"Yes, yes. Good-bye. I can't imagine how you still go on smoking those

things and drinking port.

"See you in your grave yet, Joe." What a feeble smile the poor fellow

had! Laugh-he couldn't! And, alone again, he had browsed, developing

the idea which had come to him.

Though, to dwell in the heart of shipping, Sylvanus Heythorp had lived at

Liverpool twenty years, he was from the Eastern Counties, of a family so

old that it professed to despise the Conquest. Each of its generations

occupied nearly twice as long as those of less tenacious men.

Traditionally of Danish origin, its men folk had as a rule bright

reddish-brown hair, red cheeks, large round heads, excellent teeth and

poor morals. They had done their best for the population of any county

in which they had settled; their offshoots swarmed. Born in the early

twenties of the nineteenth century, Sylvanus Heythorp, after an education

broken by escapades both at school and college, had fetched up in that

simple London of the late forties, where claret, opera, and eight per

cent. for your money ruled a cheery roost. Made partner in his shipping

firm well before he was thirty, he had sailed with a wet sheet and a

flowing tide; dancers, claret, Cliquot, and piquet; a cab with a tiger;

some travel--all that delicious early-Victorian consciousness of nothing

save a golden time. It was all so full and mellow that he was forty

before he had his only love affair of any depth--with the daughter of one

of his own clerks, a liaison so awkward as to necessitate a sedulous

concealment. The death of that girl, after three years, leaving him a,

natural son, had been the chief, perhaps the only real, sorrow of his

life. Five years later he married. What for? God only knew! as he was

in the habit of remarking. His wife had been a hard, worldly,

well-connected woman, who presented him with two unnatural children, a

girl and a boy, and grew harder, more worldly, less handsome, in the

process. The migration to Liverpool, which took place when he was sixty

and she forty-two, broke what she still had of heart, but she lingered on

twelve years, finding solace in bridge, and being haughty towards

Liverpool. Old Heythorp saw her to her rest without regret. He had felt

no love for her whatever, and practically none for her two children--they

were in his view colourless, pragmatical, very unexpected characters.

His son Ernest--in the Admiralty--he thought a poor, careful stick. His

daughter Adela, an excellent manager, delighting in spiritual

conversation and the society of tame men, rarely failed to show him that

she considered him a hopeless heathen. They saw as little as need be of

each other. She was provided for under that settlement he had made on

her mother fifteen years ago, well before the not altogether unexpected

crisis in his affairs. Very different was the feeling he had bestowed on

that son of his "under the rose." The boy, who had always gone by his

mother's name of Larne, had on her death been sent to some relations of

hers in Ireland, and there brought up. He had been called to the Dublin

bar, and married, young, a girl half Cornish and half Irish; presently,

having cost old Heythorp in all a pretty penny, he had died impecunious,

leaving his fair Rosamund at thirty with a girl of eight and a boy of

five. She had not spent six months of widowhood before coming over from

Dublin to claim the old man's guardianship. A remarkably pretty woman,

like a full-blown rose, with greenish hazel eyes, she had turned up one

morning at the offices of "The Island Navigation Company," accompanied by

her two children--for he had never divulged to them his private address.

And since then they had always been more or less on his hands, occupying

a small house in a suburb of Liverpool. He visited them there, but never

asked them to the house in Sefton Park, which was in fact his daughter's;

so that his proper family and friends were unaware of their existence.

Rosamund Larne was one of those precarious ladies who make uncertain

incomes by writing full-bodied storyettes. In the most dismal

circumstances she enjoyed a buoyancy bordering on the indecent; which

always amused old Heythorp's cynicism. But of his grandchildren Phyllis

and Jock (wild as colts) he had become fond. And this chance of getting

six thousand pounds settled on them at a stroke had seemed to him nothing

but heaven-sent. As things were, if he "went off"--and, of course, he

might at any moment, there wouldn't be a penny for them; for he would

"cut up" a good fifteen thousand to the bad. He was now giving them some

three hundred a year out of his fees; and dead directors unfortunately

earned no fees! Six thousand pounds at four and a half per cent.,

settled so that their mother couldn't "blue it," would give them a

certain two hundred and fifty pounds a year-better than beggary. And the

more he thought the better he liked it, if only that shaky chap, Joe

Pillin, didn't shy off when he'd bitten his nails short over it!

Four evenings later, the "shaky chap" had again appeared at his house in

Sefton Park.

"I've thought it over, Sylvanus. I don't like it.

"No; but you'll do it."

"It's a sacrifice. Fifty-four thousand for four ships--it means a

considerable reduction in my income."

"It means security, my boy."

"Well, there is that; but you know, I really can't be party to a secret

commission. If it came out, think of my name and goodness knows what."

"It won't come out."

"Yes, yes, so you say, but--"

"All you've got to do's to execute a settlement on some third parties

that I'll name. I'm not going to take a penny of it myself. Get your

own lawyer to draw it up and make him trustee. You can sign it when the

purchase has gone through. I'll trust you, Joe. What stock have you got

that gives four and a half per cent.?"

"Midland"

"That'll do. You needn't sell."

"Yes, but who are these people?"

"Woman and her children I want to do a good turn to." What a face the

fellow had made! "Afraid of being connected with a woman, Joe?"

"Yes, you may laugh--I am afraid of being connected with someone else's

woman. I don't like it--I don't like it at all. I've not led your life,

Sylvanus."

"Lucky for you; you'd have been dead long ago. Tell your lawyer it's an

old flame of yours--you old dog!"

"Yes, there it is at once, you see. I might be subject to blackmail."

"Tell him to keep it dark, and just pay over the income, quarterly."

"I don't like it, Sylvanus--I don't like it."

"Then leave it, and be hanged to you. Have a cigar?"

"You know I never smoke. Is there no other way?"

"Yes. Sell stock in London, bank the proceeds there, and bring me six

thousand pounds in notes. I'll hold 'em till after the general meeting.

If the thing doesn't go through, I'll hand 'em back to you."

"No; I like that even less."

"Rather I trusted you, eh!"

"No, not at all, Sylvanus, not at all. But it's all playing round the

law."

"There's no law to prevent you doing what you like with your money. What

I do's nothing to you. And mind you, I'm taking nothing from it--not a

mag. You assist the widowed and the fatherless--just your line, Joe!"

"What a fellow you are, Sylvanus; you don't seem capable of taking

anything seriously."

"Care killed the cat!"

Left alone after this second interview he had thought: 'The beggar'll

jump.'

And the beggar had. That settlement was drawn and only awaited

signature. The Board to-day had decided on the purchase; and all that

remained was to get it ratified at the general meeting. Let him but get

that over, and this provision for his grandchildren made, and he would

snap his fingers at Brownbee and his crew-the canting humbugs! "Hope you

have many years of this life before you!" As if they cared for anything

but his money--their money rather! And becoming conscious of the length

of his reverie, he grasped the arms of his chair, heaved at his own bulk,

in an effort to rise, growing redder and redder in face and neck. It was

one of the hundred things his doctor had told him not to do for fear of

apoplexy, the humbug! Why didn't Farney or one of those young fellows

come and help him up? To call out was undignified. But was he to sit

there all night? Three times he failed, and after each failure sat

motionless again, crimson and exhausted; the fourth time he succeeded,

and slowly made for the office. Passing through, he stopped and said in

his extinct voice:

"You young gentlemen had forgotten me."

"Mr. Farney said you didn't wish to be disturbed, sir."

"Very good of him. Give me my hat and coat."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. What time is it?"

"Six o'clock, sir."

"Tell Mr. Farney to come and see me tomorrow at noon, about my speech for

the general meeting."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good-night to you."

"Good-night, Sir."

At his tortoise gait he passed between the office stools to the door,

opened it feebly, and slowly vanished.

Shutting the door behind him, a clerk said:

"Poor old chairman! He's on his last!"

Another answered:

"Gosh! He's a tough old hulk. He'll go down fightin'."

2

Issuing from the offices of "The Island Navigation Company," Sylvanus

Heythorp moved towards the corner whence he always took tram to Sefton

Park. The crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or

missing something which characterises the town where London and New York

and Dublin meet. Old Heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he

sallied forth without regard to traffic. That snail-like passage had in

it a touch of the sublime; the old man seemed saying: "Knock me down and

be d---d to you--I'm not going to hurry." His life was saved perhaps ten

times a day by the British character at large, compounded of phlegm and a

liking to take something under its protection. The tram conductors on

that line were especially used to him, never failing to catch him under

the arms and heave him like a sack of coals, while with trembling hands

he pulled hard at the rail and strap.

"All right, sir?"

"Thank you."

He moved into the body of the tram, where somebody would always get up

from kindness and the fear that he might sit down on them; and there he

stayed motionless, his little eyes tight closed. With his red face, tuft

of white hairs above his square cleft block of shaven chin, and his big

high-crowned bowler hat, which yet seemed too petty for his head with its

thick hair--he looked like some kind of an idol dug up and decked out in

gear a size too small.

One of those voices of young men from public schools and exchanges where

things are bought and sold, said:

"How de do, Mr. Heythorp?"

Old Heythorp opened his eyes. That sleek cub, Joe Pillin's son! What a

young pup-with his round eyes, and his round cheeks, and his little

moustache, his fur coat, his spats, his diamond pin!

"How's your father?" he said.

"Thanks, rather below par, worryin' about his ships. Suppose you haven't

any news for him, sir?"

Old Heythorp nodded. The young man was one of his pet abominations,

embodying all the complacent, little-headed mediocrity of this new

generation; natty fellows all turned out of the same mould, sippers and

tasters, chaps without drive or capacity, without even vices; and he did

not intend to gratify the cub's curiosity.

"Come to my house," he said; "I'll give you a note for him."

"Tha-anks; I'd like to cheer the old man up."

The old man! Cheeky brat! And closing his eyes he relapsed into

immobility. The tram wound and ground its upward way, and he mused. When

he was that cub's age--twenty-eight or whatever it might be--he had done

most things; been up Vesuvius, driven four-in-hand, lost his last penny

on the Derby and won it back on the Oaks, known all the dancers and

operatic stars of the day, fought a duel with a Yankee at Dieppe and

winged him for saying through his confounded nose that Old England was

played out; been a controlling voice already in his shipping firm; drunk

five other of the best men in London under the table; broken his neck

steeple-chasing; shot a burglar in the legs; been nearly drowned, for a

bet; killed snipe in Chelsea; been to Court for his sins; stared a ghost

out of countenance; and travelled with a lady of Spain. If this young

pup had done the last, it would be all he had; and yet, no doubt, he

would call himself a "spark."

The conductor touched his arm.

"'Ere you are, sir."

"Thank you."

He lowered himself to the ground, and moved in the bluish darkness

towards the gate of his daughter's house. Bob Pillin walked beside him,

thinking: 'Poor old josser, he is gettin' a back number!' And he said:

"I should have thought you ought to drive, sir. My old guv'nor would

knock up at once if he went about at night like this."

The answer rumbled out into the misty air:

"Your father's got no chest; never had."

Bob Pillin gave vent to one of those fat cackles which come so readily

from a certain type of man; and old Heythorp thought:

'Laughing at his father! Parrot!'

They had reached the porch.

A woman with dark hair and a thin, straight face and figure was arranging

some flowers in the hall. She turned and said:

"You really ought not to be so late, Father! It's wicked at this time of

year. Who is it--oh! Mr. Pillin, how do you do? Have you had tea?

Won't you come to the drawing-room; or do you want to see my father?"

"Tha-anks! I believe your father--" And he thought: 'By Jove! the old

chap is a caution!' For old Heythorp was crossing the hall without

having paid the faintest attention to his daughter. Murmuring again:

"Tha-anks awfully; he wants to give me something," he followed. Miss

Heythorp was not his style at all; he had a kind of dread of that thin

woman who looked as if she could never be unbuttoned. They said she was

a great churchgoer and all that sort of thing.

In his sanctum old Heythorp had moved to his writing-table, and was

evidently anxious to sit down.

"Shall I give you a hand, sir?"

Receiving a shake of the head, Bob Pillin stood by the fire and watched.

The old "sport" liked to paddle his own canoe. Fancy having to lower

yourself into a chair like that! When an old Johnny got to such a state

it was really a mercy when he snuffed out, and made way for younger men.

How his Companies could go on putting up with such a fossil for chairman

was a marvel! The fossil rumbled and said in that almost inaudible

voice:

"I suppose you're beginning to look forward to your father's shoes?"

Bob Pillin's mouth opened. The voice went on:

"Dibs and no responsibility. Tell him from me to drink port--add five

years to his life."

To this unwarranted attack Bob Pillin made no answer save a laugh; he

perceived that a manservant had entered the room.

"A Mrs. Larne, sir. Will you see her?"

At this announcement the old man seemed to try and start; then he nodded,

and held out the note he had written. Bob Pillin received it together

with the impression of a murmur which sounded like: "Scratch a poll,

Poll!" and passing the fine figure of a woman in a fur coat, who seemed

to warm the air as she went by, he was in the hall again before he

perceived that he had left his hat.

A young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire,

looking at him with round-eyed innocence. He thought: 'This is better; I

mustn't disturb them for my hat'; and approaching the fire, said:

"Jolly cold, isn't it?"

The girl smiled: "Yes-jolly."

He noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot of

fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank and

open. "Er" he said, "I've left my hat in there."

"What larks!" And at her little clear laugh something moved within Bob

Pillin.

"You know this house well?"

She shook her head. "But it's rather scrummy, isn't it?"

