CHAPTER XXIII
MRS. CHINNERY received the news of her brother’s marriage with a calmness that was a source of considerable disappointment and annoyance to her friends and neighbours. To begin with, nobody knew how it had reached her, and several worthy souls who had hastened to her, hot-foot, with what they had fondly deemed to be exclusive information had some difficulty in repressing their annoyance. Their astonishment was increased a week later on learning that she had taken a year’s lease of No. 9, Tranquil Vale, which had just become vacant, and several men had to lie awake half the night listening to conjectures as to where she had got the money.
Most of the furniture at No. 5 was her own, and she moved it in piecemeal. Captain Sellers, who had his own ideas as to why she was coming to live next door to him, and was somewhat flattered in consequence, volunteered to assist, and, being debarred by deafness from learning that his services were refused, caused intense excitement by getting wedged under a dressing-table on the stairs.
To inquiries as to how he got there, the captain gave but brief replies, and those of an extremely sailorly description, the whole of his really remarkable powers being devoted for the time being to the question of how he was to get out. He was released at length by a man and a saw, and Mrs. Chinnery, as soon as she could speak, gave him a pressing invitation to take home with him any particular piece of the table for which he might have a fancy.
He was back next morning with a glue-pot, and divided his time between boiling it up on the kitchen stove and wandering about the house in search of things to stick. Its unaccountable disappearance during his absence in another room did much to mar the harmony of an otherwise perfect day. First of all he searched the house from top to bottom; then, screwing up his features, he beckoned quietly to Mrs. Chinnery.
“I hadn’t left it ten seconds,” he said, mysteriously. “I went into the front room for a bit of stick, and when I went back it had gone—vanished. I was never more surprised in my life.”
“Don’t bother me,” said Mrs. Chinnery. “I’ve got enough to do.”
“Eh?”
Mrs. Chinnery, who was hot and flustered, shook her head at him.
“It’s a very odd thing,” said Captain Sellers, shaking his head. “I never lost a glue-pot before in my life—never. Do you know anything about that charwoman that’s helping you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Chinnery.
The captain put his hand to his ear.
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t like her expression,” said Captain Sellers, firmly. “I’m a very good judge of faces, and there’s a look, an artful look, about her eyes that I don’t like. It’s my belief she’s got my glue-pot stowed about her somewhere; and I’m going to search her.”
“You get out of my house,” cried the overwrought Mrs. Chinnery.
“Not without my glue-pot,” said Captain Sellers, hearing for once. “Take that woman upstairs and search her. A glue-pot—a hot glue-pot—can’t go without hands.”
Frail in body but indomitable in spirit he confronted the accused, who, having overheard his remarks, came in and shook her fist in his face and threatened him with the terrors of the law.
“A glue-pot can’t go without hands,” he said, obstinately. “If you had asked me for a little you could have had it, and welcome; but you had no business to take it.”
“Take it!” vociferated the accused. “What good do you think it would be to me? I’ve ’ad eleven children and two husbands, and I’ve never been accused of stealing a glue-pot before. Where do you think I could put it?”
“I don’t know.” said the captain, as soon as he understood. “That’s what I’m curious about. You go upstairs with Mrs. Chinnery, and if she don’t find that you’ve got that glue-pot concealed on you, I shall be very much surprised. Why not own up the truth before you scald yourself?”
Instead of going upstairs the charwoman went to the back door and sat on the step to get her breath, and, giving way to a sense of humour which had survived the two husbands and eleven children, wound up with a strong fit of hysterics. Captain Sellers, who watched through the window as she was being taken away, said that perhaps it was his fault for putting temptation in her way.
Mrs. Chinnery tried to keep her door fast next morning, but it was of no use. The captain was in and out all day, and, having found a tin of green paint and a brush among his stores, required constant watching. The day after Mrs. Chinnery saw her only means of escape, and at nine o’clock in the morning, with fair words and kind smiles, sent him into Salthaven for some picture-cord. He made four journeys that day. He came back from the last in a butcher’s cart, and having handed Mrs. Chinnery the packet of hooks and eyes, for which he had taken a month’s wear out of his right leg, bade her a hurried good-night and left for home on the arm of the butcher.
He spent the next day or two in an easy-chair by the fire, but the arrival of Mrs. Willett to complete the furnishing of No. 5 from her own surplus stock put him on his legs again. As an old neighbour and intimate friend of Mr. Truefitt’s he proffered his services, and Mrs. Willett, who had an old-fashioned belief in “man,” accepted them. His one idea—the pot of paint being to him like a penny in a schoolboy’s pocket—was to touch things up a bit; Mrs. Willett’s idea was for him to help hang pictures and curtains.
“The steps are so rickety they are only fit for a man,” she screamed in his ear. “Martha has been over with them twice already.”
