Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Why, it’s like a theatre!” said Mrs Ginnell, as they took their seats. “The one I used to go to was in an old mission-hall with a tin roof.”

  She settled herself comfortably in her stall and for two hours watched with youthful enthusiasm Wild West cowboys galloping over the country-side; men with seraphic faces bearing the burden of another’s guilt; amateur motorists obsessed with the idea of charging scaffoldings and bringing on their heads cascades of infuriated bricklayers.

  “Most enjoyable,” she murmured, as they emerged into the cool spring evening. “Oh, dear! I have the same feeling now that I used to have years ago; it always seems so unsatisfactory to come out from an entertainment in daytime, and meet other people coming out to spend the evening.”

  Mr. Knight turned and regarded her with amazement, not unmixed with admiration.

  “Quarter to seven,” he said, looking at his watch. “Suppose we eat our simple meal at a restaurant instead of going back to the flat?”

  “It would be delightful for me,” said Mrs. Ginnell doubtfully; “but it is not very amusing for you.”

  “Now,” said Knight, with some sternness, “you’re fishing! When I tell you that I would sooner take you to dinner than — than—”

  “I see your difficulty,” said the old lady.

  “Than anybody else but one person in the world,” concluded Mr. Knight triumphantly.

  “Very nice, if not exactly truthful,” commented Mrs. Ginnell; “but I suppose truth is not nice as a rule. Very well, we will go to dinner, and you can tell me about the girl whose place I am usurping.”

  “Where shall we go?” said Knight, considering. “The Pagoda is not bad, but they have a band there.”

  Mrs. Ginnell’s eyes sparkled. “Lovely!” she exclaimed. “When one doesn’t want to talk one can listen to the music; when one does — well, I’d like to see the band that would stop me.”

  It was a good dinner, and she ate it with appreciation. The band was discreet as well as tuneful, and the waiter like a ministering angel in a dress-suit.

  “Fancy! I haven’t done this for over twenty years,” she said. “I’m so glad I came up in time to have a day or two in London first. It has been a most delightful day.”

  “Has been?” breathed Mr. Knight.

  Mrs. Ginnell looked at him.

  “Let’s go on somewhere,” said the tempter.

  Mrs. Ginnell’s better nature strove within her. “My nephew won’t know what has become of us,” she murmured. “Perhaps we had better go home.”

  “I’ll phone to the people at the flat,” said Knight. “What do you say? A theatre or a music-hall?”

  “Music-hall,” said Mrs. Ginnell promptly. “I’ve never been to one.”

  “I shall feel like a parent taking his child to its first pantomime,” said Knight. “Are you ready?”

  * * * * *

  Messrs. Carstairs and Pope, who had been hurrying home at a pace utterly inconsistent with the safety of the public, arrived there just after the message was received, and over a comfortable meal shook their heads at the irresponsibility of youth.

  “Probably lay her up for a fortnight,” said Pope solemnly. “She’s a delicate-looking little woman. I wonder what his game is?”

  They sat and smoked until half-past eleven. At twelve o’clock Mrs. Ginnell’s nephew began to be uneasy; at a quarter to one, just as he was preparing to organise the reluctant Pope into a search-party, the door opened and the truants entered. Carstairs, rising hastily, pushed a chair towards his aunt and offered to help her towards it.

  “We’ve had a lovely time,” said Mrs. Ginnell.

  “Ripping,” said Mr. Knight.

  “What makes you so late?” inquired Carstairs.

  “Late!” repeated Knight. “H’m! I suppose we are rather. We had a bit of supper after the show and that delayed us a bit.”

  He took a cigarette from the table and sat by as a sort of chorus while Mrs. Ginnell expatiated on the joys of the evening. The narration took her some time, but she retired to her room at last, and the door had scarcely closed behind her before Mr. Knight was sternly called upon for an explanation.

  “At present,” said Carstairs, “she is kept up by excitement.”

  “When that passes away—” said Pope, shaking his head.

  “To-morrow,” said Carstairs, with conviction, “she’ll be a wreck.”

  “Beef-tea — arrowroot,” explained Pope vaguely, “medicine — nurse.”