Bob Pillin, who had never yet thought so answered:

"Quite O.K."

The girl threw up her head to laugh again. "O.K.? What's that?"

Bob Pillin saw her white round throat, and thought: 'She is a ripper!'

And he said with a certain desperation:

"My name's Pillin. Yours is Larne, isn't it? Are you a relation here?"

"He's our Guardy. Isn't he a chook?"

That rumbling whisper like "Scratch a Poll, Poll!" recurring to Bob

Pillin, he said with reservation:

"You know him better than I do." "Oh! Aren't you his grandson, or

something?"

Bob Pillin did not cross himself.

"Lord! No! My dad's an old friend of his; that's all."

"Is your dad like him?"

"Not much."

"What a pity! It would have been lovely if they'd been Tweedles."

Bob Pillin thought: 'This bit is something new. I wonder what her

Christian name is.' And he said:

"What did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism---?"

The girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything.

"Phyllis."

Could he say: "Is my only joy"? Better keep it! But-for what? He

wouldn't see her again if he didn't look out! And he said:

"I live at the last house in the park-the red one. D'you know it? Where

do you?"

"Oh! a long way--23, Millicent Villas. It's a poky little house. I hate

it. We have awful larks, though."

"Who are we?"

"Mother, and myself, and Jock--he's an awful boy. You can't conceive

what an awful boy he is. He's got nearly red hair; I think he'll be just

like Guardy when he gets old. He's awful!"

Bob Pillin murmured:

"I should like to see him."

"Would you? I'll ask mother if you can. You won't want to again; he

goes off all the time like a squib." She threw back her head, and again

Bob Pillin felt a little giddy. He collected himself, and drawled:

"Are you going in to see your Guardy?"

"No. Mother's got something special to say. We've never been here

before, you see. Isn't he fun, though?"

"Fun!"

"I think he's the greatest lark; but he's awfully nice to me. Jock calls

him the last of the Stoic'uns."

A voice called from old Heythorp's den:

"Phyllis!" It had a particular ring, that voice, as if coming from

beautifully formed red lips, of which the lower one must curve the least

bit over; it had, too, a caressing vitality, and a kind of warm falsity.

The girl threw a laughing look back over her shoulder, and vanished

through the door into the room.

Bob Pillin remained with his back to the fire and his puppy round eyes

fixed on the air that her figure had last occupied. He was experiencing

a sensation never felt before. Those travels with a lady of Spain,

charitably conceded him by old Heythorp, had so far satisfied the

emotional side of this young man; they had stopped short at Brighton and

Scarborough, and been preserved from even the slightest intrusion of

love. A calculated and hygienic career had caused no anxiety either to

himself or his father; and this sudden swoop of something more than

admiration gave him an uncomfortable choky feeling just above his high

round collar, and in the temples a sort of buzzing--those first symptoms

of chivalry. A man of the world does not, however, succumb without a

struggle; and if his hat had not been out of reach, who knows whether he

would not have left the house hurriedly, saying to himself: "No, no, my

boy; Millicent Villas is hardly your form, when your intentions are

honourable"? For somehow that round and laughing face, bob of glistening

hair, those wide-opened grey eyes refused to awaken the beginnings of

other intentions--such is the effect of youth and innocence on even the

steadiest young men. With a kind of moral stammer, he was thinking: 'Can

I--dare I offer to see them to their tram? Couldn't I even nip out and

get the car round and send them home in it? No, I might miss

them--better stick it out here! What a jolly laugh! What a tipping

face--strawberries and cream, hay, and all that! Millicent Villas!' And

he wrote it on his cuff.

The door was opening; he heard that warm vibrating voice: "Come along,

Phyllis!"--the girl's laugh so high and fresh: "Right-o! Coming!" And

with, perhaps, the first real tremor he had ever known, he crossed to the

front door. All the more chivalrous to escort them to the tram without a

hat! And suddenly he heard: "I've got your hat, young man!" And her

mother's voice, warm, and simulating shock: "Phyllis, you awful gairl!

Did you ever see such an awful gairl; Mr.---"

"Pillin, Mother."

And then--he did not quite know how--insulated from the January air by

laughter and the scent of fur and violets, he was between them walking to

their tram. It was like an experience out of the "Arabian Nights," or

something of that sort, an intoxication which made one say one was going

their way, though one would have to come all the way back in the same

beastly tram. Nothing so warming had ever happened to him as sitting

between them on that drive, so that he forgot the note in his pocket, and

his desire to relieve the anxiety of the "old man," his father. At the

tram's terminus they all got out. There issued a purr of invitation to

come and see them some time; a clear: "Jock'll love to see you!" A low

laugh: "You awful gairl!" And a flash of cunning zigzagged across his

brain. Taking off his hat, he said:

"Thanks awfully; rather!" and put his foot back on the step of the tram.

Thus did he delicately expose the depths of his chivalry!

"Oh! you said you were going our way! What one-ers you do tell! Oh!"

The words were as music; the sight of those eyes growing rounder, the

most perfect he had ever seen; and Mrs. Larne's low laugh, so warm yet so

preoccupied, and the tips of the girl's fingers waving back above her

head. He heaved a sigh, and knew no more till he was seated at his club

before a bottle of champagne. Home! Not he! He wished to drink and

dream. "The old man" would get his news all right to-morrow!

3

The words: "A Mrs. Larne to see you, sir," had been of a nature to

astonish weaker nerves. What had brought her here? She knew she mustn't

come! Old Heythorp had watched her entrance with cynical amusement. The

way she whiffed herself at that young pup in passing, the way her eyes

slid round! He had a very just appreciation of his son's widow; and a

smile settled deep between his chin tuft and his moustache. She lifted

his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her splendid bust, and said:

"So here I am at last, you see. Aren't you surprised?"

Old Heythorp, shook his head.

"I really had to come and see you, Guardy; we haven't had a sight of you

for such an age. And in this awful weather! How are you, dear old

Guardy?"

"Never better." And, watching her green-grey eyes, he added:

"Haven't a penny for you!"

Her face did not fall; she gave her feather-laugh.

"How dreadful of you to think I came for that! But I am in an awful fix,

Guardy."

"Never knew you not to be."

"Just let me tell you, dear; it'll be some relief. I'm having the most

terrible time."

She sank into a low chair, disengaging an overpowering scent of violets,

while melancholy struggled to subdue her face and body.

"The most awful fix. I expect to be sold up any moment. We may be on

the streets to-morrow. I daren't tell the children; they're so happy,

poor darlings. I shall be obliged to take Jock away from school. And

Phyllis will have to stop her piano and dancing; it's an absolute crisis.

And all due to those Midland Syndicate people. I've been counting on at

least two hundred for my new story, and the wretches have refused it."

With a tiny handkerchief she removed one tear from the corner of one eye.

"It is hard, Guardy; I worked my brain silly over that story."

From old Heythorp came a mutter which sounded suspiciously like:

"Rats!"

Heaving a sigh, which conveyed nothing but the generosity of her

breathing apparatus, Mrs. Larne went on:

"You couldn't, I suppose, let me have just one hundred?"

"Not a bob."

She sighed again, her eyes slid round the room; then in her warm voice

she murmured:

"Guardy, you were my dear Philip's father, weren't you? I've never said

anything; but of course you were. He was so like you, and so is Jock."

Nothing moved in old Heythorp's face. No pagan image consulted with

flowers and song and sacrifice could have returned less answer. Her dear

Philip! She had led him the devil of a life, or he was a Dutchman! And

what the deuce made her suddenly trot out the skeleton like this? But

Mrs. Larne's eyes were still wandering.

"What a lovely house! You know, I think you ought to help me, Guardy.

Just imagine if your grandchildren were thrown out into the street!"

The old man grinned. He was not going to deny his relationship--it was

her look-out, not his. But neither was he going to let her rush him.

"And they will be; you couldn't look on and see it. Do come to my rescue

this once. You really might do something for them."

With a rumbling sigh he answered:

"Wait. Can't give you a penny now. Poor as a church mouse."

"Oh! Guardy

"Fact."

Mrs. Larne heaved one of her most buoyant sighs. She certainly did not

believe him.

"Well!" she said; "you'll be sorry when we come round one night and sing

for pennies under your window. Wouldn't you like to see Phyllis? I left

her in the hall. She's growing such a sweet gairl. Guardy just fifty!"

"Not a rap."

Mrs. Larne threw up her hands. "Well! You'll repent it. I'm at my last

gasp." She sighed profoundly, and the perfume of violets escaped in a

cloud; Then, getting up, she went to the door and called: "Phyllis!"

When the girl entered old Heythorp felt the nearest approach to a flutter

of the heart for many years. She had put her hair up! She was like a

spring day in January; such a relief from that scented humbug, her

mother. Pleasant the touch of her lips on his forehead, the sound of her

clear voice, the sight of her slim movements, the feeling that she did

him credit--clean-run stock, she and that young scamp Jock--better than

the holy woman, his daughter Adela, would produce if anyone were ever

fool enough to marry her, or that pragmatical fellow, his son Ernest.

And when they were gone he reflected with added zest on the six thousand

pounds he was getting for them out of Joe Pillin and his ships. He would

have to pitch it strong in his speech at the general meeting. With

freights so low, there was bound to be opposition. No dash nowadays;

nothing but gabby caution! They were a scrim-shanking lot on the

Board--he had had to pull them round one by one--the deuce of a tug

getting this thing through! And yet, the business was sound enough.

Those ships would earn money, properly handled-good money

His valet, coming in to prepare him for dinner, found him asleep. He had

for the old man as much admiration as may be felt for one who cannot put

his own trousers on. He would say to the housemaid Molly: "He's a game

old blighter--must have been a rare one in his day. Cocks his hat at you,

even now, I see!" To which the girl, Irish and pretty, would reply:

"Well, an' sure I don't mind, if it gives um a pleasure. 'Tis better

anyway than the sad eye I get from herself."

At dinner, old Heythorp always sat at one end of the rosewood table and

his daughter at the other. It was the eminent moment of the day. With

napkin tucked high into his waistcoat, he gave himself to the meal with

passion. His palate was undimmed, his digestion unimpaired. He could

still eat as much as two men, and drink more than one. And while he

savoured each mouthful he never spoke if he could help it. The holy

woman had nothing to say that he cared to hear, and he nothing to say

that she cared to listen to. She had a horror, too, of what she called

"the pleasures of the table"--those lusts of the flesh! She was always

longing to dock his grub, he knew. Would see her further first! What

other pleasures were there at his age? Let her wait till she was eighty.

But she never would be; too thin and holy!

This evening, however, with the advent of the partridge she did speak.

"Who were your visitors, Father?"

Trust her for nosing anything out! Fixing his little blue eyes on her,

he mumbled with a very full mouth: "Ladies."

"So I saw; what ladies?"

He had a longing to say: 'Part of one of my families under the rose.' As

a fact it was the best part of the only one, but the temptation to

multiply exceedingly was almost overpowering. He checked himself,

however, and went on eating partridge, his secret irritation crimsoning

his cheeks; and he watched her eyes, those cold precise and round grey

eyes, noting it, and knew she was thinking: 'He eats too much.'

She said: "Sorry I'm not considered fit to be told. You ought not to be

drinking hock."

Old Heythorp took up the long green glass, drained it, and repressing

fumes and emotion went on with his partridge. His daughter pursed her

lips, took a sip of water, and said:

"I know their name is Larne, but it conveyed nothing to me; perhaps it's

just as well."

The old man, mastering a spasm, said with a grin:

"My daughter-in-law and my granddaughter."

"What! Ernest married--Oh! nonsense!"

He chuckled, and shook his head.

"Then do you mean to say, Father, that you were married before you

married my mother?"

"No."

The expression on her face was as good as a play!

She said with a sort of disgust: "Not married! I see. I suppose those

people are hanging round your neck, then; no wonder you're always in

difficulties. Are there any more of them?"

Again the old man suppressed that spasm, and the veins in his neck and

forehead swelled alarmingly. If he had spoken he would infallibly have

choked. He ceased eating, and putting his hands on the table tried to

raise himself. He could not and subsiding in his chair sat glaring at

the stiff, quiet figure of his daughter.

"Don't be silly, Father, and make a scene before Meller. Finish your

dinner."

He did not answer. He was not going to sit there to be dragooned and

insulted! His helplessness had never so weighed on him before. It was

like a revelation. A log--that had to put up with anything! A log!

And, waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork.

In that saintly voice of hers she said:

"I suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me. I don't know what

Ernest will think--"

"Ernest be d---d."

"I do wish, Father, you wouldn't swear."

Old Heythorp's rage found vent in a sort of rumble. How the devil had he

gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with

her day after day! But the servant had come back now, and putting down

his fork he said:

"Help me up!"

The man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced. To leave

dinner unfinished--it was a portent!

"Help me up!"

"Mr. Heythorp's not very well, Meller; take his other arm."

The old man shook off her hand.

"I'm very well. Help me up. Dine in my own room in future."

Raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did not

sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his

helplessness. He stood swaying a little, holding on to the table, till

the servant, having finished serving dinner, brought in his port.

"Are you waiting to sit down, sir?"

He shook his head. Hang it, he could do that for himself, anyway. He

must think of something to fortify his position against that woman. And

he said:

"Send me Molly!"

"Yes, sir." The man put down the port and went.

Old Heythorp filled his glass, drank, and filled again. He took a cigar

from the box and lighted it. The girl came in, a grey-eyed, dark-haired

damsel, and stood with her hands folded, her head a little to one side,

her lips a little parted. The old man said:

"You're a human being."

