JOAN HARTLEY did not realize the full consequences of her departure from
the truth until the actual arrival of the Trimblett family, which,
piloted by Mr. Hartley, made a triumphant appearance in a couple of
station cabs. The roofs were piled high with luggage, and the leading
cabman shared his seat with a brass-bound trunk of huge dimensions and
extremely sharp corners.
A short, sturdy girl of seventeen jumped out as soon as the vehicles
came to a halt, and, taking her stand on the curb, proceeded to
superintend the unloading. A succession of hasty directions to the
leading cabman, one of the most docile of men, ended in the performance
of a marvellous piece of jugglery with the big trunk, which he first
balanced for an infinitesimal period of time on his nose, and then
caught with his big toe.
“What did you do that for?” demanded Miss Trimblett, hotly.
There is a limit to the patience of every man, and the cabman was
proceeding to tell her when he was checked by Mr. Hartley.
“He ought to be locked up,” said Miss Trimblett flushing.
She took up a band-box and joined the laden procession of boys and girls
that was proceeding up the path to the house. Still red with indignation
she was introduced to Joan, and, putting down the band-box, stood eying
her with frank curiosity.
“I thought you were older,” she said at last. “I had no idea father was
married again until I got the letter. I shall call you Joan.”
“You had all better call me that,” said Miss Hartley, hastily.
“Never more surprised in my life,” continued Miss Trimblett. “However—”
She paused and looked about her.
“This is George,” she said, pulling forward a heavy-looking youth of
sixteen. “This is Ted; he is fourteen—small for his age—and these are
the twins, Dolly and Gertrude; they’re eleven. Dolly has got red hair
and Gerty has got the sweetest temper.”
The family, having been introduced and then summarily dismissed by the
arbitrary Jessie, set out on a tour of inspection, while the elders,
proceeding upstairs, set themselves to solve a problem in sleeping
accommodation that would have daunted the proprietor of a Margate
lodging-house. A scheme was at last arranged by which Hartley gave up
his bedroom to the three Misses Trimblett and retired to a tiny room
under the tiles. Miss Trimblett pointed out that it commanded a fine
view.
“It is the only thing to be done,” said Joan, softly.
“It isn’t very big for three,” said Miss Trimblett, referring to her own
room, “but the twins won’t be separated. I’ve always been used to a room
to myself, but I suppose it can’t be helped for the present.”
She went downstairs and walked into the garden. The other members of the
family were already there, and Hartley, watching them from the
dining-room window, raised his brows in anguish as he noticed the
partiality of the twins for cut flowers.
It was, as he soon discovered, one of the smallest of the troubles that
followed on his sudden increase of family. His taste in easy-chairs met
with the warm approval of George Trimblett, and it was clear that the
latter regarded the tobacco-jar as common property. The twins’
belongings—a joint-stock affair—occupied the most unlikely places in the
house; and their quarrels were only exceeded in offensiveness by their
noisy and uncouth endearments afterwards. Painstaking but hopeless
attempts on the part of Miss Trimblett to “teach Rosa her place” added
to the general confusion.
By the end of a month the Trimblett children were in full possession.
George Trimblett, owing to the good offices of Mr. Vyner, senior, had
obtained a berth in a shipping firm, but the others spent the days at
home, the parties most concerned being unanimously of the opinion that
it would be absurd to go to school before Christmas. They spoke with
great fluency and good feeling of making a fresh start in the New Year.
“Interesting children,” said Robert Vyner, who had dropped in one
afternoon on the pretext of seeing how they were getting on. “I wish
they were mine. I should be so proud of them.”
Miss Hartley, who was about to offer him some tea, thought better of it,
and, leaning back in her chair, regarded him suspiciously.
“And, after all, what is a garden for?” pursued Mr. Vyner, as a steady
succession of thuds sounded outside, and Ted, hotly pursued by the
twins, appeared abruptly in the front garden and dribbled a football
across the flower-beds.
“They are spoiling the garden,” said Joan, flushing. “Father is in
despair.”
Mr. Vyner shook his head indulgently. “Girls will be girls,” he said,
glancing through the window at Gertrude, who had thrown herself on the
ball and was being dragged round the garden by her heels. “I’m afraid
you spoil them, though.”
Miss Hartley did not trouble to reply.
“I saw your eldest boy yesterday, at Marling’s,” continued the
industrious Mr. Vyner. “He is getting on pretty well; Marling tells me
he is steady and quiet. I should think that he might be a great comfort
to you in your old age.”
In spite of the utmost efforts to prevent it, Miss Hartley began to
laugh. Mr. Vyner regarded her in pained astonishment.
“I didn’t intend to be humorous,” he said, with some severity. “I am
fond of children, and, unfortunately, I—I am childless.”
He buried his face in his handkerchief, and, removing it after a decent
interval, found that his indignant hostess was preparing to quit the
room.
“Don’t go,” he said, hastily. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“I haven’t got time to stay and talk nonsense,” said Joan.