Captain Sellers again referred to the touching-up properties of green paint. Mrs. Willett took it from him, apparently for the purpose of inspection, and he at once set out in search of the glue-pot.
“We’ll do the curtains downstairs first,” she said to Martha. “Upstairs can wait.”
The captain spent the morning on the steps, his difficulties being by no means lessened by the tremolo movement which Martha called steadying them. Twice he was nearly shaken from his perch like an over-ripe plum, but all went well until they were hanging the curtains in the best bed-room, when Martha, stooping to recover a dropped ring, shut the steps up like a pair of compasses.
The captain, who had hold of the curtains at the time, brought them down with him, and lay groaning on the floor. With the help of her mistress, who came hurrying up on hearing the fall, Martha got him on to the bed and sent for the doctor.
“How do you feel?” inquired Mrs. Willett, eying him anxiously.
“Bad,” said the captain, closing his eyes. “Every bone in my body is broken, I believe. It feels like it.”
Mrs. Willett shook her head and sought for words to reassure him. “Keep your spirits up,” she said, encouragingly. “Don’t forget that: ‘There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft to look after the life of poor Jack.’”
Captain Sellers opened his eyes and regarded her fixedly. “He wouldn’t ha’ been sitting there long if that fool Martha had been holding the steps,” he said, with extraordinary bitterness.
He closed his eyes again and refused to speak until the doctor came. Then, having been stripped and put to bed for purposes of examination, he volunteered information as to his condition which twice caused the doctor to call him to order.
“You ought to be thankful it’s no worse,” he said, severely.
The captain sniffed. “When you’ve done pinching my leg,” he said, disagreeably, “I’ll put it back into bed again.”
The doctor relinquished it at once, and, standing by the bed, regarded him thoughtfully.
“Well, you’ve had a shock,” he said at last, “and you had better stay in bed for a few days.”
“Not here,” said Mrs. Willett, quickly. “My daughter and her husband will be home in a day or two.”
The doctor looked thoughtful again; then he bent and spoke in the captain’s ear.
“We are going to move you to your own house,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” said the other, promptly.
“You’ll be more comfortable there,” urged the doctor.
“I’m not going to be moved,” said Captain Sellers, firmly. “It might be fatal. I had a chap once—fell from aloft—and after he’d been in the saloon for a day or two I had him carried for’ard, and he died on the way. And he wasn’t nearly as bad as I am.”
“Well, we’ll see how you are to-morrow,” said the doctor, with a glance at Mrs. Willett.
“I shall be worse to-morrow,” said the captain, cheerfully. “But I don’t want to give any trouble. Send my housekeeper in to look after me. She can sleep in the next room.”
They argued with him until his growing deafness rendered argument useless. A certain love of change and excitement would not be denied. Captain Sellers, attended by his faithful housekeeper, slept that night at No. 5, and awoke next morning to find his prognostications as to his condition fully confirmed.
“I’m aching all over,” he said to Mrs. Willett. “I can’t bear to be touched.”
“You’ll have to be moved to your own house,” said Mrs. Chinnery, who had come in at Mrs. Willett’s request to see what could be done. “We expect my brother home in a day or two.”
“Let him come,” said the captain, feebly. “I sha’n’t bite him.”
“But you’re in his bed,” said Mrs. Chinnery.
“Eh?”
“In his bed,” screamed Mrs. Chinnery.
“I sha’n’t bite him,” repeated the captain.
“But he can’t sleep with you,” said Mrs. Chinnery, red with loud speaking.
“I don’t want him to,” said Captain Sellers. “I’ve got nothing against him, and, in a general way of speaking, I’m not what could be called a particular man—but I draw the line.”
Mrs. Chinnery went downstairs hastily and held a council of war with Mrs. Willett and Martha. It was decided to wait for the doctor, but the latter, when he came, could give no assistance.
“He’s very sore and stiff,” he said, thoughtfully, “but it’s nothing serious. It’s more vanity than anything else; he likes being made a fuss of and being a centre of attraction. He’s as tough as leather, and the most difficult old man I have ever encountered.”
“Is he quite right in his head?” demanded Mrs. Chinnery, hotly.
The doctor pondered. “He’s a little bit childish, but his head will give more trouble to other people than to himself,” he said at last. “Be as patient with him as you can, and if you can once persuade him to get up, perhaps he will consent to be moved.”
Mrs. Chinnery, despite a naturally hot temper, did her best, but in vain. Mrs. Willett was promptly denounced as a “murderess,” and the captain, holding forth to one or two callers, was moved almost to tears as he reflected upon the ingratitude and hardness of woman. An account of the accident in the Salthaven Gazette, which described him as “lying at death’s door,” was not without its effect in confining him to Mr. Truefitt’s bed.
