Tourmalin's Time Cheques
It came about in this way: He was comfortably seated by the fireplace opposite Sophia in a cosy domesticated fashion, and was reading to her aloud; for he had been let off the orrery that evening. The book he was reading by Sophia's particular request was Ibsen's Doll's House, and it was not the fault of the subject (which interested her deeply), but of Peter's elocution, which was poor, that, on glancing from the text, he found that she had sunk into a profound and peaceful slumber.
It was a chance he had been waiting for all day. He was rather tired of Nora, with her innocence and her macaroons, her tarantella and her taradiddles, her forgery and her fancy dress, and he had the cheque by him in readiness; so he stole on tiptoe to the mantelpiece, slipped the paper under the clock, and was just in time to sink back into his easy-chair, before it turned out to be one of the revolving-seats in the dining-saloon on the Boomerang.
There was a tumbler of whisky-and-seltzer on the table in front of him, and he was sitting in close confabulation with his former acquaintance, Mr. Perkins, the Bank Manager.
"That's precisely what I don't know, sir, and what I'm determined to find out!" were the first words he heard from the latter gentleman, who looked flushed and angry. "But it's a scandalous thing, isn't it?"
"Very," said Peter, rather bored and deeply disappointed; for the Manager was but an indifferent substitute for the companion he had been counting upon. "Oh, very!"
"Have you happened to hear anything said about it yourself?" inquired his friend.
"Not a word!" said Peter, with the veracity he always endeavoured to maintain on these occasions.
"To go and shift a statement of that kind on to my shoulders like that, it's like the fellow's confounded impudence!"
For the moment Peter felt a twinge: could the other be referring to anything he had said himself in the music-room? But the Manager was evidently not angry with him, so it must be some other fellow. Only, Peter decided not to allude to the faulty working of the Time Cheques, as he had half-intended to do. Perkins was not in the mood for remonstrances just then.
"Most impudent, I must say," he replied. "By-the-way," he added carelessly, "what was the statement exactly?"
"Why, God bless my soul, sir!" cried the Manager, with unnecessary vehemence, "haven't I been telling you the whole story? Didn't you just ask me who the fellow was who has brought me into this business?"
"So I did," said Peter, "and – and who was he?"
"Your attention seems very wandering this evening! Why, I told you the old woman wouldn't give me his name."
Peter's alarm returned at this allusion to an old woman: what old woman could it be but the terrible matron whom he had encountered in the music-room? However, it was fortunate that she had not mentioned any names: if Perkins knew that he had put all the blame of his entanglements upon the Manager's broad shoulders, he would certainly consider it an ungrateful return for what was intended as a kindness.
"So you said before," he remarked; "some old women are so obstinate!"
"Obstinate? That's the first sensible remark you've made for a long while!" said his candid friend. "I should think she was obstinate! Why, I talked myself hoarse trying to make that old harridan believe that I was as innocent as an unborn babe of any responsibility for this precious scandal – that I'd never so much as heard it breathed till she told me of it: but it wasn't any good, sir; she would have it that I was the originator!"
("So you were!" thought Peter, though he prudently refrained from saying so.)
"She's going to kick up the dooce's own delight as soon as she meets her brother; and all I could get her to say was that then, and not till then, she would give me an opportunity of having it out with the cowardly villain, whoever he may be, that has dared to lay all this gossip at my door!"
Peter did not quarrel with this arrangement of the old lady's, for he would certainly not be on board the Boomerang when she arrived at Plymouth.
"Ah!" he said, with as much interest as he could display in a subject that did not concern him, "he'll find that unpleasant, I daresay."
"I think he will!" said Mr. Perkins, emphatically. "Unless he retracts his infamous calumny, I – I'll kick him from one end of the ship to the other!"
Involuntarily Peter's eyes sought his friend's boots, which, as he sat in a corner seat with his feet extended, were much in evidence; they were strong, suitable boots, stouter than those generally worn on a sea-voyage, and Peter could not repress a slight shudder.
"From one end of the ship to the other," he repeated; "that – that's rather a long way!"
