“I ‘ope you’re satisfied now,” he said severely to the girl, as he turned a triumphant glance on Mr. Vickers, which that gentleman met with a cold stare.
Miss Vickers paid no heed. “You get off home,” she said to her father; “I’ll see to the Horse and Groom to-morrow.”
Mr. Vickers muttered something under his breath, and then, with a forlorn attempt at dignity, departed.
Miss Vickers, ignoring the remarks of one or two fathers of families who were volunteering information as to what they would do if she were their daughter, watched him out of sight and resumed her walk. She turned once or twice as though to make sure that she was not observed, and then, making her way in the direction of Mr. Chalk’s house, approached it cautiously from the back.
Mr. Chalk, who was in the garden engaged in the useful and healthful occupation of digging, became aware after a time of a low whistle proceeding from the farther end. He glanced almost mechanically in that direction, and then nearly dropped his spade as he made out a girl’s head surmounted by a large hat. The light was getting dim, but the hat had an odd appearance of familiarity. A stealthy glance in the other direction showed him the figure of Mrs. Chalk standing to attention just inside the open French windows of the drawing-room.
The whistle came again, slightly increased in volume. Mr. Chalk, pausing merely to wipe his brow, which had suddenly become very damp, bent to his work with renewed vigour. It is an old idea that whistling aids manual labour; Mr. Chalk, moistening his lips with a tongue grown all too feverish for the task, began to whistle a popular air with much liveliness.
The idea was ingenious, but hopeless from the start. The whistle at the end of the garden became piercing in its endeavour to attract attention, and, what was worse, developed an odd note of entreaty. Mr. Chalk, pale with apprehension, could bear no more.
“Well, I think I’ve done enough for one night,” he observed, cheerfully and loudly, as he thrust his spade into the ground and took his coat from a neighbouring bush.
He turned to go indoors and, knowing his wife’s objection to dirty boots, made for the door near the kitchen. As he passed the drawing-room window, however, a low but imperative voice pronounced his name.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Chalk.
“There’s a friend of yours whistling for you,” said his wife, with forced calmness.
“Whistling?” said Mr. Chalk, with as much surprise as a man could assume in face of the noise from the bottom of the garden.
“Do you mean to tell me you can’t hear it?” demanded his wife, in a choking voice.
Mr. Chalk lost his presence of mind. “I thought it was a bird,” he said, assuming a listening attitude.
“Bird?” gasped the indignant Mrs. Chalk. “Look down there. Do you call that a bird?”
Mr. Chalk looked and uttered a little cry of astonishment.
“I suppose she wants to see one of the servants,” he said, at last; “but why doesn’t she go round to the side entrance? I shall have to speak to them about it.”
Mrs. Chalk drew herself up and eyed him with superb disdain.
“Go down and speak to her,” she commanded. “Certainly not,” said Mr. Chalk, braving her, although his voice trembled.
“Why not?”
“Because if I did you would ask me what she said, and when I told you you wouldn’t believe me,” said Mr. Chalk.
“You — you decline to go down?” said his wife, in a voice shaking with emotion.
“I do,” said Mr. Chalk, firmly. “Why don’t you go yourself?”
Mrs. Chalk eyed him for a moment in scornful silence, and then stepped to the window and sailed majestically down the garden. Mr. Chalk watched her, with parted lips, and then he began to breathe more freely as the whistle ceased and the head suddenly disappeared. Still a little nervous, he watched his wife to the end of the garden and saw her crane her head over the fence. By the time she returned he was sitting in an attitude of careless ease, with his back to the window.
“Well?” he said, with assurance.
Mrs. Chalk stood stock-still, and the intensity of her gaze drew Mr. Chalk’s eyes to her face despite his will. For a few seconds she gazed at him in silence, and then, drawing her skirts together, swept violently out of the room.
