Chapter 12

It was hard, he said, it was a little hard that a gentleman could not run up to London for a couple of days on business without having his private grounds turned upside down. He had intended to deal well by the tradesmen of the town, to put business in their way, to give them large orders. But would he? Not much. As soon as ever the sun had risen and another day begun, their miserable accounts should be paid in full and their connection with him be cut off. Afterwards it was probable that he would institute legal proceedings against them for trespass and damage to property, and if they didn't all go to prison they might consider themselves uncommonly lucky, and if they didn't fly the spot within the brief space of two ticks he would get among them with a shotgun. He was sick of them. They were no gentlemen, but cads. Scoundrels. Creatures that it would be rank flattery to describe as human beings. That's the sort of things _they_ were. And now they might go--_quick_!

The meeting then dispersed, without the usual vote of thanks.

* * * * *

We were quiet at the farm that night. Ukridge sat like Marius among the ruins of Carthage and refused to speak. Eventually he took Bob with him and went for a walk.

Half an hour later I, too, wearied of the scene of desolation. My errant steps took me in the direction of the sea. As I approached I was aware of a figure standing in the moonlight, gazing moodily out over the waters. Beside the figure was a dog.

I would not disturb his thoughts. The dark moments of massive minds are sacred. I forebore to speak to him. As readily might one of the generals of the Grand Army have opened conversation with Napoleon during the retreat from Moscow.

I turned softly and walked the other way. When I looked back he was still there.

EPILOGUE

ARGUMENT. From the _Morning Post: "... and graceful, wore a simple gown of stiff satin and old lace, and a heavy lace veil fell in soft folds over the shimmering skirt. A reception was subsequently held by Mrs. O'Brien, aunt of the bride, at her house in Ennismore Gardens."_

IN THE SERVANTS' HALL

THE COOK. ... And as pretty a wedding, Mr. Hill, as ever I did see.

THE BUTLER. Indeed, Mrs. Minchley? And how did our niece look?

THE COOK (_closing her eyes in silent rapture_). Well, _there_! That lace! (_In a burst of ecstacy_.) Well, _there_!! Words can't describe it, Mr. Hill.

THE BUTLER. Indeed, Mrs. Minchley?

THE COOK. And Miss Phyllis--Mrs. Garnet, I _should_ say--she was as calm as calm. And looking beautiful as--well, there! Now, Mr. Garnet, he _did_ look nervous, if you like, and when the best man--such a queer-looking awkward man, in a frock coat that _I_ wouldn't have been best man at a wedding in--when he lost the ring and said--quite loud, everybody could hear him--"I can't find it, old horse!" why I did think Mr. Garnet would have fainted away, and so I said to Jane, as was sitting beside me. But he found it at the last moment, and all went on as merrily, as you may say, as a wedding bell.

JANE (_sentimentally_). Reely, these weddings, you know, they do give you a sort of feeling, if you catch my meaning, Mrs. Minchley.

THE BUTLER (_with the air of a high priest who condescends for once to unbend and frolic with lesser mortals_). Ah! it'll be your turn next, Miss Jane.

JANE (_who has long had designs on this dignified bachelor_). Oh, Mr. Hill, reely! You do poke your fun.

[_Raises her eyes to his, and drops them swiftly, leaving him with a pleasant sensation of having said a good thing particularly neatly, and a growing idea that he might do worse than marry Jane, take a nice little house in Chelsea somewhere, and let lodgings. He thinks it over._

TILBY (_a flighty young person who, when she has a moment or two to spare from the higher flirtation with the local policeman, puts in a little light work about the bedrooms_). Oh, I say, this'll be one in the eye for Riggetts, pore little feller. (_Assuming an air of advanced melodrama._) Ow! She 'as forsiken me! I'll go and blow me little 'ead off with a blunderbuss! Ow that one so fair could be so false!

MASTER THOMAS RIGGETTS (_the page boy, whose passion for the lady who has just become Mrs. Garnet has for many months been a byword in the servants' hall_). Huh! (_To himself bitterly._) Tike care, tike care, lest some day you drive me too far. [_Is left brooding darkly._

UPSTAIRS

THE BRIDE. ... Thank you.... Oh, thank you.... Thank you so much.... Thank you _so_ much ... oh, thank you.... Thank you.... Thank you _so_ much.

THE BRIDEGROOM. Thanks.... Oh, thanks.... Thanks awf'lly.... Thanks awf'lly.... Thanks awf'lly.... Oh, thanks awf'lly ... (_with a brilliant burst of invention, amounting almost to genius_) Thanks _frightfully_.

THE BRIDE (_to herself, rapturously_). A-a-a-h!

THE BRIDEGROOM (_dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief during a lull_). I shall drop.

