2.
Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted
irritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding as
usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like
Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while
others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness
and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For
outside the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted
coppery. In the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the
accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sun
had worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like a
great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again,
blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a
London fog's only redeeming quality.
It seemed to Derek that he had been patrolling the platform for a
life-time, but he resumed his sentinel duty. The fact that the
boat-train, being already forty-five minutes overdue, might arrive at
any moment made it imperative that he remain where he was instead of
sitting, as he would much have preferred to sit, in one of the
waiting-rooms. It would be a disaster if his mother should get out of
the train and not find him there to meet her. That was just the sort
of thing which would infuriate her; and her mood, after a Channel
crossing and a dreary journey by rail, would be sufficiently
dangerous as it was.
The fog and the waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolute
front he had exhibited to Freddie at the breakfast-table had melted
since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the
prospect of the meeting that lay before him. Calm as he had appeared
to the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Derek, in the
recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--and
Derek Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the
nursery. They may put away childish things and rise in the world to
affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still
rules their lives. As a boy, Derek had always been firmly controlled
by his mother, and the sway of her aggressive personality had endured
through manhood. Lady Underhill was a born ruler, dominating most of
the people with whom life brought her in contact. Distant cousins
quaked at her name, while among the male portion of her nearer
relatives she was generally alluded to as The Family Curse.
Now that his meeting with her might occur at any moment, Derek shrank
from it. It was not likely to be a pleasant one. The mere fact that
Lady Underhill was coming to London at all made that improbable. When
a man writes to inform his mother, who is wintering on the Riviera,
that he has become engaged to be married, the natural course for her
to pursue, if she approves of the step, is to wire her
congratulations and good wishes. When for these she substitutes a
curt announcement that she is returning immediately, a certain lack
of complaisance seems to be indicated.
Would his mother approve of Jill? That was the question which he had
been asking himself over and over again as he paced the platform in
the disheartening fog. Nothing had been said, nothing had even been
hinted, but he was perfectly aware that his marriage was a matter
regarding which Lady Underhill had always assumed that she was to be
consulted, even if she did not, as he suspected, claim the right to
dictate. And he had become engaged quite suddenly, without a word to
her until it was all over and settled.
That, as Freddie had pointed out, was the confoundedly awkward part
of it. His engagement had been so sudden. Jill had swept into his
life like a comet. His mother knew nothing of her. A month ago he had
known nothing of her himself. It would, he perceived, as far as the
benevolent approval of Lady Underhill was concerned, have been an
altogether different matter had his choice fallen upon one of those
damsels whose characters, personality, and ancestry she knew.
Daughters of solid and useful men; sisters of rising young
politicians like himself; nieces of Burke's peerage; he could have
introduced without embarrassment one of these in the role of
bride-elect. But Jill . . . Oh, well, when once his mother had met
Jill, everything was sure to be all right. Nobody could resist Jill.
It would be like resisting the sunshine.
Somewhat comforted by this reflection, Derek turned to begin one more
walk along the platform, and stopped in mid-stride, raging. Beaming
over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all helpfulness and devotion,
Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the friend that sticketh
closer than a brother. Like some loving dog, who, ordered home,
sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round corners
and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie had followed
him after all. And with him, to add the last touch to Derek's
discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, Ronny
Devereux and Algy Martyn.
"Well, old thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on the
shoulder, "here we are after all! I know you told me not to roil
round and so forth, but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it over
after you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not to
cluster about you in your hour of need. I hope you don't mind Ronny
and Algy breezing along, too. The fact is, I was in the deuce of a
funk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyzes my nerve-centers,
you know--so I roped them in. Met 'em in Piccadilly, groping about
for the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decently
consenting. We all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist
chappie's at the top of the Hay-market, and now we're feeling full of
beans and buck, ready for anything. I've explained the whole thing to
them, and they're with you to the death! Collect a gang, dear boy,
collect a gang! That's the motto. There's nothing like it!"
"Nothing!" said Ronny.
"Absolutely nothing!" said Algy.
"We'll just see you through the opening stages," said Freddie, "and
then leg it. We'll keep the conversation general, you know."
"Stop it getting into painful channels," said Ronny.
"Steer it clear," said Algy, "of the touchy topic."
"That's the wheeze," said Freddie. "We'll . . . Oh, golly! There's
the train coming in now!" His voice quavered, for not even the
comforting presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him in
this ordeal. But he pulled himself together with a manful effort.
"Stick it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "Now is the time for all
good men to come to the aid of the party!"
"We're here!" said Ronny Devereux.
"On the spot!" said Algy Martyn.