  “It’s a wise nephew that knows its own aunt,” said Knight. “Don’t you worry about arrowroot for her; devilled kidneys are more in her line. She’s a sportsman, and we understand each other thoroughly. Henceforth, Carstairs, we are rivals; I have adopted her as my aunt.”

  “Does she know it?” inquired Pope.

  “Mutual arrangement, highly satisfactory to both parties,” replied Knight, with a yawn. “Having the gift of perpetual youth she understands the motives and ideals of the young. She understands me. Or, what is better still, she thinks she does. By the way, you had better get off to bed, Carstairs. Mrs. Ginnell is going to ask you to take her to Hampton Court to-morrow, and she proposes to start at ten — so as to have a long day. Sorry I can’t stop any longer, but I’m about done up. Good night.”

  CHAPTER VI

  IT was a fine afternoon in late spring. A lark was singing in the sky; and the air was so soft, with such a feeling of life and movement in it, that Mr. Carstairs’ butler, forgetting his high office, also lifted up his voice in song as he made his way across the fields. His song ceased suddenly as he turned a corner of the hedge and came upon a girl looking at him over her right shoulder.

  “Afternoon, Miss Mudge,” he said, with a slight cough.

  Miss Mudge waited for him to overtake her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Markham,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I had no idea you were a singer.”

  “Not much of a singer,” said Markham modestly.

  “There’s all kinds,” said Miss Mudge indulgently. “And so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody, and they like to hear themselves sing, there’s no harm done.”

  “Ah, you have got a happy nature,” said the butler, returning good for evil. “How well you are looking. I can’t think what you do to look so fresh.”

  “Do!” said Miss Mudge, turning on him sharply. “Nothing. It’s natural.”

  “Of course,” said the other hastily; “I didn’t mean that. I was just thinking there’s many a lady would give anything to have your complexion; they’d sell their souls for it.”

  “I dare say,” retorted Miss Mudge; “but they wouldn’t get it for that. They’d get it cheap if they did, some of ’em. I say, do you think there’s anything between my lady and Mr. Carstairs?”

  “Eh?” said the startled butler.” Anything between — No-o, I shouldn’t think so. What put that idea into your head?”

  “Well, I only wondered, that’s all. I don’t go about with my eyes shut, you know.”

  “The guv’nor isn’t class enough for Lady Penrose,” said Mr. Markham, shaking his head; “though, mind you, he’s a good sort. After the families I’ve lived in I’m surprised at myself sometimes to think what a lot I think of him. You see, he spent over twenty years of his life on a stool in a bank, and he can’t shake it off.”

  “I suppose it would cling,” said Miss Mudge, with a sigh. “Those things always do.”

  “Properly speaking, he’s a three or four hundred pound a year man,” said Mr. Markham judicially;—” and it takes time to get the twenty or thirty thousand a year style.”

  “Wouldn’t take me long,” observed Miss Mudge, with a bigger sigh than before.

  “No; you see we’ve been used to it all our lives in a manner of speaking,” said Mr. Markham. “I wish somebody’d leave me a fortune; I know what I should do if they did.”

  His voice was so tender that Miss Mudge, in self-defence, glanced somewhat hastily at a fine bed of nettles they were passing.


  “I shouldn’t waste it on old Mrs. Minchin, for one thing,” continued Mr. Markham, after a side glance at her. “And that makes me wonder whether there is anything in what you said just now. Ever since Lady Penrose spoke to him about that old woman he hasn’t been able to do enough for her. He’s always taking her bottles of port for her rheumatism. Not invalid port, mind you, but the best stuff I have got in my cellars.”

  Miss Mudge, secretly disappointed at this change of subject, murmured something about “Mr. Carstairs and ‘Love’s young dream.’”

  “It comes to all of us,” said the butler solemnly; “none of us can escape it.”

  “Except me,” said Miss Mudge. “I never could understand people falling in love with each other. It seems so silly, so childish. Mr. Biggs was saying to me only the other day—”

  “Biggs!” interrupted Mr. Markham, with something between a sniff and a scowl. “I can’t stand that feller. Whether it’s the smell of oil, or his untidy appearance, I don’t know. Have you ever seen him with a bit of what he calls axle-grease on the tip of his nose and a smear of dirty oil on his cheek?”

