Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  At No. 5 the captain paused to pass a perfectly dry boot over a scraper of huge dimensions which guarded the entrance, and, opening the door, finished off on the mat. Mrs. Susanna Chinnery, who was setting tea, looked up at his entrance, and then looked at the clock.

  “Kettle’s just on the boil,” she remarked.

  “Your kettle always is,” said the captain, taking a chair— “when it’s time for it to be, I mean,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Chinnery showed signs of correcting him.

  “It’s as easy to be punctual as otherwise,” said Mrs. Chinnery; “easier, if people did but know it.”

  “So it is,” murmured the captain, and sat gazing, with a sudden wooden expression, at a picture opposite of the eruption of Vesuvius.

  “Peter’s late again,” said Mrs. Chinnery, in tones of hopeless resignation.

  “Business, perhaps,” suggested Captain Trimblett, still intent on Vesuvius.

  “For years and years you could have set the clock by him,” continued Mrs. Chinnery, bustling out to the kitchen and bustling back again with the kettle; “now I never know when to expect him. He was late yesterday.”

  Captain Trimblett cleared his throat. “He saw a man nearly run over,” he reminded her.

  “Yes; but how long would that take him?” retorted Mrs. Chinnery. “If the man had been run over I could have understood it.”

  The captain murmured something about shock.

  “On Friday he was thirty-three minutes late,” continued the other.

  “Friday,” said the faithful captain. “Friday he stopped to listen to a man playing the bagpipes — a Scotchman.”

  “That was Thursday,” said Mrs. Chinnery.

  The captain affected to ponder. “So it was,” he said, heartily. “What a memory you have got! Of course, Friday he walked back to the office for his pipe.”

  “Well, we won’t wait for him,” said Mrs. Chinnery, taking the head of the table and making the tea. “If he can’t come in to time he must put up with his tea being cold. That’s the way we were brought up.”

  “A very good way, too,” said the captain. He put a radish into his mouth and, munching slowly, fell to gazing at Vesuvius again. It was not until he had passed his cup up for the second time that a short, red-faced man came quickly into the room and, taking a chair from its place against the wall, brought it to the table and took a seat opposite the captain.

  “Late again, Peter,” said his sister.

  “Been listening to a man playing the cornet,” said Mr. Truefitt, briefly.

  Captain Trimblett, taking the largest radish he could find, pushed it into his mouth and sat gazing at him in consternation. He had used up two musical instruments in less than a week.

  “You’re getting fond of music in your old age,” said Mrs. Chinnery, tartly. “But you always are late nowadays. When it isn’t music it’s something else. What’s come over you lately I can’t think.”

  Mr. Truefitt cleared his throat for speech, and then, thinking better of it, helped himself to some bread and butter and went on with his meal. His eyes met those of Captain Trimblett and then wandered away to the window. The captain sprang into the breach.

  “He wants a wife to keep him in order,” he said, with a boldness that took Mr. Truefitt’s breath away.

  “Wife!” exclaimed Mrs. Chinnery. “Peter!”

  She put down her cup and laughed — a laugh so free from disquietude that Mr. Truefitt groaned in spirit.

  “He’ll go off one of these days.” said the captain with affected joviality. “You see if he don’t.”

  Mrs. Chinnery laughed again. “He’s a born bachelor,” she declared. “Why, he’d sooner walk a mile out of his way any day than meet a woman. He’s been like it ever since he was a boy. When I was a girl and brought friends of mine home to tea, Peter would sit like a stuffed dummy and never say a word.”

  “I’ve known older bachelors than him to get married,” said the captain. “I’ve known ’em down with it as sudden as heart disease. In a way, it is heart disease, I suppose.”

  “Peter’s heart’s all right,” said Mrs. Chinnery.

  “He might drop down any moment,” declared the captain.

  Mr. Truefitt, painfully conscious of their regards, passed his cup up for some more tea and made a noble effort to appear amused, as the captain cited instance after instance of confirmed bachelors being led to the altar.

