CHAPTER IX
OWING possibly to the unaccustomed exercise, but probably to more sentimental reasons, Robert Vyner slept but poorly the night after his labours. He had explained his absence at the dinner-table by an airy reference to a long walk and a disquisition on the charms of the river by evening, an explanation which both Mr. Vyner and his wife had received with the silence it merited. It was evident that his absence had been the subject of some comment, but his father made no reference to it as they smoked a cigar together before retiring.
He awoke early in the morning and, after a vain attempt to get to sleep again, rose and dressed. Nobody else was stirring, and going quietly downstairs he took up a cap and went out.
Except for a labouring man or two tramping stolidly to work, the streets were deserted. The craft anchored in the river seemed asleep, and he stood for some time on the bridge idly watching the incoming tide. He lit his pipe and then, with a feeble endeavour to feel a little surprise at the fact, discovered that he was walking in the direction of Mr. Hartley’s house.
His pace slackened as he neared it, and he went by gazing furtively at the drawn blinds of the front windows. A feeling of regret that Joan Hartley should be missing such a delightful morning would not be denied; in imagination he saw himself strolling by her side and pointing out to her the beauties of the most unfrequented portions of the river bank. A sudden superstitious trust in fate—caught possibly from Captain Trimblett—made him turn and walk slowly past the house again. With an idea of giving fate another chance he repeated the performance. In all he passed eight times, and was about to enter upon the ninth, when he happened to look across the road and saw, to his annoyance, the small figure of Bassett speeding toward him.
“He is not down yet, sir,” said Bassett, respectfully.
Mr. Vyner suppressed his choler by an effort.
“Oh!” he said, stiffly. “Well?”
Bassett drew back in confusion. “I—I saw you walk up and down several times looking at the house, sir, and I thought it my duty to come and tell you,” he replied.
Mr. Vyner regarded him steadfastly. “Thank you,” he said, at last. “And how is it that you are out at such an early hour, prowling about like a raging lion looking for its breakfast?”
“I wasn’t, sir,” said Bassett; “I shall have my breakfast when I get home, at eight o’clock. I always get up at six; then I make sure of two hours in the fresh air.”
“And what time do you close your eyes on the world and its vanities?” inquired Mr. Vyner, with an appearance of great interest.
“I always go to bed as the clock strikes ten, sir,” said the youth.
“And suppose—suppose the clock should be wrong one day?” suggested the other, “would you apprehend any lasting injury to your constitution?”
“It couldn’t be, sir,” said Bassett; “I wind it myself.”
Mr. Vyner regarded him more thoughtfully than before. “I can foresee,” he said, slowly, “that you will grow up a great and good and wise man, unless—”
“Yes, sir,” said Bassett, anxiously.
“Unless somebody kills you in the meantime,” concluded Mr. Vyner. “It is not fair to tempt people beyond their strength, Bassett. Even a verdict of ‘Justifiable homicide’ might not quite ease the slayer’s conscience.”
“No, sir,” said the perplexed youth.
Mr. Vyner suddenly dropped his bantering air.
“How was it I didn’t see you?” he demanded, sternly.
“I don’t think you looked my side of the road, sir,” said Bassett. “You were watching Mr. Hartley’s windows all the time; and, besides, I was behind that hedge.”
He pointed to a well-trimmed privet hedge in a front garden opposite.
“Behind the hedge?” repeated the other, sharply. “What were you there for?”
“Watching a snail, sir,” replied Bassett.
“A what?” inquired Mr. Vyner, raising his voice.
“A snail, sir,” repeated the youth. “I’ve got a book on natural history, and I’ve just been reading about them. I saw this one as I was passing, and I went inside to study its habits. They are very interesting little things to watch—very.”
Fortified by the approval of a conscience that never found fault, he met the searchlight gaze that the junior partner turned upon him without flinching. Quite calm, although somewhat puzzled by the other’s manner, he stood awaiting his pleasure.
“Yes,” said Robert Vyner, at last; “very interesting indeed, I should think; but you have forgotten one thing, Bassett. When secreted behind a hedge watching one of these diverting little—er——”
“Gasteropodous molluscs, sir,” interjected Bassett, respectfully.
“Exactly,” said the other. “Just the word I was trying to think of. When behind a hedge watching them it is always advisable to whistle as loudly and as clearly as you can.”
“I never heard that, sir,” said Bassett, more and more perplexed. “It’s not in my book, but I remember once reading, when I was at school, that spiders are sometimes attracted by the sound of a flute.”
“A flute would do,” said Mr. Vyner, still watching him closely; “but a cornet would be better still. Good-morning.”
He left Bassett gazing after him round-eyed, and, carefully refraining from looking at Hartley’s windows, walked on at a smart pace. As he walked he began to wish that he had not talked so much; a vision of Bassett retailing the conversation of the morning to longer heads than his own in the office recurring to him with tiresome persistency. And, on the other hand, he regretted that he had not crossed the road and made sure that there was a snail.
Busy with his thoughts he tramped on mechanically, until, pausing on a piece of high ground to admire the view, he was surprised to see that the town lay so far behind. At the same time sudden urgent promptings from within bore eloquent testimony to the virtues of early rising and exercise as aids to appetite. With ready obedience he began to retrace his steps.
