TOURMALIN'S
TIME CHEQUES
F. Anstey
GREENHILL
SCIENCE FICTION
& FANTASY
This edition of _Tourmalin's Time Cheques_
first published 1986 by Greenhill Books,
Lionel Leventhal Limited, 3 Barnham Avenue, Elstree,
Hertfordshire WD6 3PW
This edition © Lionel Leventhal Limited, 1986
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form by any means electrical,
mechanical or otherwise without first seeking the
written permission of the Publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Anstey, F.
Tourmalin's Time Cheques.--(Greenhill Science Fiction & Fantasy)
Rn: Thomas Anstey Guthrie
I. Title 823'.8[F] PR4729.G5
ISBN 0-947898-48-4
Publishing History
_Tourmalin's Time Cheques_ was first published in 1885,
by J. W. Arrowsmith, Bristol
and is reproduced now exactly as the original edition,
complete and unabridged.
Greenhill Books
welcome readers' suggestions for books
that might be added to this Series.
Please write to us if there are titles
which you would like to recommend.
Printed by Antony Rowe Limited,
Chippenham, Wiltshire.
CONTENTS.
_Page_
PROLOGUE.
On Deck--Curry and Culture--Alternative Distractions--A
Period of Probation--The Oath and the
Talisman--Wavering--A Chronological Error--The
Time Bargain--Tourmalin Opens an Account 1
CHAPTER I.
=Tourmalin's First Cheque, and How he Took It.=
Fidelity Rewarded--Love's Catechism--Brain-fag--a
Timely Recollection--The Experiment, and some
Startling Results--Question Time--"Dear Friends"--A
Compromise 21
CHAPTER II.
=The Second Cheque.=
Furnishing--A Cosy Corner--"Sitting Out"--Fresh
Discoveries--Twice a Hero--Bewilderment and Bathos 38
CHAPTER III.
=The Third Cheque.=
Good Resolutions--Casuistry--A Farewell Visit--Small
Profit and a Quick Return 52
CHAPTER IV.
=The Fourth Cheque.=
A Blue Moon--Felicity in a Flat--Practical Astronomy--Temptation
and a Relapse--The Difficulties of being
Completely Candid--A Slight Misunderstanding--The
Avenging Orange 66
CHAPTER V.
=Periodic Drawings.=
A Series of Cheques: their Advantages and Drawbacks--An
Unknown Factor--Uncompleted Confidences--Ibsen,
with Intervals--A Disappointment--A "Search-question"
from Sophia--Confidence Restored 80
CHAPTER VI.
=Foil and Counterfoil.=
The Duties of Authorship--Peter's Continued Perversity
and its Unforeseen Results--"Alfred"--The Tragic
Note--An Interrupted Crisis--A Domestic Surprise 100
CHAPTER VII.
=The Culminating Cheque.=
Sophia Gives an Explanation, and Requests One--Her
Verdict--Peter Overruled 114
CHAPTER VIII.
=Paid in His Own Coin.=
In Suspense: a Gleam of Comfort--Darkness Returns--The
Rock Ahead--Sir William Lends his
Binocular--Reappearance of an Old Enemy--A New
Danger--Out of the Frying-pan 129
CHAPTER IX.
=Compound Interest.=
Back to the Fire Again--A Magnanimous Return--Catching
at Straws--Two Total Strangers--Purely
a Question of Precedence--"Hemmed in" and "Surrounded"--The
Last Chance 145
CHAPTER X.
=Dénoûment= 165
=The Epilogue= 170
TOURMALIN'S TIME CHEQUES
Tourmalin's Time Cheques.
THE PROLOGUE.
_On Deck_.--_Curry and Culture_.--_Alternative
Distractions_.--_A Period of Probation_.--_The Oath and the
Talisman_.--_Wavering_.--_A Chronological Error_.--_The Time
Bargain_.--_Tourmalin Opens an Account._
Mr. Peter Tourmalin was sitting, or rather lying, in a
steamer-chair on the first-class saloon-deck of the P. and O.
steamer _Boomerang_, which had not been many days as yet on the
voyage home from Sydney. He had been trying to read; but it was
a hot morning, and the curry, of which he had partaken freely at
breakfast, had made him feel a little heavy and disinclined for
mental exertion just then, particularly as Buckle's _History of
Civilisation_, the first volume of which he had brought up from the
ship's library, is not exactly light literature at any time.
He wanted distraction of some sort, but he could not summon
up sufficient energy to rise and pace the deck, as his only
acquaintance on board, a Mr. Perkins, was doing with a breezy
vigour which Tourmalin found himself feebly resenting.
Another alternative was open to him, it is true: not far away
were other deck-chairs, in which some of the lady passengers were
reading, writing, and chatting more or less languidly. There
were not very many on board--for it was autumn, a time at which
homeward-bound vessels are not apt to be crowded;--but even in that
small group there were one or two with whom it might have seemed
possible to pass a little time in a pleasant and profitable manner.
