Salthaven. William Wymark Jacobs

He had used up two musical instruments in less than a week.

      "You're getting fond of music in your old age," said Mrs. Chinnery, tartly. "But you always are late nowadays. When it isn't music it's something else. What's come over you lately I can't think."

      Mr. Truefitt cleared his throat for speech, and then, thinking better of it, helped himself to some bread and butter and went on with his meal. His eyes met those of Captain Trimblett and then wandered away to the window. The captain sprang into the breach.

      "He wants a wife to keep him in order," he said, with a boldness that took Mr. Truefitt's breath away.

      "Wife!" exclaimed Mrs. Chinnery. "Peter!"

      She put down her cup and laughed—a laugh so free from disquietude that Mr. Truefitt groaned in spirit.

      "He'll go off one of these days." said the captain with affected joviality. "You see if he don't."

      Mrs. Chinnery laughed again. "He's a born bachelor," she declared. "Why, he'd sooner walk a mile out of his way any day than meet a woman. He's been like it ever since he was a boy. When I was a girl and brought friends of mine home to tea, Peter would sit like a stuffed dummy and never say a word."

      "I've known older bachelors than him to get married," said the captain. "I've known 'em down with it as sudden as heart disease. In a way, it is heart disease, I suppose."

      "Peter's heart's all right," said Mrs. Chinnery.

      "He might drop down any moment," declared the captain.

      Mr. Truefitt, painfully conscious of their regards, passed his cup up for some more tea and made a noble effort to appear amused, as the captain cited instance after instance of confirmed bachelors being led to the altar.

      "I broke the ice for you to-day," he said, as they sat after tea in the little summer-house at the bottom of the garden, smoking.

      Mr. Truefitt's gaze wandered across the river. "Yes," he said, slowly, "yes."

      "I was surprised at myself," said the captain.

      "I was surprised at you," said Mr. Truefitt, with some energy. "So far as I can see, you made it worse."

      The captain started. "I did it for the best, my lad," he said, reproachfully. "She has got to know some day. You can't be made late by cornets and bagpipes every day."

      Mr. Truefitt rumpled his short gray hair. "You see, I promised her," he said, suddenly.

      "I know," said the captain, nodding. "And now you've promised Miss Willett."

      "When they brought him home dead," said Mr. Truefitt, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "she was just twenty-five. Pretty she was then, cap'n, as pretty a maid as you'd wish to see. As long as I live, Susanna, and have a home, you shall share it; that's what I said to her."

      The captain nodded again.

      "And she's kept house for me for twenty-five years," continued Mr. Truefitt; "and the surprising thing to me is the way the years have gone. I didn't realize it until I found an old photograph of hers the other day taken when she was twenty. Men don't change much."

      The captain looked at him—at the close-clipped gray whiskers, the bluish lips, and the wrinkles round the eyes. "No," he said, stoutly. "But she could live with you just the same."

      The other shook his head. "Susanna would never stand another woman in the house," he said, slowly. "She would go out and earn her own living; that's her pride. And she wouldn't take anything from me. It's turning her out of house and home."

      "She'd be turning herself out," said the captain.

      "Of course, there is the chance she might marry again," said the other, slowly. "She's had several chances, but she refused 'em all."

      "From what she said one day," said the captain, "I got the idea that she has kept from marrying all these years for your sake."

      Mr. Truefitt put his pipe down on the table and stared blankly before him. "That's the worst of it," he said, forlornly; "but something will have to be done. I've been engaged three weeks now, and every time I spend a few minutes with Cecilia—Miss Willett—I have to tell a lie about it."

      "You do it very well," said his friend. "Very well indeed."

      "And Susanna regards me as the most truthful man that ever breathed," continued Mr. Truefitt.

      "You've got a truthful look about you," said the captain. "If I didn't know you so well I should have thought the same."

      Unconscious of Mr. Truefitt's regards he rose and, leaning his arm on the fence at the bottom of the garden, watched the river.

      "Miss Willett thinks she might marry again," said Mr. Truefitt, picking up his pipe and joining him. "She'd make an excellent wife for anybody—anybody."

      The captain assented with a nod.

      "Nobody could have a better wife," said Mr. Truefitt.

      The captain, who was watching an outward-bound barque, nodded again, absently.

      "She's affectionate," pursued Mr. Truefitt, "a wonderful housekeeper, a good conversationalist, a good cook, always punctual, always at home, always—"

      The captain, surprised at a fluency so unusual, turned and eyed him in surprise. Mr. Truefitt broke off abruptly, and, somewhat red in the face, expressed his fear that the barque would take the mud if she were not careful. Captain Trimblett agreed and, to his friend's relief, turned his back on him to watch her more closely. It was a comfortable position, with his arms on the fence, and he retained it until Mr. Truefitt had returned to the summer-house.

      CHAPTER IV

      MR. ROBERT VYNER had been busy all the afternoon, and the clock still indicated fifteen minutes short of the time at which he had intended to leave. He leaned back in his chair, and, yielding to the slight rotatory movement of that active piece of furniture, indulged in the first twirl for three days. Bassett or no Bassett, it was exhilarating, and, having gone to the limit in one direction, he obtained impetus by a clutch at the table and whirled back again. A smothered exclamation from the door arrested his attention, and putting on the break with some suddenness he found himself looking into the pretty, astonished eyes of Joan Hartley.

      "I beg your pardon," she said, in confusion. "I thought it was my father."

      "It—it got stuck," said Mr. Vyner, springing up and regarding the chair with great disfavour. "I was trying to loosen it. I shall have to send it back, I'm afraid; it's badly made. There's no cabinet-making nowadays."

      Miss Hartley retreated to the doorway.

      "I am sorry; I expected to find my father here," she said. "It used to be his room."

      "Yes, it was his room," said the young man. "If you will come in and sit down I will send for him."

      "It doesn't matter, thank you," said Joan, still standing by the door. "If you will tell me where his room is now, I will go to him."

      "He—he is in the general office," said Robert Vyner, slowly.

      Miss Hartley bit her lip and her eyes grew sombre.

      "Don't go," said Mr. Vyner, eagerly. "I'll go and fetch him. He is expecting you."

      "Expecting me?" said the girl. "Why, he didn't know I was coming."

      "Perhaps I misunderstood him," murmured Mr. Vyner. "Pressure of business," he said, vaguely, indicating a pile of papers on his table. "Hardly know what people do say to me."

      He pushed a comfortable easy-chair to the window, and the girl, after a moment's hesitation, seated herself and became interested in the life outside. Robert Vyner, resuming his seat, leaned back and gazed at her in frank admiration.

      "Nice view down the harbour, isn't it?" he said, after a long pause.

      Miss Hartley agreed—and sat admiring it.

      "Salthaven is a pretty place altogether, I think," continued Robert. "I was quite glad to come back to it. I like the town and I like the people. Except for holidays I haven't been in the place since I was ten."

      Miss