The business of the day was just beginning as he entered the outskirts of the town again. Blinds were drawn aside and maid-servants busy at front doors. By the time he drew near Laurel Lodge—the name was the choice of a former tenant—the work of the day had begun in real earnest. Instinctively slackening his pace, he went by the house with his eyes fastened on the hedge opposite, being so intent on what might, perhaps, be described as a visual alibi for Bassett’s benefit, in case the lad still happened to be there, that he almost failed to notice that Hartley was busy in his front garden and that Joan was standing by him. He stopped short and bade them “Good-morning.”
Mr. Hartley dropped his tools and hastened to the gate. “Good-morning,” he said, nervously; “I hope that there is nothing wrong. I went a little way to try and find you.”
“Find me?” echoed Mr. Vyner, reddening, as a suspicion of the truth occurred to him.
“Bassett told me that you had been walking up and down waiting to see me,” continued Hartley.
“I dressed as fast as I could, but by that time you were out of sight.”
Facial contortions, in sympathy with the epithets he was mentally heaping upon the head of Bassett, disturbed for a moment the serenity of Mr. Vyner’s countenance. A rapid glance at Miss Hartley helped him to regain his composure.
“I don’t know why the boy should have been so officious,” he said, slowly; “I didn’t want to see you. I certainly passed the house on my way. Oh, yes, and then I thought of going back—I did go a little way back—then I altered my mind again. I suppose I must have passed three times.”
“I was afraid there was something wrong,” said Hartley. “I am very glad it is all right. I’ll give that lad a talking to. He knocked us all up and said that you had been walking up and down for twenty-three minutes.”
The generous colour in Mr. Vyner’s cheeks was suddenly reflected in Miss Hartley’s. Their eyes met, and, feeling exceedingly foolish, he resolved to put a bold face on the matter.
“Bassett is unendurable,” he said, with a faint laugh, “and I suspect his watch. Still, I must admit that I did look out for you, because I thought if you were stirring I should like to come in and see what sort of a mess I made last night. Was it very bad?”
“N-no,” said Hartley; “no; it perhaps requires a little attention. Half an hour or so will put it right.”
“I should like to see my handiwork by daylight,” said Robert.
Hartley opened the garden-gate and admitted him, and all three, passing down the garden, stood gravely inspecting the previous night’s performance. It is to be recorded to Mr. Vyner’s credit that he coughed disparagingly as he eyed it.
“Father says that they only want taking up and replanting,” said Joan, softly, “and the footmarks raked over, and the mould cleared away from the path. Except for that your assistance was invaluable.”
“I—I didn’t quite say that,” said Hartley, mildly.
“You ought to have, then,” said Robert, severely. “I had no idea it was so bad. You’ll have to give me some lessons and see whether I do better next time. Or perhaps Miss Hartley will; she seems to be all right, so far as the theory of the thing goes.”
Hartley smiled uneasily, and to avoid replying, moved off a little way and became busy over a rosebush.
“Will you?” inquired Mr. Vyner, very softly. “I believe that I could learn better from you than from anybody; I should take more interest in the work. One wants sympathy from a teacher.”
Miss Hartley shook her head. “You had better try a three months’ course at Dale’s Nurseries,” she said, with a smile. “You would get more sympathy from them than from me.”
“I would sooner learn from you,” persisted Robert.
“I could teach you all I know in half an hour,” said the girl.
Mr. Vyner drew a little nearer to her. “You overestimate my powers,” he said, in a low voice. “You have no idea how dull I can be; I am sure it would take at least six months.”
“That settles it, then,” said Joan. “I shouldn’t like a dull pupil.”
Mr. Vyner drew a little nearer still. “Perhaps—perhaps ‘dull’ isn’t quite the word,” he said, musingly.
“It’s not the word I should—” began Joan, and stopped suddenly.
“Thank you,” murmured Mr. Vyner. “It’s nice to be understood. What word would you use?”
Miss Hartley, apparently interested in her father’s movements, made no reply.
“Painstaking?” suggested Mr. Vyner; “assiduous? attentive? devoted?”
Miss Hartley, walking toward the house, affected not to hear. A fragrant smell of coffee, delicately blended with odour of grilled bacon, came from the open door and turned his thoughts to more mundane things. Mr. Hartley joined them just as the figure of Rosa appeared at the door. “Breakfast is quite ready, miss,” she announced.
She stood looking at them, and Mr. Vyner noticed an odd, strained appearance about her left eye which he attributed to a cast. A closer inspection made him almost certain that she was doing her best to wink.
“I laid for three, miss,” she said, with great simplicity. “You didn’t say whether the gentleman was going to stop or not; and there’s no harm done if he don’t.”
Mr. Hartley started, and in a confused fashion murmured something that sounded like an invitation; Mr. Vyner, in return murmuring something about “goodness” and “not troubling them,” promptly followed Joan through the French windows of the small dining-room.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” he said, heartily, as he seated himself opposite his host; “as a matter of fact I’m half famished.”