For instance, there was that tall, graceful girl in the navy-blue
skirt, and the striped cotton blouse confined at her slender waist
by a leathern belt. (Tourmalin, it should be mentioned, was in the
habit of noticing the details of feminine costume.) She had regular
features, grey eyes which lighted up whenever she spoke, and an
expression of singular nobility and sweetness; her fair hair was
fastened up in loose gleaming masses under her highly becoming
straw hat.
Peter watched her surreptitiously, from time to time, from behind
the third page of Buckle. She was attempting to read a novel; but
her attention, like his own, wandered occasionally, and he even
fancied that he surprised her now and then in the act of glancing
at himself with a certain interest.
Near her was another girl, not quite so tall, and darker, but
scarcely less pleasing in appearance. She wore a cool-looking
pink frock, and her luxuriant bronze tresses were set off by a
simple white-flannel cap. She held some embroidery in her listless
fingers, but was principally occupied in gazing out to sea with
a wistful and almost melancholy expression. Her eyes were soft
and brown, and her features piquantly irregular; giving Peter,
who considered himself no mean judge of female character, the
impression of a highly emotional and enthusiastic temperament. He
thought he saw signs that she also honoured him by her notice.
Peter was a flat-headed little man, with weak eyes and flaxen hair;
but even flat-headed little men may indulge these fancies at times,
without grossly deceiving themselves. He knew, as one does learn
such things on board ship, that the name of the first young lady
was Tyrrell, and that she was the daughter of a judge who had been
spending the Long Vacation in a voyage to recruit his health. Of
the other, he knew no more than that she was a Miss Davenport.
At present, however, he had no personal acquaintance with either of
them, and, in fact, as has already been said, knew nobody on board
to speak to, except the energetic Mr. Perkins, a cheery man with
a large fund of general information, who was going home on some
business connected with a banking house in Melbourne.
And yet it is not difficult to make acquaintances on board ship, if
a man cares to do so; accident or design will provide opportunities
in plenty, and two or three days at sea are equivalent to at least
as many weeks on shore. And Peter being quite aware of these facts,
and by no means indifferent to the society of the other sex, which,
indeed, he considered more interesting than that of his own, it
would seem that he must have had some strong reason for having kept
studiously apart from the social life on board the _Boomerang_.
He had a reason, and it was this: he was an engaged man, and
on his probation. A bachelor, still under thirty, of desultory
habits which unfitted him to shine in any profession, he had
a competency--that refuge of the incompetent--which made him
independent.
Some months previously he had had the good fortune to meet with
a lady somewhat his junior in years, but endowed with charms of
mind and character which excited his admiration and reverence. He
recognised that she supplied the qualities in which he felt himself
deficient; he was weary of the rather purposeless life he had led.
He wanted a wife who would regulate and organise his existence; and
Miss Sophia Pinceney, with her decision and her thoroughness, was
eminently the person to do it. So it was not long before he took
courage and proposed to her.
Miss Pinceney, though she had been highly educated, and possessed
a considerable fortune of her own, was by no means inclined to
look unfavourably upon such a suitor. He might not be quite her
intellectual equal, but he was anxious to improve his mind. He
was amiable and amenable, and altogether likely, under careful
guidance, to prove an excellent husband.
But she was prudent, and reason told her that the suddenness of
Peter's passion was no guarantee of its enduring qualities. She had
heard and seen too much of a rather catholic susceptibility in his
nature, to feel it safe to incur so grave a risk as marriage until
she had certain proof that his attachment to her was robust enough
to bear the severest test; and to that test she was determined to
submit him.
She consented to an engagement on one condition, that he was to
take a long voyage. If he returned in the same mind, she would
be sufficiently sure of his constancy to marry him as soon as he
wished: if he did not, her misgivings would be amply justified.
There was very little sentiment about Sophia; she took a practical
and philosophical view of the marriage union, as became a disciple
of Ibsen.
"I like you, Peter," she told him frankly; "you have many qualities
that endear you to me, but I don't feel that I can depend upon
you at present. And from what I know of you, I fear it is only
too probable that absence and the attractive society of a
passenger-ship may lead you to discover that you have mistaken the
depth of the feeling you entertain for me."
"But, look here, Sophia," he had expostulated; "if you're afraid of
that, why do you make me go?"
"Because," she had replied, with her admirable common-sense,
"because, if my fears should prove to be unhappily only too
well-founded, I shall, at least, have made the discovery before it
is too late."
And, in spite of all his protests, Peter had to go. Sophia sought
to reconcile him to this necessity by pointing out the advantages
of travel, the enlarging effect it would have upon his mind, and
the opportunities a long sea-voyage afforded for regular and
uninterrupted study on the lines she had already mapped out for
him; but, despite these consolations, he went away in low spirits.
When the moment came for parting, even the strong-minded Sophia was
seized with a kind of compunction.
