Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  He sat in the smoke-room after lunch with a cigarette and a book, until the former expired from lack of attention and the latter sustained injuries to its back from a sudden fall. He opened his eyes at last to see the laughing face of Miss Blake framed in the doorway.

  “I was just going to fetch Miss Flack,” she remarked; “the poor thing wants gloves badly. She was talking about it yesterday.”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” said Mr. Peplow. “Where is she?”

  “Playing bridge,” was the reply. “Isabel is sitting with aunt, and, as nearly everybody else is playing cards, I thought I’d come and talk to you. Still, if you’d rather sleep—”

  “Sleep!” exclaimed the other, in a deep voice. “Have you realised that I’ve not had a word alone with you for weeks?”

  “Really?” said the girl carelessly. “I hadn’t noticed it.”

  “When it isn’t Mrs. Jardine it’s Miss Flack,” continued Mr. Peplow, “and when they snatch a few brief moments from duty Talwyn mounts guard.”

  “What are you talking about?” inquired Miss Blake.

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Peplow. “It’s no good wasting time grousing. Let us improve the shining hours.”

  “How?”

  “Let us talk,” said Peplow tenderly.

  “That will be improving,” said the girl.

  “That’s right,” said Peplow gloomily, “make fun of me. When you smiled so nicely at me just now—”

  “I?” said Miss Blake. “Smiled? I was laughing at you. You’ve no idea how funny you looked. Your mouth was open, and you were snoring like a baby with the snuffles.” Mr. Peplow stiffened in his chair. “I’m sorry I woke up as I was affording you so much amusement,” he said with dignity.

  “So am I,” said Miss Blake, with a sudden change of manner. “However, I won’t disturb you,” and she went off with her head at an angle.

  “She’s gone,” murmured the amazed Peplow. “She’s actually gone. Well!”

  He went outside and, finding the deck deserted, threw himself into a lounge-chair and sat scowling at the universe. The skipper, passing on his way to the chart-room, pulled up and smiled affably.

  “Couldn’t improve on the weather,” he remarked, crumpling his fringe of grey beard in his fist.

  Mr. Peplow assented without enthusiasm. “Where are we for next?” he inquired.

  “Australian ports,” replied Captain Vobster, “New Zealand; call in at some of the South Sea Islands, and then home.”

  Mr. Peplow sighed. “The islands ought to be interesting,” he remarked. “Pick out a nice little one, cap’n, with nobody else on it, and leave me there. I’m going to turn beach-comber. I retire from the world.”

  “Very nice life too,” said the accommodating skipper, “for a single man; married ones too, sometimes. I knew one man that did it. Ran away from his wife to punish her, and after twenty years of it found that she had come in for a fortune soon after he disappeared and married again. Time he got back found they’d run through it all. Spoilt his life for him, poor chap.”

  Mr. Peplow said “Oh,” and turned with a beaming and forgiving smile to Miss Blake as she came quietly up to them.

  “Though I’ve known some people take to the beach and get tired of it in a week,” continued the skipper.

  Mr. Peplow, who was gazing ardently at Miss Blake, said “Ah!”

  “Some of ’em get melancholy,” explained the skipper.

  “Really,” said Miss Blake, as she took a chair next to Peplow.

  “Suicidal almost.”

  There was a somewhat constrained silence as his audience, with their hands folded, sat staring straight in front of them.

  “It’s the loneliness,” said the skipper, who felt that he was making an impression.

  “H’m!” said both.

  “A man has time to sit and think.”

  “H’m!”

  Captain Vobster paused. There was a feeling in the atmosphere for which he was utterly unable to account, and he stood scratching the side of his nose, possessed with a horrible idea that he had said something wrong. He glanced at them in perplexity, and then, suddenly clapping his hand over his mouth, went off with his eyes dancing. Slight sounds escaped on his way to the chart-room.

  “What an ill-bred man!” exclaimed Miss Blake, gazing after him.

  “Shocking,” agreed the other.

