OWING possibly to the unaccustomed exercise, but probably to more
sentimental reasons, Robert Vyner slept but poorly the night after his
labours. He had explained his absence at the dinner-table by an airy
reference to a long walk and a disquisition on the charms of the river
by evening, an explanation which both Mr. Vyner and his wife had
received with the silence it merited. It was evident that his absence
had been the subject of some comment, but his father made no reference
to it as they smoked a cigar together before retiring.
He awoke early in the morning and, after a vain attempt to get to sleep
again, rose and dressed. Nobody else was stirring, and going quietly
downstairs he took up a cap and went out.
Except for a labouring man or two tramping stolidly to work, the streets
were deserted. The craft anchored in the river seemed asleep, and he
stood for some time on the bridge idly watching the incoming tide. He
lit his pipe and then, with a feeble endeavour to feel a little surprise
at the fact, discovered that he was walking in the direction of Mr.
Hartley’s house.
His pace slackened as he neared it, and he went by gazing furtively at
the drawn blinds of the front windows. A feeling of regret that Joan
Hartley should be missing such a delightful morning would not be denied;
in imagination he saw himself strolling by her side and pointing out to
her the beauties of the most unfrequented portions of the river bank. A
sudden superstitious trust in fate—caught possibly from Captain
Trimblett—made him turn and walk slowly past the house again. With an
idea of giving fate another chance he repeated the performance. In all
he passed eight times, and was about to enter upon the ninth, when he
happened to look across the road and saw, to his annoyance, the small
figure of Bassett speeding toward him.
“He is not down yet, sir,” said Bassett, respectfully.
Mr. Vyner suppressed his choler by an effort.
“Oh!” he said, stiffly. “Well?”
Bassett drew back in confusion. “I—I saw you walk up and down several
times looking at the house, sir, and I thought it my duty to come and
tell you,” he replied.
Mr. Vyner regarded him steadfastly. “Thank you,” he said, at last. “And
how is it that you are out at such an early hour, prowling about like a
raging lion looking for its breakfast?”
“I wasn’t, sir,” said Bassett; “I shall have my breakfast when I get
home, at eight o’clock. I always get up at six; then I make sure of two
hours in the fresh air.”
“And what time do you close your eyes on the world and its vanities?”
inquired Mr. Vyner, with an appearance of great interest.
“I always go to bed as the clock strikes ten, sir,” said the youth.
“And suppose—suppose the clock should be wrong one day?” suggested the
other, “would you apprehend any lasting injury to your constitution?”
“It couldn’t be, sir,” said Bassett; “I wind it myself.”
Mr. Vyner regarded him more thoughtfully than before. “I can foresee,”
he said, slowly, “that you will grow up a great and good and wise man,
unless—”
“Yes, sir,” said Bassett, anxiously.
“Unless somebody kills you in the meantime,” concluded Mr. Vyner. “It is
not fair to tempt people beyond their strength, Bassett. Even a verdict
of ’Justifiable homicide’ might not quite ease the slayer’s conscience.”
“No, sir,” said the perplexed youth.
Mr. Vyner suddenly dropped his bantering air.
“How was it I didn’t see you?” he demanded, sternly.
“I don’t think you looked my side of the road, sir,” said Bassett. “You
were watching Mr. Hartley’s windows all the time; and, besides, I was
behind that hedge.”
He pointed to a well-trimmed privet hedge in a front garden opposite.
“Behind the hedge?” repeated the other, sharply. “What were you there
for?”
“Watching a snail, sir,” replied Bassett.
“A _what_?” inquired Mr. Vyner, raising his voice.
“A snail, sir,” repeated the youth. “I’ve got a book on natural history,
and I’ve just been reading about them. I saw this one as I was passing,
and I went inside to study its habits. They are very interesting little
things to watch—very.”
Fortified by the approval of a conscience that never found fault, he met
the searchlight gaze that the junior partner turned upon him without
flinching. Quite calm, although somewhat puzzled by the other’s manner,
he stood awaiting his pleasure.
“Yes,” said Robert Vyner, at last; “very interesting indeed, I should
think; but you have forgotten one thing, Bassett. When secreted behind a
hedge watching one of these diverting little—er——”
“Gasteropodous molluscs, sir,” interjected Bassett, respectfully.