"I would hope so, sirr."

"I'm going to ask you something as a human being--not a servant--see?"

"No, sirr; but I will be glad to do anything you like."

"Then put your nose in here every now and then, to see if I want

anything. Meller goes out sometimes. Don't say anything; Just put your

nose in."

"Oh! an' I will; 'tis a pleasure 'twill be to do ut."

He nodded, and when she had gone lowered himself into his chair with a

sense of appeasement. Pretty girl! Comfort to see a pretty face--not a

pale, peeky thing like Adela's. His anger burned up anew. So she

counted on his helplessness, had begun to count on that, had she? She

should see that there was life in the old dog yet! And his sacrifice of

the uneaten souffle, the still less eaten mushrooms, the peppermint sweet

with which he usually concluded dinner, seemed to consecrate that

purpose. They all thought he was a hulk, without a shot left in the

locker! He had seen a couple of them at the Board that afternoon

shrugging at each other, as though saying: 'Look at him!' And young

Farney pitying him. Pity, forsooth! And that coarse-grained solicitor

chap at the creditors' meeting curling his lip as much as to say: 'One

foot in the grave!' He had seen the clerks dowsing the glim of their

grins; and that young pup Bob Pillin screwing up his supercilious mug

over his dog-collar. He knew that scented humbug Rosamund was getting

scared that he'd drop off before she'd squeezed him dry. And his valet

was always looking him up and down queerly. As to that holy woman--!

Not quite so fast! Not quite so fast! And filling his glass for the

fourth time, he slowly sucked down the dark red fluid, with the "old

boots" flavour which his soul loved, and, drawing deep at his cigar,

closed his eyes.

II

1

The room in the hotel where the general meetings of "The Island

Navigation Company" were held was nearly full when the secretary came

through the door which as yet divided the shareholders from their

directors. Having surveyed their empty chairs, their ink and papers, and

nodded to a shareholder or two, he stood, watch in hand, contemplating

the congregation. A thicker attendance than he had ever seen! Due, no

doubt, to the lower dividend, and this Pillin business. And his tongue

curled. For if he had a natural contempt for his Board, with the

exception of the chairman, he had a still more natural contempt for his

shareholders. Amusing spectacle when you came to think of it, a general

meeting! Unique! Eighty or a hundred men, and five women, assembled

through sheer devotion to their money. Was any other function in the

world so single-hearted. Church was nothing to it--so many motives were

mingled there with devotion to one's soul. A well-educated young

man--reader of Anatole France, and other writers--he enjoyed ironic

speculation. What earthly good did they think they got by coming here?

Half-past two! He put his watch back into his pocket, and passed into the

Board-room.

There, the fumes of lunch and of a short preliminary meeting made cosy

the February atmosphere. By the fire four directors were conversing

rather restlessly; the fifth was combing his beard; the chairman sat with

eyes closed and red lips moving rhythmically in the sucking of a lozenge,

the slips of his speech ready in his hand. The secretary said in his

cheerful voice: "Time, sir."

Old Heythorp swallowed, lifted his arms, rose with help, and walked

through to his place at the centre of the table. The five directors

followed. And, standing at the chairman's right, the secretary read the

minutes, forming the words precisely with his curling tongue. Then,

assisting the chairman to his feet, he watched those rows of faces, and

thought: 'Mistake to let them see he can't get up without help. He ought

to have let me read his speech--I wrote it.'

The chairman began to speak:

"It is my duty and my pleasure,' ladies and gentlemen, for the nineteenth

consecutive year to present to you the directors' report and the accounts

for the past twelve months. You will all have had special notice of a

measure of policy on which your Board has decided, and to which you will

be asked to-day to give your adherence--to that I shall come at the end

of my remarks...."

"Excuse me, sir; we can't hear a word down here."

'Ah!' thought the secretary, 'I was expecting that.'

The chairman went on, undisturbed. But several shareholders now rose,

and the same speaker said testily: "We might as well go home. If the

chairman's got no voice, can't somebody read for him?"

The chairman took a sip of water, and resumed. Almost all in the last

six rows were now on their feet, and amid a hubbub of murmurs the

chairman held out to the secretary the slips of his speech, and fell

heavily back into his chair.

The secretary re-read from the beginning; and as each sentence fell from

his tongue, he thought: 'How good that is!' 'That's very clear!' 'A

neat touch!' 'This is getting them.' It seemed to him a pity they could

not know it was all his composition. When at last he came to the Pillin

sale he paused for a second.

"I come now to the measure of policy to which I made allusion at the

beginning of my speech. Your Board has decided to expand your enterprise

by purchasing the entire fleet of Pillin & Co., Ltd. By this transaction

we become the owners of the four steamships Smyrna, Damascus, Tyre, and

Sidon, vessels in prime condition with a total freight-carrying capacity

of fifteen thousand tons, at the low inclusive price of sixty thousand

pounds. Gentlemen, de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!"--it was the

chairman's phrase, his bit of the speech, and the secretary did it more

than justice. "Times are bad, but your Board is emphatically of the

opinion that they are touching bottom; and this, in their view, is the

psychological moment for a forward stroke. They confidently recommend

your adoption of their policy and the ratification of this purchase,

which they believe will, in the not far distant future, substantially

increase the profits of the Company." The secretary sat down with

reluctance. The speech should have continued with a number of appealing

sentences which he had carefully prepared, but the chairman had cut them

out with the simple comment: "They ought to be glad of the chance." It

was, in his view, an error.

The director who had combed his beard now rose--a man of presence, who

might be trusted to say nothing long and suavely. While he was speaking

the secretary was busy noting whence opposition was likely to come. The

majority were sitting owl-like-a good sign; but some dozen were studying

their copies of the report, and three at least were making

notes--Westgate, for, instance, who wanted to get on the Board, and was

sure to make himself unpleasant--the time-honoured method of vinegar; and

Batterson, who also desired to come on, and might be trusted to support

the Board--the time-honoured method of oil; while, if one knew anything

of human nature, the fellow who had complained that he might as well go

home would have something uncomfortable to say. The director finished

his remarks, combed his beard with his fingers, and sat down.

A momentary pause ensued. Then Messieurs Westgate and Batterson rose

together. Seeing the chairman nod towards the latter, the secretary

thought: 'Mistake! He should have humoured Westgate by giving him

precedence.' But that was the worst of the old man, he had no notion of

the suaviter in modo! Mr. Batterson thus unchained--would like, if he

might be so allowed, to congratulate the Board on having piloted their

ship so smoothly through the troublous waters of the past year. With

their worthy chairman still at the helm, he had no doubt that in spite of

the still low--he would not say falling--barometer, and

the-er-unseasonable climacteric, they might rely on weathering

the--er--he would not say storm. He would confess that the present

dividend of four per cent. was not one which satisfied every aspiration

(Hear, hear!), but speaking for himself, and he hoped for others--and

here Mr. Batterson looked round--he recognised that in all the

circumstances it was as much as they had the right--er--to expect. But

following the bold but to his mind prudent development which the Board

proposed to make, he thought that they might reasonably, if not

sanguinely, anticipate a more golden future. ("No, no!") A shareholder

said, 'No, no!' That might seem to indicate a certain lack of confidence

in the special proposal before the meeting. ("Yes!") From that lack of

confidence he would like at once to dissociate himself. Their chairman,

a man of foresight and acumen, and valour proved on many a field

and--er--sea, would not have committed himself to this policy without

good reason. In his opinion they were in safe hands, and he was glad to

register his support of the measure proposed. The chairman had well said

in his speech: 'de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!' Shareholders would

agree with him that there could be no better motto for Englishmen. Ahem!

Mr. Batterson sat down. And Mr. Westgate rose: He wanted--he said--to

know more, much more, about this proposition, which to his mind was of a

very dubious wisdom.... 'Ah!' thought the secretary, 'I told the old boy

he must tell them more'.... To whom, for instance, had the proposal

first been made? To him!--the chairman said. Good! But why were Pillins

selling, if freights were to go up, as they were told?

"Matter of opinion."

"Quite so; and in my opinion they are going lower, and Pillins were right

to sell. It follows that we are wrong to buy." ("Hear, hear!" "No,

no!") "Pillins are shrewd people. What does the chairman say? Nerves!

Does he mean to tell us that this sale was the result of nerves?"

The chairman nodded.

"That appears to me a somewhat fantastic theory; but I will leave that

and confine myself to asking the grounds on which the chairman bases his

confidence; in fact, what it is which is actuating the Board in pressing

on us at such a time what I have no hesitation in stigmatising as a rash

proposal. In a word, I want light as well as leading in this matter."

Mr. Westgate sat down.

What would the chairman do now? The situation was distinctly

awkward--seeing his helplessness and the lukewarmness of the Board behind

him. And the secretary felt more strongly than ever the absurdity of his

being an underling, he who in a few well-chosen words could so easily

have twisted the meeting round his thumb. Suddenly he heard the long,

rumbling sigh which preluded the chairman's speeches.

"Has any other gentleman anything to say before I move the adoption of

the report?"

Phew! That would put their backs up. Yes, sure enough it had brought

that fellow, who had said he might as well go home, to his feet! Now for

something nasty!

"Mr. Westgate requires answering. I don't like this business. I don't

impute anything to anybody; but it looks to me as if there were something

behind it which the shareholders ought to be told. Not only that; but,

to speak frankly, I'm not satisfied to be ridden over roughshod in this

fashion by one who, whatever he may have been in the past, is obviously

not now in the prime of his faculties."

With a gasp the secretary thought: 'I knew that was a plain-spoken man!'

He heard again the rumbling beside him. The chairman had gone crimson,

his mouth was pursed, his little eyes were very blue.

"Help me up," he said.

The secretary helped him, and waited, rather breathless.

The chairman took a sip of water, and his voice, unexpectedly loud, broke

an ominous hush:

"Never been so insulted in my life. My best services have been at your

disposal for nineteen years; you know what measure of success this

Company has attained. I am the oldest man here, and my experience of

shipping is, I hope, a little greater than that of the two gentlemen who

spoke last. I have done my best for you, ladies and gentlemen, and we

shall see whether you are going to endorse an indictment of my judgment

and of my honour, if I am to take the last speaker seriously. This

purchase is for your good. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men'--and

I for one am not content, never have been, to stagnate. If that is what

you want, however, by all means give your support to these gentlemen and

have done with it. I tell you freights will go up before the end of the

year; the purchase is a sound one, more than a sound one--I, at any rate,

stand or fall by it. Refuse to ratify it, if you like; if you do, I

shall resign."

He sank back into his seat. The secretary, stealing a glance, thought

with a sort of enthusiasm: 'Bravo! Who'd have thought he could rally his

voice like that? A good touch, too, that about his honour! I believe

he's knocked them.

It's still dicky, though, if that fellow at the back gets up again; the

old chap can't work that stop a second time. 'Ah! here was 'old

Apple-pie' on his hind legs. That was all right!

"I do not hesitate to say that I am an old friend of the chairman; we

are, many of us, old friends of the chairman, and it has been painful to

me, and I doubt not to others, to hear an attack made on him. If he is

old in body, he is young in mental vigour and courage. I wish we were

all as young. We ought to stand by him; I say, we ought to stand by

him." ("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!") And the secretary thought: 'That's

done it!' And he felt a sudden odd emotion, watching the chairman bobbing

his body, like a wooden toy, at old Appleby; and old Appleby bobbing

back. Then, seeing a shareholder close to the door get up, thought:

'Who's that? I know his face--Ah! yes; Ventnor, the solicitor--he's one

of the chairman's creditors that are coming again this afternoon. What

now?'

"I can't agree that we ought to let sentiment interfere with our judgment

in this matter. The question is simply: How are our pockets going to be

affected? I came here with some misgivings, but the attitude of the

chairman has been such as to remove them; and I shall support the

proposition." The secretary thought: 'That's all right--only, he said it

rather queerly--rather queerly.'

Then, after a long silence, the chairman, without rising, said:

"I move the adoption of the report and accounts."

"I second that."

"Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary? Carried."

The secretary noted the dissentients, six in number, and that Mr.

Westgate did not vote.

A quarter of an hour later he stood in the body of the emptying room

supplying names to one of the gentlemen of the Press. The passionless

fellow said: "Haythorp, with an 'a'; oh! an 'e'; he seems an old man.

Thank you. I may have the slips? Would you like to see a proof? With

an 'a' you said--oh! an 'e.' Good afternoon!" And the secretary thought:

'Those fellows, what does go on inside them? Fancy not knowing the old

chairman by now!'...

2

Back in the proper office of "The Island Navigation Company" old Heythorp

sat smoking a cigar and smiling like a purring cat. He was dreaming a

little of his triumph, sifting with his old brain, still subtle, the

wheat from the chaff of the demurrers: Westgate--nothing in

that--professional discontent till they silenced him with a place on the

board--but not while he held the reins! That chap at the back--an

ill-conditioned fellow! "Something behind!" Suspicious brute! There

was something--but--hang it! they might think themselves lucky to get

four ships at that price, and all due to him! It was on the last speaker

that his mind dwelt with a doubt. That fellow Ventnor, to whom he owed

money--there had been something just a little queer about his tone--as

much as to say, "I smell a rat." Well! one would see that at the

creditors' meeting in half an hour.

"Mr. Pillin, sir."

"Show him in!"