He made a breakfast which bore ample witness to the truth of his statement; a meal with long intervals of conversation. To Hartley, who usually breakfasted in a quarter of an hour, and was anxious to start for the office, it became tedious in the extreme, and his eyes repeatedly sought the clock. He almost sighed with relief as the visitor took the last piece of toast in the rack, only to be plunged again into depression as his daughter rang the bell for more. Unable to endure it any longer he rose and, murmuring something about getting ready, quitted the room.
“I’m afraid I’m delaying things,” remarked Mr. Vyner, looking after him apologetically.
Miss Hartley said, “Not at all,” and, as a mere piece of convention, considering that he had already had four cups, offered him some more coffee. To her surprise he at once passed his cup up. She looked at the coffee-pot and for a moment thought enviously of the widow’s cruse.
“Only a little, please,” he said. “I want it for a toast.”
“A toast?” said the girl.
Mr. Vyner nodded mysteriously. “It is a solemn duty,” he said, impressively, “and I want you to drink it with me. Are you ready? ‘Bassett, the best of boys!’”
Joan Hartley, looking rather puzzled, laughed, and put the cup to her lips. Robert Vyner put his cup down and regarded her intently.
“Do you know why we drank his health?” he inquired.
“No.”
“Because,” said Robert, pausing for a moment to steady his voice, “because, if it hadn’t been for his officiousness, I should not be sitting here with you.”
He leaned toward her. “Do you wish that you had not drunk it?” he asked.
Joan Hartley raised her eyes and looked at him so gravely that the mischief, with which he was trying to disguise his nervousness, died out of his face and left it as serious as her own. For a moment her eyes, clear and truthful, met his.
“No,” she said, in a low voice.
And at that moment Rosa burst into the room with two pieces of scorched bread and placed them upon the table. Unasked, she proffered evidence on her own behalf, and with great relish divided the blame between the coal merchant, the baker, and the stove. Mr. Hartley entered the room before she had done herself full justice, and Vyner, obeying a glance from Joan, rose to depart.
CHAPTER X
MR. VYNER spent the remainder of the morning in a state of dreamy exaltation. He leaned back in his chair devising plans for a future in which care and sorrow bore no part, and neglected the pile of work on his table in favour of writing the name “Joan Vyner” on pieces of paper, which he afterward burnt in the grate. At intervals he jumped up and went to the window, in the faint hope that Joan might be passing, and once, in the highest of high spirits, vaulted over his table. Removing ink from his carpet afterward by means of blotting-paper was only an agreeable diversion.
By mid-day his mood had changed to one of extreme tenderness and humility, and he began to entertain unusual misgivings as to his worthiness. He went home to lunch depressed by a sense of his shortcomings; but, on his return, his soaring spirits got the better of him again. Filled with a vast charity, his bosom overflowing with love for all mankind, he looked about to see whom he could benefit; and Bassett entering the room at that moment was sacrificed without delay. Robert Vyner was ashamed to think that he should have left the lad’s valuable services unrewarded for so long.
“It’s a fine afternoon, Bassett,” he said, leaning back and regarding him with a benevolent smile.
“Beautiful, sir,” said the youth.
“Too fine to sit in a stuffy office,” continued the other. “Put on your hat and go out and enjoy yourself.”
“Sir?” said the amazed Bassett.
“Take a half holiday,” said Vyner, still smiling.
“Thank you, sir,” said Bassett, “but I don’t care for holidays; and, besides, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Do it to-morrow,” said Vyner. “Go on—out you go!”
“It can’t be done to-morrow, sir,” said the youth, almost tearfully. “I’ve got all the letters to copy, and a pile of other work. And besides I shouldn’t know what to do with myself if I went.”
Mr. Vyner eyed him in astonishment. “I’m sorry to find a tendency to disobedience in you, Bassett,” he said, at last. “I’ve noticed it before. And as to saying that you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, it’s a mere idle excuse.”
“What time have I got to go, sir?” asked Bassett, resignedly.
“Time?” exclaimed the other. “Now, at once. Avaunt!”
The boy stood for a moment gazing at him in mute appeal, and then, moving with laggard steps to the door, closed it gently behind him. A sudden outbreak of four or five voices, all speaking at once, that filtered through the wall, satisfied Mr. Vyner that his orders were being obeyed.
Horrified at the grave charge of disobedience, Bassett distributed his work and left with what the junior clerk—whom he had constituted residuary legatee—considered unnecessary and indecent haste. The latter gentleman, indeed, to the youth’s discomfiture, accompanied him as far as the entrance, and spoke eloquently upon the subject all the way downstairs. His peroration consisted almost entirely of a repetition of the words “lazy fat-head.”
With this hostile voice still ringing in his ears Bassett strolled aimlessly about the streets of his native town. He spent some time at a stall in front of a second-hand bookshop, and was just deep in an enthralling romance, entitled “Story of a Lump of Coal,” when a huge hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to meet the admiring gaze of Mr. Walters.
“More book-larning,” said the boatswain, in tones of deep respect. “It’s a wonder to me that that head of yours don’t bust.”
“Heads don’t burst,” said Bassett. “The brain enlarges with use the same as muscles with exercise. They can’t burst.”
“I only wish I had arf your larning,” said Mr. Walters; “just arf, and I should be a very different man to wot I am now. Well, so long.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the youth, replacing the book.
“Seven Trees,” replied the other, displaying a small parcel. “I’ve got to take this over there for the skipper. How far do you make it?”
