John Ingerfield | Page 4

round of it, mentally scrutinising every maiden that he knows. Some are charming, some are fair, some are rich; but no one of them approaches near to his carefully considered ideal.
He keeps the subject in his mind, and muses on it in the intervals of business. At odd moments he jots down names as they occur to him upon a slip of paper, which he pins for the purpose on the inside of the cover of his desk. He arranges them alphabetically, and when it is as complete as his memory can make it, he goes critically down the list, making a few notes against each. As a result, it becomes clear to him that he must seek among strangers for his wife.
He has a friend, or rather an acquaintance, an old school-fellow, who has developed into one of those curious social flies that in all ages are to be met with buzzing contentedly within the most exclusive circles, and concerning whom, seeing that they are neither rare nor rich, nor extraordinarily clever nor well born, one wonders "how the devil they got there!" Meeting this man by chance one afternoon, he links his arm in his and invites him home to dinner.
So soon as they are left alone, with the walnuts and wine between them, John Ingerfield says, thoughtfully cracking a hard nut between his fingers--
"Will, I'm going to get married."
"Excellent idea--delighted to hear it, I'm sure," replies Will, somewhat less interested in the information than in the delicately flavoured Madeira he is lovingly sipping. "Who's the lady?"
"I don't know, yet," is John Ingerfield's answer.
His friend glances slyly at him over his glass, not sure whether he is expected to be amused or sympathetically helpful.
"I want you to find one for me."
Will Cathcart puts down his glass and stares at his host across the table.
"Should be delighted to help you, Jack," he stammers, in an alarmed tone--"'pon my soul I should; but really don't know a damned woman I could recommend--'pon my soul I don't."
"You must see a good many: I wish you'd look out for one that you could recommend."
"Certainly I will, my dear Jack!" answers the other, in a relieved voice. "Never thought about 'em in that way before. Daresay I shall come across the very girl to suit you. I'll keep my eyes open and let you know."
"I shall be obliged to you if you will," replies John Ingerfield, quietly; "and it's your turn, I think, to oblige me, Will. I have obliged you, if you recollect."
"Shall never forget it, my dear Jack," murmurs Will, a little uneasily. "It was uncommonly good of you. You saved me from ruin, Jack: shall think about it to my dying day--'pon my soul I shall."
"No need to let it worry you for so long a period as that," returns John, with the faintest suspicion of a smile playing round his firm mouth. "The bill falls due at the end of next month. You can discharge the debt then, and the matter will be off your mind."
Will finds his chair growing uncomfortable under him, while the Madeira somehow loses its flavour. He gives a short, nervous laugh.
"By Jove," he says: "so soon as that? The date had quite slipped my memory."
"Fortunate that I reminded you," says John, the smile round his lips deepening.
Will fidgets on his seat. "I'm afraid, my dear Jack," he says, "I shall have to get you to renew it, just for a month or two,--deuced awkward thing, but I'm remarkably short of money this year. Truth is, I can't get what's owing to myself."
"That's very awkward, certainly," replies his friend, "because I am not at all sure that I shall be able to renew it."
Will stares at him in some alarm. "But what am I to do if I hav'n't the money?"
John Ingerfield shrugs his shoulders.
"You don't mean, my dear Jack, that you would put me in prison?"
"Why not? Other people have to go there who can't pay their debts."
Will Cathcart's alarm grows to serious proportions. "But our friendship," he cries, "our--"
"My dear Will," interrupts the other, "there are few friends I would lend three hundred pounds to and make no effort to get it back. You, certainly, are not one of them."
"Let us make a bargain," he continues. "Find me a wife, and on the day of my marriage I will send you back that bill with, perhaps, a couple of hundred added. If by the end of next month you have not introduced me to a lady fit to be, and willing to be, Mrs. John Ingerfield, I shall decline to renew it."
John Ingerfield refills his own glass and hospitably pushes the bottle towards his guest--who, however, contrary to his custom, takes no notice of it, but stares hard at his shoe-buckles.
"Are you serious?"