CHAPTER II. A COMPACT.
Prends moy tel que je suy.
The tendency of the age is to peep behind the scenes. The world is growing old, and human nature is nearly worn through; we are beginning to see the bare bones of it. But a strange survival of youthfulness is that remarkable fascination of the unseen--the desire to get behind the scenes and see the powder for ourselves. If a man makes his livelihood by lifting horses and other heavy objects from the earth, we immediately wish to know details of his private life, and an obliging journalist interviews him. If another write a book, we immediately wish to know how he does it, where, when, and why. We also like to see his portrait on the fly-leaf--or he likes to see it there.
Eve Challoner was lamentably behind the spirit of the age in that she did not know how she wrote a series of articles destined to attain renown. But as she never went out to meet the interviewer, he never came to her. She fell into a habit of going out for long walks by herself, and in the course of these peregrinations she naturally acquired the custom of thinking about her writing.
During these long walks Captain Bontnor remained at home alone, or joined a knot of fellow-mariners on the green in front of the reading-room. When Eve came home with her mind full of matter to be set down on paper he discreetly went to keep his watch on deck--backwards and forwards on the pavement in front of the window. At each turn the old sailor paused to cast his eyes over the whole horizon, after the manner of mariners, as if he were steering Somarsh across the North Sea.
Thus uncle and niece glided imperceptibly into that mode of life which is called humdrum, and which some wise people consider the best mode of getting through existence. Sketch number two was written, rewritten, liked, hated, and finally sent to John Craik, with a letter explaining that the writer lived in Suffolk, and could not for the moment make it convenient to go to London. John Craik was a busy man. He made no answer, and in a few days the proof of sketch number one arrived, with a little printed notice of instructions as to correcting and returning. Of all fleeting glamours that of the proof-sheet is assuredly lightest on the wing, and Eve duly hated her own works in print, as we all do hate our first triumphs. Afterwards we get resigned--much as we grow resigned to the face we see in the looking-glass.
At this time Captain Bontnor conceived the idea that it was incumbent upon him to take up seriously, though late in life, the higher walks of literature.
“Now,” he said to Eve one evening, when the first proof had been almost wept over, “now, dearie, what author would you recommend to a man who has a natural likin’ for reading, but owing to the circumstances of his life has had no opportunity of cultivatin’ his taste?”
“Well, uncle, a good deal would depend upon his inclination - whether he liked poetry or fiction, or serious reading.”
“Of course, of course,” acceded Captain Bontnor, pressing the tobacco into his pipe with his thumb; “I am taking that into consideration. There’s all sorts to be had now, ain’t there--poetry and fiction and novels? I am not sure that the style would matter much, so long--so long as the print was nice and clear.”
Eve duly gave her opinion without pressing the question too closely, and while she was out on her long walks Captain Bontnor laboriously cultivated his neglected taste. He sat in the window-seat with much gravity, and more than made up in application for the youthful quickness which he lacked. He resolutely refused to look up from his book when he heard the alternate thud and stump which announced the passage down to the harbour of his particular crony, Mark Standon, whose other leg had been buried at sea. He kept the dictionary beside him, and when the writer used a word of sonorous ring and obscure meaning he gravely looked it out.
The first time that Mr. Standon saw his friend thus engaged he stood on the pavement and expressed his surprise with more force than elegance; whereupon Captain Bontnor went out and explained to him exactly how it stood. So marked was the old sailor’s influence on the social affairs at Somarsh that there was a notable revival of literary taste and discussion at the corner of the Lifeboat House, where the local intellect assembled.
Captain Bontnor was engaged one day in the study of an author called Dickens, to whose works he had not yet found time to devote his full attention, when a strange footstep on the pavement made him look up. It certainly was not Standon’s halting gait, and a lack of iron nail certified to the fact that it was no Somarsh man. The captain looked over his spectacles and saw Cipriani de Lloseta studying the numbers on the doors as he came down the quiet little street.
The sight gave the old sailor rather a shock. He abandoned the study of Mr. Dickens and took off his spectacles. Then he scratched his head--always an ominous sign. His first instinct was to go and open the door; then he remembered that the new-comer was a nobleman who lived in a palace, and that he himself was indirectly a gentleman, inasmuch as he lived in the same house as a lady--his niece. So he sat still and allowed the landlady to open the door.
When Cipriani de Lloseta was ushered into the tiny room he found the captain half-bowing on the hearthrug.
“Captain Bontnor,” he said, with all the charm of manner which was his, “this is a pleasure.”
The captain shook hands, and with the rough hospitality of the cabin drew forward his own armchair, which the Count took at once.
“When last we met,” he said, “I had the privilege of receiving you at my house in Barcelona--a poor dark place in a narrow street. Now here you have a sea-view.”
“But this is not my house,” said Captain Bontnor, feeling unaccountably at ease with this nobleman. “Malabar Cottage is farther up the hill. I’ve got all my bits of things up there.”
“Indeed. It would have given me pleasure to see them. I learnt from a mutual--friend, Mrs. Harrington, of your change of address.”
Captain Bontnor looked at him keenly; and who shall say that the rough old man did not appreciate the refined tact of his visitor?
“I’ve had losses,” he said.
The Count nodded shortly. He was drawing off his gloves.
“I do not know,” he said conversationally, “if it has been your experience, but for myself I have found that reverses of fortune are not without some small consolation. They prove the friendship of one’s friends.”
The captain reflected.
“Yes,” he said, “you’re right, Mr.--I mean Count--and--and brings the good out of women.”
“Women!” the Count repeated gravely. “You refer to Miss Challoner--I see signs of her presence in this room. Is she out?”