CHAPTER VII
Mr. Chalk made but a poor breakfast next morning, the effort to display a feeling of proper sympathy with Mrs. Chalk, who was presiding in gloomy silence at the coffee-pot, and at the same time to maintain an air of cheerful innocence as to the cause of her behaviour, being almost beyond his powers. He chipped his egg with a painstaking attempt to avoid noise, and swallowed each mouthful with a feeble pretence of not knowing that she was watching him as he ate. Her glance conveyed a scornful reproach that he could eat at all in such circumstances, and, that there might be no mistake as to her own feelings, she ostentatiously pushed the toast-rack and egg-stand away from her.
“You — you’re not eating, my dear,” said Mr. Chalk.
“If I ate anything it would choke me,” was the reply.
Mr. Chalk affected surprise, but his voice quavered. To cover his discomfiture he passed his cup up for more coffee, shivering despite himself, as he noticed the elaborate care which Mrs. Chalk displayed in rinsing out the cup and filling it to the very brim. Beyond raising her eyes to the ceiling when he took another piece of toast, she made no sign.
“You’re not looking yourself,” ventured Mr. Chalk, after a time.
His wife received the information silence.
“I’ve noticed it for some time,” said the thoughtful husband, making another effort. “It’s worried me.”
“I’m not getting younger, I know,” assented Mrs. Chalk. “But if you think that that’s any excuse for your goings on, you’re mistaken.”
Mr. Chalk murmured something to the effect that he did not understand her.
“You understand well enough,” was the reply. “When that girl came whistling over the fence last night you said you thought it was a bird.”
“I did,” said Mr. Chalk, hastily taking a spoonful of egg.
Mrs. Chalk’s face flamed. “What sort of bird?” she demanded.
“Singin’ bird,” replied her husband, with nervous glibness.
Mrs. Chalk left the room.
Mr. Chalk finished his breakfast with an effort, and then, moving to the window, lit his pipe and sat for some time in moody thought. A little natural curiosity as to the identity of the fair whistler would, however, not be denied, and the names of Binchester’s fairest daughters passed in review before him. Almost unconsciously he got up and surveyed himself in the glass.
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said to himself, in modest explanation.
His mind still dwelt on the subject as he stood in the hall later on in the morning, brushing his hat, preparatory to taking his usual walk. Mrs. Chalk, upstairs listening, thought that he would never have finished, and drew her own conclusions.
With the air of a man whose time hangs upon his hands Mr. Chalk sauntered slowly through the narrow by-ways of Binchester. He read all the notices pasted on the door of the Town Hall and bought some stamps at the post-office, but the morning dragged slowly, and he bent his steps at last in the direction of Tredgold’s office, in the faint hope of a little conversation.
To his surprise, Mr. Tredgold senior was in an unusually affable mood. He pushed his papers aside at once, and, motioning his visitor to a chair, greeted him with much heartiness.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, cheerfully. “I want you to come round to my place at eight o’clock to-night. I’ve just seen Stobell, and he’s coming too.”
“I will if I can,” said Mr. Chalk.
“You must come,” said the other, seriously. “It’s business.”
“Business!” said Mr. Chalk. “I don’t see—”
“You will to-night,” said Mr. Tredgold, with a mysterious smile. “I’ve sent Edward off to town on business, an
d we sha’n’t be interrupted. Goodbye. I’m busy.”
He shook hands with his visitor and led him to the door; Chalk, after a vain attempt to obtain particulars, walked slowly home.
Despite his curiosity it was nearly half-past eight when he arrived at Mr. Tredgold’s that evening, and was admitted by his host. The latter, with a somewhat trite remark about the virtues of punctuality, led the way upstairs and threw open the door of his study.
“Here he is,” he announced.
A slender figure sitting bolt upright in a large grandfather-chair turned at their entrance, and revealed to the astonished Mr. Chalk the expressive features of Miss Selina Vickers; facing her at the opposite side of the room Mr. Stobell, palpably ruffled, eyed her balefully.
“This is a new client of mine,” said Tredgold, indicating Miss Vickers.
Mr. Chalk said “Good evening.”
“I tried to get a word with you last night,” said Miss Vickers. “I was down at the bottom of your garden whistling for over ten minutes as hard as I could whistle. I wonder you didn’t hear me.”
“Hear you!” cried Mr. Chalk, guiltily conscious of a feeling of disappointment quite beyond his control. “What do you mean by coming and whistling for me, eh? What do you mean by it?”