In a fur coat which seemed to extinguish his thin form, Joe Pillin

entered. It was snowing, and the cold had nipped and yellowed his meagre

face between its slight grey whiskering. He said thinly:

"How are you, Sylvanus? Aren't you perished in this cold?"

"Warm as a toast. Sit down. Take off your coat."

"Oh! I should be lost without it. You must have a fire inside you.

So-so it's gone through?"

Old Heythorp nodded; and Joe Pillin, wandering like a spirit, scrutinised

the shut door. He came back to the table, and said in a low voice:

"It's a great sacrifice."

Old Heythorp smiled.

"Have you signed the deed poll?"

Producing a parchment from his pocket Joe Pillin unfolded it with caution

to disclose his signature, and said:

"I don't like it--it's irrevocable."

A chuckle escaped old Heythorp.

"As death."

Joe Pillin's voice passed up into the treble clef.

"I can't bear irrevocable things. I consider you stampeded me, playing

on my nerves."

Examining the signatures old Heythorp murmured:

"Tell your lawyer to lock it up. He must think you a sad dog, Joe."

"Ah! Suppose on my death it comes to the knowledge of my wife!"

"She won't be able to make it hotter for you than you'll be already."

Joe Pillin replaced the deed within his coat, emitting a queer thin

noise. He simply could not bear joking on such subjects.

"Well," he said, "you've got your way; you always do. Who is this Mrs.

Larne? You oughtn't to keep me in the dark. It seems my boy met her at

your house. You told me she didn't come there."

Old Heythorp said with relish:

"Her husband was my son by a woman I was fond of before I married; her

children are my grandchildren. You've provided for them. Best thing you

ever did."

"I don't know--I don't know. I'm sorry you told me. It makes it all the

more doubtful. As soon as the transfer's complete, I shall get away

abroad. This cold's killing me. I wish you'd give me your recipe for

keeping warm."

"Get a new inside."

Joe Pillin regarded his old friend with a sort of yearning. "And yet,"

he said, "I suppose, with your full-blooded habit, your life hangs by a

thread, doesn't it?"

"A stout one, my boy"

"Well, good-bye, Sylvanus. You're a Job's comforter; I must be getting

home." He put on his hat, and, lost in his fur coat, passed out into the

corridor. On the stairs he met a man who said:

"How do you do, Mr. Pillin? I know your son. Been' seeing the chairman?

I see your sale's gone through all right. I hope that'll do us some

good, but I suppose you think the other way?"

Peering at him from under his hat, Joe Pillin said:

"Mr. Ventnor, I think? Thank you! It's very cold, isn't it?" And, with

that cautious remark, he passed on down.

Alone again, old Heythorp thought: 'By George! What a wavering,

quavering, thread paper of a fellow! What misery life must be to a chap

like that! He walks in fear--he wallows in it. Poor devil!' And a

curious feeling swelled his heart, of elation, of lightness such as he

had not known for years. Those two young things were safe now from

penury-safe! After dealing with those infernal creditors of his he would

go round and have a look at the children. With a hundred and twenty a

year the boy could go into the Army--best place for a young scamp like

that. The girl would go off like hot cakes, of course, but she needn't

take the first calf that came along. As for their mother, she must look

after herself; nothing under two thousand a year would keep her out of

debt. But trust her for wheedling and bluffing her way out of any

scrape! Watching his cigar-smoke curl and disperse he was conscious of

the strain he had been under these last six weeks, aware suddenly of how

greatly he had baulked at thought of to-day's general meeting. Yes! It

might have turned out nasty. He knew well enough the forces on the

Board, and off, who would be only too glad to shelve him. If he were

shelved here his other two Companies would be sure to follow suit, and

bang would go every penny of his income--he would be a pauper dependant

on that holy woman. Well! Safe now for another year if he could stave

off these sharks once more. It might be a harder job this time, but he

was in luck--in luck, and it must hold. And taking a luxurious pull at

his cigar, he rang the handbell.

"Bring 'em in here, Mr. Farney. And let me have a cup of China tea as

strong as you can make it."

"Yes, sir. Will you see the proof of the press report, or will you leave

it to me?"

"To you."

"Yes, sir. It was a good meeting, wasn't it?"

Old Heythorp nodded.

"Wonderful how your voice came back just at the right moment. I was

afraid things were going to be difficult. The insult did it, I think.

It was a monstrous thing to say. I could have punched his head."

Again old Heythorp nodded; and, looking into the secretary's fine blue

eyes, he repeated: "Bring 'em in."

The lonely minute before the entrance of his creditors passed in the

thought: 'So that's how it struck him! Short shrift I should get if it

came out.'

The gentlemen, who numbered ten this time, bowed to their debtor,

evidently wondering why the deuce they troubled to be polite to an old

man who kept them out of their money. Then, the secretary reappearing

with a cup of China tea, they watched while their debtor drank it. The

feat was tremulous. Would he get through without spilling it all down

his front, or choking? To those unaccustomed to his private life it was

slightly miraculous. He put the cup down empty, tremblingly removed some

yellow drops from the little white tuft below his lip, refit his cigar,

and said:

"No use beating about the bush, gentlemen; I can offer you fourteen

hundred a year so long as I live and hold my directorships, and not a

penny more. If you can't accept that, you must make me bankrupt and get

about sixpence in the pound. My qualifying shares will fetch a couple of

thousand at market price. I own nothing else. The house I live in, and

everything in it, barring my clothes, my wine, and my cigars, belong to

my daughter under a settlement fifteen years old. My solicitors and

bankers will give you every information. That's the position in a

nutshell."

In spite of business habits the surprise of the ten gentlemen was only

partially concealed. A man who owed them so much would naturally say he

owned nothing, but would he refer them to his solicitors and bankers

unless he were telling the truth? Then Mr. Ventnor said:

"Will you submit your pass books?"

"No, but I'll authorise my bankers to give you a full statement of my

receipts for the last five years--longer, if you like."

The strategic stroke of placing the ten gentlemen round the Board table

had made it impossible for them to consult freely without being

overheard, but the low-voiced transference of thought travelling round

was summed up at last by Mr. Brownbee.

"We think, Mr. Heythorp, that your fees and dividends should enable you

to set aside for us a larger sum. Sixteen hundred, in fact, is what we

think you should give us yearly. Representing, as we do, sixteen

thousand pounds, the prospect is not cheering, but we hope you have some

good years before you yet. We understand your income to be two thousand

pounds."

Old Heythorp shook his head. "Nineteen hundred and thirty pounds in a

good year. Must eat and drink; must have a man to look after me not as

active as I was. Can't do on less than five hundred pounds. Fourteen

hundred's all I can give you, gentlemen; it's an advance of two hundred

pounds. That's my last word."

The silence was broken by Mr. Ventnor.

"And it's my last word that I'm not satisfied. If these other gentlemen

accept your proposition I shall be forced to consider what I can do on my

own account."

The old man stared at him, and answered:

"Oh! you will, sir; we shall see."

The others had risen and were gathered in a knot at the end of the table;

old Heythorp and Mr. Ventnor alone remained seated. The old man's lower

lip projected till the white hairs below stood out like bristles. 'You

ugly dog,' he was thinking, 'you think you've got something up your

sleeve. Well, do your worst!' The "ugly dog" rose abruptly and joined

the others. And old Heythorp closed his eyes, sitting perfectly still,

with his cigar, which had gone out, sticking up between his teeth. Mr.

Brownbee turning to voice the decision come to, cleared his throat.

"Mr. Heythorp," he said, "if your bankers and solicitors bear out your

statements, we shall accept your offer faute de mieux, in consideration

of your--" but meeting the old man's eyes, which said so very plainly:

"Blow your consideration!" he ended with a stammer: "Perhaps you will

kindly furnish us with the authorisation you spoke of?"

Old Heythorp nodded, and Mr. Brownbee, with a little bow, clasped his hat

to his breast and moved towards the door. The nine gentlemen followed.

Mr. Ventnor, bringing up the rear, turned and looked back. But the old

man's eyes were already closed again.

The moment his creditors were gone, old Heythorp sounded the hand-bell.

"Help me up, Mr. Farney. That Ventnor--what's his holding?"

"Quite small. Only ten shares, I think."

"Ah! What time is it?"

"Quarter to four, sir."

"Get me a taxi."

After visiting his bank and his solicitors he struggled once more into

his cab and caused it to be driven towards Millicent Villas. A kind of

sleepy triumph permeated his whole being, bumped and shaken by the cab's

rapid progress. So! He was free of those sharks now so long as he could

hold on to his Companies; and he would still have a hundred a year or

more to spare for Rosamund and her youngsters. He could live on four

hundred, or even three-fifty, without losing his independence, for there

would be no standing life in that holy woman's house unless he could pay

his own scot! A good day's work! The best for many a long month!

The cab stopped before the villa.

3

There are rooms which refuse to give away their owners, and rooms which

seem to say: 'They really are like this.' Of such was Rosamund Larne's--a

sort of permanent confession, seeming to remark to anyone who entered:

'Her taste? Well, you can see--cheerful and exuberant; her habits--yes,

she sits here all the morning in a dressing-gown, smoking cigarettes and

dropping ink; kindly observe my carpet. Notice the piano--it has a look

of coming and going, according to the exchequer. This very

deep-cushioned sofa is permanent, however; the water-colours on the walls

are safe, too--they're by herself. Mark the scent of mimosa--she likes

flowers, and likes them strong. No clock, of course. Examine the

bureau--she is obviously always ringing for "the drumstick," and saying:

"Where's this, Ellen, and where's that? You naughty gairl, you've been

tidying." Cast an eye on that pile of manuscript--she has evidently a

genius for composition; it flows off her pen--like Shakespeare, she never

blots a line. See how she's had the electric light put in, instead of

that horrid gas; but try and turn either of them on--you can't; last

quarter isn't paid, of course; and she uses an oil lamp, you can tell

that by the ceiling: The dog over there, who will not answer to the name

of 'Carmen,' a Pekinese spaniel like a little Djin, all prominent eyes

rolling their blacks, and no nose between--yes, Carmen looks as if she

didn't know what was coming next; she's right--it's a pet-and-slap-again

life! Consider, too, the fittings of the tea-tray, rather soiled, though

not quite tin, but I say unto you that no millionaire's in all its glory

ever had a liqueur bottle on it.'

When old Heythorp entered this room, which extended from back to front of

the little house, preceded by the announcement "Mr. Aesop," it was

resonant with a very clatter-bodandigo of noises, from Phyllis playing

the Machiche; from the boy Jock on the hearthrug, emitting at short

intervals the most piercing notes from an ocarina; from Mrs. Larne on the

sofa, talking with her trailing volubility to Bob Pillin; from Bob Pillin

muttering: "Ye-es! Qui-ite! Ye-es!" and gazing at Phyllis over his

collar. And, on the window-sill, as far as she could get from all this

noise, the little dog Carmen was rolling her eyes. At sight of their

visitor Jock blew one rending screech, and bolting behind the sofa,

placed his chin on its top, so that nothing but his round pink unmoving

face was visible; and the dog Carmen tried to climb the blind cord.

Encircled from behind by the arms of Phyllis, and preceded by the

gracious perfumed bulk of Mrs. Larne, old Heythorp was escorted to the

sofa. It was low, and when he had plumped down into it, the boy Jock

emitted a hollow groan. Bob Pillin was the first to break the silence.

"How are you, sir? I hope it's gone through."

Old Heythorp nodded. His eyes were fixed on the liqueur, and Mrs. Larne

murmured:

"Guardy, you must try our new liqueur. Jock, you awful boy, get up and

bring Guardy a glass."

The boy Jock approached the tea-table, took up a glass, put it to his eye

and filled it rapidly.

"You horrible boy, you could see that glass has been used."

In a high round voice rather like an angel's, Jock answered:

"All right, Mother; I'll get rid of it," and rapidly swallowing the

yellow liquor, took up another glass.

Mrs. Larne laughed.

"What am I to do with him?"

A loud shriek prevented a response. Phyllis, who had taken her brother

by the ear to lead him to the door, let him go to clasp her injured self.

Bob Pillin went hastening towards her; and following the young man with

her chin, Mrs. Larne said, smiling:

"Aren't those children awful? He's such a nice fellow. We like him so

much, Guardy."

The old man grinned. So she was making up to that young pup! Rosamund

Larne, watching him, murmured:

"Oh! Guardy, you're as bad as Jock. He takes after you terribly. Look

at the shape of his head. Jock, come here!" The innocent boy

approached; with his girlish complexion, his flowery blue eyes, his

perfect mouth, he stood before his mother like a large cherub. And

suddenly he blew his ocarina in a dreadful manner. Mrs. Larne launched a

box at his ears, and receiving the wind of it he fell prone.

"That's the way he behaves. Be off with you, you awful boy. I want to

talk to Guardy."

The boy withdrew on his stomach, and sat against the wall cross-legged,

fixing his innocent round eyes on old Heythorp. Mrs. Larne sighed.

"Things are worse and worse, Guardy. I'm at my wits' end to tide over

this quarter. You wouldn't advance me a hundred on my new story? I'm

sure to get two for it in the end."

The old man shook his head.

"I've done something for you and the children," he said. "You'll get

notice of it in a day or two; ask no questions."

"Oh! Guardy! Oh! you dear!" And her gaze rested on Bob Pillin, leaning

over the piano, where Phyllis again sat.

Old Heythorp snorted. "What are you cultivating that young gaby for? She

mustn't be grabbed up by any fool who comes along."

