With a neatly written cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket Bob Pillin turned in at 23, Millicent Villas on the afternoon after Mr. Ventnor's visit. Chivalry had won the day. And he rang the bell with an elation which astonished him, for he knew he was doing a soft thing.
“Mrs. Larne is out, sir; Miss Phyllis is at home.”
His heart leaped.
“Oh-h! I'm sorry. I wonder if she'd see me?”
The little maid answered
“I think she's been washin' 'er'air, sir, but it may be dry be now. I'll see.”
Bob Pillin stood stock still beneath the young woman on the wall. He could scarcely breathe. If her hair were not dry—how awful! Suddenly he heard floating down a clear but smothered “Oh! Gefoozleme!” and other words which he could not catch. The little maid came running down.
“Miss Phyllis says, sir, she'll be with you in a jiffy. And I was to tell you that Master Jock is loose, sir.”
Bob Pillin answered “Tha-anks,” and passed into the drawing-room. He went to the bureau, took an envelope, enclosed the cheque, and addressing it: “Mrs. Larne,” replaced it in his pocket. Then he crossed over to the mirror. Never till this last month had he really doubted his own face; but now he wanted for it things he had never wanted. It had too much flesh and colour. It did not reflect his passion. This was a handicap. With a narrow white piping round his waistcoat opening, and a buttonhole of tuberoses, he had tried to repair its deficiencies. But do what he would, he was never easy about himself nowadays, never up to that pitch which could make him confident in her presence. And until this month to lack confidence had never been his wont. A clear, high, mocking voice said:
“Oh-h! Conceited young man!”
And spinning round he saw Phyllis in the doorway. Her light brown hair was fluffed out on her shoulders, so that he felt a kind of fainting-sweet sensation, and murmured inarticulately:
“Oh! I say—how jolly!”
“Lawks! It's awful! Have you come to see mother?”
Balanced between fear and daring, conscious of a scent of hay and verbena and camomile, Bob Pillin stammered:
“Ye-es. I—I'm glad she's not in, though.”
Her laugh seemed to him terribly unfeeling.
“Oh! oh! Don't be foolish. Sit down. Isn't washing one's head awful?”
Bob Pillin answered feebly:
“Of course, I haven't much experience.”
Her mouth opened.
“Oh! You are—aren't you?”
And he thought desperately: 'Dare I—oughtn't I—couldn't I somehow take her hand or put my arm round her, or something?' Instead, he sat very rigid at his end of the sofa, while she sat lax and lissom at the other, and one of those crises of paralysis which beset would-be lovers fixed him to the soul.
Sometimes during this last month memories of a past existence, when chaff and even kisses came readily to the lips, and girls were fair game, would make him think: 'Is she really such an innocent? Doesn't she really want me to kiss her?' Alas! such intrusions lasted but a moment before a blast of awe and chivalry withered them, and a strange and tragic delicacy—like nothing he had ever known—resumed its sway. And suddenly he heard her say:
“Why do you know such awful men?”
“What? I don't know any awful men.”
“Oh yes, you do; one came here yesterday; he had whiskers, and he was awful.”
“Whiskers?” His soul revolted in disclaimer. “I believe I only know one man with whiskers—a lawyer.”
“Yes—that was him; a perfectly horrid man. Mother didn't mind him, but I thought he was a beast.”
“Ventnor! Came here? How d'you mean?”
“He did; about some business of yours, too.” Her face had clouded over. Bob Pillin had of late been harassed by the still-born beginning of a poem:
“I rode upon my way and sawA maid who watched me from the door.”
It never grew longer, and was prompted by the feeling that her face was like an April day. The cloud which came on it now was like an April cloud, as if a bright shower of rain must follow. Brushing aside the two distressful lines, he said:
“Look here, Miss Larne—Phyllis—look here!”
“All right, I'm looking!”
“What does it mean—how did he come? What did he say?”
She shook her head, and her hair quivered; the scent of camomile, verbena, hay was wafted; then looking at her lap, she muttered:
“I wish you wouldn't—I wish mother wouldn't—I hate it. Oh! Money! Beastly—beastly!” and a tearful sigh shivered itself into Bob Pillin's reddening ears.