“I wanted to see you private,” said Miss Vickers, calmly, “but it’s just as well. I went and saw Mr. Tredgold this morning instead.”
“On a matter of business,” said Mr. Tredgold, looking at her. “She came to me, as one of the ordinary public, about some — ha — land she’s interested in.”
“An island,” corroborated Miss Vickers.
Mr. Chalk took a chair and looked round in amazement. “What, another?” he said, faintly.
Mr. Tredgold coughed. “My client is not a rich woman,” he began.
“Chalk knows that,” interrupted Mr. Stobell. “The airs and graces that girl will give herself if you go on like that — —”
“But she has some property there which she is anxious to obtain,” continued Mr. Tredgold, with a warning glance at the speaker. “That being so — —”
“Make him wish he may die first,” interposed Miss Vickers, briskly.
“Yes, yes; that’s all right,” said Tredgold, meeting Mr. Chalk’s startled gaze.
“It will be when he’s done it,” retorted the determined Miss Vickers.
“It’s a secret,” explained Mr. Tredgold, addressing his staring friend. “And you must swear to keep it if it’s told you. That’s what she means. I’ve had to and so has Stobell.”
A fierce grunt from Mr. Stobell, who was still suffering from the remembrance of an indignity against which he had protested in vain, came as confirmation. Then the marvelling Mr. Chalk rose, and instructed by Miss Vickers took an oath, the efficacy of which consisted in a fervent hope that he might die if he broke it.
“But what’s it all about?” he inquired, plaintively.
Mr. Tredgold conferred with Miss Vickers, and that lady, after a moment’s hesitation, drew a folded paper from her bosom and beckoned to Mr. Chalk. With a cry of amazement he recognised the identical map of Bowers’s Island, which he had last seen in the hands of its namesake. It was impossible to mistake it, although an attempt to take it in his hand was promptly frustrated by the owner.
“But Captain Bowers said that he had burnt it,” he cried.
Mr. Tredgold eyed him coldly. “Burnt what?” he inquired.
“The map,” was the reply.
“Just so,” said Tredgold. “You told me he had burnt a map.”
“Is this another, then?” inquired Mr. Chalk.
“P’r’aps,” said Miss Vickers, briefly.
“As the captain said he had burnt his, this must be another,” said Tredgold.
“Didn’t he burn it, then?” inquired Mr. Chalk.
“I should be sorry to disbelieve Captain Bowers,” said Tredgold.
“Couldn’t be done,” said the brooding Stobell, “not if you tried.”
Mr. Chalk sat still and eyed them in perplexity.
“There is no doubt that this map refers to the same treasure as the one Captain Bowers had,” said Tredgold, with the air of one making a generous admission. “My client has not volunteered any statement as to how it came into her possession—”
“And she’s not going to,” put in Miss Vickers, dispassionately.
“It is enough for me that we have got it,” resumed Mr. Tredgold. “Now, we want you to join us in fitting out a ship and recovering the treasure. Equal expenses; equal shares.”
“What about Captain Bowers?” inquired Mr. Chalk.
“He is to have an equal share without any of the expense,” said Tredgold. “You know he gave us permission to find it if we could, so we are not injuring anybody.”
“He told us to go and find it, if you remember,” said Stobell, “and we’re going to.”
“He’ll have a fortune handed to him without any trouble or being responsible in any way,” said Tredgold, impressively. “I should like to think there was somebody working to put a fortune like that into my lap. We shall have a fifth each.”
“That’ll be five-thousand-pounds for you, Selina,” said Mr. Stobell, with a would-be benevolent smile.
Miss Vickers turned a composed little face upon him and languidly closed one eye.
“I had two prizes for arithmetic when I was at school,” she remarked; “and don’t you call me Selina, unless you want to be called Bobbie.”
A sharp exclamation from Mr. Tredgold stopped all but the first three words of Mr. Stobell’s retort, but he said the rest under his breath with considerable relish.
“Don’t mind him,” said Miss Vickers. “I’m half sorry I let him join, now. A man that used to work for him once told me that he was only half a gentleman, but he’d never seen that half.”
