Summer Moonshine

  'Well, naturally. You don't think I imagined that you were training to become a bigamist. But it wasn't a pleasant thing to get shot at you all of a sudden.'

  'I should say not. It was abominable. I don't wonder you were upset. I'd like a word with Tubby.'

  'Oh, that's all right. I ticked young Tubby off like a sergeant-major, curse him. It must have taken him hours to pick up the pieces. But you do see how people talk, don't you?'

  'Of course, of course, of course. It just shows—But all that happened really was that I was sorry for her. She's a lonely old woman.'

  'You keep calling her old. She looks about thirty.'

  'And she seemed to like having me around.'

  'Well, tell her that in future she can't.'

  'She's quite nice, really.'

  'Oh, I've nothing against her, except that she's a hard, arrogant, vindictive, domineering harridan, if harridan's the word I want. And now I simply must rush.'

  'No, don't go.'

  'I must. I promised Buck I would be back early, to make a fuss of Mr Chinnery.'

  'Who's Mr Chinnery?'

  'One of the lodgers.'

  Adrian laughed. The word struck him as quaint and whimsical.

  'But I want to talk to you.'

  'What about? Mice?'

  'No. I'm serious. I'm worried, Jane.'

  'I can tell you what to do about that. I was reading an article in the paper this morning. You stand in front of the glass and smile and say fifty times, "I am bright and happy! I am bright and—"'

  'No, really, I mean it. I'm worried about all this hole and corner business.'

  'Are you referring to our romantic secret engagement?'

  'But why has it got to be secret? Why have I got to lurk on this infernal boat? I know you think it amusing and exciting, and all that—'

  'I don't, at all. You haven't grasped the idea.'

  'It's underhand, Jane; it really is. And I hate doing anything underhand. Why not tell your father we're engaged?'

  'And have him coming down to interview you with a horsewhip?'

  'What!'

  'Well, Barts do, you know, to the penniless suitor. I want you to get to know each other before we say anything. That's why you're on the Mignonette – not because I think it exciting and amusing. You must be patient, my wonder man. You must brave the mice and smells, and wait for the happy ending. And now I simply must rush. I ought to have been home ages ago.'

  Because she had lost her temper and said unpleasant things and was thoroughly penitent and ashamed of herself, Jane threw herself into their parting embrace with a warmth that she did not often show, and which she would not have shown now, had she been aware that it was being observed.

  Sauntering past the spinney and pausing, as he saw what was in progress, like some worthy citizen taking a front place at a dog-fight, there had come, silently and without any heralding of his approach, a small, round, rosy man in a loose sack suit and square-toed shoes of a vivid yellow. He was chewing gum. On his head was one of those hats designed primarily for the younger type of Western American college student; and on his face a look of tender and sentimental approval, as of one who likes to see the young folks happy.

  Jane had been happier just before she caught sight of this person than immediately after becoming aware of his presence. With a little cry, she disengaged herself from Adrian's arms and hurried away across the meadow to where she had left the car.

  As for the little man in the sack suit, he smiled a genial smile, revealing in the process a set of teeth of that perfect whiteness and regularity which Nature can never produce and only the hand of the artist is able to achieve, and resumed his walk.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE morning following Jane Abbott's visit to London dawned bright and fair. The ridge of high pressure extending over the whole of the British Isles was still in operation, and a sun as genial as that of yesterday shone down on Walsingford Parva, lighting up its thatched cottages, its picturesque church, its Jubilee watering-trough and the Goose and Gander, its only inn. And farther along the river-bank it shone down on Joe Vanringham, walking pensively along the towpath.

  The reason Joe was pensive was that he had just eaten his first breakfast at the Goose and Gander, and was viewing the future with concern.

  When, on the previous afternoon, he had taken the earliest possible train to the market town of Walsingford and thence had proceeded in a hired cab to Walsingford Parva, which was not on the railway, he had acted in ignorance of local conditions. At Walsingford Parva, he had assumed, he would be sure to find some snug, cosy, rustic hostelry from which he could conduct his operations in comfort. And all that Walsingford Parva had had to offer him was the Goose and Gander.

