IV
Mark Napier was sitting in the club that evening, reading the newspaper. He had brought letters of introduction, and he knew a good many men here—to nod to, at any rate; but conservative Port Linton was quite willing to let him alone for awhile, and he preferred it so. He was not genial, and had no talent for camaraderie. He was slow to give his friendship, but, once given, it was worth keeping.
The light of a shaded lamp fell on his dark face.
“Pig-headed young jackanapes!” thought Captain Vincey. “But here goes—on little Joey’s account!”
Crossing the room, he flung himself into a chair beside Napier.
“Well!” he said.
Napier glanced quietly at him.
“Thing is,” said the captain, “you didn’t know who I was, eh?”
“Not then,” said Napier.
He had been alone in his office that afternoon when this man had come in—a big, swaggering man in a rumpled white suit, obviously half drunk.
“You’re new manager?” he had begun.
“I’m busy,” Napier had said.
“I’m great friend old Brown’sh.”
“I’m busy,” Napier had repeated.
The visitor had sat down and begun to talk about Port Linton.
“Jewel shet in shea—”
Napier had pressed a button.
“Show this gentleman out,” he had said, when Sprague appeared.
The gentleman had protested vehemently, and had called Napier a “blasted little whippersnapper” and other things; but Sprague had taken his arm and got him out, murmuring soothing words in his ear.
“That was Captain Vincey, sir,” he had said, when he returned. “He’s Miss Craig’s uncle.”
He had spoken with a sort of horror, and he was horrified; but the new manager had only said:
“Don’t let him come in here again.”
Under Napier’s curt manner there had been a great dismay. This fellow her uncle? Evidently he was in the habit of coming to the office. Perhaps she would be hurt, or angry. Napier would do almost anything rather than hurt or anger Joey—almost anything; but he would not tolerate Captain Vincey. The firm had sent him out here to run this office properly, and he was going to do it. He hoped Joey would understand.
“Well, now you know!” said Vincey genially.[Pg 532]
Napier did not reply, and the captain began to grow angry; but he remembered that look on Joey’s face.
James Vincey had been a handsome man in his day, and even now, wreck as he was, he had considerable personal charm. People liked him, and made allowances for him. For Joey’s sake he would make this fellow like him.
“Have a drink?” he said.
“No, thanks,” said Napier.
Unfortunately, it was a part of Vincey’s code to consider a refusal to drink as an insult, and his face grew crimson. He was about to speak, when again he remembered that look on Joey’s face, and again restrained himself.
“In climate like this—” he said. “You’re a newcomer. Wait till you’ve been here a bit. You’ve never been out of England before, eh?”
“I spent nearly four years—in Belgium and France,” said Napier, “and the climate wasn’t very wholesome, where I was.”
“Oh! The war, eh?” said Vincey.
An unwelcome memory awakened in him. He remembered how, at the beginning of the war, he had gone to enlist, and the doctor had rejected him—a fine, big fellow in the forties, in the prime of life. Vincey had been very indignant.
The doctor had known him well, and had made allowances.
“I’d advise you, Vincey,” he had said, “to cut down on—er—alcoholic stimulants.”
So Vincey had stayed behind in Port Linton, while his friends went overseas. He had wangled some sort of military post for himself, and had been made a captain; but a captain who sat at a desk was not what suited him, and for some weeks he had let “alcoholic stimulants” alone.
But he had gone back to them. “The strain of the war,” he said to himself; and then, when it was over, there was the strain of his uncomfortable financial position.
He glanced uneasily at Napier. This young jackanapes had had four years of it. Well, some fellows were like that—they could stand a strain.
He beckoned to one of the colored boys and ordered a whisky and soda.
“This climate—” he explained.
Then, to his great indignation, the other man rose.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know,” said Napier, and walked off.
Vincey was purple with anger. He half rose, but the whisky had come, and he sank back to drink it. His eyes glaringly followed Napier.
“Damned young prig!” he said to himself.
Slender and strong and straight was the young prig, with a fine pair of shoulders and a well set head. A steady hand the young prig had, a steady voice, a steady glance. Four years of it!
“Another whisky!” called Captain Vincey.
He gulped it down, waiting for the familiar feeling of partial oblivion; but it did not come. Something within him was wide awake.
“Joey!” he thought.
His thoughts were not clear; they never were clear in these days. He felt a confused sort of anguish, for he had fleeting glimpses of Joey’s face, and it hurt him. He loved Joey, and had meant to do much for her—his only sister’s child. He still would do something for her—something, but what could he do?
That fellow—taken a fancy to him, had she? Well, perhaps she’d get over it, once she knew how he had treated her uncle.
“Joey’s very fond of me,” he thought.
Then he remembered the James Vincey he had been long ago—a promising young fellow. A girl had been fond of him, but she had decided to wait until he stopped drinking; and in the course of time he had forgotten about her.
“Don’t want—make trouble,” he thought. “If Joey likes the fellow—”
A clear moment came to him.
“You’ll never stop now!” he said to himself. “You’ll never do anything for any one now! ’Nother whisky!” he cried aloud, with a sob.
He saw James Vincey stumbling through the rest of his days, a cruel burden to his mother, a disgrace to Joey—ruining Joey’s life before it had well begun. He knew Joey. If it came to a choice between himself and that young prig, Joey would stand by her uncle.
And it had come to a choice. Joey would let Napier see what she thought of his turning her uncle out of the office!
As he was going out, somebody called Napier into the billiard room and held him in conversation for a few moments; and when at last he left the club, he saw Cap[Pg 533]tain Vincey going down the hill before him, reeling a little.
It was not pleasant for Napier to pass Miss Craig’s uncle, but he did not slacken his pace. He was going to be here, on a small island, with Captain Vincey, for a good long while. Inevitably he would have to meet the man often. The same quality which had enabled Mark Napier to face danger and death and agony, to make his way in the world quite alone, made it impossible to shirk any unpleasantness. He went on down the hill and passed Vincey with a curt good night.
“A fine lad!” thought Vincey. “A fine, strong, clean lad!”
For though Captain Vincey’s steps were so uncertain, his brain was very clear now.
Napier had turned the corner, and was walking rapidly along the street that fronted the harbor, when he heard a splash. He stopped and turned his head. The shops were all closed, and there was not a soul in sight. There was not a sound—not a sound of those stumbling footsteps that had been following his own.
He ran back to the corner and crossed to the deserted wharf. Floating on the dark water was a white helmet.
He kicked off his shoes, threw off his coat, and jumped in over his head.