"Something tells me, Peter," she said, "that the ordeal will prove
too much for you: in spite of your good resolutions, you will
sooner or later be drawn into some flirtation which will make you
forget me. I know you so well, Peter!"
"I wish you could show a little more confidence in me," he had
answered, in a wounded tone. "Since I met you, Sophia, I have
ceased to be the butterfly I was. But as you seem to doubt me, it
may relieve your mind if I promise faithfully that, while I am
away from you, I will never, under any inducement, allow myself
to overstep the limits of the most ordinary civility towards any
woman with whom I may be brought in contact. I swear it, Sophia!
Are you satisfied now?"
Perhaps he had a secret prevision that a time might come when this
oath would prove a salutary restraint upon his straying fancy,
and it certainly had an immediate and most reassuring effect upon
Sophia.
Tourmalin had gone out to Australia, had seen something of the
country during his stay in the colony, and was now, as we have
seen, on his return; and during the whole time his oath, to his
great credit, had been literally and faithfully kept.
During the voyage out, he had been too persistently unwell to be
inclined to dally with sentiment; but in his subsequent wanderings,
he had avoided, or rather escaped, all intercourse with any
Colonial ladies who might by any possibility affect his allegiance
to Sophia, whose image consequently still held undisputed
possession of his heart.
In case he should feel himself wavering at any time, he had been
careful to provide himself with a talisman in the shape of a
photograph, the mere sight of which would be instantly effectual.
But somehow, since he had been on board the _Boomerang_, the
occasions on which he had been driven to refer to this photograph
had been growing more and more frequent; while, at the same time,
he had a tormenting consciousness that it took an increasingly
longer time to work.
He brought it out now, and studied it attentively. It was the
likeness of a girl without any great pretensions to beauty, with
dark hair rolled neatly back from a massive brow that shone with
intellectuality; penetrating eyes, whose keenness was generally
tempered by folding-glasses; a large, firm mouth, and a square
chin: altogether, the face of a young woman who would stand no
trifling.
He put it back respectfully in his pocket; but the impulse to go
across and drop, in an accidental fashion, into a vacant seat
near one of those two girls was still unconquered. He was feeling
so dull; he had got such a very little way into the _History of
Civilisation_, a work which he was reading rather for Sophia's
satisfaction than his own, and there was such a lot more of it!
Might he not allow himself a brief holiday, and beguile the long
weary morning with a little cheerful conversation? It was most
unlikely, strict etiquette being by general consent suspended
on board ship, that either young lady would resent a hazarded
remark--at all events, he could but try.
But then his oath--his rash and voluntary oath to Sophia--what
of that? He had not, it was true, debarred himself from ordinary
civility; but could he be sure of keeping always within those
bounds if the acquaintanceship was once established? He had reasons
for doubting this very seriously. And, besides, had not Sophia more
than hinted in her last letter that, as a reward for his fidelity,
she might join the ship at Gibraltar with her mother, and so put an
earlier end to his term of probation? He could not be too careful.
After holding out so long, it would be madness to relax his
precautions now. No, he would resist these Sirens, like a modern
Ulysses; though, in the latter's case, the Sirens were not actually
on board, and, even then, the hero had to be lashed to the mast.
But Tourmalin felt confident, notwithstanding, that he would prove
at least as obdurate as the wily Greek.
He was not a strong-minded man; but he had one quality which is
almost as valuable a safeguard against temptation as strength of
mind--namely, timidity.
His love for his betrothed was chastened by a considerable dash of
awe, and he was resolved not to compromise himself in her eyes just
for the sake of a little temporary distraction.
At this point of his deliberations he looked at his watch: it was
close upon twelve; only one hour to be got through before tiffin.
Why, an hour was nothing; he could surely contrive to kill it over
Buckle! A little courage, a little concentration, and he would
certainly attain to an interest in "the laws which govern human
actions."
The ship's bells were just striking; he counted the strokes: one,
two, three, four, five--and no more! There must be some mistake; it
could not possibly be only half-past ten. Why, it was hours since
breakfast!
"Looking at your watch, eh?" said his friend Perkins, as he reached
Peter's chair for about the hundredth time. "Ah! you're fast, I
see. Haven't altered your watch yet? They've put the ship's clock
back again this morning; nearly half-an-hour it was this time--it
was rather less yesterday and the day before: we shall go on
gaining so much extra time a day, I suppose, till we get to Gib."
"You don't mean to tell me that!" exclaimed Peter, with a
half-suppressed groan. If the time had seemed tedious and
interminable enough before, how much more so was it now! How
infinitely greater would the effort be to fix his thoughts
resolutely on Buckle, and ignore the very existence of his
distracting neighbours, now that it was to be daily prolonged in
this exasperating manner!
"You don't seem to appreciate the arrangement?" remarked the
Manager, as he allowed himself to drop cautiously--for he was a
bulky man--into a hammock-chair beside Tourmalin.
