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._
It would be more satisfactory to an author's feelings, especially
when he is aware that he will be held accountable by an indignant
public for the slightest deviation on his hero's part from the
narrow path of ideal rectitude--it would be more satisfactory to be
able to record that this latest warning had a permanent effect upon
Peter Tourmalin's rather shifty disposition.
But an author, even of a modest performance such as this, cannot
but feel himself in a position of grave responsibility. He
must relate such facts as he has been able to collect, without
suppression on the one side, or distortion on the other. It is a
duty he cannot and dare not evade, under penalty of forfeiting the
confidence of his readers.
Peter Tourmalin _did_ draw more Time Cheques, he _did_ go back to
the _Boomerang_, and it would be useless to assert the contrary.
We may be able to rehabilitate him to some extent before this story
concludes: at present, we can only follow his career with pain and
disapproval.
Some allowances must be made for the peculiar nature of the
case. To a person of Peter's natural inclination to the study of
psychology, there was a strong fascination in watching the gradual
unfolding and revelation of two characters so opposite and so
interesting as those of Miss Tyrrell and Miss Davenport. That was
the point of view he took himself, and it is difficult to say that
such a plea is wholly without plausibility.
Then, too, he was intensely curious to know how it would all end,
and he might ascertain that in the very next quarter of an hour he
drew; there was absolutely no telling.
As for Sophia's threat, that soon lost all terrors for him. She
would abandon him, no doubt, if she ever knew; but who was going to
tell her, and how could she possibly discover the truth unaided,
especially now that her awakening suspicions had been lulled?
His secret was perfectly safe, and he could unravel the tangled
thread of the history of his remaining extra hours on board the
_Boomerang_ without any other hindrance than that of his own
scruples--which practically amounted to no hindrance at all.
So Peter continued to be the slave of his clock and his
cheque-book, from the counterfoils of which he was disagreeably
surprised to discover that he had drawn more frequently, and in
consequence had an even smaller balance left to his credit, than he
had supposed.
However, he consoled himself by concluding that one or two cheques
had probably been mislaid, and were still unpresented, while he was
entitled to some additional time in respect of compound interest;
so that he need not stint himself at present. Fifteen minutes a
week was not an extravagant allowance; and sooner or later, even
with the utmost economy, a day would come when his balance would
be exhausted, and his cheques returned from the clock marked "No
effects--refer to drawer," or some equivalent intimation.
But that day was still distant, and in the meantime he went on
drawing with a light heart.
It was a Saturday evening, the day on which Peter generally
presented his weekly cheque; but although it was nearly half-past
ten, he had had no opportunity of doing so as yet. He was in the
drawing-room, and Sophia was reading aloud to him this time, an
article on "Bi-metallism" from one of the reviews; for she had
been an ardent Bi-metallist from early girlhood, and she naturally
wished to win Peter from his Laodicean apathy on so momentous a
subject. He listened with surface resignation, although inwardly
he was in a fever of impatience to get back upon the _Boomerang_,
where Miss Davenport had been more interesting than usual on his
last visit. But he could hardly rise and slip a cheque under the
clock before Sophia's very eyes without inventing some decent
pretext for such an action, and Bi-metallism had reduced him to a
mental condition which was no longer fertile in expedients.
Suddenly Sophia stopped reading and remarked:
"If I remember right, Professor Dibbs has stated the argument more
correctly in his little book on _Currency_. It would be interesting
to compare the two; I'll get it."
As Professor Dibbs's work was apparently on a shelf in the study,
Sophia took the lamp into the further room.
"Now's my time!" thought Peter, as he brought out the cheque from
his waistcoat-pocket. "I mayn't get such another chance this
evening."
Even if Sophia could lay her hand on the volume at once, he would
have had his quarter of an hour and be comfortably back long
before she could pass the arch which separated the two rooms; for,
as we have seen, this instantaneous action was one of the chief
recommendations of the Time Cheques.
So he cashed his cheque, and was at once transported to the
secluded passage between the deck-cabins, the identical place
where he had first conversed with Miss Davenport. He was on the
same steamer-chair too, and she was at his side; the wind carried
the faint strains of a set of "Lancers" to them; from all of
which circumstances he drew the inference that he was going to
be favoured with the sequel to the conversation that had been so
incongruously broken in upon by Sophia's question respecting the
comparative merits of bottle-jacks in the Tottenham Court Road
warehouse. This was so far satisfactory, indicating as it did
that he was at last, after so much trying back, to make some real
progress.
