IILunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household. The girl's father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable, white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child. Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless. And once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. The instant decisions, the constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life—and then, this. Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity. It struck Charles Hewson that he wouldn't object to being a vegetable for a while. He was tired, and he realized it for the first time. The last year had tried even him.It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was over."Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a bit? I've fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest.""You look tired," she answered, kindly. "And this is a wonderful place for a rest cure. But I'm afraid the inn is a long way off. If you care to"—she paused for a moment—"we could put you up for a few days.""I think you're the kindest people I've ever met," said Hewson, and for a moment his eyes ceased to look tired. "And I warn you I'm not going to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer.""You'll find it very dull," warned the girl.He laughed as he rose from the table. "I'm open to a small bet that you'll have to drive me away. I shall become a fixture about the house."He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while drinking in the homeliness of it all. That was what it was—homely; and in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a restaurant."I don't know if you're any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host, "but we've got some nice bits here and in my study.""One step from that to postage-stamps," laughed the girl. "You've got to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don't forget. I'll come and rescue you in half an hour or so."He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he followed the old man into his study."Are you interested in philately, by any chance?" inquired Mr. Crossley, eagerly.Hewson shook his head. "I'm afraid I know nothing about it," he answered. "I was once commissioned by a young nephew to send him all the stamps I could find which had pretty pictures on them. You know, harbours, and mountains, and elephants. I found them in all sorts of outlandish places when I was going round the world." He gave one of his quick smiles. "But I'm afraid that is the extent of my knowledge.""The schoolboy collection." The other waved a tolerant hand. "Now I'm sure that that would have bored him."With reverent hands he lifted a card and handed it to Hewson. "Look at that, sir; look at that. The complete set of New Brunswick—the first issue, unused."Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten somewhat blotchy pieces of paper, and refrained from heretical utterance. To his Philistine eye the set he had bought in Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and toucans were infinitely more pleasing."Valuable, I suppose?" he hazarded.The other waved a deprecating hand. "Several hundred—if I chose to sell. Mercifully," he went on after a little pause, "it wasn't necessary."For a second Hewson's shrewd eyes were fixed on him; then he resumed his study of the rarities. Money trouble, was there?"Now this was unique—this set." His host was looking regretfully at another card. "Mauritius. And then I had to dispose of the penny orange-red. Worth the better part of a thousand pounds alone." He laid down the card. "Oh! I do hope I shall be able to get it back. I sold it to a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at the time that I should want to buy it back again. That was a month ago, and I thought I should have been able to by now."Once again Hewson's keen eyes were fixed on the other."Expecting a legacy?" he remarked, casually."A legacy! Oh! no!" The old man smiled. "But I had a very wonderful chance, given me by an acquaintance, of doubling my small capital." For a moment Hewson stopped smoking: chances of doubling capital are not handed round as a rule by acquaintances. "And I seem to have done it," continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing his hands together. "I seem to have turned my five thousand pounds into ten. In a month. Isn't it wonderful?""Very," commented the other. "Have you got the money?""No: that's what I can't understand. I suppose it must be something to do with settling day—or whatever they call it." He beamed at his listener. "I'm afraid I'm very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson, but it seems almost too good to be true. I wanted the extra money so much—to give my little girl a better time. It's dull for her here, though she never complains. And if only I could get it now, I could buy back that penny Mauritius, and invest the other nine thousand." In his excitement he walked up and down the room, while his listener stared fixedly at a number of blotchy pieces of paper on a card. "Do you know anything about stocks and shares, Mr. Hewson?""Quite a lot," said Hewson. "In my er—small way, I dabble in them.""Ah! then perhaps you can tell me when I can expect the money." Mr. Crossley sat down at his desk, and opened a drawer. "It was a month ago that I paid five thousand pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine.""In the what?" Hewson almost shouted."The Rio Lopez Mine," repeated the other. "You've heard of it, of course. The shares were standing, so my friend told me, at two pounds, so I got two thousand five hundred shares. Now, yesterday I happened to buy theTimes, and I looked up the Stock Exchange quotations. You can judge of my delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw that the shares were standing at four pounds three shillings.""Rio Lopez four pounds!" said Hewson, dazedly. "May I see the paper?"He took it and glanced at the Supplementary List."MINES—MISCELLANEOUS."Rio Lopez Deep—4/3."The old man was still talking gaily on, but Hewson hardly heard what he said. From outside the lazy hum of a summer afternoon came softly through the open window, and after a while he laid down the paper and commenced to refill his pipe. Such colossal innocence almost staggered him. That there could be anybody in the world who did not know that the figures meant four shillings and threepence, left him bereft of speech. And then his feeling of amazement gave way to one of bitter anger against the scoundrel who had unloaded a block of shares in a wild-cat mine, at the top of an extremely shady boom, on such a man as Mr. Crossley."Well, when do you think I may expect the money?" The question roused him from his reverie."It's hard to say, Mr. Crossley," remarked Hewson, deliberately. "Different firms have different arrangements, you know.""Of course—of course. I'm such a baby in these things. But I do want to get my penny Mauritius back before it's sold."Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly to examine his pipe. For the first time for many years he found a difficulty in speaking; there had been no room for sentiment in his career. Then he straightened up."I quite understand, Mr. Crossley," he said, slowly. "And perhaps the best thing to do would be to put the matter in my hands. It has occurred to me since lunch that I've really got no clothes at all here. And so I thought I'd run up to Town and get a few and then return. While I'm up there I could look into things for you.""But I really couldn't worry you, Mr. Hewson," protested the other."No worry at all. It's my work. I shall charge you commission." Hewson was lighting his pipe. "You have the certificate, I suppose.""I've this paper," answered Mr. Crossley. "Is that what you mean?""That's it. Will you trust it to me? I can give you any reference you like, if you care to come with me as far as Barnstaple. They know me at the bank. I shall have to join the main line there.""Well, perhaps——" The old man paused doubtfully. "You see, Mr. Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully.""Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?""Yes. Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City. He was stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice."Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of Mr. Arthur Ferguson's acquaintance, but he was already tasting die pleasures of his first—and last—interview with that engaging gentleman. Dined—had he?"Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?""Good heavens, daddy!" came a voice from outside. "What are you going to Barnstaple for? You know this heat will upset you."Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden. She was wearing a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen. No wonder the old chap had tried to get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time."I've got to go up to London, Miss Crossley——" was it his imagination, or did her face fall a little?—"to get some more clothes. And there's a little matter of business I'm going to attend to for your father. The point is that he doesn't know me—none of you know me. And in the hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a valuable document to another man you want to know something about him. Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that your father should come over and see him.""It sounds very mysterious," laughed the girl. "But all I know is that if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he'll have the most awful head. Suppose—" she paused doubtfully—"suppose I came? Daddy could give me the document, and then when I'd seen the bank manager I could give it to you."Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host."Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley," he murmured. "If it isn't troubling your daughter too much."The old man chuckled. "If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn't mind the trouble. It's a secret, don't forget, Mr. Hewson. Now, girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that our kind friend here isn't a burglar, or an escaped convict"—he chuckled again—"give it to him to take to London. But you're not to look inside."She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson."We can just catch the local train," she said, a trifle abruptly. "We'll go through the short cut."She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke."What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?""I think your father said it was a secret, didn't he?" he answered, lightly."Is it something to do with money?""It is."She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his arm."He's such a darling," she burst out, "but he's so innocent. He doesn't know anything about money or the world.""Do you?" asked Hewson, gently."That doesn't matter. A girl needn't. But I know he's just mad to get more money—not for himself—but for me. He wants to give me a good time—like other girls, he says." She paused a moment, and frowned. "There was a man here—a few weeks ago—and daddy met him. He came to dinner. I didn't trust him, Mr. Hewson; there was something—oh! I don't know. I suppose I'm very ignorant myself. But I'm certain that he persuaded daddy to do something with his money. He was always going to the bank, and sending registered letters, after the man left. And he's been worried ever since—until yesterday—when he recovered all his old spirits."The train was already running into Barnstaple—the quickest journey that Charles Hewson had ever made in his life."I don't think," he said, gravely, "that I shall be letting out the secret if I tell you that my visit to London concerns that man, and some money he invested for your father. There's a little delay in the business—and I'm going to see about it."They walked out of the station towards the bank, the girl clasping the precious envelope tightly."I want to see the manager," said Hewson to the cashier. "Hewson is my name."With astonishing alacrity the manager appeared from his office."Come in, Mr. Hewson—come in." He stepped aside as the girl, followed by Hewson, entered his sanctum."I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, of Umberleigh," said Hewson, quietly. "This is his daughter, Miss Crossley. It concerns some shares—the certificate of which I propose to take to London with me. Would you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley that I am a fit and proper person to be entrusted with such a matter? I happen to be a stranger to them."The manager's face had changed through various stages of bewilderment while Hewson was speaking, but he was saved the necessity of an immediate answer by the girl. Charles Hewson—theCharles Hewson—coming to him to be vouched for!"This is the paper." The girl handed it over to him, and a little dazedly he took the certificate from the envelope."A very admirable security," said Hewson, deliberately, "bought by Mr. Crossley a month ago.""Very admirable!" spluttered the manager, only to relapse into silence under the penetrating stare of Hewson's eye."And if you will just vouch for me to Miss Crossley, I don't think we need detain you further.""With pleasure." Matters were completely beyond him: but, at any rate, he could do that. "You can place things in Mr. Hewson's hands with absolute confidence, Miss Crossley.""Thank you," said the girl, and they all rose. He opened the door and she passed into the bank. For one moment the two men were alone, and Hewson seized the manager by the arm."Not a word," he whispered. "They don't know who I am. Father been swindled by some swine in London."Nodding portentously, the worthy manager followed them to the door. Assuredly one of the most remarkable episodes that had come his way, during thirty years' experience. Rio Lopez! Two thousand five hundred of them! And he was still staring dazedly at a placard extolling Exchequer Bonds, which adorned his office wall, when the London train steamed slowly out of the station. Its departure had been to the casual eye quite normal: but the casual eye is, as its name implies, casual. The departure had been far from normal.It was just as the guard was waving his flag that a man, leaning our of the window of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl standing on the platform."You say you didn't trust the man, Miss Crossley. Do you—trust me?""Naturally," she answered demurely, "after what the bank manager said.""It rests on the bank manager, does it?"She blushed faintly. "No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn't. One doesn't need a bank manager to confirm—a certainty."And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine. But to call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.III"Good-morning. Mr. Ferguson, I believe?".Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one—one, incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself. Mr. Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get the better of another man the funeral is his. And as an outlook on life there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is of the same kidney."Yes." Ferguson indicated a chair. "What can I do for you, Mr.——" He paused, interrogatively."I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of business." Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at him covertly. Who the deuce was the fellow? His face seemed vaguely familiar."Delighted!" he murmured. "Have a cigar?""Thank you—no. I have just come from Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr. Ferguson."A barely perceptible change passed over the other's face."Indeed," he said, easily. "I was there myself a little while ago.""So I understood," remarked Hewson. "A Mr. Crossley told me that you had been good enough to sell him some shares while you were there—a packet of Rio Lopez, to be exact.""I did," answered Ferguson. "Though I hardly see what concern it is of yours.""All in good time," said Hewson, taking the certificate from his pocket. "Two thousand five hundred, I see, when they were standing at two pounds. And to-day they're a shade over four shillings—to-morrow, quite possibly, sixpence.""Everything is down," remarked Ferguson with a wave of his hand. "Sorry for Mr. Crossley.""So am I," said the other. "It seems hard luck on an innocent old man like that to be left to carry the baby. He apparently placed such reliance on your judgment, Mr. Ferguson. Moreover, I gather you dined with him two or three times.""Well, what if I did?" He leaned back in his chair impatiently. "Might I suggest that time is money to some of us, and that I'm rather busy this morning? I'd be obliged if you'd get to the point.""Certainly," said Hewson, quietly. "I have a nice little bunch of two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be delighted to sell you, on behalf of Mr. Crossley—at two pounds a share."For a moment or two Mr. Ferguson seemed to have difficulty in breathing."Buy Rio Lopez at two!" he gasped. "Are you insane?""Not at all," murmured Hewson, lighting a cigarette. "That is my offer.""Good-morning," laughed the other. "You know the way out, don't you? And another time, my dear sir, you'd better learn a little more about the ways of finance before you waste your own and other people's time coming up from the wilds of Devon." He pulled a paper towards him and picked up his pen. It struck him as one of the richest things he'd ever heard—a jest altogether after his own heart. And it was just as the full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye caught the card which his visitor had pushed along the writing-desk."Mr. Charles Hewson." Blinking slightly he stared at it, then he put down his pen. "Mr. Charles Hewson.""You may know the name, Mr. Ferguson," remarked the other, quietly. "And I can assure you that your solicitude for my knowledge of finance touches me deeply.""But, I don't understand, Mr. Hewson. I had no idea who you were, but now that I do know it makes your suggestion even more amazing.""In an ordinary way of business, certainly," agreed Hewson. "This is not quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I consider that you played Mr. Crossley an extremely dirty trick—considering that he'd opened his house to you, and was quite obviously as ignorant of business as a child. Why—the poor old chap saw the price in the paper the other day and thought they were standing at four pounds three shillings." He was staring at Ferguson with level eyes as he spoke. "I give you the chance of returning him the money he gave to you. If you do—the matter is ended. If you don't—I shall pay it myself. But—and this is the point, Mr. Ferguson, which you had better consider—if I pay that money, I shall recover it from you. Is it worth your while to have me for an enemy? As surely as I'm sitting here, by the time I've finished with you, you'll not have lost five thousand—you'll have lost fifty.""It wouldn't be worth your while," blustered Ferguson, though the hand which held his cigar shook a little."Worth is a comparative term," said Hewson, calmly. "Financially, I agree: you're not big enough to worry over. But it will afford me great pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson—and from that point of view itwillbe worth while." He took out his watch. "I'll give you two minutes to decide."He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in Ferguson's place would think twice and then again before he deliberately took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that were passing in the other's mind. Dare he gamble on the possibility of Hewson—as time went by—forgetting his threat, and letting the thing drop? That was the crux. It was an insignificant amount to a man like Hewson, but—was it the money that was at the bottom of it? While a man in Hewson's position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might be some other factor which would not slip his mind. It suddenly occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive girl in the Crossley household. And if she was the driving factor ... One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy. It was no idle threat on the latter's part: if he chose to he could ruin him."Well?" With a snap Hewson closed his watch. "What is it to be?"By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book."Good. Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten thousand. I will give you a cheque for five. You can notify the company as to the transfer."He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket."And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world alone. Good-morning."Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny Mauritius.IV"I can hardly believe it. In just over a month. And the stamp as well. Mr. Hewson—I can never thank you sufficiently."Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared dazedly—first at his precious stamp, then at the cheque."Ten thousand pounds! I must write him a letter and thank him.""I'm sure Mr. Ferguson would like that," murmured Hewson. "But if I may give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn't try a gamble like that again. Mines are precarious things—very precarious.""You mean, I might have lost my money?" said the old man, nervously."Such things have been known to happen," said Hewson, gravely. "By the way, is your daughter not at home?""She has gone over to Barnstaple with her mother. I'm expecting them back at any moment. Won't they be delighted?" He chuckled gleefully, and produced the precious card containing the Mauritius set. And with a quiet smile on his face Charles Hewson watched him from the depths of an arm-chair. What a child he was: what a charming, lovable child!"There: the complete set again." In triumph he held up the card for Hewson's inspection, and at that moment Mrs. Crossley and the girl came through the window.The good news poured out in a torrent, while Hewson stood almost forgotten in the background.Ten thousand pounds—two thousand five hundred shares—capital doubled in a month—and the stamp. The old man brandished the cheque in his excitement, and, at length, Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile."We seem to have entertained an angel unawares," and her eyes were a little misty. "Thank you, Mr. Hewson.""No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley," he laughed. "These things just happen."He glanced at the girl, who had so far said nothing. She was staring at him steadily, and there was no answering smile on her face."Did you say two thousand five hundred shares, daddy?" Her voice was quite expressionless, as she turned to her father."That's it, little girl," he cried. "Sold at over four pounds a share. Now you'll be able to have some more frocks!"He kissed her lovingly, and followed his wife from the room, still chuckling and rubbing his hands together."Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?" said the girl, in a flat, dead voice as the door closed."Explain, Miss Crossley! How do you mean? Your father acquired some shares a little while ago—two thousand five hundred, as he told you—which have just been sold at rather over four pounds a share. Hence the stamp—and a cheque for ten thousand.""I went into the bank at Barnstaple this afternoon," said the girl, dully, "and I happened to speak to the cashier. He told me who you were. You're a multi-millionaire, aren't you?"Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid I am," he laughed. "Is that what you want me to explain?""Don't laugh, please," said the girl, quietly. "I said that you'd been good enough to do some business for us—something to do with Rio Lopez shares. He said, 'Good heavens! Miss Crossley, surely Mr. Hewson hasn't put you into Rio Lopez?' I said, 'Why not—aren't they good shares?' You see, I didn't know what the business was you were doing. He said, 'Good! Why the blessed things aren't worth much more than the paper they're written on. Standing about four shillings, I think.' And now you tell me you've sold two thousand five hundred of them at over four pounds." Slim and erect she stood there facing him. "I don't know anything about business: but I'm not a fool. So will you please explain?"If there was anything really in the absent-treatment business, an unsuspecting and well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead in the bank at that moment."Will you come into the garden, Miss Crossley?" said Hewson, gravely. "I could explain better out-of-doors."In silence she followed him, and they found two chairs under a shady tree."Ferguson," he began, quietly, "the man who was down here a month ago, was a pretty smart gentleman. He did a business deal with your father which, legally speaking, was quite in order. He possessed two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, were standing at two pounds. He sold these shares to your father knowing perfectly well that they were only standing at such a figure because of a distinctly shady artificial boom which had been given them. He knew they were bound to slump—that is, fall in price. So he—finding your father supremely ignorant of finance—unloaded those shares on to him, and left him—as the saying goes—to carry the baby. In other words, shares that your father paid two pounds each for, he would only get four shillings for to-day. This morning I interviewed Mr. Ferguson in his office. And I persuaded him—how, is immaterial—to refund your father the money. That's all there is to it.""I see," said the girl. "It was very good of you. But if my father only paid two pounds for each share—that makes five thousand. The cheque he's got is for ten. How did he double his capital?"Hewson bit his lip: how indeed?"Oh! please be frank, Mr. Hewson. Have you given my father five thousand pounds?"His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair."Yes," he said at length. "I have. The dear old man thought the shares were standing at four pounds: he read the four and threepence in the paper as four pounds three shillings. And," he turned appealingly to the girl, "if you could only dimly guess what pleasure it's given me, Miss Crossley.""Oh! stop, please." With a little cry that was half a sob she rose. "I suppose you meant it for the best: thought you were being kind. I don't suppose you realized your—your impertinence. Because we offer you lunch, Mr. Hewson, it gives you no right to dare to give my father money. And now it's going to be doubly hard for him—when I tell him. He'll be so—so ashamed."She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and for a while there was silence in the sunny garden. And in that moment the man knew that the quest was over, the quest—conscious or unconscious, it matters not—that has been man's through the ages. But no hint of it sounded in his level voice as he spoke: the time for that was not yet."And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to tell your father?""What else can I possibly do?" She turned on him indignantly."Of course you must decide," he continued, quietly. "I quite see how the matter looks to you: I wonder if you are being equally fair to me. I come here: I meet your father. I find that he has been swindled by a man in London—a moral swindle only possible because of your father's charming innocence. I wonder if you can realize what the atmosphere of this place means to me—an atmosphere which must depend, to a large extent, on the happiness and joy of you three."She was watching him now, and suddenly his swift smile flashed out. "Don't you understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is relative? I'm going to allude purposely to my disgusting wealth. You wouldn't think much of paying five shillings for pleasure, would you? Well, five thousand pounds means no more to me. And I've bought myself pleasure with that money such as I don't think you can begin to conceive of." Again he smiled: then before she could reply he went on. "So I want you to remember, when you make your decision, what you are going to sacrifice on the altar of pride. My feelings don't matter: but are you going to deliberately prick the bubble of your father's happiness and change him in a moment from a delighted child into a broken and worried old man?"The girl bit her lip and stared over the rambling garden with troubled eyes. How could she let her father take the money: how could she? And then she heard his voice again from close behind her."I'm going back to London," he said, deliberately, "and I would ask you to keep this as our secret. I hadn't intended to go back yet: but now that you have found out—perhaps it's better. I'll leave you free to puzzle the thing out by yourself: only I want to make one condition.""What's that?" whispered the girl."I want to come back for my promised visit later." Gently he swung her round and his eyes—tender and quizzical—rested on the lovely face so close to his. "And when I come back, I'm going to ask you a question, which, if you can see your way to answering with a yes, will make me your father's debtor for life. And then we could consider the five thousand as a