Half an hour and three paces round the block later, Thomas stood on the front step of his brother's home. If there was anything in this world Thomas could count on, it was that Percival could take his mind off of. . .things. . . no matter the cost. And it had been said many times: all is fair in love and war.
Thomas remained at his brother's house for a grand total of three hours; nothing like the 'impromptu' week-long visit he had planned in his head. Thomas stood at the edge of the street, top hat being crushed and un-crushed a thousand times over in his clenching fist. With frustration raging through his body, he replayed the last hours in his mind.
It had all started out marvelously according to schedule: a surprised greeting and clap on the back from Percival; a hug and a kiss on the cheek from his sweet wife, Miriam; a bombardment of children begging to be played with, only to be disappointed when their father shewed them away so that he and his brother might talk man to man. It had been the perfect family reunion, by golly. And then it went and ruined itself.
The brothers had gone out into the garden to discuss 'gentlemen's matters' (or at least that is what they told the rest of the household). After their talk of business and billiards had dried up--about three minutes after having left the house--Thomas conveniently noticed the very poor condition of his brother's garden and took up the idea of improving its appearance. A quarter of an hour later, he was interrupted from his work by this sentiment from his brother:
"Alright, let's have it. What's on your mind?"
Thomas was all innocence. Looking up from weeding around a welting tomato plant, he formulated his response. "I don't understand. . . . What do you mean?"
Percival pulled Thomas up by his collar. "What I mean is: I know you better than anyone. You don't just show up for a week of empty chatter, you want to talk about things. And that's just the half of it: I happen to know that you love vegetables."
Now Thomas was truly confused. "What have vegetables got to do with any of this?"
Percival seemed incredulous, as if he hadn't ever have believed it would take this much prodding for a confession. "What have vegetables--! Why, you've just spent nearly half an hour thrashing my good tomatoes to pieces as though your life depended on it! If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to avoid something."
Thomas bowed his head in penitence, and brushed the dirt from off his hands. "You know, I came here with every intention of spouting off all my troubles onto your chest and leaving with a clear mind, but now that I'm here, it's suddenly impossible to say what it is that's bothering me. The whether is fine. The stocks are good. Mother is in excellent health. The world is as it should be: you here with your wife and children, and me at Roudington Hall. . . ." Thomas let his sentence fade away. He knew exactly what the problem was. Percival had suddenly turned into a sympathizer.
Thomas knew what was coming even before his brother gave him that look. "Oh, dear." Percival sighed. "You've fallen in love, haven't you? I'm afraid I can't help you there, brother. You've got to do all the heavy lifting on this one."
"Aye, but what am I to do? I feel as though I am on fire and surrounded by ice all at the same time and both of them trying to out do the other! It makes for a very worn battlefield, I can tell you that."
Percival had only one thing to tell his brother. He knew exactly how he felt, but he feared his advice would fall on deaf ears. "Ah, but this is madness! You know exactly what to do. Tell her, by Jove! Leave her a message, write it in a letter, sing it to her if you have to--just tell her!"
All Thomas could do was shake his head. "It's no use. She doesn't think of me like that. I'm just a frie--"he stopped suddenly. His eyes grew wide, realizing he had said too much. But it was too late. Percival knew. He knew everything.
"Oh, Tom. Not her. Not Cecilia. You promised. You promised you'd gotten over her. It's been years, Tom, years since you told me you were done with her. Has. . . has it always been like this?" He couldn't even answer, all he could do was grab his hat and walk out the front door.
Standing there, on the streets of London, it suddenly became quite apparent that if Thomas could not count on Percival, there was nothing in this world he could count on. It seemed not everything was fair in love and war, after all.
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