, Jerry does his best," said Lottingar; "but you are right, Lottie, for all that. He'll muck things. You must keep the young fool out of his way. Can't you take him out for walks, or something?"

"Walks? What excitement!" Miss Lottingar cast up her eyes pathetically.

"Well, you can go motoring with him as soon as we get a chauffeur.

That's what I wanted to see you about."

"Who is the chauffeur? One of the--one of your friends?"

"No, worse luck! Every man I can trust is in this business already. We must make shift with some absolutely straight fool."

"That'll be a pleasant change," remarked Miss Lottingar.

"It will be all right in the long run," continued her father. "He need never suspect anything. We can keep him mowing the gra.s.s or something during his spare time. And if you can't bring off that proposal within a week, my girl," he concluded, throwing his cigarette into the grate, "you're not the sort I took you for."

"Give me the motor; I'll do the rest," said Miss Lottie, quite undisturbed by this direct reference to her virgin affections.

"And for the Lord's sake be quick about it! The expense of all this flummery is something cruel. There'll be nothing left to divide when it's all over if you can't--"