"Appreciate it!" said Peter, with strong disgust. "Aren't there
enough half-hours, and confoundedly long ones, too, in the day
as it is, without having extra ones forced on you like this? And
giving it to us in the daytime, too! They might at least put the
clock back at night, when it wouldn't so much matter. I do think
it's very bad management, I must say!"
His companion began a long explanation about the meridian, and
sun's time, and ship's time, and Greenwich time, to which Peter
gave but a very intermittent attention, so stupefied did he feel at
this unwelcome discovery.
"It's a curious thing to think of," the other was saying
thoughtfully, "that a man, by simply making a voyage like this,
should make a clear gain of several hours which he would never
have had at all if he had stayed at home!"
"I would much rather be without them" said Peter. "I find it quite
difficult enough to spend the time as it is; and how on earth I can
spend any more, I don't know!"
"Why spend it, then?" asked his friend quietly.
"What else am I to do with it?"
"What else? See here, my friend; when you have an amount of spare
cash that you've no immediate use for, you don't let it lie idle at
home, do you? You pay it in to your credit at a bank, and let it
remain on deposit till you _do_ want it--eh? Well, then, why not
treat your spare time as you would your spare cash. Do you see what
I mean?"
"Not altogether," confessed Peter, considerably puzzled.
"It's simple enough nowadays. For instance, the establishment I
have the honour to be connected with--the Anglo-Australian Joint
Stock Time Bank Limited--confines itself, as you are doubtless
aware, almost entirely to that class of business."
"Ah!" said Peter, no more enlightened than before, "does it indeed?
Would you mind explaining what particular class of business it
carries on? I don't quite understand."
"Bless my soul, sir!" said the Manager, rather irritably, "you must
be uncommonly ignorant of financial matters not to have heard of
this before! However, I will try to make it clear to you. I daresay
you have heard that 'Time is Money'? Very well, all our operations
are conducted on that principle. We are prepared to make advances,
on good security of course, of time to almost any amount; and we
are simply overwhelmed with applications for loans. Business men,
as you may know, are perpetually pressed for time, and will consent
to almost anything to obtain it. Our transactions in time, sir, are
immense. Why, the amount of Time passing through our books annually
during the last ten years, averages--ah! about sixty centuries!
That's pretty well, I think, sir?"
He was so perfectly business-like and serious that Peter almost
forgot to see anything preposterous in what he said.
"It sounds magnificent," he said politely; "only, you see, I don't
want to borrow any time myself. I've too much on my hands already."
"Just so," said the Manager; "but if you will kindly hear me
out, I am coming to that. Lending time is only one side of our
business; we are also ready to accept the charge of any spare
time that customers may be willing to deposit with us, and, with
our experience and facilities, I need hardly say that we are able
to employ it to the best advantage. Now, say, for example, that
you wish to open an account with us. Well, we'll take these spare
half-hours of yours that are only an encumbrance to you at present,
and if you choose to allow them to remain on deposit, they will
carry interest at five per cent. per month; that is, five minutes
on every hour and three-quarters, roughly, for each month, until
you withdraw them. In that way alone, by merely leaving your time
with us for six months you will gain--now, let me see--over three
additional hours in compound interest on your original capital of
ten hours or so. And no previous notice required before withdrawal!
Let me tell you, sir, you will not find many banks do business on
such terms as that!"
"No," said Peter, who could not follow all this arithmetic, "so
I should imagine. Only, I don't quite see, if you will pardon my
saying so, what particular advantage I should gain if I did open an
account of this sort."
"You don't? You surprise me, you really do. Here are you, with
these additional hours lying idle on your hands: you didn't expect
'em, and don't want 'em. But how do you know that you _mayn't_ be
glad of 'em at some time or other? Just think how grateful you
might be hereafter, if you could get back a single one of these
half-hours which you find so tedious now. Half-an-hour on board a
fine ship like this, splendid weather, bracing sea-air, perfect
rest, pleasant company, and so on--why, you'd be willing to pay any
money for it! Well, bank your extra time; and you can draw every
individual hour in quarters, halves, or wholes, when you please and
_as_ you please. _That's_ the advantage of it, sir!"
"I think I see," said Peter: "only, how am I to make the deposit in
the first instance?"
"That's easily arranged. The captain can't compel you to accept the
time now by merely putting back the hands of the clock, can he? So,
all _you_ have to do is to abstain from altering your watch so long
as you are on board, and to fill up a little form; after which I
shall be happy to supply you with a book of Time Cheques, which you
can fill up and present whenever you wish to spend a given number
of minutes in the pleasantest possible of ways."
"But where am I to present these cheques?" inquired Peter.
"Oh!" said the Manager, "there will be no difficulty whatever about
that. Any clock will cash it for you--provided, of course, that it
hasn't stopped. You merely have to slip your cheque underneath or
behind it, and you will at once be paid whatever amount of time the
cheque is drawn for. I can show you one of our forms if you like?"
