CHAPTER XII
BY no means insensible to the difficulties in the way, Joan Hartley had given no encouragement to Mr. Robert Vyner to follow up the advantage afforded him by her admission at the breakfast-table. Her father’s uneasiness, coupled with the broad hints which Captain Trimblett mistook for tactfulness, only confirmed her in her resolution; and Mr. Vyner, in his calmer moments, had to admit to himself that she was right—for the present, at any rate. Meantime, they were both young, and, with the confidence of youth, he looked forward to a future in which his father’s well-known views on social distinctions and fitting matrimonial alliances should have undergone a complete change. As to his mother, she merely seconded his father’s opinions, and, with admiration born of love and her marriage vows, filed them for reference in a memory which had on more than one occasion been a source of great embarrassment to a man who had not lived for over fifty years without changing some of them.
Deeply conscious of his own moderation, it was, therefore, with a sense of annoyance that Mr. Robert Vyner discovered that Captain Trimblett was actually attempting to tackle him upon the subject which he considered least suitable for discussion. They were sitting in his office, and the captain, in pursuance of a promise to Hartley, after two or three references to the weather, and a long account of an uninteresting conversation with a policeman, began to get on to dangerous ground.
“I’ve been in the firm’s service a good many years now,” he began.
“I hope you’ll be in as many more,” said Vyner, regarding him almost affectionately.
“Hartley has been with you a long time, too,” continued Trimblett, slowly. “We became chums the first time we met, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not just fair-weather friends, but close and hearty; else I wouldn’t venture to speak to you as I’m going to speak.”
Mr. Vyner looked up at him suddenly, his face hard and forbidding. Then, as he saw the embarrassment in the kindly old face before him, his anger vanished and he bent his head to hide a smile.
“Fire away,” he said, cordially.
“I’m an old man,” began the captain, solemnly.
“Nonsense,” interrupted Robert, breezily. “Old man indeed! A man is as old as he feels, and I saw you the other night, outside the Golden Fleece, with Captain Walsh—”
“I couldn’t get away from him,” said the captain, hastily.
“So far as I could see you were not trying,” continued the remorseless Robert. “You were instructing him in the more difficult and subtle movements of a hornpipe, and I must say I thought your elasticity was wonderful—wonderful.”
“It was just the result of an argument I had with him,” said the captain, looking very confused, “and I ought to have known better. But, as I was saying, I am an old man, and—”
“But you look so young,” protested Mr. Vyner.
“Old man,” repeated the captain, ignoring the remark. “Old age has its privileges, and one of them is to give a word in season before it is too late.”
“‘A stitch in time saves nine,’” quoted Robert, with an encouraging nod.
“And I was speaking to Hartley the other day,” continued the captain. “He hasn’t been looking very well of late, and, as far as I can make out, he is a little bit worried over the matter I want to speak to you about.”
Robert Vyner’s face hardened again for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and, playing with his watch-chain, regarded the other intently. Then he smiled maliciously.
“He told me,” he said, nodding.
“Told you?” repeated the captain, in astonishment.
Mr. Vyner nodded again, and bending down pretended to glance at some papers on his table.
“Green-fly,” he said, gravely. “He told me that he syringes early and late. He will clear a tree, as he thinks, and while he has gone to mix another bucket of the stuff there are several generations born. Bassett informs me that a green-fly is a grandfather before it is half an hour old. So you see it is hopeless. Quite.”
Captain Trimblett listened with ill-concealed impatience. “I was thinking of something more important than green-flies,” he said, emphatically.
“Yes?” said Vyner, thoughtfully.
It was evident that the old sailor was impervious to hints. Rendered unscrupulous by the other’s interference, and at the same time unwilling to hurt his feelings, Mr. Vyner bethought himself of a tale to which he had turned an unbelieving ear only an hour or two before.
“Of course, I quite forgot,” he said, apologetically. “How stupid of me! I hope that you’ll accept my warmest congratulations and be very, very happy. I can’t tell you how pleased I am. But for the life of me I can’t see why it should worry Hartley.”
“Congratulations?” said the captain, eying him in surprise. “What about?”
“Your marriage,” replied Robert. “I only heard of it on my way to the office, and your talking put it out of my head.”
“Me?” said Captain Trimblett, going purple with suppressed emotion. “My marriage? I’m not going to be married. Not at all.”
“What do you mean by ‘not at all?’” inquired Mr. Vyner, looking puzzled. “It isn’t a thing you can do by halves.”
“I’m not going to be married at all,” said the captain, raising his voice. “I never thought of such a thing. Who—who told you?”
“A little bird,” said Robert, with a simpering air.
Captain Trimblett took out a handkerchief, and after blowing his nose violently and wiping his heated face expressed an overpowering desire to wring the little bird’s neck.
“Who was it?” he repeated.
“A little bird of the name of Sellers—Captain Sellers,” replied Robert. “I met him on my way here, hopping about in the street, simply brimming over with the news.”
“There isn’t a word of truth in it,” said the agitated captain. “I never thought of such a thing. That old mischief-making mummy must be mad—stark, starin’ mad.”