"What I want to know first," Miss Davenport was saying, "is,
whether you are capable of facing danger for my sake?"
"I thought," he remonstrated mildly, "that I had already given
proof of that!"
"The danger you faced then threatened only me. But, supposing you
had to meet a danger to yourself, could you be firm and cool? Much
will depend on that."
"I--I think," he answered frankly, "that perhaps you had better not
count upon me. I have never been a man to court danger: it might
find me equal to it if it came,--or it might not."
He did not mean to give it the opportunity.
"Then we are lost, that is all!" she said, with gloomy conviction.
"Lost, both of us!"
Peter certainly intended to be lost if the moment of trial ever
arrived. Even now he was resolving, for about the twentieth time,
that this positively should be his very last cheque; for he by
no means liked the manner in which the situation seemed to be
developing.
But, seeing that the danger, whatever it might be, was still far
enough off, he thought, very sensibly, that it would be a pity
to cloud this last interview by any confession of pusillanimity.
Knowing that he would return no more, he could surely afford to
treat with contempt any consequences his imprudence might have
entailed.
So he laughed, as he said:
"You mustn't conclude that I am a coward because I don't care to
boast. On the contrary, I believe I am not exactly deficient in
physical courage."
"You are not?" she cried, relieved. "Then--then you would not be
afraid to face a desperate man?"
"Not a dozen desperate men, if it comes to that!" said Peter,
supported by the certainty that it would not come to so much as
half a desperate man.
"Then I can tell you _now_ what I have scarcely dared to think of
before. Peter, you will have to reckon with Alfred!"
"Well, I'm not much alarmed at anything _Alfred_ may do!" said
Peter, wondering who the deuce Alfred was.
"He will come on board; he will demand an explanation; he will
insist on seeing you!" she cried.
"_Let_ him!" said Peter.
"You are brave--braver even than I thought; but, ah! Peter, you
don't know what Alfred is!"
Peter did not even know who Alfred was, but he was unmoved.
"You leave Alfred to me," he said confidently, "I'll settle _him_!"
"But I must tell you all. I--I led you to believe that Alfred would
raise no objections; that he would quietly accept facts which it is
useless to contend against. He will do nothing of the sort! He is
a man of violent passions--fierce and relentless when wronged. In
the first burst of fury at meeting you, when he comes on board, he
is capable of some terrible vengeance, which nothing but perfect
coolness on your part--perhaps not even that--will be able to
avert. And I--I have brought this upon you!"
"Don't cry," said Peter. "You see, I'm perfectly calm. _I_ don't
mind it. If Alfred considers himself wronged by me--though, what
I have ever done to give him any reason for revenging himself by
personal violence, I must say I can't conceive----"
She stopped him.
"Ah! you have given him cause enough!" she cried. "What is the use
of taking that tone to me?"
"I want to see Alfred's point of view, that's all," said Peter.
"What does he complain of?"
"_What does he complain of?_ You ask me that, when---- Peter," she
broke off suddenly, "there is somebody round the corner listening
to us--a woman, I'm sure of it. I heard the rustle of a dress....
Go and see if there is not!"
Go and see, and find himself face to face with Miss Tyrrell, who
might faint or go into hysterics: Peter knew better than that.
"It's merely your fancy," he said, soothingly, "Who can be there?
They are all at the other end of the ship, dancing. Go on telling
me about Alfred. I don't yet understand how I have managed to
offend him."
"Are you really so dull," she said, with a slight touch of temper,
"that you can't see that a man who thought he was going to meet the
woman he was engaged to, and finds she has learnt to care for--for
somebody else, is likely, even if he was the mildest man in the
world--which Alfred is far from being--to betray some annoyance?"
"No, I see that," said Peter; "but--but he can't blame me. _I_
couldn't help it!"
He said this, although her last speech had opened his eyes
considerably: he knew now who Alfred was, and also that, in some
moment of madness which was in one of the quarters of an hour he
had not yet drawn, he must have placed himself in the position of
Alfred's rival.
What was he to do? He could not, without brutality, tell this poor
girl that he had not the smallest intention of depriving Alfred of
her affections; it was better, and easier too, to humour her for
the short time that remained.
"Alfred will not take that as an excuse," she said. "It is true we
could neither of us help what has happened, but that will not alter
the fact that he is quite capable of shooting us both the instant
he comes on deck. Alfred is like that!"
