Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Other things have touched me sometimes — and wished they hadn’t.”

  Knight, who looked in at the flat late that evening, espoused the cause of Biggs. “Far too nervous and careful to run into anything,” he said scornfully. “My fingers simply itch to take the wheel away from him sometimes.”

  “Let ’em itch,” grunted Pope.

  “He’ll draw a bath-chair before he has finished,” said the young man, “with a dear friend of mine in it. By the way, who were the ladies? What was the young one like?”

  “Attractive,” replied Pope.

  Knight looked interested. “Very attractive?” he asked.

  Pope started and hid a grin. “No,” he replied.

  “What was the old lady like?” inquired Knight, looking disappointed.

  “There was no old lady there,” retorted Carstairs sharply. “Really, Knight—”

  Mr. Knight whistled. “Sorry,” he said slowly, “but there’s no disgrace in being old. I shall be old myself some day. Old age is beautiful. Isn’t it, Pope? Well, what was she like, anyway? Attractive?”

  Carstairs nodded. “A well-bred, handsome woman, a little over thirty, I should think,” he replied.

  Knight’s eyes sparkled. “And rather a sour expression?” he inquired.

  “Certainly not,” said Carstairs and Pope together.

  “If it is the one I am thinking of, I have seen it often enough,” said Knight. “But what was the girl really like, Carstairs?”

  “Oh, nice bright girl,” said Carstairs. “Friendly smile, tallish. She called her friend Isabel.”

  “There you are,” said Knight, jumping up. “My suspicions are confirmed. Isabel is Lady Penrose’s name, and you begin an acquaintance I was looking forward to with great hopes by wrecking her cart. I wonder who the girl was?”

  “Does it really matter?” inquired Carstairs, with a yawn.

  “No,” said Knight. “I was wondering whether it was Miss Seacombe, that is all, but your description is far too lukewarm to apply to her. However, we shall know when you call to inquire.”

  “Call to inquire?” repeated Carstairs. “I am not going to call. Why, I only know the lady’s name by accident.”

  “Of course you will call,” said Knight. “You knock a couple of ladies out of their trap with your beastly road-hog car, and then you think the affair is finished. You must display a little interest in the welfare of your victims. Ask Pope; he knows.”

  Mr. Pope, removing his cigar, pursed up his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “Wait till we get their bill for damages,” he said at last, with a side glance at Carstairs. “Then, if it is too heavy, Carstairs can call and protest and inquire after her health at the same time.”

  “Funny,” retorted Knight, “but that gives me an idea. I don’t suppose it’s at all likely Lady Penrose will make any claim. Carstairs can call on her if she doesn’t and insist upon it. How will that do?”

  “Anything to get rid of you,” said Carstairs, with a glance at the clock.

  “You will call?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll come with you next time you run down,” said Knight, with an air of resignation. “Things are sure to go wrong if I’m not there; and you don’t seem to realise how important this is. But don’t forget one thing. Don’t let Lady Penrose know that we are acquainted. Let it come as a little surprise to her, when it is too late.”

  “Any further instructions?” inquired Carstairs.

  “I’ll let you know on the way down,” was the reply. “Providence seems to be fighting on my behalf, and I want to give it all the assistance I can. I shall give Biggs half-a-crown; he deserves it.”

  Biggs received the money next day, and, having placed it carefully in a leather purse before stowing it away in his pocket, made it quite clear to his benefactor that he had not earned it. He preferred to regard it as some slight consolation for a base attempt to injure an untarnished reputation.

  No word having come from Lady Penrose, they went down to Berstead a week later, the inability of Carstairs to make up his mind as to the propriety of calling causing great concern to Knight on the way.

  “If it had been a cottager you would have been round next evening,” he said severely. “Just because the unfortunate victim happens to be a lady you are treating her with studied neglect. She may have died from shock for all you know — expecting you up to the end.”

  “I thought I was to see her about the damage,” observed Carstairs.

  “Combine business with pleasure,” said Knight, “but don’t ask after the cart first, mind. While you are gone Pope and I will hustle the workmen for you. She won’t bite you; as a matter of fact, she is rather faddy about food.”