“Dear me!” said Robert, regretfully. “He seems such a dear old chap, and I thought it was so nice to see a man of his age so keenly interested in the love-affairs of a younger generation. Anybody might have thought you were his own son from the way he talked of you.”
“I’ll ‘son’ him!” said the unhappy captain, vaguely.
“He is very deaf,” said Robert, gently, “and perhaps he may have misunderstood somebody. Perhaps somebody told him you were not- going to be married. Funny he shouts so, isn’t it? Most deaf people speak in a very low voice.”
“Did he shout that?” inquired Captain Trimblett, in a quivering voice.
“Bawled it,” replied Mr. Vyner, cheerfully; “but as it isn’t true, I really think that you ought to go and tell Captain Sellers at once. There is no knowing what hopes he may be raising. He is a fine old man; but perhaps, after all, he is a wee bit talkative.”
Captain Trimblett, who had risen, stood waiting impatiently until the other had finished, and then, forgetting all about the errand that had brought him there, departed in haste. Mr. Vyner went to the window, and a broad smile lit up his face as he watched the captain hurrying across the bridge. With a blessing on the head of the most notorious old gossip in Salthaven, he returned to his work.
Possessed by a single idea, Captain Trimblett sped on his way at a pace against which both his age and his figure protested in vain. By the time he reached Tranquil Vale he was breathless, and hardly able to gasp his inquiry for Captain Sellers to the old housekeeper who attended the door.
“He’s a-sitting in the garden looking at his flowers,” she replied. “Will you go through?”
Captain Trimblett went through. His head was erect and his face and eyes blazing. A little old gentleman, endowed with the far sight peculiar to men who have followed the sea, who was sitting in a deck-chair at the bottom of the garden, glimpsed him and at once collapsed. By the time the captain reached the chair he discovered a weasel-faced, shrunken old figure in a snuff-coloured suit of clothes sunk in a profound slumber. He took him by the arms and shook him roughly.
“Yes? Halloa! What’s matter?” inquired Captain Sellers, half waking.
Captain Trimblett arched his hand over his mouth and bent to an ear apparently made of yellow parchment.
“Cap’n Sellers,” he said, in a stern, thrilling voice, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
The old man opened his eyes wide and sat blinking at him. “I’ve been asleep,” he said, with a senile chuckle. “How do, Cap’n Trimblett?”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” repeated the other.
“Eh?” said Captain Sellers, putting his hand to his ear.
“A—bone—to—pick—with—you,” said the incensed Trimblett, raising his voice. “What do you mean by it?”
“Eh?” said Captain Sellers, freshly.
“What do you mean by saying things about me?” bawled Trimblett. “How dare you go spreading false reports about me? I’ll have the law of you.”
Captain Sellers smiled vaguely and shook his head.
“I’ll prosecute you,” bellowed Captain Trimblett. “You’re shamming, you old fox. You can hear what I say plain enough. You’ve been spreading reports that I’m going to—”
He stopped and looked round just in time. Attracted by the volume of his voice, the housekeeper had come to the back door, two faces appeared at the next-door windows, and the back of Mr. Peter Truefitt was just disappearing inside his summer-house.
“I know you are talking,” said Captain Sellers, plaintively, “because I can see your lips moving. It’s a great affliction—deafness.”
He fell back in his chair again, and, with a crafty old eye cocked on the windows next door, fingered a scanty tuft of white hair on his chin and smiled weakly. Captain Trimblett controlled himself by an effort, and, selecting a piece of paper from a bundle of letters in his pocket, made signs for a pencil. Captain Sellers shook his head; then he glanced round uneasily as Trimblett, with an exclamation of satisfaction, found an inch in his waistcoat-pocket and began to write. He nodded sternly at the paper when he had finished, and handed it to Captain Sellers.
The old gentleman received it with a pleasant smile, and, extricating himself from his chair in a remarkable fashion considering his age, began to fumble in his pockets. He went through them twice, and his countenance, now lighted by hope and now darkened by despair, conveyed to Captain Trimblett as accurately as speech could have done the feelings of a man to whom all reading matter, without his spectacles, is mere dross.
“I can’t find my glasses,” said Captain Sellers, at last, lowering himself into the chair. Then he put his hand to his ear and turned toward his visitor. “Try again,” he said, encouragingly.
Captain Trimblett eyed him for a moment in helpless wrath, and then, turning on his heel, marched back through the house, and after standing irresolute for a second or two entered his own. The front room was empty, and from the silence he gathered that Mrs. Chinnery was out. He filled his pipe, and throwing himself into an easy-chair sought to calm his nerves with tobacco, while he tried to think out his position. His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Truefitt, and something in the furtive way that gentleman eyed him as he came into the room only served to increase his uneasiness.
“Very warm,” said Truefitt.
The captain assented, and with his eyes fixed on the mantelpiece smoked in silence.
“I saw you ... talking ... to Captain Sellers just now,” said Mr. Truefitt, after a long pause.
“Aye,” said the captain. “You did.”