The latter gentleman and his wife, in blissful ignorance of the accident, returned home on the following evening. Mrs. Willett and Mrs. Chinnery, apprised by letter, were both there to receive them, and the former, after keeping up appearances in a stately fashion for a few minutes, was finally persuaded to relent and forgive them both. After which, Mrs. Truefitt was about to proceed upstairs to take off her things, when she was stopped by Mrs. Chinnery.
“There—there is somebody in your room,” said the latter.
“In my room?” said Mrs. Truefitt, in a startled voice.
“We couldn’t write to you,” said Mrs. Willett, with a little shade of reproach in her voice, “because you didn’t give us your address. Captain Sellers had an accident and is in your bed.”
“Who?” said the astounded Mr. Truefitt. “What!”
Mrs. Willett, helped by Mrs. Chinnery, explained the affair to him; Mr. Truefitt, with the exception of a few startled ejaculations, listened in sombre silence.
“Well, we must use the next room for to-night,” he said at last, “and I’ll have him out first thing in the morning.”
“His housekeeper sleeps there,” said Mrs. Willett, shaking her head.
“And a niece of hers, who helps her with him, in the little room,” added Mrs. Chinnery.
Mr. Truefitt got up and walked about the room. Broken remarks about “a nice home-coming” and “galvanized mummies” escaped him at intervals. Mrs. Willett endured it for ten minutes, and then, suddenly remembering what was due to a mother-in-law, made a successful intervention. In a somewhat subdued mood they sat down to supper.
The Truefitts slept at Mrs. Willett’s that night, but Mr. Truefitt was back first thing next morning to take possession of his own house. He found Captain Sellers, propped up with pillows, eating his breakfast, and more than dubious as to any prospects of an early removal.
“Better wait a week or two and see how I go on,” he said, slowly. “I sha’n’t give any trouble.”
“But you are giving trouble,” shouted the fuming Mr. Truefitt. “You’re an absolute nuisance. If it hadn’t been for your officiousness it wouldn’t have happened.”
The captain put his plate aside and drew himself up in the bed.
“Get out of my room,” he said, in a high, thin voice.
“You get out of my bed,” shouted the incensed Mr. Truefitt. “I’ll give you ten minutes to dress yourself and get out of my house. If you’re not out by then, I’ll carry you out.”
He waited downstairs for a quarter of an hour, and then, going to the bed-room again, discovered that the door was locked. Through the keyhole the housekeeper informed him that it was the captain’s orders, and begged him to go away as the latter was now having his “morning’s nap.”
Captain Sellers left with flags flying and drums beating three days later. To friends and neighbours generally he confided the interesting fact that his departure was hastened by a nightly recurring dream of being bitten by sharks.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE news that Mrs. Chinnery had taken a house of her own and was anxious to let rooms, gave Robert Vyner an idea which kept him busy the whole of an evening. First of all he broached it to Hartley, but finding him divided between joy and nervousness he took the matter into his own hands and paid a visit to Tranquil Vale; the result of which he communicated with some pride to Joan Hartley the same afternoon.
“It was my own idea entirely,” he said with a feeble attempt to conceal a little natural pride. “Some people would call it an inspiration. Directly I heard that Mrs. Chinnery was anxious to let rooms I thought of your children—I mentioned the idea to your father and escaped an embrace by a hair’s breadth. I was prepared to remind him that ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ and to follow it up with ‘Distance lends enchantment to the view’; but it was unnecessary. It will be a great thing for Mrs. Chinnery.”
Miss Hartley looked thoughtful.
“And you,” said Robert reproachfully.
“If father is satisfied—” began Miss Hartley.
“‘Satisfied’ is a cold and inadequate word,” said Robert. “He was delighted. He could not have been more pleased if I had told him that the entire five had succumbed to an attack of croup. I left my work to look after itself to come and give you the news.”
“You are very kind,” said Joan, after some consideration.
“It is a good thing for all concerned,” said Robert. “It is a load off my mind. The last time I was here, I was interrupted at a most critical moment by the entrance of Miss Trimblett.”
“And now, instead of coming here to see them, you will have to go to Mrs. Chinnery’s,” said Joan.
“When I want to,” said Mr. Vyner with a forced smile, as the twins came rushing into the room. “Yes.”
The exodus took place three days afterward to the entire satisfaction of all concerned. Tranquil Vale alone regarded the advent of the newcomers with a certain amount of uneasiness, the joy of Ted and the twins when they found that there was a river at the bottom of the garden, threatening to pass all bounds. In a state of wild excitement they sat on the fence and waved to passing craft, until in an attempt to do justice to a larger ship than usual, Miss Gertrude Trimblett waved herself off the fence on to the stones of the foreshore below.
Captain Sellers, who had been looking on with much interest, at once descended and rendered first aid. It was the first case he had had since he had left the sea, but, after a careful examination, he was able to assure the sufferer that she had broken her right leg in two places. The discovery was received with howls of lamentation from both girls, until Dolly blinded with tears, happened to fall over the injured limb and received in return such hearty kicks from it that the captain was compelled to reconsider his diagnosis, and after a further examination discovered that it was only bent. In quite a professional manner he used a few technical terms that completely covered his discomfiture.
