Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  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 oft 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, with — —”

  “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.

  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 pre-occupied 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.

  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 state of affairs and sat trembling in impotent. Then he rose and paced up and down. He thought of his veiled threats to Hartley, the idea that his son should know of them added 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 you’ll retain Hartley,” he said, quietly.

  Mr. Vyner continued his perambulation smoked furiously and muttered something “forcing conditions upon him.”

  “I can’t leave Hartley in the lurch,” said he quietly. “It’s not his fault. I can look to myself.”

  Mr. Vyner stopped and regarded him. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, shortly. “If it wasn’t for mother—”

  His son repressed a smile by an effort and feel more at ease. One of Mrs. Vyner’s 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 been 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 said 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 circle. 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 sto
od 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.