  Carstairs dropped them at the house, and after remarking that he would be back in ten minutes’ time, and adjuring Pope not to let Knight annoy the workmen, gave Biggs his directions and drove away. Pope, staring after the receding car, turned to confront his smiling companion.

  “He is doing this for you,” he said importantly. “Carstairs is a very shy man, a remarkably shy man where women are concerned.”

  “It is time he was cured, then,” said the other serenely. “A man has no business to be shy. I never was. Women don’t like shy men; they are so difficult to encourage. Let’s go inside and see how things are progressing.”

  Pope followed him in, and for some time they wandered through the empty rooms. Many of them were finished, but in some the workmen still lingered.

  “Carstairs is taking a good ten minutes,” said Knight, as they gained the hall again. “Got a cigarette about you, Pope? I left mine in my coat.”

  “So did I,” said Pope. “Let’s stroll as far as the lodge and meet him. I feel chilly standing about.”

  They reached the lodge and stood waiting, and, there being no sign of the car, walked slowly back again to the house and sat on the stairs. A gentle murmur sounded outside.

  “Rain,” said Knight.

  He got up and walked about the house again. The men were putting their tools together, and, drifting downstairs, turned their coat-collars up at the door and departed in little groups. A foreman, waiting to lock up, coughed restlessly.

  “I’ll take the key,” said Pope. “We’ll leave it at the lodge.”

  He put it in his pocket and, walking to the door, stood gazing at the rain, which was now falling steadily.

  “They must have had a breakdown,” he said at last, crossly. “Pity we didn’t ask them to give us some tea at the lodge.”

  “Let’s make a run for it,” suggested the other.

  Pope shook his head. “Rheumatism,” he said tersely. “We should get wet through.” He put his hands in his pockets and paced to and fro. Half an hour passed.

  “Wonder what’s happened?” said Knight. “I hope he’s all right.”

  “I wish he’d come,” snapped Pope. “This is what comes of listening to you.”

  He went back to the stairs again and sat shivering. Outside the rain was falling faster than ever, and darkness was coming on.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said, after a long silence. “Something must have happened to him. He’d never leave me here like this.”

  “Or me,” asserted Knight. “Hark!”

  He stepped to the door again, followed by Pope. The sound of an approaching car was distinctly audible, and in a few seconds the head-lights swung round the corner. It drew up as Pope locked the door, and stood waiting with a rhythmically throbbing engine.

  “What’s the matter?” he inquired, as Biggs reached backwards and opened the door.

  “Matter!” repeated Carstairs, in a surprised voice. “Nothing.”

  “What on earth have you been all this time for, then?” inquired Pope, dropping heavily into his seat.

  “Have I been long?” said Carstairs. “It didn’t seem like it.”

  “But you haven’t been all this time at Lady Penrose’s?” said Knight.

  “Why not?” said Cars
tairs, with some warmth.” By the way, Knight, it was Miss Seacombe who was in the trap with her that day.”

  Mr. Knight, who was struggling into his coat, grunted. “Your rapturous description could only fit her,” he remarked dryly.

  “Let me give you a hand with your coat, Pope.”

  Mr. Pope, accepting the proffered assistance, sank back into his seat again, and after peering vainly at Carstairs in the darkness subsided into an aggrieved silence. He broke it at last with a remark about tea.

  “Tea!” repeated Carstairs dreamily. “I’ve had some, thanks.”

  He pulled up his coat collar and, nestling comfortably in his corner, closed his eyes. Mr. Pope, suffering from a sudden fortunate impediment in his speech, allowed Knight to speak for him.

  “It isn’t tea he wants,” said that gentleman sharply, “it’s milk — a little of the milk of human kindness. There he sits — wrapped up in himself, and we can perish of cold and starvation for all he cares. Are you listening, Carstairs?”

  “I forgot you,” said Carstairs. “Stop at the first place you come to. Go on, Biggs.”