payment on account, which would completely and finally settle the matter."Almost against her will, a faint smile began to twitch round the girl's lips."Of course I'm not much good at business, as I said, but I didn't know that anybody ever paid on account until he had, at any rate, the promise of the goods.""In these days of competition," murmured Hewson, "one sometimes has to pay for the right of the first refusal."The smile was twitching again. "That right is yours without payment.""Then I'd better get it over quickly. Sheila—will you marry me?""Mr. Hewson—I will not. Where are you going?"Charles Hewson turned half-way across the lawn. "Up to London. I want to find a man there, and give him the best dinner he's ever had in his life.""What man?""The sportsman who wrote that article about walking tours." It was then the smile broke bounds."We've got some topping peaches in the garden. Couldn't you send him some of those as—a payment on account?"XI — The PoserNo one could call Portsdown-on-Sea a fashionable place. To the chosen few it constituted the most delightful seaside resort in the south of England. But very few did know, and they guarded their secret jealously. They formed a clique—the Portsdown clique—and the stranger within their gates was not welcomed.The Grand was their stronghold, and during the winter the hotel relapsed into sleep, wrapped in a drab garment of dust sheets and chair covers.A few of the rooms were kept open all the year round for anyone who might have business in the town; or for stray, foolhardy golfers who found the grey scudding mist which whipped over the salt marshes a cure for the cobwebs of an office life. But their stay was never a long one. Three or four days, a week-end perhaps—and then once again the melancholy waiter would preside over an empty dining-room. He formed the nucleus of the staff—did John. Each spring he blossomed forth into a crowd of young and more or less disreputable minions; each autumn he shrank back again to his solitary grandeur. And Martha, the female representative of the establishment, did likewise amongst the chambermaid portion of the servants.During the war, business, even in the height of the season, had not been good. The Get-Rich-Quick brigade, whose horizon was bounded by half-crown cigars and champagne at any and every hour of the day, found Portsdown slow. There was no band and there was no theatre, and there is but little use in drinking champagne at eleven in the morning unless less fortunate beings—professional men with a small income, or wounded officers—can see the deed and gnash their teeth with envy. And the cigar with the band round it quite failed to impress Peter Gurney, the professional at the club-house. He eyed it with disfavour, and ostentatiously stood up-wind if compelled to give a lesson to its proud owner."These 'ere links are for gowf," he remarked once in a burst of confidence to Sawyer, his one-legged assistant, "not for the decimation of them stinking poison-gases."And Sawyer, though he had an idea that something was wrong with the phraseology of the latter part of the remark, grunted an assent.But, with the signing of the Armistice, visions of better days ahead loomed up in the minds of all who were interested in the welfare of Portsdown. Peter Gurney laid in an increased stock of hickory wood, to make clubs for "them as can use 'em." The secretary of the golf club turned his mind more resolutely to questions of greens and labour, and rent his clothes and tore his hair on the matter of the unemployment bonus.Up at the hotel the manager considered the advisability of hiring a string quartette for August and September; and rumour has it that old John so far forgot himself as to purchase two new dickies."We'll be getting the old lot back," he said to Martha one day. "Men as is men, and can bathe and play tennis and golf—not them diseases in fancy dress, as we've had the last year or two."It was towards the end of March that four or five of the old habitués arrived. They selected the chairs they had used of old: they all but labelled them with their names. They were the forerunners of the elder generation who remained there throughout the summer and approved or disapproved as the case might be of the children who came later. And by children, anything up to thirty is implied.It was Mrs. Garrett, the wife of the retired judge, that the manager first told of Ruth Seaton's impending arrival."Miss Bannister that was," he murmured to her one evening. "Married poor young Mr. Seaton who came here for two or three years.""Why poor?" boomed his august listener."He was killed in the war," he returned. "She is a widow.""So one would be led to assume." Mrs. Garrett regarded him judicially. "Unless she has married again."The manager shrugged deprecating shoulders and passed on. The idea as mentioned by Mrs. Garrett seemed almost indecent."We must be very good to her," ordered that lady after dinner in the lounge. "She is, after all, one of us."Ruth Bannister had married Jimmy Seaton the summer before the war. There had been the time when he was training, and then those wonderful snatched interludes of leave, when nothing mattered save the present. And then had come the news. For a week she heard nothing—no letter, no field service postcard. On the eighth day there came a telegram from the War Office, and the suspense was over.It seemed impossible. Other men might be killed: other names might appear in the casualty lists—but not Jimmy. Oh! no, not Jimmy—her Jimmy. There never had been such a marriage as theirs: not a quarrel, not a cross word the whole time. And now Jimmy was gone. Somewhere out in that filthy field of mud he was lying, and the eyes that had smiled at her were staring and sightless. Dear God! but it was too cruel....Never again could she look at another man. Her body was still alive—but her soul, her spirit were dead. They were buried with Jimmy."You'll find me just the same, old man," she used to say out loud sometimes—"just the same. There'll never be anyone else, Jimmy—never, never."Once a well-meaning but stupid friend had suggested the possibility of marrying again, and Ruth had smiled—a sad little smile. Also perhaps it was just a little tolerant: the smile of a parent whose child had asked some particularly foolish question."My dear," said Ruth, "I don't think you quite understand. There'll never be anybody in my life but Jimmy. How could there be?"It was her brother who first dragged her out to a theatre."My dear girl," he said, "you can't go on burying yourself like this. Come to a show; it'll do you all the good in the world."And Ruth, because he was home on leave, just thought it was a shame not to give him as good a time as possible; and so, just to please him, she went.She looked her best in black—and her brother's "By Jove, old bean—you look topping!" as she came into the room before starting, sounded very pleasantly in her ears. Of course it didn't much matter what she looked like—now: except that Jimmy had always been very particular. He wouldn't like her not to look smart.It was the second act that made her roar with laughter, and she was so engrossed in the play that she failed to notice her brother glancing at her once or twice with a quiet smile of satisfaction. In fact, during the second act she quite forgot, and it was only as she stood up to go that it all came back to her mind."Good show, wasn't it?" said her brother.She smiled a little sadly. "I suppose so," she answered. "Somehow one doesn't care very much in these days...." She sighed. "But anyway, you liked it, old man, and that's all that matters."And her brother, who seemed on the point of saying something, changed his mind and remained silent.It was natural that Ruth should go to Portsdown. It was there she had met Jimmy: it was there they had become engaged. It would be very painful, and in a way she dreaded the tender, intimate, associations that all the well-known haunts would call up to her mind. Portsdown was so woven up round Jimmy—it would seem almost part of him. That sandy hillock, for instance, just beyond the third tee, where they had lazed away so many afternoons together.The people in the hotel when she arrived were just those she would have liked. A little elderly, perhaps, but that was in their favour. And she knew them all so intimately. She wondered why she had ever regarded Mrs. Garrett as a consequential old cat. Nothing could have been more charming than her sympathy and consideration, and the others took their tone from her. In fact, the subject of her loss seemed quite inexhaustible.There were one or two mistakes made, but that was only to be expected."Maybe your husband will be being demobilized soon, miss," said Peter Gurney to her a couple of days after her arrival, as she stood on the first tee. To him she would always be miss, and with a faint smile Ruth Seaton turned towards him with her ball in her hand."He was killed, Peter," she said—"killed on the Somme." Then she drove a low, clean-hit shot straight up the centre of the course. For a few moments he watched her slim figure as she walked after her ball, and then he went into his shop."Hit me over the head with yon niblick, Bob," he remarked, in a voice which was not quite steady. "I surely am a damned, dunderheaded old fool."She seemed so wonderfully plucky, and even the secretary of the golf club descended from his exalted position temporarily and discussed the matter with Peter Gurney.He disguised it well—interpolated it in between an argument on the rival merits of two top dressings for the greens: and it was only when he retired again to his sanctum that it struck him that any decision on those rival merits was as unsettled as ever. But then Gurney was such an old fool at times—quite unable to concentrate his attention on the point at issue.It was on the third day after her arrival that the man came. Hugh Ralton was not a Portsdown habitué, but he had once spent a week-end there, and he remembered the links as being exactly what he wanted—first-class, without being championship. He had come down to practise for the Active Service Championship, and he had hoped to find the Grand empty. An Eveless Eden was what he wanted—golf without distraction.It was old John who told him Ruth Seaton's story, told it as if it was a personal insult to himself, an effort perpetrated by "them 'Uns" on Portsdown. And at dinner that evening Ralton looked at her curiously.He noticed the sweet resigned expression on her face, the air of quiet sadness, and then, suddenly, their eyes met.She turned away at once and spoke to Mrs. Garrett."No, I didn't play to-day," he heard her say. "I just walked round the—round the old places."And Mrs. Garrett nodded understandingly at her pudding. She would have nodded just as understandingly if she had known that Ruth, having made a special pilgrimage to the hummock by the third tee, had fallen asleep in the sun. But then, Mrs. Garrett understood nothing. And Ruth herself was feeling a little puzzled."When was Mrs. Seaton's husband killed?" said Ralton to John that night just before he went to bed."The Somme, sir," answered the old man, shaking his head. "Pore young thing."But Hugh Ralton only grunted noncommittally and went upstairs.The next day he played his first round. He was plus one at St. Andrews, but, despite that high qualification, one of the curses of the lesser golfer had him in its clutches.He was slicing abominably, and lunatic asylums are very largely kept going by golfers who fail to stop themselves slicing.At the tenth he pulled himself together. Through set teeth he spoke words of contumely to his ball, and then he smote it. There was no doubt about the result: it was not a slice. The ball travelled at right angles to the line of the hole in the direction of square leg—to apply a cricketing metaphor—and it travelled fast. And as he watched it go, with somewhat the expression of a man who contemplates a bad oyster, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Why the devil couldn't women take their walks on the sea-shore or along the road, or something?"Fore!" With the full force of his distinctly powerful lungs, Hugh Ralton's shout of warning echoed over the golf links, and Ruth Seaton, who was walking slowly over the seventh green, looked up quickly. The next moment a ball whizzed past her, and disappeared into a big sand-bunker guarding the hole.Approaching her rapidly was a man, and she frowned slightly. He was evidently going to speak to her, and apologize, and she didn't want to speak to anybody. Certainly not a man.... Moreover, the best people do not play the seventh hole from the tenth tee on well-regulated links, and the girl's frown deepened. Incidentally the ball had passed her rather too closely and rather too rapidly for her to see any vast amount of humour in the performance.The man was still some fifty yards away when she recognized him as being at the hotel."I am so sorry." His voice came to her through the still air, and the frown relaxed somewhat—Hugh Ralton's voice was a very pleasant one. "I'd no idea there was anyone about."With his cap in his hand he came up to her."Do you generally play a course of your own?" she demanded. "Most of us find the proper one good enough."Ralton laughed, displaying two rows of white even teeth. "I abase myself," he murmured. "The shot that caused me such a heart spasm, and missed you by——""About the distance of a putt you'd have to give even to your most hated rival," interrupted the girl."That shot," he continued, firmly, "was intended for the tenth green."The girl's lips began to twitch. "I was under the impression," she remarked, meditatively, "that the tenth green lay over there." She waved a vague hand. "About a mile away.... I don't think you can be playing very well, somehow."Ralton affected to consider the point. "I must confess," he remarked, after a while, "that there would seem to be some grounds for your thoughts. But you must admit," he added, hopefully, "that the ball was going very fast anyway. The direction, I grant you, was faulty, but the velocity left nothing to be desired.""What you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts sort of idea," she said. "Very nice, indeed, but you won't be popular if you make a speciality of that type of shot. Incidentally your ball is in there." She pointed to the bunker beside the green, and prepared to continue her interrupted walk."You haven't told me if I'm forgiven yet," cried Ralton. "I really am most frightfully sorry."The girl