JOAN HARTLEY’S ideas of London, gathered from books and illustrated
papers, were those of a town to which her uncle and aunt were utter
strangers. Mr. William Carr knew Cornhill and the adjacent district
thoroughly, and thirty or forty years before had made periodical
descents upon the West-end. He left home at half-past eight every
morning and returned every evening at five minutes to six, except on
Saturdays, when he returned at ten minutes past three, and spent his
half holiday in the dining-room reading an early edition of the evening
paper. Any paragraphs relating to Royalty were read aloud to his wife,
who knew not only all the members of the English Royal Family by name,
but also those dignitaries abroad who had the happiness to be connected
with it in marriage. She could in all probability have given the King
himself much useful information as to the ages and fourth and fifth
Christian names of some of the later and more remote members of his
family.
Her day was as regular and methodical as her husband’s. The morning was
devoted to assisting and superintending the general servant for the time
being; after dinner, at one o’clock, she retired upstairs to dress and
went down to the shops to make a few purchases, returning in good time
to give her husband tea. The early part of the evening was devoted to
waiting for supper; the latter part to waiting for bed.
During the first week of Joan’s visit an agreeable thrill was
communicated to the household by preparations for an evening, or perhaps
an afternoon and evening, in town. The event came off—in the third week
of her stay—on a wet Thursday afternoon. Mrs. Carr and Joan got wet
walking to the omnibus, and wetter still waiting at one corner of the
Bank of England for Mr. Carr, who was getting wet at another.
Mr. Carr, who was in holiday attire, was smoking a large cigar in honour
of the occasion, which he extinguished upon entering an omnibus and
re-lighted at the Zoological Gardens. By the aid of careful manipulation
and the rain it lasted him until evening. They wound up an eventful day
at a theatre, and Mr. Carr, being anxious to do the thing well, took
them all the way home in a four-wheeler. A little sum in mental
arithmetic, which he worked on the way and submitted to the cabman at
the end of the journey, was found to be wrong.
The outing was not repeated. Mrs. Carr went about for a day or two with
the air of one who had returned from a long and fatiguing expedition;
and her husband, when he returned from business the day following and
changed into his slippers, paid such a warm tribute to the joys and
comforts of home that his niece abandoned all ideas of any further
jaunts. Wearied by the dulness and the monotony of the streets, she
began to count the days till her return. Her father’s letters made no
mention of it; but the Salthaven news in them only increased her
eagerness.
She returned one day from a solitary ramble on Hampstead Heath to find
that Salthaven, or a whiff of it, had come to her. A deep voice, too
well known to be mistaken, fell on her ears as she entered the front
door, and hastening to the drawing-room she found her aunt entertaining
Captain Trimblett to afternoon tea. One large hand balanced a cup and
saucer; the other held a plate. His method of putting both articles in
one hand while he ate or drank might have excited the envy of a
practised juggler. When Joan entered the room she found her aunt, with
her eyes riveted on a piece of the captain’s buttered toast that was
lying face downward on the carpet, carrying on a disjointed
conversation.
“I just looked in,” said the captain, as Joan almost embraced him. “Mind
the tea!”
“Looked in?” echoed Joan.
“One tram, three buses—one of ’em a mistake—and my own legs,” said the
captain. “I had no idea it was so far.”
“People have no idea how far out we really are,” said Mrs. Carr, looking
round with a satisfied smile. “I’ve noticed it before. Did you find the
air different, Captain Trimblett?”
“Very,” said the captain with a sudden gasp, as he caught sight of the
piece of toast. “Very fine air. Very fine. Very—quite strong.”
He shifted his feet restlessly and the toast disappeared. For a moment
Mrs. Carr thought that the floor had opened and swallowed it up.
Realizing that the day of useful miracles had passed, she gazed fixedly
at his left foot.
“Well,” said the captain, turning a relieved face to Joan, “how is the
round of gayety? Are you tired of being a butterfly yet? I suppose after
this Salthaven won’t be good enough for you?”
“There’s nothing like life for young people,” said Mrs. Carr. “Give them
plenty of life and that’s all they want.”
Miss Hartley, whose back was toward her aunt, made a grimace.
“It’s very natural,” said the captain.
Miss Hartley made a further effort—one that she had relinquished at the
age of ten—but the captain, intent upon a bite, missed it.
“In my young days all I thought of was gadding about,” said Mrs. Carr,
smiling. “I wasn’t very strong either; it was just my spirits kept me
up. But I used to suffer for it afterward.”
“We all do,” said the captain, politely.
By a feat of absolute legerdemain he took out his handkerchief and
brushed some crumbs from his beard. His cup slid to the edge of the
saucer and peeped over, but, throwing the spoon overboard, righted
itself just in time. Somewhat pleased with himself he replaced the
handkerchief and, drinking the remainder of his tea, thankfully handed
the crockery to Joan. After which, with a mind relieved, he sat and spun
his marvelling hostess a few tales of the sea.