It was the beginning of a friendship which Tranquil Vale did its best to endure with fortitude, and against which Mrs. Chinnery fought in vain. In the company of Ted and the twins Captain Sellers renewed his youth. Together they discovered the muddiest places on the foreshore, and together they borrowed a neighbour’s boat and sailed down the river in quest of adventures. With youth at the prow and dim-sighted age at the helm, they found several. News of their doings made Hartley congratulate himself warmly on their departure.
“Mrs. Chinnery is just the woman to manage them,” he said to Joan, “and Truefitt tells me that having children to look after has changed her wonderfully.”
Miss Hartley, with a little shiver, said she could quite understand it.
“I mean for the better,” said her father, “he said she is getting quite young and jolly again. And he told me that young Saunders is there a great deal.”
Miss Hartley raised her eyebrows in mute interrogation.
“He pretends that he goes to see George,” said her father, dropping his voice, “but Truefitt thinks that it is Jessie. I suppose Trimblett won’t mind; he always thought a lot of Saunders. I don’t know whether you ought to interfere.”
“Certainly not,” said Joan flushing. “What has it got to do with me?”
“Well, I just mentioned it,” said Hartley, “although I suppose Mrs. Chinnery is mostly responsible while they are with her. I am writing to tell Trimblett that the children are at Tranquil Vale. When he comes back perhaps he will make other arrangements.”
“Very likely,” said his daughter abruptly, “or perhaps he will marry Mrs. Chinnery.”
Mr. Hartley, who was at supper, put down his knife and fork and sat eying her in very natural amazement. “Marry Mrs. Chinnery?” he gasped, “but how can he?”
“I mean,” said Joan with a sudden remembrance of the state of affairs, “I mean if anything should happen to me.”
Mr. Hartley finished his supper and drawing his chair up to the fire sat smoking in thoughtful silence.
“And if anything happens to Trimblett perhaps you will marry again,” he said at last.
Miss Hartley shook her head. “I am not afraid of that,” she said ambiguously.
Her confidence was put to the test less than a fortnight later by an unexpected visit from Mr. Robert Vyner, who, entering the room in a somewhat breathless condition, accepted a chair and sat gazing at her with an air of mysterious triumph.
“I’m the bearer of important news,” he announced. “Dispatches from the front. You’ll hear all about it from your father when he comes home, but I wanted to be the first with it.”
“What is the matter?” inquired Joan.
Mr. Vyner looked shocked. “All important news, good or bad, should be broken gently,” he said reproachfully. “Do you know any Scotch?”
“Scotch!” said the mystified Miss Hartley.
Mr. Vyner nodded. “‘The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley,’” he quoted in a thrilling voice. “Do you understand that?”
“I’ll wait till father comes home,” announced Miss Hartley, with some decision.
“There are other quotations bearing on the matter in hand,” said Mr. Vyner, thoughtfully, “but I have forgotten them. At present I am thinking of you to the utter exclusion of everything else. Not that that is anything unusual. Far from it. To cut a long story short, Captain Trimblett has been left behind at San Francisco with malaria, and the mate has taken the ship on.”
Miss Hartley gave a little cry of concern.
“He has had it before,” said Mr. Vyner composedly, “but he seems to have got it bad this time, and when he is fit enough, he is coming home. Now what are you going to do?”
“Poor Captain Trimblett,” said Joan. “I am so sorry.”
“What are you going to do?” repeated Mr. Vyner, impressively. “His children are at Salthaven, and he will live here because my father and I had practically decided to give him the berth of ship’s husband after this voyage. He will have it a little sooner, that’s all. Appropriate berth for a marrying man like that, isn’t it? Sounds much more romantic than marine superintendent.”
“I made sure that he would be away for at least two years,” said Joan, regarding him helplessly.
“There is nothing certain in this world,” said Mr. Vyner, sedately. “You should have thought of that before. The whole thing is bound to come out now. There are only two courses open to you. You might marry Captain Trimblett in reality—”
“What is the other?” inquired Joan, as he paused.
“The other,” said Mr. Vyner slowly and lowering his voice, “the other stands before you. All he can urge in his favour is, that he is younger than Trimblett, and, as I have said on another occasion, without incumbrances.”
“If there is nothing more than that in his favour——” said Joan turning away.
“Nothing,” said Robert, humbly, “unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you know of anything.”
Joan Hartley, her gaze still averted, shook her head.
“Still,” said Mr. Vyner, with an air of great thoughtfulness, “a paragon would be awful to live with. Awful. Fancy marrying Bassett for instance! Fancy being married to a man you could never find fault with.”