Mr. Stobell, afraid to trust himself, got up and leaned out of the window.
“Well, we’re all agreed, then,” said Tredgold, looking round.
“Half a second,” said Miss Vickers. “Before I part with this map you’ve all got to sign a paper promising me my proper share, and to give me twenty pounds down.”
Mr. Tredgold hesitated and looked serious. Mr. Chalk, somewhat dazed by the events of the evening, blinked at him solemnly. Mr. Stobell withdrew his head from the window and spoke.
“TWENTY-POUNDS!” he growled.
“Twenty pounds,” repeated Miss Vickers, “or four hundred shillings, if you like it better. If you wait a moment I’ll make it pennies.”
She leaned back in her chair and, screwing her eyes tight, began the calculation. “Twelve noughts are nought,” she said, in a gabbling whisper; “twelve noughts are nought, twelve fours are forty—”
“All right,” said Mr. Tredgold, who had been regarding this performance with astonished disapproval. “You shall have the twenty pounds, but there is no necessity for us to sign any paper.”
“No, there’s no necessity,” said Miss Vickers, opening her small, sharp eyes again, “only, if you don’t do it, I’ll find somebody that will.”
Mr. Tredgold argued with her, but in vain; Mr. Chalk, taking up the argument and expanding it, fared no better; and Mr. Stobell, opening his mouth to contribute his mite, was quelled before he could get a word out.
“Them’s my terms,” said Miss Vickers; “take’em or leave’em, just as you please. I give you five minutes by the clock to make up your minds; Mr. Stobell can have six, because thinking takes him longer. And if you agree to do what’s right — and I’m letting you off easy — Mr. Tredgold is to keep the map and never to let it go out of his sight for a single instant.”
She put her head round the side of the chair to make a note of the time, and then, sitting upright with her arms folded, awaited their decision. Before the time was up the terms were accepted, and Mr. Tredgold, drawing his chair to the table, prepared to draw up the required agreement.
He composed several, but none which seemed to give general satisf
action. At the seventh attempt, however, he produced an agreement which, alluding in vague terms to a treasure quest in the Southern Seas on the strength of a map provided by Miss Vickers, promised one-fifth of the sum recovered to that lady, and was considered to meet the exigencies of the case. Miss Vickers herself, without being enthusiastic, said that she supposed it would have to do.
Another copy was avoided, but only with great difficulty, owing to her criticism of Mr. Stobell’s signature. It took the united and verbose efforts of Messrs. Chalk and Tredgold to assure her that it was in his usual style, and rather a good signature for him than otherwise. Miss Vickers, viewing it with her head on one side, asked whether he couldn’t make his mark instead; a question which Mr. Stobell, at the pressing instance of his friends, left unanswered. Then Tredgold left the room to pay a visit to his safe, and, the other two gentlemen turning out their pockets, the required sum was made up, and with the agreement handed to Miss Vickers in exchange for the map.
She bade them good-night, and then, opening the door, paused with her hand on the knob and stood irresolute.
“I hope I’ve done right,” she said, somewhat nervously. “It was no good to anybody laying idle and being wasted. I haven’t stolen anything.”
“No, no,” said Tredgold, hastily.
“It seems ridiculous for all that money to be wasted,” continued Miss Vickers, musingly. “It doesn’t belong to anybody, so nobody can be hurt by our taking it, and we can do a lot of good with it, if we like. I shall give some of mine away to the poor. We all will. I’ll have it put in this paper.”
She fumbled in her bodice for the document, and walked towards them.
“We can’t alter it now,” said Mr. Tredgold, decidedly.
“We’ll do what’s right,” said Mr. Chalk, reassuringly.
Miss Vickers smiled at him. “Yes, I know you will,” she said, graciously, “and I think Mr. Tredgold will, but—”
“You’re leaving that door open,” said Mr. Stobell, coldly, “and the draught’s blowing my head off, pretty near.”
Miss Vickers eyed him scornfully, but in the absence of a crushing reply disdained one at all. She contented herself instead by going outside and closing the door after her with a sharpness which stirred every hair on his head.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 47