  “Never,” said the delighted Miss Mudge. “He’s always been very spick-and-span when I have seen him. Dressy, I call him. And he’s such a fine driver. He says it’s because he has got a gift for engineering. I sat next to him the other day when Mr. Carstairs drove us over to Wimbush, and he explained all about motor-cars to me. He says that I have got a very quick understanding.”

  “Anything else?” inquired Mr. Markham sourly.

  “He said a lot of silly things, of course,” said Miss Mudge, tossing her head.” But, then, men always do. He’s no worse than the others.”

  “He’s a very worthy person, I’ve no doubt,” said Mr. Markham loftily. “The trouble is he is no gentleman. Put him in a suit of overalls, and give him a lump of cotton-waste to clean himself with, and he is satisfied.”

  “Oh, how funny!” said his companion, with a giggle. “Why, it’s like thought reading.”

  Mr. Markham turned an inquiring gaze upon her.

  “Overalls and cotton-waste,” explained Miss Mudge, still giggling. “And he said, ‘A second-hand dress-suit and a serviette!’ And he said something about mistakes, and serviettes and pocket-handkerchiefs that I won’t repeat.”

  “He’s got a low mind,” said the enraged butler, breathing hard.” If he’s not careful he’ll get that gifted head of his punched one day.”

  He stalked along in silent dudgeon until they reached the village, and Miss Mudge, having business to do at the drapery section of the general shop, bade him good-bye. He had fallen a victim at almost their first meeting, and was beginning to realise with some concern that his was only one case amongst many; but in his most pessimistic moments he had never dreamed of Mr. Biggs as a rival.

  While he walked home thinking of Miss Mudge, Carstairs and Pope sat by the window in the latter’s comfortable sitting-room discussing her mistress. The conversation had been started by Pope, who, as secretary, adviser, and friend, was pointing out to Carstairs the well-known difficulties encountered in trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.

  “I’m going to do it, though,” said Carstairs. “Perhaps in the end I shall earn the gratitude of both.”

  Pope shook his head. “You know Lady Penrose’s views,” he said slowly.

  “Some of ’em,” admitted Carstairs.

  “And, knowing them, you deliberately go and invite those two young men down here for a week or two,” pursued Pope. “You come down a stranger into this peaceful country spot and at once begin to set people by the ears. You told me you liked Talwyn.”

  “I like him well enough,” said Carstairs.

  “It’s the dream of his life to marry Miss Blake, and it’s the dream of Mrs. Jardine’s life that he should, “continued Pope.— “Naturally the old lady wants to do the best she can for her niece. He’s got six thousand a year and a baronetcy, and you are going to help that deluded girl to young Peplow instead.”

  “He’s fifty-five,” said Carstairs, “and fifty-five and twenty don’t match. He’ll live to thank me for my efforts — if he gets to hear of them. I thought you liked the boys.”

  “So I do,” said Pope,” so I do; but that’s no reason why I should interfere in affairs of this kind. And I like Talwyn. My idea is to stand aside and see fair-play. That friend of his, Captain Tollhurst, told me that he had never seen Talwyn so keen on anything in his life. He said it has made him years younger.”

  “He looks fifty-five in spite of it,” said Carstairs. “No, he mustn’t do it. It can’t be allowed. By my own wits and the willing aid of an intellectual secretary I intend to forbid the banns. Besides, I didn’t invite the boys. It was my aunt.”

  “Handy aunt to have,” murmured Pope.

  “They want a little country air, I suppose? Milk and fresh eggs, and buttercups and daisies. Eh? They make a fuss of you and Mrs. Ginnell just to serve their own ends.”

  “Very natural, too,” declared Carstairs warmly. “Why shouldn’t they? And there’s no deception; Knight has been painfully frank about it. They’re both nice boys — and youth should mate with youth, Pope.

  Besides—”

  “Besides what?”

  “I think that Lady Penrose is playing the tyrant. She started with an objection to Knight, and she won’t own herself in the wrong. It shall be my task to show her the error of her ways. I shall enjoy it.”