He left under plea of business, before Mr. Carr’s return, and with a
reference to the family likeness obtaining between omnibuses, asked Joan
to see him safe aboard. He accompanied the request with such a
distortion of visage that she rightly concluded that he wished for an
opportunity to speak to her alone.
“You’re looking better,” he said, when they got outside. “A year or two
in London will be the making of you.”
“A year or two!” echoed the startled Joan. “I’ve had quite enough of it
already, thank you. I’ve never been so dull.”
“You haven’t got used to the change yet,” said the captain, indulgently.
“That’s natural; but in another month I expect you’ll have quite a
different tale to tell.”
“I am going home next weak,” said Miss Hartley, in a decided voice.
Captain Trimblett coughed.
“Why shouldn’t I?” inquired the girl, in reply.
The captain coughed again.
“I should think the Carrs would be glad to have you,” he replied,
becoming suddenly busy with his handkerchief, “especially as they have
got no children. And a year or two with them in town would give you a—a
sort of finish.”
“You have heard something from my father?” exclaimed Joan, turning on
him.
“He—he wrote,” said the captain.
“Did he suggest my staying here?”
“No,” said the captain, putting his handkerchief away with great care.
“No, I can’t say he did. But he has had another interview with Mr. John
Vyner, and it seems that the old gentleman is quite taking it for
granted that you have left Salthaven for good. He was quite genial to
your father.”
“Did father undeceive him?” inquired the girl.
“He didn’t say,” rejoined the other. “My idea is he didn’t; but it’s
only my idea, mind.”
For some time Miss Hartley walked on in disdainful silence. She broke it
at last in favour of Mr. Vyner, senior.
“Talking won’t alter facts, though,” said the admiring captain, shaking
his head.
The girl paid no heed.
“Now, if you only stayed here for a little while,” said the captain,
persuasively, “say a couple of years, no doubt things would right
themselves. Anything might happen in two years. Mind, it’s not your
father’s idea, it’s mine. I’d do anything for him; he has done me many a
good turn in his time, and I want to pay him back.”
Miss Hartley, softening somewhat, thanked him.
“And what is two years at your time of life?” continued the captain,
brightly. “Nothing. Why, I’m going away for that time as a matter of
course.”
“I want to go home,” said Joan. “I feel that I can’t breathe in this
dreary place. You wouldn’t like me to die, would you?”
“Certainly not,” said the captain, promptly.
“You would sooner die yourself, wouldn’t you?” said Joan, with a sly
glance at him.
The captain said “Yes,” with all the comfortable assurance of a healthy
man living in a civilized country. Then he started as Miss Hartley
turned suddenly and pinched his arm.
“Eh?” cried the captain, rubbing it.
“I don’t want you to die for me,” said Joan with a little laugh, “but I
was thinking over things the other day, and I got an idea of how you
could help me if you would. I gave it up, however. I felt sure you
wouldn’t do it, but if you say you would die for me—”
“When I said ’die’—” began the captain, uneasily.
“I’m not going to ask you to do anything as dreadful as that,” continued
Joan; “at least, I don’t think it is; but the beauty of it is it is
something you can do. I am going back to Salthaven, but to make
everybody comfortable and happy I thought of going back under a new
name. That’s the idea.”
“New name?” repeated the puzzled captain.
Joan nodded and turned a somewhat flushed face in his direction.
“A new name,” she repeated. “My father will be left undisturbed, Mr.
John Vyner will be satisfied, and Mr. Robert—”
“Yes?” said the captain, after a pause.
“Nothing,” said the girl.
“But I don’t understand,” said the captain, “What good will changing
your name do?”
“Wait till you hear it,” retorted the girl, with an amused glance at
him.
“I am waiting,” said the other, somewhat shortly.
“You’ll see at once when I tell you,” said Joan; “and I’m sure you won’t
mind. I am going back to Salthaven under the name of Mrs. Trimblett.”
The captain stopped suddenly in his stride, and with a bewildered air
strove to rally his disordered faculties. Alarm and consternation choked
his utterance.
“Poor dear!” said Joan, with another giggle. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s the
best thing that could happen to you; it will prevent all other attempts
on your freedom.”
“I can take a joke,” said the captain, finding his speech at last; “I
can take a joke as well as most men, but this is going a trifle too
far.”
“But I’m not joking,” said the girl. “I’m going back as Mrs. Trimblett;
I am, indeed. Don’t look so frightened; I’m not going to marry you,
really. Only pretend, as the children say.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” exclaimed the astonished
captain.