  The Goose and Gander – J. B. Attwater, propr., licensed to sell ales and spirits – was all right for what it set out to be, but all it set out to be was a modest ale-house where thirsty sons of the soil could drop in and take their pint before going off to their homes at closing time. It did not expect resident guests. Resident guests flustered it. The arrival of Joe, scarcely an hour after that of the little man in the sack suit, had given the Goose and Gander something very like what an earlier age used to call the vapours.

  It had pulled itself together and done its best, but its best had been terrible, and it was becoming increasingly clear to Joe, as he walked along, that an extended sojourn under the roof of J. B. Attwater was going to be a testing experience and one that would call for all a man had of fortitude and determination.

  He was just wondering why J. B. Attwater, in purchasing mattresses for his beds, had preferred to select the kind that are stuffed with clinkers, when he passed the clump of willows which had been impeding his view and saw that the vague white object beyond them was a houseboat.

  Houseboats are always interesting. This one appeared to be deserted, and a far less inquisitive man than Joe would have felt urged to go aboard and explore. He mounted the narrow plank and stood on the deck, thus placing himself in the perfect position for seeing Walsingford Hall. He had seen the Hall before, for one got a glimpse of it from the garden of the Goose and Gander, but not so comprehensively as now. And he looked at it long and steadily, taking his time over it. There was repulsion in that look, because the place reminded him of a pickle factory, but also a sort of devotional ecstasy. Whatever its architectural short-comings, it housed the girl he loved.

  He had been gazing some little while, like a fastidious pilgrim at a rococo shrine, when there was a dull bumping sound, and Adrian Peake, who had been in the saloon looking for his cigarette-case, came out, rubbing his head. The low doors of houseboat saloons are tricky till you get used to them.

  There was a momentary silence. Both were unpleasantly surprised. As he had indicated in his conversation with Jane at the Savoy Grill, Adrian Peake was not a man for whom Joe cared. To Adrian, Joe was a fellow he knew slightly in London and had had no desire to meet again in the country.

  'Oh, hullo!' he said.

  'Good morning,' said Joe. 'I'm afraid I'm trespassing.'

  'Oh, not at all.'

  'I didn't know there was anybody here. Do you own this craft? I thought it was a derelict.'

  'I'm not surprised,' said Adrian, with a morose look at his little home. 'No, I don't own it. I've taken it for a few weeks.'

  'I'm at a pesthouse called the Goose and Gander.'

  'I have my meals there,' said Adrian dejectedly.

  He was no more dejected than Joe. In his darkest thoughts about the Goose and Gander, he had never supposed that life there involved Adrian Peake as a table companion.

  'I'm just going off to breakfast there now,' said Adrian. 'Did you have breakfast there?'

  'Yes. Ham and eggs.'

  'That seems to be the only food they've ever heard of. They gave me ham and eggs yesterday. How do you suppose they get the ham that extraordinary blackish-purple colour?'

  'Will power?' hazarded Joe.

  And have you ever tasted such
filthy coffee?'

  'Never,' said Joe, though he had lived in French hotels.

  Something almost of cordiality came into Adrian Peake's eyes. As has been said, he had always disliked Joe, but he found him now sympathetic and a kindred spirit.

  'The bread's not any too good, either,' he said.

  'No,' said Joe. 'But what are you doing down here, living on a houseboat? Writing a novel?'

  'No, just camping out.'

  'Well, sooner you than me.'

  There was a pause.

  'Well,' said Adrian, 'may as well be getting along, I suppose. You coming my way?'

  'I thought, if you don't mind, I'd stay on here for a while.'

  'Do.'

  'I might have a swim, if you've really no objection to me making myself at home.'

  'You'll find a towel in the saloon,' said Adrian. He checked the impulse to warn his companion against bumping his head. That brief feeling of camaraderie had already waned. Soberer thought told him that he wanted Joe to bump his head.

  Joe, alone once more, started to give himself up again to tender contemplation of Walsingford Hall. But he had scarcely settled down to it, when he saw that his meditations were about to be interrupted. A tall slender figure was coming across the water meadows.