Mrs. Larne murmured at once:

"Of course, the dear gairl is much too young. Phyllis, come and talk to

Guardy!"

When the girl was installed beside him on the sofa, and he had felt that

little thrill of warmth the proximity of youth can bring, he said:

"Been a good girl?"

She shook her head.

"Can't, when Jock's not at school. Mother can't pay for him this term."

Hearing his name, the boy Jock blew his ocarina till Mrs. Larne drove him

from the room, and Phyllis went on:

"He's more awful than anything you can think of. Was my dad at all like

him, Guardy? Mother's always so mysterious about him. I suppose you

knew him well."

Old Heythorp, incapable of confusion, answered stolidly:

"Not very."

"Who was his father? I don't believe even mother knows."

"Man about town in my day."

"Oh! your day must have been jolly. Did you wear peg-top trousers, and

dundreary's?"

Old Heythorp nodded.

"What larks! And I suppose you had lots of adventures with opera dancers

and gambling. The young men are all so good now." Her eyes rested on

Bob Pillin. "That young man's a perfect stick of goodness."

Old Heythorp grunted.

"You wouldn't know how good he was," Phyllis went on musingly, "unless

you'd sat next him in a tunnel. The other day he had his waist squeezed

and he simply sat still and did nothing. And then when the tunnel ended,

it was Jock after all, not me. His face was--Oh! ah! ha! ha! Ah! ha!"

She threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat. Then

edging near, she whispered:

"He likes to pretend, of course, that he's fearfully lively. He's

promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards.

Won't it be scrummy! Only, I haven't anything to go in."

Old Heythorp said: "What do you want? Irish poplin?"

Her mouth opened wide: "Oh! Guardy! Soft white satin!"

"How many yards'll go round you?"

"I should think about twelve. We could make it ourselves. You are a

chook!"

A scent of hair, like hay, enveloped him, her lips bobbed against his

nose,--and there came a feeling in his heart as when he rolled the first

sip of a special wine against his palate. This little house was a

rumty-too affair, her mother was a humbug, the boy a cheeky young rascal,

but there was a warmth here he never felt in that big house which had

been his wife's and was now his holy daughter's. And once more he

rejoiced at his day's work, and the success of his breach of trust, which

put some little ground beneath these young feet, in a hard and

unscrupulous world. Phyllis whispered in his ear:

"Guardy, do look; he will stare at me like that. Isn't it awful--like a

boiled rabbit?"

Bob Pillin, attentive to Mrs. Larne, was gazing with all his might over

her shoulder at the girl. The young man was moonstruck, that was clear!

There was something almost touching in the stare of those puppy dog's

eyes. And he thought 'Young beggar--wish I were his age!' The utter

injustice of having an old and helpless body, when your desire for

enjoyment was as great as ever! They said a man was as old as he felt!

Fools! A man was as old as his legs and arms, and not a day younger.

He heard the girl beside him utter a discomfortable sound, and saw her

face cloud as if tears were not far off; she jumped up, and going to the

window, lifted the little dog and buried her face in its brown and white

fur. Old Heythorp thought: 'She sees that her humbugging mother is using

her as a decoy.' But she had come back, and the little dog, rolling its

eyes horribly at the strange figure on the sofa, in a desperate effort to

escape succeeded in reaching her shoulder, where it stayed perched like a

cat, held by one paw and trying to back away into space. Old Heythorp

said abruptly:

"Are you very fond of your mother?"

"Of course I am, Guardy. I adore her."

"H'm! Listen to me. When you come of age or marry, you'll have a

hundred and twenty a year of your own that you can't get rid of. Don't

ever be persuaded into doing what you don't want. And remember: Your

mother's a sieve, no good giving her money; keep what you'll get for

yourself--it's only a pittance, and you'll want it all--every penny."

Phyllis's eyes had opened very wide; so that he wondered if she had taken

in his words.

"Oh! Isn't money horrible, Guardy?"

"The want of it."

"No, it's beastly altogether. If only we were like birds. Or if one

could put out a plate overnight, and have just enough in the morning to

use during the day."

Old Heythorp sighed.

"There's only one thing in life that matters--independence. Lose that,

and you lose everything. That's the value of money. Help me up."

Phyllis stretched out her hands, and the little dog, running down her

back, resumed its perch on the window-sill, close to the blind cord.

Once on his feet, old Heythorp said:

"Give me a kiss. You'll have your satin tomorrow."

Then looking at Bob Pillin, he remarked:

"Going my way? I'll give you a lift."

The young man, giving Phyllis one appealing look, answered dully:

"Tha-anks!" and they went out together to the taxi. In that draughtless

vehicle they sat, full of who knows what contempt of age for youth; and

youth for age; the old man resenting this young pup's aspiration to his

granddaughter; the young man annoyed that this old image had dragged him

away before he wished to go. Old Heythorp said at last:

"Well?"

Thus expected to say something, Bob Pillin muttered

"Glad your meetin' went off well, sir. You scored a triumph I should

think."

"Why?"

"Oh! I don't know. I thought you had a good bit of opposition to

contend with."

Old Heythorp looked at him.

"Your grandmother!" he said; then, with his habitual instinct of attack,

added: "You make the most of your opportunities, I see."

At this rude assault Bob Pillin's red-cheeked face assumed a certain

dignity. "I don't know what you mean, sir. Mrs. Larne is very kind to

me."

"No doubt. But don't try to pick the flowers."

Thoroughly upset, Bob Pillin preserved a dogged silence. This fortnight,

since he had first met Phyllis in old Heythorp's hall, had been the most

singular of his existence up to now. He would never have believed that a

fellow could be so quickly and completely bowled, could succumb without a

kick, without even wanting to kick. To one with his philosophy of having

a good time and never committing himself too far, it was in the nature of

"a fair knock-out," and yet so pleasurable, except for the wear and tear

about one's chances. If only he knew how far the old boy really counted

in the matter! To say: "My intentions are strictly honourable" would be

old-fashioned; besides--the old fellow might have no right to hear it.

They called him Guardy, but without knowing more he did not want to admit

the old curmudgeon's right to interfere.

"Are you a relation of theirs, sir?"

Old Heythorp nodded.

Bob Pillin went on with desperation:

"I should like to know what your objection to me is."

The old man turned his head so far as he was able; a grim smile bristled

the hairs about his lips, and twinkled in his eyes. What did he object

to? Why--everything! Object to! That sleek head, those puppy-dog eyes,

fattish red cheeks, high collars, pearl pin, spats, and drawl-pah! the

imbecility, the smugness of his mug; no go, no devil in any of his sort,

in any of these fish-veined, coddled-up young bloods, nothing but playing

for safety! And he wheezed out:

"Milk and water masquerading as port wine."

Bob Pillin frowned.

It was almost too much for the composure even of a man of the world. That

this paralytic old fellow should express contempt for his virility was

really the last thing in jests. Luckily he could not take it seriously.

But suddenly he thought: 'What if he really has the power to stop my

going there, and means to turn them against me!' And his heart quailed.

"Awfully sorry, sir," he said, "if you don't think I'm wild enough.

Anything I can do for you in that line--"

The old man grunted; and realising that he had been quite witty, Bob

Pillin went on:

"I know I'm not in debt, no entanglements, got a decent income, pretty

good expectations and all that; but I can soon put that all right if I'm

not fit without."

It was perhaps his first attempt at irony, and he could not help thinking

how good it was.

But old Heythorp preserved a deadly silence. He looked like a stuffed

man, a regular Aunt Sally sitting there, with the fixed red in his

cheeks, his stivered hair, square block of a body, and no neck that you

could see-only wanting the pipe in his mouth! Could there really be

danger from such an old idol? The idol spoke:

"I'll give you a word of advice. Don't hang round there, or you'll burn

your fingers. Remember me to your father. Good-night!"

The taxi had stopped before the house in Sefton Park. An insensate

impulse to remain seated and argue the point fought in Bob Pillin with an

impulse to leap out, shake his fist in at the window, and walk off. He

merely said, however:

"Thanks for the lift. Good-night!" And, getting out deliberately, he

walked off.

Old Heythorp, waiting for the driver to help him up, thought 'Fatter, but

no more guts than his father!'

In his sanctum he sank at once into his chair. It was wonderfully still

there every day at this hour; just the click of the coals, just the

faintest ruffle from the wind in the trees of the park. And it was

cosily warm, only the fire lightening the darkness. A drowsy beatitude

pervaded the old man. A good day's work! A triumph--that young pup had

said. Yes! Something of a triumph! He had held on, and won. And

dinner to look forward to, yet. A nap--a nap! And soon, rhythmic, soft,

sonorous, his breathing rose, with now and then that pathetic twitching

of the old who dream.

III

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."

Joe Pillin muttered into his handkerchief

"Ali! H'm! No--I--no! My son knows all sorts of people. I shall have

to try Mentone. Are you going? Good-bye! Good-bye! I'm sorry; ah! ha!

My cough--ah! ha h'h'm! Very distressing. Ye-hes! My cough-ah! ha

h'h'm! Most distressing. Ye-hes!"

Out in the drive Mr. Ventnor took a deep breath of the frosty air. Not

much doubt now! The two names had worked like charms. This weakly old

fellow would make a pretty witness, would simply crumple under

cross-examination. What a contrast to that hoary old sinner Heythorp,

whose brazenness nothing could affect. The rat was as large as life!

And the only point was how to make the best use of it. Then--for his

experience was wide--the possibility dawned on him, that after all, this

Mrs. Larne might only have been old Pillin's mistress--or be his natural

daughter, or have some other blackmailing hold on him. Any such

connection would account for his agitation, for his denying her, for his

son's ignorance. Only it wouldn't account for young Pillin's saying that

old Heythorp had made the settlement. He could only have got that from

the woman herself. Still, to make absolutely sure, he had better try and

see her. But how? It would never do to ask Bob Pillin for an

introduction, after this interview with his father. He would have to go

on his own and chance it. Wrote stories did she? Perhaps a newspaper

would know her address; or the Directory would give it--not a common

name! And, hot on the scent, he drove to a post office. Yes, there it

was, right enough! "Larne, Mrs. R., 23, Millicent Villas." And thinking

to himself: 'No time like the present,' he turned in that direction. The

job was delicate. He must be careful not to do anything which might

compromise his power of making public use of his knowledge. Yes-ticklish!

What he did now must have a proper legal bottom. Still, anyway you looked

at it, he had a right to investigate a fraud on himself as a shareholder

of "The Island Navigation Company," and a fraud on himself as a creditor

of old Heythorp. Quite! But suppose this Mrs. Larne was really

entangled with old Pillin, and the settlement a mere reward of virtue,

easy or otherwise. Well! in that case there'd be no secret commission to

make public, and he needn't go further. So that, in either event, he

would be all right. Only--how to introduce himself? He might pretend he

was a newspaper man wanting a story. No, that wouldn't do! He must not

represent that he was what he was not, in case he had afterwards to

justify his actions publicly, always a difficult thing, if you were not

careful! At that moment there came into his mind a question Bob Pillin

had asked the other night. "By the way, you can't borrow on a

settlement, can you? Isn't there generally some clause against it?" Had

this woman been trying to borrow from him on that settlement? But at this

moment he reached the house, and got out of his cab still undecided as to

how he was going to work the oracle. Impudence, constitutional and

professional, sustained him in saying to the little maid:

"Mrs. Larne at home? Say Mr. Charles Ventnor, will you?"

His quick brown eyes took in the apparel of the passage which served for

hall--the deep blue paper on the walls, lilac-patterned curtains over the

doors, the well-known print of a nude young woman looking over her

shoulder, and he thought: 'H'm! Distinctly tasty!' They noted, too, a

small brown-and-white dog cowering in terror at the very end of the

passage, and he murmured affably: "Fluffy! Come here, Fluffy!" till

Carmen's teeth chattered in her head.

"Will you come in, sir?"

Mr. Ventnor ran his hand over his whiskers, and, entering a room, was

impressed at once by its air of domesticity. On a sofa a handsome woman

and a pretty young girl were surrounded by sewing apparatus and some

white material. The girl looked up, but the elder lady rose.

Mr. Ventnor said easily

"You know my young friend, Mr. Robert Pillin, I think."

The lady, whose bulk and bloom struck him to the point of admiration,

murmured in a full, sweet drawl:

"Oh! Ye-es. Are you from Messrs. Scrivens?"

With the swift reflection: 'As I thought!' Mr. Ventnor answered:

"Er--not exactly. I am a solicitor though; came just to ask about a

certain settlement that Mr. Pillin tells me you're entitled under."

"Phyllis dear!"

Seeing the girl about to rise from underneath the white stuff, Mr.

Ventnor said quickly:

"Pray don't disturb yourself--just a formality!" It had struck him at

once that the lady would have to speak the truth in the presence of this

third party, and he went on: "Quite recent, I think. This'll be your

first interest-on six thousand pounds? Is that right?" And at the

limpid assent of that rich, sweet voice, he thought: 'Fine woman; what

eyes!'

"Thank you; that's quite enough. I can go to Scrivens for any detail.

Nice young fellow, Bob Pillin, isn't he?" He saw the girl's chin tilt,

and Mrs. Larne's full mouth curling in a smile.

"Delightful young man; we're very fond of him."

And he proceeded:

"I'm quite an old friend of his; have you known him long?"

"Oh! no. How long, Phyllis, since we met him at Guardy's? About a

month. But he's so unaffected--quite at home with us. A nice fellow."

Mr. Ventnor murmured:

"Very different from his father, isn't he?"