"Well," said Peter, unable to abstain from a little more of such
very cheap heroism, "I do not fear death--with you!"
"Say that once more," she said; which Peter very obligingly did.
"Oh, Peter, how I admire you now! How little I knew you were
capable of going so calmly to your doom! You give me courage. I
feel that I, too, can face death; only not _that_ death--it is so
horrid to be shot!"
"It would be unpleasant," said Peter, placidly, "but soon over."
"No," she said, "I couldn't bear it. I can see him pointing his
revolver--for he always carries one, even at a picnic--first at
_your_ head, then mine! No, Peter; since we must die, I prefer at
least to do so without bloodshed!"
"So do I," he agreed, "very much."
"You do?" she cried. "Then, oh, Peter! why should we wait any
longer for a fate that is inevitable? Let us do it now, together!"
"Do _what_?" said Peter.
"Slip over the side together; it would be quite easy, no one will
see us. Let us plunge arm-in-arm into the merciful sea! A little
struggle--a moment's battle for breath--then all will be over!"
"Yes, I suppose it _would_ be over then;" he said; "but we should
have to swallow such a lot of salt water first!"
He reflected that, even if he emerged from the agonies of drowning,
to find himself Bi-metallising with Sophia, the experience would be
none the less unpleasant while it lasted. There really must be some
limit to his complaisance, and he set it at suicide.
"No," he said at last; "I have always held that to escape a
difficulty by putting an end to one's own life is a cowardly
proceeding."
"I _am_ a coward," she said; "but, oh, Peter, be a coward with me
for once!"
"Ask me anything else!" he said, firmly, "but not to stoop to
cowardice. There is really no necessity for it, you see," he
added, feeling that he had better speak out plainly. "I have no
doubt that Alfred will listen to reason; and when he is told that,
although, as is excusable enough with two natures that have much
in common, we--we have found a mutual pleasure in each other's
society--there has been nothing on either side inconsistent with
the--the most ordinary friendship; when he hears that.... Where are
you going?" for she was rising from her chair.
"Where am I going?" she replied, with an unsteady laugh. "Why,
overboard, if you care to know!"
"But you mustn't!" he cried, scarcely knowing what he said.
"The--the captain wouldn't like it. There's a penalty, I'm sure,
for leaving the ship while it's in motion--I've seen it on a
notice!"
"There is a penalty for having believed in you," she replied
bitterly, "and I am going to pay it!"
She broke away and rushed out upon the deck into the starlight,
with Peter in pursuit. Here was a nice result of his philandering,
he thought bitterly. And yet, what had he done? How could he help
the consequences of follies committed in time he had not even
spent yet? However, what he had to do now was to prevent Miss
Davenport from leaping overboard at any cost. He would even promise
to jump over with her, if that would soothe her, and of course he
could appoint some time next day--say, after breakfast,--for the
performance.
He ran down the shadowy deck until he overtook a flying female
form, whose hand he seized as she crouched against the bulwarks.
"Miss Davenport, if you will only just ..." he began, when, without
warning, he found himself back upon his own hearth-rug, holding
Sophia firmly by the wrist!
He felt confused, as well he might, but he tried to pass it off.
"Did you find Dibbs _On Currency_, my dear?" he inquired, with a
ghastly smile, as he dropped her hand.
"I did not," said Sophia, gravely; "I was otherwise engaged. Peter,
what have you been doing?"
"What have I been doing?" he said. "Why, it's not a minute since
you went into the study to get that book; look at the clock and
see!"
"Don't appeal to the clock, Peter,--answer my question. How have
you been occupied?"
"I've been waiting for you to finish that article on
Bi-metallism," he had the hardihood to say. "Deuced well-written
article it is, too; so clear!"
"I don't refer to what you were doing here," said Sophia. "What
were you doing on board the _Boomerang_?"
"It--it's so long ago that I really forget," he said. "I--I read
Buckle on deck, and I talked with a man named Perkins--nice fellow
he was--manager of a bank out in Australia."
"It's useless to prevaricate, Peter!" she said. "What I want to
know is, who was that girl, and why should she attempt to destroy
herself?"
He could hardly believe his ears.
"Girl!" he stammered. "How do you know that any girl attempted
anything of that sort?"
"How do I know, Peter?" said Sophia. "I will tell you how I know.
_I was on board the 'Boomerang,' too!_"
At this awful piece of intelligence, Peter dropped into his
arm-chair, speechless and quaking. What would come next he could
not tell; but anything seemed possible, and even probable, after
that!