"Quite long enough for him, though not nearly long enough for me!" said the Manager. "I'll teach him to mix me up in these squabbles, when I find him, sir – when I find him! Here, steward, bring some more of these dry biscuits: you'll have some more, won't you?"
But Peter was not in the vein for dry biscuits at that moment, and the Manager continued:
"By-the-by, you might help me in this if you only will. I want to find out if I can before we reach Gib, who this fellow is, but the less I talk about the affair the better."
"Oh! yes," said Peter. "I – I wouldn't talk about it at all, if I were you."
"No, I daresay you're right – can't be too careful with an old cat like that. Well, what I want you to do is to try and find out – quietly, you know – who this infernal fellow is!"
"Well, I daresay I could do that," said Peter.
"No one would think a mild, innocent-looking little chap like you had any particular motive for asking: you might ask some of the men in the smoking-room, and pick up some clue or other."
"So I might," said Peter, – "good idea!"
"Or, I'll tell you what – you might pump the old lady for me, eh?"
"I don't think I quite care about pumping the old lady," said Peter, "but anything else I'll do with pleasure."
"Thanks," said the Manager; "that's a good fellow. I knew I could depend upon you!"
"You can," replied Peter, "though, I fancy," he added, soothingly, – "indeed, I am sure you will find that the old woman has made a good deal out of nothing at all." …
"What old woman, Peter?" asked Sophia with drowsy asperity. "Not Mrs. Linden, surely!"
Mrs. Linden! Was that the name of the old she-dragon of the music-room? Why, of course not; he was in his arm-chair by his own fire, reading Ibsen to his wife!
"I don't know, indeed, my love – it may be Mrs. Linden," he answered cautiously.
"Nonsense!" said Sophia, crossly. "She's not meant to be old in the play, and who says 'the old woman has made a good deal out of nothing'? Helmer, or Doctor Rank, or Krogstad, or who? You do read so badly, it's quite impossible to make out!"
"No one says it, my dear Sophia; at least, it's not in my edition of the text. You – you must have imagined it, I think!"
"I certainly thought I heard you read it out," she replied; "but your voice is so monotonous, that it's just possible I dropped off for a minute or two."
"I dropped off myself about the same time," he confessed hypocritically.
"You wouldn't drop off, or allow me to drop off either, Peter," said Sophia, who was now thoroughly awake again, "if you felt a more intelligent interest in the tremendous problem Ibsen has set in this play. I don't believe you realise in the least what the lesson is that he means to teach; now do you, Peter?"
"Well, I'm not sure that I do altogether, my love," he admitted.
"I thought as much! What Ibsen insists upon is, the absolute necessity of one-ness between man and wife, Peter. They must belong to each other, complete each other – they must be Twin Souls. Are you a Twin Soul, Peter?"
"Upon my word, my dear, I can't say!" he replied, in some perplexity. In the present very divided state of his sympathies, he could not help thinking that his Soul was more like a Triplet.
"But think," persisted Sophia, earnestly: "have you shared all your Past with me? Is there nothing you have kept back – no feelings, no experiences, which you confine to your own bosom? When you left me to take that voyage, you promised that nothing should induce you to be more than civil to any woman, however young and attractive, with whom Fate might bring you in contact. I want you to tell me, Peter, whether, when you were returning home on board the Boomerang, you kept that promise or not?"
Fortunately for him, she put her question in a form which made it easy to give a satisfactory and a truthful answer.
"When I was returning home on board the Boomerang," he said, "I did not, to the best of my recollection and belief, exchange two words with any female whatever, attractive or otherwise – until," he added, with a timely recollection that she had come on board at Gibraltar, – "until I met you. You pain me with these suspicions, Sophia – you do, indeed!"
"I believe you, Peter," she said, moved by his sincerity, which, paradoxical as it may sound, was quite real; for his intentions had been so excellent throughout, that he felt injured by her doubts. "You have never told me a falsehood yet; but for some time I have been tormented by a fancy that you were concealing something from me. I can hardly say what gave me such an impression, – a glance, a tone, trifles which, I am glad to think now, had not the importance I invested them with. Ah, Peter, never treat me as Helmer did Nora! Never shut me out from the serious side of your life, and think to make amends by calling me your 'little lark,' or your 'squirrel;' you must not look upon me as a mere doll!"