“Four miles,” said Bassett. “I’ll come with you, if you like.”
“Wot about the office?” inquired the boatswain, in surprise.
Bassett, explained, and a troubled expression appeared on the seaman’s face as he listened. He was thinking of the last conversation he had had with the youth, and the hearty way in which he had agreed with him as to the pernicious action of malt and other agreeable liquors on the human frame. He remembered that he had committed himself to the statement that wild horses could not make him drink before six in the evening, and then not more than one half-pint.
“It’s a long walk for a ’ot day,” he said, slowly. “It might be too much for you.”
“Oh, no; I’m a good walker,” said Bassett.
“Might be too much for that head of yours,” said Mr. Walters, considerately.
“I often walk farther than that,” was the reply.
Mr. Walters drew the back of his hand across a mouth which was already dry, and resigned himself to his fate. He had lied quite voluntarily, and pride told him that he must abide by the consequences. And eight miles of dusty road lay between him and relief. He strode along stoutly, and tried to turn an attentive ear to a dissertation on field-mice. At the end of the first mile he saw the sign of the Fox and Hounds peeping through the trees, and almost unconsciously slackened his pace as he remembered that it was the last inn on the road to Seven Trees.
“It’s very ’ot,” he murmured, mopping his brow with his sleeve, “and I’m as dry as a bone.”
“I’m thirsty, too,” said Bassett; “but you know the cure for it, don’t you?”
“O’ course I do,” said the boatswain, and nearly smacked his lips.
“Soldiers do it on the march,” said Bassett.
“I’ve seen ’em,” said Mr. Walters, grinning.
“A leaden bullet is the best thing,” said Bassett, stooping and picking up a pebble, which he polished on his trousers, “but this will do as well. Suck that and you won’t be troubled with thirst.”
The boatswain took it mechanically, and, after giving it another wipe on his own trousers, placed it with great care in his mouth. Bassett found another pebble and they marched on sucking.
“My thirst has quite disappeared,” he said, presently. “How’s yours?”
“Worse and worse,” said Mr. Walters, gruffly.
“It’ll be all right in a minute,” said Bassett. “Perhaps I had the best pebble. If it isn’t, perhaps we could get a glass of water at a cottage; athough it isn’t good to drink when you are heated.”
Mr. Walters made no reply, but marched on, marvelling at his lack of moral courage. Bassett, quite refreshed, took out his pebble, and after a grateful tribute to its properties placed it in his waistcoat pocket for future emergencies.
By the time they had reached Seven Trees and delivered the parcel Mr. Walters was desperate. The flattering comments that Bassett had made upon his common-sense and virtue were forgotten. Pleading fatigue he sat down by the roadside and, with his eyes glued to the open door of the Pedlar’s Rest, began to hatch schemes of deliverance.
A faint smell of beer and sawdust, perceptible even at that distance, set his nostrils aquiver. Then he saw an old labourer walk from the bar to a table, bearing a mug of foaming ale. Human nature could endure no more, and he was just about to throw away a hard-earned character for truth and sobriety when better thoughts intervened. With his eyes fixed on the small figure by his side, he furtively removed the pebble from his mouth, and then with a wild cry threw out his arms and clutched at his throat.
“What’s the matter?” cried Bassett, as the boatswain sprang to his feet.
“The stone,” cried Mr. Walters, in a strangulated voice; “it’s stuck in my throat.”
Bassett thumped him on the back like one possessed. “Cough it up!” he cried. “Put your finger down! Cough!”
The boatswain waved his arms and gurgled. “I’m choking!” he moaned, and dashed blindly into the inn, followed by the alarmed boy.
“Pot—six ale!” he gasped, banging on the little counter.
The landlord eyed him in speechless amazement.
“Six ale!” repeated the boatswain. “Pot! Quick! G-r-r.”
“You be off,” said the landlord, putting down a glass he was wiping, and eying him wrathfully. “How dare you come into my place like that? What do you mean by it?”
“He has swallowed a pebble!” said Bassett, hastily.
“If he’d swallowed a brick I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the landlord, “seeing the state he’s in. I don’t want drunken sailors in my place; and, what’s more, I won’t have ’em.”
“Drunk?” said the unfortunate boatswain, raising his voice. “Me? Why, I ain’t—”
“Out you go!” said the landlord, in a peremptory voice, “and be quick about it; I don’t want people to say you got it here.”
“Got it?” wailed Mr. Walters. “Got it? I tell you I ain’t had it. I swallowed a stone.”
“If you don’t go out,” said the landlord, as Mr. Walters, in token of good faith, stood making weird noises in his throat and rolling his eyes, “I’ll have you put out. How dare you make them noises in my bar! Will—you—go?”
Mr. Walters looked at him, looked at the polished nickel taps, and the neat row of mugs on the shelves. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out.
“Has it gone down?” inquired Bassett presently, as they walked along.
“Wot?” said the boatswain, thoughtlessly.
“The pebble.”
“I s’pose so,” said the other, sourly.
“I should think it would be all right, then,” said the boy; “foreign bodies, even of considerable size, are often swallowed with impunity. How is your thirst now?”