“Putting aside your feelings—and mine,” said Joan, “it’s a good thing
for everybody else, isn’t it? We mustn’t consider ourselves—that would
be selfish.”
The captain shook his head in angry amazement.
“I suppose, when you said just now that you would do anything for
father, you didn’t mean it, then?” said Joan. “And when you said you’d
die for me, you—”
“I tell you,” interrupted the captain, violently, “it’s impossible. I
never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s quite possible,” declared the girl. “I shall go back home, and you
must get back to Salthaven just in time to sail. Mr. Vyner will be so
pleased at the news, he will let you stay away as long as you like, I am
sure.”
“And what about when I come back?” demanded the captain.
“When you come back,” said Joan, slowly—“just before, in fact—I shall
tell the truth and give people to understand that I did it to oblige
you—to prevent somebody else marrying you against your will.”
“Oh!” said the captain, struggling nobly with his feelings. “Oh, you
will!”
“To-morrow,” continued Joan, “I will buy the wedding-ring. I know that
that ought to be your business, but I’ll get it, because I know where I
can get one cheap. I saw some the other day. Rolled gold they are
called. Eighteenpence each.”
The captain choked.
“Have you considered,” he said, loftily, as soon as he was capable of
speech, “that it would be a lie?”
Joan nodded, carelessly.
“A lie!” repeated Captain Trimblett, in a thrilling voice.
“Yes,” said Joan. “I remember I heard you tell father once that if you
had a sovereign for every lie you had told you would be able to give up
the sea. So you had better do it. You can do it better than I can.”
Captain Trimblett threw his hands apart with a sudden supreme gesture.
“I won’t listen to another word!” he said, hotly. “I should never hear
the end of it. Where are those omnibuses?”
“We are not near them yet,” was the reply. “We have been walking away
from them. When you have listened to reason I will take you to them.”
The captain closed his lips obstinately. He would have closed his ears,
too, if he could, but, unable to do that, quickened his pace in a
forlorn attempt to outdistance her. She plied him with arguments and
entreaties, but in vain. He was immovable. Finally, in a trembling
voice, she said that it didn’t matter, and apologized for troubling him
with her concerns.
“I would do anything in reason, my dear,” said the mollified captain.
“It doesn’t matter,” repeated the girl.
“It’s quite impossible,” said the captain, gently. “It’s really an
outrageous idea. You’ll see it yourself by and by.”
Miss Hartley thanked him, and taking out a handkerchief dabbed her eyes
gently and made a pathetic attempt to smile.
“Don’t say any more about it,” she pleaded. “I have no doubt you are
right. Only when you said you would do anything for us I—I thought you
meant it. I see how uncomfortable it might be for you. I ought to have
thought of that before.”
The unfortunate captain turned crimson, but, glancing at the spectacle
of resignation by his side, managed to keep his temper under restraint.
“I’m not thinking of myself at all,” he growled.
“Perhaps you are without knowing it,” suggested Miss Hartley, in a voice
free from all trace of personal feeling. “I thought that you would have
done a little thing like that for me—and father. I’m sorry I was
mistaken. However, I shall go back to Salthaven in any case.”
She dabbed a perfectly dry eye again, and watched the captain closely
with the other.
“I suppose there will be trouble,” she continued, meditatively; “still,
that will be your fault. I have done all I could do.”
She walked on in pained silence and paid no heed to the explanations and
arguments by which the captain sought to justify his refusal. He began
to get confused and rambling in his defence, and finally, to terminate
an embarrassing interview, grunted out something about thinking it over.
A moment later a radiant and admiring young woman was flattering him up
to the skies.
“Mind, I only said I would think it over,” said the captain, regarding
her indignantly.
“Of course,” said Joan, “I quite understand that; and you will write and
break the news to father, won’t you?”
“No, I’m hanged if I do,” answered the captain.
“Never mind, then; I’ll do it,” said the girl, hastily. “I shall just
write and tell him that I have changed my name to Trimblett. People have
a right to change their name if they like. Lots of them do it. Make
haste, you’ll lose your omnibus. I shall never forget your
kindness—never.”
“Mind!” panted the captain, as she hurried him along, “it—isn’t—settled.
I am only going to think it over.”
“I don’t know what we should have done without you,” continued Joan.
“There isn’t another man in the world would be so kind, I am sure. If
you were only thirty or forty years younger I would marry you in
reality.”
“Mind!” said the captain, grasping the rail of the omnibus and pausing
with his foot on the step, “I haven’t—promised.”
“I’ll write and tell you when I’ve done it,” said Joan. “I’ll take all
the responsibility. Good-by! Good-by!”
The conductor hoisted him aboard and he slowly mounted the stairs. He
paused at the top to wave a feeble hand, and then, subsiding heavily
into a seat, sat thinking out a long and polite letter of refusal.