  “I broke the ice for you to-day,” he said, as they sat after tea in the little summer-house at the bottom of the garden, smoking.

  Mr. Truefitt’s gaze wandered across the river. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “yes.”

  “I was surprised at myself,” said the captain.

  “I was surprised at you,” said Mr. Truefitt, with some energy. “So far as I can see, you made it worse.”

  The captain started. “I did it for the best, my lad,” he said, reproachfully. “She has got to know some day. You can’t be made late by cornets and bagpipes every day.”

  Mr. Truefitt rumpled his short gray hair. “You see, I promised her,” he said, suddenly.

  “I know,” said the captain, nodding. “And now you’ve promised Miss Willett.”

  “When they brought him home dead,” said Mr. Truefitt, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “she was just twenty-five. Pretty she was then, cap’n, as pretty a maid as you’d wish to see. As long as I live, Susanna, and have a home, you shall share it; that’s what I said to her.”

  The captain nodded again.

  “And she’s kept house for me for twenty-five years,” continued Mr. Truefitt; “and the surprising thing to me is the way the years have gone. I didn’t realize it until I found an old photograph of hers the other day taken when she was twenty. Men don’t change much.”

  The captain looked at him — at the close-clipped gray whiskers, the bluish lips, and the wrinkles round the eyes. “No,” he said, stoutly. “But she could live with you just the same.”

  The other shook his head. “Susanna would never stand another woman in the house,” he said, slowly. “She would go out and earn her own living; that’s her pride. And she wouldn’t take anything from me. It’s turning her out of house and home.”

  “She’d be turning herself out,” said the captain.

  “Of course, there is the chance she might marry again,” said the other, slowly. “She’s had several chances, but she refused ’em all.”

  “From what she said one day,” said the captain, “I got the idea that she has kept from marrying all these years for your sake.”

  Mr. Truefitt put his pipe down on the table and stared blankly before him. “That’s the worst of it,” he said, forlornly; “but something will have to be done. I’ve been engaged three weeks now, and every time I spend a few minutes with Cecilia — Miss Willett — I have to tell a lie about it.”

  “You do it very well,” said his friend. “Very well indeed.”

  “And Susanna regards me as the most truthful man that ever breathed,” continued Mr. Truefitt.

  “You’ve got a truthful look about you,” said the captain. “If I didn’t know you so well I should have thought the same.”

  Unconscious of Mr. Truefitt’s regards he rose and, leaning his arm on the fence at the bottom of the garden, watched the river.

  “Miss Willett thinks she might marry again,” said Mr. Truefitt, picking up his pipe and joining him. “She’d make an excellent wife for anybody — anybody.”

  The captain assented with a nod.

  “Nobody could have a better wife,” said Mr. Truefitt.

  The captain, who was watching an outward-bound barque, nodded again, absently.

  “She’s affectionate,” pursued Mr. Truefitt, “a wonderful housekeeper, a good conversationalist, a good cook, always punctual, always at home, always—”

  The captain, surprised at a fluency so unusual, turned and eyed him in surprise. Mr. Truefitt broke off abruptly, and, somewhat red in the face, expressed his fear that the barque would
take the mud if she were not careful. Captain Trimblett agreed and, to his friend’s relief, turned his back on him to watch her more closely. It was a comfortable position, with his arms on the fence, and he retained it until Mr. Truefitt had returned to the summer-house.

  CHAPTER IV

  MR. ROBERT VYNER had been busy all the afternoon, and the clock still indicated fifteen minutes short of the time at which he had intended to leave. He leaned back in his chair, and, yielding to the slight rotatory movement of that active piece of furniture, indulged in the first twirl for three days. Bassett or no Bassett, it was exhilarating, and, having gone to the limit in one direction, he obtained impetus by a clutch at the table and whirled back again. A smothered exclamation from the door arrested his attention, and putting on the break with some suddenness he found himself looking into the pretty, astonished eyes of Joan Hartley.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, in confusion. “I thought it was my father.”

