Stories by English Authors: London (Selected by Scribners)
General
Stories by English Authors: London (Selected by Scribners)
London (England) -- Fiction; Short stories, English
The next morning I wrote a note to Mrs. Currie, expressing my pleasure
at being able to restore the lost one, and another to Lilian, containing
only the words, “Will you believe _now_ that I am sincere?” Then I tied
both round the poodle’s neck, and dropped him over the wall into the
colonel’s garden just before I started to catch my train to town.
I had an anxious walk home from the station that evening; I went round
by the longer way, trembling the whole time lest I should meet any of
the Currie household, to which I felt myself entirely unequal just then.
I could not rest until I knew whether my fraud had succeeded, or if the
poodle to which I had intrusted my fate had basely betrayed me; but my
suspense was happily ended as soon as I entered my mother’s room. “You
can’t think how delighted those poor Curries were to see Bingo again,”
she said at once; “and they said such charming things about you,
Algy--Lilian particularly; quite affected she seemed, poor child! And
they wanted you to go round and dine there and be thanked to-night, but
at last I persuaded them to come to us instead. And they’re going to
bring the dog to make friends. Oh, and I met Frank Travers; he’s back
from circuit again now, so I asked him in too to meet them!”
I drew a deep breath of relief. I had played a desperate game, but I had
won! I could have wished, to be sure, that my mother had not thought of
bringing in Travers on that of all evenings, but I hoped that I could
defy him after this.
The colonel and his people were the first to arrive, he and his wife
being so effusively grateful that they made me very uncomfortable
indeed; Lilian met me with downcast eyes and the faintest possible
blush, but she said nothing just then. Five minutes afterward, when she
and I were alone together in the conservatory, where I had brought her
on pretence of showing a new begonia, she laid her hand on my sleeve
and whispered, almost shyly, “Mr. Weatherhead--Algernon! Can you ever
forgive me for being so cruel and unjust to you?” And I replied that,
upon the whole, I could.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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