His eyes came from the mantelpiece and fixed themselves on those of his friend. Mr. Truefitt in a flurried fashion struck a match and applied it to his empty pipe.
“I’ll have the law of him,” said the captain, fiercely; “he has been spreading false reports about me.”
“Reports?” repeated Mr. Truefitt, in a husky voice.
“He has been telling everybody that I am about to be married,” thundered the captain.
Mr. Truefitt scratched the little bit of gray whisker that grew by his ear.
“I told him,” he said at last.
“You?” exclaimed the amazed captain. “But it isn’t true.”
Mr. Truefitt turned to him with a smile intended to be arch and reassuring. The result, owing to his nervousness, was so hideous that the captain drew back in dismay.
“It’s—it’s all right,” said Mr. Truefitt at last. “Ah! If it hadn’t been for me you might have gone on hoping for years and years, without knowing the true state of her feelings toward you.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the captain, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Sellers is a little bit premature,” said Mr. Truefitt, coughing. “There is nothing settled yet, of course. I told him so. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have mentioned it at all just yet, but I was so pleased to find that it was all right I had to tell somebody.”
“What are you—talking about?” gasped the captain.
Mr. Truefitt looked up, and by a strong effort managed to meet the burning gaze before him.
“I told Susanna,” he said, with a gulp.
“Told her? Told her what?” roared the captain.
“Told her that you said you were not worthy of her,” replied Mr. Truefitt, very slowly and distinctly.
The captain took his pipe out of his mouth, and laying it on the table with extreme care listened mechanically while the clock struck five.
“What did she say?” he inquired, hoarsely, after the clock had finished.
Mr. Truefitt leaned over, and with a trembling hand patted him on the shoulder.
“She said, ‘Nonsense,’” he replied, softly.
The captain rose and, putting on his cap—mostly over one eye—put out his hands like a blind man for the door, and blundered out into the street.
CHAPTER XIII
“MR. VYNER wants to see you, sir,” said Bassett, as Hartley, coming in from a visit to the harbour, hung his hat on a peg and began to change into the old coat he wore in the office. “Mr. John; he has rung three times.”
The chief clerk changed his coat again, and after adjusting his hair in the little piece of unframed glass which he had bought in the street for a penny thirty years before, hastened to the senior partner’s room.
Mr. Vyner, who was rinsing his hands in a little office washstand that stood in the corner, looked round at his entrance and, after carefully drying his hands on a soft towel, seated himself at his big writing table, and, leaning back, sat thoughtfully regarding his finger-nails. His large, white, freckled hands were redolent of scented soap, and, together with his too regular teeth, his bald head, and white side-whiskers, gave him an appearance of almost aggressive cleanliness.
“I rang for you several times,” he said, looking up with a frown.
“I have just come back from Wilson’s,” said Hartley; “you told me to see them to-day.”
Mr. Vyner said “Yes,” and, caressing his shaven chin in his hand, appeared to forget the other’s existence.
“How long have you been with us?” he inquired at last.
“Thirty-five years, sir,” said Hartley, studying his face with sudden anxiety.
“A long time,” said the senior partner, dryly. “A long time.”
“A pleasant time, sir,” ventured the other, in a low voice.
Mr. Vyner’s features relaxed, and took on—after some trouble—an appearance of benevolence.
“I hope so,” he said, in patronizing tones. “I hope so. Vyner and Son have the name for being good masters. I have never heard any complaints.”
He pushed his chair back and, throwing one leg over the other, looked down at his patent-leather boots. The benevolent expression had disappeared.
“Thirty-five years,” he said, slowly. “H’m! I had no idea it was so long. You have—ha—no family, worth mentioning?”
“One daughter,” said Hartley, his lips going suddenly dry.
“Just so. Just so,” said the senior partner. He looked at his boots again. “And she is old enough to earn her own living. Or she might marry. You are in a fortunate position.”
Hartley, still watching him anxiously, bowed.
“In the event, for instance,” continued Mr. Vyner, in careless tones—“in the event of your retiring from the service of Vyner and Son, there is nobody that would suffer much. That is a great consideration—a very great consideration.”
Hartley, unable to speak, bowed again.
“Change,” continued Mr. Vyner, with the air of one uttering a new but indisputable fact—“change is good for us all. So long as you retain your present position there is, of course, a little stagnation in the office; the juniors see their way barred.”
He took up a paper-knife and, balancing it between his fingers, tapped lightly with it on the table.
“Is your daughter likely to be married soon?” he inquired, looking up suddenly.
Hartley shook his head. “N-no; I don’t think so,” he said, thickly.
The senior partner resumed his tapping.
“That is a pity,” he said at last, with a frown. “Of course, you understand that Vyner and Son are not anxious to dispense with your services—not at all. In certain circumstances you might remain with us another ten or fifteen years, and then go with a good retiring allowance. At your present age there would be no allowance. Do you understand me?”
The chief clerk tried to summon a little courage, a little dignity.
“I am afraid I don’t,” he said, in a low voice. “It is all so sudden. I—I am rather bewildered.”
Mr. Vyner looked at him impatiently.