The boatswain stopped dead in the middle of the road and stood eying him suspiciously, but the mild eyes behind the glasses only betrayed friendly solicitude. He grunted and walked on.
By the time the Fox and Hounds came in sight again he had resolved not to lose a reputation which had entailed so much suffering. He clapped the boy on the back, and after referring to a clasp-knive which he remembered to have left on the grass opposite the Pedlar’s Rest, announced his intention of going back for it. He did go back as far as a bend in the road, and, after watching Bassett out of sight, hastened with expectant steps into the inn.
He rested there for an hour, and, much refreshed, walked slowly into Salthaven. It was past seven o’clock, and somewhat at a loss how to spend the evening he was bending his steps toward the Lobster Pot, a small inn by the quay, when in turning a corner he came into violent collision with a fashionably attired lady.
“I beg pardon, ma’am,” he stammered. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t see where I was—Why! Halloa, yaller wig!”
Miss Jelks drew back and, rubbing, her arm, eyed him haughtily.
“Fancy you in a ’at like that,” pursued the astonished boatswain. “No wonder I thought you was a lady. Well, and ’ow are you?”
“My health is very well, I thank you,” returned Miss Jelks, stiffly.
“That’s right,” said the boatswain, heartily.
Conversation came suddenly to a standstill, and they stood eying each other awkwardly.
“It’s a fine evening,” said Mr. Walters, at last.
“Beautiful,” said Rosa.
They eyed each other again, thoughtfully.
“You hurt my arm just now,” said Rosa, rubbing it coquettishly. “You’re very strong, aren’t you?”
“Middling,” said the boatswain.
“Very strong, I should say,” said Rosa. “You’ve got such a broad chest and shoulders.”
The boatswain inflated himself.
“And arms,” continued Miss Jelks, admiringly. “Arms like—like—”
“Blocks o’ wood,” suggested the modest Mr. Walters, squinting at them complacently.
“Or iron,” said Rosa. “Well, good-by; it’s my evening out, and I mustn’t waste it.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the boatswain.
Miss Jelks shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, softly.
“You can come with me if you like,” said Mr. Walters, weighing his words carefully. “A little way. I ain’t got nothing better to do.”
Miss Jelks’s eyes flashed, then with a demure smile she turned and walked by his side. They walked slowly up the street, and Mr. Walters’s brows grew black as a series of troublesome coughs broke out behind. A glance over his shoulder showed him three tavern acquaintances roguishly shaking their heads at him.
“Arf a second,” he said, stopping. “I’ll give ’em something to cough about.”
Rosa clutched his arm. “Not now; not while you are with me,” she said, primly.
“Just one smack,” urged the boatswain.
He looked round again and clenched his fists, as his friends, with their arms fondly encircling each other’s waists, walked mincingly across the road. He shook off the girl’s arm and stepped off the pavement as with little squeals, fondly believed to be feminine, they sought sanctuary in the Red Lion.
“They’re not worth taking notice of,” said Rosa.
She put a detaining hand through his arm again and gave it a little gentle squeeze. A huge feather almost rested on his shoulder, and the scent of eau-de-Cologne assailed his nostrils. He walked on in silent amazement at finding himself in such a position.
“It’s nice to be out,” said Rosa, ignoring a feeble attempt on his part to release his arm. “You’ve no idea how fresh the air smells after you’ve been shut up all day.”
“You’ve got a comfortable berth, though, haven’t you?” said Mr. Walters.
“Fairish,” said Rosa. “There’s plenty of work; but I like work—housework.”
The boatswain said “Oh!”
“Some girls can’t bear it,” said Rosa, “but then, as I often say, what are they going to do when they get married?”
“Ah!” said the boatswain, with an alarmed grunt, and made another attempt to release his arm.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Rosa, making a pretence of freeing him. “I’m afraid I’m leaning on you; but I sprained my ankle yesterday, and I thought—”
“All right,” said Mr. Walters, gruffly.
“Thank you,” said Rosa, and leaned on him heavily. “Housework is the proper thing for girls,” she continued, with some severity. “Every girl ought to know how to keep her husband’s house clean and cook nicely for him. But there—all they think about is love. What did you say?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Walters, hastily. “I didn’t say a word.”
“I don’t understand it myself,” said Rosa, taking an appraising glance at him from under the brim of her hat; “I can’t think why people want to get married when they’re comfortable.”
“Me neither,” said the boatswain.
“Being friends is all right,” said Rosa, meditatively, “but falling in love and getting married always seemed absurd to me.”
“Me too,” said Mr. Walters, heartily.
With a mind suddenly at ease he gave himself over to calm enjoyment of the situation. He sniffed approvingly at the eau-de-Cologne, and leaned heavily toward the feather. Apparently without either of them knowing it, his arm began to afford support to Miss Jelks’s waist. They walked on for a long time in silence.
“Some men haven’t got your sense,” said Rosa, at last, with a sigh. “There’s a young fellow that brings the milk—nice young fellow I thought he was—and all because I’ve had a word with him now and again, he tried to make love to me.”
“Oh, did he?” said Mr. Walters, grimly. “What’s his name?”
“It don’t matter,” said Rosa. “I don’t think he’ll try it again.”
