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._
Peter Tourmalin enjoyed his honeymoon extremely, in a calm, sober,
and rational manner. Sophia discouraged rapture; but, on the
other hand, no one was better fitted to inspire and sustain an
intelligent interest in the wonders of Geology; and, catching her
scientific enthusiasm, Peter spent many happy hours with her along
the cliffs, searching for fossil remains. In fact, the only cloud
that threatened to mar their felicity at all was an unfortunate
tendency on his part to confuse a trilobite with a graptolite, a
blunder for which Sophia had no tolerance. He was hazy about his
periods, too, until she sent up to town for Lyell's great work on
the subject as a birthday surprise for him, and he read it aloud
to her on the sands. Altogether, it was a peaceful, happy time.
And never once in the whole course of his honeymoon did he
seriously entertain the possibility of making any further use of
his book of blank Time Cheques. If he had contemplated it, no harm
would have been done, however, as the book was lying amongst his
neglected papers at his former chambers.
He felt no poignant regret when the month came to an end, and they
returned to town to take possession of their Marylebone flat: for
what was it but shifting the scene of their happiness? And after
this had taken place, Peter was still too much occupied to have
leisure for idle and mischievous thoughts. Marrying Sophia was,
indeed, like loving Sir Richard Steele's fair lady, "a liberal
education;" and Peter enjoyed the undivided benefit of her rare
talent for instruction.
He had been giving his attention to Astronomy of late, an unguarded
remark of his having betrayed to Sophia the extreme crudity of
his ideas respecting that science, and she had insisted upon his
getting a popular primer, with diagrams, and mastering it as a
preliminary to deeper study.
One evening he was in the smaller room of the two that, divided
by an arch, served for study and drawing-room combined; and he was
busily engaged in working out a simple practical illustration,
by the aid of one of the aforesaid diagrams. The experiment
required a lamp, a ball of cotton, and an orange transfixed by a
knitting-needle, and it had something to do with the succession of
the seasons, solar and lunar eclipses, and the varying lengths of
day and night on different portions of our globe, though he was not
very clear what.
"Don't you find you understand the inclination of the moon's orbit
to the plane of the ecliptic better now?" said Sophia, as she came
through the arch.
"I think I shall, as soon as I can get the moon to keep steadier,"
he said, with more hope than he felt; "and it's rather hard to
remember whereabouts I am supposed to be on this orange."
"I must get you something to make that clearer," she said; "and you
haven't tilted the orange nearly enough. But leave it for a moment;
I've brought you in this packet of letters and things the people
at your old rooms have just sent down. I wish, while I am away--I
shall be back in a minute,--you would just run over them, and tell
me if there are any papers you want kept, or if they may all be
burnt."
While she was gone, he undid the string which fastened the packet,
and found, at the bottom of a mass of bills and documents of no
value, the small oblong cheque-book which he had vowed never to
see again. Somehow, as his eyes rested on its green cover, the old
longing came upon him for a complete change of air and scene. He
felt as if he _must_ get away from that orange: there were no lamps
but electric lights, and no oranges, on board the _Boomerang_.
But then, his last visit had not turned out a success: what if he
were to find he had drawn another quarter of an hour with that
irate matron of the music-room?
However, he had left her, as he remembered, in a comparatively
pacific mood. She understood him better now; and besides, thanks to
the highly erratic system (if there was any system) on which the
payments were made, the chances were immensely against his coming
across the same old lady twice running. He thought he would risk
that.
It was much more likely that he would meet Miss Tyrrell or Miss
Davenport, or it might even be another person to whom he was
unconsciously allied by the bond of dear friendship. The only
question was, how far he could trust himself in such companionship.
But here he felt himself guilty of a self-distrust that was
unworthy of him. If, on the two previous occasions, he could
not call to mind that he had entertained any deeper sentiment
for either young lady than a cordial and sympathetic interest,
was it likely that, now he was a married man, he would be more
susceptible? He was as devoted to his Sophia as ever, but the
wear and tear of several successive evenings spent in elementary
Astronomy were telling upon his constitution. Such high thinking
did not agree with him: he wanted a plainer mental diet for a
change. Fifteen minutes spent in the society of someone with a mind
rather less cultivated than his wife's would be very restful. Then,
when he came back, he would give his whole mind to the orange again.
