Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Miss Willett, paler than ever, gave a hasty and calculating glance at the clock and disappeared.

  “And your new hat,” Mrs. Willett called after her.

  She looked at the clock too, and then, almost as excited as her daughter, began to move restlessly about the room. Her hands shook, and going up to the glass over the mantel-piece she removed her spectacles and dabbed indignantly at her eyes. By the time Cecilia returned she was sitting in her favourite chair, a picture of placid and indifferent old age.

  “That’s better,” she said, with an approving nod; “much better.”

  She rose, and going up to her daughter rearranged her dress a little. “You look very nice, dear,” she paid, with a little cough. “Mr. Truefitt ought to be proud of you. Good-by.”

  Her daughter kissed her, and then, having got as far as the door, came back and kissed her again. She made a second attempt to depart, and then, conscience proving too much for her, uttered a stifled sob and came back to her mother.

  “Oh, I can’t,” she wailed; “I can’t.”

  “You’ll be late,” said her mother, pushing her away. “Good-by.”

  “I can’t,” sobbed Miss Willett; “I can’t do it. I’m — I’m deceiving — —”

  “Yes, yes,” said the old lady, hastily; “tell me another time. Good-by.”

  She half led and half thrust her daughter to the door.

  “But,” said the conscience-stricken Cecilia, “you don’t under—”

  “A walk will do you good,” said her mother; “and don’t cry; try and look your best.”

  She managed to close the door on her, and her countenance cleared as she heard her daughter open the hall door and pass out. Standing well back in the room, she watched her to the gate, uttering a sharp exclamation of annoyance as Cecilia, with a woebegone shake of the head, turned and came up the path again. A loud tap at the window and a shake of the head were necessary to drive her off.

  Mrs. Willett gave her a few minutes’ start, and then, in a state of extraordinary excitement, went upstairs and, with fingers trembling with haste, put on her bonnet and cape.

  “You’re not going out alone at this time o’ the morning, ma’am?” said the old servant, as she came down again.

  “Just as far as the corner, Martha,” said the old lady, craftily.

  “I’d better come with you,” said the other.

  “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Willett. “I’m quite strong this morning. Go on with your stoves.”

  She took up her stick and, opening the door, astonished Martha by her nimbleness. At the gate she looked right and left, and for the first time in her life felt that there were too many churches in Salthaven. For several reasons, the chief being that Cecilia’s father lay in the churchyard, she decided to try St. Peter’s first, and, having procured a cab at the end of the road, instructed the cabman to drive to within fifty yards of the building and wait for her.

  The church was open, and a peep through the swing-doors showed her a small group standing before the altar. With her hand on her side she hobbled up the stone steps to the gallery, and, helping herself along by the sides of the pews, entered the end one of them all and sank exhausted on the cushions.

  The service had just commenced, and the voice of the minister sounded with unusual loudness in the empty church. Mr. Truefitt and Miss Willett stood before him like culprits, Mr. Truefitt glancing round uneasily several times as the service proceeded. Twice the old lavender-coloured bonnet that was projecting over the side of the gallery drew back in alarm, and twice its owner held her breath and rated herself sternly for her venturesomeness. She did not look over again until she heard a little clatter of steps proceeding to the vestry, and then, with a hasty glance round, slipped out of the pew and made her way downstairs and out of the church.

  Her strength was nearly spent, but the cabman was on the watch, and, driving up to the entrance, climbed down and bundled her into the cab. The drive was all too short for her to compose herself as she would have liked, and she met the accusatory glance of Martha with but little of her old spirit.

  “I went a little too far,” she said, feebly, as the servant helped her to the door.

  “What did I tell you?” demanded the other, and placing her in her chair removed her bonnet and cape, and stood regarding her with sour disapproval.

  “I’m getting better,” said the old lady, stoutly.

  “I’m getting my breath back again. I — I think I’ll have a glass of wine.”

  “Yes, ‘m,” said Martha, moving off. “The red-currant?”

  “Red-currant!” said Mrs. Willett, sharply. “Red-currant! Certainly not. The port.”

  Martha disappeared, marvelling, to return a minute or two later with the wine and a glass on a tray. Mrs. Willett filled her glass and, whispering a toast to herself, half emptied it.

  “Martha!” she said, looking round with a smile.

  “Ma’am!”

  “If you like to go and get a glass you can have a little drop yourself.”

  She turned and took up her glass again, and, starting nervously, nearly let it fall as a loud crash sounded outside. The bewildered Martha had fallen downstairs.

  CHAPTER XXII

  JOAN HARTLEY did not realize the full consequences of her departure from the truth until the actual arrival of the Trimblett family, which, piloted by Mr. Hartley, made a triumphant appearance in a couple of station cabs. The roofs were piled high with luggage, and the leading cabman shared his seat with a brass-bound trunk of huge dimensions and extremely sharp corners.