"My dear Sophia!" he exclaimed, "I should never think of addressing you as either a squirrel or a lark; and anyone less like a doll in every respect, I never met!"
"I hope you will always think so, Peter," she said; "for I tell you frankly, that if I once discovered that you had ceased to trust me, that you lived in a world apart into which I was not admitted, that very moment, Peter, I should act just as Nora did – I should leave you; for our marriage would have ceased to be one in any true sense of the word!"
The mere idea of being abandoned by Sophia made him shiver. What a risk he had been running, after all! Was it worth while to peril his domestic happiness for the sake of a few more conversations with two young ladies, whose remarks were mostly enigmatic, and for whom he was conscious in his heart of hearts of not caring two straws?
"Sophia," he said plaintively, "don't talk of leaving me! What should I do without you? Who would teach me Astronomy and things? You know I don't care for anybody but you! Why will you dwell on such unpleasant subjects?"
"I was wrong, Peter," she confessed, – "indeed, I doubt you no longer. It was all my morbid imagination that led me to do you such injustice. Forgive me, and let us say no more about it!"
"I do forgive you," was his generous reply to this appeal, which, coming from Sophia, was a very handsome apology, "and we will say no more about it."
And, upon the whole, Peter thought he had got out of a particularly tight place with more credit than he had any reason to expect – a conclusion in which the reader, however much he or she may disapprove of his conduct on moral grounds, will probably be inclined to agree with him.
CHAPTER VI.
Foil and Counterfoil
The Duties of Authorship. – Peter's Continued Perversity and its Unforeseen Results. – "Alfred." – The Tragic Note. – An Interrupted Crisis. – A Domestic Surprise.
It would be more satisfactory to an author's feelings, especially when he is aware that he will be held accountable by an indignant public for the slightest deviation on his hero's part from the narrow path of ideal rectitude – it would be more satisfactory to be able to record that this latest warning had a permanent effect upon Peter Tourmalin's rather shifty disposition.
But an author, even of a modest performance such as this, cannot but feel himself in a position of grave responsibility. He must relate such facts as he has been able to collect, without suppression on the one side, or distortion on the other. It is a duty he cannot and dare not evade, under penalty of forfeiting the confidence of his readers.
Peter Tourmalin did draw more Time Cheques, he did go back to the Boomerang, and it would be useless to assert the contrary. We may be able to rehabilitate him to some extent before this story concludes: at present, we can only follow his career with pain and disapproval.
Some allowances must be made for the peculiar nature of the case. To a person of Peter's natural inclination to the study of psychology, there was a strong fascination in watching the gradual unfolding and revelation of two characters so opposite and so interesting as those of Miss Tyrrell and Miss Davenport. That was the point of view he took himself, and it is difficult to say that such a plea is wholly without plausibility.
Then, too, he was intensely curious to know how it would all end, and he might ascertain that in the very next quarter of an hour he drew; there was absolutely no telling.
As for Sophia's threat, that soon lost all terrors for him. She would abandon him, no doubt, if she ever knew; but who was going to tell her, and how could she possibly discover the truth unaided, especially now that her awakening suspicions had been lulled? His secret was perfectly safe, and he could unravel the tangled thread of the history of his remaining extra hours on board the Boomerang without any other hindrance than that of his own scruples – which practically amounted to no hindrance at all.
So Peter continued to be the slave of his clock and his cheque-book, from the counterfoils of which he was disagreeably surprised to discover that he had drawn more frequently, and in consequence had an even smaller balance left to his credit, than he had supposed.
However, he consoled himself by concluding that one or two cheques had probably been mislaid, and were still unpresented, while he was entitled to some additional time in respect of compound interest; so that he need not stint himself at present. Fifteen minutes a week was not an extravagant allowance; and sooner or later, even with the utmost economy, a day would come when his balance would be exhausted, and his cheques returned from the clock marked "No effects – refer to drawer," or some equivalent intimation.