  Sir Buckstone Abbott was a man of his word. He had promised that he would send Miss Whittaker down to the houseboat with a note inviting its tenant to come up and see him some time, and here was Miss Whittaker bearing that note. She halted at the foot of the plank and looked up. Joe came to the broken rail and looked down. He did not know who this vision might be, but in the absence of the Mignonette's proprietor, it was plainly for him to do the honours.

  'Good morning,' he said.

  'Good morning,' said Miss Whittaker.

  'Nice day.'

  'Very nace. Mr Peake?'

  Joe remained tranquil. Only yesterday he had been accused of being J. Mortimer Busby, and a man to whom this happens learns to take it. Without heat, he replied that he was not Mr Peake.

  'He has gone off to the inn to have breakfast, and at this moment is probably standing with reluctant feet where the eggs and bacon meet. My name is Vanringham.'

  This statement seemed to surprise and, oddly, to displease his visitor. Her tiptilted nose quivered, and she repeated the word with a rising inflexion which betrayed unmistakable distaste.

  'Vanringham?'

  'You seem startled and revolted.'

  'I know a Mr Vanringham,' said Miss Whittaker, as if that explained it. Then, dismissing the nauseous subject: 'Sir Buck-stone Abbott desired me to call and leave a note for Mr Peake. I will put it in the saloon, so that he will find it when he returns.'

  She spoke, however, with a diffident note in her voice, and Joe saw that she was standing with reluctant feet where the gangplank and river-bank met, eyeing the former dubiously. It was plain that it did not enjoy her full confidence. He came to the rescue of beauty in distress.

  'No, please. I'll come down and get it,' he said, and made a courtly spring.

  We have seen Adrian Peake performing this feat with lissom grace and complete success. Joe was not so adroit. Arriving ashore, he tripped and staggered and, clutching the air, was embarrassed to find his arms full of unexpected Whittaker. He released her immediately, but it had been disconcerting.

  'I beg your pardon!' he said.

  'Not at all.'

  'I lost my balance.'

  'Quale,' said Miss Whittaker.

  Joe took the note from her, and stood looking meditatively at it. The sight of that A. Peake, Esq.' on the envelope saddened him. He was thinking how much better 'J. J. Vanringham, Esq.' would have looked.

  For it was, he had no difficulty in divining, a note of invitation. Some revelry was afoot up at the soap works, and Adrian Peake, purely because he was the tenant of the Mignonette, had been asked to come along and sit in. Obviously, by taking the houseboat, he had fallen within the scope of Sir Buckstone Abbott's feudal benevolence.

  No such hospitality would be extended to the lessee of a back bedroom at the Goose and Gander. When it came to mixing with the merrymakers of Walsingford Hall, poor devils who mouldered at the Goose and Gander hadn't a hope. They weren't even considered. In short, for all practical purposes, by coming to Walsingford Parva and establishing himself at the Goose and Gander, he had not advanced his ends in the slightest degree. He was as far removed from the girl he loved as if he had remained in his flat in London.

  Adrian Peake, skipper of the Mignonette, was plainly going to be given the run of the Hall. He would be popping in and out there all the time, like a rabbit. He would be in a position to see Jane daily. The best Joseph Vanringham could expect to see was J. B. Attwater, licensed to sell ales and spirits, and that extraordinary girl with the adenoids who had brought him his breakfast.

  It was bitter, and he recognized it as such. But he did not allow himself to remain brooding long over life's little ironies. A man alone with a woman has his social obligations.

  'So you know somebody of my name?' he said, making light conversation. 'Not a very common name. In fact, the only other Vanringham I know is my brother Tubby. Is he the one you've met?'

  'The name of the Mr Vanringham with whom I am acquainted,' said Miss Whittaker, speaking as if the admission soiled and degraded her, 'is Theodore.'

  'That's Tubby, all right. Where did you happen to run into him?'

  'Mr Theodore Vanringham is one of the guests of my employer, Sir Buckstone Abbott.'

  'What? Good heavens! Do you mean to say Tubby's up there at the pickle factory?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Is my brother staying at Walsingford Hall?'