Here he brought out a bulky leather case, from which he extracted a
printed document, which he handed to Peter.
Peter, however, being naturally cautious, felt a hesitation which
he scarcely liked to confess.
"You see," he said, "the fact is, I should like to know first
... I've never been engaged in a--a transaction of this kind
before; and, well--what I mean is, do I incur any risk of--er--a
supernatural character?... It isn't like that business of Faust's,
eh, don't you know?"
The Manager took back the paper with an abruptness which showed
that his temper was ruffled by this suspicion.
"My good sir!" he said, with a short offended laugh, "don't, on
any account, imagine that _I_ care two pins whether you become
a depositor or not. I daresay our house will continue to exist
without your account. As for liability, ours is a limited concern;
and, besides, a deposit would not constitute you a shareholder. If
you meant anything more--well, I have still to learn that there's
anything diabolical about _me_, sir! I simply thought I was doing
you a good turn by making the suggestion; and, besides, as a
business man, I never neglect any opportunity, however small. But
it's entirely as you please, I'm sure."
There was nothing in the least demoniacal, even in his annoyance,
and Peter was moved to contrition and apology.
"I--I really beg your pardon!" he said. "I do hope I haven't
offended you; and, if you will allow me, I shall consider it a
personal favour to be allowed to open an account with your bank.
It would certainty be a great convenience to draw some of this
superfluous time at some future day, instead of wasting it now.
Where do I sign the form?"
The Manager was appeased; and produced the form once more,
indicating the place for the signature, and even providing a
stylograph-pen for the purpose. It was still somewhat of a relief
to Peter's mind to find that the ink it contained was of the
ordinary black hue.
"And now, about cheques," said his friend, after the signature had
been obtained. "How many do you think you would require? I should
say that, as the deposit is rather small, you will find fifty more
than sufficient? We shall debit you with fifty seconds to cover the
cheque-book. And we always recommend 'bearer' cheques as, on the
whole, more convenient."
Peter said he would have fifty "bearer" cheques, and was
accordingly given an oblong grey-green book, which, except that
it was a trifle smaller, was in nowise different, outwardly, from
an ordinary cheque-book. Still, his curiosity was not completely
satisfied.
"There is just one question more," he said. "When I draw this time,
where will it be spent?"
"Why, naturally, on board this ship," explained the Manager. "You
see that the time you will get must necessarily be the extra time
to which you are entitled by virtue of your passage, and which you
_would_ have spent as it accrued if you had not chosen to deposit
it with us. By the way, when you are filling up cheques, we much
prefer not to be called upon to honour drafts for less than fifteen
minutes; as much more as you like, but not less. Well, then, we
may consider that settled. I am extremely glad to have had the
opportunity of obliging you; and I think I can promise that you
will have no reason to repent of having made such a use of your
time. I'll wish you good-bye for the present, sir!"
The Manager resumed his hygienic tramp round the deck, leaving
Peter with the cheque-book in his hand. He was no longer surprised:
now that he was more familiar with the idea, it seemed a perfectly
natural and matter-of-fact arrangement; he only wondered that
he had never thought of so obvious a plan before. And it was an
immense relief to know that he had got rid of his extra hours for
the present, at all events, and that he could now postpone them to
a period at which they would be a boon rather than a burden.
And very soon he put the cheque-book away, and forgot all about
it. The Story.
CHAPTER I.
Tourmalin's First Cheque, and How he Took It.
_Fidelity Rewarded_.--_Love's Catechism_.--_Brain-fag_.--_A
Timely Recollection_.--_The Experiment, and some Startling
Results_.--_Question Time_.--"_Dear Friends_."--_A Compromise_.
Peter Tourmalin's probation was at an end, and, what was more, he
had come through the ordeal triumphantly. How he managed this, he
scarcely knew; no doubt he was aided by the consciousness that the
extra hours which he felt himself most liable to mis-spend had
been placed beyond his disposal. At all events, when he met Sophia
again, he had been able to convince her that her doubts of his
constancy, even under the most trying conditions, were entirely
undeserved. Now he was receiving his recompense: his engagement to
Sophia was no longer conditional, but a recognised and irrevocable
fact. It is superfluous to say that he was happy. Sophia had set
herself to repair the deficiencies in his education and culture;
she took him to scientific lectures and classical concerts, and
made him read standard authors without skipping. He felt himself
daily acquiring balance and seriousness, and an accurate habit of
thought, and all the other qualities which Sophia wished him to
cultivate.
Still, there were moments when he felt the need of halting and
recovering his wind, so to speak, in the steep and toilsome climb
to her superior mental level--times when he felt that his overtaxed
brain absolutely required relaxation of some sort.