  “Forgot us!” repeated Knight, raising his voice as the car moved on. “That’s his idea of an apology.”

  CHAPTER V

  A STEADY trickle of thirsty carmen into the Red Lion during March heralded the arrival of Mr. Carstairs to Berstead Place. They brought on their vans old furniture, and other old furniture which represented the pouring of new wine into old bottles with the happiest results. Chairs which had long since given up their backs as hopeless held themselves erect again and invited the inspection of the amateur expert; chairs with three new legs footed it with the oldest.

  “You can’t tell them without taking them to pieces,” said Knight to Pope one afternoon, “and even the oldest friend of the family couldn’t do that. I shall be furnishing myself some day, and this experience has been very valuable to me. Your purchases will last longer than any of the others.”

  “Why?” inquired Pope, smiling.

  “Because they’re the youngest.”

  “They’ll be old enough by the time you furnish,” said Pope, with a malevolent grin. “I didn’t tell you that I called with Carstairs yesterday to make sure that Lady Penrose is still unhurt? That’s his third visit.”

  Mr. Knight raised his eyebrows.

  “Charming woman,” said Pope reminiscently. “Delightful. But it was quite clear, from the way she talked about you, that you haven’t the ghost of a chance.”

  “About me!” exclaimed Knight. “Why, you old blunderer, what did you mention my name for?”

  “I didn’t,” said Pope placidly; “but she was talking to Carstairs about Miss Seacombe — charming girl, something so fresh and unspoilt about her. I got quite interested.”

  “Go on,” urged Knight. “Never mind about your feelings.”

  “She was talking about her responsibility — Lady Penrose, I mean — and when she spoke of flippant ne’er-do-wells with no object in life we both thought that she must be referring to you. When she used the expression ‘harmless and useless,’ we felt quite certain. Pity she didn’t mention you by name, because then we could have stood up for you.”

  “I don’t mind the other terms,” exclaimed Knight, “but ‘harmless.’ Well, perhaps she’ll know better in time. Harmless!

  I’ve never been called that before. If it had been Freddie Peplow, now—”

  “She gets on very well with Carstairs,” continued Mr. Pope. “Wonder what will happen when she finds out that he knows you? Either she will drop him, I suppose, or—”

  “Or?” prompted Mr. Knight.

  “Or he will have to drop you.”

  “Nobody can drop me unless I want them to,” said Knight cheerfully. “Think of the ingratitude of it! Why, Carstairs would never have known of the house if it hadn’t been for me. He wouldn’t have barged into her cart if it hadn’t been for me. Are you sure she said ‘ harmless’? Sure it wasn’t ‘harmful’?”

  He took occasion to remind Carstairs at their next meeting of all he had done for him, but, despite a habit of looking on the cheerful side of things, doubts began to assail him as to his friend’s single-minded devotion to his interests. The man for whom he had done so much even advised him to go away for a year and find some hard and congenial work. Mr. Knight, after pointing out the discrepancy, requested him to descend to details. Carstairs, after long deliberation, suggested sheep-farming in Australia.

  “I was waiting for it,” said Knight, in resigned accents. “I knew it was coming. It is the one occupation that my intelligent friends always select for me. And they always harp on Australia. I suppose we can sheep-farm in other places? Why Australia? And what do you think I know about sheep?” Carstairs pondered. “Poultry-farming?” he suggested slowly.

  “That’s the second string,” said Knight, with forced calm. “Not so popular as the other because it is done in England. I look like a poultry-farmer, don’t I? How do you think the unfortunate hens would like it?”

  “Perhaps you had better take to work by degrees,” said Carstairs, smiling. “I can find you a job — for one afternoon. Are you doing anything on Friday?”

  “Depends upon what the job is,” said Knight.

  “I have been trying to arrange with an aunt of mine to come and look after me at Berstead,” said Carstairs. “She couldn’t make up her mind for some time, and, now she has decided to come, she is coming rather sooner than I wanted her. She is coming up on Friday to spend a few days in London before going on to Berstead.”

  “What do you want me to do?” inquired Knight. “Head her off?”