paused for a moment, and her blue eyes were faintly mocking. "You see," he plunged on, "I've been slicing abominably from the tee the whole afternoon, and then suddenly at the tenth, for no reason that can possibly be accounted for, save the latent devilry in every golf bail, I got the most appalling hook on the beastly thing...."She started to laugh, and in a moment he was laughing too."Just this once I think I can stretch a point and pardon you," she said. "But in future you must be provided with a man carrying a red flag.""It shall be done," he answered. "Only for absolute safety, I suggest the tee beside me." He looked at her tentatively. "Do you play the noble game yourself?"The mocking look returned to her eyes. "I don't think that we have been introduced, have we?" she murmured."An attempt at murder is not a bad introduction," he returned, with becoming gravity. "And, in addition, I can assure you that I know some very nice people. Two war knights—pickles and artificial legs—frequently ask me to dinner...."For a moment he was amazed at the look of weary contempt that flamed in her eyes. "They're the only sort of people who can these days, aren't they?" she said. "The rest of us just pick up the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table and wonder why. You're a soldier, of course?"Hugh Ralton nodded gravely, and his eyes suddenly rested on the wedding-ring she wore."And you?" he asked. "Are you one too?""I don't quite follow," she said, slowly. "My husband was killed on the Somme, as a matter of fact.""Ah!" The man's voice seemed studiously non-committal. "That makes it all the more important, doesn't it, that you should keep the flag flying ... and fight?""What makes you think I'm not?" she demanded, staring at him defiantly. "And anyway, it's no...""Business of mine." He concluded the half-finished sentence with a slight smile. "I know it isn't. Will you forgive me? Somehow I thought that you would understand." He took two or three steps towards her. "Somehow I think you do understand.... Don't you?"The girl made no answer, but only stared with troubled eyes over the sea to where the low-lying spit of land which flanked Portsdown on the south merged into the grey mist. It all seemed so grey ... grey and lifeless.Then she heard him speaking again. "Which bunker did you say the ball was in?""That one." Without turning her head, she pointed it out, and with a quick sideways look at her averted face, Hugh Ralton walked past her and retrieved his ball."Would you care for a game to-morrow?" He was standing close behind her, and after a short pause she swung round and looked at him."What did you mean," she asked, quietly, "about it being all the more important to go on fighting?""One doesn't want two people killed with the same bullet, that's all," he answered. "It makes the damned Boche so pleased.""Is that the only reason?" She was looking at him anxiously, her hands thrust in the pockets of her jersey."Why, no," Ralton said, gravely. "One always starts off with the lesser reason. The real, important thing is that you shouldn't hurt the first casualty.""And you think he would know?""Wouldn't you hate it if he didn't?"The girl moved a little restlessly. "I don't know," she said at length. "I can't make up my mind. Sometimes I think it would be hell if he didn't: more often I think it would be hell if he did."Almost unconsciously they had commenced to stroll back side by side towards the tenth tee."Do you think it's been worth while?" she asked him, suddenly.Ralton carefully teed up his ball, and with a full clean swing drove it over the sandy hummock in front of him."Depends how you look at it, doesn't it?" he answered, shouldering his clubs, and stuffing an empty pipe into his mouth. "We've beaten the swine.""I suppose that's the only thing that matters to a man," she returned."It's the only thing that matters to you." Ralton inspected the lie of his ball carefully, and then looked at his clubs. "I think I ought to get up with a heavy niblick," he remarked, thoughtfully. "What say you, my lady of the links?""Not if you play as you were playing when you nearly killed me," she retorted. "The ball will go into the sea."Ralton smiled. "It wasn't me playing then; it was a kindly spirit that possessed me."The ball rose towering into the air, and fell dead close to the pin—that perfect shot which marks the true golfer."You seem to have played this game before, remarked the girl."Once, when I was very young," answered Ralton, glancing at her with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm a bright young lad, ain't I?""What is your handicap?" she demanded."It used to be plus one," he murmured, examining the line of his putt."Then you had no business to try to murder me. It wasn't at all funny."The ball lipped the hole, and Ralton looked at her accusingly."That was you," he remarked. "You've got no business to talk to the man at the putter.""It was nothing of the sort," jeered the girl. "Merely a rotten bad putt." She kicked his ball towards him, and replaced the pin in the hole. "What are you supposed to be doing," she said, suddenly, "playing about here by yourself?""Trying to loosen some very stiff muscles for the Active Service Championship," he answered. "Which accounts for me, my lady. Have you got as satisfactory an explanation for yourself?"She frowned slightly, but Ralton was apparently engrossed in making his tee. She waited until he had driven, and the frown disappeared."What a beauty!" she cried, enthusiastically. Then she recollected his remark, and frowned again. "But the fact that you happen to be able to play golf is no excuse for your being rude."He turned and faced her with a whimsical smile on his lips. "Was I rude?" he said. "Ah! no—I think not. Because somehow I've got an idea that you haven't at all a satisfactory explanation to give of yourself. I think—I may be wrong—but, I think, you're posing.""Posing! What do you mean?" The girl's voice was indignant."Not intentionally," he went on calmly, "but unconsciously. Only you're posing just the same." He picked up his clubs and stood for a while looking at her thoughtfully. "I am going to play this hole," he announced at length, "and then I am going to tell you a story.... We'll go and sit on top of that sand dune by the next green, and look out to sea, and listen to the oyster-catchers.... Poor little devils—those oyster-catchers! Have you ever noticed how they do all the work, and the gulls get all the oysters?" He came to his ball, and once again appealed to her for advice."An iron or a baffy?" he queried.The girl took no notice, but stood with her back towards him. She heard the clear, sharp click of the club, and involuntarily she looked towards the green."I wonder, my friend," she remarked, "if you're as good at stories as you are at golf. You're lying dead again.""I'm better," he returned confidently. "At least I shall be to-day. Will you smoke?"Ralton held out his cigarette case, and after a momentary hesitation she took one."Come and let's find a good spot," he said. "You'll only put me off my putt again if we go to the green...."In silence they sought a sheltered hollow on the side of the dune, and it was not till Ruth Seaton had settled herself comfortably that she broke the silence."I don't often do this sort of thing, you know," she said, a trifle defiantly."Nor do I," answered the man. "Let us regard the occasion as privileged.""Why do you think I'm posing?" she demanded."Once upon a time," he began, ignoring her question, "there was a war on, up the road. A large number of people, to their great annoyance, got roped into the performance—amongst them a certain man, whom we will call Jones.... Good old British name, Jones. And Jones had taken unto himself a wife just before the war broke out."Ralton was staring at some gulls which circled and screamed over the shingly beach."It seemed to Jones that nothing in the whole wide world could be quite as wonderful as the girl he had married. She was such a dear—such a pal; and sometimes he used to look ahead into the future, and just thank heaven for his marvellous luck. Then, as I said, came the war.... And Jones went."Naturally he had no hesitation—no more had she. It was the only conceivable thing that any man could do. He trained along with the rest of the New Army, and he went to France." Ralton smiled. "You will notice that Jones and Mrs. Jones were very, very ordinary beings—like, shall we say, you and I.""Stories about ordinary beings are the only ones that really matter," said the girl. "What did Jones do in France?""What thousands of other Joneses have done," answered Ralton. "He wasn't particularly brave, and he wasn't particularly cowardly; he was just an ordinary man who carried on because he couldn't do anything else, and thought in his spare time quite a lot about—the one at home. You see—it was shortly going to be two: and that makes a man think—quite a deal, especially when he's away at a war.... Have you got any children?" he asked, abruptly.The girl shook her head, and after a while he went on."It was just before a battle that he got the wire he had been expecting, and after he'd read it he sat staring at it dazedly. It just couldn't be; of course there was a mistake. There must be. He knew that sometimes women did die at such times; but ... but not his woman. It couldn't be his wife that was dead—the thing was preposterous. Such a thing couldn't happen, any more than the one man's name can ever appear in the casualty list. Other names perhaps—but not his."He hit at a tuft of grass with the club in his hand. "At last it penetrated into his brain, and by that time the battle was over. He gathered that he had done rather well—been recommended for a decoration of sorts, and he laughed like hell at the folly of it all. He felt he only wanted one thing, and that was to go after his girl. He didn't care a rap about the son he'd never seen; he knew it was being well looked after, and he wouldn't even go on leave to see it. It was only the girl he thought about, and she—well, she was unattainable except by one method. So he deliberately set to work to secure that method."Ralton's eyes were fixed on the girl now, and her cigarette had dropped unheeded on the grass."He ran the most unheard-of risks; he volunteered for any and every stunt that came along—but the Boche seemed to miss him on purpose. For weeks and months it continued—but it was no good: he bore a charmed life."And now, my lady of the links, comes the point. There came a time—one night, to be exact—when in the silence of his dugout a thought crept into his mind, a nasty, persistent thought. He was furious at the thought; he argued with it fiercely—but the thought remained. And so, in order to prove that the thought was wrong, he redoubled his efforts to secure the end which he assured himself he wanted. Before he had been foolish, now he became damned foolish. He did the most utterly stupid things, just to prove to himself that he intended to die; and Fate decreed otherwise. He didn't die—but one evening the other man did——""I don't quite follow," said the girl. "What other man?""His orderly," said Ralton, briefly. "Quite unnecessarily he was walking up a road in full sight of the Boches. They were some distance away—true; but a rifle-bullet carries some distance. Behind him was his orderly." With a frown he looked at the girl beside him. "You've never heard a rifle-bullet probably," he continued, after a moment. "Never heard that sudden ping past your head which sounds like a huge mosquito. He heard it that evening—twice; and the first time he took no notice. You understand, don't you, that there was no necessity for him to have been on the road?"She nodded."The second bullet did not miss. It hit the orderly, and Jones just got him into the ditch beside the road before he died...."Ralton was examining his niblick with unusual care. "This old club seems to have suffered some.""Is that your story?" demanded the girl."Yes, that is the story. The story of a man who posed.""You mean..." began Ruth Seaton, tentatively."I mean that the thought which had come to him in his dugout, the thought which he had striven so hard against, was that he didn't really want to die. He was young, and his wife's death was beginning to lose its sting. He wanted to live; to see his son; and he posed because he thought it was disloyal to her memory. He posed even to himself. And it was only as he knelt over the man in the ditch that he realized it...." Ralton turned to the girl impulsively. "My dear," he cried, "he learned his lesson at a great price—the price of a man's life. There is no call for you to do that. But you're young, and life, and all that it means, is crying out to you. And you're posing. The sympathy of all those people at the hotel isn't real sympathy; and you know it isn't. They're posing, too. When things are really cutting one, when one's really up against it, one's just got to go away and hide. The crowd is no use then." He stood up and looked at her with a grave smile. "He won't think it disloyal, believe me. You see—he understands."She watched the tall, straight figure striding away towards the green where his ball lay, and then for a long while she sat motionless staring out to sea. Once or twice she saw him in the distance, as he continued on his solitary round, until a sudden shiver of cold warned her that March at Portsdown was not the ideal month for sitting out-of-doors.
II
Lunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household. The girl's father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable, white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child. Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless. And once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. The instant decisions, the constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life—and then, this. Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity. It struck Charles Hewson that he wouldn't object to being a vegetable for a while. He was tired, and he realized it for the first time. The last year had tried even him.
It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was over.
"Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a bit? I've fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest."
"You look tired," she answered, kindly. "And this is a wonderful place for a rest cure. But I'm afraid the inn is a long way off. If you care to"—she paused for a moment—"we could put you up for a few days."
