Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

Nettleship continued in solitude his survey of the night. He was in no way put out; but he did not immediately step back into the light of the room. When he did, however, his step was a thought jaunty, his smile bordered upon insolence, and his hands were in his pockets. He became at once aware that something of interest was taking place at the other end of the room. A small crowd was surrounding somebody, reminding Nettleship, in a small way, of the crowd by St. Clement Danes when the converted cannibal is swallowing the lighted fusees. With a somewhat similar amount of curiosity he approached this crowd. On his way he saw his host lead off the ill-starred Chinaman to political execution in the study. A moment later he heard the silvery tones of his hostess proceeding from the centre of the little crowd.

  “Indeed, and indeed, you make too much of my modest little heirloom, dear Mrs. Josling!”

  “If the Professor were here, he would make a good deal more of it,” that lady stoutly rejoined. “But you must really allow me to obtain a simple impression, with this pencil and piece of paper, of such delicate and utterly fantastic tracery. He shall see what that is like, at all events.”

  There was a pause. Nettleship raised himself to his full height, and saw an intellectual-looking lady carefully pencilling a piece of paper held closely over a spherical surface. He was mildly interested.

  “And this has really been in your family for a century, Mrs. M’Ilwraith?” some one asked.

  “Since the Battle of Plassey,” said Mrs. M’Ilwraith glibly. “My grandfather fought there.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” thought Nettleship. “I have heard of it often enough. But I never before heard of any heirloom. What can it be?”

  He drew himself up once more to his full height, which it was his bad habit not to make the most of. And then he saw what it was — and would have whistled aloud had he not been a thoroughly cool-headed fellow. For the cynosure of all eyes — the heirloom of the M’Ilwraiths — the spoil of Plassey — was nothing more nor less than the Indian vase of bronze lately in Nettleship’s own possession, and but three days ago on sale at Labrano’s!

  “And still they come!” cried Mrs. M’Ilwraith, smiling — under the public eye — quite sweetly upon the famous cricketer. “Look at it, Mr. Nettleship? Of course you may! With pleasure! But really, it is too absurd! To think that our wretched little heirloom should attract so much attention!”

  Nettleship did look at it — with exaggerated interest; with unnecessary elaboration; in every light and upon every side; at ridiculous length. His lingering manner was in itself calculated to attract attention. Mrs. M’Ilwraith began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Do you know, Mrs. M’Ilwraith,” he said at last, with great distinctness, “I cannot remember ever once to have seen this most interesting curio up North?” Mrs. M’Ilwraith explained, with a strange mixture of hot and cold in her manner, that she had kept it under lock and key while the children were young. And then, with a sudden determination to carry it off serenely, in spite of her feelings, Mrs. M’Ilwraith laughed. It was a nervous, unsuccessful laugh; nor was there any apparent reason for a laugh at all.

  But Nettleship had already attracted the attention that was so undesirable; and this was doubled in an instant when the young man deliberately raised the bronze vase to his nose, and sniffed it suspiciously.

  “Why,” he exclaimed, looking round upon the company, “it smells of tobacco!”

  “Impossible!” said poor Mrs. M’Ilwraith, forcing another laugh. But this time her laughter was worse than unsuccessful and nervous; it was hysterical.

  “Oh, but it does, though,” chuckled Nettleship, putting the vase into his hostess’s trembling hands; “try it! It’s tobacco or nothing. What’s more, I recognise the brand. It’s Callender’s Honeydew Mixture. I smoke it myself.” —

  Mrs. M’Ilwraith turned white as a sheet; but she was not the woman to faint, and Nettleship knew it.

  “I never knew before,” went on the forward young man, humorously, “that Mr. M’Ilwraith smoked Callender’s Honeydew Mixture!”

  It was here put forward by several persons, who considered Nettleship’s manner offensive, that Mr. M’Ilwraith did not smoke at all, but, on the other hand, cordially detested tobacco in any shape or form. Nettleship knew this also; he had known it from his boyhood. Moreover, he was perfectly aware that his manner was offensive; and, at a glance of agonised appeal from Mrs. M’Ilwraith, he had the wit at last to change the subject. And this he did so deftly that the lady experienced in her first moments of relief an emotion of gratitude towards her torturer. In the same way, perhaps, the mediævals loved the thumbscrew-man when he slackened off on their renunciation of the faith. We hear, it is true, only of those who never, never renounced; but no doubt there was an unpretentious majority that did.

