The confessions of a well-meaning womanMcKenna, Stephen
General
The confessions of a well-meaning woman
McKenna, Stephen
English fiction -- 20th century; Upper class -- England -- Fiction; Women -- England -- Fiction
"Well," said Culroyd, "I think you know a man called Deepe, Appleton
Deepe." My heart _sank_! "He called on me to-day--I don't know if
the fellow's mad, but he said: 'You're a cousin of Mr. William
Spenworth, aren't you? Now, he's been doing one of the things that a
gentleman _doesn't_ do; and some one has to thrash him for it. I'll
say that there's a girl mixed up in it, but I won't tell you any
more. She has no brothers, and her father's too old to do justice to
the occasion. The question is: who's to give him his thrashing? I'm
not as vigorous as I could wish; but I'll undertake it, if I must.
If, on the other hand, you'll do it for me and do it properly, we may
save a scandal; I shouldn't like to injure his mother in any way, but
he has to have his thrashing.' ... Well, I didn't know whether the
fellow was in his right mind... I tried to get him to tell me
something more... Then I said I'd think it over... What the devil's
Will been up to now?"
"_Now?_," I repeated.
Really, I will stand a good deal from Culroyd, because he is my
nephew and I am very fond of him. But I would not submit to being
hectored by my relations old and young, one after another. Goodness
me, the next thing would be that I should have to give sureties to
_Phyllida_ and allow _Ruth_ to make herself a ruler and a judge...
"Well, what does it mean?," Culroyd persisted.
"You have suggested," I said, "that this Sir Appleton Deepe was mad;
I can only fear that his madness was contagious."
I was _beside_ myself with anger... And at the same time _highly_
uneasy. Will had not been going to his club the last few days
because of this girl's practice of camping on the doorstep there; and
it was long past the time when he usually came home. Culroyd
shrugged his shoulders and said good-bye. I waited--on and on.
Seven o'clock, half-past seven, eight. I was just going up to dress
when Norden rang through to say that some one wished to speak to me
on the telephone.
Need I tell you that it was Sir Appleton Deepe? My dear, by that
time I should have been amazed if it had been any one _else_; he
seemed to dog my steps and pervade my life. As, he said, I was
apparently expecting Will home to dinner, I should no doubt like to
know that my boy was with him; they had met in the street, and he had
_persuaded_ him to come home...
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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