"I think you're the kindest people I've ever met," said Hewson, and for a moment his eyes ceased to look tired. "And I warn you I'm not going to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer."
"You'll find it very dull," warned the girl.
He laughed as he rose from the table. "I'm open to a small bet that you'll have to drive me away. I shall become a fixture about the house."
He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while drinking in the homeliness of it all. That was what it was—homely; and in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a restaurant.
"I don't know if you're any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host, "but we've got some nice bits here and in my study."
"One step from that to postage-stamps," laughed the girl. "You've got to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don't forget. I'll come and rescue you in half an hour or so."
He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he followed the old man into his study.
"Are you interested in philately, by any chance?" inquired Mr. Crossley, eagerly.
Hewson shook his head. "I'm afraid I know nothing about it," he answered. "I was once commissioned by a young nephew to send him all the stamps I could find which had pretty pictures on them. You know, harbours, and mountains, and elephants. I found them in all sorts of outlandish places when I was going round the world." He gave one of his quick smiles. "But I'm afraid that is the extent of my knowledge."
"The schoolboy collection." The other waved a tolerant hand. "Now I'm sure that that would have bored him."
With reverent hands he lifted a card and handed it to Hewson. "Look at that, sir; look at that. The complete set of New Brunswick—the first issue, unused."
Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten somewhat blotchy pieces of paper, and refrained from heretical utterance. To his Philistine eye the set he had bought in Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and toucans were infinitely more pleasing.
"Valuable, I suppose?" he hazarded.
The other waved a deprecating hand. "Several hundred—if I chose to sell. Mercifully," he went on after a little pause, "it wasn't necessary."
For a second Hewson's shrewd eyes were fixed on him; then he resumed his study of the rarities. Money trouble, was there?
"Now this was unique—this set." His host was looking regretfully at another card. "Mauritius. And then I had to dispose of the penny orange-red. Worth the better part of a thousand pounds alone." He laid down the card. "Oh! I do hope I shall be able to get it back. I sold it to a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at the time that I should want to buy it back again. That was a month ago, and I thought I should have been able to by now."
Once again Hewson's keen eyes were fixed on the other.
"Expecting a legacy?" he remarked, casually.
"A legacy! Oh! no!" The old man smiled. "But I had a very wonderful chance, given me by an acquaintance, of doubling my small capital." For a moment Hewson stopped smoking: chances of doubling capital are not handed round as a rule by acquaintances. "And I seem to have done it," continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing his hands together. "I seem to have turned my five thousand pounds into ten. In a month. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Very," commented the other. "Have you got the money?"
"No: that's what I can't understand. I suppose it must be something to do with settling day—or whatever they call it." He beamed at his listener. "I'm afraid I'm very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson, but it seems almost too good to be true. I wanted the extra money so much—to give my little girl a better time. It's dull for her here, though she never complains. And if only I could get it now, I could buy back that penny Mauritius, and invest the other nine thousand." In his excitement he walked up and down the room, while his listener stared fixedly at a number of blotchy pieces of paper on a card. "Do you know anything about stocks and shares, Mr. Hewson?"
"Quite a lot," said Hewson. "In my er—small way, I dabble in them."
"Ah! then perhaps you can tell me when I can expect the money." Mr. Crossley sat down at his desk, and opened a drawer. "It was a month ago that I paid five thousand pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine."
"In the what?" Hewson almost shouted.
"The Rio Lopez Mine," repeated the other. "You've heard of it, of course. The shares were standing, so my friend told me, at two pounds, so I got two thousand five hundred shares. Now, yesterday I happened to buy theTimes, and I looked up the Stock Exchange quotations. You can judge of my delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw that the shares were standing at four pounds three shillings."
"Rio Lopez four pounds!" said Hewson, dazedly. "May I see the paper?"
He took it and glanced at the Supplementary List.
"MINES—MISCELLANEOUS."Rio Lopez Deep—4/3."
The old man was still talking gaily on, but Hewson hardly heard what he said. From outside the lazy hum of a summer afternoon came softly through the open window, and after a while he laid down the paper and commenced to refill his pipe. Such colossal innocence almost staggered him. That there could be anybody in the world who did not know that the figures meant four shillings and threepence, left him bereft of speech. And then his feeling of amazement gave way to one of bitter anger against the scoundrel who had unloaded a block of shares in a wild-cat mine, at the top of an extremely shady boom, on such a man as Mr. Crossley.
"Well, when do you think I may expect the money?" The question roused him from his reverie.
"It's hard to say, Mr. Crossley," remarked Hewson, deliberately. "Different firms have different arrangements, you know."
"Of course—of course. I'm such a baby in these things. But I do want to get my penny Mauritius back before it's sold."
Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly to examine his pipe. For the first time for many years he found a difficulty in speaking; there had been no room for sentiment in his career. Then he straightened up.
"I quite understand, Mr. Crossley," he said, slowly. "And perhaps the best thing to do would be to put the matter in my hands. It has occurred to me since lunch that I've really got no clothes at all here. And so I thought I'd run up to Town and get a few and then return. While I'm up there I could look into things for you."
"But I really couldn't worry you, Mr. Hewson," protested the other.
"No worry at all. It's my work. I shall charge you commission." Hewson was lighting his pipe. "You have the certificate, I suppose."
"I've this paper," answered Mr. Crossley. "Is that what you mean?"
"That's it. Will you trust it to me? I can give you any reference you like, if you care to come with me as far as Barnstaple. They know me at the bank. I shall have to join the main line there."
"Well, perhaps——" The old man paused doubtfully. "You see, Mr. Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully."
"Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?"
"Yes. Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City. He was stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice."
Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of Mr. Arthur Ferguson's acquaintance, but he was already tasting die pleasures of his first—and last—interview with that engaging gentleman. Dined—had he?
"Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?"
"Good heavens, daddy!" came a voice from outside. "What are you going to Barnstaple for? You know this heat will upset you."
Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden. She was wearing a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen. No wonder the old chap had tried to get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time.
"I've got to go up to London, Miss Crossley——" was it his imagination, or did her face fall a little?—"to get some more clothes. And there's a little matter of business I'm going to attend to for your father. The point is that he doesn't know me—none of you know me. And in the hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a valuable document to another man you want to know something about him. Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that your father should come over and see him."
"It sounds very mysterious," laughed the girl. "But all I know is that if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he'll have the most awful head. Suppose—" she paused doubtfully—"suppose I came? Daddy could give me the document, and then when I'd seen the bank manager I could give it to you."
Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host.
"Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley," he murmured. "If it isn't troubling your daughter too much."
The old man chuckled. "If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn't mind the trouble. It's a secret, don't forget, Mr. Hewson. Now, girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that our kind friend here isn't a burglar, or an escaped convict"—he chuckled again—"give it to him to take to London. But you're not to look inside."
She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson.
"We can just catch the local train," she said, a trifle abruptly. "We'll go through the short cut."
She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke.
"What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?"
"I think your father said it was a secret, didn't he?" he answered, lightly.
"Is it something to do with money?"
"It is."
She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his arm.
"He's such a darling," she burst out, "but he's so innocent. He doesn't know anything about money or the world."
"Do you?" asked Hewson, gently.
"That doesn't matter. A girl needn't. But I know he's just mad to get more money—not for himself—but for me. He wants to give me a good time—like other girls, he says." She paused a moment, and frowned. "There was a man here—a few weeks ago—and daddy met him. He came to dinner. I didn't trust him, Mr. Hewson; there was something—oh! I don't know. I suppose I'm very ignorant myself. But I'm certain that he persuaded daddy to do something with his money. He was always going to the bank, and sending registered letters, after the man left. And he's been worried ever since—until yesterday—when he recovered all his old spirits."
The train was already running into Barnstaple—the quickest journey that Charles Hewson had ever made in his life.
"I don't think," he said, gravely, "that I shall be letting out the secret if I tell you that my visit to London concerns that man, and some money he invested for your father. There's a little delay in the business—and I'm going to see about it."
They walked out of the station towards the bank, the girl clasping the precious envelope tightly.
"I want to see the manager," said Hewson to the cashier. "Hewson is my name."
With astonishing alacrity the manager appeared from his office.
"Come in, Mr. Hewson—come in." He stepped aside as the girl, followed by Hewson, entered his sanctum.
"I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, of Umberleigh," said Hewson, quietly. "This is his daughter, Miss Crossley. It concerns some shares—the certificate of which I propose to take to London with me. Would you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley that I am a fit and proper person to be entrusted with such a matter? I happen to be a stranger to them."
The manager's face had changed through various stages of bewilderment while Hewson was speaking, but he was saved the necessity of an immediate answer by the girl. Charles Hewson—theCharles Hewson—coming to him to be vouched for!
"This is the paper." The girl handed it over to him, and a little dazedly he took the certificate from the envelope.
"A very admirable security," said Hewson, deliberately, "bought by Mr. Crossley a month ago."
"Very admirable!" spluttered the manager, only to relapse into silence under the penetrating stare of Hewson's eye.
"And if you will just vouch for me to Miss Crossley, I don't think we need detain you further."
"With pleasure." Matters were completely beyond him: but, at any rate, he could do that. "You can place things in Mr. Hewson's hands with absolute confidence, Miss Crossley."
"Thank you," said the girl, and they all rose. He opened the door and she passed into the bank. For one moment the two men were alone, and Hewson seized the manager by the arm.
"Not a word," he whispered. "They don't know who I am. Father been swindled by some swine in London."
Nodding portentously, the worthy manager followed them to the door. Assuredly one of the most remarkable episodes that had come his way, during thirty years' experience. Rio Lopez! Two thousand five hundred of them! And he was still staring dazedly at a placard extolling Exchequer Bonds, which adorned his office wall, when the London train steamed slowly out of the station. Its departure had been to the casual eye quite normal: but the casual eye is, as its name implies, casual. The departure had been far from normal.
It was just as the guard was waving his flag that a man, leaning our of the window of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl standing on the platform.
"You say you didn't trust the man, Miss Crossley. Do you—trust me?"
"Naturally," she answered demurely, "after what the bank manager said."
"It rests on the bank manager, does it?"
She blushed faintly. "No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn't. One doesn't need a bank manager to confirm—a certainty."
And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine. But to call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.
III
"Good-morning. Mr. Ferguson, I believe?".
Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one—one, incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself. Mr. Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get the better of another man the funeral is his. And as an outlook on life there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is of the same kidney.
"Yes." Ferguson indicated a chair. "What can I do for you, Mr.——" He paused, interrogatively.
"I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of business." Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at him covertly. Who the deuce was the fellow? His face seemed vaguely familiar.
"Delighted!" he murmured. "Have a cigar?"
"Thank you—no. I have just come from Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr. Ferguson."
A barely perceptible change passed over the other's face.
"Indeed," he said, easily. "I was there myself a little while ago."
"So I understood," remarked Hewson. "A Mr. Crossley told me that you had been good enough to sell him some shares while you were there—a packet of Rio Lopez, to be exact."
"I did," answered Ferguson. "Though I hardly see what concern it is of yours."
"All in good time," said Hewson, taking the certificate from his pocket. "Two thousand five hundred, I see, when they were standing at two pounds. And to-day they're a shade over four shillings—to-morrow, quite possibly, sixpence."