  “Money is spoiling you, Carstairs,” said Pope, shaking his head. “At the bank I never knew a quieter man than yourself. In those days you were the sort of man that couldn’t say ‘boh!’ to a goose, and now—”

  “Now I am going to say it to Lady Penrose,” said his friend. “Is that what you mean? To tell the truth, I like opposing her. She is a charming woman, but she always takes it for granted that she is going to have her own way. She’s got a queenly manner about her, Pope, that always makes me yearn to be an emperor.”

  “You’ll look a lot like an emperor when she finds it out,” grunted Pope. “I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

  “Well, you’ve got to if anything goes wrong,” said Carstairs, with a malicious smile.” I shall put all the blame on you as my secretary. After all, you are responsible for Knight. If you hadn’t scraped acquaintance with him I should never have known him. If you will make friends with strangers in restaurants you must put up with the consequences.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with it,” said Pope primly. “I never interfere in other people’s business. And Talwyn told me the other day that Miss Seacombe loses her money if she marries without Lady Penrose’s consent. Did you know that?”

  Carstairs nodded. “I know Lady Penrose,” he said confidently. “She is one of the best-hearted women breathing. She might use her powers as a threat, but she would never dream of putting them into action. She is an ornament to her sex, and doesn’t know it; an angel in expensive and very becoming gowns. A — a—”

  “Go on,” said Pope, eyeing him.

  “I think she has rather an amused toleration for me, which rather rankles; and you know what a good book-keeper I used to be?”

  “First I’ve heard of it,” said Pope, in genuine surprise. “What about it?”

  “I’m going to try and balance the account, and help the boys at the same time. It wants diplomacy, of course, and that’s where you come in. When I am in doubt I shall consult you; if I get into trouble I shall put the blame on you. Now, first for advice. What do you suggest?”

  “Kidnap Lady Penrose and Mrs. Jardine, and anchor them in the punt, properly provisioned, in the middle of the lake,” said Pope, with bitter fluency. “Then send both couples off with Biggs in a car to Gretna Green.”

  “Abolished years ago,” said Carstairs. “Try again.”

  Pope shrugged his shoulders and, lighting a cigarette with great care, sat smoking and gazing out of the window.

  “Fortunately, Lady Penrose has got the i
dea that I am a mild, innocuous sort of person,” said Carstairs musingly. “She would never credit me with harbouring sinister designs. That helps a lot. In her mind I am cast for Simplicity and Innocence.”

  “When are Knight and Peplow coming down?” inquired Pope.

  “Wednesday week, and the garden-party is on Friday. If they have the sense to lie low for a couple of days nobody will know they are here, and there will be no backing out on the part of our other friends at the last moment. I must have them a day or two before, or the matter will look too prearranged.”

  “A lot of good you’ll do,” sniffed Pope. “Lady Penrose will see through you at once.”

  “They are coming as friends of my aunt,” said Carstairs. “Even if she is suspected of ulterior motives there is no reason why I should be. And coincidences will happen. Anyway, the young people will have a pleasant afternoon together.”

  “Will they?” said Pope. “Lady Penrose will look after that, I fancy, to say nothing of Talwyn and Mrs. Jardine. The old lady is feeble, but tough.”

  “And I have a more ambitious project in my mind still,” said Carstairs. “We haven’t seen much of the world, old man. What do you say to a long trip?”

  “Trip?” murmured Pope.

  Carstairs nodded. “I haven’t got it all thought out yet,” he said slowly, “but I am thinking of hiring a yacht in the autumn and going for a long cruise. It’s a thing I used to dream of as a young man; and now my idea is to take these people with me and to box them all up together for a few months and see what happens.”

  “Lady Penrose won’t come, if that’s what you’re thinking of,” said Pope.

  “We’ll see,” said Carstairs. “I regard the yacht as a sort of mouse-trap, which I shall bait with Talwyn. That will make Mrs. Jardine nibble, and probably both of them will think it an excellent plan to get the girls away from the young men. I know that they are both getting a little anxious.”

  “But aren’t the boys coming?” inquired the puzzled Pope.

  “Of course; but the others won’t know it until the last moment. That is, if I play my cards properly. Meantime, ‘ mum’s the word.’”