“Exactly,” said the other. “Just the word I was trying to think of. When
behind a hedge watching them it is always advisable to whistle as loudly
and as clearly as you can.”
“I never heard that, sir,” said Bassett, more and more perplexed. “It’s
not in my book, but I remember once reading, when I was at school, that
spiders are sometimes attracted by the sound of a flute.”
“A flute would do,” said Mr. Vyner, still watching him closely; “but a
cornet would be better still. Good-morning.”
He left Bassett gazing after him round-eyed, and, carefully refraining
from looking at Hartley’s windows, walked on at a smart pace. As he
walked he began to wish that he had not talked so much; a vision of
Bassett retailing the conversation of the morning to longer heads than
his own in the office recurring to him with tiresome persistency. And,
on the other hand, he regretted that he had not crossed the road and
made sure that there was a snail.
Busy with his thoughts he tramped on mechanically, until, pausing on a
piece of high ground to admire the view, he was surprised to see that
the town lay so far behind. At the same time sudden urgent promptings
from within bore eloquent testimony to the virtues of early rising and
exercise as aids to appetite. With ready obedience he began to retrace
his steps.
The business of the day was just beginning as he entered the outskirts
of the town again. Blinds were drawn aside and maid-servants busy at
front doors. By the time he drew near Laurel Lodge—the name was the
choice of a former tenant—the work of the day had begun in real earnest.
Instinctively slackening his pace, he went by the house with his eyes
fastened on the hedge opposite, being so intent on what might, perhaps,
be described as a visual alibi for Bassett’s benefit, in case the lad
still happened to be there, that he almost failed to notice that Hartley
was busy in his front garden and that Joan was standing by him. He
stopped short and bade them “Good-morning.”
Mr. Hartley dropped his tools and hastened to the gate. “Good-morning,”
he said, nervously; “I hope that there is nothing wrong. I went a little
way to try and find you.”
“Find me?” echoed Mr. Vyner, reddening, as a suspicion of the truth
occurred to him.
“Bassett told me that you had been walking up and down waiting to see
me,” continued Hartley.
“I dressed as fast as I could, but by that time you were out of sight.”
Facial contortions, in sympathy with the epithets he was mentally
heaping upon the head of Bassett, disturbed for a moment the serenity of
Mr. Vyner’s countenance. A rapid glance at Miss Hartley helped him to
regain his composure.
“I don’t know why the boy should have been so officious,” he said,
slowly; “I didn’t want to see you. I certainly passed the house on my
way. Oh, yes, and then I thought of going back—I did go a little way
back—then I altered my mind again. I suppose I must have passed three
times.”
“I was afraid there was something wrong,” said Hartley. “I am very glad
it is all right. I’ll give that lad a talking to. He knocked us all up
and said that you had been walking up and down for twenty-three
minutes.”
The generous colour in Mr. Vyner’s cheeks was suddenly reflected in Miss
Hartley’s. Their eyes met, and, feeling exceedingly foolish, he resolved
to put a bold face on the matter.
“Bassett is unendurable,” he said, with a faint laugh, “and I suspect
his watch. Still, I must admit that I did look out for you, because I
thought if you were stirring I should like to come in and see what sort
of a mess I made last night. Was it very bad?”
“N-no,” said Hartley; “no; it perhaps requires a little attention. Half
an hour or so will put it right.”
“I should like to see my handiwork by daylight,” said Robert.
Hartley opened the garden-gate and admitted him, and all three, passing
down the garden, stood gravely inspecting the previous night’s
performance. It is to be recorded to Mr. Vyner’s credit that he coughed
disparagingly as he eyed it.
“Father says that they only want taking up and replanting,” said Joan,
softly, “and the footmarks raked over, and the mould cleared away from
the path. Except for that your assistance was invaluable.”
“I—I didn’t quite say that,” said Hartley, mildly.
“You ought to have, then,” said Robert, severely. “I had no idea it was
so bad. You’ll have to give me some lessons and see whether I do better
next time. Or perhaps Miss Hartley will; she seems to be all right, so
far as the theory of the thing goes.”
Hartley smiled uneasily, and to avoid replying, moved off a little way
and became busy over a rosebush.