“I say—don't! And do tell me, because—”
“Oh! you know.”
“I don't—I don't know anything at all. I never—-”
Phyllis looked up at him. “Don't tell fibs; you know mother's borrowing money from you, and it's hateful!”
A desire to lie roundly, a sense of the cheque in his pocket, a feeling of injustice, the emotion of pity, and a confused and black astonishment about Ventnor, caused Bob Pillin to stammer:
“Well, I'm d—-d!” and to miss the look which Phyllis gave him through her lashes—a look saying:
“Ah! that's better!”
“I am d—-d! Look here! D'you mean to say that Ventnor came here about my lending money? I never said a word to him—-”
“There you see—you are lending!”
He clutched his hair.
“We've got to have this out,” he added.
“Not by the roots! Oh! you do look funny. I've never seen you with your hair untidy. Oh! oh!”
Bob Pillin rose and paced the room. In the midst of his emotion he could not help seeing himself sidelong in the mirror; and on pretext of holding his head in both his hands, tried earnestly to restore his hair. Then coming to a halt he said:
“Suppose I am lending money to your mother, what does it matter? It's only till quarter-day. Anybody might want money.”
Phyllis did not raise her face.
“Why are you lending it?”
“Because—because—why shouldn't I?” and diving suddenly, he seized her hands.
She wrenched them free; and with the emotion of despair, Bob Pillin took out the envelope.
“If you like,” he said, “I'll tear this up. I don't want to lend it, if you don't want me to; but I thought—I thought—” It was for her alone he had been going to lend this money!
Phyllis murmured through her hair:
“Yes! You thought that I—that's what's so hateful!”
Apprehension pierced his mind.
“Oh! I never—I swear I never—”
“Yes, you did; you thought I wanted you to lend it.”
She jumped up, and brushed past him into the window.
So she thought she was being used as a decoy! That was awful—especially since it was true. He knew well enough that Mrs. Larne was working his admiration for her daughter for all that it was worth. And he said with simple fervour:
“What rot!” It produced no effect, and at his wits' end, he almost shouted: “Look, Phyllis! If you don't want me to—here goes!” Phyllis turned. Tearing the envelope across he threw the bits into the fire. “There it is,” he said.
Her eyes grew round; she said in an awed voice: “Oh!”
In a sort of agony of honesty he said:
“It was only a cheque. Now you've got your way.”
Staring at the fire she answered slowly:
“I expect you'd better go before mother comes.”
Bob Pillin's mouth fell afar; he secretly agreed, but the idea of sacrificing a moment alone with her was intolerable, and he said hardily:
“No, I shall stick it!”
Phyllis sneezed.
“My hair isn't a bit dry,” and she sat down on the fender with her back to the fire.
A certain spirituality had come into Bob Pillin's face. If only he could get that wheeze off: “Phyllis is my only joy!” or even: “Phyllis—do you—won't you—mayn't I?” But nothing came—nothing.
And suddenly she said:
“Oh! don't breathe so loud; it's awful!”
“Breathe? I wasn't!”
“You were; just like Carmen when she's dreaming.”
He had walked three steps towards the door, before he thought: 'What does it matter? I can stand anything from her; and walked the three steps back again.
She said softly:
“Poor young man!”
He answered gloomily:
“I suppose you realise that this may be the last time you'll see me?”
“Why? I thought you were going to take us to the theatre.”
“I don't know whether your mother will—after—-”
Phyllis gave a little clear laugh.
“You don't know mother. Nothing makes any difference to her.”
And Bob Pillin muttered:
“I see.” He did not, but it was of no consequence. Then the thought of Ventnor again ousted all others. What on earth-how on earth! He searched his mind for what he could possibly have said the other night. Surely he had not asked him to do anything; certainly not given him their address. There was something very odd about it that had jolly well got to be cleared up! And he said:
“Are you sure the name of that Johnny who came here yesterday was Ventnor?”
Phyllis nodded.