"Is he? We don't know his father; he's a shipowner, I think."

Mr. Ventnor rubbed his hands: "Ye-es," he said, "just giving up--a warm

man. Young Pillin's a lucky fellow--only son. So you met him at old Mr.

Heythorp's. I know him too--relation of yours, I believe."

"Our dear Guardy such a wonderful man."

Mr. Ventnor echoed: "Wonderful--regular old Roman."

"Oh! but he's so kind!" Mrs. Larne lifted the white stuff: "Look what

he's given this naughty gairl!"

Mr. Ventnor murmured: "Charming! Charming! Bob Pillin said, I think,

that Mr. Heythorp was your settlor."

One of those little clouds which visit the brows of women who have owed

money in their time passed swiftly athwart Mrs. Larne's eyes. For a

moment they seemed saying: 'Don't you want to know too much?' Then they

slid from under it.

"Won't you sit down?" she said. "You must forgive our being at work."

Mr. Ventnor, who had need of sorting his impressions, shook his head.

"Thank you; I must be getting on. Then Messrs. Scriven can--a mere

formality! Goodbye! Good-bye, Miss Larne. I'm sure the dress will be

most becoming."

And with memories of a too clear look from the girl's eyes, of a warm

firm pressure from the woman's hand, Mr. Ventnor backed towards the door

and passed away just in time to avoid hearing in two voices:

"What a nice lawyer!"

"What a horrid man!"

Back in his cab, he continued to rub his hands. No, she didn't know old

Pillin! That was certain; not from her words, but from her face. She

wanted to know him, or about him, anyway. She was trying to hook young

Bob for that sprig of a girl--it was clear as mud. H'm! it would

astonish his young friend to hear that he had called. Well, let it! And

a curious mixture of emotions beset Mr. Ventnor. He saw the whole thing

now so plainly, and really could not refrain from a certain admiration.

The law had been properly diddled! There was nothing to prevent a man

from settling money on a woman he had never seen; and so old Pillin's

settlement could probably not be upset. But old Heythorp could. It was

neat, though, oh! neat! And that was a fine woman--remarkably! He had a

sort of feeling that if only the settlement had been in danger, it might

have been worth while to have made a bargain--a woman like that could

have made it worth while! And he believed her quite capable of

entertaining the proposition! Her eye! Pity--quite a pity! Mrs.

Ventnor was not a wife who satisfied every aspiration. But alas! the

settlement was safe. This baulking of the sentiment of love, whipped up,

if anything, the longing for justice in Mr. Ventnor. That old chap

should feel his teeth now. As a piece of investigation it was not so

bad--not so bad at all! He had had a bit of luck, of course,--no, not

luck--just that knack of doing the right thing at the right moment which

marks a real genius for affairs.

But getting into his train to return to Mrs. Ventnor, he thought: 'A

woman like that would have been--!' And he sighed.

2

With a neatly written cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket Bob Pillin

turned in at 23, Millicent Villas on the afternoon after Mr. Ventnor's

visit. Chivalry had won the day. And he rang the bell with an elation

which astonished him, for he knew he was doing a soft thing.

"Mrs. Larne is out, sir; Miss Phyllis is at home."

His heart leaped.

"Oh-h! I'm sorry. I wonder if she'd see me?"

The little maid answered

"I think she's been washin' 'er'air, sir, but it may be dry be now. I'll

see."

Bob Pillin stood stock still beneath the young woman on the wall. He

could scarcely breathe. If her hair were not dry--how awful! Suddenly he

heard floating down a clear but smothered "Oh! Gefoozleme!" and other

words which he could not catch. The little maid came running down.

"Miss Phyllis says, sir, she'll be with you in a jiffy. And I was to

tell you that Master Jock is loose, sir."

Bob Pillin answered "Tha-anks," and passed into the drawing-room. He

went to the bureau, took an envelope, enclosed the cheque, and addressing

it: "Mrs. Larne," replaced it in his pocket. Then he crossed over to the

mirror. Never till this last month had he really doubted his own face;

but now he wanted for it things he had never wanted. It had too much

flesh and colour. It did not reflect his passion. This was a handicap.

With a narrow white piping round his waistcoat opening, and a buttonhole

of tuberoses, he had tried to repair its deficiencies. But do what he

would, he was never easy about himself nowadays, never up to that pitch

which could make him confident in her presence. And until this month to

lack confidence had never been his wont. A clear, high, mocking voice

said:

"Oh-h! Conceited young man!"

And spinning round he saw Phyllis in the doorway. Her light brown hair

was fluffed out on her shoulders, so that he felt a kind of

fainting-sweet sensation, and murmured inarticulately:

"Oh! I say--how jolly!"

"Lawks! It's awful! Have you come to see mother?"

Balanced between fear and daring, conscious of a scent of hay and verbena

and camomile, Bob Pillin stammered:

"Ye-es. I--I'm glad she's not in, though."

Her laugh seemed to him terribly unfeeling.

"Oh! oh! Don't be foolish. Sit down. Isn't washing one's head awful?"

Bob Pillin answered feebly:

"Of course, I haven't much experience."

Her mouth opened.

"Oh! You are--aren't you?"

And he thought desperately: 'Dare I--oughtn't I--couldn't I somehow take

her hand or put my arm round her, or something?' Instead, he sat very

rigid at his end of the sofa, while she sat lax and lissom at the other,

and one of those crises of paralysis which beset would-be lovers fixed

him to the soul.

Sometimes during this last month memories of a past existence, when chaff

and even kisses came readily to the lips, and girls were fair game, would

make him think: 'Is she really such an innocent? Doesn't she really want

me to kiss her?' Alas! such intrusions lasted but a moment before a

blast of awe and chivalry withered them, and a strange and tragic

delicacy--like nothing he had ever known--resumed its sway. And suddenly

he heard her say:

"Why do you know such awful men?"

"What? I don't know any awful men."

"Oh yes, you do; one came here yesterday; he had whiskers, and he was

awful."

"Whiskers?" His soul revolted in disclaimer. "I believe I only know one

man with whiskers--a lawyer."

"Yes--that was him; a perfectly horrid man. Mother didn't mind him, but

I thought he was a beast."

"Ventnor! Came here? How d'you mean?"

"He did; about some business of yours, too." Her face had clouded over.

Bob Pillin had of late been harassed by the still-born beginning of a

poem:

"I rode upon my way and saw

A maid who watched me from the door."

It never grew longer, and was prompted by the feeling that her face was

like an April day. The cloud which came on it now was like an April

cloud, as if a bright shower of rain must follow. Brushing aside the two

distressful lines, he said:

"Look here, Miss Larne--Phyllis--look here!"

"All right, I'm looking!"

"What does it mean--how did he come? What did he say?"

She shook her head, and her hair quivered; the scent of camomile,

verbena, hay was wafted; then looking at her lap, she muttered:

"I wish you wouldn't--I wish mother wouldn't--I hate it. Oh! Money!

Beastly--beastly!" and a tearful sigh shivered itself into Bob Pillin's

reddening ears.

"I say--don't! And do tell me, because--"

"Oh! you know."

"I don't--I don't know anything at all. I never---"

Phyllis looked up at him. "Don't tell fibs; you know mother's borrowing

money from you, and it's hateful!"

A desire to lie roundly, a sense of the cheque in his pocket, a feeling

of injustice, the emotion of pity, and a confused and black astonishment

about Ventnor, caused Bob Pillin to stammer:

"Well, I'm d---d!" and to miss the look which Phyllis gave him through

her lashes--a look saying:

"Ah! that's better!"

"I am d---d! Look here! D'you mean to say that Ventnor came here about

my lending money? I never said a word to him---"

"There you see--you are lending!"

He clutched his hair.

"We've got to have this out," he added.

"Not by the roots! Oh! you do look funny. I've never seen you with your

hair untidy. Oh! oh!"

Bob Pillin rose and paced the room. In the midst of his emotion he could

not help seeing himself sidelong in the mirror; and on pretext of holding

his head in both his hands, tried earnestly to restore his hair. Then

coming to a halt he said:

"Suppose I am lending money to your mother, what does it matter? It's

only till quarter-day. Anybody might want money."

Phyllis did not raise her face.

"Why are you lending it?"

"Because--because--why shouldn't I?" and diving suddenly, he seized her

hands.

She wrenched them free; and with the emotion of despair, Bob Pillin took

out the envelope.

"If you like," he said, "I'll tear this up. I don't want to lend it, if

you don't want me to; but I thought--I thought--" It was for her alone

he had been going to lend this money!

Phyllis murmured through her hair:

"Yes! You thought that I--that's what's so hateful!"

Apprehension pierced his mind.

"Oh! I never--I swear I never--"

"Yes, you did; you thought I wanted you to lend it."

She jumped up, and brushed past him into the window.

So she thought she was being used as a decoy! That was awful--especially

since it was true. He knew well enough that Mrs. Larne was working his

admiration for her daughter for all that it was worth. And he said with

simple fervour:

"What rot!" It produced no effect, and at his wits' end, he almost

shouted: "Look, Phyllis! If you don't want me to--here goes!" Phyllis

turned. Tearing the envelope across he threw the bits into the fire.

"There it is," he said.

Her eyes grew round; she said in an awed voice: "Oh!"

In a sort of agony of honesty he said:

"It was only a cheque. Now you've got your way."

Staring at the fire she answered slowly:

"I expect you'd better go before mother comes."

Bob Pillin's mouth fell afar; he secretly agreed, but the idea of

sacrificing a moment alone with her was intolerable, and he said hardily:

"No, I shall stick it!"

Phyllis sneezed.

"My hair isn't a bit dry," and she sat down on the fender with her back

to the fire.

A certain spirituality had come into Bob Pillin's face. If only he could

get that wheeze off: "Phyllis is my only joy!" or even: "Phyllis--do

you--won't you--mayn't I?" But nothing came--nothing.

And suddenly she said:

"Oh! don't breathe so loud; it's awful!"

"Breathe? I wasn't!"

"You were; just like Carmen when she's dreaming."

He had walked three steps towards the door, before he thought: 'What does

it matter? I can stand anything from her; and walked the three steps

back again.

She said softly:

"Poor young man!"

He answered gloomily:

"I suppose you realise that this may be the last time you'll see me?"

"Why? I thought you were going to take us to the theatre."

"I don't know whether your mother will--after---"

Phyllis gave a little clear laugh.

"You don't know mother. Nothing makes any difference to her."

And Bob Pillin muttered:

"I see." He did not, but it was of no consequence. Then the thought of

Ventnor again ousted all others. What on earth-how on earth! He

searched his mind for what he could possibly have said the other night.

Surely he had not asked him to do anything; certainly not given him their

address. There was something very odd about it that had jolly well got

to be cleared up! And he said:

"Are you sure the name of that Johnny who came here yesterday was

Ventnor?"

Phyllis nodded.

"And he was short, and had whiskers?"

"Yes; red, and red eyes."

He murmured reluctantly:

"It must be him. Jolly good cheek; I simply can't understand. I shall

go and see him. How on earth did he know your address?"

"I expect you gave it him."

"I did not. I won't have you thinking me a squirt."

Phyllis jumped up. "Oh! Lawks! Here's mother!" Mrs. Larne was coming

up the garden. Bob Pillin made for the door. "Good-bye," he said; "I'm

going." But Mrs. Larne was already in the hall. Enveloping him in fur

and her rich personality, she drew him with her into the drawing-room,

where the back window was open and Phyllis gone.

"I hope," she said, "those naughty children have been making you

comfortable. That nice lawyer of yours came yesterday. He seemed quite

satisfied."

Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered:

"I never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. I don't know what it means."

Mrs. Larne smiled. "My dear boy, it's all right. You needn't be so

squeamish. I want it to be quite on a business footing."

Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: "It's not going to be on

any footing!" Bob Pillin mumbled: "I must go; I'm late."

"And when will you be able---?"

"Oh! I'll--I'll send--I'll write. Good-bye!" And suddenly he found

that Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat. The scent of violets

and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'I believe

she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible. I can't leave

my coat in her hands! What shall I do?'

Mrs. Larne was murmuring:

"It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today"; and her hand

slid over his chest. "Oh! You have brought your cheque-book--what a

nice boy!"

Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau,

wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned. A warm kiss

lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry

bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said: "How delightful!" and a

sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume. Backing to the door, he gasped:

"Don't mention it; and--and don't tell Phyllis, please. Good-bye!"

Once through the garden gate, he thought: 'By gum! I've done it now.

That Phyllis should know about it at all! That beast Ventnor!'

His face grew almost grim. He would go and see what that meant anyway!

3

Mr. Ventnor had not left his office when his young friend's card was

brought to him. Tempted for a moment to deny his own presence, he

thought: 'No! What's the good? Bound to see him some time!' If he had

not exactly courage, he had that peculiar blend of self-confidence and

insensibility which must needs distinguish those who follow the law; nor

did he ever forget that he was in the right.

"Show him in!" he said.

He would be quite bland, but young Pillin might whistle for an

explanation; he was still tormented, too, by the memory of rich curves

and moving lips, and the possibilities of better acquaintanceship.

While shaking the young man's hand his quick and fulvous eye detected at

once the discomposure behind that mask of cheek and collar, and relapsing

into one of those swivel chairs which give one an advantage over men more

statically seated, he said:

"You look pretty bobbish. Anything I can do for you?"

Bob Pillin, in the fixed chair of the consultor, nursed his bowler on his

knee.

"Well, yes, there is. I've just been to see Mrs. Larne."