In short, all Peter's good resolutions were thrown overboard once
more, and he wrote out a cheque for the usual amount in desperate
fear lest Sophia might return before he could get it honoured. He
felt a certain compunction, even then, in presenting it to the
severe and intensely respectable black marble timepiece which
recorded the flying hours of his domestic bliss. He almost doubted
whether it would countenance so irregular a proceeding; but,
although it was on the verge of striking nine, it cashed the cheque
without hesitation....
It was mid-day: Peter was sitting on a folding seat, protected from
the scorching sun by the awning which was stretched above and along
the exposed side of the deck, and, to his great satisfaction, he
found Miss Tyrrell reclining in a deck-chair between himself and
the railing, and a pleasant picture of fresh and graceful girlhood
she presented.
As usual, he was not in time for the beginning of the conversation,
for she was evidently commenting upon something he had said.
"How delightful it sounds!" she was saying, "and what a free,
unfettered kind of life yours must be, Mr. Tourmalin, from your
description!"
Now, this was awkward; because he must have been giving her an airy
description of his existence as the bachelor and butterfly he had
ceased to be. He answered guardedly, awaiting his opportunity to
lead up to a disclosure of the change in his circumstances since
they had last met.
"It is pleasant enough," he said. "A little dull at times,
perhaps," he added, thinking of the orange.
She laughed.
"Oh, you mustn't expect me to pity you!" she said. "I don't believe
you need ever be dull, unless you choose. There must always be
friends who are glad to see you."
"I am glad to think," said Peter, "that, when I do feel dull, I
have at least one friend--one dear friend--from whom I may count
upon a welcome!"
He accompanied this speech with such a look, that she could not
well pretend to mistake his meaning; and the next moment he
regretted it, for he saw he had gone too far.
"That is a very pretty speech," she said, with a faint flush; "but
isn't it a little premature, Mr. Tourmalin, considering that we
have scarcely known one another two days!"
For the moment, Peter had forgotten the want of consecutiveness
in these eccentric Time Cheques. This interview should by rights
have preceded the first he had had with her. He felt annoyed with
himself, and still more with the unbusinesslike behaviour of the
Bank.
"I--I was anticipating, perhaps," he said. "But I assure you that
we shall certainly _be_ friends--I may even go so far as to say,
dear friends--sooner or later. You see if I am not right!"
Miss Tyrrell smiled.
"Are you sure," she said, with her eyes demurely lowered--"are you
sure that there is nobody who might object to our being on quite
such intimate terms as that?"
Peter started. Could she possibly have guessed, and how much did
she know?
"There could be nothing for anybody to object to," he said. "Are
you--er--referring to any person in particular?"
She still kept her eyes down, but then she was occupied just at the
moment in removing a loose splinter of bamboo from the arm of her
chair.
"You mustn't think me curious or--or indiscreet, if I tell you,"
she said; "but before I knew you to speak to, I--I couldn't help
noticing how often, as you sat on deck, you used to pull something
out of your pocket and look at it."
"My watch?" suggested Peter, feeling uncomfortable.
"No, not your watch; it looked more like--well, like a photograph."
"It may have been a photograph, now you mention it," he admitted.
"Well, Miss Tyrrell?" "Well," she said, "I often amuse myself by
making up stories about people I meet--quite strangers, I mean.
And, do you know, I made up my mind that that photograph was the
portrait of someone--some lady you are engaged to. I should so much
like to know if I was right or not?"
Here was Peter's opportunity of revealing his real status, and
preventing all chance of future misunderstanding. It was not too
late; but still it might be best and kindest to break the news
gradually.
"You were partly right and partly wrong," he said: "that was the
portrait of a lady I was--er--_once_ engaged to."
Unless Peter was very much mistaken, there was a new light in her
face, an added brightness in her soft grey eyes as she raised them
for an instant before resuming her labours upon the wicker-chair.
"Then you mean," she said softly, "that the engagement is broken
off?"
Peter began to recognise that explanation was a less simple affair
than it had seemed. If he said that he was no longer engaged but
_married_ to the original of that photograph, she would naturally
want to know why he had just led her to believe, as he must have
done, that he was still a careless and unattached bachelor: she
would ask _when_ and _where_ he was married; and how could he give
a straightforward and satisfactory answer to such questions?