“And he was short, and had whiskers?”
“Yes; red, and red eyes.”
He murmured reluctantly:
“It must be him. Jolly good cheek; I simply can't understand. I shall go and see him. How on earth did he know your address?”
“I expect you gave it him.”
“I did not. I won't have you thinking me a squirt.”
Phyllis jumped up. “Oh! Lawks! Here's mother!” Mrs. Larne was coming up the garden. Bob Pillin made for the door. “Good-bye,” he said; “I'm going.” But Mrs. Larne was already in the hall. Enveloping him in fur and her rich personality, she drew him with her into the drawing-room, where the back window was open and Phyllis gone.
“I hope,” she said, “those naughty children have been making you comfortable. That nice lawyer of yours came yesterday. He seemed quite satisfied.”
Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered:
“I never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. I don't know what it means.”
Mrs. Larne smiled. “My dear boy, it's all right. You needn't be so squeamish. I want it to be quite on a business footing.”
Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: “It's not going to be on any footing!” Bob Pillin mumbled: “I must go; I'm late.”
“And when will you be able—-?”
“Oh! I'll—I'll send—I'll write. Good-bye!” And suddenly he found that Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat. The scent of violets and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'I believe she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible. I can't leave my coat in her hands! What shall I do?'
Mrs. Larne was murmuring:
“It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today”; and her hand slid over his chest. “Oh! You have brought your cheque-book—what a nice boy!”
Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau, wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned. A warm kiss lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said: “How delightful!” and a sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume. Backing to the door, he gasped:
“Don't mention it; and—and don't tell Phyllis, please. Good-bye!”
Once through the garden gate, he thought: 'By gum! I've done it now. That Phyllis should know about it at all! That beast Ventnor!'
His face grew almost grim. He would go and see what that meant anyway!
Mr. Ventnor had not left his office when his young friend's card was brought to him. Tempted for a moment to deny his own presence, he thought: 'No! What's the good? Bound to see him some time!' If he had not exactly courage, he had that peculiar blend of self-confidence and insensibility which must needs distinguish those who follow the law; nor did he ever forget that he was in the right.
“Show him in!” he said.
He would be quite bland, but young Pillin might whistle for an explanation; he was still tormented, too, by the memory of rich curves and moving lips, and the possibilities of better acquaintanceship.
While shaking the young man's hand his quick and fulvous eye detected at once the discomposure behind that mask of cheek and collar, and relapsing into one of those swivel chairs which give one an advantage over men more statically seated, he said:
“You look pretty bobbish. Anything I can do for you?”
Bob Pillin, in the fixed chair of the consultor, nursed his bowler on his knee.
“Well, yes, there is. I've just been to see Mrs. Larne.”
Mr. Ventnor did not flinch.
“Ah! Nice woman; pretty daughter, too!” And into those words he put a certain meaning. He never waited to be bullied. Bob Pillin felt the pressure of his blood increasing.
“Look here, Ventnor,” he said, “I want an explanation.”
“What of?”
“Why, of your going there, and using my name, and God knows what.”
Mr. Ventnor gave his chair two little twiddles before he said
“Well, you won't get it.”
Bob Pillin remained for a moment taken aback; then he muttered resolutely:
“It's not the conduct of a gentleman.”
Every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed. The gingery tint underlying Mr. Ventnor's colouring overlaid it; even the whites of his eyes grew red.
“Oh!” he said; “indeed! You mind your own business, will you?”
“It is my business—very much so. You made use of my name, and I don't choose—-”
“The devil you don't! Now, I tell you what—-”
Mr. Ventnor leaned forward—“you'd better hold your tongue, and not exasperate me. I'm a good-tempered man, but I won't stand your impudence.”
Clenching his bowler hat, and only kept in his seat by that sense of something behind, Bob Pillin ejaculated:
“Impudence! That's good—after what you did! Look here, why did you? It's so extraordinary!”
Mr. Ventnor answered:
“Oh! is it? You wait a bit, my friend!”
Still more moved by the mystery of this affair, Bob Pillin could only mutter:
“I never gave you their address; we were only talking about old Heythorp.”