“I said just now,” he continued, in a hard voice, “that Vyner and Son are not anxious to dispense with your services. That is, in a way, a figure of speech. Mr. Robert knows nothing of this, and I may tell you—as an old and trusted servant of the firm—that his share as a partner is at present but nominal, and were he to do anything seriously opposed to my wishes, such as, for instance—such as a—ha—matrimonial alliance of which I could not approve, the results for him would be disastrous. Do you understand?”
In a slow, troubled fashion Hartley intimated that he did. He began to enter into explanations, and was stopped by the senior partner’s uplifted hand.
“That will do,” said the latter, stiffly. “I have no doubt I know all that you could tell me. It is—ha—only out of consideration for your long and faithful service that I have—ha—permitted you a glimpse into my affairs—our affairs. I hope, now, that I have made myself quite clear.”
He leaned back in his chair and, twisting the paper-knife idly between his fingers, watched his chief clerk closely.
“Wouldn’t it be advisable—” began Hartley, and stopped abruptly at the expression on the other’s face. “I was thinking that if you mentioned this to Mr. Robert—”
“Certainly not!” said Mr. Vyner, with great sharpness. “Certainly not!”
Anger at having to explain affairs to his clerk, and the task of selecting words which should cause the least loss of dignity, almost deprived him of utterance.
“This is a private matter,” he said at last, “strictly between ourselves. I am master here, and any alteration in the staff is a matter for myself alone. I do not wish—in fact, I forbid you to mention the matter to him. Unfortunately, we do not always see eye to eye. He is young, and perhaps hardly as worldly wise as I could wish.”
He leaned forward to replace the paper-knife on the table, and, after blowing his nose with some emphasis, put the handkerchief back in his pocket and sat listening with a judicial air for anything that his chief clerk might wish to put before him.
“It would be a great blow to me to leave the firm,” said Hartley, after two ineffectual attempts to speak. “I have been in it all my life—all my life. At my age I could scarcely hope to get any other employment worth having. I have always tried to do my best. I have never—”
“Yes, yes,” said the other, interrupting with a wave of his hand; “that has been recognized. Your remuneration has, I believe, been in accordance with your—ha—services. And I suppose you have made some provision?”
Hartley shook his head. “Very little,” he said, slowly. “My wife was ill for years before she died, and I have had other expenses. My life is insured, so that in case of anything happening to me there would be something for my daughter, but that is about all.”
“And in case of dismissal,” said the senior partner, with some cheerfulness, “the insurance premium would, of course, only be an extra responsibility. It is your business, of course; but if I were—ha—in your place I should—ha—marry my daughter off as soon as possible. If you could come to me in three months and tell me—”
He broke off abruptly and, sitting upright, eyed his clerk steadily.
“That is all, I think,” he said at last. “Oh, no mention of this, of course, in the office—I have no desire to raise hopes of promotion in the staff that may not be justified; I may say that I hope will not be justified.”
He drew his chair to the table, and with a nod of dismissal took up his pen. Hartley went back to his work with his head in a whirl, and for the first time in twenty years cast a column of figures incorrectly, thereby putting a great strain on the diplomacy of the junior who made the discovery.
He left at his usual hour, and, free from the bustle of the office, tried to realize the full meaning of his interview with Mr. Vyner. He thought of his pleasant house and garden, and the absence of demand in Salthaven for dismissed clerks of over fifty. His thoughts turned to London, but he had grown up with Vyner and Son and had but little to sell in the open market. Walking with bent head he cannoned against a passer-by, and, looking up to apologize, caught sight of Captain Trimblett across the way, standing in front of a jeweller’s window.
A tall, sinewy man in a serge suit, whom Hartley recognized as Captain Walsh, was standing by him. His attitude was that of an indulgent policeman with a refractory prisoner, and twice Hartley saw him lay hold of the captain by the coat-sleeve, and call his attention to something in the window. Anxious to discuss his affairs with Trimblett, Hartley crossed the road.
“Ah! here’s Hartley,” said the tall captain, with an air of relief, as Captain Trimblett turned and revealed a hot face mottled and streaked with red. “Make him listen to reason. He won’t do it for me.”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Hartley, listlessly.
“A friend o’ mine,” said Captain Walsh, favouring him with a hideous wink, “a great friend o’ mine, is going to be married, and I want to give him a wedding present before I go. I sail to-morrow.”
“Well, ask him what he’d like,” said Trimblett, making another ineffectual attempt to escape. “Don’t bother me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Walsh, with another wink; “it’s awkward; besides which, his modesty would probably make him swear that he wasn’t going to be married at all. In fact, he has told me that already. I want you to choose for him. Tell me what you’d like, and no doubt it’ll please him. What do you say to that cruet-stand?”
“D——m the cruet-stand!” said Trimblett, wiping his hot face.
“All right,” said the unmoved Walsh, with his arm firmly linked in that of his friend. “What about a toast-rack? That one!”
“I don’t believe in wedding-presents,” said Trimblett, thickly. “Never did. I think it’s an absurd custom. And if your friend says he isn’t going to be married, surely he ought to know.”