  “I — I am not going to remain here to be laughed at,” continued the girl. “The idea!”

  “He wasn’t laughing at you,” said Peplow hastily, “and he has gone now. How wonderfully well you are looking! What was old Talwyn talking to you about at lunch?”

  “Different things,” replied the girl. “Don’t stare like that; it’s rude.”

  “I’m not staring,” said Mr. Peplow ardently. “I’m worshipping.”

  “Well, it’s not nice,” said Miss Blake, who had an uneasy feeling that she had come back too easily. “It’s just the way you eyed the beef at lunch.”

  “Eyed the beef?” repeated the choking Mr. Peplow. “Do you think I care what I eat?”

  “Of course you do,” said Miss Blake. “Everybody notices it. You have got an excellent appetite, and I am only talking to you for your good. If you are not careful you’ll get quite chubby.”

  “That’ll do,” said Mr. Peplow thickly.

  “Do!” exclaimed the incensed Miss Blake, springing to her feet. “Do! How dare you talk to me like that? What do you mean by it?”

  She stood looking at him as a blackbird might look at a worm that had tried to bite it. Then, with an indignant exclamation, she went off.

  Mr. Peplow made no effort to detain her. A picture of indignant misery, he sat lumpishly in his chair, scowling darkly at the deck.

  “Halloa!” said Carstairs, coming out of the drawing-room. “All alone?”

  “I like being alone,” said Mr. Peplow, in a deep voice.

  “Do you, though?” said Carstairs, eyeing him with some interest.

  “I don’t wish to be bothered with people,” continued Mr. Peplow. “Let them go their way and I’ll go mine.”

  “Poor — old — man!” said Carstairs, smiling. “I know what’s the matter with you.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Peplow offensively.

  Carstairs nodded. “Indigestion.”

  “Eh?” shouted Peplow, starting up as though he had been stung. “Look here, Carstairs, I don’t know what you mean, but I’ve had enough of it. It’s a vile conspiracy. It’s — it’s an infernal plant.”

  “What on earth’s the matter?” inquired the marvelling Carstairs.

  “You — you’ve been talking to Miss Blake,” cried Peplow, trembling with rage.

  “Well, so do you when you get the chance,” said Carstairs, in a soothing voice. “You don’t want to monopolise the poor girl entirely, do you? Why shouldn’t I speak to her? And I talk to her about you, my boy.

  Only yesterday I was saying how fat and well you—”

  He drew back suddenly as Mr. Peplow, with an inarticulate yell, sprang to his feet and stood mouthing at him. For some time the young man stood struggling in vain for speech; then he turned with a wild gesture and stamped his way below.

  CHAPTER XVII

  MISS FLACK in a moment of enthusiasm said that the voyage was like a long railway journey, with delightful ports instead of stations. She averred that she had learnt more geography in a few months than in all the years spent at school; and only a week after leaving Auckland spoke warmly of the beautiful Sydney harbour at Melbourne.

  In Polynesia she forsook geography for art, the beauty of Tahiti affecting her so strongly that she sought to express her emotions in verse. To the sympathetic Carstairs, who caught her in the act of tearing up paper and dropping the pieces overboard, she confessed that the subject was too great for her, and that she would have to rely upon memory and the inspiration of the moment when she wished to do justice to it. Her enthusiasm was shared by the others, and the Starlight by general re
quest continued to cruise among the islands. Monarchs and their dusky followers were received on board, and Albert thrilled pleasantly when he saw the firearms provided for their entertainment in case of need.

  “Not much chance of unpleasantness,” explained Captain Vobster to Pope, “but, if there is any, my idea is always to be more unpleasant than the other fellow.”

  “Very good plan, too,” said Pope approvingly.

  To Albert’s secret disappointment, however, the skipper’s precautions proved unnecessary. Good-fellowship and fair dealing were the order of the day, and the decks of the yacht were almost smothered at times in gifts. Fruit, vegetables, chickens, and pigs were supplied in abundance; the night Pope found five little pigs, decorated with pink ribbons, tied up in his bed being a memorable one in the anuals of the voyage. The crowd that stood outside awaiting events fled in disorder at his appearance, and seeking sanctuary behind locked cabin doors earnestly assured him that it was not the animals’ fault, and that nothing was further from their wishes than to have him for a bed-fellow.