“There is a third course open to me,” said Joan, turning round. “I could go away.”
Mr. Vyner got up slowly and took a step toward her. “Would you—would you sooner go away than stay with me?” he said in a low voice.
“I—I don’t want to go away,” said Joan after a long pause.
Mr. Vyner took two more steps.
“I’m so fond of Salthaven,” added Joan hastily.
“So am I,” said Robert. “It seems to me that we have a lot of ideas in common. Don’t you think it would simplify matters if you stayed at Salthaven and married me?”
Joan eyed him gravely. “I don’t think it would simplify matters with your father,” she said, slowly.
Mr. Vyner’s fourth and last step took him to her chair.
“Is that your only objection?” he murmured, bending over her.
“I might think of others—in time,” said Joan.
Mr. Vyner bent a little lower, but so slowly that Miss Hartley was compelled to notice it. She got up suddenly and confronted him. He took both her hands in his, but so gently that she offered no resistance.
“That is a bargain,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “I will soon arrange matters with my father.”
Joan smiled faintly and shook her head.
“You’ll see,” said Robert confidently. “I’ve been a good son to him, and he knows it. And I always have had my own way. I’m not going to alter now. It wouldn’t be good for him.”
“You are holding my hands,” said Joan.
“I know,” said Mr. Vyner. “I like it.”
He released them reluctantly and stood looking at her. Miss Hartley after a brave attempt to meet his gaze, lowered her eyes. For a time neither of them spoke.
“I’m as bad as Trimblett,” said Robert at last. “I am beginning to believe in fate. It is my firm opinion that we were intended for each other. I can’t imagine marrying anybody else, can you?”
Miss Hartley, still looking down, made no reply.
“Silence gives consent,” said Robert, and leaning forward took her hands again.
CHAPTER XXV
ROBERT VYNER walked home slowly, trying as he went to evolve a scheme which should in the first place enable him to have his own way, and, in the second to cause as little trouble as possible to everybody. As a result of his deliberations he sought his father, whom he found enjoying a solitary cup of tea, and told him that he had been to Hartley’s with the news of Captain Trimblett’s illness. He added casually that Mrs. Trimblett was looking remarkably well. And he spoke feelingly of the pleasure afforded to all right-minded people at being able to carry a little sympathy and consolation into the homes of the afflicted.
Mr. Vyner senior sipped his tea. “She has got her father and the children if she wants sympathy,” he said gruffly.
Robert shook his head. “It’s not quite the same thing,” he said gravely.
“The children ought to be with her,” said his father. “I never understood why they should have gone to Mrs. Chinnery; still that’s not my affair.”
“It was to assist Mrs. Chinnery for one thing,” said Robert. “And besides they were awfully in the way.”
He heard his father put his tea-cup down and felt, rather than saw, that he was gazing at him with some intentness. With a preoccupied air he rose and left the room.
Satisfied with the impression he had made, he paid another visit to Hartley’s on the day following and then, despite Joan’s protests, became an almost daily visitor. His assurance that they were duty visits paid only with a view to their future happiness only served to mystify her. The fact that Hartley twice plucked up courage to throw out hints as to the frequency of his visits, and the odd glances with which his father favoured him, satisfied him that he was in the right path.
For a fortnight he went his way unchecked, and, apparently blind to the growing stiffness of his father every time the subject was mentioned, spoke freely of Mrs. Trimblett and the beautiful resignation with which she endured her husband’s misfortunes. His father listened for the most part in silence, until coming at last to the conclusion, that there was nothing to be gained by that policy he waited until his wife had left the dining-room one evening and ventured a solemn protest.
“She is a very nice girl,” said the delighted Robert.
“Just so,” said his father, leaning toward a candle and lighting his cigar, “although perhaps that is hardly the way to speak of a married woman.”
“And we have been friends for a long time,” said Robert, in a sullen voice.
Mr. Vyner coughed dryly.
“Just so,” he said again.
“Why shouldn’t I go and see her when I like?” said Robert, after a pause.
“She is another man’s wife,” said his father, “and it is a censorious world.”
Robert Vyner looked down at the cloth. “If she were not, I suppose there would be some other objection?” he said gloomily.
Mr. Vyner laid his cigar on the side of a plate and drew himself up. “My boy,” he said impressively, “I don’t think I deserve that. Both your mother and myself would—ha—always put your happiness before our own private inclinations.”
He picked up his cigar again and placing it in his mouth looked the personification of injured fatherhood.
“Do you mean,” said Robert, slowly, “do you mean that if she were single you would be willing for me to marry her?”
“It is no good discussing that,” said Mr. Vyner with an air of great consideration.
“But would you?” persisted his son.
Mr. Vyner was a very truthful man as a rule, but there had been instances—he added another.
“Yes,” he said with a slight gasp.