  The entry of the distinguished entertainer, however, set Mrs. M’Ilwraith free to begin hating young Nettleship for the rest of her natural life. Still, her presence of mind was shattered for the evening; she had not even enough left to prevent Elaine and Nettle-ship sitting together during the entertainment. And this is a portion of the whispered conversation that took place between the pair. —

  “I shall have to win your mother next.”

  “I wish I thought you could, Ned.”

  “I believe I can, though only by scoring off her first.”

  “Then do, Ned, do! Don’t mind me a little bit.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to in this case, my darling. The fact is, I see my way to scoring off her as it is — with absolute certainty!”

  If he had seen his way to scoring off the fiend himself (in the shape of the Demon Bowler) with absolute certainty (and on a bad wicket), he could not have mentioned it with greater exultation.

  IV.

  AT eleven o’clock the following morning Nettleship strode into Labrano’s. He was waited upon by the manager with surprising alacrity.

  “I have good news for you, sir; good news at last, Mr. Nettleship.”

  “Have you, indeed!” said Nettleship coldly. The man’s congratulatory tone would have been offensive to him under any circumstances.

  “Well, I think I have, sir. That little Indian vase has been taken by a lady customer, on approval—”

  “On approval, eh?” cried Nettleship.

  “Well, yes; but you may rely upon it that it is in safe hands; and I may tell you that I have every reason to believe they will keep it, and pay the price.”

  “There you are mistaken. They will neither keep it nor will they pay the price. You must get it back from them at once. Money will not buy it now!”

  “Sir!”

  “I have had a narrow escape,” continued Nettleship. “I have discovered that that simple-looking vase is absolutely priceless.”

  The shopman whistled, and turned red.

  “So I must ask you, if you please, to send a special messenger for it at once, in a hansom. My good sir, I’ll pay you for the trouble and expense at your own figure — only send off your messenger at once.”

  But the tradesman’s confusion had nothing to do with the young man’s request. It was simply accounted for by an overwhelming sense of a marvellous bargain missed — through an imperfect knowledge of Eastern relics, and an exaggerated, narrow-minded, imbecile regard for Craze.

  The request, indeed, was immediately complied with. In the course of an hour the messenger returned with the vase, and brought word from Mrs. M’Ilwraith that her custom ceased from that hour. Nettleship paid up as liberally for the trouble as the dignity of Messrs. Labrano would permit, jumped into the emissary’s hansom, and drove off to the Temple with his treasure. He entered his chambers in high glee; the prospect of the score looked even rosier than when he had left them an hour ago.

  That was on the Saturday. Nettleship waited patiently until the following Tuesday, which was Mrs. M’Ilwraith’s day for receiving callers. At half-past four to the minute on the Tuesday afternoon he presented himself in Sussex Square.

  Even as he was announc
ed, the flowing speech of Mrs. Professor Josling fell upon his ears; and Nettleship scented the vase. He was received with flawless outward serenity, sat down modestly in an obscure corner (which, however, commanded a fine view of his hostess’s face), and flattered Mrs. Josling with a peculiarly earnest attention as that lady resumed her interrupted narration.

  “Well, as I was saying, I was prepared to interest my husband with my little reproduction of the tracery; but I did not expect to administer a galvanic shock, my dear Mrs. M’Ilwraith. He pushed back his proofs, and said — indeed, I don’t know what he didn’t say. He is so excitable, the Professor — and nervous, and almost irritable — when he is busy with proofs. The artistic temperament, Mrs. M’Ilwraith; for, as you know, the Professor is a man of letters as well as a scientist. But above all he is a virtuoso; and my crude reproduction absorbed him at the time to the exclusion of all other subjects. At first I could learn nothing. He was lost in rapt contemplation of the design. But at last he told me that your vase must be a very valuable possession indeed; that he only knew of one other like it in existence, and that in the British Museum. The quaint figures on the vase, he says, probably represent scenes in the life of Gautama Buddha, which would complete the resemblance to the Museum vase. But, to be quite sure, he would like above all things to see the vase itself. He desired me to tell you this, and to crave, on his behalf, the favour of permission to call quietly one afternoon and thoroughly examine the vase.”