But that day was still distant, and in the meantime he went on drawing with a light heart.
It was a Saturday evening, the day on which Peter generally presented his weekly cheque; but although it was nearly half-past ten, he had had no opportunity of doing so as yet. He was in the drawing-room, and Sophia was reading aloud to him this time, an article on "Bi-metallism" from one of the reviews; for she had been an ardent Bi-metallist from early girlhood, and she naturally wished to win Peter from his Laodicean apathy on so momentous a subject. He listened with surface resignation, although inwardly he was in a fever of impatience to get back upon the Boomerang, where Miss Davenport had been more interesting than usual on his last visit. But he could hardly rise and slip a cheque under the clock before Sophia's very eyes without inventing some decent pretext for such an action, and Bi-metallism had reduced him to a mental condition which was no longer fertile in expedients.
Suddenly Sophia stopped reading and remarked:
"If I remember right, Professor Dibbs has stated the argument more correctly in his little book on Currency. It would be interesting to compare the two; I'll get it."
As Professor Dibbs's work was apparently on a shelf in the study, Sophia took the lamp into the further room.
"Now's my time!" thought Peter, as he brought out the cheque from his waistcoat-pocket. "I mayn't get such another chance this evening."
Even if Sophia could lay her hand on the volume at once, he would have had his quarter of an hour and be comfortably back long before she could pass the arch which separated the two rooms; for, as we have seen, this instantaneous action was one of the chief recommendations of the Time Cheques.
So he cashed his cheque, and was at once transported to the secluded passage between the deck-cabins, the identical place where he had first conversed with Miss Davenport. He was on the same steamer-chair too, and she was at his side; the wind carried the faint strains of a set of "Lancers" to them; from all of which circumstances he drew the inference that he was going to be favoured with the sequel to the conversation that had been so incongruously broken in upon by Sophia's question respecting the comparative merits of bottle-jacks in the Tottenham Court Road warehouse. This was so far satisfactory, indicating as it did that he was at last, after so much trying back, to make some real progress.
"What I want to know first," Miss Davenport was saying, "is, whether you are capable of facing danger for my sake?"
"I thought," he remonstrated mildly, "that I had already given proof of that!"
"The danger you faced then threatened only me. But, supposing you had to meet a danger to yourself, could you be firm and cool? Much will depend on that."
"I – I think," he answered frankly, "that perhaps you had better not count upon me. I have never been a man to court danger: it might find me equal to it if it came, – or it might not."
He did not mean to give it the opportunity.
"Then we are lost, that is all!" she said, with gloomy conviction. "Lost, both of us!"
Peter certainly intended to be lost if the moment of trial ever arrived. Even now he was resolving, for about the twentieth time, that this positively should be his very last cheque; for he by no means liked the manner in which the situation seemed to be developing.
But, seeing that the danger, whatever it might be, was still far enough off, he thought, very sensibly, that it would be a pity to cloud this last interview by any confession of pusillanimity. Knowing that he would return no more, he could surely afford to treat with contempt any consequences his imprudence might have entailed.
So he laughed, as he said:
"You mustn't conclude that I am a coward because I don't care to boast. On the contrary, I believe I am not exactly deficient in physical courage."
"You are not?" she cried, relieved. "Then – then you would not be afraid to face a desperate man?"
"Not a dozen desperate men, if it comes to that!" said Peter, supported by the certainty that it would not come to so much as half a desperate man.
"Then I can tell you now what I have scarcely dared to think of before. Peter, you will have to reckon with Alfred!"
"Well, I'm not much alarmed at anything Alfred may do!" said Peter, wondering who the deuce Alfred was.
"He will come on board; he will demand an explanation; he will insist on seeing you!" she cried.
"Let him!" said Peter.
"You are brave – braver even than I thought; but, ah! Peter, you don't know what Alfred is!"
Peter did not even know who Alfred was, but he was unmoved.
"You leave Alfred to me," he said confidently, "I'll settle him!"