Robert sprang up with a haste that overturned his coffee, and seizing his father’s hand shook it with enthusiasm. Mr. Vyner somewhat affected, responded heartily.
“Anything possible for you, Bob,” he said, fervently, “but this is impossible.”
His son looked at him. “I have never known you to go back on your word,” he said emphatically.
“I never have,” said Mr. Vyner.
“Your word is your bond,” said Robert smiling at him. “And now I want to tell you something.”
“Well,” said the other, regarding him with a little uneasiness.
“She is not married,” said Robert, calmly.
Mr. Vyner started up and his cigar fell unheeded to the floor.
“What!” he said, loudly.
“She is not married,” repeated his son.
Mr. Vyner sank back in his chair again and looking round mechanically for his cigar, found it tracing a design on the carpet.
“D——n,” he said fervently, as he stooped to remove it. He tossed it in his plate and leaning back glared at his son.
“Do you mean that she didn’t marry Trimblett?” he inquired in a trembling voice.
“Yes.”
Mr. Vyner drew the cigar-box toward him and selecting a cigar with great care, nipped off the end and, having lighted it, sat smoking in silence.
“This is very extraordinary,” he said at last watching his son’s eyes.
“I suppose she had a reason,” said Robert in a matter-of-fact voice.
Mr. Vyner winced. He began to realize the true state of affairs and sat trembling in impotent wrath. Then he rose and paced up and down the room. He thought of his veiled threats to Hartley, and the idea that his son should know of them added fuel to his anger.
“You are of full age,” he said bitterly, “and have your own income—now.”
Robert flushed and then turned pale.
“I will give that up if you wish, provided that you’ll retain Hartley,” he said, quietly.
Mr. Vyner continued his perambulations. He smoked furiously and muttered something about “forcing conditions upon him.”
“I can’t leave Hartley in the lurch,” said his son quietly. “It’s not his fault. I can look after myself.”
Mr. Vyner stopped and regarded him. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, shortly. “If it wasn’t for your mother—”
His son repressed a smile by an effort and began to feel more at ease. One of Mrs. Vyner’s wifely privileges was to serve as an excuse for any display of weakness of which her husband might be guilty.
“This pretended marriage will be a further scandal,” said Mr. Vyner, frowning. “What are you going to tell people?”
“Nothing,” said Robert.
“Do you think it is conducive to discipline to marry the daughter of my chief clerk?” continued his father.
Robert shook his head.
“No,” he said, decidedly. “I have been thinking of that. It would be better to give him a small interest in the firm—equal to his salary, say.”
Well aware of the uses of physical exercise at moments of mental stress, Mr. Vyner started on his walk again. He began to wonder whether, after all, he ought to consider his wife’s feelings in the matter.
“She is a very nice girl,” said Robert, after watching him for some time. “I wish you knew her.”
Mr. Vyner waved the remark away with a large impatient hand.
“She declines to marry me against your wishes,” continued his son, “but now that you have given your consent—”
The room suddenly became too small for Mr. Vyner. He passed out into the hall and a few seconds later his son heard the library door close with an eloquent bang. He shrugged his shoulders and lighting a cigarette sat down to wait. He was half-way through his third cigarette when the door opened and his father came into the room again.
“I have been talking to your mother,” said Mr. Vyner, in a stately fashion. “She is very much upset, of course. Very. She is not strong, and I—ha—we came to the conclusion that you must do as you please.”
He stepped to the table and with a trembling hand helped himself to a whiskey and soda. Robert took up a glass with a little claret in it.
“Success to the young couple,” he said cheerfully.
Mr. Vyner paused with the glass at his lips and eyed him indignantly. Then with a wooden expression of face—intended possibly to suggest that he had not heard—took a refreshing drink. He placed the glass on the table and turned to see his son’s outstretched hand.
CHAPTER XXVI
CAPTAIN TRIMBLETT was back again in his old quarters, and already so much improved in health that he was able to repel with considerable vigor the many inquirers who were anxious to be put in possession of the real facts concerning his pretended marriage. It was a subject on which the captain was dumb, but in some mysterious fashion it came to be understood that it was a device on the part of a self-sacrificing and chivalrous ship-master to save Miss Hartley from the attentions of a determined admirer she had met in London. It was the version sanctioned—if not invented—by Mr. Robert Vyner.
It was a source of some little protestation of spirit to Miss Jelks that the captain had been brought home by his faithful boatswain. Conduct based on an idea of two years’ absence had to be suddenly and entirely altered. She had had a glimpse of them both on the day of their arrival, but the fact that Mr. Walters was with his superior officer, and that she was with Mr. Filer, prevented her from greeting him. In the wrath of his dismissal Mr. Filer met him more than half-way.
“Somebody ’ad to look arter ’im,” said Mr. Walters, referring to the captain, as he sat in Rosa’s kitchen the following evening, “and he always ’ad a liking for me. Besides which I wanted to get ’ome and see you.”