  A short, sturdy girl of seventeen jumped out as soon as the vehicles came to a halt, and, taking her stand on the curb, proceeded to superintend the unloading. A succession of hasty directions to the leading cabman, one of the most docile of men, ended in the performance of a marvellous piece of jugglery with the big trunk, which he first balanced for an infinitesimal period of time on his nose, and then caught with his big toe.

  “What did you do that for?” demanded Miss Trimblett, hotly.

  There is a limit to the patience of every man, and the cabman was proceeding to tell her when he was checked by Mr. Hartley.

  “He ought to be locked up,” said Miss Trimblett flushing.

  She took up a band-box and joined the laden procession of boys and girls that was proceeding up the path to the house. Still red with indignation she was introduced to Joan, and, putting down the band-box, stood eying her with frank curiosity.

  “I thought you were older,” she said at last. “I had no idea father was married again until I got the letter. I shall call you Joan.”

  “You had all better call me that,” said Miss Hartley, hastily.

  “Never more surprised in my life,” continued Miss Trimblett. “However—”

  She paused and looked about her.

  “This is George,” she said, pulling forward a heavy-looking youth of sixteen. “This is Ted; he is fourteen — small for his age — and these are the twins, Dolly and Gertrude; they’re eleven. Dolly has got red hair and Gerty has got the sweetest temper.”

  The family, having been introduced and then summarily dismissed by the arbitrary Jessie, set out on a tour of inspection, while the elders, proceeding upstairs, set themselves to solve a problem in sleeping accommodation that would have daunted the proprietor of a Margate lodging-house. A scheme was at last arranged by which Hartley gave up his bedroom to the three Misses Trimblett and retired to a tiny room under the tiles. Miss Trimblett pointed out that it commanded a fine view.

  “It is the only thing to be done,” said Joan, softly.

  “It isn’t very big for three,” said Miss Trimblett, referring to her own room, “but the twins won’t be separated. I’ve always been used to a room to myself, but I suppose it can’t be helped for the present.”

  She went downstairs and walked into the garden. The other members of the family were already there, and Hartley, watching them from the dining-room window, raised his brows in
anguish as he noticed the partiality of the twins for cut flowers.

  It was, as he soon discovered, one of the smallest of the troubles that followed on his sudden increase of family. His taste in easy-chairs met with the warm approval of George Trimblett, and it was clear that the latter regarded the tobacco-jar as common property. The twins’ belongings — a joint-stock affair — occupied the most unlikely places in the house; and their quarrels were only exceeded in offensiveness by their noisy and uncouth endearments afterwards. Painstaking but hopeless attempts on the part of Miss Trimblett to “teach Rosa her place” added to the general confusion.

  By the end of a month the Trimblett children were in full possession. George Trimblett, owing to the good offices of Mr. Vyner, senior, had obtained a berth in a shipping firm, but the others spent the days at home, the parties most concerned being unanimously of the opinion that it would be absurd to go to school before Christmas. They spoke with great fluency and good feeling of making a fresh start in the New Year.

  “Interesting children,” said Robert Vyner, who had dropped in one afternoon on the pretext of seeing how they were getting on. “I wish they were mine. I should be so proud of them.”

  Miss Hartley, who was about to offer him some tea, thought better of it, and, leaning back in her chair, regarded him suspiciously.

  “And, after all, what is a garden for?” pursued Mr. Vyner, as a steady succession of thuds sounded outside, and Ted, hotly pursued by the twins, appeared abruptly in the front garden and dribbled a football across the flower-beds.

  “They are spoiling the garden,” said Joan, flushing. “Father is in despair.”

  Mr. Vyner shook his head indulgently. “Girls will be girls,” he said, glancing through the window at Gertrude, who had thrown herself on the ball and was being dragged round the garden by her heels. “I’m afraid you spoil them, though.”

  Miss Hartley did not trouble to reply.

  “I saw your eldest boy yesterday, at Marling’s,” continued the industrious Mr. Vyner. “He is getting on pretty well; Marling tells me he is steady and quiet. I should think that he might be a great comfort to you in your old age.”

  In spite of the utmost efforts to prevent it, Miss Hartley began to laugh. Mr. Vyner regarded her in pained astonishment.

  “I didn’t intend to be humorous,” he said, with some severity. “I am fond of children, and, unfortunately, I — I am childless.”

  He buried his face in his handkerchief, and, removing it after a decent interval, found that his indignant hostess was preparing to quit the room.

  “Don’t go,” he said, hastily. “I haven’t finished yet.”

  “I haven’t got time to stay and talk nonsense,” said Joan.

  “I’m not going to,” said Robert, “but I want to speak to you. I have a confession to make.”

  “Confession?”