“Shyness,” rejoined Captain Walsh—“pure shyness. He’s one of the best. I know his idea. His idea is to be married on the quiet and without any fuss. But it isn’t coming off. No, sir. Now, suppose it was you—don’t be violent; I only said suppose—how would that pickle-jar strike you?”
“I know nothing about it,” said Captain Trimblett, raising his voice. “Besides, I can’t take the responsibility of choosing for another man. I told you so before.”
Captain Walsh paid no heed. His glance roved over the contents of the window.
“Trimblett’s a terror,” he said in a serene voice, turning to Hartley. “I don’t know what it’s like walking down the High Street looking into shop-windows with a fretful porcupine; but I can make a pretty good guess.”
“You should leave me alone, then,” said Trimblett, wrenching his arm free. “Wedding-presents have no interest for me.”
“That’s what he keeps saying,” said Walsh, turning to Hartley again; “and when I referred just now—in the most delicate manner—to love’s young dream, I thought he’d ha’ bust his boilers.”
As far as Hartley could see, Captain Trimblett was again within measurable distance of such a catastrophe. For a moment he struggled wildly for speech, and then, coming to the conclusion that nothing he could say would do him any good, he swung on his heel and walked off. Hartley, with a nod to Walsh, followed.
“That idiot has been pestering me for the last half-hour,” said Captain Trimblett, after walking for some distance in wrathful silence. “I wonder whether it would be brought in murder if I wrung old Sellers’s neck? I’ve had four people this morning come up and talk to me about getting married. At least, they started talking.”
“Turn a deaf ear,” said Hartley.
“Deaf ear?” repeated the captain. “I wish I could. The last few days I’ve been wishing that I hadn’t got ears. It’s all Truefitt’s doing. He’s hinting now that I’m too bashful to speak up, and that weak-headed Cecilia Willett believes him. If you could only see her fussing round and trying to make things easy for me, as she considers, you’d wonder I don’t go crazy.”
“We’ve all got our troubles,” said Hartley, shaking his head.
The indignant captain turned and regarded him fiercely.
“I am likely to leave Vyner and Son,” said the other, slowly, “after thirty-five years.”
The wrath died out of the captain’s face, and he regarded his old friend with looks of affectionate concern. In grim silence he listened to an account of the interview with Mr. Vyner.
“You know what it all means,” he said, savagely, as Hartley finished.
“I—I think so,” was the reply.
“It means,” said the captain, biting his words—“it means that unless Joan is married within three months, so as to be out of Robert Vyner’s way, you will be dismissed the firm. It saves the old man’s pride a bit putting it that way, and it’s safer, too. And if Robert Vyner marries her he will have to earn his own living. With luck he might get thirty shillings a week.”
“I know,” said the other.
“Get her to town as soon as possible,” continued the captain, impressively. He paused a moment, and added with some feeling, “That’s what I’m going to do; I spoke to Mr. Vyner about it to-day. We will go up together, and I’ll look after her.”
“I’ll write to-night,” said Hartley. “Not that it will make any difference, so far as I can see.”
“It’s a step in the right direction, at any rate,” retorted the captain. “It keeps her out of young Vyner’s way, and it shows John Vyner that you are doing your best to meet his views, and it might make him realize that you have got a little pride, too.”
Partly to cheer Hartley up, and partly to avoid returning to Tranquil Vale, he spent the evening with him, and, being deterred by the presence of Miss Hartley from expressing his opinion of John Vyner, indulged instead in a violent tirade against the tyranny of wealth. Lured on by the highly interested Joan, he went still further, and in impassioned words committed himself to the statement that all men were equal, and should have equal rights, only hesitating when he discovered that she had been an unwilling listener on an occasion when he had pointed out to an offending seaman certain blemishes in his family tree. He then changed the subject to the baneful practice of eavesdropping.
By the time he reached home it was quite late. There was no moon, but the heavens were bright with stars. He stood outside for a few moments listening to the sound of voices within, and then, moved perhaps by the quiet beauty of the night, strolled down to the river and stood watching the lights of passing craft. Midnight sounded in the distance as he walked back.
The lamp was still burning, but the room was empty. He closed the door softly behind him, and stood eying, with some uneasiness, a large and untidy brown-paper parcel that stood in the centre of the table. From the crumpled appearance of the paper and the clumsily tied knots it had the appearance of having been opened and fastened up again by unskilled hands. The sense of uneasiness deepened as he approached the table and stood, with his head on one side, looking at it.
He turned at the sound of a light shuffling step in the kitchen. The door opened gently and the head of Mr. Truefitt was slowly inserted. Glimpses of a shirt and trousers, and the rumpled condition of the intruder’s hair, suggested that he had newly risen from bed.
“I heard you come in,” he said, in a stealthy whisper.
“Yes?” said the captain.
“There was no address on it,” said Mr. Truefitt, indicating the parcel by a nod; “it was left by somebody while we were out, and on opening it we found it was for you. At least, partly. I thought I ought to tell you.”
“It don’t matter,” said the captain, with an effort.