  'Quate. Then if you will be so kind as to see that Mr Peake receives the note—Thank you. Good morning.'

  She glided away, leaving him staring after her, stunned. But it was only for a moment that he stood thus inactive. Recovering swiftly, he darted off along the towpath toward the Goose and Gander. J. B. Attwater, he knew, possessed a telephone, and it was his aim to get to it as quickly as possible.

  It had shaken Joe to his foundations – this discovery that Tubby was a guest at the Hall. The news changed the whole aspect of affairs. He ceased to look on himself as an outcast. He had a friend at court, possibly a powerful friend at court. 'Young Vanringham's brother?' they would say. 'My dear! We must ask him up immediately!' Or would they? It was this point that he wished to have made clear to him without delay, and his fingers trembled so much that he could hardly lift the receiver. But eventually he managed it and found himself in communication with somebody who appeared to be Sir Buckstone's butler. A brief intermission, and Tubby's voice came over the wire.

  It was a hollow, toneless voice, for the butler's summons had reached Theodore Vanringham at a moment when he was deeper than usual in gloomy thoughts on Woman's perfidy. Watching Miss Whittaker's movements with a pair of field-glasses, he had seen her cross the meadow to the houseboat, where a male figure, whose features he had been unable to discern, had leaped from the roof and clasped her in his embrace. Not even the news that a brother whom he had not seen for a year wished to speak to him on the telephone could rouse him to any real animation after that.

  'Hello, Joe,' he said sombrely.

  Joe, to whom recent events had given animation enough for two, barked like a seal.

  'Hey, Tubby!'

  'Where are you talking from?'

  'The local inn. I'm staying there. Say, Tubby—'

  'Why?'

  'Never mind why. Listen, Tubby; this is urgent. What is your standing in that joint?'

  'Eh?'

  'At Walsingford Hall.'

  'What is my standing at Walsingford Hall?'

  'Yes. How do you rate? If you suggested ringing in an only brother, would they say "Fine! Any brother of yours," or would there be angry mutters of "Oh, my God, not two of them" ?'

  'You mean you want to come here?'

  'That's right.'

 
'Well, come on, then.'

  'Can you work me in?'

  'You don't have to be worked in.'

  'I can't just walk in.'

  'Sure you can, if you've got the money. Step up to the front door and press the bell.'

  'How do you mean, money?'

  'The price of admission. You can't be a paying guest if you don't pay.'

  'Paying guest?'

  'You know what a paying guest is.'

  'But Sir Buckstone Abbott doesn't take in paying guests?'

  'He certainly does.'

  'You mean the place is a sort of residential hotel?'

  'That's about it. Do you want to join the troupe?'

  'You bet I do.'

  'Then come on up, and I'll introduce you to the boss.'

  CHAPTER 8

  THE road that led to Walsingford Hall from the village of Walsingford Parva was steep and dusty, but Joe, though the sun was now shining more strongly than ever, skimmed up it like the god Mercury on winged feet, too busy with golden thoughts to notice what might have discouraged a less eager pedestrian. Where his brother Tubby would have puffed, he sang.

  Only the author of a thesaurus could have done justice to his emotions as he walked. Roget, for instance, would have described him as glad, happy, pleased, elated, entranced, ecstatic and overjoyed, and he would have been right. He saw now how silly he had been in not realizing from the start that providence was bound to look after a man as good as himself. It was just good men like himself for whom it reserved its special efforts. In uplifted mood he reached the top of the hill, and came upon Tubby sitting on a stile by the roadside.

  'Hello, Joe,' said Tubby. 'Fancy you bobbing up.'

  'Yes,' said Joe.

  No further word was spoken on the subject of this unlooked-for reunion after weary months of separation. Each seemed to think that this about covered it. The Vanringhams were not a family who made much of a fuss about long-lost brothers.

  'Listen, Tubby,' said Joe, 'are you certain?'

  'You'd better come and sit down and cool off,' said Tubby, eyeing him critically 'You look as if you had been chasing an electric hare. Am I certain about what?'

  'This paying-guest thing.'