1
When Bob Pillin emerged from the little front garden of 23, Millicent
Villas ten days later, his sentiments were ravelled, and he could not
get hold of an end to pull straight the stuff of his mind.
He had found Mrs. Larne and Phyllis in the sitting-room, and Phyllis
had been crying; he was sure she had been crying; and that memory still
infected the sentiments evoked by later happenings. Old Heythorp had
said: “You'll burn your fingers.” The process had begun. Having sent
her daughter away on a pretext really a bit too thin, Mrs. Larne had
installed him beside her scented bulk on the sofa, and poured into his
ear such a tale of monetary woe and entanglement, such a mass of present
difficulties and rosy prospects, that his brain still whirled, and only
one thing emerged clearly-that she wanted fifty pounds, which she would
repay him on quarter-day; for their Guardy had made a settlement by
which, until the dear children came of age, she would have sixty pounds
every quarter. It was only a question of a few weeks; he might ask
Messrs. Scriven and Coles; they would tell him the security was quite
safe. He certainly might ask Messrs. Scriven and Coles--they happened to
be his father's solicitors; but it hardly seemed to touch the point. Bob
Pillin had a certain shrewd caution, and the point was whether he was
going to begin to lend money to a woman who, he could see, might borrow
up to seventy times seven on the strength of his infatuation for her
daughter. That was rather too strong! Yet, if he didn't she might take a
sudden dislike to him, and where would he be then? Besides, would not
a loan make his position stronger? And then--such is the effect of love
even on the younger generation--that thought seemed to him unworthy. If
he lent at all, it should be from chivalry--ulterior motives might go
hang! And the memory of the tear-marks on Phyllis's pretty pale-pink
cheeks; and her petulantly mournful: “Oh! young man, isn't money
beastly!” scraped his heart, and ravished his judgment. All the same,
fifty pounds was fifty pounds, and goodness knew how much more; and what
did he know of Mrs. Larne, after all, except that she was a relative of
old Heythorp's and wrote stories--told them too, if he was not mistaken?
Perhaps it would be better to see Scrivens'. But again that absurd
nobility assaulted him. Phyllis! Phyllis! Besides, were not settlements
always drawn so that they refused to form security for anything? Thus,
hampered and troubled, he hailed a cab. He was dining with the Ventnors
on the Cheshire side, and would be late if he didn't get home sharp to
dress.
Driving, white-tied--and waist-coated, in his father's car, he thought
with a certain contumely of the younger Ventnor girl, whom he had been
wont to consider pretty before he knew Phyllis. And seated next her at
dinner, he quite enjoyed his new sense of superiority to her charms, and
the ease with which he could chaff and be agreeable. And all the time he
suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now,
to think and talk of Phyllis. Ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful,
his old Madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a
teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop.
Favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that Ventnor was an
agreeable fellow, Bob Pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the
subject of his affections.
“Do you happen,” he said airily, “to know a Mrs. Larne--relative of old
Heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories.”
Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin's would
have seen that he also moved his ears.
“Of old Heythorp's? Didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and
that son of his in the Admiralty.”
Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.
“She is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. I
thought you might know her stories--clever woman.”
Mr. Ventnor smiled. “Ah!” he said enigmatically, “these lady novelists!
Does she make any money by them?”
Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that
not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had
private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. And he said:
“Oh! she has private means, I know.”
Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.
“So she's a relative of old Heythorp's,” he said. “He's a very old
friend of your father's. He ought to go bankrupt, you know.”
To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy
seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides,
the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on
Mrs. Larne? And he said:
“I think you're mistaken. That's of the past.”
Mr. Ventnor smiled.
“Will you bet?” he said.
Bob Pillin also smiled. “I should be bettin' on a certainty.”
Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. “Don't you believe
it; he hasn't a mag to his name. Fill your glass.”
Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:
“Well, I happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six
thousand pounds. Don't know if you call that being bankrupt.”
“What! On this Mrs. Larne?”
Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or
indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin
hesitated, then gave a nod.
Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.
“No, my boy,” he said. “No!”
Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.
“I'll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens.”
Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:
“Scrivens---but they're not--” then, staring rather hard, he added: “I
won't bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father's solicitors too,
aren't they? Always been sorry he didn't come to me. Shall we join the
ladies?” And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain
in his mind than on his feet....
Charles Ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within
than met the eye. But there was a good deal going on that evening, and
after his conversation with young Bob he had occasion more than once to
turn away and rub his hands together. When, after that second creditors'
meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of
“The Island Navigation Company,” he had been deep in thought. Short,
squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop
whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he
impressed at first sight only by a certain truly British vulgarity.