And then another side of the case struck him. As a matter of fact
he was undeniably married; but would he be strictly correct in
describing himself as being so _in this particular interview?_ It
belonged properly to the time he had made the voyage home, and he
was certainly not married _then_.
In the difficulty he was in, he thought it best to go on telling
the truth until it became absolutely impossible, and then fall back
on invention.
"The fact is, Miss Tyrrell," he said, "that I can't be absolutely
certain whether the engagement is ended or not at this precise
moment."
Her face was alive with the sweetest sympathy.
"Poor Mr. Tourmalin!" she said, "how horribly anxious you must be
to get back and know!"
"Ah!" said Peter, "yes, I--I shall know when I get home, I suppose."
And he sighed; for the orange recurred once more to his reluctant
memory.
"Don't tell me if it pains you too much," she said gently. "I only
ask because I do feel so sorry for you. Do you think that, when you
do get home, you will find her married?"
"I have every reason for believing so," he said.
"That will be a terrible blow for you, of course?"
"A blow?" said Peter, forgetting himself. "Good gracious me, no!
Why _should_ it be? I--I mean, I shall be prepared for it, don't
you know!"
"Then it's not so bad after all?" she said.
"It's not at all bad!" said Peter, with a vague intention of
loyalty to Sophia. "I like it!"
"I think I understand," she said slowly: "you will not be sorry to
find she has married; but she may tell you that she never had the
least intention of letting you go so easily?"
"Yes," said Peter, "she may tell me that, certainly"--("if she
finds out where I've been," he added, mentally).
"And," she continued, "what would you do then?"
"I suppose," he said--"I suppose I should have to do whatever she
wished."
"Yes!" she agreed warmly, "you _will_ do that, even if it costs
you something, won't you? Because it will be the only right, the
only honourable course to take--you will be the happier for it in
the end, Mr. Tourmalin, I am sure you will!"
After all, it seemed to him that she must understand about the Time
Cheques--or, why should she urge him to give them up if Sophia
demanded such a sacrifice?
"No, I shall not," he said; "I shall miss these times terribly. You
don't know what they are to me, or you wouldn't speak like that!"
"Mr. Tourmalin!" she cried, "I--I must not listen to you! You can't
possibly mean what you seem to mean. It is wrong--wrong to me, and
wrong to her--to say things that--that, for all you know, you are
not free to say! Don't let me think badly of you!"
Peter was absolutely horrified! What had he said to agitate her
like that? He had merely meant to express the pleasure he found
in these brief and stolen visits to the _Boomerang;_ and she had
misconstrued him like this! At all hazards, he must explain now, if
it took him days to make it clear.
"My dear Miss Tyrrell," he protested earnestly, "you quite
misunderstood me--you did, indeed! Pray be calm, and I will
endeavour to make my position a little clearer than I'm afraid I
have done. The worst of it is," he added, "that the whole thing has
got into such a muddle that, for the life of me, I can't exactly
make out what my position is at the present moment!"
"You can if you will only recollect that you are this
mourning-pin," said a familiar voice; and, with the abruptness
characteristic of the Time Cheque system, he was back in his study,
staring at the ground glass globe of the lamp and the transfixed
orange. The clock behind him was striking nine, and Sophia was
offering him a pin with a big black head.
"Oh! am I the mourning-pin?" he repeated, helplessly.
"Really, Peter," said Sophia, "I think the pin, just at this
moment, has the more intelligent expression of the two. Do try to
look a little less idiotic! Now, see; you stick the pin into the
orange to represent your point of view, and then keep on twirling
it slowly round."
So Peter twirled the orange slowly round for the remainder of the
evening, though his thoughts were far away with Miss Tyrrell. He
was wondering what she could have thought of him, and, worse
still, what she would think if she could see him as he was employed
at that moment?
"I tell you what we must do, Peter,--when you get a little more
advanced," said Sophia, enthusiastically, that evening, "we must
see if we can't pick up a small secondhand orrery somewhere--it
would be so nice to have one!"
"Oh, delightful!" he said, absently.
He was not very clear as to what an orrery was, unless it was the
dusty machine that was worked with handles at sundry Assembly-room
lectures he had attended in early youth. But of one thing he
felt grimly certain--that it was something which would render it
necessary to draw more Time Cheques!