He felt this particularly one dreary morning, late in November, as
he sat in his London chambers, staring with lack-lustre eyes at the
letter he had that day received from his betrothed. For although
they met nearly every day, she never allowed one to pass without
a letter--no fond and foolish effusion, be it understood, but a
kind of epistolary examination-paper, to test the progress he was
making. This one contained some searching questions on Buckle's
_History of Civilisation_, which he was expected to answer by
return of post. He was not supposed to look at the book, though he
had; and even then he felt himself scarcely better fitted to floor
the tremendous posers devised by Sophia's unwearying care.
The day before, he had had "search-questions" in English poetry
from Chaucer to Mr. Lewis Morris, which had thinned and whitened
his hair; but this was, if possible, even worse.
He wished now that he had got up his Buckle more thoroughly during
his voyage on the _Boomerang_--and, with the name, his arrangement
with the Manager suddenly rose to his recollection. What had he
done with that book of Time Cheques? If he could only get away, if
but for a quarter of a hour--away from those sombre rooms, with
their outlook on dingy housetops and a murky rhubarb-coloured
sky,--if he could really exchange all that for the sunniness and
warmth and delicious idleness which had once seemed so tedious,
what a rest it would be! And would he not return after such an
interlude with all his faculties invigorated, and better able to
cope with the task he now found almost insuperable?
The first thing was to find the cheque-book, which did not take him
long; though when he had found it, something made him pause before
filling up a cheque. What if he had been made a fool of--if the
Anglo-Australian Joint Stock Time Bank Limited never existed, or
had suspended payment? But that was easily settled by presenting a
cheque. Why should he not, just by way of experiment? His balance
was intact as yet; he was never likely to need a little ready time
more than he did just then. He would draw the minimum amount,
fifteen minutes, and see how the system worked.
So, although he had little real confidence that anything would
happen at all, he drew a cheque, and slipped it behind the
frivolous and rather incorrect little ormolu clock upon his
chimneypiece.
The result was instantaneous, and altogether beyond his
expectations! The four walls of his room assumed the transparency
of gauze for a second, before fading entirely away; the olive fog
changed to translucent blue; there was a briny breath in the air,
and he himself was leaning upon the rail at the forward end of the
hurricane-deck of the _Boomerang_, which was riding with a slow and
stately rise and fall over the heaving swell.
That was surprising enough; but more surprising still was the
discovery that he was apparently engaged in close and confidential
conversation with a lovely person in whom he distinctly recognised
Miss Tyrrell.
"Yes, I forgive you, Mr. Tourmalin," she was saying, with an
evident effort to suppress a certain agitation; "but indeed,
_indeed_, you must never speak to me like that again!"
Now, as Peter was certainly not conscious of ever having spoken to
her at all in his life, this was naturally a startling and even
embarrassing beginning.
But he had presence of mind enough to take in the position of
affairs, and adapt himself to them. This was one of the quarters
of an hour he _would_ have had, and it was clear that in some
portion or other of his spare time he would have made Miss
Tyrrell's acquaintance in some way. Of course, he ought to have
been paid that particular time first; but he could easily see from
her manner, and the almost tender friendliness which shone in her
moistened eyes, that at this period they had advanced considerably
beyond mere acquaintanceship. There had been some little mistake
probably; the cheques had been wrongly numbered perhaps, or else
they were honoured without regard to chronological sequence, which
was most confusing.
Still, he had nothing to do but conceal his ignorance as well as he
could, and pick up the loose threads as he went along. He was able,
at all events, to assure her that he would not, if he could help
it, incur her displeasure by speaking to her "like that" in future.
"Thanks," she said. "I know it was only a temporary forgetfulness;
and--and if what you suspect should prove to be really true--why,
then, Mr. Tourmalin, then, of course, you may come and tell me so."
"I will," he said; "I shall make a point of it. Only," he thought
to himself, "she will have to tell me first _what_ I'm to tell her."
"And in the meantime," she said, "let us go on as before, as if you
had never brought yourself to confide your sad story to me."
So he had told a sad story, had he? he thought, much bewildered;
for, as he had no story belonging to him of that character, he was
afraid he must have invented one, while, of course, he could not
ask for information.
"Yes," he said, with great presence of mind, "forget my unhappy
story--let it never be mentioned between us again. We will go on
as before--_exactly_ as before."
"It is our only course," she agreed. "And now," she added, with a
cheerfulness that struck him as a little forced, "suppose we talk
of something else."
Peter considered this a good suggestion, provided it was a subject
he knew a little more about; which, unhappily, it was not.
"You never answered my question," she reminded him.
He would have liked, as Ministers say in the House, "previous
notice of that question;" but he could hardly say so in so many
words.
"No," he said. "Forgive me if I say that it is a--a painful subject
to me."
"I understand that," she said, gently (it was more than _he_ did);
"but tell me only this: was it _that_ that made you behave as you
did? You are sure you had no _other_ reason?"
["If I say I had," thought Peter, "she will ask me what it was."]
"I will be as frank as possible, Miss Tyrrell," he replied. "I had
_no_ other reason. What other reason _could_ I have had?"