  “It — it got stuck,” said Mr. Vyner, springing up and regarding the chair with great disfavour. “I was trying to loosen it. I shall have to send it back, I’m afraid; it’s badly made. There’s no cabinet-making nowadays.”

  Miss Hartley retreated to the doorway.

  “I am sorry; I expected to find my father here,” she said. “It used to be his room.”

  “Yes, it was his room,” said the young man. “If you will come in and sit down I will send for him.”

  “It doesn’t matter, thank you,” said Joan, still standing by the door. “If you will tell me where his room is now, I will go to him.”

  “He — he is in the general office,” said Robert Vyner, slowly.

  Miss Hartley bit her lip and her eyes grew sombre.

  “Don’t go,” said Mr. Vyner, eagerly. “I’ll go and fetch him. He is expecting you.”

  “Expecting me?” said the girl. “Why, he didn’t know I was coming.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood him,” murmured Mr. Vyner. “Pressure of business,” he said, vaguely, indicating a pile of papers on his table. “Hardly know what people do say to me.”

  He pushed a comfortable easy-chair to the window, and the girl, after a moment’s hesitation, seated herself and became interested in the life outside. Robert Vyner, resuming his seat, leaned back and gazed at her in frank admiration.

  “Nice view down the harbour, isn’t it?” he said, after a long pause.

  Miss Hartley agreed — and sat admiring it.

  “Salthaven is a pretty place altogether, I think,” continued Robert. “I was quite glad to come back to it. I like the town and I like the people. Except for holidays I haven’t been in the place since I was ten.”

  Miss Hartley, feeling that some comment was expected, said, “Indeed!”

  “You have lived here all your life, I suppose?” said the persevering Robert.

  “Practically,” said Miss Hartley.

  Mr. Vyner stole a look at her as she sat sideways by the window. Conscience and his visitor’s manner told him that he ought to go for her father; personal inclination told him that there was no hurry. For the first time in his experience the office became most desirable place in the world. He wanted to sit still and look at her, and for some time, despite her restlessness, obeyed his inclinations. She turned at last to ask for her father, and in the fraction of a second he was immersed in a bundle of papers. Knitted brows and pursed lips testified to his absorption. He seized a pen and made an endorsement; looked at it with his head on one side and struck it out again.

  “My father?” said Miss Hartley, in a small but determined voice.

  Mr. Vyner gazed at her in a preoccupied fashion. Suddenly his face changed.

  “Good gracious! yes,” he said, springing up and going to the door. “How stupid of me!”

  He stepped into the corridor and stood reflecting. In some circumstances he could be business-like enough. After reflecting for three minutes he came back into the room.

  “He will be in soon,” he said, resuming his seat. Inwardly he resolved to go and fetch him later on — when the conversation flagged, for instance. Meantime he took up his papers and shook his head over them.

  “I wish I had got your father’s head for business,” he said, ruefully.

  Miss Hartley turned on him a face from which all primness had vanished. The corners of her mouth broke and her eyes grew soft. She smiled at Mr. Vyner, and Mr. Vyner, pluming himself upon his address, smiled back.

  “If I knew half as much as he does,” he continued, “I’d — I’d — —”

  Miss Hartley waited, her eyes bright with expectation.

  “I’d,” repeated Mr. Vyner, who had rashly embarked on a sentence before he had seen the end of it, “have a jolly easy time of it,” he concluded, breathlessly.

  Miss Hartley surveyed him in pained surprise. “I thought my father worked very hard,” she said, with a little reproach in her voice.

  “So he does,” said the young man, hastily, “but he wouldn’t if he only had my work to do; that’s what I meant. As far as he is concerned he works far too hard. He sets an example that is a trouble to all of us except the office-boy. Do you know Bassett?”

  Miss Hartley smiled. “My father tells me he is a very good boy,” she said.

  “A treasure!” said Robert. “‘Good’ doesn’t describe Bassett. He is the sort of boy who would get off a ‘bus after paying his fare to kick a piece of orange peel off the pavement. He has been nourished on copy-book headings and ‘Sanford and Merton.’ Ever read ‘Sanford and Merton’?”