"Everything is down," remarked Ferguson with a wave of his hand. "Sorry for Mr. Crossley."
"So am I," said the other. "It seems hard luck on an innocent old man like that to be left to carry the baby. He apparently placed such reliance on your judgment, Mr. Ferguson. Moreover, I gather you dined with him two or three times."
"Well, what if I did?" He leaned back in his chair impatiently. "Might I suggest that time is money to some of us, and that I'm rather busy this morning? I'd be obliged if you'd get to the point."
"Certainly," said Hewson, quietly. "I have a nice little bunch of two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be delighted to sell you, on behalf of Mr. Crossley—at two pounds a share."
For a moment or two Mr. Ferguson seemed to have difficulty in breathing.
"Buy Rio Lopez at two!" he gasped. "Are you insane?"
"Not at all," murmured Hewson, lighting a cigarette. "That is my offer."
"Good-morning," laughed the other. "You know the way out, don't you? And another time, my dear sir, you'd better learn a little more about the ways of finance before you waste your own and other people's time coming up from the wilds of Devon." He pulled a paper towards him and picked up his pen. It struck him as one of the richest things he'd ever heard—a jest altogether after his own heart. And it was just as the full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye caught the card which his visitor had pushed along the writing-desk.
"Mr. Charles Hewson." Blinking slightly he stared at it, then he put down his pen. "Mr. Charles Hewson."
"You may know the name, Mr. Ferguson," remarked the other, quietly. "And I can assure you that your solicitude for my knowledge of finance touches me deeply."
"But, I don't understand, Mr. Hewson. I had no idea who you were, but now that I do know it makes your suggestion even more amazing."
"In an ordinary way of business, certainly," agreed Hewson. "This is not quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I consider that you played Mr. Crossley an extremely dirty trick—considering that he'd opened his house to you, and was quite obviously as ignorant of business as a child. Why—the poor old chap saw the price in the paper the other day and thought they were standing at four pounds three shillings." He was staring at Ferguson with level eyes as he spoke. "I give you the chance of returning him the money he gave to you. If you do—the matter is ended. If you don't—I shall pay it myself. But—and this is the point, Mr. Ferguson, which you had better consider—if I pay that money, I shall recover it from you. Is it worth your while to have me for an enemy? As surely as I'm sitting here, by the time I've finished with you, you'll not have lost five thousand—you'll have lost fifty."
"It wouldn't be worth your while," blustered Ferguson, though the hand which held his cigar shook a little.
"Worth is a comparative term," said Hewson, calmly. "Financially, I agree: you're not big enough to worry over. But it will afford me great pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson—and from that point of view itwillbe worth while." He took out his watch. "I'll give you two minutes to decide."
He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in Ferguson's place would think twice and then again before he deliberately took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that were passing in the other's mind. Dare he gamble on the possibility of Hewson—as time went by—forgetting his threat, and letting the thing drop? That was the crux. It was an insignificant amount to a man like Hewson, but—was it the money that was at the bottom of it? While a man in Hewson's position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might be some other factor which would not slip his mind. It suddenly occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive girl in the Crossley household. And if she was the driving factor ... One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy. It was no idle threat on the latter's part: if he chose to he could ruin him.
"Well?" With a snap Hewson closed his watch. "What is it to be?"
By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book.
"Good. Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten thousand. I will give you a cheque for five. You can notify the company as to the transfer."
He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket.
"And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world alone. Good-morning."
Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny Mauritius.
IV
"I can hardly believe it. In just over a month. And the stamp as well. Mr. Hewson—I can never thank you sufficiently."
Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared dazedly—first at his precious stamp, then at the cheque.
"Ten thousand pounds! I must write him a letter and thank him."
"I'm sure Mr. Ferguson would like that," murmured Hewson. "But if I may give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn't try a gamble like that again. Mines are precarious things—very precarious."
"You mean, I might have lost my money?" said the old man, nervously.
"Such things have been known to happen," said Hewson, gravely. "By the way, is your daughter not at home?"
"She has gone over to Barnstaple with her mother. I'm expecting them back at any moment. Won't they be delighted?" He chuckled gleefully, and produced the precious card containing the Mauritius set. And with a quiet smile on his face Charles Hewson watched him from the depths of an arm-chair. What a child he was: what a charming, lovable child!
"There: the complete set again." In triumph he held up the card for Hewson's inspection, and at that moment Mrs. Crossley and the girl came through the window.
The good news poured out in a torrent, while Hewson stood almost forgotten in the background.
Ten thousand pounds—two thousand five hundred shares—capital doubled in a month—and the stamp. The old man brandished the cheque in his excitement, and, at length, Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile.
"We seem to have entertained an angel unawares," and her eyes were a little misty. "Thank you, Mr. Hewson."
"No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley," he laughed. "These things just happen."
He glanced at the girl, who had so far said nothing. She was staring at him steadily, and there was no answering smile on her face.
"Did you say two thousand five hundred shares, daddy?" Her voice was quite expressionless, as she turned to her father.
"That's it, little girl," he cried. "Sold at over four pounds a share. Now you'll be able to have some more frocks!"
He kissed her lovingly, and followed his wife from the room, still chuckling and rubbing his hands together.
"Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?" said the girl, in a flat, dead voice as the door closed.
"Explain, Miss Crossley! How do you mean? Your father acquired some shares a little while ago—two thousand five hundred, as he told you—which have just been sold at rather over four pounds a share. Hence the stamp—and a cheque for ten thousand."
"I went into the bank at Barnstaple this afternoon," said the girl, dully, "and I happened to speak to the cashier. He told me who you were. You're a multi-millionaire, aren't you?"
Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid I am," he laughed. "Is that what you want me to explain?"
"Don't laugh, please," said the girl, quietly. "I said that you'd been good enough to do some business for us—something to do with Rio Lopez shares. He said, 'Good heavens! Miss Crossley, surely Mr. Hewson hasn't put you into Rio Lopez?' I said, 'Why not—aren't they good shares?' You see, I didn't know what the business was you were doing. He said, 'Good! Why the blessed things aren't worth much more than the paper they're written on. Standing about four shillings, I think.' And now you tell me you've sold two thousand five hundred of them at over four pounds." Slim and erect she stood there facing him. "I don't know anything about business: but I'm not a fool. So will you please explain?"
If there was anything really in the absent-treatment business, an unsuspecting and well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead in the bank at that moment.
"Will you come into the garden, Miss Crossley?" said Hewson, gravely. "I could explain better out-of-doors."
In silence she followed him, and they found two chairs under a shady tree.
"Ferguson," he began, quietly, "the man who was down here a month ago, was a pretty smart gentleman. He did a business deal with your father which, legally speaking, was quite in order. He possessed two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, were standing at two pounds. He sold these shares to your father knowing perfectly well that they were only standing at such a figure because of a distinctly shady artificial boom which had been given them. He knew they were bound to slump—that is, fall in price. So he—finding your father supremely ignorant of finance—unloaded those shares on to him, and left him—as the saying goes—to carry the baby. In other words, shares that your father paid two pounds each for, he would only get four shillings for to-day. This morning I interviewed Mr. Ferguson in his office. And I persuaded him—how, is immaterial—to refund your father the money. That's all there is to it."
"I see," said the girl. "It was very good of you. But if my father only paid two pounds for each share—that makes five thousand. The cheque he's got is for ten. How did he double his capital?"
Hewson bit his lip: how indeed?
"Oh! please be frank, Mr. Hewson. Have you given my father five thousand pounds?"
His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair.
"Yes," he said at length. "I have. The dear old man thought the shares were standing at four pounds: he read the four and threepence in the paper as four pounds three shillings. And," he turned appealingly to the girl, "if you could only dimly guess what pleasure it's given me, Miss Crossley."
"Oh! stop, please." With a little cry that was half a sob she rose. "I suppose you meant it for the best: thought you were being kind. I don't suppose you realized your—your impertinence. Because we offer you lunch, Mr. Hewson, it gives you no right to dare to give my father money. And now it's going to be doubly hard for him—when I tell him. He'll be so—so ashamed."
She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and for a while there was silence in the sunny garden. And in that moment the man knew that the quest was over, the quest—conscious or unconscious, it matters not—that has been man's through the ages. But no hint of it sounded in his level voice as he spoke: the time for that was not yet.
"And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to tell your father?"
"What else can I possibly do?" She turned on him indignantly.
"Of course you must decide," he continued, quietly. "I quite see how the matter looks to you: I wonder if you are being equally fair to me. I come here: I meet your father. I find that he has been swindled by a man in London—a moral swindle only possible because of your father's charming innocence. I wonder if you can realize what the atmosphere of this place means to me—an atmosphere which must depend, to a large extent, on the happiness and joy of you three."
She was watching him now, and suddenly his swift smile flashed out. "Don't you understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is relative? I'm going to allude purposely to my disgusting wealth. You wouldn't think much of paying five shillings for pleasure, would you? Well, five thousand pounds means no more to me. And I've bought myself pleasure with that money such as I don't think you can begin to conceive of." Again he smiled: then before she could reply he went on. "So I want you to remember, when you make your decision, what you are going to sacrifice on the altar of pride. My feelings don't matter: but are you going to deliberately prick the bubble of your father's happiness and change him in a moment from a delighted child into a broken and worried old man?"
The girl bit her lip and stared over the rambling garden with troubled eyes. How could she let her father take the money: how could she? And then she heard his voice again from close behind her.
"I'm going back to London," he said, deliberately, "and I would ask you to keep this as our secret. I hadn't intended to go back yet: but now that you have found out—perhaps it's better. I'll leave you free to puzzle the thing out by yourself: only I want to make one condition."
"What's that?" whispered the girl.
"I want to come back for my promised visit later." Gently he swung her round and his eyes—tender and quizzical—rested on the lovely face so close to his. "And when I come back, I'm going to ask you a question, which, if you can see your way to answering with a yes, will make me your father's debtor for life. And then we could consider the five thousand as a payment on account, which would completely and finally settle the matter."
Almost against her will, a faint smile began to twitch round the girl's lips.
"Of course I'm not much good at business, as I said, but I didn't know that anybody ever paid on account until he had, at any rate, the promise of the goods."
"In these days of competition," murmured Hewson, "one sometimes has to pay for the right of the first refusal."
The smile was twitching again. "That right is yours without payment."
"Then I'd better get it over quickly. Sheila—will you marry me?"
"Mr. Hewson—I will not. Where are you going?"
Charles Hewson turned half-way across the lawn. "Up to London. I want to find a man there, and give him the best dinner he's ever had in his life."
"What man?"
"The sportsman who wrote that article about walking tours." It was then the smile broke bounds.
"We've got some topping peaches in the garden. Couldn't you send him some of those as—a payment on account?"
XI — The Poser
No one could call Portsdown-on-Sea a fashionable place. To the chosen few it constituted the most delightful seaside resort in the south of England. But very few did know, and they guarded their secret jealously. They formed a clique—the Portsdown clique—and the stranger within their gates was not welcomed.