"I half fancied--but I ought to have seen from the first that,
whatever it was, it was not that. And now you have made everything
quite clear."
"I am glad you find it so," said Peter, with a touch of envy.
"But I might have gone on misunderstanding and misjudging, putting
you down as proud and cold and unsociable, or prejudiced, but
for the accident which brought us together, in spite of your
determination that we should remain total strangers!"
It was an _accident_ which had made them acquainted, then? He would
draw the cheque which contained that episode of his extra time
sooner or later; but it was distinctly inconvenient not to have at
least _some_ idea of what had happened.
"A fortunate accident for me, at all events!" he said, with a
judicious recourse to compliment.
"It might have been a very unfortunate one for poor papa,"
she said, "but for you. I do believe he would have been quite
inconsolable."
Peter felt an agreeable shock. Had he really been fortunate enough
to distinguish himself by rescuing the Judge's fair daughter from
some deadly peril? It looked very like it. He had often suspected
himself of a latent heroism which had never had an opportunity of
being displayed. This opportunity must have occurred, and he have
proved equal to the occasion, in one of those extra hours!
"I can quite imagine that he would be inconsolable indeed!" he
said gallantly. "Fortunately, I was privileged to prevent such a
calamity."
"Tell me again exactly _how_ you did it," she said. "I never quite
understood."
Peter again took refuge in a discreet vagueness.
"Oh," he replied, modestly, "there's not much to tell. I saw
the--er--danger, and knew there wasn't a moment to lose; and then I
sprang forward, and--well, you know the rest as well as I do!"
"You only just caught him as he was going up the rigging, didn't
you?" she asked.
So it was the Judge he had saved--not his daughter! Peter felt a
natural disappointment. But he saw the state of the case now: a
powerful judicial intellect overstrained, melancholia, suicidal
impulses--it was all very sad; but, happily, he had succeeded in
saving this man to his country.
"I--ventured to detain him," he said, considerately, "seeing that
he was--er--rather excited."
"But weren't you afraid he would bite you?"
"No," said Peter, pained at this revelation of the Judge's
condition, "that possibility did _not_ occur to me. In fact, I am
sure that--er--though the strongest intellects are occasionally
subject to attacks of this sort, he would never so far forget
himself as to--er--bite a complete stranger."
"Ah!" she said, "you don't know what a savage old creature he
can be sometimes. He never ought to be let loose; I'm sure he's
dangerous!"
"Oh! but think, Miss Tyrrell," remonstrated Peter, unmistakably
shocked at this unfilial attitude towards a distinguished parent;
"if he was--er--dangerous, he would not be upon the Bench now,
surely!"
She glanced over her shoulder, with evident apprehension.
"How you frightened me!" she said. "I thought he was really there!
But I hope they'll shut him up in future, so that he won't be able
to do any more mischief. You didn't tell me how you got hold of
him. Was it by his chain, or his tail?"
Peter did not know; and, besides, it was as difficult for him to
picture himself in the act of seizing a hypochondriacal judge by
his watch-chain or coat-tail, as it was for him to comprehend the
utter want of feeling that could prompt such a question from the
sufferer's own daughter.
"I hope," he said, with a gravity which he intended as a rebuke--"I
hope I treated him with all the respect and consideration possible
under the--er--circumstances.... I am sorry that that remark
appears to amuse you!"
For Miss Tyrrell was actually laughing, with a merriment in which
there was nothing forced.
"How can I help it?" she said, as soon as she could speak. "It is
too funny to hear you talking of being regretful and considerate to
a horrid monkey!"
"A _monkey!_" he repeated involuntarily.
So it was a monkey that was under restraint, and not a Judge of Her
Majesty's Supreme Court of Judicature: a discovery which left him
as much in the dark as to what particular service he had rendered
as ever, and made him tremble to think what he might have said. But
apparently, by singular good fortune, he had not committed himself
beyond recovery; for Miss Tyrrell only said:
"I thought you were speaking of the monkey, the little wretch that
came up behind papa and snatched away all his notes--the notes he
had made for the great case he tried last term, and has to deliver
judgment upon when the Courts sit again. Surely he told you how
important they were, and how awkward it would have been if the
monkey had escaped with them, and torn them into pieces or dropped
them into the sea?--as he probably would have done, but for you!"
"Oh, ah, yes!" said Peter, feeling slightly crestfallen, for he had
hoped he had performed a more dashing deed than catching a loose
monkey. "I believe your father--Sir John?" he hazarded ... "Sir
William, of course, thank you ... did mention the fact. But it
really was such a trifling thing to do."
"Papa didn't think so," she said. "He declares he can never be
grateful enough to you. And, whatever it was," she added softly,
and even shyly, "I, at least, can never think lightly of a service
which has--has made us what we are to one another."
_What they were to one another!_ And what was _that_? A dreadful
uncertainty seized upon Peter. Was it possible that, in some way he
did not understand, he was engaged to this very charming girl, who
was almost a stranger to him? The mere idea froze his blood; for if
that was so, how did it affect his position towards Sophia? At all
hazards, he must know the worst at once!