“You have got it bad,” said Rosa with a gratified titter.
“Look arter you, I ought to ha’ said,” retorted Mr. Walters, glowering at her, “and from wot I hear from Bassett, it’s about time I did.”
“Ho!” said Miss Jelks, taking a deep breath. “Ho, really!”
“I had it out of ’im this morning,” continued Mr. Walters, eying her sternly; “I waited for ’im as he come out of his ’ouse. He didn’t want to tell me at first, but when he found as ’ow he’d be late for the office if he didn’t, he thought better of it.”
Miss Jelks leaned back in her chair with a ladylike sneer upon her expressive features.
“I’ll Bassett him,” she said slowly.
“And I’ll Filer him,” said Mr. Walters, not to be outdone in the coining of verbs.
“It’s a pity he don’t say them things to my face,” said Rosa, “I’d soon let him know.”
“He’s going to,” said the boatswain readily. “I told ’im we’d meet him on Sunday arternoon by Kegg’s boat-house. Then we’ll see wot you’ve got to say for yourself. Shut that door. D’ye want to freeze me!”
“I’ll shut it when you’re gone,” said Rosa calmly. “Make haste, else I shall catch cold. I’ll go with you on Sunday afternoon—just so as you can beg my pardon—and after that I don’t want anything more to do with you. You’d try the temper of a saint, you would.”
Mr. Walters looked round the warm and comfortable kitchen, and his face fell. “I ain’t going to judge you till I’ve heard both sides,” he said slowly, and then seeing no signs of relenting in Rosa’s face, passed out into the black night.
He walked down to the rendezvous on Sunday afternoon with a well-dressed icicle. Miss Jelks only spoke to him once, and that was when he trod on her dress. A nipping wind stirred the surface of the river, and the place was deserted except for the small figure of Bassett sheltering under the lee of the boat-house. He came to meet them and raising a new bowler hat stood regarding Miss Jelks with an expression in which compassion and judicial severity were pretty evenly combined.
“Tell me, afore her, wot you told me the other day,” said Mr. Walters, plunging at once into business.
“I would rather not,” said Bassett, adjusting his spectacles and looking from one to the other, “but in pursuance of my promise, I have no alternative.”
“Fire away,” commanded the boatswain.
Bassett coughed, and then in a thin but firm voice complied. The list of Miss Jelks’s misdeeds was a long one, and the day was cold, but he did not miss a single item. Miss Jelks, eying him with some concern as he proceeded, began to think he must have eyes at the back of his head. The boatswain, whose colour was deepening as he listened, regarded her with a lurid eye.
“And you believe it all,” said Rosa, turning to him with a pitying smile as Bassett concluded his tale. “Why don’t he go on; he ain’t finished yet.”
“Wot!” said Mr. Walters with energy.
“He ain’t told you about making love to me yet,” said Rosa.
“I didn’t,” said the youth. “I shouldn’t think of doing such a thing. It was all a mistake of yours.”
Miss Jelks uttered a cruel laugh. “Ask him whether he followed me like a pet dog,” she said turning to the astonished boatswain. “Ask him if he didn’t say he loved the ground my feet trod on. Ask him if he wanted to take me to Marsham Fair and cried because I wouldn’t go.”
“Eh?” gasped the boatswain, staring at the bewildered Bassett.
“Ask him if he didn’t go down on his knees to me in Pringle’s Lane one day—a muddy day—and ask me to be his,” continued the unscrupulous Rosa. “Ask him if he didn’t say I was throwing myself away on a wooden-headed boatswain with bandy legs.”
“Bandy wot?” ejaculated the choking Mr. Walters, as he bestowed an involuntary glower at the limbs in question.
“I can assure you I never said so,” said Bassett, earnestly. “I never noticed before that they were bandy. And I never—”
An enormous fist held just beneath his nose stopped him in mad career.
“If you was only three foot taller and six or seven stone ’eavier,” said the palpitating boatswain, “I should know wot to do with you.”
“I assure you—” began Bassett.
“If you say another word,” declared Mr. Walters, in grating accents, “I’ll take you by the scruff of your little neck and drop you in the river. And if you tell any more lies about my young woman to a living soul I’ll tear you limb from limb, and box your ears arterwards.”
With a warning shake of the head at the gasping Bassett he turned to Miss Jelks, but that injured lady, with her head at an alarming angle, was already moving away. Even when he reached her side she seemed unaware of his existence, and it was not until the afternoon was well advanced that she deigned to take the slightest notice of his abject apologies.
“It’s being at sea and away from you that does it,” he said humbly.
“And a nasty jealous temper,” added Miss Jelks.
“I’m going to try for a shore-berth,” said her admirer. “I spoke to Mr. Vyner—the young one—about it yesterday, and he’s going to see wot he can do for me. If I get that I shall be a different man.”