Mr. Truefitt nodded again. “I only wanted to explain how it was,” he said. “Good-night.”
He closed the door behind him, and the captain, after eying the parcel for some time, drew a clasp-knife from his pocket and with trembling fingers cut the string and stripped off the paper. The glistening metal of the largest electro-plated salad-bowl he had ever seen met his horrified gaze. In a hypnotized fashion he took out the fork and spoon and balanced them in his fingers. A small card at the bottom of the bowl caught his eye, and he bent over and read it:—
“With Hearty Congratulations and Best Wishes to Captain and Mrs. Trimblett from Captain Michael Walsh.”
For a long time he stood motionless; then, crumpling the card up and placing it in his pocket, he took the bowl in his arms and bore it to his bedroom. Wrapped again in its coverings, it was left to languish on the top of the cupboard behind a carefully constructed rampart of old cardboard boxes and worn-out books.
CHAPTER XIV
MR. HARTLEY’S idea, warmly approved by Captain Trimblett, was to divulge the state of affairs to his daughter in much the same circuitous fashion that Mr. Vyner had revealed it to him. He had not taken into account, however, the difference in temper of the listeners, and one or two leading questions from Joan brought the matter to an abrupt conclusion. She sat divided between wrath and dismay.
“You—you must have misunderstood him,” she said at last, with a little gasp. “He could not be so mean, and tyrannical, and ridiculous.”
Her father shook his head. “There is no room for misunderstanding,” he said, quietly. “Still, I have got three months to look about me, and I don’t suppose we shall starve.”
Miss Hartley expressed the wish—as old as woman—to give the offender a piece of her mind. She also indulged in a few general remarks concerning the obtuseness of people who were unable to see when they were not wanted, by which her father understood her to refer to Vyner junior.
“I was afraid you cared for him,” he said, awkwardly.
“I?” exclaimed Joan, in the voice of one unable to believe her ears. “Oh, father, I am surprised at you; I never thought you would say such a thing.”
Mr. Hartley eyed her uneasily.
“Why should you think anything so absurd?” continued his daughter, with some severity.
Mr. Hartley, with much concern, began to cite a long list of things responsible for what he freely admitted was an unfortunate mistake on his part. His daughter listened with growing impatience and confusion, and, as he showed no signs of nearing the end, rose in a dignified fashion and quitted the room. She was back, however, in a minute or two, and, putting her arm on his shoulder, bent down and kissed him.
“I had no idea you were so observant,” she remarked, softly.
“I don’t think I am really,” said the conscientious man. “If it hadn’t been for Trimblett—”
Miss Hartley, interrupting with spirit, paid a tribute to the captain that ought to have made his ears burn.
“I ought to have been more careful all these years,” said her father presently. “If I had, this would not have mattered so much. Prodigality never pays—”
Joan placed her arm about his neck again. “Prodigality!” she said, with a choking laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. And you have had to help other people all your life. After all, perhaps you and Captain Trimblett are wrong; Mr. Vyner can’t be in earnest, it is too absurd.”
“Yes, he is,” said Hartley, sitting up, with a sudden air of determination. “But then, so am I. I am not going to be dictated to in this fashion. My private affairs are nothing to do with him. I—I shall have to tell him so.”
“Don’t do anything yet,” said Joan, softly, as she resumed her seat. “By the way—”
“Well?” said her father, after a pause.
“That invitation from Uncle William was your doing,” continued Joan, levelling an incriminating finger at him.
“Trimblett’s idea,” said her father, anxious to give credit where it was due. “His idea was that if you were to go away for a time Robert Vyner would very likely forget all about you.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” said Joan, with a slight smile. “I mean—I mean—what business has Captain Trimblett to concern himself about my affairs?”
“I know what you mean,” said Hartley, in a low voice.
He got up, and crossing to the window stood looking out on his beloved garden. His thoughts went back to the time, over twenty years ago, when he and his young wife had planted it. He remembered that in those far-off days she had looked forward with confidence to the time when he would be offered a share in the firm. For a moment he felt almost glad——
“I suppose that Captain Trimblett is right,” said Joan, who had been watching him closely; “and I’ll go when you like.”
Her father came from the window. “Yes,” he said, and stood looking at her.
“I am going out a little way,” said Joan, suddenly.
Hartley started, and glanced instinctively at the clock. “Yes,” he said again.
His daughter went upstairs to dress, and did her best to work up a little resentment against being turned out of her home to avoid a caller whom she told herself repeatedly she had no wish to see. Her reflections were cut short by remembering that time was passing, and that Mr. Vyner’s punctuality, in the matter of these calls, was of a nature to which the office was a stranger.
She put on her hat and, running downstairs, opened the door and went out. At the gate she paused, and, glancing right and left, saw Robert Vyner approaching. He bowed and quickened his pace.
“Father is indoors,” she said with a friendly smile, as she shook hands.
“It’s a sin to be indoors an evening like this,” said Robert, readily. “Are you going for a walk?”
“A little way; I am going to see a friend,” said Joan. “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said Mr. Vyner, and turned in at the gate, while Joan, a little surprised at his docility, proceeded on her way. She walked slowly, trying, in the interests of truth, to think of some acquaintance to call upon. Then she heard footsteps behind, gradually gaining upon her.