  Poor, miserable Mrs. M’Ilwraith! To be asked a favour by the renowned Professor Josling, and such a favour; to have Professor Josling inviting himself to her house, in the most delightful, unceremonious, and friendly fashion; and to be powerless to say him yea or nay, or to do anything but sit in her chair and gasp for breath! It was a terrible punishment for a few harmless tarradiddles such as were every day demanded from the most virtuous by the exigencies of town life!

  “He would have accompanied me this afternoon,” added Mrs. Josling, “but for his book; he is sending the final sheets of the revise to the printers this evening.”

  That he had not come that afternoon was a small mercy, if he was bent upon coming sooner or later; but Mrs. M’Ilwraith had never felt so thankful for anything in her life as for the Professors present pressing engagements. She shuddered as she figured in her mind the scene she had escaped. She glanced towards the door in apprehension, dreading, even yet, to see him enter at any moment. An acquiescent smile of ghastly serenity froze upon her lips; she wrenched and wrung her fingers with such quiet violence that the diamonds on one hand must have cut the flesh of the other had the hands been less plump.

  “And so, my dear Mrs. M’Ilwraith — if you are certain that he will not bother you — if you are quite sure he will not be in your way — if you are positive that it will not weary you to entertain for one short hour, if as much, an old and ardent enthusiast — why then, might we say one afternoon this week?”

  Mrs. M’Ilwraith bowed. For the life of her she could not melt or modify or in any way alter the horrid grin that had settled upon her rigid countenance.

  “To-morrow,” suggested Mrs. Josling, whose manner was an ingenious blend of persistency and condescension, “to-morrow, perhaps, would not do?”

  Then at last, and with a desperate effort, Mrs. M’Ilwraith loosened her tongue. Mrs. Josling was begged to understand that to-morrow afternoon would, as it happened, do beautifully. The Professor would be only too welcome, at whatever hour he chose to come. As for Mrs. M’Ilwraith, her feelings had temporarily prevented her from expressing herself; she apologised for the weakness; but, indeed, nobody could tell what a pride and a pleasure it was to think that her simple little relic should attract the attention of so distinguished a connoisseur. The last sentence almost stuck in her throat half-way; it was helped out only by a tremendous resolve to be taken with sudden sickness that very night, and ordered off to the country by her physician the next day.

  So the Professor’s visit was arranged. And Nettle-ship, sitting like a mouse in his obscure corner, admired Mrs. M’Ilwraith for the first time in his life, and determined to make amends in the future for the torture he was inflicting upon her in the present. Nor did he add to the latter by contributing a single word to this part of the conversation. On the contrary, when Mrs. Josling was seen with pince-nez levelled inquiringly at the little plush table that supported the vase no longer, it was young Mr. Nettleship, and no one else, who adroitly decoyed the lady’s attention, and came to the rescue for a second time with a felicitous change of subject. Thereafter the conversation gradually drifted into safer channels. And presently, one by one, the people went, until there was nobody left but young Mr. Nettleship in his quiet corner. Then he, too, got up to go, and bent over his hostess with impassive face and outstretched hand. But Mrs. M’Ilwraith refused his hand, or rather, did not raise her own to meet it, but looked him full in the face, and said —

  “Do not go just yet. Enid, my love, I hear your brothers making a dreadful noise in the schoolroom; go to them.” Enid went. Elaine had already gone. “Now, Mr. Nettleship, sit down there; I want to have a little chat with you.”

  Nettleship took the low chair pointed out to him; it was almost at the lady’s feet He had counted on something of this sort, but not on a manner quite so calm and unruffled. After all, she was a wonderful woman — a woman capable of coping with the occasion, perhaps. It was quite possible that to score off such a woman might prove a more difficult task than it had appeared at first sight. But Nettleship had never in all his life either feared or despised the bowling before going in. He went in now on his mettle.

  Mrs. M’Ilwraith opened the attack by coming to the point in the very first sentence.