“Still, I might as well learn ’im a lesson,” said the boatswain. “I like a bit of a scrap.”
“If you are going to fight everybody that tries to take notice of me you’ll have your work cut out,” said Miss Jelks, in tones of melancholy resignation, “and I’m sure it’s not because I give them any encouragement. And as for the number that ask me to walk out with them—well, there!”
Mr. Walters showed his sympathy with such a state of affairs by a pressure that nearly took her breath away. They sat for an hour and a half on a bench by the river discussing the foolishness of young men.
“If any of them chaps trouble you again,” he said, as they shook hands at the gate of Laurel Lodge, “you let me know. Do you have Sunday evening out too?”
CHAPTER XI
“I HAVE been knocking for the last ten minutes,” said Hartley, as he stood one evening at the open door of No. 5, Tranquil Vale, and looked up at Captain Trimblett.
“I was in the summer-house,” said the captain, standing aside to let him enter.
“Alone?” queried the visitor.
“Alone? Yes, of course,” said the captain, sharply. “Why shouldn’t I be? Peter’s courting—as usual.”
“And Mrs. Chinnery?” inquired the other.
“She’s away for a day or two,” replied the captain; “friends at Marsham.”
He stopped in the small kitchen to get some beer and glasses, and, with the bottle gripped under his arm and a glass in each hand, led the way to the summer-house.
“I came to ask your advice,” said Hartley, as he slowly filled his pipe from the pouch the captain pushed toward him.
“Joan?” inquired the captain, who was carefully decanting the beer.
Mr. Hartley nodded.
“Robert Vyner?” pursued the captain.
Hartley nodded again.
“What did I tell you?” inquired the other, placing a full tumbler before him. “I warned you from the first. I told you how it would be. I——”
“It’s no good talking like that,” said Hartley, with feeble irritation. “You’re as bad as my poor old grandmother; she always knew everything before it happened—at least, she said so afterward. What I want to know is: how is it to be stopped? He has been round three nights running.”
“Your grandmother is dead, I suppose?” said the offended captain, gazing at the river. “Else she might have known what to do.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hartley, apologetically; “but I am so worried that I hardly know what I’m saying.”
“That’s all right,” said the captain, amiably. He drank some beer and, leaning back on the seat, knitted his brows thoughtfully.
“He admired her from the first,” he said, slowly. “I saw that. Does she like him, I wonder?”
“It looks like it,” was the reply.
The captain shook his head. “They’d make a fine couple,” he said, slowly. “As fine as you’d see anywhere. It’s fate again. Perhaps he was meant to admire her; perhaps millions of years ago——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Hartley, hastily; “but the thing is, how to prevent it.”
“Fate can’t be prevented,” said the captain, who was now on his favourite theme. “Think of the millions of things that had to happen to make it possible for those two young people to meet and cause this trouble. That’s what I mean. If only one little thing had been missing, one little circumstance out of millions, Joan wouldn’t have been born; you wouldn’t have been born.”
Mr. Hartley attempted to speak, but the captain, laying down his pipe, extended an admonitory finger.
“To go back only a little way,” he said, solemnly, “your father had the measles, hadn’t he?”
“I don’t know—I believe so,” said Hartley.
“Good,” said the captain; “and he pulled through ’em, else you wouldn’t have been here. Again, he happened to go up North to see a friend who was taken ill while on a journey, and met your mother there, didn’t he?”
Hartley groaned.
“If your father’s friend hadn’t been taken ill,” said the captain, with tremendous solemnity, as he laid his forefinger on his friend’s knee, “where would you have been?”
“I don’t know,” said Hartley, restlessly, “and I don’t care.”
“Nobody knows,” said the other, shaking his head. “The thing is, as you are here, it seems to me that things couldn’t have been otherwise. They were all arranged. When your father went up North in that light-hearted fashion, I don’t suppose he thought for a moment that you’d be sitting here to-day worrying over one of the results of his journey.”
“Of course he didn’t,” exclaimed Hartley, impatiently; “how could he? Look here, Trimblett, when you talk like that I don’t know where I am. If my father hadn’t married my mother I suppose he would have married somebody else.”
“My idea is that he couldn’t,” said the captain, obstinately. “If a thing has got to be it will be, and there’s no good worrying about it. Take a simple example. Some time you are going to die of a certain disease—you can only die once—and you’re going to be buried in a certain grave—you can only be buried in one grave. Try and think that in front of you there is that one particular disease told off to kill you at a certain date, and in one particular spot of all this earth there is a grave waiting to be dug for you. At present we don’t know the date, or the disease, or the grave, but there they are, all waiting for you. That is fate. What is the matter? Where are you going?”
“Home,” said Hartley, bitterly, as he paused at the door. “I came round to you for a little help, and you go on in a way that makes my flesh creep. Good-by.”
“Wait a bit,” said the captain, detaining him. “Wait a bit; let’s see what can be done.”
He pulled the other back into his seat again and, fetching another bottle of beer from the house to stimulate invention, sat evolving schemes for his friend’s relief, the nature of which reflected more credit upon his ingenuity than his wisdom.
“But, after all,” he said, as Hartley made a third attempt to depart, “what is the good? The very steps we take to avoid disaster may be the ones to bring it on. While you are round here getting advice from me, Robert Vyner may be availing himself of the opportunity to propose.”