And at the smile which spread between Mr. Ventnor's whiskers, he jumped up, crying:
“It's not the thing, and you're not going to put me off. I insist on an explanation.”
Mr. Ventnor leaned back, crossing his stout legs, joining the tips of his thick fingers. In this attitude he was always self-possessed.
“You do—do you?”
“Yes. You must have had some reason.”
Mr. Ventnor gazed up at him.
“I'll give you a piece of advice, young cock, and charge you nothing for it, too: Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies. And here's another: Go away before you forget yourself again.”
The natural stolidity of Bob Pilings face was only just proof against this speech. He said thickly:
“If you go there again and use my name, I'll Well, it's lucky for you you're not my age. Anyway I'll relieve you of my acquaintanceship in future. Good-evening!” and he went to the door. Mr. Ventnor had risen.
“Very well,” he said loudly. “Good riddance! You wait and see which boot the leg is on!”
But Bob Pillin was gone, leaving the lawyer with a very red face, a very angry heart, and a vague sense of disorder in his speech. Not only Bob Pillin, but his tender aspirations had all left him; he no longer dallied with the memory of Mrs. Larne, but like a man and a Briton thought only of how to get his own back, and punish evildoers. The atrocious words of his young friend, “It's not the conduct of a gentleman,” festered in the heart of one who was made gentle not merely by nature but by Act of Parliament, and he registered a solemn vow to wipe the insult out, if not with blood, with verjuice. It was his duty, and they should d—-d well see him do it!
Sylvanus Heythorp seldom went to bed before one or rose before eleven. The latter habit alone kept his valet from handing in the resignation which the former habit prompted almost every night.
Propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved, he looked more Roman than he ever did, except in his bath. Having disposed of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and The Morning Post, for he had always been a Tory, and could not stomach paying a halfpenny for his news. Not that there were many letters—when a man has reached the age of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for money?
It was Valentine's Day. Through his bedroom window he could see the trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not hear them. He had never been interested in Nature—full-blooded men with short necks seldom are.
This morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which smelt of something. Inside was a thing like a Christmas card, save that the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out of his mouth: “To be your Valentine.” There was also a little pink note with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. It ran:
“DEAREST GUARDY,—I'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; I couldn't go out to get it because I've got a beastly cold, so I asked Jock, and the pig bought this. The satin is simply scrumptious. If you don't come and see me in it some time soon, I shall come and show it to you. I wish I had a moustache, because my top lip feels just like a matchbox, but it's rather ripping having breakfast in bed. Mr. Pillin's taking us to the theatre the day after to-morrow evening. Isn't it nummy! I'm going to have rum and honey for my cold.
“Good-bye,
“Your PHYLLIS.”
So this that quivered in his thick fingers, too insensitive to feel it, was a valentine for him!
Forty years ago that young thing's grandmother had given him his last. It made him out a very old chap! Forty years ago! Had that been himself living then? And himself, who, as a youth came on the town in 'forty-five? Not a thought, not a feeling the same! They said you changed your body every seven years. The mind with it, too, perhaps! Well, he had come to the last of his bodies, now! And that holy woman had been urging him to take it to Bath, with her face as long as a tea-tray, and some gammon from that doctor of his. Too full a habit—dock his port—no alcohol—might go off in a coma any night! Knock off not he! Rather die any day than turn tee-totaller! When a man had nothing left in life except his dinner, his bottle, his cigar, and the dreams they gave him—these doctors forsooth must want to cut them off! No, no! Carpe diem! while you lived, get something out of it. And now that he had made all the provision he could for those youngsters, his life was no good to any one but himself; and the sooner he went off the better, if he ceased to enjoy what there was left, or lost the power to say: “I'll do this and that, and you be jiggered!” Keep a stiff lip until you crashed, and then go clean! He sounded the bell beside him twice-for Molly, not his man. And when the girl came in, and stood, pretty in her print frock, her fluffy over-fine dark hair escaping from under her cap, he gazed at her in silence.
“Yes, sirr?”
“Want to look at you, that's all.”