One felt that here was a hail-fellow--well-met man who liked lunch and
dinner, went to Scarborough for his summer holidays, sat on his wife,
took his daughters out in a boat and was never sick. One felt that he
went to church every Sunday morning, looked upwards as he moved through
life, disliked the unsuccessful, and expanded with his second glass of
wine. But then a clear look into his well-clothed face and red-brown
eyes would give the feeling: 'There's something fulvous here; he might
be a bit too foxy.' A third look brought the thought: 'He's certainly
a bully.' He was not a large creditor of old Heythorp. With interest
on the original, he calculated his claim at three hundred
pounds--unredeemed shares in that old Ecuador mine. But he had waited
for his money eight years, and could never imagine how it came about
that he had been induced to wait so long. There had been, of course, for
one who liked “big pots,” a certain glamour about the personality of old
Heythorp, still a bit of a swell in shipping circles, and a bit of an
aristocrat in Liverpool. But during the last year Charles Ventnor had
realised that the old chap's star had definitely set--when that happens,
of course, there is no more glamour, and the time has come to get your
money. Weakness in oneself and others is despicable! Besides, he had
food for thought, and descending the stairs he chewed it: He smelt a
rat--creatures for which both by nature and profession he had a nose.
Through Bob Pillin, on whom he sometimes dwelt in connection with his
younger daughter, he knew that old Pillin and old Heythorp had been
friends for thirty years and more. That, to an astute mind, suggested
something behind this sale. The thought had already occurred to him when
he read his copy of the report. A commission would be a breach of
trust, of course, but there were ways of doing things; the old chap was
devilish hard pressed, and human nature was human nature! His
lawyerish mind habitually put two and two together. The old fellow
had deliberately appointed to meet his creditors again just after the
general meeting which would decide the purchase--had said he might do
something for them then. Had that no significance?
In these circumstances Charles Ventnor had come to the meeting with eyes
wide open and mouth tight closed. And he had watched. It was certainly
remarkable that such an old and feeble man, with no neck at all, who
looked indeed as if he might go off with apoplexy any moment, should
actually say that he “stood or fell” by this purchase, knowing that
if he fell he would be a beggar. Why should the old chap be so keen on
getting it through? It would do him personally no good, unless--Exactly!
He had left the meeting, therefore, secretly confident that old Heythorp
had got something out of this transaction which would enable him to make
a substantial proposal to his creditors. So that when the old man had
declared that he was going to make none, something had turned sour in
his heart, and he had said to himself: “All right, you old rascal! You
don't know C. V.” The cavalier manner of that beggarly old rip, the
defiant look of his deep little eyes, had put a polish on the rancour of
one who prided himself on letting no man get the better of him. All that
evening, seated on one side of the fire, while Mrs. Ventnor sat on
the other, and the younger daughter played Gounod's Serenade on the
violin--he cogitated. And now and again he smiled, but not too much.
He did not see his way as yet, but had little doubt that before long
he would. It would not be hard to knock that chipped old idol off his
perch. There was already a healthy feeling among the shareholders that
he was past work and should be scrapped. The old chap should find that
Charles V. was not to be defied; that when he got his teeth into a
thing, he did not let it go. By hook or crook he would have the old
man off his Boards, or his debt out of him as the price of leaving him
alone. His life or his money--and the old fellow should determine which.
With the memory of that defiance fresh within him, he almost hoped
it might come to be the first, and turning to Mrs. Ventnor, he said
abruptly:
“Have a little dinner Friday week, and ask young Pillin and the curate.”
He specified the curate, a tee-totaller, because he had two daughters,
and males and females must be paired, but he intended to pack him off
after dinner to the drawing-room to discuss parish matters while he and
Bob Pillin sat over their wine. What he expected to get out of the young
man he did not as yet know.
On the day of the dinner, before departing for the office, he had gone
to his cellar. Would three bottles of Perrier Jouet do the trick, or
must he add one of the old Madeira? He decided to be on the safe side. A
bottle or so of champagne went very little way with him personally, and
young Pillin might be another.