“Will you?” inquired Mr. Vyner, very softly. “I believe that I could
learn better from you than from anybody; I should take more interest in
the work. One wants sympathy from a teacher.”
Miss Hartley shook her head. “You had better try a three months’ course
at Dale’s Nurseries,” she said, with a smile. “You would get more
sympathy from them than from me.”
“I would sooner learn from you,” persisted Robert.
“I could teach you all I know in half an hour,” said the girl.
Mr. Vyner drew a little nearer to her. “You overestimate my powers,” he
said, in a low voice. “You have no idea how dull I can be; I am sure it
would take at least six months.”
“That settles it, then,” said Joan. “I shouldn’t like a dull pupil.”
Mr. Vyner drew a little nearer still. “Perhaps—perhaps ’dull’ isn’t
quite the word,” he said, musingly.
“It’s not the word I should—” began Joan, and stopped suddenly.
“Thank you,” murmured Mr. Vyner. “It’s nice to be understood. What word
would you use?”
Miss Hartley, apparently interested in her father’s movements, made no
reply.
“Painstaking?” suggested Mr. Vyner; “assiduous? attentive? devoted?”
Miss Hartley, walking toward the house, affected not to hear. A
fragrant smell of coffee, delicately blended with odour of grilled
bacon, came from the open door and turned his thoughts to more mundane
things. Mr. Hartley joined them just as the figure of Rosa appeared at
the door. “Breakfast is quite ready, miss,” she announced.
She stood looking at them, and Mr. Vyner noticed an odd, strained
appearance about her left eye which he attributed to a cast. A closer
inspection made him almost certain that she was doing her best to wink.
“I laid for three, miss,” she said, with great simplicity. “You didn’t
say whether the gentleman was going to stop or not; and there’s no harm
done if he don’t.”
Mr. Hartley started, and in a confused fashion murmured something that
sounded like an invitation; Mr. Vyner, in return murmuring something
about “goodness” and “not troubling them,” promptly followed Joan
through the French windows of the small dining-room.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” he said, heartily, as he seated himself
opposite his host; “as a matter of fact I’m half famished.”
He made a breakfast which bore ample witness to the truth of his
statement; a meal with long intervals of conversation. To Hartley, who
usually breakfasted in a quarter of an hour, and was anxious to start
for the office, it became tedious in the extreme, and his eyes
repeatedly sought the clock. He almost sighed with relief as the visitor
took the last piece of toast in the rack, only to be plunged again into
depression as his daughter rang the bell for more. Unable to endure it
any longer he rose and, murmuring something about getting ready, quitted
the room.
“I’m afraid I’m delaying things,” remarked Mr. Vyner, looking after him
apologetically.
Miss Hartley said, “Not at all,” and, as a mere piece of convention,
considering that he had already had four cups, offered him some more
coffee. To her surprise he at once passed his cup up. She looked at the
coffee-pot and for a moment thought enviously of the widow’s cruse.
“Only a little, please,” he said. “I want it for a toast.”
“A toast?” said the girl.
Mr. Vyner nodded mysteriously. “It is a solemn duty,” he said,
impressively, “and I want you to drink it with me. Are you ready?
’Bassett, the best of boys!’”
Joan Hartley, looking rather puzzled, laughed, and put the cup to her
lips. Robert Vyner put his cup down and regarded her intently.
“Do you know why we drank his health?” he inquired.
“No.”
“Because,” said Robert, pausing for a moment to steady his voice,
“because, if it hadn’t been for his officiousness, I should not be
sitting here with you.”
He leaned toward her. “Do you wish that you had not drunk it?” he asked.
Joan Hartley raised her eyes and looked at him so gravely that the
mischief, with which he was trying to disguise his nervousness, died out
of his face and left it as serious as her own. For a moment her eyes,
clear and truthful, met his.
“No,” she said, in a low voice.
And at that moment Rosa burst into the room with two pieces of scorched
bread and placed them upon the table. Unasked, she proffered evidence on
her own behalf, and with great relish divided the blame between the coal
merchant, the baker, and the stove. Mr. Hartley entered the room before
she had done herself full justice, and Vyner, obeying a glance from
Joan, rose to depart.