  “About this vase. You know something about it, Mr. Nettleship; more than I do, it would appear. Tell me what you know.”

  Nettleship drew up his shoulders an inconsiderable fraction of an inch.

  “I never heard you speak of it before last night. You kept your heirloom so dark, Mrs. M’Ilwraith.” He was beginning with confidence, but with caution — the bases upon which most scores are built.

  “Indeed! I will not ask you not to be impertinent. I will merely ask you where you saw it before.”

  “Why, Mrs. M’Ilwraith, I can’t remember your ever showing it to me before in all my life,” exclaimed Nettleship.

  Mrs. M’Ilwraith tried a plainer ball.

  “You know, as well as I do, that one cannot always tell the truth in trifles.”

  “I know that one does not.”

  “Very well. You will readily understand it when I tell you that this stupid vase is no heirloom at all.”

  “I understand that perfectly. But — but which vase?”

  He swung about in his chair, with half-closed eyes and craning neck, looking for what was not there. It was an effective stroke.

  “The vase is no longer in my house,” said Mrs. M’Ilwraith. “You knew that too.”

  Nettleship glanced at her swiftly. “Did you only get it on approval?”

  The lady started. “What makes you think that?”

  “Perhaps I go to Labrano’s now and then.”

  “Do you?” demanded Mrs. M’Ilwraith plainly. And indeed the indirect stage was past.

  “Well, yes.”

  “That is where you saw it?”

  “One of the places.”

  “One of the places! Did you know the owner, then?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then who is the owner?”

  “You wish to know?”

  “I have asked you.”

  “Well, then, I am the owner myself. I came by the vase in India. Labrano was trying to sell it for me.”

  They were sitting near a window. The sun had sunk behind the opposite houses, and the soft summer light made their faces soft — all but the eyes. They were watching one another like duellists. Mrs. M’Ilwraith was a woman, after all, capable at least of grappling with an emergency. She showed it now.

&n
bsp; “It was you, then,” said she, “who made Labrano send for it in haste last Saturday? You had a motive in that. It was you who tortured me the other night, when you discovered my trifling untruth. You had also a motive in that, I do you the credit of supposing. You had also a motive in stopping this afternoon until every one else was gone. Shall I tell you your motives? I will. But I will first make you easy on one point — they shall not succeed! I would die rather than forgive you for — for the other night!”

  For the first time her calmness was shaken. The last words trembled with subdued ferocity.

  Nettleship smiled. But the bowling had become uncommonly good. Mrs. M’Ilwraith continued:

  “Your motives may be compressed into one word— ‘Elaine.’”

  “Ah!” said Nettleship, ‘Elaine! I want to marry Elaine, and Elaine wants to marry me. Why should you object?”

  The policy was startling, insolent, risky — everything but unwise. —

  Mrs. M’Ilwraith smiled her scornful answer, and only observed:

  “You must have told the story briefly.”

  “It was an old story retold — that takes less time,” replied Nettleship.

  “Retold in vain, Edward Nettleship.”

  The game was slow for a while after that.

  “How about the Professor?” said Nettleship at last “I am laid up when he comes — sudden indisposition. I leave town the following day at my doctor’s urgent advice.”

  Another pause.

  “Such a thousand pities!” murmured Nettleship to himself.

  “Are you referring to yourself and Elaine?” inquired Mrs. M’Ilwraith sweetly.

  “Oh dear no. I was thinking of Professor Josling. The poor old chap will be so awfully cut up. After looking forward to his quiet afternoon with you — soaking in his favourite subject, and talking shop to a good listener, for once, and generally boring you to his heart’s content. He is counting upon an hour’s real sympathy, you may depend upon it; for clever men’s wives never appreciate them, as you know, Mrs. M’Ilwraith. Poor old chap! It is hard lines on him.”

  The picture of Mrs. M’Ilwraith and Professor Josling in close confabulation over the vase, and presently over the five-o’clock teapot, and of the firm founding of an intimate friendship with that eminent man, proved quite irresistible. Mrs. M’Ilwraith closed her eyes and gloated over the splendid impossibility for one weak, yearning, despairing minute. And during that minute Nettleship felt that he had collared the bowling at last, and might safely force the game.