The Madeira having done its work by turning the conversation into such
an admirable channel, he had cut it short for fear young Pillin might
drink the lot or get wind of the rat. And when his guests were gone, and
his family had retired, he stood staring into the fire, putting together
the pieces of the puzzle. Five or six thousand pounds--six would be ten
per cent. on sixty! Exactly! Scrivens--young Pillin had said! But Crow &
Donkin, not Scriven & Coles, were old Heythorp's solicitors. What could
that mean, save that the old man wanted to cover the tracks of a secret
commission, and had handled the matter through solicitors who did not
know the state of his affairs! But why Pillin's solicitors? With this
sale just going through, it must look deuced fishy to them too. Was it
all a mare's nest, after all? In such circumstances he himself would
have taken the matter to a London firm who knew nothing of anybody.
Puzzled, therefore, and rather disheartened, feeling too that touch of
liver which was wont to follow his old Madeira, he went up to bed and
woke his wife to ask her why the dickens they couldn't always have soup
like that!
Next day he continued to brood over his puzzle, and no fresh light came;
but having a matter on which his firm and Scrivens' were in touch, he
decided to go over in person, and see if he could surprise something out
of them. Feeling, from experience, that any really delicate matter would
only be entrusted to the most responsible member of the firm, he had
asked to see Scriven himself, and just as he had taken his hat to go, he
said casually:
“By the way, you do some business for old Mr. Heythorp, don't you?”
Scriven, raising his eyebrows a little, murmured: “Er--no,” in exactly
the tone Mr. Ventnor himself used when he wished to imply that though he
didn't as a fact do business, he probably soon would. He knew therefore
that the answer was a true one. And non-plussed, he hazarded:
“Oh! I thought you did, in regard to a Mrs. Larne.”
This time he had certainly drawn blood of sorts, for down came Scriven's
eyebrows, and he said:
“Mrs. Larne--we know a Mrs. Larne, but not in that connection. Why?”
“Oh! Young Pillin told me--”
“Young Pillin? Why, it's his---!” A little pause, and then: “Old Mr.
Heythorp's solicitors are Crow & Donkin, I believe.”
Mr. Ventnor held out his hand. “Yes, yes,” he said; “goodbye. Glad to
have got that matter settled up,” and out he went, and down the street,
important, smiling. By George! He had got it! “It's his father”--Scriven
had been going to say. What a plant! Exactly! Oh! neat! Old Pillin had
made the settlement direct; and the solicitors were in the dark; that
disposed of his difficulty about them. No money had passed between old
Pillin and old Heythorp not a penny. Oh! neat! But not neat enough for
Charles Ventnor, who had that nose for rats. Then his smile died,
and with a little chill he perceived that it was all based on
supposition--not quite good enough to go on! What then? Somehow he
must see this Mrs. Larne, or better--old Pillin himself. The point to
ascertain was whether she had any connection of her own with Pillin.
Clearly young Pillin didn't know of it; for, according to him, old
Heythorp had made the settlement. By Jove! That old rascal was deep--all
the more satisfaction in proving that he was not as deep as C. V. To
unmask the old cheat was already beginning to seem in the nature of
a public service. But on what pretext could he visit Pillin? A
subscription to the Windeatt almshouses! That would make him talk in
self-defence and he would take care not to press the request to the
actual point of getting a subscription. He caused himself to be driven
to the Pillin residence in Sefton Park. Ushered into a room on the
ground floor, heated in American fashion, Mr. Ventnor unbuttoned his
coat. A man of sanguine constitution, he found this hot-house atmosphere
a little trying. And having sympathetically obtained Joe Pillin's
reluctant refusal--Quite so! One could not indefinitely extend one's
subscriptions even for the best of causes!--he said gently:
“By the way, you know Mrs. Larne, don't you?”
The effect of that simple shot surpassed his highest hopes. Joe Pillin's
face, never highly coloured, turned a sort of grey; he opened his thin
lips, shut them quickly, as birds do, and something seemed to pass with
difficulty down his scraggy throat. The hollows, which nerve exhaustion
delves in the cheeks of men whose cheekbones are not high, increased
alarmingly. For a moment he looked deathly; then, moistening his lips,
he said:
“Larne--Larne? No, I don't seem---”
Mr. Ventnor, who had taken care to be drawing on his gloves, murmured:
“Oh! I thought--your son knows her; a relation of old Heythorp's,” and
he looked up.
Joe Pillin had his handkerchief to his mouth; he coughed feebly, then
with more and more vigour:
“I'm in very poor health,” he said, at last. “I'm getting abroad at
once. This cold's killing me. What name did you say?” And he remained
with his handkerchief against his teeth.
Mr. Ventnor repeated:
“Larne. Writes stories.”