“I really think I’m the most forgetful man in Salthaven,” said Mr. Robert Vyner, in tones of grave annoyance, as he ranged alongside. “I came all this way to show your father a book on dahlias, and now I find I’ve left it at the office. What’s a good thing for a bad memory?”
“Punish yourself by running all the way, I should think,” replied Joan. “It might make you less forgetful next time.”
Mr. Vyner became thoughtful, not to say grave. “I don’t know so much about running,” he said, slowly. “I’ve had an idea for some time past that my heart is a little bit affected.”
Joan turned to him swiftly. “I’m so sorry,” she faltered. “I had no idea; and the other night you were rolling the grass. Why didn’t you speak of it before?”
Her anxiety was so genuine that Mr. Vyner had the grace to feel a little bit ashamed of himself.
“When I say that my heart is affected, I don’t mean in the way of—of disease,” he murmured.
“Is it weak?” inquired the girl.
Mr. Vyner shook his head.
“Well, what is the matter with it?”
Mr. Vyner sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, slowly. “It is not of long standing; I only noticed it a little while ago. The first time I had an attack I was sitting in my office—working. Let me see. I think it was the day you came in there to see your father. Yes, I am sure it was.”
Miss Hartley walked on, looking straight before her.
“Since then,” pursued Mr. Vyner, in the mournful tones suited to the subject, “it has got gradually worse. Sometimes it is in my mouth; sometimes—if I feel that I have offended anybody—it is in my boots.”
Miss Hartley paid no heed.
“It is in my boots now,” said the invalid, plaintively; “tight boots, too. Do you know what I was thinking just now when you looked at me in that alarmed, compassionate way?”
“Not alarmed,” muttered Miss Hartley.
“I was thinking,” pursued Mr. Vyner, in a rapt voice, “I was thinking what a fine nurse you would make. Talking of heart troubles put it in my mind, I suppose. Fancy being down for a month or two with a complaint that didn’t hurt or take one’s appetite away, and having you for a nurse!”
“I think that if you are going to talk nonsense—” began Joan, half stopping.
“I’m not,” said the other, in alarm, “I’ve quite finished; I have, indeed.”
He stole a glance at the prim young figure by his side, and his voice again developed a plaintive note. “If you only knew what it was like,” he continued, “to be mewed up in an office all day, with not a soul to speak to, and the sun shining, perhaps you’d make allowances.”
“I saw you down by the harbour this morning,” said the girl.
“Harbour?” said the other, pretending to reflect—“this morning?”
Joan nodded. “Yes; you were lounging about—in the sunshine—smoking a cigarette. Then you went on to the Indian Chief and stood talking for, oh, quite a long time to Captain Trimblett. Then—”
“Yes?” breathed Mr. Vyner, as she paused in sudden confusion. “What did I do next?”
Miss Hartley shook her head. “I only saw you for a moment,” she said.
Mr. Vyner did not press the matter; he talked instead on other subjects, but there was a tenderness in his voice for which Miss Hartley told herself her own thoughtlessness was largely responsible. She trembled and walked a little faster. Then, with a sense of relief, she saw Captain Trimblett approaching them. His head was bent in thought, and his usual smile was missing as he looked up and saw them.
“I wanted to see you,” he said to Joan. “I’m off to London to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” repeated the girl, in surprise.
“Twelve-thirty train,” said the captain, looking shrewdly from one to the other. “I’m just off home; there are one or two matters I must attend to before I go, and I wanted to talk to you.”
“I will come with you,” said Joan, quickly. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Chinnery for a long time.” She nodded to Mr. Vyner and held out her hand. “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said that gentleman. He shook hands reluctantly, and his amiable features took on a new expression as he glanced at the captain.
“Try and cheer him up,” he said, with an air of false concern. “It’s only for a little while, cap’n; you’ll soon be back and—you know the old adage?”
“Yes,” said the captain, guardedly.
“Although, of course, there are several,” said Mr. Vyner, thoughtfully. “I wonder whether we were thinking of the same one?”
“I dare say,” said the other, hastily.
“I was thinking of ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’—of the Indian Chief” said the ingenuous Robert. “Was that the one you were thinking of?”
The captain’s reply was inaudible as he turned and bore off Miss Hartley. The young man stood for some time watching them, and, as Joan and her burly companion disappeared round the corner, shook his head and set off home.
“He’ll sober down as he gets older,” said the captain, after they had proceeded some way in silence. “I’m glad I met you. Your father told me you were going to London, and I was thinking we might go up together. It’s odd we should both be going. Quite a coincidence.”
“In more ways than one,” said Joan. “Father told me you had arranged it together. I quite know why I am going.”
The captain coughed.
“I know why you are going, too,” said Joan.
The captain coughed again, and muttered something about “children” and “business.”
“And if I’m going to-morrow I had better get back and pack,” continued the girl.
“Plenty of time in the morning,” said the captain. “It’ll make the time pass. It’s a mistake to stow your things away too soon—a great mistake.”