Hartley made no reply. He went out and walked up and down the garden, inspecting it. The captain, who was no gardener, hoped that the expression of his face was due to his opinion of the flowers.
“You must miss Mrs. Chinnery,” said Hartley, at last.
“No,” said the captain, almost explosively; “not at all. Why should I?”
“It can’t be so homelike without her,” said Hartley, stooping to pull up a weed or two.
“Just the same,” said the other, emphatically. “We have a woman in to do the work, and it doesn’t make the slightest difference to me—not the slightest.”
“How is Truefitt?” inquired Hartley.
The captain’s face darkened. “Peter’s all right,” he said, slowly. “He’s not treated me—quite well,” he added, after a little hesitation.
“It’s natural he should neglect you a bit, as things are,” said his friend.
“Neglect?” said the captain, bitterly. “I wish he would neglect me. He’s turning out a perfect busybody, and he’s getting as artful as they make ’em. I never would have believed it of Peter. Never.”
Hartley waited.
“I met Cap’n Walsh the other night,” said Trimblett; “we hadn’t seen each other for years, and we went into the Golden Fleece to have a drink. You know what Walsh is when he’s ashore. And he’s a man that won’t be beaten. He had had four tries to get a ‘cocktail’ right that he had tasted in New York, and while he was superintending the mixing of the fifth I slipped out. The others were all right as far as I could judge; but that’s Walsh all over.”
“Well?” said Hartley.
“I came home and found Peter sitting all alone in the dumps,” continued the captain. “He has been very down of late, and, what was worse, he had got a bottle of whiskey on the table. That’s a fatal thing to begin; and partly to keep him company, but mainly to prevent him drinking more than was good for him, I helped him finish the bottle—there wasn’t much in it.”
“Well?” said Hartley again, as the captain paused.
“He got talking about his troubles,” said the captain, slowly. “You know how things are, and, like a fool, I tried to cheer him up by agreeing with him that Mrs. Chinnery would very likely make things easy for him by marrying again. In fact, so far as I remember, I even helped him to think of the names of one or two likely men. He said she’d make anybody as good a wife as a man could wish.”
“So she would,” said Hartley, looking at him with sudden interest. “In fact, I have often wondered—”
“He went on talking like that,” continued the captain, hastily, “and out of politeness and good feeling I agreed with him. What else could I do? Then—I didn’t take much notice of it because, as I said, he was drinking whiskey—he—he sort of wondered why—why—”
“Why you didn’t offer to marry her?” interrupted Hartley.
The captain nodded. “It took my breath away,” he said, impressively, “and I lost my presence of mind. Instead of speaking out plain I tried to laugh it off—just to spare his feelings—and said I wasn’t worthy of her.”
“What did he say?” inquired Hartley, curiously, after another long pause.
“Nothing,” replied the captain. “Not a single word. He just gave me a strange look, shook my hand hard, and went off to bed. I’ve been uneasy in my mind ever since. I hardly slept a wink last night; and Peter behaves as though there is some mysterious secret between us. What would you do?”
Mr. Hartley took his friend’s arm and paced thoughtfully up and down the garden.
“Why not marry her?” he said, at last.
“Because I don’t want to,” said the captain, almost violently.
“You’d be safer at sea, then,” said the other.
“The ship won’t be ready for sea for weeks yet,” said Captain Trimblett, dolefully. “She’s going on a time-charter, and before she is taken over she has got to be thoroughly overhauled. As fast as they put one thing right something else is found to be wrong.”
“Go to London and stay with your children for a bit, then,” said Hartley. “Give out that you are only going for a day or two, and then don’t turn up till the ship sails.”
The captain’s face brightened. “I believe Vyner would let me go,” he replied. “I could go in a few days’ time, at any rate. And, by the way—Joan!”
“Eh?” said Hartley.
“Write to your brother-in-law at Highgate, and send her there for a time,” said the captain. “Write and ask him to invite her. Keep her and young Vyner apart before things go too far.”
“I’ll see how things go for a bit,” said Hartley, slowly. “It’s awkward to write and ask for an invitation. And where do your ideas of fate come in?” “They come in all the time,” said the captain, with great seriousness. “Very likely my difficulty was made on purpose for us to think of a way of getting you out of yours. Or it might be Joan’s fate to meet somebody in London at her uncle’s and marry him. If she goes we might arrange to go up together, so that I could look after her.”
“I’ll think it over,” said his friend, holding out his hand. “I must be going.”
“I’ll come a little way with you,” said the captain, leading the way into the house. “I don’t suppose Peter will be in yet, but he might; and I’ve had more of him lately than I want.”
He took up his hat and, opening the door, followed Hartley out into the road. The evening was warm, and they walked slowly, the captain still discoursing on fate and citing various instances of its working which had come under his own observation. He mentioned, among others, the case of a mate of his who found a wife by losing a leg, the unfortunate seaman falling an easy victim to the nurse who attended him.
“He always put it down to the effects of the chloroform,” concluded the captain; “but my opinion is, it was to be.”
He paused at Hartley’s gate, and was just indulging in the usual argument as to whether he should go indoors for a minute or not, when a man holding a handkerchief to his bleeding face appeared suddenly round the corner of the house and, making a wild dash for the gate, nearly overturned the owner.