“Oh I an' I'm not tidy, sirr.”
“Never mind. Had your valentine?”
“No, sirr; who would send me one, then?”
“Haven't you a young man?”
“Well, I might. But he's over in my country.
“What d'you think of this?”
He held out the little boy.
The girl took the card and scrutinised it reverently; she said in a detached voice:
“Indeed, an' ut's pretty, too.”
“Would you like it?”
“Oh I if 'tis not taking ut from you.”
Old Heythorp shook his head, and pointed to the dressing-table.
“Over there—you'll find a sovereign. Little present for a good girl.”
She uttered a deep sigh. “Oh! sirr, 'tis too much; 'tis kingly.”
“Take it.”
She took it, and came back, her hands clasping the sovereign and the valentine, in an attitude as of prayer.
The old man's gaze rested on her with satisfaction.
“I like pretty faces—can't bear sour ones. Tell Meller to get my bath ready.”
When she had gone he took up the other letter—some lawyer's writing, and opening it with the usual difficulty, read:
“February 13, 1905.
“SIR,—Certain facts having come to my knowledge, I deem it my duty to call a special meeting of the shareholders of 'The Island Navigation Coy.,' to consider circumstances in connection with the purchase of Mr. Joseph Pillin's fleet. And I give you notice that at this meeting your conduct will be called in question.
“I am, Sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“CHARLES VENTNOR. “SYLVANUS HEYTHORP,ESQ.”
Having read this missive, old Heythorp remained some minutes without stirring. Ventnor! That solicitor chap who had made himself unpleasant at the creditors' meetings!
There are men whom a really bad bit of news at once stampedes out of all power of coherent thought and action, and men who at first simply do not take it in. Old Heythorp took it in fast enough; coming from a lawyer it was about as nasty as it could be. But, at once, with stoic wariness his old brain began casting round. What did this fellow really know? And what exactly could he do? One thing was certain; even if he knew everything, he couldn't upset that settlement. The youngsters were all right. The old man grasped the fact that only his own position was at stake. But this was enough in all conscience; a name which had been before the public fifty odd years—income, independence, more perhaps. It would take little, seeing his age and feebleness, to make his Companies throw him over. But what had the fellow got hold of? How decide whether or no to take notice; to let him do his worst, or try and get into touch with him? And what was the fellow's motive? He held ten shares! That would never make a man take all this trouble, and over a purchase which was really first-rate business for the Company. Yes! His conscience was quite clean. He had not betrayed his Company—on the contrary, had done it a good turn, got them four sound ships at a low price—against much opposition. That he might have done the Company a better turn, and got the ships at fifty-four thousand, did not trouble him—the six thousand was a deuced sight better employed; and he had not pocketed a penny piece himself! But the fellow's motive? Spite? Looked like it. Spite, because he had been disappointed of his money, and defied into the bargain! H'm! If that were so, he might still be got to blow cold again. His eyes lighted on the pink note with the blue forget-me-not. It marked as it were the high water mark of what was left to him of life; and this other letter in his hand-by Jove! Low water mark! And with a deep and rumbling sigh he thought: 'No, I'm not going to be beaten by this fellow.'
“Your bath is ready, sir.”
Crumpling the two letters into the pocket of his dressing-gown, he said:
“Help me up; and telephone to Mr. Farney to be good enough to come round.” ....
An hour later, when the secretary entered, his chairman was sitting by the fire perusing the articles of association. And, waiting for him to look up, watching the articles shaking in that thick, feeble hand, the secretary had one of those moments of philosophy not too frequent with his kind. Some said the only happy time of life was when you had no passions, nothing to hope and live for. But did you really ever reach such a stage? The old chairman, for instance, still had his passion for getting his own way, still had his prestige, and set a lot of store by it! And he said:
“Good morning, sir; I hope you're all right in this east wind. The purchase is completed.”
“Best thing the company ever did. Have you heard from a shareholder called Ventnor. You know the man I mean?”
“No, sir. I haven't.”
“Well! You may get a letter that'll make you open your eyes. An impudent scoundrel! Just write at my dictation.”