  Mr. Vyner nodded with sad acquiescence. “I deceived you grossly the other day,” he said, “and it has been worrying me ever since.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Joan, with a lively suspicion of his meaning.

  “Pardon me,” said Mr. Vyner, with solemn politeness, “if I say that it does. I — I lied to you, and I have been miserable ever since.”

  Joan waited in indignant silence.

  “I told you that I was married,” said Mr. Vyner, in thrilling tones. “I am not.”

  Miss Hartley, who had seated herself, rose suddenly with a fair show of temper. “You said you were not going to talk nonsense!” she exclaimed.

  “I am not,” said the other, in surprise. “I am owning to a fault, making a clean breast of my sins, not without a faint hope that I am setting an example that will be beautifully and bountifully followed.”

  “I have really got too much to do to stay here listening to nonsense,” said Miss Hartley, vigorously.

  “I am a proud man,” resumed Mr. Vyner, “and what it has cost me to make this confession tongue cannot tell; but it is made, and I now, in perfect confidence — almost perfect confidence — await yours.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Joan, pausing, with her hand on the door.

  “Having repudiated my dear wife,” said Mr. Vyner, sternly, “I now ask, nay, demand, that you repudiate Captain Trimblett — and all his works,” he added, as ear-splitting screams sounded from outside.

  “I wish — —” began Joan, in a low voice.

  “Yes?” said Robert, tenderly.

  “That you would go.”

  Mr. Vyner started, and half rose to his feet. Then he thought better of it.

  “I thought at first that you meant it,” he said, with a slight laugh.

  “I do mean it,” said Joan, breathing quickly.

  Robert rose at once. “I am very sorry,” he said, with grave concern. “I did not think that you were taking my foolishness seriously.”

  “I ought to be amused, I know,” said Joan, bitterly. “I ought to be humbly grateful to your father for having those children sent here. I ought to be flattered to think that he should remember my existence and make plans for my future.”

  “He — he believes that you are married to Captain Trimblett,” said Robert.

  “Fortunately for us,” said Joan, dryly.

  “Do you mean,” said Robert, regarding her fixedly, “that my father arranged that marriage?”

  Joan bit her lip. “No,” she said at last.

  “He had something to do with it,” persisted Robert. “What was it?”

  Joan shook her head.

  “Well, I’ll ask him about it,” said Mr. Vyner.

  “Please don’t,” said the girl. “It is my business.”

  “You have said so much,” said Robert, “that you had better say more. That’s what comes of losing your temper. Sit down and tell me all about it, please.”

  Joan shook her head again.

  “You are not angry with me?” said Mr. Vyner.

  “No.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Robert, cheerfully. “That encourages me to go to still further lengths. You’ve got to tell me all about it. I forgot to tell you, but I’m a real partner in the firm now. I’ve got a hard and fast share in the profits — had it last Wednesday; since when I have already grown two inches. In exchange for this confidence I await yours. You must speak a little louder if you want me to hear.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said the girl.

  “You are wasting time, then,” said Robert, shaking his head. “And that eldest girl of yours may come in at any moment.”

  Despite her utmost efforts Miss Hartley failed to repress a smile; greatly encouraged, Mr. Vyner placed a chair for her and took one by her side.

  “Tell me everything, and I shall know where we are,” he said, in a low voice.

  “I would rather—” began Miss Hartley.

  “Yes, I know,” interrupted Mr. Vyner, with great gravity; “but we were not put into this world to please ourselves. Try again.”

  Miss Hartley endeavoured to turn the conversation, but in vain. In less than ten minutes, with a little skilful prompting, she had told him all.

  “I didn’t think that it was quite so bad as that,” said Robert, going very red. “I am very sorry — very. I can’t think what my father was about, and I suppose, in the first place, that it was my fault.”

  “Yours?” exclaimed Joan.

  “For not displaying more patience,” said Robert, slowly. “But I was afraid of — of being forestalled.”

  Miss Hartley succeeded in divesting her face of every atom of expression. Robert Vyner gazed at her admiringly.

  “I am glad that you understand me,” he murmured. “It makes things easier for me. I don’t suppose that you have the faintest idea how shy and sensitive I really am.”

  Miss Hartley, without even troubling to look at him, said that she was quite sure she had not.

  “Nobody has,” said Robert, shaking his head, “but I am going to make a fight against it. I am going to begin now
. In the first place I want you not to think too hardly of my father. He has been a very good father to me. We have never had a really nasty word in our lives.”

  “I hope you never will have,” said Joan, with some significance.

  “I hope not,” said Robert; “but in any case I want to tell you—”

  Miss Hartley snatched away the hand he had taken, and with a hasty glance at the door retreated a pace or two from him.

  “What is the matter?” he inquired, in a low voice.

  Miss Hartley’s eyes sparkled.

  “My eldest daughter has just come in,” she said, demurely. “I think you had better go.”

  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.