  “Pope was quite crusty about it,” said Knight, recounting the affair next day to Miss Seacombe. “He hasn’t quite got over it yet.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said the girl.

  “We are,” said Knight. “But never mind about old Pope and his troubles. It is delightful to get you by yourself for five minutes. Quite like old times.”

  “I like company,” said Miss Seacombe thoughtfully.

  “You’ve got what you like, then, on board this blessed ship,” retorted Mr. Knight, with some heat.

  “I suppose,” said the girl dreamily, “I suppose if Mr. Maloney were holding my hand the man on the bridge would think he was feeling my pulse.”

  “Con-found the man on the bridge!” said Knight, dropping her hand hastily. “That’s what I complain about; you can never get away from people here. How delightful it would be if we were the only two on board!”

  “A bit dull,” said Miss Seacombe.

  “Dull!” exclaimed Knight sharply. “Dull!”

  “For you,” said the girl peaceably.

  “Where’s that brigand on the bridge got to?” inquired Knight, groping for her hand.

  “Half in the wheel-house, but he will be out again in a minute or two. I expect he only went in there to laugh. It must seem rather funny to an onlooker.”

  “He had better not let me see him being funny,” growled Knight.

  “Poor thing,” said Miss Seacombe softly. “Diddums, then!”

  “And do try and be serious,” said Knight sternly. “What about running off and getting married? When we get ashore, I mean, of course,” he added, as the girl waved towards the sea.

  “No good,” she said seriously; “bread and cheese, and — and — the usual concomitants are all very well in theory, in practice you would find the diet rather monotonous.”

  Knight sat considering. “I believe if we were once married and she couldn’t help herself Lady Penrose would come round,” he said slowly. “Wonder what it is she sees in me to object to?”

  “It is strange, isn’t it?” said the girl. “I think, for one thing, she has an idea that you are a slacker. She has got no patience with men who don’t work, you know. Then I don’t think she likes your manner much. Some people don’t.”

  “What’s it got to do with her?” demanded the indignant Knight. “You like it?”

  Miss Seacombe nodded. “It’s your only charm,” she murmured.

  “Besides, I’m going to work,” continued Knight. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. Difficulty is to find something suitable.

  Can’t you suggest something? I could drop it as soon as we were married.”

  He glanced hopefully at his companion, until it became evident that he had given her a problem which was in no immediate danger of being solved. After a long silence he came to her assistance.

  “What about the stage?” he inquired.

  “Or grand opera?” said the girl demurely. “You only seem to think of the agreeable things, you know. You want to be paid for amusing yourself. As Isabel says—”

  “I don’t want to know what Isabel says,” remarked Knight grimly. “The whole fact of the matter is, she has got too much time on her hands. Why doesn’t she work, if she’s so fond of it? Or why doesn’t she meet some tame, undiscriminating male and marry him? I’m sure that either Carstairs or Tollhurst—”

  “She hates Captain Tollhurst,” interrupted Miss Seacombe. “He simply haunts her, and when she is rude to him he seems to regard it as a delicate little attention on her part. He is so pleased with himself that nothing upsets him; he only smiles. It must be very nice to be like that.”

  “His devotion has not passed unnoticed,” said Knight dryly. “It has afforded me a great deal of innocent pleasure. In the hope that Lady Penrose will imitate my delicacy I always avoid intruding upon them when possible. I am sure she has noticed it.”

  “It’s the sort of thing you would do,” said the girl restlessly, “and then you wonder why Isabel objects to you.”

  Mr. Knight started, and admitting, after due consideration, that perhaps his behaviour could be improved, set himself to the task with such characteristic energy that his friends were somewhat perturbed in consequence. One or two of them attributed the change to failing health, others (the majority) suspected mischief, Pope on two occasions getting up from the meal-table to make sure that his cabin door was locked.

  A series of violent squalls and rainstorms helped to relieve the monotony of life at sea, and a fresh interest was imparted by the knowledge that Captain Vobster was understood to be making for an uninhabited island.

  “Uninhabited when last visited,” he said guardedly.

  Visions of a picnic on a scale hitherto undreamt of took possession of all on board. The sailmaker was set to work to make a couple of tents; and the form of picnic to be enjoyed became the subject of a somewhat heated debate. The company was almost equally divided into “Thermos Flasks” and “Robinson Crusoes,” the former voting for comfort and the latter — consisting chiefly of the younger members — preferring to gather their sustenance at first hand from the land and the sea and sleep in houses of their own erecting. In the final division it had to be pointed out to Mr. Peplow, torn between love and self-interest, that he could not vote on both sides.

  “It really ought to be a delightful experience,” said Lady Penrose, as she sat one morning discussing the subject with Carstairs. “There is something very delightful in the idea of getting back to Nature.”

  Carstairs coughed. “With the resources of civilisation at hand, yes,” he replied. “Anyway, I expect we shall all be glad of a run ashore. I’m afraid you find things a little bit dull sometimes on board ship.”

  His companion shook her head. “No,” she said slowly;” but a little more excitement perhaps would not come amiss. Nothing seems to happen at sea; no post, no newspapers, no scandal.”

  “H’m! We might have managed that,” said Carstairs, in tones of self-reproach. “I’ll speak to Pope about it. I believe the whole fact of the matter is you are still suffering from a most unfeminine thirst for adventure.

  Suppose we go up to the Solomons; the skipper has got some gruesome stories about them.”

  “Adventure without risk,” said Lady Penrose firmly. “I have got no use for the other kind. The sea-stories I used to read in my youth were full of incident; in real life nothing seems to happen. As a matter of fact, I don’t really want an adventure for myself; I want one for Captain Tollhurst.”

  “Altruist,” murmured Carstairs.

  “Anything but that,” said Lady Penrose; “but if I have to listen to any more of his deeds of derring-do I shall address the crew, storm the saloon, and put him in irons.”

  “Mutiny!” said Carstairs, with a smile.

  “Call it what you like,” was the reply, “but it does seem hard that with a hero like that on board there should be no opportun
ity for a display of his powers. It isn’t fair to him, you know.”

  Carstairs smiled again, and Lady Penrose, with a side glance at him, clasped her hands and sat thinking. She took another glance at him and their eyes met. Hers were soft and seemed unusually large. He observed them with interest.

  “I was going to ask a favour of you,” she said, at last, with a little laugh, “but you have been so kind that I won’t. It’s presuming on good-nature.”

  “Please,” said Carstairs earnestly.

  His companion shook her head with an imitation of determination that he mistook for the real thing. He became insistent.

  “You wouldn’t agree,” she said, at last, after many arguments.

  “Anything that is possible,” said Carstairs with emphasis.

  “It is such a great favour,” she murmured, “and I ought not to ask it.”

  “The bigger the better,” said Carstairs stoutly. “Now, what is it?”

  Lady Penrose hesitated and looked away. “Better leave it alone,” she said, turning to him again, with a smile. “Why do you tempt me?”

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  “Do you pass your word to grant it?” she inquired.

  “Certainly, provided it is nothing impossible,” said Carstairs.

  “Oh, how good you are!” she said, with a disturbing smile. “Mind, you have passed your word!”

  Carstairs, vaguely uneasy, nodded, “I am quite sure that Lady Penrose would ask nothing that — that—” he began.

  Lady Penrose laughed. “Oh, ho, wouldn’t she?” she retorted. “That’s why she got your promise first. You know, if there’s one thing I feel certain of about you it is that you would never in any circumstances break your word. I am sure that you would go to the stake first. However unpleasant—”

  “Suppose we stop this unwholesome flattery and get to business,” interrupted the paragon.