“February 14th, 1905.
“CHARLES VENTNOR, Esq.
“SIR,—I have your letter of yesterday's date, the contents of which I am at a loss to understand. My solicitors will be instructed to take the necessary measures.”
'Phew What's all this about?' the secretary thought.
“Yours truly....”
“I'll sign.” And the shaky letters closed the page: “SYLVANUS HEYTHORP.”
“Post that as you go.”
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“Nothing, except to let me know if you hear from this fellow.”
When the secretary had gone the old man thought: 'So! The ruffian hasn't called the meeting yet. That'll bring him round here fast enough if it's his money he wants-blackmailing scoundrel!'
“Mr. Pillin, sir; and will you wait lunch, or will you have it in the dining-room?”
“In the dining-room.”
At sight of that death's-head of a fellow, old Heythorp felt a sort of pity. He looked bad enough already—and this news would make him look worse. Joe Pillin glanced round at the two closed doors.
“How are you, Sylvanus? I'm very poorly.” He came closer, and lowered his voice: “Why did you get me to make that settlement? I must have been mad. I've had a man called Ventnor—I didn't like his manner. He asked me if I knew a Mrs. Larne.”
“Ha! What did you say?”
“What could I say? I don't know her. But why did he ask?”
“Smells a rat.”
Joe Pillin grasped the edge of the table with both hands.
“Oh!” he murmured. “Oh! don't say that!”
Old Heythorp held out to him the crumpled letter.
When he had read it Joe Pillin sat down abruptly before the fire.
“Pull yourself together, Joe; they can't touch you, and they can't upset either the purchase or the settlement. They can upset me, that's all.”
Joe Pillin answered, with trembling lips:
“How you can sit there, and look the same as ever! Are you sure they can't touch me?”
Old Heyworth nodded grimly.
“They talk of an Act, but they haven't passed it yet. They might prove a breach of trust against me. But I'll diddle them. Keep your pecker up, and get off abroad.”
“Yes, yes. I must. I'm very bad. I was going to-morrow. But I don't know, I'm sure, with this hanging over me. My son knowing her makes it worse. He picks up with everybody. He knows this man Ventnor too. And I daren't say anything to Bob. What are you thinking of, Sylvanus? You look very funny!”
Old Heythorp seemed to rouse himself from a sort of coma.
“I want my lunch,” he said. “Will you stop and have some?”
Joe Pillin stammered out:
“Lunch! I don't know when I shall eat again. What are you going to do, Sylvanus?”
“Bluff the beggar out of it.”
“But suppose you can't?”
“Buy him off. He's one—of my creditors.”
Joe Pillin stared at him afresh. “You always had such nerve,” he said yearningly. “Do you ever wake up between two and four? I do—and everything's black.”
“Put a good stiff nightcap on, my boy, before going to bed.”
“Yes; I sometimes wish I was less temperate. But I couldn't stand it. I'm told your doctor forbids you alcohol.”
“He does. That's why I drink it.”
Joe Pillin, brooding over the fire, said: “This meeting—d'you think they mean to have it? D'you think this man really knows? If my name gets into the newspapers—” but encountering his old friend's deep little eyes, he stopped. “So you advise me to get off to-morrow, then?”
Old Heythorp nodded.
“Your lunch is served, sir.”
Joe Pillin started violently, and rose.
“Well, good-bye, Sylvanus-good-bye! I don't suppose I shall be back till the summer, if I ever come back!” He sank his voice: “I shall rely on you. You won't let them, will you?”
Old Heythorp lifted his hand, and Joe Pillin put into that swollen shaking paw his pale and spindly fingers. “I wish I had your pluck,” he said sadly. “Good-bye, Sylvanus,” and turning, he passed out.
Old Heythorp thought: 'Poor shaky chap. All to pieces at the first shot!' And, going to his lunch, ate more heavily than usual.
