William Wymark Jacobs - Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

“I suppose she told you we are engaged?” said the latter.

“Engaged!” said the startled Mr. Mott. “Why, she told me she didn’t like men.”

“Playfulness,” replied Mr. Hurst, with an odd look. “Ah, here she is!”

The handle of the front door turned, and a moment later the door of the room was opened and the charming head of Miss Garland appeared in the opening.

“Back again,” she said, brightly. “I’ve just been–”

She caught sight of Mr. Hurst, and the words died away on her lips. The door slammed, and the two gentlemen, exchanging glances, heard a hurried rush upstairs and the slamming of another door. Also a key was heard to turn sharply in a lock.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” said Mr. Mott, staring.

The young man turned pale.

“Perhaps she has gone upstairs to take her things off,” he muttered, resuming his seat. “Don’t—don’t hurry her!”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Mr. Mott.

He twisted his beard uneasily, and at the end of ten minutes looked from the clock to Mr. Hurst and coughed.

“If you wouldn’t mind letting her know I’m waiting,” said the young man, brokenly.

Mr. Mott rose, and went slowly upstairs. More slowly still, after an interval of a few minutes, he came back again.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Hurst gasped.

“I—I must see her,” he faltered.

“She won’t see you,” repeated Mr. Mott. “And she told me to say she was surprised at you following her down here.”

Mr. Hurst uttered a faint moan, and with bent head passed into the little passage and out into the street, leaving Mr. Mott to return to the sitting-room and listen to such explanations as Miss Garland deemed advisable. Great goodness of heart in the face of persistent and unwelcome attentions appeared to be responsible for the late engagement.

“Well, it’s over now,” said her uncle, kindly, “and no doubt he’ll soon find somebody else. There are plenty of girls would jump at him, I expect.”

Miss Garland shook her head.

“He said he couldn’t live without me,” she remarked, soberly.

Mr. Mott laughed.

“In less than three months I expect he’ll be congratulating himself,” he said, cheerfully. “Why, I was nearly cau—married, four times. It’s a silly age.”

His niece said “Indeed!” and, informing him in somewhat hostile tones that she was suffering from a severe headache, retired to her room.

Mr. Mott spent the evening by himself, and retiring to bed at ten-thirty was awakened by a persistent knocking at the front door at half-past one. Half awakened, he lit a candle, and, stumbling downstairs, drew back the bolt of the door, and stood gaping angrily at the pathetic features of Mr. Hurst.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the young man, “but would you mind giving this letter to Miss Garland?”

“Sorry to disturb me!” stuttered Mr. Mott. “What do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”

“It is important,” said Mr. Hurst. “I can’t rest. I’ve eaten nothing all day.”

“Glad to hear it,” snapped the irritated Mr. Mott.

“If you will give her that letter, I shall feel easier,” said Mr. Hurst.

“I’ll give it to her in the morning,” said the other, snatching it from him. “Now get off.”

Mr. Hurst still murmuring apologies, went, and Mr. Mott, also murmuring, returned to bed. The night was chilly, and it was some time before he could get to sleep again. He succeeded at last, only to be awakened an hour later by a knocking more violent than before. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he dived into his trousers again and went blundering downstairs in the dark.

“Sorry to—” began Mr. Hurst.

Mr. Mott made uncouth noises at him.

“I have altered my mind,” said the young man. “Would you mind letting me have that letter back again? It was too final.”

“You—get—off!” said the other, trembling with cold and passion.

“I must have that letter,” said Mr. Hurst, doggedly. “All my future happiness may depend upon it.”

Mr. Mott, afraid to trust himself with speech, dashed upstairs, and after a search for the matches found the letter, and, returning to the front door, shut it on the visitor’s thanks. His niece’s door opened as he passed it, and a gentle voice asked for enlightenment.

“How silly of him!” she said, softly. “I hope he won’t catch cold. What did you say?”

“I was coughing,” said Mr. Mott, hastily.

“You’ll get cold if you’re not careful,” said his thoughtful niece. “That’s the worst of men, they never seem to have any thought. Did he seem angry, or mournful, or what? I suppose you couldn’t see his face?”

“I didn’t try,” said Mr. Mott, crisply. “Good night.”

By the morning his ill-humour had vanished, and he even became slightly facetious over the events of the night. The mood passed at the same moment that Mr. Hurst passed the window.

“Better have him in and get it over,” he said, irritably.

Miss Garland shuddered.

“Never!” she said, firmly. “He’d be down on his knees. It would be too painful. You don’t know him.”

“Don’t want to,” said Mr. Mott.

He finished his breakfast in silence, and, after a digestive pipe, proposed a walk. The profile of Mr. Hurst, as it went forlornly past the window again, served to illustrate Miss Garland’s refusal.

“I’ll go out and see him,” said Mr. Mott, starting up. “Are you going to be a prisoner here until this young idiot chooses to go home? It’s preposterous!”

He crammed his hat on firmly and set out in pursuit of Mr. Hurst, who was walking slowly up the street, glancing over his shoulder. “Morning!” said Mr. Mott, fiercely. “Good morning,” said the other.

“Now, look here,” said Mr. Mott. “This has gone far enough, and I won’t have any more of it. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, chivvying a young lady that doesn’t want you. Haven’t you got any pride?”

“No,” said the young man, “not where she is concerned.”

“I don’t believe you have,” said the other, regarding him, “and I expect that’s where the trouble is. Did she ever have reason to think you were looking after any other girls?”

“Never, I swear it,” said Mr. Hurst, eagerly.

“Just so,” said Mr. Mott, with a satisfied nod. “That’s where you made a mistake. She was too sure of you; it was too easy. No excitement. Girls like a man that other girls want; they don’t want a turtle-dove in fancy trousers.”

Mr. Hurst coughed.

“And they like a determined man,” continued Miss Garland’s uncle. “Why, in my young days, if I had been jilted, and come down to see about it, d’you think I’d have gone out of the house without seeing her? I might have been put out—by half-a-dozen—but I’d have taken the mantelpiece and a few other things with me. And you are bigger than I am.”

“We aren’t all made the same,” said Mr. Hurst, feebly.

“No, we’re not,” said Mr. Mott. “I’m not blaming you; in a way, I’m sorry for you. If you’re not born with a high spirit, nothing’ll give it to you.”

“It might be learnt,” said Mr. Hurst. Mr. Mott laughed.

“High spirits are born, not made,” he said. “The best thing you can do is to go and find another girl, and marry her before she finds you out.”

Mr. Hurst shook his head.

“There’s no other girl for me,” he said, miserably. “And everything seemed to be going so well. We’ve been buying things for the house for the last six months, and I’ve just got a good rise in my screw.”

“It’ll do for another girl,” said Mr. Mott, briskly. “Now, you get off back to town. You are worrying Florrie by staying here, and you are doing no good to anybody. Good-bye.”