“Yes--I am afraid she is.” He glanced nervously at the clock. “She is not likely to be in for an hour and more yet.”
“I am sorry,” said the Count; “but also I am rather glad. I shall thus have an opportunity of asking your opinion upon one or two matters--between men of the world, you know.”
“I am afraid my opinion is not of much value, sir, except it’s about schooners--I always sailed in schooners.”
The Count nodded gravely.
“In my country,” he said, “we usually go in for brigs; they find them easier to handle. But you know Mallorca - you have seen for yourself.”
The captain was not listening; he was looking at the modest lodging-house sideboard.
“I was wondering,” he explained, with a transparent simplicity which was perhaps as good as that which is called good breeding, “whether you would take a glass of sherry wine.”
“I should like nothing better,” said the Count. “It will give me pleasure to take a glass of wine with you.”
Quietly, imperceptibly, De Lloseta set Captain Bontnor at his ease, and at the same time he mastered him. They spoke of indifferent topics--topics which, however, were well within the captain’s knowledge of the world. Then suddenly the Count laid aside the social mask which he wore with such consummate ease.
“I came down to Somarsh,” he said, “because I am deeply distressed at your reverse of fortune. I came to see you, captain, because when I had the pleasure of meeting you at Barcelona I saw you to be a just man, and one to whom one could speak openly. I am a rich man--you understand. Need I say more?”
Captain Bontnor blinked uncertainly.
“No,” he answered, “I’m thinkin’ it isn’t necessary.”
“Not between men of the world,” urged Cipriani de Lloseta. “It is not for your sake. I would not insult you in such a way. It is for Eve. For a woman’s sake a man may easily sacrifice his pride.”
The captain nodded and glanced at the clock. He had not fully realised until that moment how dependent he was upon his niece.
“You know,” continued the Count, following up his advantage, “all the somewhat peculiar circumstances of the case. Do you think there is any chance of Eve’s reconsidering her decision?”
The captain shook his head.
“No,” he answered bluntly, “I don’t. Since she came back from London--” he paused.
“Yes, since she came back from London?” suggested the Count.
“She seems more determined than ever.”
The Count was looking at him keenly.
“Then,” he said, “you also have noticed a change.”
Captain Bontnor shuffled in his seat and likewise in his speech.
“I suppose,” he said, “that she has grown into a woman. Adversity’s done it.”
“Yes,” said the Count, “your observations seem to me to be correct. I had the pleasure of seeing her once or twice when she was staying at Mrs. Harrington’s; but I did not refer to the question raised at my house in Barcelona, because I noticed the change to which you allude. Instead, I attempted to gain the co-operation and assistance of a mutual friend, Henry FitzHenry.”
Cipriani de Lloseta paused and looked at his companion, who in turn gazed stolidly at the fire.
“And I received a rebuff,” added the Count. He waited for some little time, but Captain Bontnor had no comment to offer, so De Lloseta went on: “Challoner was one of my best friends. I do not feel disposed to let the matter drop, more especially now that you have been compelled to leave Malabar Cottage. I propose entreating Miss Challoner to reconsider her decision. Will you help me?”
“Yes,” answered Captain Bontnor, “I will.”
“Then tell me if Eve has accepted assistance from Mrs. Harrington?”
“Yes, she has.”
The Count swore softly in Spanish.
“I am sorry for that,” he said aloud. “I am superstitious. I have a theory that Mrs. Harrington’s money is apt to be a curse to those upon whom it is bestowed.”
“Mrs. Harrington’s no friend of mine,” said Captain Bontnor; and De Lloseta, who was looking out of the window, smiled somewhat grimly.
“Perhaps,” he said after a little pause, “perhaps you will allow me to claim the privilege which you deny to her?”
“Yes,” answered Captain Bontnor awkwardly; “yes, if you care to.”
“Thanks. I see Miss Challoner--Eve--coming. I count on your assistance.”
Eve paused on the threshold in astonishment at the sight of the Count de Lloseta and her uncle in grave discourse over a glass of sherry.
“You!” she said. “You here!”
And he wondered why she suddenly lost colour.
“I,” he answered, “I--here to pay my respects.”
Eve gave a little gasp of relief. For a moment she was off her guard--with a dangerous man watching her.
“I thought you had bad news,” she said.
And Cipriani de Lloseta knew that this was a woman whose heart was at sea.
“No,” he answered; “I merely came to quarrel.”
He drew forward a chair, and Eve sat down.
“We shall always quarrel,” he went on, “unless you are kind. Let us begin at once and get it over, because I want to stay to lunch. Will you reconsider your decision with respect to the Val d’Erraha?”
Eve shook her head and looked at her uncle.
“No,” she answered; “I cannot do that. Not now.”
“Some day?” he suggested.
“Not now,” repeated the girl; and, looking up, her face suddenly became grave, as if reflecting the expression in the dark Spanish eyes bent upon her.
“You are cruel!” he said.
“I am young--”
“Is it not the same thing?”
“And I can work,” added Eve.
“Yes,” he said. “But in my old-fashioned way I am prejudiced against a lady working. In the days of women’s rights ladies are apt to forget the charm of white hands.”
Eve made no answer.
“Then it is not peace?”
“No,” she answered, with a smile; “not yet.”
She was standing beside Captain Bontnor, with her hand on his shoulder.
“Uncle and I,” she added, “are not beaten yet.”
Cipriani de Lloseta smiled darkly.
“Will you promise me one thing,” he said; “that when you are beaten you will come to me before you go to any one else?”
“Yes,” answered Eve, “I think we can promise that.”