“I would sooner do it, though,” said Joan, pausing.
“You come along to Tranquil Vale,” said Captain Trimblett, with forced joviality. “Never mind about your packing. Stay to supper, and I’ll see you home afterward.”
Miss Hartley eyed him thoughtfully.
“Why?” she inquired.
“Pleasure of your company,” said the captain.
“Why?” said Miss Hartley again.
The captain eyed her thoughtfully in his turn.
“I—I haven’t told ’em I’m going yet,” he said, slowly. “It’ll be a little surprise to them, perhaps. Miss Willett will be there. She’s a silly thing. She and Peter might make a duet about it. If you are there——”
“I’ll take care of you,” said Joan, with a benevolent smile. “You’ll be safe with me. What a pity you didn’t bring your little troubles to me at first!”
The captain turned a lurid eye upon her, and then, realizing that silence was more dignified and certainly safer than speech, said nothing. He walked on with head erect and turned a deaf ear to the faint sounds which Miss Hartley was endeavouring to convert into coughs.
Mrs. Chinnery, who was sitting alone in the front room, rose and greeted her with some warmth as she entered, and, the usual reproachful question put and answered as to the length of time since her last visit, took her hat from her and went upstairs with it. An arch smile from Miss Hartley during her absence was met by the ungrateful captain with a stony stare.
“I came to bid you good-by,” said Joan, as Mrs. Chinnery returned. “I am off to London to-morrow.”
“London!” said Mrs. Chinnery.
“I am going to stay with an uncle,” replied Joan.
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” said the captain, averting his gaze from the smiling face of Miss Hartley, and trying to keep his voice level.
“Coincidence!” said Mrs. Chinnery, staring at him.
“I’ve got to go, too,” said the captain, with what he fondly imagined was a casual smile. “Got to run up and see my boys and girls. Just a flying visit there and back. So we are going together.”
“You!” said the astonished Mrs. Chinnery. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why, I’ve got nothing ready. Serves me right for putting things off.”
The captain began to murmur something about an urgent letter, but Mrs. Chinnery, who had opened the cupboard and brought out a work-basket containing several pairs of the thick woollen socks that formed the captain’s usual wear, was almost too busy to listen. She threaded a needle, and, drawing a sock over her left hand, set to work on a gaping wound that most women would have regarded as mortal. Mr. Truefitt and Miss Willett entered from the garden just as the Captain was explaining for the third time.
“Children are not ill, I hope,” said Mr. Truefitt with ill-concealed anxiety.
“No,” said the Captain.
Miss. Willett, who had seated herself by the side of Miss Chinnery, ventured to pat that lady’s busy hand.
“He will soon be back,” she murmured.
“He will look after that,” said Mr. Truefitt, with a boisterous laugh. “Won’t you, cap’n?”
Miss Willett sat regarding Captain Trimblett with a pensive air. She was beginning to regard his diffidence and shyness as something abnormal. Hints of the most helpful nature only seemed to add to his discomfort, and she began to doubt whether he would ever muster up sufficient resolution to put an end to a situation that was fast becoming embarrassing to all concerned.
“Of course,” she said, suddenly, “it is only right that you should run up and see your children first. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“First?” repeated the captain, his face flooding with colour as he realized the inward meaning of the remark. “What do you mean by first?”
His voice was so loud that Miss Willett sat up with a start and looked round nervously.
“Miss Willett means before you sail,” said Joan, gently, before that lady could speak. “How pleased they will be to see you!”
“Aye, aye,” said the captain, regaining his composure by an effort.
“What a lot of things he will have to tell them!” murmured the persevering Miss Willett. “Have you ever seen them?” she inquired, turning to Mrs. Chinnery.
“No,” was the reply.
“How strange!” said Miss Willett, with a reproachful glance at the captain. “I expect you’ll like them very much when you do.”
“Sure to,” chimed in Mr. Truefitt. “Susanna was always partial to children.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Miss Willett, regarding the industrious Mrs. Chinnery affectionately. “How fortunate!”
She rose as she spoke, and, screwing her face up at Joan with great significance, asked her whether she wouldn’t care to see the garden.
“Very much,” said Joan. “Come along,” she added, turning to the captain. “Now come and show me that rose-bush you have been talking about so much.”
Captain Trimblett rose with an alacrity that mystified Miss Willett more than ever, and, having gained the garden, found so many things to show Miss Hartley, and so much to talk about, that supper was on the table before he had finished. Fearful of being left alone with Miss Willett, he stuck to his young protector so closely that in going in at the door he trod on her heel. Miss Hartley entered the room limping, and, having gained her seat, sat eying him with an expression in which pain and reproachful mirth struggled for the mastery.
“What a delightful evening!” she said, in an affected voice, as the captain walked home with her about an hour later; “I have enjoyed myself tremendously.”
The captain uttered an impatient exclamation.
“It reminded me of the old fable of the lion and the mouse,” continued Joan.
The captain grunted again, and, in a voice that he vainly endeavoured to render polite, said that he did not know what she was talking about.