The Grand was their stronghold, and during the winter the hotel relapsed into sleep, wrapped in a drab garment of dust sheets and chair covers.
A few of the rooms were kept open all the year round for anyone who might have business in the town; or for stray, foolhardy golfers who found the grey scudding mist which whipped over the salt marshes a cure for the cobwebs of an office life. But their stay was never a long one. Three or four days, a week-end perhaps—and then once again the melancholy waiter would preside over an empty dining-room. He formed the nucleus of the staff—did John. Each spring he blossomed forth into a crowd of young and more or less disreputable minions; each autumn he shrank back again to his solitary grandeur. And Martha, the female representative of the establishment, did likewise amongst the chambermaid portion of the servants.
During the war, business, even in the height of the season, had not been good. The Get-Rich-Quick brigade, whose horizon was bounded by half-crown cigars and champagne at any and every hour of the day, found Portsdown slow. There was no band and there was no theatre, and there is but little use in drinking champagne at eleven in the morning unless less fortunate beings—professional men with a small income, or wounded officers—can see the deed and gnash their teeth with envy. And the cigar with the band round it quite failed to impress Peter Gurney, the professional at the club-house. He eyed it with disfavour, and ostentatiously stood up-wind if compelled to give a lesson to its proud owner.
"These 'ere links are for gowf," he remarked once in a burst of confidence to Sawyer, his one-legged assistant, "not for the decimation of them stinking poison-gases."
And Sawyer, though he had an idea that something was wrong with the phraseology of the latter part of the remark, grunted an assent.
But, with the signing of the Armistice, visions of better days ahead loomed up in the minds of all who were interested in the welfare of Portsdown. Peter Gurney laid in an increased stock of hickory wood, to make clubs for "them as can use 'em." The secretary of the golf club turned his mind more resolutely to questions of greens and labour, and rent his clothes and tore his hair on the matter of the unemployment bonus.
Up at the hotel the manager considered the advisability of hiring a string quartette for August and September; and rumour has it that old John so far forgot himself as to purchase two new dickies.
"We'll be getting the old lot back," he said to Martha one day. "Men as is men, and can bathe and play tennis and golf—not them diseases in fancy dress, as we've had the last year or two."
It was towards the end of March that four or five of the old habitués arrived. They selected the chairs they had used of old: they all but labelled them with their names. They were the forerunners of the elder generation who remained there throughout the summer and approved or disapproved as the case might be of the children who came later. And by children, anything up to thirty is implied.
It was Mrs. Garrett, the wife of the retired judge, that the manager first told of Ruth Seaton's impending arrival.
"Miss Bannister that was," he murmured to her one evening. "Married poor young Mr. Seaton who came here for two or three years."
"Why poor?" boomed his august listener.
"He was killed in the war," he returned. "She is a widow."
"So one would be led to assume." Mrs. Garrett regarded him judicially. "Unless she has married again."
The manager shrugged deprecating shoulders and passed on. The idea as mentioned by Mrs. Garrett seemed almost indecent.
"We must be very good to her," ordered that lady after dinner in the lounge. "She is, after all, one of us."
Ruth Bannister had married Jimmy Seaton the summer before the war. There had been the time when he was training, and then those wonderful snatched interludes of leave, when nothing mattered save the present. And then had come the news. For a week she heard nothing—no letter, no field service postcard. On the eighth day there came a telegram from the War Office, and the suspense was over.
It seemed impossible. Other men might be killed: other names might appear in the casualty lists—but not Jimmy. Oh! no, not Jimmy—her Jimmy. There never had been such a marriage as theirs: not a quarrel, not a cross word the whole time. And now Jimmy was gone. Somewhere out in that filthy field of mud he was lying, and the eyes that had smiled at her were staring and sightless. Dear God! but it was too cruel....
Never again could she look at another man. Her body was still alive—but her soul, her spirit were dead. They were buried with Jimmy.
"You'll find me just the same, old man," she used to say out loud sometimes—"just the same. There'll never be anyone else, Jimmy—never, never."
Once a well-meaning but stupid friend had suggested the possibility of marrying again, and Ruth had smiled—a sad little smile. Also perhaps it was just a little tolerant: the smile of a parent whose child had asked some particularly foolish question.
"My dear," said Ruth, "I don't think you quite understand. There'll never be anybody in my life but Jimmy. How could there be?"
It was her brother who first dragged her out to a theatre.
"My dear girl," he said, "you can't go on burying yourself like this. Come to a show; it'll do you all the good in the world."
And Ruth, because he was home on leave, just thought it was a shame not to give him as good a time as possible; and so, just to please him, she went.
She looked her best in black—and her brother's "By Jove, old bean—you look topping!" as she came into the room before starting, sounded very pleasantly in her ears. Of course it didn't much matter what she looked like—now: except that Jimmy had always been very particular. He wouldn't like her not to look smart.
It was the second act that made her roar with laughter, and she was so engrossed in the play that she failed to notice her brother glancing at her once or twice with a quiet smile of satisfaction. In fact, during the second act she quite forgot, and it was only as she stood up to go that it all came back to her mind.
"Good show, wasn't it?" said her brother.
She smiled a little sadly. "I suppose so," she answered. "Somehow one doesn't care very much in these days...." She sighed. "But anyway, you liked it, old man, and that's all that matters."
And her brother, who seemed on the point of saying something, changed his mind and remained silent.
It was natural that Ruth should go to Portsdown. It was there she had met Jimmy: it was there they had become engaged. It would be very painful, and in a way she dreaded the tender, intimate, associations that all the well-known haunts would call up to her mind. Portsdown was so woven up round Jimmy—it would seem almost part of him. That sandy hillock, for instance, just beyond the third tee, where they had lazed away so many afternoons together.
The people in the hotel when she arrived were just those she would have liked. A little elderly, perhaps, but that was in their favour. And she knew them all so intimately. She wondered why she had ever regarded Mrs. Garrett as a consequential old cat. Nothing could have been more charming than her sympathy and consideration, and the others took their tone from her. In fact, the subject of her loss seemed quite inexhaustible.
There were one or two mistakes made, but that was only to be expected.
"Maybe your husband will be being demobilized soon, miss," said Peter Gurney to her a couple of days after her arrival, as she stood on the first tee. To him she would always be miss, and with a faint smile Ruth Seaton turned towards him with her ball in her hand.
"He was killed, Peter," she said—"killed on the Somme." Then she drove a low, clean-hit shot straight up the centre of the course. For a few moments he watched her slim figure as she walked after her ball, and then he went into his shop.
"Hit me over the head with yon niblick, Bob," he remarked, in a voice which was not quite steady. "I surely am a damned, dunderheaded old fool."
She seemed so wonderfully plucky, and even the secretary of the golf club descended from his exalted position temporarily and discussed the matter with Peter Gurney.
He disguised it well—interpolated it in between an argument on the rival merits of two top dressings for the greens: and it was only when he retired again to his sanctum that it struck him that any decision on those rival merits was as unsettled as ever. But then Gurney was such an old fool at times—quite unable to concentrate his attention on the point at issue.
It was on the third day after her arrival that the man came. Hugh Ralton was not a Portsdown habitué, but he had once spent a week-end there, and he remembered the links as being exactly what he wanted—first-class, without being championship. He had come down to practise for the Active Service Championship, and he had hoped to find the Grand empty. An Eveless Eden was what he wanted—golf without distraction.
It was old John who told him Ruth Seaton's story, told it as if it was a personal insult to himself, an effort perpetrated by "them 'Uns" on Portsdown. And at dinner that evening Ralton looked at her curiously.
He noticed the sweet resigned expression on her face, the air of quiet sadness, and then, suddenly, their eyes met.
She turned away at once and spoke to Mrs. Garrett.
"No, I didn't play to-day," he heard her say. "I just walked round the—round the old places."
And Mrs. Garrett nodded understandingly at her pudding. She would have nodded just as understandingly if she had known that Ruth, having made a special pilgrimage to the hummock by the third tee, had fallen asleep in the sun. But then, Mrs. Garrett understood nothing. And Ruth herself was feeling a little puzzled.
"When was Mrs. Seaton's husband killed?" said Ralton to John that night just before he went to bed.
"The Somme, sir," answered the old man, shaking his head. "Pore young thing."
But Hugh Ralton only grunted noncommittally and went upstairs.
The next day he played his first round. He was plus one at St. Andrews, but, despite that high qualification, one of the curses of the lesser golfer had him in its clutches.
He was slicing abominably, and lunatic asylums are very largely kept going by golfers who fail to stop themselves slicing.
At the tenth he pulled himself together. Through set teeth he spoke words of contumely to his ball, and then he smote it. There was no doubt about the result: it was not a slice. The ball travelled at right angles to the line of the hole in the direction of square leg—to apply a cricketing metaphor—and it travelled fast. And as he watched it go, with somewhat the expression of a man who contemplates a bad oyster, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Why the devil couldn't women take their walks on the sea-shore or along the road, or something?
"Fore!" With the full force of his distinctly powerful lungs, Hugh Ralton's shout of warning echoed over the golf links, and Ruth Seaton, who was walking slowly over the seventh green, looked up quickly. The next moment a ball whizzed past her, and disappeared into a big sand-bunker guarding the hole.
Approaching her rapidly was a man, and she frowned slightly. He was evidently going to speak to her, and apologize, and she didn't want to speak to anybody. Certainly not a man.... Moreover, the best people do not play the seventh hole from the tenth tee on well-regulated links, and the girl's frown deepened. Incidentally the ball had passed her rather too closely and rather too rapidly for her to see any vast amount of humour in the performance.
The man was still some fifty yards away when she recognized him as being at the hotel.
"I am so sorry." His voice came to her through the still air, and the frown relaxed somewhat—Hugh Ralton's voice was a very pleasant one. "I'd no idea there was anyone about."
With his cap in his hand he came up to her.
"Do you generally play a course of your own?" she demanded. "Most of us find the proper one good enough."
Ralton laughed, displaying two rows of white even teeth. "I abase myself," he murmured. "The shot that caused me such a heart spasm, and missed you by——"
"About the distance of a putt you'd have to give even to your most hated rival," interrupted the girl.
"That shot," he continued, firmly, "was intended for the tenth green."
The girl's lips began to twitch. "I was under the impression," she remarked, meditatively, "that the tenth green lay over there." She waved a vague hand. "About a mile away.... I don't think you can be playing very well, somehow."
Ralton affected to consider the point. "I must confess," he remarked, after a while, "that there would seem to be some grounds for your thoughts. But you must admit," he added, hopefully, "that the ball was going very fast anyway. The direction, I grant you, was faulty, but the velocity left nothing to be desired."
"What you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts sort of idea," she said. "Very nice, indeed, but you won't be popular if you make a speciality of that type of shot. Incidentally your ball is in there." She pointed to the bunker beside the green, and prepared to continue her interrupted walk.
"You haven't told me if I'm forgiven yet," cried Ralton. "I really am most frightfully sorry."
The girl paused for a moment, and her blue eyes were faintly mocking. "You see," he plunged on, "I've been slicing abominably from the tee the whole afternoon, and then suddenly at the tenth, for no reason that can possibly be accounted for, save the latent devilry in every golf bail, I got the most appalling hook on the beastly thing...."