“He’d do anything for Miss Joan,” said the mollified Rosa thoughtfully, “and if you behave yourself and conquer your wicked jealous nature I might put in a word for you with her myself.”
Mr. Walters thanked her warmly and with a natural anxiety regarding his future prospects, paid frequent visits to learn what progress she was making. He haunted the kitchen with the persistency of a blackbeetle, and became such a nuisance at last that Miss Hartley espoused his cause almost with enthusiasm.
“He is very much attached to Rosa, but he takes up a lot of her time,” she said to Robert Vyner as they were on their way one evening to Tranquil Vale to pay a visit to Captain Trimblett.
“I’ll get him something for Rosa’s sake,” said Robert, softly. “I shall never forget that she invited me to breakfast when her mistress would have let me go empty away. Do you remember?”
“I remember wondering whether you were going to stay all day,” said Joan.
“It never occurred to me,” said Mr. Vyner in tones of regret. “I’m afraid you must have thought me very neglectful.”
They walked on happily through the dark, cold night until the lighted windows of Tranquil Vale showed softly in the blackness. There was a light in the front room of No. 5, and the sound of somebody moving hurriedly about followed immediately upon Mr. Vyner’s knock. Then the door opened and Captain Trimblett stood before them.
“Come in,” he said heartily. “Come in, I’m all alone this evening.”
He closed the door behind them, and, while Mr. Vyner stood gazing moodily at the mound on the table which appeared to have been hastily covered up with a rather soiled towel, placed a couple of easy chairs by the fire. Mr. Vyner, with his eyes still on the table, took his seat slowly, and then transferring his regards to Captain Trimblett, asked him in a stern vein what he was smiling at Joan for.
“She smiled at me first,” said the captain.
Mr. Vyner shook his head at both of them, and at an offer of a glass of beer looked so undecided that the captain, after an uneasy glance at the table, which did not escape Mr. Vyner, went to the kitchen to procure some.
“I wonder,” said Robert musingly, as he turned to the table, “I wonder if it would be bad manners to—”
“Yes,” said Joan, promptly.
Mr. Vyner sighed and tried to peer under a corner of the towel. “I can see a saucer,” he announced, excitedly.
Miss Hartley rose and pointing with a rigid fore-finger at her own chair, changed places with him.
“You want to see yourself,” declared Mr. Vyner.
Miss Hartley scorned to reply.
“Let’s share the guilt,” continued the other. “You shut your eyes and raise the corner of the towel, and I’ll do the ‘peeping’.”
The return of the unconscious captain with the beer rendered a reply unnecessary.
“We half thought you would be at number nine,” he said as the captain poured him out a glass.
“I’m keeping house this evening,” said the captain, “or else I should have been.”
“It’s nice for you to have your children near you,” said Joan, softly.
Captain Trimblett assented. “And it’s nice to be able to give up the sea,” he said with a grateful glance at Vyner. “I’m getting old, and that last bout of malaria hasn’t made me any younger.”
“The youngsters seem to get on all right with Mrs. Chinnery,” said Robert, eying him closely.
“Splendidly,” said the Captain. “I should never have thought that she would have been so good with children. She half worships them.”
“Not all of them,” said Mr. Vyner.
“All of ’em,” said the captain.
“Twins, as well?” said Mr. Vyner, raising his voice.
“She likes them best of all,” was the reply.
Mr. Vyner rose slowly from his chair. “She is a woman in a million,” he said impressively. “I wonder why—”
“They’re very good girls,” said the captain hastily. “Old Sellers thinks there is nobody like them.”
“I expect you’ll be making a home for them soon,” said Robert, thoughtfully; “although it will be rather hard on Mrs. Chinnery to part with them. Won’t it?”
“We are all in the hands of fate,” said the captain gazing suddenly at his tumbler. “Fate rules all things from the cradle to the grave.”
He poured himself out a little more beer and lapsing into a reminiscent mood cited various instances in his own career, in confirmation. It was an interesting subject, but time was passifng and Mr. Vyner, after a regretful allusion to the fact, announced that they must be going. Joan rose, and Captain Trimblett, rising at the same moment, knocked over his beer and in a moment of forgetfulness snatched the towel from the table to wipe it up. The act revealed an electro-plated salad-bowl of noble proportions, a saucer of whitening and some pieces of rag.
“Halloa!” said Robert, looking from the bowl to the captain’s ruddy face. “What’s this?”
“I was just giving it a clean up,” murmured the captain.
“What is it,” said the other.
“It’s a present,” said Captain Trimblett with a faint note of defiance in his voice. “A present from a dear old friend of mine—Captain Walsh.”
He accompanied his visitors to the door and after a cordial farewell stood looking after them until their voices died away in the darkness. Then he came back into the room and, whistling cheerfully, took up a piece of rag and resumed his interrupted task.