April's Lady Part 12

"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably.

"She plays a good game, I can tell you."

"So do you," says Dysart.

"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me."

"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and for the first time looking fair at him.

"A single, you mean?"

"Yes, a single."

"Well--we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is too lazy to face us."

"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes.

"I _always_ remember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below.

The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound arises. It is _not_ the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent. _All_ can hear.

"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at all!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to be surpa.s.sed.

CHAPTER IX.

"Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge."

"Tisn't right," says Tommy.

"_I_ think it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give your entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant conclusion to which you have come."

"I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm the d.i.c.kens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n _she_ does."

"And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, "but it isn't everything. What _you_ want to study, my good boy, is natural history.

You are very ignorant about that, at all events."

"A cow _couldn't_ do it," says Tommy.

"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are you ready?

"'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty, The cow ran up the plum-tree.

Half-a-crown to fetch her----'"

"She _didn't_--'twas the _cat_," cries Tommy.

"Not in _my_ story," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly.

"A cow _couldn't_ go up a plum-tree," indignantly.

"She could in _my_ story," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the dictates of his conscience.

"She _couldn't_, I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "She couldn't _climb_. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too _heavy_!"

"I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument sounds as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dare to disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, to blow up the bulwarks of our n.o.ble const.i.tution. Beware, Tommy! never tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you."

"Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and she never ran up a tree in her life."

"She's young," says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So are _you_--_you'll_ learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find yourself--at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?"

"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of triumph, "and father always knows."

"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy.

"Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Ches.h.i.+re."

"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a Ches.h.i.+re cat; there never was a Ches.h.i.+re moon."

"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Ches.h.i.+re cheese,"

says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind.

Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, _try_ to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that long-suffering old plum-tree."

"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in tears. "I've books--I've books, and 'tisn't in _any_ of them."

"It is in _my_ book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of himself.

"I don't believe you ever _read_ a book," screams Tommy furiously.

"'Twas the cat--the cat--the cat!"

"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, whereat Tommy goes for him.

There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed have been a serious case of a.s.sault and battery for the next Court day, had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene.

"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove identification. And--"Oh, d.i.c.ky," says, she again, "how _could_ you torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a state he is in!"

"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is no sympathy to be shown me? See what a state _I'm_ in. I'm black and blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!"

"Nonsense! you are all right, but look at _him_! Oh! Tommy, what a terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that you----Just look at his clothes!"

"Look at _mine_!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'm afraid to examine my trousers. _You_ might tell me if there is a big rent anywhere. No? Eh? Well--if you won't I must only risk it. But I feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old story. I'll tell you about it some day."

"Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at d.i.c.ky with an undying ferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry with you when he hears of this."

"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, with decision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly without _arriere pensee_ as though no unpleasant pa.s.sages have occurred between them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but really on the whole I think----"

"It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye.