Mark Napier was sitting in the club that evening, reading the newspaper.
He had brought letters of introduction, and he knew a good many men
here--to nod to, at any rate; but conservative Port Linton was quite
willing to let him alone for awhile, and he preferred it so. He was not
genial, and had no talent for camaraderie. He was slow to give his
friendship, but, once given, it was worth keeping.
The light of a shaded lamp fell on his dark face.
“Pig-headed young jackanapes!” thought Captain Vincey. “But here
goes--on little Joey’s account!”
Crossing the room, he flung himself into a chair beside Napier.
“Well!” he said.
Napier glanced quietly at him.
“Thing is,” said the captain, “you didn’t know who I was, eh?”
“Not then,” said Napier.
He had been alone in his office that afternoon when this man had come
in--a big, swaggering man in a rumpled white suit, obviously half drunk.
“You’re new manager?” he had begun.
“I’m busy,” Napier had said.
“I’m great friend old Brown’sh.”
“I’m busy,” Napier had repeated.
The visitor had sat down and begun to talk about Port Linton.
“Jewel shet in shea--”
Napier had pressed a button.
“Show this gentleman out,” he had said, when Sprague appeared.
The gentleman had protested vehemently, and had called Napier a “blasted
little whippersnapper” and other things; but Sprague had taken his arm
and got him out, murmuring soothing words in his ear.
“That was Captain Vincey, sir,” he had said, when he returned. “He’s
Miss Craig’s uncle.”
He had spoken with a sort of horror, and he was horrified; but the new
manager had only said:
“Don’t let him come in here again.”
Under Napier’s curt manner there had been a great dismay. This fellow
her uncle? Evidently he was in the habit of coming to the office.
Perhaps she would be hurt, or angry. Napier would do almost anything
rather than hurt or anger Joey--almost anything; but he would not
tolerate Captain Vincey. The firm had sent him out here to run this
office properly, and he was going to do it. He hoped Joey would
understand.
* * * * *
“Well, now you know!” said Vincey genially.
Napier did not reply, and the captain began to grow angry; but he
remembered that look on Joey’s face.
James Vincey had been a handsome man in his day, and even now, wreck as
he was, he had considerable personal charm. People liked him, and made
allowances for him. For Joey’s sake he would make this fellow like him.
“Have a drink?” he said.
“No, thanks,” said Napier.
Unfortunately, it was a part of Vincey’s code to consider a refusal to
drink as an insult, and his face grew crimson. He was about to speak,
when again he remembered that look on Joey’s face, and again restrained
himself.
“In climate like this--” he said. “You’re a newcomer. Wait till you’ve
been here a bit. You’ve never been out of England before, eh?”
“I spent nearly four years--in Belgium and France,” said Napier, “and
the climate wasn’t very wholesome, where I was.”
“Oh! The war, eh?” said Vincey.
An unwelcome memory awakened in him. He remembered how, at the beginning
of the war, he had gone to enlist, and the doctor had rejected him--a
fine, big fellow in the forties, in the prime of life. Vincey had been
very indignant.
The doctor had known him well, and had made allowances.
“I’d advise you, Vincey,” he had said, “to cut down on--er--alcoholic
stimulants.”
So Vincey had stayed behind in Port Linton, while his friends went
overseas. He had wangled some sort of military post for himself, and had
been made a captain; but a captain who sat at a desk was not what suited
him, and for some weeks he had let “alcoholic stimulants” alone.
But he had gone back to them. “The strain of the war,” he said to
himself; and then, when it was over, there was the strain of his
uncomfortable financial position.
He glanced uneasily at Napier. This young jackanapes had had four years
of it. Well, some fellows were like that--they could stand a strain.
He beckoned to one of the colored boys and ordered a whisky and soda.
“This climate--” he explained.
Then, to his great indignation, the other man rose.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know,” said Napier, and
walked off.
Vincey was purple with anger. He half rose, but the whisky had come, and
he sank back to drink it. His eyes glaringly followed Napier.
“Damned young prig!” he said to himself.
Slender and strong and straight was the young prig, with a fine pair of
shoulders and a well set head. A steady hand the young prig had, a
steady voice, a steady glance. Four years of it!
“Another whisky!” called Captain Vincey.
He gulped it down, waiting for the familiar feeling of partial oblivion;
but it did not come. Something within him was wide awake.
“Joey!” he thought.
His thoughts were not clear; they never were clear in these days. He
felt a confused sort of anguish, for he had fleeting glimpses of Joey’s
face, and it hurt him. He loved Joey, and had meant to do much for
her--his only sister’s child. He still would do something for
her--something, but what could he do?
That fellow--taken a fancy to him, had she? Well, perhaps she’d get over
it, once she knew how he had treated her uncle.
“Joey’s very fond of me,” he thought.
Then he remembered the James Vincey he had been long ago--a promising
young fellow. A girl had been fond of him, but she had decided to wait
until he stopped drinking; and in the course of time he had forgotten
about her.
“Don’t want--make trouble,” he thought. “If Joey likes the fellow--”
A clear moment came to him.
“You’ll never stop now!” he said to himself. “You’ll never do anything
for any one now! ’Nother whisky!” he cried aloud, with a sob.