"But I must tell you all. I – I led you to believe that Alfred would raise no objections; that he would quietly accept facts which it is useless to contend against. He will do nothing of the sort! He is a man of violent passions – fierce and relentless when wronged. In the first burst of fury at meeting you, when he comes on board, he is capable of some terrible vengeance, which nothing but perfect coolness on your part – perhaps not even that – will be able to avert. And I – I have brought this upon you!"
"Don't cry," said Peter. "You see, I'm perfectly calm. I don't mind it. If Alfred considers himself wronged by me – though, what I have ever done to give him any reason for revenging himself by personal violence, I must say I can't conceive – "
She stopped him.
"Ah! you have given him cause enough!" she cried. "What is the use of taking that tone to me?"
"I want to see Alfred's point of view, that's all," said Peter. "What does he complain of?"
"What does he complain of? You ask me that, when – Peter," she broke off suddenly, "there is somebody round the corner listening to us – a woman, I'm sure of it. I heard the rustle of a dress… Go and see if there is not!"
Go and see, and find himself face to face with Miss Tyrrell, who might faint or go into hysterics: Peter knew better than that.
"It's merely your fancy," he said, soothingly, "Who can be there? They are all at the other end of the ship, dancing. Go on telling me about Alfred. I don't yet understand how I have managed to offend him."
"Are you really so dull," she said, with a slight touch of temper, "that you can't see that a man who thought he was going to meet the woman he was engaged to, and finds she has learnt to care for – for somebody else, is likely, even if he was the mildest man in the world – which Alfred is far from being – to betray some annoyance?"
"No, I see that," said Peter; "but – but he can't blame me. I couldn't help it!"
He said this, although her last speech had opened his eyes considerably: he knew now who Alfred was, and also that, in some moment of madness which was in one of the quarters of an hour he had not yet drawn, he must have placed himself in the position of Alfred's rival.
What was he to do? He could not, without brutality, tell this poor girl that he had not the smallest intention of depriving Alfred of her affections; it was better, and easier too, to humour her for the short time that remained.
"Alfred will not take that as an excuse," she said. "It is true we could neither of us help what has happened, but that will not alter the fact that he is quite capable of shooting us both the instant he comes on deck. Alfred is like that!"
"Well," said Peter, unable to abstain from a little more of such very cheap heroism, "I do not fear death – with you!"
"Say that once more," she said; which Peter very obligingly did. "Oh, Peter, how I admire you now! How little I knew you were capable of going so calmly to your doom! You give me courage. I feel that I, too, can face death; only not that death – it is so horrid to be shot!"
"It would be unpleasant," said Peter, placidly, "but soon over."
"No," she said, "I couldn't bear it. I can see him pointing his revolver – for he always carries one, even at a picnic – first at your head, then mine! No, Peter; since we must die, I prefer at least to do so without bloodshed!"
"So do I," he agreed, "very much."
"You do?" she cried. "Then, oh, Peter! why should we wait any longer for a fate that is inevitable? Let us do it now, together!"
"Do what?" said Peter.
"Slip over the side together; it would be quite easy, no one will see us. Let us plunge arm-in-arm into the merciful sea! A little struggle – a moment's battle for breath – then all will be over!"
"Yes, I suppose it would be over then;" he said; "but we should have to swallow such a lot of salt water first!"
He reflected that, even if he emerged from the agonies of drowning, to find himself Bi-metallising with Sophia, the experience would be none the less unpleasant while it lasted. There really must be some limit to his complaisance, and he set it at suicide.
"No," he said at last; "I have always held that to escape a difficulty by putting an end to one's own life is a cowardly proceeding."
"I am a coward," she said; "but, oh, Peter, be a coward with me for once!"
"Ask me anything else!" he said, firmly, "but not to stoop to cowardice. There is really no necessity for it, you see," he added, feeling that he had better speak out plainly. "I have no doubt that Alfred will listen to reason; and when he is told that, although, as is excusable enough with two natures that have much in common, we – we have found a mutual pleasure in each other's society – there has been nothing on either side inconsistent with the – the most ordinary friendship; when he hears that… Where are you going?" for she was rising from her chair.