Mr. Ventnor, on reaching his office and opening his letters, found, as he had anticipated, one from “that old rascal.” Its contents excited in him the need to know his own mind. Fortunately this was not complicated by a sense of dignity—he only had to consider the position with an eye on not being made to look a fool. The point was simply whether he set more store by his money than by his desire for—er—Justice. If not, he had merely to convene the special meeting, and lay before it the plain fact that Mr. Joseph Pillin, selling his ships for sixty thousand pounds, had just made a settlement of six thousand pounds on a lady whom he did not know, a daughter, ward, or what-not—of the purchasing company's chairman, who had said, moreover, at the general meeting, that he stood or fell by the transaction; he had merely to do this, and demand that an explanation be required from the old man of such a startling coincidence. Convinced that no explanation would hold water, he felt sure that his action would be at once followed by the collapse, if nothing more, of that old image, and the infliction of a nasty slur on old Pillin and his hopeful son. On the other hand, three hundred pounds was money; and, if old Heythorp were to say to him: “What do you want to make this fuss for—here's what I owe you!” could a man of business and the world let his sense of justice—however he might itch to have it satisfied—stand in the way of what was after all also his sense of Justice?—for this money had been owing to him for the deuce of along time. In this dilemma, the words:
“My solicitors will be instructed” were of notable service in helping him to form a decision, for he had a certain dislike of other solicitors, and an intimate knowledge of the law of libel and slander; if by any remote chance there should be a slip between the cup and the lip, Charles Ventnor might be in the soup—a position which he deprecated both by nature and profession. High thinking, therefore, decided him at last to answer thus:
“February 19th, 1905.
“SIR,—I have received your note. I think it may be fair, before taking further steps in this matter, to ask you for a personal explanation of the circumstances to which I alluded. I therefore propose with your permission to call on you at your private residence at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon.
“Yours faithfully, “CHARLES VENTNOR.
“SYLVANUS HEYTHORP, Esq.”
Having sent this missive, and arranged in his mind the damning, if circumstantial, evidence he had accumulated, he awaited the hour with confidence, for his nature was not lacking in the cock-surety of a Briton. All the same, he dressed himself particularly well that morning, putting on a blue and white striped waistcoat which, with a cream-coloured tie, set off his fulvous whiskers and full blue eyes; and he lunched, if anything, more fully than his wont, eating a stronger cheese and taking a glass of special Club ale. He took care to be late, too, to show the old fellow that his coming at all was in the nature of an act of grace. A strong scent of hyacinths greeted him in the hall; and Mr. Ventnor, who was an amateur of flowers, stopped to put his nose into a fine bloom and think uncontrollably of Mrs. Larne. Pity! The things one had to give up in life—fine women—one thing and another. Pity! The thought inspired in him a timely anger; and he followed the servant, intending to stand no nonsense from this paralytic old rascal.
The room he entered was lighted by a bright fire, and a single electric lamp with an orange shade on a table covered by a black satin cloth. There were heavily gleaming oil paintings on the walls, a heavy old brass chandelier without candles, heavy dark red curtains, and an indefinable scent of burnt acorns, coffee, cigars, and old man. He became conscious of a candescent spot on the far side of the hearth, where the light fell on old Heythorp's thick white hair.
“Mr. Ventnor, sir.”
The candescent spot moved. A voice said: “Sit down.”
Mr. Ventnor sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire; and, finding a kind of somnolence creeping over him, pinched himself. He wanted all his wits about him.
The old man was speaking in that extinct voice of his, and Mr. Ventnor said rather pettishly:
“Beg pardon, I don't get you.”
Old Heythorp's voice swelled with sudden force:
“Your letters are Greek to me.”
“Oh! indeed, I think we can soon make them into plain English!”
“Sooner the better.”
Mr. Ventnor passed through a moment of indecision. Should he lay his cards on the table? It was not his habit, and the proceeding was sometimes attended with risk. The knowledge, however, that he could always take them up again, seeing there was no third person here to testify that he had laid them down, decided him, and he said:
“Well, Mr. Heythorp, the long and short of the matter is this: Our friend Mr. Pillin paid you a commission of ten per cent. on the sale of his ships. Oh! yes. He settled the money, not on you, but on your relative Mrs. Larne and her children. This, as you know, is a breach of trust on your part.”