She started to laugh, and in a moment he was laughing too.
"Just this once I think I can stretch a point and pardon you," she said. "But in future you must be provided with a man carrying a red flag."
"It shall be done," he answered. "Only for absolute safety, I suggest the tee beside me." He looked at her tentatively. "Do you play the noble game yourself?"
The mocking look returned to her eyes. "I don't think that we have been introduced, have we?" she murmured.
"An attempt at murder is not a bad introduction," he returned, with becoming gravity. "And, in addition, I can assure you that I know some very nice people. Two war knights—pickles and artificial legs—frequently ask me to dinner...."
For a moment he was amazed at the look of weary contempt that flamed in her eyes. "They're the only sort of people who can these days, aren't they?" she said. "The rest of us just pick up the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table and wonder why. You're a soldier, of course?"
Hugh Ralton nodded gravely, and his eyes suddenly rested on the wedding-ring she wore.
"And you?" he asked. "Are you one too?"
"I don't quite follow," she said, slowly. "My husband was killed on the Somme, as a matter of fact."
"Ah!" The man's voice seemed studiously non-committal. "That makes it all the more important, doesn't it, that you should keep the flag flying ... and fight?"
"What makes you think I'm not?" she demanded, staring at him defiantly. "And anyway, it's no..."
"Business of mine." He concluded the half-finished sentence with a slight smile. "I know it isn't. Will you forgive me? Somehow I thought that you would understand." He took two or three steps towards her. "Somehow I think you do understand.... Don't you?"
The girl made no answer, but only stared with troubled eyes over the sea to where the low-lying spit of land which flanked Portsdown on the south merged into the grey mist. It all seemed so grey ... grey and lifeless.
Then she heard him speaking again. "Which bunker did you say the ball was in?"
"That one." Without turning her head, she pointed it out, and with a quick sideways look at her averted face, Hugh Ralton walked past her and retrieved his ball.
"Would you care for a game to-morrow?" He was standing close behind her, and after a short pause she swung round and looked at him.
"What did you mean," she asked, quietly, "about it being all the more important to go on fighting?"
"One doesn't want two people killed with the same bullet, that's all," he answered. "It makes the damned Boche so pleased."
"Is that the only reason?" She was looking at him anxiously, her hands thrust in the pockets of her jersey.
"Why, no," Ralton said, gravely. "One always starts off with the lesser reason. The real, important thing is that you shouldn't hurt the first casualty."
"And you think he would know?"
"Wouldn't you hate it if he didn't?"
The girl moved a little restlessly. "I don't know," she said at length. "I can't make up my mind. Sometimes I think it would be hell if he didn't: more often I think it would be hell if he did."
Almost unconsciously they had commenced to stroll back side by side towards the tenth tee.
"Do you think it's been worth while?" she asked him, suddenly.
Ralton carefully teed up his ball, and with a full clean swing drove it over the sandy hummock in front of him.
"Depends how you look at it, doesn't it?" he answered, shouldering his clubs, and stuffing an empty pipe into his mouth. "We've beaten the swine."
"I suppose that's the only thing that matters to a man," she returned.
"It's the only thing that matters to you." Ralton inspected the lie of his ball carefully, and then looked at his clubs. "I think I ought to get up with a heavy niblick," he remarked, thoughtfully. "What say you, my lady of the links?"
"Not if you play as you were playing when you nearly killed me," she retorted. "The ball will go into the sea."
Ralton smiled. "It wasn't me playing then; it was a kindly spirit that possessed me."
The ball rose towering into the air, and fell dead close to the pin—that perfect shot which marks the true golfer.
"You seem to have played this game before, remarked the girl.
"Once, when I was very young," answered Ralton, glancing at her with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm a bright young lad, ain't I?"
"What is your handicap?" she demanded.
"It used to be plus one," he murmured, examining the line of his putt.
"Then you had no business to try to murder me. It wasn't at all funny."
The ball lipped the hole, and Ralton looked at her accusingly.
"That was you," he remarked. "You've got no business to talk to the man at the putter."
"It was nothing of the sort," jeered the girl. "Merely a rotten bad putt." She kicked his ball towards him, and replaced the pin in the hole. "What are you supposed to be doing," she said, suddenly, "playing about here by yourself?"
"Trying to loosen some very stiff muscles for the Active Service Championship," he answered. "Which accounts for me, my lady. Have you got as satisfactory an explanation for yourself?"
She frowned slightly, but Ralton was apparently engrossed in making his tee. She waited until he had driven, and the frown disappeared.
"What a beauty!" she cried, enthusiastically. Then she recollected his remark, and frowned again. "But the fact that you happen to be able to play golf is no excuse for your being rude."
He turned and faced her with a whimsical smile on his lips. "Was I rude?" he said. "Ah! no—I think not. Because somehow I've got an idea that you haven't at all a satisfactory explanation to give of yourself. I think—I may be wrong—but, I think, you're posing."
"Posing! What do you mean?" The girl's voice was indignant.
"Not intentionally," he went on calmly, "but unconsciously. Only you're posing just the same." He picked up his clubs and stood for a while looking at her thoughtfully. "I am going to play this hole," he announced at length, "and then I am going to tell you a story.... We'll go and sit on top of that sand dune by the next green, and look out to sea, and listen to the oyster-catchers.... Poor little devils—those oyster-catchers! Have you ever noticed how they do all the work, and the gulls get all the oysters?" He came to his ball, and once again appealed to her for advice.
"An iron or a baffy?" he queried.
The girl took no notice, but stood with her back towards him. She heard the clear, sharp click of the club, and involuntarily she looked towards the green.
"I wonder, my friend," she remarked, "if you're as good at stories as you are at golf. You're lying dead again."
"I'm better," he returned confidently. "At least I shall be to-day. Will you smoke?"
Ralton held out his cigarette case, and after a momentary hesitation she took one.
"Come and let's find a good spot," he said. "You'll only put me off my putt again if we go to the green...."
In silence they sought a sheltered hollow on the side of the dune, and it was not till Ruth Seaton had settled herself comfortably that she broke the silence.
"I don't often do this sort of thing, you know," she said, a trifle defiantly.
"Nor do I," answered the man. "Let us regard the occasion as privileged."
"Why do you think I'm posing?" she demanded.
"Once upon a time," he began, ignoring her question, "there was a war on, up the road. A large number of people, to their great annoyance, got roped into the performance—amongst them a certain man, whom we will call Jones.... Good old British name, Jones. And Jones had taken unto himself a wife just before the war broke out."
Ralton was staring at some gulls which circled and screamed over the shingly beach.
"It seemed to Jones that nothing in the whole wide world could be quite as wonderful as the girl he had married. She was such a dear—such a pal; and sometimes he used to look ahead into the future, and just thank heaven for his marvellous luck. Then, as I said, came the war.... And Jones went.
"Naturally he had no hesitation—no more had she. It was the only conceivable thing that any man could do. He trained along with the rest of the New Army, and he went to France." Ralton smiled. "You will notice that Jones and Mrs. Jones were very, very ordinary beings—like, shall we say, you and I."
"Stories about ordinary beings are the only ones that really matter," said the girl. "What did Jones do in France?"
"What thousands of other Joneses have done," answered Ralton. "He wasn't particularly brave, and he wasn't particularly cowardly; he was just an ordinary man who carried on because he couldn't do anything else, and thought in his spare time quite a lot about—the one at home. You see—it was shortly going to be two: and that makes a man think—quite a deal, especially when he's away at a war.... Have you got any children?" he asked, abruptly.
The girl shook her head, and after a while he went on.
"It was just before a battle that he got the wire he had been expecting, and after he'd read it he sat staring at it dazedly. It just couldn't be; of course there was a mistake. There must be. He knew that sometimes women did die at such times; but ... but not his woman. It couldn't be his wife that was dead—the thing was preposterous. Such a thing couldn't happen, any more than the one man's name can ever appear in the casualty list. Other names perhaps—but not his."
He hit at a tuft of grass with the club in his hand. "At last it penetrated into his brain, and by that time the battle was over. He gathered that he had done rather well—been recommended for a decoration of sorts, and he laughed like hell at the folly of it all. He felt he only wanted one thing, and that was to go after his girl. He didn't care a rap about the son he'd never seen; he knew it was being well looked after, and he wouldn't even go on leave to see it. It was only the girl he thought about, and she—well, she was unattainable except by one method. So he deliberately set to work to secure that method."
Ralton's eyes were fixed on the girl now, and her cigarette had dropped unheeded on the grass.
"He ran the most unheard-of risks; he volunteered for any and every stunt that came along—but the Boche seemed to miss him on purpose. For weeks and months it continued—but it was no good: he bore a charmed life.
"And now, my lady of the links, comes the point. There came a time—one night, to be exact—when in the silence of his dugout a thought crept into his mind, a nasty, persistent thought. He was furious at the thought; he argued with it fiercely—but the thought remained. And so, in order to prove that the thought was wrong, he redoubled his efforts to secure the end which he assured himself he wanted. Before he had been foolish, now he became damned foolish. He did the most utterly stupid things, just to prove to himself that he intended to die; and Fate decreed otherwise. He didn't die—but one evening the other man did——"
"I don't quite follow," said the girl. "What other man?"
"His orderly," said Ralton, briefly. "Quite unnecessarily he was walking up a road in full sight of the Boches. They were some distance away—true; but a rifle-bullet carries some distance. Behind him was his orderly." With a frown he looked at the girl beside him. "You've never heard a rifle-bullet probably," he continued, after a moment. "Never heard that sudden ping past your head which sounds like a huge mosquito. He heard it that evening—twice; and the first time he took no notice. You understand, don't you, that there was no necessity for him to have been on the road?"
She nodded.
"The second bullet did not miss. It hit the orderly, and Jones just got him into the ditch beside the road before he died...."
Ralton was examining his niblick with unusual care. "This old club seems to have suffered some."
"Is that your story?" demanded the girl.
"Yes, that is the story. The story of a man who posed."
"You mean..." began Ruth Seaton, tentatively.
"I mean that the thought which had come to him in his dugout, the thought which he had striven so hard against, was that he didn't really want to die. He was young, and his wife's death was beginning to lose its sting. He wanted to live; to see his son; and he posed because he thought it was disloyal to her memory. He posed even to himself. And it was only as he knelt over the man in the ditch that he realized it...." Ralton turned to the girl impulsively. "My dear," he cried, "he learned his lesson at a great price—the price of a man's life. There is no call for you to do that. But you're young, and life, and all that it means, is crying out to you. And you're posing. The sympathy of all those people at the hotel isn't real sympathy; and you know it isn't. They're posing, too. When things are really cutting one, when one's really up against it, one's just got to go away and hide. The crowd is no use then." He stood up and looked at her with a grave smile. "He won't think it disloyal, believe me. You see—he understands."
She watched the tall, straight figure striding away towards the green where his ball lay, and then for a long while she sat motionless staring out to sea. Once or twice she saw him in the distance, as he continued on his solitary round, until a sudden shiver of cold warned her that March at Portsdown was not the ideal month for sitting out-of-doors.