“I’m not going to,” said Robert, “but I want to speak to you. I have a
confession to make.”
“Confession?”
Mr. Vyner nodded with sad acquiescence. “I deceived you grossly the
other day,” he said, “and it has been worrying me ever since.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Joan, with a lively suspicion of his meaning.
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Vyner, with solemn politeness, “if I say that it
does. I—I lied to you, and I have been miserable ever since.”
Joan waited in indignant silence.
“I told you that I was married,” said Mr. Vyner, in thrilling tones. “I
am not.”
Miss Hartley, who had seated herself, rose suddenly with a fair show of
temper. “You said you were not going to talk nonsense!” she exclaimed.
“I am not,” said the other, in surprise. “I am owning to a fault, making
a clean breast of my sins, not without a faint hope that I am setting an
example that will be beautifully and bountifully followed.”
“I have really got too much to do to stay here listening to nonsense,”
said Miss Hartley, vigorously.
“I am a proud man,” resumed Mr. Vyner, “and what it has cost me to make
this confession tongue cannot tell; but it is made, and I now, in
perfect confidence—almost perfect confidence—await yours.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Joan, pausing, with her hand on the door.
“Having repudiated my dear wife,” said Mr. Vyner, sternly, “I now ask,
nay, demand, that you repudiate Captain Trimblett—and all his works,” he
added, as ear-splitting screams sounded from outside.
“I wish——” began Joan, in a low voice.
“Yes?” said Robert, tenderly.
“That you would go.”
Mr. Vyner started, and half rose to his feet. Then he thought better of
it.
“I thought at first that you meant it,” he said, with a slight laugh.
“I do mean it,” said Joan, breathing quickly.
Robert rose at once. “I am very sorry,” he said, with grave concern. “I
did not think that you were taking my foolishness seriously.”
“I ought to be amused, I know,” said Joan, bitterly. “I ought to be
humbly grateful to your father for having those children sent here. I
ought to be flattered to think that he should remember my existence and
make plans for my future.”
“He—he believes that you are married to Captain Trimblett,” said Robert.
“Fortunately for us,” said Joan, dryly.
“Do you mean,” said Robert, regarding her fixedly, “that my father
arranged that marriage?”
Joan bit her lip. “No,” she said at last.
“He had something to do with it,” persisted Robert. “What was it?”
Joan shook her head.
“Well, I’ll ask him about it,” said Mr. Vyner.
“Please don’t,” said the girl. “It is my business.”
“You have said so much,” said Robert, “that you had better say more.
That’s what comes of losing your temper. Sit down and tell me all about
it, please.”
Joan shook her head again.
“You are not angry with me?” said Mr. Vyner.
“No.”
“That’s all right, then,” said Robert, cheerfully. “That encourages me
to go to still further lengths. You’ve got to tell me all about it. I
forgot to tell you, but I’m a real partner in the firm now. I’ve got a
hard and fast share in the profits—had it last Wednesday; since when I
have already grown two inches. In exchange for this confidence I await
yours. You must speak a little louder if you want me to hear.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said the girl.
“You are wasting time, then,” said Robert, shaking his head. “And that
eldest girl of yours may come in at any moment.”
Despite her utmost efforts Miss Hartley failed to repress a smile;
greatly encouraged, Mr. Vyner placed a chair for her and took one by her
side.
“Tell me everything, and I shall know where we are,” he said, in a low
voice.
“I would rather—” began Miss Hartley.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Mr. Vyner, with great gravity; “but we were
not put into this world to please ourselves. Try again.”
Miss Hartley endeavoured to turn the conversation, but in vain. In less
than ten minutes, with a little skilful prompting, she had told him all.
“I didn’t think that it was quite so bad as that,” said Robert, going
very red. “I am very sorry—very. I can’t think what my father was about,
and I suppose, in the first place, that it was my fault.”
“Yours?” exclaimed Joan.
“For not displaying more patience,” said Robert, slowly. “But I was
afraid of—of being forestalled.”
Miss Hartley succeeded in divesting her face of every atom of
expression. Robert Vyner gazed at her admiringly.
“I am glad that you understand me,” he murmured. “It makes things easier
for me. I don’t suppose that you have the faintest idea how shy and
sensitive I really am.”
Miss Hartley, without even troubling to look at him, said that she was
quite sure she had not.
“Nobody has,” said Robert, shaking his head, “but I am going to make a
fight against it. I am going to begin now. In the first place I want you
not to think too hardly of my father. He has been a very good father to
me. We have never had a really nasty word in our lives.”
“I hope you never will have,” said Joan, with some significance.
“I hope not,” said Robert; “but in any case I want to tell you—”
Miss Hartley snatched away the hand he had taken, and with a hasty
glance at the door retreated a pace or two from him.
“What is the matter?” he inquired, in a low voice.
Miss Hartley’s eyes sparkled.
“My eldest daughter has just come in,” she said, demurely. “I think you
had better go.”