“It looks like our milkman!” said Hartley, recovering his balance and gazing in astonishment after the swiftly retreating figure. “I wonder what was the matter with him?”
“He would soon know what was the matter with him if I got hold of him,” said the wrathful captain.
Hartley opened the door with his key, and the captain, still muttering under his breath, passed in. Rosa’s voice, raised in expostulation, sounded loudly from the kitchen, and a man’s voice, also raised, was heard in response.
“Sounds like my bo’sun,” said the captain, staring as he passed into the front room. “What’s he doing here?”
Hartley shook his head.
“Seems to be making himself at home,” said the captain, fidgeting. “He’s as noisy as if he was in his own house.”
“I don’t suppose he knows you are here,” said his friend, mildly.
Captain Trimblett still fidgeted. “Well, it’s your house,” he said at last. “If you don’t mind that lanky son of a gun making free, I suppose it’s no business of mine. If he made that noise aboard my ship—”
Red of face he marched to the window and stood looking out. Fortified by his presence, Hartley rang the bell.
“Is there anybody in the kitchen?” he inquired, as Rosa answered it. “I fancied I heard a man’s voice.”
“The milkman was here just now,” said Rosa, and, eying him calmly, departed.
The captain swung round in wrathful amazement. “By——,” he spluttered; “I’ve seen—well—by—b-r-r-r—— Can I ring for that d——d bo’sun o’ mine?”
“Certainly,” said Hartley.
The captain crossed to the fireplace and, seizing the bell-handle, gave a pull that made the kitchen resound with wild music. After a decent interval, apparently devoted to the allaying of masculine fears, Rosa appeared again.
“Did you ring, sir?” she inquired, gazing at her master.
“Send that bo’sun o’ mine here at once!” said the captain, gruffly.
Rosa permitted herself a slight expression of surprise. “Bo’sun, sir?” she asked, politely.
“Yes.”
The girl affected to think. “Oh, you mean Mr. Walters?” she said, at last.
“Send him here,” said the captain.
Rosa retired slowly, and shortly afterward something was heard brushing softly against the wall of the passage. It ceased for a time, and just as the captain’s patience was nearly at an end there was a sharp exclamation, and Mr. Walters burst suddenly into the room and looked threateningly over his shoulder at somebody in the passage.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Captain Trimblett, loudly.
Mr. Walters eyed him uneasily, and with his cap firmly gripped in his left hand saluted him with the right. Then he turned his head sideways toward the passage. The captain repeated his question in a voice, if anything, louder than before.
The strained appearance of Mr. Walters’s countenance relaxed.
“Come here for my baccy-box, wot I left here the other day,” he said, glibly, “when you sent me.”
“What were you making that infernal row about, then?” demanded the captain.
Mr. Walters cast an appealing glance toward the passage and listened acutely. “I was—grumbling because—I couldn’t—find it,” he said, with painstaking precision.
“Grumbling?” repeated the captain. “That ugly voice of yours was enough to bring the ceiling down. What was the matter with that man that burst out of the gate as we came in, eh?”
The boatswain’s face took on a wooden expression.
“He—his nose was bleeding,” he said, at last.
“I know that,” said the captain, grimly; “but what made it bleed?”
For a moment Mr. Walters looked like a man who has been given a riddle too difficult for human solution. Then his face cleared again.
“He—he told me—he was object—subject to it,” he stammered. “Been like it since he was a baby.”
He shifted his weight to his other foot and shrugged eloquently the shoulder near the passage.
“What did you do to him?” demanded the captain, in a low, stern voice.
“Me, sir?” said Mr. Walters, with clumsy surprise. “Me, sir? I—I—all I done—all I done—was to put a door-key down his back.”
“Door-key?” roared the captain.
“To—to stop the bleeding, sir,” said Mr. Walters, looking at the floor and nervously twisting his cap in his hands. “It’s a old-fashioned—”
“That’ll do,” exclaimed the captain, in a choking voice, “that’ll do. I don’t want any more of your lies. How dare you come to Mr. Hartley’s house and knock his milkman about, eh? How dare you? What do you mean by it?”
Mr. Walters fumbled with his cap again. “I was sitting in the kitchen,” he said at last, “sitting in the kitchen—hunting ’igh and low for my baccy-box—when this ’ere miserable, insulting chap shoves his head in at the door and calls the young lady names.”
“Names?” said the captain, frowning, and waving an interruption from Hartley aside. “What names?”
Mr. Walters hesitated again, and his brow grew almost as black as the captain’s.
“‘Rosy-lips,’” he said, at last; “and I give ’im such a wipe acrost——”
“Out you go,” cried the wrathful captain. “Out you go, and if I hear your pretty little voice in this house again you’ll remember it, I can tell you. D’ye hear? Scoot!”
Mr. Walters said “Thank you,” and, retiring with an air of great deference, closed the door softly behind him.
“There’s another of them,” said Captain Trimblett subsiding into a chair. “And from little things I had heard here and there I thought he regarded women as poison. Fate again, I suppose; he was made to regard them as poison all these years for the sake of being caught by that tow-headed wench in your kitchen.”