Mr. Ventnor did not flinch.

"Ah! Nice woman; pretty daughter, too!" And into those words he put a

certain meaning. He never waited to be bullied. Bob Pillin felt the

pressure of his blood increasing.

"Look here, Ventnor," he said, "I want an explanation."

"What of?"

"Why, of your going there, and using my name, and God knows what."

Mr. Ventnor gave his chair two little twiddles before he said

"Well, you won't get it."

Bob Pillin remained for a moment taken aback; then he muttered

resolutely:

"It's not the conduct of a gentleman."

Every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed. The

gingery tint underlying Mr. Ventnor's colouring overlaid it; even the

whites of his eyes grew red."

"Oh!" he said; "indeed! You mind your own business, will you?"

"It is my business--very much so. You made use of my name, and I don't

choose---"

"The devil you don't! Now, I tell you what---"

Mr. Ventnor leaned forward--"you'd better hold your tongue, and not

exasperate me. I'm a good-tempered man, but I won't stand your

impudence."

Clenching his bowler hat, and only kept in his seat by that sense of

something behind, Bob Pillin ejaculated:

"Impudence! That's good--after what you did! Look here, why did you?

It's so extraordinary!"

Mr. Ventnor answered:

"Oh! is it? You wait a bit, my friend!"

Still more moved by the mystery of this affair, Bob Pillin could only

mutter:

"I never gave you their address; we were only talking about old

Heythorp."

And at the smile which spread between Mr. Ventnor's whiskers, he jumped

up, crying:

"It's not the thing, and you're not going to put me off. I insist on an

explanation."

Mr. Ventnor leaned back, crossing his stout legs, joining the tips of his

thick fingers. In this attitude he was always self-possessed.

"You do--do you?"

"Yes. You must have had some reason."

Mr. Ventnor gazed up at him.

"I'll give you a piece of advice, young cock, and charge you nothing for

it, too: Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies. And here's

another: Go away before you forget yourself again."

The natural stolidity of Bob Pilings face was only just proof against

this speech. He said thickly:

"If you go there again and use my name, I'll Well, it's lucky for you

you're not my age. Anyway I'll relieve you of my acquaintanceship in

future. Good-evening!" and he went to the door. Mr. Ventnor had risen.

"Very well," he said loudly. "Good riddance! You wait and see which

boot the leg is on!"

But Bob Pillin was gone, leaving the lawyer with a very red face, a very

angry heart, and a vague sense of disorder in his speech. Not only Bob

Pillin, but his tender aspirations had all left him; he no longer dallied

with the memory of Mrs. Larne, but like a man and a Briton thought only

of how to get his own back, and punish evildoers. The atrocious words of

his young friend, "It's not the conduct of a gentleman," festered in the

heart of one who was made gentle not merely by nature but by Act of

Parliament, and he registered a solemn vow to wipe the insult out, if not

with blood, with verjuice. It was his duty, and they should d---d well

see him do it!

IV

Sylvanus Heythorp seldom went to bed before one or rose before eleven.

The latter habit alone kept his valet from handing in the resignation

which the former habit prompted almost every night.

Propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved, he

looked more Roman than he ever did, except in his bath. Having disposed

of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and The Morning Post, for he

had always been a Tory, and could not stomach paying a halfpenny for his

news. Not that there were many letters--when a man has reached the age

of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for money?

It was Valentine's Day. Through his bedroom window he could see the

trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not hear

them. He had never been interested in Nature--full-blooded men with

short necks seldom are.

This morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which

smelt of something. Inside was a thing like a Christmas card, save that

the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out of

his mouth: "To be your Valentine." There was also a little pink note

with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. It ran:

"DEAREST GUARDY,--I'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; I

couldn't go out to get it because I've got a beastly cold, so I asked

Jock, and the pig bought this. The satin is simply scrumptious. If you

don't come and see me in it some time soon, I shall come and show it to

you. I wish I had a moustache, because my top lip feels just like a

matchbox, but it's rather ripping having breakfast in bed. Mr. Pillin's

taking us to the theatre the day after to-morrow evening. Isn't it

nummy! I'm going to have rum and honey for my cold.

"Good-bye, "Your PHYLLIS."

So this that quivered in his thick fingers, too insensitive to feel it,

was a valentine for him!

Forty years ago that young thing's grandmother had given him his last.

It made him out a very old chap! Forty years ago! Had that been himself

living then? And himself, who, as a youth came on the town in

'forty-five? Not a thought, not a feeling the same! They said you

changed your body every seven years. The mind with it, too, perhaps!

Well, he had come to the last of his bodies, now! And that holy woman

had been urging him to take it to Bath, with her face as long as a

tea-tray, and some gammon from that doctor of his. Too full a

habit--dock his port--no alcohol--might go off in a coma any night!

Knock off not he! Rather die any day than turn tee-totaller! When a man

had nothing left in life except his dinner, his bottle, his cigar, and

the dreams they gave him--these doctors forsooth must want to cut them

off! No, no! Carpe diem! while you lived, get something out of it. And

now that he had made all the provision he could for those youngsters, his

life was no good to any one but himself; and the sooner he went off the

better, if he ceased to enjoy what there was left, or lost the power to

say: "I'll do this and that, and you be jiggered!" Keep a stiff lip

until you crashed, and then go clean! He sounded the bell beside him

twice-for Molly, not his man. And when the girl came in, and stood,

pretty in her print frock, her fluffy over-fine dark hair escaping from

under her cap, he gazed at her in silence.

"Yes, sirr?"

"Want to look at you, that's all."

"Oh I an' I'm not tidy, sirr."

"Never mind. Had your valentine?"

"No, sirr; who would send me one, then?"

"Haven't you a young man?"

"Well, I might. But he's over in my country.

"What d'you think of this?"

He held out the little boy.

The girl took the card and scrutinised it reverently; she said in a

detached voice:

"Indeed, an' ut's pretty, too."

"Would you like it?"

"Oh I if 'tis not taking ut from you."

Old Heythorp shook his head, and pointed to the dressing-table.

"Over there--you'll find a sovereign. Little present for a good girl."

She uttered a deep sigh. "Oh! sirr, 'tis too much; 'tis kingly."

"Take it."

She took it, and came back, her hands clasping the sovereign and the

valentine, in an attitude as of prayer.

The old man's gaze rested on her with satisfaction.

"I like pretty faces--can't bear sour ones. Tell Meller to get my bath

ready."

When she had gone he took up the other letter--some lawyer's writing, and

opening it with the usual difficulty, read:

"February 13, 1905.

"SIR,--Certain facts having come to my knowledge, I deem it my duty to

call a special meeting of the shareholders of 'The Island Navigation

Coy.,' to consider circumstances in connection with the purchase of Mr.

Joseph Pillin's fleet. And I give you notice that at this meeting your

conduct will be called in question.

"I am, Sir, "Yours faithfully,

"CHARLES VENTNOR.

"SYLVANUS HEYTHORP, ESQ."

Having read this missive, old Heythorp remained some minutes without

stirring. Ventnor! That solicitor chap who had made himself unpleasant

at the creditors' meetings!

There are men whom a really bad bit of news at once stampedes out of all

power of coherent thought and action, and men who at first simply do not

take it in. Old Heythorp took it in fast enough; coming from a lawyer it

was about as nasty as it could be. But, at once, with stoic wariness his

old brain began casting round. What did this fellow really know? And

what exactly could he do? One thing was certain; even if he knew

everything, he couldn't upset that settlement. The youngsters were all

right. The old man grasped the fact that only his own position was at

stake. But this was enough in all conscience; a name which had been

before the public fifty odd years--income, independence, more perhaps.

It would take little, seeing his age and feebleness, to make his

Companies throw him over. But what had the fellow got hold of? How

decide whether or no to take notice; to let him do his worst, or try and

get into touch with him? And what was the fellow's motive? He held ten

shares! That would never make a man take all this trouble, and over a

purchase which was really first-rate business for the Company. Yes! His

conscience was quite clean. He had not betrayed his Company--on the

contrary, had done it a good turn, got them four sound ships at a low

price--against much opposition. That he might have done the Company a

better turn, and got the ships at fifty-four thousand, did not trouble

him--the six thousand was a deuced sight better employed; and he had not

pocketed a penny piece himself! But the fellow's motive? Spite? Looked

like it. Spite, because he had been disappointed of his money, and

defied into the bargain! H'm! If that were so, he might still be got to

blow cold again. His eyes lighted on the pink note with the blue

forget-me-not. It marked as it were the high water mark of what was left

to him of life; and this other letter in his hand-by Jove! Low water

mark! And with a deep and rumbling sigh he thought: 'No, I'm not going

to be beaten by this fellow.'

"Your bath is ready, sir."

Crumpling the two letters into the pocket of his dressing-gown, he said:

"Help me up; and telephone to Mr. Farney to be good enough to come

round." ....

An hour later, when the secretary entered, his chairman was sitting by

the fire perusing the articles of association. And, waiting for him to

look up, watching the articles shaking in that thick, feeble hand, the

secretary had one of those moments of philosophy not too frequent with

his kind. Some said the only happy time of life was when you had no

passions, nothing to hope and live for. But did you really ever reach

such a stage? The old chairman, for instance, still had his passion for

getting his own way, still had his prestige, and set a lot of store by

it! And he said:

"Good morning, sir; I hope you're all right in this east wind. The

purchase is completed."

"Best thing the company ever did. Have you heard from a shareholder

called Ventnor. You know the man I mean?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"Well! You may get a letter that'll make you open your eyes. An

impudent scoundrel! Just write at my dictation."

"February 14th, 1905.

"CHARLES VENTNOR, Esq.

"SIR,--I have your letter of yesterday's date, the contents of which I am

at a loss to understand. My solicitors will be instructed to take the

necessary measures."

'Phew What's all this about?' the secretary thought.

"Yours truly...."

"I'll sign." And the shaky letters closed the page:

"SYLVANUS HEYTHORP."

"Post that as you go."

"Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"Nothing, except to let me know if you hear from this fellow."

When the secretary had gone the old man thought: 'So! The ruffian hasn't

called the meeting yet. That'll bring him round here fast enough if it's

his money he wants-blackmailing scoundrel!'

"Mr. Pillin, sir; and will you wait lunch, or will you have it in the

dining-room?"

"In the dining-room."

At sight of that death's-head of a fellow, old Heythorp felt a sort of

pity. He looked bad enough already--and this news would make him look

worse. Joe Pillin glanced round at the two closed doors.

"How are you, Sylvanus? I'm very poorly." He came closer, and lowered

his voice: "Why did you get me to make that settlement? I must have been

mad. I've had a man called Ventnor--I didn't like his manner. He asked

me if I knew a Mrs. Larne."

"Ha! What did you say?"

"What could I say? I don't know her. But why did he ask?"

"Smells a rat."

Joe Pillin grasped the edge of the table with both hands.

"Oh!" he murmured. "Oh! don't say that!"

Old Heythorp held out to him the crumpled letter.

When he had read it Joe Pillin sat down abruptly before the fire.

"Pull yourself together, Joe; they can't touch you, and they can't upset

either the purchase or the settlement. They can upset me, that's all."

Joe Pillin answered, with trembling lips:

"How you can sit there, and look the same as ever! Are you sure they

can't touch me?"

Old Heyworth nodded grimly.

"They talk of an Act, but they haven't passed it yet. They might prove a

breach of trust against me. But I'll diddle them. Keep your pecker up,

and get off abroad."

"Yes, yes. I must. I'm very bad. I was going to-morrow. But I don't

know, I'm sure, with this hanging over me. My son knowing her makes it

worse. He picks up with everybody. He knows this man Ventnor too. And

I daren't say anything to Bob. What are you thinking of, Sylvanus? You

look very funny!"

Old Heythorp seemed to rouse himself from a sort of coma.

"I want my lunch," he said. "Will you stop and have some?"

Joe Pillin stammered out:

"Lunch! I don't know when I shall eat again. What are you going to do,

Sylvanus?"

"Bluff the beggar out of it."

"But suppose you can't?"

"Buy him off. He's one--of my creditors."

Joe Pillin stared at him afresh. "You always had such nerve," he said

yearningly. "Do you ever wake up between two and four? I do--and

everything's black."

"Put a good stiff nightcap on, my boy, before going to bed."

"Yes; I sometimes wish I was less temperate. But I couldn't stand it.

I'm told your doctor forbids you alcohol."

"He does. That's why I drink it."

Joe Pillin, brooding over the fire, said: "This meeting--d'you think they

mean to have it? D'you think this man really knows? If my name gets

into the newspapers--" but encountering his old friend's deep little

eyes, he stopped. "So you advise me to get off to-morrow, then?"

Old Heythorp nodded.

"Your lunch is served, sir."

Joe Pillin started violently, and rose.

"Well, good-bye, Sylvanus-good-bye! I don't suppose I shall be back till

the summer, if I ever come back!" He sank his voice: "I shall rely on

you. You won't let them, will you?"

Old Heythorp lifted his hand, and Joe Pillin put into that swollen

shaking paw his pale and spindly fingers. "I wish I had your pluck," he

said sadly. "Good-bye, Sylvanus," and turning, he passed out.

Old Heythorp thought: 'Poor shaky chap. All to pieces at the first

shot!' And, going to his lunch, ate more heavily than usual.

