And with that she closed the door on me, and I heard her putting up the chain again and the burglar’s bell as I went away down the weedy gravel path.
CHAPTER XXIV
ARRIVAL OF BRENTIN—MY WEDDING-DAY—WE GO TO WHARTON—BAILEY THOMPSON AND COCHEFORT FOLLOW US—WE FINALLY DEFEAT THEM BOTH
Brentin was in “The French Horn” by a quarter to seven, and, rather to my surprise, he came alone. I thought Hines or Masters would surely have come with him; but no, he said, except for Forsyth, they had all parted company at Southampton. Masters and Miss Rybot had gone to Sea View, where they were to be married almost immediately, and Hines had gone off to stay with a married sister at Bournemouth. Forsyth alone had travelled up to town with him, and then gone on straight to Colchester to take up his neglected regimental duties. So I wrote out a telegram to be sent first thing in the morning, begging him to come over and be my best man.
And the boodle? Brentin winked and, with his hands on his knees, began to laugh, like the priest in the Bonne Histoire.
“Some of it has melted, sir,” he joyously cried. “Your friend Hines has got his, and Mr. Parsons, by this time, is toying with ay registered letter way up in Southport. I have handsomely recompensed Captain Evans and the crew; they have, no doubt, been tanking-up and painting Portsmouth red all the time. I have reimbursed myself for the yacht and other trifles, and there now remains the £30,000 for your young lady’s ancestral home, and some £20,000 for the hospitals and so on. To-morrow, sir, we will draw up a list of the most deserving of them.”
“You have the money with you?”
“Yes,” he said; it was all safe in what he called his grip, or hand-bag, and quite at my service. I told him of my desire to complete the purchase immediately before the marriage was solemnized, and then we fell to talking of Bailey Thompson and his strange silence.
“Why, the man is piqued, sir,” said Brentin; “that’s what he is, piqued. Beyond saying that, I do not propose to give him ay second thought. He is mad piqued, and that’s all there is to it!”
So I tried to feel completely at my ease, and managed to spend a very happy evening in the bar parlor, Lucy playing to us and Brentin occasionally bursting into raucous song. Now, when I think of him, I like best to remember him as he was that evening, forgetting his harder, commoner side, when he so outrageously proposed to desert poor Teddy; even refusing (as I forgot at the time to mention) to allow the cannon to be brought into play for his rescue by shelling the rooms. He was infinitely gay and amusing, only finishing up the evening, after dear Lucy’s retirement, with a long and violent dispute with Mr. Thatcher on the vague subject of the immortality of the soul. Thatcher believed he had a soul and would live forever, in another, happier sphere; Brentin denied it, could see no sign of Thatcher’s soul anywhere; so I left them trying to shout each other down, both speaking at once.