"Tell me," he said, with trembling accents,--"I know you have
told me already, but tell me once more--precisely what we are to
one another at present. It would be so much more satisfactory to
my mind," he added, in a deprecatory tone, "to have that clearly
understood."
"I thought I had made it quite clear already," she said, with the
least suspicion of coldness, "that we can be nothing more to one
another than friends."
The relief was almost too much for him. What a dear, good, sensible
girl she was! How perfectly she appreciated the facts!
"_Friends!_" he cried. "Is that _all_? Do you really mean we are
nothing more than friends?"
He caught her hand, in the fervour of his gratitude, and she
allowed it to remain in his grasp; which, in the altered state of
things, he found rather pleasant than otherwise.
"Ah!" she murmured, "don't ask me for more than I have said--more
than I can ever say, perhaps! Let us be content with remaining
friends--dear friends, if you like--but no more!"
"I will," said Peter promptly, "I will be content. Dear friends, by
all means; but no more!"
"No," she assented; "unless a time should come when----"
"Yes," said Peter, encouragingly, as she hesitated. "You were about
to say, a time when----?"
Her lips moved, a faint flush stole into her cheeks; she was about
to complete her sentence, when her hand seemed to melt away in his
own, and he stood, grasping the empty air, by his own mantelpiece.
The upper deck, the heaving bows, the blue seaboard, Miss Tyrrell
herself, all had vanished; and in their stead were the familiar
surroundings of his chamber, the grimy London house fronts,
and Sophia's list of questions lying still unanswered upon his
writing-table! His fifteen minutes had come to an end; the cheque
was nowhere to be seen. The minute-hand of his clock had not moved
since he last saw it; but this last circumstance, as he saw on
reflection, was only natural, for otherwise the Time Deposit would
have conferred no real advantage, as he would never have regained
the hours he had temporarily foregone.
For some time Peter sat perfectly still, with his head between
his hands, occupied in a mental review of this his initial
experience of the cheque-book system. It was as different as
possible from the spell of perfect rest he had anticipated; but
had it been unpleasant on that account? In spite of an element of
mystification at starting, which was inevitable, he was obliged
to admit to himself that he had enjoyed this little adventure
more than perhaps he should have done. With all his attachment to
Sophia, he could hardly be insensible to the privilege of suddenly
finding himself the friend--and more than that, the dear friend--of
so delightful a girl as this Miss Tyrrell.
There was a strange charm, a peculiar and quite platonic tenderness
about an intimacy of this peculiar and unprecedented nature, which
increased at every fresh recollection of it. It increased so
rapidly indeed, that almost unconsciously he drew the cheque-book
towards him, and began to fill up another cheque with a view to an
immediate return to the _Boomerang_.
But when he had torn the cheque out, he hesitated. It was all quite
harmless: the most severe moralist could not convict him of even
the most shadowy infidelity towards his _fiançée_, if he chose to
go back and follow up a purely retrospective episode like this--an
episode which interested and fascinated him so strongly--only, what
would Sophia say to it? Instinctively, he felt that the situation,
innocent as it was, would fail to commend itself to her. He had no
intention of informing her, it was true; but he knew that he was a
poor dissembler--he might easily betray himself in some unguarded
moment, and then---- No! it was vexing, no doubt; but, upon the
whole, it was wiser and better to renounce those additional hours
on board the _Boomerang_ altogether--to allow this past, that never
had, but only might have been, to remain unsummoned and unknown for
ever. Otherwise, who could tell that, by gradual assaults, even
such an affection as he had for Sophia might not be eventually
undermined?
But this fear, as he saw the next moment, was almost too
extravagant to be seriously taken into account. He felt nothing,
and never could feel anything, but warm and sincere friendship
for Miss Tyrrell; and it was satisfactory to know that she was in
no danger of mistaking his sentiments. Still, of course there was
always a certain risk, particularly when he was necessarily in
ignorance of all that had preceded and followed the only colloquy
they had had as yet. At last he decided upon a compromise: he
would not cash that second cheque for the present, at all events;
he would reserve it for an emergency, and only use it if he was
absolutely driven to do so as a mental tonic. Perhaps Sophia would
not compel him to such a necessity again; he hoped--at least, he
_thought_ she would not.
So he put the unpresented cheque in an inner pocket, and set to
work with desperate energy at his examination-paper; although
his recent change must have proved less stimulating to his jaded
faculties than he had hoped, since Sophia, after reading his
answers, made the cutting remark that she scarcely knew which he
had more completely failed to apprehend--the purport of his author,
or that of the very simple questions she had set him.
Peter could not help thinking, rather ruefully, that Miss Tyrrell
would never have been capable of such severity as that; but, then,
Miss Tyrrell was not his _fiançée_, only a very dear friend, whom
he would, most probably, never meet again.