The old man's voice: “Where did you get hold of that cock-and-bull story?” brought him to his feet before the fire.
“It won't do, Mr. Heythorp. My witnesses are Mr. Pillin, Mrs. Larne, and Mr. Scriven.”
“What have you come here for, then—blackmail?”
Mr. Ventnor straightened his waistcoat; a rush of conscious virtue had dyed his face.
“Oh! you take that tone,” he said, “do you? You think you can ride roughshod over everything? Well, you're very much mistaken. I advise you to keep a civil tongue and consider your position, or I'll make a beggar of you. I'm not sure this isn't a case for a prosecution!”
“Gammon!”
The choler in Charles Ventnor kept him silent for a moment; then he burst out:
“Neither gammon nor spinach. You owe me three hundred pounds, you've owed it me for years, and you have the impudence to take this attitude with me, have you? Now, I never bluster; I say what I mean. You just listen to me. Either you pay me what you owe me at once, or I call this meeting and make what I know public. You'll very soon find out where you are. And a good thing, too, for a more unscrupulous—unscrupulous—-” he paused for breath.
Occupied with his own emotion, he had not observed the change in old Heythorp's face. The imperial on that lower lip was bristling, the crimson of those cheeks had spread to the roots of his white hair. He grasped the arms of his chair, trying to rise; his swollen hands trembled; a little saliva escaped one corner of his lips. And the words came out as if shaken by his teeth:
“So-so-you-you bully me!”
Conscious that the interview had suddenly passed from the phase of negotiation, Mr. Ventnor looked hard at his opponent. He saw nothing but a decrepit, passionate, crimson-faced old man at bay, and all the instincts of one with everything on his side boiled up in him. The miserable old turkey-cock—the apoplectic image! And he said:
“And you'll do no good for yourself by getting into a passion. At your age, and in your condition, I recommend a little prudence. Now just take my terms quietly, or you know what'll happen. I'm not to be intimidated by any of your airs.” And seeing that the old man's rage was such that he simply could not speak, he took the opportunity of going on: “I don't care two straws which you do—I'm out to show you who's master. If you think in your dotage you can domineer any longer—well, you'll find two can play at that game. Come, now, which are you going to do?”
The old man had sunk back in his chair, and only his little deep-blue eyes seemed living. Then he moved one hand, and Mr. Ventnor saw that he was fumbling to reach the button of an electric bell at the end of a cord. 'I'll show him,' he thought, and stepping forward, he put it out of reach.
Thus frustrated, the old man remained-motionless, staring up. The word “blackmail” resumed its buzzing in Mr. Ventnor's ears. The impudence the consummate impudence of it from this fraudulent old ruffian with one foot in bankruptcy and one foot in the grave, if not in the dock.
“Yes,” he said, “it's never too late to learn; and for once you've come up against someone a leetle bit too much for you. Haven't you now? You'd better cry 'Peccavi.'.rdquo;
Then, in the deathly silence of the room, the moral force of his position, and the collapse as it seemed of his opponent, awakening a faint compunction, he took a turn over the Turkey carpet to readjust his mind.
“You're an old man, and I don't want to be too hard on you. I'm only showing you that you can't play fast and loose as if you were God Almighty any longer. You've had your own way too many years. And now you can't have it, see!” Then, as the old man again moved forward in his chair, he added: “Now, don't get into a passion again; calm yourself, because I warn you—this is your last chance. I'm a man of my word; and what I say, I do.”
By a violent and unsuspected effort the old man jerked himself up and reached the bell. Mr. Ventnor heard it ring, and said sharply:
“Mind you, it's nothing to me which you do. I came for your own good. Please yourself. Well?”
He was answered by the click of the door and the old man's husky voice:
“Show this hound out! And then come back!”
Mr. Ventnor had presence of mind enough not to shake his fist. Muttering: “Very well, Mr. Heythorp! Ah! Very well!” he moved with dignity to the door. The careful shepherding of the servant renewed the fire of his anger. Hound! He had been called a hound!