He saw James Vincey stumbling through the rest of his days, a cruel
burden to his mother, a disgrace to Joey--ruining Joey’s life before it
had well begun. He knew Joey. If it came to a choice between himself and
that young prig, Joey would stand by her uncle.
And it had come to a choice. Joey would let Napier see what she thought
of his turning her uncle out of the office!
* * * * *
As he was going out, somebody called Napier into the billiard room and
held him in conversation for a few moments; and when at last he left the
club, he saw Captain Vincey going down the hill before him, reeling a
little.
It was not pleasant for Napier to pass Miss Craig’s uncle, but he did
not slacken his pace. He was going to be here, on a small island, with
Captain Vincey, for a good long while. Inevitably he would have to meet
the man often. The same quality which had enabled Mark Napier to face
danger and death and agony, to make his way in the world quite alone,
made it impossible to shirk any unpleasantness. He went on down the hill
and passed Vincey with a curt good night.
“A fine lad!” thought Vincey. “A fine, strong, clean lad!”
For though Captain Vincey’s steps were so uncertain, his brain was very
clear now.
Napier had turned the corner, and was walking rapidly along the street
that fronted the harbor, when he heard a splash. He stopped and turned
his head. The shops were all closed, and there was not a soul in sight.
There was not a sound--not a sound of those stumbling footsteps that had
been following his own.
He ran back to the corner and crossed to the deserted wharf. Floating on
the dark water was a white helmet.
He kicked off his shoes, threw off his coat, and jumped in over his
head.
V
Caleb was half asleep on the seat of his carriage. He did not expect any
fares, but it was a fine night, and his wife was always disagreeable if
he came home too early.
He heard footsteps, and opened his eyes. Two men were coming along the
street very slowly, arm in arm. That looked hopeful. He sat up.
Then, as they passed under a street lamp, he sat bolt upright; for he
saw that they were both bareheaded and dripping wet, their linen suits
sodden.
“Cap’n Vincey,” he said to himself, “and that new young fella!” He shook
with silent laughter. “Dey surely been havin’ a good time!” he thought.
“Been overboa’d!”
They came on in silence until they reached Caleb’s carriage. The young
man hoisted Vincey in, and followed himself.
“Drive to Captain Vincey’s house,” he said sharply.
“Yes, sir!” replied the driver, still shaken with internal mirth.
Off they went along the road, which gleamed softly white in the
starlight. A breeze blew in their faces, bearing the sweet and heavy
scent of night flowers.
“Napier,” said James Vincey, “I’m much obliged to you. Missed my
footing. It might have ended badly for me. Very much obliged to you, my
boy!”
“You didn’t miss your footing,” contradicted Napier in a very low voice.
“You--”
“My boy,” interrupted Captain Vincey, equally low, “it’s necessary in
this life to take a good deal for granted. When you reach my age, you’ll
probably have learned”--he paused a moment--“probably have learned to
take it for granted that almost every man has a white streak in him. Now
we’ll say no more about it, if you please!”
The horse’s hoofs rang loud and brisk in the quiet night. As they passed
the door of the club, two men were coming out.
“Who’s that?” asked one of them.
“By jove, it’s Vincey and that new chap--rolling home!”
“Ha! I saw them having a few drinks in the club.”
“Oh, well!” said the other indulgently.
Napier and Vincey both heard the conversation.
“You see!” said Vincey, and chuckled. “My intentions were good--meant to
make a neat exit.”
“No need for you to do that, sir.”
There was something in his tone which Captain Vincey had not heard for a
very long time.
“My boy,” he said, “see here--I’m not asking for sympathy.”
“Suppose we take that for granted, too, sir?” said Napier.
He might have been a young officer speaking to his senior; or, thought
the older man, he might have been a son speaking to his father. Vincey
leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and set his teeth hard.
“My boy!” he said. “My boy!”
“Here we are, sir,” said Napier, as the carriage stopped. “Wait,” he
told the driver, and helped Vincey out.
Mrs. Vincey was standing in the lighted doorway.
“James!” she cried. “What has happened?”
“Captain Vincey missed his footing,” Napier explained.
“Come in!” said Mrs. Vincey, neat, smiling, and dignified again.
So Napier crossed the threshold.
“The kettle’s on,” said Mrs. Vincey. “Joey will make some nice hot tea,
to ward off a chill.”
“Ha!” said Vincey. “Hot tea, eh?” He glanced at his companion, and then
for the first time he saw Napier smile. “My boy!” he said.
Mrs. Vincey, watching them, felt as if an immense burden were lifted
from her weary shoulders. This stranger, in his youth and strength and
confidence, had come to her aid.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked anxiously.
“Thank you,” said Napier, accepting the invitation.
His dark hair was plastered against his forehead, and the water was
running off his jacket into pools on the floor; but he paid no attention
to that. The captain presented him, and he talked to Mrs. Vincey about
London. He was perfectly quiet and matter-of-fact. He was taking
everything for granted.
Joey brought in the tea, and he rose; and Mrs. Vincey hurried out into
the kitchen, to cry, because of the look she had seen pass between them.
It was a look of faith and love--taken for granted.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
DECEMBER, 1927
Vol. XCII NUMBER 3