  “I want you to look after her for a few hours,” said Carstairs. “She is due at Euston at three, and Pope and I had already fixed up to run down to the house. She is an old lady of seventy, and if we meet her and hand her over to you we can go on. You could bring her here and look after her till we come back.”

  “Is she to be a fixture at Berstead?” asked Knight thoughtfully.

  “That is the idea,” said Carstairs.

  “Very good idea, too,” said Knight slowly. “You and Pope want somebody to look after you. I had five or six very important engagements for Friday afternoon, but I’ll throw them over. I want to heap coals of fire on your head. How old do you say she is?”

  “Seventy.”

  Mr. Knight looked thoughtful. “Hurry back as soon as you can,” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to overdo the coals of fire business. I suppose she won’t be nervous in a taxi? I don’t want her clinging to me, or anything of that sort.”

  His forebodings increased each day, and he was unusually quiet as he waited with Carstairs and Pope for the incoming train.

  “She will probably want to rest when she gets to the flat,” said Carstairs. “Be as gentle as you can with her. It’s rather awkward my having to run off like this.”

  “Deucedly awkward,” agreed Mr. Knight. “I wish now I’d asked Freddie to lend a hand.”

  The train drew into the station and the crowd moved up the platform. A fragile little old lady with white hair and bright blue eyes detached herself from the throng and came towards them. Carstairs, after an affectionate handshake, introduced his companions. Then, a little awkwardly, he explained the situation.

  “It’s very kind of him,” said Mrs. Ginnell; “but I should have been all right. Now you hurry away. Mr. Knight and I will look after the luggage. I shall see you when you come back.”

  She raised her nose and sniffed gently as the porter and the taxi-driver hoisted up the luggage. “Smells good,” she said, with a satisfied air.

  Mr. Knight stared at her.

  “London,” she explained. “I haven’t seen it for twenty-two years. Is it far to the flat?”

  “About a couple of miles,” said Knight.

  Mrs. Ginnell sighed. “Ask him to drive slowly,” she murmured.

  “It’s quite safe,” said Knight reassuringly. “I picked him on purpose.”

  Mrs.
Ginnell laughed. “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I want to see a little of the place.”

  “Might drive round a bit if you like,” said the other.

  Mrs. Ginnell nodded, and sitting with clasped hands peered through the window at the life of the streets. Certain landmarks she recognised with little gasps of pleasure; others had disappeared to make way for new streets and palatial buildings. By the time they reached the flat the taximeter registered six-and-eightpence, and she spoke warmly to Knight of the courtesy of the modern taxi-driver as compared with the old-style cabman. She referred to an affair with one of the latter which had rankled for thirty-five years.

  “Tea first?” said Knight, as he placed her in Carstairs’ most comfortable chair. “And then perhaps you’d like to go to your room and rest for an hour or two.”

  “No, I am not in the least tired, thank you,” said Mrs. Ginnell, as he rang for the tea. “Why, I’ve done nothing to-day yet. I’ve been sitting down all the time. I want you to tell me all about my nephew and the new house.”

  She poured out tea and listened, interposing with a dexterous question or two whenever the young man showed signs of flagging. It was evident that she was a woman of intelligence; intelligent enough, he hoped, to take a lively interest in the affairs of deserving young men. He had a strong idea that she was worth cultivating.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t care to do anything?” he remarked, as he threw away the end of his third cigarette. “If you are not too tired, how about a cinema?”

  “I should love it!” said Mrs. Ginnell. “I have never seen a really good one. What time do you think my nephew will be back?”

  “Eight at the earliest,” was the reply. “But we needn’t trouble about them; we must consider ourselves.”

  He lit another cigarette while Mrs. Ginnell was getting ready, and, noting with approval her change of costume, escorted her downstairs.

  “I’d rather walk,” she exclaimed, as he looked around for a taxi. “That is, unless you are tired?”

  Mr. Knight gazed at her suspiciously, but, seeing nothing but gentle consideration for his comfort in the old blue eyes looking into his, turned and walked beside her.