  “I — I tried to once,” said Joan.

  “There was no ‘trying’ with Bassett,” said Mr. Vyner, rather severely. “He took to it as a duck takes to water. By modelling his life on its teaching he won a silver medal for never missing an attendance at school.”

  “Father has seen it,” said Joan, with a smile.

  “Even the measles failed to stop him,” continued Robert. “Day by day, a little more flushed than usual, perhaps, he sat in his accustomed place until the whole school was down with it and had to be closed in consequence. Then, and not till then, did Bassett feel that he had saved the situation.”

  “I don’t suppose he knew it, poor boy,” said Joan.

  “Anyway, he got the medal,” said Robert, “and he has a row of prizes for good conduct. I never had one; not even a little one. I suppose you had a lot?”

  Miss Hartley maintained a discreet silence.

  “Nobody ever seemed to notice my good conduct,” continued Mr. Vyner, still bent on making conversation. “They always seemed to notice the other kind fast enough; but the ‘good’ seemed to escape them.”

  He sighed faintly, and glancing at the girl, who was looking out of the window again, took up his pen and signed his blotting-paper.

  “I suppose you know the view from that window pretty well?” he said, putting the paper aside with great care.

  “Ever since I was a small girl,” said Joan, looking round. “I used to come here sometimes and wait for father. Not so much lately; and now, of course—”

  Mr. Vyner looked uncomfortable. “I hope you will come to this room whenever you want to see him,” he said, earnestly. “He — he seemed to prefer being in the general office.”

  Miss Hartley busied herself with the window again. “Seemed to prefer,” she said, impatiently, under her breath. “Yes.”

  There was a long silence, which Mr. Vyner, gazing in mute consternation at the vision of indignant prettiness by the window, felt quite unable to break. He felt that the time had at last arrived at which he might safely fetch Mr. Hartley without any self-upbraidings later on, and was just about to rise when the faint tap at the door by which Bassett always justified his entrance stopped him, and Bassett entered the room with some cheques for signature. Despite his habits, the youth started slightly as he saw the visitor, and then, placing the cheques before Mr. Vyner, stood patiently by the table while he signed them.

  “That will do,” said
the latter, as he finished. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bassett. He gave a slow glance at the window, and, arranging the cheques neatly, turned toward the door.

  “Will Mr. Hartley be long?” inquired Joan, turning round.

  “Mr. Hartley, miss?” said Bassett, pausing, with his hand on the knob. “Mr. Hartley left half an hour ago.”

  Mr. Vyner, who felt the eyes of Miss Hartley fixed upon him, resisted by a supreme effort the impulse to look at her in return.

  “Bassett!” he said, sharply.

  “Sir?” said the other.. “Didn’t you,” said Mr. Vyner, with a fine and growing note of indignation in his voice— “didn’t you tell Mr. Hartley that Miss Hartley was here waiting for him?”

  “No, sir,” said Bassett, gazing at certain mysterious workings of the junior partner’s face with undisguised amazement. “I—”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Mr. Vyner, looking at him with great significance, “that you forgot?”

  “No, sir,” said Bassett; “I didn’t—”

  “That will do,” broke in Mr. Vyner, imperiously. “That will do. You can go.”

  “But,” said the amazed youth, “how could I tell—”

  “That — will — do,” said Mr. Vyner, very distinctly.

  “I don’t want any excuses. You can go at once. And the next time you are told to deliver a message, please don’t forget. Now go.”

  With a fine show of indignation he thrust the gasping Bassett from the room.

  He rose from his chair and, with a fine show of indignation, thrust the gasping Bassett from the room, and then turned to face the girl.

  “I am so sorry,” he began. “That stupid boy — you see how stupid he is—”

  “It doesn’t matter, thank you,” said Joan. “It — it wasn’t very important.”

  “He doesn’t usually forget things,” murmured Mr. Vyner. “I wish now,” he added, truthfully, “that I had told Mr. Hartley myself.”