The Goal-Keeper and the Plutocrat (2)

    It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seen nothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. He sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.
    'Jones,' he said, 'I've been looking for you. I want a word with you.'
    'A thousand, if you wish it,' said Clarence, courteously.
    'Now, look here,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'I want to explain to you just what this game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had you fellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry and bright. If Houndsditch wins today, it means that I shall be able to hold up my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead of crawling round on my stomach and feeling like a black-beetle under a steam-roller. Do you get that?'
    'I do,' replied Clarence.
    'And not only that,' went on the millionaire. 'There's more. I have put up my Bloomer boot against Mr Dodson's Meredith ball as a side bet. You understand what that means? It means that either you win or my life is soured for ever. See?'
    'I have got you,' said Clarence.
    'Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day for keeping goal as you've never kept goal before. Everything depends on you. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch are safe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It's one thing or the other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's four thousand pounds waiting for you above what you share with the others.'
    Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.
    'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'keep your dross. I care nothing for money. All I ask of you,' proceeded Clarence, 'is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.'
    Mr Rackstraw looked sharply at him.
    'Repeat that,' he said. 'I don't think I quite got it.'
    'All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.'
    'Young man,' said Mr Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, 'I admire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so far that you'd need to look for it with a telescope.'
    'You refuse your consent?'
    'I never said you weren't a clever guesser.'
    'Why?'
    Mr Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs that hit you like a bullet.
    'How would you support my daughter?'
    'I was thinking that you would help to some extent.'
    'You were, were you?'
    'I was.'
    'Oh?'
    Mr Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.
    'Well,' he said, 'it's off. You can take that as coming from an authoritative source. No wedding-bells for you.'
    Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter smile curving his expressive lips.
    'And no Meredith ball for you!' he cried.
    Mr Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into him.
    'What?' he shouted.
    Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
    'Come, come,' said Mr Rackstraw, 'you wouldn't let a little private difference like that influence you in a really important thing like this football match, would you?'
    'I would.'
    'You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?'
    'Every time.'
    'Her white-haired old father?'
    'The colour of his hair would not affect me.'
    'Nothing would move you?'
    'Nothing.'
    'Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry Isabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this very day. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has ever seen. Shake hands.'
    For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and he spoke.
    'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'I cannot deceive you.'
    'That won't matter,' said the enthusiastic old man. 'I bet you'll be able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll be the greatest—'
    'My name is not Jones.'
    'Nor is mine. What does that matter?'
    'My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views—'
    'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'What are political views compared with the chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into the family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I didn't know who you were then.'
    'I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,' said Clarence, eyeing him doubtfully.
    'Then I'll be one too,' cried Mr Rackstraw. 'I own I've set my face against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up the Prime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself.'
    Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man's hand, outstretched to meet his.
    Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
    Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.
    'Wah?' he says.
    'That?' said Isabel. 'That is the ball Mr Meredith used to play with when he was a little boy.'
    She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her lip.
    'Hush!' she says. 'We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in there cornering wheat.'
    And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.