2

Mr. Ventnor, on reaching his office and opening his letters, found, as he

had anticipated, one from "that old rascal." Its contents excited in him

the need to know his own mind. Fortunately this was not complicated by a

sense of dignity--he only had to consider the position with an eye on not

being made to look a fool. The point was simply whether he set more

store by his money than by his desire for--er--Justice. If not, he had

merely to convene the special meeting, and lay before it the plain fact

that Mr. Joseph Pillin, selling his ships for sixty thousand pounds, had

just made a settlement of six thousand pounds on a lady whom he did not

know, a daughter, ward, or what-not--of the purchasing company's

chairman, who had said, moreover, at the general meeting, that he stood

or fell by the transaction; he had merely to do this, and demand that an

explanation be required from the old man of such a startling coincidence.

Convinced that no explanation would hold water, he felt sure that his

action would be at once followed by the collapse, if nothing more, of

that old image, and the infliction of a nasty slur on old Pillin and his

hopeful son. On the other hand, three hundred pounds was money; and, if

old Heythorp were to say to him: "What do you want to make this fuss

for--here's what I owe you!" could a man of business and the world let

his sense of justice--however he might itch to have it satisfied--stand

in the way of what was after all also his sense of Justice?--for this

money had been owing to him for the deuce of along time. In this

dilemma, the words:

"My solicitors will be instructed" were of notable service in helping him

to form a decision, for he had a certain dislike of other solicitors, and

an intimate knowledge of the law of libel and slander; if by any remote

chance there should be a slip between the cup and the lip, Charles

Ventnor might be in the soup--a position which he deprecated both by

nature and profession. High thinking, therefore, decided him at last to

answer thus:

"February 19th, 1905.

"SIR,--I have received your note. I think it may be fair, before taking

further steps in this matter, to ask you for a personal explanation of

the circumstances to which I alluded. I therefore propose with your

permission to call on you at your private residence at five o'clock

to-morrow afternoon.

"Yours faithfully,

"CHARLES VENTNOR.

"SYLVANUS HEYTHORP, Esq."

Having sent this missive, and arranged in his mind the damning, if

circumstantial, evidence he had accumulated, he awaited the hour with

confidence, for his nature was not lacking in the cock-surety of a

Briton. All the same, he dressed himself particularly well that morning,

putting on a blue and white striped waistcoat which, with a

cream-coloured tie, set off his fulvous whiskers and full blue eyes; and

he lunched, if anything, more fully than his wont, eating a stronger

cheese and taking a glass of special Club ale. He took care to be late,

too, to show the old fellow that his coming at all was in the nature of

an act of grace. A strong scent of hyacinths greeted him in the hall;

and Mr. Ventnor, who was an amateur of flowers, stopped to put his nose

into a fine bloom and think uncontrollably of Mrs. Larne. Pity! The

things one had to give up in life--fine women--one thing and another.

Pity! The thought inspired in him a timely anger; and he followed the

servant, intending to stand no nonsense from this paralytic old rascal.

The room he entered was lighted by a bright fire, and a single electric

lamp with an orange shade on a table covered by a black satin cloth.

There were heavily gleaming oil paintings on the walls, a heavy old brass

chandelier without candles, heavy dark red curtains, and an indefinable

scent of burnt acorns, coffee, cigars, and old man. He became conscious

of a candescent spot on the far side of the hearth, where the light fell

on old Heythorp's thick white hair.

"Mr. Ventnor, sir."

The candescent spot moved. A voice said: "Sit down."

Mr. Ventnor sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire; and,

finding a kind of somnolence creeping over him, pinched himself. He

wanted all his wits about him.

The old man was speaking in that extinct voice of his, and Mr. Ventnor

said rather pettishly:

"Beg pardon, I don't get you."

Old Heythorp's voice swelled with sudden force:

"Your letters are Greek to me."

"Oh! indeed, I think we can soon make them into plain English!"

"Sooner the better."

Mr. Ventnor passed through a moment of indecision. Should he lay his

cards on the table? It was not his habit, and the proceeding was

sometimes attended with risk. The knowledge, however, that he could

always take them up again, seeing there was no third person here to

testify that he had laid them down, decided him, and he said:

"Well, Mr. Heythorp, the long and short of the matter is this: Our friend

Mr. Pillin paid you a commission of ten per cent. on the sale of his

ships. Oh! yes. He settled the money, not on you, but on your relative

Mrs. Larne and her children. This, as you know, is a breach of trust on

your part."

The old man's voice: "Where did you get hold of that cock-and-bull

story?" brought him to his feet before the fire.

"It won't do, Mr. Heythorp. My witnesses are Mr. Pillin, Mrs. Larne, and

Mr. Scriven."

"What have you come here for, then--blackmail?"

Mr. Ventnor straightened his waistcoat; a rush of conscious virtue had

dyed his face.

"Oh! you take that tone," he said, "do you? You think you can ride

roughshod over everything? Well, you're very much mistaken. I advise

you to keep a civil tongue and consider your position, or I'll make a

beggar of you. I'm not sure this isn't a case for a prosecution!"

"Gammon!"

The choler in Charles Ventnor kept him silent for a moment; then he burst

out:

"Neither gammon nor spinach. You owe me three hundred pounds, you've

owed it me for years, and you have the impudence to take this attitude

with me, have you? Now, I never bluster; I say what I mean. You just

listen to me. Either you pay me what you owe me at once, or I call this

meeting and make what I know public. You'll very soon find out where you

are. And a good thing, too, for a more unscrupulous--unscrupulous---" he

paused for breath.

Occupied with his own emotion, he had not observed the change in old

Heythorp's face. The imperial on that lower lip was bristling, the

crimson of those cheeks had spread to the roots of his white hair. He

grasped the arms of his chair, trying to rise; his swollen hands

trembled; a little saliva escaped one corner of his lips. And the words

came out as if shaken by his teeth:

"So-so-you-you bully me!"

Conscious that the interview had suddenly passed from the phase of

negotiation, Mr. Ventnor looked hard at his opponent. He saw nothing but

a decrepit, passionate, crimson-faced old man at bay, and all the

instincts of one with everything on his side boiled up in him. The

miserable old turkey-cock--the apoplectic image! And he said:

"And you'll do no good for yourself by getting into a passion. At your

age, and in your condition, I recommend a little prudence. Now just take

my terms quietly, or you know what'll happen. I'm not to be intimidated

by any of your airs." And seeing that the old man's rage was such that

he simply could not speak, he took the opportunity of going on: "I don't

care two straws which you do--I'm out to show you who's master. If you

think in your dotage you can domineer any longer--well, you'll find two

can play at that game. Come, now, which are you going to do?"

The old man had sunk back in his chair, and only his little deep-blue

eyes seemed living. Then he moved one hand, and Mr. Ventnor saw that he

was fumbling to reach the button of an electric bell at the end of a

cord. 'I'll show him,' he thought, and stepping forward, he put it out

of reach.

Thus frustrated, the old man remained-motionless, staring up. The word

"blackmail" resumed its buzzing in Mr. Ventnor's ears. The impudence the

consummate impudence of it from this fraudulent old ruffian with one foot

in bankruptcy and one foot in the grave, if not in the dock.

"Yes," he said, "it's never too late to learn; and for once you've come

up against someone a leetle bit too much for you. Haven't you now?

You'd better cry 'Peccavi.'"

Then, in the deathly silence of the room, the moral force of his

position, and the collapse as it seemed of his opponent, awakening a

faint compunction, he took a turn over the Turkey carpet to readjust his

mind.

"You're an old man, and I don't want to be too hard on you. I'm only

showing you that you can't play fast and loose as if you were God

Almighty any longer. You've had your own way too many years. And now

you can't have it, see!" Then, as the old man again moved forward in his

chair, he added: "Now, don't get into a passion again; calm yourself,

because I warn you--this is your last chance. I'm a man of my word; and

what I say, I do."

By a violent and unsuspected effort the old man jerked himself up and

reached the bell. Mr. Ventnor heard it ring, and said sharply:

"Mind you, it's nothing to me which you do. I came for your own good.

Please yourself. Well?"

He was answered by the click of the door and the old man's husky voice:

"Show this hound out! And then come back!"

Mr. Ventnor had presence of mind enough not to shake his fist. Muttering:

"Very well, Mr. Heythorp! Ah! Very well!" he moved with dignity to the

door. The careful shepherding of the servant renewed the fire of his

anger. Hound! He had been called a hound!

3

After seeing Mr. Ventnor off the premises the man Meller returned to his

master, whose face looked very odd--"all patchy-like," as he put it in

the servants' hall, as though the blood driven to his head had mottled

for good the snowy whiteness of the forehead. He received the unexpected

order:

"Get me a hot bath ready, and put some pine stuff in it."

When the old man was seated there, the valet asked:

"How long shall I give you, sir?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Very good, sir."

Lying in that steaming brown fragrant liquid, old Heythorp heaved a

stertorous sigh. By losing his temper with that ill-conditioned cur he

had cooked his goose. It was done to a turn; and he was a ruined man.

If only--oh! if only he could have seized the fellow by the neck and

pitched him out of the room! To have lived to be so spoken to; to have

been unable to lift hand or foot, hardly even his voice--he would sooner

have been dead! Yes--sooner have been dead! A dumb and measureless

commotion was still at work in the recesses of that thick old body,

silver-brown in the dark water, whose steam he drew deep into his

wheezing lungs, as though for spiritual relief. To be beaten by a cur

like that! To have that common cad of a pettifogging lawyer drag him

down and kick him about; tumble a name which had stood high, in the dust!

The fellow had the power to make him a byword and a beggar! It was

incredible! But it was a fact. And to-morrow he would begin to do

it--perhaps had begun already. His tree had come down with a crash!

Eighty years-eighty good years! He regretted none of them-regretted

nothing; least of all this breach of trust which had provided for his

grandchildren--one of the best things he had ever done. The fellow was a

cowardly hound, too! The way he had snatched the bell-pull out of his

reach-despicable cur! And a chap like that was to put "paid" to the

account of Sylvanus Heythorp, to "scratch" him out of life--so near the

end of everything, the very end! His hand raised above the surface fell

back on his stomach through the dark water, and a bubble or two rose. Not

so fast--not so fast! He had but to slip down a foot, let the water

close over his head, and "Good-bye" to Master Ventnor's triumph Dead men

could not be kicked off the Boards of Companies. Dead men could not be

beggared, deprived of their independence. He smiled and stirred a little

in the bath till the water reached the white hairs on his lower lip. It

smelt nice! And he took a long sniff: He had had a good life, a good

life! And with the thought that he had it in his power at any moment to

put Master Ventnor's nose out of joint--to beat the beggar after all, a

sense of assuagement and well-being crept over him. His blood ran more

evenly again. He closed his eyes. They talked about an

after-life--people like that holy woman. Gammon! You went to sleep--a

long sleep; no dreams. A nap after dinner! Dinner! His tongue sought

his palate! Yes! he could eat a good dinner! That dog hadn't put him

off his stroke! The best dinner he had ever eaten was the one he gave to

Jack Herring, Chichester, Thornworthy, Nick Treffry and Jolyon Forsyte at

Pole's. Good Lord! In 'sixty--yes--'sixty-five? Just before he fell in

love with Alice Larne--ten years before he came to Liverpool. That was a

dinner! Cost twenty-four pounds for the six of them--and Forsyte an

absurdly moderate fellow. Only Nick Treff'ry and himself had been

three-bottle men! Dead! Every jack man of them. And suddenly he

thought: 'My name's a good one--I was never down before--never beaten!'

A voice above the steam said:

"The twenty minutes is up, sir."

"All right; I'll get out. Evening clothes."

And Meller, taking out dress suit and shirt, thought: 'Now, what does the

old bloomer want dressin' up again for; why can't he go to bed and have

his dinner there? When a man's like a baby, the cradle's the place for

him.'....

An hour later, at the scene of his encounter with Mr. Ventnor, where the

table was already laid for dinner, old Heythorp stood and gazed. The

curtains had been drawn back, the window thrown open to air the room, and

he could see out there the shapes of the dark trees and a sky

grape-coloured, in the mild, moist night. It smelt good. A sensuous

feeling stirred in him, warm from his bath, clothed from head to foot in

fresh garments. Deuce of a time since he had dined in full fig! He

would have liked a woman dining opposite--but not the holy woman; no, by

George!--would have liked to see light falling on a woman's shoulders

once again, and a pair of bright eyes! He crossed, snail-like, towards

the fire. There that bullying fellow had stood with his back to

it--confound his impudence!--as if the place belonged to him. And

suddenly he had a vision of his three secretaries' faces--especially

young Farney's as they would look, when the pack got him by the throat

and pulled him down. His co-directors, too! Old Heythorp! How are the

mighty fallen! And that hound jubilant!

His valet passed across the room to shut the window and draw the

curtains. This chap too! The day he could no longer pay his wages, and

had lost the power to say "Shan't want your services any more"--when he

could no longer even pay his doctor for doing his best to kill him off!

Power, interest, independence, all--gone! To be dressed and undressed,

given pap, like a baby in arms, served as they chose to serve him, and

wished out of the way--broken, dishonoured!

By money alone an old man had his being! Meat, drink, movement, breath!

When all his money was gone the holy woman would let him know it fast

enough. They would all let him know it; or if they didn't, it would be

out of pity! He had never been pitied yet--thank God! And he said:

"Get me up a bottle of Perrier Jouet. What's the menu?"

"Germane soup, sir; filly de sole; sweetbread; cutlet soubees, rum

souffly."

"Tell her to give me a hors d'oeuvre, and put on a savoury."

"Yes, sir."