THE BEST MAN (_appearing suddenly at his side with a glass_). Bellows to mend, old horse, what? Keep going. You're doing fine. Bless you. Bless you.

[_Drifts away._

ELDERLY STRANGER (_to bridegroom_). Sir, I have jigged your wife on my knee.

THE BRIDEGROOM (_with absent politeness_). Ah! Lately?

ELDERLY STRANGER. When she was a baby, sir.

THE BRIDEGROOM (_from force of habit_). Oh, thanks. Thanks awf'lly.

THE BRIDE (_to herself_). _Why_ can't one get married every day!... (_catching sight of a young gentleman whose bi-weekly conversation with her in the past was wont to consist of two remarks on the weather and one proposal of marriage_). _Oh_! Oh, what a _shame_ inviting poor little Freddy Fraddle! Aunt Kathleen _must_ have known! How could she be so cruel! Poor little fellow, he must be suffering dreadfully!

POOR LITTLE FREDDY FRADDLE (_addressing his immortal soul as he catches sight of the bridegroom, with a set smile on his face, shaking hands with an obvious bore_). Poor devil, poor, poor devil! And to think that I--! Well, well! There but for the grace of God goes Frederick Fraddle.

THE BRIDEGROOM (_to the_ OBVIOUS BORE). Thanks. Thanks awf'lly.

THE OBVIOUS BORE (_in measured tones_).... are going, as you say, to Wales for your honeymoon, you should on no account miss the opportunity of seeing the picturesque ruins of Llanxwrg Castle, which are among the most prominent spectacles of Carnarvonshire, a county, which I understand you to say, you propose to include in your visit. The ruins are really part of the village of Twdyd-Prtsplgnd, but your best station would be Golgdn. There is a good train service to and from that spot. If you mention my name to the custodian of the ruins, he will allow you to inspect the grave of the celebrated ----

IMMACULATE YOUTH (_interrupting_). Hello, Garnet, old man. Don't know if you remember me. Latimer, of Oriel. I was a fresher in your third year. Gratters!

THE BRIDEGROOM (_with real sincerity for once_). Thanks. Thanks awf'lly.

[_They proceed to talk Oxford shop together, to the exclusion of the O. B., who glides off in search of another victim_.

IN THE STREET

THE COACHMAN (_to his horse_). _Kim_ up, then!

THE HORSE (_to itself_). Deuce of a time these people are. Why don't they hurry. I want to be off. I'm certain we shall miss that train.

THE BEST MAN (_to crowd of perfect strangers, with whom in some mysterious way he has managed to strike up a warm friendship_). Now, then, you men, stand by. Wait till they come out, then blaze away. Good handful first shot. That's what you want.

THE COOK (_in the area, to_ JANE). Oh, I do 'ope they won't miss that train, don't you? Oh, here they come. Oh, don't Miss Phyllis--Mrs. Garnet--look--well, there. And I can remember her a little slip of a girl only so high, and she used to come to my kitchen, and she used to say, "Mrs. Minchley," she used to say--it seems only yesterday--"Mrs. Minchley, I want--"

[_Left reminiscing._

THE BRIDE (_as the page boy's gloomy eye catches hers, "smiles as she was wont to smile_").

MASTER RIGGETTS (_with a happy recollection of his latest-read work of fiction--"Sir Rupert of the Hall": Meadowsweet Library--to himself_). "Good-by, proud lady. Fare you well. And may you never regret. May--you--nevorrr--regret!"

[_Dives passionately into larder, and consoles himself with jam._

THE BEST MAN (_to his gang of bravoes_). Now, then, you men, bang it in.

[_They bang it in._

THE BRIDEGROOM (_retrieving his hat_). Oh-- [_Recollects himself in time._

THE BEST MAN. Oh, shot, sir! Shot, indeed!

[_The_ BRIDE _and_ BRIDEGROOM _enter the carriage amid a storm of rice._

THE BEST MAN (_coming to carriage window_). Garny, old horse.

THE BRIDEGROOM. Well?

THE BEST MAN. Just a moment. Look here, I've got a new idea. The best ever, 'pon my word it is. I'm going to start a duck farm and run it without water. What? You'll miss your train? Oh, no, you won't. There's plenty of time. My theory is, you see, that ducks get thin by taking exercise and swimming about and so on, don't you know, so that, if you kept them on land always, they'd get jolly fat in about half the time--and no trouble and expense. See? What? You bring the missus down there. I'll write you the address. Good-by. Bless you. Good-by, Mrs. Garnet.

THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM (_simultaneously, with a smile apiece_). Good-by.

[_They catch the train and live happily ever afterwards._]

* * * * *

End of Project Gutenberg's Love Among the Chickens, by P. G. Wodehouse